6/20/10

Batman? Little help here?

I walked out onto my porch a couple of weeks ago, and a bird flew right by my head. It was a robin, and it sat on top of the garage roof and scolded me. I was wondering why, until I noticed that she had made a nest on the porch, in a flower pot we had hanging on the porch post:


I don't know why she would make the nest there -- it was basically in the open and any critter that wanted an easy meal could just hop up on the railing and chow down. I mean, I myself wouldn't eat them because they look like they'd probably be a little prickly going down, but there are cats in the neighborhood.

The proud parents were feeding them non-stop, and it was the first time I had ever witnessed this up close and personal, and trust me, you would not want to eat any of the things the adult robins brought home for dinner. Earthworms? Not so much. Nasty looking green grubs and weird looking insects -- I have no clue where the hell they were digging these things up, but dear god -- it was like stuff from another planet.

I found the whole thing fascinating, so I set my tripod and camera up next to the window, and whenever I thought about it, I'd snap a few shots. It was pretty incredible how fast they grew -- in just a few days they went from barely being able to hold their heads up, to this:



Here's an example of a fine gourmet meal:


After a few days of this, I noticed something odd. The babies would take the food, and then they would... well...give something back. It happened very quickly, so the first time, I thought I imagined it. After I saw it for the third time, I was sure. There was a split second where the adult robin would duck her head down, and quickly grab something, then swallow it. I managed to get a shot of it happening:



It looked like a fuzzball, or some compacted down or something. I figured maybe the fuzzy hair from the chicks was building up in the bottom. So I looked it up on the internet.

Big mistake.

Each newborn defecates within seconds of feeding. Four baby birds defecating forty times a day is a big mess. Although nestlings don’t come with diapers, Mother Nature understands the health risks of a nest littered with droppings and created the next best thing.


Each of the approximate one hundred sixty daily droppings comes neatly enclosed in a white, translucent sac known as a fecal sac. This eliminates a nest painted white from droppings; but now the parents have to get rid of the bouncing sacs. They are able to rid the nest of the bagged poop, conveniently deposited directly into their mouths right after feeding, before they leave to find more food. Since the fecal sacs are devoid of bacteria, the adult robins simply eat them.


So there you go. We have bouncing fecal sacs, straight from the tap and swallowed whole.

I'm sure many of you already knew this little tidbit, however I did not. In fact, I am pretty sure I would have been perfectly happy not knowing this for the rest of my life.

I will never again be able to see a robin hopping happily across my yard without immediately thinking about it chowing down on a steamy-fresh, conveniently packaged bag of poop.

Realistically, I knew the poop has to go somewhere, but still. Not what I expected.

Here's a picture of them right before they were fully-fledged, about two weeks after they hatched:


They don't look like they'd have filthy habits, do they? It's kind of like discovering Hugh Grant likes cheap hookers.

Here's a shot of the last fully-catered meal:


The first two chicks took off within minutes of each other, but this last guy was a chicken, and didn't leave the nest until much later in the day. I think he was annoyed with me pointing the camera at him every five minutes:


It was kind of sad to see them go, but at least we can use our side door again. Around five pm on the same night they all left the nest, I heard a commotion outside -- the robins were all screaming at the top of their lungs. I went out onto the back deck and looked up at the tree all the baby robins had flown to, and there was a red-tailed hawk sitting there eying his dinner.

Ah, the circle of life. Normally, I wouldn't care, and I think hawks are just about the coolest birds on the planet, but I had too much invested in these little guys to let the circle be quite that small -- so I chased the hawk away. I know, I know. Between chauffeuring chipmunks around and protecting baby birds, I'm turning into frikkin' St. Francis of Assisi.

I think I'm gonna have to go kill something to rebuild my street cred.




6/15/10

Just the chip of the iceberg.

In the last 13 days, I've captured sixteen chipmunks. Sixteen.

I knew I saw a lot of them running around this year, and my wife has been losing some plants lately, but I had no idea that I was running some sort of chipmunk refugee camp. Because of this problem, I've been reading up on them, and it turns out that they only have a home range of about a 1/2 acre. I'm not sure how many I may have in a 1/2 acre, but I do know I'm not done yet, and the little bastards are wearing me out.

I've been transporting them to a field about a mile away from my house, and letting them go. It's become so ridiculous that I'm running low on almonds and peanut butter. I still have plenty of wheat thins though. A wheat thin with a dab of peanut butter and a whole almond on top, put on a small plastic plate. Yes, that's what they seem to like the best, and yes, I realize I'm making hors d'oeuvres for chipmunks.

When I first started catching them, I didn't know what to expect. They wanted out in the worst way, and I was afraid to get my hands too close because I didn't want rabies or whatever other funky diseases these things might carry. They also tended to piss when you lifted the trap up, and I had no desire to go to work smelling like I got a golden shower from a filthy ground squirrel.

I was pretty careful at first, and I started out by putting the cage on the ground and opening the trap, but after about the 8th or 9th chipmunk, I got tired of squatting down in the brush and taking the risk that a tick might climb up my pant leg and attach itself to my man parts again. Yes, I said "again," but that is a story for another time. Anyway, somewhere along the line I decided to see what what happen if I just opened the trap at chest level. The chipmunks didn't care -- they shot out of there like a cannon. In fact, I started pretending I was Duke Nukem firing my RPG:*



Of course, they didn't actually explode when they hit, but...well, in my mind they did. They're nothing but filthy little forest rats. Very cute filthy little forest rats, but rats nonetheless.

The only one that wasn't so cute had to be the local stud around these parts. He's probably the one responsible for the crazy population explosion. First, he was twice the size of the others and had balls like a fruit bat and he looked kind of greasy, like he just rolled off some chipmunk bimbo and was now making himself a snack in her kitchen. Second, he wasn't scared of me at all. The other chipmunks went completely apeshit when I picked up the trap and carried it to the car -- he just sat there and stared at me through the bars, eating his peanut-butter covered almond as fast as he possibly could. He had a look in his eyes like he was thinking, "As God is my witness, I am finishing this fucking almond before I leave this place."

Right before I took him out of the car, he glanced up at me and then jammed the last of the almond into his cheek. Then he just sat there, waiting for me to open the cage, like he'd done this a dozen times before. When I opened the door, he made a graceful leap to the ground and chattered at me before running into the woods. I'm pretty sure he flipped me off, but I can't be 100% sure.

By now he's probably met up with a bunch of his old crew and he's starting a new colony about a mile from my house -- and you know what? I wish the big-balled bastard luck. He had style. Hopefully he'll take some time out to grab a shower, though, because he smelled like dirty feet and chipmunk cock, and nobody wants to smell that. I'm assuming that includes chipmunk sluts too, but what do I know? Maybe that's his version of Dolce & Gabanna Light Blue.

Only, you know, for chipmunks.

*Yes, I realize that I'm old.

6/8/10

Bad Boys, Bad Boys. Whatcha gonna do?

