NEW POSTS

HELLO ALL! There have been some new postings as I work furiously to catch up (when the power is on). Check postings from December 15th on Forward!

Stay Tuned because more are on their way!

- Brooke

All Is Quiet on New Years Day…

…Or at least as quiet as its gonna get when surrounded by 12 million of your closest friends. While our Business partner slaved away at the offices, I was rousted out of my heavy, whiskey slumber by the yipping of 8 hungry, baby puppies who were born in a little alcove right below the balcony. They are about 12 weeks old now and are able to take their yipping outside into the alley for all to hear until their mom comes home.

Craving a bit of the homeland, Arunji and myself set out to Cannaught Place, relic center of British colonialism, for some McDonalds French fries. I have never been to a foreign McDonalds (heck, I cant remember the last time I was in a state-side one) but this one in the center of C.P. was a true Indian twist on an American classic.

A teeming mass of celebrating Indians all had the exact same idea as us at the exact same time and it was sheer chaos as everyone was hell bent on getting their Veg. Burgers (no beef…Hindus, remember?) and fries. The crowd was such that it required security guards to “direct traffic” which really meant they got pushed around by short, chubby old Hindu women. When we finally reached the front and ordered the “Aloo Tikka” burger (at Arunji’s recommendation) and fries and pushed and shoved our way back out and to the center of the circle, claimed out bit of brown grass amongst the masses, I can honestly say it was worth it.

Perhaps it was that I was finally able to stomach solid food on a regular basis after 7 or so days, but the “Aloo Tikka” burger which is a potato burger is really freakin good.

Not having the wherewithal or strength to drive toe motorcycle to C.P. we took and auto rickshaw there and back. Our driver back spent the entire time shouting “Happy New Year” intermittently as he regaled us with his tale of nights events and how much chicken an whiskey he consumed and demonstrated how he danced (see description in previous posting) all while swerving along the wrong side of the road and, while not entirely out of place in Delhi, the totality of the circumstances lead me to the inevitable conclusion that his celebrating had not actually ended yet.

Bad Whiskey…Bad!

Happy New Years! After a record of 8 days not eating (save the “Christmas Feast” experience and the Soup Victory), fever, delirium and other not so savory elements of Delhi Belly, I mustered up the gusto to hit the town for new years eve and ring in 2008 in as much style as I could muster basically meaning I threw on a dirty hoodie and Arunji and I shuffled down to the bar down the street (one of two in the entire district) called “Gem Bar”…..and boy, was it a gem.

The crowd was a robust mixture of rowdy Australians, morose and flighty French and Americans, and the rest…..really, really, really drunk Indian Men and only men. In fact, I could count the number of fellow girlies in the place on one and a half hands.

You see, at your typical bar in India, unless it is a hip nightclub or hotel bar frequented by travelers, you won’t find many women. Perhaps it’s because social and religious norms frown on such fraternization but I actually think it’s because there is an undercurrent of knowledge amongst the women of India that their lesser halves, when intoxicated, conceive of and then execute some of the worst dancing moves one could imagine.

Now, I’ve been here a bit, and since over ¾ of that time has been spent deathly ill, I have managed to take in a healthy dose of Bollywood films (old and new) and Indian Music videos. I have studied them and have gained infinite wisdom. I thought I had seen some silly dancing but those norms were shattered and a new standard set within moments of walking into Gem Bar.

The place was packed shoulder to shoulder (Actually, I’m more like Shoulder-to-Head with your average Indian male) and the booze was a-flowin. Arunji and I thought it would be a good idea to jump right in and sample a shots of all the worst whiskeys India has to offer, as quickly possible, and chase it down with some King Fisher (the popular beer in these parts). King Fisher is an interesting creation, to say the least. Lemme put it this way: take a real high-class 40 oz-er say, Side-Pocket or Evil-Eye (some of my Denver lovelies know these well), toss in a shot of cod liver oil so that you get an oily after-taste and then leave it open for a while and then serve chilled and, voila! You have now experienced King Fisher. And yet, after a harrowing day on the motorcycle in Delhi traffic, it can seem like nectar of the gods.

I Digress….

Gem Bar. New Years. Indian Men Dancing. Yes, the dance of the Indian Male is more like a full body, epileptic seizure but without the rhythm and a lot of strangely timed pelvic thrusting, shouting and kicking. And yet they danced and danced and danced…during songs, during silence, in the line for the bathroom, on the stairs, on the tables, on the bar….they danced.

The countdown…..Actually, there were like 3 or 4 countdowns to the new year and so I was never really quite sure when we rang it but each time it was accompanied with a tidal wave of hugs and cheek kisses and poorly disguised attempts to grab my boobs.

Now, In Delhi, the bars close at 12:00 SHARP. Gem Bar made a concession and stayed open until about 12:15ish. So, we rang in the new year (a few times), and by that time the alcohol had taken a firm hold in my sickness-starved husk of a body that I didn’t care how bad the whiskey is but as soon a things got going it seems, we were being pushed out the door which, literally, hit me in the ass on my way out.

Most of the Indian men proceeded to hop on their Hero Honda CD110’s (in other words, a really small bike) and pile 2-3 of their friends on and tear down the narrow alley whooping and flailing in a manner that would make Ganesh proud. At one point, I think I saw 5 full grown Indian men stacked onto one brave little Honda.

Being 12:30 or so, and not ready to go back, Aaron and I decided to go see an old friend of his Balu, some cat from New Mexico who set up shop and has been here for a number of years. Balu, was an interesting and paranoid man who has it planted in his head that the world of vintage motorcycles is akin to some level of international espionage but he had whiskey and was generous with it.

