Love Kazakh Style
During the long and eventful holiday weekend, I hooked up with a new girl -- quite a cute little 20 year old doll from Kazakhstan. That kind of gypsy/Turkish look -- not my usual type of course, but she does it for me pretty well.

Anyway, on Monday morning we came back here and made so much noise having sex that the neighbors called the landlady and complained. The general complaint was simply "making a lot of noise" not the more specific "banging and thumping and orgasmic yelling" but still it kind of peeves me -- ONE, it was a holiday, TWO if a guy can't do that in the privacy of his own home, what's the point of having a home?

So gee, three nights in a row with this one, that's a pretty serious relationship for me. I'm sure it's only a matter of a week or so before my eccentricity and detachment drives her away, but we'll see.

She's a bit of a hellraiser herself -- the night I met her -- at the drunk-thronged embankment with a group of other teachers and students -- after dancing with her twice and making out on the dance floor a young man on the periphery of the group came over and announced that she was his girlfriend. She took him aside and had a word -- I don't know exactly what she said, but it apparently amounted to "Not anymore you're not."

Only a dream. . .
Boy I had a doozy of a dream last night. The only thing that stopped it from being flat-out the most terrifying nightmare of my life was a slight sense of detachment that I’ve (thanfully) managed to develop in my dreams (as perhaps in real life) – it was more like a film or a video game than something that was really happening.

(Now this is probably not exactly how it all happened in the dream, as I’ve been in the shower kind of fleshing it out, thinking it might make an excellent screenplay, and now I can’t remember what I created and what I dreamed.)

The first act involved being in a mental hospital – I think it was in the capacity of visitor – and walking through the predictably dank and desolate corridors of the basement and discovering a group of weird little big headed, dark-eyed, gangly children. There was also a normal little girl who explained the children were being genetically created (bred?) in the laboratory down there expressly for the purpose of suffering – their nerve endings were inflamed and they were given chronic diseases so they would be in constant pain. As to why anybody would want to do such a thing, the girl just said the doctors enjoyed seeing children in pain.

The next act is vague, but I encountered the doctor – a beautiful brunette who acted much like Nurse Ratchet from ONE FLEW OVER THE CUKOOS nest – and a large orderly / security guard type in an upstairs lounge area. I kept trying to punch both of them but couldn’t seem to hurt them, and I seem to recall swinging at them with a bicycle chain several times, so finally I just jumped over the railing. In the dark front of the hospital the little girl and one of the creepyhead kids were trying to escape in a little electric car; they were blocked suddenly at the exit by another doctor in a small electric car. I was able to pick this up very easily by a handle on top of it and throw it to the side, where it overturned. Apparently this killed the doctor. The little girl revealed she was one of the children bred to suffer and died crying and dissolving on the front step.

The third act was me (or the hero, anyway) walking along a bright cheery street on a sunny day with some kind of festival going on – there were lots of people and cops everywhere. I went into a phone booth and tried to hide there for a while – but it suddenly turned into being covered with bricks and I was afraid of being sealed into it, so I crawled out.

I was walkingdown the Main Street area, going past a lot of cops who were too busy to notice me, but finally one cop noticed me. I grabbed his billyclub and threw it into his neck, which stunned him long enough for me to run away. Naturally it being a dream I was having a lot of trouble running, but I went into an abandoned house.

The house revealed itself to be much like the interior basement of the mental hospital, dank and desolate. There were some people inside and the little girl and another guy seemed to be with me and on my side, but the female bruntette doctor was there, as were two rather fat blonde women and a guy like Otis from HOUSE OF 1000 CORPSES. We tried to fight them but they revealed to us we couldn’t hurt them, and the next thing I knew I was in bed with the two fat blonde women, being groped by them but not liking it much. The Otis guy came in and gave me a bottle of brandy. I went upstairs, the house becoming increasingly decrepit and scary looking, and jumped out the upstairs window and tried to go out onto the main street – but Main Street was turning into Silent Hill – though I think it was more like Desolation City – and night fell and the buildings were all suddenly decrepit and abandoned, the streets filled with strange lumbering people and prostitutes, and a number of people chained to walls. I also remember some weird little walking toilet bowls.

