Come on...

...whaddya say? Let's just take off. You and me, just like we used to talk about. We could finally find that cozy little B&B somewhere on the coast of Maine, something with a lighthouse overlooking the ocean. You know, on the coast. Way up above a bunch of waves crashing around on the rocks and barnacles with seagulls flying around. A place where you and I could just get away from it all, and finally find the time to do all the things we've both been itching to do all these years, but never could get around to actually doing, you know? Like "Shovington Fur!?" Shit, remember "Shovington Fur?" My novella I've been meaning to crank out forever about the solar-powered men's club restaurant kiosk. Remember? Whatever. You could do stuff, too. You could grow out your nails. Hang out with fishermen and collect shells. Make coffee in the afternoons. Maybe we could knit some wool dogs to keep us company. Keep a tank full of giant lobsters next to our bed. Play some kind of game in the lighthouse on the weekends. I don't really know what kind of game it could be, just the two of us and all, but it doesn't matter, does it? It'd just be a stupid little game. It doesn't have to be anything big like a theater production. It could just be something fun where I hide in the lighthouse somewhere, maybe on the steps, and you could sneak around like a cranky old police officer. Or, fuck it, you could hide and I could run up and down the stairs in my underwear. Jesus, I don't know. We could just goof around and have fun and just laugh. Huh? How's that sound? Just the two of us, living out our fantasies. It's not so crazy, is it? I'm not crazy, am I?

My Halloween Costume

Pretty cool, huh? I just ordered it from this cool Chinese website. That's me in my new full-body middle-aged Midwestern woman outfit that comes complete an airbrushed Sarah Palin t-shirt. It's got microscopic holes in the double chin where I can receive my nutrients and a roomy compartment in the ass for a self-contained cooling system. It can also sharpen pencils with the pussy.

Which One's The Real PIcture Of Backwoods Bigotry?

It's hard to tell in these heady times. I haven't posted for a while, and it's because I can't tear myself away from watching every gloriously insane second of this year's presidential race.

But who gives a crap about me? There's a mystery to solve here. Can you help me figure out which of these homemade billboards is really sitting on the side of the road in West Plains, Missouri? Can you?





Thanks to Ideas By Chuck!

Evangelical Toddler Just As Disturbing As Adult Evangelicals!

Holy holy Jesus Christ. What the fuck have we done to ourselves? You died for our sins (supposedly), and we--the deeply flawed human race--in turn, have created an utterly horrific mockery of it all. Apparently, it's not enough for some of us to pack together in large, crowded buildings and subject ourselves to the lunatic rantings of some self-adorned idiot interpreter of your gospels. No, now that duty has fallen onto the shoulders of those self-adorned idiots' children. And the result is positively satanic. I defy any of you to watch this and not want to punt this sermon-sponge into St. Peter's merely for his own sake. For humanity's sake. I defy you!!

I Found This...

...here in Atlanta. It was just sitting on the side of the road in Edgewood along with a bunch of trash. I couldn't believe it, either. A perfectly good and legally binding "contrack" for a "mind blowing orgasm" on 3/4 of a crumpled paper plate--just tossed aside like so much garbage. Waste not, want not, indeed. 

No Reality TV For Me (Or Christin)

That's because we were...

(booming echo sound fades out)

Yes, if you haven't heard, apparently neither I nor my girlfriend are good enough, smart enough or badass enough to make it as contestants on a reality TV show that's coming out this fall. It's called ESTATE OF PANIC and it's being produced for the Sci-Fi network by the same guys who did Fear Factor and Wipe Out. And just by writing that, I've probably opened myself up to a million dollar lawsuit for breaking the non-disclosure agreements we signed.

But I don't give a Nielsen rating shit break. Because I want the truth out there. And that is, they...um...didn't pick us. That's it, really. Long story short: we were loafing around in Los Angeles when our friend Becky forwarded us the info about the open casting call. We sent an email or two, and before we knew, we were driving to downtown Burbank to go interview with the casting people. Both Christin and I took our turn in front of a camera and a couple of interviewers, filled out some paperwork and that was it. They saaaaaaid "they'd call us!!!" They saaaaaaaid "they loved us!!!" They saaaaaaaaaid "You can leave now." But apparently, that's all Hollywood-ese for "please, go fuck yourself and disappear back into a strip mall somewhere far, far away." 

I know what you're thinking: "Ben, why on earth would you want to be on a reality show?" And believe you me, we axed ourselves the same question. But the answer is clear in this case: a free trip to Argentina. That's where they're filming this thang. And apparently, they wanted contestants who very competitive and very much afraid of insects. From what we could glean, they were going to stick people in some spooky "estate" and subject them to a bunch of spooky stuff, namely bugs. And if you couldn't already tell, they really are big on the bug thing. Huge. They wanted people who would shit their pants at the sight of a cockroach. Being the type of person who's completely unable to bullshit in this kind of situation, I told them that my biggest fear was not insects, but was actually guns. Idiots with guns, to be precise. And that's true. 

