"Adventures of King Prawn"
Travelogue of Bali, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Mexico

August/96

8/10/96

  I just got back from a whirlwind trip to the United States. It was a brief sojourn to package and ship my things to Mexico. The trip would take me from San Miguel to Mexico City to Houston to Phoenix to Sedona to Phoenix to Houston to Mcallen (Texas) to Mexico City to San Miguel. I booked the flights ahead of time even though I didn’t know how long the process would take. (This is typical for me. Instead of taking a day at a time and letting the pace dictate itself, I place parameters around my actions and struggle to work within them. The down side is I’m usually victim to a frenetic and unrealistic schedule. The up side is that I accomplish a lot of work in a brief period.) Where can I begin when discussing this trip? The airplane, I guess. Something happens when people fly where their senses become crossed or their synapses misfire. They start farting, freely, thinking that the noise of the engines will cover up the smell. (See, I told you I had an acute sense of smell.) Anyway, I get off the plane in Houston and am greeted by a drug sniffing dog. The perverse attachment that certain factions of the world have with stamping out drugs is bizarre to me. The concept that removing the effect will cure the cause is one only a mental midget could find plausible. It’s the same way with the moral majorities and other such “right” thinking groups. They go out of their way to dictate behavior. What I find most offensive about this is that it implies a moral or intellectual superiority. Having some idiot preach to me about the correct manner in which to lead my life is insulting.

  Anyway, America. I did what I usually do there. Shop. Eat. Go to movies. Watch television. (It was the time of the Olympics. I love watching people in the prime of their craft competing. However, for me, the jingoistic flag waving and competition between countries is repugnant.) So I shopped and ingested and navigated through the morass of advertising. No doubt about it, the U.S. is the penultimate arena of marketing, commerce and consumerism.

  At the airport, in Phoenix, I headed for the Alamo counter, with whom my travel agent had booked a car. My conversation with her left little room for interpration.

  “What kind of car would you like, Mr. Voudouris?”

  “Four wheels. Nothing more. I don’t want to know of other options. Something sub-compact. A sewing machine with a trunk.”

  “Allright, sir.” I went through a barrage of questions at the Alamo counter. Would I like to upgrade to a nicer car? Would I like the extra insurance? Would I like the pre-paid gas plan? Shit, I just wanted a car. Mesmerized into the fear consciousness of someone “keying my car” (the salesperson’s scenarios were Hollywood driven) I flipped a coin to decide whether to purchase the extra protection plan at a mere $4.95 a day. (The whole price structure of $.95 or $.99 added to any and all prices is disgusting!) I was soon on my way to the car. It was everything I’d asked for, and less. Have you ever noticed that the cheapest, crappiest cars are almost always painted red? It’s as if the color is supposed to spice up their image...like an aphrodisiac...a prosthetic penis elongation...or something along those lines. And to make matters worse, the names of the cars are nothing short of ludicrous: Aspire, Excel, Swift, and the list goes on. So I took my little engine that would, if it could, and began a shopping bonanza for things I thought I needed and things I knew I wanted. I spared no expense. Armani and Donna Karan shirts, shoes (five pairs...move over Imelda), natural toothpaste, face creams, and so on.

  Within an hour of entering Sedona, I was reminded why I had left. Sure, the natural landscape was breathtaking, and the evenings had a serenity, a tranquillity that was soothing. But there was no center to the town, just a long strip of road littered with fast food and junk art...No center to town; what a metaphor for the culture. I pondered driving by my house to see what the new tenants had done with it but vetoed the thought almost immediately. I no longer lived there. It was their house now, no need to exacerbate any lingering attachment I may or may not have had.

  I had pleasant moments with friends which included barbecues, oxygen drinks, hugs (a sandwich of three in which I was the center and one friend toned deeply into my back...aah...mmm...yep, I was in Sedona.) No longer a resident I felt freer to be who I am. At my favorite video store, I greeted the owner, a charming Japanese woman.

  “Hello,” I smiled, “how are you?”

  “Oh, Paul, welcome back. It’s so nice to see you.”

  “Thank you, it’s good to see you as well.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “No, why?”

  “Your eyes are so red.”

  “I’m stoned.” A pause.

  “Oh, well, be careful.”

