Two Weeks is Mama's Advice

Today my hair is a little bit longer, a little bit dirtier, and a whole closer to where I need to be. Yesterday was like a weird little eddy of emotion; I was spinning around in the current of negativity. There was no direction, and everything felt so far away. School was a blur of disappointment and aggravation. I left my house for Condesa at 3:55pm, and I didn't exit my car until ten after five---I made it to Condesa in 15 minutes--parking was a meditation in my lamentation.

I was heavily focussed on the negativity, on what I did not have: I did not get the dream apartment, I did not find a parking space, I did not have a good day at work, and so on. I did have two cool dogs, and good conversation with a friend over tacos.

My mom gave me the simple advice, that in two weeks it will all change. And in the grand schemes, that is humbling. Two weeks to get over my pity party--I think I can deal. I can't find an apartment I like, its not as if I am dealing with the atrosties of a natural disaster...I need to humble my little party for one at Cafe Pity.

Today was good. Today is better. I think I am on a path to where I need to be. I am going to decide whether or not to take an apartment, that is super close to the park, but not super big, but has a patio, but not as cool as the other one I saw, which is still cool, and sort of funky, and would be easy to clean, and and and...Sometimes it boils down to just making choices.

And so it goes.

No it is time for department meetings.

Midday Realization: Three Classes in a Row and a Realization

My friend Shimmy once told me, "I'm fucking tired of dealing with incompetence". I agree. When the little pre-madonna, gucci high heal wearing, longostas--lobster is an affectionate term for promiscuous young women--when they continue to talk in that ditsy rollercoaster inflection, they call speech; when they do this, I think of Shimmy's words, but I ad, "I'm tired of dealing with incompetence, and having to maintain my composure." The same goes for these little Abercrombie studded young bucks, who look like the thick inbred phallice of the industrialized world--their bravado and cavalier nature...well it makes me long for the understanding of what a hard right hand feels like while crossing the stagnate surface of a cheekbone.

But alast, I wear this ID. This ID is me smiling at my financial security. This ID is a day when I wore a tie, and my hair still had bounce to it. This ID is why I am scared to make a meeting with my principal and tell her that I am not coming back. I feel a slight limbo right now. I feel like I am waiting for this change, and I fear it. I know I want next year to be about art. I fear I will fail at my conviction, and I will just struggle to pay bills. I know that ending my job before contract will be a symbolic commitment to this change. I know that I need to take this risk, to know that I am living my life, instead of just feeding a secure future.

I have been a full time student and a full time teacher, and ALWAYS a part time artist--I know that this ID needs to be retired to a part of my history.

To the Journey At Hand.

Wasting Time

Its the end of the day, again. Well, it is the end of the work day. I have about 20 minutes until that little bell rings and rings. Tomorrow, will be new classes--new classes which need plans. I know I should use this time, to lay it all right. I know that I should work now, but I won't, I will not, and I refuse. Instead I talk to the various names in my chatbox--we get all chatterbox with each other, about this and that. Their news reminds me that this world, is somehow moving on, and somehow, there comes a time to harness your direction.

Remember that painting that I did in the dark? It was fun, and it seemed like a direction was found in the curious night. I am excited about all the good that lies ahead. I like the present too. I met a new friend in the park, Marta Italia--a 30 something psychologist from Italy, by way of Brazil. And so it goes, new peeps and new conversation.

I been trying to write some music in my spare time. A lot of starts and stops, but it goes. My fingers are turning gray with practice.

I fell in love with a French girl who plays covers on ukulele. She goes by the name of Scampi. I am more in love with her musical taste. I am more in love with my dreams.

Currently, I am listening to The Kooks performing in the back of a London bound Cab. There is a program called the Black Cab Sessions. It has eaten up a lot of my time lately.

Here are my Faves:

Lykke Li
The Kooks
Fleet Foxes
Seasick Steve

I love it. A simple and beautiful idea. I think life should be simple and beautiful--the complicated shit is too much talk---me cago en la leche (literally translated, I shit in the milk, figuratively, not sure how I am suppossed to use that. I will get back to you.)

