The situation in Bangkok is getting worse as the anti-government protesters clashed with police yesterday, ending in casualties on both sides.

The Red Shirts have succeeded in closing down most of the city, including public transportation and shopping areas, but they have not succeeded in making any political headway.

True democracy doesn’t work this way.

True democracy doesn’t blow the other side up when it doesn’t get its way.

True democracy doesn’t bribe and pay the uneducated masses to protest something that most of them don’t even understand.

The Thai people claim they want democracy, but this isn’t the way to go about it. Until the corruption ends on both sides of the line, these sorts of violent reactions will continue, bringing absolutely no peace to Thailand.

See all of my Red Shirt pictures here.

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Don’t try to argue, this kid will prove you wrong.

But this isn’t about you or that kid, this is about the Evil that has infiltrated my balcony and my life.

I’ve never liked pigeons much. Aside from the fact that they are dirty, disease-ridden birds, pigeons have absolutely no qualms about attacking innocents (which we learned from the great Alfred Hitchcock), and they will look right at you with those beady yellow eyes while they do it. (Their EYES are YELLOW. That’s a sign right there.)

Trivia: The most enormous (and correspondingly the most evil) pigeons are found in London’s Trafalgar Square.

This is the one, the very pigeon that yesterday tried to peck his way through a glass door and into my apartment. Oh sure, he tried to cover his intentions with what he clearly thought was an innocent coo, but I knew what he was up to. Immediately I ran for cover (and my camera) while coming up with an escape plan, but the demon’s supersonic hearing kicked in and he flew away to the next balcony. I was safe… or so I thought.

The demon returned. For a while he hid out sniper-style on the balcony across the way, consorting with his pigeon friends and plotting other ways to torture me. This particular pigeon sensed my fear and returned to my balcony again and again, cooing his evil coo and flapping his enormous wings. Finally night fell and I thought the psychological warfare was over…

But this morning, there he was, the Devil’s Spawn himself, waiting on my balcony. He was just biding his time until I was sitting on my couch, leisurely eating Special K and daydreaming about a pigeon-free day.

If only my life were that simple.

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I must start this letter by admitting my undying devotion to and simultaneous hatred of you, dear Button. You are the thorn in my flesh and the apple of my eye. Your power to do both good and evil is never-ending. I only wish that all had the same respect for you that I have.

Almighty Button, you hold our secrets in your hands; one click and you can either elevate us or destroy us. Jobs can be lost, careers decimated, friendships severed with one false move… but glory awaits he who channels your powers correctly. One can never underestimate the power of a well-placed remark, sarcastic or witty, but even the mighty sometimes fall. The shame of being discovered by the target of such a remark is enough to keep my mind clear and my hand steady.

Unfortunately, many lack the clarity of mind and steadiness of hand that should, by rights, accompany your presence on the email interface. How carelessly they toss their words about, clicking with reckless abandon and cluttering up my inbox with their foolhardiness and inane annotations. Too often have I reveled in that glorious sound alerting me to new mail, only to have my hopes dashed by a brainless response to a missive that had nothing to do with me in the first place. Oh, hated Button, how you have betrayed me time and time again!

However, I remain hopeful that good shall prevail. Those who know and respect your strength have often provided me with countless hours of amusement and delight, and for that, I thank you.

On behalf of all who have felt the sting of shame, exultation of glory, or pain of chagrin that comes with knowing you, I vow to never abuse your powers, but only to use them for good… and for the occasional sarcastic comment.

Respectfully yours,
Joy

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This past week has proven to be the worst rainy season I’ve seen yet during my (almost) three years in Bangkok. Aside from the horrible thunderstorms and ridiculous downpouring of rain, the area where I live and work is one of the lowest points in the city, so that means flooding… and I don’t own any galoshes.

Usually my walk to and from work takes about five minutes, but when you have to slosh through flooding sewer water as cars splash by and motorcycles try to run you off the also-flooded sidewalk, it can be a bit of a challenge. By the time I get to school, I usually look and smell like a drowned rat.

