Johnny Fontane Sleeps With the Fishes

Al Martino dead: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/33307909/ns/entertainment-movies/ Too bad.

Vacation Report

Spent some time south of the border last week: http://www.tideszihuatanejo.com/. I recommend it. Instead of the ambitious, see every museum and landmark possible excursions we've done many times over the last ten years, the missus and I instead opted for a lot of time spent under a palapa with a book and tinkly drink, waving our hand occasionally for Fernando to bring "una mas" to our little table between the lounge chairs. Beautiful place, The Tides (it used to be the Hotel Villa del Sol before they sold out to the Tides group). They've expanded the place since we last visited about 17 or 18 years ago when it was about 25 unique units (now about 70). Still romantic, with dramatic views and wonderfully crafted rooms, many with patios equipped with plunge pools (they station plants around them to mostly strategically hide whatever close combat occurs in and around them). Very nice. Great food at the hotel and we of course ate entirely too much. Breakfast is about my favorite meal in Mexico. The butter, the eggs, the bacon--they all taste better. At the Tides, they bring a tray with a large pot of coffee, some bollillos, and a sort of abbreviated newspaper and leave it on a little stand outside your door at whatever time you appoint. So, you can wake up, have your coffee, read a little and then maybe go workout or something before going to breakfast. I heartily endorse this practice.

Don't know about you, but whenever we go to a hotel somewhere, the missus will locate a men's room somewhere outside of our room for me to utilize for defecation purposes. Is it a commonly held belief by women that the male bowel movement is the most hideous thing imaginable? I think possibly it is. I'll admit that I've frequently made some deposits that were disgusting even to me. And, probably it's a good idea that this practice occurs because I did manage to stop up two guest toilets twice on this vacation with enormous gringo sized deposits. Anyway, it's something that we do and it's probably for the better. I can go off somewhere, take my time, and catch up with box scores and the like.

There's not a surplus of gringos in Mexico right now, due to the season and to the recurring drug war issues. Outside of Mexico City and the border, you're mostly safe anywhere else. The bad guys are primarily engaged in going after the other bad guys along with law enforcement and involving stupid Americans in the process is bad for business. Most of the gringos who get caught up in the violence are in some way involved in the drug business--either selling it or buying it. If you avoid doing that, you're probably okay.

We had to connect in and out of Mexico City. I don't recommend it unless you have to. Confusing airport even if you speak Spanish. If you're the hapless Glubb family from Moline making their long awaited dream vacation to Cancun and miss their connection there, I pity them--they have just entered the depths of Mexican airport hell. No one will help them, they'll be endlessly misdirected, screwed over, and left for dead. They'll end up selling their clothes and maybe one of their small children for a ride out. If you can do it, fly direct to wherever you're going in Mexico.

You see some interesting types when you show up at a place like the Tides. There's the ditsy broad from the upper Midwest with her grating accent and amazing inability to comprehend or communicate anything resembling Spanish. Then there's the 53 year old cougar from Lake Charles with her 37 year old boy toy (I heard the ages come up while sitting at the other side of the bar). Lots of young, cute wives to view in there bikinis on the beach and at the pool. Some retired couples in groups spending their children's' inheritances--good for them. People negotiating (badly) with beach vendors over bracelets and parachute rides. But, mostly, a quiet place and just what we needed. Read a couple of books--the Tom Wolfe piece that skewers the New York elite over the fashionable parties given for the Black Panthers and others along with the delicate art of community organizers squeezing guilty white people for grants. Fun stuff. Also, a Bernard Cornwell book set in the period of the Danish siege and Viking raids on what is now modern day England. Fun reading: Cornwell is a skilled historical novelist. He did the Sharpe series which is set during the Napoleonic Wars along with several others. His book, "Agincourt" is a ripping good yarn.

Anyway, a great time. My appreciation to the warm hospitality of the Mexican people, lard, tequila, Bernard Cornwell, the lovely Mrs. Bulba, and to the fine folks at the Eli Lilly Company (NYSE-LLY) who produce a series of fine and useful products.

Note: I frequently dozed off under one of the palapas pictured above.

He Got What?

Did I go to sleep for four years and miss something, like maybe Ahmadinejad donning a yarmulke and celebrating Yom Kippur or Kim Jong il offering to step down and let the citizens elect a leader?

Rumor has it that our self-proclaimed, new and improved “Prince of Peace” has been awarded the nobel peace prize. Is this true, and if so, for what? Reading flowery speeches – which he does quite well btw – off a teleprompter? Bowing before sectarian warlord “kings”? Playing patty-cake with ego-maniacal nutjobs who just happen to lead backward countries that have the potential – and expressed desire – to kill each and every one of us? Ignoring our friends and sucking up to our enemies? Accepting the blame (well, not him personally. He’s actually speaking for you and me) for all of mankind’s woes, and offering, as a form of recompense I suppose, to turn us into a second class socialist society? Assuming that with little more than a wink and a nod – and a wee bit of groveling – he can cure what ails us?
Is that what it takes to win such a "prestigious" award? If so, I guess Cooperstown’s next, ‘cause his efforts at world peace so far have – for all intents and purposes - had about as much success as that first pitch he threw out…

Thoreau?

Yeah, I'll discuss Nature Boy all you want, just as soon as you show me where he penned some righteous prose praising natural wonders other than those found around an ordinary stock pond (please see exhibit A). Better yet, how about some literary justification that such stuff is what's really worthy of a little civil disobedience every now and then. Sure as hell would have made American Lit. a little less of a beating.

But until then, Happy Hump Day.

Move Over, Buckwheat

Well known to most of those who have made my acquaintance is the fact that I have reached that milestone in life known as “The New 30” (funny that you never hear 30 year-olds saying that). Never bothered me much as I approached it, and really hasn’t bugged me since arriving. Not the daily arrival of AARP propaganda, not the 27 ‘scripts for Viagra that were generously donated to me at my “New 30” party, not the monthly letter I get from my doctor recommending a “routine” (read “bi-century”) check-up, not even the offer of a “senior citizen” discount at the liquor store last weekend. Nope, you’re as old as you feel, I've always told myself, and fuck anyone who says otherwise. Besides, that discount saved me 10 bucks!
Yesterday I spent my lunch hour picking up some groceries for mom, who has been under the weather of late. I walked into the store sprightly – humming the theme from “The Little Rascals” for some unknown reason - flashed a quick smile at the check-out girls, grabbed a cart and made my way to the “Nutritional Supplements” aisle. As I dropped a couple of Ensure 4-packs into the cart, I realized that the mood-altering music coming over the store speakers was “Dark Side of the Moon”. Not the Milwaukee Philharmonic Symphony/Mannheim Steamroller version played on every Otis transportation device worldwide - the original Pink Floyd version. The whole damn album (CD). I slowly looked around, and shoppers all around me – you know, the usual workday noon-time shoppers, carts filled with things like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, Metamucil, Eggbeaters and Depends - were happily nodding their heads to the music. Some were even mouthing the words to “Us and Them”. My shoulders slumped as I trudged to the register, paid (no, I didn’t ask for a fucking discount), and made my way out of the store.
Damn I felt old. “New 30” my ass.
Albertson’s, thou art my Paris, and classic rock the arrow to my Achilles Heel.

Weekend Update

It's ACL Festival weekend in Austin. Forecast calls for solid rain. Nothing better than a mudfest and all-around clusterfuck in and around Zilker Park. Otherwise, Taras Bulba is leaving for a week and leaving the blog in the capable hands of Shellback and Nimdok to discuss Thoreau and belt fed weaponry. Enjoy your cake.

Hump Day--Belated

Sorry.