So, yeah. Here I am in Thailand. Why? Sometimes, when a man gets round trip tickets to the other side of the world for less than $600, a man’s just gotta go, you know?
I’ve been here once before, two years ago. And now I’m back.
This place stinks. It smells like trash and durian and fetid tropical dumpsters. It’s too hot. It’s more humid than a sauna. The traffic is insane. It’s filthy. I fantasize about running rampant through the streets with a pressure washer. There are staggering levels of poverty on display. The pavement is uneven. Buildings are thrown together. Everything is falling apart.
The Thai people are wonderful, gracious human beings, but the tourists are the biggest bunch of assholes you’ll ever want to meet. Snobby douchebag backpackers in paisley parachute pants and dreadlocks, do you even yoga, bro? Annoying flocks of Chinese grandmothers. Subtly condescending European retirees on holiday. Bald, troll-like German expat whoremongers in tank-tops with hairy shoulders. Loud, stupid drunk Australian teenagers.
So why do I love this place? I don’t know.
There’s something about this crazy, ancient city that keeps me coming back.
As usual, when I travel, I am surprised at what a solitary endeavor it is for me. I’m too old and square for the backpackers. I’m too young for the retirees. I have too much dignity for the whoremongers. I’m too introverted for the party crowd. So why am I even here?
This place is hard to explain. It is so many extremes, so many contradictions. So organic. It’s like what a city might be if nobody were in charge, and yet, somehow, it all just worked. It’s chaos, all the self-organizing splendor of a flock of birds or an ant’s nest. I’ve never met a friendlier people. It boggles my mind, how these locals, after being inundated with hordes of brash, ignorant tourists (not excluding myself) for generations, can continue to be so damned nice.
And so, even if I’m usually keeping my own company, even if I’m just reading a book and drinking a cappuccino in one of the hundreds of little coffee shops and restaurants in the old city and watching the world move by, like a post in a stream, somehow I just enjoy being a part of it.
Cheap food, cheap beer, cheap coffee. Wonderful, gracious, welcoming locals. A beautiful, vibrant culture.Thai massage for ten dollars an hour. No, not that kind of massage. An ancient, living city that manages to somehow be completely frantic and completely laid-back at the same time.
I haven’t explained it half as well as I’d like to, but I’m hungry and I need to go get some pad see ew for the equivalent of three dollars American.
Matt apologizes for the lack of posts and comment replies. He has been stuck in a flying death tube for 20 hours, and now needs to shower and eat. More updates to follow.
Artist’s statement: Matt Kincade uses vivid imagery, rhythm, and rhyming words written on paper to embody his inability to take himself, or life, or anything, all that seriously.
An Ode to Coffee, by Matt Kincade
Oh coffee, my lovely, my wonderful drug,
You’re beautiful steaming there inside my mug.
When, in the morning, I wish I was dead
The thought of you, baby, gets me out of bed.
So bitter and black
You’re my liquid crack
The welcome monkey on my back.
You exquisite thing, you beautiful bean,
Morning or evening or times in between.
True satisfaction is you in my cup
The only damned reason I even wake up.
You quicken my pulse, you sharpen my wits,
If I drink too much of you I get the shits.
Image credit: Matt Kincade, featuring his favorite tommy-gun mug.
I remember my excitement, way back when I was in high school, when I found out they were making more Star Wars movies. Those were difficult times to be a Star Wars fan, in that long stretch of time after Return of the Jedi and before The Phantom Menace. It was a long, dry season. I had the original trilogy on VHS. I played X-Wing and Tie Fighter on the PC. I built the Millennium Falcon model kit that I ordered via snail mail directly from the Lucasarts company store, located in the back pages of the Lucasarts Adventurer magazine. I read the paperback novels. But still, the pickings were slim.
Then one day, I found out that George Lucas was going to be making a new trilogy.
My childhood.
For you youngsters out there, I suppose I should explain that at the time, George Lucas was a god. The Star Wars trilogy and Indiana Jones were, quite literally, my childhood. The greatest science fiction and fantasy movies ever made, all brought to us by one man: George Motherfucking Lucas. In addition to that, his game company, Lucasarts, were putting out some of the best games of the era. X-Wing. Tie Fighter. Dark Forces. Full Throttle. Day of the Tentacle. Sam and Max. And if that wasn’t enough, his special effects company, Industrial Light and Magic, was a part of some of the best movies of the eighties and nineties. The man could do no wrong.
And so, when we all heard about the Star Wars prequels… well, I don’t think excitement really covers it. It was something closer to messianic fervor. The prophet has returned!