After we grew weary of playing spy v. spy, we headed back to the ol’ homestead where we greeted the lobby guys with a hail a new year greetings and were handed more whiskey from Erik, our Nigerian neighbor, and shared a couple drinks with him.

…It was at that point I called it and with a stagger in my step and an uncomfortable burning in my stomach…I stumbled up the stairs…

“Happy 2008”, I told myself as I looked at my haggard, sunken cheeks in the mirror,
Then I threw up.

Small Victory

It is important to celebrate the little victories in life. If we judge our success and failure based soley on the larges battles we face, then we loose sight of the small things...

Todays Little Victory: I Managed to get down a small bowl of Veg. Noodle Soup today and, so far, there have been no massive retaliations. Is the end of this misery on the horizon? Perhaps, until then I will sit sentinel over the television and wait for another Billy Baldwin movie.

I think I am falling in love with Billy Baldwin. He and his bad movies have been like a friend to me during the hard times….its like suddenly I am seeing him and his fat, mushy face for the first time….Oh Billy…

We Vishnu a Merry Christmas

The Hindus celebrate a festival called “Shivatri.” Shivatri is a festival the celebrates the day Lord Shiva danced the “tandava” or the cosmic dance. In recognition of this event, the Hindu’s consume “Bahng Lassis” (which are basically hashish yogurt-like drinks) and join the gods in the spirit world to celebrate the celestial event with fasting and Temple processions.

That celebration comes about in March….I started early…..real early. Well come Christmas eve, I was on my 5th or 6th day of not eating and the fever had not broken. I was feeling the temporary relief I afforded myself with some Valium, re-hydration salts and a bit of the key “Bahng” ingredient (Hint: not the yogurt). For justification purposes, the Valium was for the searing pain that accompanies every movement, the re-hydration salts were for just that and the hash was for the nausea….seriously (and it was totally a prescription…..from the guy who works the internet/call center down the way) and for some comic relief to a miserable situation.
I was on my 4th or 5th HBO flick (which here means all the best B-rated movies with D-List celebrities that Hollywood has to offer) when Aaron returned from doing some work (he can take antibiotics and so he had a small bout of Delhi-Belly that lasted about 36 hours…jerk) and asked if I wanted to try eating. Feeling brave (or high) I decided to try some plain rice, which was the most non-threatening item I could think of.

I took all of three bites of my Christmas feast before pushing it away in disgust and it took all of three commercial breaks from watching Billy Baldwin’s jowls quiver through his lines in whatever self-produced, half-cocked action flick that was on before I was puking it up all over. Its funny how three bites of rice can expand into enough “fodder” to keep one “up and at em” all night in the bathroom.

Thus began my temple procession where I prayed to the porcelain goddess in an undignified and wretched manner that, I am sure, was audible to the entire floor since the window-sized vent in the bathroom also opens up right to the hall. Well, embarrassment aside, no one could say I wasn’t devoted.

I took leave from my devotionals only long enough to stumble through well-wishings that were exchanged with my family as they told me about al the wonderful Christmas meals they were preparing to eat…as much as I missed them and wished we were together, my stomach roiled at each mention of food, drink, snow, the pets, presents….actually, my stomach roiled at pretty much everything.

Merry Christmas.

I’ve Got a Head with Wings: Delhi Belly and Valium

The diagnosis is in: Delhi Belly.

It started back when I first mentioned feeling ill and I quickly fell off the deep-end into maddening illness.

What is Delhi Belly? Capture the following imagery: It starts out feeling run down and tired and that quickly moves toward feeling flu-like symptoms. The flu-like symptoms evolve into actual flu symptoms and a cloud of “uncomfortable stomach issues” build up like a storm on the horizon. The body temperature rises steadily until the fever takes ahold of the body reducing it to a sweaty, spasming and quivering puddle of pallid, gooseflesh. Then those clouds that have been gathering on the horizon move in hit with the relentless intensity of the monsoon and the quivering pile of skin must frequent the loo for one reason or another at intervals of about 5 to 30 minutes….for days.

No appetite. No food. Water is taken in and comes right back out.

The only relief comes in the form of Valium, sweet valium, which is sold over the counter here like aspirin.

Now, before you “say no to drugs” types mount your high horse, answer me this: If you were in a developing country, in a hotel room with no windows except for one that opens up to the common hallway, you can’t eat because the sight of food sends you running for the toilet, you cant sleep because you are soaking wet with your own sweat and shivering like a jack-hammer, you have lost all sense of day and night and know only that its freesing cold outside and you are in an all marble room with no heat and you can’t take anti-biotics, what would you do? Suddenly, poppin some valium and passing the hours and days away in a haze doesn’t seem so bad now, does it? I didn’t thinks so.

This leads me to an explanation of the title to this particular entry. The onset of this delightful ailment and the self-medication that has followed has left me with “A Head With Wings” by Morphine in my head and it has been stuck there for days.

There could be worse songs to have stuck in your head and you lay under your threadbare blanket and watch the paddles of the fan move in a slow, steady beat as the occasional cockroach moves across the ceiling (lucky they are starved and emaciated during the winter). The whimsical saxophone riff drifts across the brainwaves as I move seamlessly from a surreal fever-wracked reality to dreams and back again.

Yes, it could be worse….I could be stuck in this room with “Sweet Home Alabama” stuck…in…my… head………..shit.

Hey, did I mention they sell Valium like aspirin here?

