A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 6 of 3

The Argentine bus that I rode had come to a sudden and complete stop, but my sojourn had not. No, I was sure that there were still surprises to come. I strained my neck to look to the front of the bus. Ahead lay fire and a group of men creating a roadblock. Pirates! Well, the men blocking the road weren't as much as pirates as they were radical political activists. But I'll continue to address them as pirates to add to the dramatic elements of my story.

The pirates boarded our bus and I slid my camera under the seat in front of me: "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we represent Seu Andseu running for office here in Tucuman Provence."

'Wait', I thought, 'why on God's great big ball of mass were we still in Tucuman?' That was still ten hours from Buenos Aires.

"We demand a donation from every passenger to support his campaign," the men began walking down the aisle collecting coins from all the passengers. This was nuts! I was a little excited because I had never been held for ransom by pirates before. Now I can't say that. (Not only because of this bus ride, but also because of my weekend in Somaliland. (Which, of extreme importance to note, is NOT a family-friendly theme park but rather an autonomous region of Somalia with a literal ton of pirates*)) . On the bus, I wasn't nearly as fearful as I was satisfied that, again, more turmoil was added to my journey.

It appeared that God's plan lay right before me in the wrinkled countenance and bad breath of a Tucumani Pirate. I reached into my wallet, 'Oh crap!', I realized, "I don't have any money"[insert the incarnation of a frown-face emoticon here].

Enrique handed them another peso. "No," demanded a pirate who was scowling at me, "what have you got?"

"An empty wallet?" I tried to escape my quandary with humor. No, he didn't like that answer. Damn pirates never laugh at jokes about money, politics or Rabbis I would later find out.

"Fear?" I tried again. No, no empathy towards my situation. The tension rose like mercury on Mercury. In a sly movement, I shifted my seat and kicked my camera further hidden under the seat affront. I searched for anything else to give them. How about an action figure? No, he knew that it was dead. Notes from a friend back home? No, I left those behind. I wish I had brought my chest of golden medallions. I always seemed to forget that when I needed it the most (see: Somaliland mistake).

Finally, providently weighing consequences, I chose not to play with fire. I mean, these were pirates that I was interacting with, and I am no ninja. I unfortunately had to resort to my inference skills rather than my Ninjatō or Shuriken skills. This was a real shame because I can think of no better situation for the use of a ninja star. Notwithstanding this dilemma, I descried** from across the aisle that one of the most brute of pirates was not wearing socks with his alpargatas. A pirate without socks? What gives? Boat decks can get rather damp and slimy, especially to the wavefaring marauder. After an instant's pause, I looked up, shrugged and then carefully rose my foot to offer an unspoken barter: my socks for the toll.

A head nod closed the deal, and Seu Andseu's campaign had a new pair of white Reebok ankle-length gym socks that had been embrowned by the Altiplano dust. I had my life, a ten hour trip ahead of me, slight hunger and the newfound opportunity for athlete's foot. But this was the worst that it could get, right?

[[Right??? Come right back for part 7 of this emotional 3-part Argentine odyssey.]]
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*After a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome, I joined my captors in a rather short lived game of "Biggest Somali Pirate Loser" where we measured our collective weight to be exactly 2,002lbs.

**Do not attempt to use the word "descry" in a pickup line at a bar (or in a pickup line at a whale-watching conference***).

***Do not attempt pick up girls at whale-watching conferences (do not attempt to pick up the whales either, it usually takes a crew and a crane. Mere quixotism and the 'I can!' attitude will not suffice).

Things that are good about the CTA

Bob Loblaw's Law Blog:

This entry really isn't a law blog. I just chose to adopt a catchy title to lure in potential victims readers.

I did not post a single entry in the month of November. I feel that I have let all two of my readers down. Example of this failure:

My Chinese friend, Bocheng, having just arrived from the Fuijan Provence of China, was uncorrupted by American influence, and therefore a perfect opportunity for me to exploit. He came to the United States without a single bookmarked page on his brand new laptop computer's internet browser. I honed in upon his blank digital canvass and strategically deceived him into placing a link to my blog in his bookmarks toolbar. I was excited to see that someone, anyone, had saved a link to my blog. Now, a month later, the bookmark is gone. Perchance Bocheng has found new information to keep accessibly located at the top of his screen and ran out of room, or perchance Bocheng realized that I'm a joke (no matter how many times I tried to convince him that my normalcy was lost in the translation).

So, now, here I am committing to myself, (and not as any form of seductive enticement to potential readers), that I will write more consistently and more often.

Bocheng, bookmark me again.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 5 of 3

Given the precedent set by the previous events on this tour, my rest was better than I could have expected. I was only awoken a few times through the course of the night, and the person behind me was gracious enough to let the little hand hit the six before he started to shout.

"I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying," he pierced the general hum of the moving road with his shrieks, "I'm dying!"

My heart jumped up and so did I to turn behind my headrest. There sat a five-year-old boy banging two plastic men together.

"I'm dying. I'm dying," it was kind of cute, I thought. There were other verbs he could be using while banging the men together.

"I'm dying," he gave me a huge toothless grin while his mother, after years of practice, remained quietly asleep aside him.

"I'm dying. I'm dying, " he continued, dissipating all lingering forms of cuteness in his play.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." What a wonderful narrative surmise of my trip, I thought, and it's getting really annoying.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." How long does it take your plastic man to die? I turned around again and chided him.

"Shut up," I said. But this time his mother was awake and she gave me a look that could be read word for word as follows:

"My kid? Shut up? Listen, punk, you shut up! Ha! The guy who made the whole bus stop last night because he couldn't hold it in is telling my kid to shut up? Turn your honky-ass around!"

Well, maybe her look didn't scream that last part, but it was effective enough to make me turn and bear disgrace.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." We spoke in unison, "I'm dying."

Unable to return back to a semi-peaceful state, I stared out the window to watch the sunrise. Ah, yes! When one wakes before the sun rises, he can make the most of his day. He is blessed with opportunity. A sunrise provides both literal and figurative enlightenment. The entrance of the sun allows me to push yesterday's woes behind me and to bask in today's chance to make anew. Yes, the sunrise brightens spirits and fills each day with a spectrum of....wait! Why was the sun rising out of my window on the right of the bus? Even being in the southern hemisphere couldn't explain this anomaly.

"Take 'er really easy, Chris. You don't know what's going on." I thought. But that was the problem, I didn't know what was going on anymore. The best solution at this moment was to sigh and accept. This was a cursed trip from the outset. The realization should have made it more manageable, but it didn't. I stared out the window, I had nothing with which I could pass the time we were heading backwards except for my journal. (At this instant, I'd like to point out that my notebook was more of a Magellanesque tale of adventure than a pre-teenage girl's diary. Well, who am I kidding?)

"Dear Diary," I wrote. "I can't wait to finally get back to my room where I can rest peacefully and dream of all my crushes, omg!" I continued with seemingly endless similes for what my heart felt like. I think I was writing about the way Danny looked at me during third period when a sudden interruption shook my pen. The bus had slowed as a result of the sudden friction applied to it's wheels by the break pads, in other words: the driver slammed on the brakes when we came to an unexpected (yet unsurprising) obstacle in the road. What was surprising, however, was what happened next.