In fact, I kind of love insects. We took care of one this summer. Actually, his name is Bug. And I made a pretty picture of him. The folks at Sci-Fi will just have to get by with this...

There's Plenty Of Room At The Hotel Next To The Hotel California

Thank goodness for that. Because prices have gone up at the infamous den of iniquity ever since the Eagles suffered from heroin constipation there back in the 70's. 

Yes, there actually is a Hotel California. I know: "Ugh." I too had always hoped it was just wacky drug metaphor Don Henley came up. But, turns out, it's real and located here in this little seaside town Christin and I are currently visiting called Todos Santos. See?

Now, I checked with several of the patrons there this morning, and despite what the lyrics of the song say, "you can check out anytime you want" AND you can leave. I noticed several American tourists coming and going of their own volition, and there were no "steely knives" stopping them or anything. 

So, that's good. But, like I said, it's a bit costly to get a room there. So, we just opted for its less glamorous neighbor...

A Mexican Shit Volcano!

I apologize in advance for the graphic nature of this post, but we actually had to live through it, so bear with me.

So, here we are in sunny Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, right at the very most southern tip of the Baja peninsula. So far, it's been OK. Beats working. But then again, maybe it doesn't.

Because this morning, there we were sleeping in, listening to the rain come down when we were suddenly disturbed by an ominous sound. The toilet in our hotel room began to gurgle. "What is that?" Christin asked. "I don't know" I replied. It sounded like a frog trying to make its way up through the plumming. Gurgle, gurgle. "What is that smell?!" Christin asked. "Oh my God," I said as I shot up to check things out. That's when I saw that the entire ceramic-tiled floor was covered in a quarter-inch of shit water. And there stood the culprit:



Holy fucking Mexican shit volcano, right?!?! How disgusting is that? Why the fuck am I sharing pictures of it? Why, just because I have a blog, do I feel compelled to publish pictures of a Mexican toilet overflowing?! I have NO IDEA!!!

Apparently, the deluge of morning rain had completely sabotaged the hotel's septic system, causing its entire contents to come pouring, spouting and cascading out of our bathroom. Naturally, I did what any sane person would do: I took my seat beside the thrown and gently supped on that juicy nectar, filling my belly full of its hearty goodness until I too became a gurgling fount of human filth.

Juuuust kidding. I don't do that. Anymore. But seriously, we freaked out. Christin was jumping around on the bed, trying to take pictures. I was fumbling around cluelessly, moving baggage out of the way. Finally, some of the hotel staff came to help but that didn't stop the fact that our room had become Lake Titticaca Part 2.

So, let this post serve as a warning to all: um...don't...uh...just sit there when your toilet starts gurgling?

Time Now For Some Beautiful Music

Introducing Crotchy Creetch. She is just one of the special, special people we've gotten to know out here in Los Angeles, and let me just tell you, the girl's got some pipes on her. But don't take my word for it; just hit play and let the aural stimulation carry you away.  

Drawering

Here's another one from my sketch book. It pretty much sums up everything in my life right now, although I'm sure that's obvious.

Meeting David Liebe Hart

I swear to God, I said it when we first came here a month and a half ago: the only celebrity I wanted to meet in Los Angeles is David Liebe Hart. You can ask Christin. For a while there, I was driving her crazy by repeating "Salame!" over and over. I was even answering my phone with the Corrinean greeting. And for some strange reason, I just knew in my heart of hearts, I was destined to make David's acquaintance.

And by God–or rather, by the power of the Corrineans–I did.

For the unfamiliar, David Liebe Hart is an L.A. eccentric-turned-cult celebrity, thanks in part to the Tim and Eric Show. When we used to work on Tim and Eric Nite Live at Super Deluxe, his appearances on there were always the scene-stealers. He sings songs. He plays with puppets. He goes off about the secret race of aliens currently inhabiting human forms on this planet, the Corrineans. And apparently, that's what he's been doing for years, be it on Los Angeles public access, outside the Hollywood Bowl or on Adult Swim.

Anyways, two days ago, we were visiting the L.A.C.M.A. (that's the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, you dilettantes!) when Christin and I decided to take a break from all those boring DeBuffet's, Picasso's and Twombley's to take a walk in the museum's park. Just as we were coming up on the La Brea Tar Pits there, we couldn't believe our eyes. No, it wasn't the ancient bubbling pools of black stench that took our breath away. It was David Liebe Hart, sitting on a park bench, offering to do "Portraits. Drawings. Sketches." for three dollars.

"David Liebe Hart! Salame!" is what we both said before shaking his hand. He didn't miss a beat. He replied right back with a cordial "Salame!" as if we were all old friends, reuniting at long last. However, this cheerful mood did not last for long. After lamenting that we were the only people who recognized him all day, David launched into what I suspect has become a well-worn rant of his.

