MUST HAVE DVD!!!

In these trying economic times its important for each and everyone of us to do whatever it takes to secure a financial future and hoard enough money to get weekly acai juice enemas... you know... for the antioxidants. Why not just drink acai enemas, you ask? Because nutrients can be absorbed colorectally, so why not? Fortunately for me I have a profound understanding of the laws of supply and demand, so profound, in fact, that Alan Greenspan once described me as “hyper-scholarly robo-economist 3000 plus.” Drawing upon this knowledge, I have decided that since the market is absolutely saturated with how-to tattoo videos, it is the absolute perfect time for me to make my contribution to the genre. I would explain why this makes sense according to the classical models conveyed by microeconomics, but the nuances that lend this decision its undeniable quality of genius are so sublime, so subtle, so awesome possum, that Adam Smith himself would have a hard time understanding it. It has been said that you have to “strike while the iron is hot,” and right now the iron is taco bell volcano burrito hot. It matters not that access to the burrito iron is obstructed by 153,000 other tattooers releasing videos. The information I intend to present is so essential, so specialized, that no tattooer regardless of degree of experience, skill level, nationality, blood type, religious affiliation, lactose tolerance level, or otherwise can afford to pass up the opportunity to benefit from this splendid presentation. Even if you are an old school tattooer* and you’ve been getting yourself to work for quite some time, you still NEED to see this. And so, for your benefit, I present...

Tattooing with Colten Smith: The Advanced Basics of Tattooing Series: How to Get to Work in the Morning: Pro Edition Anniversary Style with Extra Special Extra Features DeeVeeDee 1

For any tattooer, serious about progressing in the art and trade, this video will revolutionize the way you think about getting up in the morning and getting to work. The DVD will have the same exciting features as all your other favorite “How to Tattoo” DVDs including:

- Crappy production quality guaranteed to impress. People, this is the exact same production value you would expect to get from filming with a $78 instant digital video recorder purchased directly from your local “going out of business” retailer or traded for a tattoo from a guy who said he’s “gotta cousin.” No need for a tripod. This is gritty, in your face, kind of stuff. Take a Dramamine and then get ready to tell all your friends how “artsy” it was... like Cloverfield.

- Plugging of random unnecessary products that were given to me by the companies that made them and who have assured me, without any distinguishable agenda or ulterior motive, that their products are the best on the market. I don’t know why, but I believe them. And you should too... because if it appears in the “flashing magic talking truth box“ then you can be sure that it’s passed through the rigorous fact checking department at the FCC or wherever they make sure that all American media is certified Truth-Compliant.

- Super rad soundtrack composed by my buddy’s girlfriend’s landlord’s ambient/funk/metal/pop/electronica band to be overlaid, or rather middlelaid between the sound of the actual video environment being filmed and the sound of my brilliant, clever, Morgan Freemanesque narration. (As a result of my voice performance on this DVD I’m actually in talks with BBC to narrate the next installment of the Planet Earth series: Planet Universe)

- A large portion of the video dedicated to things like how to apply a stencil, how to set up ink caps, and how to use some kind of inert liquid to create what insiders mysteriously refer to as a “greywash.” Because everyone knows that if you haven’t yet mastered stencil placement and equipment setup, then you’re definitely ready for advanced techniques of tattooing.

- Completely uninspired framing, random cutaways, a complete lack of transitions, and spontaneous camera battery malfunctions that go unnoticed for upwards of a half an hour but still, somehow, detract nothing from the presentation whatsoever.

- False Humility.

- Jokes. Loads of jokes. Some of these will be of the “off the cuff” variety, slightly awkward, and barely pertinent. Others will be jokes that I have written in preparation for my narrative debut, carefully composed after watching my Introduction to DVD Narrating: Writing Good Jokes to Use in Your Narration DVD

- Constant and repetitive warnings about how this DVD is not intended for “scratchers.” This dissuasion technique has been proven by psychologists with large group, double blind, controlled scientific studies to be an effective deterrent against “scratchers.” Viewers who fall in this category turned on the DVD with the expressed and clear intent of stealing all the sweet stencil placement knowledge, realize that they themselves are the “scratchers” in question, then obediently, and with stoic integrity, cease viewing, turn off the DVD, erase everything they learned from their brains via the “ excess Gamma Hydroxy Butanol metabolic pathway,” feed the DVD to their dog, and throw their DVD player from no less than an 8 story window everytime 60% of the time (I also received an award for how awkward that run on sentence was). Seriously, documented science confirms it, the deterrent, not the run-on sentence.

- Constant and repetitive pleading against the replication or distribution of the DVD on the internet or among friends with the unspoken but undeniable implication that “Everyone should pay me 100 bucks for this hastily assembled production which is nothing more than the repackaging of information in spite of the fact that I can claim absolutely no ownership to the ideas and techniques presented, the publishing of which would have earned me a nice set of broken hands 40 years ago... But I’ve won some tat showdown trophies and been in a couple magazines so you owe me.” Oh yeah... no scratchers. But seriously, acai enemas aren’t cheap. So even if your mom wants to watch the video for five minutes just because she wants to feign an interest in what you do, make her purchase her own copy... even though I download all my shit off the internet. But this is different than when I do it. So hypocrisy is merited.

