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Why John Lennon and the Beatles wanted to "drop an H-Bomb" on the Philippines.

6/19/2018

Each year, millions of foreigners touch down in the Philippines. The vast majority have a great time, enjoying her beaches, islands, and warm hospitality. However, every once and a while, visitors have a less than glowing experience. Sometimes, it can turn downright awful - or even dangerous.

That was a case when a notable group came to the Philippine back in 1966, only to draw the ire of the nation and barely escape intact.

The visitors were young men from Liverpool, England who were in a band called “The Beatles” and this is their story.

The Beatles landed in Manila on July 6, 1966 in the midst of the Marcos regime, booked to play two concerts at Rizal Memorial Stadium as part of their world tour. Accustomed to VIP pampering, they were instead bullied into a car by airport authorities to go handle their visas, forced to leave their luggage on the tarmac.

“I hated the Philippines. We arrived there with thousands upon thousands of kids, with hundreds upon hundreds of policemen – and it was a little dodgy,”said drummer Ringo Star later.

The band members were escorted by the military to a press conference and then sequestered on a yacht in Manila Harbor, where they were told they couldn’t leave for 24 hours until the day of the show. They also weren’t prepared for the heat, humidity, squalor and abject chaos of the Philippines.

“It was really humid, it was Mosquito City, and we were all sweating and frightened. We had a whole row of cops with guns lining the deck around this cabin that we were in on the boat” said George Harrison.

The Beatles were not only worried about the “menacing military fellas” around them and their boorish treatment but concerned that the small pharmacy of narcotics in their suitcases had been discovered (they hadn’t.) But, things went from bad to worse when the greatest band in the world snubbed the First Lady, Imelda Marcos.

The First Lady had sent an invite to the band to join her at the Presidential Palace at 11 am the morning of their show, and then again for a luncheon at 3 pm. However, it seems that Paul, John, Ringo, and the rest of the band never got word of that invite. Their promoter, Ramon Ramos, didn’t pass on the invite to the band’s manager since he was worried they’d decline, in part because the band was slated to start their concert only an hour later, at 4pm.

However, it was big news to everyone else in Manila the next morning.

The Manila Sunday Times, local TV stations, and radio shows covered the snub of the First Lady in detail. The band’s manager, Brian Epstein, quickly scrambled to do some damage control, filming an apology for Chanel 5 in which he explained that the band hadn’t known about the invites. But it never aired, as the state-controlled media blacked out the broadcast.

Of course, Imelda Marcos was used to being treated with reverence and exaltation, not being stood up so rudely, and especially after she planned a grand 200-guest party just for the Beatle’s visit. There would be consequences to the Beatles’ bad etiquette, for certain.

First, the security detail that had been guarding the band suddenly walked away. After news of the no-show was disseminated by the media, the hotel where the band stayed was also surrounded by irate fans. Growing concerned for their safety, the band members hustled to leave the hotel, only to get yelled at by a line-up of angry staff, who cursed them out in Tagalog and English.

When the Beatles arrived at Manila International Airport, they found even more vicious demonstrators ready to antagonize them. As the Beatles made their way into the terminal, the situation turned violent, with the angry mob pushing, grabbing, and spitting on the band members and their entourage, even beating their road manager and a few others.

The only way the band escaped into the airport unharmed was by mixing in with a group of Filipino monks and nuns who happened to be walking in, too. Finally, the frantic band was able to check in and board their flight.

“When we got on the plane, we were all kissing the seats,” said Paul McCartney.

However, their adventure in the Philippines wasn’t over quite yet. The Beatles were waiting for the plane to take off when the door opened, and military police and officials boarded. They escorted the band’s managers off, who were scared they were going to be thrown in jail or even executed.

But it was just one last shakedown to see the Beatles off. The managers were forced to surrender all of the proceeds from the concert the night before to the tax authorities, leading John Lennon to later remark about the Philippines, “If we go back, it will be with an H-bomb. I won’t even fly over the place.”

