Tuesday, October 20, 2015

BECOME LEGEND!

I wanted to take a moment to say a very special thank you to Bungie. Recently, I've been able to reconnect with my best friend in the most meaningful way, thanks to Bungie.
The game is fantastic - I could go on and on about that, but I'm sure you've heard mountains of praise and criticism, and I don't have anything unique to add, I'd imagine.
My best friend and I grew up together in a town called Forest Acres (part of Columbia, South Carolina). You may have heard of it recently - because it flooded. There's nothing like paddling down the street past your childhood home to remind you that the world changes, and that change is unavoidable.
Greg (my best friend) and I went to school together - all the way through college. We loved it. We watched movies and played games together constantly. We moved to Los Angeles, and played HALO 3 together for so many hours it was unbelievable. We loved it. We loved gaming, and we loved Bungie.
Eventually, Greg moved back to South Carolina, and I relocated to Florida. We still spoke once every week or so, but it wasn't the same - until Destiny!
Greg had a child about 7 months ago. I saved and saved, and was able to give him, as a present, a Playstation 4 and DESTINY. It was the best money I've ever spent in my entire life. We both got headsets and spoke to each other all the time. It was amazing! We caught up on movies we've seen, chatted about life, and destroyed same nasty Fallen, Cabal, Vex and Taken - and we LOVED IT!
Greg was a police officer - a real life Guardian - and that meant that he had a nifty schedule that let us play all the time! We played as often as we could, and it was some of the best times I've ever had.
Thank you for that, Bungie!
About three weeks ago, Greg lost his life in the line of duty - serving and protecting Forest Acres, a city I know he loved, because I loved it too. Greg was the best kind of friend you could have - we grew up together, every day, so we had the kind of shorthand and history that really allowed you to understand what the other person was thinking. So when I say he loved his city (and Destiny), you'd better believe it was honest to god love.
I don't want to send two many details, but here are a couple of articles about the man and myth who has, in fact, BECOME LEGEND as you've so nicely put it:
Those two articles sum up events pretty nicely. Immediately following the most difficult funeral I have ever been to, the skies wept. The tears of the city flooded Forest Acres, and much of it ended up underwater. Because of the funeral, I was there. I was able to help Greg's family, and spend time with his wonderful, amazing wife and son, Sal - but also a lot of our old friends - and many new ones.
One thing that linked us all was games. We all had great stories about playing video games with Greg - little mini games we've invented, or really, really badass stories we'd make up. We poured over lore, looking for cool plot points, or discussing what WE thought would be the most amazing outcome for a particular theory.
And we all reconnected! Not only did we all discover each other on PSN. In fact, at least 6 new guys bought PS4's and Destiny. Sherpa's have offered to help us run, as a team, through some of the raids. It's been fun, and I can't imagine a better way to remember the guy than to go medieval on a Taken Captain. The flooding was really hard on a lot of us - especially since Greg's police office (mere minutes walk away) and his car were both also ruined in the flood:
Greg brought me back to life dozens - even HUNDREDS of times. He was the perfect gaming partner, and the friend of a lifetime. But Bungie, you gave us the most powerful gift we could want - time together - for old friends, and for new ones. I wish I could bring Greg's 'Ghost' back just one time - but I can't. What I can do is remember to cherish the time I have with my other friends, and the time I had with my greatest friend.
I do have one small request. While playing, we stumbled across a weapon called DED-ALIA III. This is sort of a bummer for us - totally not your fault! But for sure a real downer for a few guys all trying to remember the best parts of our friend's life and have a good time amid a tragedy. EDIT: His last name, for those confused, was Alia.
Greg was, for sure, an Exotic. There were almost none like him, and he was unique. I would love to see a cool weapon, like the ALIA GT FA161-186, a weapon for those who Serve and Protect, or even a really badass NPC with a great sense of humor. Anything! But at minimum, DED-ALIA hurts a little bit. Again, totally no way of calling that, and no fault of yours, but a big request from us.
In any case, I wanted to say THANK YOU to the gamers out there who have supported us and played with us, an even bigger THANK YOU to Bungie, who made an amazing game and gave me fantastic times with my best friend, even from 500 miles away, and one more THANK YOU to all of the real life Guardians and 'Heroes in Blue' that serve and protect us from the DARKNESS every day.
Thank you Bungie, for giving me and my best friend a chance to BECOME LEGENDS - because he most certainly did.
Thank you. From the deepest reaches of my weary heart.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Gregory Alia

I wanted to take a moment to write something about Greg. I know none of us has the ability to adequately capture all the pain, compassion, friendship, suffering, hurt, or anger we’re feeling, but it’s something many of us will need to do – probably more than just once or twice, over the coming days, weeks, months or years. Many of us will have to do this every day of our lives.

Greg and I shared many of the same interests and hobbies, including movies, games, books, and other stories – I will, then, try to write this through lenses I know Greg and all of you would appreciate.

Greg was the best man I’ve ever met, or will ever meet. I called Greg my best friend, but I wasn’t the only one who did. There are dozens of people who called Greg their best friend – and he was, to each and every one of them, the most wonderful person you could ask to have in your life. He was funny, silly, confident, laid back, and genuinely wonderful. If you needed somebody, Greg was the man for the job.

So, I wanted to write something about Greg, but also for everyone else, and tell you what I know about the man I knew, and the man we all loved.

One of the best things about Greg, and the quality I’ve always most admired and tried to reflect through my life, was his since of justice. Even as a young child, Greg believed that everyone should be treated fairly and with equality – a notion I have and will continue to apply to my entire life.  Knowing this, I can’t imagine a better job for Greg than being a police officer. It was something he always wanted to do. I grew up in Forest Acres, and with the Forest Acres police department. Greg and I knew some of them from school – including Officer Lewis, who worked at our school during our formative years. 

Greg and I spoke about his job many times, and he always believed that fairness, forgiveness, and equality where the best way to handle and situation. Many of my friends reflected on how kind he was, and how hard he tried to help people – especially those who were in trouble – and to my surprise even those who caused it.

Greg was a regular Wyatt Earp – a man of strong convictions with all the qualities necessary to make him one of the most honest and forthright men in law enforcement today.

I remember how proud I was to hear he was working in Forest Acres. When I asked him what it was like after his first few days, he said it was great, but that he now had a very long list of friends that have told him he wasn’t allowed to give them tickets. Looking back, I find this funny – especially since my mother would deliberately go out of her way to speed past Greg so she could get pulled over and talk him.

I think it shows how special he was that folks would risk a ticket just to speak with him for a few minutes.  Greg was a wonderful brother in blue. I’m sure there were many ladies not at all disappointed to get pulled over by the handsome man who looked so dashing in his uniform.

