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.

Today we Mourn a Legend

Well the old bastard finally did it. He up and died on us. Tigger out.

In true Tigger fashion he went out in a blaze of extravagance. Dad let the cat out around 9:00 am for his daily prowl and when he let him back in at 12:00 pm for a refueling he noticed that one of his front paws was limp and dangling. Dad figured the cat had somehow managed to break his leg. The folks brought Tigger to the vet and were told that a blood clot developed in his leg. This clot would soon travel to his heart and there was really nothing that could be done about it. Even in the short time between letting the cat back into the house and arriving at the vet his condition had deteriorated. The vet said he probably wouldn't last another day. He was in a lot of pain so the decision was made to put him down.

I knew this would happen; I even said as much to my family before I left for the Philippines. I'm sad that he died, but more than anything, I'm just disappointed I never got to see him again. He was (by a large margin) the best cat we ever had. It's crazy to even think of a time when Tigger wasn't loafing around, kicking the shit out of other cats, or costing the folks more money than he was probably worth in surgeries and medications. In short, he was awesome.

At least he picked a good time to die. Dave and Andrea were taking care of him over Christmas while the folks were visiting my sister in Alberta. If he had of died during that week I'm pretty sure it would have traumatized Andrea. Racked with guilt over somehow unconsciously willing an embolism, she would become withdrawn and reflective. What could I have done differently? are we unfit caregivers? Was it the food? Her search would lead her to look in the bottom of a bottle for answers. After a few weeks of showing up to work shamefully drunk management would have no choice but to terminate her position. All of this pressure would put a strain on her marriage, eventually forcing Dave to file for divorce citing 'drunken lunatic' as the cause. So, I guess you could argue that Tigger really saved Dave and Andrea's marriage. That's just the kind of cat he was.

I'll end this with a few Tigger facts:

• He was gigantic.
• I was told he had, and I quote, "Excellent bone structure". Actually, one of the few worthwhile things that ever came out of Steph's mouth.
  
• He's had many nicknames over the years including Tiggs, Tiggy, Wigger, and my favorite That Fuckin Cat. Like his actual name, he responded to none.
• He nearly killed Pat on two separate occasions. The first day we brought him home was coincidentally the first time Pat slept over to my house. Pat was deathly allergic to cats and suffered through the night. Years later Pat stepped on his tail and the top of the kitchen stairs, an action Tigger never truly forgave him for. Bad blood remains to this day.
• He drank from the bathtub.
  
• I'm not entirely convinced he wasn't a guy in a suit.
• I loved him and will miss him.

I tried to give him a 'gas pedal' but was too slow.

Back in the Puerto Princesa Groove.

After almost three weeks of traveling around the Philippines I'm back to my home away from home: Puerto Princesa. And boy am I glad to be back. Traveling has been fun, and I've had some amazing experiences, but it has also been exhausting. For the second time in as many months I woke up today feeling like complete and utter human garbage. At some point between 11:00 pm last night and 9:00 am this morning a virus infiltrated my shitty immune system and began setting up factories, the biggest of which is jammed in my sinus cavity. I'm actually fairly curious as to how I went to sleep feeling perfectly healthy and woke up feeling like a failed genetic experiment (Alright, let's subtract the nose, add a few pounds to the head, and thin out that throat. Ok, stand back). I'm equally curious as to why I keep getting sick in the first place, although I do have a pretty good idea. Besides the fact that my immune system should be renamed the honor system (Now don't you cause trouble again, influenza. I mean it this time buster!), all the cities I've traveled to are completely and totally filthy. I realize this is a developing country; I'm not passing judgment, just stating the facts. The streets aren't exactly paved with gold in St. John's*, but they aren't paved with garbage, dog shit, and the occasional unlucky homeless person either. Touching anything is pretty much an invitation to all sorts of nasty things that are begging to call you home. Even breathing is hazardous. The cities are so congested and polluted that I blew my nose a few days ago and the product was jet black. Being a celebrity isn't all it's cracked up to be either. With my status as 'White Guy' I have to shake a lot of hands and kiss a few babies now and then. This is not conducive to good health. The combination of filth, unfit air, human contact, and an open door policy immune system equals: I'm lucky I'm not dead yet.

