I frequently have checks sent to their bank-by-mail department from clients, since I can’t be in America to manually deposit them. For three years I have had checks deposited this way. Last month, a substantial check never made it to the bank, even though the client was debited the amount. 

It has been THREE WEEKS. No sign of the check. I made arrangements for a new check to be cut, but called one last time to make sure the check hadn’t shown up. First I called my branch, who always handles any discrepancies, and was met on the phone by the rudest, most crass, aggressive human I’ve ever met. Yelling at me that she can’t give me information on MY account because it wasn’t a secure line (WTF?), that since I didn’t see the check in my online banking statement it didn’t exist, and that I needed to call at least 10 people that were not HER.

I finally wrangled, after verbally swatting her nose with a rolled up newspaper (“Bad bitch!”), the phone number for customer service. I asked them for the number for the Bank-By-Mail department. I was met by someone who must be scared of the woman I just talked to, because he spoke with a weak quiver in his voice, as if his testicles were tied to electrical wires that would discharge should he actually give out any information.

“May I have the number for the Bank By Mail department?”

“We don’t have one of those”

“Yes you do.”

“Let me look. Oh, I see an address.”

“Phone number?”

“No.”

“No there isn’t one or no you won’t give it to me?”

“There is no phone number.”

“I’ve called them before, they have a phone number.”

“No they don’t.”

“They don’t have a phone at all?”

“No.”

“Not one phone in the whole building?”

“No. No phones.”

It was at this point I realized WaMu, for whatever reason, has a new batch of employees that cannot find their own asshole, let alone my fucking check.

I have worked for several companies, and I know that when things start smelling foul, the good employees get the fuck out before the building falls down. Washington Mutual is crumbling, their employees are not only morons, but unhelpful, remedial bottom feeders that are going to lose your money, and fuck up your life.

This is a warning. Get the fuck out before it crumbles. Fuck the FDIC. They can’t insure deposits that never make it to the bank.

GGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

I too am excited about the samples handed out at big box stores in the middle of the day. Who has been wandering the steel and concrete grid of Costco, wondering if 20 gallons of detergent will be enough, and NOT needed barbeque sauce drenched bacon wrapped cocktail weenies?

But today, I watched 8 very special people go out of their way for, nay, schedule a trip to get free samples. Not like going to Costco on Sunday instead of Saturday, mind you. Friday at 4:00pm is what the sign said. Write it down.

At my local Starbucks, every Friday is apparently a time for a “coffee party”. This being Thailand, it started closer to 4:30. (I’m told Brazilians are worse than Thais with time management. Their party would have started on Tuesday.) Curious about this ritual, and since I’m already here (audience, welcome to my WordPress iPhone app), I got see it LIVE.

The party apparently consists of publicizing this week’s promotional drink, which today happens to be a peach pomegranate blended drink. They set up a couple signs in the middle of the store, where these eight people, which I still cannot explain (1 expat, his girlfriend, 3 employees of the trendy gym around the corner, two college boys and one sweet faced girl who looks lost), congregate around in anticipation. The starbucks staff come out, talk a little bit in Thai (I assume with absolutely no logical proof they are talking about the tasty beverage), and then give everyone a small sample in a cup that is perfectly sized to hold a cocktail weenie. Everyone drinks, chit chats for a moment, and then leaves.

What the fuck?

Now, even though I am lucky enough to receive a sample outside of the Band of Beverages circle, I fell victim to the advertising for this drink at the counter an hour ago. So I have a little one next to my grande one.

I am confused why people would wait 30 minutes for a plastic shot glass of frozen juice. Maybe I’m just upset because I paid for mine. Maybe the only weenie here is not in my cup, but in my chair?

Are there other unnoticed signs of your health? Most people know about the fingernails, which can offer clues to a variety of invisible symptoms by their sensitivity, appearance, and coloration. Yellow nails may be a sign that you have a respiratory disease, while gold and purple striped nails may expose a preference for the LA Lakers. Nails with an acrylic appearance and unique patterns or designs on each fingernail may be a sign you are turning into a redneck with too much money and free time.

There’s also the color of urine, which can offer warnings of diabetes, dehydration, and over-consumption of Mountain Dew.

But as I sit here typing with one hand, I hold another barometer of health in between the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. I wonder, why are some boogers gooey and some hard? Why are some green and some white? What can this tiny, semi-transluscent pea-shaped object, which has seen more of my insides than I ever will, tell me about what it has seen? How can I unlock the secret diary of snot? I have been taught to be disgusted, or embarrassed at the very least. But I am fascinated.