What’s an “Arunji?”

Still not feeling good but I am functional so I am taking my down-time to ponder some linguistics of the Hindi language.

Everywhere we go I hear this word. My grasp of Hindi is non-existent at this point and so I rely on Aaron for any translation issues but this is one word I keep hearing and can’t put into context as to what it means.

Is it slang? Perhaps a colloquial saying like in the U.S. where we interlace phrases “you know” or “like”?

Having locked onto this word and after hearing it for the 100th time in a day, I finally asked Aaron what it meant. “Me!” he say with a satisfied head wobble and pursed lips.

See, a big ice breaker with the folks here is not only does Aaron speak a decent amount of Hindi (which is pretty good for a white guy) but his name is also Indian. Only, instead of “Aaron” it is spelled “Arun” and the “Ji” is an ending which is kinda like “sir” but it can be used for both sexes.

Aha! So that elucidates a small fraction of the fast-moving, indecipherable, tongue-flapping that surrounds me constantly.

This also helps to explain why I have been called sir so many times. At first I was frustrated because I though that I was being mistaken for a large, Russian man all th time but now I know that at least SOME of the time it was actually just a literal translation (on the Hindi to English end) of “Ji” into “Sir”

And the remainder of the time….well… I guess it was me being mistaken for a large, Russian man.

Hit the Ground Running…and Slipping in Poop

Perhaps I was too ambitious. Perhaps I underestimated the extreme nature of Delhi but Delhi seems that it is time I remember who is boss (Hint: It ain’t me).

Woke up this morning feeling a bit run down which quickly escalated to me feeling run down and run over by the time evening rolled around. Is this it? Is this merely jet-lag catching up with me or has the dreaded “Delhi Belly” found its next victim?

Stay Tuned…

The Fast and the Spurious: First Day’s Commute to Naraina

Ok, first off “Fast and the Spurious”? Yeah I know it’s a flimsy play on a crappy movie title but its all I’ve got for this one AND it adequately represents my first motorcycle commute out to the industrial area where the factory and our business partners are.

Ok, so I pick up this bike that is ratty but a hidden Gem. It’s a 1954 Enfield which means it has an original British frame and is solid. It’s a try before buy type situation so I decide to “try” it out for as long as possible. Aaron and I have been cruising around Delhi for a few days to get me accustomed to what complete and total chaos on the roads is like but now it comes time to see if I’ve got the grit to make it out to Naraina (where our offices are) which isn’t that far but on that day, it felt like an epic journey.

Bikes are running good and I fal in behind Aaron. As long I don’t’ loose him, I’m cool. You see, It has still been just a few days since my arrival in Delhi and my mind has not worked out its internal compass so, to me, the whole place seems like a chaotic mess that I can’t understand. Bottom Line: I don’t really want to get lost and separated at this point.

First Turn: Road is clear and all is well. I’m ridin easy and feeling good as we pull up to a wall of traffic (and noise from all of the blaring horns). It seems a bus is blocking the lane and something is in its path preventing it from moving. I fall in line with Aaron and the rest of the motorcycles and skirt through cars, buses, trucks and bicycles and make my way over to the “sidewalk,” which is just a gap between the light poles and walls of buildings that line the road, and snake along that to circumvent the mess.

I do so and as I get to the other side, I see that a small heard of about 5 cows have decided to take an afternoon pause in the middle of a very busy intersection.

Second Turn: Ok, Aaron is getting a bit ahead and is slowing for me but it is difficult to do since we are engulfed in traffic at this point (apparently the cows moved and traffic broke free). We go through one Round-about which I fondly refer to them as “Battle Royales” and hit a straight road for a bit.

Aaron is just far ahead enough that when the light turns from green to yellow (which lasted about 5 seconds) and to red, I had to gun it lest I be caught in the traffic and lost to wander the streets of Delhi for eternity so, naturally I gunned it (it was also a timing light so there was no crossing of traffic) with about half of the other vehicles and I grinned with evil delight. That grin quickly turned to a grimace as two uniformed officers with sticks jumped in front of my bike and began flailing.

This is where the split decisions are made and battles are won or lost (or bikes impounded). Now, a slight detail that I had, until this moment forgotten, was that I had no papers for my bike. It was not until way later that I realized that as a foreigner, if you play dumb, you can get away with a whole bunch of stuff.

Decision time: Do I stop or not? Now, I don’t mean to sound as though I am justifying my actions but…. their decision to jump right in front of me would require me to circumvent them and decelerate at a reasonable speed and at a safe and reasonable location. Given these factors, it may have been many yards (more like feet) and then the poor officers would have to walk ALL the way over to me and then all the explaining about no papers…

SEE YA, SUCKERS! And I gunned it…and tore away all the while picturing what my cell in an Indian prison was going to look like and whether the local population in my cell block would accept me as one of their own or not.

I caught up with Aaron who had pulled over to the side and was waiting for me. “Its just up this way, I took a wrong turn” he says. He also says some other stuff about future turns and directions, things to watch out for, blah blah blah…. but I am too busy looking over my shulder like the ruthless criminal I was.

After one more narrow miss with an ox driven cart that was loaded down with microwaves and a goat, we arrived at the factory and I turned off my bike, took off my helmet and let out a big sigh of relief. Ok, just gotta survive that twice a day or more and I’ll be ok…..

Chai Time…Again?: Big Business, Day 1

So its Friday. Woke up at 9 am since my whacked out internal clock felt like it was the right thing to do at the time (keeping in mind that we checked into the hotel at 3am). Today is the day we make our rounds to the usual buyers and collectors that Aaron has built up relationships with over the last 9 years of doing business in India.

