The Mountain Xpress, a weekly newspaper out of Asheville, NC, has begun the voting for its annual "Best Of" Issue.
My band, Sirius B, is hoping to win the "Best Band Nobody's Ever Heard Of" Category.
Please help us to win this category by going to www.mountainxpress.com/bestof/vote
Thanks, and be well.
30 August 2007
Louisiana Swamp
And here below, some photos of the Louisiana Swamp, which I visited during my recent trip to New Orleans.
ALLIGATOR IN THE WILD, APPROXIMATELY 600 POUNDS
PANCHO MAKES OUT WITH AN ALLIGATOR (IT IS REAL, ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD)
THE FAN BOATS, OUR LOYAL STEEDS THROUGHOUT THE ADVENTURE
Mexico Photos
Find below some photos of my recent trip to Mexico.
PANCHO AND ELLEN, WITH PANCHO SPORTING A FANG-LIKE MUSTACHE
BREAKING FREE OF A SAND BURIAL
CLICHE FOOT SHOT
SNORKELS AND BEER
FIERY BANANA SPLIT
27 August 2007
Back in Asheville
I have finally returned to Asheville, where I am jobless (though not homeless) and finally sitting relatively still.
This has been a particularly exciting summer, nearly as manic and intense as last summer, and it is good to be once again in the place that I consider home.
I spent the last few days in New Orleans, where I went nearly immediately after returning to Asheville from New York just the other day. I will soon put up photographs of New Orleans as well as some from Mexico, and will return to regularly updates on the blog.
I hope that all are well, and thanks for reading.
This has been a particularly exciting summer, nearly as manic and intense as last summer, and it is good to be once again in the place that I consider home.
I spent the last few days in New Orleans, where I went nearly immediately after returning to Asheville from New York just the other day. I will soon put up photographs of New Orleans as well as some from Mexico, and will return to regularly updates on the blog.
I hope that all are well, and thanks for reading.
21 August 2007
Errata
In regards to a previous post (August 19), I meant to write "inland" and in fact wrote "mainland", when referring to the escape attempts of my Australian friends.
Thanks for the comments.
Thanks for the comments.
The Escape From Dean
We have been on a rather tortured and intermittent journey in an attempt to escape the path of the Hurricane that goes by the name of Dean. Ellen and I have escaped and are now comfortably and safely hidden in the depth of the Meat Packing District of New York City.
On Monday morning, we awoke at 6:30 a.m. in order to insure our timely arrival at the airport, knowing that the lines and general pandemonium would be truly incredible. While we were quite right in our predictions of the insanity present within the airport, we were unfortunately somewhat too hopeful as to the helpfulness of our early start, as Spirit Airlines seems to feel differently about getting a jump on the day.
And so, while the early bird (us) did get the proverbial worm (the flight home, and thus away from the path of destruction), the worm salesman did not arrive on the scene until hours after this bird (again, us) did.
The scene at the airport was crazy, though rather calm in a way. The lines were long (some as long as the terminal, in fact), and hundreds, if not thousands of people, seemed to be there on stand-by hopes and dreams alone, and yet the people themselves were calm. Perhaps the knowledge that in this case of airport insanity the culprit was a dangerous and frightening storm, and not the cause of some institutionalized aviation industry ineptitude, calmed travelers in a tranquil quiescence.
Whatever the case, there seemed to be few cases of screaming, or loud complaining, or threats, or anything of the like. On the contrary, all seemed resigned to their fate, fatigued and slightly overwhelmed, yet merely hoping that all would work out for the best.
As it turns out, or as it seems it will turn out, the hurricane has moved slightly to the south, and the true center of Dean seems poised to make landfall at Chetumal (near the border with Belize) in just a few hours. Nonetheless, as the satellite photos being shown on most news channels make clear, Cancun, Cozumel, Tulum, and all of my other recent haunts will be severely affected.
It is awe-inspiring and sobering to consider my own great luck, as Ellen and I obviously did not plan our departure based on this hurricane. We merely had the great luck to have bought a ticket that left Mexico on the 20th of August, as opposed to the 21st or later. It is equally sobering to consider the fate of the citizens of the places that I have only recently vacated. While in most cases I am sure of their safety and well-being, I worry greatly for their economic situation, as most places along the so-called Mayan Riviera are still reeling from the effects of Hurricane Wilma.
My thoughts and hopes go out to all that are there, whether they be fellow travelers or locals of the area.
Tomorrow I begin to head South once again, working my way through West Virginia, to the home of my Aunt, before returning to Asheville. I will only be in Asheville a short time, approximately a day, before heading to New Orleans to attend the bachelor party of my good friend.
More soon, from somewhere.
On Monday morning, we awoke at 6:30 a.m. in order to insure our timely arrival at the airport, knowing that the lines and general pandemonium would be truly incredible. While we were quite right in our predictions of the insanity present within the airport, we were unfortunately somewhat too hopeful as to the helpfulness of our early start, as Spirit Airlines seems to feel differently about getting a jump on the day.
And so, while the early bird (us) did get the proverbial worm (the flight home, and thus away from the path of destruction), the worm salesman did not arrive on the scene until hours after this bird (again, us) did.
The scene at the airport was crazy, though rather calm in a way. The lines were long (some as long as the terminal, in fact), and hundreds, if not thousands of people, seemed to be there on stand-by hopes and dreams alone, and yet the people themselves were calm. Perhaps the knowledge that in this case of airport insanity the culprit was a dangerous and frightening storm, and not the cause of some institutionalized aviation industry ineptitude, calmed travelers in a tranquil quiescence.
