Allow me to paint a picture.
A purple and black blotch runs across the back of my ankle. It looks like a legless camel eating the hair on top of my foot. A maroon map of Australia apears on top of my ankle (I don't want to admit it, but it's closer to the color of blood). My toes are black, tiny balloons (the kind creepy clowns use for animals) except for the tips, which are red bevause I've had so much ice on them the blood can't circulate fast enough to get the temperature up on my tootsies. The hair on my toes and foot (yes, I am a Hobbit) stick up from my foot's over inflation and reminds me of a fat, bald guy's head.
That's my left wheel three and half days after pretzeling it playing football.
I thought with enough time, enough ice, enough Motrin, and enough beer, the swelling would ebb and the color would return to the natural pastiness. Instead, my body decided to teach my stubborn ass a lesson - ankle braces help more when they are worn rather than stuffed away in a drawer. To her credit, Wife said the same thing after she slapped me with said brace a half dozen times.
I have to visit a ankle doctor now. My appointment is Thursday afternoon and I still don't know what I'm going to say when he asks me how it happened. The truth just doesn't sound good in this case. Don't ask me why, but I associate playing football with kids (unless you're getting paid to play, then I associate it with beer and betting), and I'm afraid I'll get the disapproving doctor glare that I used to get when I told our family doc I tucked 20 pennies away in my nostrils and ear canals because I thought my sister would steal them if I hid the coins in a real piggy bank. This way, the little thief couldn't getaway with her scheme without a hefty pair of forceps.
I've run it through my mind a few times since booking Dr. Ripple (kind of like how the ligaments in my ankle feel - rippled) and this is what I will tell him:
"So, how did this happen, sir?"
"Well, doc, it's like this: I was givin' Wife some sweet lovin' when the trapeze in our Lovin' Chamber broke. I didn't want Wife to break her beautiful noggin' on the S&M rack, so I landed and caught her. All was well until I stepped on the back of her leather cape. Since I'm about as graceful as a skating hippo, I stumbled back, hit the greased stripper pole and fell into the baby oil pit. While exiting, I slipped again and rather than letting the legs just slip out, I tried to stop the slide and my ankle got caught under the blow-up doll. Snap, crackle and pop, and here I am, doc."
I think he'll buy that story more than hearing about me trying to recapture my grade school glories. No matter what I tell the toe tickler, though, he's going to tell me the same thing:
"It's broken and instead of having your insurance company pay for a cast, I think we'll just amputate from the nuts down."
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Peyton Manning never had to face us
A white surgical glove, blown up and tied off with a hint of purple and red around the wrist and top of the hand.
That's what my foot looks like. Five little piggies, wigglinging, attached to an over-inflated balloon. I'm pretty sure an ankle shouldn't resemble a purple-and-red tinged Rorschach test. On the plus side, I see Salma Hayek in the bruise, and with that the case I won't need to spend four bucks this week at Blockbuster to rent one of her movies to glimpse her beauty. You have to look at the bright side in these situations.
Right now, I have the bad wheel bandaged up mid calf and raised because that's what you do when you have a flat tire I guess. Doctor Wife has railed on me to stay off it, keep it elevated and pump enough drugs into my system so that if she has to amputate I won't feel a damn thing. And I'm not the best patient, either. I'm more stubborn than a constipated mule. Wife tells me to stay off it, not to do any work around the house, and what I hear is, "Go rearrange the furniture in the living room and then landscape the back yard." It's a character flaw, I know, but I don't want to be perceived as milking an injury to skirt household chores. If she's working, I should be slaving, too. Then again, if Wife is telling me to sit, well, dammit, I better listen. (And while you're at it, dear, my pina colada need freshening and can you head up to Lake Pleasant and catch some fish for dinner? I have a hankering for rainbow trout.)
OK, maybe I can milk this sprain a bit then.
A group of inmates from the Sweat Shop decided playing two-hand touch football at a local park would be a fun way to expend the pent up energy, frustration, anger, depression (take your pick) from the work week. I gathered 12 or 13 folks the first time around in early November, and the game was met with critical acclaim. Despite everyone walking like they were holding in a long-overdue poop for nearly a week, they all wanted more and kept on me to set up another game.
That second outing came yesterday.
The first game ended relatively injury free. There were bumps, bruises, abrasions, and a knot on Brittany's noggin' that made me think she was a unicorn (thanks to Spaz, or as he likes to be called, Jared, who decided what she needed was an elbow to the cranium) , but the inmates could walk away from the park under their own power. That's the real victory.
This game ended with everyone walking upright, and any pain coursing through our rapidly aging bodies was doused with a good dose of beer. Who needs a first aid kit when you have a 12er of Keystone Light (nothing but the best for us journalists)?
My team started the game with the ball, but we were severely handicapped as I was quarterback and I tend to throw the ball to anyone in t-shirts and short/pants, no matter the team.
The other team's vaunted defense stopped us and we were forced to punt. They move the ball forward against our swiss cheese pass defense - short pass here, quick run for a first down there. The opponent was everywhere. There must have been 55 of them running in every direction.
This is where the tale gets gruesome.
The opponents were set up about 20 yards from the end zone. Marc cuts in on an end zone route and Stuart, the quarterback, sees the move. So do I. Reading Stuart's mind, I run toward the middle of the end zone and pick off the pass in front of a charging Marc. His only recourse is to push me down to save any sort of run back, and that's when I became an incapacitated slave to the ace bandage.
Imagine Rice Krispies after milk is added. That's what my left ankle sounded like as I came down. I used the side of my foot to break my fall, and in retrospect, that wasn't a good idea. When I landed, my body thought it would be fun to roll the foot under a 160 pounds of pressure and see if it could handle that stress.
I'm here to say it cannot.
But the important thing is I held on to the ball and kept playing. Some may say that's the idiotic thing in this experience. But for us weekend warriors, that little piece of glory is worth the 7-10 days it will take for the swelling to go down and the foot to look less like a weather balloon with toes.
It could be worse. I could have ripped open my sack like Spazz, who did his best Mary Lou Retton impersonation by doing the splits at the 50-yard line. "I didn't think having kids were that important any way," he said before retrieving his dislodged testicles and walking back to the line scrimmage.
Why do we do this to ourselves? We're not getting paid to launch our bodies in a 10-foot dive for a two yard gain only to land on dirt that feels more like concrete than earth. We don't cash a check for sprawling after a reciever hoping to lay some fingers on the ball carrier so we can shout, "You're down, Ass Monkey!"
Then again, when you catch that pass in the end zone to put your team of misfit athletes ahead of the other misfit athletes, you feel like you just conquered Mount Everest, or the very least, Sun City, Arizona.
That's what my foot looks like. Five little piggies, wigglinging, attached to an over-inflated balloon. I'm pretty sure an ankle shouldn't resemble a purple-and-red tinged Rorschach test. On the plus side, I see Salma Hayek in the bruise, and with that the case I won't need to spend four bucks this week at Blockbuster to rent one of her movies to glimpse her beauty. You have to look at the bright side in these situations.
Right now, I have the bad wheel bandaged up mid calf and raised because that's what you do when you have a flat tire I guess. Doctor Wife has railed on me to stay off it, keep it elevated and pump enough drugs into my system so that if she has to amputate I won't feel a damn thing. And I'm not the best patient, either. I'm more stubborn than a constipated mule. Wife tells me to stay off it, not to do any work around the house, and what I hear is, "Go rearrange the furniture in the living room and then landscape the back yard." It's a character flaw, I know, but I don't want to be perceived as milking an injury to skirt household chores. If she's working, I should be slaving, too. Then again, if Wife is telling me to sit, well, dammit, I better listen. (And while you're at it, dear, my pina colada need freshening and can you head up to Lake Pleasant and catch some fish for dinner? I have a hankering for rainbow trout.)
OK, maybe I can milk this sprain a bit then.
A group of inmates from the Sweat Shop decided playing two-hand touch football at a local park would be a fun way to expend the pent up energy, frustration, anger, depression (take your pick) from the work week. I gathered 12 or 13 folks the first time around in early November, and the game was met with critical acclaim. Despite everyone walking like they were holding in a long-overdue poop for nearly a week, they all wanted more and kept on me to set up another game.
That second outing came yesterday.
The first game ended relatively injury free. There were bumps, bruises, abrasions, and a knot on Brittany's noggin' that made me think she was a unicorn (thanks to Spaz, or as he likes to be called, Jared, who decided what she needed was an elbow to the cranium) , but the inmates could walk away from the park under their own power. That's the real victory.
This game ended with everyone walking upright, and any pain coursing through our rapidly aging bodies was doused with a good dose of beer. Who needs a first aid kit when you have a 12er of Keystone Light (nothing but the best for us journalists)?
My team started the game with the ball, but we were severely handicapped as I was quarterback and I tend to throw the ball to anyone in t-shirts and short/pants, no matter the team.
The other team's vaunted defense stopped us and we were forced to punt. They move the ball forward against our swiss cheese pass defense - short pass here, quick run for a first down there. The opponent was everywhere. There must have been 55 of them running in every direction.
This is where the tale gets gruesome.
The opponents were set up about 20 yards from the end zone. Marc cuts in on an end zone route and Stuart, the quarterback, sees the move. So do I. Reading Stuart's mind, I run toward the middle of the end zone and pick off the pass in front of a charging Marc. His only recourse is to push me down to save any sort of run back, and that's when I became an incapacitated slave to the ace bandage.
Imagine Rice Krispies after milk is added. That's what my left ankle sounded like as I came down. I used the side of my foot to break my fall, and in retrospect, that wasn't a good idea. When I landed, my body thought it would be fun to roll the foot under a 160 pounds of pressure and see if it could handle that stress.
I'm here to say it cannot.
But the important thing is I held on to the ball and kept playing. Some may say that's the idiotic thing in this experience. But for us weekend warriors, that little piece of glory is worth the 7-10 days it will take for the swelling to go down and the foot to look less like a weather balloon with toes.
It could be worse. I could have ripped open my sack like Spazz, who did his best Mary Lou Retton impersonation by doing the splits at the 50-yard line. "I didn't think having kids were that important any way," he said before retrieving his dislodged testicles and walking back to the line scrimmage.
Why do we do this to ourselves? We're not getting paid to launch our bodies in a 10-foot dive for a two yard gain only to land on dirt that feels more like concrete than earth. We don't cash a check for sprawling after a reciever hoping to lay some fingers on the ball carrier so we can shout, "You're down, Ass Monkey!"
Then again, when you catch that pass in the end zone to put your team of misfit athletes ahead of the other misfit athletes, you feel like you just conquered Mount Everest, or the very least, Sun City, Arizona.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Beatings will commence until morale improves
Every other Thursday is donut day in the pit of despair - my office where I change the words of letter to the editor writers and then deny anything was changed, instead blaming the new words on misfiring alzheimer's medicine; the seniors fall for it every time. Donuts are like prison currency at the Pit. If you're lucky enough to snag that butter cream-filled ass widener, you could write your own ticket. Don't have a buck for the Power Ball collection? No worries, trade it for the entry fee. Need someone to clean the monitor? Here's that donut you were eyeing, chump. Some dude just walked into your favorite bathroom stall? Give up the cream-filled for that prime commode. That's how it works at our Pit.
The donuts are really a bribe to get us inmates to turn our time cards in before noon. It starts on Wednesdays with the time card reminder e-mail: "Hello inmates, tomorrow is Thursday, so unwedge your ass cheeks from your chair and pick up an official time card (it's only official because it says Time Card in bold letters. If I wrote my times down on the back of a strip club receipt I'm sure the department's head boob would still accept it). Fill it out with the correct times you worked (key word is correct, however, it is a subjective term) and hand it back to me by noon or you will be sent through the insert machine. And if it comes to that, I don't know what will be inserted or where. Got it? Good. Maybe you'll get donuts you slack-ass, two-bit, keyboard humping journalists."
The Time Card Warden then wanders in at 8 a.m. Thursday lugging plain white boxes into the newsroom. Every time card day I worry about her safety. Parading food through our end of the office, especially in front of the reporter inmates, is a good way to lose your arms. And knowing the reporters, they're liable to rip her arms out and beat her into a pulp while hijacking the donuts and barracading themselves in the conference room. "Don't know the password? Then F-off, copy editor schmuck. Your headlines suck, by the way, you bastard!" And while we're laying seige to the conference room, the Time Card Warden is asking if any of the reporters turned in their cards before holing up with the goodies.
She makes it down to the copy editor quadrant and we pop our heads above our monitors like malnourished prairie dogs (if you saw the physiques on these inmates, though, malnourished wouldn't come to mind) before pouncing on the box. We're vultures on road kill, lions on weak gazelles, Ethiopians on a box of raisins. The reporters try to wedge into our steel curtain perimeter, but we repell them with little effort (talk about malnourished; on what the head boobs pay these inmates it's a wonder they don't camp out behind Einstein Bagels after closing hoping to score some stale jalapeno bagel leftovers) because they have no weight to bore through our line.
Food makes us inmates happy. However, I'm the only inmate not happy. Why? I've vowed to be good. After eating anything that resembled food on the cruise - including the towel crab our room steward left one night - I decided to curb chow that does more for the ass than the brain.
So there's a box of donuts in my line of vision. Every time I look at the head boob, there's the box sitting just over the boob's head smiling, winking, beckoning. I walk by and I hear laughing, and it's not from the fellow inmates - no - it's the apple fritter. "Will power," it says, "Ha! Your gut is mine. Your ass will be as gooey as my gaping maw. Muwahahahaha!"
I sift through the boxes searching for that one donut that will fool my body into thinking its a protein bar designed to shave off love handles.
"Are crullers healthy?" I ask a head boob.
"Yeah, you're better off eating that than those vegetables you pile on with dinner."
"You don't say." As convincing and authoritative as he sounds, I don't believe him and decide even the crullers, despite looking about as fattening as a bowl whipped cream, will pad my butt like any of the other options. So I opt for sniffing the air deeply. I pull out the sweetness with my monster nostrils and chew on imaginary maple bars.
I sulk to my pod, donutless, the mocking tones of the jelly fills haunting every thought.
"Did you get your donut?" The Time Card Warden asks me later. I tell her no. "Too bad. I still need your time card, you little piss ant word blower."
I drink an imaginary fifth of Jack Daniels, but I'm still sober, at the Pit, and now expecting a flogging for getting my time card in at 12:04 p.m., well late by the Time Card Warden's watch. My ass will hurt and I didn't even get a donut.
The donuts are really a bribe to get us inmates to turn our time cards in before noon. It starts on Wednesdays with the time card reminder e-mail: "Hello inmates, tomorrow is Thursday, so unwedge your ass cheeks from your chair and pick up an official time card (it's only official because it says Time Card in bold letters. If I wrote my times down on the back of a strip club receipt I'm sure the department's head boob would still accept it). Fill it out with the correct times you worked (key word is correct, however, it is a subjective term) and hand it back to me by noon or you will be sent through the insert machine. And if it comes to that, I don't know what will be inserted or where. Got it? Good. Maybe you'll get donuts you slack-ass, two-bit, keyboard humping journalists."
The Time Card Warden then wanders in at 8 a.m. Thursday lugging plain white boxes into the newsroom. Every time card day I worry about her safety. Parading food through our end of the office, especially in front of the reporter inmates, is a good way to lose your arms. And knowing the reporters, they're liable to rip her arms out and beat her into a pulp while hijacking the donuts and barracading themselves in the conference room. "Don't know the password? Then F-off, copy editor schmuck. Your headlines suck, by the way, you bastard!" And while we're laying seige to the conference room, the Time Card Warden is asking if any of the reporters turned in their cards before holing up with the goodies.
She makes it down to the copy editor quadrant and we pop our heads above our monitors like malnourished prairie dogs (if you saw the physiques on these inmates, though, malnourished wouldn't come to mind) before pouncing on the box. We're vultures on road kill, lions on weak gazelles, Ethiopians on a box of raisins. The reporters try to wedge into our steel curtain perimeter, but we repell them with little effort (talk about malnourished; on what the head boobs pay these inmates it's a wonder they don't camp out behind Einstein Bagels after closing hoping to score some stale jalapeno bagel leftovers) because they have no weight to bore through our line.
Food makes us inmates happy. However, I'm the only inmate not happy. Why? I've vowed to be good. After eating anything that resembled food on the cruise - including the towel crab our room steward left one night - I decided to curb chow that does more for the ass than the brain.
So there's a box of donuts in my line of vision. Every time I look at the head boob, there's the box sitting just over the boob's head smiling, winking, beckoning. I walk by and I hear laughing, and it's not from the fellow inmates - no - it's the apple fritter. "Will power," it says, "Ha! Your gut is mine. Your ass will be as gooey as my gaping maw. Muwahahahaha!"
I sift through the boxes searching for that one donut that will fool my body into thinking its a protein bar designed to shave off love handles.
"Are crullers healthy?" I ask a head boob.
"Yeah, you're better off eating that than those vegetables you pile on with dinner."
"You don't say." As convincing and authoritative as he sounds, I don't believe him and decide even the crullers, despite looking about as fattening as a bowl whipped cream, will pad my butt like any of the other options. So I opt for sniffing the air deeply. I pull out the sweetness with my monster nostrils and chew on imaginary maple bars.
I sulk to my pod, donutless, the mocking tones of the jelly fills haunting every thought.