- Gratuitious consumption of alcohol in celebration of god knows what.

- A firm commitment that if you just email me with any questions or ideas and enter the registration code found on the DVD, I’ll get back to you with tons of personalized tips and constructive criticism in appreciation for all the support you’ve shown. Except I won’t. At all. Ever. Don’t email me. It just goes to my spam box.

Other things on this DVD not found in other DVDs

- Step by step demonstration of how to win a “tatski trophy” every single time you go to a tattoo tournament otherwise known as a tattoo showdown, or a tatting championship, or a tattoo track meet depending on your local. (Actually, I’ll give this one away for free. To vastly improve your odds, just do tattoos that possess a questionable quality of longevity and add the words “BLANK rocks“ where ”BLANK“ equals the name of the city in which the tattoo match is being held or the name of the shop that is responsible for the convention.) To my knowledge, I’ve never won any trophies myself. But I know people who have. And they’ve graciously offered their consulting to guarantee the accuracy of this portion of the film.

- Irrefutable evidence that the fall of the twin towers was the result of a US government conspiracy and that David Hasselhoff got a raw deal and should have been THE American Icon of our generation, also a US government conspiracy.

BUT WAIT!!!!! You’re not getting just one DVD, you’re getting a shitload of DVDs. Actually, in all honesty you’re just getting one DVD with several different selections capable of being made. But it sounds cooler to make it seem like these things are extra. For some reason it appeals to the average consumer to feel as though they are getting something for nothing. But I digress. These selections include but are not limited to:

- Getting to work
- Getting to work hung over
- Getting to work hung over on a bike
- Getting to work using public transportation
- Getting a ride from your girlfriend to work with and without having to make her breakfast
- Getting to work Sunday drunk
- Getting to work Tuesday drunk
- Getting to work Tuesday drunk without pissing your pants
- Getting to work ”I loved my girlfriend with all my heart and she repaid me by boinking the lawn guy last Wednesday” drunk
- Getting to work late and making sure the boss doesn’t notice/ doesn’t get mad about it if he does notice
- Getting to work while eating a street vendor falafel with your eyes closed
- How to smuggle alcohol onto a cruise ship
- How to locate a dead rat in a wall on a warm summer day
- Swine Flu and you: How to survive the impending onslaught
- How to spot chicks with dicks, visual and tactile methods will be covered
- How to apply a tattoo stencil: Do’s and dont’s (Reminder: DVD for established advanced tattooers only)

So if you really want to up your game, then do yourself a favor and watch this DVD repeatedly until the information becomes second nature much like tying your shoe or beating your heart. It will revolutionize the way you tattoo and dare I say, with the utmost false modesty, the whole face of the industry. I’m not going to insult you by charging $250 for the DVD. Instead, what I’m going to do is post it on Youtube. And if you watch it, you owe me ten bucks... each time. Have a conscience, don’t be a dick about it, and m*****f***ing pay me. You can send check, money order, or cash to my email. No credit cards because those banks are the same ones that contributed to the downfall of the Hoff

As new information becomes available, updates will be posted concerning new developments on the progress of the DVD, as well as any new special features that are added at the last minute to inject further value into this already priceless product. This video is like the high fructose corn syrup of the tattoo world. And we all know that human beings can’t survive without high fructose corn syrup. Thank god for modern food processing, and thank god that I had the foresight to develop, produce, and release a work of artful instruction so essential to an entire community. Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve all survived this long without it.

And look out for my next DVD: Tattooing with Colten Smith: The Advanced Basics of Tattooing Series: How to Get a Piece of the Burgeoning How to Tattoo DVD Market Pie: Mega Rad Edition One.

I can almost taste the acai butt juice now. I’m gonna be so f***ing rich! And you're gonna be so f***ing good at tattooing! Win-win.

*The use of the term “old school tattooer” used to refer to a certain style of tattooing and possibly even a loose set of personal characteristics or values generally held by the person referred to as “old school.” Now it just means that you’ve been in the game more than two years and use black ink in your shading schematic... even if it’s a tattoo of a blender with tribal buttons mixing up a GI Joe and a spark plug.

Updates...

I made some on the website. Photos, tattoos, 1 drawing, paintings. And I was even kind enough to alert you all with that incomplete sentence completely devoid of a predicate phrase. So you know, check it out if you want... or not.

This Should Be Obvious...

The word "illegal" does not equal wrong. Similarly, the word "legal" has no intrinsic relationship to right.

