Puerto Escondido

I wanted out of Acapulco. The hostel was fine. The people were nice. It wasn't overly expensive. The bay was beautiful. Still, big cities tend to make my skin crawl. Sander and Albert wanted to stay an extra day, so I bid them adieu and headed for the bus station.

The plan was to take the 11pm bus to the small town of Puerto Escondido, hailed as the surf capital of Mexico. By taking the overnight bus, I'd sleep through the trip and, of course, wouldn't have to pay for a hostel.

That was the plan at least. As when Andrew and I took the overnight bus from Cuzco to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, I was mistaken. Oh, the bus took all night to get to Puerto Escondido, but there was hardly any sleeping done.

When I'd bought my ticket the day before, I was told there was only one more seat remaining after mine. That was in fact true; however, what the ticket agent didn't add was that all the seats being filled did not prevent the bus company from selling past capacity.

As I crammed myself into my seat next to a friendly Mexican teenager, I looked first with amusement, then with horror, as I realized that the 15 or so people jammed in the aisles were not going to be escorted off the bus when the driver came through to verify tickets. The engines cranked up, the door shut (sealing off the last bit of fresh air I'd get), and we were off.

As conditions were less than ideal, I tried my damndest to get to sleep as quickly as possible. It wasn't happening. The pleasant Mexican teen fell asleep before I did and threw elbows and knees at me. I was the aisle seat and so the various, squirming aisle standers jostled and bumped me as they rotated to the bathroom. Of course, children cried. Apparently, as it was December, it must have been against company policy to turn on the AC, even though it was 80 degrees outside the bus and rapidly climbing past 90 degrees inside. As it grew hotter, and hotter, the babies cried more, the aisle standers got antsier and the Mexican teen stepped up his somnapugilistic efforts. Oh, and my seat was closest to the bathroom. Behind my seat and the bathroom wall, a mother and child had crammed themselves for the ride. Whenever the bathroom door would open, and it opened often, I was blasted with no less than what I hopefully never confirm as the stench of Hell.

Bleary-eyed, sweaty, and abominably cranky, I stepped off the bus nine hours later (the trip was only supposed to last eight hours, of course) completely refreshed.

Sadly, Puerto Escondido is what everyone else would prefer their vacations to be like. I found a cheap, relatively comfortable place to stay. Te beach and town were beautiful. The water was magnificent. I lay in the sun and drank beer and piña coladas. Beach vendors peddled their wares; a few offered to sell me "mahr-ee-wanna" and "koh-keye-eena." I exerted myself about as much as a clam. I did that for five days.
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Albert and Sander met me a day after I arrived. They joined me in my sun-drenched inertia. We joked incessantly. They decided to stay in town a few more days so I won't run into them again most likely. They were good traveling buddies.

Two quick stories about the Dutchmen:

1. Our first night in Acapulco, as we walked toward the cave divers, they attempted to draw me into a discussion on politics. I refused, much to their annoyance, and explained that I don't talk politics with anyone since a) talking does nothing and b) it just gets people angry and frustrated. Albert decided to make it a one way discussion about how the US spends too much money on its military when it could be providing health care and improving its infrastructure; the evidence he relied upon came from documentaries he'd seen.

I managed to withstand his baiting for approximately 42 seconds. The political "discussion" ended with everyone's blood up and me ranting wildly to Sander about the French unemployment rate as Albert ran off to join in on a night game of soccer on the beach. Sander politely waited til I paused for breath and then bolted for soccer as well.

2. Another night in Acapulco, old man that I am, I turned in early. They boys were headed to one of the town's many night clubs. In the middle of the night, I awoke to screaming and cussing, mostly cussing. The roaring argument out in the hallway was protracted, featured cursing and accusations in English, French and some other language, and was punctuated with a deafening THWACK! I knew that a Californian and French Canadian were staying next door, so I assumed that they'd come in blitzed. I considered going out in the hall to get them to calm down, but decided nothing good would happen from that.

I was therefore astonished when myh door opened and Albert pushed Sander, gripping a bloody hand, inside. I sat up. "That "$%!ing -----!" bitched the normally preternaturally pleasant Sander.

"You got in a fight with the French Canadian?" I asked incredulously.

"No! Albert! The "$%!ing -----!"

The next day, full of remorse and bewilderment, Sander could only assume someone put something in his drink. His hand was swollen from punching what turned out to be a door (which he had to pay for). He swore off drinking and was back to his normal cheerfulness. In Puerto Escondido, he did have to get antibiotics for the hand, since it had gotten infected.

"Happy" Beach of Acapulco (By Popular Demand)

The first day I was at the beach for five hours. The water was clear, cool, and refreshing. The sun was radiant. I ended up with a mild sunburn.

I went back to the same spot the next day. I rented a chair and an umbrella. For the most part, I wrote, read, and napped. Later in the day, while writing, I noticed an old, fat, leathery white man with frost tipped hair, in a speedo, lying on his stomach, 15 feet away from me. He was facing me and staring at me through the unsquinted eye (the other being squinted because of the sun). I was wearing sunglasses, so he couldn't tell I'd noticed him staring at me. I paid him no attention and went back to writing. After about an hour of his unwavering glare, I wondered to myself, "Why in the hell is he eyescrewing the pudgy, pale honky, when there's a beach full of muscular latinos?"

That's when it dawned on me. I was in a part of the beach full of muscular latinos (and other men). I'd chosen that part of the beach because it wasn't crowded and I'd had a good time the day before (surrounded by men AND women). Apparently the gays take over on Saturdays. I hadn't noticed because of the writing, reading, and napping.

Other than a group of four women at a table in front of me, I counted no less than 20 men in the area around me, most, if not all, in briefs, speedos, or, in one case, what I can only politely describe as a banana hammock. The reality of the situation hit me with full force. The guys wrestling in the surf weren't buddies horsing around. It wasn't a friend innocently asking his friend to put sunscreen on his back. The two guys walking back and forth near the water weren't scouting for women. The poor looking young guys hanging out in the
rock formations at the end of the beach weren't just poor locals who couldn't afford to rent a chair or umbrella. (I will be explicit. They were prostitutes. I noticed another fat, old white man wander off behind the rocks and one of the prostitutes waved at me.)

I paid for the chair and umbrella, dammit. I wasn't leaving. The only concession I made to my discovery was that when I went to swim, I went to where the women were. I also made sure to leave well before sunset.

Scenes from Acapulco

New format for the ADD impaired. See if this holds the audience's attention better.

- There are certain things that randomly strike one as very odd, no matter how many times or how long one has been in another country. One of these was the other morning when I ordered breakfast. To begin with, ordering enchiladas for breakfast seemed off, but I went with the flow. The nice lady asked me what I wanted to drink, cafe o leche. As I'm not a coffee drinker I went for milk. Four minutes later I was given a microwaved cup of milk I had to break the cooling skin to get to. I suppose all that separated it from Starbucks was a
snort of coffee and 3ozs of azucar, but still, damn strange.

-Albert, Sander and I very specifically asked what time the bus to Acapulco was the day before we left. We all heard the agent at the counter say 11am. When we arrived at 1005am, a different agent informed us that the bus had left at 10am. We had to wait for the 2pm bus. Typical.

-A friend told me, "Enjoy the Myrtle Beach of Mexico," when I said I was headed to Acapulco. He was wrong; it's more Daytona Beach.

-The hostel was a bit pricy ($15) but across the main avenue from the beach. It also had air conditioning. The downside? The rooms were 8'x6'3" and had 4 bunks. Submarine quarters are more spacious. The showers weren't cold, but they didn't get hot. After my first sunburn, I realized this was a good thing.

-We arrived after sunset. I wanted to see the cliff divers, whose last show was at 1030pm. I suggested we walk to get the lay of the land and to scout out something to eat. Both Dutch, having made repeated comments in the last few days about how lazy and fat Americans are, griped about walking. I teased them into acquiescence. I insisted we eat at the aptly named, "Tacos and Beer", of course.

-I bought sunglasses from a local market. I choose to believe they are UV protected and that they're not merely darkened plastic giving unfettered, ruinous access to my retinas. I choose to believe that.

-Of course I find my favorire pens in an office depot in Acapulco. The dozen I bought are my most expensive purchase to date.

-I like Mexican food. Hell, I love Mexican food. But I'm sick of it. I walked by a BK and saw a sign for a Whopper Furioso! Of course I got one. The receipt had it labeled "combo-Angry."

Taxco

Taxis in Mexico City are notoriusly dangerous. The typical danger in getting in a random taxi is that the taxi driver will rob you, or he will arrange to have you robbed by his cousins, either by taking you to them, or having them "hold up" the taxi. As such, you are only supposed to get in taxis which you have called for. The taxis by phone are more expensive but safe.

The hostel called a taxi for me and it arrived ten minutes later. The driver seemed nice enough; he had a cross hanging from his rearview and a New Testament in his front passenger seat. Not that those necessarily deserve an expectation of upright, Christian behavior; porn stars often have crosses eithger hanging from necklaces or tattooed upon them while then engaging in all manner of, decidedly, un-Christian acts (That I am aware of this speaks as to un-Christian aspects of my nature).

