Stinkbeard

Meilleures Photos Du Maroc

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 17:04:31 -0500

Meilleures Photos Du Maroc

One Broken Toe

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 17:03:00 -0500

It had been building, but I sort of left on a whim. I would have regretted it if I hadn’t, no matter what. That was one of the biggest persuading factors; fear of regreting a missed opportunity. The main persuading factor was fun, pure fun. Somehow, I’d been working since I was 14, non-stop, and I’d held something like 24 different jobs, some I’d been good at and some I hadn’t, but always chasing the buck. Working is good, constructive, blah blah, the American Dream and having not worked for this period, I now see how critical it is to have a pursuit, goal, objective, responsibility, and a paycheck (if not for the money, for feeling at the end of the day). But to not work, I wanted to try that. So it was time for some fun. I paid for 8 months in the storage unit upfront, thinking for sure I’d be back before then. It took 11 months and now, finally, I’m on a couch someplace familiar. I’d been waiting to feel like I was heading home for a while. I knew I was coming home, eventually, but I was pretty well occupied, so it seemed too distant to be real. Now it’s real and I’m slightly stunned and slightly euphoric and slightly jetlagged. I’m back to people I know and who know me.

I broke my toe by jamming it in the dirt in Hossegor. It is fine now. Otherwise no major physical malfunctions. Very glad for that; back in one piece.

Product Review: Crocs “Crocs.” A bad taste...

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:24:00 -0500

Product Review: Crocs

“Crocs.” A bad taste instantaneously develops in my mouth, but really, it’s tough to argue with this photo; a man asleep on a pile of gravel by the side of the road wearing Crocs. What other line of footwear can compete with this level of relaxation? Maybe it’s because every time there’s a guy who I’m embarrassed to be breathing the same air as, I find these on his feet. Maybe it’s because I’m jealous. Maybe it’s the comfort and abolishment of social footwear conformity that gets me. Maybe it’s because they’re supposed to be good for you. Maybe, but mostly I just think they look dumb, and if you don’t think they look dumb and are willing to walk around in public with them on your feet then you are dumb too.

Pros:

Probably comfortable

Available at gas stations and small markets throughout the planet

Many different color options

Durable (probably not good for the planet)

Cons:

Hideous

Insta-douche street cred

We knew a girl on Nantucket who was in on the “ground floor” for Crocs in the US and she wanted to get us all free Crocs, we resisted and she’s probably a gazziolionaire by now. At least I’ve got my dignity.

Overall Rating:

The Worst

Mind Surfing I stopped taking photos of people in the act of...

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 07:38:00 -0500

Dinan

Lafitania

Hossegor

Mundaka

?

? Portugal

Dracula's

Anchor

Killer's

Desert?

Mind Surfing

I stopped taking photos of people in the act of surfing. These are photos of good waves that can be found in along the Atlantic coast from Holland to Morocco. Some spots were shoulder-to-shoulder and some were vacant. Surfers really are sheep and will always follow the herd, so you usually get all or none. I had a few excellent surfs at places with one or two other people (Pointe De Dinan may have changed my life). I also had some fun jockeying with the masses at the waves people make trips for.

Sorry if the horizon is off kilter.

For Sale: The Best Thing I Ever Owned Have you ever dreamed...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 05:44:00 -0500

For Sale: The Best Thing I Ever Owned

Have you ever dreamed of owning your destiny? Does the word “French” ignite a secret curiosity inside you? Do you take pride in not being one of the people who pays to be treated like an infant at a “surf camp”? If you answered yes to any of these questions this is your lucky day. My sweet sweet 1992 royal blue Renault Trafic and I are back in Europe, but I can’t stay. This is where we part ways and where some lucky human takes the reigns. Mention this blog to receive a free slightly used hand towel with your purchase.

