...And We have a Bad Rap?

Here is an email I received from one of my associates in exile...

"so lets see, my weekend started with me lighting my house on fire...and that wasthe high.

a bunch of you have been missing my stories... so i'll send this...

So Friday I decided to make lunch for all the staff... Tom and I did... somegreat indian food.. like REALLY GOOD... but as we were making all this food westarted on the vodka. then we brought up the food AND drinks to the staff andpretty much were all hammered at work at 2pm. YES i am the BEST boss EVER!

SO friday night was going to be the despedida for 3 staff members you returnedhome to the US/Canada on Saturday. SO we started drinking at my house... afterwork... about 5:30. Vodka, Vodka, Vodka, Beer, Wine, Weed, Vodka, Weed,Vodka... RUM

so We are now into the Bacardi 151.... which is pure gasoline... tom is hammeredand drops the frikkn bottle which is about 3/4 full...maybe a bit more. and itshatters on my kitchen floor. My first thought... oohhh... lets through a matchon that. SO I DID... dude... AWESOME.. i mean AWESOME... it was BEAUTIFUL howthe alcohol just caught on fire in one sweeping motion.. like the movies... andas it headed towards tom (who of course burned himself in it... jajajajaj) andmy fridge... everyone was in awe... with this drunk-high glazed look on theirfaces... (am i painting a pretty good picture....Beauty...serenity... light glowof the flame)

cuz i did say FRIDGE... yeah.. so its going under my fridge... MAYBE not thebest idea in the world... so I grab my fire extinguisher... but i'm high anddrunk and dont know how to use it... so i pass it to Hugh... who is in the samestate as me... so he passes it to Dan.... One of the girls throw their drink onit... which added to the flame... Hugh grabbed the mop and tried to stomp itout... but the mop just caught on fire... WHICH WAS AWESOME TOO!! i mean.. fireis cool. Finally with one pull of the tab Dan sprays MY ENTIRE KITCHEN withthe extinguisher.. and now there's no fire...but no one can breathe!!! Whichbasically means "Time to Leave"

so we head to El Pueblo... drunk, hungry, drinking more, eating, drinking,drinking, drinking. Diego came out with us which is only the 2nd time he's donethat in the 3 years that i've been here... and he probably wont do it again...poor diego... so innocent... so.. corruptable... so not a person that should bearound drunk richard.

Then all of the sudden TOM IS ON STAGE AT TARRICOS AND THEY GAVE HIM AMICROPHONE... and not just ANY microphone... one of those headset ones so thathe could dance like N*Sync (it took me 3 times to spell that name... but itsshorter than that other one so i typed this one.. who knew) so Tom is dancingand everyone is in awe... and stops dancing... so tom starts talking... BIGMISTAKE ... broken drunken spanish. but whatevs he got to dance withMan-hands... which is awesome cuz the pants she was wearing were her specialcamel-toe pants. AND THEN TOM DOES A BACK ROLL AND STICKS THE LANDING... it waslike a reverse Ninja Roll... AWESOME. though really i'm super surprised that hedidnt fall off the stage.

I was drunk and horny...so i left to meet up with others at Retro... butappearantly Tom was up on stage about 6 different times... AWESOME>.. and theyfinally got home at like 4am. At 4am i was already having sex! yey me!

Saturday we got up at 3 in the afternoon and headed to a friend's brother's 30thbday bbq. I was driving so i didnt really drink but holy shit did i laugh...AND for those of you in Central America...i found out that IF Sodea Stereo goesto Panama they will come to COsta Rica also... and Depeche Mode is coming withanother band and then INCUBUS is coming... and someone else.. ALL BEFORE ILEAVE! how awesome is that. Yeah..best music at this party too.... i mean...over the course of the 8 hours we were there we heard Slap My Bitch Up only 4times... jajaj.. i dont care i LOVE that song. but yeah... the music wasawesome and the company was great too. I was sooooooooo tired though.. so weheaded back to my place.

Then i get a call at 7:30am because Tom had a kidney stone and had to be takento the hospital.. but since i was "entertaining" i got Danny to drive him andCourtnry to the hospital...and then we picked them up and all went for lunch.Now because i'm extra slutty these days... i dropped numbre 1 off at his houseand then headed to my "medio-novio's" house... and yes i'm still in the sameclothes as yesterday... and yes i did the walk of shame again...and yes tomcaught me again.

DIE TOM!"

