YOU CAN’T SCARE ME, I ATE FUGU AND YELLED AT A MOUNTAIN

Two more bucket list items have officially been conquered. And this time, I had to leave the country, risk death by dinner, and wake up early on purpose to do it.

I just returned from Japan, where I successfully crossed off:

• #82: Eat fugu (pufferfish)
• #17: Personally photograph Mount Fuji

🎣 Fugu Me? Fugu You!

For the uninitiated, fugu is the Japanese delicacy that might be your last meal if the chef screws up. It’s prepared from a pufferfish that contains enough poison to turn your nervous system into a Windows 95 shutdown sequence. It is 1,200 times more lethal than cyanide and has enough tetrodotoxin to kill 30 men (or 12 baby elephants). And there is no known antidote. If you get a bad batch, not even an industrial drum of Pepto will save you. In Japan, only licensed chefs are allowed to prepare it because “Oops, I left a speck of death on your plate” isn’t a great Yelp review.

Naturally, I was in.

And yes, I know the odds of dying from fugu are astronomically low these days. But when you’ve built your entire personality around crossing off strange bucket list items, you don’t pass on the opportunity to eat something that comes with a side of “potential autopsy.”

In case you are wondering, here is what happens if the chef sneezes while preparing the dish.

• Tingling lips and face
  Starts like mild Novocaine. You think, “How quirky!” No. It’s doom knocking.
• Numbness spreads
  Lips, then face, fingers, toes — your body is clocking out while your brain is like, “Wait, what?”
• Muscle paralysis begins
  Arms and legs go limp. You are now a floppy meat puppet.
• Loss of motor function
  Can’t stand. Can’t lift your arm. Can’t even flail for dramatic effect.
• Slurred or halted speech
  Your mouth forgets how to be a mouth. You try to say, “Call an ambulance!” but it comes out as “glorble blarp.”
• Diaphragm paralysis
  Breathing? That was fun while it lasted. Your lungs are officially on strike.
• Heart rate drops
  Your ticker is slowing like it just saw Monday on the calendar.
• Complete paralysis
  You can’t move. Can’t blink. You are essentially a conscious potato.
• Full awareness remains intact
  You feel everything. You hear everything. You know you’re dying. But your body’s like, “Sorry, bro. We’re closed.”
• Death by suffocation
  Not dramatic choking — just a slow, silent fade as oxygen stops making the rounds, while your still-working brain mentally screams into the void.

Fugu: because nothing says “fine dining” like watching your own slow-motion shutdown while everyone else is Instagramming their appetizers.

I went to a legit spot in Kyoto. Not some back-alley sushi shack run by a guy named Gary who once watched a YouTube video on pufferfish. I went to Watanabeya (海鮮処 わたなべや). This place had a certificate on the wall (I think. I don't know Japanese.), a stone-faced chef with terrifying knife skills, and a menu written entirely in kanji. So, I assume it said, “Eat at your own risk, Brett.”

They did have an English menu, but it only had about 12 things on it and none of it was fugu. I had to ask the waitress if they had it.She repeated my apparently butchered pronunciation about ten times just to make sure she wasn't about to serve me fermented horse liver. "Hai. Hai. Fugu. Yes."

She gave me this.

She pointed at two items. "This fugu. This fugu," and left me there to decide my fate.

Using my handy-dandy Google Translate camera, I saw that one was grilled and one was hot pot. Now, I like hot pot, but I just wanted to eat the death fish. Not a soup that had toxic fish in it.

I placed my order along with a couple of beers to get mentally prepared for this. I was psyched, but then the waitress came back to make it worse.

WAIT?!? I have to cook the Grim Reaper fish myself?

 

Was it good?

Sure. But also… not not rubbery.

Honestly, it tasted like tilapia that went to college and got a philosophy degree. Not bad, but you’re mostly eating it to say you ate it. Like escargot. Or airport sushi.

The highlight wasn’t the taste. It was the drama. Every bite came with just enough existential spice to make me rethink my life choices.

And it was worth every paranoid chew.

🗻 Mount Fuji: Now Featuring Me in the Frame

The second item on the list was much less dangerous, but way more majestic.

