Coming from East Timor, I have a layover in Indonesia for a night and a day. That girl in Brunei says Jakarta's the place to be, so let's give it a once-over. Unfortunately for her and all her countrymen, I've got a bad case of the grumps.

First I have to transfer at Denpasar airport in Bali, where they make me pick up my baggage to carry through. On top of that they won't let me check it for some reason, so off I go carrying my hulking backpack through no less than 3 security checkpoints. Why they have so many is a mystery, as one security officer doesn't even look up from her texting as my stuff goes through the metal detector.

However, at the last security point my bag does get stopped. After all this baggage and security nonsense I'm running very late for my flight, which paradoxically makes me less inclined to be cooperative. The gentleman in charge has me put the backpack through again, and sure enough stops it once more. The culprit: my tiny Leatherman Micra, which normally is safely stowed in my checked luggage. They point its shape out to me on the x-ray and ask if I recognize it. I'm late and getting pissed off, so I claim ignorance. If you G-Men want my adorable little multitool, you're going to have to work for it.

After putting my pack through yet again, the man finally starts rummaging through the pockets. The thing is, I haven't hidden it; the Leatherman is simply floating around in the front pocket, but for some reason this guy never thinks to try the zipper staring him in the face. They run the bag through 2 more times, each time pulling out more of my stuff from the main pouch and setting it aside, and each time neglecting that front pocket. Finally, an announcement from my airline starts calling for people to board for Jakarta. I swear loud and desperate enough for the security guy to hear, and at last he relents. Defeated, he zips my shit back up, Leatherman untouched. That's right System, I win. I should do a little terrorism just to spite you. But I won't, because that's a serious issue with a lot of facets and I shouldn't joke about it so flippantly.

Now I'm at maximum-grump, plus my mp3 player won't charge so for the whole flight I'm left to just read Bukowski and practice my misanthropy. When we touch down, a little girl is in the aisle next to me, with tears in her eyes for some unknown reason. Good, I think, misanthropically.

I wait for the bus downtown to Blok M, backpacker central. The bus is full 3 times in a row as it comes by, and when I do finally manage to get on I ride it too far, missing my stop. I pay for a motorcycle to take me the rest of the way, and meet a couple Norwegian girls wielding a Lonely Planet and looking for a place to stay. They let me tag along, and together we find a place that has a couple rooms left for $13 apiece. I consider asking them if they want to split a big room with me and save money, but after they make a comment about how the completely fine accommodations at this hotel are the worst they've ever stayed in, it's apparent they're not ready to go full Into the Wild just yet.

I unload my backpack, collapse onto the bed and try to think positive, but it's no use. I'm tired of it. The same pregnant dogs and cats everywhere, the same small talk locals make while trying to rip you off, the same broken glass on top of the walls. Everyone thinking I'm rich because I'm white, and the guilty sense of entitlement when I think anything negative ever. The constant irritation of getting in a taxi and not being able to trust the company, the meter, or the driver who never seems to know their city's own goddamn landmarks. I'm tired of not having had a solid bowel movement in 4 months. Tired of all these old geezers growing out their disgusting mole hairs. Tired of having to assume anyone who talks to me after sundown is a prostitute. The blood-stained towels and sheets. The lizards on the walls. And is it just me, or do all their cell phone ringtones sound like the theme to The Deer Hunter? I'm just so tired. And there's that sense of guilt flooding in. It's all just a vacation, really. Get over yourself. At least the weather's nice. It's not like the sun is our constant enemy.

There's a group of backpackers from all over Europe drinking outside the hotel, so I join them for a few beers. A couple French guys break off for dinner, and ask if I'd like to join. I say sure. For some reason I tell them they don't have to speak English on my account, because I'm kind of drunk and I've seen Amelie a couple times, so I'm basically fluent in their mother tongue. We eat. After an hour, it turns out that I in fact do not speak, nor understand, the French language. I pretend this is not the case for a good hour before we adjourn back to the hotel. More beers in pretend-and-nod-along-French, then bed. Is this a vacation? Is this how my brain wants me to relax? It doesn't feel like it.

