Pant Suits and Pakistani Drupes

So, fire one - what do an African footballer, Ellis Island, and my future ex-wife(s) all have in common?

Boredom.

Its been a few slow weeks here in the tropics - I had a stint in Ghana and picked up some sort of Ghanaian death bug that has swollen my throat closed for nearly 3 weeks now. No white dots, no inflamed tonsils. I've been told its a virus. Drink hot tea. Here's some ibuprofen, call us if you have breathing problems. Yeah, call us if you are having trouble breathing, I'll be the first to let you know. Although unabated-swole-throat is a *minor* condition that only stops me from talking or eating, I've taken this opportunity to do absolutely nothing resembling work for almost 2 weeks and blame it on the malady.

You should really stop cussing me through the screen - jealousy isn't becoming of you.

So, being that I had an improptu vacation, I had to somehow fill my time with something that didn't involve drinking and ranting. This was daunting, daunting indeed.

Enter Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. SVU. Ess Vee Fucking You.

This is the stuff dreams are made of. A rough and tumble group of dedicated detectives solving sexually based crimes throughout the boroughs of NYC. Do I like NYC? Well yeah, sure, why not, I hear the pizza is excellent. Do I like sex? Hell yeah, getting warmer. Oh yeah, well how about ex-rappers and intense Asians kicking pedophilic ass? Yeah? Yeah? DAMN STRAIGHT, NOW WE'RE TALKIN!

Ex cop killer Ice-T, Ex funny man Richard Belzer, Ex drunk Dann Florek, Ex Marine Christopher Meloni, Ex wives Mariska Hargitay and Diane Neal and Asian par exellence BD Wong, who I didn't have anything funny to write about, but who's expression is so serious you'd better believe he's got a lot of ass to kick and the day ain't gettin any younger, you know?

There is nothing flashy here, folks. We're talking minimalistic camerawork dictated by intense pacing and a gritty motif right out of 1986. I could write a novel about the numerous strengths of this show, spending the first 7 or so chapters on any scene involving Mariska Hargitay, with a special nod to any scenes involving Mariska Hargitay running, and then the next chapter or so on the dearth of scenes involving Mariska Hargitay running.

No, they're not doing it, but if there's anything that's going to keep me praying, this is it.

I sometimes find myself waking up from my mid-day nap around 2:30 and wondering what to do until dinner time. In comes about 5 episodes of SVU, laying across my couch wearing nothing but pagne pants and a contented smile and then its off to eat a yam or two. And the months keep passing by... Seriously, though, whoever does the casting for this show is an unsung hero - mixing rappers with minorities, ex-military strongmen with independent, successful, pant-suit wearing models and everyone has guns and drop-kicks men who touch little boys. I'll be damned if that isn't some kind of satisfying.

The last thing you see before you die


Diane Neal, I would love to break up with you one day.

Now were going to change gears here and learn about the Togolese superstar and my close neighbor, Emmanuel Adebayor.

Exhibit A: The face that launched a thousand shots

Adebayor is a living legend here in Togo, born in Lome 24 years ago, he is the quintessential rags-to-riches story, rising from the slums of Togo at a young age to become the star striker for Arsenal. (If you don't know what Arsenal is, don't feel bad, I had to google 'striker') I have heard many, many stories of his unending wealth and omnipresent power from locals who all know him personally - some of his well-known feats-

- He was born in Ghana, but became Togolese after deciding that being Ghanaian would be too 'easy'

- His grandfather lived to be 130 years old. This is why Adebayor is so strong. Duh.

- Adebayor has sired 105 children.

- He speaks Mandarin Chinese

- He is near 7ft tall (a line was drawn over my 6'4" height - "Are you sure he's that tall?" I asked. "Yes," the cafeteria owner told me. "He's very tall. Too tall.")

- He likes coconuts.

- He can fly.

Exhibit B: Adebayor in mid-flight

So what ties all of this together?? A Togolese superstar (foot)balling out of control and a popular syndicated American crime drama? Freedom, my friends, freedom.

Adebayor's house. Wait for it... wait for it...

