Dave Fox's Outbursts!

What They Don't Teach Norwegians in English Class

Oslo, Norway

More or less everyone in Norway speaks at least a little English. Kids here start learning it in first grade.

I've just wandered in from Akerbrygge, Oslo's lively harbor area, where it's a sunny evening and a swing dance demonstration is in full swing. People of all ages were dancing on the pier. Among others, a girl of around eight years old was dancing with her father to, "Time to get your drunk ass home."

Okay... so English class has its limits.

Everybody Panic! (Again!)

[We interrupt our ongoing bloggage from my recent trip to Vietnam in order to bring you this sneak preview....]

From the producers who brought you 1999 hysteria over world destruction from malfunctioning computer clocks ("Y2K"), and the 2003 panic from a new strain of Avian Flu that would destroy the human race ("Y2Chicken"), comes their greatest thriller yet: "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!"

Starring Dr. Sanjay Gupta as the dashing journalist who ventures into the hot zone and risks his life to tell the story, co-starring the entire nation of Mexico as a bunch of dead people, "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked" will have you on the edge of your hospital bed, believing the hype until the very end!

But wait! There's more! Don't miss the great online extras! Here's what CNN had to say about Swine Flu on Twitter:

"Some observers say Twitter -- a micro-blogging site where users post 140-character messages -- has become a hotbed of unnecessary hype and misinformation about the outbreak...."

If you love hype, you won't want to miss "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!" -- the movie so terrifying, you'll be too afraid to remove your mask and eat popcorn.

"Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!" -- coming soon to a television set near you.

(This movie has not yet been rated. If you are traveling with children, please secure your own mask before assisting with theirs.)

[...I'll get back to my Vietnam blogging soon if I live long enough to tell the tales.]

Squid Bike Barbecues

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Looking for a late night snack in Vietnam to go with your beer? Flag down a squid bike.

These bikes are typical Vietnamese ingenuity, and while dried sea creatures aren't my favorite food, I can’t help but love the concept.

Many of the local beer joints don’t sell food, but Vietnamese friends tell me you never go out drinking here without something to snack on. The solution: Here comes the squid!

Special bicycles (and occasionally motorcycles) prowl the streets at night with tall racks of dried, pressed squid. For 20,000 dong (5,000 if you’re shrewd enough to negotiate the local price), the squid biker will run a squid through a hand-cranked press and flatten it out one last time, then warm it on a mini charcoal grill attatched to the side of his bike. The squid is chewy and served with a sweet-and-spicy chile sauce for dipping.

If you go out drinking in Vietnam, you have two types of bar to choose from. Some sell fruity cocktails to backpackers. Others are more authentically Vietnamese –- hole-in-the-wall joints offering pint bottles of Saigon Beer, or jugs of local tap beer for around 10,000 Vietnamese dong per liter. (There are 17,600 dong to the US dollar.) The local watering holes usually have outdoor seating at undersized plastic tables and chairs or stools. The seats are wobbly, and low to the ground, but fun once you get used to them.

The Quyen Thanh Hotel: Pet Geckos and Brilliant Balconies

Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam

The Quyen Thanh is my favorite budget hotel in Saigon. Seventeen US dollars a night gets you a double room with a bathroom, air conditioning, and pet geckos. A soda from the minibar will set you back 35 cents. A full load of laundry runs about two bucks. Flip flops are recommended in the shower. The green faux-granite bathtubs are grimy, but otherwise, the place is clean.

I’m a night person, which makes staying at the Quyen Thanh awkward. They padlock the front door around 10 p.m. and two receptionists crash on cots in the small lobby. To get in after 10, you ring the doorbell and wait a couple of minutes. Then you ring he doorbell again because the guys in the lobby never wake up on the first ring. After that, you bang on the sliding metal gate that covers the front door. Then a person at the café next door tells you to try ringing the bell again. Eventually, someone wakes up and lets you in. Like I said, this is awkward, especially when you come in well past 10 on a nightly basis, but I’ve offered to move to another hotel so I won’t disturb them. They have graciously assured me they are happy to wake up.

The best thing about the Quyen Thanh is the balconies. The hotel has 14 rooms on four floors, all overlooking my favorite Saigon intersection. Each floor has a single, shared balcony that wraps around the corner for great views of the street below. I’ve sat for hours watching the cyclo riders, food vendors, streetside masseurs, cigarette hawkers, lost backpackers, drunk backpackers, friendly residents, and afternoon downpours. Then, there are the squid bike barbecues. (More on those soon.)

My favorite part of the view from my balcony at the Quyen Thanh is the motorbikes. I’ve already blogged about Saigon’s motorbike culture. What I hadn’t done up to this point was actually participate in it. The swarming traffic was risky enough on foot. Hopping on the back of a motorcycle seemed like a deathwish. But in the morning, my friend Phúc would meet me at my hotel. My belongings reduced to what would fit in a small overnight bag, we would ride 190 kilometers south, weaving through Saigon’s morning rush hour, then buzzing through the Mekong jungles to the city of Can Tho.

