12/06/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Six and Seven: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
Tito likes to drink.
Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.
(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)
The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.
That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."
Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:
"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."
Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.
The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)
We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.
We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."
Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.
Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*
Tuesday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.
The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.
When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.
The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:
In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.
Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**
*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.
**Ditto.
Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.
(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)
The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.
That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."
Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:
"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."
Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.
The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)
We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.
We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."
Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.
Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*
Tuesday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.
The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.
When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.
The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:
In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.
Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**
*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.
**Ditto.
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
12/02/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Four and Five: A Wedding and a Hangover
A day, Saturday, my wedding day, in pictures -- many thanks to Matt, Jaquie (who apparently doesn't like being referred to as a coked out lesbian on the internet; my bad, Jaq), and a perhaps bisexual Spaniard who followed us around for an hour, making us pose in very odd manors, until I was near punching him in the eye and he left us alone.
The Groom:
A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:
The dudes:
During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:
Fists of victory:
The happy couple:
The wedding party:
Ever'body:
(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)
White people dancing:
Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:
From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.
From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.
And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.
Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.
That's really all I remember.
Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
The Groom:
A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:
The dudes:
During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:
Fists of victory:
The happy couple:
The wedding party:
Ever'body:
(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)
White people dancing:
Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:
From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.
From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.
And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.
Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.
That's really all I remember.
Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, pics, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/29/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Two & Three: Pot, Kool Aid Man, and a Belly Flop Competition
Two great things we learned Thursday morning:
1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and
2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")
Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.
Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.
Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.
"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.
"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."
"Fine. Lets do it."
We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.
And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.
Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.
Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.
While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.
And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.
Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.
On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.
Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.
I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.
Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).
And participate Josh did.
He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.
But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.
His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.
After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.
The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."
I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.
As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.
Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath
1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and
2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")
Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.
Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.
Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.
"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.
"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."
"Fine. Lets do it."
We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.
And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.
Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.
Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.
While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.
And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.
Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.
On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.
Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.
I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.
Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).
And participate Josh did.
He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.
But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.
His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.
After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.
The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."
I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.
As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.
Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/27/2007
Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Day One: Fun in a Fountain
I woke up around midnight Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning to The Wife banging around in our other bedroom, trying to weigh luggage or something. I really don't know what the hell she was doing, but it was loud. And annoying. She couldn't sleep and was doing counter-productive last minute packing. We had a taxi coming at 4:30 to take us to the airport and if she didn't get any sleep (I had been assed out for about four hours at this point), she'd have been a big bowl of suck traveling.
After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.
I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.
From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.
I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.
Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)
We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.
And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.
Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.
After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.
I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.
From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.
I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.
Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.
And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.
Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/25/2007
Miscellany: Mexico/Book Review/Mizzou/Playlist
The trip to Tulum was muy fantastico. I am overjoyed to report that The Lady Friend (henceforth known as The Wife) actually said "I do" and we are now happily married. In fact, as I write this, it's 9:15 on a Saturday night and she is already passed out on the couch. Married life is as exciting as I expected.
I'll be doing a series of day by day recaps of the trip as the week goes on; look out Internets.
---------
I read a copy of Bryan Burwell's The Best St Louis Sports Arguments while on holiday. While I will never claim that it is the greatest book ever written, it did serve it's purpose, as I found myself passionately agreeing and disagreeing with many of Burwell's arguments.
Mark McGwire not belonging in the Hall of Fame? Disagree, to the millionth degree. Took a drug which nearly everyone else (pitchers included) was taking and finished with a 10.6 HR/AB ratio? In.
Not blaming Don Denkinger for the 1985 World Series. Completely agree. Blaming him for '85 is as dumb as Cubs fans blaming Steve Bartman for 2003. And the rednecks who sent Denkinger death threats are absolutely shameful and makes me agree with Burwell's assertion that St Louis is not the best baseball town in America; it may be a great baseball town in which we live, but until fan support can be adequately quantified, the random fandom ranking of "best" is absurd.
And of record keeping, Burwell's lean on Gold Gloves when ranking players disappoints me. Gold Gloves, and, really, all BBWAA awards, are a farce. The time has come for SABR or another organization to give out likewise awards so we no longer have to live in a world where Jimmy Rollins is considered the best player in the National League in 2007.
At times it seems as if Burwell is almost too ingrained into the mind of not the St Louis sports "fan" but the "fanatic." The average Cardinals fan does not want Tony LaRussa fired after every bad decision, but the normal message boarder or sports radio caller-in may. There is a big difference. I consider myself way too invested in the St Louis baseball Cardinals -- like Nick Hornby Fever Pitch invested -- however, I compare as nothing to the "people" who populate Cardinals, Rams, and Blues message boards (the moment I realized Viva El Birdos, a site I participate in frequently, had metamorphised from a blog to a fan message board was an odd moment; I loathe fan message boards, yet, I stay on).
This problem, of course, comes entirely from the anonymity which both radio and message boards provide. I may write articles and blogs and post (grudgingly, now) on message boards about my favorite team, but I do so using my own name. Anything which I may write, drunkingly, upsetly, ecstatically, comes back to my name. I must take, as does Burwell, complete accountability for my words. "G0CARdZZ190," "Pujo1s 1s a G0D," and the like do not. They are not real people, only counter identities of people who generally don't like themselves and/or refuse to be accountable for the actions which they take. Their voice is nil and should not be included in this book.
(Sweet fuck, I really get worked up about this. Anonymity has ruined the Internet. It could have been something.)
Arguments left me with two major bones to pick with Burwell. One is not even mentioning the 2000-2005 Cards as one of the best Cardinals eras in St Louis baseball history in chapter 14, but then saying that Tony LaRussa is the best Cardinals manager in history (which I agree with) in chapter 28. Somehow, that just doesn't add up.
My other point or ire, in another argument he makes which I agree with "Should the Cardinals Retire Willie McGee's Number" (yes. Yes they should), he writes:
"He (McGee) may not be the greatest redbird, but he is arguably the most beloved. So beloved, in fact, that Tim McKernan, morning talk show host on KFNS radio, started an online petition last year that now includes more than 7,500 signatures. McKernan's grass-roots movement seemed to have a big impact initially, when a city full of McGee lovers kept logging on to McKernan's InsideStL.com website and pledging their allegiance to the heart and soul of those 1980s championship teams by purchasing "Retire 51" T-shirts and joining the petition."
The problem here is that the movement was promoted by McKernan, but was the original idea of my Joe SportsFan cohorts Pat Imig and Josh Bacott and the shirts were designed by handsome man Matt Sebek. They pitched the idea to McKernan since he had the platforms, both radio and local web, to promote it and it was ran with back in that odd Cardinal summer of 2006. Now, I'm probably the only guy on Earth who knows this information, but it seems like an oversight Burwell could have easily avoided with a simple phone call to McKernan and he could have been able to give the original idea for the push to it's rightful owners.
Or perhaps I'm being too anal (that's what she said).
And, like most great bar arguments, there are many others which I ardently agree with (does Stan Musial deserve a better statue? Yes. The current statue encourages bad posture and makes it look like Stan's hands were three feet long. Should the Rams wear their throwbacks? Every Sunday) and forcefully disagree with (Old Busch beats New Busch, in the words of Lt. Sam Weinberg, everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Get back to me after forty years of tradition and perhaps I will agree with you).
