Sickness and health

December has been quite a brutal month. After finishing three important speeches (climate change, gender equity, and human security), I got terribly ill on December 10. That evening I was taken to the hospital by a UN colleague (who had good sense to convince me) and I stayed three days there hooked up to an IV. I had severe dehydration caused by food poisoning. Without going into lurid and disgusting detail, picture one of the scenes from the Exorcist, only in a much smaller room and no Catholic priests.

I stayed home for the rest of the week to recover and went back to work the following Monday, only to get sick AGAIN Tuesday. I was then “ordered” to go back to the doctor, who told me to stay home the rest of that week.
The UN building in Bangkok is due for electrical repairs, so all staff are “working from home” (bullshit) or are on leave. I’m in the latter category.

Now with my health on the upswing, I decided to join my friends in Laos for a bit of R and R, but guess what? Yep. Sick again. Hospitalized in Ubon Ratchathani for a bit and released this morning. ($%#k!)

If you’re counting, that’s SIX times. Six food poisonings in 8 months.

Tough business

I forgot how hard it is to maintain a proper blog when actually working for a living, versus going to graduate school. I thought I would do it as frequently as once or twice a week, but lately it’s looking like once a month. That’s not much news for family and friends who happen to sneak by.

This week, I am at this UNDAF Rollout Workshop at the Marriott. Nice hotel. Alot of big UN bureaucrats here–Country Directors, Regional Deputy Whatevers, Deputy Resident Representatives, Programme people, etc. And little old me. One communications guy. I think I am out of my element.

Oh well. The mission is to learn the lingo.

Scars

A friend of mine once posted a quote on his Skype “status” that reminded people not to worry about their scars. I nearly laughed and got angry at the same time. What the f%#k does he know about scars? His quote made me rumble under my breath everytime someone posted another pithy quote on their Facebook status or whatever–what the f%#k do these people know about the quotes they’re posting.

For me, scars are a major pain in the $#%. My scars are in words–they are other people’s words and they are my own words that are byproducts of yet uncontrolled anger.  It’s been three years. Three years. Aren’t these scars supposed to heal by now? Where’s the catchy little Facebook quote that is supposed to make me feel better?

I think a lot about things like this; perhaps it is because I am infinitely impatient or frustrated.  I’ve come to the conclusion that emotional scars never heal. The best topical ointment for their healing is new memories–memories that form a cloud over the older, more painful ones. Austria, Tbilisi, Bangkok. Of  course, these memories are just temporary relief. Eventually, you go back and those old scars will start to itch.

Please no quotes in response. That will just piss me off.

Male Code

I have wanted to do this for awhile. I’ve got a running list of items that belong in the” male code”, or at least the way I see it. I use these things as a  guide for being in the company of other regular guys, in just about any part of the world. These are things I have learned while in the company of my friends. I wrote this for on particular person I know. I hope he uses it, but I think it can be used by anyone. If you have others, I’m all ears.

1. Sports knowledge. It’s a rule. You have to know something about sports. Football, the other football, baseball, basketball…and so on. Do you know what a pick and roll is? A seeing-eye single? A hat trick? A can of corn? RBI? You better learn. You’ll feel weird and will look weird if you don’t.
2. Movie references. Same thing. It’s how people talk. This is so much harder in foreign countries. But everyone has seen Goodfellas or Gladiator. Now go get your fucking shine box.
3. No date movies. You cannot under any circumstances watch a date movie with another straight guy. It’s uncomfortable. If you realize this in the middle of the movie, you are obligated to walk out.
4. Drawing the line. You are allowed to poke fun at your friend, but if it hurts their feelings, you must know when to stop. Show some respect.
5. You cannot date your friend’s ex. Never. There is no time limit. It’s awkward.
6. Loyalty matters. You should always be loyal to a friend. No bullshit. No trashing your friend behind his back. It will come back to you.
7. Stand up for your friends. Male or female, you should always be in your friend’s corner. Someone pushes your friend around, you are obligated to put that @$$hole in a wall. Or at least get out of your chair and pretend that you will.
8. Be on guard around your sister’s boyfriend. They aren’t always your friend. You have to remind them that you have your eye on them. Family always comes first.
9. No “mom” jokes. Ever. Insulting your friend’s mother is off limits. That is a big-time sign of disrespect. You deserve what comes to you if you do. Momma jokes are just low-class.
10. You are obligated to drink, except for medical or religious reasons. If someone offers you a drink, take it. It’s disrespectful not to. You have to take at least a sip. I learned this one in Tbilisi. Even if you are on pills that combined with alcohol will do weird things, you have to at least take a sip. You can’t hold out forever.
11. Tobacco is still cool. You should like or tolerate tobacco smoke. Many people still smoke in many countries and tobacco is a great social lubricant…for the lack of a better word. Hookah, a Mac cigar, a puff of a cigarette…whatever. Smoke it or put up with it.
12. No Sunday Christians. While having faith is great, no one likes the pressure of conversion. If you ask me if I‘ve been saved. I’m leaving. Leave the Jesus speech at home. If you are in the company of a diverse group, you’d better think twice.
13. Listen. You are obligated as a friend to listen to your friend complain or talk. Spare the advice for the first hour.

