Thailand Part 3: Cold But Clean Feet

Welcome to part 3 of my Thailand adventure. If you missed the previous two parts, start here. If you're all caught up, enjoy:

Day 3: Bangkok

After another breakfast in the nearby outdoor market, K. and I checked out of the hotel. Since we knew that we would be coming back to Bangkok for New Year’s, we figured that our stay there had been fairly pleasant and so decided to book another room for our return. K. offered to make the reservation while I sat outside and played around on my phone, which was fine with me. The reason I mention this is not immediately apparent, but it will be a few parts later, so pay attention.

Leaving our bags at the hotel, we decided to walk down Silom Road toward the State Tower. At about this time, I was thinking about all of the food I would probably be craving at the end of this trip. Donuts, I decided, would be high on the list of my cravings, despite the fact that I never ate them regularly back home. I relayed this thought to K., for idle conversation.

Our first stop was a Hindu temple that was beautifully colored and decorated with detailed carvings. A chant played in loops on the temple’s speaker system, but it seemed to fade into the background as I took in the otherwise serene atmosphere. The day was hot and the shade was welcoming, so we sat down and watched everyone praying.

We started back along our route and it wasn’t long before we ran into… drum roll… a donut shop. It was a fancy one, too. The donut I bought had all sorts of chocolate going on and it was soft and melty and crummy all at the same time. We laughed about the coincidence of running into the shop after I had figured that we wouldn’t see one for the entire length of our trip, but I guess it wasn’t such a stretch considering they also had McDonalds and KFC over there. Speaking from the vantage point of almost two months later, I haven’t craved a donut since.

We reached the State Tower, known as both the second tallest building in Thailand and the location of a rooftop hotel scene in the movie The Hangover 2. A dress code posted in the lobby informed us that we were ill-prepared for this adventure, but we decided to press our luck. Though we were dressed like ragged backpackers, the tower employees pointed us up to the famous rooftop bar, where we were able to look out over the city. We weren’t able to actually go outside, though, as the deck was closed. Regardless, we determined that it would make a good location to celebrate New Year’s from.

The rest of our morning was spent relaxing in front of a gigantic display of Thailand’s king. K. and I remarked about how he just didn’t look very regal. He looked more like a schoolteacher than a king. He was demure and his clothes didn’t even fit that well. Never the less, there are posters of him everywhere. He seemed like a nice guy, but it’s a good thing that he’s just a figurehead because I couldn’t take him too seriously if he was supposed to be the all-power ruling monarch.

We figured that it was time to get a real massage, so we returned to the area that we had scouted the day before with all of the massage parlors. K. had decided already on where she was going; one of the legitimate professional-looking places for a 2-hour Thai massage. I, however, was feeling a little frustrated from working myself up the previous two nights with nothing to show for it. I decided to check out the parlor that offered the “testicle massage.”

After removing my shoes and walking in, I was greeted by an old woman who then presented me with a price list. In addition to the testicle massage, the parlor offered cryptically titled treatments such as the “Blue Body,” “Orange Blossom,” and a few others whose names escape me. She explained to me in veiled innuendo, obscured by her broken English, what each menu item meant, but all I needed to do was see the prices, which were far beyond those at other parlors, to really understand what I was getting into.

I pointed to the most expensive item on the list, making the old woman smile and nod happily. She then called out to the girls, who were sitting around in the back of the room behind a curtain of small potted trees. Five girls came to line up before me and I scanned their faces, looking for the features that I always do when on the prowl. I didn’t find what I was looking for. Many of the girls were pudgy, and if they weren’t, their faces were awkward. What can I say? I’m very particular about what I like.

Sheepishly smiling, I turned to the old woman, telling her that I didn’t see anything that interested me. I then smiled embarrassedly at the girls, thanking them and turning back to the door. At that moment, I began to wonder if I was being picky out of fear and discomfort. I guess it didn’t matter. I was looking for a specific experience, not just some quick relief.

Forgetting my main option, I chose to join K. for a two hour, very tame, foot bath and Thai massage. The whole concept of a Thai massage was kind of cool to me. Instead of being prodded and kneaded by someone who is reaching across your body from the side, the masseuse actually, for lack of a better term, gets in there, crawls all over you, and puts your body and limbs in different positions that feel quite therapeutic when they are done just right. If that means putting your leg over their lap or digging their knee into your back, then so be it.

With that said, the whole experience was akin to getting my ass kicked by a small Asian woman. While I’ve always enjoyed massages on my lower body, it was downright excruciating when she worked on my back and shoulders. The whole thing was a learning experience, as I hadn’t received too many professional massages in my lifetime. When it was all over, I looked across the dim room at K. with a bewildered expression. She had enjoyed every moment of her massage while I felt like I had been through some initiation hazing. My favorite part was the delicious tea that was served afterward.

Let’s fast-forward now to the moment where K. and I were dropped off at a travel agency outpost to wait for the bus that would take us to Chiang Mai. Setting our luggage down, we checked the time and asked our chauffeur, a tall, very awkward and manly transsexual, if we had enough time to walk around the block to check out the shops. We were given twenty minutes, so we left our bags in a large pile with everyone else’s and set off.

Returning only ten minutes later, we found the outpost deserted, with our two bags leaning against each other in the middle of the street. We couldn’t find anyone who we recognized in the immediate area. There wasn’t even anyone walking on the street. Determined not to panic, we strapped our backpacks on and headed to the corner, hoping to catch up with our party, wherever they might have gone. A man standing on the corner seemed to sense our confusion and urgency. He looked at us and pointed down the street to his right where we saw a crowd of people waiting to climb onto a bus.

Long distance bus rides in Thailand seem to follow a strict formula: they begin with a loud, violent movie played on a tiny, outdated television, then, once you’re finally able to relax a bit, they stop for food. The entire ride, you’re also usually kept crisp by air conditioning units borrowed from industrial refrigerators. Here’s a tip: never let them seat you in the last row. That’s where K. and I ended up and it was a waking nightmare, seeing as sleep never came for me. The seats failed to recline and my tall frame in a short seat meant that I also had no headrest. There was nothing to be done, though, except get through it, so that’s what we did.

Experiment: The Process-Supported Life Framework

I haven't had a job since last June, so there has been little incentive for me to live by the same rules that everyone else does. I go to sleep when I want and wake up whenever my body is tired of sleeping. Meals happen when I get hungry and any non-essential task is easily pushed aside until it either becomes essential or I get frustrated with myself enough to actually do it. As you might imagine, this isn't the most organized way to live. My time management skills have deteriorated since leaving the workforce, so I'm thinking that it might be time for another experiment, similar to my vegetarianism one a couple weeks ago. Here are the details:

Experiment length: 2 weeks
Starts: Monday, February 27th.
Rules:
1. Wake up every day by 9am.
2. Sleep every day by 1am.
3. Go to the gym every weekday at 10am.
Exceptions: Social engagements
Goals:
1. Develop sleep/wake schedule that is compatible with working life.
2. Discipline myself to do tasks at the time they are meant to be done.
3. Push through the initial defeating mindset of discomfort and inconvenience and adapt a positive outlook on the results.