[[You'll unfortunately have to wait a short time for the shock and awe that follows this lingering suspense/angst. Part six of this three-part odyssey will be presented soonafter we complete contract negotiations with a certain Hollywood A-List celebrity who may be playing the role of the Bus Driver. We've already signed Danny DeVito on as the five-year-old boy in the forthcoming crag-laden movie.]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 4 of 3

Alone we sat in the darkest of the Altiplano steppes. My need for use of a bathroom had caused my entire bus to stop where there was nothing but an expansive lack of restrooms. The driver's frustration-fueled forceful stop was sure to have awoken those easily awoken by frustration-fueled forceful stops. The parallel structure of this moment was that while my entire bus was isolated from civilization, I was the lone maverick who was isolated from them. There I stood on the steps of the bus, a solitary bohemian*, segregated by my fellow Passenger, ready to take charge, unaccompanied, peering into the think black yonder. **

I slowly stepped from the bus, which as dark as it was outside, remained even darker on the inside. I was wise enough to know that this caused a problem of physics. I wouldn't be able to see in, but all who were on the window could easily see definition of figures out. I didn't care. Because even though there wasn't a shrub large enough for the Knights who say Ni!, I really, really had to go to the bathroom. So I took in a large breath, gathered myself and ran alongside of the bus. It was hopeless to try to run out of sight, so I analyzed that my best option was to hover as closely to the side of the bus as possible.

Well, I didn't have much time to think so I simply acted. And, picture it if you must, there I sat exposed to my greatest fears. I sure put the "Bare Ass" into embarrassing. But I was relieved! (Pun intended).

Then, like a brick face to the wall, the realization hit that, in my haste, I hadn't prepared myself with paper. I started to grow concerned and began to frantically search around me. Nothing. I patted myself down to find to my elation and/or discomfort that, in my pants' pockets remained the letters from my friend back home.

"Well," I settled the idea in my mind, "If there's ever been justification for this... now is the time." With a great sense of guilt amalgamated with my excessive embarrassment and half-nudity, a large and grotesque allegorical monster crawled inside my chest. My stomach felt better, but my heart rate was askew. Externalizing my palpitation, I jumped up, left my letters for the Alpaca, covered up the hole I dug and boarded the bus.***

Refreshed, yet head hung, I skulked back to my seat. If I had a tail, it would have been hiding between my legs. Enrique showed my a picture he took of me outside and then the bus stopped five miles later at a rest stop for gas and snacks. From what I heard, the toilets were nice...

[[Please stay tuned for part 5 of this knuckle-whitening, teeth-clenching, throat-gagging 3-part series of my adventures through the Argentine desert. Don't touch that dial, I'll be right back.]]

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*Note: I'm not Bohemian with a capital B, but rather a bohemian, with a lower case b. I'm American, duh.
**Wow, there are a lot of commas in that sentence.
***I wanted to ensure concerned readers that I did, indeed, dig a hole despite my stress. Also, in my first draft, I had written, "covered my hole", which really didn't sound how I intended it to.

Stupid Bamboo Hugger

The following is a Craigslist Apartment Ad that I found in my search for available rooms in Chicago. My response to the ad is below in purple.
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$700 **** Apt. to Share for Female Prof. or Grad. w/Foreign Policy Exp ****

Political junkie seeks female professional or grad student with more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin to share condo (summer internship in Spain, safari in Africa, scuba diving in France, or vacation in Italy will suffice). No wildlife killers or environmental novices will be considered. Respondents with lip-sticked pit bulls will not be considered. Ideal condo-mate will have registered to vote and be progressive in pursuing change we can believe in. War heroines will be considered, but Bush apologists and rationalizers will not.
New Furnished 3 BR, 2 BA Condo. A/C; DW; Washer & Dryer in Unit; Disposal. Queen Bed, 4 drawer chest, and small TV in BR. Exterior and interior quality finishes. Three bedrooms two baths. Cherry cabinets and cherry and bamboo hardwood floors thru-out! Private balconies. Gas Fireplace. Plenty of street parking. Nice, safe neighborhood. Public transportation and grocery shopping within 1 block; 5 minutes to Blue Line. 20 minutes by car to O'Hare. Near Kennedy Expressway. 3 Blocks from Northeastern Illinois University.
Rent includes utilities. Must like small, energetic dog and be available to care for him infrequently. Responsible, fun, upbeat, reliable, mature, and adaptable to a wry sense of humor would be ideal to share unit with professional, responsible male exec. Please respond with your lifestyle description, profession, contact information, and foreign policy resume. Immediate availability. Small non-barking dogs (under 20 lbs.) o.k.
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My Reponse:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inquire about the availability of your politically adorned room. However, I write with hesitations. Because of my traumatic experiences in Argentina I am rather fragile and refuse to spend another night with any more junkies. If you can assure me that your political habits can be suppressed when I am at my weakest, (i.e. when I see a photo or drawing of, or real-life Tapir) I will be a little more assuaged.

Having spent an entire year in South America and having taken the opportunity to travel extensively throughout Europe, Asia and Eurasia, I feel that I have more foreign policy than Sarah Palin. In fact, when I traveled to Alaska, I found that most Inuits are confused with Eskimos and that most Eskimos are confused with beavers. This allowed me to realize the xenophobia and stereotyping behaviour of most Alaskans. I feel that Alaskans, overwhelmingly, are alcoholic. So I try my best to stay away from them.

Moreover, I can assure you that I am neither wildlife killer nor environmental novice. I am a friend to all animals (with the lone exception: that damned Tapir). My environmental experience includes but is not limited to: three years as a lawn service employee for H&R Lawn Care. References furnished upon request.

I hope that it is okay that my cousin's neighbor's step-father has a poodle with eye-liner. I do not condone the application of makeup to dogs. Cats though, well, I'd have to gauge the situation and/or brand of makeup. Of course I would never apply makeup to, toss about, or eat your small, energetic dog. If I haven't already mentioned it, I LOVE DOGS! Gee, though, I hope your dog's name is Samuel or Hubert. In my opinion, these are two of the best possible names for canines. I will be able to work with most other names, regardless of the amount of syllables. Just warn me ahead of time if the name rhymes with 'Taupe'. It's better I prepare for that.

You should be excited to hear that I have registered to vote! In fact, I would have made it out to cast my ballot in the last election had it not been for that lousy weather, those lengthy lines or my incredible apathy! I suppose that if I did vote I would have voted against George Bush by striking through that circle next to his name with an emphatic check mark. While I am a friend to animals, I am an enema to George Bush! What a doofus! Are we sure that he's not from Alaska? Or East Timor for that matter?

Honestly, I could care less what the apartment looks like, although, I am pumped to see that you have bamboo hardwood floors throughout. Did you know that Bamboo can grow 30-40 feet per day? Of course you do! It's incredible growth rate makes it a perfectly environmentally friendly choice for all flooring! This is why I chose to line the inside of my Ford F-250 with seaweed because it grows at even quicker rates.

I see that you have two bathrooms, but I have this thing, you know, after my year in South America, where I can't go to the bathroom without someone else in there. Would it be cool to ask to share a bathroom?

Thanks for taking the time to read through my email, you sound like a professional, responsible male exec.

I hope this can work out! Uh, also, being male, I bring along something that no female can bring. That is, a penis. I don't want to go into great length about it, I'll save all those stories for when we share the bathroom together, but after my tapir experience...well, it'll make sense when I show you.

Man, if you can drop that price down from $700 to around $400/month, then we'd really be talking.

