RACIST!

First thing on the agenda is to get tot he embassy and sort out some paperwork.  The traffic jam on the way helped to ratchet up the tension...that is always pleasant.  Of course, driving in Mexico City is always a thrill and so much of the direction of traffic flow makes no sense.  Perhaps that has to do with the Aztecs.  If they laid out the city...they had no cars!  Parking in this city is just another adventure.  We had no idea where we could park, so we chose the Anthropology museum.  Immediately upon our arrival we had to walk in haste quite a ways down Reforma to the American Embassy.  I know without a doubt we looked like a couple of uptight mall walkers, minus the matching warm-up suits.

The Embassy is pretty gross, like  a bad restaurant from the mid 70's.  We stand and get our papers checked with a slight sweat on our brows.  We get flagged through.  Pass through the metal detector.  We stand at the 'ticket window' while our IDs are checked again and handed a visitors badge.  Through the bomb-proof door and face the fresh faced kid who tells us to attach the badge to our clothing. he points upstairs to the room we are looking for.  believe me, the building is ugly enough, but not quite as bad as the framed picture at the top of the stairway and in each room.  To look up and see a totally smug, disinterested face staring blankly at all who step foot in here is a disgrace.  Yes, the face of Barak Obama looking straight through you with an "I don't give a flying sh*t about you or your country" expression on his face.  Of course, the irony is the two knuckleheads flanked on both sides of him, both Hilary and Biden smiling like one of them just farted and you have to figure out who it was.

Our time here is pretty quick.  We leave but both express concern over a tall guy with an overbite who was pacing nervously in one of the offices.  he kept looking at his email account (yes, I spied) and would exhale frustration with repeated 'Oh God...!   I hope he made it OK.  He seemed nice enough.  Maybe I was just fooled by the way he sat...kind of unsure of himself with his feet pigeon toed.  He wore black low top Converse. He just looked like a simple, nice guy.

As we stood outside the Embassy we decided to take a chance and check out this one guy who supposedly sells records on the street.  We could go to Chapultepec castle, but i opt to follow up this tip that one of the art wank people gave me a week or so ago.  I pull out the scrap of paper the guy wrote the directions on.  At the corner of Juarez and Baldera.  Back in the car Tonya does a quick map check, and we are off in the direct of Bellas Artes...which is basically in the middle of town, the famous historic part.

It is not a far drive.  As you near Bellas Artes and the Zocalo, traffic obviously starts to pile up. Typical of a busy section of town.  I was in the left lane, so I could pull into the parking garage up ahead.  We are going along at a pace that could be outdone by a casual walk. It is a bit warm, so we have the windows down and are just talking about whatever.  I hear a voice form outside the car say, "Hey!  Where are you guys from?"  I don't know what to think.  It sounds like an obnoxious waiter, you know the kid who try to be best pals with you and tell you jokes.  I am sure it is not aimed at us, but I look over my shoulder to the left.  He looks like a short obnoxious waiter.  he is smiling and walks right up to the window.  he is holding a piece of paper and a photograph in his right hand, and waving with his left.

"Hey.  Which part of the states are you guys from?" he says smiling.  "I just got back form there.  I was deported" he says like I care.  he gives me the same spiel that any bum does, just give me this amount of money so I can catch the bus to ____________ (fill in the blank with any given Mexican city).  he shows me the picture of him and some black guy.  Supposedly the black guy is a priest who was a huge help tot his guy.  I wonder if he could read the boredom and indifference on my face.  Why did you just tell me you were deported?  Do I have an Obama sticker on the back of my car...or better yet, one of those stupid 'Coexist' stickers that I forgot about?

No.



We sit still in traffic. He is frustrated, he throws his final point, "I was just deported"  The cars in front of us start to move and he sees he has run out of time. I just shake my head and start to move forward.  he stares at me as I inch forward, throws his hands up in disbelief, quickly leans toward the car and yells, 'RACIST'.  I can't believe it.  What an idiot.  What does not giving money to this guy have to do with being a racist?  This is a simple example of the bigger problem most Hispanics have with the legalization issue in the States.  It is not race, it is about law, about right or wrong.  I look at him walking away in my side mirror.  he is shaking his head and looking back at the car.  In these few seconds I get overwhelmed with anger and frustration.  Why should this bum get mad at me because I am flat-ass broke and have no money.  No, his ignorance says because I speak English, I am loaded.  I am tired of this mode of thinking...one could say it is a racist way of thought.  If all Mexicans are illegal criminals, then all white Americans are filthy rich. Right?

No. Of course not.  Tonya sees I am flustered.  I tell her what the bum said. We have moved a total of about 8 inches.  I see him standing about 25 feet behind me, on the sidewalk.  I am about to bust a spring.  I lean out the window and yell at him, "Hey!".  He looks up and towards the car.  A long, lanky, Texas sized arm comes out.  It raises high, and even higher is the middle digit of the hand at the end of this arm.  The deportee cannot believe what he sees. He looks frantically on the ground, then the street.  He is desperately trying to find something...anything to chuck at me.  I have one hand on the wheel and the other on the door handle.  I have one eye ahead and one on the troubling deportee.  In complete frustration, he scours the pavement and sidewalk and cannot find a thing to throw.  Again he gets frustrated, gives me a dirty look and darts off into the traffic, headed somewhere across the street.  The traffic is moving and we move a few feet and turn into the parking garage.

We come out of the garage and I am on high alert.  I am scanning the area for the obnoxious waiter guy with the picture of the black priest.  I am also on the lookout for a roughneck gang to come and grab me and beat the crap out of me.  We stand at the square of Bellas Artes, gather our bearings and make for the direction of the street vending record man.  We choose to go through the long line of stalls to see what we can see.  We stop along the way and buy a few bootleg DVDs.  Finally, we get a good copy of Robin Hood.  It is a few good blocks of vendors and I look at the paper with instructions scrawled on the.  It reads 'street post.  corner of Balderas and Juarez'.  This must be 'x' because this is the spot.  However, there is no record man.  There are plenty of fruit men and tacos and juice.  We walk up and down the streets end.  I tell Tonya that maybe the record guy is on the other side.  We find a space amidst the street construction, and head to the other side.  About halfway down the block, I see a beat up wooden record crate.  "Hey!  Is that him?"  A guy has five crates of records on a dolly.  he's wearing headphones and starting to untie his crates to get set up.  Tonya taps him and asks if we can browse.  He takes his headphones off and asks what we want.  He points to the top two crates and motions to go ahead.  His stuff is not that good.  I find a copy of George Harrison's 'Dark Horse'.  I want it, but he wants too much.  he tells us that on the other side of Juarez, the next four blocks of Balderas is filled with street vendors, and at least two record guys per block!

I ask Tonya if we can venture across the street, she consents, and I am like a kid on an Easter egg hunt.  Sure enough, on the first block there are two different street guys selling records.  Most of it is bunk, but a few could be gems.  I find a copy of Prince's 'Sign Of The Times'  it is pristine, never been played.  The sleeve is a little dirty though...hey, this is Mexico right?  He asks for a few bucks.  I debate with myself for a moment and Tonya says, "Just get it!"  I do. We have a whole street ahead of us.  I know there must be better, so we move on.  We go down a few streets and upon finishing fingering another dusty box of records, I look at Tonya and we both say we're hungry.  personally, I cannot look at records if I am hungry or have to use the bathroom.  There is a Sandborns across the street-lunch is calling.

After a brief rest and some hot food, we make our way out into the hustle and bustle again.  We decide to walk down one side and then up the other.  The side we walk down must be the shoe and food side.  Every stall is food or insoles for your shoes, or other shoe accessories.  At an intersection, I see crates!  We know where we are going.

