Last Place You Look

I have a confession to make. I am lazy.

I will be playing dead on the couch all day just in case a bear attacks. That's not lazy, that's proactive.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) September 28, 2013

I got called lazy today. I almost replied.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) August 19, 2013

Nothing says lazy like laying on the couch making today's responsibilities tomorrow's problem.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) April 24, 2012

You call it lazy, I call it selective participation..

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) September 12, 2013

If you've never tried to use "the force" to get a an out-of-reach remote control, you're probably not as lazy as me.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) November 9, 2013

The oldest of these tweets is from 2012, so I think it is clear that I have known this about myself for quite some time.

I am also quite comfortable with it. Like inappropriately comfortable. My sloth knows no bounds.

However, occasionally, I have to get some stuff done. Earlier this week was one of those days.

Living in a foreign land, some things are quite different than back home. One of those things is our banking situation. I have never set foot in or spoken to a single person at our bank. I don't even know where it is. I do all my transactions through a third party designed for foreigners. It is called TIMO. And last month, TIMO and the bank that actually holds our money parted ways.

This means that my TIMO phone app and ATM card no longer work. I have no access to my money. I am going to actually have to go into a bank (30 miles away) and try to get all the new stuff (ATM card and actual bank app) without being able to speak the local language. I was not looking forward to this, but it is one of those things that has to be done. After all, they have all our money and we do not have any way to get it. We kind of need it. I tend to be hungry a lot.

Because we live in the tropics, the sun can be unforgiving. This is something that must be taken into account when you use a motorcycle to travel everywhere. Hours traveling on a motorcycle in the tropical sun has beaten me down on more than one occasion. So, these trips to Đà Nẵng require certain measures. Despite the temperature being close to 100, I wear long pants and often long sleeves.

But the most important measure for me is getting an early start. I try to be on the road by 7:30. That would get us to the bank when it opens and if there are no problems, we would hopefully be back home before 10 a.m. Safe from the treacherous satanball trying to kill us from the sky.

We popped out of bed early. Got our breakfast and showers out of the way and were headed out the door at about 7:15. We were doing great on time! The UV demons would not get us today.

I reached for the key bowl by the door and came up empty.

Although rare, this happens now and then. I popped into the backroom to see if I had tossed them on my desk the night before. I had not. I then checked the pockets of the shorts I had worn the previous night. They weren't there either. At this point, Red started helping me look. 

We checked the kitchen table, all the counters, around the motorcycle outside, under the bed, our nightstands, and the coffee table. We even looked in the freezer. Where could they be?

After spending over half an hour tearing the house apart, it occurred to me that I may have locked them in the seat of the motorcycle. It has a small storage compartment that can be opened using the ignition key. If I locked it in there, I wouldn't have the key to open it and check.

So, I did something I did not want to do. I went next door to my landlord's house. He is the sweetest man and takes very good care of us, but he is almost 70 and I do my best not to disturb him unless I really need to. Plus, he does not speak a word of English. We call him Dad.

I showed Dad my problem and hoped he had a way to get into the seat that I might not know about. He tried all the same things that I did. Nothing worked.

Through pantomime and exchanged grunting, he suggested we have the ignition changed out. I didn't see any other choice so I agreed. I pulled up my Google Maps so he could show me where to go, but he insisted on speaking into the translator on my phone. The words I got back from the phone were useless, but he would not show me on the map. I don't believe he understood how it worked.

I was already a little embarrassed for losing my keys, but it only got worse from here.

My well-meaning landlord was going to help me get my motorcycle to the mechanic. He backed my bike into the street and went to get his.

Dad motioned for me to get on his bike and he sat on mine. His intention was to have me push him like in the following video.

But it just didn't work. I couldn't even get him started. I don't know if my angle was wrong, but it wouldn't work. Plus, even if I had gotten him moving, I didn't have any clue where we were going. Negotiating turns would have been very awkward. Besides, we live on very narrow back-alley streets. Not much room to maneuver. 

