headed to cali

We left Popoyan and headed to Cali, the augmentation Mecca.

We greet our taxi driver with caution “How much?” I ask, the driver replies “metoro”- we jump inside.

We found Hostal Calidad, embedded hillside overlooking the many full breasted hookers of Cali. Buzzing to get in, now my speech may become a little harsh and biased solely because I lived this moment prior to writing it, but this four eyed, nerdy hand flailing, loose-lisped, greased up, temper-tantrum prone, steamrolling with power, Napoleon complex, anally raging, Colombian homosexual opened the door- we didn’t have a good vibe from the start.

We took the room, strictly because it was late- luckily there was a good group of people chilling about, otherwise the almighty glory holed manager would have lead a lot more heat on us.

We ran into Jeremy, an old mate we met in Mancora, Peru and the three of us went for a jaunt to the local mom and pop liquor shop. After shelling out pennies for a bottle of aguadiente, a sweet licorice liquor resembling zambuca, i realized I just threw away a few good pennies.

Anyways it was already bought and we had some schwepps to mix so I said farewell to sober hood. The first club we hit was a 20,000 peso all you can drink orgy. But getting there with an hour before close left us in a rush to down as much booze… fast!

I… am not a good all you can drink drinker, nor am I a good all you can eat eater. It’s a complex of mine- but that’s where the parties at so I indulged.

Rum and cokes. Vodka and juice. Whiskey this and that’s. Then Jeremy walks over to me with a drink “ taste this” he says handing me the drink “I know the bartender”. I immediately puked in a planter that was thankfully standing right next to me- and I could feel the fire growing inside of me.

The lights flash- beastlike Colombian bouncers circle the terrace. “I’m trapped”, I mumble crouched in the corner.

A beckoning call brews through the thick sweaty air “todos vamos”. The bar is closing and they want everyone out- they don’t want me, I’m not in trouble and I won’t have to perform anything with my ass- I’m saved!

Exiting the club I met a metal head in a jet black Metallica shirt- who says hes from the states. We shoot the shite for a little while about his childhood and returning to his family that once let him go- he seemed to be at peace and not harboring any anger the only difficulty is that he doesn’t speak Spanish and his parents don’t speak English- talk about awahhhh!

He told us where the after party was – the famed discotech district of Juanchito. We grabbed a taxi and drove through the night to our unknown destination… the tires rolling along dirt roads through foreign neighborhoods until lights started beaming through gaps… it got brighter and brighter until we crossed a little bridge into the famed town- it resembled the Vegas strip in the only sense that it didn’t sleep and you knew things happened here that wouldn’t be making its way back home.

We entered a club and I made eyes almost immediately with a chocolate beauty, middle aged with a sexy figure, and we were drawn to each other through music. We salsa’d around the room swinging and swaying and shaking our sweaty bodies to the fiery tempo. What I learned was that after each dance both of you would part ways and wait for the next song to be played before you’d be back up on your feet again.

The lady and I met up on the floor throughout the night, locking lips and swaying hips, bodies bound by the music. The art of dance can be very beautiful and moving and it can be erotic and nasty much like they art of reggaeton- which is like ass fucking only with clothes on.

viva la paperboy

Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk- Not again!

Yep, another rainy morning for the overworked, undersexed, rarely appreciated, often overlooked, complaint ridden, life hating, living at home bedroom adjacent to mama’s, car borrowing, in the negative bank account, sleepless, fucked up scheduled, university degree holding paperboy… sorrrrrrrrrrrrry… PAPERMAN!

Imagine a life with no gratitude. Everything done right is expected and every little mistake is criticized and printed out in bold ink on a nice white sheet of paper. What’s so lovely about this paper is that it can’t talk back to you- Sure, you can curse it and crumble it, even fart on it… but it’s still there reading LOUD AND CLEAR and perhaps now a little rank “MISSED DELIVERY 46 BEAVER CRESCENT”.  This wouldn’t suck as much had it been your first week on the job, but when you know for a fact you delivered to 46 BEAVER CRESCENT because you do EVERY morning- and have for the last 10 years without a thank you- it’s just a kick in the taint because now you are getting docked 3 dollars, when you only get paid .17 cents to deliver it.

Now this problem wouldn’t have even occurred if your customer took a second to take their head from out of their potato chip eating, greasy stooled, trans-fat laden, reality TV watching, 3 second nut busting, never read a book in their life, drooling mouthed, gigantic toilet-paper shit covered asshole and just thought to themselves “ Hey it’s raining today…  maybe my paperboy put the paper in my mailbox where he always does when it’s raining; as opposed to the porch when its dry- ill take a look. OHHH WOWWWEEE what a surprise, there it is”.

You would think that to be too HARD of a thought. Perhaps the 1 foot it takes to waddle to your mailbox would possibly cause heart failure you fat-yielding-fuck, or maybe the cool breeze is just too harsh to embrace in the morning you retarded, short-bus, backwards shirt wearing cock-smoker. So next time don’t assume you didn’t get the paper- Take a fucking second to look in your Jesus , Buddha, Hashem, Allah or Goddamn mailbox because the paperboy knows that if you DON’T get your precious PROPOGANDA that its gonna cost him. FUCK!!!

Then we have the regular everyday complainers!!!! These gomers need to be face fucked with a rusty lawn mower!

“My papers wet!”

“Double bag it”

“Put it between my doors”

“In the mailbox in my backyard”

“Don’t throw it at the end of the driveway”

 “No elastics”

“I’m disabled”

 “My paper’s creased”

“Don’t walk on my lawn”

“Deliver quietly”

“My wife’s a whore”

On and On and On and On!!

If all you lazy fucks who get home delivery have nothing better to do than complain… why don’t you cart your own degenerate ass down to the corner store and purchase your own. It would save a whole shit load of paperboys/girls/men/women from waking up and being YOUR legs. And if anything it would put an end to the system and force these Paper-People to go off and get REAL jobs. A career perhaps! See what I mean… a thankless job!

So next time you rise at the crack of noon and ho-hum your way to your front door in search of your paper- think about the Paperboy who eked himself out of his warm bed at 2:00 am, drove his shit-box to pick up his paper-stack to go out and deliver to all you wasteful fucks who haven’t gotten with the times of reading the paper online. Instead of boo-hooing about your paper being an inch out of place… why not tip your paperboy or leave him a soda on your front porch to show that you care. Because isn’t that what everyone wants in life- to know that someone is thinking about them.

And who knows maybe your paper won’t be farted on- because we all know that if you complain... the shit doth rain!

Viva la Paperboy,

three dollars and a lifetime of memories

Our plane touched down in Leticia, a small town in the south-eastern part of Colombia that bordered Peru and Brazil. Our plan was to take a boat along the Amazon River to the city of Iquitos, Peru- with only five days to catch our connecting flight, and on a backpacker’s allowance; our journey began.

            We found a decent flat only five minutes from the river, but spent more than twenty trying to talk the price down. I love a good bargain brawl- you know the one that leaves your conscious unsettled to the point it might have jeopardized the safety of you stay. Finally coming to an agreement that we were overpaying- we hit the streets in search of a ticket for the boat going out the next day to Iquitos. There were two companies in town and you can guess it- they were both sold out. So we threw on our dishevelled faces and pleaded with them that we desperately needed to be on that boat. Pulling us aside, he slyly whispered to us “meet me at the dock at four; I’ll see what I can do”. What he did was give us give other river dwellers seats- as we crept onto the boat, we left a dock full of landlocked unfortunates.

            The boat was not exactly what I expected. I had in mind a quiet open-seated riverboat that gracefully waltzed down the chocolaty river- instead it was a deafeningly, claustrophobic speedboat that motored past all the beauty.  As we stopped to board new passengers- we were eventually kicked out of our seats and placed in the engine room at the back of the boat. This actually turned out to be the highlight of the ride, as we transferred to the bright and breezy back- we soon made beds out of all the travellers’ luggage and took in the rest of the ride.

            The boat docked and we grabbed a tuk-tuk, a three-wheeled taxi, to a recommended hostel “Hobo’s Hideout”. Love the moniker, don’t you? We paid for a room and headed into town for a bite to eat when it all began- swarms of colourful taxis, reckless tuk tuk’s, cars and jalopies sped down our side street in a blaze of glory, furiously waving flags and mashing on their horns as if the end of the world were coming- it turned out to be over a soccer match. To my very eyes it appeared that they were celebrating a victory- I later heard it was a tie. But as all of this was going on in front of me- I had no time to think, so I did what any adventurer would have done. I lunged myself onto one of the passing tuk-tuk’s and joined a gang of cheery youth, shouting and hollering- to me it seemed like innocent fun. I soon learned a lesson about misjudgement as my caravan drove further away from the city core.  This wasn’t the part that threw me for a loop; it was when we entered their rival’s part of town and had to duck when a hail of rocks began showering our taxi. I was hit in the chest, and a nameless passenger was also hit- both of us walking away unharmed, though the gang with a little more hostility than I.