I start rummaging through the crappy cardboard boxes and crates.  I know there will eventually be something I am really looking for.  A few possibilities, but these guys are asking some silly prices for Mexican pressings in shabby sleeves.  Tonya is milling around smoking, telling me it is OK.  I feel bad.  It is no fun to stand and watch nerds look at records.  I tell her I am good, lets head back.  As we walk up the street more vendors have shown up.  I have to hold back, so we keep walking.  One vendor flags me over to look at his stuff.  As I start to, I realize I have already been through it...he does too.  he tells us that the guy up on the left has some great stuff.  This guy does.  He has on crooked glasses and even more crooked teeth.  His hair is greasy, and a huge flop goes across his forehead.  He has a few football jerseys hanging over the plastic crates.  One jersey is Miami Dolphins.  The first record I see is 'Survival', by Bob Marley.  I need that.  He wants almost $20. I say no way.  He says he will talk to the man and see if he can lower the price.  He walks away to see if he can cut a deal for me.  I flick through his crates.  He has good stuff.  Lots of rock, lots of good American pressings.  he comes back and plops the album down in front of me, then he plops down a Jimmy Cliff 7" 'Wonderful World, Beautiful People'  I guess this is a two-for.  I decline.  He asks why.  He probably will not understand a word, and I know Tonya will not translate it right, but I tell him anyway,"I already have the Jimmy Cliff album that is from, and I am not interested in a single.  The Bob Marley is a Mexican pressing.  The sleeve is weak...not even Tuff Gong"  He doesn't understand, but he knows I am record nerd, and backs off.  I see Morrissey's 'Suedehead' single and asks if he has anymore imported Smiths singles. No.

It is time to move on.  I do not want to sit in traffic, had enough of that already.  I tell the guy thank you.  he tells us when to come back.  He also tells us of some other places to check out.  I am truly appreciative of this guy, and his tips.  I will definitely come back and spend more time trolling this street when I can.  I think this could be a great adventure, digging in dirty crates on dirty Mexican streets.  I can't wait to come back.

...In case the party goes on too long.

Ahem...little hats just in case you feel the need to party some more.

 In light of the recent celebrations i thought this picture kind of summed it up.  Whatever you may need, your guts, your poops, your acid reflux...  There is plenty of this in the grocery store.  Who needs Maalox when you have Melox, and it comes with a little sombrero!

Viva Mexico! The Bicentennial

This is it; this is supposed to be the nuttiest this place has been in the last 100 years.  It is nice and sunny, very pleasant. Personally, I have been waiting for this day for my gift from the Mexican Government.  They sent out a Mexican flag to every house in the country.  As Of this morning, ours has not shown up.  I noticed the other day, the feuding neighbor across the street is proudly displaying two of these flag and we are curiously missing one.  I feel rejected.  This country doesn’t want me, they have denied me a flag. No flag, but there is the party tonight to celebrate Mordo’s birthday and the Bicentennial.  There will be food-that is a good thing.

The day is slow moving, as time ticks away, the clouds start rolling in.  They are blocking streets in preparation for the huge blowout tonight.  Luckily we are not anywhere near the epicenter of Mexican pride.  A phone call comes in rather early, and Lilliana asks Tonya to go shopping with her for the party.  I decide to stay home and putz around doing my own stuff.  Of course, in true Mexican style, Lilliana is late.  It is after noon by the time she shows up.  As soon as they leave, I am into my junk.  Luckily, I had to figure out some conversion processes for some computer files.  It took a while, so I was happily keeping myself amused.  Tonya called be around 2:30 and asked if they should drop some food off for me. Nah, I was fine, carry on girls!

I was starting to get burned out by the time Tonya got home.  Days like this kind of drive me nuts.  It is disheartening when you realize how long you have been staring at a computer screen.   I go downstairs and have a small bite to eat with Tonya.  She is burned out and run a bit ragged from the grocery store errand.  The party has been pushed back a bit, so we have time to relax.  Tonya says she is beat, and luckily so is Lillianna and Cesar.  They had some big-time part the night before.  Cesar is extremely hung over and is sleeping.  According to Tonya, it will be a subdued affair tonight.  We are both pleased with that because neither of us are excited about it.  We both confess we would rather stay home and watch a film.

No call or sign of partiers as the designated time draws near.  Tonya calls to see what is going on.  Mordo is running late.  Cesar is still sleeping and Lilliana is fighting to keep her eyes open.  The sky is really grey and looks as if it will rain at any minute.  Tonya takes advantage of the situation and calls Mordo and asks for a ride.  Sure, he will be here at 7.  We are happy, we have even more time to sit around.  She finds out that the number of guests has been greatly exaggerated.  There will be 5, maybe 6 of us. We just look at one another then Tonya says upbeat, “Well, it will be easier for us to leave then!”

It starts to rain at a few minutes before 7.  It is completely grey and nasty outside.  The rain falls harder by the minute.  True to form, Mordo is late again.  Tonya calls to see what is going on.  He has not even started to leave, so it will be about half an hour more.  I am about to resign.  The rain is making me very lazy.  I have basically sat inside all day and I am way over it.

Mordo shows up and calls us from his cell phone.  Tonya says it’s him, let’s go.  Tonya grabs a raincoat and we head out the door.  Mordo has his A/C on super-freeze, and when we get in we both feel as if we will begin to frost any second now.  Mordo is almost lying prone; his seat is pushed back so far and leaned back.  He is chatting on his phone.  This does not look like a guy ready to celebrate his 51 years and 200 years of Independence.  He says he needs to stop at a nearby convenience store to get some food. “What do you need food for Mordo, we are going to have dinner now?” Tonya asks.  “I know”, Mordo says, “but I am really hungry and I want something now” He calls Lilliana to see if she needs anything else.  Just some coke and ice.

As we get out of the car and walk up to Cesar and Lillian’s, Tonya says, “Ice.  We forgot ice” Oh well.  We turn and Mordo has disappeared.  He is messing around with something in his car.  He’s a big boy and can find his way in.  We step inside, and it is deadly quiet.  They have a big home, and when it is this quiet, you are dwarfed by the heavy silence.  We drop off the coke and bits in the kitchen.  Of course, Mordo brings in a few bottles of tequila.  He immediately cracks them open and starts his routine.  Lilliana asks what we want and we just mutter.  Nothing really.  We head upstairs and she brings a platter of some fried cheese and some shot glasses. We plop down on the couch and Lilliana pulls up a chair.  Mordo pours out some shots of tequila.  I grab some cheese.  Cesar is still sleeping.  Lilliana walks to a puny TV in the corner and turns it on.  The picture is fuzzy and a bit shaky.  She finds the channel she wants and there we have it, our own personal view of the Zocalo.  This will be party central of Mexico tonight.  We get to have front row seats and watch the festivities on a wobbly, fuzzy screen.

It is customary for the President to give a small speech, and then the ‘grito’ or simply translated ‘the yell or shout’, three vivas for Mexico.  If you are good Mexican, you scream back ‘VIVA MEXICO’.  If you live in North Mexico, then you fire off your illegal firearms you bought from proud Hispanics in LA.  This is not made up, but verified from Lilliana and Mordo.  Our big thrill should be going out on their roof and watching the fireworks over the city.

