10 Hours on a Sri Lankan Bus in Thailand.

For those pitifully few of you who haven’t yet read “Sri Lanka: Bus Ride to Hell”, it might be prudent to take a break from these musings and immerse yourself there for a bit, as the background information there contributes directly to the material for this article. Well, for the title, anyway.

We recently took two ten-hour bus trips from Bangkok up North to Chiang Mai and back. It provided us with a number of interesting and mirthful experiences which I certainly would like to share.

This would hopefully not happen to us…

The buses in Thailand are not as magnificently adorned as their counterparts in Sri Lanka, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. Many have simple color schemes, without bats, or explosions, or tanks, or flying tigeroctopi. If that is even a thing.

The insides are relatively neat and do not crush their passengers with, first and foremost, the odor of curry, which is also a plus. Traveling by bus is a popular method of getting about in Thailand, but there is fortunately none of the stupefyingly irresponsible overcrowding one witnesses in Sri Lanka.

In fact, the buses themselves aren’t all that disagreeable, which made us all the more ready, as well as the low low prices, to utilize this mode of transport again.


The first thing I noticed this time on the bus was that, sitting in the front row, there was a heck of lot of leg room. For someone who was three and a half feet tall. There are overhead bins on these buses but they are only about as tall and wide as a mail slot, and my rucksack was certainly not going to fit up there, which meant it went under my feet. Also under my legs were my shoes-since I was planning on sleeping I wanted to maximize my Comfortabilty Quotient (CQ)-and my Trader Joe’s bag full o’ goodies for the trip. With my legs jammed into the small space between seat and wall, and above my necessities for the trip, I felt like one of those poor traditional Chinese women who had their feet broken to fit into ever smaller pairs of shoes.

Tiny feet are cool.

Culinary Delights

Within the first half hour of our trip a smartly dressed female steward person-yes, that’s a thing here on buses-moved through the aisle and passed out cardboard and plastic boxes o’ yum-yums. Like for example cold mini pizzas with croissants (as a dessert) or, for breakfast, a “chocolate”-filled bun with some very wretched Thai cookies (as a…dessert?).

Cookies come pre-mushed in a 100% plastic container. Fly (right side) is optional.

I’m guessing the main ingredient here is paste. Yes, I tried them. Because they were free. And regretted it terribly. Until my next bowel movement. which brings me to my next wonderful experience:

Passing water

Before nodding off into a gently-rocked sleep, I made sure to visit the toilet in the back of the bus, which was an unusually high amount of no fun due to the overflowing trough around the porcelain gullet. I’m going to give the bus company the benefit of the doubt-primarily because I don’t want to think of the alternative-and say the three-inch deep liquid covering the floor was water. I was not going in there.

Thankfully, I’m pretty spry for my age and leaned into the bathroom from its ‘mini-foyer’ far enough toilet-wards to pour my bladder juice mostly in the toilet.

Break time!

Going wee-wee in this manner may sound disgusting and inconsiderate to the other passengers but I don’t care and I also knew, in my defense, that we were headed for a rest area and would be ‘put out’ there later. That is also one of the interesting facets of these long distance bus trips in Thailand: after five or six hours the bus stops at a rest area and everyone is tenderly screamed at in Thai to wake up and get off the bus. We were not told in any language, unfortunately, that we were to bring our bus ticket into the restaurant. A free meal awaited all of the passengers with one. Oh, well.

The cafeteria-styled restaurant served up a choice of maybe meat or fish or feet with maybe noodles or rice-we couldn’t tell and no one spoke English. It cost us, being without tickets, about $0.37.

In our Alpha-wave state of half slumber we relaxed and enjoyed the hearty mystery meal, which was produced on a conveyer belt and glowed with the nuclear energy of some of the spiciest…spices ever to garnish a meal, for upwards of eight minutes before hopefully everyone was herded back onto the bus for the next leg of our journey.

Sweet Dreams

A word about the ‘gentle sleep’ mentioned above. On the way up North, we had a normal-heighted (?) bus, while on the way back we rode in a double decker. The double deckers are a little more comfortable but, and I cannot emphasize this enough, avoid them if you plan to close your eyes at all. Any background in physics will tell you that the higher and more top-heavy a bus is, the more it will swing and sway like the S.S. Minnow when the weather starts to get rough, until, and this is true, I felt like the Hulk had a hold of one of my legs and was whomping me around like he did to Thor or Loki in one of the million Avengers movies. Please watch these scenes again somehow and consider it your homework.


Speaking of movies, on the way back to Bangkok we had the afore-mentioned woman as a stewardess person, but on the way up we had a guy who performed his stewardship competently and well. There was something about him, however, that made me think he took the job only because his girlfriend got pregnant and was, at heart, a tried and true headbanger. Maybe I’m only saying that because of the DVD he slipped in for us passengers to enjoy-and boy did we.