Hurry Up and Wait

The moment people hear their plane is boarding, they rush to form a line. Flying domestic flights with Thai Airways often results in general boarding where anyone can get in line and board seat 66A before or after seat 3B.  That means a man with a single bag has to wait 5 minutes for a lady with a suitcase and 50 plastic bags of crap she bought at the Bazaar to get her stuff sorted and take her seat.

But that’s nothing compared to when people get off a plane. As soon as that fasten seatbelt sign comes off, people rush to get their bags. And again, it’s hurry up and wait.

What the $%@#?

It’s like people forget that they still have to wait for the guy in 3B before they can get their fat ass out of seat 66A.  But no.  They get their bags down quickly and form a little line toward the front of the plane, hoping things move a bit more quickly.

Sorry. The lady has to get her shit down from the luggage bin and organize it first before you can move on.

Sunday Dinner

This post is long overdue. Two weeks at least. On a Sunday night a few weekends back, a friend of mine invited a group of us to dinner at his new flat. A place that is about 3-4 times the size of my place, but just 2,500 baht more expensive.  As is culturally appropriate nearly the world over, my colleague and I decided to bring something. We settled on a 4-pack of Chang beer from the local 7-Eleven. Classy, I know.

My back had been bothering me, a problem that did not serve me well on my way up the 4 flights of stairs to his little penthouse. I tripped and knocked the beer bottles into the tiled staircase, cutting my hand. Unknowingly, I bled all over the beer and sadly, christened his new floor with my red blood.

Shit!

After the meal I realized that I forgot my apartment key. I locked myself out.  I thought, no big deal, I’ll just ask the security guard for the spare key in the lobby. After a long cab ride back, he was at a loss for the key. Not in the drawer. Not in the back office. He called the manager and the landlord, but by now it was 11:30pm.

Shit!

Then, a lightbulb went off in his head. Ah!! I followed him outside, past the ATM machine around the corner and the Canton Suki place. Just ahead was a tall Thai-woman walking slowly toward us. She was dressed to the nines: 5 or 6 inch stilettos, short skirt that reached nearly up the crack of her @$$. Hooker.

Shit!

Mind you, this is the same security guard that offered me meth. It isn’t out of the range of possibility that in my moment of despair, he would offer me a piece of ass as  consolation . The two talked for awhile and then–to my surprise–the hooker spoke. In perfect English. Maybe better than me.

She told me that the apartment owner would not be in until 10 the next morning and that I should seek accommodation somewhere until then.

Whew! Not with her!  No drugs!

My bloody hand and I stayed with my friend instead.

Price of Perfection

It’s hard to downplay something that dominates your life. For me, that’s PTSD. It was the biggest concern for me a year ago, and it remains so today. Granted, I now can recognize the reoccurring symptoms and come up with simple strategies for coping. Don’t go into crowded spaces. Don’t let anyone sneak up on me. Get as much sleep as possible. Meditate.

But there are things I just cannot control. I’m a perfectionist. I have an idea about how something should go and I aim to execute that vision successfully. The only problem with perfection is that nothing is ever perfect. An error can occur and will occur. Today I noticed my own mistake. I booked a TV reporter and crew to come on a field trip that he never would get to attend. He would arrive one day too late. It was a simple mistake, one that was corrected very quickly, but my frustration and anger at myself was almost too much for me to contain.

Was this all my fault? I am an idiot! Who else fucked up? What’s wrong with these people? Can we all not communicate?