Time Management and Other Dribble

I’m going to change the name of this Blog. The idea I’m entertaining is “Most Sporadic Blog” but it sounds a little too contagious. Another is “Blither” but that may be plagiarizing from a future JK. Rowlings novel and who am I to throw a wrench in the gears of the economy of mass production? Maybe it should be called “Experiment in Cultural Submersion” where I can post rants about incompetent bank clerks and the perils of remaining a stubborn pedestrian. Well I will ponder it a while and maybe come up with something along the lines of “Irrelevant Thoughts and other Dribble” or “Time Management in the Information Age”. Both seem quite fitting to file this under.

Lost Notes and Expanations

There is this little corner of the world I have found somehow, found myself living the daily trials and successes one can live any where. This place however is unique in that it is my place.

This place if you type in San José, Costa Rica, into your Google Earth, is a narrow isthmus, a mountainous link between two vast continents; two continents of cultures, landscapes, music, hopes, dreams, and flavours; two worlds. One from the north is the one I know too well; the great North American dream; and it is very much apparent all around me, on this narrow link, that someone is spreading the word, the story of that dream.

Like missionaries of old, the story may not hold true for all, but there are many who have signed on the great freight train, some call progress, with the driving force of MTV. I wonder what the old continent to the south thinks of all this “Americanism”, so close to its northern shore. Only violent politics has preserved, thanks to Columbian opposition militias, the Darien gap, which may hold the tide back just long enough for others to tell a different tale.

Stories make the world. I forget that, sometimes, forget that my eyes do not tell me truths, that somewhere in between, some neurological impulse is interpreting this vista for me, building comprehension out of the mystery, and that this view is the tide of my world, all 29 years of it.

Too often, I think, I have taken this view for granted, unconsciously edited out those truths that I know, yet choose to ignore for the sake of comfort.

More letters from the archives

Senor Koopman,

My friend, 30 is fast approaching. It’s like the edge of the world in a Monty python sketch. But you know if the world was flat, Columbus would have never hit Costa Rica, and MTV Latina would never have saved millions of culture starved Mayans from colourful woven sacks and pan flute dance extravaganzas. So it’s 30, but the world is round, and so there is still hope for the lot of us.

I live in a country where 70% of the population is 17-29 years old. On Friday nights it keeps me feeling young. Not so at noon on Saturdays when old age starts knocking at the back of my head. Word has it that you escaped to the north for another summer of wilderness adventures, fried fish, and cervesas. What holds for the future? Where are you hiding out this winter season? It’s been too long my friend, coming from one who has no sense of time. Staying in touch with those closest to me has always been my strong point, but don’t let it fool you into thinking that I think of you often.

So, this will be my first Christmas away from home. Strange to hear Christmas carols wafting from store fronts, Christmas light icicles hanging from doorways, palm fronds waving in the evening breeze. My traditional sense of season won’t accept it. So I will spend my Christmas feasting on rice and beans, listening to Shakira, hopefully unwrapping some exotic Latina, and hoping it snows on Christmas morning.

I will be home in January, arriving the 10th and trooping around the province until the 25th. My plans are mayonnaise at Utopia, wood hauling at the Koopmans, wood hauling at the moms, wood hauling wherever else I can find wood to haul, snowball fights in Toronto alleys, snowboarding, guitar playing in front of every warm wood oven I can find, and of course enjoying the company of those closest to my heart. Here’s to you on your birthday. Write me tales, if you would, of northern loony adventures, future plans, and fortunes waiting to be conquered.

Your Friend,

Chris

A Letter to a Friend Never Sent

I think perhaps that our last correspondence wasn’t quite an accurate depiction of life or of this moment in time. Perhaps, more accurately, I find myself in the mood to write a little, the first of such an impulse I have had in quite a while.

Much as I might have been bold to say “we are living our lives”, I meant it not so much as a statement of living to the fullest, but more as a statement that here we are, breathing, making or not making choices, eating, sleeping, shitting, and all the other mundane and glorious things that go along with 21st century existence. So what is there to say?

I could say that some day’s I’m miserable, a misfit, doomed by nature or nurture, or fortune and fate, to never know what it is to feel connected to the world. I could say that since I was 15 I pissed away so many opportunities because of insecurities, or ran off from every solid thing I ever had in search of kicks, or that even when I was out getting them, I held back or let those insecurities flood over me even then. I could, and some day’s I do feel like that, and I have to live with all of it, and that is enough to bring down any man.

So what holds me up then, what gets me out of bed in the morning, no matter what the mood, what makes me want to write like this to you? Here I am, alienated, mislead, lost, sentenced in a far corner, and yet have a desire to put down uplifting words to send out into the world. Maybe the answer then is right there. Maybe you don’t realize it, but when you sit down at your computer in the basement of your parents home, and play a piece of music I made for you once, sit down and write a little anecdote about how you’re sitting in your parent’s basement listening to a piece of music I made for you once, it makes me want to get up in the morning just that much more.

