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Ronald Reagan didn't do a damn thing for me while he was alive, and so I never thanked the senile son of a bitch for the fact that my family was better off in 1984 than they had been in 1980, national debt notwithstanding. But the passing of the former President was a sort of parting gift - it covered my ass in a time of need. And so, I finally had a nice thought about the President, "thank god he's dead: I wish he'd take #41 and #43 with him." The cover of which I speak, though much less dramatic than other cover-ups that took place during the Reagan and both Bush Administrations, was very valuable to me personally. It provided a day off; a day when I experienced the single worst hangover of my life. And the unexpected federal npn-work, like most of those fat fucks work on other days, meant I got a reprieve from government bureaucrats hounding me for information. I'll explain. It'd been a long mission deep undercover requiring the consumption of massive amounts of fermented mare's milk and vodka. Why these people think the two go together let alone are worthy to drink individually is beyond me, but when in hell. . . Ironically I was on a mission to investigate the status of drug flow across the northern border from a little country we'll call Hellhathnofury into Crapistan. Certain politicians were getting very fat, well, fatter, very quickly and with no explanation. It's my job to find out why. And on the way to researching the question I made some new friends in a position to reveal some key facts. The catch being the requirement of participating in their rituals, the purpose of which I've yet to never fully grasp. I woke up in a town near the border of a certain middle eastern country where the hookers take it up the ass and are happy to suck cock, but there's no vaginal penetration because they're protecting their virginity for their future husbands. Of course in the next town over, they don't suck dick, a snapshot perhaps into why the local economy is in such a state. I was in such a drunken rage the night before that, unbeknownst to my sober self the next day, I had chased the whores kindly sent by the front desk from my room, ripped all of the curtains off the windows and dividers in the three room suite, rolled up the carpet, up-ended the coffee table, tried to throw a vase out the window. In the marning around 9 am, after my guide got over the shock of me leaving the door gaping open, he entered the room to find out why I wasn't at breakfast drinking more milk. There I lay fully clothed on top of still made but disheveled bed. He took one look at me and smiled. This culture appreciates, no, respects the over-consumption of alcohol the way a Jewish grandmother smiles when her grandson comes back for a third helping of kneudel or matzah ball soup. You can show up for work in this country completely incapacitated, pale, sweaty and shaking, on the verge of vomiting and the bastards make you coffee, bring water, food. It's as if by being hung over you've confirmed the legitimacy of a way of life that's passed on from generation to generation, the secrets of which are jealously guarded. They offer each other in a clandestine manner by flicking the side of the neck with a finger, a holdover with historic roots. Apparently one of the kings in ancient times had all of his knights tattooed in this spot in order that they be recognized. This tattoo was a passport for free food and drink in any inn or home. The sign they use today somehow connects the consumption of vodka to the status of royalty. His grin is as wide as I've ever seen it. People here don't smile. One explanation is that it indicates that you want something . After a few weeks here I'm convinced it's because they all have really bad teeth and exposing them to the wind opens up the possibility of one of several undesirable objects landing and lodging there between and behind the lips. "What the fuck are you so happy about," I croak. I know exactly why the bastard is smiling, but this is my next move in a chess game of keeping his ass in line. It took me several days to get used to this smelly bastards dour personality and direct style and I don't want the dynamic to shift. He knows I'm packing heat. He knows we're undercover and he knows that I'm well financed by powerful friends. He fears me putting a bullet in his head and that's the way it needs to stay. "Mr. Labare, you are one of us now." "Fuck you. Go down stairs, order bacon, eggs and coffee to go and warm up the car you fucking towel head. We leave in 15 minutes." But in the stupid grin, I see the hapless, ignorant and reckless spirit of our former President on the day we celebrated his death. Who says the Soviet Union rules here? "Right away, Sir!" As we make our way through the mountains my head is hanging out the window in part to be ready to puke and in part because the smell off this guy, even though we're in a relatively new SUV devoid of the usual human stench that's accumulated in vehicles