The Final Chapter under El Tri: Rise and Fall of Junior

I offer no apology for the drought of blog posts for the last two weeks. Express your frustration at your religious services, pleading with your deities to refrain from showering me with various plagues. As we meander through the various stories of my final two weeks here in Mexico, I will have a real-time recorded experience of taking a laxative after not tirando la basura (throwing the trash, you get the idea) for over 5 days. Right now, before I begin to explain my various symptoms, I am going to drink 5 tablespoons of the laxative "Magnesio" that I bought at the Farmacia Ahorro from a very attractive and friendly empleada (female employee). The hour is 10:23 in Mexico, and down goes the pooping-potion.
Symptoms for the last week: Last Tuesday, I found out the the Spirit of Montezuma was not entirely vanquished, but surviving like Voldemort by living on the back of one's head or as a snake or in some other sinister fashion. The spirit came back exactly as strong as it did before. I wasted not time, rushing to the store to buy antibiotics via the advice of my Brother (this time stronger antibiotics--ciprofur or something like that), taking a bunch of asprin and pumping pepto bismal relentlessly. After a short episode of the diarrhea on Tuesday, I began to feel better. On the way to betterness, however, different afflictions presented themselves. My stomach started to hurt like a son of a bitch, probably due to taking lots of medicine without eating very much. During this period, I defninitely should have rested as much as possible, but since my brother was in Mexico for the first time in 2 years, I couldn't bring myself to bring down his experience thus. I pretended to improve and went out drinking Wendeday and Thursday night. Thursday night, with a vicious headache, muscle cramps on every part of my upper body, and not having pooped for almost 3 days, I came back a little earlier from the bars. That night, I spit a sufficiently sized wad of blood into the toilet. I'm not convinced that this is related to the illness, since it was bright red and thin, and it was a one-time occurrence. A lo mejor (most likely) it was a cut on the gums or my tongue or something like that. I did decide that if it happened de nuevo (again) that I would immediately seek medical help. Friday night we went out, but I declared myself on the wagon. I had to abandon the festivities at 10pm or so to return to bed, where it was discovered that I had a temperature of 100 degrees F. Graciously, after I had soaked in clothes dampened with ice-water for some time, a doctor friend of Oliver (to be introduced formally) came to see what he could do for me. He gave me some pills to bring down the fever and assured me that I was going to live. Since then, I have had nothing more than a riveting headache, which subsided this morning. However, I have now gone 5.5 days without usando el bando de dos (taking a number two), and we arrive at the present, with an ample amount of laxative barrelling through my intestines like a liquid John Henry, like a little Moses turd demanding "Let my people go!" before parting the Red Sea to arrive safely in the porcelane promise land. The time is now 10:49 and I have not yet felt the urge to defecate. I paid an extra 35$ to stay in my hotel until 7pm so that I wouldn't have to fight this battle in public bathrooms.

