Advent Calendar Dec. 24 (Christmas Mixtape Volume 2)

Hi, I'm Mitch Murphy. I live across the street. You guys going out of town? We're going to Orlando, Florida. Well, actually, first we're going to Missouri to pick up my grandma. Did you know the McCallisters are going to France? Do you know if it's cold there? Do these vans get good gas mileage?

That is it for 2009. About to throw the party pants on and get merry. Giving the abusive lover that is train travel one more chance and riding the rails to Phuket for the holidays tonight. Not quite the Polar Express but who really likes snow? Oh, you do? Your lying.

Sending you into the new year by welcoming the amazing, the incredible and the terribly missed Mr. Warren Zevon back to The Playground for an encore performance.

2010: Enjoy every sandwich.

Advent Calendar Dec. 23 (Christmas Mixtape Volume 1)

The Christmas spirit is thriving here in Phitsanulok. The decorations these kids are putting together are starting to rival those of the legendary Clark Griswold and god damn if their enthusiasm isn't infectious. All classes have been cancelled in order for more decorations to be put up. I find myself pacing the grounds humming "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" in a haze that I'm contributing in part to holiday cheer and in part to the amount of snow-in-a-can vapors I've huffed while spraying in poorly ventilated areas. It's a real fucking chemical blizzard out there.

A cowboy that rides an ostrich, a water gun that squirts jelly, a bird that swims.

The Karaoke Played On

Maple Shade High School class of 1974 class trip. Where can I get that "Beach Bum" tank?

The girls chatter on, their rapid fire conversations punctuated by giggles and words that jump to my ear, "Twilight" "Lady GaGa" "Taylor Swift" jarring pop culture familiars juxtaposed against an unfamiliar language. They share headphones and are prone to random harmonizing. They share everything really, snacks, mirrors, hair brushes, lip gloss, shoulders for sleeping, magazines, nothing it seems, is mutually exclusive. In every group of 5 or so girls there is one boy, laughing and hanging on their arms, walking hand in hand.

Later it will be told to me, although the confessions aren't exactly shocking, through an exaggerated, limp wrist wave that these boys are gay. This is pointed out by students and then cheerfully reiterated by teachers, "Yes! Gay."

The majority boys sit in the back. Exchanging brief comments and quick punches, screaming to each other at random intervals. I wonder if I was prone to such jackass behavior, I know the unfortunate answer.

This is the bus ride from Phitsanulok to Chiang Mai for the senior class trip. During all of it karaoke is screeching from the bus speakers. At 5 am the bus pulls out of the dark school with a police escort. Perhaps a bit of overkill seeing as the streets are completely vacant.

At 5 am the karaoke starts and it will not stop for another 3 days.

At 5:15 am the blue and red lights ahead of us give the impression we are carrying an important political figure or rolling into a city for a championship football game, we are doing neither.

At 9 am the bus slows as we are climbing a hill, the pace becomes painful. People walking could pass us.

At 9:23 am children crawling could pass us and at 9:30 am we are officially broken down, piling out of the bus and waiting for a new one to arrive. Even as the bus dragged to a halt, the karaoke did not stop. Like the band on the Titanic, the karaoke played to the bitter end.

The side of the road is hot compared to the frigid interior of the bus where blankets have been handed out. It is also quiet.

At 1 pm we are in Chiang Mai, scaling the steps to the Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep. After a curving ride to the top that had me fearful the half digested lunch of the student sitting next to me would soon end up on my shirt or in my lap, we make it. My coordinator seems to have grown tired of my pestering questions about Buddhist rituals.

"For good luck Tim. For good luck. Everything for good luck."

Simple enough but it's the specifics I'm looking for. If I want to hit the lotto do I need to light incense or ring the bells? What about landing a dream job? Should I float a flower in the water or hang up a charm? Making the karaoke stop? A bracelet from the monk? Would that do it?

At 10 pm we arrive at the "hotel". The term "hotel" is used loosely here. Most hotels are not located at athlete training facilities above a pistol range and most rooms do not house 20 students and teachers each. This "hotel" has all of that. The set up had a summer camp feel to it with the subtraction of the bunk beds in favor of long mattresses that ran the length of the walls. We sleep in neat rows. The whole thing would have made some predatory old priests gleeful.

The gay students who were announced to me with such enthusiasm earlier in the day sleep in the girls rooms. They also use the girls bathrooms. Someday one of these kids is going to pull Terri Griffith-esque stunt and this whole house of cards built on sexual preference is going to come tumbling down.

