Ring, ring. Hello?

There's no fooling a sweet, honest, greesy-haired techie who's just diagnosed your ailing cell phone. You might as well try telling a 40-year-cop-turned-neuro-psychologist that you've never had lustful thoughts or acted upon them.

"Well, your phone's circuits have been fried, and it appears that someone has tampered with your cell phone. Are you sure it hasn't been exposed to a city-block-sized vat of sticky, citrus consistency-based beverage, as well as some evil-intentioned intruder who tried to mop it up?"

Me: "Uh...er... perhaps a tiny droplet of... er orange juice... uh... dropped within its reach...and, er.. maybe someone very similar to myself in appearance slipped in through the open screen window downstairs to try and dry it out... ah, man! I've divulged too much!"

"Well...," (dramatic flat-lining image drowns out all WiFi connections in a 3 block radius) "there's nothing I can do for it now. Please see the Salesman for an absurdly over-priced new phone, or consult eBay and Craigslist for a better deal."

And away the all-knowlegeable, late-teen doctor goes...

Luckily, I'm still feeling happy today.

I mean..., it's hard to feel down when you've spent the week doing awesome things like visiting Seattle's Coolest Science Museum (the best fun, interactive displays and exhibits ever!), The Inner-Geek-Invoking Science Fiction Museum (c'mon, am I the only one who grew up loving Bradbury, Ursela K. LeGuin, Heinlein, Douglas Adams, Harlan Ellison, Orwell, Arthur C. Clark, Shelly, & Jules Verne??!) , Summerfest (if your boyfriend's an artist, never take him to an art fair unless you're ready to spend hours reading and writing about Chaos and Funny Feynman while he sketches and creates...) as well as lots of coffee shops, used-book stores, and a couple of job interviews. Overall..., very good stuff!

I'm loving Seattle!

P.S. Anyone have an old cell phone with a verizon serial number they want to toss my way?

Juice the improbable

It's not an easy thing to do.
Not just anyone can do it the first time they try.
Really, it takes a bit of dexterous flair, a certain tactical finesse, and a few servings of cosmic luck.

But, miraculously, I managed it.

I successfully tossed my cell phone from my inflatable mattress into a narrow-mouthed glass of orange juice.

I instinctually, unintentionally and exactly calculated the weight and velocity of my flying communication devise, while taking into account gravitational and morning-wind-through-the-window variables to successfully perform this act.
What a miracle to accomplish such a grand feat purely by accident! Just imagine the ego-tickling pride and self-reaffirming dignity I must be feeling right now! Such inspirational and self-glorifying accomplishments don't come every day, you know.

Well..., perhaps it was for the best... Mister E suggested that it was my subconscious’s only way of chewing through the leash; its only way of liberating its free spirit from the confining whips of lovers, prospective employers, family and those ever-pesky good friends.

I, on the other hand, just can't help but be amused by the ever-outstanding preciseness of the universe's random exactness.

I mean..., how many other times in my life have I arbitrarily tossed an object, only for it to fall safely onto a stack of books, a carpet or a pine-needled floor? What are the odds that my projectile should land directly in a glass of citrus sweetness, complete with home-style pulp?!

Anyway, it’s occurrences like this that re-instill my momma’s-milk faith in the Great Winged Platypus and her crafty plans for us all.

(P.S. If you’re still finding that your questions about life, existence, meaning (and why arbitrary objects land in orange juice) are not being satisfactorily answered…, I’d be happy to send you further info on the religious teachings of the Great Platy-Pussy).

First "Hmmm....s"

I, once, semi-accidentally walked into a "Snack Bar" in Japan and, upon immediate observation of the chatty, paid girls in fabric-lacking tops and hemmed-to-the-hyena-howl skirts, I drew my impressions of what the establishment embodied.
I thought it had to be another pay-for-company escort service-based business, marketing to high-paid, lonely (most-probably-married) salary men. I thought it was just another 'please-the-Money-with-prospects-of-pussy' kind of place.
But then, after many an evening, I finally met the owners, got to know them, their kids and their grandchildren, and eventually realised that there was far more to the business than just that...
The family wasn't making money off of simply night-capping pine cones...; they were making green bills off of--

...well, honestly, I still don't know...

But.., my point is that you can never know fully what is going on in a certain place based solely on your initial, intuitive responses.

First impressions should seldom be relied upon to accurately reflect what will come to exemplify the way you will know a place over time.

