I was recently in Singapore on a business trip and my host took the team out to a local market (Lau Pa Sat Festival Market) for dinner. Interesting place with a wide selection of Asian cuisines.
We ordered a wide range of dishes, Sambal Stingray (excellent!), Chicken, Beef and Pork Satay, Sambal kangkong (water spinach), prawn rolls, chicken with dried chilis, plain chicken wings (why I have no idea), and something that resembled a large snail (maybe a whelk?, no idea but they tasted good).
After the meal, my host insisted I try the Ice Kachang which is a Singapore shaved ice dessert. I was thinking, "Shaved ice, how bad could it be?". They asked me what I wanted on it and I said "surprise me". This is what I got.
The yellow stuff is durian (a type of fruit) which if you're a fan of Andrew Zimmern's Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel is something he loathes and can't eat. The smell of this fruit is pretty potent with nice ripe aromas of "open sewer" and "rotting vegetables". The flavor I think is reminiscent of garlic and onion. Not bad if you can get past the smell but just not something I associate with dessert.
The dish also contained a lot of the ingredients described in the wikipedia article: red beans, agar jelly, attap chee (palm seed), sweet corn and coconut milk.
The best tasting part of the dish was the palm seed which had the consistency of a large semi-solid phlegm ball but at least it tasted good.
I washed it down with an entire pitcher of Tiger beer but I couldn't get the taste of durian out of my mouth. It stayed with me all night and I was still tasting it when I woke up in the morning.
Today my daughter needed to send a letter (yes, the paper type, real old school) to a friend. We handed her the paper and envelope and the look she gave us was no different than if you or I were handed a morse code key set. We'd know what it was but in all likelihood not be able to use it. The same was true with Katie and the paper and envelope.
She knew somehow she physically had to pick up a writing utensil (aka non-digital dye device) and apply ink to paper and the symbols she transcribed would need to form a cohesive, legible sentence but it appeared in her mind that performing this task was on par with resolving differential equations in calculus. After walking her through the concept of full English sentences, it was now on to addressing the envelope. Wow! You would have thought you were explaining brain surgery to a caveman, "No, Gor! zip code! zip code!"
I feel like Rip Van Winkle. What the hell happened?
Now where'd I park my dinosaur?
This story is a few months old but I’m just getting around to writing it.
Back in October, our household experienced a ladybug hatch.
From research, a female ladybug will lay about 10-15 eggs and apparently an insect orgy was going on in the house because there was easily 100 plus of these creatures all congregating in our foyer.
Although they weren’t really bothering us (apart from devouring the pet parakeet, Google it, parakeets are their primary prey, horrible sound hearing a parakeet screech “Help Me!” and knowing you’re too late to save it), we still wanted them out of the house so Ellen gave me the task of getting rid of them.
The first problem was that, as previously mentioned, they were in the foyer which is one of the high entrance types with a window about 14 feet off the ground. The ladybugs were moving back and forth between the window and the ceiling (about 20 feet up).
After seeing the height problem, it occurred to me that I have an extendable wand (calm down, ladies) that can be attached with a duster (now really calm down ladies, I’m not dusting for you!). By using the duster, I was able to trap the ladybugs in the hairs and then throw them outside. After capturing and releasing about twenty of the bugs, it occurred to me, “What the hell am I doing?!” In my past military life, I used to help train F-15E Strike Eagle aircrews whose job was to drop enormous bombs on the enemy eliminating all trace of their existence from the Earth and I never had a pang of guilt yet here I was delicately removing ladybugs one by one.
To say I’ve gone soft would be an understatement.
I had to excuse myself to the bathroom, drop trou and make sure I still had a pair.
After returning to the foyer with a new found determination, I was intercepted by my 13-year old vegetarian daughter who probably saw a different look in my eye and asked me, “You’re not going to kill any of them are you?”
How do you respond?
It took me several hours over three days to finally clear out the house and not kill any of the stupid SOBs.
Now the kicker, after clearing out the house, I happened to be at work and one of my co-workers stopped by my office. He looks at my desk and says, “Oh, look, a ladybug”. He delicately picks it up and says “Fly, be free” and throws it into the air. Except this one never took flight for some reason and his throw made a perfect arc from across the office directly into a hot cup of green tea that I just poured. The bug was floating upside down just like a dead goldfish. I pulled him out but it was too late for this one. Now that’s irony.
My 4 year old son, Luke, loves to torment his 2 year old brother, Logan. I'm not talking about typical school-type teasings like "You have cooties" or "Your Daddy smells like beer and strippers". Because we all know that cooties don't exist and, well, let's just leave it at that. No, I'm talking about real torture. Luke could give lessons to Jigsaw. Tonight, they were both in the toy room (or what should be the dining room) and Luke was teasing Logan again. Despite being younger, Logan isn't much smaller than Luke. After another round of torment, Logan apparently sized up his odds and liking his chances, hauled back and popped Luke. I was two rooms away and heard it. Kind of sounded like a hunk of ham hitting a coconut. Maybe a poor analogy but try it next time you have both handy. It’s got to be a whole coconut so you can hear the liquid (i.e. Luke’s brain) sloshing around. Within seconds of the Tyson-esque strike, I heard a child crying and realized the registry was off for it to be Logan. Luke came into the family room bawling and proceeded to inform me that his younger brother had indeed, struck him.
