self-portrait at the trade show

i rather dislike tradeshows. they are dishonest. what is important to me? not wasting and not taking things you don't need. not using people. not talking crap for the sake of a free cookie. therefore a trade show is a bunch of distractions.

mehmet has brought me along with him to the 2008 Tourism Affairs Bureau trade show because he doesn't want me in istanbul alone after what has happened, and though i think that's a little over-reacting, i have decided to stay with him. part of me wants to be here. it is two days of easy living, eating other people's food and drinking their tea, coffee and also alcohol, and all you have to do is smile and look interested in their pamphlets. it's crossed my mind too, although i hate to think this way but then why do i do it, that i will be able to waste and gorge myself and drink too much and basically pillage to get back at the universe for having been pushed around in the basement of a lousy bar in istanbul. like that time i made out at the dark back of the club with the girl i _knew was married, and downstairs as i was leaving i saw her fighting with some guy viciously -- this in general retribution for what was done to me in love. i sometimes say: every creep for himself.

so. at the trade show.

the organizers have covered up dust, bits of tape, loose nails with rolls of red carpet that probably won't be re-used.

women in black suits that mean they have power and money, and long tall boots also black.

two girls circulate in bikinis handing out pamphlets and i notice their imperfections.

two dogs on display but i don't know what they are being used to sell. one is a huge great dane. it looks drugged.

there are four skylights per hall that let in blinding sunlight. you can see the thick cigarette smoke.

rubbish bins overflow with plastic, and you can't stop progress.

every picture of spa services looks the same. it is always a woman being massaged. it is always painted manicured nails doing the massaging. the face-down woman is always blissful, eyes closed, and always topless.

two women touch each other in a picture of a turkish mudbath.

booths selling fitness equipment have pictures of girls in a-cup sports bras or knotted t-shirts. they are using the exercise machines and they have not broken a sweat. you can see the lines in their tummies. but those lines are doubtless photoshopped in and even if they are not, that just means they hold their tension in their bellies, instead of, or as well as, in hips and shoulders. there are cookies on the tables below the pictures, white shortbread made with butter.

badly adjusted EQ through too-loud speakers. blahness of DJs. "dance music." promotional videos endlessly on repeat. an accordion player sits hapless across from a car stereo display.

the persian tourism booth has pamphlets with sparkling blue beads on strings and i take one, then sidle my way around for a second which i take leaving the pamphlet behind as if that makes it better.

i trade the souls of trees for a truffle.

people walk around in national costumes because they are paid to.

poorly translated english abounds, and tired prose.

people crush forward to reach the booth that is giving away free ice cream. long line ups at a donair booth waiting for a free lunch. i go right on by saying: there is no such thing as a free lunch. i say this knowing that today i am not on the spiritual path i want to be on but i still expect to get off easy, free karmic lunch.

i take several little boxes of turkish delight.

there is a booth that has beer. there is a wine tasting booth. people make long line ups blocking from view the silver jewelry on display in the neighbouring booth.

at the georgian tent they have me try four of their favourite kinds of vodka though i have no real intention of going to georgia. here are genuinely wanting to share. the first kind was the best. after i'd tried three kinds more they gave me more of the first. when i brought mehmet to "meet" them too he enjoyed it, genuinely enjoyed it and asked them questions, and inquired if anyone could help him with his grapevines. different than my motivations.

at a bar that drew my eye for having bartender girls in swimsuits but IN FACT they were dresses made from that nylon-y material -- i take an uneeded napkin with my raki.

later i see the bikini girls posing for pictures with the opiated great dane, as if to say, i want a man _this big.

at the day's end i park myself at a purple-velvet tango bar in full view of other companies' brands, and near the chocolates. i deign to talk to people standing near the appetizer trays. the waitresses wear fishnet stockings, lipstick and eye shadow. they pour me more south american wine, unasked though i give them clear signals that i want them to, putting my glass a half inch too far from my hand, out of my orbit and into theirs. each of the chocolates comes on a plastic sword and it bothers me not when i accumulate four, five, six of them. ornamental plastic swords that will go from the box to my hand to my mouth to the counter to the garbage and from there someone will basically dump them into the river that sustains us. oh, but it's dark chocolate.

so this was the trade show. more precisely, this was me at the trade show.