An Ego Cleansing

The eight hour bus ride I felt was quite an amateur one after completing a 17 hour journey with leg room built for the 5"3 average Laotian height on a vehicle so packed that the aisles were lined with standing and sitting bodies. We had come to a close of the trip in the small town of Vieng Thong and our only focus was the attainment of food. The power of our minds to obtain said nourishment for the sake of the body however wasn't quite strong enough to make our brains spontaneously poor forth the Lao language from our lips. It's important though, we've learned, to use the phrase book and keep your head in the game or you could wind up eating a 16 day aborted duck fetus as we had in the Philippines ("By 22 days they have fingernails" {Cohen, Noah 2008} and on the 32nd day the parents fulfill the greatest deed possible according to the Old Testament). Our communication struggles culminated unsuccessfully with me attempting to order my dish by running in circles, flapping my arms, and cooing. However, my charades would not be in vain as the commotion managed to gain the attention of a couple of the town's rare, and possibly only, bi linguists, Po-xai and Noi. They invited us to dine at their friends house a few kilometers away with two late teenage girls and their parents, for laap, pho in a plastic bag, fish from the Mekong River, sticky rice, numerous shots of rice whiskey, and an ensuing water fight in our subsequent drunken stupor.

After finding out that the two of them worked for the National Protection Agency (NPA) for a nearby National park that had yet to open in the country's beauty queen province (Lonely Planet 2006), I asked them to give us a guided tour of this pristine slice of the Laos mountainous jungle. At first they were hesitant, and rightly so. At this point the park had no trails or markings. The only people it sees are a group of 70 or so local villagers that are paid 600,000 kip a month (about $70 US, that's right I'm a kip Millionaire), twice the average amount that can be made off the main employer's (the land) wage, to go through the forest for 21 days straight to track wildlife, enforce the protection of the land, and map the area. Additionally, Po and Noi are just beginning their careers in the tourism industry and had yet to guide anyone before. In the end they decided it was a good profitable way to spend their Sunday.

Over dinner Shula and I cripped and cropped at their requested fee. "Don't get me wrong" I said, "I love your company but does this trip really require both of you as guides plus the hiring of a local guide to bring around just two of us? We're good, fit hikers." He skeptically looked my scrawny body up and down but only said that the point of this excursion was not business, but pleasure, and that we should spend only an amount that felt comfortable and manageable to us. Papaya salad was consumed and an agreement was reached.

We rose early the following morning and rode the backs of two motorbikes piloted by Po and Noi an hours ride to the North where we would meet local guide # 7 (spending most of their time in the office and away from the forest had made it difficult for Po and Noi to keep their names straight). #7 met us at his small village of about ten bamboo houses and silk weaving shelters with a population of about 50 villagers, and led us through the valley of rice terraces into the thick jungle. Armed with a two foot blade, #7 would take the front most of the way, hacking the forest in order to blaze the trail for the four of us. The pace was quick, so I took up the rear taking comfort in the knowledge that while I was the most able bodied hiker of the group, it was important to take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the beautiful bamboo jungled landscape, rather than show off my ever capable feats of physical strength. I was more at one with nature then my companions who would rather compete and attempt to impress then to take the time to see the lush landscape and exotic birds that surrounded us.

Once we began our descent to the waterfall the terrain became steep. Each step required an extreme amount of physical and mental caution and concentration. First a secure grasp of a vine, tree, or bamboo needed to be sought and executed, then proper footing had to be established on the slippery substantially pitched slope, and finally the numerous large thorned bushes along the way had to be avoided. After 30 minutes of descent, with the sweat pouring into our eyes, we had reached the river, a good kilometer south of our intended waterfall destination, only to find that we were stuck. Flanked on both sides by cliffs and confronted by a river that was too deep and too sparsely decorated with sturdy stepping rocks, #7, Poi, and Noi, decided our best course of action would be to climb up an area they located where the cliffs weren't too high. Then we would hike along it until the river appeared more fordable. This is where I resolved to kick my hiking into high gear, to give this group a morale boost and a dose of physical prowess in which to aspire. As an American male with the individualist explorer spirit ingrained in my soul, like Lewis and Clarke before me I had to take the lead and show these "guides" and my girl friend what I was capable of.

Shula had just scrambled up the fairly vertical pitch quite masterfully with Noi close behind her to ensure her safety. I pushed Po and #7 aside and dug in, placing my feet on two small holds in the rock. I reached with my hands to grasp the various vines and roots and hoisted myself up. Everything was going well until I came to a section of the boulder that was totally smooth, I didn't see any solid hand holds. I scoured the area for several seconds when I spotted a rock that was destined to lead to my triumphant summiting. It was built for my hand, shaped to the contours of my carpals, intentionally placed by the universe itself to ensure my most victorious and impressive cliff scaling. Success lay a mere few feet above it. As I reached for it I heard Po yell from just below me.
"Grab the root to your right."
"This rock is fine!" I shouted back sharply. In my head, and inhenrent with the intonation of my reply and the accompanied facial expression, I added
"This is your first guiding experience and my millionth hike. I climbed the Half Dome of Yosemite before I had hair on my balls and have summited numerous presidential peaks of the White Mountains including an ascent up Huntington's Ravine. I was the starting short stop, pitcher, and the clean-up hitter for my little league baseball team. Hell I probably know Laos better than you. You've been living in Australia the last few years. Just like the rest of your people your short and you don't have a chest hair to speak of. Cliff Hanger was played by Sylvester Stalone, a North American Caucasian, not Jackie Chan. I sure as shit don't need your help, plus I..."
Suddenly my internal rant was rudely interrupted when the rock I had grabbed, and subsequently shifted my weight over, came loose from the soil that held it. I was now hanging on with only my left hand. Noi swung into action reaching his hand down from above while Po and #7 climbed up to me quickly, pushing with all their might at my butt and the bottoms of my feet. In a combined effort, all three guides together just managed to hoist me over the edge to safety. Now at the top, lying on my back, I looked up at the sky huffing and puffing while Shula stood over me with her arms crossed shaking her head and smiling. I cursed out the lord for the undoing he had caused me. He countered with a swarm of bees.

