The Lonesome Chopstick

New Name New Game

2011-12-20T07:39:00.006+08:00

See, the trouble with naming your new blog Exit 347 is that when people search for it, they get pictures of actual highway exits and various complaints about traffic patterns in Boise Idaho. While that is riveting in its own way, it wasn’t quite the effect I was going for. So while the number has a special place in my psychiatrist’s note pad, it appears as though the reference will not get any air time in the virtual pages to follow. That’s okay, my web writing is a bit of alter ego diversion anyway, a subset of the lunacy that are my books.

And so it seems that my pseudonym is getting a pseudonym. The Robin's Clutch I never was has become the Jackson Holiday I'm clearly not. My actual name is getting quite the complex.

The good news is that the new name is finding his sea legs. He ... um I already has a book published so be a sport and buy a copy or nine. In the meantime check out the new blog. http://whoshitinmyzengarden.com/

You can also find me on facebook http://www.facebook.com/JacksonHoliday or even catch me on Twitter if you can believe that insanity - http://twitter.com/JacksonHoliday

Thanks for all the support. Hope you find it funny.

Keep dreamin'

Missing the Stick?

2010-08-03T05:42:00.007+08:00

For those sad to see The Lonesome Chopstick’s final post, fear not! A new brand of insanity has started right around the corner.

So if you long for more sarcastically inclined weirdness, then get off with the rest of us at Exit 347.

The new blog chronicles the adventures of this socially awkward American bozon as he tries to repatriate to his homeland. It should be natural…but then again so should sex and yet we all seem to botch that up the first time or two.

My advice? Bring your headgear.

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

2010-07-10T10:03:00.001+08:00

I’ve hardly hidden the fact that I’m a huge Douglas Adams fan. And while I haven’t hitchhiked the galaxy, seeing 12 countries in 13 months while working 14-hour days is no small feat.

For all my bitching, for all the melodramatic introspection, I must admit that the good far outweighed the bad. The experience has expanded my mind, my palate, and my options for a post midlife crisis existence and for that I’m grateful. I haven’t made any decisions yet, but I’m getting closer and looking forward to the next great adventure, whatever it may be.

I was struggling for a way to end this blog and then my answer came in the most unique Singaporean / American way. On my last day of work I stopped by the local Subway with a gift of chocolates for the super cool staff (they are super cool for many reasons not least of which is that they unofficially renamed the Italian BMT after me).

Anyway, after cooing over the candy one of the older ladies offered a shy smile and said, “My English is not so good, but Bon Voyage.”

You know, if you’re open to it you’ll find that people are pretty awesome. Thanks Singapore. I can’t help but feel that despite my best intentions, I’ve received far more than I’ve given.

Till the next adventure….

Keep dreamin’

Robin’s Clutch

Great Suburban Showdown

2010-07-08T19:06:00.006+08:00

It’s seems that my time in Singapore has come to an end. This Saturday I’ll board a variety of aircraft that will ultimately lead to the doorstep of my adopted home in North Carolina. I’m not sure I fit there anymore…assuming I ever did. Still, they’ll be friends to see and errands to run so I’m sure my To Do list will buy me a little denial time. But that’s just an illusion.

The truth it seems is that I’m a change junky…a khaki clad nomad itching for the open road. I haven’t even unpacked and already I’m planning, scheming, twitching with the type of anticipatory energy bookies call the money shakes.

And so the question becomes: what’s next? There’s New York. There’s always New York. And as much as I’d love to revisit the Apple and the friends of my youth, I’ve never met a man who moved ahead by going backwards. There’s D.C. A flock of family makes that a tempting destination to be sure, but me in a government town is like a clown in a cardigan.

It’s sobering really, to have houses but no home, to have lovers but no loved one, to have clients and contacts, but very few friends. I’m not sure if that speaks to my priorities, my path, or the unrelenting influence of my past. In any case, the message is clear enough and it’s high time I got the point.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the last lines of the above titled, Billy Joel ballad.

“…I’ll drive into town  

When this big bird touches down  

I'm only comin' home to say goodbye  

Then I'm gone with the wind  

And I won't be seen again  

Till that great suburban showdown in the sky”

Yes, it seems I’ve been running in the wrong direction for all the wrong reasons. I’m not sure where I’ll ultimately arrive, but one thing is clear, it’s time to change course.

Author note: Just kidding….I don’t wear khakis.

On the Subjects of Women and Track Shoes

2010-07-03T18:22:00.008+08:00

In the past I’ve been viewed as somewhat of a womanizer, relying chiefly on wit, charisma, and a benign brand of attractiveness that neither makes nor breaks the deal. Get them talking and they can be gotten...or so the theory goes.

I’m not sure I’ve ever agreed with that assessment, but I’ll concede the point. Admittedly, the evidence is not in my favor: a string of half-hearted romances, office flings, and sophomoric conquests are more than willing to take the stand and honestly, I haven’t the strength to utter an objection.

Still, something’s changed. Since my arrival in Singapore, I haven’t had the taste for the chase. In fairness, during the first few months I was disentangling myself from a botched Stateside relationship and cheating, even when the lines are blurred, is simply not something I do. But it was more than that.

I’ve found that women here are dramatically different in both approach and intent. In essence, the roles seem reversed with females (at least as it pertains to white men) being the aggressors. Just this morning I was eyed hungrily by an attractive local lady, the likes of which would never offer so much as a sideways glance if I were home. I’m not saying this to be self-deprecating. If I can lay claim to a superpower, it would be acute self-awareness. It’s simply truth – here men are ogled and approached with the same lustful frequency as cute, college co-eds at an ecstasy fueled rave.

It’s exhilarating of course becoming a Clooney clone and many take full advantage. From the pasty, sixty-something executive latching on to a impossibly tanned, questionably legal beauty to the happy hour lounge lizard making time with an SPG*, everyone it seems is consumed with “yellow fever”.

I hear the adulterous antidotes. I see the self-satisfied smirks. And I feel lucky, grateful, and even somewhat superior in the knowledge that I’m immune. I have no desire to visit the FFW**, troll the clubs in Clarke Quay, or even return the come hither stares that are far too frequently received. Perhaps it’s because I recognize the illusion and the quiet desperation of my potential counterparts.

Having your way with a woman is a delightful thing to be sure, but only insomuch as it is a balanced affair. When its transactional, contrived, or worse yet, coerced (even indirectly) it loses its appeal completely and for me borders on the immoral, even the criminal. I’m surprised by my strong emotional reaction to the matter, but grateful for the dual lessons this year of romantic people watching has produced.

First, it seems that despite denials, I do long for a healthy relationship with a secure, self-reliant someone special. And second, I now realize that my tendency to bolt does not stem from a desire to leave or arrive, but rather to remain in motion. There’s nothing wrong with running of course, unless it’s endlessly upon a treadmill of ice. Perhaps it’s time to unplug the beast and find a jogging partner who can not only keep up, but push me onward toward a horizon we both desire.

Author note: I realize this post does not do justice to the majority of Singaporean women. During my time here I’ve known and befriended several who are the epitome of style, grace, class and intelligence. My hope is that they will forgive the limited scope of this entry and see it for what it is…a bit of introspection and nothing more.

*SPG - Sarong Party Girl is a derogatory term used in Singapore to describe a local woman who dresses and behaves in a provocative manner, and who exclusively dates white men often indirectly exchanging sexual favors for a variety of gifts.

**FFW - Four Floors of Whores, officially Orchard Towers, is an 18-story office building located on the corner of Claymore Road and Orchard Road. During the day it functions as a retail and office style building, but it is best known as an landmark entertainment complex featuring a variety of bars and clubs where “clients” are able to meet and pick up prostitutes.

