Killing Batteries

From: Leif Pettersen
Sent: Tuesday, December 20, 2011 03:41 AM
To: submissions@inflightmagazine.com
Subject: pich

Dear booger eater,

You know, I’ve always hated your magazine. Erry time I pick up this stink bomb and sedate my brain with the tedious hack work you jackoffs print I wanna rip open the emergency exit door and jump to my deth.

Is your editorial direcction set by a nun, a 3rd grader and Papa Smurf? Jesus.

But I found out yer the new editer I thought I’d give you a chance at printing something other than complete shite for once.

I’ve been stalking you online for three days now and I think we’re total soulmates. Were both drink wine and watch Nurse Jackie and think that vacaions in Florida is for bitches. So, clearly you’re not an idiot. Respect!!!1

So, heres my idea: you send me to Italy, I rent a fucking Lamborghini and I just drive, man. Just drive aroun and see what happens! You ever notice how if you drive a Lamboghinni in Italy you can get away anything! I shit you not. I culd dress like a hobo, drive my Lambo right up to the Vatican and that’d totally let me in! its a intriguing dichotomy and a statement vis a vis society to day.

So that’s it. If this works, we could do all a series. Drive a Lambergini to France, drive a lamborghini to Spain, etc, etc. and I ll totally tweet everything, facebok, etc, etc.

You chew on that. I’m gonna chew on this burrito.

Call me.

Leif Peterse

As a result of hundreds of tongue-in-cheek, boastful comments I’ve made over seven years of sharing my life online, my handlers are telling me that I’ve managed to convince many of you that I’m some kind of badass. Well, this is entirely true. I am a badass. Among the innumerable asses you’ll encounter over the course of your life, I’m likely among the baddest.

True, I’m not a Les Stroud or Johnny Knoxville caliber badass, but in fairness, technically speaking those guys are bad seeds.

But all badasses have their vulnerabilities. Superman has kryptonite, Republicans have fact-checkers and I too have a powerful Achilles’ heel: I’m sensitive to noise. Whether it be a sustained, skull-pulsing racket or an unexpected bang, noise at the very least agitates me and at the very most actually pisses me off. This is why I so rarely like huge, teeming cities. Or teenagers. Or preteens. Pretty much all non-mutes from ages zero to 22, come to think of it.

While I’m in this rare mood for sharing personal details, I’ll also admit that I’m not too thrilled about being touched by strangers, either. Barring a cheerily drunk episode or unmistakably clear prior authorization (should Scarlett Johansson be reading this), I prefer a brisk handshake with new acquaintances and that’s it. I’m happy to make the leap to hugging with the right people in short order, but things like cupping my face in your where-have-they-been? hands probably won’t ever be OK, so Romanians, keep those things below the neck please.

And here’s a new twist in Sensitive Leif Land: I’m developing into a fairly serious homebody. At first I thought the powerful homesick sensations that I was feeling on the road were a result of the type of travel I’ve been doing lately: long, solitary, exhausting, Lonely Planet research trips – the kind of travel that would even make Genghis Khan homesick. But, quite unexpectedly, wistful thoughts of my quiet, cozy condo emerged fairly early on during my just-completed, mostly pleasure trip to Colombia.

This, I felt, was not a good development. “That’s it,” I thought. “I’ve lost the love of travel. All I wanna do is stay home, where the TV is big, the bed is plush, everything is familiar and easily available, and I control the cleanliness, environment, food preparation conditions and when and to what degree drunken antics will transpire.

However, before I could seriously explore job opportunities that would allow me to work from home, with the shades down, the door fused shut, receiving all food and supplies via an air-tight, pass-through carousel, coated in a microbial organic growth neutralizing compound, I found deliverance in a timely epiphany.

While I’m sure that homesickness played a part, it occurred to me that the primary cause of my discomfort was that I was privacysick.

One of the cruel realities about being a badass travel writer is that swank hotels stays are exceedingly rare. We’re largely obliged to stay in hostels, which, in moderation of course, is all part of the fun. However, when you’ve been 28 years old for as long as I have, maintaining a positive outlook during an extended absence of privacy can be challenging. Even when staying in private hostel rooms I’ll eventually get privacysick, due largely to the indignity of picking through filthy shared bathrooms and kitchens, not to mention the especially audible comings and goings of those travelers who prefer to conduct their cultural explorations exclusively from the insides of nightclubs.