            Parking their tuk-tuk on the edge of town, we got out and discussion of retaliation ensued.  I just replied “No me gusta. I don’t like”- it’s all I really knew how to say, to explain my lack of interest. So this is where we parted ways and I rode safely back to the town square in yet another tuk-tuk ending my little adventure.

            The next morning we met Walter at our bus, and bribed the driver to let us sit on top of the bus with the luggage- two dollars later we had the best seat in the house (figuratively speaking). Arriving in Lautus, we stocked up on goods and boarded our multi-coloured, river boat to our unknown destination in the midst the Amazon jungle. As our boat departed- a smile crept upon my face in amazement at the true beauty of my surroundings- my dream was now reality.

            Two hours into the ride we came across an intersecting tributary which boasted an array of pink, silver and black river dolphins. I giddily jumped rocking the boat, enthusiastically snapping pictures, only ever managing to capture a tail or fin as they frolicked in and out of the murky water.

            We eventually arrived at Puerto Miguel, a long narrow sandbank that was lined with makeshift houses on stilts- keeping tides and unwanted gators away from little kiddies. The village was without electricity except for one gas generator that was hooked up to a booming stereo. We sat down to eat some dinner and later played catch with a hardened fruit with some of the local kids. We talked Walter into taking the canoe out in search of alligators, so the three of us loaded into the canoe and paddled off just as the sun was going down.

            The dip of the paddle, the swinging vines of a playful monkey, the baritone of the lonely toad and the powerful gusts of the heron’s wings that straddled the rivers thickness; replaced those of cars, telephones and the hustle of everyday life- as the stars began freckling through the sky. Though we never did see a gator, it didn’t take an ounce away from the sheer presence of beauty.

            The next morning we went for a quick dip in the river before departure and were introduced to a couple of nipping piranhas. We both hastily jumped out of the water after I was bitten on my finger and Ryan reached second base with his nipple biting friend. After dressing we said our farewells over warm beers and rock and roll blaring from the boom-box. We got back to our hostel in the evening after sharing a rooftop ride with a heap of vibrant bananas and waving to every soul that we passed.

            It was our last full day in Iquitos and we decided to take a tour of the slums of Belin. From above, the homes were littered with sheet metal roofs, tarps and wooden flats, while the streets were ridden with waste. I’m not going to paint it beautifully, because it wasn’t- what was beautiful, was the people. The bright smiles and life that radiated from this port was phenomenal. Children flying homemade kites, teens losing soccer balls to the river and fighting at who had to retrieve it, canoes passing floating houses sending regards in waves and whistles, toothless grandmothers smiling over babies- and as I took in all this beauty I found myself turning in circles trying to capture everything standing at the edge of a soccer field, when I heard a voice shout “Hello”. I turned around and made my way to a young man I would grow to know as Teddy. He had a beautiful wife and child and invited me into his home. We talked about life and sports and the similarities in our cultures, as well as differences- and over a short period of time a crowd of people had gathered intrigued at Teddy’s English or perhaps that a couple of foreigners were perusing their neighbourhood. We exchanged emails as we departed and returned to city square.

            The town had an important agenda this evening as Peruvians from all corners gathered in the town centre- signs in hand growing with anger as the masses continued to multiply. We walked back to our hostel as the scene got more violent. Now locked behind the hostel entrance we killed the lights as protestors marched up our streets rattling gates, smashing bottles and chanting- all I could make out was the word ‘muerte’, meaning death in Spanish- I had no clue what I was in for. All I was thinking is that I have a plane to catch tomorrow and I want to get out of here alive. The night carried on with streaks occasionally making their way past our hostel and the noise of violence echoing through the streets. While sitting in the back courtyard sounds of footsteps banged on rooftops above ours heads- we had no clue what was in store, I don’t even know how I fell asleep, but eventually I did, fortunately rising to yet another sunrise.

            The day was dead, nothing was open and we frantically called the airport. They told us that the airport was closed, but was opening in the evening. With our flight being at seven we had managed to luck out. Apparently the strike was over rising prices in the economy and the people were taking it to the streets- you should have seen the police running away from the citizens- it was a very powerful moment. We hopped on a tuk-tuk and I left Peru with three dollars to my name- but was left with so much more.

the sultan

There was this beautiful young sultan that wanted to own all the sand in the world. So with his father’s inheritance, he started buying beaches and oceans- slowly accumulating a great deal of land.  He would spend all day roaming his secluded beaches only stopping to build sand castles.  He loved his time on the beach. He was able to dream.  He could vision bigger, grandeur castles with moats and secret tunnels and bridges.  He studied the tides to tell just how far the ocean would swell and build his castles just out of harms way. As time lapsed he acquired more beaches and built more sandcastles.  The beaches became littered with his creations- each on carefully thought-out and acutely different from the last.  He was very particular about his obsession and soon began enforcing barriers to make certain no one would tamper with his majesties. He once caught a young peasant wandering one of his beaches off the coast of Morocco, and not to go into detail, he made the child permanently aware that he had been somewhere he shouldn’t have been.

He began losing sleep over his desire to own every beach in the world. He even started tricking and scamming people off their land. He started purchasing entire islands, filled with children, husbands, wives and all sorts of workers: chefs, builders, seamstresses and craftsmen.  He kicked everyone out of their homes- giving them sparse time to collect their belongings. He had small vessels that he crammed the inhabitants on, and shipped them to mainland.  Within the snap of his fingers, islands were empty- leaving him in a paradise to create at peace.

One night while sleeping, he had a vision.  He could take advantage of the builders and craftsmen to design elaborate castles, and he could have the chefs cook for the builders when they themselves weren’t building.  The he thought, that would give him more time to acquire more land and further his impetus on covering the world with his majestic sand castles. So into action he steamrolled.

Islands filled with simple happy souls at work and play were in for drastic changes.  No longer free to roam they had to meet quotas of sandcastles built and to enforce this the sultan arranged a hierarchy of inhabitants- giving leniency and tolerance to those in charge of keeping order.

Sandcastles began clustering up all along the beachside, often measuring 3-4 stories in height and some only mere feet from each other.  The sultan was now hard at work purchasing new land, breaking down the individuals, and positioning those in charge- that he was spending more behind the scenes of the operation- but his life was going to fast to acknowledge.

And with an almost fairytale ending, the sultan had finally bought all the sand in the world.  It had taken him 46 years but he had completed his lifelong dream.  The sultan now in his 60’s, had aged almost double from the toll and pressure of running across the globe; constantly searching, fighting, stripping, rebuilding and conquering those in his favour.

Now 62 and not the beautiful young sultan he once had been- finally had time to sit and enjoy his lifelong achievement.

He began his journey to embark on his masterpieces- stopping in the west indies to gaze at his beauties. Boarding ship after ship he basked in the greatness of all his castles meticulously jutting from the earth in perfect unison.  He shipped to every corner of the globe, in South East Asia, Europe, The Americas and he eventually made it back to his birthplace.

He had not been back in over 40 years and he had a hard time fighting for a memory.

As he walked around his timeless home, he made his way to the veranda that overlooked the Mediterranean.  With each step he took he began getting powerful sensations.  It was his memory finally catching up to him.  He got closer- step after step until he was entrenched in a dream.

The young sultan hung over the balcony- eyes fixed on the calmness of the ocean that day-and as he stared a reflection appeared.

‘It was the upper torso of this monstrous castle his father had created with a team of designers and personal friends.  And it was with this vision that the young sultan ran down his whirling concrete steps to the infinite grains of sparkling white sand. And as he dug his hands past the sun-baked exterior, the coolness from within brought his body to life.  Each day after his studies he would rush to the sea’s limits and with outstretched arms and his white satin sleeves rolled up past his elbows he would get lost in the sheer depths of it all.’

Waking, shaken from his dream- his body lay sullen among the white sanded beach and

legend has it that the aged sultan began to cry. He cried for spending a life devoted to selfishness. He cried for ruining the lives of those forced to pursue his dream. He cried for losing site of his childhood dream. He cried because he was alone.