With the rising sun comes a renewed sense of drive and optimism, but then a renewed sense of ennui to cancel that right the fuck out. I don't particularly want to go anywhere, so I stay in past checkout watching stand-up comedy on my netbook and then walk to a pancake joint.

I buy a new toothbrush so I can feel productive (not at the pancake place, that'd be weird), and when I return to the hotel the guy very rightly points out that it's past checkout, so I need to pay more. Unfortunately for him, he's speaking to the Emperor of Frowns right now, so I'm gonna feel compelled to make that way more difficult than you ever wanted this business transaction to be. Never Back Down, son.

In the end, he's trying to charge me for a whole extra night, even though he's got a sign that says it's supposed to be 50% for overstaying. So I win, with him reinforcing the sort of shady shit that put me in this mood. And all I needed to do to avoid this was check out and take my backpack to the pancake house in the first place, since that's pretty much all I did with my day. Whoops.

I get a taxi to the airport, which takes a long time to show up, and then an even longer time to get to the terminal. Jakarta traffic is slower than a sloth riding a turtle in a world made of molasses, and yes I am basing that off my experience of one day. The long ride gives me some time to observe and reflect, and most importantly judge, my Jakarta experience. The city seems halfway on the sleaze scale between Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, and maybe deserves a second look. Putting down my Grump Goggles for a second, the city seems like it's got a unique life of its own, and the people so far have mostly been lovely. In fact, in just my brief time I received multiple CouchSurfing messages from Indonesian strangers asking if I wanted to hang out or chat, just like Puspita back in East Timor. Of course, in between the time of me going there and then writing this I've seen the documentary The Act of Killing, so...let's just say they've got some shit to work out.

The plane is delayed, and then delayed again after we board. At this point, I'm feeling worse for my CoushSurfing host in Singapore, Malcolm, who is presumably waiting up for me.

The plane gets into Singapore around midnight, then baggage takes another half hour to come out. Trains have long stopped running, so I find a pay phone to call Malcolm, who very reasonably suggests I get a taxi. This very reasonable taxi to Bedok ends up costing 25 bucks, which in my current delicate state sounds goddamn insane. I flip my frigging lid on this guy, convinced the meter was running fast or somesuch, but he keeps very reasonably pointing to a sign in his cab that says night-time rides cost an extra 50 percent. I'm so mad, I storm off forgetting my bag in the trunk until the driver I just cussed out reminds me, forcing me into the awkward position of continuing to frown and act as if him giving me my bags is a further inconvenience that he is using to spite me.

Malcolm, who I later find out had been waiting over an hour for me at the train station until it closed, lets me into the apartment he shares with his family. He's lovely, they're lovely, blah blah blah. Nice people, what's their deal. Really, I'm extremely gracious to him for opening his home to me. Time for a chill pill. Nay - a chill suppository. A chill IV drip. Need to stop trying to fight random service industry workers. Civilization is what I need, and the price of that taxi definitely smacked of civilization.

The morning brings riches indeed. Malcolm has taken me to a hawker food court.

It may not look like it, but that picture is why people should come to Singapore: the food scene will blow your tits off. I try "Singapore pad thai" as Malcolm calls it, and he gets chicken fried rice. Both are obscenely good.

My enthusiasm must be written all over my face, because Malcolm comments with a smile, "We'll probably be eating most of your time here!" He tells me about how the government cracked down on the old style of food cart, moving them all into these food malls where they must also secure licenses and face further competition to up their game. I can't speak as to what their food traditions were before, but they're blowing me away now. Something about the confluence of Chinese, Southeast Asian, and Indian immigrants in Singapore has made this country extremely racist (did I not mention that?), and extremely open to delicious fusion recipes.

