21 April 2008


Check, check. Check for scanned words.

There are over 30,000 people in the middle kingdom who monitor e-mails and blogs for a living. Computers do the scanning and they do the blocking. Like the red telephone in the White House.

This is monitored. Our phone is monitored. Badly. God, you'd think they'd at least be discrete about it. We can hear the clicks. For reals.

In the middle of all this nonsense, the strangest part is that we run a household. We vacuum and make mashed potatoes and hang sheets out to dry. We found a taco stand and have been there twice in the past two weeks.

I've lived here as long as I lived in Miami, the city of my birth, twice as long as I lived in New York, the city I conversationally claim, and half as long as I lived in Memphis, which I usually only claim after several stiff drinks.

We don't have a Plan B to fall back on because then we'll fall back on it. But we can get out of here (with the cats, without the crab) in half a day. That's not so much a Plan B as an emergency exit. It's not like we keep a suitcase by the door.

The torch will pass by in May. Because protest = lynching, we'll batter down the hatches and drink g&t's on our stomachs on the balcony and try and figure out what we're doing here again.

I can't see my own blog and Dirk can only see his through a proxy server.

betholindo at 18:46

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