However, the last time I was in a bar argument and everyone agreed with each other I was strung out on mescaline in an opium den somewhere in northern India. Believe you me, that was no fun.
Arguments are the tequila shots of bar discussion.
Arguments does what it sets out to do: encourage debate and foment discussion. In that it succeeds. Is it a great book? No, but I doubt Burwell, whom I am sure did plenty of research and spent countless hours writing, set out to win a Pulitzer with this; In the end, it is, in all actuality, just a dude, sharing his opions.
However, Arguments is a nice light read and something which just about any hardcore St Louis sports fan would enjoy having on the top of their toilet.
And The Father In Law will be getting a copy of it for Christmas.
----------
If I had to rank my favorite collegiate athletic programs it would go something like:
1. University of Illinois
2. University of Notre Dame
3. Bradley University
.....
435. University of Missouri
.....
9,000,000. University of Kansas
So while I am in no way, shape, nor form a Mizzou fan (in fact, come Dec 22nd, I will spit on my own sidewalk before a certain basketball game), driving around today in the Lou, running errands and getting lunch, the electricity in the air was palpable. As I wrote earlier, before tonight's kickoff, on the one message board I can stomach, if not enjoy:
"In four years of living in St Louis, I've never seen the town have such anticipation about any football game, let alone a college football game. This is a baseball town first, a hockey town second and a soccer town third. Football? Its off the map. Years of the football Cardinals ruined this town for pigskin. Hell, it took one of the most prolific offenses in NFL history for people to give a shit about the Rams.
College football seemed non-existent when I moved here in '04, which was a huge change from the four years prior when I was living south of the Mason-Dixon. Down there, it seemed religion, here it was about as popular as a pine wood derby boxcar race. While I'm sure I'm overstating this and probably offending some ol' die hard, when I got to St Louis, the overwhelming feel at the bars, on the radio, on the message boards, was that nobody here really gave a shit.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say people in these parts haven't cared this much about college football since the forward pass was invented a few blocks down the street. Or twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Not sure, really; I wasn't a history major.*
It's giddy out there. It is new and fresh and foreign. Nobody knows really what to do or think or say; die hards and wagon jumpers alike. They just hop on and hope to enjoy the ride. A chance for Mizzou to play in the BCS Championship Game? Mizzou? In football? Really?
This is great for the city, for the metro area, and for the state which Abe Simpson will be dead in the cold, cold ground before he recognizes. This feeling, around town, is, as far as I know, completely and totally unprecedented.
And awesome.
*false."
Sticking by that. Great win over Kansas tonight. Although I remain, through and/or through, an Illinois fan, it is cool to see, in this city of bad vibes and constant highway construction, people, not just the old timers but the band wagoners, excited about anything, especially anything college football related.
Missouri is a 17 year old at prom, and we are about to be deflowered by the chance to play for the national title. It's exciting, confusing, surreal. And nobody -- nobody -- would have it any other way.
So, for once in my life, I will say: Go Mizzou. Good luck against the Sooners, Tigers. From your neighbors to the north-east, the guys who own rights over you this decade, with breath stinking of rightly earned Busch gold tops, we say:
Play for the title. I dare you. M-I-Z.
----------
I made an imix of my wedding music*; walking down the isle (first two), into dinner music, into the first dance (La Cienega Just Smiled) slash parentsy dance (I've Been Loving You Too Long>You Are So Beautiful), into the r(c)ock out. If you want to listen, here ye be.
If you want to feel like you were at the wedding drink 12 mojitos and do 8 tequila shots while listening to it.
[see you all later this week with glorious tales of debauchery from south of the border.]
*Well, nearly all of it; some tunes just aint available on the itunes. It's a missing about eight.
I'll be doing a series of day by day recaps of the trip as the week goes on; look out Internets.
---------
I read a copy of Bryan Burwell's The Best St Louis Sports Arguments while on holiday. While I will never claim that it is the greatest book ever written, it did serve it's purpose, as I found myself passionately agreeing and disagreeing with many of Burwell's arguments.
Mark McGwire not belonging in the Hall of Fame? Disagree, to the millionth degree. Took a drug which nearly everyone else (pitchers included) was taking and finished with a 10.6 HR/AB ratio? In.
Not blaming Don Denkinger for the 1985 World Series. Completely agree. Blaming him for '85 is as dumb as Cubs fans blaming Steve Bartman for 2003. And the rednecks who sent Denkinger death threats are absolutely shameful and makes me agree with Burwell's assertion that St Louis is not the best baseball town in America; it may be a great baseball town in which we live, but until fan support can be adequately quantified, the random fandom ranking of "best" is absurd.
And of record keeping, Burwell's lean on Gold Gloves when ranking players disappoints me. Gold Gloves, and, really, all BBWAA awards, are a farce. The time has come for SABR or another organization to give out likewise awards so we no longer have to live in a world where Jimmy Rollins is considered the best player in the National League in 2007.
At times it seems as if Burwell is almost too ingrained into the mind of not the St Louis sports "fan" but the "fanatic." The average Cardinals fan does not want Tony LaRussa fired after every bad decision, but the normal message boarder or sports radio caller-in may. There is a big difference. I consider myself way too invested in the St Louis baseball Cardinals -- like Nick Hornby Fever Pitch invested -- however, I compare as nothing to the "people" who populate Cardinals, Rams, and Blues message boards (the moment I realized Viva El Birdos, a site I participate in frequently, had metamorphised from a blog to a fan message board was an odd moment; I loathe fan message boards, yet, I stay on).
This problem, of course, comes entirely from the anonymity which both radio and message boards provide. I may write articles and blogs and post (grudgingly, now) on message boards about my favorite team, but I do so using my own name. Anything which I may write, drunkingly, upsetly, ecstatically, comes back to my name. I must take, as does Burwell, complete accountability for my words. "G0CARdZZ190," "Pujo1s 1s a G0D," and the like do not. They are not real people, only counter identities of people who generally don't like themselves and/or refuse to be accountable for the actions which they take. Their voice is nil and should not be included in this book.
(Sweet fuck, I really get worked up about this. Anonymity has ruined the Internet. It could have been something.)
Arguments left me with two major bones to pick with Burwell. One is not even mentioning the 2000-2005 Cards as one of the best Cardinals eras in St Louis baseball history in chapter 14, but then saying that Tony LaRussa is the best Cardinals manager in history (which I agree with) in chapter 28. Somehow, that just doesn't add up.
My other point or ire, in another argument he makes which I agree with "Should the Cardinals Retire Willie McGee's Number" (yes. Yes they should), he writes:
"He (McGee) may not be the greatest redbird, but he is arguably the most beloved. So beloved, in fact, that Tim McKernan, morning talk show host on KFNS radio, started an online petition last year that now includes more than 7,500 signatures. McKernan's grass-roots movement seemed to have a big impact initially, when a city full of McGee lovers kept logging on to McKernan's InsideStL.com website and pledging their allegiance to the heart and soul of those 1980s championship teams by purchasing "Retire 51" T-shirts and joining the petition."