She:

-attracts babes

-deters the fuzz

-looks good in dust

-is loud

-blends in, locals will think you are public transportation

-doesn’t hesitate

-rolls well, no flat tires in more than 15000 kms

-might cause strange dreams

1000 EU (cash rules) OBO, possible delivery, interesting trades considered.

(No bullshit; she really is the best thing I’ve ever owned and she led me on one of the best journeys I’ll have in my life. Leaving her is hard and if I had the dough she’d be coming with me. I’m looking out the window of a cafe outside Gibraltar and she’s sitting in the sun covered in a coat of dust from another continent looking good and making a heavy pain in my chest.)

Technopolis On the road again now, heading back up north towards...

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 08:08:00 -0500

Technopolis

On the road again now, heading back up north towards Europe, responsibility and the end of the whole venture. Carter and I drove past this place on our first day in Morocco (he was very enthusiastic) and I just passed it again last night. I don’t really know what the fuck is going on here, but it seems to be a cookie-cut community for nerdy types with aspirations for future domination. The sign for the exit says “A Smart City for Smart People”. It looks like more of a “village” or a “town” than a “city”, but I guess “village” doesn’t sound as smart and they’re probably hoping that the smart people breed and it grows into a city. Ironically they don’t allow Smart Cars, Smart Phones or Smartfood.

Camels

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 11:46:00 -0500

The camel might be the strangest animal currently walking the earth. Giraffes are pretty weird too.

Two days before Christmas in the year 2011 I rode a camel. His name was Diece or that may have been his number. His propietor seemed like the kind of guy who might not call him by a number rather than a name. He was big and produced a lot of saliva, the camel. It was the first time I’ve ever ridden an living thing outside of the family dog when I was a wee tot. Somehow his owner had affixed handlebars to his back, so it was sort of like riding a bike with a big hump, fur, a long neck and legs that bend in awkward, confusing ways.

Photos From the Continent of Europe Europe is a continent...

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 14:21:00 -0500

Photos From the Continent of Europe

Europe is a continent across the ocean from America that is made up of 48 countires.

I wanted to do this for a longtime. More than I wanted to go anywhere else I wanted to drive around Europe and surf and see some stuff. That’s what I said anyway. When the topic of travel was on the table and someone would ask “where do you want to go?” I’d give them this plan and look off in the distance. But it wasn’t a plan, it was a far off thing I said to sound like I was going to do something other than what I was doing already. I wasn’t even sure I really wanted to go there or if I was just lusting over the fact that it sounded different. Well, somehow it happened, via a long chain of events. And it was perfect. And it really was what I wanted to do.

Here are some photos of the time I bought a van in Berlin and drove it down the Atlantic coast to Gibraltar.

Makeout Point Perhaps it was cultural ignorance or maybe just...

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 23:05:05 -0500

Makeout Point

Perhaps it was cultural ignorance or maybe just regular old plain ignorance, but I was shocked to find out that the barren hilltop I’ve been camping on is a popular makeout location. The Adiposen Meerjungfrau have spent more than a few nights there; it’s just above the cliff overlooking Killer Point, one of the better right-handers in the area. The perfect location; relatively safe (?), beautiful, and only a small smattering of human refuse and debris. Why was no one else camping here? In my defense, none of the telltale signs of a makeout locale were present, ie condoms. There are no trees, a few struggling bushes and a lot of broken glass, so aside from the great view it doesn’t lend itself much towards romance. It was a Sunday, the wind was up, no afternoon surf, so I thought I’d retire to my spot behind the largest bush on the cliff and get a head start preparing supper. But there was someone already parked in my spot, or rather there was a small compact car whose occupants appeared to elsewhere. I parked nearby and elected to wait till they left then reclaim my spot. I soon noticed that there were a few other compact autos parked in various spots along the cliff. It struck me as odd considering the only people I’d seen around here were fisherman and fisherman don’t usually have cars they have boats (sometimes) and if they did have cars I think they probably would not drive small compact ones. So I went for a walk. On my walk it began to dawn on me, some of the signs were making it impossible for me remain in the fog. The cars I passed had music playing softly, mellow electronic music, the windows were cracked and the front seats were reclined. So that’s what was happening, it now obvious and it made me very uncomfortable. I took my time, walked back to the van and as I walked it was hard not to look at the passion filled vehicles and wonder. I felt quilty and creepy, and if I’d been in one of those cars scoring some tail and I’d seen a guy like me walk by I’d think he was weird and it might ruin the moment. I sat in the van and read and tried give the lovers their privacy. I failed. The car in front of me was the first to finish up. The backdoors opened and from each side exited a middle aged Moroccan human, one male, one female, in full robes and headwear. Middle aged, like late 30’s. Weird. They got back in their car, this time in the front seats, avoided my eyes, and departed quickly. The sinners in the compact car to my rear, the other closest to me, didn’t have as much shame. They were in the front seat, in plain view, no tinted windows, going at it. They were also middle aged and dressed in the typical garb.

