First and foremost, regardless of what I gripe about with the movie, it's a spectacle. I didn't mind wearing the glasses and even though most everything is CGI, I didn't feel like I was watching a video game, which is good considering the movie is about 2 and 1/2 hours long. The Avatars/Na'vi worked. If you like to be wowed, it's definitely worth the price of admission.
If you're a hoity-toity who watches mostly European films only seen by a handful of pretentious snobs, and despise anything that is just good, old-fashioned mass entertainment (which I argue is much rarer and more difficult to pull off than being boring and depressed in another language), you're going to hate it no matter what. I'll spare you the time you'd take condescending to watch the movie and say, yes, it's basically a $300 million "Dances With Wolves."'
However, there's more to it, really. Even though you've seen the plot before, I guarantee you haven't seen it this way. The 3D works. It's not a gimmick used to jolt you. It's fluid and seems reasonable, even vital to the presentation. Just from the previews you know what's going to happen, but, as the old saying goes, it's the journey, not the destination. Other than one glitch (the Na'vi sex scene), I could remain within the movie and buy the goings on.
Don't read further til you've watched the movie, or go ahead if you don't plan to.
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1. Yes, I liked the movie, but, Jesus, I get it already with the whole "we have to love the Earth" thing. "They've destroyed their mother!" I get it. Everything's connected! I get it. I kept waiting for a scene where they beat one of the dead eight-legged horses. One thing though, while the movie tries very hard to get the message across that the world and its inhabitants are all interrelated, the script sure tries to de-ball the notion of mysticism it presents by trying to science it up with some gobledygook about electro-chemical bonding that takes away the spirituality it's trying to foster. I mean, as it stood, without that, it made a lot more sense and was much deeper for, on the Na'vi world of Pandora, it to have its own goddess, but instead of sticking with that, the script debunks that by having the planet be a super-organism. A decent idea, but makes the Na'vi a lot less wise and a lot more foolishly superstitious.
2. The Na'vi love and respect all life. Boy, do we get told that a lot. They live in harmony with nature. Boy, do we get that a lot. Um, if they love life, why are they carnivores? I mean, other than having incisors, if they've understood and have proof that all life is woven together, wouldn't it make sense for them to rely less on hunting and gathering and more on agriculture? I know it's nit-picky, but that's why civilization evolved, when we we stopped chasing our food around the continents. Prey steer clear of predators, particularly 12-foot-tall ones with bows and arrows so that's why the earliest peoples were nomadic, they had to go where the food went. Yes, the Na'vi fly and ride long distances to hunt, but they're basically wiping out their own areas of the creatures they claim to love and respect so much. Surely, since they see the "seeds" of the Great Tree everywhere, they understand that plants can be grown from seeds and that they could produce far more food, and cause far less harm, by planting. The inspiration for the Na'vi, American Natives (though some Aboriginal influence along with shades of others) sure figured out planting. Hell, if not for them, no Thanksgiving. Maybe since the trees and plants are all woven into the goddess network, that means harvesting plants is worse than killing sentient creatures. Hmm...
3. The sex scene. Um. Awkward. I am able to buy sentient creatures. I'm able to understand a bond or attraction, but it still seemed like creepy bestiality when Jake and Neytiri get frisky. I mean, yes, I'm titillated by attractive people being romantic, but I don't feel that way when I watch two lions go at it, nor would I be if it were a good-looking person with an animal. Perhaps I'm specieist, but it was enough to pull me out of the movie and make me giggle awkwardly. Maybe I'm troglyditic and not enlightened, but it was unnecessary.
4. No fire. That means they ate all the animals raw. Um. Yikes. Jesus. According to Avatar: Mankind=bad. But at least we cook our food.
5. Couldn't the goddess have sent out the hammerhead creatures and flying creatures BEFORE the Na'vi got slaughtered. Thanks for the help, bitch.
6. Is the sequel going to be obvious? The company comes back with biochem weapons or nukes. Good luck going against that. I was in the Army. I can tell you that when it comes to weapons, yes, every once in a while, if greatly outnumbered, the superiorly equipped can be overrun (Zulu, Little Big Horn), but ordinarily, it's a slaughterhouse for the less advanced. Direct frontal assault of machine guns is impossible if all you have is guns (see War, World I) and incomprehensible with bows and arrows.
7. "Shock and Awe!" "Preemptive attack!" Um, this is where I get hoity-toity myself and say, "stick with entertainment, not 'MESSAGE!!!!' This is a 3D blockbuster movie, not a social commentary." War is bad. Got it. Move on. It was sorta jarring and a bit ridiculous. The company is Halliburton. Got it. Does that make the Na'vi the Iraqis or Afghanis? Um...No. They're not noble people who we're callously exploiting for their natural resources (the oil rights in Iraq got auctioned to European and Asian nations). Has James Cameron been to Afghanistan or Iraq? I somehow doubt it. I didn't see the mirrors of the Na'vi, noble, spiritual people in tune with nature and living in harmony. I won't say what I did see, but it sure as hell wasn't THAT. Was it a commentary on our exploitation of the New World? Um, who knows? There was a jumble of sympathies that the movie tried to cater to, all mostly "liberal." I don't say that as a slur or condescension, but unless you want to be argumentative, it's fairly understandable why I say that. "We love the trees and animals! Exploiting natural resources is bad!" We know who those people are, just as much as we know who the "It's my damn right to drive my Tractor Trailer SUV and I'll shoot you with my gun if you try and stop me" people are. What I've never really understood is why, if the "liberals" are city folk (who use up tons of resources) and the "conservatives" are rural (not nearly as much, but too much anyway), why their roles aren't reversed? I would think the hunters (typically "conservative" would want the woods as clean and uncorrupted as possible, would want the quotas enforced so that the animals aren't killed to unsustainable levels) would want to save the environment. I was told (so it must be true) that an analysis of the famous smog of Los Angeles, so thick that it obscured a MOUNTAIN a half mile away the last time I was there, is primarily particles of hamburger from all the fast food places. G.R.O.S.S.
8. The humans were the bad guys, right? That's a flawed perspective. The helicopter pilot and the scientists (and the main character, of course) are the only ones portrayed as being humane. Everyone else are thoughtless murderers. Right, sure you can say that about the main baddies, the corporate goon, played by Giovanni Ribisi, and the Colonel, but how much can you? What did unobtanium do? They never say. Is it like gold? Is it used for energy? Who knows. What if mining it was absolutely necessary for the salvation of humanity? The movie doesn't say, but I'm just asking. Should humanity die out because 200 blue aliens won't move? I know that's not what's necessarily presented, again, I'm just asking. What if it wasn't necessary for the salvation of humanity, but it made things a hell of a lot easier. Imagine you and every other American can't have electricity in your home or fuel for your car because 300 people won't bargain with you for the oil that they have under their land, which they don't use or need. What do you honestly expect we'd do? What do you honestly expect people would clamor for the US government to do? Get that damn oil, that's what. "All cultures are equal! Exploitation is bad!" works fine in theory, but I bet a damn lot of people who feel that way would find it's not so easy to keep that mindset when you don't have the Nikes made for pennies on the dollar in foreign countries so that the costs can stay down, when a gallon of gasoline costs $25. We currently are living in an exploitative society. That's one thing I loved, was when, in school, people got on their morale high horse about Slavery and the Confederacy. Everyone who lived in the South wasn't an evil bastard. Not everyone who owned slaves was. Was it a reprehensible system? Yes. Obviously. All I mean to say is that we live in one now. No one likes to think of that about themselves. We basically hold much of the rest of the world in economic slavery so we can have what we want, but Susie Soccermom doesn't feel that way when she drives the wildly unnecessary Suburban to ferry the kids around. Donnie Dummie doesn't feel that way when he drives his $30k pick up truck that's never touched its tires to mud. You want to understand the people of the Antebellum South or the Southerners during the war, even those who weren't slave owners? Imagine if the UN said, "USA, you have to cut your energy consumption by 3/4ths. We voted on it." We'd tell them, "Hell no! We want out of the UN!" "You can't leave the UN! It's a binding union!" "Hell no! You'll ruin our entire system!" "We don't care; you're hurting the rest of us! It's morally reprehensible!" What do you think we'd do? Think an ultimatum like that wouldn't rip this country apart? Just food for thought.