Really looking forward to chillaxing, eating sushi and talking about the AIDS pandemic ravaging Sub-Saharan Africa,

Chris

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Note: I am still awaiting reply and will post his reply as soon as it is received.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 3 of 3

Because even highbrow humour needs a poop joke every once in a while:

As the night grew increasingly longer I became more entrenched in my hopelessness. I was stuck on an overnight bus journey from Jujuy, Argentina back to Buenos Aires. All would have been grand had it not been for the fact that nothing was grand. The first three hours of the trip had become excruciating. If my bowels could speak, they'd echo in angst; "SHIT!"

Enrique, my seatmate, wouldn't shut up, couldn't shut up. He was so jacked on maté that he couldn't sit still. Meanwhile, hands clenched to the armrests, I sat near vertically, at an angle of even less than 90 degrees with my insides writhing. The light above flickered at a rate mere fractions of seconds off consistent. This was just enough to further drive me berserk. The cosmos were surely playing an evil trick on me.

The chances that I would last like this much longer weren't slim to none. No, they were none. I thought it best to count, to take my mind off of every single little thing around me. It had gotten to the point where I felt that even the fabric on my seat was too rough on my skin and that I thought I could smell my feet; or someone's feet. Every sensation I experienced turned painful, and the counting did no good. It became a systematic countdown towards my breaking point.

Sixty-six, sixty-seven...Enrique was yapping.
One-oh-eight, one-oh-nine...I was sweating.
One-forty-two, one-forty-three...the lights were flickering.
Crap! What number was I on?...The bus was rocking.
One-twenty-two, one-twenty-three...I was sure that the driver has gone tangent on a goat-path.
One-ninety-nine, two-hundred....

I jumped up amid Enrique's rant about Whatever, I said no words and I RAN down to the driver below.

Now, it's rare that I'll ever ask someone to bend to my wishes. I am a firm believer in the utilitarian approach to moving commerce. A long line of cars should not wait for one person disobeying a crossing-signal to stroll lazily across the intersection, and certainly a bus-full of content passengers shouldn't be forced to pull off into a small town so that one guilty American can use the bathroom. (Although functions of utilitarianism would have ensured that the bus's toilet worked). It is, however, also true that I am of the firmest belief in some sort of consequentialism. This choice, to stop, would be much better for all on the bus than if I hadn't the opportunity. I promise.

"Excuse me, sir," I hesitantly gained the driver's attention, "I need to use the bathroom."

"We'll be stopping shortly," he retorted.

"Uh... we need to stop very soon, shortly won't suffice." ( I don't know how I managed to get this all across in Spanish). We then began to stare each other down. I really wished he would watch the road, but I also needed him to understand the gravity of my situation. One would assume that my gravity was the standard 9.8 m/s², however, the weight of all the burdens on my back pushed me towards the floor*. Hunched over, I engaged the driver in a very monumental staring contest, and I was so intent on winning that I didn't move to wipe the sweat dripping from my brow. We both stared as if it would never end. Then, from either my determination or the driver's necessity to return his attention back to the road, I emerged victor! I contently turned around after his nod and headed back to my seat when I suddenly flew backward. The bus came to a screeching halt.

"Here." the driver said concisely.

"Here?" I asked. I looked outside. The moonlit night shone only upon an empty field for as far as I could see. There were no lights, no signs of civilization and, sure as death, no toilets.

"Here?" I asked again. Maybe I wasn't victorious, after all.

[[Please hang tight for part four of this engaging three part series! This is certainly not the end.]]
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*Note: Yes, I am fully aware of the differences between force and gravitational pull. This device used purely literarily.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 2 of 3

"Hey, Dude," my seatmate spoke to me in Spanish, "you want some yerba maté?" I was told that it was not just impolite, but that, in fact, it was rather rude to refuse an offered share of Argentina's most potently caffeinated tea. Yerba maté has a similar caffeine content to the coffee bean, and its drank directly though the leaves, filtered through a straw in a hollowed out gourd. Resultingly, I was faced with a handful of problems:

1. I has just been abruptly awoken and I was NOT happy
2. The second to last thing I needed was caffeine through potent tea on the first hour of my overnight, uncomfortable-bus-seat-burdened voyage, and
3. The very last thing I needed was to burn the unspoken rapport between me and my bus-buddy that had already allowed me to claim over 2/3 of the shared arm rest
   

Also, I suppose that the ultimate-last thing I needed at this point was to have the bus stormed by pirates, but that was the least of my worries considering all my other woes. I didn't need the next 17 hours and 25 minutes to be spent in a constant battle for claim over the bordering land. It was at this point that I came up with a final decision, a decision which I had never used theretofore. I chose to pretend that I didn't speak Spanish.

"What?" I said in English. He motioned toward his tea. "Very nice." I said and turned to look out the window. He tapped my shoulder. Dammit, he was persistent.

"Querés?" He asked.

I needed to be persistent, too; "No sir, I would not like to caress your gourd," I mumbled in case anyone around us did speak English. He shoved the straw in my face. I surrender! This was to be a painfully long journey if I continued to surrender that easily, but I was clearly fighting a strategic war-master. I took gourd and a sip. My stomach grumbled. The dulce de leche desert from earlier had already not been sitting perfectly. I sighed.

"Great, thanks." I said to Eisenhower and handed it back. I found out that his name was less-fittingly Enrique, and we continued to engage in general discourse. I slowly began to turn my one word, curt, Spanish responses into lengthy Spanish monologues as the caffeine kicked in. My cover was blown. Enrique refilled his gourd with thermos and I refilled my vigor. We drank, talked and shared. Funny was when Enrique asked me some rather uncomfortable questions about American girls. Not funny was how much more uncomfortable my stomach felt than trying to answer his questions.

I had to excuse myself, "Pardon me, I'm going to go find the bathroom."

"It's not working."

Hoping he was talking about our newfound friendship I asked, "What's not working?"

Enrique neither assuaged my fears when he replied, "The bathroom," nor when he informed me that "we'll be stopping in only a couple hours for gas." I buried my head in hands and sighed again. Okay, I thought, I'll take a break, lean back and hopefully dream about a porcelain land with hills of toilet paper and rivers of hand soap. I pushed against my chair. It didn't move. I pushed harder. It didn't move harder.

"I'm glad you're here, friend, welcome to South America," Enrique said as he handed me some more maté.

[[Part three to follow. The horses, all the beautiful horses... hold on to them]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 1 of 3

Traveling through Northwest Argentina had hitherto been enjoyable and relaxing. The clean and welcoming cities of the Salta and Jujuy provinces brought few feelings of insecurity. Yes, shockingly, the cities on the Argentine Altiplano were kempt. Overcome by a waitress’s congeniality I spent my last pesos on a recommended dulce de leche dessert and on a gracious tip. With empty pockets and a full stomach I quickly searched through town to find an accessible ATM before I boarded my bus back to Buenos Aires, but my labors ended fruitlessly and I raced back to the terminal to load my bag and squeeze into my seat just in time to begin the 26 hour haul back to the capital. Of course, at that particular moment, I was only expecting an 18 hour trip.

I sifted through my bag. My camera’s battery had died the night before but I pulled out my notebook to jot down memories from the past day. I was sure as lief to forget had I not taken the time to write down my experiences. It was customary and very easy for me to supplement writing with photography as each picture was worth, as the saying goes, at least sixty-five words.

