Dave Fox's Outbursts!

The Scariest Halloween Costume Ever!

[Note: Due to a technological meltdown of epic proportions, I am unable to upload anything to my main website tonight. Therefore, I am posting this month's humor column on this blog. By the way, have you ever wondered why people often begin notes with the word, "Note?" I mean, we can all see what it is.]

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Every year at Halloween, my friends have costume parties, and every year, I insist on going to those parties as myself.

"Where is your costume?" my friends ask me, and I tell them that costumes are for people who like costumes. I am not of that tribe.

I'm not sure what turned me into a Halloween Scrooge. When I was a child (which I no longer am, in spite of rumors to the contrary), Halloween was my favorite holiday. And I am still pro-candy, but dressing up as a ghost, or a monster, or the Dear Leader of North Korea just doesn't have the same appeal to me today as it did when I was five.

But this gets awkward. When you show up at a Halloween party without a costume, people think you are a loser and give you wedgies, which I am getting too old to enjoy. So I have come up with a solution. This year, I am still going as myself, only I am making a costume. I am taking a picture of my face, printing it out, and making a mask out of it.

This is an extremely versatile costume. For example, my friends Austin and Patty are not only requiring that everyone at their party wear a costume, but each year they choose a theme, and this year's theme is superheroes. So I am going as Superdave.

The awesome thing about the simplicity of the Superdave Costume is that Superdave is so super, he don't need no stinkin' cape! All he needs is a beer in his hand and his super powers are activated!

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, "Yeah, right! What super powers could you, Dave Fox, mild-mannered travel geek, possibly have?"

Well, for starters, I can drink tall beers in a single bound. But wait! There's more! My beer-guzzling super powers are so super, I once prevented an airplane from taking off.

It was a snowy, post-Christmas-holiday weekend at O'Hare Airport, and I was flying back to Madison, Wisconsin, where I was living at the time. My connecting flight had been delayed so many times that I had consumed multiple tall beers in a single bound at various adult beverage establishments throughout the airport. Finally, it was time for my flight to board, and although I needed one last trip to the men's room, the gate agent was telling us to please hurry and take our seats before they closed the airport again. So being the mild-mannered travel geek that I am, I did what I was told. I figured I could hold it another 20 minutes until we were airborne.

I fastened my seatbelt and we taxied out to the runway. As we waited behind a long line of other aircraft, my bladder began to swell. "Hold it, hold it, hold it," I meditated. We had just three more aircraft in front of us. Two more aircraft. One more aircraft. "Ten more minutes before the seatbelt sign goes off," I thought. "Hold it, hold it, hold it."

Then the pilot made an announcement. A very bad announcement.

"Because of the expected turbulence, we will not be providing drink service on this flight. I am asking all passengers and flight attendants to remain seated for the duration of the flight."

There comes a time in every superhero's life when he really has to urinate. Really. I had two choices. Disobey the captain or wet myself. I was young. I was tough. I could handle being throttled against the lavatory walls a lot better than I could handle the alternative embarrassment. I concocted a plan. I would slither back to the bathroom and relieve myself while we were taking off. The flight crew wouldn't even know. It would be an adventure.

Complicating matters was the fact that I was in a window seat. I looked at the two gentlemen next to me. "I'm really sorry, but I need to get up," I said.

Apparently, my face was filled with superhero charisma, because the two men did not argue. They dove out of my way, realizing I was on a mission.

I hobbled toward the back, now in considerable pain, when… curses! A flight attendant foiled my plan. "You can't stand up right now!" she yelped. "We're about to take off!"

But I, Superdave, was having none of that. "This is an emergency, ma'am," I said. "Please step aside."

"I'll call the captain and tell him to wait."

There is something intimidating about the fact that two hundred airline passengers, who have already been delayed several hours, are now being further delayed because of your need to urinate. I don't quite know what took over, but in spite of what was now an excruciating pressure in my loins, nothing was happening. I stood there, as guys do, but nothing was leaving my body. The pressure within me was no match for the external pressure of 200 irritated passengers hoping I would hurry up. I stood there for a long, long time, knowing I could not return to my seat before accomplishing my mission, because if I did, the urgency was only going to grow worse once I sat down.