The beginning of the story. The last we have heard of the travels was of Lucha Libre. Sadly, those are also the most up-to-date photos that I have on my computer. Richard said he had been uploading his pictures frequently, but I overestimated the frequency implied by the word "frequently." I just forgot to ask Korey for her pictures before she left for Dallas. So, until a later date when pictures are uploaded to this blog, it will be dependent on the strengh of amatuer narrative.
Following the lucha libre outing, we ventured to Tonala, another small town that used to be outside of Guadalajara but has been swallowed up by the growing mass of sketchily employed people, to the extent that it is possible to reach Tonala in a city bus: from our house in Zapopan, two city buses. It is a town very much the same as Tlaquepaque, but with a few more things to buy and better prices. Glass products are very popular there, and one can watch the making of vases, wine glasses, cups, etc in a little artisan shop. It was there that I noticed that all the people blowing the glass were smoking cigarettes prolificly, sometimes blowing the smoke into the product they were making. Paco Grande, our father in house, assured me that this was intentional, to tint the glass. I don't know if that's true or not, but I do know that in the final month with the Espinosas, we realized that they often gave advice based on information from the 1970's or facts that had been completely fabricated. Once, Paco was completely convinced that the map in the Encyclopedia in front of him was incorrect, because a town that he though was to the north of Mexico City was shown on the map to be to the south of Mexico City. Also, each time I fall ill, Rosi refused to believe that it is for any reason apart from being crudo (hung over). Even though Richard, Korey, and I all had the same symptoms at the same time, she declared Richard and Korey to have gastritis and me to been hung over from the concert that all three of us attended. The doctor that we went and say, she said, was mistaken. Paco is also convinced that I am a raging alcoholic. I had hopes that my brother could convince him otherwise, but since Gordy asked me to bring him a drink for when he landed in Mexico, Paco was immediately sure that my alcoholism was a family issue.
The hour is 11:18. No urge to poop. I took a larger dose of the laxative and have begun jumping around to shake things up in there.
At any rate, if you want to know more about Tonala, read the blog about Tlaquepaque, and replace the word "Tlaquepaque" with the word "Tonala," lower the prices 20%, add in a glass factory, and there you have it. Ahh, and subtract the rain; the weather was beautiful.
I'm going to go try to fill the taza (toilet). ......10 minutes with no success. More excercise and the story continues. I've also decided to type standing up to see if that will help.
Exam week arrived. We returned from Tonala and put ourselves to studying. My exams were simple. For my conversation class, an exam with several essay questions over the topics discussed in class. I didn't study at all for that. For my grammar class, I was to construct a brochure that could be a guide for a person traveling to Mexico with the intent to study the Spanish language. The content was designed to instigate laughter, and the grammar was pretty darn good. Success in both courses. There was a third course, unfortunately, in which we suffered for 4 weeks only to be duped at the end to suffer more. The professors name was Christina. In all seriousness, she is a very kind and pleasant person. It's that she is very interested in things that other people find very boaring. I'm sure she is a very bright lady; she has published a few books that other people say are better than one would expect. As a teacher, she lacks talent in involving students in the discussion, choosing readings that present contemporary social issues (the title of the course was "Mexican Social Issues studied through literature"), and speaking about one thing for more than 5 minutes. In fact, the only topic that we managed to stay the course while 'discussing' was the topography of Mexico, for two hours, with only the sound of the fan, Christina's voice, and eyelids sliding slowly down over irises of various colors. The only instrument for inciting class discussion that Christina equipped herself with was the phrase "Preguntas? Comentarios?" (questions? comments?). She also said quite frequently, "Que mas?" (what else?), to no avail, because usually by the end of one of her 40 minutes explanations of a very fine and insignificant point of Mexican culture of the 1940's (like, why the men wore red socks at a festival to celebrate coming of age or something of that sort), we were all in another world. In this class, I learned to sleep with my eyes open.
But at that time I sympathized with Christina, who clearly wanted to research and write but was stuck teaching as well. She was a nice person who was forced out of her element, that's all, and her shortcomings could be forgiven and tolerated. This attitude changed on the last day of class. She informed us on Wednesday that we would not have an exam on Thursday because everybody did very well on their presentations. We were all estatic and that night we didn't review the 18 short stories that we had read in the last 4 weeks. She also said we would be out of class by 2pm. The next day, we did in fact have an exam and were released at 3pm. I don't understand the value of deceiving students in this manner. It was a dick move and I'm not happy with it. Thus ended the semester.
I have to pee real bad. With luck there will be more. The hour is 11:52. ......nothing. I'm beginning to get discouraged, but I have no idea how fast these things are supposed to work, so I am holding on to hope. A little more excercise and we continue. Maybe next time I will play some inspirational music to help.
On Friday night, Richard, Korey, and I went out with Edgardo to celebrate the end of classes. This time, there was no hunt for the bar that lasted a long time. We arrived quickly and easily at Botanas y Beer (snacks and beer), a Texan Bar in Guadalajara el Centro. There were 11 people there with all of Edgardo's friends, who I would like to say now are incredibly nice and interesting people who I am glad to know, and between we 11 we shared a 750 peso bill. Before you judge the competitiveness of that price, allow me to explain all that we received. 8 pitchers of beer, a torta ahogada (sandwich) for each person, a quesadilla for each person, some cheese dip, a few tacos, and some other snacks. The food was well worth the price and the company was priceless. Fantastic way to end the semester, thwarting Christina's efforts to leave us all in misery.
When we returned to la casa that night I began to prepare for the arrival of my brother Gordon, who had been away from Mexico for 2 years and was to arrive at 10pm Saturday night. I fell asleep that night with dreams of sleeping in late, which I did, until 2pm. I imagined that when I awoke, I would go to the store to grab a cheve (drink) for Gordy to calm his nerves after being in the airport all day (he's old, you know), call a taxi, shower, eat some dinner, and wait for the time to arrive. Instead, I awoke to a text message that said "Llego a Guad a las dos. A huevo, carnal!" (I get to Guadalajara at 2pm. Hell yeah, homie!). He had been flying standby and been the beneficiary of a miracle. I rushed through the shower, got dressed, asked Paco if he would give me some rum and coke (an experience I was hoping to avoid), and we headed to the corner to find a taxi. The cabi said we could get there in 20 minutes, which I knew was impossible but I admired his ambition so we got in the car. Gordy didn't wait long before we got there.

