Girls with Funny Accents

Well-known factoid about me: I'm not a native speaker of English.

That is, I'm not a native speaker of English if you ask the general public. Despite the fact that I was born and raised in Ohio, USA, among a family that migrated to this hemisphere over 400 years ago (from England!), I apparently speak English with a funny accent.

In my work as a cashier, I was daily asked "where I was born" because I "have an accent". It got to the point where I would just start making up stories. "I was born in Palestine." Lol. "My mother is a Romanian refugee and my father is the Saudi Ambassador to New Guinea. I moved around a lot as a kid." Lol.

Okay, English is actually my first and only language, but just no one seems to realize that. Since I have come to Cambodia, this has already happened to me twice (which is a lot considering I've spent the last 9 out of 12 months in virtual isolation).

The first guy was utterly convinced that I am English or Australian (you have no idea how many people think I'm Australian) because I "talk like it." This guy wasn't even a native speaker of English himself! Come on!! Is my voice that obvious?

Some other guy told me I have a distinct French accent when I try to speak Khmer. Me: WTF? I can't even speak French! How is that even possible??

So there you have it. I talk funny, no matter which language I speak.

He...Died?

The news that greeted me this morning was that a certain Libyan with an unspellable last name was executed by his own people after a long uprising. As a History and Middle Eastern Studies major, I have lots of questions about the whole affair, like

1. "Who will take power now? Will it really usher in a democratic era for the Libyan people?"
2. "How come NATO made it a priority to invade Libya but not Syria, where the leadership has been doing comparable (and maybe worse) things for decades?"
3. "How come no one ever reported from Qaddafi's side? We know all about the rebels war effort, but surely the people who supported him were not nameless, faceless video-game enemies? Surely they had their reasons?"
4. "Are we all aware that much of the fighting was divided among pre-existing tribal lines? This won't create any old resentments, will it?"
5. And most importantly, "NOW who am I gonna represent at the Model Arab League?"

Also, I left my shoes outside last night, and someone stole them. That meant I had to go to school barefoot today...dammit.

A Moving Adventure

Sometimes, in the construction of a house, people build staircases badly. My apartment building, for instance, happens to have these Evil Danger Steps which are steep, narrow, and uneven. You basically have to grip the metal railings on both sides if you don't want to die going up and down that particular flight of steps. Unfortunately, I (and other upper residents) must walk up and down them many times each day to get to our apartments.

Sometime over the last year, my landlady and her people realized that we were nearly killing ourselves each and every day. Consequently, the family decided to refurbish them.

I'm the only resident left in the apartment (literally, the only one). I feel the need to stay till January for reasons no one has yet told me, but which I am quite sure exist. So, in order to fix the flight of stairs and still let me remain sheltered, they moved me to the bottom floor apartment.

It's sort of basement-like (moldy; no windows) but it's quite posh in its own way. It's big. And it's cool in every sense of the word.

This is the entry way. It's the only window in the apartment.

It has stuff!

It has an upstairs!

It has stairs to get there!

I get to stay here for two weeks before resuming my old life on the top floor.

I think it's kind of cool.

What Is This?

I have found a tiny beetle-type thing in my water.

I have no idea how it got there. For reasons of my own, I boiled some cooler water the other night. I let it cool on the stove-top overnight and poured it into my metal cup the next day so that I could take my ranitidine. When I came back from school several hours later, I noticed something strange swimming around the bottom of my cup as I drank. It looked like this, but extraordinarily tiny -->.

I am at a loss to explain how it got there, or even what it is. I've seen them swimming around in pond water sometimes.

The problem is, there's no way it could have gotten into my cup:

1. The cup was dry from many weeks of disuse; I scrubbed it clean shortly before I used it, then dried it again.
2. The water was already drinkable, and boiled
3. The tap water is treated; I've certainly never seen small beetles in it before
4. Even if there were something in the tap water, the cup was sitting many meters away from other bodies of water, like the sink and toilet
5. My apartment was locked and the windows closed. Nothing and no one got in or out.
6. I live on the 4th floor of an apartment that is nowhere near a pond

I guess it's possible that it got in the pot of boiled water overnight and I just didn't notice till later...but how? And from where? And what do I do with the little guy now?

This is one of those days that makes you go WTF.

You can see this too, right?
I'm not imagining this thing, right?

This is it up close.

My Anniversary!!

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day I first came to Cambodia: 17 October 2010.

