I'M BACK

and I'm bringing more of everything:

*more Purell.
*more sweet video action.
*more Purell.
*more pacing.
*more Skittles.
*more non-Purell hand sanitizer (because you should always have a backup).
*more hip-hop slang.

However, if you were merely hoping for a super-charged repeat of years past, you're out of luck. This sequel--much like Shakespeare's oft-forgotten Hamlet Part II: Where the hell is everybody?--doesn't play like the original.

What exciting new developments can you expect?

*English will be taught.
*a map showing the location of the Bishop's hidden treasure will be discovered.
*every morning before the first bell I'll ingest enough caffeine to kill a small child.

Brace yourselves, friends. The adventure begins this fall.

RANDOM HOLIDAY: PART I

The Score

Taking stock of one’s life is a lot like tallying up the scorecard after a round of miniature golf: You examine crumpled pieces of paper, laugh (sometimes unconvincingly) at all the stupid things you did, and, while clinging to an air of nonchalance, inwardly cringe at how low your score is. And if you’re like me, you feel an irrepressible urge to ask the manager why it costs so damn much to play on such a lousy course.

I suppose we all perform some kind of abortive existence self-check from time to time, if only when driven to compose resumes, college application essays, or the kind of bad poetry that serves as therapy for an abortive life. And while I am no stranger to any of those situations—my stacks of poetic scribblings are vast and best described as “coaster worthy”—I recently realized that it had been quite some time since I last pondered the trajectory of my life. It was with some sense of purpose, then, that I took up my quill and parchment and, in the ornate script I taught myself in the fifth grade (I was irresistible to the ladies), composed a ye-olde-looking list:

1. Left Mexico on 17 December, 2006.
2. Returned to New Hampshire. Looked around.
3. Made hasty plans to flee: San Diego? Raleigh? Donut Island?
4. Miraculously offered job in Boston.
5. Took new job; found apartment in Cambridge.
6. Developed coffee dependency, road rage.

Only upon writing all this down did I feel the gravity of my latest actions. I am, after all, someone who feels flustered when a book is discovered to be out of alphabetical order, and whose mantra is “Don’t change anything. Ever.” Finally paying conscious attention to the fact that I had recently adopted a new country of residence, a new job, and a new chemical dependency made me feel very much like I do when I can’t find my preferred brand of soap in the drugstore: light-headed, hot, and phenomenally grouchy.

In other news, I think I may have a form of menopause. Anywho:

Suddenly my mind was a barrage of questions: What were the implications of these life choices? Was I on the right career path? Was coffee fueling my road rage, and if so, would a depressant (e.g. alcohol, Pink Floyd, the quality of television news) even me out?

I needed a day to think about these things. And luckily, a local Catholic Church official in a funny hat had recently arranged for just such a day.

Having Relations

As evidenced by the fact that I once compared a student’s posture to “Kennedy in the limo,” public relations is not my field of expertise. In fact, I have notoriously little patience for the public, great difficulty in relating to anyone, and expertise only insofar as I can rank brands of peanut butter according to my own specially designed Scale of Deliciousness (which ranges from “ugh—this must be the natural kind” to “knee-weakening taste explosion”). And yet it is with some degree of certainty that I say that the idea of holding Mass in Catholic high schools is brilliant: after all, what better way to secure the devotion of teenage followers than a free round of crackers and ceremonial wine shots?

Just such a socially lubricated Mass took place a few weeks ago at the school where I teach. After most of the crowd had sipped from the ceremonial pimp cup, the funny hat-wearing Master of Ceremonies created pandemonium by announcing that we would have a day off from school “just for the heaven of it.” Students cheered and hugged and praised the Lord, with many calling for more wine shots all around. Such was the chaos that it seemed everyone’s faith in God—the same faith that had recently been shaken by a lack of snow days and Super Bowl championships—was restored.

In order to fully appreciate this PR masterstroke, it bears noting that such goodwill-garnering savvy is uncommon for those holding leadership positions in the Catholic Church. This is, one must realize, an organization whose PR department has traditionally operated with a hilarious ineptitude equaled only by Wile E. Coyote and opponents of the Harlem Globetrotters.*

*Defend that statement? Why of course I will, with a brief highlight reel of the Church’s great public relations blunders:

1. The Church gets a copy of Photoshop and tries to lure Matrix-appreciating young men—a very sound and spiritual demographic—into the priesthood with the following ad campaign:

2. While trying to move past a variety of scandals, the Church sponsors a meeting for Catholic-school teachers with the innuendo-free title Riding the Dragon, Touching the Holy.

3. Still trying to move past the aforementioned scandals, the College of Cardinals names as pope a man who had been, in his youth, a Nazi.

Amen.

A Better Way

My plan for the newly ordained holiday was to journey through the John F. Kennedy Library and reflect on the course of my own life in relation to that of an American icon. Or to put it another way, I planned to tally my score and finish out the day writing sonnets. I readied my parchment, quills, and tweed jacket.

However, just as I was leaving my apartment that morning, a curious sensation overtook me. It’s hard to put into words, but I think the feeling would best be described as “Nah, fuck it. Lighten up.” Thinking this wise, I yielded to the message: The tweeds were quickly exchanged for an oversize hoodie, and the $10 I had earmarked for admission to the JFK Library was stashed in an envelope labeled “Donut Fund.” Then I set about formulating a new plan for the day—a plan sure to be full of humor, escapism, and other things that block the poetic instinct.

Coming soon: RANDOM HOLIDAY: PART II: ONE (BAD) ART

(Photo courtesy my time in college.)

AT THE HOP

Anyone with at least one foot in the cement shoes of reality can tell you that Monday is the worst day of the week. Much like anything one dislikes—election season, the music of Sean Paul, lemon-flavored Starburst—Mondays seem to crop up incessantly and last for an intolerable amount of time.

Such were my thoughts as I drove to school yesterday morning, my faculties enveloped by an interior fog that thoroughly dissolved any remaining instinct towards optimism and kindness that hadn’t been killed off two days earlier, when someone in the grocery store coughed near me without covering his mouth. As I was motoring along, at length condemning the apparently distracted soccer mom ahead of me to a lifetime in hell, an idea popped into my head: Why not try to make Monday go faster?

Being sure to keep at least one hand on the steering wheel at all times, I set to the project in earnest. Unfortunately—although perhaps predictably—my initial efforts to invent a time machine while careening down the Alewife Brook Parkway were unsuccessful. I then shifted my focus to trying to find a radio station offering either a reasonable facsimile of music or a conversation not conducted by American Idol fans referring to themselves as my “wake-up crew.” After five minutes, I decided to go back to inventing the time machine.

Contrary to my expectations, I hadn’t been able to unravel the mysteries of the space-time continuum by the time I pulled into my school’s parking lot. There was nothing to do but trudge into the building, drop my coat and briefcase on my desk, and launch myself with all possible speed towards the faculty dining room—or as I call it, the FCC: Free Coffee Center.

Gloriously alone in the FCC, I was happily deploying the usual kilo of sugar into my mug when the solution to my problem hit me like a swig of Jolt Cola: if one cup of coffee speeds me up—I walk faster, I talk faster, I shake faster*—the consumption of three or four cups might make everything else (at least appear to) speed up.

*Note: Some people claim that shaking faster—or even at all—isn’t necessarily healthy, but I say it just means that the coffee is helping my body function at its fundamental frequency. And if you can explain something with terminology you learned in high-school physics, it must be okay.

Now, you may think that my assumption about the effects of several cups of coffee is erroneous, but you’re wrong. After all, there’s a reason why I’m doing complicated quantum physics equations during drive-time radio and you’re taking care of your alleged “work” and spending time with your “family.” So let me bring this down to your level: to say that I’m wrong is to say that the greatest of ancient Greek philosophers is wrong: for in determining the effects of dramatically increased coffee intake, I actually employed two arguments made by Socrates in Plato’s hilarious comedic dialogue, The Apology:

1. If one aspirin makes me feel good, then 16 will make me feel great!
2. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.

With solid philosophical reasoning backing me up, I greedily downed four cups of coffee in rapid succession. I then jitterbugged my way back to the Modern Language Dept. office where, I hoped, a delightful, fast-forwarded version of reality would set in.

However, in a truly mystifying development, all that coffee didn’t accelerate the pace of my Monday. Instead, it made me have to pee a lot, and heightened my usual sense of paranoia into something resembling a superpower. (Ever wonder what it would be like to make sure your car is still locked every 17 seconds? Ask me.)

At one point during the day—I think it was about the time I stopped being able to write because my hand was at its fundamental frequency—it occurred to me that I hadn’t composed a blog entry in quite some time. And so I give you one now*:

*Note: The introduction to this story was over 600 words. I’m gunning for you, Marcel Proust.

Dancing in the Aisles

Two notable things happened last Friday: the Catholic school where I work held a mass, and I chaperoned that evening’s freshman/sophomore dance.

School-wide masses are always held in the gymnasium, as it is the only space into which the entire student body can cram without either setting some kind of world record or violating a zoning ordinance. There weren’t any surprises in the service, and I am now convinced that some things—mass and every senior citizen’s desire for a price check at CVS among them—are the same wherever you go.

The dance was also held in the gymnasium, which meant that in the same place where the communion wafers allegedly turned into the body of Christ, I had to stop 16 year-olds from grinding to the song "Smack That."

Beyond making that fun observation, the dance—as such things go, anyway—was uneventful. The highlight of my evening was either receiving pre-dance instructions from the assistant principal (“We don’t want any lives to end tonight, and we don’t want any lives to start tonight.”) or watching my students try to get extra credit for Spanish class.

All that week I had been telling students that extra credit would be given to those who asked someone to dance in Spanish while I was within earshot. They were also told that they would receive more extra credit if their would-be partner turned them down in Spanish, and even more if they were slapped and/or had a drink thrown at them. We live in an uncertain world, but I am quite sure of the fact that if you haven’t played puppet master to a roomful of teenagers begging to get hit in the face, you haven’t yet lived.

Malcolm X was assassinated on this day in 1965.

TAKING UP DRINKING

The day before I started work at my new Spanish-teaching job, I went in to the Modern Language Department office to start familiarizing myself with the miscellaneous minutiae—bell schedules, textbook layouts, and the like—that I would eventually need to master. The day passed in hum-drum style, and when I was about to leave my boss asked me if I’d be nervous the next day.

“Not at all,” I said. “But I will get here at about 6 a.m. to hyperventilate and set up a coffee I.V.”

He laughed, which was the result I wanted.

Cut to the next day, 7:45 a.m.: I’m calmly going about my pre-teaching routine (double-checking lesson plans, straightening my tie, fiercely staring into a mirror and chanting “Break them…Break them...”) when my boss comes in.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m going to run down to the faculty dining room. Want me to bring you a cup of coffee?”

I stop chanting, return my eyebrows to their regular, non-threatening position, and smile at him. “No thanks. I actually don’t drink coffee.”

He appears slightly confused at this comment, which causes me to remember the previous day’s conversation. So I tell him that I had been kidding about the coffee I.V., and had alluded to a dependence on coffee purely for the humorous effect. We laughed a little at this, then proceeded with our respective activities.

I mention this by way of saying that I have weird—nay, not weird; let’s say “atypical”—drinking habits: I can tell you with the certainty of an AA regular that I gave up soda forever on February 17, 2003, after the dentist warned me that it was eroding my gum line. (My “forever” ban on soda lasted about a year and a half, and ended when, in desperate need of energy and the ability to fake enthusiasm about verb conjugation, I pounded a Mountain Dew in the privacy of a teacher’s lounge closet.) Additionally, I’ve never been a fan of beer, as half a glass typically renders me bloated and moody, and makes me more inclined to participate in activities that I am normally wary of—things like eating a whole pizza by myself, or watching Gilmore Girls.

Then there’s coffee. With a taste evocative of something skimmed off a parking-lot puddle and a scent that hangs over everything like the smell of a paper mill in a depressed town, I have never understood its appeal. (As a child, I thought that the smell of coffee on one’s breath was a weapon used by sadistic Sunday school teachers who wanted to be able to aromatically punch children in the face at forty paces.)

The catch these days is that, secretly, I do understand its appeal: Coming in to school on a frigid morning, do I really want to drink some ice-cold Pepsi from the faculty cooler? Or do I want something hot with just as much caffeine and potentially even more sugar? Plus—and this is something I hadn’t previously noticed—soda seems immature. Maybe it’s because everyone I work with is incredibly learned, incredibly well-dressed, and incredibly dismissive of attaining jittery energy through carbonated beverages. Or maybe it’s because pretty girls in Boston are always at Starbucks. Regardless, I have done the unthinkable: I have started drinking coffee.

I used to joke about taking up coffee. When trying to win the laughter of strangers, I would frequently say things like, “I want to lose weight, but hate going to the gym. So instead of joining the YMCA, I’ve decided to take up coffee and cigarettes.” (More discussion about coffee and cigarettes can be found in my forthcoming children’s book, Coffee and Cigarettes: How your parents are able to tolerate your existence.) But now that I’m actually using the substance on a near-daily basis, what else can happen? Am I so eager to fit in with my coworkers that if everyone at school were smoking cigarettes, I would crack open a pack of Virginia Slims and join them? How weak am I? What if I see pretty girls doing heroin? Will I start waking up in my own bathtub wearing torn jeans and unwashed flannel shirts? From where I sit, it doesn’t seem like a long journey from the occasional cup of joe to bloody syringes on the bathroom tile.

The only thing worse than discovering my own susceptibility to peer pressure is trying to hide it from my boss. He is still under the impression that I don’t drink coffee, and I don’t want to seem like the kind of guy who makes a big deal out of not enjoying something and then backslides three weeks later. I mean, I am that guy, but he doesn’t have to know it. So for now I’ll continue running to the faculty dining room before he gets to school, downing a double shot of arabica in the company of well-dressed, potentially attractive, potentially female coffee abusers, and then getting rid of any olfactory-stimulating evidence by using Listerine and, in extreme cases, knocking over a bottle of bleach in the Modern Language Department office.

I’m so relieved that even though I’ve taken up coffee, it hasn’t yet developed into a problem like it has for so many people.

NO MATTER WHAT THE PRINCIPAL SAYS, THERE IS NO CHAMPAGNE IN THE FACULTY DINING ROOM

“Hey Dad, am I reading the thermometer wrong, or is it really zero degrees outside?”
“No, that thermometer doesn’t really work.”
“Oh, good.”
“Yeah, it’s actually about six degrees right now.”

That was how last Sunday—the day on which I was supposed to move most of my worldly possessions from New Hampshire to Massachusetts—began for me.

If you are at all acquainted with my vast reservoir of neuroses, you know that I consider moving to be an experience only slightly more pleasant than, say, a weekend jaunt to a New Jersey-based IKEA store, or having to participate in any scenario involving either frontier medicine or a homemade catheter. But such was my plight that I had to undertake yet another drastic change of venue—my plight being that I was recently hired as a Spanish teacher by a prominent Boston-area high school.

The move itself was marred only by the typical moving debacles: winding stairwells, difficulty parking, U-Haul customer service. But ultimately I triumphed (thanks to the help of my various parents), and can now state proudly that I am a resident of what my dad calls “The Big City,” what the locals call “The People’s Republic of Cambridge,” and what the state of Utah refers to as “Satan’s Hedonistic Playground and Leper Storage.”

