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.

Hitting the Stump

I have never meant for this blog to be one of the many political blogs that now proliferate the internet. While I may hold certain political views, I have always endeavored to dwell upon more important topics, such as hair, dancing typhoons, Chinese legends, and grapes. These are the topics that the majority of people around the world want to delve into, and fortunately, these are the topics on which I am most qualified to speak. However, my world seems to be now engulfed in elections, so I feel compelled to turn this blog's gaze upon the more trivial matter of politics. Yes, in a few days average man and woman will, by the press of a button, help to shape the course of world events. This is the time when you and I can let our voices be heard. I guess it does have its serious side. Who knows what the ramifications of our choices will be? With the state of the world as I write, these elections may be the most important in our lifetime. If I remember correctly, there are also some elections going on in America.

I am all fired up about the elections that will soon take place here in Taiwan. I have no idea who is running for what. In the end, it really doesn't matter. What really matters is the process of electing people and that we as responsible citizens get fully behind a candidate and use this time to express our stand on the issues dearest to us. I have found that the essence of running for office isn't much different here in Taiwan than back in the States. There are men and women making opaque promises and then demonizing their opponents for making what amounts to the same opaque promises. I find this to be the truly brilliant part of politics. Absolutely anyone can be a politician. Just promise something in a convincing tone and then condemn whatever comes out of the other guy's mouth.

In a campaign what really matters is how you get your "message" out there. Here in Taiwan, tissue packets are a popular way of doing this. Over the last few weeks, my mailbox has been filled with these packets. This is timely since it is getting colder and more people are getting sick. We will spend this fall blowing our noses all over candidates' platforms. I stated earlier that the essence of running for office is the same here as in the States. Nothing shows this more than the pictures of the candidates that found on these packets. There is, of course, the mandatory steely eyed look that shows this particular candidate has a determined eye on the future. Not to make the candidate appear too harsh, though, there is also the picture of him with a caring look while holding a little child. The combination of these two pictures assure us that he will be able to lovingly carry us into the future.

Another campaign approach that is popular here is to hire small trucks or even scooters with loudspeakers attached. These vehicles roam the streets blaring out the soothing tones of various candidates telling us why we should put them in office. I have a deep appreciation for these recordings, though I haven't an inkling as to what they say. Every time one passes me by I fill the air with hearty shouts of anger or approbation. I have ardently campaigned for these candidates on street corners. I have pleaded with passersby. I have cajoled old ladies and little children into supporting one person or another. I am just trying to do my part.

Having said that, my efforts in this campaign have left me feeling like I have not done quite enough. In a word, I feel empty. Thus, I have decided to throw my hat in the ring. I know it may be a little late in the game, but I think I might just have a chance. The reason I believe I have a chance is because I believe that the hard working people of this country will believe in a man who believes in something. And what I believe in is values. Of course, my opponents will say that they stand for values too, but no one is really sure which values they are talking about. Let me be perfectly clear about my values. I stand for the good values. What values are those, you ask? Let me be clear about this. When I say good values, I mean the values that the hard working people of this country hold to. I will work hard to preserve these values. I pledge to give you back your country. By my hard work, I will show you that I understand you--the hard working people of this country. This is what sets me apart and what makes me the only choice in this election; I believe in values and hard work. And I believe in you--the hard working people of this country. Now I ask you to believe in me, and when you believe in me you are really just believing in yourselves. You are believing in the hard working people of this country! You are believing in the values that you believe in! You are believing in getting this country back on track! You are believing in taking the power back from politicians and putting it in the hands of the hard working people of this country! Vote for yourselves by voting for me! Vote for your children! Vote for values! Vote for (insert mascot of your favorite team)!

Of course my opponent doesn't believe in anything. He is a nihilist. He doesn't believe in values. He doesn't believe in the hard working people of this country. He used to be a part of a secret cultic society bent on taking over the world, but he doesn't even believe that anymore. That was too much work for him. He has no character. I guess he doesn't believe in prosperity, either, because if he is elected no one will have any money. Our children will starve, and they will all come down with a new and deadly strain of influenza. So let's make sure he isn't elected! Don't vote for the devil! Vote for yourselves--the hard working people of this country!

This won't be my first foray into politics. Some of you will remember that I almost became governor of the State of South Carolina a few years ago. That was all quite by accident, however, and this time I am in dead earnest. If I could just figure out which country I want to hold office in.