Greg’s brothers in uniform were not the only brothers he had.  Greg had official brothers at Phi Sigma Kappa as well – friends who will, no doubt, remember Greg and carry the best of him with them their entire lives.

When Phi Sig went looking for new members, Greg was the person we always wanted there. He was funny, smart, clever, and magnetic.  Phi Sigma Kappa had some of the best men out there – and I have to believe that was, in part, because Greg attracted the very best people.

Greg was so calm, casual and confident, that we often thought of him as the Big Lebowski – a man with such incredible cosmic gravity that you couldn’t help be drawn to him no matter what he was doing.

Greg also had dozens of friends from every stage of his life – and not only did Greg make friends easily, his best, but probably least noticed skill, was how well he was able to build friendships among people. Greg introduced friends to other friends, bringing people together. Greg was a lens, and people everywhere focused around him. Wonderful groups of people who loved him, and whom he loved, were born and remain as close as family to this day.

Greg had many brothers in the community, but he was also a brother to the family members he loved his entire life.

Greg cared deeply for every member of his family, and he shared many adventures with his uncles, aunts, and his cousins, whom he was especially fond of.

Greg’s sisters, Rebecca and Christine, were always a source of pride and admiration for Greg. Like all siblings, he picked on them sometimes, and they picked on him occasionally. I never heard him speak a mean word about his sisters, except on the rare occasion that one of them got to the last piece of Mrs. Alia’s famous chocolate cake before he could. In their defense, I may have been the one who ate the cake, and simply blamed it on his sisters. Sorry Rebecca and Christine.

Greg’s parents were a source of unending admiration for Greg.  We spoke often of his parents and how much he thought of them.

Greg always knew, as I do, that his father was one of the smartest men he’d ever known. Greg used to tell me that his father had forgotten more than I would ever know, and I believe that’s true.  Greg loved helping his dad through video games, though his favorite thing about his dad was his father’s laugh. Hearing his father chuckle always made Greg laugh, and he often said he wished his laughter had the same quality. I told Greg many times that he did, and I’m sure everyone here would agree with me.

Greg’s mother was also wonderful. She was always very kind and patient, especially since she often had two young boys screeching through the house, including one I’m sure she never signed up for.  Anytime Greg said something meaningful, he sounded just like his mother – something I think most guys might be upset to hear, but something Greg absolutely was not.

All of the qualities Greg had – his honesty, his friendship, his compassion, came from Greg’s family – and because of that family, Greg was able to share those character traits with us. You couldn’t watch Greg do anything, whether it was hike a trail, wash dishes, or play a game, without taking back a lesson for yourself.

I often tried to be like Greg, and much of myself is made up of lessons, thoughts, and feelings I’d taken away from my time with him, though I don’t know if any man could have been as good-hearted, kind, or friendly as Greg was. His outstanding character came naturally to him, and he offered a smile warmer than any handshake or hug to everyone, even those he’d just met.

I think the thing that most reflects Greg, however, is his new family – his wife, Kassy, was the woman he was destined to be with.  Many of us spend our lives trying to earn more money, drive faster cars, or wear fancier clothes. Since the day Greg met Kassy, I have known that Greg has had everything he needed. He was content, and had the only things he would ever need to be happy. He never worried about money or his job. He loved everything about his life, and wouldn’t have changed a single thing. The only complaint he ever had was that he wished he could spend more time with all of his family – and with so many friends.

Kassy was the final piece to Greg’s life. Never did anyone appear more complete or vibrant than Greg did with Kassy. Her sense of humor matched his own, and he confided that Kassy loved him so much it overwhelmed him, and he was always looking for new fun ways to show his love to her.

More than anyone else, Greg loved Sal. October 1st was the first time I’ve ever gotten to meet Sal, a fact that causes me anguish – but I was able to learn a lot about the little man (and legend), and communicate with him, via numerous telephone calls and video game chat sessions.  I learned when Sal liked to go to bed –or, more specifically, when he didn’t like to, and I learned a lot about what Sal enjoyed, which included silly faces, several different types of music, and occasionally, watching colorful aliens get vaporized by rockets and lasers. If there was ever any doubt that Sal would be his father’s son, those moments made me certain that he would be.

We all gathered around Greg – each one of us had a group of friends or family members that knew him and cared for him because of the kind of man he was: A focal point for the community. I don’t think Greg ever realized that one of his super powers was the ability to bring people together. He was full to the brim of friendship and humility (except on the rare occasions that those colorful aliens got to him before he could get to them), but he surely shared those gifts with every person he ever met.

For these reasons, and so many others beyond listing, I believe Greg is in an honored spot in heaven. Every person has a different idea of what heaven might look like. I’d like to think that Greg’s is in Sto-vo-kor, the Klingon afterlife reserved for the honored dead, or perhaps he’s just entered the Matrix and can now fly and bend spoons with his mind. I think we all wish he would appear to us like Obi-Wan Kenobi – an apparition to help guide us through life. In many ways, he will. He could certainly grow a beard to match the part. As another great man once said, The Greg will be with us… always.

There will be difficult times ahead – things we intended to do with him, places we knew we would see him, but now won’t.  The hardest times, however, are the moments you can’t plan for. The text you suddenly want to send, the movie you suddenly want to share, or the police car you will excitedly believe has your friend in it, until you remember it does not. In those moments, when we are weakest, we have been given a remarkable gift – a gift left to us by Greg himself, and the greatest gift any of us can ask for. Friendship and community.

In those moments, I encourage you to reach out to this community. You may find yourself feeling alone – you are not! Reach out to Greg’s friends and remember all the stories you have together, and all of the amazing trips you’ve taken across the country.

Reach out to Greg’s parents, and tell them all the stories about how Greg ate over fifty hot wings in a single sitting, and about how much he loved spending time with his family at the lake.

Reach out to Greg’s fellow officers, shake their hands, and tell them how much you appreciate what they do, and how honored you are to have such fine, upstanding men and women serving and protecting your home, you friends, and your community.

And most importantly, reach out to Kassy and Sal, so that they will always remember how loved they are, and that the father and husband that was denied to them will never be forgotten.

Jean Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, was once told that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives. I believe, as he did, that time is a companion that goes with us on our journey, reminding us to cherish every moment, because they’ll never come again.


