The more I travel, the more I realize how lucky I am to be, by sheer accident of birth, an American. This isn't meant to denigrate any other nationality; there are some fine ones out there. But if you could see the hassle I am going through for a simple blog post – and how inscrutable this would be without a spell check – you'd understand.
Mine is, after all, the country that invented the Internet, and high-speed wireless routers in hotel rooms. And we access the Internet with a keyboard that makes sense.
The trouble started yesterday. I got on the Internet with my laptop via dial-up. I had a 28.8 connection, which sucked but was OK enough. By last night, the best I could manage was 14.4. Then today, I couldn't log on at all.
So here I am in the "business center." If your business is slaughtering goats, you're in luck. It is about 100 degrees in here, and these computers sure aren't meant for computing.
Every single keyboard here uses a layout that baffles me, to say nothing of the ones in Arabic. I had to do a complicated shift-caps lock maneuver even to be able to type lowercase. But I do have to use the shift key to type digits, periods, slashes and many other things that don't ordinarily require shifting. Various keys are simply in incorrect places on the keyboard.
For instance, I am not even bothering to replace the Q's that I consistently type when I mean to type A's (spell check will have to handle that one), and commas appear when I mean to type M's. In fact, if Bradford had to set up his new site in Morocco, it would have turned out something like "AZEERTY."
Add on top of that the rigorous schedule I am keeping here, and blogging becomes almost untenable. But I will try not to let the crickets chirp too loudly this week.
I almost snuck a picture of a really hot boy at the pool, but by the time I got him into frame, he had put his shirt back on. This hotel is crawling with them, but most seem accompanied by women. I feel so bad for gays living in theocracies.
Speaking of women ...
I met her last night at a reception. I though she might have been Moroccan, based partly on complexion but also on the traditional garb she was wearing.
We started talking, and it became clear she was an Aussie – and a foul-mouthed, fun-as-hell one at that. Turns out she had just bought her outfit at a market.
We started talking and I learned about her family. She found out I was married. She asked what my "wife" does, and when I explained I was married to a man, she high-fived me and bemoaned that gays cannot marry in Australia. We bonded instantly. I don't even think she was too offended when I told her that she reminded me of Muriel.
I have decided that she is probably a "fagnet" – as in "fag magnet." It is a new word that I learned that puts a slightly more positive spin on the old phrase "fag hag." Unlike the latter, a fagnet usually has no driving need for gay men in her life. In my new friend's case, she is happily married with kids. Rather, the gays just flock to be by her side because she is just too fun and fabulous; she is not doing the flocking.
I think Kathy Griffin is a fagnet. Every gay man I know (including me) wants to be one of "her gays."
I'm getting off this ridiculous keyboard before I pitch it out the window.