Washington D.C. (kinda), Chevy Chase, and more

Before I left for Washington Saturday, I spent a whole night with the old man watching the Biography Channel's documentary on the making of Caddyshack, which is still one of the like, top 5 comedies of all-time. It was followed up by biographical shows of Rodney Dangerfield (that guy did more drugs than a Vietnamese crack whore), Billy Crystal (really random), Bill Murray (I think he would be my best friend), and Chevy Chase. Besides the fact that Chevy Chase is an enormous, egocentric prick, he has this really cool town in Maryland named after him. And guess what...that's where I am.

(Alright, so it isn't named after him. But what's a better story. "Hey, we were named after the Chevy Chase Land Company" (boring) OR "Hey, we're named after an egotistical jackass who starred in Caddyshack, Christmas Vacation, and the greatest musical video ever, "You Can Call Me Al." Don't deny it, Chevy Chase, MD. You know I'm right.)

So how is the metro area of the District of Columbia? Fantastically fantastic. I spent Monday afternoon checking out the National Mall. Washington Monument, Korean War Memorial, the Capitol. And, look, this needs to be addressed. I like the Lincoln Memorial. Seriously, even though Night at the Museum II bastardized it like an unclaimed red-headed step-child. Nothing like memorializing one of our greatest President's ever by making him a complete tool in a terrible movie. Shouldn't Congress be addressing this instead of some of the stupid shit they are "taking care of" now? No, cause the Republican delegation would probably argue that it was actually a good movie.

Anyways, look, not gonna mince words about it. Lincoln's got a chub. Nothing to shield the kids' eyes over, but he definitely is sporting. Seriously. I mean, the flap of his jacket covers it slightly. You hear this B.S. about Robert E. Lee's face being carved into the back of Lincoln's head and what not. So you're telling me, Daniel Chester French would do something like stick Lee on the back of Lincoln's head, but he wouldn't give Honest Abe some morning birch? Come on. But, like, I get it. I mean, he's spent the last how many years with this view of the most recognizable phallic object in America. I mean, at some point that has to start messing with your mind -

Or maybe this is the real reason. Who knows?

Anyways, D.C. is a beautiful city. I haven't been able to explore it much this time around, but I remember it pretty well from the last time I was here, when I was seventeen years old and changed the entire course of history for my high school's summer government trip. At least once in your life, meet a beautiful blond on a DC metro. Fantastic.

The program I'm doing is working with gifted high school students from around the country discussing national security, going to places like the CIA and the Pentagon and Henry Waxman's office, where he will discuss with students how their use of LimeWire to download the Jonas Brothers is a threat to national security. Really heavy stuff here, man.

The program is actually extremely cool and had I known things like this existed when I was in school, I would have done it instead of spending my time doing nothing.

The kids have model government simulations where they take on roles as various heads of state and determine the best course of action to take against a potentially nuclear North Korea. It's six straight days of national security issues and touring DC and spending time with me, which, seriously, is the coolest thing. I mean, I'm so awesome, right? (I actually feel terrible for the kids who are with me, because I literally know shit about national security. I mean, had the issue of this course been illegal immigration, I would have been an expert. "Yeah, I think we should let Mexicans into the country, because some of them are really hot and they are crazy partiers. But not Canadians, because we already had to take Alanis Morrisette's crazy ass." Beat that argument, John McCain.)

Training has been great and the people I'm here with are really cool and this is about 180 degrees of what I did in Mexico (because I actually have to try at work here). Plus, only about half the people who work in D.C. are Mexican.

Finally, I need your suggestions. See, when I was in high school and delusional, I started using the username "thespianrunner" or "thespianrunner85" for most of my sign-in names. MSN, AIM, message boards, etc. So, I stuck with that for awhile because it was easy to remember and it was descriptive - I mean, I was an actor and my sport was running and I was born in '85. But, in retrospect, the name sounded cool when I was sixteen and listened to "My Fair Lady" for fun, but now it's just unprofessionally uncool. I mean, I could update it, but I don't think "usedtobesomethingthatsoundslikelesbianformerrunner69" would be all that great - plus I think that's too long. And every time I try to register as "longdongsilver", someones already taken it. Bullshit.

