I Own A Macbook, Therefore I Am

[*Please note, the following piece is truly about how one line can sum up a whole evening.  The subtleties and nuances are often lost in writing.  The  full variety of conversations and evenings were actually quiet entertaining]

Education knows no boundaries.  A smart and educated person is the same the world over, right?  All you need is a Macbook and off to art school. At least, this is a lesson I have learned whilst living abroad.  The smartest are the elitists.

A few examples of yours truly attending the school of hard knocks;

One scholar schooled me thus; America is bad.  Basically, it is the cause of all the ills that plague the globe.  This thought in itself is not that new, especially among lefty-types.  However, I do not fall for this trap, for I do not believe like most Arabs, we are not the world’s ‘great Satan’.  However, being as that it is dinnertime and being a gracious host, I listen and spar a bit.  The lecture continues on, that how can one be proud to be from America, when America used black people as slaves and over-ran the indigenous people and imposed their imperialist ways on the downtrodden.  It is shameful, and no one in his or her right mind would be proud of a country like this.  The smart person lecturing me so is very keen on Latin culture, and is spending time in Mexico, soaking up everything possible.  It is a very vibrant and wonderful thing, according to said person.

After being browbeat and scolded (typical of ignorant people like myself) I make my case.  I pose a simple question.  If those are the traits that make America so shameful, what about other countries?  It is not unique to America.

“Like who?”  Asks the brainiac.

Spain.  The very country, which did so much to form this lovely country (Mexico).  He looks at me like I am crazy…and I am sure I do look crazy.  Yes.  You do know that the Spanish brought blacks as slaves to Mexico, to build their new empire…right?  Now I know I am not the sharpest dude in town, but wasn’t it the Spanish who came to this place and basically wiped out a whole civilization…namely, the Aztecs?

The smart guy is quiet.  He admits this short oversight.  Change the subject.

Another typical trait I have come to see in blazing color is the plight of the workingman.  Socialist views are the best option.  The people have the power, and all things should be spread among the people equally.  This is another fault of America, is that people should not be allowed to be rich and make what they want.  Everyone is entitled to a home, and the luxuries that those who work hard for their leisure enjoy.  This is fair, right?  I have even been told this by our great leader on anyone of his countless television appearances.  The wise and cultured art student is re-enforcing this mode of thought.  This is why other countries are far superior, because they abide by a socialist view.  It is horrible that corporations stomp on the workers, that bankers get loads of money, that you do anything in private enterprise or agree with Capitalism.

The people are the power…unless they choose to speak.  When the workingman speaks up, shield your ears.  A perfect example was made by this learned student when he goes on about how important each and every individual’s rights are and their voices must be heard and accounted for.  In the same breath, a comment is made; “Oh my God, as long as they don’t vote in the mid-term elections.  Keep the stupid people out of the voting booths, that is the last thing we need.”

I was confused by this.  Like an idiot, I open my mouth and prove my ignorance.  “Didn’t you just say everyone is equal?  That the peoples’ voices must be heard?  Do the true working people in the mid-West, the farmers, the southern hicks, the simple people…do these not count?”  I know, a silly observation. “Is it only those who attend the right schools and live in the right cities that actually have a right to be heard?”  I loosed my tongue in a flurry of ignorance and made a simple point that a Macbook and an enrollment into an art school doesn’t automatically qualify one for ‘educated’ or cultured.  In fact, I felt it is the opposite.  If you think everyone has a voice, then the buck-toothed inbred driving a tractor in Nebraska has just as much say as the kid with the parents paying for his newly discovered drug craze while attending hip art school of Chicago. Right?

No.  I am wrong.  I do not own a Macbook and I have not attended the right schools.  I am a simpleton, and one who should be silenced…as proven in the next scene.

