Have you ever touched your own asshole? I’m not sure the i can truthfully say I never have. I can say, with certainty, that i don’t remember the last time. Until about 8 hours ago. No TP in India. I kinda knew that, but its not until the first time your sitting (squatting), completely alone, in one of the dingiest bathrooms I can remember, right after you’ve shat and are now prepared for the cleanup phase, that it hits you. It was right in that moment that I knew what I already knew. It’s not until, that very second, in the poorly lit, Requiem-for-a-dream-esk, surrounded by tiles stained with years of humid filth, that I realized what had to be done. I paused, not so eager to explore my own anus with my own fingers on my own left hand. I paused, looked around in the musty space again. Shower head, no help; faucet with bucket, nope…too small to accommodate my entire ass; smaller bucket within larger bucket, maybe? I contorted my squat stance to see if i could splash some water in there, heard this was an option. Soooo feeble, barely got myself wet. I was beginning to understand what I had previously known. Gonna have to left hand this shit. There’s no half-assing here. Either you have a clean ass or you don’t. My white undies would be the unwavering judge. They had no sympathy to the culture shock that was occurring. No recognition of the situation at hand. Either skid marked or not. Fuck the bed. Here goes nothing. Again, not sure if you’ve touched your own sphincter recently but its a strange strange place for your fingers to be. I was prepared with instant rinse and soap…a lot of soap. I rigorous cleanse that I performed gingerly in my own unusual lonely embarrassment. Still not totally sure if all actions were performed correctly, up with Indian standards. There’s not real way of telling. I’m fairly certain that it seemed to be the only option I had but right after realized what just took place in that filthy bathroom, I can never be too sure. I had conferred, reluctantly, with my new friend Yos, I met at the airport. He seemed to confirm my suspicions. I suppose I will warm up to the practice with time but, fuck me, it’s a weird way of doing things.
Yos spotted me wondering about outside the Delhi airport, trying to avoid aggressive cabbies but still appearing generally lost. It had been quite a journey getting there.
New York proved to have its ups and downs. Ups; bike polo, bike messengering, experiencing one of the most diverse and tolerant places I have ever seen, bike polo. Being in the city is exciting and the landscape of Manhattan is unlike anywhere on earth. Biking down 7th ave, just down from times square, taking the time to look skyward and seeing skyscrapers parted by the famous Fashion Ave. Delivering packages from one famous landmark to the next. Pretty cool shit. Absolutely busting ass to bring a “red hot rush” from espn to ABC. A tape with something that will air today? Flying around manhattan without reverence to traffic laws of any kind. Don’t get hit and don’t hit anyone was the extent of it. Much like India, but it was just me and a few other messengers, not everyone, riding that way. It was a rush. Somewhat diminishing with time, but certainly challenging, dangerous and exciting. The last day of work was one long sigh of relief. Relief that I hadn’t found out how shitty my health insurance really was. New York had its moments but that’s kinda where the ups ended for me. Oh, and $1 for five dumplings in china town. A solid tasty meal for $3. love that.
The downs: being shit poor. Messengering pays peanuts. There were a few fabled companies that I was made aware of that seemed to pay their guys a decent wage, but the two I worked for weren’t one of them. I worked on a commission. On the busiest days I would make around 10, maybe $12/hour, at the max. $12/hour would be just keeping up with the incredible expense of not being a total recluse in that city. the reality was we were rarely busy. I would guess I averaged around $6/hour when I was working. Many times I would just turn my radio off and ride home after over an hour with no work coming my way. That coupled with the expense stressed me out, constantly. Anytime I left the house I needed to be prepared to drop cash. Transport, food, undies and socks for my new homesteading lifestyle, shows, DRINKS. Fuck me sideways drinks are expensive there. It’s either you don’t go out or you get FUCKED with drinks. A round of 6 dollar beers could negate a days worth riding. Hard riding. 50+ miles of it on a few beers with friends. I made my bed, I know, but it was a pretty shitty bed. If I had a real job the scene would be more tolerable, but who wants that. If I wanted a real job by life would be look quite a bit differently. NYC was just not a place set up for Cjell Money. Not a place where I thrived.
Enough of that. Hate people who bitch about their situation. Should have changed it sooner but that’s life.
The time came to take off and that I did. First stop was England for a quick stop. Met up with Alice’s family in their home outside of Birmingham. Alice came down. So good to see her again and her legendary family. thought it may be weirder than it was. They are such welcoming people thriving in their own rich culture that I quickly resumed my friendship with the family. Saw Max from tahoe in London. Bit sketch as he was in between places staying with his folks but I managed. Played some bike polo with those from the huge scene that existing in london. So much more polite and gentlemanly than what I had experienced in New York. I was bashful after a few that I was playing against scoffed at my antics and habits that I picked up playing in the big apple. I quickly reformed the more outlandish ones, like swiping the mallat out from under an up-expecting goalie using it as a prop while sitting in the net, but a stayed true to the more agressive style that involved riding in angles that impede the progress of others, stopping or backpedaling in hopes to force the opposition to touch their feet to the ground. Anywho, good times in good company.
The flights to Delhi were interesting. Slept (the loosest use of the term) at Gatwick airport in london. Had a shitting time trying to get my tent stake through, both london and instanbul. (taped to a checked box in london, cried in istanbul.) Had to buy a visa in turkey just to change planes. Suck my dick turkish immigration. Tranfered again in dubai. Some the the most interesting flights i have ever been on. Turks love the call buttom. Women in dubai aren’t allowed to fly? Only white person on the plane to delhi. Made it. Crashed in the airport. tryed to sleep until sunrise. Delhi is fucking crazy. Met Yos. led me here. love this place. more to come. Peace