The Blog is Dead, Sorta.

I said the blog wasn't dead and I'm a filthy liar. The blog is dead dead.

Hear me out: I had full intentions of keeping it up when I got home, but after a few entries I realized that a blog created and nurtured based around the idea of me being in Palawan wouldn't work if I wasn't actually in Palawan. It seems much more obvious now than it did then.

So, to the 3-5 people still checking this page (Bless your hearts) I've decided to start a brand new blog. How exciting!

What will you find on this blog? I haven't hammered that out yet. What I do know is that I want to start writing bits and pieces again. I like writing and I like telling stories and I've done neither for far too long.

In the next few weeks or so I'll have a new page all ready to go. I'll post a link from this page and hopefully a few people will see it.

Woo.

The Blog Isn't Dead Yet

I know I said that the next post would have chicken intestine and fetus ingestion, but the camera is all the way upstairs. In my current state of shameful laziness upstairs and the moon are psychologically equidistant from my bloated carcass. As such, "This Week in Disgust" will have to wait.

The search for a job/career has begun. I've scoured the government websites, Workopolis, JobBank, and other similar sites. While there are a lot of jobs that I am technically qualified for, none are particularly appealing. Scientific research on Sable Island doesn't exactly raise my blood pressure. If I were to conduct scientific research for six months on a treeless horse-infested scrap of land, I'd end up spending most of my time figuring out a way to not go insane and kill my coworkers. When this inevitably failed I'd devote the remaining time to concocting a triple murder-suicide scheme that would leave Sherlock Holmes scratching his head and profiling the horses. I'm talking about a plan so devious and perfect that they'd have to fly in Angela Landsbury. I don't know if she's dead or not, and I'm too lazy to Google it. If she turns out to be dead I guess they could just watch the first few seasons of Murder She Wrote and take notes.

Sable Island is out but I'll be scanning the websites regularly for any interesting or highly paid positions (ie. astronaut) and continue to write about it.

I realize that I haven't been posting very much and I plan to remedy this. It's not that I've been overly busy, but rather that I've just been spending time seeing the people and doing the things that I couldn't for the past six months (Read: Rock Band). Unsurprisingly, there hasn't been much of a need for adjustment to life on this side of the world. I have lived here the past 27 years, so there's really not much to get used to. With that being said, here are three needless complaints.

1) It's fucking cold!

I'm positive there's been a time in my life when I have been colder, absolutely certain. I can conjure up memories of freezing my ass off in the woods, but not the actual feelings of being cold, so these reminiscences have been altogether useless in preparing me for this frozen, barren, lifeless wasteland. Five below isn't even that cold. I know this. But, my body and brain do not give one iota of a shit about what I know and what I feel.

Complete and total cognitive dissonance.

Also, I have uncovered some foolish conspiracy to make me cold and keep me cold. Has it become socially unsavory, a faux-pas if you will, to turn a thermostat to the right? I was always under the impression that buildings were supposed to protect and shelter you from the elements, not faithfully simulate them in the (dis)comfort of your own home. All I’m going to say is this: When the folks come home one day and see me warming my hands by the smoldering black gutted remnants of the tool shed they aren’t getting an explanation, just a small shrug and a “My Hands Were Tied” look.

2) Rock Band

In between looking for a job and getting shamefully drunk I’ve managed to sink an unreasonable amount of time into Rock Band, usually with Andy and Sweetapple acting as enablers. I can see myself noticeably improving on drums, and, like anything I suppose, this motivates me to further improve. It’s a vicious, wonderful cycle. In fact, I’ll go above saying that I’m good on (fake plastic) drums now. I’ll boldly say that I’m fucking great. When someone calls you an “idiot savant” you know you’re doing something right. I think I realized the true gravity of my situation last night when I belted out “Roxanne” and “Mr. Brightside”...on vocals. That’s the equivalent of getting high by smoking a teabag in a receipt. In an uncharacteristic display of self-control and discipline, I plan to go a week without turning it on. The cocaine-heroin dust hybrid released into the atmosphere and up my nose upon striking the drumhead with the drumstick will remain safely sealed in the device. I expect withdrawal symptoms and pangs of regret.

Pathetic.

3) $8.00 for McDonald’s is Outrageous

I don’t have much to elaborate on here. Money goes farther in the Philippines. This is directly correlated with the fact that: a) I was getting paid in Canadian currency, b) The Philippines is a poor country, and c) as a result of (b), the Filipino Peso is a joke. I could get a Big Mac meal with all the trimmings for a cool three Filipino Fun Bux. This is no longer possible. Logic aside, McDonald’s is a shitty restaurant with shitty food for shitty people. The natural progression here would be to assume the prices are also shitty, and that would be correct. Fuck you Ronald. Fuck you Grimace and Mayor McCheese and Birdie and the Nugget Buddies and all those other clowns. I could swallow your prices with a smile on my face and grease on my lip in the Philippines, but no more.

I’ve grown as a person.

That’s all for now. Stay tuned!

I'm Home

I’m back in Newfoundland and loving it.

I’ve been home for two days now and have not had a chance to do anything much. Dad had his operation yesterday and I’m happy to report that everything went smoothly. He’ll need to stay in the hospital for a few days but should be fine to get half (fully) loaded with us within the week. I saw him yesterday and he looked and sounded great, cracking jokes and giving us the finger.

My sleep schedule is still completely messed up. Traveling for over 29 hours and then having to wake up at 5:30 am yesterday certainly didn’t help any. Yesterday afternoon my body finally threw its hands up in the air and screamed for mercy. I crashed around 6:00 pm and woke up around 4:00 am. I anticipate many yawns in my future; yawns and narcoleptic episodes. I apologize to those who I was supposed to see yesterday.

I don’t miss the Philippines yet, but I do have one more story to tell. The night before I left, a friend (Jonah) bought some Filipino delicacies for me to try: isaw and balut. Isaw is barbecued chicken intestines and balut is boiled chicken fetus. I took a video of both of us trying it for the first time and will upload it to this blog shortly. In short, the isaw was actually pretty good while the balut cannot be qualified as food. I cannot imagine the circumstances surrounding the conception of balut as a food item. The first person who decided to allow a chicken fetus to grow for 18 weeks, and then boil for 5 minutes, is a monster. Not only does it taste terrible, it’s tasteless. The video will sum it up nicely.

I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about the blog yet. I may keep it, I may retire it, or I may retire this one and start another. I haven’t decided yet. If anyone has any suggestions I’d love to hear them.

Well that's it for this entry. I'll upload the video shortly.

More Wrestling Dialogue/ Don't Shit Your Pants

If you haven't already, read the previous post before this one, as this might not make a lot of sense otherwise. Well, it probably won't make a lot of sense anyway. I really enjoy recounting these exchanges.

Peter: “For someone who says they don’t follow wrestling, you sure seem to know a lot”.

Me: “Nah, you just pick this stuff up. Hey look, some Irish guy is throwing around a midget. Finlay, eh? He’s beating some guy with a shalaleigh!?”

Peter: “Midgets are funny”.

Me: “Midgets are funny. Remember when Doink and Jerry “The King” Lawlor had a rivalry going on? Those were some good midget fights man. Doink and Lawlor were having a match when Doink’s sidekick midget, Dink, came out and started causing all sorts of shit. Lawlor didn’t much like that, so next time he decided to have a little bit of insurance himself. They ended up getting three midgets each. Doink had Dink and...hmmmmm...well I can’t remember. Let’s go with Pink and Stink...*chuckle chuckle*

Peter: “Heh heh, good one mate.”

