Back in the USA

Thanks to everyone who enjoyed my blog. I'm back in the USA now and starting med school at UC Irvine. We'll be in touch.
-Tommy

Home invasion and final days in Maz

The bed bugs and other little insect roommates I had were once easy to deal with. I used to make myself feel better about my Mazatlan living situation by saying, "Well, they're not biting me or getting into my food, so they're not bothering me any." But what, pray tell, am I to do now that this is no longer the case?
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The transexual prostitutes here parade on the boardwalk at night. They like to drum up business by pulling up their skirts and bending over. I'm always riding pretty fast on my bike, so I can never tell exactly what they're packing south of the border. But one day, maybe, if I'm ever really lonely...
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I heard a clicking noise in my apartment and turned around to see a hermit crab inching across my apartment floor. When I picked him up and stared at him all I could think of was the line from The Little Mermaid when Sebastian is teaching Ariel how to kiss, and, in a French accent of course, he says, "You've got to puckah yah lips, like dis."
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I had a home invasion happen to me, but not the robbery kind, more a home invasion of termites. I heard what sounded like buzzing coming from my bathroom wall. When I tapped on the wall I could feel that it was hollow (meaning they had been there for a long, long time) and the more I tapped the louder and angrier this nest became.

So I kicked the wall in after checking with my landlady, sort of. I mean I really did check with her, but she said a whole bunch of shit in Spanish that I didn't really understand. I think it was Spanish stuff about proper and logical ways to deal with termite problems such as mine. But all I heard was, "You're only in this country for two more weeks, smash this this fucking wall in and spray these fuckers 'til kingdom come." So that's what I did. I prepared my can of ultra-poisonous insecticide, and the second my can of tomato sauce went through that wall ('cause that's what I used, dammit) those little fuckers started scurrying and flopping and flying everywhere. For twenty minutes I was the judge, jury and executioner, and I nuked the whole lot of 'em. All sorts of pent up aggression and rage were taken out on this colony of termites.

But, the Mexi Insecticide Spray was so fucking toxic that I swear I started tasting sounds and hearing colors. So on top of the termite issues, I had to spend the next half hour lying in the sand outside and taking deep breaths of sea air, trying to clear the blood out of my lungs.
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I was hanging out with a group of acquaintances, and I asked about the whereabouts of another acquaintaince. Response? From one of her girlfriends: "Oh, she couldn't come out tonight, she's having menstrual cramps." [making a rubbing motion around the belly area for emphasis] Wow, thanks for the information.
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Today at the Mazatlan airport (while picking up Ada "Momma" Hand, the keenest bitch in the kennel) I saw a gringo get off the plane and walk across the International Arrival Terminal towards a beautiful Mexican girl waiting for him. He was fidgeting with his wedding ring, rather anxiously. Lucky for him, he successfully removed the ring by the time the girl (sans ring) ran up to him, jumped in his arms and planted firm, Latin, open-mouthed kisses right on his boca.
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I can tell tourism has taken a sharp downturn here in the last few months because I'm getting scammed much more than before. Now I actually have to count my change and look at the cashier sometimes (it happened twice today...TODAY!) and say, "Really? What do you take me for?"

To which their replies are something like, "Oh geez, I pressed the wrong button on the cash register, whoops. Here's your change."
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I love it when a girl doesn't let you get anywhere on the first date. It almost makes you want to be a better man.
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...Almost.

My triumphant return to Mexico, US observations & more

I'm finally back in Mexico after a month in California. I'm here for one more month and then it's back to the States for good to prepare for med school and blah blah blah.

Here are some observations about our own culture that I noticed while I was back in the States for a month.

• Americans are fat
• America is rich as fuck. Disturbingly rich.
• Bluetooth headsets are the most ridiculous thing in the whole world. Since they slowly creeped their way into American society, I never really noticed how absurd they were until I went a couple months without seeing them. The take-home message? You're not that important. Take off your fucking bluetooth when walking through the Phoenix Sky Harbor Int'l Airport. No one cares that you can hold a briefcase and coffee while still talking on the phone. Your wife hates your guts and your children sniff markers while you're away on business.
• We have way too many laws in America.

Now let's get back to Mexico with observations and odd Mexi-Land happenings!

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There is a point at which it gets so hot that bananas actually burst open their peels and ooze out gunk all over the place. It would have been really messy, but luckily my ant roommates took care of most of the problem. Thanks, guys, you're the best. I hope you shared some with the fleas or bedbugs or whatever the fuck those things are that took up residence in my sheets while I was back in California.
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Yesterday I happened to be in the right place at the right time when a semi-truck went by. It was covered in political posters and pictures of this old guy running for office. This truck was covered in sound equipment. What song was blaring on the loudspeakers as it passed by? Oh, just a little ditty called "Low" by T-Pain.
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When MexiWomen pose for pictures, they pose like they're on the cover of Hot-Rod Magazine. They lean seductively over the nearest fence, wrap themselves like ivy around phone poles, and flash facial expressions that you know they've practiced in front of a mirror.