My hand got tired as it often would. I had written about just the breakfast I ate the day before and I gave up. To pass the time before light ran out, I pulled out a few letters from my friend back home in Chicago. They served to remind me both of the luxuries I had left in the United States and of the reasons I wanted so badly to escape the country for a year. Overall, the letters, as I best recall, were humorous and helpful to pass the time on an uncomfortable South American bus commencing its overnight journey. I’d take this discomfort, though, anytime over the monotony of the Chicago Suburbs. This was new and exciting. In my haste boarding the bus I had forgotten to grab any CDs from my suitcase which was now secured under the cabin. We wouldn’t be stopping until morning, so I was without entertainment for the night. Thankfully, I am completely diurnal during long travel. As soon as the sun set, I expected to fall asleep. I rested my head on the window where I watched the diver-sun, slow-dived from noon, meld into the horizon creating a splash of golden light.*

My consciousness swept away with the daylight. There was to be no need for CDs or camera batteries where I was going, and darkness paved way to slumber. Ah, yes, sleep! I can write about its beauty incessantly. Sleep is the brilliant state where all possibilities became probabilities. Only, unfortunately for me, the probability of being awoken was near certainty. My lucid dreams were startled back into lurid visions of the man sitting next to me.

[[Parts 2 and 3 to follow.]]
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*Note: Thank you Herman Melville.

I'm In Love with a Pig (Video)

Let's try to get this video up on the video viral charts... Handed to my roommates at a house party by our next-door neighbor. He says he's getting into the comedy scene. This is too good for anyone to miss:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abtSrFavwCA

Andare a Giocare a Bowling

It was Christmas day in Sorrento, Italy. The weather was chilly, but nothing else sans a lone and somber Christmas tree, which seemed to depress the lobby of our hotel rather than enlighten it, reminded us of the holiday back home. We had each other, my immediate family, but we had nothing to do. The day had closed all stores and had brought each Sorrentine to his or her relative's home; the streets were abandoned. After a quiet brunch in the hotel, we gathered ourselves outside to stroll about the empty streets of this bayside town. The wind blew sharply, giving our cheeks a rosy hue, and garbage and cats seemed to move with it along the streets. Ahead shined the sole lit sign in the entire town, and it pulled us near.

"Nice! A bowling alley," Jacob shouted and pulled me and my parents in. We had enjoyed great games of bowling around the globe. I recall at this moment a strobe-lit game amplified by harsh techo music in Germany. The conditions at the German alley acted as steroids to our final scores. The Germans were impressed with our family bowling skills, and we were certain that the elderly employee and the rest of the empty Surrentum Alley would be equally impressed.

The skills came naturally and we were making the pins fall as the ornaments fell off the hotel's tree when brushed against. I bowled a few gutter balls, a few spares and a few strikes. Jacob bowled as well, or well enough to invite glances over from four young Italian men who had just walked in. Being so empty, the sounds of our strikes bellowed through the alley. Jacob and I and our father began to joke around and we bowled through each other's legs, changed the other's name on the above screen to anagrams like G.A.Y., A.S.S. or other highbrow words like P.O.O. We were able to edit each other's scores using the "correct score" feature available on the control panel as well.

Soon later, as our hands got tired and we had successfully wasted enough of our Italian Christmas, we packed up our shoes to leave. Just as we walked away, one of the Italian men, we'll call him Antonio, saw our tampered scores above. I had changed mine to near-perfect 299, giving myself a 9 on the last frame while Jacob gave himself a 300. Antonio shrieked aloud; "Trecento! Trecento!" He blindly reached for his friends behind him to gather their attention and they all stared in awe at our perfect scores. Before we knew anything, all four men gleamed and excitedly applauded us. They searched for English words. Mario found a few; "Tree-hundred! Superior! Tree-hundred!" They beckoned and continued in celebration.

Uncertain and little embarrassed, our family hesitantly smirked, waved off their applause and exited quickly as rock stars eschewed fans aside tour buses. Once outdoors, we broke into echoing laughter and bolted back to the safety of the hotel. "I think they has a pen out so as to try and get autographs." Jake said. A good-humored, rootin- tootin', knee-slapping fun time followed until the next day when walking past a newly full capacity Sorrento bowling alley we peaked inside to see, to our greatest excitement and/or fear, that taped to the wall behind the shoe counter was a printed computer paper sign that read:

Alto Punteggio (Top Scores):

D.U.M.: 300 - 25/12/02
A.S.S.: 299 - 25/12/02

Uh...CTA bus story

I am forced to take public transportation in my morning commute. It's never a pleasant journey. Today a Canadian lady next to me on the bus was eating a breakfast sandwich. While the CTA rules clearly state that eating on the bus is prohibited, I didn't say anything. I didn't really mind at all until she dropped a piece of greasy egg on my thigh. I looked at her, and she kept eating and didn't say a word. I continued to stare as she continued to eat. No. Nothing. I uncomfortably bent over, picked up her egg and handed it to her; "I believe you dropped this." I said.

I swear that she replied; "Oh. That ain't mine." I gave a confused smile and asked, "Are you sure?"

She reached out and quite literally swiped it from my hand and, I SHIT YOU NOT, put it back in her sandwich. I am still in awe at what happened, I wanted to share it with the interweb.


Oh...and when I left the bus, I looked at her and said; "You're right...that wasn't yours. Got you good." The bus drove off.

Google Earth / Google Maps

Aside from the consumption of a good three to fours hours of each day, Google Maps also offers another notable quality. It hosts my photos from panoramio.com. I've posted photos from all over the globe onto this website and after Google purchased Panoramio, it began to host the photos for viewing on Google Earth and Google maps. I have some popular photos posted in Greece, Brazil and Argentina (popularity guided by user comments, views, favorites and other factors about which I know very little). However my most popular photos are in Chicago and Los Angeles. Here's what you do. Go to maps.google.com and then click the little box on the satellite map image that says "More" click "Photos" and voila, the first images shown over Chicago and Los Angeles are mine. Props to Jacob who took the Chicago City Skyline photo. The Los Angeles photo is of a house used in Hollywood as a Witches "Spadena" House for a movie set. These are not my best photos, one is not even my own, but I'm proud to see these photos just a mere two clicks away on any computer. I'm still not a popular as my only blog reader who appears on Wikipedia, but we all have dreams.

West Side Park

Because my only reader, Jeff, appreciates baseball, I thought I would post a quick little fact I found out this week:

West Side Park (The West Side Grounds) is where the Cubs played between 1893-1915. It's where they won their only two world series'. It's where they won 116 games in one season, setting a major league record. It's where Tinker to Evers to Chance became the most famous double play combination in the history of the game. Its where Three fingered Mordecai Brown (who had four fingers, btw) pitched countless complete games and where Ty Cobb lost to the Cubs in the 1908 World Series. Honus Wagner and Christy Matthewson fell victim to many Cubs teams in this era. Tris Speaker and Cy Young and Nap Lajoie played there and had the Cubs not moved to Weeghman Park in 1916 so would have Babe Ruth. It's dimensions were:
Left field: 340 feet; center field: 560 feet; right field: 316 feet.

It's where Cap Anson got hit number 3,000 and Kid Nichols got his 300th win. It's also exactly where my office building is at the University of Illinois Chicago Medical District.

No one else may care, but I now feel a newfound and ethereal bond with the courtyard right outside my window that quite literally served as the foundation upon which the Chicago Cubs would build my favorite franchise. The building I work in sits where right center field and its grandstands would have been if the stadium has not been torn down in 1920 and sold for lumber scraps. I can actually close my eyes and picture being at the last Cubs world Series win in 1908. This of course is aided by the following embedded photos, which all came from the Chicago Daily News archives (and are public domain because they were printed before 1923). Enjoy the pictures!