Whatever the case, there seemed to be few cases of screaming, or loud complaining, or threats, or anything of the like. On the contrary, all seemed resigned to their fate, fatigued and slightly overwhelmed, yet merely hoping that all would work out for the best.
As it turns out, or as it seems it will turn out, the hurricane has moved slightly to the south, and the true center of Dean seems poised to make landfall at Chetumal (near the border with Belize) in just a few hours. Nonetheless, as the satellite photos being shown on most news channels make clear, Cancun, Cozumel, Tulum, and all of my other recent haunts will be severely affected.
It is awe-inspiring and sobering to consider my own great luck, as Ellen and I obviously did not plan our departure based on this hurricane. We merely had the great luck to have bought a ticket that left Mexico on the 20th of August, as opposed to the 21st or later. It is equally sobering to consider the fate of the citizens of the places that I have only recently vacated. While in most cases I am sure of their safety and well-being, I worry greatly for their economic situation, as most places along the so-called Mayan Riviera are still reeling from the effects of Hurricane Wilma.
My thoughts and hopes go out to all that are there, whether they be fellow travelers or locals of the area.
Tomorrow I begin to head South once again, working my way through West Virginia, to the home of my Aunt, before returning to Asheville. I will only be in Asheville a short time, approximately a day, before heading to New Orleans to attend the bachelor party of my good friend.
More soon, from somewhere.
19 August 2007
Hurricane Dean
The hurricane is coming, and we are trying to leave, though we have thus far been unable to do so. Our flight is scheduled to leave at 12:30 tomorrow afternoon, though there is a possibility that the airport will be closed.
If this does indeed happen, we will run as quickly as possible to the nearest car rental agency and flee inland with all possible haste.
Everyone here is boarding up or taping windows, selling merchandise (one place had 40 percent sales in what they deemed a "crisis sale"), buying up water and food, and otherwise preparing. All seems to be happening in a very calm and orderly fashion.
These people are accustomed to this business by now.
In the airport it is a different story, as thousands of foreigners are trying to get on planes, crowding the huge entry hall, pestering airline agents, etc. The airline agents, for the most part, seem to be hiding away in darkened offices, trying to avoid such questioning and pestering.
For tonight, we will be staying in a hotel here in Cancun, possibly with two Australian guests, if they end up stranded. (They are trying to reach the mainland, as they do not have a flight until Tuesday).
Check out this blog, which seems to offer a pretty good amount of information and updates on the hurricane.
At least until the power goes.
More soon from Cancun, or hopefully, from home, safe, sound and dry.
If this does indeed happen, we will run as quickly as possible to the nearest car rental agency and flee inland with all possible haste.
Everyone here is boarding up or taping windows, selling merchandise (one place had 40 percent sales in what they deemed a "crisis sale"), buying up water and food, and otherwise preparing. All seems to be happening in a very calm and orderly fashion.
These people are accustomed to this business by now.
In the airport it is a different story, as thousands of foreigners are trying to get on planes, crowding the huge entry hall, pestering airline agents, etc. The airline agents, for the most part, seem to be hiding away in darkened offices, trying to avoid such questioning and pestering.
For tonight, we will be staying in a hotel here in Cancun, possibly with two Australian guests, if they end up stranded. (They are trying to reach the mainland, as they do not have a flight until Tuesday).
Check out this blog, which seems to offer a pretty good amount of information and updates on the hurricane.
At least until the power goes.
More soon from Cancun, or hopefully, from home, safe, sound and dry.
18 August 2007
Getting Out?
Well, the storm has got us kind of scared. We are currently trying to get in touch with Spirit Airlines (bastards) and may change our flight to get home one day earlier.
Last night we went out to the famed Carlos and Charlies, a cheesy theme restaurant that serves drinks by the yard, has a number of tequila specials (well enjoyed, though not so much this morning) and often treats customers to a congo line.
I told them that Ellen and I were on our honeymoon and asked them to do something special for us, which they did. The blew whistles in our face, sang an incomprehensible song, shoved tequila down our throats, and then followed it all up with an equally force-fed jello shot.
It was great.
More soon.
Last night we went out to the famed Carlos and Charlies, a cheesy theme restaurant that serves drinks by the yard, has a number of tequila specials (well enjoyed, though not so much this morning) and often treats customers to a congo line.
I told them that Ellen and I were on our honeymoon and asked them to do something special for us, which they did. The blew whistles in our face, sang an incomprehensible song, shoved tequila down our throats, and then followed it all up with an equally force-fed jello shot.
It was great.
More soon.
17 August 2007
Cozumel
I have been lax in my storytelling in recent days, but I will surely return, have no fear. I have been so busy doing things that I have had little time to tell about doing things.
Which I think is a pretty good excuse.
I have been, since the last post, in Isla Mujeres, Puerto Morelos, Tulum, and now Cozumel. I am not going to write too much at the moment, since I am starving and it is 8:30 at night, but I would like to share a few interesting things.
1. This island, interestingly, achieved world acclaim and fame (at least in recent history) due to Monsiur Jacques Cousteau, who showed the world, through the miracle of television, the beauty of the reefs here. Apparently, according to Lonely Planet, the tourists were here almost overnight.
The reefs truly are beautiful, and just today, I saw a multitude of multi-colored fish, a number of skate (I think they were skate) and a few barracudas. Best of all, many of the reefs are just off the shore, which allows snorkelers to access them for free, rather than pay overpriced rates for boats and tours.
2. There is a Hurricane by the name of Dean (who does he think he is anyway?) that appears to be (here according to some periodical) "on a crash course with the Yucatan". In case you are not a geography wiz, Cozumel is just off the coast of the Yucatan. Cancun is on the Yucatan. I am on the Yucatan.
