In 2007, Kim Kardashian, a virtual unknown outside of the Hollywood party scene, had a private video in sexual congress with a rather shoddy rap artist and soon to be reality TV star stolen from her. Within a year, she was a household name. Continue reading
RaNdOm
Poaching Eggs and Knowing It All
I made poached eggs two weeks ago. They were good, so I tried again today. That previous culinary achievement led me to think of myself as an expert, but most egg-poaching experts know that fresh eggs are the key for success. These particular eggs were now four days away from expiration and therefore far from rancid yet also far from fresh. I went through six eggs before giving up and eating my cold sausages and lonely bread in a frustrated huff. The point is that thinking you know how to do something doesn’t make you an expert. It’s a flaw of my personality of which I’m often reminded.
I like to talk about politics and discuss the never-ending problems. I like to look at people’s hands and pretend to understand how the lines in their palms can determine their fate. I like to analyze dreams and imagine how the subconscious is interacting with our personal lives. I like to chat about movies and music and the symbolism and hidden meanings within them. BUT, simply because I like to do that, it doesn’t make me an expert.
“Often wrong, and never in doubt,” is how my ex-girlfriend’s mother used to describe me. I’ve understood it as part of my personality now. To me it means, “I think I’m an expert on everything.” Sometimes, when dealing with people who know less about a given topic than I do, it’s possible to demonstrate expertise. Yet, when I find myself speaking to an actual authority on a subject, I’m left snorkeling with a straw.
Just because I’ve traveled doesn’t mean I understand an entire country. Just because I’ve been in relationships doesn’t mean I understand yours. Just because I’ve had relatives who’ve died doesn’t mean I understand your sorrow. Just because I’ve done something doesn’t mean I know how it should be done.
These are hard lessons to learn for someone who likes to know it all. I want to know it all. I watch informational videos and documentaries. I read biographies and history books. There is simply too much to learn. A focus is necessary to know it all. But since I’m interested in so many things, I must work hard to avoid being the colloquial “jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none.”
I Remember Robin Williams
He made a man dressing as a woman seem like a normal way to avoid the disturbing reality of divorce. He made Vietnam seem like a terribly scary playground. He made genies appear fragile and emotional. He made Walt Whitman’s words come alive. He made developing disposable cameras frightening. He made forced therapy…therapeutic. He made a plausible adult of Peter Pan. He made aliens look like cokeheads. He made me laugh and cry. The two opposite ends of the human emotional range, touched by one hirsute and hilarious man. Continue reading
One Month in Laos: View From a Bus
Buses held together with duct tape, given as goodwill gestures by more prosperous countries like Korea and Japan when they were deemed embarrassingly old and dirty, yet functional enough for their poorer neighbors to the south. Swirling fans above my head momentarily brush away the flies flitting through the cabin. Continue reading
A Walk in Vientiane, Laos
A wet pug dog, temple of red and gold. Bob Marley in my headphones. Busy street, balconies, streetlights, alleys, old unbalanced doors, sidewalk jammed with trash flowers, SUV’s on the curb, mini-mart, same peaceful breeze as last night. Special, bow tied and helpless baskets full of jellies or Nescafé. Finally the fruits. Mangoes, grapes, apples, starfruit, grapefruit, dragon fruit. The old, interchangeable ladies selling those cherries and avocados. Continue reading
Two Weeks in Cambodia
Written Pictures on a Bus:
Dusty Cambodia. No hills. Cows same color as the ground. Trees incapable of providing shade. Angkor Beer posters flapping in the dull, stale air. Country life. Mostly shirtless. Houses on stilts as if they were clambering up on shaky wooden legs to escape the baking earth. Thirsty looking palm trees drooping under the powerful sun. Tiny muddy reservoirs. Naked kids the color of creamed coffee bathing at a hand pump. Strange Khmer writing replacing the accent laden Roman script of Vietnam. Hammocks aplenty. Continue reading
Russian Men at the Beach
Vladimir Putin is infamous for his former KGB affiliations, media suppression, gay rights antagonism, pontification against American foreign interventions, but perhaps most notably for his penchant of going shirtless in numerous photo opportunities. His body can best be described as a fleshy barrel, a thick, hairless keg of supposed masculinity. I’d always assumed he was proud of his body and the presumed power than comes from confidence in one’s shape. Continue reading
Worship and Devotion
It’s only been about two weeks in Vietnam and already I’m feeling overwhelmed by temples, pagodas, shrines, tombs and memorials. They are beautiful, awe-inspiring testaments to creativity and construction. But, what strikes me as odd is the reason for these wonderful monuments. They are to praise kings usually, or sometimes gods. I am no fan of gods, organized religion nor monarchy. As an quasi-anti-theist American, I have no reverence for gods nor kings. Continue reading
Hump Day Soju
“Three is good, two, no good,” I said, at once believing myself and wondering why I mentioned how much I like to drink. Stopping in to my surrogate Korean mom’s restaurant so she could cook me my favorite pork cutlet with brown sauce and all the trimmings. I bumped into the bus drivers at my kindergarten. I forgot that they would most certainly ask me to sit down, and that they would even more certainly be drinking soju. Continue reading
Conformity
After watching a beautiful youtube video: RSA—Changing Education Paradigms, I realized how dangerous conformity really can be. After spending a few months in Korea, and experiencing the gold standard of conformity, I started wanting to scream on the subway just to disrupt the routine or wear my shoes inside and watch the reaction. I have been shushed for talking on the subway, pushed for standing on the sidewalk, and stared at for being white in an Asian land. Continue reading
William Sabia 