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Friday, January 28, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Short Story-Taco Shop Rockabilly Boxcutter Part Dos
Deciding that hiding in my fries was no longer an option, lest I get rockabilly blood in them, I left the fork standing stabbed in the heap of meat and potatoes and turned around. I turned around, as a matter of fact, just in time to hear the box cutter flick into a locked position. Without thinking I jumped on Chavo’s back like a papoose—I had to prevent the razor blade from finding it’s intended home, which I assumed was a vein under a dingy tattoo somewhere on rockabilly’s neck. Had I been a second later, the pin-up girl tattooed over his jugular would have had a c-section. I’m not a good Samaritan, but one of us had to be responsible, as I could tell Clinton, Fidel, and especially Ela were more than willing to jump in and fight like crazed, bloodthirsty chimps. I love a good story, but I don’t like being an accessory to an assault such as this.
I succeeded and was able to restrain Chavo, keeping him firmly planted in his orange booth. I looked at rockabilly and his friends. If not for the Jack Daniels, their eyes would have been wide in terror. “You guys should go,” I said. They took a couple seconds to deliberate, then backed out of the taco shop like a bully and his goons from a 90’s movie. Jotos they called us.
Chavo was sitting in the booth silent. He was staring at his plate, trembling with anger. I began to console him, telling him it’s probably better that no one was injured or sliced but it was like talking to an angry statue, a shell shocked, angry statue in a taco shop. There we sat, not exactly reeling from the situation, but letting it sink in. Some of the taco shop employees had been staring the whole time, bewildered, while others were going about their work, quietly chuckling at the ones staring…they must be the new guys. I wanted to get everyone together to leave—I figured it was best. Then that drunk girlfriend of rockabilly’s came stumbling in. Why? Why do drunk girls always do this? What could she possibly contribute to the situation that would be in any way constructive? “I just want to say,” she slurred, “it’s cool, ok? Everything’s cool, ok? Like…everything? Everything’s cool.” Thanks for that, drunk girl.
It wouldn’t have mattered to Chavo what she said (or tried to say in her stupor). He sprang from the booth, with me swinging from his back like a cape, as he pointed at her with both hands saying, “You ain’t shit to me! GO! JUST GO!” To which she so intelligently replied, “No, I just came back…I just came in here…to tell you guys that like, it’s cool, ok? Like, we don’t need to do this…everything, you guys, it’s cool…” Jesus, please. Didn’t she just witness her boyfriend’s near-death experience? I spoke to her like a parent would speak to an illogical, tantrum-throwing child and said, “If everything is ‘cool’ then how about we all leave? You should go and so will we. Sound good?” She didn’t like my response…I’m not sure what she was looking for. No one is ever sure what drunk girls are looking for. She left, frustrated that we wouldn’t acknowledge the “coolness” of the situation.
We left as well. Ela was saying something like “Oh, I would have jumped on that bitch so quick.” I later found out she had caught more than one case for assaulting a grown man with her car keys. Chavo got into my car, still angry, and I’m sure still in withdrawals. I looked at him and said “Later, we can laugh about this…right now, let’s call it a night. I’ll drop you home.” We all parted ways, and drove back to our respective houses. Some of us were chuckling, some of us pensive, some of us trembling in anger. I never again saw the drunk rockabilly guy whose life I saved that night. All I know is this is exactly why I don’t drink.
I succeeded and was able to restrain Chavo, keeping him firmly planted in his orange booth. I looked at rockabilly and his friends. If not for the Jack Daniels, their eyes would have been wide in terror. “You guys should go,” I said. They took a couple seconds to deliberate, then backed out of the taco shop like a bully and his goons from a 90’s movie. Jotos they called us.
Chavo was sitting in the booth silent. He was staring at his plate, trembling with anger. I began to console him, telling him it’s probably better that no one was injured or sliced but it was like talking to an angry statue, a shell shocked, angry statue in a taco shop. There we sat, not exactly reeling from the situation, but letting it sink in. Some of the taco shop employees had been staring the whole time, bewildered, while others were going about their work, quietly chuckling at the ones staring…they must be the new guys. I wanted to get everyone together to leave—I figured it was best. Then that drunk girlfriend of rockabilly’s came stumbling in. Why? Why do drunk girls always do this? What could she possibly contribute to the situation that would be in any way constructive? “I just want to say,” she slurred, “it’s cool, ok? Everything’s cool, ok? Like…everything? Everything’s cool.” Thanks for that, drunk girl.
