Blowin' In The Wind

Bein' Andy Dufresne's Bitch

2010-04-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

You know that scene in Shawshank Redemption where Andy Dufresne tells Red all about his plan to go to Mexico when he gets out of prison and then he gets all pissy and says, "You either have to get busy livin' or get busy dyin'," and then he spend the rest of the movie, until he crawls through a poop pipe, walking around like he was just forced to see Whoopi Goldberg naked, but not Sister Act/Ghost Whoopi (which would still be terrible, but survivable), but The View Whoopi? That's kinda how I've felt lately, except a bit backwards. See, I already went to Mexico and I was in college once so I've seen my fair share of fat, ugly girls (not naked, though). No, it's more about that line - "Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'."

I haven't written in awhile because although I can usually turn the mundane into semi-entertaining sarcasm, I can't even find the mundane anymore. I never imagined that sitting around doing nothing would be this horrible. Seriously. I mean, how many times do we as people catch ourselves saying, "Man, if I could just stop and sit and do nothing." Well, don't. This is quite possibly the most boring, monotonous, paint drying on the wall period I have ever had. I mean, this is worse than any movie Adam Sandler has made in the last decade. That bad. I mean, I can't even cruise up and down Main Street whistling at high school girls because there is no main street! And I don't have a car! And what girl thinks bumping to Bob Dylan is fly?

Sure, there have been moments in the last month and a half that haven't been too bad. I finished a book that is started in January. I found a facial moisturizer that has softened the appearance of my face and helped reduce blemishes. And, um, eh, I - oh fucking hell, who am I kidding? The book was less than 200 pages long. And I bought it on my flight back from Mexico, so the first page had a giant sad face drawn on it. And I've had that moisturizer for almost a year now, but I never used it on a regular basis. What the hell kind of events are those?

Truth is, I do nothing all day because there is nothing to do. "Get a job," you say. Picture a town, with nothing. Literally, nothing. Nothing is hiring. Nothing exciting happens. And I'd love to move, but I'm (hopefully) going back to DC in late May/early June. Finding a job and moving within a one and a half month time frame is crazier than Lindsay Lohan finding Jesus (he's not in that pile of Coke, dear). I sleep past noon, get dressed, stare at the wall, sometimes eat, and then do it all again. On top of that, I have so little money that people on welfare drive by my house and laugh at me. It's embarrassing.

Look, one day, when I've settled for a less-than-attractive female and I'm living in a cookie cutter suburb and raising three kids who will end up being like their more than likely ogreish mother-in-law, all while holding down a steady cubicle job which I'll leave one week each year to take the same vacation to Myrtle Beach or Disneyworld, all while having a cat or some small, Chihuahua-like dog that I strongly dislike, driving a minivan, I'm sure I'll laugh about all this and say, "Oh, Ryan, you were so dramatic then! Just look at this perfect life you're leading." This will alllllll be water under the bridge.

I guess the one decision that I've made recently should make me happy, but adds to the confusion, like dressing a seventy year old man up like a woman and setting them up on a date with Richard Simmons by telling him, "Play you cards right and tonight you may be sweatin' on the oldies." But, that decision and the ass-dragging plea that will accompany it will come at a later date.

For know, I'm going to keep on keepin' on, which means trying to get busy livin', unless of course I'm destined to die before I'm 48, which means I'm already gettin' busy dyin', which is about the most bleak thing I can think of. Unless of course, this whole thing does end in me having to crawl through a pipe full of shit. Then that is just the worst thing I can think of.

(Note to self: do not become a plumber)

Why Sports Matter

2010-03-31T01:11:00.000-07:00

I usually fill this space with sarcastic humor about the mundane happenings in my life. But lately, things have been so humdrum and uninteresting that I figured a post about paint drying or the art of sleeping in until 4pm would probably be just as painful for you to read as for me to write.

Instead, I want to step outside the box a bit. At the risk of writing another cliched article on Butler making it to the Final Four, how they're like Hoosiers and all that dribble, I wanted to relate to you what this means to me with a bit of politics sprinkled in. I went to my first Butler game probably fifteen years ago, when my dad and I sat just rows from the court, had a full meal of Hinkle hot dogs, popcorn, and Coke, and could hear the curse words from the coaches mouths for the same price as a single, bleacher ticket costs today. I mean, nobody was there. The Dawg Pound was more like the Puppy Box and the crowd mainly consisted of alumni who talked through the game, families of the players, and starry-eyed kids like me who grew up dreaming of even having the chance to play in a place like Hinkle in front of a handful of fans. So, for me, first and foremost, this isn't some bandwagon jumping experience that I've picked up. I watched games and followed box scores even when they sucked. I never thought something like this would happen.

But back to that starry-eyed kid. Too often, as in about 95% of my waking life, the keyword is "money", as in, "I don't have any money," or "What can we cut to save money?" There isn't an easy answer. And no matter what ends up on the floor in strips, someone is going to be affected. But this is where Butler and the Final Four come into play.

Every day, I see articles like this, and this, and this. Just Google "cut sports" or "athletic budget cut" and you'll see that at every level, from pee-wee to professional sports, everyone is making cuts. It's inevitable, I know. But, I think too often that some people point an angry finger at sports, say it's an unnecessary commodity, and start slashing at it like Edward Scissorhands. It's true: athletics are not essential in academics. A book is more important than a ball. An education is more important than a championship. But some of those same people who so easily point a finger at sports as unnecessary are the same people who stood next to me at 3 o'clock on a Sunday morning to welcome home a bunch of kids, who, without those same cut programs, would not be where they are today.

Sport is the great equalizer. You hear that so often that is becomes routine and loses its meaning. In context, it applies to schools such as tiny Milan and this Butler team. A little-known, lightly-regarded nobody does the unthinkable, slays Goliath, captures people's hearts and attention. This is why we root for underdogs, even when we have no vested interest. We love it when those who can't do. But it goes beyond that.

When I entered junior high, I was a big-eared, acne faced, goofy, awkward kid with little to no athletic ability. I had heart - I fought like hell to do what I did - but when it came to the social scene, I was a nobody. I had few friends and little hope of a social life beyond Dungeons and Dragons tournaments and Pokemon cards, and I hated both of those. But something cool happened. I joined the cross country team. And I met people like me. And wouldn't you know it, I was good! Not great, but better than a lot of people. Suddenly, this less-than-appealing, Alfred E. Newman look-alike became somebody. Suddenly classrooms full of kids I didn't know and that could have cared less about me were cheering when my named was announced because I won last night's meet or was named all-conference. People who used to chase me down at recess and beat me up were cheering for me, patting me on the back, and there wasn't even a "Kick Me" sign involved. Was it slightly artificial? Sure. Did I care or do I care? Hell. No.

The greatest moments of my life, the most vivid recollections I have - 90% of those memories involve sports. My freshmen year of high school, our little Butler team of runners (complete with a tall, goofy white kid) went from underdogs to sectional champions in one straight away pass. That pass gave me, a fifth-runner who had been dogged on all year, a full paragraph in the newspaper. My family gloated. My friends cheered. That trophy sits in a cardboard box, in the bottom of a trophy case, in a rarely used hallway in my high school gym. No one knows it's there. Ask anybody on that team, any parent, what that day was like, and you'll hear one hell of a story.

I've had success stories in the classroom. I've watched kids turn their lives around, stand up for themselves, become the leaders they never thought they'd be. I love it. But the greatest success I've ever had was to take a bunch of young kids who didn't believe in their own abilities and convince them that they could be incredible runners, that everything they did on that track, day after day, directly impacted their future selves. I saw runners who would never even sniff a sectional roster cry with joy because they beat their best time, or their goal, the first meet of the season. I saw kids who had so few friends that you could count them on an amputees hand become enveloped in a new circle of friends, find their place, fit in for once in their lives. Sports are never about winning and losing, despite the way some coaches and parents may act. It provides the opportunity for a perceived nobody to become a somebody.

I can't tell you how many times sports have saved me. And I'm not alone. My high school sport experiences gave me confidence and pride in myself when I was on the edge. Even winning a meaningless ultimate frisbee championship in college - we were the "unathletic" fraternity who had never won anything - was a memory that I still carry without a hitch or pause to this day. In Mexico, when I was ready to come home and give up, a stupid Saturday morning basketball league made me stay. In the absolute lowest moments of my life, sports have given me a reason to be happy, to have something to look forward to.

And that's what Butler going to the Final Four means. They represent the little guy who still has a chance, who isn't the flashiest or the most popular. They give a community that has been devastated by job loss and every conceivable rash of bad luck something to look forward to. Hell, they give people around the nation, people who couldn't name one player from that entire roster, something to cheer for. I've seen it before. The Colts in the Super Bowl, IU in the championship game, even my local high school girls team making the state finals. If you think for a second that events like these don't give people hope, don't give starry-eyed kids something to reach for, doesn't give a community a reason to cheer for something, then you're delusional.

And that's why sports matter. And why cutting sports kills moments like these. Most sports that are cut are sports like cross country and track, sports that don't make money, that aren't very popular, that people seem to think won't affect anyone. I have no idea where I would be if it weren't for those experiences I had, those moments, those dreams, if I didn't have a reason to hope. But I can tell you this: if it takes all the money in all of a budget to give a person who has been to hell and back, some kid with nothing else to look forward to, a reason to want to wake-up and look forward to the day, to give them one moment of uninterrupted happiness and joy, then to hell with budgets. Give me sports.

March Madness Special Entry Edition

2010-03-20T00:48:00.000-07:00

Question: What is the single greatest three weeks every year, a stretch of 21 days that not even Jesus, Allah, Buddah, or David Hasselhoff, in their infinite, Godly wisdom, could create more perfectly? Take your time.

Waiting...

Still waiting...

Give up? Well, unless Halloween is running together with Thanksgiving, and I can wear my two-sizes too small Spiderman costume while I gorge myself on ham and stuffing, the answer would be March Madness. When you see lists of the greatest inventions ever, you see such modern marvels as the aeroplane, computers/the Internet (God Bless you Al Gore), cellular phones, vehicular travel, and even the toothbrush. But, never have I viewed a list that included the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship. And that's alright. You know why? BECAUSE IT'S THE REASON ALL THE OTHER INVENTIONS MATTER! Don't believe me? Alright, Mr. I'm-Too-Cool-For-Your-Unsound-But-Somewhat-Plausible-Explanations. Squirt a little of this on your hot dog...

Why do we need airplanes or cars? Oh, that's right, to fly to the tournament games. Or to drive to a local bar and get hammered and root for teams from places you have to Wikipedia to find out where they're from (Oakland is from Michigan? What?!) Easy.

Why do we need the Internet? Duh! So I can watch every game, as it's happening, inhale box scores like Lindsay Lohan doing a ten foot line of coke, and read enough post-game opinion pieces that my total for each day makes Ulysses look like The Little Engine That Could (great, great book by the way. Vastly underrated.)

Why cell phones? To call my friends who root for schools like Purdue and Kentucky and make fun of them when their teams lose like big floppy losers. Also, to call my mommy and cry when my team loses.

Toothbrushes? Come on. Not related at all. Oh yeah? Let's say you win the championship, or at least score a huge upset, you know, win a game you weren't supposed to win. Suddenly, everyone loves you and wants to be your friend. Now, being as you are on a college campus, that means co-eds. Now, despite the fact that you are suddenly a hero, your deeds plastered all over the place so saps like me with no natural talent besides nasty free-throw abilities can gawk and drool over you, the ladies will not want to be near your suddenly God/John Holmes-like status if your breath smells like a dirty jock strap. Clean mouth? Fuck Orbitz. Toothbrush. Toothbrush.

As great as all of this is, there is one glaring problem that no one seems to be addressing, and that's the announcers. Now, ignore the fact that half the games are being called by what have to be shaven hobos picked up off the street (Spero Dedes? Who is Spero Dedes? Is that the scientific name for an extinct bird?) I think that if one is announcing a nationally televised sporting event, they should be required to do the following: Record yourself calling a game at home. Just, announce some random TiVo'd game, doesn't have to be anything important. Now, have your wife or kid or one of Tiger Woods' mistresses transcribe that for you into a Word Document. Now - stay with me - enter that text into the search box for a little website I like to call www.urbandictionary.com. Go ahead. Have a peek. And if any phrase you have announced appears in said website, maybe you should not say it anymore.

I mean, fucking seriously! I have scoured Google for thirty two minutes and sixteen seconds trying to find any mention of this, and N-A-D-A. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Am I the only one bothered by this trend?