There are so many combinations of quantity, texture, and color that I hardly know where to begin. I must work from memory, because I don’t have any more left right now. Just this one, tiny, perfect little piece of inspiration. (I should mention that the model subject for now is very small, perhaps the size of a large whitehead pimple, or about 1/3 the size of a dry lentil. It is dry, but not old – it flattens like Play Doh when I squish it. It is more green than yellow, but also has a slight transparency to it’s walls. While it seems solid enough, there is a small, dark speck in the corner of it’s tear shaped frame.)

Am I crazy? Am I gross? Have I put too much pressure (pardon the pun) on this poor little piece of nose trash? Apparently not. Here are some interesting facts.

1. Your boogers begin as mucus produced in your sinuses. Your sinuses are the area under your eyes and behind your nose that start to hurt after a really bad cold, or while being forced to converse with taxi drivers.

2. Your body produces about 1 liter a day of mucus. Just to give you an idea, that plastic bottle of vodka your father always drank from? Yep. One liter. Every day. Fucking gross.

3. It slimes out of your sinuses stealthily, and attaches to the walls of your nose. From there it collects the dirt, germs, particles, and your roommate’s crushed up Adderall tablets that enter your nose throughout the day. If any of this made it to your lungs, you’d have a hard time breathing.

4. It then creates a protective coating around the particles, so they can’t get away. Remember the last time you cuddled with someone and they held you just a little too close? Like that. The dirt will not be able to escape and go have coffee with its friends. Is the dirt seeing someone else? Why don’t you talk to me any more? I just love you so much.

5. The small (or protrudingly long) hairs you have inside your nose are like the nasal bouncers. Once things have gotten too weird, and the snot and dirt seem to be wrapped up in their own little world, it’s time for them to go. The hairs, or cilia, move them towards the exit. As it approaches fresh air, things begin to solidify and you have a booger.

6. The only thing left to do it let them exit the building. There’s tissues, fingers, or sneezing very loud in a quiet women’s fashion store and embarrassing your girlfriend. Which ever way, the booger must go.

I will direct you to internet sites to explore the ins and outs of booger health. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that excessive snot signals some kind of infection, and red and brown snot means you need to see a fucking doctor. Now that I have meditated with my own booger, here’s what I have learned. Physically, I’m a-okay. Normal color, consistency is good, and I can even see the offending particle through the booger’s back window. Sayonara, you snot sniper. Emotionally, I’m not sad (sadness is in the lungs). So, happy and healthy. Hooray!

There is only one question left, what to do with it now? Do I wrap it up in a tissue and throw it away? Seems appropriate, but not very thoughtful. After all, it’s been so helpful. Shall I place it on the tip of my thumb and use my fore finger to flick it as far as I can? Fun, but gross. Should I wipe it under the desk? (Don’t cringe – you know you’ve fucking done it.)

I guess there’s only one option left. I could put it back. (What’d you think I was gonna say? Eat it?) That’s something no one ever thinks of. It’s been of such good service, how about a second tour of duty? Nah, this one seems like it deserves some R&R. I guess a tissue it is.

So, next time you’re sitting alone, bored out of your mind, while no one is looking, give yourself a checkup. Just remember to wash your hands afterwards.

I generally make the same types of sandwiches often.  I like routine.  It may not be the exact same sandwich every time; it’s not always ham, not always grape jelly.  But I do like my peanut butter and jelly, and I do like a meat sandwich on wheat bread with mayonnaise, mustard, and a slice of fresh tomato.  Of course this is what I make for myself.  If I am at a deli or sandwich shop, I will often let the spirit of the sandwich artist flow through me to bring new vitality to my palate.  A sandwich vacation, let’s call it.

But in the humdrum of everyday sandwich making in my kitchen, there is one element in every sandwich which is the same.  The Special Sandwich Spot.  There is always one area of the sandwich, usually about the size of a full bite, which is better than the rest of the sandwich.  It may be where that juicy whole raspberry made it through the preserve process and onto my bread and will NOT spread out.  It may be that extra little dollop of mayonnaise that is sitting close – but not too close – to the corner of the bread.  It may be that bite right in the middle where you have perfectly proportioned the sandwich spreads, turkey, and tomato to create a bite that even Wolfgang Puck would marvel at its simplistic beauty.  

The Special Sandwich Spot is never close to the crust.  The crust is its own event, balancing the sweetness of those middle bites with its dry, aged wisdom.  The Spot is always in the middle somewhere, a bright spot in the reliable but often unremarkable sandwich.  It’s the fun bite; the bite you look forward to as you work your way through the dry edges into the part you came for.  And if by divine fate the Spot does not present itself (“Hello, Strawberry.  Care for a seat in the middle?”), I create one.  It’s important.  I can’t have a sandwich vacation every day – that would be irresponsible and expensive.  But, I always have my Special Sandwich Spot to look forward to.  And that seems to be enough to keep me happy.