Someone I know with exceptional needs for rejuvenating alone time once described the effort of being social as holding two bowling balls out at arm’s length. He could do it, but not for an especially long time and he needed significant recovery time before he could do it again. As I age, it appears that my travel style requires similar pacing.

So, for the time being, I’ll be hanging onto my travel writing badass badge, thank you very much. Though on trips of more than 10 days, I’ll have to start scheduling regular retreats to proper hotels where I’m confident that all surfaces are reasonably clean, there’s a semblance of peace and I can unselfconsciously stare longingly at the numerous pictures of my condo that I keep on my Blackberry.

I heartily recommend World Nomads travel insurance

Dear gumment,

With the dust cloud of the economic crash finally settling, it’s time now to turn our attention to those industries that are suffering delayed consequences from this totally avoidable, clusterf*ck that your asshat predecessors let happen. I’m speaking, of course, of the unsung, selfless, heroic work done by our nation’s freelance travel writers.

The nature of our industry’s delayed payments for duties performed means that we are just now starting to feel the brunt of the crash. Payments that should be arriving for theoretical services rendered in the winter of 2008/2009 and onward are of course simply not going to come. Trickledown from the pervasive death and downsizing of publishing in the past 12 months is starting to affect our troops. Economic indicators point toward a catastrophic decimation of our ranks, leading to trends like outsourcing to talentless hacks, cliché aficionados and alliteration junkies.

Imagine untold thousands of freelance travel writers sitting at home, clad only in underwear and a lazily tied robe emblazoned with the ‘Hyatt Regency’ logo. Eating green beans and peaches right out of the can. Spending 20 minutes on Twitter for every five minutes of writing. Delirious from the effort of having to come up with the 12th synonym for the word ‘tasty’ that day. For the love of Buddha, how can you allow something this pure and beautiful to slide into extinction?

We would like to formally request a government bailout for freelance travel writers to the tune of 50 million dollars. No wait, 100 mill (I forgot about our bonuses). Not only will this infusion of critical funds keep our indispensable ranks alive and safe, but our renewed spending power will help invigorate other ailing industries like airlines, cool gadgets, frozen pizza, $6-or-less wine, cargo shorts, DVD rentals, and pay-per-view Japanese schoolgirl tickle fetish videos.

Thank you for your help in averting this crisis in freelance travel writing. As always, feel free to email any of us directly with copious, lengthy, yet non-specific questions and unsubtle requests for ‘hook-ups’ the next time your families go to Hawaii.

The Freelance Travel Writers of America

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

Those following me on Twitter may have noticed a series of barely cryptic tweets recently suggesting that I may soon be unemployed. Since I’m prone to the occasional, teensy-weensy bit of embellishment when speaking about my personal life (hangovers, vertical leap, the contours of my booty), I’ve decided to share the hard facts about the possible professional crossroads that are fast approaching.

It’s true. Once I finish updating a seminal work of guidebook genius entitled “Lonely Planet Romania”, I will have no (paying) work on deck. Some might argue that this is no different from what freelancers face at the end of any project, being that, even in stable economic times, we are all continuously and theoretically on the brink of professional and financial catastrophe. However, this time it’s a little different. Here’s why:

•    In my five years of freelance writing, I have rarely had to go looking for work. It usually just comes rushing toward me. So, yes, I’m spoiled rotten.

•    Even if I did normally go chasing for new work, I’ve been far too busy to do so lately. But not too busy to complain about it, naturally.

•    I’d like to take a small break after doing these back-to-back LP guidebook projects (Tuscany & Romania), which, in addition to being much appreciated paying work, had the added benefit of being a seven month tutorial on how to most efficiently burn myself out. On that note, groupies will be happy to hear that the eight week stint of spaciness and severely diminished cognitive funtion, something I feared might be permanent brain damage, has finally broken and I’m feeling much better.

•    In the past year, freelance travel writing for magazines has become cut-throat and, for the publications I used to contribute to, unprofitable.

