The Disoriented Nomad

It just has to be about Politics

2008-09-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

I can't help it. I am so disappointed by John McCain. I was never going to vote for him anyway, but I was pleased to see a presidential race with a few candidates who had integrity. McCain was a little more socially liberal than Bush and far less economically terrifying.

Then came Sarah Palin. A woman who proves that the GOP doesn't give a damn about the state of the nation. They are running a popularity contest. Shit, if we're doing that, the Dems should appoint George Clooney. He has about as much experience and is certainly as hot. I mean, the man has directed films before, which involves overseeing thousands of employees...and damn it, at least HE has been overseas.

I am not angry because th GOP managed to find the ONE woman who is not even woman friendly (really? NO ABORTION IN THE CASE OF RAPE?), but I am mad because they are treating the election of the second highest office in the land as a fucking JOKE.

Let's do the math. 9 VPs have taken over in the case of death or resignation. That is a solid 20%. There has not been a VP take over in the last 5 or 6 presidents. So we're due. There is a 25% chance that Sarah Palin will be president.

And then we're fucked. And then the GOP can see that a BEAUTY QUEEN cannot be president. No matter what. You pick Liberman, hell, if you'd picked Liberman I may have even voted Republican. But you made a serious election into a farce.

Thanks.

Sell your cleverness and purchase wonder

2008-06-14T13:46:00.001-07:00

"Sell your cleverness and purchase wonder" My best friend wrote that to me.

I say this a lot, and I will say it again. New York is a HARD city to live in, yet my most delicious, beautiful moments, the ones that prove to me that humanity is WORTH it, are all here.

Just a few of my faves:
A few years ago, I am walking through Central Park with Kimmie. We end up at Bethesda Terrace, which looks like this:well, that is the fountain in the center anyway. And there is a woman with an old school little typewriter, selling Haikus on demand for $1. You give her $1, she comes up with a Haiku. A GOOD Haiku, mind you. Where else does that happen? Where else does a young woman, with a dear old typewriter, write you a Haiku? FOR A DOLLAR?

So a few weeks ago I end a tour. My driver offers to drop me off at 125th St. I say, no, 96th is fine. He insists. I say OK. DAMN IT. The uptown 1 train is SKIPPING 125th St. I have to take the 1 train DOWNTOWN to 96th and THEN come uptown. Really? I hate you MTA.
I do so. Better than the shuttle bus alternative. I get on the train. A little old man, black with a WHITE beard, possibly homeless, certainly on the fringe's of society is FEVERISHLY sketching a young Jewish man (Yarmulke and all) opposite him. His hands are covered in pencil lead and charcoal, he moves quickly and accurately. Everyone on the train is rapt. The young man does not acknowledge he is being drawn, but he knows it. The only time the old man acknowledges it is when the young man moves too far forward and the old man gestures for him to sit back. He finishes it before we get to 96th. I almost stay on the train to see what might come next. It certainly is tempting.

Yesterday I was sitting, when a woman got on with her three children. I stood so one of them could sit, but the train lurched forward, and as I caught this little 3 year old boy, a man reached out and caught me around the waist and arm. We both smiled. Then he and I both grabbed an arm, set this child in his seat, I sat back down, and we moved on.

That all there is. Sometimes there are no words spoken. Often, the beauty in this world is where you do not look for it. Screw the damn roses; open your heart to beauty of every kind. Someone giving up their seat. Someone drawing, and keeping a train full of people silent and attentive, a man making a box for himself (in Central Park) crafting and whittling and sanding by hand. A child squealing with delight when another child gets on a train.

It is too easy to get cynical. And, believe me, I have days of getting very cynical. But there is a time to stop it, and find the bare beauty in the world. Close your eyes. Breathe in. Open your eyes. And see all things new.

Stress Ball

2008-06-10T09:05:00.000-07:00

I am a STRESS BALL.

There are a lot of things going on now, too many too count, not the least of which is trying to figure out getting to London, subletting my place, finding a couch in London...I am SO STRESSED. Wanna know how I know? Most people just know. I am good at ignoring stress, dealing with the problems, and then things eventually go away. I cope very well. I assess, troubleshoot, and approach the situation with a calm that is the envy of my friends (unless there is someone around better at that than I am, and then I indulge my panic factor). The only way I know if something truly affects me is if I cannot sleep.

I sleep. I am a sleeper. If sleeping were an Olympic Sport, I could sleep, and win the gold, for the USA. I could. Seriously. Second only to the theatre is my passion for sleep. Sleep on planes, trains, automobiles (you had to know I was going to go there), sleep on couches, sleep standing up, on a hardwood floor, outside...you get the picture. NOTHING comes between me and my sleep, and when I don't sleep, I get cranky.

I have not been sleeping. I tossed and turned ALL Saturday night, and last night, again, barely eeking out a few hours.

