Sweet pappy molassy, has it really been nearly a month since my last post?
For shame!
Well in my defense, work has been disturbingly busy and I was out of the country for a while. The former is not so much blogworthy, while the latter, well there were some choice instances.
Where do I begin?
How about with the
Ridiculous Race? As I grow older, so does my distrust of all things, so I was not going to let United Airlines take responsibility for my in flight entertainment --thank goodness as they were showing probably the worst lot of inflight movies I have ever had opportunity to watch, and I watched the Herbie the love bug remake with Lohan and some french version of a Top Gun knock off called
Les Chevaliers.
But I digress... the ridiculous race is the true story of two friends who randomly decided to race each other around the world going in different directions....without using airplanes. The first to return to LA and drink their glass of the most expensive scotch they could find (which would be poured into their designated glasses at the start of the race) would be declared the winner.
It should be noted that this book is written by 1 writer from American Dad and 1 writer from My name is Earl. The race starts with one contestant trying to handcuff the other and plaster PEDOPHILE bumperstickers all over him. Yeah it is that kind of book. Good to read when you are trying to ignore the romper-room flight you discover you are on, full of lil demonspawn kids kicking your seat for 3+ hours.
Once in Mexico, things settled down and I learned a few important things....
LESSON #1 -- Immigration takes the Occupation field on your entry for VERY SERIOUSLY.
During what I thought was some idle poolside bar conversation, I joked about listing Stunt Car Driver as my profession on the form. I got a "dude, that's not funny look" from a couple we were chatting with. Apparently, he put down BOTANIST, his true profession, and they immigration agents took great interest in him, so much, that they pulled him into a special room for questioning.
ZOIKS!
LESSON #2 -- Mexico REALLY likes Scooby Doo.
For the second year running, I was amazed by the fact that there was a 99% chance that there was some sort of Scooby Doo cartoon or movie playing on one of the 3 english speaking stations we received in our room.
LESSON #3 -- Mother Nature always gives warning sides.
Not that they are necessarily heeded, but if one looks, they can usually see some form of foreshadowing before shit starts popping off...the buzz of an angry rattlesnake flicking its tail, the pawing of the ground by an irrate bison, a bar top full of crushed cans of coors light at an all you can drink bar (with selections far better than coors light). I thought of this as a warning sign as I approached the bar and laughed it off, mockingly. Within seconds, I saw shots of tequila going around. Then in the blink of an eye, a loud SMASH, yelling and pieces of shattered plastic drink tumblers flew everywhere. Some total douche bag who was far too old for such ass clown antics, spiked his cup on the floor at the feet of our bartender.
Cool, calm and collected, despite having the world's sweatiest chin, he picked up the phone and started whispering. The ass clown's friend, ass-clown II, asked, hey friend, are you calling the cops? The bartender smiled and said yes and then laughed. But not the kind of, HA HA just kidding laugh, the I just sent a gringo to mexican jail laugh.
The ass-clown posse scattered the 4 ways of the wind.
LESSON # 4 COPS is an Acronym.
In Europe it is short for Constipole on Patrol. The meaning is slightly different in latin america. It translates more accurately to Cougars on Patrol. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe not, but a few short minutes after the call was made, a group of 40-something year old ladies in their pink cowboy hats and Bon Jovi bikini's made their way over to and on top of the pool bar to start dancing. They even brought they own music in the form of a Ipod that played one song and one song only, Estelle's American Boy. They drank, they danced, they took over the outside rec-room and started teaching kick-box--aerobics. I kid you not.
LESSON #5 -- Someone has perfected the art of packing lightly yet always bringing spare underwear.
Holy shit. I have seen some crazy things in my life, but for me, this is damn near at the top. While waiting for our bags in customs after our return flight home, we were hanging out by the baggage claim. Soon it was buzzing and whirring where in most places it means bags are forthcoming, but in Dulles it means it might be another hour or so. Eventually, I saw them creeping up the conveyor belt and soon there was a steady stream of non-descript black bags. Just to break up the monotony there was one pair of grey drawers. They were wet and flopping along the belt like a slinky. They looked to be for women, but given the international nature of the flight, that is not a given. I am sure my words do this no justice and I am saddend by that fact (well that and the fact that they prohibit photography in the customs hall--otherwise the grey drawer slinky would be on YOUTUBE right this very moment).
All in all it was a good trip and I will try and write more often. At least once before the third week of august.
