Week

Seven days without Internet or cable television.

I couldn’t imagine what was worse. Sitting on my sofa with my laptop not able to send emails, chat, or even to hop on Facebook. No reading stupid status updates. No posting status updates saying how bad you want to post something but can’t because you have no Internet connectivity so this would be sort of a conundrum. Or sitting on my sofa staring at a brand new television getting nothing but that incessant buzz of static. Made me want to do the Poltergeist thing. Not the sitting in front of the TV talking to people on the other side like Carol Anne. We all know that’s a one way feed. They can’t hear you silly girl. No, I mean like the end when they throw out the TV. It’s pretty much useless without a signal.

So why not get to a cafe?

Well, cafe’s in this city don’t have free wifi. Probably because of all the pervs surfing for porn there. Unless of course, you’re at Starbucks. And with that, they only give it to iPhone users for free. Yeah. That’s when I get my status updates off. All until I finish walking beyond their wifi range. Good thing there’s another one down the block.

Anyways, the point I want to make is that you get pretty desperate for the common amenities you’re used to after a week has passed by. So when that cable guy showed up, he became my best friend. He nailed the wires all crooked. I didn’t care. The signal was weak that he could only wire one room. Fine. My cable modem wasn’t compatible with their service so I had to rent theirs. Not a problem. If he said I had to pay more, I was sure I’d pay. As long as he didn’t leave without getting me Internet and cable television. I needed my fix.

It’s been two days.

Enough porn already.

Email inbox is empty.

Facebook’s boring again.

TV’s got over 150 channels, like 20 are HD. Still, nothing I can stand watching.

So what else to do?

I guess…

it’s back to writing and figuring out what this creative non-fiction is all about.

Short and Sweet

Waiting for my connecting flight to SFO in Taoyuan Airport.

Found free internet here. Had to write. Posted Facebook food pics. Wrote stupid things about the food. Not much time left to write more stupid things. Why doesn’t it seem there’s enough time anymore. Need to finish editing. But writing on here is so much fun.

Guess I should finish on the plane and stop complaining about things. But I’m sure I’ll find something. Like my bunghole itching or something.

Always something annoying.

Boarding already? Fine.

Roids

Sleep apnea has it’s issues. Being diagnosed with only a mild case of it sucks when I was hoping it was the cause of all my fatigue. Now I have I to blame it on pure laziness.

But the main thing I wanted to address was my snoring.

Yeah. It does lead to sleep apnea. So I guess I’m addressing it early.

The doctor prescribe some nasal steroid. My late night ‘a cappella’ was coming from my nose. Closer to the sinuses. Not that open mouth throaty snore. The kind you throw pillows at or pound on the walls pleading for mercy. Nope. I got my own special serenade. One the doctor thinks could use more power.

I bore witness to the magnitude this morning. After what felt like an eternity of drinking and eating to fend off the morning hangover, my buddy and I decide to call it a day at six in the morning. I was more than exhausted. I needed quiet. I needed something to lie on. And most of all, I needed sleep. Crashing down on the bed I began to drift off. The steady banging of club music subsided in my head. The noise on the street began to fade away. Silly images and illogical scenarios entered my head. I was entering dreamland. And theirs that phenomenal thing about dreamland. When you’re about to wake, you’re subconscious puts everything into context. About to fall off the bed, you’re dreaming about falling. Get a phone call, you’re dreaming about waiting for one. Almost like you’re mind is able to predict what will happen and preps you in your dream. For my newly adjusted snoring, it meant nothing. No warning whatsoever. Just a larger than ever snore. Woke me up in the most confused state ever.

Snoring on roids. In general the snoring was lower. But wow, there are some that pack a wallop.

Serve and Protect

January 10, 2010, Mongkok’s street market was the scene of another acid attack. Several bottles of acid were dumped off the rooftops of the buildings injuring and scarring several people below. This wasn’t the first time it happened.

Not only that, I was there, that night, eating street food and shopping for souvenirs. I had to wonder. Was it the stinky tofu or some collateral acid that burned a hole through my stomach that night? I never had the cha cha cha’s that fast. But then again, that chili sauce was strong. Probably more acidic that any form hydrochloric acid. Was this a stupid thing to think about? I guess. I didn’t know then what had happened of course. But you kinda do wonder about everything when you hear news like that.

“I was there.”

“What if that happened to me?”

“Did I get affected?”

Well, nothing wrong with me today. And it’s been a couple of days already. I’m no victim.