Cesar comes scooting out, very slowly.  He is obviously feeling like crap.  He has a tissue in one hand and keeps wiping his mouth and chin.  In his other hand is a can of beer, which he sips very slow.  He is miserable. He sits down and tells us of his rough night and why he is moving so slow.  I am wondering why he keeps wiping his mouth.  We had just shook hands, and I think he is wiping off left over vomit.  Now I don’t want to grab any more cheese off the tray.  Gross.  It turns out he is wiping himself because he is bleeding.  He cut himself shaving.  “You know bad I was?” he asks us.  “I got up and was trying to shave.  You see-I have no hair!” He says as he rubs his hand over his face, “I have no idea why I was trying to shave because I can’t grow hair on my face.  So, I cut myself shaving something that is not there!”  We all get a laugh at Cesar’s expense.  I feel good because now I know I can have some more cheese.

I am wondering what is going on with dinner.  I keep grabbing cheese.  Mordo keeps wanting to fill everyone’s’ glasses with another shot.  I keep asking when the President is going to give us instructions to yell.  No one seems to know.  Mordo says 11, Lilliana says 8 and Cesar mutters some other time.  “Don’t worry”, Cesar tells me, “We will watch it.  I want to yell at Calderon”.  This is when Cesar seems to wake up and start talking of the significance of tonight.  More to the point, he’s upset with the current state of Mexico, and even with the USA.  He claims that at least there are more freedoms and hope for Mexico than America.  This will baffle me all night.

It is after 9 now and I am getting really restless.  I am tired of fried cheese and I want my dinner.  Mordo is asking why I do not want to keep drinking. “Because, I have had enough.  I want food, not alcohol” is my simple, somewhat grumpy reply.  A few mutual friends pop in, as well as Lilliana’s kids.  We stand and give kisses and shake hands.  Everyone is friendly and lively.  A musician friend shows up and supposedly he has recently had some romantic corny hit on the radio.  He smiles a big smile and Cesar convinces him to sing some of his hit.  He does…and he sounds pretty good.  A small round of applause circles the room.  He disappears into a side studio to so some work.  We continue to sit and wait on dinner.  Cesar, for some reason, is keen on talking the merits of Socialism with me.  I can’t imagine the look on my face, still, I am a good sparring partner.  One of the other guests, Jean Pierre, is holding court with Mordo in a parallel conversation.

I am curious to see these Bicentennial celebrations. I keep throwing a glance to the TV to see what is going on.  There are musicians on.  There is an orchestra on.  There are commentators on.  At one point Cesar stands and points to the lady on TV.  He says he likes her and doesn’t understand why no one else does.  Obviously he is right, because no one says another word about her but just gets back to whatever conversations are happening.  Mordo comments that he wonders why we have to watch all of this on a crap TV.  “Why don’t they have a nice one, with an LED screen or something?” he says.

Mordo is curious about me wanting to eat and not drink.  Somehow this goes off on a tangent, about the eating schedules of Mexicans and Americans.  Jean Pierre is half French, so France is thrown in the mix.  Mordo keeps asking the same question, why everyone else does not eat like Mexicans.  He gets jean Pierre sidetracked because he wants to know what a certain word means…but he cannot remember the word.  He looks to me and says, “You know Roy Harper right?  He has an album with this name…” yes.  I do know Roy Harper but I have no clue what album he is talking about. Cesar is sitting beside me, milking beer after beer and starting to look puffier after each one. Jean Pierre is still confused, and is throwing different food terms out there.  He stumbles across the word Mordo was trying to think of, ‘hors d'oeuvres’.  “That is it!” Mordo says totally excited. “What does it mean, really?” he asks.  The next few minutes will be debating with a French guy what a French word means.  Mordo can be a real card at times.

Tonya and Lilliana come up the stairs with arms full of food.  They sit it all down at the table and call everyone over.  There is a huge bowl of spaghetti.  To be honest, I do not know if I have ever seen a bowl of pasta this big.  There is some bread and some chicken and salad too.  Lilliana and Tonya serve everyone a dish.  A birthday cheer is in order for Mordo, and we all raise our glasses and give Mordo a hearty and heartfelt wish.  I keep a keen eye on the TV in the corner.  I do not want to miss the famous shout.  The camera is panning the crowd at the Zocalo.  There is a giant statue lying down…huge!  I ask who it is.  Cesar takes a quick look and thinks it is an old Aztec leader.  Lilliana thinks it is Zapata.  No one can say who it is, especially as it lays there with a crowd around it.  I dig back in to the food.  I have at least 4 helpings of pasta.  I am starved.  We all talk about this and that while we eat and wait for the ‘grito’.  I look at Jean Pierre’s watch and see it is 10:44.  I look to the TV and see the giant statue starting to be raised. In excitement I yell, “Look!  The statue is being raised, its time for the yell!”  Cesar turns and looks over his shoulder.  He gets up to focus his bleary alcohol soaked eyes on the screen to see what is happening.  He stands and says as the statue is almost upright, “It’s Stalin!  Look!  Stalin!” and he points at the TV.  His kids on the couch laugh and tell him to shut up.  He comes to the table still saying it is Stalin.  I get a look as the statue is standing.  It does look like Stalin.  I re-affirm Cesar’s claim.  It is not Stalin though, but the ‘last revolutionary’ we are told form the commentators.  Cesar abruptly says that the ‘grito’ will be very soon, and we should get upstairs to watch the fireworks.  He gets up form the table, grabs three cans of beers and heads off to the roof.  Everyone is getting g up and starting to move.  Lilliana says we have to get the TV up on the roof.  I go to the TV and help her unplug it and I lug it up to the roof.  I want to see this, so I happily take this crummy TV up and outside.

As we go out on to the roof, Lilliana says for me to watch my step.  I take a giant stride over some pipes and wander to a clear spot.  Cesar comes out of the dark, and he is almost stumbling as he is laying out an extension cord.  “Here, put it on the table” he says.  There are two tables there, both identical. “Which one” I ask.  “The plastic one” he says. Hmm.  Two identical, white plastic garden tables side by side.  I choose a table and set it down.  Lilliana says “Watch out!  There is water on it!” and runs to get a towel.  I set the TV down, and then pull it back up.  Cesar is trying to plug it in while this is going on.  “We have to hurry” he says as he is on his knees trying to grab the cord form the TV.  Lilliana has a towel, and does a quick wipe and pats her hand on the towel, “Here.  Put it here” she instructs.  I set it down and almost seamlessly Cesar has it plugged in.  Lilliana reaches over and plugs it in.  As the screen flickers those standing behind me exclaim that it is the grito!  “It’s him!  It’s on!” yells Cesar.  I grab for my camera and get it just as Calderon is yelling the final ‘Viva Mexico!”  I can’t believe I have missed the whole ordeal.  As I watch him give the final cheer, I expect to hear the whole city rumble with pride.  All I hear is a few grumbles from behind my back and a stray ‘Viva!’ from someone in the dark.  I think it is Cesar.  Mordo is getting excited now, and he is insisting that Calderon is afraid of being assassinated at this very moment.

Cesar tells us to turn and look north, towards the Zocalo.  The fireworks are going off.  We all run to the opposite side of the roof to get a better view.  There are a few building in the line of sight, so we get a few flashes here and there.  I feel a bit cheated.  I missed the grito and now I am missing the fireworks.  I walk back to the fuzzy TV and watch the fun on there.  It seems as if the whole ordeal is done in about 10 minutes.  “Is that it?” I ask.  There are a few giggles and then Cesar says, “Yes, I guess so”.  The kids are giggling in a swinging chair.  I look to Tonya and exclaim, “Man.  We get a better show on an average po-dunk 4^th of July back in Houston!”  The kids seem to like this, as they all start laughing.  I think I even see Jean Pierre chuckle.  “It is because the Zocalo is lower than us” Lilliana says. “It is actually in a valley, and we are in the mountains.  We are looking down and our view is blocked form the trees and buildings” I stand for a minute and say, “But because we are higher-we should have a better view” I go back to the TV to see what is up.  They are showing London and Paris.  I immediately think it is like Nazi propaganda, ‘Look! The whole world is happy for Mexican Independence’.   Then there are images of Milan and Rome.  Mordo pulls me out of the flux when he taps me on the shoulder and says, “Can you believe we have to watch this on that little TV?”  I have to laugh, and so does he.