I am leaving out a few things from this experiment because I do not want to bite off too much at once. For instance, I haven't set schedules for things like chores or meals. I also have not set and specific goals with the time at the gym. Additionally, I thought about specifying time every day to either read or write. While I'd like to limit the amount of time that I waste on entertainment, I'm actually hoping that the simple structure of sleeping and waking, along with a standard activity to start my day, will set the tone for productive waking hours without the need to micromanage every hour or minute. It also helps that I am currently working on a personal project, of which I actually enjoy the process over spending hours playing mindless video games or watching movies.

I will post an update in the middle of this to keep myself honest and to track my feelings at the halfway point to see if they change any by the time I am done. I really have so much free time that there is no excuse to not be using it to its potential. I've always considered myself someone who runs on inspiration, but when the inspiration runs out or the confidence level drops, the fumes sometimes aren't enough to keep all the systems running. That's how I know it is time to adapt a framework for my life and start moving away from the inspiration-only model to the process-supported model.

Wish me luck!

Why Is Religion Popular in the Third World?

The question is not mine, but rather it was asked by someone in an open debate forum. My response:

First, let's figure out why various religions exist in certain countries in the first place. In the case of Africa and South America, Christian missionaries forcibly spread their religion to these places. Old traditions were forced out and the subjugated masses were made to adopt a new faith at gunpoint. In the Middle East, Islam has been around since it began, but it spread to placed like Malaysia and Indonesia through trade, where the ruling class first converted and then impressed it on the rest of the population. There are third world countries that are mostly Buddhist and Hindu, but those religions also have a history of conquest.

The point to take away from this is that religion is seldom a choice of the people. More often it is forced upon a population through their rulers or conquerors. Thus the next question regards why these countries are "third world" in the first place. Setting aside the original Cold War definition of Third World, let's take a brief look at what factors contribute to a third world country's typical status as poor or "developing."

In today's world, politics play a huge part in whether your nation is wealthy or not. Corrupt, oppressive or isolationist rulers usually solicit economic ostracism. This much can be observed in a fair chunk of all third world countries. Further, the basic political and economic structure that a government employs also has a huge impact on its country's ability to grow. It's not always about politics, though. Some countries simply do not have the right resources, geography or infrastructure to join the global community. Sometimes that's because the politics won't let it happen, other times it is simply a reality of the land they inhabit and their population.

When your country's infrastructure is in the ditch, it complicates a whole range of problems. Trade, communication, social services and education all run into brick walls if they lack the means to run efficiently. It's been said that it only takes a few billion dollars to make sure the entire world is fed. If it were that easy, it would be done by now, because figures like that are donated every month across the world. The reason why the problem never seems to get fixed is because there is no current way to deliver all that food and medicine to the people who need it. Political turmoil, bad roads, lack of management and a whole number of other issues block the way.

The numbers speak for themselves; low education, high occurrence of violence, high corruption, and high religiosity are all typical characteristics of third world countries. In contrast, wealthy first world countries are usually at the opposite ends of those scales. All of these factors correlate quite beautifully, but is it premature to start drawing some conclusions?

I want to say that people in third world countries are more religious because they lack the education and flow of information to introduce modern ways of thinking and to show them alternative ways to live.

Even if we take the anthropological approach and assume that religiosity is more a function of community than it is a result of the lack of education, that communal mentality is still an artifact of an isolated existence. Without the promise of economic mobility, people never seek to expand their world. The American Dream, for example, is all about economic mobility - the idea that through hard work, you can achieve any type of life you desire. This allows individuals to transcend the small communities where they are raised and chase after their (seemingly) individualistic dreams. Without those kinds of opportunities, individuals are less likely to stray from their communities. The religious stay religious.

And let's not forget religion's part in keeping everything stagnant. Traditional values can often mean that certain individuals (women) are simply not allowed to obtain an education or even stray from their post at home. This means that a full 50 percent of the working-age population is underutilized within a religious country's society.

In India, where women are notoriously abused and shelved at home, some communities have recently seen their female education rate rise, and their domestic violence rates and birth rates drop. All of these adjustments are very good things, but what was the cause? The communities saw the increase after finally receiving cable TV. The women of the community, taking examples from the fierce portrayals of heroines on television, began to develop a sense of worth. Result is that the traditions of their oppressive religion and community were shelved in favor of living a more modern, more enlightened lifestyle. This is just one example of infrastructure allowing the spread of information and education, thus displacing antiquated concepts like religion and tradition.

Let's look at religion in terms of its supposed benefits, though. Apologists would say that religion helps the suffering cope with their reality. Whether this is true or not doesn't matter for the sake of the next point. It has been suggested that because third world citizens are more familiar with suffering than first world citizens, they recognize the worth of religion more and thus utilize it more intensely than in wealthier places with less suffering. My rebuttal to ties my original argument about education: without the knowledge of alternative approaches to handling suffering, one cannot be given credit for choosing religion over other means. Rather, religion is the only tool in the shed for those people, and when they are finally given alternatives, they toss out religion with a quickness.

The Vegetarian Experiment: Results

It's been a week since I began my personal experiment in cutting out meat and dairy from my diet. In a short while, I will have my final "required" vegetarian meal and then start considering if I want to continue living this way. Right now, it's not looking so good.

Was eating vegetarian hard? No, it was actually a lot easier than I expected. Aside from having a few misfires when cooking meals that I had never attempted before, finding stuff to eat was actually kind of simple. Did I enjoy it? Fuck no. Aside from the fruits I ate, most everything I had was flavorless and soulless. I know I am new at this and I have a lot to learn, but sheesh! Nearly every meal I had was mostly a matter of chewing and swallowing until my plate was clear. Just get it in my stomach, that's all I had to do. It was like participating in the most boring episode of Fear Factor.

Friends asked me if they were being rude by eating meat around me. Nah. I didn't mind. It was an experiment to see if I could do it, not some moral obligation to animals or something silly like that. In fact, I sort of cheated when I followed a friend to a cheese shop and hung out while she tasted and deliberated. I confess to taking the tiniest of slivers of cheese from her just to get a clue about what she was doing. I'd never seen someone taste cheese with the nuance of a servant ordering groceries for Darth Vader.

