ATTACK OF THE GIANT ZOMBIE LEECHES

attack_of_giant_leeches_lc_01I’m a big fan of rain. Rain, you’re awesome and I would totally hound you for an autograph, write you heart-bursting poetry, take you home to meet the parents if only you would look at me and see how true and deep I am, not like all the others.

I melt with you, rain.

I melt with you, rain.

I love you, rain, in the happy sun shower times. I love you even when you are angry and all hurricane-y. I even think it’s cute when you piss down on everyone, like how you do to the English all the time.

And then dear rain, in Thailand, you turn on me. You bring leeches with you.

Rain in Huay Pakoot.  How could you, rain?

Rain in Huay Pakoot. How could you, rain?

In my second week in Huay Pakoot, the rainy season finally kicks in. Clouds move into the village and start pushing people around. It begins to rain several times during the day. The storms can be as short as ten minutes. Overnight, heavier rains give the jungle a good thrashing.

That means that it’s party time for the leeches.

Leech.  The stuff of nightmares.

Okay, maybe not ‘giant’. But look at it. It’s horrifying.

Bugs I can learn to deal with, leeches just don’t have any good qualities. They’re sticky, slimy, and stubborn. And they turn me off of Italian food. The reason is because they look like cooked spaghetti—sickly gray-black cooked spaghetti that has come to life and wriggled out from the bottom of a trash heap.

Worst of all, their primary trait is a particularly nasty one: blood-sucking. Leeches are the closest real creatures that the jungle has to zombies. Like zombies, they glom on to you as they start sucking out your life force—only they suck out blood instead of brains.

Zombie eating brains.

Zombie eating brains.

While zombies are cool in books and movies, let’s face it, a real-life zombie attack would kind of suck. Leeches in the jungle are a real-life zombie attack. They slither out of the dead leaves and the mud, moaning as they swarm your feet and ankles.

Okay, maybe not moaning, but seriously, they grope for you… I have watched their little wormy torsos feeling for me, twitching and stabbing at the air for just a little piece of me to grab onto.

A groping leech.

A groping leech.

Our first hike with the leeches we have to stop every five or ten minutes, because someone has a leech squirming on them.

Contrary to popular belief, their favorite hangout isn’t water, except for the leech that rose up and took Chuck Norris down in Braddock: Missing in Action 5, The Leechening. They are most commonly creeping around in fresh mud or dead, moldy leaves.

Chuck.

Chuck.

Even leeches can't stop Chuck.  They can only hope to contain him.

Even leeches can’t stop Chuck. They can only hope to contain him.

Their first move is usually to hug the back of your shoe. That’s why on a hike when there are leeches prowling around, everyone looks like they’re checking their feet every minute or so to see if they’ve stepped in dog shit.

From the back of the shoe, leeches can worm in anywhere. Some like to slither into your shoe and go spelunking in there. Others burrow into your ankle—at least you can usually spot them there at some point.

One volunteer comes well-prepared for the leeches: good hiking boots protected by gaiters, which are worn over the lower leg and ankle. They’re usually meant to keep snow out of your boots, but he uses them to keep out the leeches. I think it’s a brilliant plan.

An hour into the hike he stops, unfastens the gaiters and begins to peel them away: three leeches in there. They writhe spastically as their secret hiding place is exposed. I scream. This guy is lost to the zombie leeches. I pull out my gun, before he turns into one of them.

–Okay, I’m getting carried away. But you get the idea what these creatures do to me.

They can be sprayed off with a DEET chemical repellent, kind of like using a flamethrower to remove a mole. This method gives leech and victim instant cancer, but at least the leech curls up and drops off.

The mahouts make a game of leech control, flicking them off with a machete, toying with them for minute like a cat with a mouse, and then severing the little bastards in half.

I laugh and laugh. I guess I’ve found my limit to loving all creatures.

On this first hike with leeches they get all of my fellow hikers. They drop, one by one. Somehow I escape. I slam the door of the Outhouse-Plus, sweaty, tired, and leech-free, with the music on the soundtrack crashing into silence. I am safe.

Now I can celebrate my leeching near-miss by dumping polar ice cap-cold water over my head for a ‘shower’.

I start peeling off my clothes. I notice that my khaki pants have flecks of red in them.