Singapore Reflections

2010-06-24T19:23:00.004+08:00

Nothing’s perfect. Crimes get foiled. Storms subside. And that Jaw-dropping Jessica you met at beer o’clock in the morning often appears more Tandy than Simpson once the house lights rise. Yes, many a time I’ve eagerly vaulted the proverbial fence only to discover my neighbor’s been barbequing on Astroturf. These days I take longer to leap, often opting for a balanced perspective in all things… including my time in Sing-land.

On the positive side, you’ll never starve in here. The sheer availability and variety of culinary creations got this burger boy thinking beyond the bun. Also, Singapore’s transit system bitch slaps our antiquated “L”. And nifty websites like www.sbstransit.com.sg (Next bus) and www.gothere.sg enable newbies to transverse the Island with local-like efficiency. Finally, its geographic good fortune makes Singapore the ideal jump off point for regional sightseeing. Several countries are weekend doable and regardless of how rustically you wander, there’s always the comfort of returning to the nation’s neurotic cleanliness.

Of course it’s not all sunshine and roses. Sure the food’s phenomenal, but you often have to gaze into ghost eyes while enjoying the meal. Ever envision a king prawn doing a De Niro impersonation? It’s enough to make Hannibal Lecter a vegetarian.

And speaking of taxi drivers, what language do they speak? I’m thinking shorthand. Last week when I asked to go to “the Orchard Park apartments behind the Takashima shopping center” I was met with a confused grunt. However, when I barked, “Uncle, go orchard behind Taka,” I was whisked away with formula one speed. Of course, the whisking was intermittent at best seeing as how they all drive with two feet, often applying the break and gas simultaneously. But hey, on the up side you get that nifty Chinese top 40 music to take your mind off your impending doom.

But the bus drivers are worse. I’m sure lapping a manicured island fifteen times an hour gets old, but guys (and gals) you are driving a 10 ton rectangle, not a Maserati. Ease up on the hair pin turns, would you? Actually, you know what – strike that. Maybe you can jolt the grotesque toenail clipper to my left into a coma. Sure…. I can’t cautiously consume a covered coffee without fear of fines, but old-man Ling Wa can pedi-out his Wolverine talons on the #14 without issue.

And what’s with all the cueing, kung fu-ing your way into elevators, and sniffing incessantly like an 80s coke whore? Cultural differences aside, the tissue was invented for a reason folks –blow your nose already! But I digress.

On balance, I feel Singapore is filled with minor annoyances and majestic moments. Some of the latter is country sponsored, while others are due to the interesting individuals who call this place home. Last Saturday I saw a beautiful four year old Indian girl let go of her mom’s hand at the edge of an escalator. As the woman traveled nervously downward, the little girl calmly looked up at me and shook her head.

“What’s the matter, honey?” I asked.

“Stairs don’t move,” she stated emphatically, as her mother came rushing to collect the pertinacious pre-schooler.

Some do of course, but in fairness, it takes a while to wrap your mind around the concept. I guess that’s the same with a lot of things.

Where the F#@K’s My Spider Sense?

2010-04-10T09:51:00.003+08:00

New Yorkers are blessed with extra sensory perception. We feel vibes, catch drifts and seem to know the score a lot faster than our country-based counterparts. Some say we’re born with it, but more likely it comes from countless encounters that hone one’s fight or flight response into, well…a superpower.

I know. After a lifetime of dodging everything from schoolyard bullies and step-scumbags to bar room hot heads and the occasional criminally-inclined, I surprised I don’t sport a cape. And so when I moved to North Carolina, in 2004 I was concerned that I would loose my edge. It’s not complete paranoia. Vonnegut said something similar in reference to San Francisco. And Kurt knew his shit.

Anyway, I survived the south. Turns out there are enough dirt bags in Durham to keep you on your toes. Plus rednecks have an affinity for Miller-muscles…so there’s that. The long and the short: You can find your danger fix if you look around.

That’s not true in Singapore. The city is so safe that you can amble about an alley with a map in one hand, a fist full of c-notes in the other and ask a tatted up teenager for directions to a bible study without worry. Yeah, it’s easy to lose your edge.

It happened to me this morning. It was dark and I was decaffeinated - details, not excuses. It was nothing big, but as I rode the escalator from the tube to the street, a man was able to approach my blind side and get within striking distance without me noticing. This from a guy who would previously stir from slumber if someone walked passed my apartment wearing slippers in a snowstorm.

Maybe it’s good that I’m chilling out. Insomnia has me by the balls enough as it is. Still, I feel I’ve lost something and I miss it. I miss him, that guy I was before I got comfortable.

Maybe there’s just nothing wrong…nothing to tingle the brain. More likely, I’ve been slipping, slacking, sleeping away the last few months...God the last few years. But it’s wake up time. It’s been dormant recently for sure, but something tells me my spider sense is set for a scream fest and maybe that’s a good thing.

Hug This

2010-02-28T11:07:00.004+08:00

I’m basically a nasty person. Don’t get me wrong. I give to charity. I’ll help a lady change her tire in the snow. And more often than not, I’ll relinquish my bus seat to a gimped up geriatric. Still, outside these parameters, I’m largely a prick.

Now this is not a realization one comes to or dares admit lightly. People don’t like bastards. They tend to rub them the wrong way and so forth. Thus, confessing your alignment with an overall dickish outlook can have some negative social repercussions. Luckily when you are in fact a jackass, you really don’t care about winning Mr. Congeniality.

So why the confession? Well, as my return home is just a few months away, I’ve been trying to come up with a summation for Singaporean culture. You know, something to tell the boys back home. Since they have the attention span of a coked-out ferret, I’ll have to keep it brief. And since brevity is often a medium for douchebaggery, I thought I’d give any local readers fair warning less I offend unintentionally. (How’s that for flexing one’s natural style?)

So here goes. Singapore is like Key Club in high school. Actually I can’t be sure of this since I was never much of a joiner and have almost no idea what Key Club is, but I’ve seen them prancing about the halls and so I’ll make my comparison on the most superficial of observations.

Key Club kids are happy, organized, cause-oriented and terribly terribly excited. About what I have no idea. They can often be found wearing matching t-shirts, holding placards and pleading endlessly for your signature on a petition of some sort. Singapore is, in the most stereotypical sense, a country comprised completely of Key Club members.

Yesterday as I attempted to tick off a Santa sized list of errands I was accosted by brigade of Red Cross collectors, a battalion of sign sporting cellular sales reps, and I shit you not, a squad of squawking simpletons draped in elaborate hawk costumes who, for some reason, were desperate to have me squawk along. It didn’t happen.

I weathered the storm respectfully, keeping my comments to a series of inaudible sarcastic mutterings. But then, as I rounded the corner toward my apartment, a group of perky co-eds rushed me professing that love could change the world. Their “free hugs” signs signaled their plans for global healing. Of course I was tempted to partake, “accidentally” coping a feel in the process, but I instead, in the most deadpan delivery I could muster, inquired as to where I could find the girls sporting the "free blowjobs" signs.

Being Singaporean, she missed the joke entirely and offered an apologetic admission that she had not heard of such a group. I sighed, passed on the hug, and marched onward… one has to keep hope alive and all.

My Singapore Soundtrack

2010-01-28T21:34:00.005+08:00

City slickers walk more than their suburban counterparts. Sure there are trains and busses and taxis galore, but the to and fro is largely Nikey-based and often it’s simply easier to forego mechanized transport all together and just hoof it around town.

I occasionally take these opportunities to soak up the sounds of the city, but more often than not, I’m disconnected, bouncing about to the various rhythmic wonders my IPod offers. It’s interesting to view the world as if it was set to music, and sometimes your choice of song determines what you see and how you see it.

Friends know that (Billy Joel obsession aside) my musical tastes are as scattered as a Tourette-afflicted Schizophrenic’s poetry readings. I’ll smash the heavy bag in time with DMX’s rants, croon along with Harry Connick while stirring spaghetti sauce, and then clean the garage while Linkin Park belts out some auditory motivation. Rock, rap, and R&B. Country, classical and cool jazz. You’ll find them all on my play list, awkwardly slam dancing about in ways that would make any radio DJ cringe. Ah the shuffle-feature, how it laughs in the face of format.

