Author: bloggerbels

Sometimes I wear boxers, and sometimes I wear briefs. And sometimes, I wear boxer-briefs. Overall, I’m not too dogmatic about my underwear. When I was not yet an adult, I wore tightie whities as some sort of default, in the same way that so much of what we do at a young age seems to be merely by default. Later on, perhaps after being mocked for my tight white briefs by a sharp-tongued female, I started wearing more boxers. More recently, I have swung toward a combination of boxers, briefs and Mexican grandpa underwear. Now, I call them Mexican grandpa underwear because:

1. I bought them in Mexico, and
2. A Mexican person told me that they’re the type of underwear grandpas wear.

Left to my own inferences, I would have assumed they were male stripper underwear – The front part covers only the barest minimum, and the back covers scarcely more. By wearing them, I open myself up to all manner of mockery. And yet, I continue to wear them. Why? Because:

1. On the not-infrequent occasions when I lack access to free or cheap laundry services, I will buy precious time before my next load of laundry by hand-washing a minimum number of shirts and pairs of underwear. Such revealing undergarments involve a lot less fabric, and are thus much quicker to wash by hand.
2. I believe anyone who sees you in your underwear is already someone who has granted you enough confidence (and vice versa) that you have nothing to fear from their mockery.

I refer to these underwear as Mexican grandpa underwear because I first purchased them in Mexico, but I have no illusions about them being somehow specific to Mexican culture in the same way that mariachis or tequila are. I was later able to acquire a pair in Malaysia, so maybe these types of underwear are endemic to countries whose names start with M, or countries with spicy food.

One reason I value my Mexican grandpa underwear is because they so proudly display an enormous label directly above the junk area. “Here be junk!”, they may as well say, though they in fact provide free advertising for the underwear manufacturer. Mockable though it may be, it at least reduces the risk of putting your underwear on backwards, which is a serious problem that can afflict both boxers and briefs.

The experience of an accidental underwear reversal would not be nearly so vexing if many pairs did not come so agonizingly close to fitting. Unfortunately, some pairs are only capable of swinging both ways to the extent that you can semi-successfully pull them up before realizing that you are now the victim of an underwear death trap. It is a horribly restrictive feeling.

As an added layer of indignity, the mind wanders into unwanted places while being squeezed by an ass-backwards (literally!) pair. The convenient front flap becomes a back flap of questionable convenience when reversed, leaving one to contemplate the logistics of making full use of such an accommodation.

As with so many things in life, an underwear reversal is the type of situation where partial success is infinitely worse than no success at all. There may be a metaphor buried in there,  and a rather pessimistic one. And indeed, these may sound like the words of a defeatist, but if refusing to attempt to put on a pair of underwear backwards makes me a coward, then baby, I don’t want to be brave.

Continued from Part 1

Chapter 6: Scared Shitless – My First Six Months Abroad – Arriving overdressed and underprepared in the Philippines. Being young and therefore stupid, and thinking that everything new is automatically awesome, and that all attention is welcome. The beginning of my brief eight-year period when I believed that karaoke is the single greatest activity that a human being can participate in. Being utterly helpless for the first few weeks, and luckily being doted on endlessly by my host organization. Convincing my colleague to take me to the notorious Smoky Mountain housing project, where my presence was not entirely welcome; not yet being fully aware of the moral dubiousness of slum tourism. Beginning an epic war of attrition against my unwanted collagen surplus, with plenty of help from alcohol and the tropical sun.

Chapter 7: Becoming A Shithead – As I become less helpless, so do I become less likeable. Discovering the joys of going out every single night, overcompensating for my former pretentious hyper-intellectualism with desperate hyper-hedonism. Trying and failing to dance. Metrowalk and Tomas Morato Avenue. Becoming slightly less confused and slightly terrified by women.

Chapter 8: Ninh Binh – Leaving Manila and ending up in the middle of nowhere in Vietnam, surrounded by rice wine, dog meat, and people standing inappropriately close. Realizing that my Philippine culture shock wasn’t even real culture shock. Isolation, gradual descent into madness, and the brutality of the northern Vietnamese summer. John, Kate, and how I managed to only go half-mad in Ninh Binh. Learning Vietnamese, somehow. Bicycling everywhere and getting very sweaty. Crazy Hương and the gentle sadness of Hằng.

