The Rape of Sensibility

For those of you who haven’t yet heard, I’m back in Indiana - entirely against my will, but not entirely disappointed about it. You see, I encountered a little “trouble” with immigration in the UK. Most of which consisted of a stupid old man named John Anderson (I feel like I can mention his name both because I don’t give a rat’s ass about his privacy, and because it’s so generic anyway) who resembled the grandpa from Everybody Loves Raymond, only more disheveled.

When I first arrived at Heathrow, I actually went to the wrong customs line because the signs were pretty non-specific. I eventually found the right spot and, after waiting in line for about 15 minutes, I waddled up to the stupid desk occupied by Penis Douchebag-face, I mean… John Anderson. Honest mistake.

I gave him my crap and he asked me what everyone entering a country gets asked: “What’s the purpose of your visit?” I, tired but happy to have landed and looking forward to meeting Daor, responded honestly: “I’m here to join a band!” Penis: “And…?” Me (confused): “…and then I’ll be in the band?” Penis: “But what will you be doing?” Me: “Being… in the band.” Penis: “But what will you be… doing?” Me: “DOING YOUR WIFE ON YOUR MARITAL BED!” Then I head-butted him in the nose and got dragged back to the plane screaming “I AM AN AMERICAN”.

The end.

Not really. Penis just kept asking me the same leading questions over and over. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he misconstrued my congeniality as arrogance? I was in a good mood for the aforementioned reasons. Either way, he put the spurs to me right away, seemingly implying that my intentions were nefarious and that I was being dishonest.

I kept a cool head and a smile through this entire first exchange, resulting in Penis taking my information to his superior where my fate would apparently be decided. In the meantime, I was escorted by a security officer to a waiting room. But not before being fingerprinted, photographed and recorded. The security guards in the office were cool. And you get all the free vending-machine drinks and shitty sandwiches you can eat. BONUS. (except you also aren’t allowed to have anything electronic to entertain yourself, meaning all my shit was stored in a different room from me… so I had to scribble on paper to entertain myself) I was told by the woman who had escorted me that someone would be up to interview me further soon. Instead, about an hour later Penis flopped into the room and casually announced “You’ve been rejected entry to the UK!” His tone suggested to me that he had enjoyed those words a little too much. I suppose that any amount of enjoyment would be too much in that sort of work.

I lost it. I hadn’t slept for about 36 hours, I had to deal with this dick face once already and now his fat face had really awful words coming out of it. In an extremely satisfying tantrum that you only get to unleash a few times in your life, I told this asshole exactly how I felt because, at this point, things couldn’t get any worse. I don’t remember anything specific of what I said. All I can recall is he wouldn’t stop interrupting me when I tried to explain why I thought this was a mistake. Even when I pleaded with him to let me speak. He’d agree but, sure enough, his mouth hole would start leaking again soon after I started talking. ANGER. I’ll stop talking about this now because makes my blood boil.

I vehemently demanded to talk to his boss (that’s something I do remember - me screaming “I DEMAND TO SEE YOUR SUPERVISOR!” like four times in a row). He waddled off, and about another hour later, in walked a taller and calmer man followed by Penis. I had made the decision that I didn’t want to blow things up anymore so I made amends with Penis by apologizing and shaking his hand. Makes me sick now to think of that. We all filed into an interviewing room where the law of the land was more calmly explained to me by the new guy. Apparently you must have a work visa before you arrive in the country if your intention is to work.  However, their interpretation of work is far different from the dictionary’s, it seems.

Daor doesn’t make money. All the dudes still have regular jobs during the day. I haven’t made a single dime from any of the collaborating I’ve done so far. In fact it’s only cost me money. So I would call this anything but a job. But they had made their decision that it was work, not believing me as I told them otherwise. Furthermore, I had told them that I might look for an actual job once my savings ran out. This was something else Penis kept throwing in my face as a reason I should be denied entrance. I think something much less drastic would have sufficed. Like perhaps just TELLING ME about the rules and not assuming I’m a criminal here to fuck up their country. I think it was pretty obvious that I was, at worst, merely misinformed and not nearly treacherous.

Everything was moot at that point though. The decision had been made and signed. I was not allowed into their precious country. All that was left now was to sort out how I’d be kicked out. I found out it is the responsibility of the airline that brings you in (in this case Asiana) to export you to whence you came at their own cost. Whether they try to recoup that cost when you’re back is up to them. They could potentially sue you, or ban you from their service.

Since I didn’t want to piss anyone off, nor did I particularly love the idea of trying to sort this mess out in Japan, I bought my own ticket to New York the next day (after a the-opposite-of-awesome night on a bank of benches in the waiting room). Otherwise I would have been shipped off to a detention center (which I’m told is no fun at all) on the other side of the UK for the next night, since a flight back to Tokyo didn’t leave till the following day.