So as any odd person as myself would do, I decided to go back. And this time, I brought a good friend. I mean, we can’t let acts of terror win, right? That’s not the American way. Can’t let the innocent vendors suffer. Losing business when they are just trying to make a humble and honest living. And besides, my friend is looking for some high quality grade LV knock-offs. Mongkok has the best of them.

We arrived and noticed the arm of the law had come out in full force.

Not one block was void of officers. Everywhere you turn you’d see someone in uniform. And this was the streets of Mongkok. A very very crowded area.

I usually have a local friend take me to the ladies market. It’s basically an all day night market selling, well, lady stuff.

Realizing I had no idea where I was going, I decided to ask an officer.

It hit me when I wondered what to ask him. Rather than asking him where the ladies market was, what if I had asked him where they sold the knock-off LV bags. Cause I’m idiotic enough to do that. But that’s it, all these cops around. These vendors are always keeping an eye out for them. Are they even going to sell anything with cops on very block?

The answer was yes.

Messed up right? I wanted the police to be around. Keep that acid guy away or even catch that criminal. Do your job. Just don’t look my way while I buy illegitimate things. I’m not doing anything more than anyone else here is doing.

My buddy picked out a bag. He wasn’t sure what to look for as far in bad knock-offs. The lady assured him not only was it “AAA” quality, but in fact “Super A” quality. He turned to me for help. Like my time here in Hong Kong was spent looking at handbags. No. Obviously it was spent looking at Hello Kitty charm bracelets. So of course, that doesn’t apply to woman’s handbags. Basically it was a field day for the vendor.

Taking his bag back to my friend who lives here in Hong Kong he had his first course in dealing with knock-off vendors. First off, check thoroughly, there was one missing button. Second, buttons at the bottom should be metallic. Third, study one bag before you go and only look for one bag. It kept going on and on. And when he mentioned the price he haggled it down to, it was epic fail. We should have taken advantage of all the police around that day, cause we were robbed.

Chivalry

Is it wrong for me to write about people who happen to sit right in front of me?

No right? I mean, no harm if no one really knows. Just like that tree that made all that ruckus when it fell over. Didn’t even make a sound in my book. No sound at all.

The crazy thing is that I’m shelving what I was writing.  It was about the night before. The wondrous and unpredictable night life that is Hong Kong. Where locals foreigners, and expats converge in one area. All there with common goals. The most common was to get laid. Not sure if I can finish that piece now. With this one staring me right in the face.

I mean there’s this bloke here. I say bloke cause he’s Brit, or maybe Aussie, or just really good at faking accents. He’s here in the cafe having breakfast. Wait, its lunch now. And obviously he had a long night. He’s young though. Late 20′s early 30′s. Tall. Dirty blond short cut hair, top messy like Jimmy Fallon. Everyone still remember who I am talking about right? Skinny and fashionable with his designer jeans and Le Coq jacket. Figure those are popular with the young English kids.

Anyways, he’s here with an Asian girl. Long black hair with brown highlights. Shiny bracelets and numerous silver rings. Tight white short skirt. Glittering belt. All while wearing a thin black jacket. Ah the sacrifices of fashion. Cold, but sexy. I totally understand though. I leave my jacket at home when I go out. I mean I know I’ll forget it when I’m drunk. Why spend $20 at Old Navy for a hoodie just to have it go to some stranger. Then spend the next few days glaring at people wearing the similar thing, wondering if it happens to be yours. I know it may be a different color or even different brand, but you never know. Damn vagrants.

Anyways. The dark eye liner and glitter tells me they just rolled out of bed into the cafe.

From his evasive glances and curt responses, I can only gather he may have fallen victim to the combination of alcohol and his yellow fever last night. The girl is being so good to him, attentive and very affectionate. Pouring creamer and adding sugar to his coffee. Spoon feeding him her cheesecake. Caressing his hair and asking him what he wants to do later. Perfect. I’d be happy to have that kind of adoration. But from his defensive body language, I can only assume he didn’t approve the morning exposing that she was twice his age and probably twice his weight.

I’m wondering now if he’s looking straight at me for help. Sorry bloke, I’m in the middle of my undeniability. But I have to hand it to you. You’re still there even though you’re hating every moment of it. You’re handling it real well. Enough for me to document it. Godspeed.

Imperialism

I was at the gym the other day, Fitness First, to be exact. It was a nice clean place. Like the kind you’d find in California, but smaller. I didn’t mind. I was in there during the morning hours when everyone else was at work. There were just a few other people in the weight room, another on the modern treadmills and no one on the stationary bikes, elliptical machines, stair masters, or weight machines. The most crowded area, being five people, was in the kickboxing room. The music was blasting and the people were in sync with their less than lethal strikes.