Dad realized this was not going to work, so he hopped off and started pushing my bike. I tried to stop him because there is no reason a 70-year-old man needs to push my bike for me. I can push it myself. I just need to know where to go. He did not listen to me and just kept moving. So, I was riding his bike at 2 MPH behind him while he pushed in 100-degree heat.

When we got to the first corner, he had me get on my bike. Good! Now I won't feel like such a putz. He tried to push my bike with his foot while he was on his own bike. Like in the above video. Once again, it did not work. He had me hop off again and started pushing my bike down the road. I could not get him to stop and let me do it. I eventually went back and got on his bike and slowly followed him while the local Vietnamese people watched us go by and gave me dirty looks. I don't blame them. At this moment, I literally was the fat, lazy American.

About 1,500 feet later, we came to the end of this road and his adult daughter Hanh appeared from the other direction on foot. He told her what we were doing and she nodded. She then took my bike and yelled over her shoulder, "Brett, go home." 

Hanh knows a total of maybe 100 English words. I often get basic sentences like this one from her. 

Dad tried to get me on his bike with him so we could go back, but I really wanted to go with Hanh. If I knew where she was taking my bike, then this was something I could take care of on my own in the future. I like to be self-sufficient when it is possible. However, I was having great difficulty getting Dad to understand why I wanted to follow. And the last thing I wanted to do is be unintentionally insulting. He was going out of his way to help and I wanted to be appreciative. Plus, as I looked back over my shoulder, Hanh had gotten a passerby to start pushing her on the bike. I guess she was more coordinated than us. She was gone. So, I accepted the ride home and waited.

An hour later, Hanh showed up with my bike and told me how much it cost. I paid her and thanked her profusely. I was so thankful, but totally embarrassed and felt utterly helpless.

After she left, we opened the bike seat only to discover the key was not in the seat. That means it was somewhere in the house and would turn up eventually. The changing of the ignition was not necessary, but there was no way of knowing how long it would be before we came across it. We had done what we had to do.

At this point, it was about noon and it had been a stressful morning. Defeated, I turned to Red and suggested we take off to a nice restaurant and try to put the morning behind us. She wholeheartedly agreed. I grabbed my new key and we got our helmets to head outside.

FOUND IT!!!

The key was in a motorcycle helmet that never got picked up because we realized we had no key to go anywhere. I'm beginning to wonder if embarrassment has an upper limit.

On the Road Again

There is a very common stereotype that Asian people cannot drive. And like many stereotypes, it did come from somewhere. Now that I have lived in a couple of Asian countries for the last few years, I am beginning to understand where it comes from.

It is not true at all that Asian people cannot drive. In fact, they are excellent drivers. However, if you get even a glimpse into the world in which they have to drive in their home countries, you can quickly understand why they drive radically different than the people in the Western world.

The attitude on the roads here in Vietnam can only be described as “different than America” or possibly “predictable chaos”. I have found the Vietnamese people to be friendly, selfless and humble, but as soon as they get onto the roads that all seems to go out of the window. It’s every man for himself here. If you leave a gap at a traffic light of a couple of feet or so, you can expect somebody to pull in diagonally in front of you. If you aren't already moving two seconds before the lights go green, people will get angry. If you are crossing the road at a crosswalk, people will not stop. You will be beeped at, swerved around, wheel clipped, shunted and stressed out at every given opportunity. But you have to get out there if you expect to cross.

This is not a joke.

This really is how it works

Move forward at a steady predictable pace.
And NEVER stop or step backward.

Traffic lights are a guideline. I am told that they are new here although I cannot find the facts as to when they were first introduced to back this up. What I can say is that they are few and far between for a city the size of Da Nang (1.1 million) or Hội An (150,000 and less than a dozen traffic lights or stop signs). It’s a normal thing for people to run red lights. Quite often people will start aggressively beeping horns at you if you have the audacity to stop at a red and block their way. At many junctions, it is a free-for-all, with the Vietnamese drivers having perfected the art of not slowing down. You would be amazed at just how last second people can leave the intersection to avoid an obstacle. Razor-thin margins of close calls are expected every time we venture out of our house.