We waited for years, soaking up every bit of new information, poring over every new production still, marvelling at the new trailers. Ewan McGregor? Liam Neeson? Natalie Portman? Samuel L. Motherfucking Jackson? We waited in line on opening day…
…and the movie was kind of a mess.
I mean, it was bad. It was more deeply bad, in more ways, than I care to explain. And I don’t have to, because the mad geniuses over at Red Letter Media made this series of Star Wars reviews that explains it better than I ever could. And they’re hilarious, and everyone should watch them.
I watched these reviews dozens of times, because they were just as obsessed as I with the question: What happened? How could something so good go so wrong?
And then Indiana Jones 4 happened. And I knew it had all been a lie.
The disappointment I felt, we all felt, was…it was more than disappointment. It was betrayal. It was the awareness that God makes bad things happen to good people. The discovery that Santa Claus isn’t real. The realization that The Wizard of Oz is just a man behind a curtain.
I suppose, at some point, all of our childhood idols must fall. But I have to admit I took it personally. I was angry at the man, at him personally, for ruining this thing that was such a big part of my life. That the originals were so good, and the prequels so bad, it made him a fake. A phony. A con-man.
In some weird way, the Red Letter Media Star Wars reviews helped me heal. To put it all in perspective. Those reviews were the anger stage of my grief, they helped me work through it so I could move on. Some of it was just time and maturity. But at some point, I realized that anger is a curved blade. The bitterness I was holding onto wasn’t serving me. I was only hurting myself. George Lucas is only a man. A flawed man like the rest of us.
In retrospect, I can see how this sort of thing might warp a person’s self-perception.
As someone who now writes fiction, I understand just as well as anybody that sometimes you set out to create something great, and it doesn’t turn out that great. And sometimes you’re so blinded by your love for your creation that you just can’t see it. I’d imagine it doesn’t help to have millions of fans convincing you that you can excrete gold coins.
Did George Lucas fall into the classic Hollywood trap, believing his own hype, surrounding himself with yes men, avoiding those that might give him an honest critique, instead listening those who fawned at his boots? Probably. Did he try to do it all himself, as befits the genius prophet that we all convinced him that he had to be, rather than engaging in the creative collaboration that movies require? Yeah, it certainly looks that way. But maybe it all happened because he was trapped in the cage we created for him.
And let’s not forget, the man created Star Wars. And for that, I’m willing to forgive a lot.
And so to you, George Lucas, I’d like to apologize. I was angry. I was hurt. I thought some bad thoughts. I dwelt on it more than I probably should have. I said a lot of hurtful things about you, both in person and online. But I’m sorry. A few bad movies don’t justify any of that.
George Lucas, I would like to sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart, for bringing Star Wars into existence, for creating the universe that brought me so much joy and entertainment over the years. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox. I know, this marvellous universe being your baby, you must care about it more deeply than I, and I’m sure that your limitations as a father to that baby hurt you more than they ever hurt me. In light of Disney’s acquisition of the franchise, I would like to thank you for having the dignity and the wisdom to let your baby go out into the world.
Thank you for Star Wars. Thank you for Indiana Jones.
You’re probably going to think this story is fiction. But it happened.
It was a dark and stormy night.
That’s a pretty cliché way to start a story, I know. But in this case it actually was a dark and stormy night. I was living in a flimsy little house in the woods at the top of a hill, and there was a ripping rainstorm outside. The wind howled. The pine trees swayed. Rain lashed the windows.
So, me and Emily decided it would be a good night to try the Ouija board. Continue reading →
There’s been a lot of debate about how to fix the healthcare system here in America, but most of our political establishment seems to be blind to this obvious fact: It doesn’t need to be fixed. It needs to be destroyed. We need to take America’s healthcare system out into a field, tell it about the rabbits, and lovingly shoot it in the head. Then dismember it’s bloated corpse, burn it, tie rocks to it, and dump it in the ocean.
That’s because America’s healthcare system isn’t a healthcare system. It has been completely infiltrated and subverted by corporate greed. Our system is immoral to its core.
Here in America, you have to purchase “health insurance” and pay a monthly premium, (usually a large premium) then when you get sick, theoretically, the insurer pays your ridiculous bills. Except that they don’t, whenever they can possibly weasel out of it. Which is quite often.