  “I always am.” Then it was off to have lunch with three friends (the boys club) at a local restaurant. The waitress was of that ilk that irk me. Three specials read from a cheat sheet. (I’ve been a waiter, on numerous occasions, and memorizing three specials isn’t brain surgery. I also find it peculiar when a waiter says “I have this special” as if he’s personally preparing my meal. “We have” seems more appropriate.) Then our waitress felt compelled to explain to us what she would have to do to accommodate specific requests. (If we’d wanted a dissertation on the functions of a waiter, we would have asked for it.) There were four tables in the restaurant, hardly what one in the business would call “slammed”. Nonetheless, forty minutes had gone by with no sign of our food, and few signs of our biped automaton (“Hello, my name is Holly. I’ll be your server. Coffee?). In a playful mood, and famished, I borrowed my friend’s cellular phone and called the front desk of the restaurant to inform the hostess that we were the table in the rear and that we would love to be eating. The food arrived soon thereafter.

  A week later, I departed Sedona, and headed for McAllen. It was there that my goods (studio, household items) would pass customs, and my presence was required. The thought didn’t excite me. McAllen was, at best, a border town with sweltering heat. I rented another lawnmower, disguised as a car, (I think it was another “Swift”) and ingested Whattaburgers and root beers as I drove down avenues perusing the bevy of malls and stores. Passing one building, I noted the neon sign which titled the establishment “Class Act”. Curious as to what the title might refer, I noted the smaller print which advertised an “All nude revue with beavers galore”. Class act. I then passed a Greek restaurant which boasted French Feta and Greek tacos. Continuing on, I ended up in a Baskin & Robbins ice cream parlor which reeked of Pine Sol. Oblivious, but free of germs, people inhaled the pungent fumes as they shoveled down the ice cream. I opted for a children’s size cone and was given two scoops the size of Mt. Kilimanjaro. I ate it all. On the way back to the hotel I passed a Burger King offering free Hunchback dolls. Okay, is it me, or is this just plain weird? What’s next, leper dolls with detachable limbs? Sated, almost completely, I returned to my room and perused the closed circuit television options. (The coverage of the Olympics was of the awarding of medals. Watching teary eyed ahtletes, usually American, mouthing their national anthems, surely the worst songs created, doesn’t move me, and is hardly entertaining.) So I decided to watch a comedy. Well, a comedy of sorts. It was one of the adult film choices. Now, I’ve never been one that’s been attracted to porno. In fact, the anatomic detail of some of the camera angles has, on occasion, made me nauseous. But I chose one of the films anyway. I won’t relate the plot, though it would only take a very short sentence to do so. What was strange about this film (film?) was that there was a black, digitized box superimposed over any shots involving a man’s penis. (Not that I’m interested in seeing men’s penises, but an unedited, uncensored work is always my preference.) So, for $7.95, I watched (briefly) women’s heads bobbing up and down behind the black box. If someone had fantasies involving sex and black boxes, man, did they ever hit the jackpot! I was soon asleep in preparation for the day of customs procedures.

  I was advised by many to obtain the services of an agent as it would make the process of passing through customs much easier. I was glad I did. In the end, an eighty thousand dollar studio was assessed $1,522 in tax. In fact, this money included the agent’s fees. How is this possible? Easy. I gave the official documents of the Mexican consulate to my broker and watched as he used White Out and a Xerox machine to magically transform my status and possessions. Next came the actual passing of customs. Mexico has a wonderful method of choosing who they decide to search. This method is used at all their borders and international airports. Having frequently suffered the evil, civil servant mentality of Greek customs officials, I’ve come to appreciate the absolute objective nature of customs in Mexico. One approaches what looks like a stoplight. It has two lights: one green and one red. One pushes a button. If it’s green, one goes through freely. If it’s red, one is searched. I’ve yet to encounter a red button. (I’ve been told the odds are four greens to one red.) So, getting a green light, once again, my goods were on their way to San Miguel and I returned to my room in McAllen for another night of television...And that was my ten days in the States.