That night the four of us lost ourselves by way of bamboo straws jetting out of a giant jug of hard alcohol, rice, and water; a beverage that tasted similar to wine. After learning how to say I'm wasted in Lao and repeating it a few times, Po looked at me with a smile and when the room fell silent yelled "The Rock is fine!" There was nothing to do but laugh. We closed the evening with a bathe in the town's immensely hot spring, under a sky of shooting stars.

A Peoples' History of Vang Vieng (A work of Historical Fiction)

One day in the nineteen teens, James Thompson was cruising in his Model T scoping out a piece of land along the Colorado river looking for the perfect place to put up a new Dam for his energy company when suddenly he struck a pot hole. Just like modern SUVs the T had a flipping problem. This safety issue was compounded by the fact that seat belts were never widely used by the Ford Company until years later when Robert McNamara's brilliant mind came to work for them, the same mind that was encapsulated by the human body that was the Secretary of State that planned and carried out the secret war the US lead agaist Laos making it the most heavily bombed country in the world. When he struck the pot hole poor James found himself soaring through the air and landed in the Colorado river. Fortunately for James, who never learned to swim, in a moment of extreme improbability, one of the rubber tires landed with its hole surrounding his head, and the rubber encompassing his body, looking like the perfect lifeguard life buouy toss. In-turn Jimmy grabbed hold for dear life. Now, not only was James life spared, but he found he was having quite the chill, pleasurable, and relaxed time being taken down the gently rapid river under the warm sun.

Mr. Thompson would soon share this discovery of the tube float that he really rather enjoyed with his colleagues and loved ones and pretty soon little pockets of tubers were showing up along the Colorado river in the various tamer sections. Tubers started coming out in ever increading numbers along the river. The newly discovered activity found its way over to the Mississippi, the Rio, the Amazon, the Niger, the Congo, the Nile, and pretty soon the Mekong, the Nam Song, and now the Nam Song river at its crossraods with the town of VangVieng.

Aside from the waxing and waning of the Nam Song's water level as the seasons change every six months from wet and damn hot to dry and scorching, all was basic, standard, and calm in this town for many years. Then in 1989 the Laos border opened itself up to toursits. Lying just a four hour bus ride to the North of the capital of Vientiene, and dug in amonst a series of mountains, cliffs, and caves that submerge in a beautiful eerie mist during the earlier part of the year, and the Nam Ou river, made Vang Vieng an accessible and attractive destination. It didn't take long before the first few caucasian tourists stumbled upon it. When they came to the river to cool off from the ridiculous climate god has chosen for this area of the world, the local Laos tubers offered the visitors the oppurtunity to share in this great experience and lent their tubes out. As the 80s became the 90s a Laos enterpanuer saw his chance to make some serious kip and opened up a tube rental business which started to turn quite the profit. The market realized this causing numerous tube-rental companies to follow suit. The river banks began to fill with barbecues and picnics and with it came leisurely drinking. As the mid 90s approached an executive from Beer Laos, the nation's largest export, visited the town and was horrified to see that while people were drinking, none of them were really drunk, and that needed fixing. Beer Laos soon launched a relentless marketting campaign to ensure that every tuber would not be able to complete a float down this river without totally forgetting the practice of swimming. Coolers transformed into bamboo bars.

By the turn of the Millenium Vang Vieng had overgone a complete makeover. The Laos tourism department soon figured out that if caucasians are to make it over this way, there will need to be countless intrnet cafes, guest houses, and resteraunts and bars that serve wood fired pizza, sticky rice, and beef laap, and play episodes of friends and Family Guy on repeat interspersed with occasional movies all with plots like "The day After Tomorrow." Beer Laos would no longer suffice, there would have to be Captain Morgan available both on and off the river, and music, lots of music that Americans love. They figured out from the Thais that what all of us backpacker types love is that one song "Country Roads" and anything and everything with a heavy bass. What was once a quiet little villiage was now a battle for the airwaves between Eminem and P-Ditty.

By 2002 travllers had spread the word of spontaneous frat-like parties in Vang Vieng on the sides of the Nam Song river with huge swings to launch off of into the refrehing water that only, very occasionally, lead to serious injury. The bamboo bars added to their list of amenities volleyball courts, pool tables, ping pong, french or freedom fries, and a badmitton court in case a local actually showed up. There was only one thing missing that the "farmers" picked up on very quickly as soon as they got their eyes of the number of dreadlocked travellers that came crawling through town. To keep everything legal the goods were dealt to the resteraunts who now began expanding their menu to the special grilled cheese, the special toast, and the special Chocolate Chip cookie. Or if one is feeling a bit more hard core, and wants the already spectacular mountains, river, and cute Laos children everywhere to be graced by angels, fairies, and lucy in the sky with diamonds, there are the happy shakes, happy pizzas, and happy teas. In this way now instead of just tubing down a river, as Mr. James Thompson once did nearly a century ago, which sounds cool but has more potential, now you can tube down this stretch of river with a beer in one hand, a whisky in the other, stoned from breakfast, hallucinating from lunch, and hung over from dinner, while listening to Britney Spears say "Hit me Baby one more time" but not before she is rudely interrupted by eminem's My Fault with the lyrics sreaming "I never meant to give you mushrooms girl, I never meant to bring you to my world."