Wherever I wind up running, one of the most prominent planks in my platform will be bringing back the things that once made us great but now lay inexplicably discarded by the wayside. For example, I will push through a bill that will put the dimmer switch back on the floorboard of your vehicle. Just this week during my school's Halloween spelling bee (because nothing says Halloween like a spelling bee) I realized another loss our society has sustained. We all had to dress up in costumes, and not wanting to spend any money on said costume, I raided the school's Halloween box and came away with a Viking hat with a wig attached and a red cape. Now, Vikings have gone by the wayside and that is indeed a loss in some ways. However, the real societal loss that this costume revealed to me is that of the cape. There was a time when capes and cloaks were all the rage, but some dull witted generation ditched them. These people are in the running for the title of "The Worst Generation." Every respectable gentleman should be able to wear a cape and rapier on the street. Once upon a time men were men. Once upon a time men wore capes. Let us return to these times. I will take us there (I now have a steely-eyed determined look). I will do this for our children (understanding, caring look). Follow me.

Haircut

I was once a little boy with hair. That is a true statement. It is also true that I never gave serious thought to my hair. All I knew about my hair was that on occasion Mom would give me a haircut, and on these occasions she would invariably make the comment, "T.J., you have a great head of hair!" She would then proceed to cut the bulk of it off. Most people, upon having such accolades poured regularly upon their heads, would grow justifiably vain of their locks. I never fell prey to such vanity. The praise was, after all, coming from my mother, and mothers are notoriously biased when it comes to their children's tresses. Even after developing a particularly admirable patch of white hair, though, I abstained from growing fond or careful of my hair. I consider this to be a rather remarkable part my identity.

I feel that it is in no way contradictory to follow this statement of carelessness as to the quality of my hair with the admission that it is a matter of concern to me where I get my haircut. It may be, in fact, that the reason I care about where I get my haircut is because I care little for my hair. Cutting my own hair is not an option. That would be spending too much time on my own hair. I am a barber shop guy. I want to get my haircut to the classic sound of Merle Haggard while sitting under the constant, unwavering gaze of an eight-pointer hung on the wall. I want to exchange lies with the barber about our most recent fishing trips. I want to get a get a Coke from a fifty year old Coke machine when the shearing is done. Most of all, and this is an absolute must, I want to refrain from even the slightest hint of any conversation about hair during the entire time I am at the barber shop. It is largely for this reason that I hate going to hair salons. There is nothing good about a hair salon. I have no desire to have some guy running his hands through my hair and talking about "possibilities." If I can't have a barber shop, I prefer to take steps such as going to church during the week and having the church secretary do the shearing. This was my course of action throughout college (for those of you who don't know me, yes, I went to college).

Why, you ask, am I spilling so much figurative ink over my preferences of the setting in which the hair is taken off the old noggin? Well, a couple of days I had a new haircutting experience here in Taipei. I went to a tiny place near a night market where one may find three dollar haircuts. The haircutee approaches the emporium and deposits a hundred NT bill into a machine that then spits out a ticket with a number printed on it. Ticket in hand, he stands patiently on the street until his number is called. At this time he enters the establishment and spends about 10 seconds inside before exiting with a fresh new outlook on life. Yes, these barbers are quite efficient. The barber's sheet barely has time settle down before it is whisked off again. In those few seconds, follicles are severed and then sucked up by a shop vac that is waved a few times over the head. One might think that they would leave a mangled mess on top of their victims' heads. This isn't, I don't think, the case; though in keeping with my usual attitude towards my hair, I haven't given to much thought to the quality of its post-haircut state. I wasn't in the shop long enough to be sure, but as far as I could tell, there was no Haggard in the air, deer on the wall, or Coke machine near the door. This is not optimal haircutting conditions, but there was also no time for talking about "possibilities." Thus, it was an acceptable place in which to leave part of yourself behind.

In other news, a typhoon has found Taiwan to be rather intriguing and has engaged in an elaborate dance with the island. It rushed past once and then decided that Taiwan might just be worth a second look. Since then it seems to be making some sort of ceremonial step around the island. Somehow the typhoon has decided that the best way to win Taiwan's heart is to pour out incessant and unceasing rain on it. The typhoon is wrong. It has been raining for a week now, and Taiwan is tired of it. Stop making a pest of yourself, Megi. Take a hint and go away now.