timehealsallwounds

The Way...

2012-01-27T18:41:00.001-08:00

They told me what the Dream was and they told me how to attain it. The way they talked, it was as if it was a map that could be followed from Point A to Point B. Foolproof. They only told me, though. They never showed me. I wondered about that for a bit, but the answer came quick. You can't show someone something you don't have. Nevertheless, I wrote down the way and I stuffed the paper in my pocket for another day.

After a couple years and some careful consideration, the destination looked good, but I didn't like the map. So I set it on fire and took off running through the streets, a general picture of the destination in my head and determination in my chest. I ran through traffic and dodged cars. I jumped fences, violated borders. I entertained the company of any path that seemed like a shortcut. I ran fast and I ran hard. My heart beat in my ears and my lungs burned in my throat. My eyes watered from the wind and my legs screamed for me to stop. But I had burned the map and intensity was the only way to make up the time lost to a poor sense of direction. I ran fast and I ran hard and I don't remember a single thing about the trip. But eventually I ended up exactly where they said I was supposed to be.

I had achieved the American Dream. I walked around in that place for awhile. It was pretty empty and the people that did inhabit reminded me of the zombies I had seen on TV. Cycles. That's all they had. Cycles and secondary experience. Everything looked the same. Their wasn't much virtue aside from the firm belief in assumptions based on other assumptions. And when I looked really close, everything was built on quicksand.

I once had the American Dream. But I gave it back. My own dreams are way fucking brighter. So are yours. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Death's Door

2011-09-02T14:58:00.000-07:00

These are not new ideas. Every human being alive or dead (and even a few zombies) knows everything I'm about to say intrinsically. This is just my spin on it. St. Francis once said (and it has been repeated millions of times by millions of people around the world) that:

It is in dying to the self,

That we are born into eternal life

I've contemplated these words for many years and found various and sundry ways to relate to them. But I think, on a frantic bike ride through South Glendale in the middle of a 109 degree afternoon (Fahrenheit not Celsius you commies) the Gods of Heat Stroke and Delirium bequeathed to me the most practical understanding I've ever had. The words are obviously a metaphor. St. Francis wasn't a Heaven's Gate type of character. Although one could make a pretty sound argument that he stood just a little bit that side of nutso.

Everybody knows that death is just some kind of veil that we can't see beyond. No matter what your religious beliefs or ideology, everyone can agree that beyond death, there is something. And in this case, I even include nothing in the category of something. It doesn't matter to me. And this isn't meant to draw up that debate. Imagine that you're standing before a house inside of which you've never been. The front door is closed. You have no idea what the inside looks like, but you know that there is something inside, even if it's rubble, or an interior recently decorated by the design heroes from Trading Spaces, or stacks of newspapers held sturdy by cat shit mortar produced by an army of live-in cat shit mortar producing feline architects. I only paint that picture for you because I've been in houses like that. I don't want to get off topic too much, but if you have relatives that have said good-bye to the world of reasonable use of space and have dedicated themselves wholeheartedly to collecting small mammals, garbage, and immobile, plantlike mystery organisms that seem to spontaneously erupt on the walls, floor, and ceiling, please intervene before they start having chest pain at 3 in the morning, for the sake of the people that have to come get them out of their house and take them to the hospital. No one wants to be crushed to death by an 1800 lb. stack of grocery store coupons from 1984... especially with that smell in their nose. Anyway, death is like that (the first thing, not the hoarders thing). It's just a door you can't see beyond because you haven't tried to turn the knob and no one has invited you in... yet. Don't worry. We all get to go inside someday. Most of us don't even bother to look in the window next to the door to sneak a peek. The curtains are always open. But no one wants to be that weirdo whose head pops up from the bottom corner of the window with a stupid, searching look on their face.

Death is what most of us fear, correct?

I firmly believe that St. Francis's words were meant for the living (and those few undead lucky enough to comprehend the idiosyncrasies of human existence). And so all this talk about death to the self... pretty morbid, right? Wrong sucker. It is one of the most essential lessons we could possibly take to heart. It's about living. That's why there's the second part. The promise of some great reward if we just challenge death. It has been said that past the point of exhaustion, we find freedom. How many have ever hit the wall and pushed and pushed, dug deeper to find something, anything to keep us going? Very few. Be honest with yourself. But it is just like the door to death. We don't know what's on the other side. St. Francis's words are that window next to the door. Beyond exhaustion, freedom. There comes a point where the pain stops and something miraculous begins to happen. Growth. You find that you are made of more than you ever imagined. You discover that you are limitless. You turn to see that you didn't just open that door, you kicked it clean off the hinges. It will remain open and you may now pass freely.

But getting to that point is no picnic. Every step you take toward and through exhaustion becomes exponentially heavier. The weight of the entire world is pressing upon you. Everything you've been told you couldn't do, everything you've convinced yourself was unpleasant or painful, every paradigm of negativity in your mind will be pushing you to stop. But somehow, you must have a reason to go on. There must be something, just one thing that drives you to choose death over defeat (don't worry, you probably won't actually die). Because once you've sincerely decided in favor of death over defeat, the only possible outcome is for that door to get kicked in. If you persevere, someday you'll find yourself unstoppable, discover that what you truly are radiates outward eternally. I have only seen one thing in this world powerful enough to motivate that kind of change. Well two things. But they go hand in hand. Love and compassion. And it's probably because love and a competitive nature are only separated by a very fine line. One of them is obviously a higher ideal. Guess which one? Learning to love makes you a stronger competitor, when necessary. Whereas learning to compete doesn't make you adept at loving. When you face this metaphorical death, or we'll call it the "Monster of Your Dissenting Mind" or we can just call it a bit of profound discomfort, it does you no good to hate it and try to compete with it, to beat it for selfish reasons. You have to learn to love it and be motivated by something greater than yourself to overcome, be it family, service to others, or the reward of a double chocolate chip, vanilla ice cream pizookie at the end of the day. You have to learn to recognize the discomfort and associate with the end result. That growth. That completeness. The actual purpose of your existence (mystery solved). You have to be waiting, prepared, weapons in hand for when that Monster comes rearing its ugly head, you have to revel in its appearance, and then for it's own good and with love in your heart, you have to subdue it. And I think that's what St. Francis was talking about. In my own simpler, more practical language:

Quit being a giant pussy,

Stop resting on your wilted laurels,

Intentionally do something that isn't pleasant,

And evolve into a more complete human being than you are.

There are hundreds and thousands of people out there who will tell you that any discomfort you feel, any fright, any pain, is repaid ten fold if you just resolve to carry it for only as long as is absolutely necessary on your way to where you're going. It's a pretty simple concept, but not easy to do. Take stock of everything inside of you. Be brutally honest about the components that make you who you are. Identify anything that is unnecessary or worthless. Then trim it away like a butcher does rotted meat. Or if you want a more flower metaphor, chip away at the stone, the was sculptor does to reveal the composition of beauty that was always living inside that lifeless block of rock. I like the rotted meat thing better. It takes a tremendous amount of artistry and precision to do this well. But human beings have an intrinsic capacity for change. We just seem to forget. Often.

This one is specifically dedicated to my family. You're all being put on notice. Something's gotta change soon. There isn't one among us that doesn't have something big we need to tackle, address, repair, or change. Figure out what it is, and get to work. Otherwise we just perpetuate the patterns of the past indefinitely. How boring! And I'm not just pointing fingers. I include myself in all of this.

Invader at the Gates

2011-07-03T22:41:00.000-07:00

A number of years ago I made the acquaintance of a gentlemen who later married and infiltrated my sister's uterus to make this thing. He's now 1 year old:

And here's one more picture of him simulating what he looked like when he was still living in the amniotic sac. It was his idea. We couldn't figure out a way to replicate the fluid, but you get the idea:

Searching through my computer I found a message I pinned to my front door for a couple weeks before the arrival of Stave (phonetic spelling). It served its purpose. No one was injured. It is reprinted here in its entirety for your enjoyment. Much of the humor is topical, so try and transport yourself back to a simpler time, a happier time, 2007.

I feel obligated, for the safety of all individuals concerned, to inform you that we will be having a new (foreign) houseguest residing with us for an extended period of time. When you enter the house, presumably without knocking, do so carefully and without making any sudden movements. When you walk into the living room you may be startled by a very rare specimen known only to the western world as Australianicus Felattium. This particular specimen is known as Steven. He may or may not be wearing pants/underwear when you first meet him. I assure you, it’s nothing personal. Australians just don’t have parents. They emerge from the ground like spores of mold. So they are sometimes oblivious to some of the social mores and folkways that you and I might adhere to.

Keep in mind that Australia itself began as a penal colony. This means that every single one of Australia’s citizens are convicted felons. This is true because mold spores replicate with very little variation in their genetic makeup. Certainly due to mutations there might be one or two in the bunch that isn’t a genetic criminal, but I wouldn’t be the one to test that theory. So always, after an encounter with young Steven, check your wallet or purse, and make sure that you’re still wearing pants. He’s like a ninja of pants thievery. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Also he has this thing where he insists that he’s not an Aussie, but a Kiwi. He says he’s from New Zealand, not Australia. My logic tells me that if you live in Australia and have an Australian accent, then you’re probably Australian. Feel free to debate Steven on this issue.

Finally, avoid being alone with Steven at all costs. But if you do happen to find yourself alone, and he gives you that eerie silent stare, DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT. To help in these situations, I’ve enclosed a list of appropriate questions and topics of conversation. Please commit these to memory before entering the house. It could save your life.

What’s the difference between a penile colony and a penal colony, and which one is Australia?

What’s the difference between a Kiwi and an Aussie and does anyone care?

Is it true that the primary food eaten in Australia is human babies?

Are you a wizard?

Are you a Fairy?

Who’s your favorite, Jermaine, Bret, or Murray?

What is the gross domestic product of Australia and how does this play into the politcoeconomic dynamic of the decline of the US Dollar?

Do tattoos hurt?

Why can’t you just talk like a normal person?

Is it true that all Australians are born both drunk and pregnant?

An Aboriginal friend of mine once said that all white people are the devil. Please comment on this statement and use facts to support any assertions.

A recent news report said that Australians pee out of their butts. Please demonstrate.

How does it feel to know that you belong to one of the only developed nations on the planet to have a weaker currency than the US?

Did you cause global warming? Bastard.

Have you ever been bitten by a Dingo or ridden a Koala?

Where do babies come from?

There’s nothing good about what you do or who you are. (This statement is to be made with squinted eyes and an accusational tone to the voice)

Are there toilets in Australia? Then why do you smell like that?

Please describe, in your own words, the basic tenets of String Theory. Be sure to address such quantum mechanical staples such as quarks, spin direction, and electron position in your analysis. If you can’t do that, what do Australians think of Britney Spears?

Feel free to add your own questions to the list. Remember, it could save a life.

To Whom It May Concern

2011-06-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

Marx's Communist Manifesto had a ripple effect that, good or bad, has shaped the modern world in dramatic ways. Various other authors have written works that have modified the social consciousness with a force that could never have been predicted. Without such visionaries the world would be in more chaos than it is. Teetering on the brink of destruction as we are, we would have gone over the edge decades ago had it not been for the revolutionary hearts and minds of many. This is my manifesto.

Wordscraper, Words with Friends, Wordfeud and other offshoot bastardizations of the noble game of Scrabble are bullshit.

That's right. Bullshit. Even as I type these words, I can hear the voices of my extended family as they scream obscenities at me and disown me. Many of my beloved friends and family members are avid participants in these games of lesser humans. But it must end. I am willing to endure the inevitable persecution for the truth. It must be told, that we may evolve and carry on. For with Wordscraper, we all perish.

In each of your hearts, you know that what I say is the truth. It may pain you greatly, and the inclination will be to allow your ego to coddle you. For as fallible humans, our ego dictates that we MUST be right, even if the truth says otherwise. Aristotle died because of this. Socrates was put to death. Gandhi was assassinated. But the truths they spoke live on. And should death be brought to my doorstep, so help me God, this truth too, shall survive.

And here is why all those sub-Scrabble games are bullshit.

1. You don't have to actually sit face to face with anyone. How many more of our group activities are we going to relegate to sitting behind a computer screen. I am suspicious of any situation where you can be playing a game with someone and in another window be looking up photos of chicks with dicks (Click it. You know you want to. You're making assumptions. Go ahead and click it. It's not what you think). It would shock you how often this happens. I've been compiling statistics. Even as I write this I have a window open with a picture of a dog biting its own balls. It's disrespectful to the game, the other person, yourself, and probably the earth. But it's the inevitable consequence of anything done on the internet. It's a distracting environment. Scientists have proven that there is no human alive on earth today that can check their email without also watching an infomercial for pajamajeans or a video of a slow loris walking around doing slow loris things. Imagine trying to stay focused while waiting for someone else to take their turn with nothing to do but sit and stare at a gameboard with a god awful color scheme and way too many bonus squares. Even thinking about it makes me cringe. Shit talking, misdirection, and psychological ploys are the heart and soul of a true game of Scrabble and require an actual opponent. Yelling "You no good dirty poop eating word puker!" at your computer screen has little to no effect on a person on the other side of a broadband connection. But yell that in someone's face and watch their heart melt with fear. Computers are just robots without legs and robots are replacing everyone and it should be a red flag to us as humans. Has no one seen the Terminator movies? The first time I saw a self checkout in the grocery store I thought to myself, "Shit, somehow this is going to ruin Scrabble and eventually the world."

2. Speaking of bonus squares, there are way too many of them on non-Scrabbles. As mentioned before, the trickery of the human ego is strong. And being able to get scores in the thousands because there are 47 quadruple word squares and they're 3 squares away from triple letter scores is not healthy. It's giving people an overinflated sense of their ability. Human beings need struggle to be fully human. But these games are turning us into cattle. Sheep for the slaughter. Fish for the plucking. Popplers for the eating. It's a dire situation. If we keep validating ourselves without an adequate effort, next thing you know we'll sacrifice all of our civil and basic rights because it's too hard to walk downtown and participate in a demonstration. Plus, what if someone takes their turn while we're gone? I know from experience the effects of this mental attitude. I missed the Million Man March (I was a keynote speaker) because I was involved in a protracted game of Warcraft. Not World of Warcraft you nerd. The real Warcraft.

3. Along with having a chicks with dicks window open, many people choose to have a Scrabble word generator (contrary to the website slogan, this is not conducive with winning) window open. It doesn't matter if I'm your opponent, because my game is so complete, so perfect, that your digital crutches won't help you hobble on to victory. At best you might stay within a hundred points of me for 5 turns. But it's still ruining the sportsmanship, the rich heritage of honor and integrity once associated with Scrabble. I know this to be a common practice because I have friends who I've never heard use a 3 syllable word in real life and often have a genuine look of being offended when someone else does. And then they spell words on these bastardized game boards like "obeisance." Again, bullshit. It's not like you even need the word generator up. That's just for those who are extra lazy. Because the game won't accept any input that isn't an actual word. You can just randomly fling letters about until some word happens that uses a bonus square that you had your eye on. This is the modern equivalent of flinging poop at a wall just to see what sticks. Which brings me sharply to my next point.

4. There is no word challenge function. This is probably 40% of what makes Scrabble Scrabble. Most grown ups would admit that actions have consequences. This is a concept lost on the youth as a direct result of these watered down Scrabble abominations. Not having the ability to lay down farce words and not having the ability to challenge or to bait others to challenge when you use an unlikely but entirely legitimate word eliminates the entire psychological component of the game. It is another dangerous trend in our country. Less thinking, more mindless clicking. Never having to read a Scrabble opponent puts you at a direct disadvantage when entering the job market. It's not that the economy is down and unemployment is up. It's just that college graduates are dumber. Because of psuedo-Scrabbles. No one wants to hire someone who has never mindf***ed anyone. Every job, in the end, just boils down to sales. And that's all about the mindf***. Again, there's probably science to back up what I'm saying. But I'm busy. I can't check. You check.

5. This is sort of a continuation of the Scrabble word generator thing. But it's worth mentioning again. Quit hiding behind the fact that you can just make random combinations of letters until the computer accepts one. Learn some skills. Figure out how to make a good, strategic block. Anticipate your opponent's next move. And then screw them as hard as you can. Follow it up by blowing in a conch shell. A victorious conch bellow. For the love of god people, learn the 2 letter words. Here's a free lesson. There are 101 acceptable two letter words in Scrabble. There are none with the letter V or C. You learned the alphabet when you were like 1. You should be able to learn the "Words of Annihilation" as I am fond of referring to them. They're only made up of letters you learned from the original alphabet. There aren't any curveballs in there. No umlauts. No Chinese characters. Just those same letters arranged into various sequences of 2. Even if you're too lazy to memorize them, learn these ones. They're raw power... xi, qi, za, and jo. Those are high dollar letters. I've gotten 62 points with them. And if you want to add some credibility to your being at the most fundamental level, figure out what they mean.

6. If nothing else, think of the tiles. Remember back to the first time you played Scrabble with your parents or some kids from the neighborhood. Remember the smell of the plastic grey bag, containing so much potential for wordsmithery. You can almost feel the smooth rounded corners of the little letter squares, the slight groove of the engraved characters, painted white to contrast with the rich fake mahogany color of the tiles, or the black letters against the naked wood (yes, naked wood) if your parents wouldn't shell out the extra money for a deluxe board. Then there's the sound of the click and tap as you lay down the letters, triumphantly spelling the word "gymnasts" on a triple word score. You guys never had a chance.

Look, I know why you did it. I understand the allure of convenience and luster of technology. But there are some things that are our birthright as human beings. And if we don't protect and preserve them, what will be left for our children? Put your phones and mouses (mice? meese?) down. The cost is far too high.

My nephew is choking on a tortilla chip. So I should go. Eh, viva la revolucion! Seacrest, out.

What's in a Name? Rarely the Whole Story

2011-06-10T01:39:00.000-07:00

And so what was the point of that previous, long, drawn out post about the woman in Africa? The point, very plainly, was to put money into perspective. This thing we have elevated to primary importance clearly has the ability to affect major consequences. But what is it exactly? Where does money come from? What gives it value and what does it actually represent in our society?

Do a little experiment. Ask these questions at your bank. If anyone should have some intellectual understanding of money, it should be the people staffing the banks, correct? I have yet to meet a single person at a bank who could even tell me who printed our nation's money. Each had an "Oh yeah!" moment when the Federal Reserve was mentioned. But to me, it seemed an insufficient level of basic financial knowledge for someone who had such a broad understanding of what credit cards I would qualify for, how they would benefit me, and how to sell me on applying for one. I admit this is a mildly asshole-ish thing to do, but I have always done it with a smile and a good natured tone. I tell every one of them that I will sign up for their card if they can tell me what gives money its value. I still have 0 credit cards.

So where does money come from? The Federal Reserve is the obvious answer. They print our money on fancy cotton paper in a basically monochromatic scheme. Why they haven't switched to some kind of plastic which can be washed, endures much greater abuse, and lasts longer, I don't know. Why they haven't printed different denominations on different size paper to make it easier for the blind and the visually impaired to manage their cash, I don't know. Why they don't print the money in different colors for similar reasons and ease of transaction, I don't know. (I have to begrudgingly admit that it was my Kiwi brother in law, who I incessantly berated for not being able to count money at the register, that brought all this money logistics stuff to my attention.) Tradition, maybe. I guess it doesn't really make a difference since less than 5% of all money in circulation is in printed cash form. The rest is electronic or in other forms even more obscure. But back to the matter at hand: The Federal Reserve.

It just makes cents. Get it?

With a name like that, you would imagine that it would be some part of the national government. But you would be wrong. Don't worry. All the bankers thought the same. The Federal Reserve is a privately owned, corporate bank that lends money to the American Government at interest. Feel free to read that again. Every dollar in circulation, every dollar used to finance a road project or an international war, or a major corporate bailout is on loan and must be payed back to the Federal Reserve by the US Government. But if there is interest, then the amount of money in circulation can not and never will be enough to satisfy the debt. The only way to repay what's owed is to put more money in circulation which incurs more interest. It's insane to think about. It's circular logic to a destructive degree. But it's an important concept to grasp. Somehow, at some point in history, we privatized our money supply. We made it a commercial endeavor for a few very rich, very powerful men. I still don't know what to think about all this. Well, I do. But they aren't popular ideas. Because they include totally whacked out goals like trying to simplify my consumer existence and reduce the amount of money necessary for daily existence. In other words, my goal isn't to make a million dollars. My goal is to find a way to never need a million dollars. Stupid, I know.

There was a point in history when control over the nation's supply of money was guaranteed to the American people by The Constitution of the United States. But that all ended when Woodrow Wilson took office. There are various conspiracy theories surrounding the institution of the Federal Reserve. Even though they do correlate with reality, I don't want this to become anymore conspiracy theory nutjobesque than it already is. So I'll just tread water here on the surface. Google the theories if you're interested. They're pretty expansive. Anyway, like many other major acts of government that seem to be in violation of our basic human and constitutional rights (Ahem! Federal income tax. Cough!) it seems as though due process was conveniently circumvented in the case of the Federal Reserve Act. Rather than bitch about all that stuff that I can't really verify because I wasn't born and don't fully understand the legislative process, I'll just go ahead and print the words directly from the horse's mouth. The horse had this to say about signing the Federal Reserve into existence:

I am a most unhappy man. I have unwittingly ruined my country. A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated governments in the civilized world. No longer a government by free opinion, no longer a government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men.

If I may infer, it would seem as though President Wilson had some small regret over how it all went down. I mean, I had to read between the lines. But after some careful analysis, I was comfortable making the assumption that he didn't use the phrase "ruined my country" to mean a good thing. It's worth noting that The Great Depression began just 8 years after the end of Wilson's presidency. This led to the abandonment of the gold standard and our nation's almost pathological reliance on credit.

There are a few other questions that need to be answered. What gives money it's value? We used to have the gold standard. That was done away with. Even then we were an industrial nation with a strong GDP and good exports. But we don't make anything anymore. So from where could our money possibly derive it's value? Another important question is how does that interest owed to the Fed get paid? Intrinsically you know the answer. You just don't know how simple and absolute the answer is.

This is just another in a laundry list of examples of how our power and autonomy is being diverted. Just because the gears were set in motion before many of us were born doesn't mean we're not holding the wrench. We can either toss it into the machine and bring it to a grinding halt or we can turn a few nuts and bolts and change the way it operates. The third option is to allow it to run until every part of it has been so exploited that it breaks on it's own. But by then it will be too late. Simple reassembly will be impossible. We'll have to start from scratch.

Answers to come... if you don't find them first before I get the chance to write again. It gets worse.

Disclaimer: I want to be clear about something for individuals or organizations that may get the wrong idea about what I'm saying. I am not anti-government. I am not anti-corporate. I am simply against the abuse of power. I am a proponent of power-with rather than power-over. Interdependence rather than dominance.

This is just a brief and incomplete synopsis. As always, I encourage you to research more and broaden your understanding. I'll try to be funnier next time. It'll mitigate the shock.

Rock Smash Scissors Cut Paper Over Life

2011-04-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

I can pinpoint the day my world was turned upside down. I haven't really been able to get it completely back together since. Maybe that impossible desire to restore order drives me a little bit. I'm sharing this story because I know some of the things I plan to write about are a little unbelievable. The truth sometimes is. I'm hoping against hope that revealing a bit of the back story will prevent at least a few people from writing me off as a conspiracy whack job.

At a young age I can remember being taught in school about nebulous ideas like love and compassion. Teachers were able to define them very clearly, give examples, and make these things relatable. Movies, television, music and magazines covered this and similar concepts with confidence and authority (and probably a bit of an agenda). To my young mind, there was little mystery about the workings of the human heart. I was a sponge and so I absorbed everything that was advertised to me. I understood love. That is until my first girlfriend dumped me (Thanks Laura) and I realized the media was full of shit. But that isn't what this is about. The point is that commentary on love, only purporting to be truth, is all around us. This is particularly funny because love is completely intangible, even though it can certainly be felt. It's this incomprehensible force that emanates from whatever it is that makes us human. And we, in all of our ego, think we can define it, confine it, and market it. And even though in the empirical sense we can't, we never stop trying.

And then there's this very tangible thing that influences the daily decisions we make in a very real way, and even sometimes takes precedence over love. Anyone know what the leading causes of divorce are? Yet, this thing has never been defined. The media never addresses it. The school's don't educate the students about it. It is just considered too big of a thing to understand. And we just accept it as a foregone conclusion. All the while this thing plays us like puppets, rendering us predictable and controllable.

I remember sitting in Mr. Barsanti's AP Economics class wondering why we kept talking about supply and demand and market drives and blah blah blah when we had never ever defined what money was. We never identified where it came from or from where it derived its value. We never debated how or why it rose to central power in human life. I thought that was strange. But his class was usually 4th period right after lunch and I was never in a curious or motivated mood. The insulin spike that resulted from a my water polo season diet of pizza, snicker's bar, soda, and the legendary, never replicated Crispito ensured that I took naps rather than asked questions. And if I wasn't napping I spent hours and hours covering my arms with gel pen ink, foreshadowing my future career in the art world. After all that time in school, then through college, my questions about money were never addressed. I kept waiting for someone to spoon feed me the answer like they did when it came to differentials or quantum spin directions. But no one ever did. Eventually I realized that if I wanted an answer I would have to seek it out myself. I felt as if the education system had failed me. What a pain in the ass.

And that incomplete saga picked up somewhere around January 2008, several thousand miles from home...

I was touring the state hospital in Jinja, Uganda. The size of most hospitals can be conveyed by the number of beds they have or the number of doctors and nurses on staff. Not so in Uganda. I didn't see a single care provider the entire time I was at the hospital. And there were a few frames that could be loosely referred to as beds. But most of the patients were scattered about on the cracked concrete floor in various stages of illness. Whatever beds there were, there weren't enough. And whatever load the hospital had been designed to handle, it had been exceeded both in the quantity and quality of illness.

It took quite an effort to get to East Africa and I had spent countless hours in airport terminals and train stations along the way. There's never much to do but sit there and wait. I couldn't help but make the comparison that for many of these people, this was the last terminal in which they would ever wait. Having just spent all that time traveling connected me to the patients a bit and brought gravity to the situation, as if there wasn't already enough weighing us down. Everyone was dying. Malaria, AIDS, general infections. Most of the diseases were treatable in some sense. Unfortunately, there is often a large gap between what is possible and what actually gets done. Never had I seen so many people in one place at one time that were destined to fall in that gap.

After wandering the ward for about a half hour talking to various patients and answering numerous questions about my white skin, tattoos and America, a young woman came up and without a word confidently took me by the hand. It would turn out that she spoke broken English with a very heavy Lugandan (1 of 50 dialects spoken in the region) accent and she must have been about 17. She wanted me to meet someone. And this was communicated without a word. As a person who talks way too much, I am always taken aback by those moments when so much can be said with so little. It should also be mentioned that in certain (most) parts of Uganda, white people are rarely seen. And so when a white person is wandering around, it draws attention. Children would run up as if I were a character actor at Disneyland holding a giant bag of free candy. And despite a certain administration's concerted effort to destroy the international reputation of America, there are still large numbers of people in the world who see an American and see hope at the same time (at least back in '08). I believe this is what was happening here, as unwarranted as it may have been, when she took me by the hand.

The girl led me to the very opposite end of the long ward. We passed every single patient in the building along the way. It was an uncomfortable procession. I could feel their eyes searching me from the ground, wondering about the purpose of my presence. I felt guilt because there was nothing I could do for any of them. I realized that it may have been irresponsible of me to even show my face given what little I could do. After what seemed like an eternity we arrived at the far end where a woman sat, surrounded by a number of children. She looked about 50, but was probably 35 or 40. She was wearing a dingy white dress and a white scarf around her head which contrasted dramatically against her deep, black skin. She had a look of fatigue and sorrow in her eyes. Yellow. And it wasn't more than a few seconds before I realized that she, too, had come here to die. Without an introduction she began to whisper in Lugandan, eyes averted toward the floor. Was it humility, embarrassment, or something else that caused her to look downward? I'm not sure. But I know I felt both of those things intensely. The girl who brought me to her translated. I stood there with my hands in my pocket, listening as she confirmed my suspicion.

She told me that several months ago she began to feel unwell and her urine was "different." But she didn't have money to go to the doctor and she couldn't stop working for even a day or her children would go hungry. They looked at me, understanding the words their mother said before they were translated to me. I don't know how I looked, what my expression said. I just hoped it was appropriate. Her husband had died from AIDS a few years earlier, which "by the grace of God" she never got. They always talked about the grace of God. Even as they lay dying on dirty floors. The rest of her family was gone as well. And so it was only she left to raise the children. She kept working, kept denying what she was feeling, expecting it to be gone each following day. But the following day never brought relief and so she eventually broke down and went to the doctor with great pangs of conscience over the sacrifices it would force upon her children. The doctor determined that she had cervical cancer. The treatment was surgical removal of the cancer and the prognosis was good... at that time. The surgery would cost her just under $200. It might as well have been a million. The average annual income in Uganda was around $250. Annual. Not monthly.

She continued her story. The cancer had since metastasized to her lungs and liver. All this, the diagnosis, the metastasis, and coming to the hospital had happened over the span of 3 weeks. Hardly ample time to prepare for one's own death. The future of the children sitting around her was entirely uncertain. As she told me about her life expectancy, in my pocket I felt a familiar sensation between my fingers. It was the friction of American money rubbing against itself. It was cotton paper, dyed green. I still remember exactly how much there was. I had nine twenty dollar bills and another fifty six dollars in fives and ones because very few shops in Uganda could break a twenty. $236. This woman's life and the right of the children to be with their mother was, in essence, folded uselessly in my pocket. I maintained my composure on the outside. But inside, everything I had ever built was crumbling. Every edifice was falling apart. The bridges, collapsing.

I know I couldn't have turned back time to before her cancer had metastasized. But that doesn't change the feeling that I wish I could have. And I know the fact that I had that money in my pocket is not the reason she died. Her death was simply a catalyst. That isn't entirely accurate. Her death wasn't simple and it wasn't just anything. Some synapse in my brain developed a strong association between that woman and the $200 that stood between her and her life. I had to know how something so contrived and made of paper became so valuable that her children are now orphans. At some point, after returning from Africa, the smell of the jungle dissipated from my clothes, the red dirt washed away from under my fingernails, and life got back to normal. Even though I couldn't have saved her, it would have been irresponsible of me not to figure out what the $236 in my pocket actually meant. It would have been reprehensible of me to try and hold on to my previous notions and continue to embrace the ignorance in which I so lavishly basked during Mr. Barsanti's lectures . And so I began earnestly to seek answers to the few questions I had and to find more questions for answers I needed. Druing Mr. Barsanti's class the mystery of money was simply a juvenile rationalization to not pay attention. The questions now seemed a matter of life and death.

In my intellectual pursuit to understand the fundamental basis of money, for the first time in my life, I started to understand something my dad had told me over and over again. I'm still amazed at how long it takes to really grasp a lesson that's been repeatedly given since before I can remember. And I'm even more amazed how adults who seem like out of touch jackasses are actually very wise out of touch jackasses. In this case, it took me 25 years. The thing my dad would always say, "money is just a tool." He never really expanded any further. I guess he knew that I would have to figure it out for myself.

So what's the point of all of this? The stock we put in money has very real implications. And depending on the person, being informed can make a world of difference in their lives. I know it's allowed me to cope with the world as it currently is, make some intelligent (and more interesting) decisions that I might have otherwise not made, and release myself from some of the metaphorical shackles that people often allow money to place upon them. Very simply, money no longer holds the value that it once did. And that's a freeing realization. When I was young all I wanted was to be rich. It was the only measure of success I knew. Now, I just want to be fulfilled. Money is just a tool. I think understanding this fundamental idea will be of vital importance if we are ever to unite together and become something more than we are. And that's really the overall theme. True freedom and true unity. They can coexist. I'll write about my economic findings in the futre. But you don't have to wait. Google is about as convenient as it gets. And I know you have unanswered questions.

Consider this. We have love and money. And they are often pitted against each other. Love is something very real, with us even before we take our first breath, and immeasurable. And then there is money, which has only been around for milliseconds in the relative span of human existence, is the arbitrary construct of the human mind, and only continues to exist because of a sustained social agreement that it should have power. It's not difficult to decide which concept to stake a future upon. Because even at this moment, as sure as we live and breathe, the edifice is crumbling. And a broken tool is hardly useful.

Bleeding, Hearts, and Tutus.

2011-04-03T17:25:00.000-07:00

After what seems like 10 years my brother and I finally sat down and worked on his tattoo for a little bit. It was good to get back into it. Only 400 more sessions spaced apart in 1 year intervals left to go and I'll be able to post a completed picture. It's not that we aren't both committed, it's just that there are a lot of really good TV shows on and even if there weren't we would just watch every episode of Arrested Development in sequence until the end of time.

Molly, inspired by Natalie Portman in the Black Swan has began pursuing a career in the performing arts. Look for her to make a meteoric rise to the top of the ballet world.

And I made this drawing a while ago. I don't know where it is now... Washington D.C. or San Diego or somewhere in between.

A Harsh Self Assessment

2011-03-12T07:31:00.000-08:00

What next? I could continue forever writing about the myriad of injustices that are continually perpetuated upon “us” by “them” never nearly touching upon a fraction of the horror. But what would that accomplish? Words must be converted to action. That is a daunting thought and a daunting process. We know the problem. They’re trying to take fundamental rights from us one by one, like falling dominoes, and it has to stop. I have no idea how that is going to be done in completion. But I do have a stream of consciousness. So I offer that. Someone smarter than me will have to make sense of it all and do something with it.

If you don't notice that we're being sapped of our freedoms, now might be a good time to crack open that history book we all glossed over in grade school, high school, and college. Contrary to what your exams may have conveyed, memorizing dates wasn’t that important. It was what happened on those dates that mattered. And even more, what happened on those dates and was conveniently left out of the history books that matters the most. Remember when the federal government enacted social security? Me neither. I was born in '82. But I do know that one of the major concerns by opponents was that social security numbers would become our identity. The government assured us that this number would never be used for anything except paying into and distribution of benefits. Try to open a bank account now without a SSN and the teller will look at you like you’re absolutely nuts. This is because the teller was probably born in ‘87 and assumes that SSN have been around since the beginning of time. The bank teller doesn’t even know that the US government promised its citizens that SSN would not be used as a form of identity. The bank teller probably can’t tell you a single promise the US government has ever made because he a) doesn’t know, b) never cared, or c) can’t talk because he has to write a text message with 47 LOL’s in it and no actual content.