Heading to the water closet. 12:15 p.m. No sucess. I need to take a break to shower and such.
I return. Still no success in the area of passing 6 days of meals. The hour is 4:36. I feel a little bloated. The story continues.

Gordy arrived on Saturday night and was pretty tired, so we didn't do much apart from eating some food, meeting Rosi and Paco, and heading to bed. There were 4 of us, and only 3 beds. Somehow, we managed to save somebody from sleeping on the floor.
On Sunday, a group of mates from our salsa dancing class came to hang out and drink chelas in the garden. We bought two liters of Tequilla and Rum for this occasion, and ordered 2 family size pizzas. Fortunately, the homies came and hour late, so we ate all the pizza. Did I say fortunately? Yes, that's right. I like pizza. We danced some salsa and made merry, and even tried to get Gordy to dance salsa. Salsa music and Gordy don't blend well. It doesn't do anything for him, so they rythm really doesn't grab him by the ankles and make him shimmy. I don't fault him for it. If it were possible to dance to Heavy Metal, I still wouldn't be able to. I mean, sure, I can get in a fight, check somebody, or shoot a lead singer from the audience, but I wouldn't do it with rythm. The night wrapped up and we still had quite a bit of alcohol, but it brought some closure to the salsa chapter of Mexico.
On Monday, Richard left. We got up, went to the school, took care of some business, and saw him off. After the departure, we tooled around Guadalajara on foot, to the great lamentation of Gordy, who in addition to approaching 28 years of age isn't accustomed to incredible amounts of walking nor the elevation of Gualajara. At one point, we took a two hour journey to a museum that ended up being closed. It was a slightly fruitless day. We did, however, eat at Tacos Arabes, which is delicious. That night, we went out to a Jazz club with Edgardo which was really interesting, and a good opportunity to chill with the profe one last time before leaving the Republica.
Tuesday, the sickness arrived. In the morning, Rosi gave me a Mango to help. By the sick, twisted humor of fate, there was a big damn maggot in the Mango, that chose not to bear it's ugly head until after I took a couple bites. I took the said drugs, and we headed down to El Centro to see that museum and buy some porquerias (useless littel shit) for Gordy's students. I also hunted for a luchador mask for my sister, but the options weren't satisfying. The only affordable mascaras were for children and poorly made. Anything for an adult required the illegal sale of a body part to fund the purchase. The issue is that Mexicans take their lucha libre much more seriously than I do. That day we bought our tickets for the trip to Queretaro, and Korey decided to accompany us to avoid being real bored in Guadalajara.
Wednesday, we awoke and headed to Central Nueva (New Central) to catch our bus. We travel with Primera Plus, which provides decent in-house movies and episodes of friends along with comfy chairs and ample leg space. Oliver was there to pick us up at the airport. Oliver is a man who suffers no shortage of character. When he came to Michigan, Gordy took him to the Golden Harvest, an incredibly delicious, yet small breakfast joint in Lansing. There are 7 or 8 tables in the golden harvest, a one-story, one-room building about the size of an American living room. Oliver ordered the Hungry Man breakfast: bacon, eggs, hotcakes, and homefries. His first bite of food, clearly and act of fate, was from the serving of homefries. As he ate, he began to release euphoric sounds of "mmmmm. ...MMMmmmmm.....mmmMMMMM!" People were looking at him by