But that’s inside. My organized existence can handle the dissonance. Outside, our chaotic world screams for more consideration, a specialized, thoughtful, committed selection. And so my walks are deliberate, my accompaniment thematic. One artist, one work – that’s the rule.

Of course in this era of digital singles the art of the album is sliding quickly into obscurity. (Yes I’m album old, though not quite 8-track antiquated.) Regardless, my incessant ambling affords an ideal opportunity to breathe life into what may be destined for obliteration.

And so, as I walk I drink in the places, the faces, and all the spaces in between the where I was and the where I’m going. Today Sara Bareilles was my guide. They day before it was Alanis. It’s been a week of thoughtful, quirky women, the kind I hope to meet someday if only I’d unplug and actually risk a conversation.

Funny how I listen so fully when they are not around…not really real. I remember details, not just of what they said, but where I was and what I was doing when they said it – a feat I could never muster in the context of an actual relationship.

Just yesterday I was waiting for the #14 bus in front of Lucky Plaza, newly purchased yoga block in hand when I heard that an old man turned 98, won the lottery and promptly died the next day. For some reason the song got stuck in the moment and now I’ll forever equate that line with that location. I’ll be in New York next June, hear it, and instantly I’ll be in Orchard.

Sad really that I can’t recall even the most important events without such musical cues. The last words of my last lover…. gone. I recall only the click of the door and the silence that followed.

Isn’t it Ironic. Don’t you think? Maybe we needed a soundtrack. Maybe we needed a song.

A Girl Named Citi

2010-01-24T20:07:00.004+08:00

Have you ever been set-up by a well-meaning friend? Of course it’s not your typical thing. No need, right? You do fine on your own. A guy like you…how could you not? Still, in my case, the friend was persistent. “It’ll be the perfect relationship,” he assured. “Easy set-up. No strings. Just what you’re looking for till you head back home.”

Again, I’m a pretty self-sufficient guy with a healthy ego, but after some badgering and few lone wolf stumbles, I reluctantly agreed. After all I was new in town, lacked a defined network, and well, desperately needed the promised services.

The first meeting went well, actually happened in the coffee shop downstairs from my office. I was surprised at such accommodation and thought if this were a sign of things to follow, maybe the rumors were true and I’d be a happy boy in Asia.

Sadly, what started as an all about me thing quickly reversed directions. In a matter of days a series of rules, procedures and dare I say demands were proposed, transforming this once attractive prospect to something as appealing as a hump-backed, plus-size rodeo clown decked out in a spandex skirt and hooker heels.

And that was just the beginning. Soon more ugliness was unveiled. Something analogous to: “Yeah, I got three kids, but they live with their baby’s daddy on account of I was in the joint till last summer and still need to call into my PO till I officially kick the crank. It’s all right though. Just another 60k to the bookies and I’m clear. I can probably work that off… if you know what I mean. Might catch the clap again, but that’s a fixer. Boy you’re quiet. Maybe I won’t need that ball gag after all.”

Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. Her name was Citibank. And after months of being manipulated, bamboozled, and flat-out cyber-stalked I just had to break free. Sure, by this time I was in deep. I had three accounts, four credit cards, and about 17 non-working PINs, the sum of which failed to allow me to book a ticket on Tiger Airlines or use a local ATM without being battered about by a series of international “convenience” fees.

Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe I refused to see the flaws, read the fine print. It’s all a blur really, like someone slipped me a financial roofie. One minute I’m sipping coffee with an articulate sales rep, talking interest rates, seamless wire transfers, and free checking. The next, I’m hopelessly cursing at a Bangalore-based customer service agent whose phone script may as well have described the operational procedures for a 72’ Honda snow blower.

Still I’m not bitter. Citibank may be the devil, but I got out of my deal free and clear. My accounts are closed, my cards torched, and my cash, while crinkled, will someday find the strength to bank again.

I heard of this new girl recently – D.B.S. I call her Debs. Maybe she’s the one for me.

Let’s Get Physical

2010-01-19T19:48:00.005+08:00

There are certain things you can’t undo – flick off a policeman, masturbate to Britney Spears, or ask “wow, how far along are you?” to a woman who seems pregnant, but isn’t.

The same is true for coming to the realization that you are hopelessly out of shape. Once you know, you really can’t un-know. Sure, you can deny it. I know plenty of people who have a P.O. Box in denial. But deep down, the truth of your blobiness is out there, staring mercilessly at your double chins.

Now, truth be told, I’m no porker. If anything, my time in Singapore has served me well – more walking, better food, high priced beer. That said, I’m not the man I was when I was awesome – er– est.

My moment of clarity came when I tried to hang with my 19 year-old stepbrother during a recent trip to Mexico. We went drink for drink, punch for punch, and allegedly even attempted to woo the same cocktail waitress. The bad news is I lost the wooing contest. The good news… she may have been a chubby 59 year-old man named Paco. The next day I wished the happy couple well and apologized profusely to my liver, back, and self-esteem. They, as yet, have not accepted.

Some people claim to have a religious experience during these life-altering moments. Mine came in the form a hell-battling vision who looked remarkably like a holy version of Madonna’s ex-boyfriend. Yes, Sean Penn Jesus saved me from an impossibly real death dream and “healed” some massive chest pains, which in retrospect was probably more heartburn than the massive coronary embolism I imagined. Note to self - an extra spicy burrito at 2 a.m. is always a bad decision.

Still, I’m not one to balk at a deity’s dedication. And so, since a rather large birthday is looming and I swore that night to clean myself up, I’ve recently embarked on an SPJ inspired quest to look and feel 10 years younger by the time I hit that magic milestone.

I share this with you TLC fans mostly out of timing. If things go right, I’ll hit my goal about the day I board a plane back to the States. Also, like my body, I expect future entries to be leaner, more powerful, and ready to dazzle with a nimble, sarcastic style. And won’t that be nifty?

So here’ to the SPJ lifestyle – and yes I’m toasting with my water bottle – oh joy!

Half-time

2009-12-31T12:00:00.001+08:00

Well TLC fans, it looks like my stay in Singapore will be extended a tad. I’ll be back in the land of Chicken Rice soon enough for another 6 months of sarcastically-inclined commentary, but for now I’m truly in a New York State of mind.

Actually, I’m in snowy Connecticut at the moment, hoping for a trouble-free flight to Mexico in the morning. Yeah, yeah, more sunshine… a strange thing to yearn for after a half year on the equator, but 37 seconds of subzero temps and icy driveways will do that to a guy.

I’m not one for resolutions, but I will endeavor to be a bit more consistent with the entries in 2010. There is a new book brewing so that may prove difficult, but I’ve had some requests for more Melvin and I’m not one to let my readers down.

So here’s wishing everyone one a great New Year. Wherever you are, wherever you’re going, I hope you're living with the kind of zest that makes regrets hard to come by.

Kd
Clutch

One Too Many

2009-11-22T15:30:00.004+08:00

I’ve always found it funny that people, even otherwise thoughtful, decent people, can routinely blow by the one that is one too many. I’m not judging of course, we’ve all donned the proverbial lampshade and danced the “white-man overbite” while bellowing things better left unsaid. I’m just laughing, thankful that this time it wasn’t me.

Last night I attended an Expat party at Clarke Quay. Given the readership of this much belated blog, you may have went as well. If so, you likely witnessed the amazing escapades of “drunk girl”.

She was easy to spot, an Amazon blond rocking a call-girl starter kit – short skirt, tall heels, and glassy eyes framed with enough make-up to pass as a Boy George impersonator. She was performing all the traditional intoxicated antics: ranting about lost love, professing devotion to wide-eyed friends and co-workers, and two-fistedly chugging various concoctions that could easily power a diesel tractor.