And so, even for well-to-do Americans with great insurance, if you get hit by a bus, the first thing you’re going to be thinking is, “Oh god, how much is this going to cost?” Just for one example, an acquaintance of mine, a nurse, recently was hit by a car after stopping to assist in an accident. The bill? $350,000 dollars. How much of that will she be responsible for? Nobody fucking knows. You just have to sit and bite your nails for a few months until the insurance company makes up its mind how much of that they feel like they should have to pay. And then you have to call the insurance company and complain, and maybe they’ll lower it a little, and maybe they won’t. This system is deeply, deeply fucked.
And see, here’s the thing. Let’s look at Every. Single. Other. Thing. that you can have insured. A car. A boat. A watch. A house. A diamond ring. How are these all different from a human life? You can a) put a finite monetary value on them, and b) If you can’t afford to insure them, you can live without them.
That’s the heart of the problem, the dirty little secret that nobody seems to notice. You cannot put a monetary value on a human life, and you cannot ask people to do without. The end. Period. And yet, this is exactly what our healthcare system does. It doesn’t “Take care of the sick,” it “takes care of the sick until such time as our profit margins are threatened.”
That’s the thing. This concept is broken at its very core. There is no way to apply a for-profit insurance industry framework to healthcare, without being willing to shut the door on desperate people in their greatest hour of need. Talking about reforming this system is like, I don’t know, deciding to murder kittens with a meat hammer instead of murdering them with a steak knife. It’s like nobody has even considered just not murdering the kittens. Just creating a system where kittens don’t need to be murdered.
I’ve heard all the arguments: It’s too expensive. It’ll never happen. It will put people out of work. It will damage the economy. This is bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Nearly every other first world country has some form of public healthcare. It can work and it does work. What kind of monsters are we, that we won’t even try? Our own fear of socialism and our outdated notions of self-reliance—propped up by billions in advertising and political influence from the Skeksis that profit so handsomely from this broken system—are the only thing preventing it from working.
See, we Americans are big fans of rugged individualism, the concept that we just need to take care of ourselves and nobody else, and we’ll just carve a life out of the wilderness with an axe and a flintlock musket, and if we are Randian supermen, everything will be great. Except it isn’t 1778 anymore. That philosophy worked wonderfully when there weren’t any police, when roads were dirt paths, and when the most a doctor could do for you is saw off a limb or apply leeches.
Today, things are different. There are dozens of things we take for granted that the government provides. Police, fire departments, roads, the military. These are all vital things that nobody could afford by themselves, but if we all just chip in a little, we can afford them, and everyone benefits. When an emergency surgery can run $350,000, it stands to reason that maybe healthcare should be on that list. But oh no. Not here in the U-S-of-A. If that homeless guy breaks his arm, fuck him. If that college kid needs an emergency appendectomy, he’d better just declare bankruptcy.
Maybe I’m a bit radical in my opinion here, but I’d like to see the government nationalize every single health insurer and health management organization. Just switch out the letterheads, and make it into the American National Health Service. The boardroom vultures in charge of these places can have a choice: either walk away, or be charged with murder or attempted murder for every single instance where their company has denied health coverage to someone in need.
And, as an added bonus, all of our conservative television pundits would simultaneously drop dead from brain hemorrhages.
Whew. Felt good to get that one out. /rant.
Afterword: There is only one candidate who, in my opinion, seems willing to do something about this mess, and that’s Bernie Sanders. If this rant strikes a chord with you and you live in one of the twelve states holding primary elections tomorrow, please, please, please, go vote.
The young buck approached an ancient forest clearing. Tentatively, his ears swivelling this way and that, he stepped forward. His dark eyes, wide with fear, searched the moonlit night for danger.
Still, an ancient calling pulled him forward. His hooves sunk into the soft carpet of pine needles. Delicately, he perked his head up and scented the air.
“Stands Proudly,” said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, speaking the buck’s secret name.
Stands Proudly stood, rooted in terror.
“Stands Proudly, step forward.”
Then he saw her. The doe was pure white. Her eyes were pink. Standing in the clearing, surrounded by a perfect circle of pine trees, she glowed with an inner light.
“Grandmother,” said Stands Proudly, bowing his head until the velvety tips of his young antlers scraped the ground.
“My child,” said the old doe, “you have been chosen.”
the young buck snorted in frustration and pawed at the ground. His eyes rolled as if searching for an escape. “By why me?” he cried, “I have so many summers ahead!”
“I am sorry, young one. I do not choose. I am only a messenger. A conduit. I wish that it could be otherwise.”
After a moment, Stands Proudly nodded. “I know, grandmother. You are wise. I do not question you. I only wish…I wish I could have had a little longer.”
“As do I. You deserve many more summers. Many mates, and mighty antlers spread like the branches of an ancient oak. Alas, it is not to be. Our mission is too important.”