Crazy 9: Haiphong City – Replacing the spritual and physical assault of Ninh Binh with a full year of gentle boredom and the best seafood I’ve had in my whole damn life. Navy Beer, the greatest restaurant in the world. Keeping the company of the the substandard rascals who are the Haiphong expat community. My mysterious mini-stroke. My highly offensive local translator/liaison officer, and his multitudinous layers of reprehensibility. Power cuts, summer heat, more sweating. Doomed medium-distance romance with an enchanting Filipina expat in Hanoi.

Chapter 10: Back to Manila – Becoming a digital nomad in order to return to my favourite chaotic Asian megalopolis, for some reason. Cultivating my culinary and musical talents in a failed effort to be slightly less of a shithead. First glimmers of attempted adulting. Hanging out with Tyler, the womanizing professional poker player who looks like Ryan Gosling, and looking quite a bit less attractive when standing next to him. My long, awkwardly ambiguous “relationship” with D. Having my gay landlord attempt to lure me into a gay orgy due to his (not uncommon) misconception that I am a closeted gay man.

Chapter 11: Back to Manila, But This Time A Different Condo: A study in the effects of extremely polluted air on an extremely allergic body. Being the sickest I’ve ever been, as an adult, so far, and how it helped me fall in love with SpongeBob SquarePants. Myanmar, Bangkok, and my final schism with D.

Chapter 12: Because I Hate Being Happy, I Moved to Davao City – If it ain’t broke, by all means, do fix it. Leaving my comfortable (albeit highly polluted) life in Manila to begin anew in Davao City, the durian-scented land of death squads. Civic pride in extrajudicial killings. Accidentally getting dogs. Isolation, frustration, and steadily amassed regrets. Eating durian all day, everyday. Regularly drinking palm wine at 8 AM on a coconut plantation.  The slow death spiral of my uncomfortably mismatched friendship with C. Life in a lower-middle-income neighbourhood without fully paved roads. My sweet old neighbours, who shed literal tears when I moved away, for some reason – I don’t know if they’re still alive? Food was good!

Continued in Part 3

It was an amazing radish. Henry stared at it, transfixed. Its beauty sparkled in his eyes like a loose sack of doorknobs.

The pain throbbed in his extremities like an intoxicated goose. With every ounce of his being, he fixated himself on the radish, trying to distract himself from the pain. But although he felt the soothing effects of that vision of purest root vegetable perfection, it wasnt enough to fully ease the pain. Henry was dying, and his body knew it.

The decay had been spreading noticeably over the last few months. Activities that were once merely uncomfortable had become excruciating. Henry took comfort in the radish, but like an addict, he kept needing a stronger radish fix, more and more frequently. His eyes were like an egg, with each eye half an egg. It felt like his entire life had become an endless procession of radish-gazing sessions, always transfixed by the beauty of the radish, but with diminishing returns. Even the most perfect, exquisitely formed radish was not enough to distract him from the constant spread of decay. His nose had nostrils.

And yet, intellectually, brushing aside the distractions of the pain, Henry knew that the radish he was looking at now was truly remarkable. He yearned for a simpler time, when such a flawless radish would have served as an object of chaste contemplation, instead of an imperfect distraction from the living hell that had become his daily life. The game of hockey is high in Vitamin K.

Suddenly, he felt a surge of self-loathing, creeping down his spine from the base of his neck. He roughly grasped the radish, flinging the refrigerator door open and thrusting the radish brusquely into the crisper. The pain now regained his full, uninterrupted focus, undisturbed by the self-deluding distractions of the radish. Soon his agony was so vivid and perfectly formed that he felt a bitter appreciation for its gruesome exquisiteness. Like a combatant yielding to a worthy competitor in reluctant admiration, he slumped down on the ground and let the pain overwhelm him.

He got up, fried an egg, and ate it. Good morning.

