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A part that made me laugh is when the article quotes a guy discussing his experience at meeting Greg Dority (Fusion to freepers). Here it is (i have underlined parts i find either crazy or funny):

He took us to a restaurant called the Black Rooster, which has a courtyard with a thatched roof that was kept wet and dripped sheets of water into old stone runnels, and we ate trout from Lake Ohrid - a fish so rare, and from a lake so clear and deep that Enver Hoxha banned anyone but himself from fishing it, on penalty of thirty year's hard labor. the fish was interesting, but rather more so was the man Shaun brought as his guest - an American named Greg, who came from North Carolina, said he was a journalist working for George magazine in New York, and by his own admission paced the streets of Tirana at all hours of the night gathering, as he put it, "financial intelligence."

I never quite knew what to make of him. He was tall, languid, educated, he spoke with an elaborately courteous southern drawl and he dressed impeccably. He had a strange accent, an odd manner: He kept referring to "the province" which he claimed to visit regularly, when he was speaking of Kosovo, and on those few occasions he used the word he called it Koss-oh-vo, with a long second o. He referred to his present home as being in a nation called Alb-ah-nia.

~Page 175

He gave the impression, as I am sure he half-intended, that he was some kind of American spy - which, when I compared him with the handful of real spies I knew, he almost certainly was not - or else was an extremely inept one. His journalistic contacts were far fewer than he suggested at first, and when I pressed him he could cite only having done an occasional piece on local casinos for a Texas-based journal devoted to gambling. I was puzzled by him, and after spending half a day wandering the back streets fo the city with him and getting hopelessly lost, I concluded that he was probably one of those Walter Mittyish characters who are often thrown up by the atmospheres of strange cities like Tirana - sad men who attach themselves, limpetlike, to the journalists and other temporary figures who briefly settle during the crisis, who eke out an existence in a more drab and banal way than they pretend, and who then, and before they are discovered, pack up and move on somewhere else. I had seen such people before, in Kabul, in Beirut, in Buenos Aires, and he seemed to fit the modus operandi.