here, permeates the vehicle and makes me more queasy. I'm in the car for 27 hours driving through mountains and rolling hills, abandoned villages that have been empty since the last war. My driver is one hell of a serious alcoholic who very earnestly believes that three shots of vodka will make me feel better. Actually it might be a ploy he's using just to fuck with me. I could never really tell which, but he continues to offer me a hair of the dog every 30 minutes during the car ride and ceases only when I take his bottle of vodka as if to accept the medicine and chuck it out the window. Despite my state, the drive through the countryside is beautiful, especially when we go through a patch of wild lavender, a much needed reprieve from the smell of Nouray cheese (name changed to protect the innocent) which has haunted me ever since that ugly, ugly bender and the driver. In the country, they stand along the road, some selling huge buckets full of wild mushrooms, fruits, vegetables and other wares. Some are just watching cars go by and yet others appear to serve some hidden purpose that I do not contemplate too closely. Driving through villages that are actually inhabited, people stand on street corners, along the road, wherever, and stare as if they've never seen a careful of people with two eyes each before. The mountains look a bit like the rolling foot hills of the Rockies, areas between Salt Lake City and southern Utah and in some cases like the smallest mountains in the Cascades. If I hadn't been in such pain, I would have had pangs of homesickness for the wilderness I know and love so much. This stretch of road reminds me of my youth and the years I spent living in the wilds for months at a time. Smoking dope, eating peyote, watching the stars, going into the abyss of personal knowledge, scrambling on rocks, making love in the sun and being naked with my love of the month. Later I would return to the same wilderness with a different objective; to learn to survive and kill. I spent 8 weeks in the desert with nothing but a buck knife and a canteen. It's amazing what one will eat when given no choice. By the time I wake from this dream or nightmare, I'm not sure, we're back in the city in front of my apartment. And so very grateful I was to be in what is now relatively speaking my own bed and that all foreign offices were closed giving me time to sleep it off before going to meet with intelligence officials at the Embassy on Monday, ratfaced little bastards, don't think anyone knows they work with the CIA. Self important little shits covering up for their Napoleon complex. In the city, the American NGOs here to bring economic and political stability are all a twitter with the latest mini-drama. The exciting development this week comes in three forms. First, the Ministry of Finance (think IRS plus FBI) has decided that money laundering by non governmental organizations is now it's single biggest problem to focus on. Of course, there is about $50 million a year pouring into this certified hellhole from the good ol US of A and so it does seem like an easy decision to start looking at where that money is going if not your own pocket. Forget uncollected taxes, oligarchies that stifle economic growth and competition, and economic development in the villages. It's non-profits teaching people to monitor elections and review parliamentary voting records that present the biggest threat to the well being of Krapistannis or more accurately, their thuggish rulers. At the same time, a new domestic NGO is announced which 'opposes the work of NGOs under the influence of foreign powers,' and finally, a bill has been proposed to outlaw volunteerism with NGOs. They're talking about an election monitoring organization that is pressig for all kinds of reform. OK, there's $120,000 of your dollars going to a good use. No one is interested in comparisons between an anti-democratic government here and the Bush Administration, so I shut up about it, but the style, tactics, and modus operandi are eerily similar. Thuggish bastards are the same all over the world and are just in different places on the spectrum. But they learn from one another and mimic strategies. I'm employed by the government and am fiercely patriotic. I love my country for it's values of freedom, profit, and relative justice. I probably love the public lands and wilderness areas more, but the values are important too. I love the coasts, the mountains, the grandmothers and my family. But I despise the current administration for its deceit, greed and recklessness. European nations alike hate Bush with a passion, just ask any of them. They whisper in the corners like the beatnik poet in high school who's watched the dumbest football player on the team dunk his best friends head into the toilett for the 10th time since 8th grade. They're watching, plotting, planning revenge. And it may take 100 years, but these passive aggressive bastards will have it. Mark my words.
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October 11, 2004