Our Vacation

A recent holiday witnessed a small party of friends taking a trip to Taroko National Park. These friends were gracious enough to let me join the party. To express my gratitude for my compadres' generosity, I will not use their real names in this blog. I will conceal their identities by referring to them henceforth as Derich and Nelley, Kaland and Kaydlin, Roanna, and Don. Nelley and Roanna, who we may call good chums, found excellent accommodations for us at a hostel named "Amigos" in the city of Hua Lian. Considering the fact that I have now used the word "friend" or its synonym six times in six sentences, you may rightly conclude that the company on the trip, and thus the trip itself, was on the whole quite congenial.

Having introduced the characters of this narrative and hinted at the nature of their relationship to one another, I am now compelled to describe the setting. As I stated above, our objective was Taroko National Park. This is roughly an hour's bus ride from Hua Lian. Allow me to give you a glimpse of the park. Stand with me now at the edge of an expansive, forrest-lined meadow. Look at the swirling sea of grasses; here in the shadow of the great oaks they are a shimmering blue, while further out where the sun's rays dance upon their tips they flash a more greenish-gold. Like children making shadow puppets against a wall, so the clouds dot the meadow with strange figures. See Regal Buck--still, calm--imposing his majestic presence o'er his world. The wind now whips the grasses all to bend their heads before him. His only movement is a slight dip of his antlers in recognition of the honor due him. See also Dainty Fawn as he prances playfully about under the careful watch of Graceful Doe. Enter Comely Maiden. Her golden tresses are tied loosely behind her though certain rebellious strands drop down to frame her angelic face. Her flowing gown ripples along, seeming to provide all her movement. A flower basket, yet unadorned, dangles from her arm. The meadow's blossoms lunge toward her, pleading to be plucked by her elegant hand and planted in her basket. Gaze now upon Dainty Fawn as he presses his soft nose into that elegant hand. Golden Finch and Crimson Cardinal encircle the couple as the harmony of a choir of songbirds fills the air with a glorious anthem. Cast your eyes about this magnificent scene. Soak in its splendor. Capture it as a living memory. File this memory away to be recalled when life lacks beauty, wonder, and romance.

File it far away from anything bearing even the slightest connection with Taroko National Park. Let there be no intermingling of the two. The fanciful scene above is the east to Taroko's west, and "ne'er the twain shall meet." They are opposing poles, each rejecting every attempt by the other to encroach upon its territory. They are, in a word, as far apart as a first-grade class from a junior high class. Taroko National Park consists mainly of a gorge for heaven's sake. When have you ever seen Regal Buck, Graceful Doe, Dainty Fawn, and Comely Maiden come together in a gorge? Never.

Sheer rock cliffs. Narrow passageways. Torrential river. Dangling vines. Winding paths. Swinging bridges. Ominous caves. Sizable resort. These are the sights of Taroko Gorge. The morning after we arrived in Hua Lian, we took a small bus roughly twelve miles deep into the gorge, and then proceeded to hike our way back out. This left us slightly fatigued considering the fact that we had hiked about twice that far the night before in search of a little sushi bar. However, the weather was wonderful and the gorge was gorgeous. Here bald rock faces loom endlessly above you. There the river bounces off of boulders beneath your feet. Here clumps of trees and vines cling stubbornly to cliffs. There stones and pebbles threaten to drop from precipices above onto your head. The gorge is infested with monkeys. By infested, I mean that we saw about seven of them, that being the largest amount wild monkeys I have seen in one place in my life. As a matter of fact, they were the only wild monkeys I have seen in my life. We saw them from across the river about 150 yards away. Even from that distance I could identify them as being of the macacus cycplosis species. There were four females, two middle-aged and one adolescent, and three males: one elderly, one middle-aged, and one adolescent. They were the extent of the wildlife, not counting ourselves, that we saw in the gorge.

Having seen the gorge, we were left with a day and a half to spend in Hua Lian. We deemed it wise to fill this time with steamed dumplings and scooters. There is a famous steamed dumpling stand in Hua Lian, and we felt it our solemn duty to patronize the spot. It was easy to find. Or at least it was easy to find the stand's general vicinity. An line of people trying to acquire these dumplings snaked its its way through the city's blocks before reaching the outskirts of the town and then lapping the city three times. It is this long line that is the infallible sign of quality here in Taiwan. If ever, in your journeys in Taiwan, you see extraordinarily lengthy line, jump in it. You may ask what the line is for later. Note, however, that it is not the case that quality causes the long line but that the long line causes the quality. Upon seeing such a line, people automatically and without reservation assume quality. So unshakeable is this belief that even if a person stands in line for hours only to receive vile fare, that person will assure you it is the best vile fare you will find anywhere. Starting a successful business is quite easy. All you must do is pay a bunch of friends to line up outside your establishment for the first few days, and soon there will be long lines for you product everyday. An effective advertising campaign might make wide use of such slogans as "Leonard's Soaps and Baked Goods. We have the longest lines in town!"