At 4:30 am we wake up.

At 4:32 am the students begin playing the guitar and bongos.

At 4:35 they begin to sing together, not quite karaoke but close. They chase each other down the halls, echoes reverberating the length of the building. I bury my head in my pillow and wonder if I was ever prone to such jackass behavior, I know the unfortunate answer.

At 8 am we arrive at the Queen Sirkit Botanical Gardens. Botanical gardens are like zoos for plants, museums for trees. This one is particularly nice. I travel through the climate zones of the world without leaving Thailand. Lots of strangers ask for pictures with me. At one point this request stopped feeling awkward and now I just smile, then I usually laugh thinking about people showing their friends and families the photos of a vacation they went on that I some how became part of. A living room filled with relatives clicking through the summer slide show, that techy uncle running the whole thing, trying to get the self timing down, when a picture of me pops up. I wonder what type of caption I get? What type of commentary frames why I'm there? By my count I've been photographed by roughly 15 strangers and those are just the ones I've posed for. I hope the candids caught my good side.

At 10 am excitement is at a new high. Students are giddy. The Chiang Mai Zoo is home to three pandas. The black and white of their coats have become the unofficial colors off the city. People are extremely proud. A baby panda named Lin Ping was born here in May and has captivated Thailand since. I hear there is a 24 hour television station dedicated to her. People come across the country to see her. We have joined the pilgrims.

Zoos in general are much like television sets. They are false environments, replicating real ones. The best television sets can fool you, if only briefly, into thinking you are seeing the true thing. The best zoos should do the same. The Chaing Mai zoo does not accomplish this in the slightest. I should note here that before going to the CMZ the number one position on my list, which I have quite a number of because writing lists makes me feel as though I'm in control of some small part of life, of most disappointing animal viewing experiences was held by the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston, Mass. The empty cages there, I was told, were due to poaching Bostonians. Any zoo where animals have been shot by neighborhood residents should instantly negate the title zoo. In fact it is probably more dangerous, at least in the wild the poor bastards have a chance of running away.

The CMZ is crowded. People are swarming across the walking paths, through flower patches and standing three deep at the railings of the various animal exhibits. I saw donkeys in the African safari. I saw ostriches whose feathers had started to fall out leaving their naked, bumped flesh exposed like a turkey before roasting. I saw people hand feeding hippos so closely they tapped them on the nose. I saw penguins, penguin shaped figures to be more accurate through murky, rotten fish water. I saw a primates whose homes looked like lab cages. I saw a 7-11 in the middle of all this.

Then, I saw Lin Ping, but not really. What I did see was a live video feed of Lin Ping, who for some unknown reason cannot currently be viewed by the public, broadcast on a flat screen TV inside the panda house. Her father, whose name I have forgotten and was put on a diet lat year to make him more attractive to his mate, was in the exhibit, gnawing on bamboo and shitting much to the delight of the hundreds of people pushing to get a picture, he looks like he has fallen off the diet. The camera wielding mass makes the hordes of celebrity chasing paparazzi look tame by comparison.

There is a place to get commemorative photos with the pandas. I realized that by pandas they mean a massive weatherman green screen that superimposes you deep in a bamboo forest surrounded by the creatures. I politely decline.

I recounted the Lin Ping experience to a friend who pointed out that the video could very well be on a constant loop and the whole thing could be a fraud. I begin to wonder.

At 4 pm we have escaped the CMZ. Back on the bus, karaoke on. We stop at the walking street market. The strictly planned, managed fun breaks for a few hours and we walk freely.

At 6pm everyone halts. In Thailand this could be my favorite part of the day. The national anthem is played and people everywhere stop in their tracks until it is finished. I try my best to be in extremely crowded areas when this happens, the effect is really highlighted with more people. What I find particularly entertaining is that there is no uniform direction to turn, no flag to look at. Just stop. Red light. The biggest game of freeze tag where a country's population has been vocally deemed "it".

At 8 pm we begin a a senior send off ceremony. From what I can gather the Thai version of Vitamin C's "Graduation Song" is played and the tears begin. The tears become sobs, the type of air gasping, physically painful sobs that leave your eyes puffy the next morning. The teachers go around and give words of wisdom to the sniffling students. Even with the language barrier I'm put in line to pass on some advice.

