Thailand. Enough said.

When you hear travel stories from around the world. Some places begin to take on a stereotypical role. Regardless of the truth, some countries have become known to many as providing special services. People travel to Amsterdam to free their mind with hallucinogenic drugs, France to sip delicate wine, or India for cheap textiles. Thailand is no exception. It has become the brothel of the world.

We have all heard stories about “The Thai Massage.” This is a land where men travel to release pressure with the assistance of beautiful young Thai women. I, myself, was overcome with curiosity.

Recently, I traveled to the land of Thai. After landing in Phuket, we made our way to the small hotel, located on the south side of Phuket. I was fascinated by what I saw and was anxious to explore. As we pulled up to our hotel, I noticed a karaoke bar and a Thai massage parlor. This must be one of the many “Thai rub your dick massage parlors” that I had been hearing about.

Either way, I was extremely sore and tired from my long journey. That’s it, I’m getting a massage.

Wow. Who knew? There were no sluts, no sexy Thai ladies, and no lingerie. Only a couple older Thai ladies, built like the Dallas Cowboys linebackers. There was nothing sexy, romantic, or relaxing about that. Although, after being twisted, pulled, stretched, tossed, tenderized, and cracked, I felt so much better.

I want to tell you that massage story so there is a simple understanding that not all Thai massage parlors are brothels. I’m not trying to set any stereotypes.

However…these Thai rub your dick massage parlors do exist.

Two days into my stay, I’m familiarizing myself with my surroundings. I notice the signage for Thai massages. Many of them are very simple and simply say Thai massage and the price.

Yet, I was more interested in the ones that said Thai massage, and were plastered with pictures of beautiful women. The distinct signage is instantly recognizable by every person and they are sprinkled about the city.

On day three, some friends and I made our way to the bar for a few beers. Funny thing how a few beers turns into stumbling home shit-hammered. Being the curious fellow I am, I passed by a Thai rub your dick massage parlor and thought, “What goes on in there? And how?”

This is the moment in my night where my general understanding of how these businesses operate turned into a “what the fuck was I thinking” experience.

Upon your approach, you notice many neon lights that adorn the out wall of the entrance. The vivid lights are unmistakable with any bar and have this radiating ability to draw your attention amongst the still night. As I found myself gravitating to the light like a child to candy, somewhere in my mind I realized this was a bad, bad place…and I felt naughty.

As I walked through the door, I noticed a desk to the right with a man sitting behind it. Directly in front of me was a wall of glass with a door on the left that led to a long hallway. Behind this glass was one of the fucking weirdest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I’ve seen some pretty weird shit. There were four red leather couches, each rising a little higher than the previous as stadium seating in a theater. Each couch sat three to four Thai girls dressed in very revealing clothing and completely covered in makeup.

As we took a seat at the desk, we asked the man about the price of a massage. He told us it was 300 baht for a massage. I attempted to ask him to define a full service massage, but his English was poor and I was drunk.

So, the process of choosing your masseuse began. My friend was handed a laser pointer. Instantly, we realized how this worked. We also realized what scumbags we were transcending into. As he placed the little red dot on the first girl, she shook her head back and forth. Wow. John was just turned down by a Thai rub your dick masseuse. He tried again with girl #2. Again, he was turned down. Third time is a charm. Girl #3 accepted and off into the pussy abyss he went.

My turn. I felt overcome by this awkward feeling of control and embarrassment. Who should I choose? How do I distinguish a good one from a bad one? Is that possible? Finally, why did I get drunk and deem this a good idea?

Fortunately, the first girl accepted and I felt slightly less embarrassed than John. As I began my ascent through the hallway and up the stairs, I didn’t know what to think. I only new this wasn’t right. I’m a bad, bad man.

The room had a TV stand in the corner with a Hindi music station on. There was a small mattress in the corner. Literally, this place was right out of a fucking disgusting horror movie. Awesome. Creepy and disgusting, just the way daddy likes it.

