G.F. Michelsen

Bloody hell but self-promoting websites like this are boring, predictable and low on humor! And—it’s a law of the known universe—what lacks humor will also be dangerously locked down, overly deliberate, and in some way (since humor, like a good story, by definition destabilizes the factors of control) an exercise in power. In an attempt to both break the traditional mold of such sites, and open the window to fresh if chilly air of reality, I am listing below a few personal facts that would not normally make it into neon pages of this brand of electronic billboard (see ego page). I am also urging viewers to e-mail in comments of any nature, “appropriate” (christ I hate that term with all it implies of political correctness, cultural prescription, media morality, and fatuous self-satisfaction) or not. no-holds-barred preferred; I will list your views on this page, under my own comments, in the course of the next update.

• I do not care for pizza.
• I once crashed a car after kissing my brother’s sort-of-ex-girlfriend. The two events were related.
• Long ago I traveled with a Mujahideen convoy smuggling arms over the Hindu Kush into Afghanistan. The arms were mostly mortar rounds and ammunition for American-made M-60 machine guns. They were loaded on joyously decorated mules. This was at a time when Afghanistan was occupied by Russian troops and Islamist Muj such as the ones I was with were thought to be friends of the West. This was always a shortsighted stance. We were fired at once, from a long way off, by other Afghans. At the first shot I skipped off for shelter behind a rock; the Muj did not even flinch, but they giggled at the antics of the skittish farang. We camped one night at a guerrilla base called Beit Meri and the next night at another camp to the west that I don’t remember the name of. I had made the trip because I was researching an article for Rolling Stone on the city in Pakistan that was the jumping-off point for the Muj, and also because I was researching a novel about a compulsive smuggler. In the novel the smuggler ended up undertaking a similar trip. The article seemed to require a trip into Afghanistan, because crossing over seemed to be what everybody in Peshawar was focused on. There was no need to spend much time inside. At the first camp, though, the Muj offered to take me all the way to Jalalabad, the nearest major city. I was tempted. I liked the feeling of being with a band of rebels in high mountains, utterly out of touch with everything and everyone I knew. At the same time, and by the same token, I thought maybe I should get the hell back to Pesh. Afghan rebels had been known before to sell Westerners to the highest bidder. The Russians supposedly had a standing offer of $50,000 for anyone bringing in the head of a Western journalist. I spoke no Dari, or Farsi, and had no interpreter. The Muj spoke so little English that we had to resort to our few common words of Arabic to make ourselves understood. So I went back with the next caravan to the Khyber Pass. But it sometimes seems to me that my life has been bounded by prudence. It sometimes seems to me that in this savage cosmos my conception of bourgeois safety is not only irrational but counterproductive. It sometimes seems to me that I have too often made my way through the mountains, only to decide not to go on to Jalalabad.
• I believe logic and emotion work by the same rules and are in fact extensions of each other. I can go on at length about this theory.
• I over-intellectualize. I am not ashamed of this.
• I hate almost all rap music.
• After drinking gin I have: punched a man, on the nose, at the bar we were drinking in, without the slightest provocation; and told a perfect stranger she was an ungodly bitch. I no longer drink gin in any quantities.
• I believe in doing work you love, giving all you can to children, friends, and lovers, drinking well and eating better, throwing loud and frequent parties, and never turning away anyone unfed or un-cared-for. I am struggling to live up to this ideal.
• I am a narcissist. I have to be. Just look at the number of “I”s on a page that is supposed to put my fucking ego into perspective. And don’t think I’m not editing this page.