What I want to say is that university is going to be great, that you won't have to wear a uniform or get cracked with a stick when you don't pay attention, that some gym teacher on a power trip won't go Full Metal Jacket on your hair when it touches your collar, that you should break up with your boyfriend or girlfriend because it won't work, to never take the top bunk (for a variety of reasons), to not be that kid who pukes everywhere the first night because you'll spend an entire semester trying to live it down, that smoking pot a few isn't going to turn you into some shivering scratching back alley addict like the posters at school depict (Barack is doing just fine), to never under any circumstances turn down an impromptu road trip, that there are a handful of occasions where drinking before noon is acceptable and most of them will come in college, that their is much more than the information scrawled on white boards or printed in text books, that there will be more friends and more laughs and late nights and moments of unabashed stupidity, that for four years you can say "Fuck you" to the world in the name of higher education. But I can't. I simply wish them good luck, tell them it will be fine, give a lot of hugs. Keep it simple.

At 10 pm girls are found drinking whiskey out of Coke bottles. A teacher cries. She is disappointed. I laugh, in private. You can go around the world and find the same tricks. Maybe they will do just fine at college. I wonder if I was ever prone to such jackass behavior, I know the unfortunate answer.

At 4:30 am the jam session starts again and at 8 am we are rolling back towards Phitsanulok.

At 12 pm we stop at an electrical plant. A man drones on through 50 slides of technical information in a very expensive looking conference room. I understand next to nothing, the students understand less because they are all sleeping. I slip out the door to go to the bathroom and walk around the main building. It's the type of place where a conspiracy thriller could take place. Giant corporation, hidden agendas, international politics, Matt Damon. I know I'm constantly on camera.

At 1 pm we stop at a market for lunch. 90% of the product being sold is pork rinds. No sign of the other parts of the pig. The pork rinds are delicious.

At 9 pm we reach Phitsanulok. Pillows and stuffed animals clutched the students trudge down the steps of the bus to waiting parents. The karaoke stops.

Advent Calendar Dec. 22

Don't try to correct me on what day it is, it's the 22nd here I'm positive of that. Creepy Santa brimming with festive joy.

Advent Calendar Dec. 21

Asian Christmas on the horizon, getting you in the spirit.

And I'm Back...

Sorry about the delay, I can only imagine the pain and anxiety you all suffered while waiting for my next post. Chain smoking cigarettes, biting nails, pacing through rooms and obsessively pressing refresh only to find the same old disappointing post about musical groups you could care less about appearing on the screen.

When I left off I was departing for the beach but I wanted to give a brief description of the train ride I took a few weeks back after my disastrous trip to the monkey infested disappointment of a city called Lop Buri.

Traveling by train in mind has become greatly romanticized by two particular figures, PaulTheroux and Wes Anderson. Theroux's writings about his travels across what seems like most of the world by train have fascinated me since I was introduced to his works. He is a bit of a cantankerous individual and prone to lengthy bouts of negativity and cynicism, but his love for train travel in unrivaled.

Anderson's film Darjeeling Limited illustrated an idea that has been lingering in my head for sometime. A throwback to a time when train travel was a glamorous and unrushed way of not only traveling but more importantly arriving , when the cars themselves were like luxury liners of dry land and the people who rode them equally as prefect in appearance and standing.

The Orient Express, the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the names evoke a picture of grandeur, of chandeliers and fine dining, of cigars and suits, of matching luggage sets and flamboyant sleeper cars. Aside from this fantasy there is the pure fact that train travel requires little of the mind in terms of navigation. No wrong turns to make, places to get lost, simply sit and watch the landscape evolve around you. A level of leisurely disconnect. With a sense of direction as atrocious as mine it is wholly reassuring that even I can't fuck this up.

With these ideas, delusions really, in my head I decided the only way to travel to Lop Buri would be by train.

The things I mentioned before, the fine dining, the chandeliers, cannot, it turns out, be bought for a $1.50 even in Thailand, which is how much I paid for my return ticket to Phitsanulok.

What a $1.50 can get you is a one way, third class, unreserved ticket. In the caste system of trains, this ticket is the untouchable. The only way to get lower would be to hoist yourself onto the top of the train or opt to pump one of those wooden platforms down the track but I believe these most likely disappeared right around the time Steam Boat Willy became Mickey Mouse and people began referring to the poverty stricken as homeless instead of hobos because I've never seen one myself or met anyone that ever has.

