Worldwide Ace

While I’d love to dive right into my entry tonight, Matt has told me that some of you have complained to him that there aren’t enough pictures. I’m taking well over 30 a day, so if that’s not enough, either you’re too demanding or you haven’t realized there’s a link beneath the first picture on each and every post that takes you to my photobucket album. If the former is your issue, I apologize. I only have so much battery for my camera. I did upgrade my storage, so that’s no longer an issue and I plan on picking up a spare battery in Singapore. Until then, you will have to bear with me and even then, not every picture will turn out. I am, however, improving, getting more good photos from fewer shots, preserving that battery and capturing more things in quality images. If the latter is your issue, you can see photos from the Philippines, Guam, or Thailand in their respective folders.

And now, without further ado, tonight’s entry:

Skyscrapers tower above us in Siam Square.
For more OBVIOUSLY LINKED photos of Thailand, click here.

The city of Bangkok isn’t actually a city. It’s rather two cities separated by a river, much like Minneapolis and St. Paul. On the East is Bangkok proper. On the West Thonburi or Bangkok Noi (either name is appropriate). While Bangkok was made the seat of power and hosts the grand palace and most of the modern sights, Thonburi is the older city, housing government and most of the people long before the capital was brought South from Ayutthaya.

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The monkeys of the Grand Palace, complete in their modern excuse for modesty.
For more historically reinvented pictures of Thailand, click here.

The monkeys stood stalwart, a rainbow of emotion carved onto their faces—happy, sad, scared, excited—their hands stiffly holding the golden spire they surrounded. their bodies glistened in the afternoon sun, the gaudy stage jewelry they wore as an excuse for clothing refracting their bright hues in every direction.

“They didn’t look like that before,” Matt said to me. “When I came here as a child, our guide asked my mother if she knew how to tell the boy monkeys from the girls. He said it was because the boys had penises.” I did a quick double take, looking for the phallic reminder that most ancient art was, in some way, obsessed with sex, reproduction, and the phallus. The glimmering faux clothing, however, left no hint of what hung from the crotch of select monkeys.

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A newly arrived Matt admires the temple next to the Big Buddha in Bangkok, Thailand.
For more gold tinged photos from Thailand, click here.

After no sign of Matt last night, I once again resumed my post waiting for him at the base of the Lamphu House. Starved as I was from not eating the day before, I ordered some noodles. During my second bite, I heard my name ring out across the courtyard. Matt, indeed, had arrived.

The International Dateline isn’t as simple as the CBS news show Dateline or the 1-800 Datelines you see advertised on late night TV. While it was true that Matt departed a day after me, the fact that I had already crossed the dateline eluded him. Needless to say, there was much rejoicing.

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“See you soon,” I typed, the promise of excitement giving me just enough adrenaline to make my weary body hang awake as I slapped my computer shut and fell into bed. In a mere 12 hours, Matt would arrive and I could begin my exploration of Bangkok and Thailand in earnest.

I had spent my evening wandering around and gaining my bearings. The streets of this area are filled European faces and accents. The guidebook says Bangkok should feel enough like home to make you feel welcome, but it’s so Western in its facets here, I feel uncomfortable. It’s what Stout would describe as stamped-outness—a feeling of being lost in the formulaic trappings of chain restaurants and repetitive global culture. Whenever we went to Chilis, he would get a deer in headlights look and comment on this experience. I understood, but I never shared his aversion. Still, I feel like I’m in Thaitown in some European country rather than Thailand. It’s unnerving.

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Part of the Manila Skyline sits idly in the mid-day heat by the Pasig River.
For more heat stifled pictures of the Philippines, click here.

NOTE: This entry was written the afternoon of August 11
during a two day stop in Manila. Because my laptop ran out of
batteries attempting to get a signal in the Bangkok airport,
I didn’t have time to publish it until now.

The shadow of the can is unavoidable. At this time of evening, the dying sun is at exactly the right angle to spray it on the wall opposite the open window. It looks like a black square with a slight curve at the top, but I’ve stared at that can every time I passed through the doorway. It’s green, and covered in Arabic. There’s no English on it; no sell-by dates or other numbers. It’s obviously been out here a while based on the flimsy layer of rust that rings the top. The can itself is empty, save a touch of water sprayed into it by the daily rains. What it housed once is a mystery to me.