I’ll also mention here that we noticed that when trying to watch “Grace and Frankie” on Netflix, a safety code appears on the screen to make sure no immature elements are viewing that highly immoral, sex- and violence-ridden merriment.

Our steward seemed to have no such qualms about improper content when he slipped in a zombie movie. Not just any zombie-a Thai zombie movie. And not just any Thai zombie movie-one of the goriest, bloodiest zombie movies ever. As special effects go, it was not as bad as Plan 9 From Outer Space, which, admittedly, set the bar pretty low, but not as high as the first Star Wars movie-I think it was called ‘War in the Stars’.

My daughter’s favorite scene was when the heroine, played by someone never heard from again, exchanged her fully capable, zombie-slashin’ short sword for a pair of hammers she could barely lift. Presumably because she was not worthy.

My favorite scene was when this heroine-who apparently nailed the role because of her ability to sweat and moan in battle (with zombies)-sitting in the background, chops a zombie approaching her from the foreground in half. We’re left viewing her framed by two slimy, mucal halves of a zombie. I’m guessing zombie insides are much more slimy and mucinous than their human counterparts.

He must have eaten the cookies…

Thanks to ErikaWittlieb on Pixabay for this beautiful image.

On a side note here-and this is true-did you know that the mucin from snail slime trails is a beauty trend now?

I’d rather stay ugly.

Moving, Bus-themed Moral

I guess it would be easy to say ‘The important thing is that you got where you wanted to go’, but I don’t like thinking this way. It allows you to continue believing you somehow don’t deserve to travel comfortably. I’d rather consider bus rides like this one a challenge. I want to enjoy things like this, though it seems impossible, because of the many terrible circumstances and because there’s a wretched Thai zombie movie on that’s difficult to watch because it’s in Thai with no subtitles, because it truly sucks, and because there’s so much blood spurting everywhere it’s hard to find the characters. If you can enjoy things like this despite everything working against you, then it becomes easier to manage the more difficult challenges that life throws at you.

Like dealing with the 6 million people on Fitbit that don’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’. That is, however, another story.

Pulverized in 1 K

I recently started an activity I call “Death by Onesies”. It’s a fun little excursion into the wonderful world of fitness. It’s only 1 lousy kilometer long – how hard could it be? Is what I asked until I started running up the first damn hill. My next question was, naturally, whose idea was this, anyway?

I’m in Oakland now with my wife and daughter, still touring the world. We’re right across the bay from San Francisco, a city everyone seems to love. Well, I’m going to reveal a little secret to the world now that no one, it appears, is really aware of.

Oakland is pretty nice, too.

Yes, it does have its blemishes, but what city doesn’t?

I’d been running in the hills above Oaktown for a few days when I remembered something. Back in the eighties (and nineties and beyond – did that guy ever really stop?), the best receiver in the NFL was Jerry Rice. I loved him. He was an underdog – he was small-ish and from some blip on the college football radar called Mississppi Valley Tennessee Authority College or something, and I, like most, love underdog stories.

One day I unlocked (one of) the key(s) to his greatness. Between seasons he would go to a little park in S.F. and run a four mile stretch of trail his teammates and any further athletes dumb enough to try it grew to loathe at a sub-cellular level. There were steep hills, and Jerry (and his friend Roger Craig, who showed Jerry the trail) was not walking them.

I decided to have my own fun here in Oakland. Right up the street from us is a little park where we watched the fireworks on the 4th of July and enjoyed the green green smells, if you know what I mean. It’s way up over the city, and to the west is a monstrously steep rise. To the left of it, looking toward the cities, is a smaller hill, or rather, a hill broken in two. Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, to run up the big hill, down the two smaller ones, then back up on the small ones to the top?

I must have enjoyed too many smells.

Here’s a video of me laboring through an attempt:

Thanks to my wife and daughter (on top of the hill) for filming this insanity.

What fun! I decided to add that to the end of my shorter training runs (5-8 Km), to heavily increase the fun factor. What a crazy funster I am!

Here are my times for the punitive Km in Oakland:

Jun. 24th – 9:10

Jun. 29th – 8:44

Jul. 2th – 8:12

Jul. 9th – 7:33

It was great to make that kind of progress with something as taxing as “Death by Onesies”. I can’t wait to get to our next stop – Salt Lake City – to make more progress.


California! Land of Sunshine, beautiful beaches, and, at least here in Oakland, the all-pervasive smell of weed. On July 4th, no less, we found ourselves in a little park that overlooked not only Oakland but also San Francisco, way back across the bay to the West. It soon became difficult to see the fireworks because of “smoke” from either the fireworks or, um…not.

At any rate, I did not want to tell you about watching fireworks through glasses formed out of marijuana smoke, which, now that I think about it, would actually be kind of cool….