The strategic location of my new residence allows me to take the subway to work every day, which is so much better than driving from Concord to Boston (as I did all last week) that I would unhesitatingly compare it to what I imagine are the best feelings in the world—things like consequence-free heroin use, or eating a sausage calzone. (The former, of course, doesn’t exist. But the latter is real and tasty.)

To celebrate my new, euphoria-inducing commute, I went to the faculty dining room yesterday morning in the hopes of procuring a bottle of champagne. Sadly—and, it seems, as a general rule—there is no champagne in the faculty dining room. So instead I opened a bottle of water. And in lieu of running around spraying everyone with champagne foam, I ate a Nutri-Grain bar.

UNFILTERED FOR GREAT TASTE

While preparing to leave for Mexico last August, I made sure to pack a triumvirate of traveling necessities: new socks (because, as everyone knows, nothing beats new socks); several bottles of Purell hand sanitizer; and a slew of unreasonable expectations disguised as a plan.

Now—four months later—I have returned: The socks are lacking their original cushy comfort, and the hand sanitizer was used up long ago, mostly during an unfortunate incident involving an equal number of tamales and stray dogs. The plan, however, remains intact—at least inasmuch as I have still have one, and it is, at its heart, still unreasonable.

As my resume illustrates in a sadly capable fashion, I am not an expert in anything. But having now lived abroad on two separate occasions, I feel confident in pointing out the practical impossibility of anyone undertaking a journey like the one from which I have just returned—that is, one involving a drastic and prolonged change in cultural environment—without harboring any of the heavenly hopes and desires that commonly motivate characters in romantic comedies: a beautiful, slow, simple existence marked by the presence of outdoor cafes and appropriate live music; the purchase of an exotic house—run down but full of character—for an absurdly low price; enough time to work on one’s literary masterpiece, or at least flirt with the improbably attractive waitress who brings the lattes.

It is perhaps fitting that wants of this nature are also the motivating factors for victims in identity-theft thrillers (The Net 2.0) and horror films (Under the Tuscan Sun).

In my case, I was able to relinquish several of my clunking fantasies on the day I arrived. In fact, I shed several of them before I even found the taxi stand at the airport. My disappointments began when no female author tried to pick me up on the airplane. Furthering my frustration was the fact that Winona Ryder wasn’t even on board, and that when I emerged from the aircraft into the daylight-flooded terminal I was greeted neither as a liberator nor a god of handsome-faced sarcasm. Instead, I was regarded with an air of celebrity comparable to that which would normally be reserved for a shipment of baking soda.

That night I thought about everything that directly contradicted my expectations for Mexico: Scotch wasn’t any cheaper. I was still socially awkward, and I still couldn’t afford to remedy that with Scotch. Then there was the newly rented apartment in which I was lamenting all of this: I had hoped for something rustic yet comfortable—a solitary residence that easily proclaimed, “Here lives a person who is, among other things, capable of being a writer.” (I like wordy proclamations, as they give me the most flexibility.) What I got was a bed, a plastic table, a jug of water, and a window with bars on it. As I watched the room’s single, bare light bulb cast sinister shadows on the walls, a different proclamation rushed to mind: “Here lives a prisoner.”

Moments like this are not unique, nor—despite outward appearances—are they bad. The real reason that anyone goes on an extended jaunt to another country (at least anyone whose finances wouldn’t be aptly described as robust) is not so that specific, wonderful things can happen, but so that something can happen: People want to be confronted by new—and therefore (ephemerally) attractive—opportunities, options, and lifestyles. People want the chance to stand back from their homes and towns, countries and cultures, and be able to glimpse themselves unadorned for the first time, naked and frail though they may be. Whatever happens, good or bad, is always in line with the desire to interact with the world without a filter.

But as much as that may be the real reason for electing to pursue a radical lifestyle change, I doubt very much that it is what crosses anyone’s mind when they find a scorpion on the bathroom floor. And so the trick, I think, is to have your expectations in your back pocket: available as a general guide—like a map found on a restaurant placemat—but not relied upon to deliver exact results. Perhaps even for all living, and not just living abroad, you cannot cling to a fantasy with such quixotic fervor that you become a prisoner of fixed ideas; on occasion you have to be elastic enough to fit through the bars.

For sixteen weeks I composed essays about my life in Mexico—some shining with happy excitement, others dripping with annoyance, all reflecting my unfiltered, and therefore successful, time in the country. Much like the experience of living there, writing about Mexico was at once fun, difficult, and occasionally numbed by the consumption of white wine. Now that I am back, the question is: will I keep writing?

I will—because I want to write, and because it’s entirely possible that Winona Ryder fantasizes about junior detectives as much as I think she does.

BRIEFLY

Mexico—a country so conservative that tampons are considered taboo and biology textbooks that explain anatomy cannot be found in most high schools—recently shat itself when large, cartoonish condoms walked around the streets of downtown Guanajuato passing out free samples of themselves.

Hordes of small children, not realizing what the friendly, smiling characters actually represented, demanded the same shiny packages that the adults were being given. The condom characters usually complied.

Behold the hilarity:

Also, here's an anti-smoking advertisement innocently shaped like a camel. The caption on the base says, "Smoking is a cause of cancer."

Note: This entry includes several footnotes denoted by asterisks. Please read them at the appropriate time. They can be found at the bottom of the entry.

THE MORELIAN CANDIDATE

In the winter months our common cultural values urge everyone to fill themselves with something we call “the holiday spirit.” Known the rest of the year by the less-festive moniker “grudging, guilt-based obsequiousness,” the holiday spirit plays an important role in our civilization: for if one is filled with the holiday spirit, he will share what he has with the world, and, in doing so, will make the world a better place.*

I now have two things to tell you: First, eggnog is delicious.** And second, I am now filled with the holiday spirit. That being the case, I would like to share something with all of you:

My name is Kevin, and I think I was brainwashed as a child.***

I know that wasn’t what you expected. When I said I was going to share something with you, you probably thought I was talking about something more immediately accessible and traditionally holiday related—like a fruit cake, or a shouting match during Christmas dinner. (Mmmm…equally delicious…) But when I said “share,” I meant it in the therapeutic sense. Because here’s the thing: I think of you—my readers—as family. And family should be there to provide us with therapy from time to time, instead of always sending us in search of it. So let the healing commence:

I think I was brainwashed because I don’t have many memories from when I was five and six years old. I mean, sure, I have some, but they’re all brief images of stuff happening—mostly me washing my hands. So the question, dear family, is this: why don’t I remember more?

I’ve asked my parents about this many times—usually over fruitcake—and they always tell me the same thing: “Kevin, for the thousandth time, it’s normal. Most children around those ages don’t form many vivid memories. Now for the love of God, will you stop giving us fruitcake every year?”

Sadly, in this case, the gentle wisdom of my parents—much like the quality of a convenience store hot dog—is something I just can’t trust. As such, I recently decided to probe the possibility that I was brainwashed in my youth.

First, I had to answer this question: why would I have been brainwashed? The answer to that, I am sure you realize, is obvious: to prevent me from remembering significant, damaging information. And that begs another question: what might this information be?

I can only speculate as to the answer, but after extensive hypnotherapy facilitated by the liberal consumption of white wine, I am fairly certain that I was brainwashed to prevent me from recalling at least two of the following four pieces of information:

1. the identity of my real parents
2. important scientific testimony about the cigarette industry
3. the theme song to Three’s Company
4. addiction to sugary cereal, or possibly meth

Also thanks to the aforementioned hypnosis, I have regained some miscellaneous memories from my youth. (It turns out that I—much like an elephant, or your seventh-grade classmates when you do something stupid—never forget. At least not entirely.)

For example, I now remember vividly the time in first grade when my class raised caterpillars in a old aquarium until they turned into monarch butterflies. For a time I also thought that I remembered a lot of the butterfly information that our teacher gave to us then—like how butterflies are wingéd scourges that silently terrorize Mexican villages at night. But then I realized that those aren’t butterflies; those are (unwingéd) fire ants, and what I thought was information from my teacher was really the vague memory of an episode of MacGyver that I saw when I was seven.

So hypnosis isn’t perfect. Still, remembering all this was a triumph of the hypnotic methods employed—a breakthrough, if you will. And in honor of this breakthrough, Amanda (AKA junior-Junior Detective Virginia; AKA Mac) and I took a trip to Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico—so that we could see the millions of monarch butterflies that migrate there every year.

Our weekend in Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico—was quite an adventure. It featured an insane, mulletted bus driver, dangerous roads, corporate fraud, and a pair of woolen booties crafted by the indigenous peoples of Mexico. But that’s all a story for another time. For now, let me just share with you some pictures taken in the butterfly sanctuary, along with this analogy: there were so many monarch butterflies everywhere that it seemed as if we were standing in a snow globe filled with a gazillion orange snowflakes.

As you’ve probably noticed, the pictures don’t really do the scene justice. Oh well. I’m just glad that I saw it, and—on a different note—that hypnotherapy is helping me recover from my childhood brainwashing. I do take comfort in the fact that I’m much too smart nowadays to be brainwashed.

And yes, I promise that at some point I’ll more fully relate the happenings of our trip to Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico.****

Footnotes:

* And if one is filled with both the holiday spirit and spiked eggnog, he is likely to out-and-out give things away, or at least get a little cheeky under the mistletoe. Illustration of the former: When I was a freshman in college, I was so filled up that I gave away my roommate’s Jimmy Buffet album to a dumpster I later claimed was a Salvation Army bin. Illustration of the latter: My roommate that same year got fresh under the mistletoe with a girl who lived in our dorm. The incident led to his uttering the now-famous line, “Santa gave me coal for Christmas. And by ‘coal’ I mean ‘restraining order.’”

** And by “eggnog” I mean “scotch.”

*** Stay with me. Easy now.

**** This is a great movie.

Why did I move recently? Where do I live now, and with whom? All will be told, via this neo-noir superdrama in three acts!

Note:

1. All events and people portrayed below are based on actual events and people. For the most part, anyway.
2. This is a long piece of writing. Read it at a pace that works for you—perhaps one act per coffee break, or one act per day. Oh hell--just read it all, will you?
3. There are outtakes at the bottom, which are perhaps funnier than the rest of the piece.

******

A moonless night in a city whose streets are paved with secrets. This is Guanajuato—where one man tenaciously tackles the mysteries of Mexican culture. These are the adventures of Dr. Kevin A. O’Brien, Junior Detective, Esq.

This week’s episode: A Scorpion in Mexicotown

ACT 1

It was late—a little too late, if you ask me. I was sitting in my office, breathing life into yet another literary masterpiece on my laptop. It really wasn’t very hard, either. To keep my faculties fully occupied while writing, I took to simultaneously reproving geometric theorems in my head. And just as I was about to make a fool of Pythagoras, in walked a dame—a classy dame. The kind of dame that made you want to spoil her; the kind that made you want to get down on both knees and thank God that someone gave you a gift certificate to Olive Garden.

She leaned against the wall, seductively twirling a Nalgene bottle on one finger.

“Hey there,” she purred. She had a voice like a slow drink of Nyquil. As she drew closer I became aware of her perfume, which was also reminiscent of Nyquil. I got the feeling most men would let her purchase them over the counter anytime.

I decided to play it tough.

“I hear you’re new to the building,” she began.
“What if I am?”
“This can be a tricky place to live. What if I show you the ropes?”
“What if I fall in the process?”
“Suppose we both do?”
“Suppose I don’t like to get tangled up?”
“Is that why you moved here? To get untangled?”

She didn’t cut any corners, this one. I laughed and offered her a fake cigarette. She took one and so did I. Fake cigarettes are the only kind I smoke. Because sometimes, to avoid life’s little traumas—audits and family reunions and whatnot—it helps to come down with fake cancer.

I offered her a fake match and we both fake-smoked.

“So what about it?” she asked. “Why did you move in here?”
“I really wanted a bed without a footboard.”
“Playing it close to the vest, are you?”
“Sweetheart, in my line of work, there isn’t any other way to play it.”

A coy smile played on her lips.

“How about a drink?”

I blew a fake smoke ring.

“A real drink?”
“Sure, a real one. I know a good place.”
“Oh yeah? Where is it?”
“The regulars call it The Kitchen.”
“Sounds promising. Let’s go.”

We wound our way through the labyrinthine hallways of the building. As we were moving past the squash court, a low doorway tried to invert my forehead. I ducked nimbly, then did a series of back-handsprings up the stairs, finishing in a karate stance.

“Nice moves, Gumshoe.” The dame looked impressed.
“Sweetheart, in my line of work, you have to have nice moves. You should see me do the robot.”

She came up to where I was, and put her arm in mine. We kept walking towards The Kitchen.


(Above: The Kitchen.)

As we neared the local watering hole, laughing voices drifted over to us, along with the aroma of banana bread. “That’s normal,” said the dame. “Everybody always hangs out here. And Emma’s always cooking up something. She was a Cordon Bleau chef, you know.”

I did know, but I didn’t let on. Close to the vest is always best.

We stopped in front of a closed door, and the dame knocked three times. A slat opened about eye level, and someone on the other side with a gravelly voice—like Joan Rivers underwater—asked us for the password.

“‘Donuts are delicious,’” said the dame. And the door swung open.

It was bright inside—a little too bright if you ask me. Big Emma was behind the stove, keeping track of the simmering pots. I’d met her before. She ran everything in the building, in the bakery next door, and, I suspect, a numbers racket on the side. She was the kind of woman who had her fingers in a lot of pies. From what I’d heard, stay on her good side and you were fine. Come in late with the rent, though, and she was likely to remind you with a lead pipe to the knee.

The round table in the center of the room was populated by people the dame referred to as regulars. We found two empty seats and sat down. Emma asked what we wanted.

“Gimme three fingers of orange juice,” I said quickly. Emma looked over at the dame.
“I’ll take a double water on the rocks,” she said. “But no ice.”

Once we settled in with our drinks, the dame started pointing out the major players among the regulars: there was Adrian—kind of a Paris Hilton type, but without the looks or the money or the smarts—who was talking to super-Christian Lynn; next to them was a squeaky girl called Meggy McGigglefit, who was doing a monologue in front of the always-reserved Sullen Marta.

The OJ was starting to have an effect on me. And the dame’s Nyquil scent was certainly making me feel good, if a little drowsy. I leaned towards her a little and gave the conversation a playful tug.

“Aren’t you forgetting to tell me something?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Your name.”
“You’re pretty inquisitive, aren’t you?”
“It’s my job.”
“Is it your job to keep your own name a secret?”
“Sometimes it is. ”
“How about now?”
“I’d say I’m off duty.”
“So what is it?”

I raised my glass to her.

“Dr. Kevin A. O’Brien, Junior Detective, Esq., at your service.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“You can say that again.”
“Not easily, I can’t. What do your friends call you?”
“I have a lot of friends in a lot of different places. They call me different things.”
“Like what?”
“Some call me KOB. Others, The Notorious KOB. Or Tallboy, or Stretch, Dr. William Poundshire, Muy Long, Agent Worthington, AJ Cooper—”
“Can I call you Gumshoe?”
“Cheers to that.”

We laughed and clinked our glasses.

“So what can I call you?”
“Well, you can call me Virginia.”
“Virginia what?”
“West Virginia.”

I paused at this.

“Virginia’s your last name?”
“Yep.”
“And your first name is West?”
“That’s right.”

