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Here's a fun fact about me:

Once, a couple of years ago, I was crossing the Canadian - American border (which I do dozens of times a year) somewhere in the no-man's-land near Thousand Islands, and I got stopped (which, oddly, also happens dozens of times a year), owing mostly to my swarthy, unkempt assyrian-arab appearance, passive-aggressive sarcastic mouthiness, and terrible habit of walking around hopped up on opium while wielding sticks of TNT.

On a topic whose relevance will become apparent, I also - in a past lifetime - used to be a map-maker for Unreal Tournament, a first-person shooter PC game. I'd basically use software to create realistic maps that players could fight each other in. I had a tendency every now and then to scribble these in a journal I'd carry around, which was pretty much my scheduler and agenda before I got a PDA, and then a Symbian smartphone.

Anyways, on this particularly frosty evening, I pull up to the border booth (I like to call 'em that), tell her where I'm going (New York), and like usual, she checks my passport and tells me to go inside to pay a $5 "commercial fee". So I step inside the customs office, yawning, looking sharp as a tack in my cargo pants, 3-day beard, and "1337" baseball cap.

- "Where you goin'?"

- "Syracuse, New York, and then New York City."

- "What are you gonna do there?"

- "Just some work, see some clients."

- "What do you do?"

Now, how do you explain "setting up a wireless tracking and management system in slaughterhouses to provide traceability of meat products" to a 23 year-old redneck powertrippy border guard with a chip on his shoulder?

- "I do computer stuff for meat processing plants."

Note to self: next time, lie. I first spent an hour in in the office, with various gun-toting imbeciles walking around the office glaring at me as they brought back items from my rental car. Well, I travel light, so I only carry my venerable Targus backpack, and a sports bag with my clothes and toiletries.

Ignoring my old Toshiba laptop with the Defcon stickers on it, they head straight for my clothes. Now I'm a bit of a germaphobe (what's the real word for that?), and seeing a group of greasy-handed hicks fondle my toothbrush and stuff was unnerving, to put it mildly. Search the pockets in those boxer-briefs, Mr. Trooper-man with the ridiculous-looking hat. I think you missed a spot.

Now, eventually they find their way to my aforementioned journal, and boy-oh-boy, did they have a field day with it. I was trying hard to understand what *the fuck* they found so interesting in there between my accounting info, mileage tracking, birthday notes and Unreal ma... oh, shit.

After that long, tedious hour, the same young, dashing, blond-hair, blue eyed representative of the US customs agency - who'd look quite nifty in an SS uniform, I'm sure - decides to break the news to me that I've been - get this - refused entry unto the gold-paved trottoirs of the Estados Unidos. He gives me a little yellow slip (hey, this is just like school!), and tells me to go back to the Canadian border control, which I made the mistake of doing.

So I'm waiting at the Canadian border control - basically, a desk, a lamp, and a geriatric lumberjack - for three (3) hours, with no answers, explanations - or even the right to go to the bathroom. Then, when the guard gets up, I see two huge men in black trench coats walk in, mumble something to him, and walk up to me.

- "Mr. Mansour?"

- "The one and only!"

- "My name is [names changed to protect...] Goober McSlappy, from the Ontario Provincial Police.(!) This is my partner, Brussells O'Hooligan. Can we ask you a few questions?

- "OPP? Yeah, you know me!"

(next scene takes place in another room in the majestic border office, with an terribly botched attempt at a discreet one-way mirror, a spotlight lamp, and a chair which I sat on. The two men sat on a desk considerably higher then my chair, ensuring that the already gigantic lead cop made sure that I knew he lorded over me.)

(small talk, some laughing)

(both cops stop laughing, get serious looks. I keep laughing for a few more seconds, hoping I can get them laughing again. To no avail).

- "So, do you know why you're here?"

- "Here as in this room, or do mean 'here' as in 'the world, the universe, existence'? Yes, indeed... why are any of us 'here'? What defines really being 'here', anyways? I mean, when you really think about it, you ha..."

- "You know, we found a diary with photocopies of these building plans in it. What exactly are you planning to do with that?"

- "First of all, it's not a diary. 12 year old girls keep diaries. It's a journal, a scheduler. Like pirates used to keep. Second of all, [explains about Unreal mapping, map-making, etc].

(cut to 20 mins later. small talk, some laughing)

- "Ok then, sorry about the mishap! You do understand that it looked a bit weird and all, you carrying a journal with those diagrams in it, don't you?"

- "Yeah, I can't believe I didn't think about it! Guess it just didn't cross my mind..."

- "Hehehe... so just to make sure, you weren't going over there to kill the President or anything, were you? hehehehe...hehehe...hehe...heh."

- "No, but I've been trying to find a way to live out some of my unhealthy fantasies with his daughters, and so far his extermination seems to be the only answer. No, of course not!

Then, I was told I'd have to go back to the American side for reprocessing, and clearing me would take at least another hour.

But when I went back to the American border control, I fell on a much more sympathetic, cool border dude.

- "Where ya headed tonight?"

- "Syracuse, sir."

- "You gotta check out "The Foundation" on Franklin st. All the college chicks are there!"

- "Awesome, I will! Thanks alot dude!"

- "Have a safe trip!"

No de-processing, getting cleared or anything. My earlier fiasco or refusal of entry in the US didn't even register when he scanned my passport.

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