Flip Flops, Skirts, and Pepsi

While in the country to Malaysia, I had time to kill because my sister would go to work everyday. I found ways to entertain myself each day by having a mini solitary adventure. Oneday I thought it would be a good idea to go to the Batu Cave. Batu means rock. I went to Rock Cave. Yes, very clever, I know. I hopped in a cab, and drove the 20 min to a giant cave. This cave was no ordinary cave; it was the Cave of Wonder- just kidding. It was in a mountain not a desert.

This cave was especially cool because it the host of a Hindu temple and is the most popular Hindu shine outside of India. There are crazy awesome carvings and statues. It is a nifty tourist sight.

I did three things wrong in this place: I wore flip flops, wore a skirt, and bought a Pepsi. The flip flop issue is obvious. It was a freaken rock cave; I had no traction and nearly fell all over the place.

Issue two should have been fairly apparent to me as well. The thing about Hindu temples is....... there are a whole lot of steep steps. I was either flashing people behind me or tripping over the damn thing. I again almost fell.

It was very hot, and I had climbed many stairs and almost died doing so. Before my climb back down to safety I bought myself a nice cold Pepsi. The vendor was very glad to sell it to me. I thought it was because I gave him money, or perhaps it was pure job satisfaction; however, I was gravely mistaken. The man clearly thought it would be hilarious to watch me deal with the consequences of buying a sugary beverage in this place. The Batu Caves have...

MONKEYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

They look cute and almost human, but they are frightening. This one to the right looks like he is just hanging out, but really he is scouring the crowds for a treat. That treat includes soda. I take in the hot Asian sun and saunter slowly down the dangerously high and steep steps while sipping on my Pepsi when this huge alpha male monkey, with the stones to prove it, jumps right by my feet. I yelp like a six year old girl, and they I become embarrassed that all the back packing Aussies know I have a girlie screech. Then I go back to terrified because Abu, I named my attacker Abu after the monkey in Aladdin, did not back away. He inched closer. He stood tall. He reached toward me. I screech like a little girl once again. He jumps right past me onto the railing and grabs for my can while in midair. At this point I was almost not mad, I was mostly impressed, but then I was scared again because we were now on eye level. A man told me that I should just give Abu my soda because that was all he wanted. Seriously people were circled around me watching this because it was that intense. I look around at the crowd and in a very sober tone I say, "Then he wins. I cannot allow that to happen." I then book it down the danger stairs and bellow. "You cannot bully me!" To Abu who only followed me for one flight.

Below is a monkey as brave as Abu but much much smaller.

I've missed you too.

Sorry Internet,

I have been too busy actually living life to blog about it. My adventures in Asia continue tomorrow at 10am!!! Here is a picture of something awesome for your wait.

My sister has an intense fear of horses. Here we are on the beach of Penang, and she is being followed by a large fellow she called Thunder because she was emotionally and physically scarred by a horse named Thunder when she was 11; now she calls every horse Thunder, and as you can see by her face, is horrified by every horse. I was horrified too, but it was because the horse had a woody. Not included in picture.

My New Boyfriend

You read the title correctly. I made a boyfriend out here. Well at least he thought he might be my new boyfriend. I was walking around aimlessly in the city of Kuala Lumpur, as I did every weekend while visiting my sister in Malaysia because she had a day job, and a man came up to me and introduced himself to me. It was not out of the ordinary because I am a freak out here, and people are interested in me.

This dude would not leave me alone. He followed me and tried his best to strike up a conversation. It was hard because he was Syrian. Eventually I allowed him to buy me an orange juice from a near by vendor. He asked if I was married, and I told him no. He asked if he could take me out dancing, and I told him no because I am leaving the country. He asked to get my email address, and I gave it to him. I now receive love poetry that he looked up on his English dictionary.

It was awesome. The one really crappy part was that the whole reason I was wondering aimlessly was to hopefully find out where the local gay scene was. I have seen a lot of lesbians with really cool haircuts around the city, and I was determined to figure out where they hung out. Of course when my new Syrian boy friend holds my hand, a find a pack of lezzies walk in the other direction. If I had been alone, I could have stalked them for a while and maybe even befriend them. Stupid boyfriend ruining everything.

Here is a little stand up that expresses exactly how I felt about the situation. CLICK AND WATCH

Weekend Island Hopping

During my last weekend in Malaysia with my sister, we went to the island Penang. It was amazballz (that is the new slang my sister picked up from here). We rented a car, got lost for 3 hours simply leaving her home city of Kuala Lumpur, continually forgot to stay on the left side of the road, checked into a fantastic resort, met up with her friend Megan, ate more sensational food, did hand stand contests, drank overly fruity drinks, jumped on the bed, yelled at the help until we got what we wanted/payed for, got lost on the island, visited a Buddhist temple, and got a little tanner.