Click on each one for more detail!

The West Side Park during the 1912 Season with new grandstands.

My office building currently sits in what used to be right-center field, my windows look out upon where home plate sat.

The 1908 National League Pennant above the box office at Lincoln Ave. and Polk St.

Spectators in the grandstand in right field were only 316 ft, from home plate and sit about where I sit at work. Many have bullhorns.

On August 30th, 1908

The Cubs' mascot at West Side Park!

Cubs' Coach Cap Anson ceremonially throwing the first pitch of the 1908 Season.

Pirates' Shortstop Luis Rivas, er, I mean Honus Wagner wearing a backwards cap at the West Side Park.

Mordecai "Three-Fingered" Brown warming up on the first base line.

Spectators after a regular season game.

Ty Cobb probably getting one of his forty-two career Major league hits.

President William Howard Taft waving to spectators as as he enters the Cubs West Side Park.

President Taft greeting New York catcher Chief Meyer.


Current location of the third base bleachers, Polk Ave. Shame.

For more photos search for "West Side Grounds" at the Chicago Daily News Archives.

Yu

B: "The guy at the gas station, his name was 'Yu'"

A: "His name was Chris?"

B: "No, that's what I'm saying, his name was 'Yu' Y-U."

A: "Why did I what?"

B: "No, you didn't do anything except for listen to me tell you that his name was Yu."

A: "I am so confused."

B: "Yu.was.his.name."

A: "No.I.was.n't."

B: "Forget it."

A: "What, what...you have to tell me."

B: "No he doesn't, he's gone."

A: "Who's gone?"

B: "Yu."

A: "I'm RIGHT HERE!"

B: "Yes YOU are, but Yu's over there."

A: "You.are.mental!"

B: "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't"

A: "Who is?"

B: "Yu is."

A: "No I'm not. You are."

B: "Exactly."

A: "Exactly."

[silence]

A: "Ohhhh... Now I understand. His name was 'Yu'. Third-person singular masculine pronoun and not second-person singular pronoun."

B: "Yep."

A: "Gotcha. That is confusing though. Imagine his birthday party: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to YU, happy birthday to you."

B: "Ya, or,

Hey! Where did the birthday cake go?'
'Oh, I ate it'.
'That was for Yu!'
'Yes? I know. Oh, shoot! Third-person singular pronoun...darnit!' Want me to get another one?'
"yea, you probably should."
"No. I'll get it, he doesn't have to...oh, yea. ok."


A: "That would just be a lifetime of confusion."

B: "Thou art correct."

A: "Hmm, nice one."

B "Thank ye."

[more silence]

A: "Hey, where did you get those cool jeans?"

B: "Guess."

Stock Photo Girl

For those of you familiar with NBC's The Office, or more specifically, if you're familiar with the show's leading character, Michael Scott, then you'll know that there are more than a handful of similarities between his character and mine own. While he is purely FICTIONAL, I like to believe that we both do some REAL stupid things. In a newer episode this season (4) Michael Scott falls enamored of* a stock photo girl in an office supply catalog. The news from office supply company that she had already died squanders Michael's hopes. While my dreams have yet to be demolished, I share with Michael a very, very special thing; I, too, have my own stock photo love. Let me describe her:

I walk by her every day on my way to my office, every day she retains that same beautiful and brilliant smile. No matter what has happened in the world, let it be thousands dying by earthquake (more on this awful disaster later) or confusion with Florida ballots, my stock photo girl continually provides a sense of hopeful optimism each and every day. There she sits, arms around two other nondescript stock photo people, simply dazzling, shining out to all who pass by. Or so I thought.

My only concern, (I mean, apart from having fallen in love with a 256-colored print on heavy card stock), is what the poster is advertising. As brilliant as my stock photo girl glows, the unfortunate truth is that her poster informs passersby of the harms of cervical cancer. I mean, with all the other problems in the world, why does my stock photo girl have to be ladened with these specific woes?? She had been my one moment of optimism each and every morning, and now all I can see when I look into her beautiful semi-gloss, dot matrix-printed eyes is cancerous pain (and the reflection of the light in the hallway). I have no more faith...

I can only hope my stock photo girl continues her luminous radiance and that she can stay strong through these hard times. We all need someone (300 dpi or greater) to look up to.

Love,

Chris

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*I am hesitant to print "falls enamored" and must admit that I attempted a Google search to find the correct transitive verbs I could use before 'enamored'. (Yes, I could use a 'to be' verb but that's just lazy.) I also found that 'of' is a more correct preposition to use with "enamored" than is "with". Shocking!

Friday the 13th

When I woke up in the morning three days ago, I was grimly reminded by a melted chocolate candy bar on my pillow that it was the thirteenth of June; a Friday. I went to the wash off the sticky remnants of my midnight snack when I found that my faucet was leaking. I rolled my eyes to acknowledge that this day would be formulaically unlucky. "Hogwash!" I shouted in attempts to prove to the governing stars that luck was mere happenstance and that Gregorian calendarial date had nothing to do with it. I mean, that while I couldn't find my car keys this morning, I have had many similar frantic mornings in the past. (Why, last Monday I had to run naked and dripping out of the shower to turn off not just one, but three different alarm clocks on snooze). Yet, simply for theoretical purposes, I decided to not take a single risk with Lady Luck, I showered quickly, washed behind my ears, wore clean underwear, quickly bolted my house early and made sure not to step anywhere near the mud. As I drove out of the driveway, I looked both ways two times each. I'm not superstitious, but I'm damn well eager to avoid any astrological influence. The traffic lights were all out from the storm the previous night and road crews failed to pull down the stop signs at the nearest intersection. I, again, looked both ways twice and pulled out at four miles an hour to make my turn. Nope, nothing was going to make this day unlucky for me, I maintained total control. I vowed not to breach from my normal routine. Well, that was until my insatiable craving for a McDonald's breakfast sandwich at Union Station hit. To deviate from my normal routine showed lack of foresight, but my voracity outweighed my veracity and I went ahead. Hold your breath readers as I recall what happened next: nothing. "Ah ha!" I quite literally bellowed, "I have defeated the prognostications of evil!" You should have seen the look I got in the middle of a packed train station McDonald's. Everyone was looking at me quite oddly. As happy as a pig in....as a clam, I continued on my morning commute. I took the bus, walked to my office and attended a morning meeting all without problem. It seemed to me that I had defeated Mrs. Misfortune (the nemesis of Lady Luck) until when I began to get ready to leave my office and take my briefcase from my closet that I noticed in my peripheral vision that I had completed my entire day with a massive chocolate stain on my rear end. No wonder the odd looks, I had just broken my own record for total unit stupidity accumulated in one month, and I still have two weeks to go.

Banter on Chit-Chat

When I am asked the question, “How are you?” I respond with “Well”, even if I am not well. I never respond differently so as not to convert small talk into large talk. No further inquiry should be needed. I will only reply differently when I have asked the question first and the other’s response is “Good”. When the question is reciprocated, I will also reply with a grammatically incorrect answer; “Good”. This is so I don’t appear elitist.*ª

You should never hear:

A: “How are you?”
B: “I’m well. How are you?”
A: “Not so well, actually. Life has been proverbially sucking.”
B: “Okay, have a great day.”
A: “Thanks, you too!”

The above conversation has never happened. I wish it had, and that I had played the part of person A. I don’t need people prying themselves into my personal life. Conversations occurring in passing, while walking down a hallway or in an uncomfortable environment such as an elevator or airplane bathroom queue, should be as curt as possible.

