Halloween beckons
But the darkness reign supreme
I love Alexis
An Evening of Wine, Cheese and Beauty
12 years ago
10.24.2009
10.23.2009
10.22.2009
10.21.2009
10.20.2009
10.19.2009
10.18.2009
10.17.2009
10.16.2009
10.15.2009
10.14.2009
10.13.2009
10.12.2009
10.11.2009
10.10.2009
10.09.2009
Of Zombies and All Hallowed Evenings...
So, Hallowe'een is by far my favorite holiday occurring during my favorite season. There's something about the earlier darkness setting in. The smell of the first wood fires smoldering in family hearths as the cold, still, foggy air wisps and curls around you trying to pierce your clothes. The smell of decaying leaves, shimmering in the sunlight as a bottle rocket whistles across the park, "Pop!" The smell of sulphur and cordite.
Autumn, or Fall, has always appealed to me. The macabre sense of nature as plants die and animals prepare to hibernate. Hallowe'en, it is said, is the one night of the year when the boundaries between the spirit world and the corporeal world are their thinnest. Of course this is complete bullshit, as there are no such things as ghosts, or ghouls, but it sure is fun to dress in our darkest (or sluttiest) and get wasted, and set off pound after pound of explosive fireworks.
In the spirit of the season, I have started a series of Zombie Portraits. My love (hate) of the Zombie is boundless and I search out Zombie film and literature almost religiously.
You can see an example at the top of the post, That's the lovely Violet Dear whose blog Madness and Beauty is just amazing. If you'd like to see more Zombies or other cool art click here to go to my website where you'll find a selection of the Undead just waiting for you.
* * *
I also do custom portraits, band pictures and posters, so if you need work done message me! I'm fast, professional, and inexpensive...
Cheers,
Willie
10.08.2009
10.07.2009
10.06.2009
10.05.2009
10.04.2009
10.03.2009
10.02.2009
10.01.2009
Chapter 7
Meanwhile...
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Chapter 6
Lunch Break. A liturgy taught by the ringing bells of our youth. Cutting into pills with steak knives, slicing off slivers of speed and barbiturates that numb and drive the populace. All
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
Chapter 5
Here's how it was. The Man owes Another Man 10,000 dollars. The Other Man has given him until today to come up with the 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Chapter 4
As the stores on Boulevard C begin to open, the Masses began to teem rat like across its sidewalks and into its boutiques and apothecaries, dispensaries and emporiums. The masses, obese and ignorant needed satiation.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
9.30.2009
9.29.2009
9.28.2009
9.27.2009
9.26.2009
9.24.2009
9.23.2009
9.22.2009
Oh, the times they are a changin'...
Apple II VS The iPhone.
I'm not a tech geek but the idea of progress intrigues me. I read what i can find and trust that mathematical proofs hold out and that whoever developed them double checked their formulas, carried the one and had a much better understanding of imaginary numbers. Or at least where they are useful, as i fail to see where anything imaginary can be useful in regards to reality outside of consciousness. And not to get to far off track, if something that is as paradoxical as the square of -1 can lead to mathematical proofs that apply to the real world then perhaps i need to start smoking weed again and contemplate the nature of reality, matter, and the role that consciousness plays in our perception of the universe.
Fuck that. Back to progress.
Let's go back. Way back.... It's 1977 and i'm merely a proverbial twinkle. Steve Something-or-Other has hand built the Apple I computer a few years back and its successor the Apple II is now available for purchase by the general public. The Apple II was the first mass produced microcomputer and its success led the way into the information age and as we shall see helped transform the entire world in regards to information sharing and development.
So, for a mere $2638 (A whopping $9370.88 in today"s dollars) the buyer would receive a heavy (7 to 8 lbs) greige coloured (yup. pale grey mixed with ivory equals greige, possibly the most bland colour in the visible spectrum) unit the size of a typewriter
with a a monitor the size of a 12inch TV on top of it and an audio cassette deck on the side about the size of a large walkman. This was replaced in 1978 by the floppy disk drive.
* * *
Fast forward to 2009...In only a little longer than i have been alive humanity has seen some of the most influential changes in every facet of socio-cultural, political and economic development and communication in history. Most of these changes are rooted in the invention of the microprocessor and the massive access to information that developed alongside of it.
Enter the iPhone,
weighing in at 4.8 ounces of sleek plastic and alloy. This much coveted electronic device is also demonstration of the progress of design in regards to its utilitarian ancestor, as well as the change in public perception regarding consumption. The focus on the Apple II was its capability not it's aesthetic value. "Hobbyists, so the arguments went, didn't care as much for appearance as they did for substance... Jobs wanted to model the case for the Apple after those Hewlett-Packard used for its calculators. He admired their sleek, fresh lines, their hardy finish, and the way they looked at home on a table or desk." The shift in the value placed on well designed and aesthetically pleasant consumer goods by the public demonstrable as thus. I would argue Jobs intention was to market a product that seamlessly integrated into a family dwelling thereby establishing a normality for an otherwise alien device while the iPhone is designed to allow its user efficient and easy use of the device while simultaneously demarcating and identifying her as part of a demographic that carries a number of complex presumptions driven by marketing and the specific socio-economic sphere in which she lives and works. This I feel is simply a result of the normalization of technological change upon the generations that followed the introduction of the Apple II.
And now... The spec battle between the Apple II, the first mass produced microcomputer and the Apple iPhone, a multifunctional wireless communication device (smartphone)
Apple II
Size: Apple II: 15.4 x 17.9 x 4.6 inches w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.5 x 2.4 x 0.46 inches.
Weight: Apple II: 7 lbs w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.8 ounces
Processor speed: Apple II: 1.0 MHz. iPhone: 620 MHz
RAM: Apple II: 65K max. iPhone: 256 Mb with up to 64 GB storage on a flash drive
OS: Apple II: BASIC in ROM. iPhone: OS X
Display: Apple II: 6 colours. iPhone: 3.5-inch (diagonal) Widescreen Multi-Touch display. 10 trillion colours or something like that
Resolution: Apple II: 280 X 192, 40 X 24 text. iPhone: 480-by-320-pixel resolution at 163 ppi
Keyboard: Apple II: Not included. iPhone: Support for display of multiple languages and characters simultaneously through a touch screen interface.
Extra features: Apple II: composite video output port, one vertical expansion slot. iPhone: 3Mp Digital Camera, recording, VGA up to 30 fps with audio, Photo and video geotagging, Accelerometer, Proximity sensor, Ambient light sensor, Assisted GPS and digital compass, video playback supporting most formats.
Accessories:Apple II: Game Paddles. iPhone: Apple Earphones with Remote and Mic, Dock Connector to USB Cable USB Power Adapter (many other accessories available)
Number Produced: Apple II: 200 iPhone: 4.4 million sold as of 2009
* * *
The success of the iPhone is directly linked to the successful development of the Apple II and while the power of the iPhone outstrips desktop computers well into the 1990's it makes this writer wonder what the next 30 years will have in store for us. If we can get around Moore's law and keep up the Law of Accelerating returns then we are likely to see unsurpassed progress and tech development.
An analysis of the history of technology shows that technological change is exponential, contrary to the common-sense "intuitive linear" view. So we won't experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century -- it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today's rate). The "returns," such as chip speed and cost-effectiveness, also increase exponentially. There's even exponential growth in the rate of exponential growth. Within a few decades, machine intelligence will surpass human intelligence, leading to The Singularity -- technological change so rapid and profound it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history. The implications include the merger of biological and nonbiological intelligence, immortal software-based humans, and ultra-high levels of intelligence that expand outward in the universe at the speed of light.
Cool.
That is if we can keep from driving ourselves to extinction.
* * *
Joe Torzewski. was an early purchaser of an Apple I in 1977 and proving the maxim regarding the more things change.... soon after purchasing his computer he quickly received notice from Apple that the new Apple II was about to be released and as a result they were dropping support for his outdated model.
Fuckers.
Sources: http://apple2history.org/history/ah02.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_II_series#Data_storage
http://oldcomputers.net/appleii.html
http://www.engadget.com/2007/07/01/iphone-processor-found-620mhz-arm/
http://www.kurzweilai.net/articles/art0134.html?printable=1
I'm not a tech geek but the idea of progress intrigues me. I read what i can find and trust that mathematical proofs hold out and that whoever developed them double checked their formulas, carried the one and had a much better understanding of imaginary numbers. Or at least where they are useful, as i fail to see where anything imaginary can be useful in regards to reality outside of consciousness. And not to get to far off track, if something that is as paradoxical as the square of -1 can lead to mathematical proofs that apply to the real world then perhaps i need to start smoking weed again and contemplate the nature of reality, matter, and the role that consciousness plays in our perception of the universe.
Fuck that. Back to progress.
Let's go back. Way back.... It's 1977 and i'm merely a proverbial twinkle. Steve Something-or-Other has hand built the Apple I computer a few years back and its successor the Apple II is now available for purchase by the general public. The Apple II was the first mass produced microcomputer and its success led the way into the information age and as we shall see helped transform the entire world in regards to information sharing and development.
So, for a mere $2638 (A whopping $9370.88 in today"s dollars) the buyer would receive a heavy (7 to 8 lbs) greige coloured (yup. pale grey mixed with ivory equals greige, possibly the most bland colour in the visible spectrum) unit the size of a typewriter
with a a monitor the size of a 12inch TV on top of it and an audio cassette deck on the side about the size of a large walkman. This was replaced in 1978 by the floppy disk drive.* * *
Fast forward to 2009...In only a little longer than i have been alive humanity has seen some of the most influential changes in every facet of socio-cultural, political and economic development and communication in history. Most of these changes are rooted in the invention of the microprocessor and the massive access to information that developed alongside of it.
Enter the iPhone,
weighing in at 4.8 ounces of sleek plastic and alloy. This much coveted electronic device is also demonstration of the progress of design in regards to its utilitarian ancestor, as well as the change in public perception regarding consumption. The focus on the Apple II was its capability not it's aesthetic value. "Hobbyists, so the arguments went, didn't care as much for appearance as they did for substance... Jobs wanted to model the case for the Apple after those Hewlett-Packard used for its calculators. He admired their sleek, fresh lines, their hardy finish, and the way they looked at home on a table or desk." The shift in the value placed on well designed and aesthetically pleasant consumer goods by the public demonstrable as thus. I would argue Jobs intention was to market a product that seamlessly integrated into a family dwelling thereby establishing a normality for an otherwise alien device while the iPhone is designed to allow its user efficient and easy use of the device while simultaneously demarcating and identifying her as part of a demographic that carries a number of complex presumptions driven by marketing and the specific socio-economic sphere in which she lives and works. This I feel is simply a result of the normalization of technological change upon the generations that followed the introduction of the Apple II. And now... The spec battle between the Apple II, the first mass produced microcomputer and the Apple iPhone, a multifunctional wireless communication device (smartphone)
Apple II
Size: Apple II: 15.4 x 17.9 x 4.6 inches w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.5 x 2.4 x 0.46 inches.
Weight: Apple II: 7 lbs w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.8 ounces
Processor speed: Apple II: 1.0 MHz. iPhone: 620 MHz
RAM: Apple II: 65K max. iPhone: 256 Mb with up to 64 GB storage on a flash drive
OS: Apple II: BASIC in ROM. iPhone: OS X
Display: Apple II: 6 colours. iPhone: 3.5-inch (diagonal) Widescreen Multi-Touch display. 10 trillion colours or something like that
Resolution: Apple II: 280 X 192, 40 X 24 text. iPhone: 480-by-320-pixel resolution at 163 ppi
Keyboard: Apple II: Not included. iPhone: Support for display of multiple languages and characters simultaneously through a touch screen interface.
