This is an awesome music video by an English band called “Field Music.” I can’t imagine the kind of beautiful mind it took to conceptualize the end product with the technique they used. You’ll understand after you see the video, but you have to watch the whole thing.
I recently learned that the my beloved Cookie Monster, of Sesame Street fame, is no longer touting the benefits and luxurious lifestyle of the cookie culture. Instead, as part of a so-called “anti-obesity drive”, he will be cutting down on his favorite food and eating more fruits and vegetables.
…
Eff you, Cookie Monster.
I recently read that almost one in three American children is now overweight, making us the fattest nation in the world (USA! USA! USA!). I say that two out of three children need to get their act together and grab themselves a stick of butter with a side of Crisco for dippin’.
But seriously, I know that I’ve made at least 90% of my lifestyle choices based on puppets. I could have grown up horribly maladjusted without the whole “Elmo goes through puberty” series. As we all know, puppetry is the most influential of all the fine arts.
Whoever it was at PBS who made this decision deserves the gobs of outraged emails that our sticky oversized fingers can write.
I was just sitting on my porch talking with my neighbor about books and poetry, and I recalled a poem I wrote in my 11th grade English class. The assignment was to write a poem with rhythm that was to be spoken aloud to the class.
For maximum artistic effect, I suggest you stand and adopt a pose of thoughtful contemplation whilst reading aloud. For your edification, intrepid readers:
8:40am local time
Next Thursday, David time
Dhaka, Bangladesh
After a wonderful flight on Emirates, (save that it was overnight and my biological clock was engaged in a knife fight with my surroundings), I deboarded the plane into the Dhaka airport. In typical David fashion, I had lost all of my contact information somewhere along the way.
Keeping a level head, I immediately started to sweat profusely while rummaging through my carry-on. Remaining absolutely calm, I descended into fight or flight mode and began some tactical problem solving pacing. My survival instincts took over and I engaged in what I like to call “walk in a straight line until something happens.” This method has served me well in the past and historically has brought many would-be explorers to inglorious and untimely ends.
Alas, this was not to be my fate. As I descended from the stairs to the baggage claim, full of steely-eyed resolve and unflappable courage, I saw a sign. This one said “David Bayer” and was held by a bobbing and smiling old man. I seized the opportunity and walked boldly to the man and proclaimed loudly, “I’m David Bayer!” I’m not sure if it was my overwhelming confidence or the fact that some sweaty maniac was yelling at him, but he swiftly hustled me through customs and stuffed me into a car. I don’t who this David Bayer is, but he is still to this day stuck at the airport in Dhaka, waiting on a bobbing and smiling old man. I apologize David Bayer.
The car into which I was so tidily and unceremoniously bundled is where I met who was to be my best friend in Bangladesh: Shokrana Mohamed*. Miracles of all miracles, I had found my contact. We became fast friends as we plummetted wildly through the streets of Dhaka. During our plummet, he began educating me about Dhaka. His English wasn’t perfect**, but I didn’t want to embarrass him with my masterful grasp of Bengali. I learned that he was the proprietor of a chain of restaurants around Dhaka called “La Bamba.”
After our drive, we arrived at his private men’s club. It is called the Uttara Club. I can’t really think of a Western facsimile for comparison, so I’ll just try to describe it. It was a walled off compound in the Uttara district of Bangladesh with the following amenities:
It has everything a stylish man could ever want. Add in some pool tables and laser tag and I’m applying for Bengali citizenship. After the tour of the club I enjoyed a private (and large and foreign) breakfast with Shokrana in my room. At this point, I was completely exhausted. Shokrana had some business to attend to about town, so I graciously took the opportunity to lapse into a coma.
Fast forward three hours. Someone is gently rapping at my chamber door. ‘Tis the wind, quoth I, and nothing more. In reality, it was Shokrana coming to collect me for lunch. We courageously braved the streets of Dhaka once again to travel to his home to enjoy the midday meal with his family at his house.
I was introduced to what is considered a typical lunch. It consisted of dal bhat, a fish dish, curry chicken, fried rice, and steamed vegetables. You can infer from this “typical” meal that your “typical” Bengali is nine feet tall and runs eighty miles a day to require all of that nourishment. Not being particularly large nor a freakishly active, I heroically attempted to do as much damage as possible. The food was delicious, but as you’ll remember, I had eaten a not insignificant breakfast just hours before.