Tired, but excited to get going and see how its done on the India side, I clamber into the backseat of a beaten but nicely decorated AutoRickshaw and take notice of the interior absently as Aaron gives the driver instructions in Hindi. I notice that, similar the the taxi cab, that every available surface of this vehicle was also adorned with shrines and placards to this particular drivers favorite deity.

The wonderful thing about Hindus is that they have a very “pick your poison” approach to religion. I mean, there are over 300 million gods to protect and watch over almost every aspect of life (from birth to bowel movements….seriously) of the sub-continent’s 1.2 billon inhabitants.

So the it begins with another white-knuckled ride through the back streets of the Pahar Ganj district (where we will call home) over to another district to meet two brothers whose family have been into collection and restoration of cars and bikes for over 50 years.

What I didn’t know but found out along the way was that despite the fact that the two parts of the the family owned property which backed up to each other, they did not speak to one another because of a “disagreement” that the one brother had with his other brother some time back.

So we go to meet with one brother we call “T.S.”. T.S. has been on the vintage scene in Delhi for most of his life and is well known and respected. He is a nice man of the Brahmin caste (whole caste things is still confusing) but, unlike many Brahmins, enjoys his share of whiskey. But not today. Today is business and business means Chai.

Chai in India is not the same as you get in the states and your average chai stand is far from the sterile environment of your average western coffee house. A chai stand in India is usually nothing more that a haphazard shelter that may or may not have a plank or two resting on some bricks for customers to sit on while the Chai-Wallah (Wallah mostly means “guy” or “person”) hunches over a single burner on the ground and makes your chai and serves it up in a class that, if you are lucky, has only been used once or twice since it was last cleaned. And yet, if you can escape the imagery of all the lips and hands and what not that are now entering your body after steeping in a hot milky beverage, chai is pretty durn good…in reasonable quantities.

But in doing business, the chai is brought to you, usually by some skinny little kid whose pants almost cover his entire torso. At T.S.’s, chai was brought to us after a simple guttural utterance and one of his apprentices went scampering down the street to retrieve the nectar which fuels the economy of India.

Over the course of Aaron and T.S. catching up and gossiping (hey! Men do it too!) and talking bikes and orders, chai was ordered about three or four times and each time, I accepted because I didn’t want to insult anyone.

Next, we move on to J.R.’s place. J.R. is the nephew of T.S. and they do not speak but, as mentioned previously, their properties back up to each other. Upon arriving at J.R.’s and his father Janu’s shop, lo and behold, it’s chai time again! Another guttural utterance and an apprentice goes scampering down the street. More business is discussed and we managed to escape there with only two more chai episodes.

Belly roiling at all the sugary and milky substance sloshing about like an angry northern sea, we head to Karol Bagh district which is where the main motorcycle market is in Delhi. The motorcycle market is block after block of old motorcycles (mostly Enfields but some other British make) and new models which are mostly Bajaj or Hero Honda (The Indian subsidiary of Honda) small cc’d engines with silly model names like “Passion” or “Avenger” or “Karizma” or, my personal favorite “Hunk.”

Within the motorcycle market, we have several stops to make all of which involve a chai. At this point, it becomes a comical endurance test to push the limits of how much I can take. Round after round after round comes and I feel like I am going to explode.

Finally, last stop of the night is at a man we call Jassie, a large and eccentric sheikh fellow who is rather wealthy and likes to make show of it in funny ways (his specialty gold painted scooter with gold vinyl seats comes to mind). On the way Aaron tells me that he likes going to Jassie’s place because he serves the best lemon tea around.

Grateful for the chance to put something in my belly other than chai, we arrive at his shop and meet the big man himself. He is a portly man with dark skin that contrasts his white beard. He is a shrewd business man that some would even call a rascal but, when you meet him, you can’t help but like him because something he does always makes you laugh. Like when he calls me “Bruce” because he can’t pronounce Brooke.

We talk for a while and he asks me about myself and how I like India so far. As he asks his questions, my mouth starts to water for something to take the milky pasty taste of a weeks worth of chai out of my mouth. He makes the same guttural noise and his worker jumps up knowing just what it means. “Finally” I think to myself, as a tray of steaming tea cups are brought in the room. “MMM” Aaron announces in after a loud sip of his tea, “Best lemon tea around!”

“NOT FOR YOU, BRUCE!” He shouts. He pauses for a moment and I slowly look down… “First day in India, you have CHAI!” He chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder and I watch as a small splash of creamy brown liquid splashes onto my leg

“Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm”: Charles DeGaulle to Indira Ghandi International Airport

The flight from France to New Delhi may as well have never happened. I tried to stay awake and do some work with the hopes of off-setting some of the jet-lag. Motivated, I popped on my head phones and, with I-Pod blasting, I tried to draft a partnership agreement that needed to be finished.

The work was so riveting that it had me out in about 5 minutes, only to be woken intermittently by an ill-tempered French stewardess who felt it crucial that I accept the baguette she was waggling in my face (which I accepted but only out of fear of the consequences that were promised in her icy glare). I would consume said bread product and, shortly after, I would pass out again only to have the strange baguette ritual repeated at interval throughout the flight.

I awoke as we were about to land to the stewardess wagging her finger (not a baguette this time….but it smelled like it) in my face saying something in French despite the fact that it had been established hours previously that I, in fact, was not French nor did I speak French. Nodding dumbly, I wiped the drool off my face and opened the shade as we descended into a foggy night (or so I thought) in Delhi.

