Paco's Wasting Your Time: Musings of the Mediocre

Ever wonder what happens when you have virtually nothing to say but oodles of time in which to say it? Yup, I'm wasting your time.

3.31.2005

GO... ummm... Team!

The New York Yankees have won 26 and competed in 39 World Series. Hmmm… interesting. So far, Shaquille O’Neal (who has the dimensions roughly those of a small Blue Marlin) is ranked number one in the NBA for Field-Goal percentage (59.7%), Field-Goals per 48 minutes of play (averaging 12.59) and blocks (with 166). Imagine that. Randy Moss set an NFL record for most receiving yards in a player's first six seasons with 8,375 yards. In 2004, FC Porto beat AS Monaco 3-0 for the European Cup in soccer.

Yaaaawwwwnnn… sigh… Zz.. huh? No, man, I’m awake. Zz… zzzzz…. Ahhh, yeah, Penelope. Oh, Penelope! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Let’s face it: there is a societal expectation that the average dude be either good at a sport, well versed in sports or fanatically follow one team. Such that if a lone 12-25 year old guy were to want to break into a group of similar 12-25 year old guys, his best bet is probably to display an encyclopedic knowledge of stats and figures or demonstrate exceptional skill at the no-look pass. Of course there are exceptions; some guys have designs on Princess Leia, some are interested in philosophy and literature and some still (ahem) are so self-interested that it doesn’t really matter what other people’s interests are. Ahem. Cough… cough.

Sorry. There’s something in my throat.

Psychologist Simon Baron-Cohen, in his book ‘The Essential Difference: The Truth About the Male and Female Brain”, postulates that while women are empathizers, men are systemizers. Essentially, our brains are hard-wired to set up systems and organize things. As a result, males intrinsically feel compelled to be competitive for the sake of establishing where they stand compared to other males; it would be unthinkable to allow things to go undefined. This explains why a) guys naturally form hierarchies and b) we exhibit dominance through our mastery of rules and the manipulation of the laws of physics to slam that other jerk that thought he could slip through the defense without us seeing his slow, monkey ass (i.e. athletics). Yeah! Where you goin’, baby? Huh? Where you goin’? That’s right: NOWHERE!

But I digress…

The point is, under Baron-Cohen’s theory, guys—by their very constitution—are supposed to excel at sports, or at the very least, be desirous of being good. That desire can, if genetics deny otherwise, take the form of living vicariously through those that are actually good. Additionally, because men are predisposed to establish systems in an attempt to organize the world around them, males should also be interested, to varying degrees, in sports statistics and speculations. After all, stats seem to be the pinnacle of masculinity: it gives men the opportunity to combine both competitiveness and figures breaking that competition down into neat boxes, percentages and pie charts. Why else would guys watch a ballgame, watch SportsCenter for highlights of that game and others, AND check the paper the next day for the exact same box scores?

SIDEBAR: Paco’s on to Something
Just seconds ago, my roommate shot an empty coke bottle from across the room into the trash can 12 feet away. He easily could have gotten up from his chair and walked it into the trash can OR we could conveniently place our trash cans closer to our desks. Instead, he made the shot, celebrated with a fist-pump (the universal gesture for “God, I rock!!”) and exclaimed “Yessss! Two for two!” Presumably, he’d made one earlier in the night. Show of athleticism: check. Celebration to establish dominance: check. Immediate mathematical analysis thereof: check… Need I say more?

Old Baron-Cohen maintains that while systemizing is the common thread amongst men, levels of intensity vary. Some men, naturally, are going to be more heavily invested in sports and some (ahem… damned throat!) are going to lack interest and, sadly, talent. Those men that are less interested in this form of systemizing, according to B-C, are more likely prone to be empathizers and, therefore, women. This is a heated point of contention I have with his argument; I was following all the way until this point.

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“That’s absurd! There are plenty of engineers, scientist, web-designers, stamp-collectors, Magic: The Gathering enthusiasts, etc. that are exceptional systemizers and just God-awful at sports.”
Editorial Response:
(Pensively stroking chin) Hmmm… I suppose you’re right. Lord knows when I’m at a party or bar and happen upon a conversation with other dudes, I immediately reach for my Magic deck or slide rule and throw down. Get out.

Not only am I simply terrible at sports (or anything requiring any kind of hand-eye coordination, for that matter), but I couldn’t care less how many homeruns and RBI’s Barry Bonds had last season. I can be competitive, sure, but only to the point where I know I’ll likely lose. At which point I throw my hands in the air, roll my eyes and say “_________ is for suckers. What a stupid sport! Who invented this anyway?” If conversations I’m in turn to sports, my eyes generally glaze over and I wait patiently for the first lull in the conversation to comment on the weather or rounds that need to be consumed.

I certainly admire those guys that are exceptional athletes and fall prey to the same silly social assumptions everyone else does. “Hey, d’you see Matt make that touchdown/goal/homerun/free-throw last night?” “Yeah. Golly, what an awesome guy! I’m gonna buy him a drink for being such a good person the next time I see him.” While it bodes very much against my favor, I understand why the star football player is always so popular. They can be liars, jerks, criminals or have terrible penmanship, but WOW, what an awesome 80 yard punt return he made. It all makes sense (lousy Simon Baron-Cohen).

My bouts with sucking at sports started very early in life. I had always been the really chubby kid who, after getting picked last for kickball what must have been hundreds of times, finally gave up. All the athletic skills one obtains in their formative years on playgrounds and with neighborhood kids, I skipped out on. Now, no matter how much I want to make that shot or catch the football, there isn’t a single person on the court or field who doesn’t know that I’m not only going to miss it, but very likely trip over my own feet at the worst possible moment along the way.

My parents recognized that boys are supposed to play sports when they’re young if they’re to be well adjusted. When I was in second grade, they signed me up for little league baseball as a way for me to learn basic athleticism and good sportsmanship. I hated the idea from its conception. I got picked up by the worst team in the league: The Rialto Expos. Other boys got to be on teams named after respectable clubs like the Rialto Dodgers or the Rialto Yankees. Not only were the Expos about the worst team in major league baseball, but they weren’t even American. Our colors were powder blue and red… in looking back at my team picture (in which I’m scowling like only seven year olds and old priests can) I resembled an Easter Peep with cleats and glasses.

They put me in right field in hopes that I wouldn’t cause too much damage to the rest of the Expos that were actually eager to play. I spent the better part of practices trying to reason with the coach and manager as to why I, specifically, didn’t need to run the laps with everyone else. Games were (to use the most precise cliché possible) bitter-sweet. I’d stand in the field cursing my parents for ever having made me play while the coach cursed at me for not facing the diamond when someone was at bat.
“Ramirez, goddamnit, keep your eye on the game!”
“Ramirez, your glove is not a goddamn hat!”
“Ramirez, that’s the eighth goddamn time you’ve tied your shoe this inning!”
“Ramirez, your parents just said they hate you. You’re an embarrassment and they’re going to take the catcher home and give him all your things.”
I lived for the end of the game when the baseball moms would have snacks and punch set out. I’d stuff my chubby face with Cheetos and brownies and pretend to commiserate with the other boys over how much we should have won because the other team sucked.

At the end of every game, while I was busy with my Capri-Sun, the coach would announce who the MVP of that game was. My ears would still anxiously perk up as if I had contributed anything to that game but provoke ulcers for coaches and parents of real players. It would be years later when I realized that every boy had to get MVP for at least one game. Incidentally, the kid who played catcher got MVP twice before I ever got it the first time… at the very last game of the season. “Ramirez, you actually hit the ball this time and you kept your glove on for most of the game. We’re all proud of you, son.”

I still hate baseball. Sure, I like going to the stadium and taking in a game (of any sport, really), because I can amuse myself with stadium things during the game. Invariably, I’ll have buddies who will know what they’re doing, so I’ll take my cues from them and yell at the players or the officials when appropriate. I’ll get my fill of beers, nachos and peanuts, do the wave and probably even buy a hat; I’d call that a good night. If I had watched the exact same game at home, I’d have either fallen asleep or gone on to meticulously organize the magazines on the coffee table.

Being from right around Los Angeles, I take part in the same kind of fair-weather fandom that every other Angelino does: I root for the Lakers after they’ve won. I can enjoy watching basketball on TV because I can step away from it for a few minutes and will actually get a response when I ask “What happened?” When the Lakers play the Kings, I will generally jeer and vociferously advise Mike Bibby as to how he should recover from a missed three-pointer, as I am wont to do. I can even go on and on about how much I hate Tony Parker of the San Antonio Spurs, but were I to see either Mike Bibby or Tony Parker in a bar… you better believe I’m going to ask for them to autograph whatever article of clothing seems most appropriate at the time. I’ll then go straight to tell my buddies about the time I called Mike Bibby a bitch and run to Ebay with an authentic, autographed Red Stripe beer visor.

I can’t fathom how people start fights and riots over sports. British soccer hooligans are notorious for getting rowdy after their favorite club loses… or wins… or is even made reference to in passing. Not only are these characters not part of the team, but no one on the team probably even cares that their honor is being defended by someone a police report will later describe as “shirtless, stumbling and reeking of cheap beer.” I’ve seen sober people in the states get incensed when someone says their favorite ball club is the Yankees. Perhaps a car won’t get overturned, but it’s an uncomfortable situation no less (what with the flurry stats and threatening profanities).