now, and he asked Gordy, "Como se llaman estes?" (what are these called?). Gordy told him, and he repeated, "HOMEfrieeees. mmmMMM!" He finished his homefries before touching anything else on his plate. It was surely one of the most memorable events of the small but tastey Golden Harvest. Oliver is also incredibly intelligent, studying to be an engineer with one year of school remaining. He is an Aquilas fan, and when Gordy was in Queretaro the last time, Oliver had a caste on his hand from some work injury or something. During El Classico (the Aguilas/Chivas matchup), somebody asked him how he got his caste and he said "Le pelea a una de las Chivas en la cara." (I punched one of the Chivas in the face.)
So Oliver picked us up. I was a little tired and carried some pain in my body at this point. I greeted him last out of the three of us, and did exactly what Korey had done right before--leaned foreward and tried to kiss him on the cheek. Thankfully, I realized at the last second that I was making a mistake, and aborted, but it still must have seemed wierd. It wasn't spoken of again. The first stop in Queretaro was at a seafood restaurant. I got some garlic shrimp. Now, shrimp here in Mexico is a little different. It comes with eyes and legs, and above all, poop along the spine. Cleaning these shrimp to eat them reminded me of my work on the Long Term Care Unit of War Memorial Hospital, except I was surrounded with friends, not depressed, middle-aged women with kids nearly as old as themselves who had not only put themselves in a tight spot in life, but decided to have a horrible attitude about it and ruin as many days as possible. Therefore, I preferred the shrimp. I won't be able to eat unclean shrimp like that for a while, though. The idea that I ingested lots of little shrimp turds makes me uncomfortable. I will eat pre-cleaned shrimp only for a while. It's funny, if you know spanish, because the word for garlic is ajo, and the word for eye is ojo. When it came, I thought, "I asked for shrimp con ajo, not con ojo." aha! ha! ahhha. hm....
So that night we went out with Oliver, Marco, Chava, Kim, and Edgardo. Very classy people. Marco and Edgardo are studying to be dentists, Chava has a graphic design company, Kim teaches English here in Mexico (she was a student on Gordon's trip two years ago who just stayed), and Oliver as said is going to be an engineer. Here in Mexico, the beauty is that one doesn't have to act like their profession all the time. These are all fun-having people who are very good at their careers or their studies. One is expected to give up the good times at a certain age in the United States. Very sad. At any rate, it was hard from any of them (apart frmo Kim) to pronounce my name, and I was thusly dubbed "Junior." It was clear 5 minutes after it was suggested that I will forever be known in the states of Queretaro and Hidalgo as Junior. And there marked the rise of Junior.

It is better that I wait for the photos and vidoes of the next 3 nights to write anything about them. One could easily write a novel trying to create the images of Queretaro through the written word. I would gladly do so, but I don't think you all would get past page 20, so I'll wait for the pictures.

Tonight, I catch a 2am bus to teh airport in Mexico City. Don't worry: the bus station is connected to the airport, and it is 25 minutes north of the actual city, so my expected lifespan is still pretty high. I don't know how the statistics are affected if one adds constipation into the mix. Tomorrow then, I fly out of D.F. at 1:40 pm to arrive in San Deigo for a visit with the abuelo (grandpa.)

Best Wishes,

Stu

Lucha Libre: Putas los de abajo!