It wouldn’t have mattered to Chavo what she said (or tried to say in her stupor). He sprang from the booth, with me swinging from his back like a cape, as he pointed at her with both hands saying, “You ain’t shit to me! GO! JUST GO!” To which she so intelligently replied, “No, I just came back…I just came in here…to tell you guys that like, it’s cool, ok? Like, we don’t need to do this…everything, you guys, it’s cool…” Jesus, please. Didn’t she just witness her boyfriend’s near-death experience? I spoke to her like a parent would speak to an illogical, tantrum-throwing child and said, “If everything is ‘cool’ then how about we all leave? You should go and so will we. Sound good?” She didn’t like my response…I’m not sure what she was looking for. No one is ever sure what drunk girls are looking for. She left, frustrated that we wouldn’t acknowledge the “coolness” of the situation.
We left as well. Ela was saying something like “Oh, I would have jumped on that bitch so quick.” I later found out she had caught more than one case for assaulting a grown man with her car keys. Chavo got into my car, still angry, and I’m sure still in withdrawals. I looked at him and said “Later, we can laugh about this…right now, let’s call it a night. I’ll drop you home.” We all parted ways, and drove back to our respective houses. Some of us were chuckling, some of us pensive, some of us trembling in anger. I never again saw the drunk rockabilly guy whose life I saved that night. All I know is this is exactly why I don’t drink.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Short Story- Taco Shop Rockabilly Boxcutter
I can’t exactly say it was “just like any other night”. Around this time every night was different. This particular night finished it’s sick pageantry in Umberto’s Taco Shop, a small hole in the wall with a neon green cactus unconfidently flickering and glowing from the roof, making a green, cactus-shaped halo in the haze of that night.
I was with a group of true hooligans whom I had recently met through a mutual friend and a common hobby in making music. Chavo, Clinton, Fidel, and Fidel’s girlfriend at the time, Ela, were sitting in the orange booth closest to the counter. I was sitting in the yellow booth behind them, as there was no room left in their booth. When we were all together (this cohort being a smaller version of the usual mob we traveled in) if we were to have a trademark, it would be loud, unsavory conversation. These conversations were an exercise in spreading negativity the way a priest flicks holy water onto his congregation on a holy day—but instead of holy water it would be filthy, unholy stories of sexually deviant liaisons under the influence of street drugs, and hypothetical situations involving Marvel Comics characters wrapped up in domestic abuse problems.
Grimy, sour drops of the trash juice-like ideas and memories were flying everywhere, dripping down the windows, infiltrating people’s minds and staining anything in there. Whatever armpit of the human experience, whatever unique cocktail of shameful malaise we were discussing that night, if you were to believe in karma, would surely bring back some foul returns and rotten lessons. Sometimes all I could do was listen in amazement, having little in my comparably bland life experience to top some of these tales. What I did have, however, was an unfortunately adaptable imagination and a sick sense of humor, both of which were coming in handy that night.
I can’t blame the rockabilly guy and his friend for getting mad. I can’t blame the rockabilly guy’s girlfriend for covering her mouth and furrowing her eyebrows. They were in perfect view, as the taco shop was otherwise empty and I was actually facing them in my booth, picking at my carne asada fries, loudly participating in whatever audio pollution that was being broadcast behind me; I didn’t even turn around to talk most of the time—just speaking loud enough to be heard. At this point in time, I think I recall us imagining Wolverine coming out of the closet to his wife, each of us taking turns imitating him with his raspy voice, confessing the things he had done behind her back. From their spot in the taco shop, about 3 booths down, the rockabilly guy asked, “Gentlemen, can we change the subject please?” He said it in the tone of voice of a drunk golf course security guard and the way he said gentlemen was particularly grating. I could tell by his sideburns and the way his small-brimmed fedora was cocked that the world had wronged him in some way, and that Social Distortion’s albums and hard alcohol had gotten him through it. All he wanted that night was to smoke cigarettes in front of Bar Pink, and then to cure his drunk-munchies in peace. Who were we to rob him of his 1 a.m. solace? We were just the right people.
Needless to say he was flatly ignored and the spewing continued. And it continued, and it continued. How we were able to be so offensive so consistently, without a lull in the conversation, while still inhaling Mexican food is beyond me. There is little time to analyze these things when carne asada and offensive conversation are using your mouth as a revolving door. It got to the point where they had to get up and leave. They were standing outside, glaring through the window at us. Believe it or not, their reason for doing this was still lost on me. I gave my fries a break and sat up on the table to face my friends. We chatted, laughed and enjoyed our college-age youth as many college students do: with little regard for those around us. I noticed Fidel looking out the window, doing the “I’m talking about you to someone else while looking directly at you” thing. “Oh no,” I thought, “this is going to turn into one of those stories.”