B..but I wanted to tell you about why we are here. We are here to commune with every single solitary molecule our inner essence…WHOA! Guess we’ve already been in Cali too long. We are here to take care of Whisky and something called “Lani”. Whisky is a boxer, and “Lani” is either a boxer or an advanced form of extraterrestrial life sent here to study and learn from us. If the latter be true, “Lani” has really taken to her role, as proven by the boundless vigor with which she throws herself into neighborhood watchdog mode.

However, even should she be in reality a normal four-legged mammalian carnivorous acute-hearing slobbering drug-sniffing one-billion-strong species of domesticated wolf-sludge, “Lani” is, how shall I put it, “off”. She jumps too enthusiastically, as if she’s trying to prove that she is enthusiastic. She supposedly needs to be pet every three and a half minutes, which is too strict a schedule for most canines we have taken care of up until now.

Whisky is more traditional in the sense that he barks and jumps on you and eats your hand and stares at you uncomprehendingly when you quote Rick Moranis’ speech from Ghostbusters (1984):

“Gozer [sp.?] the Traveller. He will come in one of the prechosen forms. During the Rectification of the Valdrani[sp.?], the Traveller came as a large and moving Torg[sp.?]! Then, during the third Replication of the Maketrik [sp.?] Supplicants, they chose a new form for ‘im. That of a giant Slor[sp.?]! Many Shuvs and Zuuls knew what it was like to be roasted in the depths of a Slor that day I can tell you!”

So he was perplexed. Whiskey stayed perplexed, perhaps because of that speech, for most of our stay in Oakland. I loved both of the dogs but I admit I had a special place in my heart for Whiskey. Whiskey was kicked in the head by a donkey as a puppy and to be polite and politically correct, I’ll just lie and say this stomping hasn’t affected him in any way and he has, in fact, all of his faculties intact.

Kind of.

Many times Whiskey “got it”. I can remember several instances where Whiskey “got it”, but I’m sure not going to tell you any of them. Instead, I see a wonderful, well-kempt (opposite of unkempt), handsome and powerfully built boxer standing there staring at me with a look that says, “Huh?”

Both of these dogs were remarkable specimens of caninitude, and if I was a judge at a Dog Show where both these dogs were entered I would pin a comely blue ribbon that says “First Place” on them, and I doubt that neither would be mad because neither of them won…one.? I’ve definitely been here to long.

Though it would be humorous to come home and watch them wrassle over the real true first place winner-I’m sure that epic clash would go on for hours.

See, these two beasts were young and loaded to the gunwhales with surplus energy; so much that they could think of nothing to do with that energy except wrassle in the backyard and -WAIT! someone’s out on the street!- storm around the side of the house where a high wooden fence stood that was, apparently, what they were supposed to bark angrily at and at volume setting number 11 whenever they heard, smelled or sensed a presence behind it. Which was almost always.

But wait! What were we doing again? Oh yeah!

And it’s back to the backyard to wrassle some more and maybe grovel for a treat.

My biggest regret #1 is that we weren’t able to take them for walks. It would have been foolhardy, loosing these two cannons on the world with their energy, temperament, and chiseled muscular fury. Despite being warm, loving dogs, they were playful to a fault and would have shredded anything short of Max, the Rhodesian Ridgeback we took care of in Australia.

That being said, I can imagine a day in Oakland where I jog up the hill to the East, and do a long loop through Anthony Chabot National Park, where the sun shines in all of its fine California splendor, and the dogs patter over the landscape, feeling like kings. Their boxer muscles expand and contract, saying, no, screaming “Get the eff out of my way Here I come!”, and everyone would.

They would hardly stop to poop, which would break my all-important jogger’s rhythm, but when they finally do they drop mountains in the middle of the trail and I realize I’ve forgotten to bring “doggie bags” with me. Then a squirrel (and not, thankfully, a small child) appears, and I’m all but drawn and quartered as both dogs surge to the attack, bearing down like charging rhinos on the precocious interloper, until I’ve been dragged through the dirt face first and he is torn like the Constitution in Trump’s rough, unfeeling grip.

So yeah maybe taking them for a walk is not the best idea. Better to let them duke it out in the back yard, with the occasional “Bark-at-the-Fence Game” as a diversion. You know, when wrasslin’ gets boring.

Two final stories: 1.), I got into the ill-advised habit where, upon returning to the house after a jog or shopping, I would sprint out into the backyard with them and wrassle’ right there with ’em on the grass, hopefully avoiding doggie mines. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this breed of dog, you will quickly understand why they are thusly named, and you will also understand why the owners of the house cautioned me (especially me, not my wife) against playing this game, but if it should so happen that this game were played, that I best be “on my guard” in case I didn’t want one or both of my “testicles” to wind up “in the back of my throat” (not their exact words).