So I closed my eyes and did some superhero deep-breathing exercises until finally, a great sense of relief flowed out of me. Finally, I returned to my seat. We took off and landed without further incident. At the baggage claim in Madison, I could hear people talking about me, asking each other, "Did you see that guy as he flew down the aisle? His face was pretty red."

Yep. Just like the Incredible Hulk, only a different color.

But here is the thing: Can you name one other superhero in the history of the world who has ever stopped an airplane from taking off… with his own urine?!?! No! No, you cannot!

So I am going for Halloween this year as Superdave. And I realized, my idea of creating a mask out of my own photograph is so brilliant, everyone should do this! Even you! Yes, you too should go trick-or-treating this year as me! Which is why I am pleased to offer you, free of charge, this Superdave Halloween Costume Kit. (Some assembly required.)

To create your Superdave costume, you will need the following:

• A computer printer, and, ideally, some heavy-duty card stock
• A pair of scissors
• A thick rubber band
• A stapler
• Beer
• A drinking straw

Once you have assembled these items, please follow these instructions:

1. Print the image to the right. You may need to adjust the scale of the photo to fit the size of your own head. (You may click for a larger version.
   
2. Cut out around the face part so it is the shape of a mask.
3. Cut holes in each eyeball, and also a small hole in the mouth, large enough to insert a straw through.
4. Snip your rubber band so it is just one long piece of rubber. (Alternatively, an elastic band or a mangled coat hanger will work.
5. Staple the rubber band to the back of the mask - one staple on each side, next to the ears.
6. Put the mask on your head in the usual mask-putting-on manner.
7. Open the beer.
8. If you are not yet of legal drinking age, pour the beer into an empty Coke can so you do not get in trouble.
9. Insert one end of the straw through the hole in the mask's mouth.
10. Insert the other end of the straw through the hole in the top of the beer bottle or can.
    

Congratulations! Your Superdave Halloween Costume is now ready for use! Just please drink responsibly, and if you need to fly anywhere, remember that after the aforementioned airline incident, Superdave now always asks for an aisle seat.

A Bad Day in Greenwood

The fire down the street started more than 12 hours ago, and TV news helicopters are still hovering over my condo.

It's been a weird day.

It's not every morning you get a 5:45 a.m. phone call to inform you your neighborhood is on fire, but that's how my day began. My girlfriend, Kattina, woke me up to say goodbye. We could hear a helicopter outside. I joked that the paparazzi wouldn't leave me alone. I rolled over in bed as I heard the front door shut. Sixty seconds later, Kattina phoned from out in the street. "Greenwood's on fire," she said.

Greenwood is the name of my North Seattle neighborhood, as well as the major shopping street that runs parallel to my street, a short block away. 

"What do you mean Greenwood's on fire?" I asked. I had already pulled on a pair of jeans before I finished the sentence. No time for boxer shorts.

"I don't know. There's a huge fire burning somewhere around Greenwood and 85th."

"Is my building safe?"

"Yeah but you might want to see what's going on."

Okay, so there was time to put on a shirt. No time to find my camera. And it didn't occur to me until I had sprinted halfway down the block that my bladder needed attention.

The intersection a block away was chaos. Four businesses were burning. Even in the early-morning darkness, I could see the air filled with smoke. Fire engine ladders and microwave antennas from TV news trucks were poking into the sky, and a mini swarm of helicopters was hovering overhead. My heart sank when I realized one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants, a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place called Pho Tic-Tac, was among those burning and unsalvageable.

If you read my blog on a regular basis, or my website or Twitter feed, or if you've ever had a conversation with me for more than a few minutes, you probably already know how much I love Vietnam. I made my first trip there in April, 2008, and was so captivated by the people and landscape, I went back again 11 months later. On the last night of my last visit, after I said my goodbyes to friends there, I remember walking down the noisy street around midnight thinking, "This feels like home."