Uh oh. I tug the pants completely off. The ‘flecks’ are actually large red blotches. I rip off the rest of my clothes like I’m on fire.

There he is.

A leech is wrapped snugly around a section of my upper thigh, sucking face on my leg. He is glistening and plump, and has grown from a cute little spaghetti into a strapping young penne pasta… because now he’s full of my blood.

I pause for precious blood-siphoning seconds, not because I’m unsure of what to do, but because I am terrified of doing it: touching him. I actually have to touch this slimy baby alien monster if I want to rip him off.

I know—he’s already touching me, because he’s eating my leg for lunch—but at least he’s not moving much. If I try to peel him off, I’m sure he’s going to wriggle around and… here’s where my brain goes: He’ll jump into my mouth. Ahhhhhh!… okay.

I have to do it.

I grab hold of him.

Sure enough, he wriggles and hugs me even tighter. I pry, scrape, fumble, juggle, and flick the fat little bastard from my leg to my finger to my shirt hanging on the wall, back to my finger—before I finally jettison him out of an opening in the Outhouse-Plus.

I take a breath, feeling very Sigourney Weaverish. She kicked an alien off a space ship, I bounced a leech out of an outhouse.

I run my hands all over my body—and I mean all over, dreading the feel of another slimy bloodsucker. When I find no more leeches… I check my body again. Five more times.

A leech eating me.

A leech eating a person.

After this trauma, I feel heavy dread every time it rains. Although to my credit, I never pass on a hike when it’s raining, so I am constantly coming face to face with my bogeyleeches.

I Agent Orange my hiking shoes with DEET before each hike, acquiring instant cancer.–It’s okay, once I get back to L.A. a shot of wheat grass juice will knock that right out.

I wear shorts so I can see the leeches sneaking up my leg. I stop often to carefully examine my boots (dog shit check). And I develop a sixth sense for detecting leeches. I can spot them from yards away and many of them I can avoid, even if it means taking huge circling detours.

Days later I am on another hike, helping a girl perform a health check on an elephant. She is checking off something on a clipboard. Fwop. A leech plops onto the clipboard, practically dotting an I.

She freezes. Looks up.

Shivers run down my spine. Not much I can do when they’re falling out of the sky.

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BUGS!

This is a bug of Thailand.  He's very cuddly.

This is a bug of Thailand. He’s very cuddly.

The bugs are everywhere. They include flying ants, moths, mosquitoes, flies, bees, beetles, centipedes, millipedes, ants, and on and on. Butterflies are easy to get along with, obviously, and thankfully they are common as well. The worst are the flying ants. They come out in swarms at night after a rain, and their huge papery wings have a creepy rustle as they whap into the walls, lights, the mosquito net, and my face. But if I’m going to get along here in Thailand, I just have to let go of my ick factor and accept them as my neighbors. Once I do this, things get a lot easier.

Flying ant.  Each morning I would find my bedroom floor littered with their wings.  I crafted a lovely papyrus stationery out of them.

Flying ant. Each morning I would find my bedroom floor littered with their wings. I crafted a lovely papyrus stationery out of them.

Mosquito net surrounding my bed.  Note the gecko poop on the top.

Mosquito net surrounding my bed. Note the gecko poop on the top. It’s a good thing.

Until I meet the beetle that hisses at me when I try to flick him off my sweatshirt. I flick again, he spits at me and digs his legs defiantly into my shoulder. I wriggle out of the sweatshirt and run away. It’s his now. There’s a USC logo on it, so maybe the other beetles think he went to college. It’s possible–with that hissing he practically talks.

View of the bug entrance to my bedroom.  I would find flying ant wings on the floor each morning.  I made a lovely papyrus stationery out of them.

View of the bug entrance to my bedroom. If I turned the light on, they had a neon sign guiding them, and they could invite all their friends.

In Los Angeles’ more temperate climate, applying the ‘live and let live’ philosophy with bugs is quite a bit easier. A few wayward ants in my office back in Los Angeles and I can rush to the rescue with my sheet of paper, fast-walking the little critters to the other side of the building and the exit outside.

Another bug of Thailand.  Adorable.

Another bug of Thailand. Adorable.