This is going to kill me before I get to London. And I am NOT coping well. There are other things goings on as well which serve to exacerbate the issue, but, generally, this thing in London is stressing me out.

"Why do it?", you ask. Because I love Francis and it is GREAT for my career. Not everything can come easy to us in life (indeed, very little has come easy to me in life, with the exception of a modicum of intelligence). Ugh.

Well, I am going to go back to work. And then home to sleep. Wish me luck.

Work Work Work

2008-05-30T06:47:00.001-07:00

First of all, I apologize for not keeping up with my blog. It is unfair.
I have launched a website for my tour company: www.strangetoursnyc.com and a new blog for it: strangetoursnyc.blogspot.com. I hope to see you on there!

I will update much more regularly, I promise.

I hate my job. Sort of. This isn't really news, a lot of people hate their jobs. I love the people I work with (all 2 of them on a regular basis and 4 when the office is crowded). I am an assistant of sorts, although there is barely enough work to keep me remotely interested. I am an intelligent person, and the work has to be at a certain level or I screw up. Challenge me by either giving me so many tasks I cannot see straight, or by giving me a few difficult tasks, bu if you give me one, tedious, repetitive, boring task, I will fail. It will not challenge me, my mind will wander, and my otherwise sharp attention to detail will falter.

I have been doing the MOST tedious of tasks for a long while. Yesterday I screwed up. My fault. I get that, totally and COMPLETELY my fault. So the guy I work for tells me I screwed up, I say that I know. I apologize, I was able to avert the crisis. But instead of him saying, "Look, you fucked up and now I need for you to triple check your work" he tells OUR boss, who then tells him, in private, to check my work. So, I will call him Guy A, so Guy A tells Boss this. Why? So he can be a martyr and do more work? So he can have something to bitch about? So he can make sure he is the ONLY person in the office Boss trusts? I don;t care if Boss know. I FUCKED UP, I get that, but what I CARE about is, they did not come to me and say "You fucked up, fix it" they went to each other, agreed that I need to be DOUBLE CHECKED like a FOURTH GRADER, and then told me. PS I was not supposed to know that Guy A was double checking my work.

It was utterly humiliating. At the end of the day, I work for a two person boys club, and there is no room for me there. I love them both, but the only times ever in my life I have suffered work humiliations, of the three times, twice have been at this job.

It is time for me to look for new part time work.

I know I screwed up, but allow ME the chance to atone for it. DO NOT undermine me and humiliate me.

Modern Art

2008-02-04T08:45:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my previous posts, I am really learning to love moder/contemporary art. My favorite gallery is here:
http://www.operagallery.com/art-gallery/NEW-YORK_3.aspx

While it is a snobby New York Gallery, in the fact that unless they smell money they won't give you the time of day, the art is incredible. What I have discovered is the fact that with abstract stuff, the interpretation is really more up to you. It is really about the emotion that it evokes in you and how your emotions differ from the person next to you looking at the same art. the same can certainly be said for all art; even Monet has people who don;t always like his stuff, but with Monet it is what it says. Water Lillies. No interpretation needed. I am beginning to adore the painting of raw emotion. The broad streaks across a canvas that can be lust or hatred or a streetscape. Impossible to tell, yet impossible to ignore.

When I was 16 I spent the summer in New York. A friend of the family took me to an art gallery of a friend of hers. I should say Studio, it was this woman's studio. I was unimpressed. I had no idea what I was looking at and it made no sense to me. It frustrated me. I wanted it to be the David, an obvious work, but it wasn't. Do you know that 14 years later, I can STILL recall every piece of art I saw in her studio? 14 years later. I may not have understood it then, but when I understand now is that it stayed with me. I still have those images burned in my brain, even though I had no idea what I was seeing.

I have discovered that I love the discovery. That the openness of the piece is what speaks to me. The fact that you cannot tell me what it is because it is not a thing, but rather an ephemeral and fleeting moment. And I may come back to it and feel something entirely different.

I feel so adult now!

Oh, and I love this whimsical gallery:
http://www.animazing.com/

Great Art is Sometimes on the Sidewalk

2008-02-04T08:44:00.001-08:00

I love art. I have recently discovered that I truly enjoy modern/contemporary art. Not all of it, grant you. That jackass who painted a round canvas green and got the Centre Pompidou in France to hang it (and the accompanying square and triangle canvases) pisses me off. But generally, I am really learning to open up and love art that is not "something." Don't get me wrong, I will always love me some Michaelangelo and Gustav Dore, but wandering through SoHo galleries I can really being to love other art.

This is not about that. This is abut a guy who does Sistine Chapel reconstructions on the sidewalks of NYC. I see them everywhere. These beautifully detailed works of art. And I just found out he is a Palestinian. And I just found out he collaborates with an Israeli. Well, he paints and the Israeli contracts him sometimes. See? The world is not total shit after all.

http://www.thevillager.com/villager_5/israeliandpalestinian.html

The saga of Time Warner

2007-10-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

I know, it has been ages since I posted. I am back in NYC now, and live far enough north in Manhattan that my only options for cable are Time Warner (please, dear God, let Verizon slip in soon). It's amazing...these fuckers with a monopoly.