How about the health effects? My goal with cutting out dairy was to hopefully clear up my sinuses that have been bugging me for months. Right now, my sinuses are very clear, but I still have a bit of weird congestion. You know when you can hear your own breathing from the inside of your ear drums? Can't get rid of it and I don't think the last week helped any.

As far as the lack of meat affecting my health or energy, I can't say it has or it hasn't. Once again, it's only been a week. I did work out a few times during the week and was pleased with my overall endurance, but I couldn't attribute that to my diet without experimenting further. I suppose that if I had a problem to fix in the beginning that I would be able to see progress (or not), but I was really just doing it to see if I could.

So, will the experiment continue? I gotta say that I am dying for some bacon right about now. And a nice, filling bite of a marinated chicken breast. And a... oh god... a burger... mmmmmmmm. I certainly haven't found any good meals that can replace meat in terms of both nutrition and taste. It could be that I simply need more time or practice, but I am going to need a damn miracle of flavor to happen if this is going to keep on.

Thailand Part 2: Nice and Naughty

Welcome to part 2 of my Thailand adventure. If you missed the first part, start here. If you're all caught up, enjoy:

Day 2: Bangkok

Our day began slowly as we recovered from the night before. For breakfast, we scouted the outdoor market that we had seen on our tuk tuk ride from Khaosan the previous evening. The market consisted of two large aircraft hangar-like buildings with rows and rows of tables in the middle and food vendors lining the sides. At the time we showed up, the feeding frenzy had died down and only the vendors near the entrance were still serving. Even then, I managed to find some delicious noodles with dark, tasty broth.

As we walked through the neighborhood, we made note of a few more buildings. There were many massage parlors, each catering to different tastes. One massage parlor advertised a “testicle massage” for 800 baht for an hour. Their placard read: “Help you feel more relaxing. Have a good blood pressure and to relieve a backache. (100% recoverying to be young)” The venue also had photos of their many good-looking female masseuses posted for all to see. Other parlors were staffed by strapping young men, who called out to K. as we passed by. Others, still, were plain and respectable in their presentation, not to mention boasting far cheaper prices.

It was getting quite hot, so we headed to a park at the end of Silom Road and found a shaded patch of grass beside a small lake. Compared with the hectic pace of our first day, it was refreshing to take our time and to not feel pressured into making the most out of every second of our trip. In a way, sitting there was making the most of it somehow. We planned out the rest of our daylit hours on our tourist map, then worked on hailing a cab to take us to Wat Pho.

Taxis are not as easy as they seem in Bangkok. Unlike back in Manhattan, the drivers will keep the doors locked until you tell them where you’re going, and if you’re not going where they want to go, they will drive off. Though all the taxis are clearly marked, some will try to behave like gypsy cabs, negotiating a price with you instead of using the meter. The negotiated price is almost always a rip-off. This is all to say that we had a difficult time getting a taxi to take us across town while also agreeing to the metered fare. But we got there eventually.

Wat Pho is known for housing the world’s largest reclining Buddha statue, but it also has a number of other Buddhas. Hundreds, in fact. Some are just a few feet high while others take up entire rooms. The reclining Buddha, though, is ridiculous. It’s so big that it takes up the entire building it is housed in and it is impossible to photograph the entire statue from the side. After walking past its feet, there is a long row of eighty brass bowls that people drop coins in to make wishes. Since I’m not the type to believe in those things, K. and I split the cost of purchasing a set of coins, which were actually old quarter-baht coins that were no longer in circulation, and fished out some of them for souvenirs.

Next, we found a water ferry to take us across the river to Wat Arun, known as the Temple of the Dawn. There, the central building is tall and pyramid-shaped with stairs of increasing steepness leading up all four sides. K. and I dutifully climbed to the top and took photos from our vantage point, but there was little else to see there.

We were getting hungry for dinner at this point, so we decided, inexplicably, to walk a fair distance to Chinatown in search of food. Our path brought us past the famed flower market, where millions of flowers were piled up in every open storefront, waiting to be strung into garlands or placed into intricate arrangements. We’re not talking about a mere string of florist shops. There were bundles and bags of flowers, sans stems, piled up high, filling trucks, storage units, sidewalks and shops. This kept going for several blocks.

After navigating through a few shady back alleys, we reached Chinatown proper. It only took a few more minutes after that to spot a side alley with a number of restaurants and stalls. This was the crux of our travel strategy: following our nose rather than a guidebook. I was still getting the hang of ordering foreign food from people who I didn’t understand and who didn’t understand me, but after a series of hand gestures and a lot of pointing, K. and I ended up with individual bowls of rice and three small dishes to share: fish, squid and vegetables. All delicious.

Our exploration had exhausted us, but we weren’t far from the train station at that point, so we decided to stop by and check the availability of trains to Chiang Mai. We planned on heading up the following day and had just assumed there would be plenty of choices. Nope. All trains were sold out. With our spirits and guard down, we didn’t even put up a fight when a station attendant led us to a travel agent’s desk to discuss getting there via bus.

We walked out of the station with overnight bus tickets for the next day, reservations for three nights at a guest house and plans for a full-day excursion. There is usually something to be said about package deals and the piece of mind that they give you by taking a lot of the stress off your shoulders, but we were certain that we could have paid far less than we did for what we got. Alas, when you’re dealing in Thai currency, everything is cheap so even a rip-off starts to look sort of cute in the right light.

Predictably, we crashed as soon as we got back to our hotel room, but we woke up from our nap in time to get going on another night of debauchery. This time, our destination was Nana Plaza, a multi-storied mall of sex in the Sukhumvit district.

We casually scoped out the first two stories of the plaza by strolling by the bars and peeking inside. The scene was similar to Patpong the night before; scantly-clad women lazily dancing up on stage. In front of each bar was a small crowd of women in full (read: minimal) stripper garb, taking their break from the arduous task of looking sexy (it was harder for some). Many smiled at me as I walked past.

These women had the worst smiles I had ever seen. It was the pained way they stretched their lips over their teeth like smiling was some bizarre Western custom that they had only recently learned about since they had been raised in a village their whole life and were only now coming into the city to make a living. Try smiling at people without moving your cheeks and see if they don’t move right on past you like I did these girls.

We eventually passed a bar named Angelwitch where the girls outside actually looked quite nice and their outfits, black lingerie and black vinyl high heeled boots, had my head turning to look behind me, so we stopped in our tracks, knowing I had found my calling. Inside, the stage show was far more involved than anything we had seen in any of the other bars. Every few minutes there was a choreographed number with multiple women gazing down lustfully at the patrons lining the room. To my delight, they occasionally got naked, too.