But in Thailand, there are red ants that rather enjoy gnawing on your flesh, so when they do get on you and get busy, it’s hard to resist screaming, “Die, fucker!” as you slap your body like you’re putting out a fire, trying to squash the little bastards.

And there’s the bees. In my experience, if you meet one bee in Thailand it won’t sting you but it won’t leave you alone… ever. You can hike three miles and he’ll still be circling your eardrum, taking off and alighting on your arm. Might as well offer him some lunch, he’s not going anywhere for a while. If you meet more than one—well, I guess they don’t want to look like pussies in front of their friends. So they sting the shit out of you.

After careful observation, and getting zapped myself, I learn that the bees have a thing for rotting logs that are alongside or partially submerged in rivers or streams.

eye butterfly 1

Butterfly. There are many different species in Thailand, and they’re everywhere. They are good bug role models.

During one hike we are walking along a river and I am behind a girl who is heavily fatigued. Her pack hangs low to the ground, unbalanced, and her steps are leaden and clumsy. I spot a fat, moldy log just up ahead of her, half in, half out of the water—potentially a creepy little haunted bee house.

Before I can say anything, this girl tries to scale the log, swinging her leg on top of it, and I hear a loud fwump. The girl’s entire leg sinks into the rotted log, the moldy wood swallowing her up to her waist. I offer my hand to help her out, breaking out in a fresh sweat, as I imagine a cloud of stirred up bees glomming onto her leg, stingers angrily tattooing her flesh.

Nothing happens. I’m thinking, Get her!

–No, not really. I am actually pleasantly surprised that there appears to be no one home.

Slowly she extricates herself from the log. The moldy wood reluctantly gives up her leg with a heavy sucking sound, pieces of rot cracking and falling away.

I look up to see the mahout wildly gesticulating at us.

Come on!” he’s panting, in heavily accented English. “Hurry!”

I’ve watched this scene many times. One or two times I helped to make a scene like this, since I used to be a movie trailer editor. I start running forward—we are all running forward—only I can’t help but stop to look back over my shoulder.

More rotting wood is splintering from the log, and the sizable amount of wood that is falling away–as well as the sizable amount of movie scenes stored in my head–suggest to me that this is a horror way more terrifying than mere bees. That some…thing… has been disturbed… awoken… and it is bursting out of the rotting log… 

My mouth opens.   I’m staring.  My fellow hikers run by me.  I’m that idiot in those horror movies who freezes and is the first to go, staring stupidly up at the huge thing as it springs and devours me.  I’m forgotten a half hour into the movie. 

Alien, I’m thinking.

Nope. Bees.

They stung three people, including the mahout. I was left alone this time. The girl who had served up half her torso for the bees to tenderize when she fell through their roof—she also walked away unscathed.

Tracks photographed near the river.  Frog... or baby alien?

Tracks photographed near the river. Frog… or baby alien?

THAILAND ELEPHANTS WEEK ONE, PART TWO: BLOW-DRIED CHICKEN

In week one I eat my first meal prepared by the matriarch of my host family, Apah. She is told that I am a vegetarian. No eggs, either. She laughs, and after a translation, I am told she has said in her language: “Then what do you eat?” Throughout my stay she smiles, laughs, and tries to joke with me. Despite the language barrier, I understand her warnings about the low ceilings everywhere in her house.

At six o’clock every day I arrive for dinner, and every day I bonk my head on the low ceiling. Apah rolls out a rug onto a sort of porch area of her house. It begins to sink in that there is no furniture anywhere. People in the village sit on the floor to eat, relax, hang out. There is a lot of squatting. Tigers used to prowl the jungle here fifty years ago. After they were hunted into extinction, it looks like everyone went after the chairs.

My host family's house

My host family’s house

Apah and her daughter, Tee Ta Poh.

Apah and her daughter, Tee Da Poh.

I love Apah’s cooking, and from this vegetarian’s perspective the key to the food is not necessarily what it is, but how it’s flavored and spiced. Some of my favorite dishes are spiced potatoes, spiced pea puree, spiced peppers (perhaps you’re seeing a theme here), and sometimes Apah makes a cold paste out of red chilies that goes well with anything. Occasionally there is fruit, usually mango, pineapple, or watermelon, which is delectable and balances the other dishes well.