"Did you get your donut?" The Time Card Warden asks me later. I tell her no. "Too bad. I still need your time card, you little piss ant word blower."
I drink an imaginary fifth of Jack Daniels, but I'm still sober, at the Pit, and now expecting a flogging for getting my time card in at 12:04 p.m., well late by the Time Card Warden's watch. My ass will hurt and I didn't even get a donut.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I can't move, my brain is cramping
Folks ask me how I come up with the schlock I spill out on this site. I tell them it's like a constipated poop. Once that first turd comes out, the rest is gravy.
That's how I feel today. It started at 10 a.m., when, while at work I thought I'd write about the inner monologue that lapped my skull during nine of the 10 minutes it takes to drive from work to home. I had my lazy, dough boy self convinced I was too wiped for the gym. My day would be far more productive if I pulled the covers up to my chin and snoozed during those same 90 minutes. It was a good argument. Well reasoned, logical (You're liable to get crushed under the squat thrust machine. How would that look, Pillow Bottom?), convincing. I promised I'd work out the rest of the week - Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I made a deal, nothing but water for the rest of the day; dump ice in a bucket, I'll drink that (besides, didn't I read somewhere that you actually lose weight by drinking water? I'm golden then. Nappy time for Mikey).
For whatever reason, though, I couldn't put enough words together to make a well-structured sentence that was both entertaining and in English. It was right at the tip of my tongue, and yet wedge between my teeth. I was a mile away from the Compound, home to our sweet monkey-love bed and the down comforters that keep my frozen ass warm during these cold Phoenix winter days (that's right, it gets below 65 and I'm bundled up like a North Pole explorer), and then a new voice - I like to call him the a-hole - pipes up with: "Who are you kidding, Panty Waist, you're going to the gym, and you'll like it."
Now see, the words are pouring out as if I just dunked Ex-Lax tabs in a tall glass of Milk of Magnesia. That's writing for me. I ball up my fists, clench my feet, get red faced and grunt out that first paragraph - the plug - so the rest of the words pour out. I didn't say it was a pretting process, and I'm pretty sure I just lost half the readers with the visuals, but I just had to share my mental constipation. Good writers paint pictures with words, great writers make you want a Kleenex to wipethe visual away from your face.
I did make it to the gym, though. And that was the point I was working on all day. I told myself after twenty minutes of writing paragraphs that looked like vomit on a page and then deleting them, that maybe if I did some real work, i.e. lay out some pages for tomorrow's newspaper, I could formulate some ideas on how to best present this inner turmoil, this battle between my weary ass and energized heart, so that the readers didn't feel like taking a nap themselves instead of reading my rambling diatribe that was likely only funny to me.
When I finished with my pages, I had about 20 minutes left in the day. I returned to the empty post, grunted, squirmed, unclenched the butt cheeks, but nothing came out. Fine, I said, I'll think about it in the car as I drive home.
I settle in at Command Central, and shout "It's right there." The cat is the only one home and it doesn't think much of my prose as she turns back on me and the crap I was smeared on the screen. I just couldn't get to the words. Christ on a crutch, what do I have to do to get at those well kept nouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs and interrogative pronouns? (you got it, I pulled out the thesaurus for that one.) Open sesame. Abra-frickin'-cadabra. Nothing. I can see them sitting there, pretty as a desert rose, just waiting for me to fondle them.
Some writing schmucks call it writers block. That's cop out term for someone who just isn't focused enough to work. That's me, my focus is thin enough to sift horse poop through. I gather myself, stare at the screen as if Salma Hayek was on there beckoning the words from my brain, and uhhhhhh...
Finally, I give up - even Ms. Hayek can't get the words out of me (Ha! you thought something else happened, didn't you? Filthy minded lab rats) - and this is the what I come up with. A blog about writing a blog. It's as original as writing about poop and making sex jokes. Oh wait, I do that even when I'm focused.
That's how I feel today. It started at 10 a.m., when, while at work I thought I'd write about the inner monologue that lapped my skull during nine of the 10 minutes it takes to drive from work to home. I had my lazy, dough boy self convinced I was too wiped for the gym. My day would be far more productive if I pulled the covers up to my chin and snoozed during those same 90 minutes. It was a good argument. Well reasoned, logical (You're liable to get crushed under the squat thrust machine. How would that look, Pillow Bottom?), convincing. I promised I'd work out the rest of the week - Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I made a deal, nothing but water for the rest of the day; dump ice in a bucket, I'll drink that (besides, didn't I read somewhere that you actually lose weight by drinking water? I'm golden then. Nappy time for Mikey).
For whatever reason, though, I couldn't put enough words together to make a well-structured sentence that was both entertaining and in English. It was right at the tip of my tongue, and yet wedge between my teeth. I was a mile away from the Compound, home to our sweet monkey-love bed and the down comforters that keep my frozen ass warm during these cold Phoenix winter days (that's right, it gets below 65 and I'm bundled up like a North Pole explorer), and then a new voice - I like to call him the a-hole - pipes up with: "Who are you kidding, Panty Waist, you're going to the gym, and you'll like it."
Now see, the words are pouring out as if I just dunked Ex-Lax tabs in a tall glass of Milk of Magnesia. That's writing for me. I ball up my fists, clench my feet, get red faced and grunt out that first paragraph - the plug - so the rest of the words pour out. I didn't say it was a pretting process, and I'm pretty sure I just lost half the readers with the visuals, but I just had to share my mental constipation. Good writers paint pictures with words, great writers make you want a Kleenex to wipethe visual away from your face.
I did make it to the gym, though. And that was the point I was working on all day. I told myself after twenty minutes of writing paragraphs that looked like vomit on a page and then deleting them, that maybe if I did some real work, i.e. lay out some pages for tomorrow's newspaper, I could formulate some ideas on how to best present this inner turmoil, this battle between my weary ass and energized heart, so that the readers didn't feel like taking a nap themselves instead of reading my rambling diatribe that was likely only funny to me.
When I finished with my pages, I had about 20 minutes left in the day. I returned to the empty post, grunted, squirmed, unclenched the butt cheeks, but nothing came out. Fine, I said, I'll think about it in the car as I drive home.
I settle in at Command Central, and shout "It's right there." The cat is the only one home and it doesn't think much of my prose as she turns back on me and the crap I was smeared on the screen. I just couldn't get to the words. Christ on a crutch, what do I have to do to get at those well kept nouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs and interrogative pronouns? (you got it, I pulled out the thesaurus for that one.) Open sesame. Abra-frickin'-cadabra. Nothing. I can see them sitting there, pretty as a desert rose, just waiting for me to fondle them.
Some writing schmucks call it writers block. That's cop out term for someone who just isn't focused enough to work. That's me, my focus is thin enough to sift horse poop through. I gather myself, stare at the screen as if Salma Hayek was on there beckoning the words from my brain, and uhhhhhh...
Finally, I give up - even Ms. Hayek can't get the words out of me (Ha! you thought something else happened, didn't you? Filthy minded lab rats) - and this is the what I come up with. A blog about writing a blog. It's as original as writing about poop and making sex jokes. Oh wait, I do that even when I'm focused.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Dearly Departed
Mob movies are the creepy old guy driving around my school in the child abductor van asking me if I want some candy to get inside. I can't say no.
The movie could star a pair of chimps, and I'd watch. They could use bananas as guns, and I'd watch. They could knock off a baboon for flinging poo at Bonzo, a "made" monkey who is part of the Project X crime family, and I'd make Wife or Chris or some other unlucky chump join me at the theater to watch it.
That's how I roll.
For every Goodfellas there's a Mobsters. For every Godfather there's a Whole Nine Yards. All I ask is that the movie tells a good story and keeps me entertained.
I'll also profess now my man crush for Martin Scorcese. The dude is a bonafide genius. Steven Spielberg couldn't wash Scorcese's sack. I haven't seen every move he's made - I'm not sure about Age of Innocence or Kundun, Marty, I don't think those are my cup o' tea - but I've seen the ones that matter. Goodfellas tops my list as the best movie I've seen. Raging Bull ranks in my top five, and The Aviator cracks my top 10.
For those who are curious, my Top 5 are: Goodfellas, Godfather trilogy (1, 2 and 3), Raging Bull, Carlito's Way and just yesterday I added The Departed. If you're scoring at home, four out of the five are mob related, and four out of the five star either Bobby DeNiro (me and him are tight, that's why he lets me call him Bobby) or Al Pacino. After watching The Departed, there's a surprise contender creeping on to my favorite actors list - God help me for the shit I'll take for this confession - one Leonardo DiCaprio. Dude can act, plain and simple. Don't believe me? Forget about everything he starred in before the The Beach and Titanic (I ain't linking these movies, I'm afraid this post is beginning to look like a Wikipedia page). He's what Bobby DeNiro is to the Baby Boomers, our generation's icon. It would have been River Phoenix but someone forgot to tell him that mixing drugs and alcohol are a bad idea.
The Departed follows the story of two cops, one who feeds the mob - led by Jack Nicholson, how much better can you get? - and another who is in tight with Jack's crew. The tension seeps from the screen and pulls you to the edge of your seat. And it's Marty at his best, or at least his best since Goodfellas (there's no way he could top that, though). William Monahan's script is funny and clipped, capturing the Boston feel with each line. And if that's not enough, Mark Wahlberg's character will seal the deal.
Can you tell I love this movie?
It's violent, bloody and long, although it didn't seem like 2 hours and 50 minutes went by. In fact, I told Chris, who joined me, that I could have watched another hour or two, it was so engaging. I'm not sure what that extra two hours would tell, but I'd watch nonetheless. He could have had two chimps humping a beach ball and I would have watched.
I don't pretend to be a movie critic, I'll leave to those two schmucks in the balcony, I just know what I like and feel the need to share it. This isn't just a movie, it's cinema, it's art.
So, scrub up Spielberg, let's see you make art.
The movie could star a pair of chimps, and I'd watch. They could use bananas as guns, and I'd watch. They could knock off a baboon for flinging poo at Bonzo, a "made" monkey who is part of the Project X crime family, and I'd make Wife or Chris or some other unlucky chump join me at the theater to watch it.
That's how I roll.
For every Goodfellas there's a Mobsters. For every Godfather there's a Whole Nine Yards. All I ask is that the movie tells a good story and keeps me entertained.
I'll also profess now my man crush for Martin Scorcese. The dude is a bonafide genius. Steven Spielberg couldn't wash Scorcese's sack. I haven't seen every move he's made - I'm not sure about Age of Innocence or Kundun, Marty, I don't think those are my cup o' tea - but I've seen the ones that matter. Goodfellas tops my list as the best movie I've seen. Raging Bull ranks in my top five, and The Aviator cracks my top 10.
For those who are curious, my Top 5 are: Goodfellas, Godfather trilogy (1, 2 and 3), Raging Bull, Carlito's Way and just yesterday I added The Departed. If you're scoring at home, four out of the five are mob related, and four out of the five star either Bobby DeNiro (me and him are tight, that's why he lets me call him Bobby) or Al Pacino. After watching The Departed, there's a surprise contender creeping on to my favorite actors list - God help me for the shit I'll take for this confession - one Leonardo DiCaprio. Dude can act, plain and simple. Don't believe me? Forget about everything he starred in before the The Beach and Titanic (I ain't linking these movies, I'm afraid this post is beginning to look like a Wikipedia page). He's what Bobby DeNiro is to the Baby Boomers, our generation's icon. It would have been River Phoenix but someone forgot to tell him that mixing drugs and alcohol are a bad idea.
The Departed follows the story of two cops, one who feeds the mob - led by Jack Nicholson, how much better can you get? - and another who is in tight with Jack's crew. The tension seeps from the screen and pulls you to the edge of your seat. And it's Marty at his best, or at least his best since Goodfellas (there's no way he could top that, though). William Monahan's script is funny and clipped, capturing the Boston feel with each line. And if that's not enough, Mark Wahlberg's character will seal the deal.
Can you tell I love this movie?
It's violent, bloody and long, although it didn't seem like 2 hours and 50 minutes went by. In fact, I told Chris, who joined me, that I could have watched another hour or two, it was so engaging. I'm not sure what that extra two hours would tell, but I'd watch nonetheless. He could have had two chimps humping a beach ball and I would have watched.
I don't pretend to be a movie critic, I'll leave to those two schmucks in the balcony, I just know what I like and feel the need to share it. This isn't just a movie, it's cinema, it's art.
So, scrub up Spielberg, let's see you make art.
Friday, January 19, 2007
All you have to do is ask
"Relationships that start under intense circumstances, they never last," so says overhyped actress Sandra Bullock in the cinematic classic "Speed."
Wife and I proved that wench wrong. I waited a month to test the "intense circumstances" theory posed by our preiminent cultural icon, Ms. Bullock. Playing softball in San Diego, I tested the law of physics - it was never my best subject in school - and hurtled my 5-1/2 foot, 160 pound body at the opposing team's shortstop to break up a double play. I didn't realize he doubled as a brick wall. The dude went roughly (I didn't have access to a tape measure, sorry) went 6'2, 200, and all that was missing on him was some graffiti and motar. I splatted into Wall(y) like an insect into a Mack Truck's windshield and then quickly crumpled to the ground. Check that, I didn't crumple, I bounced off Gigantor and hit the ground with such a thump Girlfriend (Wife) claimed she heard it from the bleachers. For a second I thought I bounced out of the stadium and landed on the parking lot because the damn field was so hard it blasted all the hot air right out of me. Luckily, I have an odd shape melon that resembles a television set with a flyback, and that broke my fall a bit despite smushing the bean some. I screamed liked a little girl, afraid my body was turned inside out and my head was dented like a '76 Pinto fender.
And that's the last thing I remember from that game.
Wife was there to watch my heroic effort to break up the DP and also whisk me off to the hospital to check rocks in my noggin. She made me promise to never do that to her again. I did, but I had my fingers crossed. Don't tell her.
But under those "intense circumstances" she acted fast, without panic and didn't just dump me off at the hospital's ambulance bay. Who would blame her if she did? She can't complain now, she missed her chance.
We had been dating for about six weeks by then, and after her waking me up every two hours that night to make sure I wasn't dead from a swollen grape while still needing to get homework done for school I knew she was the chick for me.
About 11 months later I asked (she says demand - po-tate-o, pa-tot-o) her to marry me. It took her 15 minutes to say yes, but it was really a forgone conclusion. Wife and Mom-in-law had been planning the wedding two months earlier. They didn't want to wait for me to do my part. We had the hall, snapshotter, church and wedding nazi all on the tab before I said: Marry me. That's faith right there.
Today is five years of shackled bliss, and I can't think of a better person to be chained to. As I like to say, everday is good when you have a corn dog. Well, every day is corn dog day with Wife.
Thank you for 5 wonderfully long years, sweetie.
Only 45 to go.
Wife and I proved that wench wrong. I waited a month to test the "intense circumstances" theory posed by our preiminent cultural icon, Ms. Bullock. Playing softball in San Diego, I tested the law of physics - it was never my best subject in school - and hurtled my 5-1/2 foot, 160 pound body at the opposing team's shortstop to break up a double play. I didn't realize he doubled as a brick wall. The dude went roughly (I didn't have access to a tape measure, sorry) went 6'2, 200, and all that was missing on him was some graffiti and motar. I splatted into Wall(y) like an insect into a Mack Truck's windshield and then quickly crumpled to the ground. Check that, I didn't crumple, I bounced off Gigantor and hit the ground with such a thump Girlfriend (Wife) claimed she heard it from the bleachers. For a second I thought I bounced out of the stadium and landed on the parking lot because the damn field was so hard it blasted all the hot air right out of me. Luckily, I have an odd shape melon that resembles a television set with a flyback, and that broke my fall a bit despite smushing the bean some. I screamed liked a little girl, afraid my body was turned inside out and my head was dented like a '76 Pinto fender.
And that's the last thing I remember from that game.
Wife was there to watch my heroic effort to break up the DP and also whisk me off to the hospital to check rocks in my noggin. She made me promise to never do that to her again. I did, but I had my fingers crossed. Don't tell her.
But under those "intense circumstances" she acted fast, without panic and didn't just dump me off at the hospital's ambulance bay. Who would blame her if she did? She can't complain now, she missed her chance.
We had been dating for about six weeks by then, and after her waking me up every two hours that night to make sure I wasn't dead from a swollen grape while still needing to get homework done for school I knew she was the chick for me.
About 11 months later I asked (she says demand - po-tate-o, pa-tot-o) her to marry me. It took her 15 minutes to say yes, but it was really a forgone conclusion. Wife and Mom-in-law had been planning the wedding two months earlier. They didn't want to wait for me to do my part. We had the hall, snapshotter, church and wedding nazi all on the tab before I said: Marry me. That's faith right there.
Today is five years of shackled bliss, and I can't think of a better person to be chained to. As I like to say, everday is good when you have a corn dog. Well, every day is corn dog day with Wife.
Thank you for 5 wonderfully long years, sweetie.
Only 45 to go.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Wing and a prayer
When it comes to foods, the Melissa stomach has an open door policy. All comers are welcome.
Dear ol' Ma likes to tell folks how I was a picky eater when I was wee pup. She'd stir up some mashed peas, pickled pears or whatever else those schmucks at Gerber Baby Products were peddling, and airplane the spoon down my throat. However, before you could say "pureed asparagus in applesauce" I delivered Ma's idea of dinner on the high-chair tray, or her shirt when the meal was especially "tasty."