What do you as a parent do?
I am sure most “Parenting” websites and periodicals and Child Psychologists would advise sitting the offender (Logan) down for a timeout. And this did pop into my head. However, I also know Luke and after grilling him as to what was he doing that caused Logan to hit him, he explained in his own unique, one-sided logic the situation and why he was the innocent bystander. But clearly he was tormenting Logan. And after thinking the situation through, I told Luke, “You teased him, he hit you. You tease him again, he’ll probably hit you again.”
Bad parenting? Maybe. But in my way of thinking, people (not just kids) need to learn there are consequences to their actions and real-world examples usually hit home the point. And one more thing to mention, I didn’t put Logan in timeout. Partially because he was already crying since he felt bad about hitting his brother and making him cry but also because the Flyers were on and that would have required me getting up from my comfortable chair, setting down my beer and walking to the other side of the house.
Bad parent, I don’t think so.
Lazy parent, absolutely.
There have been various milestones in my life that I initially viewed as putting me on the path to adulthood, as an example, getting my driver’s license at 16, reaching the legal drinking age of 21, married at 24 etc etc. However, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that all of these milestones were not so much putting me on the path to adulthood but rather bringing me one step closer to death. Since the current average U.S. male life expectancy is between 75 and 76, and I’m now 41, that means I’ve already not only reached the peak but have crested it and am gaining momentum (in a bad way).
Now when a man contemplates this fact of life (and death), there is a moment (or several) where he can either become the depressed, grumpy old man or accept the situation and live the life we’re meant for. I’m trying to do the latter but after an incident shopping last night I’m reserving the right to act the grumpy old man.
Last night I was acting as chaperone and dinner guest for one of my Japanese co-workers who is visiting the U.S. for training. I provided her several options for after work activities and dinner. Since she needed to do some souvenir shopping, she decided on going to the King of Prussia mall which is right near my work. We wandered through the Mall but my co-worker was not interested in many of the stores. This didn’t surprise me. Tokyo is a very large modern metropolitan city and most of the retailers you find in the U.S. you would also find in Tokyo. So as we’re walking along passing by store after store, she suddenly stops dead in her tracks. I could see her eyes had fixated on a target. If you’ve never seen that look in a woman’s eye before when they’ve spotted a particular store, item or a bargain, it’s pretty scary. It’s very much the same look a female lion has when they’re about to take out the jugular on a gazelle except the lion doesn’t drool as much. I followed her line of sight and realized her target was the Abercrombie & Fitch store. Apparently, A&F is one of the major retail chains that does not yet have a store in Tokyo although they are planning on opening one before the end of 2009. Thankfully, I have never been in an A&F store nor am I likely to repeat this event. If we temporarily forget the fact that I am not in the target demo, the idea of paying $30 plus for a worn and faded-looking t-shirt is a ridiculous concept. My co-worker, however, is in her twenties and thus a prime candidate for A&F. Plus she’s from Tokyo and the Japanese LOVE fashion fads and luxury items. As we entered the store, I thought for sure I would be uplifted into a “Carousel” and “renewed” like a thirty something in Logan’s Run but apparently they are now allowing us “old folks” to actually enter the store. The first thing I noticed is that A&F shirt sizes are designed for trim leprechauns. I picked up a clearly-labeled men’s XXL. A Ken doll with molded-plastic six-pack abs might fit the XXL but clearly my moldy six-pack-generated gut was never going to squeeze into that washcloth disguised as a shirt. To add insult to injury, my co-worker who noticed me disgustingly putting a shirt back on the rack commented, “is it too “young” for you?” Ouch. If she hadn’t asked it so innocently I might have abandoned her in Camden with a “Crack Whore” sign taped to her back but I realized that might be bad for international relations. So at this point I’m not in the best of mood because I’ve just found out I’m too old and too fat for a “standard” dress shirt (at least in A&F). My co-worker meanwhile is looking at the men’s shirts as well trying to find one for her boyfriend. The problem she was having is that Japanese shirt sizes are different from American sizes. After finding out how tall her boyfriend is (six feet and thin build) I told her I would go find some help from one of the store employees.
Now remember that I was already in a foul mood. The techno and hip-hop music blaring from the store’s speakers weren’t helping either. I eventually found a store employee (white, 20-something…….way to break the mold A&F) who looked like he had the same height and build described by my co-worker so I’m thinking if I find out how tall he is and what his shirt size is, that will be a good indication of what shirt size my co-worker should buy. But first I had to practically pin the guy down. Before I could even ask him a question, he excused himself and said “I’ll be right back”. He wasn’t right back but eventually I saw him in another part of the store and approached him again. I ask him how tall he is but I’m standing right next to him and clearly he’s about 6 foot, maybe 6’1”. He snarkily says “I’m 6’3” or closer to 6’4””. And this is when I quickly became the grumpy old man.