A week ago, I was walking down a hallway, debating whether or not to address the person walking towards me. Clearly, she was thinking the same thing because she hesitantly said, “Hi.” mere steps in front of me. Under pressure, instead of “Hello” I responded with, “How are you?” My question was tardy, we had already physically passed each other in the hallway, I knew it. She answered my question while already behind me and to my horror, returned my belated pleasantries. “Good. How are you?” Shoot! A simple ‘good’ would have sufficed. Now I’m stuck and time is scarce. Should I turn around and politely answer back, or answer very loudly without even turning or should I ignore her question and move quickly on? Well, I chose the latter option, and ducked into my office.

The next time I saw her, neither of us engaged in eye contact, let alone any other form of verbal communication. For the last week, I have focused on avoiding this woman in the hallway. Sometimes I even pretend to be on my cell phone when I walk past her office. I am immature, I know, but I put a lot of time and energy into being this way.

I suppose the point that I should be taking from my own reasoning is this: life’s insipid tea leaves forecast very little, so it is necessary to spice up the bland. I may just add a little more flavour into my next conversation and if I leave a bad taste in the back of your throat, suck it up.
----------------------
*ª I am elitist.

The Right Direction

A collection of national polls measuring Americans' opinions on whether or not the USA is heading in the right direction confirms wayward fears. An average of 18% of Americans affirm the nation's direction while 75.7% believe we need to change course. The confidence has been cut in nearly half from three years ago when an average of roughly 40% of Americans approved the direction in which their country was heading.

What is shocking to me is that even 18% (let alone 40%) of any group of people can get together, en masse, and affirm a specific heading. Now, this should be very easy in an automobile, when linear travel is most often the norm. One has normally two to four choices of direction upon asphalt. Given the flexibility of an off-road vehicle, a group of people can head in any planar direction. This, in itself, provides limitless direction and as a result, multitudinous dissent (provided no GPS navigation system is provided, (although one would be hard pressed to find an off-road vehicle without at least an iPhone anymore)). Yet, I look at a nation filled with over 300 million legal citizens rather than a Jeep Wrangler with seating for four. Think of a rocket ship, propelled by technological growth, national concern and social change. In what direction can this metaphorical ship head? Any. It has vertical, lateral and longitudinal rotational abilities. Moreover, the addition of a Z-coordinate allows us to head towards any infinite directions in space. Throw in a fourth dimension of time, and, well, you get my point. How can anyone, let alone 54 million Americans agree on a very, very specific vector?

There is an answer and that answer is simpler than aeronautical political science can explain. Americans, in general, believe that any direction "forward" will suffice. The minor directional bearings are assumed to play no large role in national government. Now if we define "forward" as positive movement in relation to one axis governing the "statusquo ", a whole hemisphere of travel is considered "wrong". Without getting too mathematical, the more variables that we restrict with a requirement of positive growth, the smaller our preferred directional course will be. Fitting into that pinhole becomes a more daunting task. Let's simply focus on "positive" spacial growth by moving up the Z-axis. I'll take away the dimension of time by adding another flat plane perpendicular to the Z-axis and call that our "goal". The National Government's job, now, is to reach our "goal" by moving in a forward direction (at a constant rate of speed). If it's direction is just the slightest bit skewed, then it will take calculatedly longer to reach plane "goal". If a backward direction is headed, then it will take either longer or never to reach plane "goal", depending on the value of the variables.

So how does one explain the existence of an estimated 54 million people who agree the United States is heading towards plane "goal"? Clearly it becomes the position of "goal". Some may place it very far away, others, very close. Some make "goal" a coordinate, or point. Some make it non-linear. Some make it so it is not perpendicular to the "positive" Z axis. Others make it an imaginary number (see Marx and Engels).

The only conclusion that I can draw is that while most can agree that the right direction in one with positive growth, there is a finite number of people who just don't seem to care where the nation is heading, as long as Dancing With The Stars is on.

Ozzie Guillen

This post is in response to Ozzie Guillen's bemoans...

The text of the AP article can be found here:

TORONTO (AP)—White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen had his own Lee Elia moment, letting forth a stream of obscenities in which he accused Chicago fans of turning on the struggling team after a strong start.

During his rant before Sunday's game against Toronto, Guillen said the White Sox are not sufficiently appreciated in their city despite winning the 2005 World Series.

"That's what ticks me off about Chicago fans and Chicago media, they forget pretty quickly," Guillen said, punctuating his outburst with a healthy dose of vulgarities.

He bemoaned the fact that the Cubs are considered the "best" in Chicago even though they haven't won a World Series since 1908, dropping F-bombs along the way. He fears his team will never get respect "no matter how many World Series we win."

Guillen also mocked the 25th anniversary of the rant by Elia, the former Cubs manager. Guillen predicted his own tirades will one day be equally legendary, and maybe lucrative.

"How many times do I curse people out? I will make a lot of money. … I have to keep going because in the future Ozzie will need money," he said.

The White Sox, who lost 4-3 Sunday, have dropped eight of 11 and fallen out of first place in the AL Central. At 14-15, the White Sox are below .500 for the first time since they started the season 1-2.

"People are panicking," Guillen said. "Did we play a real bad week? Yes, we did. We stunk. But it wasn't too long ago that we were the biggest surprise in baseball. Wow, look at the White Sox."

Chicago has scored just nine runs in its past five games and its .232 batting average is the AL's lowest.

In retort: Ozzie, the reason the White Sox don't get respect is because they currently don't deserve it. You've provided readers with the primary example that their manager spews obscenities and is quick to blame anyone but himself. It's also very hard to watch your team struggle to bat above the Mendoza line. Face it, the Marlins won two world series and they don't get respect either, but at least their team hits above .232 and managers Joe Girardi and Fredi Gonzalez have led a bunch of scrubs (sans Hanley Ramirez and ex-3b Miggy Cabrera) to victory. Have you ever stopped swearing to think that some of this might be your own fault? You said it yourself, you stunk last week. If you dare surprise Chicago fans by finishing atop the AL Central again, then expect more people to give you the appreciation (and shock) you deserve. Look at the 2008 major league payrolls, sir:

Chicago Sox (5th MLB): $121,152,667 (14-15)
Florida Marlins (30th MLB): $21,836,500 (17-14)

Nope, no typo there. The White Sox are paying approx. $100,000,000.00 (or 6x) more for their players this year than the team who has Cody Ross starting in CF and Mike Rabelo behind the dish. I just don't hear Rodney Dangerfield yelling from their dugout.

Sure, the Cubs have been losing lately too, a phenomenon nothing new to their fans. Yet, Cubs fans are filled with enough youthful exuberance (booze) and liquid courage (more booze) to face any gaunt prospects with prowess (and numbness). The Cubs will always have their goat, but you don't have to turn their fans or media attention into your personal scapegoat.

In short, focus on managing and let your bats speak. Bats neither swear nor speak will poor broken English. Maybe then you'll get some respect.


postscript: This is the same manager who was forced to apologize publicly in 2006 for calling Chicago sporst columnist Jay Mariotti a "F*cking Fag", And that's really not cool at all. If you want respect you'll have to earn it Ozzie.