As far as I can tell, Dean is not scheduled to arrive here until later Monday afternoon or Tuesday, so I should be safe, though I would be a monster if I were not also worried for the safety of those that must remain here. Still, I am also making plans to leave the islands (tomorrow, in fact) so as to be better able to flee inland if necessary.
More soon, possibly not until my return, with photos, stories, and descriptions galore.
Which I think is a pretty good excuse.
I have been, since the last post, in Isla Mujeres, Puerto Morelos, Tulum, and now Cozumel. I am not going to write too much at the moment, since I am starving and it is 8:30 at night, but I would like to share a few interesting things.
1. This island, interestingly, achieved world acclaim and fame (at least in recent history) due to Monsiur Jacques Cousteau, who showed the world, through the miracle of television, the beauty of the reefs here. Apparently, according to Lonely Planet, the tourists were here almost overnight.
The reefs truly are beautiful, and just today, I saw a multitude of multi-colored fish, a number of skate (I think they were skate) and a few barracudas. Best of all, many of the reefs are just off the shore, which allows snorkelers to access them for free, rather than pay overpriced rates for boats and tours.
2. There is a Hurricane by the name of Dean (who does he think he is anyway?) that appears to be (here according to some periodical) "on a crash course with the Yucatan". In case you are not a geography wiz, Cozumel is just off the coast of the Yucatan. Cancun is on the Yucatan. I am on the Yucatan.
As far as I can tell, Dean is not scheduled to arrive here until later Monday afternoon or Tuesday, so I should be safe, though I would be a monster if I were not also worried for the safety of those that must remain here. Still, I am also making plans to leave the islands (tomorrow, in fact) so as to be better able to flee inland if necessary.
More soon, possibly not until my return, with photos, stories, and descriptions galore.
12 August 2007
Isla Mujeres
Hello from Mexico. Here I am in Isla Mujeres, across a thin strip of water from Cancun.
Mexico has been treating me well, though the heat is a bit of an exaggeration.
Ellen and I spent our first night in Cancun, in the luxurious Westin Resort, at the edge of the hotel strip in Cancun. We had found a good deal through Priceline, and so figured that we would pretend to be rich people for one night.
Let me tell you--being rich is pretty cool, though it can be tough pretending to be rich. Our room was beautiful, the ocean was right outside our door, we had ten different pools to choose from, pool bars, chilled drinks, three different restaurants, and the most comfortable beds this side of Tennessee (where, I hear, they have quite comfortable beds.)
All of that, and a bottle of water only cost EIGHT DOLLARS!
Needless to say, we enjoyed our stay there, though we knew that the honeymoon couldn´t last too long. And so, as soon as our lost luggage (oh yes, lost luggage...sometime I´ll write in this space my opinions on Spirit Air) arrived, we worked our way to the docks to grab a boat to Isla Mujeres.
Isla Mujeres was once a small fishing town, and is now a small fishing town with a lot of tourists, a ton of snorkelers and snorkel purveyors, and even more golf carts and scooters. It is, against these odds, a beautiful, tranquil, lovely place. The snorkeling is wonderful, the people are friendly (for the most part), and the beaches are beautiful.
The weather is very, very hot, but very nice. We quickly found (during the course of a very long first night here) that it is well worth the extra cash to rent a room with air conditioning.
Not much more to report from here. Everything is going perfectly, and we are about to head off to watch the sunset with a cold tropical beverage, some chips, and a deep bowl of guacamole.
More soon, with pictures if time allows.
Mexico has been treating me well, though the heat is a bit of an exaggeration.
Ellen and I spent our first night in Cancun, in the luxurious Westin Resort, at the edge of the hotel strip in Cancun. We had found a good deal through Priceline, and so figured that we would pretend to be rich people for one night.
Let me tell you--being rich is pretty cool, though it can be tough pretending to be rich. Our room was beautiful, the ocean was right outside our door, we had ten different pools to choose from, pool bars, chilled drinks, three different restaurants, and the most comfortable beds this side of Tennessee (where, I hear, they have quite comfortable beds.)
All of that, and a bottle of water only cost EIGHT DOLLARS!
Needless to say, we enjoyed our stay there, though we knew that the honeymoon couldn´t last too long. And so, as soon as our lost luggage (oh yes, lost luggage...sometime I´ll write in this space my opinions on Spirit Air) arrived, we worked our way to the docks to grab a boat to Isla Mujeres.
Isla Mujeres was once a small fishing town, and is now a small fishing town with a lot of tourists, a ton of snorkelers and snorkel purveyors, and even more golf carts and scooters. It is, against these odds, a beautiful, tranquil, lovely place. The snorkeling is wonderful, the people are friendly (for the most part), and the beaches are beautiful.
The weather is very, very hot, but very nice. We quickly found (during the course of a very long first night here) that it is well worth the extra cash to rent a room with air conditioning.
Not much more to report from here. Everything is going perfectly, and we are about to head off to watch the sunset with a cold tropical beverage, some chips, and a deep bowl of guacamole.
More soon, with pictures if time allows.
06 August 2007
Stateside
I have made it back home, back to a strange land of automobiles and strip malls, but also of rolling green hills, lovely pastures, and reasonable temperatures.
I flew into JFK on Friday afternoon, said my goodbyes to all of my friends from the last month in Spain, and headed North with my brothers to Albany, NY, where we spent the night in a motel. A few glasses of wine and a large meal at The Cheesecake Factory (how strange to be once again dining in a place so large) sent me straight to bed, sleeping hard until early Saturday morning, when I woke up, my body convinced that the hour was much, much later than it really was.