At any rate, I felt secure even as he drove me north, then west, then south, then east. I knew this for two reasons. First, I wear a compass around my neck when I'm off "adventuring." Second, we arrived at the south end of the Zocalo (main plaza), two blocks away from my hostel. Were I paying by the meter, I'd have been furious, but, as the ride was a fixed price, I merely thought to myself, "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"

Eventually, our circuitous route did in fact lead us to the southern bus terminal. I was slightly amused to discover that the bus to Taxco (and a luxury bus at that) was less than $10US and was less expensive than my, still relatively cheap, taxi ride. I hopped on the next bus and snoozed til my arrival.

I went to Taxco by what I consider to be an edict from no less than the Almighty. Both my mother AND my father insisted I go there. As they have been divorced from each other these 20 years and have agreed only one other time (that I am surely their child, after, as a young boy, I'd casually remarked/hoped I was adopted or switched at the hospital), I had no choice in the matter; Taxco it was.

I lit from the bus at about 4pm and attempted, as best I could, to navigate my way to the hostel I'd chosen from the Lonely Planet guidebook. My problem lay in the fact that Taxco is a colonial mountain town. As such, the streets were extraordinarily narrow and completely devoid of any particular rhyme or reason. The map in the guidebook was about as useful as a fifth nipple. I knew the hostel I'd chosen adjoined the local market, so up I climbed, sure there was no way I'd fail to sight something so basic as a mercado.

Wrong.

In my mind's eye, I envisioned a centrally located plaza, full of shops, laid out in a rational manner. While that might be the platonic ideal of a market, what I accidentally stumbled across was no less than a Daedalusian maze nestled amongst buildings no more than seven feet apart in no arrangement of city planning discernable from sheer chaos. Relying on my army training, I wandered hither and thither, attempting to use obvious landmarks to find my way. Eventually, I located the place but solely because I walked past two gringoes on a stairwell and surmised they must have come from somewhere nearby. Sure enough, I found the Hostal de Arrellana nearby.

The hostel had the simplicity and cleanliness of a Grecian Island Bed and Breakfast. For a modest price, I was given my own room just off the third terrace. The room had two simple, yet thoroughly satisfactory, beds and the communal bathroom was only fifteen feet away. It featured a shower similar to one I'd had in Milan a few years ago, meaning it was in the same compartment as the toilet. Thus, once one removed the toilet paper and trashcan (as in other 3rd world countries, used toilet paper is thrown away, not flushed), a shower had the additional, decadent delight of dousing a household fixture.

Leaving my bags in the room, I wandered out into the labyrinth. It isn't possible to get lost when one not only does not know, but neither cares, where one ends up. Thus, after stumbling amongst rows upon rows of stands offering food, shoes, clothes, dvds, toys, and, above all, tacky silver jewelry, I found myself a block away from a restaurant the guidebook recommended for its particularly local flavor.

The next day, upon arising and walking out for the day, I ran into the two gringoes who'd inadvertently shown me the way there the night before. They did not recognize me because I'd shaved the night before. Once out of Mexico City, the necessity of protecting myself through slovenly appearance had dissipated and I wanted to be able to get a uniform tan...and I wouldn't necessarily mind not repulsing femininas for the duration. At any rate, I met Sander and Albert, twenty-something professionals from Holland just beginnning a five month Latin American trek.

It turned out we were headed on the same path, not only in Taxco, but also afterwards in Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, and Oaxaca, and so then and there decided to join forces. Sander has long reddish curly hair; Albert has short, dirty blondish hair. They both speak English well and joke all of the time. They are incredibly good natured.

As the primary draw of Taxco is its silver, and we were but impoverished travellers, we decided upon going to the famous cave complex, Las Grutas, 30km away. Taxis in Taxco are ubiquitous and are, uniformly, 1970s VW Bugs. Unlike Mexico City, they are not dangerous, save for unwary pedestrians. There are no sidewalks so one must be ever wary when walking along the sides of the streets. Even most of the cars that aren't taxis are VW Bugs, which I'm tempted to think is because other cars won't fit on the streets (though in actuality there are, so maybe Taxcoans really, really like Bugs). As it is, one must press himself against the walls of buildings every few feet as a car passes by, or, occasionally, to step into a doorway so as not to get smushed. Any walking is made all the more challenging by the fact that apparently no one in Taxco works. All day long, the sides of the streets are filled with half the townspeople standing around. The other half are driving the taxis and honking their horns.

We went to the bus station and took a "combi" out to the cave. Combis serve as a privatized form of public transport and are thus, uniformly and expectedly, 1970s VW Vans. We crammed ourselves into a combi and off we went. An interesting, yet thoroughly dangerous, aspect of a combi is that the side door is left open, even when hurtling around hairpin turns at breakneck speeds. There are, of course, no seatbelts.

At the Grutas, we ate a quick lunch outside and then stumbled upon the dimly lit pathway 2km into the interior of a mountain as tour groups of Mexican children shrieked all around us. Unlike most caves which keep a uniform cool temperature and are moistureless, the Grutas had visible clouds of humidity and was stifling hot. I surmised that was from the breath and body heat of the thousands of visitors a day.

When we arrived back at the hotel in mid afternoon, we sat on the upper terrace, drank cheap beer, and basked in the sunshine. We soon struck up an acquaintance with an Australian girl who'd just checked in, and she joined us in our reverie. At first she appeared to be a world weary traveller, but, by and by, that mask cracked. At a point she asked how old we thought she was. Albert and Sander guessed 24 and 25, respectively, but, this not being my first rodeo, I guessed 19 and shocked the astonished teenager with my deft skill at identifying immaturity. Any attraction I may have been able to develop vanished the moment I realized she was a child.

The four of us spent the remainder of the evening jabbering about all manner of nonsense, while drinking beer and searching for a place to eat supper. After supper, old man that I am (or prefer to be), I bid my companions adieu and hit the sack. The next day Albert, Sander, and I were on a bus to Acapulco.

Teohtihuican

I´d signed up the night before for the day trip to Teotihuican, the largest native ruins near Mexico City. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the tour included the Plaza of the Three Cultures and the Basilica of Guadalupe. We got out of the van at the plaza and Pepe, our guide, had us introduce ourselves. I was the only American. Along for the tour were Alex, a Quebecois TV writer, two female Australian writers, Jaako (a Fin), a Czech woman, and a Mexican music producer from Tijuana. The Mexican was white with mussed lack hair and was hiding behind retro-chic sunglasses. Somehow, he wore his tight black jeans in a way where they were falling off his butt. His grey, zippered, hooded sweatshirt was open, revealing a Pac Man t-shirt, and his sleeves were pulled up to show his tattoed arm. He was approximately 5'6" and 130lbs and I surmised by the way he announced he was a music producer that he was, in point of fact, a butthead. When he further claimed that his uncle taught Carlos Santana how to play guitar, that his maternal grandfather founded a prestigious local university, and when he proceeded to interrupt Pepe to add his own thoughts on the tour, I was sure he was a butthead.

The three cultures represented are the Mexican (by a hideous modern monstrosity of a building at the edge), the Aztec (by the foundations of their Tlalelolco pyramids), and the Spanish (by the Templo de Santiago, a 17th century church). I was fascinated by the church because of its staned glass windows. They looked to simply be colored stones rather than glass and the effect their light had on the interior of the church was beautiful.

We then went to the complex of churches which make the grounds of the Basilica de Guadalupe. The Basilica is a Marianic church (dedicated to Mary and not Jesus), arguably the largest in the world. Mary of Guadalupe is hailed as "Queen of Mexico and Empress of the Americas." As I was a) wearing shorts and b) firmly against the concept of Marianic churches, I did not enter any of the buildings but instead soaked up the ambience and sunshine of the massive courtyard as, bizarrely, a flute band played "Sound of Silence."

Pepe had given everyone an hour to explore the churches so I had time to spare. Pepe had revealed the tour included neither admission to Teotihuican nor lunch, so I was a bit light in the wallet. After getting a reasonable amount of money out from a nearby bank, I ventured to get something to eat as well. I considered getting a cheap burger as a mid-morning snack but was quite pleased with myself for instead getting a large cup of freshly cut watermelon...until AFTER I took the first bite. Then the idiocy of eating unwashed fruit comprised of a majority of local water struck me. The thought of Montezuma's Revenge as I stumbled around an archaelogical site looking for a bathroom did not stop me from eating the rest of the fruit. I figured I was doomed already so I might as well enjoy myself.

Just outside of Teotihuican, Pepe took us to a local establishment where a man taught us about the myriad uses the Aztecs and other native peoples had for a special breed of cactus, to include making paper, clothing, and, of course, alcohol. If you are averse to drinking, don't come to Mexico. They gave us each three different shots. The first was a milky one which tasted honey-like and the music producer said was partially fermented using human excrement. Pepe did not correct him... The second shot was an almond-flavored liqueur which was rather thick. The last as simply tequila. I took the one with the worm since everyone else was repulsed. I downed it in a gulp and the music producer said I should have chewed it. Butthead.