This was a tragedy – an outcome none of us ever believed would happen in a dozen lifetimes – but the real tragedy – the biggest one of all, would be to neglect the gift that Gregory Alia has given us all – friendship, community and love. Please share those things, along with your stories, with all of us, but especially with his family and fellow officers, and remember to talk to someone new today – because thanks to Greg, you both have something in common – you have the ability to share your strength and support with those who need it, and the friendship and support to carry on every day. Lean on each other, and remember to raise a bourbon (and maybe a hotdog) to Greg – and to the love he gave us all.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

A Short Bio

'Somewhere, just north of the slimy, bog and swamp filled lands of southern Florida is a large, bustling city in northern Florida. It, too, is filled with swamps and bogs and is altogether unpleasant, but people live there anyway, because you've got to make a living, and it's easier to make money working in a place not many people are willing to go. In the middle of the city is a small company - Falcon's Treehouse - a small number of people in an altogether unremarkable building, but with a wholly remarkable purpose - to design theme park rides. Inside is a stout, ginger-haired thirty year old male sporting a pair of glasses, a pair of jeans, a pair of socks, a pair of britches, a pair of Converse sneakers, and a lovely red shirt, because shirts annoyingly aren't sold in pairs. This man wakes up early in the morning and enjoys a lovely spot of tea. As his bleary eyes open, he enjoys the cold, crisp air against his skin as he shivers. He enjoys stretching his stiff bones, and he enjoys climbing off the inflatable mattress that is his home. He then climbs into the bathroom stall and enjoys the unusual way his hair sticks straight up and muses on whether or not it has anything to do with the cold his entire body experienced when he took his shirts and underpants off and whether that made it stand on end. He then climbs into the shower and enjoys the hot water, and then enjoys the cool air again when he gets out. He enjoys putting on his pair of socks, pair of pants, pair of shoes, pair of spectacles, and even his single, non-paired lonely shirt, which did have a friendly pair of arm-holes in it.  He climbs into his car - a beastly, ancient rattling contraption that, in his mind, has a wonderful personality. He arrives to work early, not for any particular reason other than to enjoy arriving early and stress free and fixes a fresh cup of tea and an old, dry English muffin - toasted with a bit of butter (and sometimes honey.) For whatever reason, he seemed to enjoy everything, and his coworkers imagined that he might, in fact, enjoy being stung by bees, probably because bees were a lovely color and he did so enjoy honey on his English muffins each morning. In short, he seemed to enjoy life.  If his colleges had anything at all to say about him, it was this: They all agreed, unanimously and without question, that based on their observation of his habits and the peculiar smile that crept across his mouth as he typed away at his chattering keyboard, that he was perfectly and unquestioningly insane."