She sipped her drink confidently, and we sat in silence for a moment—an awkward silence. The kind of silence that happens when you tell your date that Depends undergarments are actually quite comfortable, and that some people wear them by choice, and that maybe she shouldn’t be so quick to mock them.

Virginia was the first to speak:

“That’s weird,” she murmured.
“What?” I asked.
“Sullen Marta doesn’t have her friend here.”
“Who?”
“Sullen Marta. Don’t you listen?”
“No, who’s the friend?”
“Sorry. Helle.”
“Who’s Helle?”
“The friend.”
“No, I mean, what’s she like?”
“Helle? She’s...”
“Hellish?”

Virginia laughed. “You’re not far off—”

Suddenly a girl burst screaming into the room. I didn’t understand the specific words in her rant, but it was clear she needed help. After a moment of hysterics, she calmed down sufficiently to start speaking in Spanish.

“There’s a scorpion in my room!” she panted. “In my bed! There’s a scorpion in my bed!”

Big Emma stepped out from behind the stove, soup ladle menacingly in hand. “I will help you, my child,” she said. And she stalked out of the room.

Sullen Marta ran over to console the girl. They began conversing in a language I had never heard before. Virginia leaned over to me.

“That’s Helle. They’re speaking Norwegian,” she whispered.


(Above: Marta, with Helle.)

Norwegian. That’s a language I had never heard of. It sounded made up—a little too made up if you ask me. Plus, I was sure that there was no such country as Norwegia. I made a mental note to keep track of these two.

As the commotion died down, Virginia and I drifted back into conversation. I asked her what she did. She didn’t answer right away; instead, she looked into her drink as if searching for the words. Finally she said:

“Well, sometimes I’m involved in the massive 4-H media conspiracy. But most of the time I take pictures.”
“Take pictures?”
“Yeah, pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Anything that interests me.”
“And what interests you now?”

She blushed a little, then looked into my eyes. Her Nyquil scent had me over the barrel. I waited breathlessly for her answer.

“Old people,” she said.

I recoiled slightly.

“Old people?”
“Yeah. God. I just love the texture of old people.”

Virginia looked up at the ceiling, seeming to turn her attention to a faraway place.

“Oh,” I said, looking around uncomfortably.

Without warning the sound of big footsteps broke through the feelings of puzzlement and queasiness that had momentarily overtaken me. They were Big Emma’s big footsteps. She entered the room carrying the slain scorpion in one hand and the soup ladle—now dented—in the other. After taking down a large jar from the mantle, she put the scorpion inside.

The jar was half-full of something sludgy-looking—a little too sludgy-looking if you ask me. I didn’t have to wait long for an explanation.


(Above: Where scorpions fear to tread.)

“This is where I keep all the scorpions I’ve killed,” she said to the room at large. “It’s a warning for them not to mess with me—and it’s a warning for you all to follow the rules!”

Big Emma then dropped down to the floor and started doing one-handed push-ups while softly chanting, “There can be only one.”

I looked quizzically at Virginia.

“The rules?”
“Yeah, the rules. They’re posted on the fridge.”

I went over to the refrigerator and looked at a yellowing piece of paper tacked to the door with a State of Wisconsin magnet. It read:

HOUSE RULES
1. Scorpions are native to Mexico.
2. Take rule #1 seriously.
3. Small doors.

“How brief,” I thought. I returned to my seat next to Virginia. Helle was sitting at the table now, too. She was talking out loud, to no one in particular.

“How could this happen?” she wined. “How?”
“You should really follow the rules,” Emma thundered. She stared at Helle for a second, then stormed out.

“But how?” asked Helle again. “How? I have to know. It’s never happened before. How could it…I’m so careful. So—”

She started sobbing. Sullen Marta put her arm around her. Virginia and I exchanged glances: it was time to go.

“I’ll get this,” I said to Virginia as I started to leaf through my bill roll. Then Helle said something that made me stop dead in my tracks:

“How can I find out how this happened? Oh, if only there were a junior detective here who could investigate.”

Virginia had already walked toward the door, her Nyquil scent still filling the air around me. I looked at her; she beckoned me with a nod of her head. I looked at Helle; tears were still streaming down her face.

Virginia called to me: “Hey, Gumshoe, you coming?”

I stood there for a moment, weighing my options. Finally I gave Virginia a salute, and sat down at the table: I was now on duty.


ACT 2

I was going up the stairs to my office with the intent of sprawling on the queenish-size bed that also served as my desk, conference room, and reading area. I kept turning over in my mind what Helle—if that was, in fact, her real name—had just finished telling me. Things didn’t add up: Was it really so odd that a scorpion should find its way into a Mexican bedroom? Why was Helle so convinced that someone had put it there on purpose? What would anyone have to gain from—

My train of thought derailed when I opened the door and found Virginia waiting for me in my conference room, a fake cigarette dangling seductively from her outstretched hand.

“Hey, Gumshoe. You sure must be thorough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were talking to Helle long enough.”
“She had a lot to tell me.”
“Did you believe her?”

She had caught me off guard with that question. I leaned against the dresser and got out another fake cigarette. I tried to light it, but the head of my fake match broke off. It was my last one. I tossed the stem and shot her a glance.

“Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I want to help.”

I felt relieved. “Oh, that would be great. Do you have another match?”
“I mean I want to help with the case.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Are you just going to give one word answers from now on?”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus, what’s your problem? Do you have something against women?”
“The problem is that I don’t have a problem with women. But that’s not even the real problem.”
“What is the real problem then?”

I paused. I didn’t want to tip my hand.

“I work alone,” I said.
“Nobody always works alone.”
“I do.”
“But what if you need help?”
“When am I going to need help?”

She struck a fake-match and lit me up. I took a long, fake drag and stared at her hard.

“You want to help, huh?”
“I know I can help. And I want to eventually become a junior detective.”
“Sorry, kid. Junior detectives aren’t made; they’re born.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father was a detective. Plus, I’m almost a junior—we have different middle names, but everything else is the same. It’s so close that it was only natural that I should become a junior detective.”
“Still, I can help.”
“How so?”
“I know this house. I know all the players. And I take great pictures.”

She made a good case—a little too good if you ask me. I decided to play it straight and careful.

“Okay,” I said. “You can help. But remember: you’re on my team; I’m not on yours. Do exactly what I say when I say it, and don’t ask too many questions.”
“Sure thing. What do we do first?”
“I need you to tell me everything you know about everyone in the building.”

True to her word, Virginia proved to be a fountain of information about the people living in the house. We started with the rogues gallery that we had encountered earlier in The Kitchen.

“First of all, there’s Adrian. She’s in college. Maybe 21 or so. Stays out all night partying. She reminds me of the parable of the blind parrot—you know that one? There’s this parrot who’s blind, so he doesn’t fly anywhere. But he still talks. In fact, he’s as loud as hell. He drives everyone crazy yelling about crackers and whatever all day long, and he can’t see that everyone’s annoyed because he, you know, can’t see. And that’s what Adrian’s like: She annoys everyone to death and doesn’t realize it. Except that instead of talking about crackers, her stories always revolve around a salsa bar. And much like the parrot, she never flies away. But don’t think I haven’t considered trying to set her free by launching her off the balcony.

“Then there’s Lynn. Sweet kid. Hesitant to speak. Very Christian. Something’s not quite right, though. Her pleasantness is a little…forced. And she has some boyfriend—I swear, this kid is huge. Except for you, everyone living in this house is a girl, and he has bigger breasts than all of us.

“Meggy McGigglefit is a silly one. She’s still in high school and from Wisconsin; we don’t hold the fact that she’s in high school against her. Poor thing never learned to pour a drink without spilling anything. I give her lessons sometimes on how to cut her food—she never really learned that, either.

“And Helle and Sullen Marta. I’ve been watching them for a long time. They say they’re Norwegian college students, but I’ve checked all the maps I can find, and Norwegia isn’t a real country.”

Virginia was good, I had to give her that. Very good—even a little too good, if you ask me.

“So what do you think their angle is?” I asked.
“I think they’re spies.”
“Spies?”
“You know. Agents. Operatives. Spies.”
“Right, but I mean, what do you think they’re doing here?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Well, judging from surveillance photos I’ve taken, I think they’re part of a massive conspiracy to destroy Mexico’s oatmeal and cinnamon reserves, the likes of which—”
“Your right. I don’t believe you.”
“Still, they’re up to something.”
“On that point we agree. Now what about the bakery next door? Who are those people?”
“I don’t really know the people in the bakery.”
“Oh well. I’ll make friends with them soon enough, I imagine.”
“Why?”
“I love bakeries. That’s part of why I moved here. Plus, I believe in making friends who have a lot of dough.”

We fake-laughed at this, then fake-lit another cigarette apiece. A natural pause in the conversation followed—a little too natural if you ask me.

Then, quietly, Virginia asked: “How come you moved here? It can’t just be because of the bakery.”
“Well, partly. And because the bed doesn’t have a footboard. And there’s a squash court. But mostly so that I could work alone without—”
“Without what?”
“Complications.”

We each blew fake smoke rings.

“Why do you always work alone? Are you so afraid to get close to someone?”

I sighed. “Have you ever been to Mexicotown?
“What’s Mexicotown?”
“Well, Mexico.”
“But we’re in Mexico.”
“You can be in Mexico and still not be in Mexicotown.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mexico is just a country. But Mexicotown is where you think you know the language and the culture, but you’re still always in the dark. You think you’re helping someone, but you don’t really understand the situation, and you just wind up hurting them.”
“Did that happen to you?”
“It happened to my partner.”
“He hurt someone?”
“I hurt him.”
“What happened?”

I took another fake drag.

“He didn’t really speak Spanish very well, so I was helping him out in a restaurant. He wanted pumpkin soup, so I ordered him some. Except in Mexico the word for pumpkin is the same as the word for zucchini.”
“So?”
“So he’s allergic to zucchini. Deathly allergic…”
“Oh, Gumshoe.” She ran over and hugged me. “Is he dead?”
“Worse. He went back home to New Jersey.”
“Oh, that’s horrible.” She buried her head in my shoulder.
“So now I just…I can’t work with anyone else. It’s safer that way.”

She looked up at me.

“You can’t always play it safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think you could…do you think you could work with me?”

I looked at her, still holding her close. The smell of Nyquil was hitting me hard—but so was the smell of something else…

Suddenly it hit me: “Someone’s left the gas stove on! Quick—to The Kitchen!”


ACT 3

Virginia and I burst into The Kitchen. No one was there, but the smell of gas was powerfully strong—strong like the will of an old man who insists he wasn’t really stealing the batteries, but rather he just got confused.

I tried to turn off the gas burner, but the knob didn’t seem to be working.

“It’s no good!” cried Virginia. “The knobs don’t turn the gas off. You have to light a small flame and keep it burning all the time—it’s the only way to stop the gas!”

“So where is the damn lighter?” I looked around frantically, the hissing of the unlit range ringing in my ears.

“It’s always right next to the stove.”
“Well it’s not there now.”
“It must be here somewhere—quick, look in those drawers!”

We scoured The Kitchen, but couldn’t find anything. Then I remembered something:

“Virginia—use two of your fake matches. Two fake ones equals a real one!”
“What?”
“Two fake—”
“Are you kidding? That’s the dumbest—”
“Just do it before we all die!”

She did as she was told and lit two fake matches. To her surprise, they made a real flame, and she was able to light the burner: we were finally safe. She stood there in a stunned silence for a few moments while I went about opening windows to air the place out.

“How did you know that would work?” she asked finally.
“About the two matches?”
“Yeah.”
“AP physics class.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. On the first day, our teacher—a small, Christian man—told us three things: First, acceleration due to gravity is 9.8 meters per second per second. Second, always bet on black. And third, if you’re ever in need of fire, use one real match or two fake matches.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s kind of like two negatives yielding a positive?”
“More like how two wrongs don’t make a right, but three rights do make a left.”
“Oh, you mean silly pseudo-logic?”
“Welcome to the big time, kid.”
“How did the gas get on?”
“That much is obvious. Someone was trying to kill us.”
“This stinks!”

I thought that an odd response. But what can you expect from a woman who smells like cough medicine? She persisted, though, getting more hysterical with each word.

“This stinks! It stinks bad. It stinks real bad. It—”
I slapped her across the face. “Get a hold of yourself!”

Silence. Then she said: “Okay. I’m okay now. I just can’t…I can’t believe someone would try to kill us.”

“Well, let’s put an end to this: would you please get all the major players in the house down here?”
“Why?”
“It’s what Hercule Poirot would do.”
“Who’s that?”
“A famed Belgian detective. Of course he’s fictional—I mean, Belgia isn’t a real country. But he had good methods. And once he knew who perpetrated a crime, he would gather all the suspects and explain the solution.”
“So you know who did it?” asked Virginia excitedly.
“Kid, I don’t. But I know how to get the results we want.”

A while later Big Emma, Helle, Sullen Marta, Adrian, Meggy McGigglefit, and super-Christian Lynn were all sitting around the big kitchen table. I stood by the stove with Virginia at my side.

“Well ladies, certain events have transpired this evening that have landed us all in grave danger. As most of you were likely asleep, you probably failed to realize that someone had turned on the gas on the stove in order to kill us all.”

A gasp went up around the room. I continued:

“The danger persists, I am certain, because the killer is in this very room right now.”

Another gasp arose from the audience. I was good.

“The lighter from the stove was taken to prevent anyone from turning off the gas. We’ll search the rooms—whoever has the lighter is the would-be murderer.”

In a flash Sullen Marta was standing, brandishing both the missing lighter and a gun. She grabbed super-Christian Lynn as a hostage.

“No need for that, copper,” she said.
“No need for cheesy dialogue, either,” I replied. “Copper? What the hell decade are you in?”
“Fair enough.”
“So it was you who tried to kill Helle by putting that scorpion in her bed? And she’s your partner, isn’t she? You’re spies, aren’t you? You’re here on a mission, but you needed Helle bumped off, isn’t that right? You were double-crossing her, right?”
“Which question do you want me to answer?”
“Well…shit. Any of them is fine.”
“Okay. The answer is yes. And no, I won’t explain any more—not even where I’m from, because in real life the criminals don’t do long-winded explanations. I’m just going to get away without explaining anything.”
“Not even the name of the real nefarious government you’re working for?”
“Okay, fine. It’s Canada.”
“Canada? Really?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. Who knew?”
“Exactly. Now, let me commence with the getting away.”

She started backing out of The Kitchen, when all of a sudden Big Emma roared, “Can you smell what Big Emma is cooking?!” and leapt over the table, tackling both Sullen Marta and super-Christian Lynn. The gun skittered across the tile floor as they all tumbled into a heap. Virginia ran and picked it up.

“I guess you won’t be getting away with it, Sullen Marta. Virginia, would you be a dear and call the police?”
“A dear? What the hell decade are you in?”
“Touché. Now, if you please, the police? And tell them to bring at least two esposas.”

(Esposas, dear readers, is the Spanish word for handcuffs.)

“Right.”

A few minutes later, the police burst into the room, followed by two women in civilian clothes. I asked one of the officers who they were.

“They’re the esposas you said to bring. Wait—did you mean handcuffs?”
“Of course I did! What did you think I meant?”
“Well, esposas is also the word for wives. We just assumed…”
“What the hell do they teach you Mexican police down here?”
”Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t bring—”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Virginia.

“Don’t worry about it, Gumshoe. It’s Mexicotown.”