The solutions to all the obvious and not so obvious problems we are facing are not going to be made reality overnight. And so, unfortunately, we must suspend one of our fundamental American "virtues," namely the very American tendency to demand instant gratification. From here many battles must be waged for the war to be won. The only way the fight will be sustained, victory realized, is if we operate under the pretense that any fight fought is for the sake of our grandchildren's grandchildren. Total bummer. We do all the grunt work and those ungrateful, snot faced little rugrats reap the benefit of our blood, sweat, and tears. Some tribe of ancient people had a poignant thought on the subject. They said something to the effect of, "we don't inherit this earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children." They probably had more to say, but after this we decided we had heard enough and mowed them down with machine guns. But it’s an interesting perspective to consider given our cultural dedication to shortsightedness. Generally speaking, no matter how shortsighted we may be, I still know that a mother or father looking into their child's eyes wants the best for them, no matter what sacrifice is required. And I’m hoping this instinct will drive us.

So we're not perfect, what with the machine guns and the impatience. But in each of us there is humanity, nobler intentions than what we often act upon. And it is this nobility that must be nurtured.

So what can we do for our children’s children’s children’s children? One must first identify an enemy before a proper war can be levied. This is one of the primary lessons I learned in Catholic grade school. Identify your enemy, and then bring down the wrath of god upon them using all sorts of different chanting and incense and blessed weapons and just general weirdness. And the enemy can't be an ambiguous concept like Terrorism or Drugs. Because those are enemies invented by marketing companies in order create false, shallow patriotism and discord in American society. Wars on concepts don't address the underlying issues. Like maybe we should stop doing billions of dollars worth of blow because people are getting their heads cut off. These futile, ambiguous wars simply redistribute money from the poorest to the richest, reconstitute human beings from living, breathing organisms to vapor, and keep those of us lucky enough to remain safe well behind the front lines, in a debilitating state of fear. So who is our enemy? It's not the government. It's not the banks. It isn't the Taliban, or narco-traffickers, or the creators of Two and a Half Men. It isn't even the top 1% of the rich. The true enemy, at least at this point, is ourselves. Shocking, I know. First we are our own enemies in the individual sense. And then we are in the collective sense.

We have to be strong to see this through. Not strong like the 'roid addled geniuses that staff the WWE. But strong like people who survived the Great Depression with nothing but grit and determination. And let's face the difficult truth. None of us are strong. Few of us have an attention span that would actually require the minute hand of a clock to measure. For most, the second hand would suffice. Our situational awareness is gone along with any sense of direction. And we have offered up every last drop of our self reliance as a sacrifice to the gods of technology. It looks bleak. It is bleak. But bleak is not hopeless. Bleak is Seattle. And for like 7 or 8 hours twice a year, the sun even shines there. Just as a sculptor removes every piece of stone that is not a part of his sculpture, we too can chip away the imperfections that block our humanity and grace from radiating forth. How is that done? There's no single formula. What are your weaknesses? Address them. It's going to be different for each individual. But the key is discomfort. We have another American “virtue” to shy away from pain and hard work. We take the easy road, because its there and it’s well lit. If one is content and comfortable, one is not learning. One is stagnant. And if one is stagnant, one might as well be dead. Cows are content. Cows get slaughtered, neatly packaged, and magically end up on your dinner plate without you having to clean a single drop of blood off your hands. Just like cocaine. All the benefit, none of the dirty work. I’m off on a tangent. Anyway, discomfort must be savored and sought out. That’s the feeling of growth. Go for a run. Have a face to face conversation with a human being, especially one with a different viewpoint. Learn math. Drive four blocks without texting somebody. Discomfort equates to progress. It's not rocket surgery. Everyone knows this. And everyone knows the sense of satisfaction that comes with the expansion of a comfort zone. It's just difficult to remember and be motivated when all doped up on opioids like TV and, well, actual opioids. I'm not talking about beer though. Beer is fine. In any quantity.

When we each individually endeavor to become the best version of ourselves, we will find within us security, strength (Not like Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk but like Lou Ferrigno as a guy who rose above a disability to achieve great things), and a compassionate, indomitable will. Only then can we move on to address the collective issue and begin properly sticking it to the man. Until then, they'll continue trying to divide us and take from us what little we have left. Like our ability to get together and say that we as a group want fair treatment. What the fuck? I still can’t believe that’s even a thing. Orwell was right. Shit is getting crazy.

Just don't forget, we aren't fighting for ourselves. We are fighting for those that come after us. Instant gratification must be delayed. Indefinitely. (I just want to be totally clear again that this does not mean beer).

I don’t care if you agree or disagree with me. I only care if you think for yourself. If you do that, then we are brothers and sisters. Unless you’re from New Zealand. No amount of anything can make me unite with that “situation.” (A little backstory here to prevent any future accusation that I'm racist against kiwis. My brother in law is kiwi. He infiltrated our borders, wooed my sister, married her, and then engaged her uterus to propagate demon spawn. So I have a healthy weariness.)

A Primer: Lace 'Em Up

2011-03-06T22:08:00.000-08:00

I don't write, or post rather, much other than satirical dribble. Contrary to appearances, though, I do occasionally think about things that matter. And I feel it's time to stop hiding that fact.

Our beloved country is, very plainly, in a state of disarray. Disarray is just a fancy word for chaos. And chaos is just a fancy word for we're fucked. Whoever "they" are, they are trying to officially put an end to our ability to band together and bargain for a fair slice of the pie that we probably baked in the first place. "They" are against that because their agenda involves us having none of the pie. By the way, we also grew and harvested the fruit as well. It might be helpful to offer a few definitions here. When I refer to "us" or "we" I'm referring to those of us ranked in the bottom 90% when it comes to assessing ownership of this great nation's vast wealth. When I talk about "they" or "them" I'm referring to the top 10%, more specifically the top 1% who, incidentally, own more of this nation's wealth than the bottom 90% combined. (In case you're wondering, the top 1% own around 38% of the wealth while the bottom 90% control about 19% collectively). As I generally do, I'm not citing my source, hoping that you might go find out for yourself and begin a path of self discovery that will lead you to other pertinent information that I've never even seen.

So let's do that math. There are just over 300 million people in the U.S. That means the top 1% is about 3 million while the bottom 90% amounts to 270 million people. If my understandings of physics and 3rd grade playground dynamics are as sound as I think they are, in a tug of war 270 million people should always be able to beat 3 million. Especially when the 3 million are fat, white people with soft hands and the 270 million are the ones who have driven the rivets that hold up bridges and buildings, fight the wars that they get us in, put out the fires that ravage homes in the night, raise and educate the children, and generally create the wealth that the top 1% claim for themselves.

Throughout history, when the rich oppress the poor, the poor rise up and and attempt to strike down the rich, sometimes successfully. Sometimes not. But while "they" may be greedy, "they" aren't stupid. "They" don't want us to revolt. Over the years they have refined their system of controlling us. They have thinly veiled their actions through a network of politicians and corporations. And they have blessed us with ample forms of entertainment and distraction in order to prevent us from ever taking a good look at what is actually going on. In short, they have created a nation where thinking for oneself is so uncomfortable that most of us simply forego that activity. And even if someone does think for themselves its unlikely they'll ever be able to find common cause with another human being. Ignorance is bliss. And TV helps. God I love Jersey Shore. Learning that Snookie can't handle the size of Vinnie's d*** (this is an actual topic covered on the show) is far more important than putting together certain details about major political movements in this country. If it happens in Wisconsin, it can happen anywhere. What details, you ask, wondering what Snookie's parents must think of her. Important details. Like the fact that they're trying to end collective bargaining in Wisconsin to make up for the state deficit. And the fact that the deficit in question is almost exactly the same amount as a tax cut that the mega-rich received when this new governor took office. Coincidence? Probably. Yeah. That seems like total coincidence (I really hope you can hear the sarcasm in my keystrokes). But who cares. Because the boys left "The Situation" at the house because he was taking too long to get dressed. Oh snap! Draaaaammmaaaaa.

So here we are. We live in a modern serfdom. Except instead of starving to death, we have too much to eat. We pay way too much money for government subsidized (a term for a massive corporate backed decision) corn that has been reshaped, repackaged, and rechemicaled to appeal to some anthropological desire of ours for fat and sugar. These are substances which, several hundred years ago were scarce in the human diet and rightfully so. Because they're essentially addictive. And we take the bait. We eat food that provides no nourishment for our mind, body, or soul. And it makes us dumb. And it takes from us our sense of self reliance. Then they give us each a car so we can buy oil and a little plot of land on which to grow grass which also nourishes nothing and serves no purpose except to give the HOA a reason to fine us if we happen to be such good farmers that our grass grows too well. And we think we're happy. Because we think if we work hard enough, we can become one of them. It baffles me, this impulse to cannibalize our brothers and sisters so that we might have a few more dollars in our pocket, a bigger TV perhaps, with higher resolution. You know, so you can see the cellulite and the complexion that results from 365 days a year of smoking, drinking, tanning beds and sexual folly. It's especially baffling when you allow relationships to disintegrate, ignore your community, and generally miss out on the true joys of life chasing something you are literally never allowed to achieve, but that always seems to be just within an inch of your grasp.

I relate to my world through analogies. And I'm a big fan of my family and how we all stick together even though individually we're nuts and get on each other's nerves to a degree that probably can't be conveyed with a number that has a name. So here's my family analogy. They refer to the rich white men who initially developed this nation as forefathers. Regardless of their individual character flaws, they had ridiculously accurate foresight (most of which we've collectively ignored) and laid the foundation upon which a great nation could be built. They did actual work. They actually fought in the wars they perpetuated. And they didn't perpetuate war under false pretenses. These forefathers are the antecedents of modern politicians. But it seems that all the politicians of today were thalidomide babies. Something clearly went wrong somewhere. They're supposed to be the leaders, the benevolent patriarchs, our heroes. But instead they've decided to be greedy assholes and shills for the people pulling the strings. And they're not only greedy, but they're fat and lazy. That's why, in a roundabout way, I always liked Putin. Even though I'm sure he sucks, he seems like he could at least kick my ass if I challenged him. He swims in freezing waters and probably wrestles bears. I digress.

The analogy: Whenever our family was in trouble, dad (the father, the patriarch) worked harder to right the ship. Fingers to the bone. And not only did dad work harder, but he also tightened his belt because he didn't want mom and the kids to feel a single hunger pang. But in this country, the patriarchs are not only refusing to work harder, they're eating the fucking children. And if dad tries to eat the kids, then mom and the kids have two options. Mom and the kids can either run away, or they can kick the shit out of dad because they really like the house and don't feel like leaving.

I think "we" should put on our boots. Not the walking kind. The shit kicking kind.

I Wub You

2011-02-15T10:17:00.000-08:00

If I may label myself (with the accuracy of a laser guided bloodhound, barracuda, or heat seeking missile) I would say that I'm probably the most romantic, soft hearted, open minded, lovey dovey, fancy pants, least bitter, most appropriately emotional individual wandering the face of the Earth today. Ask my friends and family. They would certainly agree. But even I'm not falling for this Valentine's day bullshit. Now don't get me wrong, I always appreciated the chalky taste of conversation hearts, especially if they were given to me by one of the girls in my class who "developed" early. Don't look at me like that. It's not pedophilia if you're also 12 years old. That night my mom would make heart shaped meat loaf. It was always delicious. I would cover it with ketchup. She probably thought I was making it red in the spirit of the holiday. Little did she know I was pretending that I was partaking in the forbidden delicacy of human heart. The ketchup obviously... oxygen rich blood. What do you expect? I went to Catholic school. Themes of violence and horror were frequent. I wonder how she would have felt about Valentine's Day meatloaf if she knew that she was actually fostering my juvenile fascination with cannibalism. Suck on that Esther A. Howland.

But Valentine's Day was, from it's very inception, nothing more than federally mandated affection. And while it is a boon for the fine people at Applebee's because it's the only night of the year where every other restaurant is so booked up that people are forced to go there, as an official American holiday it's still the illegitimate creation of some of the biggest bastard sons o' bitches to wandering the face of the Earth today, politicians (Was that a run on sentence? Grammar police, get at me). Admittedly, I'm skipping a few steps. There was of course the decree of a pope back in like late 400 something A.D. celebrating the life and death of one of several possible martyrs. But ultimately, Valentine's Day was created to fill the consumer gap between Christmas and Easter. In short, people weren't buying enough shit. Well, people in the U.S. weren't buying enough shit. We don't care what Iraqis or Portugese are buying. Probably sand.

I'm not lobbying against love. I'm just saying that if you participate in a corporate holiday then you're indisputably a sheep and you're giving into the man. You might as well just line up at the post office and get on the next bus to the federal internment camp. Because that's what's coming next. That's right. If you celebrate Valentine's Day, you hate freedom. Quite a moral conundrum, isn't it you right wing neconservative whack jobs? If you love someone, I've read somewhere that it's probably a great idea to express it daily in some form. Tell them. Give them a hug. Make them an egg sandwich for breakfast. Don't read into that. I literally mean an egg sandwich. To my knowledge it's not the name of an elaborate sex move. And then every once in a while make a big celebration of your love. Write a letter. Hug them twice. Make them an Egg Sandwich for Dinner. That one is what you think it is. But it shouldn't be forced. If your major concern is that grocery stores don't sell a large selection of red candy year round, your fears have been addressed. Everyone loves Starburst. Even Iraqis.

Truth is, all this corporate stuff just casts a shadow over the otherwise honest and sincere acts of love that might be taking place anyway. And that's a shame. I have to protect the identities of the innocent. But I know a guy who wrote a Valentine card to his wife after he died in which he threatened to haunt her by switching lights on and off and rubbing her butt. Just another in a long life of loving actions. Take notes Hallmark. If you're not willing to become a "goast" to prove it, it just isn't love.

If Fashion Were Puke, It's in My Mouth a Little Bit Now

2011-02-06T21:17:00.000-08:00

WTF?

When I first saw these, I panicked worse than in the first grade when I thought I could save time by taking my pants off without taking my shoes off, botched the procedure, and had to waddle back to class, pants strangling my shoes, for faculty assistance. But after two Xanax, a Valium, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's (presently, not in the first grade) I was able to recenter myself, get my wits about me, and process what I was seeing. I realized, just before jabbing a complimentary spork from Taco Bell into my eyeballs, that it didn't matter if they were selling these pajamajeans as long as no one on earth buys them. "We'll let the free market solve this little problem." That's what I confidently said to myself with patriotism in my heart and the pride of capitalism coursing through my veins. But just to cover my bases I also went ahead and prayed to several hundred gods from any religious tradition or cult about which I could find an entry on Wikipedia. Three short months later, I've lost all hope in the free market, humanity, religion (except Scientology), and the future. I'm a shell of the man I once was. I haven't slept in weeks. Every time I close my eyes... I see them.

I just have a few points of consideration I would like to offer the 26 adult women and 1 adult male that I've seen wearing these things, as well as the cross section of people that these 27 messengers of the apocalypse represent. Seeing them in person, in clear view of the general public, was exponentially more upsetting than seeing them as a digital image on TV. I don't remember exactly where I was on 9/11. But I do remember, to my unending horror, the first time I saw these denim colored sweatpants in all their faux-riveted glory. Since the unapologetic wearers of these atrocities are essentially the face of an epidemic, I feel it only right to give them a cohesive identity. Something catchy, accurate, and descriptive. I learned from TV that the key to making a memorable label is alliteration. Thus, they will be called The Teratoma 27.

1. If they're that comfortable, wear them at home. Exclusively. And preferably only in an emergency. Like if your washer and dryer break, all the laundromats in your town have been burnt to the ground due to their unfortunate proximity to exploding meth labs, and you've worn all your other clothes to the point that they are literally no longer wearable (Science has shown that a pair of normal jeans can be worn 15 months without washing). And you've also torn down the curtains, cut swatches of fabric from the couches, and humanely "processed" the coats of house pets to cover the essentials. Then, and only then should you even begin to think about wearing your pajama jeans. Even these thoughts should be accompanied by great trepidation.

2. There are some things on this planet that just should not be combined. Jeans and sweatpants have been on this list since time immemorial. It's baffling to me that this natural law was violated. And not only violated but marketed. And not only marketed but purchased. And worse, worn. I can only assume that whoever invented these enjoys a nice sheltered life somewhere upon the Autism spectrum. And not the good kind of autism either. Other examples of things that should not be mixed: canned tuna in olive oil and ice cream. The gamete of anyone from the cast of Jersey Shore and any other substance that might potentially yield life especially other gamete. Women and professional basketball. But I have heard that the best way to clean pajamajeans is to combine ammonia and bleach. Don't worry. That sensation that feels like your lungs are melting and drowning you in your own blood... that just means it's working. (Disclaimer: Mixing ammonia and bleach will probably be the last thing you ever do, so don't. And if you do, you can't sue me. I'm pretty sure that counts as a legally bulletproof disclaimer.)

3. Wearing of this blight upon human existence calls into serious question one's quality of character. People who wear these jeans lack integrity. In short, they are liars. How can someone who isn't even honest about their rivets and/or jean pockets be trusted in any capacity at any point in the future. I'm a person who believes that even a murderer can be reformed. But for The Teratoma 27 and like minded individuals, there is no absolution. No one will marry you. Ever. Not even with a prenup. And if any part of you believes that you're fooling anyone, you're also lying to yourself. This inevitably irritates the hell out of the famous pirate Shakesbeard who said, "To thine own self, be true." If Liz Lemmon has taught us anything, it's that you can't have it all. Just as you can not simultaneously have a raging methamphetamine addiction and a normal sleep schedule, you also can not be that comfortable and trick people into believing that you're a rational human being. The Romans spent the entirety of their empire trying to figure out how to be stylish slobs as well as trying to discover new holes in which to make sex after they, as a society, grew bored with the traditional 9 points of penetration. Look where it got them. Why must mankind always ignore the lessons of history in favor of their own peril? When will we stop trying to fly so close to the sun on wings of wax?

4. Finally, I have a short list of things you could buy for $39.95 + $7.95 that aren't total abominations in the biblical sense of the word.

1/6 of a stuffed armadillo. It's a small price to pay to have to have in your living room the animal most often splattered across Texas highways. It's a great conversation piece and could probably be used as an object of meditation... something about evidence of the impermanence of life, even if your whole body was covered in fancy pants armor loosely modeled after the dimples of a golf ball.

A couple of these wolf shirts. as far as levels of awesome and social appropriateness are concerned, this fine garment is the quintessential opposite of pajama jeans. If you buy two shirts you get 6 wolves and two moons. We don't even have two moons on earth. But you could have two in your top drawer. How have you not already entered your credit card info?

A nice claw hammer. To be used on oneself in the event of pajamajean sighting. With any luck, the resulting head injury will leave you with a case of one of the good kinds of autism. Experiment with both sides of hammer, striking cranium until desired effect is achieved.

I'll Let the Pictures Tell the Story...

2010-11-28T20:35:00.000-08:00

I occasionally do passable tattoos

My nephew seems to be teething

He also really doesn't give a f*** about social mores concerning public nudity (his words, not mine). And if anyone has a problem with that, the regal looking beast behind him will eat your face off with extreme prejudice.

Updates...

2010-11-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

I added some images to the Photo, Draw, and Paint sections of the website. The vast majority of it is in the Photo section. Check it out. Or don't. Who even cares in this economy.

Dos.

2010-08-31T16:46:00.000-07:00

Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-raugust? Fa-ing Raugust.

2010-08-26T22:22:00.000-07:00

I love Christmas just as much as the next person; the consumerism, the crowds, the merchandise based affection, the slow advancing fervor that culminates in a sloppy religio-economic orgy; what's not to love? It's a time of Joy™, Generosity®, and Caring©. I once made a tongue-in-cheek reference to the very obvious fact that retailers were jumping on the Sell Christmas Shit Express Train way too early. But it turns out that I was wrong... in the context of underestimation. If you're keeping score at home, that's the first and most likely last time that it will ever happen. So soak it up. Today, August 26, 2010, I took the following photos:

That last one was actually just an IV from paramedic class yesterday. It wasn't one that I did. All the ones I did bled a lot more. Actually, I guess now would be a good time to let everyone know that based on extensive research conducted yesterday, there has to be way more than 10 pints of blood in the human body. Anyway, I think the last photo illustrates an important point about the other two photos. They're trying to bleed us dry. Christmas in August? What's more, I live in Arizona. The temperature is still regularly breaking triple digits. Santa's fat ass would literally die if he came down here with his furry jacket and arctic reindeer. This is getting ri-goddamn-diculous. It sort of makes me want to renounce everything upon which I've been raised and join one of the more rational countries and/or religions. I wonder if there are any North Korean Raelian missionaries in my neighborhood that might be able to offer me a promise of eternal happiness and guarantee that all holiday seasons will commence on an appropriate timeline. I would seriously consider it. At least in North Korea they're up front about the fact that you'll be worshipping a short fat guy with delusions of grandeur. Here they don't tell you that. They just quietly slip some Christmas paraphernalia in between the 40 lb. containers of Slim Jims and the 50 gallon drums of Jose Cuervo and hope the fish start biting. We're the fish, in case you have the devastating learning disability known as analagexia. It's not as dirty as it sounds.

The most startling thing to me is the very real possibility that all that Christmas crap was there even before today. I haven't been shopping in a long time. The toilet paper situation at my house was dire. I've been rewearing well used underwear for weeks because we ran out of laundry detergent. My beloved canine (pictured below) has been subsisting on a diet of dryer sheets and nickels for like a month. So for all I know, they put that stuff in the store around the same time every ethnic Albanian that I knew was celebrating Sultan Nouruz Remembrance day. But I don't know. Because I didn't go to the store. I was helping my Albanian friends celebrate.

So listen to Molly. You can tell by her photo that she is both swift and wise. Molly wants the order of holidays to remain. Molly says it goes Halloween, My Birthday, Thanksgiving, theeeeennnnn Christmas. Not fucking... Christmas pre-season, Labor Day, Christmas Lite, normal December 25th style Christmas, then like, Christmas Extra Time brought to you by FIFA World Cup®. Have some decency American retailers. Let us pay off our credit cards from last Christmas before you start flaunting stuffed Rudolphs in our financially overextended faces.

I would boycott Christmas altogether. But let's be serious. Harry Potter Lego Hogwart's Game is out this year. And I can't risk getting trampled in a Wal-Mart style Christmas Sacrifice Ritual. That's a role only a mother could fill. Hint Hint.

And if you're wondering about the title, think of the Chinese restaurant scene in A Christmas Story.

Baby Got (hurt) Back...

2010-08-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I did what any rational adult male would do on a normal weekday. I went to the gym and injured my back. Having no experience with back injuries aside from seeing other people have them and knowing that I never wanted one, it was a bit disconcerting. Back injuries were the realm of old people and I guess, at 27, I've finally become one. It's unfortunate that it will still be another 38 years before I can claim the true and rightful spoils of my status, the glory that is the senior citizen discount. Until then, I exist in sort of a generational limbo. And anyone who has actually been to limbo knows there's not much to do there except think. So even though my back has mutinied against me, not being able to climb, run, hike, tattoo, or do anything really except watch TV and contemplate, this event has thrust me into a clarifying introspection and I realized a few things about myself.

In an act of uninsured desperation, I went to the chiropractor (the short story is that it worked in spite of my preconceived notions) and while filling out the necessary forms, there was a simple question that struck me as odd. The question asked "What is your level of health and fitness?" And the multiple choice answers were as follows:

-Below average
-Average
-Above average

The choices seemed simplistic. And even though it wasn't asking me to integrate a differential function, my mind began reeling. Level of health compared to what? Averages are by their very definition comparative. But the question offered no further information. Compared to the patients at a heart hospital in Kentucky? Probably above average. Compared to the predators I've been watching during Shark Week? Below average. Not knowing exactly what they were asking I just went with the safe bet and circled average. But then I started to think about my efforts toward health and fitness and began to wonder what other people were circling on this form. I imagine there must have been humble triathletes who would have circled below average because their 3 hour 22 minute marathon time was 27 minutes shy of the world record. And I'm sure there were the delusional ones who circled above average when they have been existing on a diet solely consisting of foods with Mc in the name but they walked 12 minutes on the treadmill last April while waiting for the results of one of Maury Povich's paternity tests.

It got me to thinking about averages and self perception. So I did a bit of research, which, in honor of tradition will be presented without sources. On another blog (I guess that's a source, secondary at best, probably tertiary) I found this:

96% of cancer patients in a hospital claim to be in better health than the average cancer patient.

93% of motorists consider themselves to be safer-than-average drivers.

90% students see themselves as more intelligent than the average student.

94% of college professors said they are better-than-average teachers.

Ironically, 92% said they are less biased than average, too.

Just click through to the other blog. Because that guy sums up my thoughts with way less peripheral BS. If I had written an article on the same concept it would have been 45 times as long. You know, because I think I'm awesome and I love to hear myself talk.

This sort of outlines the stance one must take when undertaking any endeavor in life. From the artist's perspective, the moment you don't think you suck, you stop learning, you stagnate, and you die. So even if from the aspect of comparison to the general public, someone is talented at drawing, in comparison to their unrealized potential they might as well be smearing dog poo on a piece of paper.

And this is the big issue I have with mothers. You know who you are. You all think your kids are so great. I'm sure this instinct is related to some kind of evolutionary survival imperative. But try and understand the disparity between what you think of your kids, what the rest of the world thinks of your kids, and what your kids actually think of themselves. It's a delicate balance between developing self esteem and reaching one's potential. So even though a child might do something good or even extraordinary every once in a while, years of empirical research by teams of doctors and scientists have repeatedly shown that the sun does not shine out of anyone's ass. Except mine. Just ask my mom.

New Things...

2010-07-26T19:22:00.000-07:00

Just a few new pieces. It's been a long time. But I've recently been diagnosed with Asperger's. So I'm not really obligated to operate under any of the normal constraints of society. I'll try to be a little more consistent with posting things on here. And if you recognized that as an empty promise... you win a prize. Email me to collect.

A Harrowing Tale...

2010-04-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of George Costanza’s epic struggle to come up with “The jerk store called, and they’re all out of you.” only to be bested by the witty retort, “What difference does it make? You’re their number one seller.” I bring you the following factual recount of true events. This isn’t that “based on a true story,” watered down bullshit. This is a story of triumph. A story about the little man standing up to the system, a story of drama, intrigue, and culturally uncharacteristic razor sharp, poignantly timed wit the likes of which will probably be seldom seen in the natural world again. These days there are so few heroes for the youth of our decaying society to emulate. But in the most unlikely of places we find that even small, partially retarded New Zealanders (clinically proven) that think it’s OK to marry people’s kid sisters can have the heart of a lion. Some stories deserve to be heard, but there are others that can’t afford not to. If nothing else, the retelling of this story will serve as a historical record for the children of Steven Reginald Sierra Nevada Rodriguez Shippey, that even when their dad is being a total douche, there was at least one moment in time where he came out on top in a big way. In much the same way apostles individually brought you the story of Jesus, I bring you the story of Steve Shippey and the Slightly Overweight Downtown Sacramento Parking Ticket Writer Guy or Steve Shippey and the Magic Parking Permit. And by the way, it’s totally unbiased.

It was an otherwise ordinary brisk April early afternoon in the lower grid area of downtown Sacramento. There was a slight clumping of foreboding gray clouds in the sky, a reminder to anyone who might have forgotten that this was April, and the rain could begin without warning. Despite this, clear blue sky filled in the gaps between the clouds lending a bit of optimism to those who hoped that the uninterrupted sunny spring days would soon arrive. Squirrels playfully taunted each other and frolicked about in the budding branches of maple and oak that arched majestically above the streets and the homes that lined them. All was well and peaceful on 4th St. Birds chirped, bees buzzed, and the general happenings of the natural world passed uneventfully.

But then the generally beautiful, subdued sound of another wonderful day was murdered to death when in the distance their appeared a comically compact, cutesy little motorized tricycle thingy with a shell super glued onto the chassis, attempting but failing to lend it a bit more legitimacy as a vehicle that belongs on an actual road.

this is actually the San Francisco version of the meter-mobile. it's only slightly less stupid.

Inside said joke car was a bicycle helmet wearing driver. In general, the helmet is a city-mandated safety protocol. But in this particular case one would have little problem making and winning the argument that the helmet was a... um... lifestyle choice for this gentlemen. Besides, even in our slumping economy, who takes a job as a motorized meter maid except people who should always wear a helmet, especially when there are so many new jobs opening up at Adalberto’s all over the world. They say animals have a 6th sense for approaching disaster and/or excessive flatulence. And at first sight and sound of this encased-headed gentlemen, the squirrels ran in their holes, the birds, totally against their natural tendency, flew south for the summer, the bees just vanished into thin air as they have been doing lately. Incidentally, what the f***? I heard that if the bees keep up this mysterious disappearing act, certain flavors of ice cream will no longer be available. And since now we know the bees disappear whenever parking attendants show up, I think we all know exactly what needs to be done. That’s right, we as a society need to adopt more conscientious, ecologically mindful lifestyles reducing the negative impact we have on our environment and mitigating, as best we can, the imbalances inherently caused by our existence as a species. And, of course kill all parking attendants. But this isn’t a story about polar ice caps or the declining population of giant pandas. All I know is that when that motorized cart appeared on the horizon, there was one squirrel that couldn’t make it to shelter fast enough, and rather than risk being in close proximity to someone who probably smelled like weird soup, he threw himself in front of the next passing car. Not under it. We’re talking face first into the grill. He evaporated.

The parking attendant putt-putted down the street looking for vehicles in violation of the 1 hour parking limit on the roadside. In his head, he imagined that he was a lion stalking zebra in the Serengeti, and then in another delusion of grandeur, he imagined himself a sniper crawling through the undergrowth, picking off VC in the jungle. But really, he was just a chubby guy in a helmet whose sole purpose was to work for the man generating revenue for the city, which they would probably then use to buy more helmets and go-karts for chubby drones rather than, say, make a little dent in the California education crisis. The parking attendant began making his way to a nondescript jeep cherokee parked in front of a nondescript victorian house... except for the fact that this particular house was painted totally pink like a strip club. In the window of the strip club house, a young woman, perhaps 14 months pregnant saw the parking attendant coming. This young woman was the wife of our hero and the someone’s kid sister who married a partially retarded New Zealander even though her parents and brothers taught her better than that. Being well into her 6th trimester of an inexplicably extended gestation (a situation which confounds the wider Ob/Gyn community to this day), her highly developed women’s intuition kicked in and she knew just where Dog the Bounty Hunter was heading. Being prone to speaking in ridiculous baby talk, again due to the extended time she had been host to a (parasitic) fetus, she yelled out, “Holy shit babe, you’re about to get a fucking ticket on the jeep.”

In order to lend continuity to the story, I’m gonna stick to the Serengeti reference for at least the next thought. Now that you know what to expect, we can continue. Her faithful, brave, oddly shaped headed husband leapt from his perch on a computer chair where he was likely looking at the weirdest internet porn he could possibly find, probably some real sick stuff from Japan, and bolted out the door and down the stairs where he arrived at the Jeep at precisely the same moment that MarioKart did. Precisely... the same... moment. (Oh yeah, the Serengeti. When he leapt, it was like a gazelle.) A crack of thunder belted out in the sky as their eyes met and they began sizing up one another. The squirrels poked their heads out of their holes, the birds circled back around en masse, and in a quantum-mechanical bending of time-space or the string-ether or something the bees reappeared, outlined by a faint Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: Secret of the Ooze-esque glow, to see what would happen. In the background of the scene his wife, violating the laws of physics including but not limited to the one about gravity that Newton worked so hard at inventing, walked her pregnant ass down the stairs with her friend to her car where she had the Parking Pass That Laid Waste to 1-Hour Parking Limits. It was a mythical object, this parking pass, rendering the municipal powers of Helmet Butt (because his face was as dumb as a butt) null and void. I’ve never seen Harry Potter, I swear. But I imagine it would be like if there was like this real powerful wizard who like had all these powers but then this other dude like had this piece of paper and then like if the paper were in the car then the wizard wouldn’t have anymore powers. That’s how it would be like.

Carly (some names have been changed to protect the innocent and people who don’t want the world knowing that they fell for the empty charms of a Kiwi) and Molly (real name) went to the car and began a delicate operation of undermining state authority. The capacity for deviousness in the pregnant woman should never be underestimated. And in this case, her years as a member of a large extended family had been a seething cauldron from which she extracted a profound ability to creatively manipulate and bend reality to her whims only added to her ability to affect the outcome of this situation. Normally in the past, this was referred to as whining. But in this case, it manifested itself in an act of cunning, deceptive agility. But for a good cause... the aforementioned undermining of state authority.

The parking guy returned to his hell on wheels to grab his notepad. Steve, still Kiwi, so still genetically inclined to exhibit some twice displaced trait of British politeness tried to cordially reason with the gentleman as he opened the door to the Jeep, presupposing that his negotiation would be successful. He asked “Can’t I just move it?” Only phonetically, with Steve’s accent it probably sounded more like, “Cont aye jest snarl snarl snarl?” To which the city worker replied, and I quote:

“Can’t, already got it on film.”

At that moment, in a maneuver that can only be compared to the climax of the most intricate ballet in history, that one pregnant lady we talked about earlier walked ninja-like behind the parking attendant and handed Steve the parking pass that she had retrieved from the other car. In one deft motion, it was almost as if they were two bodies sharing one brain, they transferred the wizard-power-nullifying parking pass from hand to hand and onto the dashboard of the offending vehicle. All of this took place in a span of time that can not be measured by modern instruments. And this split-split-split-split second occurrence took place at the same moment the parking attendant was rooting around in his “car” for his ticket book. Imagine a grizzly bear searching for food in a trash can and you have some idea of the lumbering, growling, sequence of movements that took place.