Money Problems

Here is Malaysian money. The freaken ONE looks like a FIFTY! I almost over paid for half my crap here. WTF. Get a new color for your money Malaysia. Okay all American dollars are green, but at least we put different dudes on 'em. Oh crap maybe these dudes are different on the Malaysian money, but I can't tell cuz I'm racist. Maybe foreigners in America have the same problem with all the white dudes on our money.

Culture differences is hard.

My Plummet to Death Was Funny

My sister and I eat brunch in the observation tower. It is about 300 meters high, and it revolves! In one hour you see the entire city of Kuala Lumpur with out getting up once. It was really cool. I was warned though not to go hung over; it could be hellish.

We eat yet another amazing meal, pay way to much for late morning cocktails, and continue on our journey. We get in the elevator that jumps from 300 meters in the sky to ground level in a few short seconds. It does not count floors; it counts meters by the 50. My sister, a chinese family of three, two swedes, and a random white girl all watch the digital count down as it abruptly stops at 250 then plummets to 200 and stops. We stand nervously in silence for about an entire min. Then I start laughing. I was thinking to myself, "200 meters! No coming back from that fall." The only reason I did not say it out loud was because there was a 5 year old girl there. Granted I don't think she spoke English, but it was still too cynical.

My laughter broke the tension. Everyone eased a little and chuckled at the absurdity of our situation. Well almost everyone. With my laughter, my sister freaked out. She yelled at me to be quiet and told everyone I was only laughing because I was horrified. This made my giggles uncontrollable. I could not NOT think this was funny. Eventually the elevator moved again, and we got out safely. Sister eventually did laugh, but it took a few hours of saftey for her to find the funny.

My Molestation

First thing my sister wanted to do once I got all settled was get massages. Why not right? I mean I was just on 22 hour flight and could use some relaxation. So we go to this little place that is kind of similar to what an American salon might look like. We each request a 30 min shoulder and back massage. I go behind this little curtain that does not close completely and lie on a leopard print massage table with my shirt off. A woman comes in to give me what I paid for.... I cannot wait to list the things that happened to me behind that curtain. It was horrible.

The woman exposes my butt. She literally rolls down my skirt and undies so my ass, as fabulous as it is, is completely out in the open. She then beats up my back a little. I swear she was looking for my kidneys, and once she found them, she tried to destroy them with her hands. She then punches me in the head. I swear she literally makes a fist and repeatedly punches the back of my head. She uses her elbow as a weapon and stabs me with it all over. The pain was searing. Then her elbow, and I swear to you dear readers this happened, she slams her elbow in my butt crack, twice!

Do not get a massage in Malaysia!

On My Way to Malaysia: Part Three (India sucks)

I apologize to my many Indian friends, but India sucks! Okay I only experienced the airport for two hours and may be jaded because it was aftera 14 hour flight in a cramped seat, but I hated it so much that I now hate the entire nation of Indai! Indian people do not believe in lines. They cut! When I was in the Newark airport boarding the plane, they all pushed and shoved. It waseven worse in India.

I had to go through security again, and in India women and children go in one line. At first I was excited because I thought they did this like they do at clubs. They check them men more because they are the violent type. If that were the case, the women line would go very quickly- just like at clubs; however, they did this for the convenience of the men not the ladies. They lady line was freaken slow as all get out because- well the children were in the line. Every women had at least 2 children with her, and Indian children are horrible. Again I have many Indian friends, and this was one brief experience.

No screw that! Indians in America seems to be cool. Indians in India suck! I saw 5 temper tantrums in the airport. No parent tried to stop their screaming children. One kid slapped his mom in the security line! He also continued for the ENTIRE wait to call his older brother "stupid boy" and occasionally call his mom "stupid girl". I wanted to beat that child.

There was also a policy that people with infants can cut the line. Okay I get that, but every infant had a family of 12. I am not joking. Why did the babies' siblings, grandparents, dad, and aunts have to cut with them? I seriously almost missed my flight out because of all the slowness and cutting. I juuuuust made it. Then after 6 more hours, I was in Malaysia.