I have a striking view of surrounding mountains from where I eat. During this first week, a staff member eats with me and my family. After that I will be on my own, so I can either try to learn some of the language, or go the other way and just get down some really cool blank stares and grinning idiot poses.

The staff member knows a lot of Packinyah, which is the native language spoken by the Karen people that live here. As the staff member and my host family converse in fits and starts, I write down as many words as I can and practice pronouncing them. Packinyah is not a written language, so I write down the words phonetically. It’s hard to figure out grammar rules. A lot of it sounds like some weird version of French, like if Pepe Lepew had invented his own language.

One phrase I manage to get down is ‘Da bleu!’, which is a good all-purpose phrase, since it means hello, goodbye, and thank you. One little wrinkle is if you slightly mispronounce it, if you say ‘Ta bleu!’, you are calling the other person crazy. After a few days I’m da bleuing all over the place.

My view while eating dinner

My view while eating dinner

Apah packs my lunch for the day hikes in a pink Minnie Mouse plastic container. Breaking out a Disney lunch box in the jungle is a bit off (another British expression, I can’t stop myself), like if I clopped into a Disney board meeting with hiking boots and a backpack. (That might be my next trip.) All the other volunteers are jealous of my Minnie Mouse container, and they should be, with their plain no-mouse-eared food containers. I am very proud of it, beaming as I unscrew Minnie’s head. Lunch is eaten cold, either out in the jungle on the hike or at base hut if the hike is shorter. The food is good no matter what, even if you imagine it’s Minnie’s little mouse brains, which I would never do.

Minnie pre-lobotomy

Minnie pre-lobotomy

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And post-lobotomy

The bathroom facilities are in a separate building from my host’s house, in what is for all practical purposes an outhouse with ‘shower’ facilities. So, Outhouse-Plus. Here I am introduced to the squat toilet. This is a happier meeting than I expected–I thought I would be actually crapping down a hole. It is at least a toilet, made of porcelain, and even imprinted with the manufacturer’s name. ‘Otto’ is the manufacturer. Strangely, in the city, the toilets are imprinted with ‘Cotto’. The brothers Otto and Cotto, twin toilet titans of Southeast Asia. The toilet is set into the floor and the squatting takes some getting used to. I consider it a victory that I somehow escape crapping on myself.

The ‘shower’ is a big barrel of ice cold water in the corner across from the squat toilet. A little plastic pot is used to scoop up the water and pour it over myself. I start the week ‘showering’ (you can substitute ‘dump arctic water over my head’ if you like) once in the morning, and once after the hike.

Outhouse-Plus

Outhouse-Plus

By the end of the week I shower only after the hike. Morning showers are bracing but pointless, since I am clean for all of thirty minutes before the hike begins. They do get my attention. I stifle a shout as the poured ice water bashes me like a baseball bat made of ice. This feels great after a hike—or at least less like electroshock therapy–but only if I walk directly from the jungle into the shower without breaking stride. If my body temperature cools down even a little while I’m hunting down soap, towel, fresh clothes, etc.–then I will suffer an ice cold water beating once again.

After all the intense hiking, I am a little concerned about my protein intake. Since all the chickens are free range around here—and I’m serious, they’re walking around everywhere, in and outdoors, pecking, tending to their chicks, bumming cigarettes—I ask the staff to tell Apah that eggs are okay. After I lift the egg embargo my weekly egg intake goes from zero to a metric shit-ton. I get served rice and eggs, vegetables and eggs, egg omelets, fried eggs, hard and soft boiled eggs, eggs with a side of eggs.

Clockwise: rice, egg omelet, soup with egg, spiced pea puree

Clockwise: rice, egg omelet, soup with egg, spiced pea puree

There are a lot of other animals around here. All the village families seem to have chickens and pigs. Some families also have buffaloes, which look and behave roughly like cows. And there are stray dogs and cats everywhere. Or, sort of stray—it’s unclear. Many of them are fed to a degree and hang around certain houses, but when I stop to pet a dog or cat, invariably the animal’s initial reaction is to go stiff, as if unsure of what to expect from my contact. It’s clear that they don’t get much affection, especially the cats. The dogs are all of similar breed and on the small side. The cats are shockingly small, about a third the size of one of my cats. The pigs are confined in tiny cages or tied to stakes and are barely allowed to move.

