No - not the movie - the night out with my new friend Michelle in Chiang Mai, northern Thailand - my current home. We met here, at the Old Medicine Hospital, where we've been studying Thai massage together. More a hybrid of shiatsu, yoga, acupressure, chiropractic and wrestling, the 2,500 year-old tradition emphasizes a vigorous, therapeutic approach rather than a relaxing, soothing one. It makes you feel younger, energetic, more flexible - rather than dozy or horny. Try it. It's coming soon to a ligament near you!
Michelle and I bonded immediately - so much so that everyone we meet assumes that we've known each other for years. She looks like a cross between Sigourney Weaver and Ali McGraw, and has one of those smooth sweet, Californian anchorwoman accents that can deliver a dose of bad 'n bitter news with a spoonful of sugar and a wide, white smile. But when she's mad she looks MEAN! Those things we have in common. We also share the same sense of humour, and spend most of our time laughing. Last weekend, we headed up to Wat Phra That, one of Chiang Mai's most impressive temples, perched 3,000-odd feet above the city. At night, it's visible from my bedroom window but, because there are no buildings on the mountain beneath, it appears to float eerily in the sky. We hired motorbikes and drove up there, also visiting the King's Winter Palace and its sensational gardens, filled with thousands of plants, a miniature jungle, hundred-foot bamboo trees planted together so they spring forth like sheaves of wheat, a huge India Rubber Tree with twisted roots, like this one, and the most extensive and extraordinary collection of rose-bushes you could ever imagine. Breathless (one whiff leaves you that way), Black Tea (smells like.. yeah, you guessed it!), and a host of other absurdly camp names and colours. With vast, bat-sized butterflies fluttering around them, and fountains trickling into ponds full of steroidal carp. A kind of Thai Wonderland.
While browsing the temple's fine collection of bodhisattvas, our intrepid heroine attracted the attentions of a fellow American who, in a manner entirely reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau, blundered straight into the middle of the photograph I was framing. In plaid shirt, shorts, and knock-knees. I lowered my camera and, reminding myself that I was in a sacred place, dressed modestly in long sleeves and an electric-blue lunghi, gently asked him to give me better access to the bougainvillae. As I did so, I noticed that he bore a striking resemblance to someone, but their identity was on the tip of my tongue and was refusing to budge. "Bruce" introduced himself, I took the shot, and left them to chat while I carried on my business with the flowers and the buddhas.
Just Remember to Always Think Twice (Don't Think Twice!)
He was so camp, so cocky in his khakis, we were sure he was gay. Absolutely. And that she, naturally, was safe from any unwelcome advances. How WRONG we were! With that bonhomie and esprit de corps peculiar to Americans abroad, she gladly gave him my(!) cell-phone number so we could "all hang out". We would rue this decision. Very soon. As soon, in fact, as we returned to our guest house, and I saw that someone had attempted to call me four (4) times. Wow, I thought. I'd already forgotten that my number had fallen into the hands of a potential lunatic, and assumed that one of my Bangkok beaus was coming up to Chiang Mai for the weekend. So, so wrong. It was Bruce, who rang again during one of my calls home. "Put me on to Michelle, please." My gaydar had been way off, but my control-freak klaxon sounded immediately. "Please call back in ten," I replied. "I have London calling." So I switched lines, finished my call and, clutching my little phone, ran next door to Michelle's room, where she was examining the business card Bruce had pressed into her hand earlier. Our eyes were drawn immediately to the caption below his name - "God of Detail." Naturally, being an American, one would emphasize the second syllable. Detail. As we sat on her bed, rocking with laughter, the telephone rang. Or beeped, my current tone being, funnily enough, the five notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Giggling softly, she answered the phone with her best call center voice:
So we get ready, go eat thali at a vegetarian restaurant, get to "Bubbles Discotheque" at the Porn Ping Tower (really!) at around 11pm, as promised, having SMSed Bruce to let him know we'd be there. He was there already, lurking in the shadows, and it wasn't 'til we were seated that he found us. Dressed for strobes 'n sashaying, in plaid 'n shorts, his knees loomed towards us in the half-light, followed milliseconds later by the rest of him. We cringed. In the darkness, his resemblance to Billie Jean King hit me in the eye like a 100-mile-per hour ACE! I gasped, Michelle leaned towards me, breathing into my ear as she did so"DON'T LEAVE ME!" I've been in this situation so many times now, I've an autopilot session. So, I hovered discreetly like a valet while Bruce attempted, in strobed slow motion and a safari outfit, to seduce Michelle:
Five minutes pass. Michelle and I deconstruct events of the last few minutes. I ask her if she remembers BJK. We sing a few bars of Michael Jackson, and work out that the G.o.D (God of Detail, remember?) has assumed that she's a backpacker, needs a hot shower coz she's probably filthy, and hasn't seen a pool since she left California, other than the occasional puddle of rat urine at the cheap dives she's been crashing at. Suddenly, he returns.
