ten minutes of peace

Fatherhood, again

2011-07-08T14:54:00.004+07:00

This morning at 7:00 AM Poo gave birth to our baby girl, Tanyapat. Hard to believe that I'm a father again, at my ripe old age. My kids are now 12, 6, and 0 -- evenly spaced apart. "Every six years!" said one friend, but don't expect one in 2017 -- this is the last!

Aaahhhh, the Joys of Parenthood! Fortunately, since I've been through it before, and because I'm a teacher, I know what to expect. There will be several months of pee, poop, gas and drool. Then 3 or 4 years of worrying myself sick as she passes through the various infant illnesses and their associated rashes, fevers, coughs, and pox. Then come the Early School years, where I fret over whether she can learn how to read, write and do sums, or whether she likes to bite her classmates. Then come those marvelous Pre-Teen years where she learns how to ride a bike, and I despair as she barely evades a speeding bus, wanders into grassy fields with cobras and kraits, and plays near ponds and lakes even though she can't swim. Then comes the welcome relief of the wonderful Early Teens, with acne, braces and being ashamed of her parents. Then the Mid-Teens when I have visions of unwanted pregnancies, drugs, and bad-ass boyfriends. Then, if I have survived all that, come the Late Teens, when I lay awake at night, worrying about paying for college as I wait for her to drive home drunk from frat parties, or not.

Still, I wouldn't trade it for all the rice in China!

Affluent Chinese Mothers and Laid-Back Jewish Fathers

2011-01-23T14:41:00.003+07:00

I like to read Amy Chua. She is a good writer. In particular, the skillful narration of the murder of her auntie in the Philippines, and the resultant non-investigation, was fascinating. It led to some very interesting research about “market-dominant minorities” where she studied the Chinese in Southeast Asia, the Indians in East Africa, the Lebanese in West Africa, the Jews in Russia, etc. She is an imaginative researcher and writer.

That’s why her recent article in the Wall Street Journal, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” disappoints me -- a writer of her intellect should not stoop to this level. Let’s be clear -- Amy Chua is trying to sell her book. And she is using a technique that is too common today -- she is going over the top, making ridiculous, crass and provocative statements that obscure an interesting educational debate. The title is racist. She reinforces a stereotype that is unhelpful. It reeks of elitism. For example, look at the photograph of the author forcing her daughter to practice violin in a posh hotel room. Who can afford to rent a hotel room just for violin practice? She can. And a manifesto against playdates??? That’s just silly.

Ms. Chua lives and works on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Interestingly, the same attributes that she ascribes to Chinese mothers would have been ascribed to Jewish mothers 50 years ago. Presumably, her laid-back Jewish husband is a product of such a mother.

I won’t bother tearing it apart, because others are doing that nicely. David Brooks points out that for a teenage girl, negotiating the social landscape of a sleepover is cognitively more challenging than endless hours of practicing Chopin. Ayelet Waldman defends Western mothers with a sense of humor. Charing Ball quite rightly accuses Ms. Chua of cultural snobbery.

Instead, let’s look at the good points raised by Ms. Chua: 1) Mastering mathematics or music requires practice, practice, practice. 2) The better you get at something like mathematics or music, the more fun it is. 3) Children need loving parents who give them time and attention. 4) The academic success of children requires “putting in the hours” on the part of the parents.

This week we have our second Parent - Teacher - Student Conference Day. One of my best students rushed to sign up. “Your parents are coming AGAIN?" I asked. “I already told them that you are an excellent student, and you’re only getting better,” I said.

“Ha - ha” she laughed. “My parents like to be involved.”

No wonder she is such a good student.

Indeed, recent research from England suggests that the parents’ effort is the MOST important factor in a child’s academic success. This paragraph stunned me:

The researchers found that parents' effort is more important for a child's educational attainment than the school's effort, which in turn is more important than the child's own effort.

In other words: Kids! It’s OK to be lazy as long as your parents and teachers work hard!

If you want to see the interview with Amy Chua where she describes the murder of her Auntie, here it is:

2011-01-07T23:42:00.001+07:00

The most "vandalism-prone" articles on Wikipedia are "George W. Bush", "David Cameron", and "homework"! I'd like to vandalize all three!

Sport Day

2011-01-04T11:02:00.005+07:00

Now I understand the difference between an International School and a Thai School. When 5-year-olds go to Sport Day at an International School, everybody gets a medal. Win or lose, at least you will get a "participation medal." Some teachers might be so unethical as to rig the teams, or to cheat, so that everybody wins something. Not so at a Thai School: if you win, you get a medal -- if you lose, you're a loser.

Jason came back from his first Sport Day recently with no medals. Jason had been assigned to Orange Team. They lost everything. "You lost EVERYTHING??" asked Poo incredulously. Not even one bronze medal (note: there are only four teams!). During the foot race, Jason tripped and fell. His best friend, Dee-dee, won the race and has been teasing Jason mercilessly ever since. That's what I call "a normal childhood."

"It's OK," I told Jason, "you still have tomorrow -- football (soccer)! Football is the most important event!"

The next day I picked up Jason at school. "Did Orange Team win at football?" I asked.

"No," said Jason.

I left it alone. When we got home, Poo asked, "Did Orange Team win?"

"No."

"You lost AGAIN??" laughed Poo.

"Mommy, don't laugh!" complained Jason. "We lost 8 - 0."

Chinese People Really Know How to Eat

2010-12-31T10:40:00.001+07:00

Last night I was having dinner in a restaurant, with just my book for company, and a Taiwanese family sat down next to me. Two girls, about 15 and 9, a boy about 12, Mommy in charge, and a chubby, easygoing Dad. Although Mommy was about 40, she was slim and fit, fashionably dressed in designer clothes and accessories, and she had beautiful milk-white skin that matched her blackened teeth. She did all the ordering, even though she was struggling with the English, while her older girl and boy were facebooking, in English, on their phones.

Slowly but surely, the plates of food started coming. After the arrival of the first plate, Mommy pulled the family into a circle, they grasped each other’s hands, closed their eyes, and said a long and serious Christian prayer. Then Daddy jumped into the first plates while the kids were still facebooking. More and more plates kept coming -- curries, stews, soups, varieties of rice, some very Asian meat and kale swimming in gooey sauce on flat noodles, etc. Mommy distributed the food, putting bits and pieces on each kid’s plate. Then one incongruous plate showed up -- a mountain of Nachos, piled high with beef, cheese and sour cream.

“No way,” I thought to myself -- “no way that family can eat all that food!”

At first the boy resisted Mommy’s portions, but eventually, after giving his status update and uploading a photo of the meal, he dug into rice, curries and omelet, and was soon stuffing himself like everybody else.

“Wow!” I thought to myself, “Chinese people really know how to eat!”

But still that mountain of Nachos remained unmolested at the center of the table! Finally, after all other plates were vanquished, the boy started picking at the Nachos. He was after chips with only cheese. Then Mommy started picking away, she was looking for chips that were not soggy -- perhaps that’s how she keeps her figure. Finally, as Mommy was paying the bill with her credit card, chubby Dad picked up a spoon a scooped the remaining half a plate of nachos into the void.

“Wow!” I thought to myself, “Chinese people really know how to eat!”

Happy Students or n00bs?

2010-12-09T21:16:00.002+07:00

Yesterday we had a coordinators’ meeting where we discussed the importance of humor and a positive emotional climate in the classroom.

Today in Year 12, we had lots of fun. I started by making them turn off “the oxygen” (i.e. the internet) and we had a discussion about the appropriateness of Year 7s using their phones to watch videos in class. The Y12s were fine with the Y7s watching videos, but when they heard that the Y7s were laughing hysterically and disrupting the other students and the teacher, they objected:

“That’s so n00b!”

“What’s so n00by about using your phones to watch videos?” I asked.

“No,” they responded, “it’s n00by not to control your laughter!”

I gave them an assignment, video-called Mr Barry’s room on Skype, left the room and went down to Mr Barry’s room to watch and listen to the class. Some of them realized I was video-ing them, but a couple of boys didn’t and they started throwing sponge balls across the classroom. Finally, one of the girls said, “you n00bs — don’t you realize he’s recording you?”

This led to all sorts of laughter and tricks. Mr Barry went to my classroom. I justified the exercise by adding, “I am investigating methods of distance learning in case there is a school closure.” By now I was speaking to them remotely through the speakers.

“So,” I added, “how does Immanuel Kant reconcile the apparent contradiction between duty and autonomy?”

Nobody responded.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

“They can hear you,” said Mr Barry, “but they are not responding because they’re too busy using the Smartboard to draw moustaches on your face!”

Camping Trip in Ratchaburi

2010-11-09T22:14:00.003+07:00

Recently we went on a camping trip. Like most Thais, Poo's idea of camping is completely different than mine. I come from the Western United States, and "camping" invokes big mountains, wild rivers, bears, strenuous hikes, and a sense of danger.

The typical Thai "camping" experience is driving your truck to a beautiful spot in a National
Park, pitching your tent next to about 100 other tents, and occupying a sala, or a campfire, for the next 15 hours with dozens of other people. It involves immense quantities of food, ice, stoves, alcohol, portable tables, etc. In other words, it's just an outdoor party. There is always a guitar, often amplified music draining the battery of some unsuspecting truck, and there absolutely must be a huge public toilet provided by the grace of the Royal Park System -- plumbing is the sine qua non of Thai camping.

As we were driving to the National Park, Poo was bubbly, but I was already grumpy. "It will be so much fun!" she said, as she described the profiles of her online camping group, "K. Nid, he's a good singer and he plays the guitar, and . . . "

"ARRGGHH!" I blasted, "I go camping to get AWAY from people, NOT to meet new people!"

We got there and the online camping group had already secured the best spot -- in the sala. It was 11:00 AM but they were already drinking and laughing. I refused to drink, because I wanted to be sober in case I felt the need to drive to the nearest hotel. I had a good book so I perched on a rock near the river to read my book.

By late afternoon, I had surrendered. I was now drinking and I had pitched my tent, but I was still reading my book. When the light faded, though, I had no choice but to join the group. Of course, the men were all drinking and telling stupid jokes while the women were cooking and gossiping. I joined the men and they were happy to have me, because it gave them a new activity -- Tease the Farang! They wanted me to drink whiskey, but I refused, and I drank my own beer at my own pace.

"MICKEY!!" shouted one of them -- "I can tell you're not a W & W guy -- you're a B & B guy!"

"What's that?" I asked.

"You don't like Wine & Women -- you like Books & Beer!"

"That's true," I observed.

On the way home, as I was complaining to Poo, I told her the guys were teasing me mercilessly -- "for example, they said I'm not a W & W guy, I'm a B & B guy!"

"That's true!" said Poo, "Boring & Boring!"

Teaching Digital Natives

2010-11-08T20:26:00.004+07:00

Here is what is like to teach the "Digital Natives":

Today I was lecturing about two Chinese warlords -- The Old Marshal, Zhang Zuolin, and his son, the Young Marshal, Zhang Xueliang. Maybe it's boring for Digital Natives to listen to an old guy lecturing about two guys named Zhang, so I tried to spice it up a little:

"Old Zhang was subservient to the Japanese, but they were still suspicious, so they killed him and gave power to his son, Young Zhang, who should have been easier to control, because he was a womanizer and an opium addict."

"Oooooohhh" said one of my students, "sounds like fun!"

"Dude!" interrupted another student, "Americans are so busy and stressed out that they make their own meth!"

"Wait a minute," said another student, "they're so busy . . . . so they make meth . . . doesn't that take time?"

"Dude," continued the questioned one, "they're so pro at Chemistry that they take a little time to make their own meth, and then they use the meth to stay up all night studying!"

"Oh," continued the corrected one, "that's smart!"

"Proposition 19 Failed!" added the original interlocutor.

Finally I had to explode: "NO THAT'S NOT SMART!!! SPEED WILL ROT YOUR TEETH!"

The kids looked at me like I'm crazy.

One of the more sensible students brought the conversation around: "Mr Mick, How do you spell his name -- Zhang . . . the old one?"

"I don't know," I responded, "just google 'Zhang old marshal' -- you'll get it. I think it's X - I - E . . . . or something like that ."

"I got it!" he said, "Z - O - U . . . . you were close!"

East Timor

2010-10-11T21:12:00.003+07:00

Today Thun began his Exam Week. Jason had his "exam" too.

I came rushing home to ask Thun: "How was your exam?"

"Easy."

"YES!" I threw my hands into the air. Jason was watching carefully.

"Jason, how was your exam?" I asked.

"Easy!" Jason knows how to please his Dad -- wait 'til he gets 24th place out of 25.

I continued, "Thun, which subjects did you do today?"

"Mathematics, easy, Science, easy, History, I'm not sure."

I interrogated him: "What was the topic -- Thai History???" I was ready to quiz him about the kings of Thailand.

"No," he said, "ASEAN."

"Well, that's easy," I said, "name the eleven countries of ASEAN."

"No, Dad! -- only ten."

"OK, name the ten."

"Indonesia, Philippines, Malaysia, Brunei, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and Burma," he said correctly.

"Good!" I said . . . . . "WAIT A MINUTE!!" I had a brainstorm, "what about East Timor? I think East Timor is part of ASEAN, too."

"No, Dad," responded Thun, "They are not ready yet. They are too small and too poor. Brunei is small, but they are rich, so they are part of ASEAN, but East Timor is not ready to be part of ASEAN yet."

"Thun," I concluded, "you are so smart and I love you so much. You are such a good student and you can even teach your Dad about ASEAN -- that's why I'm so proud of you . . . . but, still, I think East Timor should be part of ASEAN."

"Yeah," said Thun, "me, too."

Family Quarrel

2010-09-12T19:56:00.002+07:00

Today we had a little quarrel:

It is Sunday. Thun, who goes to school Mon -Fri, and who goes to "extra school" on Saturday, was supposed to go to "religious school" this morning, on Sunday.

It reminded me of my good mother, who was a Sunday School teacher. It reminded me of those miserable Sunday mornings when I was required to go to Sunday School.