The climax was when the Otis guy appeared beside me and said, “You take this with you wherever you go, it’s all inside you.”

Whoosh! Happy thought. As I said. The only thing preventing it from being flatout horrifying was the idea of it as a video game or a film of some sort.

Too much spice on the old fried rice before bed!

There are hangovers and then there's. . .
English Teacher P, the 48 year old Irishman, last week developed a strange bunch of blister-like sores on his arms and neck. He went to the doctor a few days ago and was told that he had an elarged liver and something akin to blood poisoning from drinking bad vodka -- and when he said he often drank vodka at The Nightclub, the doctor said he often treated people with various toxic conditions from drinking the vodka there.

Methylated spirit plus water sold for about 50 cents a shot, as I said. We knew it was bad, but I think considered it a necessary evil. We've avoided it for the last two weeks and there has been a noticeable improvement in our coherence when drunk and our hangovers have been much less brutal. There are hangovers, and then there's heavy metal poisoning.

It was a nice long weekend -- met about four different girls who seem crazed for my musky Victor-Mature-like sex appeal. There's one who was pretty much planning our marriage on the second date, however. Had to clarify my feelings about that. Ahem.

STAR WARS sucks donkey dicks
It's a constant refrain on the geek movie sites about what a travesty the new Star Wars movies are. Being a member of that generation that wet my pants in excitement at the original STAR WARS films, let me comment.

But, what you're all forgetting about is:

The other Star Wars movies would have pretty much sucked to you, too, if you'd seen them as adults. I mean, the first one (now, I believe known as 'A New Hope' which is a stupid title, they should have called it 'The Death Star') is a very good story, with a lot of really great space battles and a great ending. However, the light saber fighting is lame, and with the view of time, a lot of the sets in the Death Star are crude and childish looking -- big buttons and levers everywhere. And the garbage disposal is conveniently full of syrofoam.

The second one was essentially pretty lame except fot the scene with the Walkers at the beginning and Boba Fett, who nevertheless didn't get to do much other than stand around and look cool. I mean what was the story of the second one? Luke completes his Jedi training apparently in the space of about a week or two. Han and Leia hide out in Cloud City. At the end, the light saber fight is pretty good and all, and of course there is that somewhat disturbing "I'm your father, Luke" business. But the movie doesn't have much else going for it, a lot of exposition.

The third one -- well, all I really need to say is "EWOK!" Those fucking little teddie bears ruined the whole movie. Storm troopers in battle armor so worthless it doesn't even protect them from getting hit with rocks!??! AND THEY CONQUERED THE GALAXY LIKE THIS?

In addition to badass galactic bounty hunter Boba Fett getting knocked off accidentally by having his rocket pack switched on. And poor Luke -- I know Mark Hamill had been in a car accident, necessitating massive reconstructive surgery on his face, but the poor guy looks like he's about to keel over through half the movie. And I suppose they couldn't end it any other way than having Darth Vader become a goody guod, but. . . shit. . . how did the emporer get so powerful, anyway? Perhaps that'll be explained in the new one.

Now of course THE PHANTOM MENACE was essentially a dumb story -- not that I remember it well, something about trade disputes -- but Darth Maul and Qui Jon were really cool, and the light saber fight was really balls to the wall.

Now ATTACK OF THE CLONES, I thought, though the romance angle was annoying and silly, had a lot of crowd pleasing moments. Boba Fett in action! (Well, mostly actually Janga Fett, but you get my drift.) A phalanx of Jedis rushing into battle against a horde of robots! And most importantly; Yoda gets out his light saber. Give me ATTACK OF THE CLONES over THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK or RETURN OF THE JEDI any fucking day.

City of the Walking Drunk

Saturday -- the first nice day of the spring in which a number of cafes were open at the embankment by the river, and the day in which our football team beat Moscow 3 - 0. End result: half of the city being blasted drunk down by the river.