I felt nervous about the journey as I crawled into bed. I popped in my earplugs (recommended, as the street noise below lasts all night), crawled under the giant towel that served as my blanket, popped an Ambien to conquer my jet lag, and drifted to sleep.

...To be continued....

Up All Night in Ho Chi Minh City

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

It's 2 a.m here in Saigon. I'm sitting on my hotel balcony, sipping a final Tiger Beer before I leave for the airport in two hours to fly home to Seattle, and savoring all of my senses.

What I see: A street full of people – tourists drinking at streetside tables, a cyclo driver sleeping on his bike, kids playing a dice game on the sidewalk, specially designed bicycles with built-in mini barbecues... their riders are selling dried squid to late-night revelers. Neon floods my pupils. Muted moonlight is slipping through a crack in the clouds.

What I hear: The honking horns and motorbike motors that never stop here, happy voices in Vietnamese, English, and other languages, the rattles of late-night masseurs who bicycle through the streets advertising their services, a squabble at a bar across the road that has been going on for a good 45 minutes now. Every so often, there is breaking glass, and an angry, apparently drunk woman throws a chair or a small table. But this is not the norm. I feel blissfully peaceful in this frenetic city.

What I smell: Muggy air and my own sweat. The scent of grilled, dried squid does not make it up to my third floor balcony, but I know it's down there. And something sweet – either the hibiscus flower in the pot by my feet, or the sticky, empty can of Xaxi – a Vietnamese soft drink that tastes like licorice-laced root beer.

What I taste: sour remnants of Vietnamese rum, from a drink a couple of hours ago at a bar across the street. The aftertaste is sour, but in the moment it's consumed, it is the most delicious rum I have ever drunk, with strong hints of vanilla. I have two bottles in my backpack, wrapped in dirty laundry, hoping they won't break on the journey home. Cost per bottle: 25,000 Vietnamese dong, or roughly US $1.50

What I feel: Humid air and sticky skin, a pinched nerve in my back from motorbiking through the Mekong Delta last week, a pinched nerve in my foot from too much walking in flip-flops, a strain in my lower back from the 12-inch-tall foot stool on which I'm sitting as I type this, and a reminder from my bladder that it should be emptied soon,

It happened here again, just like last year. I came to Vietnam with limited expectations and a hint of nervousness. I came with a plan, and things did not go as planned. They went better. I'm not exactly sure what it is about this place, but it's magical here.  I don't want to leave. I want to stay. Ho Chi Minh City, still casually referred to as Saigon, feels like home -- in some ways more than home feels like home. After two short trips, I have good friends here.

Ten things I've done these last two weeks:

1. Been massaged by a blind person
2. Spent 15 hours in two days on the back of a motorcycle
3. Watched the sun rise over the South China Sea
4. Eaten chicken penis and coagulated duck blood
5. Watched the streets fill with water during a pounding thunderstorm
6. Lost my day bag and moneybelt
7. Had my foot stung multiple times by pissed-off fire ants
8. Chased after a purse snatcher
9. Left tourist neighborhoods for three-dollar meals of fresh shrimp and beer at roadside, barbecues
10. A few other things we'll get to later.

The clouds have now cleared. The moon is peeking at me over the top of a hotel across the intersection. I have the hiccups. I don't want to leave.

Airplanes mess with our sense of reality. In the next 24 hours or so, I will fly from Saigon to Hong Kong to Vancouver to Seattle. I will arrive home Tuesday night, sleep as much as I can, and teach a free travel journaling class Thursday night. Then I will sleep some more. Then I will blog through the week with elaborations on the above.

Scooting in Saigon

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

[Eek! My laptop battery is about to die here... I'm splashing this online without edting, spell-checking, or anything. Photos coming next week.]

Ask anyone who has visited Ho Chi Minh City what sound they remember most, and invariably they'll tell you it's the honking of horns and the constant rumble of motorbikes. In a country where the price of a used car is beyond the reach of most people, in a crowded and sprawling city with roughly eight million residents and limited mass transit, the motorbike is the preferred way to get around.

The sheer number of motorcycles in Ho Chi Minh City, (or Saigon as it's still casually referred to), is mind-blowing. Looking out over a busy intersection from my hotel balcony, so many motorbikes whiz by, counting them all is impossible. There are no traffic lights or stop signs. And people don't stop. They just slow down and swerve around each other.

Their constant honking is functional, not hostile. People navigate by sound as well as sight, paying attention to audible warnings from bikers behind them who want to pass.

What's most amazing to me is the amount of people or stuff they can cram onto a single motorbike. These are generally not big bikes, but my girlfriend, Kattina, says she's seen a family of six on a single bike. I have seen five, and four is routine. Young children sit, helmetless, on top of the gas tank, cradled in a parent's arms. I've seen several kids napping this way. Older kids, age six or older, are often sandwiched between two parents.