They came back into the empty taco shop, getting ready to prove me right. Led by the Mike Ness look-alike, they lumbered past me and stopped at the table behind me. One of them aggressively put his hands on the table amidst the yellow paper, Styrofoam plates, and burrito carcasses. “Is there a problem gentlemen?” Again with that gentlemen thing. Chavo, having recently quit one of the more gripping and addictive of the devil’s vices, and still living in Temecula, was in no mood to have his conversation questioned, however depraved it was. At first I just plunged my fork into my carne asada fries, wishing I could follow the fork and hide amidst the melted cheese and jalapeños. Rockabilly’s friend put his hand on Chavo’s shoulder and said, “You need to calm down.” Chavo, with lightning fast ese anger twisted the poor drunkards arm and held him by the elbow, pulled him closer and said, “No, you need to calm down and not touch me, I’m a grown-ass man.” Chavo was an electrician. This is why I’m assuming Chavo had a folding box cutter in his pocket. Ghastly things, those folding box cutters.
Stay tuned for part dos.
I was with a group of true hooligans whom I had recently met through a mutual friend and a common hobby in making music. Chavo, Clinton, Fidel, and Fidel’s girlfriend at the time, Ela, were sitting in the orange booth closest to the counter. I was sitting in the yellow booth behind them, as there was no room left in their booth. When we were all together (this cohort being a smaller version of the usual mob we traveled in) if we were to have a trademark, it would be loud, unsavory conversation. These conversations were an exercise in spreading negativity the way a priest flicks holy water onto his congregation on a holy day—but instead of holy water it would be filthy, unholy stories of sexually deviant liaisons under the influence of street drugs, and hypothetical situations involving Marvel Comics characters wrapped up in domestic abuse problems.
Grimy, sour drops of the trash juice-like ideas and memories were flying everywhere, dripping down the windows, infiltrating people’s minds and staining anything in there. Whatever armpit of the human experience, whatever unique cocktail of shameful malaise we were discussing that night, if you were to believe in karma, would surely bring back some foul returns and rotten lessons. Sometimes all I could do was listen in amazement, having little in my comparably bland life experience to top some of these tales. What I did have, however, was an unfortunately adaptable imagination and a sick sense of humor, both of which were coming in handy that night.
I can’t blame the rockabilly guy and his friend for getting mad. I can’t blame the rockabilly guy’s girlfriend for covering her mouth and furrowing her eyebrows. They were in perfect view, as the taco shop was otherwise empty and I was actually facing them in my booth, picking at my carne asada fries, loudly participating in whatever audio pollution that was being broadcast behind me; I didn’t even turn around to talk most of the time—just speaking loud enough to be heard. At this point in time, I think I recall us imagining Wolverine coming out of the closet to his wife, each of us taking turns imitating him with his raspy voice, confessing the things he had done behind her back. From their spot in the taco shop, about 3 booths down, the rockabilly guy asked, “Gentlemen, can we change the subject please?” He said it in the tone of voice of a drunk golf course security guard and the way he said gentlemen was particularly grating. I could tell by his sideburns and the way his small-brimmed fedora was cocked that the world had wronged him in some way, and that Social Distortion’s albums and hard alcohol had gotten him through it. All he wanted that night was to smoke cigarettes in front of Bar Pink, and then to cure his drunk-munchies in peace. Who were we to rob him of his 1 a.m. solace? We were just the right people.
Needless to say he was flatly ignored and the spewing continued. And it continued, and it continued. How we were able to be so offensive so consistently, without a lull in the conversation, while still inhaling Mexican food is beyond me. There is little time to analyze these things when carne asada and offensive conversation are using your mouth as a revolving door. It got to the point where they had to get up and leave. They were standing outside, glaring through the window at us. Believe it or not, their reason for doing this was still lost on me. I gave my fries a break and sat up on the table to face my friends. We chatted, laughed and enjoyed our college-age youth as many college students do: with little regard for those around us. I noticed Fidel looking out the window, doing the “I’m talking about you to someone else while looking directly at you” thing. “Oh no,” I thought, “this is going to turn into one of those stories.”