The steamed dumpling stand did indeed have the longest line in town. Standing in line, however, was not the only way to get the dumplings. Potential customers were given a choice; they could stand in the line for five hours to purchase dumplings to go, or they could eat in and get their dumplings in fifteen minutes. We took the most reasonable route of standing in the line for three hours before abandoning it in favor of eating in. We consumed roughly three hundred dumplings a piece before rolling back out into the street. As evidenced by the line, the dumplings were good. Of course, they were not as good after only a three hour wait in line as they would have been after a five hour wait, but we were all in agreement that we did not need our dumplings to be that good. The stand is worth a visit. If ever you find yourself in Hua Lian, I suggest you take them up on the invitation given in their familiar and catchy jingle:

"Zheng's Homemade Dumplings, yummy, yummy!

Please slide them down into your tummy!"

We wanted to see more of the surrounding area, so we decided to rent some scooters to putter around on. After a bit of looking, we were able to procure four scooters that fit our purpose. Actually, we found three scooters and one motorcycle, thus breaking up the general democratic feeling of the trip and instituting something of a class system. There being seven of us on the trip and the bikes being able to carry two a piece we split up into pairs with one left on his own. Lord Derich and Lady Nelley took the motorcycle. They were attended by Kaland and Kaydlin on one scooter and Don and Roanna on another. I trailed along in solitude. The name of my scooter is worth noting. I scooted about on a Yamaha Fancy Jog. This name is truly remarkable in that it was quite antithetical to my experience on the bike; neither I nor the bike was fancy, and nothing like jogging took place. What did take place was a pleasant afternoon of riding around Hua Lian. Those of us with a zest for life even took the bikes out for a late night spin along the river. Unfortunately, some of the group lacked a zest for life and stayed at Amigos. To shield Derich and Roanna from embarrassment over their lifelessness, I will mention no names.

Don left us that night, so I reluctantly turned in my Fancy Jog and teamed up with Roanna for our final half day. This turned into the most enjoyable portion of the trip. We had heard rumors of a scenic coastal road that headed south out of Hua Lian, and we decided to hunt it down. We found it, and it was worth the whole trip. Roads winding around the edges of mountains that plunge down into a beautiful blue ocean. Monstrous waves throwing their full weight against craggy cliffs only to be repelled each time. Tunnels swallowing you with darkness before spitting you back out into the beautiful scenery that is Taiwan's east coast. Dense, tropical vegetation to one side and the vast expanse of the ocean to the other. Small fishing villages flashing by. All of this we experienced on a perfect spring day. It is good to be reminded sometimes that I live on a tropical island, and there are benefits to that.

I will admit that I was a bit anxious about operating a scooter for the first time. The idea of zipping around narrow streets teeming with cars, scooters, bicycles, and pedestrians was slightly unsettling. The idea of flying around hairpin turns on what I perceived to be a somewhat clunky two wheeled vehicle with someone sitting behind me also gave me some little concern (for those westerners who doubt the verb "flying" is properly associated with scooters, you would be surprised. The may not move along at the rate of your sports bike, but many of them will take you at a very nice clip.). I am proud to say that I passed this test with flying colors. These colors mainly consisted of a deep purple and yellow painted liberally about the chin and throat area. The wind was quite fierce at times, especially when emerging from a tunnel, and my helmet was not fastened on tightly enough. The helmet was a bowl-like affair with a chin strap. When a good gust would come up, the bowl would fly back off my head, and the chin strap would slip down to my throat, keeping me from losing the helmet altogether. This predicament raised two concerns for me. First, my chin strap was choking the life out of me. Second, I worried that I was throwing out something like a parasail and creating too much drag to maintain my desired rate of speed. Roanna was more concerned about the first of these two problems, since at that particular moment my health and wellbeing were of no small consequence to her own. I also suspect that she did not appreciate being beaten in the face by a bowl. Thus, she took it upon herself to place the helmet back on my head at regular intervals. After a while I stopped to fix the problem by cinching up the chin strap a little tighter. Unfortunately, I was too zealous in the tightening process. Just after we got back underway, I realized that my teeth were being fused together and my jaw would never work properly again. There will forever be scars on my chin where the strap dug its way to the bone. One must pay for beauty somehow, though, and I counted it a trifling thing to lay my throat and mandible at Beauty's altar in order to see the sights I saw that day.

When the ride was over, we gathered our belongings, bid farewell to Amigos and our scooters, and boarded the train back to Taipei. It seems, though, that after such a marvelous three days I left part of me in Hua Lian. Most notably, I left the part of my skull that we could not dislodge from the bowl. But that, too, is a trifling thing in light of the delightful memories I took away of time with friends.

A True and Accurate Report

Throughout its long, storied history, this blog has ever only had one writer. I have jealously guarded the pen, never once yielding it to another soul. The time has come to break with this longstanding tradition and briefly step aside for another scribe. My decision to hand the pen to someone else is partly based on the fact that my arm is still recovering, making typing a little difficult. It is also partly based on finding another man whose talents deserve to be recognized and appreciated by an astute readership. I discovered this gem among the many reports on the events that surrounded the breaking of my arm. The author labors under the moniker J.T. Fitzpen and is a nascent talent in the sports writing world. You will see that he does have a strong tendency towards dramatic sensationalism, but I am sure that this will be overcome with time. I am sure that the reader will forgive the few sins of a writer who is still in his authorial infancy and appreciate the clarity and precision of detail that he presents. Here, then, is his article.

