Kebab

It's 23:45, and I have been holding lovely conversations with Best Buy and Apple attempting to discover any possibility of recovering my computer.  The chances look bleak, but I was able to eat a kebab during one call with a nice chap named Austin.  Kebabs fall under the food group of fats, oils, and desperation.  I had quaffed a few rounds with Prof. Ewell after grading exams this afternoon.  Having gleaned a solid daytime buzz, I decided to purchase and consume a kebab on my way home.  This happened before 21:00, a world record, or at least a Western world record as no one west of the Adriatic has ever eaten a kebab sober or as a proper meal. The kebab, however, is a staple many in the Middle East, who bitter about their lot, which forces them to live a world of sand, heat, mountains, and ice and bans pork products, booze, and women, the three things that prevent most suicides in the West, are ready to cry “jihad” and murder us white, slobbering pig-begotten curs. I can’t blame them for being jealously irate, but I hope they take some small comfort from kebabs, which are delicious, as I did while speaking with Apple earlier this evening.

Besides eating a kebab, a few nice things happened today.  I finished grading exams.  Although they were take-home exams and Professor Ingersoll allowed the full use of notes, some students still did poorly.  Amazing!  Some people would fail at paint-by-numbers.  I had beers with Dr. Ewell and the anthropologist who wrote a book examining the anthropological implications of Walt Disney’s rides at the Magical Kingdom. We attempted to divine exactly how the world would implode upon itself, agreeing that Facebook, corporations, China, polarization in the US, fascism, and the automobile would be the leading culprits.  We agreed that baseball offers hope.  A charming Russian couple on their honeymoon joined us, and we all decided that Russia and America should be friends.  Nasdrovyah!  Best of all, I ran into Giulia, my old host-mom, on the street. We had not spoken since last year, when we talked over the telephone about plans that we repeatedly never realized.  We caught up again and are planning to meet soon, although I will not believe it until it happens.

I pack tomorrow to begin the next phase of living like a gypsy, not the whining, unwashed “Dammi una moneta per i bambani, per favore” type but the romantic, Stevie Nicks type.  I will be living in an apartment during high season in order to allow more vacancies, which will in turn lead to more revenue for the church.  Since everything I own fits into two suitcases, moving is only a matter of climbing a few flights of stairs; however, the apartment has no electricity, water, or gas.