One of my, like, hugest regrets (#2) is that I did not film us all wrasslin’-especially me and Whiskey. We tussled with such unbounded fervor that even Lani kind of stayed “just out of reach”, respecting the fervor, even when I tried to momentarily shed myself from Whiskey and include her in our shenanigans. When Whiskey got started, it was very difficult to calm him down again, and he would literally begin steaming like a runaway train, until the borders between fun and “Bloodsport” were not only advanced upon, but leapt over in a gazelle-like bound. On two occasions I had to stop immediately and hold Whiskey gently, giving him all the love I could muster-out of fear, perhaps-until he realized he was back on a planet where he was loved, and he did not have to defend his life with his dying breath from terrifying alien invaders intent on killing and enslaving the populace. Which, really, couldn’t have been further from my mind.

Story #2: My Next Hugest Regret. Whenever the dogs wanted to rest a little, and the sun wasn’t too hot for them, they would lie, Sphinx-like, on the back lawn, with their front legs stretched out in front of them. They would lie like that, Lani more so than Whiskey, in a kind of gentle “catch-my-breath” moment. If you didn’t look close, you might be tempted to assume that they were not alert, and, in fact, relaxing hard core.

Perhaps this was true with Whiskey, I don’t really remember. But remember when I said that Lani was a little “off”? I noticed, or, more accurately, felt that I was being watched when she was like that. Which brings us to my next hugest regret (#3?). I should have done the following exercise on film, I’m really kicking myself that I did not.

For, to test my theory of being watched, I began strolling veeerryyy slowly over the back terrace, rolling my eyes innocently, even glancing out of the corner of my eyes her way. She sat there and panted, all innocent-like, also: “Just lyin’ here, mindin’ my own business…”. Then I suddenly sprang as best as I could into my 50-year old Ninja attack pose, facing her.

I swear I have never seen a canine move faster than Lani did in that moment, springing into a low crouch with throbbing musculartude and a welder’s flame intensity in her eyes that said “KILL!”, but an aura that was all play.

If I had had time I would have wrassled with her then and there, but I was busy, and I couldn’t decide anyway if I should wrassle with her, hug her, or scream a banshee cry of joy:

Nothing we produce in all of our wildest imaginations, and our greatest, most innovative, productive, and well-executed machinations will EVER be as remotely impressive as Nature at its simplest, in its most mundane. If this is true then all of the injuries we suffer under the yoke of cruel civilization are easily healed and forgotten once we close our eyes to the yoke. What could be more hopeful than that?

I am deeply indebted to the owners of these dogs for giving me the opportunity to realize this, and to Lani for revealing this most obvious but important secret. I have loved many animals before this, but I don’t know if I’ve ever understood any as I did these two hellions, and I’m deeply grateful for it.

Thanks, Lani. Thanks Whiskey.


Most of us have very different ideas about what is bad or good, what sucks and what sucks worse, or even what’s right and wrong-for illustrations of this we need not look further than our country’s own opinions about its Great and Wise Leader.  

However, one thing most of us can agree on is that fasting really sucks, and that fasting for more than an hour really, really sucks.  My wife and I are currently doing a “Master Cleanse”, which was definitely a woman’s idea, and which, though I have no proof to back this claim up with, is supposed to make you feel, like, good afterwards.  At least it made the choosing of the title of this article relatively easy.

To be honest, this isn’t the first time we’ve cleansed before, and won’t be the last, and I can honestly say I haven’t regretted any of them.  This time, however, we’ll be doing it for a week, to make sure the results are especially good, presumably, and I’m definitely nervous.  Our previous record was three days without food, which was fun enough.  

OK I’m writing this in the throes of Day 1, well towards the end, where my body has begun to ask in a clear and firm voice, “WTF?”  Day two will probably be a bad one as well, but from there it’s all downhill (or up?) as the body gets used to what you’re putting it through.

I just read an “article” (advertisement) about this super awesome wonder drug that Melania Trump takes that removes brain fog and improves cognitive and memory (which is, like, cognitive) prowess.  I can even have a free trial.  

I do not want a new wonder drug.  I do not want Melania telling me how I can better my life.  Who’s she to talk?  But I will acknowledge that I do have a problem.  This pesky brain cloud thing has been bothering me for a decade at least, my memory is pitiful, and I find it very difficult to concentrate.  

Unlike many Americans, however, I refuse to fill the pockets of Pharmaceutical Companies if there’s any other solution available.  As a consumer, I feel it’s my responsibility to send a message with what I buy or don’t buy to the people I approve or disapprove of.  I’m thinking of you, Martin Shkreli.

I have no money to give you, DB…

Thanks to mic.com for the DoucheBag picture.

I believe it’s also my responsibility, not some doctor’s, not some Pharma Company’s, not no one’s responsibility, to take care of my own goddamn body.  Am I two?  Does I just sit back and let Mommy and Daddy take care of me or do I take my life into my own hands?

So here we are, as Day 1 of Hell Week, Part 1, fades sloth-like from us.  There’s a pit inside my gut that gnaws and groans.  I’m weak and weary, finding it difficult to get the energy up to write this or do anything else productive.  Can’t wait till tomorrow, when I want to start the day with a five to ten Km run, depending on how I feel.  I’ll do anything to keep my mind off of food.