Here’s what I think was going on: Moroccans are mostly Muslim and have a lot of rules regarding marriage and sex and all that. These folks, slightly past their prime, aren’t married, at least not to each other. They aren’t supposed to be getting any, but they’re human and their life is halfway over, so they’re probably pretty tired of not getting any. They, much like teenagers in America, sneak off and try to convince one another to have sex. I don’t think they were having sex; it was broad daylight, Sunday afternoon on a hill with very little camouflage, you’d have to be a total shank to “go all the way” in a place like that, and from what I could tell they were all wearing a lot of clothing. This whole thing is probably frowned upon, but accepted as common. Kids being kids. As such, I’ve decided to change the name of the point from Killer to Makeout. It just sounds nicer. Tomorrow I’ll go around to all the surf camps and inform them of the change. It will also help any middle aged Moroccan guys who have been unable to convince the middle aged Moroccan gal they’ve been dating to go to Killer Point to fool around. Just me doing my part.

Momma Don’t Surf This is slightly old news, which...

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 13:24:00 -0500

Momma Don’t Surf

This is slightly old news, which isn’t to imply that my Mom is old, she’s older than me, but plenty young at heart, anyway, my Mom joined my brother and I in southern Portugal for a week. We’d surf she’s hang out with the van and read the New Yorker, then we’d go find food and a place to sleep or more surf. We had one minor blowout which included a roundabout, a Portuguese police officer, and poor signage. We survived and we survived. Of the week we had, what really resonated, was that that we were all on new turf together. A foreign land doing slightly foreign things. If you’d said a year ago that the three of us would be in a van driving around the coast of Portugal I would have said you were talkin’ crazy.

Beady Eyes and the Three Mohammeds The Three Mohammeds are our...

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 09:21:00 -0500

Beady Eyes and the Three Mohammeds

The Three Mohammeds are our mechanics in the small town of Tamri in Southern Morocco, Beady Eyes is a guy who hangs out around their workspace. The eldest Mohammed is the leader. Carter and I refer to him as “Wario” for his uncanny resemblance to the evil video game character; his laugh, his stash, his figure, everything but the accent fits to a t. Wario is best described as a brute. He stalks the packed dirt area in front of the garage with his chest puffing out of his coveralls and his arms held wide as though he’s looking for something to throw, kick, or swat away with a grunt. His lighter side comes out when he’s stoned out of his gourd on hash, but even then he is very direct and his mannerisms warn you not to refuse the tea he is offering. The middle Mohammed is the quietest. Perhaps 19, he’s mastered the art of trying not to make Wario explode. An art the smallest Mohammed is still striving to understand. The smallest Mohammed may or may not be Wario’s son, we’re almost positive they are in someway related. He’s about 13 and can wrastle a rim out of a tire with more enthusiasm than boys twice age. He’s always the first to arrive at the garage in the morning and it is his duty to prepare tea and fetch tools. He smiles and bops around and avoids the swinging arms of Wario. Beady Eyes is there too, squatting in the shade. If it’s possible to be cracked out on hashish Beady Eyes is a textbook case. He lurks and smiles and giggles while his shifty black eyes dart from side to side and his hands keep busy rolling massive joints or trying to unzip the insulated jacket with the broken zipper he’s got zipped up to his chin in the mid day sun.