And it is said that the sultan shed one tear for every single grain of sand that he had owned- and it was these same tears that washed away all his castles- all but one on each of his beaches. And if you are lucky you may be able to spot that lone castle remaining, and it is said that it will speak to your soul and warn you never to lose site of your youth.

hobos hideout

Our plane touched down in Leticia, a small town in the south-eastern part of Colombia that bordered Peru and Brazil. Our plan was to take a boat along the Amazon River to the city of Iquitos, Peru- with only five days to catch our connecting flight, and on a backpacker’s allowance; our journey began.

We found a decent flat only five minutes from the river, but spent more than twenty trying to talk the price down. I love a good bargain brawl- you know the one that leaves your conscious unsettled to the point it might have jeopardized the safety of you stay. Finally coming to an agreement that we were overpaying- we hit the streets in search of a ticket for the boat going out the next day to Iquitos. There were two companies in town and you can guess it- they were both sold out. So we threw on our dishevelled faces and pleaded with them that we desperately needed to be on that boat. Pulling us aside, he slyly whispered to us “meet me at the dock at four; I’ll see what I can do”. What he did was give us give other river dwellers seats- as we crept onto the boat, we left a dock full of landlocked unfortunates.

he boat was not exactly what I expected. I had in mind a quiet open-seated riverboat that gracefully waltzed down the chocolaty river- instead it was a deafeningly, claustrophobic speedboat that motored past all the beauty.  As we stopped to board new passengers- we were eventually kicked out of our seats and placed in the engine room at the back of the boat. This actually turned out to be the highlight of the ride, as we transferred to the bright and breezy back- we soon made beds out of all the travellers’ luggage and took in the rest of the ride.

The boat docked and we grabbed a tuk-tuk, a three-wheeled taxi, to a recommended hostel “Hobo’s Hideout”. Love the moniker, don’t you? We paid for a room and headed into town for a bite to eat when it all began- swarms of colourful taxis, reckless tuk tuk’s, cars and jalopies sped down our side street in a blaze of glory, furiously waving flags and mashing on their horns as if the end of the world were coming- it turned out to be over a soccer match. To my very eyes it appeared that they were celebrating a victory- I later heard it was a tie. But as all of this was going on in front of me- I had no time to think, so I did what any adventurer would have done. I lunged myself onto one of the passing tuk-tuk’s and joined a gang of cheery youth, shouting and hollering- to me it seemed like innocent fun. I soon learned a lesson about misjudgement as my caravan drove further away from the city core.  This wasn’t the part that threw me for a loop; it was when we entered their rival’s part of town and had to duck when a hail of rocks began showering our taxi. I was hit in the chest, and a nameless passenger was also hit- both of us walking away unharmed, though the gang with a little more hostility than I.

Parking their tuk-tuk on the edge of town, we got out and discussion of retaliation ensued.  I just replied “No me gusta. I don’t like”- it’s all I really knew how to say, to explain my lack of interest. So this is where we parted ways and I rode safely back to the town square in yet another tuk-tuk ending my little adventure.

The next morning we met Walter at our bus, and bribed the driver to let us sit on top of the bus with the luggage- two dollars later we had the best seat in the house (figuratively speaking). Arriving in Lautus, we stocked up on goods and boarded our multi-coloured, river boat to our unknown destination in the midst the Amazon jungle. As our boat departed- a smile crept upon my face in amazement at the true beauty of my surroundings- my dream was now reality.

Two hours into the ride we came across an intersecting tributary which boasted an array of pink, silver and black river dolphins. I giddily jumped rocking the boat, enthusiastically snapping pictures, only ever managing to capture a tail or fin as they frolicked in and out of the murky water.

We eventually arrived at Puerto Miguel, a long narrow sandbank that was lined with makeshift houses on stilts- keeping tides and unwanted gators away from little kiddies. The village was without electricity except for one gas generator that was hooked up to a booming stereo. We sat down to eat some dinner and later played catch with a hardened fruit with some of the local kids. We talked Walter into taking the canoe out in search of alligators, so the three of us loaded into the canoe and paddled off just as the sun was going down.

The dip of the paddle, the swinging vines of a playful monkey, the baritone of the lonely toad and the powerful gusts of the heron’s wings that straddled the rivers thickness; replaced those of cars, telephones and the hustle of everyday life- as the stars began freckling through the sky. Though we never did see a gator, it didn’t take an ounce away from the sheer presence of beauty.

The next morning we went for a quick dip in the river before departure and were introduced to a couple of nipping piranhas. We both hastily jumped out of the water after I was bitten on my finger and Ryan reached second base with his nipple biting friend. After dressing we said our farewells over warm beers and rock and roll blaring from the boom-box. We got back to our hostel in the evening after sharing a rooftop ride with a heap of vibrant bananas and waving to every soul that we passed.

It was our last full day in Iquitos and we decided to take a tour of the slums of Belin. From above, the homes were littered with sheet metal roofs, tarps and wooden flats, while the streets were ridden with waste. I’m not going to paint it beautifully, because it wasn’t- what was beautiful, was the people. The bright smiles and life that radiated from this port was phenomenal. Children flying homemade kites, teens losing soccer balls to the river and fighting at who had to retrieve it, canoes passing floating houses sending regards in waves and whistles, toothless grandmothers smiling over babies- and as I took in all this beauty I found myself turning in circles trying to capture everything standing at the edge of a soccer field, when I heard a voice shout “Hello”. I turned around and made my way to a young man I would grow to know as Teddy. He had a beautiful wife and child and invited me into his home. We talked about life and sports and the similarities in our cultures, as well as differences- and over a short period of time a crowd of people had gathered intrigued at Teddy’s English or perhaps that a couple of foreigners were perusing their neighbourhood. We exchanged emails as we departed and returned to city square.

The town had an important agenda this evening as Peruvians from all corners gathered in the town centre- signs in hand growing with anger as the masses continued to multiply. We walked back to our hostel as the scene got more violent. Now locked behind the hostel entrance we killed the lights as protestors marched up our streets rattling gates, smashing bottles and chanting- all I could make out was the word ‘muerte’, meaning death in Spanish- I had no clue what I was in for. All I was thinking is that I have a plane to catch tomorrow and I want to get out of here alive. The night carried on with streaks occasionally making their way past our hostel and the noise of violence echoing through the streets. While sitting in the back courtyard sounds of footsteps banged on rooftops above ours heads- we had no clue what was in store, I don’t even know how I fell asleep, but eventually I did, fortunately rising to yet another sunrise.

The day was dead, nothing was open and we frantically called the airport. They told us that the airport was closed, but was opening in the evening. With our flight being at seven we had managed to luck out. Apparently the strike was over rising prices in the economy and the people were taking it to the streets- you should have seen the police running away from the citizens- it was a very powerful moment. We hopped on a tuk-tuk and I left Peru with three dollars to my name- but was left with so much more.

full moon party

            No one word can describe the feeling of travelling through Thailand. Words rarely are used for that matter. But if you talk to anyone that has been to Thailand they will tell you the same thing-

 Ahhhhhhh!!!

 Ohhhhhhh!!!!

 Urghhhhhhh!!!

Take your pick. You’ve probably heard them all.

My experience was nothing less than Ahhhhhhh!!! Some stories left me kicking myself- while others, let’s say….. they are still kicking around in my head. But to begin I will tell you how a carefree, last minute virgin adventurer ended up in the land of Urghhhhhhh!!!

I just finished teaching at a winter English second language (ESL) school in the south, of South Korea. My contract finished, leaving me with a pocket full of cash and… well, nothing to do.  My plan was to move to Seoul and get a job at a private school and sign on for a continued year.

I contacted an old Jewish friend who happened to be living in Seoul.

“What up Jew”, I said as we talked over the phone.

“Yo, Louis what’s happening”, my fellow Hebrew shot back.

“Can you help a brother out?” I continued, “I’m heading to Seoul looking for a gig, can I stay at your spread until I’m on my feet?”

Two days later I arrived at his door bags in hand.

I spent one day on the internet looking for respectable schools until I contacted Cecilia Park- a wonderful bosomy recruiter for Park English. I made an appointment for noon the next day.

I showed up at her office, was handed a job and told to meet her that night with some of my potential schools staff at a local bar Rocky Mountain Tavern. Well to skip the fine print, we drank 5 pitchers and I was hired on the spot.

I returned to Cecilia’s office the next day to sign the contract and go over details.

To break down the next series of events- I would have to say I am fuckin’ blessed.