The ticket lingo of the train caste system is an area of study unto itself. Classes (1st, 2nd, 3rd), cooling options (Air con, fan, none), sleepers, seating options (coach, reserved, unreserved), speed (rapid, express, rapid express, regular, special) there are a seemingly exponential number of combinations that can be created from the options that are all abbreviated to make life more confusing and printed in the "Write Your Name on a Grain of Rice" font size on a truly overwhelming grid that inevitably must be deciphered moments before a train is about to depart, leaving the "A-Ha!" moment to come just as the train you are supposed to be on lumbers out of the station.

When purchasing my ticket the cashier warned me the train was very full, on the track a woman, unsolicited, did the same. Two warnings in a country where capacity for a moped is a family, extended relatives and maybe a few friends or pets had me worried.

As the train screeched into the station limbs protruded from windows, people stood between cars and some sat in the open doors legs swinging above the tracks. I joined the slow moving crowd of people, audibly wondering how the hell we were all going to possibly fit into this car. There are moments in life, a good portion of them witnessed late night on computer screens in all male dorms courtesy of some of the seedier corners of the Internet, where you see objects or groups of objects so large in size fit into areas so small you find yourself exclaiming "No fucking way." This, although lacking the grotesqueness that leaves you simultaneously averting your eyes and sneaking one more glance, was one of those moments.

Bodies contorted, shifted, turned and twisted until every last person had been jammed inside. I found myself in the middle of the aisle, backpack in a sitting man's face with my neck craned as to not be hit by one of the oscillating ceiling fans that buzzed precariously close to my head.

When traveling by car or by plane there is a certain sterile quality that we strive for. Blasting air conditioning, muting windows the experience is one of control, the thought of either of these machines out of control, is in fact the nightmare of many. Great lengths are gone to in an attempt to cut those traveling off from the outside world, to keep them at a safe, or at least safe feeling, distance from what is just outside. In the case of the plane it is out of necessity and in the case of the car it is born out of habit, a habit that has lead to cars having TVs and obscene numbers of cup holders as well as the contributing to the idea held by many that travel by any other means, like bicycles for instance, is borderline insanity.

The train however, especially the 3rd class, is a form of transport where the senses are overloaded. Physically there is no personal space. It is simply empty space and empty space can be filled. Filled with anything. Massive boxes of snacks, vegetables, more people, kids, bikes, furniture, fishing nets, baskets, duffles, suitcases and the ever present square plastic bags that are made in every size and pattern of plaid. If your in need of reference head to Canal Street in New York or any part of any major city where cheap, Asian imported goods are hawked. Yes, those bags.

The open windows keep the train from heating up while traveling but the temperature begins to rise the second we brake at a stop. It also gets quite warm when we run through a fire burning across the tracks, which happens about a half hour into the ride but seems to go unnoticed by everyone despite the roaring orange flames feet from the windows and the smoky haze left hanging in the car.

The already crowded aisles were made even less spacious by the vendors shoving down them selling drinks and food, the most popular on this particular day seemed to be dried fish of various sizes. I found myself wondering if there is some sort of hierarchy to the food vending system. If the temperature is pushing 100 are the rookies required to sell hot coffee while the old veterans push ice cream? It only seems fair.

"Sip baaaaaaaht" The food vendors persistent price calling is akin to human bagpipes and never stops.

A few hours into the trip I was finally able to grab a seat when a boy, probably 13 or 14, got up. A relief because my ankles were now being grabbed by a legless beggar who was making his 2ndpass down the aisle.

"Sip baaaaaaht" Despite having to stand hunched, I find myself thankful of my height as it kept me at a distance from these banshee cries.

I assumed this kid had gotten off the train but in 15 minutes he reemerged through the crowd, despite what appeared to be his family insisting that I stay seated, I had to give him his seat back. Even in the lawlessness of the 3rd class there is still some honor to be respected.

So I gave him his seat and he quickly began to unfold a newspaper, laying it carefully on the ground. The seats are benches that face each other. Once he laid down this makeshift mat he proceeded to slide himself under the seats in a way that looked right out of Cirque du Soleil, that little Chinese grease man from Ocean's 11 would have found it difficult to pull of this maneuver.

His family, now beaming and laughing, insisted that I sit back down, my feet on either side of his body. I was now riding with a Thai boy sprawled out, sleeping under my seat.

"Sip baaaaaaht" He did not seem bothered by the yelling or his position.

Theroux wrote that, "Traveling is glamorous only in retrospect," but looking back even a few weeks there was nothing glamorous about this trip. People who claim to enjoy traveling are in large part being untruthful. People enjoy arriving at destinations. The plane flights, the train rides, the highway traffic, this is travel and it is generally not enjoyable. It is the time in between the punctuation of arrival and departure that is most often truly valued. It makes sense that so often in our Sci-Fi portrayals of the future people travel by teleporting.