Saying the ‘N’ word is wrong.  It is a terrible offense and it only shows your ignorance by using it.  It shows you have no culture and are careless about other peoples’ feelings.  Another art student tells me that this word should be barred from usage, even in your own home.  It is backward and hurtful.  I held my simple tongue and did not pose the question of “Which is worse, saying it or thinking it?”  Of course, as mentioned before and by other artsy types, how could anyone who has not lived in NYC or LA even know about culture?  The rest of the populace is simple and stupid.  Never mind the draconian rule of banning words from usage in your own home, among consenting adults.  1984, anyone?

I ask why the word is bad.  I do not settle for a simple ‘it just is’.  I agree that it has been ‘perverted’, but ask if they can at least see how this word may have gotten to where it is now?  Can you follow the lines?  A country where many blacks come from, Nigeria.  Do you see the similarity?  Can you see from this simple example of how someone can mangle this?  It is still bad.  Negro.  You do know this word is used daily…like even here in Mexico?   A pair of questioning, yet skeptical eyes look at me. Yes, it is used daily.  It means ‘black’, you do know that right?  Can you see how the ‘N’ word can get mangled yet?  Can you see its lineage?

“Do they really use that word for black here?”

The answer is simple.  Still, educated and cultured people must maintain that the consensus says ‘word is bad’ so ‘word is bad’ (never mind keeping schtum and screaming it in your mind).  I understand, there is a huge chasm between the simple and the smart.  Rather than pursue the idea of free speech and being ‘racist’ in word or deed, I accept that only a simple, lowly man would defend the right to speak freely and openly in his own home, in private, on whatever subject he chooses.  I hang my head in shame.

“You know…I just realized the other day that when I throw my cigarettes out the window that that is actually littering” says the victor as they muse on a newly learned lesson.

Do I need to tell you what the look on my face was?  I need not remind the cultured one that in an earlier conversation about race that if you did not like blacks you are racist.  However, said cultured one said they could not stand Chinese people-but that is not racist.  Yes, the schools of today have taught well, race is between black and white; hatred among other races and cultures gets the green flag.

I am convinced, that the key to knowledge and forward thinking comes in the guise of a white plastic 15” casing, with a glowing apple on the lid.  If genius is pursued, one must try to attain the metallic variety, in a larger scale, containing even more knowledge.

In closing, I admit that you learn from everyone.  Differing views and opinions help us all to gain insight, even if it is gleaned in a wrong city…or God forbid, something more provincial like a town!  Sometimes, even an uncalled for smart-alec remark from a simpleton like me can teach a well-learned champion of ‘diversity’ a thing or two.  As a quick jest to one who chooses to rollick with their own gender is made, “Ain’t that right, Stonewall?”

Empty, questioning eyes look as if I uttered Mandarin or something. “What is Stonewall?”

Seriously.

(Any funding to help me to obtain a Macbook would be greatly appreciated!)

Driving: A Primer

I can say with no hesitation whatsoever that Mexicans are reckless, crazy drivers.  They may not be the worse on earth, but I am sure they are within the top 5.  To those back home, don’t feel bad when you see someone driving crazy and you say something about it being a Mexican or Vietnamese.  Chances are, you are 50% right. There are truths to stereotypes…and the one that Mexicans are crazy drivers is very true.

Get one of these when driving here!

I had an odd experience on Sunday, while driving Alexandra to the airport.  Traffic was pretty much non-existent, and we are breezing along just fine.  As we come down off an over pass I am amazed that the usual pile up point wasn’t happening today.  We are coming up on the Viaducto (main thoroughfare, running east to west through Mexico City) and I am thinking we are going to make record time on the airport trek.  As we starting to approach going under the last overpass before the Viaducto, there is a pile of cars and I see flashing lights.  I catch a glimpse of a cop, and a motorcycle.  I do not want to look to close, for I fear the worse.

A policeman can be easily seen now, and he is funneling the traffic into one lane, and motioning for people to slow down.  We get into the far left lane, in the newly created single-file line, and start to really slow down.   As we inch closer, we see three cops, a police car parked sideways and a motorcycle.  Luckily, it was not what it seemed.  It is all cops and there is no accident.  This makes me question then, just what is happening if there is no accident.