THE END

******

OUTTAKES

Stately, thin O’Brien wrote on, wondering as he did so just how much he could season his sentences with references to Ulysses without alienating his audience. Yes, he thought. Yes I can write like that yes and they will yes love it yes I said Yes. Then O’Brien realized he’d had too much to drink. He stopped writing and set about reinventing the telephone. Realizing he needed help, he dialed 411, then slammed down the already invented device in frustration. Shaking his fist in the air, he threw his head back and hollered: “Graham Bellllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!”

******

He eventually found his way to the kitchen—a place brimming with people talking and laughing, where tender, tantalizing aromas spilled out of simmering pots, out of wooden cabinets, out of the ice box. “Ah,” he thought. “This is it—the nerve center of any Hispanic household: The place where the day’s sustenance is both prepared and served, where matters great and small are discussed. This is the place where I will drink in the richness of Mexican culture.” O’Brien also knew that this was the place where one was most likely to find leftover cheesecake. He began opening the cabinets.

******

He looked up for a moment as if in a trance; his hands continued to type the shining sentences that would make him a name recognized in households around the corner. “Well, Pythagoras,” murmured O’Brien. “You win this round…” He shifted his gaze back to the screen. Meanwhile, somewhere in England, long-dead 18th century writer Samuel Johnson came briefly back to life, went to an internet café, read O’Brien’s blog, and felt so inadequate that he died all over again.


(Above: Virginia. West Virginia.)

(Below: Dr. Kevin A. O'Brien, Junior Detective, Esq., investigating.)

(L to R) Lynn, Amanda and me at the Mexico City airport.

the "to be continued" traveling story--CONTINUED!

Before continuing with the story from my last blog entry, I would like to issue two caveats. (For those of you who dislike self-absorbed fancy talk yet love being patronized, “caveats” is another word for “warnings.”)

1. Do not read this blog entry without reading the one immediately preceding it.

2. The following paragraphs have the potential to be offensive to certain people, or at least damage my own status as a role model. If you cannot handle either of these possibilities, do not read any further.

For those people who choose not to continue on this delicious, humorous adventure, you can use this time to fulfill your patriotic duty: checking the status of national treasure Abe Vigoda. Go here.

For the rest of you, some requisite information:

In order for the complete implications of this travel experience to come across, it will be necessary for you to know some things about the lives and personalities of my traveling companions. Here are relevant excerpts from the series of bottom-secret dossiers I keep on people and situations with which I am familiar:

Amanda: My best friend in Mexico. West Virginia native. Came to Mexico through a 4H program seemingly designed to systematically alienate and frustrate well-meaning college graduates. Author of such essays as “Canada: America’s Hat” and “Don’t call me skinny, you fat bitch.”

Lynn: Amanda’s housemate. Pure, devoutly Christian, 21 year-old college student from Florida. Movie collection consists of the following: Finding Nemo, Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, The Lion King. Feels the need to leave the room if discussion at hand veers in direction of anatomy, biology, or general controversy. The daughter of parents who, along with being even more devout than she (they sign all their emails with the closing “In His hands”), don’t approve of her relationship with Eric, her first and only boyfriend.

Eric: [Information withheld temporarily, because it’s funnier that way.]

Lynn and Eric: Have been dating for seven months. They talk about eventually getting married.

Anyway, here we go:

PART I: JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF QUERETARO

So Eric’s plane lands in Mexico City about seven hours later than scheduled. By this point Amanda and I are not unlike Andy Rooney, the aging 60 Minutes commentator: cranky, with messy hair, and smelling like old-people medicine. Lynn, however, has the same daisy-fresh perma-smile on her face that she’s had for the last two weeks—a smile brought on by the prospect of seeing Eric.

While waiting for Eric to emerge from the customs area, Amanda readies her camera, because, she claims, moments of reunion are often touching and photogenic. Her eyes preemptively brim with heartfelt tears.

I try to point out to her that just a couple of weeks ago she remarked that “dead babies are better than live ones, because they hold still for photos,” but she elbows me violently in the gut, and I double over in pain.

At that moment, Eric came out of customs and into our lives. Here is the paparazzi-style photo that Amanda took just before security threatened to take away her camera:

After quickly introducing ourselves to Eric, Amanda and I herd the lovebirds toward the bus terminal so that we can buy our tickets to Queretaro, where one must change buses to get back to Guanajuato.

(Side note: Question: What makes people who are “in love” walk so goddamm slow?)

We buy the tickets. In the little time to we have to kill until the bus leaves, Lynn and Eric decide to go somewhere to “talk” (i.e. make out and whisper sweet-nothings to each other). Amanda and I decide to go far away from them, as neither of us wants to contract diabetes. And, realizing that we’re going to have to spend five hours on the bus tonight with an affection-starved couple, we invest in a bottle of rum.

Timeline of events and feelings for the next few hours:

9:00ish—Get on bus to Queretaro. Banish Lynn and Eric to the back seats to avoid witnessing horrifying spectacle of public affection. Start drinking with Amanda.

10:00ish—Make fun of horrifying spectacle called Bad Boys 2, which is being shown on bus. Talking loudly now, thanks to rum. Fail to notice volume of own voice, also thanks to rum.

11:30ish—Get out at Queretaro. Tired and cranky still, but intoxicated. While walking into bus station, allow mind to wander to timeless debate of which five celebrities I would send on a rocket ship into deep space.

11: 34—Finalize my list of celebrities. Realize that I have included Martin Lawrence twice, but then decide that it’s for the best.

11:37—Snap back into consciousness to find that I am talking to man at ticket counter. Discover that there are no more buses back to Guanajuato until tomorrow.

11:38—Realize that we’ll have to spend the night in Queretaro. Weep, blame Martin Lawrence.

11:45—Round up traveling companions. Spend 10 minutes seeking name of a hotel in town.

After finding the name of a hotel, we needed to get a taxi. I was the first to broach the subject.

Me: Well, it looks like we’ll have to get a taxi. Do you want me to arrange for it?

All present: Yes.

Me: And shall I do all the talking at the hotel?

All present: Yes, please.

Me: In that case, I’m going to need something—

At this point everyone started digging in their wallets, thinking that I needed help with the taxi fare. “Nay,” I said unto them. “Belay those wallets. What I need is a promotion.”

You might recall that in the previous episode I was made Official Airport Liaison—a title I relished, but also one that failed to cover the current responsibilities with which I was charged. I needed a new title—one that would make it clear, either during elaborate conversational introductions or as a feature on old-looking stationary—just how dashing and important I was to this group.

When no one proved capable of providing potential titles that didn’t end in the word “head,” I suggested an acronym: HYRO (pronounced like “hero”): Handsome Young Rake O’Brien.

Amanda: Good Christ, Kevin. Are you—

Me: Um, hello? That’s HYRO to you. I’ll ask you again: are we all agreed on my new title?

I took their relative silence as an affirmative. Following the confirmation of my promotion, I attempted to commence with the crafting of my official HYRO badge and the necessary mission statement, but a shower of encouraging words disguised as expletives urged me to go ahead and look for a taxi. Besides, the mission statement could wait until we got to the hotel.

So I found a taxi—and that, believe it or not, was when the hurricane started.

It may not have been an actual hurricane, but it was probably the hardest rain I’ve ever seen. Seriously—this storm meant business. And you know that by the fact that the taxi driver put on his seat belt, which is an action completely contrary to Mexican standards and practices. (This is a country where mothers drive while holding babies on their laps, and where winding mountain roads have no guard rails. Trust me: a local wearing a seatbelt means there must be some scary shit on the way.)

The driver putting on his seatbelt made us all tense—as did the fact that the windshield was so foggy that you couldn’t see through it. With all of us scared, I tried to relieve tension by joking around with him a little. (“What’s the deal with airline tamales?”) He tried to be polite and accommodating, but kept losing the conversation in favor of mumbling something about “Dios” and “mis niños.”

We drove very slowly because of all the water flowing down the streets. When we stopped at a red light at this one intersection, we saw that the water level had suddenly risen significantly: it was now up to the doors on the car. Large bags of trash were being carried away by the torrent of water all around us—a scene reminiscent of the part in the movie Twister where the cow gets carried away by the tornado. Except this time the audience was bigger (there were five of us in the car), and the whimsy was missing.

On seeing the trash bags floating away, the driver and I looked at each other. Then he made the sign of the cross, kissed the steering wheel, and stepped on the gas.

We plowed our way down the next block until the driver pulled over; our hotel was apparently on the opposite side of the flooding street. I asked him if he would mind pulling over to the other side. He looked at me, then out at the street, then at me again.

“No,” he said. “Now get out. And please hurry.”

Before abandoning the taxi, I marshaled the troops with an inspirational speech reminiscent of Churchill on the radio:

“On the count of three we’re going to make a run for it. Lynn, you open the trunk. Eric, you grab your flowered, amusingly effeminate suitcase. We’re making for the hotel across the street. If anyone falls, don’t look back. Don’t help them. Just keep going. They’re dead to us. Some of us might not make it; that’s what happens in Mexico. If someone’s face-down in the mud, forget about them. Unless it’s Amanda. If Amanda falls, go back and get her backpack—that’s where the booze is.”

We opened the doors to the sound of the crashing rain and slogged our way across the street to the hotel on the other side.

Drenched and cold but finally safe, we staggered into the lobby. Cheered by the hotel’s warmth, I asked the man at the desk for his best rooms at his lowest prices, some towels, and perhaps, if there was one laying about, a cranberry scone.

His words came back across the counter like a punch in the face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re all full.”

PART II: A ROOM IN NEW SPAIN

After recovering from the initial shock of his response, I asked if he could call us a taxi. He scoffed at this, saying that no taxi driver would come here now because of the flooding.

At that moment, as I stood there sopping wet, deflated, and realizing that I had worn black socks with brown shoes, I hated him. Having no real recourse for revenge, I resorted to what I usually do when Mexico pisses me off: I refer to the country as New Spain, and speak with the lisping Spanish accent used by its former colonial oppressors:

I told him that New Spain was a beautiful country, and that I hoped to try the cerveza (pronounced thervetha) ath thoon as pothible.

Thinking that there might be another hotel up the block, we decided to make a run for it. We did, in fact, find a hotel—and they were full, too. So we made a run for it yet again. We repeated this procedure three or four times, each time finding a fully booked hotel, until we finally stumbled upon one that had rooms available.

Or I should say, one room with two queen-sized beds. I consulted with the group to see if we should take it, all the while trying to read Amanda’s face for sentiments matching my own: hesitation at potentially sleeping three feet from Lynn and Eric—a couple who, undoubtedly confused by their ritualized denial of pleasure (i.e. intense Christianity) and the probable boiling-over of their primal urges, would likely attempt to engage in a semi-silent, certainly awkward under-the-covers make-out session.

But Amanda’s countenance seemed instead to say that now was not the time for modesty; now was the time for clean towels and mints on the pillows and warmth and…

I pulled her aside for a moment.

Me: Do you still have the booze?

Amanda: Yes.

I booked the room. My shirt cuff was dripping so much I almost ruined the hotel register when I signed in.

PART III: ERIC

You may have noticed that I have left out any description of Eric until now. That is because Amanda and I did not really get to talk to him until we were all confined to the same hotel room, and I want you to gain knowledge of him in much the same way we did.

So who is this boy for whom the innocent, devout Lynn has been pining all this time? What kind of boy would she go out with? A fresh-faced altar boy? A slight, bookish lad with pure intentions and a collection of Disney movies?

If you guessed either of these, you’d be wrong. But if you put your money on “bepimpled, seven-foot-tall, built-like-a-flabby-brick-wall college dropout who supports himself by working at a Florida liquor store,” you should start playing the lottery full-time.

As we parceled out the towels in our hotel room and started changing into the driest clothes available, we all started talking. We got to know Eric a little, and gathered much of the information found in the preceding paragraph. But then we turned on the TV and, along with discovering that the hotel apparently specialized in providing its patrons with extensive coverage of the softcore porn industry, unwittingly provided the catalyst for a series of anecdotes that told us much more about Eric than we ever wanted to know. The stories and quips he launched at us that night included:

“So my friend got really drunk and was making out with a really, really fat chick on camera, and it was his first kiss…”

“I never really felt comfortable about the idea of group sex until I got to know my family.”

“My mom was having a dildo party one time, and…”

As you might have guessed, it was a long, uncomfortable night. I tried to quell some of the awkward conversation by appearing to busy myself altering the hotel stationary to reflect my newfound HYRO status. Other times I gave up and drank straight from the bottle. Amanda didn’t stoop to such lows.

No, she poured the rum into a glass first.

The next day the sun shone as we got onto the bus for the last leg of our hellish airport adventure. Amanda and I once again distanced ourselves from the young couple who, now that we knew them both somewhat more, seemed to be dating against all odds. Sitting in the front of the bus, we settled in for a peaceful trip.

And what movie did they show on the bus ride back to Guanajuato? Speed, of all things. But New Spain is like that thometimeth, I gueth.

To my devoted readers (both of you):

I apologize for not updating my blog in such a long time. By way of an explanation for my lack of textual output, I’d like to paraphrase Charles Dickens, who I believe was the first to identify the melancholy truth that even unbridled internet-based narcissism must once in a while take a break, or at least eat a tamale.

So whilst I’ve been on this tamale-filled break, I have busied myself with two main activities: making an ass of myself, and traveling. (The latter is a new hobby.) This being the case, the following blog entry will be divided into two appropriately titled sections.

MAKING AN ASS OF MYSELF

As many of you know, my Spanish is pretty good. Some here have even gone so far as to call it “very good,” and once, while imbibing whiskey in the days following the debacle with the police, it was regarded as “reminiscent of a less poetic, more militant Pablo Neruda. But on crack.”

As anyone who has ever tried to learn a second language will tell you, even those who can release a smooth flow of sentences on-par with a cracked-out literary giant make mistakes; it just so happens that my mistakes this week could be regarded as galactically embarrassing—and therefore (mostly) worth repeating. Luckily, I made one of these mistakes in the presence of children between the ages of 11 and 13—or in other words, a demographic that easily forgets and is always reluctant to mention the blunders of well-meaning teachers.

Here’s how it went down:

LOCATION: A classroom.

THE PLOT: I’m teaching English—specifically, family-related vocabulary, as well as quantitative words (some, all, none, etc.). In preparation for this lesson, I had students draw their own family trees for homework the previous night.

THE SETUP: Our book mentions China, and the fact that most families there only have one child. I recall reading about how many Asian societies have been keeping written records of family histories for so long that it is difficult to find someone to date or marry to whom you are not related. I mention this to the class (in Spanish), and note how extensive their own family trees are.

WHAT I MEANT TO ASK THE STUDENTS: Is it difficult in this community to find someone to date or marry that you’re not related to?

WHAT I ACTUALLY SAID: Is it difficult in this community to find someone to date or marry that you haven’t had relations with?

WHAT HAPPENED: It was a few minutes before I could get my students to stop laughing.

This was a pretty bad mistake, but not as bad as the time I talked about needing a jacket, and was then informed that the common word for jacket (chaqueta) is actually Mexican slang for “hand-job.”