Mount Fuji has been on my bucket list since I first learned what a bucket list was. I’ve seen a million photos of it, but I wanted one that I took. Something that said, “I was there. I aimed my cheap tourist camera at greatness. And I didn't drop it in a koi pond.”

Now, if you’re planning to see Mount Fuji, here’s something the brochures don’t tell you: she’s a diva.

Fuji hides behind clouds like she’s contractually obligated to only appear for National Geographic photographers or people who didn’t fly across the world just for her. When I first saw it after getting off the bus, I snapped a quick shot.

Do you see it? Yeah. Me, neither. But it was there. I swear.

 

I saw it many, many times over the next few days, but the best shot was the evening of the next day.

 

There she was—towering, symmetrical, snow-capped, and absolutely perfect.

It looked like someone reached into a painting and hit "print."

I stood there for a good 20 minutes snapping photos, just in case she changed her mind and disappeared again like some geologically massive ghost.

✅ So That’s Two More Off the List

I’ve eaten a potential death fish like a daring contestant on Fear Factor: Sushi Edition.
I’ve personally photographed one of the most iconic mountains on Earth without having to Google “why is it cloudy at Mount Fuji?”

That brings me to a total of 14 completed bucket list items out of 171.

And I’m not stopping now.

Stay tuned. Because eventually I’m going to run with the bulls, bathe in a volcano, or build a robot that teaches itself to yodel. No promises on the order.

You can see the complete list here.

Men Waiting for a Shave Is a Barber Queue

I hate shaving.

Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

And I don't know why. It's not like it is that difficult, but I put off doing it as long as I can.

I've done this for many years. Once I shaved, I would not shave again until the itching on my face was driving me crazy and I just couldn't stand it anymore. Then, I would shave. But only because I had to for my sanity.

Because I would often go two weeks (or sometimes even longer) between shaves, the crappy little disposable razors just didn't do the trick.

 

I didn't break them like Bill Duke did in Predator, but I did destroy them very quickly. When you are harboring two weeks worth of uncontrolled undergrowth on your face, that tiny little cheap blade can't handle it. After pulling it barely a quarter-inch down your face shag, the underside is already clogged and it just slides across the top of your cheek growth.

To make any progress, I had to take tiny little swipes and thoroughly rinse after every two or three attempts. The difference on my face would be barely noticeable and it could take 20 minutes to do just one cheek. Plus, by then, the blade was shot and it was time to change razors. I would go through two to four razors every time.

Eventually, I decided to upgrade and purchased my first big boy razor.

Woohoo! Four blades.

I saw an immediate improvement. I could shave a little faster, but I still had to be careful to not shave too much before cleaning out the blades. Once the spaces between the blades get packed with stubble, they were useless. IF I took care to protect the blades, I was sometimes able to shave three separate days before I had to put a new blade cartridge in. This was a much better experience, but those cartridges were four to six dollars apiece. So, quite often, (as much as I hated it) I tried to shave more often. Twice a week seemed to greatly extend the life of my blades. But I complained loudly every time I had to do it.

Puberty still sucks even years later. I've seriously considered getting electrolysis on my face. Have I said I hate shaving?

One day six years ago, I saw an ad for a barbershop that does shaves. I don't know why this had never occurred to me before. Let someone else do it! It was for Red's Classic Barbershop in Indianapolis (where I lived at the time). Which, coincidentally, was probably why I saw the ad.

Someone else shaving me?
Yes, please.

I jumped at this opportunity. I raced over and got a professional shave for the first time in my life. It was awesome, but it was not cheap. I was not going to pay for this service every couple of weeks. However, I was sold on the concept of a straight razor after this and went a little crazy. I bought a razor, shaving brush, special shaving lather gel and a few other accessories. My trip downtown to get a shave turned into a $300 expense. 

You know when you go to the barbershop to get a shave and get all caught up in the hype and spend a couple hundred bucks?

I just did that.

— GigaBrett (@brettminor) May 22, 2015

The best part was the quality and function of the blade. An unencumbered straight razor is typically pretty laid-back about how long it has been since your last shave. And with no crevices around the blade for little hairs to clog up, it shaves much faster. One long swipe down the cheek removes hair from the entire area. No more little pecks with an inferior blade for me. I was set for life.

Until I went to use it for the first time a week later.

As it turns out, the totally exposed, uber-honed blade with the sharpened end tapered down to barely the width of a single atom must be used quite delicately. And with a very steady hand.

With time, I got better. However, after several near-fatal mishaps I learned to always inform my wife I was shaving so she wouldn't suddenly yell out "THE PIZZA'S HERE!" 

Sudden and unexpected outbursts tend to make people jump. And when I am already understandably nervous about having the miniature, home-version of a samurai sword at my jugular, these outbursts would cause significantly more than a flinch from me.

So, shaving time became household quiet time. We silenced the phones, muted the TV and she would sit in a comfortable chair until I give the all-clear. The routine worked for us for several years.

Since then, we have moved to Vietnam. The land of the discount everything. 

The high prices in Indianapolis that kept me from letting someone else shave me don't exist here. Now, I head out to a barbershop every Wednesday morning to get a shave. I will happily let someone else do it when it only costs 20,000 đồng ($0.90). But it is a bit of a different experience. Correction. A radically different experience.

Here, there is no hot towel and face cream treatment like at the fancy shop I visited in the States. It's also not a nice retro place downtown with drinks and a waiting area. It's a dry shave in a dimly-lit building similar to what Americans might call a 'backyard murder-shack'.

Of the four places I frequent for my weekly treatment, two of them have dirt floors. One has no electricity. Three of them have no running water on site and none of them have a professionally-trained, certified barber. Here, if you want to open a business, you just do it. To be a barber, you need a pair of scissors and something for your customer to sit on. That's it.

For the last few weeks, my favorite barber has had a teenage kid (he looks about 14) hanging around in his little murder-shack barber shed. Often when I am in there, the kid (the barber's son, I assume) is sitting in the corner taking apart a set of clippers and putting it back together. He pulls out plastic chairs for waiting customers to sit in despite there being room for no more than three people in the tiny shack. He also makes sure the front door stays shut to prevent wandering water buffalo from trying to push their way in.

Last week, I figured out that the boy is apparently in training to do what his father does. Learn the trade and start cutting hair. (I have to assume everything since we speak different languages. I can't ask any questions, so I just have to observe and guess. I'm wrong a lot.) I sat in the chair as the barber stepped outside with his previous customer to collect money and have a cigarette. Once I was seated, the boy rested my seat back and started putting the foam on my face.

My mind started racing. Did I want this child shaving me? Those straight razors are deadly. I barely trust myself with those death blades at my throat and I love me more than anyone. But the father(?) soon came back in and took over.

This week, the same thing happened. I was much more relaxed, but dad(?) did not come back in this time. The boy whipped out the blade and started to work in front of my right ear.

I understand that an apprentice has to start doing the real thing eventually. That's how he's going to learn. And from a business and local-credibility standpoint, it probably makes sense to have him practice on the foreigner in case of a mishap. I just wish it wasn't me.

The boy moved very slowly. He didn't take any long swipes and he did the same area a few times. I assume to be sure to get all the hair. After he finished one cheek, he moved to the other. By now, dad(?) was standing over me and watching. He gave a few words now and then. After he finished my left cheek, he handed the razor over to his father (I am still not sure of their relationship). Dad ran his fingers over my cheeks and gave a nod of approval to the boy. Then, Dad went to work on the more complicated contours of my face. Under the nose. Around the lips. The curves of the jawline and chin.

It all worked out. I didn't get a single nick.

When it was finished, the boy jumped back in with a towel to clean me up. I got up and paid the barber his 20,000 đồng and then turned back to the kid and held out another 20,000. He looked confused and shook his head while pointing to his father. I assume he was saying, "No, no. Pay him."

I pushed the money closer to him and he looked around me to his father. Dad gave a quick nod which allowed the boy to take the money. I ran my fingers over the sides of my face and gave him a thumbs up. He now understood. I was actually paying him for his service. A huge smile broke out on his face. He jumped up and gave the polite bow that is common in this part of the world. I turned around to leave and his father was beaming. He gave me a subtle wink as I left.

I think I made that kid's day.

When I go back next time, I think I'll try to swallow my fear and convince Dad to let the kid do it all.

B - Bizarro - #AtoZChallenge

Gren's hands were shaking as he stepped into the the butterfly pens. There was only three hours until the championship game and he was nervous. He came to the pens early to dust his butterfly's wings one more time and clean her antennae. Coach always said that cleaning the antennae doesn't make any difference, but it was a practice Gren learned early from his father and couldn't give it up. Plus, Spicy seemed to enjoy it.

Spicy was a Giant Spicebush Swallowtail (papilio troilus giganticus) Gren had raised from a caterpillar larva. Gren's grandfather gave him the egg for his seventh birthday and told him this one would be special if it was cared for properly. Gren had always taken that seriously. He even rubbed a family-secret vitamin oil compound on Spicy's chrysalis every morning and night when she was in her pupa stage. Gren was so thankful when Spicy went pupa. Caterpillars are notoriously hungry and can be quite aggressive. She had grown to a little over four feet long and was getting difficult to control. Gren knew half a dozen kids at school who had lost fingers to their ravenous pets.

When Spicy emerged after four months of metamorphic coma, the new butterfly had a wingspan of almost seven feet. The vitamins had done their work. Gren started her training immediately. He had been excited to be the first to use a swallowtail at his school. Swallowtails weren't as colorful as some of the more highly preferred species for this sport, but her size was often intimidating to the other fliers and she was fast.

Gren checked over all the straps on the saddle to ensure everything was in working order. Regulations stated they were not to be fitted until immediately before the match and supervised by those officiating. This being the championship, these extra details were more strongly enforced. Once satisfied with the saddle's condition, he tried to get his head in the game. Gren had earned his spot on the team and had fought hard to make it this far, but the pressure was immense.

Butterflies in some of the other stalls started stirring around as more of his teammates trickled in. Everyone was getting ready and giving their butterflies nectar treats to calm them. Wings were dusted, thoraxes rubbed, and saddles oiled. Everyone seemed ready to go.

Butterflies are easily excitable, so in the confines of the stables talking and fast movements by the riders were forbidden. The quiet time before a match was a treasured time for Gren. As long as they were still in the stables, no one could give him a hard time about Spicy. Everyone else had bought their butterflies from a breeder or trainer. One of his teammates only acquired his a week before the start of the season. Only one of his teammates was even present when his butterfly emerged from its cocoon. It is common practice for people to buy well-bred, pre-trained fliers. However, Gren was very proud of the fact that he had raised Spicy from birth and trained her himself. No one else seemed to be impressed though. And the dull colors of his butterfly did not help to curb the teasing when most of his team rode butterflies with bright orange, yellow, or blue wings.

None of this mattered right now. Gren had proven that he and Spicy were valuable members of this team and had helped in getting the team to the championship. In fact, one of Spicy's maneuvers was instrumental in securing the win to reach the playoffs. He needed to stop being so unsure of himself.

The flower bell was rung to signal it was 30 minutes until game time. Everyone led their butterflies out to the edge of the field to saddle and harness in front of the officials. 

As Gren was waiting to secure the saddle, the official inspecting Spicy for any illegal contraband pointed out that she was in heat. NO! Butterflies in heat are primary targets in the third period when the breeders are released onto the playing field. Gren was going to really have to be on his game tonight. Playing a low-game would have to be his strategy. Stay close to the ground and let the breeders harass the colorful fliers higher in the sky.

After inspections were approved and everyone saddled up, the commissioner stepped out to the field for the ceremonial spinning of the hazard wheel. This was only done for championship games. An extra hazard would be added to the field to further test the skill of the players.

Gren had his fingers crossed for a sonic hazard. He had worked with Spicy for years training her to react to his shadow paddles. She was skilled at ignoring audio stimuli and allowing Gren to steer her.

The commissioner spun the wheel and the players waited to hear the announcement. The wheel slowly came to a stop and the head official declared "FROGS" for all to hear. Six cages each holding 12-foot long bullfrogs were wheeled onto the field.

Gren dropped his head. Staying low to ground to avoid the breeders would no longer be an option. Being swallowed by a bullfrog would be much worse.

The countdown timer began as both teams mounted the saddles. Gren let out a long breath. This would be the game of his life.

 

Spicebush Swallowtail

---

 

All this month, I am participating in the A to Z Challenge. A new post will go up every day (except Sundays) using a letter of the alphabet as the starting off point. My theme for the month is literary genres. I am writing in a different genre of flash fiction each day. Today's letter is B for Bizarro.

It's A to Z Time Again

Every year, I have to decide if I am going to do the A to Z Challenge again. And I don't know why I even have to think about it. I have done it four times (2013, 2016, 2018, 2019) and loved the experience every time.

 

 

The most difficult part for me each year is deciding on a theme. In 2019 I got very personal a wrote each day about a person who greatly influenced my life. That was a great month. It led to many great conversations and phone calls with old friends and got pretty sappy a few times. I reread those posts often. But this year, I decided to really try to stretch myself.

 

I am going to try flash fiction all month. I have only done flash fiction here once, but I was quite proud of that story (click here to read it). So, I am going to try it again, but it will be a little more complicated this time. I am going to write in a different genre each day.

I still have to map it out, but each day's genre will be decided by the letter for the day. For example, here are a few I already know I will be doing:

A - Adventure

D - Dystopian

H - Horror

R - Romance (not looking forward to this one)

S - Science Fiction

W - Western

I also will not pre-plan any story. I want every post to grow organically when I sit down to write each day. The only part of the story known ahead of time will be the genre for the day.

I honestly do not expect this to be an easy task and believe I will spend more time completing this A to Z Challenge than any I have done in the past.

First post goes up on April 1^st. A new one will follow every day in April excluding Sundays.

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.

Forced Homeschooling

In the midst of this worldwide crisis, I feel almost guilty in knowing that my wife and I have it pretty good. Living in Vietnam, our country only has about 200 cases of COVID-19 and most of those have already recovered. There has not been a single death. AND this is a country that borders China. This is not by chance. Vietnam has been on top of this thing from the beginning and is not taking any chances.

And while everything is shut down and people have to stay home, we already worked from home. AND we just happen to be in online education. The whole world is now doing school at home and that is exactly what we do for a living. Our income actually went up when the world started falling apart.

Despite the fact that this is what we do for a living, I see a lot of stress being caused by this new life that has been suddenly thrust upon everyone. Forced homeschooling is not working for many many families.

For those of you who are nailing it, good for you. And I mean that. It's great, but for most people, it is not working. And there is a variety of reasons for that. First off, believe it or not, the majority of adults are not teachers and never wanted to be. Raising your kids to be a self-sufficient, responsible adult is not the same as trying to help him understand the symbolism of Henry's journey in the Red Badge of Courage.

Unless you are a teacher or work in a specific field, much of the stuff you were taught in school you haven't seen in decades. Not many parents remember how to do these things:

• Diagram a sentence
• Know the precise meaning of the grammar terms - present perfect tense, past progressive tense, gerunds, participles, helping verbs, phrasal verbs, indirect/direct object, etc.
• Solve math problems using the Quadratic Equation or Pythagorian Theorem.
• Understand the implications of the U.S. involvement in the War of 1812
• Outline a term paper
• So many other things that were forgotten after you left school

And that doesn't even take into consideration the fact that not all households have a parent at home to do this work with their kids. Many people are still considered to be "essential" workers and have to go to work. Or they might be at home but have their own work to do. Work-at-home is not vacation time. It means there is work to do. A large percentage of the population is having a very difficult time finding the time (and patience) to get their kids' schoolwork done.

Let's also not forget the number of households who do not have adequate internet. Or only have one computer when there are three kids who "need" it or dad needs it to do his job. What about the households that just don't have a conducive atmosphere for learning?

• Older kids having to babysit younger kids
• Abusive, neglectful or alcoholic parents
• Noisy environments
• Little space
• Illness in the home
• Chaotic atmosphere

All of these things make it very difficult for the schoolwork to actually happen. And, even if it is being completed, the strained environment means that nothing is actually being learned for many students. Plus, this insistence on completing the school year is putting the population at risk of further infection.

I have seen multiple Facebook posts by people noticing school-aged children sitting in corners at Wal-Mart with laptops to take advantage of their free Wi-Fi so they can get their homework assignments. The same is happening in McDonald's parking lots and many other places. In South Carolina, some districts have parked buses in rural areas that transmit a Wi-Fi signal to help those students who may not have internet at home. These buses are meant to help, but…

At the same time, people are being told to stay home and there is a reason for that. No child (or anyone) should have to leave their home and put people's lives on the line just to complete homework.

Many suggest that kids who do not have internet should contact their teachers so they can have packets sent to their house.