It turned out it was all a well-planned attempt to bilk tourists out of money. The man Pepe had handed us off to proceeded to show us another man flint-knapping with obsidian and then show us various idols the ancients made. He then walked us into his show to get us to purchase any of his thousands of knicknacks. Classic Bait and Switch. "Oh man! Look at all the cultural things we're learning about cacti and stones! BAM! BAM! BAM! Three shots of booze and then a store where I can buy shiny rocks and colorful blankets? Hell's YES!!!!"

Luckily, my wild tolerance gained by 2 and 1/2 years of law school enabled me to keep a cool head. I allowed them to ply me with a few more shots of tequila, but, alas for them, I still failed to buy anything. My Carpenter miser genes are strong indeed. Alex was the only one of us to succumb to their brilliant plan, but he only bought a bottle of the almond liqueur, thus showing yet again that Quebecois just love being difficult.

After lunch, Pepe took us into Teotihuican. The site is massive, impressive and words fail to accurately describe it. I made a point of climbing the two pyramids, thought to be dedicated to the moon and the sun. As I'm pretty sure people are no longer allowed to climb the Egyptian pyramids, I'm going to say I've climed the tallest pyramid it's possible to climb (the sun pyramid is over 200' tall).

I'm happy to report that my apparently iron stomach had no problems with the tequila or the watermelon and after we got back to the hostel, I went out for supper with Alex, the Australian writers, and the Butthead. I actually had a very good time with all of them, particularly the Butthead, who wasn't nearly so Buttheadish after all. We wandered around the city drinking beer and sangria and talking about film, literature, and mute, midget Drag Queens.

Midgets and Groin Kicks

Having barely slept the night before, and then only cramming in a few hours on the plane, I was quite worn out when it came time to explore. I made a half-hearted attempt to get in the adventurous mood as I wandered around Zocalo, the historic center of town, but even the festivities all around me failed to move me. I wandered amongst the throngs in the main square. There is a large winter festival going on and there was a large ramp covered in imported snow, which local children were sliding down in inner tubes. Nearby was a 100' tall fake Christmas tree. Another area had a make-shift arena which people were queuing to enter but I couldn't tell what was inside. Perhaps an ice rink? It was all a bit surreal as it was sunny and the temperature was in the high 70s. I was wearing sandals, shorts, and a hawaiian shirt.

I wandered over to the adjoining Templo Mayor, the only Aztec site in Mexico City not completely razed by the conquistadores, but I simply was too tired and so stumbled back to the hostel to read and relax. The inelegantly named Mexico City Hostel is actually quite a jewel. Tiled floors, stone and plaster walls, a pleasant inner atrium which let in the right amount of sunlight, and numerous amenities all belied the fact that I'm paying only $14 a night. Sure, the dorm room itself had the sickly-sweet locker-room/barracks smell that hostels the world round have, but all in all, it's one hell of a place.

As I sat and read in the atrium, others watched a violent Andy Garcia movie about the Cuban revolution. A local man, a guide hired by the hostel it turned out, asked me if I were part of the Lucha Libre group. I told him I wasn't but that I wanted in. For those who don't know, Lucha Libre is Mexican wrestling in which the wrestlers typically wear masks and flamboyant costumes. The guide informed us that there would also be midget fights and perhaps even "chick fights", though he did reluctantly warn us, "not sexy..."

The group I joined was a pair of Aussie college guys and a twenty-something couple from California. We all made our introductions but, in all honesty, I didn't even attempt to remember their names. In the course of this trip I'll meet several hundred people, most of whom I'll only be around for a matter of hours, if even that. It's enough for me to enjoy their (brief) company. At any rate, the guide brought us complimentary tequila shots and corona. I really wasn't feeling drinking because I was so worn out, but I figured it went part and parcel with watching sweaty men in TIGHT tights manhandle each other.

We left the hostel and met up with a group from another hostel. Several more tequila shots and off we went. I can honestly describe Lucha Libre as being akin to a high school production of the WWE. The wrestlers were mostly burly, pudgy men and they were as convincing at delivering their stomps and punches as porn stars are at reciting lines. That being said, an open palm chest slap from a 230lbs man or a seven foot dive off the ring on to the wooden floor has to hurt regardless. We arrived after the first match had begun.

There was not a strict midget fight; instead, a midget in a white and silver mask and white body suit ws on one of the "teams." He was on the "good" side. He was by far my favorite performer because he was so amazingly acrobatic. He'd jump off the ropes, land on the chest of his standing opponent, spin himself around the man's body twice, and then fling the opponent across the mat after wrapping his midget legs around the opponent's head. Every once in a while the opponent would catch him mid-air and dwarf-toss him across the ring. Whenever this happened, the crowd erupted in laughter. The match ended when one of the bad guys kicked the midget so hard in the groin that it lifted him off the ground. Of course, the referee wasn't looking until the midget had been pinned. He writhed on the mat after the match as the victor raised his hands and the audience booed.

Vendors patrolled the aisles offering beer, popcorn, souvenir masks, and even, strangely enough, light sabers. My personal favorite was the woman selling Maruchan Cup of Noodles.

In the other matches, the only other item of note was the gigantic white wrestler. He was blonde, about 6'6", and 260lbs of chiseled muscle. He towered over all the other wrestlers. He wore obscenely tight blue latex briefs with his name, Marco, in white letters across his butt. Several times he would stop in the middle of fighting, place his hands on either side of his head, and gyrate his hips at groups of ululating women in the audience. Of course, he was pinned twice in the course of the match and kicked repeatedly in the groin.

After that excitement, we were led to the Plaza Garibaldi, the only place in the city where it is legal to drink beer on the street (otherwise it's a $200 US fine). I wanted to eat, so I went over to a little eatery on the plaza and after a few minutes the others joined me. Apparently, drinking beer in the midst of 20 mariachi bands had grown tiresome quickly. We all sat and traded travel stories for awhile over a few beers and then I bid them an early good night.

It Begins Again

Last night, my mother wanted to go out to supper since I was leaving the country for the duration of my Christmas break. She wanted to get Mexican. ¨I´m going to Mexico tomorrow for three weeks and you want to take me for Mexican? Really?¨ Dutiful son that I am, I obliged.

I now sit here in a hostel in Mexico City, preparing to go out among the natives. The thought of getting kidnapped or mugged has weighed heavily on my mind since I first decided to come here. The State Department´s travel advisory did not help at all when it mentions that kidnappings have now gone from solely occurring to the wealthy tourists and businessmen and has broadened to include the middle class. Sensing a challenge, I determined to make myself look less than middle class, a difficult thing to do for a southern man who´s had braces (when in foreign countries, teeth tell you a lot about a person). I packed what I affectionately term my ¨hobo gear.¨ I did not shave for three weeks prior to leaving. Now, this may not seem that out of the ordinary to any who remember my various previous wanderings, but the difference is that this time I have not groomed my pathetic attempt at facial hair at all. I´m currently sporting a sad attempt at a goatee, surrounded by varying outposts of mangy whisps of multicolored whiskers. I look, to the best of my estimation, like a vagrant. Mission accomplished.

Having only a broad plan (to see Aztec and Maya ¨stuff¨), I packed the absolute basics of underwear, socks, two pairs of pants (one 15 year old pair of black jeans, one pair of camouflage pants), two pairs of shorts, a pair of swim trunks, five hawaiian shirts, a poncho, an Inka Cola T-shirt, a pair of sandals, a pair of sneakers, a fleece jacket, a knife, and about 7 books (to include a spanish-english dictionary and a college spanish textbook). No sooner had I got to the hostel than I changed into the shorts and sandals (it´s well over 70 degrees here right now).

The flight was delightfully uneventful, but inprocessing at the Mexico City Airport was a trifle disconcerting as I discovered that I´d left my Lonely Planet guidebook on my bed this morning and that I had to report my knife, a ´cuchillo´, to customs. Visions of a strip search in a language I barely understand flashed through my mind, but the customs lady was far from impressed with my daring to bring a pocketknife to Mexico and sent me on my way. One terrifying taxi ride to the historic center of town later (50mph weaving through traffic in a 95 Nissan Sentra), and here I go.

If I´m not back by January 11th, send in the Marines.

Australia OMG!

I watched that movie last night. I should have known better. Baz Luhrmann needs to take his place next to Ewe Boll as one of the worst directors of all time. "Not that there's anything wrong with that" but his films are homosexuals' and washed-up actresses' dreams. Let's run down the line: Strictly Ballroom? Check. Romeo and Juliet? Check. Moulin Rouge? Check. Australia? Put it this way, it prominently features Judy Garland as well as damn near every character singing "Over the Rainbow" and Hugh Jackman's soapy torso. Check and check. His next film, Wicked, will come out in 2010 and will be a musical. Dear Lord.

