| Jesse Merriman Update |
[Jul. 8th, 2008|11:18 am] |
I visited Jesse in the Maricopa County Jail today, seeing him was good since he was overwhelmed to have a visitor. Inmates are alloted a certain number of hours per week they are allowed to take visitors, there's a few rules as well:
1) No more than 2 people may make a visit at any one time.
2) Visitors are allowed 1.5 hours per week to visit with inmates that can be broken down into 30 minute sessions. You are allowed to choose the length of the session when you sign in.
3) Inmates can have a total of 3 hours from visitors in local residence (in-county) and a total of 3 hours from visitors outside of the county.
4) Inmates can receive postcards, books (paperback), and direct deposits into an inmate account which he can spend on specialty food items while in jail.
I spent an hour talking with him and I'm happy to report that the photo you saw of him on the news report is nothing what he looks like now. He's lost over 70 pounds and dropping due to the food in the jail which he describes as what a Rwandan refugee would refuse to eat, and suffice to say he looks a little thinner than when I met him. He says his weight is still dropping and that he hasn't felt healthier in a long time, and he wanted me to let you all know that it's the worst health spa you'll ever go to until they put in the swim-up bar.
Jesse's hearing is on August 8th but there will not be a sentencing until roughly January or February due to the complexity of the case, so those of you who want to come up and support him are welcome to, however we aren't going to be able to approach him at all. Samantha, Kat and I will all be present and anybody who would like to come is welcome to park their car at our apartment complex.
He wanted you all to know that he was to have his brother update his Myspace and LiveJournal to let us all know what happened; however, Josh has yet to do this. He is allowed to make calls to house-lines only, no cell phones. On top of that, almost nobody here has a house-line phone. If they do he didn't remember the number, nor did he remember anyone's address to send them a letter either, so this is mostly him just wanting us to know that he has been trying to reach us for some time but has been unable to. It's a good thing Samantha called his mother to find out where he's been or we may not have known what happened to him for some time.
We talked of many things, joked around some, and also touched on the hours leading up to the incident. He was two months behind on rent nearly, had paid off January's rent but owed late fees out the ass for February's rent. His car had been broken into and disabled costing him nearly 1500 dollars, and forcing him to rent a car temporarily as well. He had been turned down for multiple bank loans after getting fired from his job, and India had also lost her job as well on top of all this. He said it was a bit of an out of body experience and that doesn't explicitly remember it happening, although he has dreams of it often and struggled with mild anxiety attacks during his first month after being booked as a result. He's still in shock that he carried out the act, to say the least. When I asked him where he got the knife he used he said it was a knife he kept in his trunk that he would use to cut his sandwiches at work. He also wanted to let us know that he made the decision not to come to us for help as he wanted to solve this problem himself, but got way in over his head and committed an act of pure desperation and a slip of mental stability. As of right now he is working on getting therapy through the jail system (which he admits he's always needed but never got since he was prided on being intelligent) and is currently on excellent behavior which will reflect in his sentencing. We discussed the possibility of pleading insanity but he isn't legally allowed to until he has a psychologist perform a mental evaluation on him.
Jesse sends his love and thoughts to all of you, and if you have the time to pay a visit head up to my place in Phoenix and I'll take you down there. |
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| New Car Smell |
[Mar. 7th, 2008|11:57 am] |
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I need a new place. Anybody willing to take 300 bucks from me in rent and utilities for a room or a corner? |
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| U-Turns |
[Feb. 9th, 2007|10:55 am] |
Ladies and Gentleman,
Today I write to inform you I just became someone who I absolutely loathe.
Most of you are University of Arizona students either current, previous, or graduated. At some point during your time at the University you have no doubt been approached by a complete stranger who asks you "Do you have time to answer a few questions?" Today, I was that guy.
Recently a study was released that threw up warning signals of grade inflation in North American Universities. In the 1960s getting an "A" grade in a class required exceptional work, participation, and dedication from any particular student. The "A" grade supposedly used to report the real top 10% or elite of any given classroom, and only given to students truly deserving of it. This point is undoubtedly debatable, but for the sake of simplification and understanding, let's assume it to be an absolute truth. In America since the 1980s, there has been a marked increase of students receiving grades of "A" or "B". Normally one might assume that this is a sign of improved teaching methods, increased transportation of information via the ever-expanding internet, improved technologies, etc. However, one psychologist (whose name has escaped me) says that these are actually trends pointing to grade-inflation: that getting an "A" has since been devalued and is continuing to lose value over time. Getting an "A" can be different from teacher to teacher, and within the context of each course can have a completely different connotation. Simply put, an "A" isn't what an "A" used to be.
Today my Psychology Lab was asked to create a survey and find 20 individuals on campus and ask them questions about their GPA, how much it means to them, grade expected to receive in a given class, and so forth to see if this study could be applicable to the University of Arizona. Although only 260 individuals in total between every member of my Lab class isn't enough to draw any definite conclusions, collecting the data might provide some insight, and besides - it's for a grade.
Immediately after setting foot on the mall I knew that every single person I approached had this sudden sense of "Oh please, not this" or, "Am I getting robbed" or in the case of one girl who actually ran away from me at breakneck speed, "Please no, I don't want to be raped". I'm sure most of you have been approached by some guy or another and asked, "Do you have a few minutes for the environment?" Why, yes, yes I do...but not for you. You're just an asshole. Asshole. In fact, the University is teeming with surveyors asking exactly that question, "Do you have a few minutes for the environment?" The University is the proverbial honeycomb for this hive of annoying, prickish environmentalists who guilt trip you into making donations, or coming to a meeting, or answering a "short" survey that actually takes something of 20 minutes.
In total it took me an hour to collect all the information I needed, and I was thankful when it was over. Everything was pretty much run of the mill "get it over with" mentality students, and I'm certain the only reason I got all of my data as quickly as I did was that I began approaching students who were sitting down. Yes, the human population here at the University is so astonishingly lazy that they would rather put up with my bullshit survey than get up off of their asses and walk away from me. Even one guy who let out a nervous laugh and buried his hands in his face answered my questions through his own fucking fingers.
I approached a couple who were handing out condoms for the farmer's market here on campus in a "Wrap it up" campaign for Campus Health. The girl was regularly dressed with a "Wrap it up" button on her shirt depicting a cartoon purple condom over a fully erect phallus with shining smile and a thumbs up. Her parter, who I never actually saw was a man dressed in a gigantic penis outfit covered in a condom. They agreed to answer my questions, and the survey was completed rather quickly. I thanked them for their time, and walked past them. The most ironic moment of all of this is that the second I got past them the penis-man said, "Huh...well that was random."
Not as random as surveying a fucking gigantic penis. A gigantic penis wearing a condom.
Fuck. |
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| Another year, another mile. |
[Nov. 29th, 2006|03:46 am] |
It's the 22nd chapter of this epic adventure, "Ben Travis".
Thanks for reading the story thus far. |
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| Quick Pit Stop |
[Nov. 10th, 2006|11:33 am] |
Elections are over, Democrats won the House, and the Senate.
This means that the Democrats can "hire lawyers and detectives; they can subpoena documents and compel witnesses to testify under oath; they can mount show trials - or real trials - subjecting wrong-doings to torment under the glaring klieg lights of the world media." (quoted from Bartcop.com)
Finally. On another note, not a single incumbent Democrat lost their seat in the Senate. Not even one person. Has that ever happened before? Even in history? Anyone wanna dig up info on that for me?
Maybe as a country we can actually get shit done in the next two years. Have you seen the pictures of G.W. within the last day or so? He looks bitter as hell, *and* Donald Rumsfeld finally fucking resigned. Bush's White House-o-cards is tumbling down on top of him and now we have the power to call him out on his stupid shit.
Let's just hope the Democrats can finally man up, grow some balls and fucking flex their muscle to do things right for a change. If having control over both the House of Representatives and the Senate isn't enough I can pretty much give up on Democracy. |
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| Hydroplaning |
[Oct. 9th, 2006|03:46 pm] |
I just got home from a Quiz today in Jazz History, and I figured I'd update on the status of my classes this semester. I can certainly say that it is a relief to be back in school on the whole, but I am very dissatisfied with my courses thus far this semester.
