Do They Know It's Christmas?

I woke up this morning with the ladies in my bed doing something totally freaky to me (I’ll never look at sambal the same way). When the physical arts and pleasures had concluded, I asked on the occasion of such inspired passion. The women told me it was a Christmas gift, since I would be leaving town soon. Christmas? 

Since retiring from sports, moving to the tropics, going native, and then becoming the leader of a humble village, my consciousness has transformed. I no longer think of seasons as being “spring, summer, winter and fall”; there are only wet and dry. I know time has passed when I see that my muscles have grown. That is enough, as long as there are plenty amounts of rice.

Yes, I also lost the capacity to understand numbers since going native. There are only amounts – some are more comfortable and sexy than others. Aloneness is not good. Amounts of ladies are great. How many are in my bed each morning? I have no idea. I can’t count them. Seriously, there are only amounts. What is important is that the amounts of women are right and appropriate for the village leader. 

Besides forgetting the meaning of seasons and numbers (and how to count), I’ve forgotten about Christmas. When everyday is hot and rice is always plenty and amounts of women – often from the cities too – how would I ever know when it is or isn't Christmas. I’ve noticed that in my afterlove sweat, more bugs have been getting in my ears. Is there a connection between these bugs in my ears and Christmas? Maybe. 

These rambling thoughts prove that those singers in the 80s were right to ask if people in the Third World knew it was Christmas. The answer is that we don’t. We have no idea because we don’t count or keep time like you moderns. 

We don't know it's Christmas time.

So give us food. Let us know it’s Christmas time. I’ve eaten so many amounts of rice, it would be nice to have some amounts of burgers and pizza and shit. Oh and wine would be nice. Amounts of it!

Seriously, let us know it’s Christmas time.

(This is me in the 80s in Africa - my village now is in Java)

Asian Fridge

Magic happens when you have an Asian fridge.

Me and Bryan Adams

Bryan Adams and I have been pretty good friends for a long time.  Bryan even asked me to help him write the theme song for the Canadian Olympics some years back.  We wrote this awesome song in celebration of Canada called, "Jam-anada," but then Nelly Furtado came along and bumped me from the project.  The end result: "Bang the Drum," which actually kind of rocks once you go through it a couple times.

Not much of a story, but I thought I would share it since I'd been thinking of some lyrics from another of Bryan's songs: "Have you ever really loved a woman." After a night of partying and deep philosophical discussion, Bryan and I agreed that "Have you ever really loved a woman" was his opus:

My favorite sequence with my critique in parentheses:

When you love a woman you tell her that she’s really woman
     (Show don't tell.  When I love a woman, I show her she's really a woman)
When you love a woman you tell her that she’s the one
     (Again, one must show her she's the one, although one-ness can be fleeting)
She needs somebody to tell her that it’s gonna last forever
     (I need at least about four women in the room with me if I'm even going to get near to
     lasting forever)
So tell me have you ever really really, really ever loved a woman?
     (Perfect line.)

Jogging

This seems to happen to me a lot wherever I live.  I go out for an evening jog, and - as the villagers see me running - children group all around and run with me like I'm Muhammad Ali or something.  Tonight was no different.  The children and I ran through the dusty, chicken-lined lanes of the villages, while the men shouted, "Hey Misterrrrr," and the ladies sighed, "Astaga! Chimichanga!"

After the cheering and high-fives and celebration dance, I have very little energy to run any further.  Here is a picture of some goats.

My Straws

Here are my straws. I keep then in a plastic holder for a glass (in picture) that was given to me as a wedding souvenir.  They are kept on a dresser with my fake roses (to keep things classy) next to my flatscreen (high class).  Someday I'll have fake roses in each of my rooms.

I write about straws because in the midst of a long, heated walk today, I stopped in a store for a can of Fanta lemon. I was stoked when I found a really cold one in the back of the fridge, but I didn't see any straws. Like any pampered Westerner, I'm afraid to put my million-dollar mouth on a dirty, third-world can, so I asked the lady at the register where I might find a straw. She pointed to a spot next to the fridge, and then called to another lady-employee standing by the fridge to grab me a straw.

This second lady took her fingers out of her nose and began reaching for the straws. Yes. She was picking her nose. Sensing an imminent disaster I flew to the straws and grabbed one before her snot fingers could ruin straws for me, forever.