Anyway, just because homosexuals and washed-up actresses like his movies doesn't mean that he's one of the worst directors of all time, but (and yes I'm dealing in stereotypes) they typically prefer over the top dynamics. Heaven forbid there be any subtlety. If you're going to go over the top there has to be some sort of tongue-in-cheek, self-referential mockery (eg. "Army of Darkness").

Not for Luhrmann. He's as sincere as can be. What a butthead. My example: Having already set up Jackman and Kidman as the "rough and tough man-down-under" and" hoity-toity, well bred little-miss-know-it-all" (respectively), they are forced to ride together across the Outback in a dump of a truck. Oh wow! They don't like each other and yet they're forced to spend time together! LOL! Then she looks out the side window and sees a herd of badly computer-generated kangaroos hopping along next to them. She gets a dreamy "Oh, all my hatred and disdain for this miserable country have been wiped away by majestic marsupials!" look on her face. That's about the point where I leaned over to the person I was with and said, "BAM!". Sure enough. BAM! One of Jackman's Aborigine friends riding on the top of the truck shot a kangaroo. Tight close up of Kidman screaming in abject horror and then next, THWUMP, as the carcass is slammed on the top of the roof and blood oozes down the windshield.

Now, besides the two groups I've mentioned, obviously there are others who like the film. A good fella I go to law school with tried to defend the movie. He said he thought it was "epic."

If epic means horrific pacing, schizophrenic tone, syrupy schmaltz so thick it would choke a bear, ridiculous implausibilities, a pointless last third of the film, and a social message being beaten over your head for the duration, then yes, it was really, really, really, really epic.

That and Hugh Jackman's character is known only as "The Drover" for the entire film. What the hell is that? Just because they say it in Australian accents doesn't make it any more reasonable. If he drove A Semi and they called him "The Trucker" the entire movie, you'd consider the filmmaker touched in the head. Someone must have had pictures of Jackman and Kidman having a three-way with a kangaroo. That's the only thing that explains their participating in the cinematic ebola that was that film.

On a last note, when the hell are actresses going to stop shooting their faces full of "what the hell is that"? It's one thing if a woman has naturally plump, succulent lips; it's quite another when she comes across as having an allergic reaction. It's one thing for a woman to stay youthful gracefully; it's quite another when you can tell she had her forehead embalmed since she couldn't furrow her brow without circus strong-men's assistance. I'm pretty sure I'd have found a 41 year old Nicole Kidman naturally attractive with regular-old make-up. Instead, I was just sort of agog at exactly what she'd done to herself. She had only about three expressions in the film because her facial range of motion has been pretty well destroyed.

It may have been an Australian movie, but it'is everything that's wrong with America.

Out and About: Day 2

The NC couple I had met the night before had recommended I spend the money and flightsee Mt. McKinley. It was rainy when I woke up but had stopped by the time I made it the few blocks over to the airfield it had let up.

I scheduled a 2pm flight that would take me up and around the mountain and included a glacier landing; however the flight was tentative due to low clouds blanketing the skies. I crossed my fingers and headed into town.

"Downtown" Talkeetna consists of a street with a handful of buildings on either side of the road. I walked into the general store to buy batteries for my camera and discovered a restaurant in the back.

After eating lunch, I checked back in with the flight company and they'd scratched the flight. the clouds had not lifted. Argh!...but that was the known risk of trying to see Denali. I'd spoken to many a tourist who'd come back to Anchorage, glumly, having spent a week or more in the rain waiting for a view of the mountain. I gave the company my cell number in case the clouds miraculously lifted but I set out, on foot, for a hiking trail I'd learned about from the locals.

The trail weaved around several lakes and up and down hills. I sang loudly, not as a madman, but to put any bears on notice a human was around. Of course, I had the pistol with me, round chambered, but not cocked. Fortunately, and unfortunately, I had a pleasant scenic hike and wandered back into town.

I considered staying another night to give the flight another go but decided against it. Talkeetna is a quaint little place, but I'd seen evertyhing there was to see in town in a matter of hours and gambling with the weather is an exercise in futility up here.

I purchased a train ticket back to Anchorage. As the train arrived, I took a picture of it, but, when I sat down and took the camera out of my pocket, the view screen was cracked and broken. Damn. The ride was unspectacular but nice enough and I got into town at 8pm, ready to get back to the depot at 6am for the reportedly magnificent route to Seward. Anchorage was sunny.

Moving Right Along

I finished up my last day of work. In the last two days I managed to pocket nearly $700 in cash. Oh, how the gods do tease me! If only my entire summer had been like that... Nonetheless, while the waiting tables gig has been interesting, but I find it would only be so if, as it has been, it were a temporary diversion.

Even as I was finishing up a near record day (having sold nearly $2900 in food and booze), managers and co-workers alike continued to say/beg/plead/pray/joke that I'd be back next summer while some simply couldn't believe that I was actually leaving. I'm willing to bet that if there's a Purgatory, that's how the denizens behave when a fellow leaves. Perhaps prison as well... I've experienced this before, when I left the little town of Beaufort for good after high school. Though Anchorage is the largest city in Alaska, it has a very small town perspective in thinking that there isn't a world outside.

There is a world outside, and, in fact, there's a pretty damn big state outside of Anchorage. Though my flight is on the 14th (and arrives the 15th), I'm going to do a whirlwind exploration of Alaska and see as much of it as I can. I'm armed with a reasonable amount of cash, very little sense, no concrete plan, bizarre facial hair, and a sizeable firearm.

______________________________________________________________________
Random Thoughts/Incidents (Oh, the People You'll Meet)

1. I waited on a couple from Philadelphia who were quite pleased with my being from South Carolina. That is, until they discovered that I have never been to a NASCAR race. I found this quite peculiar until, out of nowhere, the husband said, "We agreed with y'all about the Confederate Flag!" and the wife said, "Yeah, we understand. We live with them."

2. On one of my few nice days up on the top deck bar, an old man with a white beard, wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, a denim jacket, and a stetson came up to my bar while there was a lull. He asked, "You got any 'Matanuska Thunder(screw)'?

"Um" I gamely but confusedly said, "I only have beer, wine and soda up here. You might wanna try the bar downstairs. They do the mixed drinks."

He looked consternated. "Nah, man, it's weed!"

"Oh!" I said, surprised, "nope, sorry. Not my thing."

He squirmed, "it's for medicinal purposes...I gotta use it for my..." and he slinked away.

When I wear this facial hair, I get asked about drugs a lot. A few weeks before, a guy riding a bike stopped me on the middle of the sidewalk and asked if I wanted weed or cocaine. When Andrew and I were in Cuzco, same deal. "Quieres marijuana o cocaina?" I may have a future as a Narc.

That should scare the bejesus out of some of my law school friends to say.

3. I hear some pretty stupid conversations when I'm waiting tables or bartending. As I was doing my thing behind the bar two hispanic men struck up a conversation with a vapid woman. She asked if they were Mexican and when they said they were, she asked if they were from Mexico City. It turned out they were.

""What a coincidence! First boy I ever french kissed was a Mexican named Eduardo... from Mexican City...It's a small world."

Small world? Let's see...the woman probably would have a hard time naming another hispanic country other than Mexico and then the only city she probably knew was "Mexican City". Add to that the fact that Mexico City is the LARGEST CITY IN THE WORLD, and it's not much of a coincidence. Sorta like if those Mexican men ever meet another Alaskan down in Mexico City who turns out to be from Anchorage (where half the population of Alaska resides) they can say, "What a coincidence! I wasted 3 minutes of my life talking to an idiotic woman from Anchorage...It's a small world."

Out and About: Day 1

I meant to get moving early but a night of fitful sleep left me glued to the mattress much later than I intended. It was raining when I finally got out of the hostel, having broken down my 'hovel' and stored my unnecessaries in an employee's room. As I went to leave, a young man from Richmond asked if I were planning to hitch. He'd been in Alaska for 2 months and had hitch-hiked everywhere.

"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."

Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.

My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.

Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.

Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.

It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"

"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.

"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."

He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.

Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.

Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.

It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.

"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.

"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.

"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.

"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."

Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"

"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."

"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."

"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.

"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."

"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.

"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.

"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."

"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.

"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."

I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.

Out and About: Day 1

I meant to get moving early but a night of fitful sleep left me glued to the mattress much later than I intended. It was raining when I finally got out of the hostel, having broken down my 'hovel' and stored my unnecessaries in an employee's room. As I went to leave, a young man from Richmond asked if I were planning to hitch. He'd been in Alaska for 2 months and had hitch-hiked everywhere.

"Yeah. It's the way to do it. Everyone's been great. Not one problem. People want to give you beer or get you stoned."

Truth was, I'd been kicking around the idea of hitching because I'd heard from many that it was the cheapest way to get around and it was still safe in Alaska. Nonetheless, the idea of thumbing in the rain didn't appeal to me, so I headed to the rail depot to find out about catching a train.

My plan was to head to Talkeetna, a tiny little town that was the basis for the town in the TV show "Northern Exposure." As I wouldn't have much time for my sight-seeing, I wanted to pack in as much as possible. Though Alaska is a big place, it can essentially be broken down into two: inland and coastal.