Last Sat I had an appt from 2-6pm. The guy shows up at 7pm (ok, it's not like I had a hot date, but still...I MIGHT have needed to be someplace). He does the cable, puts in a box...and then...we wait. For an hour and a HALF. Meanwhile some tech in an office somewhere is "pinging" the box, which does not seem to be helping. My poor, undereducated tech thinks it just takes a long time because it's a refurbished box, which I suppose is possible, but it is probably the box. He leaves at 8:30pm and I have a regular cable box and no DVR. He has set me up for an appt today for 8am-Noon.

Yesterday I call TWC. I have not received the usual "If you'd like to keep your appt, press 1" call, so I check up. I have no record of an appt for today. They ask me if Oct 20 is ok, I say no, that they are charging me for a cable box, I explain what happened...they transfer me to Customer something-or-other. Probably customer-appeasement-so-she-won't-kill-us. Anyhow, that person asks my story...by the way, what the fuck is up with EVERY TIME giving number, name, address? Can't they transfer that shit too?

OK, I tell my story to person number 2, she asks again about another appt, I say NO, I want my appt for TOMORROW. She transfers me again, to someone who is a supervisor...supposedly. Nope, another worker bee to whom I tell my story yet again, explain that I will probably have to speak to a supervisor. he puts me on hold, comes back says something about a tech, puts me on hold again. Comes back asks if I can be called back. I say yes.

I get a phone call, same shit, different person. By this point, I have it well rehearsed:
Me: I am home tomorrow from 8am-Noon
Her: You are not home ANY OTHER TIME?
Me: No
Her: No other time at all? Even later?
Me: No
Her: Even in November?
Me: Let me explain. yes, I am home, for you, I am not. This is how this works, you get me an appt for tomorrow or you cancel my cable. yes, I am home on Sat, probably Sun. I am home the next few weekends to, but as far as you are concerned, the only time I am home in the foreseeable future, up to, say, January, is tomorrow from 8am to Noon or I am no longer a TWC customer.
Her: Oh. I see. Well, not even the 19th?
Me: I AM HOME TOMORROW FROM 8AM-NOON AND THAT IS IT OR CANCEL MY CABLE
Her: I don;t have the authority to do that. Maybe my supervisor can.
Me: I was supposed to be connected to a supervisor TWO PEOPLE AGO.
Her: Oh, I am sorry. Let me get him.
Me: Don't bother. Cancel TWC.
Her: I can't change your mind?
Me: Not likely.

This morning, buzzer at 9am. TWC guys. Holding a new box.

Noon today: waiting for fourth box from TWC guys who keep having to go get a new one since every one they have installed is faulty.

Please, Verizon, come to Upper Manhattan. you too RCN!

It's been awhile

2007-09-12T08:07:00.001-07:00

Can we please talk about New York City brokers? Please?

Can we just agree, that no idiot who just posts on Craigslist while YOU do all the searching deserves a fee. That in order to pay a fee, they need to show you places, look in their stash of spaces and find a place for you. THEY need to do it for YOU.

In every other state in the damn union, the person who OWNS the apt pays the fee. Not New York. No, we have to be different. Unique. More willing to anal rape you with fees and charges and credit checks, etc.

I hate looking for apts.

When I was in Guatemala

2007-07-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

I kept a diary...sort of. It was an amazing trip. Here it is:
Guatemala

Day 1 – 7/11/07

We wake up and get ready. There’s a problem. Dad has lost his Passport. I am trying to hide my immense irritation, knowing that will make things worse, but as I look around the house, piled high with utter SHIT, I think, “THIS is why things get lost.” I wanted to torch the house. They just keep everything. Every piece of paper EVER, every knick-knack. AUGH! But I digress. So we finally get out the door (only after dad has printed something off the computer) and high tail it to Fort Lauderdale. It’s a four-hour drive. The drive is rather uneventful, and I read most of the way down.

Once we get to the airport, we begin to look for remote parking, which seems to be nowhere. We know there is remote parking, the website said so, but the signs are hidden, at best. When we finally find the parking, we have spent 20 minutes driving around the airport.

