BW: Consider me gone.
 Montezuma's Revenge? I’m worried about myself and not just because I keep having to run to the toilet today. I am worried because I am having fun. Bear with me. I wanted to film it, to take pictures, but I wasn’t going to be the guy who pulled the camera out. The moon was full and it had come up out of the sea red and huge, and Andrew from West Virginia got the fire started, as he does, and they came, and the most important of the they is the guy with the guitar who seems to mean every word that he sings without seeming pandering or trite and he sings really charmingly well. Surrounding him were 10 or so folks, probably stoned out of their gourds who made up the percussion section, though there was only one actual drum. I watched all off this shit come together and it seemed deliriously wonderful and I can’t believe that a rhythm section of beer cans and water bottles filled with sand and stone as maracas, wine bottles struck with sticks, stones and shells, and the guy who had the full drum kit made of plastic bags, candy wrappers and various bottles and cans in varying states of filled with sand and stonedness and varying degrees of crushedness. And I am worried that the world’s biggest music snob is pretty sure that the end product was wonderful, and it worries me that I had to out hippy the hippies after watching too many of the beer bottles that they left on the beach when they got up to leave two nights ago get washed out with the tide as I walked around last night collecting enough trash that wasn’t being used as a musical instrument to fill three plastic grocery bags and haul back to the hotel’s trash bin. But, yup, sick. The pork skewer? The first two empanadas or the third? The tap water? Whatever got Isabelle? Invading pathogens from the cuts on my finger or toes? Drinking beer from a recycled bottle? I’ll never know but it’s great place to be sick in but for the fact that there are two toilets to accommodate the thirty people who are staying here, and I don’t feel bad, and you always wonder with these crampless ones if it has passed or of the lomotil is just doing it’s thing. My behavior is kind of funny. Run out for a new bottle of water and come back and wait while doing my new Spanish verb conjugations. Run out for a cup of coffee and come back and wait while doing yoga in a room I totally have to myself with Iz out on a snorkeling trip. Run out for another cup of coffee and come back and wait while uploading photos to my computer and downloading them to the internet. Run out for another two liter bottle of water and come back and wait and the beach with the Harrison book. Sarah and her Mom were two of 60 who came by the fire last night as they saw it from dinner before heading back to their resort up in the mountains. Sarah is 20 and pre-med at University Of Colorado and mom is a nervous wreck, and I spent some time trying to talk her down. They came by the beach today after their yoga classes and cooking class and mom wanted to take pictures of me and has complimented me on about anything a man could be complimented on, and asked what my success rate with women was, a topic I don’t like in any country. What does that even mean? Sara opined that my success rate was 41%. She also accused me of being cute last night and they both thought I was in my 20s. Sarah, since you can’t divide 41 by any whole number, that means that I would have to have hit on 100 local woman and slept with 41 off them, and there aren’t even 41 local women here, let alone 100, and I don’t really hit on anyone. I didn’t mean sleep with. I meant like, talk to you or find you interesting. Mom adds: I mean slept with. I told Sara that I was offended by her guess. Run out for a slice of pizza and come back here and talk about Jesus with Steven, who lives a singular, filterless existence and I can’t tell whether it is sincere, or performance art. He talks loudly, interrupts, repeats, amuses, annoys, and reminds you of the shlubby guy in a Judd Apatow flick. Take a chance and grab a beer for the setting sun, and grab another slice of pizza from Bruno’s after. Flashcards, podcast, scribble a bit in here, and off for another slice of really decent cheap pizza and a bottle of Imperial while I wait while watching their TV that had back to back videos from Justin Beiber and Coldplay. It’s the first time I have been exposed to Beiber, and if you like Coldplay, you don’t get to make fun of him or his fans. Bonfire starts. Iz isn’t feeling well again, and can’t be awakened for it. Austrian dude who grew up in Berea. Your parents were professors at Center? Yes. He recalls having to ride with them to Richmond every Saturday to replenish their alcohol supplies in their dry county. He starts the first political discussion of the trip. Steven is a huge GWB fan and thinks that Obama is the worst President in history and doesn’t notice when half the crowd leaves, including the Austrian instigator who lives in San Jose and rode here on a new $850.00 Chinese scooter he bought that burned about $1.50 worth of gas in the process. And gas here is about 6 bucks. Thankfully, Steven knows every song from every Disney movie, though he will not sing anything from the Jungle Book because he does not like that one, and someone tells him to sing something from Beauty And The Beast which he is all to happy to oblige and he doesn’t care if people are laughing at him or with him as he sings about as well as I do, and I go to buy a box of wine and I’m standing in line at the register and a twinge hits, and the sweat comes, and I drop the box and take off first in a fast walk, then a penguin walk, then a flipflopped sprint and if the toilet had been occupied or 9 inches further away I would have made a mess. More lomotil. I return to the beach party. Iz is finally up from her nap and out letting local boys get their hopes up. The musicians are not there. I make another sprint to the toilet and now I sit here on my porch. This place is owned, well, I guess Clemente owns it, and there are lots of people who seem to be family who work here, but it is pretty much run by his daughter Maria, who barks orders, gets people into rooms, answers the phones, runs the laundry business, and serves the beers. She is 12. She was sitting at a table near my porch up until a few minutes ago with her mom and a local kid in a hoodie who could not take his twitchy eyes off of her as he gnawed franticly on the drawstring of his hoodie. The ladies retired and he sat in the chair next to me and asked what I did, and I guess “I don’t” doesn’t translate well and I asked what he did and his reply was Sell drugs. Jesus. It did make me feel better for her when a guy came walking up with fresh beers just now though all of the markets are all closed. He is Clemente’s son, Maria’s brother. I followed him to the door to their room around the corner and saw mom and dad and daughter all asleep on a linenless king sized mattress on the floor, illuminated by the lights of the open refrigerator that he was getting my beer from.
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Diary Photos
| 10th Jan 2012 Full red moon low on the horizon as captured by a broken camera |
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