I'm not quite sure how to take the news.

I've been sick for three-quarters of the year; I've had two jobs; I've lost my internet; and now I have even less money than I came with. AND I'M STILL GLAD I CAME TO CAMBODIA. I could shout it from the rooftops all night!

I remember how it felt, flying in after my ordeal with Aston Jining. The relief that hit me with a gust of tropical air as I stepped off the plane at 10 pm, Dara waiting at the entrance. Coming to Okay Guesthouse, glowing golden in the evening air, and having someone to help me up the stairs with my suitcase.

Help, for God Sake! Help, support and kindness from strangers--something completely unheard of in China! I wept with relief and joy in the muggy night; I inhaled the muggy, warm air; and I curled gratefully up in my clean, white 6x8 cell.

Despite the hardships I have undergone, I don't regret my decision to dump China for this. Not for one minute. And I never will.

I don't know what the next year is going to look like--I still suffer from hypothyroid symptoms; my lease expires soon, and I've got no money. But I, Holyrockthrower, shall adventure forth into an uncertain future, unrestrained by fact or fear.

No regrets.

Antacid Trip

Apparently my gastro-intestinal problems in the last entry were an ulcer.

Shortly after writing, all hell broke loose on my stomach. It woke me up that night, contracting as though it were trying to give birth to a small whale. The pressure was such that I was about to throw up, and it kept me awake for several hours. Seeing that this was the 3rd or 4th attack, I called off my morning classes and went to the doctor first thing.

He said there was literally nothing else it could possibly be than a stomach acid problem.

I've had this before, but it was about ten times worse this time around. I didn't realize ulcers could make you that sick. The antacids and acid-blockers are helping me recover now.

Anyway, I'm feeling somewhat better now and probably won't die. See you later! It's time to go drop some antacid!

Criminy! Not again!

Sorry, it's been awhile since I posted. Again.

When I started this blog, I was like, "It's gonna be the BEST BLOG EVER!! I'm gonna post twice a day, all about my life, and IT WILL BE AWESOME!!"

That was before I got slammed with hypothyroidism and lost the ability to care.

Now that's mostly gone, but instead, my internet has been severed. I was using the people's downstairs, and they've all moved out. My landlady offered to share hers, but I know if I get the internet back, I'll never get off it.

I value my freedom as much as I value my right to blog. I'm a recovering internet-addict, and I'm going to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, this means I can only blog at restricted times of the day. In uncomfortable internet cafes. For a price. So that's annoying, and conducive to nonblogging.

Plus, I've been sick again. I'm not sure what it is, but I can tell you where I got it. Ever since last school term, I've been eating at the Happy Guesthouse. My tuk-tuk driver and friend works there, so I patronise the place for lunch. And I really like their fresh fruit and vegetables. And I pick up parasites from them.

Anyway, today as I was going to school, I suddenly got a massive attack of something that felt like I was about to puke. I ran home in horror and fear, so it's cost me $30 of class time, in addition to the ever-inflating price I must spend on albendazole tablets.

Dammit all.

The Day of the Dead, and a Day in the Life

Hello all,

My two weeks of (mandatory, unpaid, uneventful) vacation are over and I have begun yet another term of school.

In some ways, I'm glad. Sitting around the house with nothing to do was starting to seriously fray my nerves by the end of vacation (like I was walking around in circles and biting my fingers).

For some reason, though, all my classes are seriously under-populated. This may be the reason--we're starting the term in the middle of a holiday which culminates this week with Pchum Ben. That's basically the Day of the Dead, Cambodian-style, and we get 3 days off for it (which for me means 3 days of sitting around with nothing to do while everyone abandons the city and closes all the stores). So we have 4 days of school sandwiched between 3 weeks total of time off. Wouldn't blame anyone for not showing up for the first week.

In other news, my internet has been severed since the people moved downstairs moved out. This way I don't have to drown my existence in a cyber stream anymore; I'm also not going to have anything to do when I don't feel well enough to go out, but am not totally bedridden. Like these upcoming 3 days.

My thyroid (or lack thereof) is still crushing my existence--how is it that I can sleep for eight hours, take a morning nap for an hour and a half, and then still feel so unbearably sleepy during the break between my evening classes? And the dark black degenerate rings under my eyes make me look like what I am--an EFL teacher in Southeast Asia. There are some days when I don't even want to look at myself in the mirror, because I know my appearance just confirms the stereotype that all of us are drug-addicts and alcoholics, even though I'm not.

