I'm totally fucked.

Where do I even start?

There’s been a lot going on inside my head lately—like, squirrel on a Guatemalan light roast french press levels of mental activity. A tsunami of external and internal stimuli. Three weeks of living the chill beach life in Southern Thailand had me floating. It was lovely, serene, slightly surreal. And then—it wasn’t.

My friend BR flew in from the States and slid right into that laid-back vibe like it was tailored for him. He’s even considering buying a condo there (he’s still there as I write this). But I was three weeks ahead of him in the hammock-life timeline. He could sense my restlessness. The squirrel brain was strong. Ants in my pants, vibes in disarray. I needed to move.

Even though he’d only just arrived, I had to get back to the city. Bangkok was calling. And in an unprompted moment of clarity, he told me, “You don’t need to take care of me. I’ve got this.” I mean, we’re at that age where conversations revolve around cracking knees, our latest napping techniques, and whether or not we’ve finally found a good dentist. It's all very sexy.

Travel in Thailand is a breeze. You can take a 10-hour overnight train for about twenty bucks, or hop on a 90-minute flight for fifty. I put my tray table in the upright position and joyfully threw myself into the chaos of Bangkok the very next day.

The public transportation here? I love it. The BTS and MRT are next-level—clean, efficient, and affordable. You can get almost anywhere from the airports. DMK (the domestic one) is a little trickier, but doable with a mix of optimism and patience. The views from the skytrain still get me. I never get tired of watching Bangkok’s sprawl—ancient neighborhoods colliding with glass skyscrapers that rise like mutant bamboo. It’s wild. Beautiful. A little tragic. Like a city trying on a costume that doesn’t quite fit.

I lived in Bangkok from 2005 to 2008, and wow… the changes. Chinatown used to be a quiet neighborhood where only the adventurous or slightly unhinged foreigners would roam. My friend Jim has lived there for over 20 years—it’s where we’d walk down the middle of the street at 8 PM and see maybe 10 stray cats and a confused noodle vendor. Now? It’s basically Vegas. Tour buses, blinking lights, tuk-tuks zipping around like caffeinated hornets, and dim sum joints filled with tourists and their “dates.” Sometimes the “date” even brings her entire family, which feels like an oddly wholesome twist in an otherwise transactional scenario.

It did my head in.

I don’t drink, I don’t smoke weed anymore, and I’m not in the business of hiring freelancers (if you catch my drift), so a lot of the nightlife here just isn’t for me. The places I once knew as quiet, dusty gems are now selfie traps. I get it. Time moves on. But damn.

I’m staying across the river now, in a local area far from the chaos. I got introduced to this place through RB, a guy I met via Jim. We hit it off. Fellow escapee—from the UK, while I’ve been evading the wreckage of the US. RB is friends with Charlee, an older Thai artist who was once at the top of his game—a renaissance man: TV actor, radio host, painter. He helped put Thai contemporary art on the map.

In the ’90s, Charlee opened this 11-room guesthouse we’re now in. It also houses a few art studios. But it’s… well, faded. It hasn’t seen much life in a decade.

RB, Jim, and I have unofficially taken it upon ourselves to help Charlee get this place back on the map. RB’s leading the charge, living here full-time. It's a big undertaking—but necessary. Charlee needs it.

He used to travel the world with gallery shows in London, Paris, L.A. Now he mostly sits on the front porch scrolling on his phone, chatting with a few local aunties about who knows what. There’s a heaviness about him—like watching a once-glorious ship rusting in the harbor. I make a point to stop and say hi, to sit with him for a few minutes, to watch the motorbikes fly by together.

His art fills the rooms, collecting dust. His once-buzzing recording room—yes, an actual room for his remote radio shows—is like a time capsule. Old tape decks, microphones, cables, and vinyl. My analog-loving heart almost burst.

And yet… it’s all just sitting there.

A man with that much history, that much impact, now mostly invisible. He didn’t grow up with smartphones and TikTok and whatever new platform is making us dumber and lonelier today. He’s a relic. No legacy. No engagement. Just fading.

And honestly? As a card-carrying member of Gen X… I feel that. We were born at such a weird moment in time. You know what I mean if you’ve been here before. We were raised by folks who weren’t sure what they were doing—there were literal TV commercials asking, “Do you know where your children are?” That tells you everything.

We were feral. Raised by after-school specials, punk rock, and neglect. Caught between the bootstrap ‘Merica hustle and day-glo rebellion. Sprinkle in some DIY ethics and a general mistrust of authority—and poof! Gen X.

Part of why I write this blog is to unload the thoughts bouncing around my skull. Another part is to leave something behind. We don’t really use storytelling as a rite of passage anymore. And seeing as I’m the last twig on the Moyer family tree—no kids, no next generation—I figure, here you go. Enjoy the nonsense.

The other day, I wandered through one of the new hip districts by the river. Fancy galleries, curated boutiques, artisanal coffee that costs more than my lunch. The place was packed—mostly young Korean and Japanese tourists. They had style for days, rad hair, cool clothes. Meanwhile, I was standing on the corner, tattooed and sweating, eating cut watermelon out of a bag. If there were subtitles, they’d be whispering, “Who’s that weird old guy?”

I felt irrelevant. Old. Like I’d wandered into someone else’s city. A beta version of myself glitching through someone else’s simulation.

And then my brain did what it does—it spiraled.

I remembered how low I got over the past eighteen months. I was in a dark, dark place. Daily suicidal ideation. Hourly, even. What pulled me out? Camus. Absurdist philosophy. That and a helpful daily dose of ketamine.

Seriously.

Absurdism saved me. The idea that life is meaningless, and yet we keep going anyway? There was freedom in that. So I made a choice: I’m now just a character in an absurdist anime/simulation. Not the main character—more like comic relief. The Kramer of the story. The dude who pops in, says something weird, and disappears again. Honestly, it's working for me.

It’s 1:30 PM. Maybe I’ll get some soup, find the Thai soup nazi. Maybe find a cigar shop. Maybe I’ll find a story or slide out to the patio and startle Charlee. Ha.

This shift in perspective has given me some weirdly creative bursts—short film ideas, new ways to frame the world around me. This character I’m playing is still new, still forming. My old OS hasn’t fully updated, but it’s getting there. I often find myself asking, “What the actual fuck am I doing?” But I think that’s normal these days.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about my dog, Sihlas. How I worked through (okay, mostly worked through) my abandonment issues, only to turn around and leave him. He’s with a beautiful family now, being spoiled and loved in a way I couldn’t have managed. Toward the end, we’ld go pheasant hunting and 30 minutes in, I’d just want to go home. Our adventures were fewer, shorter. I loved him. Still do.

Sihlas, spoiled and happy with his new family.

And I think about the woman I loved, more importantly, loved me—how she gave everything to help me through the darkness, and how I wasn’t able to be present for it. For her. I was lost. Drowning in thoughts of disappearing. It was a dark, heavy and thankless task on her part, she deserved better.

But here I am.

Still here. Still seeking, searching, sliding into absurd situations with my ears and eyes wide open, like a kid seeing everything for the first time.

And that’s something.

Love & Light

MM

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I made this while chilling in the South of Thailand.