A kid asked me if this is the longest my hair has ever been...I said I wasn't sure, but I think it is going to get a lot longer. I am going for some ankle flaps.

Well I have effectively wasted the rest of my lesson planning time. Godspeed.

Living in the Dark

Electrical work in Mexico looks like shoots and ladders for the epileptic. Wires extend from all cracks and crevices. Wires mate with other wires in a series of bootlegged bandages and Where's-Waldo-type love. Street lights are borrowed from with crow bars and electrical tape; Neighbors are siphoned from with a secrete twist of two haggardly cut electrical currents; there is an end to the world, but it won't be found in the resourceful half-assedness of Mexicans.

The wires that reside near my circuit breaker have been molested countless times, and are some sort of inbred genetic freakshow. That being said, it smelled like a fried short when I walked through the front door. Luckily, my crockpot was still crocking, and my newly compiled sausage, onion, and tomato stew, was simmering away. I poured a bowl, grabbed a piece of bread, and headed for my living room. When I flicked on the lights, I watched the lamp, which was already on, flicker and then die. The whole house died. I grabbed my headlight, and since my wireless is borrowed from a neighbor, well, I still had service.

I promised a student I would paint her a picture of her and her friend, for her friend's birthday. I tried a watercolor about a month ago, but it didn't really pan out. Her friend's birthday is tomorrow. With a headlamp in hand, and several old candles, I crawled back to my ramshackle art studio. I set it all up under the small frame light emanating from my forehead. I slipped on my crusty smock, and I hunkered down. I made a playlist with 70% battery life left on my Mac. I hunkered down. In the dark, I had no need to be precise. My recklessness with the brush and eventually the pallet knife, had me worried: was this going to be another mediocre attempt at art? I promised a painting for a present, and I don't have much time for excuses.

I painted in the dark, and when I turned my headlamp off, I could see nothing of my work. I snapped a picture with a little flash, and loaded it up. I have 5% battery now.

I am out and gone. Until we meet again.

This post was for Peter Kline.

Oaxaca: A Hodge-podge of Facts and Fantasy (No Order)

Here is a back log of notes. Events and thoughts from the Christmas break:

Mexico City:

• Mauricio's Party and the confirmation of "Jace" and "Scanderay". A mantra for the road that lie ahead.
• A few afternoons at Parque Mexico.
• The introduction of Michelada Cubanas and Don Keso.
• Outdoor Japanese BBQ at Mikasa

Oaxaca City to San Jose Del Pacifico - 12/25/09 - Christmas Day

The road from Oaxaca City west can be described as nothing short of scorched. Dry barren dessert flanked us on all sides. The desolate landscape finally gave way to lightly tree peppered hills. After several hours and a federal check point, we reached the forested mountains. Once again, around any corner, the landscape of Oaxaca changes--microclimates, so they say.

We twisted our way up and west. The hillsides dotted with small chimney adorned adobes. Some were made of red clay, and others lightly stained and sealed timber splits--all were beautiful. We finally rounded the corner and arrived at our Cabanas.

Based on the internet representation of the town, one would think they were the only cabanas in town, however it was just clever marketing. They had grabbed a hold of the domain name sanjosedelpacifico.com. Turns out there were cheaper stays in town, about 1km further up the road, but how were we to know. We unloaded and settled in.

NOTE: The time of the Jeep Wagoneer must have made a big impression in these parts. Relics of those iconoclastic behemoths litter the street in various states of functionality. It made me nostalgic for 70's flannel.

We took the dogs and walked into town. Everything here, and I mean EVERYTHING, is centered around ongos (mushrooms). Every restaurant and tienda is adorned with wood carved ongos, ongos light fixtures, ongos silverware, ongos paintings, and so on. The legend here is that some witch from the north named Maria Savina, rolled into town and made a worldwide phenomenon of the local mushroom crop, which is quite abundant in the rainy season. Apparently she was the shaman for such notables as Jim Morrison and The Beatles. Regardless of her star studded escapades, she made quite an impression on this little mountain town. The local indigenous ladies all knit mushroom beanies and other small items. They sell them on the side of the road, and they look like they are tripping to me.

