Watch! 2-eyed, 4-limbed freak… Eat! Live octopus…

The anticipation is killing me.  Not as much as a freshly chopped up octopus tentacle, struggling with all the will of a 1970’s German art-house nihilist to wrap around the vocal chords of its aggressor in a B-movie villain if-I’m-going-to-go-I’m-taking-you-with-me last ditch effort, might.  But close.

Walking through the eerily empty Garak Market for fruits and vegetables, an ominous pair of tabby cats began such a discordant series of yowls that I felt for sure they were auditioning for a part of the UPN made-for-TV movie version of The Fall of the House of Usher.  What followed was far more dark and disturbing.

Suddenly we come upon a white car, blinding us with headlights powered by its mighty Korean-made 97 horsepower engine.  Luckily they were friendlies, a co-worker named Winnie and her baby-carrying husband, that would guide us through this harrowing ordeal.

We head towards the strangely vibrant “fish” market, quotationed not because of a lack of fish but because of the abundance of species of animals I never knew previously existed.  For sale.  To eat.

The sight of gutted sting rays laid upon a poorly sanitized shelf like trophies could hardly not bring to mind man’s fragility in the face of terrible, barely-thinking sea creatures, whose natural impulses and reactions to environmental stimulus care not for the timeliness nor dignity of one’s demise.

A hurried, too desperate shop owner tries to herd us into a room already packed to the brim with people that have a taste for food that’s either not dead or is barely so.  Clearly we have stumbled into some underground death worshipping cult.  Our pace quickens.

Finally, we situate ourselves on the elevated heated floor to begin our rite-of-passage into self-accredited intermediate knowledge of Korean culture.  Soon after our guides choose the giant fish and octopi, we are treated to a slightly moving sea ear/lamprey snack.

Three minutes later, a wrinkled old lady (we would respectfully call her an ajuma) unceremoniously brings us 4 styrofoam plates full of uncooked octopus tentacles.  But because of the features of the animal’s central nervous system, the pieces gyrate wildly on the plate by themselves, when prodded, when picked up with chopsticks, when dipped into sauce, and when inside the mouth.  Observe:

After 2 or 3 attempts, I found myself the master of the tiny beasts, though I couldn’t help myself imagining the Fantasia scene… ok, the Itchy and Scratchy scene where chopping up the little mouse creates two little mice, which create 4, and then, 8 and then a finely powdered dust impossible to avoid inhaling, eventually leading to being axed to death on the molecular level.  Are the octopi multiplying inside me this instant?  Mutating with the hydrochloric acid in my stomach?  Will I ever be able to eat cooked seafood again?  Can I top the hyperbole in my next post?  Does this represent a departure in style and content in all my future writings?  Am I indirectly apologizing for my 2 month blog hiatus?  Will you leave the site in disgust after realizing I’m doing nothing more than proposing open-ended questions with no commitment to ever answering them?  Point your web browser here, daily, hourly, minutely, infinitesimally….

Into the heart of the Red beast

Hey guys,

I haven’t updated in a while just thought I’d prepare y’all to check back here in a few days for pictures and stories from my trip to Beijing tomorrow on Chinese New Year.  I promise to bring back videos of amateur firework mishaps, Russian Roulette gone awry, and anything else that could possibly go wrong that will.  To great comedic effect.

Wish me luck, but if you are going to pray, pray my organs don’t get taken or something.  You can tell I’m totally not worried about it.

In the meantime, check out the website I’ve been building lately.  It’s a discussion/debate site to wonk out on policy stuff if you are into that: deeb.at

It’s a Very Pancho’s Birthday

Unfortunately, I will have to put off writing the inevitable “Carne Station shit-show” post until said restaurant is not booked on the weekend. Luckily, our second option for Alex and Brian’s joint birthday extravaganza included enough homosexual and transgendered eroticism to more than suffice for an evening on the town.

Our first stop was the infamous “Pancho’s” in Itaewon, the home of the second-best Mexican food I’ve had in Korea and the third-weakest drinks. Observe: sketchy half-lit neon cowboy.

We started off the night in good fashion, drinking mojitos and eating Velveeta-approved cheese dip stylings. The food was pretty good, though strangely cheeseless for a Mexican place (they replaced cheese with a pretty serviceable red sauce that may or may not have contained products that came from a cow’s udder).