The attendant then headed to the front of the vehicle to get a VIN, where he was flabbergasted to discover a valid, city issued, mystical Parking Pass That Laid Waste to 1-Hour Parking Limits. In a cross between words and squeaking he managed to remark in about 4 different ways something to the effect of “Where did that come from? That wasn’t there before, was it?” After about 5 minutes of incomprehensible philosophical questioning about the reality of the situation, he looked to Steve hoping to have some light shed on the situation. He looked at him desperately, waiting for Steve to yield and give permission to keep writing the ticket and restore balance to his existence. But Steve Shippey, Kiwi, freedom fighter, modern hero, average husband, OK tattooer, total lush, did no such thing. He just stared back stoically, feeling that he had turned the tables, knowing that he had gone up against the giant and won. The parking attendant, in one final effort at reasserting his state-granted authority said with less of an interrogative tone, more matter-of-factly, “That wasn’t there before.”

And as he put pen to paper to continue writing the ticket he was struck down with one final death blow when Steve Shippey, soon to be father, New Zealand-American role model, dirtbag, sufferer of a profound case of arrested development, uttered these final words:

“I don’t know, do you got it on film.”

He shut the Jeep door, smiled politely, and gracefully walked away. Boo...Yah! Booyah indeed.

Thus ends one of the greatest tales of triumph ever beknownst to man. It nary wouldnst’ve possible without the teamwork and courage demonstrated by two unlikely individuals. But since this story is being written by a dude and the girl in question tormented me for my entire childhood, Steve gets most of the credit. There are about 4,000 different morals in this story. The squirrel taught us to look both ways before crossing the streets unless your committing an act of mercy suicide. The author taught us that it’s important to watch classic films that predate your generation (especially ones involving anapsida and ooze) so that you can understand referential material in soon to be classic stories. Pregnant chicks and foreigners make a great team especially if theres at least a 75% chance that said foreigner is responsible the pregnancy of said chick. The environment is precious so don’t f*** it up. So just pick one and tell it to your 4th grade class. With all the money the state has been spending on bike helmets, I doubt your students have developed the mental muscle or literary analysis skills necessary to elicit a moral from a story on their own, especially one as complicated and sublimely truthful as the one just told.

*In the end, and this is not a joke, the parking attendant walked away defeated. But within the hour he circled back around the block, and Steve watched him as he got out of his go-kart all shifty like, ran up to the Jeep, looked left, looked right, nervously slapped a ticket on the windshield that he had filled out in advance. Then he ran back to his go-kart, got inside grizzly-bear-in-a-trashcan style, and sped off. I am of course, using the phrase “sped off” relatively. In a vehicle with a top speed of 26 mph and horsepower measured in a fraction, there’s only so much speeding one can do. The ticket will be contested. Oh yeah, as the guy drove away, Steve yelled out the window, "I slept with your wife." The parking attendant yelled back, "My wife's in a coma." OK, that didn't happen, but careful and discerning readers understand why it's an appropriate end to the asterisk.

This Just In: Kiwi Tattoos Well, Still a Dirtbag...

2010-03-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

One of New Zealand's finest sons (which isn't saying much) has, against all odds, become a competent, if not amazing tattooer. I found this photo in my camera and figured I would post it here because it makes my blog look a little nicer.

tattoo by Steven Shippey

So if you're in Sacramento and you're sick of waiting for me to drag my lazy ass up there, you should give Steve a call, especially if you want any realistic portraiture or horror related imagery. Let's face it, he's better than I am and less of a jerk. One word of caution, you'll have to endure his stupid accent for the entire tattoo. He's good at following instructions, though. So a simple "Shut up mate, g'day!" should do the trick. His website is voodootaddoo.com and his email is tat2shippey@gmail.com.

And here are a couple other tattoos that he won fancy awards for...

tattoos by Steven Shippey

Randoms...

2010-03-12T14:05:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated in a while. So just a few pictures I found in my camera that I don't think have seen the light of day. Other than the daily proclamations of my own awesomeness, I don't pat myself on the back too often. But today, I'm going to take a break from my almost pathological modesty and point out what an amazing job I did on the matte for that chihuahua painting. The matte is definitely the best thing out of all the stuff presented here today. Well, maybe second best. Ikea made the picture frame.

We're Still in a Recession... Seriously?

2010-01-07T13:30:00.000-08:00

According to news reports and my high school economics teacher, the U.S. economy is a living, breathing complex organism far beyond the understanding of a person with my meager intellectual endowments. I believed them. It made sense. So you can imagine my surprise when I solved the economic crisis three nights ago while ordering a quesadilla in a drive thru. I would have posted this sooner, ending the sorrows of millions of Americans, but I had to mail a letter and after that ordeal I needed a few days R&R.

Frankly, I can't believe Alan Greenspan or Donald Rumsfeld or whoever is in charge of wrecking the system of capitalism upon which all healthy greed is founded has been thinking. They must have had their heads up their own or someone else's ass for like 5 years now. I know that's a serious indictment, assheadery, and I think it's actually a felony in Utah. But the answer to this whole crisis is so simple that even if they were sitting in front of the TV watching reruns of What's Happening while knitting each other taint scarves, they still would have accidentally figured this out. The logic is simple. It only takes a few questions with a few very obvious answers and voila, we're back to the days of ridiculous levels of expendable income, 0% unemployment, and -26% homelessness, just the way our forefathers had intended. There would still be a 94% corporate crime rate. But without that, it just wouldn't feel like America. For the sake of clarity, I've arranged the questions and answers into a dialogue format.

Person A: What is the problem Person B?
Person B: We're in a recession.

Person A: How can we fix that?
Person B: By making the economy recession proof?

Person A: Do you know of any recession proof businesses?
Person B: Yes

At this point Person A begins smirking as they watch Person B have an epiphany right before their very eyes. Think how proud a parent is when they see their child take it's first steps. Now multiply that by 30. The rest of the questions are almost rhetorical, but they go through the motions anyway.

Person A: What businesses?
Person B: Adalberto's

Person A: So what now? Come on, I know you know this.

Then nodding their heads with each word, they say in unison, "To solve the problems of the down turned economy for good, there's only one logical course of action. We need to turn each and every business into an Adalberto's and then sit back and watch as the rest of the world sucks our GDP."

Person A and Person B have officially saved the world. And the best part of this plan is that it's practical, easy to implement, and the only thing we need to do as a nation is increase production of C-grade beef. The plans the Obama administration have put into place are complicated, ineffective, and most of all, boring. But the Economic Adalberto's Rescue Plan, or EARP, is simple, effective, exciting, and named after a hero of the Wild West and one of the original inventors of the carne asada burrito with just meat cheese and sour cream. No pico. To literally illustrate how simple, effective, and exciting the plan is, look at the following photos. First we have a failing U.S. megacorp.

This headquarters is in Hong Kong, but the plan is so good that it doesn't matter

With nothing more than a little paint and a delivery of meat, tortillas, and horchata, we have turned it into a recession proof business with a 24 hr drive thru and a never ending stream of customers and therefore revenue. Now they can continue to fly in private planes for bailout talks. Not that there will ever again be bailout talks.

At the Hong Kong location, a California Burrito is called a Kwun Tong Municipality Burrito.

But it still comes with papas fritas in it. No pico please.

I know what you're thinking. But you're wrong. This was exciting, just like the plan promised. However, for the purists and adrenaline junkies out there, we at the EARP Agency of Social Sanctions may have one or two more tricks up our sleeves for all the holdouts and naysayers and player haters who might be all like, "But I thought there was gonna be more excitement." And here's that:

That's right you whiny bitches, those are fireworks, in the daytime, dangerously close to that building.

And just to show that it wasn't a fluke, that the people at EARP ASS didn't only save AIG, they have the following live images to present. The third photo in the following series isn't actually appropriate for children. And since both myself and EARP ASS are family organizations, we won't show the image. But here's a hint to help you imagine how much excitement there is. There are three strippers, a ring-tailed lemur, 4 grams of a nondescript white substance, a toilet seat, someone's baby, and a bowl of Saturday Special Menudo. If that doesn't spell "sticking to the economic rescue and financial plan we promised" I don't know what does.

Before. A horrendous blemish on the otherwise flawless complexion of US finance.

And after. Notice the new Camaron Burrito on the menu, but

never forget the classics like 6 rolled tacos with guacamole.

The absolute best part of this plan is seamless integration, and probably synergy even though I don't really know what that word means. Everyone from the CEOs on down can keep their job titles as long as they add burrito folding to their list of duties. Soon all businesses will be Adalberto's, the US economy will be the shining beacon of productive light it once was, and I will no longer have to drive two grueling, arduous miles to get to my choice of 4 equidistant burrito shops. Because for this plan to work, all businesses have to be Adalberto's. Even the lemonade stand run by kindergartners at the end of my street.

And since now I will have absolutely no reason to drive my car, the environment should be pretty much saved as well.

For the Son...

2009-12-19T13:59:00.000-08:00

Just to preemptively address any confusion, the son referred to in the title is just your generic kid. It is not the Son of Man, Jesus, who invented the Christmas season. I know the capitalization may seem confusing. But the conventions of English Composition require it. I apologize for any trouble this may have caused.

Our world is a bleak, bleak, dark, hopeless, and meaningless place (Merry Christmas, by the way). There is really no debate about that. The sun is trying to kill us. Again, not Jesus but the big fiery celestial body in the sky (redundancy intentional) that scientists claim is farting greenhouse gases at us and choking us all while we drive home from work. I don't even think Jesus can fart. And if he could I'm pretty sure it would be like Febreeze. Then there are corporations who have deliberately taken up the task of inventing the things that, in the past, only existed in the imagination but still used to scare the pants off of people. Things like implantable microchips and little robotic spiders. And worse yet there are ~~fucking idiots~~ people out there who are actually volunteering their entire families (children lack the ability to legally speak up for themselves, so a mother and father who should have probably received a chemical hysterectomy and castration at a young age get to make these choices for their kids) to test these devices. This proves that the education system has been failing us for a long time. The school system has been turning out dumbasses probably since just before they started convincing children that the shelter of a classroom desk would be plenty protection to prevent their faces from melting off their skull into a little pool of congealed skin and eyeballs in the event of a nuclear attack.

It doesn't look to have any chance of improving any time soon either. The economy is slumping. Pirates are once again pillaging the high seas (that's actually pretty awesome). Unemployment is on the rise. Taco Bell in Costa Rica is way too expensive. Pandas won't bang. It won't rain in Africa. Sonny Bono was killed by a tree while George W. Bush is enjoying his post presidency years at the ranch, completely oblivious to his own legacy. There's never anything on TV except Jersey Shore. A dog that just walked past the window only had three legs. Airlines are going bust and just stranding the shit out of people. Things are bad. I think I've made my point.

On top of all that we fight war after war after war with no end in sight. It doesn't take a genius to see that in the future there will only be two jobs on earth. Politician/diplomat and soldier (all other jobs, including the production of internet pornography, will be done by robot spiders). The only difference between the two choices of available careers in this mid-apocalyptic future is that the diplomats will be ineffective while the soldiers will be ineffective but also die horrifically. So any person with the instinct to protect their offspring will be trying to help their children develop the skills for diplomacy so they at least have a choice. Christmas is an opportunity to do that.

As Winston Churchill once said, "It's better to jaw, jaw, jaw, than war, war, war." I think that's exactly the sentiment the inventors of the next item on the Christmas gift list had in mind when they developed their toy. If you don't care about your kids, just get them a pink rifle. But if you want your son or daughter to have the option of being a persuasive and charismatic ~~dipshit~~ politician rather than a bullet sponge, then you need to buy them a Frisbee this Christmas.

There isn't another item on earth that drives a child deeper into their bullshit shoveling resources than a Frisbee. And since that particular type of shoveling is the exactly what is needed to survive Future America into one's 70's, there shouldn't really be any question about the value of a colorful plastic disc. But since I recognize my readership as intelligent, searching people who don't simply accept things at face value (2pac is still alive) I will provide anecdotal (largely fabricated) evidence (not really) as to what makes the Frisbee such a great preparation tool for Future America. And I will do that... right... now.

The key to this little operation is that you can't buy any other Christmas presents for your future little Kissinger. Because if they get anything other than a Frisbee they will play with that instead and then they will lose a leg in the War on Global Warming or the War on Falling Stock Prices, one of which is bound to be the next in our long line of declared wars on nebulous concepts. Remember when we won the War on Drugs? What a day that was. Maybe if more 4th graders had Frisbees they wouldn't have time to inject smack into their neck veins. I guess that will all be a moot point when we all have microchips in our necks and the government can control what we do with our arms. I think I may have digressed a bit. Anyway...

You have to force your child to develop an emotional bond with the Frisbee the same way elementary schools try to force children to develop an emotional bond with the American flag and fish sticks. Lets just call it what it is. You have to indoctrinate your child to Frisbee love. But remember, this calculated manipulation is for their own good. It helps if you encourage your child to draw a face on the Frisbee and give it a name. You should also set a place for it at the dinner table and make sure your child sleeps with it. From time to time try to set up situations where your child has to compete with the Frisbee a little bit. For example, you could give the Frisbee one extra scoop of ice cream at dessert. Kids hate it when things aren't even. And while initially this will only cause a fight, eventually the child and Frisbee will resolve the issue and it will only bring them closer together.

Once the emotional bond has been formed, it's time to play with the Frisbee. It's best to position your child precariously close to the fence of a particularly grumpy neighbor, preferably old and paranoid. If possible, try and find a neighbor who has an undeserved sense of entitlement and feels that they are owed something by the world even though their only real contribution has been to not miss an episode of the Price is Right since 1972. All that is left is to wait for your kid to throw the Frisbee over the fence. Then you simply tell 'em, "Go get it." If your child has an intrinsic predisposition toward hand-eye coordination and is unlikely to throw the Frisbee over the fence, you can always just chuck it over. Try and make it look convincing, though. And be sure to have a deeply philosophical argument prepared to answer the inevitable question your child will ask, "Why should I have to go get it when you threw it?" The always bulletproof, "Because I said so." should suffice.

This is the part where you get to sit back and enjoy the rewards of parenthood, where you get to witness your child struggling and growing to become a complete and effective person in society. There are a number of ways this scenario can play out. But rest assured that the inventors of the Frisbee, keeping always in mind Churchillian virtues, have thought of that. Your kid might just go to your neighbor's front door and ask to have the Frisbee back. The child will have to use every linguistic trick he knows to try and convince the wholly irrational neighbor to return the Frisbee. If the air is thick with irony, the neighbor may say something like, "Why should I have to get it because you threw it?" Eventually, if you have properly instilled in your child a pathological devotion to the Frisbee, he will talk his way into the house and get the Frisbee. This is the part where vigilant parenting is important, though. If the neighbor is particularly staunch in his refusal to return the toy and your child is particularly prone to violence, someone could get blasted in the face by a lawn gnome. It's your job to show the child that there are always other options, such as breaking and entering (stealthily, of course) or waiting until the neighbor's wife returns since statistics shows that the biggest jerks usually somehow end up married to the nicest ladies. In diplomacy, sometimes patience is important and so is choosing the proper person with whom to negotiate.

Your son may choose to forego negotiations altogether and just jump the fence. If you've done your homework and chosen your neighbor properly, he will either be so paranoid that he performs frequent perimeter checks of the property, will have discovered the Frisbee infraction, and be waiting for someone to come for it. A small, but disproportionately annoying dog in the backyard will also serve to alert the neighbor. As such, there will be a confrontation in the backyard. In some cases this can actually be more beneficial as the child will have to talk his way out of something unexpectedly. Rationalizing and lying on the cuff are the artillery in the diplomatic arsenal.

It won't be long before your child masters the art of retrieving hostages. But as children tend to do, he will be growing up, getting older, and developing a infuriating, smart mouth. The Frisbee, lucky for us all is an evolving concept. And as your child gets older, the functions of the Frisbee will expand to facilitate further development of talking one's way out of things. I can not stress how important it is to develop that initial emotional bond between the child and Frisbee. The effort you put into that will be in proportion to the value garnered from the Frisbee. If when your child is 12 or 13 he opts to hang out with his Frisbee rather than his friends at school, you will know you have performed a minor Christmas miracle. With little other sources of entertainment, he and the Frisbee will go on all kinds of adventures and if luck is smiling upon you, some of these adventures will end in broken windows and calls to the local police. This will serve to up his game, diplomatically speaking, as well as instilling in him a disinclination to be intimidated by authority. Nothing kills a negotiation worse than being dumbstruck by your opponent's power. You will know that your child's training in this area is complete the first time he playfully takes a cop's gun from his holster and then tries to negotiate concessions for it's return. Bonus points if he plays on the police officer's insecurity about being judged by his peers for getting outsmarted by a teenager. Even more points if your son sarcastically mentions something about the officer's glory days of high school football.

So the Frisbee is more than just a piece of plastic. It is a timeless instrument of education and self preservation for a future* which we can no longer avoid. It is a symbol of caring, perhaps unappreciated at the specific moment of gift giving. But when your child becomes an adult and has the benefit of hindsight, in a moment of twilight serenity, he will look back and realize the profundity of what you have done for him. And as he turns out the lights to go to sleep, turns and kisses his Frisbee good night and then nestles his head into the pillow, he will whisper a quiet thank you and fall peacefully to sleep.

*If I'm wrong (unlikely) and careers aren't limited to diplomats and soldiers, Ultimate Frisbee will certainly be a professional sport by then and your child will still be well prepared for success.

From México, con Corazón

2009-12-06T19:59:00.000-08:00

This is a sequence of photos I took while on the metro in D.F. While no individual photo is particularly strong on its own, I just like the story they tell together and thought maybe I would post them. The old woman was sitting there listlessly for quite some time until she turned to her right and struck up a conversation with the younger one as if it were a continuation of some earlier discourse. The photos were taken in a span of about 2 minutes and whatever she was saying, or signing, continued to elicit that kind of emotion. No one talks on the subway in Mexico City. Also, I posted a whole bunch of photos of the trip on facebook.

The Ghost of Christmas Dignity: Keys to Avoid Looking Like a Jackass at Present Time

2009-11-30T22:47:00.000-08:00

Now that the celebration of the repetitive and wanton massacre of numerous Native American tribes (some of which we had documented peace treaties with) has been amply celebrated and the collective bellies of many of this great nation's descendants of immigrants have been filled to the point of near life threatening levels, it's time to move on and embrace what lies ahead. Christmas. It may be difficult to do after a three day food coma and further experimentation with the Windex under the kitchen sink (this time a family affair). But for the sake of our economy, it must be done.

That's right my devoted readership (one particularly devoted reader overnighted me her big toe), Christmas has descended upon us like a festive Santa hat wearing pterodactyl cutting down terrified elf bunnies from the air. Not for food. Just for fun. I for one, could not be happier. But my psychologist says I sometimes confuse terror and happiness due to some kind of chromosomal abnormality. Since we as a people have wisely moved on from massacring Indians to massacring prices, Thanksgiving has been the proverbial starting gate for our true national pastime of mindless and relentless consumerism often involving the trampling of actual human beings or the serendipitous (the same abnormality causes confusion between tragedy and serendipity) meeting of an elbow and a pregnant woman's belly. Or, if you have absolutely no fucking sense of decorum or decency, that gate opened in like September allowing the opportunity for a nice early fall trample-fest. Anyway, the holiday season isn't just about economic stimulation. It's also a time for giving, and if memory serves, decorative gourds. Since my gourd decorating abilities are abysmal, I had to wrack my brain for another way in which I could contribute something good to this dreary, gray, square (sphericalossitudinous is only a state of mind) globe we inhabit.

At first, I thought I could work to end world hunger or possibly raise awareness about child abuse. After a period of deep contemplation I decided that it would benefit the individuals that compose the masses if I just wrote shopping guides instead. Being one who has never been willing to ignore a sincere call to action, I began gathering information posthaste. Even though I wouldn't ignore the call to action, I'm still lazy to such a degree that scientists are currently working around the clock trying to develop instruments that can accurately capture and measure the scale of my sloth. I've overheard my lack of action described as "astounding" and a bunch of other crap but I stopped listening because it involved too much conscious effort on my part. As such, this guide will be broken up into multiple parts, allowing me to express my genetic uniqueness as a listless pile of crap and to develop an ever increasing sense of gift finding urgency as the day of days approaches. This will culminate, as with all my other attempts at maintaining a theme in my posts with some sort of disappointing anticlimax probably attributable to my total commitment to a lack of commitment.

All that pomp and circumstance aside, I present to you the first must have item of this year's Christmas season, the girls youth rifle.

Notice the fine attention to detail. The wood grain is an ironic commentary about how you can use a dead tree to slaughter other living, breathing organisms and still look stylish. Not pictured: the floral-patterned hook tipped gutting knife bayonet.

It's the perfect gift for your little girl or your slightly effeminate but with a keen eye for interior design little boy. If you're Johnny-on-the-spot with regards to using every new toy as an opportunity to educate your children, you can wrap this gift in paper with the U.S. Constitution printed on it. And then as they open their gift and their shining little eyes behold their very first tool of death and destruction, you can explain to them how what they just did with the wrapping paper is essentially what the U.S. Government has done with our real Constitution, slowly eroding the individual rights of the American people and whittling them down to those that allow us just enough freedom to be nothing more than helpless pawns in the megalomaniacal schemes of a few elitist buttwipes. The first time little Sally or someday-fashion-designer Preston click a shell into this pink beauty and feel the raw power of having sway over life and death, they will do so with fond thoughts of their mother or father who overlooked common sense and saw fit to not only purchase their first grader a gun, but had the foresight to make sure it didn't clash with the paint job of the Barbie Corvette Power Wheels they lost interest in about mid-January of the previous year. Really, it's a practical gift though. If the government ever comes for your weapons, and it has happened before and recently it is highly unlikely that they will find the pink .22 that Suzy keeps under her Teletubbies bedspread in order to always be ready for mid-slumber nighttime combat. So now, even though the government has taken your cache of AK-47s and roof mounted .50 cals, your daughter will still be able to provide adequate protection for all of the dolls at her biweekly tea party and imaginary friend dinner socials. And if you raised her with the sharing spirit, maybe she just might let you borrow it, and perhaps even a bit of ammo to fend off the roving gang of looters that seems to have found their way to your front door. Just be careful how you approach this inevitable situation, though. Because it would be highly hypocritical of you to piss and moan about how the government infringed upon your rights as a gun owner and an American citizen and then go and take Polly's gun without taking proper precaution to be polite when you borrow her weapon.

We also live in a competitive country. And along with tetherball, kids also compete about the number of M&M's they can fit in their mouths as well as the extravagance of their Christmas loot. It's a profound issue of integrity and studies have shown that children who can't measure up go on to lead dark, meaningless lives as homeless people or politicians, only the former of which is at least noble. But no matter how many kids got an Xbox 360, only your child will actually be able to bust a cap in the figurative ass of that mind corroding machine from a distance of 100 yards (if you spring for the optional high mag long distance scope with night vision and red dot sight) and at a speed of 1200 feet per second. Furthermore, if anyone at school gives him-her/her any trouble, beats him-her/her at a schoolyard game, or assigns him-her/her a less than idea grade, he-she/she need only bring the gun to school once and the problem will be solved. Because he-she/she will be promptly expelled and possibly have the opportunity to benefit from the fine educational resources at the local youth authority. Regardless, bringing superior military might to bear is a trump card to any other child's gift. And it's your sworn duty as a parent to make sure that in the eyes of all the other little kids at school your child looks awesome, and if at all possible, fearful.

The other question one must ask themselves in this failing economy is who can afford basic amenities like food? No one if you still want cable with movie channels. And with a PhD engineer of a father constantly having to fill out unemployment paperwork, and a mother with 16 years experience as a 9th grade A.P. math teacher currently working at the local Wal-Mart, who has time to hunt? Only little Bridget does. And with your wise choice of gift, she will also have the necessary equipment. Proficiency will come with practice. And in the unlikely event that there is some sort of "accident" involving the gun, and a neighbor or a non-food sanctioned family pet such as a mongoose, I'm sure there's something in the law books ensuring judicial leniency if it's an 8 year old girl and the rifle is a pastel.

Education, protection, schoolyard oneupsmanship, putting food on the table... the only thing this gift doesn't do is wash dishes. But I guess even that is a debatable claim. For anyone who has been lucky enough to see the masterful epic entitled Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead already knows, sometimes guns can do dishes. At any rate, this is a gift that you almost can't afford to not fail to purchase for your child this holiday season. So do it. And I predict you'll have a freezer full of fresh, if not slightly illegally hunted venison by early January. Which is good because your kid will have lost interest in everything from Christmas by the 15th.

Don't forget the ammo! Happy holidays and happy hunting (for a good defense attorney)!

Attack of the 50 Foot Pig Bacteria: An Imprecise Perspective

2009-11-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

Below is an article from a major news outlet regarding the always looming, death dealing, mild head cold with perhaps a bit of nausea known as swine flu. As many of you know, swine flu is no longer an issue as Calen and I cured it while traveling through Central America. But they continue to have fear mongering reports about the disease in all different forms of media. And since my readership is roughly the same size as the BBC news outlet, I have no choice but to do my part to combat ignorance and enlighten the masses.

So the Article is below, in its entirety. Except it has been edited for accuracy and I've added a series of facts, most of which I've made up on the spot, but some of which are kind of true. If you scour with a fine tooth comb, between me and the original author, you might even find one or two things that are completely true. Objectivity in reporting however, is out of the question.

US swine flu deaths 'near 4,000'

Swine flu has killed nearly 4,000 people in the US, including 540 children, officials said after devising a new counting method. The new counting method involved putting a 3rd grade public school student in an examination room, seeing how high he could count before he got distracted by cotton balls and tongue depressors and lost track. The resulting number was the new US death toll. The number for the child death toll was arrived at in the same fashion, except the count was performed by a 2nd year medical student.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) said the new system is based on more precise figures provided by 10 states. They failed to realize that there are 50 states in the nation prior to this article going to print. When asked to comment on the issue, an official from the CDC who spoke on the condition of anonymity said, "eh, whatever."

The previous estimated death toll from the H1N1 virus in the US was 672. This number is also the international dialing code for Antarctica, the place where penguin researchers were asked to guess how many people had died from swine flu. After responding, "Is that real?" Most of them said 672 and returned to watching penguins throw up in each other's mouths. It was highly scientific. The statistical analysis, not the puke. Well, the puke, too.

Latest figures show about 22 million Americans contracted the virus in six months with some 98,000 hospitalised. This figure is also suspect, since both the CDC and the WHO have stated (admitted) that there is no distinguishable difference in the symptoms between H1N1 and any other type of flu. The only way to tell is to have blood samples sent in for testing. At the time of writing of this article, 0% of Americans had functioning medical coverage, so further testing would have been impossible. The 98,000 who have been hospitalised existed in the scope of what is referred to as immunocompromised individuals. Their hospitalisation was the result of aggravation of preexisting conditions, not necessarily the H1N1 virus.

"This is just the first six months and I am expecting all of these numbers, unfortunately, to continue to rise," said Dr Anne Schuchat of the CDC. She speculates that as the medical students and 3rd graders are fed more and more Ritalin, their ability to "count high will increase, resulting in greater death tolls." They have considered adding a counting chimpanzee to the tests as sort of a bonus statistic. Actual details regarding the bonus statistic have not yet been released. But it has been stated that it will be "fun and exciting."

She said that, although still imprecise, the new statistics provide "a bigger picture of what has been going on in the first six months of the pandemic". The bubonic plague caused by the amazingly resilient vector, rattus rattus, and different strains of the bacterium plasmodium was a pandemic. During that outbreak, Mongols hurled the diseased bodies of the dead over city walls during sieges. Until someone catapults a dead body (confirmed to have died from H1N1, which is impossible) over someone's fence, the swine flu outbreak should be downgraded to a hyped-up annoyance/profiteer's fairy tale. It is a bitter commentary on journalistic and scientific society when a sentence can start with the sentiment that this stuff is "imprecise" and then end with something like but we're gonna release the statistics anyway to give everyone an imprecise view "of the bigger picture." We must be the stupidest people on Earth if this passes as a statement of substance. Go ahead, read the first sentence of the paragraph again. It's like saying "virtually spotless." It means nothing.

The CDC now estimates that 3,900 people in the US have died from the virus in the past six months. We've repeated the number, a different number just to be a little clearer and to make sure that you get the idea that people are fucking dying left and right. It's like Hiroshima out there. Writing "almost 4000" instead of 3900 as an estimation makes the fake disease seem like a bigger killer. Plus 4000 is easier to remember than 3900. And as we've demonstrated amply, objectivity and accuracy are not really primary concerns.

Four times higher

Dr Schuchat said that in children under 18, an estimated eight million have had swine flu, with 36,000 hospitalised and 540 deaths. If you're 18 and you have lost all your baby teeth, the disease has a harder time binding to your cells. So you shouldn't worry about the disease and just continue to focus on the order of TRL's countdown and purchase whatever items you see on The Hills. Unless you have child onset diabetes from all this "food" we've been selling you over the years. Then you should probably just OD on insulin before the big bad swine flu can get you.

The new estimated death toll for children is four times higher than the previous estimate. Breaking news: We have just learned that this is the bonus count. the chimps figures act as multipliers. It's like biological Plinko, and everyone's a winner. Everyone who doesn't die of an imaginary disease.

"We will be updating the toll that the pandemic has taken... about every three to four weeks," she said. These updates will be slightly reminiscent of the ambiguous terror level alerts instituted by the Bush administration. If there is a just and loving God these constant and unnecessary updates will fade similarly into the background. They will be utilizing a new bi-color system where the substrate color will represent the total death toll, while the color of the overlay pattern will represent the child death toll, and the type of overlay will convey how many doses of swine flu vaccine are currently available in the U.S. For example, a chartruese warning with pink polka dots indicates that the death rate is between 16 thousand and 47 billion with between 14 thousand and 29 billion of those being persons who have not yet seen the onset of armpit hair and awkward feelings about their bodies. The polka dots indicate that there are only 15 doses of swine flu left in the U.S. Pink stripes however, would indicate a similar risk to children with an availability of 97 doses of swine flu vaccine. The system is admittedly "imprecise," except for the number of vaccines available, which is inventoried and controlled without error by a team of supercomputers working in conjunction with robots working in conjunction with humans. Commodity must be watched carefully.

Dr Schuchat added that 41.6 million more doses of swine flu vaccine had been made available on Thursday for distribution around the country. Finally, the point of any good article. There is something you need to purchase. Not to be in fashion, but to be alive. Well, to be in fashion also.

However, delivery remained far below initial estimates and expectations, she said. Sales are suffering. Hence, this brilliantly composed article of pertinent facts. Scientists have found that swine flu, it turns out, was caused by low sales of avian influenza (H5N1) vaccine. If the swine flu trend flops, there is a rare strain of gecko flu ready to nail North America next summer. The vaccine has already been discovered.

The global death toll from the flu pandemic passed the 6,000 mark last week according to figures from the World Health Organization. Which is to say that the disease has far and away decided to affect U.S. citizens with expendable income at a greater rate than the rest of the world where the average person lives on $2 a day. What an economically minded strain of flu! It's almost as if it knows those other people won't be able to afford the vaccine after the company that manufactures it finishes their expensive marketing campaign. So it doesn't bother to infect them at all. Besides, they already have their hands full with deaths as a result of cured and treatable diseases. Let's put this in perspective. There are more or less 200 countries in the world. A single country, the U.S., has cornered the market on swine flu deaths at an "imprecise" rate of almost 67%. Historically, the U.S. has always maintained an unequal share of the world's resources. Why should a deadly fake disease be any different?

The virus emerged in Mexico in April and was declared a global flu pandemic on 11 June. Two months to pandemic. One country south of the U.S. Sounds like marketing. The other country with initial cases was Canada. It's like there was a disease sandwich and the U.S. was the meat. The healthy meat, that would in short time catch the flu and die at a disproportionate rate.

Cases are currently surging in the northern hemisphere with the onset of colder weather. And why wouldn't they. Remember the last time the U.S. had a surge? I think a lot of people died in that one as well. Only they were Iraqi and weren't buying, so it was OK.

The Actual Act of Travel in Nicaragua and Why it Sucks

2009-11-13T13:20:00.000-08:00

We rode a chicken bus from León to Managua en route to Granada. After a few hours on a chicken bus on roads that only barely qualify to possess that title, a band of Yankiwi travelers is a tired one. We were lucky enough to meet a guy on the bus who gave us turn by turn instructions on the best way to get to Grenada. Our luck, as it would turn out, ended there.

When we got off the bus and he left us, we were assaulted by the normal brigade of taxi drivers who cling to foreigners like poop covered, iron filled, gum to the bottom of a glue covered, magnetic shoe. But since it was Managua, a major city, the numbers were at least triple what they would be any other place. One portly gentlemen with quite an equally robust sense of entitlement cut in front of everyone in what was a loosely organized line to make our acquaintance. We told him that with the 5 of us,the bags, and the surfboards we needed a truck or a van. He assured us that this would be no problem and then promptly escorted us to his taxi, something akin to a Geo Metro, or a Chevy Metro if you were born in the mid 90's. This clearly would not suit our needs, and he clearly, was an idiot. Now before you judge me too harshly for judging him, finish the story so that you might benefit from hindsight. This was not a judgement made in haste. But more of an objectively reached conclusion founded on the basis of solid empirical evidence and careful critical thinking.

Its important to mention that there was a tremendous amount of commotion goring on all around us. And other taxi drivers began to circle around as we tried to explain our situation to our chubby, greasy friend. We were the only patrons at this relatively vast taxi parking lot. We told him again that we needed a truck or a van because of our surfboards, luggage, bodies, etc. He then began to argue with us telling us that we didnt. We assured him we did and he assured us we didnt. This went on for what seemed like an eternity before he pointed across the parking lot to a truck. We agreed that this is what we had been looking for the whole time. Then he walked us over to the truck. Only he stopped short about six feet because he was actually pointing at the car sitting directly in front of the truck that was exactly what we had been looking for. It began to feel like we were in a sitcom. He told us that this was a "camioneta" as if we were stupid and hadn't been travelling through central america for almost 2 months. That in and of itself was not an insane assumption. However, im fairly certain that he was also operating under the assumption that we didnt speak any Spanish even though i had been negotiating with him and the horde of other taxi drivers in Spanish for the last 15 minutes.