9. Even if the Humans are the bad guys, are all of them? Yes, they're mercenaries, but does that make them bad? The normal grunts don't know the first thing about the Na'vi. They're on an alien planet where everything, Navi and animals, are trying to kill them. They're not thinking about geopolitics. They're thinking "survive." They don't know anything about "negotiations" with the Na'vi or probably even that they're not animals. If American soldiers in the congo shot monkeys who were throwing rocks at them, would they be evil? Not if the Americans only thought the monkeys were animals attacking them. I guess you could fault them for putting themselves in that position in the first place, but that's a trifle glib. Seeing as how I'm trying to become a contractor in Afghanistan myself, I can tell you that yes, I'm mainly trying to do it because of the money, but, last time I checked, when you're massively in debt, you need money to pay off your debt. Heaven forbid I get a job over there and get attacked, but I sure won't feel like I'm a bad guy if I defend myself. Anyway, just thoughts of Vietnam popped in my head at the idea that the common soldiery of the movie were all bad guys. We've gotten much better about that as a nation. I was treated warmly and appreciatively during my time in service. Blame the head honchos is all I'm saying.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
An Ode to Micturition
(I posted this in the stalls at my office in the army because my soldiers' aim was pretty bad. I was "unique" as an Army officer)
An Ode To Micturition
While standing there, the task in hand,
Consider, please, this meager plan:
If you should hap to err or stray,
From the throne, wipe off your spray,
For think of those who may sit down
And slide, bare-assed, onto the ground.
by (then) 1LT Ajax Carpenter (2003)
An Ode To Micturition
While standing there, the task in hand,
Consider, please, this meager plan:
If you should hap to err or stray,
From the throne, wipe off your spray,
For think of those who may sit down
And slide, bare-assed, onto the ground.
by (then) 1LT Ajax Carpenter (2003)
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Plan
As some know, I've been trying to get a job as a contractor (logistics, not mercenary) in Afghanistan since I took the SC bar exam in August. I've also kicked the tires on law jobs, but those have been virtually impossible to find. More of my friends have found jobs than I expected, and I'm happy for them, but considering my mediocre GPA and the fact that I didn't clerk while in law school (long story, well, not so long but not relevant to this), I would figure I'm well down on the list of lawyers to get a job at a firm when there are more qualified candidates. Beyond that, to be clear, I really, really don't want to be a lawyer. Yes, I did just spend a substantial amount of money becoming one, but the thought had always been that, though I was never drawn to law, I would find an area that appealed to me once I was in law school. Nope. Didn't happen.
At any rate, I have always wanted to be a writer and have primarily done travelogues and non-fiction pieces. My first book, which I never attempted to publish, was about my time as a firebase commander in Iraq (way, way, way too personal for me to be objective about so I've kept it on ice til I have more perspective). I've been writing my first novel this past year or so (during school I didn't really mess with it but went at it during breaks) and I hope to be finished by the new year.
I've been able to live for free by the grace of my inestimable cousin Dave and his fiancée Holly while I've waited out the Afghanistan job to open up, but with their impending nuptials it was time for me to go. Without any income and a place to stay, I have been in a bit of a quagmire. Then the car I've been using, my old HS bomber, died. Not good, my friends, not good.
While driving down to Beaufort in my other car, which I gave to my mother to help her out of a jam, I figured out a solution to my troubles. Back in May, two days after graduation, I got a letter from the Veteran's Administration congratulating me on the passage of the Post 9/11 GI Bill, which entitled me to up to four years tuition (up to the level of the most expensive public university in my state), $1000 a year for books, and a living allowance. It was not authorized to make payments on degrees obtained prior to passage, so I muttered "Dammit! Where was this three years and $67k ago?" I didn't even entertain the notion of going back to school to get a graduate degree because a) I don't need letters behind my name to tell me I know what I know, b) I don't want to be a professor since the focus in higher academia these days seems be publishing obscure crap on a two year cycle rather than actually, you know, teaching, and c) I'm ready to get on with my damn life.
What I had not even considered was going back for an UNDERGRADUATE degree, until the other day. Languages had popped into my head on that drive and I thought, "Aha!" First of all, I'm couch-surfing; I don't have a car; and I'm bleeding funds while I wait for the job I want to open up. It's not "getting on with my life"; it's miserable. I could get a bartending job or some such, but that's its own form of misery and doesn't propel my life in any way. Because I went to Carolina for undergrad (and basically got a language degree, Latin), all my credits would apply so I'd so I'd be able to take two language classes (I'm thinking French and Russian for now, though Chinese might be useful), and then fill the other hours I need with classes I'm interested in, though perhaps I might add nother language but I'm concerned about getting overwhelmed by doing too many similar languages (I've already had a smattering of Spanish and Italian). We'll see.
Anyway, were I getting a graduate degree, I'd feel like I was simply ducking the economy and responsibility because there wouldn't be a practical application. With languages, hopefully those will make me more marketable, but, in all honesty, the main thing is that I don't expect to finish the degrees. If I do, great, but what I suspect will happen is that I'll find a job I want and then I'll take it and stop the schooling. If that happens, then I've been able to be solvent (the living allowance is $1300 a month, which I'm pretty sure is better than I'd get on unemployment) while I learn something useful and give myself time to try to get my manuscript published. There's also the not-so-small point that I *am* a lawyer now, like it or not, and with the law library at USC easily in reach for legal research, I can do side-work as a solo practitioner to make ends meet and build my resume.
I talked to USC and because I went there undergrad, it's basically only a matter of me filling out an application that will get rubber-stamped through so I can begin in January. The VA is backlogged on paying for the GI Bill, so I will have to get another student loan to pay for tuition and living expenses while I wait for the VA to reimburse me, but the financial aid department said that shouldn't be a problem. I'm headed up to Columbia on Monday, Nov 30 to take care of that and to find a place to live.
So, basically, all that was to say that I'll be the old guy in the classes with freshmen. It's too bad I'd rather strangle 18yo girls ("It's like, you know?") than hit on them or this would be the awesomest idea in history.
At any rate, I have always wanted to be a writer and have primarily done travelogues and non-fiction pieces. My first book, which I never attempted to publish, was about my time as a firebase commander in Iraq (way, way, way too personal for me to be objective about so I've kept it on ice til I have more perspective). I've been writing my first novel this past year or so (during school I didn't really mess with it but went at it during breaks) and I hope to be finished by the new year.
I've been able to live for free by the grace of my inestimable cousin Dave and his fiancée Holly while I've waited out the Afghanistan job to open up, but with their impending nuptials it was time for me to go. Without any income and a place to stay, I have been in a bit of a quagmire. Then the car I've been using, my old HS bomber, died. Not good, my friends, not good.
While driving down to Beaufort in my other car, which I gave to my mother to help her out of a jam, I figured out a solution to my troubles. Back in May, two days after graduation, I got a letter from the Veteran's Administration congratulating me on the passage of the Post 9/11 GI Bill, which entitled me to up to four years tuition (up to the level of the most expensive public university in my state), $1000 a year for books, and a living allowance. It was not authorized to make payments on degrees obtained prior to passage, so I muttered "Dammit! Where was this three years and $67k ago?" I didn't even entertain the notion of going back to school to get a graduate degree because a) I don't need letters behind my name to tell me I know what I know, b) I don't want to be a professor since the focus in higher academia these days seems be publishing obscure crap on a two year cycle rather than actually, you know, teaching, and c) I'm ready to get on with my damn life.
What I had not even considered was going back for an UNDERGRADUATE degree, until the other day. Languages had popped into my head on that drive and I thought, "Aha!" First of all, I'm couch-surfing; I don't have a car; and I'm bleeding funds while I wait for the job I want to open up. It's not "getting on with my life"; it's miserable. I could get a bartending job or some such, but that's its own form of misery and doesn't propel my life in any way. Because I went to Carolina for undergrad (and basically got a language degree, Latin), all my credits would apply so I'd so I'd be able to take two language classes (I'm thinking French and Russian for now, though Chinese might be useful), and then fill the other hours I need with classes I'm interested in, though perhaps I might add nother language but I'm concerned about getting overwhelmed by doing too many similar languages (I've already had a smattering of Spanish and Italian). We'll see.
Anyway, were I getting a graduate degree, I'd feel like I was simply ducking the economy and responsibility because there wouldn't be a practical application. With languages, hopefully those will make me more marketable, but, in all honesty, the main thing is that I don't expect to finish the degrees. If I do, great, but what I suspect will happen is that I'll find a job I want and then I'll take it and stop the schooling. If that happens, then I've been able to be solvent (the living allowance is $1300 a month, which I'm pretty sure is better than I'd get on unemployment) while I learn something useful and give myself time to try to get my manuscript published. There's also the not-so-small point that I *am* a lawyer now, like it or not, and with the law library at USC easily in reach for legal research, I can do side-work as a solo practitioner to make ends meet and build my resume.