We get in the bus, which will take us to the terminal. I notice a sign that says, “Fort Lauderdale Int’l airport is ranked #5 in customer service” and I joke that it must be because the airport itself sucks so badly. What a foreshadowing. We get to Spirit Air and there is a line a mile long. We get into one line, which seems odd to me, so I ask…and we are in the wrong line. As we are headed for another line, which is out the door, I get a hunch and ask again. Wrong line again. We ask a third person who points us towards a “closed” line in front of a Spirit Air counter. We get into line behind a woman and her husband and grown son. She informs us that the line is closed; they are the last people for the line. While dad goes to ask, AGAIN, if we are in the right lines, she pulls the cord across the entrance. I am annoyed. We are in line BEHIND her, who gives a fuck if the lines is “closed”? It won’t ruin her day! Much to her dismay, the official woman comes over and opens the line. Everyone in line is then asked to remove their luggage from the cart and the carts will be stored to the side. There is simply not enough room in the line for people, luggage and carts. You would think the control freak in line had been asked to give up her firstborn child. I thought it would simply UNDO her. She had two pieces of luggage, her husband had two pieces and so did her son (not including carry-ons). Were they going to the Galapagos for a month and had to bring their own food? No…they were going to Lima, Peru for two weeks. Sheesh. If I had to travel with her, I’d kill me or her…or both of us.

We check in, leave dad’s bag to be scanned (where I am sure, SURE it will not make it on the plane) and get in the line for security. It’s like a Disney line…miles long, yet snaked forever so it feels like you are moving a lot. And they don’t have enough scanners open. And everyone is late for the Peru flight. People, here’s a hint, GET TO THE AIRPORT EARLY LIKE THE DAMN TICKET TELLS YOU!!! (I really hate inexperienced idiot travelers). The security line is hell, everyone is getting in front of us, and I finally start handing out those little gray trays, since everyone else seems to be late for Peru.

Once we get inside the terminal, we stop and get a back of trail mix and one of peanuts. This will save our lives more than once.

We sit near the gate; they announce a gate change, we go to the new gate. I then notice that people are boarding, but the sign says “Bahamas”, but our plane seems to be late boarding. So I ask. No, despite no boarding call or a sign change, it IS our plane that is boarding. This makes me wonder how many millions of Customer Service calls FLL fields every hour.

We get on the plane and the flight is uneventful. We snack. When we arrive, they are obviously redoing Guatemala City Airport, and there is nothing in it. Once we hit the outside, I am immediately reminded of Tel Aviv airport, without the leers and catcalls. We call the hotel (praise be to T-Mobile whose service works! Not so much for Nextel) and get picked up. We check into out little room and sleep…sort of…

Day 2 – 7/12/07

We get up super early to catch a flight to Flores. The night bus has been ruled out because a) it takes 10 hours and b) Haydy’s dad got mugged on the night bus. I kind of want to take it, dad says no, so I inform that he has to pony up the $400 extra bucks to get to Tikal by plane. Our tickets TO Guatemala from Florida were only $360 total. Check in is a breeze. We head to security, but find ourselves in a tax line. 20 Quetzales (about $3) to exit the airport. We will pay this same tax 3 more times before we finally leave Guatemala.

We get to the terminal and go to our gate, which has a sign for Belize on it. I figure we are at the right place anyway. A young, rather good-looking guy sits across from us and asks us where we are headed. We tell him. He then tries to convince us to stay in El Remate instead. I think he is either going to get a commission or…no, I only think he is somehow getting paid. And he smells of rum. He tells us he has lived in Guatemala for a while, went to Canada to fight in Afghanistan, and that Jaguar Inn in Tikal is touristy but that El Remate is more spiritual. He keeps asking if he is annoying us. He is, but I feel bad for him somehow. Anyhow, I tell him the truth: Jaguar Inn has my CC# and I can’t cancel. He says he is sorry he did not convince us otherwise and we board. Once we get to Flores, I think that I should get his e-mail anyway, just in case there is some validity. I see him and his friend with an older woman. When I ask him for contact info, he introduces me to Anne, his mom. She runs a project called “Ixcanaan” or “Guardians of the Rainforest.” It is a medical/educational/ecological project for the people of El Remate. Ahhhh. THIS makes sense. She gives me her e-mail and web address, http://www.ixcanaan.com and I tell her that next time maybe.

Turns out “next time” is going to be the next day as the TACA airlines person has booked us to leave on the 14th, not the 13th.

We take our little mini-bus to Tikal, just dad, and me and marvel at the countryside. When we get to Tikal we eat breakfast and check in. We then head into the park.

There is no real way to describe Tikal. None of the photos do it justice; none of the articles really explain the splendor. Not as impressive as the Giza pyramids, but quite impressive, nonetheless. Especially when you realize that the Mayans did not have the wheel. They did, however, have an incredibly accurate calendar. Anyhow, we spent almost 7 hours wandering in the rainforest, checking out the ruins. Truly extraordinary. We must have used “amazing” and “extraordinary” a hundred times. All other synonyms had escaped us. I walked to the top of three pyramids, dad did one. I pulled something in my ass, but it was worth it to see the temple tops above the rainforest. Wandering out of the park felt like something in a horror film, as it seemed like we were walking forever with no one else around. Maybe ancient Mayan vampire people would come out of the ground and eat us.