Over a decade after he had shocked the baseball world by walking away from the game he loved in order to engage in what he considered to be "more important pursuits," T.J. Thigpen quietly walked back on to the diamond. No one at Taipei Riverside Park who watched his tall, graceful, languid form climb slowly up the mound last Sunday would have ever guessed he had been gone so long. Numerous comments were bandied about the press boxes concerning how good Thigpen still looked in a uniform. These comments were followed by laughter at the idea that he would look any other way; not just because he always looked good in anything, but because he was back where we were used to seeing him. It was as if the Mona Lisa had been absent for a long period and was now being restored to its place. He was at home.

Thigpen went through the same pre-game warm up routine that had prepared him for so many outstanding performances in his younger days. Between warm up tosses he would restructure the mound to fit it to his liking. After the throw went down to second, he went to the rosin bag, turned his back to the plate, nodded to each of the men in the field, and spent a few moments gazing out over the wall in center. When Thigpen turned back to the plate he wore a calm, almost drowsy, expression that belied the importance of the game, both for his own career and for the team itself.

That expression would stay with him throughout the game. He remained placid after his first pitch blistered the outside corner, bringing a roar from the crowd. Two pitches later he froze the batter with a nasty slider, giving Thigpen his first strikeout in over ten years. The most emotion this elicited was a couple of quick blinks and another trip to the rosin bag.

Thigpen sailed through the first three inning, showing no signs of rust. He later said that his arm felt fine throughout.

"I was expecting it to start getting a little stiff since it had been so long since I had done any serious throwing," he said, "but it wasn't giving me any problems. I certainly didn't see it coming."

What he didn't see coming did come, however, on a 0-2 count with no outs in the fourth. In the middle of Thigpen's smooth, familiar motion a loud snap, much like a thunder clap, reverberated through the stadium. A close observer might have noticed a brief line of confusion crease Thigpen's brow. This vanished instantly, though, and he resumed his usual calm demeanor as he held conference with his catcher and pitching coach.

"For just a second I didn't know what happened, but I realized pretty quickly that I had sustained a spiral fracture of my humerus about a third of the way up from the elbow."

This didn't seem to bother him that much, however.

"I was just about to call the catcher out to let him know that the velocity on my pitches was most likely going to decrease slightly, and that I might not be able to place the ball with the pinpoint accuracy to which he had become accustomed."

The catcher did not need to be summoned. He was already on his way out to the mound.

"I immediately knew some was wrong," the catcher said. "I had called for a fastball outside, but this one just caught the inside corner. It was almost a ball, and I sprinted out to see what was wrong."

It turned out that the sight that greeted him there was a little unsettling.

"His arm dangling at an unnatural angle. It was kind of gross to be honest."

What followed was the only thing that seemed to rattle Thigpen in the slightest. He was told he could not continue pitching with a broken arm.

"I didn't think it was that big a deal," told the press. "It was just a broken arm. It was not as if it was a potentially lethal injury. I could tell it was a pretty clean break, too, so I didn't think anyone would mind me finishing the game.

However, the rule book stood in his way. According to the official Taipei Baseball Association rule book, a player with a serious injury must leave the game. Section III, Article 2, paragraph 1 states:

In the case of the having of very bad luck in the body of a player, the unlucky man must depart the game and look for attention for health. Unluckiness in body include ripping of ligaments, blinding of eyes, cracking of bone, or death. Game officials has response to produce water and any others necessary for comfort and wellbeing of unlucky man.

This still didn't stop Thigpen from protesting.

"It was right there in black and white, I guess," he admitted. "I just couldn't help arguing a little. I understood their position, but I wanted to play. They were very nice to me, and kept trying to give me water."

In the end he did win a little a small victory against the rule book. He was allowed to finish out the inning while waiting on the ambulance to arrive.

"I asked them if they would let me at least pitch until the medical people got there. I promised to throw left handed if it made them feel better."

It turned out that Thigpen's left arm is faster than Taipei's ambulances. He set down the next two batters in quick succession and had to wait ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive. This, however, was fine with Thigpen since he didn't want to leave the game anyway.

"I thought they would at least let me stay and watch the game out. I was going to take the bus to the hospital later, but they threw the rule book at me again."

This time it was Section III, Article 2, paragraph 2:

For unlucky man must be production of quick medical car. Quick medical car have to scurry him to hospital to restoration for him of lost happiness.

With the arrival of the quick medical car, Thigpen left baseball once again. And once again the baseball world was left wondering if this was the end. Had baseball's brightest star, long hidden by the clouds of devotion to other causes, finally burned itself out here in Taipei? Had this Hector met his Achilles? Had we just watched Bowie finally succumb in the Alamo?

These questions stand unanswered right now. Maybe Thigpen won't return. Maybe he will rise again like the phoenix from the ashes of his latest defeat. Maybe like a boxer bludgeoned by the fist of fate and nearly counted out by the course crowd around him, he will summon from a rich reservoir of resolve the power to punch back. Maybe, just maybe, he will come back home one more time.