The problem here is that the movement was promoted by McKernan, but was the original idea of my Joe SportsFan cohorts Pat Imig and Josh Bacott and the shirts were designed by handsome man Matt Sebek. They pitched the idea to McKernan since he had the platforms, both radio and local web, to promote it and it was ran with back in that odd Cardinal summer of 2006. Now, I'm probably the only guy on Earth who knows this information, but it seems like an oversight Burwell could have easily avoided with a simple phone call to McKernan and he could have been able to give the original idea for the push to it's rightful owners.
Or perhaps I'm being too anal (that's what she said).
And, like most great bar arguments, there are many others which I ardently agree with (does Stan Musial deserve a better statue? Yes. The current statue encourages bad posture and makes it look like Stan's hands were three feet long. Should the Rams wear their throwbacks? Every Sunday) and forcefully disagree with (Old Busch beats New Busch, in the words of Lt. Sam Weinberg, everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Get back to me after forty years of tradition and perhaps I will agree with you).
However, the last time I was in a bar argument and everyone agreed with each other I was strung out on mescaline in an opium den somewhere in northern India. Believe you me, that was no fun.
Arguments are the tequila shots of bar discussion.
Arguments does what it sets out to do: encourage debate and foment discussion. In that it succeeds. Is it a great book? No, but I doubt Burwell, whom I am sure did plenty of research and spent countless hours writing, set out to win a Pulitzer with this; In the end, it is, in all actuality, just a dude, sharing his opions.
However, Arguments is a nice light read and something which just about any hardcore St Louis sports fan would enjoy having on the top of their toilet.
And The Father In Law will be getting a copy of it for Christmas.
----------
If I had to rank my favorite collegiate athletic programs it would go something like:
1. University of Illinois
2. University of Notre Dame
3. Bradley University
.....
435. University of Missouri
.....
9,000,000. University of Kansas
So while I am in no way, shape, nor form a Mizzou fan (in fact, come Dec 22nd, I will spit on my own sidewalk before a certain basketball game), driving around today in the Lou, running errands and getting lunch, the electricity in the air was palpable. As I wrote earlier, before tonight's kickoff, on the one message board I can stomach, if not enjoy:
"In four years of living in St Louis, I've never seen the town have such anticipation about any football game, let alone a college football game. This is a baseball town first, a hockey town second and a soccer town third. Football? Its off the map. Years of the football Cardinals ruined this town for pigskin. Hell, it took one of the most prolific offenses in NFL history for people to give a shit about the Rams.
College football seemed non-existent when I moved here in '04, which was a huge change from the four years prior when I was living south of the Mason-Dixon. Down there, it seemed religion, here it was about as popular as a pine wood derby boxcar race. While I'm sure I'm overstating this and probably offending some ol' die hard, when I got to St Louis, the overwhelming feel at the bars, on the radio, on the message boards, was that nobody here really gave a shit.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say people in these parts haven't cared this much about college football since the forward pass was invented a few blocks down the street. Or twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Not sure, really; I wasn't a history major.*
It's giddy out there. It is new and fresh and foreign. Nobody knows really what to do or think or say; die hards and wagon jumpers alike. They just hop on and hope to enjoy the ride. A chance for Mizzou to play in the BCS Championship Game? Mizzou? In football? Really?
This is great for the city, for the metro area, and for the state which Abe Simpson will be dead in the cold, cold ground before he recognizes. This feeling, around town, is, as far as I know, completely and totally unprecedented.
And awesome.
*false."
Sticking by that. Great win over Kansas tonight. Although I remain, through and/or through, an Illinois fan, it is cool to see, in this city of bad vibes and constant highway construction, people, not just the old timers but the band wagoners, excited about anything, especially anything college football related.
Missouri is a 17 year old at prom, and we are about to be deflowered by the chance to play for the national title. It's exciting, confusing, surreal. And nobody -- nobody -- would have it any other way.
So, for once in my life, I will say: Go Mizzou. Good luck against the Sooners, Tigers. From your neighbors to the north-east, the guys who own rights over you this decade, with breath stinking of rightly earned Busch gold tops, we say:
Play for the title. I dare you. M-I-Z.
----------
I made an imix of my wedding music*; walking down the isle (first two), into dinner music, into the first dance (La Cienega Just Smiled) slash parentsy dance (I've Been Loving You Too Long>You Are So Beautiful), into the r(c)ock out. If you want to listen, here ye be.
If you want to feel like you were at the wedding drink 12 mojitos and do 8 tequila shots while listening to it.
[see you all later this week with glorious tales of debauchery from south of the border.]
*Well, nearly all of it; some tunes just aint available on the itunes. It's a missing about eight.
Labels: Books, College Futbol de americana, Mexico, Music, Stuff That She Said
11/13/2007
Come on...
Like you were really expecting anything out of me. 27 hours from right now, I should be on the beach with a frosty beverage in my hand, not worrying about commutes, or internets, or pants for the next ten days.
Barring some sort of bizarre accident involving a manatee, a rickshaw, and an eight year old named Hector who teaches me to love again (?), The FYC will return the week after Thanksgiving, with a thorough recap of all hijinks which will inevitably ensue on the drunken white beaches of Tulum, Mexico.
Also, I will be married, and, just to shake things up, The Lady Friend will be a robot.
Adios, amigos.
[have a great two weeks, earth. enjoy the leftovers.]
11/08/2007
Reason #1 Why I Love Mexico: The Company
Yes, it may sound cheesy, but my favorite part of going to el mejico is the people. And not just the friends I get to hang out with, but also the bartenders and staff which not only put up with my broken spanglish and incessant pointing in a fruitless attempt to communicate with them, but do so with a smile. Incredibly patient and friendly people. Except when waiting on douchebags.
But then there is hanging out with my friends; be it posing as a boy band, getting a drunken four dragons pose, being oddly seduced, wearing sombreros, playing around with and/or inside of storage equipment, or just maxing and relaxing outside of the pool.
And later on, heading back to someone's room at two in the morn', ordering 12 hamburgers, six order of fries, some quesadillas, a few club sandwiches, tacos, 24 beers, and 24 waters and having it all arrive in twenty minutes. It is then fun to watch your friends pass out while eating a 'dilla.
Hell, in Tulum, even hanging out with my alcoholic stuffed dog (or other fake dogs) is nice.
Everything is better in Mexico. Seis más días.
Labels: Dumb Pictures, Mexico
11/07/2007
Reason #2 Why I Love Mexico: Bidets
I'm not a fan of poop. I've never had sex with a girl in her two hole, nor have I come anywhere near a tossed salad, because, well, that's where poop comes from and that's fucking disgusting. I don't enjoy pooping, and I enjoy cleaning up after pooping even less.
But while I'm in Mexico, all my worries are over. Sitting next to the toilet in every bathroom is a bidet. You do your business in the loo, give yourself a quick wipe, then hop on the old bidet and let the water do the work for you.
When my friends and I were first in Mexico, we debated about the proper way to use the bidet. I assumed that sitting on it the way one sits on a toilet was correct, while others thought you should straddle it, facing the faucets.