Unless something really lucrative lands in my lap, you can bet your ass I’ll be taking that break. I may even let it draw out into an unapologetically long period of sloth, wine drinking and TV watching, with a possible jaunt or two to destinations ending in the word ‘beach’ or ‘springs’ or ‘-apulco’. Nevertheless, in more somber moments, I wonder about future employment.

For several weeks I have been idly entertaining a number of job options. Of course I’d like to stick with writing, preferably travel writing, preferably travel writing about the adventures that I have while on location shooting my new travel TV show, seeing as how all the news ones coming out are so god-awful and the old ones are obviously losing their edge and have I mentioned the contours of my booty? While engaged in this new job daydreaming, I have not been picky. In fact, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time considering jobs that, at first glance, would seem like a bewildering choice. Here’s a partial list:

•    Starbuck’s barista – I hear they get benefits at 30 hours per week. True?

•    Wine bar bartender – Turns out this is waaaay more work than I had fantasized. Apparently, you’re expected to do more than sit behind the bar, flirt with girls and pour a glass of wine once every 15 minutes.

•    Break the world record for not leaving the Minneapolis Skyway – The upshot is that this would be a great Minnesota winter distraction, though there’s too many unknowns. Does anyone even know what the record is? Can I live off the sponsorship? Will I go crazy? Will I have any friends left by Month 2?

•    Professional blogger – In addition to this blog and the virtually abandoned This Is Why I Love Minneapolis blog and my Romania and Moldova travel guide site, I have somehow convinced myself that I can start and maintain blogs about promoting Atheist Rights and an aggregator (with snarky comments) exposing the hypocrites, liars and dumbasses in politics. Kind of like the Daily Show, but more timely and with fewer visits from starlets in flimsy dresses. I estimate that all of this will require about 156 hours of work per week and net me about $200-250 a month. So that’s a definite ‘maybe’.

As my long suffering parents will attest, I somehow tend to gravitate toward goals and career paths that inevitably prove to be more far-fetched and less lucrative than the one I’m currently abandoning (juggling, acting, radio DJ, homeless travel writer). And this time is no different. I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think I’m going to make a run at being a – wait for it – Travel Stand-Up Comedian.

I could totally do this. In fact, I more or less involuntarily do this all day long. The thing is, being a Travel Stand-Up Comedian in a country where only 20% of the people have passports (and most of them just have them so they can get to Cabo every winter or zip over into Canada to buy their meds at reasonable prices) might be a little too obscure for most audiences.

But perhaps it’s all in the delivery. I had to dump a five minute build-up of dope observations and clever digressions on the Crusades, the Pope and St Francis when I realized that most of it would zing right over the heads of all but maybe two people in the audience. So, the set-ups for Travel Stand-Up Comedian jokes would be critical. Or perhaps I should just keep it basic and low brow. This bit where Louis CK rightly points out how “noncontributing zeros” complain bitterly about minor inconveniences while experiencing the miracle of flight is probably the tone I should be aiming for (it’s all good, but the airplane stuff starts at starting at 2:02).

It’s a subject that nearly everyone in the audience has experienced in the first person and there’s a random reference to a repugnant act tossed in. I hate to give away the hard-won secrets of Travel Stand-Up Comedy so freely, but those two elements are pretty much all you need.

Thusly inspired, I wrote this joke during an insomnia jag last week (imagine delivery in a smooth, conversational tone):

… and if Jesus doesn’t like it he can suck it.

Moving on, have you noticed lately how nearly every animal is coming out with its own potentially fatal disease? Everyone’s worried about terrorist attacks ending the world, meanwhile every year barn yard animals come one step closer to wiping us out with plague and pestilence.

First there was cows with their Hoof and Mouth and Mad Cow Disease. Then they had to slaughter millions of birds to stop the Avian Flu. The pigs actually scored pandemic points with the Swine Flu. Now it’s the donkeys. Yeah, seriously. They’ve just discovered that donkeys are carrying fatal bacteria that infects humans via their saliva. They’re calling it ‘Ass to Mouth’.
[pause for standing ovation and assistants to collect thrown bouquets of flowers]

So that’s another ‘maybe’.