We had lunch at a comedor which overlooked the entire valley. This lady had one of those Hollywood Hills million dollar views. We were her only customers. She let the dogs come inside, and they promptly passed out on the ice cold concrete floor. As we waited for our mole, we stared out at the endless blue which draped over the endless expanse of the Oaxacan Sierras.

As we walked back to our cabana, I began to conspire on all that I saw; everyone was on hallucinogens, and I knew it. The old lady in the shallow grass had a crooked smile, and she seemed to be drooling. The three little boys on the curb had pupils like agate stones. The three gringos with mushroom beanies seemed to be floating through, and gafas shaded their obviously dilated pupils. We met a Colombian--he said he had come here to climb the trees, but he only found pines, and there lack of low lying branches, and their abundance of sap, made them impossibly sticky and not much fun--he was knee deep in a psychadelic trance.

At dinner time we crept back into town. We made our way into the one open restaurant. There we met Alan and Kiara, two Tijuana natives on holiday. They were just passing through for the night. They were mushroom hunting. We sipped some mescal and Alan made good on the wearabouts of the town's crowned jewel. The waiter told him to walk to the speedbump and turn left into the small house.

We all went, dogs en tow. Alan approached a wide-eyed old man and enquired about the ongos. The old man said he had some preserved ongos in honey--we were not in the right season. He produced a sick black jar of honey soaked mushrooms. His eight year old grand daughter was there to transfer the the contents of the jar for him.

It was Christmas Eve, and we were witnessing the purchase of mushrooms in a hillside shanty. After the procurement we spent the rest of the evening on the sidewalk drinking beer and clear grain alcohol from Chiapas called Posch. I snacked on chapulines, and we rambled into the night. It was an odd magical blend of lack of tradition and new moments. I told the Tiajuana Travelers that we were heading to the coast, and if they needed a ride we had plenty of space--they respectfully accepted.

Merry Christmas from the middle of nowhere.

We arrived to Mazunte on Christmas Day. The road was windy and long. The air was thick with humidity. When we finally got out of the car, I let the dogs go without much thought. I did not notice the free range chickens. Flow and Chops went right into the hunt. Flow was wrangled, and I chased after Chops who blew into the back enterance of a beach side restaurant. I went in after him. He snapped and nearly beheaded the chicken. The woman chef swung her broom at us both. I lunged but Chops dodged my grasp. He shot through the beach side seating and burst onto the epic expanse of the beach. I came flying out after him. It was like a movie--a crazy chase scene and then the odd exposure of a natural beauty. I stood on the beach in jeans and a button down shirt--it was a hell of an entrance. Chops played keep away for awhile, but finally we got back.

Basically that was the grand entrance and the rest of the week went like this:

Wake up early and hit the beach. The dogs would shit and play. Jamie and I would sort of tan and read books. We would then hit up a breakfast joint. We would return to the sun for more reading and tanning. Then at 2 we would return to our room, shower, and siesta. At 5 or so we would go check the sunset, and then hit up some grub--fish was damn good and damn cheap, I ate it every night! We would drink a few drinks and then rinse, wash, and repeat. WE DID THIS FOR DAYS. During this time we met some great peeps, had some great conversations, wrote a song about our travels, and burned the shit out of ourselves. Only now, on January 18th, am I beginning to peel--I blame the altitude

I wanted to leave the beach early, but was obligated to meet a friend--I learned that I will never again commit to setting a time frame on my travels. Lesson learned. In the end, staying through new years, was beautiful, and I am so happy that it worked out that way.

The drive back to DF was all about getting back. The drive was long, and not the same without Jamie, but it went along. I camped on a beach one night and arose for the sunshine the following day.

I have never been so happy to return to my little home.

It was a magical trip, one that deserves far more detail than this simple synopsis, but so it goes. And here I go, away to eat a cookie and drink some milk.

Christmas Break: From Smog to Dust to Sand and Back Again (A Series of Updates from the State of Oaxaca)

This shall be a series of retroactive posts. I having a hard time typing it all up. If you are the few that receive email updates, I apologize for the onslaught.

