August 21, 2002
Back from Guam, hoo- what a nice trip it was. Usually, I like to go do something strenuous on my vacations, like backpacking or camping. But this time, it was pure relaxation. Palm trees, white beaches, swimming. Imagine me sitting on the ocean-side on a large towel, wearing swim-trunks and my Italian sunglasses. With one of those ridiculous paper-umbrella-having topical-like beverages in my hand. Reading Franz Kafka's The Trial. That was me for the past week and a half.
Since I overestimated the amount of money to bring with me, I found that I had an embarrassing overabundance of cash with which to lavish the finest dinners upon myself. Bacon-wrapped filet mignon one night, lobster the next, delicious sushi the next. Goodness, I was decadent.
When you have fine food, fine drink, fine destinations, fine books... seriously, can life improve very much on that? I honestly don't think that it can. If I don't indulge myself, then who will?
My first hours went a little like this: the flight-in was packed. Guam is an extremely popular destination for Japanese, as it's only about 4 hours by air. Based on some of the conversations I had on the plane, I am starting to think that my spoken Japanese has improved somewhat. Yes, I have gone from abysmal to very very poor.
We landed, I went-through U.S. Customs at the airport. There were plenty of 'because of increased security concerns...' signs posted, but since I'm white, no one hassled me. (I do not state this kind of observation proudly.) After getting waved-through an abbreviated passport-check, I rounded a corner. Hanging on the wall was a color photo of stern-faced Attorney General Ashcroft.
"YAHH!" I jumped-back, terrified at the grim-lipped portrait. "Oh, phew. It's not the real thing." I caught my breath and my adrenals managed to come-out of 'fight or flight' mode. Hm, that reminds me- where did I put my crucifix?
But immediately after, I headed to my hotel and hit the beach. Guam reminded me of Honolulu, but not quite so many high-rise condos or jagged mountains in the distance. But there was lots of sun and surf. There were an enormous number of Japanese stocking-up on duty-free goods in the shops and sunbathing on towels. And there were plenty of attractive young Japanese women, too...
But alas, stuck in the middle of it all were about a dozen or so American chicks messying-up the place. Sticking-out like gangrenous thumbs. Lying by the water, like some genus of bloated, land-bound manatee. Smearing Lancôme sun-cream all over their red, puffy, purulent, pillow-like flesh. Bobbing up and down in the surf like mutant, marshmallow weebles. As if the Michelin Man had sired a dozen daughters. My God, how many extra servings of fudge do you American chicks eat, anyway?
"My eyes! They burn!!!" I turned my gaze away and desperately tried to scour the image from my mind. After choking-back my vomit, I decided to stroll along the sand instead.
The Japanese women lay right-next to the American ones, as if to provide some kind of illustrative justification for why I abandoned the 50 states. Part of me was afraid that a wobbly, blonde elephant-seal might capsize and crush two or three dark-haired honeys under rolls of flab. It looked as if humanity had split into two subspecies: American chicks and svelte women. As if Morlocks and Eloi from H. G. Wells' The Time Machine had all suddenly decided to put-on two-piece swimsuits for some kind of graphic juxtaposition. Ugh.
Oh, not all the American chicks were pudgy... the beach scenes only gave everbody that impression. As for the American chicks who weren't pudgy, well... their aura betrayed something horrible lurking beneath the surface. As if underworldly beings had disguised themselves in human skin-coverings and stepped-out a portal from Hell to wreak havoc on us mere mortals. Naturally, I avoided them all like the plague.
But at one point in the day, because I'm a very polite man, I decided to strike-up a conversation with an American chick. Just to see if I could give one of them a chance at proving their non-beastliness. I was in a beach-side bar, and I was finishing my last Smirnoff's Ice for the day so I was fairly buzzed. One of them came to the bar next to me and ordered a drink. I turned to her.
"Hi..." I said in my friendliest voice. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Gillian Anderson?" (Well, she only did if you got drunk and squinted really hard...)
In reply, her mouth contorted into an expression that looked as if she'd sucked the sweat right out of a dead man's scrotum. Her lips parted, a swarm of buzzing hornets shot-out. She replied in the nastiest, most nasal-sounding voice you can imagine. It could've wilted flowers, shattered crystal or frightened small children.
"Who the hell is Gillian Anderson?!" She growled at me; I felt like I was staring into the maw of one of the twin dog-heads of Cerebus grafted-onto a human being. Yikes.
"Nobody at all. I..." I drained my drink, took a deep breath and took a gander at the warty, pockmarked, spotty-complexioned piece of work standing beside me. Ick. Her face was possessed of the knobby, bumpy contours reminiscent of gnarled potatoes. Her nose looked so misshapen, I was sincerely wondering if she hadn't been mangled in some kind of bizarre skiing accident. Her bikinied bosom was flatter than a fifteen-cent sandwich. "Wowsers. You... you have to be the crudest-sounding, gangliest, most foul-looking troll I've talked to in months. Good day." And I walked away. Speedily.
"Ass!" Got yelled at my back. She threw an orange-wedge at me. It skidded on the floor past my feet as I exited onto the beach's boardwalk. I grinned widely, chuckling. Oh, such the roguish wag am I...
But that incident aside, I'd have to say it was generally a very good vacation.
Now I have to go back to work again today, don't I? Shoot.
But on the other hand, I am going to dinner with that sexy girl Saya tonight. Yippie!
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