But these are all the wrong questions to ask myself. The problem was fixed. No more worries. Learn from your mistake and adapt.  Implement a preventative measure for next time. Don’t seethe.

No place for children

Patpong is Bangkok’s Las Vegas–but without the corporate cash, huge building facades, or a billion- dollar advertising budget. Otherwise, it’s the place where Western men can come and ogle scantily clad Thai women in bikinis and hot pants. It’s also NOT the place for children.

Last night, after a good meal at an Ethiopian restaurant in Sukhumvit, it was suggested we walk through Patpong for the “experience.” Apparently, everyone has their Patpong story, from a “ping pong” show to putting on “your game face” for the long walk through the risqué blocks. After about an hour of sightseeing, we went to the “Happy Beer Garden” (great name, not much else) to toss back a few. The place is typical for this part of Bangkok. The bargirl dressed in a silky dress with the Chang or Heineken across the breast and the occasional sex worker hovering just around the corner.

At the small tables in front of us, two Dutch or South African men were working their best lines on the local Thai ladies. To the right, a spectacled guy tried his best to get this woman to come home with him.  He put his arm around her, gave a lot of one arm hugs, stroked her hair, etc. Pretty disgusting stuff. He struck out.

Later, a little girl came by selling flowers. She sold all but 4 or 5. She sat down at the empty booth to my left and started drawing pictures on a little tablet. A tall, chubby middle-aged man was chatting up a number of bar employees nearby. He then sat down next to the girl and I got nervous. I’ve heard stories about Western men and underage kids in Cambodia, Laos, and the slums of Bangkok. This one looked just as creepy.

When he took a piece of ice and started rubbing it on her arm, red flags went up and I got angry. I expressed my discomfort to my friends. When he kissed her little palm I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stood up and said, “I’m going to go talk to this fucking guy.”

My friend Nery blocked my path with his knee and said, “This isn’t your problem.”

His response enraged me, but I did nothing. This is where my American values clash with cultural norms, but I just don’t care. I wanted to kick this guy’s ass. There should be no place in any society for the exploitation of children by fat sleazy men. Period. I don’t care if I am imposing my values or not.

In what I think was a compromise, the waitress told me she would tell the girl to sit somewhere else even though she expressed to us that the man was a “friend of her sister.” Something like that. Sounds more like a creepy Uncle you really don’t want around.

I was hot. I stared at that guy for the rest of the night, just hoping Nery would lose some of his resolve and I could make some terrible scene. I did not care about the consequences. Values trump consequences here.

No more Patpong for me. I can’t handle it.

A bad day

Just a quick update. Monday was a terrible day. I learned that in the pressure to get a Thai language press release out the door, I might have made a Thai co-worker cry. I’m such an ass.

Second, that same “kind” security guard who invited me to watch the 2010 World Cup with him also invited me to do something that resembled methamphetamine with him last night. To say the least, I was creeped out, if not completely pissed off.  On the one hand I’m a jerk, and on the other hand I’m too nice, that even meth-addicted security guards will invite me to do a hit.

Birthday Prank

I like my office.  It may be a cubicle, but it is less of a tomb than some of the others. It’s got a big window with a view of the city and the Royal Thai Army HQ below. It’s also spacious. A few weeks ago, I bristled when someone mentioned that there would be an office rearrangement sometime in the second half of the year. Upon the mention that I might end up where the previous communication officer was, a triangular shaped desk next to the color copier. Basically, it’s the shittiest place in the whole office.

So as my birthday arrived, my office colleagues decided to play a prank on me.Two or three weeks removed from any talk about that cursed desk, the Programme Support person came to see me (with a suspicious looking paper in hand). She said that we would be moving the office around and my direct supervisor, the Country Office No. 2,  signed off on the rearrangement. To say the least, I was devastated. I really didn’t say much, but I didn’t blow my lid.

On the other side of the office, my co-workers were gathering to break the news to me that this was merely a prank. Soon enough, they emerged to reveal their hoax. All I could say was, “You are evil.” Over and over.

They presented me with a signed aviator style motorcycle helmet, which I will put to good use. Now I hope that this little hoax is a shield against being moved. It would be in bad taste to joke about something, then a bit later go ahead with the same thing you joked about doing. This should buy me some immunity, or at least another windowed workspace.

Nevertheless, thank you to all of you who conceived of this elaborate hoax and for celebrating my birthday with me. It’s nice to have such supportive co-workers.