WHO MOVED MY RICE?
July 13, 2006
Coming to you from Chiang Mai, Thailand

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There is no snooze button on a cat who wants breakfast.
--Author Unknown

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In This Issue:

Random Thoughts
First Impressions of Thailand
A Is For Arrest, B Is For Bail by Melvin Durai
Imitating Jack Handey
Picasso's Latest Jailbreak
Homer Simpson

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When people agree with me I always feel that I must be wrong.
--Oscar Wilde

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RANDOM THOUGHTS
Copyright 2006, Michael LaRocca

Picasso's full name was: Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisma Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso.

I haven't been able to vote for myself lately, so I appreciate your help. http://www.ezinefinder.com/bookso-vote.html

I quit writing advice for authors because I felt I had nothing left to say which hasn't been said again and again and yet again. The same stuff I was too dumb to listen to when I most needed to listen. But I still read those articles, just because I do. Right this minute, I feel like disagreeing with some advice. Many folks like to say that writing is never easy, it's always a struggle, you must always sweat blood and such. Well, the blood part is right. If you're not sufficiently enthused about a writing project to bargain with Death to get five more minutes for it, then screw it. But writing gets easy after 20 or 25 years of doing it daily. Or such is my experience. Your actual mileage may vary.

A bishop is sitting in a doctor's waiting room when a red-faced and sobbing nun rushes out of the doctor's exam room. The bishop charges into the exam room and demands to know what the doctor has done. "I told her she was pregnant," the doctor replies, matter of factly. "That's crazy! That can't be true!" says the outraged bishop. "Why would you ever tell her something like that?" "Well, it cured her hiccups."

I found a rather interest Scams and Consumer Alerts section at the ID Theft Center which I was planning to summarize for you, but I can't because it simply has too much useful information. So, here's the link. http://www.idtheftcenter.org/alerts.shtml You really oughta read the thing.

How'd I spend my first birthday in Thailand? Why, eating authentic German food, of course. The first time I've had sauerkraut that didn't come out of a can, and naturally the sausages were delicious. And the beer.

Do you remember when I told you I was ending my newsletter forever? Sometimes that's what I need to do in order to start writing again. I knew that would happen. Bold pronouncements like that tend to make my Muse slap me around a bit. I've spent more time as a "former writer" than I have as a writer. That's what works for me. Your job, if you are an author, is to find what works for you. Copying others is for wimps.

Also, to quote Willie Nelson, I just started laying my burdens down. Moving to Thailand was part of that. Look at what you do, decide what you oughta quit doing, get your head on right, and you'll start writing stuff. Publishing is very different animal, but writing is always good, even if it's crap I'll never want to read. And it probably is. Law of averages and all that. Write it anyway. I promise I'll respect you in the morning.

What's the worst part about seeing 5 lawyers in Cadillac go over a cliff? A Cadillac seats six.

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FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THAILAND
Copyright 2006, Michael LaRocca

China imports its foreign teachers because it needs so many of them. It wants all 1.3 billion of its citizens to speak perfect English and get high exam scores, right now! It gives them a workplace, a living place, utilities and a few amenities, immediately. Thailand just waits for foreign teachers to come knocking. Find your own job, find your own house, learn about work visas and laws and such.

Holy guacamole, coming here after years in China is like moving away from my parents all over again.

And wait, what's that? You have a cat? Are you mad?

Actually, the above paragraphs are BS. They're correct, but they're still BS. Before I even think about finding a job here, I need to take a vacation here. So let me start over. You don't mind. You don't have anything better to do. You're going to go outside and find your car's been towed away.

(Yes, that WAS a Richard Pryor reference. Pat yourself on the back if you knew that.)

On the plane to Bangkok, after our meal, I fed Picasso. Tuna through the bars of her carrier, one plastic spoonful at a time, heavy on the juice and perhaps a few prawns. She agreed that it's the thought that counts. Meow.

At the airport in Bangkok, we had to change planes a bit quickly, with a visit to Animal Quarantine in between, ending with a dramatic dash through an airport reminiscent of an old TV commercial that featured a worthless bastard who still hasn't found the real killer. But the dash was quite fun, I presume, for a lovely little lady cat who was in the internationally approved carrier I was carrying. She may not have known this fat bastard could move that fast.

The next day, we found Vegemite. Yes! Enumerating all the other goodies would only make you drool and/or make me look like a food-crazed idiot. I was never much of a shopper when I lived in the US, but China shifted my priorities. In Thailand, you can find pretty much anything and nobody's surprised.

Interesting thing about shopping. I only saw a dozen people in the rather modern supermarket. I'm from China, y'all. A dozen queues, a dozen or more people in each, a few hundred more in the store... Culture shock!

Meanwhile, when my English doesn't work, I speak Chinese. THAT doesn't work. I'm gonna learn some Thai. I work on it daily like a good student should.