This is not an original idea. But it's one that seems to be overlooked in modern societies that have the resources to be frivolous. The words legal and illegal are in no way a remark upon the morality of an action, movement, or idea. They simply foreshadow the possibility of consequences of said actions, movements, and ideas. There are times when it is wrong to abide by a "legal" law. The only question then is whether or not one is willing to endure the consequences of performing an illegal action.

The balance of legal/illegal, right/wrong seems to have tipped so far in the favor of money that any action that strikes a blow to this paradigm should be, for the present time only, celebrated as an act equatable to freeing people caught in bonds of slavery. This idea, that any act in the spirit of restoring balance is a noble one, should be frequently reassessed. As a more natural balance returns, certain disobedience that was previously for the greater good becomes detrimental to it. This is the nature of balance. A constantly changing situation requires different degrees of action to maintain an equilibrium. Look to any conceivable system for evidence that this is true. When a system is severely weighted in one direction, a swift and unprejudiced strike at the heavy side will be very effective in moving the system towards a balance. But if the same swift and unprejudiced strike were levied upon one side of a system only slightly out of whack, the inevitable result is an even less balanced system that has simply shifted to favor the other side.

Feel free to dispute me if you feel differently. I just don't think that government, military, police, or corporations have any innate right to govern. They are just people, albeit disembodied in the form of a larger organizational structure. Their only true value comes in the detached application of fair action. But they've convinced enough people that they are integral to the functioning of our "civilized" form of existence. Sure there are good cops. Sure there are good pharmaceutical company executives. Sure there are good congressman. But the chances of you ever crossing paths with one of them is pretty slim. So when the police pull you over, don't let them search you even if you have absolutely nothing to hide. Have a nice conversation with the officer while he works on getting a warrant issued. He might be able to provide more educated insight on the distinctions between legality and morality, having lived in the space between the two 10 hours a day, 4 days a week. But more than likely he'll just send you on your way because right or wrong, no one likes to do paperwork.

New Stufficles...

The title says it all. Stufficles is a word of Maori originiation that means "A combination of photos documenting either one or a combination of tattoos, paintings, and drawings. The word is also commonly used in Northern Canadia and actually just refers loosely to objects that have frozen hanging from boughs of trees or rooves with eaves. This is, of course, not to be confused with stalagmiticles which grow from the ground up. The new ones (photos) are mixed in the galleries amongst the not so new. Enjoysicle!

Reasons You Will Die

Global terrorism, high cholesterol, box jellyfish attacks, fires caused by trying to deep fry a turkey, global heating, getting out of bed in the morning, not getting out of bed in the morning, breath holding contests, explosive tires, uranium soap, tap water, Jell-o wrestling match drowning incidents, old age, not looking both ways before crossing the street, mercury poisoning from tuna, and obviously, smoking. These are all ways that the average American is likely to meet their end. This list, as you would imagine, due to my love of accuracy, is in order according to percentages or something. If you wish for me to cite my source, please send me an email and I will kindly direct you to a place you can find located conveniently between your femoral and lumbar region.

This list isn’t only comprehensive and deadly (pun intended) accurate, it’s also scary. Furthermore, I have the distinctly unpleasant task of bringing three new likely causes of death to the attention of the American public. And, unfortunately, if trends continue, these three causes will supersede all others on the list by 3rd quarter fiscal 2010. Here they are in no particular order:

Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers.

I have found my life threatened on numerous occasions each day by this particular vector of doom. Riding the Best, Most Beastliest Cycle of 2008 on the streets of Siem Reap carries with it a modicum of risk that very few can imagine. Everyday that I toe that plastic alloy space age composite material super pedal, I have to look the grim reaper in the eye and say “Not today, you greedy, bony bastard!” But its not just bicyclisters that have this problem, its anyone who decides to venture outside the confines of a sturdy, load bearing structure. Even staying indoors is no guarantee that the Unlicensed Cambodian Driver won’t come crashing through your front door like some kind of anti-heat seeking missile searching out your A/C and refrigerated beverages. It would be prudent of me to point out that in the context of this description, the words “Unlicensed” and “all” can be used interchangeably. Licensing isn’t something that the people, government or general public, have decided to concern themselves with. But to their credit, it seems that the children certain things about driving in primary school. I say this because the only way that I could consistently witness some of the things that are commonplace here is if the practices were ingrained in the children at a very young age, so as to circumvent that pesky little thing called common sense.

First, all cars in Cambodia are apparently hybrids. But it’s not a response to impending threat of another cause of death on our list, global heating. In fact, the hybrid cars are in no way motivated by any issue of ecology. They’re not even electric hybrids. They’re sonic hybrids. Not like the hedgehog. Not not like sound waves. Cambodians have been taught, by some official body, again due to the overwhelming amount that the practice is employed that their motor driven vehicles operate on a delicate combination of gasoline and horn honks. They honk the horn when people are around, they honk their horn when no ones around, at intersections, in parking lots, at ducks, cows, buildings, people, light, air, water, and rocks. They honk their horns when they’re horny. They honk ‘em for Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Allah. They honk their horns for world peace. But mostly they just honk them as an alternative source of fuel. Apparently, they can increase their mileage by up to 2 percent just by driving with the horn duct taped into an “on” position. In the U.S. we would need to inflate our tires to the proper pressure and put down the tailgate to see such an increase in the efficiency of our automobiles. Monday, I saw a small child, no more than 3 years old getting his training in horn honking/gas saving. He was standing (an issue I will briefly address later) on the front of a moped, while it was in motion and was being encouraged by the other two passengers and driver (remember, moped) to keep honking. It seemed to me like a blatant violation of child labor laws. But if I would have complained, who would have listened?