I was escorted by security through the gangway, right to the side of the plane. Every employee I spoke with during the ordeal agreed that this was ridiculous. All nice people, and they sound so cordial with their fancy accents! I boarded the plane feeling like ass because I hadn’t showered in about three days. Plus I was printed the wrong ticket which led to an interesting boarding procedure. The ticket I’d been given was for business. Sweet! After being pointed in the wrong direction by a steward who probably only looked at the seat letter instead of the row number because of my shoddy appearance, I found my seat at the front of the plane and settled in. I didn’t even notice the above-average comforts because I was so out of it and glad to be a “real person” again. A few minutes later, a steward popped his head around the seat and said starkly “May I see your ticket sir?”. Another passenger with the same seat number had come along and was understandably confused about why I was in his seat. He examined my ticket and the other man’s and found that they were both for this seat. He left and returned promptly with a different ticket for me, explaining that this was my real seat.

I found my seat back in steerage (only then did I realize how much nicer my last seat had been) and was getting ready to sit down when the girl in the next seat asked me “Is this your seat?” I said it was, then heard a voice behind me ask “Is it cool if I sit there? That’s my girlfriend.” I agreed, and it wasn’t more than two seconds later that I heard from my right “Would you be willing to switch that seat with our friend over there?” A girl on the other side of the plane, a few rows back waved. This was starting to piss me off. If only these people knew what I’d just been through. I only grunted at this then slumped off at the other seat. When the girl whose seat I was taking passed me, she said a quiet thank you, to which I just grunted again. I sat next to a woman who became confused at what happened to the young girl she was just sitting next to. Turns out she was a nice lady. The only person with whom I talked on a plane since beginning this whole odyssey. This flight… flew by because of the awesome selection of entertainment available in the screens in each seat. A few movies later, we were in NY. Where I became relieved to be back in the US, then immediately became nervous again because I was in New York.

I still had to book a flight to Indianapolis since I wasn’t allowed to get anything but a bare minimum flight back to the US from the UK. A couple airlines were still open when we arrived late in the evening. I checked with United to see when the next flight to Indy was. The next morning at 6:30, there was a connecting flight going that way. US Airways also had  a flight leaving a couple hours later than that from La Guardia (I was at JFK), though it was about $50 more expensive and a direct flight. I decided I’d think on it and get a ticket in the morning. MISTAKE.

The terminal reopened at 4am. I lined up for United, which opened at 4:30am, as I’d decided I didn’t want to make my way to a different airport. Because I didn’t have a ticket, I had to wait in a very specific line to purchase one. Sadly, I was behind what had to be one of the most complex family flying mishaps in history. I stood for over an hour while a family of five tried to figure out how they only had four tickets. 6 o’clock came and went, with everything being to much of a cluster eff for anyone to be too concerned with the fact that I’d missed my window. I asked someone if they could look up the nearest flights to Indy from any company. I was told there would be another flight leaving from another terminal at 8:something. I made my way there, found the flight, and had JUST paid for the flight when the woman at the counter suddenly blurted “Oh… pm.” “Wha-whaaaa?” Yeah, the flight was for 8:something pm.

I think someone’s playing a trick on me.

This woman told me there was a flight leaving at 8:something AM from La Guardia via Northwest. So I’d have to make my way there anyhow. I rode a $13 bus there and hastily bought my ticket, no matter the cost. As a final act of indignation, I was singled out and frisked liberally by a security officer. Get a whiff, fellas! I don’t blame them. I probably looked like a stoned homeless person by then. I boarded the puddle jumper without complications, and enjoyed a brief hour and a half flight to Indy. Where my mom picked me up about 25 minutes later because I had been misinformed about the flight time in NY.

Back home at last! As I said, the circumstances in which I came here were unfortunate. But I’m glad I’m home after being away for several months. My cat won’t leave me alone, as usual. And I’ve resumed my workout regime and so-so eating habits. At first I was glad to see some familiar shows on TV (especially The Daily Show and The Colbert Report), but then remembered how much daytime TV sucks my ass (especially Comedy Central).

I’m still trying to figure out how the eff to get back to the UK. I’m certain I’m in the records to be scrutinized thoroughly if I should ever return. So I have to make absolutely sure I have the proper paperwork for entry. I’m not even sure there is a way for me to get in with what I’m planning on doing. At best, I’ll probably have to exploit some loophole or something. Shit sucks.

Other than that, I’m bored because all my friends are gone. If you’re in Indiana, are my friend and are reading this, GET AT ME.

(Apologies for any poor writing or mistakes in this post. It makes me sad to dwell on these events, so I’m not proofreading.)

PS: And guess what I broke before my very first flight from Tokyo? That’s right! My new Cybook! Screen completely shattered and useless. Hooray! I’m talking to Bookeen now about repairs.