Over the years I have collected a good number of scars and markings on my body that all have a story to tell. I was reminded of these as someone was smacking my hand as I was picking the scab off of a recent futbol injury received from playing on artificial turf. That one will definitely change the color of my upper outside left shin. Who doesn’t love picking scabs. I especially love getting a really thick one and leaving it on my friends desks or inside their shoes to find later. So I wanted to highlight some of the war wounds I have received and due to the quantity, I am going ahead and calling this part 1 since I know I could not get all of them into one post.
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1. The Personal Touch.
I left Charles in Izmir for a three day galabant through two Greek islands called Chios and Samos. These islands were filled with extremely dangerous moped driving, investigative journalism sneaking around the coast guard finding wet back packs with Somalian photographs in it, drinking really cheap wine and eating pork which does not exist in Turkey, and generally good times. I landed back on Turkish soil and boarded an eleven hour night bus that would drop me off in Istanbul at 7am. The over night was not so bad minus the guy next to me who had no problem leaning his head on the crook of my shoulder. My first day in Istanbul was not as bad as it could have been thanks to Charles’ amazing friend Gizem who saved me from carrying my heavy backpack and also got us tickets to the final Galatasaray game that night. In a previous blog about the worst night I have ever had, I briefly mentioned something about the ping pong show that I went to and I realize that might have sounded extremely sleazy to some of you. I think I have only been to 4 strip clubs in my time, and received only one lap dance which pretty much put me off paying for lap dances for the rest of time. But if the ping pong shows came to this part of the world, I would be gathering up my friends and telling them to dress up, put their goggles on, and get ready for a rager of a night. The sheer talent possessed by these girls is enough to make any one weep with joy. Here is how I wept… I would like to introduce my next recruit for the blog, Brian Pratt. He stands high above the rest although I can only say this figuratively due to his lack of inches in the height department, but no matter. Brian and I became friends in high school and our group spent many an hour . . . → Read More: Brian Pratt Wooo! As I exited the plane doors in Bangkok Thailand, I realized I was probably the most unprepared I had ever been for any of my travels. I was armed with a small backpack that would last me two months, several stories from a few friends about places to go and how to get mugged and lose all my cash, and a Lonely Planet book ‘Southeast Asia on a Shoestring’ which is intended to get you around to all the countries in the region and thus only provides few details of each country and adds a few kilograms to any backpack. While in the customs line getting hassled for my passport and being sent to the back of the line for some reason I will never know, I befriended an English guy named Johnny who had reservations at a hostel somewhere so I followed him with his permission. My first few days in Thailand were in Bangkok and I thought I would be lazy and quote from my journal from the time of these days as it is not the intended story of this entry and then I will get to the point.
In the summer of 2004 two friends, Rick and Eric, and I stayed in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, for a month in a rented apartment (it was an academic trip, which i won’t get into). That month is describable by many adjectives: hot, intoxicated, sleepless, adventurous, mischievous, beachy, taco-filled, and…well now I’m just making up words. The apartment complex had a guard on duty at night, named Alvaro. Like most Mexicans I have met, Alvaro was an outgoing and congenial person. He was enthusiastic about our love of drink and, likely out of boredom, joined us at the apartment more than a working security guard should. This email has been sitting in my inbox for ages and I thought it was very kind of this reader to share his story. Sorry Steve for taking so long on this. A brief update on my nails is that they are waxing and waning like the tide but not from my biting, only the clippers. My intentions to grow them back towards the knuckle seem to not be working or taking a real long time but we shall see. I will admit, I have given up on my right pointer finger and bite the hell out of that one to make sure I do not abuse the other ones. My right thumb nail is incredibly sharp and picking my nose with my pinkys sometimes gives me a bloody nose. I find that being extremely inquisitive one of the most interesting parts about being a person. By taking on this attribute, you can learn until your brain explodes and you are only limited by the length of your creativity as to which you must use to extract the information you are thirsting for. Some times, I have found, this can be very disconcerting for the people around you as you dive deeper and deeper into subjects that might make some people uncomfortable but for myself I am just enjoying the lesson I am receiving. Some times people will think I am challenging them and ‘taking the piss’ but almost always I am very genuine although I am some what observant of someone who is bothered by my questions and I do enjoy testing the limits. Well for various reasons, I do not have too many fat friends and I would like to play out half of one of these conversations that I am talking about. I think many of these questions are for the really large people that need to live life a little differantly than the rest due to their condition. After reading Charlie’s ‘Like Oil and Coconut‘ entry and laughing hysterically, I was reminded of a hilarious encounter I have had with oil. I love the stuff and regularly use far too much of it when I cook, or at least too much according to you fat Americans… those last two words remind me of something i was told by a post office clerk yesterday here in England when I tried to pay with my debit card that does not have this integrated chip that all English people have in theirs.
I laughed and reminded him that the English are just as fat now-a-days and then we stared at each other. I recommend talking to my fattist friend Xavier if you want to continue this discussion but let me get back to the point of this entry. This is the story of how I enjoyed the benefits of a deep fryer I had found deep in the cupboards of my parents house. I wonder why they hid it so far back in the cupboards and never told me about it? Continue reading You can deep fry anything and it will be good… |
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