Just as we are even with the cops, the car in front of us is let through, and the motorcycle cop stands in front of me with his hand up.  He keeps it stationary, meaning for me to halt. I do.  Then he points to the ground, and motions to pull up to where he is.  I inch up until he raises his hand again.  His eyes are hidden behind the mirror aviator shades, Eric Estrada would be proud.  He looks like the typical tough motorcycle cop.  As we are in place, the two other cops come from around their car.  I find this odd.  They walk in front of us, and turn their backs.  I am a bit unsettled.  What are they doing? 

This is it. How convenient.  We are sitting under an overpass, out of sight of most of the passers by.  The cops turn their back…this is the hi-jack.  This is an ambush. My eyes dart all around.  I am waiting for the fun to begin. Then I hear a car honk.  It is the car right behind me, a cab.  He is laying into his horn.  Then a few more cars.  I look in my rearview mirror and I can now see a long line of cars behind me, and the backs of three cops in front of me.  If the cops don’t hi-jack me, I am afraid one of these irate drivers will.  All of a sudden, all three cops turn to face the traffic.  The adjust themselves to get a good look at the line of traffic they have created, and then they look back, to the stretch of empty highway.

Sitting under the concrete overpass acts as an echo chamber for the irate cars behind me.  They lean into their horns and the sound just bounces everywhere, shredding my eardrums and melting my brain in the process.  This makes me a bit crazy.  I start mouthing off about just how dumb these people are.  They see cops blocking the road, lights flashing; no one is budging yet they have seen it as maestros instructing them to start a symphony of honking.  The upside of all the sound is that it was drowning out all the expletives blurting out of my mouth.  The motorcycle cop who stood in front of me displaying the empty mirrored glare of his soulless glasses starts to get irritated.  He motions for the idiot behind me to lay off.  He honks more, and then sits on the horn.   The motorcycle cop hails one of the others to come take his place, and he immediately marches to the cab and sets the guy straight, then he starts to the car behind him.  For now, at least, the immediate cars behind me have ceased their honking.  I see him in my mirror waving his hands to tell the others to stop.  Slowly, they trail off, with only a few wise guys and idiots still sounding off as if they will be the guy who makes it all change.

As the cop with the mirrored eyes walks back to pole position, he stops on the passenger side and leans in, “Sorry for the delay.  There is a convoy.  We have to stop you for security reasons” All of this was in Spanish, of course.  I did, however, understand the word ‘convoy’.  Tonya and I both asked one another, “Who do you think it is?”

After a few more minutes, the cop gets word on the walkie-talkie that all is clear.  He motions to the other cops, and then he points at me.  He motions me to go ahead, then waves as we pass.  I bullet into the empty highway and get as far ahead of the maddened crowd as I possibly could.  As we fly down the Viaducto I see other cops keeping cars at bay still, on the feeder.  I do not see any signs of anyone important or a motorcade ahead, but I am making good time.  I was not hi-jacked after all.  I was feeling ok.

This did make me want to comment though, on just how crazy Mexicans are...especially their driving.  Every single person who has come to visit has commented on these stunts shortly after seeing for them selves.  They can all testify.  In this town, it is dog eat dog.  You drive aggressive or you get nowhere.  Me?  I am a terror now, so beware.  I drive like a crazed Mexican at times, shouting at the other Mexicans.  I am not proud-but at least I get to where I need to go.

What is the point of red lights here, many a person has asked.  Everyday I am amazed at this phenomenon.  People go when they want, red light or no red light.  It matters not if you are a bus driver and have a bus over-packed with passengers.  If you feel inclined to go, you go.  Lord have mercy on pedestrians, as there is no mercy shown.

Turn lanes…Que?  What are those?  Who designed the streets here anyway?  You go to the far right lane of a three-lane street, only to cut back across all three lanes to go left.  You best be on guard, because it is not uncommon for the opposite to take effect either.  The guy all the way in the left lane…don’t be surprised if all of a sudden he decides he wants to turn right, and cuts across all lanes and in front of you to make his way to where he is going.