It took years to cultivate my taste buds. I had to grow them like a luscious flower garden. I had to endure Dear Ol' Ma's fettish for liver and onions, which still traumatizes me when I spot a slab of cow liver at the store; her affinity for split pea soup wilted the buds during the winter; and any dish with brussel sprouts befouled my well-toned tasters for the next week. However, Dear Ol' Ma's meatloaf, stuffed bell peppers, cabbage rolls and spaghetti in meat sauce were the elixirs that brought my buds to full bloom. Then again, you could drench vanilla ice cream with her marinara and the dessert would taste infinitely better.
I credit her for starving the picky right out of tummy, because if I didn't like that liver strap she was passing off for dinner, I was stuck. "I'm not running a restaurant here. You don't like it, ya little runt, then go pull some bark of that there pine tree and eat that for supper." I'd choose the liver, but it was always a tough decision.
Some nights, after tipping the wine box back a bit too much, she'd dump enough chilli powder and jalapenos into her chili to scorch the pan and set our guts on fire. Our mouths were smoldering infernos and our asses were flame throwers, but damn it was good.
I'm masochistic when it comes to food, the more pain I'm in from esophagus to anus the better the meal. And the only meals that can produce such a euphoric feeling in "The Factory" (my affectionate name for the tummy, also known as "The Boiler Room") are those lethally spicy concoctions.
I wasn't like this six or seven years ago. I weighed the risk and considered the consequences before allowing a jalapeno to roll down my gullet. I kept my drink within arms reach, elbow cocked ready to swing the cool liquid up in one fluid motion if there was a hint of heat attached to the pepper. Then I moved to Arizona where everything comes with hot sauce, jalapenos, habaneros and ortega chilis. Even the baby food aisle at the store sells pureed cilantro in picante sauce. If you order a dish mild at a Mexican Restaurant, the server calls the cops who take you to a prison bus that whisks other wussy eaters up north to Flagstaff because those tree-huggin' hippies can't handle spicy foods, either. They're more into leafy herbs.
One of my favorites has been buffalo wings because I like to eat healthy (and nothing says healthy than a wing slathered in spicy sauce). I tell the server to bring 'em to me "ass-burning hot," and I'm often disappointed. After draining the bucket I may be able to light a candle or two with my breathe, but that's it. Most places' hot is luke warm.
I met my match last night, however. We went downtown to see brother of our friend Marc - Kirk Buckhout - perform stand-up comedy at the Hidden House. We arrived early to partake in the bar's 6$ steak Wednesday, however, with me not being particulary carnivorous for steak, I went with the appetizer menu and the buffalo wings. Their menu has four seperate ways to order the wings: mild for you pansy asses, medium for those who like the thought of pain but are too afraid to experience the hurt, hot for those with stainless-steel guts, and finally "hooeeeee!" for the daredevils. I went with the "hooeeeee!"
Le me just say: "hooo-frickin'-eeeee!"
The first two went down without a problem. The wings had pop, but I didn't let that stop me. I devoured the next one, which was well layered in sauce, and I couldn't get to my Coors Light fast enough. The Hidden House wings had my buds' attention. They quickly earned my respect.
With the fire smoldering after plowing through a bushel of cellery and burying my head in a vat of ranch dressing, I went for the wings again. My nose hairs curled from the heat and I had to use my jacket to smother the flames on Wife's pants after I said a breathy "hooeee" when asked about the wings.
Three at a time was my max. Then the buds needed a beer break. They gave me a dozen wings and I nearly went through a beer a set to stave off my dragon breathe, which could ignite the barstools. It's a good thing Coors Light is nine parts water and one part barley and hopps because if there was more alcohol I'd be a walking weapon of mass destruction. Stick a match by my butt and watch me launch at North Korea.
I felt triumphant after the last wing. I thrust my arms to the sky, fists clenched, and screamed "hooeee," spraying spittle sparks that descended to the Hidden House's well-worn carpet. Everywhere around tiny fires erupted and I doused the flames with the rest of my Coors Light before the Phoenix Fire Department was called to the scene.
It wasn't until the next morning that "The Factory" called up to the brain and said there was a problem with the boiler. The message said it was overheating and "The Factory" workers must open the flue to allow the cinders and ash from the wings to sift their way out of the boiler. And while I spent most of the morning contemplating my daredevil ways regarding food on the most comfortable seat at work - it just so happens to be in the men's room, go figure - I came to the conclusion that maybe "The Factory" workers don't enjoy spreading molten bits of buffalo wings along the factory floor. Which is fine, I don't really like the flue being opened three times in an hour.
On the other hand, if I can turn my ass into a human candle, well, then, keep the "hooeee!" buffalo wings a-comin'.
Dear ol' Ma likes to tell folks how I was a picky eater when I was wee pup. She'd stir up some mashed peas, pickled pears or whatever else those schmucks at Gerber Baby Products were peddling, and airplane the spoon down my throat. However, before you could say "pureed asparagus in applesauce" I delivered Ma's idea of dinner on the high-chair tray, or her shirt when the meal was especially "tasty."
It took years to cultivate my taste buds. I had to grow them like a luscious flower garden. I had to endure Dear Ol' Ma's fettish for liver and onions, which still traumatizes me when I spot a slab of cow liver at the store; her affinity for split pea soup wilted the buds during the winter; and any dish with brussel sprouts befouled my well-toned tasters for the next week. However, Dear Ol' Ma's meatloaf, stuffed bell peppers, cabbage rolls and spaghetti in meat sauce were the elixirs that brought my buds to full bloom. Then again, you could drench vanilla ice cream with her marinara and the dessert would taste infinitely better.
I credit her for starving the picky right out of tummy, because if I didn't like that liver strap she was passing off for dinner, I was stuck. "I'm not running a restaurant here. You don't like it, ya little runt, then go pull some bark of that there pine tree and eat that for supper." I'd choose the liver, but it was always a tough decision.
Some nights, after tipping the wine box back a bit too much, she'd dump enough chilli powder and jalapenos into her chili to scorch the pan and set our guts on fire. Our mouths were smoldering infernos and our asses were flame throwers, but damn it was good.
I'm masochistic when it comes to food, the more pain I'm in from esophagus to anus the better the meal. And the only meals that can produce such a euphoric feeling in "The Factory" (my affectionate name for the tummy, also known as "The Boiler Room") are those lethally spicy concoctions.
I wasn't like this six or seven years ago. I weighed the risk and considered the consequences before allowing a jalapeno to roll down my gullet. I kept my drink within arms reach, elbow cocked ready to swing the cool liquid up in one fluid motion if there was a hint of heat attached to the pepper. Then I moved to Arizona where everything comes with hot sauce, jalapenos, habaneros and ortega chilis. Even the baby food aisle at the store sells pureed cilantro in picante sauce. If you order a dish mild at a Mexican Restaurant, the server calls the cops who take you to a prison bus that whisks other wussy eaters up north to Flagstaff because those tree-huggin' hippies can't handle spicy foods, either. They're more into leafy herbs.
One of my favorites has been buffalo wings because I like to eat healthy (and nothing says healthy than a wing slathered in spicy sauce). I tell the server to bring 'em to me "ass-burning hot," and I'm often disappointed. After draining the bucket I may be able to light a candle or two with my breathe, but that's it. Most places' hot is luke warm.
I met my match last night, however. We went downtown to see brother of our friend Marc - Kirk Buckhout - perform stand-up comedy at the Hidden House. We arrived early to partake in the bar's 6$ steak Wednesday, however, with me not being particulary carnivorous for steak, I went with the appetizer menu and the buffalo wings. Their menu has four seperate ways to order the wings: mild for you pansy asses, medium for those who like the thought of pain but are too afraid to experience the hurt, hot for those with stainless-steel guts, and finally "hooeeeee!" for the daredevils. I went with the "hooeeeee!"
Le me just say: "hooo-frickin'-eeeee!"
The first two went down without a problem. The wings had pop, but I didn't let that stop me. I devoured the next one, which was well layered in sauce, and I couldn't get to my Coors Light fast enough. The Hidden House wings had my buds' attention. They quickly earned my respect.
With the fire smoldering after plowing through a bushel of cellery and burying my head in a vat of ranch dressing, I went for the wings again. My nose hairs curled from the heat and I had to use my jacket to smother the flames on Wife's pants after I said a breathy "hooeee" when asked about the wings.
Three at a time was my max. Then the buds needed a beer break. They gave me a dozen wings and I nearly went through a beer a set to stave off my dragon breathe, which could ignite the barstools. It's a good thing Coors Light is nine parts water and one part barley and hopps because if there was more alcohol I'd be a walking weapon of mass destruction. Stick a match by my butt and watch me launch at North Korea.
I felt triumphant after the last wing. I thrust my arms to the sky, fists clenched, and screamed "hooeee," spraying spittle sparks that descended to the Hidden House's well-worn carpet. Everywhere around tiny fires erupted and I doused the flames with the rest of my Coors Light before the Phoenix Fire Department was called to the scene.
It wasn't until the next morning that "The Factory" called up to the brain and said there was a problem with the boiler. The message said it was overheating and "The Factory" workers must open the flue to allow the cinders and ash from the wings to sift their way out of the boiler. And while I spent most of the morning contemplating my daredevil ways regarding food on the most comfortable seat at work - it just so happens to be in the men's room, go figure - I came to the conclusion that maybe "The Factory" workers don't enjoy spreading molten bits of buffalo wings along the factory floor. Which is fine, I don't really like the flue being opened three times in an hour.
On the other hand, if I can turn my ass into a human candle, well, then, keep the "hooeee!" buffalo wings a-comin'.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
At least I can get my hair cut now
All it took was one post on a Dodger message board.
"Do you have a superstition for a game?" Is what the post asked.
One commentor said he always wears a certain shirt. I said to myself, what the hell, I need a lucky shirt, maybe that will change the Dodgers' luck when I watch them.
That year, In-Laws bought me tickets to the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game out here. At that time, being fairly new to the Valley, I was certain DBack fans would hold me down and shove barbecued iquanas or kettle korn up my poop shoot for wearing Dodger gear inside their adverdium (seriously DBack brass, tone down the amount of advertisements at the BOB, my eyes don't like playing "where'sthe game"), so to save both the skin of my ass and Wife's I wore a non-descript blue shirt and my 8-ball boxers (under black shorts, of course, because I'm not a total nut job).
Result: Dodgers 19, Diamondbacks 1. And the first superstition was born.
The combination - lucky blue shirt/8-ball underwear - weren't perfect, but they were formidable opponents to whatever team the Chargers and Dodgers faced. It got to the point that other teams were listing it in their game day media reports: "MELISSA TO WEAR BLUE SHIRT/BOXERS COMBO: 'We'll have to bring our A game to beat that Melissa guy and his outfit,' said Coach Buttmuncher. 'That ensemble he wears is lethal. I don't think he washes it. So the luck just stays hangs like dog's fart in a car.'"
That's where I had them fooled. Wife wouldn't let me walk around the house, let alone Bank One Ballpark, with dirty skivvies and a reaking t-shirt. She doesn't understand the power in such lucky items - they are really once in a lifetime finds- so she washed them. Lo and behold, the luck stayed with the ensemble and the wins kept piling up.
Then came the discussion.
"Dear, look at these boxers," Wife said. She wore bio-hazzard gloves and held tongs that clutched my 8-ball undies. Her arms were so far outstretched I thought she was an X-Men.
"Thanks," I said, "I was looking for those. Are they washed? Oh, it don't matter the game is about to start anyway. They don't smell too bad."
"No, I'm sorry, these must be retired. There's a hole in the ass," she points it out with a laser pointer, "I just about see through them and the elastic is showing through these rips." She puts down the laster pointer, picks up a pencil and lifts the tears in the waist band to highlight her point.
Let me explain something, retired is just a nice way to say "we're chucking this ratty, butt-singed excuse for underwear into a volcano because, for the landfill's sake, they're not safe."
So, with this news, I go through the steps of grief while trying to save my lucky boxers. I deny what she's doing, curse her very being to the Underwear Gods for even suggesting the thought of exiling the lucky shorts, bargain for a stay of execution (I'll only wear them on game day!), plead for another chance and finally accept the underwear's fate.
While not quite as good, I did find another pair to take 8-ball's place. Welcome to the fold, golf-course undies. They have served me well. They were undefeated when worn during the 2006-07 football season, and perfect when taken to the Chase Field for the Dodgers/Diamondbacks. They even brought the playoffs to the Dodgers in the form of a Wild Card berth. So, there is hope for these boxers.
I just wish my superstitions ended with the clothing, but it doesn't.
The south facing couch in the our family room, or as I like to call it my front row seating, is completely unlucky. I'm afraid to sit on it now, believing the next time I do the recliners will unfold by themselves and take hold of my legs like giant insect mandibles and make a wish with my puny body. So I've learned Dodger games must be viewed on the north end of the east-facing couch, and Charger games on the south-end. If I'm watching the Chargers, each good-guy touchdown (and touchdown's only) must be followed with the playing of the San Diego Super Charger song. If I'm drinking beer, it's got to be an even number. If I have four in the parking lot during the tailgate, I'm buying two more inside. That's a win-win, I suppose. "I'm sorry dear, I've only had five beers. I need one more to even it out. That's just the breaks kid. Now pop this bottle cap for me." And for Charger games, it always must be Newcastle Brown Ale.
Want to dive deeper into the sea of Michael?
"Do you have a superstition for a game?" Is what the post asked.
One commentor said he always wears a certain shirt. I said to myself, what the hell, I need a lucky shirt, maybe that will change the Dodgers' luck when I watch them.
That year, In-Laws bought me tickets to the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game out here. At that time, being fairly new to the Valley, I was certain DBack fans would hold me down and shove barbecued iquanas or kettle korn up my poop shoot for wearing Dodger gear inside their adverdium (seriously DBack brass, tone down the amount of advertisements at the BOB, my eyes don't like playing "where'sthe game"), so to save both the skin of my ass and Wife's I wore a non-descript blue shirt and my 8-ball boxers (under black shorts, of course, because I'm not a total nut job).
Result: Dodgers 19, Diamondbacks 1. And the first superstition was born.
The combination - lucky blue shirt/8-ball underwear - weren't perfect, but they were formidable opponents to whatever team the Chargers and Dodgers faced. It got to the point that other teams were listing it in their game day media reports: "MELISSA TO WEAR BLUE SHIRT/BOXERS COMBO: 'We'll have to bring our A game to beat that Melissa guy and his outfit,' said Coach Buttmuncher. 'That ensemble he wears is lethal. I don't think he washes it. So the luck just stays hangs like dog's fart in a car.'"
That's where I had them fooled. Wife wouldn't let me walk around the house, let alone Bank One Ballpark, with dirty skivvies and a reaking t-shirt. She doesn't understand the power in such lucky items - they are really once in a lifetime finds- so she washed them. Lo and behold, the luck stayed with the ensemble and the wins kept piling up.
Then came the discussion.
"Dear, look at these boxers," Wife said. She wore bio-hazzard gloves and held tongs that clutched my 8-ball undies. Her arms were so far outstretched I thought she was an X-Men.
"Thanks," I said, "I was looking for those. Are they washed? Oh, it don't matter the game is about to start anyway. They don't smell too bad."
"No, I'm sorry, these must be retired. There's a hole in the ass," she points it out with a laser pointer, "I just about see through them and the elastic is showing through these rips." She puts down the laster pointer, picks up a pencil and lifts the tears in the waist band to highlight her point.
Let me explain something, retired is just a nice way to say "we're chucking this ratty, butt-singed excuse for underwear into a volcano because, for the landfill's sake, they're not safe."
So, with this news, I go through the steps of grief while trying to save my lucky boxers. I deny what she's doing, curse her very being to the Underwear Gods for even suggesting the thought of exiling the lucky shorts, bargain for a stay of execution (I'll only wear them on game day!), plead for another chance and finally accept the underwear's fate.
While not quite as good, I did find another pair to take 8-ball's place. Welcome to the fold, golf-course undies. They have served me well. They were undefeated when worn during the 2006-07 football season, and perfect when taken to the Chase Field for the Dodgers/Diamondbacks. They even brought the playoffs to the Dodgers in the form of a Wild Card berth. So, there is hope for these boxers.
I just wish my superstitions ended with the clothing, but it doesn't.
The south facing couch in the our family room, or as I like to call it my front row seating, is completely unlucky. I'm afraid to sit on it now, believing the next time I do the recliners will unfold by themselves and take hold of my legs like giant insect mandibles and make a wish with my puny body. So I've learned Dodger games must be viewed on the north end of the east-facing couch, and Charger games on the south-end. If I'm watching the Chargers, each good-guy touchdown (and touchdown's only) must be followed with the playing of the San Diego Super Charger song. If I'm drinking beer, it's got to be an even number. If I have four in the parking lot during the tailgate, I'm buying two more inside. That's a win-win, I suppose. "I'm sorry dear, I've only had five beers. I need one more to even it out. That's just the breaks kid. Now pop this bottle cap for me." And for Charger games, it always must be Newcastle Brown Ale.
Want to dive deeper into the sea of Michael?