A Losing Resolution

When I was a little camper Lost and Found day was always a day where I found myself in the spotlight. I rather liked the attention of being called up to the front of the dining hall with the entire camp population as my audience as well as getting numerous towels, pairs of socks, hats, and various items of sports equipment, returned to me. It felt like winning the lottery. I figured that with age I would improve at my ability to keep track of my possessions by learning from my careless habits. However, instead something interesting happened: I have molded my ideology and maintained my habits. Since there are fewer greater feelings in life than the one derived from recovering a lost item, everything need not be kept on such a tight leash. Sure one might argue that before an item can be found, it must first be lost which causes a certain amount of pain and discomfort that is most unpleasant. But life is not meant to be lived on an even keel. What is success without failure? What is ecstasy without despair? What is pleasure without pain? And what's winning without losing?

It's certainly true that when an item is lost it's not always found, but that's okay every now and then, it's healthy to experience a certain amount of loss. Without it there is no attempt at betterment and therefore no forward progress; the meaning of life is lost without struggle, as humans can't evolve without striving for improvement. Of course there is something to be said for balance, nobody is envious of the life of Job, and to consciously seek pain, loss, and discomfort is destructive behavior. Recently though, I have found that my karma has slipped a few notches and my lost items are not being found at the rate they once were; at least not by me. Therefore in order to reserve my experience of discomfort on this Asian excursion for squat toilets, limited plumbing, sparse electricity, lumbar pain, stomach upset, and frequent marathon bus rides, I made a pre-trip resolution to keep track of all my possessions. As it turns out though I realize I have a terrible record with these promises to myself: I still don't floss, rarely exercise, don't meditate, don't eat enough fruit, haven't cut meat or dairy from my diet, take too many prescription drugs, haven't picked up an instrument, and haven't read the collective works of Nietzsche. Following this tradition of resolution failure so far on this trip I've lost 1 pair of sunglasses, 1 hot chilly's ski shirt, 1 North Face winter cap, 2 baseball caps one from the Nantucket brewery and one army hat purchased in El Nido. Philippines, 1 bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo, 2 contractor trash bags as rain protection for our packs, 1 bathing suit, 1 bottle of body soap, 1 airplane blanket, 1 journal of traveller's email addresses, musings, and ramblings, and destroyed or broke 1 digital camera, 2 ipods, my right sandal, 1 cellular telephone, one headlamp, and the most recent and horrific loss of all came just the other day, my travel pillow. This turquoise cushion was my pride and joy. It was extra padding to place between my bony knees every night, to sleep against bus windows, to add meat to my fat less butt on bus and airline seats, and to support my back in moments of pain. The loss of this cherished item along with the realization that it would remain an MIA mystery prompted a re-dedication to my resolution and I vowed that this latest loss, with god as my witness, would be my last.

Everything from that point on was going well. I had made it through an entire week in the region of Bicol of the province of Luzon in the Philippines, through our over night camp at San Miguel Island, the hours of bus riding through the winding mountain roads on Jeepneys, and in Noah's Bamboo hut house without losing a single item. Then came our last real full day. I don't know if it was the three or four whale sharks we saw and swam with while snorkeling in Donsol, the brutality of the cock fight we witnessed, the rain, or our participation in the favorite Filipino past-time of videoke (Karaoke but with backgrounds of girls in Bikinis on the screen), but as we were whisked towards our bus to Legazpi on a motorized tricycle Shula asked me to retrieve our newly purchased 1- time-use-camera that had photographed the second half of our stay in the Phils in the wake of our Digital Camera's funeral.

"Shit, it's not in my bag," I responded as I dug feverishly through it. A look of disappointment crept across her face. Then, at that moment, the mean part of myself, the part that makes me make ridiculous resolutions and then purposefully sees to it that I don't accomplish them, jumped at its chance and dug into me. "Are you kidding? Again? What the hell is wrong with you Nathan? You can't hold on to anything you incompetent fuck-up, get a life, you want to be a filmmaker? You can't even keep track of a 1-time-use-camera, yeah you're really the next Spielberg. God what's wrong with you? What are you going to lose next? A wallet? A passport? Maybe Shula should carry your entire backpack so that nothing else goes missing." Needless to say my mood had taken a sudden turn.

A few minutes later, once we got off our tricycle ride, Shula asked me if she could look at some advice from the bible. In my defeatist attitude I chucked my pack that housed the mammoth Lonely Planet Southeast Asia Guide Book to her feet. She shook her head at me and poked through the bag. After about three seconds of scrounging she surfaced casually with the guide in one hand and the "lost" one-time-use-camera in the other. My eyes lit up instantly and I fought the unfoundedly harsh side of my ego right back putting it in its place. "You genius Nathan, you absolute genius. You are truly a Chacham V Tzadich, of course you put it back in your bag, even with all the commotion, you made that resolution and you stuck to it, way to go. Our greatest thinkers have taught that the human race must learn from its mistakes, that history is the greatest guide, and that lessons are to be taken from the past and used for the present. You Nathan are the embodiment of human evolution in the making, you are so capable when you put your mind to it, you can do anything, you are the next Spielberg, maybe even the next Kubrick."
And with that incident I've proven my earlier hypothesis to be fact by way of the Scientific method: There are few greater feelings than the one derived from the recovery of a lost item. I'm happy to report that I found my lost red journal just the other day buried in my pack. My karma has been restored. I promise to lose more.