Buffaloes often just lounge under the houses

Buffaloes often just lounge under the houses

Piglets at least have some freedom

Piglets at least have some freedom

I have to bite my tongue on this stuff, obviously I can’t be Mr. Animal Crusader around here. On the plus side, I am told that the people in the village don’t eat their pigs (they get pork elsewhere). I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I like to think it is.

There’s one famous chicken in the village. His feathers have grown out in a strange, almost afro-like fashion. He is dubbed ‘Blow-Dried Chicken’. When I first encounter him, he gives me a suspicious, sidelong stare and a wide berth, like a movie star avoiding the paparazzi.

Da bleu!” I bellow cheerfully at Blow-Dried Chicken, testing out my Packinyah on every soul I meet.

He waddles away, clucking imperiously at me.

Blow-dried chicken ducking the media

Blow-Dried Chicken ducking the media

Blow-dried chicken escapes after pecking attack on paparazzi

Blow-Dried Chicken escapes after pecking attack on paparazzi

LAND OF A THOUSAND SMILES

I have returned from my trip to Thailand with the elephants. A lot has happened and there was a lot to absorb. I’ll be blogging about my week to week experiences in Thailand in the days to come.

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THAILAND ELEPHANTS WEEK ONE, PART ONE

I realize that I am part of something special the Wednesday of my first week in Thailand. A heavy tropical storm has just struck, shooting bullets out of the sky, and I am kneeling on the floor, helping to chop lettuce for a girl cooking dinner for me and three other ‘gollas’, or foreigners. I look out the window to see a baby elephant munching on sugar cane leaves and scratching himself. He lifts one hind leg to scratch the other, almost human-like, snorting in the cool air, his muddy gray skin darkening to a dark chocolate brown in the downpour.

It hits me. I’m eating dinner with an elephant in the backyard.

Five days earlier:

I arrive in Chiang Mai, Thailand, after 22 hours on a plane. I check into the hotel and I walk around in a daze. Part of it is jet lag, part of it is culture shock, part of it is I see no one who looks like me in the first hours at the hotel. The white people are all twenty-plus years younger. High school and college kids mostly, an endless gabbing, hard-bodied, partying parade of them. At breakfast I see a guy in his mid-thirties. We share the look of the damned. The old and the damned.

I conquer my fear of eating at a restaurant where no English is spoken nor found on the menu. The owner and I grunt, smile, and gesture at each other until somehow there’s some pad thai in front of me, and it’s delicious.

I meet other people in the volunteer program, run by GVI, Global Vision International. We’re all here to help elephants. I have signed on for a month with these strangers. I’ll be sharing meals, hiking with them, hanging out with them. They are from New York, Massachusetts, Vermont, Canada, Great Britain, Ireland, Denmark, Australia, Switzerland, and there’s a person from California, like me. The British contingent outnumbers all other nationalities, probably because GVI is based in the United Kingdom.

I arrive at Huay Pakoot, a tiny village in the mountains of northwest Thailand. It’s 3300 feet up, and there’s no flat land anywhere. This would be a good retirement community for mountain climbers. On my casual walks around, casually gasping for breath and casually waiting to hear the snap of a leg tendon, I get lost four times. I get lost looking for my family’s house, finding Base Hut (where the volunteers hang out), looking for the road that climbs up to the school. I get lost after a hike, which means I have another hike after the hike.

Huay Pakoot

Huay Pakoot

The blessing ceremony

The blessing ceremony

There is a dinner welcoming ceremony, where a few members of the village come to base hut to welcome new people and give blessings. The ceremony involves blessing a bowl of rice and going around a circle of us volunteers, tying strings around our wrists as a symbol of blessing and protection. I stare admiringly at the little twine ball around my wrist like it’s a Rolex. I do feel blessed and honored to be here. And I’m excited by string. My cats would be so pleased.

Base Hut

Base Hut

I meet my host family and they show me to my room. It has a thin not-quite-a-mattress on a floor, and a sleeping bag for a blanket. The key feature is the mosquito net surrounding the mattress and blanket. There are no such things as screens on the windows, so the mosquito net is my only sanctuary from the myriad of insects that swarm my room every night. Geckos prowl the walls and ceiling, announcing themselves with one of two strange calls. They sound either like an overstimulated squirrel or a frog that has taken voice lessons. They snap up some of the bugs but there are just too many of them.