The main problem with the second approach is that you have to go completely bottomless to pull that off, which really isn't much of a problem unless you're in a hurry. The second problem with the face the handles approach, which I found out the hard way, is that it's very easy to lose one's balance. During my rather scientific testing of this method, I used the towel rack above the bidet to steady myself.
The towel rack quickly was ripped out of the wall. And that is how I came to find myself laying naked on a bathroom floor in Mexico, covered in a towel and a towel rack, with a poopy butt.
Anyhoo, after getting used to the bidet, it's hard to go back to the American way of wiping ones ass with toilet paper. It's quite humiliating, really. What are we, animals?
You're telling me that I've got to wipe my own ass? Let us evolve, people. Lets bring bidets to America!
But, until that glorious day arrives, I will just have to count on my yearly trips outside of the country to get the easy cleanliness that only a bidet can provide. Thanks for having them, Mexico. And thanks for cleaning my poop, bidets.
11/06/2007
Reason #3 Why I Love Mexico: The Miami Vice
(I love you)The bars in Tulum serve up a generous amount of specialty cocktails -- the leaping lizard, electronic lemonade, a host of others -- but the real star of the show is the Miami Vice. It's half strawberry daquiri and half pina colada.
At first it starts off like a Steak n' Shake side by side milkshake turned upside down, but as the warm Caribbean sun beats down on your glass, the two sides of freezy goodness begin to melt together. That's when the good stuff happens.
If ever there was a perfect drink to compliment playing pool basketball or boccee on the beach, it's the Miami Vice. The only problem is you may get full after taking in four or five of them. My suggestion? Go to the restroom and make room for more. Quit being such a fucking pussy.
Labels: Mexico, Miami Vices
11/02/2007
Reason #4 Why I Love Mexico: Mojitos
"I was uh... very pleased and surprised, I was really not expecting an open bar. Top shelf booze, I tell ya. This guy knew his stuff. Made me a mojito. (sips) I don't think its a gay drink. Mojito..." - Brian Griffin
It's five simple ingrediants: rum, sugar, lime, carbonated water and mint; Things which, on their own, are rarely very appealing. Together, however, they form one of the greatest beach cocktails of all time. Once the mint is muddled with the sugar and the lime, the rum is added, and it's topped off with a splash of soda water, all is right with the world. It's the combination of all of it's ingrediants which make it work, the sum of it's parts, if you will. It's perfectly socialist.
Plus, as fake Samuel Jackson would say, "It'll get ya' drunk!"
(note - Mojitos would be higher up on the list, but I once yakked after drinking them for ten straight hours and it looked like I puked up a head of romaine and a citrus stand. Not appealing, that.)
[have a great weekend, everyone. enjoy the sweatshirt weather.]
11/01/2007
Reason #5 Why I Love Mexico: Sushi
Up here in America, sushi is still looked at, in some corners, as an exotic dish. It shouldn't be. It should be thought of as an awesome dish, nothing more, nothing less.
First on this meandering blog post of mine, let us learn a little bit about sushi, no? Yes. Jerk.
The following is from a speech I gave freshman year at SIUE about how to make sushi. As you probably expect, I took it about as seriously as I take everything in my life, that is to say with the passion of Kip Wells on downers. Somehow, I got an A on this -- and the whole course -- and I'd like to think it was from a combination of my wit, Midwestern sensibilities, and keen body language, but I think the truth of the matter is the speech teacher -- a little 23 year old blondie pants grad student -- wanted some of my sushi.
And by sushi, I mean cock.
My cock, wrapped in rice and seaweed. That's exactly what I mean.
Anyhoo, what we now know as sushi was first invented by Hanaya Yohei in the end of the Edo period, I'm going to guess in the year 1830. It was essentially what the Japanese used to counter European's sandwiches during the great intercontinental hand food war of 1831. Suck it, Duke.
This isn't actually Yohei, but we can assume he looked like this because, admit it, Japanese people all look the same.
Many people enjoy eating sushi, and not just the Japanese. Look! White people eat it with Pringles!
There are many types of sushi, including:
Now if you want to make your own sushi, the first thing you'll need is some rice, veggies and or fish, and some seaweed and a sushi mat. Take your seaweed and sushi mat and stand in your kitchen, grinning like one giant fucking moron. There you go:
Next, you'll spread your rice on the seaweed which you have placed 3/4's up on your rolling mat. Push a little divet in your rice and fill with your ingrediants:
Now roll that sucker up like the worlds biggest blunt:
Once you're all rolled up, slice that bitch up like a prison yard snitch:
Plate:
And serve to your Dennis Quaid look-a-like friend:
Look! He likes it!
In conclusion:
Since we all now have a firm grasp on just what sushi is, let me state this now: I fucking love the stuff. It's like crack, if crack was raw fish and not cocaine and baking powder and hobo's ashes as our 5th grade D.A.R.E. officer told us.
And since I live in St Louis, the only way I could get real fresh sushi is if they made it out of disgusting channel catfish or rainbow trout (they don't). So what I'm left with is sushi which is fresh as a week old shit sandwich. It's still good, don't get me wrong (I'm looking at you Sekisui), but it's not Tulum.
The sushi at the sushi bar in Tulum is fresher than fresh. Fresher that DJ Jazzy Jeff. It's so fresh that I once bit into a roll and come up with a tongue full of fishing hook, and it wasn't even disgusting, it was enderaing ("Awwww, I'm going to need a tetanus shot! How authentic!") The sashimi melts in your mouth and the spicymaki still gives me unexpected boners. It's just that good.
And that's why you, sushi, are the number five reason that I want a time machine to fast forward two weeks and get my chubby ass down to the sweet, sweet beaches of Tulum. Until then, you will be in my wet dreams, giving me boners.
First on this meandering blog post of mine, let us learn a little bit about sushi, no? Yes. Jerk.
The following is from a speech I gave freshman year at SIUE about how to make sushi. As you probably expect, I took it about as seriously as I take everything in my life, that is to say with the passion of Kip Wells on downers. Somehow, I got an A on this -- and the whole course -- and I'd like to think it was from a combination of my wit, Midwestern sensibilities, and keen body language, but I think the truth of the matter is the speech teacher -- a little 23 year old blondie pants grad student -- wanted some of my sushi.
And by sushi, I mean cock.
My cock, wrapped in rice and seaweed. That's exactly what I mean.
Anyhoo, what we now know as sushi was first invented by Hanaya Yohei in the end of the Edo period, I'm going to guess in the year 1830. It was essentially what the Japanese used to counter European's sandwiches during the great intercontinental hand food war of 1831. Suck it, Duke.
This isn't actually Yohei, but we can assume he looked like this because, admit it, Japanese people all look the same.
Many people enjoy eating sushi, and not just the Japanese. Look! White people eat it with Pringles!
There are many types of sushi, including:
Now if you want to make your own sushi, the first thing you'll need is some rice, veggies and or fish, and some seaweed and a sushi mat. Take your seaweed and sushi mat and stand in your kitchen, grinning like one giant fucking moron. There you go:
Next, you'll spread your rice on the seaweed which you have placed 3/4's up on your rolling mat. Push a little divet in your rice and fill with your ingrediants:
Now roll that sucker up like the worlds biggest blunt:
Once you're all rolled up, slice that bitch up like a prison yard snitch:
Plate:
And serve to your Dennis Quaid look-a-like friend:
Look! He likes it!