They'll do this even if its a picture with a bunch of friends at a club. One of the best sights to catch is a group of MexiGirls pausing for photo time at a club. Everything's normal until the count of "two," at which point each girl pivots into her own modesty-defying sexpot pose. By the count of "three" they all look feline enough to bear claws.

There is an alternate reality where life is made up of beer commercials. The place? Mexico, baby, Mexico.
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The word for jellyfish is not in my shitty Spanish-English dictionary, but I really wish it were.

I must have looked great to the Mexicans on the beach: see gringo; see gringo attempt to surf; see gringo flail his arms and legs wildly while screaming; see gringo peeling long multicolored strings off his arms, legs and torso. I felt like I was being electrocuted and set on fire at once because of these stupid fucking Portugues man-of-war jellyfish. In the end, I came out of the water looking like I wrapped myself in barbed wire and then jumped in a clothes-drier.

Still woosey and increasingly nauseous, I marched over to the lifeguard tower. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind for not putting up the white flag signifying jellyfish danger. What came out would be literally translated like this: "There are those things out there, in the water. You know, those things that look like octopus with long ropes that bite you, uh, they're clear, they look like ghosts, yeah, like water-ghosts! Look what those water ghosts did to me! Why didn't you put up the water-ghost flag?!" I don't think it was effective...probably because the lifeguard had no clue what I was talking about.

9 out of 10 narcoterrorists prefer Ed Hardy clothing

A week-long, city-wide party funded by drug money is just as wild as it sounds. ATVs with 22" Hummer wheels. Lifted trucks with suicide doors. Juniors (the rich-as-sin children of narcos) paying a 10-piece band the equivalent of a week's pay just so they can dance with their girlfriends in the middle of a crowded intersection, while their armed entourages block traffic. Puke, piss and trash everywhere. Mexican supermodels on the arm of every distant relative of a known narcotraficante. Uzi-armed police quietly looking on as people drive fast and drunk into crowds. The cops don't do much beyond directing traffic, in fear of pissing off the wrong junior from Culiacan. Unlike big debauches in the States, I didn't witness a single fight, probably because everyone knows that there's at least a few guns in every crowd. And everyone, everyone was wearing matching Ed Hardy hats, shirts and shorts.
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I was walking home the last night of the party at 6 AM, navigating my way around an impromptu lake in the middle of the street when some drunk junior asshole honked his horn and came roaring past in his truck, creating a tidal wave that crashed right onto me, soaking me from head to toe. I was paralyzed with disgust, until the smell kicked in and I realized that this street-lake was actually composed not of water but of piss, beer and god knows what else. I hailed the first cab back to my place. While I was getting in the cab and driving off, I saw the same junior dick making another lap of the lake to spray someone else, or maybe just to hydroplane for pure sport. I was shaking with rage by the time I got home to take a shower. It gave me a twisted, sadistic comfort to think that this schmuck lives everyday in fear of his father or himself dying in a flurry of drug violence. There is justice in the world.

MexiFungus: It's not as fun as it sounds

As far as public service announcements (PSAs), Mexico wins. There's a billboard PSA here for maternal health checkups that's just a huge picture of a woman breastfeeding, nipple and all. What's more, the drunk driving PSAs far surpass their American counterparts. Forget a fucking billboard! The Mexican authorities actually just towed a mangled car into the middle of a crowded intersection and left it there, with a sign that says, "Drinking and driving don't mix." And, saying this car looked "mangled" doesn't really do it justice; it looked like it was the centerpiece at a Transformers gangbang.
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So I developed my first MexiRash about a week ago. Yup, exactly where you think it is. I was hoping it'd go away, but after a week of it getting worse and worse I said, "Fuck it," and walked into a doctor's office. He said I had hongos from wearing a wet swimsuit all day for a few days (I had a string of beach days). I had to think of what hongos was, and then I remembered that it's the word for mushrooms. I didn't like the thought of growing mushrooms on my skin, so I bought all the medications he suggested. One doctor's visit, one tube of antibiotic cream, one package of antibiotic pills: US$8.00. There is something seriously wrong with the American medical system.

In related news, this MexiRash really makes me feel like one of the people, ya know?
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Speaking of bodily functions, Mexicans are way O.K. with just putting it all out in public. It's not uncommon to smell a fart in a bar, and for some cute girl to raise her hand and admit it was her. Weird.

I was chatting a girl up in a bar as the place was closing. My odds felt good, and my buddies were working on her friends. I suggested that we all go to the beach, to which she said, "O.K., that's great, but I can't go swimming because I'm on my period." I was taken aback because I know that's not a good excuse, and that is also not something an American guy is accustomed to hearing within a couple minutes of conversation with a girl.

Lions and tigers and...midgets?