As I said at the beginning, this is a slightly over sensationalized report. As you can see, however, Fitzpen has a way of grasping and presenting the salient points of a game. I have heard that Fitzpen himself has been unlucky in body. Something about an injured arm too, which makes the story even more impressive if he typed it with a hurt arm. Maybe he called upon a rich reservoir of resolve. Maybe he summoned the sustaining strength that comes from a passionate pursuit of principles and purpose. Maybe I should take the pen back now.

a break in the action

i am sure by now that you are sick of the constant media coverage of my broken arm. espn has devoted itself over the past 24 hours to the event. yes, the reports are correct. i broke it pitching. i threw a fastball and snapped my humerus in mid motion. it might possibly be the case that i throw too hard. it is more likely the case that i should drink more milk. either way, the non-functionality of my right arm makes some things difficult--things like blogging and showering. therefore, i will take a break (yes, a pun) from these things for the next few months as the arm heals. when i return i will give a full report on how i broke my arm (all the things espn hasn't told you) and on how many people i have knocked unconscious with my fragrant aroma.

(for those who haven't quite figured out how to read this blog yet, you can believe about fifty percent of what i write on a good day. thus, when i say i won't shower or blog for a while, half of that is correct. i'll let you figure out which half.)

Across the Bounding Main

One may wonder why it has been a while since this blog received a fresh injection of life. [editor's note: the author here is exceptionally precise in his use of the indefinite pronoun "one", as there is little hope that such wondering as is mentioned extends farther than his own dear mother.] The truth is the good ship TPot has been at port for some time while its captain has gone in search of new and improved merchandise to bring aboard. In this search, the good (?) captain has been forced to reevaluate the general tenor of his targeted cargo. "When the citizens of foreign lands," he thought, "first glimpse the billowing sails of my old bark, what thought should spring to mind? What hope should fill the breast? What expectation should flood the soul?" After such reflection, he decided that perhaps new cargo should be added to the old.

As the briefest perusals of previous freight lists will show, the TPot has heretofore devoted its holds to strict and accurate reporting of the facts of life in Taiwan. It has sought to shun stereotypes and bring to port only the truest forms of culture. Thus, the dry, journalistic flavor of its past imports. However, the captain has come to realize that stereotypes are not all bad things. They exist, in fact, because there is some truth behind them. More than that, they are in some way necessary things, providing a needed level of cultural categorization and added support for the traditions on which our habits and customs hang. Over the past few weeks, then, the captain has flung himself into the expansive embrace of Asian stereotypes.

Notice that it is to Asian stereotypes that the captain has devoted himself and not just to Taiwanese stereotypes. This is because he is cognizant of the fact that the astute Western mind that will be the consumer of his goods understands that there is no appreciable difference between the various Asian cultures. This Western mind is so broad and hearty that it is hardly fazed at all by the miracle that the worlds largest continent in both area and population has maintained cultural uniformity throughout the millennia of its acknowledged existence. Thus, to understand Korea is to understand Mongolia; to live in Japan is to live in Vietnam; to speak Taiwanese is to speak Nepali. It is quite astounding, really, for the person living in any Asian country to realize that he or she is actually living in about fifty countries at one time.

The captain found that living the stereotypical life was rather time consuming. There was much to be done. He must, for example, become proficient in mathematics and certain scientific pursuits. More than this, he had to persuade his parents to be overbearing and demanding, pushing him in his scholastic endeavors. Added to this, he was forced to master the gaming world. He had to learn to design video games of his own and spend hours honing his skills on the offerings of other game designers. All of this, as difficult as it may have been, was only the beginning.

He realized that he would not be satisfied with only contemporary Asian stereotypes. No, stereotypes never really die, and even the most aged ones must be given their due. Being in Asia, it is precisely the elder statesmen among the stereotypes that must be given the most honor. Thus, he sought to integrate the old with the new. He started by growing a ponytail and drastically receding his hairline. He then donned the Asian farmer's straw hat and shuffled off to build a giant wall to keep invaders away from his highly secret uranium enrichment facility. He worked thirty-one hours a day before returning home to his yurt. He then changed into his kimono, clipped his bonsai trees, and meditated for a few hours while standing in various impossible positions. After this he sat around and shuffled his copious amounts of U.S. dollars and bonds, trying to decide which ones to dispose of. He savored the cat he roasted for dinner, which he washed down with yak's milk. The next morning he rose early to read sagacious proverbs and write haikus. He then practiced five different disciplines of martial arts and spent time catching flies with chopsticks. He climbed Mt. Everest. He now patiently awaits the time when he can commit hara-kiri.

