Because whiskey makes me a drama queen and rum just makes me tired. . . .

Some of you may remember the epic suckiness of my New Year's Eve last year. It sucked on an enormous scale, comparable only to maybe Chernobyl or similar. As Bart Simpson (with some editing) said, "I didn't know it was physically possible, but it both sucked AND blew at the same time." The new girlfriend of a guy I had dated FOR LIKE 5 MINUTES got her panties in a wad over my presence, and I got left in downtown Santa Cruz. Alone. And completely smashed, natch. It was what is commonly known as awful, horrible, depressing, and sad.

AND THIS YEAR TOTALLY MADE UP FOR IT.

I made a last-minute decision to get the hell off the farm, and went down to Ko Samui in the south of Thailand, where my old buddy Graeme, currently nicknamed Ye Olde Graeme because he just turned 34 and I'm sorry, but that's old to me, was on vacay with some Olde English buddies. It was an epic 24-hour journey by bus with fellow American teacher Kristin, nicknamed Belinda because Graeme could never remember her name and now you know I struggle to call her by her real name. Thankfully at our most lost point some college-age kids rescued us. They really did save us, as in I'd probably be in Burma or Malaysia right now if they hadn't taken us under their collective English-speaking wings. In the process they took us to an amazing temple in Nakonsri Thammarat (approximate spelling there), which has a steeple-type thing made of real gold which allegedly does not cast a shadow. I'll believe that when I see it, which I didn't get to, it being cloudy that day. But it was a gorgeous temple, with hundreds of bells attached to the terrace near the steeple that rang constantly- discordant but beautiful.

After arriving on Samui we speed-boated across to Ko Pha Ngan, which is pronounced pon-yawn and, no, I don't know why they spelled it to look like pa-n-gone. But I don't really care because Pha Ngan is the place I want to spend New Year's Eve for the rest of my life, or at least until am completely bedridden by the cirrhosis of the liver that will surely strike me if I spend that much time there. Picture thousands of people, from every country and ethnicity imaginable, dancing, talking, drinking, and shooting off fireworks on a wide, curved, sandy beach. Ringed with bars.

And best yet, those bars all serve JAGER!! I hadn't spotted my drink of choice yet in Thailand, even in massive liquor stores, so I was pretty darn excited when I discovered that, not only did all the bars offer Jager shots, none of my companions had ever drank it so I got to introduce them to the joy that is a Jager shot chased with a light beer.

I got maybe a little too excited about that for my own good.

Found some Aussies, or maybe they were Kiwis, to kiss at midnight. Not alone, Kristin helped. Good times. Then we drank some more, and danced some more, and after that it gets a little hazy. The next thing I clearly remember I was trying to call someone with the crumpled wad of money from my pocket. Unsure who I was calling, where my phone went, or why I thought money might substitute.

Round about 8 am the party pretty much died. . .and by died I mean everyone suddenly dropped in their tracks, having collectively reached the point at which no amount of drugs or alcohol can keep you awake. I caught a ferry back across to Samui and went to sleep. And no, Mother, I did not do any drugs because I don't ingest things unless I know precisely what is in them. You never know when a tomato might sneak up on you.

The rest of the weekend passed exactly how all weekends should pass- broiling like rotisserie chickens by day, drinking in funky beachfront bars by night. Kristin had to teach on Wednesday, so she took a bus back on Monday, which meant, although sad she was leaving, I had a nearly-beach-front bungalow to myself. Good times. Met lots of nice people, although relations with Western menfolk can be strained as nearly all of them have picked up a Thai girlfriend somewhere, and Thai girlfriends are not above making death threats to all Western girls in the general vicinity of their men. Thai women and Western women have an odd relationship, one that is not entirely amicable. A lot of Western women look at Thai women as seductresses, exotic temptresses that seduce all their men away with mysterious and intimidating sexual power. Thai women see in Westerners the women their man will most likely leave them to marry. Obviously, this is a ludicrously broad generalization, but in many instances it's held up.

But I don't really mind because the last thing I want right now is some kind of romantic entanglement. Boys are all well and good, don't get me wrong. You KNOW I love me some man candy. But currently every spare brain cell I have is occupied with the 600-odd students I am trying to keep straight and keep under control and oh, yeah, teach English.

Came home by bus, again, on Wednesday which meant I arrived back in Rayong on Thursday morning. I was surprised by how much I looked forward to getting home, and surprised how Rayong had, in my head at least, become "home."

Back at school today, back to the daily grind. One nice thing about teaching is that no two days are ever, EVER, exactly alike. Or even somewhat alike. It's hard work, but it definitely isn't boring.

P.S. They showed a DVD of "King Kong" on the bus back from Samui. You gotta love a country that shows illegal pirated DVDs of new releases on their overnight buses.

P.P.S. On New Year's Day I refused to get out of bed. As part of his many creative tactics to get me moving, Graeme dumped the contents of my (large) black suede hobo bag onto the floor. Succeeded in getting me out of bed, but unfortunately my newly usable camera was dumped along with everything else, and now refuses to work. It doesn't appear to be cracked so I'm hoping I can figure out what is wrong, but that means no pictures, again, for a little while. Don't blame me, blame the old bald English dude.