TRAVELING

According to Dante’s Inferno, there are nine circles of hell. And while Dante was certainly a wise dude (I say “dude” because “wise man” and “wise guy” seem to have alternative meanings), the details he provided about each circle have failed to stand the test of time. All this nonsense about heretics and flaming tombs fails to accurately depict what hell is like nowadays—and I am sure of this, because I have seen hell. It definitely no longer involves pushing heavy weights, being trapped under water, or other activities one can do at any YMCA. No—these days hell exists in long trips to Wal-Mart, John Denver music, “modern dance” recitals, and the airport in Mexico City.

I mention all this, of course, by way of saying that I recently took a trip to the airport in Mexico City. You can guess how it went; let me fill you in on why:

My best friend in Mexico is a girl named Amanda. Amanda lives with a girl named Lynn, whose boyfriend was flying into Mexico City last Saturday. Mexico City is a five-hour, multi-bus ride from Guanajuato, and Lynn felt nervous making the trip to meet her boyfriend alone. So Amanda and I volunteered to go for safety and support.

We arrived at the airport early in the afternoon, about a half-hour before the boyfriend’s flight was scheduled to arrive. We checked the flight listings, and, seeing that the flight was listed as being on-time, decided to spend the remaining time eating delicious snacks.

While we were eating our delicious snacks, Lynn got a text message from her boyfriend alleging that his plane had had to make an emergency landing in Texas, as a very inconsiderate woman had decided to have a stroke mid-flight. However, when we checked the flight listings again, the flight was still labeled as being on-time.

In order to clear up this discrepancy, it was decided that someone should go talk to the woman working at the United Airlines desk. And as my Spanish was the best of the three of us, I was named Official Airport Liaison.

Upon receiving this promotion (from my previous position of Official Eye Candy), I immediately began forming a plan to get the information from the person at the desk: I would have to gain her trust, and I endeavored to do so by honorable means: promises of acting work, and maybe a trip to a nice restaurant—someplace fancy and romantic, like an Olive Garden or Arby’s.

But just as I was slathering myself in some newly purchased Old Spice, Amanda claimed that if I just asked for the information, the woman at the desk would willingly divulge it, as it was her job.

I laughed at the reckless absurdity of her suggestion.

Me: Oh really? And if that’s the case, what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with all this charm I’m carrying around?

Amanda: Jesus, Kevin. I have no idea. But at least you smell better than usual now. What happened to your usual scent—Musk of Ox, I believe it is?

Me: Har har, mein Freund. Do you want me to go ask, or shall we stand here longer so you can shower me in tepid witticisms you likely gleaned from a Garfield comic strip?

Amanda: Touche. I bow to your wit. You are indeed charming and handsome, and certainly more clever than I. Will you please use your super Spanish skills to procure the desired information?*

*This last line is not exactly what Amanda said. To the untrained ear, her actual remarks would have sounded a lot more like “Go f--k yourself.” But I know her well, and have translated this seemingly negative sentiment into what she really meant.

And so I did procure the information: the woman at the desk said that a passenger had become “ill,” and that the plane had landed briefly in Texas, but should be arriving in Mexico City within the next 90 minutes.

Seven hours later, the plane arrived.

And believe it or not, this story has not yet begun to get ridiculous.

It’s late now, though, and I need to get some sleep. I’ll have to stop this story here and pick it up again later. Until then, file this under TO BE CONTINUED…

Sincerely,
Kevin

JASON: THE LEGEND BEGINS TO BE TOLD

What do you call a man whose deeds are so legendary that he was named an honorary colonel by the state of Kentucky without ever setting foot in the state itself? A man whose devotion to the prosperity of America’s dairy farmers is so great that he will eat ice cream three meals a day? A man who tried to sell affordably priced packets of dehydrated water to thirsty people everywhere?

You call him Jason K. Pietrzak: Intrepid Photographer, Captain of Business, Future Political Candidate, Ace Junior Detective—and the best friend of this author since the sixth grade.

Like a true Champion of the People, Jason spends many of his waking hours in the service of a greater good: creating an important photographic record of America’s wildlife; researching government conspiracies; and twirling the ends of his mustache and muttering the word “excellent” while a fast-moving train approaches.

But even someone with his formidable talents and unprecedented fame needs time away from the blinding light of glory. To momentarily escape his weighty existence, Jason engages in the sort of folksy activities that all true Americans enjoy: playing baseball; penning manifestos; reading about G. Gordon Liddy strangling people with piano wire; napkin folding; and so on.

Jason’s constant companion is his camera. His semi-constant companion is a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. And whenever possible, he opens this bag with the help of his delightfully logical, wilderness-savvy girlfriend, known in these pages as Annebell (pictured below).

Most of you are likely unacquainted with even the most riveting episodes in the Annals of Jason—episodes like Number 17, where Jason’s father proffered the endlessly helpful advice, “Never get an ugly girl pregnant, because then you’re stuck with her.” Or Number 253, in which Jason attempted to liberate his childhood home—The Lion’s Den—from clutter, only to be struck down by the feverish protests of his parents, who couldn’t bear to part with any of the basement-worn boxes containing hundreds of what they referred to as “broken but fixable shoe-horns.”

These episodes will perhaps be revealed in later blog entries, but for now I would like to introduce you to America’s Greatest Saga with episode Number 402:

STARCH RELIEF*

*Dialogue--even the last line--appears exactly as it was spoken in real life. This may be hard to believe, but it is the truth.

Time: The Present

Our hero has recently returned to Concord, New Hampshire, in order to complete a photography assignment. After visiting with his parents in The Lion’s Den, he is making preparations to return to Wyoming, where he and his beloved Annebell have taken up residence while she attends graduate school.

We rejoin our hero as he walks into the living room of The Lion’s Den and finds his mother ironing his laundry.

Jason: [in disbelief] Are you ironing my JEANS?

Mother: Yeah. [spraying starch]

Jason: What are you doing? Is that starch?

Mother: Yeah, these are very hard to iron.

Jason: I don't want my jeans ironed, especially not with starch. Are you crazy?

Mother: You look like a bum. All your pants are wrinkled.

Jason: They are JEANS. I am going to WYOMING. I don't want you ironing those.

[Heated argument over Jason’s alleged bumminess ensues.]

Mother: Why did we pay for you to go to college when you go around dressing like a bum with wrinkled pants?

[Mother storms out.]

[Father comes into the room to urge them to be reasonable.]

Jason: Dad, they are JEANS. I am going to WYOMING.

Father: Does everybody in Wyoming look like a bum?

Jason: Dad, I don't want my jeans starched.

Father: Nobody wants to talk to a person who wears wrinkled jeans.

*************************************************************

Stay tuned for the next episode, in which Jason saves our friend Young Gregory from a disorienting experience in a swamp. The episode's title: WHERE AM I, AND WHY AM I WET?

(Country music song of the same name will be released by Young Gregory in the coming weeks. Check Amazon.com for more details.)

O'Brien, during happier times. (Photo courtesy ALM)


AMERICAN ASSAULTED

Guanajuato, Gto.--Armed police officers mugged an American man Wednesday night, taking his money and pushing him forcefully into a brick wall.

Kevin O’Brien, a 25 year-old teacher from the United States, was walking down Paseo de la Presa at about 12:30 a.m. when a passing police vehicle screeched to a halt and six officers jumped out.

“I was coming back from walking a friend home and all of a sudden they have me surrounded right there on the sidewalk,” said O’Brien. “I asked if there was a problem, and they told me to put my hands up and turn around.”

O’Brien says he did not understand which way they wanted him to turn, and when he failed to follow their orders properly they pushed him into the brick wall next to the sidewalk.

“They stood me up against the wall and searched me. They went through my pockets while they asked me all kinds of questions about what I was doing and where I lived.”

After returning O’Brien’s possessions to him following the search, they sent him on his way.

“At that time I didn’t think anything that bad had happened. But when I got out of sight I went through my wallet to see if everything was there, and sure enough, they’d stolen like $25 (250 pesos) from me. They left me $5 (50 pesos)—maybe so I would have enough to take a cab home. You know, so I could avoid getting mugged or something.”

The identities of the officers involved is unknown, as is the specific law enforcement group to which they belong. “They had on dark blue uniforms,” said O’Brien, “but that’s what almost every police officer in Mexico seems to wear, local or state or whatever.”

When asked if he would report the incident, O’Brien was unsure. “I’d like to, but I definitely couldn’t provide much information that would lead to an arrest, nor a positive ID in a lineup or anything… Plus, I’m unclear about legal procedures in this country. And what am I going to do, walk into the police station and accuse police officers of accosting me? Ask them for advice? They’re the ones that mugged me, for chrissake.”

AFTEREFFECTS: IN HIS OWN WORDS

“I’ve been tense all day,” said O’Brien. “It’s a little embarrassing, like I somehow got PTSD over 25 bucks. But my emotions are way out of whack. I snapped at one of my students today—really yelled at her over nothing, over not speaking loudly enough. And then a couple times today I’ve just almost started crying randomly. I saw a dog limping down the street this afternoon and almost lost it right there.

“And when I think about the incident specifically, I can’t help but feel complete outrage. I mean, what was I doing wrong? What was my crime? They had no probable cause—but I guess you don’t need that here. I guess it’s enough to be walking while Caucasian. Or walking while American. Or—at the very least—walking like you have money in your pocket.”

O’Brien went on to say that the fact that the incident may have been racially motivated has additionally left him feeling disconcerted. “Racism is something you always hear about, but until you’re the victim of something that at least possibly ties into it, you have no idea what it’s like. In a way, I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my own skin as I do right now,” he said.

The son of a police officer, O’Brien says he is most bothered by the fact that the crime was committed by law enforcement officials. “I grew up in a police family, and around police. I’ve always been taught, always believed, that you could count on them for help, no matter what, no matter who you are or where you are. And now—to find out that the people who are supposed to protect everyone are doing harm, to find out that the ones who are supposed to serve the community are only serving themselves…it’s just shocking. I feel like I’m suddenly without a parachute."

OUTLOOK: IN MORE OF HIS OWN WORDS

Despite the incident, O’Brien says he won’t let it ruin his stay in the country, nor will he let it dramatically alter his positive feelings about Mexico and its people. “Up until yesterday, I’d been loving my stay here. Everyone is so friendly, and although Mexico has a relatively negative reputation back home, the reality is that it’s a fantastic place.

“[After last night] it’s tempting to want to paint all police officers here, all the people here, with the same brush: as being corrupt, as being racist, as hating Americans. But that just isn’t the way things are, and I think it’s important to keep a level head about things. You can get mugged in any country. Things can be corrupt in any country. Hell, when did ours get to be free of civic sin? Overreacting isn’t the answer.

“And I’m not going to stop walking around or anything at night. I’m not going to pay for cabs constantly, live in fear constantly. This was one incident, and this isn’t a common occurrence here. It’s unfortunate, yes, and frustrating and unacceptable. But when you surrender your daily activities like that, little things, you’re letting them win. You’re letting tyranny and oppression win. I might have been a victim once, but I refuse to act like a victim forever.”

--by delicious. staff

I AM THE BEST TEACHER IN THE WORLD. AND THE MOST MODEST.

In the English class that I teach, we finally arrived at chapter four, which has the excellent title "Do you like rap?" As such, I've taken the opportunity this week to teach my students about different genres of music: rock, classical, punk, country, etc. have been talked about recently, as well as listened to--thanks to the CD that I made, which is chock-full o' songs of all different kinds.

The picture accompanying this blog entry shows notes that I actually wrote on the board as I tried to help my students understand--or really, break through the hard, candy shell of-- Eminem. The textbook incorrectly identifies him as a singer, and lists Celine Dion and Britney Spears as other singers; as you can see, I rectified this with my notes, and taught my students a new word in the process.

Some people would probably have considered the music-related conversation in class this week to be odd/"borderline unacceptable"--and I call these people "other teachers." But if my students are going to learn about the English language and American culture, some things have to be said: Really now, is it so wrong to proclaim things like, "If you tell me that Britney Spears sings better than Christina Aguilera one more time, I will throw your 11-year-old body down the front steps"? You've gotta make 'em understand somehow, and I'm just facilitating that understanding.

Let me digress for a moment:

I have been working as a teacher for several years now, I can confidently state that the best parts of teaching are the following:

1. Turning students against each other.

I did this last year by giving a take-home assignment and stressing adherence to the honor system. Then I ended class with this statement: "And in case any of you feel like cheating or collaborating with someone else, you should know that one of you is a spy." Watching the Lord of the Flies effect take over was wonderful.

2. Manipulating student actions so that I feel like a puppeteer, and the students, of course, are like my puppets.

This latter teaching benefit came into play when I had my students memorize lines from a song in class. The song? Well, I'll give you a hint: It's by Gilbert and Sullivan, and it's from the one about honor and sailing. Here are the lyrics they had to learn:

I am the very model of a modern major general
I have information vegetable, animal and mineral

If asked about it under cross-examination, I would point out that memorizing such lyrics is useful because it gives my students practice pronouncing words with the always-difficult letters D, J, and G. But I also wouldn't be able to deny that having a room full of kids repeating these lines in unison makes me rub my hands together greedily and mutter things like, "Dance, puppets. Dance."

On a related note, if I were a school principal, I would mandate that after saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning, the entire school would perform elaborately choreographed, silly songs about pirates.

S.C.R.E.A.M.--Silly Choreography Rules Everything Around Me. Dolla dolla bill, y'all.

Wu-Tang, we hardly knew ye.

(If you haven't listened to Wu-Tang, the previous two lines aren't funny. Well, they probably aren't funny anyway. So I'll just stop now.)

OH SHIT!

Just kidding.

Although the above photo may seem to illustrate a military invasion not unlike the Germans marching into Paris, this is actually part of the big parade that took place this morning. The occasion? September 28th is the anniversary of the seige of the Alhondiga de Granaditas, a grain storage building in Guanajuato that was, in the early 19th century, being used as a sort of fort by the Spanish. The seige was an important early moment in the Mexican War for Independence, and as such today is a big deal--hence the marching and such.

Parades here don't really involve floats so much as drums, bugles, and displays of military efficiency. Observe:









This is a statue of the guy who burned down the door of the Alhondiga during the aforementioned seige. It's pretty massive, and sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking town.

A BULL-MARKET ADVENTURE

Most who journey to San Miguel de Allende on the third Saturday of September call it the Pamplonada, after the similar event in Pamplona, Spain. Festive garments for sale in local shops also refer to it as the Sanmiguelada, or sometimes the San Miguelada. White shirts with red scarves are the preferred attire, and one-liter cups of beer the preferred beverage.

They come to see this from all over the country and all corners of the world--and the competition for a good view is fierce: Window ledges and rooftops are prized real estate; for those who arrive too late to get a good vantage point, scaling the trees in the nearby plaza will have to do. The more industrious locals sell periscopes made out of discarded beer boxes to the fans farthest away from the action.





The action is the running of the bulls. Every year thousands of participants--some courageous, some drunk, and many a mixture of the two--try their luck outrunning several of the fierce, enraged animals when they are unleashed in the town square.

At least, I've heard that's what happens. I tried to check it out yesterday, but because the crowd was so huge, and because the logistical planning for the event was nonexistant, I couldn't see a damn thing. And I'm almost seven feet tall.

I would like to stress one more time that the size of the crowd was absolutely unbelievable. (You may be able to get an idea of that from the top photograph, which shows about 5% of the bull-running area.) Within the crowd, aside from spectators, were musicians and clowns, mounted police and food vendors. It was loud, boisterous, and suffocating. I recommend it.

Now let's talk about something more significant--and now, closer to my heart--than the running of the bulls: bus travel.