Lucha libre: the guilty pleasure of all Mexicans. Even my classiest, most high-brow professors profess their love for the lucha libre. It's very shocking to me, who is accustomed to wrestling being a stereotypical low-brow festivity, like Nascar, blowing shit up, or growing weed in hydroponic systems in one of the two bedrooms in the trailer. Not here in Mexico. Unfortunately, this is the only picture I have of the three of us in the stands, and I had popcorn in my teeth.

The fighting is the same as it is in the united states, as are the fighters, more or less. The crowd is completely different. There is an upper ring and a lower ring at the arena, and an interesting class conflict arises between those in the upper and those in the lower. A large group of men, uniformily dressed in shirts that say "Putas los de abajo" (people down there are bitches), scream things like, "Putos los de abajo!" which is echoed by los de abajo in the form of "chinga a su madre!" (do something vulgar to your mother--you can image).

Taking pictures or video is prohibited, so we only took these few before they told us they were going to take our camera. I post these videos, in which one can see a bone-crushing slam of the spine across the knee, a walk of shame of the loser in pink, and a horrid native-american stereotype wrestling against a retired Hell's Angel. Enjoy.

The Club with the Professor

The night after we went to Tlaquepaque, we went out to the club with one of our professors, his wife, and their friends. The club we usually go to for salsa dancing is called Wallstreet, a pretty ritzy, very Mexican (despite the name), decently priced club full of people who can all dance very well. We pride ourselves that we are usually not the worst dancers on the floor anymore, though certainly still in the bottom 20%. With el profe, we went to a club called the Mutualista, after enjoying a few drinks and snacks at his very metropolitan apartment in downtown Guadalajra: pictured here are the host and the lovely hostess, chivalrilously taking seats on the floor to provide comfort for their guests. La Mutualista-- very different. Partly due to the fact that there was a massive concert at La Minerva that night (la Minerva is a statue of a Greek Goddess around which are centered many festivals and such) and partly due to the very nature of La Mutualista, this club was packed with middle-aged folks attempting to stage one-night stands. That I didn't mind at all; old people need lovin too. What struck me as unappealing was that almost nobody could dance a good salsa. The ensuing scene was that of a highschool dance, with everybody grinding up and gettin low on each other with beers in their hands, but to salsa music. I, myself, was struck by a recklessly snapped boody or hip on more than one occasion. I think it was recklessness, though those collision may very well have been calculated, too.
Oh how I wish I had a camera for one thing! There was one man, who in the spirit of Bob Dylan I will call "Senor Bojangles." He was around 6'5'', dressed in all black (formal, but no tie), which his hair burshed to the side and a bigote (mustache) like a damn pringles can. And, yes, he danced for you. Even to the extent that on one occasion he felt that I should spin, and so he spun me thus by grabbing my shoulders with his hands and twirling me himself. It didn't appear to bother the girl I was dancing with at the time, who was far to drunk to do anything but swing dance like a 5-year-old would swing dance: just sort of pushing herself out and leaning back, and then returning towards me to be immediately pushed out to arm-extension again. I tried leading her into some salsa steps and spins, which ended badly each time por ella ser borracha (cuz she was crunk). Afterwards, I imagine her confidence was wounded and self-esteem low, but I doubt she will remember, so she should be alright. Mr. Bojangles, though, never once wore an expression on his face more lackluster than the enthusiasm of a man dancing around the sidewalks of New York, swinging from lamposts and professing his love for women, nature, and life. I envy his bliss, which survives his lack of dancing ability gloriously.

The only other event of the night was the 40 minute car ride searching for our place of festivities. Originally, the group had been convinced to go to a very popular gay bar. These places are apparently only half-gay, as many people go there for the excellent dancing or just to say that they went to a gay bar. At any rate, Richard and I suspected that our dancing skills would cause people to assume we were gay, but we were equipped with the phrases to explain that we weren't, so we were ready to roll. As always in Mexico, during a discussion that touches on homosexuality, there are crude statements made that I usually just listen to unresponsively, realizing that I have little chance of making Mexico or Mexicans less violently Catholic. Asi es la vida.
Well, after driving around for a while not finding the said gay bar--entirely because we allowed for the drunken damsels to lead the way--we arrived to find that it was overcrowded and very expensive. So, we went to La Mutualista, which was as I described before. Above are pictured Los Tres Gringos, in usual fashion, Richard and Korey keeping a good attitude while I bitterly make jokes about the shortcomings of the moment. Korey usually smiles alot but says sarcastic things like, "who would have thought that letting the drunk girls navigate would turn out so well?" Richard laughs alot supportive of both of us, sometimes choosing to join in with the complaining and other times choosing to enjoy the moment for what it's worth. We have good team chemistry, which each person acknowledging their role.

