‘t ain’t no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones

Nothing makes me wish I was in New York like the news that Strom The (Love) Bomb Thurmond has passed away. Personal day would have been taken, and off to Flannery's for Strom-related drinks and jokes about gross stuff: adult diapers, translucent skin, South Carolina.

My dad did his Phd work on Thurmond's states right movement. Dad is retiring now. When he did his PhD some three dozen years ago, it was still a history paper. Great gravy.

But instead of more Strom-musing, you get the Kampala blog. Last night I tried to get a drink at the hotel bar, meet the locals. Unfortunately: whores. To the left and to the right, serving drinks, swinging muppet-like from ceiling fans. Whores in ubiquity.

Now for the serious African whore shopper (see also: suicidal ass), this might be great. But for the guy looking to relax, have a drink, and possibly strike up a conversation about something other than sex for dollars, the whole bar is made useless. The whores are persistent, and if you make an excuse to not talk to them ("I have to read this book") and then deviate from your story to talk to the bar patron next to you, they strut right up and say, "I thought you had to read your book." They're not angry. They just think they have a shiny new license to bore the hell out of you by talking at you. Two. Beers. Ruined.

Returned to my room early for sleep, P.Diddy and other no talent hacks blsting through the window. Yuck.

Today: I spent the latter half of my afternoon looking for this building. I asked my regular cab driver where it was, but he said "I think that building is in Zambia."

"What the hell are you talking about."

"The only building I know by that name is in Zambia."

"Well, I'm not paying you to drive me to Zambia. Let's go to the hotel."

I go to the hotel. Desk lady: "That I think is in Zambia."

"That's what that guy said. But the email I got said it was in Kampala."

"In Zambia." Son of a goat. Off to the interent cafe. Load up email, write down specific street. Grab first cab driver.

"You know this street?"

"Yes."

"How much."

"5,000."

"Okay."

"It's in Zambia."

"It can be in freaking Mongolia for all I care, as long as you're willing to drive there for 5,000 Ugandan shillings."

"I am."

"Vamanos!"

"What?"

"Let's go." So we go, and you already know the punchline. The street name is Nsambya. I actually smacked myself on the forehead.

The man I was looking for shook my hand and said "I have been waiting for you for two hours." I debated relating the whole hilarious yarn, then decided to pass the buck. "Sorry. Cab drivers couldn't find the place. I've been ready for hours, too."

Kickerspace for today's entry is hereby ceded to Andrew Sullivan's blog. From AndrewSullivan.com: "Sodomy legal in South Carolina. Strom Thurmond dead. On the same day. It's a funny old world, isn't it?"