Travels

Hanoi is damp.  Damp with the smell of mildew on the streets and on your clothes.  Particularly in this changing of winter to spring.

It's hard to hold onto the inspiration though. You have to will it, tease it to come out  — you have to grab hold of its throat and strangle it into submission, into something that is domesticated, something that you can draw out at will, something so natural that it ceases to become necessary.

In her wake is a kitchen in shambles. In three hours she made four dishes for refrigeration and bought supplies to stock Dick Cheney's hiding place.

Sometimes life decides to kick you in the nuts when you're not looking.

I walked passed a bia hoi (beer hall) establishment in an alleyway today.  Par for the course.  The place was dominated by men, drinking warm glasses of beer and nibbling salty snacks while their women went to work. Then it struck me.  Vietnamese people dress very formally. Whereas in the

Oh man, oh Man Why do you swing your ding-a-ling Out in the open? Have your golden raindrops stopped For lack of mop or are you hoping That the traffic will work its magic To halt the flow, coming on so slow At least face the wall, dude.