One dance featured women in traditional slutty Thai outfits, while another had girls covered in soap bubbles writhing around on each other. The bubbles themselves were a spectacle, as they never seemed to lose their consistency and always stayed in their place. After that show, a girl in a naughty maid uniform was sent to clean up the bubbles while crawling on all fours. At this point, I knew I could easily stay the entire night, but K. was getting bored. All these women were eye candy for me, but none of Bangkok’s sex industry seemed to be geared toward women.

It was then that four more girls took the stage, along with a padded bench. They fished a man out of the crowd; most likely a military serviceman on leave. He was then stripped of his shirt and pants, laid back across the bench, and tied up. Now we were talkin’. The guy was clearly handsome with a great muscular body. One look over in K.’s direction told me that she approved. Then the dance began.

I thought about how much I would have liked to be that guy as the dancers slowly lost their bikinis and took turns teasing him and grinding on him. The guy snapped playfully at the women, trying to disrupt their planned routine, but they kept on dancing, teasing, and touching. Eventually, the girls were all naked, but I knew the act had to end some time. Out of nowhere, as the music rose toward a crescendo, one of the dancers produced a heavy leather flail. She brought it down hard on his stomach, the loud crack drawing a collective cringe from the crowd and signaling the end of the music. Maybe, I thought, I was fine with just watching.

In between the entertainment, there were periods where the tone would shift and all of the bar girls would get up on stage to lazily dance for the patrons, waiting to be ordered, like in all the other bars. Each girl had a button on her with a number, and they rotated slowly around the stage, changing positions slightly after each song. Most girls had a bit of a gut, so I became obsessed with finding one with a flat stomach. When my eyes finally found a navel that wasn’t closer to me than the panty line, I lifted my eyes to study the girl’s bored face. She seemed even less happy to be on stage than all of the others, but her relaxed, non-plussed face was also youthful, fitting with her slim body quite well. Her number was 10.

It wasn’t the cost that stopped me this time, it was the fact that I was all out of baht due to the earlier unexpected reservations we had made and I didn’t want to run out and exchange more money. All I could do was sit and stare and think about what distracted thoughts must be running through number 10’s mind until my second beer was drained and K. was bored out of her skull. So we settled up and walked out.

Thailand Part 1: One Night In Bangkok

When my friend K. mentioned last year that she was planning a trip to Thailand, I casually said, “I want to go,” and that was that. This is the first part in a series of posts in which I tell the many stories of our trip, including some bizarre encounters, a lot of photos, and some information that may be helpful to other travelers. Enjoy. (A warning: many of these stories are heavy on sex, so if you don't know me in that way and don't want to know me in that way, I suggest just enjoying the pictures.)

Planning for the Trip:

We spent a couple months preparing, but the plans we made were very rough. The most we knew ahead of time was an outline of where we wanted to go and how many days we would spend at each location. We also purchased plane tickets to Cambodia, as neither of us had seen Angkor Wat before. Our preparation also included sharing our personal preferences, nuances and hopes for the trip. We had a list of goals, akin to video game achievements, that we wanted to accomplish, which gave us a good framework for how we approached each day of our adventure.

Day 1: Bangkok
I'm not counting the night we arrived and quickly checked into a hotel not far from the airport. The adventure didn’t start until we decided to get moving for our first full day of action in Bangkok. My breakfast consisted of noodles and broth, with a chicken’s foot sticking straight out at me. We ate on the street and it cost the equivalent of $1. This was a routine we would repeat many times over the following three and a half weeks.

K., being the experienced one with Bangkok, presented me with two choices for areas we would stay for the next couple nights; either Khaosan Road or Silom. The former was known as backpacker central, while the latter was known for its proximity to Bangkok’s largest red light district, Patpong. Naturally, I chose Silom. The hotel we found was new, cheap and had many vacancies, so we decided to show up at their desk instead of booking online.

The cab ride into town gave us our first test in understanding broken English. Our driver pointed ahead and exclaimed, “Tohway.” K. and I exchanged confused glances and tried to decipher the message. Did he mean “two way?” We were making him drive out of his home territory, so maybe he wanted us to pay him to drive back as well. We sat in silence for a while, swearing to fight this demand if he made it again, but when he pointed forward and let out another “Tohway,” we finally saw what he meant. Toll way! We laughed and coughed up the money for the tolls.

K. and I, being very platonic friends, knew that we were going to be sharing some tight quarters over the next few weeks. I also knew that we were bound to be mistaken for a couple for this very reason. As I admired the cute girl behind the reception desk at the Nantra Hotel, I thought of how awkward it would be to flirt with her. She had a cute way of speaking that led me to believe that she was educated elsewhere, and her mannerisms and round face vaguely reminded me of my ex-wife. I had a girlfriend back home, but it was understood between us that I would be behaving badly (within limits) while I was away.

We decided to get the tourist stuff out of the way, so we explored our neighborhood and found the house of one M R Kukrit. He was a Thai politician and scholar, as Wikipedia will tell you, and his house was quiet and pleasant. I felt like a giant stepping through doorways, having to crouch just to walk beneath a ceiling, as its resident once did with a straight back.

From there, we caught a cab to the Grand Palace, Bangkok’s most popular tourist destination. What we should have known beforehand was that there was a dress code and I apparently violated it. I ended up having to rent some pants, which I fit over my cargo shorts, just to see some old Buddhist stuff.

K. insisted that we ride in a tuk tuk at least once, so we flagged one down to take us to Khaosan Road, the aforementioned backpacker mecca. Tuk tuks are essentially covered carts powered by motorcycle motors. Their small size allows them to weave in and out of slow traffic and it's quite thrilling to get up to speed in the open air. Khaosan wasn’t so special; in fact it was kind of watered down compared to the experiences that we were looking for. It was just a row of bars and vendors with hundreds of tourists. There was very little to differentiate it from, say, Venice Beach in California. We decided to get foot massages and we followed them up with some beers at an empty bar, singing along to the Eagles songs playing in the background.

On our way to find our next meal, K. made a key purchase for our trip: a deck of miniature UNO cards. We made sure to put them to use as we ate. Hiring a tuk tuk at a reasonable rate to bring us back to our hotel was difficult in the tourist area, but we managed to find one. Admiring the speed and deftness with which the driver navigated the complex system of roads, we made note of a large outdoor market as we passed it, only a few blocks from where we were staying.

After a nap, we decided to have some adult fun. Patpong is essentially two parallel alleyways in the Silom neighborhood, but its sleaze manages to spill over for several blocks in different directions. Every night, there is a huge temporary market that attracts many tourists, but the rows of stalls couldn’t hide what we were really looking for; beer bars stocked with women for sale. Every minute or so, we were accosted by men holding small laminated cards printed with the words PUSSY SHOW or PING PONG SHOW on every line. Turning them away, we strolled along the rows of bars, peeking in to see clusters of bored, bikini-clad, out of shape girls, swaying lazily to loud, pounding music.

