Flashback To Tulum

I recently attended my grandmother's funeral where a number of family and friends paid their respects. It was a traditional Catholic funeral and I was sitting at the end of the pew along the side of the church's western wall. I was not paying close attention during the communion portion of the ceremony when a passing woman gently touched my shoulder after receiving her wafer. I recognized her immediately as Bobby, my parents' friend, who joined us with her husband, Tom, in Tulum for the final week of our family trip to Mexico last Fall. After the service, she approached my family and we caught up after not seeing one another for almost a year. Tom and I got along famously during our trip, bonding via our travel experiences and our insatiable love of alcohol. Tom is a little bit of a retired Carribbean pirate and unabashedly stirs the pot at every twist and turn. Needless to say, I LOVE IT. For example, in Mexico he would often sneak up on me in the morning and spike my grapefruit with tequila, which honestly, was much appreciated considering how consistently hung over I was day after day. I didn't appreciate his allusions to having sex with this 60 year old wife, however. Barf.

Seizing the opportunity to have a sanctioned, saucy night admidst my parents, I railroaded a dinner party for this upcoming Saturday at Tom and Bobby's cabin in the woods near our house. As a sidenote, I was anxious to see Tom's completed wine cellar in his finished basement that supposedly has a Tuscan theme. I can always anticipate having a good time crushing drinks with Tom. However, the subject of this entry is dedicated to an idiotic exchange Tom had with an Italian waiter in a Italian eatery in Tulum. Charlie can attest to this one:

One night in Tulum we were in modest Italian restaurant, which had excellent wood-fired pizza. We had been there a couple nights before and had made an impression with the staff. Tom had been boisterous the time prior and it filtered down to Charlie, myself and even my mother. To preface what would occur that night, Tom is a New Yorker and has lived in Central America and the Carribbean and fashions himself to be somewhat of a linguistic rennaissance man. My mother rolls her eyes when he claims to speak Spanish and Italian. She thinks it's embarrassing because she actually does speak Spanish and finds his intermittent Spanish vocabulary buttressed by grunts and English disrespectful as a whole. Once again, as with everything involving Tom, I find it fucking hilarious.

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That night at dinner, it was my parents, Tom, Charlie and I. We had ordered some pizzas to our table and were waiting. Tom, seeking to stir the pot, beckons (in a slightly ridiculous accent) to the Italian waiter (who has already established he speaks English fluently):

Tom: Garcone! - Garcone! (French, obviously)

(The waiter approaches)

Waiter: Yes, sir. (Slightly perturbed for being pegged as French)

Tom: The PIZZA! (Italian, I guess). Does it have QUESO?! (Spanish) The MOZZARELLA ?! (Italian, once again with a ridiculous double-hand gesticulation)

(Waiter is looking at Tom quizzically wondering if he really is this much of a dumbass).

Waiter: Yes, there is cheese on the pizza. (in the classic understated I-need-to-get-back-to-work-dumbass way that only servers can do)

Tom: Oh. Ok. Thanks...I can't wait to have some pizza. It's really good.

(Waiter then leaves and Tom looks at his plate)
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Charlie and I during this exchange had our hands over our mouths, trying not to laugh or embarrass the waiter. Upon receiving his confirmation or dismissal that there was in fact cheese on the pizza, Tom surprisingly didn't appeared to be very embarrassed. He just moved on from it. Amazing. Wait, amazingly stupid. Charlie and I have had joke fodder for months, accentuating the exchange, taking it to new heights. I hope it's not too much of an inside joke.