I signed the contract at noon. Walked over to a travel agency at one and booked a flight to Thailand that evening at seven. I contacted my old Jewish friend to make sure he was home and took a subway across Seoul back to his flat. Packed- then jumped on a subway in time to catch the airport bus, arriving an hour before flight.

I landed in Bangkok. Threw my bag over my shoulder and walked around puzzled at which utopia to embrace.  Enough the following evening was the ‘Full Moon Party’- a beachside head trip with claim to worldly levels, similar to ‘Burning Man’ in Nevada- but in fucking Thailand.

As I patrol the airport I meet fellow travelers in my same predicament. Small talk between a few of us adventurers leads to a clan and we decide to make our way to Kho Samui (a touristy island a stone’s throw from the drug and sex infested island of Kho Phangang).

We board the plane and touch down an hour later, landing in a tropical rain shower that’s not only refreshing but somewhat necessary. I once read a saying that some people walk in the rain while others just get wet, and I’ve followed this philosophy ever since. I think you can really tell the character of an individual by given circumstances- even something as simple as how one reacts to rain.

I say “let the clouds open up and strike a ferocious climax of dewy substance all over me- I’m in Thailand and nothing can bring me down”.

We all make our way to a tent and purchase tickets to the Full Moon Party, before loading a ram-shackled bus that is nothing less than perfect. When I travel, I look for the real experience- I don’t want to be driven around local communities- passing houses with tin roofs, barred windows, a spray paint finish and dinner pets- in a doctored up Mercedes. I want a busted window, no seat-belt, stale smelling, gutted pickup truck with picnic benches for seats and a toothless driver who- for all I know- might not even be taking me to suggested destination.

All goes well and we end up on the beach-strip after a short drive through the country side. Seeing life through others really makes you question the situation you were brought up in. Thailand is a breathtaking country- but suffers from poverty and dilapidation. But I have been birthed with a skewed interpretation raised in Canada -where one sucks from the teat of indoor plumbing, hydro, and all those essentials that makes life… all that easier.

What we don’t calculate is the pull that all of these must haves have on us. We have to wear the name brands and latest fashions, eat hamburgers that are 30% bigger, but at the same time watch our figures with products that now come with less sodium or are labeled trans fat free. These are the chains and shackles that parade our lives from the first click of the TV to the signs we pass on our way to meaningless jobs. Why do we work so hard to be surrounded by materials- that will be waste when a newer, bigger, better same product becomes cleverly available? 

What I have gathered along my travels is that it is important to be happy and surrounded by loved ones, and if you have that, well than that means the world. Yes, I am biased- being fortunate enough to have been given the opportunity to travel and speculate on those who appear to been given the shaft- but appearance is only skin deep.

I would like to draw a comparison between how many view other cultures situations and how the others may perceive them.

If you were to view a dog inside an owners house. Say, you walk past this house every day and never see the dog outside playing, you immediately suspect neglect. So, you decide to call the SPCA on this horrid family. They arrive, don’t ask any questions and take the dog away from the owner and put it in a kennel. Well unknown to you that the dog was quite content being indoors and enjoyed the company of its master- inside warm and comfortable. But your rash decision and lack of knowledge took this dog from its home and put it in a world that it did not ask for, nor care for.

Now to translate:

For many Thai (and cultures that appear less fortunate worldwide) who live under certain circumstances that may not live up to the standards for us Americans, don’t assume that they want a change. Many are content with the freedom of everyday life. They are free from major corporations, brand names, brain washing, politics, and the newest innovations that stir thoughts of greed throughout society. We Americans created our destiny on the basis that it’s what’s best for us, but it’s not what’s best for everyone. And I for one don’t want to take anyone from their home and throw them into a world they did not ask for.

All these thoughts infiltrate my mind as I bop my head to the notes of the uneven ground. We find a beach house, throw our bags down, and high-top through the town to get acquainted.

We stop at a local mart looking for local beer to get us in a local mindset. We stock up and head to the beach to- well, swim.

As night rolled around it was time to jump ship and cruise over to Kho Phangang for the full moon party. We load onto the bus as it takes us for a ride down the strip. 

The bus soon stops to pick up others and a drop-dead Swedish girl, Ula, climbs aboard and sits to my left. She is glowing and gorgeous in a flowing red dress, vibrant and forthcoming. The drinks get passed around along with laughs and the bus comes to a stop at the dock. A bar lining the walkway serves ’buckets’- a sand-castle pale filled with ice a fourth or mickey of whiskey, and a can of red bull and coke- for the equivalency of a two Slovenian reach-a-rounds or 7 dollars Canadian. We all indulge.

As the speedboat comes we board and are in store for the choppiest ride of my life. Foreigners and locals fill the boat and drinking continues but in between intervals of crashing waves slamming against the boat. I unfortunately get caught at the wrong end of a wave and my bucket splashes everyone on the boat including myself as the sweet taste now clings to the clothes of all us nautical adventurers- but no one seems to mind as the laughing ensues.

The thoughts flowing through my mind are hard to retain- as I was living for the moment. Everything up to now has been a complete fantasy and I haven’t even arrived at the crowning moment- I don’t even know if there is a crowning moment (I think my life just gets better from this point on). The boys and I stop to refill our fluids- this is where I notice Ula on a flat-bed truck slowly edging through the crowds. I start running, picking up speed, never dropping my beer I might add, to finally reach her outstretched hand as I jump and am pulled aboard.

A crowd cheers.

Arriving at the party was surreal. Ten thousand creatures inhabit the beach. Alcohol matched with hallucinogenic’s, fire matched with water, music matched with dance, nudity matched with… well all of the above.

We make our way over to a stage that is draped with florescent lights and dancing sheets. We dance for hours, taking turns refilling our buckets and gawking in amazement at the free spirits.

A towering frame dawned with “Amazing Thailand” in huge burning characters ignites the sky as bodies adorn the scaffolding. In my deduced state I conclude that I must climb myself. I mount the structure and fist over fist make my way past naked bodies being prodded with blazing sticks, all the way to the top. 

The whole scene is too much to gauge if one has never been introduced to its surrounding before (speaking for myself that is). It’s unreal. Unfathomable. This is actually happening, while on the other side of the world, my friends fill seats in classrooms. No… this can’t be real. How can it be?

People flock from all parts of the world to take part in their hedonistic roots. An orgy of genres, cultures, styles and flavors’ garnish the beachfront. I was caught in a whirlwind and didn’t know what to make of things- I was completely content. Satisfied. Bursting to the point where I wasn’t’t even thinking of… you know… sex.

This was my fault, because Ula, on the other hand had other things in mind. My negligence led to her in another guys arms after I discarded the thought of hooking up. It’s not that I didn’t’t want to, or didn’t’t think about it. She was gorgeous- of course I wanted to, but I was so overwhelmed by the beauty and magic of it all, that it escaped me.

The night turned to morning, and I swear I wore an inch off my height from dancing. I felt as though I’d outshined Michael Flatly himself.

As I was leaving I saw a man get arrested by so-called police for drug possession. But I have heard of so-called stories where locals pretend to be police and walk the suspect to a bank machine and make them withdrawal all their cash as an exchange to save them from jail. But I have also heard of actual police using this tactic as well- either way I suspect the man will be broke within the hour.

So I reason with myself. I didn’t’t screw the girl but at least I didn’t’t get screwed by the law.

I caught a morning boat back to Kho Samui and was brought back to civilization. An unforgettable dance with hedonism- minus the sex.

the brain

“can I come in- all the shelters are closed tonight” he repeats before anyone notices- a grey v-neck rests upon his broad chest, but his voice is nasally, crisp and simple.

Walking in he asks to rest for a few to keep out of the cold- Heather tells him to grab a seat.

The boy stumbles around- big head with eyes new to the word, then pulls out a set of large headphones- holding them he speaks-

“Can I tell you something?”

“OK.”

“My girlfriend died last night.”

“Awwww!” with silence the few eyes in the bar lit with white.

A pause and with timing he lays out “I’m not having a good day.”

We all look around. Saddened if true, but we all have our doubts. He asks for water and leafs through business cards and flyers lying on the counter.

Picking up a golden Asian trinket cat with paw raised and red bow tie- he shook it to realize a coin had been dispensed. Intrigued he rotates and flips the toy in his simple hands- working his hands amongst everything that rested a top the counter.

“I didn’t think this was real. But, it is. Its made of wax- Did you make that? That’s cool!” placing the empty water now back on the counter.

“All the shelters are closed. I tried calling with my phone but it doesn’t work. Can I use your phone?” I was just in the mission and they threw new sheets on top of old sheets and said night, night- So I said bye-bye. Can you believe how rude?”