Rumors of an “Ultráman”

I was surprised recently when I read somewhere on facebook that someone had met someone that heard of someone that ran an ultra marathon with something called an “Ultráman” (pronounced Ul – TRAH – meñ).  As a sober, no-nonsense reporter with his head in the right place I naturally thought to myself, “How rad is that?”

I naturally decided to use my nearly one semester of well-paid for (and nearly paid off!👍🏼), acutely honed reporting skills to leap onto the trail of the specter spoken of only in the hushed tones of 1 Facebook post.  Maybe. Many would have argued that such a source is hardly reliable enough to move anyone to put everything he has to the side (marital plans, making a good impression the first week on the job, quitting smoking, and an immensely difficult three-hundred piece Pinnochio puzzle, in my case) and chase shadows.

But I am not many.  I have been born to run Mankind’s most foolish errands.  Like delivering pizza to Bigfoot.  That was me.

In short, I gathered what supplies I could muster and headed out to find the someone that had met the someone that had heard of someone that ran with the Ultráman.  Two hours later I was back at my place after discovering how difficult a search for someone on Facebook can be without a laptop.  But, having finally collected my key to unlocking this great mystery, and my resolve being thereby more stolen than ever before, I set out again.  O..only to return six hours later because under “supplies” I had somehow NOT filed away any food.  

The next morning I raced out to meet my fate.   I remember feeling a tingling that extended from my elbow down to my hand; at least, after I whacked my funny bone on the door knob when I left.  I made my way to a nearby café that received the internet, ordered an empty cup, and began my search.  After almost an hour I realized that which less experienced individuals than myself might have only figured out after hours and hours:  the fruitless tapping and clicking on my keyboard was due to the malfunction i.e. total absence of a charging cable.  I thanked the heavens above for my dozens of minutes of reporter training that helped extrapulate me as seemlessly from this dreadful imbroglio as possible, and took my leave.

The next morning I sat at the foot of my bed, where I could see the mirror on my dresser, and looked resolute.  Three days of hopeless, wasted searching were not going to daunt me! Or undaunt me.  Whichever of the two was positive. Or negative.

That day, I caught a break.  While walking to my favorite café that received internet webs, I stumbled over, athletically, I’ll be it, a large paper bag brimming with empties.  I could afford a tea!

In the café I made sure everyone noticed my tea.  It was a great and triumphant moment for me.  However, sitting down with it and opening my laptop, I had to face the facts that in over three days of heartbreaking, futile searching I had absolutely nothing to show.  The mysterious fantom known only as “Ultráman” was just as easy to locate as my wallet with all of my credit cards in it. 

I was going to have ask a friend of mine for a favor.  You know, like in those crime movies where the desperate cops try one last ploy to solve the case, and the friend’s information ends up “breaking the case wide open”?

Well, since I technically had no friends there was no one I could ask to “break the case wide open” except myself, so I did.  Unfortunately, “American Idol” was on too loud and I couldn’t hear what I was saying.  I decided to take my defeat in stride and head off for another night’s well-earned rest.  Tomorrow would be another day, where the strange mythical creature would most definitely hear my footprints.  Ultráman, I’m on your trail!

Needle in a Haystack

My daughter Josephine, Mama Sarah, and my wife Kay

We did not enjoy our time in Sri Lanka at all. All three of us are very sensitive and there was a very ugly, negative energy stuck on everyone and everything we came into contact with. In addition, all of our much-coveted vegetables were sprayed with enough pesticide to kill dragons. We ate and ate and were never satisfied; in short: the food was devoid of all nutrition.

It was a country not at peace with itself, probably still trying to adjust to the awful realities of this post-tsunami world. As nightmarish as our stay was, we had the unimaginable good fortune to become acquainted with a very special person. Mama Sarah from Sicily had taken it upon herself to do her best and try and change something in this world for the better.

No matter where you go in this world, be it imprisoned in the endless expanse of utter solitude, or the cauldron of jealous, angry humanity, there is always someone or something there to help you on your way, if you only keep the faith.

Thank you, Mama Sarah, for making our time in Sri Lanka bearable, and for showing us how much good we can really do in a very bad place. Let the hopeless be damned! All the best to you!

A Charmed Life

The dogs at the Rescue Center were lucky anyway. Almost all of them were not treated well at some point in their lives, most had been abused, and some had been tortured, but Mama Sara from Sicily had built an impressive little compound a few inches from the long empty beaches on Sri Lanka‘s southeastern coast, where all of the canines there can live like kings. There’s always plenty to eat, only Sara (the dog) has to have her meals…er… managed, because let’s just say she overestimates „the Worth of Girth“.

Mama Sara is generous in that regard, as well as with her love. In fact, on some days the only problems that might arise are the occasional fits of jealousy that overtakes some of the dogs, who jockey for the best napping positions as close to Mama Sara as possible.

