If you have ever spent an evening with a life insurance salesman, you have had great training for attending writers' conferences.
Writers' conferences are the equivalent of the singles night on cruise ships. If you show up at the event, you quickly learn you are doomed.
Take the lecture on "plot devices." You will hear about shoulder angels and deus ex machina and the Hitchcockean MacGuffin. And then there is my favorite: the "plot voucher." Where an innocuous event or object allows a character to escape certain doom during a climax.
Good plot devices work because they seem to flow naturally from the context in which the characters live. One scent of contrivance, and the house of cards will come tumbling down.
Whoever is writing my story provided me with a "plot voucher" yesterday. Even though I had planned on spending most of this year in Melaque, The Great Author had other things in store for me.
Each year I await the electronic arrival of the Form 1099 for a family trust of which I am the trustee. Without it, I cannot have the CPA draw up the necessary tax filings. When the tax form arrives this year, I was going to fly up to Oregon to sign the documents and to see people I missed visiting on my burglarly-initiated early departure in December.
The only potential conflict was the Yucatán trip (working on my yucatán) next week. Then my cousin Dan informed me our Central America trip is back on -- and he would be here in early March. That would mean a very narrow window of a couple of days to get to Oregon -- if the tax documents showed up before then.
My experience with life is that everything comes out well in the end. And I should have strangled that niggling bit of worry that showed up last week while trying to figure out if I could get to Oregon before Dan arrived.
I need not have worried. I received an email yesterday that the 1099 will be on the way to the CPA tomorrow. Based on that information, Dan informs me that our trip will start for me on 15 March when he and Patrice show up at my front gate in Melaque.
And what is the schedule of the Central America trip? There isn't one. We have an objective -- to get to the end of the Pan-American highway in Panama. Otherwise, we are playing it by ear.
Along the way we will most likely stop in Lázaro Cárdenas, Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, Antigua, Guatemala City, Leon, Granada, Northern Costa Rica, the Golfito area, David, central and coastal Panama, Panama City, and Yaviza.
On the way back, we may take a different path, but there is an inclination to include San Cristobal Las Casas, Palenque, Oaxaca, Monte Alban, and Taxco, I may make up for missing the Oaxaca bus tour earlier in the month.
A simple plot device. A 1099. And the rest of the pieces in this little action drama fall into place.
Of course, no good plot is worth its salt unless there is a major twist that leaves us all saying: "I didn't see that coming; but it was inevitable." And you can count on seeing some of those cross our path on this trip.
You might ask, what was the purpose of this little essay? It certainly has a Seinfeld aroma.
Easy. I just saved you $500 and two days. You can now skip the next writers' conference.
You are welcome.
It seems as if I just got back to Villa Obregón, but I am about to head out of town. Just for a few days. This time.
My destination is Mexico's Yucatán Peninsula -- on a 6-day bus tour.
Well, not entirely a bus tour. We will fly to and from the peninsula out of the Guadalajara airport. But getting from Melaque to the peninsula will be the equivalent of driving from Seattle to Denver. Or about the distance from Paris to Moscow -- for those of you with Napoleonic urges.
The Yucatán Peninsula has fascinated me since the 1960s when our local television reviewer, Francis Murphy, would report on his vacations uncovering new Maya cities. It filled that little niche in my head that wanted to be the next Frederick Catherwood.
You may recall that I spent a week in 2010 in that part of Mexico -- for a Latin American Bloggers' Conference. I swore I would return. And I will. Next week.
So, here is my basic schedule:
On 17 and 18 February, I will be in Mérida (my kind of town) along with a visit to one of the grandest Maya ruins -- Uxmal (looking into chac's eyes).
On 19 February, we move on to Valladolid and the greatly over-rated Maya ruins at Chichén Itzá (it's not chicken pizza!). I may elect to do something else rather than spend another day at what I found to be one of The Greatest Yawns of the World.
On 20 February, we spend the day at Sian Ka'an Biosphere Reserve, and 21 February at Tulum. Tulum is the real reason for taking this trip. Unlike most of the other Maya cities, Tulum was a functioning city when the Spanish arrived. It should make for some great blog material.
Then, on 22 February, we will spend the day traveling -- flying out of Babylon on the Caribbean: Cancún.
You and I have already had some conversations about Mérida, Uxmal, and Chichén Itzá. But I am certain that the well could stand a few more bucket dippings before it runs dry. And who knows what Tulum holds in store for us?
My departure is still a week away. And there are Melaque tales to tell in the interim. But I thought you might like to know where we are all headed -- for those of you who like to plan.