Still resting, his voice periodically hung in the air with the music-

“Is my sister there?” he asks over the bar phone- Which we can all here over the silence.

He leaves much like he arrives- with his crisp simple voice only slightly catching our attention.

I had a fight with my sister he says while leaving. He thanks Heather and she acknowledges and closes the bar being him wishing him well. My heart wishes him warmth and sunny days to this troubled mans journey.

oct 2 2010

the crisp breeze 3

The crisp breeze crashed against Old Man Parker’s cheeks like the tormenting seas that took the only love of his life; the same sea that wades infront of his hollow eyes and haunts his every waking moment.

Today’s autumn-scented morning was especially bitter and the chills hit him like a bat after whisking through the eroding wooden beams that made up his house. It wasn’t much of a house, and he always blamed that on the loss of his love; a love that constantly barred him from everyday life and personal growth.

As much as he had loved; he loathed. And now that his love was gone, lost to the sea, he remained cold and sterile which restrained his seeds from taking fruition- fruition of his own life to grow and spread its roots.

It had been many years since the incident, yet he still hadn’t been able to move forward, turn the page sort of speak; but this blank morning sitting hollow and starving forced him to adjourn- something that would have seemed miraculous if anyone had been home to acknowledge  his departure. However, it was quite the contrary as he made his was out of his often over-looked home and past the fallen leaves and nude trees that encompassed his landscape.

Old Man Parker began walking. It had been so long since he left his house leisurely that his surrounding looked foreign.  And minutes after leaving his own neighbourhood, his nurtured womb of isolation quickly became a single brushstroke in a much grandeur picture.

It was a funny thought that tickled his memory, a thought he had buried many years prior. He had not seen a child at play in so long that he forgot what mask innocence had donned.  For he had long time equated children with a fierce hatred.

 As the child recklessly tore about the playground jumping from one obstacle to another, Old Man Parker grew infatuated, he could not take his eyes off this ball of happiness rolling amongst the loops, hoops, and stoops that made up Seashore Park- a sign he read as the boy ran into view of the parks plaque.

“Seashore Park!” he exclaimed “that’s the… the… the…” He couldn’t manage to bring the words to life but his mind had already screamed and had enough time to create an electrically vivid portrait.

It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name Seashore Park and wanted to see if the old bench was there, so he started walking. He passed, who he assumed to be, the child’s father sitting on a park side bench who was watching his son play, and when Old Man Parker walked near him, the father looked up to acknowledge the old man and greeted him with a “Chilly day isn’t it?” He nodded at a loss for words. He had not been spoken to or, spoken to anyone in years and was a little overwhelmed, but the father pressed on “Are you new to this neighbourhood? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Old Man Parker, now trapped, felt he only had one option; to walk away. But the warmth of the strangers face allowed him to reconsider engaging in conversation. He knew what he had to do deep down, however it remained difficult, but in the end he pursed his lips together to talk “I… I was here once many years ago, but ever since that day I haven’t been back.  Actually I haven’t been anywhere since that day.” Once he finished his words, he trembled and almost fell to his knees, only catching himself with an arm against the backrest of the bench.  The father has noticed his actions and resistance and felt that this old man needed something important to get off his chest.

“Please continue, if you are able.” He softly gestured, embracing as if he were about to hear something abrasive.

He felt a great pressure building, but a small measure of weight had been released by his initial comments, so he continued “It was more than thirty years ago when I returned home after spending a great deal of my youth travelling abroad. I had finally settled down and come home without any real direction as to what I wanted to do with my life, only knowing that I had always been passionate about writing- So I decided to write my life story about travelling the world. Each day I would walk the maze of streets that surrounded my neighbourhood, not knowing where they led because I had left my own backyard as the last place to explore. So each day I left my home equipped with typewriter and a stack of paper in my leather satchel excited at retracing my steps across Asia, South America, Europe and Africa; and turning my adventures into the greatest travel story ever written.  I had always been one to journey off the beaten path; paddling the Amazon in search of alligators, motorcycling around the entire coastline of South Korea,  back-packing through Thailand joining parades against piracy and getting chased by monkeys, and getting stuck in the middle of a riot in Peru. This was my life and so, upon coming home, I went out every day to cafés, rooftops, street corners, parks, and mountain tops, and regurgitated my life onto paper.”

The fathers eyes grew wide with anticipation, listening intently only occasionally looking out of the corner of his eye at his son at play- almost ignoring him altogether, and Old Man Parker kept flowing like a faucet left unattended “I had been home almost three years writing and was on the very last leg of my book, I had even gotten married within those three years to a real gem, but she left me because of… Well, let’s just say I never had time for her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” the father said mischievously.

“It’s well and good my boy.” Mr. Parker said without noticing the father’s intentions “I have learned to live it. But as I was saying, I used to leave the house everyday and find a place that gave me good energy. Well, it was a fall day much like the day we have today; the kind of day where the breeze bites at your skin, and I was sitting at that bench right over there along the Cliffside.” Mr. Parker, who stood shaken, pointed as the man turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

“I had poured my heart and soul and every ounce of myself into this book. Which was an extremely hard task considering I had to bury my desire to travel and explore deep down; but I told myself that this was the next chapter of my life- so I set to it vigorously. In Asia, I had learned to concentrate on a single task until completion; fortunately being surrounded by such diligent people had improved my slack work ethic.  So, as I sat just over there practically a period away from completion, a nervous chuckle had begun to grow in my belly. A chapter of my life was coming to an end. I had exhausted every means of my being and I… I was finally finishing my story- An impressive feat for myself of great magnitude at 736 typed pages, and not only that I was damn proud of it. I had written a lot in the past, but nothing quite like this- something that was mine, a legacy to pass on to my family and the world. And as I sat excited nervously laughing, a new laughter had outweighed mine. It was the sound of children, much like your child over there, but only a little older.”

This is when Mr. Parker’s eyes began to swell and his throat choke “I… I don’t know if I can continue.”

“You don’t have to” the father said harshly “I know everything that you’re going to say, and a day hasn’t gone by since that… that…”

“Wh… What are you trying to say?” Mr. Parker abruptly spit.

”That was me… me and my brother Donny. We were the ones that took your bag.”

“”Oh my God!” the Old Man gasped while raising his hand to his mouth in shock “I don’t know what to say, but I… I am unbelievably sorry about your brother. I… I wasn’t thinking and I acted on pure adrenaline and anger. I was young and a day hasn’t passed that I don’t relive the horror.”

“Well, what happened happened. There’s nothing we can do about the past. If we had not thrown your bag over the cliff then I wouldn’t have lost my brother that day. Over the last thirty years I have done a great deal of thinking and reliving that moment, and I have come to terms with it all. I just hope that the murder hasn’t eaten away at your soul over the years and you have come to terms as well. ” the father said snidely with a hint of sarcasm and long- lost anger in his voice.

 “Honestly after that day, I haven’t been the same man; I went mad with regret, I went into hiding, my marriage fell apart, I lost contact with the people that I already kept in the distance, and I had lost the love of my life, my story ” Mr. Parker cried with his shoulders shaking up and down .

“What is done is done” the father said without emotion “all we can do is move on.”

“You are right.” the old man said sombrely though he had never been able to since that day.

“Well, my boy and I should be getting home now, but before we go, I just have one last thing to say” the father now cocked his head and stared into the old man’s eyes.

Not responding by words the old man nodded, suggesting for the father to continue with his question.

“I guess we have both lost something forever” the father took time in his eloquence for he had waited a long time to meet the man that took his brother’s life “For me, I lost my brother and for you Mr. Parker, you lost the love of your life.”

the crisp breeze 2

The crisp breeze crashed against Old Man Parker’s cheeks like the tormenting seas that took the only love of his life; the same sea that wades infront of his hollow eyes and haunts his every waking moment.

Today’s autumn-scented morning was especially bitter and the chills hit him like a bat after whisking through the eroding wooden beams that made up his house. It wasn’t much of a house, and he always blamed that on the loss of his love; a love that constantly barred him from everyday life and personal growth.

As much as he had loved; he loathed. And now that his love was gone, lost to the sea, he remained cold and sterile which restrained his seeds from taking fruition- fruition of his own life to grow and spread its roots.

It had been many years since the incident, yet he still hadn’t been able to move forward, turn the page sort of speak; but this blank morning sitting hollow and starving forced him to adjourn- something that would have seemed miraculous if anyone had been home to acknowledge  his departure. However, it was quite the contrary as he made his was out of his often over-looked home and past the fallen leaves and nude trees that encompassed his landscape.