BOO YAH!

Its a Statue of Liberty with a damn soccer ball on it - her vigilant eye keeping watch over the tired, huddled masses that constitutes pretty much every Togolese I've ever met... these folks are tough. Look at it one more time, make sure you take in all of its resplendent glory. This is Adebayor's house, which is 5 minutes around the corner from mine. Only in West Africa does this make any type of sense. God, I love this place.

Well, anyway, I gotta get out of here - Adebayor just contacted me with his mind powers and wants us to take his rocket car to Islamabad for a long weekend. I didn't know this, but the dude loves cricket. And apparently Pakistani coconuts aren't all that bad.

Dear George Lucas

Dear George,

I guess I just need to say what I need to say and be done with it. I've tried to start this letter a number of times, but keep erasing it all, trying to find the right words - I just want to be sure that I get this right. We've been through so much together, you and me and all my money, haven't we? I've been needing to talk to you for so long, but you've been so busy for the past 10 years making those 'movies' and counting all of my money (do you still swim naked through your vault like you loved to do?) and I got caught up with puberty and finding college kids to buy me alcohol and light petting and it just never seemed like the right time. Maybe if I had been braver, came to you with my concerns when they first arose we wouldn't be at this point. So, for that, I blame myself... but then again, we've never been too good at really talking to one another, have we? It's all seemed so one sided... I always feel like I've been sitting in the dark for hours while you told me the same stories over and over again. Well now look at us, after all these years and I don't even recognize you anymore.

The good ole days

I began to get worried way back in 83 with Return of the Jedi... Empire was so good and Reagan was in office and we were all flying high on love and the bull market. You knew the expectations were high, but you were so confident and sure of yourself that I fell under your spell for a third time. And you know what, George Lucas? You did it. The movie was great - critically acclaimed, moving, compassionate, lots of shit blowing up - I couldn't have asked for more, but looking back now, I can see where it began.

Yes. Fuck yes.

No - The first sign

But then, we started drifiting apart. Those few years after Jedi, well, there were some soul-searching quiet moments there, weren't there? I didn't hear from you much, but I was always there, waiting for when you'd let me back in. I knew you still cared for me, my parents always paid for the shipping on those Star Wars figures you kept sending me, and I knew when the time was right we'd be back together. Then, in 1986 Christmas came early. Or so I thought. You didn't send lightsabers and Millennium Falcons and a galactic struggle between good and evil. I know Harrison was away working on other projects, but, George Lucas, and I say this with nothing but love for you - what the fuck, man? 3 years of silence and you try to make up for it with Howard the Duck?

....seriously?

As the technology kept getting more advanced you let your imagination run wild. I stood by your side the whole time, George Lucas. When you wanted to print some more money and remade the trilogy? I was right there with you and sat through them all again, feeling like we were making our way back to where we once were. Even though you tried to gay-up Han Solo, I let it slide as mid-life liberal remorse for a gentler world.

Un-Gayable

And things were good for a time - I hit a rough patch and had to sell all of the figures you sent me through the years to pay for my first year of school, but I still had you, and you had my money and it was like 1977 all over again.

But let me get down to brass tax here, George Lucas, you know I've never minced my words --- things didn't last. The build-up to the prequels was unfathomable, the hopes and aspirations and dreams of our future together riding the wave of fanboys' wet dreams all over the world and all you had to do was do the same thing you did 20 years earlier. We're not talking a high dive or flying trapeze or a 50 year old running a marathon. All you had to do was tell the same story in the same way, and everything would have been ok. All you had to do George Lucas, was flash some lightsabers, cut up some aliens and show some shit levitating. And this is what I got.

Why?