Isn't Monday - Friday enough? Why was I required to go to School on Sundays? Of course, what my Mother was trying to teach at Sunday School (be nice) was more important than what my teachers were trying to teach me at school (algebra!). But forget that.

Anyway, today Poo went to the wat to pray. She dropped into the Sunday School class to see her beloved Thun studying. He wasn't there! Obviously, he was skipping and he had gone to play video games. So, she went to all the internet shops to find him, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was worried - Thun might be lying to us, or he might have been run over by a truck.

Finally, he came home.

Where have you been? we grilled him.

"At the wat."

"But we went to the wat, and saw the class --you weren't there!!!!"

"No," he told us, "you went to the beginners' class, on the 1st floor, but I was at the advanced class, on the 2nd floor."

Gangsta Handshake

2010-08-16T22:15:00.002+07:00

Tonight I had a good conversation with Thun . . . about the comparative prices of Thailand and America . . . the real shit.

It began with: "Dad, can I borrow your backpack tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Dad, how much does this backpack cost in America?"

"Cheap -- maybe $17, about 500 Baht."

"REALLY! America is cheap!" chimed Thun.

"Yeah," I said, "America is cheap for things, but not for services, like . . . a boy's haircut . . . $1 in Thailand, but how much in America?" I asked.

"I don't know" opined Thun, honestly.

"About $17 -- 500 Baht -- same as that backpack!"

"Really??" asked Thun. "Dad, I know about America . . . my friend likes to do this -- "

And then Thun grabbed my hand in an old-fashioned handshake, which he slid into a thumbs-up handshake, and then we snapped our fingers, and then he pulled me towards him into a chest-thumpin' gangsta-hug.

"I love you, Dad!" he concluded.

Bilingual Brain

2010-08-02T21:17:00.004+07:00

Bilingual children are a trip. Jason's brain is all messed up -- now he can read (in Thai) and he is fluent at speaking Thai. He can understand English (though he never speaks it) and whenever he writes -- he wants to write in English.

Furthermore, when writing in English, he often writes nonsense words, but he does so with careful deliberation and great sense of purpose. Recently, he drew a picture of two cartoonish characters, and then he labeled the drawing:

JASON

DADDY

OXICN . . . . .

then he paused, scratched his head, thought deeply, changed the "N" to an "M", and then completed the word he was trying to spell:

OXICMD

What the world needs is a little more OXICMD!

Burger Boy

2010-08-01T22:23:00.002+07:00

When I got back from America, Thun was eager to tell me:

"Dad, while you were away, and Mommy and Jason went to the country-house, I stayed in Bangkok by myself!"

I looked at Poo and she was nervous. She knew that I might not approve of an 11-year-old staying in the big city all by himself. But, what-the-hell, Bangkok is safe, at least compared to LA or NY, especially for an 11-year-old who has street-sense, like Thun.

"So, Daddy," continued Thun, "guess what I ate?"

"Fried rice!" I guessed.

"Nope."

"Pork necks?"

"Nope."

"Noodle soup?"

"Nope."

"OK," I gave up, exasperated, "what did you eat?"

"Burgers!" replied Thun.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes, burgers! three times a day -- burger for breakfast, burger for lunch, and burger for dinner -- I went to 7-11 and ate microwave burgers!!"

"Look at this silly boy!" interjected Poo, "he wants to be a farang!"

"But, Thun," I asked, "why did you eat so many burgers?"

"I am practicing!" he responded.

"Practicing for what?" I asked.

"Practicing for living in America!!!"

Sleep-Shit

2010-07-31T20:20:00.002+07:00

The Thais have a simple expression for the act of shitting in one's bed -- they call it: ขี้นอน or "sleep-shit."

Two nights ago Jason had a problem. At midnight he woke up coughing. Then he had to vomit. There was a trail of vomit from the bed to the bathroom. The next day, Jason went to school -- I questioned whether this sick boy should go to school, but Poo is boss and she insisted. She was right -- Jason completed his school day, and correctly answered that 9 - 4 = 5, without vomiting.

But last night Jason was again sick. We went to bed (All 3 of us -- Jason, Poo and I in the same bed) without thinking too much about it. But at 6:30 AM I was awakened by an horrific scream: "JASON, OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE SHITTED IN THE BED!!!!"

Poo was incensed. How could a 5-year-old shit in his sleep? She immediately disrobed him, poked me out of bed, tossed the sheets, blankets and bedclothes into the laundry, and forced Jason to go to the bathroom, to take a shit. The poor little guy was sitting on the toilet, wondering what was happening, and apologizing profusely (wai-ing and crying at the same time!) for his misdeed. Poo was yelling at him:

"How can you 'sleep-shit' when you are 5 years old!!! It is natural for a 2-year-old to 'sleep-shit.' But you are 5-years-old!! In all my life, I have never heard of a 5-year-old who shits in his bed!! Jason! You are not a 2-years-old anymore -- grow up! Go to the toilet! a 5 year-old cannot shit in his bed!!!!"

Finally I shouted: "ENOUGH! Poo -- the boy is sick -- you cannot yell at him for being sick! LEAVE HIM ALONE!!! He didn't want to shit in his bed -- it just happened . . . . . because he is sick!"

Later I felt guilty. Why? Because Poo was washing all the sheets, blankets and bed-clothes that Jason had shit upon. It's easy for me to say "it's OK -- it's natural" -- but I don't have to clean up the mess!!!

Head Boy

2010-07-28T13:26:00.003+07:00

After three weeks in America, a lot has changed, especially Jason. Now he knows how to read (Thai, of course). One day Poo was talking to the mother of one of his classmates who said, "that's so good that the teacher made Jason the Class Leader."

"WHAT?" said Poo, "Jason never told me that."

Later she asked him, "Jason, did the teacher make you Class Leader?"

"Yes," he answered, nonchalantly.

Poo then told me the story -- she said, "the teacher appointed Jason the Class Leader -- what do you call that in English?"

"We call that Teacher's Pet."

"No way!" objected Poo, "he's not a pet -- he's the Leader -- the Boss!" She seems proud of this feat.

"What do you call it in Thai?"

หัวหน้าห้อง (hua-naa-haawng) she said, which literally translates as "head-face-room."

"That's weird," I said.

"หัวหน้า means leader, so it means leader of the classroom -- it's GOOD!" she proudly declared. The teacher wouldn't give it to him unless he is smart and responsible . . . . he has to tell the other students when to stand and say 'GOOD MORNING TEACHER' and stuff like that."

"Well, maybe you can call it Head Boy in British English but in America we call it Teacher's Pet -- we don't like those kids -- when I was a kid, I always sat in the back with my friends and murmured about the Teacher's Pet -- "look at that fool! He thinks he's better than us! I can't wait to get out to the playground -- we'll show him who's the Boss!"

Poo frowned her disapproval. I will never understand Thais.

Using Facebook in the Classroom

2010-06-04T16:01:00.000+07:00

Yo Mama! -- Thai style

2010-06-03T21:14:00.000+07:00

Everybody wants to talk about the seriousness of the Red-Yellow conflict in Thailand, but nobody wants to talk about the humor. Here is a joke:

A very proper old woman took her 6-year-old granddaughter shopping at Siam Paragon. They stayed late and they took a taxi home. The taxi passed a woman on a street-corner who was dressed very, very sexy.

“Dear Grandmother,” asked the girl, “why does she dress like that?”

“Because,” said the grandmother, “she is waiting for the bus.”

“Why don't you tell her THE TRUTH!” interjected the taxi driver. “She is a prostitute – she is selling sex!”

Both the grandmother and the granddaughter were shocked. There was an icy silence in the taxi.

A minute later, they passed another woman on a street-corner who was dressed too sexy.

“Dear Grandmother,” asked the girl, “if she is selling sex, will she have babies?”

“Yes, of course!” replied the grandmother, “otherwise we wouldn't have taxi drivers!”

Don't sleep with a 5-year-old

2010-06-02T22:08:00.000+07:00

A year ago, an Australian friend who lives in Tokyo commented: “my friends (they are a couple) are weird – their child still sleeps with them, and he's FIVE YEARS OLD!!!”

I said, “hmmmmmmmm . . . .”

Jason was 4 at the time, but he still slept with Poo. In Thailand, we don't think it's weird for a 5-year-old to sleep with his parents. In fact, the only thing we think is weird is . . . . . sleeping alone. Why would you do that to a child? Think of all the bad things that can happen when you sleep alone – nightmares, ghosts, giants, vampires, etc . . . .

Now Jason is 5, and he still sleeps with Poo. Sometimes, they sleep with me, too. Jason asks me almost every night, “Dad, I want to sleep with you?” Usually, Poo says, “NO! Dad has to go to work tomorrow – he needs a good night's sleep, not Jason kicking him.”

But last night they slept with me. I was near the fan and the A/C, Poo was in the middle, and Jason was on the warm end of the bed. After an hour or so, I was tossing and turning, so I turned to kiss Poo. I was half-asleep, but I didn't give her a sniff-kiss or a peck on the cheek – it was a full-on smooch. I felt her head, which seemed a bit smaller than usual, and her hair, which didn't have its usual length.

Suddenly, I woke up to a scream: “HEY!! DAD!!!”

OMG, I was kissing Jason! I practically had my tongue down his throat!

There was confusion and noise, and the bathroom light went on – Poo emerged from the bathroom.

I agree with my Australian friend – sleeping with a 5-year-old is weird. But thank goodness I'm not in America – I would probably be in jail!

Chicken shits

2010-05-29T21:24:00.002+07:00

Once Thun and I got out of the Riot Zone, it was fairly easy to get around. For most of Thailand, it was business as usual.

We picked up Poo and Jason, and made it to our country house, in Pala U, Hua Hin district. What a difference! Sure, there were pictures of riots and fires on TV, but most of the cows didn't even notice. One cow slipped through the gate and started chomping our grass and flowers while watching TV through the open doors, but we shooed him away.

My boss sent an email because he was worried about our safety. "Don't worry!" I replied, "it's perfectly safe here, except for the snakes!"

Ironically, an hour later we were eating at our favorite little outdoor restaurant when Poo pointed at the roof. There was a bright green snake, about a meter long, just over our table!

I popped up: "Is it poisonous?" I demanded.

"Yes," said Poo, non-chalantly.

"If it bites you, will you die?" I screamed.

"Probably not."

THAT wasn't very reassuring.

"What is its name?" I demanded.

"We call it งู สีเขียว ("nguu sii kheo" = green snake) said Poo.

"Well, I can see that!" I snapped, "Do you know its name -- something more scientific?"

Poo hates that type of question -- she just shrugged her shoulders.

By now, the snake had slithered through a hole in the thatched roof and disappeared. I remained standing, staring at the roof and scooping rice into my mouth.

"Sit down to finish your meal," said Poo.

"I'M PROTECTING THIS FAMILY AGAINST A POISONOUS SNAKE!!" I shouted.

"Why is Daddy so scared?" chimed in Thun.

"Daddy is scared of EVERYTHING," said Poo.

Taking his cue from Poo, Jason asked, "Daddy, are you scared of rabbits?"

"Rabbits? No, rabbits, no."

"Daddy, are you scared of bears?"

"Bears? Yes, bears, yes."

"Daddy, are you scared of giants?"

And it went on like that, with Jason listing every creature he could think of, and all three of them laughing when I admitted fear. At least I am afraid of real, live creatures, that might harm me or kill me. At least I'm not afraid of ghosts!

All three of them are afraid of ghosts. Chicken shits!

Escape from a Riot Zone

2010-05-28T10:03:00.000+07:00

About noon on Sunday May 16th, after two and a half days of gunshots, explosions, ambulances and fires, and after several pleas from Poo, and with concern about the effect of the tire smoke on our respiratory systems, I decided that Thun and I would run for it. But we couldn't leave in the afternoon or at night.

At 07:00 on Monday, Thun and I threw a few precious belongings into a gym bag and headed out into the riot zone. How could we get out? It was too far to walk and every intersection was cluttered with debris and burning tires, so there was only one way out: motorcycle taxi. We went to the mototaxi stand in the back soi, but there were just two guys in an animated discussion and a toothless old lady, probably homeless. She asked me what I wanted and I said:

"มอร์เตอร์ไซค์" ("motoesai" = motorcycle)

She nudged one of the guys standing near me. He turned to me, sized up the situation, and asked:

"ไปไหน" ("pai nai" = where are you going?)

I told him, "FortuneTown" and he nodded, and reached into his bag for his orange vest.

The guy smelled like tire smoke and he had very red eyes -- he had been up all night throwing rocks at soldiers, burning tires, or both! Still, we were desperate to get out, and he had a big bike, which was fortunate, because he put Thun between his legs and the handlebars, and I threw the bag over my shoulder and got on back, and off we went.

He found some back soi that I never knew existed, and then went the wrong way on a deserted expressway, and five minutes later, Thun and I were safely delivered to FortuneTown, in a riot-free part of Bangkok. I was so relieved! The driver was expecting about 40 Baht, but I gave him 100 Baht and he was delighted.

Hopefully, he went somewhere to shower and get some sleep.

An Open Letter to Somtow Sucharitkul (S.P. Somtow)

2010-05-23T20:27:00.005+07:00

K. Somtow's Open Letter to the Red Shirts is getting a lot of attention:

http://www.somtow.org/2010/05/open-letter-to-red-shirts.html

As you can imagine, Bangkokians are very emotional right now.

Here is my reaction, an Open Letter to K. Somtow:

Message to K. Somtow. The Buddha teaches that we should walk the Middle Path, our string should be neither too tight nor too loose. You are being criticized by both sides, so perhaps you have found some resonance with the truth.