My first class of the week is Jazz History, taught by a man named Keith Pawlak (hereafter referred to only as 'Keith'). Keith is, for lack of a better term, competely and utterly incompetent as a professor. During the evenings he works for the University of Arizona as an archivist for their Classical Jazz collection, and during the day he teaches one class, three days a week. This is the class I share with Dan Lavelle, who interestingly enough used to be a class-mate of Keith's a couple years back. As an instructor, the man is wholely disorganized -- ironic considering he's a fucking ARCHIVIST -- and has absolutely no rhyme or reason to how he presents information in class. Moreover, he doesn't prepare even himself for the quizzes. They're usually short, 10 question quizzes with two listening sections that are two questions each. The other 6 questions of the test are on material covered in class. The thing is, they could be on absolutely anything Keith presents to us. Anything. We get no warning on what sections he's going to be covering, or which periods he's going to discuss. The man is quoted on literally saying "Listen to the following 10 songs in preperation for the next quiz (a list is provided on the projector) and read up on everything we've discussed since the last quiz." Wow, thanks a lot Keith. I am oh so joyful that I get to sift through literally 30-40 artists and their complete histories in order to answer one fucking question on a 10 question quiz. Moreover, the man contradicts himself probably twice a week, the most famous example of which occured a couple weeks ago. The topic was Swing Music and he mentioned in class that the beginning of what is now called the "Swing Era" began on September 4th, 1927 when Duke Ellington and His Orchestra landed a spot at The Cotton Club. One week after, we are going over the history of Benny Goodman (a famous Jazz Clarinet performer) and says the following, "He became real popular in 1931, and this is the beginning of the Swing Era." Thanks again Keith, thanks for not fucking me bigtime or anything. This came up on today's Quiz by the way. Yes, I answered the question wrong, I went with Duke Ellington because gee, THAT'S WHAT HE FUCKING SAID. I get fine grades on the rest of the work for the class, just not the quizzes. I long for the C grade in the class that I'll inevitably have so I can rid myself of that sad excuse for a college course. Keith isn't fit to teach even a High School Course.
On Tuesdays I start with Greek Art and Architecture, which I enjoy since it sort of feeds the intellectual half of me, but there's certainly a mountain of notes and a lot of material to cover. I can probably pull off a B in this course if I buckle down and study a little extra, but overall I am pleased with this class despite having so much reading for it. After that I go straight to Statistics, which for some reason is required for my degree. I've never been much of a Math person, and this class is absolutely no exception. It's going to be the hardest C I'll ever earn, and I can't wait to get it out of the way as well so that I don't have to worry about any more math courses until I have my Bachelors. I have a two hour break inbetween Statistics and my final course of the day, Psychology. I really, really do enjoy my Psychology course. I understand the material, the reading is always interesting and enaging, and the classes aren't too unbearable to sit through. We review all the things we'll need before every test, and study guides are provided online to outline what material the teacher is and isn't allowed to put on the quiz. There's a lot of reading for this course, and it has sort of a weird format. I could definitely get an A if I pull off all of the extra credit assignments since I've missed some of the in-class assignments, but overall I do like this course and really, it's the only reason I even show up for school on Tuesdays.
My schedule has me in Jazz History on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and the other three courses I have on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays are free and usually I just play video games and do homework during this time. I have a very comfortable life right now, so overall things could be worse, but I am dissapointed that I haven't been able to enter into the University of Arizona and just ace all of my courses. I've been talking with some friends about it and have advised me to not stress too much on it, and just get my grades and move on to more interesting courses. I've skipped some of my classes this semester, but so far I've been able to get all the notes I need to preapre for quizzes and study them properly. The only class that actually affects me in is Jazz History, but that's thanks to Keiths complete and utter inability to not only teach a class, but write a damn test. This guy didn't even have the test made the day before he gave the thing. That's how bad it actually is. Overall I can expect 2-B's and 2-C's, this semester, but I can do slightly better considering I've had an incredibly difficult start.
Next semester will be much better since I'll have these pre-req courses out of the way and can move on to classes I actually want to be in. |
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| Two Flat Tires |
[Aug. 22nd, 2006|12:20 pm] |
I'm going to jot an update while I wait for my next class to start.
As of this moment, August 22nd, 2006, at exact 12:21:48PM, I want to cut both of my legs off.
I'm fairly certain I tore a muscle in my right foot yesterday when I misstepped off a stairway and purchased a facial from the pavement. It was painful and sore yesterday, I then proceeded to limp over to Samantha's house, do yard work with a lot of heavy lifting for a couple hours, and go home. When I got home it felt like the entire right side of my foot had large metal spikes impaling it so I took some Ibuprofen, iced it, wrapped it up a bit and sat it up on my desk for a couple hours.
I woke up this morning, and my foot felt completely fine...that is, until I walked on it. It felt worse than it did yesterday, and I had to get up early to walk to classes. So I limped all the way to class today. I was making my way down Third Street -- a popular bike path -- and heard tires sliding on the road. I look over and see a guy go face first over the handlebars (wearing no helmet, mind you) and face-plant the asphalt. He didn't roll, or tumble. In fact, his legs flew up in the air behind him as his face hit the ground and counter-balanced his forward momentum. He stopped for a brief moment, legs in air as he slammed the road. It was almost as if he was balancing there purposely to show off for a second, and then his legs came slamming down unceremoniously on the pavement behind him. I dropped my bag and hobbled over and helped him up. Blood flushed out his nose and he groaned. I helped him over to the sidewalk to sit down, and picked his bike up and walked it near him, leaning it up against a "Pedestrian Crossing" sign. He sat there, bleeding, swearing to himself under his breath, and clutched his stomach. That seemed odd to me since the full force of impact hit his face and left his mid-drift completely unharmed, but I wasn't about to ask him why. I asked him if he was alright or needed me to knock on a door and ask for the phone. He seemed irritated at the idea and grunted at me a couple times, but seemed thankful I helped him out of the road all together. I asked him one last time if he would like me to get him something or get help but he shooed me off like a fly and kept groaning, so I bid him good luck and started limping again. It sort of took my mind of the fire burning in my right foot for the next ten minutes, so you could say I was morbidly thankful for the experience.
I'm not one to dramatize pain since I have a pretty high threshold, but I'll admit that I'm genuinely worried if something else is wrong with my foot or not. I think I'll go crazy from the pain if I have to put up with walking 6 lights to class, and 6 lights home on it five days a week for the next two weeks. I was really hoping it would be better by today. I took some Ibuprofen on the way out the door today, but I haven't noticed a difference with or without it. I guess I feel better knowing I'm trying to do something about it though. Which brings me to my next question:
Does anyone have a class at 9am/3pm on Tuesday/Thursday, or at 2pm/3pm on Monday/Wednesday/Friday? I'd be certainly thankful if I can get even a one-way trip to or from campus from anyone around these times. I was planning on just manning it out full-time, but before my last class I stopped by a bathroom, went into one of the stalls, and took off my shoe. On the right side of my ankle it looked bruised and was a little swollen, and I don't want it to get too much worse. If you can help me get in contact with me by responding here or send me an e-mail at btravis@email.arizona.edu. If not that's fine, I can just deal with it.
I sure am oh so joyful in my little heart of hearts that I get to deal with this and I mean that in the most sarcastic way imaginable. |
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| Full Speed Down the Autobahn |
[Jul. 14th, 2006|12:25 am] |
I've spent the last week and a half wondering how things are going to come crashing down. To be perfectly honest, far too much has gone right for me lately and I'm beginning to wonder if this is some kind of cruel joke or if I'm actually getting a break for once. There were points where I feared that once again I would be stuck in the same routine I had fallen into for the last couple semesters, battered and beaten down by a cold and unforgiving system. Thus far I've managed to bear through it with gritted teeth.
As many of you know I've been stuck in a horrendous routine of living 'paycheck-to-paycheck' for the last year and a half, and somehow I've been pitied by a greater power (or favored, though I'm positive it's the prior) and pushed forward in life. July 30th marks my final day of work at Blackjack Pizza and of manual labor in general for the foreseeable future; however, as much as I enjoy working *with* the people that I do, I do not enjoy working *for* the company that I do. If it weren't for my co-workers I would have quit that job long, long ago. Thankfully the funds appropriated to me by the government will pay for my living expenses, tuition and books, and have plenty leftover -- to put it plainly, I am financially bullet-proof come August.
I dare say, I've had a very full summer. Between the final battle with the University of Arizona Admissions Office, news of Ferrin's engagement with her boyfriend, my Mother's return to the States under less than savory circumstances and other various episodes, I feel content that I have not wasted a single moment of my time with no regrets for anything or anyone. Listless and comfortable, I find myself finishing up my time at my current job and just falling into a day to day routine of talking with my friends and family and revisiting a lot of my old vices: Super Mario RPG, Chrono Trigger, Phantasy Star II/IV and soon Final Fantasy III (as soon as I remember to ask Aaron for the cartridge). At this point I'm essentially biding my time, paying close attention to my friends -- closer than they think, at least -- and contemplating about the next year back at school, though I try not to look too far into that. For now however, I'm going to enjoy the small measure of peace with nary an objection. |
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| First Green Light for Miles |
[Jun. 1st, 2006|01:58 am] |
I've once again decided to update my Journal. I never update in anything resembling a timely manner these days.