Extra features: Apple II: composite video output port, one vertical expansion slot. iPhone: 3Mp Digital Camera, recording, VGA up to 30 fps with audio, Photo and video geotagging, Accelerometer, Proximity sensor, Ambient light sensor, Assisted GPS and digital compass, video playback supporting most formats.
Accessories:Apple II: Game Paddles. iPhone: Apple Earphones with Remote and Mic, Dock Connector to USB Cable USB Power Adapter (many other accessories available)
Number Produced: Apple II: 200 iPhone: 4.4 million sold as of 2009
* * *
The success of the iPhone is directly linked to the successful development of the Apple II and while the power of the iPhone outstrips desktop computers well into the 1990's it makes this writer wonder what the next 30 years will have in store for us. If we can get around Moore's law and keep up the Law of Accelerating returns then we are likely to see unsurpassed progress and tech development.
An analysis of the history of technology shows that technological change is exponential, contrary to the common-sense "intuitive linear" view. So we won't experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century -- it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today's rate). The "returns," such as chip speed and cost-effectiveness, also increase exponentially. There's even exponential growth in the rate of exponential growth. Within a few decades, machine intelligence will surpass human intelligence, leading to The Singularity -- technological change so rapid and profound it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history. The implications include the merger of biological and nonbiological intelligence, immortal software-based humans, and ultra-high levels of intelligence that expand outward in the universe at the speed of light.
Cool.
That is if we can keep from driving ourselves to extinction.
* * *
Joe Torzewski. was an early purchaser of an Apple I in 1977 and proving the maxim regarding the more things change.... soon after purchasing his computer he quickly received notice from Apple that the new Apple II was about to be released and as a result they were dropping support for his outdated model.
Fuckers.
Sources: http://apple2history.org/history/ah02.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_II_series#Data_storage
http://oldcomputers.net/appleii.html
http://www.engadget.com/2007/07/01/iphone-processor-found-620mhz-arm/
http://www.kurzweilai.net/articles/art0134.html?printable=1
New Reasons to Hate Golf
There has been a long running tie for this writer between tennis and golf as to which was the more banal, boring and generally detested spectator sport; with bowling running a close race. Now before you get all huffy let me explain. I've played a few... um... rounds? of tennis. Matches? That sounds right.. And it's just not for me. For those of you that play tennis, have at 'er. For those who watch I can't imagine a more boring event to endure.
Both golf and tennis also suffer from an elitest nature with a great deal of money being spent on greens fees, club memberships, stupid looking outfits, all this besides the price of a set of clubs or a good racket.
Bowling is enjoyable when drunk, but again, watching a bowling match is about exciting as watching the grass on a fairway grow. Speaking of grass I have never played golf on a course that didn't feature a windmill or giant plastic gorilla, and probably never will. At least any poor schlub can go bowling for 10 bucks plus the cost of beer.
Golf can now claim the top spot in my most hated leisure activity for not only is it a waste of time and money to play, but Golf courses are major contributers to the depletion of scarce water resources and the pollution of fresh water sources due to fertilizer and pesticide run off.
The average American golf course drinks up some 50 million gallons of water a year — comparable to the yearly usage of 1,400 people. In the West, the figures are higher.
Excessive water use in Southern California, much of which is attributed to golf courses has actually caused a physical drop in the landscape and groundwater resevoirs are depleted.
Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s main source of water, has also dropped to record low levels, exposing muddy bottom not seen in half a century.
Mark Esoda, superintendent of the Atlanta Country Club in suburban Marietta, where initiation fees are $85,000, acknowledges that practices among the nation’s courses range from indifferent to conscientious. Of course. If your rich you can pay to not give a fuck.
Maybe i'm just jealous i can't fork over 85 grand to go for an extended walk. Either way. Golf's massive impact on water resources kicks it into the number one spot for my most hated sports...
Fuck you Golf.
* * *
For more info on the problematics of Golf Corse Water conservation:
Click Here
sources: http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1A1-D8TKO3780.html
http://ucrturf.ucr.edu/topics/trends_in_golf_course_water_use.pdf
Both golf and tennis also suffer from an elitest nature with a great deal of money being spent on greens fees, club memberships, stupid looking outfits, all this besides the price of a set of clubs or a good racket.
Bowling is enjoyable when drunk, but again, watching a bowling match is about exciting as watching the grass on a fairway grow. Speaking of grass I have never played golf on a course that didn't feature a windmill or giant plastic gorilla, and probably never will. At least any poor schlub can go bowling for 10 bucks plus the cost of beer.
Golf can now claim the top spot in my most hated leisure activity for not only is it a waste of time and money to play, but Golf courses are major contributers to the depletion of scarce water resources and the pollution of fresh water sources due to fertilizer and pesticide run off.
The average American golf course drinks up some 50 million gallons of water a year — comparable to the yearly usage of 1,400 people. In the West, the figures are higher.
Excessive water use in Southern California, much of which is attributed to golf courses has actually caused a physical drop in the landscape and groundwater resevoirs are depleted.
Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s main source of water, has also dropped to record low levels, exposing muddy bottom not seen in half a century.
Mark Esoda, superintendent of the Atlanta Country Club in suburban Marietta, where initiation fees are $85,000, acknowledges that practices among the nation’s courses range from indifferent to conscientious. Of course. If your rich you can pay to not give a fuck.
Maybe i'm just jealous i can't fork over 85 grand to go for an extended walk. Either way. Golf's massive impact on water resources kicks it into the number one spot for my most hated sports...
Fuck you Golf.
* * *
For more info on the problematics of Golf Corse Water conservation:
Click Here
sources: http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1A1-D8TKO3780.html
http://ucrturf.ucr.edu/topics/trends_in_golf_course_water_use.pdf
9.21.2009
9.20.2009
9.19.2009
9.18.2009
Sorority Row Review
Sorority Row – 09.18.09 – One Eyed Willie
Princess Leia with a motherfucking SHOTGUN!! That's what they should have put as the tagline on the posters for this fiery mediocre co-ed slaughter fest. I love that ornery old bitch and she stole the show in the few small scenes she has in this revenge-vengeance-slasher-titty-crime flick. Or the revenslashtitcrime flick as I like to call the genre.
So, if I have this straight, a prank gone horribly wrong (or perhaps right depending on your view of sorority girls) leads to the death and cover up of a buxom co-ed with her entire life of affluence, binge drinking and generally being a bitchy cunt, being destroyed in the process. Cue end credits. I clap. And leave. OK OK I'm being too vicious here. The film is fun and definitely plays with some of the horror cliches we are all so used to. But really ever since Scream bought it out of the closet audiences everywhere are all ken to the game. No less than 4 suspects all with potential motive to rampage around killing drunken frat boys and girls with get this... A fucking tire iron modified with different blades and piercing tips. I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING...
There's really no one worth mentioning in this sad sad film. There's a female character nick-named “Chugs,” (how endearing..) Chugs was played by Margo Harshman star of such winners as “Jenny's got a boob job,” and a bunch of shite TV roles. Carrie Fisher was in some low budget sci-fi film back in the 70's that is no longer relevant. Oh! I almost forgot... Rumer Willis was in this, Bruce and Demi's fucked up uber-masculine offspring has like 10 lines and plays the quiet shy geeky girl. At least she kept her top on.
Alright, while laughable in itself at least they aren't suspicious of the person running around in robes on grad day as the hot tub overflows with bubbles and the girls all decide they need to shower before the party. So, the girls keep quiet regarding their mishap under the rules of the sisterhood. Rules which seem to be, fuck everything, if its fermented or distilled guzzle it and generally be total twats to everyone in their lives including each other. Does anyone cheer for these bitches to live?
I think that's the point we are at in horror cinema. No one cheers for the kids to live anymore, we don't yell, “No! Don't go downstairs/into the woods/down that well/into that abandoned house/take a shower... We tell them too because we just wanna see some fucked up asshole get his due in the most creative bloody gratuitous way possible (see: Final Destinaton 1-4 and all the Saw movies). Yup. I'm game! So on that level Sorority Row wins out. The story is filled with more holes than the co-ed can fill with cock, and the ending is kinda predictable but also kinda fucking odd and confusing. But hey. Bitches take their tops off, blood spurts, Princess Leia has a huge motherfucking shotgun that never runs out of ammo and all is right in the horror world.
Story: 4/10
Acting: A surprising 6/10
Violence/Gore: 5/10
For a whopping total: 5/10
Princess Leia with a motherfucking SHOTGUN!! That's what they should have put as the tagline on the posters for this fiery mediocre co-ed slaughter fest. I love that ornery old bitch and she stole the show in the few small scenes she has in this revenge-vengeance-slasher-titty-crime flick. Or the revenslashtitcrime flick as I like to call the genre.
So, if I have this straight, a prank gone horribly wrong (or perhaps right depending on your view of sorority girls) leads to the death and cover up of a buxom co-ed with her entire life of affluence, binge drinking and generally being a bitchy cunt, being destroyed in the process. Cue end credits. I clap. And leave. OK OK I'm being too vicious here. The film is fun and definitely plays with some of the horror cliches we are all so used to. But really ever since Scream bought it out of the closet audiences everywhere are all ken to the game. No less than 4 suspects all with potential motive to rampage around killing drunken frat boys and girls with get this... A fucking tire iron modified with different blades and piercing tips. I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING...
There's really no one worth mentioning in this sad sad film. There's a female character nick-named “Chugs,” (how endearing..) Chugs was played by Margo Harshman star of such winners as “Jenny's got a boob job,” and a bunch of shite TV roles. Carrie Fisher was in some low budget sci-fi film back in the 70's that is no longer relevant. Oh! I almost forgot... Rumer Willis was in this, Bruce and Demi's fucked up uber-masculine offspring has like 10 lines and plays the quiet shy geeky girl. At least she kept her top on.
Alright, while laughable in itself at least they aren't suspicious of the person running around in robes on grad day as the hot tub overflows with bubbles and the girls all decide they need to shower before the party. So, the girls keep quiet regarding their mishap under the rules of the sisterhood. Rules which seem to be, fuck everything, if its fermented or distilled guzzle it and generally be total twats to everyone in their lives including each other. Does anyone cheer for these bitches to live?
I think that's the point we are at in horror cinema. No one cheers for the kids to live anymore, we don't yell, “No! Don't go downstairs/into the woods/down that well/into that abandoned house/take a shower... We tell them too because we just wanna see some fucked up asshole get his due in the most creative bloody gratuitous way possible (see: Final Destinaton 1-4 and all the Saw movies). Yup. I'm game! So on that level Sorority Row wins out. The story is filled with more holes than the co-ed can fill with cock, and the ending is kinda predictable but also kinda fucking odd and confusing. But hey. Bitches take their tops off, blood spurts, Princess Leia has a huge motherfucking shotgun that never runs out of ammo and all is right in the horror world.
Story: 4/10
Acting: A surprising 6/10
Violence/Gore: 5/10
For a whopping total: 5/10
9.17.2009
9.16.2009
9.15.2009
9.14.2009
9.13.2009
9.12.2009
9.11.2009
9.10.2009
9.09.2009
9.08.2009
9.07.2009
9.06.2009
9.05.2009
9.04.2009
9.03.2009
9.02.2009
9.01.2009
8.31.2009
8.30.2009
8.29.2009
8.28.2009
8.27.2009
8.26.2009
Chapter 3
As The Man sipped his coffee in his Grey Tenement Apartment he heard the door open behind him. The Whore walked in and dropped herself down onto the extended hide-a-bed. With one corner of the bed supported by an empty plastic milk crate it threatened to collapse under her tiny frame as the long-shot springs squealed in protest.
