September 20, 2014
Romantic relationships are just like rounds of peeled sugar cane—I think.
When you first get into each one, they’re just gushing with a cool sweetness that seems as though it’s never going to stop. 
Bite down too hard and the whole thing flattens into a flavorless husk you have to squeeze and squeeze for even a drop of the good stuff.
Eat slow and careful.

Romantic relationships are just like rounds of peeled sugar cane—I think.

When you first get into each one, they’re just gushing with a cool sweetness that seems as though it’s never going to stop. 

Bite down too hard and the whole thing flattens into a flavorless husk you have to squeeze and squeeze for even a drop of the good stuff.

Eat slow and careful.

September 19, 2014
I’m sure my parents would disagree with me, but I bet both my surviving grandparents would give just about anything for an all-night hangout with their best friends at a coconut shack on the East West Highway. 

I’m sure my parents would disagree with me, but I bet both my surviving grandparents would give just about anything for an all-night hangout with their best friends at a coconut shack on the East West Highway. 

September 18, 2014
Small things take on a kind of special gravitas when done on the East West Highway in the middle of the night. 

Small things take on a kind of special gravitas when done on the East West Highway in the middle of the night. 

September 18, 2014
The only interaction I ever had with one of the military guards in town occurred in front of the US Consulate.
It was late, but not too late.
A gorgeous woman in a cocktail dress had squatted down in heels in front of the entrance, balling her eyes out.
The poor bastard assigned to stand out front all night was looking around nervously and talking into his radio.
Things didn’t look good.
"Hey," I said to him. "Can I please try to help her?"
He said no. Then yes.
I asked if she wanted a ride to somewhere it wasn’t illegal to cry.
She wasn’t having any of it.
I left feeling bad for the guard.
I’ve never seen a man holding a machine gun look more helpless and  terrified in my life. 

The only interaction I ever had with one of the military guards in town occurred in front of the US Consulate.

It was late, but not too late.

A gorgeous woman in a cocktail dress had squatted down in heels in front of the entrance, balling her eyes out.

The poor bastard assigned to stand out front all night was looking around nervously and talking into his radio.

Things didn’t look good.

"Hey," I said to him. "Can I please try to help her?"

He said no. Then yes.

I asked if she wanted a ride to somewhere it wasn’t illegal to cry.

She wasn’t having any of it.

I left feeling bad for the guard.

I’ve never seen a man holding a machine gun look more helpless and  terrified in my life. 

September 18, 2014
I think I miss the Guest House California as much (if not more) than actual California.

I think I miss the Guest House California as much (if not more) than actual California.

September 18, 2014
Thank God their fun plan for the end of the night involved warning drivers on the East West highway of a nest of traffic cops up the road. 
I owe you one fellers.

Thank God their fun plan for the end of the night involved warning drivers on the East West highway of a nest of traffic cops up the road. 

I owe you one fellers.

September 16, 2014
Sure, all signs indicate that Vietnamese police routinely beat and torture confessions out of suspects. But..then again…you know…

Sure, all signs indicate that Vietnamese police routinely beat and torture confessions out of suspects. But..then again…you know…

September 15, 2014
Saigon’s the kinda town where they let you feed the giraffes.
In the same vein, my job’s the kinda job that lets me take the odd giraffe break. 
They weren’t all bad choices mom.

Saigon’s the kinda town where they let you feed the giraffes.

In the same vein, my job’s the kinda job that lets me take the odd giraffe break. 

They weren’t all bad choices mom.

September 7, 2014
This summer, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole on a story about how good coffee got in Vietnam.
If you want to find out, quickly—get yourself to Workshop coffee at 27 Ngo Duc Ke and just order everything. 
I have literally lost my mind in this place, which I treat as some bizarro-world opium den. I’ll come in and just spend my entire day loading up on wonderful Red Bourbon and Lao Typica and Indian Peaberry. 
Some days, I seem to drink gallons of the stuff and disappear into what I have no doubt are the borderline stages of Caffeine-Induced Psychosis. 
On Saturday, I celebrated the return of one Will Frith with a coffee bender that included a single-origin ristretto, an espresso, a cappuccino and what probably amounted to a liter and a half of assorted filter coffee (Kenya, Laos, Vietnam).
Here, Mr. Frith poured me an El Salvadoran bean roasted by some Singaporean muckity mucks. The names are all gone—along with most of the specific memories of the day.
I hope I never forget how goddamned good this cup tasted.
The words “plum,” “cloves” “vanilla bean” and “maple sweetness” were printed on the label.
But none of those really suffice to describe the flavor.
I think I’d have to slather my body in purple paint and roll around on a 10 x 10 canvas for a few hours. Then you might get it.  

This summer, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole on a story about how good coffee got in Vietnam.

If you want to find out, quickly—get yourself to Workshop coffee at 27 Ngo Duc Ke and just order everything. 

I have literally lost my mind in this place, which I treat as some bizarro-world opium den. I’ll come in and just spend my entire day loading up on wonderful Red Bourbon and Lao Typica and Indian Peaberry. 

Some days, I seem to drink gallons of the stuff and disappear into what I have no doubt are the borderline stages of Caffeine-Induced Psychosis. 

On Saturday, I celebrated the return of one Will Frith with a coffee bender that included a single-origin ristretto, an espresso, a cappuccino and what probably amounted to a liter and a half of assorted filter coffee (Kenya, Laos, Vietnam).

Here, Mr. Frith poured me an El Salvadoran bean roasted by some Singaporean muckity mucks. The names are all gone—along with most of the specific memories of the day.

I hope I never forget how goddamned good this cup tasted.

The words “plum,” “cloves” “vanilla bean” and “maple sweetness” were printed on the label.

But none of those really suffice to describe the flavor.

I think I’d have to slather my body in purple paint and roll around on a 10 x 10 canvas for a few hours. Then you might get it.  

September 5, 2014
Going to the Ho Chi Minh City Starbucks is a lot like going on safari, except instead of exotic animals you see Uncle Ho’s wet fever nightmares. 

Going to the Ho Chi Minh City Starbucks is a lot like going on safari, except instead of exotic animals you see Uncle Ho’s wet fever nightmares. 

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