The Sh*tty Weekend: Pt. 1 ('Dad's email')

Listen to your dad.  I don’t care how old you are, where you live or even how tall you are.  Your parent’s advice and wisdom is priceless…unless it involves possible dating partners, stylish clothes and most of all, cool music.  Everything else is of utmost importance.  I received a quick email this morning form my dad.  It was one that had been passed on and was one of those ‘inspirational’ ones, about how little things mean a lot; like the guy who stopped to buy donuts on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001.  A lot of people are still alive today from petty occurrences that hampered their morning that day.

I read it in a hurry and carried on with my pancakes.  I must admit, it seemed half-hearted because there was no bacon or sausage, but they were good pancakes anyway.  Tonya was hell-bent on sightseeing today.  Her daughter is here and she’s been whining about going and seeing things.  I told Tonya that I didn’t want to go the regular way we go to get to our chosen destination.  She called her friend and her friend said the other way was under construction, so it is the way I did not want to go.  (Mistake #1)

As we were walking to the car, I ask Tonya if she would drive because I didn’t want to.  I wanted to be a passenger and take photos.  She grimaced and re-iterated her fear of driving here.  I made a deal, if I drive going then she drives coming back. (Mistake #2)

Of course, like a typical kid, not even 10 feet onto the road we start out on that her daughter asks how far and how long it will take.  They can’t tell, but this really makes me excited about the whole thing.  I inhale deeply and sit back and we grab our place in the winding line of traffic and begin inhaling tons of exhaust.

It is taking a while.  I look at the clock, because I want to time how long our trek will take.  I know it will be at least an hour or more, depending on how many people are out today.  We crawl through small neighborhood after neighborhood.  I glance at the shops almost within arms reach.  I see a butcher, who has all his meats on display out onto the sidewalk.  I imagine how tasty the meat must be for the guy who grabs a few pounds on the way home, after it has sat in the sun and gotten a nice film of carbon monoxide basted all over it.  The line of cars ahead looks eternal.  I resign myself to trying to spot all the oddities I can along the way as we inch slowly along.

Soon enough, the cars thin out and we get up to about 20-25 mph.  This is flying for today!  We carry on and slowing as we push through another small neighborhood.  This is the system all the way to our destination; slow, crawl, slow, crawl, wait on a bus, wait on the bus that the driver parks in the street and decides to wash it in the street!

We are slowly making our way and going around a bend in the road.  All of a sudden a junky old truck cuts across the turn.   The brakes are hit and so is he.  We hit the side of his truck.  It has been modified, so the back is a flatbed and can haul junk.  He gets out, we get out.  A fender bender at best, one could barely tell where on the piecemeal battered truck that he was even dented. Our ride however, looked like Freddy Kruger took a swipe at the corner of our hood.  The Mexicans get out and immediately start saying it’s our fault.  I ask Tonya a question and the driver says, “What!  He doesn’t speak Spanish!”   Tonya starts arguing with him and there is a line of traffic building up behind us on the curve.  The Mexican says to move our car.  I hop in and do it, thinking ‘Great.  Now the accident scene has been tampered with’.  Looking at Tonya argue with the Mexicans made me realize that this was an uncool situation.  The driver said he didn’t have insurance (Ha! Imagine that!)  Tonya asks to exchange info and we get his info and he gets our info.  He refuses. 

Fact: He was crazy and cut across the lane without a signal or any notice. It could have been worse but wasn’t. We are innocent, on our way to do some sightseeing and we get way laid by a pair of Mexicans driving like bats out of hell (or, simply Mexican laborers).

As he calls his boss, Tonya makes the observation; he is at fault, has no insurance and won’t exchange any information.   Tonya tries to make an exchange one more time, and the worker refuses.  Tonya marches back to the car and says “Get in, we’re leaving”  She hops in and grabs the wheel and leaves in defiance.  His is a great situation for me leaving the scene.  I could care less about any sightseeing; I am a nervous wreck now.  All I want is to go home and curl up and whimper like a baby.  My stomach is instantly in chaos and we keep driving.

Why?  I ask Tonya why are you driving on the same road?  Isn’t it silly to be roaming around? “How much longer is it?” her daughter asks. Seriously.  I sit and watch each passing neighborhood just as before, but this time keeping an eye in the side mirror in case those goons follow us or the man tails us.  We make it to our destination.  My insides are sloshing around like a giant barrel of sludge.  My nerves are frayed.  I hope Tonya and her daughter are happy. We are officially outlaws now. 