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

How To Own a Cruise Line One Diet Coke at a Time

Ah, the cruise.  The penultimate summer vacation. A trip on a cruise boat by its very nature implies beaches, sun, and good times.   And I just took my first step into a larger world. As many of you know, my international travel has been very limited.  The only foreign cities I have visited in my life were Mumbai, India and Detroit, Michigan. But this time, I was set to sail for the Bahamas!
To set this up for you, this trip was set up by my office – on board the Celebration Cruise line, which I assume was named the moment the first group of travelers disembarked from that lumbering vomitorium.  But I’m getting ahead of myself talking about that tanker – lets start from the beginning.
The dock was tucked away in a shipyard and industrial park, which was delightfully cheery in the same way as Shawshank Prison – lots of personality, old stone walls, and decorative fences with delightful flowers of barbed wire for trimming. I assume the purpose of said fences was the same as it is in a prison – to keep people from escaping once they saw the boat.
The boat itself was, in fact, a wonder, mostly in that a ship that was clearly built in the 1980’s by a German industrialist could stay afloat for so long.  It was then that I discovered that the small parking lot was VALET ONLY.  Only 30$ tacked onto the blossoming $250 I had paid to roam the decks of the vessel.
At least the valet parking was somewhat useful.  True, the cars were only thirty feet away, and I just as easily could have parked in the space and left, but they actually moved the car for us.  There was some value in that service.  Maybe not $30 worth of value, but some.  It was perhaps the last value I would see in my journey.
Walking through customs and signing in, we waited patiently whilst the tired, haggard old sea hands reviewed our documentation. It was then they took our credit card information and I discovered, with a shockingly minuscule degree of surprise for someone who has neither been on this boat nor ever on a cruise, that we also incurred an additional $50 fuel and service charge.
After a brief, non-informative (but highly enlightening) conversation with the cash-stealing lady behind the welcome kiosk, we hopped aboard the good ship Celebration.  I pulled out a $20 bill, ready to pay what I assumed would be the ‘walking fee’ for moving about the ship and carpet wear and tear.  Thankfully, that fee never came.
I happily trumped up to my room in a sputtering, stuttering elevator with lovely windows overlooking ship walls and cabins and opened the door.  It wasn't until then that I realized I had reserved closet space rather than a room. Firstly, the bathroom, I assume, was Spartan, barely decorated towel closet with a shakily assembled garden hose used for bodily cleansing and a combination garden hose/vacuum cleaner toilet that succeeded in spraying you with ass water every time you pressed the big, red doomsday ‘flush’ button. That button glared at me angrily the entire trip, yet didn't even have the courtesy to glow.
The next thing I noticed was the temperature. There was no air conditioning. So, like a rational person, I called ship services, or ‘guy dressed in jumpsuit.’  Guy in jumpsuit told us, over the phone, that we were calling from a room we weren't in. When we told him we were in room 6205, he told US that we were, in fact, in room 3201.  This was encouraging.  I figured if enough things went wrong fast enough, the odds of something going right accidentally would increase exponentially.
Very astute jumpsuit guy showed up after about 30 minutes and informed me that our AC wasn't working.  While he was talking, I discovered that if I twisted the temperature knob on the wall, it did absolutely nothing.  Further investigation revealed the same was true of the volume knob (for the Captain’s event announcements) and the ‘call services’ button.  I assume the call services button did, at one time work, but broke due to overuse.
So, to help us out, jumpsuit guy grabbed a crowbar, pried the vent cover off the roof, revealing a large, gaping hole with all manner of odd electrical equipment concealed therein, tossed the cover on the floor, and wished us well.  He was probably off to take crack-cocaine or some other drug to help make the blur seem interesting.
I decided to take matters into my own hands – I moved my bed directly underneath the ceiling vent so as to concentrate the full power of the air conditioning unit directly over my face, resulting in another failure in my already numerous and growing series of failures.  The carpet beneath my bed was oddly colored.  At first, I assumed a sea creature of some variety, yet clearly larger in size, had died in that spot.  Upon reflection now, however, I realize it must have been a passenger who overheated, threw up over the side of the bed, and killed himself.  The real mystery is whether he died on the bed and simply rolled off during a particularly bad set of waves, if he couldn't be bothered to lie down before he ended himself, or if he simply keeled over mid-morning from a staggeringly severe case of life-threatening boredom, or perhaps he got sick from the juicy remains of whatever stain was there before he was.  One never knows.
The boat is without internet, unless you want to purchase some at $60 an hour, but with all the walking and door-opening charges, I didn't think I could afford it.  I decided to sit down and plug in my laptop, only to be thwarted by European power outlets.  I vaguely remember looking at the plaque on the wall, and it did say something like Der Hechersmichdt Underseeboot Hoften Germany, 1981.  An antique German ship. I think Der Hecherscmicht or whatever meant ‘Prison Vessel’ and Underseeboot was an advertisement meant ‘leaking.’  European plugs on an American cruise line – probably so you can buy the $277.79 power adapter with free complimentary diesel fuel stains.  I think they had them for rent for $600/hr., not including electricity charges.
            So we decided to dine and take a quick tour of Der Harbor Unterseeboot. The food wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible.  There are no fountains out of which fountain drinks can be provided – there are only canned sodas.  Anything that’s already been provided includes a fun service charge – so a single can of Diet Coca-Cola runs you a striking $3.00.  I guess it wouldn't be practical to keep soda syrup and carbonated water – hard to find, that water stuff, except we’re on a BOAT.
            To me, serving canned soda on a boat is about like going to a Home Depot to purchase a strawberry plant, only to be told, ‘so sorry, sir!  All we have are these $7.00 strawberries, individually wrapped from the strawberry fields outside.’  In my humble opinion, they can take their flavored water beverages and shove them up their collective portholes.
            To ease the growing stomachache the prices gave me, I decided to walk around the top deck of the boat.  There were tiny pools with glass sides – so I could see everyone’s body from mid-thigh down.  Because if ever there was a great reason to purchase a $70 bikini for a cruise, it would be so that people could view her (or him – we don’t discriminate on the seven seas) from the knee down. Brilliant design work, knee-length fish tank pool guy.
            As I walked around the edge of the boat, I discovered something so infuriating my body temperature must have gone up ten degrees.  That is to say, my body temperature from the WAIST UP went up.  Behind each and every single chair was an air vent – but not just a vent, like what you have in your house, nor even like the two foot by two foot square air-hole blowing the diesel equivalent of butt-farts directly left of dead man’s body stain. These were about four feet long by a foot and a half tall with huge metal doors/lids/porthatches, and they were COLD. It was cold enough that my ankles began to freeze, and I can’t imagine any of the people laying out on the long chairs could get much sun, what with the Eskimo-style snow jacket they’d have to wear to block that out.  I can’t say much more on the subject, mostly due to the fact that I literally do not have the capacity to understand why the cruise line felt my crowbar vent room with spiny, free wheeling AC knob did not deserve proper air conditioning but the adjacent six feet of the Atlantic ocean definitely did.  I guess fishes are more discerning these days.
            In any case, after observing this and the fun children’s area, complete with a water slide and what I can only assume was a crying palm tree, I hobbled down the stairs to my waiting deathbed, took pills for motion sickness, pills for sleeping, and whatever else looked like an M&M or a good time and passed out in the pitch black of my card-key access storage hole.
            The lights sputtered on around 8 AM and I made my way out for breakfast.  This gourmet five star meal prepared by what was surely a crack squad of savvy, motivated personal impressed me with sheer ingenuity. I did not know that a breakfast pastry could exist that was below the quality of a honey bun.  Honey buns are made of 10% sugar, 10% bread and 80% ear wax, and these were worse.  They had some sort of fruit based sugar and a glaze of white, diesel flavored topping on top. I think maybe it was whatever glue was holding the ship together, possible a combination of barnacle and bird shit – it shall forever remain a mystery.  Whatever it was, I have no doubt that it is non-biodegradable. At all.  It went into my colon, and there it sits to this very day.
            I decided an excursion to the beach was the best option. I had pre-purchased a bus ride (about $40) to the Lucaya resort.  Lucaya is Bahamas-speak for crap. As I stepped outside, I felt my very first pang of real, unadulterated disappointment.  Parked not 50 feet from us was a huge, beautiful Carnival cruise ship.
            And I became angry – these Carnival people had clearly gone to some trouble to make their passengers feel at home.  The ship was easily four times the size of ours, the buses outside were nicer, and they had clearly added a few things to make the trip more pleasant to the beachgoers, like paint.
            That really didn't bother me until I realized a simple corporate truth: I bet Celebration cruise line bought that new boat using only the money I spent on Diet Coke.
            Anxious to leave the large, hulking reminder of our own ship’s inadequacy issues behind, we climbed onto a bus that either survived a nuclear holocaust or was designed and built by people high on LSD and crack cocaine.  The drive to the beach area was a scenic tour of abandoned shipyards, several McDonalds, and quite a few large oil-containing silos. These were described to me in excruciating detail, presumably so I felt as if I was getting my $40 worth.  Earplugs and a blindfold, however, would have both added a sense of mystery and prevented the panic I felt before some shady guy with a hand carved totem pole beat stick walked up to me and asked for money I’d already spent on diet coke in an accent I couldn't understand.
            I climbed off of the bus, joyous to be out and about, even if the skies were grayed by the early tendrils of tropical storm Emily reaching for us, but ever mindful of what could possibly lurk beyond the next corner.
            We went and saw the beaches, which seemed nice enough, but we decided to beat the crowds and go to the shopping area first. Before we could turn the corner towards the first shops, people were already accosting us for money.  ‘Please by my hand woven fan.’ ‘Please buy my Bahamas’ hat.’  ‘Please by my busted-ass ships wheel that was made in China and damaged in transport.’  I decided to save my money for Diet Coke.
            We rounded the corner and decided to take in the shops.  We found a place that served delicious coconuts and mixed drinks – two large fruit drinks with mango, banana, or other deliciousness for $8.  I couldn't resist that.  As we turned again, we sipped our drinks and it began to POUR rain.  A quick evaluation revealed two options: jewelry stores we could never, ever afford with $10,000 luxury watches, and junk stores with stuff we would never want.