For those of us, like me, who could not care less about plans, we will meet the rest of you on the bus on Monday. Until then, there is a life to lead here on the broiling beach.
The other day on our local message board, we welcomed a newcomer. She is a young American woman in love with an equally-young Mexican.
She informed us she would soon be coming down for a visit, and wanted to know what authentic Mexican foods she could expect. (She hedged that bet by informing us she is not very open to new foods.)
My fellow board members suggested a list of what I would call "safe" choices. Pork ribs at Scooby. Chicken tacos at any number of indifferent taco stands. Shrimp in hot sauce at Red Lobster.
I suggested that she should march to the beat of a different jefe. She should try the eye tacos at the stand next to the bus station.
My inbox was buried with some expected responses -- and some rather original suggestions, that I could not possibly do even if I were not so overweight. Most of them were on one theme -- there is no such thing.
Now, I have been known to put a spin on a good story. I inherited enough of my Aunt Bessie's DNA (my best girl) to not let facts get in the way of a rousing tale. But I remember my one experience with eye tacos.
There was a woman who had a stand by the bus station when I first moved to Melaque. I made a deal with her. She was to give me a taco with different fillings each time I visited -- and I would then try to guess what I had just eaten.
One day she served me a taco with what looked like egg salad. Well, egg salad with undercooked egg white. I tasted it. The white portions were chewy, and the "eggy" substance had a distinctive taste. Not entirely unpleasant.
I knew on my first bite what it was -- just as you do. I finished it and said: "Ojos."
She smiled. And I felt as if I had soared over another culinary hurdle. But I have never eaten one since.
I was going to put a link here to the original story. But I cannot find it. The lack of a post made me start wondering if the event was merely a product of my very vivid imagination.
So, off I went to the scene of my dining encounter. There is a very shiny cart in the spot where I recall a rather rustic stand. And there is no woman. I have walked by several times now, and the stand is always manned -- by a man.
But I suspect it is the same spot. Look at the choices: cabeza de res and lengua carnaza. The first is tender meat cooked from a beef head. The second is one of my favorite meals in the world: tongue.
So, it is more than likely that this is the place. I am going to gather up a couple Mexican waiters I know, and we are heading to the stand to see what other treasures we can find.
My hope is that I will have some documentation to go along with my quest for the eye taco. The gauntlet is down.
Some family traditions die hard.
Saturday was Go to Town day. When I was growing up, we would put on our town clothes whenever our feet would hit our small town center. Maybe not our Sunday Best. But, at least, our school clothes.
I was scheduled to sit in the dentist chair in Manzanillo for the followup of my tooth extraction. So, on went my big boy pants. Town is no place for shorts.
On Saturday I felt fine. But I told the dentist that in the middle of the week, the gum was swollen and both of my sinuses felt severely infected. My headache was bad enough that I had almost driven down for an early examination.
Her reaction? "Well, your gum and bone are healing quite well. The sinus pressure may be some blood still draining -- or it could be an infection. But you are taking your antibiotics -- and you feel fine now. So, what is there to worry about?"
She didn't even bat an eye when I told her about the specimens I have hacked up that would have qualified me for admission to a TB ward in 1912. "Don't worry. It will all be fine."
And my continued dizziness? "You lose a bit of blood during an extraction. Your body will build new blood. Don't worry."
Now, that is my type of doctor. No Cassandra warnings about impending coronaries or diabetes. Bobby McFerrin in a smock.
Having received my good news, I stopped at my big three -- Walmart, Comercial Mexicana, and Soriana -- to buy insect spray, a few groceries, and a Fort Knox quantity of printer ink. When I was shopped out, I realized I had enough time for my favorite activity in Manzanillo. A movie.
When I walked in, the line at the concession stand made me look carefully at my choices. I really had no desire to be surrounded by the Mexi-teen gang. The choice was simple -- The Wolf of Wall Street.
I have long been a fan of Leonardo DiCaprio's acting skills. With the exception of Jack in Titanic, he always amazes me. In this film, his physicality astounded me. It was as if Buster Keaton had been reborn.
But I had put off seeing the movie because I thought it would be just another stereotypical swipe at capitalism. However, this was not an Oliver Stone film. It was Martin Scorsese. How could I go wrong?
Overall, I am glad I saw it. It turns out the film is not about Wall Street at all. The script is taken from the story of Jordan Belfort, a stock broker who loses his job in the 1987 stock crash. He then re-builds a fortune in the unregulated penny stocks market -- a business the Wall Street types consider to be several steps below prostitution.
And speaking of prostitution, the movie pulls no punches when it comes to Belfort's telling of his stories. The illicit and explicit sex. The language that would shock and shame a sailor. Greed that does not take into account losses incurred by investors. And enough drugs to feed -- well, the appetites of penny stock salesmen.