“Take it easy,” The Man grumbled, placing his now empty mug on the counter that jut unceremoniously from the wall beside him. Their dwelling is a shared room, 12 feet by 10 furnished by only the hide-a-bed, and 2 more inverted milk crates. One supports a nearly antique television scavenged from behind their building, the other serving as a makeshift coffee table, littered with liquor bottles, drug residue and discarded food packaging. A sink with only a cold water tap is filled with cracked dishware and a multitude of stains, rust blood vomit oil nicotine wash down its inside like a rainbow of failure and entropy. The Man and The Whore are not lovers and to call them friends would be a gross misuse of the term. They are closer to symbiotes, in mutual reliance upon each other for survival. They fuck on occasion but neither gets much out of it.
The Whore turned on the television, ignoring The Man.
Lee Marvin's zombified corpse played poker with Charles Bronson's while Clint Eastwood groaned and creaked like an old staircase. Eastwood looked worse off than either of the other players but neither of them mentioned that he wasn't dead yet. Clint refused to ante up.
The Men drank raw crude oil from chipped highball glasses and smoked cigars packed with black powder with abandon. Marvin spat a gristly gob of blackened tar into a spittoon and a drizzle of high octane gasoline trickled down his chin from wind chapped and whiskey stained lips from whence it had been processed. Eastwood drew his Colt and shot the Zombie Lee Marvin whose gasoline filled filled mouth exploded, bone shrapnel piercing the eyes of Bronsan who continued to bet silently. As the fire spread Chuck grabbed onto Clint's face with his partially destroyed mouth and tore his cheek off. Eastwood still refuse to ante up.
3 nude white women ground their bodies against a Black Man sitting in a park wearing an Armani suit. He was spitting rhymes about the genocides in East Europe while all around him men and women in military garb appeared to blow themselves up. The blood and viscera rained down on The Black Man, bespeckling the ivory skin of The White Women and filling the bejeweld Pimp Cup that sat erect upon the picnic blanket that served as the centrepoint of this Dejeuner.
Sham-what?
“I'm off to work, I'll be back around 6,” grumbled the Man swinging the rickety door closed behind him. He walked down the hall stepping over drunks and inhaling noxious smells of urine, paint thinner and the residue of burnt crack cocaine.
“Dill pickle chips and burnt plastic,” he thought to himself, His stomach grumbled, empty but for 6 cups of coffee.
He greeted the manager on his way out but was unheard behind 3 inches of lexan that separated the managers office from the main lobby.
Exiting onto the street The Man was greeted by the sun poking up above the tenemant housing across the street and he averted his eyes from its accusing stare. He spat a widget of phlegm onto the cracked pavement disturbing an oily puddle of filth, turned to his right and headed to work.
It was 9am.
“Take it easy,” The Man grumbled, placing his now empty mug on the counter that jut unceremoniously from the wall beside him. Their dwelling is a shared room, 12 feet by 10 furnished by only the hide-a-bed, and 2 more inverted milk crates. One supports a nearly antique television scavenged from behind their building, the other serving as a makeshift coffee table, littered with liquor bottles, drug residue and discarded food packaging. A sink with only a cold water tap is filled with cracked dishware and a multitude of stains, rust blood vomit oil nicotine wash down its inside like a rainbow of failure and entropy. The Man and The Whore are not lovers and to call them friends would be a gross misuse of the term. They are closer to symbiotes, in mutual reliance upon each other for survival. They fuck on occasion but neither gets much out of it.
The Whore turned on the television, ignoring The Man.
Lee Marvin's zombified corpse played poker with Charles Bronson's while Clint Eastwood groaned and creaked like an old staircase. Eastwood looked worse off than either of the other players but neither of them mentioned that he wasn't dead yet. Clint refused to ante up.
The Men drank raw crude oil from chipped highball glasses and smoked cigars packed with black powder with abandon. Marvin spat a gristly gob of blackened tar into a spittoon and a drizzle of high octane gasoline trickled down his chin from wind chapped and whiskey stained lips from whence it had been processed. Eastwood drew his Colt and shot the Zombie Lee Marvin whose gasoline filled filled mouth exploded, bone shrapnel piercing the eyes of Bronsan who continued to bet silently. As the fire spread Chuck grabbed onto Clint's face with his partially destroyed mouth and tore his cheek off. Eastwood still refuse to ante up.
3 nude white women ground their bodies against a Black Man sitting in a park wearing an Armani suit. He was spitting rhymes about the genocides in East Europe while all around him men and women in military garb appeared to blow themselves up. The blood and viscera rained down on The Black Man, bespeckling the ivory skin of The White Women and filling the bejeweld Pimp Cup that sat erect upon the picnic blanket that served as the centrepoint of this Dejeuner.
Sham-what?
“I'm off to work, I'll be back around 6,” grumbled the Man swinging the rickety door closed behind him. He walked down the hall stepping over drunks and inhaling noxious smells of urine, paint thinner and the residue of burnt crack cocaine.
“Dill pickle chips and burnt plastic,” he thought to himself, His stomach grumbled, empty but for 6 cups of coffee.
He greeted the manager on his way out but was unheard behind 3 inches of lexan that separated the managers office from the main lobby.
Exiting onto the street The Man was greeted by the sun poking up above the tenemant housing across the street and he averted his eyes from its accusing stare. He spat a widget of phlegm onto the cracked pavement disturbing an oily puddle of filth, turned to his right and headed to work.
It was 9am.
Chapter 2
Two Men walk towards each other on the street, they are dressed in identical Brooks Brothers suits in Charcoal Grey and share the same smooth features, fresh shaven and close cut, well trimmed hair.
Smell of Hugo Boss and Testosterone
They are neither brothers nor clones yet they might as well be. They nod simultaneously to each other as they pass, each feeling the weight of the large knife that is sheathed within the uncreased depths of their suit jackets. This scene repeats itself all across The City as everywhere the 454 small-block engine of The City Economy roars to life.
The first Man enters into a glass building where an army of Men in identical Blue Coveralls scrub and shine and buff and rinse off the graffiti that has accumulated over the past evening, but by the time they encircle the building they must begin anew for paint and marker and acid have already sprung up in a cancer like malignancy of names and tags and slogans. Cause and effect. Clean and deface. These Men are lucky. They will always be employed as long as there is a system of have and have-not, affected and disaffected. Asocial, anti-social, deviant, miscreant, Youth versus Everyone Else.
The second Man entered a brick building, walking through the lobby he saw a man in a Beige Brooks Brother's suit. Knives out. They fought quietly to the death in the middle of the lobby. No one noticed until a Secretary in a Black Pencil Skirt slipped in the congealing puddle of blood and fell ballerina-delicate landing on a firm gym-sculpted ass. At this point she was helped up by Five (5) Men dressed in Charcoal Grey who then set upon the corpse in Beige tearing it apart growling and screeching like baboons. The Secretary tore off her Black Pencil Skirt and High Collared Blouse and joined the Men who proceeded to fuck and bite and tear at her and each other violating and penetrating. Ripping and rendering until all that was left was a semensalivabloodshiturine soaked mess. The mess was cleaned up soon after by a team of Blue Coverall clad Men. They whistled while they worked.
It was 8am.
Smell of Hugo Boss and Testosterone
They are neither brothers nor clones yet they might as well be. They nod simultaneously to each other as they pass, each feeling the weight of the large knife that is sheathed within the uncreased depths of their suit jackets. This scene repeats itself all across The City as everywhere the 454 small-block engine of The City Economy roars to life.
The first Man enters into a glass building where an army of Men in identical Blue Coveralls scrub and shine and buff and rinse off the graffiti that has accumulated over the past evening, but by the time they encircle the building they must begin anew for paint and marker and acid have already sprung up in a cancer like malignancy of names and tags and slogans. Cause and effect. Clean and deface. These Men are lucky. They will always be employed as long as there is a system of have and have-not, affected and disaffected. Asocial, anti-social, deviant, miscreant, Youth versus Everyone Else.
The second Man entered a brick building, walking through the lobby he saw a man in a Beige Brooks Brother's suit. Knives out. They fought quietly to the death in the middle of the lobby. No one noticed until a Secretary in a Black Pencil Skirt slipped in the congealing puddle of blood and fell ballerina-delicate landing on a firm gym-sculpted ass. At this point she was helped up by Five (5) Men dressed in Charcoal Grey who then set upon the corpse in Beige tearing it apart growling and screeching like baboons. The Secretary tore off her Black Pencil Skirt and High Collared Blouse and joined the Men who proceeded to fuck and bite and tear at her and each other violating and penetrating. Ripping and rendering until all that was left was a semensalivabloodshiturine soaked mess. The mess was cleaned up soon after by a team of Blue Coverall clad Men. They whistled while they worked.
It was 8am.
8.25.2009
Chapter 1
An Urbane tale in 24 parts
Picture in your head if you will... No, you must. A city. The City. Viewed from afar. Viewed from space. Viewed from Space like you're Buzz-Fucking-Aldrin falling headlong towards it. You sped uncontrollably downwards each blink a snapshot of the pavement 700 feet closer to your teary drunken bloodshot eyes. You saw an island, and a coastline, and a dense urban grouping of buildings. Buildings cloistered together like high school students smoking beside the English Wing tight with excitement and rebellion. Your final sight was a weather-beaten tenement, - old, grey and coming up fast. 6 stories you passed before, exploding onto the street, your melon flesh splashing, worthy of Uncle Bob's bellyflops into the pool over summer vacation. Back when there was Summer vacation
Back when there was Summer.
PAN UP to the 5th floor, a grimy pollution and bird shit stained window obfuscates the movement of a figure inside.
CLOSE UP: of a Mans hand, It is hairy and pitted, Browned by the sun. A Workman's hand.. It's gnarled fingers hold a French Press of tar black coffee whose plunger has just been thrust downward.
The Man begins to pour the coffee into a chipped white mug stained with the specks of past drips of java, The dishwasher abraded text on it reads “Insert witty comment regarding coffee here.” As the hot beverage cascades into the mug it makes a sound akin to pissing into a shallow pot and this causes The Man's bladder to contract ever so slightly.
The Man sighed. He knew he had a long day ahead of him and the sun was only just cracking at the horizon, thin trickles of light dancing through the open window illuminating the small single room apartment in which he resides.
Smells like piss and fresh dew.
Across the street a trio of hookers shy away from the coming day, their night just ending as a low rumble of commuter cars begins to fill the air like the uneasy groans of a drunk's stomach as she rolls out of bed. The neon lights that filled the street begin to wink out as the morning light drowns them in golden swaths. One of the whores lights a cigarette, bringing it to chapped lips that look like 20 miles of bloodstained asphalt. Chipped and rugged they have seen to(o) much traffic in to short a period of time. She bids farewell to her compatriots and crosses the still still street, entering her apartment block and climbing the Five (5) flights of stairs to the room she shares with The Man.
It is 7am.
Picture in your head if you will... No, you must. A city. The City. Viewed from afar. Viewed from space. Viewed from Space like you're Buzz-Fucking-Aldrin falling headlong towards it. You sped uncontrollably downwards each blink a snapshot of the pavement 700 feet closer to your teary drunken bloodshot eyes. You saw an island, and a coastline, and a dense urban grouping of buildings. Buildings cloistered together like high school students smoking beside the English Wing tight with excitement and rebellion. Your final sight was a weather-beaten tenement, - old, grey and coming up fast. 6 stories you passed before, exploding onto the street, your melon flesh splashing, worthy of Uncle Bob's bellyflops into the pool over summer vacation. Back when there was Summer vacation
Back when there was Summer.