I got a ticket a couple of weeks ago. No, it wasn't for speeding, or even running a red light. Nothing so glamorous. It was for having an expired inspection sticker. This is generally the kind of luck I have. Let me tell you the story.

The day before I got the ticket, I was driving along a two-lane county highway doing about 50mph when the truck in front of me swerved violently to the right, exposing the car and driver who had apparently decided at the last minute that he/she/it wanted to stop suddenly and turn left, without the benefit of a turn signal -- or even brake lights, for that matter.

This left me with about 2.5 car lengths to figure out what to do, since slamming on my brakes was likely to end with me in his back seat. So I followed the truck. I figured if this giant 4x4 had enough room to get around him on the shoulder, than I did too. The one thing I didn't count on was the extremely large pothole that the giant truck skipped over, and that I, in my Honda Fit, drove into and basically never came out of. My front tire made a noise like a paper bag popping, and I limped into the parking lot of a Dodge dealership with the front end of my car making a pleasant noise reminiscent of someone grinding cinderblocks into a bushel basket full of empty coffee cans.

I got out to assess the damage. The sidewall of the tire didn't look bad, so I thought maybe I'd gotten off lucky. I grabbed the jack, and right around the time I got the front tire off the ground, a guy from the dealership wandered over.

Seeing me with the front of the car jacked up, the lug nuts loosened and the tire almost off, he said (and I quote) "Got some tire trouble?"

Obviously he was an automobile expert, and an asset to Dodge corporation dealerships the world over.

"Yeah, I hit that giant pothole outside of your parking lot and got a flat," I said pleasantly. "But I'm good, I've got the spare, and I'll be out of your way in a minute or two." He nodded, then continued to stand there and watch me, like he had something else to say.

"Am I in the way?" I asked, since I was sort of blocking part of the entrance.

He said "No," and didn't move. I guess it was a slow night. I pulled the tire off and looked at the back. It was bad. The sidewall was blown out, and the edge of the pothole had caught the lip of the aluminum rim and bent it toward the center. I could tell that this was going to cost me.

"Wow, that's pretty bent up," said the genius.

"Yeah, it sure is," I replied.

"That's never going to straighten out," he said.

"Yes, you're probably right," I said.

"You're going to have to get a new one, and those aren't cheap," he said.

Jesus Christ. At that point, I would have given my left nut for an air wrench, or maybe a pit crew. I just wanted to finish up and get back on the road.

"Nothing is cheap on cars anymore," I said, popping the donut tire on and tightening the lugs.

"Can't leave one of those on for long," said the genius, nodding sagely at the donut.

I didn't bother to reply. I just dropped my car back down to the ground, tossed the ruined tire and rim in the car, and drove out of there without looking back. I'm sure my flat tire made for some fascinating dinner conversation for him later on that night.

The next day, I priced out a new rim and tire and the total with mounting and balancing was going to be close to $400, which was complete and utter bullshit; but unless I wanted my car to be a rolling Sesame Street song, I had to do it. I sucked it up and ordered it. Stupid Honda and their stupid expensive crap. Stupid people turning left, stupid potholes and stupid me for not seeing it.

It was going to be a few days before it showed up, and I didn't want to run the donut on the highway for my 2 hour daily commute, so the next day I took my 94 Miata to work.

This is the car that I only drive on really nice days, and I had just put it back on the road for the summer. I glanced at the inspection sticker from inside the car, counted the months backwards and figured out that the month with the hole punched in it was July, so I had some time. The registration was good until 2011, so I was ok there.

It's 5:30am in the morning. I'm doing the speed limit. I'm the only car on the road. Well, that's not entirely true, because the sheriff's deputy was also on the road, and he happens to see me pulling away from a stop sign. He also happens to be about 22 years old, and has nothing better to do at 5:30 in the morning than to pull me over. So of course, that's what he does. He informs me that my inspection sticker had expired, and he asks for my papers. I give them to him, and he disappears back to his car for about 20 minutes, probably to read the manual on proper procedure. When he comes back, he hands me my license and registration and says, "honest mistake, maybe the judge will do something for you," and then hands me my ticket.

Now I'm late for work as well. Stupid kid playing cops and robbers. Stupid me for not knowing the difference between 09 and 10. Stupid morning and aforementioned stupid list from the day before.

Fast forward to last night. I go to court, the judge asks me what I plead, and of course I have to say guilty because, hey, the inspection stickers aren't even that color anymore, and she says, "The fine for driving an uninspected motor vehicle is $50."

I have time to think, "Oh, well, that's not so ba--" and she adds, "...however, there's a mandatory New York State surcharge of $85."

WTF, New York. Just because? Way to trump up some bullshit charge to fill your coffers. How about you take some of that extortion money and maybe keep a state park or two open? Fuckers. Sometimes I really hate this state.

The guy before me in line got reamed even worse. Some girls he knew called him at 1 am drunk at some bar out in the boonies, and wanted him to come pick them up. So he did. Along the way, he apparently drifted over the double yellow on some deserted 2-lane back road in East Bumfuck, and some douchebag cop pulled him over for it.

Stone sober, rescuing some drunk girls, he ended up with a $250 fine and 2 points on his license. Nice guys finish last, I'm telling you. The judge did commend him for his efforts, and take the opportunity to make a little speech about designated drivers, so I'm sure that made him feel good about his decision.

Anyway, after I got over my sticker shock, I went to the cashier's window, paid Carlo and crawled out of the courthouse and into the street.

Grand total of this little escapade: $520.

I will regale you with tales of nature later on this week. She is a harsh and disgusting mistress, as you will see.



5/31/10

And the winner is... comment #49



Looks like our winner is JC, if I can count. (And yes, I included my own comment because that's what I decided to do before I hit the go button.)

Congrats, JC! Everyone else, thanks for playing, and thanks for sharing your stories. I enjoyed learning a little bit about these brave men and women.

5/28/10

You probably think this song is about you.

As I've mentioned before, I sometimes get these offers from companies that want me to pimp their wares, usually via some "review" of one of their products in exchange for said product. Occasionally, if I can see a humorous angle to take while writing it up, I will agree. I mean, who can forget the goatee saver? I know I can't. I wish someone would send me a ChumBuddy, but since I did that one completely on my own, there's been no offers yet.

Once in a while though, the offer is too good to pass up. Fortunately for someone reading this right now, this is one of those times. It's what I like to call Free Stuff For Someone Who Is Not Me.

The guys from CSN are calling me a "Preferred Blogger" which I am pretty sure means I'm on their short list of people they figure they can probably suck up to and get to do stuff for them.

The offer in this case was to either do a review and get free stuff for me, (no.) or hold some kind of contest and get free stuff for someone else. (why not?) so I agreed to the second option.

Here's the deal: They sell an amazing number of different bathroom vanities, among other things. Lots of other things, actually. They have a couple of hundred online stores, each geared toward a particular product line, and a warehouse that must be almost the size of Bill Gates' 2nd largest guest bathroom on the 5th floor of his summer home.