Since KillingBatteries has always been about depicting the harsh realities of freelance travel writing (and shameless self-promotion and what’s annoying me today and why aren’t I worshiped like a professional sports player?), I will stay true to the spirit of the blog and continue to update you on my tenuous employment status during these times of economic uncertainty.

Meanwhile, yes, I am accepting any and all offers that pay a living wage and, ideally, lavish me with attention. I’ll even consider working in an office, assuming I can do so while wearing no shoes or shirt. You gotta meet me half way.

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

With ‘staycation’ still lingering in the lexicon as a legitimate – and lately only – option for cash-strapped people with time-off to kill, I thought I’d tackle the subject of ‘staylag’ or the staycation equivalent of jetlag. I recently suffered this affliction after a weekend romp, ranging dangerously close to a first tier suburb, and I can tell you it’s no picnic.

For those who haven’t had the pleasure, classic ‘jetlag’ is defined as “a temporary disruption of the body’s normal biological rhythms after high-speed air travel through several time zones.” What does it actually feel like? Well, it kinda feels like the morning you’ve been returned to Earth after a 17 hour alien abduction, wherein the experiments they performed on you included a partial lobotomy (via the anus naturally – is there any other way?), then replaced your blood with used coffee grounds, then spun your head around four times just to see what would happen, then pooped in your mouth, then ran you through the Galactic Spinal Realignment Ass Tenderizer Thingamabob, and finally, in the chaos of trying to get out of the lab for the alien equivalent of Happy Hour, maybe they put your arm where your leg goes and your leg where your arm goes. Results may vary.

Staylag, on the other hand, is defined as “A complete f*ck-up of the mind, tongue, stomach and colon, after a quick succession of cider, wine, cheaper wine, gin and tonics and then three kinds of juice mixed with Skye Vodka. Dumb ass.”

Though it’s tempting to do so, ‘staylag’ should not to be confused with the term ‘hangover’, because in addition to a few too many alcoholic beverages, true staylag also involves some ill-considered gastronomic decisions and anywhere from two to 13, largely unexplained, minor injuries. Day 3 of my Minneapolis Staycation Project from last summer is the quintessential example.

So, while staylag is less punishing than genuine jetlag, you still invariably end up suffering unduly for what seemed like reasonably measured indulgence at the time.

In my case, I spent Thursday night drinking to forget work, Friday drinking to forget Thursday night, then Saturday without sober supervision in a house stockpiled with enough alcohol and mixers to hospitalize a bachelor party of Irish sailors. Throw in a touch of insomnia and, brother, you’re seriously staylagged. I’m talking, up at 5:30am, lunch at 10am, dinner at 3:30pm and nodding off at 6pm, with all the diminished mental acuity and gastrointestinal distress you’d expect after such behavior.

So, how does one avoid staylag? Here’s a few tips:

•    Stay hydrated. In fact, kept about 12 Electrolyte Stamina Power Paks on your person at all times. I only brought two with me and I paid dearly.

•    No matter how beautiful and booze-filled the house is, never agree to house-sit a place that’s 800 meters from the business end of an international airport runway.

•    Keep it down to one burrito per 12 hours.

•    If you know what’s good for you, you won’t listen to, or do, anything I say after I’ve had more than two glasses of wine.

•    Do not accidentally punch the low ceiling in a finished basement while executing your ace serve on Wii Tennis.

•    Stay out of the suburbs.

•    After three dedicated nights of drinking, do not go to a matinee of “Inglorious Bastards”.

There’s more of course, but if you think I’m giving that away before my memoirs see print, you’re kidding yourself.

Fin.

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

Oh man, my little heart is breaking. I’ve just had a very fulfilling, passion-filled, five year relationship suddenly terminate. Boo hoo.

She was easily my longest and most treasured traveling companion. We’d been through so much together. Seen the world from first class airplane seats, luxury cruises and the backs of open-top truck beds, rattling down dusty roads. We endured hair-raising border crossings, every weather extreme and frequently slept together in dodgy hostels for safety.

Sure, she wasn’t aging too gracefully – she’d put on some weight (she never looked the same after she got that 24-page insert taped onto her in Bangkok), her face was increasingly creased from spending so much time in my pocket and it seemed like every country we visited she’d come away with new body art, but somehow this only made me love her more.