Look, when a player is coming out of the game, he is doing so to rest. Please stop saying he is "getting a blow." Getting a blow? What, are the school's cheerleaders now doubling as part-time porn stars? Is John Wall going to the bench to relieve some pent up tension courtesy of a little cheek tickling from Susie cheerleader? Or are there special team managers for that? Does Purdue employ cattle to sit behind the bench? Was that a joke about Gene Keady and ugly Purdue girls? Yes. I know, this sounds ridiculous, but that's because it is. He has been selected by his coach to come out of the game to rest, not to be fellated in front of 20,000 screaming fans. If I start hearing this during the women's tournament, I'm going to be very concerned.

The same goes for "stroking it". No, he's not stroking it. I'm pretty sure that's illegal in every state but Kentucky, Texas, and West Virginia. This isn't an arena sized meat show. He's SHOOTING the ball. Trying to make a basket. Please don't be fancy and compare the simple act of trying to shoot a basketball to Paul Reuben and George Michael's personal lives. Same goes for "kissing it". Even something as simple as putting the "ball in the hole" sounds...well, painful to be honest with you.

Despite those shortcomings, I love everything else about the tournament. The upsets. The little schools making deep runs. The nail-biters. The inexplicable white kid who plays lights out, gets drafted way too early based on two or three lucky games, and ends up riding the bench in some obscure league in some European country. It is quite simply the greatest three weeks of television every year and the one thing that makes me not go postal in mid-February when I'm freezing and unemployed.

Speaking of unemployment, two recent upstarts in my life have come to an end. First, I am no longer an auction house very-limited-part-time-employee. My choice. Twelve hours a week of hauling dead people's furniture out of their newly emptied homes isn't as glorious as I make it sound. And secondly, the beard is no more. I have reverted back to looking like I'm sixteen years old again. To a point, the beard was wonderful. But, past that point, I started to look like Joaquin Phoenix's long lost brother not named River. It couldn't be contained any longer. I had to put it down. RIP beardy...

And so, I am back, rank and file into the Army of the unemployed. If you have ideas, please let me know. I'm running out of them.

The Beard Chronicles: Part IV

2010-03-12T22:47:00.000-08:00

My need for employment, as referenced in my last entry, has been temporarily satisfied, although I can still taste the split pea they served at the soup kitchen. (Did you ever wonder...where is the steak kitchen? Or the pizza kitchen? What happens if you are allergic to soup...hypothetically?) I have begun a stint as an assistant to a local auctioneer. What? I know, right? How awesome!

Now, before you start writing me, asking for money, telling me you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me investing in a phonics program for cats or miracle growth potion for female soul patches, let me tell you - this isn't the glorious position you think it is.

So far, my job list has included the following: unloading the possessions of deceased people from a white moving truck, cleaning out the last possessions from what was certainly a former drug house, and holding up items during an auction to a group of geriatrics while smiling and posing like Vanna White. Tomorrow I'm cleaning out an old barn that hasn't been entered in at least five years in a small country town on a Saturday morning. Livin' the dream, baby. Just livin' the dream.

It is a unique experience that has provided me with some comical moments, such as an old man buying a large stack of antique picture frames for a $1.00, and when the auctioneer said, "You got a real steal there," he responded with, "Yeah, cause firewood is expensive right now!" And he wasn't joking.

I don't know what my pay is, or when I will get paid, but it keeps me busy and allows me to do something that will one day be a great story when I'm on Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton's rotting corpse. "Yeah James, I draw a lot of inspiration from the people I met while working in a small town auction house. It really provides me with the characterization I needed for my last Oscar-winning role as a struggling gay auctioneer in a dying Midwestern town." The auctioneer, by the way, is not gay. He is actually a very, very nice guy. But there has to be something in there to make that an Oscar-caliber role.

I chalk up this latest bit of fortune to the other recent development in my life: my new beard. In the past, I have attempted, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard of Chuck Norris-ian proportions. But every time, something trivial blocks that attempt, like looking professional for a job or large bald patches. Or the scraggly bits of sad hair are depression induced, left to pube up my face by sheer laziness and lack of motivation. But not anymore. There is nothing standing between me and bearded glory!

Although it seems my life is nearly complete, full of overwhelming joy and happiness, I'm still on the hunt for the next big thing (no, I am not scouting for porn...not yet. Ron Jeremy, call me!) Do you have any ideas? Good. Keep them. You might need them later in life...

Classified Ad for Immediate Employment

2010-03-09T00:18:00.000-08:00

I am a white male (but don't hold that against me), age 24 (but I've been mistaken for a sixteen year old), seeking employment opportunities with your business! I am seeking any type of employment you have to offer - contract, part-time, or full-time work. Or porn.

QUALIFICATIONS:

I have a Bachelor of Arts degree from a university who prides themselves on being like an Ivy League university, but in the middle of a cornfield in podunk Indiana. I mean, real podunk Indiana. If you step foot off campus, you hear dueling banjo music and see more flannel wearing than a WNBA game. So, I guess you could say I'm cultured. I majored in English Writing, which means I spent four years around stoners who wrote about how difficult their suburban Chicago lifestyles were while growing up. I think someone must have given them bleacher seats once to a Cubs game at Wrigley or something. Who knows? I also dabbled in theatre and political science, so I'm obviously socially aware, or at least I can act like I am. How do you act socially aware if you're a method actor? Spend two weeks with PETA protesters?

I also am a licensed English teacher at the secondary level. With that came part of a Master's degree in education and $20,000 in debt (which is kinda why I need a job). I've worked with children at every skill level - high school, junior high, elementary school, and Mexican. I even have worked with mentally handicapped students, or at least those labeled by the school districts as mentally handicapped so that they could cheat the state by nixing those students ISTEP scores while stigmatizing those students as "special needs" for the rest of their lives. Did I mention I'm socially aware?

I have been a track coach. My runners had a very successful season while I was coaching. We were the only team in the state to wear knee high pink socks and yellow headbands to regionals. While we lost our relay race by a large margin, my runners received more numbers from girls than any other team, and isn't that what high school sports is about, looking cool to impress the opposite sex? That's what I thought, too.

In addition to being a great writer (as evidenced by this advertisement), as well as a superb educator, I am a licensed contractor (I'm good with wood), a skilled guitarist (I cannot play "Dust in the Wind" or "Stairway to Heaven", however), an accomplished actor (I was voted as the "Best Tree #2" in my third grade production of Hair), an excellent cook (tell me if that isn't the best macaroni and cheese you've ever had), and most importantly, a good human being (I hit on old women to boost their self-esteem and I've only hooked up with two of them).

I am also willing to convert to any religion necessary in order to fulfill your needs, except Pentecostal, because I just find blue jean skirts to be a turn off.

EXPERIENCE:

As stated before, I have taught at every level of education, including in Monterrey, Mexico. There, I managed to give a damn despite being nearly deported because the principal of the school which employed me was a lazy jack off who spent more time mentally abusing his employees than actually doing meaningful work, so I am used to adverse conditions. I speak limited Spanish, but I did date a Mexican girl, which gives me lots of experience, but probably nothing useful to your company, unless you're one of those really perverted bosses and you make me your slutty secretary.

I have run my own business doing contracting work, so I am a do-it-your-selfer and highly motivated. I can work without being hassled and pushed, although I do require nap time during the day because I get cranky. This may seem juvenile, even childish, but my productivity will increase exponentially based on the amount of time slept at work. I am attaching an Excel Spreadsheet to lend credence to this claim. I do not, however, require warm milk. This is a common misconception. But hot chocolate and a blanket would be nice. And a soft pillow. This is all negotiable.

DESIRED WORK:

As stated before, I am available for any type of work you may have, from part-time contracted work, to full-time, salaried positions. Or porn.

Here are a few possible options, to give you a clearer picture of what type of employment I might best fit in for your company.

Roadkill collector - I saw this work on an episode of Dirty Jobs. It looks fantastic. I would tie the carcasses to the bumpers of parked cars and watch as they are dragged along the highway. This would lighten the mood among my co-workers and those driving near said vehicle. And in times like these, and gas prices as they are, wouldn't a little humility help us all?
Census collector - But I will NOT go to Hannibal Lecter's house.
Advertiser dressed in a giant cockroach costume (or chicken costume - I'm flexible)
Grave digger for deceased pets
Shoe shiner for suede shoes
Dog walker for dogs with wheel carts (I will provide my own vehicle for carting the dogs behind.)
Ass model
Mime for the blind
Singer for the deaf
Lady Gaga's personal assistant
Professional karaoke singer of only "Don't Stop Believin'"
Pretzel maker at Auntie Annie's in the mall

I hope that this has been helpful to you and I hope that with my wide variety of talents and experience, you can find a position (or positions, if you are a porn producer) that fits your and my needs. My salary is negotiable, as well as my working conditions. As long as you can provide reasonable assurance that I won't be working in a place any worse than the factory from The Jungle, and that I will not be subjected to any contact with Rosie O'Donnell or other fat women with mustaches, then I think we will be able to mutually help one another. I look forward to hearing from you!

Levels of Tiredness, Religious Crazies, and Fleetwood Mac Melting Your Face

2010-02-26T17:26:00.000-08:00

It's Friday night, almost 8:00pm, and I'm sitting in a room full of overeager high school students simulating members of the Defense Department getting way too excited about the prospect of dropping an imaginary nuclear weapon on North Korea, then sending in so many troops and weapons that I'm quite certain Afghanistan and Iraq would have to be emptied faster than the gravy bowl at Al Roker's table. Meanwhile, I'm sitting on my laptop, relaxing to Bob Dylan and ignoring every single thing that is being said to me. Why? Even though this bedroom-sized box is currently holding 24 people, 24 chairs, and enough testosterone to kill a large mammal or Ron Jeremy, I am taking this opportunity to smile and find a bit of peace.

I am so tired, I fall asleep in awkward positions on the half hour bus rides. I'm getting sicker and sicker as the week progresses. I've run through a box of Kleenex and four shirt sleeves. I'm coughing like the Bubble Boy in a smokehouse and find myself having to overdose on caffeine in order to deliver my usual cracks over the bus intercom about what Lady GaGa and I have in common with the same enthusiasm. But, I'm two days away from being done with this adventure, and without delving too deep into it, I have really enjoyed it a lot. A whole lot. As much as a high-class prostitute at a Tiger Woods party.

A few funny moments from the last week:

Two kids were on the bus behind me, discussing their favorite hard rock music (Metallica, Pantera, etc.) I asked them if they had heard of the hard rock band Fleetwood Mac. They both looked at each other and said no. I told them it was the most thrash, hardcore band I had ever heard, so much so they make me ears bleed. They bought it, hook, line, and sinker. They asked for some of their best songs. I told them "Landslide. Think about it. What happens in a landslide? Destruction." They both wrote the song and band down. Nice.

So, we're behind the Capitol building, trying to brief the kids on where they go and what they can do while they are there. Next to us is a kid, no older than eight or nine, screaming at the top of his lungs about abortion and Obama being a devil and how Jesus is going to return and slay all sinners. Then, his piece of shit, ignorant, jackass father (who pimps an eight-year-old kid, on a SCHOOL DAY, to random strangers at the Nation's Capitol when the damn kid probably doesn't understand a God damn thing he is screaming) began screaming such classic phrases as, "Obama is sending us to hell in a handbasket" (so cliche), as well as the classic, "Pre-marital sex and fornication is for sinners and you will all go to hell who engage in such acts! (Oops! There goes half the Catholics...and their priests.) He began beating the ground and dancing around as he yelled. In between his gasped screams, I retorted. Below is a transcript...

(SETTING: US Captiol Building. TIME: Late morning. CHARACTERS: me and crazy religious man)
MAN: (screaming) Jesus...hates...sinners! (breath)
ME: (screaming) The food...at the Supreme Court...is delicious!
MAN: And those...who follow...that devil Obama...like sheep...will certainly...end up...in hell!
ME: And the Library...of Congress...is really neat!
MAN: Voices...of Christ...Use your mouths...as a trumpet!
ME: (puckers lips and makes a loud trumpet sound...man looks angrily at me)

I'm all about freedom of speech, and in no way am I belittling religion, but using your kid as a mouth piece for your psycho babel (and I couldn't remember half of what he said, but it would qualify as psycho babel) is one step below prick and one step above swift kick in the groin. All my kids were laughing and saying, "I want to get a video of the crazy guy!" Oh, and by the by, most of these kids are conservative and religious. So it's not just me.

Last night, I listened to a man named Col. Christopher Hughes, member of the 101st Airborne in Iraq. His story is amazing and he is an amazing person, as well as speaker. I was really, really motivated by what he said. You can Google his name and read his story, as well as his book, which I will link here. I already have ordered a copy. I suggest you do, too. Truly, truly amazing person that we often take for granted.