Picasso is quite happy. New sounds, new sights, new smells, new silence. She sleeps quite soundly. And often. She found a perfect hiding place underneath the bathtub, and you can't find her with both hands and a flashlight. She has a chair near the west window which is just the best. She also has a wardrobe she can leap atop without using my shoulders, and the place is huge, with many windows and too many bird sounds. Very good for a brilliant little calico.

After the trip, Picasso was so worn out that she missed breakfast the next morning. Since then, I've been very gradually expanding her culinary frontiers. When the cat food I brought from China runs out in late August, there ain't no more. But I think she'll eventually agree that the tuna is better here than in her homeland.

Jan and I take long walks here. Much greenery, many wide-open spaces, and more four-legged animals than two-legged ones. If you know me at all, you know I think that's a good thing.

I tell you what I think will happen over here. In China, I'd have experiences so far outside my experience that I'd babble on in newsletters and on websites and in books. Ad infinitum. When I got the hang of the place, I didn't write so much about it. In Thailand, my transition should complete itself, to the point where I never write about it at all. It'll just be this great place where I happen to live, same as Arthur C. Clarke in Sri Lanka, hanging out like a lazy dawg. Or cat. Or cow. Not a bird, though. Picasso doesn't like birds. They make too much noise when they mate. Which they do far too often.

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'A' IS FOR 'ARREST,' 'B' IS FOR 'BAIL'
Copyright Melvin Durai
http://www.melvindurai.com/alphabet.htm

The bookstore has dozens of books that teach children the alphabet. Some do it through popular characters such as Big Bird and Elmo, others by showing everyday life: 'F' is always for 'Firefighter,' 'K' is for 'Kite,' and 'O' is for 'Outsourcing.' Then there's one that's rather popular in the big city, written by a mother to help her children understand their father's drug and alcohol problems:

A is for 'Arrest.' It's what the police do when they take Daddy away; he gets to ride in a cool car and doesn't have to pay.

B is for 'Bail.' It's the money we pay to get Daddy out of jail; it's the reason the pawn shop has Mommy's ring for sale.

C is for 'Crime.' It's what Daddy does to pay for food, toilet paper and soap; he'd get a regular job if he wasn't such a dope.

D is for 'Drugs.' Daddy isn't a pharmacist, but he's sold many drugs; he isn't a model, but he's posed for many mugs.

E is for 'Escape.' That's what Daddy's always trying to do; breaking out of prison or smoking a joint or two.

F is for 'Fool.' Applying for work, Daddy listed his previous job as 'felon'; those drugs have turned his brain into a watermelon.

G is for 'Government." Daddy blames them for all his woes, not all that stuff he puts up his nose.

H is for 'Hunk.' When Mommy married Daddy, he was such a hunk; then he took drugs and everything shrunk.

I is for Inadequate. It's what Daddy feels when they lock him up; his cellmate expects him to wear a D-cup.

J is for 'Judgment.' It's how Daddy's time in prison is often spent, trying to figure out what the judge meant.

K is for 'Kilogram.' That's how much cocaine Daddy hid in his pants; he looked like a stud, but only at first glance.

L is for 'Love.' It's the reason Mommy stays with Daddy through thick and thin; the reason Daddy's always kissing his bottle of gin.

M is for 'Marriage.' It's a word Daddy sometimes mixes up with 'Marijuana'; he tried to buy it on our honeymoon in Tijuana.

N is for 'Nearsighted.' Daddy's always nearsighted, seeking short-term gain; if he thought about our future, he'd short-circuit his brain.

O is for 'Orange.' It's what Daddy wears when he's on the prison crew, the only time in life he's brighter than you.

P is for 'Probation.' It's what Daddy got when he committed his first crime, a good opportunity to do it another time.

Q is for 'Quarter.' Daddy tried to sell some crack to a Fed; that's because he used only a quarter of his head.

R is for 'Remorse.' It's what Daddy's expected to show during his trial; when the charges are listed, Mommy wishes he wouldn't smile.

S is for 'Swearing.' It's those four-letter words Daddy likes to use, especially on those nights when he runs out of booze.

T is for 'Testimony.' It's what those people say about Daddy in court; it's like getting an 'F' on a school report.

U is for 'Underachiever.' Daddy hasn't achieved much in his life so far, unless you count those drinking contests at the bar.

V is for 'Visitation.' It's the quality time you spend with Daddy in jail, when he tells you his dinner tastes like uncooked snail.

W is for 'Withdrawal.' It's what Daddy goes through when he hasn't had drugs in a day; he withdraws to the shed and tries to smoke some hay.

X is for 'X-ray.' Once, at the airport, they put Daddy through the x-ray; you'd be amazed what they found under his toupee.

Y is for 'Year.' Daddy had a job for a year in the slammer; he made license plates for the state of Alabama.