Digital Losses

We almost lost IP-2 in Japan when we forgot to wake him and nearly left him behind in our guest house one early morning. We almost lost DC when he took a nasty fall and smashed the lens of his eye on a rock in the northern Thai jungle. And so we swore to ourselves never again would we let moments pass without putting our babies' utmost care, protection, and safety first. It was love they deserved and so love is what we gave them. And they reciprocated that love, demonstrating their devotion, each one it its own unique way: IP-1 dictated every word of The History of Love to my girlfriend, Shulamit, while she worked on her tan on the poster-like Philippine and Thai beaches, IP-2 read me The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy as we rode the Shinkansen Bullet train through the towns of rural Japan, and Crime and Punishment on the railways and seas of Thailand, and DC captured with deep focus and great pixilated detail many of the remarkable and unforgettable images that we encountered in these faraway lands. Grateful cannot even begin to express the feelings we have had for their accompaniment on this occasionally bumpy road. But on a sunny Mid-March day we submitted to our egos and let the altruistic side of ourselves slip away. It wasn’t our faults. It was the ridiculous god forsaken place we had chosen to visit. It was the relentless and astounding beauty of the Northern Palawan Islands, with its fancy magnificent limestone cliffs rising out of the ocean in every direction, its elegant sandy beaches, great multi colored and shaped vivacious coral, water more turquoise than the color itself, and hidden treasures like the beach we found directly on a mangrove, crawling with cute Filipino children who laughed and followed our strange, white skinned selves, as we engaged them in performances of slapstick comedy. It was the promise of a new day here in the town of El Nido after finding a boat ride home from a fishing villager during an unforgettable sunset at the close of our first day. The awesome potential of this absolute paradise was what caused Noah, myself, and Shula to forget that despite the picturesque landscape, nature is never merciful. There are still hazards, horrible and fatal perils that must be heeded.

On our second day in El Nido rather than hire a boat provided by the guesthouses, the three of us opted to rent a small paddleboat off a native in order to save some Filipino peso. We were attempting to get to an island a few clicks offshore, a supposed magical snorkeling area with a desolate palm tree lined beach. Upon our arrival to the take-off point, the beach at the foot of our tree-house-like guesthouse “The Alternative”, we saw that the bamboo boat appeared small and fragile. But what could possibly stop us? We were armed with excitement, adventure, and above all smiles. That obvious answer came almost immediately in a peninsular town. As soon as the three of us were settled and paddle-armed, the boat began to take in water. I knew our children were hopeless swimmers so like a good protective parent I quickly and instinctively reached with all the might I could muster for the REI backpack that housed them. I knew that if I got to them in that instant their lives could be spared. But my efforts proved futile. The bag was hung up on a nail. As the ship went under my eyes filled with salt water as I watched IP-1, IP-2, and DC sink, along with my hopes and dreams for their once so bright futures.

Shula frantically grabbed our babies and brought them ashore. She checked their digital vitals, but there was no hiding the truth, their power had gone out. The three of them together had expired. A sea of guilt engulfed us survivors. How could we have done this to them? How could we have chosen our own selfish desire of one day's worth of digital accompaniment over safety? Was nature in all its glory not good enough for us? Did the crash of the waves and the chirps of rare and exotic birds really need to be accompanied and flushed out by the sound of George Winston’s piano? Was it worth risking the possibility of many marathon music-less and audio book-less bus rides we had yet to make? Was it that important to better our face book profiles and Iphoto Libraries? Was it worth risking the physical proof that we ever even left Boston? And was it worth possibly losing three of our most cherished companions? We couldn't go one measly fucking day without our digital babies?

With nothing left to do but sulk, Noah, Shula, and I took to the paradise beach on a much bigger bamboo boat. Upon our arrival we looked up to the heavens and toasted our deceased friends with a big lachayim of packages of individually plastic wrapped crackers that survived the day's tragedy. Man, the makers of Skyflakes Crackers are all geniuses.

.

Fuckit

One of the most amusing days of the high school, or occasionally, latter middle school, calendar is The Drug Awareness Day. The program is always the same. It opens with a display of photos: First comes the traditional blackened lungs from cigarette smoke, then it's missing cheeks from smokeless tobacco, followed by grown men drewling on themselves on a park bench in shaggy clothing from alcohol, and finally a sanitarium on a dark misty night looking like the set of a horror movie, in order to display the imminent outcome of acid use. The day platues with a formal training headed by the school psychologist to teach every child how to respond when a kid sporting a green mohawk accosts you with a lit blunt in the bathroom and blurts out "It's just a little weed." Then comes the climax - a real live drug addict who comes to lecture you on how much they love drugs. By the day’s end once the bell has rung every kid has the opportunity to share and tell with his or her friends about the stories they heard from their new-found favorite friend drug addict.

My brother Jordie had the pleasure of meeting one such lady addict that was fed up with her good friend Mary Jane. While she may not have deterred any young potheads from smoking more cheeba, to her credit, she did give it a go, and offered words of great wisdom. "The Problem with weed kids, and the reason it should not be used, is because it gives you the Fuck-Its, you stop doing anything, you just say Fuck-It." Leave it to a drug addict to aptly describe the real problem with marijuana, not the politicians, teachers, and shrinks. I’ve never heard any adult or child make a remotely sensible and accurate description of the harmful effects of smoking a bowl, but this woman was right on the money.

Now that my days of getting stoned are extremely few and far between (I do still have my fun with pharmaceuticals) I kind of missed that free feeling she so appositely described. After being in the overwhelming ridiculous mayhem of Bangkok many days in excess I found it only natural then that my girlfriend Shula and I should go to the island of Phuket, pronounced Poo-ket, but not by me. So I booked us a place at the fuck-it backpackers hostel, just off of fuck-it rd., rented a moped from the fuck-it bike shop in the heart of fuck-it town, rode on the left side of the fuck-it streets along the wide white sandy beaches of Patong, Kata, and Koron which are lined with fuck-it resorts. We also sought out some rural fuck-it territory away from the fuck-it tourists witnessing traditional fuck-it markets, fuck-it villiages, and fuck-it peoples, and took the fuck-it ferry to the astoundingly gorgeous paradise island of Go Pee Pee. Fuck-it really has it all.