We got back, had some crappy lunch (compared to awesome breakfast) and napped. Well, dad napped, I read in a hammock. We went to dinner after trying to book a reservation in El Remate (we failed). We went to a local Comedor in the park, where the park employees ate. The food was wonderful and cheap. Always eat where the local do. Walking back in the darkness, we looked up and noticed we could actually see the MILKY WAY. Dad hadn’t seen it since he was a Boy Scout camping in East Texas, and I hadn’t seen it since I was in the desert in Jordan. It was spectacular. So amazing to be able to see it! We took hot showers and went to bed.

Jaguar Inn only has hot water from 6am-9am and electricity from 6pm-9pm. So when the lights go out, the lights are OUT.

Day 3 – 7/13/07

We were awakened from our deep, exhausted slumber by the loudest, most obnoxious bird noise ever. And there were a flock of them. Outside our room (bungalow, really). Since it was around 7am, we went ahead and got up, showered and ate, then headed to the two museums in the park. If I had to do it over again, I would spend more DAYS at Tikal, but less CONSECUTIVE HOURS. We saw the pottery and Stelae of the Mayans and then hopped a small van (like the ones we rent in Israel to get to the dig site) to get to El Remate.

We were dropped off by the side of the road when it began to rain. We finally saw the hotel we were looking for, the “La Mansion del Pajaro Serpiente.” We climbed up the steps to check in and got into our hotel. The view was amazing. The hotel overlooks Lago Peten Itza and it is beautiful. For lunch, we head across the street (big mistake). The joint is obviously for tourists, the food sucks and there is a woman beating her son with a belt, as best as I can hear. I tell dad that we are going to leave if she continues. I should have punched her. No one should beat a child like that. Anyhow, the food is crap, but there is a lovely little parrot named Paco. I try to get him to sit on my arm, and he wants to, but he keeps testing the “bark” with his beak. Which means he is biting me. Which means it REALLY hurts. So I walk away.

We call Anne and she shows us around the project. It is truly amazing; their work to provide education, medical care and teach the locals that they can do something other can kill the rainforest to survive. I do it no justice here. I was amazing and appalled by the clinic, pleased by the library, yet sad they had so few books and inspired by Anne and Enrique. They understand needs and know that you cannot teach environmentalism if people do not have basic needs taken care of.

After a short shopping trip, dad took and nap and I took a swim. Anne had told us about an Italian restaurant (really!) down the road, so we walked the 450 meters the sign said. More like 2 miles. The food was only ok. We should have known better. The guy was indeed from Italy, but he had no local competition and no real impetus to make his food really good. So it was ok.

On the way home, we notice a soccer game in a field, with a horse grazing in the middle. The ball does not seem to bother the horse and the horse does not seem to bother the players. OK.

We try to hire a cab back to Flores, but no one seems to speak English (for, like, the 12th time dad says, “We need to get a dictionary…” ok, WHERE?). We go to the restaurant with the angry mother and biting bird and ask a guy (in really crappy Spanish) if we can get a taxi. We pay him for a driver he promises will show up in the morning. As a mater of fact, we are short the cash (we don’t have change for our big bills) and he says it is fine if we pay him in the morning. We hope for the best and head off to bed.

Day 4 – 7/14/07

We get up early to meet our taxi…we hope. It is there and so is the guy we bought it from! We get to the airport and have some breakfast. We notice we have just a few Quetzales left and we are going to have to find an ATM. What did we spend our money on? Oh, right…WATER.

We get to Guatemala City and find an ATM and a guy who tells us where to catch a bus to Santiago Atitlan. Now, we are hoping it’s a large comfy bus…at least, from my Lonely Planet that is the impression I get. HA.

First of all, we get dropped off in terrifying bus chaos in the middle of dirty Guatemala City. Our taxi driver finds our bus to Santiago, but we are hoping, against all odds, there is a better bus. I had said I wanted to take a chicken bus, but I was really kidding. But here I am. The “porter” grabs dads bag and begins to walk. Dad is still talking to someone, so I have my hand on the bag as well and I am pulling toward myself. He kind of drags me along, laughing and when dad gives me the ok, I finally let go. I think the porter got a big kick out of that. Our bus is a brightly painted old Blue Bird school bus. No bathroom and we guess, no stops on the way. We leave and the porter guy is hanging out the open door, announcing where we are headed every time the bus stops. Often, he jumps off as is it moving and if no one wants to get on, he jumps back on the moving bus.

A preacher has joined us and is preaching in the aisle. When he finishes, he touched each of our heads and prays for us, and then he sits down and gets off when the bus stops. People on the bus have also given him Quetzales. At each stop, someone opens the back door or comes on the front or yells into the window to sell snacks and drinks. It is utter chaos. There is no limit to the amount of people that can get on and no limit to the stops.

The bus doesn’t always stop for men. Often they just swing on, but it always stops for women. The driver drives like a bat out of hell and for over an hour we are 6 people across two seats.