Z is for 'Zero.' That's the amount of joy Daddy's drugs have brought; if he were a trash man, we'd be smiling a lot.

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IMITATING JACK HANDEY

I read a lot of newsletters, and some of them are more gullible than others. But allegedly there was a newspaper contest where kids between the ages of 4 and 15 were asked to imitate Jack Handey. These are, I think, cool enough to steal. Um, reprint. Enjoy.

I believe you should live each day as if it is your last, which is why I don't have any clean laundry because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of their life? --Age 15

Give me the strength to change the things I can, the grace to accept the things I cannot, and a great big bag of money. --Age 13

It sure would be nice if we got a day off for the president's birthday, like they do for the queen. Of course, then we would have a lot of people voting for a candidate born on July 3 or December 26, just for the long weekends. --Age 8

Democracy is a beautiful thing, except for that part about letting just any ol' person vote. --Age 10

Home is where the house is. --Age 6

For centuries, people thought the moon was made of green cheese. Then the astronauts found that the moon is really a big hard rock. That's what happens to cheese when you leave it out. --Age 6

When I go to heaven, I want to see my grandpa again. But he better have lost the nose hair and the old-man smell. --Age 5

Often, when I am reading a good book, I stop and thank my teacher. That is, I used to, until she got an unlisted number. --Age 15

The only stupid question is the one that is never asked, except maybe "Don't you think it is about time you audited my return?" or "Isn't it morally wrong to give me a warning when, in fact, I was speeding?" --Age 15

If we could just get everyone to close their eyes and visualize world peace for an hour, imagine how serene and quiet it would be until the looting started. --Age 15

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PICASSO'S LATEST JAILBREAK
Copyright 2006, Michael LaRocca

The bathtub is surrounded by tile, and there's a rectangular access hole for getting to the pipes and so forth. Since the tub is curved, and the tile around it is a rectangle, there's also a crawlspace far too small for any human but ideal for a clever little cat. Her safe place, her sanctuary, her latest method for taking about ten years off my life.

It's 7pm, and Jan and I are preparing for our long evening walk in this isolated tropical paradise. Where's Picasso? Last time I saw her, she moved from under the sofa to the bathroom, so I assume she's under the tub again. Best to be sure, isn't it? I'll get the flashlight and shine it, and she'll tell me to stop that, and then we'll be on our way.

This time, a quiet howly moan instead of grumpy yowl. Kinda distant too. Sounds like a cat with a bit of a problem. Hmm. But how?

Well, when you empty the tub, water goes through a drainpipe. Beside this drainpipe is a hole so small, so very small, that not even a cat head could fit through there. Never mind the body. Cats defy all physical laws when they squeeze their bodies through holes. But the head has bones in it.

If we assume that Picasso Einstein could slip that triangular skull through the impossible, however, the body would follow, and she'd have no room to turn around, so she'd just have to go forward and be in big trouble, right? Oh shit.

It sounds like a plot right out of Shakespeare, doesn't it? We jump through so many paperwork hoops to get her out of China, then get delayed at the airport because of Jan's visa, then spend a week straightening out that mess while also having to redo the Picasso paperwork because of the new flight date, then get her into Thailand, then almost miss a connecting domestic flight, then wheel into the place at midnight, then train the staff not to let her out while cleaning the room, then lose her forever down a freaking hole in the wall one week after she gets here. Oh shit. How sharper than a serpent's tooth are those unbearable fardles.

The owner of this place is simply wonderful, although perhaps he'd rather not spend any of his free time remembering that we have a cat in this room. And here comes Michael, wondering where the pipes lead because he's lost his freaking cat. I met his wife for the first time, too, since she's been gone all week. What a fine way to introduce myself. Michael the Mad Catter. Lovely.

Oh, and if Picasso waited an entire week before slipping through that hole, why did she do it then? I don't know. Could've been the full moon. Could've been that we tend to see a minimum of two geckos on the ceiling every day, which drive Picasso nuts, and maybe she saw one slip through the hole and just had to follow. Could be that she's insane. Or any combination of the above. That's the kind of question you ask yourself in hindsight after the excitement, not during the excitement lest it paralyze you while your cat is missing and your head's close to exploding.

I returned to the room, and did some stuff while Jan went downstairs to see what she could learn. One of the things I did was open a tin of tuna. The smell wafted down to Picasso, who responded with a short grumpy syllable that translates as, roughly, "I know you want me to come back, which is also what I'd like to do, but I'm not able, so why torture me with the smell of tuna, you cruel cruel fool?"

About a minute after Jan returned to our room, I went downstairs because I'd figured out this pipe business and knew I'd need to draw a diagram while I explained. I found our friendly hotelier drawing the same thing that was in my head, having independently come to the same conclusion.

Our room is on the second floor. Picasso was above the ceiling of the bathroom on the first floor.