I wonder around the roof, looking ever expecting fireworks to erupt from somewhere else.  None.  A few pops and bangs can be heard in the distance.  I sit down for a few minutes and gaze to the scrawny, fuzzy TV.  There is boxing on.  I ask Lilliana if this is planned, is it really part of the celebration? Yes, it is.  She tells how Mexicans are proud of their boxers so now the country gets treated to a boxing match.  It is the same channel and the celebratory logo on the screen, so I guess it is so.  This is somewhat of a dud.  Thankfully, and unexpectedly, Tonya taps me on the leg.  She looks way beat.  She asks if I am ready. Of course.  Lilliana is asked to call us a cab.  She comes back a minute later and tells us to get moving downstairs, because the can will be here in two minutes.  I get up to say my goodbyes.  I see Cesar and Jean Pierre walking away towards Cesar’s studio.  As I walk in to say farewell, I see Cesar about to topple over a drum kit, then he sits on his stool, picks up some drum sticks and starts to solo.  I don’t know if it was a dare, or if he was just proving to Jean Pierre he could play drunk or what.  I stood there and watched until he finished.



We say our goodbyes and Cesar grabs me and intently tells me that I am welcome anytime in his home.  I appreciate it.  I like this guy.  I tell Jean Pierre to come over some time.  I give Mordo a big hug, and tell him happy birthday.  I go downstairs, grab my coat and head straight out to the cab where Tonya is standing and saying good bye to Lilliana.  I do the same, hop in and ride home without saying a word.  The cabbie has the radio on and he is playing the nights festivities at a high volume.  I suppose there are millions of people out there who are a having a great time.

Art = Wank!

While Mexico is preparing to go full on nutso for their Bicentennial, I am worried about groceries.  That is right, the city is decked with Mexican flags and banners everywhere you look.  Every corner has paraphernalia of all sorts, even green red and white donuts.  It will be madness in the next few days.

Where is the syrup?  There is no bread in the house and I don’t even know how many eggs are left.  What is worrying too is that the dogs ate the last of the yogurt.  When Mexico awakes tomorrow ready to get their party on, I am going to be ready to get my breakfast on.  This is a pet peeve of mine, going into celebratory holidays knowing there is no food in the house.

The day was pretty much wasted piddling around the house, waiting on the gardeners, the painters and whatever else there was for interruptions.   About mid afternoon Tonya gets a phone call from this crazy ‘artist/photographer’.  His name is Manuel.  He speaks in parables, kind of like a whacked out Mexican Willie Wonka.  He is blathering on to Tonya about being ‘aqui’, then he finally speaks in a way a normal human can understand and he tells here he is in Mexico City.  There is some exhibition opening tonight and he has a friend or two in tow.  He informs Tonya that he will be by later to get us, then we will go to this thingy and then, they get to come over and drink. Awesome.  He says he will get a bottle, and Tonya asks him if he thinks he is going to sit here till 3am.  This makes for an awkward moment, but it is quickly resolved. “I don’t want them sitting here getting drunk until 3” Tonya tells me…as if I have any complaints about that, especially artists.

This reminds Tonya of the combo Bicentennial/Mordo celebration tomorrow.  She calls Lilliana to find out the who, what, and when.  Seems like the blowout has been scaled back.  The grand total comes in at about five people.  Grilling is on the plans, but Cesar says we should go out.  Lilliana tells Tonya she will call tomorrow and they will go to the grocery store to get the necessary items to celebrate Mordo’s 51 years and Mexico’s 200.

We decide that time is ticking and make a move to go run some errands.  While out Tonya says we should eat early because of the festivities tonight.  We go buy Mordo his birthday present.  Guess what it is?  That is right, a bottle of his favorite tequila.  However, I go the extra mile and choose the special edition one which has a small can of Corona Light shrink wrapped to it.  That is right, Mordo will be floored by the thoughtfulness of this gift.  We stop by the local Taco Inn (Tonya’s fave taco joint) and grab a bite to eat.

Forget my favorite routine part of the day, coffee time.  Who can have a coffee after eating 4 tacos, peppers in cream and fried cheese?  We have a bit of time before Manuel is to show up so we take it easy.  Tonya gets on the phone and I read about George Michael going to jail. Tonya gets an important phone call from a neighbor.  He says he will be over at 9.  He has to speak to her and has some extremely important news.

It is 7:30 and no sign of Manuel.  Tonya looks sheepishly and says that he will probably be late.  Ok, we sit and wait some more.  Eventually she gets tired of waiting and calls Manuel.  He says they are nearby, but does not quite remember how to get here.  She tells him directions and then we wait again.

About 15 minutes later the doorbell rings.  Tonya goes down and checks.  She yells up that they are waiting outside.  Ok, I grab my keys and put my shoes on and head down.  When I get down I see the gang.  They had just come from dinner and were ready to get their party on…at an art opening.  So be it.  In a flash we are at the opening. 

We had only been there a few minutes when the head of the museum saw Tonya and comes over.  They start chatting, and Manuel starts talking some sort of gibberish.  I have no clue what he is saying, I can only judge by the shocked look on the head of the museum’s face and Tonya’s, that he was obviously saying things he shouldn’t.  She smiles nervously and tries to talk to Tonya.  They both smile nervously and she ushers us through the crowd and to a table.  She signals a guy behind the table and he brings out some tequila for us.  In no time, it is handed out and some simple pleasantries are exchanged.  The head of the museum, being the head, can’t hang around long, she has to see to others.  She smiles and politely gets pulled somewhere else. 

This guy was the best.

I hate openings and parties.  Most of the time you stand around like a complete tit just smiling and getting bored.  Tonight is no exception.  To add to the frustration is the endless comment, “Oh…you don’t speak Spanish?  Why not?”  If I had a peso for every time I was asked this, I would be rich.  I smile and don’t answer.  Of course, I would love to ask them point blank, “How much English were you speaking in four months?”  I love how the Mexicans think everyone should be speaking their language…even in America!  Yes, I know, Spanish is the language here.  However, do you know how many times in public back home when a group of Mexicans got together and they knew they could speak Spanish, they would happily do so, no matter who else was standing there.  You see…it is this attitude which plays a part in me struggling to learn this language in the first place. 

I stand around and look at people and play games with myself, like ‘hmmm, wonder what he does.  Look at her shoes, gross.  He is totally out of place…’ Manuel wonders over and asks me something in Spanish, then disappears.  I stand around a bit more and watch the sound guy wearing the glittery cowboy hat.  He is definitely proud of the Bicentennial.  A few minutes pass and Tonya asks if I want to go see the exhibition.  I happily agree, so we go upstairs.  I am a bit confused.  This whole exhibition is on the maguey plant.  I thought there was going to be loads of photos.  There are like two, and then a bunch of drawings.  I get a look around the place, feeling a bit gipped.  This is my first time in Diego Rivera’s studio.  I don’t get him or Frida…but I get him more.  We breeze through the little exhibition and back down two flights onto the ground floor and back into the crowd.

Old playmates re-united.