For the seventh time this semester, I've completed my paperwork for the University of Arizona. The process was arduous but I am confident that things will go smoothly for the rest of the summer. Why you may ask? Today, I spent some time "on the phone" with the Dean of Admissions for the University of Arizona. As most of you are well aware I am without cell-phone, or house-line telephone devices, so I resorted to using the Sprint Online Relay services for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing in order to place my call. I used to work as an operator for this very service so I am incredibly familiar with the system and lingo and get past pretty much all of the acid tests that operators give their callers to assure that it is not some snot-nosed brat trying to prank call their system and force the operator to spew obscenities that they are bound by contract to say despite their values and/or beliefs. Looking back I took very few genuine calls, and ended up getting in incredibly frivolous conversations that the caller would make to -themselves-. At one point the person on the other line started talking about how their Halo 2 Tournament turn-outs had been locally and he worked out over the next hour -- with himself mind you, I only repeated every word he sent directly to me -- that his long-range game needed work and that his only real strategy was playing with weapon combos since it was the most practice he had done over X-Box Live.
I've decided that in the future, all business calls I make will be placed using this service for a short but very integral list of reasons:
A) Calls can be placed to anywhere in the country, from anywhere in the country. Essentially I can cheat using free long distance.
B) Most major establishments such as banks, educational services, and all government establishments are aware of the existence of this service and it's purpose. Any call placed through the service deemed worthy of processing by the operator will be received and placed ahead of normal callers at the discretion of whoever is receiving your call.
C) The person on the other line will assume that you are deaf or blind, and thus give you preferential treatment as options available to you (such as lowered payment plans for credit cards) as well as treat you with more courtesy than ever thought possible by modern American customer service. This service doesn't work well with Indian-manned Windows Tech Support lines however, as they're too overworked and underpaid to give two shits who's calling.
I ended up on the phone for a couple of hours talking to peons, then being transferred to supervisors, then being transferred to the trainers of those supervisors, and eventually I was patched over to the Dean when I had cut through the entire available hierarchy playing hardball. The following conversation occurred between my operator and the Dean. I am typing everything said to the operator.
"Hello this is Deloris (somethingorother Spanish-sounding like Grijalva or Rodriguez) how may I help you?"
"Yes my name is Benjamin Travis and I'm calling concerning ongoing problems with my application to your institution."
"How do you spell that?" (I tell the operator to spell my name out to her).
"One moment...yes it says here that you didn't turn in a transcript from your classes taken over at Pima Community College and that you need to get those in as soon as you can."
"See Deloris, that's just the thing. I sent those papers in on February 25th and called to confirm their arrival in your offices. You have those papers."
"No Mr. Travis I'm showing that we never received any of these documents from you. They should be turned in so that the advisers can make a decision."
"Deloris, are you telling me that my paperwork has been lost? This has happened three times in the past Deloris, having encountered difficulty with your Admissions department I've become rather irritated."
"Yes I'm seeing three yellow tags on your files here Benjamin and we apologize for the inconvenience-"
"Mr. Travis."
"Right Mr. Travis, but we have no record of receiving these documents."
"So my paperwork has been lost or mishandled, again?"
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, you did. You said you never received it, I said that I called and confirmed that you had. You are telling me that they are lost?"
"No I'm saying we never received them."
"No you did, remember I called and got confirmation that you did, they were either lost or your employee lied directly to me. I'll assume that with no motive to lie to me, they were lost, correct?"
"...more than likely."
"Yeah."
Game.
Blouses.
After debating back and forth and explaining the last three attempts to register at their school (all three times mind you having yielded similar problems) she agreed that she would process my application without a new transcript since I have not taken classes since I started trying to register at the University of Arizona. The only catch was that I needed to turn in an updated transcript, which at the measly cost of $5.00 were sent over there post-haste directly to her office. By the way, thanks for taking me out to do that so quickly on such short notice Isaiah. It helps far more than you know.
My job will probably maintain at Blackjack Pizza for the remainder of the Summer at this rate since I am no longer eligible to go back to work for the University, but I intend to work a boring desk job for Work Study at first opportunity in the Fall Semester. In case some of you were wondering, I'll be working on my Pre-Med requirements, studying for my MSAT, and majoring in Psychology with a Minor in Music Performance. Yes, I will be playing Cello routinely again next semester. I would love to go back to the Symphony.
I've also made a new friend over the summer, and I've enjoyed my time spent with them and talking to them thoroughly. It's strange how people just sorta come out of nowhere isn't it? I'm looking forward to getting to know more about them!
I've been in a better mood than I have been for the last week or so and for once work doesn't seem so bad. I haven't felt this positive about everything going on for me since October. Having everything taken care of grants this odd sense of peace that, while it only lasts a short time, makes everything -- my shitty job, my shitty time with the U of A, and my shitty, shitty luck with people -- seem worthwhile. For once I don't have to worry about anything and I can focus clearly on what's in front of me. Sure, there's still things to be taken care of such as my Credit Card bill and my old Hospital bills...but you know? Pretty much anyone has a little debt, and in the grand scale, $1,850 isn't that hard to make.
Bring it on, bitches. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 1st, 2006|11:45 pm] |
(Insert requisite comment about time passed between entries)
I intend to give all of you a full update on my life and philosophies as of today.
Academically speaking, between the last two entries I have not progressed a single bit. The bureaucracy of the University of Arizona provides enough frustration for one to deal with. Long have I heard Greek Bards sing tales of the unfounded hostility and neigh deadly encounters with receptionists at the University of Arizona Admissions office, but there was once a time where I believed these things to be myths -- tales told by those who would buckle under the slightest bit of weight from "the system" and run from the encounter unharmed with their tails pressed between their legs.
"Pussies" if you will.
I have since seen the wisdom of their words and I am left with a feeling of irrevocable hatred for my former self, so misguided and uninformed. Had I heeded their warnings I might have avoided this pit trap, but here I lie impaled at the bottom reaching feebly towards the open sky, shadows slowly swallowing the last of the daylight. The crush of defeat from their system feels so absolute, so final, that it were scribed in the universe as if there was no other logical or possible outcome but this.
With gritted teeth, I accept my defeat.
I have since corrected my previous errors and took some time to investigate the mistakes I had made these last couple of semesters. I have procured the correct paperwork (printed in color 'Canary') and filled out what information I need to rectify my previous applications. I am equipped with the correct financial information to provide myself with funding for the next five months of school beginning in August, and 'lo, I shall herald a new age.
I find myself left with a longing to return to my musical roots, but my focus on medicine has not yet changed. I still feel the same drive to push myself forward into the field but I do not wish to sacrifice my previous talents. This will require preparation and practice but I expect to be in the full swing of things playing Cello again in the next six months. By throwing myself back into my academic career I think I can put a little more regulation on my day-to-day activities. As it stands, it's a pretty dreary routine.
On Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays I am still working at Blackjack Pizza. After holding conference with Albert I've come to the realization that it's hard to get out of a routine once you're in it. Terrance has made vague references about wanting me to do managing at another store when I've spoken with him but I get a horrible feeling in my gut that if I took that kind of position I would force myself into the job even further and find it much more difficult to pull myself out. I am looking for another job but admit that my search is very, very light. Boiling it down, I more or less look for employment at the random shops I stop at during the day. This will simply not do. The job I need to hold has to allow me to work at a computer and allow me to homework when I need to. The problem is that most jobs in general commerce won't allow that, which places my desired field in a job at the University of Arizona. More specifically, going back to what I used to do for Conference Serves working the desks. A problem arises in that I cannot work for them unless I am a current student at the University of Arizona, which makes my getting accepted and signed up for classes next semester all the more imperative. Failure to do so may very well push through my final barrier, and I could very well snap. Needless to say, I may come to the point where I need to quit my current job in order to force myself into working much harder towards finding another. This sounds a little unusual, but when you've done the same routine for well over a year it's incredibly hard to break. Just due to the fact that I have a job that carries a paycheck, finding another job -- despite how badly I must bring myself to do it -- is another task entirely since it's hard to give up what you've already got. Even for the prospect of something better, and more accommodating. So here I am, stuck in this loop that I've yet to pull myself out of. The irony of the situation has left me feeling rather "plum"; in the traditional English sense of the word. It's not a matter of "if" what I've proposed will happen, it's a matter of when. It is imminent. The urgency begs for me to pick up the red phone.
I've also learned a few things in the past few days. For example, just today I went out to lunch with Samantha. I hadn't seen her in a long time, and the beautiful thing about the time we share is that no matter how much time passes, we always come together and work with the exact same chemistry and we get along famously. I won't lie, we've had our ups and down and share of trouble, but it's that core of the relationship that has never -- and I hope -- will never change. Isaiah's return from Orvieto proved this to be true as well. I digress. I ran into an old friend while Samantha and I were out, and a rather infamous one at that: Casandra Skidmore.
Now I'm not sure what most of you have heard about this particular lady but if you don't know all the details then I'm afraid you'll just have to understand what I am getting at, rather than what you are reading.
