|
|
by Vic Tree
We left Los Angeles at 7 am on a Friday. There’d been a party the night before and it still rang in my head like some hated pop song that one can’t help but remember. I’d planned to avoid it in preparation for my departure, but once the first bit of vodka had grabbed me, the party was in full swing. I accidentally began to dance, then I caught some fun bug that made me sick with joy and the roistering didn’t stop ‘til sleep came at half passed whenevs.
So I sang that sick pop song the next day. “Goddamnit, why do I like this?” I kept saying. “It’s terrible, this headache and swollen fingers.” Over and over. “Fuck, coffee’s no good.” I could feel it leeching the moisture from my brain.
I read a billboard on my way out of town, something about disfrutando los minutos. It was for mobile phone service. Somehow tech companies and banks have just learned that Spanish speakers had been spending money here since it was called, oh yeah!, Mexico. But it’s silly to encourage them to sell more shit, and I brought up the sign cause I felt that it was only for me at that moment. Yes, the minutes were mine. I was prepared to eat them. Or whatever powerful kind of action would make them a part of me forever. I guess just planning to remember them would be good.
Philosophy is rough stuff! It’ll frequently just spin about, never officially ending with any kind of enjoyable fireworks. And this talk about memories is where vacations get philosophical. Do we want to enjoy them for the total disposal of our former societal “day to day” worry and become part of a new society (or lack thereof, Jimmy Buffet/Ras Tafari-style)? Or do we want to always have in mind from where we’ve just come and smile, not at the pleasure of the moment, but the clear-cut difference between the “vacation” and “normal” societies, saving the trip as a departure from the normal, rather than an extension of it? Are we joyful that we’ve left society, or are we building memories for a more comfortable return to it?
Frankly, I have no handle on day-to-day life in general. I’m either sailing about blissfully and unconcernedly lapping up freedom, or thinking, Oh fuck! and allowing worry to pile up like stink at a turd ranch.
But that billboard reminded me that minutes are to be enjoyed singularly and cumulatively. I can’t just have one moment or all moments; I need both to create any kind of time. So, both of them added up to create all of about 4 hours and we were practically there.
When you drive down Highway 1, fast into Baja California, you come to a small town. The breaks hit, and sometimes drinks spill. Don’t miss this town. It’s interesting to find it there, among the dust. Who knows why it wouldn’t be there? But speed doesn’t allow for such questions. Just fucking stop. Look at the town, because it’s exactly what you expected, although the clothing could be a bit more authentic. “More huarache, less Chachi,” you plead with them. But they don’t understand. Sure, words like Miller High Life ring a bell, when bellowed from behind the bar. And other words are shared, more or less, but, what with the arid climate, they’re a bit letter weary: titties become “tetas” and okay is simply “ok”.
When traveling in a foreign country be prepared for people to totally hate you just because they think you know that you’re better than them. Always be on the defensive. Walk slowly, situating yourself safely in the middle of their tiny sidewalks. Proudly display your favorite puffy painted, teddy bear sweatshirts and Taz tattoos. These are symbols of affluence and strength that will assure your status among the mongrels. You see, foreigners are generally aware of our superiority. They will think it ludicrous if you attempt to mix with them. They are conscious of our dominance, yet they insist on having it stated to them in…well…plain English. This is where fucking flags come in! Wear ‘em everywhere! They’re soooooo awesome!
|
Moustache Sidebar
The first thing one should learn about Mexico is that the moustache is an integral part of their society. From its humble beginnings as the Spanish pinner, the Mexican moustache has become sought after the world over and continues to outdo expectations, making Mexico the world’s foremost exporter of facial growth.
The subject of moustache trade has become somewhat of a hot ticker tape debate in America’s small town farming communities since the introduction of NAFTA in like Ninety-four, adding to the already unstable relationship between the United States and Mexico. The Middle West and Southern sections of the United States have traditionally been heavyweights on the world moustache market. The people of these communities have seen a drastic rise in unemployment as a great deal of moustache production has moved south of the border. In these areas everyone, it seems, has been affected by corporate America’s apparent disinterest in keeping alive the tradition of America’s hardworking moustache growers. The poor bastards have been forced to drink their wide mouth cans of MGD through unfiltered lips.
The American consumer sees it differently, however. “Patriotism be damned!” they say. “We want to be able to afford our moustaches. We want bushels of them. We want them hot, and we want them now.” Recent polls indicate that many Americans actually encourage the influx of foreign lip bush. Seventy per cent of American women under thirty have indicated that they prefer the steadier, full-bodied ride of a Mexican moustache.
Moustaches were originally brought to the Mexican Continent by Spanish Conquistadors. They called them bigotes, and they grew them long and lean–just sorta drizzled on until they spilt off the sides of the cheek. The Spanish moustache had evolved from its fuller North African cousin into the bigote through thousands of years of light rain and cool sunshine amongst the Spanish mosses and Manzanilla olive forests of the Iberian plain. Unfortunately, when these young moustaches were transplanted to the harsh, arid lands of Mexico, they didn’t fare too well. Most shriveled up and died off quickly. Some grew erratically and unevenly, barely producing fruit. However, a small number, when placed in the capable agrarian hands of the land’s native peoples, began to flourish. And in a few short generations, the Mexican moustache found placement amongst the world’s hardiest varieties.
|
|
|