But what makes this drunken stupor something to immortalize is that she actually took a full out horizontal digger – a multiple person pile up that ended in a hasty exit and some minor abrasions.

I saw it coming. She was mid sentence…loose lips struggling to form the letter “S”. But it was as if the slur took too much effort for her knees suddenly gave way and the leggy lady careened, collapsed, and ultimately crashed into a trio of tiny Asian socialites.

Sadly, the smallest of the group bore the brunt of the blow. She suffered a twisted ankle and the loss of what appeared to be an Apple-tini as the drink launched from her hand drenching her horrified companions. In the end the group lay buried beneath the now, semi conscience party girl.

Some rushed to help. Others callously reached for camera phones. As for me, I just shook my head, sipped my beer, and prayed she wasn’t an American.

I believe it was Hemmingway who said, “Two drinks are too many. Three drinks are too few.” He was a very wise man.

Love Song

2009-10-19T19:45:00.001+08:00

I’ve always suffered the unfortunate circumstance of being both romantically inclined and challenged. Like the emotional equivalent of William Hung, I long to sing, knowing I can’t and so I end up bumbling awkwardly through a verse or two of love, never quite making it to the chorus.

My most recent debacle wasn’t even supposed to happen. I wasn’t looking. Didn’t want any part of it actually. But a friendship formed and danced on the cusp of becoming something more. But like I said, I’m armed with two left feet and so we predictably tripped into the proverbial punch bowl.

The evening ended, the band packed up, and the house lights dimmed on the hope I had of starting something new and forgetting something old.

People speak of the famous 15 minutes like it’s a bad thing. Me, I’m jealous of that ballsy Chinaman. At least he felt the warmth of the spotlight…if only for a moment.

The Incredible Melvin and his Faithful Side-kick, Vito “the Aggravated Expat” Devito - The “Case” of the Secret Sauce

2009-10-17T10:46:00.012+08:00

Tuesdays are notoriously slow crime days in Singapore. Well, every day is slow, but Tuesdays, boy they can really depress the average crime fighter. Luckily, our heroes are equipped with an Amway-like optimism and a utility belt full of time killing skills. We join them now in the kitchen, where the duo are, well….making dinner.

**********

“Vito, how can you possibly say that the Italians invented noodles? Asians have been slurping them for like a bazillian years.”

Devito tapped his wooden spoon on the edge of the pot, sampled the tomato sauce, and looked up at our hero like he just tried to peel an apple with a tire iron. “I didn’t say noodles, Mel. I said spaghetti and what makes spaghetti spaghetti is the friggin’ spaghetti sauce. You got me?”

The Incredible one sighed, rolled his eyes, and adjusted the knob on his black market police scanner.

“Leave it,” said Devito. “It’s Tuesday. Nothing ever happens on Tuesdays.”

“But there could be a…”

“There won’t.”

“But what if…”

“Never does.”

“Well, how about one of those…”

Vito brandished his spoon in deadly grandmother-like fashion, halting the endless back and forth. “Mel, you’ve gotta let it go. We had that gum-chewer last week. What more do you want?”

Melvin walked to the window and glanced at the emerging stars. “I want action, adventure, and a chance to be taken seriously in the superhero community.”

“You’re shitting me? Your deadliest power is the use of an exclamation point. I know florists back home who could throw you a beatin’.”

Melvin wrinkled his face and shot a stern look at his sidekick (another truly amazing power). “Do you realize your initials are V.D.? Must make you popular with the ladies. What is your sister’s name, Sarah Teresa Devito?”

“Laugh it up chuckle head.” Vito made a couple of plates, grabbed a pair of beers from the fridge, and walked to the table.

“Eat up. Deepavali* is Saturday. Maybe we’ll get some kuckleheads using real oil lamps. That has to be against some city ordinance.”

Melvin smiled and dug into the meal. “You’re like a ray of sunshine buddy.”

“Anytime.”

Author’s note: *Deepavali, also known as the festival of lights, is a Hindu holiday. They light oil lamps in their homes to thanks the gods for the happiness, knowledge, peace and wealth they have received. The Hindus consider Deepavali one of the most important festivals to celebrate.

T.I.M. - A Hero is Born

2009-10-14T15:52:00.020+08:00

It seemed like a normal Thursday evening commute – cluttered streets, backed-up busses, and this lone Caucasian bopping in time to the IPod offered rhythms of Natalie, a gorgeous Spanish-American R&B artist you haven’t listened to, but should. Yeah, I blend.

Now Orchard Road is always a circus, but never more so than just before dusk. Street performers, upward gazing tourists, and a sea of slow-moving locals collectively conspire to stifle my progress. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve transplanted my New Yorker-ness to the Singapore streets. “Yeah, I’ve got a lot of things to do tonight buddy and waiting for you ain’t one of them. Let’s move it.” I don’t actually say that of course, but I think it real loud as I blast through the crowd and onto a less populated side road.

That’s where it happened. I was standing on the corner, furiously pressing the crosswalk button, willing the light to change, when suddenly this madman had the audacity to attempt a heinous crime. Yes, unthinkable as it sounds, this dastardly criminal intended to Jay walk. I was stunned, my new Asian sensibilities astounded. After all, such an act constitutes a kaleidoscope of felonies or so I’ve been told.

But then, just when I thought all was lost, this man... this remarkable man of mystery, stepped from the shadows and cried out, (Actually it was much more of a subtle, pleasant inquiry) causing the evil-doer to rethink his actions and step back to the curb. Disaster avoided. Oh joy!

I had to know the identity of this hero. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t wearing a mask or some groovy spectacles, but we hadn’t been formally introduced and that sort of thing is expected here. So, like a giddy schoolgirl I boldly asked for the savior’s name. He hesitated a moment, but then raised a knowing eyebrow in hero-like fashion and said, “Melvin. They call me The Incredible Melvin.” I nearly fainted when his counterpart, clearly a trusted sidekick, said and I shit you not, “Let’s go Mel, it’s getting dark and there’s work to be done.”

Oh why didn't I have my camera?

Author’s Note: I didn’t realize Singapore had a superhero. Most cities do, but S’pore? It’s like the safest place on Earth. Still, like the MRT adverts advise: “Low crime does not mean no crime.” Well, underachieving criminals beware because T.I.M. is out there and he is on the case. I’ll be watching Melvin, you beautiful, magnanimous bastard. I’ll be watching and faithfully documenting your adventures as they unfold. The world deserves nothing less.

Lucky Bear

2009-09-23T12:58:00.002+08:00

A koala bear and a prostitute finished an evening’s escapade at which point the bear said thanks and headed for the door.

The hooker, a bit taken back by the action asked, “Um, excuse me but aren’t you forgetting something?”

When the bear shrugged she pressed on, “Hello, I’m a prostitute. You must not know what that means.” She tossed him a dictionary and ordered him to look it up so he’d know the score.

The bear did as instructed and read the definition aloud, “Prostitute: someone who engages in sexual favors for money. Yes, I knew that. But I’m afraid my dear that you don’t know much about koala bears. Here, look it up.”

The prostitute caught the dictionary, skimmed through the pages, and frowned slightly as she read the following entry: “Koala bear: a small, furry animal that eats bushes, shoots and leaves.”

She raised her head to the sound of the closing door and grumbled something about Mr. Webster being an asshole.

Author’s Note: I heard this joke about 15 years ago, though I’m not sure which one told me.

I Can’t Complain

2009-09-17T20:27:00.005+08:00

One of the major benefits to living in Singapore is the relative ease with which one can blast off on a variety of exotic weekend adventures. Now I’ve never fancied myself (well, that’s not entirely true) an adventurous soul, but admittedly, I was eager to give the whole jet-setting lifestyle a shot.