The bus ride to San Miguel (about 90 minutes long) was one of the most comfortable, enjoyable travel experiences of my life. I travelled on a Primera Plus bus, which is a first-class affair: they give you a beverage, a snack, show a movie on the trip, and--most importantly--have set up the bus so that it has the most leg-room of any vehicle not owned by an NBA team. And how much did the bus ride to San Miguel cost? Less than seven dollars.

The bus ride back would have been as enjoyable, except for two factors: the bus driver chose to show a horror movie (a tremendously popular genre here, but not one I find conducive to casual viewing), and the two drunk boys across the aisle from me kept throwing up. Luckily, they finally passed out--and in doing so, brought an end to the day's notable events.

WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH CORN FLAKES?

I haven't purchased a box of Corn Flakes in the US in...well, maybe ever. (The way I roll, Special K is the usual weapon of choice.) But down here my host family rocks the Corn Flakes hard, and as such, I've been eating them.

You see the picture at the top that seems to indicate that this box contains He-Man-sized amounts of hierro? For those of you that don't speak Spanish, "hierro" means "iron"; so apparently in Mexico, having enough iron in your cereal is a big selling point.

Now let's look at the back of the box (sorry for the blurriness):



This says that if your child doesn't have enough iron in his diet, he could have anemia. And by "anemia," they mean your child, like the one on the left of the cereal box, could start to fade away like in Back to the Future--except from loneliness and disease.

Anyway, keep that in your back pocket.

Lastly, here's a picture of the honey jar we have in the house. We do loves our honey here in the GTO. If you go to the right street stand, you can buy honey in ridiculously fresh, even larger quantities. How fresh? Like, there-are-still-dead-bees-in-it fresh.

OH, RALLY?

Two nights ago I went out for pizza with esteemed fellow expatriate Amanda. Upon leaving the restaurant, we discovered that in the nearby plaza there were a bunch of people watching a film that was being projected onto the side of a building. We stayed to watch for a few minutes, and at first we thought that it was parade footage from recent Independence Day celebrations.

While we were standing there people were definitely giving us the crook-eye (as opposed to the evil-eye or the stink-eye). But that happens to us often, I think: Amanda is blonde—a rarity here—and I am the tallest person in the country. So we thought nothing of it.

After a few minutes of showing parades, the focus of the film changed to a man giving a fiery speech in front of a podium. The audio was low-quality, but we could still make out the word “Marcos”—and that, plus the fact that the speaker was wearing a ski mask, led us to believe that we were actually standing in a makeshift Zapatista rally, and were watching a low-budget, Mexican version of Triumph of the Will.

On realizing this, Amanda and I had a conversation that went roughly as follows:

Me: Shall we leave before we get our asses kicked?
Amanda: Definitely.

AVAST YE, MISCELLANY!

Tuesday, September 19^th, is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. I will be participating; will you? I’m not sure if I’ll be able to find an eye patch to wear for the occasion, so I’ll have to wear other pirate clothing—like AAARRRRRR-gyle socks.

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: I am a silly bitch.

(Thanks to fellow expatriate and pirate-talker Amanda for providing the material for that joke.)

Since I’ve been here I’ve met several medical students and a handful of soon-to-be lawyers. In the interest of being helpful, I’ve taken to working phrases and terminology they need to know for their careers into all of our conversations. Phrases and terminology that work best when yelled. Like:

1. I hold YOU in contempt.
2. I’ll put the SYSTEM on trial.
3. I need 40 CCs of ____, STAT.
4. What’s my problem?! Have you ever had a man die in your arms? Have you ever seen the evil depths of the human soul?

In other news, my doctor and lawyer friends have inexplicably stopped calling me.

Quick notes on fruit:

1. orange juice here kicks ass—mostly because they squeeze it right after you order it. Pulp, for the first time ever, seems delicious. I cherish it.
2. papaya: tastes like old socks.
3. guayaba: like biting into a big Sweet Tart, and then getting punched in the face.
4. cantaloupe: a fruit I generally dislike, but am trying to enjoy, as I can’t stand papaya and guayaba.

LIVING WITH HORRIBLE DISCOMFORT, AND LINDA. (BUT I REPEAT MYSELF.)

Never having been one to shy away from conspiracy theories, I take the position that, amongst some of my friends—and, I don’t doubt, gleeful factions of my enemies—wagers have been placed regarding how soon I would get sick after arriving in Mexico, and what the nature of the illness would be. Well, for all those who have a stake in my health status—be it for monetary gain or celebrate-with-a-cigar personal satisfaction—the results are in: I am sick, and have been for the last three days. But while the smart money was assuredly bet on my being stricken with crippling diarrhea, the reality is that I have a cold.

And now, the complaining:

The first problem of being sick in Mexico is that—I kid you not—this is a country largely devoid of tissues. Everyone seems to use toilet paper to wipe their noses, which is fine if you don’t feel the compulsive urge to wash your hands after touching things that are regularly perched near the toilet. But then there’s me.

So for the last three weeks, whenever I’ve been out and happened to think of it, I’ve sought tissues. And you know what? I haven’t been able to find them—neither in pharmacies, grocery stores, nor street vendors’ carts.

As you might expect, I was starting to regard this as a massive ANTI-anti-germ conspiracy, but today I finally found some tissues hidden in the dusty back corner of a pharmacy. Behold the tissue triumph, pictured above.

(I shall spread the word of this tissue discovery to my fellow expatriates here—a move that will be the first step toward creating what I tentatively call the Secret Underground League of Pharmacy Awareness, or SULPA.)

Anywho:

The second problem of being sick in Mexico is medicine. Few recognizable brands are available, and, to make matters annoying, you can’t just browse around pharmacies. Everything is behind the counter, and you have to either ask for a specific product, or tell them your symptoms and they’ll bring out products for you to look at. That’s how I bought my first medication, pictured below. And do you know what’s NOT included on the side of the box? Answer: Directions, or any kind of usage instructions, save for, “Take as much as your doctor suggests.”

The third problem of being sick in Mexico specifically applies to my living situation—namely, my new housemate Linda—or, as I’ve taken to calling her under my breath, “I hope you f*ing die.”

(Hey, no one ever accused me of being good at assigning nicknames.)

My host family rents several rooms in their house to students and travelers, and Linda is the latest addition. She is in her late 40s, I think, and from the southern US, which would explain her hyper-pronounced drawl.

Her Spanish is infuriating to listen to, as she pronounces every word as if it were on a menu in Alabama. (A rough guide: she pronounces the phrase “Dónde está el baño?” like this: “DOAN-day EHS-stah el BAY-nyo?”) She is eager to show how worldly she is, but doesn't realize that "worldly" isn't an adjective that describes her; "insensitive, stereotype-peddling moron" fits much better.

During the few meals that I’ve eaten with her (everyone in our house eats together), she has spoken incessantly at her slow pace, often enlightening everyone at the table as to the wonders of natural vitamin pills and herbal remedies. My becoming sick has increased her desire to speak about these subjects, as well as others: When I wearily sought a cup of tea this afternoon, she cornered me in the kitchen and spent 15 minutes alerting me to the fact that teachers are likely to catch student illnesses if they don't take precautions. (Of all the people in the world to tell this to, she chose me?) Then she spent another 10 minutes telling me about her own vitamin B, C, zinc, and echinacea intake.

At a recent meal, whilst Linda pontificated as usual, I noticed that the collective body language of those at the table had changed from suggesting “please stop talking so much” to something more closely approximating “I hope you die in a hail of shrapnel.”

In the spirit of this sentiment, I've joined forces with the other young Americans in my house to form another underground group—a kind of support group, really—known as the SFL: Shrapnel for Linda. We meet at the bar.

LIKE WOMEN

My freshman roommate in college--an oft-drunk frat kid named Alex--used to say that pretty women are like buses: if one passes you by, just wait five minutes for another one to come along.

Well, here in Guanajuato, buses come along about every 30 seconds. I don't know what this says about the area females--I haven't monitored their pedestrian tendencies with any of my former roommate's faux-scientific precision--but in theory things look good.

For those of you new to the party, or in need of some general background, allow me to share two things before continuing:

1. Guanajuato is a city composed of narrow, labrynthine streets and dauntingly steep alleys.
2. Mexico as a whole is not a letigious society, because (as far as I can figure out) people have no affordable/practical legal recourse. As such, you do pretty much everything here at your own risk. Suing is not an option.

My reason for mentioning the former:

The bus drivers here are the best I've ever seen: The streets they have to navigate are more treacherous, more ridiculous than in Boston and London combined. The other week, I went with two friends to a rather notorious street to watch the buses pass. Every single driver followed the curve of the street perfectly, avoiding the curbs with only about an inch to spare in places. Here are some pictures:





My reason for mentioning the latter:

Back in the US, if you're trying to catch a bus you have to show up at one of the designated bus stops, wait for the driver to stop, open the door, let you on, close the door, and start driving again. If all these steps aren't done properly and you get injured because of that, you can totally sue.

Here, if you want to catch the bus but aren't at a bus stop, you can just flag down the driver and he'll let you on. If you're a mobile young person, he might not even bring the bus to a full stop--he'll just slow down and let you jump aboard. He might not close the door at all. If you fall out or something--hey, that's your own fault. Lawsuit? Not going to happen.

In short: Convenient? Yes. Safe? Depends.

Miscellaneous information:

The buses here are all great diesel affairs that spew thick blue smoke--smoke that gets trapped in the high-walled alleys, and, consequently, in your lungs when you walk by. Not that many people smoke here, but I wouldn't be surprised if the percentage of people with lung cancer were similar to that of Spain or the UK.

There is more I'd like to write, but I should really go to class--perhaps via the bus. Because unlike pretty women, I can count on a bus picking me up as soon as I set foot outside.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Okay, some quick things I've learned:

In Mexico, the nickname for lesbians is Levi's, as--according to the stereotype--that's what they wear. But really, everyone here wears jeans, so I don't totally get it.

A popular children's song is called "Little Susan has a mouse" ("Susanita tiene un ratón"). That isn't necessarily any weirder than our own children's songs, but it made me laugh.

Certain television shows are dubbed here, while others have subtitles. Behold:

Dubbed: ALF; The Facts of Life (Tootie's voice is ridiculous--like that of a cigar-chomping trucker who just pulled off the turnpike); Growing Pains; Bewitched; Aqua Teen Hunger Force (which I never really understood anyway).

Not dubbed: Friends; anything on FOX; anything involving those kids from that creek by Dawson's house.

And my favorite thing thus far (besides rediscovering ALF): Daffy Duck is, in the Spanish langauge, referred to as Lucas the Duck (el pato Lucas). Bet you didn't see that coming.

SCENE FROM THE GTO.

How much has Guanajuato changed in the last hundred years? Above is a picture I took a few hours ago; below is a picture taken around 1900. Judge for yourself.

DIGGING--SADLY.

Several hundred years ago, Guanajuato was more or less the silver-mining capital of the world. Several of the mines are open as museums nowadays, and this morning I went to the Mina San Ramon on the outskirts of town.

The mouth of the mine is enclosed in a peaceful courtyard--as seen below--and at first I thought it was a rather enchanting place.



Then we learned about the lives of the people that worked there:

The miners were mostly male slaves who were sent down into an unfathomable blackness with no shoes or clothes, save for skimpy pieces of cloth with which to gird their loins. They worked 12-hour shifts without rest, hundreds of meters below the surface of the earth, through intolerable heat and almost without air. If they refused to work, they were locked in dungeons without food and water until they either died or changed their minds.

Female slaves did work on the grounds, but not usually in the mine itself, as it was believed that women--in general, mind you--were bad luck. Furthermore, they were considered liabilities for their relative lack of strength compared to the hardened male workers, as well as easy for targets for rape if they went into the mine.

Since I've been in Mexico I've had to confront some of my own phobias and fears: public restrooms lacking in paper towels, scary-ass houses, and not having enough space on the floor of my closet to line up my shoes just the way I like. But today I was as close to hyperventilating as I've ever been in my life--and that happened when I traveled down into the mine itself.

Picture what you think a mine is like. Perhaps you're thinking of that episode of Punky Brewster where they all got lost in some caves and there was a scary old man hanging around or something. Regardless, your mental image of a mine, whether you've been in one or not, is probably correct. But what you don't imagine is how hard it is to breathe, how tiny the passages are, and how the hot, stale air still smells like agonizingly hard work. When we reached the lowest point of our descent, our tour guide pointed out the makeshift memorial for all the people who died in the mine. As we stood there, miserable after going down the tour-friendly-yet-still-treacherous staircase, panting for breath, squinting in the near-darkness, I thought about how, without a doubt, this was the saddest place I'd ever been.









But then I went to the nearby Inquisition Museum, and had to rework my own definition of "sad."

I'm sure you're all at least vaguely aware that history's various inquisitions have involved torturing alleged heretics. How did the Spanish Inquisition work it in Mexico, you ask? Well, one thing they used to use was this rack-like device covered with spiked rollers. You had to lay on your back and you would be dragged over it again and again.





There was also this nifty spiked chair that torture victims would have to sit in. Good times.



Apparently, if you were accused of being a heretic, you were strapped to some torture device and asked if you were guilty. If you said yes, you were tortured more, and your face was monitored for signs of repentance. If you said no, you were tortured more to see if you were telling the truth.

There really isn't much more I can add to this.

I, TOO, TEACH THE ENGLISH

Upon arriving here my school asked if I would be interested in teaching some English classes to make a little extra money. (By "a little," I mean 25 pesos per hour--or about $2.50. And sadly, that's not a bad paying job around here.) So now four days a week I teach a one-hour class of beginner's English to six Mexican students between 11 and 13 years old.

They're great kids, but what I relish the most is being able to teach them American slang--which, although I am greatly enamored of Spanish, will always be my first true language love. (There's a certain beauty to phrases like, "I want to throw down, food style," that I just can't get over.)

Anyway, on the first day I taught them to say "What's up?" and explained the different meanings thereof. In subsequent classes they learned to (cautiously) add the word "dog" to the end of "What's up?", as well as understand the following phrases:

oh, snap!
just kidding
don't be a square
nobody likes you
nice!
homie don't play that.

If you've ever been my student, you know that one of my favorite hobbies--ranked right up there with chess and re-alphabetizing the sub-genres of my book collection--is making fun of text books. Thankfully, the text book that we use here does not lack in absurd material. For example, one page provides a list of American first names, and then offers adjectives describing people who have those names. I kid you not, and I quote:

George: average, boring
Jacob: creative, friendly
Michael: good-looking, athletic
Stanley: nerdy, serious

Betty: old-fashioned, average
Emily: independent, adventurous
Jane: plain, ordinary
Nicole: beautiful, intelligent

(I tried to take a picture of this page, but I couldn't get it to come out.)

More hilarity:

The chapters in the book are named after important phrases one should learn in that section; for example, chapter two is called "How do you spend your day?" This seems rather benign in itself, but if you examine the list of chapters it's easy to see some cultural insensitivity/unfortunate stereotyping about the lives, future endeavors, and motivations of the non-English-speaking, non-white populations trying to learn English from this book. Observe:

As if the readers are gearing themselves for a life of menial service, chapter 13 is called "May I take your order?"

Chapter 10 exclusively focuses on conversations using the title phrase "Have you ever ridden a camel?"

And finally, as if all people of color should be able to talk about this, chapter four is called "Do you like rap?" and talks about hip-hop culture at length.