That made me wonder as I stared in like some old perv.

Western trends have arrived obviously. Kickboxing classes are here. I’m sure power Yoga was too. Pilates even. All a good form of training and conditioning. Well, how about the mixed martial arts? Muay Thai. Bazillian Juijitsu.

There’s got to be a market here.

Gone will be the old men and women doing morning Tai Chi in the park. In will be  grandpa in a rear naked choke from grandma trying desperately to tap out. It would be one chaotic scene at the park.

Of course, I’m sure it wouldn’t be at the park. Gramps would probably enroll in some dojo or something around town with a proper cage.

I had myself a business idea.

That always helped me during a workout. I decided to return to the dumbbells I left on the ground. They were in kilos. I hated converting metric. And obviously, they were too heavy for me. Adopt already. Stupid gym.

Can

2009 marked the 35th anniversary since the advent of Hello Kitty. And to help celebrate this commercial phenom was 7-Eleven with the introduction of a collectible charm bracelet. Available only from the Southeast Asian stores. Of course, this included the stores in Hong Kong.

I’ve been bombarded by these advertisements every time I go in for my Vita lemon tea. And that was not a commercial plug. You know the vita thing. I am addicted to this drink. There’s got to be crack in it. I can polish off boxes of these within an hour. My record has been a dozen in one day. It’s insane I know. And the ones in the states weren’t quite the same. Probably because of the FDA not allowing the use of monkey sweat in beverages or something.

Anyways, I decided it would make a great present. Not the lemon tea, the charm bracelet. My girlfriend grew up with the cartoon. I may not understand why she goes out of her way to buy these things, but it makes her happy.

So the things was, I knew this is more of a “girl” thing and the signs in the store were all in Chinese. The only English words on there were obvious ones, “Charm Bracelet”, “Anniversary”, “7-Eleven.” The actual charms were locked in some museum-like glass display. I doubt there was any elaborate alarm system, but I wasn’t going to find out. Last thing I wanted to do was go to jail in Hong Kong for stealing little girl toys. No. Not too dignifying. But that was the thing. Was it dignifying for an old man to ask about how he would be able to get one? I’m sure no matter what I said, “for my girlfriend” or “for my daughter,” the guy behind the counter would give me that “yeah right” look. But you know what, I didn’t care. I asked anyway.

Embarrassment aside, I learned I have to collect stamps. I can’t just buy the damn thing. Collect stupid little stickers and paste them in a small booklet. Not only that, to get 1 sticker I have to spend $20HKD, that’s Hong Kong Dollar, 7.75 to each American dollar. Not bad right? Well, once I get 5 stickers I can pay $20HKD to get 1 charm or 15 stickers to get it for free. Seriously. So for a bracelet with 5 charms I need at least 25 stickers and dish out an extra $100HKD. That’s insane cause it’s 7-Eleven.

Granted, the 7-Elevens in Asia are different, they focused more on food, not overpriced household items. So the food actually taste good. And it wasn’t hot dogs and nachos you find in the states. It was frozen meals like chicken in black bean sauce, tofu and pork on rice, sticky rice with Chinese sausage, etc. And their hot meals were what I’d call street vendor/dim sum food. All of which was super cheap. There lies the problem. $20HKD buys alot of junk food. And being here on vacation, this would be hard.

I decided to do it anyways.

After spicy octopus on a stick, garlic noodles, and who knows how many curry fish balls later, I found myself on the can staring at my sticker booklet. I’ve been in the for over ten minutes. Gotta love whatever they put in that food. But it’s two stickers down, three more to go, and I would finally get the first charm.

If my stomach could talk, it would scream, “Hello Kitty, you’re one cruel bitch!”

Inert

One of the worse things in the world are lines. Not the ones that make up pretty pictures. Or the ones you get a beating for if you cross. No. It’s the kind you stand in. And the worse of lines are the ones at the airport.

I hate being in them.

There are two airports I know of that have an additional line for transferring flights. That’s the Taoyuan International Airport in Taiwan and the Narita International Airport in Japan. All I can say about this extra line is that it’s annoying. It’s an extra security check of body and luggage scans. I imagine it’s to catch people who stole life vests or flotation cushions. Maybe those are special foam detection devices they use. I don’t know. We in the U.S. are decades backward in some technologies.

I hate you AT&T and your lying 3G signal bars.