Samantha and I made a stop at America's Best Yogurt (which is oddly enough, not America's Best Yogurt™ but pretty damn tasty) after finishing lunch for a treat. Samantha mentioned that the girl we walked by on our way into the shop was Casandra, and I made a few awkward glaces to try to confirm what she was saying. You know, the kind where there's absolutely nothing blocking your immediate view but you sort of get on your tip toes and lean some way or another in order to get a "better look" as if not to draw attention, yet plainly obvious? Yep, it was Casandra. I sort of grinned to myself at the situation and got my treat: Plain Vanilla and Dinosaur Sprinkles. The dinosaurs seem to make the sprinkles fantastic in a way I can't describe. I paid the cashier and we sat at a table adjacent to Casandra, and struck up a conversation. I intentionally sort of looked over and made eye contact with Casandra a few times, and then made a smile and put one hand up saying, "Hey...Casandra?" Of course I knew it was her, but for some reason you always have to put up a front to make the moment seem more genuine. She gave an awkward, "Heyyyyyy, Ben. How's it going." I got up, we had a very awkward hug. The kind that you would have with an Ex. Except that Casandra and I were never involved, even slightly. How quaint.
We shared literally two sentences about what we were up to and sat back down at our respective tables. I continued talking with Samantha, but I overheard part of what she was talking about to the people at the same table with her. I caught a little bit but it didn't take long to realize that she was talking about some e-mails her and Isaiah had previously shared. In fact, she had been talking about it with them on our way into the store, before she and I had even crossed glances with each other. Considering the conversation I had with Isaiah only a couple days prior, the irony was palpable. It was so deep and complete that I could feel it underneath my gums, and I desperately tried to lick at it like the most delicious Irony flavored Jolly Rancher candy. Like a feeling of ecstasy that you want to writhe in but can't if only out of sheer embarrassment.
I will never forget the realization I came to at that moment.
Just like my relationship with Sam, just like my relationship with Isaiah, just like any human being on the face of the planet who has any kind of connection to another human being anywhere else on the planet, one thing holds true. People, will never, ever change the core of their emotions. Never. Time and circumstance can change immediate feelings, or even your living space. However the unspoken bond with another person, like a piece of invisible rope we all meet eachother half-way on, will always be there. The similarities between Casandras overheard conversation and my conversations with Isaiah were just too similar. You can never break that kind of a bond with another human being. You can want to hate them, you can want to forget them, you might even be so malicious as to wish physical harm or otherwise impoverished lifestyle upon them. You can never break that bond. Not with anything. Not ever.
This much I have learned. |
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| No Right Turns On Red |
[Oct. 6th, 2005|01:43 am] |
Things lately have been...odd. I'm still sort of confused as to the nature of it. Example: In a purely technical state things have never been better at work. I got a raise which most certainly helps me financially, and I get more or less what I ask for in terms of hours worked and on which days that I work them. I'm gathering more respect around the workplace and when I speak to the employees on days that I'm Manager, they speak back in a friendly and respectful manner. This excludes Aaron and Alex, though I'd never expect any of my personal friends to treat me differently while I'm at work. I'd become downright confused if they did come to think of it. It seems like things are on the up-and-up. The raise however, came at a very strange time. The entire week before I had been considering quitting the job in search of something less stressful with a higher wage. Something a little closer to my apartment -- even though I consider the distance between my current place and my place of work walking distance. I had let a fair number of my fellow employees hear my complaints and made them more aware of my intentions, and the day that I had gathered up the nerve to actually quit I was informed of the raise. I was flabbergasted. The amount of money I'm receiving now is most definitely a noticeable improvement, however it is not one that can entirely make me completely reconsider my previous stance. It was enough to make me bite my tongue, and nothing more. I feel no additional obligation to work harder for the company now that I'm at a higher pay rate, but it's enough to make me keep working for the time being. The timing seemed so perfect and sinister I sometimes question whether or not there's an informant worker planted within our crew to gather this sort of information -- information that a co-worker would never share with their superior.
I'm fully moved into the new apartment, and it's a really great place. Before Jake, Lane and myself moved in a millionaire lived here while his house was being built. As such there's all sorts of small luxuries around the house that we get to take advantage of, like the front door. The entire apartment has settled, and the door frames are ever so slightly tilted due to the weight of the building. The previous tenant had a door custom cut to fit the exact shape of the settled doorway, and so our front door is the only door in the entire complex that closes cleanly. The rest sort of close most of the way, and then need force to latch. It's sort of a win-lose situation as the door is incredibly heavy, bearing two bolt locks and weighs probably 250 lbs. Closing it casually behind you without holding the handle results in a thunderous booming that could very well get us in trouble with the manager (who resides upstairs). We also have a very nice shower, a brand new dishwasher unit that was left behind, and a remote control for the blinds in the living room. These are all things we don't need mind you, but once you have them you can certainly appreciate the novelty of having them. I guess when you have a million dollars it's a long cold day in hell before you should have to get up to close your own blinds. Jake and Lane are both excellent room-mates who complement each other in a very strange fashion. Jake is a very calculating person with a very bent sense of humor and Lane is...Lane. Between both of them I'm kept well entertained and have very many good things to talk about and opinions to share. There's certainly a feeling of comradery that I haven't felt since Isaiah left for Italy, that sort of feeling that you can appreciate the most minute things. For instance, earlier this week Jake had made a soup made of black beans, bacon, onions, and all sorts of good things. His second attempt was much more enjoyable than his first as he fried the bacon before putting it into the soup letting it get a crispier texture, whereas the first time he the bacon in raw and boiled it leaving you with a slimy lard covered strip from time to time. When we spooned up our bowls of the soup and looked down into it, I mentioned "You know, soup like this makes you want to have a nice heel of bread". Then Jake retorted with that low "OH YEAH" like the thought struck him with a bolt of lightning and a shared feeling of want for -JUST THAT BREAD-. It's at a very base level of understanding, where you know that the other person knows EXACTLY how you feel about whatever's going on at the immediate moment. Don't take my example too literally, it's not all we share in common, but it's that feeling at that exact moment that makes it all the more worthwhile. Isaiah and I shared many, many of these in the past over the stupidest things and it really grounded our friendship in a way that I don't think I've ever been able to appreciate fully since he hasn't been around. We have much hanging out to do when you get back, dude. Mon Ami...MON AMI! (Tell me you get the joke.)
As far as my friends are concerned, I feel as though I have fallen desperately out of touch with some people. A lot of it is due to distance, for example Drew Castalia spent the Summer down here in Tucson though I didn't hang out with him hardly at all. It could have been bad timing, work on both our ends and whatever devices we left ourselves with, but it still feels like we missed a lot of the time we should have had hanging out and ranting about love and women and the human condition. Isaiah is in Italy and when I get the opportunity we chat about video games or whatever has been going on with each other. Jesse has left for Flagstaff for the semester, though the Tucsonans were graced with his presence for three days that happened to come and go far too quickly. I felt bad for Jesse in that he had to squeeze so many things into such a short time that it's almost as though he didn't have the time to sit back and savor the time spent in company. Don't worry Jesse, I know you *did* on your own little level. Getting locked out of your own apartment can be quite sobering, eh? Then there's my friends here in Tucson, and some have grown closer to me while others have sort of drifted off to their own routines. Then there's the few that seem to have completely drifted away. You gain a little you lose a little, that's what I always thought. I just wish it didn't make my heart wrench.
I've discovered a lot about myself lately, and though it's against protocol I will share this with you in the hopes that it will help you learn and understand me and accept me for who I am. A lot of people sometimes bring into question what makes them who they are, what makes them tick, that sort of invisible nameless "something" that makes them perfect in their own way. I find myself driven to action through duty; to myself, my emotions, and my friendships. I find a lot of my frustrations concerning myself or my friends sourcing from a feeling of obligation to do the right thing. The correct path is always based on my raw emotion or instinct, and has absolutely no logic to guide it. Sometimes the right thing doesn't exactly seem right, or even make sense. However it feels grounded, and justified, and I do not and will not take action without justification or proper cause. This does not in any way make me perfect, or even near-perfect. I have no illusions as to my flaws and accept full and complete responsibility for them and my actions. However this is what makes me whole. To the people I know and trust and feel allied with, understand that the alliance shared goes much deeper than you may realize. If you need anything, come talk to me. To the people I love and protect, I act in your best interests and want what is best for you because I love you. If you need anything, I'll come running. This is what makes me tick. This is what makes me strong. This is what makes me a man, and I'm going down swinging. |
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| Warning: Construction Ahead |
[Sep. 13th, 2005|12:21 am] |
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My AIM Screen-Name has been changed to "GuruMelchior", laying my old Screen-Name "KusinagiSan" down after use since my 12 and 1/2 year. It's been a good 8 years, but some things need change. If you wish to contact me online, please refer messages to my new alias please. Thank you. |
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| Fender-Bender |
[Sep. 10th, 2005|02:31 am] |
Well, it's been quite some time since I've updated this journal. I'll go ahead and try to make amends starting right now and catch everyone up as best I can, and as always you can contact me via e-mail if you want to ask about anything I may have left out.