M: Oh, goodbye.
(They shake hands, their relationship nipped savagely in its bud)
Be Careful Who You Love
Simon and Michelle return to the dance floor, contemplating the strange behaviour of male Americans on the loose. They watch the crowd dancing, a bunch of revellers freshly tanned from the islands, oiled skin gleaming, writhing ecstatically. Suddenly the music changes, and they are both gripped by a sense of prescience as the beat changes, and the smoky air is filled with a melody from two decades past....)
Michelle and I bonded immediately - so much so that everyone we meet assumes that we've known each other for years. She looks like a cross between Sigourney Weaver and Ali McGraw, and has one of those smooth sweet, Californian anchorwoman accents that can deliver a dose of bad 'n bitter news with a spoonful of sugar and a wide, white smile. But when she's mad she looks MEAN! Those things we have in common. We also share the same sense of humour, and spend most of our time laughing. Last weekend, we headed up to Wat Phra That, one of Chiang Mai's most impressive temples, perched 3,000-odd feet above the city. At night, it's visible from my bedroom window but, because there are no buildings on the mountain beneath, it appears to float eerily in the sky. We hired motorbikes and drove up there, also visiting the King's Winter Palace and its sensational gardens, filled with thousands of plants, a miniature jungle, hundred-foot bamboo trees planted together so they spring forth like sheaves of wheat, a huge India Rubber Tree with twisted roots, like this one, and the most extensive and extraordinary collection of rose-bushes you could ever imagine. Breathless (one whiff leaves you that way), Black Tea (smells like.. yeah, you guessed it!), and a host of other absurdly camp names and colours. With vast, bat-sized butterflies fluttering around them, and fountains trickling into ponds full of steroidal carp. A kind of Thai Wonderland.
While browsing the temple's fine collection of bodhisattvas, our intrepid heroine attracted the attentions of a fellow American who, in a manner entirely reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau, blundered straight into the middle of the photograph I was framing. In plaid shirt, shorts, and knock-knees. I lowered my camera and, reminding myself that I was in a sacred place, dressed modestly in long sleeves and an electric-blue lunghi, gently asked him to give me better access to the bougainvillae. As I did so, I noticed that he bore a striking resemblance to someone, but their identity was on the tip of my tongue and was refusing to budge. "Bruce" introduced himself, I took the shot, and left them to chat while I carried on my business with the flowers and the buddhas.
He was so camp, so cocky in his khakis, we were sure he was gay. Absolutely. And that she, naturally, was safe from any unwelcome advances. How WRONG we were! With that bonhomie and esprit de corps peculiar to Americans abroad, she gladly gave him my(!) cell-phone number so we could "all hang out". We would rue this decision. Very soon. As soon, in fact, as we returned to our guest house, and I saw that someone had attempted to call me four (4) times. Wow, I thought. I'd already forgotten that my number had fallen into the hands of a potential lunatic, and assumed that one of my Bangkok beaus was coming up to Chiang Mai for the weekend. So, so wrong. It was Bruce, who rang again during one of my calls home. "Put me on to Michelle, please." My gaydar had been way off, but my control-freak klaxon sounded immediately. "Please call back in ten," I replied. "I have London calling." So I switched lines, finished my call and, clutching my little phone, ran next door to Michelle's room, where she was examining the business card Bruce had pressed into her hand earlier. Our eyes were drawn immediately to the caption below his name - "God of Detail." Naturally, being an American, one would emphasize the second syllable. Detail. As we sat on her bed, rocking with laughter, the telephone rang. Or beeped, my current tone being, funnily enough, the five notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Giggling softly, she answered the phone with her best call center voice:
Michelle: (M) Hello
God of Detail (G.o.D.) Hello? Hello? Is that Michelle?