On My Way to Malaysia: Part Two (Newark still)

Now, still in the Newark Airport, I waited in the next long ass line. This is the one for security. I saw something weird, an Asian women and an Indian man traveling together. Now, dear readers, I know that India is in Asia, but you know what I mean; we all know India is its own damn continent anyway. I thought that it was cool to see an interracial couple that was unlikely. I thought how both parents must have been pissed; especially because they appeared to be over 50. After a good 20 min of waiting in a long ass line I realized that they were not a couple; he was just a creepy dude that liked to be too close to this lady.

It was my turn to be scanned. I had my liquids- nail polish, toothpaste, ointment, and so in- in a clear plastic baggy. My laptop was out of its case and in its own little plastic lunch tray. My shoes were off. I walked confidently through the detector. SUCESS!

Well- It was successful until my backpack went through the x-ray. The cute security guard asked me if I had any liquid in it. "I have liquid gel pills" I laughed at the cleverness of my own joke. "No those are fine" the guard stonily replied and shifted through my bag. I turned my laugh into a cough at took the bad of medical supplies from the guard who put my bag through the x-ray again. I really wanted to make a sarcastic comment about no sense of humor about terrorism to someone, but I was traveling alone and too afraid of being roughed up by airport security; although, as I said- that was a cute guard. Bag was fine, and I was able to go find my gate.

On My Way to Malaysia: Part One (Newark)

I know I shouldn't write this, but can any thing else go wrong? I get to the Newark airport, and I try to check in at the self check kiosk. It took me a while of typing in secret codes and scanning official documents before a giant yellow exclamation point jumped out at me! It told me to find an employee. A line was forming behind me, and it was a line of impatient people who hated me. I finally flagged down a flight attendant who was friendly but clueless. She just told me to go to the long ass line on the other side. I proclaimed my panic about leaving a computer full of my information alone in case it spit out my flight ticket. She then cleverly pressed the "exit" button which reset the system. I smiled shyly and ran to the long ass line.

After moving slowly through the velvet ropes, which I hate because they give me the false feeling that I am about to go on a ride or see a movie, I got to another kiosk that looked eerily similar to the one I just left. This one was exactly like the other- just near employees. I went through the same process, and a giant yellow ! jumped at me again. The lady, dressed like a pilot, as all airport employees are, entered some of her codes and asked me for my Indian passport. I, stared at her for a moment and then stammered, "i- uh- merican- uh- here" I gave her my United States passport and the two of us stared into each other's eyes. It was not a sexy moment. It was just- weird. Actually it was just like a Curb Your Enthusiasm stare down. buh-buh-bum-bum-bumm

Then she suddenly plugged in more numbers and told me it was fine. I asked her about ten times if I would be safe in India because I had a layover there. She shrugged me off and said, "yeah, yeah, just don't plan to live there." With the fear of being arrested by the Indian airport police, I left for my gate- the wrong direction of course.

Rest of the Road

After Tennessee, we had several more states to cross before we got to the best one ever. Here is a list of observations about each.

Virginia- mountainous like Tennessee, but the greens were not as green nor the blues as blue. There were many cows. Just like TN, it took too long to drive through!

Maryland- finally a strip mall or two to make us feel at home. What's that? An angry driver. I can almost smell NJ. ugly state flag- put it away.

Deleware- del e where? ugly license plates.

New Jersey- beautiful and crowded. first Wawa spotted moments after boarder crossed. also first black cop seen in 800 miles. makes ya proud.

Boobie Bungalow: It is exactly what you think

Mac and I are on our way home. We must go from Nashville through all of Tennessee, and let me tell you it is a looooong state. We are fortunate to see a delightful sign that make this green state a tad more bearable. I did some research, and I give you Tennessee's very own: BOOBIE BUNGALOW.

We did not visit; god I wish we did. I would have loved a tee-shirt.

Honkey Tonk Tips

(Above: wall of a bar in Nashville)

Where do you go when you are in Nashville? You go to the Honkey Tonk. At least that is what all the signs, people, and commercials in that city said, and I had one reply. "What the fuck is a honkey tonk?" (please think about Jay from Jay and SIlent Bob Strike Back during his internet rant when you read the previous line, if you don't know anything about Jay and Silent Bob, get off my blog).

"Close your eyes" is the response of my Nashville native friend, "and imagine a tumble weed rolling across the dessert, and imagine the sound of two old fashion swingy doors of a saloon swinging." Apparently a honkey tonk is a western movie; however, when we got there I realized it is just a crappy bar with live music just like every other bar with one exception, the band members are prostitutes. Every band we saw in Nashvilel that night, and there were many because

some bars had two bands playing at the same time, had a tip jar. Now I am not against tip jars because money is awesome; however, I am against a band begging for you to fill said tip jar incessantly. They all cried, "We don't get paid, so please give us your money if you like our music."