It ended so suddenly. One minute we’re jet-setting along as ever, the next she had simply run out of pages.

Goodbye my dear, sweet passport. I will never forget you.

Oh sure, I’ll get another passport. She’ll be new, thin, have perfect skin and, ideally, will have never been with another guy, but it just won’t be the same. There’s all that get-to-know you awkwardness. Scrutiny over our considerable age difference, learning each other’s coffee preferences, peeing with the door closed…

And she’ll have a hell of a time winning over my friends. Everyone loved my old passport. She was the life of the party. She drew stares and reverent gasps from random passersby. She had charisma, wisdom and beauty that can only be won through age and experience. And, if you must know, she was insane between the sheets.

I know the best course of action is to cut the cord and move on, but I’ve been listening to Boston’s “Take My Breath Away” all morning and looking at photos. Here’s a few choice candids.

Ah memories. Please leave your condolences in the comments area.

UPDATE: After lengthy investigation, culminating in a 20 minute phone call to the US Passport Center, I have learned that I can indeed get more pages taped into my current passport. US passports, which arrive with 24 pages, can take up to three inserts containing 24 additional pages each, meaning a passport is not truly “filled” until it has 96 pages. Woo hoo!

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

… when everyone in town knows you’re gonna drink it alone.

By this stage, it’s no secret that I habitually enjoy a few glasses of wine (in front of me, simultaneously, as I dutifully finish the bottle) while in the privacy of my home after a long day of writing and the sadistic four foot commute from my desk to my couch. This regular wine consumption is one of those charming, some say ‘fruity’, habits that I brought home after living in Europe for almost four years, in addition to refusing to ever own a car again, coffee addiction and pronouncing words that are new to me using Latin vowel rules which is never right in English and just makes me sound pompous. I still cant seem to say ‘Conde Nast’ right.

When I buy wine at home, it is done with delightful anonymity at a wine/liquor store just a few blocks from my condo in the heart of downtown Minneapolis. Though they are ever attentive and kind, even after a year of my frequent custom and well over a $1,000 in wine and Strongbow purchases, there’s nary a wee hint of familiarity when I heave my items onto the checkout counter. I love this, because that means there’s no probing chit-chat about the special occasion that calls for yet another case of Strongbow, only six days since I was last seen hauling a case out the door or how much my extended family must have loved those sale-priced Chiantis, when I return only days later to once again to buy as much as I can comfortably carry.

I’m not overly concerned with appearances, as even a quick glance into my closet will confirm, but I found myself more than a little self-conscious on the morning of my departure from Montalcino, when I resolved to buy some can’t-say-no bargain Brunello di Montalcino in the main piazza. Drawing on my years of method actor training, I have resolutely assumed the quiet, rumpled dignity and unrelenting focus required of my guidebook writer persona – a ‘get a load of Rainman’ like manner that excuses me from acknowledging any trace of social embarrassment as I walk-trot from place to place with my Palm Pilot in one hand and my GPS-ready cell phone in the other amongst relaxing locals and vacationers. But I was feeling exceedingly self-conscious on this morning, after having been introduced to the whole of Montalcino the previous evening and they were all fully aware that I was quite alone and charged with writing detailed, accurate and, ideally, sober travel information about their town.

I’d taken drinks and dinner that night with Jena, an American expat and Montalcino resident of eight years, who I made mildly famous when I featured her as a ‘Local Voice’ in the current edition of Lonely Planet Tuscany & Umbria. Jena is, as we like to say in travel writing, a character. Lovely, warm, loud, passionate. She has taken on (or has always had, I can’t say for sure) all the stereotypical characteristics of a strong Italian woman – with a hair-raising zap of her own already robust enthusiasm. She is without a doubt a leading Montalcino personality. In a scorching two hours of rapid-fire banter, sometimes carrying on three concurrent conversations, we encountered and mingled with virtually all of Montalcino, who, in turn, met me and learned of my noble duty to report on all that is great in Tuscany.