Tis The Season

For what is the greatest concert of the year. Wishing I was going to be back in Baltimore for this one.

'Cause It's Friday...

Well not really, but a perfect storm of Thai holidays has set me up for an extended weekend after spending the last nine days up to my eyes in Korean pop, karaoke, emotional Thai high schoolers and students trying to pull the Coke bottles refilled with booze trick. You're going to have to get more creative than that kiddies. Back next week with a full recap.

Heading to the beach and sending you off with Zac Brown and a shout out to the 4th of July crew.

'Cause It's Friday...

That's all until Monday, sending you into the weekend DIY style.

Who Would Steal 30 Bag Lunches?

It's that time of year again in Phitsanulok. Second semester for seniors brings about the same symptoms across the globe. Half assing assignments, poor attendance and a general feeling that high school as become a complete hindrance and waste of time, an attitude that seems to be illustrated perfectly by the ever increasing number of students who are openly wearing headphones with an utter disregard for the surroundings and repercussions. It is also the time for class bonding and what better way to force social circles awkwardly together than with a class trip.

This weekend I will be heading north to Chiang Mai with 80 students for a three day excursion that I have been kept largely in the dark about. What I do know is that I need to arrive at school at 4 am on Saturday, I will be sharing a room with 10 students and most importantly, at some point I will be seeing a baby panda named Lin Ping.

Let the good times roll.

Supermarket Sweep Episode 2

Sticking to the Taro Fish Snacks again this week for a two reasons. First, I realized I started mildly last week and BBQ Taro is by far the safest bet as far as the brand is concerned. It's time to sack up and see what the other end of their product line has to offer. Secondly, a student who lives across

the street from me gave me this snack for free so I had to eat it and the price of 0 Baht was hard to beat.

The Product: Taro Fish Snack Korean Seafood Flavoured

The Packaging: This one has a little more authenticity than last week, only a few words in English, a bit more for the eye as well. Our old familiar Taro emblem is back but this time next to some cartoon sushi rolls. A bit morbid to put him right next to a dinner that may include

his deceased friends and relatives.

There is also a woman in the top left corner who is making one of the bolder statements in the history of cuisine, "Best of KOREAN FOOD." This isn't Al Gore claiming he invented the internet, but really, the best? The best Korean food can be found countries away in the form of a mysterious fish product in a fucking airtight bag with the shelf life of one year? I'm calling bullshit and to think I once praised this brand for their honesty.

Appearance: Those perfect ruler straight meticulously Asian strips are back but this time they are the color peas.

Smell: Koi pond.

Taste: Again I'm surprised. I keep waiting for that blast of overwhelming fish taste but it just isn't there. If someone was to salt a dry sponge and serve it to you side by side with this in a blind taste test you would have trouble distinguishing the two.

Overall: Blander than BBQ but my feelings are similar. I certainly could eat this, I wouldn't seek it out and I don't foresee myself having cravings for it anytime soon but it is edible. Hungry enough or inebriated enough Taro would do the trick, but if I've got options, it's staying on the shelf.

Officially calling it on Taro Snacks, next week pressing on into the unknown.

It's Always Sunny in Phitsanulok

Better put your shades on, even in December.

Thumbs Up Thailand!

This weekend I had the chance to travel to Lop Buri a city where monkeys have taken up residence and the last weekend in November there is a festival in their honor. The festival consists of feeding the monkeys everything from the normal, fruit, to the probably unhealthy, cotton candy and Cokes.

The whole trip went well except for Saturday night when my hotel room was broken into and my phone, money, fail proof tape recorder and camera were stolen, all while I was sleeping. Slightly disturbing.

Attempting to get any help from the hotel staff proved impossible and their only explanation was to point at a poorly written sign that could hardly pass as english stating that items left in the rooms were not their responsibility. The issue I have with this is that the items certainly weren't "left" in the room, I was there with them.

For those of you playing along at home, the score stands: Lop Buri: 4 Me: 0. But bitching and moaning now won't change anything. So it goes. Things could always be worse. Luckily I was able to get these photos that will help to illustrate the town and its residents.

'Cause It's Friday...

That's all until Monday. Sending you into the weekend with a a student favorite, Pretty Boy by M2M, even has the lyrics so you can karaoke at home.