Me: “Heh, yeah. Lawlor had Cheesy, Sleazy, and Greasy. When all was said and done there was a huge midget brawl. Midgets were flying all over the place. I’m pretty sure everyone got hurt. It’s not important who won. The point is....uh....

Peter: “Midgets are funny”.

Me: “Exactly”.

Also, here is a link to my vote for "Game of the Year".

Are you the shit king? I am.

Schlobberknocker!!!!

The days are winding down now. The next few days are going to be a blur (when I decide to get out of bed anyway) as I jazz around town snapping last minute photos, picking up some gifts I’ve had my eye on, and desperately trying to bribe Emmer’s Military Supply to sell me part of the official police (‘Pulis’) uniform. The shirt is ugly as shit, and I think I want it more because the clerk said I couldn’t have it, but I’m not giving up. My lifelong dream of being a ‘Crooked Filipino Sergeant’ for Halloween will become a reality.

In other news Andrew and I presented our preliminary report findings to university members in the Aborlan WPU campus yesterday. We were told a van would be waiting for us at the WPU Santa Monica gate at 7:00 am, so I got up at 6:00 am to shower and dress. A few students from WPU were also presenting their papers, but everyone was speaking in Tagalog, so we never really got the chance to introduce ourselves or talk to anyone. It was a pretty uneventful trip overall, however one thing of note happened:

On the way to Aborlan (about a 1.5 hour drive from Santa Monica) the driver popped in a Bon Jovi cassette (yes a cassette) that had all of their most popular stuff on it. The van was deathly silent except for the wince inducing squawkings of Jon Bomb Jovi. Then “I’ll Be There for You” began and three of the four Filipino students began squawking right along. I was sandwiched in the middle, dressed to kill, with a crooning student to my left, Andrew falling asleep on me to my right, and two students crooning in the back. I sat there thinking about how this must look to anyone outside and realized that, except for the white guy in the suit, it would have been pretty typical. After I figured this out I didn’t give it much thought when the exact same thing happened on the way home a few hours later.

In other other news, I’ve come to accept that I’m a closet wrestling fan. The comedy channel here is Jack TV and, for whatever reason, they constantly play WWE wrestling. They play vintage WWF matches, WWE RAW, WWE SmackDown, ECW, and TNA. Peter loves watching it, so whenever he’s in the room, which is 90% of the time, if wrestling is on we are watching it. He’s not a huge diehard fan, but apparently I am. I can better express my meaning through paraphrased dialogue and hyperbole:

Peter: “Hey mate! Wrestling’s on. Wanna wotch it?”

Me: “Uhm, yeah sure”.

Peter: “Oi! Do you watch wrestling in Newfinland?”

Me: “Nah, not really. I mean, I watched it when I was a kid, but I was never a diehard fan or anything”.

Peter: “Vegemite.”

Me: “Uh huh”.

*Some old match with Hulk Hogan, ‘Superfly’ Jimmy Snooka, Mr. T (?), some other dirtbags, and special guest referee, Muhammad Ali begins. I couldn’t make this up.*

Me: “Why the hell is Mr. T wrestling Hulk Hogan? Is that Muhammad Ali as a referee? This is insane”.

Peter: “It’s classic mate!”

Me: “Nah, classic was when Jake "The Snake" Roberts had his snake murdered in the ring by Earthquake”.

Peter: “Huh?”

Me: “Yeah man, it was crazy. Well, it would have been if there was an actual snake in the bag when Earthquake sat his fat ass on it, which there wasn’t, but I’m getting off-base. Earthquake was this huge wrestler who had a feud with Jake the Snake. Jake used to pull out this bag with a snake in it as some retarded finishing move. I guess the snake would inject venom and kill his opponents or something, I dunno. Anyway, earthquake had enough of Jake’s shit and after beating the crap out of him he took the bag with the snake in it, danced around the ring a little bit, and did a big fat elbow-drop to the bag, presumably destroying the snake and Jake’s psyche.”

Peter: “Who’s Earthquake? Also, dijiridoo”.

Me: “Earthquake was originally made out to look like an audience member. Dino Bravo, wanting to show everyone how strong he was, decided to do a push up with the fat ass on his back. Next week, bam, Earthquake came out in his gigantic one piece wrestling suit”.

Peter: “Roight”.

Monster

The weeks rolled on and we began to watch more and more wrestling. I would always contend that I wasn’t a wrestling fan and then educate him on 15 years of WWF history.

Peter: “Shit, Triple H is fawking huge”.

Me: “He wasn’t always that big. He started off as Hunter Hearst Hemsly and his shtick was that he was some prissy noble or duke or some shit. He was normal looking back then. I think he had China as his manager/bodyguard. She has a penis now”.

Peter: “Oi?”

Me “Yes man. See....holy shit look! Shawn Michaels! I thought he broke his goddamn neck years ago. Wow, he’s huge too”.

Peter: “I thought you never wotched wrestling?”

Me: “I didn’t. Shawn Michaels used to be a part of the tag-team group ‘The Rockers’. The other dude was Marty Genetti. I remember they had a huge falling out. I think Michaels kicked Genettit through a plate glass window on Brutus ‘The Barber’ Beefcake’s show. Also, 'Sexy Boy' is the best intro music ever”.

Peter: “I’m not even going to ask what that means”.

Me: “Yeah, you shouldn’t”.

Peter: “Well, I’m off to feed the dingos with Paul Hogan”.

Me: “Keep it real”.

I think this picture sums up why they were called 'The Rockers'

So, I think that sums it just about up. I’m a closet wrestling fan. This makes me stoked, as Jordan, Davis, myself, and others have planned some drunken wrestling PPV nights.

Another reason on my medium-sized list of reasons I can't wait to come home.

NOTE: I need a proofreader. I edited this post at least six [ed. make that seven] times now. I'm accepting resumes.

4 Realz

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm sort of a nerd. And by 'sort of' I mean 'complete and utter'. I'm not a socially inept nerd, but don't let that fool you. I'm straight up geek to the core. But fuck it. 'Geek' is the new 'cool' and 'cool' is the new 'blasé'. As such, this five month hiatus away from most mass media has been killer. The lack of movies has been the easiest to swallow, but I definitely miss going to the theater. Nothing beats spending $20 on nachos and coke. My musical cravings have been mostly satisfied thanks to iTunes and Mastercard. Well, they were until my iPod decided to brick itself. Some would say "the fun machine took a shit and died". I would say I agree. Apple's getting a phone call.

However, the biggest media craving that cannot be satisfied is my love of video games. More specifically, I miss Rock Band. The fact that I'm devoting an entire post should tell you something since I usually talk about interesting experiences, questionable foods, giddy homosexuals and the occasional suicidal child. For those of you that aren't familiar with Rock Band allow me to elaborate. Rock Band is a video game that simulates the experience of playing in a ..... rock band. The game supports up to four players, each playing a different instrument: guitar, bass, drums, and vocals. If the player is playing the guitar or bass part, colored notes travel down the screen and the player responds by holding down the corresponding color on the neck of the guitar peripheral and strumming the strum bar. If the player is drumming, he or she must simply strike the drum pad of corresponding color and use the foot peddle to play straight bass notes. Singers sing. It sounds pretty straightforward, and is, but can get very complicated on the 'expert' setting. Playing the guitar and bass portions are a pretty exaggerated fascimile of actual guitar, but the drum portion is actually fairly similar to the motions a real drummer would go through.

In short, I miss the (pardon the language) fucking shit out of drumming in a fake rock band. Is this the only reason I'm a huge nerd? No.

Does it help? Absolutely.

Do I care? Not even a little.