And I get homesick. I think about the country every single day and calculate how, and how soon, I can get myself back there. (I'm returning next month to organize a small group tour for 2010. Stay tuned or subscribe to my free e-mail list for details.)

When I can't be in Vietnam, one of the things that has kept me sane is Pho Tic-Tac. The restaurant, right down the street from me in Seattle, has served the most authentic Vietnamese food I've found outside of Vietnam. Their pho was like the same traditional noodle soup I slurp for breakfast in Saigon. Their pork chops, grilled and served with sticky rice and a side of fish sauce for dipping, rivaled the late-night Saigon street food I gobble at makeshift restaurants.

This afternoon, Pho Tic-Tac is a smoldering pile of rubble. You can see the melted fridge through a hole in the wall. It feels eerie peering in and remembering where my favorite table was.

I stood in the rain and shivered in the early morning, watching fire fighters try to keep up with hot spots that flared inside all four businesses, but they could only stop the flames from spreading further. Three restaurants and a coffee house were gone -- and while it looked like Taproot Theater, the little community theater next door, would be spared, it too suffered major water damage.

But eleven kitties were evacuated from a shelter down the street. They're all okay. And other than a fire fighter who sprained his ankle, no humans were injured. So, yeah, things could have been worse.

After the sun rose, and the drama of fire hoses and live coverage grew redundant, I went home to work, but I couldn't focus. I wandered down the street for some breakfast, then called my friend Solomon, who had been scheduled to do a late-night storytelling performance at the water-damaged theater. He was at the theater, helping salvage sets and costumes. So I went back and started at the spectacle some more. Then I went home and tried to work again. But my plan for today was to work on my monthly humor column, and that just wasn't going to happen. 

I went back to the scene of the fire again in the afternoon. I didn't want to be a gawker, or one of the attention-desperate people who insert themselves in front of TV cameras. I just didn't know what else to do with myself. All day, there's been a small crowd gathered, staring in shock, so I stared some more with them.

The most popular business among the four destroyed was the Green Bean, a coffee shop whose owner has a well-deserved reputation for community involvement and charity, both locally and globally. They also display work by local artists. I'm guessing somebody's original stuff was lost.

"That's tragic about the Green Bean," a woman standing near me said to a guy I'd been talking to. "Those other restaurants don't matter, but the Green Bean was so important to our community."

I almost lost it.

"Those other restaurants don't matter?"

"Well I didn't mean it like that," she said.

"Those were all family-run businesses. They've just lost everything. I don't think they'd agree with you that they don't matter."

"You're getting me all wrong," she said.

I was too depressed to get into it further. I shrugged and turned away.

"I don't care about those other restaurants," I overheard her say a minute later. "It's just so sad about the Green Bean."

At that moment, the family that owns the shell of a building that had been the Szechuan Bistro walked by.

"Well now I feel like a schmuck," the lady said to me once the family had passed us.

Good.

I explained to her, as calmly as I could, about my love for Vietnam, and how Pho Tic-Tac was my neighborhood connection with a part of my spirit I needed to feed. I think she got it in the end that it isn't cool to stand in front of somebody else's tragedy and say it doesn't matter. At least I hope she got it.

It was dark out when I got out of bed this morning. It will be dark again soon. A crowd is still gathered. The TV crews are still here. So is the fire department. The buildings are still smouldering, and I have a feeling the neighborhood is going to smell like smoke for weeks.

What's the point to all of this? Hell, I don't know. I had planned to work on my monthly humor column today, but that wasn't happening. After my mini-confrontation with Ms. "The other restaurants don't matter," I felt a need to write something.

In the world of personal essay writing, there's a fine line between telling a good story and being pathetically self-indulgent. If I've crossed that line this afternoon, thanks for humoring me and reading anyway. And this doesn't even qualify as personal essay writing. It's unedited, stream-of-consciousness rambling I just had to get out of my system. I needed to do something other than watching the news for another three hours or continuing to stare at a smoking pile of rubble until another spectator pissed me off with a flippant remark. (There have been others I don't have the energy to write about.)