I'm starting to think my hypothyroidism is in fact permanent, just like my EFL career. D:

Hopefully, though, my students will at least be awesome this term--I'm already having trouble with a monk who's older than me and isn't afraid to talk about me, loudly, to the rest of the class, in Khmer. I can never tell if students like that like me a lot, or if they're just bullies disrespecting and dehumanizing me. Given the intense, abusive bullying I suffered as a child, I tend to viscerally assume the latter, and I don't have much of a sense of humor about it, either.

Oh well, at least I'm getting paid. And it's full-time, too.

Here's hoping your Day of the Dead is good, no matter which culture you are a part of.

Big Government

Okay, everyone.  It's official.

Cambodia has shut down access to Facebook, at least via Google Chrome and several service providers.  I therefore cannot check my Facebook account, ever again.

And the rumor is that Blogspot will be the next thing to be shut down...oh, HEY!  MY BLOG'S ON BLOGSPOT!

Therefore, I am trying to set it up so I can post from my email account.  I don't know how technology works, so I don't know if this will actually work when the time comes.  But it's a try.

This is a test; this entry was sent via email.

LOL, and you thought "Big Government" was somehow a reference to September 11th.  LOL.

Homesickness

I have a confession to make: I haven't posted in awhile because...well...I've been homesick.

I don't get it...I've now been travelling the world for a year and a half, gone through three jobs in that time, done battle with corporate China, and overcome a long and debilitating bout of thyroid disease. I have managed to do all this totally alone. And not once during these struggles have I ever thought about going home. Not once. Nor have I ever longed for my home country, it's bleak employment scene, or the broken family I left behind.

At first I thought I was experiencing some sort of delayed culture shock: ten months in, everything about Cambodia is annoying me. Motodops, workplace hierarchies, students, bosses, groceries, rich people, poor people, security guards, corruption, cars parked in stupid places, even that stinky rat that's been decaying on the sidewalk down the road from me for the last nine days. Everything and everyone has been rubbing me the wrong way.

In short, the magical paint with which my mind gilded Cambodia has been knocked off. But does culture shock happen after you've lived in a country for nearly a year? Someone recommended "expatriate burnout", and maybe that's my problem. Or maybe it's just my imperfectly-healed thyroid again, who knows?

The bottom line is, it's made me long for my home in the Ohio River valley, half a world away. I miss wide open spaces and egalitarianism. I miss people actually being able to conceive of the fact that I'm not rich. I miss the feeling of not being a hulking giant. I miss being involved in anti-climate change action, and I miss talking to other native speakers of English, in English.

While Phnom Penh can offer a great quality of life for a relatively low cost, it is not my home, and will never be my home. I'm really feeling that reality right now. And for some reason, that has rendered me unable to write blog entries.

Maybe I need to get out of town for a few days...

Ink

Do you see this?

It's the color of anger.

Do you see this?

It's the color of dry-erase ink.

The two are inextricably linked in my current profession. For ones whose trade depends on ink, the amount of angst we undergo to obtain it sometimes boggles my mind. Better let me explain.

Before the start of each term, we're given a dry-erase marker and two refill bottles of ink. The problem with this system is that the dry-erase marker is largely hollow and only holds enough ink for a week (charitably). Each bottle can refill the marker two and a half times. So you tell me--how long does this last? If a term lasts 12 weeks, is the allotment sufficient?

Without being good at math, I can tell you--no, it's not.

Ever since I began working here in December--no matter which campus I am on--dry erase ink is a battle each day. When I first started, I went into the Supply and Logistics room to get my marker refilled, every day. And every day, the guy behind the desk would say "No ink." Then I'd go to class, "Sorry guys, no lesson today: the logistics guy says there's no ink." Students weren't getting what they paid for.

My foreign manager actually lost his temper one day, grabbed the guy, and frog-marched him to class so the logistics guy could explain why my manager couldn't teach. Apparently, it didn't change anything.

All the guy had to do was take a field trip to the supply store and buy some more ink at company expense. Is it so much to ask? (And no, I'm not buying my own and paying the uncompensated "foreigner price", so don't try to argue that one with me.)

This term, I'm teaching on other campuses. The supervisor at one said that "two bottles" were "all he was allowed to give me". And he won't give me any more. So, when I run out of ink in the middle of class, I simply interrupt the lesson to step downstairs and brandish the marker in his face till he refills it with his own ink. We've lost a lot of class time this way.

