Sunday, October 11, 2009
People who share their dreams on blogs deserve a special kind of hell. What I have to say to those people is, move over. This one I cannot refuse.
Last night I was on a commercial fishing boat somewhere in a foreign sea off the coast of a Kyrgyzstanny kind of place. Peter Sagal, host of Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me was the skipper. The rest of the crew was made up of production staffers Michael Danforth, Ian Chillag, Eva Wolchover and Emily Ecton. My wife was on board as well but she was not my wife although I had a painful crush on her. As we were cautiously making our way through heavy fog in calm seas to make port Peter said, "Watch for dead floating Jews. They can be a problem here." They turned out not to be a problem for us. We made our way into the harbor of what we assumed would be a hostile and anti-Semitic village, but turned out to be exceedingly generous. They spoke English, accepted American dollars, and gave us rides to and from town to gather groceries. The local specialty was a gallon-sized square box made of raw salmon that you filled with vegetables and potatoes and then baked. We were all crazy about the idea and enthusiastically gathered ingredients from the local market. A local boy, about 12-years-old, fell in love with my-wife-who-was-not-my-wife at first sight and wrote a love ballad to her in the time it took me to buy potatoes. I bent down and told him to back off, while silencing his guitar with my hand, then realized I'd just risked turning the whole village against us. I went back to the harbor where everyone was gathered around an impossibly large swordfish lying on the dock in need of butchering. I produced a filet knife as big as a machete and peeled off a long, beautiful slab of swordfish. My-wife-who-wasn't-my-wife beamed at me. Take that, guitar playing love-struck local boy.
Calling Dr. Jung...