I shed everything except for my underwear. Let me intervene to say, had I not been slightly intoxicated, I may have realized I was in a brothel and lying down on this shitty mattress covered in God knows what in nothing but my underwear was a bad idea. However, that wasn’t the case and I was drunk. So, I lied down and allowed her to begin.

First thing you should know about a massage is that you should be comfortable. I realized I was completely comfortable. Except my penis was lying slightly up and to the left. I gave a little push and down it fell. I simply adjusted myself, closed my eyes, and did not prepare myself for what was about to unfold. Apparently, touching your penis is a sure fire way of letting them know you would like a Thai rub your dick massage.

I felt a hand. It was clinching my penis. She said, “You want sex?” Awkward now. This lady knew virtually no English, except how to offer sex. Like any self-respecting drunk man, I proudly displayed my manhood. Or, I freaked out, pulled my knees in close, and offered spending the rest of the session watching TV. You know, man shit. After five minutes of confusion on this whores face and another girl coming in and asking me what my problem was, she flipped me over and continued with a Thai no rub your dick massage.

I remember this experience was bad and she couldn’t give a massage for shit. However, I don’t remember if it was the exhausting day, alcohol, or awkwardness that put me to sleep. Next thing I remember is being woken up and told to go home. I still don’t know how long I slept or if I even received a full massage. All that I do know is I passed out in a brothel with my wallet and passport and woke up to find it still in my shorts and my penis seemed untampered.

I’ll never forget this experience for as long as I live. I came, I saw…and I did not came.

Thailand. Enough said.

Bombay...not all bad?

Bombay is a city that takes you. It takes you, holds you, and doesn't let go until you have long gone. For me, it is the modern day Rome. I seen the poorest of the poor living next to the richest of the rich. I'm sure there are class distinctions that can be seen, but as a foreigner, they were a bit hard to notice.

This is a city that will make you redefine your attitude about development, community, wealth, and of course, being civilized. I met an English man in a bar and he told me something I found to be logical and ironic.

"The poorest people live outside the city and they are the happiest."

When you are living off the land and all your basic needs can be met, everything else is just extra shit to deal with that requires more time and effort. Wealth can't be measured by a bank account. Nor can any community be determined by the quality of storefronts, sidewalks, and streets. The irony happens when you realize millions of people are leaving these villages in search of greater wealth, better communities, and more development. The end result is a series of rural villages living inside an urban environment.

Along with studying the "slum-dwellers" and "sidewalk-dwellers", I took a little time to understand Bombay through a different set of lenses. I did what I do best and enjoyed the local bars.

If you have never been to India, you may not realize the importance of a Hookah. Hookahs seem to be equally as important to the younger generation as alcohol. You put them together, and you end up with a fire-breathing dragon.

Bombay even forced me to dress up and wear a tie. We were invited to an Indian wedding. Wow. I have never been to such a festival. I started by watching the turban ceremony. That was followed with me dancing like a jackass in a group of my peers and Indian men that I had never met. Making my way through the night, I discovered a very important piece of information...open bar. It began innocently. I thought I would have a few drinks, talk with people I'll never see again, and enjoy my night. All of that happened, however, I wasn't prepared to meet the Senior Vice-President of an international architecture firm based in Chicago. Oops. Apparently, when you spend the better part of an evening demanding your vodka-tonics be mixed 50/50, you believe everyone is your best friend. Actually, the're not. You shouldn't speak with them as if they were. Announcing, "You saying I have to get your address, from her titty!" Funny to me drunk, not so funny to the sober Senior Vice-President who may hold a job opportunity for me. Again, Oops.

Just a reminder, being mindful of your environment and situation may play a big role in future opportunities. Bombay lead me to so many situatutions that I have never expereinced, raped me with expensive drinks, relaxed me with hookahs, gagged me with smog, and kept me one day longer than anticipated just to give me a little going away present.

Bombay, I wanted to befriend you, but you are a bitch!

Civilized is a relative term.