It’s the rainy season here, but sometimes when the sun is setting out over the ocean its rays get in under the clouds and light them up all gold and red. I am always at work at that time, and if I have a moment I like to step outside and maybe have a smoke and watch the light disappear. I always feel more collected when I step back in. This is what I am getting at.

All of our self defeating enterprises aside, what I want to share with you are just that these are the moments that somehow keep us going. They are moments that don’t have much worth in the world, but they are the only reason I have the strength or the courage to write this. It’s where dreams come from, where ideas are born. Take a little time and ask yourself that in these past years, have you not, aside from all the things you could say to dismiss them, learned a little, enjoyed a moment here and there, shared with another, and made someone’s step a little lighter?

Associations

What is it about those evenings, when darkness wraps the world like a blanket, the cold seems to fade away, and a wave of contentment seems to wash over the world?

I have always associated this feeling with Christmas holidays, soft snow, trees wreathed in light, and family or friends. How is it then that on occasion, these evenings manifest on rain soaked July nights in the tropics?

I was invited to join some friends for lunch at their house up in the mountains above Granadilla. A curtain of rain and mist had long obliterated the volcanic peaks and jungle tapestries up above, bringing nights fall without even ever acknowledging the passing of the day. The rain fell soft and unrelenting, yet standing out back overlooking the smudged lights of the city, that cocoon of comfort enveloped my being. Of course, recognizing it, and with associations of Christmas drifting through my consciousness, my question surfaced, and remained, even as I enjoyed the moment of ease.

I am in no way about to attempt to answer my self imposed question here and now. Rather, I simply hope to gather in the ingredients, so to speak, and bear witness to a moment of gladness.

Mayhem y comidas Francesas

Strange ramblings on Saturday afternoons. I have had beer deliveries, server emergencies, and queesh so far today. My coffee maker being broken left me no recourse but to resort to improvisation of extreme measure. The aperatus involves left over chinese take out containers and paper towel, which to my delight produces quite a paletable cup of coffee.

Now with my beer delivery come and gone, and the french girls hijacking the television set, I find myself drawn to a little creative writing. There was a small emergency at work involving the server acting strangely. Truthfully I have no idea whatsoever of what that means but with a few phone calls and some light investigation of my own I think the issue has at least been documented to the point of credibility. The queesh, leftovers from some cultural engagement of the french, was delicious, complimenting the coffee well.

An interesting documentary was playing earlier focusing on an individual who had suffered complete amnesia and on awakening began to document his experiences interacting with a life of which everything was completely new. Que interesante. How do you spell queesh? It just doesn’t look right. I’m avoiding my girl; not really sure why. I was supposed to attend a BBQ up in Ebais de Granadilla but the rain may have put a halt to that plan. It’s cold enough here, never mind up on the mountain.

So maybe the beer delivery has loosened my tongue. In my mind thoughts swirl… can I publish this to the blogosphere and still run for office one day? Paranoia? Perhaps it was the 12 hours of sleep from last night. Perhaps it was the queesh. How do you spell that? I’m really upset at my Breakfast posting which refuses to take page breaks or proper spacing. I have edited that thing over and over in hopes that magically it will come to its senses, but no. I’ll keep you posted.

Monday Afternoon

Strange how the days blur like a photo from a train or a wind ripping clouds to tatters.

Full Moon Musings

There is something really dangerous about sitting down to write with nothing really in mind. Back in Ann Greer’s English class it was often encouraged and sometimes required. Through the years, it’s one of those things I’ve dabbled with, and reading back, has yielded much dribble and at least a few spotless moments of clarity. So here I am, perhaps, about to embark on a citation of the line between dribble and clarity.

Many of the notes I have scribbled, in maddeningly ever changing scrawl, came out as attempts to capture a feeling, an optimism, or a despairing of the world within. I can be honest in saying that writing of the world without is a new endeavour in which I am very much a novice. It is a very liberating experience although one which still leaves me grappling with consistency.
In recent weeks I have logged some serious hours casual blog hopping and followed related links through to some interesting, thought provoking, and sometimes whimsical sites. It seems the interchange of ideas though the written word is thriving in the .world, and I am certain I have only just begun to tap the surface.

As for the line between dribble and clarity, I have only regrets for anything I have ever torn up, tossed away, or deleted, even if it was something I would never have shared here in .world.

