Where's Waldo?

Finding "the guy" in a foreign country is a little bit like playing the game "Where's Waldo"--except no one is wearing a red and white striped shirt. Instead, everybody sort of looks the same, and you just sort of have to know what type of person you're looking for. Or, if you get really drunk, you can do what I did this week while away--start asking every cab driver in sight for some "cocahaina," until one finally bites and agrees to help you out. Unfortunately, the cabbie that agreed to the hook up didn't actually have it on him, but rather said that he would go and "meet the guy," and come back with my bag of powder. And while on one hand this was annoying--having to wait for him to go and come back and all--on the other hand, it once again proved the theory that wherever in the world you go, coke dealers are known simply as "the guy." And that, my friends, is priceless.

Of course, when you buy a bag from a random cabbie, you're always playing craps. This time, I threw a 3 on the "come out" roll, if you know what I mean (and if you don't, you don't know how to play craps). In other words, I "crapped out"--the coke was weak, and cut with some sort of detergent to boot. Three days later and I'm still blowing large chunks of sinus tissue out of my nose--and I didn't even do that much!

Tomorrow night is New Years Eve. Traditionally, a big coke night. Unfortunately, I'm sitting here nursing a self induced sinus infection, and blowing rails tomorrow night would probably be the worst thing I could do right now. That said, I have absolutely no self control, so I think we all know how it will end up. I'll be back to report on it next week. Until then, hope you all have a coked out New Years, and that you live to tell about it the next day.