-Norm :-)

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The UK's Best Cultural Events

6/18/2018

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When you visit a new destination, there are a few different ways to try to get to know it. You can go sightseeing and hit the top landmarks; you can explore aimlessly, with the hopes of finding a few hidden gem destinations that might not have been in the guide books; you can ask locals what they might recommend you do if you don’t want to be just another tourist. Any of these can give you a different sort of angle on the same place, and if you can fit in a little bit of each of them, you’ll have done well for yourself.

But if you really want to get a feel for the culture of a destination, you might want to try to do it via events. From sporting events to festivals, these kinds of things often showcase a lot of local tradition, and also invite the local people to act in the most natural (and fun-loving) way.

Naturally, if you’re looking to get to know the UK, you won’t be able to hit all of these events in one go. But if the idea of event-centric cultural exploration appeals, it’s certainly worth planning around one or two of them.

The Grand National

Really you could pick from three major horse racing events in the UK here: The Cheltenham Festival, the Grand National, and the Royal Ascot. But the Grand National may pack the best combination of good weather and festivity. Held every April near Liverpool, it’s a multi-day event at which spectators dress up (in traditionally gaudy-but-stylish horse racing attire), have a few drinks, and often place a few bets before enjoying the races. There’s just something quintessentially British about the whole affair.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show

A flower show might not sound like much, but the Chelsea area of London makes quite a big deal out of it. This year, for instance, 10 show gardens and 16 smaller gardens are on the menu. This is not a loud event or an over-the-top festival or anything like that, but it’s a nice chance to spend time out and about in London with a crowd of people enjoying the simple beauty of well-arranged garden. Sometimes, the queen even attends!

Summer Solstice

The Summer Solstice is effectively just the longest day (and shortest night) of the year, and is celebrated by different people in different ways all over the world. The UK has a particularly interesting Summer Solstice celebration, however, taking place at the famous monument of Stonehenge. Basically, there are certain places where you can stand at Stonehenge and see a particularly spectacular sunrise through the stones themselves, and over time this has led to the area becoming something of a pilgrimage destination for the northern solstice. The atmosphere is almost like that of a concert, with crowds of people hanging out, sipping beverages, lounging on picnic blankets, etc. - but there’s a spiritual element to it all.

Glastonbury Festival

The UK, as you might imagine, is home to dozens of different music and arts festivals, which are really the pinnacle of what we’d consider “cultural events.” But none can beat the Glastonbury Festival in Somerset. It’s a five-day series of performances, revolving largely around music but also including theatre, comedy, dance, and even circus shows. It’s one of those events that seems to get bigger and better every year, and it draws a huge crowd of locals and tourists alike.

Wimbledon

Wimbledon is the oldest and most prestigious tennis event in the world, according to one guide looking ahead to this summer’s tournament. This means that it effectively transcends its sport, such that while it’s primarily a tennis tournament, it has over time become a great deal more. This is for many one of the most undeniably delightful London experiences - an event full to bursting with tradition and history, where everyone is friendly, excited, and consciously thrilled to be there.

Belfast International Arts Festival

Many people forget to include Northern Ireland when talking about UK events, which is a shame because there’s a lot going on, particularly in Belfast. This particular festival is more or less just what it sounds like, featuring performing and visual art, dance, music, and more. It’s less of a giant get together than, say, Glastonbury, but it’s a very authentic occasion that will expose you to the passion that a place like Belfast has for the arts in general.

Bonfire Night

If you study your historical upstarts or you’re a fan of the film V For Vendetta, you probably know about Guy Fawkes, who famously tried to blow up the House of Lords in London in 1605. Bonfire Night essentially celebrates this semi-mythologized occasion with general revelry, often surrounding bonfires, torches, and/or fireworks displays. There are a lot of Bonfire Night celebrations around the UK, so this isn’t a single centralized event, but attending any one of them gives you a chance to partake in a specifically British holiday of sorts.

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Your June 2018 Postcard from Norm: Dying to be healthy.

6/17/2018

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When you run into expats abroad, who are usually grumpy old men, there’s one cardinal rule for interaction: never ask them how they’re doing.

With that simple question, you risk opening up the floodgates of a whinging and whining marathon where they tell you every intimate detail of their gout, varicose veins, or erectile dysfunction, all while gumming their scrambled eggs and sipping beer at 9:30 in the morning.