Sometimes I'm sure the companies end up sorry that they asked me, but in this case I think they will do fine.

They are offering a $150 gift certificate to use at any of their 200+ stores, no strings attached. (I really wish they'd give me something too, but apparently that's not how it works, so instead of a lame post about bathroom vanities that gets me free stuff, you get this one instead.)

In order for you to win this Memorial Day weekend contest, just leave a comment and remember a soldier. That's it. If you feel like it, tell me a little bit about them, because I'd enjoy that.

I'll cut off comments sometime Monday, or whenever they peter out, and use a random number generator to pick the winner.

Thanks, everyone, and have a great long weekend!

5/26/10

Surf and Turf

So this happened:


Believe it or not, the guy is supposedly going to be OK, but holeeee shit. When I saw that photo I immediately tried to picture what it would be like to have all MY teeth knocked out -- from the inside. I couldn't do it.

That picture is just...Unbelievable. I learned two things that I did not know before. One, never read the NY Post. Two, the sad thing about this horrible sport is that the bull dies whether he wins or loses, because, well, that's the rules. I call bullshit.

Bullfighting may be a tradition, but it's time to stop the madness. Not only because it's cruel and inhumane to the poor animals, but also so I don't have to see shit like this and feel obligated to pass it on to all of you. Man, that looks painful. Dumb ass. Taunting a giant horned animal like that.

Now that you're awake, and collectively holding your jaws and running your tongues around inside your mouths, let's talk about this:


Are you with me here? Are you understanding what it is you are seeing?

Just to clarify: Yes, it is a giant shark sleeping bag.

Why? Well, why not? Who hasn't wanted to fall asleep in the mouth of one of the world's most terrifying predators? I know I have. The designer says she created it in an effort to make sharks more "cuddly" which is really something I never thought about. Usually, when I think about making a shark more of something, it pretty much culminates with "uninterested in me, personally."

The absolute worst thing about this? Well, it's not that it costs two hundred bucks (which includes shipping) although that's pretty bad in its own right. The worst thing has to be the name.

It's called ... The ChumBuddy.

Ignoring for a second the fact that the name sounds like some sort of elaborate masturbatory device designed for men to use while in the library, it's also completely inaccurate.

Here's my detailed analysis as to why: I've always been led to understand that "chum" is what they call the bucket of bloody fish heads that they throw in the water to lure the sharks in.

This would mean that a "ChumBuddy" would be someone who likes to hang out and watch movies with a bucket of bloody fish heads, and I don't think anybody really wants that, so my conclusion stands. Worst name ever.

At first I thought a better name would be something like "Shark Buddy" but then I got thinking that maybe that's still too "cuddly" and she should really name her product something like "Horrific, Urine-soaked Dreams" or "Your Child's Future Therapy Sessions."

The X's over the eyes look like they were photoshopped in there, but I totally think she should sell a sleep mask like that as a ten dollar accessory.

I'm always giving my ideas away. I can't help myself. It's why I'll never be rich.

5/19/10

Nooks. And Crannies.

My wife bought the Nook e-book reader today. So far, there's been no limit to the entertainment value derived from her constant use of that dirty-sounding name.

"Now Lisa and I can be nook buddies."

"I think there's something wrong with my nook. Can you look at it?"

"I plugged it into my nook, but nothing happened."

"I read something that said nooks can sometimes be a little buggy."

"I'm going in the hot tub, then going upstairs to play with my nook."

And here I thought the iPad was a bad name.

Also, we have a winner in the Double Down Double Dare -- Lindy in Mexico. Go read her blog. She can be pretty damn funny.


Crap. Now I have to write a short story.

I also have a giveaway coming up that's worth $150 bucks, and a story of love in the 6th grade. Stay tuned!

5/11/10

I've got chicken in my beard.

I have a few things to talk about today. After hearing so much about it for so long, I finally saw the commercial for the KFC double-down last night, and it totally reminded me of the "taco town" SNL skit.

For those of you who don't have televisions, here is a picture of the double down:


Two fried chicken breasts, two strips of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and Pepper Jack cheese and the Colonel's "special sauce" whatever that is. I'm sure it's probably just ketchup mixed with mayonnaise or something. I tend to stay far, far away from fast food, but in case anyone is going to actually try this thing, here's the damage:

540 calories, 32 grams of fat and 1,380 milligrams of sodium. If you're feeling particularly health conscious, you can go for the "grilled" version, which only has 460 calories, 23 grams of fat and 1,430 milligrams of sodium. (I am pretty sure I'd have to be dating this girl to be eating that much salt on a regular basis.)

How does the grilled version have more salt? This whole creation really just boggles my mind. Just reading the description practically gives me cramps and makes me want to preemptively run to the bathroom. Anyway, I think someone needs to try one of these asap and report back to me. In fact, if you actually take a picture of yourself eating one and send it to me, I will write a short story about you and post it here.

In other news, I've become instantly 33.3% more evil by shaving my beard into a goatee. (I've also taken to walking around with a flashlight held under my chin at all times to heighten this effect. )

Well, that's not entirely true -- I don't really have the flashlight, and the traditional goatee technically has no mustache part. I have the mustache/goatee combo, so it's probably a variation of a VanDyke, but these days, they've all been genericized so "goatee" pretty much covers it. I'm not sure if I'll keep it yet. It's work, and I don't like work.

So here's how this happened. At various times over the years, friends of mine had them and some still do -- even Yort had one at one time, but people kept asking him about his kung-fu grip, so he shaved it off. I got curious one day, because I didn't really know how to shave one, so I googled it, looking for a template or some detailed instructions. What I found instead was a commercial that cracked my ass up. Seriously, it is better than most of the fake commercials on SNL. I include it here for your viewing pleasure:



If you didn't notice it, watch it again and check the expression on the girl's face at about :58 seconds, right before she walks off the screen. She's thinking "I can't believe I'm doing this." which is saying something coming from an ex-porn star.

Needless to say, I had to have one - if only to get ex-porn stars to fondle me. (Note: that hasn't happened yet) I found the company's website and sent them an e-mail, telling them I ran a somewhat successful humor blog. I offered to review the GoateeSaver if they sent me one, and they went for it. It showed up a few weeks ago, but I didn't have the balls to try it until this past weekend.

As you saw in the video, here's what it looks like from the back:



Basically, you jam it into your mouth and bite down on it, then shave around it. A drunk guy could do it. (Which, incidentally, brings up how I actually had the nerve to try it.)

Also, it has other uses. It would be a good thing to carry around just in case you happened upon someone having an epileptic fit, to keep them from biting their tongue. It totally reminds me of how a scuba-diving regulator feels in your mouth, or that rubber thing they stick in your mouth before they give you electro-shock therapy.

Perhaps I've said too much.

Anyway, I tried it, and the funny thing is, cheesy videos aside, it actually works as advertised.

Well, not so much the part about being instantly fondled from behind by porn chicks, or gaining a douchebag attitude. (I'm thinking those might come later, after extended use.) However, when I was done, I unclenched my jaw and I had a mostly perfect goatee.

