Totally lazy day today, even for an expert, like me, at lazy days. I've outdone myself in something that didn't really need outdoing. Instead of going out for coffee and what not, I sat around watching the American political news, otherwise known as the Trump Comedy Hour, which, hopefully, will soon be cancelled, for it is a show that is increasingly outrageous, disheartening, and maddening. So why watch? Well, as I have theorized in the past, it may be because it is like witnessing a terrible motor vehicle accident. The site is chilling, gruesome, and yet one cannot look away. I think there is also the expectation, or the undying hope, that something significant will happen and the whole nightmare will soon be taken care of and washed away.
The only thing I did, really, up to this point, was drive the short distance to my wife's villa to pick up some food she had for Takut the dog. The wife herself, who is actually no longer the wife, was not there, but in the city of Solo on the island of Java--thus the need for me to retrieve Takut's food while it was still fresh (although, to tell the truth, I doubt whether he cares how 'fresh' it is but only how quickly he can get it).
That task done, I went back to watching the news, and then fell asleep. Such is my entertaining life in tropical paradise. And as far as that goes, the weather today feels far less than tropical (for which, in fact, I am thankful), being instead cloudy, windy, and a bit chilly. Something like autumn in Portland, actually. Deja vu.
Something that used to annoy me about Indonesia and Indonesians, and which now, after eight years of acclimation, is only vaguely irritating, is the general habit people have of considering motorbikes, once parked and left behind whilst the owner shops or has coffee or goes to bed or whatever, to have become public property and useful as park benches, easy chairs, powder rooms, or what have you. I will often return from wherever I have been to find someone, or two or three someones, happily reclining on my bike or screwing the rearview mirrors around so that they can examine their skin or comb their hair. As I've said, there was at first the automatic American response of 'What the hell are you doing on my bike, dude?' Now, I find it only momentarily surprising, and actually tend to apologize for interrupting the occupant's rest--'Sorry, that's my bike. I have to go now.' On one occasion, I returned to the bike to find a policeman sitting on it. My immediate thought, predictably enough, or Americanly enough, was 'Oh boy, now I'm gonna get a ticket for something or other. Am I parked improperly? Are my plates expired?' But no, the officer was just chilling, kicking back, and the most convenient place to do so was on the seat of my bike.
Ah. Well, then, I guess it really is okay.
Other than this, Takut the dog once again finds himself accused by one of the villa occupants of being ill.
"No, I don't think he's ill," I answer. "He's just ugly. And old."
"Yes, he is ugly. But he's okay here, as long as he doesn't bother anyone."
"Yes, he's a pretty quiet dog. Hardly ever barks. By the way, he's not my dog, you know?"
"Oh? But I always see him on your porch."
"Yes, he often hangs out here, but he's not my dog. I don't know whose dog he is. He was here already when I moved here."
"Oh?"
"Yes. He used to live on the back patio under the patio floor. He just figured out over time that I was dog-friendly and had food to give him."
"And does he come inside?"
"Well yes. He often sleeps inside, when he's not sleeping on the porch."
"On your bed?" she asks, aghast.
"Oh Lord no. The dog has bugs! Kutu-kutu."
"Eww!"
"Yeah. Eww."
"But he's okay. As long as he doesn't have rabies."
"Well, if you see him foaming at the mouth or biting people, let me know, okay?"
Poor Takut. He can't help his appearance. Or his bugs. And he's not foaming at the mouth or anything like that. Really, he's a pretty nice dog. He just needs a friend or two.
The only thing I did, really, up to this point, was drive the short distance to my wife's villa to pick up some food she had for Takut the dog. The wife herself, who is actually no longer the wife, was not there, but in the city of Solo on the island of Java--thus the need for me to retrieve Takut's food while it was still fresh (although, to tell the truth, I doubt whether he cares how 'fresh' it is but only how quickly he can get it).
That task done, I went back to watching the news, and then fell asleep. Such is my entertaining life in tropical paradise. And as far as that goes, the weather today feels far less than tropical (for which, in fact, I am thankful), being instead cloudy, windy, and a bit chilly. Something like autumn in Portland, actually. Deja vu.
Something that used to annoy me about Indonesia and Indonesians, and which now, after eight years of acclimation, is only vaguely irritating, is the general habit people have of considering motorbikes, once parked and left behind whilst the owner shops or has coffee or goes to bed or whatever, to have become public property and useful as park benches, easy chairs, powder rooms, or what have you. I will often return from wherever I have been to find someone, or two or three someones, happily reclining on my bike or screwing the rearview mirrors around so that they can examine their skin or comb their hair. As I've said, there was at first the automatic American response of 'What the hell are you doing on my bike, dude?' Now, I find it only momentarily surprising, and actually tend to apologize for interrupting the occupant's rest--'Sorry, that's my bike. I have to go now.' On one occasion, I returned to the bike to find a policeman sitting on it. My immediate thought, predictably enough, or Americanly enough, was 'Oh boy, now I'm gonna get a ticket for something or other. Am I parked improperly? Are my plates expired?' But no, the officer was just chilling, kicking back, and the most convenient place to do so was on the seat of my bike.
Ah. Well, then, I guess it really is okay.
Other than this, Takut the dog once again finds himself accused by one of the villa occupants of being ill.
"No, I don't think he's ill," I answer. "He's just ugly. And old."
"Yes, he is ugly. But he's okay here, as long as he doesn't bother anyone."
"Yes, he's a pretty quiet dog. Hardly ever barks. By the way, he's not my dog, you know?"
"Oh? But I always see him on your porch."
"Yes, he often hangs out here, but he's not my dog. I don't know whose dog he is. He was here already when I moved here."
"Oh?"
"Yes. He used to live on the back patio under the patio floor. He just figured out over time that I was dog-friendly and had food to give him."
"And does he come inside?"
"Well yes. He often sleeps inside, when he's not sleeping on the porch."
"On your bed?" she asks, aghast.
"Oh Lord no. The dog has bugs! Kutu-kutu."
"Eww!"
"Yeah. Eww."
"But he's okay. As long as he doesn't have rabies."
"Well, if you see him foaming at the mouth or biting people, let me know, okay?"
Poor Takut. He can't help his appearance. Or his bugs. And he's not foaming at the mouth or anything like that. Really, he's a pretty nice dog. He just needs a friend or two.
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