As we are standing there, repeating the awkwardness I have been so good at so far, I notice this really big lumbering guy.  He looks a bit dopey and something is wrong with his nose.  He’s got a bandage on it or something.  He is a few feet away holding court with more strangers.  He looks at us and I think, “Why is that freak looking so intent at us?”  He starts smiling and he sloppily comes our way.  He holds his arms out and is saying something. Great, this lumbering oaf is gonna fall face first right into our small gang.  Tonya has a deer in the headlights look on her face, then it changes to a smile.  The oaf barges in and hugs Tonya.  He smiles slowly and talks slower.  I keep staring at the bandage on his nose.  Tonya used to play with this guy when they were kids.  This was her neighbor.  This was one of Diego Rivera’s kids.  They stand and talk for a few.  Tonya introduces us, and I shake the big guy’s hand.  He has a painting in Frida’s studio and tells Tonya to come and see it.  He leads us through the crowd and around the studio.  As we wait to push through the crowd Tonya looks at me and says it is almost 9.  The neighbor needed to see her at 9.  She asks if I mind going home and waiting on the neighbor until she gets there.  Ok. 

I am a little miffed about not seeing Diego’s kids painting in the studio.  I have never been in there, so I was curious.  I leave the opening and head back home.  I stand outside and wait for the neighbor.  I recognize his walk from a few blocks away.  He approaches and smiles.  He says “hello” in a sheepish tone.  I say hello back and smile and shake his hand.  I tell him Tonya is with Diego’s son, and she will be here before too long. He struggles a bit with his English and he asks, “What was your name again?”  I tell him and he smiles, “Yes” is his simple reply.  I tell him we can go inside and wait, but since Tonya is being escorted around with an important guy, we might get more done if we go back to the opening and grab her.  He agrees and we go back.  As we walk in I tell him to relax, he probably has friends here.  He just laughs.  Now I am standing in a sea of strangers with a neighbor.  He makes small talk.  I point out the head of the museum to him.  He is polite and we laugh at our nervousness.  I tell him Tonya was taken into Frida’s studio.  He asks if I have been in there.  No.  He motions for me to follow him and he makes his way in like he owns the joint.  The place is packed.  We wind up the stairs.  At the top, he stops smiles and points, “Look.  It is Frida’s bathroom.  It is just like yours” he says.  He makes me laugh.  I don’t think it is like ours, but if he thinks it is funny, then I do too.  When we get inside the room at the top, Tonya is standing arm in arm with Diego’s son.  People are snapping pictures….so I do too.  Next thing I know Manuel is chatting to him and pulls out a video camera and gets him to start talking about his painting and the Bicentennial.  This is when we get Tonya and take her away.

Tonya and the neighbor have a pow-wow for about 15 or 20 minutes.  They laugh, smile and smoke.  Eyebrows are raised and some exclamations are made.  It is private stuff, but interesting.  When they have talked over what they need to talk over, we walk the neighbor outside and say goodbye.  After I shake his hand, Tonya asks if we should go back to be with her friends.  Ok. Here we go again.

I am the guy who does not belong.  I just stand and smile and Tonya gets pulled here and there.  Every so often, she takes a moment to tell those around us that Tim does not speak Spanish.  They look at me and continue on (bastards!).  I stand and take it like a hero.  I smile and nod while they jabber on and on.  For some reason I get really perturbed with the couple Tonya is now talking to.  Once again she stops and introduces me to them, they smile and we shake hands.  She informs them I do not speak Spanish and they say they speak English. Good, maybe I can be a part of a conversation.  They turn to face one another and start right back up into Spanish, as if I was not there.  After I have enough of the laughs and stories I could not understand, I decide it is more fun to go home and make popcorn.  So I do.

'Untitled art wank' - Tim Murrah

I am kind of hungry because we had an early dinner, so I think the idea of a big bowl of buttered popcorn sounds pretty awesome.  This is the real deal, cooked on the stove top, not some microwave rubbish.  As I am putting the finishing touches on my ‘corn, I open the fridge to grab a coke. “What!”  I say to no one.  There are no more cokes.  I ask aloud once more “Who drank the last coke!” and shut the fridge.  Now I am really mad.  No breakfast. No coke. No English and a Bicentennial yet to go. Oh-and the art crowd will be showing up at any time. 

Sure enough, about 20 minutes or so goes by and Tonya comes in and says that everyone else is in tow.  The living room fills up with art opening folks and they immediately start helping themselves to my popcorn.  What the ….  I smile and help Tonya get some glasses and get the visitors some refreshments. For the record, Manuel came empty handed even though he said he was bringing a bottle of something for the revelers.  I am an outsider in my own living room.  I decide I will back out slowly and go upstairs to be pathetic and type this blog.  Someone asks who wants a mescal.  Tonya sees me and tells me to have one.  I oblige.  Manuel then starts talking to me about mescal in Spanish.  I just stare at him.  He obviously is in another world and cannot decipher the ‘what the hell are you saying’ look on my face.  The mescal tastes like wet cardboard.  I am going to try and casually set it down on an end table, when some guy named George starts talking to me.  He’s an older guy, a photographer.  He pulls out his iPhone and starts giving me a mini exhibition of his work.  He is really a nice guy. 

I try my best to stay out of the way, and decide that talking with George is alright.  The crowd eventually shifts and so I do too.  I go to the table to see if there is any popcorn left.  I get pulled into a conversation with a young guy wearing a Hermes belt. It is completely small talk.  In moments of silence, he repeats his last statement and sighs.  This drives me nuts.  The crowd comes back down and comments about my record collection.  He asks if I collect records. “Yes, I try”, I tell him.  All of a sudden this guy is telling me the best place to buy records here. “There are two places” he says loudly. He then tells me the streets where they are located.  One of them is actually a corner.  Everyday this guy comes out with crates of records and sells them.  ‘You have to look through his stuff though.  When he has good stuff, he has good stuff” he says.  “You see, this guy has no idea of what he has, so it all sells cheap” Ok, this is the best thing I have heard all night.  I ask him to write down the street corner where this guy is. 

Next thing I know everyone is up and saying they are leaving.  Tonya is asked to call someone a cab, turns out it is George.  Everyone else is making quick with their departures.  I walk with George outside, to say goodbye to the rest of the crowd.  As we are at the gates George pulls a can of some sort of mace out of his pocket.  Before I can ask him why he has it (duh, obvious!) he says he was almost kidnapped before, so he never goes out in the city without it.  If I walk with him to take another guest to her car, he will tell me the rest of the story.  We walk the lady to her car, and as we are almost there a car comes barreling down the cobblestone street, “Well.  They just stole that car” George says.  The lady chimes in, “I don’t trust anyone here.  I will give you guys a ride back because this is Mexico” I think this is a great idea.

As she drops us off George is telling me his story.  Tonya is outside waiting, having a smoke.  George tells how he was looking for a theater and hailed a cab on the very street he was already on.  He gets in and becomes the chump these creeps were waiting for.  The cab slows and two guys come and open the doors and start yelling.  George yells back and they get in.   George kicks on of the dudes and they dog-pile him.  The cab drives a few blocks and pulls up to another guy waiting to jump in.  In all the ensuing chaos George manages to get loose.  He gets away.  He says that while he was dog piled, they had been stabbing him in the leg.  “That is why I never leave without this stuff” he says holding up his mace.  This is the type of story I like to hear when I am about to go to bed.  I already feel at odds with this place, and now George just crop dusted extremely combustible fuel on my fire.  Tonya puts her cigarette out and sighs.  I know she appreciates the huge favor George just did.