It was like a little pet for my face. This thing, as stupid as it may look, is actually great for idiots like me who tend to shave early in the morning when they are half asleep and carve into something they shouldn't. Of course, it's like $20 if you buy one, but still....it saves you time in the morning, and prevents inadvertent hatchet jobs, so maybe it's worth it.

At the very least, now when I'm in a meeting at work, I can stroke my goatee and pretend like I'm deep in thought, formulating my evil plans. Or thinking about the latest e-mail client refresh, which basically amounts to the same thing.

I also found that if I combine it with a black cloak and my ski goggles, I can jack up the evil at least one thousand percent:


You will all address me as Emperor from this moment forward, or there will be consequences.

Don't make me force-choke your asses.




5/9/10

And now for something completely different.

While I'm working on my next post, I wanted to bring your attention to the awesome photos that my friend Mark takes.

I hope you all enjoy seeing the world through his lens as much as I do.



5/5/10

Bones. Teeth. Dinner.

My wife is a big fan of the show "Bones" and I've seen quite a few episodes. Most of the time, the ones I see are in syndication, which means they're aired between 6 and 7 pm. An unfortunate consequence of this timing is that as putrid, maggot-infested flesh is falling off a human skeleton on my television, I am in the process of eating a nice rice and bean burrito covered in salsa, or perhaps some angel hair pasta and marinara.

It's pretty disgusting as crime dramas go, and it makes me very thankful that smell isn't yet one of the senses involved in watching a television show. If it ever does become a component of the entertainment experience, say, like 3D, it would not be a good thing for a show like Bones to include. Or a show like The Biggest Loser, now that I think about it.

Anyway, the last episode of Bones I happened to see is one in which they find a body being tumbled to pieces in an industrial front-loading clothes washer. After they stopped the washer, the pieces continued dropping from the top of the drum with soft "plop, plop" sounds, until a new low was reached and a testicle bounced out onto the floor. I don't think I watched the entire episode, but the whole washing machine bit stuck with me.

A few days later, I was doing a little wash of my own. I took some clothes out of the dryer, and saw what looked like a piece of gum stuck to one of the dryer vanes way in the back. (OK, I admit it. Occasionally, I've been known to forget to take my gum out of my pocket and once in a great while a piece will make it to the dryer and subsequently ruin of bunch of my shit or, god forbid, some article of clothing that my wife purchased for $300.00 an ounce. So I always stick my head in there and give it a look. You know. To hide any evidence.)

I reached up to grab the gum, and it felt a little...harder...than gum would normally be. That's because something was stuck to it:



Yes. An effing TOOTH. I immediately thought of that Bones episode. My tongue went instinctively to my molars. Nope. All there. I checked again, just because I was a little skeeved out.

I stood there, tooth in hand, and tried to think of a reasonable explanation. My wife's 90-year-old grandfather had swallowed one of his own teeth not too long ago, and other shit from bridges to babylon was always falling out of his mouth. Maybe it was one of his.

"Should I call him?" I wondered. "Ask him if he has any new unexplained gaps in his gums that he didn't think were there last week?"

I sent a text to my wife that said, "I feel like I'm in an episode of Bones. I found a fucking TOOTH in the dryer!" My thought here was that maybe she had been carrying around one of her grandfather's teeth that she found under his living room chair or something, and it had made its way into our laundry.

She sent me a text back that said, "Did you lose one?" I did another quick inventory. I couldn't help myself. One of my worst recurring nightmares is one in which my teeth fall out. Nope. No gaps. Where the hell did this tooth come from? I didn't remember killing a drifter.

Then I looked down at the pile of clothes that I had pulled out of the dryer and saw what I refer to as my "camping pants." They are 100% cotton, desert camo BDU pants that I pick up at the surplus store. I have a few pairs, because they're light, cut generously in the "crotchal area" for climbing, and -- they have lots of pockets.

Then it hit me. About 8 or ten months ago, I had been walking through the woods and found an ancient, bleached-white deer skull, and the teeth had been falling out. I remembered picking out a nice one and thinking that it would be the basis for a fine practical joke.

I know. I totally deserved it.


4/29/10

Mexico: Part VI - Please let us out of your country.

OK, so this is it. My last vacation post, until I go on vacation again. I can hear the cheering from here. I always think "I'll try to make this quick," but it never is. You all know that by now.

On our first night in Mexico, I turned to my wife and said, "I want to get up really early one day this week and watch the sun come up down on the beach." My wife agreed. I think she had the same thought I did -- that it would be romantic to watch the sun come up together. Just the two of us, a gentle breeze, the waves crashing onto a deserted beach, watching the sun rise and thinking about how great it is to be alive. It sounded wonderful.

On our last night in Mexico, we still hadn't gotten around to it. I swore that nothing would prevent me from getting to see the sunrise the next morning. "We *have* to do it," I said, "How often do you get to see the sun come up over a beautiful white-sand beach in the tropics?"

Not often enough, that's for sure.

When the birds woke me up, for once I was glad of it. It was 5:40 am and still mostly dark. In all my other attempts that week to get up before the sun, I had been spectacularly unsuccessful due to my lack of ambition and overall hatred of mornings in general.

Here is the reason for my hatred: During a normal work-week, I am at my desk by 6 am every day. This sad state of affairs necessitates that I actually get out of bed at precisely 4:17 am so that I can be barreling down a pothole-blasted highway shortly thereafter, surrounded by dangerously weaving 18-wheelers driven by meth-addled Canadian truckers who haven't slept in 48 hours. Most of the time, I can't remember how I got to work. I think it's safe to say I hate morning like Batman hates injustice, or like Jessica Simpson hates having clean teeth.

The upshot of this early morning hatred is that If I'm on vacation for any length of time, I tend to "drift" until I am consistently going to bed at 2:00 or 3:00 am and waking up around 11. So basically, every day of my existence that I am not on vacation is a fight against my normal circadian rhythms. To fight these rhythms while on vacation took an extreme force of will, however I was determined to get at least one sunrise picture for posterity.

I knew sunrise was at 6:05 am, so I stumbled out of bed and threw on my shorts and sandals. I leaned over and said to my wife, "I'm going down to the beach to watch the sunrise. Are you coming?" She answered me with with a low groan and a muffled string of words that I think may have been, "No....and kill those fucking birds." When she put the pillow over her head, I figured I was on my own.

I grabbed my camera and my room key and let myself out quietly, and walked toward the beach. Other than the birds and the occasional dropping coconut, I had the resort to myself.

The beach, however, was a different story. When I walked up and over the last dune, I saw something like that scene in "City of Angels" where all the angels come out to see the sunrise:


It turns out that watching a sunrise is a pretty popular thing to do.

I sat down on the edge of a chair, and got my camera ready. I scoped out some possible shots that I wanted to get, and figured I'd have to wait for the sun to come fully off the water, since there weren't many clouds in the sky.