My semester was set to start a few weeks ago, and I was becoming more and more anxious to hear from the University of Arizona about whether or not I could sign up for classes. I placed a few calls to the Administrations Office at the University of Arizona concerning my application in the past, and whoever answered the phone said something along the lines of "Don't worry Mr. Travis, your papers should arrive in the mail any day now." The enthusiasm of the man or woman always seemed less and less genuine when placing return calls, and after a the third or fourth inquiry I could boil down exactly what lines would be fed to me before I even picked up the phone. Allow me if you will, the incoming-call template for the University of Arizona Admissions Office:
"Hello, thank you for calling the University of Arizona Admissions Office, this is (your name here) how may I help you? (Wait for caller to stop talking) Yes, let me look that up for you. What was your name again? (Wait for caller to stop talking) One moment please. (Wait a few minutes and tap the unplugged keyboard next to the phone to emulate sounds of actual work) I can't seem to find anything, but if you wait (First number that comes to mind) days, you should hear something. (Wait for caller to stop talking) I'm sorry I can't do anything more, but I assure you, if you can wait (First number that comes to mind, doesn't even have to be the same number you said the first time) days, you should hear something. (Repeat the last two sentences until caller hangs up)"
I had heard nothing for weeks and after a time, I got a call from Isaiah's mother -- currently working at the University of Arizona -- about my application. I asked her to do some sleuthing for me and she turned up the following tidbits. The University of Arizona received an application from me the year I got out of High School. I was accepted, however I did not sign up for any classes due to money problems and instead opted to work for a semester. Two and a half full years later, I re-apply electronically and the University of Arizona receives an official copy of my transcripts. So far, everything looks great. The first glitch occurs when the program that sorts all incoming applications notices that I had applied some time ago and had not yet signed up for classes. In this case, it appears as if I'm already eligible to sign up for classes. The program is set up to take any applications from students already accepted to the University into a file, which is cleared out during weekly maintenance. My file is placed in said folder and deleted three days before I find any of this out. Financial Aid then calls roughly one day after my file had been deleted, and the University of Arizona proceeded to tell them that they had no records of me as registered for any classes or even accepted to the school for the semester, thus voiding my prospects for Financial Aid for the Fall Semester. My hopes at continuing my college education this semester have ground to a ceremonious halt, and left me to work extra hours in order to begin saving money for the Spring Semester. I am confident I can continue my academic career with no hitches come January, though I'm definitely put off by the events that transpired a few short weeks ago. |
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| Next Rest Stop: 10,000 Miles Ahead |
[Jun. 5th, 2005|11:51 pm] |
I apologize for the lack of updates, I've been rather occupied. My Mexico adventure will end at Part 3, and any that wish for me to finish it will have to do with an oration when I have time to do so. I will give a brief recap of the events of the past month:
*Classes ended, and I received straight A's, and one C. That's what I get for going out of my scope and taking a class without taking a single one the pre-requisites. My instructor assures me I'm still impressive, considering. The only thing damaged here is my "win-everything" ego. That, and my GPA.
*I decided that I'm going to be a doctor, and plan to see an counselor at the University of Arizona to find out what classes I need to sign up for to begin work on my Pre-Med. I must also start studying for my MSAT when the Fall Semester begins.
*I went back to work at Blackjack Pizza which works my fingers to the bone for very little money. Moreover, I'm working over 40 scheduled hours next week, beginning with a 10 hour shift bright and early. If you've never been a cook for a corporate pizza company, let me give you the gist of it. Imagine digging trenches for 10 hours. Then imagine that every trench you dig is then inspected, and critiqued. Any trench not up to par is then re-filled...with concrete. The fact that your wrists or fingers ache is no excuse halfway through your shift, because someone else can get paid the same money for the job, so shut up and keep working. Maybe you'll get a promotion to "Trench Inspector" if you keep your nose down.
*I am being evicted from my apartment in 5 days unless I can come up with the rent money. Seeing as my last paycheck clearly isn't enough, it's a race for the mail service to deliver a check from an account belonging to my father's family. If it doesn't make it in time, I'll find the nearest cardboard box with broadband internet capabilities. I've never been evicted before, and though it's terrible for my credit report it sounds strangely amusing. I hope to get some good pictures if/when it happens. Maybe my renters will be cool enough to get a picture of them physically tossing me out of my apartment and into the parking lot, tears pouring from my face, and maybe cougars attacking me afterward. At least then I could laugh about it.
*My mother adopted *another* child, Madira Travis. This comes up to a grand total of 2 biological siblings, and 11 adopted siblings, and 4 children within the adopted siblings alone. Take that, Social Security!
Any of you that wish to contact me can e-mail me at saitou112984@yahoo.com and I can respond to personal questions should you request it. |
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| The Scenic Route, Part 3 |
[Apr. 19th, 2005|10:00 pm] |
The boat pulled close to the dock made of cement that had been heavily weathered, and dotted with car tires used to keep docking boats from getting damaged as they load and unload passengers and goods. The docks are built rather tall to compensate for the tides, and stand a good four feet from the bottom of the boat. This requires all passengers to be helped up out of the boat, or risk getting hurt. In fact as you stand up everyone present at the docks starts saying, "Help up, help up" and flap their arms at you to signal for you to reach up and grab hold of them. According to my mother, a man with his family visited Yelapa and had them all helped out. Being the big man that he was, he tried to climb out of the boat, and onto the dock. The boat then caught a bit of a wave, and the man's finger was pressed hard between the weight of the boat, and the cement dock. This sliced his index finger close to his metacarpus, and he bled profusely the entire boat ride back to Puerto Vallarta in order to reach a hospital. Lesson learned. As I exited the boat, a small group of four young boys no older than six years old gathered around me with large smiles on their faces. I thought they were just kind and excited to see more visitors. How quaint, such a nice little town. One by one, they all started chirping "Money? Pesos please?" like baby chicks waiting to be fed from the mouth by the ever watchful mother bird. They started to tug at my single bag, a shoulder-strap bag that I packed everything I needed into and took as carry-on through my flights. It then became apparent that they wanted to carry my bag for me, and more importantly, that they wanted a tip for it. Brats. I told them no three or four times each individually and began to help get bags from the boat to be carried back to where I would spend the next 11 days. They followed my mother and I vigilantly through the town asking, "Tour? You need? I know Yelapa, I can give tour to you for pesos". I couldn't help but smile though, the whole situation was rather funny. My mother gave me a knowing smile. "Just keep walking, they'll go away".
Yelapa is unlike anywhere I've ever been. The absence of a road was a very new thing for me, as the entire town is connected by cobblestone sidewalks that wind every which way from house to house. Compared to even Tucson, Arizona, the entire town is cast in complete silence. The predominant sounds come from the waves crashing against the beach, and the birds that reside in and around the city. Occasionally, you can hear the music coming from your neighbor's house, or you can hear the clopping noise of a horse or donkey being walked to the farms outside of the villa. The jungle wildlife creeps its way throughout the city, and once a week a man walks through the town's web-like sidewalks cutting away any foliage that grows onto the path leaving only the large pink hibiscus flowers and the crimson pomegranate blooms that dangle just overhead. Our house lies in the eastern portion of the villa, just across from a small stream that drains out waters from the mountain streams further inland out to the sea. On the front porch, two hanging beds had been crafted and were strung with nylon rope to the rafters of the porch roof covered with large orange mosquito nets. I learned that these were made by the local carpenter, by hand. Since there isn't an abundance of machinery available, he rode his donkey up the mountain to a tree grove and used his machete to do everything. He felled the trees with his machete, and began to chop away to fashion planks suitable for the bed. After attaining a plank or two, he tied them to his donkey and rode back down the mountain, placing the planks on our front porch. He then nailed the planks together and strung them to the rafters after he had enough wood to do so. The entire process took a week per bed. Incredible. The inside of the house had a white tiled floor, and a large kitchen/dining room that seemed to merge into each other. To the left as you enter the front door you can see my little brother Journey's bed, which is partitioned from the rest of the room by sheets strung from wall to wall. Another thick wool blanket makes the door for the room my mother and Renee share, which you must then walk through in order to get to the bathroom. The bathroom is sequestered into a corner by a makeshift cement wall that stands four and a half feet high, separating it from the rest of the room where the other children sleep. After getting myself oriented inside, I set my things down and set out on the front porch with a cup of coffee. It was fairly warm, and the sun was cast into rainbows through a mobile made of sea-glass. All the hustle and bustle of travel was over, my tensions melted out and time slowed to a virtual crawl. There was an air about the entire village that just seemed to remove any anxiety from my mind. Here in the city, there's a feeling of anxiousness you get sometimes as you're crossing a busy street, or walking down the sidewalk in the middle of the night. A primal feeling that something bad could happen, and your senses are on high alert. Your mind starts playing tricks on you and you start running through scenarios in your head to make sure you're prepared. Can't ever be too prepared. It just doesn't exist in Yelapa. Even walking through the most abandoned portions of the village, through the darkest alleys, into supposedly even haunted places, you feel absolutely no anxiety. That feeling of comfort, that undefinable sense of peace that we call "home", like I've been there a thousand times before.