We had almost completed a circuit of all the bars before K. pressured me to either choose one to enter or move on. Settling on one of the first bars I had peeked into, we grabbed some seats front and center and each ordered a beer. The women on stage took some effort to like, though I did manage it with one or two. They didn’t pay us much attention and I suspect it was because I was with what they thought was my girlfriend. Sensing this, K. offered to disappear, but I shook my head. There wasn’t anything worth abandoning her for.

The cutest girl was also quite obviously a post-op ladyboy. She was taller and broader than the others, and her face had a cat-like quality to it, but I was looking for the real thing that night. The other girls either had mediocre faces or pudgy bellies or flap-jack breasts. Not a single one of the lot appeared excited to be there. All of them were in bikinis and had buttons with numbers of them, ready to be ordered and taken off the shelf, but it was an oddly asexual affair. Their stolid faces gave me no joy and almost made me feel guilty for perpetuating the market for their presence.

One dancer eventually came to sit beside me, but she focused her attention across my body at K. She showered K. with compliments and almost seemed to ignore me, which was fine. It wasn’t hard to tell that this woman was easily the oldest and most experienced dancer in the club. After striking out with us, she returned to the stage and proceeded to hog our visual space by gyrating her ample belly and calling out in our direction as if we had somehow mistakenly showed interest. Luckily, our beers were nearly drained at this point, so I offered the ambitious dancer a small tip in exchange for a flash of a nipple. She gave me it, so I made the most of the moment by feeling her breast with my hand as I fed 20 baht into her top.

We left to explore the second alley of Patpong and the other adjacent blocks, each with their own kind of debauchery. There was the fetish alley, the gay alley, and the Japanese district. Old white men walked past us with young Asians of either sexes in tow. We pointed out each one, mentally shuddering at the thought of what was about to happen behind closed doors. Settling into a bar at the end of the gay alley, K. and I sat and talked for a while, but the temptation of more debauchery eventually lured us out of our seats.

The topic of the pussy shows had come up in our conversation, and with our inhibitions dampened by our rising blood alcohol content, we began to consider going to one. I was curious about them and K. was open to the experience, for my sake. On one hand, they were absolutely reprehensible in every way. On the other hand, I was in the most morally ambiguous neighborhood I could think of and the shows were readily available. “Fuck it,” I decided, “let’s do it.”

The first man to approach us offered a pussy show for free, no cover and only 100 baht drinks. Without any hesitation, we asked him to point the way, so he led us to a building, up a flight of stairs, through a pair of doors, and into the darkest, shadiest, emptiest strip club I’d ever seen. With my guard up, my plan was to delay ordering a drink while I took in the show, then to leave the moment that they insisted that I order. I realized immediately that I should have shared my plan with K. because she ordered a beer as soon as we sat down and so I gave in, asking for a Sprite.

After a few moments of peering through the dark haze, I didn’t notice anything remarkable happening on stage, save for a set of staggeringly unsexy dancers with their bellies hanging over their waistlines and sunken-in eyes gazing dully out at us. I didn’t want to look too close, but I started to become aware of a pattern to the nearest girl’s movement. Then I realized what she was doing. From her vagina had emerged a garland of flowers. She pulled on it slowly, drawing one flower at a time from her nethers. The length of the garland grew and grew until she had enough slack to wrap around the stage pole. And she continued to pull, the distance between her and the pole increasing more with each flower that popped into view. I stared in disbelief at the triangle made by the garland that stretched from her personal cubby hole, around the pole and up to her hand. I estimated that she had coaxed a solid twelve feet of string and flowers from her depths before the end finally fell out of her. She crouched to collect the prop from the stage, and then slunk off to the side where I saw her begin to put it back into place.

Splitting through the thumping beats, there was a sudden loud pop and I quickly scanned the darkness for its source. Nobody seemed to panic, so I let myself relax. That’s when I saw that a new girl had taken Crouching Stripper, Hidden Flower’s place on stage. This one was already lying down and she had a thin red tube, held inside her vagina’s lips, pointed toward the ceiling. That’s when I heard another pop and realized that a balloon at the top of the stage pole had just disappeared.

It only took one more pop before I realized what was happening. The woman aimed the miniature dart gun at the next balloon and pop! She was blowing darts with her genitals. I’m no stranger to vagina tricks (I used to work in the porn industry), but I was pretty impressed at this demonstration of both force and precision. She blew out a few more balloons before being replaced by a third act.

The cigarette smoking trick was something I’d always heard about. And hell, being on the internet as long as I have, I would be ashamed if I hadn’t seen at least a handful of pictures of a woman holding a cigarette between her labia. But now, I could actually say that I’ve seen someone smoke a cigarette with her vagina in person. The end of the cancer stick lit up dimly as air was drawn through it, and then the puff of smoke to follow told of the horrors that must inhabit that dark cave.

The fourth act was what the legends had spoke of. The next woman had brought with her a basket of ping pong balls and a paddle. With the stripper holding out the paddle in my direction, K. and I suddenly became aware of ourselves and we knew it was time to leave. Refusing to take the paddle was probably what let the old women behind the cashier counter to sense our impending departure and we were hastily presented with the bill.

The charges: 300 baht for each drink, 1000 baht each for the show, 2600 baht in total; close to $87. We refused to pay, but were met with only angry pointing and yelling by a troupe of short, wrinkly, old Thai women. Shaking our heads, we looked at each other, gathering strength to pull our first act of defiance. At the cashier counter, we hurriedly gathered 600 baht between us for the drinks, slammed it down and bolted for the door. I would hear horror stories later about bars with actual muscle to enforce the overinflated charges, but at the time we were simply feeling a bewildered adrenaline rush of both shame and triumph.

We weren’t too pissed about being ripped off. As repulsed by the show as we were, we could not deny being entertained. We also could not deny that we had an interesting story to tell. But we weren’t yet done with the night. Truth be told, I was actually kind of horny and the prospect of seeing a cute girl naked had me thinking about the beer bars again. The stalls of the night market were being torn down as we walked past the row of bars still blaring music and I spotted a girl standing around in a robe. Her face was adorable and I knew I had to seize the opportunity quick because the chances of me finding another girl who I was actually attracted to were slim.

I approached her, told her how cute she was, and asked to see what she had on under the robe. Blushing, she beckoned me into the bar, so I followed. Once we were inside, she opened her robe and showed me her delicious body, soft and smooth and innocent. The excited shyness playing on her face made me want her even more. I hadn't planned on doing anything with her, but I was in a mood to see how far I could get. As an old lady inside offered to seat me, I told her right away that I was interested in the girl. Nodding, she ushered me to a seat along the wall and produced a laminated card with prices.