Part of the place we are visiting is closed. Great, it is the part that has the main attraction for us.  Still, we walk around and her daughter gets to see this and that.  She admits to being happy getting out and doing something.  Tonya seems happy now too, out and walking around.  I feel sick.

Our visit doesn’t last long because the part we want to see is off limits.  Tonya suggests something to eat.  I can’t even think about it, in fact I can’t even utter the words, I just shake my head, “but you guys get what you want”.  I am kind of miffed, because this place she wants to go to has some good food.  I think that barrel inside of me is sloshing so much it is about to spill over.  I politely tell Tonya I have to make a pit stop.  She says they will have a smoke and wait for me. 

They will wait a long time.

I had seen a group of people sitting on a bench right outside of the men’s room when we got there.  I was hoping that they had left by now.  It would be a complete embarrassment to do what I think I have to do, and an audience right outside the door and below an open window.  As I walk up, a man is standing outside and puts a sweater on a woman who walks out.  I walk past and through the sweet smelling wall of perfume the woman leaves behind.  Straight in to the restroom I am thinking that it is probably going to be a typical public restroom with no toilet paper.  As I turn to the stalls I see paper dangling out of the dispenser on a wall in front of all the stalls.  The door is closed to my desired stall.  I grab some paper quickly, and step inside the last stall.  The toilet looks clean but there is a mini sized toilet seat instead of a proper man size.  This is not going to be nice.

An old shabby stall is all that separates me from the pee-ers at the urinals.  In fact, as soon as I sit down as best I could on the kiddie seat, someone walks in and goes to the urinal.  I am gripped in fear.  This is mind over matter, because I do not want to give in to what my guts are demanding and I do not want to be that guy who gives the pee-er joke material to tell his pals or girlfriend.  I sit quietly, teetering on the bowl, leaning to one side because the toilet seat doesn’t even fit properly.  As soon as I think he leaves, I surrender.

I try to mask it with a flush.  All my angst, pain and turista fears are unleashed.  Personally, I am weakened by the atrocities being committed here.  I would have cried, but that would make it even more pathetic.  I sit embarrassed, hoping no one comes in and peers below the stall and sees what shoes I am wearing.  “Look!  That is the guy who made it impossible for us to do what we had to do!”

As I sit teetering ever so fragile on the thin plastic kiddie seat, I hear a woman say something loudly into the restroom.  I look at the stall door as if I could see the culprit.  I sit frozen…but a little to the left.  I hear a whistle, then what sounds like little footsteps.  I can’t see though the door, but I can tell the little guy is wandering around, taking his time to get to where he needs to be.  I wish I could share the same joy as he does.  As soon as he finishes, he starts humming a little song and I hear his little feet get further and further away.  He must have gone across the hall into the ladies room because I hear a woman talking and then the hand drier kick on.  It is echoing all over the place and my chance to face my fears again. I flush, brace myself and let loose.  The kiddie seat gives way and slips folded into the toilet.  I gasp and grab the walls.  I am in a very compromising position.  I cannot rescue the seat and Satan has yet to finish his game with me.  I lean further left and wonder what Tonya must be thinking.  My side hurts from my awkward seating position.  I sit in shame and wonder why they could not have put the proper seat on this toilet.

After my ordeal has ended, I am scarred man.  I just went though hell so Tonya’s daughter could sight see.  I walk to the sink in denial of what I would face. No soap.  After all of this, no soap.  I stand and let the water runs over my hands.  I look into the mirror and see a ghost of a man.  I walk back to the toilet roll dispenser and pull a bit off and as I try to try my un-soaped hands; the paper peels off and makes little balls all over my hands.  I throw the wad into the toilet in which I had just suffered. As I round by the sink again I rinse my hands yet again, and wipe them on my jeans.  I don’t care; I just want to go home!

I step out and look up.  Tonya is walking up, “I was worried.  Are you OK?” she asks.  I nod yes, but don’t say a word.  She knows though, and asks if it was bad.  Too ashamed to recount the horrors, I acknowledge her query.  I walk silently behind her as we go to the restaurant.

