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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe this is the real reason. Who knows?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

17 Hours Later: An Amtrak Train and America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mexico Rewind: Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

Hardy-fucking-har.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Basketball, Coffee, and Colts

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...

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!

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

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:

1. the Park Restaurant coffee
2. Quizno's
3. my guitar
4. country drives
5. Bourbon Whiskey
   
6. kettle cooked barbecue potato chips
7. Beefaroni
8. 2% milk
9. Mr. Freshie's donuts at 4am
10. 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.