We were lucky (maybe unlucky) to meet these fellows on an average morning in route to a beachbreak about 20 minutes from where we had camped the night prior. About a month ago the van started making a terrible noise on the drive through the hills in Western Spain. The noise is a piercing loud whine that drowns out any conversation or music when travelling over 60 kmh. Over the weeks following it’s inception I performed all the problem solving techniques my knowledge of automotives entails. First I ignored it. Then I added oil. Then I got an oil change at a Renault dealership. And then I got used to it. The noise had steadily been getting worse day to day and we had declared that Monday would be a good day to visit a local mechanic. It was Sunday when Wario waved us down as we passed the garage. The whine from under the hood had escaladed to a scream and we’d given up trying to locate the beach we’d passed 3 kilometers back with hopes of limping towards a repair shop. Wario had heard the scream and, as we understood, explained to us in French or Berber that he could fix it or that “we needed grease”. My knowledge of garages is that cars are meant to fit inside them. The garage we’d pulled over at was crammed full of tools, scraps, one electrical outlet, one air compressor and the fixin’s for Mint Tea, making it more of a hole in the wall with a receding door where a bunch of people tinker with disabled cars, than a garage. Until mid afternoon we hung around and watched locals come, get their hands dirty helping to fix theirs or their friend’s vehicle and then drive off, while we waited patiently for a prognosis. At around 3 someone who spoke English appeared and told us that the transmission was fucked and that Wario was a good mechanic, but would needs parts from the nearby city of Agadir and that we would be able to get them tomorrow and then be on our way. It was a bummer, a setback, but we nodded understanding and scored a ride to the beach for some lackluster surf. When we returned the van’s front end was jacked up and broken greasy parts had begun to make their exodus. We didn’t know it then, but we would be sleeping in the van in this spot at this angle for the next 3 nights. The days were a blur, the nights were strangely reclined. We stressed, drank endless cups of tea, ate a delicious local cuisine called Tajine, looked at Carter’s watch, made backup plans and tried to get some answers out of Wario. On day 3 they dropped the transmission on the dirt floor beneath my van. They pointed to what was broken, I nodded, and then we piled into Beady Eyes car and drove to Agadir to procure a replacement. I envisioned an auto parts store with a shiny counter and cash register. They took us to a 3 square kilometer patch of dusty earth covered with a maze of garages each offering any manner of stolen or salvaged parts and pieces. We shopped around and found a used tranny at garage number fifty seven. Wario assured us with a big (somewhat evil) smile that he’d be done tomorrow. Then we drove home and celebrated with some tea, tajine, and a few matches of futbol on the tele at the café. That night he and Beady Eyes sat in the back of the cafe and smoked 6 cigar sized joints in the span of 2 hours, Wario’s cap turning sideways little by little. It dawned on us that somehow we had linked our lives to the most stoned individuals in this town. Granted many other men in the café were smoking, but none came close to matching the levels of consumption as with those of whom our livelihood hung in the balance.

Day four brought about a thorough analysis of the surroundings. Carter and I squinted at the glimmer of light that was the end of the tunnel and the Three Mohammeds cranked away (all this time without the use of any power tools). If it hadn’t worked I’d prepared to abandon ship, Carter was all but in a cab to one of the surf camps down the coast. Somehow, we did manage to drive off in the early afternoon, though once the van was happily purring there was some difficulty explaining to Wario that we didn’t want to stay for another mint tea and tajine. Middle Mohammed and Little Mohammed rubbed their fingers together hoping for cash and we sped off. There are two ways to look at this: shit luck on a surf trip or life on a trip. We were lucky that the waves weren’t very good in the days we were held captive by my dead transmission, which made it easier for Carter to keep his head on. I knew something was going to give with the van when I bought it, so this was a matter of time. We were at the mercy of Wario and his gang, and they treated us fairly though we were foreigners with dihram signs stamped on our foreheads. If it was going to happen I’m glad it happened this way (not in Europe where the price would have been 5 times as much). In twenty years will I remember the shitty surf from 2 days ago? No. Will I remember Beady Eyes? God yes.

Bigfoot Surfs Carter spotted this guy from a cliff in Northern...