I’m sure the can’s gotten good use. After all, Jhoan’s sink is lined with old 1.5 liter bottles now filled with water for when the apartment runs out in the early afternoon. Even San Miguel Beer arrives with a piece of paper towel around its open neck with which to wipe the rust off, as every bottle is cleansed and reused to save production cost. Denise once commented about her coke bottle having a bottle date in 1997 before finding out this fact. It’s not unsafe. It’s just cheaper, faster and easier than melting them down and remaking them like they do with aluminum cans.

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My arrival in Bangkok was tumultuous. As I approached immigration, I saw a long line for visas on arrival. After standing in line nearly 15 minutes and filling out the form, I saw that the US wasn’t on the list of countries requiring the visa. I quickly proceeded to plop myself in the standard line for incoming immigrants with foreign passports. I noticed the man in front of me also sported the stylish blue of a US passport, so I asked him about visas. He didn’t know any better than I, so we laughed and chatted while the long line got shorter.

Overall the conversation was nice. the gentleman was from New York City and flying in from Kuala Lampur. He had extended a business trip to Tokyo to visit friends in Hong Kong and Singapore and was planning on continuing on to Manila next. Though his stay in Bangkok was for 4 days, he planned to “see some golden pagodas and get laid,” which sounds like a solid plan as long as I ignored his previous statement that he was “glad [his] wife couldn’t join him.’ She’s meeting him in Manila.

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The sun sets behind some clouds in Agat on my final night on Guam.
For more distant photographs of Guam, click here.

In a scant six hours, I’ll be on plane departing the island. Last night, I tossed and turned, waking every 20 minutes with nervous excitement for the resumation of my journey, yet I spent most fo the day parked on the couch avoiding packing at all costs.

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Hammocks at Jeff’s Pirate Cove are clearly marked for “adult relaxation only.”
For more adult pictures of Guam, click here.

As I hiked past old ordinance, decaying weapons, the rusted silhouettes of old buildings and crumbled latte
stones (that’s lah-tee, not lah-tay), I began to wonder what life on Guam is truly like. Here I am, amidst the all the trappings of Western culture and American consumerism, the car graveyards on nearly every corner and the same Chamorro tropes stamped on every surface because they’re all that’s left of native culture. What have we done?

When the Spanish first arrived here, they decimated the Chamorro peoples. They wiped out every male Chamorro, forcing the few that survived to hide among the jungle and sneak about in the many caves. When the Japanese came, they indentured the Chamorro. Without rest from their daily toil and with internment camps at the ready, they had no choice. And then we arrived, bold faced with promises of safety and offerings of capitalism, government, and the military, which both claims much of the native lands and provides much of the local economy. What’s left are scraps and I want nothing more than to point fingers at the people responsible.

I leave Guam early Sunday morning, and despite nearly two months here, I’m still unsure how I feel about this place.

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There’s few things I dread more than having things I remember fondly dragged through the gutter for another iteration. Despite a wonderful day jaunting around Guam, my mind is drunk with sadness at what’s happened to one of my favorite games.

When the Xbox first launched, a good friend of mine bought one. For the first few weeks after, I found myself in front of his TV every other day. While I didn’t own a system myself, he and I spent hours on end playing.

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A young boy fishes as the sun sets at the Governor’s Complex in Hagåtña, Guam.
For more relaxing pictures of Guam, click here.

I’ve never been a small guy. I was tall for my age until I stopped growing up. Sadly, I kept growing out. These days, an XL shirt is just a tad too small to be comfortable and a tad too short to let me move freely.

When I arrived in Guam, my first stop was Ross, where I picked up a few Hawaiian shirts, since I packed a little too lightly. They were glorious, perfect, and huge.

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Men are dogs.

I don’t mean to say that men are conniving, lying cheaters who are destined to turn on their girlfriend, wife or lover. I mean that we’re trained animals.

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Denise reaches out to touch the idol of Santa Ana at Biba Fiestan Santa Ana in Agat, Guam.
For more rainy pictures of Guam, click here.

The word fiesta has a very Mexican image in my mind. Perhaps it’s my love the Three Amigos and El Guapo’s birthday that causes me to associate fiesta with pinatas, mariachi music, and general rabble rousing. Whatever the reason, not even the torrential rains could sway my excitement for the fiesta.

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The sun sets over San Luis Beach in Guam as Denise floats in the warm water.
For more jocular pictures of Guam, click here.

I feel like I’ve entered the doldrums. It’s not as though opportunities don’t abound here, but rather that I simply haven’t found the motivation to commence.