            We chose the jewelry stores; presumably because we subconsciously believed they would have better air conditioning. I honestly can’t be too sure why I chose that because there was a lot of rum in my banana sugar water coconut smoothie thing. Though I would have loved a nice, well-manufactured Omega timepiece, I figured sixteen Diet Cokes on the ship ride home were probably a better value. Probably.
We went outside again, and it was still raining.  So, like any rational, normal human being, I went back to the smoothie place and got another delicious fruity concoction.  Once I had drained that, I decided to grab a bite to eat.
            The Bahamas Island Sandwich Grill Whatever had a decent menu and appeared promising. I ordered a grilled Jamaican Jerk chicken sandwich, while the others got some form of pulled conch burger and a wrap of some sort. About 5 minutes before the food came out, they told us they didn’t have the foodstuffs to make the wrap, but could bring a salad.  The salad had no meat or cooking ingredients in it whatsoever.  True though that may be, in retrospect I’m sure they spent a good, good while aging that bleu cheese.
            As you might have guessed, the food came and went and the salad had yet to arrive. When it did arrive, the server took notice of the half-full cup of mayonnaise we’d used for our sandwiches and asked us if we’d gotten enough. It was a large, large container of mayonnaise and we said yes.  Our wait staff member promptly grabbed the container, turned around, and plopped the used mayo capsule down in front of another patron.
            This raised immediate red flags. Another concern was the tea we ordered. I’m from the south. I know when you order tea, they bring you sweet tea. But this stuff was diabetes in a glass – it was a thick, sugary mess.  It was almost as if they put some brown food coloring in sugar water, then poured it into a blender and threw in a donut for good measure. 
So many questions about the food: What of the conch burger? Was it made of recycled bits of other people’s conchs?  What percentage of my French fries had been grabbed off some other dude’s plate?  What if they saved them from yesterday and reheated them in the oven? That would explain a lot of the taste. These were all questions I had not had enough mango rum drinks to ponder, so I decided to try my luck in the water.
            Amazingly, despite the heavy rain, flashes of thunder, and dark skies, I found my first peace during the entire trip.  The fresh water made it difficult to see and the waves made it dark.  The coolest things I saw down there were baby barracuda, suggesting there were large barracuda nearby, stingrays, and dark shapes moving about I assume were sharks.  I saw these creatures. I knew that they could possibly take my life, and after riding in the boat and eating unfresh fries, I was glad to know it.  Emergency helicopters move much faster than boats, and baring that I wouldn't have minded the extra cabin space a coffin would have afforded me.
            The rainwater was strikingly cold - cold enough to cause a sharp inhale when I stepped in, but two feet down, the water was a warm Caribbean bathtub.  Jaded as I was, I thought that perhaps it was the collective warm Caribbean pee from all the unhappy guests drinking mango juice-shakes, but hey, warm water is warm water, and there was probably pee somewhere in my lunchtime used fries feast anyway.
            I soaked and enjoyed until the rain became too thick to see through.  I clambered back towards the bus, stopping to get – what else - an $8 fruit cocktail with too much bad rum poured over it.  On the way to the bus area, I noticed some delightful gentlemen cruising up beside me in the nicest beat up 1984 Cutlass Supreme I’d seen that day. They looked at me briefly, then, with a fun and well-known gesture, asked me if I were interested in smoking weed. I was so flabbergasted that I hadn't thought of pot as a cure to the Bahamas before then that he became startled and rode off suddenly, leaving me to my ride home in the cold, nasty, leaky bus. It hadn’t even occurred to me that buses could leak like sinking ships, but apparently they can.  Each drip of water was like a drop of happiness from my soul, falling down through the cracks in the road just outside of the Bahamas McDonalds. I hated that bus and the island it rested on with the fire of a thousand suns. ‘At least,’ I thought, ‘the trip to the beach was cheaper than buying a mixed drink and two Diet Cokes.’
            I found out later that a private cab ride to the resort was $5.
When I arrived back at the ship, I slipped into the shower box and did my best to wash the day away. I was too exhausted from the continual barrage of spiritual discord I was feeling and needed a nap.
            I woke up to the sound of grown men panicking about someone bleeding out. That was good to hear.  They ran back and forth, pounding on the floor and screaming that they couldn't find anyone on board the ship (not a surprise) to help them with their female friend, who was bleeding out.  Apparently she had sustained a serious head injury and was bleeding out.
            I began to speculate as to whether she died of sudden onset food poisoning and whether I had imbibed enough liquor to kill whatever killer strain of bacteria lived in the diesel icing on my breakfast wafer, but then realized she probably just tried to kill herself. Then I thought, ‘you know, I could just look out the door and see what’s going on.  But that’s a terrible idea – what if people are trying to get by or I see something horrible?  That would be awful!’
            So I opened my shoebox door and looked outside.  There laid about a quarter of a person draped in blood, hanging loosely out of the front of her door.  It appeared as if they tried to drag her out of the cabin, but realized they had either had too much or not enough mango-rum juice and either ran off to get a crewmember smart enough to stay drunk or to borrow an extra $325 dollars so they could get drunk enough to do it themselves.
            I thought to myself, “This was more than I can handle right now,” and went back to sleep.  When I awoke an hour later, there were still people standing in each doorway all the way down the hall staring.  The cleaning staff was in the process of throwing blankets – each one soaked through with thick, red blood, out into the hall for cleaning.  In that moment, I settled on the vegetarian dinner meal and strode off to the dining hall.
            Looking out the window during dinner, I could tell that the full force of tropical storm Emily was bearing down on the Bahamas.  Part of me was hoping that the island would sink into the ocean, much like Atlantis before it, but then I remembered the Carnival cruise ship and all the happy people aboard it, and decided I’d rather it sank instead.
            I watched the distance I could see out became shrink quickly and the trees bent further and further downward as the rain and winds steadily increased.  I knew the ship was going to rock and I would probably get sick, but I also realized that there was a very strong possibility that this would, in fact, be my very last meal, so I dove in and at as much shitty meat products and chocolate mousses (chocolate meece?  What’s the plural of chocolate mousse?) as my weary, travel worn gullet could choke down.  As I was eating, the boat slowly began to pull out of the harbor. I felt a sense of peace from the rocking waves and the knowledge that I could, at any moment, die at sea and drown peacefully in a shoe closet. If I decided I wanted to live, I could take advantage of the large hole in the top of my room. Even if I couldn't quite swim through it, I could at least put a message in a bottle and tell others not to buy Diet Cokes on cruises, as it just perpetuates the disease that is modern cruises.
            I then retired for a few hours before heading out to explore the ship.  This was more challenging that I thought.  When I awoke, I had hoped that my staggering was due to a pleasant degree of drunkenness, but instead through some rudimentary investigation involving a flat surface and a pencil realized our ship, the stout German bitch she was, had probably had one two many of those mango juice and rum drinks herself – in fact she probably ran on the stuff for the trip back – and was swaggering fully two and fro.
            As I looked out the window, I noticed that we were no longer in gentle departure mode.  It was clear from the water spraying off the sides of the ship that we were in haul-ass mode.  Either the storm was about to bear down on us like the fist of Poseidon or the boat was about to get pulled over for intoxication whilst operating a motorized vehicle.  The boat listed noticeably, and on several occasions, waves struck us violently enough to shake the whole ship.
            I had long since parted ways with any desire to retain my wretched life, so I decided to venture up to the top deck, in the freezing cold pouring rain and lightning, and check things out.  I got an ice cream on the way.  I figured if I was going to go out, I was going to do it with a rum raisin ice cream cone with sprinkles on top – sprinkles would make a nice festive celebration of my life.  Chocolate or vanilla would have been preferable, but they didn't have those flavors, probably because people would have wanted to eat them.
            As I peered over the edge of the ship, I noticed something new – the ship wasn't moving.  I sloshed through a few inches of rainwater and asked someone on board why the ship wasn't moving. Another wave slammed into the ship and caused it to shudder as he explained that everything was probably fine and not to worry, proceeded to look around shiftily, not unlike the drug dealer in the somewhat more sea-worthy looking Cutlass Supreme I’d seen earlier, and scurried off.
            In retrospect, it all made sense. I linked the stopped engines back to Diet Coke. A dead customer can’t buy Diet Coke. It can buy, however, a great deal of unwanted paperwork and, as I conclusively discovered, leave a rather unpleasant carpet stain.  We must have stopped so we could throw all the people who had died of food poisoning, gout, the black plague, alcohol poisoning, shootings, accidental and/or mob initiated killings, or boredom over the side of the bucket we were stuck in before moving on.
            After a few hours, the engines roared into full blast, again throwing us almost directly into the oncoming waves.  For the second time in 24 hours, I reached around my room for whatever narcotics and mind-altering medications I could grab, put some handy earplugs in and stared up into the abyssal hole where cool air was supposed to come from before stuttering into something of a peaceful half-sleep.
            When I awoke, I showered excitedly and packed all my things, giddy with the prospect of leaving the boat forever. I imagine that as I packed my bags, I looked very much like a video of a five year-old boy opening presents at Christmas played at double speed in reverse.
            I hurried down to the breakfast area for shitty breakfast, which I munched down enthusiastically. I even enjoyed the diesel-frosted cakes and expired milk this time.
            Then the captain announced that only people with 8 AM cards could depart the boat. You know, it never really occurred to me that someone would want to pay extra to end a vacation as early as possible and get on the road, but if I’d known about it, I’d gladly paid the seven Diet Coke fee for early departure.
            When we finally did get it line, it backed up all the way inside the ship – and though we weren't the last in line, through some magic, everyone who was either from a different country or had a birth certificate got out before us. Even the drunk lady passed out in the corner got out before us.
            We were, in fact, the very, very last people to leave the ship. We went back to the valet parking guy and asked for the keys.  He said he would gladly bring the car around. My keen eagle eyes spotted the car, not 30 feet away, and I said, “The car is right there. I can walk to it.  With feet.” He reluctantly handed the keys over and I made for my parked chariot.
            As I pulled away from the ship, I began to understand.  Inside of my head, a small Celebration was occurring.  For a split second I actually considered going on the cruise again so I could experience this great euphoria I was feeling.  ‘But,’ I thought to myself, ‘I don’t have the kind of Diet Coke necessary to make that kind of trip worth it.’