The situation is somewhat reminiscent of 28 DAYS LATER or RESIDENT EVIL 2 -- bands of crazed and delirious monsters running around, the survivors treading carefully. If only we'd had some machine guns.

The number of football fans running around chanting and screaming suggested that there were more than a few whup-asses on the grill cooking, and indeed one did get served up before the end of the night -- a guy got crunched in the nose and man was he bleeding. I have to admire the restraint of the fans though -- they pulled the two guys who were fighting apart, after some shouting -- and it didn't turn into the massive gang brawl it easily could have.

A few metaphors which we used during the evening, in addition to the grill metaphor, which kicked off a bit of one-ups-manship:
"A couple of whupasses are being sent, Federal Express."
"This is Dr. Whupass and I've got that prescription you need filled. . ."
"The Whupass Express is pulling into the station."
"NASA has just spotted a metor coming in from the Whupass Nebula"
"Critical mass is being reached at the Whupass Nuclear Power Plant."

Another Movie Review
So Vodkaberg here offers numerous pleasures for a man who likes teenage trollops, abandoned building, and hard liquor (not necessarily in that order) but it also offers some sublime pleasure to the man who likes a good DVD. Our pirate disc market is about a football field's worth of tables and kiosks, about half of which sell bootleg DVDs, the others sell CDs and computer software and still video cassettes. Most DVDs cost about 100 rubles now -- about $3.

Most DVDs are heaped with no arrangement whatsoever in boxes; newer films are displayed on the front racks, but the more obscure ones just end up in corners. And on a day that's not too cold, a fine way to spend an afternoon it is, too -- take a like-minded chum out there, buy a bottle of beer or four from the hotdog lady, and spend the day looking for the hidden goodies.

And they're there, too -- small, obscure indie films get wide DVD release, because they make so little money on the big screen. So you can find some cool shit.

Now my friend English Teacher R had a good instinct for this -- he could seemingly grab interesting films just by the title and the cover, and get something impressive. The Korean import OLD BOY, for example -- incredibly bizarre yet moving story of a guy who is imprisoned in a hotel room for fifteen years and then is released and has to discover why. Much lauded on the geek movie boards now, but he found it even before it was.

Now me, I tend to look at the geek movie sites a lot -- www.chud.com is my favorite -- and the titles of recommended films just stick in my head.

I've seen some good ones lately, the last few years have been good for films -- but man, I picked up something last week for 45 rubles (a buck fifty) that impressed the HELL out of me.

The unassuming title is GINGER SNAPS: UNLEASHED. Sounds like a Powerpuff girls movie, but it's one of the most effective and original horror films I've seen since SESSION 9. It's about a girl infected with the werewolf virus, shooting up wolvesbane and self-mutilating to check the progress of the disease, who ends up in a care center full of girls and staff so fucked up they kind of make werewolves look normal. Putting lycanthropy -- the monster within -- in the context of a bunch of troubled teenage girls could easily come off as stupid over-obvious metaphor hunting, but not here. I've dated plenty of troubled teenage girls, I should know.

For being I assume a very low budget production, the acting is great, the direction done very well -- and the writing and dialogue is just superb. The monster is good too, though I assume for budgetary reasons they avoid showing it too clearly in the end. But that's just the fanboy in me talking.

The thing that's most interesting is that it never quite allows these stock characters to be stereotypes -- the cruel staff guy who extorts sex out of the patients for drugs somehow never seems to be all that bad a person, and the cute little kid. . . well, let's just say she's got a few bad qualities. The ending. . . whew.

This is apparently a sequel to another film called GINGER SNAPS, and the ghost / hallucination of a character named Ginger from the original shows up occasionally to make sarcastic comments, but the movie stands alone fairly well.

HIGHLY recommended.

Disgusting Drunken Violence Fest
We had a birthday party for English Teacher E's girlfriend on Saturday, and after the usual drunken revelry, complete with dancing, drinking, hysteria, face sucking, nipple biting, an impromptu wrestling match with English Teacher M in which I demonstrated how a larger opponent can be incapacitated with the rear chokehold, apparently when I left it developed into an actual fistfight between English Teacher A and several enraged lesbians.