I’ve learned to avoid that question (and to avoid them) altogether because, to me, there’s nothing worse than when someone starts telling you about their health problems.

That being said, let me tell you about my recent health problems.

It started a week before Christmas, when I was so lightheaded and dizzy that I almost passed out every time I stood up. Everything I ate made me queasy. I was full after a few bites but my stomach felt bloated no matter how little I ate. I was completely sapped, like my energy dial had been turned from ten down to two. It felt like something inside of me was stealing my nutrition.

This isn’t unexpected in the Philippines. I've traveled to a lot of countries, but this is one of the filthiest. Don’t get me wrong, it’s also one of the best, but the lack of cleanliness I encounter on a daily basis would make a medieval peasant go, “That’s nasty.” It’s also hot and insufferably humid most of the year, essentially making it a big Petrie dish.

Still knocking me out after a few days, I visited a “reputable” doctor, who diagnosed that I had just a bad hangover (despite the fact that I hadn’t touched a drink.) A day later, I nearly fainted. I grabbed a taxi to the nearest Korean medical clinic where they did some tests, but found nothing. They did hook me up to an IV for an hour, which made me feel better for about twenty minutes and let me take little nap, but my malady didn’t go away.

Was it worms? Tapeworms are a common in the Philippines because of bad water.

I remember meeting these twins from England; really nice guys who were tall, strong and in good health. One of them told me that earlier that year, his brother had fallen ill with a stomach problem that wouldn’t go away, too.

In the end, the doctors realized it was a tapeworm. It had grown unchecked for so long in his stomach that they had to remove it surgically, cutting a hole in his belly and pulling it out. With his healthy twin brother watching (and videoing), the doctor removed a three-foot yellow tapeworm from the incision. Even the doctor started gagging and almost lost his lunch!

After that, there was no way they were going back to local Filipino food. So, their concerned mum in England sent a huge crate of canned, boxed, and non-perishable food, which cost a small fortune but kept them eating safely for six months.

I didn’t have the luxury of a pallet of food from home, but I did suspect that the Loch Ness monster was lurking in my gut.

Hoping it would pass soon, I stuck to my normal routine. Of course, I still had to work, but I’d need three or even four naps a day just to drag myself through.

I remember going to the gym and having difficulty making it up the two flights of stairs before even working out. My boxing trainer laughed at me and said that I always looked so tired.

Luckily, I had a trip scheduled to Thailand, where the medical care is first-class compared to the Philippines. There, I had high hopes as I booked my first appointment at the sparkling and modern Bangkok Hospital.

Over a three-week span, I think I went to Bangkok Hospital about fifteen times, as well as several other clinics and various pharmacies.

Staying at a condo near where my buddies Judd and Scott live, every morning I’d drag myself up to the street to get a motorcycle taxi, which zoomed me through traffic under the blistering sun, delivering me to the hospital’s gate sweating and even dizzier.

It became so routine that the taxi drivers would see me coming and spring into action, knowing exactly where I was going. When I returned to my condo, they’d give me a thumbs up or thumbs down, not out of concern but because they were taking bets if I’d make it to another day.

I started with a gastrointestinal specialist, but after a week of appointments and tests, they found nothing. So, I was referred to different departments, visiting specialists in Gastroenterology, Radiology, Haematology, Cardiology, Microbiology, and Neurology, where I consulted with doctors named Bundit Leetanapon, Thitma Vutivivatanakul, and Sompote Saelee.

Each day, the nurses made it a point to measure my height and weight (as if that changed overnight), take my blood pressure (that did), checked for a fever, and registered other vitals.

They also took blood; a lot of blood. Most days, I had fresh Band-Aids on the inside of my elbows or the back of my hands. I’d rip them off on the motorcycle taxi ride back home so that people didn’t think I was a junky. After a while, the nurses had to search for veins that hadn’t been tapped the day before.

In total, I estimate that they took a dozen blood tests, sometimes filling up two or even three vials.

In those dark weeks, I was subjected to more medical tests than I’ve had in the rest of my life combined. They took MRIs, chest x-rays, organ x-rays, antibody tests, glucose tests, hormone readings, and abdominal ultrasounds.

