Three Drinks at Olive

-the true story of an intrepid Bozemanite who traveled to Mumbai with one mission: to deliver free press to the people of India…

 Synopsis: [redacted] is best described as a Jack of all trades and a master of one.  his ability to promote dubious causes within expat social circles in desperately poor countries has earned him a place in the NGO hall of fame, with his latest project, [also redacted] Radio, garnering notoriety among emotionally-lost Anglo-American do-gooders from all over western Bandra.  With a bounce in his step, a twinkle in his eye, and a dull glare reflecting from the smudged screen of his leatherette-bound iPad, [redacted] deftly maneuvers himself to podcast glory on the pulse of the world’s largest democracy*.
*democracy, as discussed in the first chapter, depends on a free press in order to function fairly, the absence of which in India is the primary motivation of the project.  it all makes sense when you take a few kilometers worth of steps back and look at the whole picture…
Select praise for Three Drinks at Olive:
-“After finishing my BS in applied physics from IIT Ahmedebad, I had planned to become a CAD engineer with a Bangalore-based manufacturer of cemented-carbide mining equipment.  After listening to [redacted]’s report on bicycling-promotion initiatives in India’s metros, however, I realized that my talents would best be spent on environmentally-sustainable endeavors rather than so-called “financially-viable” industrial activities.  It’s absurd that India should consider itself a special case amidst the international fight against global warming, and I now agree completely with those calling for a ceiling on India’s carbon emissions that is equal in absolute value to those of nations with 1/5 of India’s population.  It’s our fault for joining the industrialization party 100 years too late.”
             – Ankur Balwani, bio-degradable t-shirt store owner, Panvel
-“I came to Mumbai to volunteer at an elementary education foundation after I graduated from Skidmore last June.  I wasn’t too thrilled with the entry-level corporate jobs available to me back home, and I just knew there was more fulfilling work to be had in a place as exciting as this one.  I met [redacted] one night at Bonobos, and he just had this magnetism that made me want to be a part of his work out here.  I haven’t listened to any of his shows, but i’ve seen his website, and the fact that he’s out here doing what he’s doing- I respect that.  Apart from Bonobos, my favorite places to hang out are Mumbai Times, Escobar, and Zenzi, but yeah there are few others…  Wait, sorry, what was your question?”
             – Maddi Grisholm, freelance blogger, Pali Hill
-“I [also redacted] Radio not hear kyunki broadband internet i not have.”
             – Babu Singhai, auto mechanic, Aurangabad
This one’s for the boys


Sometimes you come across a deal so fabulous that you feel compelled to share it with even your most distant acquaintances.  Sorry girls- This one’s for the boys 
The massage parlor down the street from my house is a true diamond in the rough.  I have spent the last 8 nights in a row getting pushed, pulled, twisted, and rubbed into a sensory supernova and i strongly encourage all of you to check it out.
As a “hard” case myself, I’m an indicative test my of masseuse’s professional aptitude (hairy back and chest, large hands, and a general lack of flexibility make me, i’m told, particularly hard to handle), and i am pleased to report that this shop has delivered by all measures.
The sheer variety of service is impressive, and at an affordable price too — ask for the “Sir Edmund Hillary,” which at 10 JD for a young tibetan boy to run circles on your back while you breath from an oxygen mask is a hell of a deal (tip an extra 5 to be “taken to the summit”).
Anyway, the place is a real hole in the wall and they pretty much live off of referrals, so give them a call at [redacted] and be sure to tell them i sent you!
happy endings,
[also redacted]
Royal Air Maroc
This message is in response to all inquiries regarding my whereabouts
and my trip to Africa.

The trip was chill.  Do not ever visit Morocco unless you speak French
or Arabic or are prepared to overpay for things on a massive scale
and, in general, waste lots of time.  I will send pics shortly if
there are any funny ones.

I am at the airport in New York after surviving an 8 hour flight on a
RAM 767 that wreaked of shit and vomit.  Details below.

My airborne troubles began this morning when the stewardess announced
in broken franglais that the movie to be shown would be Invictus, a
production that I came to determine to be the most mind numbingly shit
boring sports movie ever created, despite being based on what may be
the second greatest sports event in history (behind 1980 hockey of

Fortunately, the official in flight entertainment was supplemented by
the 2 hour long, unsolicited musical performance of Jamel, a
pear-shaped Berber who played his banjo progressively louder as he
pounded budweisers in the bulkhead row ahead of me.

Somewhere over the north Atlantic, a charcoal-black citizen of Burkina
Faso (the illiterate man asked my brother to help him read the
instructions on his immigration card) released about a gallon of
diarrhea onto the floor of the rear lavatory.  Upon opening the lav
door, a wave of shit stench began a steady march up the aircraft’s
aisles, causing passengers to scream and hurry towards the front of
the plane.  The pandemonium caused a baby in a row near mine to cry
loudly and vomit on his father’s chest, compounding the repugnance of
the stench.

For the grand finale, an enterprising young Moroccan, apparently with
a background in chemistry, attempted to light a small Bunsen burner
about 20 rows back in what could only have been an attempt to burn up
the stink air that saturated the cabin.  Note that his failure to
light the open flame at 37,000 feet could in no way be attributed to
actions of the crew, all of whom were busy preventing the
mass exodus of the rear cabin from upsetting the aircraft’s weight

talk soon,

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