We finish the meal with some coffees (I'm sorry, "kopi"), served hyper-sweetened with condensed milk like in Vietnam. Malcolm informs me in the future to make sure to order "Kopi C" or "Kopi O", as these are less sweetened versions for dainty Western palates like mine. Apparently Singaporeans take their coffee pretty seriously, with an entire lexicon to match. Malcolm also picks up a soya milk with tapioca pearls, which is whatever. Can't really go wrong there.

So after we eat, we- alright, I tried to put this off as long as I could. There's nothing to fucking do in Singapore. Remember when I said 3 paragraphs ago that people should come to Singapore for the food? That is literally the only reason anyone should ever come to Singapore. Don't get me wrong, the food will make you want to call your parents for the first time in years to thank them for that one act of lovemaking that led to this meal, but Singapore ain't got nothing else going on. When Malcolm said we'd be eating most of our time here, he was making the best and only itinerary possible.

William Gibson has conveniently already summed this position up in his landmark Wired article Disneyland with The Death Penalty. While Gibson needn't have been so alarmist (I gleefully point out every bit of illegal gum stuck to the sidewalks, to which Malcolm less gleefully muses how he has to hear about the fucking gum from every foreigner he hosts), he wasn't wrong. All culture in the city/country seems to have been replaced by shopping malls. When I ask Malcolm what he recommends we do after our meal, he replies, "I guess we can see a movie?"

Which we do. We go to a mall and see Green Lantern with Ryan Reynolds, a movie which is not very good, no sir. Then he suggests we go swimming (Malcolm, not Ryan Reynolds), which we do, at the most eerily pristine swimming center I have ever seen:

And it's nice. Just like the mall was nice. Nice like your grandmother's couch that she won't take the plastic off of because you aren't to be trusted. Too nice. Disturbingly nice. Why are you so crazy about your couch, Grandma. Are you gonna fuck that couch? Did...did you see someone fucking a couch once, and vowed never again? Does this metaphor still work for the government? Stop thinking, just eat your damn impeccable food:

After what must have been our fifth meal together, I split off from Malcolm towards downtown. As a guy who's been known to finish a cocktail or two in his time, there's one last thing I'm interested in from this country: the Raffles Hotel, home to the original Singapore Sling. Also, it's 10:30 and this is all I have time for if I want to make it back to Malcolm's before the trains stop.

Finding the famed Long Bar at Raffles is easy enough, just follow the scores of other tourists coming to have exactly one drink and leave.

What I find surprising is how old-school they've kept the place: while they no longer have quasi-slaves to fan you, they do have a mechanical setup with old timey-fans to provide the same experience. The bar's also got boxes of salted peanuts, of which it is both acceptable and expected to toss their shells on the floor, to be swept up by modern quasi-slaves. That's right, I went there SOCIETY. You can buy their peanuts at the hotel gift shop for extortionate prices afterwards, if that's the kind of person you've decided you want to be in your life.

The bar isn't anywhere near capacity, so I'm served fairly quickly. There's no sense to beat around the bush. He knows why I'm here, I know why I'm here. As I once said and then turned into a multi-billion dollar clothing empire, "No Fear".

"A Singapore Sling?" I purr. The bartender nods his head. "Of course, sir." Respect. Obsequience. Not what I normally receive from the kind of drinking establishments I frequent back home. I watch this guy in hungry anticipation, eager to see a master at work. What brands of brandy do they use? Are they the historical brands, or have they moved on? His technique was simpler: Grab a jug from a pre-stocked mini-fridge beneath the bar, slop the pre-mixed pink tipple into a highball glass, and top with pre-assembled garnish.

He then promptly brings the receipt.

For everyone who is anti-illiterate (thus can't parse photos but instead can only read formatted text), the receipt was for an inhumane 30 dollars and 60 cents. Which, okay, might've been in Singapore Dollars so actually a little over 20 dollars USD, but that's still more than I would probably pay for a car. Probably, I don't really drive.