- I watched the Charger/Bronco game this year in the dark because they were playing well with the lights off and I was afraid turning them on would upset the mojo.
- I watched the Dodger/Mets playoff game on our little TV in the kitchen because that's were I started the game. When the Dodgers fell behind I turned the volume to No. 32 (Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax's numer). When that didn't work I moved to the TV in the family room, taking care to sit in the north-end east-facing chair, and turned the volume up with 32 clicks. They still lost, but made it close. Obviously, I started my ritual too late, and I take full blame for the loss.
- The past two Dodger season openers I've sat in the south-facing west-end seat of the couch and the Dodgers have lost both games. This year, I know where to sit.
- During one Dodger game this year, I didn't move from my seat for three hours afraid that I would jinx the game and blow the win for the Blue Crew. No bathroom breaks. No drinks. No food. I toughed it out and the Dodgers earned the W.
That brings me to this weekend. I bought tickets to the Charger playoff game (Offensive Coordinator Cam Cameron, Free Safety Marlon McRee and Wide Receiver Eric Parker are currently dead to me; Head Coach Marty Schottenheimer is on life support, I'm not sure if I'll pull the plug ... That's all I'll say about the game itself) for myself and some Charger friends. My first mistake that led to the heart-wrenching, butt-reaming, nut-sack pulling loss was that I flew out there rather than drove. In cases like this game, with the Super Bowl hanging in the balance (the Bolts would have beat Indy), you don't stray from the pattern. You run the direct route and catch the ball. I tried to make it right by purchasing a sixer of Newcastle at the corner store near Lisa and Jon's home, but even that was wrong because I always buy 12-packs. You can't change the game plan just because you're in the playoffs. I should know better.
We reach the stadium and learn the parking lot is full. We needed a plan B. Apparently that meant parking at the mall and tailgating in front of Macy's doors. Nothing like gulping down Newcastles and shoveling pasta salad before power shopping for over-priced khakis and blouses. We reach the stadium by trolley and I'm just hoping the football Gods didn't see us upsetting the natural order of things. And with everything so discombobulated I ended up drinking a total of seven beers before the game ended. Last time I checked, and mind you I'm about as good with numbers as a dog is with toiler paper, that was an odd number.
No wonder the Chargers lost despite dominating the 3-time SuperBowl champs.
But at least I can get my hair cut now (which I vowed not to do until the Bolts were bounced or won it all), change the wallpaper on my computers and sit on the other couch to watch TV.
Now, if I could just stop obsessing over not stepping on cracks while walking I'd be mentally sound again, or at least halfway to sanity.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Pirates life is for me - Day 7/8 - are we there yet?
Our goal for the day? Get our ship-sore asses up before nine and make it to breakfast in the dining room. Goal achieved. We waddle down to the dining room and land a table with fellow Phoenix Suns fans. I tell ya, these waiters know exactly who their dealing with and try to match folks up through common interests. It couldn't have worked out better.
The one odd ball couple happened to be the more engaging duo. When a school of dolphins captured our attention - for me, I just wondered if Captain Ahab was launching his fishing pole out there to snag dinner - this couple hung back.
"When you pet whales, those kinds of things (the dolphins) aren't as exciting to see," said the husband (I'm horrible at names, so we'll just call him Herb. I've always liked that name).
"We take an annual trip to La Paz, camp on the beach and sail with the whales," said the wife, lets call her Mary Jane.
Throughout breakfast, Wife and I are quizzing these two hostages who describe this camp near La Paz as a bare bones excursion. The couple said the rangers take you out in panga boats right up to Moby Dick and it's brothers and sisters, close enought to pet and look down their blow holes. Just what I want to see - the inner workings of a blow hole. Maybe it's the seven days as a sea hostage, or the endless amount of food served, or the easy access to booze, but Wife and I are enthralled at the idea. Touching whales? How amazing would that be?
For seven days, Chris and I had talked, no boasted, about kicking the rock climbing wall's ass. They stuff this attraction at the back of the ship, and you have to be Johnny-on-the-spot to nab a place in the session. We learned that little fact the hard way.
"Oh yeah, honey, come up in 20 minutes, we'll be on the wall."
Well, within five minutes the session was filled and we were left fondling our junk, waiting an hour for the next run. OK, no worries, we got this program figured out. We snag our books and steal a couple of lounge chairs near the wall, but out of sight of the line. The clock ticks near two and we get up with five minutes to spare. And damnit, there's already a line of climbing dorks.
Fine! We decide to camp our food-heavy asses in front of the wall and wait until other folks head over to sign up for the 3 p.m. runs. It takes three hours, but we're finally in.
I think the instructors, guides, ship lackies who can't serve food, whatever you want to call the dudes who run this dog and pony show called a rock wall, thought they were leading an expedition up El Capitan in Yosemite with all the equipment they loaded us down with: Nut sack holder, helmet in case falling rocks off the rock wall hit our melons, and enough caribeaners to connect to rope that would reach the top of Everest.
The wall was pock-marked with colored hand holds. The idea is that you use one color to reach the bell at the top, that's how real rock climbers measure their ability. To hell with that, I say, I just want to hit all three bells and look at the wake we're leaving in the Pacific while up there, some 200-feet above the water.
There are three seperate ropes, and I hit all them. I fell off once, and that was due to a loose hold, so I don't count it, therefore I didn't fall at all and rang the shit out of those bells. Ding-friggin'-ding man, I conquered that wall. Bring on Suicide Rock in Idyllwild. I'll piss on it's gravely base. It ain't got nothing on this experienced rock climber. No matter that after each run my arms felt like water-logged sand bags. That's what beer and hot dogs are for, which, coincidentally enough, the ship could provide. Nothing climbing fake rocks to work up a good, thirsty hunger.
Hold on to your knickers, dinner came that night and I had just ONE entree. I'm not sure if Royal Caribbean wore me down or if there just wasn't enough choices on the menu that reeled in my tummy. I couldn't pass up two appetizers, though, and have my buddy Mustafa bring out a shrimp cocktail and a salmon blossom. I can't pass up shrimp or salmon. Both could come drenched in a poop-flavored sauce and I still chow down like a hungry, sea-faring carnivore.
With dinner done, I had to make a stop at the Schooner bar to say good bye to our favorite bartenders. They hook us up with some free cokes, and then twist my arm and add some Jack to the coke. Sad to say, that was my last drink on the ship. No trumpets played taps. There was not a 21-shot salute. However, the piano dude at the bar played a Jimmy Buffet song, which doesn't count for anything since that's all the schmuck played during the trip. By the end of the cruise, I hoped that a-hole Buffet would get wasted enough in Margaritaville to shut the hell up about it.
I'd be remiss if I didn't talk more about the service, specifically, the folks who work so hard to make our trip so enjoyable. If there was something I regretted on this trip, it was that I didn't chat more with the staff to learn about them.
Robert from Slovakia, our assistant waiter, enjoys boxing as a hobby. He'd be an ideal middle weight, and those Slovaks are a tough bunch. He told us one story about a guy in his town who makes his own wine.
"We'd stop by and ask if he had a new batch," Robert said. "He said come back in five minutes. We did, and it tasted like bad vinegar. That's what you get, I guess, when you drink 5-minute old wine."
Mustafa from Turkey, our waiter, said he had just taken a trip through Phoenix and Las Vegas.
"I fell in love in Arizona," he said. Watching him leave the duty free shop with two big bottles under his arms, I can see him falling in love in many places.
Richard from Jamaica, our room steward and master of the towel monkey and elephant, was finishing off his six month tour this week. Once he was done with our room that morning, he'd be jumping ship and flying back home to see his 13-month old daughter. This guy would bend over backwards for us. If we asked him to repaint the room in pastels, he'd be down there with his assistant and buckets of paint while we were slurping cocktails by the jacuzzi.
The next morning we wake and drag our bags down to the Windjammer for our final meal and Wife has yank me from the lox table. But it doesn't seem like Royal Caribbean doesn't want us to leave. We wait, and wait, and wait until our color is called. It's a 90-minute process that chaps my ass because I could be back in the buffett chanting "Lox, lox, lox."
But while we're waiting, I realize just how relaxed I am from this trip. I can honestly say that feeling lasted through the holidays until the Chargers made the playoffs. I'll need another cruise just to relax from the playoffs.
And a word of advice for those would be cruisers, don't fall for the ship's fear of God routine about contraband. We bought into their mind control and I could have got on board with a brick of Mary Jane in my pants and enough prescription drugs strapped to my ass cheeks to open my own Walgreens.
Just a tip from your friendly Mikey, cruiser extraordinare.
The one odd ball couple happened to be the more engaging duo. When a school of dolphins captured our attention - for me, I just wondered if Captain Ahab was launching his fishing pole out there to snag dinner - this couple hung back.
"When you pet whales, those kinds of things (the dolphins) aren't as exciting to see," said the husband (I'm horrible at names, so we'll just call him Herb. I've always liked that name).
"We take an annual trip to La Paz, camp on the beach and sail with the whales," said the wife, lets call her Mary Jane.
Throughout breakfast, Wife and I are quizzing these two hostages who describe this camp near La Paz as a bare bones excursion. The couple said the rangers take you out in panga boats right up to Moby Dick and it's brothers and sisters, close enought to pet and look down their blow holes. Just what I want to see - the inner workings of a blow hole. Maybe it's the seven days as a sea hostage, or the endless amount of food served, or the easy access to booze, but Wife and I are enthralled at the idea. Touching whales? How amazing would that be?
For seven days, Chris and I had talked, no boasted, about kicking the rock climbing wall's ass. They stuff this attraction at the back of the ship, and you have to be Johnny-on-the-spot to nab a place in the session. We learned that little fact the hard way.
"Oh yeah, honey, come up in 20 minutes, we'll be on the wall."
Well, within five minutes the session was filled and we were left fondling our junk, waiting an hour for the next run. OK, no worries, we got this program figured out. We snag our books and steal a couple of lounge chairs near the wall, but out of sight of the line. The clock ticks near two and we get up with five minutes to spare. And damnit, there's already a line of climbing dorks.
Fine! We decide to camp our food-heavy asses in front of the wall and wait until other folks head over to sign up for the 3 p.m. runs. It takes three hours, but we're finally in.
I think the instructors, guides, ship lackies who can't serve food, whatever you want to call the dudes who run this dog and pony show called a rock wall, thought they were leading an expedition up El Capitan in Yosemite with all the equipment they loaded us down with: Nut sack holder, helmet in case falling rocks off the rock wall hit our melons, and enough caribeaners to connect to rope that would reach the top of Everest.
The wall was pock-marked with colored hand holds. The idea is that you use one color to reach the bell at the top, that's how real rock climbers measure their ability. To hell with that, I say, I just want to hit all three bells and look at the wake we're leaving in the Pacific while up there, some 200-feet above the water.
There are three seperate ropes, and I hit all them. I fell off once, and that was due to a loose hold, so I don't count it, therefore I didn't fall at all and rang the shit out of those bells. Ding-friggin'-ding man, I conquered that wall. Bring on Suicide Rock in Idyllwild. I'll piss on it's gravely base. It ain't got nothing on this experienced rock climber. No matter that after each run my arms felt like water-logged sand bags. That's what beer and hot dogs are for, which, coincidentally enough, the ship could provide. Nothing climbing fake rocks to work up a good, thirsty hunger.
Hold on to your knickers, dinner came that night and I had just ONE entree. I'm not sure if Royal Caribbean wore me down or if there just wasn't enough choices on the menu that reeled in my tummy. I couldn't pass up two appetizers, though, and have my buddy Mustafa bring out a shrimp cocktail and a salmon blossom. I can't pass up shrimp or salmon. Both could come drenched in a poop-flavored sauce and I still chow down like a hungry, sea-faring carnivore.
With dinner done, I had to make a stop at the Schooner bar to say good bye to our favorite bartenders. They hook us up with some free cokes, and then twist my arm and add some Jack to the coke. Sad to say, that was my last drink on the ship. No trumpets played taps. There was not a 21-shot salute. However, the piano dude at the bar played a Jimmy Buffet song, which doesn't count for anything since that's all the schmuck played during the trip. By the end of the cruise, I hoped that a-hole Buffet would get wasted enough in Margaritaville to shut the hell up about it.
I'd be remiss if I didn't talk more about the service, specifically, the folks who work so hard to make our trip so enjoyable. If there was something I regretted on this trip, it was that I didn't chat more with the staff to learn about them.
Robert from Slovakia, our assistant waiter, enjoys boxing as a hobby. He'd be an ideal middle weight, and those Slovaks are a tough bunch. He told us one story about a guy in his town who makes his own wine.
"We'd stop by and ask if he had a new batch," Robert said. "He said come back in five minutes. We did, and it tasted like bad vinegar. That's what you get, I guess, when you drink 5-minute old wine."
Mustafa from Turkey, our waiter, said he had just taken a trip through Phoenix and Las Vegas.
"I fell in love in Arizona," he said. Watching him leave the duty free shop with two big bottles under his arms, I can see him falling in love in many places.
Richard from Jamaica, our room steward and master of the towel monkey and elephant, was finishing off his six month tour this week. Once he was done with our room that morning, he'd be jumping ship and flying back home to see his 13-month old daughter. This guy would bend over backwards for us. If we asked him to repaint the room in pastels, he'd be down there with his assistant and buckets of paint while we were slurping cocktails by the jacuzzi.
The next morning we wake and drag our bags down to the Windjammer for our final meal and Wife has yank me from the lox table. But it doesn't seem like Royal Caribbean doesn't want us to leave. We wait, and wait, and wait until our color is called. It's a 90-minute process that chaps my ass because I could be back in the buffett chanting "Lox, lox, lox."
But while we're waiting, I realize just how relaxed I am from this trip. I can honestly say that feeling lasted through the holidays until the Chargers made the playoffs. I'll need another cruise just to relax from the playoffs.
And a word of advice for those would be cruisers, don't fall for the ship's fear of God routine about contraband. We bought into their mind control and I could have got on board with a brick of Mary Jane in my pants and enough prescription drugs strapped to my ass cheeks to open my own Walgreens.
Just a tip from your friendly Mikey, cruiser extraordinare.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Pirates life is for me - Day 6 - exercising my right to eat & drink
With nothing out to wake us up finally, we all snooze through breakfast - a real sin when there's buckets of food being served somewhere on the ship - and pull our asses out of the room in time for lunch in the dining room.
It was the first of two full days at sea, coasting back to L.A., so why not try dining room for a light early afternoon meal. I pour over a menu that throws out four or five delectable choices for appetizer, main meal and desert. I could tell, the only thing light about this meal was the sun shining through the port - aft? ah who the hell knows? - windows. I pony the tummy up with some calamari - deelish - a steak sandwich and a banana split because everyday is a good day when you have a banana split (and a corn dog, but we can't have everything in life, can we?).
After cleaning up the remaining chocolate sauce with the last bit of banana so the bowl looks like it was never used, I decide its time to finally exercise. Maybe I can work off five nights of double appetizers and double entrees by lapping the ship a few times on the walking trail. I hook the iPod into my ears and get motoring. By Royal Caribbeans count, which I'm sure was wrong because they can't even count American ways they have to use silly metrics instead, one mile was 6.5 laps. Dude, I can do that in my sleep. I start strutting until I loop around the rock wall at the back of the ship and then the wind kicks me in the nuts. It's colder than pimp's heart and steals your soul with each step until the walking deck opens up over the pool. Six and a half laps are a mile, eh? Hmmm, maybe a half mile is better than nothing.
I stick to it, though, and pull out two miles, but damn was I thirsty afterwards. The dangerous thing about walking along the sun deck above the pool is watching all these pool freaks walking around with buckets of beers. It took all of four laps for me to decide that would be my post-hike deal. Who needs water to rehydrate the body? That's shits for sissies. Give me a bucket o' suds, and if I suffer from a lack of agua I'll either drink the ice or dive into the ocean for water. Unfortunately, I had to share some of the beers with Chris and Wife.
We soaked in the rays until the bucket was drained of beer bottles, ice and water (just in case any beer leaked out of the bottles. I'm not a wasteful person). And decided it was time for a snack. I mean lunch was only 90 minutes ago. We head over to the burger bar for hot dogs. Then, to top it off, we nab some Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream cones. Polishing off a chocolate-chip cookie dough cone, it dawned on me that I may have ate a bit much on this trip. The tummy looked up at me with it's one eye and said, "Dude, I need a break."
"I know buddy, just give me room for two more days, though."
"Agreed, but after those two days, friend, we're sitting on the toilet for sixteen hours."
"You got a deal, tummy."
That deal with the gut landed me three lobster tails at dinner that night, our last formal evening of the cruise. With all of us proudly wearing our Quest gold medals (because we're nothing if not a table full of dorks) we chow down on Royal Caribbeans lobster night. Mustafa is an enabler, too. We'd all gladly have settled for one tail, but that little Turk kept coming by asking if we wanted another. I heard my tummy's scream, "what the hell, dude," but luckily my pants and belt were riding high that night muffling it's cries.
Our servers, Mustafa from Turkey and Robert from Slovakia, were fun and within a night or two knew our quirks when dining. Wife likes a smidge of coffee with her cream, so Robert brought her a personal cream container. I liked the sour dough rolls, so when they were chucking the bread mine was always sour dough. And we, in turn, got their backs when trouble sprouted. Robert tried to pour some wine for me and left a few drops on the white table cloth.