However, I do not want to thank the Red Shirts. Instead:

Thanks to the women who get up early to sweep the streets of Bangkok at a paltry wage;
Thanks to the farmers who grow the food that I eat, and are constantly worried whether crop prices will be sufficient;
Thanks to my father-in-law, who has been farming rice, fruit and vegetables for more than 40 years; (and still going!), but does not even have an ATM card to show for it;
Thanks to the teachers of my children, who receive a small salary but do a fine job;
Thanks to the teachers' aides, who receive a smaller salary, but were always ready to change my little one's clothes after he wet himself;
Thanks to the Filipina woman who teaches English to my sons;
Thanks to the maids at my workplace, who always keep our spaces clean and tidy;
Thanks to the technicians at my workplace, who always fix my computer;
Thanks to the guards at my building, who kept the mob from burning it down;
Thanks to the Nepali guys who make my clothes at such reasonable prices;
Thanks to the shopkeeper on my soi, who kept his shop open during the riots allowing me to buy food, and who teaches me a word or two of Chinese with every transaction;
Thanks to all the delivery drivers who continuously travel from factory to market for a meager day's wages, keeping prices in Thailand so low;
Thanks to the common police and soldiers of Thailand who usually keep the country so peaceful;
Thanks to all the good-hearted Thais (and a few foreigners), including many students, who volunteered their Sunday to clean up Bangkok after the fires;
Thanks to the firefighters, nurses and ambulance drivers who risked their lives to do their jobs;
Thanks to the food vendors who can serve up a delicious bowl of kwit-teo for 25 Baht;
Thanks to the guy who just gave me a 70 Baht haircut with such attention to detail (brief shoulder and neck massage included, and he even shaved my ears!)

These are the people who make life in Bangkok so pleasant and harmonious, and NONE of them participated in the unprovoked violence, burning and looting that has nearly destroyed our city. Yet ALL of them would benefit from:

a fairer distribution of incomes and a fairer distribution of the wealth
better educational opportunities for their children
less corruption in Thai politics
more rights for residents of Bangkok who don't own property here
better opportunities for farmers to control the distribution and marketing of their produce
more democracy in Thailand, both at the local and national levels
more public spaces and less palatial properties exclusively for the rich

On the other hand, I would like to say:

NO THANKS to those Red Shirt leaders who urged their supporters to burn Bangkok
NO THANKS to those Red Shirt supporters who torched my neighborhood (Din Daeng), Khlong Toey, Bon Kai, and others, as well as some Bangkok landmarks
NO THANKS to the paid snipers who shoot people in the head – no matter which side you're on
NO THANKS to the PAD who besieged Government House and then occupied the airport 18 months ago, setting the precedent for mob rule and anarchy as an acceptable form of protest
NO THANKS to Sondhi and others like him who continuously spew hateful, racist speech, belittling the good people of Isaan
NO THANKS to Arisman and others like him who continuously spew hateful, homophobic speech threatening that “this is the end of the elites.”
NO THANKS to those Generals and Captains of Industry who arrange for enormous bribes, kickbacks, and tea money on major business deals
NO THANKS to Thaksin and his gang of lieutenants who met in Dubai during December 2009 and plotted the burning of Bangkok

Lastly, I must mention:

THANK YOU to K. Abhisit for your intelligence, grace and compassion, for keeping the casualties to a minimum, for walking the fine line between the Reds on your left and the militarists on your right, for finally re-establishing peace and order in Bangkok. We have learned, both from the Yellows and from the Reds, the WRONG way to agitate for political and economic change – I hope you can lead us along the RIGHT way: increased economic opportunities through the principles of fairness, democracy and participation.

Three Days in a Riot Zone

2010-05-22T14:44:00.002+07:00

I spent three days in a riot zone. We live at the Sam Liam Din Daeng Intersection. Here is what I wrote on the third day:

I am here with my 11-year-old son, Thun. The other half of our family, Poo and Jason, left for the countryside on Thursday morning, purely by chance. Thun has been very good-natured about it, but it disturbs me that he is being exposed to this.

Our neighborhood is Sam Liam Din Daeng. This neighborhood is pretty sympathetic to the Reds and we certainly gave them a warm welcome six weeks ago. when they arrived peacefully from the Northeast. We are between the main highway from the North, Vibhavadi, and the transportation hub of Bangkok, Victory Monument, so it is a vital location. We are about 2 km from Rajprarop Intersection, where the Red Shirts have centered their rallies. The demonstration has been going on for 6 weeks, and it has been an inconvenience for us – but that was all it was, an inconvenience, until Thursday night, when Seh Daeng was shot and Bangkok exploded into violence.

On Friday, the government moved troops into the area between us and Rajprarop, and the red shirts reacted immediately. From all directions, motorcycles adorned with red paraphernalia descended upon our neighborhood, just behind the troops. They captured a government truck with about a half dozen soldiers, who surrendered immediately. They shot one of the soldiers and then kindly hurried him into an ambulance. Then they deflated the tires on the military truck, siphoned out its diesel, and set it on fire at the intersection.

We heard shooting and explosions until about 03:00 on Friday night/Saturday morning. On Saturday morning, about 07:00, I went out to look at the intersection while Thun was still sleeping. I quickly turned around and went home because what I saw was not pretty. Angry young men, led by mototaxi drivers in their orange vests, were assembling old tires and diesel – this stuff was coming in on pickup trucks. At the intersection they started a fire which has been burning ever since – billowing huge clouds of black smoke into Bangkok's already polluted air.

I went back a little later with Thun to get some food and to go to the ATM. There was a crowd of people around a man on the ground – apparently he had been shot. Another man was screaming his head off: “THE ARMY WON'T LET AN AMBULANCE IN!” That may have been true, but I simply needed to look left and right to see burning tires and debris. Sensibly, Thun tugged me by the arm and led me back to the safety of the apartment.

I cannot condone the escalation by the government – it seems the government has taken a bad situation and made it worse, much worse. But let me clear about this: it is the protesters who are terrorizing this neighborhood – blocking streets, starting fires, seizing cars and trucks, firing homemade rockets at the soldiers, and provoking them with slingshots and Molotov cocktails.

For about an hour yesterday afternoon, the soldiers responded intensely. There was a continuous volley of gunfire from about 4:15 to 5:15. The photographs of protesters shot in the head are grisly, but if only seven people died in Bangkok yesterday (as the government claims) then most of the firing must have been into the air, because I heard hundreds of rounds go off. The army was announcing by loudspeaker: “get out of the street or you might be shot.”

Last night, I went out into the street again. Now the soldiers had retreated and hundreds of protesters, many of them women, were just sitting in the 8-lane street: Thanon Din Daeng. Protesters were taking aim at the streetlights with their slingshots – they had knocked out about 7 and had about 5 to go. Each time one was knocked out there was a little cheer congratulating some fool, who will probably die tomorrow, for his good aim. It was getting strangely dark – the kind of darkness you never get in Bangkok.

Fortunately, our little mini-soi, about 80 meters back from the street, seems to be safe. There are buildings all around so we are protected from stray bullets. Still, it's eerie to hear the crack of gunfire throughout the day and to see that billowing black smoke day and night. People have urged us to get out – but Thun and I feel safe here and we don't want to venture into that road system which is rife with conflict, gunfire, burning vehicles and explosions.

Dad, I don't need you

2010-03-17T22:58:00.002+07:00

Recently, I have been spending a lot of time with the Rubik's cube. Why?

For two reasons: 1) I have a very gifted student who makes magic with the Rubik's cube. Instead of solving it, he makes creative solutions: for example, every side is the same, except the middle square!

But more importantly: 2) Thun asked me for a Rubik's cube. He said: "Dad, I want a real Rubik's cube, not one of those cheap 30 Baht imitations, because they're hard to manipulate."

OK, so I bought some "real Rubik's cubes" from Toys-R-Us and learned how to solve the damned problem. It is difficult. Finally, I told Thun "OK, now I have your real Rubik's cube, and I can teach you how to solve it."

He said, "Thanks, Dad, but I don't need you as a teacher. My friend can solve it in 58 seconds."

Uh-oh. My record is 4 minutes and 33 seconds.

The Birth of the Modern

2010-01-11T22:19:00.002+07:00

Today I have been thinking about Art at the beginning of the 20th Century. How did we (Euopeans) go from painting fuzzy landscapes at the end of the 19th Century to Marcel Descahmp's Urinal:

Weird Stuff

2010-01-10T22:24:00.002+07:00

Today was my 50th birthday. In the morning, when my Mom asked me: "how does it feel to be 50?" I said: "you know, about a day older than it felt yesterday, when I was 49 plus 364 days."

But later I started thinking about weird stuff: like: Who Am I? What is the meaning of Life? Which Communities am I part of?

I was born in the US in 1960, so I consider myself an American of the generation born in the 50s and 60s. Who are we? What have we accomplished? There's Madonna, who is impressive but has some weird ideas about religion and that kind of stuff. There's Obama, who is turning out to be a terrible disappointment. There was Michael Jackson -- very impressive but deeply troubled. There's Oprah -- I really like Oprah -- I think she's great, even if she did support Obama (actually, so did I). And there was at least one genius -- the writer David Foster Wallace.

Here are some of his ideas:

About why he wrote a “big book” (Infinite Jest: – more than 1000 pages)

“Feminists always say that white males write an enormous book because they want to impose their phallus on the consciousness of the world – if that was going on, it was going on at a level of awareness that I don't want to access.”

Wallace talks about “A Brass Ring” – something you pursue your whole life thinking it will make you happy, and then when you get it, you realize it doesn't make you happy. For him, it was fame as a writer. What happens after you achieve your Brass Ring and realize that the chase was pointless? that the Brass Ring doesn't make you happy? That question fascinates him.

On people he finds interesting:

“For me, it's old people, people who have been through some sort of mid-life crisis, and then when they come out of it, they tend to get weird. The motivation for getting out of bed has to change.”

On having been through terrible personal difficulties involving drugs and depression:

“not more so than most of the people my age . . . . but then again, most of the people my age I know are like me.”

Avatar

2010-01-10T09:37:00.005+07:00

Yesterday was Children's Day in Thailand, so I finally had to fulfil my promise to take the boys to see Avatar.

Two and a half hours of Hollywood (actually, three hours when you add in all the crap that comes first) is a bit much for me. However, this movie had a couple of good points: firstly, the special effects and computer graphics were impressive and creative, and secondly, the bad guys were really well done. They were an evil, greedy corporation that subcontracts the military to destroy all life in pursuit of a precious mineral -- could've been the love-child of Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld.

But I didn't like the ending. Of course, since it's Hollywood, the big battle happens, and it looks like all is lost for the good guys, and then the hero has a moment of inspiration, and miraculously the good guys battle back until all guns and helicopter gunships are peeled away and the hero kills the arch-villain in hand-to-hand combat. OK, fair enough, we knew that was coming. But then, the good guys line up the hundreds of prisoners-of-war and send them back to Earth (which is no longer green).

"Tell your leader, Obama or Whatever, never send anyone again!"

They should have done what the Afghanis did to Elphistone's Army in 1842. 16,000 Brits (mostly Indians with a few white men as leaders, of course) marched into Afghanistan. The Afghanis killed everybody except one. They told that guy: "go tell your leader, King Whatever, never send anyone again."

170 years later, and the lesson still has not been learned.

Homework Sucks

2010-01-08T23:19:00.002+07:00

I thought I would call this post: "Homework is an oxymoron": You're either at home or you're at work -- they're opposites. So, saying "homework" is pairing opposites -- it's an oxymoron, like "military intelligence" or "business ethics."

However, I'm a modern-kind-of-worker, and sometimes I would like to work from home, so . . . . forget it, get to the point and keep it simple: Homework Sucks.

Really, it does. Don't children have better things to do? Like skateboarding? Or surfing the net? Or playing with each other? Or eating a meal with the family? Or (this one is radical!): laughing, joking, teasing, and smiling with each other?

My sister Kate is more radical than I am: as she is slowly eating her scrambled tofu, she tells her son (almost 13): "forget school, drop out! let's travel to India together . . . . you will learn so much more!"

And her son responds:

"Mom, hurry up! I don't want to be late for soccer practice!"

The History of Hip-Hop

2010-01-08T12:25:00.003+07:00

That lecture on the History of Hip Hop by the Teacha, KRS-One, was excellent.

The Teacha first brought us to 1972 in the South Bronx, where DJ Cool Herc used to play music at a little park at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue, which is one of the places where the culture of Hip-Hop: the b-boys, the b-girls, two turntables and a microphone, etc. was born. But before describing the particulars, he tried to put the scene into context, and made some observations:

In the late 1960s and the early 1970s, with the Vietnam War raging, there was intense anger against the US government, and urban violence.

The focus points of that “near-revolution” were the poor, inner-city neighborhoods, i.e. “the ghettos” whose (mostly, but not exclusively) Black and Latino populations were seeing young men die in Vietnam.

Those urban neighborhoods were then flooded with heroin, in a deal sealed by the FBI and the Mafia, and the records of these deals are in the public record. Look it up!

That was part of a deliberate attempt to emasculate those communities: with the heroin, Vietnam, the expanding prisons, etc., Uncle Sam figured: if we take away their men, they will have no power.

But Uncle Sam miscalculated: most of the early hip-hoppers were raised by single mothers, who spawned the Hip Hop Generation, which has since created an entertainment industry worth hundreds of billions of dollars.

These hip-hoppers were brought up with the creative energies of their single mothers; they didn't play GI Joe and want to be soldiers; instead, they were creative, which, according to Teacha, is largely a feminine instinct.

If you asked somebody outside the hip-hop community, “what's your name?” they would say, “Bob.” But if you asked somebody within the hip-hop community, “what's your name?” they would say, “I'm DJ Super-Mike-Ski from the 152nd!”

The very first rule of hip-hop was: change your name. Hip-hoppers were rejecting EVERYTHING the mainstream system had to offer. The mainstream was saying: “to be somebody, you gotta go to school, dress nice, act polite, talk proper, and THEN maybe we will let you into college, but REALLY, we're never gonna let you in anyway.”

We early hip-hoppers rejected everything in the mainstream. That made us free: to spray-paint some hieroglyphics-lookin' tags on the wall and say “That's Art!”; to scratch a record backwards on a turntable and say: “That's Music!”

We heard Jimi Hendrix play a guitar and we said: “Wow! That's def!” And we asked each other: “You got a guitar?” Nope. “You got a guitar?” Nope. “You got a guitar?” Nope, but my Mom's got a turntable. And we played around with the turntable until somebody screeched it backwards to make it sound like Jimi Hendirx, and we all said: “That's def!”