The captain has also taken up calligraphy, which has meant regularly riding his elephant down to the stationary store, where he has discovered a little known aspect of Asian culture. When Asian people are in need of inspiration and a good, hearty cheering up, they evidently turn to notebooks. This is the only explanation for all the magnificent sayings that are found on notebooks in Asia. The cover of nearly every notebook is devoted to an attempt to inspire, instruct, or encourage. It quite moving to compare the downtrodden, tearful visages that enter a stationary store with the glowing, uplifted ones that leave. They are a boon to native English speakers as well, if only in the fact they tend to sport the finest examples of that language. The captain has found that he can hardly leave the store without five or six new notebooks bought simply for their English. It seems that most of these notebooks come from Korea (not that Korea is really different from any other country in Asia), and he now believes that Korea must be a paradise of truly divine English usage. The TPot has delivered a few loads of notebook sayings, but the captain feels that a few more would be encouraging.

To begin simply, one notebook has emblazoned, quite appropriately, across the top "Notebook." Under this title it provides this extra information in brackets [That begins and ends on a delightful]. What is truly inspiring about this notebook is the intriguing mixture of mystery and hope. On the one hand, the dangling "delightful" leaves us hanging. On the other hand, we are comforted by the hope that the notebook will be filled with a delightful something instead of depressing, crude expressions.

Another notebook presents us with both an inspirational saying and inspirational spelling. It states, "Not the fruit of experience, but pxperience itself, is the end." This same notebook contains a Chinese character which it translates as "risibility". The brilliance of this notebook is that it is risible enough to laugh at itself.

The final offering comes from a notebook entitled "Change for better day". It gives us this uplifting morsel:

To enjoy from the sad situation is a must for living. To lighten the weight, with smile, a growth and a way of treating you good. To fight or not, to stand or not, no criteria to follow up. To be free from the mentally suffering, the tactics decides it's result. May the season bring you the very things that will make your dreams come true. Wish you a blessed year and a joyful new year. So many affairs to life, therefore, learning how to make the worst of better is a compulsory lesson. Let happiness and wishes tune up to your tomorrows. Run the new records for those fresh days.

The captain puts the one line in bold to let you know that this is his wish for you--that you learn to make the worst of better. This is exactly what he has been trying to do in his pursuit of stereotypes, and he is not sure but that he has succeeded famously. He hopes that every time his good ship slips into your port in this upcoming year of the rabbit, you will make the worst of it. Just use your expansive Western mind.

Ushering in the New Age

I would like to share with you a tidbit about myself that qualifies for admittance into that lofty category often referred to as "little known facts." It is not that I am ashamed of or highly motivated to conceal this information. It is just that I have rarely had the occasion to share it, and in the few occasions that I could have brought it to light my admirable modesty restrained me from doing so. The fact is, for a few years I carried the estimable title of Assistant Head Usher at my church in America. Actually, I believe the complete title was Senior Assistant Head Usher in Charge of Maintaining Quality Control and Assuming Head Ushering Duties in the Event of the Absence of the Head Usher (SAHUCMQCAHUDEAHU). This is quite a weighty title and demands a broad set of shoulders to carry it about. One cannot simply stuff that title in one's pocket. It drapes over its bearer like a heavy blanket and is apt to bend the back of the man ambitious enough to take it up. Such a man is oft tempted throw off the blanket and walk freely through the world again, yet the needs of those poor souls searching for a seat in the sanctuary compel him to suffocate under the weight of his position a little longer. In truth, these men do not stumble into this title. No, they are born for it and fate invariably directs them to their end. They have little choice in the matter.

Great blushing accompanies the penning of this revelation, as it has never been my intention to boast of the burdens it has been my lot to carry, no matter how lofty the titles and accolades that are part and parcel of their calling. I share it now so that you can properly understand and appreciate a new turn that life in Taiwan has taken for me. I have recently joined the ushering staff at my church here. It did not take long to the ushers here to recognize a brother in their midst. We are, after all, something of a small, close-knit fraternity and can instantly identify others who are born to be ushers. By spotting the telltale marks and scars of one who has born great ushering responsibilities, the ushers here were astute enough to determine that I am not of the plebeian offering-taking sort, but rather of the ushering noblesse (once again, much blushing). Thus, they hastened to entreat me to take my place among their ranks. Not wanting, or feeling the need, to hoist once again the heavy mantle that I had already set aside, I agreed to join the lower ranks of their ushering hierarchy. At first, they refused to have me stoop so far, and pled with me to accept at least the position of Assistant Head Usher in Charge of Packet Distribution (AHUCPD). However, my humble, yet firm, insistence on taking no greater title than the simple "usher" eventually won the day. I blush once again to mention the many tears that were shed by the ushering community here after witnessing so noble a condescension.

As difficult as ushering may be, it does not come without its perks. In America, I had the pleasure of sitting in the very back by the door. This provided an excellent vantage point from which to watch the congregation and get to know who left the sanctuary frequently. I also sat very near the door that led to the kitchen. It seems that my various duties often forced me to venture over in that direction, where various goods were sometimes stored and in need of inspection. Here in Taiwan, the perks consist of getting to dress up in a white dress shirt with a tie and black slacks. This exciting combination is accompanied by a yellow armband sporting Chinese characters. I have not found the kitchen yet.