I wasn't really paying attention to anything except the time and the sun and my camera equipment -- when suddenly, I had a very surreal moment.

There were probably 5 couples on the beach near me, and my sleep addled brain suddenly put the entire picture together. It finally dawned on me that every single one of them were male.

I mean, I don't care one way or another what someones sexual preference is, but right at that moment, I realized how very much I was not a gay couple. I felt a little awkward, like I didn't get the memo that Monday morning sunrises are the gay ones. Everyone around me was snuggling under beach towels or holding hands, and here I was, standing by myself with my camera. I felt like everyone was looking at me and thinking, "Camera-geek-with-sleepy-wife sunrises are on Thursday, you moron." I know that in reality they weren't giving me a second thought, but that's the way my brain works, even before coffee. Most everyone ignored me, except for one guy who had an awesome gray pompadour and about two-dozen different-sized blue circle tattoos all over his body. We had noticed him and his significant other a few times at breakfast, and wondered whether there was meaning behind his tattoos, or whether he just liked circles. We nodded recognition at each other as I walked toward the water to get my picture.

When I let myself back into the room, my wife was almost fully awake and packing our suitcases. "How was it?" she asked. "It was really pretty. And kinda gay," I said. "It was me and about a dozen gay guys." I told her the story and she laughed at me in disbelief. She wasn't laughing because she didn't believe my story. She was laughing because she didn't believe I could have been so completely oblivious all week. "You didn't notice that there are tons of gay guys staying here this week?" she asked. I honestly hadn't noticed, but it did sort of explain the inordinate number of neon-yellow banana hammocks I had seen. And here I thought they were all just French and in really good shape.

Unfortunately, our flight was leaving Cancun at a little after noon, and our shuttle was picking us up at 9, so we had about two and a half hours to finish packing, grab some breakfast and get our bags out to the lobby. We were sad to be leaving. We actually got the lobby early, and I dropped off a tip and a bottle of rum for the concierge, and thanked him for setting the dolphin thing up for us. I got more pesos and ran back to the room to leave the housekeeper a tip and met her as she was coming down the stairs. I thanked her for the cool towel animals and tipped her for all the crappy toilet paper she had to deal with during the week.

I got back to the lobby just in time for the fight. There was a crazy southern lady with big, hard blonde hair screaming at the concierge and a taxi driver, because she wanted to go to 5th avenue and the cabbie was telling her it was 50 pesos. "IT'S NOT 50 PESOS!" she screamed. "IT'S 35 PESOS! YOU'RE A CROOK! YOU'RE TRYING TO RIP ME OFF! She then turned toward everyone else in the lobby, as if for moral support. "HE'S A CROOK, EVERYONE! HE'S TRYING TO OVERCHARGE ME! Her poor husband was just looking at the ground, and her teenage children were walking down the street just to get away from her as she went into a full blown tirade. "THAT'S WHAT THEY DO DOWN HERE! THAT'S WHAT THEY ALLLLLL DO! THEY STEAL FROM YOU! THEY OVERCHARGE YOU FOR EVERYTHING!" The cabbie was trying to talk her down, but she was already in the street waving down another cab. She stuck her head inside the window of the new cab for a second, and then triumphantly screamed, "HE'S ONLY CHARGING 35 PESOS! HE'S NOT TRYING TO RIP ME OFF LIKE YOU! KIDS? KIDS! GET OVER HERE. GET IN THIS CAB THIS INSTANT!" I hate to think of the thousands of dollars of therapy her kids are going to need later in their lives.

She finally left, and I just looked at the concierge and shook my head. "Wow," I said. He laughed and said, "Nice way to start a relaxing vacation, right?" It takes all kinds, I guess. I wish there were more of some kinds and less of others, but there's not much I can do as just one guy.

I still don't get what her big issue was. She was willing to look like a total ass in front of half a dozen people, all over approximately 2 bucks. I figure that if you know it's 35 pesos and the cabbie is over-charging you and telling you it's 50, you take the ride, and just give him his 50. If he charges you 35, you're going to tip him and most likely give him 50 pesos anyway, so what's the big deal? Either way, you're out the same amount of cash, you get a nice ride in a spotless, air-conditioned car, and you don't have to walk to your destination or look like a crazy douchenozzle. Totally worth it.

Our shuttle ride to the airport was uneventful, however when we got there, the lines were out of control. If we thought flying into Cancun was bad, it was nothing compared to flying out. We stood ourselves in the USAir line, and after about 30 minutes we had moved about ten feet. People in line were were talking to newly arrived folks and other people were making cellphone calls trying to figure out what might be going on. Eventually, it was determined that there might be a "slight problem" with our flight out of Cancun. After checking around, we discovered that the plane we were supposed to be boarding in an hour was still sitting in Philly, because it was - to use an aeronautical engineering term - fucked up somehow. They weren't really sure what was wrong with it, however they assured us that they would have a plane there soon. On the screen, our flight went from DELAYED to CLOSED. Nobody seemed to know what "CLOSED" meant. We knew it wasn't the same as "CANCELED" and it certainly wasn't the same as "DELAYED" or even "FUCKED UP" and we didn't know how to interpret it. "Great," I thought. "I hope we don't miss our connecting flight." We finally got to the front of the line, and by then all hell had broken loose. We were soon to find out why.

"There are not flights," the nice lady said, looking at our boarding passes.

"Excuse me?" I replied. "What do you mean? Are you saying we're stuck here forever?"

"No, there ees no planes here to where you are going," she said. "There are not flights."

"Can't you get us on a different flight? A different airline, maybe? Fly us into a different hub? Something?"

"No. There ees no planes from Feely to Albeeny. No planes in Bostone, no planes in Boofeelo. First flight is at 10 am tomorrow morning from Feely." She paused, then said, "Do you want to go to Boofeelo?"

"No," I said. "Buffalo is over 5 hours from Albany. So is Philly. Either way, I'd have to rent a car and basically drive until morning."

"The flight to Feely leaves in 3 hours, you want?"

I said yes.

She wasn't done. She had more good news.

"Your bag ees 6 pounds overweight. That weel be fifty-two dollars U.S., please. Which credit card weel you be using?"

By this time, my sense of humor was almost gone. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You're telling me that you can't get me home until Tuesday afternoon, I have to take an extra day off from work, and you're going to charge me fifty two bucks for the privilege of this screwing?"

"Yes. Or you can take some tings out of your bags." And it was exactly at this moment that I overheard the guy working the next counter say to the gentleman at the front of his line, "Your bag is five pounds overweight, but don't worry about it" as he tossed it on the conveyor behind him.

Our girl heard him too, but she wasn't backing down. In retrospect I should have just taken all my dirty underwear and socks out of the suitcase and dumped them on the counter, and even though it wouldn't have been even close to seven pounds, it would have made me feel better. But I remembered where I was, and I'm too pretty for Mexican prison, so I pulled out the plastic and took my corn cob reaming like a man.

