Peter Weller's Cigar Paradise
Africa, or finding the Founding Fathers (Rolling in Their Graves) While Smoking my Way Through Post-Apartheid Cape Town
From the Print Edition:
Tyson vs. King, Jan/Feb 04
(continued from page 7)
"That's true!" yells one of the exchange students.
"But the rights of humans would be extinct in those countries without the U.S. forcing a hand, so it's a trade-off!" yells back another student at her peer.
"Talk to the Serbs who had to eat those bombs in Belgrave!" raves Alfred.
Roger raves at Alfred, "I don't hold with the WTO or America's f*&$#ing global business meddling with every c*&%$ on earth, but this is a f*&%$ing party for the f*&$ing Yanks, because Pete's a f*&%$ing Yank; so shut up!"
And on and on, for a solid hour, all of us standing, screaming at a collective decibel level of banshees. A break, a pause as a waitress delivers a course; I light another D.C., and we are up and at it again. Rick is about to come apart at the seams when I see the manager, Per, in the outer room waving at me. I quickly duck out.
"Where're you going?!" yells Rick. "You're not leaving this war, you coward!"
In the lounge, Per says, "Your sociological skirmish has filtered all the way down through the lounge and into the jazz bar; the group has stopped playing and everyone's into a yelling match down there on a par with your war here…is someone smoking pot?"
I sniff the air. I do indeed smell "gange," of which I do not puff. "Is this trouble?"
"Yes, I believe it is," echoes Per ignominiously. "And, should the fuzz arrive, I believe I will have to take someone down with me, which," he smiles, "would be -- you."
Beating a fast track back to the table. The harangue is now ear-splitting madness.
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