Pho is one of my favorite comfort foods, and Pho Tic-Tac has been a place I've gravitated to when I've needed comfort. It's not a place I can go this evening. So I'm writing instead.

Travel Journaling and Essay Writing Safari in Botswana

I've rambled about this possibility long enough. It's time to go! Join me and African wildlife specialist Bill Given, January 19-31, 2010, for a one-of-a-kind safari through Botswana's Okavango Delta and Kalahari regions. Say hello to lions, hippos, wildebeest, and other wildlife you've probably never heard of. (At least, I haven't!) Meet Kalahari Bushmen and learn about their culture. And... capture it all in writing through a unique series of travel journaling and essay writing classes!

 

Bill Given owns The Wild Source, a specialized safari company based in Denver, Colorado. He has spent many years leading small-group safaris in Botswana and throughout Africa, and is also a researcher for the Denver Zoo. He'll lead us on game drives in the morning and late afternoon, when the weather is coolest and the animals are most active. Back at camp in the middle of the day, I'll teach writing classes to help you document your journey. You'll return home with stories you can savor for yourself, share with friends and family, or publish professionally. I'll offer solid lessons in how to capture the most vivid details of this or any trip, how to hone your journal entries into polished essays, and, if you aspire to do so, how to go about publishing your work. Writers of all skill levels are welcome!

 

After a one-night stopover in Johannesburg, South Africa, we'll fly on to Botswana for ten days of wildlife viewing. We'll sleep in environmentally-friendly, luxury safari camps, and travel from camp to camp by motor vehicle or small airplane. Our small group (maximum 12 participants) will be the perfect size for hands-on writing lessons, and will enable us to explore the Kalahari and Okavango Delta in two small Land Rovers (or similar vehicles) where everybody gets a "window seat." (Well, except there are no windows... just the warm African breeze in your hair!) You'll have great adventures, spiff up your writing, and return home with the ultimate souvenir -- a journal packed with memories and personal stories of where you've been.

 

The cost for this writing safari is US $4,295 per person, plus airfare to Botswana. The price includes all internal flights within Botswana, road transportation, accommodations, meals, drinks, laundry, and other activities. Traveling alone? There are no single suppliment fees! Space is limited to 12 participants, however, so if you'd like to join us, don't wait until it's too late to sign up!

 

For more information, you can visit my website at www.traveljournaling.com/botswana, or check out a more extensive .pdf file, which includes lots more pictures of the luxury camps we'll stay in and the animals we'll likely see, at http://thewildsource.com/images/newsletter/botswanajournalingsafarifinal.pdf. If you have any questions, please feel free to e-mail me at dave@davefox.org, or get in touch with Bill through his website at www.thewildsource.com.

Is that a chicken in your mouth or are you just happy to see me?

I really should give credit where credit is due. The title for last Wednesday's bloggage was inspired by a sign I spotted recently at a restaurant in Nicosia, Cyprus:

Moral of the story: I don't care how well you think you speak a second language. Always hire a native speaker editor before going public with your marketing campaign.

Oral Pleasure

Oral storytelling is a fading art in today's society. As if the invention of the book wasn't threatening enough, now we've got this thing called television. And then there's the Internet, blogging, tweeting, and a modern mess of other distractions that have minimized the importance our culture places on an exquisitely told tale.

I first got interested in oral storytelling when I was invited to tell one of the stories from my travel humor book to a group that's trying to bring back the craft of oral storytelling. I was fine with the idea until the morning of the event, when I woke up in a cold sweat, terrorized by the sudden realization that not only was this not a reading, but I also wasn't supposed to use any notes.

But once I was "on stage," sitting on a stool in a closed gift shop with about 80 strangers watching me, something clicked. I got a huge adrenaline rush as I ran my mouth, spouting off about my arrival in England at age seven, smuggling my little brother's blankie through customs, and watching from the back seat as my parents learned to drive on what we in America like to call the "wrong" side of the road. (Actually, historically, driving on the left makes more sense, but that's a tale for another day.) There was something about rambling to the audience without the crutch of notes that helped the story flow in a more natural, human way.