BUT..., they (1st impressions) can certainly illustrate significant milestones in evolving perceptions...
So..., before I forget what reflex-like responses Seattle has inspired in me, I present:

My First Impressions of Seattle (... First REgressions to come later...):

1)Damn, there are a lot of white people here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm white too:))

2)Wow, it's outstandingly beautiful here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm outstandingly beautiful too)

3)Man, everyone and their dog's pet-sitter's hampster has a tattoo. (*disclaimer: no, I have not yet artistically branded myself)

4)Since when does a single split second of the sun peaking out from behind the clouds constitute a heat wave? (*disclaimer: I'm used to having scalding, near-fatal, humid temperatures help ignite my barbeque)

5)Green, good. Trees, good. Parks with winding trails, very good. (*Disclaimer: unecessarry)

6)Wow, people are pretty relaxed here-- As mentioned in the previous post, they lack the bundles of splintery chopsticks up the butt found in so many other modern Arsch-concaves of modern metropolises ( ... or is it metropoli? metropoloose?--Anyway, *disclaimer: again, unecessarry)

7)People really covet their coffee here. (*disclaimer: I've coffeed a coveter before, but... that's not something I advertise on the internet...hahr.hahr.)

8)Public transportation is pretty good in this city (*disclaimer: not always. Yesterday, our awesome, environmentally-friendly, veggie-run bus broke down on us. Mister E said that's what happens when you let Maize run the maze. I'm still not so condemning yet, though...)

9)This is an awesome location, beautiful environment, good people

(*disclaimer: but, damn!, there are a lot of white people...).

----Far more impressions and experiences of Seattle to come soon. ----

(*Current News: inflatable mattress-residing, bus-pass-toting, museum ticket-reusing, used book store leach on the loose in the Pacific northwest tries a local pale ale and demonstrates-- charades-style-- how hoppy she thinks the brew is.)

The Nice Price

I've always been skeptical of those probing psychological quizzes used to shallowly diagnose personalities (I mean, who doesn't consider themselves caring and kind? ... and, who doesn't see albino guinnea pigs in pink laederhosen and Hendrix headbands playing badminton in 90% of inkblots these days?)

But, if a bored psych intern threatened to psycho-babble me to sleep if I didn't make a list of adjectives that best describe me, 'friendly' and 'outgoing' would probably make the top 15 (nestled, of course, among 'introspective', 'shy', 'creatively aberrational (read slightly demented)', and 'excessively silly (as in, a well-phrased bodilly function joke can excite my wet-my-pants giggle reflex just as easilly as a geniusly-timed sarcastic and intelligent remark can'...)).

But, I, like, way digress...

I speak now of 'friendly' and 'outgoing' qualities because I had always considered these to be great attributes worthy of more wide-spread demonstration among members of the human race (and among certain members of the animal and insect kingdoms as well-- I mean, why can't wasps be more like their social butterfly counterparts, and grizzlies more like their friendly Yogi bear brothers?).

But, now I'm starting to wonder if the qualities of kindness and amicability are not a tad bit over-rated. In fact, I'm starting to think that these characteristics are highly suspicious.

It's just that I'm not used to so much 'niceness'.
Unlike L.A., Seattle seems to be boiling with benevolence and extreme cordiality. Everyone seems to be a little nicer, a little more open, and a little less suffering-from-a-thorny-barbeque-skewer-up-their-ass.

Half of the time it's really wonderful to be talked to as a human being by strangers, engaged in light-hearted conversation at the bus stop, and treated with a bit of respect and humanity.
The other half of the time, though, I find myself questioning the motives of such unfettered kindness. Who does this guy think he is, asking about my first pet dog when all I want is a coffee? Why is this lady arbitrarilly asking my boyfriend what color m&m's he likes best? Does she want to bake him some fancy brownies? Or ascertain what color bottons to decorate our effigies with?

I dunno... I suppose I'm joking. I suppose I value openness and friendliness more than I'll admit, and I suppose a little extra random kindness in the world really isn't such a terrifying thing...

But, one thing I'm certain of is that anyone soliciting my feelings on the day's temperature and amount of cloud-cover must be up to something. Most likely they're involved in some super-secret, sociological and meteorological recconnaissance mission aimed at annexing the planet and securing domination over all of our manufactured robots, Hello Kitty dolls and Elvis impersonators...

As usual, people, this is no joke. I don't make this stuff up.

Where the Wobblies were

So, it’s afternoon here in the south of California, and I’m feeling euphoric excitement cut with anxiousness.

The streets are lit orange.
Road-sauteed skunk is in the air.
Russian neighbors are talking grammatically-altered baby-speak to my brother’s dog, fire engines are battling regurgitated free-styles in Spanish, an original coal-fueled, model train is being ignited in the driveway next door, mid-modification-revving engines are groaning twilight attempts at breath along my street,
and I’m…

well…, I’m trying to digest the fact that myself and Mister E. are on our way to Seattle Washington in less than 24 hours with only a few backpacks, some love, a coupla bottled cliches and no plans.

I guess it shouldn’t be all that new or scary…

Afterall, I’ve done tougher things. I’ve lived and worked in countries where I didn’t speak the language; places where they fed me things like guinea pig and horse sashimi and bowed profusely at me while I did my grocery shopping. I’ve worked with inmates in Ecuadorian jails, swapped gambling leads with sun-baked seven year olds at a kick-boxing match in Thailand, dodged zapoteco pick-up lines in the back of a flat-bed and tried to order a black coffee in Starbucks without getting laughed at…

I should be able to handle a simple move.