If he hadn’t dodged me when I first approached him I might have given him a pass but I was in no mood and his attitude didn’t help. Quick side note: there’s a lot I’ve learned from my time in the military and “Command Voice” is one of them. Plus there are times when I’m pushed too far that, at least according to my wife and some co-workers, I get a look in my eyes, one of those sincere “I will kill you” looks. I apparently had this same look in my eyes when I immediately rebuked him in my best “Command Voice” with a “You’re not 6’4”, I’m 6”4” and clearly you’re three to four inches shorter than I am.” Immediate change of attitude. He looked like a drop-kicked puppy. I pressed home my advantage and found out that a “Large” shirt in A&F fit him. I gave him a “Thank You!” (more like a “Dismissed!”) and returned to my co-worker.
And her decision after finding out a “Large” shirt size would be appropriate from an old grumpy man who just de-moralized an A&F employee?
She didn’t buy it because she was afraid it wouldn’t fit him and she couldn’t return it.
I was driving home from the grocery store last night along Swamp Pike. Such a lovely name for a road. As Swamp Pike enters Boyertown, the name changes to Philadelphia Avenue as if that would beautify the city. So as I'm driving home, I have the windows down as it was a nice cool night. My car comes around a curve in the road and what should my headlights illuminate sitting in the middle of the road but a large frog. A quick calculation of my trajectory and I could tell that unless I or it moved, it would shortly be tread jelly.
My options:
1. Swerve right into a ditch
2. Swerve left into oncoming traffic
3. Tread Jelly
I won't say which option I chose but I have learned that if you apply pressure to a frog in mid-croak (pun intended), it sounds like a balloon popping.
I was a bit distracted at last weekend’s Penn State game. I was having a hard time focusing on the game because a “gentleman” in front of us had the nastiest ear caterpillar I’ve ever seen. I kept thinking that creature was going to attack. Chekov in “Wrath of Kahn” comes to mind, “He put... creatures... in our bodies... to control our minds.” Okay, “gentlemen”……and ladies should you be so cursed, please invest in a nose and ear hair trimmer. They don’t cost a lot of money, are easy to use and you’ll spare humanity the horror of your freaky follicles.
However, I was only visually distracted but this was my annual Penn State Father-Daughter game and my daughter, Katie, unfortunately was sitting right behind him. In addition to his questionable grooming habits, he also had poor bathing habits so she also had a wonderful olfactory distraction of an intensely sour body odor smell for most of the game. If you’ve never experienced someone with intense body odor, it’s quite a treat. Here’s a quick story to further illustrate this unique sensation.
In the summer of 1990, my wife and I backpacked through Europe after we graduated College. We had a EuroRail pass and were taking an overnight train from Florence, Italy to Innsbruck, Austria. While we’re sitting in one of the train cabins, another couple joins us and sits opposite us. In the enclosed cabin, it only took a minute before that wonderfully intense BO smell wafted over to us. It didn’t matter whether it was the guy or girl or both who stank. We were trapped. We didn’t want to leave the cabin because the train was packed and the only other seats available were fold-downs in the aisle which we had to use for the first few hours out of Florence before the cabin seats became available. The fold-downs were extremely uncomfortable and you couldn’t sleep since you were constantly balancing yourself on them. Our options were limited. As I was debating killing the couple and dumping their bodies, I noticed from my window seat that there were air vents that ran along the base of the window. By pressing my face against the window at the right angle, I was able to keep fresh air from the vents blowing directly into my nose. Now the air from the vents was certainly not fragrant by any means but it was a helluva lot better than inhaling the other smells that permeated the cabin. So I pretended to fall asleep in this position while at the same time desperately snorting as much vent air as possible. My wife, however, was suffering. She had no air vents in her aisle seat but she’s also no dummy and immediately realized what I was doing. She gently tapped my arm and asked if we could switch seats so she could “look out the window”. I love my wife but there are times where it’s every man, woman and child for themselves. I feigned sleep and mumbled “nothing to see…..dark out”. Wrong answer. Her next arm tap was a little more emphatic and without saying a word, I knew that if I didn’t switch seats, she was likely to “Bobbitt” me that very night. So I “gallantly” switched seats with her. Wow! Once I was away from the vent their body funk was so nasty my testicles ascended back into my body to get away from the smell. Brutal night. I don’t recall when they left the train but the odor was so rank and infused in our clothes we dumped them when we reached Innsbruck.
Based upon the positive feedback I received from those who followed my "Four Months in Tokyo" blog, I figured I would create a new one that, hopefully, equally amuses. The name of this new blog is pilfered from a Peter Griffin quote from “Family Guy” (Season 3, Episode 19 Stuck Together Torn Apart).
As you can see from the blog title, I’m going to try and keep this blog humorous in nature but don’t be surprised by an occasional serious post.
Enjoy the ramblings.