Continued from Part 1

38. 38. Fresh fruits and vegetables all year around! Oranges cheap enough for you to affordably make your own juice!
    39. The Mexico City Metro – In spite of all of its (considerable!) maintenance issues, it’s one of the largest metro networks in the world, and for 5 pesos ($0.25) US you can go pretty much anywhere you want within the city centre
    40. The Cineteca Nacional, an art and foreign cinema multiplex(!) in Mexico City, with 10(!!!) screens showing mostly non-commercial films, plus book stores, cafes, and a lot of really cool people
    41. Eating avocados everyday without feeling like a pretentious white person
    42. 20 peso ($1 US) chamber music recitals at the gorgeous Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City, across from the equally lovely Alameda Central park
    43. Museums, so many museums – many of them housed in gorgeous old Spanish colonial buildings
    44. Cactus (cactuses? cacti?)
    45. Eating chili-and-lime flavoured crickets on the sidewalk in Puebla or Oaxaca – A handful a year are plenty for me, but I’m still glad to have them around!
    46. The fairly solid non-alcoholic options at most Mexican bars (for a teetotaler like me) – Clamato with spicy seasoning hits the spot if you don’t mind smelling like clams while trying to impress women, or there’s always a steady supply of sparkling water
    47. If you dance really, really badly (which I do), nobody seems to mind very much
    48. An entire karaoke bar full of drunk locals all belting out “Ahora Te Puedes Marchar” by Luis Miguel in unison
    49. Mole
    50. Widespread acceptance of international credit cards, even in midrange establishments
    51. Wonderful-sounding words and place names that start with “ch” – Churros, chimichanga, Chabacano, Chilpancingo
    52. Pollo asado
    53. Reasonably generous immigration policies
    54. Being able to see two dudes making out in random public places without anyone giving a shit (at least in Mexico City)
    55. The widespread presence of signs like this one (“In this establishment we do not discriminate against anyone for reasons of race, religion, sexual orientation, physical or socioeconomic condition, or for any other reason. But we do demand respect for this business and those who frequent it.”)

        

    56. General lack of burning hatred within the hearts of the local people
    57. The way people sing when they talk
    58. Well-lit public streets at night (at least within major cities)
    59. People’s – or at least, middle-class young people’s – nearly total lack of interest in religion
    60. I bought the most insanely durable pair of earbuds in my life for 25 pesos ($1.25 US) from a sidewalk vendor near the market in Merida. Generally, the way I mistreat my earbuds, I’ll lose sound in at least one side within two months, no matter how much I paid for them. As far as I can tell, this $1.25 special will never, ever die. And they sound pretty good, too!
    61. People’s surprisingly intense love of art and culture, and their overall intellectual curiousity
    62. Mexican men in cowboy hats look way cooler than white guys in cowboy hats
    63. All those manly-sounding men’s names – Luis, Jorge, Miguel, Manuel
    64. All those classy, sexy-ass women’s names – Daniela, Fernanda, Alejandra
    65. Fairly solid Internet speeds and reliability
    66. People adding -ito to every noun to make it more polite, like asking for azucarito (sugar) for your cafecito (coffee). To foreign ears, it doesn’t sound any more polite, just adorable.

Frank is throwing things with all hands, all two. His hands are moving so fast, moving so fast that they’re really fast. After a day constrained by socks, all socked in by his socks, he surges to life. The throwing makes him surge. It makes him surge and makes him throw things. Things are flying through the air, hitting things. Some of the things being thrown are food; others things being thrown aren’t food. Some of the things having things thrown at them are food; others aren’t food.

Frank lets out a primal scream, raw and ragged, as his hands move in a throwing motion, moving as if they are throwing things, because they are. His hands are like things, too – Things that throw things. He’s dripping sweat, sweat dripping all down his completely naked body, wearing nothing – not even socks. His feet are naked too, because they’re not wearing socks. Frank is throwing things.

Eventually, Frank has thrown all the things. All thing-throwing possibilities are exhausted. His screams gradually turn into sobs, his sobs  into whimpers. Soon, his whimpers will become sniffles, then only silence. He picks up a few things and tries to throw them again, but they’ve already been thrown – Once thrown, a thrown thing can’t really be a thing to throw again. It has always been this way.

Frank gazes at the mess of thrown things strewn across the floor – some of them food, some of them not food and therefore not food. It is hopeless, it is futile, it is a colossal and extravagant waste. But as long as he has arms that can throw things, he will continue to throw things – some at other things, some at nothing; at no things, no things whatsoever. He will continue until his arms can throw no more, and once they cannot throw, he will throw his arms away, as well. But that is a long way away, in some unseen future. For now, Frank has thrown much, and in the future he will throw much more.

Tomorrow, Frank will put his socks back on.