Finally, I'm finished Sunday, and I'll be back home around mid-week and I'm on the hunt for my next adventure. Do you have any ideas? I am open to any and all suggestions. I will travel anywhere and do almost anything, as long as it is crazy and fun. Education programs, weird jobs, etc. You can e-mail me, Facebook me, or leave a suggestion here. Maybe you'll see me in a city near you!

National Security and the DC Crazies Who Challenge It

2010-02-19T17:44:00.000-08:00

Session 2 is over halfway completed, and I'm sitting in a large conference room, monitoring members of the "media" in the student's role playing simulation on North Korea and their threatening the United States with nuclear weapons. Very cool for them. Very boring for I. Three hours of sitting here, giving the students fake "TOP SECRET" documents every fifteen minutes, listening to kids verbally abusing each other over fake documents and made up roles. Most excellent. So, I decided to use this time to add more photos and fill all two and a half of you that read this thing in on the latest in this capital adventure.

This session has been a blast as well. The kids I worked with session one were fantastic, and their diversity and backgrounds made them such an incredible group to work with. This group...umm, I like them. There are definitely some characters. I have one scholar who has discussed such wide ranging topics as broom handles and splinters, Amazon women, and the fact that he skipped part of his experience at NCIS to eat chocolate pudding with a special agent using a knife. Special people, really.

Speaking of NCIS - each Thursday, the students go on a site visit that they choose, and we faculty advisers are divided up and sent to different places. Yesterday, I went to the FBI Academy at Quantico Marine Base (think Silence of the Lambs). Really fantastic. We saw the training facilities, including a ground fighting session (the same moves I already know from MMA training in Mexico - what what!) and the pool and weight room facilities. The experience was fantastic. It was made even stranger by the fact that while we were at the FBI, the plane in Austin crashed. The initial report was that it hit an FBI building in Austin. Weird, weird moment.

We then went to NCIS at Bollinger Air Force base. It's only slightly like the television show (a point that was hammered home about 2,567 1/2 times). But, they set up an actual crime scene with real blood (well, sheep's blood) and clues, fingerprints and cyber information and the like. The kids went into the actual labs to analyze blood splatter, learn to fingerprint, how to find information on hard drives, and they held actual guns and used empty casings to figure out the "murder" weapon. The people at NCIS were really great. I didn't participate, but still had a good time. Especially because there were a few hot lady agents working there, even though their work space reminded my partner and I of The Office.

Alright, so Washington DC must have high security everywhere but their insane asylums, because there are some people here who seem to be a few screws short of not being mental. There you go. For example, there are groups who stop people at street corners to discuss how Barack Obama and Adolf Hitler have identical policies. They even have large pictures to go with their explanations. You know, even though one of them strongly disliked African-Americans and all and killed 6,000,000 Jews. Kinda the same as not liking a health care policy. Just saying. Idiots.

Today, at the Lincoln Memorial, a man wearing blue jeans with shorts over top of them, a bandanna, and crazy assorted accessories began throwing coins on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, followed by his covering up of a picture of MLK, saying, "This is top secret and no one can see it! Go away!" Oh, by the by - he was African-American. After confronting several mounted officers and National Parks workers, he was escorted away. I was too surprised even to go pick up the damn change.

Finally, I finished reading the latest novel I decided to tackle, Love In the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fantastic, but not as great as One Hundred Years of Solitude. Although he is wordy and extensive with his descriptions of seemingly mundane details, the picture he paints leaves you with a vivid mental picture of every person, building, and moment in the novel. I highly recommend it if you enjoy Latin American literature at all. It reads very nearly like a much better, more drawn out version of The Notebook, with the theme of young love lost and found again later in life. Super, super novel.

A Valentine's Day Message For Everyone

2010-02-14T16:58:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in a Starbucks, writing on my computer, looking like another wanna-be writer who thinks a 3.25 Mocha and a faux oak table are their key to being the next John Steinbeck, where under cheap track lighting they say via their open computer, pensive look-offs into the distance between frantic typing, and their intent, brow-bending stare at their computers, “Look at me! I’m a real writer!” But, alas, I am not doing such today. I come to you today in as a cheery mood as the next man with his testicles strapped to a car battery.

Alright, so that isn’t true. I don’t let Valentine’s Day affect me like most people. While others throw around their philosophical droplets of wisdom (“It’s just a holiday invented by Hallmark to make money. It’s intended to make single people miserable.”), I do not fall into those ranks. Sure, watching couples fawn over each other in public like mother gorillas picking bugs out of their children’s fur stands about two rungs above a nasty gangrene infection on the Vomit Scale. But, I realize two things. One, most of these couples act like this towards each other about three times a year and most are internally just as miserable as any single person feels. I walked around downtown for an hour today and saw exactly five shouting matches, one of which the police were watching because they and I were quite certain that was going to end in fist-a-cuffs.

Second, and most importantly, it’s just another day. Sure, it dredges up memories and feelings, but so do sad movies, floppy eared puppies, and venereal disease flare-ups long after the gift giver has gone. You can easily let one day affect your outlook on life, but that feeling is fleeting, as are most feelings, and tomorrow the red balloons and cheesy slogans in restaurant windows will be gone and half of those couples will be well on their way to a nasty break-up three months from now. It’s the nature of the beast.

So why write about this? Well, I’m bored. I’ve never wished so intently for two days with absolutely nothing to do and no responsibilities to pass by so quickly. Also, it’s an inside joke to myself that I’ll share with you, but I like to secretly laugh at people without anyone else knowing why I’m laughing or smiling like an idiot, and there’s one of those guys, absorbedly pounding away on his computer, sitting behind me, and the stack of books he has piled up next to him and his yellow legal pad notes includes two of the Harry Potter books. So I figured that I would do the same as him, even though only I know I’m writing ridiculous statements about a made-up holiday and he’s probably actually trying.

I spent today getting a hair cut from a nice gentleman who said, “Your hair naturally flows towards the center of your head and gives you a fantastic faux hawk. You have a great head shape.” So to all you hatas out there, I told you I be reppin’ the most bad ass faux hawk eva’. And now a real hairstylist at a SuperCuts told me so.

Snow Days Suck...

2010-02-13T22:48:00.000-08:00

I used to think snow days, in the order of Divine Miracles, rated somewhere between walking on water and making a blind man see (but NOT turning water into wine, because I don't like wine that much, and definitely better than the whole fish thing, because, you ever been around a whole shit load of fish? That stuff starts to stink pretty quickly.) So that was my thought process until this week. Initially, when they announced that they were canceling session two of the forum because of weather, I was elated. As much as I loved working with the students, a long break was very welcome. Well, here were are five days later, and things have gotten so bad, that our staff quickly resorted to "If this became a really bad horror movie, which member of the staff would most likely be the one to snap and kill everyone?" And guess who was voted most likely to be that person? ME! What?!

Alright, so let me take this opportunity to refute that claim. First of all, never in my life have I had a desire to murder someone. I mean, straight up. Never. And, besides the fact that I match some of the descriptive traits listed on the "serial killer" Wikipedia page, I never wet my bed beyond the age of 12 and I don't think torturing small animals is right. At all. I didn't even like dissecting the frog in biology! And I am proud of my high IQ and do not think it is indicative of anything other than I have a lot of knowledge. I mean, you don't see Stephen Hawkings out there, going all Buffalo Bill on some wheelchair bound women, right? Of course not! So, yeah, that argument is done. Plus, I'm too nice. Really. I give to charity. I ask elderly women how their days are. I don't cross the street to avoid homeless people. I walk right by them! Who else can say that? Seriously.

Let's talk a look, hypothetically, of where I think I rank if we were to really look for serial killers:

5. Tom Cruise - that's too obvious
13. My next door neighbor when I was a kid - I think that guy had a few bodies in his garden
75. Mr. Rogers - you know that guy was a Green Beret, right? Don't let the sweater fool you
76. Mr. McFeely - he would be a quite obvious accomplice
165. Ron Artest - too easy to see, so there's no way he could be
1,345. Michael J. Fox - Marty McFly? Teen Wolf? No way. Plus he couldn't hold the weapon steady (crickets)
1,456. Ryan Barton
1,458. Mother Theresa - sneaky; a wild-card entry, but in the end, no way

So, you see, the empirical proof is overwhelming - I could not nor will I ever be a serial killer. So sorry to disappoint. And just because I've been twitchy this week whenever I see a butter knife doesn't mean anything. IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!

So this week really has been rough. It's cold, there's nothing that's closer than a 20 minute walk besides homes, and they serve dinner at 5pm. By nine, I feel like Rosie O'Donnell staring at an all-you-can-eat buffet through Plexi-glass. It's just uncomfortable. A few of the kids have been stuck here all week because nothing is flying out of Washington D.C. besides Congress' sanity. They've tried a few escapes, and who can blame them, but they're about as stealthy as a fat woman in a Twinkie factory. But they're really cool and we've had some great times, like a few days ago at the zoo.

So, I figured the zoo in winter would be like going to the opera: boring. There's really no joke there. Opera sucks. So, anyways, we went to the National Zoo with the remaining scholars because it's free and it's close and what the hell, there's sure to be a few exhibits, right? Well, not exactly. Every other path was "Under Construction," the elephants were locked up like they were on death row, and half the exhibits were closed. So, we checked out the small mammal house, with the monkeys and meerkats, and that was cool. And we checked out the reptile house, with the crocodiles and snakes and frogs and stuff, and that was neat. But then, we went into the most amazing place I have ever been save...well, save nothing, it was that amazing - The Primate House.

Look, seeing gorillas and orangutans up close is cool enough, especially when there are baby gorillas involved...

And you can always bet that they'll be doing something interesting. I mean, they are our living ancestors and all, right? They're smart and intelligent, right? I mean, some of the primates work on computers at the zoo, matching designs and showing forms of intelligence, right? Oh, did I mention they like to stick their own shit in their mouths and smear it on the viewing glass for all to see -

Or they choose to whittle the time away by doing a little something I call EATING THEIR OWN VOMIT! Oh yeah, not once, not twice, not even five times, but like twenty freaking times! Seriously! And this ain't no cow-chewin'-its-cud type of deal. This is full on, out of body, back into body kind of shit. This orangutan in question particularly liked to show of its vomit eating prowess by doing so off the viewing glass. And to silence any critics, I went ahead and captured the moment with a sort of evolutionary linkage type of photo.

Ignore the fact that that thing looks like half of my family. We clearly have evolutionary links, but have become separated in our thought processes. Orangutans can't talk, and I haven't eaten my own vomit since I was in college, and that's like two years ago, and that was just because of a dare and I really wanted to impress this girl, but the plan kinda backfired because she thought it was gross, but at least I wasn't doing it for fun like this orangutan, and at least my shame was only in front of like six people and not at a country's zoo where everyone could watch me. So, that's how I proved evolution this week.

I went out last night, had a nice time, got in a cab to head home with some friends. Cab driver (who we later found out was Punjabi) was talking on his cell phone in a language we couldn't understand to a person we assumed was, you know, far enough away to necessitate a cell phone. Upon stopping at a red light, the cell phone hung up, the trunk popped open, and a human crawled out of the trunk. Seriously. The cab driver was talking to a man who was stuffed in his trunk. The whole time. No truth to the rumor that the man in the trunk was this guy.

Anyways, that's about all the fun for this week. I'm still trying to figure out what's next. I have no idea. I feel as clueless as Joaquin Phoenix in trying to decide where to go from here, except I don't have a beard like Happy Gilmore's caddy. But, if anyone has any idea or would like to coax me into coming their direction, let me know. I'm open for just about anything at this point. Just something that can pay the student loans and leave me enough money to buy useless crap that I'll never use.

Two Weeks Deep, Don't Think Twice, 'Cause There's No Second One, Only Second Chances

2010-02-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

In true Sesame Street fashion, this weeks blog is brought to you by the number two. In the pantheon of numerical order, I think the number two is often forgotten. It falls behind the first number of the alphabet, comes before three (third times a charm, lucky number three, etc.), and generally has an awkward form when being written (do I make the loop at the bottom/do I not/does it matter/will my first grade teacher Mrs. Duddy slap my hand with the metal edge of a ruler again for number two writing insubordination?). But, the number two has given us some of the greatest number related references in history: two birds with one stone, number 2 pencil, and of course, the greatest, taking a number two. This week has been no different for me.

First, let's address the elephant in the room. Yes, the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Shit happens. Truth is, it's all my fault. I wore my Colts t-shirt today, but it never felt like today was actually the Super Bowl. I didn't even go out to watch it and I only woke up 10 minutes before kick off. I feel like my lack of preparedness both mentally and physically were somehow related to this letdown, and for that, I'm sorry. Kudos to the Saints. If there is any team I wouldn't mind winning the Lombardi, it's the Saints. Even though Drew Brees was the inspiration for a certain Austin Powers character. Although they got there, there wasn't to be a second Super Bowl, and it's all my fault. On the other hand, Mardi Gras will be sick. You think the guys from Girls Gone Wild are already halfway to New Orleans with about 324 cameras and two garbage trucks full of beads? I think so.