…especially to such a beautiful place that Tom Robbins had this to say about:

“I’m here for the rust and the mildew, for webbed feet and twin peaks, spotted owls and obscene clams (…), blackberries and public art (…), for the rituals of the potlatch and the espresso cart, for bridges that are always pratfalling into the water and ferries that keep ramming the dock. I’m here because the Wobblies used to be here, and sometimes in Pioneer Square you can still find bright-eyed old anarchists singing their moldering ballads of camaraderie and revolt. I’m here because someone once called Seattle “the hideout capital of the U.S.A.,” a distant outpost of a town where generations of the nation’s failed, fed-up, and felonious have come to disappear. Long before Seattle was “America’s Athens”, it was America’s Timbuktu.”

Yup, it definitely sounds like my kind of place! …Webbed feet, “moldering ballads,” Wobblies and failed, fed-up felons. Ooh la LA! Come to me, Seattle!

Don't sneeze on the food

I once met someone with an outstandingly unique sense of smell. He could smell a smuggler swallowing sacks of hash in the medina of Chef-chauan Morroco from his VW in Van Nuys. He could smell bow resin residue on the hallucinating retinas of a relapsing exchange student practicing her violin in Vienna. He could smell burnt eyelashes on an ex-rocking, re-located Brit fourteen blocks away and..., ten Miller Light bottles down the bar, he could smell an aspiring actress menstruating into white-tailed cotton.

(... needless to say..., his ability to smell dirty money landed him a job designing ventriloquist dummies for entertainment caterers at various financial advisor-thrown parties, and his inability to keep his mouth shut regarding his nasal capabilities got him a fat lip and a few tampon-tinted teeth from a drunk "extra" who went on to play "princess" in a couple of Paramount productions...)

But, anyway...

He's not the only one around to have such an extraordinary "sense" that physically drives and emotionally tortures him. He's not the only one who feels his sacred gifts are giving him knee jives to the sacred joo-joo...

For, I too, have a special Sense. Yes, it's true-- I, too, feel the inflammatory pangs of my semi-scientific talent, crow-barring at the rust-crusted metaphoric nails of my cranium and pin-striping my pedant-envying purity.

Yes..., I've got a "sense" too...

It's an uncanny ability to spot people mid-plot; a pseudo-scientific nose for catching ordinary folk involved in underhanded conspiracies and cover-ups...

And, it was whispering through napkins to me today as I had lunch with my grandparents at their favorite All-you-can-eat buffet in Orange County....

This forth dimension-transgressing "sense" of mine said to me: "The senior citizens are up to something here. There's something fishy going on by the baked salmon buffet."

I mean, how else could you explain such secure cognizance of Monday-only potato dishes, Thursday-specific cobbler knowledge, and the busgirl's Green Card family specifics? How else could you explain the common, local nodding at the old woman who picked up each and every piece of silverware only to replace it before returning to her seat to symbolically wash a single fork in her water glass? Or, the couple who mysteriously stuffed four bulky napkins into two pockets and snuck out the back door when they realized the enchiladas were finished? Or, the conspiratorial, constituent-based firing of the cashier who stole tip money, ignored senior citizen discounts, had no relatives and couldn't count back change? It looks to me like Pinochet's potholder-knitting regime is back in full force.

And, I don't think I'm the only one who could tell something was up. Anyone could see by looking at these seniors that they were plotting something in that Home Town Buffet... Maybe a counter culture-esque romance novel revival, an elaborate comfort-food media diversion, a strangle assassination using prescription pill-chrocheted twine, an undermining eco-terroristic explosion of state-supplied oxygen tanks...

Well, whatever it was..., it was clearly something dangerous.

I could just sense it. Those grandmas had something scandalous up their sleeves.

So, just a bit of advise: Be careful, aware, and have a closer look at the elderly in your own neighborhood. The lady down the street who talks to stuffed, pink kittens might just be the ringleader of the International achy bone virus-smuggling Cartel. And, just how do you think Old Mister Polyester-in-Suspenders actually gets his tomato plants to be so impossibly healthy and fertile?

He's got secrets international intelligence agencies don't, that's how.

*Disclaimer: I am, in no way, asserting that everyone over the ripe age of 35 is involved in nefarious dealings; only that we have to be cautious.

My name's "Big Buckaroolahs"

Him: Hi, my name is "Head Supervising Specialist at So-and-So-we-beat-the-Dot-Com-Crash-and-went-on-to-make-Super-Sized-Straws Productions".

Me: Well... uh... hi. Nice to meet you...

Him: Did you meet my friend, "Top Marketing Executive for We-spit-on-your-spleen-Jocoby Spyers and Lyers"?