Not pleasant to see after my 'situation'

“Do you want to eat something?” Tonya asks politely.  I shake my head no.  The other two order up their food.  Tonya orders her huitlacoche quesadilla (corn fungus).  The thought alone almost makes me cringe.  Imagine scraping the sludge off any standing puddle of water or any given pond.  Spread the black sludge on a blue tortilla and throw a dab of cheese on it, voila!  The food arrives and those who can eat, do.  I look up and see the huitlacoche oozing a black mess onto the plate below.  This reminds me of something…, I think it best to stare the other way and watch the waitresses try to hustle every single person that parks in the lot to come in to their restaurant.  Again, all I want is to go home.  I don’t need any fungus, no beers, no collapsing kiddie toilet seats and no horse rides either.

ROOFTOP PARTY

Parties are meant to be fun, but to me they are usually a test in patience and comfort levels.  As a rule, I don’t like them.  It is awkward, filled with small talk, and you forget the names of the people you met as soon as the conversation is over.  Most of all, the food is crap at parties.  Now, take all those great qualities and put it outdoors on a roof terrace in downtown Mexico City, surrounded by Mexicans and people who all speak Spanish. The odds are stacked in a big, overwhelming way.

I put a party face on and even spray on some Comme de Garcons cologne and some crazy striped socks to show that I am an active partying kind of guy.  My friend may be there, so I go out into the night with a slight bit of excitement.

We are over an hour late, and as far as I can see there is only one more guest already present.  Things are quiet.  We sit down and say our brief ‘hellos’ and give a hug and a birthday wish.  I sit and gab for a few minutes and we get our first round of drinks ordered…of course, tequila.  Even before I can finish, I decide it is time to go downstairs and chat with someone.

By the time I return, there party has grown.  It is not huge, but an extra table has been added and then I am asked to scoot over so even more chairs can be added to accommodate the revelers.  I oblige and scoot to my right, and now find myself sitting next to a stranger with a beard.  I smile and he does the same.  Tonya leans over and tells me that the group on my right is from Argentina.  Ok, good.  So they speak Spanish…this means my conversation will go nowhere.  Someone starts telling a story to the whole table and I am distracted.  The Argentinean starts a conversation with me.  His English is pretty good, and I am happy that I can talk to this stranger.  He just arrived the day before from a whirlwind trip to London, Milan, Frankfurt, and Madrid.  He works for Deutsche Bank and he and his best pal form high school are setting up an office now in Mexico City.  For a while our talks are about economics…always perfect for getting any party started.  You know this party is gonna be nuts when he leans over and asks his best friend, “What is the name of the Chinese currency?”

It is not all about monies and the European Union though.  He is starting a life here now and I have been here almost a year.  The talk turns to Mexico and life in the big city.  I ask him if he thinks he will like it.  Almost before I finish my sentence he is shaking his head side to side and issues a stern “No!”  I laugh and coax him on.  He goes on about the chaos of life here, he admits there are many similarities to Argentina and here, but this place is just too out of control.  “People drive crazy in Buenos Aires, but it is much worse here.  They don’t stop at red lights here!” he says somewhat amazed. “I can’t believe they drive the way they do, and will run red lights even in front of the cops…”  yes, this is only a small part of the excitement of life in the DF.  He leans over and says “it is not only the driving, it is everything.  The streets, the buildings, the people…”  I laugh and in almost perfect unison we say ‘complete lack of order’.  His eyes light up and he is excited now.  We both laugh about this point and go off on all sorts of assorted grievances of life here.

He grew up in Buenos Aires and went to school in the States.  He lived in London for a few years and then moved to Miami.  In the States, he splits his time between Miami and Chicago.  I go back to his trip to Mexico, “You mentioned you flew in yesterday, did you use your Spanish passport?”   He looks at me like I already know the answer, and then says “Yes” I then ask why? He smiles and admits, “They don’t like Argentineans.  If you carry a US or European Union passport, they are more welcoming” Then he goes back to the point of chaos here.  He tells of how he got home and realized he’d left his passport at customs, “I went to the airport three different times today to get my passport back…”and he tells a typical story of Mexican efficiency and attitude toward work and dealing with the public.  We get some laughs out of all of this for sure.  I find it comforting to meet people here who obviously share the same views as I do.

Somehow I get pulled away from our talk.  Now I am facing my left side and the party girl is on the couch holding court.  Mordo has shown up too.  Looking around, it is apparent that the party has grown quite large.  People are milling everywhere.  There is a large table set up behind us that is soon to have food for all these strangers to go rummage through and handle.  Party food; you never know whose hands have touched that little snack you just put in your mouth.