In conclusion:
Since we all now have a firm grasp on just what sushi is, let me state this now: I fucking love the stuff. It's like crack, if crack was raw fish and not cocaine and baking powder and hobo's ashes as our 5th grade D.A.R.E. officer told us.
And since I live in St Louis, the only way I could get real fresh sushi is if they made it out of disgusting channel catfish or rainbow trout (they don't). So what I'm left with is sushi which is fresh as a week old shit sandwich. It's still good, don't get me wrong (I'm looking at you Sekisui), but it's not Tulum.
The sushi at the sushi bar in Tulum is fresher than fresh. Fresher that DJ Jazzy Jeff. It's so fresh that I once bit into a roll and come up with a tongue full of fishing hook, and it wasn't even disgusting, it was enderaing ("Awwww, I'm going to need a tetanus shot! How authentic!") The sashimi melts in your mouth and the spicymaki still gives me unexpected boners. It's just that good.
And that's why you, sushi, are the number five reason that I want a time machine to fast forward two weeks and get my chubby ass down to the sweet, sweet beaches of Tulum. Until then, you will be in my wet dreams, giving me boners.
10/31/2007
Goulet; Countdown to Mexico
RIP Robert Goulet, who with the exception of a random cameo on The Simpsons, I wouldn't even know existed before Will Ferrell took on his persona on SNL
(that skit still has the funniest use of the n-word I have ever heard.)
And later on Conan O'Brien
RIP, Goulet. Here's hoping for many a diablo martini for you, wherever you are.
---------------------
In two weeks from right about now, I'll be hoping a plane for our neighbor to the south, el mejico. Back to my old haunt of Tulum. Is it odd that all those little guys down there keep trying to come up here and I keep going down (thats what she said) there? Maybe, whatever. Mas mojitos,tiny guy with a nice mustache mi amigo.
Anyhoo, it will be ten days of sunning, swimming, boozing, carousing, eating, drinking, playing, and imbibing with 46 of my closest friends and family members (if my estranged adopted brother David ever gets out of that Turkish prison, it will be 47. I told you not to open mouth kiss a man over there, Dave, but did you listen to me? Of course not, you never do). Also, I will be getting married. No big whoop.
Anyway, as expected, myself, The Lady Friend, and our cast of dozens are rightfully jazzed for this whole excursion [you may remember some of the cast from my second previous journey south of el bordero -- not to be confused w/ last Novembers -- however, we will be sans Zeus, Injury McProne, andWillie Tripod Johnny Dangerously (damn adulthood and it's stupid careers); but plus longtime friends of the show Nasty & his GF Sarah, Sarah #2, K$, JaqE, Just Plain E, Joshtastic, Gallo, Elimidate Will & his wife Haley, and Daryl & his wife Laura.] Holy god shit, that's quite the fucking crew.... and that's not even including the family.
Tito, or as he was known on the previous journey, "Lionel Hutz" -- here's a picture of him humping a passed out Nasty after Cookman's wedding! -- has asked for me to starting priming the ol' blog up for the Mexico trip, mainly b/c he was jealous of my orange peeling skills and thought that this post sucked (it did).
So, in order to appease the hairy, drunken Peorian, I will begin doing a top five things I love about Mexico.
Coming up tomorrow: Sushi.
(that skit still has the funniest use of the n-word I have ever heard.)
And later on Conan O'Brien
RIP, Goulet. Here's hoping for many a diablo martini for you, wherever you are.
---------------------
In two weeks from right about now, I'll be hoping a plane for our neighbor to the south, el mejico. Back to my old haunt of Tulum. Is it odd that all those little guys down there keep trying to come up here and I keep going down (thats what she said) there? Maybe, whatever. Mas mojitos,
Anyhoo, it will be ten days of sunning, swimming, boozing, carousing, eating, drinking, playing, and imbibing with 46 of my closest friends and family members (if my estranged adopted brother David ever gets out of that Turkish prison, it will be 47. I told you not to open mouth kiss a man over there, Dave, but did you listen to me? Of course not, you never do). Also, I will be getting married. No big whoop.
Anyway, as expected, myself, The Lady Friend, and our cast of dozens are rightfully jazzed for this whole excursion [you may remember some of the cast from my second previous journey south of el bordero -- not to be confused w/ last Novembers -- however, we will be sans Zeus, Injury McProne, and
Tito, or as he was known on the previous journey, "Lionel Hutz" -- here's a picture of him humping a passed out Nasty after Cookman's wedding! -- has asked for me to starting priming the ol' blog up for the Mexico trip, mainly b/c he was jealous of my orange peeling skills and thought that this post sucked (it did).
So, in order to appease the hairy, drunken Peorian, I will begin doing a top five things I love about Mexico.
Coming up tomorrow: Sushi.
Labels: Mexico, My former brother David that the family never talks about but who actually exisited -- its a long story, Stuff That She Said, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
11/30/2006
Ugh, Uma. Uma, Ugh.
While heading northbound up Mexico’s route 307 yesterday morning, traversing the Yucatan peninsula in the pouring rain (route 307 is easily the weirdest road I have traveled before, Highway of Death aside, of course. Throw in an early morning rainstorm and it is all the more surreal, tipped over vans full of vases scattered along the road withstanding), I was most certain that The Lady Friend and I were concluding a most successful romantic holiday in that drunken slice of real estate known as Quintana Roo, Mexcio.
Sure, the whole thing started out with me being a rather hung-over crybaby last Wednesday morning [I threw up on three non-consecutive occasions during my travels last week – including once on the conveyer belt at Lambert International (I apologize if anyone saw that. Gross.)] which is completely and totally to be blamed on the tasty pints I enjoyed at the ever comfortable cold weather bar that is Seamus McDaniel’s on last Tuesday (The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is the new Wednesday before Thanksgiving -- I’m not sure if you knew that or not.) And sure, both The Lady Friend and I were leaving our neighbor to the south with tremendous head colds, but by God Shit, it was a successful trip.
We checked into Cancun’s airport without a hitch and were ready to get back home, happy as could be. However, thirty minutes after takeoff, I was hoping for the plane to crash. Something quick and painless would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind something drawn out and excruciating either, as long as the end result was the same: Sweet, sweet death. Why, you ask? Because of the in-flight movie: “My Super Ex Girlfriend.”
Even at the start of the movie, I was apprehensive. No way was it going to be good. Panicked, I looked for entertainment elsewhere. My books had all been read, as had the in-flight magazine. I couldn’t play Tiger Woods Golf on my phone because while I am certain that the FAA has indeed come to the harrowing conclusion that cell phones actually do not interfere whatsoever with airplanes, they just like fucking with us. I could try to play solitaire on my ipod, but with my stupid non-responsive fingers, I generally get flustered after 30 seconds of trying to work those tiny buttons and feel like thumping some hippies in confusing anger. I was out of options. It was in-flight movie or nothing.