PAN UP to the 5th floor, a grimy pollution and bird shit stained window obfuscates the movement of a figure inside.
CLOSE UP: of a Mans hand, It is hairy and pitted, Browned by the sun. A Workman's hand.. It's gnarled fingers hold a French Press of tar black coffee whose plunger has just been thrust downward.
The Man begins to pour the coffee into a chipped white mug stained with the specks of past drips of java, The dishwasher abraded text on it reads “Insert witty comment regarding coffee here.” As the hot beverage cascades into the mug it makes a sound akin to pissing into a shallow pot and this causes The Man's bladder to contract ever so slightly.
The Man sighed. He knew he had a long day ahead of him and the sun was only just cracking at the horizon, thin trickles of light dancing through the open window illuminating the small single room apartment in which he resides.
Smells like piss and fresh dew.
Across the street a trio of hookers shy away from the coming day, their night just ending as a low rumble of commuter cars begins to fill the air like the uneasy groans of a drunk's stomach as she rolls out of bed. The neon lights that filled the street begin to wink out as the morning light drowns them in golden swaths. One of the whores lights a cigarette, bringing it to chapped lips that look like 20 miles of bloodstained asphalt. Chipped and rugged they have seen to(o) much traffic in to short a period of time. She bids farewell to her compatriots and crosses the still still street, entering her apartment block and climbing the Five (5) flights of stairs to the room she shares with The Man.
It is 7am.
8.24.2009
8.23.2009
8.22.2009
8.21.2009
8.20.2009
8.19.2009
8.18.2009
8.17.2009
8.16.2009
8.15.2009
8.14.2009
8.13.2009
8.12.2009
8.11.2009
8.10.2009
8.09.2009
8.08.2009
8.07.2009
8.06.2009
8.05.2009
8.04.2009
8.03.2009
8.02.2009
8.01.2009
7.31.2009
7.30.2009
7.29.2009
7.28.2009
7.27.2009
7.26.2009
7.25.2009
7.24.2009
7.23.2009
7.22.2009
7.21.2009
7.20.2009
7.19.2009
7.18.2009
7.17.2009
7.16.2009
7.15.2009
7.14.2009
7.13.2009
7.12.2009
7.11.2009
7.10.2009
7.09.2009
7.08.2009
7.07.2009
7.06.2009
7.05.2009
7.04.2009
7.03.2009
7.02.2009
7.01.2009
6.30.2009
6.29.2009
6.28.2009
6.27.2009
062709
Got nothing to do?
Our infamous barbeque
will take care of you.
***
The rhymes weren't intentional but hey, it kinda works in a cheesy-slogan-type-way.
Our infamous barbeque
will take care of you.
***
The rhymes weren't intentional but hey, it kinda works in a cheesy-slogan-type-way.
6.26.2009
6.25.2009
6.24.2009
6.23.2009
6.22.2009
6.21.2009
6.20.2009
6.19.2009
6.18.2009
6.17.2009
6.16.2009
6.15.2009
6.14.2009
6.13.2009
6.12.2009
6.11.2009
Friday the 13th... the good, the bad, the retarded...
Hillarious fucking write up on the numerous Friday the 13th flics... Written by a good friend of mine.
Click here...
Click here...
6.10.2009
6.09.2009
The Top 10 Horror Films any Horror Buff NEEDS to see...
So i have been watching horror films and extreme cinema for about as long as i can remember... More specifically, I will never forget that lazy August Sunday when i was 6 or so... I was fucking about, as 6 year olds do, in our finished basement just outside of Edmonton. This, with its concrete floors and subterranean qualities made it a good 10 degrees cooler than the scorching Hell that was upstairs as the mercury climbed into the low 30's Celsius.
My Father, agreeing with my 6 year old sensibilities was on the couch and had the television on to some Sunday afternoon horror program... It happened to be John Landis' 1981 American Werewolf in London.
Now, there was a loudly spoken and known rule in my house that my brother and i were not allowed to watch violent or horrific cinema, this was all part of my mothers belief that violent media would warp us somehow. (Repression breeds perversion mom, look at my obsession with horror now...) Anyway, i guess he figured that because it was on TV and therefor edited there would be no problem with me watching the movie.
As soon as this wonderfully graphic piece of lycanthrope cinema ended I ran upstairs into the bright summer light and hid behind the couch until my mom came home.
True story.
Once i had processed the trauma of the film and my parents explained that werewolves , even ones in Nazi Uniforms were not real, my thirst for the macabre was deep-seated. Although this had begun even earlier in life when i was unable to tear myself away from pictures of Jesus crucified at Golgotha during church and Sunday school.
Moving into my teens i satiated my appetite with the wettest and naked nubile teen filled Slasher Flics and the most exploitative of Italian Cinema. Moving onward i discovered German Nihilism, Hong Kong Extreme and well, whatever the fuck is wrong with the Japanese. There has been good, bad, and just p[lain ugly and I know 10 doesn't come close to encompassing all the fucked up films out there. But here is my personal, and not in any order:
Top 10 Personal Horror Films any Horror Buff Needs to See:
1) Hellraiser
2) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2-Disc Ultimate Edition)
3) Dawn of the Dead (Ultimate Edition)
4) Dead Alive
5) Ichi the Killer (Unrated Edition)
6) Cube
7) Funny Games
8: Schramm
9) Cemetery Man
10) Inside (Unrated)
There you have it! Get out there and see these films...
- C
My Father, agreeing with my 6 year old sensibilities was on the couch and had the television on to some Sunday afternoon horror program... It happened to be John Landis' 1981 American Werewolf in London.
Now, there was a loudly spoken and known rule in my house that my brother and i were not allowed to watch violent or horrific cinema, this was all part of my mothers belief that violent media would warp us somehow. (Repression breeds perversion mom, look at my obsession with horror now...) Anyway, i guess he figured that because it was on TV and therefor edited there would be no problem with me watching the movie.
As soon as this wonderfully graphic piece of lycanthrope cinema ended I ran upstairs into the bright summer light and hid behind the couch until my mom came home.
True story.
Once i had processed the trauma of the film and my parents explained that werewolves , even ones in Nazi Uniforms were not real, my thirst for the macabre was deep-seated. Although this had begun even earlier in life when i was unable to tear myself away from pictures of Jesus crucified at Golgotha during church and Sunday school.
Moving into my teens i satiated my appetite with the wettest and naked nubile teen filled Slasher Flics and the most exploitative of Italian Cinema. Moving onward i discovered German Nihilism, Hong Kong Extreme and well, whatever the fuck is wrong with the Japanese. There has been good, bad, and just p[lain ugly and I know 10 doesn't come close to encompassing all the fucked up films out there. But here is my personal, and not in any order:
Top 10 Personal Horror Films any Horror Buff Needs to See:
1) Hellraiser
2) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2-Disc Ultimate Edition)
3) Dawn of the Dead (Ultimate Edition)
4) Dead Alive
5) Ichi the Killer (Unrated Edition)
6) Cube
7) Funny Games
8: Schramm
9) Cemetery Man
10) Inside (Unrated)
There you have it! Get out there and see these films...
- C
6.08.2009
6.07.2009
6.06.2009
6.05.2009
6.04.2009
6.03.2009
6.02.2009
6.01.2009
5.31.2009
5.30.2009
5.29.2009
5.28.2009
Into the sweatbox... "You like my store? You come buy?"
Arrived off the Mekong delta on fumes. Worn out after a 15 hour endurance race across the pacific i was running on caffeine and desperation. Giving in to necessity we booked an over priced cab to a cafe in the middle of Saigon's backpacker district in order to meet our contacts by phone. I was drop dead sober and needed a beer. Bad.
Our cab weaved in and out of traffic with apparent disregard to safety, traffic laws, and solid road lines avoiding the swarms of moto-scooter cylos that teem across Saigon's sprawling districts. The AC spat cold air across my face drying my nose but providing respite from the wet swamp 30 degree heat just outside of our ride. Horns honked a cacophony warning drivers of incoming cyclos, like wasps with a death-wish darting in front of our SUV. After an hour of this we arrived at Cafe Sihn, the point at which we were to meet Dave and Landon.
Buong Te Dahm was a narrow asphalt strip lined with cheap trinket shops, decrepit french pastry stores and narrow 4 story guest houses framed by a spiderweb of electrical cables that defied logic and engineering bringing power to the bustling city. Sure an electrical fire would break out at any minute i crossed the road hoping Cafe Sihn would quench my thirst with a cheap beer and a nice fan. Less a Cafe and more of a Tourism Depot Cafe Sihn was a thin fluorescent lit desk of travel agents. Not a waitress or bar to be seen. Bewildered i pulled out my contact info for D and L and asked if there was a payphone nearby.
Being directed back across the street i started to gain an understanding off the task required just to cross the street. The scooters don't stop, the vans don't stop, the buses, trucks, bikes and cars dont stop. But above all. The pedestrians don't fucking stop. It is a dodge-em game of man and heavy metal machine. Luckily given the general disregard for traffic lines everyone dodges each other well.
So far.
We get safely across to the payphone which is less a payphone and more of a regular house phone with a long cord, stretched out to the curb and placed in a foul smelling wooden booth. I looked into the "store" where 3 attractive Vietnamese women reclined at the back and made the universal "thumb to pinkie" phone gesture. A woman approached and i was informed the phone rate for local calls was 30,000 Dong a minute (about 2.50) "Fuck off" I thought to myself as from behind we i heard a shrill female voice shout our names.
Alexis and I turned to see Landon bounding up onto the sidewalk having seen us cross from he perch inside Sa Sa Cafe across the street. We joined her and entered a right and proper South Asian Cafe and greetings and hugs were exchanged all round. Introduced to a Dutchman named Johann i scanned the menu for the cheapest largest beer i could get my hands on. 20,000 dong ($1.40) got me a half litre tiger which quenched my thirst and washed the roughshod static from my travel-addled mind. A passable chicken burger later and some more beer and we were off to get accommodations to bed down in for that night.
***
Our cab weaved in and out of traffic with apparent disregard to safety, traffic laws, and solid road lines avoiding the swarms of moto-scooter cylos that teem across Saigon's sprawling districts. The AC spat cold air across my face drying my nose but providing respite from the wet swamp 30 degree heat just outside of our ride. Horns honked a cacophony warning drivers of incoming cyclos, like wasps with a death-wish darting in front of our SUV. After an hour of this we arrived at Cafe Sihn, the point at which we were to meet Dave and Landon.
Buong Te Dahm was a narrow asphalt strip lined with cheap trinket shops, decrepit french pastry stores and narrow 4 story guest houses framed by a spiderweb of electrical cables that defied logic and engineering bringing power to the bustling city. Sure an electrical fire would break out at any minute i crossed the road hoping Cafe Sihn would quench my thirst with a cheap beer and a nice fan. Less a Cafe and more of a Tourism Depot Cafe Sihn was a thin fluorescent lit desk of travel agents. Not a waitress or bar to be seen. Bewildered i pulled out my contact info for D and L and asked if there was a payphone nearby.
Being directed back across the street i started to gain an understanding off the task required just to cross the street. The scooters don't stop, the vans don't stop, the buses, trucks, bikes and cars dont stop. But above all. The pedestrians don't fucking stop. It is a dodge-em game of man and heavy metal machine. Luckily given the general disregard for traffic lines everyone dodges each other well.