It’s absurd. I can’t understand how other men can possibly invest themselves to such degrees. I know guys that will sit down with a cooler full of beer and watch football from dawn ‘til dusk on Saturdays. I can’t think of anything that can hold my attention longer than an average movie, much less watching different people do much of the same thing over and over again. Hmmm… that may also explain my impatience with girlfriends.

You know it’s gotten bad when even alcohol is against me on this one. There are tons of things that don’t peak my interests, but at least I can take solace in the fact that major alcohol companies are with me. Skyy doesn’t sponsor chess tournaments. There are no Corona Promise Keeper conventions. Happily, I’ve never heard of the Chivas Regal International Genetic Biology Roundtable. But roughly one in three bars is called a sports bar, major sporting events have booze affiliates and most domestic beers have contests for tickets to the final four, World Series and the Super Bowl. Salt to the wound: Buffalo chicken wings are the official food of the American sports spectator. Screw you Simon Baron-Cohen!

That’s all.

3.28.2005

Growing up Hispy

I’d probably fit in at any coffee shop or cocktail bar in any big city in America. I’m apt to wear oxfords and polo shirts, I’ve owned a few pairs of loafers and if Dockers has made a pair of khaki pants, I’ve probably owned them. My drink of choice is a stiff vodka martini or perhaps a good scotch. I frequently read magazines like Esquire and GQ to get hip with what the cool kids do. My CD case is riddled with Sinatra, opera or jazz compilations and Dave Matthews (and perhaps one or two violent rap CD’s). Yup! In all, I’d say I’m a fairly standard American pseudo-intellectual. Oh, and I’m Hispanic. No, no… don’t worry; keep your wallet. All that means is that I’m perennially tanned.

Or does it?

My parents came from the tiny, little (troublesome) country of
Nicaragua. You may have heard of it… that whole Iran-Contra thing? The one that wasn’t “Iran”… yeah, that was Nicaragua. They coined the term Sandinistas, were considered for the Panama Canal (it would have been embarrassing to have the Panama Canal go through Nicaragua anyway) and invented bananas. In 1912, there was some dispute between Juan Banan and Miguel Annana over who ACTUALLY invented bananas which ultimately resulted in the Banana Wars. It’s plural because in 1915, and again in 1927, Juan conceded to Miguel but went on to tell all his friends that Miguel was a punk and he didn’t care what peace accords were signed, he, Juan, was actually the mastermind behind bananas. The wars raged until 1933, when the US Marines finally settled the dispute; THEY had actually invented bananas in 1904, only they were called “jihadist-fingers”.

My father arrived in Los Angeles in the mid-seventies. He was a 16 year old stranger in a strange land determined to use his new found independence to wear white t-shirts, grow facial hair, smoke out and jive with his merry band of miscreants at the local discotheque (none of which had been exported to Nicaragua quite yet… his hobbies that is, not so much the other miscreants). My mother was sent over in the late-seventies to live with, who she describes as the Nicaraguan lieutenants of Satan himself (theologians have determined conclusively that Satan is actually Canadian). She was kept under lock and key to assure that she would get a proper education and wouldn’t hang around the likes of thin-mustached bums… so my parents married in 1982 and a mysterious eight months later, there I was—another Latino.

I was born under the glow of the Hollywood sign in a hospital on Sunset Blvd across the street from the Church of Scientology and the L. Ron Hubbard Center for Dianetics. Let the adventure begin. For the first five years of my life, we lived in a neighborhood near USC with the rest of my eccentric (read “crazy”) family. While my dad had taught himself fluent English and my mom spoke with an adorably strong accent, the decision was made to speak to me exclusively in Spanish until I got to grade school. I, however, would show them; my first word was “Pepsi”.

My father started making a decent salary and we moved from Los Angeles to a suburb thereof. I got around to learning English from my time around white kids at a day-care/pre-school called Children’s World. Once I learned English, there was no going back to talking “Nicaraguan”; I’d finally been exposed to what I thought was “American Culture” by being around white kids who I thought were definitively American. In my early grade school years, I was surrounded almost exclusively by white kids and I didn’t understand why I had to be any different. Ahhhh, the formative years of cultural identity crises. My parents recount stories of six and seven year old me’s throwing tantrums when reminded that I was, in fact, Latino. As evidence, they’d point to the undeniable fact that my skin was browner than my buddies. Upon further inspection, they were right. I cried.

We moved to another suburb, even further from Los Angeles after my sister was born and my parents decided that a growing family needed a bigger house. This was a dramatic demographic shift; there were still the white kids with which I could “identify”, but now there were lots of Hispanic kids with which I was “identified”. There were two or three white families on my street, the rest were either directly from Mexico or Mexican, but so very well assimilated that you could scarcely tell. I got along well with the kids, but being the nerdy, chubby kid that actually liked books made me different.

When I was seven, my parents took me to Nicaragua to see La Madre-landia. As I recall, there was poverty everywhere, everything was dirty and dogs and chickens ran around like street-gangs (think The Outsiders). There was only one place in Managua that made hamburgers (what I then considered THE perfect food) and they tasted of office supplies. My Nicaraguan cousins didn’t like me because I had an air of superiority about me. Simply put, I was American and they were, well, different.

SIDEBAR:
I’m sure other cultures do this, but Hispanic genealogy mandates that anyone in your family that cannot be immediately identified as your father, mother, brother, sister, grandfather or grandmother is, by default, your cousin. Older cousins or the cousins of your parents are called aunts or uncles. Your parents closest friends from La Madre-landia and people who are in any of your baby pictures are also your aunts and uncles and their kids are your cousins.

At seven years old, I regarded Nicaragua as the country where pride dejectedly went to die. Fortunately, shame welcomed it with open arms. To be realistic—as a seven year old—I very likely said something like “Nicaragua IS a poo-head”. My Spanish fluency continued to deteriorate and I was eager to see the day when I didn’t understand it anymore. Speaking Spanish in front of my friends was painfully embarrassing and God forbid anyone see me coming out of the Catholic Church where all the Mexicans prayed to their Jesus (hey-seuss).

Back in California, I excelled at school and was transferred to a magnet program at another school. Yup, where all the cool kids were; the kids who read three grade levels ahead and saw the Science Fair as an opportunity to shine. By the sixth grade, I hated speaking Spanish because that affirmed that I was “one of them”. Conversations in my household were (and probably still are) like listening to badly translated Language-on-Cassette lessons. I would address my mom in English; she’d respond in Spanish. My dad would chime in with something addressed to both of us in Spanish and scold me in English when I rolled my eyes. I would be exceedingly mean to my little sister in English and send her crying to rat me out in Spanish.

SIDEBAR: Fun with Direct Translations
Ever hear a foreigner use English phrases that didn’t quite hit the desired note? Here’s what happens when equivalent clichés get literally translated. Absurdity!

Easy come, easy go = Those monies of his sexton, singing yourselves came and singing yourselves they go.
You’ve made your bed now lie in it = Who evil bed cause to look, in she himself it lies
Forewarned is forearmed = Man cautioned voucher because of two
What’s done is done = To him accomplished, breast
There’s no honor among thieves = Thought him robber what everyone was from your condition
Birds of a feather flock together = Every who with your every what

My parents had very distinct philosophies for punishment. My dad ordered me to pick the belt from his drawer that he would swat me (what seemed) enthusiastically across my young bum. This is the equivalent of Indiana Jones’ predicament at the end of The Last Crusade; picking the right goblet was crucial. The big one would hurt, but wouldn’t last long. The small one would get me a quick, angry whipping for my insolence… and then I’d be sent for the big one. The shame of walking to and from his drawer with the second belt in my hand hurt more than the spankings ever did. My mom, on the other hand would neither offer me options nor give me the courtesy of a second to brace myself. I’d break, say, climb, steal or lie about something and she’d reach behind her back without looking, grab whatever her hand landed on and hit me with it. We’d be on the beach and she’d still manage to find a spatula that, presumably, some other Hispanic mother had strategically placed for just such an instance. I realized this was common amongst Hispanic mothers when I saw my neighbors get in trouble and instantly have a sandal, discarded baseball mitts or
Lhasa Apsos flung at them. Hispanic Mothers: Masters of Weapons of Opportunity.

Speaking of punishments Latino parents impose on their children to keep them in line, growing up Hispanic invariably meant growing up Roman Catholic. I’ve developed a theory that Hispanics are Roman Catholics because we need excuses to celebrate things and grill meat. It’s not enough to say “Hey, Jose, let’s have some barbeque today for lunch. We’ll each call our respective 90 cousins and ask them to bring their own tortillas.” Oh, no! It HAS to be someone’s birthday, patron saint’s day, anniversary, marriage, baptism, communion or confirmation. When we ran out of religious pretexts, we’d move on to celebrating individual battles “we” may have won against some colonial power well over a century ago. Barring those… ummm… awww, hell. “Órale, vamos a asar carne para Martin Luther King Jr.!”