So: we never complained: “Oh, I will never be a musician because my Dad won't buy me a guitar” (because we knew that would never happen anyway) . . . we just used what we had . . . THAT is freedom.

The Beginning of Poverty

2010-01-07T13:01:00.002+07:00

I just love studying History. Teaching at an international school, I don't deal much with American History, but that is certainly where my love of History began.

Today's lecture, on the History of Hip-Hop, is by the noted Historian KRS-One:

I love his comment: "when you look to other people for validation, that is the beginning of poverty."

Actually, I don't quite agree with it, though. Looking to other people for validation is very natural for a small child (Look, Mommy! I drew an airplane!), or even for a teenager. But when you begin to look to yourself for validation, that is the beginning of adulthood.

And that is what is so sorely missing from our educational system today.

Jason's Massive Phail

2010-01-05T23:02:00.002+07:00

Living in BKK, I know a lot of Finns. They are all smart. Why are Finnish people so smart? Probably because they don't go to school until they are aged 5, or 6, or 7.

After Jason just turned 3, Poo sent him off to school. The school asked: "Do you want to enroll him in extra-school?"

Poo asked me for advice. "NO" I shouted. 7:30 to 3:00 is enough! Jason was one of two kids whose parents refused extra-school.

Sometimes I go to pick him up at 3:00. I notice: at 3:00 the kids are putting away the crayons and silly-putty -- out comes the serious stuff -- the math and English worksheets.

Now, half way through his second year of school, Jason has had his first BIG EXAM. He is only 4 years old. When the results came in, the teacher called Poo aside: "Jason has done very poorly on his exam. Number 17 out of 25. I think he needs extra-school."

I was furious but I gave in. Now Jason gets extra-school, or, more appropriately: cram-school. He is studying math and English worksheets.

Does it matter? No! All the kids score somewhere between 84% and 90%. Poo was talking to the mother of one of Jason's friends, who said:"I don't know what's wrong with my boy -- I get him tutoring every day and all day on Saturday, but he still scored less than 90%!"

Japanese Women

2010-01-04T23:03:00.002+07:00

One of my Thai friends, a man, says that:

"In my opinion, Japanese women are the most beautiful and sexy, so soft and white . . ."

Actually, I disagree with him. But he has a point.

Lately, I've been watching a lot of WWII videos, especially from the War in the Pacific. I have been studying the faces of the Japanese boys who surrendered. During Nimitz and MacArthur's "island-hopping" campaign, typically, the Americans would assault, with overwhelming firepower, a tiny Pacific island defended by 5000 Japanese troops. Of these, 4983 would die fighting and 17 would surrender. Fortunately, we still have photographs of the 17 BRAVE boys who surrendered, shirtless and bronzed (consider the weather). So I have been studying their faces. They don't seem scared or traumatized. They seem wondrous, like children at a zoo.

I'm wondering: is it possible, that in this moment of photography, they realized they made the CORRECT decision -- that surrender was better than death? After all, two years later, they would be back in Japanese society, and did they have work opportunity? UNLIMITED!

And were there Japanese women for them??? OMG, the numbers were at least 100 to 1.

Believe it or not, my mother lived in Japan about that time. I wonder if she got any action? I doubt it! But that was a bad time for heterosexual women everywhere.

Text to Chat

2009-12-06T15:45:00.004+07:00

At foss.in, I had the pleasure of meeting a man who is the director of a text-to-speech project at IIT-Bombay, one of the world's best universities. He is blind, or as he put it, “severely visually impaired.”

To one of his students, I was explaining this: “my friend who lives in Bangalore is trying ubuntu, but she's nervous about where to get help; she is afraid that if she asks the young geniuses who promote open source software in Bangalore, they will make fun of her because she is an older woman who doesn't know much . . . .”

“OH NO!” boomed in the blind professor, “that would never happen. WE ARE VERY NICE PEOPLE.”

“OK, thanks, so where can she get help,?” I asked.

“I will give you the number of Renuka Prasad – he is very helpful, and HE IS A VERY NICE PERSON!” he replied.

Then the blind professor pulled his phone out of his pocket, and began to shout at it, giving it instructions, like:

“RETRIEVE . . . . PHONE CONTACT . . . PRASAD . . . .”

Voila! He held his phone to me and there was the name Renuka Prasad, together with a phone number in a very small font size.

I squinted and got the first digit, then the backlight went out and the phone's screen went dark.

“Uhhhh,” I told the professor, “your backlight went out.”

“Just press the button,” he said,

So I took the phone and pressed the button, but I pressed the wrong button. Suddenly the phone was dialing. The professor understood, because of the noise, so he took the phone from my hand, and with the dexterity of someone who can solve Rubik's cube in 15 seconds, he whirled the phone around a few times, canceled the phone call, and there again was the phone number o Mr. Prasad, this time with the backlight permanently on.

“Uhhh, I can't read it, . . . my eyes are bad,” I said.

OOPS! I just said “my eyes are bad” to a blind man.

He didn't react. So I continued, “can you read it aloud to me?”

Again, he didn't react. But his student was there, and his student kindly read aloud the phone number, which I copied into my own phone. Then I thanked them and walked away.

Twice, I said something stupid, which the blind professor could have construed as an insult. But no, he was not insulted, instead he was just happy to be able to help and he graciously accepted my thanks. Because, as he said, WE ARE REALLY NICE PEOPLE!

Bangalore

2009-12-02T15:53:00.003+07:00

I arrived in Bangalore's fancy new airport and asked:

is this really India, or did I mistakenly take a plane to Singapore?

In typical Bangalore geekiness, a sign announced:

It takes the sun's rays 8 1/3 minutes to get to the earth; it takes your baggage 7 minutes to get to the carousel.

My plane landed at 11:15. I was through customs and out the door at 11:24 (with baggage).

While waiting for the baggage, I noticed that every piece of luggage was labeled with a doctor's name:

Dr. A. P. Chinnaswamy
Dr. P. T. Ismail
Dr. L. H. Mathews

etc.

And the people filling in the visa forms and the swine flu questionnaires (Have you been to an infected country?), filled up the rectangular boxes thus:

SURNAME: D R _ C H I N N A S WA

even if they needed to truncate their names, writing DR was more important.

Next time, I will label my luggage: Dr. Mick Purcell, PhD, MSc, BSEE, OBE . . .

Our conference is at a Mental Hospital! It's every kind of hospital but it is chiefly known as a mental hospital: NIMHANS.

The autorickshaw driver asked me:

"for what purpose have you come for India, sir?"

"for Conference."

"Doctor, sir?"

I shook my head, which in Western culture means no, but he took it to mean: Of course! (who would fly to Bangalore without a doctorate????)

"Medical, sir?"

"No, computers."

"Hardware, sir?"

"No, software."

And he frowned.

Apparently, half of Bangalore has doctorates; the other half of Bangalore drives rickshaws or motobikes, and passes judgment on the types of doctorates!

Epic Phail

2009-11-17T21:46:00.003+07:00

Today I told my ToK students to make a video either proving or demonstrating Pythagoras' Theorem. I thought they did pretty well but at the end of the lesson they all slapped their hands to their foreheads with a reverse hand-palm and said "EPIC PHAIL."

For some reason they like to spell fail as phail -- I think it has something to do with physics.

I though the video above was pretty good -- Amal was clearly in charge, but Jessica contributed her pretty hands and manipulative skills, and Spy contributed the camerawork and uploading. But then I noticed: Oops -- they misspelled both Proof and Theorem. Epic Phail!

rms

2009-10-31T18:57:00.004+07:00

I used to think rms means "root mean square."

Now, thanks to my teacher Nick C (Year 10), I know it means: Richard M Stallman.

The man is a genius, pure and simple. He is one of the most prominent, capable, and thoughtful computer programmers in the world.

But really, he is not famous for being a programmer. He is famous for being a political activist -- a campaigner for human rights, democracy, and that sort of thing.

Last night I had the opportunity to meet him, chat with him, and listen to his talk. He pointed out some things that were so obvious, I couldn't believe I had not thought of them before.

For example, if you have a computer program, and your friend says "Wow! that computer program is cool -- can I have a copy?" It is your DUTY to give that friend a copy.

Just like: if someone falls into the pool, and yells "Help Me! I'm drowning!" and you know how to swim, it is your DUTY to jump in to help.

Unless that person is Bush.

OK, maybe I'm being a little extreme . . . . . . . . there are other madmen in other countries who would also not obligate you to jump in.

Electrocution

2009-10-19T12:48:00.002+07:00

Back in the country house now. We passed a big elephant on the way.

The Thais love their elephants. A couple of years ago, an elephant got stuck in an electric fence and died. The farmer, who set up the fence to keep elephants out, was tossed into jail!

When we drive up we often see elephants. I'm not scared but Poo is terrified, especially of this one giant elephant with a broken trunk.

"He is a wild, angry elephant who always want to attack! Sometimes elephants get like that," she says, "you're the Science teacher--look it up!"

I think she's right. Allegedly he broke his tusk by attacking a truck.

So, when we saw the big elephant, I was relieved to see two full tusks.

"Oh, the big, scary elephant with the broken tusk died already!" said Poo.

"Really, how?"

"Electrocution. He got stuck in an electric fence."

"Again? Did they throw the farmer in jail, like they did to that other farmer?" I asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because that other farmer built an electric fence to keep the elephants OUT, but this farmer built an electric fence to keep his cows IN."

Pit Term

2009-09-29T19:19:00.002+07:00

Now the boys are off school, for a month's holiday. We call it "pit-term".

On Saturday, we had family sports day at Thun and Jason's school.

"Dad, will you come?" asked Thun.

"Of course!"

"Good," he said, "bring your tennis shoes, your black shorts and your red Arsenal shirt."

"WHAT?" I gasped. "Do you seriously mean I HAVE TO PLAY?"

Sure enough, there was a team for the fathers, janitors, electricians, and other men associated with the school (In Thai schools, the teachers are women). The other team was from the State Railways of Thailand and suited up in fancy white kits -- they looked like Real Madrid. We had to line up in the tunnel (just like TV), parade onto the concrete playing surface in front of 200 cheering wives and children, and exchange banners. I was a head taller than everybody else.

I started on the bench. Soon I realized: uh-oh, these guys are good--I'm going to make an ass of myself! I was probably the oldest guy in uniform, and I was certainly the crappiest.

Typically Thai, there was dance music and a play-by-play commentary booming out of speakers the size of trucks, and we could barely hear the whistle. The commentator kept groaning oh-hoooaaaah! as we missed goal-scoring opportunities. In the second half, I finally went in. Every time I got the ball, Real Madrid attacked me like a bunch of sharks--they realized I was a weakness. I made one or two good passes but usually I just lost the ball.

Finally, I made a good run and a teammate spotted me and passed the ball to me in a scoring position. All I needed to do was kick the ball past the keeper and into the net! I swung my leg to kick the ball and . . . . . . . . . . . . . . missed the ball!

Dr Wiest

2009-08-23T13:08:00.003+07:00

I received this funny message from a student:

Isn’t it about time you changed the description of your
blog?

“a mathematics teacher at an international school tries
to find ten minutes of peace during a hectic day” to
“a mathematics/history/TOK teacher at an international school tries to find ten
minutes of peace during a hectic day”

No, I don't think so, because I started as a mathematics teacher, so it is first in my heart.

However, I started in Thailand as a science teacher, and now I'm trying to get as far away as possible from viruses, sulfuric acid, and high voltages. My goal is to next become an art teacher, then a PE teacher, and finally a House Leader! Just kidding.

At college, I received A's in Calculus. My Calculus teacher, who was also my physics teacher, Dr. Wiest, then gave me a job being a Calculus tutor, running the"tutorials" and "recitations", so that's where I got my start. One day, in Physics Lab, we were working with excited gases, and the instrumentation said "DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE!" in about 15 places. Idiotically, I grabbed a metal tray with one hand while my other hand was removing a gas tube from the high voltage instrument. Thousands of volts ran through me and I felt terrible pain. I went running up and down the hallway screaming:

"SHIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTT!"

That night I couldn't sleep because I felt so much pain in my teeth. The next day I went to the Dean of Students, and said:

"I want to change my major."

"To what?"

"English."

"Why?"

"I want something safe."

The Dean of Students told me to wait 24 hours before filling in the paperwork. The next morning Dr. Wiest talked to me, and persuaded me to stay in Physics. There were many reasons, but one good reason was this: I could keep my job teaching Calculus, which I loved so much, and which provided me with money I needed to stay in school.

Generation Gap

2009-07-30T23:58:00.002+07:00

Sometimes I listen to old people -- people who have lived through a war, and they complain:

"this young generation is so spoiled -- all they care about is their computers, cars and TVs -- they don't understand that there is something more important in life."

I think I agree with them, but I also listen to the young people: "that old generation -- they are living on memories -- we don't care about war --there are more important things in life -- have you seen the new Megan Fox video?"

Back to the Salt Mine

2009-07-26T23:41:00.003+07:00

Lately I've been so relaxed -- so enjoying life.

Of course, family life is not without disputes, and I've been irritable at times, too.

But now: reality is sinking in. It is time for me to go back to work. Soon I will be slogging away at 11 or 12 hour days. I wish I didn't have to work; or, do I really wish that? Actually, I like being a teacher. Class is usually fun and it gives me something to think about. I'm thankful that I'm not a manual laborer -- digging salt out of the earth, in perpetual repetition.

But for now: it's back to the salt mine!

You gotta draw the line somewhere

2009-07-20T19:58:00.000+07:00

We are raising our boys to be Thai. They go to a Thai school, they respect their teachers, they wai their elders, etc. In fact, the household is Thai. We have a picture of the King (only the Buddha can be higher), wet bathroom floors, etc.
When we bought a new truck, we took it to the wat to get blessed by the monks, and the abbot finger-painted all sorts of Buddhist swirly things into the new cloth.
Upon hearing that, a British friend told me, "You're crazy -- I won't let 'em into my truck -- you gotta draw the line somewhere!"
Sometimes I have to grit my teeth. When I realized that both my boys like to eat fried insects, I decided just to grin and bear it.
Tonight we were eating at a pizzeria. Jason picked up the ketchup squirter, used both hands to swing it upside down, and aimed it at the middle of his slice.
"NO JASON!" I shouted. "YOU DON'T PUT KETCHUP ON PIZZA!"
You gotta draw the line somewhere!