Needless to say, I wasn't quite as reflective this morning and mumbled "Fuck sakes" when I couldn't swallow. I didn't have any cold medication so I took some antibiotics I had lying around and two extra strength allergy pills, the drowsy kind. After checking out of the hotel in Cebu City I hopped in a taxi and arrived at the airport where I took a flight back to Puerto Princesa. Just to add to my misery, the change in pressure on our descent into Puerto completely screwed up my ears. Typing this in my room, it sounds like I'm underwater. When I speak I can't hear myself very well, and must go between phases of talking much too soft and much too loud, because I get alternating responses of "What?" and shocked 'No Need to Yell' faces.

All this bullshit aside, it feels really good to be back 'home'. It's so strange how after only a few short months a completely foreign atmosphere becomes yours. I remember arriving here four months ago, stepping into my pink little cell and thinking "Ugh". Today I thought "Ahhhh...home at last". It's amazing how easily I have adopted this building as my home, although it really shouldn't surprise me I suppose. I mean it is my home. These are my four walls; my noisy fan; my cluttered desk; my tiny bed; my pet lizard; and my Meth-Cat**. I've carved out a little niche for myself in this room that's mine and mine alone, and, to tell you the truth, I'll be a little sad to see it go.

Speaking of carving out niches, I really should have really staked some kind of claim on the bathroom across the hall. I arrived home this afternoon to find the bathroom completely filled with toiletries and laundry. There were a bunch of toothbrushes, soaps, and shampoos, a shaving kit, and women's underwear hanging on the miniature clothesline. I later met the man, woman, and baby that are occupying the room next to me. They moved in about 2 weeks ago and, upon not seeing anyone else use the bathroom, moved in. I was talking to the man for a bit today (a big Australian with full body tattoos and a ponytail) and he told me they plan to stay for at least one month. That means I have to get use to having dirty panties in my face whenever I take a seat. I also have to get used to standing on a wet floor whenever I take a piss. Filipinos treat bathrooms (or comfort rooms as they call them) like bathtubs. That is to say, the floor of every bathroom is equipped with a drain, and for good reason. Many towns in the Philippines still do not have running water, so in order to get clean "bucket baths" are taken. Bucket baths are exactly what they sounds like: you squat in a bucket and pour water over yourself while lathering up. Even though most modern buildings have showering facilities, some Filipinos must prefer the bucket bath method. I guess the woman is a firm adherent to the good 'ol days because the bathroom floor was absolutely soaked when I went to use it today. If I had my time back I would've put a toothbrush of my own in there, or maybe one of those sampler's with a cute phrase like "If you dribble when you piddle be a dear and wipe the seat", autographed Matthew Walsh with a picture of me using the bathroom and the caption "I live next door" under it.


Well it's getting late and I'm getting sleepy. I apologize for the lack of any visuals to accompany my recent walls of text. I'll try to spice the next blog entry up with a few pictures. In the meantime you can check out my FaceBook profile. I'll be uploading Christmas vacation pics over the next few days.

Thanks for reading.

* It's common knowledge that roads in St. John's are paved with an Oreo/Elmer's Glue mixture, concocted by the St. John's City Council, in order to save a buck.

** My Meth-Cat in the same sense that this cold is my disease and my problem.

"ARRRGGGHHH. HE HIT IT A TON!!!!!"

