Good day fellow Americans and American’ts,

So, I have three weeks off in between jobs and I thought that, in
addition to not getting my hair cut and refusing to shave or eat any
green leafy vegetables (unless they happen to be floating in a glass
of Scotch or a bowl of Pho), I would head off somewhere with that
magical combination of a favorable exchange rate, good beer and lots
of cobblestones to give my ankles that proper workout I just can’t get
on the elliptical machine in OC. I thought about heading to Prague,
but it turns out they’re on that God-damned Euro, with which for
whatever reason, Baby Bush can’t seem to achieve at least parity so
that my beers don’t cost me USD16.00 apiece. So, I looked East.
Actually, directly East, to the land of constant turmoil, conquest
(the bad side of it) and lots o’ death camps. US Bank is actually the
last remaining Nazi death camp, and I think I’ll let the JDL know that
as soon as I get back.

But I digress…Poland..what the hell else was I gonna do?

So I arrived at LAX after a shuttle ride with two people who relocated
to Maui from Long (Strong) Beach to escape LA. Little did they know
that the entire island of Maui is inhabited with people from LA! So,
I got through the ticketing line at American, which was loaded with
gross losers on their way to Maui, dressed in every variant of Aloha
print possible. As though their intent was to “blend”. I made it to
security, but not after having some idiot attorney or some-shit
screaming into his cell phone by way of my head, about (1) Getting
some “face-time” with XYZ client; (2) Bringing in “John XYZ”, because
“he’s a closer”; (3) “I’ll call you once I get to Maui”. Jesus, take
me now. Of course, my wardrobe choices for the trip were based on
comfort, as I was going to be spending 10 hours in Crotch section, but
security especially didn’t like the idea of me wearing a belt, or
pants, for that matter, as they made me take my belt and ! pants
off at the checkpoint, presumably to demonstrate that I wasn’t packing
my TEC-9 or a prosciutto and provolone panini for the long trip to
Heathrow.

Anyway, I made it through, and in true Harris/McNiven Lonely Planet
World Domination Tour style, made a bee-line for the airport bar. I
tucked into five solid Johnny Blacks and was in fine form to board,
once the call was made. As I waited at gate 41 for my group to board
flight 136 to LHR, I couldn’t help but notice the Carnivale D’Humanite
assembled for the event. Specifically, there were three Ali G.
lookalikes, that could not for the life of them, stop calling each
other “Nigger” and “Bitch”. At one point, one of them, came up to me,
with what I assumed was a compliment, saying something like, “Damn
Nigger, they is some sweet headphones! Is they the noise-cancelling
selection?”. Coincidentally, I had amassed a particularly large wad
of saliva from the dip I had in my lip at the time, which I launched
into my dip cup and responded, “You got it, Hoss.” He seemed to like
this response and I think I made a friend.

I got on the plane, and after stowing my carry-on luggage in the
overhead compartment, as per the flight attendants’ recommendation, I
took my seat. At first, I was pretty stoked, as no one seemed to be
assigned to to seat next to me, and I thought that things were
starting off right for once. Well, along came my counterpart, a
rather normal-looking middle-aged white American woman, with all of
the travel accoutrements you would expect. She tucked in, stowed her
stuff and sat down. I introduced myself, “Hi, I’m Michael” and was
sobered by her response:

“Hi Michael, I’m Sister Christine of the Franciscan Order of Catholic
Nuns.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I’m on a 10-hour flight to LHR, with two
bottles of Cardinal Zin, a can of dip, a copy of Penthouse Forum and a
bag of Turkey Jerky and I get seated next to a nun. Well, ain’t that
some shit?

So do any of you remember the opening scene of Dogma, where fallen
angel Matt Damon talks a nun out of her vocation on a train? Sister
Christine and I were WASTED about two hours into the flight. As if
this wasn’t enough, she offered me Xanax, Ambien and Soma, just in
case I had trouble sleeping. I remain impressed as ever by the
Catholic faith. We discussed the Church of Rome, The Inquisition, The
Spanish Rape of South America and changing water into wine. As any
other proper proprietor of faith-based folly would answer, “It’s the
way God wanted it.” OK.

There was also this pair of female lightning rods on the plane, on
their way to Nice by way of London. One of them was reasonably fit
and insisted on showing it to the entire plane by doing some kind of
Dianne Fossey dance routine every five minutes. The other was
probably something noteworthy before electricity was discovered. I’ll
call her Franklin. Franklin was very drunk and was wearing some kind
of backyard tent, which was arranged somehow in a way that showed more
skin than I believe was actually hers. In any case, I happened to
draw the lucky card which allowed me to be the next one in the latrine
after her. She took about 20 minutes in there, which was all right
because it allowed me to participate in a full ballet warm-up with her
idiot counterpart. I finally gained access to the latrine, lifted up
the seat, eagerly anticipating some much needed bladder relief, to be
greeted by a most shocking surprise. ! All I’m gonna say is: Ladies,
if Liverpool is playing at home, make sure you flush the Cherry Pie
down the tube.

Cherry Pie notwithstanding, I have been eating every pierogie in
sight, found a good spot to get some solid Author’s Soup, (which is a
lot like menudo), and have been enjoying the medieval architecture and
cold, strong beer. The hotel I’m in is actually loaded with
dignitaries and ambassadors for the European Economic Summit being
held this weekend, and I get that “Can we help you sir?” look every
time I walk back into the hotel lobby.

More to come as details develop. BTW, please don’t “respond to all”,
no one cares about you except me.

Cheers, besos y abrazos