Even though this was the first full week of work here, I'm now two weeks deep into my Washington D.C. experience. So let's run through week one.

Fantastic. Incredible. Amazing. How many cliche words can I dramatically list set off from the other paragraphs for dramatic purposes?

(As a side note. We started working Tuesday at 1pm. We finally finished Sunday at 3pm. Count it up. That is a total of 122 hours. How many we were on the books for? 85 hours. Yes, that's right. We averaged approximately 7 hours and 24 minutes of free time a day, and that means sleep time, too, so if I haven't kept in touch with you, I apologize. There were afternoons where I swore I was tripping on 20 Dramamine mixed with a handful of NyQuil. In other words, I spent the week looking and feeling like an extra from "Thriller".)

Twenty-one kids, from California, Texas, New York, Tennessee, Michigan, even Indiana, and everywhere in-between were in my group. Tuesday afternoon, they sat, heads down, toeing the ground hard enough to dig holes in the carpet, afraid to breathe too loud. Today, at our final meeting, they were hugging each other, crying, exchanging e-mails and phone numbers. To watch the growth of students you are responsible for over any period of time is a neat feeling. I've had that feeling so many times, and each time, it's a satisfying experience that's really unparalleled. But, for some reason this time was extremely moving for me. It could be a thousand things. Where I am in life, where this job is, who they are as people - whatever it is, this has been, as I said, an incredible experience.

Highlights:

Wednesday, I noticed one of my students sitting alone during dinner. He's from near where I went to school in Indiana. So I went over and had dinner with him, talked about jazz and different parts of the state, how he liked school and the program so far. Shortly thereafter, two other students came by wanting to sit with me. I introduced the students, got them talking, and excused myself to get another drink and never came back. Today, I saw those same three students all hanging out, taking pictures together. I smiled a little.
Thursday night, the students listened to different speakers from the defense, diplomatic, and intelligence sectors of our government. Afterwords, they attended a career fair with various intelligence branches, military schools, and people from related career fields. I spent more than the recommended amount of time discussing networking, talking about the various twists and turns my life has taken based on random chance and people I've met by complete accident/fate. I stressed the importance of impressions, firm handshakes, genuine interest. I watched as other students ran to tables to grab the "swag" these companies bring to lure in students and run back to their friends as if a free lanyard was a trophy of excellence. Three of my students were late getting back to the classroom. They were asked to stay after to talk with a member of one of the military schools, who gave them his personal information. All the students said they were more prepared than any other group. Was it true? Probably not. But they believed in themselves, and that's 99% of the battle.
We had a black sheep. Every group I've ever worked with does, that one kid who stands out, says the wrong thing at the wrong time, rubs everyone the wrong way, doesn't seem to have an inner-monologue. It was hard, as respectful and courteous as the students were, to shield him at times from their barbs. Saturday, as we discussed the importance of respect to those at Arlington Cemetery, he gave one of the most thought-provoking, deep, incredibly moving statements I've ever heard. The students all cheered for him. Today, at our final meeting, he told everyone how much he appreciated them. They all had a group hug and said how much they cared for him and loved his personality and opinions. I didn't join the group hug, because it took me back to all the other students who I watched in the same way, with the same admiration, names that I still remember to this day and always will.
At our final meeting today, my students reiterated what they had said all week: That they love having me as their faculty adviser, they were sad they were leaving, they wanted pictures and to know if I'd stay in touch. There were hugs, some tears (not from me), beautiful final messages. I watched a group of bright, young, talented students grow like driveway weeds, sprouting new frames of thought and confidence in only six days and realized this -

I'm sitting here at 24 years old, having felt like my life has done nothing but dramatically shift since I was a child, a decade plus of seemingly dead ends and hopeless roads that turn to dust. Then I see how these students reacted, how much they appreciated me for me and how I could help them. Coincidentally, I received a slew of messages from my students in Monterrey Friday night and had a heap full of scholars not even from my group asking to take pictures with me the last day, saying they would miss me, too.

I also have a link to pictures from this week. What, what!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2062533&id=22102032&l=f98874ed63

Finally, each night, because the days are so hectic and a moment of peace if as hard to find as someone who thinks Sarah Palin would be a good President and doesn't believe that Mormons planted dinosaurs in the ground, I would chill out in the lobby of one of the buildings here and relax with some Bob Dylan.

And it happened. I think I've made one of the biggest decisions of my entire life.

I love Bob Dylan more than The Beatles.

Now, before you start chastising me - the Beatles are the greatest rock band ever. Without The Beatles, we'd have had Lady GaGa twenty years ago and by now hermaphrodite acts would be as popular as the Jonas Brothers. So, that's a good thing, you know? But what makes Dylan my go-to choice for listening pleasure?

First of all, I love the simplicity. Acoustic guitar, a harmonica, maybe a little drum snare here and there. Second, people always bash his voice, but that's what makes Dylan, well, Dylan. It's a voice of the people - a smoky, cracked, strained, untrained set of pipes that could come straight from a Michigan line worker or a West Virginia coal miner. It's a voice of the people telling the stories of the people. Finally, his lyrics - just, amazing. While he has some real stinkers (sorry, I think Ballad of a Thin Man is shite), the majority of his songs just hit you right where it counts, right when you need it.

I've always found it difficult for pin down a favorite song for artists I really love. Don't even ask me about one for The Beatles - how large of a list of potential candidates can I have? Thirty songs? Forty?

Dylan - I have fallen in love with Don't Think Twice, It's Alright. Never gave it a shot before. Can't get enough of it now. Amazing. And it has a deviation of the number two in it. So there you go. What a way to wrap it up.

Now on to week number two starting on TWOs-day. (That's a stretch, yes, but I don't care. Get yo' own damn blog if you got a problem with it.)

p.s. - Shameless plug. Sort of. This is a link to a student-film that my good friend Jeremy Brok made in 2006. I recently put it up on YouTube because a lot of our friends were in it, and making it was a ton of fun and now that we have to face the real world, I guess this takes us back to a time when things were as easy as being dumbasses in front of a camera. The other three parts are linked on the video somewhere. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGztfPhy5bw

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

2010-01-27T15:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-24T21:39:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-10T00:12:00.000-08:00

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...

Basketball, Coffee, and Colts

2009-09-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

Two posts in two days? Damn, I'm on fire. I couldn't ask for a better end to a fantastic week (let's, for arguments sake, assume that Sunday is the end of the week, since Monday always sucks huge elephant balls).

We had our second game today, and hot damn, we won, 59-48. Only five players showed for an 11am game (I'm sure Saturday night hangovers killed half the team). Therefore, even though I'm so out of shape I feel like a 54 year-old chain smoker with emphysema and one more jelly donut away from cardiac arrest, I went the whole 40 minutes. Two hard fouls, a scuffed up left shin, a hobbled left knee that's led to seven consumed aspirin, and 12 points later, my shirt was so soaked with sweat, I literally RANG IT OUT in the bathroom sink. I wish this was an over exaggeration, but unfortunately, it isn't. The combination of massive amounts of exercise, the massive Satan fart heat of Mexico, and a gym that must double as a place to cremate bodies (ie - hot as hell) led to my shirt being wetter than...well, let's try to keep it PG for this evening. I love this basketball league. Love it. Those of you who know me know what basketball means to me, and to be able to play against really good competition and meet new people and show off my massive skill set (insert laugh here) has really made me so very, very happy.

Since my arrival, my choice hangout has been a quaint coffee shop near my house called Gloria Jean's. I literally am there every night, usually grading papers. I visit so frequently, I know every employee by name, they know my real name and many other aliases (ranging from "Rayn" to "Juan" to "Juanito" to one cheeky fellow who put my name on the receipt as "O'Bryan".), and I've held substanial conversations with each one of them. In other words, I'm a regular. And going there, I've really learned a lot of Spanish. Because I stay late and there are rarely other customers past 9pm, I have conversations with the employees for an hour almost every night. This alone has bumped my level of Spanish from "Yo hablo un muy poquito espanol," to "Yo hablo un poquito espanol." I feel comfortable enough now to speak to anyone in Spanish. It's fantastic. But anyways, the place really reminds me of the little coffee shops in Boulder, Colorado, my future home. Come visit me. I'll take you out for a cup.

Tonight, being that the Colts/Cardinals game was on national TV, it was on in most of the restaurants in Monterrey. I went to the Chili's near my house and watched. And what makes the perfect weekend more perfect? The Colts beating the living hell out of the Cardinals, 31-10, in case you happen to miss the score or don't care. I enjoyed a few Jack Daniels and Cokes and just realxed. And mis amigas favoritos came, too, which is always enjoyable. Fantastic, fantastic Sunday.

It's so nice to finally really enjoy being here. Even when things start to get boring or something should really get me down, it doesn't like it used to. I've taken the road of blissful ignorance, disregarding the things that don't go so well and truly enjoying each little thing that comes my way. I still don't know a ton of people. I'm not going out and drinking and partying like I used to. But, in a way, it's really nice. I figure pushing myself to really squeeze every ounce of happiness out of each experience can only serve me better in the long run. And plus, who wants to be fucking miserable all the time (oops - there goes the PG blog). Until next time...

You Better Get Ready for War...

2009-09-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

The last week has been hectic, in a serene sense. It's like one of those slow motion war scenes where people are being blown to bits, blood is splattered on the lens and you can see people screaming and dying and crying out, but they cut the sound and set it to some nice, soft, classical score. That's kind of how I would describe the last week.

One of the teachers at the school was fired. Why...who knows? Another teacher rarely shows up. And there is apparently no such thing as a substitute teacher in Mexico, or at least not that I'm aware of. Our coordinator was gone two days on business, and my roomate was, sadly, at home Monday through Wednesday for his grandfather's funeral. Needless to say, the war metaphor is sufficiently adequate in this situation.

On top of that, every night for the last two weeks, I've spent my every waking, non-school hour correcting 35 essays written in broken, garbled English. And while the actual stories were, for the most part, intriguing and ultimately fantastic, the path there (grammar, spelling, punctuation - those little things) were like a path littered with landmines and shrapnel. But, I meticulously corrected each first draft, just as I did in my short stint at Rushville High, treating each paper with the same care as the last. And now, they are all finished, and final drafts have been turned in, and the results are astonishing. It's another small moral victory in an otherwise cataclysmic battle.

Each Friday night, at least for the last two Friday nights, a group of teachers from the school have been meeting for dinner and drinks. Last Saturday (as Friday didn't pan out), we met at Las Alitas, a sports bar type place (think Applebee's with less crap on the walls). This past Friday, we met at Sierra Madre Brewery, a very nice, very lively restaurant with their own brewery. We originally had eight people that grew to fifteen by the end of the meal. It was fantastic. Despite some of the struggles at school, many of the students and especially my fellow co-workers make the job very enjoyable. Many of the elementary teachers, the secondary teachers, the art teacher, the PE teacher, the librarian, and the cafeteria lady are all stupendous individuals. Sitting around, enjoying a relaxing meal, laughing, sharing stories, doing impressions, and really getting to know each other outside of the school walls is something that I will really cherish from my time here. It's the respite, a little R&R away from the trenches.

The best thing that has happened is I finally, finally, finally stopped feeling sick. The nozzle in my nose stopped running like a drunk waterfall and my sleep habits have improved (I actually go to bed at a reasonable hour. What has happened to me?) And so I started lifting and boxing for an hour each day, in addition to running. But the best part - I joined the school's basketball league. Several of the teachers and a few parents are in a weekend basketball league. I stayed after school each night this week to practice, and to be able to play the sport that I love more than anything again has really, really made me giddy. We had our first game today, which, mother fu****, we lost, 61-58. The teams that play in the league are no slouches. We have two former college players and a semi-professional player on our team, and we still lost. I played about a quarter. It felt good...real good. I had five points, including a nothing but a sizzling net three-pointer. Mi amiga Ashley took some pictures:

The first picture would be the sweet lay-up I made, courtesy of a nice assist. The second picture would be my three-pointer in mid-air. As you can see, my form is hot as shit. Alright, so not really, but damn it feels good to be a gangsta. And the view from the gym ain't half bad either. When's the last time you played in a gym on the side of a mountain?

Today, I went with a student of mine and his father to a Monterrey Rayados game, the local professional soccer team. It was incredible. We sat up high, but when the venue (Estadio Tecnologico) is "only" 40,000 seats, any seat is good. It's was incredible to see just how big the field really is. It's twenty yards wider than an American football field and a 120 yards long. And live soccer is actually very exciting, even if the pace seems slow. The fans are crazy. It makes professional sports fans in the US look pathetic. Really pathetic. It reminds me more of a crazy high school or college game, with dancing and cheers and screaming and instruments and all that jazz. And Rayados beat Puebla, 2-1. Very, very cool experience.

