Secrets of the Kyaiktiyo Pagoda

The Kyaiktiyo Pagoda, known as Golden Rock, is built on top of a massive boulder at the top of Mt. Kyaiktiyo in Myanmar, however; I did not get to see it as instead I opted to observe, with all due humbleness and respect, diarrhea day. d-day (un-capitalized so as not to be confused with the real revered article) is a frightful and regrettably unavoidable one for all food-eating, liquid-drinking, finger-touching, air-breathing globe trotting earth travelers. It is almost as inevitable as my Dad singing Al Jolson songs with his eyes closed on New Year’s Eve. Even the profoundly intellectual Russell Hulstrom, my erstwhile traveling combatant-colleague, told me in a rare unguarded moment of weakness he is unable to visit the Indian sub continent without some measure of self-effacement. In cautious deference to d-day I thought I should instead consider setting aside the daylight to potentially visit some of the smaller non denominational shrines located near the hotel lobby bar.

The first aspect I can think of to improve upon my germ fare avoidance technique is to shower with Evian—the mineral water from the French Alps, not the supermodel. The supermodel endeavor would undoubtedly be enjoyable but would not in all probability benefit my current plight, and indeed could result in abrupt awkwardness. Apart from a Perrier rinse I think I have done everything in my authority to isolate myself from unsolicited microorganisms, lest I contemplate donning one of those hermetically sealed spacesuits our patriotic and awesome astronauts sported when they admirably repaired the ailing Hubble telescope.

How was I smitten? Well, I can say with absolute certitude that I did not eat outside my hotel at some random Myanmar street curried-noodle eggplant pizziarrhea. Regardless, eggplant fabrications continue to scare me in any form and on any continent. As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle famously said, “when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” On that basis I must conclude I have upset the gods with my less than sincere prayers in the ageless Burmese temples over the past few days with my continual wishes for Apple stock to once again reach $700 and the pump in my fishpond to operate as advertised. As I told my undemanding and blithe little sister Eleanor on Skype last night I can sometimes tend to be self-centered and to think of my centrality as if I were a sun with all else rotating and existing merely because of me. In any event it is a beautiful day to stay and relax at the hotel. With some recovery and regained fortitude I may consider going for a swim in the hotel’s large warm swimming pool. Thankfully, today I am not in California where they post placards at hotel pools to admonish you, nae forbid you, if you attempt swimming within fourteen days of shitting your pants.

And so, as must be, my Burmese banterings and Myanmar meanderings are coming to an end. I must soon go back briefly to Singapore, then Dubai for shopping and then home, albeit for only a short time as I have just last night been informed that my sweet beautiful under-privileged daughter has officially requested some custodial accompaniment dotting across the majestic pacific ocean for multiple scuba undertakings once again culminating at the great barrier reef.

Dress Code

A Strict Dress Code Applies to Visit Burmese Temples

On my way back home, in Singapore, I plan to visit once again with the Witch Dance Club where I will present said club management with my latest song, White Witch. They’ve somewhat perhaps un-enthusiastically played my ever-lasting mid-life crisis stuff before after a few bribes but I am hopeful that I can achieve more of a corporate embracement this time around based on the undeniable relevance of the subject matter. I must admit that hitherto, when they played my tunes in the crowded chic club, I was as happy as a Glaswegian attaining triple Scrabble points over the pink star on the board for awfurfucksake or, even better, the irrefutable and ultimate gonnaenofuckindaethat. As inspiration for this campy little chanson I have apparently and heretofore unknowingly identified with a couple of real-life witches since childhood and I met another three this past year leading to this new sorceress stimulated song, sung by the lovely and gifted Connie Chen and played by moi sur la guitar, the indomitable Dr. Freeze on the skins, Ricky Sanchez en el bajo, and the wonderful Wayne Wilentz on the keys.

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