Kwit - Teoh

2009-07-15T21:33:00.006+07:00

Today was our last day of Thai class. We talked a lot about Kwit - Teoh.

I told my teacher it's a both a Chinese word and a Chinese dish, but she got angry at me: "No!" she said, "it's typical Thai food!"

If you have never lived in Asia, maybe you don't know about rice noodle soup. It's delicious. Essentially, it's a Chinese food- but it has spread across Asia -- to Japan ( I think they call it "Koba"), to the Philippines, to Vietnam (I think they call it "Pho"), to Thailand, etc.

You can flavor it with whatever you like -- fish balls, pork, chicken, vegetables, whatever. The Chinese will eat anything with four legs, except a table.

The Chinese figured out how to make noodles out of rice about the same time they figured out how to make gunpowder.

Ooooohhhh, I'm getting so hungry, I need to stop blogging and go find some Kwit - Teoh.

Good Tourist, Bad Tourist

2009-07-13T21:32:00.005+07:00

It's amazing: the things you learn when you seriously try to learn Thai.

Since I am trying to learn Thai, I have been watching and listening to the TV. Poo has two favorite TV shows: Woman-to-Woman (ผู้หญิงถึงผู้หญิง) and 30 and Still Looking Great (30 Young แจ๋ว). The first show features 4 beautiful Thai women in their 20s chatting, gossiping about celebrities, and discussing fashion. The second show features 4 beautiful Thai women in their 30s chatting, gossiping about celebrities, and discussing fashion and skin-care products.

They are on the same channel, so sometimes I get all 8 beautiful women on TV at the same time. Poo always asks me the same question: "who do you think is the most beautiful?"

I always choose an older woman and say "Thai women get more beautiful as they get older", which seems to make her happy.

Today they were gossiping about foreigners, again. Apparently, there was a survey of Thai workers in the hotel industry which ranked good tourists and bad tourists.

The best tourists? There was no doubt: the Japanese. Why? Because they are polite, they tip well, and they don't complain.

They also liked Norwegians, Canadians, and Germans. Americans tip well, but they complain too much.

The worst tourists? . . . . .

Thais do not get an A+ for racism, so I thought they would pick on Arabs, Indians or Africans; or, if they were singling out white people, Russians.

But, no! The worst tourists are . . . . .

The French!

Why? Because they are rude, they don't tip and they don't speak English.

That shocked me, because I quite like the French.

Then I started thinking: wait a minute, there are only a few French tourists in Thailand, but the place is teeming with Brits. I'll bet those "French tourists" are actually Brits, using their schoolboy French to yell "Mon Dieu!" and "Merde!" at the hotel staff and killing two birds with one stone:

1st: they are getting by on the cheap (not tipping);

2nd: (more importantly from the British point of view): they are giving France a bad name!

My Teacher is Evil

2009-07-10T22:06:00.002+07:00

Every year, on the first day of school, the boys come home and Poo asks each of them: "your new teacher is nice, isn't she?"

I used to think that this was a question and the boys are free to respond as they see fit, but now I realize that Poo is just checking that they understand the system. There is only one acceptable answer: "yes, she is nice, soooooo nice."

In Thailand, all the teachers are nice. They are highly respected and we would never dare to criticize them. That's just the way it is -- it is a fact, like 1 + 1 = 2. My Thai teacher has a theory: women are teachers instead of men because women are nicer. Kindness is a quality of teachers just like bravery is a quality of soldiers, or speed is a quality of sprinters.

Today my teacher gave us heaps of homework. I came home and played with Jason for a while, but then I told him: "Jason, I can't play with you anymore -- I must do my homework. I have soooooo much homework, and it's soooooo hard -- my teacher is evil!"

Jason's eyes spread wide open. Then he looked nervously at Poo, turned back to me and declared, "me, too! I have soooooo much homework, and it's soooooo hard -- my teacher is evil!"

Poo threw her hands on her hips, and asked angrily: "Jason! Is your teacher evil or is she nice?"

Jason paused, looked at me, glanced at Poo, turned back to me with a sly grin and declared, "She's evil!"

Uh-oh. Maybe this is the beginning of the end -- the Americanization of Jason.

The Intricacies of Privacy

2009-07-09T22:55:00.001+07:00

There are no intricacies of privacy: the internet is based on love.

Nobody cares about what you, or I, or she, is doing, except the people who love us -- and, the CIA, and google. But to the CIA and google, we are just statistics, unless one of us happens to become the next Fidel Castro, or the next Bill Gates, and you and I both know THAT isn’t going to happen. So, share. Let the cyberworld see what we are doing, what we are feeling, and who we love.

And if some obnoxious guy comes along, some ex-boyfriend from the past, and he tries to claim our friendship, while bragging about how many cars he owns, BLOCK him. The beauty of the internet is: self-absorbed as he is, he will never know!

More Burger Smell, Please

2009-07-08T13:13:00.004+07:00

The other day a friend and I were walking along Sukhumvit Skywalk when we caught a cloud of Burger Smell wafting out of McDonald's.

I yelled "More Burger Smell, Please!" as my body gesticulated up and down with a slam-bang pumping motion, as if I was pumping a gigantic bicycle tire.

"Huh?" said my friend.

"Don't you know? At every McDondald's there's an undocumented worker -- here, probably some Burmese refugee fleeing civil war in his homeland -- whose only job it is to operate the Burger Smell Machine all day, to manually pump Burger Smell into the street."

"Really?" asked my friend

"Jing-jing!" I continued. "Of course, it's not real Burger Smell, just some chemical that McDonald's scientists developed--it smells a lot like burgers and triggers endorphins in your brain that make you crave a cheeseburger. So, if the Manager feels that customer numbers are low, she yells at the guy who pumps the Burger Smell Machine: More Burger Smell, Please!'"

"It's probably true!" chuckled my friend. "When I smelled that, I wanted to turn around and go to McDonald's."

I used to think that this story was just vegetarian folklore, since I first heard it from my friend Shannon, a vegetarian. But today Poo told me to go get McDonald's as a treat for the boys, who are confined to the condo because of swine flu. When I got on the return bus, I was carrying a bag full of burgers.

Soon I was embarrassed. The smell from the burger bag began to fill up the bus. Then, I noticed everybody on the bus was staring at me -- no, not at me -- at the burger bag.

Everybody on the bus was craving a cheeseburger!

Spelling on ESPN

2009-07-06T12:01:00.006+07:00

What a tennis match! I thought last year's Wimbledon final couldn't be beat. As Roddick said, "Roger deserves eveything he's got." The guy is incredibly hard-working, fit, technical, and mentally strong.

This morning I turned on ESPN hoping to see the tennis but instead it was the Scripps National Spelling Bee. There's another great thing about America.

Some of my friends get upset when spelling comes on ESPN, but I love it. I like the way they give you a minute to spell the word and then show it while the poor kid is still asking for alternate pronunciations.

"Wow! Indians are so smart!" was Poo's reaction.

"They're not Indian--they're American," I said. There goes that silly national pride again.

The words are obscure, but they're not too difficult. The Official Pronouncer Guy has a Ph.D. and he pronounces really well. Words like "nisus", "piqueur",
"humuhumunukunukuapuaa" and "alastor" are spelled like they're pronounced.

After I got three in a row correct, I said, "Hey I should go on this thing!"

Oops, I'm over 13 years old.

After I'm past 50, I will go for the National Senior Spelling Bee. That will give me something to do.

It's got to be easier than learning Thai!

Love and Hate

2009-07-05T20:34:00.002+07:00

When the former President of South Korea, Roh Moo-Hyun, committed suicide, he left a note that said: “Do not be too sad. Isn't life and death all a part of nature?” So true, life and death are the same, and so it is with Love & Hate.

My relationship with America is one of: Love & Hate. Let me list five things I love about the States:

Innovation: Americans love innovation. Their record of invention is stupendous.
The internet: essentially, an American invention: as Joi Ito says: the internet is based on love.
Obama: isn’t it wonderful that the son of an immigrant, a half-breed, through his intelligence is able to rise to the most powerful position in the world?
Jazz: I’m using this as a metaphor for African-American culture.
Thousands upon thousands of colleges and universities: in America, virtually everyone has the opportunity to get higher education.

However, I must also list five things I hate about America:

Bullying: why does the USA continuously bully third world countries?
Gun Violence: Americans are way too quick to use guns to solve their problems (sadly, I have just read about the demise of Steve McNair and about a serial killer in South Carolina).
The Police: in particular, police chases. Why do American cops insist on chasing “criminals” at high speeds without considering the numerous lives they endanger?
Bills and Fines: a regular working class American has almost no chance to save money, because of all the bills and fines she accumulates.
The Christian Right: this is a big, big, big, enormous problem.

So there it is: for America, I can think of 5 positives and 5 negatives. For Thailand, it would probably be 7 positives and 3 negatives.

I guess that’s why I live in Thailand.

USA

2009-07-05T09:01:00.004+07:00

I've been living outside of America for 9 years now, and they've probably been the best 9 years of my life. Most of that boils down to Poo and the boys, of course.

I'm not against America, though. I realize that, like any country, the United States has its good points and bad points. And I'm thankful that I was raised to think for myself.

Recently, my Thai teacher asked me, "do you like Michael Jackson?"

"No," I answered bluntly.

"What????? But you're American????"

Just because someone is American, that doesn't mean I have to like him. I don't like George Bush, either.

When I cheer for Brazil against the USA in women's soccer, I'm cheering for a soccer team, not a country. I don't like the arrogance of the USA team and their fans. Also, the Brazilians play with more style.

There are some times when I cheer for American teams, though. I cheer for the USA in men's cricket.

Unfortunately, we lost to Jersey.

Underdog

2009-07-04T21:36:00.003+07:00

I'm not a big fan of American sports: personally, if the USA plays Brazil in women's soccer, I cheer Brazil, and when the Big, Bad Russians played the USA during the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid in 1980, I cheered the Soviets. Unfortunately, we lost.

But I'm happy to see the Williams sisters so successful. In some ways, they remind me of Michael Jackson, except more grounded, literally. I like to see Black Americans succeed in areas where they are not expected to succeed, such as tennis, or golf or presidential politics. I like it when whites or Mexcians do well in basketball or football, too.

Tonight I'm cheering for Venus, again.

Polite Thai

2009-07-03T20:42:00.007+07:00

Asians are more aware of class than those of us from the Americas, where it is considered "cool" to be from the barrio or the ghetto. Indeed, today Serena Williams was bragging about being from Compton.

Leave it to Indians to impose a caste system on an alphabet, but the Thais were quick to follow: in Thai, we have "high-class", "middle-class", and "low class" consonants. Naturally, the low-class consonants are my favorites.

Also, there are different ways of speaking Thai, according to the status of the person you're speaking to. If you're talking to the king's ex-daughter-in-law-once-removed, you must use a special dialect that almost nobody understands. For simplicity, we call it "polite Thai."

At our school, they empahsize "polite Thai". They hate the common language, the Isaan dialect, which is spoken by the people who put rice on our plates.

Yesterday, in class we spent hours studying polite Thai: in particular, how to extend a polite invitation: to go on a date, to attend a wedding, etc. Fortunately, I was not the only boy in the room--there was one other, a cool Japanese guy, named Yamada. I was too shy to ask out one of the girls, so when it came my turn to speak, I turned to Yamada and asked:

"Khun Yamada-san, . . . come to Soi Cowboy with me??"

Soi Cowboy is a notorious red-light district in Bangkok, full of strip-joints, prostitutes, and go-go bars.

The teacher laughed so hard she had to rest her head on her desk.

That afternoon, I used my newfound skills to ask Poo to go dancing.

She said, "Huh?"

We went through my utterance, syllable by syllable, and finally deduced that I had said something like:

"Dearest Beloved, wouldst thou kindly give me the pleasure of accepting my sincere invitation to an occasion of dancing?"

"She asked me (in Thai): why don't you just say 'let's go dancing sometime!'?"

Uhhhhh. I had no answer. But now I understood why the teacher laughed so hard at my invitation to K. Yamada. I had said something like:

"My Good Sir, wouldst thou kindly give me the pleasure of accepting an invitation to an occasion at Soi Cowboy?"

Long Hair Dictionary

2009-07-02T22:12:00.002+07:00

The Thai consonants are all named after things, people or animals. A very common letter is moh maa, or "horse letter m". When I started learning Thai, I used to call it, by mistake, moh muu, or "pig letter m" -- a logical mistake since Thais eat a lot of pork, but I've never seen a horse in Thailand. Poo and Thun thought it was hysterical, and they have called the letter moh muu ever since.

Today Poo helped me with my Thai homework. This always makes her laugh because of my mispronunciations. For example, to say "ride a horse" in Thai is kee-maa. (with a flat tone and then a high tone). To say "dog shit" in Thai is kee-maa (with a high tone and then a rising tone). So, if I'm trying to say "ride a horse" I often say "dog shit" (or, if I get it half right: "horse shit" or "ride a dog") and this makes her laugh.

Today she was laughing as she helped me and poking fun at my pronunciations.

"Stop teasing me!" I told her. I get angry because instead of simply correcting me, she repeats what I mispronounce and giggles, so I get confused between the correct and incorrect pronunciations.

"OK," she said, "I'm serious now. How do you spell meu-wan-nee (yesterday)?

At the first consonant, I said, moh maa, (or "horse letter m").

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Are you sure it's not moh muu (or "pig letter m")? and she started laughing again.

POO!" I screamed at her, "STOP TEASING ME!! I'M TRYING TO LEARN THAI!!! I'M TRYING TO BE SERIOUS!!!!"

"OK, I'll be serious," she said. The next word on her list was samee (husband), but she said samee-kee-moho (angry-shit-husband).

I scratched my head, thought about it, and spelled it correctly.

"Next?" I said.

"Did you write down samee-kee-moho?" she asked, "let me see."

I showed it to her. I expected her to say, "very good!" but instead she laughed so hard that I had to quit studying.