So far.
We get safely across to the payphone which is less a payphone and more of a regular house phone with a long cord, stretched out to the curb and placed in a foul smelling wooden booth. I looked into the "store" where 3 attractive Vietnamese women reclined at the back and made the universal "thumb to pinkie" phone gesture. A woman approached and i was informed the phone rate for local calls was 30,000 Dong a minute (about 2.50) "Fuck off" I thought to myself as from behind we i heard a shrill female voice shout our names.
Alexis and I turned to see Landon bounding up onto the sidewalk having seen us cross from he perch inside Sa Sa Cafe across the street. We joined her and entered a right and proper South Asian Cafe and greetings and hugs were exchanged all round. Introduced to a Dutchman named Johann i scanned the menu for the cheapest largest beer i could get my hands on. 20,000 dong ($1.40) got me a half litre tiger which quenched my thirst and washed the roughshod static from my travel-addled mind. A passable chicken burger later and some more beer and we were off to get accommodations to bed down in for that night.
***
Death race and a french loaf... white coffee please
Our guest house was a narrow 4 story affair located of the main roan of De Tham down a tight alley overshadowed by the Vietnamese flag with its yellow star on a blazing red background. A family run affair we removed our shoes and looked at the room.
A spartan affair of two beds, two fans and a bathroom in which the shower hangs on the wall beside the toilet (quite common here) for $4 a night each we weren't going to be picky. The space was clean and while quite warm the fans would cool us. Besides i didn't plan on being all to much sober when i finally made it to bed.
We unpacked and then returned to Sa Sa Cafe to form a game plan. It was still early in the day so we decided to hoof it to the War (crimes) Remnants museum about 30 blocks away.
The sun beat down through the oppressive haze as we took off on foot. Ever few meters we were offered a "taxi service" from a number of moto-scooter riders but we politely declined. Reaching a major crossing we started to learn the intricate dance that is being a pedestrian crossing a Saigon street.
(continued in a bit after i eat brekky and get some of the best coffee i have ever had...)
A spartan affair of two beds, two fans and a bathroom in which the shower hangs on the wall beside the toilet (quite common here) for $4 a night each we weren't going to be picky. The space was clean and while quite warm the fans would cool us. Besides i didn't plan on being all to much sober when i finally made it to bed.
We unpacked and then returned to Sa Sa Cafe to form a game plan. It was still early in the day so we decided to hoof it to the War (crimes) Remnants museum about 30 blocks away.
The sun beat down through the oppressive haze as we took off on foot. Ever few meters we were offered a "taxi service" from a number of moto-scooter riders but we politely declined. Reaching a major crossing we started to learn the intricate dance that is being a pedestrian crossing a Saigon street.
(continued in a bit after i eat brekky and get some of the best coffee i have ever had...)
Welcome to the abysss.. Is there a Vietnamese dream and where do i find it?
..Given that there seem to be no traffic laws in Saigon, nor that they would be followed if there were, crossing a major street becomes somewhat of a trial in trust and pure adrenaline. You look left, and unlike most other cities it isn't a simple matter of waiting for a break in the traffic. There isn't one. Bicycles and cyclos travel at a leisurley 20 km/h or so while cars race by at speeds around 50. Busses move slower but will completely block your path in the middle of the street. And what's worse is there is no constant moto speed apparent. They are all travelling in masive swarms sounding like god-forsaken motorized bees spewing their noxious fumes into the air.
So.
You just step out. Yup, right into fucking speeding traffic. You make eye contact left until you reach the centre of the street then, assuming no one will just run you down - the motos are quite manouverable and most drivers skilled they swerve around any and all obstacles- then looking right you repeat the process. The trick is to NEVER run and for the love of all that is holy, don't stop. Running puts you into their sights and the bastards don't know how to handle a moving target. Frozen still and you're worse off as it's actually easier to avoid a slowly moving target. Done correctly it is a wonder to watch 5 pedestrians dance in and out of full speed traffic which barely slows. (I will be uploading some vids to show you guys this amazing process)
***
The Vietnam War Crimes museum suffers from a bit of schizophrenia. Like Saigon/Ho Ch Minh City, it too has changed names a number of times and just finished renovations last year. The museum exists ostensibly as an educational tool to inform visitors about the various colonial attrocities and war crimes commited by foreign powers against the People of Vietnam.
Lying somewhere between snuff mag/freakshow and military hardware museum the site boasts a sprawling courtyard in which long forgotten Us fighter planes and tanks dot the landscape. Tourist couples kiss in front of war machines, ignorant of the realites of the Hell that said machines brought to this country. Inside the humid complex is a winding series of wall mounted displays which show news clippings, various quotes from bothe sides and a massive collection of bloody, macabre, examples of the various attrocities commited during the Vietnam War and by the french colonial powers. Mutated babies, phosphorous burn victimes, decapitated POW's and land-mine victims were nauseating at times but prescient in there power to affect the viewer, seeing a farmer throen from a helicopter or dragged behind a tank shows that the cliche about pictures and their word-value wrings true.
After viewing the assorted small arms and heavy machine guns, the ammunition and the massive ordinance, the grenades, and the bazookas one is then ushered into a room of childrens artwork about peace. It was banal and i quickly became bored.
My morbid curiosity however was peaked when upon arriving outside I stumbled upon a full scale recreation of the jailing system used by the French to house dissidents and subversives. They used a system called a tiget trap in which between 5 and 15 people could be locked into a tiny space, completely dark except fot the bars overhead through which the guards could look down on them. Added to this was acruel shackling device that lock around the prisoners ankles forcing them to remain in a partially seated position, unable to fully lie down or turn over. Many people became partially paralyzed or had to have limbs amputated as a result of these torture devices. If malnutrion or infection didn't kill you then the French Guillotines would finish the jobs.
Feeling a bit of moral outrage and depression at the trials of the Vietnamese i went outside and was promptly ripped of for a bottle of water paying 4 times the accepted rate.
***
Notre Dame Cathedral. It looks like the one in Paris but a bit smaller. I guess thats cool if you are into that kind of thing. We were pestered continuously by small children selling gum and flowers, i wanted a beer and some food so we carried on. Stopping at Pho 24 we decided to try some of the local beef soup that Lexy and i eat 3 or 4 times a week back home. We later learned that we had chosen the McDonalds equivalent to Pho in Saigon, or i suppose the Pho Hoa version from back home. The service started out well but the language barrier resulted in a number of mistakes and we were unable to communicate "vegetarian" to them for Dave and Landon's sake. Dave had tea. Landon went next door.
The pho broth was excellent with the right mix of anise and pepper a light beefy flavour and a bit of cinnamon and basil. The meat quality though was something i would soon become accustomed to at cheaper eateries in Saigon. The cuts of beef are all quite small and stringy, not gristley per say but more like end cuts and trimmings. This wasn't true at the more expensive places we ate at but hey, i'm on a fucking budget here, I can't eat Waygu Beef every day. Satiated, i guess, we resumed our semi-circular trek back towards Pham Ngu Lao, the backpacker district we were staying in. As we walked taking in the overwhelming sights sounds and smells of Saigon we passed by a nice dark wood establishment with a massive sign promoting their German Beer. Hell's yes i want a fucking German beer.
We were seated in a beautiful courtyard and ordered our .5 litre Adlerbrau (Eagle Beer - Fuck Yeah!) and proceeded to drink one of the best beers i have had outside of Czech. My usual fare in Saigon had been Tiger beer, a drinkable and when cold enjoyable Singaporean brewed lager that is quite crisp and clean with a nice malty sweetness. The Adlerbrau was wonderful though, I had chosen the Lager and it was smooth but complex with a nice clean bitter aftertaste that was almost a bit herbal. This stands high above the other beer choice for the budget traveller in Saigon and the drink of the unwashed masses Bia Hơi (Vietnamese fresh beer). Bia Hoi appeared in Vietnam in the 1890s, after the secrets of brewing were introduced by the French. Just one place, the Hommel brewery, turned out the stuff, and it was a fairly modest enterprise employing just 30 workers capable of producing 150 litres a day. The beer was also sold bottled, but it was so expensive that it was only for the wealthy people.
After the French left Vietnam in 1954, the Hommel brewery was renamed the Hanoi Brewery. But the refreshing amber fluid still took a while to become popular, until the brewery hit on the novel idea of producing an instant draught beer known as Bia Hơi, literally translated as “fresh beer”.
The Fresh Beer is only 4% so you have to drink a boatload of it, but seeing that it is only partially fermented you risk getting queasy from over comsuption. The good thing about Bia Hoi however is that it's price tag of 3000 VND is about 35 cents, added to that is that there are o preservatives or additives so headaches and shite hangoevers are rare. Unless you drink 6 litres of the stuff.
It tastes... Ok i guess. Very herbally and kind of like marijuana. It tastes green and is not super carbonated... It also goes bad in about a day which explains the necessity to sell it for around 3-5000 VND (about 40 cents) We drank at a Bia Hoi spot perched on small plastic chairs surrounded by locals chewing on dried cuttleffish and all laughing and talking uproariously. It was a great find and we soon left stumbling into the streets on the search for more fun and learning that dodgings scooters and cars is much more fun when one is totally trashed.
***
So.
You just step out. Yup, right into fucking speeding traffic. You make eye contact left until you reach the centre of the street then, assuming no one will just run you down - the motos are quite manouverable and most drivers skilled they swerve around any and all obstacles- then looking right you repeat the process. The trick is to NEVER run and for the love of all that is holy, don't stop. Running puts you into their sights and the bastards don't know how to handle a moving target. Frozen still and you're worse off as it's actually easier to avoid a slowly moving target. Done correctly it is a wonder to watch 5 pedestrians dance in and out of full speed traffic which barely slows. (I will be uploading some vids to show you guys this amazing process)
***
The Vietnam War Crimes museum suffers from a bit of schizophrenia. Like Saigon/Ho Ch Minh City, it too has changed names a number of times and just finished renovations last year. The museum exists ostensibly as an educational tool to inform visitors about the various colonial attrocities and war crimes commited by foreign powers against the People of Vietnam.
Lying somewhere between snuff mag/freakshow and military hardware museum the site boasts a sprawling courtyard in which long forgotten Us fighter planes and tanks dot the landscape. Tourist couples kiss in front of war machines, ignorant of the realites of the Hell that said machines brought to this country. Inside the humid complex is a winding series of wall mounted displays which show news clippings, various quotes from bothe sides and a massive collection of bloody, macabre, examples of the various attrocities commited during the Vietnam War and by the french colonial powers. Mutated babies, phosphorous burn victimes, decapitated POW's and land-mine victims were nauseating at times but prescient in there power to affect the viewer, seeing a farmer throen from a helicopter or dragged behind a tank shows that the cliche about pictures and their word-value wrings true.
After viewing the assorted small arms and heavy machine guns, the ammunition and the massive ordinance, the grenades, and the bazookas one is then ushered into a room of childrens artwork about peace. It was banal and i quickly became bored.
My morbid curiosity however was peaked when upon arriving outside I stumbled upon a full scale recreation of the jailing system used by the French to house dissidents and subversives. They used a system called a tiget trap in which between 5 and 15 people could be locked into a tiny space, completely dark except fot the bars overhead through which the guards could look down on them. Added to this was acruel shackling device that lock around the prisoners ankles forcing them to remain in a partially seated position, unable to fully lie down or turn over. Many people became partially paralyzed or had to have limbs amputated as a result of these torture devices. If malnutrion or infection didn't kill you then the French Guillotines would finish the jobs.