I find the break in conversation gives me a moment to address something which has being bothering me for quite a while now.  There is music playing in the background.  It is obvious it is an iPod because it is on repeat.  The same three songs have been playing for almost an hour now and I am about to loose it.  Imagine the horrors of having three Supertramp songs play over and over on and endless loop.

Cesar has come out for the party tonight, and it is always nice to see him.  I have no idea how much wine he has downed, but he is happily joining in this conversation and that.  He has started on the topic of the difference between generations, and how maybe the current stock is a bit better than the ‘x’ generation.  The array of topics varies wildly as the next thing he is on about is ‘liberty’ in Mexico.  He laughs and admits that he is from here, so of course he loves Mexico City.  “The thing about Mexico is…” he stops for a moment to gather his thoughts, “… there is such freedom here that you don’t have anywhere else, not even in America” We all look a bit confused at this profound statement, then he starts to laugh, and continue on, “You see…it is all about money.  You can do anything with money here.  You pay the cops, you pay this guy, you want that, you pay that guy.  If you have money, you can buy all the freedom you want...”  Cesar is a good natured guy and always good for a laugh and some good hard-core leftist dogma.  No matter what, you can always count on some wild tale coming from him.

“I even hitchhike from the cops!” he says proudly. “You don’t do that in the States do you?  In the last month, I have already hitched a ride home with different cops three or four times!”  This brazen fact gets a good round of laughter from everyone within earshot. He tells how when he goes late night grocery shopping there are no cabs around, but cops are crawling through the area.  “I walk out with my bags of groceries and went to a cop and said, “Hey man, there are no cabs and no way for me to get home.  Give me a lift; I’ll pay you 100 pesos.  And they do it!” he says laughing.  “Of course, after I got into the back of the patrol car and I see the scratch marks on the seats and dried blood in there, I ask the cops ‘Hey. You guys are going to let me out at my house, right?’  They laugh and say that the price home just went up, now it is 200 pesos.”  He reaffirms that all this is true and that he was a little bit scared.  Someone had definitely been having some ‘issues’ with the amount of scratch marks all over the back seat and the blood.  He says it was a heavy and unsettling environment.  “The cops laugh and start driving somewhere else.  They turn to me and say ‘Maybe we should just take you downtown…’  They tell me some pretty heavy jokes, but then they end up driving me to my house and open the door for me.  That’s it!  I am home.  I grab my groceries and get out of the back of the cop car…it is unbelievable!”  Yes, it is quite amazing to think you can hitch a ride in the back of Mexican cop cars with your groceries in tow, albeit for a price.

Mordo is making some quip.  He says something about his hairy chest and something some girls told him. I reach over and touch the sprigs coming out of his unbuttoned shirt. “Yes, they told me I was their little bear” he says.  I laugh and instruct Mordo of the usage of the word ‘bear’.  I tell him in certain company, he should be careful.  He seems a bit perplexed.  I tell him if he goes around saying he is a ‘little bear’ around gays, he might be surprised at the reception.  He laughs, and tells me he is thankful to learn about the term and what being a ‘bear’ means in certain circles.  He looks at me as if I have to match his macho-ness.  I pull down the top of my shirt and tell him to take a peek.  He glances, and reaches over. “What?” he says, acting as if I am exposing some glistening, bare teen chest.  I then raise my shirt all the way up, fully exposing my belly in all its glory.  He laughs and reaches over and pats me, “Yes!  You have hair on your chest…it is like an Alice Cooper belly!” he says laughing.  I like this term, it makes me laugh too.  It also gets Cesar chuckling, “What is an Alice Cooper belly?” Cesar implies.  Mordo explains that it is when you are skinny but have a little bit in your belly area.  I look at Mordo rubbing my gut, “That…that is rock and roll, that is what that is!”  Mordo agrees wholeheartedly, “Yes, yes, exactly.  That is rock and roll.  That is an Alice Cooper belly”

Mordo makes some comment about music.  He gets Cesar’s attention and declares that us three will go downtown to some cantina, get nuts and talk uninhibited about music and politics. “No women!  Just us.  We will get totally drunk, and just sit among men and talk music and whatever, without worrying about girls around.  It will be great!” he is definitely jazzed about this.  Cesar makes some slanderous comment back about Mordo being a Jew, “Perfect!  A Jew, a Gentile and a Catholic.  That’ll make for a fun night of conversation” I say.  Cesar agrees and holds his hand up for a ‘high five’.  He then adds, “I don’t know about going out.  You know I don’t like to go out in public.  We can go sit on my roof and argue on top of my house maybe that is better”. 