            You know, perhaps that carpet stain was just part of the rug design.  I’ll never know for sure.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

India #2

India, Journal 2: This city is trying to kill me. I’m not sure, but it could be because I have red hair. On the other hand, the fear of death seems primary motivating factor out here sometimes. So far, I’ve had three different sicknesses, multiple near death experiences, and I’ve breathed a poisonous fume that would rival the darkest lands of Mordor. Never before have I seen so many awesome things and so many insane things all at once.

The first day was a bit of a stress test. I have become accustomed to the toilet with two buttons to flush it and the combination garden/kitchen hose in the bathroom. I’ve gotten used to housekeeping coming in at all hours with my underpants. Freshly ironed underpants.

So that’s all good. What I haven’t been prepared for is all the different ways India tries to KILL you. The first day was really a test of death by traffic. Nothing about the traffic makes any sense. People drive the wrong way ON THE FREEWAY. I hope you fully understand the gravity of what I’m staying. People hurtle at oncoming traffic AT googledyplex infinity kilometers per hour. I have no idea how fast a kilometer is. But we lots of them per hour. Cars there are nice, except I think they were all created before the invention of modern vehicle suspension. My head now tilts about twenty degrees to the right from frequent collisions with the roof of the car. Meridian in the way of an easy turn to your exit? SMASH IT TO THE GROUND AND DRIVE OVER THE CRATER. That’s right. If you can’t turn somewhere because of something, you destroy the something.

The other problem is the noxious gas. At five o’clock in the morning, all of the smog from the sky sinks to the ground. It really smells as if a collection of rabid, infected dogs died in the drain of a sewage treatment plant. On a good day, that’s what it smells like. This might have something to do with the fact we drive past a river that also serves as a toilet, bathtub, and day spa. What blows me away is how happy these people are. Never before have I seen people who have so little who are so happy. Even our drivers are thrilled, and they work six days a week. Plus I’m pretty sure they pick us up at 5 AM and drop one of the crews off at 11:30 PM. I have no idea when those guys sleep, but I have never seen them unalert on the freeway. The drivers communicate with car horns. Every major vehicle has fancy calligraphy on the back that says exactly these words – over and over again: “Horn Okay Please.” Over and over again on the freeway – big trucks, usually filled to overcapacity, with five guys sitting in the back and the words “Horn Okay Please.” Occasionally, we’ll see an Elephant with facepaint, and sometimes we’ll see a family of four on a motorcycle. My favorite so far was a guy riding a motorcycle wearing an 1850’s style Samurai Helmet, complete with awesome dragon facemask and golden crescent moon shaped horn-ornament on top. He’s probably the coolest guy in India. That said, with characters like this, it’s amazing we survive. Truly.

That brings me to the second day. I learned very quickly that the head of Reliance’s Media Division is a passionate vegetarian. So passionate is he, in fact, that he serves everyone at the building ONLY vegetarian foods. Imagine my joy at learning that meat would not be served during at least two of my three meals per day. On the second day of work, I had for breakfast several pieces of banana bread. I actually asked for toast, but got none. I have asked for toast every morning. I have asked for toast each DAY I have been in India. My waiter clearly understands. He always asks if I want white bread. Then he asks if I want butter. But no toast ever arrives. I don’t know what happens to my toast. I assume it vanished to the mysteriously absent 4th or 5th floors of the building, but one can never be too sure of toast.

Having eaten my banana bread and muffin flavored with double bland, I headed to the office, where I was treated to four different kinds of rice for lunch. To be fair, the rice was actually pretty good.

Now, I’m not sure if it was the banana bread from the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet no toast guy or the rice, but I began to feel a little ill. Slightly queasy, as it were – as if my stomach were punching me in the ribs begging me for something simple and easy to digest – something mild – something like toast, I guess. But since it was lunchtime, and toast was not available, I had to make do. I immediately took one of my pills. This particular one was called cipromaximus stomachus deathus. Or something. This gave whatever virulent, evil, son-of-a-bitch strain of viral death something to laugh at. Upon returning home, I drank water. Upon arriving in my bathroom, I un-drank water. To put it as mildly as possible, I decided to carefully review the lunch menu.