On the other campus, Supply and Logistics simply refuses to give me any bottles of ink at all (that is, if they even bother to show up for work that morning).

Usually, I break in and plunder whatever inks I can find--if I have to interrupt class and they're not at work...well...

But yesterday takes the cake. After realizing that my marker wasn't going to hold out, I set my students onto an assignment and headed downstairs.

Supply and Logistics was locked. I went to the English Department, who responsibly directed me to Supply and Logistics.

Me: "I'm not leaving this room till you put ink in my marker." (I explained my situation and was very polite, but this is what it boiled down to.)

So, after great rummaging, the admin staff found a refill bottle and a pair of scissors to cut off the plastic tip. The guy then proceeded to frantically refill my marker for the next 90 seconds. He then handed it back to me, and I headed back to class.

About halfway up the stairs, I noticed my marker still felt empty. And there, as I peered at the internal level of ink between the labels on the marker, I discovered that the admin staff had put in approximately .5 cm (three drops) of ink. A mistake? A joke? An attempt to humiliate me?

I don't know what it was, but I can tell tell you that that morning was more red than blue.

If this were China, I'd think all this stuff was their arrogant, passive-aggressive way of telling me that foreigners are too demanding and too wasteful.

But this isn't China, right?

I'm Better

I am not sick now.

I was going to just put up with whatever was bothering me, since it seemed to eliminate all the hunger my thyroid gives me. But after going to work for several days with a fever, I realized that being hungry all the time is slightly less debilitating.

So I ate the albendazole tablets I found in my fridge from that one time when I had the Baby Bird. And that seemed to knock out whatever parasites were eating my intestines.

So I'm ok now.

*But I'm still hungry*

It Just Keeps Getting Better!

Well, haven't posted anything for awhile, my peeps. That's because I've been sick.

But wait, you say. You've been sick since December. NO STATUS CHANGE.

Over the last seven or eight months, I've largely had thyroid problems. But this time something attacked my intestines.

I dunno what it is. Parasite? Giardia? But it's been eating away at my innards for the last week or so, complete with nausea, headache, indigestion, and a fever that forced me to skip out of school on Friday. Not to mention the incessant crapping (lol, just in case you wanted to know that!). And for the record, this is the first incidence of foodborne illness I have experienced since I arrived here.

I haven't bothered to get it fixed, largely because 1. I no longer trust doctors--any doctors--with my health, and, more importantly 2. because this is the first escape from biting hunger I have experienced since December.

So although it's annoying, I think I'll probably let it flourish in my intestines for some time. I'll blog about more stuff whenever I get better, which, at this point, I'm starting to think might be never.

Why It's Time to Leave the Neighborhood, Part II

You may think that because the criminally-intentioned guy has left the neighborhood, my life here is hunky-dory. Well, I am here tonight to put those rumors to rest: Life is not hunky-dory.

In fact, over the course of the last several weeks, it's become downright inhospitable.

First, a pair of American NGO-lesbians (really) has moved into the criminal guy's former apartment. Now, I have nothing against lesbians, even if I do largely disdain the policies and practices of the non-governmental organizations I suspect they serve. But they tend to throw obnoxious parties on their over-sized balcony, with lots of giggling girls in attendance.

This might be less of a problem if the neighbors to the right of them hadn't bought a series of small yapping dogs. At night, they leave these dogs out on the roof. The dogs then start yapping in response to the retards yapping on the balcony next to them.

And if perchance no one is sitting on the balcony gabbing away unnecessarily, the dogs attack each other. From the sound of it, there is one giant "bully" dog that likes to pick on a smaller, more cowardly dog. I hear its shrieks pierce the dark night air; they degenerate into minutes-long screaming, then whimpering, as though dying a multitude of deaths, night after night. What sort of person does this to their dogs?

Don't get me started on the guy on the other side of the lesbians. I simply do not know how one human being can be so inconsiderate of everyone else in the community. He likes to play the guitar at night. Loudly. In addition, he thinks he can sing--except that he really can't. His gravelly, strained voice slides around and slips out of register on every single note! And loudly! So loudly that after slamming my windows shut and shoving earplugs in, it still keeps me awake. This never seems to bother me during the day, but it sure does at, oh, say 3:44 am.