Intruder! pt. 2

The new traps were bought.  They were left in the bag, in the pantry.  A sure deterrent to any kind of pest.  Things had seem to have gone quiet.  Tonya was afraid that the little guy had pulled his feet off or something and would crawl up in the oven and die.  The thought of a rotting mouse in your oven is enough to make anyone feel uneasy.  However!  The good guy that I am, I had already checked the trap and there were no limbs left behind.  He was still in one piece, and I knew he was plotting revenge.

I don’t know why we did not lay the traps out right away.  I guess we thought we would be safe for a bit, that the mouse would have the fear in him. 

One evening around coffee time (which precedes the ritual of cooking dinner); Tonya stood in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen and said, “I saw him!  I think I just saw him!”  I get up and walk over to her and look at the fridge.  “You sure?  Where” and I start walking to the fridge.  “On the back.  He ran down the back” were the instructions Tonya gave.  I walk over and take a look.  I purposely bang the fridge, and muscle it around a bit, to see if he will drop or make a run for it.  No sign of him.  He’s a genius, well, or maybe just very small.  He has managed to evade us again, and be somewhere in back of the fridge. Awesome, from the oven to the fridge…what next.

I tell Tonya I will get the traps out and lay them.  She says not too, because she doesn’t want the dogs to mess with them, and she is about to start cooking and does not want mouse dramas in the kitchen while she is at work.  Ok.  So be it.

For the next few days, I check the traps by the oven regularly.  Still there.  No signs of chaos or trespassing. Good.  A few more days pass and no signs.  Of course by now, the thought of the traps has eluded us.  We have gotten lazy in our false reality that perhaps he left for greener pastures.

One morning we up and started our morning routine again.  Tonya had left a few tortillas wrap wrapped up and a freezer bag out which had some bread in it.  As she was starting to make the morning brew, she says aloud like a kind of Sherlock Holmes way, “A ha!   He’s back!”  I immediately look to her for whatever clue she is honing in on.  She starts to laugh, and holds up the freezer bag to show the hole nibbled into it.  Nice.  Then she is beaming brightly when she holds up two tortillas with little bite marks in both of them.  Admittedly, it is a funny sight.  I laugh too.

It appears that mice like tortillas.

The unfunny side is that this means he is crawling on the counter where we do loads of food prep and keep the fruit bowl, etc.  This geeks me out totally.  Like some sort of sissy, I immediately let out an astonished, “Does this mean he’s been crawling across my apples?” I am truly horrified.  Tonya acts the mom and reassures me that he is probably not too interested in my granny smiths, but more in the bready stuff, or the cookies and junk that may be on the counter.  In any case, I am grossed out and will not stop talking or thinking about it for quite a while.  I don’t want the plague or any other mouse disease…and I do not want him on my apples.  For him, it’s as if he has bloodlust.  He has moved from the oven to the fridge, now onto the counter and is eating holes into bags and helping himself to tortillas.  This must end-sooner than later!

Whatever.  A small mouse episode this morning will not ruin our day.  We have too much to do.  It is as good as forgotten as soon as we are finishing up the last of the coffee, and doing our routines.  We go about the things we have to do and all seems well. We venture out and do some shopping to get groceries for the next few days. Around coffee time we go over our dinner plans and go over the latest tidbits of the day.  I tell Tonya I am gonna disappear and nerd out with some computer junk or listen to records.   I get wrapped up in my clowning around and am brought back into reality when she yells, “OK.  It’s ready!”  Like some kind of kid, I am up and bounding down the stairs to an aromatic kitchen and hunger in my belly.

We are having a lovely salad and some middle-eastern food.  The salad is king, with Tonya’s secret weapon dressing.   I tell her everything is great, but it all pales in comparison to the salad.  (Yes, it is that good)  We sit and eat as it starts to rain outside.  I like the rain here, it is peaceful.  We are already discussing what movie we will watch tonight.  I suppose we were both hearing something but not saying anything, but at the exact moment we both looked at one another and said the same thing, “What is that noise?”  Tonya was quick to answer her own question, “I think it’s Dash in there, drinking water” I put my utensils down and get up to see who is making the big scene in the kitchen.  I peer in, and no one is there.  I walk back in to the den and look on the couch, all the dogs are sprawled out on the couch and chairs.  “Nope.  I guess it was just the rain”, and I return to the table to continue my Romanesque gorging on delights.  It does not take long before the commotion starts again.  We both look at one another again and simultaneously reach the same decision, “I bet it is that little bastard again” I say.  I get up and start back into the kitchen.

I stand there and look to where the noise is coming from.   There is a paper bag on the counter with some special cookies I had just bought this afternoon, my special coffee time treats.  The bag was moving, “It’s him!  He’s in the bag…” I exclaim.  Before I finish Tonya is by my side, watching the paper bag bob from side to side.  Neither of us can believe the audacity this little guy has.  I start to look closer, and do not see a hole.  I get down to table level and peer into the shadow, between the bag and the fruit bowl.  There he is.  He is keeping cover under the lip of the fruit bowl, and trying to tear his way into the bag, and then make off with my favorite cookies. “Look, he’s there, beside the bowl”, and then Tonya bends down to see the furry fiend.  My mind goes back to my initial fear and I blurt out, “I told you!  The little bastard is walking on my apples!”  Tonya asks the obvious, “What are we going to do?” I reach for the bag, and push it aside.  The little guy heads straight to the fridge.  I move to the fridge and push it out a bit, trying to follow his trail.  Like before, he’s vanished.

We sit back down and resume our meal.  Tonya says to mess with the mouse, after dinner.  Let’s just enjoy the evening now.  Anyway, there is loads of good food.  I keep looking sideways, into the kitchen to see if the little turd comes back out.  I keep a keen eye on the bag.  It could not have been 10 minutes before the bag rustles and I see him pushing it around.  I get up and Tonya immediately realizes what is going on.

“I’m getting the traps” I say as I walk into the pantry.  Tonya is perturbed.  “What are you going to do with them?  Come sit down and finish, I don’t want to deal with a mouse now” No.  I am stubborn.  I am a man and now I am faced with defeating an enemy, one who is flagrant and invasive.  I have decided that this will end, tonight.  As I am opening the traps, Tonya is lamenting form the dining room, “I don’t want to deal with a dead mouse while I am eating”

“He won’t die.  He is just going to be stuck” I say back.

“Well, you’ll kill him…”she says back.

“No I won’t.  He will be stuck.  All I am going to do is pick him up and throw him in the trash”

“Yeah, but then he will be dying…”

“Look.  I am tired of this little turd messing around with us.  Look at him!  He is coming out trying to steal our stuff while we are sitting here!” I am sure I have pulled the traps apart and I lay one at the side of the fridge, and the other on the counter, beside the fridge, directly in his path to my apples and cookies.

“What did you do, where did you put them?” Tonya asks from the table.

“I put one beside the fridge and the other on the counter” I explain as I sit back down.  Tonya looks a bit worried and continues, “Well…what if he comes back out?  He’s going to get stuck on the counter” I suppose this is the difference between male and female logic.  I try to explain to Tonya the strategy of placing it right where he will definitely go.  I want this to end, and I know he will be back out in no time.  To her, she is not so grossed out about him crawling around on the counter, or getting my cookies and apples.  She is more concerned about a trapped mouse on the counter during dinner, and what the ensuing entrapment will mean.  She is reading way too much in to it all.