Supermarket Sweep Episode 1

I'd like to introduce my maybe, just maybe, 10 loyal readers to a new feature here on The Playground entitled Supermarket Sweep.

Every week I will tirelessly scour the corner stores, markets and of course 7-11s of Thailand to discover a food I find completely foreign and put my my taste buds as well as gastrointestinal health on the line trying it out.

For episode one of this blog love child experiment I have started off at the top with Taro Fish Snacks which have been, "Thailand's number one favourite fish snack for more than nineteen years." What a title. THE CHAMP IS HERE! More than 19, put not quite 20 years? Not trying to round up or pad the stats, I like the honesty already.

Seriously though it's nothing to laugh at the fish snack market is no fucking joke. Cuttlefish, squid, tuna, no animal of the deep blue is safe from being caught, reprocessed and churned out as a between meals snack for the Thai youth.

Let's get down to business.

The Product: Taro Fish Snack Bar-B-Q Flavoured

The Packaging: The Taro logo looks like something the Seattle Seahawks mascot would love to munch on. It has that whole Pacific Northwest vibe going that is catchy, but at the same time seems at bit out of place. I haven't seen a ton of Chinook tribesmen picking up a bag of these since I've been here.

Appearance: If the people who make Big League Chew ever go into making fish snacks I'd have to imagine it would look like this. Perfectly symmetrical, identical strips of "snack" with a bright yellow almost orange color, seems natural.

Smell: Hint of Tetrafin.

Taste: Not nearly as fisherman's wharf at low tide as I expected. Tastes almost exactly like Teriyaki beef jerky with a chewier, spongier consistency.

Overall: I wouldn't sit at home and nosh on a big bag of beef jerky by choice but in some situations it just fits. Road trips, in my mind, aren't official until a song has been sung in unison, someone has pissed in an empty 2 liter and some beef jerky has been consumed. So if I was stuck on the road for somewhere in the vicinity of 5 hours or more, I could see myself eating some BBQ fish snack, then immediately wanting to brush my teeth.

Turkey Day Mix Tape

It's officially Thanksgiving Day here in Thailand, which means.....crickets.....absolutely nothing, not even a single hand turkey has been drawn.

Celebrating the holiday with Neal Page (Steve Martin) and Del Griffith (John Candy), who just want to get home for the big dinner, some huge football hits from a little person and one picture of Bob Dylan.

Director of Sales: American Light and Fixture, Shower Curtain Ring Division

People train runs out of Stubbville.

It's not Thanksgiving without gelatinous, can shaped cranberry and football.

You can't say the first kid didn't deserve it, I mean scramble or something. Check out the coaches in their matching Under Armour get-up and clip boards. Chill out Bear Bryant, you're coaching 6 year olds not calling plays on the sidelines of the fucking Rose Bowl.

The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan cover from 1963. I know there is snow on the ground and that leans a bit more towards Christmas, but for some reason this picture reminds me of Thanksgiving. Yea, that's pretty much it.

It's Always Sunny in Phitsanulok

Better put your shades on.

Lover of Life, Singer of Songs

F.M. September 5, 1946 - November 24, 1991

A video tribute to a rock star in every sense of the word. Best if watched on the largest screen and at the highest volume that is socially acceptable for your surroundings.

Rub...No Tug

This weekend I received my first Thai massage. It was actually my first massage of any type, unless you include siting in one of those high-tech Lazy Boys in Brookstone for a few moments during middle school before my friends and I were inevitably asked to leave for being general nuisances and jackasses.

Massages have been something I've avoided to be honest. When people get too close during a conversation or sit next to you on the bus or subway or push up against you in a line everyone complains. People spend a lot of time avoiding these types of contact, railing against invasions into personal space. So not only inviting a stranger into mine, but paying them to do so, seemed a little backwards.

There is also something about the massage parlor themselves. The tables that an uncountable number of people have laid on, fake flowers, pale shades of pink paint, the pillows far too may heads have rested on. Even the name, parlor, has some vulgarity, an unsanitary feeling to it that I find incredibly uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, a visiting fellow teacher talked to me about how great it was, so eventually I caved to the glowing reviews and we found a respectable looking place to go get one done.

Entering , the smell was unavoidable. It was though someone has slathered Vick's Vapor Rub over my face, I imagine if I ever took up residency in an over sized breath mint or menthol cough drop the experience would be somewhat similar.