In an odd way, the film is a poke in the eye of the Wall Street elite. Belfort's salesmen are about as populist and blue collar as you can get. But that does not make them any more likeable. In fact, anyone with a sense of conscience will not find much to like in this gang at all.
And that is the point. They are scumbags. But they are fascinating scumbags. And it is completely understandable why investors would trust this unlikely lot with their life savings.
Let me give you one example. Belfort drives his Lamborghini Countach while severely under the influence of Quaaludes. When he sees the damaged car the next morning, he sighs in relief: "It was an absolute miracle I wasn't killed." And then a throw away line with no sincerity: "And an even bigger miracle I hadn't killed anyone."
I have seen some reviews that claim the film is a morality play that capitalism is evil. Scorsese does not make that type of cartoon movie.
This story is as old as Greek tragedy. It is a tale of personal destruction. And not destruction that comes unbidden. The moral is that people who have no other god but materialism are doomed to their own destruction. A destruction they build themselves.
You can hear its echo as Belfort exhorts his salesmen: "I want you to solve your problems by becoming rich."
If that sounds too Sunday school, Scorsese adds his own twist at the end. After serving his time in a country club prison, Belfort is out on the speaking circuit winning new converts to his religion of salesmanship.
And the FBI agent who brought down the narco-nosed Duke of the penny stocks? He is condemned to commuting in a sweaty subway. Perhaps, with a certain self-righteousness. But the viewer is left to ponder who is the representative of success?
The movie is not for everyone. If you are offended by strong (and I mean industrial strength) profanity, do not see this movie. If sex scenes just shy of an X-rating might offend you, do not see this movie. If drug use in all of its manifestations cause moral concern for you, don't see this movie. If greed makes you weep, do not see this movie.
But if you can see each of those as merely plot and character devices to put on a morality play that will cause you to question who you are, you will have an interesting experience. Plus you get to see one of DiCaprio's best acting workshops that I have seen.
For me, it was the whipped cream on my Saturday sundae.
I doubt there is a town in Mexico that does not have its coterie of vendors.
Vendors selling bracelets in restaurants. Vendors selling t-shirts from carts. Vendors selling shell sculptures.
Mexico is a land of entrepreneurs. And very clever entrepreneurs.
At one point the beaded necklaces on the board of a vendor very well could have been made by her. These days, it is just as likely that they were made by a 10-year old boy in Shanghai. (If you take the early morning bus, you can see the young women opening the "Made in China" packaging, and sorting the jewelry on their boards.)
The fact that Melaque is a beach town means that we are blessed with an additional level of shops -- the beachwear, inflatable toy, sandal shops. The kind of store you can find in Atlantic City.
I have been fascinated with one item each time I walk through (because each shop has imperially absorbed the sidewalk into its edifice) the stores. Tiny t-shirts.
I once suspected they were for new-born babies. They are far too small for any child over the age of three months.
And then I ran into this display of t-shirts. There is no doubt of the intended users. "Happy Puppy Melaque Mexico."
Even Dr. Watson could figure out those clues. The shirts are for tiny dogs (compare the size of the shirts to the tassels on that hammock). And they must be for the tiny dogs of northern tourists. That rather annoying slogan is in English, after all.
But I could be wrong. There is a fad in Mexico to own what could politely be called purse dogs. Usually chihuahuas with jeweled collars. I may have seen one of those shirts on the tiny dog of a middle class Mexican woman. Frankly, I tend not to notice little dogs.
There is some cachet amongst the bourgeoisie to sport English slogans. So, maybe the shirts are for the Mexican tourists. After all, they provide the lion's share of tourist pesos in Melaque.
Having said that, I feel sorry for the dogs. When Professor Jiggs was a young dog, I took him to PetSmart around Halloween. The dog costumes had just arrived. I looked through the pile and found a princess hat. You know the type. An elongated dunce cap with a scarf at the top.
I slipped it on his head. Several people walked by and commented how pretty she looked.
The glare in The Professor's eyes were enough to let me know that I had crossed a line. A line for which I would pay for 13 years. And I did.
So, I am a bit empathetic with the poor dogs sentenced to wear these things. Woofers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your dog chains.
On the other hand, some dogs tend to march to the beat of a different couturier. This guy seems to think he looks quite snazzy in his low-cut faux leopard jumper. He may be on his way to audition for the local transvestite show. But he looks too talented.
I think I have seen that look in his eyes before in PetSmart. I was probably one shot away from having my throat torn out.
It was a recipe for the sybaritic life.