Hesitation will get you killed

Define for me who has the right-of-way here

Lanes? What lanes?

So, if you grew up in this chaos and were then dropped on the streets of America, your driving may seem quite erratic to the people around you.

Despite this rectum-clenching scenario I just described, I am very excited about the events of this week.

I got my driver's license.
Sort of.

This is a license to drive a car. I have no use for this. I drive a motorbike (illegally for the last year--SHHHHH!). But it was the first step in the long process of getting a motorbike license. Similar to how you have to buy the farmer a couple of beers before he'll let you kiss his cows.

First, I had to get my American driver's license converted to a Vietnamese license. This involved a trip to a government office in Tam Ky. Then a couple of weeks later, I had to travel to Da Nang to get a medical check-up. I talked to over a dozen different doctors about my medical history, my family, my purpose in Vietnam, my job, my intentions on staying and my ranking of bún chả, mì quảng, and phở noodles. I was weighed, poked, monitored, blood pressured, blood was drawn and I was drug tested, urine tested, and questioned endlessly.

Tiniest urine sample vial I've ever used.
LESSON LEARNED: My penile aim is impeccable.
I got a tight stream, yo.

After three hours of grunting at Vietnamese doctors, I got my paperwork proving I was healthy enough to drive a motorbike in Vietnam. Or even on one of the moons of Jupiter.

It says it on there somewhere.
Just trust me. Shut up.

After all that, it was just a matter of passing the driving test. And this is where it got difficult.

Now, I know how to ride a bike. I've been doing it for over a year in all this chaos. Illegally, but still. In the States, I rode a Harley.

Much more machine than the toys they have here.

I am not in the least concerned about my ability to handle the motorbikes of Vietnam. However, I was quite concerned about the test. For several reasons:

• They provide the bike which is made for tiny Asian people (not 6'3" Americans)
• Every bike has little idiosyncracies (tricky clutch, varying brake strength, touchy accelerator, etc), but you are not allowed to practice with the bike they give you. Get on and go.
• You must wear their helmet. It did not fit on my head.
• Most people (73%) fail.
• My knees hit the handlebars.
• My big feet kept triggering the foot brake.

These are just some of the problems I encountered when I went to the practice lot. There is a place in Da Nang that has all the markings on the ground for people to go practice. You go to a bike rental shop and rent a bike like the ones used for testing and go practice. This was how I learned that I hated the bikes we would have to use. But I practiced for hours anyway. I felt ridiculous and told my wife there was no way I would pass this test.

Two days ago, we went to the testing facility. This place is only open once a month. If someone fails, they have to wait a month before coming back again. They test for everything in that one day.

Behind the facility for big trucks, buses and cars.

We were taken in the back to tackle some treacherous stairs to the bike testing place.

If you are handicapped, you must be confused
about needing a license.

The testing site was rigged with ground sensors. If you touched the line, the system knew it.

An instructor (with a translator) walked us through the course. First was the figure 8, then a straight section followed by a zig-zag and ending with a heavily speed-bumped area. Just stay within the lines. We start with 100 points. Every violation deducts 5 points and we needed 80 to pass. This means we were allowed only 4 or less. Side note: If you put your foot down once, you fail.

One of the other Americans testing with me asked, "If we go outside the barrier, the tire hits that cord twice. Once going out and once coming back. Does that count as one or two violations?"

The instructor looked sternly at him, "Why do you ask this?

"I just want to know how many marks that will be against me."

The instructor turned away shaking his head and yelled, "Stupid question. Does not matter. Do your best. You either pass or you do not. Let's start."

We all looked at each other. No more questions I guess.

The first of my friends to try was a South African man and he was pulled off the track before he did one circuit on the figure 8. Done. Failed before he even hardly got started.

The next was a 60 y/o man from Idaho. He pulled a perfect score. So, it could be done. I was assigned my bike and did a quick circle in the parking lot while being yelled at by the instructors. I just wanted to get a quick feel for the bike. My legs were splayed straight out to prevent hitting the handlebars. I pointed my feet out to keep them away from the brakes and I noticed the gas caused the bike to jump when the transmission finally caught.