Old Man Parker began walking. It had been so long since he left his house leisurely that his surrounding looked foreign.  And minutes after leaving his own neighbourhood, his nurtured womb of isolation quickly became a single brushstroke in a much grandeur picture.

It was a funny thought that tickled his memory, a thought he had buried many years prior. He had not seen a child at play in so long that he forgot what mask innocence had donned.  For he had long time equated children with a fierce hatred.

 As the child recklessly tore about the playground jumping from one obstacle to another, Old Man Parker grew infatuated, he could not take his eyes off this ball of happiness rolling amongst the loops, hoops, and stoops that made up Seashore Park- a sign he read as the boy ran into view of the parks plaque.

“Seashore Park!” he exclaimed “that’s the… the… the…” He couldn’t manage to bring the words to life but his mind had already screamed and had enough time to create an electrically vivid portrait.

It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name Seashore Park and wanted to see if the old bench was there, so he started walking. He passed, who he assumed to be, the child’s father sitting on a park side bench who was watching his son play, and when Old Man Parker walked near him, the father looked up to acknowledge the old man and greeted him with a “Chilly day isn’t it?” He nodded at a loss for words. He had not been spoken to or, spoken to anyone in years and was a little overwhelmed, but the father pressed on “Are you new to this neighbourhood? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Old Man Parker, now trapped, felt he only had one option; to walk away. But the warmth of the strangers face allowed him to reconsider engaging in conversation. He knew what he had to do deep down, however it remained difficult, but in the end he pursed his lips together to talk “I… I was here once many years ago, but ever since that day I haven’t been back.  Actually I haven’t been anywhere since that day.” Once he finished his words, he trembled and almost fell to his knees, only catching himself with an arm against the backrest of the bench.  The father has noticed his actions and resistance and felt that this old man needed something important to get off his chest.

“Please continue, if you are able.” He softly gestured, embracing as if he were about to hear something abrasive.

He felt a great pressure building, but a small measure of weight had been released by his initial comments, so he continued “It was more than thirty years ago when I returned home after spending a great deal of my youth travelling abroad. I had finally settled down and come home without any real direction as to what I wanted to do with my life, only knowing that I had always been passionate about writing- So I decided to write my life story about travelling the world. Each day I would walk the maze of streets that surrounded my neighbourhood, not knowing where they led because I had left my own backyard as the last place to explore. So each day I left my home equipped with typewriter and a stack of paper in my leather satchel excited at retracing my steps across Asia, South America, Europe and Africa; and turning my adventures into the greatest travel story ever written.  I had always been one to journey off the beaten path; paddling the Amazon in search of alligators, motorcycling around the entire coastline of South Korea,  back-packing through Thailand joining parades against piracy and getting chased by monkeys, and getting stuck in the middle of a riot in Peru. This was my life and so, upon coming home, I went out every day to cafés, rooftops, street corners, parks, and mountain tops, and regurgitated my life onto paper.”

The fathers eyes grew wide with anticipation, listening intently only occasionally looking out of the corner of his eye at his son at play- almost ignoring him altogether, and Old Man Parker kept flowing like a faucet left unattended “I had been home almost three years writing and was on the very last leg of my book, I had even gotten married within those three years to a real gem, but she left me because of… Well, let’s just say I never had time for her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” the father said mischievously.

“It’s well and good my boy.” Mr. Parker said without noticing the father’s intentions “I have learned to live it. But as I was saying, I used to leave the house everyday and find a place that gave me good energy. Well, it was a fall day much like the day we have today; the kind of day where the breeze bites at your skin, and I was sitting at that bench right over there along the Cliffside.” Mr. Parker, who stood shaken, pointed as the man turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

“I had poured my heart and soul and every ounce of myself into this book. Which was an extremely hard task considering I had to bury my desire to travel and explore deep down; but I told myself that this was the next chapter of my life- so I set to it vigorously. In Asia, I had learned to concentrate on a single task until completion; fortunately being surrounded by such diligent people had improved my slack work ethic.  So, as I sat just over there practically a period away from completion, a nervous chuckle had begun to grow in my belly. A chapter of my life was coming to an end. I had exhausted every means of my being and I… I was finally finishing my story- An impressive feat for myself of great magnitude at 736 typed pages, and not only that I was damn proud of it. I had written a lot in the past, but nothing quite like this- something that was mine, a legacy to pass on to my family and the world. And as I sat excited nervously laughing, a new laughter had outweighed mine. It was the sound of children, much like your child over there, but only a little older.”

This is when Mr. Parker’s eyes began to swell and his throat choke “I… I don’t know if I can continue.”

“You don’t have to” the father said harshly “I know everything that you’re going to say, and a day hasn’t gone by since that… that…”

“Wh… What are you trying to say?” Mr. Parker abruptly spit.

”That was me… me and my brother Donny. We were the ones that took your bag.”

“”Oh my God!” the Old Man gasped while raising his hand to his mouth in shock “I don’t know what to say, but I… I am unbelievably sorry about your brother. I… I wasn’t thinking and I acted on pure adrenaline and anger. I was young and a day hasn’t passed that I don’t relive the horror.”

“Well, what happened happened. There’s nothing we can do about the past. If we had not thrown your bag over the cliff then I wouldn’t have lost my brother that day. Over the last thirty years I have done a great deal of thinking and reliving that moment, and I have come to terms with it all. I just hope that the murder hasn’t eaten away at your soul over the years and you have come to terms as well. ” the father said snidely with a hint of sarcasm and long- lost anger in his voice.

 “Honestly after that day, I haven’t been the same man; I went mad with regret, I went into hiding, my marriage fell apart, I lost contact with the people that I already kept in the distance, and I had lost the love of my life, my story ” Mr. Parker cried with his shoulders shaking up and down .

“What is done is done” the father said without emotion “all we can do is move on.”

“You are right.” the old man said sombrely though he had never been able to since that day.

“Well, my boy and I should be getting home now, but before we go, I just have one last thing to say” the father now cocked his head and stared into the old man’s eyes.

Not responding by words the old man nodded, suggesting for the father to continue with his question.

“I guess we have both lost something forever” the father took time in his eloquence for he had waited a long time to meet the man that took his brother’s life, “it’s like you once wrote; there comes a time when we must say goodbye to the thing we love, only to move forward and find ourselves.”

“For me, I lost my brother and for you Mr. Parker, you lost the love of your life.”

the crisp breeze 1

The crisp breeze crashed against Old Man Parker’s cheeks like the tormenting seas that took the only love of his life; the same sea that wades infront of his hollow eyes and haunts his every waking moment.

Today’s autumn-scented morning was especially bitter and the chills hit him like a bat after whisking through the eroding wooden beams that made up his house. It wasn’t much of a house, and he always blamed that on the loss of his love; a love that constantly barred him from everyday life and growth.

As much as he had loved; he loathed. And now that his love was gone, lost to the sea, he remained cold and sterile which restrained his seeds from taking fruition- fruition of his own life to grow and spread its roots.

It had been many years since the incident, yet he still hadn’t been able to move forward, turn the page sort of speak; but this blank morning sitting hollow and starving forced him to adjourn- something that would have seemed miraculous if anyone had been home to acknowledge  his departure. However, it was quite the contrary as he made his was out of his often over-looked home and past the fallen leaves and nude trees that encompassed his landscape.

Old Man Parker began walking. It had been so long since he left his house leisurely that his surrounding looked foreign.  And minutes after leaving his neighbourhood it quickly became a single brushstroke in a much grandeur picture.

It was a funny thought that tickled his memory, a thought he had buried many years prior. He had not seen a child at play in so long that he forgot what mask innocence had donned.  For he had long time equated children with a fierce hatred.

 As the child recklessly tore about the playground jumping from one obstacle to another, Old Man Parker grew infatuated, he could not take his eyes off this ball of happiness rolling amongst the loops, hoops, and stoops that made anywhere up Seashore Park- a sign he read as the boy ran into view of the parks plaque.

“Seashore Park!” he exclaimed “that’s the… the… the…” He couldn’t manage to bring the words to life but his mind had already screamed and had enough time to create an electrically vivid portrait.