The highlight was certainly the flamboyantly gay owner, dubbed Pancho by anyone who couldn’t speak to him in Spanish (his name was “Gabriel,” smart-assedly claims Janet) though I don’t actually know what his name is. The Swiss son of a Chilean and a Spaniard, he takes to dancing in the giant open spaces of his restaurant to the awkwardly low-volume music.

Other highlights include the largest birthday sombrero in the Seoul area and the guaranteed smiling satisfaction of a certain Westerner not necessarily in need of Authentic American-style Mexican food, but rather a faithful reminder given the local tastes and available ingredients.

(I was talking about Alex.)

After that we went to Funky Funky (a subject for the next post) and a random 노레방 (“norebang’ = singing room = karaoke) for some good natured, drunken musical fun…

Flashpoint: Korean Election 2007! Explosion!

The election in South Korea affects all of us; whether it’s policies on whether small robot dogs have the same rights as their flesh-and-bones counterparts, or the commutation of Duke Moon’s racketeering sentence, we need to see where the candidates stand on the issues that really matter.

When the Koreans go to the ballot boxes this Saturday, keep this in-depth report in mind before they make their choice:

Cheong Dong Yeong – At first he struck me as the most Al Gore-esque of the candidates, then it hit me he was more like a certain famous Mormon.  That’s right, Donny Osmond.

His campaign promises a new Federal Smiles and Teddy Bear commission, and recommends “Time Out” to repeat offenders to make them “think about what they’ve done.”  He’s second in the polls, but probably won’t win because he’s dedicating his time to his music career, saying “yes, I am a little bit politican… but I’m also a little bit rock’n'roll, too.”

Best of luck Dong Yeong.

The national front-runner.  I won’t say too much here, but I think you’ll realize from here on out that it’s as if the invention of the television hasn’t caught up to Korean politics yet.

It’s also somewhat telling that the central point in his campaign is building a canal and filling it with water to connect Seoul with Busan (5 hours away by car).  When the most pressing issue your country faces is whether or not to build the world’s longest Slip’N'Slide, I’d say you’re doin’ allright.

This guy genuinely seems like a nice dude.  Too bad he’s a Communist. Looks like its back to good ol’ self-immolation if I want to get those farm subsidies repealed.

The second-cousin of Wink Martindale, with Lee In Jae everyone’s a winner!  It’s hard to tell if he is inviting you back to play Keno just one more time, or making a motion to bring it on.  Apparently he Nadered candidate number 12 to allow the current (as unpopular as Bush) Mr. Roh to win in 2002.  Tough luck!

“Can’t move… left side…of face.  Massive… stroke.”

“….Reeaaallly?  Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I keep your crummy old place warm in number 5?”  /grin

Representing the Fisherman Grandpa Party, he’s surprisingly polling very well among the pro and anti-trolling motor crowd alike.  His universal appeal and proven ability to unify could be a real challenge come two days from now.

I wish this picture was better, but I couldn’t seem to take it without massive glare.  It just doesn’t do it justice.  When you look at this dude’s old-school hair cut, soft focus lens bust, strangle blue glowing world-map that looks like a target, and super-creepy stare to nowhere in person (and by in-person I mean on-poster) it really takes you back to the good ol’ days of violently suppressing protesters and cults of personality that have laid the foundation for Korean strength today.  I would vote for this guy if it wasn’t for…

My word!  They’ve somehow taken the spirit of Mr. Burns and transplanted him into this intense Korean War veteran.  When I first saw this picture, I thought the helmet was actually a brass globe.  The picture was super-awesome then, because I couldn’t figure out if we was trying to suggest that he was plotting to create a Korean empire, or if he was plotting to help the rest of the world figure out where Korea was on the map.  Look at it again see if you feel me on that.

I still don’t believe this guy exists.  He belongs on a diversity poster for Hewlett-Packard.  Or a Staples advertisement.  “When it comes to the bottom line, I always choose OfficeMax for my hole-punch and hole-punch accessory needs.”  It works, let’s see if we can create a marketing firm based solely on this image and find out how many different office supply spreads/recruitment brochures we can make before someone catches on.