I talked to USC and because I went there undergrad, it's basically only a matter of me filling out an application that will get rubber-stamped through so I can begin in January. The VA is backlogged on paying for the GI Bill, so I will have to get another student loan to pay for tuition and living expenses while I wait for the VA to reimburse me, but the financial aid department said that shouldn't be a problem. I'm headed up to Columbia on Monday, Nov 30 to take care of that and to find a place to live.
So, basically, all that was to say that I'll be the old guy in the classes with freshmen. It's too bad I'd rather strangle 18yo girls ("It's like, you know?") than hit on them or this would be the awesomest idea in history.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
"How You Doin'?"
I get that people are being polite and it's just societal convention to ask, but of late, when people have asked me how I'm doing, I feel bad to tell them the truth. Of course, they feel bad afterwards too.
Them: "How you doing?"
Me (taking deep breath): Well, I'm homeless, broke, unemployed and no real job prospects. I just spent $120 in money I don't have to be told my crappy car is unrepairable. My other car, which I gave my mom, which we paid $3000 a few months ago to get the transmission replaced, has a motor problem that will cost a minimum of $400 to fix. I'm cashing out my retirement fund to get myself out of some of this staggering debt and have some money to survive and, yeah, my $600+ fed student loan payments kick in next month. I think I can get that deferred, thus piling on debt due to more interest, but I'm not sure. I am getting sworn in to the Bar, but I don't wanna be a lawyer and it's just an excuse for them to charge me more money I don't have. Other than that, I'm doing good. I guess. How are you?
Them: I need a drink.
At this point I wouldn't be surprised to have the following conversation with a mechanic:
Mechanic: Mr. Carpenter, I have bad news. Your car has terminal cancer.
Me: Cars don't get cancer!
Mechanic: We've never seen it either, but it's definitely cancer.
Me: Figures.
P.S. I'm not really freaking out. I just kinda shrug my shoulders when I go through this sorta thing, which seems to be disturbingly often, so please no concerned messages. I just like to poke fun and find the lighter side of difficult times. I know all this will pass.
P.P.S. Still, probably best not to ask how I'm doing/what I'm up to for a while.
Them: "How you doing?"
Me (taking deep breath): Well, I'm homeless, broke, unemployed and no real job prospects. I just spent $120 in money I don't have to be told my crappy car is unrepairable. My other car, which I gave my mom, which we paid $3000 a few months ago to get the transmission replaced, has a motor problem that will cost a minimum of $400 to fix. I'm cashing out my retirement fund to get myself out of some of this staggering debt and have some money to survive and, yeah, my $600+ fed student loan payments kick in next month. I think I can get that deferred, thus piling on debt due to more interest, but I'm not sure. I am getting sworn in to the Bar, but I don't wanna be a lawyer and it's just an excuse for them to charge me more money I don't have. Other than that, I'm doing good. I guess. How are you?
Them: I need a drink.
At this point I wouldn't be surprised to have the following conversation with a mechanic:
Mechanic: Mr. Carpenter, I have bad news. Your car has terminal cancer.
Me: Cars don't get cancer!
Mechanic: We've never seen it either, but it's definitely cancer.
Me: Figures.
P.S. I'm not really freaking out. I just kinda shrug my shoulders when I go through this sorta thing, which seems to be disturbingly often, so please no concerned messages. I just like to poke fun and find the lighter side of difficult times. I know all this will pass.
P.P.S. Still, probably best not to ask how I'm doing/what I'm up to for a while.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Mommy
My mother is bonkers, in a fun way. How many other 60-year-old mothers will tell their child the following non-sequitur on IM, "Hey, did you know that if someone tries to kidnap you and takes you to the ATM, if you put in your pin no. backwards then they will call the cops? You're @$@!ed if your pin is 303"
Friday, October 2, 2009
Basic Laws of Big-Name Comedians
A good friend of mine made the tragic error of saying that she kinda, sorta liked Dane Cook. In order to help her out
Here are some rules for Big Name Comedians.*
a) If he's white, funny, and from America, he's Jewish (Seinfeld, Louis Black, Jon Stewart, etc)
b) If he's white, funny, and not Jewish, he's Canadian (Mike Myers, Jim Carey, Norm MacDonald, etc)
c) If he's funny, not Canadian, and not Jewish, he's black (Old School Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Bernie Mac, etc)
d) If he's not Canadian, not Jewish, and not black, he's not funny. Just not possible.
Dane Cook falls under Category D.
Admittedly, if I somehow ever became a Big Name Comedian, I would obviously fall under D, though I'm not above converting or expatriating.
P.S. I'm a sexist, so I don't pay attention to comediennes.
*Only applies to mainstream comedy (Sitcoms, Movies, SNL, Big Tours, etc). Joe Rogan, Doug Stanhope, Louis C.K. et al are hysterical, but will never hit the big-time (and no, News Radio doesn't count because the character they had Rogan playing was retarded compared to his real act).
Here are some rules for Big Name Comedians.*
a) If he's white, funny, and from America, he's Jewish (Seinfeld, Louis Black, Jon Stewart, etc)
b) If he's white, funny, and not Jewish, he's Canadian (Mike Myers, Jim Carey, Norm MacDonald, etc)
c) If he's funny, not Canadian, and not Jewish, he's black (Old School Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Bernie Mac, etc)
d) If he's not Canadian, not Jewish, and not black, he's not funny. Just not possible.
Dane Cook falls under Category D.
Admittedly, if I somehow ever became a Big Name Comedian, I would obviously fall under D, though I'm not above converting or expatriating.
P.S. I'm a sexist, so I don't pay attention to comediennes.
*Only applies to mainstream comedy (Sitcoms, Movies, SNL, Big Tours, etc). Joe Rogan, Doug Stanhope, Louis C.K. et al are hysterical, but will never hit the big-time (and no, News Radio doesn't count because the character they had Rogan playing was retarded compared to his real act).
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
What? The? Hell?
While watching football over the weekend, I was forced to suffer through dozens of erection commercials, Cialis being the prime offender. I've found it amusing that when Viagra et al. came out the advertisements were for elderly men, but, ever since, the age of the "pitch men" has been skewing more and more young. Now they're in their late 40s. It's not too long before they have twenty-somethings waxing romantic, I'm sure.
At any rate, what the hell is with advertising these days? Take Cialis, for instance. I guess that there's not really any good way to say "Hey, look, we get that you're having a *hard* time finding your spouse of two decades sexually attractive, but if you take this pill, some how, some way, you will be able to defy the laws of nature in order to flop around spastically for a few minutes until you get back to work so you can pay for the mortgage and the kids' student loans." That might not be "sexy," I realize, but those commercials are retarded. Then it struck me; they're not for men. They're for women.
The bathtubs.
Seriously, I watch the Cialis commercial and the first thing that pops to mind is, "What in the hell are people doing with cast-iron bathtubs in a forest or in the surf?" THEN I think, "How the hell do you get the water to those tubs?" THEN I think, "What in the hell does soaking in a bathtub have to do with erections?"
That's the key question.
The answer: Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Unless something startling happens to the way my mind works when I get older, I do not find a bath to be the sort of thing that gets me ramped up. You know who does? Women. There's an adjective for when women like things that men don't. It's called "gay." The cialis commercial has nothing but gay stuff in it. Soaking in bathtubs is gay. Watching your wife putt indoors is gay. Walking on the beach holding hands is gay. Don't get me wrong, we men end up doing a lot of gay stuff for you women, but it's not because we necessarily want to do it. It's because we have to do it. Hell, at some point, I may very well go soak in a tub with my lady if that's what I have to do, but right now I'm thinking that the last thing that I want an old, wrinkly body to do is go soak and get prune-y. I really would need a pill to get up for that.
*MY* commercial would show older guys out at the bar, having a few too many drinks, oggling the young, nubile bartendress. Then the next scene would be one of the guys looking at the bartendress as he exits the bar, shaking his head and muttering creepily to himself. Then getting home, waking up his wife, whom he somehow convinces to get frisky. The clincher should show the older woman, from behind (above the waist) as she takes off her granny night gown. You'd see the guy look at her sagging breasts, gulp, and then he'd pop a pill and drain a glass of water. "Cialis...because she's not 23 anymore." Fade to black.
***Update*** Several ladies have complained about the fact that men don't get especially sexually attractive in their elder years and said they need a drug to get them in the mood. As I patiently explained to them, it's been out for years, it's called "Box Wine."
At any rate, what the hell is with advertising these days? Take Cialis, for instance. I guess that there's not really any good way to say "Hey, look, we get that you're having a *hard* time finding your spouse of two decades sexually attractive, but if you take this pill, some how, some way, you will be able to defy the laws of nature in order to flop around spastically for a few minutes until you get back to work so you can pay for the mortgage and the kids' student loans." That might not be "sexy," I realize, but those commercials are retarded. Then it struck me; they're not for men. They're for women.