Another interesting fact learned on this voyage: I have no pictures, but in Guadalajara there are lots of parking spaces off the side of the rode, not to be parallel parked in, but rather perpendicular to the rode just across the sidewalk. There are men, infallibly with dirty towels in their hands, who assist drivers in pulling in and out of these spaces around heavy traffic....whether the drivers want the assitance or not. This is apparently an illegal industry. However, if you don't pay these men, they slash your tires your break your windows. They are a mafia that rules the street. I imagine there is a closed facebook group for them, on which they post the lisence plate numbers of those people who attempted not to pay, who are then forced to change their plate numbers or cease parking in Guadalajara. I might try to take a picture, but I fear that the towel-parking mafia won't approve, and since I have no tires or windows, they will be forced to damage my body instead.

Tlaquepaque (tla-kay-pah-kay)

It makes more than a week now that I have not posted a blog entry. For this, I apologize to all those people who miss me and to all those people who don't have any feeling about my whereabouts in relation to theirs but still enjoy reading the blog. I have a couple excuses: first, we are inundated with homework here in Mexico, which I suppose is to be expected when one is earning 7 credits in 4 weeks; second, life has slowed down a little, and there is a little less excitement, but this too is due to homework (tarea). Blame the professors. BUT! here is a blog entry to break the dry spell.
Last Friday (not to say two days ago, but rather nine), we ventured to Tlaquepaque, cruelly named by indigenous folk a while back. This is a little community on the south side of Guadalajara famous for its glass artwork and tent-rittered markets. To get from here very near to la isquina de Patria y Vallarta (the corner of Patria y Vallarta (streets)), to there, in Tlaquepaque, one takes a large, red bus amply named El Cardenal. This bus is owned by a private company, as opposed to the city, costs 10 pesos instead of 5, has much comfier seats, air-conditioning, and is as illusive as the Lockness monster. The first time we rode it was to get to the Central Station more than a month ago, and we walked to the corner and borded the bus after waiting for only 5 or 6 minutes. At the time we did not realize nor appreciate our good fortune. Since that trip, we have been unable to locate the Cardenal, though we have seen it pass by like a ghost at times when we had no use for it. After waiting for 40 minutes for the red beast, we decided to ask a cabbie if the bus was even running that day. He said in fact it was, but he would give us a very good price to go to Tlaquepeque--70 pesos. We got in the cab.
If I could go back in time, I wish I would have started a systematic documentation of the different cab-drivers we had here in Guadalajara. I would have titled the blog, "Taxi-Driver Roulette." This particular cab driver at first appeared to be very pleasant and sane. This changed after he asked us what we were studying in the U.S. Richard replied "biologia"--only a short stretch from "teologia" and the roar of the highway incited the mis-hearing. The cabbie immediately and enthusiastically announced that he was a Jahova's Witness and proceeded to explain to me all the signs and dangers of the apocolypse. Undeterred by my polite but obvious attempts to change the conversation, the cabbie showered me with explanations of who my real ancestors were, why it was important to begin taking the necessary steps to save my soul, etc. To my infinite relief, we finally arrived in Tlaquepeque and got out of the cab, but not before he gave us his number so that we could contact him should we need a ride to Tonola or needed help with our soul-saving.

There isn't much to say about Tlaquepaque, the town. Like all places in Mexico, there were dogs on the street, lots of churches, bars, etc. One interesting anomalie we came across was this horrible translation placed outside a church. If you don't speak Spanish, skip reading this. If you do speak Spanish, enjoy a good laugh as you imagine some monk dressed in a burlap sack manufacturing this really aweful English translation.