The title of this beautiful diverse beach city embodies the quintessential spirit of the backpacking mentality. Our journey began with myself, a filmmaker AKA a slave and bitch for the movie industry, and my girl friend, who put a career in social work on hold to explore her artistic inclinations in the field of graphic design, quitting our jobs and moving out of our apartment. The goal was to get the hell away from the high stress part of the world in which we reside in order to attain some much needed time and perspective before figuring out, and taking, further steps in these endeavors. During this journey of ours we've met so many others just like ourselves - three girls from Montana wanting to put the real world on hold, Christoff, a naval officer from Germany needing to get away from his demanding position on the high seas, Mike from Australlia fed up with the expensive capitalistic nature of his hometown, two Swedish girls not ready for university, a man who let me call him Wolf when I screwed up his name stressed out from his task in China of overseeing safe product manufacturing before exportation, a couple on a nine month honeymoon around the world, numerous male and female loners on year long adventures, and so many more. All of us hoping, wanting, and needing something different, something better, and something more significant than our little lives back at our origins. Independently, but together, each one of us, and the thousands of backpackers we've encountered from Tokyo, Japan all the way down to Beppu, and from Chiang Mai, Thailand down to Bangkok, and further south to Koh Tao and Finally Phuket. We've all opted for the Fuck-It mentality. It's this mental state that has allowed us to let new sights, experiences, cultures, and perspectives swirl around, scatter, and jumble our once routinely organized left and right brains and temporarily hit the off switch and kill the patterned concerns and errands of typical daily life. To say "Fuck-It" is not apathy, laziness, or a lack of motivation. It means not submitting, giving-in, or giving-up. It's recognizing the need for the new, the fresh, the change. It's freeing yourself from patterns and dead-ends, and recognizing and not forcing what wasn't working. It's about listening to your inner flow, flowing with your inner go, and escaping the powerful grasp of the hand of conventional daily life. It’s about not settling for a life without meaning. It's good and healthy to ingest new experiences, attitudes, and substances and get your lips wet and your nose in the air. Don’t just take whatever bullshit shwag is being passed your way. As self help books will tell you, you need and deserve the good shit, the heady stuff, the kind of shit that will make your head fly off your body and float up to the heavens to the sounds of Jimmy Page's guitar, the shit that will give you a good, powerful, solid, kick-ass, bad-ass motherfucking case of the Fuck-Its.

In the Shores of Koh Tao

His time was near but I didn't want to let go. He had been my buddy for years. I know all the crap they say about the deceased always being with you because moments are eternal, or some such Hollywood feel-goodery bullshit. Right, and sex is best captured with the accompaniment of a duet between the harp and the mandolin, or heavy techno beats if you prefer the hardcore section. My reasons for wishing his survival were selfish. I didn't know how to fill the empty void this tragedy would certainly befall me. He was suffering, clinging to his final moments of vitality because he could sense the assholes like myself who wanted his survival for their own personal gain. But what was I to do? Allow another bald spot to take shape within me?

“Forget it,” I shouted with tears streaming down my face as I thought of the anguish I felt when the hairs began to thin from my head shortly before my twenty-second birthday. The truth is thatI was scared, petrified, I couldn't imagine my life without him. I had been dependent on the protection he provided for as long as I could remember. Without him surely some infectious disease in some form or another would come creeping around and penetrate this hole, this gaping wound that was imminently approaching. However, after wandering the big cities and smaller towns of Japan, strolling through remote villages in Northern Thailand, being pushed around and ripped off in Bangkok, and finally arriving at a gorgeous private beach of the mountainous rugged island of Koh Tao, a strange calm befell me, and I found myself ready and willing to say goodbye to this companion whose short life I have, and will, always cherish. And no sooner had this profound self-evolution and growth taken route deep within the confines of my soul, did I agree to assist my beloved companion in his expiration. In one motion I twisted and removed the disgusting, yellow, and hideously decaying toe nail from my right big toe, and buried it in the sand. From now until eternity he will be with us always, in the shores of Koh Tao.

Adderall & Bangkok just don't splice

Bangkok is no place for adderall. I first encountered this little wonder drug the same way everyone seems to, in college cramming for finals. It didn't work. This same drug was suggested to me by a doctor a couple years later when I was having fatigue issues. I was a border line narcoleptic, a condition that came partly from my own health history and partly from my paternal side of the family as exemplified by my bubbie and zadie who would come visit me in my hospital room and pass out in one of my visitor chairs within 3 minutes time, while I slept in the bed. It was a very quiet room. The gene or meme clearly didn't skip any generations as my father displays this very disorder with masterful precision every Saturday morning in Synagogue coming to a climactic unconsciousness during the Rabbi's sermon.

I'm not a judgemental person. I subscribe to the belief that first impressions are often wrong. Therefore I decided a second chance was in order for my old acquaintance, adderall. I had qualms about bringing the Doc's John Hancock to my local drug dispenser. While it did have some negative effects - sweating, loss of appetite, abdominal pain - it did have a few things going for it - sudden burst of energy, sudden urge to be extremely interested and meticulous in whatever the hell you happen to be doing, and a sudden relief of constipation. This latter positive externality of adderall ingestion was the reason I found myself eating one in Bangkok. I felt this was a better alternative to chugging a liter of phospho-soda, the pre-colonoscopy drug.