Typically, tourists head to Denali National Park for their inland experience. That was my original choice but when I mentioned it to my co-workers they uniformly scoffed. The DNP was fine, they said, but overrated. The chief attraction of the park is Mt. McKinley (Denali) but due to the monstrous peaks all around it, it is nearly impossible to see from the park. True, the park has wildlife, but everywhere in Alaska has that. No, they recommended I go to Talkeetna. It had the best view of the mountain (if the skies were clear, a huge if considering this is the worst summer here any can remember); it's a good representation of a small Alaskan town (if a bit touristy); and, being in the middle of nowhere, it's got as much wildlife as anywhere. I was won over. Talkeetna it was.

Unfortunately, I'd missed the train for the day, so if I wanted to get to Talkeetna, it would be by hitch-hiking. True, I can appear reckless, but I do try to temper my folly. Four miles and Forty-five dollars later, I was back in the hostel strapping on my .50 cal in its shoulder holster with two (2) seven round magazines of newly purchased hollow-point ammunition. Over all that went my gortex camouflage jacket and 40lbs backpack and I was off.

It was a hike to the highway out of town but I caught my first ride in minutes. Travis was a short bearded pipeline worker with a gigantic mutt (named Scraps) in the SUV. I had the pistol loaded, a round chambered, and the safety off, but I hadn't cocked the hammer. We chatted for a minute or two before he asked me, "Wanna get stoned?"

"Ah. I can't. I'm on scholarship at school and they have a personal conduct requirement stipulation and they piss-test us. I go back in two weeks. I wish you'd gotten hold of me two weeks ago," I politely lied.

"Yeah, that sucks. Figured...when I saw that you were headed to Talkeetna you were headed to the bluegrass festival and had weed on you or you wanted to get stoned."

He dropped me off shortly thereafter, 11 miles out of town. I still wasn't quite far enough out of town yet so it took another five miles of walking til I got picked up again. George,an Anchorage garbage truck driver, picked me up on his way home after a 12-hour day, We chatted pleasantly about the refuse biz for an hour as we barrelled along. We passed through Wasilla and Houston and he dropped me off on the outskirts of Willow, seventy miles away from Anchorage.

Twenty minutes later, a couple in a pick-up truck picked me up. I gamely jumped in the back. There hadn't been any rain since Anchorage but it started to come back down. Fortunately, the air pocket the cab of the truck produced kept me dry even though the bed of the truck was open. They drove me through the storm about 20 miles, and dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.

Within 5 minutes I was rolling along with Alex, a 20yo University of Alaska rising junior on his way to Talkeetna for his summer internship with the state, checking on water balances.

It was nearly dusk when I got into Talkeetna and Alex dropped me off.at the 62 degree Latitude lodge/bar/restaurant. I hadn't eaten since lunch so I went to the bar for a bite to eat and to get the lay of the land. After my Halibut sandwich, I struck up a conversation with a couple from North Pole, AK, but originally from NC. The husband, in his 50s, was a mechanical engineer who'd dragged his wife to Alaska in '82 because he was an avid mountain climber. In Alaska, he'd become a bush pilot and hunting guide. We got to talking about bears.

"With a grizzly, they 'woof' at you first if you're in their territory.

"That means they're sizing you up to see if they can whup your ass. Best to raise your arms over your head. Make yourself as big as possible.

"They start clicking their teeth, that means, 'I'm pretty sure I can whup your ass.' You need to get out of there.

"They start 'pogo-ing' on their front legs; that means get ready, because they're coming."

Finally, I spoke, "Does it do any good to shoot them?"

"Hell, a bear's heart only beats three times a minute. It can take a kill-shot to the heart, run 300 feet and tear your head off without realizing it's dead. Best to aim for joints and limbs. Cripple it; then take the kill shot."

"Yeah," I said, "I always heard to aim for the front shoulder."

"I aim for the neck. Try to sever the spine," he said coolly.

"I also heard, if you have a six-shooter, to use five on the bear..."

"...and use the last on yourself," he interrupted and finished with a guffaw.

"So what's the best way to take out a grizzly?" I asked.

"Honestly? Best thing is to cover your neck with one arm and lie flat on your belly. He's gonna bite the hell out of the back of your skull and neck. Then you take your pistol, shove it in his mouth and blow his fuckin' head off. Other than that, play dead. Grizzly's not aimin' to eat you, just make sure you're not a threat....but don't get up too fast after it leaves you for dead the first time or it'll come back and do it all over again."

"What about black bears?" I asked, hoping to get a more pleasant answer.

"Black bears eat berries and avoid contact. If one of them attacks, don't play dead; he's gonna eat your ass."

I bought him a single-malt scotch for his words of wisdom and then made my way in the dark, terrified, over to the local hostel, where I slept, poorly, in my sleeping bag on the porch.

Adventures in Table Waiting

When I was originally hired it was with the idea that I would start off as a "service bartender" (fill all the beer and wine orders in the downstairs restaurant for the waiters) and then work on the upper deck as a bartender and also wait tables. Having André luck, this summer has been one of the worst in years insofar as weather, so it's been rainy and cold for the majority of the time. The few days that I worked up on the top deck I managed to make very good money (one night even pocketing $300), but I've only been able to do it a total of 4 times all summer. Al Gore should have to give back his Nobel Prize. Global warming isn't taking place, at least not in Alaska.

At any rate, I've sorta felt the pinch because I've basically been working the minimum wage "service bar" for the majority of the summer. The only decent part was that because I was getting killed by the weather, they let me work a lot of overtime. Still, I wanted to wait tables because that's where the good money has been. I got trained up and then they just wouldn't give me shifts. Finally a week ago, they finally said, "You're leaving in three weeks???!!!" and started giving me shifts. The money has been fantastic and they've gone over themselves trying to give me extra shifts. It's been nice, if exhausting because I'm still doing the service bar shifts too.

Waiting tables has been interesting, to say the least.

1. It's an education in raising children. My second day serving, a family of six came in and took two tables. It was a mother, father and older daughter at one table and an aunt, uncle, and the younger daughter at the other. The older daughter, about eight years old, was obviously in a tiff when they arrived. As I handed out the menus and told them about the specials she glared at her mother and then when I asked their drink orders and the mother asked her what she wanted, the older daughter said, "I'm not talking to her!", got up, and sat over at another table of mine nearby. The mom smiled embarrassedly and got the girl a sprite, because petulant children need sugar. I was thrilled that one of my tables was being taken by a brat during our lunch rush

This older daughter wore a hooded sweatshirt and kept the hood over her head the entire time. She glared out from under it at her mother during the times the child wasn't purposely ignoring her. As I was walking by from another table, I heard the child tell her mom, "you might want a million dollars too, but that's not going to happen." I resisted the urge to snap the kid's neck.

The mother simply looked like she'd given up. The father was in a wheelchair and oblivious to the situation. The food came out. The brat decided to spread mustard and ranch dressing across the table before getting up in the middle of her meal to go over to her parents' table and eat sugar packets, five at a time, and then grab lemon wedges and jam them in her mouth. Again, the mother just smiled at me as if to say "oh, that little rascal."

After that, the child went out on our deck, which was closed because of weather at the time, and proceeded to play with the soda gun out there, shooting syrupy soft-drinks all over the deck and drinking directly from it. I imagined what would have happened to me as a child if I'd tried anything like that and I'm relatively sure the James Carpenter Parenting Technique would have resulted in a shallow grave within tossing distance of the restaurant. Say what you will about my behavior nowadays; back then, I knew to step in line.

2. One of my customers, a mountain man from Tennessee with a long, bushy, white beard, paid with a credit card. The signature block on the card said "see ID". I asked for his ID. He said, "You're gonna card Santa Claus? You're getting coal for Christmas." I responded, "Thanks, that should cut my energy bills down. With an incentive like that I'll stick to being bad." He laughed, but then tipped me 9%. Lesson learned: Hope the laugh you get is worth more to you than the money you lose by being a smart---.

3. So far I've gotten to speak four other languages. My first night an Italian couple who didn't speak a word of English came in. I took three semesters of Italian 10 years ago so I offered to wait on them. I barely remembered any of it and what I did remember was from the customers' perspective when ordering food and not from the waiter (Vorrei un bicchieri di vino rosso "I would like a glass of red wine") so I was sorta useless. I mentioned I spoke some French so we switched to that and it was a little better, but still about as frustrating as brushing my teeth with my left hand. Later I got to attempt Quebecois French with Montrealers. They speak mush mouth French. Yesterday, I had two Germans. They only wanted beer. If there's one thing I learned how to speak German about it was beer. "Zwei Biere. Dunkle biere," the husband said, and made the motion of pulling the tap for draught beer. I responded, "Ah so. Ich habe Anglisch biere (Porter). Ist gut?" "Genau!" Today I got Argentinians. I described our Golden Ale as "Cerveza de Oro" (Beer of Gold) which worked for the father and we figured out the rest of the family's order. I do wonder if perhaps the mother and daughter only got lemonade and water because one's a virtual cognate and the other is just universally well known (limonada y agua). I've been picking up bits and pieces of Bulgarian from the cooks, but I don't think I'm ready to use that on customers, unless they want to be subjected to all manner of profanity.