I must have thrown up for a solid six hours. After this point, there couldn’t possibly have been food in my stomach, but I threw up anyway. If I had to guess, my bowels somehow moved into the future during the time-zone change and I was actually vomiting food I hadn’t even eaten yet. I may have been delirious, but I’m pretty sure at one point my feet were coming out of my mouth.

After collecting my shoes from the toilet, I proceeded to get two painful, short hours of rest, give or take. Despite this unfortunate near death experience, I STILL woke up at five AM and I STILL went to work. It was the hardest day of work I’ve ever put in during my lifetime. Imagine throwing up so much your entire body structure aches. Now imagine your stomach is at it’s weakest point in ten years. Now imagine taking that broken body and weak stomach inside of an SUV death box barreling down the freeway with literally no suspension over destroyed freeway medians. There was a bright side though – the frequent collisions between my head and the top of the SUV made it so I didn’t even have to turn my head – if I needed to puke, I could just roll down the window and easily unleash a rainbow yawn all over the samurai warrior motorcycle rider next to us.

That didn’t happen. And thankfully, my life was saved by the most unlikely of characters. Not a man, not a doctor, not an angel, but something far more amazing – a true miracle of our world. A McNugget. Bless McDonalds – they do have some crap food out here – I don’t think I have to mention the Maharaja Mac or the Veg McPuff (oh yes – both very real) but damned if they didn’t have Chicken McNuggets and French fries. And they were delicious. I will admit that in America, nuggets and fries both have a mild taste of beef, which these McNuggets lacked, but they were still so good, the non-beefiness was easily forgiven. Though eating McNuggets can sometimes be like swallowing a handful of full sized razorblades (the McNugget is a harsh Mistress) these were like eating the first Snickers bar of Easter – only good things could happen from here. Religious connotations aside, the McNugget was my intestinal messiah.

I was proven correct. So far, the food quality has maintained a reasonable amount of safety and were palatable, as well. Breakfast was also a fine meal. However, the worst vomiting I have ever had was replaced with the worst COLD I ever had. I can only guess that no-toast guy is gathering up some of the sick guys from the street, checking their symptoms, and having each of them lick my banana bread before it has been served to me. There really is no other explanation. I swear to you, he hates me because I have red hair. It’s because I am a wealthy, red haired American giant. I have a fairly large class in India – in fact, I had the opportunity to present to a class of around one hundred people, and I’m pretty sure I was a head above all of them.

India #1

Somehow, somewhere in the Universe, several planets aligned. I don’t know why, I’m not entirely sure HOW, but someone somewhere decided, “Hey – lets send Chris Scott to India.” This will chronicle my descent into what I have discovered may be a sauna somewhere in hell. I don’t mean to imply that India is an unpleasant place, only that the devil probably visits here when he needs a spa day. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself – lets start from the beginning.

It started with a delightful limo ride to the airport. Everything was packed – toothbrushes, socks, passport, and a large bag of hot Cheetos. This was great. I shared the vehicle with my housemate and coworker Ellen Cuny. That was a lot of fun. The car ride was quick and there was almost no fear of death. The things I take for granted…

So, we hopped out of our vehicle and into the Tom Bradley International Terminal, where in lies the Emirates (that’s our plane) lounge. Which was great. The business lounge was a nice, comfy huge room with internet access, delicious sandwiches of every kind (I ate as many of the roast beef ones as they put out, as I anticipated there would be no roast beef for me for quite some time after this) plenty of free alcohol, cookies (Brussels, I think they’re called – I grabbed several small packs of these for emergency India Dining purposes) and tested out a beer – I think it was called OB and was Korean. I imagine this was because Emirates shares a lounge with Korean Air. In any case, its flavor was not bad for a beer named for a feminine product. There must be some marketing brilliance behind the name.

In any case, they loaded us aboard a brand new Boeing 777-200ER – one of the newest planes in the Boeing catalog, and took off.

This airplane could have been the coolest thing I’ve been in since the invention of the pantsuit. The seats recline… and by recline I mean TURN INTO A BED. So I sat down, turned on the front facing airplane webcam, leaned back, and relaxed.

I found the safety video highly entertaining. Apparently, the safest place for your young child is a body bag. I’m not kidding. In the event of a water landing, throw your kid in a body bag and ship him out to the proper authorities. The bright side? There’s a small, clear plastic window so you can watch your baby in the body bag.


It wasn’t long before they started throwing all manner of food at me. Champagne came before takeoff. I drank about a have flute – no need to get overly belligerent on the airplane. Then, there was a tea. Then a salmon with a dinner roll and some kind of lemon mayo. Then my food came out – I have pictures of all these meals. They were great!


The coolest part to me was the plane lighting. In addition to free razors, shaving cream, socks, eyepads, and perfume, the lighting was the best part. The cabin lighting at first reflected our departure colors, but after several hours, was set to match the lighting conditions of our destination. It was amazing. The hue changed, the lights dimmed and went from white to golden to a dusky orange to purple. Once the purple started to fade, the ceiling lit up… with STARS! Not just little holes with lights, there were CONSTELLATIONS on my ROOF! I clearly found Orion’s belt and the big dipper. This, to me, was badass. But not badass enough to keep me awake. Then, I fell asleep.


When I awoke, it was feeding time again. They made me a great French toast, tea, and a bunch of other stuff I ate but was far, far too groggy to remember. This is the part where things started to get weird on me.


The windows in the cabin are all operated by button. That by itself was pretty cool, but they were actually two layers to these blinds – one that merely blocked the view but allowed light in and one that blocked out the sun. For some reason, my window only closed about 95% percent of the way, which allowed a bit of light from the outside to reach me. It turns out that flying over the polar icecaps removes your nighttime. There was no night. So we left in the afternoon or late evening, flew INTO the day. However, when we began to land, it became apparent that it was actually nearly late afternoon/early evening.


Swell. So we left at dusk, fell asleep for a couple hours during lunch, and woke up AT DUSK AGAIN. On paper, that sounds simple. While in an airplane hurtling across the planet, it messes with your mind. Solution: watch bad movies. I think I watched as much of G.I. Joe as I could before I became mindlessly bored.


Thankfully, the flight was over much sooner than I anticipated. We offloaded into the Dubai International Terminal.


For those of you who don’t know, Terminal 3 in Dubai is amazing. It’s huge. It’s comfortable. There are showers. There are beers. There are eighteen different places to eat. I ate at least one of everything (and there was a lot) and went on a bit of exploring. I noticed every clock was from ROLEX, which seemed to have sponsored the wing of the airport. I must say, that airport was nice. I’m pretty sure it was created with bricks of 100$ bills.