They counted my nitrogen, counted my testosterone levels (concluding that I’m somewhere between a prepubescent ballerina and the Hulk, but leaning more towards the former), and counted my white blood cells.

They poked, prodded, and did things to me that should require dinner and a movie first.

But the scariest of all was when they sent me to the basement of the hospital to the Medical Imaging Department, where I was given a CAT scan. For those of you who have never been through this, Computed Tomography scans your brain, providing a detailed map of any abnormalities.

It’s also an intensely frightening process, as they situate you on a conveyor belt that rolls into the bowels of a big machine. An arcane apparatus locked my head in place, making it impossible for me to move – or escape. There, a virtual prisoner in the hot, airless tube for almost an hour, I fought off panic—the most claustrophobic I've ever felt since I was locked in the trunk of a car while tripping on mushrooms back in the day (that's another story, altogether.)

To inject some much-needed levity into my days, I took selfies wearing the hospital gown and sent them to random people with no explanation, or invented a game show where I won prizes for correctly guessing the diseases of the other patients in the waiting room.

"Yes, I'll take elephantitus for $400 please, Alex.”

Of course, I had to pay handsomely for this privilege of being a human lab rat. After each visit, they had an attendant walk me down to the billing department and supervise the transaction, making sure I paid without running out the front door (which definitely crossed my mind.)

I visited the ATM every day, taking out my daily limit to pay off bills for 4,500 Baht, 9,200 Baht, and even 16,500 Baht. After a while, I didn’t even bother checking the statements for accuracy, just forking over all the Thai Baht notes in my pocket.

(I’m looking through this stack of bills now and see that they once included a Midwifery Charge!)

While even a fraction of these hospital visits would bankrupt me in the U.S., the total for all of these appointments, tests, procedures, and medications was $3,600 - a testament to the Thai healthcare system (and how bad ours is in the U.S.).

So, what was the result? After a forest of paperwork, lab results, and consultation records, they still couldn’t find anything conclusive.

I did learn that I had no gross effusion or pneumothorax, normal echogenicity of the liver parenchyma without focal lesion, and no intrahepatic or extrahepatic bile duct dilation was detected.

It was also told that my gallbladder is unremarkable, to which I took great personal offense. (“F you! YOUR gallbladder is unremarkable!”)

If you think it’s hard to decipher medical-speak, try doing it in Thai! So, it was understandble if a few mistakes were made, like when they listed my ethnicity as Africa-American at one point, or when they documented my symptoms as “Dizziness and giddiness.”

But they still never found out what the hell was wrong with me.

That didn’t stop me from being on a roller coaster of anticipation and stress as I waited for the outcome of the next test, and then the next, and another.

Did I have an ulcer? I was sure of it - until the test results came back negative. But then it must be Lyme Disease, right? It took two weeks to get those results back, but they were inconclusive. Cancer? It must be cancer. Nope. A brain tumor? Nada. Leukemia? Next, please. How about HIV? Oh my God, was I dying of AIDS?

I tried to recall every suspect woman, shared needle, and rhesus monkey from my checkered past. But, of course, the test came back negative.

Each night when I got home from the hospital, I’d Google the disease de jour that I was certain afflicted me. I’d make mental allowances for how my life would change, researching treatment options and reading blogs from support groups.

"Hi, I'm Norm, and I'm living with Lou Gehrig's Disease. Well, no, I don't actually have it yet, but one can really never get started too soon. Now, are those donuts free?"

This may sound ridiculous in retrospect, but I only knew that something was very wrong with me.

Was it all in my head? What if I was, in fact, going insane? I mean, I know I’m crazy, but maybe I was crazy-crazy?

I tried to will it away, think positive, and just brush it off, but that was as effective as trying to heal a broken arm with your mind.

I reached the fragile and frazzled state where I actually wanted something to come up positive in these tests, just so that I could finally know what I was up against. I remember being strangely disappointed when yet another doctor sat me down and explained that everything looked normal.

I just wanted it to end, but was resigned that this is how I might feel the rest of my life. To reconcile my karma with the Gods, I started spraying donations to various charities, as if that would help. I was desperate.

