DOING THE WORK // 1.23.03

THROW ME THE IDOL, I THROW YOU THE WHIP!
by Harris O'Malley

Ah, the new year. Full of empty slates, untamed possibilities and more, similar stale cliché's that I can't really think about right now. In other words, infinite possibilities and potentials for my work. Which is of course why I decided to spend the majority of the first month of the new year doing absolutely no work what so ever.

In fact, I've decided to flee the country.

It's about 6:00 in Siem Reap and I'm rather gloriously drunk right now, and feeling remarkably colonial, which strikes me as being incredibly appropriate. Don't know why.

Since this is a work journal as much as anything else and I've gotten no work done, and don't foresee getting any done prior to smuggling myself back into the United States in a UPS parcel, this entry of DOING THE WORK will be a travelogue instead.

For a bit of background: Due to a number of coinciding incidents that mostly entail my Grandmother's surprisingly vast network of informants, rampant credit card abuse and an odd syzygy of schedules, my mother, my brother and I all had free schedules at the same times and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to visit Angkor Wat with the World Monument Fund. And frankly, getting out of the country struck me as being a good way of not having to deal with my father's death for a while. I'm practical like that, y'see.

So here I am in one of the most beautiful and tragic nations in the world, and words just can't describe it. Stand in the ruins and the temples at Angkor and the majesty, the sheer weight of the history that they represent makes one really feel almost dwarfed in comparison, especially when you consider the horrors that the country survived.

This feeling was, of course, somewhat negated by the rather sizable number of children surrounding me offering to sell me souvenirs "very cheap, you come now".

After the first twenty assaults by the various little shills, I had assumed that I stumbled onto the genius method of pretending I didn't speak English in an attempt to confuse them long enough to get away. So, for every "You want suits? You come now", I'd respond "Lo siento, señor, pero yo no hablo ìngles…"

Worked perfectly until I found the one who actually understood me.
"¿Oh, usted es Español? Venido con mí, usted desea comprar un juego nuevo."

Shit. "Um, no, gracias. Tengo una alergia a los crustáceos."

Then there was the one little girl who looked at me and said, "You don't want cold drink?"

"No."

"You don't want scarf? Sarong?"

"No."

"What you want?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes lit up. "Nothing is $2. You come with me."

I gave her the cash. You have to reward moments of brilliance like that.

An interesting fact: the rare opportunities to live out fantasies inspired from watching too many Indiana Jones movies as a child makes a man stupid. My twin brother Ed, in addition to being a rocket-scientist, business entrepreneur and Olympic level athlete, is a former mountain climber and wanted to get to the top every single damn temple we came to. I, on the other hand, am deathly afraid of heights and usually require at least three beers before I'll get on a roller coaster.

Which, of course, is why I was busily clamboring over walls and climbing up the stairs with him. There are times I wonder about my sanity.

Did I mention that most temples are about 50 feet tall and the stairs are less than three inches deep on a 30 degree incline?

So we get to the top, my brother having run up like a damn squirrel, me clinging for dear life with my fingernails and teaching the other tourists around me the finer points of American profanity. Ed wants to have a look around while I'm busy trying to have a moment to catch my breath and pry my arms from their death grip on the pillar I'm holding on to while I look out over the sea of jungle. And of course, there's another kid trying to sell me coconuts.

"What your name?"

"Jones. Indiana Jones. Now go away."

As I stand there, a couple more tourists climb up, many of them completely out of their faces and just hanging around for the sunset. One of 'em: an absolutely gorgeous Irish woman about my age who seemed to be having the same problems I did coming up.

Evidently testosterone makes a man brave. I saunter (not walk, but saunter) over, and offer my hand to pull her up. She smiles. I smile. I flirt some. I'm fairly sure she's flirting back until her 6'4" football-player boyfriend comes up after her, swings her around by the waist, kisses her and leads her off.

The fucker.

The little kid with the coconuts looks up at me gravely and says, swear to Gods, "No time for love, Dr. Jones."

I gave him two bucks and told him to get lost before I kicked him off the temple.

* * * * *
First, the important news: the next two issues of BETWEEN THE CRACKS are finished and hot off the presses. And since this year marks the kick off of the convention season for me, I'll be debuting them at APE 2003 in San Francisco. I'll also have pages and cover art for sale as prints, so stop by and say hello.

And if you're not going to be at APE this year, check the website for how you can get your copies and the SAVANT forum for the chance to get a free copies.