GARDEN PARTY

In the center of downtown is a well-maintained garden area (known appropriately as the jardín) where everyone hangs out, arranges to meet friends, etc. There is usually music of some kind happening in the garden, and every Sunday (or so I've been told) there is a classical music concert performed by the community orchestra. I've never been a huge classical music fan, but I must say, when performed in a casual, outdoor setting, few things beat it. Here are some photos of that, and other spots around town:

THE ONE AND ONLY

Since I've arrived I've spent a lot of time learning about this city's history. Seemingly every home, every plaza has a story associated with it, and lately I've enjoyed taking pictures of the sites of some of the more prominent local legends. I'll relay some of them to you now--choc-full o' digital picture goodness, and told with clunky, frank, economic phrases.

El Callejón del Beso (The Alley of the Kiss--pictured above)

The version that I've been told, which is one of a few: Many years ago a woman of rather high social standing fell in love with a man whose social standing was not greater than or equal to her own. The woman's father forbade her from pursuing a relationship with this man, which of course thrust her into dispair, and forced the would-be lovers to conduct their affair through furtive glances from afar.

One night the woman was out on her balcony (the one on the right, I think), and the object of her affection secretly arranged with the owners of the house across the alley to use their balcony. And so while she was standing outside, enveloped in the sadness of her plight, the man whom she loved suddenly appeared right in front of her. They began talking as lovers do, but the woman's father discovered them, and in a fit of rage he stabbed his daughter in the back with a knife right there on the balcony. Legend has it that she fell towards the other balcony, and her lover caught her lifeless hand and gave it a gentle kiss--the only kiss they would ever share.

At this point I'll warn you that it's a common feature of Mexican legends for a woman to die, betray her lover, and generally be the victim or villain. Female protagonists who manage to live are few and far between in the local lore.



Calle Truco (Trick Street)

The above picture is of a restaurant--Truco 7--which I think was the sight of a gambling house where the following took place: A high-roller went in and proceeded to lose just about everything one can lose via gambling: gold, estates, and the like. When he thinks he's all tapped out, the man he's been playing cards with all night is like, "Listen, I'll give you one chance to win back everything that you've lost: If you bet your wife on this next game of cards, you can have it all back. If I win, I keep it all--and your wife." So the guy says okay. They play, and of course it's a close finish, but the man who has been winning all night wins yet again--and it turns out that he's the devil.

You never know when you're going to be playing cards against the devil, which is why when I play high-stakes poker, I only bet other people's wives.

(I swear that there's a Mormon joke in here somewhere, but I just can't put my finger on it.)

OH, HELL? NO.

As you are most likely aware from my previous blog entries, my first residence in Guanajuato was a room in the ultra-sketchy Casa de las Brujas. One of the things that made me spend most of the last week in search of alternate housing--aside from not wanting to live in a house where at least three people were murdered--was the bathroom I had to use. When I arrived just over a week ago, I was shown to the above area and told, "Your bathroom is down there." And so I descended this dank stairwell and came face to face with a room with a muddy floor, one bare, flickering lightbulb, and a sign that said "Beware of the Scorpions"--in short, a place that had more in common with an Iraqi torture chamber than a restroom.

It was then that I spoke in English for the first time since arriving, half-yelling the following to no one in particular: "Oh HELL no."

(Below: The scene of the outburst.)



You will be happy to know that I have, after much searching, found a better place to live: If Guanajuato is shaped like a martini glass, my current residence is on the scenic rim. I haven't yet taken any pictures of my new house itself, but here are some photos taken from the patio. I'll try to hook you up with some sweet sunset moments in the future.







The details: I'm renting a room--with meals included--in the mansion-ish house of a family of five. (This is a common housing arrangement in Mexico--living with a family, I mean. I just got lucky on the mansion part.) The one thing that irks me about this arrangement is that we have a maid/cook: she makes our beds; she serves us food while we're seated at the table; she takes our plates from the table when we're finished; she refills our glasses; she cleans everything every day. And while the family says how great she is and how she does great work, I have yet to hear anyone say "thank you" upon completion of one of her myriad tasks. I'm really not used to being waited on with such attention--with the possible exception of the time I've spent in Thai restaurants back home--and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Maybe I just don't get the whole maid/valet/butler thing.

I have to admit, though, that if everyone in this house were more like characters in a PG Wodehouse story, I would be totally pumped.

Here's lookin' at you, Jeeves.

OH, THE HILARITY

I found this book in a store near the downtown area. If you can't quite make it out, the title is "Basic English for Everyone," and the cover features a super-relevant picture of a scantily clad model. I suppose bookselling has hit a new low.

DAM. LEGENDS.

Because Mexico has never educated its people about environmental protection, piles of garbage can often be found in cities, towns, and—quite sadly— forests. The most common method of getting rid of garbage is to throw it over the edge of a cliff, and that tends to affect the water supply in the following way: Dams are constructed in valleys to trap water running down the aforementioned cliffs, and it is this water that eventually comes out of the taps in your house. So if you throw trash over a cliff, it pollutes everyone else's water. Like so:

(Translation of above sign: “CAUTION: Throwing trash in this place contaminates the water that we use in our houses. Use the trash receptacles. Avoid being sanctioned.” Below is a dam, and the water it collects.)

After that cheery note, here are more pictures of the city. Please note that everything that looks like a private walkway really functions as a public street. The last picture—the one of the crazy-ass house, known as "The House of the Witches"—is my school. Be sure to read the legend of the building, which I’ll include below.

So the above is where I live and go to school (for now—but more on that later). The house was owned around 1903 by this German guy who turned out to be crazy. When he was sent to an asylum, his two sisters and lovely teenage daughter were left to live there alone. The daughter liked to go around town and be social, and her aunts didn’t like that—so they locked her in the basement. The aunts happened to be crazy too, and forgot to, you know, give her food and water. So she died. Eventually her body was discovered and the aunts were sent away. The house remained unoccupied for a long time until a businessman bought it and moved there with his eight children—all boys. Once the older boys were fighting, and one pulled out a pistol and shot two of his brothers, killing them both.

In case you weren't keeping track, that ups the death toll to three.

The locals say that when there is a quarter moon you can see a pretty young girl sitting in the upstairs window, beckoning to men to come inside. Apparently if you do, you’ll have some wine and such and then wake up trapped in a coffin, where you’ll eventually die.

Again, this is where I live. This is where I come back to every night after dark. I am the only person staying here right now.

And shit—what the hell was that noise?

Dear Everyone,

I’ve arrived in Mexico. I’m 0wnz0ring Spanish-language communication. And I still getting used to the roosters. But we’ll talk about that later.

The Academia Falcon is quite the place: It’s located in a giant old mansion called “La Casa de las Brujas,” which means “House of the Witches.” I’ve asked different people why that is, and most of them say, “Um…I’m not sure,” and change the subject.

Good times.

As many of you are likely wondering, I’ll tell you this up front: I haven’t gotten sick from the food here at all. The food is excellent by the way, and extremely cheap. You can eat a full restaurant meal—appetizers, entrée, dessert, coffee, etc.—for less than five dollars. There are street vendors everywhere, selling everything from tamales to tortas, which are essentially sandwiches made from hollowed-out rolls and filled with beans, cheese, meat, vegetables, or whatever you want.

Guanajuato is the friendliest, most awesome city I’ve ever lived in. I’ve made more friends in the last two days than I made in Concord in the last two years. There is more to do here than you can believe. I’ve already seen parades, dances, festivals, concerts, etc., and I arrived on Saturday. I’ll describe all these more fully in future entries.

On the other side of things, Mexico is quite a change from what I’m used to. Here’s some math that I worked out when I drove to a mountain and hiked part of it with some other students:

1. guardrails along treacherous, Wile. E. Coyote-style roads = rare

2. crosses along roads that wind along cliffs = many

3. asking “Where is the seatbelt?” = laughter from everyone else in the car

4. saying “I need this in a hurry” = pointless

The way of life here is slower and more patient than back home, and I'm told that's because everyone is of the opinion that life is to be enjoyed, so why rush? I’m getting used to it, but I need to stop being on time for everything.

5. 15 minutes late = on time

Just seeing the streets of Guanajuato is something extraordinary. Most streets are really alleys—callejones—that are made of brick or various other stones; some are entirely made of steps, or slabs of rock that are at a 60-degree angle. They wind and snake up and down, and will easily make you lose your breath. (Also helping the shortness-of-breath phenomenon is the fact that I’m 7,000 feet above sea level.) The architecture is more or less the same as it was 300 years ago, and great pains have been taken to preserve the antiquated atmosphere: for example, stores aren’t allowed to have illuminated signs.

And yet a Domino’s Pizza still managed to sneak into town. Bastards.

I should run for now. In my next entry I’ll write to you about the roosters, along with some things that are actually a) funny or b) exciting. Like the local rationale behind drunk driving, or why the drinking water is so polluted.

Ding.

MY LAST PRE-MEXICO BLOG ENTRY (Or, Juxtapose this)

I leave for Mexico in…11 hours, 51 minutes.

Plans for the plane:

1. Even though they’ve probably heard it a million times, I’m definitely going to ask the flight attendant if there are any motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane.
2. Since that probably won’t get a laugh, I’m going to place a baggy of carpet fresh inside someone else’s carry-on and then rat them out as a coke fiend. Let the hilarity ensue.

In other news, it turns out that I am a rock star. My band—The Mahoneys—recently played at the St. Paul’s School Advanced Studies Program. Here are some pictures; I look spaced-out in the one where the crowd seems really into it, but that’s because crowds—much like fine wine—make me feel frightened and confused and sleepy.

And finally, this:

My friend Jason drove through Iowa recently. He has a desire to see all 50 state capitols, and so he made an effort to stop and see Iowa’s. There is a statue near the capitol that has this engraved in stone above it: “Iowa—her affections, like the rivers of her borders, flow to an inseparable union.”

Now what statue best embodies that sentiment? According to the people of Iowa, the one pictured below:

This odd juxtaposition reminds me of the time I drove through Kentucky. Now, this is a state with churches every five feet, billboard-sized crosses on the highway, and moving trucks with biblical references painted on their sides. So you can guess how surprised I was when I passed Big Bone Lick State Park.

Shortly thereafter I passed this store:

Apparently Kentucky dictionaries don’t list the word “innuendo.” But really, what can you expect from a state whose abbreviation is “KY”?

BOOK LEARNIN'

On July 29 my dad, Young Gregory (pictured below, with Hitler) and I moved everything out of my apartment. Since then I have constructed a foxhole in a room in my parents’ house, where I intend to spend the next three weeks until I depart for Mexico. I’ve spent the last several days happily gorging myself on books under the watchful eye of my sleepy, fat little companion, Cody the cat.

As such, few things have happened to me of note, and I write now in order to share with you some humorous or otherwise impressive things I have recently read. Please read all the way to the end; it’s worth it, if for no other reason than you will learn about medieval beliefs about having sex on an alter.

Do I have your attention now?

First, information gleaned from an article about Wikipedia in the July 31 issue of the New Yorker:

1. The coolest phobia I don’t (yet) have: Capgras delusion, which is “the unnerving sensation that an imposter is sitting in for a close relative.” (This one feels appropriate for inclusion in The Great Concord Caper. See entry of July 12. )
2. The idea of a comprehensive encyclopedia was controversial for centuries, largely because logic and reasoning have a tendency to contradict religious beliefs. The writers of an 18^th century encyclopedia, funny guys that they were, included the following cross-reference at the end of the entry on cannibalism: “See Eucharist.”

Next, from a copy of Gustave Flaubert’s last book (posthumously published in 1881), which includes what he termed “The Dictionary of Accepted Ideas”—essentially a mock-guide to word usage, with instructions that will provide the wise reader with great social success. It is, I dare say, the Spinal Tap of dictionaries (See Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show). Samples follow:

BEAR—When using this word, “tell the story of the invalid who, seeing that a watch had fallen into the bear pit, went down and was eaten alive.”
ENJOY—“Obscene word.”
INVALID—Here is what you should do when talking to a person with a disability: “To raise his spirits, pooh-pooh his ailment and discount the story of his suffering.”
GRATITUDE—“Don’t mention it.”

POET—“Pompous synonym for fool, dreamer.”
POETRY—“Entirely useless; old hat.”
SCARF—“Poetic.”

BLONDES—“Hotter than brunettes. (See Brunettes)
BRUNETTES—“Hotter than blondes. (See Blondes)”
[BLACK WOMEN]—“Hotter than white women. (See Blondes and Brunettes)”
REDHEADS—“See Blondes, Brunettes, and [Black Women].”

Finally, and on a more serious note, allow me to share with you information found in a book that, along with the aforementioned Flaubert volume, I purchased for 20 cents. The book’s title? Sex in History: Society’s Changing Attitude to Sex Throughout the Ages (most of which can be read here: http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/taylorgr/sxnhst/index.htm)

Even though it was published in 1954, this book is a gem. Its history of sexual behavior and coinciding religious beliefs is fascinating—especially the parts about medieval sexual/marital behavior, from which I will draw from now:

1. “In Saxon times, the father would sell his daughter, for at that time women were valued as a source of labour, and the father was felt to suffer a loss. But the Crusades, and other wars, had caused women greatly to exceed men in number, and now he only comes ‘to give her away.’ The priest…asks if the man will take the bride to be his wedded wife—the wed being the bride-price—and he promises.”
2. Referring to the 13^th century: “It was frequently declared that clerical sins should be overlooked unless they became a public scandal…”
3. Posing as a priest in order to hear confessions carried the following penalty: being burned alive.
4. When the plague was sweeping across Europe, people really wanted to have sex, but were also afraid of becoming sick (with the plague). It was held at the time that “to commit incest on the altar was the only certain prophylactic against infection.”

On that note, I’m headed back to the foxhole. Over and out.

TWO FOR ONE

When I first moved into my apartment two years ago I needed a dining-room table and chairs. I scoured all the local new- and used-furniture stores in hopes of finding something both appealing and affordable, but had no luck for months. (Actually, it wasn't "months." In reality, this period was most likely about 36 hours. But you know, when you've got your heart set on enjoying some cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey, the experience is easily ruined by having to place a tea saucer on a collapsing, upside-down whiskey box that you found outside the liquor store the other morning.)

Anyway, bottom line: I was in despair. Then I happened upon Chuck's Used Furniture.

Now, the truth is that I had actually seen this store before but had opted to avoid it for a few reasons: First of all, I dislike the idea of doing business with anyone whose name is also the verb that most appropriately describes my preferred technique for shooting a basketball. Second--and most importantly--Chuck's Used Furniture wasn't just one store; it was two: Allegedly housed within the same space was also the Academy of Billiard Sciences--presumably a location at which one could learn to play pool, or at least master the necessary geometry. The combination of these two establishments--while generally sketchy in its own right--reminded me of the TJ Maxx/discount liquor store in Boston that was the origin of oh so many 9-11 calls back during college.

So I held out as long as I could, but, having spent an unacceptable amount of time without a proper resting place for my abstract expressionist placemats (i.e. placemats with a few colored rectangles on them), I finally relented and went to see what Chuck had in stock.

When I entered the store there was no sign of any billiard-based academia; there was, however, a spectacular table and chair set. I say "spectacular" because it was everything I wanted: lacking in significant cigarette burns, and unlike anything having spent decades in the captain's quarters of a pirate ship.