Apparently, he's broke and heartbroken. And there's a long list of people to blame. According to David, he never really received much money for appearing on Tim and Eric or for the recent tour he joined them on. And he's got some beef with Tim Heidecker in particular, although I couldn't follow what it was. He says the top brass at Turner have also dicked him out of his artistic due. And then there's the "Hollywood producers." He insinuated that, over the years, he's been blackballed for either crossing their collective paths or making light of homosexuality. Gary Marshall's name came up. Supposedly, David had some kind of falling out with the Happy Days creator.

Perhaps his most surprising bone of contention is with the Church of Christian Scientists. I'm a dork so I actually knew that he had been raised in the Church and even had a public access show here in Los Angeles where he used to espouse their doctrine of insanity for all to enjoy. Well, that's no longer. He says he's broken ties with them because of their wanton racism. He says he (and other blacks in the Church) were repeatedly discriminated against, despite his years of faithful service.

On top of all this, it sounds like the wounds from a divorce back in the 90's still haven't healed, either. David said his ex-wife still treats him unkindly and that she used to be beautiful and svelt, but has since ballooned up like a sea lion.

In between all of these grievances, he also claimed that he once was roommates with Robin Williams. Discussing this later with some friends, it was remarked on how often this claim has been made among L.A. street performers and the like. We wondered aloud what is it about Robin Williams that makes his cohabitation history such a coveted property among the property-less. Perhaps only Robin knows.

Fortunately, all was not doom and gloom with David. I had one big question for him and that was, "Do you really believe in the Corrineans?" But I never even had to ask it. He was all too willing to talk about his experiences with the mysterious alien race. He told us that in the very same park where we were chatting, he met a girl that "looks like Betty Page," and that she is a Corrinean and that they now correspond regularly. He even showed us a print-out of his IM conversations with her. Sure enough, she (or "it?") claims she's an alien. She even sent him a picture of her in her natural state: it was a stock photo of a praying mantis. He also told us about another Corrinean who shrunk a man's penis just by staring at it. Yikes!

Eventually, we had to beg off. We couldn't take up David's entire day, although it seemed like he wouldn't have minded. Nay, we decided to pay him for a portrait and say "Salame!" And that's exactly what we did. As you can see, he sketched a mirror image of Christin and I, surrounded by a pre-made frame of his favorite sayings and whatnot. I plan on framing it myself.



I still can't believe we just happened to bump into David Liebe Hart, the one person I said I wanted to meet in L.A. I suppose that means our time here is complete. And what a perfect punctuation it was. In a way, David embodied all of the off-putting yet oddly endearing qualities that mark so much of the Hollywood experience: the shameless obsession with fame, the bitterness it produces when it fails to materialize, the constant self-promotion and myth-making, and the sheer insanity of it all. True, David's an extreme example. But I've heard his story in some form or another over and over since we've been here. Minus the Corrineans part.

OK, that's it. Lest this turns into some kind of Nathaniel West-ish critique of La-La-Land, I'll stop now. But let me leave you with one word...

Salame!

"Me And My Girlfriend" Said Tupac

As you can see, this is a painting I just finished of Christin and I and it's called "'Me And My Girlfriend' Said Tupac." It's ink pencil on a 18" by 24" canvas. I'm still working on the background, but I'm starting the bidding at $50. OK, fine. $30. Anyone? Anyone?

Drawering

This masterpiece is from my travel sketchpad. It's based on this Baby Boomer dad we encountered down in Mancora, Peru. He was this real self-satisfied "cool dad" who was staying in our hotel with his wife and kids. He was something else: he surfed, bragged a lot about his family and liked to play the know-it-all prankster with his overly-sullen kids. He also had this really loud, clammy-sounding voice that made me want to build a time machine and travel back to 1956 and choke him to death. Which, I guess, is what is sort of going on in this drawing. 

Capitalism Has Killed Monopoly

Get ready for a blistering Marxist screed here. Because today, I am royally ticked off at this "system" that I'm currently unemployed in. Why? Because it just can't leave well enough alone. Everything always has to be "improved" upon, made "better" and "easier to use." And now it seems capitalism has committed the ultimate infanticide.

Case in point: the venerated starter kit of capitalism itself, Monopoly. I, like every other spoiled white child in this affluent country of ours, grew up playing Parker Brother's how-to-become-a-money-hoarding-asshole board game. And I loved it. I was never very good at it (which probably explains why I'm still so financially clueless), but I always reveled in at least trying to force my little friends into bankruptcy, default mortgages and debt. If that doesn't sound like an idyllic American childhood, give me a hammer and scythe and put me to work in the Gulag or whatever.

But now we're all grown up these days here in the "digital age" and we don't carry cash and we all come to expect wealth in the multi-millions. And so, Parker Brother's has obliged by giving us just that: the electronic banking version of Monopoly! And guess what?? It sucks souls!!



An electronic banking version of Monopoly?! What the fuck? Do we really need this? Was handling all that filthy paper money really that bad? Do we really need to be arming children with phony credit cards?! Apparently so. And in turn, Parker Brothers has succeeded in draining every ounce of fun out of their once-perfect game.