Feeling a bit of moral outrage and depression at the trials of the Vietnamese i went outside and was promptly ripped of for a bottle of water paying 4 times the accepted rate.
***
Notre Dame Cathedral. It looks like the one in Paris but a bit smaller. I guess thats cool if you are into that kind of thing. We were pestered continuously by small children selling gum and flowers, i wanted a beer and some food so we carried on. Stopping at Pho 24 we decided to try some of the local beef soup that Lexy and i eat 3 or 4 times a week back home. We later learned that we had chosen the McDonalds equivalent to Pho in Saigon, or i suppose the Pho Hoa version from back home. The service started out well but the language barrier resulted in a number of mistakes and we were unable to communicate "vegetarian" to them for Dave and Landon's sake. Dave had tea. Landon went next door.
The pho broth was excellent with the right mix of anise and pepper a light beefy flavour and a bit of cinnamon and basil. The meat quality though was something i would soon become accustomed to at cheaper eateries in Saigon. The cuts of beef are all quite small and stringy, not gristley per say but more like end cuts and trimmings. This wasn't true at the more expensive places we ate at but hey, i'm on a fucking budget here, I can't eat Waygu Beef every day. Satiated, i guess, we resumed our semi-circular trek back towards Pham Ngu Lao, the backpacker district we were staying in. As we walked taking in the overwhelming sights sounds and smells of Saigon we passed by a nice dark wood establishment with a massive sign promoting their German Beer. Hell's yes i want a fucking German beer.
We were seated in a beautiful courtyard and ordered our .5 litre Adlerbrau (Eagle Beer - Fuck Yeah!) and proceeded to drink one of the best beers i have had outside of Czech. My usual fare in Saigon had been Tiger beer, a drinkable and when cold enjoyable Singaporean brewed lager that is quite crisp and clean with a nice malty sweetness. The Adlerbrau was wonderful though, I had chosen the Lager and it was smooth but complex with a nice clean bitter aftertaste that was almost a bit herbal. This stands high above the other beer choice for the budget traveller in Saigon and the drink of the unwashed masses Bia Hơi (Vietnamese fresh beer). Bia Hoi appeared in Vietnam in the 1890s, after the secrets of brewing were introduced by the French. Just one place, the Hommel brewery, turned out the stuff, and it was a fairly modest enterprise employing just 30 workers capable of producing 150 litres a day. The beer was also sold bottled, but it was so expensive that it was only for the wealthy people.
After the French left Vietnam in 1954, the Hommel brewery was renamed the Hanoi Brewery. But the refreshing amber fluid still took a while to become popular, until the brewery hit on the novel idea of producing an instant draught beer known as Bia Hơi, literally translated as “fresh beer”.
The Fresh Beer is only 4% so you have to drink a boatload of it, but seeing that it is only partially fermented you risk getting queasy from over comsuption. The good thing about Bia Hoi however is that it's price tag of 3000 VND is about 35 cents, added to that is that there are o preservatives or additives so headaches and shite hangoevers are rare. Unless you drink 6 litres of the stuff.
It tastes... Ok i guess. Very herbally and kind of like marijuana. It tastes green and is not super carbonated... It also goes bad in about a day which explains the necessity to sell it for around 3-5000 VND (about 40 cents) We drank at a Bia Hoi spot perched on small plastic chairs surrounded by locals chewing on dried cuttleffish and all laughing and talking uproariously. It was a great find and we soon left stumbling into the streets on the search for more fun and learning that dodgings scooters and cars is much more fun when one is totally trashed.
***
Keep your eyes peeled... Charlie could be anywhere...
The complex history of Vietnam and it's cycles of colonial violence and (illegal) wars of foreign aggression against it mayhaps be better left to Jessica with her sober erudite analysis of events, happenings and their subsequent complex socio-ideological outcomes and effects on people and culture. To put it lightly the Vietnamese got FUCKED during the 20th century. By the French, By the Yanks, by the WTO and the World Bank and as i have seen it so far, a little bit by themselves. But from this point i digress from the events at hand. The highlight of May 1st, 2009, waking up at 6:30 am was that I.
Was not.
Hungover.
Something about the tropical climate allows me to consume vast quantities of drugs and alcohol with only minor side effects the next morning. (Much more about this later)
The sun rises, i wake up and shower off the evenings sweat, scraping filth and bug droppings from myself, chasing various bugs the size of small cats from our room and having a quick wank to jump start the day. At this point my thoughts turn to food. Cheap, tasty delicious food... I wake Lexy and head downstairs while she readies her beautiful self. Even in the tropical heat my muse shines like a goddess while us lowly degenerates sweat buckets and leave a trail of cash-scent like a dog in heat... money and sweat. Filthy lucre which smells of opportunity to the touts and food cart operators.They want to mount us from afar and take our western dollars. My pity is a deep dark walnut inside and it is coated in empathy, but that empathy is a thick tar and is only scrapped off, and balled into a hash like substance when i feel a tug on my heart strings that is beyond mere poverty and some how transcends the poetic. I think poor nations see us as obese disgusting creatures of waste and consumption (which we can be) belching, farting and consuming all in our wake. If they had it their (our) way i would eat 12 meals a day and consume 20 litres of beer, purchase 200 American dollars worth of knick knacks and still be unsatisfied... And the tragedy is, this might be a reality for some tourists...
But at this moment a french loaf stuffed with egg and chili calls, a glass of fresh water and a deadline.
We are to hop a bus North to see where the Viet Minh guerrillas dug tunnels and booby trapped the wilderness so they fight the fascist French colonial government and 25 years later slaughter the American pigs who invaded their home land, raped their women, burned their villages and took their dignity in a ideologically flawed criminal war of aggression against a sovereign nation... (sound familiar?)
Cu Chi tunnels encompassed a total of 150 square kilometers 65 km north of Saigon and were a major hot spot for fighting in the insurrection against the French as well as a Viet Cong stronghold for weapons, hospitals, barracks and battle sights during the Vietnam/American war. A wonder and a macabre claustrophobic beauty to behold the tunnels were often 3 levels deep with the primary level around 3 meters high and serving as hospitals and kitchens. (The full engineering details would blow your mind for people tunneling with crude wood and recycled metal) Below that are tunnels no more than a meter high, dug into solid clay, soft and permeable yet strong enough to support the ant hill like tunnels dug by the Viet Minh. Below these, the tunnels shortened to only 40 cm in height requiring one to crawl belly first. These tunnels were riddled with pit falls and man traps. Sharpened punji sticks and gruesome traps waited for their victims, who, once trapped were easy prey for the AK-47 wielding Viet Cong.
We entered these tunnels, which had been expanded by 40% (for whitey) and entered a dark oppressive underground that quickly closed in and forced us into a permanent squatting position. I traveled the length of the tunnels thinking about what it would have been like sitting in the darkness, the drone of a B52 bomber overhead and the percussive thunder of its 10 tonne bombs as they littered the barren wasteland above spraying hellfire across the landscape and decimating life in a place that they had no right to be.
Fuck it. I want to fire an AK 47.
50 buck later and i had 3 clips in hand and a set of sub-standard ear protection. I started on a single shot setting which was truthfully less that ideal. I had shot .22 caliber rifles in my youth in Alberta and while the kick of the Ak was much more noticeable, it lacked that jeune se quoi. This was remedied by switching the death dealer to full auto, at which point it began to pound my shoulder like a thrash band bass drum as i ran through the clip in a few seconds. The stock had heated to an uncomfortable point and brass cartridges littered the floor. Cordite and sulfur reeked through the air permeating our clothes and smelling of the Gates of Hell. Satan and awesomeness? I'm sold. I suppose i now have a love affair with rifles that will need to be satisfied. I'm on the road to whiskey and vodka appreciation, perhaps assault weapons are next.
I exited the range and promptly did a shot of Snake Whiskey. On the house. Back to the bus for a nap and then we figured we'd light up Saigon with our own brand of East Van fun...
***
Was not.
Hungover.
Something about the tropical climate allows me to consume vast quantities of drugs and alcohol with only minor side effects the next morning. (Much more about this later)
The sun rises, i wake up and shower off the evenings sweat, scraping filth and bug droppings from myself, chasing various bugs the size of small cats from our room and having a quick wank to jump start the day. At this point my thoughts turn to food. Cheap, tasty delicious food... I wake Lexy and head downstairs while she readies her beautiful self. Even in the tropical heat my muse shines like a goddess while us lowly degenerates sweat buckets and leave a trail of cash-scent like a dog in heat... money and sweat. Filthy lucre which smells of opportunity to the touts and food cart operators.They want to mount us from afar and take our western dollars. My pity is a deep dark walnut inside and it is coated in empathy, but that empathy is a thick tar and is only scrapped off, and balled into a hash like substance when i feel a tug on my heart strings that is beyond mere poverty and some how transcends the poetic. I think poor nations see us as obese disgusting creatures of waste and consumption (which we can be) belching, farting and consuming all in our wake. If they had it their (our) way i would eat 12 meals a day and consume 20 litres of beer, purchase 200 American dollars worth of knick knacks and still be unsatisfied... And the tragedy is, this might be a reality for some tourists...
But at this moment a french loaf stuffed with egg and chili calls, a glass of fresh water and a deadline.
We are to hop a bus North to see where the Viet Minh guerrillas dug tunnels and booby trapped the wilderness so they fight the fascist French colonial government and 25 years later slaughter the American pigs who invaded their home land, raped their women, burned their villages and took their dignity in a ideologically flawed criminal war of aggression against a sovereign nation... (sound familiar?)
Cu Chi tunnels encompassed a total of 150 square kilometers 65 km north of Saigon and were a major hot spot for fighting in the insurrection against the French as well as a Viet Cong stronghold for weapons, hospitals, barracks and battle sights during the Vietnam/American war. A wonder and a macabre claustrophobic beauty to behold the tunnels were often 3 levels deep with the primary level around 3 meters high and serving as hospitals and kitchens. (The full engineering details would blow your mind for people tunneling with crude wood and recycled metal) Below that are tunnels no more than a meter high, dug into solid clay, soft and permeable yet strong enough to support the ant hill like tunnels dug by the Viet Minh. Below these, the tunnels shortened to only 40 cm in height requiring one to crawl belly first. These tunnels were riddled with pit falls and man traps. Sharpened punji sticks and gruesome traps waited for their victims, who, once trapped were easy prey for the AK-47 wielding Viet Cong.
We entered these tunnels, which had been expanded by 40% (for whitey) and entered a dark oppressive underground that quickly closed in and forced us into a permanent squatting position. I traveled the length of the tunnels thinking about what it would have been like sitting in the darkness, the drone of a B52 bomber overhead and the percussive thunder of its 10 tonne bombs as they littered the barren wasteland above spraying hellfire across the landscape and decimating life in a place that they had no right to be.
Fuck it. I want to fire an AK 47.
50 buck later and i had 3 clips in hand and a set of sub-standard ear protection. I started on a single shot setting which was truthfully less that ideal. I had shot .22 caliber rifles in my youth in Alberta and while the kick of the Ak was much more noticeable, it lacked that jeune se quoi. This was remedied by switching the death dealer to full auto, at which point it began to pound my shoulder like a thrash band bass drum as i ran through the clip in a few seconds. The stock had heated to an uncomfortable point and brass cartridges littered the floor. Cordite and sulfur reeked through the air permeating our clothes and smelling of the Gates of Hell. Satan and awesomeness? I'm sold. I suppose i now have a love affair with rifles that will need to be satisfied. I'm on the road to whiskey and vodka appreciation, perhaps assault weapons are next.