Waiting for the left turn is also not a concept familiar to most Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers. If an individual arrives at an intersection, and said intersection is saturated with a veritable throng of motor vehicles, the individual will simply drive down the wrong side of the street until some sort of “opening” presents itself and the individual is able to “merge” onto the proper side of the street. Favorite tactics employed by Cambodians to achieve success in this maneuver include, but are not limited to, driving on the sidewalk, driving in the gutter, honking the horn while driving directly into the flow of heavy traffic, closing one’s eyes and meditating oneself to higher plane of existence whereby one might transport oneself to the right lane. As you can see, it’s a different culture, and as such they’ve developed a different approach to the art of the left turn.

This is a game called passing on the left with the gas truck, a favorite Cambodian past time. Extra points are earned for passing into oncoming traffic and overtaking vehicles twice the length of your own. This truck does both with a skill usually reserved for 9 year old blind kids.

If I’ve gained nothing else from this experience, I have at least attained greater sense of who one of my deceased relatives truly was. I had an aunt who would avoid making left turns whenever possible. She would make three rights to equal a left. At 9 years old I recognized this and just wondered to myself what the deal was. It didn’t seem like something I should bring up, as in our family we were raised in the vein of those who believe that children should neither be seen, nor heard. But the thing I learned about my aunt from all this is this: she was a psychic. All those years ago, she was anticipating the rise of automobiles in Cambodia, the resulting culture of driving, and what that would mean for Americans as Cambodians figured out how to obtain visas and emigrate to the US. Unfortunately she didn’t live to see her three-right-turn protocol become a social and life sustaining necessity in America. But I’m pretty sure that being psychic, she knew her nephew would go to Cambodia, and that the lessons she taught would someday save his life. For those of you confused with the way I switched from the first person to the third person, essentially without using any transitional device, the his in last sentence was me. Me, Colten. Thanks for that, Aunt Nancy. Thanks.

I promised I would address the child standing on the front of the moped issue. So this is me addressing it. I’ve seen six people on one moped. Granted, one of them was under 20 lbs. and 2 years old, and the other 5 were under 100 lbs. ranging in age from 12 to 60. But it was still six human beings on one moped which very likely commanded an impressive 10, maybe 11 horsepower. Don’t worry, they were honking frequently enough that I’m certain they made it to their destination. Even when there’s only two people on the scooters, they will keep the baby standing in the front. The kids seem accustomed to it. In the US, jail time. In Cambodia, viable means of transporting human babies.

Not on the front but still a little cavalier.

Speaking of viable means of transporting weird things on mopeds (yes, the sentiment is that human babies are weird, their heads are soft, they can’t see through the plot holes on Teletubbies, and I have yet to see one dress itself appropriately) I was able to snap this photo while in a barrel roll on the back of one of the death cycles. Sorry about the angle, lack of focus, and poor lighting. But like I said, I was in a full on barrel roll. Not a lot of time for photo composition when it takes everything you have to remain conscious in spite of the G force.

Even though they’re not quite there yet, someday these little pigs will be 500 lb. dead pigs and still be riding in the same lap of luxury.

If you do the math, a 500 lb. dead pig passenger and a 100 lb. living human driver should be very difficult to transport simultaneously on a 60 lb. scooter. But I guess it’s just further scientific evidence of the efficiency-boosting power of horn honking. There have also been dead ducks and chickens hanging from a pole lashed across the back end of the scooters. That one makes more sense to me, though because if the driver is lucky enough to catch a hind wind, the dead birds could potentially act as a sail further increasing gas mileage. And I guess, since this is a society firmly rooted in the tenets of magic, both good and bad, it’s not unreasonable to assume that a magic man might be able to reanimate the birds wings, propelling the vehicle into a craft of flight, and bypassing the whole left-turn-drive-on-the-sidewalk-and-endanger-the-lives-of-pedestrians issue all together. They have a saying here in Cambodia, “A flying car is a happy car. A most delicious happy car everyday.”