The Sri Lankans employed there as cook and caretaker are competent and efficient. The woman whose name I’ll never be able to understand or pronounce takes care of all of the dogs‘ nutritional needs without tiring seven days a week, while someone called “Unkele“ – Uncle in Italian? – has a job not so clearly defined, but one he completes just as effectively. One minute he might be oiling door hinges, then he might put a new roof over some of the stalls, and every day around three he shepherds a gang of about fifteen of the forty-six dogs out to the beach to run and play for an hour or two.

The place is a veritable doggie heaven, so much so the question must be asked: What’s the catch? There has to be a bad side, right? I mean, other than the terrible pasts most of the dogs have endured. Well, I can’t think of one, that’s how well Mama Sara’s best-laid plans have worked out. But … there is a cloud hanging over the place, a topic I didn’t want to broach, one I couldn’t help wondering about.

Last Saturday Mama Sara coincidentally spilled the beans on just this subject, and I thought her story wasn’t only amazing, it deserved retelling.

2004. December 26th. The Tsunami. The worst catastrophe in the history of mankind. Over 300,000 dead. And here’s The Doggie Center not 200 meters away from the waterline, with dozens of dogs, some of whom in stalls, just waiting to be swept away.

What happened? This is the story of how three of Sara’s dogs died. They did not perish as you might have already pictured them to, though. There’s a world of difference.

On December 25th, Mama Sara was in her native Sicily, as her father had taken sick. His condition had improved enough, however, for her to make the return trip, and she spent the day getting ready to get to the airport, which would have put her right back in the Danger Zone on the 26th, Boxing Day.

The phone rang. It was Sara’s mother. Her father’s condition had worsened, could she stay a little longer? Sara agreed. She had seen to it that her dog center was in good hands, and even left money so that nothing would lack. There was still the possibility of wiring more money should something go wrong, and Mama Sara trusted the people taking care of the house, so she felt comfortable with staying for a few more days.

Naturally, the next morning she was horrified to hear the news about the Tsunami. Anyone who remembers that day, or knows a little geography, or researches it, will know that the southeastern coast of Sri Lanka was nearly annihilated by the wave. Which also meant that the phone lines were down. It was days before she heard anything, and when she did the news was not good. Her house was gone, as if it were a sand castle. She hung up wondering about her dogs and the murky future.

A few days later, the next bit of news arrived from a more informed source. The house was fine. Not a single stone was missing. And, will wonders never cease, all of the dogs except two were accounted for. They had all been washed inland, and when the waters receded they were deposited on the same land they had been on before the great wave hit. When Mama Sara finally returned to her oceanfront abode, the circle closed: she got to hear the story of the remaining two dogs. The wave had washed these dogs not inland, but out to sea. Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe it was an unimaginable feat of will power on the part of the dogs. Maybe a kindly fisherman recognized them and taxied them back to shore before disappearing and never telling anyone, but after hearing stories about how some of these fishermen set dogs on fire, or tie their legs together with wires and throw them in the ocean, I seriously doubt it.

Anyway, as the seas settled, regaining it’s usual rhythm and surge, one wave after the other pushed the landwrecked canines back to shore. They returned not fifty miles up the coast, or even onto either of the properties to the left and right of the center. They dragged themselves up out of the ocean and onto the same property they had been forcefully evicted from. I see them shaking themselves off, and then maybe going to scrounge for food. As always. Much like Sara (the dog) is doing now.

Now you want to talk about “A Charmed Life?” You want to talk about luck? Mama Sara and her dogs were rolling in it. I’d like to believe these strange and wonderful coincidences occurred simply because Sara’s heart (Sara the human) is open and warm and lets these things happen.

But, unfortunately, it would still be days before the lady of the house would return. The people taking care of the house in Sara’s absence had completed their few chores responsibly for a few days at least. But Sri Lankans are poor, and some poor persons have a difficult time dealing responsibly with a sudden influx of cash. The temptation got the better of them and they decided to throw a party or two. Why not? They had money (for once), and a beach house, why not make the most of it? They did. The partying continued until sooner or later, probably about the time the tsunami hit, it came down to a choice between spending money on dog food or party supplies. Guess which was chosen? By the time Sara was finally able to return, three of the dogs had starved, including an Indian wolf.

An Indian wolf, beautiful and regal. It was gone. This world could be such a great place, if we would only appreciate it a little. We’re not living in harmony with it, which is bad enough, but when you actively contribute to living at odds with it, it’s criminal. This world is an incredible, magical place, it’s us who are anything but. I’ll be impressed with all the accomplishments of business, science, politics, entertainment, etcetera, when you prove to me that another wolf like that is not going to die in a similar situation in the future.

In addition to the three starved dogs, Sara was forced to deal with the one and half bodies she found in her garden. But I still hope this report can and will be taken as a powerful argument for there being plenty of good in the world, and evidence that, once you’ve found your own special little path, this universe can work wonders in your favor, no matter who, or what, is swarming around you.