I mean, it's the perfect goddamn game. It mixes my love of video games with my love of music. I'm not fighting level fifteen super cobras in World of Wizards. I'm melting faces and winning the hearts of millions of (imaginary) fans. What could be more fun? I don't think one person has ever not fantasied about playing in a rock band or at least being a singer. If you say you haven't I'm going to go ahead and call you liar. So let's leave it there.

Before I left I was getting to be quite the little drummer boy. Having no previous experience in drums makes me feel proud when I crank out a 5-star performance of Metallica's "Enter Sandman". To put it in perspective allow me to show you a video of what I plan to be able to do in a few weeks.



Epic.

Yup, sirs and madams, in a few short weeks I'll be home and melting imaginary faces with my real buddies and getting real drunk on real beer.

Fucking stoked?

For real.

Che: Part II

Whenever I am in the same room as Che my blood pressure dramatically increases. I’m still a huge fan of the little rascal, but she’s ridiculously accident prone and is constantly falling down and beating herself up. For example, during Tems’ funeral she broke free and ran down the church aisle and out through the door, swerving and swaying like a tiny lunatic drunk. Mom bolted after her. They returned about five minutes later with considerably more facial bruising that before. In her continuing quest to outrun herself she succeeded and took a nasty tumble in the church parking lot. She scraped her face below her eye, above her eyebrow, and part of her chest. In short, she’s a menace to herself.

Today I decided to eat the rest of the pineapple I bought a few days ago. On the way to the third floor I heard the familiar “Baahhbb!”, baby for “Yo”. Che came running from her mother’s lap and gave me the universal pick-me-up motion. I refused:

“Che, I can’t help but notice that you’re a pretty terrible walker. I mean, look at your face. I think it’s high time you read the operator’s manual for those legs. Tell you what though, I’ll give you a hand.”

“Bahh Gabbo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

So, with that being said, she walked me to the third floor with one unbelievably small paw wrapped around my index finger. After I chopped up way too much pineapple for one person, and after Che finished covertly stealing someone’s boiled rice (grain by grain) I washed the knife and she put the lid back on the pot, a few guilty grains still stuck to her corner of her mouth. I didn’t trust her walking down the stairs so I picked her up and balanced her in one arm while I cradled my plate of pineapple in the other. When we got to the bottom I ate my pineapple while Che finished her face rice.

The biggest blood pressure spike came later that afternoon while Peter and I were watching The Simpsons. Che was running around the house, trying to scale the stairs to the third floor. She made her way to the middle landing before anyone had noticed where she was. It was then I looked up and saw that the middle landing window was wide open and at the perfect level for a shaky baby to take a fatal tumble through. I just gaped, wide-eyed as she walked around, not knowing what to say or do. Luckily mom noticed her and ran to close the window and scoop up her child. Now, whenever I’m in that room I’m going to be constantly looking in that direction for suicidal babies. Thanks a lot Che!

On a brighter note, today Che learned how to dance. Some Christina Aguilera video came on TV and I started absently tapping my foot. Che decided that tapping a foot was for people who didn't have any style and proceeded to dance:

Christina spouted nonsense (Some days I'm a super bitch. Up to my old tricks. But it won't last forever") and Che stomped around the house like a miniature rhino. It was adorable.

I said it before and I'll say it again:

I'm really going to miss that kid.

I'm So Mad I Could Kick You Right In The Chest....Right In The Chest.

Try as we might, Andrew and I cannot get the tourism businesses to complete and return our surveys. The whole project is based around the information gathered from these surveys, so their completion is quite important. To make matters worse, yesterday, in the span of thirty seconds, Andrew received a text message from our supervisor indicating that we were to present our findings on the 24^th of February and I received a phone call from Jimmy telling me the same. We went to Honda Bay earlier today to pick up thirteen of the thirty-something surveys and were informed to come back on Saturday. I suspect this means a Saturday, not this Saturday. I also suspect the surveys would be as easily collected if they were on the moon. In short, we are in quite the pickle.

Pickle or not, a few other interesting things have happened around the house over the past few days. I’ll outline three in no particular order:

1) I attended my first Filipino wake. Sadly, the co-owner of Aniceto’s Pension, Tems, died last week. He had a stroke sometime after midnight and was rushed to the hospital but unfortunately nothing could be done. He had suffered massive brain damage from the stroke and died a few days later. Tems was a really great guy. He was always laughing and joking around. He didn’t speak great English, but he always tried to help you out with a problem in any way he could. I had my first drink of Filipino brandy with Tems and another house guest a few weeks after I arrived. The same night I tried my first Filipino delicacy, tamilok (A coconut tree woodworm). The tamilok was terrible but the company was great. My deepest condolences go out to his wife Tess and the rest of his family.

2) I had my first real gigantic drunk on the roof of Aniceto’s. Three Austrians, a Swede, and a Filipino were all having a huge meal and drinking session on the roof. I was talking to a friend on the second floor as they passed by and they invited me to join them. I obliged and it turned out to be a complete disaster. Don’t get me wrong, the company was great. They were genuinely a great bunch of interesting and funny people, but they broke out the Tanduay and ruined my tomorrow. I’m not much of a hard liquor drinker, and probably should stick to beer, but I think the real problem was the method of consumption. We were drinking the rum “Filipino style”, which basically means from a communal mug with chasers of mango juice. I’m used to drinking beer in pretty big mouthfuls. When I do drink liquor it’s either as a shot or in a very weakly mixed drink, not straight from a huge glass. The rum was deceptively smooth and easy to drink, so much that a chaser wasn’t even really necessary. Add big mouthfuls of rum to easy drinkability and you get a gigantic fucking mess. After the fourth bottle (around 1:00 am) I volunteered to get more. Being, 1:00 am, nothing was open, so I decided to approach a bunch of strangers squatting and drinking in the street near the aptly named Squatter’s Village. I figured (correctly) that if these people had booze they could get me booze. I struck up an awkward conversation and got to the nitty-gritty pretty damn quick. After a price was arranged, one of the guys ran into his house and came out five minutes later with two more bottles of Tanduay. I gave him a celebratory high five and was on my way. I got back to the party feeling very pleased with myself. This was the last time I would feel pleased for 36 hours. I woke up the next day and realized some seriously bad shit had gone down in my room the night before. I’m not going to get into the details on this blog, but let me just say that my first trip of the day (6:00 pm that night) was to Lian’s Laundry with a bag of sheets and towels. The shower needed to be thoroughly cleaned and my knee was swollen and purple, probably (definitely) from falling down. Also, one of the Austrians said that on the way into my room I fell into my door and couldn’t find the knob for a few minutes. I’ll have to take his word for that.

Two bottles of poison and a bottle of Coke

3) As I said, the next day was absolute torture. There was one bright point that turned out to be a complete tease though. Later that night, I tested my luck at keeping some food down and failed miserably. I decided to head home from ChowKing and get some more sleep. When I hopped in the back of the tricycle there was a guy riding on the back of the bike with the driver. He kept looking at me and finally asked if my name was Steve. I said no. He asked did I remember him. I said no. He asked if my name was Steve again. I said no. He said his name was Adonis and suddenly I remembered him. He was the guy who drove me home the night I left my vintage Whaler’s hat in the tricycle!

Holy shit!

I told him I remembered him and brought up the subject of the hat. He told me that yes he remembered the hat and yes he still had it.

Holy shit!!

He said he would drop it by tomorrow after work.

Holy shit!!!

The driver pulled up to Aniceto’s, I paid the fare, I said goodbye to Adonis, thanked him profusely, and thought about hugging and kissing him. I went to bed feeling great, the sins of last night washed away in a wave of pure joy.