Also traffic signals seem to be a moot point. They drive on the right, but half the cars have right side drive, further confusing an already befuddled culture of drivers. Most of them can’t see over the steering wheel anyway. Posting speed limits is either thought to be an archaic and primitive practice of brutes, or an unnecessary luxury of brutish western culture. At any rate, they don’t do it. And just to further emphasize how pun-tacular this blog is, I’m going to point out that miles per hour, as in a posted speed limit, is a measure of rate or velocity. But the phrase “at any velocity” just didn’t have the same ring to it. In Cambodia, pedestrians are considered obstacles to be eliminated (with extreme prejudice) as opposed to obstacles to be avoided. There are motor police, but I have literally never seen them do anything except sit in large groups under the shade of a fine tree enjoying a breezy Cambodian winter afternoon. Despite there being no marked lanes anywhere... anywhere... there seems to be an unwritten law that every road, alley, and pathway, regardless of how wide or narrow, is to be treated as though it is a bidirectional 12 lane super commuter expressway with a minimum requirement of 31 honks per minute. I’ve also never seen an ambulance or an emergency response vehicle of any kind. This could mean one of two things. Either there are never any traffic accidents in Siem Reap that are severe enough to mandate an emergency response, or there just isn’t any emergency response. You pick.

Street Dogs (aka Death Dealers)

The street dogs, as they are called, are more of a rural concern than anything else. If simplicity in nomenclature were a concern, they should probably be renamed something like dirt road dogs, or dogs in the bushes next to the dirt road or whatever. I have theorized, using my copious resources of wild speculation that at one point street dogs were really street dogs and existed primarily in, well, the streets. But with the advent of the Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers, and the street dogs lack of natural defense against a new predator, the SUV, the population of actual street dogs actually living in the actual streets has actually decreased dramatically in all actuality.

So one day I had a plan that I would felt would lessen the pressure of teetering on the line between life and death that results from riding the Beast on the streets. Sometimes, I resolved, I would take back roads. I would learn more about the countryside of the country in which I was a welcome guest. I would have an adventure. What I didn’t know is that these adventures would consistently be punctuated by dogs, singular and in groups, feeling the need to assert their territorial claims to the crappy dirt road on which I would be traveling on a given day. Dogs are very intuitive creatures, and according to the K-9 DEA agent at the US/Mexico border, “They’re real good smellers.” When storms come, dogs know. When there’s half of a cheeto at the bottom of a garbage can full of broken glass, 45 lb. olympic weights, and cinder blocks they know as well. So my conjecture, again based on my predisposition toward wild speculation, is that one of the Cambodian street dogs met a native american who told him the tales of the white man. Then this dog told all the other dogs. The dogs being “good smellers” could smell the American on me and intuitively knew that I was here to steal their land. In an effort to avoid the lengthy treaty negotiations, double talk, and reneging of agreements that they knew I would employ in the appropriation of their crappy dirt road, they opted instead, to just try to kill me each time we crossed paths.

A narrow escape.

Some have gone a step beyond just defending their territory and have intentionally contracted severe cases of the mange. Now certainly you’re wondering how losing all of its hair and being really itchy and generally looking worn down could benefit a dog. The problem is that your natural ethnocentrism is causing you to think in terms of American dogs and American streets. The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is camouflage. They get the mange, and lose large clumps of hair. This serves two very fundamental purposes in terms of camouflage. It breaks up their outline and it makes them skin colored. Skin colored happens to be the color of the dirt, and by extension the color of many of the roads in Cambodian villages. And looking worn down is simply to lull you into a false sense of security. But these dogs are not to be underestimated. Not only do they have all the natural instinct and athleticism of a normal man eating canine, but they’re also intelligent enough to do a cost-benefit analysis on getting a case of the mange, arriving at the inevitable conclusion that they will be able make more kills with less effort if they can simply endure a bit of itchiness every now and then. So they lay in wait in the numerous number of potholes and ditches that dot the roadways. And by the time you’re close enough to see them, it’s already been too late for 6 full seconds.

It’s like a high stakes game of Where’s Waldo where you can never finish the book, you just get to live long enough to play again tomorrow.

The problem is that they’re everywhere. Bob Barker, in all his omnipotent and immortal game show glory, failed to make his signature impression on the Cambodian culture. So where we spay and neuter our dogs, they do nothing and do nothing with their dogs. It’s a bit disarming to see the parade of puppies roaming the backroads of Siem Reap. They’re like little fluffballs of joy rolling around in the dust and the sun. And you forget about the one who looks just like it only bigger, that just moments ago tried to chase you down like an entire pride of hunting lionesses takes out an aging gazelle. But if you kindly, gently, and lovingly, with purest of intentions try to pet one of these seemingly harmless harbingers of happiness, something in their DNA switches on and they reciprocate your good will by eating your face off. The long way. By burrowing through the back of your skull. In a place that has neither licensing for drivers, nor licensing for doctors, I’m assuming that most of the feral dogs probably aren’t current with their rabies vaccines either... you know, cause of the vet situation. So I’ve adopted an official policy of observation from a distance and ride fast as hell in the opposite direction if one appears to be approaching. Also, the dogs don’t come when you whistle. It’s mind boggling.

Finishing off the remains of what was, most likely, their latest human victim.