So when I dejectedly plugged those weird two pronged headphones into my armrest, I obviously did not have exactly the highest of expectations, and after a slight giggle at simply the fact the Rainn Wilson was in it, my fears were confirmed: It was the worst movie I had ever, ever seen.
Alas, there was no plane crash, no flooding of the cabin by lethal gases, nor any other forms of escape from the sheer torture of “My Super Ex Girlfriend.” And at the time, how I wish it would have been so. I no longer fear hell, as it cannot possibly be half as tortuous as a Luke Wilson – Uma Thurman vehicle. Pure, absolute anguish it was. Hell on Earth. Or, in my case, above the Earth.
(I honestly can not believe how bad it was. How was this movie ever made? Did anyone first read the script? Was everyone drunk during filming? Were the CGI’s done on an Atari? Did anyone else see this movie? Am I alone here in this cold, post “My Super Ex-Girlfriend” apocalyptic world? So cold, so alone…. So many questions. Where is my Ford Lincoln Mecury in this brave new world of ours?)
Throw in a two and one half hour wait for our luggage upon arrival back to the Lou, and it was officially a bad day of travel. Now I sit here, two in the morning, trying to talk to some people across the pond who very well may speak English, but we sure as hell are not conversing in the same language, nursing a head cold and an empty stomach, and I just realized I need a damn vacation.
I can't lie: It's great to be back.
Hopefully, the snow gods feel like playing tonight and I can get a good old fashioned snow day tomorrow, to go along with an evening full of magical whimsy and Newcastle, and nurse myself back to sanity.
[Also, if any of youse are interested in game shows in general and Jeopardy in particular, a member of the Sports Frog’s message board “The Swamp” (which, nerdy as I may be, is the only message board I actually frequent these days) is currently kicking names and taking ass all over Alex Trebek’s pompousmoustached mug this week and it makes for some interesting, semi-insightful reading on the inner working of the Jeopardy machine. Ironically, the contestent who goes by “Ryan” in real life, goes by “Turd Furgeson” in The Swamp, which is a name, as you very well may know, that is funny. It’s a funny name.]
Sure, the whole thing started out with me being a rather hung-over crybaby last Wednesday morning [I threw up on three non-consecutive occasions during my travels last week – including once on the conveyer belt at Lambert International (I apologize if anyone saw that. Gross.)] which is completely and totally to be blamed on the tasty pints I enjoyed at the ever comfortable cold weather bar that is Seamus McDaniel’s on last Tuesday (The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is the new Wednesday before Thanksgiving -- I’m not sure if you knew that or not.) And sure, both The Lady Friend and I were leaving our neighbor to the south with tremendous head colds, but by God Shit, it was a successful trip.
We checked into Cancun’s airport without a hitch and were ready to get back home, happy as could be. However, thirty minutes after takeoff, I was hoping for the plane to crash. Something quick and painless would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind something drawn out and excruciating either, as long as the end result was the same: Sweet, sweet death. Why, you ask? Because of the in-flight movie: “My Super Ex Girlfriend.”
Even at the start of the movie, I was apprehensive. No way was it going to be good. Panicked, I looked for entertainment elsewhere. My books had all been read, as had the in-flight magazine. I couldn’t play Tiger Woods Golf on my phone because while I am certain that the FAA has indeed come to the harrowing conclusion that cell phones actually do not interfere whatsoever with airplanes, they just like fucking with us. I could try to play solitaire on my ipod, but with my stupid non-responsive fingers, I generally get flustered after 30 seconds of trying to work those tiny buttons and feel like thumping some hippies in confusing anger. I was out of options. It was in-flight movie or nothing.
So when I dejectedly plugged those weird two pronged headphones into my armrest, I obviously did not have exactly the highest of expectations, and after a slight giggle at simply the fact the Rainn Wilson was in it, my fears were confirmed: It was the worst movie I had ever, ever seen.
Alas, there was no plane crash, no flooding of the cabin by lethal gases, nor any other forms of escape from the sheer torture of “My Super Ex Girlfriend.” And at the time, how I wish it would have been so. I no longer fear hell, as it cannot possibly be half as tortuous as a Luke Wilson – Uma Thurman vehicle. Pure, absolute anguish it was. Hell on Earth. Or, in my case, above the Earth.
(I honestly can not believe how bad it was. How was this movie ever made? Did anyone first read the script? Was everyone drunk during filming? Were the CGI’s done on an Atari? Did anyone else see this movie? Am I alone here in this cold, post “My Super Ex-Girlfriend” apocalyptic world? So cold, so alone…. So many questions. Where is my Ford Lincoln Mecury in this brave new world of ours?)
Throw in a two and one half hour wait for our luggage upon arrival back to the Lou, and it was officially a bad day of travel. Now I sit here, two in the morning, trying to talk to some people across the pond who very well may speak English, but we sure as hell are not conversing in the same language, nursing a head cold and an empty stomach, and I just realized I need a damn vacation.
I can't lie: It's great to be back.
Hopefully, the snow gods feel like playing tonight and I can get a good old fashioned snow day tomorrow, to go along with an evening full of magical whimsy and Newcastle, and nurse myself back to sanity.
[Also, if any of youse are interested in game shows in general and Jeopardy in particular, a member of the Sports Frog’s message board “The Swamp” (which, nerdy as I may be, is the only message board I actually frequent these days) is currently kicking names and taking ass all over Alex Trebek’s pompous
Labels: Mexico, Terrible Movies
1/26/2006
Quick (And By Quick, I Mean Long) Thoughts From Mexico
[note - sorry for the extended absence, everyone. getting back into blogging after a break is generally hard to do. plus, i really need to find a job, so that is kind of taking precedence at the moment. anyhoo, here are the highlights of the trip. it's hard to give highlights to a trip to someone who wasn't there, but i did my best. i hope it's not too laborious. cheers.]
The night before I left, The Lady Friend and I were having a nice little dinner at McGurk's (well, it was nice except for the fact that "40 Years" was stuck in both of our heads and I could not keep from giggling every two minutes because of it) when I noticed that Jason Isringhausen was sitting across the room from us, also enjoying a nice little dinner.
That's when it dawned on me that in 18 months of living in St Louis, that was the first time I have seen a Cardinal out and about in everyday life. I don't know how that had happened. From what it sounds like, John Rodriguez basically pimps himself out all over this city, yet I had never seen a single Redbird outside of Busch Stadium. I had a premonition then and there, that I was in for a good trip.
(Also, although I did think about, I was able to control myself from booing Izzy as he left McGurk's, something which I would have had to have done if I saw him last October. Fucking Izzy.)
---------------------------
Dennis Quaid, Injury McProne, and myself all had a 6:30 am flight out of Lambert. Which meant, of course, that we needed to be there at 4:30 in the god-damn morning. While we were waiting in the terminal, sometime around 5:15 or so, we spotted two guys in the early 30's or so, sitting around, killing time (we assumed they were reading Maxim or Stuff. They just looked like those types of guys.) A few moments later, two other guys who looked rather similar approached them. At that moment, their leader (I could tell he was the alpha male by his sweet new Razor cell phone which he continuously flaunted) cried out "The Party Crew has assembled!"