Every good Hispanic Roman Catholic has overstocked their homes with obscenely graphic ceramic representations of Jesus hanging limply on the cross. Houses with discriminating tastes would hang paintings of Christ doing something, you know, godly. We also had lots of candles with pictures of Jesus, Mary and the saints doing… ummm… awesome things. The idea was that were the apocalypse to roll around within the next few years and God required proof of faith, Hispanics would be able to point to all kinds of Lord Paraphernalia. “Yes, sir, God! We have every candle in the collection. I bet if you go to the Ehs-smithes (how Smith is pronounced with an accent) you’ll see they were too concerned with being tasteful to care about getting into heaven.”

This seems to be my mother’s principal concern regarding who I marry. While I have no set preference, the trend has shown that the girls I’ve brought home to meet my folks are generally white. This seems to suggest for my mom that there is a greater possibility that they’re not Roman Catholic and thereby assuring that Mrs. Paco Ramirez will invariably stop her from celebrating baptisms, first communions and birthdays by grilling meat.
“Mom, white people like grilling meat too.”
“Oh, sure they do, mijo (mee-ho, a phrase meaning “my son”), but you can’t trust white people to bring their own tortillas.”

She’s probably on to something. The sad reality is, simply, since I left Fontana, I haven’t met many Hispanic girls. I’m certainly a fan; racial genetics have left Hispanic girls with the lion’s share of “hottie” genes. I’ve found though (and this may be a direct result of living in DC for the past four years) that during college age, girls are most polarized along The Latina Spectrum. On one end of the spectrum are what I call The Unwed Mothers and on the other are The Family Trophies. The Unwed Mother is a girl whose ambition is inversely proportional to her fertility. The less they expect out of life, the more they seem to have babies. UM’s will finish high school, but rarely get past community college because that’s valuable time that could be spent finding a husband that makes $12 an hour. The Family Trophies come from decent, hard-working families that heavily emphasized the importance of “doing well in school and becoming independent because, mija, we work so very hard for you and your sisters and we want what’s best for you and you can’t rely on one of these good-for-nothings to support you. No, mija, you have to go to college and focus of school. Ensure that whatever you do, you do not have the slightest bit of sex with these cheesy, wannabe writer types. Especially not if he’s Nicaraguan. They’re going nowhere… and they carry knives.”

Doubtless, there are plenty of girls floating in the middle, I just haven’t met many. So, by circumstance, it seems, I’ve dated principally white girls. Which works out fine because meeting their parents gives me an opportunity to dress well and say charming things… inevitably, the parents who are uncomfortable will try to compliment me by calling me “exotic” or “cultured”. I thank them politely and cheerfully tell them that after dinner, I planned on robbing their daughters at knife point, because—as well you know—Nicaraguans carry knives.

Being Nicaraguan specifically is special all its own. Nicaragua isn’t Mexico nor is it in South America. There are big Nicaraguan communities in Los Angeles and Miami (when I say “big” I mean someone’s opened a restaurant for “our” people… that’s when you know you’ve made it. Next we’ll have our own Little Tokyo or Chinatown and call it “Nicaragua” because the “little” is implied), but very few Americans know anything about it. Growing up in Southern California, (where chances are good that if someone is Hispanic, they’re probably also Mexican) we blended in pretty well with the Mexican culture. We were immersed in it and there was no point in fighting it. As a result, my accent and idiosyncrasies in Spanish are completely indistinguishable. I switch back and forth between Mexican and Nicaraguan colloquialisms with a ridiculous speaking rhythm influenced by years of trying to forget and peppered with red-blooded, American pomposity.

So, I’ve accepted being Mexican in Southern California. No point in fighting, I suppose. When people interchange Hispanic and Mexican, there’s really nothing for me to get offended about. I can’t exactly pull out a globe and an easel with some dry-erase markers for their cultural edification in every instance (pending a grant from the US Endowment for Nicaraguan Geographical Identification). I used to point it out, but I quit when I would frequently be asked what part of Mexico Nicaragua was in. “Southern,” I’d say, “Very Southern. In fact, you’re almost well out of Mexico by the time you get to Nicaragua…. Yeah… Hey, so what part of the moon is your family from?” Now, I know that when I’m in California, Arizona, Nevada or Texas, I’m Mexican. In New York, I’m Puerto Rican. In Florida, I’m Cuban. And anywhere in the South, I’m colored just like the rest of them.

At 21, I’ve come a long way from thinking Nicaragua is a poo-head. I’m fascinated by its turbulent history and its resilient populous. I have no patronage towards Nicaragua though, nor do I feel I have to. I know I’m Hispanic and perfectly happy with that, but I don’t know how to BE Hispanic. That only really comes into question when I’m told that I’m the whitest Mexican anybody knows. I’m not offended… but what does that mean, exactly?

I look Hispanic, don’t I? My last name ends in “ez”, I speak Spanish and we grill meat (and yes, eat beans). Check, check and check. What am I missing? Do literacy and articulation go as check marks in the white or brown side? How about education and ambition? No, I don’t have hydraulics on my car or tattoos of the Virgin Mary. Am I disqualified? I do very much like mariachis, Latin-American cuisine, Negra Modelo beer and Ricky Martin. Ummm… ooops, I guess I don’t use the word “Latino” enough even though it sounds more, you know, descriptive. I don’t attend rallies and I’ve never once felt discriminated (but you better believe I check the Hispanic/Latino box in applications for those extra points). I’m even registered as a Republican…

GASP! No, mijo, you can’t be Republican! What would Cesar Chavez say? What would Jennifer Lopez say? What would the Rev. Al Sharpton say? Mijo, think of what you’re doing to Al Sharpton.

Well, so I’m too brown for the whities and too white for the brownies. The question is: should it matter? Do I really need that cultural identification to be self-actualized? If I answer no, does that make me white? Regardless as to whether or not I’m comfortable with it, that cultural identity is still a void. I know it’s there, it’s never stopped me from doing anything nor encouraged me to do anything… but I feel it. Is it better not to?

A few months ago, while talking to a friend of mine who’s in the same culturally disaffected boat I am (only while mine’s named the USS Nicaragua, hers is the USS China), she explained to me that although I may not be white and I may not exactly be Latino, I was the best at being Hispy of anyone she knew. So, here’s to being the best Hispy Christina knows.

That’s all.

3.23.2005

Hooked on Pontiffs

While Pope John Paul II’s recent health problems are no laughing matter, they will presumably bring about a fascinating and momentous series of events. While my father, for example, has gone through four different Supreme Pontiffs and witnessed—although not personally—three coronations, I, in my 21 years, have seen no such coronation. In fact, anyone under… say… 35 has no real recollection of what a papal coronation looks like. For another “in fact” type statement, anyone under 50 probably has no recollection of the last REAL coronation; back when popes were popes and insisted on the six hour ceremony involving that gaudy triple tiara deal. Golly, how I would have liked to see Pope Paul VI’s coronation! There’s a man’s pope for you.

Both John Pauls decided to go the more humble route and have a “papal inauguration” instead. Which is fine, I suppose, but you can’t spell “pomp and circumstance” without “pope” or “parties”. As much as I as wish J-P 2.0 a healthy recovery, such that he can go for the record as the longest reigning pope, I’m also very eager to see the next pope (hopefully one with an exceptionally creative name) reinstate the actual papal coronation. More on that later.

SIDEBAR: Interesting Papal Trivia
—J-P 2.0 is the third longest reigning pope in history, weighing in at almost 27 years. He attributes his longevity to a healthy, disciplined regimen consisting of prayer, celibacy and Flaming Hot Cheetos.
—Number two is Pope Pius IX with 31 years, although that is contestable because he was forced into hiding by thugs and people dressed as thugs. Pius IX fled in disguise from the Vatican in 1848 and didn’t return until 1850 with the help of Napoleon III. Reports are that, during a basketball game between the Quirinal Junior College Cougars and the UC Santa Cruz Banana Slugs, Pius IX paid 40 lira for the
UCSC mascot costume and high-tailed it to Gaeta.
—The number one reigning pope… you guessed it: Saint (now) Peter, himself. Depending on which historians you believe (lousy, lying historians), Peter was either in office for 34 or 37 years. What’s the dispute? Well, he wasn’t called “The Pope” until after his third year in office. Before that, he was called “The Biggest Party-Pooper In All The World” (what with all his rules and so forth). Plus, Peter was known for making a big deal amongst the other apostles that Jesus loved him best.

In researching this specific, silly article, I came to one surprising conclusion: the papacy over the last century alone is absolutely fascinating. The 20th century saw nine of the most active of the 264 that have sat as Supreme Pontiff; granted, the 20th century just happened to be the one where everything in human history, you know, happened, but you have to give it to the popes for their contribution. Unlike presidents, kings and dictators, popes have an extensive and powerful domain over virtually nothing tangible at all—only they exercise that control all over the world. While other world leaders manage armies and economies, the popes give audience to musicians, actors and, most recently, break dancers. Which reminds me of the old show business line: “How do you get to Vatican City? Practice, practice, practice. Oh, and be Catholic.” Anyhow, presidents and kings can only govern you for a certain number of years (no longer than the term of your life); popes (on the very, very powerful other hand) can have considerable sway with the destination of your eternal soul. I defy Kofi Anan to tell the Cote d’Ivoire to get in line by threatening to cast them straight to the furthest reaches of hell. To be fair, J-P 2.0 hasn’t cast anyone to any reach of hell since 1993 when Dan Quayle left office.