The Soul Man and the Commies

Mexico is charming, and it does have its appeal, however…the culture and history of this place doesn’t do much for me.  Standing on the great pyramid of the Sun is amazing; walking the avenue of the dead is thrilling.  Then I hear the language and have to deal with the ‘manana, manana’ ethos and I have no interest whatsoever. There is an old Mexican saying “Why put off to tomorrow, when you can do it the day after”  Get my drift?  It is this attitude and coming home to raw sewage spilling down the street, pooling in front of the gate of the house after sitting in traffic which re-enforces my odd relationship with this place.  I truly dislike it…but I like things about it.

I also find it odd that most of my discovery of Mexico occurs while I sit on the toilet.  This house is full of books, and I randomly grab assorted books as I make my way to the ‘little room’.  Admittedly, I am becoming quite good with odd Mexican trivia and historical facts and oddities.  Tonya has even said that I should give tours, because I find stuff that in interesting in Mexico that even the Mexicans miss.  I suppose this is one way I keep myself occupied and entertained while living here.  There has to be more than meets the eye, right?

I read a quip a few years back about asking a Mexican about Cortes.  Supposedly, they cringe.  I thought it my goal to find out more about Cortes and little things about his life that may make my stay in Mexico more interesting.  I should look into the man who conquered this country, because I too, battle it on a daily basis!

I frequent the neighborhood of Coyoacan on a regular basis.  Tonya likes the ice cream there, and I enjoy exploring side streets and people watching.  There is always something happening there, and it is just a great vibe.  Imagine the thrill I had while sitting on the toilet doing my Mexican historical research, when I realized that his home was there!  I would have to go and check it out. 

Sadly, the home of Cortes was no great revelation.  I have walked past his home a million times and never realized that that was Cortes' place.  There is no grand marker or any pomp in regards to this place, just some half-assed hippy market in the courtyard on the weekends.  I had been to this market before, and often scoffed at it as I would pass by afterwards.  

Cortes' home. Shabby weekend market not pictured.

Today, as I stood in front of his house I commented to Tonya, “I suppose it makes sense.  Why would you want to keep up the house of the guy who conquered your country?”  In truth, there is a small white plaque set into the faded wall that states the former inhabitant of this place.  I told Tonya you could tour the house, and we should try.  We walk in, and it is a bunch of government offices.  They tell us to grab some free Coyoacan guides, and we can look in the courtyard but cannot go in the house.  I look to the old lady who is telling us this, then to Tonya, “Ask her about the two murals.  I want to see the murals”  The old lady looks at me, then tells us to step inside.  She asks where I am from and tells Tonya that she will show us one of the murals, because the other one is in a room where meetings are constantly held.  “How did you know that?” Tonya asked me, obviously quite impressed of the secrets I hold.  A younger woman grabs a key and asks us to follow her across the courtyard.  She walks up to a big old wooden door and turns the key.  She opens the doors and reaches in to turn on a light.  She smiles and motions us inside.  This is an old chapel, obviously, Cortes’ private one because it is in his courtyard.  There is a mural covering the walls and it depicts the death of the last Aztec king, Moctezuma. Yes, this is the place where Cortes and his men tortured and killed the last king, so it is relevant and with purpose.  Truth be told, it is a shabby affair, the mural is not impressive aside from its color.  It looks naïve and not too horrendous for the scene of torturing and killing the last man standing trying to protect your damn heritage and culture!