True Calling

I had something weird happen to me this morning that I am sorting through. After doing my initial morning job search on the information supernetwork highway, I turned on the TV for some much-needed background noise. The TV happened to already be on ESPN, and some meaningless sports-blather sounded more appealing than the cable news network hellfire these days. The World Baseball Classic was on. The WBC is basically the baseball Olympics, held every two years, and is comprised of teams from the Americas, Asia, and a smattering of Europe and Oceana. Japan and Korea happend to be playing. Besides watching some excellent baseball, I had a very odd observation about myself. At one point, I noted how strange it was for me to watch all-Asian baseball because I maybe know two players. Then, I looked down and I was wearing a Chairman Mao shirt my buddy brought back for me from Hong Kong. It's important to note that I am not a Maoist or admire the Chairman. The shirt fits really well and is comfortable. So, I laughed at myself thinking how ridiculous it was to watch Japan v. Korea on a Magnavox, while wearing a Mao shirt. But the kicker was when I saw the left over Thai food I was eating at my desk, next to my Toshiba laptop. By the way, I checked my underwear; it's from Nam. At that moment, I was never more pan-Asian. Mainland China, Japan, the Korean Peninsula, and Southeast Asia were all accounted for. What the hell?

Great Idea for a Website

Following the same vein of my previous post, my buddy Vince passed this link to me and only two words can be used to describe it: A Mazing! Click on each picture to get to the next. My personal favorite is above. So ridiculous...

www.badpaintingsofbarackobama.com.

Belated Obamania

****I would like to preface this post with a preemptive apology to immediately blogging about Barack Obama. However, I can assure you that it lacks the substantive qualities to make it nothing more than mildly entertaining.****

After spending the most heated months of this past 2008 election season in Mexico, I missed Obamania at its apex. Rather than being bombarded by Shepard Fairey's famous, and now highly disputed, rendering of President Obama, or images of supporters turned teenie boppers that appeared to be attending an Elvis concert, I had the internet and the occasional student(s) who had caught the "si se puede" international enthusiasm. Unfortunately, returning in late-November the immense amount of hope the public had was inevitably tempred by the enormous task our country faced. Yet, throughout it all, Obama merchandise never skipped a beat. We have all read the stories about the Obama economy and how he propogated a boom in Obama-related merchandise. Of course, shirts, hats, bumper stickers, art, etc., were all donned by supporters across the country. I have come across a couple gems recently that I wanted to share....

This first piece of Obama swag hangs above my desk in my room. This is how I acquired this gem. I went to one of the dollar stores on Divisadero about two months ago to buy some odds and ends. Hoping to save a little dough, I bought some of the more mainstream, reliable products. At the register I came across some 2009 Obama calendars, with one in particular catching my eye. As you can see, it's rectangular and has small pictures of Bob Marley, Cesar Chavez, Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, the King Family, and Colin Powell across the top. Quite a cast--I would like to get all them in a room (to talk). Below the superfriends is the entire Obama family, posing perfectly with a giant presidential seal in the background. It's the most goddamn beautiful thing ever. At the bottom of the pic, it says "Barack (in cursive) Obama (in block lettering). and below the block lettering reads, "And the 1st Family." I can only imagine the amazing sitcom intro music playing as they took this shot. And of course, the calendar poster is colored like a mai tai. It's amazing. Something tells me that Quincey Jones had a hand in this. I don't why. Maybe it's because I know his scent. Picture below-not of Quincey.

The other Obamania encounter I had recently is possibly the only thing that trumps my coveted poster calendar. There is a plaaaace deeeeeep in the Fillmoooore...kidding. Charlie's Pharmacy is at Fillmore and Golden Gate. It's a pharmacy in the traditional sense: it doesn't have meds you may need or want, but you can buy cigarettes, diapers, candy and motor oil. The essentials. If it's raining they have their share of skittle-colored umbrellas, too. But the real draw of Charlie's Pharmacy is the back counter, where the liquor is sold. Run by a large, swarthy (not a racist term; look it up) man, who doesn't seem to be Charlie, it's not one of the more comfortable counter-approach experiences.

If you don't succumb to the initial intimdiation, you will see a large menu hanging above the counter with various drink concoctions I commonly refer to as "crunk juice." You request your drink and they give you a brown bag with all the ingredients in air-plane size booze bottles. You can request a styrofoam cup with cap and straw for more covert street/stoop drinking, although ice is essential in my mind. A single crunk juice will run you anywhere from $6-12 depending if you're mixing the good stuff, and the clandestine drinking paraphenalia is all part of the service.