So I awake from a nap to hear the sound of a pre-recorded lion roar—the kind you hear in movies—coming from outside my window. I'm already drafting the angry "Dear Mexico" letter in my head by the time I open my drapes to see what abomination just woke me up from my nap.

I'm immediately startled to see that the noise was not pre-recorded but was, in fact, a real motherfucking LION being wheeled in front of my house in a tiny cage. The cage was on a flatbed trailer next to other cages filled with pumas, tigers, monkeys and camels. Three semi-trucks' worth of cages crawled slowly through my front yard. Bookending these animal trucks were boxtrucks atop which stood bevvies of scantily clad women. I thought maybe they were representing the Mexican Bedazzler conglomerate, because they had seemingly been shotgun-sprayed with rhinestones and glitter. Someone was barking shit over a loudspeaker over and over—it was at this time I really wished my Spanish were better so I could figure out what the fuck was going on.

The coup-de-grace, you ask? Well, that must have been the final semi-truck, which had a sign on the side that said Circo Norteamericano (North American Circus). On the flat bed of this truck was a large cage, from which issued forth the most tremendous chorus of growls and barks. Jaw dropped in amazement, I saw a cage jam-packed with midgets in onesies, yelping and yowling like ravenous beasts, pawing at the air with imaginary claws.

Dear Mexico...
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I've been holding onto cabs and trucks while I'm riding my bike, just to save me all that pedaling. Yesterday I had my first "issue" with this practice.

I should have realized when the cabbie looked at me through his rear-view mirror with a maniacal grin that he was up to no good. He switched out of the curbside lane and, moving into the fast lane—usually used only by non-cabs—he picked up the speed to about 25 mph. While this is no speed record, it's really fucking fast to be holding onto a wobbly bike with one hand. Then I saw the truck.

Yes, the truck. The cabbie was trying to scrape me on the side of a Chevy pickup truck which he was about to pass on the left. Two seconds later, there I was smack dab in the middle between a truck and a cab, with two feet of space in which to maneuver one-handedly at 25 mph. Somehow, I managed to not hit the truck as we slid past it, and once in front of the truck I let go of the cab, told the cabbie in Spanish to go fuck his mother, and then coasted to the curb with my heart pounding in my throat and the adrenaline making me dizzy. This cabbie is the first genuinely evil man I have come across in my 5 weeks in Mexico.
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While the casinos here are completely without card, dice or table games of any sort—therefore rendering them shitty wastes of time—they are not without their perks. Just as with casinos in the States, you get waiters taking free drink orders. However, unlike in the States, they also give you bowls of pork rinds covered in hot sauce. In addition, if you put a cigarette in your mouth and wait about ten seconds, an employee will come light it for you. Now that's service!

MexiButts 101 & the Bizarre World of the Mexican Sex Trade

Heard over the loudspeaker at a strip club one Friday night:
Mr. Lopez Rubio, Mr. Lopez Rubio, your wife is making a scene at the front door of the club. She's crying and hysterical, and she knows you're here because she found your car outside. Please go deal with her, she's scaring away the customers. What? What's that? Oh, oh God. Mr. Lopez Rubio, she brought your children with her. She says they're not leaving until you come outside.
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A vagrant came up to me while I was using my computer outside a coffee shop one night. He was clearly trying to rob me, but I couldn't understand exactly what he was saying or threatening. I just kept saying, "Huh?"

He eventually dumbed it down thusly: "I want your computer, yours, this one right here."

But I wouldn't budge, "Huh? Talk slower please." After a couple minutes of this, he gave up and walked away, quite frustrated. I guess there's one benefit to being behind in my Spanish classes.
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American women have nothing, nothing on MexiWomen. Some scientist down here must be tinkering with human genetics, because everywhere you look there are women with impossibly narrow waists, stork-like stilts for legs, behemoth breasts and butts, oh, their butts. It's a good thing I'll be going to school in East LA for the next four years of my life.
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Speaking of MexiButts, there's a tradition here that's half party game and half rite of passage. It starts with MexiMen setting their beer bottles on their girlfriends' butts while the girls are standing upright. The girlfriends line up at a starting line and see how far they can walk without the beer bottles falling off their butt-shelves. Whoever gets the farthest is seen as the most desirable mate, and her boyfriend is more likely to ask for her hand in marriage. If your girlfriend performs particularly bad at the game, she's given a second chance at the starting line with another beer. If she does really poorly twice in a row, the man is encouraged to cheat on her.
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Taxicab drivers earn a commission that's equivalent to a full day's pay, just for taking you to a brothel.
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There's a special kind of taxicab in Mazatlan that doesn't exist anywhere else in Mexico. It's a cross between a golf cart and an African safari vehicle. Probably due to their open-air construction, they're called pulmonias, the Spanish word for pneumonia. I like to hold on to them while I'm riding my bike so I don't have to pedal. The drivers are pretty good-natured about this, even though they look at me like I have tits growing out of my eyesockets.