After eating way more salty nuts than I maybe should have just to make some sort of point, I return to Malcolm's not as a conquering hero, but...as a guy who had a drink that cost more than he thought it would and it tasted okay, but not worth anywhere near that, and at least if it tasted terrible there'd be more of a story from it. I think Camus once wrote something along those lines.

I manage to sneak a peek at the Singapore Flyer on the way back to Malcolm's, mostly so I can claim to have seen all of Singapore's sights before I leave this snooze-cruise. Back at my temporary digs I'm psyched to see that my download of the Game of Thrones finale has finished. I'm pretty sure that's the most exciting thing going on in this country, and I'm super chuffed that it was from an illegal torrent. Suck it, you gum-fearing fascists.

I wake up to find my computer has crashed, and Windows won't start. That hurts right in the hubris. Why I still bother with this thing...Oh right, I have a problem specific to my generation and I shall use that to deny all personal responsibility for my techno-priorities. After a shower, Malcolm takes me for a breakfast of kaya toast and eggs, which instantly becomes my new favorite breakfast. Runny eggs on kinda-sweet toast just presses all my weirdo taste buttons. Malcolm isn't finished though, no sir. That's followed by Laksa, a delicious spicy noodle soup, Which itself is then followed by a curry puff, the curry perfectly spiced and the pastry just the right kind of flaky. Bless you, couch host angel. My gastrointestinal tract may weep disgusting tears, but my heart sings.

To prove Singapore isn't all delicious food and sterile nothingness everywhere else, Malcolm shows me this street of kind of interesting German architecture. Indeed, it's kinda interesting, although it looks as fake and empty as everything else in this city-state.

It being my last day, I pack up my things, but Malcolm surprises me with a stop at the Singapore Flyer, where he happens to tend bar. Apparently, he wants me rate his Singapore Sling against that of the vaunted Raffles.

It's good! Pretty much the same thing I'd say, but the Raffles didn't exactly set a high bar for themselves with that whole pre-made jug business. His is a bit sweeter, but the Raffles one has a more boozy kick that I prefer. On the other hand, Malcolm's is also 10 bucks cheaper for more or less the same thing.

Malcolm and I take some pictures to commemorate our time together, which was incidentally the only time I was enjoying the country so I was happy to oblige.

Apparently the Singapore airport is supposed to be some hot shit, but instead of enjoying the amenities I end up spending my whole time at the airport using the wifi and trying to get Windows on my netbook working again. I must've made quite the deal about this, because Malcolm wrote me a CouchSurfing comment in which he wished me a safe trip, and my computer a speedy recovery. What the fuck is wrong with me. I eat a McFlurry and get to the gate with 10 mins to spare, which is not intended to be related to the previous sentence, it is simply a timeline of events.

I've finished my Bukowski book, so I'm in a singular mood when I find that my mp3 player has run out of my battery, and I've put my other book in my checked baggage. Nothing to do but sketch drawings of some lady across the aisle like a fucking creeper and write in my stupid journal. I'm ready for the SE Asia backpacker trappings again. I can't take another mall, and I need to be thinking about something more interesting than how disappointing Lost was, and I can't believe I drained my mp3 player watching a water-cooler show years after it ended. Singapore has a lot of malls, honestly incredible food, and nothing else. Caning is still a punishment, if that's a draw for you. It does have Malcolm, which is something for sure, but I need that old uncertainty back, the dirt, the noise, the bad tattoos of a country bitterly reliant on drunk and disorderly foreigners. I need a life that's slightly to the left. Bring back the chaos and let it reign.

To that end, where am I headed now? Why, the city of Angeles in the Philippines, famed sex tourism destination according to some blogs I swear I read after I had already bought my ticket because that's where Air Asia flies out of. Now there's a town that I bet's gonna have some gum on their streets.