One of about 15 crunk juices is the "Gettin' Hyphy," which is a a Mac Dre (R.I.P.) Energy Drink, Seagrams Apple Vodka, and Seagrams Peach Vodka. The other night, I had the "True Blue" with blue Alize (French vodka, congac, cherry and ginger), Smirnoff Rasberry Twist vodka, and Seagrams Peach Vodka. I think it's important to stress that crunk juice does what its name purports: it will crunk you up. We're talking infused booze on infused booze, mixed with energy drink. Needless to say, one drink can take run-of-the-mill spasiness and send one into Triple-6 Mafia club frenzy.

However, neither of the aforementioned libations are the top seller. "The Obama," continues to ride high in public opinion polls, conducted within Charlie's premises. The mixologists at Charlie's have decided that The Obama should consist of pineapple juice, apple vodka, tequila, and apple pucker, ultimately forming a greenish-yellow hue. At first glance, I wanted to give them credit for using facts to conceive such a drink. I thought: "Obama is from Hawaii; they're using pineapple juice. Nice job." But I couldn't pinpoint where apples or tequila played into Obama's past. Maybe it's his fruit and booze of choice? Either way, I can't back that up.

This popular street cocktail runs for $8 bucks and people can't get enough of it. I had one and I can safely say that if it was the Robert Dole or John McCain, it wouldn't be as popular. If it was Barry Goldwater, it may sell. Barry is a solid name and I think the idea of gold water would intrigue a lot of people in the Fillmore. Hell, it intrigues me. But once again, Obama saves the day. He's a one-man stimulus package. The guy has got his hand in everything. His whole family keeps me posted on what day it is. It's my Obamaclock. And now he gets me drunk. It's a good set up for everyone. Too bad he wasn't around all those times I showed up to the airport half-drunk the day after my flight left?

Window

It has probably been said a thousand times since I am beginning a blog in 10,000 A.B. (anno bloggeri), but I had my reservations whether I wanted to open this window. I don't have any grand trip to immortalize; a cause to champion; celebrities to dissect; or any industry to explore. In its nascency, it's a rebuke of the viral and obnoxious Facebook phenomenon of social networking stream of consciousness. It's a rejection of "Sandy is eating a $5 dollar footlong," or "Barry is getting wasted," and the indomitable "Ashley is going to [nice restaurant]." Fuck you, Ashley, really. It's nice to get updates, but at least say something. I promise I will never tell you what I ate on my blog unless the item had some shock value, like trachea. It happened. I blame the Burmese. So at its heart, this is essentially a masturbatory exercise-in a metaphysical sense, I hope. My writing hasn't exactly Weird Scienced the clothes off of some piano player in some catyclismic electrical storm so if it came from anywhere, it would come from my end. That's not something I want to talk about. I do hope someone remembers that scene from Weird Science; it may have been my first on-screen nudity moment. A giant windstorm inside the house blows the clothes off this hot girl and shoots her out the chimney, where she lands in a pool outside of the house. Oh movies. But as my chances to find employment wane, along with my confidence that I am, in fact, at all employable, I hope that my creative energies continue to wax. As my good friend pointed out today, it's time like these where you marshal whatever you have to offer and put it out there, otherwise you're just wasting one of the rare moments in your life where you have nothing to lose-other than little dignity, which I rarely emerge with anyway. Those who know me can vouch for this eventuality. So if I lose a little face relating strange things I think about, or events my life I feel relevant or notable, as an alternative to dwelling in some unemployed hermitude, then so be it. I have low expectations for the intellectual depth of the whatever comes down the pipeline, but hopefully I can at least make someone laugh or become aware of something new or offbeat. Basically, I have a voice, a loud goofy one, and I don't mind opening this window so people can hear it. Enjoy.