Alright, another ball game in 11 hours, and so I must go. But I will return tomorrow with another update on some other very cool happenings and so forth.

Everybody's Working for the Weekend So That They Can't Do Anything Fun, Ye-ah!

2009-09-07T07:42:00.000-07:00

So those aren't exactly the lyrics to what stands as THE anthem of shitty work weeks and the immense amount of fun that SHOULD follow on those two wonderful days known as Saturday and Sunday (and Friday night, while we're at it). But the last few weekends have been less than sensational (with a few notable exceptions). Being a school teacher is hard, it isn't worth the money, and you only do it because you have an enrmously large heart, like me (insert sarcastic response at your screen here). And so it stands to reason that school teachers, more than business men or lawyers or doctors, deserve to spend Friday night through mid-Sunday in a state of toxic inebriation. And for the first weekend, I did. (This weekend has been discussed in a previous blog, the one in which there is a picture of me looking to seduce a taco as if it were Elisha Cuthbert and Mila Kunis rolled into one.) I work diligently every weekday, teaching as if Jesus H. Christ himself is coming back to save my filthy soul, and every night I peek towards the weekend with eager anticipation, waiting, hoping, wishing...

And every weekend it seems, something happens. Something completely and utterly unbelieveable at the wrong moment, the wrong time. Let's take this weekend for example.

Friday early evening - While taking a deep nap to prepare for the weekend ahead, two friends enter my home, scream for me, decide I'm not there, and leave. And since I didn't own a phone, I spent the rest of my night sitting in my home, staring at the wall. Okay, not really. I played guitar.

(¡I have acquired a guitar. A wonderful, wonderful person had one just lying around that they never used. So I took it, tuned it, and made sweet, sweet, sweaty music with it. And it is fantastic and sounds wonderful and makes me so happy that it pretty much has wiped away all my problems. Okay, not really, but you know! [I love having a Spanish keyboard because I can make upside down exclamation points and you can't {unless you live in Mexico}¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡])

Saturday afternoon - So at the repeated behest of said guitar giver, I broke down and went all 16 year old giggly girl and bought a phone. Like, totally. So, I'm like at the mall, minding my own business, just buying a phone, when - WHAM-fucking-O! Mexico went all loco on me again. The pain radiating from my body doubled me over, brought tears to my face, and sweat beads to my face that were the same size as those that probably roll down the crack of this man's ass. It was intense, to say the least. And, God bless the wonderful lady at Telcel who was trying to show me all the function's of the phone and what not, but I had to be a dick. I rolled my ass into a cab and went back (for the second time in three weeks) to the emergency room. Long story short (again), they took tests this time and I have an infection. Not some contagious hubabalu, mind you, but some kind of infection. And so they put me on medication that costs 130 pesos a pill (about 9.00 US). Per pill! But these pills would give an elephant difficulty in swallowing and when I take them, it's like taking drugs, but less WOOOO and more UHHHH. Heavily, heavily sedated. So nice.

But anyways, plans for the evening were ruined by this fact (as well as the fact my wonderful guide and said guitar giver were in a car wreck and although they are very thankfully fine, their car and my usual ride was mangled like a stroller under a garbage truck).

However, I was able to get out last night and see The Ugly Truth, with Katherine Heigl and Gerard Butler (I know, not my choice). But it was actually pretty good, and made better by the fact that it wasn't all PG-13 chick flicked. It was rather raunchy. In fact, half the theatre were guys (albeit probably dragged their against their will). And Gerard Butler is the man. He basically played the exact same character from 300, but instead of slaying mutated elephants and tranvestite, hermo-war lords, he slayed the ladies. A lot of ladies.

I also ate once again at Tacos Laredo, which is delicious food at a reasonable price. The campechana is delicious. And my previously mentioned plan to mutilate my tongue to the point I can eat fire and not blink must be working, because I had to ADD more spicy sauce last night. Oh my God...I'm becoming a Mexo-Gringo.

And before I go, what tops off my weekend? Oh, that's right. My computer finally keeled over. After six years of co-existence, she's finally pushing up the daisies. She has tripped the light fantastic. She is an ex-computer. So sad. I wanted to make a beautiful Power Point montage of our life together, with maybe some Amazing Grace in the background, but I don't have Power Point, because it's on my dead computer. Yeah, so, anyways. I can use a computer at school, but that is limited use (except for this long entry I'm writing).

And finally, for those of you who do not know my good friend Seth Elder, he is a Fulbright Scholar in Macedonia that I went to school with for four years. He is winding down his stay there and has started to reminisce on his time there. His journal is of incredible quality, fervent in its humor and poignancy. And he's in a really cool fucking place. Check it out: http://sethelder.blogspot.com/

Get Back To Where You Once Belonged

2009-09-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

I'm back. It has been awhile, I know. As you start to truly adjust to the point you wake up one morning, look at the enormously beautiful mountains behind your home, and say, "Damn, those mountains suck. I live in a bowl," you know you're truly HERE. And while so much has happened in the last two weeks, so much has not happened. I know that may be blowing your mind, like some kind of trans-mutated, 60's experimental drug revolution thingy, but it's the truth. Before, when I was writing blogs like they were Harry Potter books, each time I left my house was an event, like going to prom or a sixth birthday party. There were cameras, bug-eyes, cheesy smiles, and the constant fear of urinating in your pants (I can't ever find a bathroom here when I need one).

But now, it's plain. Just...plain.

And I don't mean that in a bad way, at all. In fact, I feel terribly at home now. Before, I sat around the house on the Internet, visiting the same seven websites in a never-ceasing rotation, like constantly opening the refrigerator and freezer doors when you're hungry, hoping something good pops up you didn't see before. And when I went out, it was for a purpose. A truly great purpose, full of excitement and adventure, like visiting Soriana or buying a Coke - noble necessities.

But a month has passed and the excited, first-time feeling has exited stage left, replaced by that same feeling, that same word, that I use to describe Rushville and used (much to my mother's chagrin) to describe DePauw.

Home.

Yeah, it's true. When I think of home, I think of our broke ass house that's too far away from anything, that white, cold tile floor and the plain, empty bedroom I sleep in. What I mean to say, by all of this, is that my lack of pictures and blogs and consistent excitement now is the same reason I don't take pictures of my house or my dorm room or my college campus. Because I'm here and this is where I call home now. (And for those of you who misinterpret everything I say, I mean this is a good thing and I like it here a lot and you smell like funky toe jam).

Enough of that sappy shit, though. There are some rather bodacious things that have happened in the last week and a half:

Umm...school started! I've sat down to write about school a few times recently, but each time I delete it and figure I'll start it later. I'll have a hard time describing school this year, a very difficult time, which is why even though it constitutes 75% of what I do during my waking hours, I'll rarely write about it, suffice it to say this - it is nearly 180 degrees of the way things are where I have taught before. There is no copy machine, few supplies, etc. It is sparse, to say the least. And the discipline problems are extremely unique compared to the plethora of problems I've dealt with before. But despite some early year struggles, I really enjoy being here. The kids are all really cool, and when your "clientel" are easy to work with, it makes any job enjoyable. I also had to sort-of decorate my classroom (the teachers switch classrooms, not the students). Here are some pictures for your viewing pleasure:

It has rained here - constantly - for the last week. And while it provides a cool view of the mountains, it sucks. Things here flood quickly, like the bathroom after your father stops it up with one of those dumps of epic proportion.
I have recently added to my Meixcan DVD collection with the purchase of Sueno de Fuga. You may know it by the name The Shawshank Redemption. Of course, I still lack a working DVD player and my own personal copy of Rescatando al soldado Ryan, you know, just in case someone is saying, "Oh jeez, I really like you and want to send you a cool gift that would make you love me forever." Just saying...
I bought a dumbbell set, a punching bag, and boxing gloves. It is fantastic. In the month I have been here, I've lost almost 12 pounds and look like an emaciated Albino (my apologies to all those Albinos reading this). So very soon, buff/hot Ryan is gonna be walking around Monterrey like "WhatWhat"?
Speaking of buff/hot Ryan - I bought new clothes last night. Dress clothes. You know, since I don't have my uniform yet. Two pairs of classic gray pants from Aldo Conti (which by the way, they tailor for you), two very swanky dress shirts that of course are tinted blue with sexy patterns, topped off by a pair of classy Florsheim black dress shoes, since my Wal-Mart pair of shit kickers lasted approximately one week before a giant hole appeared in the toe. Let's just say I'm the best looking teacher named Mr. Ryan at school (apologies to the other Mr. Ryan...you are a gorgeous man in your own right sir).
I've been eating at so many taco places I can't keep them straight (and that's probably because they're all called "Los blahblahblah". I think I even ate at a place called Los Anus, but the food tasted like crap anyways. And instead of just eating the tacos, I'm going for the full experience, which means singing (not singing, like "la la la la", but singing, like burning off) all the tastebuds from my tongue via various salsas and spices. I have had a guide with me at these various locales to prepare my food the "authentic" way (and to also make me eat shit they know is going to be gross simply for the satisfaction of watching me cringe). This guide has also helped me out in various other ways, such as kindly telling the stylist how to cut my hair, commenting on what clothes I should buy, and how I should go about my daily routine. And I appreciate all of it...except the hair cut. No, I'm kidding. I look like a straight pimp.
Finally, I was asked recently about things I miss from home. And then I thought about it. And it was kind of a funny list (at least I thought it was), so I will reproduce it here:

the Park Restaurant coffee
Quizno's
my guitar
country drives
Bourbon Whiskey
kettle cooked barbecue potato chips
Beefaroni
2% milk
Mr. Freshie's donuts at 4am
Goodwill/Kohl's

I thought that was a pretty good list. I'm going to try to write more frequently. Starting school has just been a huge hassle and very time consuming. See you on the flip side.

"Calme Te, Baby, Calme Te" (Pero yo soy nervioso...)

2009-08-23T21:02:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the commercial with the skinny, white, trashy skankator (that's Rachel Leigh Cook?!) that cracked an egg with a frying pan and said, "This is your brain on drugs," then proceeded to go all Russell Crowe on the entire apartment, I guess to make the point that if you use drugs you will defintiely lose your damage deposit? Yeah, well, lately Mexico has done that same thing to me, and drugs weren't even involved. Perhaps my last post (which was like an angsty-emo fifteen year old complaining about contemporary society and how we're all sheep even though they all look like they're long lost gay cousins of Hitler) clearly showed that something is amiss in the Mex.

And it is.

I'm nervous.

"Nervous? You? But you are always so calm and cool and collected, and so suave and seductive and sexy and I want your body because you are so amazingly hot!" I know. It's a shock. (the faux quote and short following sentences were sarcasm - if you took them for anything but sarcasm, insert finger into sphincter and pry open for health purposes).

I am. I am nervous. I'm like Mary-Kate Olsen next to a buffet. A transition to any new setting - be it a foreign country, a new state or city, or marrying a fat girl - is difficult.

(Time for a short break in the action for an award I forgot. It's the "If You Tell Me One More Time I'm Experienceing Culture Shock Because I'm Having A Shitty Day, I'm Going To Punch You Square In The Mouth" award. Rather self-explanatory, with this caveat - when I'm rolling around on the floor repeating "Si, Hola, Gracias, Momma" while intermixing a garbled rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama" and sucking my thumb like there's a surprise in the middle of it, you may say that I'm experiencing culture shock. Otherwise, know your role and shut your hole.)

Nervousness - It happened on my first day of elementray school. It happened my first day of college. It happened my first day of student-teaching. It happened my first day of coaching. In fact, just about every day of my entire life, something has made me nervous. It happens - to everyone. It's part of our natural make-up (here is the scientific chart explaining nerves or the fun version). But perhaps, just maybe, this sustained nervousness, this long-lasting sensation of frolicking fluttering floating in my stomach is telling me something.

I like it here. No, no. Check that...I love it here.

Listen, do I understand 99.9% of what is being said around me? No. It's like trying to start a philisophical discussion on the ethical implications of race relations at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Is learning a new language hard? Yeah. It's a bitch. Do I know a lot of people? Not really. Do I know where anything is located, or how to get there? Is school and its requirements overwhelming? Do I have to teach a group of students who speak poor English, at a grade level I'm not familiar with, in a school system that is literally foreign to me, in about 7 hours? And am I at all prepared?