Customs was a blur and not the most unpleasant customs experience I have had. Aaron warned me about the airport with strong language such as “massive chaos” and “total insanity” and my impression thus far was that it wasn’t that bad. As I sat atop a luggage cart awaiting my luggage, I tuned into the fact that “Careless Whispers” by George Michael was blasting over the loud speakers. I chuckled to myself as I saw how many Indians and non-Indians alike were mouthing the words and joined in and swayed along as I pined for my luggage.

Was it an ominous sign that George Michael bade me farewell as I left the shores of the United States and then again as I touched ground a half a world away?

Aaron went an arranged a pre-paid taxi and I, dragging my luggage behind me, met him outside. It was at this point that I came to understand his descriptions of the Airport and where it was derived from.

In the blink of an eye, I stepped from an airport under eternal construction into a scene from a post-apocalyptic flick about the endurance of the human spirit or something. I stumbled out the doors and into a mass of people, half-my sized, some of whom waited for people coming out, some of whom were wrapped in blankets sitting about and staring and some of whom shoved small, cupped hands into the paths of the people coming out.

We made our way through the initial mass of people and I waited next to a pillar as Aaron to find our cab. All around, there were people yelling for cabs, cabbies ignoring them and chatting, dogs dodging traffic, people huddled around piles of burning trash, make-shift tents and pant-less kids. It became quickly apparent to me that it was not a “foggy” night in Delhi, it was smoke and it was everywhere and it was thick.

Aaron was insistent, from the moment we landed that we take an Ambassador taxi into Delhi, after taking one look I saw why(see picture). Its like riding in a stylish tinfoil box. After some guy took our pre-paid cab, we followed in-kind and took the next guys. Only, unlike us, the guy we shafted ran behind the taxi cursing the driver as Aaron urgerd the drive to “go” in Hindi.

It only took the cabbie taking a turn onto the main road for our stylish tin box to turn into a rolling death machine. As Bhangra Hindi pop blared over the radio, our cabbie flew in and out of traffic…sometimes on the proper side of the road, sometimes not, dodging TaTa trucks as if they (all 3 tons of them) posed no threat to our mortal selves. As he flew the wrong way around a blind curve, he looked down to adjust his speaker to make sure we could hear the music. Clutching the seat and grinning and watching my short life pass before my eyes, I knew this was just the first of many Delhi traffic experiences…

I took a deep breath and tried to watch the scenery as it blew by in a smoky haze...

“Since I Left You”: Air France Flight No. 8995

Muttering to myself (Remember… George Michael), I board the flight and take my seat. As I settle in and struggle to discretely avoid the wedgie that is forming, my ears tune into “Since I Left You” by The Avalanches that is playing over the speakers as the boarding process unfolds.

I took notice of this for two reasons; (1) It’s a funky little number by a good group and, (2) It was not a song I would expect to hear playing over the speakers on an airplane. Kudos to the French for taking the “harsh off my mellow” that George Michael gave me.

Flight takes off and, to avoid any more in-flight movie experiences like the one Denver to New York flight, I popped an Ambien™ which, with the pre-flight drinks made for a nice and blurry flight over the Atlantic towards Paris.

Through the haze, I pondered the fact that Charles DeGaulle survived over 30 assassination attempts only to die of a heart attack while watching T.V. Indira Ghandi was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated by the CIA (Lee Harvey Oswald, my ass). These are all the Airports along my route.

Another fact that I found fascinating was…that…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz **snort**drool**”Huh, oh no baguette, thanks” zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….

Just When I Thought I was Out, “Wham” Pulls me Back in… :Blood, Sweat and George Michael at JFK

Aaron and I arrived at JFK after having to flag down and convince a private hire to drive us out there since is was 4:00pm and none of the cabs we waved down (about 10) would go out there because it was suddenly “shift change,” meaning it was rush hour and they didn’t want to waste their fare by sitting in traffic.

After a close call, unannounced terminal change and a check-in/security process that was akin to being put into a meat grinder and then being shot out of a cannon, we were spat out onto the concourse half naked (security was really thorough) and numb with just enough time to check our flight status and run to the bar to get a shot and a beer to celebrate our really close call. We clamber into the bar, dump our carry-ons and Aaron slaps some bills onto the bar in a manner which says “Barkeep, give me a cold one and make it snappy!” Not catching on, the bartender finishes his conversation with the waitress and strolls over to us and cheerfully takes our order. Before he can even finish his sentence Aaron and I are, in unison, ordering a beer and a shot of whiskey apiece.

Disheveled and sweaty, we make a toast to our narrow miss and shoot our whiskeys, which were more like three fingers worth of trouble. We collected our bags, paid the man and headed to the gate to prepare for boarding.

By some grace of god, our flight was suddenly delayed by another 25 minutes. It was if the heavens opened up and were guiding us back to the airport bar for another round. Being the keepers of the faith that we are, we followed the signs without question and returned to our trusty, but slow, bartender and ordered two more of the same. Only this time, we had a moment to sit and breathe, instead of shooting the whiskey and chugging the beer and running. But alas, we shot and chugged for the hell of it. Before we knew it, our time was soon up and the boarding announcement was made for our flight and, with a slight swerve in our step, we headed to the gate.