The next day, I felt the eyes of the town on the back of my neck as I completed my research and, not wanting to pass up the cheapest Brunello prices in the world, decided that I would take away a bottle of liquid memories on my way to the car. Strangely, the overwhelmingly wine-focus Italians view drinking alone, even in moderation, as being somewhat eccentric. Even the dedicated winos do their drinking at their local café, where despite it just being them and the barista at 9:30 in the morning, they are nevertheless drinking in a social situation, so they’re exonerated. Knowing this, I was keenly aware of the implications and interpretations of marching through town, carrying a Brunello that all in attendance knew that I would drink single-handedly in a distant hotel room in the very near future.

A collective hush descend on four busy café terraces in the square as I entered the shop. I quickly made my purchase and hustled out the door carrying my bottle in a conspicuously large, cardboard carrying case that the cashier insisted on giving me, rather than permitting my carefully laid plan to shove it up my pant leg. Eyebrows on some 87 people arched, while they tracked my retreat down Montalcino’s main street. The usual smattering of little old ladies leaning out their windows, monitoring street goings on while their laundry dries, was unusually abundant as I made for the car, their expressionless faces slowly turning, staying fixed on me as I passed, judging, tutting, condemning.

I picked up the pace once I was in the parking lot on the edge of town, leaping and sliding across the hood of my car Dukes of Hazard style (which ain’t easy on the snub-nosed Fiat Panda), clamored into the driver’s seat and roared down the hill (which also ain’t easy in a Panda), taking a 15 kilometer detour around the city, rather than driving back through the center.

Years from now, they’ll still talking about the devilishly handsome, lonely, gringo that blew through town one day in 2009. Despite being a sad, closet drinker, his guidebook jottings saved everyone from financial ruin and indentured servitude to the evil mega-ranch owner, not to mention the 20 minute running gun fight with the rancher’s henchmen, where 4,246 rounds were fired from automatic weapons and all the henchmen were disarmed and captured without a single person getting shot. And then, like a one-man A-Team, he was suddenly gone.

Despite these heroics, I’ll have to decline the LP Tuscany job in 2011, since I can never set foot in Montalcino again, what with their long memories and legendary café gossip, repeating the tales of my alcoholism like historical legend, passed down orally from generation to generation as was the custom before there was mobile phone text messaging.

And yes, I opened that Brunello the very same evening, an exquisite, palette-humping 2004 (14% alcohol volume!), that cost a mere 18 euros or about US$24. Per the careful instructions I received in the shop, I opened it and waited for two of the longest hours of my life while it ‘breathed’ or ‘wheezed’ or whatever, then, after showering and putting on my best underwear, we climbed into bed together and made the kind of sweet love that only a man and a good bottle of wine can make. Well, if you wanna split hairs, I suppose there’s a second kind…

[PHOTO CREDIT: Katie Mardis]

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

I joined Facebook last summer, because many self-absorbed friends had taken to posting their vacation photos on Facebook and only Facebook, so it was either I join or I miss out on photos. (Tip: If you ever want to see any of your friends semi-nude, just ask to see their Burning Man photos. Boioioing!)

But joining doesn’t mean participating, and so I didn’t. I mean really, I’ve got stuff to do over here. I’m already prohibitively preoccupied by email, Google Reader, Twitter and whatever else I can find that doesn’t involve actual work. I’m hanging onto the bare minimum of daily productivity by a slender thread here. No more distractions, thank you.

Peer pressure to flesh out my Facebook page and find friends ensued. I told those people they could take their Facebook and shove it right up their MySpace, because I’m a busy man. Very busy. I have, you know, stuff going on, like constantly. I can’t think of an example right now, but rest assured it’s bedlam.

Last week I caved. My ego couldn’t resist widening the audience of people who have no choice but to read and bask in my idle thoughts and funny pictures. And you know what happened? Pretty much exactly what I predicted would happen. Facebook become a full-time job.

First there was the pictures to upload. The figuring out how to connect the Twitter feed. Then the momentous task of friending everyone I’ve ever met for the past 25 years. With Facebook’s wonky interface, none of this happened in quick fashion. And, though I’m sure this gets easier over time, with the roughly 274 options you have on each page, you can never be quite sure where a link will take you or how to get back to that thing you wanted to look at five hours ago, when you first signed on.