The thing is, you’re transferring flights. That means you do have a limited time to get to your next flight. Being a cross Pacific flight you’re on a plane with hundreds of people. Getting off the flight you have to wait. And wait a long time. Wait for that door to open. Wait for first class to leave. Wait for business class to leave. Wait for everyone in front of you. Wait for each row to empty out. Wait for everyone to grab their God-knows-what’s-inside-that-oversized-carry-on jammed in the overhead bin.

I hate you extra fee for check-in luggage.

All that and you come out into another line. With the same damn people you wished got crushed by their own luggage. But this time, all the babies are awake and crying. Screaming even.

That might be it. Yeah. that’s why I hate lines so much.

It’s people you’re stuck in line with.

My flight is heading to Hong Kong. Most of the people on my flight are from there. And maybe it’s me, but I find them rude. Their manners and etiquette are horrendous.

Take personal space. For us, it’s about an arms length. Maybe half of that if you know the other person. Half of that if you two are intimate. And maybe even half of that if you were just plain creepy. But my point is, we have guidelines. And being that I don’t know anyone, they should be at arms length, not occasionally bumping into me with the bags. That’s even beyond the creepy line.

The other thing is forming the line. It’s a big mess. They don’t know the cardinal rule of lining up one behind the other. The transfer line is this long thick mass of people. The group in front of me is this grandma/grandpa couple travelin with their son. All three of which are lined up side by side. And I can’t tell what the people next to me were trying to do. Were they trying to get ahead of me? I can’t believe it. Don’t they see me here. Abiding by the rules. Is this inherent in their culture? Always trying to get ahead of the next person. No matter what they do. No matter where they were. Back in the states security would straighten this out. Pull this mother and son aside and beat them senseless. Okay, maybe I’m angry. I should say something. But she’s talking to him right now. In Cantonese of course, so I couldn’t understand. She’s probably telling him how to inch up in line subtly and how to get ahead of people in life. My knuckles turn white.

I need to do something. I know exactly what to do as a passive aggressive. Let’s play the game with them. Every time the person in front of me moves, I’ll move. And you know what? I’m at I know you distance. See that? Fuck it. I’m at intimate distance. He doesn’t notice. He thinks this is normal. Don’t make me bring the creep on.

Wouldn’t you know it. They are oblivious to me. In fact. They are ahead of me. In any sort of normal line this would be impossible, unless you cut. And they are cutting. This is enough to warrant some verbal abuse.

However, the people ahead of me beat me to the punch. They turned around and said something. Again, I couldn’t understand Cantonese too well. The mother stopped. Then laughed. And beamed a smile. The ancient happy I’m-so-sorry-I-didn’t-know apology. How predictable. She doesn’t want a scene. This is saving face. Oh how I wanted to punch that face. Especially when she’s starting to inch up again. What the hell woman!

Pulling that bag of hers. Same as her son’s. And… same as that fellow. Wait a sec. Now they are holding hands.

I hate being completely in the wrong.

The Artic Tern

I started my migration north on the five. It was past midnight and a couple hours since I’ve left Los Angeles, yet still I couldn’t believe I was leaving. The tropical paradise would soon be a memory. San Francisco would be my new home.

Most birds migrate south in search of warmer weather. I, on the other hand, am moving to colder weather, in the dead of winter, in the middle of the night. The Artic Tern flies back and forth between the Artics and Antarctica for its migratory patterns. So I assume mine isn’t quite that insane. Though my dusty-gray-orange-labeled-boxy-U-Haul truck wasn’t as elegant as that white and grey plumed bird that glides gracefully along the coastal shores. No, my truck puttered and bellowed as it lugged my life northward.

Other more nimble wayfarers flew by gawking. White sparrow Corollas chirped as my misaligned wheels brought me into their lanes. Overzealous silver hawk Porsches flew into my path angry at my speed.

My only friends were the proud eighteen wheeled eagles that flew with me. They understood the long journey I was on. Maybe not the reasons, but the journey itself.

We were traveling far and slow.

Conserve power and maintain awareness.

Most migratory birds fly in a “V” formation to help each other conserve energy. We instead formed a line. A line in the right lane. Leap-frogging as we went along. It wasn’t as much to conserve as it was for awareness, for us and the others.

Eventually I had to leave them once I got to San Francisco. My little truck deviated off onto a ramp as the line of trucks continued. I wasn’t sure what to do. Wave? Flash my high-beams? I couldn’t imagine what birds do when they break formation. I did what I could and pressed on my horn. It let out a low bellow. A call that said goodbye to a past life, a past decade, and a greeting to a new life and a new morning in the new city called my home.