The things people carry on their bikes? Huge sacks of rice. Cases of beer. Not single cases. In any given hour, I will see at least a couple of bikes ride past with eight beer cases in two stacks of four, bungee-corded to the seat. Those are the bottles. With cases of cans, I've seen double the amount. But there's more. In any given hour, at any random intersection, you can see motorbikers carrying huge baskets of fruit, furniture, car windshields, even bicycles.

This would all be very illegal in the States. And friends here tell me Vietnam has laws too that are semi-enforced. But it seems safe here. I haven't seen a single accident. I saw one near miss during a pounding downpour.

People drive slowly here, constantly watching out for each other. While motorcycles in the US terrify me, hopping on a motorbike taxi in Saigon and slaloming through the city streets is thrilling – as is sitting on my hotel balcony during rush hour, sipping a beer, and watching the tangle of motorized life below.

“I never get tired of watching this,” Kattina said to me the other night.

I don't either. It's like watching fireworks.

Quick Note from Ho Chi Minh City

I have arrived safely in Vietnam... taking off early tomorrow morning on a motorbike trip through the Mekong Delta to Can Tho. I don't expect to have Internet access the next two days, but will be posting updates to my Twitter account from my mobile phone. Those updates will also post here on my blog (in the right-hand column, just below my photo).

Fluzilla Zaps Tokyo

March 24-25 – Flying over the Bering Sea, Somewhere around the International Date Line

I'm looking at the in-flight video map right now en route from Seattle to Tokyo, and I can't help but notice that in the north, around the Bering Sea, the International Date Line is really an International Date Zig Zag. My theory is that the Date Line People must have started in the south, and once they hit the upper quadrant of the Northern Hemisphere, they got a little  woozy. I don't have a theory as to whether this wooziness was caused by drunkenness or seasickness. I am just making an observation.

I'm not sure if it's Tuesday or Wednesday right now. Looking at the diagram on the screen, our plane is actually straddling the Date Line, one wing in each day. Also, according to the screen, our plane is roughly the same size as Korea.

What I know for sure it is not is Monday. This is unfortunate. Monday is the day I was supposed to leave Seattle. I was supposed to fly to Tokyo, hang out for 24 hours, and write an article about how ridiculous it is to go to Tokyo for just 24 hours. I was going to take in the cherry blossoms, which are rumored to be blooming, and attempt to score some sake in Ueno Park. I was going to sleep in a capsule hotel, described by one American expat on Twitter as “coffin-like.” I was going to seek out Tokyo nightlife, and shopping mayhem in the electronics district. I was going to push through my jet lag, albeit with a whimper or two, and get completely disoriented in a culture I know little about.

Instead, I got the flu.

The flu hit a week ago. My doctor had reassured me I'd be fine by Monday. But “fine” is a relative thing. I found myself, Sunday afternoon, wanting nothing more than to snore for about 38 hours.

Reality hit Sunday night around 9 p.m. when I realized I had about six hours worth of stuff to do, and my body was screaming at me to go to sleep. If I wanted, I could delay my trip a day and skip my Tokyo stopover.

“Don't decide now,” my girlfriend, Kattina, said to me. “Go to bed. Wake up early. You know how to pack fast when you need to.”

I slept fitfully. By 4 a.m. Monday, my mind was made up. Running around Tokyo in 50-degree drizzle with the remnants of the flu was not going to fix the severe fatigue that had kept me down all week. I didn't want my fever to relapse in Vietnam. Tokyo could wait for another trip.

Of course, that is also what I said 20 years ago about Eastern Europe after I came down with a nasty cold in Turkey and decided to scrap my planned train ride north via Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Hungary, and Poland. “Eastern Europe isn't going to change overnight,” I wrote in my diary, thinking I could come back and see those countries in a few years and they'd be exactly the same.

Four months later, the Berlin Wall toppled.

So here's a personal message to the good people of Tokyo: Please don't change. No revolutions or diseased cherry blossom epidemics or Godzilla attacks until after I can come visit, okay? It's going to feel sad, a few hours from now, changing planes quickly in your airport and zipping straight on to Vietnam. But sometimes when we're traveling and we get sick, we have to change our course.

Maybe that's what happened to the guys who were plotting the Date Line.

Spring Fever and Travel Delirium

Greetings from Seattle, where I have spent the last three days basking in the radiant glow of a 102-degree fever. (That's 39 for my Celcius-loving friends.)

"What," you ask, "could possibly be more enthralling than having a 102-degree (39-degree Celcius) fever?!?!"

I'll tell you what!

Having a 102-degree (39-degree Celcius) fever when you are supposed to be leaving for Tokyo in four days! That's what!

No, wait! Three days!