I am unemployed, and I prefer to spend New Jersey tax dollars on an imported Yuengling beer instead of a crappy rendition of "Save a Horse Ride Cowboy". I did not have enough for both because apparently one song cost the good bar patrons 20 bucks! Hell to the no!

Because we gave exactly zero dollars to the bands, we were afraid to sing along, dance, nod our heads to the music, or even smile because it meant we enjoyed the free atmosphere. I was alright with this until the lead singer walked up to me and hit me upside the head with the giant plastic tip jar. I smiled, painfully, and said "I am sorry but I just spent my money on beer." She then said into the microphone, "Well as long as you are having a good time." Oh man! Physical

pain and a guilt trip! Mac made us gallop out of there so fast we almost forgot our government paid for beer.

(Left: drink paid for by your taxes, why yes it is an appletini- easy on the tini)

Let's just call this an adventure

After I had my fill of Birmingham, Mac and I made plans for Nashville. We figured we could meet one of our friends who lives in Tennessee in Nashville for a night instead of driving right through to Jersey. I booked a room online the day before after much arguing over in which hotel we would spend our night. We packed the hell out of her little Volks Wagon, and after many tearful goodbyes between MacAttack and her friends, we jumped on rout 65 for 400 miles.

As a general rule, most outtings with the two of us turn into "an adventure". I tend to bring destruction wherever I go (much like Reptar), and I call them adventure to let Mac know that what she is feeling is fun and not the urge to hit me. This time I painstakingly planned our route as well as the pit stops. I brought all things we would need in all emergencies. No way would this trip go sour, and we indeed get there at a decent hour with getting lost.

(Above: Reptar)

After two random mixes of my own concoction and a Modest mouse CD, we arrived! The city was more impressive than Cleveland and Birmingham combined; however, I was still underwhelmed because I grew up visiting and working in New York City, so I am kind of a big deal.

We take our little rolley bags and excitedly skip to the front desk of a very fancy Millennium Maxwell House Hotel. After about 2 min, the women at the desk asks us if we are sure that we made the reservation. I thought long and hard about that- yup, I forgot to hit submit on the website when I "booked" the room.

(Above: Our awesome hotel)

"It's an adventure Mac, and adventure" I cower as she clenches her fists and bites her lower lip. Turns out there were many rooms still available because no one goes to Nashville on a Sunday night. WHEW! It also only cost us about $15 more dollars, and my dignity is cheap. It was still a sweet deal!

Also, I did not get punched. Mac forgave me when I told her that I would pay!

After the Potato Famine, They Fled to Alabama

How many of you expect the Irish to be in Birmingham, Alabama? I certainly did not, but there they were in all of their glory. Pale men with shaved heads drinking Guinness's and car bombs, wearing kilts, and listening to a fiddle. Irish flags littered the walls. Smithwicks and Newcastle littered the taps. I've seen similar bars in Jersey, but this just seemed forced so south of the Mason-Dixon line.

The funniest part about this night out was that not a single person from Ireland was there, yet they continually pledged commitment to the motherland, which I think is actually the nick name for England. These people were so passionate about their patriotism for a country that they never visited, and it was so intense that you wouldn't think that it was a completely Romantic notion, but indeed it was at that.

These guys had thick thick southern drawls. I am telling you, dear reader, that they said things like "yall" and "biscuit". My favorite part was the 9 min vocal solo that consisted of no singing and a lot of instructions. The lead singer of the band talked about the Emerald Isle, and everyone in the bar held up his or her drink for this very long cheers. Several men, wearing the band's tee-shirt that said in clear white block letters "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced", walked all around the bar clinking cups with every single person. I joined in for the first 60 seconds, but then I got thirsty and tired of the man telling me how to feel about the homeland of my great grandparents, and I drank my beer.

(Above: Album cover of that night's band)

Later I won a game of pool against a Republican Volleyball coach. It was a good night.

Killing Time on a Plane

I have no I-Pod. Yes, I am traveling around the world I-Podless. It's my brother's fault really. He commented last month how he was impressed that my MP3 player was still working wonderfully. Of course later that day...white screen of death. Bastard.

So what is a girl, who wants to avoid conversation with overly friendly Southern business men, to do? I have my computer on and my headphones lodged in my ears.

I-Tunes is better than an I-Pod because there are many more gigs. The one issue is that it's kind of weird to have your computer open and not do anything with it. Try it; you will feel obligated to do something. I have decided to have the Visualizer take up the whole screen.