Competition

2009-06-28T10:46:00.004+07:00

On my Facebook page, a few friends have commented on my efforts in Thai class. Pipe (who misspells Thai all the time, even though he’s Thai) and Mazlina (who’s studying Arabic this summer—her 4th or 5th language) have been nice, but Mickey called me a competitive old fart.

Maybe that’s true. In theory I'm against competition in learning, but growing up in the States it was deeply engraved into my brain. However, I think competition runs even deeper in Korean culture.

I went out to dinner with a Korean friend, and he explained a few things.

“These two Korean women in your Thai class,” he asked, “are they in their early 30s?”

“Yes,” I replied, “one is about 30, the other about 35.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “no boyfriends or husbands?”

“True,” I confirmed.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “do they talk about church a lot?”

“Yes,” I said, “and they read the Bible, too.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “they’re missionaries. They are given one year in Thailand to become fluent in Thai. At the end of the year, they take a test, a very hard test. If they fail, they go back to Korea as failures. If they pass, they go to rural Thailand and convert people to Christianity. That’s why you cannot beat them—for you this is a hobby, but for them, it is their life.”

There was a pause, then he continued:

“So there is no way you can beat them. NO WAY!”

That was Friday night. On Saturday, I spent ten hours studying Thai.

Feeling Better

2009-06-26T22:23:00.002+07:00

I am feeling better.

I want to thank my friends Pipe and Mazlina for enouraging me to learn a new language at my ripe old age!

If I failed a test, so what? Actually, I didn't fail, I passed (barely), and the teacher said I did "very good!" but I can't believe all the simple mistakes I made: why? because I was nervous?

Or, more likely, because my brain cells are not firing as quickly as they did when I was a teenager.

Still, it is fun to be a student again!

The Test

2009-06-25T21:15:00.003+07:00

Today I took the test. I think I passed, but I did not do as well as I would have liked.

The class is four hours, and today the first 3 hours were conversational Thai and the last hour was "THE TEST." During the first part, the other boys stayed home to study. There was a teaching intern, there, too, so I was the only boy with 6 girls. Fortunately, the conversation was about embassies, visas, police reports, and stuff I found useful. As the test apporoached, two of the other boys showed up (the Russian guy never made it).

The test was in two parts. I aced the first part, about consonant classes, tone rules, vowels, etc, which I simply memorized. Then came the part where the teacher read Thai aloud and we had to write down what she said. I made several errors (in particular, throwing random tone marks onto syllables which didn't require them) but I think I'm OK. Still, after the test the teacher told us how to spell some of the most difficult words, which I got wrong, and one of the Korean girls threw her arms up into the air and exclaimed "Woo -Hoooo!"

I found that very annoying.

Intensive Thai

2009-06-24T21:03:00.004+07:00

Sorry I have not posted in a while . . . a lot has been going on . . . it has been a sad time for our family, but not terribly sad . . . we still have a lot of love in this family.

Also, I have been taking an intensive Thai course: 4 hours a day of class and then another 2 or 3 hours of homework! The students in my class are mostly Korean or Japanese. There are 4 women and 4 men. The women are very good students, and the men, well, we try!

The teacher, of course, is a woman. Virtually all teachers in Thailand are women. She is strict and I worry that she will beat my knuckles with a ruler if my letters are not lined up properly. She likes to talk about girly things and gossip about her husband. Fair enough: she and her husband leave for work at the same time and return at the same time, but when they return: she has to clean the house, make dinner and take care of the kids, while he watches TV!

It is eye-opening. It makes me realize why women are out-performing men (or, girls are outperforming boys) in virtually every school and every university in almost every course of study in every country in the world.

Every day we sit in a box (the classroom) and talk. The women seem to love it. The men are restless. Yesterday the talk was all about hairstyles. Today it was about weddings. When we get to shopping, I'm going to walk out.

We have scheduled breaks. I go to stretch my legs and drink a coffee. But the women (two Koreans, a Japanese and a Taiwanese) sit in their chairs and talk some more--practicing their Thai! How can anyone sit in a chair for four hours in a row? Those women are excellent students and I admire their self-discipline. But I'm going crazy.

Tomorrow we have a big test. I better stop blogging and get back to studying!

The judge who saved baseball

2009-06-10T00:42:00.002+07:00

When Obama rattles on about "the American Dream" I want to vomit, because I think he is forgetting about the many, many people living the American Nightmare.

However, I do like his Supreme Court nominee, Sonia Sotomayor. I watched his introduction of her, and I got choked up. Maybe it's because, deep in my heart, I am a New Yorker. But Obama was good and she was even better.

Sotomayor is a big-time public figure so she must report tax-forms, financial disclosures, stock earnings, etc. That is something I am too disorganized to do. But she put it simply and beautifully: "it's easy, if you don't have money, then you don't have anything to report!"

Changing values

2009-06-07T13:41:00.003+07:00

Night before last, I went to a delightful dinner with a student who just graduated, his family, and his math teachers. At dinner I argued with the student, Tagore, about which city has the longest subway system. He thought London but I suggested Tokyo. He pulled a Nokia E-61 out of his pocket and began to google.

"You know, Tagore," I told him, "my generation would consider it rude to start surfing the internet on your phone at a dinner party . . . but I'm taking my values from your generation these days . . . " and I pulled out my Samsung I-780 and double-checked him.

We were both wrong--it was New York.

Last night I had a wonderful dinner with Poo and my famiy and during the dinner Poo commented on how loud the restaurant was.

"Everywehre in Thailand is loud," I said, "that's why my next contract will be in Japan. The Japanese understand the importance of quietude."

"Do you know which country has the highest suicide rate?" asked Poo.

"I think it's Finland or Norway."

"No," said Poo, "Japan."

"No, I know Japan has a problem, but in those northern countries they get no daylight in the winter and they get depressed," I informed her.

"No, I think it's Japan . . . Japan or Korea," she said.

"There's no point arguing about it . . . I can just google it!" and I pulled out the Samsung.

We were both wrong--it was Lithuania.

Busy for Nothing

2009-05-31T22:28:00.002+07:00

Tonight, about 5:30, Poo came and said, "I will cook your dinner now." She had bags of fresh food from the market.

"Oh, no, Poo!" I said, "I forgot to tell you--I will go to dinner with my friend!"

"OK," she said.

So, I went to dinner with my friend, also a teacher. We had fun, and, as usual, the conversation turned to complaints about work. He summed up the problems in three words:

"Busy for nothing. They like to keep us busy for nothing."

It's so true, but it affects students more than teachers. Students (and teachers) are given assignments for no other reason than to give us assignments. There are so many homework assignments, so many tasks, that really mean nothing, that are no use whatsoever, but why are they given? To keep us busy. People in power like to monopolize our time. Why? Because they have the power to do so.

While I was gone, Poo cleaned my room. Now that is busy for something!

Segregation

2009-05-29T23:49:00.003+07:00

In our neighborhood, we have many ethnically Chinese people, mostly Thai-Chinese.

In our neighborhood, there are two elementary schools. One is populated mostly by Thai-Chinese--light-skinned people, we could call them white people, but that would be misleading. This school puts on the Chinese Opera every month, and our boys go to watch, to eat puffy sweets, and to be entertained by the dragons and costumes and fake sword play behind white curtains.

The other school is populated by brown people--ethnic Thais. Poo shopped around for a school for Thun and Jason, and she could have chosen either school. Naturally, she chose the brown-skinned school, which is a very good school.

"Why did you choose THAT school?" I accused her, "is it because you are not Chinese?"

"No!" she said, "it has nothing to do with Chinese. But the school I chose has a nice playground."

Sentimental

2009-05-27T20:31:00.003+07:00

I'm feeling very sentimental today. I was saddened by the news of the death of Mike Tyson's 4-year-old daughter, Exodus. I've always loved Mike, and my heart goes out to his family. Perhaps it is because in our house there is also a 4-year-old, an exercise machine and a jump rope (which I never use).

Jason had his first toothache. This affected me and Poo. To us, Jason has always represented that which is pure, unblemished and spring-like. So, when he had tooth decay, we suddenly realized the Jason, too, is caught up in this cycle of life and death, that he is decaying, and that one day, he too will die.

Poo took him to the dentist. Jason was excited. He declared, "Jason is tough! I will not cry!" 10 minutes later, when the dentist was poking at his cavities, he was bawling.

The dentist filled the primary cavity and told Poo, "he has three more cavities--you must make an appointment to return."

I told Poo: "What's the point? Those cavities aren't hurting him and his baby teeth will fall out in a couple of years, anyway! It's just a scam for the dentist to make some more money!"

"I know!" said Poo, "and the dentist is so expensive--she charges 500 Baht ($15) per cavity!"

Sticks, Crayons and Lego

2009-05-24T22:27:00.003+07:00

One of my friends, a North American woman, suggested that my boys should not be playing with computers so frequently. She says that computers are bad for boys' brains--that the different hemispheres don't develop equally, or something like that.

Is that true? Honestly, I don't know. But I always fall back on my mother's credo: "I just want you to be happy!" Fortunately, that works well in Thailand, even with my wannabe-feminist wife.

The boys LOVE to play with computers. Poo agrees with my friend and wishes the boys would instead play nicely with sticks, crayons and Lego. If I were a natural man, rubbing sticks and stones to make fire, and bathing in the fresh, clean stream, maybe I could criticize them too, but I am also a city boy, and I love computers.

So, bring on Counterstrike!

Poem for Jason

2009-05-23T21:54:00.003+07:00

Today Mommy refused to play with your battery-powered back-hoe
She said, “Mommy is not a child. Mommy is a beautiful woman!”
She grabbed her chin, tilted her head, and laughed.
You didn’t get the joke, but I did.
I cannot fathom how beautiful you are . . .
Your skin is soft, your teeth are white, but most of all, your smile is uncorrupted
Life is simple, you like to play, and you love Mommy and Daddy.
Today you turned on the machine and told me to hold you,
We raised our arms together, anticipating the cool air,
You were remembering when you were two, not so long ago,
And I will remember . . . for the rest of my life.

The Best Part of Thailand

2009-05-21T21:57:00.002+07:00

"Food is the best part of Thailand," says my friend Dave, "and since it's the center of their culture, that's no small thing."

Ironically, Thais rent apartments without kitchens. Why? Because in every soi there are about 10 or 20 vendors selling food. You can get Pat Kapow Gai, or Som Tom Thai, or Kwit Teeyo Moo on almost any street corner. More than any place I've ever been, food is easily and cheaply available.

"Thai people, we don't like to cook indoors," says Poo, "We like to use lots of spices, garlic and peppers, and the smell gets everywhere, in the curtains, in the sofa, in your clothes, ... ". That's fine in a country where the temperature is always warm, or hot, or very hot, or hotter than hell ...

Think about this: Poo can feed the family on 100 Baht (that's less than three dollars) just by going to the soi and buying our favorites, already cooked and twisted neatly into little plastic bags. So why go shopping for food at a supermarket?

I know! She needs to buy my CHEESE!

Please, no war

2009-05-17T22:55:00.003+07:00

Today I watched an anti-war video with Thun. It showed the horrors that the Iraqi people are facing.

I want my boys to know this: family is important; peace and security are important--please, don't let some idiot convince you that for the sake of "the nation" or "the race" or "the cause" that you must march off to war.

My father was a very smart man, but he marched off to war. Fortunately, he was sent to Italy and he did not perish. He stayed alive to provide the sperm cell that created me.

I don't want my boys to fight a war. We are so happy now--let's keep it like that.

No Laundry

2009-05-11T21:33:00.002+07:00

I haven't done my laundry in a week. Oops, that's a lie. I should say: I haven't done my laundry in 7 years, but Poo hasn't done my laundry in a week.

Poo and the boys are home now, and I'm so happy to see them. However, they haven't been in Bangkok for a week and the dirty laundry has been piling up (not to mention the old cups of Mama Noodles!).

Today I went to work. Without clean laundry I went unshaven, unkempt, uncombed and wearing a scrappy old pair of jeans and a long-lost t-shirt.

The teachers said:

"You look like you just came from Afghanistan!"
"Here's 10 baht, go buy yourself a shave!"
"Have you just come from Soi 7?"

The students said:

"Mr Mick, I'm so happy to see you!"
"Did I tell you about the gears problem on the exam?"
"I have you for History next year--I will be the best student you've ever had!"
"I'm ready for Further Math!"

That's why I like being a teacher--so I can talk to fun people, students, and I don't have to talk to boring people, other teachers!

Fight

2009-05-03T09:32:00.000+07:00

Blogging from phone. Going to watch Pacquiao fight. What a life! My sister Kate would be disguted: boxing is savage! True, but it's fun to watch!

250 Palm Trees

2009-05-01T11:39:00.005+07:00

Today is May Day and the lovely beach resort was overrun by Thai holiday-makers, so we have returned to the country house, which makes Poo happy because "I have lots of work to do."

Today's job is to plant 250 palm trees (for oil), which should become profitable in three or four years. Each hole has to be 50 cm x 50 cm x 50 cm, and they must be 9 meters apart.

That means we need to displace 31.25 cubic meters of dirt--that's practically a swimming pool! Ouch.

The plants in the foreground are today's job. In the background is my house. Note the CD dangling in the upper right corner--that was one of my favorite jazz CDs before Jason destroyed it and I threw it away. Poo's father retrieved it from the trash and tied it to the tree as a light reflector. Why? To scare the elephants at night!

Future of Work?

2009-04-28T16:02:00.003+07:00

I am blogging from the poolside, thanks to the wireless at our beach resort. It is mid-afternoon and the sun is too strong to go to the beach, so the boys are swimming in the breezy, shady pool and I am "watching them."

Actually, I am doing some work, too: keeping an eye on my g-mail and exchanging emails with people who want my advice. Is this the future of work? I hope so.

Uh-oh. It's starting to rain.

Not too cool

2009-04-26T14:31:00.002+07:00

The heat wave has finally broken. Today is cloudy and breezy and absolutely lovely. Poo is out in the fields, planting pineapples, or corn, or whatever, and since it wasn't too hot, she even made Thun work in the fields! She didn't dare ask me or Jason, though . . . . Jason would hurt himself with the tools, and . . . . . so would I.