Ummm, wait! I mean, 37 hours!

And counting!

Holy crap!

The good news is my aforementioned 102-degree fever is now down to a slender 99.6. This means that I am now able to get out of bed for the first time since St. Patrick's Day, and pack.

"But Dave," you say, "you are a Scandinavian specialist. Besides, Tokyo is expensive! What the hell are you going to Tokyo for?"

Relax. I am only going for a day.

Actually, I had no intentions of going to Japan this week, but it's on the way to Vietnam. I am going to Vietnam because I have articles to write, a tour to organize. And I can get there free with frequent flier miles. And once I am there, it's cheaper than staying in Seattle. Call it a struggling travel writer's creative solution to the so-called "economic downturn."

It was a brilliant, profitable plan -- until I found out I had to fly via Tokyo, and I could have a free stopover.

I can't afford a free stopover in Tokyo. A day in Tokyo costs as much as a week in Vietnam. But it's Tokyo, damn it! I've never been to Japan before. And the cherry blossoms are blooming. I can't just turn down a free peek.

"Okay," I rationalized. "One day. Twenty-four hours is all I can afford."

Then I thought some more. I began arguing with myself:

"Twenty-four hours to see Tokyo, Dave? That is probably the stupidest travel plan you have ever concocted!"

"Exactly! What a brilliant story idea!"

Brilliant story or not, I found my rationalization.

So I'm flying to Tokyo Monday. I arrive Tuesday afternoon at 4:30. My plan: Get through customs, store my bag overnight at the airport, and high-tail it to Ueno Park. Rumor has it if I show up in the early evening, all of Tokyo will be there, picnicking under the pink, flowery trees and guzzling sake.

After that, I have no clue what I am doing, no idea where I will sleep that night, or if I will sleep that night. I just need to be back at the airport by 6:20 the following evening to fly to Vietnam. I'll be in downtown Saigon around midnight Wednesday.

Or I might be passed out behind a bush in Ueno Park. I'm not really sure.

If I make it to Vietnam, I've got more articles to write. I contacted my friend Phuc (rhymes with "hook") last week to see if he could work as my interpreter for a story I'm researching in the city of Can Tho. Phuc guided me and my girlfriend Kattina last year on a kayaking / cycling journey through the Mekong Delta. After I e-mailed him last week, he wrote back with a fair price for his services, plus a driver to get us to Can Tho and a hotel for the night. We had a deal.

Two days later, Phuc e-mailed me again: "Hi Dave. I have an amazing plan for you."

His amazing plan: Forget the driver. He could take me on the 110-mile journey on the back of his motorbike. He'd knock 70 bucks off the price.

I'm all for saving 70 bucks. That should just about cover a bottle of sake in Ueno Park. But four to five hours each way, via motorbike, through insane traffic, in blistering heat and humidity, with jet lag?

Another brilliant story idea.

Or not.

Seeking advice about the motorbike (it is Vietnam's favorite means of transportation), I e-mailed my travel writer friend, Amanda: "I don't want to do this. I'm afraid I'll end up splattered against a banana tree."

Amanda had been awake all night, working on a tight deadline of her own. She was semi-delirious in her response: "Scared is good. Scared makes for great copy. Do it!"

So this coming week is going to be kind of busy. I have spent the last three days in bed when I was supposed to be getting ready to travel. Starting in a couple of days, however, I will be blogging from Asia as often time, technology, and banana trees allow.

But right now, if you'll excuse me, I need another throat lozenge.

Last Year's Bloggage from Vietnam and Hong Kong

• Crossing the Line
• Low Voltage Shock
• Vietnamese Millionaire
• Still in Saigon
• Midnight Snacks in Vietnam
• Kowloon Typhoon

Extra Fees on Airlines Have Gone Too Far!

Ryanair has just announced it might start charging passengers to use the lavatory.

Ireland's best-known budget airline is again debating a proposal to install coin slots on their planes on all bathroom doors. Ryanair boss Michael O'Leary told the Associated Press passengers might have to use a one pound coin to use the toilet.

Never mind that the Republic of Ireland doesn't even use the British Pound, and never has. They used to have their own currency and are now on the Euro. Furthermore, many of Ryanair's routes do not fly anywhere near Sterling territory. Who the hell is going to have one-pound coins on a flight from Paris to Rome?

The flight attendants, O'Leary says, and they will be happy to make change.

Yeah, whatev.

This is not a good business move. If I have to pay to pee, I am not going to buy beer on my flights... unless they will give me an extra plastic cup.

25 Pathetic But True Things About My Bad Self That You Really Shouldn't Care About

[The following ridiculousness was originally posted on my Facebook page.]