Of course, the flooding takes a toll on both driver and pedestrian – today, for instance, I waded through the water to catch a taxi to the mall. Unfortunately the taxi wasn’t in good condition to begin with, and the deep water didn’t help, so about half a mile from my destination, the taxi starts to rattle and shake and make all sorts of terrifying noises. It finally died on the overpass, so the driver coasted to a stop on the side and got out to look… not only had the engined konked out, but he had a flat tire to boot. Needless to say, I was kicked out of the taxi and had to catch another one for the rest of the journey (and I had to pay for both).

Last week my friend Helen and I got stuck at school during a particularly bad rainstorm and eventually had to brave the floodwaters so we could get home. Naturally we took the time to video our experience.

And that’s only the tip of the iceberg… at one point during the week we were in another friend’s car, driving through the flooded street in front of our school, when water started pouring in through the floorboards…

I would like to take this opportunity to point out that the water is NOT clean and does NOT smell good.

Tomorrow I’m breaking out the hazmat suit.

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It started off in the usual way – dodging kamikaze sidewalk-hijacking motorcyclists while trying to walk to work – but started going downhill once I left my safe haven.

After a full day at school, my friend Robin and I were expected to be downtown at 4:00 to perform at a charity event that was raising money to help underprivileged children. Knowing it was a Friday afternoon in Bangkok, but also knowing that we had to work until 3:00, we planned to make a mad dash as soon as we could break away. An hour would be cutting it close, but we would just hope for the best.

Nearly three hours later, Robin and I were still in the taxi and had still not arrived at our destination. “Well,” we said, “that’s just Friday afternoon traffic in Bangkok… maybe they won’t start the show without us…”

And then the driver kicked us out. He apparently didn’t want to go any farther in traffic and claimed that we’d only have to walk two blocks (yeah, try six, buddy). So we climbed out and started our hike among the trecherous sidewalks of Bangkok.

We finally made it to the concert venue, horribly late and sweaty and soggy from all the post-rainstorm puddles. Miraculously the show hadn’t started yet, so I was able to perform and eat a muffin for charity (I’m always willing to sacrifice for the greater good). Unfortunately I got hit with a migraine after about an hour at the event, so I decided to skip out early and head home.

This time I had a plan: skip the taxi through downtown traffic and take the skytrain instead… If only it was that simple.

The skytrain was, of course, totally packed – I got groped several times, and the guy next to me had clearly forgotten his deodorant – but it got even worse once I got off the train and saw the line for taxis, which stretched out for at least two blocks.

At this point my migraine was raging, my feet were soaked, I was sweating like a pig, it was dark (I hate the dark), and my cell phone battery was completely dead. So, like the genius that I am, I decided to walk a few blocks and see if I could catch a taxi farther down the road.

I really should know better by now.

After about half an hour of standing on the corner waiting for an open taxi that never came, I gave up and started looking for a bus to hop on instead. Of course, I had no idea which bus to take (and no phone to call anyone with), so I just got on the first one that stopped – and with a stroke of luck, it was the right one! In the home stretch now, I settled into one of the shockingly uncomfortable seats for another thirty minutes of smelly transportation.

Finally the end was in sight. I was only a mile from home, thinking longingly of my soft bed and the good night’s sleep I was going to get… when suddenly the bus stopped.

In the middle of eight lanes of traffic.

And just like the taxi driver, the bus driver kicked us out.

In the middle of eight lanes of traffic.

Needless to say, I was quite a bit freaked out. I had to run across traffic to make it to the sidewalk (by this point laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of my life) where thankfully there was an open taxi (where was he an hour ago?) who took me the last mile home.

So now, as I sit in my nice warm bed, I have to laugh at the fact that my life may be many things, but dull certainly isn’t one of them.

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Let’s face it, conventions can be lots of fun… or lots of frustration. Long lines, sleepless nights, crowded rooms… awesome stars, photo ops, complete fan immersion! What you get out of a con depends on what you want and how you go about getting it.