The first couple days passed quietly as the ocean was off-limits. The "red tide" had come. I would learn that this is a phenomena that occurs twice a year for the locals. Somewhere in Puerto Vallarta, a plant is releasing nitrogenous chemicals into the water that cause an enormous spurt of growth in the red algae that grows in the area. This algae becomes thick and frothy from being tossed in the waves, and grows fat with the chemicals that had been dumped. It festers in the water and washes all along the coast for a few days, and must be avoided as skin contact for even a couple minutes can cause severe illness. Except for travel inland, all ocean activities come to a complete and utter halt. It was Saturday however, and on Saturdays the locals throw large parties that anyone interested is welcome to. There are two in specific that the majority of the locals go to, "The Balle" and "The Yacht Club". After the children are put to bed, the teenagers and adults go out and drink and dance late into the night. The festivities start at 10:30pm and last until church the following morning at 5am. "The Balle" is a dance hall that most of the native locals prefer. On one far end is a small stage where a band can set up to play, while plastic tables and folding chairs litter the rest of the room with an open area in the center where people can stand and dance. The men begin to arrive at "The Balle" at 9:30pm with all the liquor they can muster, and begin to drink for an hour. This is custom. The women cannot show up any earlier than 10:30pm lest they infringe on the male bonding. If a man likes a girl, and he has never met her before, he can ask her dance once. They dance for about ten minutes, and that is all that is allowed for the remainder of the evening. If she likes him, she may dance with him again for two songs the following week, and three the week after. If a girl should dance with the same man twice on the first night, she is considered to be uncouth and unclean and suffers the wrath of her family. If things go well between the man and the woman after they have danced for four weeks, the man may meet with her in front of her house while the mother and father stand in the front door and watch them talk. This is the usual courting method. I only came to know this as my 15 year old brother Alex came from Tucson to visit the family as well. Being the hispanic male of the family, he likes to court the young girls in the town who all dote over him at "The Balle". Mistakingly he got upset when a local girl who had a crush on him refused to dance with him twice on the first night. When he insisted that he wanted to dance more, the rest of the men dragged him to the police commissioner for a thorough talking to. He could have been charged with disturbing the peace for making a scene of the matter, but was let go since the police commissioner was our neighbor, and understood that it was just a misunderstanding of custom. The tourists, ex-patriot locals, and some of the more westernized locals preffer to go to "The Yacht Club". The Yacht Club is a smallish bar with a dancing area under a thatched roof ramada, surrounded by covered wooden tables and chairs with oil lamps at each. There are no lighting systems at "The Yacht Club" so candles hang from anywhere and everywhere, providing a rather romantic atmosphere. The variety of music played at "The Yacht Club" is reggae, techno, and salsa as opposed to "The Balle" which plays heavy mariachi music and old-style ballads. I decided to visit "The Yacht Club" and after staying out until 2am, I returned back to my home and slept in my hanging bed, swaying in tempo with the crashing of the waves. There was still so much more in store for me. So very much more. |
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| The Scenic Route, Part 2 |
[Apr. 7th, 2005|01:34 pm] |
My eyelids struggled to lift themselves open the following morning. It was almost daylight, with the tip of the sun creeping over the horizon leaking golden-yellow onto the face of the ocean. My mother had been milling about the room as quietly as possible, though she has a tendency to think aloud at times. The sounds of the waves pulsed silently in the background, far below the noise of daily life outside, broken every couple minutes by the sharp hiss of a match being struck for my mother's cigarette. I walked out onto the small balcony and all the hustle and bustle of another day in Puerto Vallarta. A veritable sea of people consumed the streets. Bells jingled from small confection carts being pushed through the crowd, men and women of all ages stood on corners advertising for some restaurant or hotel at the top of their lungs, numerous food or souvenir stands had a radio blaring various forms of salsa, reggae, and mariachi music which all blended together into a confusing mish-mash of drums and song. A number of smells also wafted up from the streets -- cooked beef, pancakes, fresh coffee, eggs, beans, oranges, cigarette smoke, and the occasional crash of a broken bottle added bouts of alcohol to the mix. All this, mixed with the harsh brine scent of the ocean made for a rather unique experience that is the city of Puerto Vallarta. My mother and I shared a few words about plans for the day: eating breakfast at a local restaurant, getting our things together and driving down the highway to a small port named 'Boca' where we would board a Panga bound for Yelapa.
We started by walking downstairs and acquiring breakfast for the day at a small restaurant called "Dominga Rico's". The sign for the company bears a rather stereotypical Mexican man with a large curly mustache wearing a large 10 gallon sombrero on his head, a poncho draped over his chest, white cloth pants on his legs and his faithful burro by his side carrying baskets of this and that. This restaurant can be fully viewed from the street, with no doors separating the inside from the patio dining. Most notably, lots of blinking lights adorn the bar as to draw as much attention as possible to it from the street as the passerby is more than likely to be looking for a cheap watering hole. All this takes place in what roughly translates to as the "romantic zone". This particular area is the oldest part of Puerto Vallarta. All the streets are paved in cobblestone and concrete, with buildings all mashed together as if the entire layout was an afterthought. This can be attributed to the massive amount of growth and demand due to tourism, with the need to get as many establishments running as quickly as possible. A menu is brought to my mother and I, and I look it over before having a very simple breakfast of pancakes and eggs with fruit. On the back of the menu it describes the story of the man shown in their sign, who brought stone down from the mountains to build many of the cobblestone streets in Puerto Vallarta's "romantic zone". Now things are beginning to make sense. Our food is brought to the table, and I'm a bit shocked with what is prepared. Normally when one goes to a modest looking restaurant and orders a simple meal, one would expect exactly that: modestly sized pancakes maybe two or three, with a single egg prepared as ordered with a smattering of fruit in the mix. What was prepared was akin to the "I-10 Belly Buster" available at the Triple T. For those of you unfamiliar with this, you are served three pancakes with a diameter of a car tire, three slices of toast or two fist-sized biscuits with gravy, three eggs prepared as ordered, two slices of ham about as large as my hand pressed flat, three sausage links, and a dinner plate of has browns. A steal for a mere $11.99 with enough food to feed three people. I am brought five very large pancakes that dominate the first plate, followed by a second smaller plate with four eggs prepared scrambled, and a third plate with roughly a quarter of a honeydew melon. Then came a few pieces of toast, because they "felt like giving it out". I sit and stare at my meal a few good minutes, and stammer out questions as to the cost of the meal. 3 dollars US. Dig in.
