While not everyone’s cup of tea, I love small diplomatic posts and the small expatriate “expat” communities that go with them. Dushanbe is such a place, and I’m loving every second of it despite the sometimes spartan living conditions.

I’ve noticed that in such small posts, the expat community in general, and the American expats in particular, tend to socially gravitate toward the Brits and start to affect British airs. I’ve known a few American expats who behaved as if they were assigned to the British High Commission in the days of the Raj. I’m not that bad, but I have joined the Dushanbe Whiskey Order and I will attend the annual Burns Supper this Saturday night.

The Dushanbe Whiskey Order meets every five-to-six weeks and is a serious single malt whisky tasting organization. The order’s Drinkmaster is, of course, a Brit.

The annual Burns Supper is held on or about the January 25th birthday of Robert Burns, the immortal Scottish bard. The Burns Supper celebrates the life and works of “The Bard,” and a traditional Burns Supper format has evolved over the years. There are recitations, formal toasts, haggis, and of course, plenty of single malt. I really look forward to this event, and it’s an excuse to drag out my Robertson (mom’s maiden name) tartan bow tie and cummerbund.

The last Dushanbe Whisky Order conclave got a bit raucous as the evening wore on. It’s a serious organization, but can only be serious to a point. That point seems to be about the third whisky sampled. It was at about that time when the conclave conversation turned to the upcoming Burns Supper.

A British member told a “Burns” joke which I will try to convey in writing. It would be ever so much more funny told aloud, but (1) I don’t know how to put audio on this blog; and, (2) being a mere savage from the former colonies, I'd never get the accents right. So, this joke is probably best conveyed by me in written form.

I hope you find this as funny as I did. I shot single malt out my nose I laughed so hard when I heard it. Here goes:

The British Prime Minister was visiting a military hospital outside London. He was there to decorate several wounded soldiers recently returned from Afghanistan having acquitted themselves there with bravery and distinction. The P.M. approached the bed of the first soldier, leaned down, pinned the medal to the heavily bandaged sergeant's pajama shirt, and then congratulated the man for his service to Queen and country. No sooner than the P.M. finished speaking, the sergeant exploded into an animated frenzy, and from his mouth spewed spittle and a stream of unintelligible garbled, guttural, gibberish of aspirated vowels and swallowed consonants. The perplexed P.M., ever the smooth politician, just smiled, shook the sergeant's one un-bandaged hand and said "right, then, carry on." The P.M. then tuned, knelt, and decorated the wounded soldier in the next bed, again thanking him for his service and bravery. As before, just as soon as the P.M. finished speaking, the soldier became animated and loudly engaged the P.M. with gibberish and spittle. This time, the P.M. was obviously taken aback and the moment became awkward. This was not going according to plan. It was at that moment when one of the P.M.'s aids whispered in his ear. "I'm terribly sorry sir," said the aid, "I forgot to tell you, this is a ‘Burns’ unit."

Happy birthday, Mr. Burns.

I’m not sure how, but they found me here in Tajikistan. The Georgia State Alumni Association magazine arrived in the infrequent diplomatic mail pouch last week along with about a hundred late Christmas cards.

How do they do that?

I thought that I had given them the slip. Somewhere between the Washington and Romania moves, I did manage to fall of the alumni association radar. I’ve given them the slip before but I never seem to get too far.

As a FBI Agent, I spent years conducting interstate and international fugitive investigations. Some I caught; some I never did catch, but all-in-all my record was better than fair. If I could have had the locate rate of even a small college alumni association, I would have been one fugitive catchin’ phenomenon.

It’s too bad that most FBI fugitives aren’t college graduates. I could have just called the fugitive’s alumni office and asked for his or her address.

So, to all you college graduates out there who are contemplating a life of crime, remember, you may be able to outrun the FBI, but you’ll never be able to truly hide from the alumni association. You may end up being chased by a G-man smart enough to give your alumni office a call to find out where you are.

I wonder how long you would languish in prison before the alumni association managed to find you there? I’m sure that “Bubba,” your sweaty cellmate, would enjoy reading your alumni magazine.

If Soviet architecture was bad (it was), then post-Soviet architecture is even worse. I’ve been waiting to get some pictures of this building before writing about it. I’ve now got the pictures, so here goes.

One evening, after having been in Tajikistan only a few days, I was driving Melanie home from the embassy. As we rounded a curve on the river road that leads to our street (and eventually to Uzbekistan), I saw it, a building, but not just any building. This was the worst building ever built. I saw it and almost lost control of the car. Once recovered, all I could think to say was “oh my God, I’m now living on the Klingon home world!" I tried to look up how to say that in Klingon but couldn’t find it. I did learn that “Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam” means, “this is a good day to die,” which, strangely enough, sounds very similar to the same phrase in Tajik.

I digress.

The building that had so unnerved me is a massive, imposing, stark-gray, concrete monstrosity of an apartment building of at least ten thousand units. If there is public housing on Klingon, this is what it looks like. I’m not sure that there is a recognized architectural style for this building, but I’m going to call it Space Exploration Gothic. If Architectural Digest had an architectural “don’ts” column (like the fashion magazines with the pictures of badly dressed women with their eyes blacked out), this building would make the top ten.

I pass this building at least once a day and fight off a shudder on each pass. I do take some comfort in knowing what the Klingons would say to the architect and general contractor.

“You are without honor.”


(If you hadn't figured it out, the writer is an unrepentant Trekkie.)

I tried starting this blog on Facebook but found that site not really geared to serious blogging or even geared to my blog, certainly not serious. Also, I felt somewhere between a little creepy to a bit silly to be on Facebook. It was my impression, probably based on my law enforcement perceptions and experiences, that social networking sites are for the plugged-in, tween to college-age set, and any middle-aged man on one of these sites is most probably an on-line predator.

The whole cyber-creep issue aside, there were the nagging doubts concerning is-this-just-silly? Really, who am I kidding? I'm a grumpy WASP and middle-aged Republican, not some artsy, disaffected student full of late-adolescent/early adult angst.

I worried about the Facebook thing being some sick attempt to recapture lost youth? Or, the on-line ranting of a disaffected, grumpy Republican full of middle-age angst. But, no, when I gave that more thought I realized it wasn't possible. You can't use disaffected and Republican in the same sentence (there may even be a rule of grammar covering that) and angst would imply that I care. I don't, which brings me back to the self indulgence I mentioned in my welcome blog.

While I was fretting over all these weighty issues a funny thing happened. I started using Facebook. I found college and high school friends I lost touch with more years ago than I care to mention. I found that there were lots of middle-age people on Facebook, many I know. I found the instant connections to be fun and more than a little habit forming.

I found that Facebook is the crack cocaine of the cyber world and I WANT MORE!