A few weeks ago, after one too many beers, some joints, and too many hours composing on my laptop, I decided it was taco time. As it was late in the evening, I decided to drive, so that I could most rapidly find a taqueria. I was soon lost in the labyrinth of old town Allende and was half-way up a one way street (going the opposite way) when I saw the flashing lights of the police behind me. “Uh oh,” I thought, “stoned, drunk, and driving badly...I’m screwed.” But it wasn’t like my encounters in Arizona or Los Angeles. Three young cops got out of the police pick-up and one approached. He didn’t shine a flashlight in my eyes, tell me to keep my hands visible, or anything like that.

  “Senor, you were driving up a one way street.”

  “I know. I was lost. I’m new here. I was just looking for some tacos.”

  “May I see your driver’s license and registration?”

  “I don’t have my drivers license with me. Like I said, this was to be a brief trip to a taqueria. But here’s my registration.”

  “Well, that was an infraction, we’ll have to give you a ticket.”

  “Okay, do what you have to do.” He returned to the other two cops and they talked for a while. A few moments later, he returned.

  “Senor, we don’t have our ticket book with us, you’ll have to accompany us to headquarters.”

  “Listen, amigo, I’m tired and hungry and don’t feel like going to headquarters. Isn’t there some easier method to handle this?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Can’t I just pay the fine here and now? Forget the paperwork. I mean, how much is the ticket?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe about 170 pesos (about $22).”

  “Well, that would leave me no money for tacos. How about 50 pesos?” I asked, handing over the bill.

  “Okay.”

  “Muchas gracias, y hasta luego. By the way, where’s the nearest taqueria?”

  “Down this street, take a right, and then your fourth left.” I inhaled five tacos with gusto.

  Throughout my travels, I’m constantly confronted with beggars. I’ve yet to resolve my feelings surrounding this issue. In Vietnam, it was a nonstop onslaught in which one was offered a shoe shine, or postcards. But the most notable begging business, there, was a man standing behind a bathroom scale. For a small fee, one could weigh oneself. This was a very popular form of begging. (Why do beggars all use the same whining tone of voice. It’s like some form of collective unconscious.) In Allende, Gringoland, beggars make daily trips from their pueblos to prey on the foreigners. (This is a booming area, so the concept that there is no work doesn’t apply.) Some sit there, immobile, hands frozen in beggar posture. I know I’m no Mother Teresa, but I’m not without feeling either. Still, something about beggars bothers me, and I rarely, if ever, give them something. Like most, I feel some residual guilt when I give nothing, but as I said, I’ve yet to resolve this issue.

  Recently, I met a woman from Uruguay. I felt a very strong connection with her. It was almost as if I were looking into a mirror. I later found out that we shared the same birthday. Maybe that had something to do with it. After months in India, meditating, Monika had discovered God. Not some bearded guy with rules and regulations, just an all consuming love which she termed God consciousness. One day, we meditated together, in an effort to help me find God.

  “You’re a beautiful soul,” she whispered, as we meditated, focused on each others’ third eye.

  “You say that to all the souls.” Though I didn’t discover God, I felt very relaxed and at peace as a result of the meditation. Later, walking to a local restaurant, a beggar approached us. I considered giving her some money, but Monika stopped me, saying it was bad Karma to support that behavior. So, one more bit of information has been put into the database concerning the beggar enigma. Where will it all lead...who knows?

  Why do people who say they hate to tell you something, tell you anyway?

  Cowboy films are “Westerns”. How come Samurai films aren’t “Easterns”? And speaking of the Japanese...they manufacture extra-large condoms called “Maxx”. I can’t fathom what the demographic for that product is. Oh yeah, get this: One of the popular vending machine items in Japan is vacuum sealed, previously worn, schoolgirl underwear. Thirty-five dollars (from a vending machine!) procures three pairs of underwear with a photograph of the girl to whom the underwear belonged. And you thought the concept of sushi was strange!

  The ego is fragile. A few months ago I dreamed I had a girlfriend with whom I attended a concert. She was attracted to the singer on-stage. I was sick with jealousy. Upon awakening, I wished the girlfriend were real so that I could be angry at her for the pain she caused me in my dream. Strange, but I was more attached to feeling pain and anger than feeling relieved that it was only a dream.