EXTREMELY IMPORTANT RULES! READ THESE OR DIE! ~ This is one of those highly irritating, viral Internet fads that you would not have to put up with if you lived in a country with the good sense to ban such idiotic wastes of time, such as North Korea. If you have been “tagged” in this note, it is either because you have already tagged the author in a similarly self-indulgent outburst of your own, or because you have attempted to coerce the author into some other time-squandering Facebook activity, or just because you are extremely misfortunate and the author had to meet his obligatory quota in this exercise of tagging at least 25 people.

While the author of this particular note has been instructed to compose a mere 25 completely useless and boring facts about himself, you are not so lucky. You must now reveal 52,197 completely useless and boring facts about yourself in a similar note. Furthermore, you must tag at least 87,254,992 of your Facebook friends. You must do this within 24 hours, or an army of sewer rats with laser beam eyes will crawl up through your shower drain and incinerate your entire city. And won’t that suck?

If you do not have 87,254,992 Facebook friends, you must bury yourself under the covers and whimper, reflecting on the sorry state of your social life, until the rats arrive.

Now, for your further annoyance, here are the requested 25 factoids about the author. You may read them if you like. Alternatively, you could just turn off your computer and go take a walk. That’s probably the more productive thing to do.

1) I do not normally participate in Internet thingies such as this. I have agreed to do so this time, only because someone who recently reviewed my books promised that if I did, she would demonstrate her ability to sound like a dolphin.

2) Usually, I unflinchingly refuse and block all offers on Facebook of virtual hugs, virtual chocolate, virtual haggis, virtual snowball fights, virtual cocktails, virtual fetish models, challenges to reveal my extremely high IQ, and requests to join Facebook-fueled political groups. This might be because I am an evil, heartless bastard. I’m not really sure.

3) Speaking of dolphins, I used to have a goldfish named Abdul. His full name was Prince Abdul Ibrahim Srafeq III. I have no idea why I named him that. It just kind of sounded cool at the time.

4) I also used to have hair, but my hair did not have an exotic name like my goldfish did. In any case, neither my hair nor my goldfish are alive anymore.

5) I refuse to use the term, “best friend.” Seriously, what’s with ranking one friend above others:

“Sorry, but this week, you have been demoted to the status of fourth best friend. Yes, I know you were at number three last week, but I met this guy at a bar and he’s pretty cool. But don’t worry. Zach and Penelope might be moving to Burkina Faso, and then I won’t really be hanging out with them much, so you might have advancement opportunities in the near future if you maintain a positive attitude.”

6) I was voted Safety Patrol of the Year in sixth grade. Also in sixth grade, while I was riding my bike to school one day, a crazy person tried to run me over with his big red Cadillac. I do not know if these two events were related.

7) My most vivid dreams have all taken place in countries I have never been to (or beyond)… including Guyana, Somalia, Bangladesh, Albania, and outer space. After the space dream, I sought professional counseling.

8) I once had an uncontrollable laughing fit while anchoring the 10 p.m. news on Wisconsin Public Radio. For reasons I will never understand, they did not fire me.

9) I was once the opening speaker for Princess Märtha Louise of Norway. One year later, she announced that she could talk to angels, and opened up a school to teach others how to do the same. I do not know if these two events were related.

10) I play the fiddle, but will only do so in public if someone is accompanying me on guitar, or if I have consumed at least 92 Long Island Iced Teas.

11) While cleaning out my closet recently, I found Tom Leykis’s home phone number from 1994. I really should clean out my closet more often.

12) I make snorky noises at most animals when I see them. When humans are present, I do this quietly because most humans do not appreciate the power of the snork.

13) I have been to 42 countries on five continents, but not all at the same time.

14) I have a form of Dyslexia that affects my sense of direction. I am also a professional tour guide. I do not know if these two conditions are related.

15) When I guide tours, I travel with a mascot named Sven the Incredible Norwegian Wondermoose. I love Sven in ways most humans will never understand. He makes a mean 26-egg omelet.

16) I also share my home with a giraffe from Madagascar. The giraffe’s name is Nigel. Nigel is seven feet tall. Nigel cannot accompany me on my tours because he exceeds the airline industry’s size limit for carry-on items.

17) I am thinking about suing the airline industry for discriminating against my giraffe.

18) I think karaoke is more evil than country line dancing, for the simple reason that country line dancing had the decency to go out of style.

19) I was once featured on the History Channel program, “Weird U.S.,” because I think lutefisk is evil. They still rerun the program around Christmas time. You can watch it then if you want to. Or you can just go eat some pizza instead. I don’t really care.

20) If forced to choose between eating a bowl of corn flakes or having a tetanus shot, I will usually go with the tetanus shot.

21) My girlfriend teaches sex education to eighth graders. She is also an octopus expert. I do not know if these two skills are related.

22) In January, 2008, I was told I might never walk again without crutches. Three months later, I went biking through the jungles of Vietnam. But please do not get any crazy ideas. I still refuse to go country line dancing.