I had my concerns of course. First, I’m no Magellan. I’m always lost, be it in thought, translation, or simply the mall. Next, I’m an anxiety-inclined, hypochondriac with a wicked imagination. Given the endless array of possible diseases and disasters one might obsess over, I questioned whether I’d find time to even unpack my case. Still I pressed on. After all, how does one pass up an opportunity to view paradise?

And so in a region is littered with topical islands, the question became which Eden to enter. I’m not much for thinking outside of work hours so I simply threw a dart at my trusty SEA map. Luckily it landed on Phuket. I employ the adverb because with my bar room skills, striking Newark, New Jersey was not out of the question.

Anyway, I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. For me the whole thing was a nightmare. First, they stick you in a room footsteps from the beach. I don’t know about you, but that whole wave thing is really annoying. I mean back and forth, back and forth…it’s endless. A truly aggravating experience. I tell you I was so stressed out after just an hour in the place that I decided to get a massage. Of course that was insanity as well. I’m sure some will think I’m exaggerating, but they actually had the nerve to charge almost $9 for the hour. I mean the audacity of these people.

Well I wasn’t going to stand for that. So instead I figured I’d try to salvage the trip with a little shopping. But again, I got completely screwed. For some reason, they didn’t have any actual clothes in the stores. The owner gave me some nonsense about wanting to measure me and then make it that afternoon. Sure, like I’m gonna fall for that old trick. I mean who has two hours wait around for a suit? What was I to do…lounge in the sun sipping insanely strong drinks with real tropical fruit?

Listen, I’m not one to complain, but next time I’m headed to Jones beach in good old Long Island, New York. I mean sure there’s hypodermics on the shore, bone chilling water, and daylong congestion on the highways, but at least you have muscle-bound guidos kicking sand in your face, overpriced stale beer, and parking fees that rival your lease payment. I mean a guy has to have standards.

The Digits

2009-09-06T14:09:00.003+08:00

Before I write word one, I’m going to admit that this is a pretty petty post. In the grand scheme of things the topic is a trifle less important than laundry lint. Still it’s something I’ve noticed and find to be a continuous source of aggravation – kinda like that squeaky door you never get around to dousing with WD-40. So bear with me as I embark on a brief, Bell-inspired rant.

You see, local phone numbers in Singapore have eight digits. I’m not sure if this is related to the Chinese affinity for the “lucky” number or a complete aversion to area codes, but for whatever reason, seven doesn’t cut it in Sing-land.

On first glance you’d think this would be one of the easier adjustments to make, but actually the concept goes against the natural order of things. Everyone knows that there is a specific rhythm to giving a phone number. You got five-five-five (pause) one-two (slight pause) three-four. It’s all pretty musical. Simply – Ba-ba-ba – dada-dada. Easy right?

Sure some of you are thinking, well dude I throw in a two digit combo on the last four – you know something like: five-five-five (pause) thirty-eight (slight pause) sixty-two. True, but when you think about it, it’s really the same magical beat that allows for easy memorization. Just imagine some hammerhead giving you his number like this: five (pause) twenty-one (long pause) one, fourteen, (even longer pause with an “um” thrown in) two. It sounds like a retarded quarterback spouting his locker combination.

And there folks lies my issue. Without the musical score I can’t remember my own number, never mind someone else’s. Sure I could rely on advanced phone features like well, contact lists and such, but I’m someone whose VCR has been blinking twelve noon since the Regan administration. Yeah, I’m pretty much a back of the napkin kinda guy.

So until someone comes up with a nifty memory boosting idea I’ll continue using the old seven-digit song trick, with the final number encased in a sarcastic sentence. For example, five-five-five (pause) one-two (slight pause) three-four...and ah, two, as in "it is too F-ing ridiculous that I have to remember this extra friggin' number." A bit wordy perhaps, but cheaper than a psychologist.

Finding My Towel

2009-08-28T05:48:00.002+08:00

We’ve all heard of culture shock. As someone who has traveled a great deal and prides himself on his above average understanding of the “softer side” of leadership, I figured I’d be immune to its effects. Hardly. It’s as if everything I’ve learned (and sadly enough, taught) on the topic conspired to dose me with a handsome helping of humility.

Maybe it was a challenging, if not ambiguous assignment, a hurried departure, or a complicated pre-move personal life, but whatever the reason, I’ve been ambling about in a bit of a funk. Kinda of like Zaphod after a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. But that was yesterday.

I’m not sure what’s come over me, but I feel as if the haze of my cultural hangover has lifted. Simply put, I think I’ve found my towel. For those of you getting the reference, you know that doing so is an amazing thing.

Ever onward….

Author’s note: Okay, for the four of you who read the above entry and thought “huh?” really loud, please understand that, “knowing where one's towel is,” refers to someone who can stay cool and in control of virtually any situation. To quote The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:

“....a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (nonhitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet-weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.”

Author’s other note: If you haven’t read the Guide order it on-line immediately. And while you’re doing so, pick up a copy of Barley Man and the Incredible Zukes, another wholly remarkable book.

China Cool

2009-08-22T09:08:00.005+08:00

I’ve never been one to stand out in a crowd. Some guys, the rat pack boys, the Gene Kelly crew, they could float down stairs, whisk through rooms and make the rest of us mortals simply stop and stare. I know. I’m a professional onlooker. Given this, life in China is a bit strange, for here apparently, I’m the one to watch.

Now I’m not diluted. I’m painfully aware of my charismatic limitations and have a handle on my handsomeness. And so I understand the reasons for the admiration. The bad girls envision a walking ATM and the good ones a potential green card. Their respective boyfriends simply see the same self-indulgent quarterback type I used to hate in high school, only I’m worse ‘cause my letterman’s jacket is a knock-off to be sure. Heck, I couldn’t withstand the rigors required of a chess club membership without a helmet and wrist guards.

But I’m not concerned with all that. My attention, as it often does, turns to the kids. They approach me without reservation bellowing, “Hello. How are you?” After all, I’m the crazy Caucasian…and those round eyes are always good for a laugh.

Officially, they long to practice their English with a native speaker. But truth be told, the pre-pubescent goofballs are just hoping to learn the latest slang and perhaps a few curses if they dare ask. Now I’m not one for dirtying the mouths of planet’s young people. I’m no saint of course, it’s just that the action lacks a sense of style. So instead I launch into a scholarly dissertation on coolness and its dependence on slick yet subtle oratory. The thing of it is I use a text from 1975.

That’s right, thanks to me there are a handful of Chinese kids running around Beijing sounding like a combination of Shaft and Re-Run, from What’s Happening.

I know, I know, I’m evil. But the thing of it is, once you have reservations in Hell, there’s really no point sweating the little things.

The Hitcher

2009-08-10T18:02:00.002+08:00

One of my favorite writers is the late Douglas Adams. I’ve been thinking a lot these days of his much beloved and theatrically abused Hitchhiker’s series, perhaps because I sense a certain similarity between its bumbling lead and my current circumstance. Yes, like Arthur Dent, I’m having a heck of a time getting the hang of Thursdays.

During my most recent one, I found myself sitting in a Taiwanese oncology ward slurping a frozen concoction comprised of bitter herbs, starched yams, and a white paste that seemed sturdy enough to cork a bathtub. I was given the local delicacy by a group of nurses who thought I looked the exact blend of peckish and queasy to necessitate the offering. Personally, I think queasiness trumped the former emotion, but any mildly OCD suffering hypochondriac would have had the same reaction.

I'm not much for medical musings, but I think the setting warrants a word. Simply put, the hospital was boldly full of hope and chaos. And as a mere visitor I busied myself counting blessings and exuding empathy. Clearly I have nothing to bitch about.

But back to Dent. It’s occurred to me that how dumb you sound is directly related to where on the planet you are standing when you say what’s on your mind. I felt foolish speaking New York in Carolina so you can imagine I’m sounding a bit like a hairless orangutan these days. Yes, I’ve been flossing with shoelaces lately, but at least I’m learning.