But if you know me, you know this one thing - I crave a challenge. I crave competition. I'm the kid who got suspended for a basketball game in sixth grade for trying to punch a kid in the back of the head. I work best with my back against the wall, with the clock running down. Is it stressful? Yes. It is hard? Yes. And am I constantly nervous, more so than at any point in my life? Definitely. But I'm thriving. I love every last damn minute of it. Because when this is all said and done, whether that be in a year, or two years, or three, or so far down the road I figure I'll be worm meal by then, it will absolutely have been worth it. Because there are two types of people when it comes to doing what I'm doing right now: the "thanks, this has been fun, now I'm going to go back to where I came from and remember this with a picture on my mantle" kind of people and the "if I wanted a picture I could have bought a fucking postcard, so whatever happens, happens" people. I'd like to hope I'm falling in with the later crowd...

A few last tidbits to moisten your palette with:

Saturday night was El Clasico, the semi-annual rivalry football (soccer) match between the two Monterrey teams - Rayados and Tigres. And while I do own a Rayados jersey, I enjoyed watching the game as a casual observer. Think Duke/UNC if you were a die-hard fan of either program. It was very much for me like the classic IU/Purdue games or even the more recent Colts/Patriots match-ups. Watching a room full of grown people cringe, scream, curse, and celebrate each touch of the ball as if Jesus H. Christ himself were returning to the Earth during the game was, from a sports fans perspective, incredible. I also enjoyed the fact that I think 6 people in the entire city were not wasted, which is always a plus. (BTW - Rayados won the match, 2-1)

After the game, we ate at one of the many quaint, cheap little taco places that litter Monterrey. I had a campechana, which is like a small taco with steak and pork, with a side of onions and a smaller taco that is made of I-don't-know-what but is apparently like the "desert" taco, all smothered in spicy sauces that burns your mouth like your ass would be burnt by a midget with a match. That means it is hot (I just really like the "that burns my ass like a midget with a match" joke. Classic.) It was delicious and has quickly become one of my favorite foods. It is the second time I have eaten said dish, but as the below picture shows, I clearly do not remember the first time said meal was ingested.

Finally, as I said earlier, I start school, well, now today. I'll be teaching 6th, 7th, and 8th grade literature and English, as well as 6th grade spelling. It's gonna be great. I'm as excited as a fat man on his wedding day.

The First Annual "My First Three Weeks In Mexico Awards Ceremony"

2009-08-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I'm going to take some time to recognize those individuals and general happenings that deserve the recognition - both winners and losers. If your name is not called tonight, don't worry, these are useless awards that are a stand-in for me going all Howard Beale on your ass. Now, to the awards!

The "Hop Down Off The Shed Before the Shingles Burn Another Hole In Your Ass" Award:

Those who complain about me not speaking Spanish, then dogging on me as I'm busting my ass to learn - You know, I'm not like some Americans who think everyone in their own country should speak English (see here, here, here, and anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line). I appreciate a variety of cultures and languages. I wish I had the capacity to learn multiple languages, but too much drinking and the crack-pipe smoking US education system and their pansy ass attempts at teaching foreign languages in schools have made that difficult. I came to Mexico knowing about six words - "Yes, No, Thank you, Hello, Goodbye, and 'Made in Mexico'." I knew less Spanish than a deaf, dumb, blind, mute Spaniard whose been raised by a pack of African pygmies. Let us just make that clear. And now, I can get around, have short, meaningful conversations with people, order food, buy things, etc. And let us also be clear that this gathering of language has taken place over the course of three weeks WHILST I was getting acclimated to a new place and getting ready to teach for the first time (in a foreign country no less) - and this learning was also facilitated by myself. I didn't take a class, or have some magical Matrix upload shoved in my ass and I didn't secretly study for hours on end under my blankets with a flashlight like some six-year old reading Spiderman comics. So when I attempt to speak or write Spanish, I would appreciate a little courtesy as you look down at me from your perch atop the shed. Gracias.

The "Shut Your Mouth in Public Award Because You Make the Other 299,999,999 of Us Look Bad" Award:

Americans in Mexico - If you are American, and you are living in Mexico (or any other culture for that matter), take a moment and reflect: have I been a total, complete, utter jackass at any point in my stay? If your answer is yes, extend arm, open hand, and slap self in face repeatedly. Seriously. Open your eyes for six seconds (and not to stare at some 16 year-old Mexican girl like she's Penelope Pussycat in a thong). Look around. When you see Mexican citizens sitting quietly or shopping quietly or generally being respectful of others in a public setting, maybe you shouldn't come swaggering down the aisle in oversized flip-flops, baggy shorts (people here wear pants, Eminem), and your college's t-shirt, which might as well be a target that says, "I'm a douche bag Gringo," spouting off racial epithets that would even make Lindsey Graham cringe, especially if it's a fucking Office Max, where many of those business men and women you saw can probably speak English. But, thanks to your complete lack of common sense and your notion that everyone in Mexico gives a shit what you think, you are making the rest of your fellow countrymen look bad. Gracias.

The "Thank God You Are Here To Help Me and Every Other Lost Person" Award:

We have co-winners in this category! The co-winners are: Ashley, my neighbor, and Susy, our guide - If it weren't for their generosity, knowledge, and their ability to speak Spanish, I'd probably be half-naked in Tijuana somewhere with a cactus shoved in my ass screaming, "Agua, agua, agua, agua" (thank you to the two and a half of you that know that reference and laughed). Gracias.

The "Thanks for Being So Creepy That Now I Feel Awkward About Talking to Girls in Mexico Without Feeling Like The Creepy, Cliche Panty-Sniffer Character From The Majority of Crappy Teen Movies" Award:

To the awkward army of men who constitute what has to be the most overanxious, hormone driven bunch of males since the locker room of my eighth grade PE class - Really? Seriously? Is it necessary to call someone 40 times a day, for two straight weeks? And that is singling no one out. It seems like every male I've met here has phone finger Tourettes or something. One call, or a text, or maybe two calls if she's really attractive. But because men here are often creepier than being a dank cellar with Hannibal Lecter and Miggs (the link for this is completely inappropriate, even for me), it has totally ruined any effort I thought about making in asking any girls out. Why? Because asking girls out here is like an auction - everything happens too quickly and before you know it, you are stuck sitting there with a dumbass look on your face while what you wanted is in the hands of some fat slob whose going to sit it on his mantle where it will collect dust and Cheetoh residue. I don't mean that in a demeaning way towards any women. It's just the only metaphor swimming around inside my mind at the moment, a mind that is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.

The "I Love This Whole Relaxed Attitude, But Disorganized Disorganization Pisses Me Off" Award

Self-explanatory

The "Debbie Downer" Award:

Do I deserve the "Debbie Downer" award for this post? Probably. I mean, it's not like I haven't moved to a foreign country, tried to learn a new language, ended up in the hospital, and spent more money than I have on stupid shit I'll never use in less than three weeks. BUT, as much as Mexico fraggle-rocks, there are a number of Debbie Downers here, and this award goes to all of you, with the hope that whoever you may be, you hop down off that shed Nancy and change your name to Deborah, because you are ruining a good time for the rest of us.

Thanks for reading and we'll be back soon enough with a bright, new, cheery post that is chocked full of sunny images and happy thoughts!

Bringin' A Little Bit of Home to Mexico

2009-08-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

First, health update. I'm fine. I'm back to eating as I should be. I think part of the problem could be that I haven't been able to keep up my intake of half a cow, three chickens, and two pigs a day (i.e. I eat a lot of meat at home). However, that situation has been rectified. I feel fantastic now and the last several days have laid case to that, such as...

Wednesday - The USA/Mexico World Cup qualifier. I have been looking forward to this moment since I learned I was going to be in Mexico. Ashley, Sherman, and I tried both a Chili's and an Applebee's, but they were completely chocked full of green clad Mexican fans. And so, we ended up at this over-priced, snobby Mexican seafood buffet that was near a Holiday Inn, where I'm quite certain they cooked the food in the disease infested pool. It was horrible. And I'm not usually one to back down from food. Anyways, I had made a bet with the PE teacher and my coordinator at school that if the USA won, they had to fix me carne asada Mexico style. Otherwise, I had to fix them steak, Indiana style. Well, despite an early goal from my homeboy Charlie Davies (this is the goal - watch for the attempt at the "Carlton Dance" before he starts getting pelted with trash), the 110,000 screaming Mexican fans throwing piss, vomit, and batteries at the players for ninety minutes, refereeing shadier than a deaf, blind, white guy at a MosDef concert, and the fact our best player ("Mandon" Landon Donovan) played with swine flu, we lost 2-1. And so, the bet was mine to fulfill.

Friday Afternoon - You know those heart-warming, touching, rally-the-troops-and-make-everyone-feel-good days employers hold? Ours was Friday. But, it was Mexican style. What does that mean, you ask? We had the introductory PowerPoint that ended with "Welcome to the Madison Family!" and the fun little games that serve a deep, dramatic purpose of displaying what the kids we'll be teaching go through, and of course the comraderie that comes with those activities. Then, we all went to a local eatery, stuffed our faces, and proceeded to party. Imagine your high school principal saying, "Beers and margaritas are on me, and the first five are mine!" This is why I love Mexico. I had a great converstaion/chain-smoking convention with two co-workers - but, the night was young.

Friday Night - We rolled to Sherman's pad for the cookout to settle what is probably the infancy of a horrid gambling addiction. Anyways, Sherman's house is very nice - extremely nice - but the patio seals it. Open space inside a privacy wall with a large brick grill and a lime tree. A real-honest to God, lime tree. Growing right there. With real limes.

It was the first of a two part series this weekend that was perhaps the most gloriously spectacular weekend since Bill and Ted traveled through time in a phone booth and kidnapped Abraham Lincoln. To uphold my end of the bet, I marinated 30 New York strip steaks overnight in a Chicago-style marinade, garnished them with onion and lime, and cooked the puppies up just right.

("Thirty steaks? New York strip? Really? That is ridiculous Ryan! Too much money!" Oh yeah? Try 350 pesos. Go ahead. Put that into a converter and see how much that is in US dollars. Then go ahead and get yourself a new pair of underwear to replace the ones you just shit in. Granted, the meat was as tender as if it came from an 89 year-old Grandma with hips like the Hoover Dam and a goiter the size of Rhode Island on the side of head whose lived in the desert her whole life, but for that cheap, you can't pass it up.)

I'll describe the night with a familiar rhyme - "And so the betters with their beer and I with my rum settled down at the table for a bit of good fun. The steaks were all eaten, the men were all fed, and then we smoked and drank until 3am. And at the end of it all, with our belts much too tight, buenas noches to all, and to all, we are drunk." (Look for that and much more in my upcoming first book, Senor Ryan's Inappropriate Nursery Rhymes for Kids, Vol. 2)

Saturday Night - I've never really been to a "club" per say. You know, the stand outside and hope some greasy bouncer in a ten-cent suit says you're cool enough to go in. Well, I went to one. A nice one. Think Cocktail with so many beautiful Latina women that I might have wept at some point in the night. It was glorious. If there were a basketball gym, James Dean, and a movie theatre that only played Without Limits, Saving Private Ryan, and The Big Lebowski on loop, all while Led Zepplin and Beatles music could be heard everywhere (and only the good stuff), I might think it was heaven. I know that's convoluted, but you need to understand just the glory of what mine eyes have seen.

Anyways, I've heard so many stories about the prowess of Mexico and their drinking that it will constitute my second book, Senor Ryan's Stories About People Getting Wasted in Mexico That May or May Not Be Made-Up. Why not show them how we do it in Indiana? So I did. And it was wonderful. And I sang songs in Spanish I didn't know and met people I can't remember and ate tacos that were most excellent, but I think I made the point and have finally reconciled, through all my adventures here this one thing (WARNING: semi-sentimental moment upcoming - look away if you cringe at hearing someone say, "We're gonna watch The Notebook"):

That while I have lived in the small hamlet that is country Indiana for 23 years, it's old and not me and I'm over it. I love being here. I love everything about it. Hell, if I became semi-fluent in Spanish (just enough so some cabbie wouldn't rape me behind a 7/11), I'd move here. Or anywhere. This culture and these people and these experiences are exactly what I've needed to avoid the drab existence that is waking up to cornfields and munching cows every morning and driving the same cracked gravel roads and staring at the same flat plains and hearing the same bitching and moaning from the same old farts who think everyone under the age of 30 has it "so easy", when in reality it's an entirely new bag of shit we have to deal with, mainly from close-minded individuals who think living an 1880's, Little House on the Prairie, "please-and-thank-you", better-not-dip-your-wick-until-your-married,-but-once-you-are-you-can-sleep-around-like-you're-Michael-Jackson-at-a-choir-boy-lock-in lifestyle is better than enjoying life and realizing that one day we're all gonna be worm food and there's no reason to be so damn pensive about each little move until you're 65 and realize you've wasted your entire life doing nothing and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

A few last thoughts:

I finally finished The Memory of Running. Great novel. Highly recommend. A modern, more subdued Forrest Gump. I am currently well into The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. Very good so far. I always welcome reading suggestions, so if you have them, shoot.
I've been asked about ignoring Facebook chats and if I'll ever get Skype. I run on borrowed Internet that is worse than dial-up. Seriously. Soon I will try Skype and report the results. Please be patient. As great as things are, there's always something like shitty Internet to mess it up.
Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, enjoy yourself and have a wonderful day!