I'm not sure if I need to say (er, write) this or not, but proclaiming (at 5:15 in the morning, no less) that your group of friends (who you have entitled "The Party Crew" or just "The Crew" if you're into the whole brevity thing) have "assembled," delves heavily into the world of douchbagerry, and requires a through making fun of.
Thus, when we noticed, some 15 hours later that "The Crew" were actually staying at the same resort as us, we decided to mockingly name ourselves "The Association" and whenever we met up for meals, drinks, tennis, etc., we found the need to say loudly "The Association has convened!"
And once, while getting ready to play volleyball, I yelled out "The Association will play volleyball!" within earshot of The Crew. The Crew then began giggling and pointing at me for making such an unbelievably lame statement, making it one of the rare "making fun of a guy who is actually making fun of us" moments which will eventually cause a rip in the space time continuum.
Here's to you, "The Crew," your awkward gathering at Lambert Airport gave me an easy joke to use every moment that I was in Mexico, and for that, I am forever in your debt.
---------------------------
We had not been in Mexico more than 45 minutes before I had one of the most awesome conversations I have ever had while riding on a bus:
Dennis Quaid: "I don't know if I should tell you this or not, but I just saw a truck with a monkey in it."
Me: "You just saw a monkey driving a car?"
Quaid: "No, it wasn't driving...it was sitting shotgun. But it did have it's arm out of the window."
Me: "Was it smoking a cigarette?"
Quaid: "No, but it should have been."
Me (to Injury McProne): "Hey, Quaid just saw a monkey driving a car."
McProne: (Shaking his head) "He's an idiot"
And from that point on, our trip became a trip built on nothing but lies. Every comment said or story told would eventually get topped by something more outlandish before someone would almost be forced to say "And Dennis Quaid saw a monkey driving a car!"
---------------------------
Our first night at the resort, The Association were all sitting around the poolside bar, telling stories, slamming drinks and all out rocking, when perhaps my favorite line of dialogue from the whole trip came into play:
Cookman : "So, how far away is the Great Barrier Reef?"
Me : "That's in Australia, dude."
Cookman : "Well, this is like the second longest great barrier reef or something."
Chad Sexington : "I think this is called the Good Barrier Reef."
Johnny Dangerously (formerly known as Willie Tripod) : "Or the Decent Barrier Reef."
(Everyone laughing and pointing at Cookman for not being worldly enough)
Cookman : "Shutup!"
----------------------------
I don't know why nobody told me this before I left, and, honestly, I'm pretty freaking upset that I wasn't informed, but apparently Boston Celtics jerseys are as good as gold in Mexico.
Which is how it came to be that I was able to trade an Antoine Walker #8 jersey for a $60 wooden mask (of course, as far as practicality goes, more can be done with a cheap Celts jersey than a Mayan mask, but I still firmly believe that I got the better of the deal. Sucker.)
Anyway, before my next trip south of the border, I'm loading up on cheap American sports jerseys, and I suggest you do the same. If a 'Toine jersey goes for $60, what, I wonder, would an actually good player's jersey would get you? Espactaculo de burro?
----------------------------
I lost a lot (and I mean a lot) of brain cells during the trip. I guess drinking for twelve hours a day, five days in a row will do that to someone.
By the third night, I was having an extremely difficult time forming complete sentences and found an unbridled, almost primitive joy in making my wine glass make noise.
It was very similar to what happened to Elaine when she gave up sex on Seinfeld. I was (figuratively, of course) staring at those spinning tire, clapping my hands and giggling along.
----------------------------
While coming back on a skiff from a snorkeling expedition through the Good Barrier Reef, I noticed something floating in the water about 200 yards away from us. Dramatically, I turned around, pointed out towards the object, and yelled out "SOMETHING!"
Chad Sexington, immediately after hearing my helpful cry, began laughing hysterically. "Something?" He said through his laughter. "That's the best you could come up with? Something?"
"It's better than what you came up with, " I retorted, "...nothing."
As it turned out, "something" ended up being nothing but an old gas can floating along with the waves, and our skiff captain, Diego, seemed a little pissed that he spent his time rescuing a damn gas can.
As I said earlier...I lost a lot of brain cells on that trip.
---------------------------
In case anyone was wondering, there was no clear cut winner in the Great Wedding Mix Off, however, my CD was played for about an hour during the wedding reception, so I think that makes me the winner. So there.
Also, in what was one of the greatest honors of my life, I was allowed to pick the song for the bride and groom's first dance. I went with "A Minor Incident" by Badly Drawn Boy, which was lovely. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that I will never forgive myself for not dropping a "Renegade" by Styx into the CD player.
God, that would have fucking rocked.
---------------------------
In case anyone was wondering, Gulia has no bellybutton.
She has a scar.
She was born with her intestines outside of her body, in a sack.
When they put them inside of her, they put her appendix in the wrong place.
If it ever explodes, she's a goner.
Seriously.
I'm sure this condition has an actual medical term to identify it, but I am way too lazy to look it up (although, according to her, this exact same thing was recently on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.)
And that's the end of that chapter.
---------------------------
As for the wedding itself, it was absolutely unreal/beautiful/other cheesy adjectives. Being married on the beach has cemented itself in my mind as the best possible way to get hitched.
However, Lionel Hutz was a bundle of nerves/hangover (he had to be physically helped to his room the night before) and was forced to leave the wedding reception after about an hour to go sleep/puke.
Gulia spent her wedding night slamming Dos Equis and playing Catchphrase with Johnny Dangerously, Chad Sexington, a Bridesmaid (who refuses to take her husbands last name out of sheer laziness...I can respect the hell out of that) and myself until 2:30 in the morning.
One hell of a wedding night.
----------------------------
On the final afternoon of the trip, The Association found itself sitting on the beach drinking beers and Miami Vices (50% pina colada + 50% strawberry daiquiri = 110% heaven) and discussing how little anyone wanted to leave. It was during this time that the following exchange occurred:
Dennis Quaid: "I have to pee, but I don't feel like walking to the bathroom."
Injury McProne: "You should just pee on the beach then."
Johnny Dangerously: "Why don't you go stand on that stump and piss right there."
Quaid: "Then I could just wash up in the ocean!"
McProne: "See, it's a good idea!"
Me: "Great idea!"
Dangerously: "Fantastic idea!"
Quaid: "I'll do it!"
And so it came to be that Dennis Quaid pissed his shorts while standing on a stump in broad daylight.
The night before I left, The Lady Friend and I were having a nice little dinner at McGurk's (well, it was nice except for the fact that "40 Years" was stuck in both of our heads and I could not keep from giggling every two minutes because of it) when I noticed that Jason Isringhausen was sitting across the room from us, also enjoying a nice little dinner.
That's when it dawned on me that in 18 months of living in St Louis, that was the first time I have seen a Cardinal out and about in everyday life. I don't know how that had happened. From what it sounds like, John Rodriguez basically pimps himself out all over this city, yet I had never seen a single Redbird outside of Busch Stadium. I had a premonition then and there, that I was in for a good trip.
(Also, although I did think about, I was able to control myself from booing Izzy as he left McGurk's, something which I would have had to have done if I saw him last October. Fucking Izzy.)