23) I can speak Turkish better than I can swim. This is not because I really speak very much Turkish. It is because I swim with the finesse of a Golden Retriever. If you throw me off of a boat in a medium-sized lake, I will probably manage to make my way to shore without drowning. Then, I will probably thwack you on the nose for throwing me into a lake.

24) I really should get back to work now. Probably, you should too.

25) Look! I can count to 25!

I have absolutely nothing to blog about this morning...

...but if you are looking for a laugh, check out the question of the day on the Seattle Post-Intelligencer's Police Blog. (This is apparently a serious question that a reader sent in):

Q: I live near Aurora Avenue North and on two different occasions have caught prostitutes and their clients either in my driveway (in a car) or in my yard.

Is it legal to shoot trespassers with a paintball gun, water cannon gun (Super Soaker), rubber band gun -- essentially any "non lethal" weapon -- within the city limits of Seattle?

A: It depends.

To find out why it depends, when you can legally attack prostitutes with paintball guns, and when it's not such a good idea, read the full response to this question at Seattle 911.

I Do Not Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas

I do not want a hippopotamus for Christmas.

I seriously mean this. I live in a moderate-sized condominium, which does not have space for a hippopotamus. So do not buy me one unless you are also going to buy me a bigger home.

You might be thinking this is funny. You might be thinking, "Ha ha! Now I know exactly what to get Dave for Christmas! A hippopotamus!"

Do not do it.

Listen, I have no problem with the occasional gag gift. I have been known to give some pretty wacky Christmas presents myself. Like, this one time, my brother told me he wanted a new sweater and some DVDs for Christmas, so instead, you know what I gave him? Frozen spinach! Ha! You should have been there. It was hilarious. I laughed for days.

I do not know if my brother laughed for days or not, because after I gave him the frozen spinach, he kicked me out of his house and did not speak to me for several weeks. So I was not able to ascertain whether my brother laughed for days or not. If all went according to my plan, he cooked up the spinach and ate some just before an important business meeting, and some of it got caught between his teeth.

But that is not the point.

The point is, the spinach was funny because my brother had space for it. (Between his teeth, haha!) No, seriously, though, I think he probably could fit it into his freezer. I do not have space for a hippopotamus in my freezer, or anywhere else in my home. Besides, everybody knows you should not put a hippopotamus in your freezer. So do not buy me one.

Space is not the only issue. There are also rules. The only pets my condo association allows are cats. They do not allow dogs. I'm not sure they even allow turtles. The bylaws say, "cats only," and people around here are pretty by-the-book when it comes to interpreting the bylaws. But you know what? Whether or not they allow turtles is irrelevant. If they don't allow dogs, they sure as hell do not allow hippopotamuses, so you can just drop that argument.

"Okay," you are probably thinking, "but what if I just give you a baby hippopotamus? Because baby hippopotamuses are not as, you know, 'big,' and you could put a cat costume on it, and your condo association would never know the difference."

Dude, will you just get off the hippopotamus thing? Because it's totally stupid and this conversation is starting to annoy me. I mean, seriously, what happens if you feed a baby hippopotamus? It stops being a baby hippopotamus and gets bigger. (Duh!) And then it outgrows its kitty outfit, and then what am I supposed to do? Buy a bigger kitty outfit? That would totally not work, because then the hippopotamus would look like a lion, and you do not seriously believe my condo association is going to let me keep a lion in the building, do you?

And if I don't feed the baby hippopotamus, it will probably not get bigger. It will probably just grunt at me in annoyance, and then roll over and die. And what the hell am I supposed to do with a dead baby hippopotamus? That would be the lamest Christmas present ever.

I don't know why people can't give me practical things for Christmas. Would a George Foreman Grill be so difficult? Or a Chia Pet? But no. Everybody's always trying to give me hippopotamuses.

So, to summarize, do not get me a hippopotamus for Christmas. You can get me a George Foreman Grill. Or a Chia Pet. But do not get me a Chia Hippo, because that would obviously be a mean-spirited attempt to annoy me.

Is there a bridge I haven't heard about?

Seattle is a sheet of ice today, but rumor has it things are worse over the mountains in Spokane, where among other things, dozens of flights have been canceled. Is the weather going to people's heads? The following is a quote from KREM 2 News reporter Lee Stoll, reporting live from Spokane's airport. What's wrong with this statement?:

"One couple told us they're just trying to get to Portland. They said they can't get out until Sunday. A WSU student flying home to Austria can't get out until Monday. Both said they may drive, now that the roads are starting to look a little bit better."

Winter Blast 2008! (!!!!) (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) (AAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!)

Finding ridiculous things to blog about during a Seattle snowstorm is about as easy as... wait... I am struggling to not use the "shooting fish in a barrel" cliche.... It's as easy as... shooting television reporters who are having Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage.

Not that shooting television reporters who are having Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage is particularly easy. Or ethical. But you have to admit it's a little tempting.