Of Heat, Horsetails, and Hospitals

2009-08-11T19:26:00.000-07:00

It happened. It finally happened. After a solid week of dealing with the Mexican weather, she finally got me. Mexico went all Kathy Bates to my James Caan. But, we shall arrive there shortly.

Saturday was our first rendezvous to one of the natural wonders of the Monterrey area. Cola de Caballo, or Horsetail Falls, is an amazing waterfall that is even more spectacular when you stop and realize that the Monterrey area is a desert climate, and although the surrounding area is mountainous, it is nothing like American peaks, where snow collects and runs off in small streams and creeks. The mountains here are just as arid as the ground level. So to see such a sight, considering the circumstances, is astonishing.

The heat here, as mentioned before, is fierce. I believe I said earlier it was as if Satan ate a Mexican bean dish then decided to fart ever-ceasingly on the entire country. It's just plain hot. And for the first several days I was here, it wasn't a huge problem. I mean, I even wear jeans everyday. But, as I said in my introduction, all good things come to an end. Around Sunday, I found myself not eating on account of the heat. And this normally happens to me in Indiana during the summer. I just wait until the cool night breeze rolls in and gourge myself until I explode (insert shameless Monty Python plug here). Not here. There is no cool breeze. Sweat rolls down the crack of your ass like Niagra Falls 24-7.

So no food + ridiculous temperatures + my already incredibly low body fat = Deep Shit

Last night, I came home, slept, woke up, took about ten steps, and my vision was spotty. I held myself against the counter and told Jeff, "Hey, I'm going to pass out. Maybe you should get some help or something." So we call our guide here. She tries to rush here to take me to the hospital, gets pulled over by the Tranistos (Mexican police), tells them she has to get a sick American to the doctor, and they let her go. MEANWHILE, the school administrator finds out through several phone calls, orders an ambulance to come get me, but the ambulance never arrives because it goes to the school instead, and it takes 3 measure of common sense to realize schools aren't open at 10 o'clock at night. So, 2 hours after I initially feel like "pinin' for the fjords" (Monty Python again - you find it this time), we finally track down this rolling doctor's office on the side of the highway. Yes, I visited the doctor on the side of the highway. No joking. This is when he completely misdiagnosis me, sending me then to a hospital several miles away.

So, we arrive at this said hospital several miles away. Long story made very short - my lack of food intake combined with the many possible ways to catch an infection here have come to fruition and so I am on antibiotics but now feeling fine enough that I scarfed down a large helping of Mexican-Chinese food and have returned to my normal, semi-pasty white color. I am quite certain at this point that there is no infection, but instead I simply could not survive three days on two bananas and a package of crackers (and some children's yogurt that tasted like dirty diaper flambe with a side of raw elephant testicle and a hint of a homeless man's urine).

Two final tidbits so as not to leave you with the impression that I am an infectous, disease carrying Gringo roaming the streets of Mexico with foam lathering from my mouth:

In an earlier post, I stated that watching movies in English and reading the subtitles in Spainsh is a fantastic way to learn the language. So tonight I bought two movies: Johnny y June: pasion y locura (Walk the Line) and El Club de Lapella (Fight Club). They cost me 65 pesos each, or 4.99 US dollars. Still looking forward to the day when Rescatando al Soldado Ryan falls into my eager little hands.
So my shower here suck(ed)...hard. The first time I used it, the middle section fell out and so I was left with a stream of water that would burn a hole through an elephant (the Commando 450). But as of tonight, there is a beautiful, new, stainless steel shower head, waiting to shower me in all its gleaming, steely glory. Dios bendice Mexico...

School Daze, Mis Nuevos Amigos, and Unibrows

2009-08-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

First, a few short anecdotal tidbits that may or may not be of interest to the audience at-large:

A few days ago, I was cleaning out my jean pockets before washing them, and found 27 pesos. And while that equals about 2 US dollars, it was the first time I found money in my pockets in my laundry in Mexico. Mexican-laundry-money-virginity gone.
Because electricity is based around the same currency as caviar and Tiffany earrings here, we try to conserve as much as possible (call it forced to be "Green", if you will). So, in order to save on gas/electric costs with our dryer (yes, it uses both - don't ask me), I made a clothesline. A large one, with lots of little wooden clothespins. Now I'm four hairy facial moles and fifty pounds away from being a real Mexican mother (forgive me anyone from Mexico reading this - it was a joke. The American version would be, "the stench of stale beer, nine smoldering, chain-smoked cigarettes, barbed-wire/picket fence tattoos, 75 lard filled pounds, and a cup between my nasty boobs from being a real redneck mother [and if any rednecks are reading this...well, let's be honest they can't read]).
Finally, we got gas for our stove, and so I took the stove's virginity (running theme in this entry) with a little bit of quesadilla action and some white cheddar/queso macaroni and cheese, with a side of picco de gallo. And while that may seem cliche or even unorthodox, I don't care, because I have been here a week and haven't had time to find recipes or shop extensively, so kiss my ass.
I figured out how to link my obscure references which I am constantly lambasted for to actual pictures/videos. This excites me like a kid opening a present on Christmas morning.

We started training Wednesday. I can easily describe the training as college education classes - but in Spanish. That's right, Spanish. We had to wear earphones while a little old, but very sweet lady translated in the back of the room. Our training involved two hours of the first four "Harry Potter" movies (apparently because the children's use of Mexican voodoo on their teachers is similar to wizardry) and a wonderful viewing of "Finding Nemo". Why "Finding Nemo"? To discover character traits in the characters. But, as I pointed out, they're Disney characters so they all have the same shining virtues that have no basis in reality, hence the reason it is talking, animated, Hippie-turtles.

I have made nice with two people who work at the school, both of whom would win my MTV edition of "Senor Ryan's New BFF!" The first is the principal of our school (but is more the equivalent of a superintendent). He is a young guy and extremely nice. Like, super nice. Imagine your superintendent sitting down for lunch, talking about his family, then delaying the resumption of a meeting to talk about his favorite football teams and where he went to college. I can tell that the school runs so efficiently and everyone at least seems happy simply because he makes it go and is extremely congenial - or more like, badass. Super, super, super di-dooper guy!

The second person is the maintenance man at the school, who also repairs things at our house. He speaks very little English, I speak very little Spanish, but yet, we communicate quite easily. Every time we see each other, I wave and he smiles and waves back. It's total bro-love. For example, he came to ask what was wrong with the house. I said, "La luz en la bano...es...no trabajo (the light in the bathroom is no work). Ahora, no problemo, pero, noche (Now, no problem, but night)..." at which point I covered my eyes and pretended to run into the wall while whizzing. He laughed extremely hard. The light was fixed an hour later. He also falls into the category of super, super, super di-dooper!

We met two new guys at training, Sherman and John. Sherman is from Miami and works at our school. John is from Greenwood (how small is the world!) and works far away, but was here for training anyways. Both are fine, upstanding individuals of the highest accord. So last night, for Sherman's birthday, we went to Hooter's, of course. Eight pitchers of beer and several double shots later, my first celebration in Mexico ended stupendously (mind you, most of that was not consumed by me, but I wanted to make clear this was no "blow out your candles and have nana give you a kiss on the cheek and a check for $10" kind of birthday). Fabulous, fabulous evening.

Finally, I leave you with a quandary that has perplexed me for some time. Mexican men, unlike American men, rock the unibrow. Straight up. I mean, we're talking caterpillar-crawling-across-the-brow-ridge-fully-dressed-for-winter kind of unibrow. It makes Russian female gymnasts look like a cueball. Now, we are probably all aware of the massive clumps of hair that rest upon my eyes, and you are probably wise to the fact that I have to keep my unibrow trimmed so as not to look like Weird Al's upper lip. And so, my perplexity: "To unibrow or not to unibrow, that is the question?"

"Enemigos Publicos" (or 'Public Enemies') Review

2009-08-04T20:46:00.000-07:00

I'll take a break today to write a short movie review. We ventured back to Valle Oriente for a 7pm viewing of the recent movie, Public Enemies. First of all, I am going to start watching every movie with Spanish subtitles. You learn so much of the language and pick up cool sayings, as well (I can say "Bullshit!" now in Spanish!) Second, the movies are dirt cheap compared to the US. A prime time viewing was 57 pesos, or 4.33 US dollars. Cheap.

I enjoyed the movie. I thought Johnny Depp was spectacular, as usual, and has firmly secured himself as one of the top two-to-three actors alive right now (next to Daniel Day Lewis, everybody is a schmuck). He looked like Dillinger and did not possess that Depp persona he normally carries in his movies, thereby seperating himself from any previous performance of his own. I also thought Marion Cotillard was too good for this movie. She is quickly becoming a hot ticket on the acting scene, as was evidenced by her Academy Award for "La Vie en Rose". She was amazing. Christian Bale, as Melvin Purvis, and Billy Crudup (aka PRE from "Without Limits"), as closet crossdresser J. Edgar Hoover, were both terrific. The cast was well assembled, I will give the casting directors credit for that.

The shootouts were fantastic. Just blew the speakers off the wall. And the blood and gore bordered on Tarintino, but was not overly dramatic or ridiculous (with the possible exception of the cheek shot to Dillinger at the end).

I felt like half the movie was filmed during Cloverfield. If you get nauseous easily, stay away. Can they not use a SteadyCam? Also, the lighting was at time too dark. There were also too many characters and they weren't plumbed for an emotional connection of some sort. They were cardboard cutouts we were supposed to feel for (the character "Red" comes to mind). I also was confused as people were dying left and right who was who. It all became very confusing. The pacing was also a bit slow. I didn't mind so much, but the others in my group were bothered by it. Finally, I wanted to see some more concrete locations. Perhaps I just wanted a subtitle during the Greencastle bank robbery (or what I suspected was the Greencastle bank robbery), but it was hard to keep track where Dillinger and his gang were at all times, and I'm even familiar with his story and trail.

All told, very good movie, bordering on great, that is more for the guys than the ladies, but does present a wonderful picture for history buffs. 3 1/2 stars out of 5

Two side notes:

Behind us in the theatre, about halfway through, some teenagers kept moving around, playing musical seats, getting in our way, kicking the back of our seats, etc. They finally settled directly behind us and were talking and playing on their phones, making tons of noise. Both Jeff and Ashley were getting really annoyed and it was a critical point in the movie. So, I turned around and said, "Silencio, por favor" ('Quiet, please.') It worked. They moved. Successful conversational Spanish 1.
On our cab ride home, we ended up with a shady guy who kept looking at a rate sheet instead of the meter, which he turned off halfway through. When we arrived home, the cab ride we have taken twice now (both costing around 85 pesos) was 170 pesos according to this "sheet". It was ridiculous. That's approxiamtely 13 US dollars. Complete and utter rip-off. So we were taken for the first, and most likely, not last time. Live and learn. Live and learn...

Public Transportation, Supermarcados, and Sick Puppies

2009-08-03T21:46:00.000-07:00

In the last few days, I've been using public transportation quite a lot. I wish I would claim that I figured it all out myself, but that would be a lie. Ashley, another teacher here from Chicago, has been our translator and savior. In return for her help, I smoke $1.25 US packs of cigarettes with her. Even though she bought them.

Anyways, the buses are what you might expect. It's nothing to write home about, but it also isn't a rolling rust bucket. They are littered with graffiti, ripped seat cushions, and a generally worn appearance. However, a trip to La Soriana (the grocery store) is 10 pesos, which is like 70 US cents. It's interesting to see the variety of patrons all in one small area. People watching. I love it.

La Soriana - When I was in college, Wal-Mart (which sucks ass, but everyone here loves, too) was what we'd do when we were bored. Walk around, look at things, buy unnecessary items, etc. Alright, I do the same thing here, but just at La Soriana. It's kind of like a Super Wal-Mart - with everything you could want - but the grocery prices are the only thing that is cheap.

Last night, Ashley finally figured out that I had been craving pico de gallo after I looked for the right salsa recipe forever (credit to Matt Val, grandson in our fraternity, who fixed the same dish one night in Mike Cowden's room and changed my life forever). So we made a late-night run to La Soriana for the ingredients. The pictures can be found on Facebook. But, I want to give the basic recipe, because you need to make it:

6 tomatoes, seeded (you only want the meat on the outside)

1/2 large white onion, chopped

2-3 jalapenos, seeded and chopped (depending on your desired hotness)

1/4 cup cilantro, chopped

1 whole lime

Mix all the ingrdients together, minus the lime. Squeeze the lime juice over it. Mix again and add salt to taste. You may also have to add water. Refridgerate for better results. Use with tortilla chips or over bread (or steak, as I found out tonight).

