Sweeter Ways

[Vung Tau, 7/29/24]

At the café on General Uprising, there’s a seller of lottery tickets who has the hardest time just moving around with a four-point cane. When he showed an extra joule of jazz yesterday, the owner had to shout, “Whoa! You’re moving too fast!”

With just a glimmer of mirth, the old fart mumbled something in response, which led to another playful jab, “I can’t understand anything he’s saying. He’s talking like an overseas Vietnamese!” Everyone grinned.

This morning in an alley noodle joint, they were talking about how Vietnamese are getting even.

Owner, “Before, they used acid. Now, it’s cyanide.”

Wife, “That’s a sweeter way to go. The other is too painful.”

Pleased with her phrase, she repeated it twice to herself, “A sweeter way to go.”

Preparing a bowl of noodles, the owner then said to a to-go customer, “Hot? Bitter?”

“Bitter,” in an even tone.

“Bitter! Ha, ha!” The bitter bit was a spontaneous joke, of course. These trivial examples I cite to show that sane people love to banter.

A few months after 9/11, I went into the hardware store across the street from my Philly apartment. “I need a box cutter,” I said to its bearded owner.

“You going to the airport?” he grinned.

Such easy-going friendliness has become rarer, especially in the USA. In its place, we have the imbalanced or deranged just waiting to be triggered by a sentence or word. Isolated, they seethe. Since it’s emblematic of this era, examples should be cited.

In my last article, I contrasted the Olympics Opening Ceremony, a media assault against us all, with loving descriptions of normal life, experienced directly, in two countries. My last paragraph, “Some insulted citizens will refuse to watch the Olympics. Most will still tune in. Addicted to beamed bullshit, they’ll keep smearing it on their soiled souls. There’s nothing else to do.”

This was enough to trigger “Zep,” “There is often this binary attitude that you’re either some off the grid maverick or some totally idiotic braindead normie in Lin’s writing.”

Since I publish on SubStack and post online photos almost daily, I’m obviously not off the grid. In the past 12 months, I’ve also flown between Vietnam and Indonesia, Australia and Cambodia. I book my flights and hotels through Booking or Agoda. In 2022, I didn’t manage to return to Asia from Africa by walking while lugging a jute sack. From my articles and photos, it’s clear I can’t get enough of hanging out with normal people, whom I’d never categorize as “normies,” much less “totally idiotic braindead normies.” That’s Zep’s language, as is “binary.” Zep in Middle English means sap or wisdom, by the way. To this outraged gentleman, I must explain, “Beamed bullshit refers to a general affliction that’s destroying lives and countries, with watching the Olympics only tangentially relevant, or even irrelevant.”

Looking up from typing, I see a dog perched sideways on the back of a speeding motorbike. How they do that, I don’t know, but if his blood pressure is spiking from fear, his elation at seeing so much more of life makes it worthwhile. Even when locked inside all day, he’s not deranged by CNN, FOX, FaceBook or TikTok, etc. Staring at geckos on walls, he can reflect on the weird ways of clothed bipeds. Shunning their own kind, many would rather be isolated for decades to curse, pity and touch themselves endlessly. Shaking their heads, dogs smirk.

Again in Cóc Cóc, I’m at my favorite table at the back. Daily, I witness more mundane weirdness. A double chinned boy under ten spoke perfect English to his sister. From the barista, I found out they were American born, and not snobs showing off their international school credential.

As I sneaked a photo of them, two beggar children strayed in. You’d have to go back 20 years to see this level of destitution in Vietnam. Just outside two weeks ago, a white haired man sat on the sidewalk with only toothpicks to sell. Though thoroughly worn out, he was neatly dressed and clean.

A bossy man with arm tattoos turned out to be Vietnamese-American. He used to order the barista to change money for him, across the street.

“Did he tip you?” I asked.

“No,” so she stopped running these errands.

“Just now, I felt like slamming my coconut onto his head!” The guy had been so obnoxious. My apparent joke made her smile.

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” he once shouted in English to clear his way while carrying a chair.

There’s a lady who sells cheap coffee and soymilk outside the police station. Soon, she will turn to the wall to sing to a microphone. Escaping into a private universe, she still wants to be heard. With songs from half a century ago, she wails about love.

In my youth, I discovered Ben Katchor, among the greatest masters of the mundane. Though language is only half his art, it’s brilliant enough, “By means of an ingenious arrangement of mirrors, a cashier is able to see what’s going on in a distant and obscure corner of the store. He watches someone choose a brand of toothpaste. He sees the label gradually come loose from a bottle of mouthwash. He watches a man adjust his underwear. He sees a woman quickly eat a sandwich brought from home. And, for the first time, after five years on the job, notices the color on the floor.” In the last frame, some nudnik is pestering the cashier for styptic pencils. Another strip has an elevator inspector “peer into the dismal void that lies at the heart of most buildings.”

These dismal voids only make everything else more achingly delicious. It’s almost time for lunch. I can hear that beautiful voice now. Over traffic noise, she poetically laments.

[Vung Tau, 7/6/24]

[Con Dao, 7/10/24]

[San Mateo, 5/25/15]

[Philadelphia, 7/9/17]