Everything this person has written for TUNETHEPROLETARIAT
I wish I had a suntan
On the top of Penang Hill, the mountain in the middle of the island, everyone piles out of the cable car. I take my position among the other sightseers along the initial bit of railing and look out over Georgetown. Following the road from the state mosque with my finger, I locate my condo. My apartment faces the other way, out to the sea, so even if my roommates were on the balcony waving I wouldn’t be able to see them.
I hike up my pants and head down the narrow paved path, veering left at random. A sign tells me the canopy walk is closed. An Arabic family asks me to take a picture, and I oblige. The man is in jeans and sunglasses. The child has a Ralph Lauren polo on. The woman is covered head to toe (she wears socks) in thick, flowing black. I can barely see her eyes through the slit. He could get remarried and not have to change any family pictures as long as the new wife was roughly the same height, I think, handing back the camera.
I like to take pictures of signs. Tourists like to take pictures of me. They whiz by on neon green golf carts, video cameras pointed intrusively at me for disconcertingly long periods. Fucking tourists, I think. Then again, I’m up here taking pictures too, aren’t I?
I take a steep path under the canopy, now with planks of wood nailed in front of its entrance, and end up at something called the Nature Lodge. I recognize it as the location of a weekend Drama retreat in high school. Over to the side is where Jacqui found one bar of service if she cocked her head just right. The red-floored space under the rooms is where we first planned an improv group that resulted in one performance during chapel. (In one skit I was only allowed to say the line “Ho ho ho.” I did well to escape expulsion from my conservative religious school.)
When my ankles hurt, I turn and head back. Apparently it is a good time to leave; they pack the cable car until I cannot shift my shoulders. A middle-aged gentleman gives up his seat for an old Chinese man, who initially tries to refuse but ends up taking it. This pleases me.
I take a different road and drive halfway up the mountain to a massive Buddhist temple I saw from the top. As I pull in front, a parking attendant yanks his thumb toward a side path with “more parking” spray painted along the wall. I turn around. I’m not sure how I feel about living in a world where temples are tourist attractions. I drive further up the hill to a giant statue, incense wafting over the landing area. I buy two “wishing ribbons.” One reads: “Booming Business.” It’s for my roommate because he’s starting his own online business soon and excessively Asian things like this are funny to him. The other reads: “Being Coupled & Paired.” It’s for me because I’ve got the biggest, stupidest puppy-dog crush on this girl and sometimes it’s ok to be earnest.
Back at the bottom I find a hawker stall to sit, drink tea and smoke cigs. The man serving coconuts next to my table keeps saying “ping” when shouting drink orders across the 10 or so tables, so I ask him what language it is. “Oh, it’s Chinese.” “Mandarin?” “Yes, yes. Mandarin. How long have you been here?” When I start speaking Malay I give myself away. “Oh, six months.” I wave my hand like it’s no time at all. It’s easier than explaining growing up here off and on and then leaving and then coming back, especially in bilingual conversations.
I walk across the street and into a narrow stair passage flanked on both sides by souvenir shops selling gloriously awful t-shirts and other nicknacks. I’ve been here before, I think. As an elementary kid we’d come here on an outing and Kevin and I had found a small pond with turtles. It had felt like we were the first to ever discover them. We’d sat watching and feeding them green leafy vegetables for hours. I brush a wind-chime absentmindedly and the man in the store says, “Yes? Can I help you? Special price for you!” “Turtles?” I ask. “Up,” he says dismissively, going back to his newspaper before the word is even out of his mouth.
Near the top I find the turtles. They’re grimy, piled on top of each other in the sun. The ‘pond’ is an inch deep, less in parts. It smells. I turn and drive home.
I still don’t understand my childhood, but I’m starting to piece together where it happened.
There’s a band-aid on her thumb
Iron and Wine – Belated Promise Ring
They lay, heads next to each other, feet apart, on the grimy pavement of the parking lot atop the hill. A dormant crane’s neck points straight up into the sky nearby. It’s dark. They pass the taut line to a kite which sails high above them, invisible beyond the gray night clouds, back and forth. The string vibrates in the wind, whistling. They share a cigarette she had rolled, its embers crisscrossing the string during the switches. I wonder if she likes me as much as I like her, he thinks. She lifts a knee bared by a hole in her jeans. They trade cig for string, hands touching in the air. I’ll never feel as free or unencumbered as this kite does right now, she thinks.
Too much bedside whiskey
Dear Daniel,
Considering the fact that everyone in Ireland knows everyone else in Ireland, having chatted pleasantly about how very green the color green can be over pints of Guinness, please convey my earnest marriage proposal to Lisa Hannigan.
Much obliged,
Zac
[Passenger.]
Pray for the nonbeliever
Major holidays invariably become about the vice directly opposing the moral that the holiday is supposed to champion. Christmas, once a celebration of humanity and the squalor of feces-scented births, represents consumerism and corporate interests. New Year’s Day, ostensibly about fresh beginnings, starts in the same tired hangover haze as any given Monday.