I started into the 8 knowing that I better keep a steady speed because moving the accelerator would have unpredicable results. I hit two violations within seconds of entering, but managed the rest of the course with only one more. I finished with an 85. I passed!

I still am not a legal driver until the license is in my hand. I am supposed to receive it on October 31.

No more running from the cops. I've had to do that a couple of times in the last year. YAY me!

I'm ready to be legal. I'm looking forward to not having to hide in the small town we live in. We will actually be able to get out and drive without having to worry. It's time to see the rest of Vietnam.

Tattooed Preacher

Click picture for Shane's blog

This post is a response to one of the questions I received on my November 27th post when I asked my readers for things they would like me to write about. This question comes from Shane Morgan of In Shane's Brain.

What was the motorcycle ministry really like?

I have only very briefly even mentioned this on my blog before, but approximately five years ago while I was senior minister at a church, I started working as a professional piercer in a tattoo shop. This happened slowly over the course of several months.

I met the owner of this tattoo shop in my bowling league. At that point, I had only been in a tattoo shop once in my entire life and that was just to look around out of curiosity. After getting to know him, I dropped by his shop once to check it out. I quickly discovered that his clientele was a totally different kind of people than I normally crossed paths with in my minister job.

I started hanging out there more during the day to talk with people and built a few relationships with his regulars. It suddenly became apparent to me that this was a mission field not being reached in our area. I was daily talking with a lot of people who would never go seeking out a preacher. I felt drawn to reach out to these people. I soon learned that hanging out in the shop would not be enough to have a real impact.

In order to get to spend real time with them, I needed full access, so I started apprenticing as a body piercer. Piercing was only meant to be the tool I used to evangelize, but it turned out that I was actually pretty good at it. Within the next year, I resigned from my position at the church and bought the shop to do this as my full time ministry. It was amazing the credibility and respect I gained as a preacher just by walking into and living in their world. These same people would not have given me the time of day had I approached them on the street. In the first six months, we had over a dozen baptisms, saw two marriages healed, reunited a child with her parents and I counseled with several people every week. It was the most exciting and successful ministry I had even been a part of.

Since so much of our customer base was made of up of bikers, it was suggested we start a motorcycle ministry. Within a few months, I bought a Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide and no longer looked like a preacher. We founded a club called SONS OF CHRIST and started recruiting members. I was the chaplain and vice president.

We were very intentional in our presentation. We did not want to be known as a Christian group who likes to ride. We decided it was very important to be recognized as bikers first. We went to all the biker events we could get to. We regularly rubbed elbows with several 1% clubs, their support clubs and affiliates. In fact, our associations got us into some pretty hairy situations at times.

We began hosting our own events and the membership started to grow. We had a great group of guys and I loved every minute of it, but trying to build the club and running the shop at the same time was a lot of work and all the members were feeling the pressure. Pressure not only from the work required to maintain and build a new club, but pressure from other clubs that were beginning to take notice of ours.

We had already been forced to change the patch on the back of our vests because it originally gave the impression that we were claiming a territory despite the word HEAVEN rather than a city. These patches and their meanings are taken very seriously by clubs. I, personally, had received several death threats after an interview I had done for the local paper about our club and several of our members reported being followed by rival clubs when out riding while wearing their colors.

Eventually, we were approached by another club, who offered to absorb us into their club. I was not interested for a variety of reasons. The main one being that it was not a Christian club and there was a whole lot going on in that first meeting with them that I wanted nothing to do with. Being around when certain things are happening is one thing, but being part of a club involved in those activities gives me more association than I am comfortable with. I did still value my reputation. However, not everyone held the same opinion as me.

Debauchery aside, there were several advantages to being absorbed into an established club. There was a sense of protection. We would become part of a larger group making it harder to intimidate us. Another big draw was the fact that it was already established. It was not a brand new club that would require as much work. After several meetings and lots of discussion, our club decided to merge with theirs, despite my objections. In a matter of moments, the club I had co-founded no longer existed.