The Real problem with taking adderall is that after you take it you can only focus on one thing at a time as you wind up heaving all your senses into an all out overdrive in an attempt to accomplish this one thing. If any other issues come up like a phone call, a friend comes over, you have to go to the bathroom they are either ignored or met with grumpy hostility. The problem with this medication on the streets of Bangkok is that at any given single moment there are multiple occurrences that require your immediate attention and reaction; a man with two missing limbs begs for baht coins in his cup, A woman wants to give you a Thai Massage, a head full of dreadlocks smacks into your right cheek, a big backpack hits your left one, A tuk tuk (3 wheeled taxi) driver demands to take you somewhere, "Country Roads" can be heard playing in 10 different bars and is at a different note and lyric in every one, 3 cars are bearing down on you and there isn't a piece of sidewalk in sight, Pad Thai, Egg Rolls, and identical looking women selling a frog noise maker want you to have one and won't stop the noise-making until you buy one, and huts selling shitty sunglasses have surrounded you and you have flights to book, a train to catch, laundry to do, money to exchange, shitty sunglasses to buy, and no you can't drink that with ice in it it will make you sick. At this point in time the senses have eclipsed their maximum; the eyeballs have made one too many journeys from left to right and have stopped themselves in the up position in protest, the ears become confused and begin whistling their own version of "Country Roads" on repeat, the taste buds are drenched in heavy wok oil which acts like a ball and chain upon the tongue, and the skin is drenched in sweat from the heat and humidity. Finally the whole body gives up and you will find it is on an overnight bus or train headed way the fuck out of Bangkok. That's where I find myself.

A Tokyo Reflection

The story of Hiroshima reflects the horrific potential and stupidity of our species carried out in part by our races` best and brightest, while only a few hundred miles to the north sits the enormous infinite city of Tokyo proudly displaying what the same higher intellects can produce. This city can best be desribed as an ocean of Time Squares interspersed with 6 story department stores, skyscraper office buildings, Subway systems, noodle bars, Sushi spots, undergound malls, arcades, Pachinkos, and people everywhere. It is around the clock mayhem. Yet in servicing the millions of people that reside and, or, commute through this wild circus I saw no trash or trash cans, heard very few sirens, sat on some of the cleanest public toilet seats, and never waited for a subway. Not only that, but whoever is in charge of running this place has thought of everything. I went to the bathroom holding an umbrella and wearing a glove on each hand and heard my inner monologue bitch about what I would do with my gloves and umbrella. Once I arrived at the unrinal to unzip, sure enough there was a little metal rack jetting out of each urinal with a picture of a little umbrella on it signifying to my slow self about where I could rest the burdensome, yet convenient, 400 yen purchase, and a shelf for my gloves. On a different bathroom trip, a #2 one, I was freezing cold and dredded having to sit on the cold toilet seat and found that the seat was heated.

Assimiliating into this city takes time as the Japanese people navigate through it with a professional expertise, nudging one another gently to fit into the subway cars, voluntarily wearing masks to prevent the spreading of germs, bowing to one another constantly with humble gratitude while uttering Arigato Gozaimus (Thank you very much) at least thrice at every encounter, and outfitting their children in school uniforms consisting of short shorts or skirts revealing their chop-stick like legs with matching blazers, loafers, high socks, and burberry scarves to boot, and somehow these kids are never cold. Meanwhile I walk around with New Balance sneakers with a pad insert to correct my short leg, five layers including a long underwear bottom, gloves, hat, extra socks, scarf, and a hospital mask and complain consistantly of my aching feet and freezing body. Let`s see what Bangkok has in store.

The February Issue

At Camp Yavneh, a Jewish overnight camp in rural New Hampshire, the boys’ shower house was simply a spacious open room with nozzles—you couldn’t hide from who you were. One of my fellow campers with wanderlust eyes was very captivated by this shower house. So captivated was he that every summer he came out with two exclusive editions, the July and August issues, in which he went into great detail about his observations: the biggest, the smallest, the hairiest, the fattest, most improved, most lizard like, the darkest, the lightest, the best circumcision, and so on. These issues were not written, but rather discreetly spoken, much like the Torah she-be-`al peh, the Oral Torah. Unfortunately, the camp director came to understand that the architectural layout of this shower house discouraged the overweight and the lesser-endowed campers to bathe. To our dismay, the July and August issues were halted abruptly when one summer, upon our return to camp, we found that each nozzle had its very own curtain.
Being a nostalgic person, and presented with the opportunity to hit the Japanese public baths, or onsens, during my stay here in Tokyo, I decided this was the perfect time to resurrect this dead tradition and come out with a winter overseas version. I could go under cover as a westerner just trying to get his bathe on, start sneaking peeks at the Japanese family jewels, and publish my findings. This would be pure journalism. I would expose the mysterious Japanese male and rank up there with the likes of Bob Woodward.
Using my guidebook I sought out a small bathhouse in Asakusa, Tokyo called the Kannon Onsen. I approached the modest wooden structure, slipped off my shoes, and pondered which of the two doors to enter. Just then, an old woman pushed past me and entered through the door on the left; the process of elimination never fails. I entered the gender correct side and paid the attendant who directed me to the lockers. I had penetrated successfully and was now on the inside, totally home free. This would be a cinch. All I had to do was pretend to wash myself, blend in, and go sightseeing. Undercover journalism is not that difficult after all; or so I thought.

As soon as I entered the bathing area I was baffled. There were three different baths, each one on a separate side of the room and with its own unique tint of color. There were ten little washing stations, each with four nozzles. There were buckets for this, stools for that, soap for this, towels for that; and the steam, my god, the steam. At times I could scarcely see. The stress of the situation was mounting, thwarting my concentration from my ordained assignment. If I was going to have unfettered access to the Japanese genitalia, I had to be casual and remain composed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, a trick my shrink had taught me for moments of great tension, and uncertainty. I could handle this; ‘Just do what you did in grade school, hang in there and copy the guy next to you,’ I told myself.
As soon as I opted to heed the guidance of my inner monologue, the guy I was watching, who was seated on a low stool calmly soaping himself, removed his butt from it, twisted himself into the lotus position landing on the ground, and continued soaping areas of the body I never thought reachable. It was a move I swear I saw Brian Boitano attempt and fail at the 1998 Nagano Olympic Games. This was hopeless. I can't even soap my own back. I spent my remaining time in the onsen in a paralyzing nervous panic being glared at and silently judged by a room full of old naked Japanese men. It was not my proudest moment. As for my findings for the February issue, I learned only that the Japanese penis is elusive.