Let me tell you the other reason I love La Soriana. I love bread, stemming from my ten days in France and my love of French food and culture. In general, I love crusty bread. A large dinner roll sized bread, crusty, white or wheat - 1 freaking peso. How much is that? About 8 US cents. EIGHT DAMN CENTS! I know for a fact they are at least .99 at Meijer and much more other places. Yes, I bought a bag of gourmet, crusty, lovely bread for 7 pesos, or 50 US cents.

Back to transportation...we have also been using the taxi service frequently. Why? It's cheap, too. A ride to La Soriana or any other store is about 50 pesos, or 3.25 US dollars. A ride downtown from our house (where they will pick you up) is about 125 pesos, or 8.50 US dollars. That's a cab ride from the Northside of Indy to downtown Indy. Insane, I know. And the cabs are all pretty nice. They are nicer than the New York City cabs, which were bacterial cultures happening. And all our drivers so far have been very nice, especially the man who we coincidentally had twice in one night, who refused a large tip the first time and joked, "Next time." An hour later...bam! Next time happened. He took it. Gracias wonderful man.

One last thing...just down from our home, maybe 1/4 mile, is a roadside stand that sells - puppies. I haven't seen them personally, but Ashley and our other guide tell me they are sickly, die-in-three-days kind of puppies. I finally saw one today and it was adorable, but obviously a little ill. I'm sure they are inexpensive. But, a huge difference from here to the states is the obvious abundance of "entrepeneurs". People here sell everything, everywhere, anytime. But, in an economy and culture that has little money to spread around, where people make little dinero, there are extremes many people resort to to make money. Even selling sickly puppies.

p.s. - I have started to speak with a lisp. Even when I speak English. It's common for Spanish speakers to have a lisp (think plaza as platha). And maybe it's because my friend Mike, who studied in Spain, made sure I knew about the lisp and rolling of the "r", but seriously...I have a bad ass accent. Just wanted that to be known.

p.p.s. - Thanks for the comments so far. I appreciate them. Keep them coming. And if you have any questions about anything - certain habits, traits, cultural occurrences, differences, etc. - ask and I can hit those, too. I always want to please me readers - repeatedly. Gracias.

The Mexico Arrival - Part II

2009-08-01T22:36:00.000-07:00

The school I'll be working in is new...brand new. They built the first wing two years ago and the wing I'm going to be working in is still under construction. Our classrooms have no walls, windows, or floors. It's basically some steel and concrete right now. But, being new, it is fantastic. There is a full-size football (soccer) field that is AstroTurf and is nicer than any field I've ever seen at a school. There are three basketball courts, one of which is covered. The school rooms are large red brick walls with windows to the outside and concrete floors, which sounds quite drab, but is actually fantastic. The hallways are outside and not enclosed by anything but a roof (meaning animals, the elements, etc. can come through at any time). The head of the school, Enrique, is a really nice, very young guy. I feel pretty good about the situation.

First full day out and about. The mall we were at is like any American mall, minus the Telcel model handing out pamphlets in white pants so tight and sheer that I would receive a credit in Anatomy 101 for standing there. The main store is called Liverpool, where I bought the local team's football jersey, sponsored by Bimbo Bread...so awesome. All the women wear either very thin sandals with cuffs around the ankle, or 4-inch platform wedge shoes that make them look like the fifth missing member of KISS. It's crazy. How the hell they walk around in those things, I'll never know.

Today, we went downtown to the steel museum, which was a major industry in Monterrey for many years. The museum is inside of the actual mill...very cool. While it sounds boring, it was like a Children's Museum for steel - lots of things to play with and experiment. Of course, I was bouncing around like a six year old on Mountain Dew, doing every little stupid experiment. We went to the top of the mill, an observation platform that was at least 50 meters off the ground and provided a panoramic view of Monterrey. The city is surrounded by mountains, the Sierra Madre Oriental (which goes north to help form the southern part of the Rocky Mountains). And these aren't you mommas mountains. They literally rise right up out of the ground. There are shanty houses that line the mountains halfway up that look like Lego houses from far away with black square holes cut in the side. The main mountain, which is outside of our house and visible from all over the city, is the Cerra de la Silla (Saddle Mountain). The peak is cut in a U-shape that looks like a saddle. Very interesting to see...

We took a boatride down the Santa Lucia Riverwalk, which is very similar to the canal in San Antonio (or Indianapolis for you local yokels). The ride was narrated in Spanish, and about every six seconds, some Mexican man with a huge lensed camera next to me would say aloud, "Oh...Ah...Oh...Ah...Oh". I laughed. It was funny. Maybe he was "Oh-ing" and "Ah-ing" at the 473 wedding couples we saw. Seriously. Married in 100+ degree heat. Buena suerte...gente loca.

At the end of the riverwalk was the plaza where the Governor of Nuevo Leon (the state Monterrey is in) resides. There were tents set up everywhere selling school supplies, including Spanish copies of 1984, Hamlet, and Macbeth, which I nearly bought (apologies to Mr. Perin). There were also street vendors every 10 meters selling bottled water and assorted drinks. We walked through a park where teenage couples were rolling around (literally) and making out, while gay couples stood in the shadows of trees and held hands. Hot.

One little kid, whose mother was selling bottled water, was running around wearing a large black shopping bag and carrying an umbrella. That would shocking if half the children of Indiana didn't do the exact same thing, except with feed bags and half as many teeth.

We ate a nice cafe on the riverwalk. I had fettuccine with a spinachy pesto sauce, topped with grilled chicken and Bacon Bits (advertised as "artificial bacon substitute"). I had a mineral water lemonade, which tasted a lot like Minute Maid lemonade, but much more sour and bubbly. The Football Club de Monterrey, nicknamed the Rayados ("stripes") after their striped jerseys, were on TV playing Atlas from Guadalupe. They were up at half 2-0...should probably see how that turned out.

There are so many things here that are different, obviously, and many mannerisms and actions and happenings that I could write about for days (such as our guide learned English by watching episodes of "Friends" on an illegal DirectTV signal from the US), but those, I'm sure, will spew forth as I continue to discuss the random events that happen here. From here on out, I promise to try to make the writing less narrative and more badass. Although, I will fall miserably short of the high standard set by Seth Elder, Fulbright Scholar and all-around genius extrodinaire. Can't win them all...

The Mexico Arrival - Part I

2009-07-31T20:43:00.000-07:00

Alright, first...

Why Mexico?

When the American economy failed miserably, many/most sectors of the American public went with it. This includes the public education system. Teachers, seeing the "shrinkage" - as George Constanza would say - of their retirement funds stayed in the classroom, while schools cut expenses drastically, and when combined, new teaching positions were as hard to find as Obama supporters at a gun show. Needless to say, this situation did not favor new teachers.

After a wonderful student-teaching stint that ended in an absolutely disappointing way, I was left out in the cold, one of the thousands of new teachers huddling together for warmth and eating government cheese.

In mid-June, my good friend (and subsequent roomate in Mexico), Jeff, told me about his new position - in Monterrey, Mexico. Push comes to shove and June 30, I sign a contract to be a teacher for one year in Monterrey, Mexico.

And so July 30, I boarded a plane for Mexico and a subsequent year 1300 miles from Indiana.

I met with Jeff and our friend Jennifer (also going to Mexico) at the Indy airport. My family uncerimoniously dropped me off at the curb while the other two families cherished each last moment with their loved ones.

I was glad to be dropped off at the curb - haha! And our last meal in the states...Mexican.

The flight to Dallas (our first stop) was uneventful, minus some turbulance. Once in Dallas, our flight was delayed two hours, which we spent discussing our upcoming trip...and riding the huge circular rail line that connects the seperate terminals. The trains had several support poles in the middle, which I obviously used a chance to pole dance, while a terrified older woman looked on and proceeded to exit at the next stop.

In the terminal, waiting for the plane, we watched CNN, which obviously had to run a headline story about a potential swine flu outbreak.

Immidiately before we arrived in Monterrey, we met a thunderstorm. Upon exiting the plane, it started to storm severely. When we finally went through customs and picked up our bags, the electricity in the entire airport cut out. On the other side of the door, where our drivers were waiting, we heard a loud chorus of screams which sounded like teenage girls on a roller coaster.

The day after our arrival, the Jonas Brothers were holding a concert in Monterrey, and we were met by a line of at least 200 screaming teenage girls, crying and holding signs. They thought the Jonas Brothers were on our flight. They weren't. And so I learned that horrible, canned, American pop music is alive and thriving in Mexico. Lesson number one.

We were met by Dora, a young administrator from the school, and Susy, an elementary teacher from the school, picked us up from the airport. The drive from the aiport to the home we were staying at was about an hour. It was insane to pass not one store or hotel chain that wasn't American. Nothing. We passed Holiday Inns, Best Westerns, Wal-Marts, a Home Depot, and even a John Deere dealership. And despite the rainy conditions, it was and has become quite obvious that while there are poor areas of the city (like Mexico), there is truly little difference from any other city in the United States.

Alright, where we are living. Quite possibly the nicest place I have ever lived. And while that may be a slight exaggeration, it blew away any preconceived notions I have ever had. It was like pulling up to a trailer park and picking up Mila Kunis for a date. Ridiculous.

We live in a gated community off the main road (well, they're all main roads here). It is a series of six houses surrounding a community pool (nice) and a fountain. Our home is incredible. It is relatively new and absolutely newly-furnished. The previous occupants, a family with three children, left Sunday for San Antonio, it was repainted on Tuesday, furnished Wednesday, and we arrived on Thursday.

There are three bedrooms and three bathrooms - tons of closet space and a full kitchen and living area. Food and supplies had been stocked. A new washer and dryer are sitting here as I type. A flat screen television and new sofas. A new dinette set. Brand new appliances and furniture. The ceiling fans and lights are controlled by remotes. Like I said, ridiculous.

Behind my door (which I'm assuming was a young girl's room), was two "High School Musical" posters, which, along with the sheep herd of tiny Mexican girls at the airport for the Jonas Brothers, affirms my belief that no matter where I go, shitty American pop culture can't be escaped. There are probably Pygmies in Africa herding starving goats on some barren plot of desert land listening to Hannah Montana on their iPods.

To top that off. What is the view outside of my window? How about mountains. Yes, real, live, fucking mountains. It is absolutely one of the most gorgeous places I have ever been.

The idiosyncrasies - the toilet paper smells like baby powder and is soft as shit. The bad news - you can't flush any toilet paper, so you have to throw it in the garbage. Yikes.

The weather - hot as hell. Actually, I think Satan would rather stay in his pad than come here. Jeff and I have gone through almost half of a 20 liter (yes, liter - Mexico follows a real system of weights and measurements) water cooler. Oh yeah, there is a freaking water cooler on our counter. No shitting (and especially cause I can't flush the shitty paper)!

The Spanish - overwhelming. I'm even picking it up in one day, but it is hard to follow and you feel lost. And this isn't Europe - very few people we have come across speak English and definitely not close to fluency.

The police - everywhere. Constantly pulling people over and private. However, no one pulls over to the side of the road for the police. Driving - nuts. Two-lane streets with no lines. Traffic pulling off manjor highways right into parking spaces. People parking two or three rows deep, blocking in other cars.

Money - everything here is much cheaper than it is in the US. MUCH cheaper. I bought a Nike, high-quality football (soccer) jersey for $299 pesos (about $21 US dollars). I found them later on clearance (the 2008 models) for $10 US dollars. Even cheap rip-offs were around $25 US dollars in Europe.

The food - incredible. I haven't eaten much yet, but just amazing. It is not spicy and already, I will probably never eat American-Mexican food again.

And last, before I wrap up and go to bed...

There are drive-in bars. Here is how they work. You pull up to this place and go inside. You order any drink you want. They make it for you...in a 44oz styrofoam cup. No shit. They print out a label with your drink order on it and stick it to the cup, like Starbucks. That's it. It is like a Mexican Starbucks, but with booze. And the best part - you can drive with it! Completely legal. When we explained to Susy, who was driving us around, the drinking and driving laws, she was puzzled. She couldn't understand how that was possible.

Sorry for the long post. Most of them won't be like this. Tomorrow, when we have a better Internet connection, I'll discuss (as if I'm Maury or Oprah) my first full day, the school (sneak preview - amazing and they are building my classroom right now. Like, still building it.), and the people we have met and seen and a trip to the mall, which was sweet.

Peace.