One of the staff is named "Jan". So as not to confuse anybody, and since I don't know how to spell her name anyway, I'll call her Jann.

Upstairs, Jan was in our room, talking to Picasso to call her back or calm her or whatever could be done. Downstairs, Jann led me and Ladder Boy to the room below ours.

Jann unlocked the empty room downstairs, we went to the bathroom, we opened its door, we stepped inside, we looked up at the ceiling, and there was Picasso, looking down where a ceiling tile was missing.

Jann thinks fast. She saw we didn't need Ladder Boy, shoved him out of the bathroom, and closed the door. I stood on the tub, then stepped over to the sink, and reached up to retrieve my psychotic little calico.

I shouted up to Jan that I had Picasso, but she already knew. She said it sounded like we had an army down there. Yeah, I think the whole family followed us into that room.

(I can use the words "staff" and "family" interchangeably here. Twelve rooms, one family owning and operating it. A friendly place. If you're coming to Chiang Mai, I recommend Golden Cupids Hotel, okay? Just please don't give them as much stress as Picasso and I do. I'd hate for them to ban cats just because we're insane.)

Upstairs, Jan was telling me to wait for her to bring the cat carrier. I didn't hear her, but it had occurred to me a few minutes earlier that I was without a carrier and that Jan would think of that. It also occurred to me that Picasso and I didn't want to wait, nor did we want to stuff her into a carrier in front of a room full of strangers.

So, that's right, I carried Picasso outside without a cat carrier for the first time in my life. She was wrapped in my arms and hugging my shoulder, just like in every story where the indoor cat freaks and claws and escapes and is never seen again. She was sending me a strong "take me home Daddy" vibe, so that's what I did. No problem.

Well, when Jan was coming downstairs with the carrier and saw me coming up the stairs with Picasso in my arms, she may have had yet another heart fluctuation. But otherwise, no problem.

And hey, aren't you glad there were no guests downstairs? Would you like to be vacationing in a foreign country, having a leisurely visit to the toilet, and then look up to have a strange cat with a very wild expression shouting at you? I'd be on all the news programs with that, in a Thai prison because my cat made Mother Teresa die of a heart attack on a hotel toilet. Great shades of Elvis.

I've blocked Picasso's sneaky hole with a heavy box. Good thing, too, because as soon as we got home she acted inordinately proud of herself and rushed right back to the bathroom to do it again. Yeah, like the past hour wasn't punishment enough for these two old people who share her abode.

Picasso spends too much time wanting me to move that box. Staring, glaring, shouting. We have discussions where she knows that we know that she wants me to move the box, but I simply refuse to do it. My disobedience is a new experience for her.

Also, she stares at our bathroom ceiling, since I did retrieve her from a bathroom ceiling that looks just like it. Corner tile, directly below the one she stares at up here.

Also, she keeps checking the sinks' drain pipes (two sinks) to see if she can slip through the wall. Nope, she can't. I keep checking them too. It's even more impossible than the other impossible pipe she found. No, really, it is impossible. It is.

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HOMER SIMPSON

If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing!

If it doesn't have Siamese twins in a jar, it is not a fair.

Children are our future. Unless we stop them now.

If something goes wrong at the plant, blame the guy who can't speak English.

Roads are just a suggestion Marge, just like pants.

My favorite kind of wild animal is on a plate.

I'm not a bath man myself. More of a cologne man.

Marge, every time I learn something new it pushes something old out of my brain. Remember that time I learned how to make wine and forgot how to drive?

If God didn't want us to eat animals, then why'd he make them so tasty?

Marriage is like a coffin and each kid is like another nail.

All these guys with six pack abs, and I'm the only one with a keg.

My dreams have been shattered into shards of a broken dream.

Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.

Television. Teacher, mother, secret lover.

A woman is like a beer. They look good, they smell good and you'd step over your own mother just to get one.

Kids are great. You can teach them to hate what you hate and, with the Internet and all, they practically raise themselves.

Canada? Why would I want to leave America just to visit America, Jr.?

I never apologize, I'm sorry but that's the way I am.

I'd love to go to church, honey, but I've got a lot of work to do around the bed.

I bet Einstein turned himself all sorts of colors before he invented the light bulb.

Go ahead and play the blues if it'll make you happy.

Pork chops and bacon, my two favorite animals.

But Dad, you're a very old man, and old people are useless.

He's trying to hypnotize me, and it's not in that good Las Vegas kind of way.

It's like the story of David and Goliath, except this time David won.

Marge, this ticket doesn't just give me a seat. It also gives me the right, no, the duty, to make a complete ass of myself.

I'll make the money by selling one of my livers. I can get by with one.

It takes two to lie, Marge. One to lie and one to listen.

Just sit through this NRA meeting Marge, and if you still don't think guns are great then we'll argue some more.