Judging by the bruises and lumps and cuts they had, this was considerably more than drunken horseplay.

Watched a good movie yesterday, in between drinking myself into borderline alcohol poisoning -- THE LIFE AQUATIC with Bill Murray -- I have a strong feeling I'm going to be like Bill Murray in this film in a few years. Although perhaps more drunk.

The Death of Subtlety
I end up mostly reading classics here -- they're much cheaper than normal novels, and I think it's a good thing to do anyway, I seem to have reached an age where I can actually appreciate them. I'm reading TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES by Thomas Hardy now -- and actually enjoying it. The subtlety with which he portrays the feeling of eroticism is interesting. Being a Victorian, he never just comes out and says anything -- witness this description:

"She had an attribute which amounted to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec D'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a certain luxurience of aspect, a fullness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from her mother, without the quality it denoted. "

All that to say she's got a tasty rack! I tell you, with the death of subtlety in the world, we may well have lost something precious.

Yesterday was an historic occasion -- on April 15th, 1995, I began teaching in Bangkok. Ten years, and an eventful 10 years it has been. . .

Progress and Baseball Bats
I don't know if I've achieved the "pinnacle of my profession" or anything, but I am at this point an extremely competent and nearly-unaninously well
recieved teacher, acclaimed for the lively pace and timing of my lessons, my knowledgeability, my ability to explain grammar succintly and clearly,
and my general professionalism.

(Okay, I know, from reading this blog, it seems like I'm drunk all the time, but that's just because I have no desire to make entries that read: "Got up. Went to work. Came home. Had macaroni for dinner." like most idiotic bloggers.)

Then some dumb shit like this happens:

Typical Student #3 -- housewife with too much time on her hands -- in one of my classes goes to the management and complains that after three months of lessons, she's "not making any progress."

Management, rather humbly, approaches me and relays this complaint.

I check the attendance register -- the housewife has attended TWO of the ten lessons which the month of March afforded.

In February, she attended six of the ten.

In January, she attended five of the eight.

Give me twenty minutes alone in a room with this woman, and a baseball bat and a raincoat, and I guarantee we will make some progresss.



X

My Favorite Rich Guy
Man! This guy I teach, rich guy, former tabloid newspaper and TV tycoon and political consultant -- man he's the kind of private student who doesn't
grow on trees. He tips me $50 occasionally -- hell actually I think that's about $54 now -- and he loves to talk, I barely have to do anything other
than nod. He tells me all about the various rich guy adventures in Russia in the 90's -- parties full of models and hookers, $10,000 dinners, $30,000 mink
coats, suitcases full of laundered money, assassinations, kidnappings, etc.

He probably wouldn't be so verbose on these subjects, but he's in a contemplative phase at age 45, following a recent tax case in which he was
looking at five years in jail, after the governor of the region double-crossed him.

He's now clear, and considering what his life is and has been about -- he just wrote two novels, under a pseudonym, about the New Rich and their adventures -- purely as a mental exercise, both of which have been optioned for screenplays already, though he's still negotiating about the publishing
rights. (As he said, it wasn't for the money -- the highest percentage they could offer him would get him considerably less than his most expensive
cashmere coat cost). I, as a naive foreigner, am the perfect ear for him to bend regarding subjects he couldn't or wouldn't discuss with his
friends and family.

Today he was telling me about the profession of "information broker."

Somewhat akin to being a private detective, these are charming and goodlooking people who specialize in befriending the wives, bodygaurds, secretaries, servants, etc of rich people so they can find out
information about the rich people or company in questino. We were speaking about it in
the context of assassination -- these people work with professional killers to find out where such-and-such businessman is going to be at a certain
time, or where his girlfriend lives, or that sort of thing.

He said they get paid maybe $1000 - $2000 for that sort of information.

I inquired how much the assassins themselves might get.

"Often nothing special, they are employees, getting a monthly wage, or doing it as a favor or to impress someone."

Man, what a gold mine this guy would have been in the days when I wanted to be a crime writer.

Although I guess I write about crime on my website now -- drunk and disorderly.