The drive to Boca is rather bumpy. To my best guess, the Mexican government at some point had a large meeting where they decided that instead of enforcing or implementing realistic speed limits that a series of speed bumps should be put in place every 300 feet. These aren't the kind of speed bumps here in the states that seem to bump oh-so-pleasantly and are quite forgiving, like the "speed-humps" one can glide over like clouds that are beginning to pop up all over heavy residential areas. These speed bumps must have went to prison for tearing a man's heart clean out of their chest and developed a startling 'kill-or-be-killed' mindset while weight-lifting the bodies of dead cell mates that were trying to get at their rations. With each and every speed bump I found myself a good foot in the air off my seat, bumping my head against the top of the van with no small amount of pain. The only realistic way of crossing them without difficulty is to come to a dead stop, get out of the car, push the car over them, and then get back in. This continued for roughly half an hour. The van turns a corner down a small cobblestone road that runs down to the "docks". People shuffle out of the street as our van approaches the only parking available for miles around, and we unload our cargo. Dazed, I jump out of the van and start taking inventory of bags of things my mother procured while in Puerto Vallarta. She takes the opportunity of being near a Wal-Mart to pick up some boogie boards for the kids to play with, a coffee maker which would become my first stop every morning of the vacation, some snack items that aren't available in Yelapa, and various cheeses. Also with us is a large package of foam, which I learn is to be the mattress for a bed-frame they've had constructed. There are no real docks in Boca, either. There's a beach designated as a loading and unloading zone for passengers who are boarding Pangas bound for various villages around the bay. We wait by the "dock" for ten minutes in silence, and the Panga pulls in. My mother has a hard time getting her balance in the boat, and I'm standing on the edge of the beach in my construction boots waiting to get in. I see water coming, and fast. Mom, mom get on the boat. Mom, get in the boat it's going to....*sploosh*. Each boot fills with two or three cups of sea water. Perfect. We get on the boat, and I learn that it's my job to hold down this large batch of foam mattress. I'm warned by the man driving the boat that the waves are rather high, and I'm in for a bumpy ride. That's fine by me, at least I'm not hitting my head against a metal roof this run around. After thirteen other passengers with their luggage and groceries board, we set off. The ride was pretty calm for the first fifteen or twenty minutes, and I get a good look at the scenery. The jungle green color almost swallows everything beneath it, and a light white mist has settled over the base of the bay that wisps up to the mountain tops. Then, the waves began. I almost lost the mattress for a second and had to hold it down with my arms, thighs, and chin, while I kept one hand grasped firmly to the bench I sat on to keep me down. The swells were roughly five or six feet, which isn't threatening by any means, but makes for a tough time while having to hold onto this unwieldy mattress. Then my fingernails begin to tear holes into the plastic bag, which immediately inflates and provides more wind resistance than I can handle. I quickly throw my toe of my boots under the bench in front of me, and hold on with my feet. Can't let go can I? This thing cost a hundred dollars, I'll catch hell of I let go of it. As the boat carves diagonally through the top of a swell it would then fall a few feet onto the ocean beneath it, only to repeat the process moments later. I'm surprised to learn that I'm fairly sea-worthy as I don't have any problems with the large meal I had recently eaten staying fast within my stomach. This isn't to speak for a young lady sitting to my right, who leans over the edge and sends the contents of her stomach back to the sea. She moans softly, trying not to draw attention for her embarrassment, and the rest of us try to keep ourselves in the boat as we get rocked unmercifully by the swells. After an hour passes, the waves calm again, and it's very smooth riding. The boat hangs a hard left into a bay, and the sun escapes from behind the clouds almost on cue to reflect diamonds on the face of the water. We're here. The boat slows it's speed and we begin to approach the small dock Yelapa has constructed. It's been weathered very badly, and I later learn that this is because a harsh hurricane rock the beach-front of Yelapa back in 1997. As you look onto the village, you see three very distinct features. Directly north is a large beach of quartz and feldspar, with thatched roof restaurants and drinking establishments for tourists, with white-washed wooden beach chairs and blue umbrellas donning the Pepsi logo spotting the beach. To the west of this, a series of orange buildings press right up against the edge of the bay. This is a hotel, and I learn that it is owned by a currently famous Mexican Soap Opera actor and his family. On the eastern side of the bay is the villa, and the dock where I would set foot into the city. The majority of the buildings are painted white, and from the water you can see the buildings stretch up the side of a hill, with clothes lines hanging laundry out to dry on rooftops and between buildings. So, this is Yelapa.
(End Part 2) |
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| The Scenic Route, Part 1 |
[Apr. 3rd, 2005|07:10 pm] |
It's been quite some time, and I owe it to a rather scenic side-road. Many of you know (and some of you don't) that I recently took a trip to Mexico. I will admit this was my first international trip and at first it seemed rather daunting. The fast set and costume changes from point to point left my head spinning, and for the first time in recent memory I was confused beyond words.
It began at the end of my day, which proved to be only the beginning of it. It had been a long day through classes and homework and there I sat browsing possible airfare rates from Phoenix, Arizona to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico through America West's Online planner. Each itinerary provided did not match my criteria and I began to wonder how or when I would get my feet out from under the desk and onto the beaches of quartz and feldspar lining the Mexican coast. If you had asked me at that very moment when I was leaving I would probably reply with some sarcastic quip that would surely leave my ego feeling quite contented. Wait, what's that? There's a flight that leaves at 7am from Sky Harbor Airport, but don't I have to check in 2 hours early for international flights? It didn't really matter, it seemed like a long shot. I shared a joked with friends that I could be out as early as mere hours from that very moment. As if on cue, Jesse promises the necessary transportation in order to get me to that very flight. What's worse - he's serious. I quickly pack my things while Jesse takes a short nap. That's right, I need my birth certificate don't I? That's ok, it's the folded paper on the edge of the kitchen counter. I grab the necessary paperwork and before I know it I'm well on the way to Phoenix. Jesse and I are sharing a snack and telling jokes and stories when suddenly I get a wretched feeling in my gut. Something isn't right, and I get the horrible feeling I should check my paperwork. I produce them, and read through each page carefully. Unfolding my Birth Certificate, I am met with the words, "Dear Valued Qwest Customer, it is of this date October 13th, 2004 that your telephone services with Qwest have been terminated." A notice of cancellation. I forgot my Birth Certificate at home. I grabbed the wrong paper. The car falls deathly silent and the dread of my realization sweeps over me. Nervously I start jibbering possible solutions to the problem, none of which are valid nor plausible and I begin to wonder if I'm going to make it. I have two flights before I begin the actual trek to Puerto Vallarta: I must first fly to San Diego, and grab a connecting flight to Las Vegas. After 2 hours of waiting I will board a plane bound for my next waypoint, Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. If I get stopped in either city, it's at least 8 hours by road to come get me and I feel well assured that doing so would plant bitter seeds in the friendships of those that come to my rescue.
The flights to San Diego and Las Vegas go off without a hitch. I'm amazed at the ease of domestic air travel, despite having to take my shoes off at three different checkpoints in order to look for possible weapons. I have a small lunch at the Las Vegas Airport, which is very nicely decorated despite the tacky slot machines of all shapes and sizes. It surprises me that Las Vegas is trying to pull consumers in the direction of an "authentic southwestern 'Diamond in the Sand'" despite all the pavement, commercialization and complete and utter lack of southwestern flavor found here in Arizona or New Mexico. There's a good 2 hours before my flight will depart, so I stare at the departure time straight up until the plane is ready to board. A bored-looking flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker, "For all passengers of flight 6148 bound of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, please have your passport or birth certificate ready before boarding the plane, thank you." That's my cue. I walk up to the check-in counter beside the gate, and produce my ticket for verification. The woman looks it over, and asks for my Birth Certificate, and with the straightest face I can muster I hand over the Qwest notice. She looks at it, then back and me, and turns it around slowly as if I've played the un-funniest joke she's ever seen from even the most immature child. I proclaim that my papers must be there, I could have sworn I packed them. As I'm acting quite the fool and wasting the time of everyone in line behind me, the woman behind the counter lifts a walkie-talkie to hear ear, and presses the button on it's side. "Big Steve, this is Little Debbie. We have a problem." I wince and within seconds expect the beautiful glass-dome ceiling to shatter into millions of crystals as heavily-armed S.W.A.T. members come careening down ropes into the room and take me off to lord only knows where for further questioning. A man taps me on the shoulder, easily a good 5 inches shorter than me with obvious balding all over his rather oblong head. "Big Steve, this man doesn't have his paperwork. Is there anything you can do?" He looks at me, and at the Qwest bill handed to him by 'Little Debbie' behind the counter. With an annoyed look on his face, he motions for me to follow him. Without saying a word he walks to a small door at the side of an Airport Information kiosk and asks for me to stay put. In a couple minutes, he comes out with a set of documents: an affidavit of Citizenship. "Sign here, here, here, here, and here. You can use this as a proxy birth certificate. Don't lose it. Off with you now." I hurry back to the gate, give them the affadavit, and two stamps and a walkway later I'm on the plane. I made it. I can't believe I made it.
The flight is rather uneventful. The only tidbit worth mentioning is that the on-flight pretzels tasted rather like peanuts, and come with a small warning on the side of the package: "WARNING: This food product is produced in the same factory as our peanuts, and uses the same machinery when being packaged. As such, if you are allergic to peanuts we gravely advise you not to eat this product." My plane landed in Puerto Vallarta at 5:15pm Arizona Time. At this point, I've been up for over 32 hours. My mother greets me at the Airport and we set off for the bay where we are to take a Panga (small motorized boat) to Yelapa. When we get to the bay we discover that we had missed the last Panga by roughly 25 minutes, and would not be able to leave Puerto Vallarta until 10am the following morning. For those of you who have never been to Puerto Vallarta, I will say this: Never in my life have I seen so many resteraunts, hotels, and bars, on a single street in my entire life. The entire city thrives on tourism, and it shows. Resteraunts of every flavor and every cuisine lines the streets, making it no surprise that international cooking competitions are held regularly there. My mother selects an un-important looking resteraunt by the side of a small river that runs from the mountain to the bay, 'Fuente de la Fuente'. For 40 dollars US, we receive 5-star service with one of the biggest meals and the best food I've had in quite some time. I never had to look down at my drink before it was refilled. By the time I finished wiping my mouth my cloth napkin was removed and replaced with a fresh one. If my mother put a cigarette out in the glass ash tray in the center of the table, it was removed and replaced with a pristine one, as though they kept a large supply of brand-new ash trays and broke those used once out back. We stayed in a small hotel on some of the stiffest matresses I've ever slept on, and after being awake for the better part of 39 hours, sleep finally falls over my weary body. It stole me away quicker than I can remember, the soft hush of the waves singing their sweet lullaby in my ear.