That was the last time I would ever see that lying bastard. He should be ashamed of himself. If he’s unlucky enough to run into me in the next few weeks I’m going to kick him in the chest and steal his hat, or shoes. Or maybe his sweater, I haven’t decided.

Rest assured: Adonis will get his.

An Inqueery.

It’s almost that time folks. In about twenty days I leave Palawan. First I need to take a short plane ride to Manila and over-night there. The next day I’ll get on a series of airplanes, including a 15.5 hour monster from Hong Kong to Toronto, and, barring crappy weather delays, will arrive in St. John’s sometime around midnight on March 2^nd. But before I wave goodbye to this island (in all practicality for good) I feel I need to discuss a subject that I’ve briefly touched upon: gays and lady-boys.

In an earlier blog entry I mentioned an experience I had with Andrew, his lady-friend, and her lady-boy friend. I’m not going to go into detail because I already thoroughly explained that situation. However, this was at the start of my stay in Palawan, before I knew the extent to which the Velvet Mafia had a stranglehold on this nation. What was then a humorous and uncomfortable experience has become a long, drawn-out unfunny joke. If there is a God (and there’s not), He’s testing* my heterosexuality via a daily gauntlet of homosexual smiles, stares, and cat-calls.

Enough is enough Man.

Seriously though, who wouldn't want this?

Before I start in on a rant I have three points to explain:

1) Filipino’s use the word ‘gay’ as a noun and not as an adjective. For instance, if man walked by wearing a ruby-studded speedo, sporting a Final Fantasy haircut I would say, “Wow, that guy is gay!” while a Filipino would say, “Wow, that guy is a gay!” I mention this to avoid confusion, as I am probably going to interchange the noun and adjective forms of the word throughout this post.

2) Gay’s take two distinct forms: A) The classic ‘gay’ gay, and B) the ‘lady-boy’ gay. The classic gay is your standard, original recipe homosexual. You are likely to see these walking down any street in St. John’s**. The ‘lady-boy’ gay probably needs no introduction. As the title suggests, he prefers to dress in women’s clothing and act in exaggerated facsimile of femininity. Think ten thousand brown Marilyn Monroes breathily singing “Happy Birthday Mr. President” in broken English and you’re on the right track. Peter refers to ‘lady-boys’ as ‘Billy-boys’ or ‘fakkin Billy-bois’.

3) I am not homophobic. Please do not take this rant as an admission of homophobia or prejudice. Most of my best friend’s are gay, probably.

So, let’s start the ball rolling here.

The Philippines is a nation of homosexuals. There, I said it. I’m not trying to be rude, or funny, or make broad generalizations (by making broad generalizations), but this is the truth. One of the first things I noticed when I arrived in the Philippines was the astounding number of children running around. One of the second things I noticed (seconds later) was the astounding number of pregnant women. The third thing I noticed? The absolutely astonishing number of homosexuals floating and mincing through the streets. After a few months of field study and observation I’ve determined that approximately thirty to fifty percent of the male population are gay. I have no reliable lesbian number yet, but have people working on it. With at least three homosexuals for every ten men, I can’t help but wonder how 90 million people ended up inhabiting these islands. I figure the remaining men must be working overtime to keep the ladies pregnant. This fact (I’m going to call it a fact anyway) segues neatly into my next point: acceptance.

Gayopolis

I believe that Canada, as a nation, is relatively accepting. That is, we have a high tolerance of other races, cultures, religions, ways of life, and sexual preferences. Well, except the French. Having said that, I do not believe that, as a nation, we are ready to have ‘lady-boys’ selling us electronics, refinancing our homes or even serving us Big Macs. The Philippines is ready and has fully embraced this “third sex”. ‘Lady-boys’ are widely seen as just another group of people and not as ‘freaks’ or ‘weirdos’. Why is the Philippines so acceptant (admirably so) of ‘lady-boys’? My theory is that the ‘lady-boys’ (and other gays) just leave more women for the heterosexual males. For a nation as notoriously horny as the Philippines, this is a godsend. ‘Lady-boys’ significantly increase the average Joe’s chances of getting laid and, as such, are rewarded through complete social acceptance and a total lack of physical or verbal assaults. We could learn a lot from these people.

A typical Filipino street

But another question needs to be addressed: Puerto Princesa is a fairly small city with a moderate population comparable to the St. John’s CMA, so why are there so many more gays and ‘lady-boys’ here than in St. Johns?

The short, reasonable answer: I have absolutely no idea whatsoever.

The better answer: Pollution.

The difference between Puerto and St. John’s (besides the other thousand differences) is pollution. For a small city Puerto is very polluted. The pollution is mainly of the air variety and is primarily caused by the hundreds of tricycles that act as the city’s main transportation network. They clog the streets, spewing noxious gasses and ear-splitting noises from dusk until dawn. I’m no geneticist, but in my expert opinion I think all the smoke is affecting the pregnant women and prenatally scrambling the “man” gene while simultaneously activating the “poof” gene. The result is an inordinately high number of ‘gay-births’. It’s either the pollution or Muslims. I haven’t decided.

With a page and a half of background information and theory out of the way, maybe I should get to the crux of my post, which is as follows: I am a beacon of white, pasty light to the gays of Puerto Princesa.

I really have no idea why I get so much goddamn attention. I don’t think I act feminine or provide any signals to incite interest, but something is definitely going on. Daily I am approached by strange men on the streets asking me where I’m from, where I’m going, and what my number is. A creepy old guy cornered me in the living room a few months ago and told me I was *ahem* “cute”. A group of ‘lady-boys’ who live on the street up from mine (Roxas Street) regularly wave and smile at me (last week one waved, one smiled, one blew a kiss, and the fourth sang Single Ladies). It is unsettling.

Puerto Princesa City Council meeting

A few days ago I was walking around the city distributing the survey Andrew and I have been working on to various tourism operations. I arrived at a place (StarMiles Tours I believe) and couldn’t open the door. The sign said Open but the door wouldn’t budge. I started to walk away when an arm appeared out of nowhere and jiggled the door in just the right way. The door popped open and, as I turned to thank the stranger, immediately regretted waking up that morning. A powerfully gay guy was standing there, a big stupid smile spread across his face. His left arm was slightly raised, hand completely limp, while the other was crooked against his waist, the back of his hand nestled into the groove of his hip with his finger spread out like a fan. He looked like a very gay teapot. To make a long story short, I talked to the woman behind the counter about why I was there and what I was doing, taking special precaution not to engage in any eye contact with anyone. I got the hell out of there as quick as I could, and in my haste completely forgot that I had written my name and number across the back of every survey in case anyone had questions or needed clarification.

To date I have received thirteen text messages from this man, the most recent being:

“its betr n0t 2 meET d perS0n & kn0w dEM. Bc0z, its easier 2 let go wen d oNLY thng u kn0w is just their name.” L

Jesus Christ.

Keep in mind that this garbled, cryptic nonsense is from a guy I met for three minutes and - except thanking him for opening the door - have never spoken. So then why all the attention? Could I be *gasp* too sexy??

Sadly, I don’t think this is the case. I believe there is an altogether less mysterious answer: I am young, I am white, and I usually walk everywhere alone. That is it. Foreigners get a lot of attention anyway (I have five year olds staring me down in the streets) and being white is somewhat of a curiosity for everyone. In general, I receive an overwhelming amount of attention from pretty much every group of people you can possibly think of as well as the gay community. Also, gays are men, and men are naturally more aggressive than women, so I am probably just focusing on all the unwanted attention a little too much because it is right in my face. In any case, I still don’t think this excuses the thirteen goddamn text messages I received from, well, whoever the hell he was. That might be cultural or he may just be retarded. I haven’t decided yet.