It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name Seashore Park and wanted to see if the old bench was there, so he started walking. He passed, who he assumed to be, the child’s father sitting on a park side bench who was watching his son play, and when Old Man Parker walked near him, the father looked up to acknowledge The Old Man and greeted him with a “Chilly day isn’t it?” He nodded at a loss for words. He had not been spoken to or, spoken to anyone in years and was a little overwhelmed, but the father pressed on “Are you new to this neighbourhood? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Old Man Parker, now trapped, felt he only had one option; to walk away. But the warmth of the strangers face allowed him to reconsider engaging in conversation. He knew what he had to do deep down, however it remained difficult, but in the end he pursed his lips together to talk “I… I was here once many years ago, but ever since that day I haven’t been back.  Actually I haven’t been anywhere since that day.” Once he finished his words, he trembled and almost fell to his knees, only catching himself with an arm against the backrest of the bench.  The father has noticed his actions and resistance and felt that this old man needed something important to get off his chest.

“Please continue, if you are able.” He softly gestured, embracing as if he were about to hear something abrasive.

He felt a great pressure building, but a small measure of weight had been released by his initial comments, so he continued “It was more than thirty years ago when I returned home after spending a great deal of my youth travelling abroad. I had finally settled down and come home without any real direction as to what I wanted to do with my life, only knowing that I had always been passionate about writing- I decided to write my life story travelling the world. Each day I would walk the maze of streets that surrounded my neighbourhood, not knowing where they led because I had left my own backyard as the last place to explore. So each day I left my home equipped with typewriter and a stack of paper in my leather satchel excited at retracing my steps across Asia, South America, Europe and Africa; and turning my adventures into the greatest travel story ever written.  I had always been one to journey off the beaten path; paddling the Amazon in search of alligators, motorcycling around the entire coastline of South Korea,  back-packing through Thailand joining parades against piracy and getting chased by monkeys, and getting stuck in the middle of a riot in Peru. This was my life and so, upon coming home, I went out every day to cafés, rooftops, street corners, parks, and mountain tops, and regurgitated my life onto paper.”

The fathers eyes grew wide with anticipation, listening intently only occasionally looking out of the corner of his eye at his son at play- almost ignoring him altogether, and Old Man Parker kept flowing like a faucet left unattended “I had been home almost three years writing and was on the very last leg of my book, I had even gotten married within those three years to a real gem, but she left me because of… Well, let’s just say I never had time for her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” the father said mischievously.

“It’s well and good my boy.” Mr. Parker said without noticing the father’s intentions “I have learned to live it. But as I was saying, I used to leave the house everyday and find a place that gave me good energy. Well, it was a fall day much like the day we have today; the kind of day where the breeze bites at your skin, and I was sitting at that bench right over there along the Cliffside.” Mr. Parker, who stood shaken, pointed as the man turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

“I had poured my heart and soul and every ounce of myself into this book. Which was an extremely hard task considering I had to bury my desire to travel and explore deep down; but I told myself that this was the next chapter of my life- so I set to it vigorously. In Asia, I had learned to concentrate on a single task until completion; fortunately being surrounded by such diligent people had improved my slack work ethic.  So, as I sat just over there practically a period away from completion, a nervous chuckle had begun to grow in my belly. A chapter of my life was coming to an end. I had exhausted every means of my being and I… I was finally finishing my story- An impressive feat for myself of great magnitude at 736 typed pages, and not only that I was damn proud of it. I had written a lot in the past, but nothing quite like this- something that was mine, a legacy to pass on to my family and the world. And as I sat excited nervously laughing, a new laughter had outweighed mine. It was the sound of children, much like your child over there, but only a little older.”

This is when Mr. Parker eyes began to swell and his throat choke “I… I don’t know if I can continue.”

“You don’t have to” the father said solemnly “I know everything that you’re going to say, and a day hasn’t gone by since that… that…”

“Wh… What are you trying to say?” Mr. Parker abruptly spit.

”That was me… me and my friend Donny. We were the ones that took your bag.”

“”Oh my God!” the Old Man gasped, while covering his mouth in shock “I don’t know what to say, but I am truly sorry about your friend.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident and it’s not like you pushed him over the cliff- he tripped and fell. If we hadn’t taken your bag, you would have never been chasing us.”

“Yes, but my story wasn’t worth the cost of a life and suffering.” Mr. Parker said respectfully.

“What is done is done” the father replied “and I think we are both better of having confronted each other.”

“I agree.” Mr. Parker replied.

“I want you to meet my boy. I named him in memory of Donny”

“He’s beautiful. He looks just like you.” Mr. Parker gleamed.

“Donny, come say hello to an old friend Mr. Parker.” Donny’s father said.

“Hi Donny, you look like a strong young boy.” The old man smiled sticking out his hand.

“Wow! Mr. Parker can I ask you a question?” Donny asked sternly.

“What is it Donny?” the old man replied.

“Did you really get chased by a monkey?”

raef

Raef is a 38 year old local 1^st degree brown belt transvestite karate instructor with a degree in hotel management, who also teaches a few evening business courses at the local high school from some online courses he took. Raef uses his minimal business knowledge to keep his sinking karate classes afloat. Like we’ve already stated that during day he runs pretty basic classes at his dojo, but by night she likes to grind it out on the dance floor. Raef loves reggaeton even with her narrow hips. Unfortunately these days he can no longer break bricks and her tight body has been replaced with one that is not. Coming from a small town of roughly 25,253 people, word spreads faster than Raef’s legs when the yummy falafel boy bats an eye. All the teachers at school have either seen him out at a club or getting after hours falafels at the town’s only ethnic restaurant, but by day he suits up and heads to school and acts as if he’s not leading a double life.

ritchie- unfinished randomness

Richie’s turning 30 in 2 months and has been on the run for the past 7 years. He’s hid out in the mountains of Nepal, escaped South Korea’s powerful police force, trekked through the Peruvian highlands and paddled the thick, chocolaty, Amazon on a little wooden canoe, dodging Caymans, with nothing but an oar and a flashlight. I was with him the day he got bit on the nipple by a piranha, he wouldn’t stop talking about it- it hurt him so much that even his sun-faded dress shirt was too sensitive.  Richie always wore collared shirts no matter the heat, always a collar.   

His grandmother always told him “put on a collared shirt, you might meet a nice Jewish girl”. Neither Richie, nor his grandmother were Jewish, and this always questioned him about his grandmother. But, growing up he always wore collared shirts, even when going to the supermarket to pick up a french baguette, he would spend at least 30 minutes trying to find the right shirt for the day.

The reason he always likes to look nice, is because he believes that each and every time he walks past his front door, he is throwing himself into a life altering decision. 

Hoped he met a nice Jewish girl.

Richie and Art became great friends and spent 2 years of their lives together travelling the globe getting into the craziest of stories, that one could only dream, or to have dreamed up. In their time together they both had women in and out of their lives

And were both really living with the concept that they were always on the move and with that comes the sacrifice of never letting yourself time to get to know someone.  This bothered them both greatly and had many discussions weighing the toll it takes on ones soul vs. the pleasure of having complete and total freedom- obviously you know by know which lifestyle got hit out of the park each time: Homerun freedom 11 times out of 10:

That’s what he thought and at least believed that he loved for said time now.

Richie bid me farewell and left the same day by boat from the Galapogos Islands preparing to arrive home in time for his parent’s anniversary. His parents were celebrating their 30 anniversary in style, making reservations at an upscale sushi house- word has it, that the chef flew to China to learn new, fresh techniques in the art of sushi. Before bringing it back to my homeland.

Now this would be all well and good, the only quip being that, Richie’s parents haven’t been together in the past 22 years- not even a smidgen, in fact Richie's father remarried and divorced a second time, while his mother dated a little but every guy turned out to be gay, talk about a happy ending.

Richie meets a girl on the plane

Richie meets a girl at the bagel deli

Richie meets a girl taking his parents dog for a walk in the woods, while he is home

Only for a short time before returning to Asia to pursue his career in photography, he has

to decide whether she’s worth “settling down” for or if he’ll keep on running. And the worst part of it is, who to settle down with- Richie fell in love easy and had met a lovely girl traveling abroad that he was also interested in- what to do?

I try to convince Richie to stay, because he is a great friend and I need him, we have been on some amazing journeys and we got along so well. Richie needs me, he is too indecisive and when he asks me what to do, I am going to lure him back to Asia, and away from this girl. Meanwhile, Richie had gone out with woman a handful more times and each time they ended up sleeping at one another’s house, but only drenched themselves in the art of conversation- they had amazing discussions on life, and what it holds, they shared the same taste in music, and even held their own stock of independence. Richie drove to her house one morning and they spent the day taking a tour of ginger’s home town- Richie finally had some good time to get to know ginger, and they talked and shopped all day. They went back to the house after a long day, and ginger left to go for a run, Richie knowing ginger was a free spirit thought nothing of this, and used this time to make a checklist of things that he needed to take responsibility about in his life.  Richie really liked this girl ginger and on a list of 9 things he needs in his life he was going to put ginger down as number 10- making reference to gingers note on the fridge of things that she had to do today, where Richie was number 10. Richie thought this would be an exciting way to start a relationship, anyways, they flirted enough, and he wanted to know her intentions.  Richie nervous of the decision, and knowing that this is a life altering decision, gets scared out of writing it. Just then ginger comes running into the house, making her way to the kitchen, she comes and hugs Richie. Richie laughed, jokingly pushing ginger away “ awww your dripping, get away from me”.