They came back into the empty taco shop, getting ready to prove me right. Led by the Mike Ness look-alike, they lumbered past me and stopped at the table behind me. One of them aggressively put his hands on the table amidst the yellow paper, Styrofoam plates, and burrito carcasses. “Is there a problem gentlemen?” Again with that gentlemen thing. Chavo, having recently quit one of the more gripping and addictive of the devil’s vices, and still living in Temecula, was in no mood to have his conversation questioned, however depraved it was. At first I just plunged my fork into my carne asada fries, wishing I could follow the fork and hide amidst the melted cheese and jalapeños. Rockabilly’s friend put his hand on Chavo’s shoulder and said, “You need to calm down.” Chavo, with lightning fast ese anger twisted the poor drunkards arm and held him by the elbow, pulled him closer and said, “No, you need to calm down and not touch me, I’m a grown-ass man.” Chavo was an electrician. This is why I’m assuming Chavo had a folding box cutter in his pocket. Ghastly things, those folding box cutters.
Stay tuned for part dos.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Quick Book Review: The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami
I’ve been trying to do a lot more reading recently-- fiction to be exact. I usually like to read books on complicated/crazy topics like shamanism, drug literature, metaphysics, and other heavy things because they’re sort of like mental beef jerky--something for my brain to chew on and roll back and forth between my brain’s teeth-- even if I don’t end up understanding it all.
Needless to say, my mind is nicely exhausted after a read like that. After a while that type of book begins to weigh on the old brain so I figured fiction might be a nice break because although fiction gives your mind a workout, you don’t really need to apply what you read or spend much time processing it other than for what it is: a good story.
An author I’ve been reading recently is from Japan, named Haruki Murakami. His first book came out in 1987 and he’s still writing today. From what I’ve seen so far his writing is really interesting because it swings back and forth from really mundane observations about really small details (the way someone crinkles the celophane from a cigarette package) to really surreal situations with body-stealing dwarfs-- often seamlessly. Some of the cultural references are a little foreign to me because of how heavily his writing deals with Japanese post-war culture but that actually makes it more interesting and fresher to read.
The book I just finished reading is called The Elephant Vanishes- a collection of short stories. Keeping in mind that I’m nowhere near a literary expert, I think you have to approach his books like you would a Salvador Dali painting. At first glance, you really have to just appreciate it for what you can absorb-- the brush strokes, the color, the mood, the way it makes you feel. Murakami’s writing, especially his short stories aren’t for everyone. If you want a neatly wrapped story with an ending that makes you feel warm and fuzzy and right, you might want to look elsewhere. His stories are neatly wrapped but the the way they progress isn’t always with the rhythm you may be used to...and they’re more neat like a square watermelon would be than a box of chocolates. Some stories end really suddenly, offering nothing on the surface that would suggest anything is resolved. But that’s not really why I like his writing anyway.
This book has a wide range of subject matter, from stories about sociopaths who burn barns because they are “waiting to be burned” to stories about weird, dreamlike and diminutive “TV People”, to the aforementioned body-snatching dwarf. The thread running through all these stories is Murakami’s deadpan, affable a-hole tone. Through his characters, he matter-of-factly describes infidelity, alcoholism, disappearing elephants, and arson while somehow making it all sound like a quiet afternoon. He goes on tangents sometimes...maybe about a bug walking on a blade of grass-- but you actually want to follow him. His rhythm is unique and memorable and almost have a diary-like tone. Each time I finished a story in this book, I would hold the book out in front of me and say, “Huh...” His is a very unique writing style and I highly recommend reading one of his books, including this one.
Get the book here
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Twitter Updates for 2011-01-16
- Putting this out into the universe: I want to go to morocco #
- Just had fried chicken neck tacos at El Take it Easy...not bad...not bad at all... #
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Friday, January 14, 2011
Care to vote for my article? How to Wrap Your Hands Muay Boran Style
I wrote an article for tutorial site WonderHowTo
I'd really appreciate some votes to get it published--Thanks!
Monday, January 10, 2011
4th Ammendment Wear-Assert Your Rights Without Saying a Word
Every time I go to the airport I can't help but feeling like I've been bent over unfairly. As I stand in line for security a miniature panic comes over me...what if I left a nail clipper in the front pocket of my back pack with the nail file out? What if I let my ninja friend borrow my jeans and he left ninja stars concealed in the waist band and I just don't remember?
Worst of all, what if TSA decides they need to x-ray me in one of those huge scanners? The metal detector wasn't enough...how about just shooting magnetic rays into my body to look at my bones? Something about some random blue-shirted official seeing the ghostly x-ray outline of my junk just feels wrong, even if they are just doing their job. Isn't there some kind of rule about that? I think it's called the 4th Amendment...to the uh...Constitution of the United States of America, I think.