My first two Sundays found me greeting all the parishioners at the front door. Not much was required of me at this post. My duties consisted solely of shooting a phrase in Chinese at each comer and giving them a slight bow. In this process, the phrase generally ricochets back at the usher in its bow-less form as the people rush past. This performance begins twenty minutes before the service starts and continues for twenty minutes after the beginning as well. Those who show up later than that, and there are quite a few of these people, do not deserve to be greeted.

The bow here in Taiwan is worth a short digression. There are actually several forms. The first, and most common, is little more than a quick thrusting forth of the head followed followed by and equally quick snap back. It makes it look as if the head is kept on by some sort of rubber band that snaps the head back into place if it moves too far. This is a brief and quite moderate show of humility and thanks. A more advanced form of the bow is a quick nod of the head. The chin bounces off the throat. The humility/thanks level is higher in this second mode. The nod may be accompanied by a slight slumping of the shoulders if an extra does of humility is called for. The next mode involves a descending of the whole upper body. This is not achieved by a stiff bending at the waist, however. It is more of a retreating of the posterior regions which in turn draws the trunk of the body down. A nod may be added but must take place simultaneously. The final mode is a stiff bending of the waist that nearly forms a ninety degree angle. This is rarely seen and conveys the highest degree of humility, thanks, and respect.

I experimented with all the different modes while greeting the church goers. Eventually, I settled on the posterior retreat. I felt that mode gave a decent representation of my humility without making a obscene show of it. This was well received by the members and guests of the church. Soon large lines formed as people waited to come through my door. I am fairly certain that many people came in, exited through another door, and got back in line to be greeted by me once again. I noticed a number of vendors in the area as well, offering various snacks, memorabilia, and authorized pictures of each person's entrance into the church while being greeted by me. I blushed often and deeply.

I am not sure at this moment where all this new ushering road will take me. I am hoping not to become one of those soulless ushering celebrities. It would be much better if I could retreat into the background. Or maybe just retreat into the kitchen.

Touch Your Heart

Being something of a tropical island, it is in Taiwan's best interest to promote itself as a desirable tourist destination to those who find the idea spending time on a tropical island desirable. After all, Taiwan is a beautiful place. When it was discovered by Portuguese explorers in the sixteenth century, they draped over it the romantic title Ilha Formosa. Translated into English, this name is equally subtle and romantic--Beautiful Island. Due to Taiwan's tropical and beautiful nature, you will soon notice an intense advertising campaign designed to whisk you away from your comfortable homes on your next summer vacation and drop you into the burning bath of Taiwanese humidity. The good citizens of Glencoe, Minnesota have no doubt already noticed the striking new billboard over Pete's Paint & Pizza. It prominently features a group of three Taiwanese people with huge, gaping smiles. If one did not know better, one would think they are screaming in anger at some poor soul picking up a pizza. However, we are able to deduce that they are actually well pleased with life on a tropical island by the fact that two of the three have positioned their tightly balled fists directly below their chins and have thrust both thumbs high into the air. The third had tried to follow suit, but had been unable to resist the natural Taiwanese instinct to flash peace signs when taking a picture. Under the picture is this enticing plea:

Traveling At Taiwan!

Wonderfulness of beauty pleasure!

Tread in nice beeches [sic]! Swim on a shiny ocean!

Participate in lush vegetables! Throw down in palatable fruits!

Do not think that the fine folk of Glencoe will be the only be people to have their town graced with these masterpieces. I am told that in the next few weeks the the residents of Monowi, Nebraska; Yachats, Oregon; and Bucksnort, Tennessee can expect to enjoy the fruits of the Taiwan's tourism bureau soon.

Of course, no place can expect to draw hordes of visitors if it does not first concoct a catchy slogan. In this particular endeavor Taiwan has succeeded. Liberally scattered about the island are signs containing the name Taiwan colorfully splashed across the top. Under the name we find the phrase "Touch Your Heart." The real beauty of this slogan is that no one can be quite sure what it means. To name a couple of options, it may be either a declaration (Taiwan will touch your heart) or an injunction. When I first arrived in Taiwan, I took it to be the latter. Upon seeing the slogan, I would immediately place my hand over my heart in a reverential manner. Standing thus, I felt a strong urge to lustily belt out an anthem to the country. So great was this urge that, not knowing a Taiwanese anthem, I made one up and proclaimed it to the world. It followed roughly these lines:

Taiwan forever,

Standing in the sea!

We will cease never

To sing our praise to thee!

These lines were sung repeatedly to a tune that vaguely resembled both the CIU alma mater and the Russian national anthem. This seemed to be in the general spirit of anthems and relieved the pressure I was under to sing.

When these lines spontaneously burst forth from my lips, I had no idea what a hit they would become. After touching my heart and singing praises before numerous signs throughout the Taipei, the song caught on, and it is now enjoying its fourth straight week atop the charts with no sign of decreasing in popularity any time soon. During the recent election cycle, every candidate made the song a prominent part of their truck and scooter announcements that they paraded around the city(The elections are over now, by the way. Thank you for your support. I was elected to some post. I think I am now a county coroner, but I am not quite sure yet.). I am working on a techno version now that should go down in annals of music history as one of best pieces ever. They will never stop playing it in Eastern Europe.