In addition to fancy cars, fashionable hats and the undeniable word of God to back them up, popes enjoy a myriad of proverbial papal party tricks to keep just over a billion Catholics under their collective thumb. There is, of course, the encyclical which is essentially like our president’s weekly radio address only… well… no, okay, it’s more like the equivalent of the Monroe Doctrine and the Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine. With encyclicals, popes are basically advising all the bishops of the world (the Catholic ones, that is) about the latest gossip from God Himself. While encyclicals are addressed specifically to bishops, you’ll eventually hear all about what you’re no longer allowed to do. Popes can also evoke Papal Infallibility whenever they feel especially right. Papal Infallibility mandates the impossibility of a pope being wrong in matters of doctrine; I would call it something akin to being, say, President of the US, only without the nuclear weapons. In 1950, Pope Pius XII was the last to declare Papal Infallibility concerning the assumption of the Virgin Mary. Popes also have access to magic beans.

SIDEBAR: Ways Paco would abuse Papal Infallibility
Don’t get me wrong, the assumption of the Virgin Mary is an important and (apparently) indisputable event, but has anyone ever really REALLY questioned whether or not the mother of Christ got into heaven? At least, to such a degree that the pope would have to chime in with the strongest of statements like “Listen, pal, you wanna know why I’m right? Do ya? I’m right because God said I can never be wrong! Huh? You like that?” I seriously doubt it.
I would evoke Papal Infallibility to:
--Avoid speeding tickets
--Win Jeopardy (incidentally, Ken Jennings had the Mormon version of Papal Infallibility… which is why he lost after a while)
--Foul Shaq
--Claim I called “shotgun” first, every single time
--Call Judge Judy out

Popes in the past century have done a number of impressive things, some for the betterment and some to the detriment of the Catholic Church. Pius XI (pope from 1922-1939) made treaties with Mussolini for the Vatican City, treaties with Hitler for German Catholics and was a staunch supporter or Spain’s Francisco Franco. Chin stroker… Pius XII (1939-1958) was quoted as saying: “What world war? Whoa, whoa, whoa… you said Hitler is killing the who?” He also threatened to excommunicate any Catholic that supported any Communist regime proving conclusively that God is, in fact, on our team. John XXII (1958-1963) met with John F. Kennedy; Jack sought counsel concerning the whole Marilyn Monroe affair and the pope assured him that no one would ever find out about it. Incidentally, there was a craze on the internet a few years ago alleging that John XXII was, without question, the second gunman. Paul VI (1963-1978) was a widely popular pope who made the girls swoon. He was responsible for Vatican 2 (possibly modeled after the second Death Star in Return of the Jedi) which revolutionized the Catholic Church. Vatican 2 was not well received by conservative sects of Catholicism who maintained that the Church’s official motto should still be “The Catholic Church: Unrevolutionizible since 1875”. Paul VI gave way to J-P 1.0 whose contribution of a whopping 34 days as pope only makes J-P 2.0’s tenure even more impressive. I could make a reference to William Henry Harrison, but I’m fairly certain we all could have seen it coming.

John Paul II is a phenom. He’s far and away the most well traveled pope in history after having visited world leaders and Catholics alike in almost every country… and on the moon. On May 13, 1981, Mehmet Ali Agca shot the pope in Saint Peter’s Square. Luckily, the pope survived and later went to visit his assailant in prison; until now, no one has known what the men discussed. Musings of the Mediocre, however, recently came across a secret transcript of their conversation:

JP: So… you’re the man that shot me, eh? You fucking fucker!
MAA: Ummm… yeah. Listen, sorry about that, pope.
JP: Uh-huh. Sorry? You’re sorry?
(Rumbling noises followed by silence and a loud clapping sound)
JP: You idiot! Don’t you know what Papal Infallibility means? Your heathen bullets can’t kill me!

This incident necessitated the invention of what is conventionally known as the Popemobile, allowing for maximum viewing of his holiness. J-P 2.0 has been adamant of late concerning what he calls a growing “culture of death” (capital punishment, euthanasia, abortion, etc) as well as the “new ideology of evil” (same-sex marriage, or even same-sex eye-contact). His biggest accomplishment was in managing to assert his Papal Infallibility while revoking that of 359 years of other popes by pardoning Galileo in 1992. Apparently it is possible for one pope to be “More Infallible” than another. "Galileo sensed in his scientific research the presence of the Creator who, stirring in the depths of his spirit, stimulated him, anticipating and assisting his intuitions." He continued to say, "... Galileo, a sincere believer, showed himself to be more perceptive in this regard [the relation of scientific and Biblical truths] than the theologians who opposed him."

No, I know. I’m stroking my chin too.

Unfortunately, J-P 2.0’s health has deteriorated considerably and while the Vatican maintains that everything’s fine, there are meetings being held behind closed doors concerning who the next pope should be. Needless to say, I have a handful of recommendations of my own.

Paco’s Top Five Recommendations for the Next Pope:
5. Dennis Miller – He’d fill the role nicely because he’s critical, opinionated and refuses to believe that nobody cares about what he has to say. Plus it’s about time the clergy grew facial hair.
4. Bill Clinton – He’s skilled in diplomacy and would certainly bring a hip, liberal edge to the stuffy rooms of the Vatican. Vows of chastity and prudence? Details, details! Perhaps there will be philosophical Vatican-themed discussions on the definition of “the Almighty ‘is’”
3. Carrot Top – Gosh, that’d be funny, wouldn’t it? They’d probably need to vamp up security on that Popemobile, though. John Paul has endured three assassination attempts; Carrot Top would likely have three a day.
2. Prince – Much like popes past, Prince only goes by his first (?) name. Like the popes, he has an affinity for extravagant outfits and he’d redefine the meaning of “giving audience”. Pope Prince also has a certain absurd, hilarious ring to it.
1. Brian Beutler – His casually conservative/conveniently liberal views will bring the Vatican the indecision and ambivalence it’s never had, but always needed. Pope Brian’s enthusiasm, however, will likely be checked by his complete surprise that a Jewish kid from Southern California could ascend to the highest Catholic office. Problems arise, though, in light of statements such as “One would have to question the legitimacy of heaven or any other conception of an after-life given that the pope is making such a desperate effort not to die.”

Congress of Cardinals, my pick for pope is Brian Beutler.

That’s all.

3.17.2005

Paco’s American Dream

What if our concept of success is flawed? When to the sessions of sweet, silent thought, I’ve certainly stroked my chin about this while looking absently at antique globes (I do my best thinking in pawn shops). I suppose there’s nothing wrong with going to school, becoming a lawyer/doctor/businessman/government official and raising a picturesque, nuclear family. You’d probably have to start with one of the stylish mini-vans or station wagons before you move onto the really cool SUV. When your kids got old enough, you could give them a dog and allow them to name it one of those overused dog names that you know will be lame, but it is their dog. You can take family vacations to any Disney-noun and make friends with the parents of your kids’ friends. Cool. You’re a success.

Perhaps I’m a young buck—full of piss, vinegar and chicken wings—but that bores the life out of me. Don’t get me wrong, my dad’s certainly sailing the
USS Jason Seaver and that’s worked out fantastically for me, but can there really be guys out there in their twenties that see that and say “Yeah! The lame life: that sounds swell”?

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“Of course there are! What’s not to respect about that? The real question is: who wants to ‘grow up’ to be the sad, loveless dude at the bar? Who wants to die lonely having not left even the slightest scratch on the world to prove that you ever existed?”
Editorial Response:
Me.

I grew up in one of the many suburbs of Los Angeles (which, it seems, expand from downtown to western Pennsylvania) that have no discernable uniqueness. Fontana was a fine town; I liked it plenty. However, it’s a cultural black-hole. Nothing goes on and nobody seems to mind. I went to high school with kids who shared some teachers with their parents. There’s nothing wrong with that—welcome to Main Street, USA—it’s just boring. I recently got a phone call from a girl I knew in high school who told me about all the kids I’ve totally lost touch with from our graduating class. I was stunned to hear about all the kids that were, married or unmarried, working on propagating civilization through the (assuredly accidental) cultivation of progeny.

Why couldn’t I just have said “having babies”? Pretty absurd to use all those inefficient, purposefully polysyllabic words, huh? I agree. Equally absurd… No, considerably (profoundly even) more absurd is the idea of having any kids by the age of twenty-two. Thirty’s pushing it in my...errr... blog. I’m so very sad for these kids who have, in my unqualified opinion, ruined their lives. At twenty-one, I scarcely have the maturity not to giggle hysterically when someone says the word “poo” (for more information on poo, which was invented in 1989, please visit
www.poop.com); I can’t fathom what it would be like to have the responsibility of not only caring for children, but ensuring that I don’t mess them up.

If these now-parents end up working decent jobs, give their kids that stupid dog and go to baseball or soccer team parties, I ask, are they successful by conventional American standards? Did they make something of themselves, by definition? To put it in trite terms: are they living the American dream?