As it stands, I will make enough money in the next couple of weeks to make this trip much more profitable than if I'd stayed in Columbia. Somehow, working at a restaurant/bar, I've been drinking much less and, combined with all the walking I do, I've dropped a few inches off my waist. The only downside has been that it's been so cloudy and rainy up here that I've started getting Seasonal Affective Disorder (mopey because not enough sunlight) like I used to in Germany. Even one of the local waitresses mentioned that friends of hers had been plugging in their winter SAD lights this summer because it's been so bad. I've been dreading going from the comfortable high50s that I've grown accustomed to here to the hell of the South in August, but I'll trade the clouds for Sun. I miss home.

Top Gun

When I was a kid, I refused to see Top Gun when it first came out. My brother wanted to see it, you see, and I was a little pain in the ass so I said "Uh-uh! I don't wanna see that!" I did this also with Untouchables the next year. Hell, I even did that with the movie Sexy Beast in 2001. I can be quite aggravating, as many no doubt have noticed.

When I finally did get around to seeing the movie, oh boy! Fighter planes! Missiles! I saw it 14 times in the movie theater. 14 times. I made everyone take me. I don't mean family even. I mean I'd go spend the night at people's houses who hadn't seen the movie (and many of whom I didn't even like) just to make their parents take us. I loved, loved, loved Top Gun.

I just watched it again for the first time in possibly 2 decades and boy did I miss a lot. First of all, and most obviously, there're a hell of a lot of scenes of sweating men in little or no clothing. As a seven year old, I only remember closing my eyes when the screen went blue for the love scene between maverick and "charlie." Speaking of which, "Charlie"? Oh jeez, how 'bout subtlety on the innuendo?

Homosexual subtext or supertext aside, the main thing that struck me was that the whole point of the film was that the Navy sent its best pilots to this school to get better at dogfighting. The lead instructor makes a big speech at the introduction to the school about how pilots had gotten too reliant on missiles and not used their guns enough.

After graduating from, supposedly, the world's best dogfighting school, what happens? The Americans get into it with the Russians...and it's the Russians who use their guns and outmaneuver the lame-o Americans, even shooting one of the Americans down (Hollywood to be specific). How do the Americans win? By shooting down the Russians with missiles. Great, thanks for wasting my time by making me watch an hour and a half of pointless training. What? Let me get this straight...you are going to send Maverick, who apparently didn't learn a damn thing at the school, back to be an instructor? Brilliant. And the US taxpayers get to pay for an ultimately pointless school where, apparently, the real training is in giving lusty glances at your fellow pilots and navigators while you're sweating in your tidy-whities. Oh, and playing sweaty volley-ball while flexing your muscles. Sweet!

If they do a remake, I say they let the Village People do the Kenny Loggins songs.

From Russia with Stink (and other Anchorage tales)

Tonight I've had to cross a boundary I'd hoped never to cross. I finally had to step up and ask a roommate to please shower. The gentleman checked into the room a few days ago. I pay very little attention to whom I share a room with as they change so often. Currently, I have a gregarious Ohioan, up to battle his ex-wife for custody of his children, with whom he claims she absconded ("claimed" being the operative word). At any rate, aside from the gregarious Ohioan there is this gentleman, this man from Russia/Ukraine.

When not working or walking around, I typically am in the cave that I have constructed out of my bunk. I reside in the lower bunk which is in a corner so two sides are blocked and the other two sides I have blocked, from this infernal 19 hours of daylight, with a sleeping bag at the end and a poncho along the side. Here in my little cocoon I do my emailing, web-surfing, and general dawdling. Two days ago, in the midst of my dawdling I was overwhelmed and thought to myself, "Dear God! I reek!" I flipped out of my bunk to get myself to the shower post haste. Emerging from my womb, I was hit full- blast with a snootful of stench that nearly brought tears to my eyes. Sitting in the chair at the foot of the bunk sat the gentleman. I scurried off to take a shower, though no longer from fear that the stench emanated from me, but rather to ensure that it gained no hold or contaminated me. When I came back in the room, I was hit by the wall of funk, but I scurried over and, as delicately as I could, I thrust open the window nearest me. Fortunately I departed for work soon thereafter. Though it has been in the low fifties each night I have prefered to keep the window open and wake up with blue feet rather than risk a warm contagion.

This evening, after coming back from a movie, I took a deep breath before entering the room, praying that the gentleman would not be there. He was not, but his sleeping bag was in its customary place. I died a little on the inside, and changed into my hostel costume of basketball shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt. The Ohioan entered and, as he is wont to do, started in on the details of everything that had happened to him. Though I have never shown much interest other than courtesy required and even had to go about deliberately ignoring him, he has been sure to give me the blow by blow of his custody case and all manner of unnecessary detail of his daily whatever. He did stop, mid-sentence though, after I had done my usual scurrying into my cave in the hopes of my dissappearance giving him the hint to be quiet, to comment on our gentleman. "I tried to give him the hint and pointed him where the showers are. I don't see his bags. Maybe he's gone for the night?"

"No dice," I told him, "His sleeping bag's still here."

The Ohioan went off to catch a movie (on my suggestion as I wanted quiet), and I stepped out of the room for a moment. When I returned, I smelled the gentleman's presence before I had opened the door enough to see that he was there. Enough was enough.

"Sir, I don't mean to give offense...and I don't really know how to say this politely...but could you please take a shower?"

"What do you mean? I take a shower every day," he said in thickly Slavic-Something accented English.

"Um...yes...well...again...I don't really know how to say this properly but there's a smell..."

"It is the room that smells." He was getting angry.

"Um...well...yes...but...it's you."

"I don't smell it."

At that point I didn't really know what to say. I really didn't want to say, "The reason you can't smell anything is because you've gotten used to smelling like a deer and it's so powerful that it's blocked out everything else that doesn't smell like decay and bacteria."

I decided that evacuating the room was the best course of action as he fumed, both in mood and odor, and took a book to the lobby for a while. When I returned, he left and I ratcheted the windows back up. He stopped in momentarily to ask me when I would be leaving the hostel. I don't think he liked my answer of August 6th. If he's going to be here with me, I don't think I liked my answer either
________________________________________________________________

It's only taken until now for people at work to finally gather that I really, truly am not staying in Alaska. I have told nearly everyone that I'm a law student and just up here for the summer, but so many of them have said that they only ever intended to come up for a summer and then ended up staying that they couldn't fathom that I'd really go through with my plan of leaving. I don't know if it's from the fact that they're somehow going to miss the goofy guy with the ridiculous facial hair or, like crabs in the pot, they don't want to see anyone escape, but they are not happy and are trying to convince me to stay. The general manager has already tried to intice me with a managership and repeatedly says, "by the time you're ready to leave you'll be able to run this place." The other managers merely say, "well, you'll be good to go when you come back next year." When I mention that I'll be studying for the bar the joke has become "you can study for the bar at the bar."
________________________________________________________________

I saw my first moose the other night as I walked home from the grocery store. There, in the athletic field complex along my route, was a she-moose idly stumbling along in a little- league outfield. A moose is a damn big creature and looks, as nearly as I can tell, like a retarded horse. It has a large, misshapen head and spindly legs with knobby knees. It stumbles rather than walks. It is not a gracious animal. For some reason, I'm under the impression that they're not the friendliest of creatures either, so I was pleased to be on the other side of the fence and I scurried back to my Room of Funk. If I'm going to deal with a smell like that, I'd rather it come from an animal that couldn't trample me to death.

And All This Without Upper Sinuses...

Alaska on a Thursday Night

My life up here has not been completely without entertainment. Last night, for instance, I went to the midnight movies with some of the guys from work. Colt, a gentle giant of a 23 year old, at 6'2" and 300lbs and wearing a bushy sandy blond beard, is the leader of the little group of employee buddies that I've run across. He is my fellow bartender and showed me the ropes. His two "little" buddies are both 17 year old bus-boys, Anthony, a 6'0", 280lb curly headed Puerto Rican, and Patrick, a baby-faced, long haired man-child of 6'5". They listen to heavy metal and play World of Warcraft. They find it astonishing that I do neither. I am very strange to them already, though, being an ancient 29 (and being me, to boot, of course).

In the car ride over to the theater I was entertained to listen to them talk about the various sundry aspects of the neighborhoods we were passing. Substance abuse is a big issue in Alaska. As the guys said, "It's either spend the winter drinking or doing drugs til you die or play video games." I decided at that point not to mock the World of Warcraft any more. They pointed out where the local heroin dealer lives and talked about how, since the liquor stores close early (and they are the only places to by alcohol), the local drunks will go to the 24 hour grocery stores and buy listerine to drink. "Oh yeah," said Anthony cheerfully, when I asked if people really drank Listerine, "my grandmother used to drink that stuff and it tears off the stomach lining. Then their breath stinks. We had to tear out the carpet in her room because we couldn't get the smell of her breath out of it."