Me: ...er... no, not yet..., but he sounds... er... nice.

Him: And, this is his friend, " I-make-Big-Bucks-and-Live-Alone-by-my-Asian-Stone-Pool-with-Babbling-Creek-and-Jakuzzi".

Me: ... why... er... I suppose the pleasure is mine!

Now..., maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's because I'm in southern California. But..., it seems that the replacement of Self and Personal Character by Job Title is a tad bit obscure and unnecessary.
I mean..., since when do we need a new rim job on our zero-to-seventy bum to present our attributes and quirkishly divine qualities??

Personally, I can't remember a time when I met an outstandingly clever and witty conversationalist who prefaced his intelligence, puns and sociability with: "And, just to be clear: I'm Directing Designer for the nation-wide Dung Displays at Wallmart"...

But..., then again..., maybe that's just me....

Maybe I'm falsely accustomed to meeting grounded folk who don't find it necessary to smother their social attributes with job-title toppings...
Maybe I've been unnaturally lucky enough to know people who prefer to sprinkle their lives with humour and honesty rather than drenching their doodles with pretense and masks of check-paid corporate titles... Maybe, in my cheesy world of travel, I have seen only those who notice (now..., I hate to trickle cliches, but...) "the bigger picture".

Or maybe..., I'm just jealous.

... because, afterall..., I can't say I'm the Director of "Digression Dissemination" at Starbuck's multi-motleyed Monopoly.

quite yet...

Work that pole, baby!

OK, think of that sexy, young, nubile beauty you run into at the post office, sending an intriguing package to a far-off land, or that devilish, cute and witty sweetheart in front of the local supermarket, working her night job:... there she goes, dancing around and caressing the pole, working it like a pro, stealing a sexy glance over a few bills tucked in her panties...

Well... that is precisely what I was NOT doing all of yesterday...

I actually spent the day, working the polls... the primary election polls in the U.S.

Instead of widening my lower lips, I was opening the registered voters List book. Instead of sliding up and down the metal poll, I was instructing voters to slide their ballot into the Inka-Voting machine. Instead of receiving scum-infused numbers, I was accepting ballots.

And, it was quite fun, actually!

But...., after fifteen hours of voting instruction and ballot accepting...

... well, it was a bit disheartening to find that only 10% of my precinct's registered voters actually showed up to exercise their rights...

The most inspiring moment of the experience, though, came when the 1st grade class of the local elementary school came to visit. The students asked such questions as: "Can my grandma put our ballot in THAT box?" and "Where can my big brother tell the president to do good things?"

Well...., overall, I wish the conscientious seven-year-olds of the world could vote....

... and..., I wonder what would happen if they were to end up 'working the poles' in another capacity...

Feelin' groovy

Yeah, alright...
I'm only slightly chagrined to admit that we were THAT car for 2144 miles across New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado...

You know the car...

It's the one that drives 60mph along the highway where the posted speed limit is 75mph.

It's the one you pass in the open desert, assuming it's manned by a senile, old, achy-boned, just-joined-the-marijuana-club-when-he-turned-87-at-his-optomotrist's-recommendation great grandfather (who swears he left his combat compass next to his keys under the sports section beside the dart board)...

It's that car that inspires your imagination; that car that forces you to concoct absurd explanations (like Alien-Invoked Right Ankle Movement Syndrome (ARAMS) and Too Cool for Time Disease (TCT))... just to explain the sluggard speed at which this otherwise able-engined vehicle with high fuel-emisions potential decides to travel...

But, actually, we were just cruising at the devil's speed to keep the gas consumption down, check out some of the views and smile, knowing that our contribution to atmospheric destruction would be penned by our campfires and by too many angry souls rushing to get places they didn't want to be...

--And..., we were actually quite lucky that we were driving livke waddling penguins who had already fed their young when the first and second tires expressed their frustrated exasperation about inflated life...

AAnd... again, when a fanged, apparently aggressive rubbermaid trashcan attacked our mobile haven of illegally-downloaded mix cds without warning--...

Maybe, we could all benefit by stopping to smell the cockroaches and defecation in our fast-food Meal Deals before devouring them...
Maybe, we could all hand an extended moment of breathing and sheer 'experiencing' in between our snapped photos and 'important appointments'...

And, maybe... (now I'm plunging into controversy), our current administration could do worse than re-inforcing those old gas-saving speed limit laws, pursuing advertisement of our well-researched alternative sustainable energy sources, and enforcing a few "chill-out and remember to enjoy and appreciate life" campaigns.

But... I contradict myself:

What's the hurry, anyway?

Wrenchin' the Monkey

So there we were.
Cruisin' down the highway into Durango, suckin' on the straw of mountain heat scents, illegally entertaining our expired poetic licenses with country and western tunes on the radio

(“I'm a goin' where the green grass grows,
gonna watch my corn pop up in rows,
yes, I'm a goin' back to my trailer park ho's”)

when suddenly…

PTANG!! Pppssssshhhhhhhh…..