I know they've put out bunches of specialized versions of Monopoly over the years, but this one has gone too far. Like I said, instead of cash, players get credit cards. So, instead of just counting your money when you need to check your balance, you have to give your piece of plastic to the banker and have him insert it into this chintzy double-A battery powered "banking" machine. Want to buy property? Same deal. Pay rent? Same. God forbid, a human calculates the phony transaction. No, that would just be too...well...20th century. Now, even our play-money has to be handled in the same cold and corporate fashion that our real-life finances are.

And then there's the actual properties themselves: instead of ye olde avenues from Atlantic City's yesteryears, now we have a bunch of dubious American landmarks and destination spots up for grabs. Because we've all wanted to purchase Atlanta's Centennial Olympic Park at some time or another, haven't we? And I didn't know that Phoenix's Camelback Mountain was up for sale these days, but I think I'll snag it for a cool 3 million and put a Pizza Hut on top of it! The game pieces are no less depressing. Gone are the old shoes, thimbles and dirty socks or whatever that use to make the original Monopoly such a charming relic from the Depression era. Now, players can choose to be a lear jet, a Segway (a fucking Segway!!) or a tin of Altoids. Yes, in what has to be the most awkward product placement ever, the curiously strong breath mint makers apparently payed a mint to have their product immortalized in this stupid game. Worse, it looks like a laptop. Which would have been more apropos, me thinks.

Adding insult to injury, the electronic banking version of Monopoly costs exactly 3 times the amount the original game does. Thankfully, I didn't buy it. Christin's brother did. And we tried playing it. For exactly 3 rounds. And now it's sitting in the back of his car, waiting to be returned.

My First Earthquake!

I feel so southern Californian now: just about 10 minutes ago, a magnitude 5.8 earthquake hit here in Los Angeles. And it was fucking amazing. 

Christin and I were just sitting here in Los Feliz at this little coffee shop called Psychobabble–both of us on our respective laptops–when all of a sudden, everything started undulating beneath us like we were on an amusement park ride. At first, we just looked up from our cyber cocoons, startled and wide-eyed. Then, Mother Earth gave out a really big tremor, and that's when half the coffee shop quickly got up and walked outside. True to their city, the other half of  jaded Angelenos in the place just sat there, unfazed. 

The whole thing probably only lasted about 8 seconds. But I was ready for disaster. I was looking around the street, wondering when we'd start seeing buildings cave in and whatnot. Fortunately, nothing like that happened. But just in case, I noticed I had my mug of coffee in my hand. 

Because you always need a ceramic mug in these situations.   

A Postcard From Me To You!

To enjoy postcard, just print it out, cut it out and fill in your name. Voila! 

Signs You're In The Valley

Just like any red-blooded American, I'd always heard about the so-called "Valley" out here in L.A.: Valley girls, "gag me with a spoon" talk, Ventura boulevard, etc. But I never really knew where the Valley was, or what it contained. And even after our recent stay there at Christin's brother's place in Studio City, I still don't really know.

But from what I can tell, the Valley seems to be this: a vast backwater of strip malls north of the Hollywood hills. Block after block after block, there's nothing there but drive-thru convenience as far as the eye can see. And the eye can see about as far as the mountain range that encloses all the sprawl in an arid southern Californian haze. 

And that's about as poetic as it gets. Again, there's nothing very cultural there: lots of chain restaurants and the like. However, since Christin and I don't have a car, we ended up walking around a lot, and, in turn, began to notice some funny and peculiar independent businesses. And their signs. And so I took some pictures of them:

There seems to be a high-demand for supernatural help in the Valley. Because you can't turn a corner without passing a psychic or a palm reader or some type of Tarot card shack. They outnumber the Starbucks. And the Jack in the Box's. I thought this one was interesting because Angela specifies that she's a "white witch." Good to know.

Kind of like the psychics, there's an irrational overabundance of cupcake stores in the Valley. Cupcakes. That's all they sell. That's their entire business model. And I suspect they do OK. But how? I thought everybody here was supposed to be all freaked out about their weight all the time. 

This one's a curious specimen: some mattress store that likes to advertise all over the Valley. And what sells mattresses better than a little imp that looks like Spencer from The Hills dressed up in his bedtime jammys? I can't really make out what he's saying, but I'm sure it scares the shit out of children. 

Aaaaaah. Smell that? That's not carbon monoxide. That's the ultimate reality that we all must "wake up" to, just like the Buddha. Volvo drivers already get a bad rap as being somewhat elitist and stuffy. I imagine this place doesn't help matters.  

Hey, I get it!? It's a big hand that washes your car, just like at a hand car wash, right? But is that the actual hand that's going to wash my car? It looks kind of...um...big. And busy, holding up that sign and that Cadillac and all. You know what? I don't even have a car out here. I think I'll pass, Mr. Hands Across My Mama.

This is easily my favorite sign in the Valley. I saw it crammed at the bottom of a window in a massage parlor place. And chances are, it's still there. Know why? Because no one (except a weirdo like me) is going to see it. It's scrawled in what appears to be meth amphetamine juice, and it looks like it was written by a troll living under the kitchen sink that likes to eat "part time houskeeping" maids. 

