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: