Erik Travels tells you what you need to know on the dirty road........................

Black cloud over the Big Mango?  Even Ghost Busters couldn't cure Bangkok's evil.

     If you are reading this from your comfortable chair in your comfortable home, dreaming of the first class vacation to Ibiza or Monte Carlo, with the big hotel, the snobby staff, the tanned puffy-lipped anorexics, the Bill Blass Aldo and the coiffed poodle, I hope that reading this will scare the shit out of you. At least enough to keep you out of my city. This is no place for you and  selfishly  I don't want to hear your whining.  The fact that even this dirty, perverse cowboy-town known as Bangkok is even starting to feel like Newark, New Jersey only makes me hate your whining even more.

It's turning out to be one of those personal milestone weeks that, at my  age, snuck  up on me.  In the span of one more month I will have finally gotten married (after mounting  one of the most formidable  and successful marriage prevention programs in the history of man).  I will also finally be moving away from the city that has lovingly been my home and rest stop for the last eight years:  Bangkok, Thailand.  It took Hangover 2 to finally give Bangkok its Hollywood due, but those of us who have been walking and exploring the the dirty streets here for a while know what we will not say.  Bangkok:  the perfect destination for the short attention spanned.  The city where a smile and a sneer are virtually indistinguishable.  The city where a cloud of pepper spray smells good and a rotten son-of-a-bitch Indian tailor waits patiently at every street corner smiling falsely in hopes of selling a stupid knock off Armani suit and tie with the opening line "Hello, my friend."  This is the Bangkok I know.  This is my Newark.  Bangkok, you are a whore without a conscience;  a good dream with a harsh ending;  a dead rat at the bottom of a bowl of Tom Yum  soup.  I'm leaving in a month and after I'm gone, I know we'll speak of each other fondly.  At least I will.

I'm a little on edge this week.  I had an epiphany and I hate fucking epiphanies.  They remind you that you still might be horribly ignorant without even realizing it.  My upcoming official wedding must be the culprit.  I've dreaded these realizations for years and have occasionally used beer and tequila to make them go away.  They will not go away.    But this is the truth that you have to know:  Guys (real men anyway) don't want to feel normal.  We want to feel heroic, adventurous and capable. The truth is that most men are none of these things.  The other truth is that I am one of those men and  have proved it on the savage streets and roads and jungles of 4 different continents. Give or take a continent.  Here's another fact:  once you have a wife and child you are no longer considered brave for being that real man. You are called an inconsiderate, reckless asshole by the people who know you best and possibly by your wife (but mine is nice enough to not say it out loud).  Once coupled and kidded-up a strange and uncomfortable guilt arises making you turn toward the world of normalcy for "the good of the family."  You read books on it, ask questions of your normal friends, constantly ask yourself if you are really a good father.  Its like having your thumb up your ass for two years before you notice you have your thumb up your ass.  You wait for it to get more normal and make more sense, but it never does.  It never feels normal because it does not exist in the nature of the adventurer.  You become an animal, with incontinence, in an ever shrinking, unpapered cage.  Furthermore, I submit that it is only when you give this shit up and try to ride the edge, family in tow, that things really start to happen again.  So we are bound for the jungles of Indonesia, me employed, they in tow.  To do what we do best.  Live off the grid...........but not too far off.  Well, probably too far off for you.

Blogging for World Peace

Chanting with Steven Seagal is a blast, but it doesn't make the world safe.

Oh to be young, idealistic and not know what  really makes us the civilized, loving race of people that we are today.  That is the Matrix in which I would plug myself back into again in a second if i could.  But I can't.

I've been a big NGO guy for a while now.  NGO, for the internationally uninformed, is the acronym for Non Governmental Organization.  It is also called charity, non-profit organization, tax-exempt giving, 501(c)(3) and The American Red Cross.  I'm all about the charity and removal of suffering in all its forms and I've been lucky enough to work for a few of the heavy hitters in this category, though I won't name-drop until absolutely necessary.  I've also chanted and prayed for World Peace like a mental patient.

Here's something that might ruin your buzz:  I'm also all about Guns and Money.  People like to compartmentalize their ideals to feel better about things in general.  Its cleaner.  Its nicer.  Its warm and fuzzy.  While you are sitting at home depressed or anxious at 3 AM you turn on the TV. And in between Jersey Shore reruns and public access programming you see a commercial for Save The Children. You know the one:  poor emaciated children in the street, hungry, gaunt, sad eyes. Their despondency turns into your despondency.  You get out your check book.  You want the baby to eat.  Eat, baby, fill your belly.  You try to think of ways to send a cheeseburger directly to the poor fly-ridden 4 year old sitting in the muddy streets of Juba (Sudan). Even though you know its probably not culturally palatable, who wouldn't like a cheeseburger.  You feel better and you get some sleep.

Now how would you feel if you knew that some of your hard earned wages are going toward Guns and Money?  Try not to knee-jerk reflex your response because I'm going to tell you how it works and when I'm done, I promise you will feel better about the AK-47 AND the cheeseburger you've sent abroad.

As a student of human nature (and an LA buddhist) I've tried to experience and analyze the effectiveness of chanting for World Peace all over the world.  Chanting is awesome and prayer and meditation make you feel like a million bucks and I wish I did it more often.  But when it comes to creating World Peace, it seems about as effective as using Morse code on the internet.  When the Mormons came to Africa to "spread the Word" they advocated that the locals close your eyes and start praying.  When they opened their eyes there was a bible in the hand and the pockets were emptied.  And a gun was to their collective head.  World Peace:  not achieved.  I single out the Mormons, but there's certainly similar culprits from all denominations.  When you want World Peace, you need order.

Now this is an obvious questions, but what creates order?  Guns and Money.  Avoid the Guns, get the  Money.

See, you feel better already.  Nobody is shooting at you and your pocket is full.  World Peace:  achieved.  Babies are fed, prosperity  has diminished need and created stability.  It's human nature, my friends.  How would you feel if any of our heavy hitter international charities (still not going to drop names) disclosed that a few of  your hard earned cents are going to support the ne'er-do-well militias, child soldiers, drug kingpins, crooked politrickers, monomaniacal generals and sneaky Kazakh arms dealers?  You'd have a big problem with it.  What about that frigging cheeseburger I thought I was purchasing?  If you knew how it really worked you'd still be awake, more despondent that you were at 3 AM and would eventually switch back to useless public access TV.  But in reality, you've sent that metaphorical cheeseburger on its way to arrive safe and sound in a place where a 4 year old orphan can safely walk the dusty streets, fearlessly, with a full belly.

Guns and Money, people.  Don't discount the charity in them.  I don't think I will live long enough to see the Utopian world society where chanting makes it safe, but I've already seen the place where guns and money have done it.

Now  meditate on that.