Breakfast Leanings of the Stubborn Mind

I've had this penchant for breakfast sandwiches for years. It's not just the sandwich that attracts me, but the act of creation, the layers, the nuances, something more than the sum of its parts.

My interest in the subject began almost subconsciously during high school where i often frequented greasy spoon diners on late morning recovery projects. In a state of grace that comes only from a long night of drinks, philosophy, mischief, and experimentation, the transformation of the breakfast special into an Italian Panini certainly involved deep seated creative urges allowed to manifest and run free. These were experiments in minimalism, working with limited materials, the occasional (and preferred) side of tomatoes often tipping the balance on my bill.

As years flew by, and I moved into kitchens of my own, the breakfast sandwich has had some crowning and triumphant moments. The discovery and addition of the Avocado, for instance, has had drastic implications on the chemical and spectral makeup of my creations. Some years of vegetarian leanings behind me, I developed a healthy dependency on sizzling bacon as a central building block. Hailing from the dying days of the the sign of Taurus, I remain stubborn and committed to certain traditions and personal taste. A central one, critical to this train of thought, is my loyalty to scrambled eggs. As a child I vaguely recall the expectation of a sunnyside up breakfast, or cracking the top off a soft boiled wonder, but somewhere along the way my tastes narrowed and what emerged was a fierce commitment to the scramble. I have come so far as to abhor the sight of a runny yoke.

On reflection, one thing surprises me above all else. Growing up in a household with a firm belief in whole grains, leafy greens, and organics, white enriched sliced bread was a foreign and exotic treat. Over the years since I have come into the world having to provide for myself, I have, at times, tread down the paths of processed food, and much as morning fare with whole grain toast is a central part of many a missed sunrise, white toast, thick sliced, continues to hold a central place as a cornerstone of of a grand breakfast spread.

A great deal of planning and preparation can be put in or omitted in the crafting of a breakfast sandwich. All that is really required is a little creativity, a bottomless cup of coffee, and a little time free of any pressing appointments, engagements, or deadlines to cut the experience short.

Notes

07/15/07

More self exile. I had some company at least to keep me grounded. Oh misery, the symptom of the lonely and the needy. No news today, just bad movies, football, and sex. Not such a bad way to spend a Sunday. Brazil, that power house from the days where the world of football was hidden from me like the ancient volcanoes out there in the clouds, defeated Argentina 4-0 in the Copa America finals.

I may be on the verge of a very dire emergency. My cigarette stash is down to one. My sensibilities don’t suggest any trip to the disco, but the night is still young.

These are dangerous times, with only myself for company, with time to dwell on the past, think on the future, lament, fantasize, distort my sober reality just a little more. Warning lights should be going off all around. I’ve hit the road before. It won’t be the last time.

I took a BMW 523, 1997 model sedan for a test drive the other day. The beast got into me. It’s like driving a couch, a couch with six cylinders, and fuel injection. I don’t claim to know much about cars, but I know what I like. What I didn’t expect was the little feeling that crept in later when I considered the consequences. Imagine a busted broke, illegal, half crazy Canadian kid, driving around this country with a surf board sticking out the side window in a luxury sedan. It might be the end of me. The word that came to mind was conspicuous. I have never been comfortable with that word. What a comfortable ride. These are dangerous times.

Here I am, late into a Sunday evening, thinking about the effects of buying an overpriced, gas guzzling, wood paneled wildebeest of an automobile, and yet a few minutes before I sat down to write this I was thinking about packing it in and heading home. As if I’ve never let misery creep in with the mist before, like the pits of self pity are foreign to me. As if hunting for the coyote was a new theme in my life.

Notes

07/14/07

I’ve imposed self exile in this top floor vista on a Saturday. Events of the day include, shower, coffee, bacon and eggs, cigarettes, FIFA U20, U.S. vs. Austria in Toronto, Copa America consolation final from Venezuela, Mexico vs. Uruguay.

Some top security official from Washington has a “gut feeling” about pending terrorist attacks। Did I mention hours of flipping back and forth between CNN and CNN en Espanol? For those of you unfamiliar with the latter, the difference leaves one wondering at the affiliation. Rantings by Jeff Beck, half understood spotlights on South American mercenaries in Iraq, and “top stories” which leave the mind somewhat slower to react than before.

The day eases by and its time now to start thinking of Saturday night. Sitting under the TV case is an untouched Tom Robbins novel which tempts me. The People vs. Larry Flint is on…

I feel a little like it must feel to be a caged animal in some foreign zoo, out of place, unfamiliar animal behaviour all around....

I need to find the coyote.