| Subtitled: THE ONGOING SAGA OF NIPPERSDAD'S ALTERNATE REALITY.
...Tsamba, tsamba, tsamba and yak butter tea at every meal. It just made one want to, well, yak. After thousands of years of that stuff, incarnation after incarnation of tsamba and yak butter tea, the creation and worship of colorful, many armed, dancing deities clothed in flames became far less of a mystery to me. After all of that tsamba, if one did not have a God one would have to invent fifty or sixty of them just for a diversion. That stuff even makes one miss the taste of an Americano.
We were just FORCED to leave Tibet, with a few yak loads of those soft, woolen, maroon robes edged in yellow silk...and now I am in Siberia sans central asian camel drovers. They started peeling off pretty quickly once we got out of Tibet...something about my being eccentric, demanding and "buying useless shit everywhere we go", AS IF!...So we are standing around in our monk's robes in the wastes of central Asia having this major bicker-fest: I told 'em straight up that "Ming vases make great lamps" and that "If their nomadic asses ever got a REAL house they would soon see the necessity for them", and they were all, "like, Dude!, there isn't any electricity for, like, a million miles"...
And then it got ugly.
They were all, like, "Nunh unh!" and I was all, like, "Uh huh!", and it all descended into a madness of drama and human interest that could only pique the jaded tastes of a type of literary Bon Vivant that I just simply don't care to write for. And, anyway, I just can't think about this right now....
But now you know why there are thousands of tells along the Silk Road almost exclusively composed of broken pottery; camel drivers just hate the stuff.
So, after that, I felt that I needed a little me-time; an opportunity to get off by myself and do some thinking; make a real change. Where was my life taking me? It was actually my boxer shorts that gave me the idea of going to Siberia. I wanted to actually SEE some red foxes chasing snow hares across the frigid, lightly forested slopes of the Russian steppes. Make sure that my shorts weren't lying to me, so to speak.
So I hired these Siberian pony drivers and their droschkies to take me, my Tibetan robes, Chinese blue and white porcelain vases and Wal-Mart happy face luggage into the Taiga.
It is still winter here and these Buddhist robes are just ideal attire for this climate. I had an out of body experience the other day wherein I viewed myself from a great height; a blood red dot racing across the snowy steppes in my droschky. It was a very easthetically pleasing vision. Like something out of Anna Kerenina or Dr. Zhivago....
You know that story about Russian peasants throwing someone out of the droschky when chased by wolves? Well, it's true. They really do that, all the time. Apparently my shorts did lie to me; I have seen no red foxes, just lots of wolves. When we ran out of peasant hitchhihkers to throw to the wolves, the pony drovers threw me out as well. Something about my being difficult....
So, there went all of my monk's robes, Chinese porcelain and Russian nesting dolls. Luckily the wolves just wanted to play; they had spotted the Wal-Mart bag and thought it was a ball. They just couldn't stand it that there was a ball around and no one was throwing it for them. After a few days of throwing the Wal-Mart bag for the wolves it was starting to look a little worse for wear and, finally, it burst; clouds of greenbacks blowing prettily to the west on the Siberian winds, back into the pockets of Jamie Dimon.
Luckily, I had had the forethought to stuff my (lying, treacherous) shorts with money before that happened. Equally lucky, since I could only take a little bit out of the Wal-Mart happy face bag (too much and it would no longer function properly as a wolf distractant) my butt didn't look nearly as fat as it had in Tibet. though, to be fair, the monk's robes tend to be rather slimming if I do say so myself...
Anyway, I am now ensconced in the little onion domed church that I have bought with the last of my fundage just outside of Novosibirsk. The icons are quite beautiful. I wired Jamie Dimon for more money, seeing as how he had got back most of what he had given me. He hasn't gotten back to me yet. Luckily the Icon seller from back home has showed up and wants to buy some of my icons. Small world, small world. That should keep me in black bread and vodka until Jamie's check arrives...any day now.
It seems like only last night I was just entering the Takla Makan. I guess what Juliet said about a moment containing many days is quite true; at least in this alternate reality. Dear Ms. Fiore, I hope that this has helped you to sleep. From what I have been given to understand, people hate travel reminiscences, they think that they are a bore. If so, I have striven to create a hypnotoad-esque experience just for you that cannot fail to engender yawns and gently closing eyelids.
However, if all of my efforts on your behalf have failed, I have a back up plan: All along the journey I have been taking slides. (you just don't want to know where I have been keeping them, either!) (the chafing! The chafing!) As I say, If I have failed in my mission, when I get back I will be happy to give you the vacation slide show of your life.
And that should, finally, do the trick.