  I know someone that does no work, but believes she should be rewarded by “the universe,” as she puts it, for all the energy she is expending on the fifth dimension. Once, she attempted to promote one of my concerts using her fifth dimensional being. The concert was an utter and dismal failure. She said that the twenty-four people who showed up were sufficient to plant the seeds of my success in the universe. I paid her her fee in the fifth dimension.

  Anyone believing that money is one’s salvation must surely be poor in intellect and imagination.

  Whistling in public is noise pollution. One man’s melody is another man’s cacophany.

  In a world populated by mediocrity, signs of strength are often viewed as an overly developed ego. “You don’t have any problems with your ego,” they whimper and whine, as if we’re all to lead lives of self-deprecation. Screw that! Humility is good. Arrogance is not. But to deny one’s strengths merely because the spineless feel intimidated is wrong. Schopenhauer said it best (and I paraphrase here): “If your talents are great, modesty is hypocrisy. If your talents are not, modesty is honesty.”

  Putting a crease in blue jeans is like having Stallone play Hamlet...or driving a red Excel.

  For the last month I’ve been focused on finishing the construction and set-up of my recording studio. But that only occupies most of my time. The rest has been spent in the process of creativity. (Each time I enter into a new compositional and creative phase I’m immersed in a single-minded fixation surrounding my art and craft.) Never one to have been graced with the maturity of balance, I dive head-first into writing music and lyrics, arranging and producing, and every other aspect of my life becomes secondary. Though some may find this focus to be representative of an artist hard at work, I find it to be no less dysfunctional than an addict of any substance abuse. And the irony is that it causes me great amounts of suffering and frustration, expends a lot of time, energy, and money, and rarely provides me with more than a passing, brief moment of enjoyment. So, why do I continue? Why does a gambler or alcoholic continue? Partially, I think it’s due to my stubborn attitude. I can’t accept that I can’t be everything that I desire or dream, so I keep pushing forward, assuming “this time” things will be different. Writing, (King Prawn) on the other hand, is not based on acceptance, validation, money, or any of the subjects that I associate with music. It is my freest and most rewarding release. But when faced with the choice between music and writing, I always return to music. A moth drawn to a flame. At best, that’s what I am when recording a new album.


8/24/96

  Funny how when one focuses on something, or becomes aware of a specific condition, how that one thing keeps appearing. Say you’re thinking of buying a new car...BOOM! All of a sudden, that car is everywhere. Remember my discourse on dogs? Well, for a while there, my consciousness, my very existence, it seemed, was inundated with dogs. Beatrice, my secretary (executive assistant?) invited me to her birthday party, which was taking place at the house of her friends. I arrived to find three pedigrees jumping onto my thighs and lap, their dirty paws imprinting themselves on my attire. I attempted to be polite as I redirected their leaps to the left or right of my black (and paw, dust imprinted) pants. They soon focused their attentions on others. The party was well into the late hours when Beatrice broke a moment of silence and said “Do you like dogs, Paul?” God only knows what made her come out with that thought. I scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t offend dog lovers but that would also be true to my integrity.

  “Some of the time,” is what I came up with.

  Later, the party moved to a local bar where a band was playing. They were singing in Spanish. “Do you understand the lyrics,” asked Beatrice. I was sure I did, and had no doubt that Beatrice was bringing back the subject of dogs. “Yeah,” I said, “he’s singing, ‘I need my dog’.” Laughing, Beatrice said, “No, he’s saying he needs some money!” So my ears, I guess, played a trick on me. I could have sworn he was singing “Necessito mi perro” instead of “Necessito dinero”. Oh well, I’m sure this dog fixation will clear itself soon enough.

  My favorite tacos are made with Nopales, a cactus. Purportedly great for the blood and one’s health (you know, cholesterol and the whole lexicon of ailments) I find Nopales to be delicious and a wonderful alternative to the onslaught of meat that is so popular in Mexico.

  Two mothers, with their babies, sit next to each other. One is a western woman, the other a Mexican Indian. The Indian woman has a shawl wrapped over her shoulder and the baby is safely tucked within. This very common device (?) for carrying children is called a rebozo. Efficient and safe, it costs pennies. The western woman carries her child in an apparatus that resembles paratrooper gear. Replete with Velcro, metal clamps, hasps, and support beams, this contraption is efficient and safe, and costs a bundle.
 

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