The beer bar system works roughly the same wherever you go: you pay the bar an amount, known as the “bar fee,” to take the girl away. The rest is negotiated between you and the girl. This bar, however, worked slightly different. The madam’s card showed a bar fee of 500 baht, but also listed the price for the girl up front, 2500 baht. $100 in total. The madam indicated that I could take the girl to a room upstairs in their establishment and I could have her for two hours. I turned to the girl, who had sat beside me, and rubbed her leg, noticing that it was covered light-colored pantyhose. I wanted to know how soft her skin was underneath, but I knew I had to stop.

We had established a budget for the trip at $30 a day, and I knew I was well over that with all of the transportation, sight-seeing, and drinking. This sudden expense seemed to shock me out of my mood and I started looking for a way out. “You have condom?” I asked in broken English. The madam nodded. “Have big?” I raised my hands to demonstrate an impressive length. I knew that large condoms were scarce in that part of the world. The old lady gave me a look of sly understanding, then suddenly produced another laminated card with prices and placed it on top of the one she had just shown me. This time, the prices were much higher: 4500 baht for the girl.

I wasn’t sure what I had done to earn the price hike, but I looked at the adorable girl regretfully, stood up, shook my head and shrugged. I rejoined K. and we walked back to the hotel empty-handed, but full of stories that needed to be told.

Stay tuned for part 2!

Vegetarianism: A Personal Experiment

My friend Danny recently introduced me to the blog Raptitude, which is written by a guy named David who is a friend of Danny's. I actually managed to meet David as he traveled through New York City, I just didn't know that he was such an accomplished and awesome blogger at the time. In any case, Danny pointed out to me the personal experiments that David has announced on his blog. These caught my eye, as I am in a position to try some new things with my life, and I started thinking of an experiment that I could run on myself. At the same time, Danny happened to mention that he had stopped eating dairy for a while and it seemed to be having some great positive effects.

Meat and dairy have a huge place in my diet. Cereal, bacon & eggs, yogurt, sandwiches, burgers, burritos; I have one or the other during every meal, it seems. It's not really hurting me, though. One look at me and you're likely to suggest that I should eat MORE of all of that. Actually, I have been doing just that in my effort to bulk up a bit. Alas, I've always been curious about changing my diet drastically. I wonder if I would really feel a difference aside from craving what I was missing. Well, I'm about to try it out.

Starting tomorrow, I will cut all meat and dairy from my diet for a week. As a bonus, I'll be tracking my progress, so at the end, I'll post a little report. See you on the other side.

Why Are Atheists So Hated In America?

These are not my words, but I felt like they answered the question so thoroughly that they needed as much exposure as possible:

Redditor CiderDrinker's comment on the topic Why are atheists so hated in the USA?:

Ok, a few answers to this:

(1) America was settled, at least initially, by religious fundamentalists who wanted to set up a sort of theocratic republic (before anyone jumps down my throat and says, "The founding fathers were not Christians" - yes, I know, I'm not talking about Jefferson or Paine or Franklin, the people who signed the Declaration of Independence and wrote the US Constitution - I'm talking about the people who went to America in the 1600s. This left a DEEP cultural idea in the American people that they were a 'chosen people' living in a 'promised land' etc. God loves America; so for an American not to love God back is seen as a sort of treason.

(2) The popular religion that developed in the USA, especially along the frontier and in the South, was anti-intellectual. Unlike in Italy, where the Catholics have a hierarchy and a trained priesthood, the dominant form of Christianity in the USA comes out of evangelical traditions and 'revivalism', where anyone with a spattering of Bible knowledge and a good shouting voice could start a church. This led to a very simplistic, literalist, bible-based theology. The broader education and humanist philosophy of the priests in catholic (and anglican and lutheran) churches in Europe mitigated against this trend and produced a religion which is in some ways more 'porous'.

(3) More generally, the USA has an anti-intellectual culture. In most of continental Europe people look up to and respect 'book learning' and being a civilised, cultured human being. In the USA (in most parts) this would be looked down on - it's what you DO that matters, how much money you make. This anti-intellectualism means that those who have a rational, scientific view of existence can easily be criticised as being 'out of touch' with 'good honest god-fearing Americans'. (Read in redneck voice): 'Them danged atheists thinks they is better than us folks, just cos they done got themselves a college edjikatishion'. It's like the horrible reverse parody of the democratic ethos.

(4) Being part of a protestant church is a major commitment. It's not something you just do as a social ritual, like catholicism can be. You have to make a choice, profess Jesus, get baptised by immersion, sign the members' roll, turn up to meetings, sit on committees. This tends to harden the edges of the 'in-group' and the 'out-group'. In a catholic country, everyone (or nearly so) is culturally catholic, even if they do not believe in god or go to church; you can't be a 'cultural baptist' - you are either In or Out (and, according to the Ins, everything Out is evil).

(5) After the second world war, the USA had a massive internal propaganda system designed to attack socialism and the left. Communists were 'atheists', Communists were bad and anti-American, ergo atheists were bad and anti-American.

(6) The USA does not have a good welfare system. Indeed, the whole country is based on a sort of individualist myth, where the only reason that one guy is working 70 hours a week and struggling to get by with two minimum wage jobs and no healthcare, while someone sits by their pool and has a private jet, is that the first one is 'lazy' (i.e. unfavoured by God - remember, Protestant God Wants You to Work Hard) and the second is 'hardworking' (i.e. Blessed by God). This means that: (i) there is a lot of fear - fear of sickness, fear of unemployment, fear of annoying the boss, fear of random economic actions outside your control. Fear drives people into fearful, nasty, exclusive versions of religion - a 'hunker down' against 'the world'; (ii) people need the social network and support provided by a church, because the state provides so little - thus atheists are a threat to people because people are terrified of being convinced by them, having to leave the church, and thus losing their social network and support system.

(7) This is the crucial one - it draws on 1 and 5, but goes beyond them and is vitally relevant today: There is, in the USA, a thing called 'Christianity' that has little to do with Christianity as it is generally understood in Europe, or in the longer view of the Christian tradition. It is a heavily nationalistic, militaristic, masculine, authoritarian cult, with Jesus as the Cadillac-Driving All-American Hero who has come to save his Chosen People from Gayness, Socialised Medicine, Arabs and Long Haired Hippies. This might best be called, "Amerireligion". This was deliberately created after the 1960s by the American right, who wanted a way to stop the changes begun by the Progressive Era and the New Deal and to restore the dominance of the old ruling class. The civil rights and anti-vietnam war era brought it to a head. The right saw an opportunity to appeal to the gut-instincts of the white working class blue collar American male by playing on his prejudices - particularly on matters such as race, alternative lifestyles and the sexual revolution. So there was a deliberate demonisation and vilification of those who were seen as 'different' from that red-blooded white-skinned American male ideal - they were 'liberal hippy tree hugging dirty commie atheist bastards' - not to be trusted, because they were 'anti-American' (when 'American' is defined by the hard right). So, basically, American christians hate atheists because their religion is really a sort of tribal nationalism, and they've been played for fools by right-wing politicians.