12/23/09 - Oaxaca City Day 3 of the Voyage West:

So long ago I use to begin every movement with a writing. For now, time is passing with camera shots, watercolors, and conversations. I have let the art of chronicling slip away from me, but with yet another daydream: to start again.

This time, I am thinking about the brilliance of writing a travel article about Mexico and dogs. The task seems daunting, but perhaps to start small is the key. Maybe I start with an article just about Oaxaca City and the surrounding areas? Maybe just the coast and the dogs? Eventually it would be great to chronicle the whole thing: the truck, the dogs, the sites, the routes, etc.

Today was spent in the mountains. We loaded up the dogs and began a steep ascent into the sun scorched dessert. The hills and the valleys were all brown with thirst. As we crept through the small towns, we found our pothole covered road which went nowhere but up up up. We climbed the mountains for the better part of an hour. As we reached the summit of the mountain, we hooked around the crest and the thirsty dessert gave way to endless pure forest--lush and green and peppered with cactus.

Several towns in these highlands joined in a cooperative of ecotourism. We drove to Cuajimoloyas and hopped off at the town center. We packed up "The Whip" (thanks Joe for the insperado on my truck's new name) out front, paid the $50 pesos to the tourist center, and a local guide lead us to the trail head. At nearly 9000 ft, the ascent was slow, but the weather was perfect. Cool and sunny, the vistas extended in all directions. Bromiliads, moss, and licon dotted all aspects of the trail. The dogs zipped up and down the switch backs. We stopped for some water near the top. The dogs lapped it all up out of a ripped plastic bag.

The top of the mirador was adulterated with a power line tower, but if you turned your back and faced outward from the pinacle, all you saw was the sprawling exapanse of the Sierra Norte. Clear cut patches of forest dotted the hillsides along with the brick red tin roofs of the highland communities.

Strong gusts of wind met us as we sat cross legged on a rock jetting out into infinity. Our conversations meandered from life's true meaning to happiness at twenty-six years old. THe dogs found cracks and caves to explore and eventually found shade. We took a timed photo. My first attempt was a mistimed event.

We skipped down the hill and stopped in a comedor--who knows when the last time the abuelita running the joint cooked for someone. Although we were famished, the amount of time it took her to make a smoothie discouraged us from ordering anything further. The dogs laid in the grass in the courtyard. A small girl entered the store, and the dogs barked briefly; she looked horrified. As we continued to wait, I snacked on some chapulines (chili covered grasshoppers). Jamie tried one, and nearly puked. In small doses, I find them delightful, but if I rage too hard, they get a little rough. The flavor is great, the crunch okay, and the legs stuck in your teeth, are manigable. They have become a great driving snack. They are high in protein. I hate them and I love them--its magic in a bag.

We headed back, showered and siestad. We then made our way to La Noche de Los Rabanos (The Night of the Radishes). People swarmed the zocalo like locusts, all to catch a glimpse of the artist manipulated radishes which took shape in scenes as wide and varied as Carnival and the birth of Jesus. It was a spectacle, but one that was overwhelmingly crowded. We wound up vacating to a street side cafe for a few Mescals and cervezas. There was little relief from the fray, and we eventually took to a modified pub crawl on the side streets of Oaxaca City. I bought some sparklers from a little street kid. I burned one down, and the pictures were less than exciting, so we packed it in for the night.

Okay, so this is an update which is out of place, but I trust you will be able to follow.

My Throat Knows The Pollution Too Well

These desks are white, a muted sterile clinical white. My computer is a greyer shade of this clinical mandate. My computer looks like an odd tumor extending from the counter top.

My stomach is 500ml of caffeine and sugar. My throat and my eyes are a dusty haze of itchy dryness. It doesn't matter how long I swallow or blink, it is that same scratchy dusty itch.

Three inches from my left arm sits about forty to forty-five final exams--they are not graded, but they will be. Its 9:20am and I have until 12:30 to get them done. I want to believe that they will be done. Thy will be done.

I just told my department head what classes I want to teach next year--I didn't tell him that I am not coming back. I watched an interview with Mitch Hedberg yesterday. In response to what drove him to make it as a comedian, "he said, well you got to have a job that is worse than comedy. You got to have that sort of desperate need to make it, because you got nothing else." Allen Ginsberg said his dad was a poet. His dad was also a high school English teacher. He said the difference between him and his dad, was that he had nothing to fall back on.