Abrupt shift. On a train from Slovenia to Budapest, I met another American named Seven (7). Awesome guy: 29 year old, Harvard Law School grad working for a respectable firm in Manhattan making a very admirable salary. By all measures, a successful person and an upstanding citizen. One day, he decided he made more money than he really needed, thereby saving up what, in financial terms, is called “oodles” and that he hated his job. So, he sold most of his stuff, got rid of the rest, packed a small backpack and was determined to travel until he ran out of money. He was on my train because, after three months of travel, he found himself in a
Ljubljana train station and asked the clerk what train left next.

Seven set the standard and is, unequivocally, my role-model. Over beers on the train and later a multitude of refreshing beverages throughout Budapest, Seven and I spent a lot of time talking about the American dream and how we would never be successful according to it (for five hours, we were those guys). Seven shared with me the following story:

A couple years ago, I was traveling through Rio De Janeiro with the girl I was seeing at the time. Staying at our hotel were a group of old guys that would get together every afternoon to play cards, drink whiskey and smoke cigars. One of them stood out a little bit. He was fat, balding and wore tacky shorts, socks with sandals and a grey t-shirt that read in big, black letters
“FBI" and in smaller letters "Female Body Inspector”. He was like 55 years old and had made a bunch of money in real estate or something, so he spent months down in Rio doing the same thing everyday. Get this: at his beck and call was this gorgeous 18, maybe 19 year old Brazilian girl. I couldn’t tell if she was a prostitute or just a girl that lived off his money, but she was smokin’. I can only guess that he went straight from hangin’ with the boys to fucking the hell out of her. He was as happy and contented as can be, man. And I ask you, is that so bad?

Boys from “respectable” families in cities and suburbs across the country have been trained all their lives to answer “Yes, that is bad. He’s going to die of syphilis and rightly so”. I took careful stock of my talents and abilities, likes and dislikes, and any life’s goals I had just before that question was posed to me. It’s hard to be honest to yourself when you’ve been told throughout your formative years that you’re swimming in potential and can do just about anything you want… except of course, that which would really, really make you happy. We’ll judge you for those things.

The subject was changed for us as girls in dangerously short skirts walked by (as if the gods of debauchery were saying “You’re on to something boys”), but by the time we got back on topic, I was resolute.

No, it’s really not that bad at all. In fact, that’s perfect. This is Paco’s American Dream.

I’m resolved to shed the bonds of conventional success and set my own standard. And here we go…

The sad reality is that my father, the businessman, was right all along: in order to be a happy American, you need money. There are those that don’t and I couldn’t be prouder of them. The people that just get by, but are perfectly satisfied with their lot. They’re not successful, by convention, but I admire their freedom so much that I don’t mind paying for, and they’re so very appreciative of, their burger and beer. I, however, understand that I would rather be guy that buys rather than the free-spirit that accepts. Plus, biology has presented me with the saddest of sad facts, namely: martinis don’t grow on trees. Until Science makes itself useful and invents a Martini Tree, I need a job. I’d love to write professionally, but that’s a hard gig to get. Happily, there are a myriad of things I would sell my soul for, so I’m not so much concerned. Silly details anyhow; I’m confident it’ll work itself out (in that I’m-young-and-still-convinced-I’ll-live-forever kind of way).

I don’t feel I need to get married nor do I feel I need to have a serious girlfriend to be an accomplished man. Truth is, I’m far to self-absorbed to be good at either of those roles, so I’d rather not. Moreover, I’m on very good terms with my self-absorption. I’d even say we’re dating. Same extends to children; I think they’re hilarious and highly entertaining, but, as it stands, those people that have six, seven, thirty-four children have robbed me of my necessity to procreate. I blame them.

Travel is essential. The whole world over. Forget five-star hotels and restaurants where waiters wear clean shirts. I want to get invited by locals to bars that are hidden away and meet interesting women all along the way, with the understanding that I’m leaving within days. I want to sail across oceans, bike across continents and climb over mountains. I’d love to hunt exotic animals and eat them. Get drunk and have deep conversations about the nature of existence with strangers. I don’t want to own much of anything besides some clothes, a toothbrush and photos I’ve taken. I want to read everything and I want to speak ten languages fluently. Most of all, I don’t want an address; I don’t want to stop moving.

When I go back to Fontana, California, I want the guys with kids to say “Dude, you’re a crazy sonuvabitch, but I’d give anything to live your life for one day.” And I’ll smile with the satisfaction that they can’t, because they have kids. They’re living the American dream.

I want to be that old guy at the bar with the other old guys. I want to make enough money so that I can retire early, drink scotch and vodka martinis and invest all of my time in laughing. If I’ve been very successful and retired very early, I’d be only too happy to string some pretty college girl along with my wealth simply to satisfy any carnal urges I may have. I’d love to think that I’d still dress fashionably (perhaps not the FBI shirt… I’m not THAT free), but if a robe is most comfortable for my walk to the newsstand, well… so be it. I don’t care if I’m fat, balding and reek of the most pleasant combination of coffee, brown liquor and cigars. I will have made a living out of being self-interested. And I’ll die twenty years before my friends, but I will have lived so very much more than they ever would have. And I’ll leave every last penny to that stupid college girl, because it was only money and that wasn’t what made me happy. Having the freedom to do what I wanted made me happy. I’ll be buried in a humble graveyard with a miniscule headstone and it will read only:

PACO RAMIREZ
The rest of you wasted your time.
See ya around.

Welcome to Paco’s American dream. FBI shirt guy: God bless you.

That’s all.

3.16.2005

Pow! Zoom! Right to the MOON!

You’ve seen Fight Club, I’m sure. You saw average guys, who work fruitless jobs engage in senseless acts of rage—sans anger—for the gratification of feeling like… well, like men. They beat each other stupid for what must be the combative equivalent of the “orgasm grunt”.

Tyler Durden wasn’t Rocky Balboa. He wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger nor Jean-Claude Van Dam (Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee, Steven Segal, Steve McQueen, Vin Diesel, the list goes on and on. Point is: he was none of them) in any of their mindlessly awesome roles in frivolous films. He wasn’t trained in boxing, Ju-jitsu or even
Capoeira .

Although lots of guys would love to have
Brad Pitt’s physique in Fight Club—presumably also in Troy—no one would really argue that he is a big dude. Certainly not one of those Muscle Beach doggies that goes into a gym with the intention of working out bi’s, tri’s and childhood issues. He looked like what the average guy is probably supposed to look like: definition, but not bulk and thin, but not skinny. I have no documentary evidence, but that seems like what the world looked like before the proliferation of KFC, tasty, tasty MSGs and other such three lettered acronyms. Chicks still swoon, but IFBB guys would have a chuckle at his expense using adjectives like “puny” and “girly” followed by ironic nouns such as “man” or “boy” (how’re those withered testes servin’ you, boys? Yeah, I bet you’re real tough now. Fuckin’ IFBB guys!)

Tyler Durden was no hero. He wasn’t trying to save the world, a girl or hostages from an evil mastermind, deranged psycho or natural disaster. He was an average guy engaged in frustrated, hyper-average violence for its own sake. And the appeal to other average guys was almost universal.

“Hey, I have a shitty job.”
“Hey, my boredom drives me to drink.”

…they seemed to say. Truth is, many average guys were, and are, troubled and disenfranchised for, ostensibly, no reason at all. Fight Club prescribed that instead of taking the increasingly conventional route (which I personally feel is the fruit of seeds planted by the Feminist movement) of seeking therapy and talking out their problems, they took what would probably now be called the “Caveman approach” and beat their problems out of each other.

This idea took flight. If you’re anywhere in your twenties, you probably know guys who, immediately after watching this movie, went straight to their backyards, garages and basements to beat the hell out of each other. It would be foolish to assume that these friendly inflictions of bodily harm didn’t exist prior—backyard amateur wrestling leagues plagued youth culture through the mid ‘90’s—but Fight Club seemed to inspire young men to act on their frustration with rage rather than identify their problems and work them out with months of expensive therapy. You have a problem too? Good. You punch me and I’ll punch you and we’ll both feel better.

We’re not talking thugs and slack-jaws. We’re talking smart, young guys, full of “potential” (whatever that is) living average, comfortable lives. I shied away from actual violence for fear of getting hurt or, worse, in trouble, but I always wished I had. Boys have fought amongst each other since they were invented in 1831, but somehow this was different. No one was “dissed”, no fight was provoked by anger, no honor lost which needed to be regained. No, this is different. These guys fought their friends. They would bleed and make bleed, bruise and make bruise, but they were still friends. Fault for any broken bone or dislodged tooth was assigned to chance, not your buddy. After it was all said and done, you slapped hands, hugged and placed the cold beer your assailant/victim/buddy handed you over your swelling eye. And things felt right.

I call my abstinence from this activity ‘fear’ now, but I used to call the phenomenon stupid. I didn’t want to get hurt much more than I didn’t want to hurt anyone of my friends, but, oh, what it would have been like to playfully strike someone just a little bit more than playfully. I discovered my own desire for stoic violence in college when I’d find myself sizing up every guy at the mall that looked to be a fair match. I cut in lines in front of them, blatantly stared at their girlfriends and rolled my eyes when they protested. I was begging for a direct blow to the face, for someone to beat my frustration out of me. I wanted to test my reaction, my character and show myself how big my balls really were (in any event, much larger than those IFBB guys).

Nope. Nothin’. I found that the guy who goes to the mall with his girlfriend is generally about as non-confrontational as they come.