We continued driving, getting lost a few times, until we finally arrived in a small town outside of Burlington, where my cousin was to be married. We found the place, quickly changed, and jogged to the site of the deed. True to the nickname I recently found out has been given to my family (The "Vagabonds"), we arrived just in time to hear the Justice of the Peace speak the words, "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and headed off to eat and drink for the rest of the night.
After a post-wedding brunch yesterday morning, I drove out to Isle La Motte, where my cousin David lives with his wife, Tara, and son, Trevor. I was here last year in October, helping them to do some demolishing work, and the house is now completely changed--wholly renovated and now fit for human dwelling. It is a beautiful place, set on five acres of rural property that is graced with picturesquely crumbling outbuildings and fields of hay.
Today I leave to drive to New Hampshire, where I will meet up with Ellen and spend the night with her and her family before heading South to Jersey, and ultimately, flying to Mexico.
Unfortunately I am having trouble posting any pictures, but I will do so soon. I hope that all are well.
I flew into JFK on Friday afternoon, said my goodbyes to all of my friends from the last month in Spain, and headed North with my brothers to Albany, NY, where we spent the night in a motel. A few glasses of wine and a large meal at The Cheesecake Factory (how strange to be once again dining in a place so large) sent me straight to bed, sleeping hard until early Saturday morning, when I woke up, my body convinced that the hour was much, much later than it really was.
We continued driving, getting lost a few times, until we finally arrived in a small town outside of Burlington, where my cousin was to be married. We found the place, quickly changed, and jogged to the site of the deed. True to the nickname I recently found out has been given to my family (The "Vagabonds"), we arrived just in time to hear the Justice of the Peace speak the words, "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and headed off to eat and drink for the rest of the night.
After a post-wedding brunch yesterday morning, I drove out to Isle La Motte, where my cousin David lives with his wife, Tara, and son, Trevor. I was here last year in October, helping them to do some demolishing work, and the house is now completely changed--wholly renovated and now fit for human dwelling. It is a beautiful place, set on five acres of rural property that is graced with picturesquely crumbling outbuildings and fields of hay.
Today I leave to drive to New Hampshire, where I will meet up with Ellen and spend the night with her and her family before heading South to Jersey, and ultimately, flying to Mexico.
Unfortunately I am having trouble posting any pictures, but I will do so soon. I hope that all are well.
02 August 2007
Ripped Off
I don´t have much time right now, because I am running off to lunch (my last lunch in Spain...) with my co-workers.
I wanted to leave a quick line, however, regarding some merchandise I have bought here in Granada. Much of what is for sale here in Granada is Moroccan (or at least stuff that is sold in Morocco as if it were Moroccan).
This in itself is not all that amazing, considering the number of Moroccans here and the proximity of Granada to Morocco.
What is amazing and rather disconcerting is that many things are actually cheaper here than in Morocco! Items for which I haggled and screamed and yelled and play-acted...and here, the same things have price tags on them and are cheaper than my final, well-earned Moroccan prices. And I don´t have to argue or haggle to get these prices.
It is all quite amazing, really...
That is all for now. Tomorrow I leave on a jet plane for different shores. I hope that all are well.
I wanted to leave a quick line, however, regarding some merchandise I have bought here in Granada. Much of what is for sale here in Granada is Moroccan (or at least stuff that is sold in Morocco as if it were Moroccan).
This in itself is not all that amazing, considering the number of Moroccans here and the proximity of Granada to Morocco.
What is amazing and rather disconcerting is that many things are actually cheaper here than in Morocco! Items for which I haggled and screamed and yelled and play-acted...and here, the same things have price tags on them and are cheaper than my final, well-earned Moroccan prices. And I don´t have to argue or haggle to get these prices.
It is all quite amazing, really...
That is all for now. Tomorrow I leave on a jet plane for different shores. I hope that all are well.
30 July 2007
Granada
I, along with my group of students and fellow staff, have arrived in Granada. Finally the air has cooled down and the city streets are once again filled with revelry and joy (as opposed to the rather muted tone of Cordoba).
Today we took a bus out to Guadix, a town about an hour outside of Granada, where many people still live in five-hundred year old cave-dwellings in the hills. The houses are really cool (twenty celsius all year round), and actually quite spacious. They are also, thanks to chimneys that poke up out of the hills, quite well ventilated.
We will be in this area for another three or four days, and on the third of August will commence our trip back to the United States.
More soon, along with pictures.
Today we took a bus out to Guadix, a town about an hour outside of Granada, where many people still live in five-hundred year old cave-dwellings in the hills. The houses are really cool (twenty celsius all year round), and actually quite spacious. They are also, thanks to chimneys that poke up out of the hills, quite well ventilated.
We will be in this area for another three or four days, and on the third of August will commence our trip back to the United States.
More soon, along with pictures.
29 July 2007
The Mank Top Song
Some of the young ladies on this program have been kind enough to write me a song. Enjoy the video, which illustrates their musical genius.
27 July 2007
A Problem
Call it a muscle-T, a tank-top, or a "mank-top" -- It doesn't really matter. No matter how you call it, how you slice it, I've got a problem.
I've become an addict of sleeveless shirts.
It all started innocently enough. I noticed men in Spain wearing sleeveless shirts. They were not muscle-bound gym types, but normal guys like me. They were beating the evil rays of the sun and the disgustingly high temperatures with the oldest trick in the book -- they had gotten rid of extra clothing.
Who needs sleeves anyway? This is the question that I have been asking myself for a week or so now, as I sport my no-sleeved T-shirts (can they even be called "T's" anymore?).
Somehow I have even rationalized the purchase of a hooded, pocketed shirt, sans sleeves, and made of a sweatshirt-like material. Unfortunately I do not currently have a photograph of this gem, but I imagine one will soon enough grace the pages of this blog.