Sat, 26 Nov 2011 08:26:00 -0500

Bigfoot Surfs

Carter spotted this guy from a cliff in Northern Morocco. He was sure it was a human surfer. I was sure it was a boat. We were both wrong. Turns out it was Bigfoot. In the photo he’s coming in from what looked like a pretty bad session. The waves were small for humans, so they would have been miserable for Bigfoot. I wonder if he walks the nose? He could probably hang a mean cheater-five.

It Was 24 Hours A few days ago I was supposed to pick my mother...

Sat, 19 Nov 2011 14:48:00 -0500

It Was 24 Hours

A few days ago I was supposed to pick my mother and brother up at the airport in Lisbon. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to, their planes wouldn’t be arriving until exactly 24 hours later than when I would be there to collect them. I didn’t know that yet. I spent the night prior in a parking lot at a supposedly excellent righthand point near the city. It was very windy, rainy and not good for surfing.

I drove to the airport, found a great parking spot and spent three hours waiting on the edge of my seat for familiar faces. After three hours, I wasn’t that surprised when it dawned on me that I had the wrong day (not the wrong, airport, not the wrong time, not the wrong terminal, the wrong day). So I turned my frown upside down and elected to kick around Lisbon for the day and see what could be seen. I was the oldest single guy wandering the streets with a skateboard looking at things as if they were all brand new. I was the youngest guy at the diner I had lunch at. I pointed at the wall and smiled and this is what brought me. Under the gravy there’s 2 links of sausage, a skirt steak, some sliced ham and a fried egg, topped off with some cheesy bread. It slowed me down.

Nothing Happened

Mon, 14 Nov 2011 06:35:00 -0500

A spot on my shirt caught my eye.

It was on my shoulder.

Most lately my attention had been devoted to the killing of a spider who was getting cozy in my van.

The spot on my shirt shoulder was a spider.

I would flick the spider off, possibly killing it and returning me to comfortable safety.

My brain, still in spider deflection mode, sent messages to my hands to “flick” the spider.

As I looked more closely, the spot became, in fact, a soup stain that had been there for the last five days, a stain I knew was there.

I flicked it anyways.

Nothing happened.

Stains don’t respond to flicking, stains respond to soap and washing.

All this took less than 2 seconds, then I thought about it for half an hour.

Mundaka Sunday at Mundaka was for real surfers only. I’m not a...

Sat, 05 Nov 2011 23:04:00 -0400

Mundaka

Sunday at Mundaka was for real surfers only. I’m not a real surfer; I’m a small time baby surfer who likes his olas in and around head high. These things were rolling through about 12’ and leaving tombstones it their wake, no one actually died, but a lot of boards met their end. It was a day of spectating, coffee, tapas, hooting and hollering. It’s hard not to get caught up in the moment when you’re watching some guy hell bent to be a red bull spokesperson push the nose of his board down the face of the small mountain that’s chasing him. Mundaka is a small fishing village in the Basque Country with a well-known wave of the same name breaking at its river mouth. It is consistently very good this time of year, but when a large swell like this one comes to town it is one of the only waves along the coast that holds it’s shape. Every surfer within 100 km enjoyed the show as did many a grizzled town resident who has no real connection to surfing other than the fact that it seems popular in their harbour. In addition to riding big waves this day, some lucky dudes also got to ride on jetskis, ambulances, and helicopters. I didn’t have any interest being in the water. The Beaton would have gone.

Baldy the Cabin Boy Here’s a photo of my brother Carter in bed...

Sat, 05 Nov 2011 13:25:00 -0400

Baldy the Cabin Boy

Here’s a photo of my brother Carter in bed with a man. Look, they’re practically spooning, haha. Wait, that’s my bed. Wait, that’s me. Wait ,that’s kinda sick…. well at least I’m the outside spoon.