However, a recent revelation has changed how I view the "Touch Your Heart" slogan. I now think it might be a declaration. The revelation came in the form of another slogan I found on a bike rental shop. This particular shop allows customers for a small fee to enjoy a jolly spin around the city on cheap bikes. The proprietors woo potential customers with the line "Fun The City!" At first I took this to be another injunction in which the noun "fun" had been changed into an imperative verb. Thus, it would carry the weight of a command for passersby to enjoy the town. After a moment's reflection, however, I realized that it was not an injunction but a declaration. It was a shortened version of the statement "You can have fun in the city." This makes sense. Taiwan is a small island with about 459,000,000 people and 510,000,000 scooters. Space is at a premium. The inhabitants of the island have learned how to economize space at every turn, even in their slogans. Why use seven words when you can use only three? Such is the brilliance of Taiwan. "Touch Your Heart", then, is a shortened version of "Taiwan Will Touch Your Heart." Heck, it might even be a shortened version of "Taiwan, The Beautiful Island, Will Touch Your Heart If You Come And Visit Us And Trod Upon Our Beeches." The genius of this ability to say so much with so few words should attract more visitors that ever. Who knows what all they are really saying with all that is written on their billboards?

Keep all of this in mind this year when you tune in to the Visittaiwan(touchyourheart)andleaveallyourmoney.com Bowl. I think it will feature a thrilling matchup between Dartmouth and Western New Mexico University (Go Mustangs!). The real highlight of the game, though, will be the mandatory halftime interview with the president of the bowl game.

Sideline reporter: Mr. President, why did you decide to get involved with a bowl game?

President of bowl: We is happy happy to has a bowl! Very Good! Come Taiwan! Have much bowls! Many funs! Tootle about in tropicalness of beauteous island!

Sideline reporter: I'm sure you're happy to have these two fine institutions in this game, and it has certainly been a fine game so far. What message would like to send to them as they go out there in the second half?

President of bowl: Cheer up!

Sideline reporter: Thank you so much. Before we go back to you guys in the booth, the president would like to sing us a song. Mr. President?

President of bowl: Taiwan forevers...

That will be my proudest moment.

Welcome to the Family

It has come to my attention that some people who read this blog have never even met me. This shows that some of my readers have an intense interest in gaining an accurate picture of Taiwan. They have searched high and low for a careful and objective report of life on this island. This search has led them to this blog, which is marked by its factual accuracy and its uncanny ability to stick to relevant aspects of Taiwanese culture. I would like to take the liberty, however, of stepping away from my reporting and introduce myself to those who don't know me.

To really know me, you must first know my family. Let me introduce you to them. We must first go back to the fourteenth century when the first known Thigpen was the Lord High Sheriff of London. This was a time when surnames were still just coming into vogue, and the bearers played fast and loose with the spellings of their names. The Thigpens of yore felt free to spell their names Phippen, Fitzpen, Tippen, or any other variant that they could grab as the mood struck them. Before this time members of the family decorated their given names with fitting adjectives. Thus, at the very tips of the roots of our family tree we find such sobriquets as Alfred the Abashed, Roland the Ridiculous, Bartholomew the Baffled, and Lucius the Lugubrious. Lord High Sheriff Phippen/Fitzpen/Tippen/Thigpen, however, ditched the descriptors in favor something that was a little easier to change the sound and spelling of when necessary and wasn't easy to guess simply by watching his behavior. He was a jovial soul and was well like by Londoners. He was so well loved, in fact, that many of the people enjoyed giving him large sums of money at important times. He was well bred and always felt it incumbent upon himself to give gifts to them in return. Some of his superiors, however, were jealous of his popularity, and they dispatched of him.

None of the immediate descendants of this first Thigpen were sheriffs themselves, but they did have close relationships with sheriffs. It seems that the Thigpen blood was sporting right from the start. These men lived for the hunt. They were also patriotic, considerate, and conscientious men. Not wanting the king's land to be overrun with wildlife, so they took it upon themselves to occasionally cull the forrest of game. They were so fond of hunting that they were not content to be one dimensional sportsmen. Not wanting to be hunters only, they thought it sporting to be the hunted also. They got up with the king's sheriffs set up a nice little game where the Thigpens would hunt the animals and the sheriffs would hunt the Thigpens. It was great fun, and the Thigpens led the sheriffs on a merry chase. It seems that the double duty was too much for many of the Thigpens and the sheriffs won. At least this is my interpretation of the events, since the record of these men ends rather abruptly. The last thing I can find about them is that they died with their heads held high and their feet off the ground. Incidentally, this has been the traditional manner of passing for the most notable of Thigpens.

A number of Thigpens took to the sea in the sixteenth century. The most prominent of the seafaring members of the family was Bart Thigpen. He was an excellent entrepreneur. Bart excelled in what might be called the import/export line of business. He imported merchandise from merchant ships and exported long, sharp, pointed metal sticks and large, heavy, round iron balls. Throughout Bart's career, he kept up a friendly rivalry with one Admiral Clemens. Whenever these men's ships crossed paths they would take to shooting at each other as a way of encouraging each other to hurry on their ways. Eventually, Clemens grew old and crotchety and lost the spirit of the game. In this irritable state, Clemens resorted to low and dastardly tactics; he lay in waiting for Bart one night off a small island that Bart sometimes used as a warehouse for his goods. It was on this island that Bart's life ended in the aforementioned traditional Thigpen fashion.