"All is good, Robert," I said as I used my bread plate to hide the stain. Of course, Mustafa has radar for spilled wine and asked if Robert did it. I told him I couldn't rat out my buddy. Of course, when Robert returned I told him Mustafa sniffed out the stain.
"Just as long as he doesn't get a straw and suck it out of there," Robert said.
Mustafa was on a roll that night, too. With the majority of the table absent the night before for dinner, he pointed out just how easy we made his job last night and profusely thanked us. We told him we'd work his ass double tonight.
The people really made the trip, though. One month later, I find myself wondering how this leg went for Robert and Mustafa, and our boys in the Schooner Bar: Manolo, Ricky and Rowell.
According to the duty-free alcohol lady, the wait staff is big on alcohol - Vodka to be precise. We had become big fans of Robert because out of him, Mustafa and the tip mooch (Head Waiter), Robert works the hardest as the assistant waiter. So we decided to do a little something special for our Slovak friend and three of us go in on a bottle for Stoly. As we head over to the shop, we spot our man Mustafa coming out with a few heavy bags of his own, and I think tomorrow's dining will be interesting, that's for sure.
Not only was it lobster night, but it was also the gala buffet at midnight as well. Food carvings in any imaginable object donned tables in the dining room. Ice sculptured Chines dragons, half-naked (the best half) chocolate ladies, cacti, frogs, birds, villages, everything under the sun was carved out of food. And I got yelled at for making Mount Everest in my mash potatoes when I was kid, these chefs were designing their own mountain ranges complete with climbers and skiers.
And any time I thought about sneaking a hand under the half-naked lady chocolate sculpture's skirt, some dude on the mic would remind us picture takers: "Fingers are for clicking, not licking."
Man, that just ain't fair.
But my stomach didn't complain.
It was the first of two full days at sea, coasting back to L.A., so why not try dining room for a light early afternoon meal. I pour over a menu that throws out four or five delectable choices for appetizer, main meal and desert. I could tell, the only thing light about this meal was the sun shining through the port - aft? ah who the hell knows? - windows. I pony the tummy up with some calamari - deelish - a steak sandwich and a banana split because everyday is a good day when you have a banana split (and a corn dog, but we can't have everything in life, can we?).
After cleaning up the remaining chocolate sauce with the last bit of banana so the bowl looks like it was never used, I decide its time to finally exercise. Maybe I can work off five nights of double appetizers and double entrees by lapping the ship a few times on the walking trail. I hook the iPod into my ears and get motoring. By Royal Caribbeans count, which I'm sure was wrong because they can't even count American ways they have to use silly metrics instead, one mile was 6.5 laps. Dude, I can do that in my sleep. I start strutting until I loop around the rock wall at the back of the ship and then the wind kicks me in the nuts. It's colder than pimp's heart and steals your soul with each step until the walking deck opens up over the pool. Six and a half laps are a mile, eh? Hmmm, maybe a half mile is better than nothing.
I stick to it, though, and pull out two miles, but damn was I thirsty afterwards. The dangerous thing about walking along the sun deck above the pool is watching all these pool freaks walking around with buckets of beers. It took all of four laps for me to decide that would be my post-hike deal. Who needs water to rehydrate the body? That's shits for sissies. Give me a bucket o' suds, and if I suffer from a lack of agua I'll either drink the ice or dive into the ocean for water. Unfortunately, I had to share some of the beers with Chris and Wife.
We soaked in the rays until the bucket was drained of beer bottles, ice and water (just in case any beer leaked out of the bottles. I'm not a wasteful person). And decided it was time for a snack. I mean lunch was only 90 minutes ago. We head over to the burger bar for hot dogs. Then, to top it off, we nab some Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream cones. Polishing off a chocolate-chip cookie dough cone, it dawned on me that I may have ate a bit much on this trip. The tummy looked up at me with it's one eye and said, "Dude, I need a break."
"I know buddy, just give me room for two more days, though."
"Agreed, but after those two days, friend, we're sitting on the toilet for sixteen hours."
"You got a deal, tummy."
That deal with the gut landed me three lobster tails at dinner that night, our last formal evening of the cruise. With all of us proudly wearing our Quest gold medals (because we're nothing if not a table full of dorks) we chow down on Royal Caribbeans lobster night. Mustafa is an enabler, too. We'd all gladly have settled for one tail, but that little Turk kept coming by asking if we wanted another. I heard my tummy's scream, "what the hell, dude," but luckily my pants and belt were riding high that night muffling it's cries.
Our servers, Mustafa from Turkey and Robert from Slovakia, were fun and within a night or two knew our quirks when dining. Wife likes a smidge of coffee with her cream, so Robert brought her a personal cream container. I liked the sour dough rolls, so when they were chucking the bread mine was always sour dough. And we, in turn, got their backs when trouble sprouted. Robert tried to pour some wine for me and left a few drops on the white table cloth.
"All is good, Robert," I said as I used my bread plate to hide the stain. Of course, Mustafa has radar for spilled wine and asked if Robert did it. I told him I couldn't rat out my buddy. Of course, when Robert returned I told him Mustafa sniffed out the stain.
"Just as long as he doesn't get a straw and suck it out of there," Robert said.
Mustafa was on a roll that night, too. With the majority of the table absent the night before for dinner, he pointed out just how easy we made his job last night and profusely thanked us. We told him we'd work his ass double tonight.
The people really made the trip, though. One month later, I find myself wondering how this leg went for Robert and Mustafa, and our boys in the Schooner Bar: Manolo, Ricky and Rowell.
According to the duty-free alcohol lady, the wait staff is big on alcohol - Vodka to be precise. We had become big fans of Robert because out of him, Mustafa and the tip mooch (Head Waiter), Robert works the hardest as the assistant waiter. So we decided to do a little something special for our Slovak friend and three of us go in on a bottle for Stoly. As we head over to the shop, we spot our man Mustafa coming out with a few heavy bags of his own, and I think tomorrow's dining will be interesting, that's for sure.
Not only was it lobster night, but it was also the gala buffet at midnight as well. Food carvings in any imaginable object donned tables in the dining room. Ice sculptured Chines dragons, half-naked (the best half) chocolate ladies, cacti, frogs, birds, villages, everything under the sun was carved out of food. And I got yelled at for making Mount Everest in my mash potatoes when I was kid, these chefs were designing their own mountain ranges complete with climbers and skiers.
And any time I thought about sneaking a hand under the half-naked lady chocolate sculpture's skirt, some dude on the mic would remind us picture takers: "Fingers are for clicking, not licking."
Man, that just ain't fair.
But my stomach didn't complain.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Hello, my name is Michael and I'm an addict
I'm taking a break from the cruise recap to delve into some self analysis. Sorry, this is one of the steps in my Golfers Anonymous program and I figured I could get it done in one fell swoop. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem.
Every junky remembers that first spike. The drug works through your veins, seeps into you soul and leaves you wanting more. You come back week after week, day after day, craving that calm, the clarity, the buzz, and more is never enough.
I don't do drugs. I'm messed up in the head enough that adding more junk to this melon would put me in state of using my own poo as writing utensil. My crack, my heroin, my mary-ju-wana is golf. Poison on grass. The clubs are hypodermic needles, and the golf courses pushers standing on dark street corners ("tee times for ten bucks. You want to play some golf, mon?") promising life's highs in a dime golf bag. Knocking in a par is the buzz that keeps you craving more, and carding an 8 on a par three is the depression that sends a junky spiraling into self pity.
That's what golf is to me.
I'm a half-step away from giving a testimonial to a room-full of fellow golf junkys looking to break the addictive spell cast by the links. It would be fine if I was one of those celebrity golf druggies (low-handicappers who get pissed when they leave a par put 5-feet short) who are invited to the best parties to snort the finest shit and pop the cleanest pills. No, instead I'm a crack whore who'd sell his blood, sperm, right hairy nut for a sub-100 round. Give me a string of pars. Let me split every fairway with confidence. I want to get out of the sand trap in one shot rather than watching the ball hit the lip and roll back to my feet, leaving a mocking trail of my horrendous shot in the sand.
That's what golf can give me. Will it? I don't know, ask my right nut.
I blame my old man (doesn't every junky blame their parental units for something?). He took me to the course when I was nine years old, handed me his 9-iron and told me to swing down on the ball (is there any other way to swing at the golf ball, dad?). He wouldn't give me any other clubs to mess with, likely afraid that I'll learn the game's inherent frustration associated and wrap his driver around the nearest tree. Instead, I was happy to leave two-foot deep divots with his nine.
Then, the old man and ma bought me my first set of clubs. Doug Sanders (who?) model, driver through putter. Baseball wasn't in my future, but golf, with my Doug Sanders clubs, oh yeah, watch out Jack Nicklaus I'm coming for your wrinkled old ass. Arnold Palmer can suck my putter. Byron Nelson couldn't carry my bag, or my golf clubs. That's what these clubs would do for me. I could feel it. I would be Tiger Woods before Tiger Woods. How hard can this game be? The ball doesn't move! It sits there on the tee screaming to be hit. "Smack my ass with that 3-wood, daddy!"
Years later, after yet another triple-digit round (can someone tell me what it's like to shoot in the 90s?) I finally decided to look up Doug Sanders' golf record because I knew the problem wasn't with my game but rather the clubs. Here's what wikipedia says about my clubs' namesake: He had 13 top-10 finishes in major championships, including four second place finishes: 1959 PGA Championship, 1961 U.S. Open, and 1966 and 1970 British Opens. He was well known for missing a short putt on the final hole that would have won him the 1970 British Open, before losing in a playoff the next day to Jack Nicklaus.
Woohoo! Two second place finishes in major championships during a 20-year career! Oh how did he ever fly below the radar? How did he get his own line of clubs? Was I the only one who played with his line of clubs? If this schmuck can get his own line of clubs, I think I'm in line to slap my name on a driver and some irons. I'll call 'em Michael's Big Sticks. I'll sell the shit out of 'em.
I'm sure I was the only Nitwit with Doug Sanders golf, and here is why: Starting with a junior college golf class, Doug Sanders' club heads have had a penchant for shearing off at the shaft. I hit the ball, and there goes the club head out driving my shout. Never a good thing when a dude loses a piece off his shaft, and for golf clubs it means you have a metal pool cue and a hunk of metal that is only good for lobbing through plate glass windows before robbing a joint blind. Good bye 5-iron, so long seven, hasta lavista 3-iron, I hardly knew ye. Doug Sanders' 9-iron head went farther than the ball and the divot during a heated round between me and Ma. It would have been my first win over my chief competition, but that SOB Doug Sanders screwed me out of it. Years later, using some hand-me down Jack Nicklaus models (now we're talking about a real golfer), I was able to edge Ma by one stroke and learned not to do so again. It took me three days to unwedge her pitching wedge from my rectum. Lesson learned, Ma, thanks (I wish she used a club with less loft, like a 3- iron, it would have been easier to remove). She hates losing.
With just a driver, 3-wood and putter left from that set I thought me and ol' Dougey Boy had reached a mutual agreement - I won't curse his name or drive by his Houston home anymore, hurling broken club heads at his front windows, and he keep the rest of my clubs from his set in tact.
He broke that promise Saturday.
Prior to the round, Marc and I decided we'd do a shot for every 8 or worse we carded during the round. With my Charger flask (courtesy of Wife who combined two of my favorite things into one package - alcohol and the Chargers) armed with Cutty Shark Scotch inside we agreed this would be better than betting money on each hole. I scored five or six 8s - I lost track - during the round. Yeah, it was a loooonngg day. Shooting a 125 will drive any man to drink. By the by, Patrick wussed out on the "Shot for 8s" golf challenge blaming a weak stomach. He didn't get the memo that golf's a team sport, I guess.
When I golf I like to see the course. I don't play golf to see what's only in the middle of the fairway, I want to check out the left side, the right side, toodle along the lake, maybe check out the trees. My game is centered on sight-seeing, not low scores. That's not cost-efficient in my book. The byproduct of such a game plan? Scores better suited for bowlers. Playing in the middle is boring, plus it's fascist. I'm an equal opportunity hacker, I pay attention to the whole course.
So there I am, reminiscing over another "great" 6-foot chip that still leaves me 20-feet shy of the green - not 20-feet shy of the pin mind, THE GREEN - which tells you what kind of golfer I am. In my hand is my "trusty" Cougar wedge and my putter because Marc has the golf cart after putting his chip shot on the green, the bastard (he only did two or three shots during the round - showoff). I drop my "reliable" Doug Sanders putter to focus on my second - or was it my third? - chip when I hear the long forgotten "tinnngggg" of a club head snapping. I think to myself, "what the heck was that? Did I drop it on a sprinkler head?" I look down and there's my putter in two pieces - shaft and head. Doug Sanders kicked me in the nuts again.
Lucky for me, I have friends who like to laugh at my misfortune and take pity on me all the same. Marc offered to share his putter for the rest of the round. If you know golf history, Marc's putter looks like something from Bobby Jones' day in the 1920s. I think it was a prop in "The Legend of Bagger Vance." In fact, as I told Marc, I think I used such a putter once beforeto hit my blue ball into the clown's mouth to win a free game of mini-golf.
Of course, with my first shot using the putter I sunk a 10-footer, so I had to take back almost everything I said about the artifact.
I parred one hole on the round and had more 6s than 8s, which will keep me coming back for more juice. Just like a crack whore, I can't quit you, golf.
But Doug Sanders, you're dead to me.
Every junky remembers that first spike. The drug works through your veins, seeps into you soul and leaves you wanting more. You come back week after week, day after day, craving that calm, the clarity, the buzz, and more is never enough.
I don't do drugs. I'm messed up in the head enough that adding more junk to this melon would put me in state of using my own poo as writing utensil. My crack, my heroin, my mary-ju-wana is golf. Poison on grass. The clubs are hypodermic needles, and the golf courses pushers standing on dark street corners ("tee times for ten bucks. You want to play some golf, mon?") promising life's highs in a dime golf bag. Knocking in a par is the buzz that keeps you craving more, and carding an 8 on a par three is the depression that sends a junky spiraling into self pity.
That's what golf is to me.
I'm a half-step away from giving a testimonial to a room-full of fellow golf junkys looking to break the addictive spell cast by the links. It would be fine if I was one of those celebrity golf druggies (low-handicappers who get pissed when they leave a par put 5-feet short) who are invited to the best parties to snort the finest shit and pop the cleanest pills. No, instead I'm a crack whore who'd sell his blood, sperm, right hairy nut for a sub-100 round. Give me a string of pars. Let me split every fairway with confidence. I want to get out of the sand trap in one shot rather than watching the ball hit the lip and roll back to my feet, leaving a mocking trail of my horrendous shot in the sand.
That's what golf can give me. Will it? I don't know, ask my right nut.
I blame my old man (doesn't every junky blame their parental units for something?). He took me to the course when I was nine years old, handed me his 9-iron and told me to swing down on the ball (is there any other way to swing at the golf ball, dad?). He wouldn't give me any other clubs to mess with, likely afraid that I'll learn the game's inherent frustration associated and wrap his driver around the nearest tree. Instead, I was happy to leave two-foot deep divots with his nine.
Then, the old man and ma bought me my first set of clubs. Doug Sanders (who?) model, driver through putter. Baseball wasn't in my future, but golf, with my Doug Sanders clubs, oh yeah, watch out Jack Nicklaus I'm coming for your wrinkled old ass. Arnold Palmer can suck my putter. Byron Nelson couldn't carry my bag, or my golf clubs. That's what these clubs would do for me. I could feel it. I would be Tiger Woods before Tiger Woods. How hard can this game be? The ball doesn't move! It sits there on the tee screaming to be hit. "Smack my ass with that 3-wood, daddy!"
Years later, after yet another triple-digit round (can someone tell me what it's like to shoot in the 90s?) I finally decided to look up Doug Sanders' golf record because I knew the problem wasn't with my game but rather the clubs. Here's what wikipedia says about my clubs' namesake: He had 13 top-10 finishes in major championships, including four second place finishes: 1959 PGA Championship, 1961 U.S. Open, and 1966 and 1970 British Opens. He was well known for missing a short putt on the final hole that would have won him the 1970 British Open, before losing in a playoff the next day to Jack Nicklaus.
Woohoo! Two second place finishes in major championships during a 20-year career! Oh how did he ever fly below the radar? How did he get his own line of clubs? Was I the only one who played with his line of clubs? If this schmuck can get his own line of clubs, I think I'm in line to slap my name on a driver and some irons. I'll call 'em Michael's Big Sticks. I'll sell the shit out of 'em.
I'm sure I was the only Nitwit with Doug Sanders golf, and here is why: Starting with a junior college golf class, Doug Sanders' club heads have had a penchant for shearing off at the shaft. I hit the ball, and there goes the club head out driving my shout. Never a good thing when a dude loses a piece off his shaft, and for golf clubs it means you have a metal pool cue and a hunk of metal that is only good for lobbing through plate glass windows before robbing a joint blind. Good bye 5-iron, so long seven, hasta lavista 3-iron, I hardly knew ye. Doug Sanders' 9-iron head went farther than the ball and the divot during a heated round between me and Ma. It would have been my first win over my chief competition, but that SOB Doug Sanders screwed me out of it. Years later, using some hand-me down Jack Nicklaus models (now we're talking about a real golfer), I was able to edge Ma by one stroke and learned not to do so again. It took me three days to unwedge her pitching wedge from my rectum. Lesson learned, Ma, thanks (I wish she used a club with less loft, like a 3- iron, it would have been easier to remove). She hates losing.