Luckily, the people over at 4th Amendment Wear feel similar, which is why they've created a line of clothing to help remind us all that there is, in fact, some kind of rule about that. They've made special under clothing with the text of the 4th Amendment printed in metallic ink so that it appears when x-rayed. Super cool idea. Comes in all sizes so stock up for you and your family and give yourself at least a little consolation in the security line before you go to the airport Pizza Hut and pay $8 for a personal pan pizza to eat your sorrows away, then wash it down with a $3 bottle of water.
There must be better ways to keep us safe while also respecting our freedoms. This project's only intention is to get the right people to explore all of those ways.
-4th Amendment Wear
Cop you some at http://www.4thamendmentwear.com
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Taco Shop Conversations
I'm back in the states now-- sitting at a taco shop waiting on some Carne Asada fries. It's ironic but all that time in Southern Mexico made me miss my border food. Granted, we were eating really good food but there's something about burritos wrapped in yellow paper, weird combinations of ingredients and the bright colored booths with local ese gang grafitti scrawled on them that will always hold a special place in my heart.
The people that work at these places are saints. So many idiots (including me and my friends) come through here acting really assenine. The people behind the counter just unflinchingly take orders and serve the food, watching a futbol game or novella on a tiny tv behind the counter. All the while, people of all sorts come in and out, ordering their usual order-- people usually have a "usual". Right now mine is a bean and cheese burrito with guacamole, rice and lettuce--just to change things up (although carne asada fries are in regular rotation).
Even now there's a guy in here telling his friend about his encounter with the cops, how he told them he was just "looking for the va-jay-jay". I'm sure I've been overhead saying some outlandish things myself though.
These are little border town sanctuaries. In san diego, someone might recommend Santana's. They're alright but since they changed their name to MXN (so stupid) you can taste a difference.
Everywhere neighborhood (that's worth anything) has a couple local hot spots. Right now I'm at Rojelio's- a recent find. Speaking of Carne Asada fries, this place has the best. I usually get carne asada chips because I don't like how the fries get all soggy and with all that carne asada, guac, cheese, and whatever else, you need something crunchy that your teeth can keep track of-- at least I do. Rojelio's, right in the tuck a few strip-mall doors down from Vons on College and El Cajon has fries of the perfect crispiness...automatic win. Extra points for having Sope's (not that good here but impossible to find). You'll notice after a while that you go to different taco shops for different things- some have killer taquitos, some have the best California Burrito.
If you talk SD taco shops you'll always get a different answer as to who is the best but you can't deny the sheer number and consistency of the "Berto's". There are so many Berto's. Basic Berto's such as Alberto's and Roberto's all the way to exotic things like Filibertos, Alanbertos, and Rolbertos. You always know "______-berto's" is going to be open and you know they'll serve the clientele.
I'm finishing up my jamaica and just slammed my plastic fork down on my yellow paper-covered plate which means our time together is over. Until next time...
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Case of the Mexican Mystery Bumps Pt. Tres
We sat in the waiting room/pharmacy thing, periodically checking the multitude of hives on my skin, watching the other sunburned, awkwardly-dressed Americans enter with similar afflictions to mine. A rather…how you say…rotund couple walked in. The lady—let’s call her Mrs. Skandunis—seemed to have a similar skin rash to mine. She and Mr. Skandunis walked into the exam room. A little bit later, Mr. Skandunis walked out looking a little stressed. The nurse asked him, “How is she?” to which he replied, “Welp, she’s getting a shot in the butt so she probably feels like a pin cushion.” Dear America, this is why people hate us…no one wanted to imagine your fat wife with her mumply ass showing, syringe stabbed in there like a toothpick checking if an angel food cake is ready to take out of the oven…not only that, you said it like we’re the ass holes…a simple “She’ll be fine” would do, thanks. Poor Mrs. Skandunis.
I tried to figure out where the Skandunis family was from by identifying their accent. I decided they were from somewhere east of California and west of New York. Somewhere where they look at you funny if you ask where the recycle bin is. Somewhere where when you ask them if there is anything good to eat around here they say “Arby’s”.