---------------------------
Dennis Quaid, Injury McProne, and myself all had a 6:30 am flight out of Lambert. Which meant, of course, that we needed to be there at 4:30 in the god-damn morning. While we were waiting in the terminal, sometime around 5:15 or so, we spotted two guys in the early 30's or so, sitting around, killing time (we assumed they were reading Maxim or Stuff. They just looked like those types of guys.) A few moments later, two other guys who looked rather similar approached them. At that moment, their leader (I could tell he was the alpha male by his sweet new Razor cell phone which he continuously flaunted) cried out "The Party Crew has assembled!"
I'm not sure if I need to say (er, write) this or not, but proclaiming (at 5:15 in the morning, no less) that your group of friends (who you have entitled "The Party Crew" or just "The Crew" if you're into the whole brevity thing) have "assembled," delves heavily into the world of douchbagerry, and requires a through making fun of.
Thus, when we noticed, some 15 hours later that "The Crew" were actually staying at the same resort as us, we decided to mockingly name ourselves "The Association" and whenever we met up for meals, drinks, tennis, etc., we found the need to say loudly "The Association has convened!"
And once, while getting ready to play volleyball, I yelled out "The Association will play volleyball!" within earshot of The Crew. The Crew then began giggling and pointing at me for making such an unbelievably lame statement, making it one of the rare "making fun of a guy who is actually making fun of us" moments which will eventually cause a rip in the space time continuum.
Here's to you, "The Crew," your awkward gathering at Lambert Airport gave me an easy joke to use every moment that I was in Mexico, and for that, I am forever in your debt.
---------------------------
We had not been in Mexico more than 45 minutes before I had one of the most awesome conversations I have ever had while riding on a bus:
Dennis Quaid: "I don't know if I should tell you this or not, but I just saw a truck with a monkey in it."
Me: "You just saw a monkey driving a car?"
Quaid: "No, it wasn't driving...it was sitting shotgun. But it did have it's arm out of the window."
Me: "Was it smoking a cigarette?"
Quaid: "No, but it should have been."
Me (to Injury McProne): "Hey, Quaid just saw a monkey driving a car."
McProne: (Shaking his head) "He's an idiot"
And from that point on, our trip became a trip built on nothing but lies. Every comment said or story told would eventually get topped by something more outlandish before someone would almost be forced to say "And Dennis Quaid saw a monkey driving a car!"
---------------------------
Our first night at the resort, The Association were all sitting around the poolside bar, telling stories, slamming drinks and all out rocking, when perhaps my favorite line of dialogue from the whole trip came into play:
Cookman : "So, how far away is the Great Barrier Reef?"
Me : "That's in Australia, dude."
Cookman : "Well, this is like the second longest great barrier reef or something."
Chad Sexington : "I think this is called the Good Barrier Reef."
Johnny Dangerously (formerly known as Willie Tripod) : "Or the Decent Barrier Reef."
(Everyone laughing and pointing at Cookman for not being worldly enough)
Cookman : "Shutup!"
----------------------------
I don't know why nobody told me this before I left, and, honestly, I'm pretty freaking upset that I wasn't informed, but apparently Boston Celtics jerseys are as good as gold in Mexico.
Which is how it came to be that I was able to trade an Antoine Walker #8 jersey for a $60 wooden mask (of course, as far as practicality goes, more can be done with a cheap Celts jersey than a Mayan mask, but I still firmly believe that I got the better of the deal. Sucker.)
Anyway, before my next trip south of the border, I'm loading up on cheap American sports jerseys, and I suggest you do the same. If a 'Toine jersey goes for $60, what, I wonder, would an actually good player's jersey would get you? Espactaculo de burro?
----------------------------
I lost a lot (and I mean a lot) of brain cells during the trip. I guess drinking for twelve hours a day, five days in a row will do that to someone.
By the third night, I was having an extremely difficult time forming complete sentences and found an unbridled, almost primitive joy in making my wine glass make noise.
It was very similar to what happened to Elaine when she gave up sex on Seinfeld. I was (figuratively, of course) staring at those spinning tire, clapping my hands and giggling along.
----------------------------
While coming back on a skiff from a snorkeling expedition through the Good Barrier Reef, I noticed something floating in the water about 200 yards away from us. Dramatically, I turned around, pointed out towards the object, and yelled out "SOMETHING!"
Chad Sexington, immediately after hearing my helpful cry, began laughing hysterically. "Something?" He said through his laughter. "That's the best you could come up with? Something?"
"It's better than what you came up with, " I retorted, "...nothing."
As it turned out, "something" ended up being nothing but an old gas can floating along with the waves, and our skiff captain, Diego, seemed a little pissed that he spent his time rescuing a damn gas can.
As I said earlier...I lost a lot of brain cells on that trip.
---------------------------
In case anyone was wondering, there was no clear cut winner in the Great Wedding Mix Off, however, my CD was played for about an hour during the wedding reception, so I think that makes me the winner. So there.
Also, in what was one of the greatest honors of my life, I was allowed to pick the song for the bride and groom's first dance. I went with "A Minor Incident" by Badly Drawn Boy, which was lovely. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that I will never forgive myself for not dropping a "Renegade" by Styx into the CD player.
God, that would have fucking rocked.
---------------------------
In case anyone was wondering, Gulia has no bellybutton.
She has a scar.
She was born with her intestines outside of her body, in a sack.
When they put them inside of her, they put her appendix in the wrong place.
If it ever explodes, she's a goner.
Seriously.
I'm sure this condition has an actual medical term to identify it, but I am way too lazy to look it up (although, according to her, this exact same thing was recently on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.)
And that's the end of that chapter.
---------------------------
As for the wedding itself, it was absolutely unreal/beautiful/other cheesy adjectives. Being married on the beach has cemented itself in my mind as the best possible way to get hitched.
However, Lionel Hutz was a bundle of nerves/hangover (he had to be physically helped to his room the night before) and was forced to leave the wedding reception after about an hour to go sleep/puke.
Gulia spent her wedding night slamming Dos Equis and playing Catchphrase with Johnny Dangerously, Chad Sexington, a Bridesmaid (who refuses to take her husbands last name out of sheer laziness...I can respect the hell out of that) and myself until 2:30 in the morning.
One hell of a wedding night.
----------------------------
On the final afternoon of the trip, The Association found itself sitting on the beach drinking beers and Miami Vices (50% pina colada + 50% strawberry daiquiri = 110% heaven) and discussing how little anyone wanted to leave. It was during this time that the following exchange occurred:
Dennis Quaid: "I have to pee, but I don't feel like walking to the bathroom."
Injury McProne: "You should just pee on the beach then."
Johnny Dangerously: "Why don't you go stand on that stump and piss right there."
Quaid: "Then I could just wash up in the ocean!"
McProne: "See, it's a good idea!"
Me: "Great idea!"
Dangerously: "Fantastic idea!"
Quaid: "I'll do it!"
And so it came to be that Dennis Quaid pissed his shorts while standing on a stump in broad daylight.
Twenty minutes later, a family of four came over and posed for a picture on that very stump.
That may or may not have been the highlight of the trip.
[buonas tardes]
Labels: Drunken Hooliganism, Mexico, Peeing