With just a driver, 3-wood and putter left from that set I thought me and ol' Dougey Boy had reached a mutual agreement - I won't curse his name or drive by his Houston home anymore, hurling broken club heads at his front windows, and he keep the rest of my clubs from his set in tact.
He broke that promise Saturday.
Prior to the round, Marc and I decided we'd do a shot for every 8 or worse we carded during the round. With my Charger flask (courtesy of Wife who combined two of my favorite things into one package - alcohol and the Chargers) armed with Cutty Shark Scotch inside we agreed this would be better than betting money on each hole. I scored five or six 8s - I lost track - during the round. Yeah, it was a loooonngg day. Shooting a 125 will drive any man to drink. By the by, Patrick wussed out on the "Shot for 8s" golf challenge blaming a weak stomach. He didn't get the memo that golf's a team sport, I guess.
When I golf I like to see the course. I don't play golf to see what's only in the middle of the fairway, I want to check out the left side, the right side, toodle along the lake, maybe check out the trees. My game is centered on sight-seeing, not low scores. That's not cost-efficient in my book. The byproduct of such a game plan? Scores better suited for bowlers. Playing in the middle is boring, plus it's fascist. I'm an equal opportunity hacker, I pay attention to the whole course.
So there I am, reminiscing over another "great" 6-foot chip that still leaves me 20-feet shy of the green - not 20-feet shy of the pin mind, THE GREEN - which tells you what kind of golfer I am. In my hand is my "trusty" Cougar wedge and my putter because Marc has the golf cart after putting his chip shot on the green, the bastard (he only did two or three shots during the round - showoff). I drop my "reliable" Doug Sanders putter to focus on my second - or was it my third? - chip when I hear the long forgotten "tinnngggg" of a club head snapping. I think to myself, "what the heck was that? Did I drop it on a sprinkler head?" I look down and there's my putter in two pieces - shaft and head. Doug Sanders kicked me in the nuts again.
Lucky for me, I have friends who like to laugh at my misfortune and take pity on me all the same. Marc offered to share his putter for the rest of the round. If you know golf history, Marc's putter looks like something from Bobby Jones' day in the 1920s. I think it was a prop in "The Legend of Bagger Vance." In fact, as I told Marc, I think I used such a putter once beforeto hit my blue ball into the clown's mouth to win a free game of mini-golf.
Of course, with my first shot using the putter I sunk a 10-footer, so I had to take back almost everything I said about the artifact.
I parred one hole on the round and had more 6s than 8s, which will keep me coming back for more juice. Just like a crack whore, I can't quit you, golf.
But Doug Sanders, you're dead to me.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Pirates life is for me - Day 5 - Hot Monkey love with Mojitos
Squawking birds forced our eyelids open at 7:45, bent on letting us know we were in Puerta Vallarta. Captain Ahab, the Norwegian terror of the Pacific, must have made good time in the full moon seas as hostages were already checking off the boat at this ungodly hour. Chris and I had enough time to brush last nights alcohol out of our drink holes, gather up our final belongings and make sure our estates were in order before our on-shore excursion - swinging through the jungle on lines of twine.
We powered down a quick breakfast at the buffet - well, as quick as one can buffet which still takes approximately 15 minutes. I kissed Wife good bye, told her I loved her, and if I didn't return sell my baseball cards and porn collections to pay to have my ashes spread over Dodger Stadium.
Vallarta Adventures, a top notch company I assume, summon the "jeep" driver (their term, not mine) to collect their latest batch of suckers - 14 of us believed the online blurb about this being a safe experience and no mention of the trip actually ending at a Mexican prison work camp. The driver arrives, Pacifico bottles trailing behind him I'm guessing so that he can find his way back to the "jeep," and loads us onto our chariot. Before seeing our transportation, we were told that this was an air-conditioned all-terrain Mercedes. When we saw it we realized the only part that was true was it was a vehicle, and even that was debateable.
The back is in the open air and we sit side-by-side, seven-by-seven, on two long cushioned benches (thank God for small favors, my ass would have been unhappy if it was face to face with wood for the one hour drive). He tootles through Puerta Vallarta, grinding gears into a fine powder with each shift, following the highway into the jungle. "Prison camp," "prison camp,""prison camp," echoes in my head and the voice sounds like Morgan Freeman. But this won't be no Shawshank Prison, oh no, hell no, this will be pound you in the ass prison. Where they were taking us, I was sure the cockroaches would make me their bitch.
We're deep in the countryside now. Little mom and pop general stores no bigger than my tool shed act as sign posts, heading dirt roads that serve dozens of one-room homes. At some points, a mother and her kids (I presume) would sit road side selling anything and everything. Wal-Mart and Target are missing a great opportunity by not employing the same idea. Both sweat shop giants would clean up if they had some yocal on the corner of the main drag hocking garden tools and bath towels.
Mexican life away from the big cities intrigued me and my eyes were trained on the landscape. Jungle mixed with farms and endless roads piqued my curiosity with every turn. That was, until we drove by the prison. A concrete monstrosity in the middle of the jungle with a dozen guard towers, maybe more. I lost count as fear took over my mind. I considered leaping from Pacifico Paco's wild ride, but I didn't want to end up in back-jungle Mexico where a weathered old grandma would kidnap my frail ass, keep me in a cage and pull me out only to cut her toe nails every few days. Weighing the options, I stayed, accepting my fate.
My spirits lifted, however, when Paco passed the prison and I realized I was being a dumb gringo who had watched too many American movies about Mexico. We rolled along and I enjoyed the glimpse into Mexico's soul.
We were greeted at the site by a donkey wearing a safety helmet. It made me laugh - the helmet had ear holes cut out for the burro - until I spied it's title on the brain bucket: HEAD GUIDE. Oh crap! I knew these back-jungle Mexico outfits were shady.
They shove us into our harness gear, which made my package appear as if there was more there than just extra bubble wrap to protect the small jewels inside. If I walked around college with this gear on chicks would have jumped my junk more readily.
Alberto, who seems to be the head monkey (that's what they call themselves so save your hate mail) in charge, herds us over to an open area with a pine benches - something tells me the wood used for the benches is not native to the area - where we get a vaudeville act starring our guides: Alberto, Mattias, Javiar, Tony, Neomi and Amaury. The guides play off each other with fine comic skills during introductions and the safety drill, which I'm sure is part of the job so that us death defiers don't freak ourselves out. They do a great job, because any fear someone may have had was diffused through humor. That's not to say we didn't have our share of American-made chickens on this zip-lining adventure; the guides can only do so much.
It took the first zip across the jungle to get my adrenaline pumping. The trees and jungle floor whiz by in fast forward while I hang by two pulleys and a safety line, both paws in heavily layered leather gloves and one hand on the safety and the other acting as the break on the rope above my head. The wind slaps at my cheeks and rides through my shirt, and each second I'm smiling like a kid given wings to soar of his roof. The first line is tree to tree but the ground meets you at both points. The next line, however, sticks you half way up a tree (90 feet, check out the map along the right side of the site to get an idea) with only a matchbox-sized platform to walk along with only a frayed strap keeping me from somersaulting down five stories and messing up the jungle's ecosystem.
"How did you like that, monkey?" Javiar asked me. It was a frequent question from the guides. I think my smile told them all they needed to know.
We cruise through some mid-size zips, the jungle a blur of green and earth before arriving at the fastest line and second longest run of the tour - "Big Mamma."
"To get seven years of good luck, you must shout 'Big Mamma' all the way," Tony said. "If you don't, you'll probably hit a tree on the next one."
Talk about a hard sell. I need all the luck I can get so I belt out "big mammas" like I'm shouting for help from a passing rescue boat. Those crazy guides at Vallarta Adventures weren't just blowing smoke up my rear about the luck thing. When we returned the Chargers just swept the season series from the Denver Broncos (something they hadn't done in 24 years), the Los Angeles Dodgers signed a stud pitcher away from the Northern Bastards, and the cats haven't pooped on my pillow since our return. With that kind of luck, the Powerball folks may as well give me the $130-something million it's pushing right now.
We finish "Big Mamma" and are now directed to walk - WALK- along a suspension bridge made out of what looks like milk crates tethered between the branches of two trees. The distance was maybe 90 feet across, but it might as well have been two miles. I paid good, drinking dough to zip above the jungle floor, not walk. Not only that, the guides want us to "shake it" at the halfway point. Ah ha! Something I know a little about. I get to the middle and start the strip tease. Working the shirt up to the hoots of the parrots and the mosquito's clapping until realizing the "safety" harness hindered any more strip teasing. Since Chris was following me, he was likely thankful not to see more.
Two more average-lengthed zips takes us to what became my highlight of the excursion - the Tarzan Swing. When I read about the swing, I imagined a heavy-grade rope that we grasped and swung through the jungle. I was set to give it the Tarzan yell. But when I saw what exactly the Tarzan Swing was, yelling was going to be extremely difficult.
The Tarzan Swing was another zip line that didn't require us monkeys to hold on for breaking (so we don't slam into another monkey, which I did earlier in the day. Like Ricky Bobby says in "Talladega Nights" I like to go fast, what can I say), instead we just sail along thanks to the guides shove. So Tony, who looks like Mexican version of The Undertaker but smaller and with a better tan, lifts up one woman a few turns ahead of mer, and asks how many tequilas does she want to feel like she had?
"10!" Tony laughs, yells down to Javiar who was catching us monkeys at the end of the swing - if they need someone catching folks you know things could get hairy - lifts up this lady to his shoulder and spins her like a dradle. She spirals to the landing pad and spins to a stop, unhitching from the swing and walking like I was after Manolo's Jack and Coke mixtures the first night on the ship.
Finally, my turn comes up and Tony asks me the question I was now preparing for.
"Give me what you got," I say. Famous last words. Hope the life insurance is paid up, dear.
Tony laughs from the belly, which was not a good sign. "He wants it with chili! OK, monkey, get your knees up by your ears."
That's just not something you don't want to hear from anyone, anytime, but I follow the directions and Tony cradles me like I'm his new born monkey (this wouldn't be weird if we were in the prison I passed on the drive up). Next thing I know, the world is a hyper-active kaleidascope of greens and browns. I think I see Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man spin by. My eyes, I was sure, stopped spinning with the rest of the body and just looked at back of my skull. They got tired spinning and wanted a break, I guess.
And then - THUD - I stop hard thanks to Javiar and Mattias. But everything hasn't stopped. Slow spins circle through the inside of my head and I try to walk straight which left me going in circles until I could grab hold of the railing leading to the next zip line. Fortunately, the railing wasn't spinning.
Because the guides are sadistic monkey abusers, they make us hike up a hill after the Tarzan Swing for the tour's longest run - "Big Daddy." The Monkey guides hook me up, explain that I must shout "Big Papa, Big Daddy, Baked Potato (I think the latter was supposed to be Big Potato, but at the time a baked potato sounded good. I reminded myself to find one at the buffet when we returned) and sent me on way. The end of the run was hidden by tree branches and once I zipped past them I understood why this was called Big Daddy. The run went endlessly and below was a river and waterfall pacing our path with each passing foot of rope.
Since I made this last run a sight-seeing trip, I toodled along a bit slower than 10 other runs and I ended up about five short of the landing platform. At the beginning, they put the fear of God in us monkeys, explaining that if we were short of the platform they'd leave us there, dangling, until a giant eagle snatched us up with it's beak to feed to its baby eaglets. I was done for. The guide saved me, however, by telling me to turn my back to the platform and pull myself along. That's when I realized I had been eating eight hours a day for five straight days. My arms looked at my ass, which just shrugged as if to say, "sorry dudes, but that sixth lox and cream cheese bagel yesterday hit the spot." It took me five minutes to traverse the final five feet to the platform.
Our final job was to rapell 120 feet down off the tree, and taking one look through the milk crate platform, 120 feet resembled the distance between the Earth to the Moon. Two ropes tied to the tree's trunk and dribbled over the side to a pair of designated catchers - our guides. They were two specks in a sea of brown divots that I only assumed were monkeys who either a) let go of the rope, or b) the catchers dropped.
Throughout this adventure I hadn't been afraid. The zipping was awesome, standing on a platform a hundred feet up didn't spook me and traversing suspension bridges was a hoot. Rapelling a 120 feet, however, was a whole other game. The guides gave us a quick tutorial on rapelling - something about using your fingers to brake and holding the rope behind you so you didn't leave an ink spot on the jungle floor - and then they shoved you off the plaform.
I dangle, screaming my head off just waiting for a giant eagle swoop in on my gonads, before I remember something about holding the rope and using my fingers to brake. Lo and behold, that shit worked. And to think I thought the monkey guides were just talking out their ass again. I stop screaming and coast to the floor into the arms of Alberto who assures me it's all over, i'm safe, on the ground and littering the jungle with smashed body parts.
While Chris and I were heaving ourselves through the jungle, and Angela, Jerry and her units were caravaning to a tequila plantation, Ben and Brett did a little Mojito recon mission in town and found the place to go for the best "elixer of the gods" in town. They informed Wife that this was the joint in town for knock-your-hair back mojitos, who in turn passed the info to excursionists. We wash behind our ears, scrub our sacks and don our Vallarta wear for an evening on the town, hitching a ride to drink "the best mojitos in town."
La Bodeguita del Medio is a two-story, dark hole-in-the-wall Cuban joint along the main strand facing the Puerto Vallarta beach. They sit us upstairs, out of the way. I'm guessing they'd heard about our group before hand and figured we'd cause the least amount of trouble if they shove us into the front corner of the upstairs patio. Being troublemakers works out for us, however, as we have an unfettered view of the strand and the beach. The benches, tables and wood posts are covered in multi-colored crayon phrases, names and symbols. It's the kind of place I dig, but Wife would never allow us to step foot into for fear of Montezuma's Revenge attacking our bowels with just one whiff of the joint's kitchen. With the glowing recommendation from Ben and Brett, however, she braves it.
My Spanish is comprised of two sayings: Uno mas cerveza, por favor, and Donde esta el bano, por favor?. After our trip to La Bodeguita, I can confidently add a new phrase to my gringo vocabulary: Dos para uno Mojito, por favor (I'm nothing if not polite). We work the waitress over for the two-for-one deal Ben and Brett nailed earlier, who finally gives in and hooks the table up with 16 mojitos, two per person. There's enough fresh mint sprigs in each glass to plant our own mint patch at home and enough "light" rum to make us all feel like we've been on the Tarzan swing, not with chili.
Because I'll eat just about anything, anywhere, I couldn't pass up La Bod's cervice. While most of the table were pansies and went with the shrimp cocktail, I had to be different and ordered the cervice. It was chalk full of shrimp, lettuce and cilantro mixed with some jalapenos and mild habaneros. With the mojitos working as a pain supressant, I shovel in a couple of quick bites before my mouth becomes a boiler room incerator and I can set fire to the Mexican jungle in a single breathe. It appears, cilantro, jalapenos and "mild" habaneros are the necessary ingredients for dragon fire breathe. That doesn't stop me, though.
"How is it honey?" Wife says.
"Good," I say, and after the smoke clears I see Angela smothering Wife's face with a damp cloth to slow the 3rd-degree burns my breathe just caused. I'd say it was good, but taste buds were singed to nubs, so it's only guess.
Jerry and I glance at each other and you our mind-reading skills to determine we both need more Mojitos. "Dos para unos," slowly becomes "Doths spara unosh" by the fourth round.
As we walk/stumble/wobbly-leg our way out of La Bod, we learn another new word - buracha. That's Wife, folks, buracha. She leans, sways, stumbles and hangs on to gain her balance with each step. We take great pleasure in this and wish we'd brought a camera to digitize this event.
After tequila shots at the dock because it will be our last cheap drink until we hit L.A. in two days, we head over to Angela and Jerry's room for Crown Royals and ice teas. It's here, in this room a click or two away from the ship's engines that I get tabbed the "Dirty Dog," by Sugar. I'm not sure how I landed this monnicker, but the Florez family thought it fit me well.
With Wife laying on her side, prone, on the floor, I figure that was as good a time to mount up as any. Flash bulbs pop as I make like Benji on an outstretched leg. If you ask nicely, I'm sure you can get feed your dirty little appetite by viewing the picture which is running around in someone's camera.
We somehow make it to the pool deck in time for midnight BBQ buffet, complete with full, roasted pigs (either that or they were alive with great tans) that are trotted out with apples in their mouths and curly-cue tails. "I gotta try me some of that," I proclaim. I'm full, but my stomach says let's try it anyway, plus some ribs and fish and potato salad. I have one of Royal Caribbean's minions slice me off a piece of pig skin and I bon apetit it. The meat is tasty and moist, and the skin tastes how one would imagine skin to taste, chewy and tough.
And as I'm powering down a midnight snack of ribs, pig, fish and some unidentified delicasies something Brett mentions throughout the trip echoes in my head: "I worked too hard to reach my goal weight."
My reply: "Yeah, I worked too hard to not eat and drink my way through this vacation."
My stomach and liver echoes that sentiment.