SIDEBAR:
There’s an interesting, yet so very ill-conceived notion among guys that if an attractive girl has a boyfriend, our ability to… ahem… “take him” will immediately—as though we were lions, gorillas or manatees—woo her to kiss us with tongues over her boyfriend’s pitiful, decimated body. Kinda laughable. I defy anyone to cite an example of this actually working since the whole
Paris/Menelaus thing occurred in 1965. Anyone? Anyone? Hmm…

I took boxing as a PE class and later joined the boxing club at school in an effort to focus that violent energy into something… ummm… athletic. But, there was something missing. It seemed to have the right idea: fighting at random with no anger. Problem was, boxing has a point. You want to show good form and be better than the other guy. Plus, there’s all kinds of padding and a referee. So it was sport, not therapy. That’s different. If anything, boxing was the proverbial dry-hump of my quest for unmitigated violence.

Very recently (three and a half years after starting this foolishness), I got into the first fight of my life. Walking out of a bar in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood in DC, a fat, drunk Puerto Rican guy was staring at and talking loudly to his friend about a girl in my group. That’s normally not a provocative act; we were crossing the street and I knew it to be stupid, so I wasn’t particularly incensed. My face must not have said as much because when I inadvertently made eye contact he said:

“Y tu, puto… mierda?”

Editorial translation from Spanish to the most direct English possible:
“And you, (masculine form of) whore… shit?”

I walked back towards him and asked him why, precisely, it was necessary to have said anything at all. Yeah, I’m a rookie. At this point, while I take responsibility for my actions, it’s hard to say that I had any control over what my body did, because it all seems so instinctual. He outstretched his arms and inflated his chest. I outstretched my arms and inflated my chest. Our inflated chests (mine was more bulging and rippled with muscles… or at least that’s what my memory of the event suggests) touched and he said… well, what you say just before most fights start: “Well, what’re you gonna do?”

Ummmm…..

The only thing that occurred to me, having grown up the literary, pseudo-intellectual type was to respond with a rhetorical question: “What can’t I do to you?”

Newby… table for one, please. It’s important to note that the flare for the dramatic that my question evoked was completely lost on my chubby, Puerto Rican friend.

He did what, I guess, you’re supposed to do next and shoved me (proving his lack of appreciation for what I thought was a well-worded response). I shoved him. He drew his fist back and let it fly towards my head.

SIDEBAR:
In numerous discussions concerning the theoretical street fight I would get in prior to this moment, I’d always postulated that the other guy would swing wide, I’d duck under his mighty blow and deliver something devastating right to his ribs.

His fist landed just to the left of the center of my forehead. I then found my own fist right under his left eye. Who knew? I was a scrapper. He stumbled back just long enough for my friend and his friend to get between us. At this point, his nose was bleeding something glorious and I wanted to run right the hell out of there while I was still victorious (and non-detained by the authority figure). Random blows were exchanged, but that was the climax of my first fight.

I take that back. The climax came when in the graspy-pushy-shovey match that followed, Lindsey (the girl who’s honor I was defending… apparently) landed a loud, fleshy punch right to the fat guy’s face. Everyone stopped for just a moment to absorb what just happened. The fat guy’s friend actually seemed somewhat impressed. I was yelling platitudes at the friend who was effectively stopping me from throwing any more punches: “Let me go, man, you don’t know me!” As if somehow I expected him to realize that, in fact, we had never met and then immediately release me.

And that was that. My first fight. We weren’t even completely across the street before I was absolutely free of any rage and felt awesome. The soreness on my face—which was nothing compared to the swollen, bloody face of the other guy—was sadistically gratifying. And the thought that someone had “dissed” me and I “lef’ dat fool messed up” was oddly liberating.

I’m a normal guy. I’m not angry, I wasn’t drunk and I’m grateful to Chubs for the opportunity to answer questions about my balls and release some of that frivolous, inexplicable frustration. Thanks, Chubs. Is this wrong? Am I a thuggish brute? Did I violate any social contract?

No. Fresh from this experience, I truly feel it’s healthy for normal dudes to occasionally indulge their aggressive urges. If reasonable, consenting guys maintain some sense of restraint (with respect to how much damage they can do without necessitating the word “permanent”) they should be able to beat the hell out of each other. I accomplished in a minute and a half what probably would have taken nine months and many hundreds of dollars of therapy. I don’t need to get in touch with my feminine side, I’ll settle for another dude’s face. Hmmm… perhaps a little sociopathic. Yeah. I’m okay with that.

That’s all.

3.15.2005

Nope. Still Not Chris Ehrline.

For about six weeks now, members of the Ehrline family of San Bernardino, California have called repeatedly in hopes of speaking to Chris. It started late January when an elderly gentleman called to ask if he could speak to this Chris character. I said that this was neither Chris, nor did I think that the number they have had ever been Chris’. “You see, sir,” I explained patiently and politely when he seemed disappointed that I wasn’t him, “I’ve had this number for about two years and the area code was only recently changed to 951, so there’s no possible way that this could ever have been Chris’ number.” He apologized and thanked me for my courteousness. There was suddenly a kick in my step. I could have easily been curt and hung up, but instead I performed a public service for that seemingly old, old man. Surely when he died and St. Peter asked him who among the (still) living deserved a break, he’d say “I don’t know his name, but I can most certainly give you his cell phone number.”

The phone rang again, and again the same elderly man asked for Chris. “No, sir, this still isn’t Chris. Perhaps you wrote the wrong number or are mistaking a seven for a four.” Again, he apologized, thanked me and that seemed to be the end of it. Well, that end lasted perhaps another two minutes. He called again, but this time asked for Chris Ehrline, as if somehow I’d been confused about which Chris SPECIFICALLY he’d been looking for. “Nope, this isn’t Chris Ehrline’s number either.”

Another two minutes passed—I continued about my business, whatever that may have been—when I got another call from the same number. This time it was what sounded like a middle-aged woman asking for Chris. “No, ma’am, I explained to the gentleman before that this has always been the number for Paco Ramirez.”

“Hmm… that’s odd. This is the number he gave us. Are you certain Chris isn’t there?”

Stroke your chin along with me on this one.

“Ma’am, not only am I certain that Chris isn’t here, but I don’t think I’ve ever even met a Chris in all of my life. Nope; never once.” She apologized, thanked me for my time and hung up only after saying to the old man “He still says it isn’t Chris’ phone.”

I stopped answering the phone after that. I suspect they were recruiting other family members and neighbors to reason with me into turning the phone over to Chris. Why hadn’t I stopped answering before? (That was you asking) Well, that’s my business and I thank you for not probing. Truth is I had absolutely nothing to do and I had secretly hoped that Chris would call me to ask if he had any messages. Also, it made me seem really important and indispensable to receive that many phone calls while waiting for a train.

I had forgotten the whole thing when perhaps two weeks later, I received another series of inquiries for Chris Ehrline. “Sir, can you send Chris a letter, perhaps, asking him to call you? Unless he lives nearby…” That clearly wasn’t an option. This time, I probably only received three calls instead of the four dozen I’d gotten in the first barrage.

Just four days ago, I received another call from the Ehrline family. It threw me totally off guard; I had completely forgotten that these were the same culprits from before. “Oh, still not his number, huh? Listen, do you happen to know Chris Ehrline?”

No. But, I loathe him. If it helps at all, I’m very familiar with my hatred for Chris… would you like to talk to that?

SIDEBAR:
INSANITY (as defined by
THE DICTIONARY): noun, the inability to understand the nature or consequences of one’s acts or events, matters or proceedings in which one is involved.

So, I’ve come to a couple conclusions. First, Chris must have grown to hate his silly, crazy family calling to such a degree that to this day he insists that my phone number goes directly to his phone. Chris, I’m with you, buddy. Secondly, these people are somehow convinced that through their patience, I will—at some point—grow into the Chris they know and torment. Either that, or they’re going to catch Paco/Chris off guard in a call from a distant, yet well liked, cousin and I will reveal that I, in fact, have always been Chris Ehrline and I’ve thoroughly gotten their collective goat.

Why wait? Should the Ehrline family ever call again, I’m going to do what I can to convince them that I’m Chris. “What do you mean you don’t recognize my voice, grandpa? Have you been taking your medicine?” “Yeah, sorry about that, mom, I’ve been so busy lately that I’ve been forced to pretend I’m someone named Paco even in my voicemail. I have a lot more free time now; tell me about everything.” “Yes, this is Chris Ehrline’s phone… or, to be specific, it was. I found it in his clothes after I strangled and devoured him. No, no, there’s no need to worry, he was delicious! You raised a fine boy, Mrs. Ehrline. A fine boy!”

That’s all.

3.14.2005

Dumb with Driving

My father is an amazing motorist; I’m frequently dumbfounded by his ability to maneuver in and out of traffic with an encyclopedic knowledge of the traffic patterns for all of North America. The man’s surely convinced me that he’s never been lost once in his life nor has he ever peeked at the pages of a Thomas guide. Those are for suckers… and guys named Thomas.