These tests I am about to grade are a pillow of convenience.

Jamie told me to stop dreaming about the future, and to just be present. I told her its my favorite past time, and the Internet always indulges my fantasy.

My recording microphone didn't make it to her house in time. Jamie is going to give my mic to Annie. Annie is coming in March--I will record pretty things then. I can't get too hung up on clarity just yet.

When I try writing my play, I put the song "Burma Shave" on loop. I don't care too much about the story Waits tells, but I like the voice; I like the chords; I like the poorly articulated vocal control; I like the ambiance.

I just read a poem from a student. She wanted suggestions. She is contemplating the need for acceptance and self-acceptance. After reading the piece, and after responding I landed on the notion of irony--as I understand it. Our lives our battles between what is and what is expected. Often times, our thoughts and actions are geared towards fitting into the expected. We are trying to swim with the current, even if where we want to be is up stream and bautiful, we head towards the falls, because that is where the other fish are flowing. Bubble bubble, gulp.

I have the innate feeling that we all possess some insane piece of greatness, but it is hard to tell if the dream has already been tainted. Hypothetically, I just want to play music in a band and travel the sea of humanity. The dream is music and the connection between souls in the night. The dream is then tied to fame, and dreams of TV and stadiums and fans, and ego. Soon the dream is about TV and success. The true end has become the means, and I am sitting wondering what is true. Is art just a tainted thought of how to be what society wants me to be--a productive contributor of capital and labor?

So, its a cloudy day in mid December. The students are gone, and the grades remain to be given. Hangovers trickle down the hall, and sneezes sneak around corners for conferences with allergies and soar throats. Somewhere a suit kicks up a shiny shoe, and dreams about pay checks and institutional advancement. Some of these teachers are dreaming of better days, true paths, and escapes; others, are dreaming of neat writing and constructive commentaries--objectivity and tidy grades. Me, I am just sitting and dreaming. Coffee is coarsing through the synapses, and my legs twitch as I type.

"They say dreams are growing wild," and the exhaust out of the taxi tailpipe is just another breath of fresh air. To the dreamer in us all.

Catch-up is not just for Burgers

So here we are. This is the night before finals week. Finals week shall entail a shit load of grading. But the reward shall be a trip to Oaxaca.

Much has transpired of late. Here are some pictures and brief words about the happenings. Oh wait, today, in the park, Lucio and Chops caught a pigeon! They rustled it from under the bushes, and Chops came trapsing out with a flapping bloody pigeon in his mouth. It was fucking nuts! Of all the things he has chased, and so desperately wanted to catch, he finally got a bird. The two of them were as happy as some pigs in shit. I had an odd emotion of sadness, respect, and pride. I picked the feathers from his mouth and quickly exited the scene. All the Mexicans looked mordified. Julia and I walked quickly around the corner.

A) I gave my guitar to my friend Pablo and this is what he did with it:




B) I sort of cleaned my car last week. It was rad. I am making my dogs stay in the far back, and the fur levels are down. Of course, when they are wet, and I leave them in the car to go get something from a store, they don't stay in the back. Though I have found, if I leave my car from the back and walk away from it, Flow will sit at the back window so that she can await my arrival--this has helped reduce the fur in the front.

C) Pablo and I have been playing music, and making recordings. Ana, Pablo, and I have eaten Burger King twice in one week. It is always an adventure. This is what Burger King does to Pablo and Ana's faces.

D) Pablo, Ana, and I went to see NOFX play here in Mexico City. I have never seen so many Mexican punks in my life. Some drunk sod-off Mexican tried to grab my shirt that I bought. I leaned into the barachito and said, "I don't SPEAK SPANISH!", and I snagged my shirt back--he was too drunk to take it beyond that response. I didn't take any pictures at the concert, but I did take pictures on my way home.

E) Lucio sired some puppies. He loves them. They are ridiculously cute. Julia pooped one of them out of her rear end. Lucio is still a stud in my book.