Maybe it was five minutes.  We are in mid conversation when the sound of a plastic trap scooting along a wooden counter could be heard. I immediately put my fork down, “A ha you bastard!” and I head to the kitchen.  Tonya gets up to.  She blurts out something like “I don’t want to see this” I grab a plastic bag I had waiting on the opposite counter.  Tonya goes outside; I ask her where she is going. “Going outside!  I am going to open the trash for you…” and her voice trails off.  I got my bag and then turn to my enemy.  He’s looking at me.  I can’t help but feel a bit thrilled that he fell for it.  At the same time, I feel a bit sad.  From this very moment, there is no turning back.  I stand there for a minute and look at him.  He is small, kind of cute.  He is trying to get off and keeping an eye on the tall guy with the bag.  Tonya yells from outside, “What’s happening?”  I yell back something about me just about to grab him.  I do feel sad, reaching for the trap.  He goes still and just looks at me sideways.  I have a brief thought of, ‘what if he turns on me.  I do not want dirty mouse teeth going into my fingers and me having to get rabies shots in my stomach’  My paranoia causes me to reach with extra caution.  I grab the corner of the trap, and slip it into the bag.  I tie it up, and head out side.

It is drizzling pretty heavy, and my eyes have not adjusted to the darkness. I ask quite abruptly, “Where are you?” to Tonya.  I don’t see her.  From the shadows I hear a very stern “I am here…” and she appears and walks right past.  She is angry.  She says I was yelling at her.  I told her I didn’t mean anything by it.  I am just a guy with a mouse in a bag trying to find the other trash bag in the darkness and drizzle. Before I can explain, she is already inside.  I drop the intruder off, and head back in, careful not to slip on the wet tiles inside.  Tonya is upset.  “That’s it.  I am finished” she says grabbing her cigarettes.  I am no clue what just happened. “You think I like messing with a mouse while I am trying to eat?” I say while washing my hands. “I lost my appetite. I told you I did not want a dead mouse during my dinner…” she says as she heads to smoke a cigarette of frustration. The logic kicks in, “He’s not dead!” I say.  From somewhere else in the house a quick and stern “…but he will be!” comes shooting out.

So.  I defeated my foe, and now sit alone at the dinner table.  Tonya is fuming and will not come back.  Yes, she truly has lost her appetite.  I am discouraged too. I have some solace though,  knowing  I defeated my foe and would have some sort of peace tonight….from the mouse, maybe not Tonya.    I sit alone at the table, like a complete fool, and clean my plate. It is good, and I eat some more.  Like I said, the salad is amazing! 

Intruder! (a mouse in the house)

For the last three nights, we have watched a trilogy on Netflix, “Red Riding”.  One episode each night.  Yes, I would and do recommend it to those who like a bit of a thinky- kind of mini-series.  It is a somewhat factual look into the certain facets of Northern England in the mid-70s to early 80’s.  I suppose you could say it is loosely based on the Yorkshire Ripper case from the late 70s.  In any case, it is good and you should watch it.

The first episode was fantastic.  I totally loved the feel of the film, and the shots were framed so nice.  It really was enjoyable to look at.  Whoever the guy was who shot it, he is very very good at cinematography.  With light rain and drizzle outside, this made for the perfect viewing to sink into the safety of the couch, watch from across the room at the madness unfolding, stopping every so often to ask the question, “You want something?”  This is the phrase which roughly translates to ‘can you get up and grab whatever junk food and snacky things we have piled up in the cabinet?’ Movies are always better with snacking on things you shouldn’t, right?

My curiosity was piqued.  As soon as we finished three nights of serial murders and police corruption, I was curious to know how much was fact and what was fiction.  Immediately the laptop was opened and Wikipedia punched in.  I scoured the info given, and was telling Tonya what I was reading.  I would sit and moan, oooh and ahh, and depending on what my noises were, Tonya would ask what was getting those responses.  Of course, she did have questions of her own too.  After taking in a brief overview I stood up in the cool blow glow of the TV screen, and started to explain some of the finer points of what we had just watched and what I had just read.  She sat in the corner of the couch, curled up under a blanket and politely listened to me as my late night discourse was dispensed.  I paced back and forth, motioning with my hands, excited by the information I had just received.  The film had me wound up, and we were practicing our amateur detective theories in our own living room. 

As I stood next to the window and had a brief moment to ponder, Tonya asks a totally irrelevant question, “Do you hear that?”  I was already silent, so I remained standing there listening for what I thought I should be listening for.  “Yes” I said.  It was raining, and I thought she was talking about the rain, so I resumed my theorizing again. 

“You did…you heard it?” she asked again, with her head somewhat tilted towards the kitchen.  I went quiet again and stood still.  All I could hear was the sound of rain.  “What am I supposed to hear?” I asked.

“I don’t know.  There is something in the kitchen” she said.  “What is in the kitchen?” was my obvious reply.  I walked into the kitchen and turned the light on.  “It sounds little…and scratchy, like a mouse or something.  You didn’t hear it?  It was scratching…you know, it sounds like little claws doing something” she said from the couch.  I walked back into the living room and looked at Tonya.  She obviously was not moving.  Was this for real, or just partly due to the Yorkshire Ripper and the typical noises one hears in an old house, on a rainy night after three nights in a row of watching creepy stuff?

I walk back into the kitchen and go to the opposite side of the room.  I survey the kitchen without making a sound.  I do hear a slight pittering and slightly scratchy sound.  I turn my head towards the area I hear it from.  I look in the corner by the trash can to see if there is a small furry creature going about his nightly business. Nope.  As I am turning to look elsewhere I see something I did not expect.  The sound is coming from the stove.  On the front left burner I see movement.  A small tail is sliding beneath the top of the stove. “Gross!” I shout out from the kitchen, “He’s in the stove!”  I could not believe it.  There is a mouse in our stove!  Tonya can’t believe it either, “What!” she shouts from the couch.  “That is disgusting.  I am not going in there. Get me a glass of water” she says. 

“I thought I saw something float across the kitchen floor right before we started the movie” she continues while I get her glass and go fetch some water, keeping an ever watchful eye on the burner, “It looked like a shadow…just flew across the tile.  I guess that was him” I had returned and sat the glass down.  As she starts to sip it I ask the question, “What are we gonna do now?”  Tonya was up now and gathering her things, “I am going to bed.  I don’t want to stay down here with the mouse” I remembered that we had two sticky gel traps, left over from a prior incident a few months back.  “Hey!  We have a few of those sticky traps left; you want me to put them out and try to catch him?”  She scuttles down the hall, turning lights off behind her and leaving a simple reply floating behind, “If you want.  What will we do if he is there in the morning?”

“Throw him out” I say, to the sound of footsteps ascending higher and higher.  I grab the traps, lay them on both sides of the stove and flip turn off the lights. 

As we brush our teeth we laugh about the situation.  Tonya confesses that it may be hard to sleep, knowing there is a little mouse in the house.  I agitate it more by cracking jokes.  We crawl into bed and cackle and giggle over the little furry thing in the oven.  The rain outside makes noises, followed by the obvious remark of, ‘OOH…is that him!’  We were nice and cozy now, just as the little guy downstairs was.  It was bedtime for both parties now.

The next morning Tonya lay in bed staring up at the ceiling asking the simple question, “What if he’s down there?”  She seems genuinely concerned.  “I will throw him out” I say. “You won’t let him loose…outside?” I reply back in shock, “What…so he can come creeping in again?  No.  I will throw him out in the trash or something” She stares at me, “Will you kill him?” “I wasn’t planning on it. I will just bag him up and put him in the trash” She gets up and starts the morning routine while adding, “I don’t want to touch him” and heads to the bathroom.  I lay there with the dogs, and do the regular morning greetings and ask them questions that they will never answer. 