On a somewhat related note, there are some things you don’t expect to see anywhere, let alone in rural Cambodia. All of the dogs here are mutts. And all of them have a very 1960’s approach to free love and reproduction. So over the years mutts have become even more mutts until there’s nothing but mutts. The amount of bastard puppies and baby mama drama in the canine world in Cambodia must be very... a lot. But one time, and I stop a moment to think if it was only something I dreamt, I saw something so unlikely that I tipped over the Beast craning my neck to witness the spectacle. In a nondescript back alley in a village near Siem Reap like any other, I saw a doggie standoff. This is a fairly common occurrence in a place where hundreds, no trillions of dogs roam free to do whatever they damn well please. But this standoff was different. This standoff was between a full grown purebred German Shepherd and what appeared to be a freshly groomed Pomeranian complete with bows in its hair. The Pomeranian seemed to be the aggressor because it was viciously trying to back down the German Shepherd. I stood on the side of the road, dumbfounded, until I was almost killed by an Unlicensed Cambodian Driver in a dump truck. The dogs, nearly hit by the same dump truck, broke it up on their own. It was obvious that after surviving such a close brush with death, they were able to gain some perspective on what’s really important in life. And apparently trying to antagonize a German Shepherd to attempt to swallow it whole was no longer on the Pomeranian’s list of important things to do before it died, which incidentally, would have been at the exact same time as it completed that particular task on the list.

Eating Undercooked Pork while Stepping on a Land Mine

Pretty self explanatory, methinks. If the land mine doesn’t getcha, the trichinosis will.

Having a Beastly Good Time in Cambodia with My Good Friend Newton, Isaac Newton...

I bought a Cambodian bicycle. I must admit that I feel I was a bit misled. I thought I was purchasing a bicycle called “Beast Cycle 2008.” But apparently all I got was a “Best Cycle 2008.” You can understand my disappointment. But, being the positive guy I am, I decided to make the best of the situation and rationalize it. I figured that best was a superlative word and since a bicycle having beastly qualities is a desirable characteristic, the “Best Cycle 2008” must be the beastliest, living up to its superlative nature. I further rationalized that the company that made the bicycle (China) was just a forward thinking and finance motivated organization (unlike their frivolously spending American counterparts). They did their math. Leaving the “a” off the sticker saved them .05 USD. With such a quality machine it’s not unreasonable to assume that they shipped in excess of 45 billion units. So that amounts to a savings of like 2 gajillion dollars. It’s all right there. Right there in the numbers.

Photo taken at angle to accentuate maximal Beastliness

This brings us to one of the only issues I have with the bike. I made the purchase on January 2, 2009. So it’s a bit disconcerting that my bike is the “Best Cycle 2008.” I just know that through the evils of planned obsolescence, a “Best Cycle 2009” will come along shortly with 30% more beast. It’s not so much the beast quotient that I’m concerned about. I’ve only been riding my bike at 68% beast capacity. What I’m concerned about is the appearance of less beast. Think of how humiliating it is to ride down the street and have all the pedestrians talking under their breath, in Khmer, about how my bike is sooooo last year. I can’t handle it. I’m white. My face shows the redness of embarrassment very obviously. To rectify this issue, I’ve been in contact with the factory (China) trying to get my hands on an aftermarket 9 to replace the 8. But they’re breaking my balls. They know they’ve got me bent over the proverbial bicycle seat and they’re telling me I have to replace the entire decal. I just need an effing 9 and they’re acting like with all the advancements in technology and manufacturing, there’s no way to make a 9 separate from a 2 and two 0’s. It’s typical corporate behavior to just stick it to the little guy. I may end up folding, but not until after a round of breakneck negotiations, that may or may not involve talk of mothers and threats of personal harm. When in Rome.

That one complaint aside, I would now like to take the time to highlight some of the nice features of the bike, the features that give it the right to have that “Super Power” sticker emblazoned across the side of the frame. Notice, first, the plastic cranks. Weight reduction is a key factor with any ride. And on the “Beast,” sorry, “Best Cycle 2009,” sorry “8” they have wisely abandoned common wisdom, and sense, and went with plastic instead of metal or carbon fiber. I for one applaud their courage. It takes a group of innovators to take the component of a bike that sees the most torque and stress out of all of them, and use a material that routinely succumbs to breakage under the weight of a household set of papayas (in Cambodia a group of papayas is called a household set, like a gaggle of geese, or a murder of labradoodles, and it is a common unit of measuring force, like a Newton). It may be a moot point anyway. This is the “Best Cycle” we’re talking about here, not the “Average Bike” or the “Kind of OK Cycle.” It’s probably some sort of space age composite plastic that weighs basically nothing but is rated for the kind of centrifugal force normally reserved for planetary orbits.