Besides the conversation, the car ride was memorable in and of itself. Colt's car, an early nineties Pontiac, has worn out shocks on the right side, a busted out front driver window where someone broke in to steal his Ipod, a back driver-side passenger window that stays half-way lowered, a windshield that is spider-webbed with so many lengthy cracks that it may just burst at any pothole (particularly with no shocks on one side) and a board in the backseat that he jams against the seat behind the driver's seat to keep his driver's seat propped up. Of course, the car is filthy and littered with fast-food packaging and crushed energy drink cans.

After the movie, which was thoroughly silly, we dropped off Patrick and Anthony. I live close to the restaurant, but far away from where they live. On the way back, Colt said, "Uh oh...I'm out of gas." The car began to sputter. He began to pull the car over.

"NO!! NO!!!" I yelled, "Coast as long as possible!"

Colt, having never run out of gas before, had never had to push a car before. I have had to push a car before. When we were still rolling at 15 miles an hour, he said, "Well, we may as well start pushing. We're going just as fast."

"Hell no we're not! Roll until it stops. Trust me."

Eventually it did stop and out I got. I am quite thankful now for the daily six miles of walking I've been doing, because, unpleasant as it was, pushing that car (with the 300 pounder in it) would have been excruciating otherwise. In it's way, it was sort of pleasant as I pushed, asI looked out at the mountains, whose snows are now rapidly retreating, and the soft glow of the ever present dusk that passes for night. After a mile, which was rather long and troublesome considering it was 2am and the other cars on the road no doubt had their share of drunk drivers, we got to a gas station and then finally made it back at 3am.

Apparently, that was just what a normal night in Anchorage is like.

The Joys of Hostel Living

Life Goes On. Currently, I'm attempting to sleep in a bunk beneath Mr. Snorey McNightTerrors.

-Mr. Sleepy MacSometimesLivingInAHostelFor$5ADayIsn'tWorthIt

Fun with Muggers

On my daily soujourn to and from the library, I pass through the local park. It is regularly frequented by the drunken destitute. While, I've never felt endangered walking through there, I do believe I may have been subjected to the world's laziest mugging attempt the other day.

The path through the park crosses a picturesque stream. There is a twelve-foot-wide bridge that crosses it. A large, tall Inuit glared at me as I approached the bridge. He was leaning on a railing. I assumed he was drunk. I walked on the other side of the bridge and he turned to face me as I walked by.

"Hey! Come here!" he slurred menacingly.

"Can't do it, friend," I said cheerfully, my left hand holding the knife in my pocket, as I quickly kept moving.

"I said @#$!ing come over here!" he growled again, but didn't move.

I commend him on his chutzpah, but his technique needs work. That being said, maybe I'm just lucky his siren-call didn't ensnare me.

Self-Flagellation

I've not written in a while because I've fallen into a comfortable but none-too-exciting routine of walking to the library, fiddling around on the internet, walking back, getting ready and going to work, and then reading and writing before bed. I worked out a deal with the hostel where they dropped my daily rate to $5 in exchange for cleaning for a couple of hours in the morning.

I am going backwards. I used to be a professional, in charge of dozens of men and millions of dollars in equipment; now I'm a waiter and a janitor. The girl who runs the front desk in the mornings asked me, after I came in from picking up cigarette butts outside, "Aren't you too intelligent to be doing that?"

I am smart, in my way; I'm also a complete dunce in my way too. This is particularly true of well-known landmarks. When I was first in the Army, I flew up to Chicago to visit my best friend, Dewey, who was there for company training. I insisted we go up to the observation deck of the Sears Tower. Id' been to Chicaog a few years before, so I determined myself the local expert and led the way. Over to the Sears Tower we went and in no time we were looking out at the city from what, for a number of years, had been the tallest building in the world.

"André," asked Dewey, "if this is the Sears tower, then why is this placard saying that TALLER building over there is the Sears Tower?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

I'd taken us to the Hancock Building.

When I first wrote from here I mentioned the snow-covered mountains surrounding the city and Mt. McKinley, the tallest mountain on the continent, rising majestically from across Cook Inlet. Mt. McKinley is indeed visible from across Cook Inlet, but only barely, on extraordinarily clear days, since it's nearly 200 miles away. I'd confused it with Sleeping Lady Mountain (Mt. Susitna).

When I was a child, we had foreign guests come visit us in Charleston. Each day they'd go out sight-seeing. On their last evening in town, they got their pictures processed and showed us everything they'd seen (this was back in the days when airport x-rays would ruin film). Prominent in many of the photos, was California Dreaming, on the bank of the Ashley, which they thought was Fort Sumter. We were too embarrassed for them to tell them the truth. Now I'm glad to see that my particular flaw is cross-cultural and not genetic.

At any rate, I'm not necessarily too intelligent to be a janitor; I may be too intelligent to be a waiter though. The general manager of the restaurant already gave me a raise and offered to make me a manager if I'd stay. Somehow I made the bad decision not to take him up on that particular proposition, so maybe I'm not so smart after all.

And Now a Word from a Pathetic Pontificator

I write this on the 64th anniversary of D-Day. That's appropriate for my topic. I've been reading everything Vonnegut I can get my hands on since I've been up here. I love the way he writes or, since he's dead, how he wrote. So it goes.

I just finished reading Wampeters, Foma, and Granfaloons, a collection of non-fiction articles, essays and speeches Vonnegut had written up to 1973. Though I love the man's writing, I can't abide his message, his vision. What was the message? What was the vision? The world is getting worse and worse and we are all doomed. And so on.

At the same time I loved that he tried to do something about it. He ranted and railed for us to change our ways to stop our descent. He was brilliant enough to coat his doom and horror with humor. Mary Poppins would be proud.

And through old Kurt's eyes he may have felt he were Cassandra, that no one listened to his TRUTH. I prefer to think he probably identified with Howard Beale, the Mad Prophet of the Airwaves, who built up a following by telling people the depressing reality of the way things are. Doom and gloom only hold people's attention for so long though. "A spoon full of sugar...," that wise woman repeatedly sang.

Part of what rubs me wrong about Vonnegut's TRUTH is that it is only partial and therefore propagandistic. We certainly are becoming worse and worse as a society if one looks only at our failures and short-comings. But that is only part off the story, as we all know. Our society has had resounding successes and possesses virtues. I don't wish to sweep our failures and short-comings under the rug; I merely wish that both sides be acknowledged so that I can make my point. Society is neither going up nor down, but forward. This is entirely sensible, I believe. If we ever want to continue to move forward, we must acknowledge both successes and failures, strengths and short-comings.

Awareness brings the possibility of control, I like to say, so it is only with a fuller picture of ourselves as a society that we can hope to lessen our mistakes and build on our achievements. It's a difficult accomplishment but one I think we're capable of making.

I've just written rather didactically about what "we as a society" need to do. I'm certainly no prophet and I'm no philosopher. I leave grandiose topics such as society to holy men and philosophers. I wish them the best of luck.

The only thing I can speak about with any authority whatsoever is the individual, and by that, of course, I mean myself. So here goes.

I have run across many armchair philosophers and pseudo-intellectuals in my short, but ever-lengthening, time on this planet. I ran across a group of them in the lobby of the hostel this evening. I can spot them easily. They are white, middle-to-upper class, and typically have enough college under their belt to be dangerous (to themselves). If they haven't had college, they've feasted on the fruits of their library cards.

At any rate, you can spot them by their message; it's fairly common and not particularly challenging; in fact they've simply confused bleakness with depth. Their message is this: life is meaningless and painful and anyone with any sense should be filled with despair at the injustice of it all.

In high school, these people were typically known as "Goths' and they carried as their banner their smug quotations from dead middle-to-upper class European men, which their immature minds had digested about as well as their bodies could digest pine bark. Those men all wrote when middle-to-upper class Europeans were the most powerful and blessed creations on the planet. At any rate, woe be to the Goths' peers who thought that life may perhaps, just perhaps, contain any goodness, no matter how small. "Automaton! Sheep!" Oh the condescension!

In college these Goths sometimes traded in their sartorial uniform of black everything to be taken seriously, having achieved at least the modicum of self-awareness necessary to realize intelligent people would find them foolish for talking about the sad, desperate, SOLITARY curse of life when the Goths and their friends were easily identifiable. At any rate, they put away their childish outward trappings, but still the message was broadcast triumphantly. Many may not have heard it because these now wayward "existentialists" chose only to expound their views around the likeminded, with the accompanying masturbatory glee that came with thinking they, and they alone, "got it."

I pick on my wayward brethren, these pretend existentialists, the Arrogant, I call them, but they are no more or less enfuriating and asinine than the other end of the spectrum, the Spoiled, not surprisingly enough also white and middle-to-upper class, who think, uncritically, that life is all flowers and sunshine.