And, just like that, we had an exhausted rear tire, as saggy and wilted as Aunt Gemima's tit after a lifetime of offering sugary syrup sucks for US$2.49 a pop.

And, it struck me once again, how integral the occasional chimpanzee wrench tossed impetuously into life's working machinery is to a healthy human psyche.
I mean…, it's all pretty pansies and cute panda babies as long as the gears are greased and running smooth as Guinness down the throat…

But…., c'mon, that's just plain Jiffy and jelly on white! (no-not simple, quick and tasty…, but rather, BORING).
I, for one, think that any soul claiming total satisfaction without the occasional mosquito bite in the matrix, renegade cockroach in the milkshake or passport in the pocket during the rinse cycle, is no more trustworthy than a nun who doesn't masturbate.

But, alright, fine… maybe I'm being a bit extreme… maybe I'm more of a sucker for conflict than most… maybe, I just love to see the milk spilt and the cookie jar broken…

But…, I think that deep down in that itsy bitsy, teeny tiny little electron-sized hole hidden under the little left toe nail of everyone, there's a screaming itsy bitsy teeny tiny little sprite that demands chaos and corrosion in the supporting beams of our lives.
There's a piece of us all that secretly hopes that the mailman will mistakenly deliver the neighbor's porn subscription to our mailbox…, that one day all the world's sewage systems will get blocked up and result in the first shit-works display of the era…, that the world wide web will suddenly and inexplicably go down…, that the cd will start skipping so we can make some of our own music…, that the actress will forget her lines so we can see a real show…, that we'll get so lost on our way to the supermarket that we have to sleep in a field, join a doily-crochetting workshop, eat grasshopper soup for nourishment and rely on the directional sense of nomadic livestock to find our ways home…

Anyway…, all this sputtering of silliness aside…,

The flat tire was a pretty benign, soggy little toothpick in the machinery.

But, if experience wears any paisley scarves of precedence, there're a few mini wrenches and a party set of cutlery waiting around the next bend…

And I can't wait!!

Rock on!

You know you've successfully slipped on the skates and cruised out of L.A. when the hum of alienation and social solitude ceases to harmonize with the traffic of the 405 freeway..., when the Song of the police Sirens sinks into the religious ravings of breadbasket broadcasts..., and when the local newspaper's criminal reports feature a stolen trash can and a goat who got his head stuck in the fence...

Yup, I've again left California for a road trip out to beautiful Colorado, where time is slower, afternoons more poetic and the Rockies rock!

...will try to get a few posts in should an internet connection be blown in on a fresh thunderstorm breeze...

Hasta pronto!

Infidelity and Neptune

So, I've been accused of having an affair.

I've been accused of breaching the loyalties of love and engaging in lustful acts of impious passion and peccant pleasure...
I stand at the discerning conversational gates of Judgement for alleged crimes of boyfriend betrayal and two-timing treachery...

And, well..., what better place to come clean than here in the privacy of my very own www-dot blogging Eden...?
So, here it is...

Yes, it's true.

I have been disloyal.

I have coveted, mentally disrobed, and even quite non-figuratively caressed the supple seams of another's bodice. I have allowed myself to be soaked by the saturating fluids of another, and to feel the expulsions of another's ecstasy on my stomach, just below the belly button. I have plunged, hands first, into emotional exchange with another, back-stroked through waves of desire, and even floated swimmingly in his arms, discussing the intricacies of subjective art and the humility of human existence...

(Hell, we even discussed the roles of self-adhesive stamps, aphids, out-sourced customer service lines and jigsaw puzzles as they pertain to jingoism!)

So..., who was this enchanting seductor whose riptide gallantness dragged me to drift so disloyally from my entrusted love?

... well..., since this is my very-private, well-sequestered, secret, online journal...., I suppose I can reveal his name without violent repercussion...

His name is Poseidon.
And, well, he's quite the looker.
He's got deep, bottomless eyes that change from mailbox blue to toothpaste turquoise in the crash of a wave.
He's got strong. smooth hands that can go from playful ass-slapping to gentle embracing with the blink of the moon.
He wears the rising sun on his shoulder like a price on his bar-code.
And, though he's been known to carry a syringe or two in his pocket, has been accused of aiding and abetting a few narcotic cargo-loaders, and has transported a few weapons in his day, he's quite the catch.
He's more fluid in dialogue than anyone I've ever met, can carry conversation like a ship... (and can sink it with the same ease...)
He's well-traveled; has seen the paper-shredding scandals of the great Barrier Reef, played thumb wars with the discarded Inca Cola bottles on the shores of Ecuador, played hot-potato shoe-toss in Koh Pan Yang, and heard billions of footprint fables from around the globe.
He's strong, confident, and has even been offered prayers worth families (not dollars) in his name!