My hypnotist has taught me that persistence is the key to success. Therefore, tomorrow I am headed to the southern province, Kyushu, to visit the numerous Onsens in the town of Beppu for another go at it.

The Masquerade

After getting off the airplane in the monster city of Tokyo one of the first things I noticed was the large number of people wearing surgical hospital masks. Surgical masks are very familiar to me because my friends and family had to wear them when visiting me in the hospital after my Bone Marrow Transplant in 2000. It was clear to me that the reason the residents of Tokyo did this was the same one that lead me to wear them when my immune system was compromised - for protection against the pollution caused by, in their case, a ridiculously gigantic metropolis, and any harmful germs.

I had already developed a mild cough leading up to my departure from the states that seemed to metastasize greatly after my first day in Tokyo. By the time I hit the sack, which consisted of a pad on a bamboo mat that lined the floor; I had already developed a decent wheeze. It was a good thing I packed my inhaler. My health as of late had taken a huge turn for the better or else I never would have left home with the comfort of the close-by New England Medical Center. Wheezing was a symptom of the past for me. Clearly this was not my body’s fault. I have come a long way since my transplant in and have morphed into a strong male human specimen. This was "the damn overpopulated city that had made its environment unhealthy with its material obsessions" I complained to my girlfriend. I was not about to step another foot outside of our ryokan into that dirty air without the protection afforded by a hospital mask. Luckily Shinjuku has numerous Lawson convenient stores. First thing the next morning I braved the pollution covering my mouth with my new red scarf, and purchased a three pack of masks for 150 yen. This would surely protect me from the toxins these callous people had put out into the defenseless air.

Over the course of the next few days I didn’t go anywhere without a mask. The diligence paid off. My wheeze and cough quickly dissipated and by the time we had completed our stay in Tokyo my complaints had returned to my lumbar pain. I had no qualms about leaving a city where if you walked out the door without covering your mouth you were putting yourself at great risk for all kinds of Lung infections. En route to the JR bullet train that would take us south towards the small sparsely populated mountain town of Takayama, I threw the masks in the trash can and said farewell.

As we rode the 180 mile per hour train out into the suburbs I still saw the occasional mask-wearing folk wandering the streets. I thought this to be a bit bizarre seeing as we were far away from the city by that point, but I figured the Japanese people were just being cautious because they know how horribly poor the air quality in Tokyo is and with one gust of wind the pollutants could be knocking on their doors. My Ipod serenaded me and I fell asleep for the remainder of the train ride. When we arrived in Takayama I picked up my pack, pulled on the appropriate straps to lesson the burdensome load on my back, and walked off the train, out of the station, and into the great out doors.

"Aww fresh mountain air," I said to my girlfriend as I inhaled and exhaled deeply, "Go ahead, take a deep breath and get a taste of it. You can`t beat this." She looked at me skeptically. As we were looking at the map in the Lonely Planet trying to figure out where to go a few more Japanese mask wearers wandered into our line of vision. We decided to brave the cold snowy weather and walk around the town to orient ourselves. I was puzzled to see that people were still wearing masks, in-fact there were more of them, maybe twice as many mask wearers as Tokyo. Confused and bewildered I finally found an Australian staying at our youth hostile who had been in Japan for a month.

"The masks? Oh yeah, they wear those because when they get sick they like to prevent spreading their germs, you know, just to be considerate to one another."

Hour 1 in Japan

Inspired by my hunched over back and the Ehrlich posture, my 5th grade teacher, David Wolf, made fun of me daily for the way I walked. On the last day of classes awards were handed out to the outstanding achievers of our grade. And then there were others given to keep us less studious kids from getting discouraged, losing our sense of self worth, and walking into school the next year with a gun.

Mr. Wolf called me up in front of the entire class and presented me with the award for `best impersonation of an old man` and then proceeded to explain to the student body that I was an old fart trapped inside a kid’s body. I wouldn`t have been so humiliated if it was just a light hearted joke, which is possibly how he meant it, but the fact that he was dead-on made it impossible for me to crack a smile.

Now, 13 or so years later, I am a really really old man. I got off the 15-hour flight from New York to Tokyo with severe back pain, shriveled up and dried eyes, aching legs, and reduced hearing ability. I had no interest in going to claim 30 to 40 pound baggage that was going to sit on my slumping back for the next three months, but I had no choice, it was filled to the brim with all the pills I take. So I placed the pharmacy on my back and humped it over to the train station. The 15 minutes it took Shula and I to locate the correct platform put my back into a new stage of agony, one that could not be soothed by Bengay, Tylenol, Advil, or even Percocet.

As soon as we were in the right place I removed my baggage and heeded the words of my Physical Therapist about the importance of stretching. I lay down on the ground looking up at the ceiling and went into an all out stretch while Shula headed for the bathroom. As soon as I began I noticed the station became a little livelier. I could not understand a word of what was being said, so I thought nothing of it, and continued lying on the station floor, on my back, struggling to bring my knees to my chest. I was too weary to raise my head to see what the commotion was all about. A few minutes later Shula returned from the restroom to find her boyfriend on the ground in some silly wanna-be yoga pose, wearing her father’s old worn out stained sweater, totally oblivious to the subway station full of Japanese commuters pointing and laughing. This was only the beginning, the first hour in Asia with thousands more to come.

Living Analog in a Digital World

Researchers, Developers, and Scientists are good for the earth,

New technology and discovery, do they give birth.

To improve life on this planet for all to use,

And in turn we lap it up with enthusiastic muse. 

 

Cures for disease

And locating what’s under the high seas,

Are important contributions.