M: Yes, this Michelle.
G.o.D.: Hey Michelle. Where have you been? I've tried calling you. What have you been doing?
M (coolly): We're just hanging out. I haven't eaten, or even taken a shower.
G.o.D.: Oh. I was gonna invite you to a proper dinner, but now I'm eating without you. So, what are you doing later?
M: Simon and I are heading into town to meet up with some friends then going to a club in town.
G.o.D.: You have friends? (yes, he really did say that, Ed.). Well, what time are you meeting?
M: I'm not sure. We're probably heading out late, say eleven, and meeting up at a club.
G.o.D.: That late? Uh, ok. Here's what to do. First, have a shower, then call me when you have a plan (sounds like God, right?)
M: Ok. We'll do that. See you later..
G.o.D.: OK. Bye...
(conversation ends)
So we get ready, go eat thali at a vegetarian restaurant, get to "Bubbles Discotheque" at the Porn Ping Tower (really!) at around 11pm, as promised, having SMSed Bruce to let him know we'd be there. He was there already, lurking in the shadows, and it wasn't 'til we were seated that he found us. Dressed for strobes 'n sashaying, in plaid 'n shorts, his knees loomed towards us in the half-light, followed milliseconds later by the rest of him. We cringed. In the darkness, his resemblance to Billie Jean King hit me in the eye like a 100-mile-per hour ACE! I gasped, Michelle leaned towards me, breathing into my ear as she did so"DON'T LEAVE ME!" I've been in this situation so many times now, I've an autopilot session. So, I hovered discreetly like a valet while Bruce attempted, in strobed slow motion and a safari outfit, to seduce Michelle:
- G.o.D.: So, I was gonna take you for a proper dinner and offer you a hot shower and dip in my pool at the Lanna Palace hotel, in return for a massage.
M: (reeling from a gust of warm halitosis) Oh, OK. (thinks, "shit, can't you just offer me some freakin' money? Do I really have to hang out with you?)
(Awkward silence ensues. Bruce gets up, moves a few tables away, sits down.))
Five minutes pass. Michelle and I deconstruct events of the last few minutes. I ask her if she remembers BJK. We sing a few bars of Michael Jackson, and work out that the G.o.D (God of Detail, remember?) has assumed that she's a backpacker, needs a hot shower coz she's probably filthy, and hasn't seen a pool since she left California, other than the occasional puddle of rat urine at the cheap dives she's been crashing at. Suddenly, he returns.
- G.o.D.: Hey, this place is kinda loud. And the people are kinda unfriendly. Even the working girls (some of whom, he hadn't realized, were in fact gay boys with good taste) wouldn't dance with me. (Pauses) I'm gonna step outside, get some air.
M: OK, see ya in a minute.
G.o.D.: Uh, why don't you walk me out?
(ed. watches all of this carry-on in complete amazement. Takes copious mental notes.)
M: (American deep-level programming prevents her from saying "Get ter f***")Hey, Simon, he wants me to walk him out.
S: What on earth for? Does he need support? (Remembers the rape scene in Thelma and Louise and follows dutifully.
(G.o.D. walks to exit, followed by S&M.)
M. (rallies, and in sugar-sweet anchorwoman accent announces):You know something? I don't want to walk you out.
G.o.D.: Oh, well, then, goodbye.
M: Oh, goodbye.
(They shake hands, their relationship nipped savagely in its bud)
Simon and Michelle return to the dance floor, contemplating the strange behaviour of male Americans on the loose. They watch the crowd dancing, a bunch of revellers freshly tanned from the islands, oiled skin gleaming, writhing ecstatically. Suddenly the music changes, and they are both gripped by a sense of prescience as the beat changes, and the smoky air is filled with a melody from two decades past....)
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