P.S. Anyone looking to support Sara and her efforts will be pleased to know that the good woman does NOT approve of monetary donations, despite my constant arguments in favor of them. Gifts of rice and the like are always welcome, as the dogs always seem to be hungry. Contact me here if you are interested in supporting a Bow-Wow or two!

My daughter, Mama Sara, my wife Kay, and some awesome dude


            Or lack thereof.  I’ve begun to not shave my beard, as many of my favorite athletes don’t, until I’ve completed my special race. My favorite athletes, whose names I can’t remember but whose beards I strangely can, won’t shave their beards until they don’t win an important playoff series. For those of you just tuning in, that special race for me is the Ultratrail Mt. Fuji, all 168km (about 100 miles) and over 7000 meters (almost 23,000 feet) of elevation gain of her.  I even got a tattoo of that very special mountain, drawn by yours truly, on my back. 

            I haven’t shaved my beard in weeks?  months?  Here it is:

Manly, but civilized. Rugged, yet somewhat kempt.

What’s disappointing is that it looks considerably less cool than those wild beasts said athletes are draping their faces with.  Studies have shown that my beard’s cool quotient is a whopping 4.2% lower than the grubby face-varmints I’ve seen those millionaires wear.  All that hard work not remembering to cut and mow my mutant stubble for a result like this is just unsatisfactory.  If only I could ascertain the reason for this truly unfair discrepancy I could repair whatever atrocities I‘ve comitted to my mouth-marmot and maybe my wife would look at me again.

            I’m sure there’s pros somewhere who, for a shamelessly exorbitant price, would primp and prune my disshevelled jaw-disaster into a comely, more attractive version of whatever is now adorning the southside of my face, but those pros cost a pretty penny, so how’re poor guys like me and those millionaire athletes supposed to afford that?

            Wait, maybe instead of combing it and cementing it under eight pounds of beard wax, I should try a more battle-worn, frontiersy look:

Wild; feedom-loving patriotic beard. Or “rusted brillo pad” look..

Eurasia!  I’ve got it!  My wife’ll love it!

One other thing, though:  all this not working with my wretched monster-pelt better pay off!  I’m not spending all this time and effort not caring for my close-shaven face just to lose because other athletes do. Do they only play for the right to shave first? If I don’t win this race there’ll be hell to pay!


            Maybe I’ll set fire to it if I lose.

            A..and maybe I’ll ask my wife what she thinks about me not washing myself until after the race..

The Worst Amusement Park Ride Ever: On a Sri Lankan Bus

If you’re ever down Sri Lankan way, there’s one displeasure you’re not going to want to make, and that’s riding a bus. Anyone who shuts themselves off to these wonderful, sublime moments of nausea and terror has not fully lived, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

The Sri Lankan buses are models of conservative, sober methods of trans-portation. Each is drearily garbed in fluorescent greens and blues, highlighted with light, almost timid strokes which gracefully form images of demons driving monster trucks over what might be unhinged chickens. Or sand castles. Or winged Nazis. Whatever. Apparently, not all buses are decorated in this fashion, only the “special” ones. I’m guessing at least fifty percent of the fleet is special.

We visitors from the West, who are used to buses clad in sober, find it difficult to adjust to these eyesores, whose colors and artwork are hardly ever seen outside of certain poorer sections of larger cities, like Bridgeport, Connecticut, of Monster Trucks trampling other cars or roaming the highways with eighteen wheels of gruesome mobile disagreeability. On the positive side, it’s good to see that the need for expression and the desire for works of art still exist; on the other hand, I feel bad for the sort of people who consider a hugely breasted, skimpily clad woman riding a mechanized dragon into a battle against spidery tigeroctopi as the ultimate heigth of art. Seething flames aside, I haven’t seen infantile storyboards like that since the Beetle Bailey cartoon strips.

I remember the flames from just about any of my visits to any Catholic Church.

I suppose “to each his own” is a positive, up-with-people motto to follow passing through his or her life; I try to follow it in a general sense. Unfortunately, living by this rule opens the door to this visual carnage, and one has still not set foot inside the bus. On non-market days the bus is relatively full, but the chances of getting a seat are relatively high. If that is what one really, really wants to do. The smells are omnipotent, and drive through any barriers you might have erected, such as thick cloths wrapped around the face and over mouth and nose, or the ability to not notice scents. Oh, how I yearned to be anosmic on a Sri Lankan bus! Even this, however, is not the worst thing about riding this moving jukebox. The bright colors outside extend to the innards of the vehicle, as bright greens and blues intertwine and reconnect to form spirals and thorn bushes, and all connect up front to pay homage to the driver or bus company’s god of choice: usually either Buddha or Vishnu (?) – the woman with ten or so arms and maybe three heads. I had trouble counting because the bus hurtled faster than sound and the shock absorbers were not…like, shocking. Most of the buses had shrines to said deities at the front somewhere, usually above the windshield, that hopefully did not hamper the driver’s view of the road. And most of these shrines were made from authentic plastic, or tin, and were covered in the same probably poisonous colors and paints that adorned the rest of the bus, as well as having the added bonus of one or thousands of colored, blinking lights around, over, under, and through them which also spread out like mutant pseudopods to every corner of the bus. These lights never stopped blinking or changing colors, even when the bus was stopped, and the key was removed, strongly suggesting an independent existence with ominous intentions, like tapeworms.