The only thing that truly angers me: people pitch all garbage out the window with not a care in the world.

We stop in the center of Santiago Atitlan (YAY!) and meet Juan, our cab driver. Juan is driving a three-wheel scooter with a top. He drops us off at Hotel Bambu and gives us his number. After check-in and lunch in another beautiful hotel, we call Juan to take us into town. He drives us to the church, which was built in 1527, although it is plain. There are wooden statues of many saints and every year they get new clothes made by the locals. We read a plaque to find out that the army assassinated the Father of the church around 1981, during the many years of civil war. Once out of the church, we explain to Juan that we need a dictionary. We drive to a little “shop” with paper and office supplies. No luck. We find a SECOND such shop with a dictionary. SCORE! It goes into use IMMEDIATELY.

We ask Juan to take us sightseeing. We drive around (we have picked up some local girl he knows who is helping him out) past the lake near Posada Atitlan. The hotel of choice, apparently. We see women washing clothes in the lake. He also takes us to the martyrs’ monument. In November of 1990, a group of Santiago Atitlan villagers were protesting kidnappings by the military. It was, apparently, a peaceful demonstration, but the military drove out of the gates and mowed down 13 villages, including a kid who was my age (born in 1977). At the monument are two little girls, just sweet and can be and they say, shyly, “Quetzals?” Dad has one for each, and they give him this HUGE grin. They seem to be sisters about 2 and 4.

We head home, but have dinner at a local place where the guacamole is great (avocado’s harvested from the lake shore) and so are the plantains.

Once again, we hit the hay early.

Day 5 – 7/15/07

There is a massive storm overnight and it leaves the area quite chilly, but lovely. We have breakfast and call Juan to go shopping. The first stop is a pharmacy for tampons. No such luck. Looks like maxi-pads. Ugh.

We wander around the market, marveling at the gorgeous handmade textiles. We buy gifts and take a million photos of the market and the church. We head back to the hotel where we have lunch.

After lunch, Juan takes us to Maximon, the local god. The Spanish missionaries were quite smart; they incorporated local gods into the Catholic religion as saints or other minor prophets. I have a feeling Maximon does not QUITE qualify, but he is worshipped. Offerings are 2 Quetzales entry (for tourists) and rum and cigarettes. His “guards” have been partaking of the offering because they are all three sheets to the wind. Absolutely hilarious.

Juan takes us to the lakeshore where we take a launch to Panajachel to catch a mini-bus to Guatemala City. The chicken bus was fun…once. Twice might be too much. The ride across the lake is amazing and gorgeous and not as cold as I thought it might be. We get to the other side; get a taxi to the mini-bus stop only to discover...no more mini-buses for the day. Dad says, “shit” and I am thinking much worse. But, HEY! We are in luck as a chicken bus is going to be here in 10 minutes!

This time, the chicken bus has CHICKENS on it, and dad’s bag is somewhere behind a seat and I am sure we will die as it is raining and there are no windshield wipers. AWESOME. Instead, the porter dude is sticking his head out the door, watching for traffic or oncoming cars, etc. I feel MUCH better. Not really. I read and listen to my iPod. I figure that if I am about to die, I’d know, and I don’t feel like I am about to die. I hope I am not wrong.

We get to Guatemala City in the middle of a huge rain, the bus drops us off nowhere near where we left and we get in a cab and go to Tikal Futura, a big hotel. We are meeting Juan Carlos there. Juan Carlos is a guy I met on couchsurfing.com. It is a community of travelers who either offer a couch to sleep on or find a couch to sleep on. No guarantee he is not an ax murderer, except I have had a few conversations with him on the phone. Not that it really is a filtering process. Juan meets us and takes us to dinner…well, we take him, but he drives and it is the first nice car we have been in. After dinner, he drives us on a short tour around Guatemala City, which is big and bustling, but has some nice parts. He then drops us off at our hotel (the same one from the first night).

The rest of the trip is not worth noting. We fly home, drive back to Tampa, arrive home just in time for mom's amazing baked chicken dinner.

Here are some photos:

Guatemala

And here is a video I put together with the photos:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=194182293550119&pr=goog-sl

Sydney Smith-20 ways to be happy

2007-04-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Georgiana,

Nobody has suffered more from low spirits than I have—so I feel for you. Here are my prescriptions.

1st Live as well as you dare.

2nd Go into the shower-bath with a small quantity of water at a temperature low enough to give you a slight sensation of cold, 75 or 80 degrees.

3rd Amusing books.

4th Short views of human life—not further than dinner or tea.

5th Be as busy as you can.

6th See as much as you can of those friends who respect and like you.

7th And of those acquaintances who amuse you.

8th Make no secret of low spirits to your friends, but talk of them freely—they are always worse for dignified concealment.

9th Attend to the effects tea and coffee produce upon you.

10th Compare your lot with that of other people.