Soon, my time in Thailand was up, and I boarded my flight back to the Philippines no wiser and with little hope.

Soon, I was back in my adopted hometown of Dumaguete, back in my routine of four naps a day just to get through work, avoiding the gym less someone made fun of me for looking so tired.

One evening, I sat down at an outdoor restaurant overlooking the ocean for some dinner. There was an old, cantankerous expat sitting next to me, a grizzled former logger from Canada who looked just a shade too ugly to play Charles Bukowski in a movie.

I tried to avoid eye contact. But, when he started complaining about the heat in my general direction, I was too exhausted to protest. It turns out, he’d lived in the Philippines for decades. Sure enough, he soon started a litany of complaints about his health.

“Every year, it’s like this,” he said sipping his beer and holding his distended stomach. “Too tired to leave the house. And don’t want to eat for months. There’s something in the air, or maybe the water. An amoeba, I think. I once knew a Swiss doctor in the ‘80s who carried his own antibiotics…”

“Wait, what? You said your stomach hurts?”

“Bloated,” he said, flagging down the waitress to order another beer.

He went on to describe his symptoms, which were down to the very one that I’d been experiencing for four months.

Son of a bitch – it was a stomach thing, just like I thought, despite the fact that all of the doctors found nothing. But while I was ready to fly back to Thailand and demand my money back, something miraculous happened: I started to feel better.

Gradually and mercilessly, without any more medications or hospital visits, I began to recover.

The next week, I only felt dizzy a few times, and my energy started climbing. The week after that, I woke up one day and felt completely like myself.

I was back, baby! My sky was blue again.

No longer was I dying to be healthy.

So, what's the moral of this story? That health is precious? To count your blessings? That you don't know what ya got 'til it's gone?

Nah, nothing that cliche.

The only thing I took out of this whole experience is that whenever you run into expats, who are usually disheveled and grumpy old men, it always pays to ask them how they’re doing.

-Norm :-)

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Spade, Bourdain; +369

6/9/2018

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In the time between Kate Spade’s suicide on June 5 and Anthony Bourdain taking his own life only three days later, 369 others may have committed suicide in the U.S. if statistics hold true.

The high-profile tragedies of Spade and Bourdain profoundly affected many of us, as evidenced by how we pay our condolences, open up about our own lives, and renew the mental health discussion on Facebook and elsewhere. That’s understandable, as these people were stars and icons.

But you didn’t really know them, and any relationship you had with their public persona was one-sided.

So, I wanted to remind people that in real life, mental health and suicide often don’t "look" as sexy and successful as Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain.

Instead, people who end up committing suicide may be awkward and unpopular; the overweight child eating lunch by him or herself; the employee that no one talks to because they’re a little weird; the housewife who is the subject of gossip. Instead of running billion-dollar fashion empires or exploring the world through our television sets, people who attempt to end their own lives probably are a lot more like the rest of us.

Furthermore, pain, isolation, and illness often make people act differently, look not so great, and even land on the streets, jobless, or addicted.

Would you reach out to Spade and Bourdain if that was their situation, instead of being rich and famous stars? Or, would you walk right by them on the street if they asked you for some spare change or begged a kind word?

One of the hardest things in the world is to give compassion to someone who doesn’t look or act like they deserve it. But we have the opportunity to do just that every day, and it may help someone stay with us.

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, 123 people on average commit suicide every day in the U.S., and countless hundreds or thousands more around the world. In fact, suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S., with nearly 50,000 each year.

Remember also that for every suicide that ends in death, there are 25 attempts. A 2016 survey by the National Survey of Drug Use and Mental Health found that every year, 0.5 percent of U.S. adults make at least one suicide attempt, which adds up to about 1.3 million people.

So, I urge you not just to mourn Spade and Bourdain, but to remember the 369 others who commit suicide every 36 hours on average in the U.S., and to reach out to those who are struggling right now who you do know and who are in your life.

- Norm :-)

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Why John Lennon and the Beatles wanted to "drop an H-Bomb" on the Philippines.

The UK's Best Cultural Events

Your June 2018 Postcard from Norm: Dying to be healthy.

Spade, Bourdain; +369

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