The club changing hands seemed to be the pivotal moment for the entire ministry. Almost immediately, overwhelming financial crises hit the shop, my partnerships dissolved, my customer base died off and I had to walk away completely.

Despite the abrupt halt and apparent crash n' burn, I still consider the experience to have been my most successful ministry. I saw a lot of lives changed and was blessed to get to help a lot of people. I still have many close friends from that adventure and don't regret resigning from the church position to follow this path.

"And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved."

Acts 2:21 (NIV)

Everyone includes bikers, metalheads, punks, skaters, emo kids, scene kids, headbangers or any other group that would not stereotypically be associated with faith.

I Have the Best Friends in the World

The last few days have been a whirlwind on this blog. Loads of people were signing on to see the story unfold between Red of Doesn't Speak Klingon and myself. It began with a tongue-in-cheek marriage proposal on Valentine's Day, grew into the suggestion to meet in person and then understandable concerns about the safety of meeting someone from the internet (we have all heard horror stories). In my last post, I made an attempt to address this issue.

In order to try to prove that I am not a threat to women puppies small children anyone, I invited people that I know personally to vouch for me in the comment section. Then, knowing that most of my readership consists of people who have never met me, I shamelessly begged my friends on Facebook. The response was overwhelming.

Twenty-five different people that know me in my personal life chimed in. This includes people I grew up with, go to church with, neighbors, coworkers, one of my brothers, and my parents. There are over 120 comments on the post at last count. Due to some of the responses I received, I am beginning to realize I hadn't really thought this through.

Some people chose to have fun with it. There were lots of axe and hatchet jokes and even a few mentions of hidden bodies. My childhood friend, Amanda, left a lengthy comment that is probably my favorite one. My father mentioned that I could not be a threat to women since he had to bribe the neighborhood girls to go out with me. If you didn't see this when it happened, it is worth a look to read through the comments. Several of them were funnier than anything I could ever write.

Many of the others took it very seriously and I choked up while reading a couple of them. This was all meant to be in fun (and it was), but I did not expect some of the responses I got. Thank you to all of you who helped. I love you all and value our friendships.

A few of them painted a glowing picture of me.  One, in particular, said:

"Brett could never be an axe murderer. On the other hand, he has been everything else: rebel, preacher, biker, tattoo artist, comedian, writer, photographer, videoman, gamer, extreme sports, etc. If there's anything he hasn't tried, just give him time. And he excels in everything he does."

There were several comments along these lines. While I can't really dispute anything in this sentence (other than excelling at everything), it does give an impression that I cannot even begin to live up to. I reminds me of "the most interesting man in the world" from the Dos Equis commercials.

I am not that guy. I do like to make life interesting and definitely strive to have fun wherever I am, but have never fed baby eagles on the side of a cliff. I wasn't actually a tattoo artist, but I did own a tattoo shop for a while.

Proof that I was a biker. VP and founder of motorcycle club.
Two years ago - I miss my Harley

Even though I did ask for this, the extra attention and wonderful words said about me made me pause to reflect on who I am and the wonderful friendships that I have made over the years. Once again, thank you to everyone who participated. It did not go unnoticed.

Putting all that to the side, I believe that Red was convinced. She even shared with me her real name, even if it was an accident. If she is willing, I would like to meet. I don't have a time frame in mind and our work/school schedules would have to coordinate for both of us. Since she lives 900 miles away, it's not just a quick weekend trip.

The following paragraph is for Red (don't anyone else read it):
If you would like to meet, let me know and we can arrange something. I am always looking for excuses to travel and I have never been to Delaware. I have no expectations other than putting a face with the blog. I think it would be fun.

Everyone else can read now.
I promise that my next post will have nothing to do with any of this. I have a childhood trauma story I am going to try to tackle. I had an evil teacher when I was in the 4th grade. Between her, broken crayons and a space alien, the 4th grade was definitely my worst school year.

Thank you and welcome to all my new readers.