By the end of the first week, with all the Brits around, I am helpless against the tendency to start spouting British expressions. I say things I would be shot for in America, like ‘sort out’, ‘have a go’, and ‘Hey gov, your googlies are well tarrowed in the henpot’. That last one I made up, but hearing the Brits speak I feel like they just make up words and expressions anyway.

After a few hikes, which I handle okay, and better than many of the younger people, the age gap fear fades. Does this mean that I’m okay to hang with younger people only if I can hike mountains?

Hiking in the clouds

Hiking in the clouds

Still, I am uneasy around the new volunteers and terrified of the veterans, some of whom are here for six month marathons. I am eager to score even minor social points with my fellows, so I accept an offering of some sticky toffee and chocolate candy that I have never heard of. Most likely it’s British. Here’s how that goes, roughly: “Hey Mike, want a barmy whompun-pat*?”

(*Not the name, but it could be. I’m telling you, they make this shit up.)

Does an elephant shit in the woods?” I quip smartly, and with a self-satisfied flourish, pop the unknown candy into my mouth. In my eagerness to impress, somehow I’ve forgotten that my teeth, through a combination of genetics and bad living in my twenties, have had to be systematically repaired and replaced over the last two decades, so that now they are like rows of pearly white condominium facades. They look pretty good, but one touch and everything collapses in a dusty cloud of porcelain veneer. The candy feels like a small rock liberally coated with Krazy Glue, and on chew number two I spit out the candy, and one of my dental crowns with it.

So I have to go to the dentist. The procedure should be simple. The crown is still intact, it just needs to be cemented back into place. Simple maybe, but this is the point I realize just where we are and how hard it is to accomplish certain things. There is a dentist in a little town about an hour’s drive away. The villagers are asked their opinion of this dentist.

Some of these villagers, incidentally, chew betel nut. Chewing betel nut looks roughly like chewing tobacco while wearing lipstick as your gums bleed. The locals also smoke thin, foul-smelling cigars, and have more than a few early check-outs from the Hotel Pearly White. They give this guy a thumbs-down. He must be a medieval torturer.

Next plan is another town where there is a small hospital. There is also a dental clinic there. Apparently for this dentist the whole dental gig is just for fun though, since the clinic is open only one day a week. Maybe.

So eventually I am shipped back to Chiang Mai. The clinic there caters to western ex-pats, in fact all the people I see in the waiting room are white. After a short wait I am called in and the procedure is simple, it takes about ten minutes. Total bill: $13.20. My dentist in L.A. would charge me thirteen bucks just for reading a magazine in his waiting room.

The ride back to the village is my first ride in a Sung Tao, probably the most common mode of transport in Thailand. A Sung Tao is a truck enclosed on the top and sides, with the back open. Benches line the two side walls, and there are railings attached to the ceiling. The railings are extremely effective in pretending that I have a sense of safety and control as I am spun, yanked, and thrashed around in the back of this truck on winding mountain roads. Lovely greenery shoots by in an acid-strobing blur, the tailpipe pumps in exhaust fumes unfettered by oxygen, and driving over gaping potholes allows my face to eat generous helpings of my knees.

I never thought I would rate a trip to the dentist higher than a scenic ride through the country, but I’m learning a lot about myself here.

View from Base Hut

View from Base Hut

CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. ANIMAL GUY AND MR. FEAR GUY ON A PLANE FLYING FROM LOS ANGELES TO THAILAND

SCENE OPENS on a typical Airbus A380 jet flying an international route.  Mr. Animal Guy, a mild-mannered dude (except when he is not) in his 4o’s, is alone in seat 3A when someone–or maybe something–seems to float down the aisle and sit  next to him.  As this shadowy form sits, a gust of wind buffets the jet sharply, all the babies on the plane begin to cry in unison, and Gerard Butler sashays across the little airplane screen in a rubber surfer suit in “Chasing Mavericks”.  The shadowy form stares a few moments at Butler’s modern hippie ‘do, shadowy hand perched over the barf bag, before turning to face Mr. Animal Guy.

