the boy standing in front of me was wearing a shirt that read "100% Y2K Ready!" in a ridiculous futuristic font. he had a huge grin on his face.
"ohh.. shit. .."
the boy kept smiling as he whipped the snake's head against the concrete floor by it's tail.
it stopped moving.
"ohh -- intestines!" squealed becca.
we watched as the boy -about 17- quickly slit the side of the snake, dug in a finger and pulled out the heart, still beating. he knew exactly where it was, as if he had left it in there sometime earlier.
still pulsing in a small saucer, the boy brought the heart over to me.
"k.."
it looked like a kidney bean, doing sit-ups. as it contracted in front of me. he held the snake over a grubby chemistry beaker. i noted that the beaker had red mL markers on the side. blood mixed unevenly with rice wine in the beaker.
"quick- while its still beating."..
3.5.03
we were passing a small complex of broken brown and grey down little buildings on the right. under the light of a restuarant sign, in gray pants and sandals, the small child slipped off of his rollerblade scooter, falling backwards.
'bad sign' i mumbled into the air and dust rushing by..
the moto driver throttled our motorbike forward, skimming close to the dumptruck and cutting of a viet girl on a faster Honda Dream. i looked at her, drunk. i couldnt see an inch of her body - she was completely covered. she was still wearing silk long-gloves that reached all the way up to her shoulders - intended to protect skin the days sun and retain the kind of white skin that indicates that one is not a laborer and thus part of a higher, and more desirable class - and her road mask - a bandana covering her nose and mouth to keep out the road dust.
a different, beautiful viet girl scooted forward to my right. she was sitting casually and cross legged on the back of her boyfriend's bike, high heels, sunglasses, and a long silk skirt - totally unffected by the peircing whine that the axles of the ancient dumptruck had begun to make, or the fact that we were going over large potholes on a rusty old bridge at about 35 mph on tiny motobikes with no protective gear. she was also unconcerned with the fact that we were all driving in the opposite direction of the arrows painted on the road. and she was definitely not concerned with the fact that my moto driver was completely drunk.
of course, how could she have known?
she didnt hear him slurring.
she didn't see him drinking.
but i did.
actually -
i'm the one who got him drunk.
yeah and
so
.
'bad sign' i mumbled into the air and dust rushing by..
the moto driver throttled our motorbike forward, skimming close to the dumptruck and cutting of a viet girl on a faster Honda Dream. i looked at her, drunk. i couldnt see an inch of her body - she was completely covered. she was still wearing silk long-gloves that reached all the way up to her shoulders - intended to protect skin the days sun and retain the kind of white skin that indicates that one is not a laborer and thus part of a higher, and more desirable class - and her road mask - a bandana covering her nose and mouth to keep out the road dust.
a different, beautiful viet girl scooted forward to my right. she was sitting casually and cross legged on the back of her boyfriend's bike, high heels, sunglasses, and a long silk skirt - totally unffected by the peircing whine that the axles of the ancient dumptruck had begun to make, or the fact that we were going over large potholes on a rusty old bridge at about 35 mph on tiny motobikes with no protective gear. she was also unconcerned with the fact that we were all driving in the opposite direction of the arrows painted on the road. and she was definitely not concerned with the fact that my moto driver was completely drunk.
of course, how could she have known?
she didnt hear him slurring.
she didn't see him drinking.
but i did.
actually -
i'm the one who got him drunk.
yeah and
so
.
i think this email to my friend sean sums it up pretty fucking well:
> cameron
> writing you from old city in hanoi vietnam. must be
> brief. barely containing bowels. hot churner, ready
> to leak. trying to focus on screen. wierd-science
> speed modem not making internet a fast and exciting
> place.
>
> think the root of ass problem is the coffee i just
> drank. they feed the beans to weasals and then
> "harvest" the beans from the weasal poo.
> musky, musky coffee.
> maybe it was the rice wine i just drank that had been
> soaking in a jar with goat balls.
> they call it "goat ball wine/5 time in one night".
> marketing geniuses.
>
> oh shit.
> more in a bit.
> cem
> cameron
> writing you from old city in hanoi vietnam. must be
> brief. barely containing bowels. hot churner, ready
> to leak. trying to focus on screen. wierd-science
> speed modem not making internet a fast and exciting
> place.
>
> think the root of ass problem is the coffee i just
> drank. they feed the beans to weasals and then
> "harvest" the beans from the weasal poo.
> musky, musky coffee.
> maybe it was the rice wine i just drank that had been
> soaking in a jar with goat balls.
> they call it "goat ball wine/5 time in one night".
> marketing geniuses.
>
> oh shit.
> more in a bit.