For one thing, no you can’t see my balls.  Second, you aren’t even a doctor.  Third, why are you in my car?  No, I will not pull your finger.

You had to go and do it anyway, didn’t you.  Didn’t you?!?!  You disgust me.

Used car salesman by day, snake oil peddler by night, Lee Hi Chang entered the race after a 5 month exploratory period with only one slogan he’s been repeating on every major news outlet since October.  “Soon when you hear the words cronyism and corporate malfeasance, you will always remember the name Lee! Hi! Chang!”

That’s Slick Willy for ya’.  Always with the smooth talk.

Last thing, do you think that if America started numbering its candidates like this, we would have had a few less old ladies voting for Pat Buchanan in West Palm Beach in 2000? Just a thought.

Hello kiddies

Thought I’d let you guys know I’m working on a few posts for you to wet your whistle on, including ‘07 Korean presidential election coverage, undulating mechanical Santas, high-rolling at the Sheraton casino, life as an 18th century prince, house darts at the local pub, and even 3 new original songs I’ve written on the acoustic guitar recently. 

I’ve been a busy boy.

Funky Funky: My first music post in ages

Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen.  After a few lengthy emails with Brian Kelly making me jealous of the hipster scene in Atlanta, I finally got the bug to rediscover my love for live music and discovering new artists (we’ll see how long that will last during “busy season”).

So, the next logical step was to go a venue featuring a U2 cover band.

The venue was named Funky Funky, and the draw to enter was certainly not the artists.  Located in Hongdae near The Smith/Jazz Rock, we were with a group of people new to Seoul that wanted a place to dance to live music.

Really, this is not hard to find in Hongdae.  There are dozens of clubs all within a tiny area (and all competing for American Canadian dollars), including the aforementioned hip-hop/electronica club M2.  Funky Funky is a bit different because rather than priding itself on playing outdated crunk, it prides itself on booking bands that play outdated “indie” music.

The real dealbreaker for us was the FREE alcohol from 11pm to midnight.  Was there a catch?  No.  There were literally unlimited free mixed drinks (you could choose from screwdrivers, rum-cokes, and gin-tonics), though the liquor quality or the lack thereof certainly contributed to my massive hangover the next morning.

Unfortunately, the U2 band was playing well before we could get sufficiently trashed.  Made up of mostly early-30 somethings, they did a serviceable job with “Vertigo” and “Where the Streets Have No Name,” though Bono played it conservative and didn’t go for the scorching high notes that make the band’s trademark and oft-emulated sound.

The drummer was pretty good, showing off with some fancy snare work, though the guitarist was likely the best part of the band.  Dressed in full Jimmy Page atire, complete with late 60s long-hair and a heroin-wrecked face, he nailed the Edge’s riffs and was generally interesting to watch.  His harmonies were also on point.

The next band was a hard rock/metal outfit named Psycho-remi that I actually enjoyed.  Their music fit happily somewhere in between Wolfmother, Black Sabbath, and Metallica with intense post-hardcore vocal stylings (I think I know what that is) and a tinge of early 90s grunge.  They also seemed to have a retro-60s sneer about them, though that may have been my imagination.

The lead singer/guitarist was certainly the most entertaining musician of the otherwise unremarkable crew individually.  His stage presence was electric and got the floor up and dancing, or at least interested in life again after their U2-induced coma.

Even the songs (in Korean so I couldn’t understand them) showed a remarkable variety for a garage band.  They switched it up from straight-ahead rockers, to progressive sounding tracks with awkward time signatures, to eery sounding ballads with quiet-loud-quiet dynamics.  Perhaps this was an example of exceeding very low expectations, but I will be attending Funky Funky again in hopes of finding another reasonably talented band to share with you guys.

Unfortunately I couldn’t grab any of their tracks because they don’t have a CD and I can’t understand their website.  If any of you native-Korean speakers out there can figure out a way to get me a track from this band I’d be appreciative.

The last band was a polished but terrible and cliche punk outfit with uninspired riffs, and therefore we left to go norebang (karoake).  Why is pop-punk the style of music that America exports over here?  Yech.

Happy Thanksgiving From The Land Of No Flightless Bird

That’s right, besides the faithful recreation of America attempted on military bases here (including the only extant Korean Taco Bell… and yes I used the word extant outside of a standardized test setting), there be no turkey in these parts.