The "truth" as I've seen it, as I've seen it throughout my life (and now I suppose I myself speak with the accursed, aforementioned glee) is that life is a great deal many things, to include horrifying, wonderful, meaningful, meaningless, and a host of other contradictions. I think I offer nothing new when I posit that life is what you make of it.

What do I make of it? What's my personal philosophy? First of all, I think objectivity is of paramount imporantance. Like the Arrogant and the Spoiled, I am a middle-to-upper class white. I am even educated, as imperfectly as I may be. My life isn't perfect and it isn't easy. No one's is. but I've damn sure got it better than most, better than billions on this marble of ours. I try not to lose sight of that.

I'm not a Sri Lankan whose world got washed away in the tsunami; I'm not an Iraqi whose family got killed by a bomber; I'm not a tribesman who had his hands cut off by a rival tribe; I'm not even an American high school drop out, working a dead-end, minimum way job, and living hand to mouth. I most certainly never stormed an impossible beach of bullets, shrapnel and death, watching my friends die all around me. I have it entirely too damn good to insult those who do suffer by either thinking I have it badly OR that life is just too damn stupendous for words.

My philosophy is that there is no wisdom, maturity, or heightened awareness in recognizing only the bad or good that life has to offer. My philosophy is that it's a sight wiser and more mature to count what blessings we have and to try and focus on the best, not worst that life has to offer. Good and bad are going to happen to us so enjoy as much as you can. There is ugliness in this world, and there is beauty; seek out the beautiful. There is unspeakable badness in people, and there is unbelievable goodness; appreciate the good and contribute how you can.

My philosophy is practical, I feel. Be nice to other people, even if they don't deserve it; especially if they don't deserve it. Don't be selfish. Help people if they're down; help people when they're not down. Try to make things better.

It's all very basic and not very exciting. It's not an original philosophy by any stretch of the imagination. For those inclined to believe such things, it's no less than what the son of God told men to do; he told men that for their happiness. For those disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, it's no less than what was obvious to an uneducated carpenter's son over 2,000 years ago; he told men that for their happiness. For those really disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, some nefarious pedagogical mastermind came up with it to keep men weak and subservient; it still makes a lot of sense and, however inadvertently, works for men's happiness.

So be it for the individual or society, I say to the Arrogant or any Mad Prophets, sure there's a damn lot to gripe about, but there's no wisdom or utility in only doing so. To only complain when so obviously fortunate comes across as the mewling of an ungrateful child. I say do something about it; find the good and do what you can to make things better.

Keep It Classy

I'd been warned by a few of my friends who'd been to Alaska that there were two things about the women. The first was that there is a 10:1 man/woman ratio in Alaska, and the second is, because of that ratio, the women are to be avoided at all costs. As misogynistic as that sounds, believe me when I promise you that I cleaned up what they really told me so that it could be put in print without damning me.

At any rate, being in Anchorage where half of the total population of the state lives (600k in Alaska, thus 300k in Anchorage), there are far more women here than if I were in one of the smaller communities. The women seem much the same as anywhere else at first glance.

The other night at the restaurant where I bartend, during a lull, I struck up small talk with a waitress, Jessica, a petite mousy little 22yo who looked as if she were born to be a librarian or kindergarten teacher. I asked her, "What's the craziest thing you've ever done?" thinking I'd hear something as racy as "jaywalking."

"Sex in a movie theater," she said without batting an eye.

"Oh..." I mumbled, batting an eye.

"Yeah, it was packed. It was pretty hot."

"I was going to say mine was when I broke into a British Naval Radar Installation on the Rock of Gibraltar to watch sunset and sunrise, all while I was an American Army officer...yours sounds like it was more fun though."

"Yeah. It was hot."

"Wanna go to the movies?" was what I didn't ask.

Hostile? Hostel?

Though I've spent my fair share of time in hostels, 'til now, that time has been in Europe and South America. Though the uninitiated might think sleeping in a room of bunkbeads with grimy foreign tourists would be unpleasant at the best and dangerous at worst, I have found my experiences to be some of the best of my travels. At times, the hostel buddies I've made have been temporary, such as Brid (pronounced Breed), the Irish Engineer my friend Andrew and I befriended in the Galapagos, or long lasting, like my Australian friends Dana and Daniel who I met in Rome and then fortuitously ran across in Nice a week later

I am pleased to report that I am nothing short of a blithering idiot. I had thought perhaps an American hostel would be filled with the same sort of interesting people. Nope. I failed to acount for where I was and the types of people who travel here. Europe and South America get (mostly) cultural tourists, who, no matter how grimy, have a sense of awareness and refinement; that is, except for Americans. I typically shy away from other Americans on my overseas travels because they have no awareness or refinement. They are loud, obnoxious, and inconsiderate and travel for no other reason than it "seemed like something to do." They gloss over cultural sites and center their time around bars and nightlife. I myself have found that bars typically look the same everywhere.

At any rate, Alaska is not a cultural mecca, per se. There are no great monuments or wonders on par with Macchu Picchu or the Eiffel Tower. Alaska is the wilderness. It is rugged. So far, I have discovered a few distinct types in the hostels. First and best are the outdoorsmen: the hikers and kayakers, who have come, reverently, to experience the beauty of the land. Next are the eastern Europeans, who have come for the summer to make as much money as they can before they head home. Last, and by far the most populous, are the Americans. Some are here to work, some because it "seemed like something to do." All are loud, obnoxious, and inconsideate; most are bizarre; many are convicts.

The first hostel I stayed in, I shared a room with a red-headed bear of a man who had latched on at one of the local hotels as a cook. He regaled me with stories of when he was in high school in Indiana, nearly fifteen years earlier. He'd taken the same four classes all four years (home ec, study hall, shop, and gym) because he was a football player. He got a full scholarship to play at Illinois, but within a year he was in jail for hat would turn out to be a four-year-stretch after a fight went wrong. "I spent my 19th birthday in the hole. My 21st too...but I was brewing my own hooch for that one." He also told me about his brother who was a college baseball player before durg use obliterated his mind and he spent the next few years in mental institutions or jails.

My next hostel experience started out quite auspiciously. Among several others in the room was a gregarious North Carolinian. I chatted with him when I first checked in; it turned out he'd been stationed in Bamberg too when he was in the Army. I went out and when I came back that evening he bagan talking to me, ignoring the fact that there were three others trying to sleep in the room. I only just managed to get him quiet and get myself to sleep when door slamming kicked in my PTSD. A group of Aussies had just checked in, apparently after they'd been to the bars, and they had no idea it was nearly midnight. We in our room muttered and cursed as the Aussies yelled to each other in the hall and slammed their room doors every three seconds. Finally tired of having flashbacks of being mortared, I launched from my top bunk and stormed out to the hallway to confront them.

When I opened my room door, I came fact to face with a skeleton of a man with close cropped hair. "What are you lookin' at?" he growled, glaring at me through sunken eyes.

That was it. I snapped. I punched him in the nose and as he staggered back, his hands covering his bloody, broken nose, I kneed him in the groin. He dropped like a stone. "Oy!" Two of his friends came out of their room. I was able to kick the big one in the left knee, the satisfying crunch and his scream letting me know I'd crippled him, but the second one socked me in the side of the head. I reeled for a moment but he wasted his opportunity. He was much smaller than me so I lunged at him, dragging him to the ground. We grappled for a moment before I was able to get on top of him and I battered his face to a pulp. After the last, satisfying "THWACK!", which sent his eyes rolling in the back of his head and knocked him unconscious, I roared.

Or, when I opened my door, I politely asked the skeleton if he wouldn't mind asking his friends not to slam their doors or yell in the hallways. I went back to my bunk and they were nice enough to slam the doors every six seconds instead of every three.

Two nights ago was by far my best. I came in from my first night of work to a gigantic blob of a man sitting on one of the bunks. We exchanged pleasantries as I got myself ready for bed. He asked if it would be okay if he kept the light on. I said that was find but that I'd like it if he didn't slam doors, because it reminded me of mortars. Big Mistake. He launched into a thirty minute diatribe about his vietnam fater who could only see in infrared and had to be "plugged in to a computer to think," how the blob wanted to be in the navy or marines but he'd been to jail a bunch and had been in mental institutions for three years, and how he used to be 375lbs but had gotten down to 220lbs before deciding to get back to 320lbs because he was "wasting away."

Over the course of his rant, he kept mentioning the "secret service", which to him was apparently a covert military group that is comprised of convicts and mental patients, which someday might find a place for him. By the end of it, he'd become incomprehensible because of his profanity and general lack of vocabulary: "I mean, the (f-bomb)-in' (poop), it's like (f-bomb), you know what I mean?" The fact that I'd wrapped my face in a t-shirt, to keep out the light, and was grunting my monosylabbic responses didn't deter him. I was only saved when another roommate walked in. The next morning, I didn't move in my bed until the blob had packed up and left, even though he waited an hour, sitting on his bunk, no doubt waiting to talk at me some more.

I need to find a place to stay.