F) I have begun writing a play. So far, I think it is utter crap. However, I am utilizing Joseph Campbell's Monomyth Archetype and I hope to weave a beautiful narrative.

G) I love Life.

Life Like a Forest at Dinner

Well, today was a good one. I woke up early. I set my alarm for 8:06am. I stared at my feet for awhile. I pressed them into the high end of my fur covered blue couch--I've gone back to couch surfing--it suits me.

After a few meager groans I got up and dusted off the night time. I flossed my teeth--flossing makes my gums bleed. I brushed and rinsed. I ran my hands over my 5 day scruff. I took my flip flops and cleaning products and I headed to my car. For an hour and a half I scrubbed and slapped, sprayed and rubbed, and sneezed and sneezed. My car was filthy--still is--but its not as bad.

Picked Pahb and Anne up, and then we snagged Mau, and we hit the road. Mau's got a GPS and it guided us to Los Desiertos de Leones--I found it, mom.

We paid 10 pesos to get in. They had signs that said no dogs--there were plenty of dogs in the park. We parked. We hiked passed the monastery and the barbacoa de canejo, and we dropped down the hill side. We spent the better part of the early afternoon sitting next to a running river, singing songs, eating food, and being present. The dogs ran up and down, up and down. They were covered in sticky burs. Since there are no ticks in these forests, sticky burs, are just fine with me. Mauricio, the dogs, and I charged up a hillside and took the deer trail to the top. Flow and I crossed a ravine on a fallen log--I sent Chops below to find his way--he is slightly clumsy and I am not sure he has the nimble feet to cross a high pitched log.

The dogs rolled in horse shit--I washed them in the river.

I brought my camera, but took no pictures.

We drove back, parted ways, and I made my way home.

The dogs slept long and hard. I shaved some of my scruff, and I headed to dinner. Dinner was being hosted by Martha Mendoza and her family: Ray (Husband), Ray (Son), Thomas, Eleanor, and Isabel. They are possibly the nicest little bunch I have met. When Eleanor bit her tongue chewing some broccoli, she leaned into Thomas. Thomas leaned over and told her to breathe, and he gently rocked her--I don't recall the last time I saw siblings actually love each other.

Ray is a stay at home dad, and I think he may be Andy Reynaga in 20 years--he had a lovely disposition, a good sense of humor, knowledgeable about various topics, athletic, and all and all just a being of goodness. He plays guitar. We are going to jam. Martha, well Martha works for the Associated Press. The way she talked about her work over dinner, made me think she was fairly important. She talked about teaching at Princeton and UCSC, turning down at job at the University of British Columbia which had been created for her, and she mentioned stories and investigations that seemed rather high profile--apparently her and John Krakauer have beef. She made a mean dinner: homemade pizza, a delectable salad, fruit, guacemole, salsa, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The Mendoza's own a house on Cayuga. They lived about four blocks from me in Santa Cruz. I met them here--in Mexico City. I googled Martha Mendoza--this is what I found (click her name).

I think life is a mysterious and altogether awesome.

Today was a damn good day.

Definitely leaving high school teaching.

The Odd Way Lifelessness Brings Folks to Consciousness

Its been awhile. I am compelled to write this post, not on behalf of my travels, but rather a venting of odd emotion. The catalyst for this post is the second student death here at ASF within the first semester. I have just returned to my class, from yet another emergency assembly, in which a student's death is announced in a solemn speech. I am not sure how the hell I feel. The precursor to this death, was last night was "The Oscars"--an annual student thrown party in which students nominate each other for categories such as "Biggest Skank" and "Dumbest Drunk". The party is known at the school, and despite efforts from the administration to thwart the party, it goes off without much disruption. Students showed up to school today intoxicated--one red faced freshman stumbled into my class complaining of a stomach ache--she looked like the bottom end of a New York City dumpster. I sent her the office, and she was sent home.

Now I don't know if this death was in connection to the party--the poor kid fell off a balcony at home at 4 in the morning--however, my suspicion would be some element of relation. The death earlier this year involved a student, intoxication, a bicycle, and a freak accident with a car.