During the course of the meal, I was introduced to Shokrana’s family. The household consisted of Shokrana’s father, wife, sister in law, and several house-staff. Shokrana’s family was fascinating. His father was a retired general who was forced to move to Bangladesh as a result of partition. He was also an author and biographer. His late wife was herself an author.
After lunch, I squelched myself back into the car and retired to the club. I slept for three more hours until I was summoned to the bar for beers and what I naively assumed was to be my evening meal (fish sticks). We were joined by an AP reporter with a charming Indian/ British accent. We spent the next several hours slowly getting sloshed on Foster’s beer and vodka lemons. Well, I was sloshed. My companions seemed unaffected. Shows what you get for drinking with giants. Afterward, we headed to one of Shokrana’s restaurants. I should have known that I wasn’t going to get off so easily with the fish sticks. I again gorged myself on the local cuisine (editor’s note: the food was all delicious, I only complain because I was fed eleventy times a day***) which was some sort of delicious barbecue served with naan (local, flat bread - Think pita, only deliciouser).
Stuffed to the gills and sufficiently buzzed. Shokrana and I headed to the airport to pick up my three companions: Joe, Ryan, and Dave (the “beta” David of the trip, as I was obviously the “alpha” David).
Thus ends my remarkably dull account of what was actually a pretty exciting time for me. Stay tuned for Part III of the Nepal blog, wherein I actually arrive in Nepal, of all places.
* Sadly, Shokrana passed away only a few weeks after our visit. I wish I could have gotten to know him better.
** Actually, his English was perfect, I just have horrible ears and hearing.
***During this fifth meal of the day, Shokrana fixed me with a flat stare and said, “You Americans sure don’t each much,” and then did a wind sprint to Malaysia and back.
I thought I should write about what I’m going to be posting about soon. Just because I know everyone’s on the edge of their seat with antici……
…pation.
Until then reader(s), I bid you adieu and gesundheit.
The Robots in my Room were Playing Arena Rock
If you’ve been in the situation where you try to convince your friend(s) to do something new or different, then you can understand why I’m writing this.
Convincing anyone to do something they have not done before can be a terribly frustrating experience. Even if it’s just going to a new movie, show, or restaurant, people generally don’t like change. But don’t people usually want to go places? Of course they do, if only so they can have the 45 minute argument about where to go. The problem is fear of the unknown and unexpected. (dgb note: Also called “fear of leaving the comfort zone”) We don’t want to look like idiots and if we know what is around the bend, then there is less of a change of that happening.
Alright, I know you know all of this, you are not idiots or you would not have made it through any of the other posts on this site. So, why did I go through the motions of explaining a basic human emotion? Because like alcoholics, you have to admit you have a problem before you can start doing something about it. (dgb: that’s just insensitive…)
Once you go out there into the world and meet all the weird-ass, messed up people, your life becomes rich(er). Not house in the Hamptons rich, but rich like an expensive desert with six spoons so everyone can try some. You can only have a few bites because it is hard to handle. But, don’t you always try some more the next time you go back? Yes, you fat ass you do! (that was a little bit of self loathing that came through). What I mean is that next time your buddy comes up to you and says, “Hey bro, there is a band playing next door made up of 2 dudes, 3 chicks and an orangutan that plays the mandolin!” Your response should not be, “But dude, I just have 3 more experience points to get to get on Solid Snake 4 for Xbox until I’m a huge douchebag who just sits on the couch” but instead should be “It’s on like donkey kong!!” (those apes sure know how to party). So next time your friend comes to you early in the evening to suggest a course of action, DO NOT say you wanna “play it by ear” just do whatever retarded/potentially awesome thing it is your friend wants to do.
Sigh…
I’ve been putting off writing about this for some time. In part because it is going to be a pretty long story to recount, but also because (as corny as this sounds) the trip actually meant a lot to me, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to unselfconsciously capture the experience without being cheesy. At the same time, I don’t want to be trite and demean the experience. So I’m going to attempt to find a happy medium and tell the story in a humorous and lighthearted fashion without taking away from the deeper meaning of my favorite vacation.
Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I present to you: Nepal - Part I: Getting There
October 8th, 2007 found me at Gate E8, in Hartsfield Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, GA. It was 8:20 pm and I had a daunting 24 hour journey ahead of me. My flight was delayed. This only meant that I would be spending an extra three hours in Atlanta rather than on layover in Gatwick (London). This was fine with me as I was set up in the Atlanta terminal with plenty of space and McDonald’s, and Gatwick was an unknown quantity of cramped quarters, bad teeth, and meat pies.
My most pressing thoughts were of the flights ahead. I was imagining endless hours of disorienting claustrophobia, where night and day have no meaning, during which I would periodically wake in exotic and unfamiliar places. This proved for the most part to be true. I don’t really recall much of the flight time honestly, but it is during that time where my journal writings become a little unhinged:
I’ve heard that writing is supposed to be therapeutic and/ or cathartic, but so far, it has only heightened my anxiety about the trip. The catharsis must come after the fact.
And here’s where the paranoia and melodrama take on an almost humorous flurry. I must have really worked myself into some sort of tizzy…
I’ve been incredibly busy preparing my company for a two week absence. I haven’t had enough time to think about the trip or allow it become a reality for me. The good money is on the hypothesis that, after 24 hours of traveling, this trip will either seem very real, or take on the delusional blur of a madman’s nightmare.
…
…
What?!
Holy melodrama batman. I then proceed to rant on and on about forgetting my pocket knife and then wrote down what I thought was an awesome idea for a science fiction novel (it wasn’t).
This was all on the flight from Atlanta to Gatwick…
I arrived in Dubai via Gatwick at 12:44 am. At this point I’ve endured boredom in gigantic swaths with interludes of frenzied activity at the airports. I walk about 4 miles through the Dubai airport to get to my terminal. I have plenty of time to take in the sights and smells. The Dubai airport is set up in one looong strip, and like everything else in Dubai, it’s incredibly over the top. Every quarter mile or so, the causeway is punctuated by these little “smoking islands,” which are basically little glass cubes that people pack into shoulder to shoulder to smoke their cigarettes. The idea of personal space is very different in this part of the world than it is in western countries. People are stacked on top of each other crotch to ass to get their smoke in, and for all I could tell, are completely oblivious that someone’s junk is resting on their bum. The issue of personal space is sprinkled liberally throughout my trip. (side note: I wanted so badly to go bum a cigarette and wait for someone to nestle up. Then I would say (in Arabic), “Excuse me sir, but your gun is poking into my hip.” To which the reply would (ideally) be, “Yes. Yes, I know, and good afternoon to you as well.” People from Dubai are so hilarious in my head.)
I finally arrived at my terminal to catch my flight to Dhaka. I was the only Westerner there in a crowd of about 200 folks. I would like to say that I was a shining beacon of international brotherhood and engaged everyone around me in a rousing rendition of the UAE’s national anthem, but I was tired, so instead I hunkered down into my book. As departure approached, things started getting pretty crowded at the terminal, and I found myself with a snuggle buddy to each side of me on the bench. Seizing the opportunity to truly adapt to and embrace a foreign culture, I snuggled right back, and before long, our happy trio was snoring peacefully on one another’s shoulders. It was like a Bengali Oreo.
The flight from Dubai, UAE, to Dhaka, Bangladesh, on Emirates Airline was easily one of the most enjoyable I’ve ever had. The seats were large and plush, the food was incredible (not just in terms of airline food), and each seat had its own little multimedia center with hundreds of movies, games, and TV shows. However, the best part of Emirates: the flight attendants. I’m sure more poetry about beauty has been inspired on those flights since the inception of flight than anywhere else in the world. The flight attendants were either striking asian princesses or beautiful nordic queens. This picture honestly does not do them an iota of justice.
At 8:40am the next morning I arrived in Dhaka, Bangladesh. That, however, is a story for another day. Stay tuned!!
In (belated )honor of the festivities of the Fourth of July, I submit a shining example of one of America’s favorite past times: creating something really embarrassing that, at the time, seemed really cool.
I’ve always thought the most effective way to woo a member of the opposite sex was to rap at them. I’m glad I’ve finally found some affirmation from the one of the world’s most reliable sources of wisdom: the 80’s movie.
Hi I'm David. I'm horrendously unphotogenic, so this is as close as you get! Cheers!