Arthur had trouble settling in as well, but at least he had Zaphod and Trillian to respectively goad him to action and tease him to attention. Where’s my charismatic, two-headed protagonist, my brilliant, leggy temptress, both all too eager to shower me with friendship despite being desperately out of my league. After all, you need sidekicks to sustain, an ensemble to see you through.

In fairness, no one is fixed on disintegrating my planet to make way for an intergalactic bypass and I doubt if I’ll end up on a Vogon prison ship anytime soon. Still, at times I feel my home world is light years away, a distant dot in the universe that is my expat experience. Yeah, I’m a hitchhiker all right, bouncing about airports as if they were space stations, trying to fit in, knowing I don’t, and hoping at least to dodge any cultural laser blasts that are headed my way.

Still, for all the minor inconveniences I've been biching about, I do feel like a remarkably lucky bastard. Growing up where and how I did, I never imagined that I’d leave the neighborhood, much less the country. Yet here I am, thumb in air, eager for the next adventure.

I’m sure there will be moments when I long for my own Restaurant at the End of the Universe. You know, the one located along I-95 that smells of pasta, pastry, and home. But for now it seems I’ve become the bumbling hitcher I’ve always admired. I’m guideless of course, but perhaps that’s what this blog is all about.

Don’t Panic!

Goober-less

2009-08-07T07:31:00.004+08:00

I fawn over feature films the way Castro covets Cubans, Satan savors souls, and little green men lust after little green women. Yeah, I’m a movie buff with a silo of Shinola and a shitload of Shamwows. The trouble is, I’m trapped in Singapore.

For all its good points, the island’s the pits when it comes to the silver screen. Not only does the selection lack the breadth found in the States, the ones they do have are censored beyond belief. Curses are cut, debauchery deleted, and blatant nudity is nowhere to be found. I checked the run time of the latest Tarantino flick and it was a whopping 37 minutes including the previews.

The irony of all this is that the local multiplex is located a stone’s throw from one of the best-known brothels in all of Asia. (Not that I’ve visited mind you – fear of cooties and all). There are literally more hoes in the average theater than in the films their watching… a rare thing outside of Los Angeles.

But what aggravates me the most, what really makes me want to grab an AK-47 and recreate a scene from Scarface, is the appalling absence of Goobers – the most amazing movie candy known to man. I can deal with laundered language, edited erotica and even the awkward circumstances European style seat selection forces upon the lone movie goer, but to do so without my savory chocolate wonders is unthinkable.

Singapore, you get rave reviews for food, friendliness and frequency of mass transit, but two thumbs stuck firmly up your keister when it comes to cinematic style. From the looks of things, I’ll be rocking NetFlix come January. Ah, hint-hint on the stocking stuffers.

The Other Guy

2009-08-05T20:15:00.001+08:00

You know “that guy”, the one who walks into a pub like he owns the place. He nods at the door man, smiles at a passing waitress who actually smiles back, and slides effortlessly onto an open barstool that you’d swear was occupied a moment before. He easily exchanges pleasantries with the barkeep and orders something offbeat, but simple and strong enough to shed any association with metro-sexuality. He’s new here, but you’d never guess it.

I’m the other guy, the Jerry Lewis to his Dean Martin. I enter cautiously, checking my fly, my breath, the shirt stain I just discovered and hope no one notices. I make for the bar and order a Guinness, as if the selection will afford me a measure of credibility. My heart is racing now, fearing exposure. Yes, I’m the expat, the table for one, the shaky stool at the end of the bar that always seems to be in the waitress’ way. That’s the trouble with traveling alone, you’re terribly, awfully, endlessly alone.

I hear myself speak that last line and search frantically for the adverb police. Christ, you’re pathetic. Relax already. I take a sip and realize that my beer is half gone, nervous drinking I guess, anything to calm the beast.

I order some food and try to melt into the background. The kitchen is slow. It’s a drinking bar after all and the menu is mostly for show. I fidget constantly, careful not to let my gaze linger too long. I’m intense despite myself and more than once my apprehensive glance has been confused for a come on or an invitation to brawl – once both simultaneously. Biker girls are as tough as they look.

The T.V. is on, but I’m not a sports guy and the German Nascar coverage with Chinese subtitles does little to convert me. Thankfully my food appears and I polish it off with another drink. That makes three. I was supposed to quit, cut down at the very least. Am I getting too fat, too slow, too unlike the person I was when things were fine? It’s hard to tell as my nerves fade into a hazy, confident paranoia. Now I’m certain they’re staring. I smile occasionally hoping for forgiveness or a morsel of conversation that never seems to come.

The guy beside me randomly mutters something about the market and the fellows he’s blaming for its decline. Jokes whiz through my brain, both sides of the debate hacked playfully to pieces by sarcastic one-liners. Still I stay silent. Too risky. Not my crowd, my room, my night.

The barman’s eyebrows ask the obvious, but I’ve had my fill. The jitters are back and I’m longing for escape and the sanitary sanctuary of night air and newly pressed sheets. I pay the tab and head for the door, looking back briefly as I often do. Dean has a beer in one hand and a dart in the other. A local boy is brandishing a fist full of fives and a hopeful smile, but his girl has one too and it’s aimed at Mr. Martin.

Author’s note: I write fiction. I imagine even my restaurant reviews are littered with embellishments. So worry not – things are cool. The next story might feature an East Hungarian Shot-putter named Sven. That doesn’t mean I’ve sold my neck and developed a hankering for goulash.

Food Glorious Food

2009-08-02T04:53:00.000+08:00

Being a notoriously picky eater with a severe aversion to lactose, there was some concern that I’d waste away in Singapore. Indeed, it’s been said that I voluntarily consume six things, well seven, assuming you classify Guinness as a meal. Combine this with my aforementioned chopstick-challenged nature and you have an ideal recipe for starvation.

Well fear not my kind readers, for this is the food capital of Asia, sporting a kaleidoscope of global cuisine just a waiter away. Yes, if you’re a foodie, welcome to Shangri-La. There’s classic Singaporean fare to be sure plus a trifecta of local delights including Indian, Malaysian, and authentic Chinese. (Just don’t ask for #37 in a beefed-up Bronx accent as that kind of pisses them off.)

If you’re not ready to dive into the regional flavors, you can sample an alphabet of European delights from Belgian to Swiss. Just be sure and stick to one country at a time. The other day I had a tad too much pre-meal vino and ordered beef and broccoli cacciatore in a Spanish restaurant. They were none too pleased.

Of course, if you’re dead set on playing the cholesterol card, sashay your way to Mickey D’s or Burger King. There’s one on every corner. And don’t worry if you prefer the Royal Crown Cola of the fast food biz. Wendys and Arbys are coming to a corner near you in late 2009. Heck, I even spotted a Mo Jo’s burger joint if you can believe it. How do you spell cardiologist?

Yes, Singapore has something for every taste and budget. And to think I believed I’d return a thinner version of good-looking. Fat chance.

Branded

2009-07-26T08:39:00.000+08:00

Friends and family will smirk when they learn that I’m staying just meters away from one of the world’s most premier shopping destinations. Orchard Road, or so the tell me, is a virtual Mecca for the fashion focused, with an endless array of brand name apparel and accessories just aching to earn a place of honor in your wardrobe.

The thing is, I couldn’t care less. You see, I’m not a shopper. If I’m buying a shirt it’s likely because I just found a hole in the one I’m currently sporting and have run out of duct tape. Okay, so maybe it’s not that dramatic, but I never understood society’s collective fascination with the full-contact shopping, especially when it comes to acquiring name brands.

Recently a colleague was bragging about a designer computer bag she purchased…albeit for several thousand dollars. Apparently it was quite the bargain. Me, I bought a similar item from Gateway about ten years back that came stuffed with a computer for about a tenth the price. And while I shit-canned the laptop ages ago, the bag has dutifully traveled the world with me, proving sounder than the company its barely noticeable logo endorses.