Next came security. I sailed right through, but my wife's purse got snagged for some extra lovin'. A sour looking, 5 foot tall Mexican gentleman grabbed it and dumped it all over the counter and proceeded to paw through the contents. He opened lipsticks and creams, felt up tampons and finally, in triumph, as if he had found a 9mm Glock sewed into a secret compartment, held up her deadly crochet hook. He confiscated it, then looked at her and yelled "FIRE!" She had no idea why he was yelling "Fire" at her, and he continued to get more agitated when she didn't understand. "FIRE! FIRE!" he yelled. Then, to make sure his point was well understood, he yelled "FIRE!," once more. Then he started rubbing one latex-gloved index finger furiously over the other. My wife was getting flustered, because she still had no idea what he wanted her to do. Should she start a fire? She didn't know. Finally, it dawned on me. "He wants to know if you have a lighter or matches on you." I said. "Or maybe two sticks that you plan to rub together," I added.

She told him no, she didn't have a lighter, and he picked up her stuff and jammed it all back into her purse. He pushed it down the line and dismissively waved her away. He was not a man who enjoyed his job.

Finally, we reached our gate. While we were waiting for our flight, we were treated to a constant barrage of F-bombs from a corn-rowed, bleach-blonde, white trash chick. Maybe it's not PC for me to say so, but in my experience, if you see bleached cornrows and Lee press-on nails on a white chick, 9 times out of ten you know what to expect. She would not shut up with her bitching, and all she could talk about was how she wanted to get home to her "fucking kid." Then she had a phone conversation with someone I can only presume to be either the father of her child, or more likely, her current boyfriend whereupon she called him a "fucking asshole" no less than 20 times. I weep for her child. I really do.

After sitting there through two more delays, we were finally loaded onto a ginormous plane around 7 pm. With the daylight savings time change thrown in, we'd hit Philly around 11pm. It turns out that the reason the plane was so large was because it was hijacked from another flight that was supposed to go to St. Maarten, but was subsequently canceled. I have no idea why. Probably to avoid the impending riot of pissed off Philly residents.

Luckily for us, F-Bomb Cornrow sat right behind us on the plane, because the gods of aviation like to screw with me whenever they can. Since she wasn't with anyone else, she thankfully didn't say much, although she really should learn how to cough and sneeze with her mouth covered.

We landed in Philly at 11pm. By chance, I happened to notice someone sitting at a card table in the hallway, a bunch of what looked like boarding passes spread out in front of her. This was the voucher lady, although there were no signs to indicate that. I walked up to the table, and she asked me my name. I gave it to her and she handed us two food vouchers good for ten dollars, and the phone number of the shuttle that picks up every 30 minutes and brings you to the shitty airport motel. We had just missed it. We waited in another line to try to get some sweaty faced, pedophile-looking mole man to approve an extra ten dollars for food because we were not planning on eating out of the vending machine. There were 3 people in front of us in line, and the group he was dealing with when we first got there was trying to get upgraded to the Hilton. It was taking forever, not only because the airline didn't want to upgrade him, but also because he typed with one finger. Not one finger on each hand, but one fucking finger. I wanted to kill everyone. At that moment, I fully understood the mindset of the guy who flew his airplane into the side of the IRS building.

Finally, after waiting another 45 minutes for the shuttle, we were in our hotel. We checked in, and asked the guy at the front desk about using the food vouchers. "We don't have a restaurant or room service at this hotel," he said. I laughed. Apparently, our only option was to walk across the parking lot in the rain, and eat at the bar in the other hotel before it closed in 15 minutes. So we did. We sat down and immediately ordered two grey goose dirty martinis, and a couple of chicken burgers. When we got the bill, we found out that the martinis were $19 dollars each, and we didn't even care. Oh, and it turns out that you can't use vouchers for alcohol.

We slept. We got bit by tiny things. We woke. We scratched. We flew to Albany.

When we got off the plane at the Albany Airport, my wife immediately ran to the bathroom because her bladder was about to burst.

Unfortunately, the bathroom she ran to was the men's bathroom, and she was inadvertently treated to some early morning Albany penis.

And with that, my friends, our vacation was officially over. Thanks for hanging in there with me.


4/23/10

Not exactly what I expected.



This article surprised me. Mostly because they're introducing a new character.

My money would have been on Jughead coming out of the closet. Although come to think of it, I probably wasn't the only kid out there hoping for Betty and Veronica to hook up.

The whole article reminded me of this old Betty and Me comic:



Ah, simpler times. Have a great weekend, everyone!