MR. FEAR GUY: Thailand? You’re going to Thailand? What, are you crazy? Why are you doing that?

Mr. Animal Guy rolls his eyes, turning to face his new companion.

MR. ANIMAL GUY: Oh, you againYou’re really not looking well.  If you must know, I want to help some elephants. I’m an animal guy and I think elephants are one of the coolest animals on the planet. In Thailand there’s a program that helps them, and so I’m going.

MR. FEAR GUY (rubs hands together sinisterly): Oh, this is gonna be good. You know, I’ve got like a million reasons why this is the biggest mistake of your life.

MR. ANIMAL GUY (sighs): Yeah, I know.

MR. FG: They speak a foreign language. You don’t know Thai.

MR. AG: I know a few phrases… and the people in the program said they would teach me.

MR. FG: You don’t know shit. You’ll look like an idiot. You won’t even be able to get to the hotel. They’ll laugh at you, you know how you loooove that.

MR. AG: Is the sarcasm necessary?

MR. FG: Oh, I haven’t even started, big boy. Your life was good. You had a nice house back there in Los Angeles. You should’ve stayed there. Locked the doors and pulled the drapes even. Hide under the bed. Get serious brother, you need to be safe.

MR. AG: Hide under the bed? Seems excessive.

MR. FG: I’m looking out for you. There could be earthquakes back in L.A. Leprosy outbreak. People, for god’s sake. People. Stay away from them, they can be nasty. They can talk to you or even give you leprosy. But you’re changing the subject. Let’s just stay on this trip to Thailand and how you’re fucking up big time.

MR. AG: Clock’s running on you. I hear you talk, you kind of sound like you’re full of it.

MR. FG: Am I? What about this? You’re 45. Jesus, you’re 45! Holy crap, you’re old! Anyway, point is, these kinds of things are done by kids. You can’t hang with them. You can’t do the physical stuff, and you sure can’t talk to them. Nothing in common there.

MR. AG: I’m in the best shape of my life.

MR. FG: Mosquitos will eat you. Or the teenagers. They’ll eat you alive. You should see them when they strike, they can unhinge their jaws and swallow you whole.

MR. AG: Mosquitos or teenagers?

MR. FG: Teenagers. The mosquitos suck your brains out of your skull with their proboscises. Just like a Slurpie.

Mr. Animal Guy looks doubtful.

MR. FG: Check this. You’re leaving your cats back there in L.A. to be taken care of by total strangers. They won’t feed them right. Lyle’s finicky. What if he starves to death? What if someone breaks into the house and hangs everybody? I’m talking not just the cats, but even the cat sitter. At least it would serve him right for starving Lyle.

Mr. Animal guy says nothing, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

MR. FG: Ah, I got you there. That’s a familiar one, isn’t it? You’ve had that one for years. Broken windows, home invaders, and cat hangings all around.

MR. AG: Yes. But you know, I’m starting to realize how stupid this all sounds when you say it out loud.

MR. FG: I have a cold. I’m all nasally.

MR. AG: I really think that this trip might be pretty cool. And as long as I’m open, I think mostly some pretty cool things will happen. And I don’t know what it is, but I’m just not buying your line right now.

MR. FG: Smooshed.

MR. AG: Smooshed?

MR. FG: You’ll be smooshed by an elephant. Flattened. Trampled to death.

MR. AG: I have to go. Plane’s landing now.

MR. FG: Is it landing, or just maybe… is it crashing?

MR. AG: Your voice cracked on that. Kinds ruins the effect.

MR. FG: (sighs) Are you gonna eat those nuts? I’m hungry, like, all the time.

MR. AG: Yeah, I know. Sure, have a nut and then crawl your ass back to coach. This is business class, dumbass, and you don’t belong here.

Mike feed 3

The Outlaws: Butch and Sundance

Band photo

Here’s what we know about the notorious outlaw cats Butch and Sundance, who were cats and robbers active at the turn of the twentieth century in the Old West. Details are murky and accounts of their exploits vary widely.