Alas, all roads in the Valley lead to Burbank. And all 20-something actors who impulsively move to L.A. end up at this infamous establishment there: Central Casting. As in, "direct from Central Casting..." This is where you go if you're tired of sitting around your apartment waiting for callbacks and want to sign up to be an extra in the movies. Supposedly, it's easy money. I wouldn't know. I signed up and paid them the $25 fee, but I can't seem to bring myself to call the hotline and check for openings. Maybe I have "back stage fright."

That's it for now.    

Peter Walker Live(s)

Last night, me and my cousin, Mitch (whom I hadn't seen in 10 years) hung out. I took a cab to Echo Park to have dinner with him and after much catching up, we went to this place called the Echoplex to watch 60's folk guitarist Peter Walker play a set. Of course, we all know who Peter Walker is, right? Riiiiiight. Well, I had only read his name before in articles about Robbie Basho, John Fahey, and the like. And then I saw he was playing here in Los Angeles, so I downloaded a copy of Rainy Day Raga. And guess what? It's my new favorite album. Very droney, very melodic and very hippie-dippie. Just like I like my 60's music. 

As for Peter Walker now, he's quite the character. Not only does he still kick out the raga jams, but he's also gotten way into flamenco guitar, which he says he studied in Spain for an extended period in the early 2000's. Sounds like a nice way to age into obscure folk guitar badass status. 

"Little" Known Facts I've Learned About Little People

"Hey you, Mr. Average Size! Watch your step, but don't 'look down' on them. Little people are everywhere here in big ol' L.A.!!"

That would be the opening line of my P.S.A. for little people in Los Angeles, if the city suddenly decided to pay me for something like that. As of yet, I haven't received any such offers, but maybe after this blog post, I will! 

For those of you who don't already know, my girlfriend's brother is a little person. His name is Mikey and he's an actor out here. Up until a few days ago, we had been staying at his place in the Valley (more on that later), which means, we had been spending a lot of time together. And let me be the first to tell you, he leads a very normal life. There's nothing Mikey does differently than any of us "averages" (what they call normal sized people). He eats. He sleeps. He watchs TV. Just like us.

However, there are a couple of "little" known facts about little people that I'd like to share with you now:

• If you spend any significant amount of time with a little person, they will start dressing like you. It's what known as the "Mini Me" syndrome. Case in point:

• Little people really do enjoy punching "averages" in the balls, just like in the movies. I'm telling you, they love it. As soon as they see an unsuspecting crotch nearby (which, as you can imagine, is often), they thrust their little fists at it as hard as they can. And then proceed to do a lil' jig. 
• Little people scare the fuck out of children. This one's actually for real. I've watched it over and over and over again: kid between the ages of 3 and 10 will be happily prattling on to his mom about crapping in his pants or whatever when all of a sudden, his face goes white and his jaw drops: a little person has come into his purview. And it blows the kid's fucking mind. You can literally see his thoughts: "What the--?? What is that??! Looks...like...Dad...but he's my size?! How can that be?? MUST!! STARE!! HARDER!!!" 
• Little people don't mind texting while driving (this one's also for real). You'd think they would. After all, they're technically handicapped: their limbs are shorter than ours, their cars have to be specially-engineered for them to drive, or else they have to have these little stilts rigged onto the pedals. But that doesn't seem to affect their ability to scare the fuck out of us "average" passengers. Case in point, Mikey's roommate, Becky, was driving us down Sunset the other night. The street was packed with oncoming city busses, SUV's, cars, bikes and pedestrians. But where were Becky's eyes? In her little head, which was tilted a full 90 degrees south so that she could text a message to a friend while we careened into our deaths. I yelled at her, "Becky, you're fucking texting?!" She just laughed, looked up and responded absent-mindedly, "Oh, there's the CNN building." For that, I gave her two shots to the dome.

• Little people love when "averages" play what they call "Godzilla" in their homes. Here's how you do it: just stand up real tall and straight while you're in a little person's abode. Then, start stomping around, moaning loudly and knocking shit over like you're Godzilla smashing up Tokyo. Push over dressers like they're apartment buildings. Upend carpets like they're railroads. And most importantly, grab the little people like they're, well, little people, and try stuffing them in your mouth. It sounds like an awful thing to do, but believe me, they just laugh and laugh and laugh (and shit gold coins). 
• Little people train cats to get food for them (another "real" factoid). We just moved into Mikey's friend's house for a brief stay. Her name is Nico, she's a little person and for the next few weeks, she'll be driving around the Northwest while Christin and I take care of her home and her feline, Bug. And let me tell you, I think Nico secretly likes eating birds. Because she seems to have coaxed Bug into bringing her a new winged creature to her doorstep every morning for breakfast. It's like clockwork. As soon as we wake up, Bug's there with a pair of bird legs hanging out of his mouth, just grinning. Here we all are with the trained assassin on Christin's lap:

• Finally, little people love when you steal their Lil' Rascals. I'm talking about their scooters that they sometimes ride around on. Don't ask; just take 'em and go for the riiiide of your life (while wearing the same t-shirt you wore from the day before)! 