4/19/10

Mexico: Part V: Day of the Dolphins

On the 4th day of our vacation, the rocket birds woke us up at dawn, as usual. This time we had the added bonus of coconuts falling from the trees onto the sidewalk and busting open. When they hit, they made a sound like someone popping a paper bag. It took us a while to figure out what it was --we kept hearing this THOCK! sound, but until we actually saw one fall and hit, we had no idea. I thought we had picked up some douchebag neighbors who were cleaning their sandals by slapping them together or something.
Since we were already awake, we decided on the spur of the moment to see if we could arrange a dolphin swim for later in the day. After being emboldened by snorkeling in a cenote the day before, my wife figured that she would probably be OK swimming with the dolphins as long as she had a life preserver, and as long as there was nothing in the water that could eat her. We went to the lobby and looked at some brochures, and there was one dolphin swim at a place called Delphinus World at XCaret that looked really nice. The water in the brochure was sapphire blue, the dolphins in the photos were clearly chosen for their movie-star good looks, and everything about the place looked new. When we brought the flyer over to our concierge, he pulled out his activities book, and started giving us available days and times for Dolphin Discovery, which was a completely different place. Apparently, the Dolphin Discovery shuttle picked up at our hotel and the other place didn't have one, so if we went to Dolphin Discovery, there would be no taxis required. The price was about the same, maybe even a little cheaper, and we figured that dolphins were dolphins, so how bad could it be? Plus, we had seen a friend's pictures when she went to Dolphin Discovery in the British Isles and the place looked nice.
We booked our trip for later that afternoon, and went and had some breakfast, then hung out on the beach. After lunch, we went down to the lobby to wait for our transportation. When the shuttle bus finally showed up, it was full of people who had already been riding around for an hour, since our hotel was at the end of the line. They were all complaining because they had to cover all the same ground twice, since our hotel was in the complete opposite direction from where we all needed to be. I immediately knew that our ride home was going to suck, because we had to drop all those other people off first. On the plus side, we'd get to see about 5 different resorts.
The other folks on the bus were all from either the US or Canada, and everyone was actually really friendly. Nobody on board had ever done a dolphin swim before and we were all excited. It was the first visit to Mexico for all of us, and my wife and I were the only ones not staying at one of the "All Inclusive" resorts. We got on the subject of how it seemed like the hotels went out of their way to avoid serving Mexican food, and how we all thought that was weird. Even at our hotel, which wasn't strictly considered AI, they had "Italian Night." We decide to try it, and it was every bit as bad as it had sounded like it would be. Asking a Mexican chef to cook Italian dishes is like asking Matthew McConaughey to leave his shirt on for an entire movie. He'll try to do it, and his intentions will be good - but he will most likely fail.
There was an Indian guy on the shuttle sitting behind us with his wife and daughter. They were from Canada, but he still had a pretty heavy accent and she was wearing a traditional head scarf and not saying much. He was friendly and talkative though, and after the "no Mexican food" conversation, he asked us if we had any good restaurant recommendations. My wife piped up and said, "If you like steak, there's a really great steak house right down the street from our hotel. We ate there last night and it was awesome." He did a little head-shake and said, "Ummmm, I am...not so much into steak." I don't know if he was Hindu or not, but even before the last syllable of the word "steak" hit her ears, she remembered the whole "I try not to eat animals that are sacred to me" thing. Oops.
He was telling us all about how he not only got suckered into attending a time-share presentation at his resort, but he got badgered into actually buying one. They had somehow managed to get him to cough up close to 20 grand, and he had a serious case of buyer's remorse itching in his trousers. He was asking everyone on the bus what their opinions were of the whole timeshare concept. He told us that he always got ripped off no matter what he tried to buy, and he seemed resigned to the high probability that the whole thing would turn out to be a complete clusterfuck. "I will probably lose all my money," he said a little wistfully, as if in his head it was already gone.
When we finally pulled up to the Dolphin Discovery place, it was kind of...well, how do I put this delicately? It was a shit hole. It was very run down, and there was a lot of half-finished construction going on. Or rather, not going on, because there didn't seem to be any actual workers. Just piles of bricks and cinderblocks and plywood. I wasn't even off the bus and I already felt sorry for the ghetto dolphins that lived there.
Inside it wasn't actually that horrible. It wasn't exactly nice, but compared to the parking lot and entrance, it was fairly well kept. They have it planned out for maximum tourist consumption. First, they make you walk past all the shops and restaurants to get your tickets. Once you get your tickets, you walk almost all the way back to the parking lot to where the lockers are, once more passing all the shops and restaurants and bars. You go into the "changing shack" and put your suit on, and then stuff everything else into a locker. When you're good to go, they size you up for a life preserver. The life preservers had seen better days, and looked like they had been gnawed on by sea beavers. My wife's was shredded so badly I could see the layers of foam inside.
After you're fitted up, they escort you past all the shops (one more time) to the prep area. The first thing you have to do is watch a video. The video is supposed to tell you what a fun time you are going to have, and it goes through all of the hand signals you have to remember in order to maximize your interactive experience. Since I have the attention span of a weasel on meth, the whole time the video was running, I was busy looking around for dolphins. From where I was sitting I could see two of them through an opening in the brush, just hanging out in this little pool. They were just sitting there next to each other, puffing out of their blowholes and treading water in one spot. They looked like two bus boys who had ducked out behind the restaurant to share a quick joint and talk about how much the customers suck.
After the video, we got ushered out to the actual "Dolphin Area," and we could see 3 dolphins swimming around, chasing each other in the water. Speaking of the water -- it wasn't what I expected. In the brochure, it's clear pale blue and it looks like you're in a natural cove. This was not a natural cove by any stretch of the imagination. I assumed it would be more or less open to the ocean, since -- hey, it's right there, but no. Instead it more closely resembled an algae covered wharf in Jersey. I had been spoiled by the clear aquamarine surf and white sand beach next to our hotel, and this water was greenish and smelled like dead fish. The trainer was already in the water, standing waist deep on a ledge, and she clearly wanted to get the show on the road. She beckoned to us, so we bit the bullet and walked down the stairs and onto the slimy submerged walkway.
This was the first part of our "interaction" and since there were only four of us in our group, it went pretty quickly. There were three dolphins -- one 4 year old, one 12 year old, and one baby. The baby wasn't trained yet, so it wasn't involved much. The dolphins swam by and you got to run your hands over their backs and stomachs. They feel very smooth, but not really slimy at all, which surprised me. It felt kind of like an inner tube full of meat. First on the list was the "Dolphin Kiss." They don't really have much in the way of lips, so it was more of a "Dolphin Face Nudge." Basically, you had to cross your hands over each other palms up, the dolphin would put her head in your hands and lean up to your cheek while you hammed it up for the camera. I was making up Prince lyrics in my head:
U don't have 2 be bottlenose 2 turn me on

I just need your blowhole, baby, from dusk till dawn 

U don't need sardines 2 turn me out 

U just leave it 2 me, I'm gonna show U what it's all about


U don't have 2 eat fish 2 be my girl 

U don't have 2 be cool 2 rule seaworld
Ain't no particular fin I'm more compatible with
I just want your extra fish and your . . . . . kiss
Of course, like we all do, the dolphins expect to be rewarded for doing things right. The reward, in this case, came out of a disgusting fanny pack full of dead fish that the instructor had strapped to her waist. You know how wonderful spring lilacs smell when you get a whiff of them unexpectedly? This was the opposite of that. There was a greasy sheen on the water around the fanny pack, and every once in a while, you'd catch a whiff and it would remind you of what you were swimming around in.
The next thing they had you do was swim out about 30 feet into the middle of the pool and hold out your left arm. The dolphin then swam under you and flipped over, allowing you to grab her fins. As soon as you had a good grip, she took off across the pool, swimming upside down and towing you through the water. I kept waiting to get her fluke* smashed into my crotch, but it didn't happen. It was actually pretty amazing, and it gave you a good idea of how strong they actually are.
Last on our list of activities was something called the "boogie board foot push" which involved laying on a boogie board with your feet and knees in a locked position while the dolphin stuck her nose in your foot arch and proceeded to try to ram your foot-bones through your spine. They warned you over and over to keep your knees locked, your leg muscles tightened, and your feet pointing down. If you did this, the dolphin would push you across the pool at roughly 20 miles per hour. If you did not do this, then you ran the risk of having a dolphin nose shoved up your blowhole at roughly the same speed. Trust me, my muscles were so tight you could have bounced cinderblocks off my ass.
After that, you get to dance with the dolphins a bit, they do some additional tricks and then it's all over but the high pressure sales pitch to buy the pictures and DVD set. On the way back, they shuffle you into a room where you have to watch your video. Ours wasn't too good because we had gone later in the afternoon and the sun was getting low. This meant that most of the video was in silhouette and pretty poor quality, and they somehow managed to miss the upside-down fin-swim completely. After the video, you are shuffled off to the picture counter to look at the final prints.
Like most everything else in Mexico, there is the price and then there is "the real price." We actually did like two of the pictures, but we thought they were too expensive so we were going to just say no and leave them there. We watched the price go from $100, to $80 to $60 for the entire package, and then when we still turned that down, they started breaking things out into single items. Eventually, the deal became too good to refuse and we ended up buying a couple of 8x10's for about 25 bucks.
After that, we changed back into our clothes and met the rest of the crew for the return trip. We swapped pictures and stories, and someone brought up the variable pricing scheme that seemed to be in effect. The discounts ranged from about 35% to 70%, depending upon how hard you bargained. Of course, the only person who paid full price was the poor Indian guy. He just shook his head in disbelief and didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
After the grueling ride to five other resorts, I can honestly say that I liked ours better. The others were nice, but they had a very "corporate" feel to them. There was something a little stepford-y about them; they seemed soulless. As we were driving past all these fancy buildings, I remember thinking, "I'll bet you a month's pay that the people staying here aren't putting their crap into wastebaskets."
So that was our adventure for the day. They were beautiful, intelligent creatures and I'm glad we took advantage of the opportunity. I would highly recommend meeting a dolphin at least once in your life. But not like this. Warning: That link is probably not safe for work. Or anyone, anywhere. There are no pictures, just text, but the URL may get you into trouble. You will learn...things....that are better off remaining unlearned. Don't say I didn't warn you.
PS - I got this in my bag of chips:
It haunts me.
*I wanted to use the correct term and not say "tail" so I looked up "dolphin physiology" and ended up on the page in that link. In retrospect, I should have just said "tail."
PPS - Who has Prince stuck in their heads now?