Then you suddenly realize that it’s 2:30pm and you haven’t eaten anything except for that coffee at 8am and your eyes are burning and your brain is scrambled and your work day window is effectively shot.

Now if career-ending non-productivity was the only issue, I might, over time, be able to balance my daily schedule, allowing me to both engage in Facebook play and earn a sustainable income. But there’s an incessant, individual P.R. see-saw that needs to be attended to on Facebook. Namely the damage control and spin required whenever someone from your past decides to get cheeky and post something personally embarrassing, like the above picture of me from a bad hair day from the final days of senior year in high school.  (I’m on the left)

When you think about it, the fallout from regrettable moments dredged up from your past could be potentially ruinous. No one would ever think to do stuff like that to you publicly if it were all happening in person, but since it’s all online, anything goes. The following video, which I found on one of my new friend’s profile page, shows what Facebook in real life might be like. [Those of you reading this with a blog reader, can view the video here]:

I saw that video after I’d spent 12 cumulative hours establishing myself on Facebook and it momentarily made me start searching for the elusive ‘delete everything’ button. Why is it OK to do that type of stuff online when, if it were to happen in real life, the ensuing violence would probably earn you a spot in the opening credits of Cops? Nevertheless, I’m sticking with this Facebook fad for now and we’ll see how quickly some identity thief gets a credit card in my name and charges up $2,000 in donkey scat porn. Because I’d never do anything like that.

So, yeah, by all means, friend me. But I’m not gonna do all that “25 Things You Didn’t Wanna Know About Me” and join your “I Like Beets” fan club. At least for now. Ask me again in about six months.

[STUPID PHOTO OF ME CREDIT: Peter Kelen]

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

I’ve been accused twice recently of being too funny for my own good by people in positions to drastically affect my employment, income and success. I can think of innumerable shortcomings in my writing, social skills and general appearance, but being too funny is one criticism that I never expected to hear. So to prove that I’m not too funny, I told both of those people to fuck off.

Not too funny anymore, am I?

In all seriousness (but not really), I have struggled and failed to understand this statement. I feel like I’m being selectively autistic here, because I just can’t seem to grasp the concept. How can anyone be too funny? We live in a world (at least in the US) where poor taste, unrealistically broad demographic targets and willful stupidity has resulted in far too much unfunny crap in our daily lives. Even, ironically, when the intended goal is to be funny. Which, in a sick way, is kind of funny, but not in a way that will cause cider to unintentionally explode out of your nose. More like one of those laughing-sobbing hybrid moments that tend to happen when I turn on network ‘sitcoms’, any morning radio show or the Dane Cook concert Comedy Central which airs four times a day.

Let me put it another way. When was the last time you put down a book or walked out of movie because it was too funny? Has anyone ever been hospitalized or sued for being too funny? No, they have not. On the contrary, it appears that laughing may actually cure serious illnesses! Are you people telling me that the power to cure cancer isn’t within your demographics? What other potentially healthful features are outside of your target audience? Fresh air? Common sense? Washing one’s hands after taking a massive dump at their job in the food service industry?

I need to be funny. Being funny is second only to being smart on the list of desirable attributes for writers. And seeing as how about 70% of writers in the English-speaking world have neither, I should damn well be winning prizes and dating a b-list movie star. As it is, I don’t even have a wikipedia page yet, so I guess my perspective on the industry is not a popular one. Incidentally, no one has ever accused me of being too smart.

Furthermore, unless it contains critical information about the world or something that will prevent me from accidentally killing myself, I usually don’t bother reading anything that isn’t at least mildly entertaining. Honestly, why write anything if you don’t intend to entertain at least a little? This is why I only read the BBC and the Guardian UK, instead of any of the crap news publications here in the US. Also, because those guys are more likely to get the story right.

It’s not like being funny is a superpower that I can’t control. I’m not going to involuntarily go into a funny supernova and destroy the city like at the end of the first season of “Heroes”. If the situation calls for it, I’m more than capable of writing in a (mostly) unfunny tone, so as not to imperil my hapless readers. I wrote user guides for the Federal Reserve System for years and, I assure you, no one ever cracked a smile while reading those things. If they were ever read at all, which is unlikely considering the phone calls I got.