I believe that my explanation for this item's usefulness went something like, "For those days when it is too hot to wear sleeves but too cold to go outside without a hood."
Ellen's words, when she heard the news of my new purchase, were chilling. "I hope you lose it," she said, and then repeated herself, saying "I hope that you lose your luggage on the plane."
Harsh words, but really just tough love for an addict. Today I made another purchase (my fourth in a week or so). To be honest, the shirt doesn't really fit that great, and wouldn't say that I love it all that much, but I really couldn't help myself.
See, there is more than just the fact that this is a tank-top. It has words on it, words too ridiculous, too absurd, too surreal and strange for me to ignore. It says "Think Dirty."
As soon as I picked up the shirt, every irony-loving, hipster bone in my body screamed at me, "A tank-top that says "think dirty" -- You must buy it! You are beholden by your very honor to purchase this shirt!" And so, as you can all see above, I did just that.
Strange as these words seemed to me (and probably do to you), here in Spain, such oddities are in fact a quotidian sighting. I include below the text of some choice favorites, found during five minutes of "research" earlier today.
1. Working hard to be tunned
2. Spring Break Cancun 1988: Hot Experiences
3. Ride my roller coaster
As best as can figure, the Spanish clothing companies have hired illiterate Chinese slaves to work around the clock, dreaming up new and evermore inane slogans with which to decorate their wares.
And for some reason, people, myself included, buy this nonsense.
I've become an addict of sleeveless shirts.
It all started innocently enough. I noticed men in Spain wearing sleeveless shirts. They were not muscle-bound gym types, but normal guys like me. They were beating the evil rays of the sun and the disgustingly high temperatures with the oldest trick in the book -- they had gotten rid of extra clothing.
Who needs sleeves anyway? This is the question that I have been asking myself for a week or so now, as I sport my no-sleeved T-shirts (can they even be called "T's" anymore?).
Somehow I have even rationalized the purchase of a hooded, pocketed shirt, sans sleeves, and made of a sweatshirt-like material. Unfortunately I do not currently have a photograph of this gem, but I imagine one will soon enough grace the pages of this blog.
I believe that my explanation for this item's usefulness went something like, "For those days when it is too hot to wear sleeves but too cold to go outside without a hood."
Ellen's words, when she heard the news of my new purchase, were chilling. "I hope you lose it," she said, and then repeated herself, saying "I hope that you lose your luggage on the plane."
Harsh words, but really just tough love for an addict. Today I made another purchase (my fourth in a week or so). To be honest, the shirt doesn't really fit that great, and wouldn't say that I love it all that much, but I really couldn't help myself.
See, there is more than just the fact that this is a tank-top. It has words on it, words too ridiculous, too absurd, too surreal and strange for me to ignore. It says "Think Dirty."
As soon as I picked up the shirt, every irony-loving, hipster bone in my body screamed at me, "A tank-top that says "think dirty" -- You must buy it! You are beholden by your very honor to purchase this shirt!" And so, as you can all see above, I did just that.
Strange as these words seemed to me (and probably do to you), here in Spain, such oddities are in fact a quotidian sighting. I include below the text of some choice favorites, found during five minutes of "research" earlier today.
1. Working hard to be tunned
2. Spring Break Cancun 1988: Hot Experiences
3. Ride my roller coaster
As best as can figure, the Spanish clothing companies have hired illiterate Chinese slaves to work around the clock, dreaming up new and evermore inane slogans with which to decorate their wares.
And for some reason, people, myself included, buy this nonsense.
26 July 2007
Site Meter
Just a quick note and question, with an explanation.
I have a bit of an obsession with checking the "Site Meter" at the bottom of my page, which lets me know the number of visitors per day, general location, etc.
Anyway, I often wonder who is reading this blog. In particular, I am wondering at the moment who from New Zealand is reading this blog. Is it you, Scott?
If not, would the masked man or woman please take off their mask of anonymity?
In addition, to anyone else reading this blog, especially if I don't know you--drop me an email or a comment letting me know who you are. It's nice to know who's reading.
Finally, please do not worry about privacy and all the rest. I cannot see who you are, and oftentimes I cannot even see exactly where you are. All that I can see is the location of the server and/or internet company that you use.
As for an update on Cordoba and Spain in general, today our whole group headed out to Malaga for a day at the beach. The day was slightly overcast, which ensured a minor sunburn for all involved, but we had a great time.
More soon.
I have a bit of an obsession with checking the "Site Meter" at the bottom of my page, which lets me know the number of visitors per day, general location, etc.
Anyway, I often wonder who is reading this blog. In particular, I am wondering at the moment who from New Zealand is reading this blog. Is it you, Scott?
If not, would the masked man or woman please take off their mask of anonymity?
In addition, to anyone else reading this blog, especially if I don't know you--drop me an email or a comment letting me know who you are. It's nice to know who's reading.
Finally, please do not worry about privacy and all the rest. I cannot see who you are, and oftentimes I cannot even see exactly where you are. All that I can see is the location of the server and/or internet company that you use.
As for an update on Cordoba and Spain in general, today our whole group headed out to Malaga for a day at the beach. The day was slightly overcast, which ensured a minor sunburn for all involved, but we had a great time.
More soon.
25 July 2007
Hooker Row
Down the road from our hotel, on a charming residential street, the doors to a number of unassuming, humble houses lay open at all times of day.
Inside, down the short hall, the rooms of the houses open up, revealing plastic deck furniture and lounge chairs. Women, in various states of dress, sit smoking cigarettes, talking and laughing with eachother, casting strange glances out to the street.