4/13/10

Mexico: Part IV: Tulum is owned by lizards.

First, let me mention our housekeeper. She was awesome, and every day we'd come back from the beach and have a new "towel animal" on the bed. This one was a little confusing to me because it had the head of a rabbit and the body of Rosie O'Donnell:



I thought this one was actually quite impressive:



On the last day, she went all out and we came back to this:



I didn't know whether to dry myself off with it, hump it, or run away from it. I think it was supposed to be a mermaid, so the rules of mermaid/man interaction state that I am required to hump it, and it was looking at me kind of suggestively. On the other hand, I could also picture myself waking up at 3am to find it hovering over my bed, waving its towelly appendages and trying to latch itself onto my face like a giant palapa bug. It was touch and go for a while, and then I remembered I was on a romantic vacation with my wife so I did the honorable thing and just had a threesome.

Our Tulum trip was set up by a place called Yucatreks, and our guide, Mitch, was an ex-pat from Seattle. He was a cool dude, and it was sort of like being led around Mexico by Trey Anastasio in a safari hat, only with a slightly thinner coating of bong resin. Our tour was going to include the ruins, snorkeling at two cenotes, and lunch on the beach. All in all, a full day.

We hit the road for the hour trip, and tried to buy ice at three different places. Apparently ice is hard to come by on the road to Tulum. The day was windy as hell, so it was probably a good day to wander around the ruins without passing out from the heat, but a bad day for just about anything else, including eating off paper plates on the beach. Here's a shot of a temple from one of my favorite vantage points:



It was truly beautiful, and I can totally see the Mayans' thought process here. They were probably just wandering around in the jungle, getting eaten alive by insects the size of ring-tailed lemurs, when suddenly they came out on this cliff overlooking the beach and started high-fiving each other and yelling, "FUCK, YEAH!!" Or maybe that was just me.

Apart from the ruins, the other interesting thing was that March is apparently iguana mating season. I've seen iguanas in pet stores, and these were NOT the same thing. For one, these are very, very large, and very, very angry, and they were fighting over the wimminz. Also, they seem to have decided that since the Mayans moved out, the place was up for grabs. They were on the top of the food chain and they made sure you knew it:



They didn't just sit there as Master of All They Survey, either. They'd do violent push ups on whatever they were on top of (rock, ancient temple, female iguana, etc.) and the males would get into these slow-motion fights that would involve latching onto each other's necks and pushing with their legs until one of them got flipped over. Then the winner would just keep the loser there until he cried "Uncle!" in iguana-ese or something, then he'd let him up. This would normally take upwards of five minutes, and by that time the female iguana was shaking her iguana ass in front of a different male. It was like watching two drunk guys in a bar fighting over a girl they didn't know was a hooker.

When they're not humping or fighting, they can really move. I always thought of iguanas as being slow, but they can run like a bitch if they want to.

When we got to the ruins themselves, Mitch hired a local guide who looked like Carlos Santana to give us the rundown. He knew a lot, but his English wasn't so hot, so he was hard to pay attention to. Or maybe it's just because I have a short attention span. We followed him from place to place, and I pretty much tuned him out and just looked at the ruins and the lizards. I saw one giant bastard about a hundred feet away, trying to mount this female and she was having none of it. She'd move away, he'd follow, then she'd move away again.

Finally, she had enough and took off in a full-speed, high-steppin' nose-in-the-air run, right toward our group. The giant male was right on her ass, and nobody but me noticed it because they were all listening to Carlos. We were walking slowly down this open path, and my wife and I were straggling a little bit behind the rest of the group. The female iguana tore ass across the path about ten feet in front of my wife and she didn't even notice, because she was looking the other way. The male, sensing he was going to be out-run by his conquest, just ignored our presence and continued running at full speed until it was almost too late. He didn't stop until he nearly collided with my wife's legs.

She noticed that, let me tell you. She jumped out of the way and let out a little scream, and the iguana just stood there hissing at her, mouth open and head bobbing up and down. Since my wife had never cock-blocked a horny iguana before, she decided to very quickly move in another direction. I stuck around for a second or two in order to (very carefully) take his picture:



He was not pleased.

Next on our list of things to do was to snorkel in some cenotes. Since my wife can't really swim, we weren't sure how this was going to go, but she did OK. They gave her a life preserver and we saw some freshwater fish and a shitload of bats. I tried not to think about the fact that everyone always says "don't drink the water," yet here we were snorkeling in it. I also tried not to think about the fact that I had my face in water that was filled with bat shit and the accumulated urine of thousands of foreign tourist-children, but it didn't really do any good. I just resigned myself to living with whatever festering pestilence was going to take root in my body.

The oddest thing to me was that I expected the cenotes to be off in the jungle or something. Instead, they were right off the main road, and had sort of a "roadside attraction" feel to them. The water was pretty damned cold too, so I didn't stay in long. At the second one, you could actually jump off a bit of a cliff into the water. I did this once, just to say I did. This picture captures the exact second my balls shrunk to the size of marbles and snapped up into my esophagus:


Lunch on the beach was fantastic -- the area of the beach we were on was pretty remote and we were the only ones there. The food was local takeout, and it was damn tasty. Mitch cut up fresh avocado and made some guacamole, and then unpacked roast chicken and potatoes and rice and beans, and a bunch of fresh fruit. We ate, had a couple of beers, then hit the road again. It was simple, but it hit the spot after a day of walking around and swimming.

My next post will be about our swim with the dolphins. Well, the dolphins didn't really have much say in the matter, so whether they actually wanted to swim with us was kind of irrelevant, but they did as they were told. Also, they are little whores for dead fish.

For those of you still with me, I'll try to wrap this vacation thing up soon. Maybe one more post about the dolphins, another post about the USAir corncob reaming on the way home, and we'll be done. At this point, it's probably like being forced to watch a slide show of your uncle Mort's trip to the grand canyon or something.



Peace out.

Unfortunate.