So give me your thoughts. Even if they aren't serious. Because those are probably the one's I'll use. Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you "littlekidlover".

17 Hours Later: An Amtrak Train and America

Alright, that's not true. But if The Hallmark Channel picked up the rights to the trip (Which they would because their programming is horrible...The Ugly Dachshund? Really? Kristi Yamaguchi and Friends? What, couldn't secure the syndication rights to Little House on the Prairie or something? Oops, wait, nope. You have that, too.), they would inevitably give it some cliched, over-worked name that would let conservative, 45 year old housewives know exactly what to expect. And I think 17 Hours: An Amtrak Train and America is what they would title it. Or at least that's what I'd like to not believe.

So, I figure, I got some time to kill, why pay $130 for a plane ticket, plus baggage fees, plus all that bullshit and hassle when I could due the truly original thing and ride an Amtrak train all the way from Connersville, Indiana, to Washington, D.C., for $65?

I hop this train in Connersville at 1:15am on a Sunday. I'm so hyped on coffee that I don't remember saying goodbye to my mom and left my MP3 player in the car, which led to a fantastic situation which will be explained later. The first problem wasn't a problem, but an upgrade: the original train from Chicago had mechanical issues, so instead we rode a train that normally runs from Seattle, Washington, to Chicago. Cool. And because that is a scenic route that passes through the Rockies and national parks and Wisconsin cheese country, the seats are on the second level because, Heaven help you if you don't happen to catch a glimpse of those famous Wisconsin cows, vomiting up their food, then rechewing it, all so you can have some delicious cheese. Mmmmmmmmmm.

(Interesting side note. Type "amtrak train" into Google image searches. Mmm-hmm. That's right. Four of the pictures on the first page are of Amtrak crashes. That's a track record, pun definitely not intended.)

So I board the train and there's maybe six people on it. Cool. The seats are roomy, the cabin is cool, and the man sitting two rows behind me smells like cigarettes and stale beer. Classy. As the train pulls away, this is when I realize the MP3 player is not on board. Piss.

I'm halfway down the road to Snoozeville when the one other person who boarded with me in Connersville, a twiggy, thread haired girl of about 20 starts to moan and talk. Oh, by the way - she's NOT asleep. No, she's listening to music and spilling her life's misfortunes and prophecies all over the cabin. My favorite of her extended, self-pitying, and extremely creepy monologue: "I just want to be a mommy." Well, that clued me into two things. One, she definitely is from Connersville. (For those of you who do not know what people from Connersville are like, here is a sample. What you are about to link to may shock you. This is not safe for children, those who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or children who are pregnant or may become pregnant, like all the kids in Connersville, or those operating heavy machinery. More for good measure.)

And the second thing it clued me into was that the customers of Amtrak are fucking weird. I mean, I got a walking cancer stick with a mullet and his wife to match sitting two rows behind me, smelling one step above a Budweiser beer factory tour, Twiggy back there babbling about being a mommy and whatever else she was saying, and some guy who I swear to God, rode from Cincinnati to DC and asked every single person on the train where the bathroom was. I mean, he had to have used it 146 1/2 times. Seriously.

But, these are the experiences that make life worth living. Until, you go to get coffee at 6:30am in the lounge car because you can't sleep cause Twiggy is sawing logs thinking about her future as a mommy and her transit from Connersville, Indiana, to West Virginia (fitting), and they say, "Sorry, sir, the dining and lounge car will be closed the whole trip because of a water pipe breaking." Wait, what? Are you serious? Here I am, excited for the prospect of three square cardboard meals prepared by their chefs (who apparently, so the brochure says, are trained in the New York school of cuisine, even though half the menu is cold cut sandwiches. Was this a Jewish school of cuisine?) and I can't even get a cup of $1.80 Green Mountain Coffee.

So no food, no drinks, no sleep, and a ever-filling car full of so many colorful characters you could have set that train right smack dab in the middle of a gay pride parade and you'd have to wear sunglasses to keep from having your retinas burned out.