The women vary greatly in age. Some are older, in their forties and fifties, and the lines on their faces and their perpetual grimaces reveal a life of hardship, a life of late nights, of drugs, alcohol, and dangerous pursuits. The younger women bear similar faces, though they are often African, and they are young and fresher-faced.
Their faces are as yet untouched by age, though they grimace just the same, looking haughtily out at the hot streets, at the houses on the other side of the road, just a few feet ahead.
I walk this street every day, passing these houses with their interior rooms and strange women, gazing inside, disgusted and pitying and interested in what lay inside. My interest is in no way related to a desire to partake in the wares they offer, but rather one of simple humanity and curiosity. "Who are these women?" I wonder, "and where do they come from?"
I think of how these places work, if they are run by penny-pinching madams or angry, twisted pimps. I wonder who enters these houses, these obvious brothels. At all times of day, the women seem to sit around, bored and tired.
Perhaps, as stands to reason, their busiest time of the day is the night.
Today, as I walked down the street, as I had so many times, I heard a quiet, old voice behind me.
"Hey!" said the voice, and I turned around.
"Come here," the voice continued, and I noted that the speaker was an old woman in a housedress. She looked like so many other women I see here, though perhaps a bit less well-kept and a bit far into the street to be still wearing her housedress.
I followed her instructions and she motioned me into the open doorway, pulling aside the curtain of plastic, multi-colored beads. The hallway was short, perhaps only three or four feet long, and like the other houses, ended in an open room. The room was mostly bare, save for a plastic table and two chairs. At one chair sat a woman in her forties. Her hair was dyed and brittle, her makeup thick and garish. She wore a revealing outfit, and I could see much of her breasts and legs.
"Where are you going?" she asked, smiling widely.
"I am going home," I told her.
And then she asked me, using a very Spanish expression, if I wouldn't like to have some sex on the way home.
"Y no quieres echar un polvete en el camino?" she said, to which I firmly responded in the negative, though without any rudeness or anger. "But thank you," I added politely.
She wished me a good day, and I left the place to walk home, where I arrived a mere minute or two after.
Inside, down the short hall, the rooms of the houses open up, revealing plastic deck furniture and lounge chairs. Women, in various states of dress, sit smoking cigarettes, talking and laughing with eachother, casting strange glances out to the street.
The women vary greatly in age. Some are older, in their forties and fifties, and the lines on their faces and their perpetual grimaces reveal a life of hardship, a life of late nights, of drugs, alcohol, and dangerous pursuits. The younger women bear similar faces, though they are often African, and they are young and fresher-faced.
Their faces are as yet untouched by age, though they grimace just the same, looking haughtily out at the hot streets, at the houses on the other side of the road, just a few feet ahead.
I walk this street every day, passing these houses with their interior rooms and strange women, gazing inside, disgusted and pitying and interested in what lay inside. My interest is in no way related to a desire to partake in the wares they offer, but rather one of simple humanity and curiosity. "Who are these women?" I wonder, "and where do they come from?"
I think of how these places work, if they are run by penny-pinching madams or angry, twisted pimps. I wonder who enters these houses, these obvious brothels. At all times of day, the women seem to sit around, bored and tired.
Perhaps, as stands to reason, their busiest time of the day is the night.
Today, as I walked down the street, as I had so many times, I heard a quiet, old voice behind me.
"Hey!" said the voice, and I turned around.
"Come here," the voice continued, and I noted that the speaker was an old woman in a housedress. She looked like so many other women I see here, though perhaps a bit less well-kept and a bit far into the street to be still wearing her housedress.
I followed her instructions and she motioned me into the open doorway, pulling aside the curtain of plastic, multi-colored beads. The hallway was short, perhaps only three or four feet long, and like the other houses, ended in an open room. The room was mostly bare, save for a plastic table and two chairs. At one chair sat a woman in her forties. Her hair was dyed and brittle, her makeup thick and garish. She wore a revealing outfit, and I could see much of her breasts and legs.
"Where are you going?" she asked, smiling widely.
"I am going home," I told her.
And then she asked me, using a very Spanish expression, if I wouldn't like to have some sex on the way home.
"Y no quieres echar un polvete en el camino?" she said, to which I firmly responded in the negative, though without any rudeness or anger. "But thank you," I added politely.
She wished me a good day, and I left the place to walk home, where I arrived a mere minute or two after.
The E-Book of Poop
For some time now I have had an idea in my head--a personal challenge of sorts--that I find both bizarre and ingenious.
I have a dream--a dream to one day use the sanitary facilities in the best universities in the world. Specifically, this sanitary usage involves the making of a "Number 2".
This dream all began years ago, as one day it suddenly occurred to me that I had excreted in the Sorbonne, at Cambridge University, and in a number of the best academic institutions in the United States. (Oxford University, due to circumstances beyond my immediate control--namely constipation--is one goal that as yet remains unfulfilled. Berkeley, of the great state of California, was not so lucky.) "Why," I wondered, "could I not continue in my already commenced line of success, and use the bathrooms of those universities that were as yet un-defiled?" This became a small personal obsession (an obsession, mind you, of the healthy type, not one that leads to a psychiatric evaluation) and a somewhat ironic, joking mission.
In the last few days, I have begun to combine my thoughts of this strange personal initiative with a pet theory of mine. This theory represents a culmination of my travel experiences, and my realization that the best, most significant, most meaningful travel is that which takes place during an arbitrary journey. As most inveterate travelers know, the best parts of any journey (or the best journeys, full stop) are those which are unplanned. The three-hundred mile deviation from the route for a slice of pizza, the stop in a funny-named town, the entire journey for some apparently delicious pancakes--these are where travel is distilled into its true, unadulterated form. It is in these moments of un-pre-meditated travel that the wanderer ceases to be a mere tourist, a slave to a line on a map, and becomes an adventurer, a discoverer, a colonist of tastes and experiences.