Wilbur's Story

The fascinating life of Dr. Wilbur McCoy:

Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a giant. Although he was a literal midget in stature, his social importance and community standing towered. I guess what I’m saying is that while Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a dwarf himself, he made his descriptive adjective into a verb by, in turn, utilizing it to describe the way he acted around or unto, being nearby, and around other people. Does that make sense? I know it doesn’t. He dwarfed them while also being a dwarf. There. But size of body doesn’t matter when one’s large heart makes up for the physical deficiency. Not that it was a deficiency. I mean, if he had an absurdly large heart for his body, he could have had medical problems and would have had to utilize the same hospital wing that was built with his money and named in his honor. It was called the West Wilbur Wing. Kids got a giggle when they tried to say the name of the section of the hospital that their mother’s were recuperating within, however its all they could giggle about because, in truth, their mothers were there because they had a very serious alcohol induced car accident just weeks earlier and were forced to lose their jobs with out compensation. The lack of security made the families crumble under the harsh demands of society and its capitalistic frame work. Eventually the hospital would deny the bogus health insurance and they would resort to even more drinking and child negligence. But at least the little kids got a kick out of seeing a midget in a white coat walking through the West Wilbur Wing. They all thought he was a clown. This is why Dr. Wilbur McCoy carried around long balloons, a bicycle horn and a lifetime of sorrows everywhere he went.

What makes this tale truly remarkable is the ending. Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to complete it right now.

A Lover's Essay

A Lover's Essay:

It's like euphoria, sitting next to you on the park bench. You smell like Suave Mountain Breeze Conditioner, which smells more like the Andes than the Alps. There's a subtle hint of Alpaca to its scent. I can think of nothing but how your dirty converse sneakers are ruggedly beautiful. It's like you don't give a damn, but I know you do. The holes in your jeans show that you know how to get down and roll around in the hay, but the lack of straw remnants on your clothing show that you know how to pick off straw remnants from your clothes. Just as you probably question the government, I definitely question why fate had not brought us together years earlier. That book you read, I've never heard of it, it makes you look smart, and that's why you're beautiful. When I subtly look into your eyes I can only see your thick rimmed glasses. This is your way of telling all people, but specifically me, that you need to wear these glasses, that you're not perfect. But I know you are perfect, you probably don't even need to wear those glasses. You humility screams so loudly. I clench my hands over my ears and hum. I pretend to listen to what I think your metallic green iPod nano is playing. I guess that you may be listening to the highly bloggable band 'The Teenagers' but then I realize you are tapping two of your fingers against your knee relatively quickly and I assume that you are probably listening to a more electro-rock band like "Does It Offend You, Yeah?". It doesn't offend me. I digg it. I've digged it.

Now you notice that I have been awkwardly staring at you, and bobbing my head while singing along imaginary music. You scowl. I grin and reach out to you, my Lovely. You run. Ah, yes, the chase is a very important part to courtship. I will play along, I beckon; "I'm gonna get you!" and I chase afterwards with my hands grasping for your hair. Oh, no! I see that you've left your jacket-less book upon the park bench. I will salvage it. There's a lot of creepy people in any given park, I wouldn't want them doing unmentionable things to your favorite Russian author's masterpiece. You've fled. Vanished into the ethereal depths of my memories. I may never see you again. Until I realize that your book club meets on Damen at 8:30 every Tuesday night. It seems that I might see you again, after all. I'll be the guy in the beret. No, not that one, the other one, the one to the left of the red head who says 'eclectic' a lot. No, not the guy you're thinking of, he has auburn hair and a well-trimmed goatee. I would have said, "well-trimmed goatee" if I were talking about him. I'm talking about the red head who wears those jackets with more pockets than he has items to hold. Got it? Good. See you there, my Lovely.

More on Tickets

I find myself, yet again, facing an uphill battle of defeating the evil oligarchs governing ticket sales. I'd like to go see one of six sold out Magnetic Fields shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music with my friend Kyle. I am faced with a very limited supply of available tickets. This doesn't appear so daunting because I have craigslist, right? Well, I suppose I'll see how my craigslist post ends up:

Hello. If you are reading this post, then there is a small chance that you have available Magnetic Fields tickets for any of their shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. Let me take this moment to tell you that you are a skunk... a lucky ONE! (Had I the ability to use italics, I would have used them there (I really feel that italics best manifest true emotion, at least better than any other punctuation mark outside of the question mark/exclamation point combo!!!!?!?!?!))

I am looking for any quantity of tickets that you possess as I have an uncertain quantity of friends who have each failed to secure any tickets to this concert series. At the moment, I am knee deep in paper, pencils and other assorted office supplies trying to create a list of who my best friends are and how much they are worth. (Ouch! I think I just got stabbed in the shin by a circle compass). I have decided that I am worth a variable between $40 and $45, depending on my mood and ability to haul large objects for the greater good of commerce (or for the People's Republic (in that case I am worth a quart of goat milk and a loaf of bread))(let my democratic value = V). My best friend is worth $100-V. My next set of friends is hardly as valuable and decline in value at an asymptotic rate approaching the x-axis. My 6th best friend is only worth around face value for a ticket and Kevin Bacon is barely worth a cent to me. Although, I would have to add the variable that bringing Kevin Bacon to concert with me might help me score a free drink or meet a nice girl (with whom I can marry and start a family with and dance to Magnetic Fields songs as we recall that wonderful night we had at the Old Town School of Folk Music where we met, listened to the Fields and spilled a drink on Kevin Bacon). I’ll let that variable = Kb. Thus, the new formula for Magnetic Fields tickets is: Price= lim(x→∞) f(2008/(# friend²+100-V) + Kb)

Anyway, I have cash, a car and a burning desire to further the US dependency on foreign oil by driving to you and purchasing your tickets. Not that I'm a liberal whackadoo. But I can be for you. (Also sometimes late at night I find bathing in gasoline comforting on the skin, so I'll gather with friends or Kevin Bacon to do that occasionally). I know Hugo Chavez likes it when I do. He's clearly invited. Not to bathing with me, but to the Magnetic Fields concert. Of course, Hugo Chavez only sits in the front row. I'll warn him not to mosh, but I can't promise anything.

I can promise cash for your tickets, though. Or, of course, I can always offer you a straight up trade for goat cheese and a loaf of bread. But we're in America baby, where alcohol is a much more liquid asset (pun clearly intended).

So what do you say?!?!?!!!!???

Purchasing Tickets at a Premium

Now, I consider myself adept in the art of buying and selling hard-to-get tickets. I have even had my share of successes in the art of selling easy-to-get tickets. I have bought and sold Cubs and concert tickets for profit on many occasions in the past. One of my funniest memories comes from when our international study group in Buenos Aires were issued 50 tickets to a World Championship Polo match in 2003. Because not all 50 American students wanted to go and see a Polo match, the few who did were left with a handful of extra tickets.

I have to note that I actually loved watching this Polo match and found it truly a window into the Argentine culture. I suppose that it would be like taking a foreigner to a baseball game of ours. They wouldn't completely understand it, but they would enjoy atmosphere and beer. (As polo is to baseball, so is soccer to American football). At the Polo Grounds, there are two stands. One is for the rich people and the other is for American Students. The Rich people rattled their jewelry when they cheered and to enjoy the match they drank wine or champagne. Everyone on our side hooted and smashed our beers together. I think we had more fun. Regardless, the most fun we had was in selling our 35 extra tickets before the match. We were a little hesitant at first. Foremost, because we had received the tickets a gift from the Sales Director of Argentina Polo himself. While we soon pushed past that moral road block, we found that we were a little nervous scalping tickets in a foreign country using a foreign language for, a quite literally, foreign event about which we knew nothing. What we did know, however, was how to sell tickets. So, after pushing past my initial hesitation, I took the stack of tickets and made my way to the end of the patron line.