We powered down a quick breakfast at the buffet - well, as quick as one can buffet which still takes approximately 15 minutes. I kissed Wife good bye, told her I loved her, and if I didn't return sell my baseball cards and porn collections to pay to have my ashes spread over Dodger Stadium.
Vallarta Adventures, a top notch company I assume, summon the "jeep" driver (their term, not mine) to collect their latest batch of suckers - 14 of us believed the online blurb about this being a safe experience and no mention of the trip actually ending at a Mexican prison work camp. The driver arrives, Pacifico bottles trailing behind him I'm guessing so that he can find his way back to the "jeep," and loads us onto our chariot. Before seeing our transportation, we were told that this was an air-conditioned all-terrain Mercedes. When we saw it we realized the only part that was true was it was a vehicle, and even that was debateable.
The back is in the open air and we sit side-by-side, seven-by-seven, on two long cushioned benches (thank God for small favors, my ass would have been unhappy if it was face to face with wood for the one hour drive). He tootles through Puerta Vallarta, grinding gears into a fine powder with each shift, following the highway into the jungle. "Prison camp," "prison camp,""prison camp," echoes in my head and the voice sounds like Morgan Freeman. But this won't be no Shawshank Prison, oh no, hell no, this will be pound you in the ass prison. Where they were taking us, I was sure the cockroaches would make me their bitch.
We're deep in the countryside now. Little mom and pop general stores no bigger than my tool shed act as sign posts, heading dirt roads that serve dozens of one-room homes. At some points, a mother and her kids (I presume) would sit road side selling anything and everything. Wal-Mart and Target are missing a great opportunity by not employing the same idea. Both sweat shop giants would clean up if they had some yocal on the corner of the main drag hocking garden tools and bath towels.
Mexican life away from the big cities intrigued me and my eyes were trained on the landscape. Jungle mixed with farms and endless roads piqued my curiosity with every turn. That was, until we drove by the prison. A concrete monstrosity in the middle of the jungle with a dozen guard towers, maybe more. I lost count as fear took over my mind. I considered leaping from Pacifico Paco's wild ride, but I didn't want to end up in back-jungle Mexico where a weathered old grandma would kidnap my frail ass, keep me in a cage and pull me out only to cut her toe nails every few days. Weighing the options, I stayed, accepting my fate.
My spirits lifted, however, when Paco passed the prison and I realized I was being a dumb gringo who had watched too many American movies about Mexico. We rolled along and I enjoyed the glimpse into Mexico's soul.
We were greeted at the site by a donkey wearing a safety helmet. It made me laugh - the helmet had ear holes cut out for the burro - until I spied it's title on the brain bucket: HEAD GUIDE. Oh crap! I knew these back-jungle Mexico outfits were shady.
They shove us into our harness gear, which made my package appear as if there was more there than just extra bubble wrap to protect the small jewels inside. If I walked around college with this gear on chicks would have jumped my junk more readily.
Alberto, who seems to be the head monkey (that's what they call themselves so save your hate mail) in charge, herds us over to an open area with a pine benches - something tells me the wood used for the benches is not native to the area - where we get a vaudeville act starring our guides: Alberto, Mattias, Javiar, Tony, Neomi and Amaury. The guides play off each other with fine comic skills during introductions and the safety drill, which I'm sure is part of the job so that us death defiers don't freak ourselves out. They do a great job, because any fear someone may have had was diffused through humor. That's not to say we didn't have our share of American-made chickens on this zip-lining adventure; the guides can only do so much.
It took the first zip across the jungle to get my adrenaline pumping. The trees and jungle floor whiz by in fast forward while I hang by two pulleys and a safety line, both paws in heavily layered leather gloves and one hand on the safety and the other acting as the break on the rope above my head. The wind slaps at my cheeks and rides through my shirt, and each second I'm smiling like a kid given wings to soar of his roof. The first line is tree to tree but the ground meets you at both points. The next line, however, sticks you half way up a tree (90 feet, check out the map along the right side of the site to get an idea) with only a matchbox-sized platform to walk along with only a frayed strap keeping me from somersaulting down five stories and messing up the jungle's ecosystem.
"How did you like that, monkey?" Javiar asked me. It was a frequent question from the guides. I think my smile told them all they needed to know.
We cruise through some mid-size zips, the jungle a blur of green and earth before arriving at the fastest line and second longest run of the tour - "Big Mamma."
"To get seven years of good luck, you must shout 'Big Mamma' all the way," Tony said. "If you don't, you'll probably hit a tree on the next one."
Talk about a hard sell. I need all the luck I can get so I belt out "big mammas" like I'm shouting for help from a passing rescue boat. Those crazy guides at Vallarta Adventures weren't just blowing smoke up my rear about the luck thing. When we returned the Chargers just swept the season series from the Denver Broncos (something they hadn't done in 24 years), the Los Angeles Dodgers signed a stud pitcher away from the Northern Bastards, and the cats haven't pooped on my pillow since our return. With that kind of luck, the Powerball folks may as well give me the $130-something million it's pushing right now.
We finish "Big Mamma" and are now directed to walk - WALK- along a suspension bridge made out of what looks like milk crates tethered between the branches of two trees. The distance was maybe 90 feet across, but it might as well have been two miles. I paid good, drinking dough to zip above the jungle floor, not walk. Not only that, the guides want us to "shake it" at the halfway point. Ah ha! Something I know a little about. I get to the middle and start the strip tease. Working the shirt up to the hoots of the parrots and the mosquito's clapping until realizing the "safety" harness hindered any more strip teasing. Since Chris was following me, he was likely thankful not to see more.
Two more average-lengthed zips takes us to what became my highlight of the excursion - the Tarzan Swing. When I read about the swing, I imagined a heavy-grade rope that we grasped and swung through the jungle. I was set to give it the Tarzan yell. But when I saw what exactly the Tarzan Swing was, yelling was going to be extremely difficult.
The Tarzan Swing was another zip line that didn't require us monkeys to hold on for breaking (so we don't slam into another monkey, which I did earlier in the day. Like Ricky Bobby says in "Talladega Nights" I like to go fast, what can I say), instead we just sail along thanks to the guides shove. So Tony, who looks like Mexican version of The Undertaker but smaller and with a better tan, lifts up one woman a few turns ahead of mer, and asks how many tequilas does she want to feel like she had?
"10!" Tony laughs, yells down to Javiar who was catching us monkeys at the end of the swing - if they need someone catching folks you know things could get hairy - lifts up this lady to his shoulder and spins her like a dradle. She spirals to the landing pad and spins to a stop, unhitching from the swing and walking like I was after Manolo's Jack and Coke mixtures the first night on the ship.
Finally, my turn comes up and Tony asks me the question I was now preparing for.
"Give me what you got," I say. Famous last words. Hope the life insurance is paid up, dear.
Tony laughs from the belly, which was not a good sign. "He wants it with chili! OK, monkey, get your knees up by your ears."
That's just not something you don't want to hear from anyone, anytime, but I follow the directions and Tony cradles me like I'm his new born monkey (this wouldn't be weird if we were in the prison I passed on the drive up). Next thing I know, the world is a hyper-active kaleidascope of greens and browns. I think I see Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man spin by. My eyes, I was sure, stopped spinning with the rest of the body and just looked at back of my skull. They got tired spinning and wanted a break, I guess.
And then - THUD - I stop hard thanks to Javiar and Mattias. But everything hasn't stopped. Slow spins circle through the inside of my head and I try to walk straight which left me going in circles until I could grab hold of the railing leading to the next zip line. Fortunately, the railing wasn't spinning.
Because the guides are sadistic monkey abusers, they make us hike up a hill after the Tarzan Swing for the tour's longest run - "Big Daddy." The Monkey guides hook me up, explain that I must shout "Big Papa, Big Daddy, Baked Potato (I think the latter was supposed to be Big Potato, but at the time a baked potato sounded good. I reminded myself to find one at the buffet when we returned) and sent me on way. The end of the run was hidden by tree branches and once I zipped past them I understood why this was called Big Daddy. The run went endlessly and below was a river and waterfall pacing our path with each passing foot of rope.
Since I made this last run a sight-seeing trip, I toodled along a bit slower than 10 other runs and I ended up about five short of the landing platform. At the beginning, they put the fear of God in us monkeys, explaining that if we were short of the platform they'd leave us there, dangling, until a giant eagle snatched us up with it's beak to feed to its baby eaglets. I was done for. The guide saved me, however, by telling me to turn my back to the platform and pull myself along. That's when I realized I had been eating eight hours a day for five straight days. My arms looked at my ass, which just shrugged as if to say, "sorry dudes, but that sixth lox and cream cheese bagel yesterday hit the spot." It took me five minutes to traverse the final five feet to the platform.
Our final job was to rapell 120 feet down off the tree, and taking one look through the milk crate platform, 120 feet resembled the distance between the Earth to the Moon. Two ropes tied to the tree's trunk and dribbled over the side to a pair of designated catchers - our guides. They were two specks in a sea of brown divots that I only assumed were monkeys who either a) let go of the rope, or b) the catchers dropped.
Throughout this adventure I hadn't been afraid. The zipping was awesome, standing on a platform a hundred feet up didn't spook me and traversing suspension bridges was a hoot. Rapelling a 120 feet, however, was a whole other game. The guides gave us a quick tutorial on rapelling - something about using your fingers to brake and holding the rope behind you so you didn't leave an ink spot on the jungle floor - and then they shoved you off the plaform.
I dangle, screaming my head off just waiting for a giant eagle swoop in on my gonads, before I remember something about holding the rope and using my fingers to brake. Lo and behold, that shit worked. And to think I thought the monkey guides were just talking out their ass again. I stop screaming and coast to the floor into the arms of Alberto who assures me it's all over, i'm safe, on the ground and littering the jungle with smashed body parts.
While Chris and I were heaving ourselves through the jungle, and Angela, Jerry and her units were caravaning to a tequila plantation, Ben and Brett did a little Mojito recon mission in town and found the place to go for the best "elixer of the gods" in town. They informed Wife that this was the joint in town for knock-your-hair back mojitos, who in turn passed the info to excursionists. We wash behind our ears, scrub our sacks and don our Vallarta wear for an evening on the town, hitching a ride to drink "the best mojitos in town."
La Bodeguita del Medio is a two-story, dark hole-in-the-wall Cuban joint along the main strand facing the Puerto Vallarta beach. They sit us upstairs, out of the way. I'm guessing they'd heard about our group before hand and figured we'd cause the least amount of trouble if they shove us into the front corner of the upstairs patio. Being troublemakers works out for us, however, as we have an unfettered view of the strand and the beach. The benches, tables and wood posts are covered in multi-colored crayon phrases, names and symbols. It's the kind of place I dig, but Wife would never allow us to step foot into for fear of Montezuma's Revenge attacking our bowels with just one whiff of the joint's kitchen. With the glowing recommendation from Ben and Brett, however, she braves it.
My Spanish is comprised of two sayings: Uno mas cerveza, por favor, and Donde esta el bano, por favor?. After our trip to La Bodeguita, I can confidently add a new phrase to my gringo vocabulary: Dos para uno Mojito, por favor (I'm nothing if not polite). We work the waitress over for the two-for-one deal Ben and Brett nailed earlier, who finally gives in and hooks the table up with 16 mojitos, two per person. There's enough fresh mint sprigs in each glass to plant our own mint patch at home and enough "light" rum to make us all feel like we've been on the Tarzan swing, not with chili.
Because I'll eat just about anything, anywhere, I couldn't pass up La Bod's cervice. While most of the table were pansies and went with the shrimp cocktail, I had to be different and ordered the cervice. It was chalk full of shrimp, lettuce and cilantro mixed with some jalapenos and mild habaneros. With the mojitos working as a pain supressant, I shovel in a couple of quick bites before my mouth becomes a boiler room incerator and I can set fire to the Mexican jungle in a single breathe. It appears, cilantro, jalapenos and "mild" habaneros are the necessary ingredients for dragon fire breathe. That doesn't stop me, though.
"How is it honey?" Wife says.
"Good," I say, and after the smoke clears I see Angela smothering Wife's face with a damp cloth to slow the 3rd-degree burns my breathe just caused. I'd say it was good, but taste buds were singed to nubs, so it's only guess.
Jerry and I glance at each other and you our mind-reading skills to determine we both need more Mojitos. "Dos para unos," slowly becomes "Doths spara unosh" by the fourth round.
As we walk/stumble/wobbly-leg our way out of La Bod, we learn another new word - buracha. That's Wife, folks, buracha. She leans, sways, stumbles and hangs on to gain her balance with each step. We take great pleasure in this and wish we'd brought a camera to digitize this event.
After tequila shots at the dock because it will be our last cheap drink until we hit L.A. in two days, we head over to Angela and Jerry's room for Crown Royals and ice teas. It's here, in this room a click or two away from the ship's engines that I get tabbed the "Dirty Dog," by Sugar. I'm not sure how I landed this monnicker, but the Florez family thought it fit me well.
With Wife laying on her side, prone, on the floor, I figure that was as good a time to mount up as any. Flash bulbs pop as I make like Benji on an outstretched leg. If you ask nicely, I'm sure you can get feed your dirty little appetite by viewing the picture which is running around in someone's camera.
We somehow make it to the pool deck in time for midnight BBQ buffet, complete with full, roasted pigs (either that or they were alive with great tans) that are trotted out with apples in their mouths and curly-cue tails. "I gotta try me some of that," I proclaim. I'm full, but my stomach says let's try it anyway, plus some ribs and fish and potato salad. I have one of Royal Caribbean's minions slice me off a piece of pig skin and I bon apetit it. The meat is tasty and moist, and the skin tastes how one would imagine skin to taste, chewy and tough.
And as I'm powering down a midnight snack of ribs, pig, fish and some unidentified delicasies something Brett mentions throughout the trip echoes in my head: "I worked too hard to reach my goal weight."
My reply: "Yeah, I worked too hard to not eat and drink my way through this vacation."
My stomach and liver echoes that sentiment.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Pirates life is for me - Day 4 - What a Quest
For all two of you who are hooked to my ramblings, I promised and now I'm delivering, here is Day 4 of our trip.
After a few days wondering where certain party members may be on this floating Holiday Inn, we learned how to use the on-ship phones. Angela and Jerry woke our sleepy little heads with a worthwhile idea - check out lovely (I use the word loosely - kind of like say "gee, that hooker looks good) Mazatlan on an air-conditioned bus. They make sure us Americans know the bus is air conditioned because, evidently, the Mexican Tourism Authority believes us gringos will melt while watching the folklorico show. Just in case, they fed us free beer at the show just to keep us hydrated. Wife and I got squirrel poop when we did a similar tour through Yosemite a few years ago. The United States Tourism Authority could take some lessons from our friends down south.
I'm getting ahead of myself. For a party of nine, meeting for activities went remarkably easy except for in Mazatlan. We were to meet Angela and Jerry and Juan and Sugar on the dock before boarding the busses. Of course, we were a little slow (I had to evacuate three buffets over two days. Understand?) and made it to the dock only to find Juan and Sugar. No Angela and Jerry. Apparently, Frau Farbissina from "Austin Powers" was Angela and Jerry's driver and herded them onto the bus like a bunch of cattle, something that frightens me about Mexico because I'm sure there are "excursions" that take some of us hostages to the prison work camps. They screamed that there were more coming - us and Angela's units - but Frau yelled quiet, smacked them each in the head with a ruler and literally threw them on the bus.
With Angela and Jerry on the prison camp bus, that left us with Andres the van driver. While the bus was confined to big streets, Andres gave us the scenic tour through the city's heart. We saw a fish market that sold shrimp as big as a pony, lobsters that could take my winky off with one snap and other assorted "seafood" catches that I'm sure ended up as our appetizers and dinner that night on the ship. He snaked down a side street to show us richly green trees that, when in the right season, are filled with monarch butterflies. And later, Andres cruised through "his neighborhood," a rich, gated community that looked like Santa's vacation home with most of the palatial houses dressed up for the fat toy peddler's visit in a few weeks. Meanwhile, three blocks up from this community, residents fight to feed their families and keep the roof over their heads from crumbling to dust. It was a hard juxtaposition to swallow (yes, I like the word juxtaposition and no, I don't know if it actually fits here).
Thanks to the free hydration elixir - they call it Tecate and it tasted oddly like beer - I didn't pay much attention to the show's story. But when four dudes dressed in old-school traditional Mexican digs strapped themselves to windmill that sat 20 or 30 feet off the ground and spun like they were in a hurricane wind I was mesmerized. Later in the show, that same bunch (six of them, 1 of which looked on the wrong side of 80 years old) climbed a pole that I swore reached the same castle Jack found at the top of the beanstalk. They piled on to a perch no bigger than a barstool seat, tied up their feet and spun down around the pole. I thought it was an oddball way of bungy jumping, but no, these loco caballeros practice this shit. I would imagine it would take one guy missing the knot and splatting by the hydration tent to end practice, but I'm sure they don't tell you that when you're applying for a folklorico job.
Finished Mazatlan off on the ship sitting by the pool, sipping tequilas (I ordered tequila sunrises, but I guess the sun wasn't coming up at the bar since all I got was tequila shooters with cherries and a hint of orange coloring in fancy tall glasses). Since that was sloshing around in my guts, I couldn't wait for dinner, where, for the first time on the trip, the buffet king (so dubbed by Jerry) chose just one entree. I had the appetizer and soup, though, so they wouldn't take away my crown. And since Wife refuses to broil up some tasty lamb shankes at the Compound, I had to get my fill here. So, for a second night, Mary's lamb rested comfortably on my plate.