With this theory in mind, I came up with what I consider the perfect travel plan. This idea occurred to me earlier this year, and is really quite simple. Basically, after setting a pre-defined time of travel, I would drive around the United States, guided only by the most arbitrary of signs. Specifically, I would use the infamous "state quarters" to decide the next stop in my journey.
To give an example: On the first day of my trip, I buy a soda. Let's say a Diet Mountain Dew (energize and watch the figure at the same time). I pay for this delicious beverage with bills that will ensure the receipt of at least one quarter. (Hopefully this quarter is a "state quarter". If not, I would need to make another purchase). I look at the state, start up my car, and head in that direction. If the quarter bears the likeness of a specific monument or town, I will travel to that place. If not, I will do my best to pinpoint a reasonable stop (i.e. for Georgia, I would visit a peach farm, and meet a peach farmer).
Once having arrived at the first stop on my path, I buy yet another beverage (or food item--let's say that this time I treat myself to some soft-serve fast-food ice cream), peer at the change to find my next destination, and head off once again.
The beauty of this type of travel is that the destinations are truly arbitrary. One's trip could be cross country, or merely local or regional. The destination is not the point, but rather the path itself and the adventures contained there within.
I have long thought that such a journey would make for a perfect beginning to my travel writing career. But, alas, I am as yet an unknown and inexperienced writer with no contacts or publishing experience. I must become famous, infamous even, before I even dare dream of such a feat.
And so, folks, I present to you my plan. Please don't steal it. More importantly, please approve of it, love it, like it at least.
I will write (at some point in the future) an E-Book, which will appear on this very page, the subject of which will a semi-arbitrary adventure. I will travel the country and the globe, attempting to fulfill my desire to defecate in the most shining examples of academic excellence. The waste itself will not form a core part of the book, and I will not fall into the facile trap of describing, discussing, or even alluding in a vulgar fashion to any waste matter itself. On the contrary, my bathroom visits will serve only as pinpoints as I plot the stops in my journey. The important thing, as I have previously mentioned, will be the path itself, the people I meet, those with whom I discuss my goal and the reasons behind it.
I will meet with professors and janitors, Freudian scholars and fellow sitters in my excretory odyssey. Together we will form the fabric of an adventure story for the 21st Century.
Now, the question of a title remains. With the help of some of my young charges, I have come up, so far, with two different titles. I ask for you, the reader, to help me by either offering your opinion on the previously suggested titles or by putting forth your own ideas on titles. Here goes.
Smart Ass: Pooping in the Ivory Tower
poop: a journey
For all of those that don't know, the Ivory Tower is one way in which people often refer to the institution of academia. The image is generally meant to represent a white, pure, unassailable bastion of scholarship and learning. Unfortunately, as I am well aware, the tower is generally crumbling, scuffed, and quite dusty. Nonetheless, the irony in the title suggests dirty deeds in a sanctified place.
The second title, "poop: a journey" is one of understated humor and simplicity. I think that it speaks for itself.
So please, write me (the best way is through the posting of comments) with your suggestions, opinions, and ideas. I look forward to hearing from all of you.
Hopefully, by writing this E-Book / Blog, I will be able to gain the momentum and fame necessary to secure a literary agent and contract for my next book, which would be somewhat less strange and a bit more "reader friendly". Thanks for all of your help. Please do not hesitate to forward my address to your friends and family, as I would appreciate the help of any and all readers.
I have a dream--a dream to one day use the sanitary facilities in the best universities in the world. Specifically, this sanitary usage involves the making of a "Number 2".
This dream all began years ago, as one day it suddenly occurred to me that I had excreted in the Sorbonne, at Cambridge University, and in a number of the best academic institutions in the United States. (Oxford University, due to circumstances beyond my immediate control--namely constipation--is one goal that as yet remains unfulfilled. Berkeley, of the great state of California, was not so lucky.) "Why," I wondered, "could I not continue in my already commenced line of success, and use the bathrooms of those universities that were as yet un-defiled?" This became a small personal obsession (an obsession, mind you, of the healthy type, not one that leads to a psychiatric evaluation) and a somewhat ironic, joking mission.
In the last few days, I have begun to combine my thoughts of this strange personal initiative with a pet theory of mine. This theory represents a culmination of my travel experiences, and my realization that the best, most significant, most meaningful travel is that which takes place during an arbitrary journey. As most inveterate travelers know, the best parts of any journey (or the best journeys, full stop) are those which are unplanned. The three-hundred mile deviation from the route for a slice of pizza, the stop in a funny-named town, the entire journey for some apparently delicious pancakes--these are where travel is distilled into its true, unadulterated form. It is in these moments of un-pre-meditated travel that the wanderer ceases to be a mere tourist, a slave to a line on a map, and becomes an adventurer, a discoverer, a colonist of tastes and experiences.
With this theory in mind, I came up with what I consider the perfect travel plan. This idea occurred to me earlier this year, and is really quite simple. Basically, after setting a pre-defined time of travel, I would drive around the United States, guided only by the most arbitrary of signs. Specifically, I would use the infamous "state quarters" to decide the next stop in my journey.
To give an example: On the first day of my trip, I buy a soda. Let's say a Diet Mountain Dew (energize and watch the figure at the same time). I pay for this delicious beverage with bills that will ensure the receipt of at least one quarter. (Hopefully this quarter is a "state quarter". If not, I would need to make another purchase). I look at the state, start up my car, and head in that direction. If the quarter bears the likeness of a specific monument or town, I will travel to that place. If not, I will do my best to pinpoint a reasonable stop (i.e. for Georgia, I would visit a peach farm, and meet a peach farmer).