I own two. Why? Because I possess the highly emasculating quality of consistently finding myself lost and of being a bad driver—which are not necessarily unrelated. Not only am I a bad driver, but generally clueless with respect to the dynamics of a motor vehicle’s innards. Guys aren’t supposed to get lost. Guys aren’t supposed to “unintentionally merge” into the center divider while searching for a radio station. Guys aren’t supposed to ask shady car dealers if the jalopy ’78 Mercedes they’re considering purchasing is equipped with brakes on all four wheels. You guessed it: I suck.

As far as I can tell, there are three kinds of guys behind the wheel. I call them dads, dudes and dumb-asses.

Dads are those guys that seem to be (it only really matters that they impress the image onto others) masters of their domain behind the wheel; they would sacrifice their genitals to the gods of disproportionate pain before dejectedly asking directions from the variably comprehensible likes of a gas station cashier. Aforementioned Gods of disproportionate pain forbid that also aforementioned cashier happen to be a woman. Dads can diagnose any mechanical, electrical or character flaw in a car through careful observation of noises or smells and tinker under the hood happily on the weekends--all while frowning at those who would use the word “tinker” in context.

Dudes encompass the largest percentage of male drivers along with the biggest spectrum of driving prowess and mechanical savvy. Basically, we’re looking at the average guy. Everything from the guy who rarely ever gets lost to the guy that will never admit to being lost and eventually finds his way. Dudes can change there own oil, but dudes can also put obnoxious spoilers on an Acura Integra to utilize the aerodynamic advantage in case they should ever have to re-enter the atmosphere after their mission to Mars. Finally, they operate a manual shift in hours of heavy traffic without stalling once or they can be that jerk that drives along the shoulder and flips you off when you don’t let him merge back in.

Then we have the dumb-asses. Dumb-asses inadvertently encourage cities and whole states to consider legislation banning the use of hand held cell phones while driving. Dumb-asses are the guys that complain to gas station attendants after that devious green diesel nozzle forced itself into the gas tank that explicitly warns “Unleaded Fuel Only”. Dumb-asses ask themselves “What’s the worst that can happen?” when the oil lamp blinks furiously. Finally, dumb-asses are frequently told “Maybe I better drive” or “I can parallel park it for you”… by girls. You may have also have heard the guy I call a dumb-ass referred to as a WBW (Woman Behind the Wheel). To be fair, all girls are terrible drivers too. I only say that to be fair.

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“You’re a jerk, Paco. I’m a girl and I’m an exceptional driver!”

Editorial Response:
Hmmm… perhaps. For a girl.

This pains me to admit… I am a dumb-ass driver. I’m easily distracted, I ask for directions from girls (and turn at the third light where there’s a Weinerschnitzel’s, but if I see a Transcendental Episcopal church I’ve gone too far) and I’ve managed to ruin some cars. I failed my first driver’s license test at the tender age of 18 when I almost killed the DMV lady and myself by turning into oncoming traffic. We were both pretty well shaken, but I still had the nerve to utter “but, why?” when she told me judgingly that I’d failed. I’ve rear ended a lady on an interstate—going what may have been three mph—because I was trying frantically to call a radio station to win a pair of concert tickets. Then there was Bob. Bob was the gentleman who nearly had the misfortune of having a coroner’s report that read under cause of death “’97 Toyota Corolla”. He appeared in my headlights abruptly while riding his bike to work down a very dark street when I swerved to the left and clipped his elbow with my side mirror. He was criminally senile, so I told him my name was Bob as well, gave him a ride to work and bought him off with a pack of cigarettes. God bless America.

I bought my first car on Route One right outside of Philadelphia. For those of you that have the good sense never ever to go into the state of Pennsylvania, Route One is a long road with dozens and dozens of dealerships. Some are legitimate, some are less than legitimate. In a word: notorious. I bought a 1978 Mercedes 300 D with 308,000 miles for $1,200. Super cool car; if it worked properly, I would never consider buying another ever. In an effort to not “get taken” I kept my arms crossed, grimaced and stroked my chin critically as I dealt with the greasy 19 year old salesman. He opened the hood, I took a gander at the engine, stroked my chin some more and said conclusively “hmm, sure is a lot of stuff in there… well, it looks like everything’s where it needs to be.” I kicked the tires to check for… ummm… whatever it is that the act of kicking the tire signifies; as I saw it, it was the equivalent of inspecting a horse’s teeth. I would have known that I was being taken if, after my “kick the tires” test, one had, say, fallen off. I then asked him if the brakes were good, to which he responded “sure” and I followed up with “so, are the brakes on the front wheels or the back?”

Pause. Smile. “Not a car guy, are ya?” As he explained it, the hole that was in the sidewall of one of the tires only needed some air (okay, so my kicking test isn’t fool-proof), the car wouldn’t go in reverse until the transmission had been warmed up and, to my good fortune, the car was equipped with a CD player. The kind where you didn’t just take off the face, but slid the entire radio out of the slot. Great! I had prepared for that by bringing all of my CD’s; try to guess how surprised I was when I discovered on the ride back that it would only play 10 contiguous seconds of song before it jumped backwards or forwards at its own discretion. This CD player was ideal for techno music, but not so much for anything worth listening to. I was happy to know that the car had a full-sized spare in the trunk. I later found that the "spare tire"—the one that said Mercedes on it, so it HAD to be legitimate—was actually a tire from another crappy Mercedes and didn’t actually fit on my car when I needed it (hours later).

My parents visited me in DC in October and on my drive to the airport to pick them up, the rear transmission mount decided to cut its losses and jump ship. So, I happily drove my parents about, knowing that if I traveled above 35 mph, the car would shutter violently. They, needless to say, were appalled. They promised to bankroll another “safe” car as long as I promised never to drive the Yoonkar (what we came to call the Mercedes because that’s how my Nicaraguan mother pronounces “junker”). By November, we’d worked out a great deal with a dealer in Annapolis for a 2001 Jetta. Okay, so a silver Jetta isn’t necessarily the manliest car ever—neither James Bond nor Frank Sinatra would ever be caught dead in one—but it was free. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to learn standard shift, so there was really no complaining from me (at least not exoterically).

By the middle of February, I was a stick shift champ. On one especially cold evening, I was driving back from a dinner with friends when I missed the street I wanted to be on. “No worries,” thought I, “the street I’m currently on runs parallel to the one I want, I’ll merely make a left at my convenience.” When I got to my convenience, I made my left behind a slow moving SUV. Going 35 mph down a small residential road at around 10:30, how was I supposed to see the pot hole (the other guy in the car and I later went on to rename that particular pot hole a number of clever things: pot pool, pot abyss, pot hole-to-hell and, my favorite, pot pourri)? I came to learn that since Volkswagons have aluminum oil pans, they present no challenge to evil, evil, oil-thirsty pot holes. I ripped open the oil pan and continued driving (not really knowing that all my beautiful oil had leaked out immediately) for what was probably less than a mile before the car decided it hated me.

Cars can’t run without oil? Who knew? I came to find out how dumb-ass of me that was when speaking to tow-truck driver and mechanic alike. They’d ask things like “What happened?” I’d tell them. “And you kept driving? Didn’t you see the oil lamp?” Of course I saw the oil lamp! But, who knew that a blinking oil lamp meant “stop driving”? Well, not me anyway.

“Umm, no. No, there was no oil lamp. I don’t even think this car has an oil lamp. It is German, after all.” (How would you answer knowing that you were CLEARLY WRONG and that admitting how wrong you are/were would mean the immediate surrender of the remaining shreds of masculinity?) So, what looks like $5,000 later, I’m without vehicle for a while. In reality, this is probably better for humanity at large. You got lucky, you bastard jay-walkers!

That’s all.

3.13.2005

The Art of the Siesta

I’m a napper. I very much enjoy my midday nap. My mid-afternoon nap. My mid-evening nap as well as my occasional mid-class nap. Essentially, if there’s an opportunity to nap, I eagerly and vigorously seize it. It isn’t so much sleeping that makes me love life as much as it is napping. Sleeping (normally consisting of 4-5 REM cycles for normal adults) is what you do at night to recharge your body from the rigors of your active, industrious day; napping is what you do when you have many more productive things you could be doing but have chosen not to because you’re probably lazy and lack drive and motivation in life. Yup, I’m a napper.

In my travels through Spain this summer, I discovered that those folks really have cracked the code and mastered the art of napping. So much so that walking any given Spanish street from about 1:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon feels like being at a Phil Collins concert (you see the occasional old person but, otherwise, no one to be found). Everyone else has retreated to the comfort of their homes to have lunch—perhaps—and a glorious, glorious siesta. Shops are closed, places of business abandoned leaving only cafes and tapas bars as the lone fingerprints of commerce.

It was a little unnerving at first; it’s odd to see a whole city shut down as though it were 3:00 AM. No one walks the streets, few cars are seen moving, everything stops. After a while, I stopped noticing the barren communities because I too was actively engaged in the siesta. What a beautiful time! Around 2 o’clock, I’d eat a hearty lunch and I’d go STRAIGHT to sleep. No time wasted at all (if that’s an acceptable phrase to utilize with respect to midday napping) from the lunch table to my bed.