Thus, my Thanksgiving dinner consisted of a dish called 딹갈비 (talk gal bee), a spicy chicken community meal tasty enough to entice my friend Andrew back to Korea and lay the groundwork for his future marriage (claim both he and his wife, my boss).  I won’t lie to you, 딹갈비 is probably the only thing I could ever substitute for a real Thanksgiving meal and not shed tears over.  But I still miss mom’s pre-made Stove Top stuffing and juicy coke-basted bird that never came out dry despite her multitasking with the cherry/watermelon Jell-O.

With that, here are some pictures of the Korean autumn (I thought of using “fall,” but then I realized you might assume that this country was embroiled in anarchy or something so decided against the equivocation) to warm your little holiday hearts up.  Enjoy America you lucky SOBs.

Not exactly sure why this has the ‘vignette’ effect on it, but I feel it works given my absurd expression.  Taken at the Buddhist temple in the center of 동국대학교 (Dongguk University).

I took this in a little garden at Dongguk.  On the front are traditional Chinese characters that mean God knows what (I’m guessing that’s the pre-Nazi meaning of the swastika), on the back is a famous poem by a Buddhist monk about the Japanese occupation of Korea before World War II.  Something to keep in mind, Koreans pretty much hate the Japanese for that (and their government’s subsequent non-apology).  Ask any little kid/otherwise what they think of Japan and they all give the same answer: DESTROY.  Americans will nuke a country one day and buy their transistor radios the next, but not all peoples have such as easy time with selective history.  So, just fair warning that there is actually a legitimate reason for Koreans to get upset when you mix them up with other nationalities.

Eunjin and the beautiful yellow leaves.  Plus traditional Korean bulletin board and Suburu Outback.

Stairway to Seoul Tower, a Space Needle-esque building on top of a mountain (남산, Namsan) that overlooks all of Seoul and the Han River.

This one reminds me of Icabod Crane for some reason.

Windy willows near Yeouido, a few meters from the island park the next few pictures were taken.

This picture appropriately makes it look cold outside; I swear I thought my nipples could cut diamonds that day.  You can take the Atlanta out of the boy, but you can’t make that boy adjust to 20 degree wind chill on a below freezing day.

This one looks cool if you fullscreen it.  I’m a sucker for the autumn, sorry.

The first in a series of blood red trees at the Yeouido Park.  It’s not exactly Photoshopped, though I did use some processing effects on my camera to bring out the reds.

Me and Eunjin trying to be badasses.  I fail as per usual.

The guy’s red jacket was a happy accident in this shot.  It looks like the tree is bleeding its leaves with its remains lying on the ground. I’m of course describing this to you as if you can’t see that yourself.  Usually I make my contempt for my reader’s intelligence a little more subtle, and for that I apologize.  (Waiting for the pageviews to finally bottom out at zero.  I’m hoping for the team to lose enough games that I can move it to Miami.  Don’t make me take away your whirlpool.  Love you guys~ !!($!@lol)

Could I be any more of a pretentious indie fuck?  Is there any way I can possibly keep this up consistently?

Still got it.

Video Thai

Here’s some video (damn YouTube downsampling!) from the fight.  I tried to find a place for it in the last entry, but… meh.

Blog Thai

Its a truism that TV just doesn’t do justice to some sports. Unlike American football, which benefits immensely from instant replays, surfing between multiple games, and gratuitous cheerleader close-ups, a few sports come to mind as significantly enhanced by the live experience.

Unsurprisingly, these sports ascend in order of violence involved.

5. Baseball

Baseball on TV is quite boring, and after years of conditioning with RSS feeds and 3 minute MAXIMUM YouTube clibs, I find it quite difficult to commit myself for 3 hours (3 1/2 hours for an American League game… stupid DH) on the couch unless food, beer, and perhaps a blowjob from innings 4-6 are involved.

The in-game experience, as anyone who has been can attest, is of course much different. This is likely due to nostalgia (nostalgia for movies I’ve seen set in the 1930s) more than anything else. Unfortunately I’ve grown too socially conscious to curse and heckle (Hey, pitcher! Yeah you the one with an ass for a face, 600 feet away from me! Throw a strike! Exclamation point!) when considering I am twice as old as the average person in attendance. I’m sure I would hate me, or at least Matt Ogles, if I were a father at a baseball game.