You rarely see stop signs here.  Pretty much only in parking lots.  It is anyone’s guess who makes the first move at any given intersection.  Word of advice; say your prayers and hold your breath.

It is painfully obvious that those on the road here do not have to sit through their driver’s education classes.  They have no clue what to do or how to behave when a siren is heard and flashing lights are seen.  I promise you, this is no lie.  I have seen on more than a single occasion, when an ambulance is pleading, trying to make its way through the packed streets and no one gives a damn.  Get behind me chump!  They do not budge.  I recoiled in fear the first time I saw this.  I could not help but wonder about the poor soul inside who was at the mercy of these stalwart, stubborn Mexicans.  It matters not if you are on your deathbed; they are going to get what they want first.

A word of advice told to me by Mexicans; if you are told to stop by a cop on foot, keep going! True.  I have seen others try this and tough cops jump in the way so you cannot move.  The very first time I was stopped by a cop here (read the earlier blog about the pyramids) the first thing the officer asked was, “Why did you stop?”

We have heard countless stories of the lawless Wild West.  Well, it is alive and well here.  It is as if hell has opened it giant garage doors and Satan blinded his legions of demons and handed them all sets of keys and told them they all have access to the latest version of BMWs available.  “Go get ‘em tiger!” he tells his crazed lunatics and sets them ablaze.  He laughs at his practical joke on human kind.

One wonders about the simple fact; if they do not obey laws here; it is no wonder why they don’t in the USA.  Yes, that car in front of you swerving to and fro…who do you think it is?  That guy who just ran the red light?  I will give you a hint, he likes it picante.  No my friends, worry not about political correctness.  Embrace your closed-mindedness.  Plead for ‘profiling’!  The next time you blurt out offensive language and shake your fist, rest assured that the odds are in your favor that what you thought was offensive is really fact.  The maniac behind the wheel more than likely was a crazy Mexican, and if not, you only stand 50% odds of being wrong.  Then it was those damn slant-eyed Vietnamese!

Mugged.

The last week we played host to my mom for a week long visit.  As anyone knows, sometimes when families get together, there are guaranteed tears, huffs and other assorted disgruntledness.  Luckily though, we made it through unscathed!  No fights, no unnecessary tears and no one disowning siblings or sons. 

However…there was one serious faux-pas.  The use of another man’s favorite mug. 

It should not be surprising to anyone who likes their coffee or tea, or any hot beverage served in a cup or mug.  Chances are, anyone who regularly drinks any hot beverage will attest to one mug winning their affections above all others.  Perhaps it is an unexplainable phenomenon, but it is a fact.

Cups are like jeans.  The more you wear a pair, the more acquainted you become with them.  Certain pairs fit you better, are longer or perhaps tighter.  As you build your relationship with your jeans, inevitably one pair is favored above all others, and are the ‘go to’ pair for any special occasion or when you just need to feel good all over.  The same with mugs. 

Some mugs you know you will love immediately, just because.  Others, it is a gradual process.  They feel right.  The handle has a perfect fit to your hand…as if it were custom made.  The rim is perfect.  The weight of the mug is perfectly balanced.  Sometimes, your drink just looks good in that mug.  Yes, and sometimes a mug becomes a favorite because of the simple fact that it is always there.  Like a trustworthy friend, they never break, leave or disappear on you.  You learn to love it because it unconditionally loves you.

I am not ashamed to say that in the moving process, I was quite concerned about a few certain mugs which are very dear to me.  When we unloaded boxes and I got to my mugs, I did hold my breath and unwrap the assorted vessels and was quite pleased to see that they all made it unscathed, especially my favorites.

Plain and simple, and no need to steal.

My super favorite mug is a large simple, plain white Starbucks issue.  No logo, no frills, just a great mug.  I spotted it left behind on a tab le at my old local drinking hole.  I walked in and told the staff on duty, “I am gonna steal that coffee mug left out there”.  Much to my surprise, one of the clerks looked up and simply replied, “Just take it-you don’t need to steal it.  It is OK” that cup has been my regular drinking partner ever since.