The "camioneta" in front of the actual camioneta was just a chevy/geo metro with a hatchback. Whatever the situation is with the education system in Managua, they are assuredly spending too much money developing the spatial skills of street dogs, and not enough developing those of adult taxi drivers. This inversion of effort, upon reflection, is a bit scary. There was another few rounds of me explaining that we needed a truck like the one next to us, and another few rounds of him telling us we didnt. When he finally agreed with us that our stuff wouldnt fit, he told us that trucks like that didnt exist and there was no way we could find a ride in one. He then suggeseted we take two cars. This is where my bullshit meter malfunctioned because it didnt have a corresponding scale of measurement to convey what this guy was feeding us. I recounted for him all the cities in which we had found camionetas and told him we would have no problem finding one on our own. Then he began to insult us, and presumably the campesinos by making jokes about horse drawn carriages and saying we didnt know what we were talking about. After another eternity of telling him we wouldnt split up and we wouldnt take two cars (for which he wanted twice the already inflated gringo price) we told him we wouldnt be requiring his services. He argued with us some more and started trying to jack up the price on us a little more. Then he changed his story.

Not more than 90 seconds later did a real camioneta pull up. Only he now wanted an exorbitant price for the ride. He wanted more than the price of taking two taxis. I told him, patiently at first, that it was too much. He tried to tell me gas was $7 a gallon and trucks take way more gas than the cars and that it was a long distance. He said the only thing that takes more gas than a camioneta was a stair car. Again, he was assuming our stupidity and it was beginning to wear on me. I dont generally mind people assuming that im stupid. In fact, its the safer and often more correct assumption in most situations. But i did mind that he was trying to scam all of us. So to let him know that he was going to have to work a little harder to scam us, i sought to show him that we did possess at least a small modicum of intelligence. I let him know that gas in Nicaragua is measured by the liter. Then i broke down the math for him that there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. Then i multiplied it by the cordoba per liter price. Then did the exchange. In the end, fuel was just over $3.50 per gallon. He didnt bring up the gas issue again. But he was willing to work a little harder.

He continued to insist on a ridiculous price for the ride, though. Wanting to ease the tension a little bit, i asked if the price included lunch for five. That got a laugh out of all the taxi drivers. But he wasnt terribly amused. I told him it was a simple choice between a fair amount of money or no money. He insisted. We picked up our bags, told him thanks but no thanks, took three steps, then he changed his mind.

We loaded up our stuff and the man we were negotiating with, even though he wasnt the driver decided to accompany us on the trip. Red flag 1. In all our time in Central America, excepting the times we caught a ride from a family, there was only ever us and one driver. As we were going down the street toward the area where the bus station was, a woman on the street began waving at us wildly and screaming "NO!" Red flag 2. We shrugged it off, assuming she wasnt addressing us, but one of the other hundreds of people on the street. After a bit, they pulled into a busy gas station, up to the air machine. I began to get a little nervous. But we looked at the tires and they were a little low so my apprehension subsided. The chubby, greasy guy went into the station and came out and told us we needed to pay them. Red flag 3. We had never paid anyone in advance except for shuttle service. We all sort of assumed they needed money for gas or to put air in the tires or something. This is where our naivete got the best of us. We went into the gas station to get correct change and they waited patiently. We paid them. And the greaseball said to take us the rest of the way we had to give them more money. He said the price we agreed on was the price for one car, but this was a truck and we had to pay more. The driver stood silent the whole time. An argument ensued with me first trying to reason with them, and rapidly realizing that was a futile endeavour as they had set out to do exactly what they had done, regardless of the agreement we reached back at the taxi lot. I tried to tell him that they had swindled us. Good job. And that they could keep half of what we paid them for taking us halfway. Predictably, he refused. The conversation degraded into a shouting match of name calling while a small crowd of gas station patrons watched from a distance, undoubtedly entertained.

The strange thing was, the driver and chubs didnt seem to be going anywhere. I think they actually had it in their heads that we were going to break down and just pay them the rest. After digging deep into my lexicon of rarely used Spanish words and calling them thieves and liars with various profane adjectives attached, they were still just trying to get more money from us. They were trying to convince us that we had no agreement at the taxi lot and various other ridiculous flat out lies. There were no issues with translation. They were simply trying to swindle us. All of this was going on in the parking lot at the rear of the truck when i noticed they, so confident in the idea that we would pay and the trip would continue with barely a pause, left the keys in the ignition. At that point i just walked over to the drivers side, fully expecting and willing to get bopped in the back of the head, and took the keys. Having a bit of leverage, the conversation changed. The driver remained silent. But the greaseball was visibly shaken. He adopted sort of a "come on" tone as if what had happened was a surreal occurence. He took a moment to recompose himself and then used the scariest weapon he had at his disposal, the threat of central american prison. He said he was going to call the police and they would put the cuffs on without asking any questions. I told him i doubted it and offered to dial the number for him. He pretended to call the police. I'm pretty sure he just called the hot cops. He pretended to have a conversation with them. And then he pretended to be waiting for them to show up while he continued to try and get his keys back. The price was simple, return our money and we return the keys. Normally an easy decision, but i have a feeling that egos were at stake here. The last thing he wanted to do was have to return to the taxi stand and explain to all his friends, who were almost certainly aware of his scheme, that he had been outdone.

We talked for a little longer before he realized that i was neither afraid to explain the situation to the police, nor was i going to just hand him back the keys. Among the ideas we entertained as a group of yankiwis were:

1. Throw the keys in the dense jungle next to the gas station and then take one of the several cabs that were waiting at the gas station for the situation to resolve.

2. Remove three or four of them and give them back, letting him discover what we had done only when he went to unlock his house or open his garage to dip in to his lifetime supply of crisco which he used as both a meal replacement and a skin cream.

3. The always classic puncture a tire.

About then he upped the level of his performance quite a bit by adopting a composure of exasperation, raising his arms, and then walking to the other side of the intersection as if waiting for the police he had called. The only problem is we had seen that exact same act on a telenovela a few days before and the gas station was by far the clearest landmark in the area. Wherever he went he just got lost in a crowd of people. During this time we heard two seperate sirens and i would be lying if i didnt say my adrenaline spiked a bit. But both turned out to be amulances. And when i remembered that police response in latin america was just an urban legend, my heartrate returned to normal.

So then it was just us and the driver... and all our crap. He had been remarkably silent through the whole ordeal and it occured to us that maybe he was a less than willing participant in the scheme but had come along for fear of schoolyard (taxi lot) ridicule or something. So we tried to organize a mutiny. I asked him if that guy was his boss. When he answered no, i asked him then if he was his dog and if he could think for himself or if he just takes orders. His inherent machismo wounded, his defense was down, and our chances for success were hgh. So we offered him a little extra money to take us the rest of the way under the condition that he leave that (Spanish expletive) behind. He took pause for a moment, considered seriously, and then just asked for the keys back. He seemed a bit pathetic and tired. Remembering we were in a Catholic culture, i said some sarcastic and manipulative things to him about how his rewards were in heaven and then threw the keys in the bed of truck. But on the other side where he had to reach for them. Booyah! We hopped in a geo/chevy metro taxi who was more than happy to take us the rest of the way. All our stuff did fit, although im pretty sure we violated at least three laws of the physical universe in the process of making it happen. We had a good laugh about it when we made our bus and everything and everyone was safe. We all agreed that was the most stressful $2.50 we had ever lost and decided it was the principle of it all that justified the felony and possible incarceration. We also agreed that if it had been 50 cents more we would have slit both their throats in the name of democracy and capitalism and been welcomed home as heroes. $3.00 incidentally, is the cost of a dozen papusas and if you had one you would also agree that the life of that man and his puppy were worth far less than 12 of El Salvador's greatest contribution to mankind.

In hindsight I'm a little embarrassed that I lost my cool and escalated the situation to the point that it got. But i think its a rite of passage for any person trying to learn a new language to be able to speak it under pressure. And so this experience taught me that while I should try to remain in a state of compassion for all of God's creatures, it turns out that i have a working knowledge of some of the most horrendous things one person can say to another in Spanish. And i can draw on that knowledge even under duress. I have to say im proud. From now on though, im committed to letting the money and the principle go in these situations and sparing the unnecessary agitation, at least until i try to learn another language. Besides, we have to take responsibility. We should have known the second we saw that gold chain and greasy chest hair not to give the guy even an inch of trust.

Granada ended up being an oasis of peace and tranquility given the events of our day. We arrived mid afternoon to the tree shaded central square where people were wlking hand in hand, passing the afternoon engaged in pleasant conversation on park benches, and one lady had a pet monkey. Pleased, we asked a man where we could find a hostel. Without even a hint of scam in his voice, he pointed us in the direction of a street with many hostels. We followed his directions and ran across a Nicaraguan dressed how any hip hop culture youth in the US might dress. His English was way too good and his colloquialisms way to developed for our comfort, having just had the last of our trust sapped out of us. But he was entertaining and eager to help. Lacking the energy for more argument we asked him staright away what the catch was. He explained that he was a creative man and for us, there was no catch. It turned out to be the truth. We watched in amazement the rest of our time in Granada as he extorted a commission from every single business establishment we frequented. I had to admire the ingenuity even if i didnt fully appreciate the lack of tact. And he did get us our first plate of chinese food in months. It was real chinese food of massive quantity, with plenty of msg. And aside from the gastrointestinal implications, it cost next to nothing. He would continue to escort/follow us for the rest of our stay in Granada, getting whatever it is he got wherever it was we went the whole time. He also had a pretty articulate knowledge of the history of Granada and took us on a walking tour of the city which involved some pretty nice views that i think are only available to people on the unofficial tour. And when we went to leave Granada for a fairly obscure surf beach on the coast, he arranged a shuttle and accompanied us the whole way there to make sure we arrived without incident and probably to get a commission from someone at whatever hostel we decided to stay at.

The shuttle ride ended up being one of the most authentic experiences of the trip. The shuttle was a 60's era VW bus and the mode of transport foreshadowed what was to come. When we first saw it it had two front seats and a bench seat, room for 5. So we figured someone would be riding piso. But when it returned, after a pre trip tune up i guess, there had magically appeared another rear facing bench seat in the bus. Now there was room for everyone and a seating arrangement conducive to conversation and also board games. Providing of course that the board games have magnetic chess pieces and that your opponent, in a moment of desperation doesnt "accidentally" drop the board rendering a 3 hour game of bus chess for naught. On top of that, the road was undeveloped and was impeded by rivers. After 3 unexplained stops and a fourth where the amicable driver filled the beast with motor oil from a mason jar, we were on our way. At the first river crossing we were told to take all our belongings off the floor as it would soon become an aquatic environment. We happily obliged and waited for the floor to fill with water and fish and octopi. Disappoiningly, it didnt. And the four other rivers we crossed left nothing more than a damp floor rather than the watery wonderland we had been led to hope for.

When we finally got to the beach and after careful consideration (about which was the cheapest) we chose to stay at the french hippie hostel. This is what the vw bus had foreshadowed and it seemed like a right choice. The marketing, if one could call it that, seemed to imply that the hostel was geared toward the surfing community. However, no one seemed to surf. And like the Mexican Joann Fabrics, it was impossible to tell who was working there and who had accidentally stumbled upon the property and just never got around to leaving. Come to think of it, thats probably how all of them, even the owners, got there. All they did all day was smoke that stuff that would always come out of the van in Scooby Doo cartoons. Thats all. Ever. Oh, and grow their dreads out. We did eventually learn to identify them by their french accents and blank, listless stares. But this proved to be a worthless development as they only engaged themeselves in the two tasks mentioned before. Any questions one had about the establishment were greeted with a blank listless stare followed by sort of a non answer which technically qualified them as having addressed you, and made you feel just awkward nough that you didnt want to press for further non-information. The beds in the hostel smelt of neglect and shattered dreams which is just a fancy way of saying hippies and biological material. And for the first time in my life, those around me understood why i have spent the last 10 years of my life dilligently cultivating a practice of floor sleeping. While our companions and the other guests spent an evening becoming host to scabies, i slept comfortably on the concrete and woke up refreshed in the morning to tackle another day of doing absolutely nothing.

Only instead of doing nothing we decided to change a lazy beach into a site of chaos and confusion. And this we did deftly. Choosing to depart for possibly better surf and less treacherous bedding, we contacted a man whose card we had been given the night before. He offered a shuttle service. When we contacted him, he said $75 for the five of us. But we had been told he made the trip for $50. Negotiations were in order. But first he mentioned that he would be there at 2 o'clock. And then, like a total jerk, the phone cut out. We couldnt get a hold of him again. But the guy whose phone we had been using said he had a friend who would drive us for $55. More eager for the sure thing, as a misstep in this matter would surely end with some kind of undiscovered skin syphilis for the bed sleepers, we confirmed the trip. Passing the day was easier than we thought it would have been because of lunch. Dedicated to having the freshest ingredients, they waited until we actually ordered our tacos to start growing the corn for our tortillas. And in the distance we heard the faint sound of mooing as the carne was slaughtered. Right then a helicopter landed with a single head of lettuce flown in from Yuma, because the climate in near equatorial beach towns isnt quite right for growing lettuce. And a quick 16 hours later, we each had one taco. We were still hungry but feared ordering another as our fingernails had grown to dangerous lengths while waiting for the first. And when we say we ordered, we actually had to write down what we wanted on a piece of paper and give it to the cooks. Because the girl who was supposed to be taking our order was busy watching nick cannon drum his way to success and love in the timeless and percussive hit film, Drumline... dubbed in Spanish. So when we went to order she made sort of a motion for us to be quiet and sort of pointed in the direction of a pen and little torn up scraps of paper. We figured out the rest on our own.

While eating Andrew, a member of the disgraceful kiwi party with whom we were travelling, came over excitedly. A truck had just come from San Juan del Sur, where we were headed. And he didnt have anyone to take back. So he would be willing to do it for $40. Having all the required qualities of cheap and certain, we jumped at the opportunity. There was some mention of fireworks. And even now, i have no idea if he was going to throw in some fireworks, or take us to see fireworks, or if fireworks is slang for cocaine. Sadly, we would never come to find out. As we sprinted wildly to get our stuff together, the guy we had called initially, Fidel, showed up. Even though solid confirmation had not been made, he showed up just in case something bad had happened. Noble. But still Richie smelt blood and began the negotiation. As that went down, the other guy showed up as well, an hour ahead of schedule, just to really complicate things. So now we had three drivers, wher in the morning we were concerned about securing a single one. One driver with a proven good nature, one driver with a promise of fireworks or cocaine or whatever. And one driver with cool stickers on his car. In the end we went with the driver with the good nature because he spoke english very well, was the first one we had called, and cocaine is cheaper in colombia anyway. The other guy extorted 10 bucks out of us for having made the trip. He then bought ten dollars worth of stickers. His children didnt eat that night. Bastard.

Fidel ended up being a good choice because he had an Ipod with Thriller on it and could do the whole dance while driving through lakes they call puddles in the jungle. All the gear and all of us got to San Juan del Sur safely. And Fidel even took us to the border when it was time to cross into Costa Rica and helped us navigate the rather hectic system. He didnt actually leave the truck. But he did give us some great warnings and pointers that we hadnt previously heard. Things like "Always leave a note," and "thats why you dont yell." You know, the kind of lessons that one carries with them for a lifetime.

San Juan del Sur was like any other beach town. Except there was a giant statue of Jesus on a mountain over the bay, arms outstretched, welcoming all into his glorious presence. At night, it was the only that could be seen in the darkness. Like a conveniently anglicized mountaintop star, he shined as a beacon of hope to all those down on the sea illuminating the way for us all regardless of our past wrongs. Naturally, we decided to run up the mountain to the giant Jesus the following evening. Such was his gravity. Shoe laces tight, wills steeled, we set out on our journey. It was quite a distance. And the hills were steep. But what wouldnt one do to be in the presence of a giant stone god. Especially when the ice cream store had closed and ladies night didnt begin for another 3 hours. We ran and ran, our calves burned and cried out for mercy as the lactic acid filled our muscles. Our breathing became labored in the thick, wet tropical air. Our hearts pumped at a dangerous rate. The exertion, at times, was too much. But we always pressed on, always persevered. As we got closer to the Christ, i started to notice things about our surroundings that make a person like me, a devoted a cynic, a bit suspicious. Affluence started to appear. And when we ran up a hill past not one, but two helipads, i began to feel as though something was awry.

Now i can understand one helipad. Every neighborhood in the world has a helipad. But two? That means that at some point, some guy who lived in a sleepy beach town in Nicaragua was flying home in his helicopter, and when he got their, someone had already parked in his space. And this had apparently happened enough times that all the helicopter traffic necessitated the construction of a helicopter parking lot. As we got higher and higher in the mountains, and the breeds of dogs barking at us from behind 18 foot fences with vitorian themed ironwork became rarer and rarer, we knew we had left the part of nicaragua where they used the wood from shupwrecked boats to make their houses. But i guess it made sense. Because this was Jesus's hood. And that guy rocked some expensive shit when he was alive, and white, and spoke English. So we continued on our jouney up hills that were just this side of vertical. There were times where i wished i had my rock climbing harness. Eventually we came to the last ascent. We all powered a little harder and as we came up over the hill, right before our wanting eyes rose up into the heavens a big, huge, glorious.... gate. We stood confounded. A local man, hearing the guard dogs barking came from around behind a rock. There was an admission to see the Jesus. It was the equivalent of 50 cents. We had failed to plan for such an eventuality and forgot to bring our wallets and money on our multi mile jungle mountain run to see the savior of man. He wouldnt let us in. But it makes sense i guess. Jesus was only ever interested in those with money. And how many times have you ever jumped in your helicopter and forgotten your wallet. Even if you did, theres always the $100 grand emergency cash you keep in the fuselage in case someone has an impromptu cocktail party and runs out of aged russian beluga caviar or whatever. So i guess the system works. The road to salvation is lined with helicopter pads, houses with three seperate outdoor pools, a gate, and a 50 cent admission that no one can afford in a place where the normal people make $200 a year.

Dejected, we did what anyone who has a flexible interpretation of the law and grey area morals would do. We jumped a fence, went through some barbed wire, climbed a rock, and evetually by the grace of Jesus himself, peed in one of the vacant lots waiting for another 8000 square foot house. It was sunset over the ocean, the view was stunning, and we were safe under watchful eyes of a big stone Jesus. That was the most sublime whiz i have ever taken in my life. I doubt i will ever be able to top it. Then we ran back to our hostel for a proper night of Nicaraguan debauchery. Which is to say it followed the general pattern. I fell asleep at about 10 before we ever made it to the bar, exhausted and lame. And sometime, somewhere, a little later in the night any combination of 2 out of the 3 kiwis found themselves naked in public, with lackluster drunken spanish language skills, and a well emptied glass of national rum. Calen found an English language marathon of South Park and The Office on late night Nicaraguan television. And it was for this reason that i was sorry i had fallen asleep.

And on to Costa Rica... for like 10 seconds.

Bringoutcherdead! Bringouchyerdeed!

2009-11-07T21:30:00.000-08:00

Rich, having the same grasp on Spanish that toddler does on the very first cheerios he is able to feed himself, has made a proclamation. Even though he hasnt quite mastered basic verb conjugation, he has declared a revolution on the Spanish language and fancies himself the Che Guevara of this revolution. Among his many ambitious goals for this revolution is to teach the many Spanish speaking people of this world how to pronounce the name of a popular brand of Latin American chips in a fashion that's a little more "kiwi." He also wants the phrase "si to that shit" to become an often used part of the Spanish lexicon. If you notice, that phrase has Spanish to English word ratio of 1 to 3. But he insists that it would be a valid and useful combination of words for Spanish speakers. I for one, believe he can do it. And so i support him with my whole corazón, a word which I am certain I will have to define for him if he ever reads this. Only when he asks about it, he will pronounce it like "craisin" just like the wonderful dried fruit snack that saved the cranberry farming industry from extinction.

He outlined his plan on the way to the border Nicaragua as we rode the nicest bus weve been on to date. Daddy Day Care 2 dubbed in Spanish played in the background, the landscape of El Salvador passed before our eyes, the clock read 526am and apparently the conditions were ripe for revolution. We had purchased tickets all the way to Managua, but after three or four border stops and 7 hours, we just got off the bus in León, Nicaragua's second largest city.

The hostel we stayed in actually had the most interesting attraction of the city, right within its walls. This attraction was a street dog named July that came and go as he pleased but had definitely hit the street dog jackpot by allying himself with a hostel that had cushions and pillows at ground level and lax regulations about dogs using their facilities. The first day we got there, July failed to move an inch for 12 full hours. When we whistled, he would move his ears 9/10 of an inch to indicate to us that he was alive and his ears did work. But never a full inch. I made the ridiculous assumption that he lived at the hostel full time and just kind of hung around all day. But all those assumptions were dashed to pieces when, walking home from the centro one night, we ran into July at the corner of Calle Tercero Noroeste and Real de Guadalupe. He was headed in the opposite direction. But upon arriving at the corner we exchanged pleasantries. Apparently lacking any other pressing obligations, he decided to join us wherever it was that we were headed.

Theres not much to say about July. He was a normal, healthy mutt, unnuetered, happy and apparently unfettered by the demands of the rat race to which weve all given our lives. Immediately after this impromptu meeting we all learned two things about July. We learned why he was so commited to conserving energy during the daylight hours and we learned that he had excellent spatial reasoning skills. We learned both of these things the next time a Ford Festiva taxi with 13 passengers drove by. July lined himself up in the street when the car was still about a block and a half away and waited patiently head turned vigilantly to the rear. As the car approached he began a light saunter and sped up slowly until he was running at the same speed as the car. This happened exactly at the same time that the car got next to him and at this point he began barking with resolve. The easiest thing to compare it to is in old westerns when a cowboy had to board a moving train from the back of a horse. I didnt have a microscope on me because i traded it to a street vendor for an ice cream and a DVD of the movie Oceanwalkers, but if i had had one, i would have been able to offer empirical evidence showing that the distance between July and the car was exactly the width of a single electron. And im pretty sure he would have gotten closer if the laws that govern the physical functions of the universe didnt make it impossible. He had a lot of faith in the skill of the driver because in Nicaragua, drivers dont swerve out of the way for street dogs. Especially taxi drivers. Despite this there is a distinct lack of roadkill anywhere in latin american cities. And i have a strong feeling that if a dog ever got hit by a vehicle in the street of any of the cities weve been in, the evidence would remain for a long, long time. So not only does July have excellent timing, he also has a precognitive link to the mind of the driver of any given car and so he can anticipate their movements with godlike accuracy... and then bark a lot. He did this unfailingly, to every car that had the misfortune of passing us on the way back to the hostel that night. Then he laid down on the floor couch and didnt move for a few hours.

The following day was the Dia de los Difuntos, which is the Nicaraguan Day of the Dead. Its a little different from its mexican counterpart in that it's celebrated on the 2nd and there isnt as much fanfare. Its still a big holiday though, and when we went to the cemetery we saw more people in that one place than we had seen in the whole of Nicaragua put together. People go to the cemetery to do maintenance on the graves of their deceased loved ones. And then, if the vendors present were any indication, they drink orange juice and eat popsicles. I might be oversimplifying a bit, though. Everywhere people were painting and flowering and weeding graves. The most capitalistic among the people had arrived at the cemetery with shovels and machetes and had them available for rent, or offered their maintenance services to those who could afford it. When business was slow, as it invariably appeared to be this year, they just engaged themselves in playful machete fights, or machete vs. rake fights, or machete on shovel, or the classic and often most entertaining, machete sucker punch special. I think its further evidence that we need to do something about the state of the world economy. The downtrickle is horrendous, and when people have to choose between paying a 12 year old to pull weeds from their great uncle Bartholomew's gravesite or eat a late afternoon cemetery popsicle, things have gone too far. No one should have to make that choice.

Never has it been so apparent that the imposed social class system carries on even into death as it was in the Nicaraguan cemetery. Some gravesites cost more than a prebubble burst American home, with marble and statues and modern appliances like refrigerators for the dead, toasters for the dead, electric toothbrushes and a lifetime supply of Glisten... for the dead. Then there were others that were just an unmarked pile of dirt. Some of the piles had been maintained, some had not. There are bones under their for sure, but they definitely arent enjoying well chilled milk. Which is something any pile of bones will tell you is important for preventing osteoporosis. There were also middle of the road graves, marked but meager and usually subscribing to the idea that pastels are the colors that will be in for eternity. They probably have a toaster, but it isnt digital or stainless, and it only has three settings and it never toasts evenly. I guess the same is true in American cemeteries, that there is a class division even amongst rotting flesh. Im not a very opinionated person but i think thats the dumbest fucking thing ever in the universe and im still strongly opposed to blowing up the moon as well. So here is my proposal, and Ive been assured by my attorneys at Bob Loblaw and Assoc. (Twofer) That this is an actionable clause in my last will and testament. When i die, donate all my everything to people who need it or science or drop me off a building for a sweet youtube video or something. Use the viable parts for fertilizer and ground beef. Then whatever is left, make it as compact and uncumbersome as possible. If i can be vaporized, feel free. Whatever the case, i dont see any reason to leave behind a diseased lump of organic material. And i want to donate my skin, but all the recipients have to use it on visible parts of their body like their face, or if theyre a stripper of some kind, anywhere else. But at least make sure they've checked the technicolor box on their burn unit entry paperwork. So thats it, until i die, ill battle fiercely in the class struggle. But after that, i just want someone to wear my forearm skin on their face. I said forearm. Ive been circumcised twice. Once when i was born and once when i dropped a shampoo bottle in the shower and a bevel on the cap somehow managed to repeat the procedure with surgical precision. I wish i could say i had been frightened by a jaguar, but that would just be ridiculous.

After Day of the Dead ended and we scoured the town to ensure a lack of zombie activity, we geared up to head to Grenada near lake Nicaragua. This would require us to travel through the capital, Managua. A place where just days before the US ambassador to Nicaragua had made some disparaging and public remarks about the president of Nicaragua. This propelled the sentiment of welcome and hospitality to an all time high, which is a Spanish word that means rock bottom absolute lowest possible. Also we committed our first act of auto theft and met a Nicaraguan street hustler who spoke English way too well but knew where to find good Chinese food. All this and more next time... same murciélago time... mismo bat channel.

Boulevard de Enrico Fermi's Megatons de Destrucción. You thought I forgot.

This Just in: English el Mejor

2009-11-04T09:05:00.000-08:00

27 years and 3 days after my uncle brought home an ugly ass, tiny, barely passable as trophy deer, we find ourselves on a reappropriated American schoolbus headed inland on a Nicaraguan "highway." I dont know if its the fresh, smell 'o diesel air, or the delirium one feels when sharing a single bench seat with 46 other people and one dog, but for the first time im having a moment of clarity on the subject and i feel i have no choice but to levy the following accusation:

Another hunter downed the deer, and upon seeing its homely figure and not wanting to fill his tag with such a meager kill, left it for the coyotes. Then you, and you know who you are, found it that way. And found is a generous word. Because heres how i imagine the scene. It was mid-afternoon on yet another disappointing day, indistinctly lacking success. So in a drunken stupor (because what goes better together than adolescent men, guns, and beer) you went searching for a place to relieve yourself of post processed cervezas when you tripped over something that that your EMS instincts told you was experiencing slight rigor mortis. And thus concludes the story of your first deer. Except the part where you got back to town and no one gave a shit. Youve had many different names over the years, but i think its time we call you by your true Indian name, Uncle Tracks Dead Deer Drunk Fall.

Now as promised: We went to Antigua. It was nice. We roasted marshmallows over lava. It was toasty. The kiwis, it turns out, have contributed nothing to the planet (Rutherford my ass). And the dog we saw was a rare breed of Germanoguatemalan Streetroofshepherd. It was glorious to behold this majestic beast in its natural environment, perched on a colonial tile roof above a liquor store, barking maniacally at anyone not of its race or creed. Streetroofshepherds, especially the Germano kind are notorious for their bigotry.

Then we left Guatemala, without exploiting anybody unlike some other people we know (Ahem, United Fruit). Antigua was nice though. They had not one, but two of the fanciest, most luxurious fast food restaraunts in the modern world. The Mcdonalds had an internet cafe, a garden larger than most lots on which American homes are built, the most pristine, beautiful indoor playground with a maze of tubes so elaborate that a well to do hamster would crap on the floor upon seeing it. But it wouldnt matter because the poop would get cleaned up before individual bacteria were able to contact the surface of the ground. They had the freshest big macs and cheaper mcflurrys. The biggest coke didnt require a handle and girdle for transport, and the security guard at the door with a shotgun and sidearm was a nice touch as well. Generally im an outspoken opponent of American excess and i feel a bit of guilt that the best things are shipped to western countries while the rest of the world gets whatever is left (ever had a chopstick with a splinter? Not in the US. But in Cambodia, wood is simply added to the menu description of every item.) But now i realize that weve been getting the short end of the proverbial (chop)stick with regard to multinationalmegalomaniacal fast food corporations. Fast food in Antigua is what fast food should be. Im willing to bet, though i have no evidence, that they slaughter organic pasture fed steers in the back of the restaraunt, fresh every morning, to make those quarter pounders. Yeah, that sounds plausible. A GARDEN! A FUCKING GARDEN! It was so lush and productive i bet there are undiscovered species and cures for cancer growing right there in the McJardin. I think i saw a research team from UC Davis collecting samples.

Oh, and what is this bullshit about blowing a hole in the moon? How many years will it take before the gretest minds on Earth, people who can do math that involves numbers, letters, and things that dont really fit under either category, realize a very simple truth. Kindergartners (after their first semester of world history and their second semester of applied physics) know this. Humans + projectiles of any kind + targets of any kind = bad. Slingshots, bb guns, atomic warheads, it doesnt matter. It always ends in tragedy. Its an easy equation too, all letters. Can we get a vote or something? I'm all for progress and science and spitting in the face of God by violating celestial bodies that dont really do much for the Earth except provide nighttime illumination and regulate the tides of all the oceans of all the world. But couldnt we just cure hunger first. Yes, cure hunger. There should be a rule that if there is a single person on Earth who doesnt have access to clean, drinkable water, we should focus on fixing that rather than trying to find a way to ruin theoretical water on another planet. Dont email me. I know the moon isn't a planet and i know this all happened weeks ago and i know a lack of water is a question of thirst, not hunger. But i just saw a stream that didnt quite have the proper color or smell from my window seat here on Busline Pothole Seeker and it reminded me.

Back on track. In antigua there was also a bar that was supposed to be entertaining. And this isnt so much an entertaining or blogworthy story as it is a cautionary tale. Consider this a public service of the greatest magnitude and someone get a street named after me (or my testicles). Theres a place in Antigua called the Mono Loco which according to a girl at the hostel was located at "take a right out the front door, a right at the first corner, then a right at the next corner, and a right at the next one after that." So we took one left and we were there. We went because it was ladies night and drinks were extra cheap for women or extra convincing trannies. we figured that since there was one kiwi girl, two kiwi guys, and the two of us, we could pretend we were into some sort of weird group interracial thing and everyone would get cheap drinks. Apparently the Mono Loco had anticipated such strokes of genius and had put into place a series of Charlie Bravo manuevers to thwart us. The ladies night was only taking place on the top floor. The stairs leading up to said top floor were roped off with a sign instructing those possessing y chromosomes to buy a full price drink and then "join the ladies upstairs." The sign was in English and south of Mexico City, if the sign is in English or the price listed in US dollar, it means youre about to get ripped off. We figured, though, that we could just have Alissa buy us drinks once we all got upstairs. The interesting thing about the setup is that the top floor is in now way visible from the bottom floor. So upon ascending the stairs we discovered a sausage festival the likes of which have never been seen, even in Germany in Oktober. Furthermore, the bartender insisted that Alissa's "friend" for whom she was buying a drink be present during the transaction and also have a vagina. Thwarted, we left, sober and without even the slightest possibility of contracting an exotic tropical STD.

The moral of the story, well not so much the moral, but the best thing we can all do as a nation to stop further exploitation of young American males travelling through Guatemala is boycott the mono loco, boycott them like loco. I dont have a problem with a company protecting its profit and getting creative with their marketing. But i do have a problem when it becomes manipulative and creates a system that is difficult for me to exploit. They were unscrupulous in their tactics, worse than Halliburton. And their security sucks. Not only did the metal detector go off when it passed over the 8 inch knife i had in my pocket, but the guard actually touched it. I guess in order to rouse suspicion i would have to carry an uzi in plain view. Do not go to the mono loco. Youll pay out the nose for cerveza and someone will stab you, possibly me.

The following day we left antigua after negotiating a pretty sweet deal for a shuttle to a beach called El Zonte in El Salvador. When youre walking around the city looking for the best deal on a shuttle, you can be damn sure that if they tell you that you wont find another better deal in town it means that both travel shops next door have better deals. And if a guy who looks like someone who took up the travel agent gig after he washed out of car sales school tries to tell you that hes the only licensed travel agent in a town of literally hundreds of individual travel agents, hes lying the hardest. But still in a less egregious manner than The Mono Loco, United Fruit, or Uncle TDDDF.

Licensed travel agent or not, we took the one that was $10 USD less than every other one. They picked us up when we asked and they did so with a brand new microbus and a uniformed driver who was actually careful with our luggage, spoke both English and Spanish, and didnt drive like a pissed off 73 year old asian woman on amphetamines. It was probably the easiest leg of the trip to date. And he even explained to us how, even if hes working, if he doesnt make it home by 8 he doesnt get to eat dinner and his wife makes him sleep with the dogs. At that moment everyone in the bus realized the underlying unity of all life on earth. No matter what the nationality, the rules and punishment are the same. Logic dictates then, that a license to be a travel agent in Antigua is nothing more than a license to screw people. An unlicensed travel agent doesnt have that right. They do however, have the option to run a reasonably priced and respectable business.

Once in El Salvador, at a place called Playa El Zonte, the strange factor of the trip slowed down by quite a bit. I guess its kind of ironic that as soon as we got into a country where the official currency is USD, things normalized when compared to what weve come to expect as normal.