I know that you and me weren't talking at the time, but was there no one you could run that one by? Did you let anyone read the script? Was it something I said? I guess you can see where this is going now. Over the next 6 years you threw shitty movie after shitty movie at me, expecting your old confidence and flannely-aloofness to charm me as it used to. But its just not enough anymore, George Lucas. We've changed, you, and me, and my wallet. Gone are the days when it will just open its bi-fold for you anytime you feel frisky. I need something more than a mere shadow of what we once had -- I need the real deal - I need a Darth Vader thats evil because he's a fucking bad-ass, not because he's a whiny 20 year-old with a crush. I need a hot heroine who will strip down, not put on makeup with a paint-roller. I need a rough-around-the-edges smuggler type who's willing to gamble everything for the girl. I need a Boba Fett that isn't the unadulterated brother of every storm trooper in the galaxy. I need Jedi who don't lay down and die when an old man jumps over a table at them. God, George Lucas, I don't even know what more I can say.

But just when I thought you had hit rock bottom, when I thought there was no possible way you could screw the pooch any worse, you pulled the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen you do. On the darkest day, in the remotest, coldest corner of hell, I suppose I could defend Jar Jar if I was really put upon. But in no way could I ever conceive how you could possibly consider this a proper move in our relationship. Worse than the time you whored out the franchise for the Holiday Special, worse than the Ewoks spin-off, and even worse than the idea that Anakin Skywalker crafted C-3PO himself, you went and outdid everything I thought you capable of -- I hope you're not playing stupid, George Lucas, you know exactly what I'm talking about--

Put em together and what do you get?



Ziro the Hutt. Or Truman Capote. I still can't tell.

A quarter century and 4 billion dollars later and the best you can come up with is a transexual-ish gay slug? What the hell, George? Can you name one character you've created in the past 25 years who hasn't sucked ass? Mace Windu (Samuel L Jackson? SERIOUSLY)? Count Dooku? If I can give you anything for when you walk away, its this - FILM A MOVIE WITHOUT CG AND IT MIGHT NOT MAKE SOME PART OF ME DIE. So, George Lucas, I just want you to know that we are done and I'm over you and I don't want you calling anymore or writing me or sending me your catalogues or trying to convince me that R2 can fly because we all no that makes no goddamn sense. I don't want us to forget the good times we had, but seriously, we're done now. I can't put myself through this anymore. So please, don't try to contact me or my money, we don't want to talk to you.

Until you make a Ziro the Hutt figure. I'll probably still buy that.

Ceci n'est pas une feuille vide

Or is it?

Just got back from a week in Pagala, near the center of the country, where my stage had IST (in service training). It was, in a very boring, bureaucratic way, one of the most surreal things I've done here. Take, for instance, this blurb from some training material -

Read the following phrases and say if they concern some projects-

2) A young man wants to visit his friend in the neighboring village. Early in the morning, he smokes some manioc tubers, puts them in his bag, takes his machete and leaves. Arriving at the village of his friend, he is informed that his friend went fishing. he takes the road and returns to his house.



...what?

(also, i can't turn off italics now. blast)

We decided to think of a few things more fun than IST - here, in abridged form

- Pinochle
- Orthodox church service
- Drinking urine
- Rolling in an ant hill after a sugar-water bath
- Ethnomusicology exam
- Death of a relative
- Special Olympics Curling Championships
- Dodging javelins


*sigh*
So, I've got fancy places to be coming up right soon, so I'll leave you with a bit of Lebanese-American wisdom-

"Hey man, why'd you have to piss in their oatmeal? Let them smoke their oregano."

No truer words have ever been spoken... well said... well said, indeed.

The Face of Apathy

Sent to me by Rayan. I wasn't even aware he took these -- I call it 'A Study on Waiting' -- enjoy

Waiting on the taxi to leave the Parakou Gare



Crossing the Niger River

Waiting to leave Niamey

Niamey, again. Ponctualite, my ass.

By Popular Demand

You know, I always like books with pictures more than the others, so for all of you geographically challenged and visually stimulated folks out there heres the Sahelian-taxi-crawl-travel-companion----

It gets bigger if you click on it (thats what she said)

Yellow dots are where I stayed - it all added up to over 2000 miles (I calculated that from km. In my head. I have lots of hidden talents.)