"Se Vende!" I quietly exclaimed. "Se Vende." A police officer was standing on the street. No bites. No problem, I reeled in. I considered myself a professional. I cast another line,"Se VENDE! Boletos... Muy baratos." A man came up to me. "Cuanto salen estos boletos?" How much do these tickets go for, he asked. I hesitated, SHOOT, I didn't know. The tickets didn't have prices on them, they were gifts. I looked at my friends, they didn't know either. My friend Ryan Adcock thought he had overheard someone saying $50 pesos each (which was the rough equivalent of U$15). I told the man in Castellano, "Forty Pesos for each ticket. They go for fifty at the ticket office." He pulled out four notes and paid for two. Then almost immediately, another man walked up. He was followed by yet another man, who was followed by two others. Soon, a very large and out of place crowd was gathered on our section of the street. "Shoot, guys, here take some tickets." I tried to pass a dozen tickets over the mob of people surrounding us. I began to sell Polo match tickets for forty pesos each. There was such chaos on the streets that I was forgetting who had paid and who I had already given their tickets. Among a mob of reaching arms and money I noticed that the police officer had come over. I panicked. For a brief moment I thought about stuffing my last couple of tickets into my mouth and running. I thought better of it. "Good day, sir." I nodded. He returned my greeting with a chuckle and walked away. Good grief! I sighed. In what can only be visually described as a storm of dust and disorder somewhat similar to a Warner Brothers' character scuffle, I sold my last ticket. Ryan and Blaine were all out of theirs as well. Good. We were done. We struggled away from the crowd and toward the entrance gate. We offered each other nods to signify a job well done. We laughed as we approached the entrance gate. Then, in a very comical and ironical realization we harmonized in our exclamation aloud; "OH NO!" Although our exclamation probably had at least one more unprintable word in it. What idiots we were! We had sold our own tickets!

We ran to the line we had just left, and very awkwardly waited until we ended closely enough to read the sign that had the prices on them. It read: "Polo Match Tickets still available- $30 pesos ea." What fortune!

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The reason that I printed this story is simply therapeutic. You see, I have just been very recently defeated in my own game. I am forced to pay a large premium to attend the final Wilco show for their Riviera residency. I am hoping that this homeopathic recollection of one of my victories will let me forget that I will be without an arm and a leg tomorrow. But at least I will have seen Wilco play live for 3 hours. Eh, consider this a victory too.

Patagonian Golfing at Llao Llao or Chasing a Tiny Ball to History

Somewhere west in Patagonia, sitting on the fringes of the Andean Mountain range lies a town called San Carlos de Bariloche. Somewhere in this small town of Bariloche is a very well maintained Hotel and Resort with a Golf Course named Llao Llao. Somewhere on Llao Llao’s golf course is a young caddy named Ricardo. Somewhere in Ricardo the Caddy’s memory lies one truly (un)forgettable story. That story is as follows:

I woke up on the warm March morning in 2004 (after all, we are in the southern hemisphere, and it is late summer) to go about my normal work. I drop my children at the bus station for school, I eat a breakfast lomito con huevo and I take a taxi to Llao Llao where I punch into the caddy shack. Everything would make today seem like a normal day. But no, my boss comes in with a smirk on his face and asks for Facundo and I to get ready to go out with a foursome. We gather our jerseys and walk out to the first tee. There we meet four Americans, three boys and a girl, who are on holiday from studying in the Capital. As usual, I introduce myself, grab two of their bags and explain the layout of the course. They smile and set up the first tee. The first boy takes a big swing and misses, but somehow breaks a tee. No problem, I grab another one from my shirt pocket and hand it to him. Little did I know what was about to happen. Truthfully, I don’t think Nostradamus himself could foresee anything that came next. This boy, Blaine, somehow broke his second tee and hit his gold ball backwards. I understand it’s tough to golf when others are watching and this is the first tee box after all. Blaine takes another big swing and hits his newly acquired Nike Llao Llao golf ball into the water. He laughs. We all laugh. But I wouldn’t be laughing long. Another young man, Christopher, walks up to the tee and hits his ball in the same lake. ‘What coincidence!’ I exclaim. The foursome looks at me as if to forewarn, no coincidence Ricardo…no, this is fate.

Another ball was hit into the rather tiny lake, but the fourth was hit perfectly onto of the lady’s tee box. The boy who hit it there had a nice view of the fairway for his second attempt, I gave him credit.

The three others ventured to our water hazard and, shocking both Facundo and I, climbed right in! ‘My Lord!’ I exclaimed, laughing a little. Blaine reminded us that the golf balls cost more than green fees on the course, so we understood. It was just funny to see the three American Students dive directly into the scummy waters. Christopher found his golf ball, while the other’s found their efforts fruitless. They dropped and continued on the hole. Blaine made four divots, hit three fences, lost two balls and killed a partridge in a pear tree. He won the first hole. Throughout the rest of the course I watched in complete and utter amazement as this foursome played what could possibly the worst round of golf since the conception of the game in the fifteenth century. I don’t hyperbolize when I write that between the first and last hole the Americans golfed we witnessed four sets of golfers play through, nine divots on the green, seventeen lost golf balls, twenty-four sand traps, seventy-five whiffs, two-hundred and a couple curse words and one parred hole.

Three hours and forty-five minutes later Facundo and I dropped the clubs to the ground and sighed. Each of the other caddies in the club house had started with their third group while we were covered in sweat from tracking Nike balls through woods and water. We were in awe at what had just happened. The Americans, unfazed, began to chuckle. They looked at each other and tallied score.

“Alright, well congratulations to Blaine who had the high score of 96. I think we owe him a round at the 19^th tee. Let’s, see who was next?” A little more counting was done. Fingers went up and down at an unimaginable rate of speed. “Second place had a dozen more swings and, well, Chris…Chris got the high score of the day: 124. Well done.” They harmonized in laughter as I buckled in disgust at the nation of America. “Imagine the scores we’d have if we played all nine holes!” One of them exclaimed. I knew at that moment I would have an incredible story to tell my family tonight. This sole redeeming factor for a day of wasted caddying was unhinged when two of the guys came up to me and pulled me to the side. Christopher asked me politely to never recall this story to another living being for life. As he thanked me, he pulled out his wallet. Both Blaine and him each pulled out a $100 Peso note and gave it to me. “Thanks.” They said in unison and vanished off into ether of the distance.

I looked at Facundo who was holding a pile of money too, he looked back at me. We both gave each other an unspoken nod of assurance that we both knew what time it was. We slowly walked towards the lake, stripped to our shorts and exploded with jubilation! We jumped in the water, swam to the kayak from which our boss told us to keep away, boated over to the woman’s camp, pulled a bottle of Coca Light from our suddenly-appearing backpack, danced and boogied to the reflections of the moon off the hood of an old Fiat, stole the car and drove off into the ether of the future (of course returning and taking time to watch our children grow up along the way).

The end.

And that story comes directly from the nostalgia of a young Caddy named Ricardo who worked on a Hotel and Resort with a Golf Course named Llao Llao which lies somewhere in a small town named Bariloche which sits in Patagonia, Argentina on the fringes of the Andean Mountain range.

The end again.

**Note** Since I don’t know what happened after I left, I can only assume that Facundo and Ricardo did all those things which I made him do in the recollection of my story.