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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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- - - - CLUB EXISTENTIAL DREAD
The following is my diary from a week I spent at a Club Med resort located in Turks and Caicos, a small chain of magnificent islands in the British West Indies. I originally wrote this diary for Details magazine, but they chose not to publish it. I'm not sure why they didn't go for it, but I think I didn't file the kind of report they were looking for. Day 1, July 2
I'm on the plane, just after a shaky takeoff. Having my usual fears of dying. The seats of the plane are old, like 1970s furniture, which is not very reassuring. Other than dying, my chief concern is how I will get sunblock on my back, which, I guess, is dying-related. 1:34 p.m. Unpacked and in my room. Will go to the beach. The ocean, an uncanny blue like Peter O'Toole's eyes in Lawrence of Arabia, is quite beautiful. The compound is essentially a festive college dormitory, but with a beach, outdoor bar, and pool. Nearly had trouble at the airport. The passport guy asked me why my eyes were yellow. I noticed a poster warning about SARS. I said, "They get that way when I'm tired." He studied my passport some more. Then he said he'd be right back. I was worried that he thought I was a drug-addict with hepatitis and wasn't going to let me in. I didn't want to explain that I have Gilbert's Syndrome; I thought it would sound too ludicrous, but I didn't think he'd leave his station to consult with superiors... He was gone almost five minutes. The whole line was stalled. This was serious. I had a stupid smile on my face when he came back, which is not the kind of face to have around passport guys; it makes you look nervous and guilty. He said, "Can you tell me again why your eyes are yellow?" "I have Gilbert's Syndrome," I said. "It's a benign, genetic condition; I'm missing an enzyme in my liver, so when I'm tired, my eyes get yellow." I was telling him the truth, but I felt like I was lying. Who speaks of liver enzymes to passport-control guys? "Oh, all right," he said, and stamped my passport. "I thought maybe you had yellow fever." So he let me in to his country to spread Gilbert's Syndrome, which I guess I could do if I got someone pregnant and passed it on to the child. 11:15 p.m. Spoke to a petite, pretty Sri Lankan woman from LA before dinner. She invited me to sit with her by the bar. I asked her what she thought of the place. "If you want to get laid," she said, "this is the place. If that's what you're looking for. I'm not. I'm here to scuba. Also, it was cheap. Chicks fly free to Club Med." "Really?" "Yeah, that's why I came. A free ticket is too good to pass up... It's my last night tonight, so maybe I will kiss a cute boy." I wondered if this excluded me. Probably. I'm pale and bald and the rings under my eyes are so deep they reach the back of my head. Anyway, I can't do any kissing. I have a girlfriend and I'm off booze. Who comes to Club Med under these conditions? No one. I shouldn't have accepted this assignment. I left the Sri Lankan and went in to dinner. I sat with a group of twentysomethings. Conversation was dull and innocuous. One guy had second-degree burns on his feet and was walking around in socks filled with aloe. I had to avoid his fate and be diligent with my sunblock. After dinner, they had what's called a "Foam Party." They fenced off a little area by the pool, about the size of a squash court, and set up some kind of Willy Wonka machine that emitted huge gushes of foam ‹ soap bubbles and maybe sperm from the male staff. The idea was for people to dance in the foam-sperm. I took off my shirt and went in. At the entrance, the foam came up to my stomach. My shorts got damp. Girls were in bikinis. They were all wiggling about to the music. The occasional bikini bottom rubbed against me, lubricated with wet foam. To get the full experience, I thought I should go to the source of the foam—a big drainage pipe propped up on a ladder—and stand beneath it. So I did. Here the foam was up to my shoulders. There were about a hundred of us packed into the pit. Then a new gush of foam was ejaculated. The foam poured over my head. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. I sucked foam into my lungs. I made a panicked, forceful push to get out of there, like someone trying to escape a burning nightclub. It was hard going. I was blind. I really felt like I was going to die. I was drowning on soap bubbles and staff-sperm. Somehow I got out of the pit. An hour later, I'm still coughing up soap. Day 2, July 3
On a quiet, beautiful beach, under an umbrella. One beach is noisy; this one is quiet. About ten yards away is an attractive topless woman.
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