Everything turned out fine. I got my straw, drank my soda, and then made love to both these employees. Chimichanga Freud has had better days, but this one was pretty good.

In the ladies' car

I didn't mean to ride the Ladies' Car - I didn't mean to even get on the train - but the ladies pulled me in and then the party began...  It is the Ladies' Car to the everyone here, but I will always remember it as I saw it, as the Crazy Naked Ladies' Car.

The Goat

This is not about the G.O.A.T.  This is about dinner.  I said I wanted to eat a goat.  The people made it happen.

Before:

 After:

The Unwritten Legend of Abu Masker

Known to once walk in the same circles as the Moiliili Jackal, I woke up one morning with Abu Masker going through some documents in my desk.  Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was slower than normal after a long night haunted by the incessant bangs of the erupting volcano, but Masker was able to leap out the window before I could grab him.  Everyone knows that Abu Masker always wears sanitation masks, being an infamous germophobe, which was the perfect disguise on this morning when ash clouds choked the small town.  I looked everywhere, but any of these people could have been him.  Another mystery...  how is this related to the Jackal?  Two hours later, I received orders from headquarters telling me that the conditions of the volcano made it necessary to leave.  Maskar may now have free reign in Yogyakarta, but there are greater dangers.

Bike Ride between Yogyakarta to Solo

My bike didn't have one of those nice dips in the seat to nest my unmentionables. It was a painful, yet rewarding trip.

 Quite the splosion.  Here it is beginning to calm down...  but my drama with the bike seat continued.

Hey!  I see you!

The Moiliili Jackal - A Review of Crime

1. The Library

The library here is fine, whatever. There are books and homeless people eating food and bathing themselves in the bathrooms. The real reason I'm here is because because this is one of the Moilili Jackal's regular hangouts. Having had two friends have bike tires stolen from in front of this library by the Moiliili Jackal, I decided to stake out the area, placing a bait bicycle in full view. I didn't have to wait long before I noticed a shadowy figure whose face was partially concealed with a scarf removing the front tire on the bait bike, and casually walking away. Knowing this was my chance to finally catch the Moiliili Jackal, I leaped upon him. The word on the streets was that the Moiliili Jackal was quick with the knife, but I was ready and easily disarmed him. Yet, suddenly there was a flash and a ringing sound. I don't remember much after that. My thoughts are still quite scattered. I remember the sound of the birds--bulbuls nearby. The image of a Swedish bikini model seemed to linger in my mind. On the ground where I lay, slowly regaining consciousness, beside the bait bike now missing a tire, was a candle stick. What was going on? Had the Moiliili Jackal got the best of me again?


2. The bar called Varsity

The year is 2001 and this place is called Magoos. The tables are picnic style and the beer is cheap. Social Distortion is playing on the juke box. The door is broken to the bathroom so everyone nearby can see your junk if you want to pee. A woman sharing our table vomits into a half-full pitcher of bud light and two guys help her out, each hoping that to take this vomit-breathed woman home. Ten minutes later, there is a fight; tables are knocked over, arms are swinging, and bouncers are flying in. Those were tough years, but we had a republican m'fkin president and we all had to learn to fight. You go to McD's, you bring your knife. You hit up Bubbies, you better have some throwing stars or nunchucks to protect yourself and the people around you.

Now it is 2010 and the place is called Varsity. The beer isn't very cheap anymore. Actually, anything worth drinking is quite expensive. The bathroom door is fixed, but now the urinals are so densely packed that I'm afraid that someone will piss on me next time I enter. Amazingly, Social Distortion is still playing on the juke, but Social D sucked in 2001 and they still suck now. Please world. Stop playing this junk in public! No vomit to report this time, but there was a dude getting all crazy and dangerous with my entourage of women. When I drew my crossbow to help keep the peace, a bouncer was suddenly all up in my shizz, and I was asked to leave.

The times have changed, but I don't feel any safer not being able to protect myself with exotic, imported weapons. Luckily my limo was waiting outside, so me and my ladies were able to have a crazy hot tub party in the mansion. The real question is, if I have a mansion, a hot tub, a full arsenal of exotic weapons, a gaggle of hot women following me everywhere, and a stereo, what the hell was I doing at Varsity? That is a mystery only myself and maybe the Moiliili Jackal can answer.