Then there are the cassettes and derailleurs. Ask any seasoned veteran of cycling and they will tell you that it is largely a mental game. Even when taking a leisurely ride to the French quarter to purchase a bootleg North Face backpack and pair of flip flops, this mental edge is imperative. To this end, the “Best Cycle” boasts a gearing system that is more psychologically impressive than it is practically useful. To the innocent bystander or experienced mathematician, the bike would appear to be an 18 speed. I assure you, this is only for looks and intimidation as the bike has 3, maybe 3.5 usable gears. The uninitiated might be asking, “Wouldn’t an 18 speed be better and more versatile?” The answer, obviously, is no. With fewer of my mental papayas (papayas are also a measurement of concentration in Cambodian culture) being used to figure out which gearing ratio is most suitable for the situation at hand, I can focus more on pedaling hard with my space age, weight reducing, mega-polymer, ahead of their time plastic cranks. Oh, and the pedals are made of the same durable, amaze-o-plastic but sprayed with chrome paint to allow the image conscious cyclist to properly adjust their hair and clothing upon disembarkation from the cycle craft.

This is a Buddhist culture. So the seat is made of some sort of Cambodian hardwood, reinforced with more hardwood and then generously padded with a single covering of red and black vinyl at least 3 mm (just like in Uganda, England, the Netherlands, Kenya, Belgium, Korea, Mexico, and presumably every other nation on the planet aside from the U.S., they use the stupid metric system) thick. It may seem like an inconvenience at first, to have such an uncomfortable posterior situation. But intentions must be addressed. The seat is this way to help the cyclist advance on their travels through the Buddha’s Eightfold Path. So ask yourself this question, and then go ahead and answer it as well. What’s more important, that your three block ride to get a Slurpee at the corner store is a comfortable one, or that your soul frees itself from the derisive weight of the human ego and is able to spend all of eternity relishing Wholeness with God and Oneness with All in Nirvana?

Cambodia is also a very practical and efficient culture. No nonsense, if you will. Someone at the “Best Cycle 2008” institute of research and development pondered, most likely in a state of deep meditation, the purpose of brakes on a bicycle. Arriving at the natural conclusion that the brakes were to stop the bike, they designed the braking system accordingly. Apparently the purpose of slowing the speed of the bike did not come into view of their third eye during the aforementioned meditation because the custom Shaigun brakes have only two functional positions. Go and complete stop. They have some managed to circumvent Newtonian physics and eliminate all concepts of gradual braking from this ride. California stops are a thing of the past with the “Best Cycle.”

The shocks are for decoration. But in that capacity they are very effective, once again offering the appearance of ruggedness but delivering no practical advantage. Good thing all the roads in Cambodia are like the Bonneville salt flats. It’s all about wet, hot, nasty speed out here. Suspension is something for the Vietnamese to worry about.

See, aside from the chicken and the kids, just like Bonneville

Finally, I have to justify my purchase in print. My Spenders Anonymous sponsor says that justifying purchases in a concrete medium like the internet will help to dissuade me from spending frivolously as I move through the steps. So I saved $200 by not bringing my own bike on the flights. I’ve avoided $200 in tuk-tuk rides and a $25,000 medical evac to a Thai hospital for when one of those tuk-tuk rides nearly kills me. If I didn’t have a bike for exercise, I would have to join a gym. So I saved $180 processing fee as well as $360 for a year contract to the Cambodian 24 Hour Fitness. No. There’s not really a 24 Hour Fitness here. Please stop sending emails asking about it. The kickstand on the bike allows it to double as a handy leaning device, which is perfect for avoiding the Cambodian leaning tax that mandates that any object of greater vertical height than horizontal width, capable of supporting the weight of a western adult male, will command a fee of 2500 riel per hour for its services of support per Newton-meter. You don’t even want to know the math and unit conversions involved in figuring out how much you have to pay a pylon in USD for leaning on it for 17 minutes as a 190 lb. person. And they expect exact change. Exact. Then If I fill the waterbottle up with water from the river instead of paying 30 cents for clean, cold water, like a sucker, then that’s like $60,000. Purchase justified. Suck on that compulsive spending habits. I’ve beaten you. It’s all right there. Right there in the numbers. Oh yeah. The bike was $90. That’s a savings of $59,910.

So there. Now I’ve got an ecologically responsible means of conveyance in Cambodia. This should facilitate many misadventures and at least one or two more blog entries before the trip is over in like 20 days.

An Intensive Study...

An Intensive Study of the Effects of Carbon Monoxide on the Cambodian Tourist with Respect to Cognitive Abilities and General Motor Function or Colten Breathes Next to an Exhaust Pipe.