So, after freshening up with a brisk morning/afternoon/evening/outer space shower, I once again rejoined my cronies for a little exploration. We then heard an announcement over the P.A. that our flight, EK500, had been delayed from 10:30 to 11:00. This was excellent (though most of my coworkers disagreed). So we went over to the big digital LCD boards that told us our departure times. These had not been updated at all. No big deal, I thought. I’ll just hang out for a while. Then we heard a P.A. announcement saying our flight was BOARDING. So we ran back to all of the coworkers and rustled them up. Needless to say they were not happy about being hustled along so early in the morning/late in the evening/years in the future. We left the opulent, comfortable Middle Eastern style couch-bench-seats and went to the terminal. Which wasn’t boarding. This may have caused some employee disgruntling. In these situations, I simply pull my fedora over my face and take a quick morning/afternoon/Christmas nap.

Boarding actually didn’t begin until just after 11:00. This worried me, but not enough to roust me from my evening/leap year nap.


My worries were unfounded, as we again found ourselves in a nearly identical plane, complete with the automatically folding robot chair/bed. The only differences I could see were a lack of starlight built into the roof (which makes sense, in retrospect, as I don’t think stars exist in Mumbai) and a manual, classic style pull down window shutter. I was really disappointed in that shutter. I much preferred the glowing up/down button shutter to classic style version, and besides, I was far to busy having food, goodie bags, and hand creams thrown at my face to worry about such things for too long.


Landing in Mumbai wasn’t nearly as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. From the stories I heard, I imagined that you walked out into a mosquito breading zone so thick with the bugs they would become stuck in your teeth with every breath. It turns out it wasn’t even remotely that bad. It was more like being stuck in the everglades whilst coated with a thick layer of bee honey. I was more of an aperitif to them, I think, and less of a feedbag. That was good.


Another expectation I had shattered was the general number of people in the airport. I had envisioned men stacked upon men – hundreds at a time, all attempting to stand in each other’s space. This is not the case. No one wants to be where you are, and there was plenty of space for everyone.


Instead, I discovered everyone wants to be ahead of you. Small moving electric vehicles. Juice vendors. Sandwich wielding Frenchmen. Pilots. They all want the space DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF WHERE YOU ARE. These leads to an important cultural difference: In America, we call this a line. In the UK, India, Honduras, South Africa, and other civilized parts of the world, they call this a Que.


We Americans, with our sense of social propriety, decide who goes next by standing in a single file line. In India, there is no single file line. There are 3,117 lines that all end in front of a single place.


This is where Indian Martial Arts come into play. You must learn to vanish between people, squeeze around them, and politely avoid them while smiling but not making eye contact. This ‘Que-Fu’ as I call it is probably the martial art most used by five year old children attempting to escape the clutches of their evil parents, overprivelaged supermodels, and trash collectors. More on the latter of the group later.


There are two reasons you want to be in and out of these lines quickly. The first is because if you aren’t careful, the entire population of Indiawill jump in front of you. The second is the smell. The reason trash collectors and Indians appear to be so good at Que-Fu is the odor. You don’t want to be around this many smelly people all the time. The odor, as I discovered upon stepping outside, isn’t really the fault of the Indians. It’s more the fault of the weather. The moment I stepped outside, my glasses turned completely foggy. We’re talking 100%. I was without the ability to see. I also noticed that my pants, which I thought were a fine khaki material, were actually a lovely beige form of moist spandex clinging to my body with reckless abandon. Never before would I have suspected that one day I would look up to God longingly and ask him to bestow upon me a squeegee for my ass.


The next fun step was the car ride. Thankfully, Emirates provided us with lovely luxury cars. However, the driver is on the opposite side of the vehicle, which screwed with me. Once every five minutes I’d look up and to the left and a little voice in my head would scream “BUT WHO’S DRIVING THE CAR?!?!”


This leads me to another aspect of Indian Que-Fu – traffic. Firstly, it drives on the other side of the road. Having been awake for some number of hours I can’t fully articulate due to the effects of time travel, every time I looked out the window, I panicked a little. OH MY GOD WE’RE GOING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE…oh. Repeat that in your head about 500 times and you’ll have some idea of what it was like. Then came the cows. Big ass cows. Male cows. Female cows. Lots of cows. At the airport. Hanging out. No people leading them, just generally having a blast in the foggy/smoggy weather. We dodged those. Then came the dogs. If you are a dog lover, there about 5,234,523,211 dogs per.square.foot.of.space.in.India. And they don’t really care about cars. At all. In some cases, they were just hanging out in the street. Some sat down right in front of us. God knows how they survive the way cars barrel around each other. Cars in Mumbai compete for position on the road. It’s unbelievable. To top that off, there were cabs everywhere, plus HUGE trucks. Guys were awake on top of the trucks… having tea or some such. Cab drivers were asleep hanging out the door. These things boggle my mind.


In any case, watching hundreds of other cars hurtle at me at these insane speeds was enough to throw me for a loop. Once we arrived through the hotel and completed the Security Masterpiece Theater, I road the McDeath elevator up to my room. I have dubbed it this because power to the elevator drops—apparently randomly—and the elevator drops about 2 feet quite suddenly before the breaks kick in. This is something I really, really don’t want to experience first hand, thanks.


I’m on the 12th floor of I don’t know how man floors. There is 1,2,3, 10,12,14,15, and 16. I assume someone broke through the crack squad of savy, motivated personel working security and stole all the missing floors. Maybe that’s not the case. Maybe the other floors are vacationing in America or visiting the Eiffel Tower.


A security guard greeted me at the elevator. He looked like he wanted to break me in twain, but instead grabbed my bags, showed me to my room, opened it and powered it up for me. Very kind of him. I stepped into the room to discover something else odd. There is a window into my shower from my bedroom. A HUGE window. I assume that there are circumstances in which this would could be awesome. However, the shower door is glass and looks into the bathroom as well. I effectively have a view from my bedroom clear into my toilet. I can think of a lot of circumstances in which this could be terrifying, and so have decided to dub this toilet-window the ‘Smell-O-Vision’ viewspace.

I decided to take a look out the window. The sun was coming up. This bothered me because in my mind, the sun should be going down at this hour, but instead seemed to have had one too many drinks, forgotten where his apartment was, and stumbled out into the street in the middle of the night to give it another go.

I shut the curtains and passed out for just about the best three odd hours of rest I’ve ever had. Am I still tired? Oh my god yes. But I have things to do tomorrow, so I’m going to try to stick it out until about 10:00 tonight. If I can manage that, then dose myself with some Tylenol PM, I should be okay.


I will send pictures along as soon as I can get my Mac and Camera back on speaking terms.