Well, I’ll be back home pretty soon, where it’s too cold to be gay. And, I honestly cannot wait. The Philippines has been fun, but six months is more than enough. I don’t think I have the stones to be a world traveler, and I am perfectly OK with that. I have a cozy rut carved out in St. John’s and will be quite happy to resume chiseling it even deeper when I get back. Before I know it I’ll be boarding the plane from Manila to Hong Kong, waving goodbye to the Philippines forever.

And, to tell you the truth, I won't be the least bit surprised if we fly through a huge rainbow on the way.

Bye Bye Philippines!!

*Testing is a poor word choice. This would imply that I'm having an internal struggle against the cat-calls and smiles. I'm not, but I can't think of a better word.

**Or mulling around Sweetapple's back door. I mean that in every possible context.

Valentine's Day? No Sir, I Don't Like It.

Well, it’s almost that time of year again. That special day where every man says, “See honey, flowers and candy! It shows I still love you! Now let’s hit the sack”. It’s a truly special day. For the first time in as long as I can remember I am going to be single (and in the Philippines) on Valentine’s Day, and this in no way upsets me. I was never one of those ‘to hell with Valentine’s Day’ folks, but I was never a very strong supporter either. I was more of an apathetic participant: forced into a ritual with complete indifference. It didn’t bother me one way or the other that Valentine’s Day forced me to plan a special night for my loved one. But, now as I reflect on Valentine’s Day, (I’m sick of typing that, so I’m calling it V-Day from here on out) and what I am and am not missing out on, I realize that I’m not as apathetic as I once believed. In fact, I now realize that I’m (on some level) completely opposed to it. I realize that I’m not exactly breaking new ground with this topic, but allow me to explain my reasoning.

Google Image Search at its finest. I oppose this.

Valentine’s Day forces you to act in a certain way. Now some of you may be thinking that no one is forced to do anything they don’t want to do, and that those who choose not to participate are free to do so. I feel that this is not completely solid reasoning. It is true that no one is physically forced to participate in V-Day, and to the best of my knowledge, there is no V-Day Mafia to encourage non-believers. But, for those of us who choose not to adhere to laws of V-Day there are repercussions. If your girlfriend (and let’s get real now; I’ve never ever met a guy who gave a flying shit about V-Day) likes the concept of V-Day and expects to celebrate it then you are going to celebrate it. If you don't celebrate then one of two outcomes is likely to happen:

1) Your girlfriend will get mad, possibly calling you selfish and uncaring. You fail.

2) Your girlfriend will say nothing, but will be secretly hurt and disappointed that you wouldn't make a small effort to make her happy. Shame on you.

A third, less likely, outcome might be that your girlfriend doesn't care about V-Day either, and as such, treats the day like any other. In my experience, this is far less likely to happen than the other two outcomes, but should not be completely discredited. I know a few women who don't follow V-Day, although they are in the definite minority.

So, unless your girlfriend is in the third category minority, you have successfully disappointed and hurt your girlfriend. Congratulations, you are officially an asshole. Now, I don't think most people would want to intentionally hurt their girlfriends, so they go along with V-Day just to please them. It makes them happy and that makes you happy. Congratulations again, you have officially been forced into participation.

Boooooooooooooooooo!!

Some of you may be thinking that V-Day is just one day and that I`m probably making too much fuss about one crumby day. This is also not completely solid reasoning. It is true that V-Day is only one day of the year, but if you are doing a good job as a boyfriend then V-Day isn't necessary anyway. The whole point of V-Day is to show that special person that you love/care for them. The whole day is then rendered unnecessary if, as a boyfriend, you aren’t a total bag of shit the rest of the year and are doing things that let your loved one know that you care. If you are in a relationship with a guy who you think is absolutely solid, loves you, and makes you feel special, then ask yourself this question, “Why is Valentine’s Day so important to me?” If your answer is, “Because it’s Valentine’s Day”, I think you need to ask the question again.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter if you do or do not celebrate V-Day. It’s not an important enough holiday to deserve a lot of thought anyway. I’m merely trying to explain why I have come to feel that V-day is a crock of shit. I’ll be the first to admit that I involve myself in holidays, the roots of which I am not a strong follower of (Christmas) or do not understand to the greatest extent (St. Patrick’s Day), so think of my Valentine’s Day rant as an argument against that particular day (and what it currently means) and not of the idea of celebrating other holidays with muddled origins or strained personal connection (which V-Day certainly is).

Happy Valentine’s Day Everybody!!!

Exactly.

Christmas Eve

I've briefly touched on my Christmas Eve experience in a few previous blog entries, but I don't feel that I ever fully explained the night. Andrew suggested that I write it as I explained it to him, so that's what I'm going to attempt now.

It was December 24th and Sagada was a ghost town. Earlier that day the streets were full of locals and tourists, but the evening shooed them into their houses and hostels, leaving me alone with Madonna, Pastor Lester, and Jen. We were crowded into a bus stop/bathroom waiting for a vehicle traveling to Besao. I was told that there were no vacancies in Sagada, so we were going to travel 40 minutes up the mountain to Besao to stay with Pastor Lester's brother in his beautiful home. I later found out that there were vacancies in Sagada (plenty actually) and that Pastor Leser's brother's home wasn't beautiful as much as nightmarish.

We arrived in Besao around 9:00 pm that night (after accidentally leaving Pastor Lester on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere while he was taking a piss). We took a path to the house that wound down the side of the mountain. It was quite difficult because it was pitch black and the only light I had was my cellphone. Madonna kept bitching that she couldn't see, so I had to keep moving the phone behind me and then back to the front. When we finally arrived at the house I was happy that I didn't break my neck during the descent. When we opened the door the happiness melted away and was replaced by disgust. I'm used to staying in places that aren't the cleanest, but this was absolutely filthy. There were piles of shit everywhere, cockroaches running around, cans of sardines left open all over the floor, meat left out with bugs crawling all over it, and a toilet that I swear could've been on Fear Factor. I sure wouldn't let my ass touch that thing for fifty thousand dollars. Besides, I could poop in the closet and no one would know, ever.

We searched the house for places to sleep (the brother was off boozing somewhere) and quickly realized that the home had two working light bulbs: one on stairwell and one in the living room. I hadn't been able to shower for nearly 24 hours, and against my better judgment decided to use the bathroom for a quick bucket bath. This required taking the light bulb from the living room. I went into the living room and began stacking some chairs so I could reach the ceiling. It was at this point that I noticed three things:

1) According to the credentials on the wall, the brother had once been a police officer.
2) He was a major fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and velvet sunsets.
3) Judging by the syringe hidden/forgotten under the chair, he preferred to inject his drugs directly into his veins. I can respect that.

I gave the needle a wide berth and proceeded to unscrew the light bulb. When I got it down the girls wanted my help in the kitchen. They were going to make a Christmas supper of fried dried fish, sardines in tomato sauce (junkie cop's favorite no doubt), rice, and scrambled eggs. It wasn't exactly a Christmas goose, but it would fill the hole and possibly even dilute the disgust. As I said before, the disgust was amplified rather than diluted when a cockroach was found running laps in the rice.

Anyway, they finished cooking and asked me to do the dishes, which I thought was absolutely hilarious. Wouldn't want to mess up the place... I finished the dishes and went to take my bath. Madonna had boiled some water and placed it in the bathroom for me. I'm going to go on record and say that I have absolutely no idea as to the correct procedure of taking a bucket bath. As such, I spent 5 solid minutes deciding if I should stand in the tub, pour the water in the tub, pour the water in the scoop, or pretend to get a shower. I ended up crouching on the floor, one foot in the bucket, and one hand on the scoop to beat away cockroaches. I started to pour the water over my body, forgot that hot water burn baby, and scalded myself. Five 'fucks' and a 'good goddamn' later I wiped my tears away and added some cold water to the hot from a nearby gigantic bucket. Bucket baths are stupid.