Once again, not safe. Cardboard and paper have been proven to be able to hold onto the virus for days. Exchanging packets back and forth is just another way of potentially spreading the virus.

Is all of this stuff worth the risk just so little Johnny doesn't fall behind?

I have news for everyone.

Your child is not falling behind when the rest of the entire world is in the same situation!

If they don't get their work done, it will not be a disaster when they go back to school because there will be tons of other kids who didn't get it done either. Or kids who got it done, but didn't actually learn the material. Or kids who have so many questions or holes in their learning.

Plus, I know teachers from several different states and the expectations are different everywhere:

• Some schools aren't even keeping track of grades right now
• Some schools are requiring teachers to still report to school during school hours (unsafe and irresponsible practice)
• Some schools have dismissed classes until next year 
• There is no national or even state-wide standard for any of this. Each school is scrambling to make it work.
• Teachers are doing an awesome job tackling a situation they were not prepared for, but there is no consistency in learning because every home is different.

I have a friend who works all day. Her older children (still children themselves) have to try to school the younger children during the day and can't even begin their own schoolwork until Mom gets home to take care of the younger kids.  Their life is just babysitting and schoolwork on top of all this other stress. There are lots of tears in that house all day.

The world is very scary right now and incredibly stressful. For the children also. They may not really understand what is happening depending on their age, but they know things are not right. Adding to that stress by insisting that all this extra stuff has to be done as well just makes things worse. Plus, it's not going to really matter when they all go back to school anyway. The teachers will be scrambling to even things out once again and try to fix this.

I am not suggesting that children should not be engaging in academic activities. I am only saying that school is not and should not be a priority right now. If it gets to be too much, let it go or cut it back. We're going to be locked in our houses for much longer than most people (including our leaders) want to admit. It is very important that our homes be as happy and stress-free as possible.

Love your kids during this time and make them feel safe. If when this is over they haven't learned how to recognize adverb clauses when used as adjunct adverbials, is it really going to matter?

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.

We Call Them Melons In America

A few days ago, I was practicing my typical morning routine of sitting on the toilet with my phone catching up on the news. In the middle of reading the latest on Black Ariel and the Blue Bell Ice Cream Licker, I got a message from my wife.

I immediately knew who she was talking about. We've been dealing with this guy for the last few days. Right next door to us, a construction crew has been putting up a new building and we share a gate with that property. So, we cross paths with the workers daily. Every now and then, one of them comes to us to use our electricity or inform us of excess noise that day or the shutting off of our water. It is always a difficult conversation since we do not speak the local language and have to do everything through inadequate translation apps.

However, this particular guy is especially "friendly." He frequently wanders over to make small talk when he sees me outside. This usually involves lots of hand gestures and pointing at the construction site with a big smile. I never know what he is trying to convey, but it seems like it is not pertinent information. Just friendly banter. Until he stepped up his game a few days ago.

He sat on our porch one day, so I grabbed a Pepsi and my phone and went to join him. I like to be friendly most of the time. Through our translation apps, we tried to talk to each other. After a couple of minutes, he asked to borrow my motorcycle. I made an excuse about how we were about to leave so it wouldn't be available. So, he asked to use it at lunch the next day. As I was telling him no, I started closing up the house so Red and I could leave. He then asked me how I secure my doors when I leave.

What kind of creepy question is that?

This made me nervous because he basically lives right next to us until the house is built. They always know when we are coming and going. And now he wants to know how well I lock my doors.

Due to my inability to effectively communicate all we can really do is try to be aware.

Not being able to communicate has been a common theme in my life. When I lived in Puerto Rico twenty years ago, I saw a sign on a counter that said CUIDADO: CALIENTE.

This sign made no sense to me. CITY: HOT
What?

I leaned closer to contemplate the meaning and it occurred to me as soon as my arms contacted the metal counter. Cuidado does not mean 'city.' It means 'CAUTION.'

The Spanish word for 'city' is ciudad. They may look similar, but the meaning is quite different.

As I rubbed the aloe on my forearms, I knew I would never forget those words again.