On Mountains, Rodents, and Bowling

What began as a fantasy trip venturing to the mountains of Agou and then heading up north for Christmas celebrations, visiting family and friends with the wishes of snow-covered peaks and dreams of fat men and dancing fruit quickly met with the realities of the tropical West African climate and the logistical beast that is impromptu-dirt-road-cross-country travel. I left my dear Lome in mid-December, shirking responsibilities by flagging a taxi out of town. What ensued for the next 3 weeks was an alcohol fueled romp plumbing the depths of discomfort across 4 countries. I found myself, (in rough order) charming the yovophobic children of Koudassi while visiting a good friend for lunch, resting in the highest village in Togo, Dzigbe, sitting nearly at the top of Mount Agou, looking out over the valley where we lived for 3 months in stage,

Dzigbe

relaxing in Atakpame, listening to Scottish-bagpipe-techno (the first time I had heard that genre), the smell of honeysuckle floating through the air from the rolling hills surrounding the town. After a quick overnight in Pagala, I shot up to Niamtougou where home-made eggnog and beef kebabs floated us through the Christmas like the lilting piano runs of the Vince Guaraldi record we had flowing from the speakers of Rayan's computer. After 3 days of Xmas fete-ing we cleaned the house, returned the rented plastic chairs and got a taxi out of town. Rayan, Marcus and I left for Kara, where they awoke to the sight of me chasing rats the size of my forearm around the living room with a machete at 3am, counting the minutes until we could leave for the border.

The Three Brushketeers

From this point we truly began to delve deep into the depths of painful travel, with moto rides through dust storms (I got a bandana starting day 2), disintegrating Peugeots and the occasional donkey, going 12 hours of road time to the border of Niger, collapsing into bed at 11pm after running over 231 potholes (we were in the damn taxi for 7 hours, we had to do something) and eating a dinner of Thai-neon-orange-drink (with 25% real fruit!) and a hazelnut chocolate bar (you find the weirdest things in border towns). The next day found us gambling in a straw hut over the border in Niger at the Gaya bus station waiting for transport to Niamey.

Gambling is a sin in lots of religions. We're angering many gods at once here.

Yeah, your guess is as good as mine... they were chewy

I threw sheckels I had found in my bag from my trip to Israel at local Muslims. We drank curdled coconut milk (yeah, they weren't real pieces of coconut) and ate as much meat as we could stuff into our mouths at once. Nigerians are an exceedingly warm, honest, and amicable bunch and the rough ride to Niamey was mitigated a bit by actually being quoted the correct price for the bush-taxi ride. We watched the Nigerian countryside whip past as we made our way to the capital throughout the day. As an aside here, we were beginning to see a pattern at every border we crossed –
- Passport agent asks for passports, thinking we are French.
- Sees American passport, smiles broadly and says something about the 'Republic of Obama.'
- We smile and nod fervently.
- They cheer and stamp passports with no questions asked.
- Everyone gives three Huzzahs for democracy.

I still love tea

They even put the stamps in there all neat and side-by-side. I've been to some places where I swear they intentionally put on stamp diagonally across an entire page just to make sure you understand how apathetic they are to you, your travels, your opinion and ultimately their job. No one says “I want to be a border agent when I grow up,” right? So, thank you future president of the United States, you saved me many many CFA in bribes to get across borders scot-free (In your FACE, Sarcozy!)

The next 6 days are spent in bars, outside of bars, in restaurants, outside of restaurants, in and out of beds and hot (!!!) showers. New Years eve we danced while video of Gaza being bombed flashed across the screens of the bar. We watched fireworks from the 5th story roof of a building after seeing someone with us slice his head open on a broken beer bottle (he didn't die. The amount of blood lost would convince you otherwise). We cursed life in the morning. Thank god we decided to take a bus on the 2nd, not the 1st. Our last day in Niger was spent drinking lots of water and watching awful movies.