On a little excursion inland to San Salvador we did find one of the world's hidden culinary treasures, the papusa. Im not sure exactly how to describe it and do it justice so ill just say what it seems to be. Its like a ball of tortilla dough filled with any combination of meat, beans, or cheese, and then fried flat. The preparation is mesmerizing and im certain that the people who make papusas would have been world class pianists or championship cats cradle competitors had they been born in another place and time. I also have a confession to make. Three of us eating entered the papuseria as theyre called. We cautiously ordered one each. by the time we left we had eaten 12 between the 3 of us. Slightly embarrassed, we looked around and noticed that most people were eating 3 or so. So we didnt appear to be total gluttons but we did get some looks when we kept raising our hand for one more, then one more, then one more, etc. The bill was 3 dollars. The damage done to the bathroom at the hostel was greater than the GDP of El Salvador. The life changing discovery of the 25 cent papusa was priceless.

We didnt stay too long in El Zonte. Maybe 3 days. Then we went back to San Salvador because thats the place from where all the buses to Nicaragua left. There was a hotel at the bus station, which ended up being convenient because our bus was due to leave at 4am. Being bargainhunters, by grace of genetics, Calen and I and one of the kiwis, Rich, set out to find cheaper, better accomodations. Its always fairly easy to determine what "side of the tracks" one is in by the number of armed guards posted outside of buildings in a given area of town. The number of armed guards around the area of the hotel roughly equalled the population of a small eastern seaboard state in the US. So we put on our chinchilla body armor (found them in Guatemala finally) and headed out to try and save 50 cents a night. Per person. The first three or four places we went to informed us that they would have rooms available just a little bit later. When Rich would ask if he could see them (we were looking for something with a victorian crown moulding) they would invariably reply that they couldnt show us a room right now, but they were the same as any normal room. Rich was perplexed by this, but pressed on. Calen and I, being born in the US where practically everyone frequents an hourly motel at least 13 or 14 times by their md 30's were slightly less naive. I told Rich that the hotels were of the hourly fare and eventually explained why they wouldnt show us the rooms. From that point on the "hospedajes" in any given town have been his favorite discovery. At the end of our search we decided that the bus motel was probably our best bet given that it was a 9 ft. walk to the actual bus at 4 in the morning (we were still the last ones on).

After negotiating our accomodations (it only took an hour or so to get our 50 cent per person savings) we ventured out into San Salvador. We made it a block before we found a papuseria and did what we do. Eat. We were the only patrons of this particular establishment and were given a somewhat warm welcome and very personal service including a round of cell phone photos at the end of our meal. We then continued to walk around, mostly in circles even though we didnt know it, interacting with the locals, and buying random items of fresh fruit until we had the following encounter:

A Salvadoran man walked up to us and began speaking English to us. It turned out that he was a teacher of English, distinctly different from and English teacher which he explained to us was a teacher from England. For an English teacher, his English wasnt that developed, but it was pretty good comparatively. Rich, ever the Spanish scholar, tried to practice his Spanish with the man who was trying to practice his English. The conversation, while hilarious from beginning to end reached a comedic climax when Rich attempted to say, in Spanish, "You are the best English speaker we have met in San Salvador so far." What he actually said, in Spanish translated to, "All the best people speak English." It was the single greatest instance of accidental ethnocentrism I have ever witnessed and made Rich look like more of a bigot than a Streetroofshepherd.

Knowing that we wouldnt be able to top that experience we headed back to the hotel so we could all watch a movie and fall asleep at 7pm. We did. And then we were the last ones on the bus, even after people who appeared to have travelled in to the terminal from the deep jungle by foot with luggage and children. Then it was off to Nicaragua.

Better Tarde Than Nunca

2009-10-31T17:10:00.000-07:00

*sorry about the lack of updates lately. internet has been scarce.*

When we last left off you were experimenting with household chemical products and Calen and I were at a bus station/car wash just inside the border of Guatemala fending off prehistoric arachnids with cloth and oil torches while trying to urinate in medeival torture chamber baños. It was very Indiana Jonesesque.

After the battle was over and we had escaped the wrath of Kali-ma (while Mexico is largely Jewish, Guatemala is primarily Hindu) there was nothing to do but wait. With a 9 hour bus ride on the horizon, and Calen's talents for evacuating the contents of his stomach during those sorts of trips, we decided to eat. Only Calen, in anticipation of the bus ride had taken half of a Dramamine. He took only half because last time he took all of one, it was as if he had been put under general anesthesia. So half. But 3 minutes after he took it, and just as we decided to procure sustenance and beverages, he began to feel groggy again. I never recalled a side effect of Dramamine being "dead to this worldification." Perplexed, I examined the individual pills very closely. And right there in plain English, was a little imprint of the words "recuerdame ahorita" which, translated from the Spanish means "forget-me-now." Naturally, I took 6 and then headed up the hill to find some food.

I arrived at a small establishment with about 7 tables and a bar. 4 of the tables were occupied by 4 people each. And the people appeared to have been occupied by at least 10 Coronas each. Only Corona. The waitresses/cerveza wenches did not appear to be in the habit of clearing empties. Or maybe it is customary in Guatemala to have an objective count of how many beers one has consumed so they know what to tell the police when no one pulls them over anyway.

Needless to say, being sober, multicolored, and not Hindu, I stood out in this place. I received some sideways looks, but nothing to alert my spider sense. That could have been because my spider sense had been depleted by our battles with the tarantulasaurs, though. I tried to place an order, but the dB level of the (somehow) internet jukebox made this an other than smooth operation. Eventually, through our combined efforts, the CW and I agreed that I would have whatever she had said that I pretended to hear. About this time, I noticed the only large guy in the bar moving in my direction. He got way too close to me and i braced myself for impact. He said a bit drunkenly "Como estás, how are you feeling?" Still braced for impact, I answered "I'm fine, how are you." Then we had a nice conversation about how he lived for 22 years in Union city, his father still lives in LA and, in his words that I "had picked a wonderful time to be in a wonderful country." Then we shook hands and parted as friends. The end.

I went back to the bus station with the food that turned out to bethe standard fare of steak, tortillas, beans, and rice and Calen had fully embraced his coma. The bus arrived. We departed. I made sure they would wake us up at our stop. Then i went to sleep. About 4 hours into our 3 hour journey, I woke up. Assuming, as was often the case, that the bus was just running a bit behind, i waited until the 5th hour to go and ask the driver when we would be arriving. A bit irritated, he told me he had decided that we didnt speak enough Spanish to get off the bus at Los Encuentros because it was too dangerous. I told him that the 12 year old at the bus office had assured us it was safe. I told him this in perfect Spanish. But he said he was taking us to Guatemala City where they recently passed a law that only one person can ride on a motorbike at a time in order to curtail the frequent occurence of the passenger on the bike shooting bus drivers and then robbing everyone on the bus. He said he did this, so that we would be safe. I thanked him for his concern, in perfect Spanish, and then went back to my seat to take a nighttime siesta which I think they generally refer to as just sleeping.

In Guatemala City we had to buy another bus ticket to get back to Los Encuentros. We were only robbed 14 times while in line at the bus station, which from what I've heard about the Guat, means we had a relatively uneventful visit. We got on the bus back to the place we were to have already been, and made the trip.

Arriving in Los Encuentros, we could see several hotels within 100 meters of the official bus drop off point which just so happened to be in the middle of the highway. Since it was day time and we had no need of lodging, we turned 180 degrees to behold the chicken bus terminal, which was also in the middle of the highway. The story of the chicken bus has been well accounted, but its worth telling again for those who may be unaware.

In the US there is a saying, youth is wasted on the young. I think this is a pretty clear reference to the idea that, as you grow wise enough to appreciate life, your physical body loses its capacity to endure certain parts of it. This is not the case for the Guatemalan chicken bus. The chicken buses are all old school buses from the US, presumably. But when they arrive in Guatemala, the rough equivalent of retiring, they are souped up, emblazoned with flames, shark teeth, and other less than subtle paint jobs, covered with stickers, and given a new driver who has no liability to protect the passengers of the bus like they do in the litigious United States. The buses, having reached old age, are then packed sardine can full, three to a seat with people standing in the aisles, and all the various accoutrement of the Guatemalan public transport patron strapped in various places on the vehicle. This accoutrements can be anything from live chickens, hence the name, to very not alive bundles of sticks. The new driver then takes winding turns and sharp corners through the mountains at breakneck speeds. All the while the passengers, chickens, and sticks are being loaded onto the bus on the fly. The non-people passengers are loaded by a person that I've dubbed monódebus, which when translated from my made up Spanish means "bus monkey." He is called this because while the driver tries to kill us, he is busily climbing all over the bus, often on the exterior, shifting loads, collecting money, and flinging dung at other drivers that fail to observe the unwritten rule of the Guatemalan roads called "The Municipal Code of Get the Fuck Out of My Way." I didnt censor the F word because they dont. So buses have a useful, active role in the sunsets of their lives. This is in stark contrast to the states, where anyone over 35 are generally sedentary, useless, and obsolete drains on society. I know that useless and obselete are basically redundant, but i thought it should be mentioned twice. All they do is sit around talking about the weather and yelling at the kids to get off their lawn. In the modern age however, everything is digital. So even though theyre too old to understand how to work email, they usually have pretty decent wi-fi networks set up in their homes. But they lack the useful sense to secure them with any sort of encryption. Or if they do, the password is usually something easy to remember like "1234" or "sporadicadultonseturinaryincontinence." This is a boon for us whippersnappers as the modern equivalent of treading on an old person's lawn is using their bandwidth. We call it drive-by-wi-fi and virtually all of these blog posts are brought to you by such activity as we cant afford the 12.5 cents per hour it costs to use the internet because we spent too much money on banana crepes and tuna salad croissants. Digression over.

Returning to story. We arrived at Lago Atitlan unscathed, jumped on another chicken bus, literally, as it was moving. That ride was a lot shorter with a lot less poo flung. Then we took a boat across the lake to a place called San Marcos.

San Marcos is a small lakeside village with no ATM and a bit of a forest canopy covering everything. There arent really roads and the main form of travel from place to place was foot. The street dogs were noticeably well fed, and bonus lizards ran rampant through the footpaths. It was paradise. But like all paradises, there was little to do and after a couple of days our addiction to stress won us over and we decided to hit the old dusty trail. The old dusty trail, as it turned out, was Laguna Atitlan. It was far less dusty and more algae-y. But after a 5 minute ride across the lake we were in a village called San Pedro which featured establishments that played good copies of bootleg films, restaraunts that had inventive and delicious sopa d'jour (there's that spanish-french fusion again), and bars where one could play chess to the tune of ear-blasting techno music. We planned on staying a night and then taking the shuttle to Antigua, which despite being in practically the same place as San Marcos, cost half as much. We planned on staying a night. Then we stayed for 10 days. There was a BBQ and we had semi reliable internet access. What do you want?

San Pedro had its fair share of interesting happenings, but the most peculiar was when we saw/nearly stepped on and killed a San Pedro Bonus Street Crab. Street dogs roam the calles of the world in abundance. There's a person selling bread every 50 paces in every city outside of the modern western world. But never have I seen a huge crab stalking the streets of a village located several hundred meters up a rather steep rocky outcropping from the nearest body of water. And we almost hadnt seen it. Because while the crab stalked the streets, a kitten stalked the crab. Having had little time to develop its hunting instincts, the kitten was failing miserably at staying under cover of darkness, even though it was the middle of the night. And our attention was on it, rather than the road we were walking down when we nearly stepped on the wayward crustacean. I let out a shriek like a burly, bearded, flannel wearing lumberjack, despite what may have been reported by the neighbors the following day about hearing a 9 year old girl screaming in the middle of the night. The crab sidled its way to a shadow, the cat doublebacked presumably to outsmart the crab, and we never saw either of them again. However, for the next few days the nightmare lived on in my mind and i have since embraced an irrational fear of coming face to face with another Bonus Street Crab. And if you think I'm being ridiculous, consider the context. It would be like if you went to take a shower and a murderous, sociopathic, arrogant jaguar jumped out of your shampoo bottle. It just didn't make any sense.

We passed the time in San Pedro studying spanish, playing rave chess, and eating way too well for a small village in central America. And then the worst happened. People have been warning us about swine flu and killer drug cartels and pickpockets and hippies and all the other evil things that we might encounter on our trip. We didnt get hit by malaria or a hurricane or even a mild tropical storm. What befell us was something that no one had bothered to warn us about. And really, it is the only true threat to any American traveling abroad. Kiwis. Thats right, we came into contact with a brood of average Household Bonus Street Kiwis. The kind that make all their statements in the form of questions of uncertainty. The kind that say "ay" with a frequency that would make the Household Bonus Street Canadian pull out his hair. The kind that say "water" without an "r" at the end but "wikipedia" with one. The kind that have a fanatic obsession with travel pillows purchased in Italian airports. I would have rather met a crocodile in a bathtub.

If we survive our time with these monkeys descended from a bunch of monkeys descended from a bunch of criminals eating kangaroos and wallabies, I'll write about Antigua, roasting marshmallows over lava, Kiwi contributions to the planet, and a special new type of dog we encountered.

All of this and more IF we're alive and if we can find a dark shadowy place to hide in the middle of an open network wi-fi cloud.

Too Much to Title or Colten and Calen Ride A Bus.

2009-10-21T12:55:00.000-07:00

Its been a long time, so settle in because we have a lot to cover. Maybe grab a drink. Send the kids to the neighbors (demographic studies has shown that my readership is largely composed of suburban middle aged married couples with 2.3 children, "social" drinking habits, and no clue when I make a reference to Arrested Development, even when i point it it out). There's almost too much to cover, so i may need to break this up into two or three installments just so you can digest it all. Most middle aged married people have weakened the lining of their stomachs and intestines as a result of their (excessive) social drinking, thus difficulty digesting.

First and foremost, an issue of conservation. Anyone who owns a TV and uses it as a viable substitute for their brain is very aware that the hottest new trend a human being and a few other members of the primate family can embrace is an attitude of concern for the state of the planet. Naturally, ive embraced such an attitude with a fervor that would make global warming piss its proverbial pants, if it actually existed. But it doesnt, so its on to the next pressing issue:

The notable absence of the Common Bonus Lizard in the Chiapaneco highlands.

For those of you who arent virtuosos di fassion (i dont know what that word means) like yours truly, a Bonus Lizard is a reptilian organism on the order diapsida that exists in a given setting as an amplifier. While this zoologically correct description may seem vague and allude my normal readership, i am willing to provide an example for clarification because after 4 scotches and a box of ding dongs that was supposed to be for school snacks, powers of clarity are probably not in long supply.

Say for instance you are walking down the street wearing orthopedic shoes with posturpedic sole inserts (no, those dont exist to my knowledge) enjoying a Gob or a Bluth Chocolate Banana, your disability claim just got approved, and the your lawyer from Bob Loblaw & Assoc. says you've got a case (thats a twofer, maybe even a threefer depending on how you look at it). Your day couldnt possibly get any better. But just then, on the fence to your right, a lizard scurries up and over the wall making your day exponentially brighter. This was a lizard of the Bonus variety. Another, rarer specimen of Bonus Lizard does exist. Its known in the academic community as lizardinum oneupsmanshipicus This is the Bonus Lizard that lives in the cages of other animals at the zoo. It merits the classification because sometimes youll be watching a zoo animal show you its hindquarters as if in contempt of your very existence, and then bam, a lizard runs across the concrete pond area meant to simulate the conditions of a polar bear in its natural arctic environment, barring the 94 degree ambient temperature. You came for the view of the polar bear's sphincter, but you were blessed with the additional lizard. Bonus. Get it? I realize taxonomy is a heady subject. But scientists work very hard to classify the organisms that make up this great big doomed ball called Planet World. The least you could do is try to understand how the upliftingly surprising appearance of a reptile is grounds for classification. If nothing else, youll sound smarter than all your friends at the next BBQ where everyone pretends to care about the performance of other people's 7 year olds in soccer last Saturday.

So with that little bit of completely concise and relevant background information, we must inform you with much alarm, that we didnt see a single Common Bonus Lizard in San Cristóbal. It seems that the lizard population at elevations exceeding 6500 ft during winter climates is receding dramatically. This is a cause that every person (and some other members of the primate family, even Republicans) can take up. Together we can restore the Bonus Lizard numbers in chilly mountain climates to their once legendary proportions. Its clear that someone must be held responsible for the lizards decline. And while preliminary research yielded no culpable party. The answer it turned out, would come to strike us like a bolt of Belgian lightning.

A Belgian girl, the sister of the one who got scabies from the Virgin Mary told us a story. She said they were hiking the jungles in Guatemala, which are rife with snakes, deadly jungle turkeys, wayward bochos, and jaguars. They were sleeping in a tent and she said she had her "face pressed up against the plasteek like thees, when the jaguar came and sniffed my face and he took with his tail and whipped it in my face." If you're wondering what "like thees" means, imagine if you stuffed your head into a rubber glove. There would be a vague, but recognizable outline of a human face. This is the official sleeping custom of the country that lent America cultural treasures like Jean Claude Van Damme and Stella Artois. She would later go on to describe the attitude of the jaguar towards her and the way he whipped his tail as "arrogant."

Right then we knew that the jaguars had been resposnsible for the decreasing figures in Bonus Lizard concentration, even though the jaguars were in the jungle and we were in the mountains. The logic is sound, but it would be a waste of my time to explain the intricately connected web that is life on Earth because, lets face it, after 4 glasses of scotch, 2 margaritas, and a little taste of Windex just to see if you felt anything, youre just wondering when the next bathroom break in this post is going to arrive. Just trust me on this one, I took part of a zoology class at community college once.

So there you have it. Arrogant Guatemalan Jaguars are decimating the Chiapaneco Highlands Bonus Lizard population. The data clearly shows this to be true. Connect the following dots:

1. Arizona state has one of the largest Bonus Lizard populations on the continent.

B. Jaguars have recently extended their range to include places as far north and west as the Yard House on 93rd ave. and Glendale.

C. The same thing happened with the buffalo because the Native Americans figured out about buffalo meat taco tuesdays and fiesta sauced them nearly to extinction.

14th. In a survey recently conducted by the restaurant conglomerate Brinker international, the emerging dine out market of Married Arrogant Suburban Jaguars with 2.3 Cubs and a "social" drinking habit prefers far and away the idea of Bonus Lizard Viernes to Chicken Fajita Fridays (The mexicans pronounce their v's like b's if that helps to grasp the alliteration).

Being a pair of doers, and not so much talkers, and even less of a couple of thinkers, Calen and i laid out a plan of action to bring this issue to the awareness of the only people who ever get anything accomplished in the world, possibly the universe. We had to get the attention of the inhabitants of a little piece of heaven on earth we like to call Hollywood. We trekked out to the jungle in hot pursuit of a guilty jaguar (they're all guilty) so that we could make a PSA poster announcing the birth of a gooey, slimy new eco-cause from the overworked maw of a vagina that labors to make sure new fashionable causes are born. And geographically, Hollywood, being the anus in this metaphor, is always the first to hear about and righteously adopt the fashionable causes.

The premise was simple, we would find a jaguar, then i would put it in an armbar or a triangle or something else that would finally get me on The Ultimate Fighter, or at the very least on The Real World 47. Calen would snap a tasteful photo. We would probably conveet it to sepia to make it even more tastefullier. And then wed be the toast of the town. And i think somewhere in there we would keep the Chiapneco Highland Bonus Lizard from going the way of the unfortunately named Taco Meat Buffalo.

We found a jaguar, with the expected ease of two men who possess our vast experience of the jungle and nature as a whole. Then i put that lizard eating son of a bitch in a 4 finger taint lock. Calen went to snap a photo. Unfortunately, the memory in his camera happened to be full at that very moment due to the fact that he has on his camera a running narrative of photos chronicling everything that has happened since Christmas of '07. Included in this essential collection are 50 or more photos of Sam holding Molly like a baby, each on a seperate ocassion. So the meaty part of the plan failed to come to fruition. And finding another jaguar and doing more jiu jitsu seemed like a total hassle. So we just went and got a couple falafel sandwiches.

Realizing that if the lizards really wanted to live, they would have written a letter to Oprah or Early September Santa Claus or something, we abandoned our cause. Besides, the falafel was really filling and it was siesta time.

After our naps and a series of other. inconsequential days of waiting, we decided to shuffle off that mortal coil (mortal coil is a Mayan word for Mexico and head into Guatemala for purposes other than wrestling large animals and awareness raising. The bus ride was only three hours, but terrifying as always with a subtle odor of something you know you dont want to be smelling but cant quite pinpoint exactly why.

The mexican/guatemalan border isnt as heavily fortified as the US/Mexican border. Once you arrive its up to you to figure out the system. The street is open and there are nondescript buildings on both sides of the street and both sides of the border. Once a pedestrian notices you and is kind enough to point you in the direction of the place where people are supposed to go when youre not from there, its a rather painless process. A quick conversation with an official, no searches of any kind, body cavity or otherwise, and youre on your way. Hop in a Nissan Sentra taxi with anywhere from 13 to 35 other people and their luggage, take a quick ride up a mountain to a place called la Mesilla and repeat the "find the right building" process to officially enter Guatemala.

When we found the right building it was inhabited by 5 portly gentlemen who were dressed like they worked at the Mexican Joann Fabrics, that is to say, same as anyone. They were watching Keanu Reeves beat the shit out of The Game with a phonebook on the televisor. And they didnt seem to have the least bit of interest in us until that part was over. And once it was they stamped our passports and asked us for some money, which we were short a bit. But it didnt seem to bother them much as im sure it was just used, upon our departure from the building, to buy popcorn for the rest of their movie.

Stepping out of the immigration "office" we entered into a no holds barred, anything goes, pandemonia of buying and selling called la mesilla. We found the chinchilla body armor we had been looking for, as well as officially licensed soccer jerseys for dogs, and a tesla coil that they had been using somehow to impart extra spicyness to their habañero salsa. Leave it to the Guatmalans/Mexicans to combine theoretical physics and salsa production. All that crap was heavy though, so we traded it for 16 street tacos and a wooden necklace of beads with a giant letter "T" on the bottom of it.

Night had descended upon us and our only goal in la Mesilla had been to find the bus office and get on the overnight to a place called Los Encuentros en route to Laguna Atitlan. The street upon which La Mesilla had encysted itself was unequivocally steep and each person we asked about the location of the bus office pointed us in the opposite direction that we were headed. So it was up the hill, down the hill, uphill, downhill, with full packs, 16 street tacos, and that alphabet necklace, for like an hour. In the end we discovered that every person we had asked had been telling the truth. We had been walking up and down the street in front of the bus office because the bus office was essentially a closet with a 1/4 of a desk in it. Upon closer inspection, said desk was manned by a 12 year old boy and the closet also held all the normal things you would find in a closet like coats, brooms, a '53 panhead motor, and a family of gerbils.

Getting the bus ticket was relatively easy. I then asked him if it was safe for us to get off the bus at Los Encuentros at 3 AM and if there were hotels nearby where we would be able to get a room. He actually managed to give me a rhetorical answer. Now im still not totally sure what a rhetorical answer even is, i just knew that i had received one. And it was in the affirmative.

So we hiked it up the ridiculous hill until we came to the obvious place for buses to disembark, a car wash. Theyve implemented a similar diversification technique as the bikefish guy in San Cristóbal and so at the car wash you can get your whip detailed, catch a long haul night bus, pee in a bathroom with a ceiling that rests comfortably at a height of 5 ft. at the apex, or get eaten by a giant spider. And with that we'll leave off until next time so you can go use your luxurious adult human sized bathroom and ease the demand on your bladder. Oh, and the Windex under the sink in the bathroom is the same as the Windex in the kitchen, so leave it alone.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program...

2009-10-13T17:03:00.000-07:00

In an effort to tastefully cover a large eyesore of a water heater in a medical consult room, we ended up having to make a trip to the Mexican Joann Fabrics with the offensively early christmas display. The situation in the medical room was much like what one might see on the once too hot to touch television program Trading Spaces. For the sake of helping you to imagine the setting, i was like Ty Pennington, the ruggedly handsome, hip, semihomosexual (but still straight), skilled carpenter. Calen was that bitchy chick from the show no one could get along with (pick one). And we had to somehow tie together an untreated concrete floor, a raw tin roof with visible wooden cross beams, a dangling electrical system, a bamboo partition wall, and a 1000 gallon industrial water heater. But we're that carpenter and that bitchy chick and nothing was gonna stop us from succeeding.

Naturally fabric (along with blood, sweat, and the manly kind of tears that burn babies' skin if they touch them) was a big part of the solution, hence the visit to the fabric store. Every fiber or my body was screaming boycott. Viva la revolucion. But we didnt have a whole lot of alternatives and we were under a very strict, self imposed deadline to make it as much like the show as possible. Thats actually where we'll leave off for the redecoration, save to say that it was a monster success, so much so that we're in talks with a major network about doing a new show called El Extreme Pueblo Makeover. That entire story, based loosely on the truth, was nothing more than a setup to tell the tale of the fabric store.

The buearacracy and process of making a purchase at this store is something that would make the commanding officers at a World War II Siberian gulag envious. I walked into the store and sorted through the hundreds, no, billions of rolls of fabric in there. Once i sorted through all the reflective Virgin Mary and sequined Mr. Banana Grabber fabric and found a nice subdued, neutral earth tone perfect for disguising monstrous appliances i was faced with the task of finding someone who worked there. Make no mistake, in the end it turned out that they had a massive staff, they were just all dressed as customers. Then there was the Spanish thing. Since my main area of experience in the language is medically related, it was exciting trying to figure out if they had eyelets to facilitate the suspension of the piece of fabric i intended to purchase, from a curtain rod. We sorted that out. No, was the answer. And the nice muchacho cut the fabric for me, then spent 12 minutes trying to figure out which price matched the fabric he had just cut, failing to notice, even after it was pointed out to him 3 times by yours truly, that the price was actually on a large sign attached to the exact roll he had cut from. He had pulled from his back pocket a small crinkled master list, in which he clearly placed a lot of trust, that i can only assume he received directly from the hands of Sra. Joann herself. Once he found the price on the list, he cross referenced it with the massive in your face price printed on the sign and all was well in the universe. He then went over to a little machine tucked in a far corner of the store and, while referencing his master list, printed out a little piece of paper with a bar code on it. This he handed to me and then escorted me to a booth in the center of the store where he left my piece of fabric, and me, without further explanation. I followed him for a moment like a small, lost puppy before i realized that he had lost interest in me. Needing nothing else from the store, i went to the booth in the middle where my desired item had been requisitioned. I asked the lady, who didn't acknowledge me if i could pay for the fabric. Wordlessly, she pointed to a different booth in another part of the store with more employees dressed like humans. There was a glass wall dividing me from the employees inside the booth, making them a little easier to identify. But the glass was only about 4 and a half feet high. So when i approached the lady at the counter and she asked me for my ticket, i naturally went to hand it to her over the glass. I had forgotten that people in this part of Mexico rarely reach a height of 6 ft. But i was promptly reminded when she pointed to the bottom of the glass where there was an opening in the window that i was supposed to slip my ticket through. I obediently completed the transaction using the opening in the fabric store cashier area sneeze guard and was handed a different piece of paper. Left to figure out for myself what to do, my street smarts kicked in (thanks, Compton) and i made my way back to the POW booth in the center of the store where I traded my new piece of paper for my fabric and a different piece of paper. Now if all that seems a reasonable way to prevent theft to you, i will now reveal a pertinent detail. The store is small. Standing in any given place in the store, you can see every bit of the rest of the store, making this whole process unnecessary.

As I was leaving I saw a matching shower curtain that I just had to impulse buy as it would work great to cover up what was essentially a brick cave in the consult room. And it was only $3 US keeping us well under our budget so we still had money left over for designer paint and a handmade salvaged barnwood armoire that would be perfect to hide all that unsightly medical equipment, like an MRI machine. This shower curtain already had a barcode and a price on it so I was certain it would be a much simpler process to purchase it. I even had exact change. But like a bunny rabbit near the highway with an unfortunate affinity for headlights, my certainty was mashed to chunky pulp, guts splattered across the thoroughfare. And the Mack truck to my certainty was the same helpful gentleman who had so helpfully helped me before. As I went to pay for my purchase at the sneeze guard, he snatched the item out of my hands and withdrew to his magical paper printer in the corner of the store. Rinse, lather, repeat. Get it? Cause its a shower curtain. Jokes are funnier if you have to explain them and simultaneously have the opportunity to insult your audience.

Later that night, we discovered what must be San Cristóbal's hardest worked city position. The graffiti removal guy. He was circling the blocks covering up the unsanctioned paint, much of which lacked the artistic merit that I usually reference in an attempt to debate that its better than the advertising or the crumbling city scape that was there before. But he was doing something interesting that I didnt quite expect from a government employee. He was thinking for himself. He was being selective about what he covered. Anything that referred to the October 2nd massacre, or freeing of political prisoners, he simply left alone. He was a think-for-yourselfer in a world of do-what-you're-tolders. It wasnt solely covering graffiti that he saw as the purpose of his job, it was the elimination of extraneous messages, subject to his ideals. Political messages and rememberances remain. There's also a piece of graffiti near our hostel that says "puto hippie." He didn't get around to covering that one either. So i can only assume he agrees. I trust his judgement. He's an inspirational fellow.

Shortly thereafter we found ourselves in a classy Mexican food restaraunt called El Subway. No, wait. It was just called Subway. It was this fantastic little submarine sandwich shop. From what we've been told they actually have them in the states. I will say this. It was the cleanest Subway I've ever been affiliated with. No sarcasm at all. The employees, who clearly worked there, were polite, well kempt, and more aware of cross contamination control than some doctors I've encountered. While in the El Subway ordering, this kid began harassing us to buy his crap. This is a pretty standard event when 3w-ing (walking while white) the streets of México. And even though we weren't buying his criendship bracelets and gum, he put on his best pathetic face and asked for some food. So we got him half of a sandwich. Just then, as if by some sort of ESP his friend (perhaps partner in crime would be more accurate) showed up. So I told him he had to split the sandwich with his friend. They started angling for soda and some chips, so we got that, too. But we drew the line at 64 oz pepsicylinder novelty cup. As the fine employees at Subway were preparing food for the four of us, those snot faced bastards told me that they would let me take a picture of them for 10 pesos each. Compassion overwhelmed me as I thought about how difficult these kids lives must be and so I responded in Spanish, " You're both too ugly to be in a picture, just be happy with the meatball sandwich." Right about then, the food was ready and I had the guy cut it in half to ensure that the both the kids got an equal share of the sandwich as I remember a fear of unequal portions causing me a lot of anguish as a child. As i carried the tray over one kid picked up the bag of chips, Sabores de Soledad, I believe they were called, and the other grabbed both their sandwiches and took off running out the door and down the street. By the time hs friend and I got out of the restaraunt to make chase he had teleported to the corner and was hiding behind a pillar. His friend caught up with him and I watched to make sure he got his half of the sandwich. Then I prayed to the Virgen de Guadalupe (we are in México) to give him an inconvenient, but not severe, case of scabies which she instead gave to a Belgian girl staying at our hostel. Even though the curse was a bit off target, I still marveled at the Holy Virgin Mother's swift response to my request.

Satire Free Sunday: Brought to You by Monday

2009-10-12T16:50:00.000-07:00

On Friday we were told to meet at a certain place "a las siete maňana." So we dragged our sleep 'til 9 or 10 asses out of bed at 530 am in order to shower and eat breakfast and walk to the rendezvous point by 7. Yes, that's a french word in an english speakers blog about travels through a spanish speaking nation. Ill allow your mind to finish boggling........ ok. Let's continue. Where normally we would sleep until 650 or so and then rush to show up less than 15 minutes late, this day we made sure we had all the time in the world because the overall purpose of the day was important to us. We were to meet with th zapatistas and see if there was anything we could contribute to one or a few of their many communities. The zapatistas (this will be an oversimplified explanation) are a group of indigenous Mayans living in southern Mexico. They have been marginalized in the same way that all indigenous people have been marginalized by explorers and conquistadors since the beginning of time. But this was happening still in modern times with the modern government. In an effort to preserve their culture and gain basic human rights, they organized, and began a movement, calling themselves the zapatistas after emiliano zapata. The list of notable moments in the zapatista history is too numerous to list. But the one that probably received the most coverage was the uprising in 1993 where they militarily gained control of 4 or 6 cities in southern Mexico. I read a little anecdote somewhere about an uprising that occured before the one in 1993 and it said something to the effect of the first zapatista operation was run entirely by women, it was entirely successful, and there were no casualties on either side. This is one of the major tenets of the zapatistas, women may fight in the resistance in whatever capacity they desire. They also choose who they marry and how many children they will have and raise. This is in contrast to times past where the strength of the indigenous women was underplayed.

Now, after a series of evolutions, the zapatista movement has shown that it has the ability to adapt and change, unlike most institutions that have existed for any number of years. There hasn't been any military offensives since the early 90's because the zapatista army is answerable to the people, not politicians or corporate interest. The people decided that the cost of war was too high for both sides of the struggle, and the army obeys. Still. Its a novel concept. The zapatistas are struggling for autonomy along with access to basic rights. Even though the government model that they have evolved has shown signs of efficacy, it is still in its relative infancy. But there are some very clear differences between what the zapatistas represent from what a national government represents. Rarely failing to be direct the zapatistas call their system of government "good government" to differentiate from all the other forms of government available in the area. The implication is obvious. It is a democracy by consensus rather than by majority rules. Compromises are made until there is total agreement. It seems impractical at first thought. And its true that it often takes forever to get anything done. But it takes awhile for a baby to learn to talk as well. And just because something is difficult and cumbersome doesn't mean it should be abandoned. I predict that once the zapatistas don't have to worry about basic survival, once their fundamental needs are met, they will be able to focus on streamlining the system that they've developed. The first computer took up 8 city blocks. And the telephone that I type on right this moment is exponentially more powerful than that. If the metaphor isn't obvious, WHEN the zapatistas have the opportunity to focus on thriving rather than surviving, they will be the example that sets into motion the end of any government that isn't "good." The positions in government are rotated rapidly so as to create a situation where its not the personality that's important, but the responsibilities of the position instead. There is a bottom up philosophy of mandate rather than top down as well. If its a testament to the progress made and the adherence to their values, many of the zapatista community resources throughout chiapas, clinics, education centers, etc. are being used by non-zapatistas. And they are welcomed. The reverse is not always the case.