But some inventions are less noble and will have retributions.

 

New Cars, MP3 players, Computers, and New Phones,

All to be developed and enter our homes.

Oh yeah, that will fill the void in our missing lives

And bring us to new highs.

 

While thousands of ourselves daily starve to death

we receive new inventions from Listerine that correct our natural breath.

What the hell is going on in this crazy world of ours?

Instead of asking that question we head out to the bars

 

But the economy must boom so “Invent away”

They dare say.

Without thought to what will be made,

And who in the end will have paid

 

And we lap it up whether good or bad,

We lap it up because it is the thing to have.

It becomes one of our new desires

Filled to the brim with high tech wires.

 

Today I am bitter

And I quiver.

Because inventions thought to be wise

Are leading to my demise.

 

I thought I had it bad

Years ago before it was the fad.

When my Dad came knocking on our door

And called to us four

 

“Get together” he’d say

To which we’d reply “no way.”

At the sunset at the hotel

At the beach, the pool, and the motel.

 

Us brothers hated to stop and be still

He wasn’t aware that it would kill,

The moment we were in

Just so one more card could be in the collection.

 

Has he heard the word memory before?

Or become too old that his mind had closed that door?

But we were nice and stood still,

After all it didn’t make us ill.

 

For eventually he’d run out

There was only so much film he could bring about,

The day wore on

And no longer could he stop us for a pose, that ability was gone.

 

But now you wretched fools

You’ve come along with your god damn tools,

You think you better our world with what you make?

Give me a fucking break.

 

Now look at what you’ve done

You’ve ruined all my fun,

No longer is there time to be had

What you have created is plain sad.

 

A world where pictures have no end

Where taking them constantly has become a trend.

Now every outing has interruption

Because as dictators know, no limits leads to corruption

 

Experience is no longer about memory

It’s about imagery

It’s about the pictures you can take

The beauty in them is all fake

 

For you are looking at faces of people who are depressed

Because the expectations of their pictures has them stressed

Gotta smile, gotta look like we’re having fun

Raise that Corona just in front of the setting sun.

 

Oh that came out fuzzy

And Jake wasn’t looking was he?

Hold on a sec stay right there

Smile, say cheese, fix your hair.

Cheers to Mike

“Let me guess, classes are over and you’re coming home to get drunk,” the homeless man said to me while sipping a 40 of Steele Reserve and sporting a cheek to cheek grin.

“You got it Mike, you’re always right on,” I said, as I thought about what a perfect way this was to be greeted week after week, on Friday afternoons after Brandeis University classes, at age 19.  Every Friday without fail I got lectured on American society, learning all about Thomas Jefferson and his story of rags to riches, and came home to see Mike sitting on my doorstep. Typically I continued the conversation from just a meet and greet.

“How was your sleep last night?”

“Great Nate, nice and warm. Haha I didn’t even mean to rhyme and I still did. Love it when that happens.”

Mike had made a comfortable home for himself on the couch in our basement, which had no lock thanks to our landlord named Dick, who let us hand in our rent up to 2 months late so long as he didn’t have to fix the broken ass house. But I didn’t mind Mike’s presence, didn’t mind that he slept two floors below me. I appreciated his rotten-toothed smile because he was the happiest and savviest homeless man I had ever met. Well, I suppose he was the only homeless man that I had ever really met.  Regardless, this was a relief because generally speaking I hate homeless people. I can’t stand them. Not because they beg for money, that I can get over. And not because they’re dirty, I tend to go a few days without a shower myself. It’s simply because they are bad at being homeless and that I know I could be a superior homeless man than most of them, which isn’t even my job. If I’m better than someone at their job, and it’s not my job, then they really suck.

For example, I know at least thirty different places that I could sleep in my home city of Boston, hidden in different nooks and crannies of different public buildings and businesses from Libraries, to hotels, to bus stations, which are relatively warm and comfortable, so that I would never have to spend a night in the cold.  Yet I hear on the news, stories about homeless people who die in the dead of winter because they freeze to death. It’s inexcusable. If I, a man with a home, could successfully scramble for shelter if the situation called for it, then they have no excuses because they have no home.  This is what they do for a living.  There responsibilities are to stay warm and beg a little. Three dollars in change is three fast food burgers when ordering off the dollar menu. Beyond food and shelter there isn’t much to it. And if that job is too hard for them, if they can’t find a warm place to sleep, I understand, but then I must ask. What the fuck are you doing in New England? Please start walking south.  I know it will take a long time, but shit you have nothing else to do.  Get yourselves to Florida or at least Alabama. What’s that you say?  You don’t know which direction South is?  Then look up to the sky and follow the migrating birds. You have no excuses.  You could even hitchhike and take the weight off your legs. And if even this is too difficult for you, if you’re not as smart as the birds who’s brains I have to imagine are less than 1/10 the size of yours, then still I am willing to forgive you.  However, please do me a favor and get caught stealing some shit so you can go to jail where you will be housed and fed on the rest of societies’ money.  But Don’t freeze to death.  If you are homeless and shelter-less during a Boston winter and you succumb to hypothermia it’s not an accident, it’s inevitable.

This is why Mike was such a relief. He knew, what he was doing.  So creative was this Mike that one-day before my housemates had a party we put our keg outside to get cold. Upon opening the door to retrieve it, there were ten drunken homeless people in our driveway drinking beer out of empty milk cartons, because Mike somehow located his own tap and tapped the keg. He was throwing a homeless person party in our driveway.  There were even chics there. And so I couldn’t be mad at him for stealing our beer, because goddamn, he was a crafty individual. Most importantly though, he knew how to live, and live well, without a home, when almost every other one of his kind still had much improvement to make. And so wherever you are now Mike, who’s ever basement you have chosen as your bed, I salute you. Cheers.