I exited the range and promptly did a shot of Snake Whiskey. On the house. Back to the bus for a nap and then we figured we'd light up Saigon with our own brand of East Van fun...
***
Onward and Northward... meeting Seanessica... Plane scares and rip-offs
Getting trashed in Saigon is an easy proposition, this process is made even easier by the fact that you can get grey market pharmaceuticals at any pharmacy. You don't needa 'script for most drugs, the key is just finding out the Vietnamese name for what you need is the key. I wanted to grab some Valium to ease those long overland bus rides in less than ideal conditions so we stopped into a local over-the-counter and through hand gestures, frantic pointing and some sketchy writing of names (diazepam, clonazepam, etc...) i succeeded in obtaining a handful of Valium for around 25 cents a pill. I wanted to get some dex or adderal but alas there was none to be found...
We spent the next day wandering our district shopping for pirated DVD's which range in both price and quality, touted at from every street corner the Saigon fumes were beginning to wear on my frazzled alcohol juiced nerves. We ate a delicious Pad Thai on a balcony overlooking the spiderweb of wires that passes for an electrical grid and then said our good byes to Dave, Landon and Johann... Off to new adventures we were headed North. Our flight would only be an hour and 20 minutes, a cake walk given some of the endurance treks i have endured to cross an underdeveloped country.
Arriving with a good 2 hours at the domestic terminal of the Ho Chi Minh airport was mistake number one. This fuckless hole in the ground lacked even the most basic of ammenities at the check in level, boasting a glass counter at which soft brown spotted fruit slowly fermented under the glare of the overhead florescents and the bored attendant dazed to the keening buzz of a machine that appears to exist to wrap luggage and packages in thin layers of polyethylene plastic. What purpos4e this serves is beyond me but the Vietnamese seem to love the service. Attempting to check in to our flight was similar to boarding a 99 B-line bus on September 5th at 8am at Commercial station when UBC has started its fall semester. ie. all sense of human manners as propriety developed over the past 10,000 years of cultural development take a back seat top a "me first" attitude, I cursed under my breath as we finally approached a wicket to be informed our flight was 2 hours delayed. Yay, socialist communism! This also began our constant shunting between standby wickets and solid plastic chairs designs to be sat in comfortably for exactly 2 minutes and 45 seconds. With 2 hours to go we tried to nap. Hungry. Thirsty. Sober. This fucking sucks.
We didn't get a seat on the first early flight to Hue, which made me wonder where the hell all the other passengers were. Is this cause we're white? Fuck. Can't thin like that. These are a lovely gracious people who have welcomed us into their country in order to share their lovely culture and take us for every penny... fuck it. Valium time.
I popped 4 Valium as Alexis found out we had made it onto the 645 flight. Time now.
6:45
Fuck... We rush to check in and then are informed while on the flight, it has been delayed an hour. We're handed our boarding passes and we head upstairs to breeze through security. I have to piss so i head to the head to take a slash... As i emerge from the single most foul airport washroom i have ever had the opportunity to grace with my urine, I mean i think my piss actually cleaned some of the trough style urinal into which I expelled it.... anyway... A lovely french tinged Vietnamese voice comes over the loud speaker announcing myself and Alexis as the last remaining passengers yet to board our "delayed" flight.
We run.
We make it. I'm apologizing yet fuming for an error that wasn't mine and we finally get seated and stowed as the Valium hits. sweet sweet mellow non-caring awesome... I could use a whiskey but I'll be happy if the plane gets off the ground let alone if it has a wet bar. A storm has descended and as we taxi onto the runway Lightning strobes, flashbulbs of crackling static and thunderous rumbles that play bass to the sheets of high-hat rain spattering on the wings. We take off in minor turbulence and i look up to see an odd misty smoke emanating from the wall 4 rows ahead of me. The Fear takes hold and my heart pounds. "That's it! The fucking planes on fire, we lost our engines and we;'re going down...." The valium at least keeps me in place and i look over at the stewardess sitting beside me. We're in an exit row and i'm ready to throw that fucking hatch wide open and ride the inflatable yellow slide to the ground like in the happy little brochure that sits in front of my seat...
(Remember Fight Club? Chuck Palahniuk knew that brochure is a pig-fucker. It lies through gritted teeth. It should feature a plane broken into thousands of parts, limbs and luggage, flotsam and jetsam, and survivors burning as they slide down what's left of that stupid cock sucking slide....)
Sooo.... the stewardess is calm and smiley... I sniff the air... I look at Alexis who is holding my hand.. "Do you smell mint?" I ask...
She says "Yah, a little...."
I then realize, the "smoke" is an aromatic mist with a soothing mint smell.
WHAT. THE. FUCK!?
Have these people never heard of a glade plug in? I thought the goddamn plane was on fire, take offs and landings are statistically the times of highest risk for an air plane and they decide to pump minty smoke like mist into the cabin to w. We're ok. We get to cruising altitude and get a free bottle of water. It's 300ml. I hate this airline.
***
We get into Hue airport around 9pm and disembark with little hassle, except when i had already paid a mini-bus ticket girl who then wandered off and i was sure she had ripped us off. mean while we were being accosted on all sides by taxi drivers who definitely wanted to rip us off. Alexis calms me down and with the assistance of a guard we track down our bus-lady and secure passage into Hue.
The old capital of Vietnam (1802-1945), Hue is located smack in the centre of the country and is just outside of the infamous former demilitarized zone from the war of American Agression. Fuck it. read more about it here --> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hue,_Vietnam
Really cool info.
We meet Jess and Sean easily on a side street in a Cafe across from our gorgeous hotel suite. It's unfortunate we will only have a few days here. We unencumbered ourselves and headed down to the cafe for dranks. The rest of the evening is a grey haze beset on all sides by everyone chattering in the back ground and me coming to consciousness and saying... Ït's ok.. I'm not sleeping! In a hurried desperate tone of voice, then passing back out.
Welcome to Hue.
We spent the next day wandering our district shopping for pirated DVD's which range in both price and quality, touted at from every street corner the Saigon fumes were beginning to wear on my frazzled alcohol juiced nerves. We ate a delicious Pad Thai on a balcony overlooking the spiderweb of wires that passes for an electrical grid and then said our good byes to Dave, Landon and Johann... Off to new adventures we were headed North. Our flight would only be an hour and 20 minutes, a cake walk given some of the endurance treks i have endured to cross an underdeveloped country.
Arriving with a good 2 hours at the domestic terminal of the Ho Chi Minh airport was mistake number one. This fuckless hole in the ground lacked even the most basic of ammenities at the check in level, boasting a glass counter at which soft brown spotted fruit slowly fermented under the glare of the overhead florescents and the bored attendant dazed to the keening buzz of a machine that appears to exist to wrap luggage and packages in thin layers of polyethylene plastic. What purpos4e this serves is beyond me but the Vietnamese seem to love the service. Attempting to check in to our flight was similar to boarding a 99 B-line bus on September 5th at 8am at Commercial station when UBC has started its fall semester. ie. all sense of human manners as propriety developed over the past 10,000 years of cultural development take a back seat top a "me first" attitude, I cursed under my breath as we finally approached a wicket to be informed our flight was 2 hours delayed. Yay, socialist communism! This also began our constant shunting between standby wickets and solid plastic chairs designs to be sat in comfortably for exactly 2 minutes and 45 seconds. With 2 hours to go we tried to nap. Hungry. Thirsty. Sober. This fucking sucks.
We didn't get a seat on the first early flight to Hue, which made me wonder where the hell all the other passengers were. Is this cause we're white? Fuck. Can't thin like that. These are a lovely gracious people who have welcomed us into their country in order to share their lovely culture and take us for every penny... fuck it. Valium time.
I popped 4 Valium as Alexis found out we had made it onto the 645 flight. Time now.
6:45
Fuck... We rush to check in and then are informed while on the flight, it has been delayed an hour. We're handed our boarding passes and we head upstairs to breeze through security. I have to piss so i head to the head to take a slash... As i emerge from the single most foul airport washroom i have ever had the opportunity to grace with my urine, I mean i think my piss actually cleaned some of the trough style urinal into which I expelled it.... anyway... A lovely french tinged Vietnamese voice comes over the loud speaker announcing myself and Alexis as the last remaining passengers yet to board our "delayed" flight.
We run.
We make it. I'm apologizing yet fuming for an error that wasn't mine and we finally get seated and stowed as the Valium hits. sweet sweet mellow non-caring awesome... I could use a whiskey but I'll be happy if the plane gets off the ground let alone if it has a wet bar. A storm has descended and as we taxi onto the runway Lightning strobes, flashbulbs of crackling static and thunderous rumbles that play bass to the sheets of high-hat rain spattering on the wings. We take off in minor turbulence and i look up to see an odd misty smoke emanating from the wall 4 rows ahead of me. The Fear takes hold and my heart pounds. "That's it! The fucking planes on fire, we lost our engines and we;'re going down...." The valium at least keeps me in place and i look over at the stewardess sitting beside me. We're in an exit row and i'm ready to throw that fucking hatch wide open and ride the inflatable yellow slide to the ground like in the happy little brochure that sits in front of my seat...
(Remember Fight Club? Chuck Palahniuk knew that brochure is a pig-fucker. It lies through gritted teeth. It should feature a plane broken into thousands of parts, limbs and luggage, flotsam and jetsam, and survivors burning as they slide down what's left of that stupid cock sucking slide....)
Sooo.... the stewardess is calm and smiley... I sniff the air... I look at Alexis who is holding my hand.. "Do you smell mint?" I ask...
She says "Yah, a little...."
I then realize, the "smoke" is an aromatic mist with a soothing mint smell.
WHAT. THE. FUCK!?
Have these people never heard of a glade plug in? I thought the goddamn plane was on fire, take offs and landings are statistically the times of highest risk for an air plane and they decide to pump minty smoke like mist into the cabin to w. We're ok. We get to cruising altitude and get a free bottle of water. It's 300ml. I hate this airline.
***
We get into Hue airport around 9pm and disembark with little hassle, except when i had already paid a mini-bus ticket girl who then wandered off and i was sure she had ripped us off. mean while we were being accosted on all sides by taxi drivers who definitely wanted to rip us off. Alexis calms me down and with the assistance of a guard we track down our bus-lady and secure passage into Hue.
The old capital of Vietnam (1802-1945), Hue is located smack in the centre of the country and is just outside of the infamous former demilitarized zone from the war of American Agression. Fuck it. read more about it here --> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hue,_Vietnam
Really cool info.
We meet Jess and Sean easily on a side street in a Cafe across from our gorgeous hotel suite. It's unfortunate we will only have a few days here. We unencumbered ourselves and headed down to the cafe for dranks. The rest of the evening is a grey haze beset on all sides by everyone chattering in the back ground and me coming to consciousness and saying... Ït's ok.. I'm not sleeping! In a hurried desperate tone of voice, then passing back out.
Welcome to Hue.
To Hue... The eating of hearts... I can see their fucking eyes...
Woke up buzzing, the sun blazed from above and streamed through the double French Doors of our balcony overlooking a narrow awning covered alley of sorts. Urban space is never wasted in Vietnam and even in small cities the most unlikely side-street, alley, narrow path, or walkway will lead you through a wondrous rabbit warren of micro-neighbourhoods assaulting your senses with the smells of the lives of those who live there. Here, you are as likely to find an amazing guesthouse or a nice salon down an alley a Downtown Eastside junkie might shy away from.
