Future fertilizer, a slow fade out.
or perhaps get a ‘Worlds Best Dad’ coffee mug.
Can I winge for a moment? Don’t worry, I’m already playing the world’s smallest violin symphony in the background. Picture me sitting cross legged on a hard mattress in Saigon, lit by one flickering fluorescent bulb and the blue glow of my laptop, while the apartment across the alley echoes with the rhythmic tones of a jackhammer solo. Mood lighting and ambiance, baby.
I’ve been living out of a backpack for six months now, hopping between hotels and Airbnbs in Thailand and Vietnam. I know, I know, shut your fucking mouth Moyer it sounds dreamy. A nomad life, palm trees, cheap banh mi, a constant whiff of fish sauce in the air. But even paradise starts to itch when you’re living in someone else’s curated IKEA fantasy and wondering where the hell your favorite coffee mug is.
See, in the past decade I’ve gone soft. A real sucker for a comfy chair, a cluttered bookshelf, and the rhythmic crackle of a needle dropping on a vinyl record. I’ve become… domestic. I used to be the guy who only used his apartment as a glorified charging station. Sleep, shower, strategic bathroom time. Maybe a little hanky panky. Rinse and repeat. Public bathrooms once terrified me now I’d pay good money to poop in peace without the sound of concrete being pulverized into powder outside my window.
The current Airbnb in Ho Chi Minh City? It’s like living in the middle of a city wide renovation reality show. Nonstop hammering, grinding, drilling daylight to dusk. One site wraps, another starts the next day like it’s a relay race. It’s less “white noise” and more “auditory trauma.” And sure, I could go work from a cute café filled with soft jazz and frothy lattes and ceramic cup clinks. But what if I just want to sit in silence, listen to NTS Radio, and write this damn Substack for you? Is that so wrong?
Today (June 18th), I’m heading to Bangkok. A little art, a little tattoo, a few friends, and eventually, a much needed beach break. When I return to Vietnam, I plan to start my hunt for something more permanent. A place that feels like mine. A soft landing pad. A damn basecamp.
Everyone from the TEFL program I was in? They’ve got jobs. They’ve got leases. They’re adulting. Meanwhile, I’m still living out of packing cubes. The pressure isn’t loud, but it’s there soft and persistent, like a reminder you forgot something important. Still, I’m on schedule. I told myself mid July. I’m holding that line. Even though a part of me small, sparkly, and slightly delusional still wants to see if I can make this freelance/creative/weird internet niche life happen. I haven’t even tried yet.
The angel on my shoulder (white linen, calm voice, probably drinks almond milk lattes) says: “Take a part time teaching gig, get the visa, build your base, then hustle creatively on the side.” It’s a plan. It’s doable. I think. Maybe.
Currently writing this from the HCMC international airport, by the way. Did you know you need a printed boarding pass to get through immigration here? Because I sure as hell didn’t. I did the whole line, the whole wait, just to get turned back like a kid trying to sneak into an R-rated movie with a fake ID. Luckily, I’ve leaned into my inner old man peed three times before leaving the house, showed up 3.5 hours early. Plenty of time to watch fellow travelers unravel in real time.
When I get travel weary, I replay that old Louis CK bit about the miracle of flight how we’re literally hurling through the sky in a chair. And it’s true. I’m annoyed, yes. But I’m also flying between cultures, currencies, and cuisines. That’s still wild.
Speaking of travel, here’s a small world gem: one of the pirates I’ve befriended here in Saigon, JGG Kiwi, sun drenched skin, raspy laugh has a friend who lived in Tokyo at the same time I did. Working in the very same hostess club. What. Are. The. Odds.
P has been swapping photos, memories, fragments of nightlife under Tokyo’s neon canopy. The connection isn’t solid yet, but there’s a chance we crossed paths maybe at a basement rave where the bass made your ribcage tremble, or maybe I handed them popcorn dipped in Kewpie mayo and soy sauce (sounds horrifying, tastes amazing). I didn’t hang with many foreigners back then. The women were tired and trying to get out. The dudes were… dudes. I was just a shitty waiter with a dream and a canon AE1 camera. But I did have one good mate: Chris from Adelaide. ’95/’96. If you know him, send him this. I’d love to reconnect.
Now. Shift for something completely different. Bear with me.
I’m 52. Unmarried. No kids. Living what some might call the dream low commitment, high adventure, questionably funded. Not rich, not retirement ready, but also not tied down. Imagine seven more birthdays, seven more summers, seven more Christmas’s and that is not even promised.
THE BONUS…….. I look 38, thank you to my grandparents DNA.
But here’s the thing: I do not want to grow old in the traditional sense. I don’t want a slow decline into pill organizers and rented walkers. I don’t want to be “cared for.” I spent a decade caring for my grandparents appointments, meds, Friday fish fries. I loved them fiercely. But I don’t have someone like that in my life. And frankly, I don’t want to be someone’s burden.
So I came up with a plan. A romantic, slightly unhinged, totally illegal plan.
At 60, I disappear into the northern hills of Laos. I spend the year before making contacts, earning trust, learning the back roads. Then I find an opium den. Give them enough cash to keep my pipe lit, my belly fed, and my bed warm. Fade out gently, wrapped in silk robes and the scent of smoked poppy.
Why opium? Because it’s romantic. I’ve never done it. I’m scared of it, honestly. My all or nothing brain would go all in. But if I wait till I’m 60 when the fire is flickering but still lit it feels… poetic.
Problem is, opium dens aren’t really a thing anymore. I started researching, and it turns out the whole smoky, lantern-lit fantasy? Dead. Gone. Gentrified out of existence. I was gutted. My entire endgame, shattered like a dropped bowl of pho.
So I pivoted.
Everyone’s doing Ayahuasca retreats in South America, right? So why not open a luxury opium retreat in the Golden Triangle? A five day, ultra exclusive, insanely art directed experience that feels like stepping into a Wong Kar Wai dream sequence. Private jungle cabanas. Five star chefs (though no one eats). Ethereal caretakers to keep your pipe lit and your vibe blissfully horizontal. No other guests in sight. Just you, the jungle, the monkeys, and the slow, delicious blur between waking and sleep.
It’s therapy meets fantasy meets existential surrender. IYKYK.
Invest now. It’s a growth market. Or at least, a very graceful way to check out. Imagine seven more birthdays, seven more summers, seven more Christmas’s that’s it. I’m not even promised that.
Still, I’m headed to Bangkok. And we all know what can happen in Bangkok…
SOOOO, Landed in BKK, got on the sky train, and there was this glimmer of hope.
Wrap It Up, Moyer
So here I am somewhere still chasing the dream, or at least trying to keep the WiFi signal strong enough to stream a little NTS and spill my guts to you beautiful strangers on the internet.
Maybe I’ll end up with a respectable teaching job, a quiet apartment with a balcony and a bird named Dave. Maybe I’ll build a pop up opium fantasy camp in the hills and retire as Southeast Asia’s most dramatic entrepreneur. Or maybe I’ll just keep floating half grateful, half delirious between time zones, hoping the next Airbnb has decent pillows and fewer power tools.
Whatever happens, I’ll keep showing up here. Oversharing.
Rambling.
Dreaming big.
Craving silence and dipping sauce in equal measure.
Catch you on the next leg.
Maybe I’ll have a tan. Maybe I’ll have a tattoo.
Maybe I’ll have a clue.
But probably just another story.
LOVE & LIGHT;
MM
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