Want to meet your favorite celebrity? Want to get that priceless autograph? Of course you do… but get ready to shell out some dough. If you want the full, up-close-and-personal convention experience, VIP is the way to go. Lots of conventions offer some sort of Willy Wonka Golden Ticket package (although with significantly less candy) which will cost a small fortune; however, you get what you pay for! Front-row seats, backstage access, autograph sessions and photo ops with the stars… real royal treatment. Companies that run conventions just love their VIP customers and will go the extra mile to make sure you’re happy with your con experience.

Of course, the average con-goer can’t afford (or isn’t willing) to break the bank just for a fan-filled weekend, and the powers that be know that. A smart convention company will offer a variety of ticket packages for conventioners on a budget (like myself). A cheap con weekend can cost you as low as $20 per day… but again, you get what you pay for. If you don’t mind sitting in the back row, craning your neck and polishing your binoculars just to get a glimpse of your favorite star, the low-cost route is the way to go. You’ll still get to meet lots of interesting people and fan your little heart out!

“Isn’t there some in-between option?” you may be asking. Of course! Lots of cons will let you purchase separate tickets for certain events. For example, you might pay the general admission price to sit in the back row for a panel, then spend a little more to attend a special concert or get an autograph… a ‘mix and match’ approach, if you will. You don’t have to spend next year’s rent money just to have fun!

Hang on now, there’s more! Let’s say you’re a reporter/photographer/blogger/big-name-fan and you want to get some juicy material for your paper/website/blog/whatever. If you’re lucky, you might be able to secure yourself a press pass to the event. What does this mean? Well, it varies from con to con – you might get full access to all the best parts of the con, or you might just be able to get up close during panels and take a few pictures. If you decide to go this route, here are a few words of advice:

» Apply early! Don’t wait until the day before the con to apply for a press pass.
» Sell yourself! Let them know who you are, where you’re from, and what kind of publicity you can offer them… they don’t just give out passes to anybody.
» Be prepared! Don’t leave your camera batteries uncharged (not that I did that or anything…).
» Make contacts! Try to buddy up to other press people, they’re fun!

Being press can be fun, but it can also be stressful. Other fans might look at you with respect and awe, but the convention staff might not give a flying fart in space that you’re there. From my personal experience, being press might get you some good material, but you might also have to sacrifice some of your self-respect and dignity to get it. If the con staff is smart (and you’re really, really lucky), they’ll recognize that you’re giving them free publicity and kiss up to you all weekend… but most likely not. Be prepared to elbow your way around the con to get what you want and need, but remember: acting like a jerk will just make it that much worse for you. Be respectful and follow the guidelines, but don’t be surprised if you suddenly become invisible.

So, to con or not to con? CON! But do it with your eyes open and know what you’re getting into! Read other fans’ accounts of their con experiences, do your research… and drink lots of water (conning is exhausting!).

Got your own con experience to share? Leave a comment! :)

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Even though the winding mountain drive made me carsick, the Amalfi Coast has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. We spent several hours just driving through the mountains, taking in the view (and of course I got hundreds of pictures) before heading to the ruins of Pompeii, which was fantastic. I’ve always been fascinated with the history of Pompeii, and seeing it in person was even better than I’d imagined. (Our friends Tom and Sue actually climbed Mt. Vesuvius, but I certainly wasn’t that crazy!) Seeing actual people and animals so well-preserved for almost two thousand years, not to mention the elaborate paintings and carvings in the streets and buildings… wow. If I owned a time machine…

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Today fits more into the amusing category, thankfully. I spent the morning judging a debate competition for the World Scholar’s Cup that was being held at our school, then I ran a few errands, paid some bills – nothing too out of the ordinary. When I got back to my apartment, arms full of grocery bags, and went to put the key in the lock, I swung around and one of my bags stuck to the door. Obviously this made me do a double-take – usually things bounce off my door instead of stick to it…

Apparently someone painted my door during the few hours I was away from home. My entire apartment now smells like paint, and I’m left wondering who the drive-by painter in my building is.

T.I.T. indeed.

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