The only reason baseball is on the list is that the possibility for a bench clearing brawl is just above the level of improbability that prevents me from going to a NASCAR race.

Korean baseball ranks number 2 1/2.

4. Basketball

I don’t intend to go into much detail because this was supposed to be a vehicle for introducing a Thailand story. Alas, Bud Selig can owe the exploits of the eccentric genius Ron Artest and the “only relevant because he was in a commercial with Tracy Morgan” Ben Wallace to his pastime’s worse ranking.

I would have probably given a toe to have seen Kobe bitch-slap that smug bastard Raja Bell.

3. Soccer

This is out of pure conjecture and also assuming that hooligans from Ireland, Scotland, England, or Mexico are in attendance.

2. Hockey

I’m really not breaking any new ground with this list am I? Did someone replace me with Peter Travers?

Regardless of whether I am now a self-important writer for a washed-up entertainment rag, hockey is by far the best team sport live. The body checks into the boards are bone-crunchingly loud and whether your team is winning or not you can still get some satisfaction from how many injuries the other team gets.

And you don’t have to politely clap either, which is nice.

1. Muay Thai Kickboxing

Wo-oh, curveball!

I had two goals while I was in Thailand. Number one was to see Muay Thai boxing. Number two was to see and play with wild monkeys. One of those experiences turned out not to be frightening enough to get my foot bit by an asshole crab (or Jason’s by an asshole sea urchin).

When Tory and Mia dropped us off at the stadium, I was admittedly overwhelmed by the bustle and noise of the vendors and attendees running around the stadium. We were immediately accosted by a 4′9″ Thai woman who spoke impeccable English, so long as that English consisted of facilitating her sale of scalped tickets. (What’s the air speed velocity of an African swallow? ‘180 Bhat, front row.’)

She was also probably the worst negotiator of all time. She told us the price of the ticket was $48 because it was the championship fight (lucky us). After we looked at each other deciding if we wanted to pay that much, she immediately dropped the price to $40, and then again to $35 because we said we were college students.

$35 seems steep, but these were actually bona fide ring-side seats.

Plus, you can’t pass up an opportunity to watch dudes an entire foot shorter than you fight, with the knowledge that either of them could easily destroy you in a back alley somewhere.

Even if he has only one eye left.

The action was incredible and we met some fine English gentlemen on vacation we decided to have some low-stakes bets with (Jason was correct 10 out of 11 times, proving that if he doesn’t become a successful UFC fighter, he can at least become a successful UFC bookie).

After being in Korea for 4 months I can definitively say that Londoners are harder to understand than Asians attempting English as a second language. Sure words like “really” can be somewhat funny and for some reason the difference between “can” and “can’t” creates awkward confusion. But it’s difficult to pay attention to what someone is saying when you keep imagining yourself being lectured on the proper way to discharge an automatic firearm by Del from Wayne’s World 2.

Regardless, I’m not sure how I felt about the ring-side seat section. It was amazing during the championship rounds, and I was grateful for the perfect view and the comfort. Next time I go to Thailand though (like its the grocery store), I will likely just buy a general admission ticket where the real excitement is.

Which brings to mind something I’ve thought about a lot lately. There are two types of vacationers, and I’m not exactly sure where I stand. The first kind is what Matt wanted (and by his account he got, which is cool), basically a supremely relaxing and plush experience with limited discomfort and maximum massaging. Let’s call that vacation “Type-R” (for resort).

Then you have the roughing-it type, the person who has that nagging feeling of guilt and boredom when in a Third World-esque country that maybe living like you were at home but with a lot more buying power is not the reason you came. You feel ashamed to drink cocktails and engage in parlor trick versions of traditions (such as fire shows) pretending to get a real experience, when you know that everything you are seeing has been carefully scripted to give you a story when you go back home.

Case in point, we went to a bar called Rolling Stoned, a so-called “reggae bar,” (that played 50 Cent) with a Muay Thai ring in the center. My unfailing optimism duped me into thinking we were going to see a genuine fight and kick it with a few beers. Jason, however, saw right through it and pointed out that the moves they were making were ridiculously over-the-top and definitely not Muay Thai style. In fact, I did find something fishy about the quantity of face-exposing flying kicks attempted in the two minute period.

