The Buddha, a fruit sculpture and the ghost of an eel walk into Richard Nixon’s wedding

Today, while driving my scooter, I caught my pants on the teeth of an eel hanging out of a box on the back of someone else’s scooter.  Then a monk almost front-ended me because I was gob-smacked at the whole eel-thing and he was driving the wrong-way down a one-way street.  “What the fuck, monk?” I said. Ships passing in the night, that monk and I.  If I met The Buddha on the road and he was driving the wrong-way, I’d probably kill him.

 If I met The Bilbo, however, it’d be brown trousers-time

I attended a $50,000 USD wedding this week.  That may sound bush-league to those of you not in ‘Nam, but that kind of scratch can buy a lot dancing midgets out here.  You’ve not lived until you’ve seen people clad in expensive finery and tearing at something cooked on-the-hoof.  Man to man may be wolf, but nouveau riche Asians to corporeally-intact animal foodstuffs are Skeksis.

 I am offended by your bigotry, sir!

If you don’t believe me, check out the photographic evidence I’ve brought in order to bear upon you the truth of my words:

This is from the “making dead-shit look palatable” chapter in a book that hates you

I guess these photos don’t prove anything.  But, you can close your eyes and imagine people chewing with their mouths open and pulling this shit apart.  Go ahead.  Do that.  I’ll wait.  I’d imagine your reaction fell somewhere in between the pig’s “my face has been cooked and I’m vomiting” mask and the chicken’s “mid-wretch” horror-look.  Which means that the expression you’re wearing now is that toothy-fish’s “I can belch in disgust for 10 minutes” one.  You’re welcome.  

I will say this for the wedding’s decor: it was classier than hell.  Like, waaaay nice.  Up there with a Denny’s, an Outback or a Red Robin.  Check out these fruit and vegetable sculptures:


That shit’s legit; if you don’t believe me, check the caption.  That dragon on the right (I think that’s a phoenix or a peacock on the left) has a tongue made from an enormous chilli, which is all beer and Skittles until he gets too aggressive with the oral and that very same pepper snaps in half in some lady dragon’s nethers.  Consumers may experience a slight burning sensation.  Ha, ha!  

 People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden

Expats are usually dicks.  I’m a dick, anyway, and every motherfucker is exactly like me.  Everybody is always giving me unsolicited advice nestled in passive-aggresively-delivered anecdotes.  I drive a 1965 Vespa Sprint.  When Viet-Lifers see it they say, “yeah, I had one of those when I first got here, too,” shaking their heads piteously, or, “The idea of a Vespa is romantic, but they just break down too much.”  The subtext always being, ‘when you wise-up, you’ll do like I did.’  Maybe I like my shit breaking down?  Maybe I like having a relationship with my machine?  Maybe I like knowing how my bike works and having to pay attention to timetables for oil changes, cable replacements and pantsless riding?  Maybe I like being reminded how helpless I am without the marvels of modern technology?  I don’t wanna be a passive consumer who watches helplessly while his things break and he’s powerless to fix them.  I don’t want to be obliged to take my things (I loved every stick of furniture in that place!) to other people to fix them.  I want to have value beyond being a warm body when the zombies come, god’amnit.

…is a worm bun

I derive my sense of self from my ability to do things in and to my environment.  That’s mo’ better than using, say, financial or educational success, seeing as I am an enormous failure on both those counts (my present me is lazy, loves indulging and totally depends on future me to take care of all the tough stuff.  That’s Kool and The Gang until I find out that future me is an even worse piece of shit than present me).  So, I get by and I get to feel good about myself so long as shit rolls along smoothly.  I get to, once or twice a month, wrench my bike around and feel like an effective human being.  I get objective, immediate confirmation of my usefulness by way of my bike running and then I get to passive-aggressively relate an anecdote that makes people who aren’t doing what I’m doing look, somehow, below me.  That said, when I get the “yeah, I used to be a fucking idiot and drive one of those” mini-lectures, I just nod, smile and shrug my shoulders.  Every time I learn how to do something new I become more The Bridge To The Overman and every other sucker everywhere becomes more like somebody’s grandparents.  Fuck you, division of labor!

Homoerotic and exultant: me in a nutshell

I drew this today for my students when they needed (NEEDED) to know what a worm was:


Bringing art into your life

That’s a blog.

2 thoughts on “It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Plane To Cry

  1. Up yours Charlie… in a good way. Have a great Christmas!

    Love you man! By the way how the hell do you get rid of all the Gerbils?

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