11th Don't expect too much from human life—a sorry business at the best.

12th Avoid poetry, dramatic representations (except comedy), music, serious novels, melancholy sentimental people, and every thing likely to excite feeling or emotion not ending in active benevolence.

13th Do good, and endeavour to please everybody of every degree.

14th Be as much as you can in the open air without fatigue.

15th Make the room where you commonly sit, gay and pleasant.

16th Struggle by little and little against idleness.

17th Don't be too severe upon yourself, or underrate yourself, but do yourself justice.

18th Keep good blazing fires.

19th Be firm and constant in the exercise of rational religion.

20th Believe me, dear Georgiana, your devoted servant, Sydney Smith

What to do?

2007-03-12T17:44:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you are nearly certain that one of the kids you know is going to grow up to be a serial killer? Admittedly, maybe I watch too much "Criminal Minds", or maybe that last issue of Science News with Ted Bundy on the cover got to me, but, seriously, I have a kid in my group with a surprising lack of empathy. Shockingly little. He has not lit a squirrel on fire or skinned a kitten alive (that I know of), but he exhibits little remorse or empathy and he does want to be a Marine. I think that in 15 years the FBI is going to be dealing with a very smart, Marine trained sadistic serial killer.

V-Day

2007-02-14T14:15:00.000-08:00

Nothing says "I love you" more than a bunch of teenagers complaining that what you have planned for the night is "gay" and "lame".

Happy Fucking Valentines Day.

What a job.

I am not a parent...

2007-02-08T18:32:00.000-08:00

thank fucking God, but I am damn sure I could do a sight better than most.

Let me introduce you parents to a few things:
1. You ARE NOT your kids best friend. You are their PARENT. You get to be their best friend when you are 80 and they are wiping your ass, but YOUR ONE AND ONLY JOB, while they are young, is to provide them a framework that within they can fuck up and get in trouble for it and ALSO be unconditionally loved, understand societal rules and regulations (like murder=prison), and test your boundaries. But you have got to STOP threatening to discipline them and then decide not to. You have got to STOP trying to be their "cool parent", and just FUCKING INSTITUE SOME RULES. You have got to STOP trying to make little clones of you. Your kids fuck up because they want to know you love them, and not caring about rules and punishment does NOT equal love.

2. On the other hand, forbidding them from watching Earagon and monitoring EVERY LITTLE THING they do is not parenting, it is being a prison guard. You know whose kids grow up to be serial killers? Yours. Because you tied them up in a closet when they said Fuck (look, I've already earned 3 days). Because you forbade them to read To Kill a Mockingbird and Harry Potter and watch MTV (of which, too much is also bad you lax idiot parents), and because you HOME-SCHOOLED THEM. You have created Charles Manson, Hitler and George Bush, and the world does NOT thank you.

3. Harry Potter is utterly secular, you Consrvative Christian twats. UTTERLY SECULAR. It does not promote Christianity and it does not promote Satan worship. There is no mention of Satan or God, and, if you wanna get really nit picky, you could even argue that Voldemort is Satan and Harry is Jesus. Why? Because Neville is so OBVIOUSLY John the Baptist...the one about whom the prophecy COULD have been written. But that is not really the point. Harry Potter has no religious or non-religious affiliation. At worst, you can accuse it of promoting materialism, which you fuckers in big SUV's already are guity of, so get off your high horse.

4. STOP MEDICATING. You do not get to medicate your child because you are a lazy asshole. Your child may actually have something wrong, but how about you wait until he or she can actually talk before you dope them up and make them Stepford kids? Not all children learn at the same rate, not all children are at the same level of activity. Hyper kids? STOP HAVING THE TV BABYSIT AND GIVING THEM SUGAR. Dumb kids? MAKE THEM PLAY SCRABBLE OR WATCH JEOPARDY. Kids don't talk? PROBABLY BECAUSE YOU DON'T LISTEN AND THEY KNOW YOU DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THEM. Honestly people. Kids are NOT a fashion accessory. You must take responsibility for their well-being and hiring a nanny and a cook DOES NOT COUNT. If you don't have time, don't fuck someone without a condom.

No, I am not a mom, but I was raised by a good one and I have a fabulous niece and nephew (two separate siblings), so I know it can be done. But these days, all I see are kids getting worse and worse because no one wants to take the time.

Damn, if your fat ass is gonna sit on the couch and not be a parent, at least watch Dr. Phil and find out how much your non-parenting is fucking up your kids.

Ah...youth

2007-02-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

I have discovered that when teenagers are involved: never shall logic and emotion intersect. Even 12 months after the incident and the teenager has seemingly recovered. It's like sense memory in acting: the teenager is transported back to that exact moment and no matter how much explanation and understanding has happened in retrospect, in another emotional moment it gets wiped out and the teenager is again logic-free.