Once having arrived at the first stop on my path, I buy yet another beverage (or food item--let's say that this time I treat myself to some soft-serve fast-food ice cream), peer at the change to find my next destination, and head off once again.
The beauty of this type of travel is that the destinations are truly arbitrary. One's trip could be cross country, or merely local or regional. The destination is not the point, but rather the path itself and the adventures contained there within.
I have long thought that such a journey would make for a perfect beginning to my travel writing career. But, alas, I am as yet an unknown and inexperienced writer with no contacts or publishing experience. I must become famous, infamous even, before I even dare dream of such a feat.
And so, folks, I present to you my plan. Please don't steal it. More importantly, please approve of it, love it, like it at least.
I will write (at some point in the future) an E-Book, which will appear on this very page, the subject of which will a semi-arbitrary adventure. I will travel the country and the globe, attempting to fulfill my desire to defecate in the most shining examples of academic excellence. The waste itself will not form a core part of the book, and I will not fall into the facile trap of describing, discussing, or even alluding in a vulgar fashion to any waste matter itself. On the contrary, my bathroom visits will serve only as pinpoints as I plot the stops in my journey. The important thing, as I have previously mentioned, will be the path itself, the people I meet, those with whom I discuss my goal and the reasons behind it.
I will meet with professors and janitors, Freudian scholars and fellow sitters in my excretory odyssey. Together we will form the fabric of an adventure story for the 21st Century.
Now, the question of a title remains. With the help of some of my young charges, I have come up, so far, with two different titles. I ask for you, the reader, to help me by either offering your opinion on the previously suggested titles or by putting forth your own ideas on titles. Here goes.
Smart Ass: Pooping in the Ivory Tower
poop: a journey
For all of those that don't know, the Ivory Tower is one way in which people often refer to the institution of academia. The image is generally meant to represent a white, pure, unassailable bastion of scholarship and learning. Unfortunately, as I am well aware, the tower is generally crumbling, scuffed, and quite dusty. Nonetheless, the irony in the title suggests dirty deeds in a sanctified place.
The second title, "poop: a journey" is one of understated humor and simplicity. I think that it speaks for itself.
So please, write me (the best way is through the posting of comments) with your suggestions, opinions, and ideas. I look forward to hearing from all of you.
Hopefully, by writing this E-Book / Blog, I will be able to gain the momentum and fame necessary to secure a literary agent and contract for my next book, which would be somewhat less strange and a bit more "reader friendly". Thanks for all of your help. Please do not hesitate to forward my address to your friends and family, as I would appreciate the help of any and all readers.
24 July 2007
Life in Spain
Things move forward here, and the number days remaining shrinks. In less than two weeks, I will return to the United States, arriving in JFK airport on the third of August. From there I will head directly North, to Vermont, then to New Hampshire to collect Ellen, then South to New Jersey before flying out to Mexico for an eleven-day jaunt.
My days here are much the same as they have been--quite occupied, yet quite nice. The students continue to prove delightful, and our group activities, for the most part have been great (I will not include, in the list of "great activities", the show entitled "Maravilloso Sinatra: Flamenco Divas Perform Sinatra".)
We went to Ronda the other day, a small town in the nearby sierras. The town is famous for being a "white town" (the so-called "pueblos blancos", which are painted regularly with whitewash, and which gleam brilliantly in the hot southern sun). Toward the end of the day, with the sun beating hard upon our heads, some of us headed down into the canyon beside which the town sits.
Down there, I rediscovered youth, and the group of us spent some time in ambushes, hiding behind rocks and trees and attacking each other with unripened figs. We also came upon a number of strange, rather old dwellings, which we explored with all of the excitement of true discoveries. One of the places, a converted cave, appears to have been a medieval watchtower of sorts. The other was, I believe, an old electric plant, which must have been somehow involved with hydroelectric power.
Besides these exciting interludes, the rest of our days have been spent comfortably and regularly. I teach class and we take trips to the movies, a local pool, and nearby cafes for "Cafe y conversacion", one of the easiest and most delicious of official activities.
And little else is happening here. I hope to soon share some pictures of Ronda, though I will have to steal them from fellow travelers, as my camera's battery was dead on the day of the trip.
I hope that all are well. Check back soon for some photographs.
My days here are much the same as they have been--quite occupied, yet quite nice. The students continue to prove delightful, and our group activities, for the most part have been great (I will not include, in the list of "great activities", the show entitled "Maravilloso Sinatra: Flamenco Divas Perform Sinatra".)
We went to Ronda the other day, a small town in the nearby sierras. The town is famous for being a "white town" (the so-called "pueblos blancos", which are painted regularly with whitewash, and which gleam brilliantly in the hot southern sun). Toward the end of the day, with the sun beating hard upon our heads, some of us headed down into the canyon beside which the town sits.
Down there, I rediscovered youth, and the group of us spent some time in ambushes, hiding behind rocks and trees and attacking each other with unripened figs. We also came upon a number of strange, rather old dwellings, which we explored with all of the excitement of true discoveries. One of the places, a converted cave, appears to have been a medieval watchtower of sorts. The other was, I believe, an old electric plant, which must have been somehow involved with hydroelectric power.
Besides these exciting interludes, the rest of our days have been spent comfortably and regularly. I teach class and we take trips to the movies, a local pool, and nearby cafes for "Cafe y conversacion", one of the easiest and most delicious of official activities.
And little else is happening here. I hope to soon share some pictures of Ronda, though I will have to steal them from fellow travelers, as my camera's battery was dead on the day of the trip.
I hope that all are well. Check back soon for some photographs.
22 July 2007
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