This went on for a little bit before talking about making dinner, they decided on greek salad with garlic bread- they soon began preparing it, but ginger had not showered, she loom the kitchen with a sticky glow, Richie backing away from making a comment.

They sat down to eat, while putting on a movie, and ate before Richie soon fell asleep.

Richie asks me for my opinion on his dilemma, giving me a slimy opportunity to tell him to dump the broad and come back to an amazing lifestyle abroad, where he can have any woman he wants: I often quote myself saying “ I love home, but what I love even more, is being abroad”- Everyone always laugh when I say that, I think it probably hits home for a lot of people. But what I mean is that, the world is so big and I just want to see every square inch of it, and doing that with Richie has been some of the most amazing times in my life that I don’t think I can lose it. I will do anything to get Richie to leave the girl and come travel with me, we’ve talked of so many plans- I get excited just thinking about it. We are going to start a business up one day in Colombia providing a tourism company, taking the edge off of the global fear of the unknown country. But this new girl is going to ruin everything, she will take my position and Richie will run off with her, leaving me literally high and dry, being the altitude and climate of my studio bachelor apartment.  So I tell Richie, that I don’t think she is the one, if she’s not going to make the effort to be clean for you, just think of everything else she will try to get out of: doing the garbage, washing dishes, wearing sexy lingerie, foreplay- say goodbye to foreplay, straight to sex, now how does that sound.  You know you are right Art, thanks for being there for me buddy-

This is a story about taking chances and that a new life awaits you every time you walk out your front door, and that “settling down” doesn’t always mean what you think it mean, while a two-timing friend wants nothing more to do but hoard his friends time to feel alive and energetic- Meet these mischievously spun characters in Stroud’s new wackadoo pharcyde “running scared”.

Richie is scared of love and the ever so coined “settling down”- he wants nothing to do with those words, and he has been on the run from them for the past seven. I have been travelling with Richie for the last 2 years and have gained an amazing new energy towards life from this spectacular- and now I feel like a better person, but only when has around.

I can’t live without Richie in my life, he is my best friend.

Art has problems with himself- he is dangerously optimistic to the point of naivety. He has to many interests and is a jack of all trades but a master in none, and his biggest problem is that he doesn’t know when to fight for what he loves or believes- passive to the extreme is another way to put it. He has a fear of commitment and uses any excuse to back out of a relationship. Art grew up with his father and took after his traits of excessive drinking and schmoozing rich folk, hoping for their inheritance one day. Art is a kidney failure away from his big first return- but is beginning to feel creepy about his lifestyle and he needs a drastic change. He won’t let anyone get close to him because he has decided to leave the country and wants to do so alone, so he pushes everyone away so that he doesn’t feel guilty leaving.

Characters-

Richie –

Art

Ginger

Richie’s grandmother

Richie’s parents

The story is about a Richie, a man whose been travelling for the past 7 years and is about to go home for his parents anniversary- he doesn’t want to settle down which is why has been on the run for the past 7 years, but while being home, he met a girl. Is she the one?

Art his friend who’s been travelling with him for the past 2 years, wants him to himself, and tries to talk Richie from getting into a relationship. All this plus the wackadoo antics from Richie’s family, make for a very twisted return home, but will it last?

Riches parents are very eccentric.

Riches mom Jennifer loves 2 things animals and food; she calls her son religiously and makes sure he’s eating well in Asia, and she stops to greet every dog on the street with a paw shake and a first name greeting. She made it her business to know every dog in the neighbourhood, they day her and her dog moved in, and makes routine visits to neighbours houses to check up on them.

Riches father Peter hasn’t had the easiest road either- he remarried 5 years after his divorce from Jennifer to a woman who ended up being a man, a divorce obviously ensued and she/he tried to take him for everything; house, cars, dogs, even his manhood- I guess hers wasn’t big enough. She was too greedy and ended up with nothing, rumour has it that she even slept with Peters lawyers wife, to shake things up outside of the courtroom.

Peter and his ex-wife Jennifer get along better than ever, and are coincidentally celebrating their 30 anniversary, the same weekend Richie happens to be arriving home from Asia. 

Richie is greeted at the airport by his parents, the usual tenderness is displayed being the duration of his trip, and they exchange “how are you? And whets new?”- before Richie has time to talk about his trip his mother cuts him and asks them what they want for dinner- “I was thinking of making a breakfast for dinner”, Jennifer enthusiastically states. “Jennifer, your son was about to tell us about his trip”, Peter retorts. “It’s alright pops, I am kind of tired anyways”, Richie dozily  .

So Richie slept the whole drive home and well into the night, even through his mothers breakfast- good news was that when he woke up he had French toast, eggs, and hash browns, not as exciting as for dinner, but a good thing to wake up too.

He decided to take his dog Time out for a walk while his mother was at work. They walked to the swampy marshlands that laid deep in his backyard that he once used to trek when he was a child- much of it overgrown now, but still has the same warm feeling of home. Many paths intertwined throughout the woodlands, and bore home to many bike paths, wooden bridges and paw created paths.  Richie sat down on a bridge to listen to the babbling brook, and reflect on his travels; where he has come, gone and been and what he wants to really do with his life, and who he would like to share it with- if any. His dog Time was playing in the creek when she took off downstream, Richie immediately jumping to his feet, yelling “Time, get back here” at the same time, to save time- being that it is his mother’s dog and he hasn’t even been home one day yet.

Richie new that Time must have seen another dog, because that’s the only time she doesn’t respond. So picking up speed Richie finally spotted time pouncing around the murky water with a brown lab,  which simultaneously was being chased by what he believes to be a sporty young girl, mid twenties, with her blonde hair in a wrap, wearing a nostalgic Pink Floyd t-shirt.

Richie, always fast to fall for a girl, already has introduced himself to her and to his parents anniversary dinner- she surprisingly accepted knowing little of this man except that he liked her because she was sporty, loved animals, and dug pink Floyd.

Richie was never one to play games, and if he liked a girl he would tell her- it didn’t always lead to long lasting loving relationships, but he didn’t know any better. He was on the move so much, he felt he never had a lot of time to get to know someone before he could get a chance to ask them out, out of fear of never seeing them again. This all comes into play to why he was so quick to ask Ginger out. She happily replied.

Following their parents dinner, to which they had a comfortably lovely, ginger met Richie’s mother and father and they all hit it off. Richie had ginger come over to his parent’s house afterward and they stayed up all night drinking baileys and milk over ice, and talking about each other’s lives and dreams, before falling fast asleep in each other’s arms.

Richie woke to the site of ginger returning from a run- “ when did you get up?”, Richie wide-eyed clambered. “I’ve been up for a couple hours now, I picked some apples when I was out on my run, and I cut them up so you can put them in the granola I just bought”, Ginger open-heartedly replied. 

Who is this girl, Richie questions in his head, she must be the one, and I can’t believe it I found the one. Excited Richie gets out of bed, gives Ginger a great big kiss, before washing up for breakfast.

“I’ve always wanted someone to wake up to who was energetic and got me excited about starting the day- I think the two of us are going to get along just great”, Richie manages to escape between bites of his cereal.

“What do you want to do today?”,Ginger asks.

“ Anything, as long as you are by my side, but I did hear about an art exhibit in the park”, Richie responds, “but first I am going to jump in the shower”.

“O.K, sounds lovely, I just have a few things to take care of”, ginger pouts.

Richie took a long hot shower, under a proportionately measured nozzle, in Asia all the spouts came up to his neck,- so things were beginning to look up.

He finished, changed into a nice dress shirt and came down from upstairs.

“Looking good big man”, Ginger giddily says, “is you ready to go?”

Sure… but….. Aren’t you….? Richie didn’t have the nerve to ask her if she was going to shower. All that sweat stuck to her body, stringy hair, wet socks- Richie was about to explode inside- and right then he had to call up his friend art in Asia who he always went to when he had something important on his mind.