Thomas Wictor

Archive for the ‘Me’ Category

I met the real Jason Bourne

On May 3, 1986, I met the real Jason Bourne. It was on a ferry between Korea and Japan. I’d gone to Korea to extend my tourist visa so I could work another three months before having to find a work sponsor. Korea was a nightmare of inexplicable, shudder-inducing strangeness. It was the only nation…

 

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The worst year of my life

This was the worst year of my life. For over a decade, Tim and I would say to each other, “This was the worst year yet,” but 2013 was the absolute bottom. I say than knowing full well that I’m daring the fates to make 2014 even worse, but it can’t be. The depths have…

 

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Broken arms and exploding piglets

I broke my right arm in 1971. Mom and my siblings were watching an oil well being drilled at night in the vacant lot two houses down in Campo Verde, Tia Juana, Venezuela. The Club is in the foreground; right above the words “photo courtesy,” you can see the giant swimming pool where a nineteen-year-old…

 

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On the run with a Canadian

When I first arrived in Tokyo in September of 1985, I moved into a guest house. I got to know several of the long-term residents, one being an older Canadian woman named “Rachel.” Tall, slender, and elegant, she was…unnerving. She seemed wracked with pain, even though she had a good sense of humor and laughed…

 

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A forgotten memory resurfaces

Mom saved all my letters. I found them in a box marked “Tom’s letters,” sensibly enough. Mom didn’t always write such precise descriptions on her many, many, many boxes. Most are unmarked, or they say, “Memorabilia,” or “Photos.” Even the boxes marked “Wictor photos,” for example, have lots of non-Wictor images in them. Tonight, in…

 

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No more kowtowing to Snake Man

Boy, was my father defensive. He was always ready to take offense, no matter how innocuous the comment. And he was the master of the bait-and-switch. His finest moment came when he decided to spend the day doing yard work to prove that he didn’t have terminal cancer. He mowed, trimmed, clipped, and raked until…

 

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The Rat Palace

I’ve gotten messages from people expressing sympathy that Tim’s alluvial shanty will be demolished. While I appreciate the sentiments, it’s really time for the place to go to house heaven. Tim’s name for his former home is the Rat Palace. I have no idea if everyone else on the street was plagued with rats the…

 

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I’m not the right guy to ask

Someone sent me a link to Scott Adams’s post “I Hope My Father Dies Soon” and asked me my opinion on it. In his piece Adams says the following: My father, age 86, is on the final approach to the long dirt nap (to use his own phrase). His mind is 98% gone, and all…

 

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I feared all the wrong things

All my worst fears came true. Since childhood I feared pain, isolation, humiliation, incurable illness, predation, failure, suffering, loneliness, not fitting in… And earwigs. More about the earwigs in a minute. In retrospect I feared all the wrong things, since everything I feared eventually came to pass. Tim and I have had this discussion many…

 

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Collapsed by the community

You may have noticed that I don’t allow comments on my posts. I’ve been told that an unmoderated comment section would increase my traffic dramatically. I doubt it. That applies to political blogs, but the people who like my books aren’t the type who visit blogs all day to either support or oppose the latest…

 

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