Blogs are trouble.

Yes; blogs have troubled me in the past, and I expect this one to burden me in the future. The last time I messed with a blog--it was only in a trifling way!--the FBI investigated me. We'll see how Negative Edge turns out.

Let me explain what happened. It all started in Libya. Libya, when it had just opened it up. The new U.S. Liaison there wanted the non-profit I was working for, an internationally-focussed book donation program, to send books over for the Jamahariya International Book Fair ('jamahariya':"Republic"; Libya's a dictatorial republic, cousin to our democratic one). We said, "yes". They also wanted us to provide some staff to help with the distribution of our donated books at the fair. I said, "all right!"

I'd already had some fine experiences dishing out books to Algerians and Moroccans, at their respective international fairs. I even have a little (very little) Arabic. I was still young at the time, healthy, and even recently insured for my health. I tan well and can pass for a Berber mix. Decidedly, I was the man for North Africa.

Problem: Libya enjoys a particularly disfunctional brand of communism, as outlined in Qadhafi's little green book. This entails that a number of committees have oversight of each and every visa for which earnest, generous, even charitably organized Americans may want to apply. These committees are frequently at odds with each other. Plus, the U.S. Liaison is, after all, only a liaison, utterly without Ambassadorial privileges. Far from operating on American soil, Liaison staff punched clocks in a hotel (though, they assured me, a pretty good one). This made the prospect of my visa tenuous at best.

Not to mention the fact that the Libyan government saw fit to muck around with the actual date and duration of the fair. That Colonel!

Nevermind. I had a shot at travel to an extremely unusual place. The tickets came; the visa had "a good shot of being granted"; I took the chance. I gambled. I lost. Arriving in Heathrow to change planes, I heard my name called over the PA--a chilling experience, I don't mind telling you. An unwelcome message lay in wait: probably no visa, if I should continue on my scheduled way, but, if I should stay in London for, say, a week, perhaps a higher probability of receiving it.

What kind of choice is that? I went ahead as planned, and, when I showed up with no visa waiting for me, the security guys thought I was nuts. I couldn't believe it: this happens five times a day in Tripoli! I know it! Whom, I ask, do they think they're kidding? Well; I could at least take some time to appreciate the pastel portrait of Qadhafi, a good three by fiver, hanging on a glass wall and, really, drawing the whole lobby together.

After an hour or two, they sent me back on the same plane, with maybe four or five other passengers. A true bummer.

Then, I had to buy a one-way ticket back to Boston and hang around for the flight. 'What better thirty-six hours have I ever spent?', I thought, as I skipped back into Logan airport--skipped back into the trustless embrace of the mightiest of customs processes.

Ho ho! They had an all right time with me! Why would I go to Libya and then turn around and take the same flight back? Because I was denied entry, naturally. Why would they deny entry to a good-lookin' guy such as yourself? Because I had no visa. But-but...why would you fly to Libya, to Tripoli, of all places...without a visa? I didn't know I didn't have a visa.

And so on.

Meanwhile, they searched my bags, glared at me, and told me to keep my hands out of my pockets. "Sir, would you keep your hands out of your pockets, please?" What could my pockets possibly have? And if they could possibly have it, why not search me? Why, to keep me uncomfortable, of course! Regular jedis, these customs officials!

In the fullness of time, they came across the thing they'd all been waiting for: several pages of incriminating blogspeak. You see: along with State Department advisories (advising me not to travel to Libya) and packing lists and contact information and copies of my passport and all that normal jazz, I'd also included in my dossier printouts from a blog that concerned itself with the Middle East, specifically with the authour's travels through Palestine. Now, this means that the words Hamas, Gaza, and, yes, Palestine appeared in the documents. The customs gentlemen detained me on the sight of them. "This says 'Hamas'", said one.

So much for me!--but, no, it turned out not that bad at all. They kept me aside for only an hour and a half while they looked me up, tried the website of employer, and, best of all, read the blog. The mustachioed fellow--there's always one--did the latter. He hitched up his bat-belt, stepped one foot onto a low ledge, spread my manila folder out on a desk, and, licking his finger at every turn, went through it all, page by page. He studied that bastard moustache-hard. Lick, lick, lick. And then it was over.

They gave me back my shit and sent me on my way. I figured that was the end of it, but then the FBI called. Six months later.

We'll finish the rest of the story, my interview with a G-man, next time. Also: the purpose of this blog.