Watching the lights that move with the music as I listen to said music makes me feel- accomplished. I cannot explain it. I do think the people around me, who can clearly see my screen, must think I am overloaded on drugs. The overly friendly Southern businessmen leave the cute Yankee alone. I am alone. Success.

Oh my crap, it is sunny up in the air.

I feel the plane losing altitude, and of course I decide calmly that I will like to watch our plummet to the earth because this feeling is not a normal turbulence feeling. I am certain that there is something horribly wrong. So I open the shade and look out that oval window; this way I can be clear that I am about to die and quickly repent all my sins because I am Catholic, and we get a free out like that; however, I am immediately blinded by the sun's intense power. I see neither air nor sky. I have no idea if the plane is about to crash.

If I do a safety, "Please forgive me God" prayer, then I will have to not do those sins anymore. I cannot just apologize for being a big 'ol lezzie, and then live to make out with girls happily and expect to get into that all inclusive heaven I keep hearing about. God will catch onto my lie. He will know that I was just trying to get into heaven because my grandma Ella is there, and let's face it, Ella was awesome. He will know that I actually like being gay, and I sin knowingly. I think that is worse then a sin of passion. Does St. Peter go by federal law?

So have to make sure I am really about to die before I cash in on my "Forgive me Father for I have sinned..." card. Stupid sun is so freaken bright that I think 43% of the plane (that would be about 20 of us because it is a small ass plan from Atlanta to Birmingham) is hissing in shock and fear of the pain caused by the light.

I take this this light as "The Light" (you know, god's light), and I do not like it. Maybe heaven isn't worth it. I think I will continue to play "Lesbian or MSB" and introduce myself to the former with out any of that Irish Catholic guilt, unless the latter is Justin Beiber then I will introduce myself to him and feel guilty as all get out because being his fan is just straight up embarrassing.

(these are just a few of Mac's roommate's crosses)

Who Is Flying this Thing?

Why do all people who work in an airport look like pilots? The people who work customer service wear those ties and stripy things on their shoulders. Are they all hoping some day to climb the ladder and be in the cock pit one day? Are they trying to make us feel like we are surrounded by professionals? It just makes the pilot uniform all the less impressive. I do understand, reluctantly, why flight attendants no longer look like cheap hookers, but I think the cheap polyester should have gone the way of mini skirts.

European or Gay?

Fun travel games: these games are good in any densely and diversely populated areas I.e. anairport or Atlantic City.

The first game I play is "European or gay?" You and a friend (or you can bet yourself) make the decision about a male wearing a speedo bikini bottom, tight jeans, a scarf or almost any fashionable and sexual article of clothing. It works best when you disagree with a friend, and the exciting conclusion is when the male finally talks. Does he have an accent, a lisp, or, and this is my favorite when this happens, he has a straight man American voice. Then you argue loudly about the man's sexual identity.

European or Gay?

The other game is very similar but opposite. I call this one "Lesbian or middle school boy?" The features you look for are shaggy short hair, cargo shots, skater shoes, or soft yet masculine features. You may be looking at a fat boy with growing man tits or a lezzie hiding her small breasts. This game is harder because the voice alone with not provide you with a clear answer. Is the voice prepubescent or female hidden with husky. Perhaps you think the young man is holding hands with his overbearing mother, or maybe it is her overbearing girlfriend. Truly a challenging and intellectual game.

Lesbian or Middle School Boy?

If you think you know the answers, please post!

On my way to Birmingham

Before I can be ready for my international journeys, I need to experience some intranational adventures. It is best to know yourself before you can know others; I'm going to say that is interchangeable with travels. I need to know my country a little more, and then I can know others. I am currently on my way to Birmingham, Alabama. I would post this immediately; however, the Wi-Fi costs almost ten bucks for a two hour long flight, lame.

Once I reach the all too desired destination of Alabama, where is it currently reaching above 100 degrees F daily, I will drive back to New Jersey. The purpose, outside of national discovery, is to move MacAttack, my bestest buddy, back to the state where she belongs.

That is right internet; I have Jersey Pride. Give me a bagel, the shore, the pine barrens, jug handles, tomatoes, white corn, our one crappy skiable mountain, and the most regional mentality for a state of its size. I will miss it.

Jackie is moving home, and I will be her driving buddy. I hope to explore the south east states on our way home.

Last week I did some exploring; however, there was not much to report on the state of Ohio. Cleveland has about three sky scrappers, and it took almost a half hour to get anywhere. The gay bar, yes I think there was only one, was big into the drag scene, and I am always a fan of drag queens.