I was both touched and endeared by the fact that you asked for me to 'blog about my In. trip. I get vague requests sometimes from other people to write, but I'm just as likely to get ridiculous comments like, "Oh, did you just quit?"
No, I didn't just quit. I said, right here, in these pages, that I was only going to write about rats until the situation was "better." And it's not yet. And I don't feel like writing about rats.
But I'm impressed enough with your request that not only am I going to post -- I'll go one better ... Everything from this trip into my own little version of Hell will be a letter to you.
Sure, everyone else is welcome to read it, but at the end of the day, it's for the K. Because, really, what kind of present have I ever given you? Pretty much nothing. And the most precious gift I can give anyone is time. (This, by the way, has become a sticking point with no less than three women in my life over the last couple of years -- and no, I don't mean you Purl, or Leslie, or Darlene, or Louella.)
I can tell you something right now, though. This is not going to be pretty.
I learned a long time ago that people essentially lie on their sites -- or more precisely they give selective truths such that certain things are only seen certain ways. The best example of this was CJ. Here she is, high priestess of early days of putting your life online. She's engaged, everything is going swimmingly, then BANG, she drops her boyfriend and marries a another guy in about a fortnight -- NO mention of this joker before.
There is a darkness in my soul, K-man. We've spoken of it before and it will come out in full glory here. People really
don't want to hear the truth. They really don't. Like when Bush, Sr. said, "Of course this war's about oil," and everyone just went sort-of insane.
What I write isn't going to be for everyone's consumption, but then again, this isn't meant
for everyone to begin with.
It's worth noting that the reason I have to use these abbreviations is that I've signed an agreement with the In. Embassy that I would not partake in journalism of any type
when I was in In. The mistake I made was listing my occupation as "publisher" instead of my ever-popular and mystifying "manager." I knew that "writer" would be a mistake, I just didn't think the next logical step forward. I'm using abbreviations so that search engines won't be able to readily pick it up. It's likely that I will re-write/delete most of what's here in the future.
You'll also find that I write a lot
about the poker tournament I'm going to be in -- that also is for re-purposing later. And honestly, your ego is big enough, that if you know the extra words are all for you, you'll be happy.
Right this second I'm in my favorite Internet cafe in London. It's run by a bunch of Muslims -- some Northern African sect -- Ghanans, I think. The charge US$1/hr and their set-ups are great. The vast majority of the people here use Skype to call other Muslims in Northern African countries -- you hear a fair amount of whatever version of Bahasa they speak as well as some of those pigeon-y Frenchs like I heard in Morocco. It's fun.
Along the way I saw the Albanian barbers who cut my hair when I was here six weeks ago. They're doing well and still talk to each other with that form of self-assurance that comes only from knowing for sure
that you have everything figured out.
The flight over was un-eventful. I was able to get an entire middle row to myself. Slept some and spent the rest of the time reading Volume I of Harrington's book on tournament hold'em. I'd ordered a special seafood meal and the boneheaded flight attendant/waitress served it to some cretin in the seat in front of me (I mean COME ON, the woman doesn't even know that she can't have a bag on the seat when she flies and the flight personell actually think she knows how to order a special meal?). They compensated by giving my the starter from some first class swankfest -- it was crab wrapped with smoked salmon on a bed of something-like-lima-beans-but-not-quite and seaweed. It was tasty, but what I should have done was hurl the china plate through the emergency exit.
Because it was an overnight flight, the aisles were empty. I was able to do several laps, which was nice, although one over-vigilant woman was getting ready to club me due to my (obvious) terrorist potential.
I lay over here in London for 10 hours, then it's a 10 hour hop to Mumbai. Then a short one down to Goa on fricken India-Air. The actual travel time, from start to finish, is 35 hours. It's not that bad, and hey, I have emergency exit rows next.
Right this second I'm carrying US$7000 on my person and another $2k in traveller's checks. The entry fee for that tournament is $5k and essentially they only accept cash. I've also insured myself with a very hardcore policy that includes, that's right, US$1M in evacuation insurance. Nothing
makes you want to see Singapore like an operating room in Delhi.
You know, I may switch over and talk to you this way all the time from now on. It's really nice not having you interject stupid tidbits about the Macintosh and Keith say whatever he thinks is snappy, but is actually brutal and/or dumb.
I had an apple pancake before I left. I'm still running on it. I wanted to go to Geale's, my favorite chippie here, but it's still
closed for renovations (it was when I was here last month as well) -- so I may Google for best fish and chips in london, or I may just head for pizza instead. I am not, am not, am not, looking forward to the In. food. That stuff sucks in a way that's hard to imagine, unless you've been to In., in which case it's impossible to forget.
I'll have spotty gmail. Write as appropriate. Read more often.
And I haven't written haiku in a l-o-n-g time. So this one is for you:
Not really a Jew
Actually more Jew-ish
Isn't that Special?
Labels: Hell, Special K