3. Pyramids - A Restaurant with Food

The food here is pretty good, especially if you don't set your standards too high. I like to hit up the all you can eat lunch, which is a nice value at around $9. I came here while tracking my enemy, the Moiliili Jackal, after I'd received a tip that he had eaten there. When I arrived, the waitress mentioned that there was a mysterious individual who left maybe only ten minutes before I arrived. It was then that I learned about another of the Moiliili Jackal's crimes. The Jackal demanded a box to take the food home. Because the employees were frightened, they complied, but this story confirmed to me that I was dealing with a true madman. Who asks for a box at a buffet? That's like taking pictures at a strip bar. Insane!


4. Hitting the Streets in Little Seoul

Five bicycles were vandalized in Moiliili last night--all at the hands of the Moiliili Jackal. It would have been six had I not arrived, but the night was not a total success. I had been eating here with some friends--the meat was solid, kimchi pancake was rocking, kimchi soup was hitting the spot, and the byob was getting me tipsy. I come here for the outdoor seating and mellow parking lot vibes. Tonight the parking lot was going off--it looked like the outside of a Motley Crue show, with dudes drinking booze while working on their trucks and kids running around in between cars with jugs of rum. That gets me to the Moiliili Jackal... When I returned home I saw something suspicious down the street. That familiar shadowy figure of the Moiliili Jackal, messing around with some bike. I had no weapons with me, but an unopened can of beer, which hit the crook on the head when I threw it. The Jackal knew I had his number, so he left the bike to try to run away. Being a former track star and Olympic alternate, this would be an easy catch for me if I hadn't eaten all that self-grilled meat. The Moiliili Jackal got away this time--I still have yet to get a good look at his face, but if you happen to see some dude with a big bruise on their forehead from being hit by a beer can, let Chimichanga know. Our bikes must be safe. On a side note, the beer I hit the Jackal with didn't break, so I shotgunned it before heading home. No need to waste a good beer.


5. A break at 7eleven

This place is NASTY! Sticky door handles, all the way. Luckily I used a napkin to protect my hand, but it got partially stuck on the handle. GROSS! I staked out the area here, looking for the Moililiili Jackal, while jamming on some Slurpess 90s-style. Since this is the closest 7 Eleven to the nearby caves, I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious going on. Unfortunately, everyone who walked in was suspicious looking. They were all either high, partially naked, heavily armed, or had offensive goatees. I'm beginning to wonder if I can defeat the Jackal. Life in the underbelly of society is taking its toll.


6. The descent - Manoa Gardens

The booze here is cheap, but I'm not sure it makes up for the lame outdoor seating. Don't get me started on the indoor seating or the genital germs all over the door handles on the place. I was here investigating the Moiliili Jackal, the most notorious bike thief in the world, and i had a good lead. A man with a parrot was sitting nearby. He told me that when he went inside to use the restroom, the front tire of his bicycle was missing when he returned. The parrot, which he left outside, saw the whole thing, but under questioning it would only say one thing, "Ala Wai. Ala Wai ..."

Does the Ala Wai canal have something to do with these bike thefts? I couldn't figure it out so I did some Jager shots with some young co-eds at the bar. Before long we were back at my suite. One girl seemed tired, perhaps because she wasn't getting attention, so she left, leaving me alone with two other ladies. We took a rare drug made of flowerpot snake venom, which I brought back from a feather gathering trip in the Hebrides islands.

As the three of us began to make entoxicated love I noticed that one particularly exotic woman had a tattoo of the Ala Wai canal on her lower back. I was intrigued, but the effects of the drug were too strong. The next thing I remember was waking up and noticing my suite had been burglarized. Not only were my files scattered about the room, but also the tires had been removed from my bicycle. The jackal had been in my suite, but I was too out of it to notice. The only thing to do was to track down those ladies. I went back to Manoa Gardens for some Jager shots and enjoyed some surprisingly crispy fries.


7. The descent - Anasia

Stopped by Anasia because I heard the woman with the tattoo of the Ala Wai canal on her lower back had been around. I can't get that tattoo out of my head: it had the canal, the McCully bridge, the park, golf course, and jogging path. The whole thing was monstrous in its detail--really the idea of a woman with an Ala Wai canal tattoo is enough to kill any libido, but there was something mysterious and alluring about this woman who, with her playful friend, came to my suite a couple nights back. Why can't I get her out of my head? Because of her, the Moiliili Jackal robbed me--he took my bike tires and all my pants, except the pair I was wearing, which is in need of a good wash right now.