I have been complaining about the heat so much, that Dr. Poo has diagnosed my problem: I have a hot heart! (jai rawn). That's what makes me hot all the time, and that's why it's still a little bit too hot to make me work in the fields.

So, I want it to stay cool, but not too cool.

So What

2009-04-25T13:08:00.004+07:00

Thailand is experiencing a heat wave. The other day it was 39 C in Bangkok (that's about 102 F), so I escaped to the country house where it only gets to about 35 C (that's about 95 F).

Last night, around about midnight, it was too hot to sleep, so Poo and I were just lying in bed watching the fan go around.

"Put on some music." said Poo.

I fumbled though the CDs: rock, reggae, Mozart???

"No, no, no!" said Poo, "Mozart gives me a headache. I want music with no singing."

"Ahh, you want jazz." I said, and I put on Miles Davis.

We were listening to "So what?"

"Who is the king of Jazz?" asked Poo.

"I don't know." I was listening to the music.

"Who is the most popular in Jazz?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe Miles."

"No, really, I want to know: who is the King of Jazz?"

"Miles Davis, OK?"" I was irritated now. "So be quiet--you are listening to the King of Jazz!"

A few minutes later we were listening to "Freddie Freeloader."

"Do they ever have singing in Jazz?" asked Poo.

"Of course, you know--Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald."

"Oooohhh," said Poo (in Thai): "when those Black women start singing, it's so incredible--I like it so much!"

I cracked up laughing.

"Why are you laughing? said Poo, "are you laughing at me?"

"No, I'm laughing because what you say is so true and obvious, but I never heard anybody say it like that!"

Jesse Jackson, 1988

2009-04-23T22:45:00.006+07:00

Tomorrow Jesse Jackson is coming to Bangkok.

In 1988, I was the unofficial campaign manager for Jesse Jackson in Los Alamos County, New Mexico. Actually, I was the only person from Los Alamos who attended Jesse's rally in Santa Fe, so they asked me, "do you want to be the campaign manager for Los Alamos?" and I said "sure." They gave me some stickers and pamphlets and off I went.

Los Alamos is the birthplace of the Atomic Bomb and a severely right-wing town. I went door to door campaigning for Jesse. One Mexican girl felt sorry for me, so she invited me into her house and gave me some lemonade. Otherwise, people pretty much slammed their doors in my face.

That year, Jesse did pretty well in Michigan, but not so well in Los Alamos. I think he got about 5 votes. Except for my efforts, he probably would have received only 2 or 3.

Checkpoint Charlie Museum

2009-04-21T22:52:00.004+07:00

When I was 11 or 12 I lived in Berlin. One of the highlights was visiting the Checkpoint Charlie Museum.

There was a rich guy, an East Berliner with a Porsche, who dreamed of going to the West (Of course! He was rich!). The Berlin Wall had been constructed, but there was a gate, which the important people passed through. The rich guy looked at the gate, which was guarded by a horizontal steel barrier and some Soviet/East German soldiers. The steel barrier was a post, lifted up and down when the important people passed through it. The rich guy measured the height of the horizontal post and realized that his Porsche, if he removed the roof and the windshield, was lower than the steel post. So he removed the roof and the windshield from his Porsche.

Then, bravely, he got into the driver's seat, stepped on the pedal, ducked his head and at full speed drove under the post. The soldiers shot into his car (like Sondhi's) but he made it!

In the end, he lived the life of luxury, and decadence, of West Berlin, and his car, full of bullet holes, was exhibited at the Checkpoint Charlie Museum, to thrill children like me.

After that, the Soviets added dangling steel strips to their posts, to prevent this sort of escape.

But that guy was a genius: while everybody else was trying to figure out how to get OVER the wall, he thought of a way to get UNDER it!

Becoming a History Teacher

2009-04-20T18:59:00.004+07:00

Beginning in August, I will be a History Teacher. I'm excited and it's going to be fun, for me anyway; hopefully my students will like it, too.

At first I thought, "no problem, I took a lot of History courses--I read a lot of history books!" Then I started reading more closely and I realized how much I don't know, how much I've forgotten, and how much the theories have changed since I studied history 20+ years ago!

So I've been reading books like crazy. Currently, I'm reading an excellent book: Paris, 1919 by Margaret Macmillan.

Every day I'm stuffing more facts into my brain--OMG: names, dates, places, Polish communists, Abyssinian warriors, Moro insurrections--you name it! The only problem is: my brain is already full. I've stuffed so much crap into it over the years that there is no more disk space!

So I'm forgetting stuff just as fast as I'm learning it. Who knows what? Mostly mathematics, I suppose. But I'm afraid that one day I will wake up and realize I have forgotten how to tie my shoes.

Fortunately, I live in Thailand and every day I wear Crocs. Not the real Crocs, the fake ones that cost 100 Baht.

Half-breeds

2009-04-19T01:33:00.007+07:00

The news from Thailand isn't encouraging, so let's try something light:

I love half-breeds.

News story: when asked about the new Presidential pooch, Obama said, "we wanted to get a mutt, you know, like me . . . "

He was hoping for laughter, but he got none.

He and Michelle couldn't get a mutt, because of their daughter's allergies. Instead, they settled on a full-breed Portuguese Water Dog, and it's ugly as hell.

Next news story: an American journalist is jailed in Tehran. One look tells me she is something special . . . half Persian and half Japanese??? How beautiful!

I hope this world becomes a better place for "half-breeds", who, like Obama, seem to be a step ahead of the rest of us.

Maybe it's genetics.

Land of Smile

2009-04-17T21:59:00.004+07:00

We are back in Bangkok now. Yesterday there were about 5 soldiers with automatic rifles on our corner. Today there are about 20, and they are talking on their gigantic radios, and looking stern and serious, presumably because of the attempted assassination of Sonthi, a leader of the Yellow Mob.

Yesterday I just looked down and walked past the soldiers gravely. "I feel so sorry for them," I told Poo, "wearing those multi-layered camo uniforms when it is so HOT!"

Today I smiled at them. The oldest amongst them not only smiled back, but he reached out to pinch my arm. It's a bit scary when a man with a uniform and a rifle reaches out to pinch you, but, fortunately, he was wearing a big smile.

"Thai people, we like to do that," said Poo, as she pinched my arm.

"Yes, I know, I see people pinching Jason's arms and his cheeks every day."

"But he is a 4-year-old boy!" I protested, "I AM A GROWN MAN!"

Molotov Cocktails

2009-04-14T10:10:00.004+07:00

Fortunately, we are at the country house, but the violence that turned Bangkok into an "urban war zone" (Bangkok Post) happened just outside our apartment in Din Daeng.

On TV, I saw my neighbors yelling at the red-shirted idiots and then cheering when the soldiers came in to clear them out. I would have been cheering, too. The red mob was throwing Molotov cocktails at my neighbors--simple people in Din Daeng flats who want a peaceful neighborhood. We're lucky they didn't set the neighborhood on fire.

I don't support either the yellow mob or the red mob, but like my neighbors I want safe streets for my children to play in and clear passage between home, school and work.

This red mob is disgusting. It doesn't surprise me that they attacked peaceful Muslim vendors. They are drunken rabble being paid by Thaksin's henchmen to run riot. At least the yellow mob didn't drink alcohol--with Gen. Chamlong in charge, it was strictly forbidden.

The red mob's main weapon is the Molotov cocktail--petrol bombs in brown bottles. I have noticed the Molotov cocktails come in two sizes: the larger uses a Beer Chang bottle, and the smaller uses a lao kao (rice whiskey) bottle.

The Little Monk: Day 13

2009-04-11T16:19:00.002+07:00

We went to see the little monks, or as Poo calls them "the little monsters", on Day 13 of their 15-day retreat. Of the 10 or 12 that started, only 5 were left. Waking up at 03:00 for chanting and meditation doesn't sit well with some 10-year-olds, but Thun is hanging in there.

When I travel to these wats (Buddhist temples) in rural Thailand, I always try to remain silent. I think it is a proper way to behave, and besides, if I talk I get peppered with annoying questions, which always turn into a good laugh at my expense.

Thun is way-too-skinny and covered with bug bites. A little bit of stubble is starting to sprout up where his eyebrows used to be, and he has a scab on his lower lip.

"What happened to your lip?" asked Poo.

"I was playing with fire when I was supposed to blow out the candles."

"Did the monk hit you?' asked Poo.

"No," laughed Thun.

Poo frowned; to her, playing with fire deserves a good smack.

I broke my silence with one word: "Good!"

HDMI port

2009-04-07T22:15:00.004+07:00

I bought a new laptop: 17,500 Baht (that's less than $500, I think). I almost bought a more expensive one, 25,000 Baht, but then I noticed it didn't have an HDMI port.

"WAIT!" I told the salesman, "it doesn't have an HDMI port. I need an HDMI port!"

Of course, I don't really know what an HDMI port is, and I have no idea if I will ever use it, but I thought it important. Why? Who knows?

I thought he would try to sell me a more expensive computer, but no! he pointed to the computer 30% cheaper and said, "well then, I recommend that one, it has an HDMI port!"

OK, I'll take it!

Master Teacher

2009-04-05T23:42:00.003+07:00

These past few days, I have had the honor and the joy of spending time with a true Master Teacher--Mr Ananda.

In just about every measure, Ananda has accomplished ten times what I have accomplished. He has supervised 150 Extended Essays with a grade of A; me, not yet 15. I have about 30 ex-students as Facebook friends; after a few days he had 300.

"Wow! Ananda, that's a lot" I told him.

"Hee - hee, Mick," he chuckled. "I have been teaching for 40 years. Some of my ex-students are retired now! When I first started teaching in Ethiopia, the students were older than I was! The school was so cold, and the boys and girls cuddled together, two to a blanket, and told me: sir, please don't look this way during the lesson!"

From Ethiopia, he went on to teach in Sudan--and then, 8 more countries.

Since I first met him, he has been a mentor, a teacher, and a big brother to me.

Now he is retiring as the Curriculum Director at a very prestigious school. They have an IB average of 38.5.

"Wow, Ananda! How do you do it?"

"Mick, the key to teaching these very good students that we have in international schools, is to rid the students, and the teachers, of all unnecessary work. Give them the freedom to be creative."

Those are very wise words.

My Son, The Little Monk

2009-04-03T00:04:00.004+07:00

Thun is a monk! We say he is a nen: a novice monk. His head and eyebrows are shaved.

I love that boy so much. 6 years ago he came into my life. I was the boyfriend of his mother. Not two weeks later he asked me: "Can I call you Daddy?"

What a simple, beautiful and very brave question. I have learned so much from him. I have learned about love and trust.

Since then he has studied me closely. He knows that I love books and that I love Buddha. He looked at my pictures from Lumbhini very carefully. Now, as a 10-year-old, he reads a lot. But this was completely out of the blue.

When he told us he wanted to be a monk, Poo and I looked at each other:

"Is this your idea?"

"No! is this your idea?"

No, it was his idea! I think he wants to make his parents happy. Now he is in the wat (temple) battling the mosquitoes and extreme heat for 15 days. We went to visit him yesterday. Of course, his orange robes kept slipping off his shoulder. Fortunately, there are 10 other boys, about his age, for Thun to play with. He said that waking up at 3 AM is OK, and he does meditation, but one time he fell asleep during meditation.

They eat only once per day. Poor Thun is too skinny already. After 15 days, he will look like a child from Darfur. The parents bring drinks, so the boys have an unlimited supply of milk, Coke and Fanta Orange, which they love.

"Can we bring you anything," I asked Thun, "some milk, or some orange juice, or a blanket?"

"Daddy, I need only one thing, . . . . . , a water gun."

I was shocked: "You are a MONK, you cannot ask for a GUN!"

"It's not for killing," he pointed out, "just for playing! If I stay the whole 15 days, I will be here for Songkran (Thai Water Festival), and Daddy, we all want to play Songkran!"

His logic was hard to refute, so I looked to Poo for support.

"Don't look at me," she laughed, "he is your son!"

A Story

2009-03-29T21:14:00.003+07:00

Whew! That was exhausting! I spent 5 days at work. How will I ever steel myself for another 2 years at work, beginning in August?

Alex asked me to tell a story: "You know," he said, "one of those meaning-of-life stories." So, here goes:

Many people ask me why my boys do not attend an international school. The reasons are many, mostly involving language and their mother, in short: mother-tongue issues. But there is something else: when Thun comes home from school, he immediately goes to the balcony and washes the dishes. Then he mops the floor. He sees this as normal and he never complains. If he attended an international school, he would lose this value which I think important. I told this to my friend and he exclaimed:

Of course, even I had to do that in the Army. We had to clean the toilets. We cleaned the toilets with brushes, trying to keep a safe distance. Then we had a new recruit: a real country bumpkin from the South. So we told him to clean the toilets. Amazingly, he did it with his hands, his bare hands! We were shocked as we watched him scrape the nasty parts with his fingernails. When he was finished the sergeant came. The sergeant inspected the toilets and then said: "In my 20 years in the Army, I have never seen such clean toilets!"

From then, we also cleaned the toilets in the manual style. But, we used rubber gloves, you know, the long rubber gloves that go up to your elbow.

Reading & Writing

2009-03-20T12:04:00.002+07:00

I'm just enjoying the life of leisure now, chiefly reading and writing. I should be gardening or cleaning the house, or something productive like that, but I prefer my books.

I'm reading Dreadnought, which the Tagoreler lent to me. It's 900 pages of pre-WWI history, but i'st hugely entertaining. The author, Robert K Massie, brings the characters to life.

I'm writing another article for on online magazine for teachers, iteachnet. I wrote one a month ago, and a few people seem to like it, probably because I gossip about the modern student:

http://www.iteachnet.org/mickpurcellpayingattentiontoattentionwebzine2feb2009

Alternating Child Care

2009-03-18T13:37:00.002+07:00

Now Poo and I alternate taking care of the boys. One day, I take them; the next, she takes them.

My philosophy is: life is short and sweet, so you should enjoy it. With me, the boys get pillow fights, ice cream, cartoons and a trip to the internet shop to play computer games. As Poo constantly points out, with me there are no rules.

