The Valley of Gwangi

It’s been quite a week in the world, hasn’t it? Being a ‘resting’ artist means having the luxury of time to just sit, lie or lounge and watch the world go by, and this week that world has seemed even crazier than ever. The unfolding tragic events in Mumbai and the ongoing actions of the factions in the mess that is the current Thailand political scene have had their effect on lives here in Sean Penn. J was more twidgety than usual during his visits this week - A has relatives who work in the area where the terrorist attacks occurred, so all had spent an anxious few days waiting for the good news that they were safe and well. J and family have also had to put back up plans in place for Xmas travel arrangements, as they are currently booked to fly back to the UK on Thai Air – things are still unresolved as I write this on Sunday morning, with violence between pro and anti government protestors erupting again in Bangkok and at the airport.

All is not entirely doom and gloom, however, as even in Buddhist Sean Penn, downtown is succumbing to the warm glow surrounding the upcoming celebrations around the birth of baby Jebus. The weather has, however, become noticeably cooler, approximating a warm summer’s day in Thurso (Northern Scotland’s Atomic Capital, and birthplace of Robert Dick (noted Botanist), and myself and J (noted nothingnists)) and has brought the unusual sight of the young and trendy of the city sporting fur-trimmed parkas (adorned with the usual baffling mix of cutesy-pie animals and incongruous slogans, such as ‘Lovesexy Micky (sic) Mouse’ , ‘Kiss Teenage Punk’, but thankfully not the very wonderful and straight ahead ‘Jesus F**k’ that adorned a T-Shirt sported by J’s dedicated and chaste housekeeper, a devout Mormon. A had to take her aside, stifle all guffaws and gently explain that in her case, the congruence of the ‘J’ word and the ‘F’ word were perhaps not entirely appropriate…) and the not so unusual sight of babies in knitted wooly hats and mittens. So far I haven’t spotted a Santa hat, but that can only be just around the metaphorical corner.

Whilst we are on the subject ,J’s visit yesterday had a bit of a Festive bent. He bounded upstairs and into my living area (not simply a room… a sea of the necessary detritus of living surrounds me and spills into neighbouring pockets and cupboards and shelves and cubbyholes…), tossed me a large bottle of chilled Angkor (‘My Country,My Beer’ – now there’s a no-nonsense no-frills advertising slogan) with deceptive underhand ease and proceeded to beam from ear to ear as he realised exactly what was thudding out from my well-worn Wharfedale’s…

“Little Feat! Yes!!”

There followed many minutes of reminiscing, which I will not bore you with now but will save up for later, around the 1970’s, hippies, Sandside bothy, salmon fishing, bass players (Jazzbo Riff, to be exact),drummers, Viewfirth Club and on and on and on…. This conversation was punctuated by much laughter and soundtracked by ‘Electrif Lycanthrope’ a bootleg of Little Feat live in 1973 which I had owned on vinyl back in those heady days, loved and played until the grooves bled white, and have just rediscovered lurking as a free download on the internet, mastered off the original tapes by the original engineer… oh joy!
However, this is simply digression. J was full of the joys of impending Christmas, particularly of the $20 fibre optic Xmas tree that A had bought on Friday from Pencils Super Dooper Norodom Store. Subsequent analysis has determined that the actual value (!) is closer to $50 (or more) but mass confusion at the tills (nothing new for Pencils) had led to a reduced price which was welcomed with open arms by A… she had, however, been more than a little concerned by the reaction of J, a confirmed member of the ‘Xmas? Bah Humbug!’ squad to the aforesaid purchase.

No need for any worry, however, as J had experienced such a crapola week at work that even the tears of an ant would have swung his miserable unforgiving heart around, so the sight of a gently fluctuating fibre optic Christmas tree actually sent him into paroxysms of the deepest joy. Not the expected reaction, but welcome nonetheless. The family JAO (to give them their acronymical due) are planning to visit the Xmas Fayre in the Intercontinental Hotel later today (Saturday), so I am expecting the following a) a sixpack (at least ) of beer and b) a blow by blow account of the terrors encountered by J… ‘there be monsters’ indeed…

In the meantime, I’m going to crank up my Eagle 15 watt amplifier, attempt another few home-made whisky sours and revel in the soul stew and rock and roll sauce of prime Little Feat… life is there to enjoy, so don’t worry, be happy!

