mediation XI (an early Valentine)

Also, Karlos has Fox Sports World so I´ve been happy as a little pig in some glorious mud watching EPL whenever my greedy little hands get the remote. Today I saw Man U beat WBA one-nil. WBA played well, maybe even well enough to deserve a goal, but cést la vie. Also Liverpool beat Southampton one-nil (thank heavens!) -- Sinama-Pongolle in the first half, which made me happy since I think he´s quite an asset. He´s young, and French, more´s the pity, but he has great energy and an eye for passing as well as for scoring, which is more than one can say about Cisse (not to speak illof the injured). They didn´t broadcast that game, however.

I have this to say about watching good football, and in particular, Man U today (Rooney was back, bless his thick thuggish neck) -- it is an immensely satisfying experience. It has all the elements of a good day at work: it requires concentration, it requires a sense of humor, there is a need for honor and balance (and when it´s a good game both of those abound), and the energy flows just as much in the languid moments as it does in periods of intense activity.

Graham Poll officiated, bless his heart, which always tears me apart the tiniest bit because he takes himself so seriously (they make ironic T Shirts with his silhouette and the caption is "The Graham Poll Fan Club: He´s Making Good Decisions!") -- but I´ll say this for him -- he knows how to keep a game going.

Watching them play together is just an absolute joy. It´s different than watching a Liverpool game -- my heart is always in my throat, then, and although I think on balance Benitez is doing quite well, the Reds still play as disparate parts (the Armada, Stevie, assorted Finns & Frogs) that sometimes come together as a team, rather than as a team, full stop.

Ah, but to watch Manchester United in fine form! Giggsy running like a Welsh Tasmanian devil (he scored). Scholes is always, always, always a treat -- plus Rooney, his truly massive, still-adolescent, fleshy chin jutting out from under his tiny deepset eyes, still eager to prove he was worth the money. Rio knocking everyone back towards the middle -- I´m not a big Rio fan, but he does his job well and I think he´s a good captain. Pat Carroll stunningly magnificent in goal -- kiss Old Trafford goodbye Tim Howard, they don´t need you anymore (is there a curse on American keepers in the EPL? Brad Friedel´s a menace to Blackburn´s tally sheet as well). O´Shea, jumping about, with a lookof perennial disappointment on his face except when someone else scores (how Irish!), and Alan Smith -- didn´t get much of the ball actually, his one attempt bounced off the crossbar, but he´s so cute and blond, what can I say? Ferguson brought on Keano in the second half, which always makes me happy, although I wonder how many seasons he´s got left, and that makes me sad. Ronaldo and his metallic boots I can take or leave but he played well, Heinze too, Nevilles first and second -- you know, your standard Man U lineup when no one´s injured -- but ah, what standards to have!

I love it. I love it with my whole self, all my cells and axons (I know that´s redundant), with my fingernails, my toenails, my eyelashes, my bellybutton, my tastebuds, my synapses come alive, I love seeing them charge down the field almost abreast, Giggsy and Scholesie and Keane, the Old Guard, passing it all around and up to Rooney, to Smith, the present and the future of English football together, all breathing the same fire, all looking for the same sweet spot, be it hit by their foot or someone else´s.

Say what you will about hairdryers and throwing boots and hyperactive mastication, but the Scotsman bloody well knows how to put a team together. If Rooney can avoid the fate of Gazza, and here´s hoping he can, it´ll be due to his mum, Coleen, and Sir Alex. Well, probably not Coleen, actually. She´s a bit pikey. Probably just his mum and Sir Alex.

And ... I´m spent. I would hyperlink it all, but I´m on Karlos´computer and I don´t quite know how the keyboard works (it keeps making this "ç" and I don´t know why or how to stop it).

So, in case I don´t post again before New Year, here is a summary of what I´ve blogged so far:
Ethiopian food, go-go, Red Sox, A Grand Don´t Come For Free, Wonderland, EPL = good.
InDecision 04, strange behaviour from any corner, travelling sans earplugs/discman = bad.

Tra-la!