We ate like the ship was sinking because we wanted to get good seats for the "Quest" game. Every cruise Web site we read beforehand said this wasn't too be missed. They were right. We settle in near the front and grab a team number from the cheesy cruise schmuck - Brooklyn Dodger Duke Snider's #4, what an omen.
Here is a quick tutorial for the Quest-challenged folks in the crowd. Cheesy Cruise Schmuck will ask for an item and everyone must race to him with said thingy. Understand? Are you ready to play?
We gathered in a team of nine, making room for our new best friend Liz who, along with Ben shared team MVP honors afterward. First, we needed any item in our pockets plus the cruise newsletter. We would have been sunk had it not been for the Wonderful Liz, who just said she kept the newsletter with her to find another activity if the Quest blew lamb-basted chunks, like another free liquor tasting or a How to Paint by Numbers seminar (yes, they keep you active as the ship's hostage). And if Ben had the number turned the right way, facing Cheesy Cruies Schmuck so he can shout out it for the all-important points, we would have scored big. We gave Ben a quick tutorial on how the number card works and we were rolled after that.
Next, he needed black teeth. Hello trusty black comb (Wife figured that one out) I use to spread hair over the bald spot on the top of my odd-shaped dome. Some gamers weren't so bright, however. One gal stuffed a dude's black sock in her mouth and tried to pass that off for the points. Denied! Another lady took a Sharpee Black Marker to her front choppers and marked them up. Denied! We were a tough bunch. There ain't enough alcohol in Phoenix to get me to stuff a used sock in my cake hole, and unless I'm getting an autograph from Salma Hayek after she let me nibble on her ear lobe there's no way I'd take a marker to my teeth.
This next item, a guy wearing chick's shoes, should have really clued us in on the rest of the game. Anyway, Wife had donned the heels with multi-colored buttons over the toes, which really worked for Ben's ensemble. One of Wife's best friends, he goes about 6'5, and Wife runs out at 5'6. You do the shoe-size math. Ben gives it a go, shuffling like a little kid in mommy's shoes, and nails us some solid points. And no broken ankles in the process.
But that game fed into the next item up for grabs, men's socks on women's hands. Wife puts her paws out to Ben who whips his heels off and then his socks to afix them on Wife's awaiting, two-day old manicured hands.
Another sign of things to come, CCS wanted a man wearing women's lipstick. Ben (he really was our MVP) puckers up and Liz goes to town with lickity-split ease. Ben hurdles the group in front of us and shows off our #4 to earn us top 5 points (by this point, I'm sure the point system is a load of fish turds).
I'm a lazy sod. I hate tying my shoes, so I knot the laces in doubles including my dress shoes. I never thought they would be my undoing. But when CCS asks for "shoelaces not in a shoe," I'm going at my shoe knots like I was trying to escape from kidnappers with my hands bound. It was Jerry, however, who stepped up, unlacing his shoes, grabbing the number, showing the right way, and nailing us another few points. There must have been a large group from a hard-of-hearing school because several teams thought CCS said, "Shoelaces knot in a shoe." Some teams ran up there with the whole shoe and we happily denied their points because we're mean bastards and whatever trinket was at the end of this Quest, it was ours.
Michael, not me, was then brought into the spotlight. During the week, he'd stop anyone to tell them what was happening on the pool deck or talk about his Philadelphia Eagles. He's a "special" person. CCS asks him to come center stage and then instructs all the female team members to walk up and kiss Michael's bald head. Angela took this job and tongue-smooched his shiny dome. What a trooper.
I rarely, if ever, wear a belt. But since this night was casual dining and I didn't want to wear dressy pants, I spruced up my Levis with my black belt. It was fate, because the CCS wanted three men's belts. I whisked that sucker out of the loops like it was gagging my waist and we nailed 1st place points on this shot. That's right, I feel a free cruise coming on because we were going to take this game down. The prize had to be a free cruise. Right?
Next up were two dudes' shirts. Before I can look left and right, Brett is fullbacking his way through drunk cruiser/hostages with his and Chris' shirts. That's right, another 1st place for the little team that could.
Then came 3 men's pants. I don't know how they did it, but Ben and Brett were out of theirs as if there was a fire on board and they needed the jeans to put out the flames. Needing a 3rd pair, and Jerry struggling with his, Ben and Brett took a hold of each pant leg and yanked, leaving Jerry grasping the chair arms so he wasn't dragged up to the stage as well. Ben raced to the stage sans pants , which were covering his goods. That effort also landed us a numero uno. But that wasn't the story. One guy, for whatever reason, ran up there nearly butt naked, using his teammates pants to hide his junk that peaked out from behind mesh - MESH - underwear. Who wears mesh underwear? Who makes mesh underwear? What's the purpose of mesh underwear? Why he didn't just take along 2 pairs of pants and then point to his own trousers was a question we'd ask later of ourselves. Another woman gave the packed Enchanted Evening Lounge crowd a quick show, snaking through the crowd to the stage in skimpy underwear toting 3 pairs of pants for her squad. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own stinging peepers (I saw too much of the naked-bottomed guy to see straight).
To make the ladies feel at home, and because the CCS was either perverted or just couldn't land his own hotties, he asked for three ladies' bras. It just so happened that's the number in our group. Wife and Angela wiggle out of theirs with practiced ease, but it takes Liz a tad longer. I guess it's been a while for the lady who looked like my 3rd-grade teacher.
Finally, to finish the game off, we had to dress up one guy like a woman in two-and-a-half minutes. Our MVP stepped forward, and the three ladies went to town. A little rouge here, some lipstick there, Wife's shirt (Ben gave up his so she could sit there covered up. I married a real team player folks) tied up like Daisy Duke, pantless, and presto Ben is a hot chick with short hair a 5 o'clock shadow and sideburns. He raced on stage and participated in Royal Caribbean's drag queen parade. He danced with one gentleman who saw it fit to dip our good friend and MVP and sang along to Diana Ross and the Village People, because when you think drag queens you think the Village People.
CCS and Hyper Bingo Lady tally the points and start with the bronze medalists, we aren't in that group. Next came the silvers, and again no team 4. Then complete glory as our number is the first called for top glory (to be fair, they were calling the gold medalists up in numerical order, but hey we were still 1st called, so in our book we were Number 1). I thought, Hell yeah, here comes that free caribbean cruise or at the very least free booze for the rest of our hostage stay. But no, instead we get cool gold medals that are so much better than a stinking free cruise or free alcohol for the rest of the trip.
We totally scored.
After a few days wondering where certain party members may be on this floating Holiday Inn, we learned how to use the on-ship phones. Angela and Jerry woke our sleepy little heads with a worthwhile idea - check out lovely (I use the word loosely - kind of like say "gee, that hooker looks good) Mazatlan on an air-conditioned bus. They make sure us Americans know the bus is air conditioned because, evidently, the Mexican Tourism Authority believes us gringos will melt while watching the folklorico show. Just in case, they fed us free beer at the show just to keep us hydrated. Wife and I got squirrel poop when we did a similar tour through Yosemite a few years ago. The United States Tourism Authority could take some lessons from our friends down south.
I'm getting ahead of myself. For a party of nine, meeting for activities went remarkably easy except for in Mazatlan. We were to meet Angela and Jerry and Juan and Sugar on the dock before boarding the busses. Of course, we were a little slow (I had to evacuate three buffets over two days. Understand?) and made it to the dock only to find Juan and Sugar. No Angela and Jerry. Apparently, Frau Farbissina from "Austin Powers" was Angela and Jerry's driver and herded them onto the bus like a bunch of cattle, something that frightens me about Mexico because I'm sure there are "excursions" that take some of us hostages to the prison work camps. They screamed that there were more coming - us and Angela's units - but Frau yelled quiet, smacked them each in the head with a ruler and literally threw them on the bus.
With Angela and Jerry on the prison camp bus, that left us with Andres the van driver. While the bus was confined to big streets, Andres gave us the scenic tour through the city's heart. We saw a fish market that sold shrimp as big as a pony, lobsters that could take my winky off with one snap and other assorted "seafood" catches that I'm sure ended up as our appetizers and dinner that night on the ship. He snaked down a side street to show us richly green trees that, when in the right season, are filled with monarch butterflies. And later, Andres cruised through "his neighborhood," a rich, gated community that looked like Santa's vacation home with most of the palatial houses dressed up for the fat toy peddler's visit in a few weeks. Meanwhile, three blocks up from this community, residents fight to feed their families and keep the roof over their heads from crumbling to dust. It was a hard juxtaposition to swallow (yes, I like the word juxtaposition and no, I don't know if it actually fits here).
Thanks to the free hydration elixir - they call it Tecate and it tasted oddly like beer - I didn't pay much attention to the show's story. But when four dudes dressed in old-school traditional Mexican digs strapped themselves to windmill that sat 20 or 30 feet off the ground and spun like they were in a hurricane wind I was mesmerized. Later in the show, that same bunch (six of them, 1 of which looked on the wrong side of 80 years old) climbed a pole that I swore reached the same castle Jack found at the top of the beanstalk. They piled on to a perch no bigger than a barstool seat, tied up their feet and spun down around the pole. I thought it was an oddball way of bungy jumping, but no, these loco caballeros practice this shit. I would imagine it would take one guy missing the knot and splatting by the hydration tent to end practice, but I'm sure they don't tell you that when you're applying for a folklorico job.
Finished Mazatlan off on the ship sitting by the pool, sipping tequilas (I ordered tequila sunrises, but I guess the sun wasn't coming up at the bar since all I got was tequila shooters with cherries and a hint of orange coloring in fancy tall glasses). Since that was sloshing around in my guts, I couldn't wait for dinner, where, for the first time on the trip, the buffet king (so dubbed by Jerry) chose just one entree. I had the appetizer and soup, though, so they wouldn't take away my crown. And since Wife refuses to broil up some tasty lamb shankes at the Compound, I had to get my fill here. So, for a second night, Mary's lamb rested comfortably on my plate.
We ate like the ship was sinking because we wanted to get good seats for the "Quest" game. Every cruise Web site we read beforehand said this wasn't too be missed. They were right. We settle in near the front and grab a team number from the cheesy cruise schmuck - Brooklyn Dodger Duke Snider's #4, what an omen.
Here is a quick tutorial for the Quest-challenged folks in the crowd. Cheesy Cruise Schmuck will ask for an item and everyone must race to him with said thingy. Understand? Are you ready to play?
We gathered in a team of nine, making room for our new best friend Liz who, along with Ben shared team MVP honors afterward. First, we needed any item in our pockets plus the cruise newsletter. We would have been sunk had it not been for the Wonderful Liz, who just said she kept the newsletter with her to find another activity if the Quest blew lamb-basted chunks, like another free liquor tasting or a How to Paint by Numbers seminar (yes, they keep you active as the ship's hostage). And if Ben had the number turned the right way, facing Cheesy Cruies Schmuck so he can shout out it for the all-important points, we would have scored big. We gave Ben a quick tutorial on how the number card works and we were rolled after that.
Next, he needed black teeth. Hello trusty black comb (Wife figured that one out) I use to spread hair over the bald spot on the top of my odd-shaped dome. Some gamers weren't so bright, however. One gal stuffed a dude's black sock in her mouth and tried to pass that off for the points. Denied! Another lady took a Sharpee Black Marker to her front choppers and marked them up. Denied! We were a tough bunch. There ain't enough alcohol in Phoenix to get me to stuff a used sock in my cake hole, and unless I'm getting an autograph from Salma Hayek after she let me nibble on her ear lobe there's no way I'd take a marker to my teeth.
This next item, a guy wearing chick's shoes, should have really clued us in on the rest of the game. Anyway, Wife had donned the heels with multi-colored buttons over the toes, which really worked for Ben's ensemble. One of Wife's best friends, he goes about 6'5, and Wife runs out at 5'6. You do the shoe-size math. Ben gives it a go, shuffling like a little kid in mommy's shoes, and nails us some solid points. And no broken ankles in the process.
But that game fed into the next item up for grabs, men's socks on women's hands. Wife puts her paws out to Ben who whips his heels off and then his socks to afix them on Wife's awaiting, two-day old manicured hands.
Another sign of things to come, CCS wanted a man wearing women's lipstick. Ben (he really was our MVP) puckers up and Liz goes to town with lickity-split ease. Ben hurdles the group in front of us and shows off our #4 to earn us top 5 points (by this point, I'm sure the point system is a load of fish turds).
I'm a lazy sod. I hate tying my shoes, so I knot the laces in doubles including my dress shoes. I never thought they would be my undoing. But when CCS asks for "shoelaces not in a shoe," I'm going at my shoe knots like I was trying to escape from kidnappers with my hands bound. It was Jerry, however, who stepped up, unlacing his shoes, grabbing the number, showing the right way, and nailing us another few points. There must have been a large group from a hard-of-hearing school because several teams thought CCS said, "Shoelaces knot in a shoe." Some teams ran up there with the whole shoe and we happily denied their points because we're mean bastards and whatever trinket was at the end of this Quest, it was ours.
Michael, not me, was then brought into the spotlight. During the week, he'd stop anyone to tell them what was happening on the pool deck or talk about his Philadelphia Eagles. He's a "special" person. CCS asks him to come center stage and then instructs all the female team members to walk up and kiss Michael's bald head. Angela took this job and tongue-smooched his shiny dome. What a trooper.
I rarely, if ever, wear a belt. But since this night was casual dining and I didn't want to wear dressy pants, I spruced up my Levis with my black belt. It was fate, because the CCS wanted three men's belts. I whisked that sucker out of the loops like it was gagging my waist and we nailed 1st place points on this shot. That's right, I feel a free cruise coming on because we were going to take this game down. The prize had to be a free cruise. Right?
Next up were two dudes' shirts. Before I can look left and right, Brett is fullbacking his way through drunk cruiser/hostages with his and Chris' shirts. That's right, another 1st place for the little team that could.
Then came 3 men's pants. I don't know how they did it, but Ben and Brett were out of theirs as if there was a fire on board and they needed the jeans to put out the flames. Needing a 3rd pair, and Jerry struggling with his, Ben and Brett took a hold of each pant leg and yanked, leaving Jerry grasping the chair arms so he wasn't dragged up to the stage as well. Ben raced to the stage sans pants , which were covering his goods. That effort also landed us a numero uno. But that wasn't the story. One guy, for whatever reason, ran up there nearly butt naked, using his teammates pants to hide his junk that peaked out from behind mesh - MESH - underwear. Who wears mesh underwear? Who makes mesh underwear? What's the purpose of mesh underwear? Why he didn't just take along 2 pairs of pants and then point to his own trousers was a question we'd ask later of ourselves. Another woman gave the packed Enchanted Evening Lounge crowd a quick show, snaking through the crowd to the stage in skimpy underwear toting 3 pairs of pants for her squad. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own stinging peepers (I saw too much of the naked-bottomed guy to see straight).
To make the ladies feel at home, and because the CCS was either perverted or just couldn't land his own hotties, he asked for three ladies' bras. It just so happened that's the number in our group. Wife and Angela wiggle out of theirs with practiced ease, but it takes Liz a tad longer. I guess it's been a while for the lady who looked like my 3rd-grade teacher.
Finally, to finish the game off, we had to dress up one guy like a woman in two-and-a-half minutes. Our MVP stepped forward, and the three ladies went to town. A little rouge here, some lipstick there, Wife's shirt (Ben gave up his so she could sit there covered up. I married a real team player folks) tied up like Daisy Duke, pantless, and presto Ben is a hot chick with short hair a 5 o'clock shadow and sideburns. He raced on stage and participated in Royal Caribbean's drag queen parade. He danced with one gentleman who saw it fit to dip our good friend and MVP and sang along to Diana Ross and the Village People, because when you think drag queens you think the Village People.
CCS and Hyper Bingo Lady tally the points and start with the bronze medalists, we aren't in that group. Next came the silvers, and again no team 4. Then complete glory as our number is the first called for top glory (to be fair, they were calling the gold medalists up in numerical order, but hey we were still 1st called, so in our book we were Number 1). I thought, Hell yeah, here comes that free caribbean cruise or at the very least free booze for the rest of our hostage stay. But no, instead we get cool gold medals that are so much better than a stinking free cruise or free alcohol for the rest of the trip.
We totally scored.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
I'm still here
In case you're fretting over whether I've stopped updating, rest your pretty little heads. I'm here and planning on filling y'all in on Day 4 of "Melissas Do (it on) the Pacific 2006." Cue the excuse music: It's been a whirlwind few weeks and I need to catch my breathe tonight. After Disneyland a little more than a week ago, we had our anual Charger game tailgate over New Year's Eve (I can say, I didn't remember my name at the end of the evening. Opening the bar at 830 a.m. with a Newcastle Beer will do that to a guy). Anyway, I'm still catching up from Sunday and Monday, and just need another evening to recharge the batteries. Expect a new insert tomorrow, I promise. I'll be back bigger, stronger and ornerier than ever before. If not, you can egg my neighbor's house (the one to the south, not the north because she feeds me spaghetti when Wife is out).
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