Grand Mosquee, Niamey

The next morning, after sleeping for only 3 hours and hiring a car at an exorbitant price to take us to the bus station at 4am, our bus to Ouagadougou (no matter how many times I say it, its still fun) was 4 hours late and 5 seats too small. Our chère bus line had three tenets of satisfaction plastered across every cracking wall of their building-

Ponctualité – scheduled to leave at 5:30. Left at 9.
Confort – My knees still hurt. The lucky passengers got a cooler to sit on in the aisle.
Sécurité – Bus was a soviet-era Russian diesel bucket. Windshield had been shattered and repaired more times than we could count. Held together with discolored glue.

10 hours later with the beginnings of arthritis and hemorrhoids we find the capital of Burkina. Hell, at this point I don't even remember what we did there. I must have slept the next three days. I know I ate a breakfast sandwich made of sour meat and arteries and danced with tons of hookers until 4am at some point. After all of this, we met some folks heading down to Lome and decided to cut the trip 5 days short to escort them back down to the coast. I've been showing them around the past few days and man, do I love this city. Sure, its a bit like a truck stop, but I can get 25% fruit juice from Thailand anytime of the day and my bowling game was getting a little rusty.

Yeah, thats my house. We established my level of bad-assery long ago – this should come as no surprise.

Its a good thing we're back, too --- do you know what its like up in the Sahel during Harmattan? My lips cracked like the surface of mars and my nose bled every day. I have no clue how people adjust to dry climates. I've finally come to terms with it -- I love hot, humid places (My next job will be in a rain forest somewhere, I'm sure). I don't know what it is, but I'd take a lukewarm beer and fish brochettes on the beach over steak and cold drinks in the desert anytime.

So, who's thinking that I had an awful time and couldn't wait to get home?? That I never want to travel again? Can I see some hands? How many are betting I'm about to give it all up and run back to the 9-5 life in the states? Anyone out there? If you raised your hand, please confirm the web address you typed to get here. Did you mis-type www.waitingtodie.com? Maybe it was www.isuckatlife.com you intended to visit? Perhaps you were looking for www.ilockmydoorsallthetimebecauseimterrifiedofblackpeople.com?

No?

Well then, you should know me better than that – this was one of the coolest trips I've ever taken. I'm having a riot over here and I feel sorry for all you chumps, wherever you may be! (Well, except maybe you, Steven. Hes sailing uncharted islands and running down kangaroos in the outback right now.)

I had an incredible time – thank you everyone for the packages (especially the Florida crowd -- $120 shipping? Seriously? You guys must really like me) and emails wondering where I had disappeared to – its neat to find out people actually read this :) Hope the pictures tell a little bit of the story – It would take a short novella to do my past month justice.

Here's to being home-brewed in the US of A and 100% moss-free – Cheers.

Lying For the Shorties

THIS POST IS EXTREMELY CRASS, PLEASE (GRANDMA) DO NOT READ THIS ONE. MAY I SUGGEST YOU GO HERE --> WWW.WEATHER.COM

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SERIOUSLY, PLEASE DONT DO THIS

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NO, REALLY, GO AWAY. IM NOT KIDDING. I MEAN, I KNOW YOULL STILL LOVE ME AND ALL, BUT REALLY.

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ACTUALLY, ANYTHING BAD HERE WAS MY FRIEND'S FAULT. I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. BLAME HIM. HE DOESN'T GO TO CHURCH.

I get thousands of emails a day. Thousands of adoring readers showing their appreciation for the bright spot this blog has become in their lives, a few (unoriginal) vitrulent attacks spawned from a seething jealously at my effortless badassery, and, not altogether unexpected, demands for the film production rights to my life. These are not new and are normally brushed aside with the flood of marriage offers, but one caught my eye today --- here, in unabridged form, is the request for your perusal --

"Matthew! Baby! Your blogs got that certain something! Gold, baby. Gold! Here in Hollywood, California that's what we've been looking for for a long time, my boy. The kids here? No talent. It's always the same rippling six packs and desperate sexual propositions on the road to fame... It's worn out, kid. But you?! You got something special. Hell, for a movie deal, I'd sleep with you and, kid, I don't often say that. But for you? I'll make an exception. The studio will literally throw any figure at you for the chance to produce your life in movie form. Money's not an object. Drugs? Women? What's your poison, Matt? Badda-bing I can make it happen. The only thing I don't get is what you actually do, kid? I mean, trust me, I know a quality package when I see it *softly pats you on the ass*, but who's the man behind the legend?"