The bathtubs.
Seriously, I watch the Cialis commercial and the first thing that pops to mind is, "What in the hell are people doing with cast-iron bathtubs in a forest or in the surf?" THEN I think, "How the hell do you get the water to those tubs?" THEN I think, "What in the hell does soaking in a bathtub have to do with erections?"
That's the key question.
The answer: Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Unless something startling happens to the way my mind works when I get older, I do not find a bath to be the sort of thing that gets me ramped up. You know who does? Women. There's an adjective for when women like things that men don't. It's called "gay." The cialis commercial has nothing but gay stuff in it. Soaking in bathtubs is gay. Watching your wife putt indoors is gay. Walking on the beach holding hands is gay. Don't get me wrong, we men end up doing a lot of gay stuff for you women, but it's not because we necessarily want to do it. It's because we have to do it. Hell, at some point, I may very well go soak in a tub with my lady if that's what I have to do, but right now I'm thinking that the last thing that I want an old, wrinkly body to do is go soak and get prune-y. I really would need a pill to get up for that.
*MY* commercial would show older guys out at the bar, having a few too many drinks, oggling the young, nubile bartendress. Then the next scene would be one of the guys looking at the bartendress as he exits the bar, shaking his head and muttering creepily to himself. Then getting home, waking up his wife, whom he somehow convinces to get frisky. The clincher should show the older woman, from behind (above the waist) as she takes off her granny night gown. You'd see the guy look at her sagging breasts, gulp, and then he'd pop a pill and drain a glass of water. "Cialis...because she's not 23 anymore." Fade to black.
***Update*** Several ladies have complained about the fact that men don't get especially sexually attractive in their elder years and said they need a drug to get them in the mood. As I patiently explained to them, it's been out for years, it's called "Box Wine."
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Advice to Someone Considering Law School
H-----,
My brother mentioned to me that you were considering law school and asked that I give you my thoughts. Surely, I'm available for whatever questions you may have, but I'm going to be rather succinct in my recommendation.
Don't go to law school if you aren't absolutely certain what you want to do, and, even then, don't go.
I got out of the Army four years ago, and, needing to figure out a career, I chose to go to law school, though without any definite plan as to what area I'd work in. The thought at the time was that I like to write so I'd try to do Real Estate law and write on the side.
Now, three years and $85k in debt later (it would have been $110k but I got a half scholarship), not only have I found that I'm not really interested in being a lawyer, but that, even if I were, there are no jobs to be had. My 1L (first) year, they sat us down and the career services department showed us all their data which indicated that within 6 months of graduation, 99% of grads had jobs, with a median income of about 55k. Of course, that information was prior to the introduction of the Charleston School of Law, whose grads have taken many of the jobs out of the market (particularly in Charleston and the lowcountry), and the economy tanking.
I graduated last month. That 99% of grads getting jobs? Ha. The class BEFORE me still was at about 50% seven months after graduation. I'm not sure where they are now, but it can't be much better. Ordinarily, going into the bar exam 70% of new grads have jobs lined up. My class was at 37% the last time the career services dept informed us, and since then I've heard that it's closer to 30% because many firms have rescinded job offers.
Even scarier than the fact that I'm now significally in debt without a good prospect of a job is that, even if the economy went back to where it was before, there are now multiple classes of graduates (from both schools) who will be competing for the same amount of jobs (which ordinarily would be sufficient for one year's grads from one of the schools). Simply put, the situation is not going to get better. Not only that, but if the economy doesn't improve quickly, future grads may be thrown in the competitive mix too.
Of course, should you do very, very well in law school (cum laude, etc), then your chances of getting a job are much better. You can't necessarily predict how well you'll do (the MIT PhD who graduated 2nd in the class would seem obvious, but then an Engineer PhD buddy of mine was average or below). I've seen people who are smart who've done very well; people who are stupid who've done very well; people who are smart who've done poorly; people who are stupid who've done poorly.
Sorry to be a buzz-kill, but I figure it would be best to let you know my situation. If you're absolutely determined to be a lawyer, move to California. You can take the bar there without going to law school. Instead of paying 30k+ a year for law school, get a job as a runner at a firm out there to pay bills and read the various "horn books" like the Examples and Explanations (http://www.amazon.com/Civil-Procedure-Examples-Explanations/dp/073551982X) to learn legal concepts. Then, ask attorneys you work with when you're stumped (though you shouldn't be stumped often...despite what lawyers try to tell you, it's not rocket science...surely you've met some lawyers whom you've thought were idiots). Lastly, sign up for the California BarBri (bar review course). It costs 3k or so and lasts a couple of months before the bar exam. You could do all of that within ONE YEAR and become an attorney and, even if you did fail that exam, you can still do the same thing the next year and would still be far better off than people who waste their time going to law school. At worst you'd be under 10k in debt, and, if you figured out you don't want to be an attorney, then at least you're not screwed.
Many of my friends who have gotten jobs actually got jobs with the firms where they were runners before they went to law school. Law school doesn't train you how to be a lawyer. It trains you how to be in law school.
Admittedly Bitter but Honest,
Ajax Carpenter
I'd rather be unemployed.
My brother mentioned to me that you were considering law school and asked that I give you my thoughts. Surely, I'm available for whatever questions you may have, but I'm going to be rather succinct in my recommendation.
Don't go to law school if you aren't absolutely certain what you want to do, and, even then, don't go.
I got out of the Army four years ago, and, needing to figure out a career, I chose to go to law school, though without any definite plan as to what area I'd work in. The thought at the time was that I like to write so I'd try to do Real Estate law and write on the side.
Now, three years and $85k in debt later (it would have been $110k but I got a half scholarship), not only have I found that I'm not really interested in being a lawyer, but that, even if I were, there are no jobs to be had. My 1L (first) year, they sat us down and the career services department showed us all their data which indicated that within 6 months of graduation, 99% of grads had jobs, with a median income of about 55k. Of course, that information was prior to the introduction of the Charleston School of Law, whose grads have taken many of the jobs out of the market (particularly in Charleston and the lowcountry), and the economy tanking.
I graduated last month. That 99% of grads getting jobs? Ha. The class BEFORE me still was at about 50% seven months after graduation. I'm not sure where they are now, but it can't be much better. Ordinarily, going into the bar exam 70% of new grads have jobs lined up. My class was at 37% the last time the career services dept informed us, and since then I've heard that it's closer to 30% because many firms have rescinded job offers.
Even scarier than the fact that I'm now significally in debt without a good prospect of a job is that, even if the economy went back to where it was before, there are now multiple classes of graduates (from both schools) who will be competing for the same amount of jobs (which ordinarily would be sufficient for one year's grads from one of the schools). Simply put, the situation is not going to get better. Not only that, but if the economy doesn't improve quickly, future grads may be thrown in the competitive mix too.
Of course, should you do very, very well in law school (cum laude, etc), then your chances of getting a job are much better. You can't necessarily predict how well you'll do (the MIT PhD who graduated 2nd in the class would seem obvious, but then an Engineer PhD buddy of mine was average or below). I've seen people who are smart who've done very well; people who are stupid who've done very well; people who are smart who've done poorly; people who are stupid who've done poorly.
Sorry to be a buzz-kill, but I figure it would be best to let you know my situation. If you're absolutely determined to be a lawyer, move to California. You can take the bar there without going to law school. Instead of paying 30k+ a year for law school, get a job as a runner at a firm out there to pay bills and read the various "horn books" like the Examples and Explanations (http://www.amazon.com/Civil-Procedure-Examples-Explanations/dp/073551982X) to learn legal concepts. Then, ask attorneys you work with when you're stumped (though you shouldn't be stumped often...despite what lawyers try to tell you, it's not rocket science...surely you've met some lawyers whom you've thought were idiots). Lastly, sign up for the California BarBri (bar review course). It costs 3k or so and lasts a couple of months before the bar exam. You could do all of that within ONE YEAR and become an attorney and, even if you did fail that exam, you can still do the same thing the next year and would still be far better off than people who waste their time going to law school. At worst you'd be under 10k in debt, and, if you figured out you don't want to be an attorney, then at least you're not screwed.
Many of my friends who have gotten jobs actually got jobs with the firms where they were runners before they went to law school. Law school doesn't train you how to be a lawyer. It trains you how to be in law school.
Admittedly Bitter but Honest,
Ajax Carpenter
P.S. Many of the jobs the high gpa people have gotten are the "work 60+ hours a week including some time on weekends" jobs.
I'd rather be unemployed.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Dancing and the Ars Armatoria
It's been said that one can gain insight into a man's bedroom prowess by his moves on the dancefloor.