> cem
29.4.03
so.
damn. ive really got to try and shower more. this is getting disgusting.
my pants smell like three nights out drinking, my hair is matted to my head, pushed down by a surplus store army hat that makes me look like a swarthier fidel castro. (btw - im wearing pinstripes and dutch clogs and an army poncho as well. no - i really am. where in the hell did i get this fashion sense?)
luckily my lips are very moistureized. with genuine emu oil lip balm, no less. natures best kept secret, according to the australians.
its been like this since i got here. by -this- i mean two things: filthy, or filthy and
drunk. the second day i touched down, which was a week ago, i drug my jetlagged arse into a wedding.
the wedding took place near Wallamarra, which is somewhat near Coohoonga. ..nowhere near
Woolloomooroo.
an outstanding wedding. honestly, ive never been to a wedding with a streaker. especially one where a streaker started rubbing the family cat against his balls, screaming. in front of the entire family. or one where the groom threw his wedding cake at his guests, or one where the entire drunken male wedding contingent ended up wrestling on the floor between our 10th and 11th hour of hard drinking (which was between 10 and 11 pm incidently).
the boys got fucking rowdy.
one of the groomsmen, Simon, a fully upright and respectable fellow while sober, transformed into one of the most demented and lecherous drunks i have ever encountered. not only did he just hang all over all of the attractive girls at this wedding, he made sure to grab their innerest thighs; he drunkedly fondled their breasts as if he was fingerpainting; he mumbled drunk, incomprehensible little nothings into their ears and made sure that they heard this by grabbing onto their chins when he cooed/slurred at them. he grabbed one of the groom's 50 something aunts, pulled her onto the dance floor, grabbed her massive ass with 2 full hands, and nearly picked her up by it. neither the grooms mother, nor the bride, nor the groom were spared.
your author was also handled in this manner.
your author was also handled in this manner just as what the author thought was a Kookaberra (sp?) bird was landing in the backyard where the wedding ceremony was held.
for those of us unfamiliar with the animal and plantlife of australia, a Kookaberra bird is a large bird, with a loud and unique call that sounds like a high pitched, insane human laugh. oh.. and it you toss it raw (FUCKING!) meat. this is, apparently, normal.
the streaker was another of the main groomsmen, john. the son of Australia's most emminent dermatologist, a lawyer now in the capitol city, Canaberra.
damn. ive really got to try and shower more. this is getting disgusting.
my pants smell like three nights out drinking, my hair is matted to my head, pushed down by a surplus store army hat that makes me look like a swarthier fidel castro. (btw - im wearing pinstripes and dutch clogs and an army poncho as well. no - i really am. where in the hell did i get this fashion sense?)
luckily my lips are very moistureized. with genuine emu oil lip balm, no less. natures best kept secret, according to the australians.
its been like this since i got here. by -this- i mean two things: filthy, or filthy and
drunk. the second day i touched down, which was a week ago, i drug my jetlagged arse into a wedding.
the wedding took place near Wallamarra, which is somewhat near Coohoonga. ..nowhere near
Woolloomooroo.
an outstanding wedding. honestly, ive never been to a wedding with a streaker. especially one where a streaker started rubbing the family cat against his balls, screaming. in front of the entire family. or one where the groom threw his wedding cake at his guests, or one where the entire drunken male wedding contingent ended up wrestling on the floor between our 10th and 11th hour of hard drinking (which was between 10 and 11 pm incidently).
the boys got fucking rowdy.
one of the groomsmen, Simon, a fully upright and respectable fellow while sober, transformed into one of the most demented and lecherous drunks i have ever encountered. not only did he just hang all over all of the attractive girls at this wedding, he made sure to grab their innerest thighs; he drunkedly fondled their breasts as if he was fingerpainting; he mumbled drunk, incomprehensible little nothings into their ears and made sure that they heard this by grabbing onto their chins when he cooed/slurred at them. he grabbed one of the groom's 50 something aunts, pulled her onto the dance floor, grabbed her massive ass with 2 full hands, and nearly picked her up by it. neither the grooms mother, nor the bride, nor the groom were spared.
your author was also handled in this manner.
your author was also handled in this manner just as what the author thought was a Kookaberra (sp?) bird was landing in the backyard where the wedding ceremony was held.
for those of us unfamiliar with the animal and plantlife of australia, a Kookaberra bird is a large bird, with a loud and unique call that sounds like a high pitched, insane human laugh. oh.. and it you toss it raw (FUCKING!) meat. this is, apparently, normal.
the streaker was another of the main groomsmen, john. the son of Australia's most emminent dermatologist, a lawyer now in the capitol city, Canaberra.
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