Two trees properly spaced. A tropical garden. A colorful hammock.
I cannot remember the last time I spent a day in the hammock here in Villa Obregon. After our last hammock was stolen, I rolled up the new one after each use, and stored it whenever I am gone for long periods of time. That means the hammock has not been meeting its primary goal for almost a year.
I decided yesterday was the day. My head was not up to being anywhere but at the house. Between my toot extraction (which is now hurting a bit), what I hope is only a head cold, and a surge in my triglyceride levels (even though I have been faithfully taking my medication), I had no desire to go amongst the people today.
The perfect solution would be the hammock, a bottle of water, and my Kindle. So, out came the hammock from storage. I rolled it out and fastened it with the ropes bound around the tamarind and mango trees,
At one moment, I had settled my butt on the edge of the hammock. In the next, I was splayed on the ground.
Both ropes had given into a tropical constant -- rot. I suppose I should not have been surprised. Those ropes have been there since I rented the house.
The only injury was a scraped elbow and a big dose of disappointment. It would have been nice to slip into the comforting embrace of a hammock. Instead, I sat in a chair and read -- while battling clouds of mosquitoes.
On Saturday I will drive to Manzanillo for a followup appointment for my dearly departed tooth. Based on my experience yesterday, it will be a welcomed examination.
If I do not buy any rope locally, I may pick up some at Walmart. After all, I really do need to spend at least a day or two in my hammock each year. Otherwise, what's the point of having those well-placed trees?
My little home town of Powers is not in the news much. But when it is, the stories are boffo.
You may have heard about the guy who made some off-hand remark about President Obama's health. If I remember correctly, his Cato impression was delivered in the Timberline Tavern. So, social lubricants were undoubtedly involved.
The Secret Service was not amused. But after a bit of bully boy interrogations, the miscreant was exonerated.
And then there was the high school valedictorian. For whatever reason, she ended up showering with the boy's football team -- and was stripped of her valedictorian duties.
That last story is the text for today's sermon.
I was not shocked when I heard that story. In today's world, it struck me as being rather naive and innocent. No political agenda. No overt sexuality. Simply a high school romp.
That is why I have not been joining the hair-on-fire brigade over the emergence of the transsexual movement (wee the people). Teenagers are already confused about who they are. It simply appears that some are more confused than other.
We need to keep our terms straight here. We are not talking about people who have undergone a revision of the plumbing God gave them. Transsexuals retain all of the objective genitalia of the sex into which they were born. They just want to be treated as if they had different organs. Or maybe they just do not want to be identified that way at all.
And that sentence is the rub. "The sex they are not." The leaders of the transsexual movement claim it is the wrong statement of the question. It should be "the sex I think I am."
If I told you one state had already caved into the "I am who I am" bunch, you could guess it immediately. California. I have only glanced at the new law. It essentially forbids schools from segregating children by their genitalia. That means bathrooms and shower rooms. As far as I know, the shop-home economics segregation ended years ago.
So, no more Jim/Jane Crow when it comes to shower heads. A student may look as male as a Chippendale stripper. But if s/he thinks of her/himself as a girl, bring on the showering co-eds.
Yesterday morning, I read about a state striking back. A Republican legislator in Utah (he may as well have drawn a target on his chest) has proposed legislation for schools to provide separate locker room and bathroom facilities for students who identify themselves as a sex opposite of their -- well, sex.
That proposal is what several of you have suggested in the past. It is kind. It is elegant. It is a violation of civil liberties.
Or so says Sara Jade Woodhouse -- "a transgender Utah woman and adjunct film professor at Salt Lake Community College." I swear I did not make up any of that.
Sara claims the proposal would relegate transsexuals to secondary status. She sums up with this roundhouse punch.
"It's basically hanging a sign around someone's neck that says, 'I'm not like you.'"
There really should be a laugh track with these stories. If I am showering, I do not need a sign to make the point "I am not like you."
I feel sorry for the teenagers who are dealing with their own confused identities. Good grief! When I was in high school, I thought I was the Anti-Christ. But I never expected anyone else to revel in my delusion.
But it is the Sara Jade Woodhouses who cause me to raise an eyebrow. Adults who love imposing their own vocabulary of victimhood on children. But, as a film professor, she is probably an expert on projection.
Harvey Fierstein has a great line in his opening monolog of Torch Song Trilogy. In the role of Arnold Beckoff, he is musing about his life while he completes making up for his transvestite show:
"Well, once the ERA and gay civil rights bills have been passed, me and mine will be swept under the carpets. Just like the blacks done to Amos, Andy, and Aunt Jemima."
He really missed that one.