So of course all of Ramadan’s self-discipline virtues have quickly made way for my favorite vice of all: gluttony. Except for the pious, fasting month is all about the food.
In the small restaurant across the road from my parents’ school in Indonesia, tarps hang low out front, swaying softly in the wind. Duck under them and you’ll meet a swarm of atheists and Christians and Hindus, picking over what’s left of the chicken and eggplant and rendang. Business easily triples during Ramadan.
In the alley down the way from my condo stalls have set up permanent shop along both sides of the road, encroaching out onto the street. Traffic is bottlenecked, the curses of taxi drivers audible. Zigzag between the humming, waiting cars and you’ll see martabak and brightly colored juices in plump plastic bags and sweaty men fanning the smoke off of the sate they are grilling and fresh mangoes and several shades of orange or red chicken. Families point out what they want, hand over blue bills, and then scuttle home to devour the delicacies once the mosque signals buka puasa (literally, the opening of the fast).
I have three memories of Ramadan from my childhood.
1. We’re at our favorite sate place, a tiny stall that rolls into place on the attached wheels every evening. The six members of my family take up 80% of the available seating. The cook’s two daughters help out, serving drinks and washing dishes; they are probably younger than me, maybe in middle school. As the mosque blares to indicate buka puasa, they each double-fist huge glasses of tea, downing one cup in a gulp and barely bothering to breathe before inhaling the second. I laugh and then I think about how dusty and raspy the back of my throat gets when I’m thirsty and I self-consciously sip my own glass of tea.
2. We’re driving through the night, on the move, bouncing over the potholes and crumbling bridges and veering around cows and goats. Our jeep breaks down in the middle of no where and Pops can’t fix it. We tie it to a passing Kijang (think a boxy cross between a van and an SUV) using rope and a length of bamboo, and he kindly drives us to the next village. As we wait for the mechanic to fix our ride, his family invites us into their home. It’s 4am, maybe 5. They have a lavish feast spread out on the floor in the living room; we sit on the floor and pile opaque glass plates high, using our hands to shovel the food into our mouths. Out the open front door, I can see the gray mist of dawn approaching, and I feel a peace. “So this is how they do it,” I realize, imagining millions of homes rising wordlessly before the sun to feast in the still, silent air.
3. It’s Idul Fitri. Because of a delightful split within Islam, it’s the first of two days. Most of our town, Muara Teweh, celebrates it on the second day, but the best cooks all seem to be among the camp that celebrates early. The custom is that all the Christians eat at Muslims’ houses on Idul Fitri, and all the Muslims get to visit the homes of Christians on Christmas. Mom’s aerobics teacher has the best snacks. Pop’s badminton buddy gives us non-alcoholic beer, which we drink with curiosity. We visit anyone we’ve ever talked to on the street, eating half a dozen tiny meals throughout the day. I remember the tiny green logs with cinnamon on the inside and how the steam puffs out of them when you puncture one with your teeth. I don’t think they have a name for those in English. [Hungry Bird.]
I see that you think I’m wrong
TV On The Radio – Will Do (Mylo Remix)
So here’s my secret: I like to drive drunk. Very little exhilarates me as much as taking Maggie for a spin while buzzed.
Not cars, mind. That’s dangerous. There’s something about two-wheeled vehicles – an inability to injure others, for a start – that justifies it in my mind.
It started back in college, I think. A girl named Teagan started working during my shifts at the media library. Aside from rushes at 4pm and 7pm, we had nothing to do, so we would trade off sharing music. “The only reason I dated Michael was because he played me Daft Punk the first time we hung out,” she said, and hit play. “He was a douche.” The white tights she wore drove me wild. Rhey, my roommate, bonded with her because they both saw a therapist and used to grind their teeth in their sleep. I’ve never met a girl so outgoing.
After playing hooky from shift to attend a Ron Paul rally together, we started hanging out outside of work. I’d pedal my bike down to her place on Thursday nights to watch new episodes of The Office. We’d buy a six-pack or two. “You fuckin’ pussy,” she’d say. “You can’t break the seal after the second beer.” I’d hang my head. Then we’d watch the episode and laugh and laugh and I’d barely remember it the next day.
Every night I’d ride my bike home drunk. “Whatever,” she’d say, still seated, as I waved goodbye and stepped out the front door to unchain my bike from her fence.
At first I was astonished: I could stay balanced inebriated! And I didn’t clip any of the pedestrians milling around our college town! Soon it became routine for me to ride my bike, no matter the situation: drunk, three feet of snow, whatever – I was pedaling away, huffing and puffing to the townhouse that sheltered my belongings a few minutes out of town.
That was when I realized being drunk doesn’t automatically mean you’ll crash. Now that I use Maggie, a 2004 Suzuki, to get around, it’s taken a step up in speed. Driving drunk on a motored bike is all Whoosh, Zoom, Whirr. I feel like I’m in in Tron – the lights are all elongated and streaks. Whoosh! The engine purrs and I can feel it vibrating in my rib cage. Zoom!
At some point my kid will read this and admonish me. Until then, well, fuck yeah, this is the best thing fucking ever. [Chemical Peels.]