Once again, I am not sure how I feel about this. In both assemblies I have felt this strong aversion to the emotion that I witness--in neither case did I know the student. I can sympathize, but in the moment of mass hysterical crying, I have this incontrolable urge to withdraw and leave. Teachers hugging, their salty faces huddled together for strength--I don't like it. Somehow it absolutely puts me into an isolationist mentality. In some ways I distrust the feelings, I am repulsed by the situation, and it feels odd to feel that way--but I feel it.

I haven't upated this here blog in a minute or two, and this is not how I would like to reconnect, but the spirit has moved me. It is a strange Friday in early December.
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Since last I wrote, much has gone on. I had some car trouble after my epic run through the woods with Julia et al. I think everything is fine, and I am gearing up for an epic road trip through Oaxaca, Chiapas and the Yukatan. For Christmas, I'm hoping to recreate an old Coronoa commercial from my youth: An anonymous gringo strolls a cabana speckled sand bar at dusk. He sets down his cerveza, plugs in some Christmas tree lights on a neighboring palm, returns to his lounger and sips a brew, while the eveing stars harmonize with his vibe.

I am looking for a new apartment. I am hoping to move to La Condesa or Roma. This is a hipster area. I do not want to be a hipster, but I do want to live within walking distance of the dog parque and friends. So my hunt is furiously under way.

My mom came to visit. My mom is awesome. We went to Aztec ruins, Planeta 51, museums, forests, the main central square and cathedral. We ate tacos al pastor for Thanksgiving, and we watched several movies on my computer. My mom made me nostalgic for fall time in Studio City--I love home. I know, eventually, that is where I will hang my hat--that makes me smile.

I went to my friend's birthday party two nights ago. I was extremely tired, but it was extremely fun. I was going to stay for one beer--I stayed for four. I spoke more Spanish with each brew. Good people are good people, no matter where you go. The Spaniards are damn good people--I feel really lucky to have met such a wonderful bunch of creative folks. Work, the day after said party, was tough--I almost fell asleep while showing a movie to my Science Fiction class. Somehow, this reaffirmed my desire to stop teaching.

My allergies are kicking. The winds have kicked up the polen and the poo particles, and my eyes burn and my nose itches, and I sneeze in my sleep.

Yesterday, I had dinner at an organic restaurant. Prior to that I drank coffee with Hector during my Spanish lesson, and I told him the following story:

After dropping my mom off at the airport, I was pulled over by a highway cop for talking on my phone. They told me it was an infraction. They wrote down my license plate and told me they were taking my driver's license. I played up my lack of Spanish fluency (not hard to do). I asked to pay for the infraction. The fat pig slobbered with delight, when I offered this option. He told me that I needed to pay $100US. I told him I had $200 pesos--he laughed with his assumed authority. I told him that I needed to call my friend at the Embassy. I told him to wait. I called Julia. She told me to take down his name and badge number, and to tell him that my friend was coming in 20 minutes with her boss (if need be, she would make this scenario happen--she was at a BBQ and in fine form for some street theater). I told the cop that my friend from the embassy was coming with her boss, and that I would wait for them here, because I did not understand what the problem was or what he was saying. The long and short of it is: The cop gave me my ID back, I paid nothing, and I left. It made me happy to not blindly submit to false authority. It made me happy to use my intellect to out wit a bully.

The above would not have been possible with out the delightful insight provided to me by my neighbor's father, Chuco. He told me to play the embassy card during my next policia altercation--he was right.

At the organic diner last night, I drank Cab Sav and laughed it up. My dogs sat through the whole dinner. At the end of the dinner, a gringa came up to me, and said she had enjoyed watching my dogs. She was older and her husband was younger. She was American and he was Irish. They have a kid. They are starting a new company in San Migul de Allende. She was one of the founders of Burt's Bees Wax. I assume she has a lot of money. I think I am going to try and stay with them on my route North this summer. She had a nice smile. Her name was Sunny. When Sunny hugged you, she said, "Blessings".

Yesterday, my student Karime gave me a tie for Thanksgiving. The tie has a small reoccurring pattern--its a cockfight or a pelea de gallos. It is orange--I love orange.
Blessings.