Chuck, however, didn't seem to have as much going for him as the table did.

We haggled a bit, and he agreed to sell me the table and chairs for $125, provided that I translate some minor correspondence into Spanish for him: a short note to someone selling a sofa, and a longer note to his estranged, 35 year-old son--a man who lived in Texas, had learned Spanish, and wouldn't respond to the father's English-language letters. It was the creepiest deal I ever made.

Again, that was two years ago. Fast-forward to last Wednesday. I was trying to sell my excess furniture on my own, but wasn't having much luck (see previous entry). Faced with a rapidly approaching moving day, I decided to offer Chuck the table and chairs, as well as my loveseat, for as close to a fair price* as I could get.

(*In this sentence, "fair price" means $50 per item.)

When I went to the store to present Chuck with my furniture, I realized that the store's sign had been changed, presumably to drum up more business: the academically formidable Academy of Billiard Sciences had become the distinctly less-egghead-sounding Pool School, where, according to the sign, one could "learn to beat people with a stick!"

Yeah.

There was still no sign of any pool-playing area. Also, this time Chuck had an assistant--a plump, slightly mustachioed, grunting (but otherwise quiet) man of about 60 who ran around doing whatever Chuck ordered as fast as he could: polishing lamps, moving sofas, stacking tables--all while constantly craning his neck to see if Chuck approved, or, seemingly, if Chuck was about to beat him with a stick.

Bottom line: it creeped me the fuck out.

So Chuck looked at my stuff, scratched himself, and said he'd give me $80. I asked if he could make it $100. He said no. Here is a rough transcription of what happened next:

Me: Look, do you know where I got this table?
Chuck: I have no idea. [closes eyes, waves hand dismissively]
Me: I bought it from you.
Chuck: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Chuck: Huh.
Me: Do you know how much I paid for it?
Chuck: I have no idea. [closes eyes, waves hand dismissively]
Me: $125.
Chuck: No you didn't.
Me: Yes, I did.
Chuck: Huh.
Me: And that was with a discount for translating a letter into Spanish for your son.

[pause]

Chuck: I don't have a son.

[pause while we stare at each other, narrowing our eyes]

Me: Yes, you do.

[pause while we continue to stare at each other, our eyes narrowed]

Chuck: Fine, $100.

So I got my money. Perhaps irrationally, I feel a little bitter about the experience--having to haggle and endure weirdness and such--and, as I tend to be slightly obsessive about cleanliness, Chuck's Used Furniture/Pool School now bears a unique place in my mind: the only pool area where I would even consider urinating all over the premisis.

SELLING OUT. (OR, CHURCHILL WAS RIGHT.)

Before I flee the country for good, I thought it might be worth my time to try to sell some of my furniture--you know, the stuff that has been sitting around my apartment collecting dust. Like the couch I bought for company to sit on, or that second wine glass.

Anyway, I posted ads for various items on the internet, and immediately had great success: A very nice family bought my futon, and even paid my asking price without question.

Shortly after that the wheels came off the wagon--and not because no one was interested in my stuff. Things got bad because I was having increasingly more contact with other people--something I generally try to avoid, unless it's a situation where I can control everything (e.g. blogging, teaching, leading a military coup).

(This may be slightly off topic, but wasn't it Churchill who said that the strongest argument against democracy was five minutes with the average voter?)

Basically, people started writing to me with questions about the furniture that were absurd for one reason or another. One man wrote, "You say the washer and dryer are compact. What's their combined cubic foot capacity? How many loads of laundry have you done in them?"

At first, nice guy that I am, I went about figuring out the combined cubic foot capacity and the average number of loads of laundry I do per week. But about the time I started hunting for a calculator with a pi key, I realized that I just didn't care enough to go through with the calculations. So I wrote this back to him:

"If you're doing laundry for yourself and maybe another person, they're fine. If you're doing laundry for a boy scout troop, they aren't so fine. But the best part of owning the washer and dryer is that you can do a second load without putting in quarters."

And that, my friends, felt good. So good that I started responding to subsequent emails in mocking or generally smart-ass ways. For example:

Man: "HI I AM INTERESTED IN THE LOVE SEAT LIVE IN BARNSTEAD WHERE ARE YOU LET ME KNOW HOW MUCH THANKS."
Me: "THE PRICE IS IN THE AD AND WHY ARE YOU YELLING?"

Then there was this obnoxious list of questions:

Woman: "i like your futon. how old is it? has it been in a smoke-free home? has it been in a pet-free home? most of all, WHY ARE YOU SELLING IT?"
Me: "i like my futon too. it is not very old. the police never took it when i got busted the first time. they're on to me again though. i have to get to mexico ASAP. can you take it????"

The most common of all the responses I received, though, were from people who had no idea how to haggle. Like, my dining room table and accompanying chairs were listed for $125, but I indicated that I would be willing to negotiate. People would write in and say, "I'll give you $10 but won't go any higher." To them I responded thusly:

"I would rather see the furniture burn in my driveway than sell it for so little money."

THE GAME IS NOT YET AFOOT

I've been suffering from some unbelievable, brain death-inducing boredom of late. Some might attribute this to my lack of a job, or the fact that my hobbies have dwindled to "eating ice cream" and "putting my belongings in immaculately labeled boxes," but, while eating some Special K this morning, I happened upon the real reason for my mental malaise:

There just aren't any good capers anymore.

Now, when I say "caper," I am of course referring to the Encyclopedia Brown/Nancy Drew/Scooby-Doo kind of caper. (I am not referring to the kind of caper associated with that venomous harpy Jessice Fletcher from "Murder, She Wrote." Didn't anyone ever suspect her of murder? I mean, wherever she went people died, for chrissake.)

Anyway, it's like there just aren't any light-hearted-yet-mysterious crimes to investigate anymore. No bake-sale money goes missing. No fake-seeming ghosts drive away patrons from a hotel that sits atop a priceless oil field that (almost) no one knows about. No store owners are found ritualistically disemboweled near an untouched cash register.

It's a boring world, my friends.

That is why I've decided to start a project that I call The Great Concord Caper. What will happen is this: Email me or post comments with ideas for a caper that could happen in Concord, NH. The ideas needn't be fully mapped-out plans for shenannigans; they can be fragments, like, "In order to solve the case, it is important to know that dolphins are mammals, not fish." Once several ideas have been submitted, my assistants--Ace Junior Detective Jason K. Pietrzak, Macho Head Games-Expert Young Gregory, and Jordan "No Dice" McKibble--and I will assemble the pieces into a caper. Once the caper is ready to go, you will be notified that the game is afoot. The first person or team of people to solve it will receive a prize--possibly a bag of candy, a postcard, anything else I can mail from Mexico, or any furniture I can't sell before I leave the United States.

So hurry! Submit your ideas ASAP--before we have to go kill some store owner.

SCENE FROM AUGUSTA, MAINE

My mother, who lives in Augusta, Maine, told me that there had recently been something of a scandal when a lingerie store opened in Augusta's downtown area. The store itself wasn't controversial; the controversy lay in the fact that the owner decided to employ live models to strut around in lingerie in the store's front windows all day. (See above photo, courtesy Associated Press.)

Now, this action by the storeowner precipitated two things:

1. A lot of men investigated the purchase of lingerie.
2. Some local Christians tried to take action to prevent the presence of live lingerie models from tainting Augusta's downtown area--an area that is in what most would describe as a persistent vegetative state: two of its more prominent businesses are a vacuum repair shop and Cosmic Charlie's, an unkempt hippy supply store (most of their inventory consists of tie-died t-shirts) whose sign is made from plywood and spray paint.

It is the fervor--really, the almost demented acrimony--associated with this second point that I would like to focus on for a moment. Here is part of a fire-and-brimstone rant from the blog of Mike Heath, who is the executive director of a Christian non-profit:

"One courageous Christian... formed a group called 'CLAD.' The acronym stands for 'Christians Lovingly Advocating Decency.' He formed the group to remind an openly pagan and sexually deviant lingerie storeowner that displaying her wares on live models in a window on Main Street [sic] isn't a moral thing to do.

"Guess what. The storeownwer didn't like what Hein did. She, in fact, went ballistic on her blog. Her rantings led many to believe she is insane or demon possessed, perhaps both."

(source: http://www.mikeheath.net/2006/05/no_apology_need.html )

My favorite parts are where he calls the storeowner "openly pagan and sexually deviant," and suggests that she might be "insane or demon possessed." Because real human beings in revealing clothing are tremendously offensive, whereas mannequins in revealing clothing are perfectly tolerable. Rember that the next time you see a Victoria's Secret ad or a cheerleader.

To skip to the end of the story: The store is now out of business, but I don't think the actions of CLAD had anything to do with it. Augusta, Maine, isn't much of a lingerie-buying community, and whatever lingerie needs its citizens had were probably already met by Leather and Lace Lingerie, a store that has had the local market cornered for years. If the storeowner were guilty of anything, it would be having a bad business plan.

In closing, I can tell you that the word on the street is that members of CLAD slashed the tires of the owner's car. And if they did, you can bet they did so lovingly.

Blogging Tips Part 1: Attract Attention

If you want people to keep returning to your blog, you have to keep drawing attention to yourself. And I find that two of the best ways to do this are:

1. Include possibly scandalous pictures with every post. These need not have to do with the post itself. (See above. And, well, below.)

2. Tell possibly scandalous stories--in my case, about teaching. For example, here's a story that, like so many others, involves me not being able to keep my mouth shut at the crucial moment:

Student: Mr. O'Brien, on our educational retreat yesterday [insert name here] literally compared having sex to chewing gum.
Me: No way. That's just all wrong. I mean for starters, sex is way more expensive than gum.

Teaching Advice Part 1: Classroom Management

If a student is getting on your nerves, an effective means of quelling the in-class insurrection is to spread rumors about his or her past misdeeds and unfortunate affiliations. Please note: "Facts" are optional, and the use of visual aids to help make your point is strongly advised. To show you what I mean, I've included a sample photo that illustrates my friend Greg's sordid past. (See accompanying photo.)

Teaching Advice Part 2: Killing with Laughter

Making friends at work can be important--just as important as being able to laugh during the work day. In order to develop both friendship and laughter within your work environment, it is occasionally necessary to leave someone wounded, face-down in the mud. These kinds of social casualties are necessary. And they make me laugh.

Personal example: I attended a faculty retreat the week before school started last year. Instead of connecting with my fellow teachers through God (as was intended), I connected with everyone by spreading a rumor that a fellow teacher--a benign, gray-haired, folksy woman in her late fifties--"just did coke in the bathroom."

Coming Soon: If you were going to host a seminar for Catholic-school educators, what would you call it? Well, last year I attended just such a seminar, and it was given the completely innuendo-free name Riding the Dragon: Touching the Holy. I'll tell you the story the next time I post. Or maybe the time after that.

What was my life like before coming to teach at Bishop Brady?

As you might expect it involved a certain amount of glamour, mostly derived from polyester suits (see accompanying picture).

Once I had a teaching job that was not unlike being repeatedly punched in the face for eight hours every day. And one day of that job was so bad that I wrote up a thorough description of what it was like--and that's what I'll share with you now. Enjoy. (It's really good, and entirely true. Seriously.)

Ahem:

7:31--enter room, flip on light switches.
7:32--lean on stack of disused dictionaries and mourn recent replacement of "the good kind of fluorescent lights" with "bunker-style fluorescent lights"
7:33--contemplate getting a snack
7:34--wonder if Hitler painted his bunker yellow, like my classroom
7:35--open lone window. in cruel joke of nature, no air comes in.
7:36--weep.
7:47--review plot of The Iliad with students
7:53--compare The Iliad's use of several famous mythological characters to the creation of the video game "Super Mario Bros. All-Stars." Feel academic credibility drain from body.
8:31--replace academic credibility with sugar from delicious donut
8:45--air suddenly comes in through window. contemplate phrase "stale existence."
8:49--sit on window sill in order to be near sweet, cold, life-giving breeze. begin writing out plans for class on legal pad.
8:53--forgo planning class, start to write sonnet about school.
8:58--try to work the following lines into sonnet, now titled "A note written to me by my student":

You called me Home dog homie G Frankle.
I asked you why "Frankle," and you said that
you saw it on Malibu's Most Wanted.

9:00--realize that "Frankle" can never rhyme with "Wanted," no matter how you pronounce it. Revise sonnet idea into several potential haiku scenarios.
9:13--look at clock, see that the 15 min. break is approaching. realize that students for Block 2 will be coming in shortly.
9:14--lock classroom door.
9:15--out in the hall, students slam into the surprisingly locked door like birds into a window. unfortunately, students keep getting up and trying door again. eventually, they decide to enter my class through rear entrance that connects my room with the one next door.
9:18--weep. start to grade papers amidst increasing racket .
9:19--two students interrupt me to talk to me about the latest game they play in the halls. it's called--and I'm not making this up--"rape you in the ass."
9:20--kick all students out of my room. they go into room next door, where there are apparently no teachers and definitely no rules.
9:21--loud crash emanates from room next door. say to self, "I didn't hear that." continue grading.
9:24--student barges in, interrupts my grading to tell me about supposed spinal disease she has. she stops telling the story, however, in order to complain about how we aren't watching a movie today.
9:25--run hands through hair in frustration. repeat.
9:29--start class. take attendance. watch as student tries to demonstrate "toughness" by showing others how hard he can hit his own hand.
9:31--wrinkle brow. try to start class. "tough" student continues his macho tirade.
9:33--expose juvenile tendencies of "tough" student by doing devastating impression of him that lasts for three solid minutes.
9:36--"tough" student has face down on desk in shame. class is laughing at him. confess to class that yes, I am a total bitch. ask who's next.
9:37--proclaim that I am the winner all day. briefly wonder why I haven't been fired yet.
9:38--start silent reading time
9:48--dismiss student to nurse because of bizarre stigmata-like wounds on his forearms that he received "while messing around with the weed whacker."
9:51--reprimand student for reading graphic novel in class.
9:52--take student who brought in graphic novel into hall in order to better explain why attempting to slap the teacher in the face is not an acceptable classroom behavior.
9:52:30--look around hall for witnesses. sadly, find them. continue impromptu lecture on behavior.
10:00--return to classroom. talk to group about classroom behavior.
10:03--fight breaks out between students who blame each other for disrupting class.
10:04--consider letting the animals wipe each other out. think better of it, stop fight. ask them to continue reading.
10:07--student with stigmata returns to class. ask him why he didn't put band-aids on before he came to school. he says, "if it ain't drippin, I ain't wipin'."
10:08--consider grad school again.

This is the photo that my friend Jason took of my Spanish III Honors class. He took several shots, but felt that this one was the best because "almost no one was copping a feel."

When one thinks of worldly individuals, certain names come readily to mind: Lewis and Clark. Magellan. James Joyce. Cher.

It is with some regret that I admit that up to this point in my life I have only been a worldly man in the same way that an eclair from Dunkin' Donuts is a rare, exotic treat. But no more: As of August 25th I shall take up residence in Guanajuato, Mexico, thus beginning an expatriate life that I am sure will be full of rustic coffee aromas, haughty scarves, and--if all goes according to plan--silly hats. I invite you to share in this adventure with me, via the miracle of the internet and what can only be described as your own complete lack of anything better to do. So sit back and hold on--but don't fasten your seat belts. With a ride like this, it will probably be better to either be thrown clear or die on impact.