Just this past day before yesterday, I had what I consider to be my first real day in Cambodia, followed by my second real day in Cambodia this past yesterday. I’m sure you’re wondering if they were fraught with lessons. Indeed they were. But lessons, like wicker furniture, should be hidden away deep in the dark recesses of the mind. Does that make any sense? No. But does it matter? Also, no. Why? Because yesterday I spent 45 minutes riding in the back of a truck on sacks of rice seated in front an exhaust that had been rerouted from the aft of the truck directly into my general head region. It wasn’t until half way through that 45 minute period that I noticed this juxtaposition of my face and noxious chemicals and began to feel what the Khmer people refer to as “funny.” My ability to make intelligent decisions regarding my own health and safety had been presumably lessened and so I decided to remain seated there, despite the fact that there were several other perfectly comfortable sacks of rice upon which to rest my copious buttocks. I rationalized, with my degraded cognitive faculties, that the damage had already been done and I was afraid that Cambodians might think it rude to scoff at the exhaust pipe seat. For all I knew it was a cherished delicacy, an honor to be where I was even though no one else seemed eager to switch spots. Plus the guy next to me was borrowing my pen. And it was my only pen.

But that was yesterday. And this is a story that begins the day before yesterday. So walk with me through the fabric of existence to this place in space-time and awake with me to the glorious sounds of a Cambodian morning. Cars and little motorcycles. But not just any cars and motorcycles. The kind of cars and motorcycles that occupy the roads of a country with lax emissions control. Think lawnmowers. Once the sleep had departed from my eyeglobes and they joined my earholes in delivering unto me the fullness of my sensory abilities, I was greeted by a spider, 8 inches across on the wall next to my head. I didn’t shriek. And anyone who says I did is a motherless liar. Being the conservationist that I am, I had no desire to harm my new little friend. I simply wanted to find out if it was poisonous, that I might take proper precautions in disposing of it. I queried the staff on this issue. But there was a translation issue. Somewhere between the words “Is it poisonous?” leaving my mouth and reaching the ears of the nice gentleman who was kind enough to assist me on this issue, he apparently heard something to the effect of “SMASH IT! SMASH IT! EEK! SMASH IT!” And so he smashed it...
...With the folder in the room that contains all of the colorful brochures touting the amenities of Siem Reap, none of which, I might add, mention anything about bionic man-eating head spiders or the cacophony of daily morning lawnmower races that take place on the streets of this fine city. After the man kindly wiped off the folder, rendering it once again free of spider spaghetti (translated literally from the Italian, spaghetti means: entrails from the family arachnidae, order chelicerata) he told me the spider bites, but it is a weak bite, like a mosquito. I mourned the loss of such a majestic creature, for about ten seconds, and then with great difficulty (ease) due to the weight of the death of my amply legged friend upon my head, I went about my day.

I walked downstairs to partake in what would turn out to be my first experience with traditional Cambodian cuisine. The next sensory organ to be assaulted by the sights, sounds, and you guessed it, smells of Cambodian culture was (if the smell clue wasn’t enough I’ll lay the last bricks of this description house for you) my nose. And what traditional Cambodian fare was it that titillated my olfactory zones this early morn? Eggs, bacon, french toast, and a glass of OJ. OJ is loosely translated to the English as orange juice and it’s pronounced o-jay. I would put one of those fancy long o symbols above the o as to follow proper pronunciation protocol, but I’m not that good with a computer and the task seems next to impossible. I was apprehensive at first, seeing such a strange and unconventional meal on my breakfast plate. The sheltered American part of my brain screamed run and filled my imagination with thoughts of the horrible ailments that might await me provided I partake in this mystery of culinary sorcery. It made sense. I mean, this breakfast seemed to be neither kid tested, nor mother approved. But I was in Cambodia. And the Khmer people have this saying. It starts off something like “When in Rome...” I can’t remember how it ends, but it was very eloquent and it inspired me to leave my comfort zone and give it a shot. At first it was difficult, but I managed to choke down a few bites. By the end, I even found myself enjoying the palatable nature of this thing called “French toast.” I was proud of myself, for I had put myself out there as Seoul had taught me to do, and I was living as the Cambodian lives.

Then at lunch I ate a few giant roasted crickets.

A group of children, much smaller than myself bought a bag of insects and were flat out going to town. I tried to explain to them that what they had in front of them was not a bag of Cheetos, which would merit such voracious consumption, but a bag of bugs.
Individually, they looked at me the way a person who doesn’t speak English looks at a person who is making a genuine plea for reason in that language, then popped crickets in their mouths as if they had no idea what I had been saying. They didn’t. Defeated and broken I searched my soul for a way to make good of this dark, dark situation. I realized that if nothing else, I could do it for America. You see, the ol’ US of A was long held in high esteem in the international community. We were heroes to many, and at the very least good people to the rest. But in the last 8 years or so, for some inexplicable reason, that seems to have changed. I don’t know why, but for some reason the figure of 8 years seems pertinent to the answer. We’ll leave that puzzle to the historians to sort out. So in an effort to restore my beloved homeland to greatness and redeem us in the eyes of the international community, I ate some crickets. Now all that has to happen for my plan to come to fruition is for those kids who witnessed said eating to come to high power political positions, remember me, and formulate policy based on their experience of a true American. Move over G.I. Joe. There’s a new hero in town. And he’s here to affect real change... one... meal... at a time.