Then there's the unspecified female somewhere on the block that has been noisily having sex just after dark, wailing and moaning like a cheap whore. So loudly that it's embarrassing to have guests over at my house.

This has all started at once; none of this human misery was here a month ago. None of what I am saying is an exaggeration, either. This is literal fact that I am reporting, which is what makes it so annoying.

Right now, the lesbians are hosting a massive Friday-night party. All of them (there are maybe 5 or more) seem to be talking at the same time about literally nothing...gibbering away like birds. They take turns enthusiastically shouting nonsense syllables over all the others (to whom, exactly, it remains uncertain). There are a couple of loud-mouthed British and Australian males. Every so often, they all erupt in obnoxiously loud, sycophantic laughter. This has been going on for 4 hours, and is not likely to let up any time before sunrise.

I'm hypothyroid, and consequently, exhausted and grumpy. I don't want to hear about it. There are presumably social venues for this sort of thing on Friday nights, ladies. Now stop acting like the obnoxious white American female trash that gets me stereotyped on all the message boards. Go away.

What happened to the mini-nuclear cannons I wanted to invent? The one that shoots mini-neutron bombs, thereby disintegrating its targets upon impact? They were supposed to be attached to the car to eliminate self-centered drivers on I-71, but they would be so very useful right now.

My position and plan of attack

Larry and Steve! No Photographs, Please!

The other day, I had a guest over at my apartment. I showed him to the new supermarket near where I live; he in turn pored over the wide selection of goods within.

The diminishing-quality water named "Steve" sent him into hysterics.

So did "Lerry's Cornflakes".

In fact, the store's entire selection of poorly-named, pseudo-Western goods was a source of hours-long merriment for him.

The next day, he came back with a camera and began photographing every product in sight. Finally, a guard, disconcerted by his ridiculous behavior, came over and told him to stop--an order which he did not obey, and which resulted in ongoing scrutiny as we shopped.

Today, I was in the supermarket again, when I discovered a new poster erected in his honor. It said:

LOL.

I Too Can Blame George W. Bush for Everything

I regret to inform the world that Baby has died.

You might think that I fed him improperly, causing him to choke and develop pneumonia. Or you might think that I simply fed him the wrong sorts of food. Or maybe it had nothing to do with me, but the parents simply rejected him because he was diseased in the first place.

You might think that. But actually it was George W. Bush's fault.

Because George W. Bush blew up my house.

Despite the fact that Bush has been out of office for the last two and a half years...despite the fact that now that Obama holds office and we're supposed to blame him for everything...and despite the fact that I am virtually unknown among the US citizenry, let alone to the US government...despite all this, George W. Bush launched a major airstrike on my place of residence last evening, demolishing the building and killing Baby.

Spokesmen say the attacks are retaliation for my representing Libya in the Model Arab League in 2006 and for time spent in Yemen speaking Arabic in 2007. Spokesmen further cite my involvement in Cambodian expatriate life, as the local Western expat community is composed solely of fugitives, convicts, and pedophiles.

The missiles struck as I sat grading my papers last evening. They tore through my roof and demolished all four floors of the apartment complex in a fiery torrent of doom, leaving a nothing but a pile of smoldering rubble in their wake.

Somehow uninjured, I crawled out from the rubble, crying my horror and despair to whatever gods may be.

I called out to Baby, who had been asleep in his nesting box. But his terrified peeping did not return my frantic cries. For my baby bird, who brought me so much light and joy, lay crushed beneath the rocks.

He was laid to rest in a pot with a dead rose bush morning next.

Spokesmen say no other civilians were injured the attacks, presumably because they were out dealing drugs or in brothels. The landlady could not be reached for comment.

***

*Although this story is fiction, in no way shape or form should that detract from the underlying truth of this narrative.

The Save a Sparrow Campaign

I have very good news today.

News so awesome you will pass out with joy and happiness when I tell you...

....

....

....

....

....

Are you ready?

....

....

....

....

....

....

....

Today I am ... A MOMMA!

When I came home from work one afternoon, I found a little pink baby bird lying on my balcony. It looked so sad and dead...I prodded it with a knife, and it began rolling around and peeping.

I have no idea where the nest is, but I suspect it's in the space between the top of the balcony and my corrugated tin roof. No way was I climbing around trying to find out.

I week or two ago, I found an broken sparrow egg lying in the same place. The ants eventually ate it, and they were starting to gather around the baby when I found him lying there. I dusted him off and put him in a toilet-paper nest on the adjacent roof...but no one came for him. Soon the wind came and blew my makeshift nest into the gutter, and he lay there piteously on the blue tin roof with no one to love or care for him.