When Twiggy left in West Virginia, a young mom and her two kids boarded. The little girl was maybe just past one year old and quiet. But the boy, a three-year old named Jay/J/Je/Jai, was different. When he first started talking and screaming at old ladies to "hand over their tickets," he looked and sounded just like this kid, so much so that when his mom left with his sister to use the restroom, I almost tried bribed him with a dollar to recite the words to that video. By the end of the trip, I wondered what the repercussions would be for cold-cocking a three year old on an Amtrak Train. How long would the prison sentence be? Would it be worth being Butch's bitch not to hear screaming, crying, and whining for 10 straight hours? At times, I was already picturing dropping the soap.

I also had the pleasure to sit in front of an old, sweet grandma who had the most rancid, acidic, nose-humping, ball-busting farts that I have ever smelled. I mean, the term silent, but deadly was created for this exact situation. My nose stung so bad at times, that I had to disregard politeness and cover my mouth with my hoodie in order to breath clean air. I think the atmosphere on Mars must be a lot like that, which is why nothing lives there.

Around 2pm, they were kind enough to supply us with cold cut sandwiches and bottled water. One crazy lady came running down the isle with her food raised triumphantly, screaming, "I have my rations! I have my rations! Those Nazis aren't so bad after all." (Uncomfortable silence. Yes. You feel it. So did we. That was the quietest sandwich I've ever eaten.)

So I'm running on no sleep, half a sandwich and a bottle of water in a 24 hour period, a car full of crazies, and no headphones, with, oh wait, that's right, the Colts game starting at 3pm. Fudgecicles!

So, here's what happened. Around the second quarter, I broke down and paid $1.99 for unlimited access to the Internet on my phone, my worthless, small screened phone, not realizing that we're skipping through mountain gullies with as much service as a Vegan bar and grill. Nada. We finally break through to the United States again (I will never count Kentucky, West Virginia, or Texas as part of the United States. That's like saying, "Yeah, she would be hot if she didn't have that moustache and a third boob growing out of her back." Although, now that I think about it...), and my phone is being ravaged by the sweet, vibrant, cancerous tower waves that bring me the Colts score...when my phone dies. So, no WIFI for my computer, no MP3 with a radio, and not a plug-in in sight, save for, oh, what's this - the bathroom. So as the sold-out train fills up, complete with a set of six very attractive coeds who must have been on a hazing mission or something come on board and sit between me and the stairwell that only leads to the bathrooms, I keep disappearing for 10 minutes at a time to charge my phone while sitting on the john (pants up...most of the time), then come back upstairs where I can get service to see the game updates for 15 minutes before I'm doing that dance all over again. I even went so far as to comment to one girl, "I wish there were plug-ins up here so I wouldn't have to keep charging my phone in the bathroom." She gave me a look that landed halfway between "I hope you didn't stink up the bathroom with your constant, probably projectile diarrhea" and this.

In the end, it didn't matter, because the Colts made it back to the Super Bowl, I finally made it to Washington D.C., and she's a smelly pirate hooker.

Mexico Rewind: Part 1

As my time in Mexico draws further away in the rear view mirror, I find myself in a weird situation. I still miss Monterrey. I miss the people there. I miss the culture, the late nights, the challenges - I told someone tonight that I'd be over around 9:00pm. When I was still sitting in my house at 10:15pm, they said they were going to bed. I can't even get off "show-up-two-hours-late-and-you're-still-early" mode.

Each cracked, smokey, thick, country-drawl voice I hear, each geriatric grandma complaining about their food, the weather, or how bad their goiter is, every snot nosed, spoiled, punk-ass kid running around, the constant texting and cell phone usage I see, how the "Mexican" section in our local grocery store was so atrocious I literally had to stop myself from crying, with it's "authentic Mexican" food that's about as authentic as Italian food served by Puerto Ricans - all of it. It all makes me realize that I'm standing at a crossroads, except there aren't actually any roads and a map of this mess would be about as useful as reading used toilet paper.