A pretty fucked up No Trespassing Sign.

A real poster for a brassiere store in a mainstream mall in Bangkok.

Even though the Official New Years Day is April 15, and the official day for Songkran in my city is April 19, festivities get underway today.  That’s Thai style – any excuse for a party!  It’s time to break out the Songkran checklist to make sure we’re prepared.

1. If you go outside, you will be involved in a water fight.  If you don’t want to go play, this morning might be your last chance to go to the store and buy enough supplies to stay in your house like a hermit for a week.  If this is you, you suck.  

2. If you must travel, try to walk or take the public pickup taxis.  Motorbikes are recipes for disaster. I’ve seen some gnarly moments happen when water spray meets driver’s face.

3. If you wear contacts, buy goggles.  You will not only have water in your eyes, but gooey paste made from talcum powder and water.  Usually it’s gently applied to the sides of the face, but as alcohol and excitement take hold, it usually finds it’s way into you aural and ocular cavities.

4. Bring your happy face.  There is no excuse not to have a good time for the next week.

5. Only bring outside what you need to survive.  Leave your passport and your full wallet and wristwatch and other important things at home.  If you must bring a cel phone or money outside, wrap them in ziploc bags.

6. Wrap your cel phone in a condom and tie the end off like a balloon.  It’s the only thing guaranteed not to leak.  Plus, if your cel phone has lost a bit of its sheen over the year, the lubrication with naturally oil up the plastic and make your cel phone look new again.

7. Don’t be an asshole.  Foreigners are notorious for playing aggressively and forcing people to play.  Try not to hurt anyone with your giant water cannon, and if you feel the need to make someone have a good time, follow the Thai style and splash a little water from a bowl instead of unloading a firehose stream of ice cold holiday cheer right in someone’s face.

8. Solicit the establishment you’re playing with.  If you shack up at a shop or a bar and use their water supply, buy some drinks or chip in a little money for the water or ice.  Sure it used to be free several years ago when people were using cereal bowls and small water guns, but now each bar might go through 500 gallons or more in a day to repeatedly fill up your 3 foot cannon.

9. Sunscreen.  Sunscreen.  Sunscreen.

10. Start booking your trip for next year.  Compare this list against some lists to prepare for other new years lists (which party, which champagne, which dress, who to kiss, blah blah blah) and you decide which one sounds more fun.  I gotta go, I still have to buy my Hawaiian shirt……

The Greatest Holiday in the entire freakin’ world.  You have enough time.  Buy your tickets and come to Thailand now.  You can stay at my place.  But you have to buy your own water cannon.

Gary Louris | Vagabonds

The Dirtbombs | We Have You Surrounded

Anti-Flag | The Bright Lights of America

Neko Case | Blacklisted

Moby | Last Night

Pennywise  | Reason to Believe

Counting Crows | Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings

Why is it that when you’re digging for change you can never come up with a respectable amount for what you need?  Have you ever been digging in your car for 75 cents for a pack of gum because that’s all you have, or because you just don’t want to break that crisp new Fifty in your wallet for some Dentyne?  You can never find 3 quarters.  If you could, the cashier might look at you as if you were any normal person buying gum.  ”Well, he has three quarters, he must have piles of money in all manner of currency to choose from. What a man of dignity!”  No.  It’s always one quarter, a couple of dimes and nickels, and then the last five cents are always pennies.  This way, when you make your purchase, you are certain the cashier is looking at you as if you were a street urchin who finally just begged off enough to waste on something as frivolous as chewing gum.  

I have a huge jar of change here.  I am not shy about putting my “best” change into it.  And yet, when I go back to my repository, it seems the proud coins, the coins that would allow me to stand tall while I make my purchase, are always gone.  In fact, it seems left untouched, the larger-valued silver actually breaks apart into the smallest units of currency on earth.  I can prove it because occasionally I find a Mexican Peso or a Canadian penny in the jar, and I have never even been to these places.  My change is fucking with me.

So, I filled my pocket with enough coins so that a belt was required to keep my shorts from hanging off my ass diagonally and jingled down the stairs to buy my fruit.  I got the total, and you can guess what happened next.  Right.  One short.  How does 35 become 34 in less than a block?  And you know I counted it five times before I left.  I already knew I would be embarrassed by my semi-sticky couch cushion withdrawal, I didn’t want anyone to think I was pulling a fast one, too.  

Luckily, the woman understood, said it was no problem, and allowed me my fruit.  But I can’t enjoy it.  She’s laughing at me.  They’re all laughing at me.  So now I will go through every pocket in every dirty pair of jeans, turn over every cushion, inspect every dusty corner of every counter top and dresser drawer until I find one more.  Somehow I think the fruit will be sweeter then.