So I took him inside.

Clearly, Momma and Daddy are unfit to be parents. They built their nest in a bad place (prone to windy conditions that knock out eggs and babies) and don't know how to look after their young. They don't notice when their babies fall to the ground crying for help.

If they're not going to look after him, then I will.

Although I suspect I can't keep Baby alive for very long, I'll set up a page about baby sparrow care if he lives.

I've got a picture of him. You'd think his candid shots were too featherless and ugly if I tried to show you, so I made a sanitized one out of digital paint.

He's the cutest little baby I have ever laid eyes upon, and I love him forever.

Behold! The Dog

I was super-bored this weekend, so I made some pictures on my computer and thought I would share them.

You can look at them under the page "Behold! The Dog". I intend to update the page after I've gotten bored on future days.

Why It's Time to Leave the Neighborhood

To understand this story, you need to know that I live at the dead end of a very long, dark, and winding alleyway. The alleyway connects to a major road, along which lie the neighborhood garbage cans.

You also need to know that I live in a small foreign "ghetto" (read: overpriced island of non-Khmer speakers), and that I have many neighbors, including the British guy who lives on the opposite side of the courtyard from me.

I was coming home one night and was just opening the gate to my stairwell, when I was approached by my neighbor from the opposite side of the courtyard.

It was completely dark, mind you; he appeared out of the shadows and caught me by the shoulder. I turned to face him.

"If anyone asks you," he said, eyes darting, "you didn't see me putting any plastic bags in the garbage." He leaned forward intently, as if daring me to challenge his posture of menace. "Are you cool with that?"

I didn't bother to tell him that it was so dark I didn't even see him by the garbage cans, let alone make any note of it. If you're gonna commit a crime, don't give yourself away by being paranoid about it. Better yet, don't commit a crime in the first place, especially one that your neighbors have to cover up despite their knowing nothing about it.

Eventually, the guy disappeared from the neighborhood, and some new tenants moved into the apartment on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Although I still don't know what to make of this incident, I probably should have demanded a quantity of hush money from him.

The Sexist Airline Rant

When my computer died in April and I was too sick to get it fixed, I spent a lot of time watching CNN, which my TV seems to intercept for some reason. Annoyingly enough, the station runs commercials every ten minutes, and they are all the SAME commercials, too.

Besides CNN's own self-referential advertising, the commercials tend to be either Gulf Arab Oil Money promotions of the Gulf State portrayed, or else they are airline ads. Having listened to these ads in a comatose state (and consequently unable to change the channel) for many weeks in a row, my patience with them has worn thin. This is especially true for the airline ads. There are three airlines that advertise on CNN, and I hate each one.

THEIR ADS ARE SO OBNOXIOUS. For one thing, you are stuck listening to the same 3 airlines each advertise at least five times an hour. For another, they are blatantly sexist. THERE IS ONE AIRLINE IN PARTICULAR I AM THINKING OF. To find out which one, please view the embedded clip below (sorry it's so big. The producers want their airline to be noticed):

Imagine listening to this ad five times an hour for weeks on end. The theme song itself is enough to induce ire at this frequency (it starts off ALL Cathay-Pacific's ads, so I know when they're coming on). Don't even get me started on the psychopathic-looking businessman. And the GIRL: [unnatural pause] "How. Did. You. Know. ?." At least pick an actress who knows basic English and isn't just reciting memorized sounds.

Also annoying is Asiana Airlines' portrayal of "a beautiful journey":

And the word "beautiful" is emphasized by the image of a pretty, giggling Asian flight attendant.

Maybe I'm being overly irascible, but this is the sort of the thing you notice after hearing an ad so many times. I might add that such repetition of obnoxious music is really similar to a technique that's used on Guantanamo Bay detainees in order to extract information.

It also reveals CNN Asia's target audience. As near as I can tell, I'm supposed to be a wanna-be-successful international businessman with Yellow Fever who is in bad need of an ego massage by "subservient" Asian girls, AND whose hobbies include playing with pseudo-James-Bond-style electronics and pretty Asian twenty-something-or-younger call-girls. Am I right?

Like so many things here in South East Asia, it begs the question: Am I welcome on the airlines (or anywhere else) in this region as a highly unsuccessful white female?