But, still..., it's true...., I feel pillaging remorse for my infidelity in this case...

Maybe I shouldn't have plunged so nakedly and thoughtlessly into the embrace of such a dodgy, one-timing bachelor of the tide...

Maybe I should have thought twice before allowing such a Casanova to nova all my cash...

But, c'mon...! Who HASN'T had wet dreams about sharing an afternoon or evening with a god who has historically received human sacrifices in his name and who has seen the planet through so many geologic and atmospheric transformations??

Who HASN'T had a fantastical vacation affair with the Ocean??

I don't know...
But, at least I can now tell my grandchildren I once had a one-night stand with a bloke who had hermit crabs in his wallet and kelp in his armpit hair...

And.... THAT's gotta be worth something someday....

Snail-Mail letter

To whom it may concern,

I am writing in regards to the recent shocking and disconcerting decline in acceptable processing of corporal, -c-collected data. It has come to my attention that a few of the devilish little vagabonds in charge of receiving, processing and transmitting information that enters -c´s body have been renigging on their responsibilities, and have been under-performing in their most basic duties.

Over the past week alone, a stunning amount of information has been in-putted for translation, and yet nothing has been properly processed or decoded.

This is, quite simply, an outrage, and I am writing now to demand long-neglected results.

Please dijest, internally and emotionally analyze, and enzymatically break down the following data without delay,
or all contracts will be voided upon the hour:

1 homicidal bus driver, plunging into Chiapan curves as gunshots cough from a skipping dvd of a Chinese revenge film
2 instances of giggles over crude, breaching-on-impeity-and-heresy sketches of Sor Juana masterbating with a vibrator and toe-sucking monks sporting halos
3 quizical gringo "What?s" when bodilly symptoms pharmeceutically perscribed either Gatorade or Dramomine
4 double takes when the used, sun-scorched condom on the hotel windowsill was discovered (... a true cultural and historic icon with profound anthropological stories to tell...)
5 camouflaged gasps of fear when we descended an 80 degree-angled, dodgy latter into a subterranean, fresh-water sink hole
6 Bloody Mary´s said for having entertained band-name inspirations when gazing upon portraits of the crusifiction in the central cathedral
7 "Oh man!" moans of simultaneous relief and disgust at having liquidly evacuated many a meal
and
8 physiological coctails of response when we were stared at by that severed bull´s head; his eyeballs alligned perfectly with all those gooey internal organ adornments

Yes, I write this letter now, requesting that you offer your utmost attention to the deciphering and processing of these bits of input. As a staunch supporter of the categorization of the chaos that often slithers into Our -C, I ask that you now help us to regain a few slivers of order to the otherwise unsightly mess of sloppy excitement, wonder, and naive awe that have recently blanketted formerly relied-upon cynicism and jadedness.

I thank you for your time and patience, and look forward to working wih you in the future,

Sincerely,

-C´s Reaper and Keeper

**Edit/Addition: Check out Mr. E´s take on our idyllic busride into Chiapas here.

Of lude loudness and musical Mexico

There are lots of things I love about Mexico... like marketplace bargaining, sodas in plastic bags, live wires dangling from power lines, exposed septic tanks, sing-song medicinal herb vender spiels, and that ever-exciting possibility of discovering the Mother of Jesus over a stool-saturated toilet bowl or on a billboard advertising beer...

One of the things I love most about Mexico, though, is that it is anything but a quiet country. It´s a land of loud cacaphony blaring music, whining washing machines, sporadic whistle-blowing, horn-honking, bell-ringing, engine-revving, silverware-clanking, laughter and voices, baby cries, loudspeaker announcements, plastic bag rearrangements, tin roof improvisations, radio static, guitar greetings, poundings, hammerings, sweepings, window slammings, pipe-creakings, bus gear changes, children´s screams and distant tele novelas resounding...

It´s kind of like if you were to take a large aluminum box, fill it with some bells, marbles, beaded hair ties, mescal, broken pipes, ping pong balls, rusty nails, keys, coins, trumpet players, glass shards, religious regalia, competitive yoddlers, a few live kittens, and then shake the box vigorously for twenty four hours... then,... you MIGHT just get the first few notes of Mexico´s aria...

BUT..., it´s not just the incessant sounds and noises that make this country so magically and endearingly loud.

Actually..., EVERYTHING here is loud.

The people are loud with sincerity, the laughter loud, the outlook on life- loud. The scents and textures and tastes of Mexico are loud, and... even the ocean, the jungle and the vacant desert winds are loud.

One glance down a small pueblo street where the houses are painted bright pink, puke green, magenta, unhealthy pee yellow, construction orange and brilliant blue, and you´ll see that even the colors here bravely scream loudness.

Hell..., even the priestly little parasites that the country passes on to its foriegn visitors can be pretty loud, noise-needy nerds when they´re on the job.

