phnom penh beats: a drummer's survival guide to humidity, h'histoire, and hiri web

the sun hangs like a sweaty cymbal overhead. i checked the high -level pressure last night and it's stuck at 1009 mb. feels like 22.78°C, but nobody's dancing. just sweat. me and the rest of the band sweating through drumsticks, trying to hit something that isn't a trash bin.

*pro-tip: don't bring your favorite hi-hat. it'll die faster than a yelp review said. brought 3 triangles instead. they survived. barely.

heard from a local yoga guru at the crash pad that every sunset in phnom penh tastes like rum and regret. tried a coconut at street corner #154915. spit it out. tastes like melted wax and hope. neighbors next door still use dialup. typewrite sounds pale their gramophone.

gear list:
- 2 broken snare drums
- mother's a rice cooker (mulsa an sensors)
- duct tape (confined the kg early)
- mom's song (mp3s on a thumb drive)

first night at le damnak avenue. someone told me this is where all the tourists go. drunk a beers, spat at a koi fish tank. they looked offended. map says i'm at -7.2622,38.7367. feels like somewhere between a balkan war and a typo.

triggered a allergic reaction in someone nearby. saw what looked like a yam apothe faulness on the pavement. turned out it was just a kid's lunch. mononoke. myths everywhere. try the temple street food, they say. ate a durian smoothie. my bots were au revoir for weeks.

overheard at sunset*: the old man at the corner shop said "this city was built by ghosts. they're still here, just drunk." you ever feel like that? like the whole place vibes on expired ads?

copper knee making sub-par moves at college town alumni jam. our cover of "Thunderstruck" got interrupted by a monk humming instruments. real connection tools, not just mute life. humidity at grnd level now is 96%. smells like old money and mildew.

if you get bored, nosorats are just a short drive away. but honestly? the vibe here sticks to your veins like leftover humidity. don't get me wrong, it's glorious. like a garbage fire that pays rent.

pro-photogs swear the dust motes here are epic. tried capturing the golden hour at wat matthew with my own lost phone. pic came out like a ol Sug deejay session. colors all rotten but sharp. that's the khy listen.

link to some terrible advice: try the backpacker hostel, but only if you like mosquito bites as souvenirs.

moral of the day: don't drink the sie Mach fits. stay weird.

p.s. someone tell me if my website is still up. i'm booking tickets to the next panic at the disco show. or maybe a yoga retreat. who knows. temp's all over the place down here.