I finished my terribly unsatisfying bath and decided to call it a night. That's when the brother came home, completely shitfaced, and stumbling all around the goddamn house. He kept screaming some shit in Tagalog at his brother and then left. For the next 2 hours he kept coming in and out of the house ranting and raving with an ever changing entourage. It was funny and terrifying all at once. Pastor Lester insisted that I sleep in the downstairs bedroom, and after seeing the lunatic brother busting in and out of the house, I decided that that was a good idea. Well, when I actually saw the room my mind changed pretty quickly. The room itself wasn't so bad. Cockroaches were running around on the floor, but cockroaches were everywhere else too. I inspected the bedsheets and found only a few stains. So far so good. I checked out the pillow and was a little disgusted to see a few stains here and there; they appeared to be blood. I flipped over the pillow and nearly threw up. The whole other side was a gigantic bloodstain. Like, this guy must have a prosthetic nose because his original was mostly on that pillow. I was absolutely blown away. I ended up sleeping half-on the least filthy side with my hat on. In my mind my hat would protect me from Hepatitis C.

I barely slept a wink that night, but eventually the gentle tapping of insects put me to sleep. We left the next morning and I was never as happy to leave anywhere in my life as I was to leave that hovel. In retrospect I really should have taken some pictures, but I think that would've been rude. You really need to see this place to believe it.

Well that's all.

NCCC Can Eat It

I haven’t been in a very creative frame of mind lately. While I’d love to tell you about my trip to El Nido last week, I’m really not in the mood. I’ve posted many pictures on my FaceBook account that effectively sum up how my mini-vacation turned out. In the future I may write a short blog on some of the funnier things that happened in El Nido, but this isn’t that blog. This blog will chronicle the death of my NCCC love affair.

When I first arrived in Puerto, NCCC was my home away from home. It was the place I did all my shopping. If I needed bread, NCCC provided. If I needed Sonnix, NCCC was there. If I needed cheering up, the 3:00 pm NCCC all female line-dancers would get the job done. Plus, there was always the NCCC jingle to hum.

Well fuck all that now.

I was riding the bus back from El Nido on Wednesday when I noticed that the sound in my right earphone was significantly stronger than in my left. I figured that the earphones must have been damaged somehow during the travel. When I arrived home I tried them in my computer and they seemed to work fine. Just to be sure I went to NCCC and bought a new pair of genuine ‘!pod’ earphones. The clerk assured me that I could return them within seven days for a full refund. This information pleased me and the transaction was completed. I brought the earphones home, plugged them in, and realized immediately that, not only was the sound quality significantly shittier than the official iPod earphones, but that the same problem was occurring. I guess there must be some problem with the audio port on my iPod (Ha, won’t fatty be pissed when he kicks the shit out of a foreigner for a broken iPod), but that’s not really important. What is important is the absolute bullshit that transpired when I went to return the earphones.

I go to customer service and get a ticket that I need to bring to Counter 19. So far so good. The Counter 19 lady calls over her supervisor (by ringing a goddamn cowbell I should add) and points me to the end of the counter to wait with some Filipino dude. The supervisor comes over and begins talking to the guy in Tagalog. I can barely speak any Tagalog, but from my point of view it seemed as if dude (let’s call him Franklin) was trying to return two packages of curtain holders and the supervisor (let’s call her Snarly) was doing everything in her power to stop this. After five long minutes of frenzied gibberish Franklin was finally returned his 45 pesos and it was my turn. I should have realized that things would only get worse.

Snarly turned to me, all fake smiles and fake teeth, and asked me what I needed. This is when someone must have turned on the hidden cameras and started filming ‘Just for Laughs: Gags’ clips for 2009.

Snarly: “How can I help you sir?”

Me: “Yeah, hey. I bought these earphones here yesterday and I want to return them”.

Snarly: “What is the problem sir? Are the earphones broken?”

Me: “Uh, no no, the earphones are fine. See, I bought them because I thought my earphones were broken, but it turns out they aren’t, so I don’t need these anymore. I’d like a refund”.

Snarly: “If they aren’t defective then why are you returning them?”

Me: “Because I don’t need them. I thought my earphones, my own pair, were broken. It turns out my iPod is broken and the earphones, mine, are fine. I’m returning these because I don’t need or want them. I’d like a refund”.

(At this point the gravity of the situation hit Snarly like a kick in the face. She was going to have to take cash out of the register and place it in my hand. This was unacceptable. The fake smile transformed into a genuine frown.)

Snarly: “Ssssssssss, ohhhh. *long pause* Maybe you could just exchange these for something else? Maybe another pair of earphones?”

Me: “*sigh* I don’t need another pair of earphones. My iPod is broken, not my earphones. I don’t need anything else. I just want my money back”.

Snarly: “But maybe, sir, there is something in Men’s Accessories that you would like in exchange?”

This didn’t piss me off as much as it made me laugh. It was a ridiculous question. If I wanted something from Men’s Accessories wouldn’t I have those items in my goddamn hand? The earphones were 320 pesos. So I’m going to go buy three belts and a dinner ascot am I? Jesus Christ. I thought I was shopping at a department store, not a flea market.

Me: “No”.

Snarly: “What about in electronics? You could get a few CDs maybe?”

At this point I was thinking, “Is this bitch for real?” so I gave her a good, cold look. I decided then and there that this bitch was most definitely real, too real, and that this was going to get worse before it got better. I have to admire her tenacity, but seriously, CDs? “Yes, I’d love the REO Speedwagon: Greatest Hits as sung by the Tagalog Allstars CD please; 320 pesos worth. Yeah, just fill this bag”.

Me: “I do not want CDs. I do want a refund”.

Snarly: “Oh my. Oh my, oh my”.

Snarly kept looking at my receipt, thoroughly searching for a loophole in my purchase contract. She was getting desperate and stalling. If she gave me that money, the game would be over. The president of NCCC would be legally obligated to cane her in the town square.

The desperation and complete disregard for customer service was amusing up to this point. I mean, it was a little bit of a pain in the ass to have to argue with a grown woman when I should have been in and out in five minutes, but only a little. However this changed in a matter of seconds.

After finishing her receipt check she began to repackage the earphones, grumbling to a coworker in Tagalog the whole time. Times like these are when I wish I understood Tagalog and could call people out. You don’t even understand how satisfied that would make me. Anyway, in the middle of repackaging she glances up at me without moving her head and says:

“These better not be defective”.

At first I was stunned into silence. How the hell do you respond to that? The more I thought about it, and the more I realized that that statement made absolutely no goddamn sense, the more I got mad. So let me get this straight: by her logic, returning a defective item is worse than returning a non-defective item? So let’s say you buy a new toaster. You get home to have a delicious slice of toast, pop in a piece of bread, and the device blows up in your fucking face. You put out the fire, sweep your eyebrows off the table, and try to return the half-melted piece of shit but, woooooops, the toaster was defective. Wuh-oh, no refund for you. Shouldn’t an item that’s defective be an even better reason to return it? And why did she say it so threateningly anyway? Did I really look like a goddamn crook?

This woman was clearly insane, and there was no reasoning with her.

After she said that to me, and I got pretty mad, she didn’t say another word to me. This is very unfortunate because I took the next 40 seconds working on a speech that would’ve been ridiculously cathartic.