“But why must it be this way?”
“The old forest gods have chosen our kind, young one. It is our eternal task to keep the balance. To maintain harmony. When the earth’s energies are out of tune, then we must act. It is our duty. This is known.”
“Yes, grandmother.” The buck sighed again and bowed his head, accepting his fate. “What is my mission?”
“A man approaches,” said the old doe. “The fate of universes hinge upon his actions. He is as innocent, as blameless as you. Yet another pawn of the cosmic dance. But his son, should he be born…” Grandmother closed her eyes then, and Stands Proudly saw a vision in his head. Liquid death raining from the sky, a wave of fire rolling across the land, slaughter and sorrow and pain.
Stands Proudly’s eyes widened. “All that, from one man?”
Grandmother nodded sadly. “Some beings are as a rock balancing upon a hilltop. The slightest push may cause a landslide. Untold destruction from only the smallest breeze. We must prevent this. He must be stopped. It is our ancient duty.”
“I will not fail you, grandmother.”
“I know, Stands Proudly. I know. You are of a noble line. Your ancestors have served me well, from the very beginning.” The white doe’s ears perked up. “He approaches! Go now! Quickly!”
Stands Proudly dashed through the forest, leaping fallen logs, splashing across a stream bed. He hurried down the embankment and felt the hard, smooth surface under his hooves. “If I die, I die standing proudly,” he whispered.
The young buck held his head high and bravely stared down the headlights as they rushed around the bend in the road.
Author’s note: This odd little story was written in response to the question, “Why are these stupid kamikaze deer always jumping out in front of my car like it’s their job?”
Let’s just get the sad part out of the way first. Josh was one of my best friends in high school. He always had your back. He’d give you the shirt off his own. But he always had his demons. A series of half-hearted suicide attempts, a near-fatal drug overdose, a restraining order from his ex-girlfriend. I loved him like a brother, but I guess he wore us all down a little. It’s not easy, caring about someone so bent on self-destruction.
We’d been going in different directions for a while. He joined the army two weeks after 9/ll, and we lost touch. When I reconnected with him on facebook, years later, he was out of the service, married, and living in Utah. Continue reading →
I knocked on the old, warped door. It opened a crack, and James’ face appeared. His eyes were red. He looked pale and gaunt. He eyed me nervously.
“Hey, James.”
He looked around at the street behind me. “Hey man. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
“Yeah, I’ve just been busy. How’ve you been?”
“Good.” He looked at me for another few seconds, then opened the door and stood aside so I could enter.
The curtains were drawn in the tiny living room. There was a new Pink Floyd poster on the wall. Black Sabbath played on the stereo. Against one wall lay a disassembled drum kit, a guitar in a soft-sided case, and a guitar amp.
Three total strangers sat on the stained, threadbare sectional couch; two men and a girl. They watched me suspiciously while I entered the room. Paranoia hung heavy in the tobacco-stained air.
Soda cans and beer bottles covered the coffee table, except for the space that had been cleared away for a piece of mirror. On the mirror was a pile of white powder, a razor blade, and a section of McDonald’s soda straw. White with the red and yellow stripes.
James sat down. He picked up the razor blade and resumed chopping the white powder, finer and finer. The others sat hunched over, watching him like a lonely man watches a stripper.
I sat down at the end of the couch. Nobody said a word.
Five people in the room, including me. James pushed the coke into five little lines on the mirror. He handed me the straw.
With a shrug I put the straw to my nose, bent down, and inhaled.
The world brightened and snapped into Kodachrome focus. My face went numb. That old, familiar bitterness ran down the back of my throat. Suddenly the shabby room felt like home. I felt like a million bucks. “Shit,” I said.
James smiled for the first time. “Right?”
The strangers relaxed. The ritual was complete, the test passed. They smiled, laughed and leaned back on the couch. One by one they bowed their heads and did a line. James lit a cigarette.
I stayed for fifteen minutes or so, making small talk, catching up on old friends.
Finally, I stood up and said, “Hey man, I gotta go. I just wanted to drop by and say hi.”
“Cool, man.” James pulled out a small bag of white powder. “You want one for the road?”
“Nah, I’m good. Hey, while I’m here, why don’t I grab my guitar and my amp?”
James managed to look a little hurt. “It’s not taking up any space, if you want to come by and jam sometime.”
“Nah, I need it. This guy I work with plays base. He wants to jam.”
James nodded slightly. “Oh. Okay.”
I picked up my Strat in one hand, the guitar amp in the other.