Immediately I was given a pair of thin cotton pants to change into that looked like something a new age yoga instructor or David Carradine in his pre auto erotic asphyxiation Kung Fu days would have been comfortable wearing.

At first, for some unknown reason, I thought I should wear these without any boxers and had no idea how to tell the front from the back. This lead to me standing in the dressing room and trying to tie them around my waist in a way that wouldn't lead to me completely exposing myself to some unsuspecting Thais.

Eventually I opted to put my boxers back on and emerged from the changing room with the capris haphazardly tied but staying up for the most part.

I took a seat at the end of one of the low beds where an attendant took to washing my feet in a bucket filled with warm water and some floating flowers. Anyone who has ever been put through the visual torture of seeing my feet knows what a horrific task this must have been. They are far too large for anyone not playing basketball at a highly competitive level and bony to the point of looking like a geriatrics frail hand. My toes are longer than the fingers of most carnies and have a simian dexterity that is frightening, coupled with toenails that I'm almost positive the US Army could develop into sometime of bomb-proof armor. The fact that I don't own flip flops means they haven't seen the light of day for months, giving them a shockingly pale almost translucent complexion similar to that of Gollum's skin.

My own mother won't touch them. Hell, I avoid touching them at all costs, but there my Thai masseuse was scrubbing them with a brush and soap, even rubbing between my toes.

She toweled off my feet and I was told to lay on my back. This was easy enough, except my ankles and feet hung off the bed. After some quick rearranging by the masseuse I was fitting on the bed better and she got down to work, starting on my legs where I found the sensation of my thighs being squeezed far more tension inducing then relaxing.

As she moved up my body I was pulled, shoved, twisted and stretched into a number of positions by this petite Thai lady who struggled to push my wildly inflexible limbs into contortions they refused and at times acted like I was engaged in more of a wrestling match than a massage, a fact highlighted by the back popping full nelson she held me in as she made her way towards my head and neck. It took and hour and the entire time I found myself nervously dreading the ending.

Yes, the part everyone is waiting for, where all the stories of the Asian massage parlor come true and I'm treated to infamous, well lubed "Happy Ending," complete with a sensual crooning of "Me love you long time," in my ear. I'm sorry to disappoint but none of this happened, not even a hint of it. Just a tap on the shoulder and a "Thank you."

I must say I don't think I'm good at getting massages if that is at all possible. I may have the look of Stretch Armstrong or Gumby, but flexibility is not something I pride myself on. My awkwardly lanky frame seemed a bit, well, just that, too fucking lanky for the whole thing. Maybe I need to go to Sweden and see how they do it there.

'Cause It's Friday...

That's all until Monday. Sending you into the weekend by welcoming Mr. Warren Zevon to the playground.

This Ain't Got Shit to do With Thailand...

I just thought that I should mention it.

That and I miss the hell out of my bike and more importantly the people I used to ride with. Yea, you all know who you are.

THE REVIVAL from morehartfilms on Vimeo.

It's Always Sunny in Phitsanulok

Better put your shades on.

Hometown Heroes

Living in Los Angeles for the past few years I've gotten used to the response people give me when I tell them that I'm from Baltimore.

"Oh shit, The Wire, right?"

Yes, right and in making that statement LA's collective knowledge of not only the city of Baltimore but the entire state of Maryland is exhausted.

I think this arises from two things. To begin with, the people who call Los Angeles home occupy an augmented reality where LA is the center of the universe. Yes, you may have missed that day in science class but it is true, the sun revolves around the sprawling metropolis and anything outside its borders are of little or no importance. This works out quite well because the city goes on forever, so actually getting outside of it can prove difficult.

There are a few exceptions, places that are deemed worthy of existence by Angelinos. Las Vegas, Palm Springs, Malibu, a few more here and there. The list is short and the rules governing it are complicated. For one, only specific parts of these places exist but others do not.

The strip in Vegas for example exists to them, however downtown Las Vegas certainly does not. Who would ever venture there? The seasons can effect these places existence as well.

Palm Springs in the winter is definitely on the radar screen, in the summer not a chance, with the exception of Coachella weekend. The map of the world according to the LA resident is a strange, funny looking place.

Baltimore certainly does not exist, just doesn't make the cut. Well, it does, but only through the eyes of David Simon and the HBO network, not in actuality but only as an idea, an hour long weekly TV series that may as well be detailing a foreign country. If only he could get a movie deal,well, they'd probably just end up filming in LA anyway.