I remember when I used to torture him, nothing too bad, regular big brother stuff (he sucked his thumb till he was 24). It made him tough and looking at him now, (he’s bigger than me) I’m proud (and I don’t tease him anymore because he’s sort of a jock). Carter’s all grown up; he’s got a girlfriend, a garden and a job, which is more, on all accounts, than I can say for myself. But little brothers are always copying you, it never ends, and in that tradition he’s ditching his lady, life and landlord (for 3 weeks) and coming for a ride in the van. We’re gonna drive around, look for waves, see stuff, eat stuff and dabble in some good old fashioned sibling rivalry. Here’s a list of what he better bring (for me):

Hatchet (the one I gave you for Christmas that has a saw for cutting down trees built into the handle. It’s pretty sweet, maybe the best gift ever.)

Hot Sauce

A copy of Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

40 Packets of Mayonaise

Latest Issues of SNOWBOARDER, Surfer, Surfing, Skateboarder and Surfers Journal (T Bird)

Cash: American

Wax

New Music

Camping mug

A very detailed map of Morocco

(note: my mother is coming too, for the first week. I estimate Carter will employ her with allocating most of these items, typical.)

What it’s like to live in a van. More specifically: What it’s...

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 23:00:00 -0400

What it’s like to live in a van.

More specifically: What it’s like to live in a van by yourself in a foreign country on a budget. It’s like heaven, sort of. It’s like your top priority of the day is finding level ground. It’s like wondering if the parking lot you’ve decided to settle in for the night is a meeting place for homosexuals. It’s like you really hope it doesn’t rain. It’s like you wouldn’t really mind if it rained. It’s like being from another planet and when you hear the dialect of your planet (English) you can’t shut up. It’s like “god damn it, is 8:27 too early to go to bed?” It’s like a lesson in humility; when you open the door in the morning and people are there walking their dog and you’re pulling your pants on and their making conclusions about you. It’s also like an inside joke at these moments, like these squares are so stuck in their routine they don’t know what they’re missing. It’s like wondering if you locked the doors. It’s like not wanting to get up and take a piss in the middle of the night. It’s like “yeah, I can sleep here”. It’s like “BOOYAH!” It’s like you don’t have to drive there in the morning, cause you live there. It’s like you’re really sick of the music on your iPod. It’s like you might die without your iPod. It’s like wondering if it would be wrong to poison the ducks in that pond that won’t shut up. It’s like “are these berries edible?” It’s like “those berries don’t taste very good.” It’s like you’ve worn the same t shirt for the last nine days. It’s like a great place for a nap. It’s like biding your time. It’s like skinny dipping. It’s like sometimes people see you, make eye contact and they just don’t smile back. It’s like there could always be more cup holders. It’s like “why not” is the answer to every question you pose yourself. It’s like the smell in here.

It’s exactly like this pot of penne with half a jar of day old “Pesto Noix et Ricotta” mixed into it, precisely the same dinner I made last night and had to use the rest of before it turned rotten. To those that walk by and frown at my setup the penne probably doesn’t look so good. To those that aren’t crusty old robots it’s a meal I made myself after a day driving around a new country seeing new stuff.

Product Review: French Bread

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 05:56:00 -0400

The French won’t take credit for most of their greatest accomplishments; French Fries, French Toast, The French Tickler, French Doors, French Kissing etc. What they are passionate about is their bread. I eat a loaf a day smeared or paired with whatever is available. There was a bakery across from our highschool in Providence, Rhode Island, that made a great baguette. My Dad was fanatical about them. Some days taking the city bus home I’d grab a loaf for an after school snack. It was impossible to keep from eating some of it on the bus and friends would ask for some, but I wouldn’t share. Then when I got home I’d add butter and it was alright.

There isn’t much to compare a French Baguette to in American life. It’s what you’ll see under the arms of one and all as they are scatter between home and work. There will be a loaf waiting on the bar while a patron has a quick coffee or beer before heading to occupation or family. Stateside, nothing we all buy on daily basis has this much routine. Some have their morning or afternoon vices that could be regarded the same way, but nothing we all stop for. If the Patisserie’s and their baguettes vanished the French would wonder the narrow streets bumping into each other looking up, down and sideways for their bread.

Overall Rating:

Cheap and Good

Best when still warm. Goes stale like real fast.