When I went up for a closer look, it was indeed clear that the fight was fixed and that punches were not actually landing. There was certainly an abundance of skin slapping, but neither of the guys were hurting each other (which became even more obvious when I saw the real fights. Instead of aggressive high-flying stuntman crap, Muay Thai begins very conservatively and focuses on wearing down the legs with bruising knees to the thighs. These guys weren’t planning on developing welts for what was surely a wage of free drinking that night.)

When I looked to my left and saw an Englishman getting really into the fight and cheering his little Torrie heart out for the guy in red, I couldn’t help but turn to him and say, “Don’t you think this fight is rigged, though?”

“Rigged, no way listen to the soun’ o’ tha’. Wah, loog a’ tha’ flyn gihk!”

And that’s when I realized how disgusting tourism was. Its all a show, and the amount you enjoy it is directly correlated with your willing suspension of disbelief. That this is what Thai people do to enjoy their time though the only brown faces around are in service uniforms. That bar-hopping and fire shows and massages and cliff diving are somehow authentic experiences, not the 9-person family living in a shack chasing down their rooster on a dirt road. That Koh Phi Phi is anything but a Disneyland bastardization of Thai culture expressly made for the enjoyment and sensual overload of rich, obnoxious Westerners. And their children.

That’s the “Type A” vacationer (for authentic) in me.

But “living like a Thai” is a ridiculous proposition for anyone used to the splendor afforded to making more than $10 a day. Sure, I felt guilty a little bit, and sure I realized that what I was seeing was certainly fabricated to hint at a seedy underbelly in order to heighten the exoticness without actually exposing me to anything dangerous or disturbing. But on the other hand, do I really want to pay $700 to travel somewhere for the opportunity to catch dysentery? The answer is obviously no.

Which is more important? Actually living like a Thai, or feeling like it? Certainly, I was uncomfortable with the guest house situation in Bangkok and already pretty sketched out by the dirty Bangkok streets. And would you have known any better if I had told you that I saw two real Muay Thai fights instead of one very real one (sometimes, unnervingly, involving scrawny little 14 year old children) and one equivalent of a WWE match?

We all have different preferences on vacation styles, and clearly the fact that I have the ability to even travel to Southeast Asia while most of my friends are back home living on work-study paychecks means I have little wiggle room to bitch. But bitch I shall. I have 3 more opportunities to travel, but when I examine my planned itinerary it seems like I have zero desire to depart to anywhere but major metropolitan areas like Tokyo, Beijing or Hong Kong. Hell, the point of this blog is to find underground music in Korea, which of course means to find the music that I like to listen to back in Atlanta. Is it hypocritical for me to criticize people who just want a nicer version of home in a new setting? What exactly am I doing here if not that?

Anyways.

I’ve mostly been hanging out in the suburbs lately realizing that I did basically the same thing in Thailand that I do here on a nightly basis (drink heavily and play pool or darts poorly).

That thought somewhat depresses me, but when I catch myself again I realize that I saw a lot of crazy shit in Thailand. No, I didn’t live like a nut-job Type-A, prostituting myself for half a plate of Pad Thai. On the other hand, I went to the fucking jungle. I saw monkeys. Monkeys almost successfully attacked me in a well-coordinated banana raid.

A male hooker dressed as a woman grabbed Jason’s crotch as he narrowly avoided having to touch his Adam’s apple. They have buckets of whiskey, literally buckets as big as the sand pails little kids use on the beach, for 3 dollars. I nearly died on the open seas when high tide came.

I am teasing you for my next series of posts but I am making a point. Thai vacationing, at least on the popular islands, is somewhat of a fantasy experience. But there is a reason people vacation in Kissimmee, FL and not Boise, ID.

The first of many vacation posts to come (/w hawt pics!!1!)

Hello adoring Ogleytes, I am finally back from my post-vacation, post-birthday hiatus (otherwise known as ‘the lazys’) to share visuals from the only place where its more rude to point at something with your foot then to ask a woman on the street if they would do anal for an extra $8… Thailand!