Fine. Some people don’t want funny. That’s their prerogative. I’m a professional. I’ll do the job that you ask me to do. To that end, as proof of my ability to write straight, serious text, I present the following sample:

This is me writing unfunny text. See how unfunny it is? Here’s more unfunny text. Now I’m making it even less funny. It’s almost painfully unfunny now. I think I’m gonna be sick. So. Very. Cold. Oh the humanity!

But you know who doesn’t think I’m too funny? Australians. I have a very strong following in Australia, because unlike the pansies in other countries that rhyme with the ‘United States’ and ‘England’ (nor am I too subtle) Aussies have guts when it comes to humor. Which is why I’m probably a lock for the Best Job in the World. If you have an internet connection, and by reading this I assume you do, then you’ve undoubtedly heard about the caretaker job on Hamilton Island on the Great Barrier Reef about a dozen times this week. The successful applicant will have all expenses paid while they feed fish for about 12 hours a month, in between their potentially hilarious duties of snorkeling, diving and sailing, while blogging about it all once a week for the tidy sum of US$103,000 for six months.

Well suckers, the contest is effectively over, because I’m entering and there ain’t anyone else more qualified than me. I’m apparently a borderline prohibitively funny writer, I’ve got this made-for-TV face and rear end, I’ve never accidentally killed a fish in my life and when it comes to getting paid a lot of money to do fun stuff, I have no equal.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sniff glue until I can’t tell funny from linoleum, take my cliché and hyperbole herbal supplements, then write a pitch to an in-flight magazine. Don’t tell me I’m not professional.

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…

What the… I’ve been back in the US for one year already? Holy crap! What happened to all that time? All I did was leave town seven times (four internationally), write four guidebook chapters for two countries, write nine travel magazine articles, write 55 buyer’s guides for MSN, write countless blog posts for my own blogs and others, buy a condo, furnish it and fail to land three more travel TV show auditions.

The funny-if-you’re-not-me thing is I often still feel like I’m re-adjusting to living in the US. There was a small incident just last week when I was charged with obtaining items for a dinner recipe and ended up frozen with confusion and despair when faced with over 33 different varies of bacon. You know how many kinds of bacon they have in Romania? One. It’s called ‘bacon’.

I’m struggling with a few other ongoing reverse culture shock issues, like continually saying ‘toilet’ instead of ‘bathroom’, not being able to intelligently discuss “The Hills” or “Gossip Girl”, and, despite being a lean, mean 5′-9″ and 145 lbs, failing to find clothes that fit me. All pants and shorts with a 30-inch waist seem to have been exported to Eastern Europe. Even if I could find clothes my size, I still have to learn the new sizing scheme that debuted while I was abroad, like t-shirts now labeled as ‘small’ are in fact mediums, ‘mediums’ are larges, etc all the way up the line, meaning I’m probably going to have to go to Baby Gap to get shirts that aren’t billowing off me.

Do I miss being a homeless vagabond? Yes, sometimes very much. There’s few greater joys in life than sitting back, tenting your fingers and thinking “Now what warm, cheap place that will make all my friends wretchedly jealous shall I live in this winter?” I miss the giddying daily discovery of new cultural tidbits. Also, there’s the food. Just last week a friend of mine and I drove each other to drooling, craving madness while discussing the food we missed in Italy.

But there’s no denying I love having my own place here in Minneapolis, with my own things and the ability to own more than three books or one pair of shoes at the same time. While living in eccentric and exotic destinations was undeniably great, those temporary apartments were almost unanimously horrible. The thin walls, the sketchy utilities, the broken stuff and the kitchens that had one pot, one pan, four plates and two forks often tested the upper limits of my ability to be productive or simply make pasta.

So, while my life is far less interesting and there’s no avoiding the Minnesota winter that’s about to descend around me, I’m still quite happy with the decision to return home and try my best to resume a life that more closely approximates normalcy. Except I still get to travel frequently and otherwise sit at home all day in my underwear and publicly muse about the downsides of freelancing and the character flaws of the people that don’t hire me.

In closing, still loving Minneapolis, hire me if you’ve got the guts and toilet, toilet, toilet.

Agonizing over travel insurance? Maybe I can help…