I mentioned this to her, sarcastically noting the purchase price. She countered with, “yes, but mine is designer leather of premium quality.” First, who talks like that? And second, maybe I’m missing something, but I’ve been to farms and haven’t seen a single designer cow. Who knows, maybe they were at the mall.

Anyway, I realize I’m in the minority and it’s doubtful that I’ll convert the masses. So if you get to Singapore, by all means, stalk the streets in your Jimmy Choos, searching for the next big bargain. There’s no shortage of deals to be found.

I’ll be watching, just chilling at the corner café, sipping a plain black coffee and bouncing my Converse to the soothing sounds of the Piano Man. You see the thing is, your feet hit the street no matter what’s on them and not every boulevard is paved in Versace silk.

White Noise

2009-07-24T20:25:00.000+08:00

Words have always been important to me. Granted, I can’t spell most of them and grammar was never my favorite sport. Still, I have an unending affinity for stringing them together, albeit haphazardly, in hopes that they somehow stir the emotions of those who stubble upon them.

I’m uncertain as to the catalyst for this desire. I’m sure there’s an English teacher or two who deserve some of the credit…or the blame, and like other romantically inclined, yet challenged individuals, I attribute a portion to good love gone bad.

Despite the reason however, the curse continues, encouraging my sophomoric musings, much to my reader’s delight or disdain….depending on their level of intoxication. Yes, I’m the auditory answer to beer goggles. I sound better when you’re drunk. So grab a beer, assign a designated reader, and knock yourself out.

Anyway, we were speaking of words. Living in Singapore, I’m often surrounded by ones that mean to me what snowshoeing does to a tree frog. The sounds stalk me through the market, to gym, to the bar most of all, poking fun at my ineptitude, my local illiteracy. “A writer? Ha! Not in my country, bucko. Not by a long shot.”

The taunts began as a tirade of unidentifiable grunts, ruthlessly ricocheting off my brain. I wanted to respond. It’s my nature to join the conversation, to contribute, to solve whatever problem is being discussed. After all, I’m a fixer. That’s my profession. The only thing I’ve ever really been good at. I see the complex for the simple it is and ruthlessly redesign. I’m serious. Back in April there was an issue with closet and an over abundance of sport coats. No more. Ruthless I say, ruthless.

Wait, there I go, off topic again. See, that’s the trouble. When you can’t join conversations, you make them up. Have to keep that English fresh you know. Witty banter is like any other muscle. Don’t want to wilt away into a doughy mass of knock-knock jokes.

Still, the time off is welcome. It’s like I’ve been paroled from charm school. I can walk through the crowd, expected only to offer the occasional smile or nod. No conversation required. I’m social wallpaper whenever I wish…and sometimes when I don’t.

And so I’ve let myself off the hook. The sounds no longer stalk, they sooth. As white noise they comfort, protect and even nurture my creative process, giving me license to daydream. It’s been a while since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of a lost moment. And moments, for all of us it appears, are becoming fewer.

I’m heading out now, to the noisy quiet that’s become my reality. It won’t be a long walk, just a block or two, a quick word with the stranger I’m getting to know a bit better each day.

Shake Shake

2009-07-23T20:54:00.000+08:00

One of the things that truly impresses me about Singapore is its cultural diversity and tolerance. The other day I caught sight of two women chatting. One was dressed like an early seventies go-go dancer and the other like a sandal-sporting Darth Vadar. The funny thing is that neither seemed to mind.

While countries are waging war and chicken-shit terrorists blast the innocent, these two were providing a perfect proof-of-concept for Rodney King’s much haggard imploration. When left to the individual, yes, we can all get along just fine.

As I reflected on the recent attacks in this part of the world, the image of the two women encouraged me beyond measure. Perhaps there is hope for humanity. Of course, being the sarcastic bastard I am, an image of Harry Belafonte somehow sprung to mind. He or perhaps he wine I was drinking led me to rewrite his famous 1956 hit, Senora. Sorry Harry. Hope you enjoy the stupidity.

Shake, shake, shake Mohammad, shake your Party line.

Work, work, work Mohammad, it’s fighting all the time.

1^st Verse

My neighbor, he wears a turban. I tell you friends it’s disturbin’.

First he starts with the praying.

Next thing you know he’s thinkin’ of slaying.

Chorus

Allah makes the rhyme, rule the Christians in time.

Okay it’s a Jidhad.

Allah makes the rhyme, rule the Christians in time.

Okay it’s a Jidhad.

2^nd Verse

You can talk about my man Buddha, Jesus or even Yoda.

A fanatic’s god has no humor.

Do what he say, or he’ll give you a tumor.

Repeat Chorus

3^rd Verse

Terror takes no vacation, except to learn aviation.

And fellas you've got to watch it.

When crazies get pissed they’ll strap on a rocket.

Repeat Chorus

4^th Verse

We should be dancing calypso, cause hate my friends is a no-no.

Everyone’s caught in the high stress,

But I doubt God cares that much for an address.

We make the rhyme, learn from each other in time.

Okay it’s a party.

We make the rhyme, so love each other in time.

Okay it’s a party.

Towers Never Tumble

2009-07-15T21:41:00.000+08:00

More than a few have asked me how it was spending the 4th abroad. The assumption was that I’d feel a bit like a jack-o-lantern on Christmas Eve. Truth be told, I didn’t think about it much, never really have.

To me the 4^th was always about fireworks and foot-long franks. Sure, you pledge allegiance in one-way or another, but more as an afterthought. For the most part, I was always focused on drinking beer, catching up with friends, and publicly shouting “oh and ah” for socially acceptable reasons.

This year however, I spent the holiday at an American Club BBQ held at the local naval base, a surreal setting to be sure. It was like taking a time machine to the 40s only with fewer machine guns and more self-serve ice cream. A welcome change no doubt.

The setting caused me to recall my Grandfather and the many lessons he taught. I pictured his face. Then I didn’t. Crying in public is something I’m still not comfortable with and I do miss the man terribly.

As you know, about a week later I found myself on line to see the Petronas Towers. They call them the twin towers, but you and I know there’s only one of those – gone but not forgotten.

I pictured the shocking scene that is now forever etched in our collective consciousness. Images flashed before me – images of terror and courage, misery and heroics. And so there I was, once again red-eyed in a see of smiling faces.

It’s embarrassing to admit how much that moment affected me. It wasn’t ground zero. It wasn’t even New York. But they called them the "Twin Towers" damn it and right or wrong, silly or not, that really pissed me off. Not for the name, but for the memory it evoked.

I thought that was behind me, but then I realized it never will be, it never should be. And I guess when you break it down, the 4^th isn’t a yesterday thing either. It’s very much a now thing and one we have to earn and reaffirm each day.

Buildings may fall, but people - our people stand….towering above what just yesterday we thought impossible. Those towers never tumble – never have, never will.

Keep Dreamin’

Checking the Noose

2009-07-14T22:05:00.000+08:00

No sooner did I launch this unfortunately titled literary catastrophe then did one of its faithful readers playfully note that it is actually an anagram for “Help(s) Tim, Check Noose”.

As I considered my witty retort, I couldn’t help wonder about the comment’s underlying intentions. Should one be moved to rush in and prevent my demise or rather ensure that it is carried out with proper precision in accordance with my apparent desires? Knowing the source, it’s safe to say she’d promote the rescue option. Good thing, as the gallows is one sight I’m not ready to see.

No, no cry for help here folks. Sure, we’ve all had our moments – our days, weeks, perhaps even a year or two when life seemed dipped in a vat of skunk-scented monkey manure, but clothes clean, smells fade and people, even your worst critics are suckers for the come-back story you’ve yet to write. And write it you will.