That having been said, before I go any further, allow me to stress that I have not shot any television reporters today, nor am I going to. Writing about such an event, even in hypothetical terms, is risky because if any Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage reporters do get shot today, my front door is now one of the first that cops will be knocking on.

So let me just stress that I am talking in hypothetical terms. Some people play fantasy football online, but they can't really play football. They are out-of-shape slobs who are sitting in front of their computers eating fat-flavored potato chips. I am an out-of-shape freelance humor writer who sits in front of my computer and plays Fantasy Team Coverage Killer.

In reality, just about everybody in Seattle would like to shoot a Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage reporter. I am not the only one. And I have enough emotional intelligence to not actually carry out such a plan. So, hey police, go arrest everybody else, and leave me alone.

But yes, dear readers, for those of you who do not live in Seattle, we are in the midst of our biggest winter storm (of media hype) all winter. And it's not even officially winter yet. Nearly half an inch of snow has now fallen outside my condo, and the city is in chaos.

The insanity began yesterday, when "Zero to three inches" of snow were forecast. Well that's a safe forecast, now, isn't it? Hell, I am going to stick my neck out and officially predict that zero to seventeen inches of snow will fall in Seattle on July 27, 2013. If my prediction is wrong, I will buy every reader of this blog an ice cream. I will even throw in sprinkles.

But I digress.

What I was getting at, before I went off on my Team Coverage assassination fantasy (IT IS ONLY JUST A FANTASY!!!) is that it is way too easy during a Seattle snow storm to find absurd things to write about. This city thrives on absurdity when snow is forecast. And because I am a lazy-ass hack writer who is procrastinating writing the paid article I should be working on, I am instead going to blog (for free) about the absurdities I have witnessed in the last two hours:

Absurdity #1: Highline Public Schools opened one hour late today. The Highline School District is located south of me, near Seatac Airport. And fine. They are trying to be rugged and not let a snowstorm interfere with educating the youth of America. But here's what is crazy: Yesterday, when there was no snow at all in Seattle, Highline schools closed. Yesterday, school officials told local media that safety was priority number one, and they were not going to risk sending kids to school, lest a storm move in later. Today, when there is actually snow and ice on the roads, schools in Highline are open.

Ooh! Ooh! Wait, we have breaking news! BREAKING NEWS!!!! (Man, this blog is impressive! I need to get me some Breaking News theme music!) Now, at 8:57 a.m., the Highline School District has just announced that elementary schools will be closed today; however, middle and high schools will remain open. This is because secondary schools have already started, and a handful of students is waiting in classrooms for their teachers, who live in snowier parts of the city and are now dead in ditches along Interstate 5.

Absurdity #2: I wish I had been faster. I wish I had not been sitting, warm and cozy, gobbling a waffle in my favorite neighborhood dive restaurant an hour ago, and had instead had the energy to spring into action and issue a citizens arrest against -- I swear, I really saw this -- the police officer driving down the street with his back windshield, side windows, and half the front windshield covered with snow.

Personal note to that police officer: After you come to my home and interrogate me as to whether I am the one who shot several Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage reporters, and I convince you that (1) I am not, but (2) would that really be such a bad thing?, I will then come brush the snow off of your windshield.

Because, seriously, Mr. Police Officer, driving around without clearing the snow off your windows is dangerous. You could hit a pedestrian. And that would be bad. Unless they were a Winter Blast 2008 Team Coverage reporter.

The results are in! Bachelor's cure for the common cold? Don't try this at home.

I reported Monday night about a reported "Bachelor's Cure for the Common Cold."

The plan: sit in a bathtub as hot as you can bear until you have finished three beers.

The supposed result: You raise your body temperature enough to burn and sweat out the virus.

So Monday night, in the interest of medical research, I grabbed three bottles of Widmer Jubelale, one bottle of bubble bath, and a stack of travel magazines I've been needing to research, tore off all my clothes, and dove in.

Drinking three beers in a sudsy bathtub sounds delightful, I realize, but not when it involves cranking up the water to near boiling. As I slurped my malt beverages and read articles about Hanoi and Bhutan, I began to feel kind of like a lobster that's getting cooked up for dinner. Granted, lobsters do not get to drink three beers while they boil, so I guess life wasn't quite that bad, but after nearly an hour in the tub, I was feeling dehydrated, dizzy (not in a pleasant, beer-induced way), and my nasal congestion was worse than before I started the experiment. I paced my drinking, though I must confess that near the end, I felt the responsible thing was to chug my last few ounces, fearful that if I stayed in much longer, I might pass out and drown... which I suppose would have cured my cold, but not in a productive manner.

So the experience itself was not so nice, but did it work? Did my hour of suffering zap my cold?

No. I am still sick.I have the most stubborn cold in the history of medicine. It has lingered for a month now, and will likely continue to afflict me until I retire.