Pardon me while I, once again, Digress: Since the onset of the Christmas season which, strangely, is now beginning right after Halloween, I have been tortured the echoes of Christmas songs which the Grinch in me (who is rather active) despises with the intense and fiery heat of a thousand suns. I managed to swoop into New York and, having witnessed any miracles on 44^th St. nor musical montages of people ice skating, having playful snowball fights and whirling about in the snowfall like hippies on acid, I can say I escaped New York relatively unscathed by the Christmas spirit

I pondered this with amusement as I stood amongst the masses waiting to board the flight when suddenly, to my horror, over the bustle and din of the airport, I heard traces of something so terrible, something so vile and repulsive that I shudder, even as I recall to this day. “What,” you ask, could this auditory torture be?” It was the worst of the worst of all the worst Christmas songs ever written in the history Judeo-Christian Christmas tradition. It was George Michael (formerly of “Wham!”) singing “Last Christmas.” You know, that wretched song where last Christmas, he gave someone his heart and the very next day they gave it away? What!?!?! No…No…NO!!! Any song but that one. Seriously. ANY SONG! I’d take a Jingle Bell Rock and two “Country Christmas classics” in place of that one, loathsome and foul song.

Curse you, George Michael. Curse you and your stupid Christmas song. And curse you JFK for letting THAT atrocity be the last song I hear in America in 2007. Curses.

Suddenly Seymore: Teenage Doctors, Marie’s Crisis, and a Really, Really Big Freakin Bike – The Big Apple

Leg one of the trip was a stop over in NYC because Aaron’s younger brother Bretton and his boyfriend Sergio live there.

The night we got in, after what seemed like an eternal cab ride from JFK to West Harlem, we arrived at their doorstep dragging 4 months worth of luggage behind us. Their place was nice, spacious and tres chic.

What I soon discovered was that we were actually staying at the hip pad of a celebrity who is Sergio’s roommate but is only there part-time. While discretion prevents me from dropping names, let’s just say he played an inordinately young Doctor on an early 90’s sitcom and I DIDN’T rummage through his drawer and smell his underwear.

Upon our arrival, we shared a cocktail with our gracious hosts at their place and then went down the famous White Horse Tavern. While we did not follow in the footsteps of Dylan Thomas who, consequently, drank himself to death there, we did kick back and enjoy a few cold ones as the realization that the trip had finally gotten underway, sank in.

To supplement the much needed libations, we decided to order some food. Scanning the array of pub food, I settled on a Tuna Melt which sounded mediocre at best. O’ how mistaken was I. I turned out to be the best freakin Tuna Melt I’ve ever had in my life. I know that doesn’t sound like much of a standard to set but at the moment…it was only my self and my Tuna Melt floating in a vast and silent, blissful void.

Just when the decision was made to call it a night, Sergio suddenly announced that we should go around the corner and drop into “this one place.” This one place turned out to be a joint called “Maries Crisis” and was, in fact, one of the highlights of my few days in New York.

“Maries Crisis” was a tiny, dark basement piano “sing-a-long” bar where lonely souls go to sing their troubles away. We came in inched our way past the small crowd around the piano and went to the bar to order our drinks. Before they came, Sergio and myself had already joined the group in singing along to whatever the pianist was playing. Drinks in hand, we took the table in the corner under the stairs which offered us a good view of the place.

Seated at the counter around the piano was an odd hodgepodge of men and one woman all, thankfully, with pretty decent voices. Standing out amidst all of them was a cheerfully plump fellow in a red turtle neck who harmonized each song with a falsetto so crisp and high-pitched that Maria Callas, herself, would covet. It was strange and out of place but the guy had a set of pipes and was doted over by the other men around the piano like a princess. He was, you could say, the “belle of the ball.” So, when Sergio, at the end of a song threw out a high note that was crisp, tuned and well projected, the plump man shot a withering glare that would thwart many with weaker constitution… but not our Sergio. The glare was met with raised eyebrows, pursed lips, an audible sucking of teeth and a head wobble that, in modern colloquial body languages means “bring it” or something of the sort and proceeded to sing very loudly and very well to each song.

With the start each song and for every song thereafter, the plump man no longer harmonized with his falsetto but rather drowned out the rest of the singers with vocals that sent vibrations through our glasses of whiskey and, on occasion, shot vocal torpedo’s in our direction which sent a breeze blowing through our hair. It was very clear that this was his party and meant to keep it that way. By that time, however, Sergio and Bretton had gotten distracted by one thing or another and paid him no mind.

Though piano bars tend to not make it on my top 10 list of places to go, I liked Marie’s Crisis. It was a microcosm of very specific elements of the human condition. It is the only place, that I have ever been and will ever be where a group of people singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” didn’t make the bile rise up into my throat but actually made sense. Many of them, you could tell, spent night after night here to act out a shadow of their failed dreams of Broadway stardom or to pass away the lonely hours between work and sleep. The holidays were approaching and here at Marie’s Crisis, solace from the fear of spending them alone was found. It was truly a place of lonely souls, sad hearts and cheerful music and it was glorious.

A Bunch of Men in Tight Panties...How Could we go Wrong?

The following night began with plans to see a well known drag performer who was in town to perform for one night only and, after a day of shopping and wandering around from one meal to another, we were excited. Naturally, we stop off at a karaoke joint so that Sergio can “loosen up” by belting out a few tunes and the rest of us, by putting down a few whiskeys. The place was empty except for one fella at the bar who was an obvious regular. We roll in, grab a table, and hit the bar while Sergio beings thumbing through the gigantic book of song selections with purpose.