PSA - Aviator Sunglasses

2009-07-11T17:02:00.001+08:00

The following is a public service announcement for the international Asian community. Aviator sunglasses are no longer cool. This is especially true if worn after dusk, while dancing the Roxbury shimmy to that “Wild and Crazy Guy” skit you have playing in your head.

Sunglasses at night were marginally acceptable for a total of 13.347 minutes back in November, 1983 when Corey Hart, that monumental, name-dropping, Canadian jackass released his aggravatingly catchy hit single of the same title.

But it’s time to stop the madness. I can tolerate the Fast and Furious hairdos, the miniature all-in-one electronics that make my blackberry look like a rotary smoke signal, and even the incessant assurances that “cheap cheap” and “best for you” pertain equally to my next apparel purchase. But please, the glasses have to go.

Sure Tom Cruise rode the trend all the way to 1986, but it was a movie for God sakes and he had a jet. So please, resist the temptation to merge onto the danger-zone highway. If left unchecked you may end up joining a cult and bouncing on couches…definitely not cool with sunglasses.

Meow Meow

2009-07-08T07:06:00.000+08:00

Things are different here. Some little things, like driving on the other side of the street, other side of the car. Some big things, like a zero tolerance, automatic execution policy for drug offenses and of course the occasional public canning for chewing gum. And other things are just friggin’ weird.

I was listening to the local top 40-like station the other day and “the Meow” song came on. What is the Meow song you ask? Well quite simply, it’s a bunch of cats meowing, surprisingly on-key to an early 80s techno beat. As they worked into the bridge (yes, I listened that long) a chorus of humans joined in, harmonized, and then worked a couple of riffs before the big feline finale.

Not sure what to say about that. I never thought a song could leave me speechless, confused and yearning for an acoustic upgrade – perhaps a bit of death metal bagpipes with accordion accompaniment. Anyway, I thought about calling a shrink or diving head first into a bottle of red. Instead, I slipped in my ear buds and let the Piano Man usher me into a State of Grace. You may not get a prescription with that option, but the vino selection triples and is based on whatever kind of mood I’m in tonight.

I’m not quite sure what that is just yet, but I’m certain that if the grapes don’t sooth the soul, the music will. Thanks Bill.

Uncle Cabbie

2009-06-30T20:54:00.000+08:00

So here’s a weird little factoid for your amusement. As a sign of respect, people in the know call Singapore cab drivers, “Uncle”. It doesn’t matter if they are older or younger, local or foreign. Apparently your aunt’s husband is the man with the plan for navigating the city’s heavily trafficked roadways.

I’ve tried using the endearment a couple of times in hopes of prompting a fare-reducing route. The thing is, the saying comes about as natural to me as a snap-on Afro and a white on white fist pound on the B-ball court. You might nail the lay-up, but it still looks cheesy when you’re metaphorically rocking black socks in the gym class of life.

Anyway, it was all for naught. Singapore is so riddled with regulations that the cabbies couldn’t help you if they wanted to….which they don’t. None do.

Cabstands and single file cues reign over the midtown arm hail. So much for body-checking those yogurt-slurping yuppies out of the way to make that 9 o’clock downtown. And you can’t jump out midstream if traffic piles up. You’re in for the ride baby, so bring your Visa ‘cause Uncle don’t take bullshit and fare jumpers are sent to the gallows or so they tell it.

You can book a cab from your office or hotel, but they add on an extra $3.50 for the pleasure. There’s also 10% more for charging it, a 35% tack on for peak hours (every waking moment or so it seems), and I believe a variable, wise-ass gringo charge, though I’m not certain about that last one.

Of course you could take the bus for like 6 cents, but it’s the bus for God sakes and at 147 degrees in the shade it’s better to just avert your glance from the meter and think of Christmas.

Still there are ways around the some of this nonsense. Saying uncle is a good start, but being a regular doesn’t hurt either. You’ll save some booking fees and may get the occasional jump out if you’re both up for risking a ticket. Leave it to me to find a way to earn a car-less citation. Always the overachiever.

In fairness, it’s not all one-sided woe. My Uncle this morning bitched endlessly about his first fare…his twin daughters. Not only did they expect a free ride and noon pick up, but they bummed mall money to boot… for boots actually if you can believe it. I sympathized and somehow the booking fee disappeared. Petty? Perhaps. But a bucks a buck baby, even when it’s a Singapore dollar.

Streetlife Serenade

2009-06-27T10:50:00.001+08:00

Picture these guys singing your favorite pop song only replace all the L’s with R’s and throw in a couple of tambourines. I shit you not, the duo loved them some percussion.

I wonder sometimes what it would be like to chuck it all, ditch the 9 to 5 (or 7 to 6 as the case might be) and become one of these wandering melody makers. I have the songs to be sure and with some dedication I’m certain I could stumble through enough keys to make them appear rhythmically correct. So what then is hold up?

When you think about it, I’d have the same city, the same view. There’d be different concerns no doubt, but probably no more or less than those currently sponsoring my insomnia.

In an honest moment I think it’s a matter of guts and a potentially warped opinion of what one should be doing, chasing, wanting, being. That or an unending affinity for pressed pants and leather bucket seats.

Yeah, sometimes the idea of something is far better than the something itself. The closer you get to its realities, the more doubts you have and when you finally muster the courage to hop the fence make a break for the so-called greener grass, you realize your neighbor is barbequing on Astroturf. Perhaps there is no best way… only options.

Maybe someone should warn generation Z that there’s a choice on the horizon, that no matter how hard or long we pretend, in the end you can only travel one road. They’ll be dancing for sure, but certainly not on Thursday afternoons, and in the end we all have to sing for our supper. Then again, perhaps we should leave them be. No point in ushering Santa out the door. His days are numbered and that’s sad enough as it is.

So go on melody makers, croon your tunes slightly off key. I’ll drop a buck in the bucket. The rain is a coming and deep down I don’t have the gumption for the Nikey shuffle. I’m a cabman. Still, I appreciate the song and the glimpse of the road not taken. Maybe next time bravery will take root.

Keep Dreamin'

Grande, Venti, Stupid and Gay

2009-06-23T17:43:00.000+08:00

Well hello there folks. As many of you know, I just arrived in Singapore for a 6 month gig. And so far I've found a grocery, a CVS like substance and a wine shop. (aka the staples of life).

As an FYI I'm going to blame all future spelling mistakes on jet lag and pinot noir. Also, I expect forgiveness for the overwhelming cheesiness of this blog's look and feel. I know as much about technology as an aardvark knows about East Hungarian cabinet making so chill my amigos, chill indeed. More disclaimers to follow no doubt.

Okay so the name of this blog is The Lonesome Chopstick. No, I'm not all depressed or anything. Actually, it's quite literal. I can't use the damn things and thus resort to using just one and stabbing anything that gets in my way. (keep your hands and feet away from his mouth at all times.)

Anyway, the point of this first entry was to introduce the title, purpose and all that nonsense they teach you in grammar school. I almost said "theme" but promptly shut up.

I was struck with an interesting thought (still looking for the guy who threw it). Actually it was more of a comforting rant than a complete thought, one that I hope explains the title of this entry.

I'll have you know that there are like a million Starbucks in Singapore. Okay, I can forgive the overall commercialism. After all, I idolized Alex P Keaton as a boy. Long live the power tie. Still, it's the general douchebaggery that brings me down. I traveled around the world only to find the same tree-hugging, novel-writing, mocha-frappa-lapa-chino slurping dickweeds (now there's a term you haven't heard in a while) that I could see at the corner of "who gives a shit" and "whatever". It's sort of depressing.

On the other hand, it is sort of encouraging. Maybe we are all not so different. Maybe hazelnut and java beans are the connecting and stabilizing forces of the universe. Couldn't say. What I can say is that I'm out of chips and vino.

Talk soon. Pics of the city to follow.

Keep dreamin'

RC/TT (most of you know the drill)