“I’ve been coming to this store for the past 5 months to do all my shopping. I buy all my food here. I buy all my toiletries here. This shitty shirt I’m wearing, I bought it here. These Sonnix, that fell the fuck apart I should add, I bought right over there. And now, you’re standing here, giving me a pile of shit because I want to return one item? Well fuck you and fuck the whole goddamn store. Oh, and your shitty line-dancing employees look like complete assholes too”.

Well maybe the speech wasn't that good, or very clever, but I would’ve loved to spit it at her anyway. I’m a pretty patient guy in general, but this really put me over the edge for some reason. In my experience the customer is practically never right, but this was ridiculous. No respect at all.

So, that’s all that basically happened. I took my cash, signed some sheet, and mentally flipped her the bird. I have to say, this experience has sullied my whole NCCC perspective. It’s a sad day.

Five People I'd Like to Have Dinner With; Fire!!

I booted up FaceBook the other day and saw that I had an inbox message from Jill. The message was a request directed towards Davis, Edwards, Sweetapple, and myself. The message was a simple question: If you had the chance to have a dinner with any five people, living or dead, who would you chose and why? I'm not normally one to fill out the "What's your favorite meal?", "Who's your favorite Travelling Wilbury" type questionnaires, but I found this question genuinely interesting. It's something I never thought of before. So, I put a little thought into it and wrote out a response. Before I post it I should let you know that I refer to a line Davis wrote in his response about Pierre Trudeau. I cannot take any credit for the crudeness nor the awesomeness of that line. Here it is:

I just finished reading Davis' response, and I don't think I can come close to topping those answers. Plus, I'd never think of the sentence "lick Alberta's giant cunt" in a million years. That sentence is completely un-toppable.

Davis wants to meet great people who did great things. This is entirely understandable. And, after reading his very well crafted essay, I'm a tad embarrassed by my significantly less "important" choices. Mostly, I've picked people that I just think would be a laugh to have dinner with. I have a fear that if I chose important historical and political figures I'd just end up making myself look like an ass and ruin the whole dinner.

Anyway:

5) Chuck Klosterman

For those of you that don't know, Chuck Klostersman is a 'pop culture writer' and columnist for Spin and Esquire magazines. I just finished reading his novel 'IV' and am starting 'Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs' now. I'm not exactly a pop-culture junkie, but Klosterman goes deeper than "What is Robert Downey Jr. sticking in his arm this week?" or "Spot Britney's Twat". He writes in a particular style that I am fascinated by. He bases most of his columns around an idea and explores that idea through celebrity interviews (You owe it to yourselves to read his essay on Val Kilmer. Dude is obviously insane). Some of his stuff is fluff, but most of it is insightful and, and all of it is entertaining.

4) Me

At this point in my life I have no fucking clue as to wear I'm going to end up; not even the beginnings of a plan. I feel I could just as easily end up at DFO or Zellers, and I'm not saying that to be funny. I think it would be completely amazing to be able to sit down with a future version of myself to see where I ended up in 5, 10, or 20 years. Hopefully there would be a future me to sit down with, but if not I guess that would be fairly insightful in its own right. If I knew I wasn't going to be around in 5 years I guess it would either motivate me to do a lot of great things, or depress me into trying every possible mind altering substance on the face of the earth. Either way sounds like fun. I think it would be fascinating to see what life decisions I, um, decided on, what path I chose, where I thought I was gong from here, and most importantly, why.

3) A 'Supervillian'

I use the term 'Supervillian' to refer to any historical figure responsible for some unimaginable act of cruelty, human rights violations, genocide, etc. I guess Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Idi Amin, and Pol Pot are all good examples. I wouldn't want to interrogate this person because pretty much everything you want to know about these people has been exhaustively detailed. I think it would be really interesting to see if you could relate to any of them. I mean, here you are, sitting down with Adolf Hitler (for the purposes of the dinner we can both speak and understand one language perfectly) and he tells a genuinely funny Jew joke. Do you laugh? And if you do, are you suddenly evil? And besides that, what if you kind of like this person? What if you and Stalin are eating scones and getting along famously? If you could see that, in a different time and place, this person would genuinely be a friend of yours, how would you feel? I love this idea. (Plus, I wouldn't feel a bit like an ass for ruining the dinner: "I spilled a little wine or your shirt did I? Well boo-hoo, Hitler."

2) Dean and Gene Ween

Ween are by far my favorite band. The eclecticism of their song catalog is actually astonishing. I wouldn't be able to nail down the 'Ween' sound if you asked me, so i won't even try. From interviews I read, they seem like two genuinely interesting people. I would love to be able to personally ask them the meaning behind some of their stranger material and shoot the shit like a regular fanboy. This choice isn't one of my more interesting choices, but, like I said, I'm choosing based on fun factor. I think this would be a lot of fun.

1) My friends (Awww, some sweet)

This is such a cliche answer that I feel like a complete heel writing it. But, it is the truth. I was honestly thinking of placing Dr. Seuss as my number one, but then I thought, "Well, what the fuck has Dr. Seuss done for me lately?". Unsurprisingly, Dr. Seuss hasn't done shit. Yes, I would choose friends and select family members to sit down with and have a big feed of something that wasn't fried pork or had a trace of rice. As much as I thought I was a 'big boy', I've realized over the past 5 months that I'm quite the pussy. I miss my friends and family more then I ever thought I would or could. I guess sometimes it just takes time away from your everyday routine to make you realize how much you liked that routine and all the people that are a part of it. I'm not going to get overly mushy here, but I definitely would like to shoot the shit with some buddies over a plate of Newfie food. But seriously, no fucking rice. Oh oh, and I don't want to have to cut my steak with a goddamn spoon. What is wrong with these people?!

Seacrest out!

So there you have it. I'm interested in hearing any answers that anyone else may have. Feel free to leave them in the comments section. Or, if you don't want other people to read them, you can leave me an email or FaceBook message. Apologies to Davis for reprinting his line without consent. It was too good to leave out.

Jesus, I almost forgot! Yesterday a telephone pole outside our house caught fire. This was weird enough, but the method they used to put it out was absolutely ridiculous. I'll post it tomorrow or the next day with some pictures. The whole scene was one of those moments where I could step outside myself, survey the whole situation, and conclude that, yes, I am definitely still in the Philippines.

Update Re: Shea

I asked the Australian guy (Peter) how to spell his daughter's name. He said it's spelled 'Che' and not 'Shea' as I originally thought.

She will undoubtedly grow up to be a little freedom fighter and I will aide the rebellion.

Shea

Remember the family that invaded my bathroom? Their daughter is in love with me.

Her name is Shea. She is one. Her hobbies include crying all night, smiling, staggering like a little junior drunk, bathing in a plastic tub, and scaring the life out of her mother by nearly falling down the stairs every morning. To spice things up, sometimes she nearly falls down the stairs in the afternoon. She's quite the little firecracker. She emotes a strange, fierce adoration for me that is honestly touching. The first few times we met she merely observed me from afar. I suspect I was more of a curiosity than anything. Eventually she mustered up the courage, and all her baby strength, to push open my door and announce that: a) "You fascinate me, you strange pale creature. I will observe you" and b) "On second thought, I need to type an email, step aside". She then proceeded to bash my keyboard with her tiny paws.

At first her mother was (understandably) protective of her daughter's interest in me. Realizing that the baby wasn't in the room (nor in an adorable heap at the bottom of the stairs) she would run to my open door shouting, "Baby?! Baby!!". Here she would find Shea pounding on my computer or using my cellphone for important baby business. She would escort 'baby' out of my room, but unless I immediately shut my door, Shea would bound back in 10 - 15 seconds later with a smile that said "I got away". One time when her mother came to the door I was trying to wrestle a packages of bright pink allergy medication from Shea's hand. I assume this looked fairly suspicious. Now, however, mom realizes that I'm not a threat and, unless I escort Shea out myself, she only gives her cursory glances on the way to and from the living room.