Looking slyly from side to side, Sergio bites his lip as he fills out his first selection and strides, confidently up to the DJ and hands her his slip of paper. Being that there is no queue, the music abruptly stops and into the microphone she announces, “all right, Sergio, you are up.” Sergio, mike already in hand, takes the stage and begins to step in time the intro of his selection which ended up being “Brandy” by Looking Glass. As we all chuckle at his flare for the dramatic and clap for his singing, I glance over at the bar just in time to see narrowed eyes a flash of resentment, from the fella at the bar, at the recognition that competition had just taken the stage. He slams down the rest of the drink and begins to furiously search the pages of the song selection book for what is certain to be his trump card. What? Again?

Now whiskey or some internal protection mechanism prevents me from recalling exactly what song he chose as his musical retort, but to add his own dramatic flare, he began his song by sitting and singing at a corner table in the bar then standing up at, what was most likely, a calculated and rehearsed moment, and striding slowly and with purpose toward the stage as his song, which he was butchering, reached its crescendo.

Sergio oblivious to all of this, covered his slip of paper with one hand while he wrote down his song selection with the other while the rest of us watched what was unfolding on stage.

The songs ends and, being the well-bred gracious people that we are, offered encouragement to the mans delusions by mustering up a few half-assed claps. The bartender did the same but, if you think about it, he tip probably depended on it. He took this as a cue to come over and introduce himself as Sergio went up to hand in his song selection. As they passed, his eyes again narrowed and flashed but his smile never broke. His name was Paul or Phil or something and he was overly interested in getting all of us to participate in the festivities. My cynical side still believes that his desire for us to do so was so that a buffer existed between the two extremes that were represented by Sergio and by himself: talent and lack thereof.

The music starts and, defeated, PhilPaul retreats to his corner of the bar and Sergio begins to belt out “Kentucky Rain” by Elvis and nails it. He does it in such a way that, at a certain part of the song that must have been “vocally technical,” or something, PhilPaul slams his fist on the bar and shouts in the same manner that one would if one were watching a boxing match and the favored contender was just knocked out by a lucky punch from the underdog. It was vocal but non-verbal expression of both defeat and respect and all of it was completely baffling.

In the musical chess game that was unfolding before us, the checkmate came when the DJ announced “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a duet! Will Sergio and Bretton please come up.” Sergio and Bretton take the stage an begin to belt out “Suddenly Seymour” from the musical “Little Shop of Horrors,” with Bretton singing the part of Seymour and Sergio singing the part of Audrey.

Jumping onto the musical bandwagon, PhilPaul takes the stage and attempts a retort by singing “Why God” from Miss Saigon which is at once a horrible song and a difficult one written for a Broadway singer with Broadway talent. Needless the say, ole’ PhilPaul’s lungs couldn’t hack it and we all suffered greatly. Fortunately for us, it was time for us to head to the show and, fortunately for my companions, PhilPaul and the bar staff, it was just before I worked up the courage to attempt “Gimme Gimme Gimme” by Abba.

We exit the bar and as we head down the block and around the corner, I could still hear PhilPaul’s desperate effort to complete worst rendition of Miss Saigon that I have ever heard in my life.

We hopped on the subway, jazzed and ready to go, only to be denied when we arrived and found that the performance had been cancelled. Miffed, we stood around dumbly for a moment our two while off, to our immediate left, some movie promotion was taking place amidst a flurry of limos and flashbulbs. The paparazzi were obviously buzzing about someone famous though I would be hard-pressed to tell you who was actually in front of the cameras.

Bretton made the decision to keep with the musical theme and we went to a gay night club where it happened to be “musical night.” Not knowing what that meant, agreed and followed along and, upon arriving, found ourselves amidst a teeming mass of NYC’s most fabulous. I, in my torn Chick Taylors, dirty jeans, and Aaron in his Carhartt pants and Bad Brains T-Shirt and both in ratty hoodies, stuck out like sore, dirty thumbs.

Musical Night was just that: a massive sing-a-long to scenes from musicals being projected on gigantic screens all over the place. It was loud, it was rowdy, and Babs and Liza were shown every other song. The only thing that was cheered for louder than when Babs or Liza came on, was when they played that scene from “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” with the football team stripping in the locker room and singing in the shower. It certainly a crowd pleaser.

We managed to catch four seats at the bar and ordered some drinks from the hard-bodied bartender in nothing but Brazilian soccer team underwear briefs. He knew Bretton and Sergio well and made sure our bowl was full of pretzels while I made sure to cram the pretzels in my cakehole in such a manner that half of them ended up on my hoodie. Its not like I was worried about getting a date or anything. Although there was conversation, I drifted off, entranced by the flat screen and pondering the fact that I knew most the words to these songs. As if to bring it all back around, the screen flashes over to Rick Moranis and ….whoever played Audrey who­­ begin to belt out “Suddenly Seymour from the Little Shop of Horrors movie, at which point, we all nodded in silent agreement that it was time to go.

New York was not just a fun stopover, there was also a little bit of work thrown into the mix. You see, with India’s economy exploding at a mind-blowing rate, we have also found a potential market for exporting some specialty bikes that are not available in India for some insanely wealthy Indians who are willing to pay the 200% duty on.

This particular bike being a Honda Valkrie NRX 1800 "Rune"; an 1800cc, 6 cylinder behemoth of a bike (and probably the least practical bike for the streets of Delhi). Our exporter is based in NY so we figured it would solve many logistical issues to just buy the bike in NYC and have it crated up and delivered right to the Exporter who would ship it.