Mike Daisey is a modern genius when it comes to on-stage storytelling. He does use notes, which seem to be more of a transitional tool than a crutch. (Turning the page means there's a change in action.) I saw him live a year ago when he gave a talk on a topic I normally wouldn't go learn about for free, let alone pay good money for. The show was ostensibly about inventor Nicola Tesla and his battle with Thomas Edison over Alternating versus Direct Current. Mike weaved in stories of the invention and marketing of Monopoly, the arrival of Wal-Mart in his hometown, and the ways people in authority like to scare us. The performance was seamless and riveting.

I've been sketching out my own storytelling performance this week. In outlining it, I stole one of Daisey's techniques, segueing from topic to unrelated topic in a way that somehow flows.

My own, quasi-humorous performance will include: Emigration to America, modern travel stress, my little brother's blankie, driving on the left, Napoleon, "Short Man's Complex," teenage rites of passage in Norway, post traumatic stress disorder, punk rock, the Vietnam war, chicken penises, and more.

And yes, I know you are aching to hear what I have to say about chicken penises, but it's going to be a while before this is all ready for human consumption. (My performance, not chicken penises.) But the flow of it all is taking shape in my mind. Next steps: flesh out the stories, rehearse the stories, and find a performance space.

Stay tuned.

Re-Bonjour!

Most people in the English-speaking world know that "Bonjour" is the French word for "Hello." But did you know that in France, if you've already said bonjour to someone once that day, you can say "re-bonjour" when you see them a second time?

Speaking of saying hello again, I'm on a mission to jump-start this blog after many months of slothishness. I figured out a couple of months ago the reason I was blogging so little was that I got caught up in the whole "social networking" phenomenon on Facebook and Twitter. I've come to realize that "social networking" is often just a fancy word for "procrastination."

This became the topic of my August humor column, Back to Basics: How Social Networking Nearly Ruined My Perfectly Mediocre Writing Career. That was my first humor column in many months, and my attempt to start writing things of substance again. I followed it up in September with an article about an alleged homeopathic jet lag cure. 

One of the things about writing -- especially humor writing -- is you have to keep doing it or you get out of shape. It's just like playing a sport or a musical instrument, or speaking a foreign language. If you don't keep it up, your skills weaken... but... you can get them back into shape relatively quickly if you don't go for too long without practicing.

I was out last week with my friend, Solomon Davis, who is, among other things, a professional storyteller. (If you're in Seattle, check out his funny and poignant one-man show, Remember Being Born?, at Taproot Theatre, Friday nights through October 23.) I lamented to Solomon that now that my 14th season of European tour guiding is over, I'm finding myself deliberating over how to best spend my time.

A common problem among people afflicted with creative minds is we have a tendency to take on too many projects, and it takes us forever to finish any one of them. I told Solomon I've figured out I need to pick one project and fling myself into it whole-heartedly rather than skimming the surface of lots of stuff. But it's tough to choose between revisiting my first attempt at writing a novel, banging out a follow-up to my first book of travel humor essays, growing my travel journaling tour program, putting together a storytelling performance of my own, or curling into the fetal position under my desk with a bottle of whiskey and whimpering. They are all equally tempting, but I only have time for one or two of them. 

Solomon's advice to me: "You should start a blog and document all the things you're working on."

"A blog?" I thought. "A blog? Oh, that thing?" I think I already have one of those."

I learned a long time ago that I should not write about what I am going to write about, because invariably, things come up, and I need up not writing what I promised to write. But against my better judgment, I am officially announcing right now that I am going to try, try, try to start blogging more frequently than I have been these last few months... with a bit of a change in material. I'll still be posting my idiotic humor rants from time to time, but I'm also going to get a bit more (brace yourself) serious, and write more about the creative process, my own creative endeavors, and whatever else seems to fit. And I'm going to try to get back to blogging several times a week.

If you've read my blog in the past, thanks for sticking around. If you're new here, welcome. Feedback, questions, fan mail, and insults are always welcome at outbursts@davethefox.com.