Prior to the piss shits, I had a more civilized incident. Civilized is a broad term that depends on context. For instance, ladies going to the little girls room, civilized. Move out of the way, that bitch has to shit! Not so civilized. What constitutes civilized once the gentleman’s room is placed on a train station platform in Bombay, India? Let’s begin to question this.

One week into my journey in Bombay, Francesca and I were making our way to a class meeting roughly 8 train stops away from our particular station. On the way, we saw the typical sights, like people squatting on the tracks to shit and piss, “poo river”, and other yum-yum, “make ya wanne eat taters and gravy” attractions. I hope this doesn’t change your mind about India. It’s amazing. Anyways, we finally arrive at the station. We’re looking for our class when I notice this familiar feeling. I might want to begin to look for the gentlemen’s room. We ask some Indians if they have seen any white people recently when I get this feeling. I should be looking for the gentlemen’s room. We wonder back to the platform and we begin searching for our classmates. I need to find the gentlemen’s room. As we’re waiting, I realize this feeling has turned into pain. This pain is turning into the Devil, and the Devil don’t want me no more. Sweat begins rolling down my face and I feel the demon itching to escape. I don’t speak Hindi, but I am fluent in “I’m about to shit my pants.” Apparently the lady security guard was also fluent in, I’m about to shit my pants,” because she pointed me to the “Gentlemen’s Room.” I use the term, Gentlemen’s Room, loosely. I’m maneuvering myself to the bathroom in flustered duck mode. You try to run, but you must apply pressure to the ass cheeks to prevent any early evacuations by the devil, flustered duck mode. I waddle past a man in the doorway and find the royal throne…or not so much. A squat pot is no royal throne, but when the devil’s gotcha, it’s like God’s flashlight showing you the way. I unfasten myself, squat down…DEVIL OUT!!!

Problem # 2. This is where I separate myself from my western ways. After finishing, I realize, I’m not finished. I am soiled, therefore I must clean. I look to my left, then I look to my right. Fuck. Where do they keep the toilet paper, I ask. Why is there a small plastic bucket under a water faucet, I ask. How in the hell am I supposed to wipe my shitty ass, I ask. It is at this particular moment in time when I am faced with a dilemma. I may sacrifice one of 4 pairs of underwear (I have no socks because I’m in sandals), or go native. Allow me to spell this out for you western folk. Going native is short for…using my hand to turn the poo faucet on to fill the bucket, you then place your poo hand into the poo water and wipe your poo ass with your hand repeatedly until your ass is clean. I still own all 4 pairs of my underwear. That’s right, I went native. Once you go native with a poohole explosion, you then fully understand why Asians don’t shake hands with their left hand.

So, I ask the question. What is civilized? Is it pooping in a bathroom, or not wiping with your hand?

Farting is Marvelous!

Farting is good. Farting is fantastic. If you are farting, then you’re not sharting. This seems simple, logical, and stupid. Truth is, that is correct. However, this becomes very important to you after eating bad food in India and you are pissing out of your ass.

It’s crazy too think about how I got the “anal squirts, or piss shits if you will.” I spent two weeks in Bombay and all I got were the lousy piss shits. I didn’t get them from drinking water in one of the world’s largest slums, which was delicious. I didn’t get them from eating street food, although Szechwan Cheese Frankies are fantastic. I didn’t get them from drinking soda out of the bottle without a straw, we all know plastic ruins the taste of a good soda. However, I did get them from eating a shitty breakfast at a 5-Star resort. I don’t know what it was about their fruit, but it gave me the piss shits. I first encountered this problem as I was walking down the street and had to fart. It was a sudden thought, one that was a little off. Instead, I sharted. I realized the error of my ways and then I realized I had to walk back 2 Km to the guesthouse. There is something to be said about walking 2 Km in a country with a wet, shitty ass where everybody is already staring at you.

After a day, this cleared up and two days later I had a successful fart. So, I will say that farting is an important bodily function that is overlooked too often. So fart and be happy. Remember, you could be sharting.