I waited for Tonya to finish with the restroom before I make my move.  I brush my teeth and am sliding on my pants when I hear her exclaim a simple, “He’s here!”  I quickly slide my pants on and then some slippers and head downstairs.  Tonya is in the kitchen, pointing to the side of the stove.  I walk in, lean down and take a look.  I am a bit shocked.  The little mouse is sitting there like he was waiting on me.  He is sat up, looking straight at me with what I take to be a somewhat bemused look on his face.  I suppose we were both thinking the same thing; what now?  I get a good look and tell Tonya I will sort the little guy out.  However, first things first; coffee, glance at the latest headlines…you know the routine.

He's not as innocent as he looks.

 

I sit at the table and Tonya asks if I will take the mouse a few blocks down to an open field and let him loose. “Like I am going to walk all the way down there with a frantic mouse in a bag, and let him loose to terrorize someone else. No” is my simple reply.  I am not cold hearted, but when it comes to sharing with rodent, I opt out.  I want it all and those pesky guys can take a hike.  Tonya is sipping a cup of coffee. “Well, what are you going to do then?” she asks.  I tell her the truth.  I am going to have a bit of coffee, and then put my shoes on, and then get rid of the little mouse.  He isn’t going anywhere.  He is stuck on this very sticky tray.  I get up to go check.  He has scooted over a bit from his frantic attempts to break free.  I decide to go put my shoes on, and then take care of business.

Coming back down stairs I sit at the table to put my shoes on, and steal a few sips of coffee from Tonya.  She is impatient and fretting over the ordeal. I reassure her it is ok.  Laces tied, I am up and at ‘em.  I grab a bag and walk to the oven.  I lean down to get the little booger…and he’s vanished!  I can’t believe it.  I must have let out some sort of ‘I can’t believe he got away sound’ because Tonya asks from the dining room, “What?  What is it?”  Before I make it back into the dining room she’s guessed it, “He got away.”  Yes.  I hung my head in shame.  “Why did you take so long?” is her next question.  I didn’t think I did.  Just as long as it takes a guy to finally start moving as soon as he gets out of bed and is sitting in the dining room barefoot and is faced with disposing of a stuck mouse.  I guess it was longer than I thought, and surely long enough for the tricky little mouse to wedge the trap against the oven so he could pry himself free.

Tonya frowns and asks the obvious, what now?  I tell her we will get the little feller.  He may have slipped passed now, but he will pay dearly when the wrath of the Tim is unleashed.  I suppose this will mean heading to the store to buy some more sticky traps today.

…to be continued!

Get a haircut!

The poster which got my attention

It has been about three months since my last ‘do’.  For those unaware, I went quite short.  The new do was quite good, and I really enjoyed it for a change…but ‘dos’ grow out, and can leave you look pretty silly.  What was once a clean cut, 1930’s style cut, was now something of a bushy bowl-ish type thing sitting atop of my head.  To be honest, I was getting pretty embarrassed by it.

I managed to snip a bit off here and there, and even got Tonya to chop away a bit at it.  It was ok for a few weeks, but then back with a vengeance.  I had to get it shaped up.  I wish I could snap my fingers and be on the verge of a ’73 style mullet in no time, but this is reality.  One must suffer through their bowl phase before they get into the soccer player hair.  So be it.  I would have to tough it out, but I can do it with dignity.  I had to get rid of the bowl and get something that was a bit more ‘timeless’.

“I don’t know” Tonya said while eyeing up some local chop shops, “would you trust any of these?” she asks with some true concern.  “Well, where do you think all these people get their haircut?” was my simple reply.  I like styles that can look on the verge of being ‘bad’, so I was not that afraid.  Don’t get me wrong-there are millions of truly bad haircuts here.  Not good bad, but truly bad bad.  I must see thousands of faux-hawks a day…yes, it is en-vogue here. Get my drift? (Actually, the Mexicans here sport a lot of bad haircuts just like they do back in the States.)

So today we had some free time and we were in the neighborhood.  It was my big day.  I would get my first Mexican haircut.  I was about 70% excited and 30% apprehensive.  In any case, this was going to be an experience for me.

We had seen this one shop with those posters in the window that show the wide variety of cuts they can give, you know, similar to those African paintings of crazy cuts.  It just so happened that we were closest to this very shop, so we decided to walk by and have a look-see.  I thought it was empty and stuck my head in.  There were two barbers and two clients.  One guy cutting hair and the other was a little old man giving a guy an old time shave job in the corner.  We stalled for a minute, then Tonya asked how much. 50 pesos for a man’s cut.  Tonya said to come on in and we would do it.  As we sat down and waited for my turn, we were watching the guy in the corner get his shave done.  Tonya whispered to me, “I hope you don’t get that guy” she said motioning to the old fella.  “How can I?” I said as I pointed out that the other barber was whisking away hairs form his client, “the old guy is just getting started.  My guy is done.”

Sizing me up, envisioning his handywork

The barber shook the barber cape and invited up into his simple chair.  He wraps the cape around me and asks what I want.   I look to Tonya to explain.  She tells him that I like it messy.  Give it some shape, but do not cut too short.  I assume these are the instructions, but truthfully I have no idea.  The barber just nodded his head and grabbed a squirt bottle and started to spray me like a bad dog.

Wait.  Did he just use that comb on the previous guy?  I didn’t see any of those glowing purple lights that disinfect tools.  He just moved a towel and grabbed his tools and started to work.  I was a bit nervous.  I wanted a good, interesting cut.  I was not interested in taking anything else with me form the barber…like lice or some funky scalp disease.

Nothing to do but sit and watch...

Normally while you sit there and watch your locks drop to the floor (aside form the few that end up in your mouth or nostrils), you have some small talk with the barber.  Not me.  I just sat like an 8 year old and let the man do his job.  He did get to chat though, just not with me.  A lady came in and started talking to him.  He stopped and chatted, then handed her some keys.  I thought this interruption may throw him off a bit, but he kept right on going.  A few minutes later the lady came back and gave him his keys.  She said something that made him go outside.  He did this twice!  I looked in the mirror at Tonya.  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged.  Too late now, I am well into my new ‘do’.

He really didn’t take long at all.  When he grabbed the clippers to cut the fuzz on the back of my neck, I knew he was in the home stretch.  I look back to Tonya and this time she is nodding her head.  She thinks it looks ok!  The barber grabs the blow dryer and puts his final touches on.  He grabs a huge brush and whisks away my strays.  He stands aside and asks me what I think.  I assume he asks me this, as I didn’t understand him.  A quick glance shows no more bowl.  It looks a bit more controlled.  Tonya says it is good.  I stand up and nod, “muchas gracias” I tell him.  I am sincere.  I am happy with my cut.  I get some dough and a bit for a tip and as the next customer is getting in the chair, I hand it to my guy.  I tell him thank you once again, and he nods and smiles.  I walk to Tonya and she says, “It looks good.  I like it”

he's taking a break to talk to a lady...

Putting the final touches on

As we walk out of the shop Tonya is continuing with her opinion, “I think he did a great job.  He started in and kept it a decent length.  I think he did great for a $4 haircut…I would even go to him to get mine cut” She is dead serious. “Really! I think he did just what I told him.  He did a pretty stylish job for that little shop.  That would have cost you a lot more back home” I have no idea what the cut really looks like, but she is making me feel like a real suave dude.  As we stride down the stone streets I feel relieved.  I actually feel a few inches taller with new confidence.  I feel I can walk past any faux-hawk now and stare him down with my ‘in control’ style I’m sporting.  Believe me, it is a far cry from the ‘mom let me out to come play’ bowl-style that had grown on my head.

Now-it is the time trial.  Let’s give it a few days and see the real craftsmanship shine through.