Today the plan was 4 moto-scooters, Jess had hired guides and they were going to give us a back-of-the-bike tour of Hue and her surroundings. We started off at a dock, climbing aboard and well kept if not aged dragon boat. However this Dragon Boat was not driven by high-powered and upwardly mobile corporate teams across False Creek. Nope. Just diesel and and what sounds like a Cessna engine from 2 feet away. The trip downriver was boring and uneventful, and our only interactions with the boats inhabitants was a short low pressure sales spiel to try to sell us some trinkets. I have no need for more trinkets. Unless they are awesome. I will accept awesome trinkets but alas she had none.
Pulling up to a small docking point we de-boarded and made our way up to our first stop. Thien Mu Pagoda. It has 7 tiers, is quite tall and older than your grandpa's dad. It is on the grounds of a functioning monastery and also has the Aston Mini that was driven to Saigon by Thích Quảng Đức, who subsequently immolated himself in order to protest the war in Vietnam. (See: Rage Against the Machine's debut CD cover - Way to capitalize on that you hypocrites)
After perusing the rest of the grounds we exited to the parking lot to be picked up by four scooter drivers who then took us on a round the region tour on the back of their motos. Trying our best to get into the Easy rider spirit, it was difficult to feel the rebel flair on a 150cc honda with a full helmet wearing a bright purple rain parka. I figured i could make it up at the bar later.
The tour ended at a massive Citadel. The seat of the Nguyen emperors was in the Citadel, which occupies a large, walled area on the north side of the river. Inside the citadel was a forbidden city where only the concubines, emperors, and those close enough to them were granted access, the punishment for trespassing being death. Today, little of the forbidden city remains, which we found frustrating as we slogged trough foot deep warm swampy puddles of reddish water searching the grounds for things of note. Nothing to note. Except the $5 USD i gave to a man in a dark temple for some incense. Due to my general dampness and tired exasperation I failed to realize until it was to late that $5 USD is about 1/6th of what a skilled worker makes in a month I probably made him quite happy. For the cost of a beer at home i bought a mans family food for a few days. I guess that's pretty cool.
I'm still a little bitter though.
***
That night we ate at an amazing restaurant elevated 3 metres off the ground on stilts. Having thoroughly dried off from our earlier tour we dug into whole fresh grilled fish and an intoxicating plate of Morning Glory Greens sauteed in a garlic sauce. Both dishes were the best food food i've eaten yet on the trip. As we gorged, chopsticks darting in and out of the fish nipping bits like wasps at a picnic our jovial server walked be an pointed at a mass of flesh we'd left off to the side. Having recognized the heart and larger organs of the fish we had in our Western way just moved them aside. "That's is the best part of the fish," he pointed out. "Vietnamese favorite."
So, of course i proceeded to pick up the heart to have a look, which prompted my companions to all start goading me into eating the largish dense fish bits. Given that my liquor levels were where they were at (I'm generally drunk 18 hours a day when i travel) and my adventurous foodie nature, i popped the heart et al into my mouth and bit down.
The texture was at first dense almost gristly but then the meat yielded and a sublime foie gras meets veal texture presented itself. The flavour was liver like and not at all fishy. Completely self-satisfied i took a big swig of my beer and smiled. Satisfied, our server smiled back and for all i knew perhaps even the Vietnamese don't eat that part of the fish and this was all a huge joke on the Barang. Having been to their markets though: I highly doubted this was the case...
We headed back to the hotel after this, drunkenly stumbling into at a children's recital glorifying Vietnam and Uncle Ho (Huge Ho Chi Minh festival was occurring all week) and stopping in what we suspect was a prostitute bar, which ostensibly is no big deal given their prominence in Asia, it just seemd odd that we were the only customers at first and then it clicked when we observed a number of women milling about. We were served politely and then ignored. Sometimes that's the best kind of service. Alexis had to pee, which is why we stopped in the first place, and when nature called i took the opportunity to use the "facilities" there.
Now, the concept of bathroom/toilet in Vietnam falls under any number of definitions. Many times at a roadside restaurant you will pass through a family's house, living room, kitchen etc before coming to their facilities and very much unlike the West, no one would think to say "no" when one requests a toilet. This was true not only in restaurants but pretty much every store we went into. For a country that is always asking, "You come into my store and buy something..." "Hey lady, you like scarf..." etc, it was very rare to have to pay to use the toilet. Now... The toilet itself. It might be fully western, but it may not flush, in which case the huge bucket of water beside it with a smaller bucket will do the job. Toilet paper is a luxury and if you have none, enjoy either a) the same water bucket you flush with (ewww) or b) a high pressure cold hose attached to the wall (effective and not as gross) (We all learned to take TP with us at all times) Just as often there was no toilet, merely a large ceramic hole that one squats over then repeats the above steps re: flushing/wiping.
Back to the toilet at hand.
So, like always the toilet is at the rear of the bar, through a living space, past the motorcycle parking and around a corner. I pull open the rickety door and "Hey! Look... a real toilet... cool...' I stand and deliver and then as my eyes adjust to the dark I notice every inch of the space outside of standing range is covered with spiderwebs in which spindly legged spiders the size of a small plum are standing there watching me. The worst part is i can see them watching me because i can SEE THEIR FUCKING EYES!
Do you know how unnerving it is to look into a spiders eyes form 12 inches away while pissing? I'm not much of an arachnophobe but holy fuck. I turned my head to the left and the webs were larger and there were more, many many more... Why these numerous arachnids hadn't entered into some cannibalistic death match was beyond me ( I did notice that there were no other insects in the vicinity though... Hmmmm) I finished as quick as i could and got the fuck out.
We had to catch a bus early the next day to Hoi An so it was bed time. Having learned the larger of the two beds had a mattress akin to sleeping on cardboard over top of straw we chose the smaller one and slept well into the next morning when my god forsaken alarm clock went of at a lovely 5:30am.
***
Today the plan was 4 moto-scooters, Jess had hired guides and they were going to give us a back-of-the-bike tour of Hue and her surroundings. We started off at a dock, climbing aboard and well kept if not aged dragon boat. However this Dragon Boat was not driven by high-powered and upwardly mobile corporate teams across False Creek. Nope. Just diesel and and what sounds like a Cessna engine from 2 feet away. The trip downriver was boring and uneventful, and our only interactions with the boats inhabitants was a short low pressure sales spiel to try to sell us some trinkets. I have no need for more trinkets. Unless they are awesome. I will accept awesome trinkets but alas she had none.
Pulling up to a small docking point we de-boarded and made our way up to our first stop. Thien Mu Pagoda. It has 7 tiers, is quite tall and older than your grandpa's dad. It is on the grounds of a functioning monastery and also has the Aston Mini that was driven to Saigon by Thích Quảng Đức, who subsequently immolated himself in order to protest the war in Vietnam. (See: Rage Against the Machine's debut CD cover - Way to capitalize on that you hypocrites)
After perusing the rest of the grounds we exited to the parking lot to be picked up by four scooter drivers who then took us on a round the region tour on the back of their motos. Trying our best to get into the Easy rider spirit, it was difficult to feel the rebel flair on a 150cc honda with a full helmet wearing a bright purple rain parka. I figured i could make it up at the bar later.
The tour ended at a massive Citadel. The seat of the Nguyen emperors was in the Citadel, which occupies a large, walled area on the north side of the river. Inside the citadel was a forbidden city where only the concubines, emperors, and those close enough to them were granted access, the punishment for trespassing being death. Today, little of the forbidden city remains, which we found frustrating as we slogged trough foot deep warm swampy puddles of reddish water searching the grounds for things of note. Nothing to note. Except the $5 USD i gave to a man in a dark temple for some incense. Due to my general dampness and tired exasperation I failed to realize until it was to late that $5 USD is about 1/6th of what a skilled worker makes in a month I probably made him quite happy. For the cost of a beer at home i bought a mans family food for a few days. I guess that's pretty cool.
I'm still a little bitter though.
***
That night we ate at an amazing restaurant elevated 3 metres off the ground on stilts. Having thoroughly dried off from our earlier tour we dug into whole fresh grilled fish and an intoxicating plate of Morning Glory Greens sauteed in a garlic sauce. Both dishes were the best food food i've eaten yet on the trip. As we gorged, chopsticks darting in and out of the fish nipping bits like wasps at a picnic our jovial server walked be an pointed at a mass of flesh we'd left off to the side. Having recognized the heart and larger organs of the fish we had in our Western way just moved them aside. "That's is the best part of the fish," he pointed out. "Vietnamese favorite."
So, of course i proceeded to pick up the heart to have a look, which prompted my companions to all start goading me into eating the largish dense fish bits. Given that my liquor levels were where they were at (I'm generally drunk 18 hours a day when i travel) and my adventurous foodie nature, i popped the heart et al into my mouth and bit down.
The texture was at first dense almost gristly but then the meat yielded and a sublime foie gras meets veal texture presented itself. The flavour was liver like and not at all fishy. Completely self-satisfied i took a big swig of my beer and smiled. Satisfied, our server smiled back and for all i knew perhaps even the Vietnamese don't eat that part of the fish and this was all a huge joke on the Barang. Having been to their markets though: I highly doubted this was the case...
We headed back to the hotel after this, drunkenly stumbling into at a children's recital glorifying Vietnam and Uncle Ho (Huge Ho Chi Minh festival was occurring all week) and stopping in what we suspect was a prostitute bar, which ostensibly is no big deal given their prominence in Asia, it just seemd odd that we were the only customers at first and then it clicked when we observed a number of women milling about. We were served politely and then ignored. Sometimes that's the best kind of service. Alexis had to pee, which is why we stopped in the first place, and when nature called i took the opportunity to use the "facilities" there.
Now, the concept of bathroom/toilet in Vietnam falls under any number of definitions. Many times at a roadside restaurant you will pass through a family's house, living room, kitchen etc before coming to their facilities and very much unlike the West, no one would think to say "no" when one requests a toilet. This was true not only in restaurants but pretty much every store we went into. For a country that is always asking, "You come into my store and buy something..." "Hey lady, you like scarf..." etc, it was very rare to have to pay to use the toilet. Now... The toilet itself. It might be fully western, but it may not flush, in which case the huge bucket of water beside it with a smaller bucket will do the job. Toilet paper is a luxury and if you have none, enjoy either a) the same water bucket you flush with (ewww) or b) a high pressure cold hose attached to the wall (effective and not as gross) (We all learned to take TP with us at all times) Just as often there was no toilet, merely a large ceramic hole that one squats over then repeats the above steps re: flushing/wiping.
Back to the toilet at hand.
So, like always the toilet is at the rear of the bar, through a living space, past the motorcycle parking and around a corner. I pull open the rickety door and "Hey! Look... a real toilet... cool...' I stand and deliver and then as my eyes adjust to the dark I notice every inch of the space outside of standing range is covered with spiderwebs in which spindly legged spiders the size of a small plum are standing there watching me. The worst part is i can see them watching me because i can SEE THEIR FUCKING EYES!
Do you know how unnerving it is to look into a spiders eyes form 12 inches away while pissing? I'm not much of an arachnophobe but holy fuck. I turned my head to the left and the webs were larger and there were more, many many more... Why these numerous arachnids hadn't entered into some cannibalistic death match was beyond me ( I did notice that there were no other insects in the vicinity though... Hmmmm) I finished as quick as i could and got the fuck out.
We had to catch a bus early the next day to Hoi An so it was bed time. Having learned the larger of the two beds had a mattress akin to sleeping on cardboard over top of straw we chose the smaller one and slept well into the next morning when my god forsaken alarm clock went of at a lovely 5:30am.
***
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