My completely objective self-analysis based on my "performance" at the most recent Barrister's Ball:
determined
shameless
adventurous
enthusiastic
hurculean stamina
thrilled to please
spastic, bordering on convulsive
use laughter to mask obvious deficiencies
not entirely sure what I'm doing
Ladies, you are warned.
My completely objective self-analysis based on my "performance" at the most recent Barrister's Ball:
determined
shameless
adventurous
enthusiastic
hurculean stamina
thrilled to please
spastic, bordering on convulsive
use laughter to mask obvious deficiencies
not entirely sure what I'm doing
Ladies, you are warned.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
"Lost"-Random Musings on a Cultural Phenomenon
I've given up on that show. I'll catch it online, maybe, but I'm not altering my schedule for it anymore. I'm willing to bet they have the baby, Aaron, murder someone, since everyone on the island has apparently killed someone. Gimme a break.
I'll give a random plot summary (doesn't matter the episode): Something unusual has happened at the end of the last episode that boggles the mind. Something even more outrageous will happen in this episode, thus distracting from the fact that the earlier incident was never properly explained.
You could weave the Bayeux Tapestry with all of Lost's untied-up, loose plot threads.
I'll give a random plot summary (doesn't matter the episode): Something unusual has happened at the end of the last episode that boggles the mind. Something even more outrageous will happen in this episode, thus distracting from the fact that the earlier incident was never properly explained.
You could weave the Bayeux Tapestry with all of Lost's untied-up, loose plot threads.
Random Facts About Ajax
1. Every Six months, I'll stare at a door knob and try to open it only using my mind. You never know when you might have developed Telekinesis.
2. My eyes started out dark brown, then went light brown, then hazel, now they're mostly green with a ring of brown.
2. My eyes started out dark brown, then went light brown, then hazel, now they're mostly green with a ring of brown.
3. I have not intentionally killed anyone.
4. I have never been in a real fight.
5. My left ring finger has a fused joint so I have a hard time grasping things.
6. One of my ears is cocked upwards at a weird angle.
7. I have 20/10 vision in one eye, 20/15 in the other.
8. I come across as stone cold deaf often, but it turns out the reason I can't hear people talking is because I
hear so well that I pick up more background noise than most people so I can't distinguish their voices unless I'm looking at them or it's quiet.
9. I got an A in Great Books of the Western World without reading any of the books.
10. I am a trivia guru. I don't mean I know a lot of useless junk. I mean I actually consistently win trivia competitions which pay for meals and drinks. Shy of going on a gameshow, this talent is not worth much more than meals, drinks, and aggravating my friends.
11. I have traveled to every state in the Union except for Hawaii and maybe North Dakota (I was up that way when I was 11 but can't remember if we went there.)
12. I went to first grade in England (my dad was on sabattical and writing a book).
13. Because I lived in England in the mid-80's, the Red Cross won't let me donate blood for fear of Mad Cow's Disease.
14. Because of being injected with the Anthrax vaccine (well, only partially...what a crock), the Red Cross will not let me donate blood.
15. If you dropped me off in Madrid, Paris or Rome, I could make myself understood and understand what the hell was going on.
16. I have an unnerring ability to NOT get in trouble, even when I'm doing pretty bizarre things that sound as if they very well might not be completely legal.
17. For instance, I watched sunrise and sunset on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, on the Summer Solstice, even though it "technically" is located within an unmanned British Naval Radar Installation.
18. I get outrageously altitude sick when I get above 13,000 feet so Nepal and Everest are out of the question.
19. I used to go to sailing camp, and I was very good at it, but I did win an award for "Most Ships Sunk."
20. Until I was seven I was left-handed. The teachers in England make everyone write right-handed so they don't smear pencil. My handwriting has been since described as being like a "serial killer." In 3rd grade, I did manage to get an A in handwriting, but that night, when mom and dad took me out to celebrate, Dad accidentally slammed my writing hand in the door. After that, neither of them yelled if I didn't get good handwriting grades.
21. I made the varsity baseball team (at a small private school) as an 8th Grader. I proceeded to lead the Universe in batting that year when I batted 1.000 (they put me in when we were being no-hit. I got a hit and didn't get to bat again that year).
22. I hit full-grown height (6'2") by the time I was fifteen. I only weighed 135lbs and you could see my heart beat and count all my ribs without me raising my arms.
23. I was captain of my high school baseball team and quiz bowl team.
24. I've never done drugs, but I did have my first drink as a fourteen year old.
25. My grandfather William Connor is my role model. He was a Brigadier General, a Rhodes Scholar, spoke 5 languages fluently (3 more partially), married and in love for 36 years, a phenomenal father, and he died 2 years before I was born.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tulum
We arrived in the hamlet of Tulum just as evening had descended. It was Liz's birthday so we sauntered out for a nice bite to eat at a German chef's restaurant (of all places in a small Mexican beach town). Afterwards, we went for drinks and I insisted that, for the occasion, we had to drink one of every tequila they had on the drink menu. The only thing that tempered our good time were the campaign trucks for the candidates in the local elections a month hence. The trucks dragged trailers behind them which had video screens of the candidates' messages and the most grating, annoying music known to man blaring at ear-splitting decibels. Despite their endless circuit down the main drag, Liz made it to about four or five (they were large shots) before her consciousness failed her, in spite of the racket, and we stumbled back to the hotel.
Unfortunately, there just isn't a whole lot to say about spending time at a beach. We mostly lazed around, reading under umbrellas, drinking margaritas or pina coladas, and standing in the remarkably clear, yet mind-bogglingly blue water of the Caribbean. Oh, well, it was a topless beach. So there's that. One thing that they don't tell you before you go to your first trip to one is that there aren't bouncers at the entrances making sure only amply-endowed, gravity defying, young, nubile women are admitted. Thus, while there were some spectaculars, they were more than offset by the 48yo, overweight, pallid, Ginger, British women and fat men in speedos. Well, there were muscular men in speedos too. The fact that speedos are worn by anyone possessed of a y-chromosome is just damned disturbing, regardless of their fitness. Were there bouncers, I am honest enough to admit I wouldn't have been admitted entrance, but there weren't, so I ogled behind my sunglasses til I'd been desensitized to breasts, which took a surprisingly short amount of time.
The main adventure we had, of sorts, was our visit to the Dos Ojos cenotes. Many do not know, but the Yucatan peninsula doesn't have rivers or lakes. It's on top of a gigantic slab of porous limestone, so all the water sinks in. Cenotes are natural sinkholes in the limestone and, because water is so scarce, they were seen as mystical, holy places by the Mayans. Of course, today, the sinkholes are spectacles and so they charge admission to let slimy tourists swim in their pristine waters. Liz and I got there quite early and jumped on in, frolicking about for an hour or so before the hordes arrived.
And that, dear friends, was Tulum. I sent Liz on her way to Cancun to fly home to Dallas and I got on a bus for Mexico City. Half of the 24 hours I spent on the bus was in the company of at least 12 young children. If anyone ever needs to dampen their biological clock, I can think of no better way. Jabbering, hyperactive miscreants have done it for me. If I don't see another child for 5 years, it will be too soon. I spent a couple of days in Mexico City, where I finally wore long pants and entered the Cathedral, but other than that, I did very little. I got on my plane and headed, joyously, back to the world of proper plumbing. Adios, Mexico.
Unfortunately, there just isn't a whole lot to say about spending time at a beach. We mostly lazed around, reading under umbrellas, drinking margaritas or pina coladas, and standing in the remarkably clear, yet mind-bogglingly blue water of the Caribbean. Oh, well, it was a topless beach. So there's that. One thing that they don't tell you before you go to your first trip to one is that there aren't bouncers at the entrances making sure only amply-endowed, gravity defying, young, nubile women are admitted. Thus, while there were some spectaculars, they were more than offset by the 48yo, overweight, pallid, Ginger, British women and fat men in speedos. Well, there were muscular men in speedos too. The fact that speedos are worn by anyone possessed of a y-chromosome is just damned disturbing, regardless of their fitness. Were there bouncers, I am honest enough to admit I wouldn't have been admitted entrance, but there weren't, so I ogled behind my sunglasses til I'd been desensitized to breasts, which took a surprisingly short amount of time.
The main adventure we had, of sorts, was our visit to the Dos Ojos cenotes. Many do not know, but the Yucatan peninsula doesn't have rivers or lakes. It's on top of a gigantic slab of porous limestone, so all the water sinks in. Cenotes are natural sinkholes in the limestone and, because water is so scarce, they were seen as mystical, holy places by the Mayans. Of course, today, the sinkholes are spectacles and so they charge admission to let slimy tourists swim in their pristine waters. Liz and I got there quite early and jumped on in, frolicking about for an hour or so before the hordes arrived.