My little anecdotes about the zapatistas are certainly incomplete, and probably inaccurate. But just do a bit of research. Wikipedia has a good introduction. They are a poetic bunch and steer clear of the sterile and refined messages of faceless institution. A google search and a bit of patient reading and I have no doubt in my mind, that you too will be inspired by their struggle and even moreso by the out of the box thinking that they have actually put into practice, regardless of whether or not you agree with all of it. But with that little bit of explanation...

We got to the rendezvous at 645 in the freezing morning and waited and waited and waited. Around 715 we began to wonder if they meant 700 pm, as we were told we would be going to a fiesta which is spanish for like a chips factory or something. Sitting there, we looked at each other and said "who fiestas at 7 in the morning, of course it was at night." How could we have been so stupid. Even though we were still pretty sure it was 7 in the morning. Just then a barefoot man with a smashed, very bloody head and a finger that had been stabbed came walking down the street. Judging by the clotting he had been walking the streets for a few hours We tried to help him as best we could but he was mentally ill, although polite, and he went on his way after assuring us he was close to home. Ill spare the suspense, because we just saw him a few hours ago in a completely different part of town. He very excitedly remembered us, showed me how his finger was healing. His head wound was actually far less severe than the bleeding conveyed. Heads bleed readily. He seemed no worse for wear and now had boots and a 49ers jacket. We felt better, you know... cause its all about us. Travel back in time to when we first saw our bloody buddy, and we walked home. After a couple hours of trying to see if Casa del Bagel was open (it wasn't, it never is) we got back to the hostel and got a phone call. We were to meet at the center of town in half an hour. It was supposed to be 7 in the morning, but there had been some problem that prevented them from meeting us. So we left for the center of town.

We met our guide, for lack of a better word, hopped in a taxi and were on our way to fiesta. We drove for about 40 minutes through the windiest, greenest, steepest hills you can imagine and arrived at a place in the Chiapan highlands that was nothing less than surreal. The breeze blew thousands of cornstalks planted patchwork almost vertically on the sides of steep green hills that layered themselves into the distance infinitely. We walked down a dirt road on the spine of one of the hills between rows of corn that towered over us and made a sound like the ocean as the wind passed through. As we moved past the corn, the hills and valleys opened before us in all directions and up at the top of the mountain there was a small church. The only way up was to scramble up the dirt, grass, and rocks, some arranged loosely into steps to ease the way. When we got to the top, there was a church service going on and the indigenous people were all dressed in some kind of very colorful traditional dress. Much of what went on was lost on me, as the language they spoke was Mayan and not Spanish. But the church lies on a border between the federal lands and the autonomous zone of the zapatistas. So it is a safe meeting place for the two groups. At the end of the ceremony, two keys were presented to two people who I can only assume were community leaders. And then everyone drank coke and fanta that was brought and served by state police officers. I'm not exactly sure, but I think they had recently reached some kind of an accord, and this was the celebration.

When the service was over the indigenous men walked down the path and were confronted by a large group of men that had been amassing on the path during the service. The entire thing seemed to have some kind of uneasy air about it, and around this time, it became obvious that it wasn't just our imagination. The struggle was real and it was constant. After a tense negotiation between two mobs that seemed to last forever, everyone just started smiling. They shook hands and went on their way peacefully. I still don't know what happened. I'm just glad that the alternative didn't.

We were brought to a van with a decal identifying it as a zapatista autonomous zone vehicle and driven again through the hills. We came to a city called san andres where it seemed that everyone who had been at the church was waiting. Without a lot of explanation we were brought into a warehouse where there was a table, perhaps 60 seats long, each with a bowl of meat and vegetable soup and again a bottle of coke and fanta. We sat down with everyone else and we ate. Their wasn't much talking while eating but after the meal was finished some basic conversation was exchanged in spanish. And then we all left so the next crop of 150 people could come in and eat. This city was the home of the zapatista good government presidency for the highlands zone. After a bit of waiting we were told we would meet with the "consejo' and speak to them about what we wanted to do. I didn't really know what to expect. But I did know that my grasp on the spanish language was tenuous at best, and my mayan is about as good as my klingon. I've never seen an episode of star trek.

We were brought into a room and told to sit down on a wooden bench in the middle of it. Already seated in the room when we entered were 10 our 12 or the zapatista good government council members. They were in a semicircle around us. The walls were bare except for the one in front of us which had plastered all over it images of revolutionaries throughout history. And I guess the best words to describe the initial feeling are nerve wracking. We were unprepared. They explained to us that they would tell us about their situation and then we would get a chance to explain what we were doing there. I would have a difficult time expressing that in english, let alone in spanish. So we listened. They told us that even though today was a fiesta, they live in constant sadness. They didn't actually have the money to celebrate. But the act of celebrating was imperative. So they did it anyway knowing they would have to struggle to recover later. The collapsing economy has hit them even harder because they were struggling even when times were good. They spoke of how they lacked access to even the necessities. The word tristeza (sadness) was repeated over and over. In the end they had conveyed, not so much through their words, but through their state of being that the challenges they faced were greater than anything I could wrap my head around. What was I to say to that? English or spanish, what could we do to alleviate any of their suffering. Nothing. But I stuttered in spanish something about trying to help in whatever capacity we could and trying to explain, inadequately, that we owed them for the inspiration they had given us. I told them we wanted to learn first hand about their struggle rather than reading watered down reports on a computer screen. I don't think it was enough, especially not with my spanish.

But the imprint left in our brains is something that we will carry with us. Even though we may not be in a position to do much now, that first computer took up 8 city blocks. The man who connected us with the zapatistas, came to our rescue in the end and summed up what were capable of doing, as we had been helping out at his women and childrens center for most of the week. His name is Sabas and he deserves something nice for sticking his neck out on our behalf. A piñata or something, I don't know. His organization is called SYJAC, which is a mayan acronym. Just search for it with san cristobal or chiapas if you want to see more about what they do. The council that we spoke with was only the first step. They have to check with community representatives to see if there is anything useful we might be able to do. So we are waiting in San Cristóbal for word. Even if this is as far as we get, we will take more away from this experience than we even have the capacity to contribute. And even if there's nothing we can do right at the moment a time will come, seeds have been planted...

And again, please excuse any inaccuracy or failure to convey on my part and find out for yourself what the existence of the zapatistas imply.

Christianity vs. Judaism? Who Cares, We All Hate Yappy Dogs

2009-10-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

Not to be outdone by their capitalist Megalasaur neighbors to the north, Mexico has adopted the practice of starting the christmas season about the same time as easter. Even here, where not indulging a life of consumerism is less a choice and more... well... the only way to survive, the Mexican Joann Fabrics has already set up a series of window displays depicting the various important events that make up the Christmas tradition. There are little dioramas of Mexican Santas (just kidding, everyone knows Santa is some kind of nordic-martian cross breed) delivering pizzas to all the townspeople and one where Rudolph frees everyone from the crippling oppression of poverty, as long as they promise to buy lots of gifts. But my favorite one is where Mrs. Claus leads people of all ages, races, and creeds in an armed resistance against the secret hand that controls the world, so that everyone can benefit from the holiday savings at Wal-Mart and get lots of stuff for their friends and family and that one guy at the oficina who is kind of weird but buying him a 6 dollar pen and pencil organizer might just spare you from being on his people to kill list. That's right, all these quaint little scenes are already depicted right there in the window of your friendly, local, neghborhood Mexican Joann's Fabrics, ahorita, in October... INSTEAD OF AFTER THANKSGIVING LIKE IT SAYS IN THE GOD ***** BIBLE!!!!!! For those of you who are concerned, those stars are just used to cover up the word bless because the word bless in all capitals is a secret code word for a far right christian conservative plot to take over the planet and make the Christmas season start the day before MLK day and I didn't want any googling to inadvertently include my page in a search for more information about that campaign. Don't worry about my piety. Besides, count the stars. 5 not 4. I would never say god damn bible.

Know what's worse, it's not even just corporate Mexico joining in the charade. We saw a chihuahua, inside a house, a domestic animal, dressed in a little elf suit. If the chihuahua had been a tough ass street dog, maybe the elf suit would have been passable. Like maybe that's all it could find to stay warm. Although even then the logic starts to break down because most kids have barely just said good bye to their slip 'n slides or their los slip 'y slides as the case may be. The search for warm clothes has not yet become so desperate as to merit the use of an elf suit in early october. So **** that little chihuahua and **** the person who dressed him without respect for the law laid out in the Holy Bible. I realize that Mexico is a largely Jewish population, but that's no reason to use your dog's attire as an affront to the some couple hundred Christians in the world.

Speaking of dogs, what description of a place would be complete without an over generalized description of the dog dynamic. So here's the deal with San Cristobal. Its backwards. All the big dogs are nice, cuddly, even if mangy, loveable, usually homeless bastards. While all the small dogs are just bastards. The perfect illustration of this was when we were walking down Calle de Diego Dujelay today, you know, right after Avenida de Cristobal Colon and just befor Maria de Flores, and we saw a big dog laying in the shade minding its own business. We admired its cuteness and then as if on cue a stupid pekinese or some other equally ridiculous breed of dog came hauling its yappy little ass up to the screen door to bark its annoying little head off at us. It showed classic signs of a Napoleon complex except Napoleon was an outspoken frenchmen, not a mexican. This caused us a bit of dishistorganization, not to mention a faire amount of ethnoconfusion. Calen was out of grenades. So we threw the yogurt we had just bought at it. Incedentally, if you ever find yourself in this part of town, check out Lacteos Maya for all your fresh dairy needs. I realize that's a pretty weak illustration, so for lack of a story about getting bitten by tiny little bastard dogs, you'll just have to take my word for it. Big dogs here awesome. Little dogs here suck. I used to watch a lot of Dog Whisperer. I can sense their intentions. So the take home lesson is they'll eat your lungs out of your thoracic cavity given the chance, and they dress in seasonally inappropriate clothing. Stick with rottweilers.

We saw another peculiar sight that sort of concerns rottweilers in a way. Long known for their reliable appearance of intimidation and guarddogsmanship, rottweilers and the traditional guard dog breeds are being phased out in San Cris in favor of an unlikely candidate, the common horse. Thus, their legacy is at stake. I tried to wrap my head around this when we saw a horse that was very clearly guarding a brickyard. But I have yet to figure it out. If I'm not mistaken, caring for a horse is probably on the order of 100 times more expensive than caring for a dog. So the economics of it baffle me. But if there's one things the mexican people are known for, aside from their staunch Judaic tradition, its accounting. So I can only assume that the horse provided some benefit in the area of guarddogsmanship that made them choose to employ the horse over a canine. In a country where a large percentage of people subsist on less than a $1000 per month, a human being with an automatic firearm would probably be cheaper. But again, I have to concede that I'm not an expert at guarding brick yards. So they clearly know something that I don't. Maybe their guard dog started alienating the neighboring businesses like when he walked across the street to buy a taco and told told the taco man "You should call this one a Gob, guy." More than likely though. their guard dog showed up to work in a turkey costume for the whole month of february and a banana suit for Rammadan. Then I could see trying my luck with a horse, or like an alpaca or something. An alpaca with an automatic weapon. Hence the market for chinchilla body armor, which we never found.

Just down the street from the guard horse is a shining example of ingenuity and a triumph of the human spirit. It is a shining example of entreprenuership and diversification so entreprenuershipped and diversified that it would make Jay-Z, Richard Branson, and all the Rockefellers crap their collective pants. It is the San Cris Goldfish and Goldfish Supply/ Wayward Bicycle Parts Sales and Repair Shop. The genius of this store isn't in the juxtaposition of live aquatic animals with random inorganic bicycle parts. It's in the actual store setup. Walking down the street in one direction, one can only see the bike shop half of the store despite the lack of any sort of dviding wall between the two sections. Walking down the street in the other direction, one can only see the part of the store that specializes in goldfish. It actually took a couple days of us walking by the store to realize that they were one in the same and, for lack of a stronger word, genius. Not only that but a quick glance inside and its obvious that the owner of the goldbikefish emporium has positioned himself in the market for a world takeover. On the bike half, despite the myriad piles of parts, there isn't a single complete or even half complete bicycle anywhere to be found. There's a complete bicycle distributed somewhere among the piles, but its up to you, the consumer to assemble it. By utilizing this method of merchandising the business owner ensures that the units per transaction will be ridiculously high, so that quarterly reports to the board of trustees always show favorably for his sales team, indicating his success and prowess as a manager. On the goldfish side, there wasn't a plastic bag to be found anywhere. At first, what seems like a mundane detail about the shop turns out to be the business equivalent of winning a game of chess by kicking your opponent in the groin thereby winning the game due to injury. How are chess, nut kicking, and fish sales related, you ask? Here's how. By not having any plastic bags with which to transport fish, the owner ensures an aquarium sale. You come in for the 5 peso orange floppy swimmy thing and you leave with a 2000 peso complete self sustaining ecosystem complete with marina blue anti algae rock fill, plastic, green, mario bros. water level plants, and miniature, bubble blowing scuba diver, sized appropriately to make the fish feel like a giant thus avoiding the napoleon complex that plagues most of the small animals in the southern part of Mexico. He knows you don't come to the goldfish store to have a look around. They only sell goldfish and goldfish accessories. And he knows you know. So if you're there, you're buying. And you're also buying something to get that fish home alive. Again, sales look good to the board. The company gets the nod to go international. And next thing you know they're putting santa hats on the bubble blowing scuba divers in August because their market research has shown that manipulating the psychology of the consumer public increases profits. Idiots. Everyone involved.

You know who would have seen right through all this manipulative corporate bullshiznonkey? Erik Erikson. He broke down the entire psychology of human development into little digestible pieces, that even us, the everyday normal Christmas fanatic could understand. And so he's our next nomination for the scientist crotchal street name dealie. We'll try to get this one called Eriksons First Two Stages of Human Development Street. Integrity vs. Despair indeed.

Cross Cultural Similarities and Contrasts: An Academic Treatise on Sociology or Calen Throws a Hand Grenade

2009-10-06T22:23:00.000-07:00

The similarities between Mexico and the US are becoming more and more apparent day by day. Sure there are differences. But I would like to think think that when I leave this world I will be seen as a unifier and not a divider, even if its a lie. I won't care. Ill be dead and waiting for someone to get a street named after my ballskies.

In one instance of cross cultural homogeneity, it seems that mexican youth have taken to a timeless tradition of american youth, albeit with a little mexican twist that just so happens to make it safer for all those concerned. When I was but a wee lad, 15 perhaps, and all my friends were turning 16 and getting their driver's licenses issued, if not reluctantly, by the state of California. We discovered that we had a distinct advantage over pedestrians and other public thorughfare users not encased in automobiles. That advantage was our superior velocity. I was a timid adolescent. But I couldn't help but snicker as my friends screamed valuable information to runners like that they weren't going to burn enough calories at that pace. They would frequently question the sexuality of the runner if he was male, a cross dresser, or a pre or post-op tranny. If the runner was a female they would scream awkward, crackle voiced cat calls and then giggle, ironically, like schoolgirls. And if projectile resources allowed, they always jumped at the opportunity to hurl In & Out Burger at the hapless jogger. Some of them did dress rather ridiculously and maybe deserved at least a small percentage of the ridicule. Luckily for all of the intended targets none of my friends were very smart, as evidenced by their choice of afternoon entertainment, and as such, in every single instance, they failed to account for any of Newton's well proven laws of motion (Newton is also the scientist' testicles after whom a street was named in Mexico City and began a nationwide frenzy in the US to get a street named after a scientists balls. Yet another shared characteristic betweenn the two nations) and so no one was ever hurt except perhaps an ego or two. A few runners were struck by a wayward sauteed onion (my friends often preferred animal style preparation) but no one ever suffered a compound tibia fracture or a coma inducing head injury as the sauteeing rendered the onions 70% softer than a raw ones.

The Mexican teenager's version of the American Hurl Insults and Food Out Your Window Game is the Mexican Drive by the Gringos and Yell How Are You Out the Window Game. Calen and I were the victims of one such session of the favored Mexican pastime. And in the end were left with little more than feelings of confusion and uncertainty. Because there is one little detail in the Mexican version of the game that is contrary to a successful American Burgering. Often times, as was the case in this instance, pedestrian foot traffic in Mexico is substantially faster than automobile traffic. So they drove by and screamed a common American pleasantry, in our own language, because a secondary goal of the Mexican version of the game is to practice one's English. And then, because they were travelling at a speed well below 5 mph, we caught up with them at the corner 10 m ahead (being a cultured world traveller I can switch between standard and metric units of measurement with ease) where we witnessed them laughing at their own clever little act of youthful mischeif making as if they had just made a pun in a second language. We didn't know what if we were supposed to retaliate or what the next step was in this saucy little dance, so we just did what came naturally. We screamed back, "bien, y Uds. ¿como estan?" Then Calen threw a live grenade in the car and I stabbed two kids in the face and kicked a puppy on the corner just for good (metric) measure.

Now normally, this would seem like a gruesome act of violence. But it was actually a gruesomely noble act of crime fighting. And since the grenade was manufactured by Halliburton, we were also spreading peace, freedom, and democracy. Three of the kids in the bocho (this is what they call volkswagen beetles, but we've appropriated the term and are going to try to use it to replace douche bag in the States. As in look at this f***ing bocho and his stupid shirt. Tell your friends) were drug kingpins trafficking in cocaine, heroin, and tampered dramamine and the other was the daughter of the guy who invented food poisoning. Which brings us to the scoreboard.

Drug Cartels and Food Poisoning: 2

Calen and Colten: 116, 429

Another similarity can be found in the gleaming eyes and innocent hearts of the children of our neighboring countries. Children who have been brainwashed into a standardized fashion of thinking that only alightly allows for expression of differences in cultural heritage. At the free Mexican zoo with three Mexican McDonald's (if you're not yet picking out the pattern, everything in Mexico is the same as in the US just with the word Mexican in front of it. This can also be flip flopped, indicating the same relationship by adding the word American in front of a word) we heard the gleeful, high pitched cries of children screaming out, "Martine, Martine!" Assuming that Martine must be some sort of sensational figure, perhaps the real singer of the fictional band Tacomatadietas in which Calen sings backup vocals and plays guitar, we rushed to catch a glimpse. When we got there we were greeted only by the striped asses of zebras as they enjoyed their evening meals. Still not sure why the children were screaming Martine, we looked at the sign on the zebra enclosure to discover that there was no reference to a Martine. It was at this point during the confusion that Calen began to remove the pin from a live grenade he had in his pocket specificallyt to rectify moments of confusion. It was then that he remembered that in the cartoon films Madagascar and the aptly titled sequel Madagascar 2, there was a zebra named Marty and that Martine was the Spanish translation for the name Marty. He re-pinned the grenade and we moved on to the giraffe enclosure where all the children were screamingl "Hi Ross from Friends." Oh that's one other thing, all the children would, in vain, attempt to get the animals attention by yelling hola at them. It turns out that its not only naive American children who think that animals presumably brought from the depths of the forests of exotic and far away places speak speak their language. I thought it was only Americans who assumed everyone spoke English. But apparently Spanish speaking children are the Mexican American kids at the zoo... only they're at the Mexican zoo. But the Mexican McDonalds still has a Mc Flurry. Some things spell delicious in any language.

The other thing that they have here is neighbors who play their music too loud at inappropriate times. While in the US its usually suburban middle class white kids playing their rap music out of their trunks in their driveway at 2 AM. In Mexico it's a 12 piece band wearing cowboy hats with a full brass section playing rodeo music in El Plaza de Santa Domingo right smack in the middle of siesta time. Its all these tiny differences that serve to illustrate just how much were all the same.

And that explains why, deep down, we all want the same things. Like a roadway named after a certain piece of male crotchal anatomy perhaps belonging to scientific thinker of sorts. A name like Real do Galileos Massive Heavenly Bodies. The guy was burnt at the stake for telling us something we all eventually decided to agree with anyway. Its not like he tried to sell us a bunch of recalled and defective cornballers just because we have lower safety standards. He was trying to help reveal the order of the universe. Think of this as reparations.

ABC: Always Be Closing

2009-10-05T20:34:00.000-07:00

After Calen took the dramamine laced with heroin and our 12 hour bus ride, we arrived in San Cristóbal de las Casas which is a city with features as poetic as it's name. Our first stop, well, our second stop after we brushed our teeth in the bathroom at the bus terminal (the Brothers Dr. Mann would be so proud) was the internet cafe where the propietor had seen fit to decorate his establishment with novelty posters of homer simpson portrayed as different famous and historical figures including Hitler. I have no idea.

Without a plan, we got lucky and after walking 12 blocks stumbled into a pretty awesome hostel with a view and caretakers who were the very first spanish speakers I have met on this trip who took to heart my little spiel about how I'm just learning and if you slow down I can understand perfectly. We've actually had conversations. Its been nice.

I think Calen and I both agree that this is our favorite place. The weather is amazing and the pace of life is right in the middle of a bustling metropolis like mexico city and nothingness beachtopless like mazunte (I forgot to mention that there was a nude beach next to the one we were at, which didn't matter, because no one was there). There is also a distinct lack of impending threats to one's safety in San Cris. Drivers, even taxis, slow down to let you cross the street. The sidewalks are more or less well maintained. And like most landlocked, mountain towns, there aren't any sharks here either. Something about the elevation throws off their equilibrium. In fact, the most threatening thing in San Cris is the risk that the temperature might drop a few extra degrees and you might have to put on a long sleeve shirt. I guess the cold could constrict your blood vessels, increasing your blood pressure, causing an anhuerysm. Its rough. But its also a low risk scenario, so its endurable. In light of all these new developments, I'm decreasing the terror alert level of this trip to mauve.

After our siestas, a custom which we have embraced whole heartedly, we went out to find some food and instead we found gelato. As far as Mexican versions of things found in the US, like pizza and tacos, the gelato was a red on the terror alert meter. For those of you having trouble understanding the meter, that's the point. That's alwas been the point. Meters don't mean shit. Not even when they're emblazoned with a homeland security logo. After our naps and gelato (we're roughing it) we did what anyone raised in California would do, we hired a set of personal shoppers. Two cute little girls with the salesmanship and determination of those guys from Boiler Room (and maybe the same tanning bed because they had a brownish hue to their skin indicative of either a dedication to ultraviolet or genetics.) tried to make us buy some of their crap. About 20 minutes earlier, Calen had been outlining our goals for the evening and they were to eat and get one of those sweet Mexican sweatshirt jacket dealies. The two little girls came into the restaraunt where we had finally found food and tried to give us the hard sell. After finding out they were called panchos, we told them exactly how calen wanted one to look. They left and returned in 5 minutes with 3 that fit the description. There was even one with a zipper and two pockets. We called it the Shakur. Calen tried them on and they had nailed his size with nothing more than a look, so we had to buy one. It was about 8 bucks. We pretended to be outraged, so they didn't know we were pushovers. We didn't want to leave with a dozen panchos and 46 friendhsip bracelets as I'm sure we would have had they had their way. After dinner, 2 blocks outside of the restaraunt, we found another woman who sold one to me, without negotiation for 5 bucks, again nailing the size. I guess 3 dollars is the going rate for personal service and dinnertime delivery in this part of Mexico. We weren't mad at it. Food and panchos. Check and check.

There was one other kid who came in the restaraunt to sell wooden toys. We didn't buy any because they had no artistic merit of any kind. And I have standards that even 10 year olds must adhere to. But he did earn himself a peso and two avocados. Not for salesmanship. Not for tenacity. He earned his money for being dumb. In retrospect, it probably wasn't his fault. But facts are facts even if they're a bit sad. And even if I recount them like a tactless jerk. I asked him his age. He said 10. I asked him if he was in school and he said yes. I asked him if he knew multiplication and he said yes. I asked him what 10 times 10 was and he said 1000. When I told him know (because that's how he would have wanted me to spell it), it was 100 he argued with me and said that 100 is the answer to 10 plus 10. Eventually he came around to my way way of thinking when I threatened to call the Hot Cops if he didn't. I then asked him what the capital of the state of chiapas was. He answered mexico. I didn't bother to correct him. I just moved on to the next question which was what is the capital of mexico. He answered north. After the conversation came to a close, I realized that he might have been 0 for 6 including being incorrect about his own age and school attendance. His commitment to wrong answers inspired me, thus the peso and avocados. I hope that my satire, distasteful as it may be, brings attention to a broader issue. School might be an important part of helping these kids to grow up and live lives beyond goals of mere subsistence. But maybe I'm wrong. I don't think I would have been as likely to give that kid a peso if he got even one question right. I've got a lot of thinking to do about my role in this situation. Great.

It looks like the Zapatista thing is going to work out after all, thanks to the efforts of a teacher I had in high school. It turns out some of them really do care and are even willing to put their neck on the line and help out a student 10 years later. It has really changed my perspective on things because I always thought teachers just got into the business for the money.

You know what some teachers teach? Science. And some of that science was developed by scientists. And some of those scientists were men. And you know what that means. Its time to play get a street named like how they do in Mexico City. Our suggestion for congress or whoever picks the names of streets today is Deductive Universal Forms of Plato Boulevard. It may seem egotistical to refer to a set of testicles as "Universal Forms." But let's allow the guy a bit of honor.

Nothing, Ninjas, and No Sharks

2009-10-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

The scores are the same as they were before. So no need to recap. Just scroll down if youre really that much of a fanatic about it.

At the moment Calen is passed out on the floor of the bus station. I think whatever we bought at the farmacia out of a dramamine box was actually GHB. It might be a translation error, but to know for sure, im going to have to find a colloquial spanish-english dictionary and see if Dramamine is what they call roofies. Regardless, Calen is dead to the world right now. Maybe its malaria. I dont know. Whatever the case, I sort of envy him right now. If he can keep up this act, he may very well sleep through the entire 12 hour bus ride were about to take.

Every 40 passenger bus weve taken in Mexico has had 6 people on it. Us, the driver, maybe a chicken or goat, and a couple other people. But tonight, when the option was an 11 hour trip on the early bus we wanted to take, or a 12 hour trip on the late bus we didnt, the early one was completely full and the late one had only two seats left on different hemispheres of the bus. In Mexico they divide buses using hemispheres. They´re a cartography loving people. I dont know if this is my american entitlement speaking, but i think they should either kick some people off so we can sit together or send an extra bus so we can sit together or send us in a taxi for a comparable price so we can sit together. And it should probably be a taxi with a bathroom because i plan on taking plenty of pressurized beverages on this trip as well.

The place we are leaving is mazunte, which, in a rare occurence given the tendency of human beings to embellish and romanticize, actually lived up to the hype of a beach paradise as it was described. Only its the low season so there was no one there except us, a guy who was probably a bus driver, a chicken or a goat, and a couple other people. At no point could one look out on the expansive beach and be unable to count the amount of people on their fingers.

We stayed in a place called La Atarraya which was a fine establishment run by the Mexican Jason Ross, only his name was Cesar and he didnt have any 18-year-old-impulsive-decisions tattooed on his arms. Since we were the only ones there, we opted for the camping package which meant we slept on hammocks on this huge 2nd story, open air terrace covered by palm leaves and literally (not figuratively) looking out on to the surf which was about 30 yards away. The lower floor of the place is actually just sand. Its sort of like a gateway to the beach. We arrived on the day of a full moon which meant a couple things. High tide. Huge waves. And a night on the beach which was lit up so bright by the moonlight that you could walk around with eyes squinted like my mom when she´s drunk and still safely arrive at the destination of your choosing. I woke up in the middle of the night and walked down to the beach and there is really only one way to explain the experience, dreamlike. Everything was coated in a soft blue light, which was a sharp contrast to the blinding light of a beach day.

We became well acquainted with the beach. The sand was fine and soft. The kind of fine, soft sand we discovered, experientially, that can remain in any nook and cranny of your nether regions that it chooses (it chose all of them) without detection for 2 days. This was ninja sand. It went where it wanted, when it wanted without so much as making a noise or setting off an alarm. We only learned this lesson because we employed the same approach to hygeine as we did when we were 12. Swimming counts as bathing. What we started to notice is that even though we spent copious amounts of time in the water (yes, calen swam in the ocean, repeatedly) we still developed a stench that rivalled the smell of the mexican street seafood with which we had become so familiar. So eventually we showered, and found the ninja sand. We killed them all with our peppermint samurai soap. Their tiger style was no match for our d'wa-gone style.

The waves in Mazunte made me realize something and added a bit more cohesion to my otherwise disjointed existence. There are some things in life that you never really understand why they seem so important to you until that fateful day when the answer is revealed. I had a strange obsession when I was but a lad of 17 with learning how to do a yoga asana which, by its anglicized name, is called the scorpion pose. Maybe it was the cool name, or maybe it was the acrobatics of the pose. Whatever the case, i practiced until i could do it, never seeing a practical reason for all the effort. And without any (Gob´s) segue (that counts as the Arrested Development reference for this post), as i mentioned before, high tide meant big waves. Huge, crashing, deafening waves. Waves that make you appreciate the power of nature. Waves that pucker your ninja sand hiding spots. Waves that appeal to the reckless stupidity of people like ourselves. We reasoned that since we grew up in California, and California touches the ocean, that we must be an ocean people. So we surfed with the only thing available to surf. Our bodies. And in one of those classic misjudgements of ocean people that grew up in a landlocked valley of the state of ocean people, i got caught (it feels even dumber to admit that it was intentional, so I´ll pretend like I was an innocent victim of the cruel Poisedon) in a wave that slammed down with a special kind of torque that made my heels touch my cervical vertebrae, even though i specifically asked it not to. I got out of the water wondering what a fractured vertebrae felt like. But after about an hour all i had was a slightly sore back which was 100% after another hour, and a profound sense of gratitude for community colleges everywhere that make yoga classes fulfill a degree requirement. Sierra College, you saved my life. And thats not even the first time. You wouldnt believe how often calculating instantaneous rates of change or identifying a gerund has saved me from an untimely death.

So the beach was absolutely amazing. It was like living in Lost without all thje creepy people who, for no reason, are always lying to each other. But it turns out that doing nothing isnt really something im good at. I enjoyed myself immensely, but after two days and a combined total of about 8 hours in the sun and saltwater, and the vast majority of the other 24 or so in a hammock, it was time to move on. I do believe that it would be the perfect place for a large group of friends and family during the low season though. Or maybe if I could stay and paint for a month. Something other than nothing. Houses with kitchens and relatively modern ammenities can be rented on the beach for $300 per month and the cost of travel is negligible assuming you dont mind gambling your life on the bus ride. The food on the beach is amazing and cheap and fresh. There aren´t sharks, jellyfish, carpet fish or anything else that can kill you aside from the waves. They have fishermen that are more than happy to take people out to fish, sea turtles (get it?), dolphins, monsters of the deep, etc. There are internet cafes for checking email and porn. Somebody set that up. Aunt Karen, Im looking at you. You like email and porn in a secluded beach setting more than anyone.

So here we are now in the bus terminal with peeling faces, a few mosquito bites, serious fatigue, and against all odds, uninjured, waiting to take the later, longer bus ride to San Cristobal where our goal is to hook up with the Zapatistas. This is a task that is proving to be more difficult and less likely to occur the closer we get to the actual place. But its the meat of the trip, and so it merits a bit of struggle. Besides, what kind of goal would it be if there was a brochure or something? The things in this life worth doing usually involve a nonexistent, uncharted, or overgrown path. Things like meeting up with a group of well organized, indigenous rebels with a world view that inspires to the ends of the earth. Things like getting a street named after a scientist's balls.

How about Stephen J. Gould's Sesamoid Groin Processes Road? Speaking of sesamoid processes, the zoo in Mexico City had a giant panda in an enclosure that seemed to intentionally obscure our view. I think it was animatronic and theyre trying to pull the wool... no wait... panda fur over our eyes. But i digress. Dont be surprised if i suggest more streets with Gould. I like him. He deserves this. Read Ontogeny, Ontogeny and Phylogeny and there will be no end to the amount of letters you'll be motivated to write to Obama to make this happen for Mr. Gould, God rest his soul.

The Royal We

2009-10-03T17:35:00.000-07:00

We had a new contestant enter the game and so the time to remember the fallen is over... after one day. So here are the new scores:

Drug cartels and food poisoning: 2
Calen and Colten: 17

Even though food poisoning and cartels technically constitutes the formation of a new team, we will allow them the points won by swine flu due to the fact that they are at a heavy disadvantage in the overall standings. Were not about to give up our hard earned points, so its only fair to make a concession for them.

All those scoring politics aside, it isnt often that one gets to truly enjoy the unparalleled bliss of simply being alive. It is something that often goes unnoticed. However, its much easier to be aware of it when contrasted against the very real and (for 9 hours at least) omnipresent specter of meeting one's doom just after careening off of a go-kart-track-curvy, vertically banked mountain road while sitting inside a bus that has no business going that speed or taking turns that a rabbit would have a hard time managing. The funniest thing was that on the back of the bus was a little decal that read "velocidad controlado." Im not sure what they set their speed control thingy at, but - think it was the same setting as whatever they use for NASCAR. In the end, we arrived at our destination safely. So thanks to whoever was driving and thanks to whatever god to which someone sacrificed a pot bellied pig on behalf of our safety during this trip.

There was one other little hiccup on the voyage that, in hindsight seemed foreshadowed. But i didnt heed the warning as my intuition, nay, common sense had been debilitated by what westerners know as "churro drunk." We needed water for the long bus ride as i think bus toilet water falls under the category of water you arent supposed to drink in mexico. So we went to the store and i just grabbed the two biggest bottles of water i could find. 2 liters each, if youre dying to know the total. Thats 4 liters total if you went to american public school. Booyah, take that you failing American social infrastructure. When we got to the bus station Calen popped one open, accompanied by an unfamiliar hissing noise in the context of bottled water. He then discovered, much to his consternation that the water i had selected, strictly for the sake of gluttony, was carbonated. He then went on and on and on about how gross it was and how he was going to beat my ass (a common occurrence on this trip that has yet to come to fruition) and told me to try it. I did. I took a long, long drink and even pretended to be refreshed, even though it was just for pretend. He looked at me like i was crazy and questioned my sincerity. I stuck with my story. He insisted we throw it out, but i insisted to the contrary. In the end, we all boarded the bus, the carbonated water being included in that particular use of the pronoun, and sat in the very back seats in front of the bathroom.