I've received several e-mails over the last 36 hours from people who desperately wanted me to tell them this treatment would be a roaring success. I'm sorry. I can't tell you that. If you have a cold, and you are looking for an excuse to drink beer in the bathtub, just do it. For that matter, drink beer in the bathtub even if you don't have a cold. But if you want to drink three beers, go easy on the hot-as-you-can-stand approach, or drink your second and third beers after you're back on dry land.

Bachelor's Cure for the Common Cold

I can't take credit for this. The original idea came from a guy who I played in a band with in Madison, Wisconsin, many years ago. And I can't even remember his name.

But I do remember what he presented to me as his official "bachelor's cure for the common cold." I've never actually tried it before. Tonight, I am going to.

I've been sick for about a month now. It started out as the Worst Cold Ever... the sort of epic phlegminess that usually only exists in Nyquil commercials. For the first few days, I tried to quash it with tea, orange juice, and copious amounts of pho and tom kha soups. When that didn't work, I moved on to a sampler platter of over-the-counter cold meds, followed by a 10-day course of Amoxycillin. The antibiotics reduced my cold from the Worst Cold Ever to something much worse -- one of those weaselly little viruses that isn't bad enough to warrant staying in bed all day, but which makes you feel run down and achy enough to spark frequent whining sprees.

That brings me to today. I am still sickly -- a little achy, a little run down, a little phlegmy -- really wishing I could just get a 102-degree fever that would knock me on my ass for a couple of days and burn out the virus in the process.

Enter the aforementioned cold remedy.

Here, courtesy of a guy I played music with in a band in Madison, Wisconsin, sometime in the early to mid 1990s, is the bachelor's cure for the common cold:

1) Catch a cold

2) Buy three beers. (You may buy more; however, the cure calls for three of them.)

3) Wash all of your bed sheets so there are no lingering germies when you crawl under the covers later.

4) Fill your bathtub with the hottest water you can stand.

5) Get in the bathtub, and do not get out until you have finished all three beers.

6) Go to bed.

The logic behind the three beers in a super hot bathtub is that it usually takes a while to finish three beers. The super hot bath, in theory at least, raises your body temperature enough to zap the virus.

When this was first presented to me, I questioned a couple of things, and my friend had answers:

Q: Why does it have to be beer specifically?

A: It doesn't. Any three beverages that take a little while to drink will do. (However, since this is my first time trying this experiment, I am sticking to the original recipe.)

Q: What if you are unable to stay in the bathtub for the duration of the three beers, due to the fact that beer tends to cause one's bladder to demand attention?

A: If you need to get out briefly, fine, but you must get back in as quickly as possible until all the beer is gone.

I've wondered for years if this actually works. Tune in Wednesday morning for the results!

Crime Against the Humanities

I am not sure who invented the so-called "smooth jazz" genre of... can we even call it music? But whoever did needs to appear before a tribunal at the Hague or be thrown in Guantanamo or something.

I mention this right now because every December sees a marked increase in musical terrorism, in the form of butchered Christmas carols spilling from the loudspeakers of every department store, grocery store, and dental office radio station. The only redeeming factor about being subjected to such music in a dental office is that if you are lucky, you will be undergoing painful oral surgery and will therefore have either some good painkillers or at least the more pleasant sound of a drill boring into your teeth to dull the smooth jazz musical pain.

Shopping for a new winter jacket yesterday, I found myself wishing somebody would start a new genre of death metal Christmas carols. Sure, death metal has not traditionally supported the spirit of Christmas, but compared to smooth jazz's self-indulgent soprano saxes and pre-programmed drum machines, death metal is so much more soothing.

Interviewy Goodness for All My Stalkers

If you do not like me, these two items will be of no interest to you. But I've had a couple of great interviews lately with some compelling and creative questions. 

Seattle Post-Intelligencer - Travel Talk
Beth Whitman, travel blogger for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and author of the Wanderlust and Lipstick series for women travelers, published a chat with me yesterday about my two books, Getting Lost and Globejotting. --->>> Read the interview here.

The Isthmus Daily Page - Madison, Wisconsin
Back in October, when I headed to Madison to speak at the Wisconsin Book Festival, I spoke with David Medaris for the online daily companion to Madison's arts and entertainment weekly newspaper, The Isthmus. --->>> Read the interview here.

Happy Procrastination Wednesday!

First there was "Black Friday." Then, there was "Cyber Monday." Now, welcome to "Procrastination Wednesday." The best thing about Procrastination Wednesday is it lasts through Friday.

Procrastination Wednesday is happening right now. It's my new holiday book sale for those of you who procrastinated and did not get your holiday shopping done on other days. I'm offering screaming deals on my two books. You can get autographed copies of Globejotting and Getting Lost for as little as 10 dollars per copy, and the out-of-print, first edition of Getting Lost for $8.95!

Check out the crazy holiday book bargains over at davesbook.com. But don't procrastinate too long. The sale really does end tomorrow.