And that, dear friends, was Tulum. I sent Liz on her way to Cancun to fly home to Dallas and I got on a bus for Mexico City. Half of the 24 hours I spent on the bus was in the company of at least 12 young children. If anyone ever needs to dampen their biological clock, I can think of no better way. Jabbering, hyperactive miscreants have done it for me. If I don't see another child for 5 years, it will be too soon. I spent a couple of days in Mexico City, where I finally wore long pants and entered the Cathedral, but other than that, I did very little. I got on my plane and headed, joyously, back to the world of proper plumbing. Adios, Mexico.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Merida
Having flown from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I needed a cheap place to stay. As expected, everywhere near the airport was extortionately expensive so I headed back to the Zocalo to the hostel I'd stayed in before. Instead of taking a taxi, which would have cost as much as the hostel, I ventured into the subway, which cost approximately eight cents. I had my knife in my pocket and my head on a swivel, but, alas, I had no excitement. After an evening tossing, turning, and NOT sleeping because of a snoring Slav in the room, bleary-eyed, I got back in the subway and ventured to the airport.
In an effort to be in a somewhere pleasant mood (I'm a bit of a cranky bastard when short on sleep), when I met my friend Liz, I drank a couple of beers on the flight. My aggravation at the crying children onboard dissipated. After landing, I made my way to the international terminal to meet Liz. For those who do not know, Liz and I were stationed in Germany together for a couple of years. I met her through my good friend Chris, whom she dated.
Liz is an excellent travelling partner. As it happened with me, being in a warzone (She also is an Iraq veteran), has made it so not much bothers her. That is key when travelling. I cannot stress that enough. Things never go to plan, hence why I don't have a plan, so one must simply shrug and figure out the next move. Liz excels at this. Our one difference, and a major one at that, is that, whereas I view my past experiences with privation to be evidence that I not only can, but should, experience more, Liz figures, sure, she could suffer, but luxury is more appealing. Our paths, once so similar, in that we were once army captains in the Army, diverged substantially; I now an impoverished, supremely indebted student; she now a well-paid yuppie.
In an effort to accommodate her, I reluctantly agreed to allow her to put us in a 5 Star Hotel, pay for it, and otherwise be my "sugar mama" (her words). At one point, she referred to me as a "master manipulator", which, considering that she thanked me for "letting [her] tag along" and letting her pay for opulence, perhaps I am. If only I were a conscious master...
I sat outside the international terminal, where one must meet arrivals, set my bags down, and sipped on an exorbitantly priced piña colada as I wated on her plane to land. Aggravatingly, they had no monitors in the waiting area to show incoming flight stati, so I had to simply deduce where the avarious people were coming from. I knew the flight from Dallas had arrived when the doors opened and waves of fake breasts poured fourth. As I don't watch much television and I'm generally surrounded by law students, I am always taken aback by the hoi polloi. The women were dressed, by and large, by waht the common parlance of our times would no doubt label as "hoes." The men were t-shirt wearing slobs. I am admittedly dressed like a buffoon and I rightfully was ashamed to be seen amongst them.
My favorite couple, a trashy blonde whose massive boobs were about to burst out of her skin-tight black mini-dress and her oafish, baggy jean, designer t-shirt, gold-rimmed sunglasses wearing boyfriend took two steps out of the terminal, dropped their seven bags, thus blocking everyone behind them, and pulled a carton of cigarrettes out. They joked and laughed with such volume that it was only so obvious they craved attention, even as they didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that they were in everyone's way. The blonde bounced and shook enough to get every man's attention in the area, mine included obviously, in hopes of a wardrobe malfunction, while the local porters lined up to take pictures with her ("¡Jose! ¡An American pornstar!",
they were no doubt whispering amongst themselves) and her boyfriend roared non-sensical gibberish and guffawed. Sometimes the best argument against a higher power is that it in no wise should or would ever have bestowed the gift of life on the vapid and conscious alike. To temper my misanthropy, I ordered another drink and Liz finally appeared. We took a taxi to the bus station and got the hell out of Cancun. My mood improved considerably.
Uxmal
The next morning, after breakfast, we wandered around Mérida and stumbled into a travel agency. For the monumentally ridiculous price of about $120USD a piece, we scheduled three tours (2 with meals included) to Uxmal, Celestun, and Chichen Itza, the one for Uxmal being later that day.
Uxmal is less well-known than Chichen Itza but many prefer it since there aren't as many tourists. Liz and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as we took goofy pictures around the ruins. As part of the tour included an evening sound and light show (which sounds kitschy and touristy but is actually quite impressive), we broke for supper.
At the restaurant, the waiter brought out the house "salsa picante." As I've been woefully unimpressed with the state of the supposedly hot Mexican food since I've been in country, I slathered it on my meal. Huge mistake. Finally I'd found habañero. A lot of them. My lips and mouth were nuked. I was on the verge of crying as I poured sweat and blew my nose repeatedly. I did my best to keep it in and bluffed nonchalance as best I could as I attempted the flames with more beer. I tried to remove the frantic tone from my voice as I pleaded "mas cerveza." The third beer did the trick as I began to return to my normal color.
Celestun and Merida New Years
The next day we went to Celestun, on the Gulf Coast, where we took a boat ride to see flamingoes and sit on the beach. The big excitement was not there though, but in Mérida, since it was New Year's Eve. We wandered around the main plaza looking for an interesting place to eat when a hostess pulled us into "Mr. Banderas"
restaurant. Not Señor, but "Mr." It was quite the tourist trap.
I will be generous and say that our waiter was moderately disinterested in performing his job; lichen show more activity. He took forever to bring out the drinks, brought the appetizer out at the same time as the entrees (all of which had obviously been under a lamp for hours but were somehow cool nonetheless), and attempted to rip us off. The bill was for 800 something pesos. I showed him the coupon the hostess had given us stating that margaritas were free with meals and asked him to remove them from the bill. Twenty minutes later, he returned with two small margaritas and a new bill saying 795 pesos in his handwriting, since he'd scratched through the printed total. That didn't look right so I whipped out my pin and added it up. 723. Then I looked at the bottom of the bill and the same number was printed out in words, "sieteciento veintitres." Thoroughly annoyed, we paid the exact bill and fled before our sloth-like waiter returned.
As we wandered in a plaza, people lit M80s. Both Liz and I have been mortared, so neither of us really like fireworks; thus it was with these. After our initial shock at the explosions, we were a bit confused by the pitter-patter sounds all around us, until we realized that they were using the fireworks to clear the trees of birds. We covered our heads and ran like hell through the white rain, somehow miraculously making it through the gauntlet with nary a splat.
We found a nice balcony table to watch over the dancing in the square beneath as Liz drank toxic Cuba Libres and I tequila and beer. At the countdown to midnight, we leaned forward, I took her face in my hands, and...I kissed her on the forehead. "That is bull·$%!!" she roared. I laughed and kissed her. Then it turned out they'd screwed up the time and did the countdown again. I forewent the forehead the second time.
Chichen Itza
After a full day of recuperation on the first, we went to "Chicken Pitza." Sure, there were swarms of tourists and vendors, but there's a reason it's one of the wonders of the modern world. Our guide gave us a comprehensive tour and explained much of the site's significance in terms of Mayan numerology which was quite interesting.
Thoroughly satisfied with our cultural experiences around Mérida, we got in a bus on the 3rd and headed to the Caribbean beach town of Tulum.
In an effort to be in a somewhere pleasant mood (I'm a bit of a cranky bastard when short on sleep), when I met my friend Liz, I drank a couple of beers on the flight. My aggravation at the crying children onboard dissipated. After landing, I made my way to the international terminal to meet Liz. For those who do not know, Liz and I were stationed in Germany together for a couple of years. I met her through my good friend Chris, whom she dated.
Liz is an excellent travelling partner. As it happened with me, being in a warzone (She also is an Iraq veteran), has made it so not much bothers her. That is key when travelling. I cannot stress that enough. Things never go to plan, hence why I don't have a plan, so one must simply shrug and figure out the next move. Liz excels at this. Our one difference, and a major one at that, is that, whereas I view my past experiences with privation to be evidence that I not only can, but should, experience more, Liz figures, sure, she could suffer, but luxury is more appealing. Our paths, once so similar, in that we were once army captains in the Army, diverged substantially; I now an impoverished, supremely indebted student; she now a well-paid yuppie.
In an effort to accommodate her, I reluctantly agreed to allow her to put us in a 5 Star Hotel, pay for it, and otherwise be my "sugar mama" (her words). At one point, she referred to me as a "master manipulator", which, considering that she thanked me for "letting [her] tag along" and letting her pay for opulence, perhaps I am. If only I were a conscious master...