I am inspired constantly. I find myself deep in creative thought as I crawl into bed each night, ideas compounding upon one another like legos forming an elegant castle. And yet during my waking hours, I’ve spent my time crouched on the couch, locked on the controller and avoiding taking time at my keyboard—or better yet in the world at large.

SIDE NOTE: I don’t believe in writer’s block. There’s never an issue with inspiration or ideas. Sure, they may not be good or come to fruition as I had hoped when I finally start writing, but there’s always something to write about. Writer’s block is an illusion. It’s a combination of fear that what’s written won’t be any good and lack of motivation. Sometimes, the only thing that will get you writing is writing.

Monday was Liberation Day in Guam, celebrating the day the Americans arrived and drove the Japanese out. It’s a celebration of Guam’s “independence” and the military forces. Festivities start several weeks before with a carnival culminating the weekend before with a beauty pageant and more. Liberation Day itself is marked by the island’s only parade, fireworks, and plenty of barbecue.

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Right now, I really want to brag about how I got to see a midnight showing of The Dark Knight while most of you were still enjoying your Thursday morning coffee. Guam’s slogan is “Where America’s day begins!” after all.

But instead of grinning ear to ear about the movie or how early I got to see it (without a sneak preview), I’m left torn on how I feel. It’s a bittersweet affair. My only spoiler free commentary will say that it’s a better film than Batman Begins by far, and it’s well worth seeing. It may even be the best superhero comic book movie ever, though I’m still mulling that designation.

The rest of my commentary, is spoiler laden, so tread carefully if you choose to read further.

The buzz about Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker has been all over the place. People were mentioning the big O (not orgasms or giant robot amines, but Oscar) well before the film came out. But what are we talking about here?

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“I’ve drank two thirds of a twleve pack of Vault in the last three days!” I cried, my face contorting in a grimace. “It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty gross.”

“And you know I rarely drink caffeine if I can help it. It’s killing me.” I hung my head. “I couldn’t fall asleep at all last night. That stuff is really throwing off my cicadian rhythms.”

“You mean circadian,” corrected Denise.

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First of Many
Rows of coffin berths lie empty at Guam Veteran’s Cemetery, patiently awaiting their corpses.
For more ghastly pictures from Guam, click here.

Hafa Adai, y’all.

With a whole lot of nothing transpiring the past few days, it’s time once again for news in brief:

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Salvador Dali’s “Persistence of Memory”

‘”You remember that time,” I said, a smile creasing my face, “we got lost in Denver looking for that show. We were in your minivan and we spent hours just cruising back and forth, not really worrying about it since we hadn’t bought tickets anyway.” She smiled and laughed a little bit. “And then we stopped by the side of the road and smoked a joint while you called a friend for directions. We found out it was right around the corner, but when we got there it was sold out anyway. What was the band we were going to see?”

“It was… it was… it was the Procussions!”

“No, that wasn’t it,” I replied, shaking my head and creasing my brow. “It was a bluegrass band.”

“A bluegrass band?” she questioned.

“Yeah, like psychobilly or something. Maybe Split Lip Rayfield, but I swear I saw them at the Fox.”

“I never went to a bluegrass show with you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” I rolled my eyes. “They were sold out.”

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WARNING: This is a long one…

I thought I had left it all behind when I graduated from college. Anyone who has been there know what I’m talking about: the parties; the drinking; the beer bongs; the drunkenness; the stupidity. I’m sure some people remember it fondly. Perhaps it was even the best part of college. For me, however, it was a rarely an indulgence and even more rarely an enjoyable experience.

The booming music was always the first sign of a party. There were exceptions, but I could tell it was a rager when the thumping bass echoed down the street. Within half a block of the house or apartment, I could generally hear carousing going right along with it.

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The Santos Kiluus shrine sits abandoned off a back road late at night.
For more religious images from Guam, click here.

It wasn’t by choice that I’ve received most of my nicknames.

There were five other Bens in my grade in elementary school, three of which played on the soccer team. When I was dubbed goalie for the first time in my life, much to my dismay, the other Bens nicknamed me Andy after Bruins goalie Andy Moog. I now know it was a complement being compared to the Bruins great, but I knew nothing of hockey at the time.

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The sun shines through the palms from the clear blue sky above Guam.
For more sunny pictures from Guam, click here.

It amazes me how quickly my mood swings on Guam. One moment I’m enjoying the simple things—the breeze on my face, the warmth of the sun, the way the water laps against docks—and the next I’m bored, annoyed and ready for a change.

There’s no arguing that Guam is paradise of a sort, but I’m getting more certain by the day that it’s not my idea of paradise.

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