I’ll write again soon

Ciao

Skip

Lonely? Depressed? Suicidal?
You have a choice.

Used to be that Croy Changvar, otherwise known as the Japanese Bridge, was the favoured suicide spot for the loveless or lovelorn of Sean Penn to fling themselves from into the welcoming arms of the afterlife/yawning abyss of nothingness (delete according to belief). Hardly a month goes by without somebody launching himself or herself from its lofty parapet into the mighty and muddy Mekong below. Most succeed in their self-made appointment with doom, but some fortunate (?) souls survive the plunge into the murky waters and are left alive to reflect on where it all went wrong (or right).

However there is now a new kid on the block that has real potential to overtake the bridge for fatal effectiveness (it’s much higher with no water to cushion the fall) and newsworthiness (the location - smack dab in the centre of town, close to the Independence Monument). Step up and take a bow, ‘The Place’. Or to be absolutely specific, ‘The Skybar’ at ‘The Place’.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we journey together further on this blog adventure I should give you some background, let you decide if you want to come with me or if here is where the track runs out. I’m Skip, and I live in Sean Penn. Thanks Chandler. Yes, my sense of humour is on a par with Homer. Simpson, that is, not the Greek one. I didn’t want to start writing a blog, but my friend J cajoled me into this in a roundabout way. He used to write one, but got all angsty about something really trivial and stopped it a few months back. When we talk, which is often, he keeps saying things like ‘ well, I would have blogged about it but…’ so I have decided to start this blog partly to annoy him by reporting ghost writer fashion on his exploits (and those of his long suffering family - his beautiful wife A and wonderful son O) and partly to allow myself and some of my other friends who can’t be bothered maintaining regular contact with the virtual world (or, like me, are a little scared of it – I was going to call this blog ‘Fear of Facebook’) a portal through which they can vent whatever steam they need to let off. So if you stick with this you will probably get as familiar as a Numskull (hello ‘Beezer’ readers!) with the inner workings of the brain department of not just your humble scribe but also those of my curiouser and curiouser friends. Might even twist J’s arm and force him to scribble a paragraph or two. Are you still with us? To use a well-worn phrase used by many Khmer, ‘ …up to you…’

Yes, where was I… background? I grew up in the north of Scotland in the same remote township that spawned J, although I made my escape before he did. The story of how we both ended up in Cambodia will have to wait for another time, but will be worth the wait, being full of skullduggery, various nefarious acts, a dash of derring-do and more than a little stop-motion animation. As of now I’m a sometime artist, musician, and writer… I have been very kindly described by some as a bit of a Renaissance Man. Not by J, I have to say. He rather unkindly describes me as a bit of a Neanderthal Man. Ha Ha. Lately I have spent a great deal of time ‘resting’, so to speak. I’m sure you know what I mean. This city is a bit of a cultural oasis at the moment, and I’m waiting for the other camels to get out of the way so I can have a drink. Which is where we come back to ‘The Skybar’, where J told me he and A went for a sunset drink last Saturday evening. I’ve arm wrestled him and won again, so I’ll force him to take over now and fill you in on the rest…

‘This family seem to have a bit of a thing with Skybars at the moment. We escaped the craziness of the water festival to spend a couple of days in Kuala Lumpur, or Kula Bumper, as O rechristened it, where we stayed at The Traders hotel. It’s a very striking modern edifice that adjoins the park next to the Petronas Twin Towers, and there were many diversions in that area for young O to take advantage of. Having said that, the KLCC park police seemed absolutely determined to prevent us from sampling the delights of the paddling pool – every time we went anywhere near it a whistle blew in admonishment… perhaps a shark escapee from the Aquaria (another highlight for O) lurked in its improbably blue shallows, just waiting for a pale snack to venture within snapping distance. Or maybe they realised we had come from Cambodia, and therefore were possibly prone to random bursts of public urination. Whatever, we were fated neither to paddle nor to piddle in that tempting lakelet.