But this was still not the worst experience on a Sri Lankan bus. On market days the entire population of, like, 40 zillion Singhalese flock eagerly to those shops and vegetable stands located eighteen stops ahead of where we got on. On certain days we watched these “market buses” from afar, as they swung and swayed with arms, legs, and 95% of bodies hanging out of every opening of the bus, which left precious little room for things like air, and we rejoiced in the fact that we were not able to experience the same joys those passengers were.

Which was also not the worst experience on a Sri Lankan bus.

The main streets in Sri Lanka are ridiculously full, especially on Saturday evenings around 5 or 6, which is also when the electricity goes off because it is rationed here. So picture if you will a small city’s streets with pedestrians scurrying up and down both sides of the street like hordes of ants, as well as all of the bike riders, Tuk-Tuk drivers, stray dogs, cars, motorcycles, and small trucks, and now introduce these rainbow monoliths into the equation. Remember, there are no street lights because of the electricity being rationed. Also, there were no speed limits, at least none I could see, even in daytime. Also also, the bus drivers seemed determined to keep to their schedules, wherever they might have been-I never saw any- at all costs, and drove with a near maniacal aggression. I always wondered if any of them were able to keep to their schedules; despite their teeth- and gear-grinding driving styles never once did one of these buses arrive at the time we guessed it was probably supposed to arrive at, since there no schedules anywhere. In short, I found it nearly miraculous that dozens of these poor pedestrians weren’t mowed down by the buses every day.

There was one instance where I was standing on the bus up near the front-it was a market day and there was nowhere to sit-and I happened to glance at the ol’ speed-o-meter. The driver was really hurtling at over 90 Km/H (56mph). For comparison, the absolute highest speed a truck can comfortably travel on a German autobahn and feel relatively safe that he or she won’t get a speeding ticket is 90. And these maniacs are plowing through these crowded city streets faster than that.

That was definitely the second worst experience I had on a Sri Lankan bus.

The worst experience I had on one of these buses occurred daily, when the bus was either full or empty. It may have been morning or afternoon. It may have been 120 degrees out or, well OK it was always 120 degrees out. In every one of these buses a TV hung from the ceiling way up front there, and every day all day the same channel blared a never ending stream of Sri Lankan boy band videos. Remember DeBarge. Like, sing DeBarge. I think his first name was El. Seriously. Well, I can’t tell you what happened to him and his familyslashbandmates after America woke up and realized that they definitely and without a doubt absolutely sucked and they would never fall for anything that trashy ever again…

Musically, we’re more talented than any Bob Dylan or Paul McCartney-Rob Pilatus of Milli Vanilli

(Thanks to Josh Morrisey and The Strut for the image and quote)

…sending Debarge hurtling faster than a Bobby Hull slapshot into the Great and Bottomless Chasm where Americans throw all of their wastes of time. But I think I can tell you what happened to the family’s/bandmate’s nauseatingly trendy collection of 80’s and 80’s only synthesizers and electric drum kits. See, after the interest in this truly awful form of musical expression waned, presumably after two weeks of listening to nothing but “Straight Up” by Paula Abdul, something must have happened to these dinosaurs of musical accompaniment. I’m convinced America’s supply of synthesizers and electric drum kits were sent to underprivileged persons in poorer regions of the world, like the Super Bowl losers’ hats and T-shirts that say Champs on them-they were printed beforehand, are now useless, and must go somewhere.

Apparently, an entire industry exists in many Third World countries where mildly talented teenage boys and girls channel their inner Debarges (God what a horrifying thought!) and make synthesizer music that real people actually listen to! Like me on the bus in Sri Lanka because I have no other choice and would probably be stoned to death if I did what I wanted to do and what should be done-namely toss that accursed boob tube out into the grimy street where a different rainbow monolith, trailing ours by a barely measurable distance, can crush the thing into the Chasm, where it belongs.

It is our choice what we feed our mouths, eyes, and ears with. Perhaps a slight improvement in everything we ingest would help make our lives a little better-you are, as we all know, what you eat. At the very least it would make my life a little less painful-I’m eating your DeBarge too.

Did I mention that we were there for three weeks or so, rode the bus almost every day, had the same bus driver for almost all of those days, but never once saw him in a different set of clothes? Remember the smells I was talking about? All in all riding a bus in Sri Lanka is a wonderful experience for the whole family. I would definitely recommend it to a friend, especially my best friends Donald Trump and any New York Jets fans.