I thought to myself, “Man…a shot in the butt…that would suck. After all this, at least I don’t have to get a shot in the butt”. I assumed the butt is where you have to give the shot if the arm is too jiggly to find the vein. The doctor finished up in the exam room and came out to check on me—he seemed pleased with the progress of the bumps and said I could go. I told him that the bumps were going down but I was still itchy. I was itchy enough to kick all of the inexpensive medication off the shelf next to me. No, this couldn’t be it…I needed something for the itch. He seemed really worried at first, then he composed himself and said “Well, let’s give it 10 more minutes…if you’re still itchy by then, we’ll give you another injection for thee itch…and if that doesn’t work then…pfft…that’s the strongest thing we have”. He should have stopped at the “we’ll give you something else” part.
10 minutes later, he came back to check. I told him the itch hadn’t gone away. He said “Ok, come back in and we give you another injection.” I followed him in and got my other arm ready for the injection. He said “This one is going to be in the butt so uh...” So much for my “I’m glad it’s not in the butt” rhetoric. I got my upper cheek ready for the injection and it went a lot quicker than the arm…I guess the butt is less complicated. He finished up and said I should feel “very comfortable” in the next couple hours. I could tell by the way my whole face relaxed the minute the medicine went into my bloodstream that he meant I would be completely out of it for the rest of the day. He gave me a prescription to keep the reaction from coming back I paid and the nurse had to go get some change out of her wallet and we were on out way. The remainder of the day was spent at Sayulita and could best be described as a haze. The next morning my body was clean and I was free from those damn bumps…at long last.
Or was I?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
A Case of the Mexican Mystery Bumps Pt. Dos
We decided to take the dinghy to the beach at Anclote to look for a dermatologist or the next best thing, keeping in mind that most likely, it would be the “next best thing” we would be dealing with. Luckily at this point my sunburned baby hippo skin was sort of camouflaging the pink lily pad-shaped spots all over my body because otherwise I would have looked like a spokes-leopard for a strawberry milk drink.As my poor girlfriend and I walked down the street we came across a sign in the window of a building, which was either under construction or falling into disrepair. The sign was really nice though. It said “medical emergency?” and gave a cell phone number and a landline number, shown under a picture of a telenovella-looking nurse. “Worth a shot,” I thought after some deliberation. I dialed the cell number…no longer in service; I4 dialed the landline number and asked the operator in my best “don’t let me die” Spanish if he spoke English. He did. I explained my problem to him and he said, “Well, we can have someone there around 12 o’clock, is this ok?” No. It wasn’t ok. It was 9 am and no matter what I said to him about the urgency of the situation he just kept replying, “Ok, so 12 o’clock is ok?” Oh well. I didn’t even know the callback number to the phone I was using. The next choice was a “Farma-Plus” down the street that we had seen a couple days before. From the outside, it also looked like it was either under construction or being neglected. We waited 10 minutes until opening time and then walked in for a consultation. The doctor came out shortly thereafter, his salmon-colored shirt still crisp. My girlfriend explained to him what the problem was and he offered a few ideas as to what the problem was and what the solution may be.
Now, if you were to ask me if I speak Spanish I’d say, “Ehh…yea.” The reason for the “Ehh” is because although I’m way past “¿Donde esta la biblioteca?” I’m definitely not good enough to, say, hold my own at a book club. I was able to pick up about 90% of what the doctor was saying to me. He was going to give me a shot of Cortisone—the largest dose of the strongest stuff they had. Es muy fuerte este medicina. Good enough for me. We went into the next room and I sat on the sole examination chair. Apparently, no matter what country you’re in, the exam chairs are all upholstered with the same brown vinyl that’s supposed to look like leather. Kind of the same color I imagine Nazi airplane seats to be. The nurse wheeled over the accessory table and the doctor covered the fingerprint-smudged stainless steel surface with a clean-ish looking towel. He then put some gloves on—“Oh good, gloves,” I thought. He clipped a heart rate monitor to my finger and said, “Your heart rate might go up a little, that’s normal.”
As he got ready to give me the shot he seemed more nervous than me. He changed the position of my arm three times before he was finally ready. He started to administer the shot when he said, “Hmmh…the shots doesn’ts wants to goes in”. I glanced over at my heart rate monitor expecting to see my pulse go up. For some reason it was going down…I didn’t really feel like worrying about that at the time. The needle eventually found it’s way into my vein. I felt the Cortisone in my arm and all I could think was, “You’d better work… I swear you better work.” After he finished giving me the shot, the nurse gave me an alcohol-soaked cotton ball to hold over my new tiny wound. They told me to hang out in the waiting room to give the medicine some time to take effect.
Stay tuned for Part Tres
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