The Traders was comfortably luxurious and not lacking in character, curious for a late twentieth-century hotel. Some very interesting pieces of primitive artwork adorned the lobbies and rooms, yet despite my best efforts I was unable to liberate any of them to join the suitcase full of complimentary cotton buds, toothpaste, razors, soaps and shampoos that I planned to lug back to PP with me. The top floor of the hotel was given over to a swimming pool complex and a Skybar, where spectacular views of the KL skyline and the twin towers vied for attention with ensuring O did not decimate all round him and fling numerous toy cars into any of the three pools. He’s definitely well into his investigative phase now, and normally one viewing of a procedure (such as selecting a floor in the lift, locking/unlocking a door, programming a DVD player, flying a 747) is enough to ensure he can replicate it. Investigation is also invariably linked to destruction, as anything moveable, or indeed immoveable, that lies in his intended path is ‘removed’ from that path and ‘relocated’. A and I however now have the ability to mostly predict the intentions of our little chap, and closely mark him at all times, so his options were pretty limited. The Skybar was partially open to the elements from above, which allowed a gentle evening drizzle to pitter patter on the surface of the pool, and the service was pretty immaculate all around, so top marks to The Traders.

Fast forward by two weeks and we are sitting (minus O, who was off partying with some 16-year old Mormon women – please don’t ask) in yet another Skybar, this one almost at the pinnacle of ‘The Place’, which is one of the latest ‘places’ to see and be seen in in Phnom Penh. Not quite as expensive or indeed as tasteful as the KL model, but still pretty impressive and, on a very breezy Saturday evening, even a little bit scary as (BBC voice) ‘moderate to strong gusting’ threatened to send more than the occasional tissue spiraling out over the fairly low balustrade and down onto Sihanouk Boulevard far below. The staff were obviously recruited on what I will call the ‘Van’s’ basis (please see my ‘Lost in Space’ blog for further elaboration), that is to say they outnumbered the clientele about 5 to 1, and spent much of their time wandering around with candles for all the outdoor tables, which of course being nine floors up and in a windy vortex kept going out, or shining torches onto the usual baffling menus which you couldn’t read because your candle had blown out, but there was never anyone around when you actually wanted to order a drink or food. Or indeed to stop you from vaulting out into the great beyond, if you so desired. Much to A's dismay I mused on the possibility that ‘The Skybar at The Place’ may become the premier suicide spot in PP. Particularly on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings from 5pm until 8pm, where you can buy one beer and get one free, so if you happen to have a suicide pact it will ease the economic burden of that final meal, or if you are the sole depressed it will numb the senses that little bit more before that last leap. And if you have any doubts about the worthlessness of life, they will finally be irrevocably removed by the live music on offer…
I jest, of course. The live music was surprisingly good, if you are in a Billy Joel-filtered-through-a-vocoder mood. Quite incongruous however to hear the singer, mid ballad, insert a soulful plug for the buy-one-get-one-free-beer…’

That’s enough for now. He can be such a miserable git sometimes, can that J. We’ll just have to keep an eye on the Post and the Daily to monitor his suicide theory, but it might be a good idea to walk on the other side of Sihanouk of a weekend between 5 and 8, I suppose, just in case it starts raining men (or women)... Hallelujah!

Mind how you go. I'm off to listen to 32 minutes of 'Mountain Jam' by the Allman Brothers now.

Who said 'get a life!'?

Skip

Welcome to The Valley of Gwangi. Enter here and you will find the ramblings, rumblings and grumblings of living dinosaur Skip (and his equally unusual friends) on a variety of subjects which will inevitably include music, the life expatriate and otherwise in ‘Sean Penn’ (more correctly known as Phnom Penh, the capital city of the Kingdom of Cambodia) and sundry other invariably unconnected topics…