Poo's philosophy is: life is hard; children need to be prepared for the hardships. So, with her, they get dragged out into the fields where they toil under the blazing sun, pointlessly pounding spades and hoes into the hard, dry earth. Amazingly, Poo reports, they have fun and seem to think it's like going to the park.

Still, they would rather be with Dad.

Three seasons

2009-03-16T14:30:00.002+07:00

In Thailand we have three seasons; according to the Thais, there is the "rainy season" (6 months: Mid May - Mid November), the "cool season" (3 months: mid-November to Mid-February), and the "hot season" (3 months, mid-February - mid-May).

I prefer to think of them as : Hot & Wet, Hot & Dry, and Damn Hot!

Right now we're in the middle of Damn Hot! The boys have their summer holiday, so we're at the country house. Fortunately, since we're up a little bit in elevation, the nights are cool enough. But in the daytime, I just drink ice water and hope and pray that Poo doesn't ask me to go work in the fields.

Fungus

2009-03-14T13:50:00.002+07:00

Every month Poo gives me a foot spa--she takes care of my feet. She insists on it--to her it's basic hygiene. First she makes me soak them in hot water for 30 minutes. Then she washes them, scrapes them, trims the nails, and removes all the funky stuff.

"Why are your toes so close together?" she likes to ask me.

"Because I grew up wearing shoes!" I tell her proudly. "You grew up barefoot--that's why your toes are so spread out."

"It's good to have toes like mine," she says, "because fungus can't live there. But fungus likes to live in between your toes."

Jason was watching me soak my feet one day, so he decided to join me. He stuck his bare feet into the same foot bath and enjoyed the warm water.

While I was in Japan, Jason had a problem. When I returned, Poo accused me: "You gave him foot fungus!" I laughed.

"No, I'm serious, it's a big problem," she continued, "the teacher called from school--he keeps taking off his shoes and socks and itching his feet."

In Thailand, nothing could be worse.

Last night Poo told the boys to go to sleep and she was coming to sleep with me. "No, Mommy!" said Jason, "don't sleep with Daddy! You will get foot fungus and your feet will itch!"

Hitler is Dancing

2009-03-13T10:14:00.003+07:00

I'm back in BKK and my face is healing. The scab on my upper lip looks just like Hitler's mustache. Thun was the first to notice it, and soon he and Poo were teasing me mercilessly, calling me "Mr Hitler" and giving me the Nazi salute.

I got tired of the joke and I got a little angry, "Stop it!" I yelled, "it's not funny--Hitler is not a joke, so cut it out!"

"Look, Thun!" Poo chuckled, "Hitler is angry!"

Later we were watching Slumdog Millionaire. For some reason, while a song was playing, I did a little jig.

"Look, Mommy!" laughed Thun, "Hitler is dancing!"

My Ugly Face

2009-03-10T06:41:00.003+07:00

I'm back in Tokyo now and tonight I fly back to Bangkok. In about 24 hours I will be complaining about the heat and humidity again, but right now I'm cold.

I'm always happy to fly back to Bangkok., but especially this time because of my appearance I cannot have any more fun in Japan. Last night I fell on my face and I look like I've been in a pub brawl. The injuries are not serious but they look bad. In Thailand, I would be proud of such injuries and probably make up a good story to go with them. But Japan is different. To go out, you must look your best. To be polite, I should stay out of public so people don't have to see my ugly face.

From Hood 2 Up

2009-03-08T07:38:00.002+07:00

If you're ever in Hiroshima, I highly recommend a pub called From Hood 2 Up. Too highly, in fact, as the patrons there kept buying me shots of tequila.

The patrons are self-styled Japanese gangstas, with piercings, studs and tattoos, wearing Obama T-shirts, LA baseball caps and La Cosa Nostra hoodies. If I had not noticed that Japanese people are very nice, I might have been intimidated. The young gangstas kept buying me shots because, as they said, "you are the same age as my father!" I especially liked the dreadlocked bartender, Taka, who showered me with gifts and invitations. He had a foreign currency collection, and I contributed an Indian 500-rupee note to it. When he looked at the note and saw the picture of Gandhi, he jumped up and down with delight, shouting, "non-violence! non-violence!"

These are the meanest and hardest young punks from the streets of Hiroshima.

City of Peace

2009-03-07T07:44:00.003+07:00

I am in love with the City of Hiroshima.

You gotta love a city that has dedicated itself to peace--the city center is Peace Park, the main attraction is the Peace Museum, the main street is Peace Boulevard, etc. All around there are symbols of peace--flowers, paper cranes, statues of weeping mothers grasping their children, etc. Since the city was completely destroyed 64 years ago, it was rebuilt according to a plan, and the cornerstone of the plan was to make Hiroshima a City of Peace.

But there are also reminders of the past--especially the before/after photographs. There is also a weeping willow--this willow is really weeping. It survived the blast--barely. Now it is in two parts: the old part that is dying, and which the city is desperately trying to keep alive, and the new part which is budding and thriving.

Please Give Me Some Water

2009-03-05T18:59:00.003+07:00

It was bright and sunny this morning, so I spent 3 hours riding a too-small bicycle around Hiroshima. It was great fun.

Eventually, it turned gray and drizzly, and I found myself in the Memorial Peace Museum. The exhibits and photographs were intense--I found myself sobbing. I was the only fool in the whole museum crying--the stylish Japanese women were staring at me--that's an improvement. Usually, they never even glance at me.

I don't know why I cry so easily.

At 8:15 AM on August 6, 1945, many citizens of Hiroshima were walking to work on a bright and sunny day. A plane flew overhead, and a few pedestrians noticed: something is dropped from the sky! They looked, and gawked, and pointed as the parachutes opened, and then BOOM! they were dead. The A-bomb had exploded.

2 kilometers away, the survivors were staggering away from Hiroshima. They had been burned so badly they asked only one thing:

"PLEASE, WATER, WATER! PLEASE GIVE ME SOME WATER!"

You would think they would be thinking: "OMG, my skin is peeling off!" or: "OMG, blood is oozing out of my eyes!" or: "OMG, my mother just died!" but, no: all they could think about was water.

One soldier had come to help them. His superior officer had instructed him: "Don't give them water--if they drink water they will die of shock."

"Please, please! give me some water!" pleaded one victim.

"No!" said the soldier, "if I give you water, you will die."

"Please, soldier, I don't care if I die, just please give me some water!"

Shinkansen

2009-03-04T12:54:00.002+07:00

This morning I took the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Hiroshima. I think it is one of the fastest trains in the world; it was one of the original bullet trains. It goes from Tokyo to Hiroshima in less than 4 hours, even with 6 stops--that's fast.

Japanese society is incredibly well organized. Travel is expensive, but so easy! I told the hotel I expected to be here 5:00 or 6:00 pm. Instead I arrived at 2:25.

Now I'm waiting for my room.

Weekend in Tokyo

2009-03-02T19:24:00.002+07:00

I spent the weekend in Tokyo; it was good fun.

Tokyo is amazing for all the little nooks and crannies and things that make you say, "huh?" It's the largest metropolitan area in the world, but it's amazing how many empty spaces there are--like a sculpture park with no people, full of sculptures of naked people in the pseudo-French-Italian style.

Still, I'm homesick. Tomorrow is Thun's birthday, and really I should be there. My mother sent him a present, and he thought it came from me.

"No, it's from your grandmother, Khun Ya Sally!" said Poo.

"No, it's from Dad," said Thun.

"No, it's from Khun Ya Salleeeeee!" insisted Poo.

"NO! IT'S FROM DAD!" insisted Thun.

That makes me feel sad.

Ten things I like about Japan

2009-02-25T20:13:00.003+07:00

I'm still lonely and missing Thailand, but let's talk about what I like about Japan:

the internet is fast (really fast--like 10 times faster than the States)

the toilets (if you've never been seated on a Japanese toilet--this is something to do before you die)

jazz (the japanese love jazz, in fact, they love lots of black cutlure: brazilian football, hip-hop, african dance, etc-- they are the "avant-garde" of asia)

ergonomic pillows (with instructions!)

steam-proof mirrors (amazing!)

cars stop for pedestrians (the hallmark of a civilized country)

the bicycles (fashionable and old-school, retro bikes, very popular)

rapid transit (a bit expensive, but you can get from anywhere to anywhere in urban japan)

the taxis--1980s Toyotas with automatic doors (a brilliant combination of old and new--Japan!)

the parks (nobody is in them (weekdays) because everybody is working! so they are sooooo peaceful!)

Yokohama blues

2009-02-24T20:06:00.002+07:00

Actually, the title should say: "Yokohama grays . . ."

Yokohama is very gray. Today, I neither saw the sun nor a hint of blue in the sky. It was cold & rainy. The people don't wear colorful clothes; it's black, or black & white, or dark gray. Business attire. The favorite car color is gray. The buildings are mostly light gray, or beige, or dark gray, or tan, or off-white.

I went to the Yokohama History Museum, which was interesting: lots of old, graying, photographs of the old fishing village and the legend of Commodore Perry.

Visually, it's much different than Bangkok which has loud pink taxis.

In fact, Bangkok is much louder than Tokyo/Yokohama in every possible way.

Yokohama

2009-02-23T20:10:00.002+07:00

Ⅰ have been out of Tha飯いいイイｉｌａｎｄ　ｆｏｒ　１２　ｈｏｕｒｓ　ａｎｄ　Ｉ‘ｍ　ａｌｒｅａｄｙ　ｈｏｍｅｓｉｃｋ　ａｎｄ　ｌｏｎｅｌｙ　ａｎｄ　ｔｉｒｅｄ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅｓｅ　ｋｅｙｂｏａｒｄｓ．
Ｏｈ　ｗｅｌｌ－－ｌｏｏｋ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｒｉｇｈｔ　ｓｉｄｅ－－ｉｔ‘ｓ　ｃｏｏｌ　ａｎｄ　ｃｌｅａｎ，　Ｊａｐａｎ　ｉｓ　ａ　ｎｉｃｅ　ｐｌａｃｅ　ｗｈｅｒｅ　ｅｖｅｒｙｂｏｄｙ　ｉｓ　ｃｏｕｒｔｅｏｕｓ，　ａｎｄ　Ｉ‘ｍ　ｍｕｃｈ　ｌｅｓｓ　ｌｉｋｅｌｙ　ｔｏ　ｇｅｔ　ｈｉｔ　ｂｙ　ａ　ｃａｒ．

Should Math be Optional?

2009-02-22T19:10:00.001+07:00

Last Week's blog about "should ToK be optional?" generated quite a bit of interesting discussion. The result was a 50-50 split. I was surprised by that.

Today's question is: Should Mathematics be optional (for 11th and 12th graders)?

I didn't take mathematics in 11th grade or 12th grade. I was into History and English back then. I took AP US History, AP European History, AP English and a course called "The African American Experience" with Reverend Johnson. I did my research paper on Jimi Hendrix. Reverend Johnson gave me an "A". Thank you, Reverend Johnson.

It was the best course I have ever taken, and I would have never taken it if I had been required to take Calculus.

So, please answer the survey to your left.

My President, My Prime Minister

2009-02-20T21:03:00.003+07:00

During the Reagan/Bush era, I was living in the States, and some of my foreign friends would say, "YOUR PRESIDENT did this!" or "YOUR PRESIDENT did that!"

"Hey!" I would reply, "He's not MY PRESIDENT! Nelson Mandela is MY PRESIDENT!"

"But you're American, not South African, how can Nelson Mandela by your president?"

"I don't care," I declared, "I know in MY HEART that Nelson Mandela is MY PRESIDENT."

And it has been that way for 20+ years--Nelson Mandela has been MY PRESIDENT. But Nelson is getting old, and it's time for me to retire him from the duty of being MY PRESIDENT.

Besides, I like Obama. The dude is just cool. He seems so genuine. But wait a minute, I like the new Thai Prime Minister, too. I can even spell his name: Abhisit Vejjajiva (I think).

So, I traded in Nelson and got both Obama and Abhisit in return. It's like a two-for-one deal!

Consultant?

2009-02-18T10:32:00.005+07:00

Two schools in Japan have hired me to be a consultant to help with their schedules. It seems like easy work, but it's not.

So many IB schools have the same problem: over the years, eager teachers, directors, vice-principals, coaches, etc. have come up with one great idea after another, and added it to the school's timetable. So, now students are getting pulled in 100 directions: The Biology Field Trip, the Geography Field Trip, the CAS Community Service Retreat, the ToK Retreat, the Science Fair, the String Ensemble Rehearsal, the Basketball Tournament, the MUN Conference, the Arts Fair, Theatre Week, the Volleyball Practice, the School Play, the Business & Management Tourism Survey in Koh Samet, etc.

Wow! How do they find time to learn anything?

All this has resulted in timetables that are literally bursting at the seams. Schools are trying all sorts of things: early-morning classes, evening classes, weekend classes, etc, all of which just increase the pressure on students.

As we (teachers and administrators) talk about these issues, I realize one thing is missing: the students' voice.

Once, when I mentioned my frustration to my math class, their response was: "hey, mr mick, can we take a mathematics field trip?"

"What are we going to do?" I asked sarcastically, "go to the beach at Koh Samet, get naked and draw pictures of triangles in the sand, like the Ancient Greeks?"

"YEAHHHH!" they said, "That sounds GREAT!"

Gizmos and Gadgets

2009-02-16T20:20:00.003+07:00

I removed the embedded video with foul language from a previous post. Apparently, a few young children read my blog. Who would believe it?

Some people couldn't understand why there was SO MUCH cursing and swearing in that spoof. That was part of the joke. Why? Because most of us, when we buy a new piece of technology and can't make it work, what do we do? We curse and swear.

For example, last night, I spent an hour trying to get my new phone to sync with my computer. No luck. My phone still has no music on it.

I know what you're thinking: "mick is a respectable teacher and a responsible father, so he would NEVER just arbitrarily shout out the F-word at the top of his lungs just because he spent an hour trying to get his phone to work, especially not in front of his children!"

Right, and you can continue believing that if you want to.