 

My Grandma, E.E. Cummings

Turn head or monitor sideways to read:

I Really Think Things Are Going To Work Out With Us

She wears hoodies. I wear hoodies. She likes having her picture taken. I sort of don't mind having my picture taken. She hates having to watch tranny porn. I suppose I do, too. Although, to be perfectly honest, I haven't really seen much tranny porn. But that didn't stop Heidi from telling me why she's done a looooooot of things in her life but she absolutely draws the line at watching chicks with dicks have sex on film: "They're filthy!" 

OK. There you have it: "They're filthy!" Word is bond. I'm standing by you, girl.   

Mexico Was And Still Is A Magical Place (Depsite The Fact That I Got Attacked By A Psychotic Person There)

As promised, this is the second installment of Ben And Christin's Mex-cellent Adventure (although calling the whole thing that is a bit misleading since we began our journey in South America; but I digress...).

So, we flew into Puerto Vallarta via Guadalajara via Panama City via Guayaquil, Ecuador. It was a full day of pressurized cabin-sitting, full of grand expectations. Neither one of us had ever been to the Pacific coast of Mexico nor had we researched it much. But since we had impulsively decided that it was going to be a far superior beach experience to the one we had in South America, by God, that's what it was going to be. However, the cab ride from the Puerto Vallarta airport to the so-called "Romantic Zone" downtown quickly sobered us up. Highlights of that cab ride included:

• Hooters
• Wal-Mart
• McDonald's
• T.G.I. Friday's
• And every other abomination of Western civilization you can think of

Yes, I hate to crush anyone's idealistic visions of an unspoiled Puerto Vallarta, but Uncle Sam done turned it into a Florida strip mall already, folks. 

With that said, we didn't stay in P.V. but a single night. Nay, we were looking for a more "authentic" Mexican beach experience. Just like in Y Tu Mama Tambien. Or something. So, we went an hour north up the coast to a little town known as Sayulita. And guess what? There were tons of gringos there too! But in a much, much, much more palatable environment: small, cozy beach with easy, relaxed waves; clean and tidy downtown with an abundant number of deeeelish restaurants; and lots of nice places to stay. Some, a little too nice. 

But let me get to the part that everybody's been waiting for: the blow-by-blow account of my big, bad surfer brawl there. Indeed, I got into a bit of an international incident with a local in what seemed to be (until then) one of the most peaceful places on Earth. Hurray for me! Now, before anyone casts any rash judgments, let me lay out my account of the tawdry affair in bullet point and hopefully, by doing so, will persuade you, the reader, that I, the big, fat American, wasn't entirely out of line. Who knows? Perhaps even the young turk whom I skirmished with will one day happen upon this blog, and bullet point his own side of the story. But until then, these are the facts:

• I was minding my own goddamned business. I had rented a long board from a beach side rental place (run by a very nice gringo lady who ended up figuring prominently into the story) and, along with a dozen other surfers, I was casually paddling around around on Sayulita's main break, catching a wave here and there. Granted, it was a little crowded out there, but nothing like Peru.
• Like I said, I was minding my own goddamned business...when I caught THE WAVE THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN CAUGHT (A.K.A. THE ROUGE WAVE), as I now prefer to call it. I wasn't looking to my left. I wasn't looking to my right. I was merely paddling my big, brawny, muscular arms furiously with my eyes directly in front of me when...
• BAAAAMMM!!! From my left side, a young Mexican man slammed into me and my board on THE WAVE THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN CAUGHT (A.K.A. THE ROUGE WAVE). 
• After we both resurfaced, there was an awkward pause between us as we both sat there in the water, bobbing up and down. I looked at him. He, at me. And nothing was said. I didn't really know how to respond. I've never had anyone run into me before while surfing. I just figured, "Well, that wasn't fun. I wonder if he's going to apologize."
• Apparently, an apology was the furthest thing from this young man's mind. The silence was soon broken. 
• "You broke my board!!! You pay!!" is what he yelled at me. Very angrily. I was shocked. I didn't break his board. It appeared to be perfectly fine to me. Before I had a chance to respond, another wave was upon us, which we both had to "duck dive" (that's cool surfer lingo for pushing you and your board under the wave). And when we resurfaced...
• "You broke my board!! You pay!!" is what he yelled at me again. This time, I responded. I said, "I didn't break your board. You ran into me!!" "No, you broke it. You pay!!" he yelled. I said, "I'm not paying anything." And so it went on for a few moments, out there in the crisp blue water, waves rising and falling, on an otherwise beautiful day.
• "I see you on the beach then!!!!" is how the young man resolved to, well, resolve the matter. That's right. He decided he was going to beat me up on la playa, just like a good ol' fashioned bro-down in a Frankie Avalon movie or whatever. 
• I didn't help matters. I told him, "You're crazy. I'm not paying you anything." But I have to admit, I was slightly unnerved. After all, he had the home field advantage. I didn't know what to expect from this Mexican hothead. But I quickly found out.
• I paddled in. I figured, I had 10 minutes left on my rental anyways. I might as well call it day.  
• And so did he. As soon as I was on the beach–long board underneath my arm, he was right behind me, repeating what had become his lil' mantra: "YOU BROKE MY BOARD!! YOU PAY!!!"
• I stopped, turned around and faced my accuser. After all, I wasn't going to run. And I've always believed that when a Mexican formally or informally invites you to participate in a Mexican standoff, you damn well better accept that invitation. If, for no other reason, than the sheer thrill of taking part in a Mexican standoff.  
• So, just like a couple of teenage idiots, me and this young man stood there with our faces inches away from each other, yelling and slobbering and pointing fingers. I don't remember exactly what was said. I've always found, in times like that, you never do. You just instinctively bellow crap out, like "OOOOH, BULLSHIT!!!", "ARE YOU CRAZY??! YOU RAN INTO ME!!!" and "I'VE NEVER SEEN A CHUBACABRE!!" But it was during this heated exchange that he showed me exactly where I "broke" his board: a tiny dent near the nose.
• I had it. I roared, "I'M NOT PAYING FOR YOUR FUCKING BOARD!!!" And that's when things got really ugly. In response, he suggested that he was going to get his buddies and they were going to do a Mexican hat dance on my neck. Or some such thing. I don't really remember. Because it was at that point that I BOWED UP on him. 
• Now, that probably wasn't the most diplomatic move, I admit. I should have just walked away. But I didn't. I bowed up. I freakin' bowed-the-fuck-up. And by that, I mean, I adjusted my upper torso and arms in a manner to communicate a challenge to him. I didn't actually touch him. But I wanted him to know that I was ready to defend myself. 
  