Living in Beijing, I almost did not get my work permit due to a communication error. I was asked to send off for my official Master's Degree for the paperwork that had to be filed. They told me that it must be sealed when we turn it into authorities. I did as they asked and it arrived two weeks later. I handed the envelope to my boss and she immediately ripped it open. I yelled, "NO! It has to still be sealed when we give it to them." She gave me a confused look as I sat and put my face in my hands. I had dropped a significant amount of money to get this and have it specially shipped. She had just ruined it.

She looked the degree over and asked, "Where is the seal?"

After a frustrating back-and-forth, I learned when they told me it must be sealed, what they meant was it must have the official State of Illinois International Authentication Seal. This seal is what proves to foreign governments that this is an official document.

She thought she had communicated clearly and I thought that I had understood. We were both wrong.

I have hundreds of stories like this, but let's come back to the present.

That 'creepy little dude' is now talking to my wife when I am not present and chooses to comment on her 'grapes.' If you have met my wife then you are probably aware that she is quite gifted in the area under her shirt. And in a culture that is known for not possessing those assets, it is even more apparent. But that does not mean he needs to be commenting on her grapes.

I head downstairs to confront this man and in my head I am running how I should play this. Should I be firm or gentle? Should I confront him in front of the other workers (to help keep him on their side of the wall) or take him to the side in private? I don't want to create too big of an incident. We do have to live among these people and we are the foreigners.

We may be the foreigners here but this cannot be allowed to happen?

I get downstairs to discover that is has escalated to the point that another worker is now involved and talking to my wife in the doorway. I start to step in to put an end to this harassment and I hear her telling the new man (who speaks a little English), he said: "Chau grapes are very big." Everyone (including my wife) laughed.

What is happening?

It turns out the 'creepy little dude' was wanting to plug into our electricity because the work site was having some work done and would be without power for a few hours. He wasn't being inappropriate at all. The Google Translate app just sucks when dealing with Vietnamese.

I even learned the reason he was asking about how I secured my doors a few days earlier was because our water pump was being replaced. When he discovered we were leaving for the evening, he was wondering how they were going to test the pressure once the new one was installed. There was no ill intent. We just don't have the ability to fully communicate. The extra speculation and guesswork about intent was misguided…again.

I have been putting off receiving official language instruction, but I believe it may be time to change my stance.

Hồ Chí Minh Heat

A little over a year ago, Red and I left China and moved to Vietnam. We have been in Hội An since August.

I've written several times about how much better life is here than Beijing. The cost of living is significantly lower. We have cleaner air, live on the coast, people are friendlier, food is fantastic, and (my favorite) it never gets cold.

The winters in Beijing are brutal and when you have to walk everywhere because you don't have a car you have to be very careful not to trip and scratch someone else's car with your nipples.

There is, however, a downside to living in a place where it never gets cold. The summers are on the extreme opposite of the spectrum.

It is so incredibly hot. All the time. Even the nighttime does not give much relief. Sitting in my living room at midnight watching Netflix requires several fans pointed right at me and I will still leave a sweat stain on the couch.

For ten months of the year, it is great to know that you can step outside 24 hours a day completely naked and be perfectly comfortable until the police show up. But in June and July, the sun will fry your dingus off before the police even get their first call.

The sun is the scariest part. It isn't just the heat. The sun is much stronger here. Being so close to the equator greatly increases not only the heat but exposure to the rays of the sun. Hội An, Vietnam is 1,570 miles further south than St. Louis, MO (close to where I grew up). I can feel the UV hit my bone marrow as soon as I step out of the shadows.

Plus, due to my arthritis, I am on a medication that makes me more susceptible to the sun. My doctor told me to avoid direct sunlight. And then I moved to the tropics. Yay, me.

To combat this, every morning I drink a liter of SPF 450-infused tea.

To avoid the heat and the sun in June and July (the worst months), we try to run any errands that need done (groceries, bills, etc) before 8 a.m. and spend the rest of the day at home. Under fans. Due to the architecture here, houses are not air-conditioned. A few individual rooms are, but the common areas are not. And can't be. The space is too open.  This means cooking a meal is quite a treat since we shed our clothes before we start. We just try not to sweat into the food.

We are now reaching the end of June, so we are about halfway through the hottest part of the year. One more month and the temperature will be under 100 again. Not by much, but those few degrees make a big difference.