We also ate some ice cream. Richard got some Tequilla flavored just for the experience. I tried it and I would eat a small serving of it with gusto I think. After looking at lots and lots of artwork and glass goods, it started to rain harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock, and we were forced to herd ourselves into a restaurant that ended up being very tastey. The waiter took this picture of us. We left a pretty good tip. Korey and I had the personal goal of getting Richard real drunk in Tlaquepeque, but he resisted. However, later that night, we bought a bottle of Tequilla and watched Old School and half of American Psycho, and dutifully achieved our goal.
One of the woes of google blogger is that it is very easy to accidently deleted a foto once you have uploaded it. Each time I upload a photo (notice how I accidentally spelled photo with the Spanish "f" above) a blank space is inserted at the top of the entry. Sometimes, when I try to delete these spaces so too are deleted the photos that I have just uploaded, or perhaps one I uploaded previously. The whole process is a son-of-a-bitch that me da rabia (infuriates me). At any rate, that's what happened about 2 minutes ago, and while I waited for the photo to be uploaded again, I produced this commentary.

Sorry for the brevity and seeming incompleteness of this entry, but that is how I feel about Tlaquepaque as well. It didn't much float my boat. I'm glad I went, but I won't go again unless the apocolypse starts to rear its ugly head in the fashion described by the cabbie.

Hazards of the Language Barrier, Part 1: Richard get's tossed

My first class each morning lasts from 9:00 a.m. until 10:45 a.m. or so. The professor, Angel, is an excellent one, and I always leave class with primed enthusiasm, better understanding of the language, and a need to use the bathroom. My classes during this second period are in a different building than those of last semester, el edificio de negocios (business building). The walk to class is slightly longer, and I climb an extra flight of stairs, leaving me a little winded when I arrive to class, but none of this drawbacks could outweigh the benefit of immeasurably better bathrooms. They are cleaner, have larger stalls (Hudini would have had trouble relieving himself in the stalls of the previous building), are void of puddles of water that force me to hold my pants around my knees to keep them from getting wet, and even have a higher quality brand of toilet paper. So I left the bathroom in an unavoidably dandy mood and climbed back up the stairs to my classroom where I ran into Korey. Korey related to me a story that I didn't expect. Not at all. She said: "So...Richard just told me he got kicked out of class."

Yass. Kicked out of class. In the files that Korey, Richard, and I store in our heads, Richard's grammar professor, Gloria, has a hefty rapsheet after only one week of classes. Gloria is Mexican, but easily achieves a higher mark on the Stu-Chipman Scale of un-Mexicanity than did the previous pack leader, Maggie (Korey's ex-host mother.) She is a funny shape, about 6' 1'', 105 lbs, with elbows and knees that look like garden stakes, a chin that looks like a spade, and cheekbones that look like a normal chin. Her hair is almost jet-black, and her eyes have a slightly Asian quality to them, which could be due to the incredible amount of time she spends with the Asian students studying at UAG. This process is described in a song by the Vapors' 1980 smash hit, "I think I'm turning Japanse." Japanese definitely qualifies as un-Mexican. For whatever reason, presumably the described transformation, Gloria has a poor understanding of all things fun, funny, or fun-related. She is unhumanly rational in a way that would make Fredrick Winslow Taylor nod with approval (but only for a second before he moved on to evaluate the efficiency of something else). Last Friday, when Richard stopped into class on our way to the doctor's office to tell Gloria that we would all be missing class on account of violent, abnormal discharge from both sides of our digestive system, Gloria was skeptical, and told Richard to return to class after he saw the doctor. Of course he did not, as we were diagnosed with gastriticiticisus or something like that, and none of we three could go more than 25 minutes without a visit to the bano (bathroom). Gloria then proceeded to lack any sort of helpful or compassionate character trait while Richard was trying to catch up in the classes he missed, collecting his assigments (completed with no direction), and grading them without giving him a chance to revise them and without returning them with an explanation of what he misunderstood or any correcting guidance. One can also deduce, by the vigor with which she persues social relations with the Asian students, that she has not other friends. On a final note, she has put on her daily quizzes to the class such questions as "If you were in love with your professor, would you tell her?" So that's Gloria.