How do you get poor and middle class people to vote for tax cuts for billionaires, constant war, erosion of civil liberties, and destruction of public services? Easy, tell them that if they don't American Jesus will cry - and then the Gays and the Foreigners and the Nasty Atheists - and all who don't Love American Jesus will continue to shaft them. Why are they unemployed? Not because NAFTA killed the jobs, but because God angry with America for teaching evolution. It's the ultimate 'bait-n-switch'. So what's the answer to the current economic crisis - the worst in American history since the Great Depression? Is it a massive public investment and job-creation programme like FDR did? No, that would be Communistic Atheism. Instead, we must appease the All-Blessing God of America - by banning pornography!

The level of cognitive dissonance must be overwhelming. Faced with that, no wonder so many American Christians act with rage and hostility to the mere presence of atheists.

It's sad.

The religious right is essentially an underclass created for the purpose of keeping certain people in power. Why are these games played? Why is power so important?

Hey World, It's Me.

In June of last year, I was told that there was no more work left for me at my job. It was a temporary contract, but I had been promised at the start that it would lead to a full-time position. Understanding that business rarely keeps its promises, I decided to look on the bright side of my unemployment. For one, I had been laid off at the beginning of summer in New York. Compared to all the other seasons, summer is by far the most glorious time to have no responsibilities. I also knew that I didn't have to panic about getting a job right away as I had been very frugal over the previous years and had saved up for exactly this situation -- being able to lose a job with grace.

I began my unemployment with a lot of ambitions. I thought that I could write a book, but several attempts at multiple subjects and formats left me discouraged. Though my blog posts may be long-winded, I feel like I exhaust most of my ideas in a couple thousand words. Besides, a lot of my ideas had been done before. I also started to lose confidence in my writing ability, feeling like I hadn't enough discipline to hold a reader's attention through all of the tedious points I was looking to make. To this day, I am confident that I've got an amazing idea for a novel stored in my head, but I lack the grace of prose and the nuance of characterization to properly actualize it.

Then there were all of the business ideas I had. I've been sitting on many of them for years, so it seemed that this would be a fine time to get working. There were two main factors that kept me from moving too far along, though. The first was that, while my friends were excited and encouraging of what I proposed, my ideas were not necessarily profitable. The second was that I felt a bit overwhelmed by the whole process of starting a business. I'm not a business man, I'm an idea man. I have passion, vision, and balls, but, again, I am lacking in the discipline department. I'm smart enough to know how to play it safe though, and safe, it occurred to me, was to not play at all until I had every one of my ducks standing at attention before me.

Toward the end of summer, I took a long vacation to Europe with my girlfriend to clear my mind. The hope was to think about my projects during the downtime and inch slowly toward something that could help me land on my feet when I got back. Not a single word was written in my notes regarding any one of my ideas, though. The trip was packed with new experiences and memorable times, but my attention was always occupied. Even when we had some serious downtime, it was spent recovering from the exhausting pace of our exploration instead of long-term thought. I returned feeling guilty, discouraged and frustrated with my failed plans of self-sufficient living.

I started looking for employment again in the early fall and I was subsequently asked into a series of interviews. One company had me come in to their office on many occasions over the course of several weeks. I also had many phone interviews with them. I met with every department they had, some even twice or three times. Finally, I was given an offer for the job, but the pay was quite low for the position I was looking to fill. That wouldn't have been a problem, though, as they were also offering stock options. I just had a few clarifying questions about their offer and I asked to have a day to consider it. I was given that day, but when I received what I thought was the call to give me the answers to my questions, I was told instead that they had reviewed their budget and that they couldn't afford to hire me or anyone else.

It was like a dark pall had settled over the internet tech industry, as the phone calls started to dwindle. Even in my searches, I began to find fewer jobs that were a good fit. The opportunities that did come calling required skills that I hadn't acquired at my previous positions. This wasn't to say that I felt under-qualified, but there is something seriously wrong when companies no longer look for potential and instead only hire employees who come fully equipped with the experience and skills that they require. That might sound like a no-brainer in today's world, but there was once a time when companies could afford to train their employees. I have over a decade of experience in my field (and I'm brilliant!), but the fact that I've never worked for a company that utilizes a methodology that takes a 3-day seminar to learn instantly sends my resume to the trash.

On the heels of yet another drawn-out interview process that led nowhere, I took another long trip to clear my mind. This time, I went to Thailand with my friend Ky. While over there, I began to worry about my steadily dwindling finances, but I didn't let it get to me too much. I was there, all the way on the other side of the world, where everything was cheap and readily available. So, we decided to go all out. We did everything. We found adventure, danger, debauchery, paradise, hell, history, friends, food, and yes, even ladyboys. It was a complete experience in every sense of the word and I feel thoroughly enriched for having taken part in it. But reality was waiting when I touched down back in New York City.

The cold winter here is by far my least favorite time of the year. I hate being outside, even to run errands. Every time winter comes, I think about moving away or disappearing. The Thailand trip wasn't enough to insulate me. It's understandable that I'm starting to feel real low now. My future is measured in dollars and it is ticking downwards toward zero. In the past, I've been faced with even worse, but with every trap you escape, it feels like the rest learn from the last's mistake. I'm not sure how many lives I have left.

Eight months ago, just before I lost my job, my landlord informed me that he would not renew my lease. He let me continue to rent my apartment on a month-to-month basis, but he also asked that I let him show the apartment to potential buyers. I've graciously let strangers come into my space, dreading the day that one of them finally decides to sign on the dotted line. I know that if that happens, I will have 30 days to find a new apartment, but I won't be able to show the financials to convince someone to rent one to me without a job. It's harrowing to think about being homeless, especially in February.

At this point, my life is built on a framework of absolute basics. I wake up, eat and sleep. On that base, I attach little bits of flavor: exercise, entertainment, social activity and research. Money is only spent when necessary. I consider myself a blank canvas now; forsaken by the working world with little left to lose. I don't even stress about hearing back from an interview. For the first time, I feel like I am making progress on one of my business plans. My friends are rallying to give me support and insight and I've got little to preoccupy my attention. There's only one direction out of this mess that I will find acceptable. I'm going to be working by the middle of this year whether someone decides to hire my genius ass or I hire myself.