O - Old People

This post is not about old people in general. It is about a very specific group of people. And them being older is not really the point. I just had to find a way to fit all my 26 stories into this month while also using all the letters of the alphabet. O was still open, so they got this spot.

Years ago I was the associate minister in a church and I had been preaching in another church down the road while they looked for their own minister. It was eventually suggested that maybe I should fill the spot and that is what happened.

Now, before I go any further with this story I want to give this disclaimer. That church was filled with a bunch of wonderful people. It was. I do not have any complaints about a single person from that congregation. Please keep this in mind as I tell my story.

The average age of the membership of this church was well over 60. It was an older congregation in a small town. I was a young, recently divorced father from a different denomination. I, honestly, had no business being the spiritual leader for this group of people.

They recognized that they were a generation away from the church dying and wanted new younger membership. However, they also wanted me to spend my days visiting all the older people of the church who just couldn't get out much anymore. I have no problem with this practice and met some wonderful people, but the hours spent sitting and drinking tea with people who had been already been Christians for decades are not growing the membership of the church. Which is what I was told they wanted.

I do believe those people should be visited, but it should not have been the bulk of my time as was expected. And second, it should not have been the sole responsibility of the pastor. That is one of the many reasons churches have elders. They have a much bigger spiritual responsibility than just sitting on the church board.

Next, any special events designed for community outreach received no support. No one ever resisted, but I got no help either. We hosted a kite-flying, weenie roast one day. This was meant to have the people of the community come to a free event and meet the people of the church. Bring a kite, eat some food and have some fun. I didn't get any takers for volunteers to bring potluck food so I brought stuff myself. My kids and I built a fire and laid out all the hot dogs, condiments, buns, paper plates, and chips. About three dozen people showed up from the community. As for the people of the church (who asked for community outreach events), only two people showed up. And they sat at a picnic table talking to no one but each other and me when I was close enough to hear.

On another occasion, we decided to have a special service mid-week for Flag Day (or another small holiday, I forget which). It was intended to be a short service with a patriotic theme. My kids and I got to the church early. We got everything fired up and waited. Not one single person came. NOT EVEN THE WORSHIP TEAM!!!

It was me and my kids sitting in an empty church.

In the meantime, I had stumbled into a new ministry field and had been working part-time in a tattoo shop to talk to the customers there. It was exciting and I was seeing positive results. I was even using the things that happened in that shop as illustrations in my sermons on Sunday mornings. And while everyone praised the work they heard about in this mission field, they still had to admit that their preacher worked in a tattoo shop. Which I understand. Sort of.

Almost everything I tried just flopped. Nothing seemed to work. I was starting to grow quite apathetic. One day after church, my family and I were leaving for lunch and I noticed as driving by the church that the cars of the members of the church board were in the parking lot. The church board was having a meeting, but I had not been invited. I immediately knew what that meant.

The following week, during our regularly scheduled board meeting, I explained the frustrations I had been having and admitted that I was not the person to be leading this congregation. I handed them a resignation letter. They all looked at each other and just accepted it. There were no questions, so I still believe my suspicions were correct. I was about to be dismissed anyway.

As I stated at the beginning, the people of that church were good people. I'm still friends with some of them today. But I was not the guy who should have filled that spot. It was a miserable couple of years.

My theme for this month has been to write about people who have affected my life and this experience definitely qualifies. I learned a lot from this experience. I had always been one to just put my head down and plow through something. Even before tackling a situation that looked like a bad idea, I would just decide I could figure it out or endure until it was over. That was not how I saw this before I got hired, but it turned into that.

Sometimes a situation is not a good fit and trying to force it only prolongs the inevitable. There were plenty of factors that made me the wrong guy for that job. Not just the age difference. And the longer I stuck it out, the worse position it placed on the leadership who had to deal with it. I'm sure they were not looking forward to firing me. Plus, what church wants to even have that as part of their history? Firing their preacher. I was happy to step down. It saved them the embarrassment and allowed me to go do something I was better suited for.

I am more discerning about the things I choose to do now. I've also learned that it is okay to be a little more assertive about speaking my mind. I don't have to just go along with everything. It was a huge learning experience and I am a stronger person because of it.

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This month, I am participating in the A to Z Challenge. Each day this month, people around the world are writing blog posts and working their way through the alphabet. Each person decides their own personal theme. I am writing about people who have affected my life.