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Ganesh willing, I’ll be coming back ot sweet home Chicago tonight via a big silver pinstriped dong. In the meantime, you can read the crap I wrote last year in India. Obviously, it’s unfinished, has poor grammar and even worse punctuation. Shut up.

I’ll get around to writing more about India when I get back. Swear to Shiva. It’s nice, but seeing as it’s business travel I’m insulated from the rough edges of the country I so desperately want to explore.

11 Feb 2005 1905

Kolkata Airport. It’s the evening of my 4th day in India and i must try to rattle down what i can still remember clearly while it’s somewhat fresh on my mind. Shit, it creeps on you. Things here are so totally different in many ways but very much the same in others. Now it all seems familiar, like i’ve been here many weeks. It’s soaked into my lungs, the pungent odor of sandalwood and mothballs and bidi smoke and diesel fumes have worked its way deep in my bloodstream. The earliest stuff will probably be least imprinted. Start from the beginning, they say, a very good place to start. Some bullshit noise about stories flowing naturally. Those of us what tell stories occasionally know they are best told in chapters, usually out of order.

So it begins. My first business class flight. Used to be it was called `First Class’ on flights what had both cheap bastard and rich bastard sections. Frigging Airbus plane from my beloved Chicago to Toronto. Moderately comfortable recliner-like seats, nice and wide. i don’t remember much from this flight except champagne and salmon quiche (in lieu of some chicken tumor dish). i once bought a book called _Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche_ or something. Bull honkey. It also said that Real Men are entitled to Big Cars with Huge Engines and Automatic Transmissions. Again, Bull Honkey. Then again, what do i expect from 25 cent books at a used bookstore? At first it seemed cute or silly but in reality it did nothing more than piss me off. I gave it a light read once then threw it away. This was back when i was living in The Fort in downtown Atlanta. i’m sure it found its way into one of our trash bags which was flung out the back window of our third story fortress, over the dividing wall in the alley and into the dumpster belonging to either the Bail Bond agency or perhaps the hair braiding place downstairs. We lived there for 2 years and that’s how we took out the trash every damn time, including when i filled a 20 cubic yard dumpster just before we moved out. The 3rd roommate sort of rotated in and out after Mark moved out (uhh i think it was David from GSU then Dave with Tejas-sized bonghits (a hell of a nice guy. Dave, if you’re reading this, drop me a line.) then the Cossack, not to mention the summer roommates we had of friends – Mikex0r, Brad, Martin) all of them left some of their shit at our place. Twenty Cubic Yards, that’s 20 * 27 or 540 cubic feet of absolute crap, a veritable flea market in a dumpster. All of it pushed out the back windows. Thanks for bringing over the reciprocating saw, Mark, it really made quick work of the couches.

I burned my tongue on the quiche. It was ok.

After some sleep, Canadia was speeding by underneath as we began our descent to YYZ. Isn’t that a Rush song? I forget. Toronto seemed dark, not because that it was night altho thank you, N, for pointing that out. They didn’t seem to have the same proclivity to light up every single space with the sickly orange glow of sodium vapor lamps like Americans do. Since G. was the int’l sales guy, he got us into the Maple Leaf Lounge in the Toronto Airport, which had not only the delightful effect of reminding me of Scott Joplin but also the delightful free booze dispensers. Yes, fuck yes – free booze. Self-serve booze dispensers. FREE SELF SERVE BOOZE. Jesus fucking christ, did these people know what they were getting themselves into? I already had pangs of feeling like i didn’t belong. On the plane, the flight attendants were all `Yes, Mr. F, would you care for more champagne, Sir?’ That felt a little weird to me. Free headphones. Orange juice before departure. i had to restrain myself from stealing everything i could get my hands on.

Headphones are one thing, but i was suddenly thrust into the land of booze and honey. Grab a glass, push it up to the lever and a shot of sweet delicious booze was mine. Like one of B.F. Skinner’s rats, i saw to it to partake of my share. The superbowl was on the big TVs in the corners. I grabbed a plate of mixed cheeses and my gin & tonic to make a few phone calls. First, to my darling N, who was engrossed in a homework party. More gin. Then my nigga C in New Hampshire. More gin. More cheese. Some soup. Flip open the work craptop. Free wireless? Nigga please. More gin. Flipped open the workcell a third time and called up D in the frozen wasteland of Edmonton. Been a while since we’ve talked, and it was a good conversation. The details of which are a bit sketchy to me at this point, but i do remember having my nth g&t which was 3:1::g:t. J, my boss, is a nervous traveler so i had to leave. Probably not a bad idea before i started laying on the counter below the booze taps and nursing them like a malnourished kitten. Stumble to the gate area, my internal organs sloshing about like buoys on a sea of gin. Sweet, delicious, free gin.

Of course i continued this boozing when i got on the plane. Business class again. Something something delayed the flight takeoff for about half an hour, so i had 2 glasses of champagne. I called N. again, per her request, to let her know i was indeed on my way. i still felt like an impostor. Being called `Mister’ or `Sir’ still doesn’t sit right with me. Fucking Airbus planes don’t have air vents over the seats. It was strangely hot in the aircraft. I’m used to it being good and chilly. Perhaps they were trying to acclimate us to what was ahead. Finally took off. Kicked out the footrest and settled back in my Airbus Barcalounger, tried not to think about More gin. At some point i finally succumbed to it and passed out.

Did i forget something? Panic. FUCK. There were Things I Had To Do before the plane took off. Had i accomplished them? Did i dream that i hadn’t and was not in a dream panic or did i actually not do them and i was boned for real? i couldn’t tell. The cabin was hot and stuffy and i was hungover and feeling terrible. i drank water and had a breakfast of some omlette-style mess of eggs. Mmeh.

Our flight path took us over Kabul, Afghanistan. i felt somewhat better knowing i was in a Canadian aircraft.

Some hours later we landed at Indira Ghandi Int’l Airport. Delhi at last. The heavy smog made it look foggy outside. The airport was large and sparse. It smelled of mothballs and bidi smoke. Hints of sandalwood. An hour later, we had our bags, handed our handwritten entry certificates to a bored-looking customs collector. A mob of brown people with signs in poorly-translated english stood around. We found our drivers and made it through the mob and out to the car park. A barely-organized clusterfuck of cars. Tiny cars, Ambassador Cars, three wheel rickshaws powered by poorly tuned scooter engines coughing and sputtering, most all running on CNG.

Delhi. Confusion. Traffic. Hotel.