I've taken quite the shine to Shea myself. I'm not normally a fan of children, especially very young children. They are usually annoying, loud, and/or smelly. Shea's occasionally loud, and maybe smelly, but never annoying. She's interested in the world and I have become her guide. I speak to her like an adult and she speaks to me like a baby who wishes she could form words. Today we spent 10 minutes turning the fan on and off and pointing at it.

"It's a fan", I'd say.
Shea would look at me, look at the fan, sway a little, point at the fan and say, "Uh Uhnn Marnngh!"
What she really meant was, "Yeah, it's a fan. Goddamn these useless baby lips! You know I know it's a fan, right? Right?"
And I'd nod a knowing nod. I know Shea, I know.

After our discussion on the existence of fans, Shea decided that she wanted to take the lesson to the next level and get some tactile fan response. She reached out to touch it when it suddenly dawned on me: "Her hands are, like, super small!". I grabbed her arm just before she stuck her fingers between the rotating blades. Of course mom decided to poke her head in my room at this very moment. First she witnesses a stranger trying to feed her child bright pink pills, and now she's watching the same degenerate feed her child to a (woodchipper) fan. I was thinking of asking her if I could take a picture of Shea to put up for everyone to see, but I don't think now is the right time.

Shea's very cute and remarkably smart for a one year old. She is also fascinated by me. This is most likely because she: a) Doesn't know me that well and b) is one. I look forward to the coming weeks. I anticipate many discussions revolving around the properties of desks, lamps, books, and pillows. I also look forward to being a vigilant member of "Shea Watch" whenever I'm lounging in the living room. I think I've made a new friend.

I Couldn't Bring Myself to Hit an Old Lady. What Have I Become?

Andrew received his second piece of mail today in as many days and I'm jealous. The folks sent me a package three weeks before Christmas Day and were assured that I would receive it just before, or just after, that date. Soon after, a few friends got together and put together a care package which, shockingly, I have also yet to receive. I assume mailing something literally halfway around the world is a bit of an ordeal and attributed the delay to normal circumstances (ie. poor weather, busy holiday schedules, rogue elves, etc.). Chatting with Jimmy a few days ago revealed another explanation: Postal Thieves. I was informed that mail theft is quite a common occurrence in the Philippines.
"Did they send it FedEx?", Jimmy asked.
"Uh, no, I don't think so" I responded. "FedEx is kind of expensive".
"Oh no, no no no, see, they should have sent it FedEx. Much safer" Jimmy said with disappointment in his voice.
At that moment I felt angry and (possibly) ashamed. It felt as if I had brought this on myself. I should have known that Filipino postal workers were all crooked fuckers. Now, because of this oversight, I would quite possibly never receive my packages. No Christmas chocolate. No Christmas cards. No Christmas themed novelty hand buzzers. No nothing.

After slowly shaking my head for thirty seconds and staring through Jimmy, I concluded that he wasn't going to say psych! Christmas thieves existed. But hey, why wallow in self pity when I can explode on an English illiterate postal stooge? I took to the streets. There would be justice, or, at the very least, the perception of justice.

Pictured Left to Right: Karl Weathers, Matthew Walsh.

It's hard to get mad at an old lady. This made me even madder. I was being denied my earned right to throw a fit and toss a few F-bombs around. You absolutely cannot steal a man's Christmas themed novelty hand buzzers and expect civility. The very notion of such an idea is completely unreasonable. I had every intention of being a nuisance, yet here I was staring at an old lady postal worker and couldn't bring myself to make a scene, not even a little one. I bet she doesn't even work there. I bet management just throws her a few pesos to wear a postal uniform. She's paid to act all sweet and innocent, calming down the occasional angry lunatic. I bet the whole time they were running around the back room, giggling and buzzing each other, eating my Christmas chocolate and watching my Christmas porn. This isn't over.

In other news, I make my grand return in a little over a month. I've had a lot of fun over here, and I plan to have a lot more in the coming weeks. We are in the process of distributing our survey to marine tour operators across the island. We are also starting to interview government officials involved in the management of municipal tourism operations. Our travels will take us to the northern tip of Palawan: Coron and El Nido. El Nido is a huge tourist destination in Palawan and is one of the most photographed areas in all the Philippines. The whole town is basically one huge beach surrounded by an extensive archipelago of limestone cliffs that rise straight out of the water. It should be a good time.

With that being said, I am looking forward to going home. Although this has been my life for the past 5 months, it feels like a break from my "real" life. This just doesn't have the feel of being a part of my actual life, merely an aside. I already mentioned in an earlier post, that I'm not really sure as to what is in store next. I've decided that I'm going to get home and work from there. I have a few ideas floating around inside my head and am looking forward to pursuing some of them. However, right now I'm going to focus on two things: 1) Completing this project and 2) devising a way to make pile-driving a postal worker look accidental, or possibly, an act of self defense.

Left to Right: Matthew Walsh, Postal Worker, Postal Elephants.

Stay Inside Newfoundland; There's a Popcorn Blizzard on the Way

I was flipping through my notebook the other day and found an entry dated January 5th. I vaguely remember writing it in Tagbilaran. Tagbilaran is where my disease really hit the gas and started messing me up big-time. I was on a self-prescribed drug cocktail and, quite frankly, am very impressed I had the sense and clarity to form coherent sentences. Well, mostly coherent sentences anyway. For some reason I felt it was necessary to write "Rick Bozzo: Bassist of 'Popcorn Blizzard'" in the middle of the page. I have no idea who this Rick Bozzo character is, nor am I familiar with the music of Popcorn Blizzard, although I assume he is, and they are, terrible. A quick Google search confirmed that Mr. Bozzo was indeed the bassist of Popcorn Blizzard, a band once fronted by MeatLoaf in the late '60s. This confirms that: a) I am not completely insane but b) I am quite possibly going insane. The following composition is the rest of that entry.

Rick Bozzo? Really?

Since accepting the CIDA internship and moving to the Philippines I have learned a lot about myself. Some of my discoveries have been significant; others have been insignificant. One of my bigger discoveries has been that, when pushed, I can actually conceptualize and follow a plan. Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm a terrible planner. If given the choice between phoning ahead and booking that campground, ensuring a comfortable night next to a warm fire on a swath of groomed land, or playing "Say It Ain't So" 'one more time, I swear!', you can put your money on a flawless rendition of the Weezer classic and a cold night in the back of a Corolla. Faced with the very real possibility of spending the entirety of my Christmas vacation watching HBO and hating myself, and having no unbelievably patient girlfriend to baby me, I realized I needed to take some initiative. I booked flights, phoned hotels, visited tourist information booths, and explored cities. This might not sound too impressive because it isn't. It even isn't a little impressive. It's wholly unimpressive. But, for a man of my caliber, it's quite an accomplishment. And, I'd be lying if I said I was not a tiny bit proud of myself for actually following through with everything. I've achieved normality.

On second thought, I'm going to stop it here. The next half of the blog entry gets pretty odd. I guess the drug cocktail really kicked in at that point. I talk about nothing for four paragraphs and then it just ends. Guess I should have read the whole entry before starting to type it, eh? Pretty anticlimactic, huh? Sorry.

Well, I'm going to post this anyway. Pretty unprofessional stuff. Since I'm not a professional, I can be forgiven. At least you learned that Rick Bozzo was the bassist of Popcorn Blizzard. That's something, right?

I'll have something better next time. Or not. Get off my back.