We all, still including the water, fell asleep to the sweet sound of a spanish cartoon retelling the story of Noah's Ark. This film was selected by the bus company, presumably so that all the children on the bus could learn what a wrathful and destructive deity the catholic god is. At a certain point in the night, i awoke to discover three things. Calen had moved to a different row of seats. I looked out the window and saw that the bus was about three inches from the side of a cliff with no guardrail while pulling a 7 G turn (this only concerned me because in an effort to travel light, we had selected not to pack our G suits). And, possibly worst of all, my socks were very wet.

At first i thought i had cut my leg while somnamburesheathing a samurai sword (the sword of destiny) that Ive been carrying around mexico ever since our trip to the chinese holistic medicine store and as a result, i was bleeding into my sock. But even in my sleepy haze my deductive reasoning kicked in and i knew that was impossible because both my socks were wet and i had traded the sword just hours before to a kid in oaxaca for his last 16 churros. This left only one other option. The bus toilet had broken and water and whatever else there is in bus toilets was leaking out of the bathroom. I panicked and leaned forward to begin my analysis of the situation where i was promptly squirted in the face with water and whatever is in bus toilets. The squirt in the face sobered me out of my sleep and my churro intoxication and i discovered the source of the water was not a bus toilet but one of the carbonated 2 liter bottles of water. Im not sure whose to blame, but i knew i had to act fast. So i found the hole, covered it, took it to the bathroom and put it in the sink. I went back to my seat, pleased with my handling of the situation. Moments later i realized it would be a much more efficient solution to go and just empty the bottle completely rather than letting pressurized mineral water spray all over the bathroom as we all (still including the water) rode the tilt-a-whirl down the mexican federal highway. So i went and did that and then returned to my seat even more pleased with myself.

Then my socks continued to get wet. If you private school kids remember, there were 2 bottles. Whatever had attacked and punctured the first one, proceeded to attack and puncture the second. Knowing exactly how to resolve the situation, i remained calm... and proceeded to resolve the situation. There was a lot of proceeding going on including when the bus driver proceeded to take the bus onto an olympic slalom course, with moguls. I guess it was a shortcut or a gas saver or something. But his proceeding proceeded to cause me to proceed to be thrown out of the bathroom slamming the door into the knees of the guy sleeping next to it. He didnt kick my ass. In fact he was very understanding. And when morning came i learned something new. Just before i got off the bus, I learned that i knew how to say, "Sorry about slamming the door into your knees last night." in Spanish. I did not know that about myself.

Also, Mexican teenagers have taken to the habit of mistaking Calen for a rockstar of some kind. They dont ever know what band hes from, they just know there is a band and hes part of it. We (no longer including the bottled waters) decided that since they all seemed so sure, theres no reason to dash their hopes and dreams of having their photo taken with an american rockstar. So when they ask, we answer, "hes in a band called tacomatadietas." Thats the name of a taco shop we saw in mexico city and it means diet killer taco.

Oh yeah. And Calen threw up.

I checked and the Einstein's Quantum Energy Balls is failing to make headway in the ligislative processes necessary to get a street named. So here's a new suggestion. Lets try Anton von Leeuwenhoek's Microscopic Coccidia Boulevard. Come on people. If a small group of mexican anarchists can vandalize an entire major city, we can get a street named after a scientist's balls.

Mexico city is spelled r-e-d-e-m-p-t-i-o-n

2009-10-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

Current standings:

Swine flu and drug cartels: 1
Calen and Colten: 14

If you take a look at the scores, it is alarming to see that the opposing team has scored a point. A couple days ago, Calen began to have a sore throat, a clear indication of an H1N1 attack, which required urgent treatment with the Mexican equivalent of Airborne. It worked. This means that we have effectively cured swine flu. The implications for the world at large are profound. No longer do we have to cower in the deepest corner of our homes in fear of fever and other flu-like symptoms. Never again will children have to don their self contained personal quarantine iso-health disease resistante bio-suits just to go out to the cul-de-sac for a game of freeze tag. Everyone can start eating bacon again. Pot bellied pigs can go back to being the lovable and cherished family pets that they once were, rather than being offerings for the daily ritual sacrifices weve been making to the gods of maladies that resemble the flu exactly, but kill way, way, way less people worldwide. You're welcome earth. We'll be here all week. I will continue to include swine flu on the scoreboard in all future posts in order to honor the fallen. Even if the fallen was a highly inconvenient peehole.

Anyway, we're on a bus to Oaxaca right now en route to some beach paradise as described by our gracious hosts, and we can safely sum up our experience of Mexico City without the fear of having to eat our words later when we are attacked by a band of robbers disguised as mariachis or something. The official statement:

Mexico City was a safe and beautiful place with a full gamut of activities for all types of travelers.

I got that off a travel brochure I saw on the sidewalk outside Chapultepec park. But the statement stands up to the grueling, rigorous, gauntlet of truth to which i subject everything i read. So I decided to appropriate it. The empirical evidence just keeps stacking up that Mexico City is a pretty awesome place. I mean even the tourism industry has figured it out. And they are usually pretty reluctant to make broad sweeping statements about places and things and stuff.

We did, finally (maybe) almost get robbed. But in hindsight, im pretty sure the guy that was paying a little too much attention to us, looking at us weird, and acting generally shifty, was only doing so because we were doing the same to him and he probably thought we were going to rob him. Classic misunderstanding. We had gotten off the metro in a part of town usually not reserved for lobster faced gringos (we forgot to wear sunscreen for 1 f***ing day) after being directed to take a certain set of stairs by an all too eager to help subway passanger, from whom we had requested no help. So naturally, my paranoiadar went off and we took a different exit. But there was a man who seemed to be following us. We tried to lose him by slowing down... a lot. He kept pace with us stopping to look at ridiculous items being sold on the street. I knew it was suspicious because i have never seen a local stop to look at a stuffed monkey holding a taco in one hand and praying the rosary with the other. We slowed a lot. And he suddenly became a much more involved shopper. So we did what we learned from video games and movies and ducked into a shoe store. When he walked past, we stepped out right behind him. Now he tried to slow down and get us out from behind him. We didnt bother with the show of shopping and chose instead to slow down blatantly. He crossed to the other alley in the market but still seemed to keeping pace because everytime there was an opening between the tents in the market he would be looking over at us. In the end he turned around. He didnt rob us and we didnt rob him, which is exactly what ive been trying to say the whole time. No one gets robbed. In fact everyone with whom we spoke about the subject of personal crime in Mexico City knew someone who had been a vitim, but not one of them have been a victim themselves. Im beginning to suspect that crime in Mexico City is an urban legend like the loch ness monster in Scotland or the stripper who is just doing it to pay her way through medical school.

In other unconnected news, if you do ever come down here there are a few things worth knowing. The first and most important is that red lights are just a suggestion, and since the police dont generally enforce any traffic controls, suggestion might be too strong of a word. And if you're squeamish, and you ride the subway, and you see a man wearing a shirt with no sleeves get on who doesnt seem to be selling anything like all the other people who get on the subway with sacks of something, and he does, in fact, have a sack of something, and he sets that sack of something on the ground and opens it flat to reveal that the sack of something is actually a sack of broken glass and if the train is coming to a stop for passengers to get on and off... if all these things come to pass, especially the part about being squeamish, look away, because he is about to jump in the air and slam into that pile of broken gass shoulder first, with full commitment. If youre not squeamish, keep looking. It might be the only time you get to see something like that outside of a circus sideshow.

Also, i have successfully acheived the only goal i had regarding my study of the Spanish language. I have mentioned to several people that if i could acheive a moment of genuine humor, not one where people are laughing at me because what im saying is nonsensical madness, but actual cleverness, then i would feel as though i arrived. Yesterday, i made a pun. I belive my exact words as i held up a large handful of Mexican coins were "Mucho peso." Get it? No? Then learn Spanish. You live right next to Mexico. Anyway, it was linguistic premature ejaculation. Sure, i can make jokes now. But i cant get a gatorade from the 7 eleven (that's here, tambien) without needing the clerk to repeat basic phrases for me to fully comprehend what is being said to me. Its way too early for me to have acheived "success." So like with the trying to get robbed thing, I need to reevaluate and come up with a new measure of success.

How about Einstein's Quantum Energy Balls Avenue? Call your congressman. Together, we can acheive anything.

Isaac Newton's Testicles

2009-10-01T22:32:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: this entry was written in pieces, sporadically, on a cellphone, and then converted into a format usable by the computer, and then loosely edited during a heated game of Spongebob Monopoly. And photos... forget about it right now. But I'll add them in later. Mostly I'm just posting these things as proof of life. So don't get on my ass about the grammar, spelling, or general lack of continuity. You try doing this shit while keeping a vigilant eye on your monopoly money while struggling to understand the rapid fire Spanish being spoken by three people who are all very capable of speaking English to make sure they aren't conspiring to distract you and steal the title deed to Tentacle Acres. End Disclaimer

Here are the scores as they stand now.

Swine flu and drug cartels: 0

Calen and Colten: 3

We have been in Mexico city for well over 24 hours now and the most dangerous thing we've encountered has to be the uneven sidewalks that so diligently try to reintroduce us to our often forgotten friends, Gravity and Twisted Ankles. Every hora (hour) que pasa (that passes) sin (without) any of the excitement we were promised by the media, friends, family, friends of friends, homeland security, and random people on the street with strong opinions, we slip deeper into a state of boredom and despondency. It's not so much that we want to be the victims of a random act of violencia. It's the anticipation. So like any bored tourists, we decided to take matters into our hands. We spent most of today trying actively to entice the criminal elements of this fine city to take notice of us. The plan was to spend the day walking around looking very conspicuously like lost tourists. We did so by putting on our matching t-shirts emblazoned with the phrase "USA A-OK!!!," donning neon flavored fanny packs (yes, flavored), and reading all of our maps upside down while maintaining dumbfounded blank faces (it wasn't hard) and just generally trying to appear unfocused and vulnerable. Fool proof, right? Wrong. We didn't even get so much as a sideways look. The policia wouldn't even rob us. And if you cant get taken advantage of by the police in Mexico City, then it's time to reevaluate your tactics.

We knew we had no choice but to crank it up to 11. We went to the place where during the day, there are bootleg markets. But we went at night when all that is left on the streets are the people who run the bootleg markets. At night, the markets are closed and we figured without a clearly defined sense of purpose, the "fell off a truck" sales team would be happy to make our acquaintance. So we removed our shirts and pants and tied them around our eyes, effectively rendering us blind and unable to serve as reliable witnesses against any would be criminals. We then took all the money out of our pockets and stuffed it in the waistband of our underwear, being careful to ensure that the money was still visible from a distance and easily recognizable as large denomination pesos. We then proceeded to perform the chicken dance, which we later found out was a much more inflammatory gesture than we had previously known. Still, nothing. I'm not sure if we overdid it or what. The weirdest thing is that I think we ended up with more money in our underwear than when we started. I guess it all worked out for the best though, because a cursory glance at a Mexican legal guide listed stuffing ones underwear with money and performing a dance in a venue not zoned for such actividad (activity) as an actionable offense punishable by several consecutive life sentences in prison or a fine of 120 pesos (currently about 10 dollars American).

Aside from behemoth failure at becoming just another statistic and perhaps a cautionary tale for future visitors to Mexico City, there were some highlights of the day. We visited the Museo Nacional de Antropologia where we saw, among other things, this giant dong.

Don’t try and use your imagination. It is exactly what it looks like. It said so on the information card, and I’m pretty sure they proofread those things. The museum, apart from its phallic wonders, or perhaps because of them, is quite impressive both in scale, and the detail of the exhibits. There were burial exhibits everywhere. We never knew there were so many different ways to stuff a recently deceased body into a hole and then leave it there forever. But leave it to the Prehispanic Mesoamerican indigenous cultures to find about a trillion different ways.

We rode the metro to the Zócalo which was the town center of old timey Mexico City if I'm not mistaken, which I probably am. This was on the way to the bootleg market in Tepito and merited a look around. I don’t think I've ever been in a cathedral that big before. Oh yeah, there was a cathedral, and we went to it, and it was big, just to clarify the lack of transition. It was, how do you say, very Catholic, with all kinds of beautiful and dramatic imagery, insanely detailed architecture, and you guessed it, high, arching, cathedral ceilings.

After awhile it became exhausting seeing all the paintings and statues of people who were clearly better than us, morally, and just in general. If any of them were alive today they would probably be better than us at video games, too. We Brothers Smith like to maintain this deep seated delusion that we're ok people in the moral sense. And depictions of pure, suffering, holy saints don’t do much but create feelings of inadequacy deep within our souls. So we left the church to see if we could find some stolen computers or chihuahua fights or something.

We could tell that Tepito would have been awesome, had we arrived 4 hours earlier. I guess the Mexican bootleg market keeps bank hours. Since one of our major concerns is maintaining a light load for travel, we resisted the temptation to impulse buy some authentic Kasio watches or bedazzled and officially licensed Ed Hearty shirts. The bootleg leather motorcycle jackets seemed nice though, and I want to say that if your’e ever in Mexico City and you are in the market for a leather jacket that might, but probably won’t, prevent your skin from being ripped from your body in a 30 mph fall from a motorcycle, and you want to look good doing it, without the hefty price tag of tried and tested jackets, Tepito is the place to go.

On a more serious note, we learned from our new friends here about a march happening on Friday to commemorate a rather gruesome event in Mexico's history. In 1968, the year Mexico City hosted the olympic games, there was a massacre of 40,000 (a four with 4 zeroes, this according to the account we received, although disputed) students and other unfortunate souls who happened to be in the area. This was done in an effort to create a peaceful ambiance for the upcoming games because the government and students were at odds over certain oppression that most governments attempt to impose at some point during their existence. The massacre was successfully covered up, somehow, someway. And the profound pain of an entire nation was swept under the rug for the sake of what amounts to marketability. This is only a very precursory description of the events, based on my very inadequate understanding. But it merits further examination. And even though it may seem like something that could “never happen to me” it’s a good illustration of why a government should be afraid of its people and not the other way around. A government is an institution, inherently heartless ruling over millions of people each of whom possess both hearts and minds capable of profound feeling. The relationship doesn’t add up. Governments also tend to arise by way of violence and maintain power in the same fashion. There doesn’t have to be a massacre or bloodshed for violence to occur either.

Tune in next time where I will discuss the very imperative issue of getting a street named after the balls of famous scientists like they do here in Ciudad de Mexico.

Hemos Llegado

2009-09-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Mexico City tonight and contrary to what everyone told us would happen, we have not yet been murdered. Suck on that gringos. Turns out Mexico City is not unlike most other cities on this big watery ball of earth we call, well, Earth. There´s a California Pizza Kitchen, a Tony Roma´s, and a 7 eleven. The only adjustment to be made really, is that the 7 eleven does not have an ATM machine. So bring cash.

It´s been 4 hours since we got here and no one has tried to kidnap us, mug us, or sell us on the amazing benefits and lucrative long term retirement plan that they´re offering to coke mules these days. Frankly, I´m a bit disappointed. We haven´t even been shot at. I expected there to be a lot more action. From the descriptions I´ve received from very reliable sources (sources is a French word which means "people who have never been there") Mexico City was supposed to be a post-apocalyptic wasteland with utter lawlessness, urban pirates running around pillaging, mountains of illicit powders just strewn about surrounded by stacks of dead bodies, monkeys wearing pants, and food cart tacos that melt your intestines the second you think about them.

But it turns out Mexico City is just a pretty nice place with a lot of interesting stuff to do and nice people, who, in more than a few cases, speak a bit of Spanish. Sort of anticlimactic when you have mentally prepared yourself to have to fight your way through an airport terminal full of rapists just to get to your checked luggage. Oh well, maybe Guatemala will live up to the hype.

Tomorrow we´re going to the bootleg market to see if we can find a chinchilla bulletproof vest. We were told you can get anything there. I have my doubts. And in case you´re wondering, I mean a bulletproof vest with a chinchilla fur covering. Although, now that I think about it, I´d be more impressed if we found a bulletproof vest manufactured to the specifications and needs of a chinchilla.

New Paintings

2009-08-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

Here are a few new ones. Lately I've been working with a limited palette (it appeals to my limited brain capacity) and focusing a bit more on developing interesting substrate. These paintings were finished relatively quickly, which was a nice departure from the 100-years-to-finish Flemish projects that I've been working on. Some of those are actually coming to a close as well. Hopefully I'll be able to put the finishing touches on a couple before the end of September. But if you're making odds, they should be astronomically high against me finishing. In other news, my dogs need their nails (beast talons) clipped. Any volunteers?

Debating How Much Weed Killer Is Safe in Your Water Glass

2009-08-22T22:32:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/23/us/23water.html?_r=1&partner=rss&emc=rss&src=ig

Is it really necessary to have a debate about this? The answer, unless I'm missing something, should be a resounding "none." If it wasn't in the water when we stepped out of the primordial ooze and onto land, it probably doesn't belong in there now. Unless of course they find that it prevents hair loss or has some auspicious effect on a penile erection... then I want to go on record as saying they should supplement our Doritos with atrazine.

MUST HAVE DVD!!!

2009-07-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

In these trying economic times its important for each and everyone of us to do whatever it takes to secure a financial future and hoard enough money to get weekly acai juice enemas... you know... for the antioxidants. Why not just drink acai enemas, you ask? Because nutrients can be absorbed colorectally, so why not? Fortunately for me I have a profound understanding of the laws of supply and demand, so profound, in fact, that Alan Greenspan once described me as “hyper-scholarly robo-economist 3000 plus.” Drawing upon this knowledge, I have decided that since the market is absolutely saturated with how-to tattoo videos, it is the absolute perfect time for me to make my contribution to the genre. I would explain why this makes sense according to the classical models conveyed by microeconomics, but the nuances that lend this decision its undeniable quality of genius are so sublime, so subtle, so awesome possum, that Adam Smith himself would have a hard time understanding it. It has been said that you have to “strike while the iron is hot,” and right now the iron is taco bell volcano burrito hot. It matters not that access to the burrito iron is obstructed by 153,000 other tattooers releasing videos. The information I intend to present is so essential, so specialized, that no tattooer regardless of degree of experience, skill level, nationality, blood type, religious affiliation, lactose tolerance level, or otherwise can afford to pass up the opportunity to benefit from this splendid presentation. Even if you are an old school tattooer* and you’ve been getting yourself to work for quite some time, you still NEED to see this. And so, for your benefit, I present...

Tattooing with Colten Smith: The Advanced Basics of Tattooing Series: How to Get to Work in the Morning: Pro Edition Anniversary Style with Extra Special Extra Features DeeVeeDee 1

For any tattooer, serious about progressing in the art and trade, this video will revolutionize the way you think about getting up in the morning and getting to work. The DVD will have the same exciting features as all your other favorite “How to Tattoo” DVDs including:

- Crappy production quality guaranteed to impress. People, this is the exact same production value you would expect to get from filming with a $78 instant digital video recorder purchased directly from your local “going out of business” retailer or traded for a tattoo from a guy who said he’s “gotta cousin.” No need for a tripod. This is gritty, in your face, kind of stuff. Take a Dramamine and then get ready to tell all your friends how “artsy” it was... like Cloverfield.

- Plugging of random unnecessary products that were given to me by the companies that made them and who have assured me, without any distinguishable agenda or ulterior motive, that their products are the best on the market. I don’t know why, but I believe them. And you should too... because if it appears in the “flashing magic talking truth box“ then you can be sure that it’s passed through the rigorous fact checking department at the FCC or wherever they make sure that all American media is certified Truth-Compliant.

- Super rad soundtrack composed by my buddy’s girlfriend’s landlord’s ambient/funk/metal/pop/electronica band to be overlaid, or rather middlelaid between the sound of the actual video environment being filmed and the sound of my brilliant, clever, Morgan Freemanesque narration. (As a result of my voice performance on this DVD I’m actually in talks with BBC to narrate the next installment of the Planet Earth series: Planet Universe)

- A large portion of the video dedicated to things like how to apply a stencil, how to set up ink caps, and how to use some kind of inert liquid to create what insiders mysteriously refer to as a “greywash.” Because everyone knows that if you haven’t yet mastered stencil placement and equipment setup, then you’re definitely ready for advanced techniques of tattooing.

- Completely uninspired framing, random cutaways, a complete lack of transitions, and spontaneous camera battery malfunctions that go unnoticed for upwards of a half an hour but still, somehow, detract nothing from the presentation whatsoever.

- False Humility.

- Jokes. Loads of jokes. Some of these will be of the “off the cuff” variety, slightly awkward, and barely pertinent. Others will be jokes that I have written in preparation for my narrative debut, carefully composed after watching my Introduction to DVD Narrating: Writing Good Jokes to Use in Your Narration DVD

- Constant and repetitive warnings about how this DVD is not intended for “scratchers.” This dissuasion technique has been proven by psychologists with large group, double blind, controlled scientific studies to be an effective deterrent against “scratchers.” Viewers who fall in this category turned on the DVD with the expressed and clear intent of stealing all the sweet stencil placement knowledge, realize that they themselves are the “scratchers” in question, then obediently, and with stoic integrity, cease viewing, turn off the DVD, erase everything they learned from their brains via the “ excess Gamma Hydroxy Butanol metabolic pathway,” feed the DVD to their dog, and throw their DVD player from no less than an 8 story window everytime 60% of the time (I also received an award for how awkward that run on sentence was). Seriously, documented science confirms it, the deterrent, not the run-on sentence.

- Constant and repetitive pleading against the replication or distribution of the DVD on the internet or among friends with the unspoken but undeniable implication that “Everyone should pay me 100 bucks for this hastily assembled production which is nothing more than the repackaging of information in spite of the fact that I can claim absolutely no ownership to the ideas and techniques presented, the publishing of which would have earned me a nice set of broken hands 40 years ago... But I’ve won some tat showdown trophies and been in a couple magazines so you owe me.” Oh yeah... no scratchers. But seriously, acai enemas aren’t cheap. So even if your mom wants to watch the video for five minutes just because she wants to feign an interest in what you do, make her purchase her own copy... even though I download all my shit off the internet. But this is different than when I do it. So hypocrisy is merited.

- Gratuitious consumption of alcohol in celebration of god knows what.

- A firm commitment that if you just email me with any questions or ideas and enter the registration code found on the DVD, I’ll get back to you with tons of personalized tips and constructive criticism in appreciation for all the support you’ve shown. Except I won’t. At all. Ever. Don’t email me. It just goes to my spam box.

Other things on this DVD not found in other DVDs

- Step by step demonstration of how to win a “tatski trophy” every single time you go to a tattoo tournament otherwise known as a tattoo showdown, or a tatting championship, or a tattoo track meet depending on your local. (Actually, I’ll give this one away for free. To vastly improve your odds, just do tattoos that possess a questionable quality of longevity and add the words “BLANK rocks“ where ”BLANK“ equals the name of the city in which the tattoo match is being held or the name of the shop that is responsible for the convention.) To my knowledge, I’ve never won any trophies myself. But I know people who have. And they’ve graciously offered their consulting to guarantee the accuracy of this portion of the film.

- Irrefutable evidence that the fall of the twin towers was the result of a US government conspiracy and that David Hasselhoff got a raw deal and should have been THE American Icon of our generation, also a US government conspiracy.

BUT WAIT!!!!! You’re not getting just one DVD, you’re getting a shitload of DVDs. Actually, in all honesty you’re just getting one DVD with several different selections capable of being made. But it sounds cooler to make it seem like these things are extra. For some reason it appeals to the average consumer to feel as though they are getting something for nothing. But I digress. These selections include but are not limited to:

- Getting to work
- Getting to work hung over
- Getting to work hung over on a bike
- Getting to work using public transportation
- Getting a ride from your girlfriend to work with and without having to make her breakfast
- Getting to work Sunday drunk
- Getting to work Tuesday drunk
- Getting to work Tuesday drunk without pissing your pants
- Getting to work ”I loved my girlfriend with all my heart and she repaid me by boinking the lawn guy last Wednesday” drunk
- Getting to work late and making sure the boss doesn’t notice/ doesn’t get mad about it if he does notice
- Getting to work while eating a street vendor falafel with your eyes closed
- How to smuggle alcohol onto a cruise ship
- How to locate a dead rat in a wall on a warm summer day
- Swine Flu and you: How to survive the impending onslaught
- How to spot chicks with dicks, visual and tactile methods will be covered
- How to apply a tattoo stencil: Do’s and dont’s (Reminder: DVD for established advanced tattooers only)

So if you really want to up your game, then do yourself a favor and watch this DVD repeatedly until the information becomes second nature much like tying your shoe or beating your heart. It will revolutionize the way you tattoo and dare I say, with the utmost false modesty, the whole face of the industry. I’m not going to insult you by charging $250 for the DVD. Instead, what I’m going to do is post it on Youtube. And if you watch it, you owe me ten bucks... each time. Have a conscience, don’t be a dick about it, and m*****f***ing pay me. You can send check, money order, or cash to my email. No credit cards because those banks are the same ones that contributed to the downfall of the Hoff

As new information becomes available, updates will be posted concerning new developments on the progress of the DVD, as well as any new special features that are added at the last minute to inject further value into this already priceless product. This video is like the high fructose corn syrup of the tattoo world. And we all know that human beings can’t survive without high fructose corn syrup. Thank god for modern food processing, and thank god that I had the foresight to develop, produce, and release a work of artful instruction so essential to an entire community. Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve all survived this long without it.

And look out for my next DVD: Tattooing with Colten Smith: The Advanced Basics of Tattooing Series: How to Get a Piece of the Burgeoning How to Tattoo DVD Market Pie: Mega Rad Edition One.

I can almost taste the acai butt juice now. I’m gonna be so f***ing rich! And you're gonna be so f***ing good at tattooing! Win-win.

*The use of the term “old school tattooer” used to refer to a certain style of tattooing and possibly even a loose set of personal characteristics or values generally held by the person referred to as “old school.” Now it just means that you’ve been in the game more than two years and use black ink in your shading schematic... even if it’s a tattoo of a blender with tribal buttons mixing up a GI Joe and a spark plug.

Updates...

2009-05-23T11:43:00.000-07:00

I made some on the website. Photos, tattoos, 1 drawing, paintings. And I was even kind enough to alert you all with that incomplete sentence completely devoid of a predicate phrase. So you know, check it out if you want... or not.

This Should Be Obvious...

2009-02-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

The word "illegal" does not equal wrong. Similarly, the word "legal" has no intrinsic relationship to right.

This is not an original idea. But it's one that seems to be overlooked in modern societies that have the resources to be frivolous. The words legal and illegal are in no way a remark upon the morality of an action, movement, or idea. They simply foreshadow the possibility of consequences of said actions, movements, and ideas. There are times when it is wrong to abide by a "legal" law. The only question then is whether or not one is willing to endure the consequences of performing an illegal action.

The balance of legal/illegal, right/wrong seems to have tipped so far in the favor of money that any action that strikes a blow to this paradigm should be, for the present time only, celebrated as an act equatable to freeing people caught in bonds of slavery. This idea, that any act in the spirit of restoring balance is a noble one, should be frequently reassessed. As a more natural balance returns, certain disobedience that was previously for the greater good becomes detrimental to it. This is the nature of balance. A constantly changing situation requires different degrees of action to maintain an equilibrium. Look to any conceivable system for evidence that this is true. When a system is severely weighted in one direction, a swift and unprejudiced strike at the heavy side will be very effective in moving the system towards a balance. But if the same swift and unprejudiced strike were levied upon one side of a system only slightly out of whack, the inevitable result is an even less balanced system that has simply shifted to favor the other side.

Feel free to dispute me if you feel differently. I just don't think that government, military, police, or corporations have any innate right to govern. They are just people, albeit disembodied in the form of a larger organizational structure. Their only true value comes in the detached application of fair action. But they've convinced enough people that they are integral to the functioning of our "civilized" form of existence. Sure there are good cops. Sure there are good pharmaceutical company executives. Sure there are good congressman. But the chances of you ever crossing paths with one of them is pretty slim. So when the police pull you over, don't let them search you even if you have absolutely nothing to hide. Have a nice conversation with the officer while he works on getting a warrant issued. He might be able to provide more educated insight on the distinctions between legality and morality, having lived in the space between the two 10 hours a day, 4 days a week. But more than likely he'll just send you on your way because right or wrong, no one likes to do paperwork.

New Stufficles...

2009-02-04T16:46:00.001-08:00

The title says it all. Stufficles is a word of Maori originiation that means "A combination of photos documenting either one or a combination of tattoos, paintings, and drawings. The word is also commonly used in Northern Canadia and actually just refers loosely to objects that have frozen hanging from boughs of trees or rooves with eaves. This is, of course, not to be confused with stalagmiticles which grow from the ground up. The new ones (photos) are mixed in the galleries amongst the not so new. Enjoysicle!

Reasons You Will Die

2009-01-21T05:48:00.000-08:00

Global terrorism, high cholesterol, box jellyfish attacks, fires caused by trying to deep fry a turkey, global heating, getting out of bed in the morning, not getting out of bed in the morning, breath holding contests, explosive tires, uranium soap, tap water, Jell-o wrestling match drowning incidents, old age, not looking both ways before crossing the street, mercury poisoning from tuna, and obviously, smoking. These are all ways that the average American is likely to meet their end. This list, as you would imagine, due to my love of accuracy, is in order according to percentages or something. If you wish for me to cite my source, please send me an email and I will kindly direct you to a place you can find located conveniently between your femoral and lumbar region.

This list isn’t only comprehensive and deadly (pun intended) accurate, it’s also scary. Furthermore, I have the distinctly unpleasant task of bringing three new likely causes of death to the attention of the American public. And, unfortunately, if trends continue, these three causes will supersede all others on the list by 3rd quarter fiscal 2010. Here they are in no particular order:

Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers.

I have found my life threatened on numerous occasions each day by this particular vector of doom. Riding the Best, Most Beastliest Cycle of 2008 on the streets of Siem Reap carries with it a modicum of risk that very few can imagine. Everyday that I toe that plastic alloy space age composite material super pedal, I have to look the grim reaper in the eye and say “Not today, you greedy, bony bastard!” But its not just bicyclisters that have this problem, its anyone who decides to venture outside the confines of a sturdy, load bearing structure. Even staying indoors is no guarantee that the Unlicensed Cambodian Driver won’t come crashing through your front door like some kind of anti-heat seeking missile searching out your A/C and refrigerated beverages. It would be prudent of me to point out that in the context of this description, the words “Unlicensed” and “all” can be used interchangeably. Licensing isn’t something that the people, government or general public, have decided to concern themselves with. But to their credit, it seems that the children certain things about driving in primary school. I say this because the only way that I could consistently witness some of the things that are commonplace here is if the practices were ingrained in the children at a very young age, so as to circumvent that pesky little thing called common sense.

First, all cars in Cambodia are apparently hybrids. But it’s not a response to impending threat of another cause of death on our list, global heating. In fact, the hybrid cars are in no way motivated by any issue of ecology. They’re not even electric hybrids. They’re sonic hybrids. Not like the hedgehog. Not not like sound waves. Cambodians have been taught, by some official body, again due to the overwhelming amount that the practice is employed that their motor driven vehicles operate on a delicate combination of gasoline and horn honks. They honk the horn when people are around, they honk their horn when no ones around, at intersections, in parking lots, at ducks, cows, buildings, people, light, air, water, and rocks. They honk their horns when they’re horny. They honk ‘em for Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Allah. They honk their horns for world peace. But mostly they just honk them as an alternative source of fuel. Apparently, they can increase their mileage by up to 2 percent just by driving with the horn duct taped into an “on” position. In the U.S. we would need to inflate our tires to the proper pressure and put down the tailgate to see such an increase in the efficiency of our automobiles. Monday, I saw a small child, no more than 3 years old getting his training in horn honking/gas saving. He was standing (an issue I will briefly address later) on the front of a moped, while it was in motion and was being encouraged by the other two passengers and driver (remember, moped) to keep honking. It seemed to me like a blatant violation of child labor laws. But if I would have complained, who would have listened?

Waiting for the left turn is also not a concept familiar to most Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers. If an individual arrives at an intersection, and said intersection is saturated with a veritable throng of motor vehicles, the individual will simply drive down the wrong side of the street until some sort of “opening” presents itself and the individual is able to “merge” onto the proper side of the street. Favorite tactics employed by Cambodians to achieve success in this maneuver include, but are not limited to, driving on the sidewalk, driving in the gutter, honking the horn while driving directly into the flow of heavy traffic, closing one’s eyes and meditating oneself to higher plane of existence whereby one might transport oneself to the right lane. As you can see, it’s a different culture, and as such they’ve developed a different approach to the art of the left turn.

This is a game called passing on the left with the gas truck, a favorite Cambodian past time. Extra points are earned for passing into oncoming traffic and overtaking vehicles twice the length of your own. This truck does both with a skill usually reserved for 9 year old blind kids.

If I’ve gained nothing else from this experience, I have at least attained greater sense of who one of my deceased relatives truly was. I had an aunt who would avoid making left turns whenever possible. She would make three rights to equal a left. At 9 years old I recognized this and just wondered to myself what the deal was. It didn’t seem like something I should bring up, as in our family we were raised in the vein of those who believe that children should neither be seen, nor heard. But the thing I learned about my aunt from all this is this: she was a psychic. All those years ago, she was anticipating the rise of automobiles in Cambodia, the resulting culture of driving, and what that would mean for Americans as Cambodians figured out how to obtain visas and emigrate to the US. Unfortunately she didn’t live to see her three-right-turn protocol become a social and life sustaining necessity in America. But I’m pretty sure that being psychic, she knew her nephew would go to Cambodia, and that the lessons she taught would someday save his life. For those of you confused with the way I switched from the first person to the third person, essentially without using any transitional device, the his in last sentence was me. Me, Colten. Thanks for that, Aunt Nancy. Thanks.