Editor’s note: these stories are in non-chronological order. They are however, in order of how much they directly relate to me.

Never, ever buy sandals in Thailand. Just get them before you come, trust me.

We had just spent the night drinking and eating on backpacker hangout spot Khoasan Road and were heading to the large, impressive Bangkok International Airport for the second time in order to fly in to the underwhelming, two-gated Krabi Airport. Before that, though, I realized that wearing my pair of Old Navy knock-off low-top Chucks with no socks was not going to cut it for a beach excursion. So I decided to buy a pair of cheap sandals.

The initial experience was a little testy. Used to haggling at places like Yongsan, I decided to test my bargaining skills at the cheap shops on the hard Thai streets. I found a nice pair of black sandals that seemed like they’d do the trick for about 60 Bhat. My cheapskate impulse kicking in, I demanded a “fairer” price of 50 Bhat or I would walk out of the store.

Enter cranky old lady, stage left. She looked at me in bewilderment and told me that the price was 60 Bhat and if I didn’t like it to just get out of the store. (This may have had something to do with the fact that the 10 Bhat I was trying to save roughly equates to 29 US cents. Rule for bargaining: food and items you could buy at a dollar store are not to be haggled over.)

The sad fact was that my time was limited. So instead of sticking to my guns, or just leaving the store like I should have, I decided to purchase the flip-flops and head to the money exchange across the street.

As I was waiting in line, I realized that now I was stuck carrying a pair of shoes that I no longer needed, and frankly no longer wanted due to their burned out soles and generally ragged appearance. Just as I was about to toss them into the trash, a Thai man spots me and rushes up to me.

He asked, “How much are you selling those shoes for?” I replied, “Oh, actually I’m not selling them, they are way too ol– How much you got?”

“100 Bhat.” And the rest was history.

I found this exchange to be an incredibly absurd role reversal. I just sold a pair of knock-off Old Navy Chuck Taylors at a marked-up price to an unsuspecting Thai fellow thinking he was getting a great deal. I think when I go to China I’m going to try a bureaucrat for corruption, summarily execute him, and charge his family for the bullet.

My just desserts came moments afterwards as a started feeling a burning sensation on the tops of my feet. The sandals I bought were a size too small. No problem, I thought, I’ll just go right back to the store I got them from!

So, I walk back into the store and explain my predicament. I just wanted to exchange the same pair of flip-flops for a size up. The store owner smugly pointed to the sign in front of me saying “No Refunds or Exchanges, No Exceptions!” (Coincidentally, the sign specifically approved the playing of Stairway to Heaven.)

Keep in mind that this is all occurring literally five minutes from my original point of purchase. I try to explain this fact to the owner when the angry old lady again emerges from her roost and steamrolls over to where I’m sitting. She then proceeds to grab my leg and take the shoes THAT I HAD PAID FOR off of my feet and shoves 60 Bhat into my face.

“You take this money and you never come back! No exchange! You leave now!”

That’s all well and good, and normally I would have taken the money in disgust and left, but if you had been a careful reader you would have picked up on the fact that I now have no shoes. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to touch anything in Thailand without protection, and the image of a prostitute-den and home of broken beer bottles that was Khoasan Road did little to assuage my squeamishness.

I was desperate, and the shifty store owner knew it. The economist in me kicked in. The original purchase was a sunk cost, I won’t be able to wear them, I won’t be able to sell them (because no right-minded Thai would buy anything made in Thailand). I need to do what I can to get new shoes.

Plus, I think the reverse psychology of denying me business got in my head. I felt like I had to do something to make them less mad at me. I think that’s how Stockholm Syndrome works.

To make a short story long, I offered 40 Bhat in addition to the 60 Bhat I had just received for the right to exchange. Realizing that she is about to make 100 Bhat on a pair of shoes that cost maybe 7 Bhat in materials (plus the “labor costs” of her 12 year old daughter’s arts and crafts time. Next lesson, how to stitch the Nike logo onto a T-shirt!), she reluctantly accepted and let me pick out the new pair and leave.

The ridiculous part is that even after all this ballyhoo, my sandals lasted me roughly 7 hours before they broke and left me drunkenly hopping on one foot in Ao Nang.

Jason’s glasses didn’t fare much better.