The second part of this curse arises from the fact that Maryland, let's face it, isn't exactly the most recognizable state. Seriously, grab a pen and draw your best outline of the state. I bet it isn't pretty. Certainly doesn't have that trademark look of say Texas or Florida.

It may very well be one of the least identifiable states in the US, so small and thoroughly filled by the Chesapeake that on almost every map the initials MD are printed somewhere out in the blue of the Atlantic with a little black line connecting them to Maryland itself.

The Wire apparently hasn't reached Thailand yet because the only look I get from telling people I'm from Baltimore is a blank stare that makes Pluto seem like a more valid answer. To combat this I must admit that I've sold out to a city I really haven't spent much time in other than for school field trips and one disastrous trip to the national Christmas tree.

Here I tell people I'm from Washington, DC which is met with an "Ahhh" and an occasional "Obama" that comforts me into believing they know where it is.


I've become a bit of a fraud. An English major from Baltimore posing as a literature major from Washington, DC. Not huge changes, I'm not trying to pass myself off as an MLB all-star or Nobel Laureate, this isn't Frank Abagnale shit here but it's enough for me to feel a bit weird.

To make up for this lack of loyalty and sordid affair I've begun to carry on with D.C. I've compiled my first ever, super official list of totally noteworthy Baltimore related people and things.

The Deathset

For a long time The Deathset were my favorite band and they are still sitting somewhere in my top five. The first time I saw them was with my little brother 2 years ago at a Christmas show. Neither of us knew who they were but halfway through their set amps had been scaled, stage lights had been torn down and I was completely sold.

They are pure energy and played along side Matt and Kim for what very well maybe my favorite concert of all time, where the only negative of the night was my glasses being unceremoniously stomped in a pool of Colt 45 under the jumping feet of the what seemed to be the entire crowd and the ensuing, incredibly ill advised drive home.

RIP B.V.

Dan Deacon

The "I-seriously-don't- give-a-fuck-what-you-think-about-me" sweatsuit rocking, balding man behind the best dance parties in the world. Johnny Sierra of the previously mentioned Deathset was quoted once as saying that, "Nerds are the people who aren't afraid to spaz out." There is no better embodiment of this quotation than Deacon. A nerd, a weirdo and 100% cool with it all. Now everyone seems to want to join the outsider.

Charles Bukowski

Bukowski was certainly a dark horse for this list. Poe is always everyone's front runner for Baltimore poet and it is not without good reason. Bukowski lived in Charm City for 7 years and I knew he had to be included. He could drink you under the table, kick the shit out of you, steal your girlfriend and then write about the entire experience in a brilliant poem.


Vintage Orioles Jersey

I'm not going to try and pass myself off as an Orioles fan. Honestly, at this point, who would ever want to do that? But the old Orioles jerseys are some of the best in athletic aesthetics not just in baseball but across the board. It is a triple threat they are dealing here. The jerseys rep the hometown and say "Baltimore" a look the team just decided to resurrect this year. The orange stirrups are a baseball classic, none of those over sized, ill fitting pajama pants that are popular with players today and finally the cherry on top. A sweaty, wool cherry in the form of the famous tri-color hat with the cartoon bird. Bring it back already.

Is there something written on the bottom of his bat?

Kevin Clash

The voice and more importantly the hand up the ass of some of the most memorable puppets of all time. Puppets? Yes, puppets and damn well known ones at that. Try Master Splinter from TMNT, Elmo from Sesame Street and most of the cast from the incredibly fucking strange mid-nineties sitcom Dinosaurs. Revisit that one sometime if your in the mood to be thoroughly creeped out.

Thanks Baltimore.

Makes You Think All The World is a Sunny Day

First update with photos and an excuse to get Mr. Simon to come along for the ride.

Disregarded the Lyrics, Chased Waterfalls

Had the chance to travel to Kanchanaburi in west Thailand on the banks of the River Kwai this weekend. Inside the Erawan National Park is the 7 tiered Erawan Waterfall which snakes its way through the park, a visually delicious 7 layer dip for the eyes.


Payin' respects






Alexander Supertramp

T.I.A (This is Asia)

'Cause It's Friday...

That's all until Monday. Sending you into the weekend with a video double header.

First, the guys from No-Mas NYC along with cartoonist James Blagden put together an artistic retelling of Doc Ellis and his LSD aided 1970 no hitter of the San Diego Padres. Deserves something better than an asterisk in the record books.

Second, a jam off a little experiment called the Ace Frehley KISS solo album and one of the greatest karaoke tracks every laid down.