I promised I would address the child standing on the front of the moped issue. So this is me addressing it. I’ve seen six people on one moped. Granted, one of them was under 20 lbs. and 2 years old, and the other 5 were under 100 lbs. ranging in age from 12 to 60. But it was still six human beings on one moped which very likely commanded an impressive 10, maybe 11 horsepower. Don’t worry, they were honking frequently enough that I’m certain they made it to their destination. Even when there’s only two people on the scooters, they will keep the baby standing in the front. The kids seem accustomed to it. In the US, jail time. In Cambodia, viable means of transporting human babies.

Not on the front but still a little cavalier.

Speaking of viable means of transporting weird things on mopeds (yes, the sentiment is that human babies are weird, their heads are soft, they can’t see through the plot holes on Teletubbies, and I have yet to see one dress itself appropriately) I was able to snap this photo while in a barrel roll on the back of one of the death cycles. Sorry about the angle, lack of focus, and poor lighting. But like I said, I was in a full on barrel roll. Not a lot of time for photo composition when it takes everything you have to remain conscious in spite of the G force.

Even though they’re not quite there yet, someday these little pigs will be 500 lb. dead pigs and still be riding in the same lap of luxury.

If you do the math, a 500 lb. dead pig passenger and a 100 lb. living human driver should be very difficult to transport simultaneously on a 60 lb. scooter. But I guess it’s just further scientific evidence of the efficiency-boosting power of horn honking. There have also been dead ducks and chickens hanging from a pole lashed across the back end of the scooters. That one makes more sense to me, though because if the driver is lucky enough to catch a hind wind, the dead birds could potentially act as a sail further increasing gas mileage. And I guess, since this is a society firmly rooted in the tenets of magic, both good and bad, it’s not unreasonable to assume that a magic man might be able to reanimate the birds wings, propelling the vehicle into a craft of flight, and bypassing the whole left-turn-drive-on-the-sidewalk-and-endanger-the-lives-of-pedestrians issue all together. They have a saying here in Cambodia, “A flying car is a happy car. A most delicious happy car everyday.”

Also traffic signals seem to be a moot point. They drive on the right, but half the cars have right side drive, further confusing an already befuddled culture of drivers. Most of them can’t see over the steering wheel anyway. Posting speed limits is either thought to be an archaic and primitive practice of brutes, or an unnecessary luxury of brutish western culture. At any rate, they don’t do it. And just to further emphasize how pun-tacular this blog is, I’m going to point out that miles per hour, as in a posted speed limit, is a measure of rate or velocity. But the phrase “at any velocity” just didn’t have the same ring to it. In Cambodia, pedestrians are considered obstacles to be eliminated (with extreme prejudice) as opposed to obstacles to be avoided. There are motor police, but I have literally never seen them do anything except sit in large groups under the shade of a fine tree enjoying a breezy Cambodian winter afternoon. Despite there being no marked lanes anywhere... anywhere... there seems to be an unwritten law that every road, alley, and pathway, regardless of how wide or narrow, is to be treated as though it is a bidirectional 12 lane super commuter expressway with a minimum requirement of 31 honks per minute. I’ve also never seen an ambulance or an emergency response vehicle of any kind. This could mean one of two things. Either there are never any traffic accidents in Siem Reap that are severe enough to mandate an emergency response, or there just isn’t any emergency response. You pick.

Street Dogs (aka Death Dealers)

The street dogs, as they are called, are more of a rural concern than anything else. If simplicity in nomenclature were a concern, they should probably be renamed something like dirt road dogs, or dogs in the bushes next to the dirt road or whatever. I have theorized, using my copious resources of wild speculation that at one point street dogs were really street dogs and existed primarily in, well, the streets. But with the advent of the Unlicensed Cambodian Drivers, and the street dogs lack of natural defense against a new predator, the SUV, the population of actual street dogs actually living in the actual streets has actually decreased dramatically in all actuality.

So one day I had a plan that I would felt would lessen the pressure of teetering on the line between life and death that results from riding the Beast on the streets. Sometimes, I resolved, I would take back roads. I would learn more about the countryside of the country in which I was a welcome guest. I would have an adventure. What I didn’t know is that these adventures would consistently be punctuated by dogs, singular and in groups, feeling the need to assert their territorial claims to the crappy dirt road on which I would be traveling on a given day. Dogs are very intuitive creatures, and according to the K-9 DEA agent at the US/Mexico border, “They’re real good smellers.” When storms come, dogs know. When there’s half of a cheeto at the bottom of a garbage can full of broken glass, 45 lb. olympic weights, and cinder blocks they know as well. So my conjecture, again based on my predisposition toward wild speculation, is that one of the Cambodian street dogs met a native american who told him the tales of the white man. Then this dog told all the other dogs. The dogs being “good smellers” could smell the American on me and intuitively knew that I was here to steal their land. In an effort to avoid the lengthy treaty negotiations, double talk, and reneging of agreements that they knew I would employ in the appropriation of their crappy dirt road, they opted instead, to just try to kill me each time we crossed paths.

A narrow escape.

Some have gone a step beyond just defending their territory and have intentionally contracted severe cases of the mange. Now certainly you’re wondering how losing all of its hair and being really itchy and generally looking worn down could benefit a dog. The problem is that your natural ethnocentrism is causing you to think in terms of American dogs and American streets. The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is camouflage. They get the mange, and lose large clumps of hair. This serves two very fundamental purposes in terms of camouflage. It breaks up their outline and it makes them skin colored. Skin colored happens to be the color of the dirt, and by extension the color of many of the roads in Cambodian villages. And looking worn down is simply to lull you into a false sense of security. But these dogs are not to be underestimated. Not only do they have all the natural instinct and athleticism of a normal man eating canine, but they’re also intelligent enough to do a cost-benefit analysis on getting a case of the mange, arriving at the inevitable conclusion that they will be able make more kills with less effort if they can simply endure a bit of itchiness every now and then. So they lay in wait in the numerous number of potholes and ditches that dot the roadways. And by the time you’re close enough to see them, it’s already been too late for 6 full seconds.

It’s like a high stakes game of Where’s Waldo where you can never finish the book, you just get to live long enough to play again tomorrow.

The problem is that they’re everywhere. Bob Barker, in all his omnipotent and immortal game show glory, failed to make his signature impression on the Cambodian culture. So where we spay and neuter our dogs, they do nothing and do nothing with their dogs. It’s a bit disarming to see the parade of puppies roaming the backroads of Siem Reap. They’re like little fluffballs of joy rolling around in the dust and the sun. And you forget about the one who looks just like it only bigger, that just moments ago tried to chase you down like an entire pride of hunting lionesses takes out an aging gazelle. But if you kindly, gently, and lovingly, with purest of intentions try to pet one of these seemingly harmless harbingers of happiness, something in their DNA switches on and they reciprocate your good will by eating your face off. The long way. By burrowing through the back of your skull. In a place that has neither licensing for drivers, nor licensing for doctors, I’m assuming that most of the feral dogs probably aren’t current with their rabies vaccines either... you know, cause of the vet situation. So I’ve adopted an official policy of observation from a distance and ride fast as hell in the opposite direction if one appears to be approaching. Also, the dogs don’t come when you whistle. It’s mind boggling.

Finishing off the remains of what was, most likely, their latest human victim.

On a somewhat related note, there are some things you don’t expect to see anywhere, let alone in rural Cambodia. All of the dogs here are mutts. And all of them have a very 1960’s approach to free love and reproduction. So over the years mutts have become even more mutts until there’s nothing but mutts. The amount of bastard puppies and baby mama drama in the canine world in Cambodia must be very... a lot. But one time, and I stop a moment to think if it was only something I dreamt, I saw something so unlikely that I tipped over the Beast craning my neck to witness the spectacle. In a nondescript back alley in a village near Siem Reap like any other, I saw a doggie standoff. This is a fairly common occurrence in a place where hundreds, no trillions of dogs roam free to do whatever they damn well please. But this standoff was different. This standoff was between a full grown purebred German Shepherd and what appeared to be a freshly groomed Pomeranian complete with bows in its hair. The Pomeranian seemed to be the aggressor because it was viciously trying to back down the German Shepherd. I stood on the side of the road, dumbfounded, until I was almost killed by an Unlicensed Cambodian Driver in a dump truck. The dogs, nearly hit by the same dump truck, broke it up on their own. It was obvious that after surviving such a close brush with death, they were able to gain some perspective on what’s really important in life. And apparently trying to antagonize a German Shepherd to attempt to swallow it whole was no longer on the Pomeranian’s list of important things to do before it died, which incidentally, would have been at the exact same time as it completed that particular task on the list.

Eating Undercooked Pork while Stepping on a Land Mine

Pretty self explanatory, methinks. If the land mine doesn’t getcha, the trichinosis will.

Having a Beastly Good Time in Cambodia with My Good Friend Newton, Isaac Newton...

2009-01-08T04:34:00.000-08:00

I bought a Cambodian bicycle. I must admit that I feel I was a bit misled. I thought I was purchasing a bicycle called “Beast Cycle 2008.” But apparently all I got was a “Best Cycle 2008.” You can understand my disappointment. But, being the positive guy I am, I decided to make the best of the situation and rationalize it. I figured that best was a superlative word and since a bicycle having beastly qualities is a desirable characteristic, the “Best Cycle 2008” must be the beastliest, living up to its superlative nature. I further rationalized that the company that made the bicycle (China) was just a forward thinking and finance motivated organization (unlike their frivolously spending American counterparts). They did their math. Leaving the “a” off the sticker saved them .05 USD. With such a quality machine it’s not unreasonable to assume that they shipped in excess of 45 billion units. So that amounts to a savings of like 2 gajillion dollars. It’s all right there. Right there in the numbers.

Photo taken at angle to accentuate maximal Beastliness

This brings us to one of the only issues I have with the bike. I made the purchase on January 2, 2009. So it’s a bit disconcerting that my bike is the “Best Cycle 2008.” I just know that through the evils of planned obsolescence, a “Best Cycle 2009” will come along shortly with 30% more beast. It’s not so much the beast quotient that I’m concerned about. I’ve only been riding my bike at 68% beast capacity. What I’m concerned about is the appearance of less beast. Think of how humiliating it is to ride down the street and have all the pedestrians talking under their breath, in Khmer, about how my bike is sooooo last year. I can’t handle it. I’m white. My face shows the redness of embarrassment very obviously. To rectify this issue, I’ve been in contact with the factory (China) trying to get my hands on an aftermarket 9 to replace the 8. But they’re breaking my balls. They know they’ve got me bent over the proverbial bicycle seat and they’re telling me I have to replace the entire decal. I just need an effing 9 and they’re acting like with all the advancements in technology and manufacturing, there’s no way to make a 9 separate from a 2 and two 0’s. It’s typical corporate behavior to just stick it to the little guy. I may end up folding, but not until after a round of breakneck negotiations, that may or may not involve talk of mothers and threats of personal harm. When in Rome.

That one complaint aside, I would now like to take the time to highlight some of the nice features of the bike, the features that give it the right to have that “Super Power” sticker emblazoned across the side of the frame. Notice, first, the plastic cranks. Weight reduction is a key factor with any ride. And on the “Beast,” sorry, “Best Cycle 2009,” sorry “8” they have wisely abandoned common wisdom, and sense, and went with plastic instead of metal or carbon fiber. I for one applaud their courage. It takes a group of innovators to take the component of a bike that sees the most torque and stress out of all of them, and use a material that routinely succumbs to breakage under the weight of a household set of papayas (in Cambodia a group of papayas is called a household set, like a gaggle of geese, or a murder of labradoodles, and it is a common unit of measuring force, like a Newton). It may be a moot point anyway. This is the “Best Cycle” we’re talking about here, not the “Average Bike” or the “Kind of OK Cycle.” It’s probably some sort of space age composite plastic that weighs basically nothing but is rated for the kind of centrifugal force normally reserved for planetary orbits.

Then there are the cassettes and derailleurs. Ask any seasoned veteran of cycling and they will tell you that it is largely a mental game. Even when taking a leisurely ride to the French quarter to purchase a bootleg North Face backpack and pair of flip flops, this mental edge is imperative. To this end, the “Best Cycle” boasts a gearing system that is more psychologically impressive than it is practically useful. To the innocent bystander or experienced mathematician, the bike would appear to be an 18 speed. I assure you, this is only for looks and intimidation as the bike has 3, maybe 3.5 usable gears. The uninitiated might be asking, “Wouldn’t an 18 speed be better and more versatile?” The answer, obviously, is no. With fewer of my mental papayas (papayas are also a measurement of concentration in Cambodian culture) being used to figure out which gearing ratio is most suitable for the situation at hand, I can focus more on pedaling hard with my space age, weight reducing, mega-polymer, ahead of their time plastic cranks. Oh, and the pedals are made of the same durable, amaze-o-plastic but sprayed with chrome paint to allow the image conscious cyclist to properly adjust their hair and clothing upon disembarkation from the cycle craft.

This is a Buddhist culture. So the seat is made of some sort of Cambodian hardwood, reinforced with more hardwood and then generously padded with a single covering of red and black vinyl at least 3 mm (just like in Uganda, England, the Netherlands, Kenya, Belgium, Korea, Mexico, and presumably every other nation on the planet aside from the U.S., they use the stupid metric system) thick. It may seem like an inconvenience at first, to have such an uncomfortable posterior situation. But intentions must be addressed. The seat is this way to help the cyclist advance on their travels through the Buddha’s Eightfold Path. So ask yourself this question, and then go ahead and answer it as well. What’s more important, that your three block ride to get a Slurpee at the corner store is a comfortable one, or that your soul frees itself from the derisive weight of the human ego and is able to spend all of eternity relishing Wholeness with God and Oneness with All in Nirvana?

Cambodia is also a very practical and efficient culture. No nonsense, if you will. Someone at the “Best Cycle 2008” institute of research and development pondered, most likely in a state of deep meditation, the purpose of brakes on a bicycle. Arriving at the natural conclusion that the brakes were to stop the bike, they designed the braking system accordingly. Apparently the purpose of slowing the speed of the bike did not come into view of their third eye during the aforementioned meditation because the custom Shaigun brakes have only two functional positions. Go and complete stop. They have some managed to circumvent Newtonian physics and eliminate all concepts of gradual braking from this ride. California stops are a thing of the past with the “Best Cycle.”

The shocks are for decoration. But in that capacity they are very effective, once again offering the appearance of ruggedness but delivering no practical advantage. Good thing all the roads in Cambodia are like the Bonneville salt flats. It’s all about wet, hot, nasty speed out here. Suspension is something for the Vietnamese to worry about.

See, aside from the chicken and the kids, just like Bonneville

Finally, I have to justify my purchase in print. My Spenders Anonymous sponsor says that justifying purchases in a concrete medium like the internet will help to dissuade me from spending frivolously as I move through the steps. So I saved $200 by not bringing my own bike on the flights. I’ve avoided $200 in tuk-tuk rides and a $25,000 medical evac to a Thai hospital for when one of those tuk-tuk rides nearly kills me. If I didn’t have a bike for exercise, I would have to join a gym. So I saved $180 processing fee as well as $360 for a year contract to the Cambodian 24 Hour Fitness. No. There’s not really a 24 Hour Fitness here. Please stop sending emails asking about it. The kickstand on the bike allows it to double as a handy leaning device, which is perfect for avoiding the Cambodian leaning tax that mandates that any object of greater vertical height than horizontal width, capable of supporting the weight of a western adult male, will command a fee of 2500 riel per hour for its services of support per Newton-meter. You don’t even want to know the math and unit conversions involved in figuring out how much you have to pay a pylon in USD for leaning on it for 17 minutes as a 190 lb. person. And they expect exact change. Exact. Then If I fill the waterbottle up with water from the river instead of paying 30 cents for clean, cold water, like a sucker, then that’s like $60,000. Purchase justified. Suck on that compulsive spending habits. I’ve beaten you. It’s all right there. Right there in the numbers. Oh yeah. The bike was $90. That’s a savings of $59,910.

So there. Now I’ve got an ecologically responsible means of conveyance in Cambodia. This should facilitate many misadventures and at least one or two more blog entries before the trip is over in like 20 days.

An Intensive Study...

2008-12-29T20:00:00.000-08:00

An Intensive Study of the Effects of Carbon Monoxide on the Cambodian Tourist with Respect to Cognitive Abilities and General Motor Function or Colten Breathes Next to an Exhaust Pipe.

Just this past day before yesterday, I had what I consider to be my first real day in Cambodia, followed by my second real day in Cambodia this past yesterday. I’m sure you’re wondering if they were fraught with lessons. Indeed they were. But lessons, like wicker furniture, should be hidden away deep in the dark recesses of the mind. Does that make any sense? No. But does it matter? Also, no. Why? Because yesterday I spent 45 minutes riding in the back of a truck on sacks of rice seated in front an exhaust that had been rerouted from the aft of the truck directly into my general head region. It wasn’t until half way through that 45 minute period that I noticed this juxtaposition of my face and noxious chemicals and began to feel what the Khmer people refer to as “funny.” My ability to make intelligent decisions regarding my own health and safety had been presumably lessened and so I decided to remain seated there, despite the fact that there were several other perfectly comfortable sacks of rice upon which to rest my copious buttocks. I rationalized, with my degraded cognitive faculties, that the damage had already been done and I was afraid that Cambodians might think it rude to scoff at the exhaust pipe seat. For all I knew it was a cherished delicacy, an honor to be where I was even though no one else seemed eager to switch spots. Plus the guy next to me was borrowing my pen. And it was my only pen.

But that was yesterday. And this is a story that begins the day before yesterday. So walk with me through the fabric of existence to this place in space-time and awake with me to the glorious sounds of a Cambodian morning. Cars and little motorcycles. But not just any cars and motorcycles. The kind of cars and motorcycles that occupy the roads of a country with lax emissions control. Think lawnmowers. Once the sleep had departed from my eyeglobes and they joined my earholes in delivering unto me the fullness of my sensory abilities, I was greeted by a spider, 8 inches across on the wall next to my head. I didn’t shriek. And anyone who says I did is a motherless liar. Being the conservationist that I am, I had no desire to harm my new little friend. I simply wanted to find out if it was poisonous, that I might take proper precautions in disposing of it. I queried the staff on this issue. But there was a translation issue. Somewhere between the words “Is it poisonous?” leaving my mouth and reaching the ears of the nice gentleman who was kind enough to assist me on this issue, he apparently heard something to the effect of “SMASH IT! SMASH IT! EEK! SMASH IT!” And so he smashed it...
...With the folder in the room that contains all of the colorful brochures touting the amenities of Siem Reap, none of which, I might add, mention anything about bionic man-eating head spiders or the cacophony of daily morning lawnmower races that take place on the streets of this fine city. After the man kindly wiped off the folder, rendering it once again free of spider spaghetti (translated literally from the Italian, spaghetti means: entrails from the family arachnidae, order chelicerata) he told me the spider bites, but it is a weak bite, like a mosquito. I mourned the loss of such a majestic creature, for about ten seconds, and then with great difficulty (ease) due to the weight of the death of my amply legged friend upon my head, I went about my day.

I walked downstairs to partake in what would turn out to be my first experience with traditional Cambodian cuisine. The next sensory organ to be assaulted by the sights, sounds, and you guessed it, smells of Cambodian culture was (if the smell clue wasn’t enough I’ll lay the last bricks of this description house for you) my nose. And what traditional Cambodian fare was it that titillated my olfactory zones this early morn? Eggs, bacon, french toast, and a glass of OJ. OJ is loosely translated to the English as orange juice and it’s pronounced o-jay. I would put one of those fancy long o symbols above the o as to follow proper pronunciation protocol, but I’m not that good with a computer and the task seems next to impossible. I was apprehensive at first, seeing such a strange and unconventional meal on my breakfast plate. The sheltered American part of my brain screamed run and filled my imagination with thoughts of the horrible ailments that might await me provided I partake in this mystery of culinary sorcery. It made sense. I mean, this breakfast seemed to be neither kid tested, nor mother approved. But I was in Cambodia. And the Khmer people have this saying. It starts off something like “When in Rome...” I can’t remember how it ends, but it was very eloquent and it inspired me to leave my comfort zone and give it a shot. At first it was difficult, but I managed to choke down a few bites. By the end, I even found myself enjoying the palatable nature of this thing called “French toast.” I was proud of myself, for I had put myself out there as Seoul had taught me to do, and I was living as the Cambodian lives.

Then at lunch I ate a few giant roasted crickets.

A group of children, much smaller than myself bought a bag of insects and were flat out going to town. I tried to explain to them that what they had in front of them was not a bag of Cheetos, which would merit such voracious consumption, but a bag of bugs.
Individually, they looked at me the way a person who doesn’t speak English looks at a person who is making a genuine plea for reason in that language, then popped crickets in their mouths as if they had no idea what I had been saying. They didn’t. Defeated and broken I searched my soul for a way to make good of this dark, dark situation. I realized that if nothing else, I could do it for America. You see, the ol’ US of A was long held in high esteem in the international community. We were heroes to many, and at the very least good people to the rest. But in the last 8 years or so, for some inexplicable reason, that seems to have changed. I don’t know why, but for some reason the figure of 8 years seems pertinent to the answer. We’ll leave that puzzle to the historians to sort out. So in an effort to restore my beloved homeland to greatness and redeem us in the eyes of the international community, I ate some crickets. Now all that has to happen for my plan to come to fruition is for those kids who witnessed said eating to come to high power political positions, remember me, and formulate policy based on their experience of a true American. Move over G.I. Joe. There’s a new hero in town. And he’s here to affect real change... one... meal... at a time.

The Road to Cambodia...

2008-12-27T15:59:00.000-08:00

This trip, even in its early hours, is shaping up to be one fraught with important and life changing lessons. I use the word “fraught” because it sounds way more dangerous and exotic than “full of,” as in “I’m full of shit.” Staying true to this previous statement, in fact, being the inspiration for this is previous statement is that I’ve learned a couple things before even ever having had putten boots on Cambodian soil (sorry, no lessons about english grammar). For your own sake, please heed the following lessons. Heed them indeed.

Just because Cambodia is a tropical paradise, south of the equator with consistent 80 degree plus weather doesn’t mean that the stops made by airplanes in between are all tropical paradises, south of the equator with consistent 80 degree plus weather. This is important because when luggage is checked through on an international flight with a 12-hour layover in such an instance, its handy to have more than just a light sweatshirt with you. Thank you, Seoul, South Korea for teaching me this valuable lesson. And not only did you teach it, but you taught it with below freezing temperatures, and nice firm set of crosswinds that really drove the point home. Notice the Jackets in the following photo:
Also, I need to put myself out there a little more. You know who taught me that? That’s right, Seoul, South Korea again. And if you want to get a little more specific, and I know you do, it’s whoever is responsible for Seoul’s “English” advertising. I was afraid to even tell people thank you and hello in Korean for fear that I would butcher the language and they would all laugh uncontrollably at the hilarious gai jin (yes, that’s japanese, but I don’t know the Korean word for a white boy). So instead, I just spoke to them in the other language that I’m in the common habit of butchering, Spanish. It was a fear based decision to not use what little Korean I learned from the baggage locker guy at the airport as we both tried to figure out if 8 to 6 was more than 4 hours. And this fear was so unfounded as I was in a country that regularly took courageous leaps with their English in an effort to make me, the English-speaking consumer feel more at home. Apparently, unlike the internet, which has a staunch and efficient fact checking department, Korea doesn’t have a make-sure-our-English-translations-in-widespread-advertising-make-actual-sense-department. Am I being harsh? No. I’m simultaneously pointing out their fearlessness and my cowardice with respect to using foreign languages. If they’re gonna do something, they do it big, with gusto, with commitment. At a pizza place in a mall, for example, the storefront was plastered from floor to ceiling with hearts that contained the words “love for women.” Nothing else. Just that. Not once. Hundreds of times. Amen. And incidentally, there didn’t seem to be a slice of pizza or a woman in the place. Then there was the store appropriately called “Hunt Children.” The only way that could have been a more poignant social message is if they had ended the phrase with an exclamation point. But once again, amen. There were many others, including “Happy Everyday Forever” which appeared to be a childcare facility, perhaps sponsored by Xanax. But my personal favorite, which sort of lends itself as evidence to a Korean obsession with the concept of, not just “happy“, but English language “happy” and “everyday” now that I think about it, is as follows:

Create your most delicious happiness everyday.

That was everywhere. And I couldn’t agree more. Gracias Seoul, South Korea. Gracias very much. I’m a better person for having knew ye.

Scared Shitless in Seattle (read: Phoenix)

2008-12-14T19:58:00.000-08:00

$4.00 a gallon gas sucks. But there's something that sucks even worse than that. "What could suck worse than $4.00 a gallon gas?" you ask, argrutely (read: shrewdly, and if you don't believe me, click the link. Google taught it to me and Google knows all.), with the inflection of a person eager to consider new and exciting new (redundancy intentional for emphasis) information. What sucks worse is when gas prices suddenly drop from $4.00 to $1.55 as if someone pressed a button and made it so.

It sort of seems impossible that it could happen of its own accord. It sort of implies that some asshole did, in fact, press a button, literally (read: figuratively).

I will, at this point, admit a certain profound ignorance to the intricacies of global economy. But I did take economics in high school, and I even paid attention once... maybe twice. The basics say that inflation is a nearly constant and nearly unavoidable factor of economics when measured against the passage of time. The rate of inflation may change according to the aforementioned intricacies, but inflation does happen. The take home lesson: Twinkies will never be a nickel again. So armed with this formidable and all-encompassing understanding, I'm going to make an intellectual leap: there is no way that price of gas should or could reduce itself to the levels enjoyed (lamented at the time) in the mid 90's unless there was some artificial influence (read: asshole button presser) exerting it's insidious force on the market. It was like a real life Christmas Miracle when it happened a few weeks ago. I refer to it as a Christmas miracle, instead of a more accurately descriptive Christmas Coincidence because I want my sarcasm to shine bright. And it shines more brightly from the bulb of the former phrase. Plus, it wasn't even a coincidence. Calling it that is a bit generous. It was probably an engineered variable change. But it is, after all, the Christmas season. And generosity is the name of the game. So Christmas Miracle it is.

Time to connect the dots. Time to sound like an overly paranoid, mentally deficient, hyper-impressionable, crackpot jerk. Retailers generally do as much business during the Christmas season as they do all the rest of the year combined. Since we live in a consumer society, this season is as vital to our existence as Americans (in the sense that completely superfluous objects are vital) as oxygen is to our existence as mammals. See what I did there? With the pseudo-comparison. I took biology in high school, too. And oxygen is important to our survival. But they never mentioned anything about a Wii Fit or Louis Vutton purses being integral to any life sustaining process. I digress. Without this boon of commercial support, major corporations, small businesses, our lifestlyes, essentially this country as we know it would cease to exist. This year, way earlier this year, that intravenous money injection appeared as if it might run dry and might end up being an underdose. Economic turmoil had descended upon the mega-rich and the larger-than-imaginable corporations. News outlets reported the story with a fervor and drama usually reserved for natural disasters that involve people dying in the streets. But these weren't people, these were just corporations. Institutions. Imaginary constructs of the creative (read: greedy) human mind. Financial bailouts followed, many of which involved those seeking the bailout flying to the negotiations in private planes. Again, only a high school economics guy here, but aren't those planes... what's the scientific word Mr. Barsanti taught us... expensive. And not to go off on too much of a tangent, but the amount of just one of the larger bailouts would have been enough to rebuild a pretty big chunk of New Orleans, where people had been, very recently, dying in the streets, literally (not figuratively). So those we trust to make good decisions on our behalf, in their infinite wisdom, decided to give a few extra billions to a group of people who couldn't make intelligent enough decisions to maintain solvency with their original billions. Imagine this scenario. Suddenly, I feel like I should go open a beeper store. If it fails, which I doubt, I'm just gonna live off my fat government bailout checks for the rest of my life. But I digress again.

Offering insta-temporary-solvency to megacorps didn't do anything for the average person. And as financial crises tend to do, the problems had already trickled down the class ladder until the people who got hit the hardest were the people who were already suffering the most. I'm not even talking about the middle class. Below (so to speak) the middle class are people who are dependent upon social programs for survival. So when tens of billions of dollars are promised to the groups at the top, its usually social programs, which draw a minute fraction of money by comparison, that feel the brunt of the money shift. Take $100 from a budget of $500 and that's a big deal. Add $80 billion to a an existing budget of $900 billion, and well, what's the difference. It's still just a really high score in a game of pinball. Only the pinballs were people's lives, and the flippers were... I have no idea where to go with this metaphor.

Ultimately, when the Christmas season rolled around this year (which was like July or something cause I vaguely recall purchasing a tube of 80 spf sunscreen to the tune of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer) the middle class wasn't spending like they normally did. Then gas prices dropped. It was a Christmas Coincidence. For Wal-Mart. Which was the only major US retailer that met their Black Friday projections this year. And thank god. Because the 84 bajillion dollars they generate each year isn't enough to feed the board member's families. Gasoline, which has in recent years, become the largest monthly expense for most families saw a decrease of more than 50%... a decrease that seemed to ignore the "fact" that inflation "must" happen. Its almost as if the oil market was spitting in the face of hundreds of years of economic dogma the same way that babies spit in the face of decency. So it couldn't have been a coincidence. I am now required by my own stringent moral code and journalistic integrity to retract all that stuff I said about miracles and coincidences. The semantic battle I had at the beginning of this piece almost seems pointless in retrospect.

A more educated person, perhaps someone with a degree pertaining to global economics who might have written a dissertation on oil production and its consumer markets might say something like "There are complex global forces at work with fluctuations in the supply and blah blah blah..." A less educated person, with no degree, perhaps someone prone to wild conjecture, imagination, a bit of common sense, and a lot of free time might say something like, "Bullshit." I (that less educated person I described was me) would then call the more educated person an econerd, pronounced ee-kah-nerd not ee-ko-nerd, and then knock his glasses on the ground. I'm tough.

There is this quaint little North American village referred to by some as "The Seven Headed Beast of Gethsemane," "Scourge of Allah," or by those of us who live here, "The United States," where we have no choice but to consume oil. This is because once the great American automobile (once with a controlling interest in federal policy, now just another fledgling industry) made its debut, entire cities were restructured and new ones built in such a fashion as to facilitate their use. Add to that the innumerable other reasons we have found to employ the oil resource and we find ourselves apparently stuck in this relationship, much like Tina Turner found herself "stuck" in her relationship with Ike. If you noticed the quotation marks around the word stuck and think that alludes to something, read on dear reader, you're in for a surprise. So this makes gasoline price a perfect variable to change if one wanted to perform an experiment to extrapolate how the spending habits of the average American consumer might change when faced with certain unavoidable financial pressures. Skyrocketing gas prices don't affect people who make 6 figures or more per year, as indicated by the private plane/bailout thing. Skyrocketing gas prices have a lesser effect on the class of people who couldn't really afford to drive in the first place. But sudden changes in gas prices have a substantial effect on the (disappearing) middle class. And now, thanks to whatever insidious force is behind these fluctuations, that effect, aside from being just substantial, is also a bit more predictable. But only to those looking down from above.

Someone is looking at the American populace through a microscope. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that guy is a total jerk. Someone finds it to be an acceptable diversion, nay, occupation to toy with our lives. Only a concerted and swift revolutionary undertaking can rectify this disparity. And so, in closing, I have a suggestion: if I may once more invoke the name of Tina Turner, it might be time for all of us to orchestrate a bit of unpredictability and leave Ike's broke ass behind.

Note: Most, not all, but most of the assertions in this word thingy what been just wrote by my mindgrapes have sources. I left them out intentionally. This move was motivated by my penchant for laziness and because if you are so inclined, you might search out the sources on your own, either to refute what has been said or support it. And I welcome either. Who knows what knowledge the search might bring by accident.

Dia de los Muertos

2008-10-16T23:06:00.000-07:00

I finished two paintings tonight, which apparently decided to get as dusty as possible between the time they were completed and photographed.

Both are oil on board 4x6 in. And both are obviously thematically inspired by the celebration of Dia de los Muertos. Glacias.

The Youth of Today

2008-10-16T16:27:00.000-07:00

The problem with babies is... they have absolutely no sensibility when it comes to choosing appropriate garments. It's almost as if this kid is saying "f*** planet earth and f*** your delicate social mores." If you'll allow your eye globes to meander down to the lower right hand corner of the photo, it's obvious that he's desperately trying to flip the bird. But being young and lacking the manual dexterity necessary to unilaterally raise his middle finger like a fully formed, respectable adult, he settles for a simple index finger point, hoping that the message sent by his outfit will be enough to convey his sentiment. Just to recap, that sentiment is "f*** planet earth and f*** your delicate social mores." How, you ask, have I determined this inflammatory statement considering the fact that the child has yet to take his first little footsteps into the world of distinguishable language and speech? Because everyone, even babies, knows that the manufacture of plastic products puts a tremendous strain on our already scarce petroleum reserves and contributes to vast amounts of pollution. These things are a serious concern for all of us on this planet, and this baby... clearly... does not give a sh**. Furthermore, he spits in the face of socially accepted boundaries of decency by selecting a garment that, while satisfying the requirement of being a sort of cover for the body, is entirely see-through and therefore utterly worthless in the context of protecting our carefully developed sense of shame.

I for one, say the new people must be stopped. Stances on immigration, policies on terrorism, and demographical novelty of candidate will no longer matter to me in terms of selecting our next president. What I want to know is who is going to address the real threat? My (hypothetical) vote (were I to believe in the process) is definitely going to be (figuratively) cast for the (figurehead) candidate that's finally going to get tough (annihilate) babies and their complete disregard for everything we hold sacred as Americans and real humans.

Introducing...

2008-10-16T15:15:00.002-07:00

the new and improved way of frequently updating my work... it's called a "blog" and apparently these things are all the rage in Europe. So here's to my Europeanification and the broadening of my horizons.

basically, it should be a lot easier for me to post a new photo here and there in between major updates. all the navigation on the site is still the same. in fact, everything is exactly the same except this very first page. no new tattoos, no new drawings, no new anything. just this.