Sri Lanka, Leave me alone!

“Hello, my friend.” “Hello. Where are you going?” “Come here, come here.” I must say that I am excited to be out of Bombay, but I can’t say this is exactly where I wanted to go. These are the phrases that I hear constantly when I walk down the street. I liked to be noticed sometimes, but I also enjoy that in America, I can walk down the street and not be noticed by anybody. Why do these people think I want to talk to them? Why do they feel like they must speak to me? Why do they think they can give me orders and I will listen? Have they ever seen white people? Are they just ignorant? Are they stupid?

Maybe, it’s all of the above. Not everybody acts like this, but it happens so often that it’s difficult to understand why they act the way they do. I think most of these people assume that I have money and starting a conversation with me will somehow get them into my pocket. I can’t imagine anything else that would motivate them to begin a conversation with me. It’s really fucking annoying and from now on, I’m going to reply with smartass comments because I don’t fucking care. I am tired and I don’t have to deal with their bullshit.

Today, I was leaving Bombay and I forgot to take my knife out of my pocket and place it into my luggage. It set off the metal detector and I couldn’t believe that I had made such a foolish mistake. I tried to speak with the security guards so they would let me go back outside the terminal and mail it home. Like many Indians, they were fucking assholes and wouldn’t. They then accused me of intentionally wanting to stab somebody and telling me people don’t make mistakes like forgetting to take things out of their pockets at an airport. After a 10-minute argument and I began raising my voice because they were insulting me, I told them they were stupid and must have never made a fucking mistake. I was really angry and I just wanted to punch this fucker in his jaw. Oh well, fuck ‘em. They live in a city full of pollution, smog, and beaches where the water is so disgusting people don’t swim. I have no intention of ever returning to that piece of shit city and I don’t know if I will ever return to that country.

Installations...successful or not?

I just visited our site. I must say this up front. I have been drinking whiskey. With that being said, we pissed somebody off. Hell yes. We accomplished something. Some people may say that our installation was unsuccessful because it was torn down within 24 hours. I see this differently. We were able to upset people extremely with a few pieces of bamboo, some twigs, string, and a tarp. We were able to strike emotions out of someone to the point where they felt threatened. They must have feared something. I don’t know what this was. However, I can imagine it may have been many things. The first idea that comes to mind is they were afraid somebody might use the structure we built. Maybe people were using the structure and they didn’t like the people using it. Maybe they were afraid other people would see this as an idea and use it to construct their own lives. One of the last ideas and most important, I hope people started to use it and they were scared that this structure would become an informal apartment complex.

It doesn’t matter what their reason was because two classmates and I were able to erect a structure that demanded a response within 24 hours. If you have traveled to India, then you’ll understand what an accomplishment this was. We must have really pissed somebody off and we didn’t get in any trouble. In a way, I was more excited that somebody took the time and effort to tear it down because that demonstrates somebody was observing my work. Whether they appreciate it or not is irrelevant. They made sure it was torn down and that tells me it was very important to them.

I feel like I have visited another country and brought issues to their front door with the help of my peers. Together we said, “Here it is, you’re welcome!” As a student, I feel that I have accomplished so much more than I could have anticipated. We built an installation that affected someone’s life in such a way that it became their number one priority to tear it down so no one else could see our work. I pat myself on the back for pissing someone off this much with a few sticks and string.

We could imagine putting this someplace where someone may have the chance to use it, but, I am confident these self-builders don’t need my help to construct a place for themselves. I do feel confident that I irritated the “Mainstream” and maybe someone will recognize the potential that every wasted space can be transformed into a living space. In a city that obsesses about the importance and value of space, they sure do overlook many possibilities.

I felt it was important to write this as soon as I got home while it was still fresh in my mind. Keep in mind that I have had too many drinks and the rhythm may be off. I am not going to correct or edit what I write because these are my thoughts the way they came to me. Well, I’m tired and I am going to bed.