"Why can't I have a Sweet 16 party like on MTV?"
"Because we live in a trailer, you have no dad, I have no money and we live on food stamps."
"But it's my BIRTHDAY and I want to rent a CRUISE SHIP!"

and later the teenager seemingly understands, but when that 17th birthday comes around...

"And you NEVER let me have that party I wanted. You hate me and I hate you..."
"Don't tell me, that was your mother and she died of poverty related illnesses and you're in the hospital with tuberculosis"
"But I DESERVE that party!"

This exchange has never happened, to my knowledge, but I'm sure it will sometime, somewhere.

And not to mention that MTV is the picture of all what ails our society. That and Times Square.

11 million children die per year of poverty related illnesses.
The amount it would cost to feed, adequately, all the worlds poorest people for ONE year: $18 Billion
The amount Americans spend on cosmetics per year: $17 Billion

So we stop buying cosmetics and take back the grift Bush gets from oil companies and we could feed the world.

I'm not sure I can live without my MAC eyeshadow, though.

I have a friend...

2007-02-03T08:56:00.000-08:00

no, he's not a friend. He was a long time ago, but he has managed to create this bizarre, hateful personality. I don't think he means to be hateful.

Screw it, let's get to what I want to show you:

Dear "Friends,"

No doubt you've all been wondering why you haven't been invited to my February cocktail party. The answer is simple: you're just not good enough.

Due to the overwheming turnout at my previous gatherings, I have decided that invitations to my next party (Saturday, February 3) will be BY LOTTERY ONLY. At first I thought it would make more sense to prioritize guests by degree of friendship, but you'd only be scratching each other's eyes out. And needless to say, *** ******* wouldn't have had a snowball's chance in hell. I'm not completely heartless and I couldn't bear that. Instead you will have the chance to RSVP for a magnificiently catered dinner for 15 people. Details below. All you have to do is respond to this e-mail ASAP. Good luck!!

Your devoted "friend,"

The menu be continental and will consist of the following:

Flowing Dom Perignon. Cristal and selection of Napa & Sonoma.

TO START

Duo of Foie Gras
foie gras parfait with dried fruit and ginger-saffron apple compresse with seared foie gras, golden brioche

Chilled Lobster with parsnip, apple and almond salad

MAIN COURSES

Scottish Pheasant with liver mousse on canapé, red onion marmalade, orange scented endive, truffle coulis

Roasted Lamb Saddle, Gremolata style with fennel-saffron marmalade, crispy cannelloni, tomato bombon

DESSERT

Crème Brûlée

Chocolate Soufflé
traditional chocolate soufflé with vanilla crème anglaise and chocolate sorbet

And later, in a chat, he says,

"[16:10]Every first saturday of every month I do a cocktail party at my place.
[16:10] It's become quite a scene.
[16:10] oh, that seems like a nice time. good for you
[16:10] I'm becoming a bit of an Andy Warhol
[16:10] Except good looking
[16:10] and appealing
[16:10] and nice
[16:10] ah, well, just don't die young
[16:10] and not weird and spooky
[16:11] Luckily for me, I can exist on wit and charm alone. I'm more than happy to leave him with spooky weirdness."

Since names have been omitted to protect the stupid, his portion of the conversation is in bold and italics. So I wonder who would actually associate with him? I knew him when this portion of his personality was developing, but he was still a reasonably kind generous guy. He has always been a bit of a name dropper, and in the rest of our chat, I swear he pulls out every name he knows of people he had lunch with, had to call, etc. It's astounding to me that someone can be this idiotic. What also got me, was the fact that he never seemed to be able to tell, in our chat, that everything I said was dripping with sarcasm, and that I was blatantly uninterested. Blinders to the world, I guess. Truthfully, he could be a great guy, he has that part of him too, but he has chosen to develop the overreaching prat.

What's amazing is his absolute lack of self-awareness. He and the few friends I know that he has, just have a small mutual admiration society, where no one gets far in life, but they all love the pretentious crap out of one another. Ugh.

OK, rant done.

Watching "Hope Floats"

2007-01-30T17:27:00.000-08:00

Because when you have the flu, nothing makes you feel better than a crappy, cheesy Sandra Bullock movie. And which is worse: Hope Floats, or Jar Jar Binks on HBO in SW: The Phantom Menace? There's also Twister.
Why, when I must watch TV because my brain is took cooked from fever, is there nothing on? But when I am out, working late, have a million things to do, WHY WHY WHY are movies like Jarhead, Young Frankenstein, TV shows like: Extras, Curb Your Enthusiasm, why are those on?
Harry Connick Jr, bless him, just walked up to Sandra Bullock and asked her to dance and she is giggling like an idiot. And he ACTUALLY SAID, "Dancing is just a conversation between two people. Talk to me." I think I'd kick a guy like that in the balls.
They do dance well.
The fever is making me progressively stupider.

My first blog and I sound like a ranting idiot. Possibly because I am a ranting idiot.

Dear God, bring death faster.