Research is the labor pain that precedes the birthing of a news story. It is a necessary process to suffer through if you want to get through to the interesting stuff, but you never know when the carpal tunnel pain will end and the fun pavement pounding, indignant "the people have a right to know"ing will begin. And like the babymaking kind of labor, sometimes it goes nowhere. (Another downside: research apparently spawns godawful metaphors on blogs) And it's what I did all day today.
I did get out late in the morning. I was walking over to Alitalia HQ to see the head guy about my bags (Too late. He'd gone home for the day, it being 11:30 AM and all) when this would-be refugee tried to shake me down.
He'd buttonholed me the other day while I was waiting for a taxi. He was a Liberian refugee, he said. His mother, his wife and kids were stuck in the refugee camp, and he needed $70 each to get them out, he said. And what was my name?
Ted Danson, I said. And I have no money today.
Bad way to phrase my escape. Because today the alleged Liberian sees me and runs up with a mookiestick-eating grin so big that it practically pushes his ears to the back of his head. For a reason I can't recall--but most likely research-related--I was already in a completely pissy mood.
I very audibly curse at the sight of him, but he just strides on up and keeps pace. How am I doing today? Does he remember me?
Look, I tell him. I am telling you right now that you will not get any money out of me. If you're looking for money, go somewhere else. There is no way I am going to give you any money at all.
And he gives me a look as if to say Ted Danson, you are the sorriest, cheapest bastard on earth.
Which, my true identity aside, is getting increasingly close to the truth. Budget restraints are a real gramhumper.