• So, he hit me on the head with his surf board. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right. It hurt a little. It shocked me more than anything. But you better believe that I secretly enjoyed the irony of the attack, if only for the briefest of micro-seconds: here this guy was, willing to risk damaging his precious surf board that I had supposedly "broken" by hitting me on the noggin with it. 
• I must have looked a bit upset. Because he just started running up the beach. And so, I decided to join him on his lil' jog. 
• Out of breath, we met back up again at his buddies' surf outpost. It 'twas there that he grabbed–of all things–a dog leash and a terra cotta coffee mug and made like he was going to beat me with them. 
• Enter my girlfriend. Ever the peacemaker, Christin came running up, shouting, "No!! No!! No!!" His buddies also seemed to want to keep the peace. The standoff resumed and much shouting was heard.
• Thankfully, that is when I came to my senses. Much like Albert Camus' protagonist in The Stranger, a hazy existential spell came over me: the sun, the beach, this asshole, life. It was all too much of a farcical situation to bear. But instead of "killing an Arab," as they say, Christin and I just turned around, walked back to grab the long board and went to go return it. Not surprisingly, dude followed us.
• Back at the surf board rental stand, the aforementioned gringo lady got involved. She said she had known the guy since he was a teen and was willing to hear both sides of the story. I told her what happened and she told us, "You have to pay him. He was on your left. That was his wave." 
• What?? What is this rule?? Where is this written?? Apparently, everybody who's ever touched a surf board (except me) knew about this. And that was that. In the court of public opinion in Sayulita, Mexico, and in the International Surfer Etiquette Manual that's kept in great Neptune's law library, I was deemed guilty of negligently putting my surf board in front of this innocent young man's surf board and allowing him to run into me.
• So, how much did he want to fix this ding? 200 pesos. Let me do the math for you: that's roughly $20. By this point, Christin became the incensed one. She was yelling, "This is bullshit!! Don't pay him anything!!" But I looked around me, and not only saw this guy, but a half dozen of his buddies standing around, leering menacingly at us. It was either fork over the $20 or incur the wrath of a network of local surfers who probably wouldn't think much of cutting off a gringo's penis, wrapping it in a corn tortilla and feeding it to him in. Preferably, on the town square for all to see.
• Sheepishly, I handed over a soggy wad of 200 pesos. And nothing more was said.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, are the facts. Are they long-winded? A tad. Are they biased? Maybe. But are they the truth? Indeed! 

With that, I'd like to conclude this obnoxiousness with a rather lame but sincere postscript: the rest of our Mexican vacation was a dream. We had a wonderful time roving around the Pacific coast and in Guadalajara. Nothing too exciting to blog any further about. Just food, fun and very, very, very nice people. Again, that sounds like I'm trying to make up for this obviously retarded incident, but whatever. I sincerely think that the Mexican people are the nicest human beings you can find on this planet.

Except for that one guy. 

Boy, Ecuador & Peru Was Fun

Hey Everybody,

Where to start? It's been one wacky-excellent adventure getting us here: first we were just little fetuses. Then we grew up and got picked on a lot in school. Then we got jobs and I lost mine and my girlfriend quit hers and we sublet our place in Atlanta, Georgia and decided to go traveling for the summer of '08. 