I sat outside the international terminal, where one must meet arrivals, set my bags down, and sipped on an exorbitantly priced piña colada as I wated on her plane to land. Aggravatingly, they had no monitors in the waiting area to show incoming flight stati, so I had to simply deduce where the avarious people were coming from. I knew the flight from Dallas had arrived when the doors opened and waves of fake breasts poured fourth. As I don't watch much television and I'm generally surrounded by law students, I am always taken aback by the hoi polloi. The women were dressed, by and large, by waht the common parlance of our times would no doubt label as "hoes." The men were t-shirt wearing slobs. I am admittedly dressed like a buffoon and I rightfully was ashamed to be seen amongst them.
My favorite couple, a trashy blonde whose massive boobs were about to burst out of her skin-tight black mini-dress and her oafish, baggy jean, designer t-shirt, gold-rimmed sunglasses wearing boyfriend took two steps out of the terminal, dropped their seven bags, thus blocking everyone behind them, and pulled a carton of cigarrettes out. They joked and laughed with such volume that it was only so obvious they craved attention, even as they didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that they were in everyone's way. The blonde bounced and shook enough to get every man's attention in the area, mine included obviously, in hopes of a wardrobe malfunction, while the local porters lined up to take pictures with her ("¡Jose! ¡An American pornstar!",
they were no doubt whispering amongst themselves) and her boyfriend roared non-sensical gibberish and guffawed. Sometimes the best argument against a higher power is that it in no wise should or would ever have bestowed the gift of life on the vapid and conscious alike. To temper my misanthropy, I ordered another drink and Liz finally appeared. We took a taxi to the bus station and got the hell out of Cancun. My mood improved considerably.
Uxmal
The next morning, after breakfast, we wandered around Mérida and stumbled into a travel agency. For the monumentally ridiculous price of about $120USD a piece, we scheduled three tours (2 with meals included) to Uxmal, Celestun, and Chichen Itza, the one for Uxmal being later that day.
Uxmal is less well-known than Chichen Itza but many prefer it since there aren't as many tourists. Liz and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as we took goofy pictures around the ruins. As part of the tour included an evening sound and light show (which sounds kitschy and touristy but is actually quite impressive), we broke for supper.
At the restaurant, the waiter brought out the house "salsa picante." As I've been woefully unimpressed with the state of the supposedly hot Mexican food since I've been in country, I slathered it on my meal. Huge mistake. Finally I'd found habañero. A lot of them. My lips and mouth were nuked. I was on the verge of crying as I poured sweat and blew my nose repeatedly. I did my best to keep it in and bluffed nonchalance as best I could as I attempted the flames with more beer. I tried to remove the frantic tone from my voice as I pleaded "mas cerveza." The third beer did the trick as I began to return to my normal color.
Celestun and Merida New Years
The next day we went to Celestun, on the Gulf Coast, where we took a boat ride to see flamingoes and sit on the beach. The big excitement was not there though, but in Mérida, since it was New Year's Eve. We wandered around the main plaza looking for an interesting place to eat when a hostess pulled us into "Mr. Banderas"
restaurant. Not Señor, but "Mr." It was quite the tourist trap.
I will be generous and say that our waiter was moderately disinterested in performing his job; lichen show more activity. He took forever to bring out the drinks, brought the appetizer out at the same time as the entrees (all of which had obviously been under a lamp for hours but were somehow cool nonetheless), and attempted to rip us off. The bill was for 800 something pesos. I showed him the coupon the hostess had given us stating that margaritas were free with meals and asked him to remove them from the bill. Twenty minutes later, he returned with two small margaritas and a new bill saying 795 pesos in his handwriting, since he'd scratched through the printed total. That didn't look right so I whipped out my pin and added it up. 723. Then I looked at the bottom of the bill and the same number was printed out in words, "sieteciento veintitres." Thoroughly annoyed, we paid the exact bill and fled before our sloth-like waiter returned.
As we wandered in a plaza, people lit M80s. Both Liz and I have been mortared, so neither of us really like fireworks; thus it was with these. After our initial shock at the explosions, we were a bit confused by the pitter-patter sounds all around us, until we realized that they were using the fireworks to clear the trees of birds. We covered our heads and ran like hell through the white rain, somehow miraculously making it through the gauntlet with nary a splat.
We found a nice balcony table to watch over the dancing in the square beneath as Liz drank toxic Cuba Libres and I tequila and beer. At the countdown to midnight, we leaned forward, I took her face in my hands, and...I kissed her on the forehead. "That is bull·$%!!" she roared. I laughed and kissed her. Then it turned out they'd screwed up the time and did the countdown again. I forewent the forehead the second time.
Chichen Itza
After a full day of recuperation on the first, we went to "Chicken Pitza." Sure, there were swarms of tourists and vendors, but there's a reason it's one of the wonders of the modern world. Our guide gave us a comprehensive tour and explained much of the site's significance in terms of Mayan numerology which was quite interesting.
Thoroughly satisfied with our cultural experiences around Mérida, we got in a bus on the 3rd and headed to the Caribbean beach town of Tulum.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Oaxaca
I left Puerto Escondido at 2:30 in the afternoon, just long enough for me to get in a real good sunburn since I won't be back near the beach for a while. I thought the busride would take 6 hours, thus getting me in at 8:30, easily early enough to find a hostel. By that time; however, we were only half-way. I'd somehow bought a ticket for the indirect route. There were no people standing in the aisles and it wasn't unbearably hot, but I did have to watch Vin Diesel's "The Pacifier", dubbed, and even worse, Dolph Lundgren's new film "Direct Action"; unfortunately, that one was in English.
As I hadn't planned a) on getting in at 2:30am and b) at all for this trip, the first hostel was booked. God smiled upon me though because the next one, very nice and incredibly cheap, did. I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed.
Besides wandering around Oaxaca, my object for the day was to figure out how I was going to meet my friend Liz, who was flying into Cancun in two days. Fearing a 24- hour bus ride(s), I walked to the bus station. No dice. There was no bus to Cancun. I'd have to make a connection at Villahermosa, 12 hours away. All the seats for Villahermosa were booked til the next day as it was, and if I got a immediate connection to Cancun, a big if, I would still be late
meeting Liz.
I marched back to the city square and talked with a travel agent I'd seen when I'd walked through before. The only flights I could take would cost a fortune and get me there late. They didn't have any cars for me to rent either. I left the travel agency, went to an internet cafe, and found a cheap plane ticket that would get me there in time. I hate middle men.
My transportation resolved, I took time to wander about and enjoy the art capital of Mexico. I found myself not straying far from the zocalo (main square). At its center was a rotunda, but what set the zocalo apart for me were its massive oak trees, which seemed to form a cannopy, the ruby red poinsettias planted in between the walkways, and, most of all, the festive atmosphere. Cafes ringed the square, which was restricted to pedestrians. Street musicians played, the impoverished peddled their knick-knacks, shoe shiners toiled at their stands, and people sat wherever they could, talking, resting, laughing, singing, or kissing as the spirit moved them.
I must admit a shameful secret. I wanted one of the dozens of beggars who pleaded with me to cuss me out for not giving him money. Oh how I wanted that! "You're just broke. I owe 100k. Why don't you give ME money, you selfish, lazy bastard!!" Sadly (fortunately?), no turned-away beggar rebuked me.
Besides being the art capital of Mexico, Oaxaca is the Mezcal capital of the World (not to be confused with Mescaline. Belgrade is the Mescaline Capital of the World). I wasn't 100% on what Mezcal was when I came to Mexico. Someone once told me that when they make tequila, the prime liquor removed is the tequila and the dregs are mezcal. Once here though, I discovered that like squares and rectangles, all tequilas are mezcals, but not all mezcals are
tequilas. To further my research, I took my notebook with me and headed to the aptly named "La Casa de Mezcal."
Stone-cold sober, I took a seat at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky bar. Two tables away sat the best looking girl I've seen in this country. Damn my elementary Spanish! Five word sentences in the present indicative are more than fine to get me where I need to go and function day-to-day. I can't imagine I'd "spit game" at her with such captivating locutions as "Estas guapa. ¿Donde esta el baño? Quiero una cerveza." Much as I do in bars in the states when I'm near a pretty woman, I figured, "Why waste my time?", pulled out my notebook and started writing.
When my waitress finally came I ordered a beer and mezcal, though I told her to choose the mezcal. She came back a moment later with an impressively large shot of their 12-year-old house reserve. Of course she brought me the most expensive one. I was a tad embarrassed. What to do, what to do? Obviously it was in a shot glass, but, at the same time, it was a very nice mezcal. I didn't want to throw it back only to have all the locals gasp in horror at the American if I were supposed to sip and appreciate it. The only people with full glasses near me was the table with the good-looking girl. I kept sneaking peaks to see what they did, but they just wouldn't touch their drinks. I had to stop peaking because the good-looking girl caught me multiple times.