I was given a Paul Weller mug as a gift a while back from my brother.  This is my stand-in fave, or I drink from this if I am feeling a bit spunky or special.  I have another special mug which has been in my life for quite sometime, my Spiritualized mug.  I bought it when I saw them open for Radiohead way back in ’97.  This mug is so special, it has been semi-retired, and only used for very special occasions (like my ultra-fantastic Laughing Cow mug).  The Spiritualized mug is special because it not only looks good, but it is perfectly balanced and feels great.  It has also stained nicely too.

Nothing to add...

Shortly after we arrived in Mexico, my father came to visit (see early blogs).  This was my first encounter on foreign soil when a family member may have gone too far.  It happens innocently enough, but one morning as I came downstairs I see my Weller cup sat next to my dad, and I had yet to have anything to drink.  It could have easily been a mistake, but upon asking whose mug that was, Dad simply replied it was his.  I said nothing, but I am sure astute observers would have seen my brow furrow and a look of disdain on my face.  Why is my dad drinking out of MY Paul Weller mug?  There is a whole cabinet full of mugs, but he takes that one.  Dad doesn’t even know who Weller is-much less The Style Council or the Jam!  That is off limits for him!   On the Brightside though, I let him use it.  I smiled and enjoyed the sight of my dad drinking from a Weller mug.  You don’t see that everyday…unless you have extremely hip dad or perhaps he is an old ‘punk’ or mod.

Now, unbeknownst to me, it seems as if Tonya had adopted my Spiritualized mug as her mug of choice.  She had mentioned it recently, and I had noticed morning after morning, she sat with the blue and white mug by her side as she ate her breakfast and answered emails.  The feelings she had for the Spiritualized mug were made clear one day when my mom made the transgression.  She grabbed the wrong mug, and did so repeatedly.  To make matters worse, she also grabbed the Weller mug!

One day while in the kitchen, Tonya lowers her tone and grimaces as she tells me, “Your mom is using my mug.”  She caught me off guard, and I asked her, “Which mug is yours?” In a split second she spits out, “The Spiritualized one!  I can’t believe it; she keeps grabbing it and using it.  I even tried to hide it, and she found it!”

Tonya and the Spiritualized mug.

I understood Tonya and what she was feeling.  I knew exactly how off balance her days were now, how life was truly out of balance.  Bad enough that she can’t use her favorite mug, but seeing an intruder just set it down and use it like it is just a mug…what a horrifying sight for anyone to behold.  What do you do though?  I didn’t say anything to dad as he swelled from my Weller mug, so what can I say to mom as she yabs and laughs while carting around the sacred Spiritualized mug?  Can you ban your parents form using your favorite pop star mugs?  I just tried to console Tonya and told her to keep an eye on mom in case she got crazy, and do not let her break either of those mugs!

Today we took mom to the airport, and she was set off safely back home.  Once again, the Spiritualized and Weller mug were their accessories for breakfast.  In a brief moment though, as the dishes were in the sink, Tonya muttered to me that after today, she would have her mug back.  I know she is looking forward to rekindling her long lost love, and perhaps tomorrow each day will be a brand new and bright, shiny affair.  Yes, things will get back to normal…at least for a few hours. 

Imagine the fear that shoots through both our hearts like giant icicles knowing that not even 24 hours later Tonya’s daughters will be here visiting for Thanksgiving.  Now, there is no need to hold back if some kid grabs your mug, you just lay into them and tell them off, citing the simple fact that half-assed indie bands from Chicago and Boston don’t have mugs with their logos emblazoned on them.  This is big-time stuff, you get relegated to the chip and cracked posse-weak and lazy, just like the music they make!

Meet my new (old ) friend.

Perhaps it is best that before the kiddoes arrive, our two mugs are nuzzled safely away, far from the reach of those grubby little fingers.  Luckily, through all of this, I have come to recognize my newly found constant.  I have come to the realization that there has been a certain mug that is always there for me, sitting quietly behind the more popular choices and big band names.  I am happy knowing that come what may, my new friend is patiently waiting on me to take his handle, and have him join my day.