P.S.

the car broke down on the way back from San Felipe. But it wasn´t on the highway, it was in the city, and it´s not completamente jodido, solamente falta liquido del clutch o algo asi, and Alberto´s dad is a mechanic. Talk about a silver lining ... Booyakasha!

Aventurando en Mexicali

Al fin y al cabo llego a las ocho y media de la noche, after a too-long Greyhound bus ride spent as an unwilling listener of the exchange behind me between a 19-year-old Marine recently back fromIraq ("Travis") and his seatmate Regina (twenty years old, from suburban New York but in school in Arizona, fake blonde,well-manicured nails). Conversational highlights included:

Regina: Why don´t you have a cell phone?
Travis: Cell phones are for gay guys.
Regina: Everyone has a cell phone. All my guy friends have cell phones.
Travis: Why?
Regina: So I can talk to them on the phone, for, like, four hours. Youknow, sometimes you want to talk to someone and you´re in your bed and you don´t want to leave... etc etc

And:

Regina: Did you ever feel bad? About killing people?
Travis: No, they´ve killed innocent people.
Regina: I know, the twin towers ...

That almost had me out of my seat, but I didn´t want to cut my visit short with jailtime. And then they talked about how they both voted for Bush. Imagine three hours of that, with no discman or anything.Yick.

AFORTUNADAMENTE that´s been the absolute low point of my trip so far. Karlos and his lovely gentleman friend Alberto met me across theborder (the pedestrian border crossing from Calexico to Mexicali is literally one turnstile) and we went out that night to a dance club,for amateur strip night. At least I hope it was amateur night becausesome of it really sucked. My particular favorite was this guy named"Edgar En Accion" who had come all the way from Tijuana to take off his clothes ... to the tune of "In Da Club." Not sure how 50 Cent would enjoy his breakthrough single used as backup for an ever-so-slightly hirsuite Mexican man, but I thought it was brilliant. He had not only a fedora but also chaps with side zips. Having never before seen a pair of black leather chaps with side zips, I gotta admit, that´s pretty classy.

Karlos´s grandma (who is doing Navidad in Mazatlan with the rest of La Familia Guzman -- so it´s just the three of us here in the house, plus Gogo the fluffy white dog ... very cosy) called the neighbor who got her husband to come over and replace the battery in Karlos´ car, only he doesn´t know how to drive, so, until me and Alberto teach him, we´ve been the chauffeurs the past couple of days while Karlos sits in back with Gogo. I must say, not only am I most happy to be able to drive a stick, but that driving in Mexico isn´t nearly as odd as driving in Ireland, although the distinct lack of lane markings can be disconcerting. Knowing which side of the road to pull out onto counts for a lot, eh? At least they´ve got left turn arrows at major intersections.

Last night we ate Christmas dinner at Alberto´s house (his mom made turkey with raisins in the stuffing ... yum ... they asked me if I wanted a beer, I said yes, and then I got a Bud Light in a can. How´s that for insane imperialist culture? Not that I´m hating on the Bud Light ... St Lou 4-eva!) and then we came home and drank some disgustingly sweet white wine and watched "Dirty Pretty Things" and some of "Love Actually" so it was Chjwetel Ejiofor-in-London movie marathon. Watching them together was a really wierd trip, I must say -- one is super sparkly and snuggly, one is the polar opposite, they both deal with reality although on completely different levels. If I wasn´t about to go to sleep I would expound more on this topic. Ask me for further thoughts on my return if you´re interested.

Today we got up late and I made banana pancakes and then Alberto drove us all to the mountain range outside of Mexicali called "La Rumorosa."By the time we headed back it was dark and the moonlight was incredible on the rocks. Every now and again there would be a white cross someone had put up, which sent shivers down my spine. It´s a pretty serious desert here, so the mountains are huge mounds of dustand rocks and scrub brush. And the dust/sand gets everywhere -- I´ve had a cough ever since I got here and I can´t wear my contacts for more than four hours without them itching the bejaysus out of me.

