The Existentialist Cowboy’s got the goods on the latest in the overseas rendition scandal (the Bush régime’s cynical, twisted, Anti-American, and quite frankly, Satanic practice of sending captured combatants, suspected combatants, and innocent dudes with seriously bad luck to countries outside of the US for torture and, quite possibly, disappearing). If after all that overseas talk you find yourself bit by the travel bug, why not check out On the Trail of the Incas over at TravelBlog. A blogger has posted a great run-down on their trip to Machu Picchu in Peru complete with stunning photographs. Perhaps not as stunning as the photos that led to the investigation of our pornographic abuse of Arab prisoners in the Abu Gharib scandal (‘member that?). But really, who’s counting?
In any event, as more information comes in by phone and by email, and I’ve been able to better piece together exactly happened to me last weekend. Cell phone records are one thing, memory another. The truth has gotta lay between them somewhere. No one can confirm anything but rumors abound. I now have proof that after cracking that bottle off my foot (and thus ensuring said hero status among the partygoers), I called a cab to come get me. Now, catching a cab out in the wilds of the Orlando suburbs is an entirely different exercise in patience than in a metropolis like Chicago. So, wait I did. Exactly when it got there and when I slipped out, no one knows. But they all agree I must have caught that cab at some point. So, where did I go from there? How did I make it back to Chicago? Why did I wake up in a hospital room on the south side? What the hell happened?