Contrary to popular belief, they were more than just friends, but actually brothers. They may have been born to privilege, since even the earliest photos show them wearing full black and white tuxedos. Sundance has always been the quieter one and the better gunfighter. He also has more white fur. Butch is more outgoing, as well as the leader and brains behind the notorious Hole in the Wall Gang that they would later form. He has more black fur than Sundance.

Other members of this gang of ruthless outlaw cats included ‘Lefty Paw’ Lyle, an orange tabby who is rumored to have killed fifteen people and buried them neck-up in litter boxes throughout the American West. This is unconfirmed, and some written accounts found recently regarding Lyle’s exploits have the word ‘killed’ crossed out from the phrase ‘killed fifteen people’, and replaced with, ‘crawled into the laps of’.

The neck-up litter box burials are confirmed.

Another sometime member of this gang of infamous felines is the painter and ladies’ cat Picasso, a brown tabby. Some say that he actually lived much later than the rest of the members of the Hole in the Wall Gang, but they are wrong, and it is not necessary to look this up and check it, either. Picasso was active with the gang throughout his Cubist Cowboy period, and was of great help when Butch and Sundance fled to South America later in their careers, because he was the only cat who could speak Spanish.

Butch robbed his first bank in 1889, while still a kitten. He escaped with $21,000, a case of liver treats, and an unknown quantity of multi-colored yarn, most of it quite nice and sparkly. Soon after, his brother Sundance joined him, and together, they terrorized the west, robbing banks and trains, scratching furniture, biting toes, and throwing up on carpets.

Their usual methods involved storming in with guns drawn, yowling and hissing, fur on end, pawing the air menacingly. Surprised bank tellers and patrons would throw up their hands and give up all their money and shiny objects, muttering ‘Bad Kitty’ but otherwise helpless in the face of so many flashing claws and teeth.

Usually they would split up and go into hiding for a period after the robbery. Butch liked to hide under the bed, Sundance behind the TV. They would also frequent cat houses and saloons. Butch was a wily card player, and had an impressive poker face. He could sit on a royal flush without so much as a twitch of a whisker. He was a terrible sore loser, though. One Texan gentleman who dared take Butch’s money in a card game was shot in the back, his eyes scratched out, and then for good measure Butch pissed on his head, sending a message and marking his territory at the same time.

Almost immediately they became wanted cats. The Pinkerton Detective Agency was enlisted to track them down. ‘Lost Cat: Reward Dead or Alive’ fliers went up on telephone poles and horse hitches everywhere. The notorious tracker and enforcer Tom Horn was enlisted to help in the search. Horn tracked them through the High Sierras and was whisker-close to nabbing them at a cliff face on the edge of a river snaking through a canyon. Butch and Sundance, pinned on the edge of the cliff, and with no chance of escape, had the following conversation (according to local legend):

Butch: “Alright, I’ll jump first.”

Sundance: “Meow.”

Butch: “Alright, then you jump first.”

Sundance: “Meow, I said.”

Butch: “What’s the matter with you?”

Sundance: “I can’t swim!”

Butch (big lion laughing-at-a-gazelle laugh): “What, are you crazy? The fall will probably kill you!”

Sundance (after a long beat; eyes narrowing to slits): “We’re cats, dumbass. The fall’s not going to kill us. We land on our motherfucking feet.”

Butch: “Did you just call me a dumbass?”

They survived the jump and escaped. In all their years of crime and running from the law, they were never caught and never shot. Though once Butch did eat some dental floss which, after some time passed, had to be yanked from his ass, ever so slowly.

Legend has it that they finally ran out of luck after a payroll robbery in southern Bolivia in 1908. Cornered by forces of the Bolivian Army, Butch and Sundance made their last stand in a cardboard box they had crawled into out of curiosity. After a ferocious gun battle that left twenty-six soldiers dead, wounded, scratched, bitten, and peed on, Butch and Sundance rubbed noses one last time and ended it all.

Or did they?

Rumors persist that the two notorious cats escaped one last time to Southern California, where they currently reside (maybe). They hung up their holsters, shaved off their mustaches, and decided to live the straight and narrow life. Sundance married his old flame Etta Place, and the couple is expecting their first litter.

Butch came out with his own line of cat food and other items. He donates the profits to charity. He also races cars, takes acting jobs here and there, and likes to sit in the window and ogle birds.

cat gang 1