Finally, I asked a waiter. "¿Trago o sorbo? (Gulp or sip?)"
He looked at me as if I had something growing out of my forehead.
"¡Trago!" he said in such a way, which I deduced was an idiomatic way of saying, "Duh, you stupid American!"
I hoisted the shot glass and knocked it back. YOWSA!!!! What Devil drink is this? I immediately got that warm, rosy feeling I used to get when I'd first started drinking bourbon as a teen. Certainly, the bar was crowded, but it had to be the mezcal that made me start sweating. I began to sense it was going to be one of "those" nights. A bit more social lubricant and I might very well end up robot-dancing on a table and getting tasered into a filthy gutter.
I quickly used my dictionary to learn how to say "I want to sample more!"
The following are my notes on the other mezcals:
1. Gusano: smoother
2. Cedron: harsh again, with rubber aftertaste (I think a guy is hitting on me. Hard to say. He hates mezcal. WTF?)
3. Pechuga: vodka-like, but with the agave aftertaste.
4. Minero: Jesus Fire and throat clenching
5. Sol de Vega: Honey-like, but cough worthy. Save me Cuenta! Please, please save me.
____________________________________________________________
So yeah, in the middle of my research, a mexican guy sat down at the table next to me. He started a conversation. Usually, I'm pretty damn oblivious to that sorta thing since I'm friendly, but the beach in Acapulco had me wary. I made sure to mention meeting my GIRLFRIEND Liz (a small lie, but defensible in the situation) in Cancun.
"You meet a girl in Cancun...or maybe you meet a guy! If that's what you want!"
I wanted to scream, "Look MF! Just because I'm wearing a hawaiian shirt with a floral print, that doesn't make me gay. In fact, I'm pretty sure that no self-respecting gay man would dress like I do. That should be your first clue to leave me the #$%! alone!!!!"
What I actually said was, "No. I like women," and turned my back to him, which, in retrospect now completely sober, I think was probably the last thing I should have done to a man who was interested in my backside.
I went back to writing and taking shots and he left me alone, save for a brief spell where he tried to get me to hit on women and then later when he took my pen to write down his number, which he gave to the waiter who'd mocked me. I paid my bill and got the hell out of that place, and made it back to the hostel posthaste.
____________________________________________________
When I got tot he airport, I made sure to put my knife in my check-in bag. I blanched white when security stopped me after the xray machine and pulled out the wine bottle opener I'd forgotten to take out of my small backpack. Visions of Mexican jail danced through my head but the security guard just told me to take it and put it in my check bag. I told him to chuck it in the trash.
As I hadn't planned a) on getting in at 2:30am and b) at all for this trip, the first hostel was booked. God smiled upon me though because the next one, very nice and incredibly cheap, did. I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed.
Besides wandering around Oaxaca, my object for the day was to figure out how I was going to meet my friend Liz, who was flying into Cancun in two days. Fearing a 24- hour bus ride(s), I walked to the bus station. No dice. There was no bus to Cancun. I'd have to make a connection at Villahermosa, 12 hours away. All the seats for Villahermosa were booked til the next day as it was, and if I got a immediate connection to Cancun, a big if, I would still be late
meeting Liz.
I marched back to the city square and talked with a travel agent I'd seen when I'd walked through before. The only flights I could take would cost a fortune and get me there late. They didn't have any cars for me to rent either. I left the travel agency, went to an internet cafe, and found a cheap plane ticket that would get me there in time. I hate middle men.
My transportation resolved, I took time to wander about and enjoy the art capital of Mexico. I found myself not straying far from the zocalo (main square). At its center was a rotunda, but what set the zocalo apart for me were its massive oak trees, which seemed to form a cannopy, the ruby red poinsettias planted in between the walkways, and, most of all, the festive atmosphere. Cafes ringed the square, which was restricted to pedestrians. Street musicians played, the impoverished peddled their knick-knacks, shoe shiners toiled at their stands, and people sat wherever they could, talking, resting, laughing, singing, or kissing as the spirit moved them.
I must admit a shameful secret. I wanted one of the dozens of beggars who pleaded with me to cuss me out for not giving him money. Oh how I wanted that! "You're just broke. I owe 100k. Why don't you give ME money, you selfish, lazy bastard!!" Sadly (fortunately?), no turned-away beggar rebuked me.
Besides being the art capital of Mexico, Oaxaca is the Mezcal capital of the World (not to be confused with Mescaline. Belgrade is the Mescaline Capital of the World). I wasn't 100% on what Mezcal was when I came to Mexico. Someone once told me that when they make tequila, the prime liquor removed is the tequila and the dregs are mezcal. Once here though, I discovered that like squares and rectangles, all tequilas are mezcals, but not all mezcals are
tequilas. To further my research, I took my notebook with me and headed to the aptly named "La Casa de Mezcal."
Stone-cold sober, I took a seat at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky bar. Two tables away sat the best looking girl I've seen in this country. Damn my elementary Spanish! Five word sentences in the present indicative are more than fine to get me where I need to go and function day-to-day. I can't imagine I'd "spit game" at her with such captivating locutions as "Estas guapa. ¿Donde esta el baño? Quiero una cerveza." Much as I do in bars in the states when I'm near a pretty woman, I figured, "Why waste my time?", pulled out my notebook and started writing.
When my waitress finally came I ordered a beer and mezcal, though I told her to choose the mezcal. She came back a moment later with an impressively large shot of their 12-year-old house reserve. Of course she brought me the most expensive one. I was a tad embarrassed. What to do, what to do? Obviously it was in a shot glass, but, at the same time, it was a very nice mezcal. I didn't want to throw it back only to have all the locals gasp in horror at the American if I were supposed to sip and appreciate it. The only people with full glasses near me was the table with the good-looking girl. I kept sneaking peaks to see what they did, but they just wouldn't touch their drinks. I had to stop peaking because the good-looking girl caught me multiple times.
Finally, I asked a waiter. "¿Trago o sorbo? (Gulp or sip?)"
He looked at me as if I had something growing out of my forehead.
"¡Trago!" he said in such a way, which I deduced was an idiomatic way of saying, "Duh, you stupid American!"
I hoisted the shot glass and knocked it back. YOWSA!!!! What Devil drink is this? I immediately got that warm, rosy feeling I used to get when I'd first started drinking bourbon as a teen. Certainly, the bar was crowded, but it had to be the mezcal that made me start sweating. I began to sense it was going to be one of "those" nights. A bit more social lubricant and I might very well end up robot-dancing on a table and getting tasered into a filthy gutter.
I quickly used my dictionary to learn how to say "I want to sample more!"
The following are my notes on the other mezcals:
1. Gusano: smoother
2. Cedron: harsh again, with rubber aftertaste (I think a guy is hitting on me. Hard to say. He hates mezcal. WTF?)
3. Pechuga: vodka-like, but with the agave aftertaste.
4. Minero: Jesus Fire and throat clenching
5. Sol de Vega: Honey-like, but cough worthy. Save me Cuenta! Please, please save me.
____________________________________________________________
So yeah, in the middle of my research, a mexican guy sat down at the table next to me. He started a conversation. Usually, I'm pretty damn oblivious to that sorta thing since I'm friendly, but the beach in Acapulco had me wary. I made sure to mention meeting my GIRLFRIEND Liz (a small lie, but defensible in the situation) in Cancun.
"You meet a girl in Cancun...or maybe you meet a guy! If that's what you want!"
I wanted to scream, "Look MF! Just because I'm wearing a hawaiian shirt with a floral print, that doesn't make me gay. In fact, I'm pretty sure that no self-respecting gay man would dress like I do. That should be your first clue to leave me the #$%! alone!!!!"
What I actually said was, "No. I like women," and turned my back to him, which, in retrospect now completely sober, I think was probably the last thing I should have done to a man who was interested in my backside.
I went back to writing and taking shots and he left me alone, save for a brief spell where he tried to get me to hit on women and then later when he took my pen to write down his number, which he gave to the waiter who'd mocked me. I paid my bill and got the hell out of that place, and made it back to the hostel posthaste.
____________________________________________________
When I got tot he airport, I made sure to put my knife in my check-in bag. I blanched white when security stopped me after the xray machine and pulled out the wine bottle opener I'd forgotten to take out of my small backpack. Visions of Mexican jail danced through my head but the security guard just told me to take it and put it in my check bag. I told him to chuck it in the trash.
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