Call Me Reid

Tue, 18 Oct 2011 14:52:00 -0400

Oh the perilous fate of a vessel and her crew! Morning coffee and cigarette ingested. Minutes stretch to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to months scouring this wretched beautiful earth in the hunt. Weathered hands grip anxiously upon the helm. Jaw set. Bloodshot eyes blink away the salt, sand and dirt as landscapes flow by infinitely. But nay! It was not in our fortune on this morn, regardless of coffee and cigarette ingested. Ah, thy cursed destiny and your erratic ways! Whoa! but the road is a merciless wench at times!

Avast! Under a brow so set in despair, there not 40 fathoms off our bearing, breaking the horizon now is the unmistakable signature of our foe; the international sign for a public restroom, blue and white figures of man and women.

“There she blows!” comes the call from the lookout perched at the bow hand on the dash, face against dirty insect graveyard glass.

Henceforth pressure is reduced from the accelerator and indicator of intent to change lanes is engaged as we prepare to quickly change course in pursuit.

“Keep cool, keep cool my girl, hold tight your jumpy bowels thy self, keep cool, but start her, start pistons, start like the thunderclap of a squall over great Nebraska! Think of yon sterling porcelain. Start her easy. Only start her like the grim death and grinning devils, and raise the buried dead perpendicular our of their graves crew- that’s all. Start her! But keep cool.” Come the words from our captain as we engage pursuit. Words spoken slowly to motivate, but he regulates his emotion. His passion and his eager breath are controlled. A passion for the restroom he knows to exist. A passion akin to the bloodlust of a starving wolfpack. That, and he has to shit.

Within seconds the exit ramp is embarked upon and ere long we are fast to a path directing our wee vessel directly to the bosom of the freeway rest area. But lo are the lines of travelers that populate a rest area on a hazy Thursday morn! And lo is the cleanliness of the facilities! And lo is the supply of toilet tissue! And lo are the squat toilets, of all things still dotting this civil countryside! And lo is the toilet that requires cash forthright to enter and use. Alas, this shant be the day for us crew. Nay, we shall take the mens room and reap all possible benefits of her. But nay! Nay she won’t bear the rewards we seek, ours quest is of a deeper yearning. One inspired by a madness known only to a road warrior whose craft is absent of indoor plumbing. Notorious to the pavement hound who has indulged in the sweet purity that can be had on the thrones of far off exotic lands. Thus our crew is bound, tied to the knowledge; to follow the tales of other such travelers, follow our own intuition, never satisfied, from McDonalds, to Rest Area, to Tourism Offices, to behind yon bush. Never satisfied. Each day salvation and further torture found in the same instant. As to be given water when only rum will quench. Knowing not what lies beyond yon furthest hill, but also knowing what may. Oh the perilous fate!

(I’m reading Moby Dick ((still)). The preceding is inspired by ((and slightly cut from)) Melville’s wondrous language and use of exclamation marks and by my life behind a wheel in search of excellence in a public toilet. Ahab hunted in vengeance of the white whale that took his leg. I hunt in lust for a perfection once found atop a sea cliff in Baja Mexico. )

Mexpat It started with my learning something about being...

Mon, 17 Oct 2011 08:02:00 -0400

Mexpat

It started with my learning something about being American. To the ever common, ever annoying “you are from?” query from sidewalk salesmen, being American meant I had money. Negotiable prices for goods and services quickly doubled in Indonesia, Thailand and Sri Lanka. When I replied that I was Mexican would-be-peddlers were stumped. So I stuck with it and was the first Mexican many people had ever met. The edited sticker came with my sweet, sweet van and used to bear the letter “D” for Deutschland, as in Germany. In keeping with my hopes for anonymity (or confusion) I converted the “D” into a “MEX”. Nothing against Germany, but there are already plenty of them visiting small towns throughout France. My license plates don’t place me, by being Mexican I hope to throw off any stereotypes and not raise eyebrows of officials high enough to warrant being pulled over. Nothing against America either, I love and greatly miss my home, but in the eyes of the rest of the world we ain’t so great. I like Mexico, love their food, they’re still part of North America and way cooler than Canada. I think being a Mexican in Europe will be fun.