Yup. There´s nothing that quite hollers ¨welcome to Mexico!¨ like waking up four or give times in the night to competing radios playing oompah banda music, a passing truck broadcasting Miguel´s Carniceria propoganda, and Mister E in the bathroom; his rear end fissuring vivacious lava flow and humming a bubbly Mexican song og love, sorrow and loss...

Ahh... yes... the sounds of Aztlan....!

Chichen Itza

Mayan glyphs that mirror Chinese kanji in their pictorial, phonetic and poetic translations hammer my sun-smeared retinas,
as dusty plumes swath my scallion-unlike Saquatch toes.
I watch a boy chisel a wooden mask; his powerful hands those of an old-souled carpenter with forty years of practice.
I paint a memory, reach out to hold a hand, and smile a little when I think of how nothing and everything is never and always changing.
At least I know that when I get back to town, I can expect only that which I don´t expect, and that those Mayan glyphs will read differently in my absence.
I can only fantasize... but.., maybe, just maybe... that glyph that we thought meant ¨corn¨now means ¨porn¨ and that famous Mayan symbol for ¨zero¨now signifies ¨Pepsi¨

Notes from la floja roja

Imagine here an extensive post, buttered in rich description and sand-covered stories of beachy adventures. Imagine here humid tales of midnight skinny dips, sexual affairs with Poseidon, sweating caguamas, Mayan spirits, scorpions in bed, hippy treehouse-like abodes, colored pencil sketches, stream-o-consciousness musings, psychadelically-colored fish, water-through snorkel inhaling, moon-watched laughter, chicken taco hospitality, flip-flop fantasies, the wisdom of a Don Juan, late-night philosophizing, and a little bit of perfect entropy.

Yup. Imagine all that...
plus a few more nuggets of marvelous absurdity and... well, you´d have the post I WOULD have written if I had longer than 4 minutes of time remaining on this computer...

Overall, the postcard version of this blogpost is:

Having a great time in Mexico! The weather is gorgeous, the characters inspiring, and the food delicious. It´s fun to be back in a place where time occassionally trips and falls into potholes, conversations spiral sincerely into silliness and being is just..well... being. I´ll bring you all back the souveniers you requested, plus maybe a pig wearing a sombrero or a nice stray dog with a hobo rucksack and a hammock.
Wish you were here!

Bloated Heads and Hide-n-seek

Sometimes it feels like life is just missing a little something... like if you could only get your hands on some formless clay or a black bean burrito, everything would just miraculously slide into its destined place.

Well, for me right now, I feel like all I need are a few enormous, over-sized Olmec heads in my life.
Well... those, a few ruins, some stunning coastline, a touch of stomach upset, a pinch of the Unknown, and a good serving of some inspiring company.

Yup. You guessed it. My travel bugs are nipping at those tender places between my toes again, and rather than squashing them between two graham crackers with chocolate (c'mon- you've never heard of toasted travel mite s'mores before?!), I'm going to heed their nagging nibbles.

My Mystery Man (we'll just call him Mister E.) and myself are leaving tomorrow morning for a month in Mexico.

Though my posts might be a bit sporadic in the coming weeks, expect their quality to directly reflect the number of chickens I breast feed on the bus, the quantity of shoe-shine proposals I receive, and the pile-up of linguistic lip-clenchers I invoke...

Ready or not, Yucatan, here I come!

Whore-o-scope

For all you's whores out there, I know life is tough. It's hard to tell what surprises the day's clientele might bring, and what sticky situations might explosively shock you.

So..., I've come up with a One-size-fits-all (no pun intended) horoscope to alleviate the time-consuming and energy-draining process of remembering your own birthday, identifying your astrological sign, and finding your daily prophesy in the cum-damp pages of the newspaper.

Today's Whoroscope:

The sun and moon are at odds today. Tread carefully. Beware of impious pimps, for greed is colliding with the moons of pussy-prospect, and blue-balls are rising in the green-back orbit. Be careful today with f**ked-up fantasy-fulfillment assignments and suck-sational sensations. Dire Desperates are on the rise. Question urgency today, and stability and excitement will follow.

...hmmm...

...well..., despite my seemingly insightful visions of working-girl destinies...,

I've never really been one for blind astrological faith. I tend to see the characters of the zodiac more as indicators of civilization's mentality in a historical context rather than as landmarks in a grand cosmic fate.
But... who am I to say?

Afterall..., maybe it's just a newly-packaged, alternatively-marketed case of old Greeky Cassandra (who was blessed with the ability to fortell the future, but cursed by the fact that no one would ever believe her...)

I DO know, though, that if I am to prescribe to some of the horoscopes I read for myself today, I can expect a few marital quibbles between the sun and the moon, expect Saturn to no longer move backwards, expect my "fizzle to turn to sizzle", look forward to a bit of specifically-ambiguous change, and expect my "wacky humor to lighten up some awkward situations".