Here are the events of the day: Richard was in his grammar class, and for whatever reason, there was a group of Asian students and Gloria laughing about something that meritted no laughter, certainly not the level of laughter which they were offering, and Richard took it upon himself to say, "Esta tonta." Of course, Richard meant this in the sense of "You're silly," "You're crazy," or "You're stupid (right now)." Gloria did not think this was funny or acceptable, nor did she take into account that Richard is well gringo and doesn't have a masterful understanding of the implications of all the words in the Spanish language. Her silly, un-called for expression turned to ice-cold, puppy-skinning resentment, she pointed at the door, and said "Afuera(out)." Richard tried to plead, apologize, and explain his error, but she simply repeated to say "afuera." So Richard left the classroom. He went and explained the situation to the director of the program, who took Richard back to class and negotiated conditions under which Richard could return to his learning position. Richard had to apologize to the entire class along with Gloria.

I think this unfortunate lack of social understanding on the part of the professor is, well, unfortunate. But when misfortune's worst injuries are Richard getting tossed out of class, I think it's hilarious.

Until next time, be safe, check the batteries in your smoke detectors, and enjoy summer.

Stu

Cafe Tocuva: Pictures and Videos

Nothing but visuals, son.

Best. Concert. Ever.

Last week, El Profesor Edgardo (pictured here with his wife, Mariana) informed me that Cafe Tocuva would be playing in Guadalajara. I had seen them play once in Detroit with my brother and his wife, and instantly got excited. Cafe Tocuva could be described as the Aerosmith of Mexico. They are all 40-some years old now after decades of rockin. They play a wide variety of rock/pop music. They are very talented musicians and great showmen, as opposed to just great showmen (AC/DC, Motley Crue) or just great musicians (Beethoven). In Detroit, they played at St. Andrew's hall, which is a very small venue with standing room only. Here in Guadalajara, they played at Arena Vicente Fernandez, a massive rodeo stadium. The atmosphere's were very different.

We got tickets at a record store for $308 pesos each. There was an issue of transportation, because the stadium is 45 minutes from our house, but that problem was solved when Edgardo offered to give us a ride. Thus, the night began with the pregame: a 1.5 liter water bottle filled with ron con coca (rum and coke). Edgardo informed us that Bacardi is called "Cacardi" in Mexico. Caca like poop for all you mono-linguals. At the stadium, they served only Estrella; if Estrella existed in the U.S., it would only be consumed by 15-year-old, Nascar fans, and trailer-park gangs. But it mattered not, the situation called for the consumption of alcohol. We also grabbed some personal pizzas for around $2 U.S. We timed our pre-concert ingestions perfectly, getting into the arena and to our seats just as the chants of "culero! culero!" turned into roars of approval, greeting the band to the stage. Edgardo and Mariana bought tickets for ground level. I have a medium level of fear for the ground level at Mexican concerts, which host violent mosh-pits for songs mellow and up-tempo. At St. Andrew's Hall, millions of bruises were born in a few short hours, and one fight nearly broke out (it was prevented by the world-class bouncers at St. Andrew's Halls that received a write-up in the Rolling Stone). So we bought our tickets for the first level above ground level. The view was fantastic, and what was lost in intimacy was gain in personal health. Even at our seats, sitting was for the weak, who were immediately sacrificed at the end of the concert. We danced, sang, and screamed like hell, surrounded by 60,000 Mexicans chanting "Ole! Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole! Cafe! Ole!"

There isn't much more to say. Concerts were not meant to be experienced through written prose. I will, over the course of the next few hours, post several videos and pictures to help you understand the levels of euphoria realized at Wednesday's show. Until next time, stay healthy, and eat some American cuisine for me (I am beginning to miss it so much.)