 

The girl points to the ceiling, to draw our attention upward.  “What?  What do black people have to do with this?” I say out loud.  Obviously, the girl understands this and says this depicts the four races. Ohhh, I see.  I assume the artist was trying to say something when I notice the lighter skinned man is holding a machine gun.  I look to the opposite side of the ceiling towards the black folks. The guy in the middle of their grouping is a ‘proud black man’ with a big gold chain. “That’s Isaac Hayes!” I say to deaf ears. “Who?” Tonya says.  Obviously, these people know nothing about ‘Hot Buttered Soul’  I laugh at the image, whoever painted this mural, especially the ceiling, did so not so long ago, and had obvious designs on other things than the last of the great Aztec kings and must have been a huge fan of 'Black Moses'.  I point up to the posse of blacks up on the ceiling, ‘take good notice of that main guy.  When we get home, I will show you, this is no ancient painting, that is Isaac Hayes”  I look to the girl with the keys, she smiles. “Ok.  Where did Cortes kill his wife?”  She informs me that that place is a few blocks away.

The ceiling. Look in bottom right hand corner, you can see the top of Isaac.

Isaac, inside the sleeve of his Black Moses Lp, the exact replica is on Cortez's roof.

We leave and Tonya still cannot comprehend why this giant mural is not old and important.  She surely does not even comprehend who and what Isaac Hayes is, and why someone would paint him on the ceiling of such a historically significant place. Neither can I. Aztecs, on the other had, must see some affinity with Isaac.

Now we make our way to Frida’s famous blue house.  I could care less about her and I know I have made this point before.  I can say this though; as I walk through her home, I was stricken with the two body casts they had on display.  Her bed was intriguing too.  In the room in which Leo Trotsky used for a while, there is a great painting of some plum naked lady with hairy arms, and her little bit covered by a fig leaf.  I like this!  There is also a wood carving of a grumpy looking Diego.  This is actually his room that he lent to Trotsky until he got his own pad.

Frida's day room.  Actual death mask on bed.  I like the mirror and angels above.

Frida and Diego had a nice kitchen.  Their names are on the wall above the stove, Frida in one corner and Diego in the other.  It is like some 6^th grade girl was told to decorate, very sweet.

I am still not impressed with Frida or her work, but I am happy to have been to their home.  In a portrait she painted of her family lineage, all the women have moustaches and there seems to be an infiltrating Chinese guy, complete with a wiry Fu Manchu involved with one of the women.  The house is nice, and there are some good photos here.  You are not supposed to take photos in here, but I am too tempted, and when the guards walk away, I snap a few.  There is a wall with a close up photo of Diego’s eye.  This is the best thing in the house.  On the other wall is a nice color photo of Frida.  That is good too.  

Illegally snapped pic.  This could be my fave Frida painting!

On the way out of the museum I notice different color stacks of ticket stubs sitting on a window ledge.  They asked us where we were from when we bought our ticket.  I muse over that questioning. “Maybe they charge Americans more” Tonya says.  The stack of American colored tickets is the biggest stack…’It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if this is just another aspect of this country we support’ I say to myself.

Trotsky got a place a few streets away.  He had a corner house too.  It is disappointing how on one side of his house, it is all graffiti-ed and tacky, but all pro-communist and bad portraits of the guy.  His house his dull and simple.  The Mexicans granted him exile here, and eventually ended up killing him.  They obviously don’t care too much about the upkeep of his abode either.  He loved his chickens though, and spent hours caring for them.

It is a sad statement, his house.  After his first assassination attempt, they bricked in windows and added guard towers.  The president at the time called for his home to re-enforced.  All his doorways were made smaller, real small, and steel doors added.  Walking through his house and going from room to room is like being in a submarine, the doorways are so small and cramped.  He, like his ideas, was dull.  Supposedly he and wife relished the stripped back living.  His house plain and an obvious example of what the great revolution gets you-nothing, but death. Man, and believe me there are some very massive bullet holes in the wall of his wife’s bedroom to serve as a reminder of what happens when you piss a lot of people off.   

Giant bullet holes in Trotsky's wall

Our young visiting guest was very amusing through all of this.  She kept asking who this guy was and why was he important.  After going through his house and yard, we walk back to the square to go buy some cheese and get a coffee.  The young visitor makes such a profound statement while walking down the sidewalk, “I guess I will have to go home and look through Netflix, and see if there is a good documentary about him”.

We sit and have a very tasty and fluffy cappuccino at this Italian place.  We all talk of what a pleasant surprise the day has been.  I am particularly happy to have visited both homes of these dissidents.  When we get home, I ask our visitor to punch up Isaac Hayes on the internet.  There, in the first row of images the computer spits out, is the very image that the ‘artist’ used to depict the black sect of the four races. “Hey, didn’t he die?  Who is doing the voice of Chef now in South Park?”  the young guest asks.