Ahh, hell... where do I sign up? Today's as good a day as any to become a converted Believer!

... Maybe an orbit's not just an orbit, and Saturn CAN move backwards...!

Hey, afterall, even a skeptic can't help but believe that a little fizzle might transform into some sizzle, and that undoing someone's meteor belt today might just mean prosperity tomorrow!

(further whore-o-scopes to follow...)

Love Lunacy and the S.O.B.

Believe me. I've still got enough taco fixings to make a combination plate, my migration path still leads me around - not over- the cuckoo's nest, and my levies are not yet leaking philosophical fantasies to Wilson the volleyball...

But, yes, I'm sharing an expectation-expounded moment of over-the-top, thesbianesque therapy with a sweetly-fragranced orange blossom.

And, I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

(... actually, I wanted to Tchaikovsky-style blogesize about a local lad named Leslie who tried to woo me away from my artist love - who was pretending to be a Croation patriot - .... T'woulda been a touching tale of a gallant, lost soul, pawning plumbing skills for rip-tide loneliness redemption in front of the neighborhood internet gaming abyss as fake foreign accents crescendoed, and humour was drowned in soul-scabbing empathy...
BUT..., instead I find myself sitting on the porch, chatting about love with a fruit flower...)

Scented Orange Blossom (S.O.B.): -c, you are acting unnaturally silly, grinning at guileless absurdities, devouring potty praise, laughing and lactating with arguably immature fluency... What's up with you? Did you swallow a peyote button with your pad thai or a sprig of dandelion with your wine?

-c: No, no, my dear scented orange blossom, I'm merely hosting a tea party for Senor Happiness, sharing Argentinian mate with Honeymoon Harry and skipping a little rope with Simion Smiles-a-lot (you know..., the neglected knight of the round table who was written out of King Arthur's court after committing not-so-noble acts with the celebratory feast's poultry products.)

S.O.B.: I see. But, -c, are you quite certain you've not let a few marbles trickle out through the cranial drain?

-c: No, I assure you- I'm as sane as a Twinkie-defensing, infant pteradactile murderess before trial.

S.O.B.: Then..., why are you Cheshire-cat interfacing with a fallen orange blossom?

-c: Hmmph... What would a bile-less bloom like yourself know about LOVE anyway?!

Man... I wish I would have read the fine print when signing up for this Cliche Love Gym...

I mean, who in their right mind would agree to a contract that read:
"I invite everyone to question my sanity. And, I agree to take full legal and emotional responsibility for any possible, incurred conversations with verbose citrus casks??!

C'mon- anyone who did that would just be finger-plucking ass-ininity!

(... we here at Up the Creek are currently experiencing technological tributaries due to aberrational planetary allignment and mis-stacked Leggos... but, we promise to return to regular programming as quickly as possible. Please be patient!)

Pancho does Sweet Sixteen

When I was sixteen, I went to live in Germany as an exchange student. I lived with a German family, attended a German school, partied with German kids, ate German food, and had no buffers in my first language aside from evenings spent reading Don Quixote, pretending to be a teenage knight-ress errant (I was the rational companion, faithfully advising my cohort about the potential dangers of those menacing windmills-- afterall..., it doesn't take a space shuttle door-crafting scientist to know that a breeze-borrowing machine of that stature is capable of devouring a cactus and three infants while challenging a tempest to a game of checkers!).

Oddly, though, my most potent and soul-stranglingly influential memory of the experience was...
not the time I rode a tandem bicycle into a creek as my friend and I illustrated the symptoms of the Jaegermeister Curse via fragranced, throat-catapulted projectile displays...
nor was it when I got lost in the countryside, broke bread with an old woman who made me rake leaves in exchange for directions...,
or, when I failed every subject but got the highest score in math (the only subject that required no language abilities)...

It was, in fact, the initial plane ride over there.

I can still taste the vivid excitement/fear brew that tickled my pubescent chemical make-up...; that frightened-shitless-of-the-unknown-but-furiously-excited jolt of existence-recognition that I've come to love and embrace.

And, that's how I'm feeling today...: that same Oh-No!Oh-Yes! sentiment that likes to take you by the hand and point out, again, your mortality and the invigorating brilliance of this peanut-shell-onion-layered-Mexican-bean-dancing Spark that is life...

-c, what is this cliche poetic babble you're toying with?, you might be asking...

Well, a super special someone is coming home tomorrow from Japan, and I couldn't be more scared... and ecstatic!!
(Up the Creek old-timers might remember him from last August's post about obnoxious couples in the Japanese public eye..)

But, hey!, lots would give up their tax returns to feel sixteen and headed for a foreign land again!

I, on the other hand, got lucky...

All it took was a few minutes in the waiting room, and a professional business meeting...

(What can I say? Loki just isn't as busy these days...)