Turned out, we just went on a blitzkrieg of bus, taxi and plane trips in the month of June. We made short-shrift of everything, including every tasty morsel that entered a one-mile radius of our stupid mouths. And I do mean every single little unwashed ticky-taco we could find.

So, back to our trip, it was fun. Like an Advil commercial is fun: pain and suffering mixed with cool relief in the end. We first flew into Guayaquil, Ecuador and from there proceeded to romp all over the southern half of the equator-straddled country. Highlights included:

• Getting the fuck out of Guayaquil as soon as possible (it's Ecuador's largest city full of urban blight and not much else). 
• Taking the bus to much-much-much lovelier ciudad of Cuenca. The trip was a hair-raising, road-winding adventure through the Andes, complete with a DVD presentation of the updated version of The Omen in subtitles. I believe it was called Un Nino de Diablo.
• Hanging out in Cuenca. Pronounced "Qwayn-Ca," this charming little metropolis is like a transplant from Switzerland plopped down in the middle of South America. It's got European-style grid city planning, cobblestone streets, beautiful churches and a 360-degree backdrop of mountains. 

• Going to a sensory-deprivation tank while in Cuenca. I've always wanted to do this, so it was even better in Spanish! Well, not really. The floating around in saline solution was fun, but because we're Americans, they put on some cheesy English-speaking relaxation tape that kept saying, "Imagine you're floating in space..." We were floating! We didn't have to imagine it. Grrr.
• Going to a natural hot springs spa just outside of Cuenca. I believe they called it "Banos." As in "bathrooms." Very posh. Very warm. Again, felt like we were in Europe. 

And that was about it for Ecuador. Seriously. It was very beautiful and scenic but despite being situated directly on the belly of this here planet Earth, it was rather chilly. And we weren't having none of it. So, we decided to get on a bus and head towards northern Peru. And that's just what we did. 

Only problem: nobody told us that the Ecuadorian-Peruvian border crossing is considered the WORST in South America. We're talking wild, wild west shit. Highlights included:

• That lovely picture I'm currently using as header for this blog. Yes, that says "Here's The Taliban." And yes, that's a giant mural painted on a wall near the border of Osama and his AK47-toting buddies reenacting Washington crossing the Potomac except with the Twin Towers being destroyed in the background. I asked our taxi driver several times if he could explain what the hell was going on there. He said, "No." 
• Checking into our hotel at the border for a frightful overnight stay. As the girl at the front desk was handing us our keys, a fellow guest also arrived (carried by two of his buddies) with what appeared to be a waterfall of his own shit smearing down the backside of his jeans. Poor chap. Hope he's cleaned up by now.
• (Barely) making it across the border the next morning. Somehow, we let these two guys in a '82 Datsun station wagon convince us they could transport us through security better than the thousands of other people that were doing it just fine all by their lonesome. Sigh. Oh, and there were puppies in cages too. For sale, I believe.

But not for us. Where the hell were we going to stick a lil' pooch? In our backpacks? But anywho, after we got our passports stamped, we made a beeline for the fabled beaches of northern Peru. Our expectations of them were pretty high; the guidebooks and other various websites had talked them up as nothing less than the Target-version of the French Riviera: beautiful and luxurious but extremely affordable. Sounds nice, huh? When we arrived in Mancora (the prime beach destination there), we found out that that clearly wasn't the case. Far from being a coastal wasteland, Mancora wasn't exactly the undiscovered Eden we were hoping for either. Nevertheless, we managed to have fun. Highlights included:

• Surfing! Aaaaaat laaaaaast!! There is one big break in Mancora and every surfer is out there almost everyday trying to ride it. Some fail, some succeed. But because demand for it is so high, there's not much pettiness about the over-crowding. Christ, I had a kite surfer drop in on my wave at one point from 50 feet above me. He just smiled and rode away. 
• The food. The Pan-American Highway runs straight through the town and there's no sidewalks to be had. Which means every nice restaurant comes with a gorgeous view of 18-wheelers flying by every few minutes. But that didn't change the fact that 99% of the meals we had there were scump-deee-lee-ump-tious. 
• Christin's big surf bummer. One day, the girlfriend decided to get a surf lesson, which was a great idea. For a small fee, a local will swim out with you, set you up on a wave and push you onto it. However, because of the aforementioned crowd on the one big break in Mancora, some dude ran his longboard into my sweet, beautiful, lovely girlfriends' face, giving her a big gash under her right eye, a nasty bump on her head and an abrupt end to her fun. 
• Deciding to leave South America. Maybe it was the sheer enormity of it all. Maybe it was the fact that neither one of us have jobs to look forward to when we get back. But for some reason, it was in Mancora where we decided to call our airline, tell them someone died and have our flight date moved so that we could fly to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico as soon as possible.

And that's exactly what we did. Again, there's not much explanation. We just got anxious. All it took was a phone call and an overnight bus back to Guayaquil, Ecuador to prematurely jump start what was supposed to be our long-awaited second-half of our adventure. 

Stay tuned for Mexico in the next post...