Review: Chronicle

Chronicle is a good movie with many flaws that prevent it from being great, even amazing. The premise and acting is strong enough that, if you look closely, one could see a powerfully emotive cinematic spectre rising from the expired body of a gritty proto-hero flick that simply settled for good enough. The movie plays out like a five-minute dance number on stage for ten; midway through, the choreographed confidence gives way to discord and improvisation. After the wind has stopped blowing, the tale is left sailing on the momentum of its intriguing story, sent to run ashore on the jagged rocks of clunky endings with its captain nowhere in sight. House arrest is too good a fate for abandoning this ship.

There aren’t many main characters in Hollywood named Andrew, so I was a little chagrined to watch someone who bears the same name as me also turn out to be an awkward, skinny teenager with no friends. I’d be interested to see a study about the names of characters in fiction and their accompanying traits. Would “Steve” and “Matt,” the names of the other two main characters in the story, be associated more often with macho characteristics than “Andrew?” Someone make this happen.

---- Beyond this point lie spoilers! I’m serious. I give away the whole movie. ----

It’s clear from the beginning, because Director Josh Trank is so heavy handed in conveying this, that Andrew is a textbook one-dimensional time bomb; Columbine made simple. His dad is a disabled drunk who beats up on him, kids bully him at school, girls think he’s creepy, and even his own cousin Matt only tolerates him up to the point where it doesn’t affect his popularity. Andrew, who has adopted the awkward hobby of chronicling his life on video, is coaxed from a self-loathing stupor by soon-to-be Class President Steve, who ushers him deep into the woods to chase down something that he and Matt had just discovered. And wouldn’t you know it, all three of them end up with telekinesis and confusingly indestructible-yet-totally-vulnerable skin.

Matt actually turns out to be the most intriguing character as the handsome stud who quotes philosophy, has a human sense of compassion, and exercises admirable restraint when coping with his new super powers. If there was a true super hero among them, he would be it. Steve is not far behind as the perfect mix of football star and politician who eventually manages to see Andrew for more than an emotional punching bag. If only we could, too. It’s as if the writer and director couldn’t identify with Andrew themselves, so they wrote him at arm’s length while adorning the hearts-of-gold jocks with the real humanity.

To his credit, Trank is able to keep a very satisfying pace through the first half of the movie despite a very distinct lack of action or obvious conflict. What keeps it exciting are the moments of self-discovery of those super powers that both inspire the audience with wonder and help the three amigos to bond. But something is always amiss, and Andrew goes and screws up the good time by getting all depressed and sending a truck down an embankment. A bit of drama ensues, but then, inexplicably, all is forgiven and we’re back to joyful, sporting displays of enviable abilities. It was as if Trank knew he was missing some action, so he cut the truck scene from its original spot toward the end and slapped it in the middle of all the saccharine moments.

It’s this little hiccup that doesn’t sit right as a viewer because, the next thing you know, even the super powers have jumped the shark as they’re now being used (in addition to shoddy CG animation) to win a high school talent show. This was Steve’s plan, you see, to get Andrew laid. And it works out well, as Andrew then uses his powers to impress a girl (played by an actress who is clearly well into her 20’s) at the ensuing house party. Usually they save these sorts of shenanigans for the sequel.

Alas, the crowning moment of unintended awkwardness explodes in our face as Andrew’s new amour rushes past Steve, covered in some sort of liquid with a curious consistency and is visibly traumatized. When Steve enters the room, we find Andrew also covered in the same conspicuously colored liquid. I’m not gonna lie. Here’s what I (and other theater-goers) thought happened: Andrew got a little too excited and he busted a premature super-powered nut all over the girl and himself. It isn’t definitively revealed until later that he actually vomited. Silly me for thinking such vulgar thoughts.

The humiliation eventually makes Andrew snap like a piece of cheap lawn furniture at a Mississippi family reunion and he flies off into the center of a thunder storm. Steve manages to find him and even Andrew is incredulous about how he managed to do this. And then, as Andrew’s fury reaches a crescendo, Steve is dead. His funeral, by the way, is suspiciously lacking in fellow dark-skinned people. The emotional impact is stunted. Even Matt, the one person who suspects Andrew, is curiously docile.

Another thing that the writers failed to identify with is the intelligence of teenagers. We’re talking about overachieving Seattle suburban affluent high schoolers here. Not only do they not, between the three of them, previously know the word “telekinesis,” but as soon as Andrew learns that he needs $700 to pay for his mother’s medication, his first instinct is to shake down the local corner gang for pocket change, followed by a gas station. I might have over a decade of experience on this Andrew, but I really don’t think that 17 year old me would be so lacking in originality, not to mention practicality. Why steal money to buy the meds when you can just steal the meds?

The gas station stunt lands Andrew in the hospital, leaving me curious about an earlier scene that demonstrated how the trio’s skin was impenetrable. So far, our heroes are striking out with their real-world durability. Andrew’s father shows up to unleash some of his over-the-top parental abuse (I don’t mean to take it lightly, it just wasn’t very well executed.) which results in Andrew blowing the wall off of his hospital room. Oddly, he waits until Matt has hopped into a car and driven all the way to downtown Seattle to actually leave the room and toss his father to the ground below. Yes, this happens right in time to be filmed by another character and also right in time to be thwarted by Matt.

Chronicle attempts to be a movie comprised of entirely “found footage,” a tactic intended to raise the tension and immediacy of the moment, but it ends up becoming a burden when the focus shifts away from Andrew. The solution is a female love interest for Matt who just happens to also be obsessed with catching every waking moment on video. Somehow, we’re supposed to take this at face value when she answers the door with a camera mounted on a tripod behind her. We’re then supposed to really believe her camera was necessary to capture Andrew’s attempted murder on his father, too. As the movie progresses into an overdrawn fight scene that takes place over several locations, through several buildings, Andrew takes the time to steal the cameras from a crowd of bystanders just so that he can film his confrontation with Matt in 360 degrees.

Andrew is now an ugly mess of burns and bruises. At this point I knew he had to die. It wasn’t that he had done something totally horrible. He just looked like a pissed off Raggedy Andy doll after a decade of being handled by foster kids. What I don’t understand is why he had to die in such a meaningless fashion. In the middle of a noisy but essentially harmless tantrum, Matt skewers his cousin with a statue. Seriously. Up to this point, on the super villain scale of things, Andrew had been nothing more than a public nuisance. In fairness, it was probably the only way to get him to stop screaming.

Not much needed to change in order to make this film great, but unfortunately movies don’t get re-dos. What could have been a fantastic exploration of the torment experienced by a bullying victim was somehow exploited into a cop-out psychotic delusion. What could have been a study on the behavior of modern teenagers was turned into a same-ol’ Hollywood flick that simply skated by on the power of its premise. Oh well. At least we got to dream about having super powers for a while.