Now, as you can imagine, yours truly is accustomed to habitual displays of genuflection, but this request had that certain balance between obsequiousness and offers of gratuitous amounts of money that so many young, nubile tarts don't yet understand. Also, he emoted a gentle pat upon my ass within the email which threw me for a loop, but I just figured it was the Hollywood in him. Hell, from all I've heard about that place Im sure he was surrounded by midgets serving lines of coke off of mirrors balanced on their heads and he was so hopped up on Red Bull and Quaaludes he actually thought he was cupping one of my supple cheeks. Beats me.

Anyway, I sent a email back to Mr. Happy-Hands telling him about my day jobs as an adventure ice climber/contract astronaut with forays into moonlighting as a lunar cartographer and heres the cheek I get in response--

"Matthew...Matthew... that's great and all. Rock climbing on Mars or whatever. Believe me, I'm impressed. But we're selling to the everyman here. Here in Hollywood, California our job is to trick these peons into thinking that they have a fucking thing in common with superstars and model goddesses who wouldn't even look that trailer trash in the eye. We need something a little more down to Earth. Stuff those red-state fucks are gonna eat out of the palm of my fucking hand. Badda-bing. God, I love my life. You like brandy, kid? I'll send you over a bottle. Anyway, point is, we need something more in tune with the common man. Whatcha got for me, baby?"

I feel the need to translate for you, so here it is -- he wanted me to lie. TO LIE. A large part of my appeal is the fact that its all happening (er, baby)! Its all in real time!!! So what can one do? I told him the truth - Im too noble to lie. Its true.

"Can't lie? ...*laughs for several minutes*... Listen, kid. I get what you're saying. It's real honorable. We can definitely spin that into a nod from the Academy later on. But let's cut the shit for a minute. We're just guys talking here. Two average Joes. And what I'm telling you is this... the movie business is about giving people a dream -- the will to keep going. Honesty doesn't sell. You think good ever triumphs over evil? You think the guy gets the girl? That ain't life, baby. But people don't want the truth. John Q. Jackass would take one look at your life and go shoot himself. What we're doing here is bigger than just you and me. It's for the kids, man. The cancer patients. And for them? Yeah, here in Hollywood, we lie. For the kids. I tell 'em Santa Claus is real and named Tim Allen. So, don't do it for me, babe. Do for those cancer wards. The ones with clowns and balloons and Playstations. Yeah... Yeah... That's right."

And you know what? That touchy-feely-sonufabitch had a point. It is my moral obligation - NAY - my patriotic duty as a red-meat-eating-native-born-American to give hope to those who have none. Those little kids in the cancer wards. So I do this for you, wee cancer tots. I lie here so you may relate to my life. I lie to give you hope. I lie to give you happiness. I lie to expand my bank account. God, I love my life.

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I'm whats known here as an informaticien. This means next to nothing in West Africa, seeing as if you can use Word and surf the web you are a West-African-Certified-Informaticien. Its not so hard to be an expert here. I work with principally two organizations here -- The University of Lome and Cafe Informatique. Cafe Info is one of the largest privately owned businesses here and is the largest ISP and the second largest cell provider in country.

Im working on a 5 year "state of technology throughout Togo" action plan to present to the government. I actually have about as much of an idea about what Im doing here as I do about lunar cartography.

At the university Im working to install a cyber cafe using only linux -- this is tougher than it sounds--

See those two black computers? Those are the University web site and email server. High tech here, folks, high tech.

So, my faithful public, thats just about all I do. I look at computer screens all day and work through email in a country where most of my colleagues don't have electricity and pee in dirt holes. I also drink cheap wine and cheese whenever possible. Thats class.

If you know whats going on here, put down the bag of cheetos and go outside and get some sun, NOW.

* with David Newstead contributing. He's originally from Ninety-Six, SC and has never actually been to Hollywood. California. Baby. He will still sleep with you, though.