I didn't have Internet access for, like, four days and look what happens. I don't have my usual medium for expressing my adventures, frustrations, and wacky hijinx ("Oh Walsh, that crazy rascal. What will we do with him?" *exaggerated eye roll melting into smug knowing smirk followed by a slow crossing of the arms and a slight shaking of the head*) so I have to go out and buy a notebook and pen from a shady 7-11 at 1:00 am, dodging pimps and straight arming hookers all the way. It's a good thing I was a quarterback sex God in high school or I might not have made it back to write my tales in antiquated longhand, like a savage, for you and me and him to enjoy. It's a rough old world out there. Luckily, I'm back in here. Better luck next time little-kid-trying-to-steal-my-banana-kid. I'm serious; along with the bums, hookers, lady-boys and other lowlifes, that kid exists. He really wanted my banana, but I wanted it more. He was hungry, but only in his stomach. I was hungry in my heart. Plus, I'm trying to stay regular. No one is coming between me and my regularity. No one.

So as I was saying before that fun little tangent, I purchased a notebook, a pen, and a grey hot dog from the 7-11. My last post was actually a modified version of my notebook original that I wrote that same night. What I present to you now is a dialogue from my notebook. What you are about to read happened as it is written. I've tried my best not to exaggerate for comedic value and have remained faithful to the spirit of the conversations. The paraphrasing present is minimal and exists at all because of my extraordinarily shitty memory.

Before reading this you should understand that I had an unreasonable amount of angry in my system at the time. Although everything happened as written, I admit I was incredibly irate that day. After reading Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant", and being a hypochondriac, I chalk it up to rabies. When I get back to Nagtabon beach I'm crushing that puppies head with a coconut. Lick my hand?! Who does he think he is? He'll be a memory soon enough.

Without further adieu:

An Angry Young Man

Purchasing a raincoat and an apple in Legaspi is the equivalent of atomic rocket surgery, or something.

It's quite difficult.

I'm waiting in line for the supermarket/department Legaspi mega-store for 10 minutes and the bag check guy is staring at me like I'm an endangered white rhino with a pistol to his grandmother's head. They don't get a lot of tourists in Legaspi. You can probably understand it's even more frustrating, after his thorough gape, that when I get to the counter and place my book bag in front of him he just shakes his head. I stare back, bag in extended arm, "What?"

"All bags must be checked at the front gate."

"Why can't you check it?"

"All bags must be checked at the front gate."

"*sigh* Where's the front gate?"

"In the front."

"..."

"..."

"...Where is the front?"

*He points*

"Excellent."

I go outside, find the front gate, come back inside, go into the store, and encounter a clerk.

"Excuse me, where can I find a raincoat?"

"...Third floor?"

"Uh, thanks?"

I go to the third floor and encounter another clerk.

"Hey there, where can I find a raincoat?"

"First floor."

"Great."

I go back to the first floor and encounter yet another clerk. I'm done with formalities.

"I need a raincoat."

"Ummmmmmm..... *stares at floor*"

"Ok."

Fourth person:

"Raincoat"

"Follow me sir."

She leads me to the raincoat section (yes, a whole section) and, after determining that yes I want a medium coat but no not in slut pink, I purchase my coat and leave.

Estimated time taken: 20 minutes.

I grumble my way to the supermarket and start looking for apples. I find a few beauties and make my way to one of the many ridiculously crowded registers, picking up a few impulse items on the way. I stand in a line and it doesn't move an inch for a good 6-7 minutes. I turn to the lady behind me:

"Excuse me, is there a faster line?"

"What?"

"I mean, is there an express line...I only have a few items."

*The little kid riding in the cart ahead of me kicks me in the ass, hard*

"....That's my sister." And she points to some random lady. I'm 100% serious. That's how she answered my question. I felt like saying:

"What? What?! Your sist--. I don't care! I don't fucking care!! Why would I care?! Jeeeeeeesus missus... 'That's my sister'. You tit."

Instead?

"That's fine", and I put my basket down and walked away.

end scene

Legaspi really tested my patience. Like really really. I have a relatively low tolerance for people, and in general don't like them, but, like I said, that day it was probably mostly the rabies. Actually, that reminds me of a little kid who was rabid for my banana. I'll have to tell you guys that one some time.

Peace out.

P.S. For Davis:

"You know? Mickey Mantle? Arrrrggggh!!! HE HIT IT A TON!!!!"

* For those interested, that's Gene Hackman trying to hit an apple with a chicken leg.