(End Part 1) |
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| A full tank of gas and brand new tires. |
[Jan. 12th, 2005|02:11 am] |
It is the year 2005 now, and as the Winter Break comes to a lulling halt the gears of productivity begin to turn anew and we begin the school semester once again. I must admit that the last year has been one of the most interesting of my life, and as I say that I'm getting a premonition that I will be saying that every year until our story comes to a conclusion. So many things have happened, each adding a lesson or experience I'll never forget. There were times everything seemed to move in slow-motion, and times where I couldn't seem to make the events in my life slow down; however I can guarantee all of you reading this that you in some way contributed positively to my year and for that you have earned my utmost respect and gratitude.
My academic year ended with the 4.0 I had so desired and striven for, and it is going to usher in a good amount of financial and mental peace for the foreseeable future. I have many options for scholarships open to me now, and I can start applying myself to my education for education's sake, rather than to continue to support myself. To say the least, the aspect of school seems much more enjoyable. This next semester however is going to prove quite arduous as none of the classes I have signed up for are self-interest. I am not able to continue my Japanese Language studies as the 201 curriculum is not being taught at Pima this semester. I'm confused as to why Pima would drop such a mid-level course, punishing those that would further their studies rather than leave the entry level curricula out for the semester. If it were a financial issue, it wouldn't make sense. The withdrawal rate from entry level language courses is astronomical, and students returning for their second or third semester are less and less likely to stop taking a class after the class removal deadline. So instead of having the Bursar's Office deal with the tremendous amount of red tape and refunding that is inevitable after trying to bait first year students, why not make sounder investments in returning students? It could be an issue of not having proper staffing for the 201 curriculum, however my previous instructor; though ill-informed of the details of this issue; guaranteed me that was not the case. I'm afraid this will have to remain a mystery.
I will be taking Geology 101, and Current Issues in Human Biology in order to complete my science credits for transfer to the University of Arizona. The Biology class will be taught by Mrs. Linda Yvonne Maluf, the woman gracious enough to let me stay free of rent in her guest house last semester. The course should prove interesting, and knowing the instructor will certainly make me want to pay more attention to what is actually happening in-class. I had promised Mrs. Maluf that I'd continue doing yard-work from time to time to show my gratitude to her generosity. I still have every intention on following through true to my word. The weather lately has been quite difficult, making it hard to find a suitable time to do such work during Winter Break, however Spring is fast approaching and this will make scheduling outdoor projects much easier. The Geology 101 class I will be taking is going to be taught by Mr. Schnecker, who taught Geology to my sister before me. I do not expect him to remember my family in the least but I have been told many good things about his class. It is apparently very hands-on and field trip intensive with a lot of emphasis placed on the study of Geology "in-the-raw" which I'm looking forward to. I will also be taking Anthropology 112, and Humanities 260, both of which I have every expectation to maintain an 'A' grade while catching up on much needed sleep in-class. These kind of general education curriculum courses have a tendency to induce unbridled narcosis, while remaining relatively easy to score well in with a minimum of paperwork.
My financial aid check payed for my classes, and leaves me with a fair sum to move into a new place for the coming semester while finally being able to completely pay off my debt. Where I'm going to move is going to remain a mystery for at least another day or two, but it isn't to say that I don't have a few options lined up already. Our friend, Aaron, possibly one of the funniest people I have ever met has mentioned the possibility of sharing a space with his friend Shelby. Aaron and I have been hanging out a lot recently, which is great because he has a very refreshing sense of humor and wit that is easy to laugh at regardless of the subject. Aaron is totally okay with the idea, but has to pass it through an acid test with Shelby who could go either way. Shelby is a pretty cool guy overall, and is fairly easy to get along with, though he has seems to have somewhat of a short fuse. I'd like to hear back from Aaron on the matter -- he is negotiating with Shelby -- before making any other decisions. There's some nice apartments up on Prince and 1st Avenue that both Drew and Vanessa live at with very reasonable prices, as well as serving as a flawless halfway point between both school and work. The apartment complex that Lane lives in is fairly affordable for the location, and though the monthly rates are slightly higher than same-size apartments further away from the University, utilities are included in the rent, which is nice. Aside from school this week, I will need to get my living situation settled by Friday and use the weekend off-work hours to move personal belongings into my new abode. I will need to locate a truck to use for the transportation of my futon bed from Samantha's guest house as well, so if any of you know of where I could borrow one, please do not hesitate to inform me. I will also need to finish changing official addresses with my bank and the school so that my mail will stop going to Samantha and Mrs. Maluf, which I feel guilty about not having thought to fix sooner. My fullest apologies to them for burdening them with unnecessary mail.
As a New Years present, I would like to address each of my close friends (in no particular order). This goes against the First Decree, but I feel that it will make for an appropriate one-time gift.
To Isaiah and Rory: My comrades. It was a bit selfish of me to ask to let me share your apartment with you again without any warning but your immediate approval of the proposal and tolerance of having me in such close-quarters will not be soon forgotten. You both have shown me a level of compassion and friendship that I haven't experienced, and for that you can rest assured that you have a strong ally in me. Isaiah, it's hard to imagine sometimes that you and I can remain very good friends even after some tough times during the years, but I must say that it is one of my most treasured friendships and one I feel I can depend on because we're so evenly matched intellectually, despite the fact that you're smarter than me. Rory, you're the friend I had never met until random chance brought you to live with Isaiah and I last semester. I'm glad you did, because you're a great person to be around, and while at times you can seem a bit goofy or off-subject, you are a very dependable human being.
To Vanessa: I'd like to talk to you more this next semester. In fact I'm making it one of my New Year's Resolutions because you're horrendously easy to talk with. It may have to do with the fact that we're so similar in a lot of ways, but despite any misconceptions, I really do care about what you have to say. I'd like to hear more of it, because you have a viewpoint that is so unique to a lot of the people I've talked to. Despite the slow startings, you're a person I'd like to become better friends with because frankly, you're worth that kind of attention.
To Drew Spencer: You're the single most cynical and sarcastic person I have ever met but I would vote for you in a presidential election. I enjoy chatting and hanging out with you at work tremendously, and I really appreciate that you run D&D for all of us even though we can all tend to be a bit frustrating as players at times. You're incredibly funny, and I love hearing your political commentary on your LiveJournal. Though I still can't honestly say I know a ton about your personal feelings, you're horrendously loyal to your friends, and that earns my respect.
To Drew Castalia: Ah Drew, my brother-in-arms. You are the single most trustworthy human being on the planet. Our friendship has lasted since 4th grade, and it's astonishing that we manage to keep contact as we do. I always feel thankful for being able to share these past 9 years of friendship with such a cool person, and even though we've got the majority of a country between us, I feel that we could still take on the whole world if we wanted to. We've certainly had an interesting run of life haven't we? I'm glad we got to spend the afternoon together while you were in town, and I look forward to seeing you again this Summer Break.
To Jesse: You sir, are the tragic hero from every greek play ever written. While most people get dealt small blows in life, you're given the full German Suplex, and it's amazing how well you're able to adapt. That earns a great deal of my admiration. You deserve so much in life. So, so very much. I promise to you that I'll do my part in order to deliver what small help I can in that. You've got a great heart, one that is rare to see in this day and age, and it's one that I think a lot of people in the world should have. You're smart, funny, and very well balanced in a lot of aspects. I'm really glad we hang out, because you're always a joy to have around and to talk to.
To Samantha: We've had a friendship that keeps evolving over the years, and I've never known exactly where it stands, but strangely it's always felt the same deep down. Even after months without seeing you. You're one of the most nurturing and caring girls I've ever met, and you've shown me more support than I deserve when I've been at my worst. You've had to deal with a lot of negative events in your life, but you're a wonderful person despite that, and you're a lot stronger than you realize. I'm always here for you, rain or shine, night or day. Just call for me and I'll come running, you can count on that.
To Alex: I really like hanging out with you, and there's times I feel bad that we don't hang out more. I remember the old hikes around the Blacklidge neighborhood at 2am fondly. This year, let's start hooking up for random outings a lot more, because you kick ass. You've got a very unique sense of humor and it's always great to share old stories. You tell some of the *best*. Just look me up after I get settled into my new place, and the good times will commence!
To Lane: You've saved my ass way too many times for one person. Thank you so much for being so immensely dependable, because it really defines how good of a person you are. I value our friendship very highly, because it's been one that's been able to withstand the test of time. There are times when you'll dissapear for weeks at a time but when you come around you're always the same old you, and I'm glad that time or space hasn't affected any elements of our friendship. You're probably also one of the most zany and quirky people I've met, but that's what makes your personality so refreshing to be around. I owe you much Lane, and I'd be more than happy to be called in for favors.
To Stephen: You're a horrendously smart person, and you've got a very accepting attitude of a lot of things in the world. I'm glad we're able to be friends, because you've got a very bright attitude and it's always fun when you hang out. It's strange to think that we've known some of the same people from years past, but regardless, thanks for coming over and hanging out when you can. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and it's reassuring to be able to call you a close friend.
I am prostrated before you all for you have all earned far more praise than I am able to fit into a three-hour update. I am here for each and every one of you, because I wouldn't be here without each and every one of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. |
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