We had tracked one down in Long Island City from a cat who, in a manner not unlike Tony Soprano, says to us, he says “yeah yeah…I gaaht yah bike. Gimme like a week or somethin.”

Flash forward and we are in New York and, after several confirmation calls and an arrangement for a deposit had taken place, we call for directions to get there and to give the heads up that we were on our way, only to be told, in a brisk manner “That sales representative was misinformed. We don’t have that bike.” **click** So…..that was strange…but then again, tracking down and arranging for the sale, payment, proper crating, shipping and export of a fairly rare bike and very expensive will be easy to do from 12 time zones away, right? Wrong, Jerks.

Time was up and it was time to go. We were lucky enough to be able to hang in NYC with strapping fellas like Bretton and Sergio. Those cats were up for anything at any time. If we wanted to chill, we chilled and if we wanted to hit the town, we did it with joi de vivre and had a damn good time either way.

After a great time in New York, it was time to get the show on the road. We said our goodbyes to Bretton and Sergio and thanked them for being such wonderful hosts and pack, yet again, as they left for work. It was Wednesday afternoon.

I am the Martyr Walruss…Coo Coo Cachoo: Death, Entropy and Ritchie Valens Aboard Delta Flight XXXX – Denver to New York

Now any epic journey has to begin somewhere, right? Mine begins like so:

After an insane couple of weeks trying to get out of Denver, saying goodbye to Mom and Dave at the airport and boarding the plane, it was like a gigantic pressure valve on the top of my head suddenly opened.

All of the emotion, stress and anxiety of an insane summer and the build up to leaving, getting ready to leave the country for 4 months, leaving my kitties again (who were all sick) and then heading to Delhi to try to hold the basket I’ve thrown all my eggs into (and its good deal of eggs), finally got to me and when I took my seat (middle seat, damn), I felt like my entire body had been put into a blender.

So, flight takes off and I am pleased to discover that the in-flight movie does not star Keanu Reeves or any of the Baldwin brothers but is, in fact, a documentary called “Arctic Tale” in which a group of filmmakers traveled north and followed animals there for 4 years to witness and document the effect of climate change and global warming.

The story begins with the birth of two baby polar bears and a baby walrus and follows them through their lives and exploits. The polar bears are brother and sister, raised by their mom and the walrus is a baby girl who is raised by her mother and “auntie”. You can imagine the levity in my heart, being a rabid animal lover, watching, what I thought would be baby animals playing around on screen of an hour and a half. It was good, clean entertainment for my weary soul. But, as most movies go, things have to take a turn for the worse….and they did. Long story short: melting of polar ice caps makes food scarce and the mama and baby polar bears have to search wider and further for food. They go weeks without eating until the brother bear is too weak to continue. The dramatic narration accompanies footage of his slowing down and mother and sister pushing him on. They urge and they urge but he collapses at which point they lay on top of him to keep him warm but, despite their efforts, the baby polar bear does not make it through the night. In the morning, a grief stricken mama bear wails as the girl baby tries in vain to console her mother.

Now, let me take a break from this dramatic scene to talk about me…

You see, when I was younger, my parents took my sister and I to see “La Bamba,” the story of Ritchie Valens. At the time, I rather enjoyed the music of Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly but, more importantly, I was in love with Lou Diamond Phillips. Up to that point, I actually did not know that Ritchie Valens died in a plane crash so when, as you may recall, at the end of the movie, Lou Diamond Phillips and his beautiful hair board the small airplane after a final concert at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa (lemme hear a what-what an a shout-out to the CLI) and the next scene is his mother listening to the radio and hearing of his death and the plane crash and then the move ends shortly there after some slo-mo shots and wailing.

Back to me: The lights go up, and, completely shell shocked, I looked at my parents with my young and innocent eyes, and burst into tears. They looked at me, looked at each other, and burst into laughter. Now my parents are not cruel people, and I am sure that their reaction came from shock (I too am cursed with inappropriate reactions to shocking things) but, regardless, I was horrified and scarred and I have never cried in public again…EVER...unless I was really drunk (thanks, mom and dad).

Flash forward to Delta flight number whatevertheheck and there I am, stressed and worn out and watching a mother polar bear wailing in despair over the death of her baby. That was the final straw and I burst into tears making the already rigid lady sitting next to me, twice as rigid and uncomfortable and leaving Aaron in a state of sympathetic confusion.

I cried and cried with my face in my non-absorbent airline blanket, drank some water and took a moment to gain control of myself. Upon doing so, I put my headphones back on to finish the movie just in time to watch a polar bear attack the group of walruses and catch the baby walrus but, in a brave and selfless gesture, “Auntie” walrus charges the polar bear turning his attention on her and thus, sacrificing herself so that the young one can escape.

It was at that point I hurled my headphones to the ground and threw the blanket over my head where I remained for some time….humming “La Bamba” and cursing myself for the public display of emotion.

So, Apparently, This is my Job…

Does this shoddy winter riding gear make me look fat?

As a member of “Team MotorEarth,” I have ventured off to India to seek my fortune in the fast-paced and cutthroat (half tongue-in-cheek, half-not) world of vintage motorcycles and alternative fuels and, lets cross our fingers, rally racing.

My travels will take me to Delhi (for the most) and then on the road scouting out a tour route (with the esteemed staff of Blue Cat Motors) through the deserts Rajasthan and, hopefully, north into the Himalayas through Himachal Pradesh.

Stay tuned for tales of Mystery, Intrigue, Adventure and Dysentery all while traveling, two-wheeled, along the worlds most dangerous highway system…