Ground Control to Major T.M.

It’s hot, it’s dusty and barren, there are strange creatures all around me . . . . yeah, I’m on fucking Mars.

Tonight, some whiskey and poetry and a little more of “Carter Beats the Devil” (which I’m enjoying a great deal).

Tomorrow, I’ve got to spend upwards of six hours tomorrow in a car with the Bruce Lee and (later) the Jackie Chan of manipulation. I should have packed my cup.

Ahead of that, the biggest problem I have so far? Everyone here calls me “Tom” — which is annoying in the extreme. Some of them even call me “Tommy” (push the annoyance dial to 11, Nigel).

I mean, can’t they understand that I’m a pretentious Gemini with delusions of grandeur and a penchant for reinvention every seven years or so?

“This is my son, Tom.”

Yeah. If that’s the worst I have to endure on this trip, I’ll be getting off lucky.

That’s the trouble with being an insomniac. It’s impossible to tell when you’ve adjusted to a new time zone. Right now my laptop clock tells me it’s almost 2 AM, but the clock on the wall tells me it’s only 10:45 . . . and yet my body tells me that it’s about 7:30 in the morning and if I hurry I can still make it to work on time.

Okay . . . I’ve got a date with some spirits from Knappogue Castle. My mom just got back from Ireland and all I can say is God Bless the Duty Free…