Seat 47A

3.27.05 - 4:11pm (Bangkok)
Thank the dear lord English is the power language on the planet. I can't imagine being the poor fellow that can only speak Portugese, wandering through the Bangkok international airport.

Asian women are tiny.

I officially left summer back West. It is hot here in China and it will be hotter still in Sydney and intense in PNG. I cannot wait to put sandles on.

Ocean's 12 is a forgettable movie. Halfway through, I became cogniscent that I had no idea what was going on - only I didn't care.

3.28.05 - 6:51am (Sydney)
What a city Australia is - just a spectacular skyline. Waterways and bridges break up the steel structures. I saw the amplitheatre. My flight flew over it right at dawn. I cannot WAIT to get back here. The plane touched down exactly at 6am and I am abuzz (that is certainly not a word). And lo and behold, free internet access!

Wild dreams on the plane. I am reading this book that proposes the following question: a machine has been created in which your dreams will be recorded on a VCR tape - the only caviate is that you have to watch the tape with your friends and family. I would certainly watch the tape. I can NEVER remember my dreams unless they are particularly weird. Furthermore, to my knowledge, my dreams are rarely sexually explicit in nature. So I doubt I would be embarassed. They usually just involve a hodgepodge of people I have known in my life, sitting around in a familiar setting. Either that or I am running from the authorites. Regardless, I'd be watching the tapes.

I will be in PNG by mid-afternoon. ho ho!

Journal from the 'Nati to London

Still State-side...


3.25.2005 – 2:14pm (EST)
I need to get used to this iPod. Some jerk just got dropped off next to me by one of those airport golf carts. In no way is he disabled in any way, shape or form. I promptly muttered ‘you lazy fork’ under my breath. Only, with music blaring in my ears, my muttering volume was decidedly skewed. I don’t think he’ll be sending me a Christmas card.

3.25.2005 – 4:09pm (CST)
Delicious irony. I am stuffed into a tiny seat right next to the fork. Nolies. He’s a frumpy-looking fellow. I’ve never seen someone read the SkyMall magazine with such vigor. He’s like a 13 year old boy with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. His intensity rises with each turn of the page. It’s uncanny.

3.25.2005 – 4:24pm (CST)
15 minutes later and our lethargic utensil is still visibly flustered over something he read in the Sky Mall magazine. Must have been the hot dog buntoaster.

3.26.2005 – somewhere over the Atlantic
The plane is absolutely packed. I am in the dead center but this is BritishAirways, so the comfort level is pretty good. The great majority of the plane consists of high school kids, going on a trip to Europe. This is strangely comforting to me. I can’t tell how old people are by looking at them. 15 year old girls look to me like they are 21. Then again, this might have something to do with the fact that I still think that I am 23. This is a lie. I am 22. I am served roast beef and a salad accompanied by ‘ranch style’ dressing...ranch style. I start wondering what kind of style I am, and more importantly, if my style could be encompassed in one word. I start to become envious of this little condiment, which has fashioned itself a concrete identity. ‘Pardon me, but what is your style?’… ‘Why my dearfellow, I am ranch’.

3.26.2005 – 3:48pm (London time)
I am holed up in the Ibis hotel for the afternoon. My next leg does notdepart until 9:45pm. This means that I have to navigate the cruel and confusing labyrinth that is Heathrow airport for a second time. I think someone put cement in my large bag because it was not this heavy yesterday. On a good note, I am able to pug my lap top (using power converters) into international outlets and charge my equipment. This was crucial, since my pc is responsible for maintaining my iPod and camera. The man at RadioShack had tried to convince me that I needed some sort of wattage filter, since the global outlets pump out more juice than the U. S. counterparts (on aside, foolish dumb American note, when I was listening to him tell me this, I was thinking to myself ‘that’ is not right, the American outlets should be the ones pumping out more power). He had me thinking my lap top was going to explode or at least melt if I dared plugging it in without saidwattage converter/filter/thingy. In fact, I had one of the cleaning ladies plug in my machine while I cowered in the fetal position in the bath tub. Alas, we both survived without incident.

All right, here this

Let's get to some blogging. My parents asked me what a 'blog' was the other day - I tried to explain and quickly saw the look of boredom roll over their faces. Hopefully, this website will not generate the same feelings for you.
I feel like I have been in preparation for this moment for years. The journey has been long and now I am here - and frankly, I am not sure what to do with myself.
I have learned a few lessons the past few days. LESSON 1: 'Don't write an email to people you work with when you are furious'. As of Wednesday morning, it was looking like I was not going to be able to go on this trip. Essentially, my company decided (for good reason) that the security situation in Papua New Guinea (PNG) was too volatile for me to travel there. I had a grown-up temper tantrum and sent a scathing email to a number of people. Let's just say that I was 'checked' following my misguided editorial.
Regardless, everything fell into place at the final hour. Now I actually have to go on the trip. (loud, gurgling gulping noise).
I have discovered a new game. I can only travel with 60 pounds of luggage. You know, because 65 would be criminal. Anyway, I stand on the scale and record my weight (190 lbs for those curious). Then I grab up all my bags and check out the poundage. Naturally, I am over. Then I start making cuts. First to go: underwear and deodorant. Just useless space fillers.
My itinerary is fun. Chicago - London - Bangkok - Sydney - Brisbane (AUS) - Port Moseby (PNG) - Madang (final destination). 3 days. 8 stops. 4 continents. 57 different flight attendants. not good times.
However, I will be making notes along the way. By the 30th hour of this sojourn, I should be in a delicious lucid trance usually only achieved by the help of mescaline. Hunter Thompson would be so proud. Stay tuned.
I don't think they server free booze on international planes anymore. This is probably a good thing. Otherwise, I would be showing up for my first day on 3 days of intermittent sleep and a gallon of dirty vodka. Basically, it would be like starting a job in the middle of spring break in Cancun.
Eat a peach. MDB.

First Post

This is my first post just to get this thing off the ground. That's all I got.


Charleston, SC - portrait of a lonely man.