There has hardly been a war of any size since the fourteenth century that hasn't found a Thigpen fighting bravely. It has not always been the case that the Thigpen was fighting in the war itself, but you may be sure he was fighting somewhere. The world has always been able to count on a Thigpen taking a step when duty calls. Even if a Thigpen was unable to take up arms for some reason, he would still do his part. Take Rufus Thigpen who lived during our American revolution for example. Rufus was unable to join the fight due to a certain spinal condition. Did he stay home, though? Not Rufus. He might well have been known as "The Encourager." At every battle he was right there behind the army giving it bold words of courage. He took care of the baggage, making sure that any goods that a soldier carelessly left behind before going into battle were not lost forever upon the field. Rufus was also useful in case the battle went poorly. He had a special knack for showing the army how to get to safety quickly. Quite a useful fellow, that Rufus. The only mistake he made was when he mixed up some of the goods he was keeping safe and tried to sell a particular trinket to a soldier who had previously been in possession of said trinket. This humorless soldier failed to see the sincere nature of the mistake. Rufus died in the traditional fashion.

There have been some Thigpens who have stepped out of line, so to speak, and brought some dismay to the family. Every family has its black sheep. One such disgrace is the infamous Owen Fitzpen whose life in England spanned the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He was a merchant seaman by trade, and somehow did rather well for himself in his own dull, honest way. On one trip, however, he was relieved of his goods by Turkish entrepreneurs in the Mediterranean and was taken aboard their ship. One would think that Owen would now seize the opportunity to go into a legitimate business and join forces with the men who obviously thought highly enough of his capital to relieve him of it. Not Owen. He refused to see a good thing even when it hit him right in the face. Rather, He took on the role of a slave, and for seven years he served in servile servitude. Was he content with his lot in life, though? Not at all. Unlike St. Paul, he was not content with whatever state in which he found himself, and he rebelled against his masters. Not only did he rebel, but he also led ten other Christian captives astray by encouraging them to rebel as well. For three hours these eleven rebellious souls fought against sixty-five well meaning Turkish entrepreneurs. In the end, Owen's forces won the day, and they sailed the ship to Spain. There he was offered a position in the Spanish navy if he would convert to Catholicism. Owen was greedy, however, and wanted to see how much he could get for the ship he had taken instead of turning it over to the Spanish crown. In order to decline the Spanish offer, he used the excuse that he was Protestant and could not convert to Catholicism. He then sold his ship and sailed back to England. The family was so upset by Owen's shenanigans that they erected a monument telling the story, hoping that it would serve as a warning to other ill-disposed lads. Owen, ever rebellious, refused to die in the traditional fashion, choosing to die peacefully in his sleep instead. Owen's grandson could not bear the shame; he adopted the "Thigpen" spelling of the name and sailed for the New World. This is a true story.

There are some Thigpens who are famous though not known by name. For example, the man featured in what has been called the greatest country song ever sung was a particularly romantic Thigpen. That is the story of great-uncle Clem and his love for Mable Lou McGowen. You have, no doubt, encountered many quotes, poems, or essays whose lives are due to "Anonymous." Many of you may think that Anonymous was an ancient Greek writer. Not so. Anonymous refers to a long line of Thigpens who were not quite sure how to spell their names.

This leads us to the present crop of Thigpens, and a bumper crop it is. I sprang up with a whole peck of brothers. Even as little sprouts, though, we were quite versatile. We grew up as pirates, cowboys, wild animals, knights, professional athletes, pioneers, sailors, and heroes of every war ever fought. Well, most of us did, anyway. One younger brother was reserved as something of a servant who waits upon the rest of the family's every need. He has never had any fun or adventure. The most exciting thing he ever does is listen to Simon and Garfunkel songs. My parents were thoughtful enough to have enough sons to allow for one such servant.

I myself graduated from college and immediately headed off to a land where my blond hair and blue eyes would be appreciated enough to land a decent job. Having done a lot of serious writing in school, and having a lot more to look forward to when I go back to school, I decided to start this blog to keep my serious writing skills in shape. My inspirations for this writing are Mark Twain and an uncle of mine who used to tell my brothers and I stories when we were seedlings. I plead with you not to go read Twain, because you will never come back to this blog. Go read some G.W.F. Hegel. You'll come back to me then.

I must say in all honesty that I am extremely proud of my family and my name. I would not change names with anyone. I'll hang on to it no matter how many times I have to repeat it and spell it for people I meet. I am not even planning on changing the spelling, though I am thinking about adding a descriptor to it. Something along the lines of TJ the Tedious Thigpen.

You now know me as well as my own mother. That was a very ambiguous sentence, so let me rephrase it. You now know me as well as my own mother knows me. Consider yourself a part of the family. Just remember what your proper manner of dying is now that you are one of us.