I said last time that I stopped writing because I couldn't say the things that were happening with my life, mainly the school in which I worked. Well, now I can. So here come the stories:

Let's spend today on the school. At first glance, as my early blogs and pictures indicated, the school seemed too good to be true. Moving to a foreign country, one that is supposedly treats teachers as slave labor with no concern for their well-being, with a wonderfully caring administration who will provide all teachers with any necessary materials and be there for us all the time?

(Hold it. Hold it. Almost there. Short pause. Here it comes...)

Hardy-fucking-har.

Pardon the language, but 95% of any disdain I have for Mexico and Monterrey comes directly from my experiences teaching. When our training sessions involved finding the correlation between scenes from EVERY Harry Potter movie and how we can help our students succeed, I should have known. ("Umm, maybe we can use our magical powers to turn the students into genius' and teach them quidditch if they suck at soccer?") But, we were showered with praise and free food, nice clickable pens and fancy folders, new classrooms and the strong family feeling the school wants its teachers to have.

I spent the first three weeks without teacher edition textbooks. Jeff, who I came to Mexico with, to this day, still does not have his teacher edition textbooks. We were run through hours and hours of constructivist seminars, only to have any and all ideas even remotely resembling constructivism thrown out the window from day one. Our classrooms were made of thin brick and windows. Between each classroom, at the top of the wall, was a foot gap. At times, I would be screaming for my students to shut up, only to find they were completely quiet and instead a group of students sometimes three classrooms down were simply talking loudly. There is no copy machine. One printer for the whole school. No way to get supplies except ask for them and receive them usually three weeks later (I once wrote on the dry erase boards in permanent marker simply because the school would not just give me on dry erase marker and I was at the point where I could care less).

In July, all of us sent our information in to have our work visas processed. August. September. October. Finally, one gloriously repetitive day, I was dragged from my classroom and shoved in a supply closet with seven other teachers because immigration had come and all of us would have been deported had they found us, simply because the school did not process our visas in a timely fashion. Actually, timely fashion would be an understatement. My dead grandmother could have processed my visa faster than this school even attempted to, and she would have been more successful (it would have also scared the shit out of everyone involved, because she's probably a little dusty by now). After almost two hours hiding in a cramped closet, like I was on the Underground Railroad or something, the school opened the door and announced, "You can go back to teaching now." Ex-squeeze the fuck out of me? What did you say? We were one loud fart or sneeze from a deportation record and you don't even apologize? If this was only the worst incident.

Teachers were fired for no reason and given no compensation. Other teachers missed weeks of school and were welcomed back with open arms, while others missed one day and were threatened with their jobs. There are no vacation days, no sick days, no missed days. You're sick? Too bad. The only way you can get out of school and still get your money is to get a doctor's note. I haven't had to have a doctor's note since I was in fifth grade, and now as an adult, I am docked pay because I missed a day with a migraine? What, is George Clooney going to come by and diagnose me with something that you medically cannot find or prove?

I was grabbed by the arm, told I was rude for not manning the right drink station at an event that ruined one weekend and was unpaid, and was constantly interrupted while teaching for useless announcements. Kids were pulled out of my class to do worthless projects that only existed to make the school look good to the parents, because in the grand scheme of things, that's all that mattered - we were pushed around, treated like shit, lied to and blown off, cheated out of money and time, and the only effort that was ever put in around the school came when someone knew a parent would be watching.

The school killed my desire to ever teach. The students rarely cared or did homework. Parents rarely gave a shit. I was told not to fail students, just give them lots of extra credit before report cards. We had to open car doors for kids and walk them to their cars after school, like I was playing Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy.

There's more. Much more. Other fun stories will come. I haven't even scratched the surface in regards to our "company housing," another "too-good-to-be-true" story.

Anyways, the fun, drunken, classic Barton stories are soon to come. But I can't help but feel like despite my constant fondness and want to be in Mexico, I need to remind myself that rarely did things smell like roses. In fact, in regards to the school, it usually smelled like a giant, atomic turd. Yeah, that's about right...