My favorite night at Anasia is Sunday because they have the Bud Light and Jager specials, but any night will do. The crowd is mellow, and I've seen karaoke, heineken girls with prizes, and working girls work the room. Everyone is always in a good mood, because the booze is cheap enough so you can drink hard. These are my people.

In addition to the drinks I consumed some shark hormones given to me from a friend who had just returned from a month at sea. My mind was scrambled and I managed to spill a whole tray of Patron shots on my lap. As the tequila settled, I noticed the outline of a drawing of the Ala Wai canal appear in my pants--someone had used wax to imprint this pattern onto them. What did this mean? Was this a map or a joke?


8. The descent - Ala Wai Canal

The nights have been a blur as my hunt for the Moiliili Jackal has intensified. A couple weekends back, I managed to create enough of a stir around town that no bikes were stolen. Instead of retreating, the Jackal has hit the neighborhood hard. Not only are many more bikes missing, but I've been assaulted, drugged, my fish has been murdered, I had an unfortunate run-in with the McCully Street Gang, and I've made out with lots of women.

I went to the Ala Wai Canal to honor my poor fish (Harris, such a good and decent fish!) by releasing his body into the water. After letting him go, I noticed a woman watching me. She looked like a young woman with whom I enjoyed the royal pleasures next to the dumpster by the Burger King a couple nights back, so I approached her and took her home.

After a night of sweet love making, I awoke to find that this woman had been murdered while we were sleeping. It was probably the Jackal, or that woman with the Ala Wai Canal tattoo. I couldn't tell if I was drugged or not, but this didn't look good. It looked like the Jackal had me this time. I called my friend, a underground fix-it guy, and within a couple hours, he had me boarding a plane to Singapore with a group of homeless men--part of Lingle's new anti-homeless policy--and then I was gone.

It looks like the Jackal won this battle. My friend says that I have to be gone at least a year, in order for the murder in my apartment thing to blow over. So now the Jackal has free reign, as I settle into a lodging in East Java. As sad as I am about all the bikes that will be vandalized in this year, loss of life has taken its toll. I'm not sure I can ever recover from the trauma and resume my rapping career. I've canceled my tour and I'm just laying low.

As I finish my last review for some time, I should note that the woman with the Ala Wai Canal tattoo sat next to me on my plane out of town. I'm not sure if she works for the Jackal or if she's in love with me, but we've taken to living together. Somehow she knows about my interest in rare and exotic feathers, and has kept me occupied with a variety of feather collectors from around Southeast Asia. Maybe someday she'll kill me, and maybe I'll deserve it, but she is really really hot, and I dig her tattoo and feathers.

Ubud Nights

When I left the cafe, the wheels were missing on my bicycle. The Ubud Jackal had struck again.

In the last two years hundreds of bicycles have been stolen, stripped, or vandalized in some way by the Jackal. I always thought he was merely an urban legend, a specter thought up to explain the rash of damaged bikes around town, until I stumbled upon him in action one unlucky night.

Months later, I still have scratch and burn marks. The funny thing is, even after his attack, I never got a clear look at his face.

I visited a lead at the Kuta mall. A small-time bicycle part dealer on the side, A.C. Slater was sitting at his electronics stand when I arrived. Upon my mentioning the Jackal he leapt into a sprint. I shouldn’t have caught him, but a group of women fearfully eyeing the escalator entrance obstructed Slater’s escape.

“Give it up—before it gets ugly,” Slater sneered as I pressed him against the wall.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. Don’t want to know. We—he communicated by notes. He told me where the parts were, and I’d leave the money. There’s a warehouse, but I promise the place is clean.”

I arrived at a small abandoned warehouse just before sunset. Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right. I felt it in my feet. The ground was loose—too loose. I dug a little with my hands and found a set of handlebars. Another area of ground seemed similarly loose. I went there and found a wheel.

A bicycle graveyard. The Jackal was more demented than I thought. Stealing parts for the black market is one thing, but it was another thing to bury bike components like chopped human body parts.

Suddenly I felt heat across my forehead. A razor. He’d snuck up from behind. The gash was not dangerous, but bloody. I couldn’t see him leave through the blood in my eyes.

I began to understand. He didn’t care about money—only power. Power over the hearts and minds of Ubud’s people. Power to make the night restless.