Tonight we also had tacos al vapor -- yum! and then went to see "·LosIncreibles" dubbed into Mexican Spanish. Beerlarious! Tomorrow we´re going to San Felipe which apparently is a tiny town onthe coast with the Gulf. Both Karlos and Alberto are working thenight shift tomorrow at the Red Cross so we are getting up early (I pushed for a trip to Ensenada instead, G, just so I could take apicture of The Road To Ensenada, but no dice). Then it´s only a couple more days before back through the turnstile I go and it´s MF-ing ON BABY; ON! to sunny/foggy Cullyforynah.

Finally

The digital camera which came into my possession sixth months ago has now been all set up just in time for the trip. Yippee! I am stoked.

Reality Check

In which I realize that the "Friends" theme song accurately describes my life:

Your job's a joke (check)
You're broke (check)
Your love life's DOA (check)
It's like you're always stuck in second gear (check)
When it hasn't been your day (check), your month (check), or even your year (double-check)

But they make it sound so goddam ... peppy.

explanation, please

I met this guy at Tryst last month, the evening before the election. Randomly -- I sat at his table because there was a spot free and his ashtray was full and I wanted to smoke.

We talked about London and Madrid, about politics, about quirks. He was tall and had dark hair, and I pretty much thought he was lovely, and we had a nice conversation. Okay. He left after bumming a few stogs, and after introducing himself to me.

I was confused. It seemed to me like we were hitting it off, and then he just left. So I chalked it up to the Great He's Just Not That Into Me in the Sky, and managed to let it go.

Fast forward to tonight (this morning). After dinner, Elissa and I watch some Freaks and Geeks, and then go to the Wonderbar to meet up with some other peeps.

We're there, we're dancin', we're drinkin' -- and guess who walks in -- that's right, Mystery Man.

I find him at the bar. Buy him a drink (well, I tried to buy him a drink -- but they comped me -- woo hoo!) We talk. He introduces me to some of his peoples -- they're all friends with the DJ, very nice. We go downstairs to have a smoke, then I go back to my folks, he goes back to his. Okay.

For the next two hours, off and on, we sort of meet up and go away from each other -- two or three times. He buys me a drink, he gives me a smoke, we see each other upstairs and downstairs, we have several more conversations. I do not seek him out, but he comes up to me at least once.

Then I'm upstairs and I'm dancing and I see him go downstairs. I don't follow because I'm dancing and it's my last song and I'm about to leave. Then when I get downstairs, I don't see him -- maybe he's in the bathroom? I say to one of his friends (very politely, he introduced me to everyone), "Oh, please tell X I said goodnight" and she says, "I think he's already left."

So.

I know, I know, He's Just Not That Into Me. But if that's true, then why talk to me again, AFTER the first conversation (the one I started) has ended? Why? If you're Not That Into Me, why talk to me more than once? Why make faces at me across the dance floor? Why tell me, "I'm delighted to see you here?" Why buy me a goddam drink? Is there some secret man-woman code for which I am missing the bloody key? I didn't want to throw myself at him, but I could barely fucking stand whenever we were near each other, I was so shaky, and then he just ... left.

I am mystified.

I look to my Eskimo friend

I am sitting on my couch. Elissa is coming over for rice & beans in half an hour. I've started on the rice.

I am listening to Damien Rice -- Graham had his CD downstairs, which I listened to 24-7 in Ireland and then promptly lost when I stayed at Dan's before leaving London.

Earlier today, at P & P, I was skimming through Jamie Oliver's latest opus (I love to ick him) (ick ick ick!) and there was a picture of him buying some veggies at Borough Market, and I just teared up. Almost fucking lost it right there in P & P. The last time that happened was when I read Nikki Giovanni's elegy for Tupac.

Then I get home and I get an email from my friend Emily, who I met in Galway but is now back in the States with her English boyfriend, Mark. And she tells me they're getting married, which is great.

But oh God, I want an English fiancee to take me away from here. I want to go to Borough Market for ostrich burgers and massive eggplants and ice skate at Somerset House, and I want to make the pound, not the grotty dollar.

I've been back more than a year, and that scares the bejaysus out of me, and before I left I really didn't want to come back because I was scared of getting stuck, and I have totally succumbed, and I don't know how to stop.

Now I've got fifteen minutes to smoke a fag (sorry SA but give me this one anglicism, just once, please) and pull myself together before Elissa gets here. Maybe I can blame it all on cutting onions.