It’s certainly practical. The midday heat coupled with a big meal is very persuasive. Furthermore, there’s just nothing to do. The longer I was in Spain, the more I wondered precisely what it was I did back at home from 2-4(ish). Not that my evenings in Spain—or anywhere that matter—have ever been especially productive, but I quickly realized that I was more inclined to do something other than watch television from 5 o’clock on if I took advantage of the siesta. I was also a hell of a lot more fun at night (during my heavy, lavish drinking binges… to be discussed later, I’m sure) knowing full well that I was both rested and would be fully capable of taking on a five hour day the following morning.

I’ve been told by many an intelligent (lazy) person, when discussing napping, that scientific evidence (go ahead and reread that… It says “scientific”, giving me both intellectual AND moral authority) has proven (PROVEN) that the human body goes through a lull in energy between one and four in the afternoon—roughly six to seven hours after waking from a night’s sleep. Furthermore, said discussions also revealed that a nap during this lull increases afternoon and evening productivity 39% and improves the chances of a generally good disposition 62% (ummm… more or less). Which suggests, to me anyway, that when the Spanish invented the siesta in 1985, they’d been reading up on physiology journals. Genius!

Americans, on the other hand, don’t take siestas. In fact, shortly after the invention and proliferation of the Spanish siesta (which expanded to every Central and South American country, probably because they all spoke Spanish… this may also explain why there is no translation for the word "siesta") Americans invented the word “lazy”. As a direct result of our generally condemnatory response to something so marvelous as midday naps, Americans suffer some of the worst stress related conditions the world over (probably). Our cultural views—which, it’s important to note, are usually inherently correct by virtue of being American—with respect to siestas are misguided. Let’s examine a short list of cultures that have historically judged napping and activities deemed “unproductive” harshly:

--In 1500, what is now known as the Middle East was referred to affectionately as “The Land Where Things Grow A Plenty”. They developed a disdain for siestas, and God took away all their water. They realized the error of their ways when the beloved Sheik Abdul “Gary” Al-Fuqheah took a nap on an especially warm afternoon. BAM! Like the glorious fountains of Rome, they discovered oil. It would be foolish to believe these were coincidences.
--1783, Atlantis falls into the ocean. I contend this had something to do with criticism of siestas for two reasons: a) the sleepy cultures of the Pacific have never been fabled to sink into the ocean and b) there’s absolutely no way whatsoever to disprove me.
--On August 10th, 1912 and again on April 27th, 1938, ze Germans foolishly passed legislation mandating a cultural frown towards midday sleeping. They later went on to lose not just one, but two world wars (sentences like these are the columnist’s answer to a nudge of their elbow to your ribs, as if to say “there aren’t words enough to describe how very right I am”… and here we are).

There is, however, hope in sight; I am taking personal pains to ensure that America isn’t subject to catastrophe. Here and now, I pledge to have as many “Save America Siesta Vigils” as I can bear. Do your part: send donations to the Paco Saves America Fund. Your donations and my naps are what will keep America afloat. Thank you, Patriots.

Yawn.

That’s all.

3.10.2005

Science is Boring

Do you remember your childhood? I do. Do you remember waking up extra early on school days to treat yourself to morning cartoon shorts of either the Disney or Warner Bros. varieties (WB cartoons, it seems, were for the low-brow, cooler kids at school. Disney was for the girls and sheltered momma’s boys whose parents thought that Bugs Bunny and his crowd of miscreants were drawn by the hand of the devil)? I do. Or, at least, I remember having to wake up early specifically to watch the WB shorts and pretend as if I’d been wholesomely enjoying lame-ass Disney cartoons to avoid the belt. Anyway, do you remember that in the half hour before WB cartoons came on was a show called Mister Wizard, in which Don Herbert (the overachiever’s Mister Rogers) would do a number of boring experiments and demonstrations that you too could do at home? Do you remember the awful child actors who would pretend to be interested as Don cracked the code on science fair volcanoes in what seemed like his home laboratory? I do.

I also remember being bored to tears. I remember waking up just a little too early and cursing existence at the fact that I had to choose between infomercials, local morning news and Mister Wizard until I could be legitimately entertained by the antics of cartoons with real cartoon names like Daffy, Porky and Yosemite Sam. I fondly remember my intense distaste of Mister Wizard (you arrogant bastard, you weren’t Doctor Wizard so you insisted on having your stupid title spelled out. No, sir, you couldn’t have been “Mr. Wizard” could you?)

I learned at the tender age of eight what I’ve grown to accept as the ultimate truth in academia: science is the opiate of the educated. In simple terms “Science = Sleepy”. To be fair to science (although you don’t deserve it, you stupid subject), I’m far more inclined to the humanities, but I have taken more than my fair share of science and engineering (which is like science, only with
ADHD) classes. Now, there will be those among you that protest:

“But, Paco, science and engineering have made technology possible.”
“But, Paco, science and engineering are the manifestation of a whole lobe of brain power.”
“But, Paco, aren’t you interested in the way the world around you is put together and works?”

Ummm… no. Couldn’t be less interested actually. Sure, I’m using a computer, on the internet to type out a frivolous article about my indifference towards science, but I’m quite sure I could do without. Go ahead, ask me how I think the Internet operates. (Do it)

Simple: magic gnomes.

And no, I’m not a hypocrite for using technology to decry science, because I’m on fairly good terms with said gnomes. While I’m not explicitly saying that the study of science is useless, I’m kinda implying it.
I have nothing on which to base this off of, but I’ll go ahead and say that most people approach science classes like I used to approach Mister Wizard; it’s what you have to do before you can get to something interesting. In fact, to illustrate how useful science has been over the span of human history, I’ve compiled a compressive chronology of scientific accomplishments.

1,000,000,000,000,000 B.C. God invented the world and declared onto Adam and Eve “Thou shalt not eat from the tree of science. It will ruin your appetite for things other people (who I’ll invent later) find interesting.”

Sometime shortly thereafter… “Damnation! Didn’t I just SPECIFICALLY tell you? Fine, you like science… okay, I’ll give you some science.” God turned his back to them quickly and invented cancer, “huh, you like that? Use your science on that!”

1929 A.D. Philo T. Farnsworth uses science to invent television.

1946 A.D. Dr. Percy Spencer (what a stupid, scientist name) patents the first microwave oven. The first models were nearly six feet tall and weighed over 750 lbs.

1964 A.D. Food scientist at Ruiz Foods invent the first microwaveable burrito.

July 29, 1969 A.D. The most impressive feat of science ever before, or ever since. We discovered conclusively that it wasn’t, in fact, made of cheese, we left a flag (like you do) and we left with no real interest of returning again. Moon colonies, you say? Nah… not for us. Let the Ruskies get up there and make a Communist moon colony if they want to. We’re too busy thinking up the Internet.

May 10, 1974 A.D. Al Gore invents the internet. Sorry. No, I’m really sorry for that one. Even I’m embarrassed by that one.

1990 A.D. I discovered that we can send a man to the moon, but we can’t get my burrito to cook evenly.

1992 A.D. God caught on to humans having TV, so he invented MTV’s The Real World, planting the seed for the explosion of reality TV which would eventually ruin all television programming. God’s wrath, man… God’s wrath. Reality TV is the 1990’s equivalent of Noah’s flood. And where was science for that?

2001-2005 A.D. I’ve effectively slept through every single science and engineering course I’ve had. Proving conclusively: Science is BORING!

That's all.

Blogs: The Internet's Intellectual Flea Market... OF DOOM

Fine! Internet, you win. I broke down and registered myself as a “blogger”.

SIDERBAR: A couple thoughts on the word “blogger”
1) Blog, blogging, blogger and the less publicized bloggophilia were recently added to
THE DICTIONARY as Webster’s way of saying “We’re cool. We’re hip. We’re with it. You can see just how cool we are for only $14.99” These really had no business becoming words and I pugnaciously stand by my contention that in the next edition (their 24,000th at last count), Merriam AND Webster should agree to remove these words. They should also remove “funner”, but I’ll dedicate an entire diatribe to that.
2) I don’t like the phraseology of “Registered Blogger” because that makes me feel as if I was convicted of aforementioned bloggophilia. I’m concerned that neighbors and compatriots will sign petitions and give me dirty looks while saying things like “There goes that Paco guy I saw on the Internet. He makes absurd, unfounded claims about nothing of any relevance under the premise of keeping mainstream media in check… umm, somehow… mostly theoretically” and “I heard he likes little boys” (only one of which is true, mind you).

Moving on. I can’t say that I’m particularly sold on the idea of blogging. I suppose “respectable” bloggers are both growing in popularity and credibility as the pseudo-anonymous whistle-blowers of “real” columnists, journalists and relevant, newsworthy individuals. Others utilize blogging as an online diary, exposing their souls (sort of) to the world (wide web); proving conclusively that teenage girls secretly REALLY want you to read their non-internet diary (check the bureau… left drawer. No, behind that. The key is in the right drawer. Forget it, just rip open the lock. No! I thought I just explained that she only pretends to mind). And, then you have what I’d call SAD SICS’s (Smart Angry Dude Skilled In Computer Stuff), those guys that write lengthy, often vulgar accounts of things they hate. These are amusing in that “hell in a hand basket” kinda way.

Their aim seems to be to demonstrate their individuality, intelligence and wit by being angry and absurd just like the thousands of other SAD SICS. They grow a fan base, consider themselves celebrities and answer hate-mail as part of their sssshhhhtick. God bless ‘em, I say. It’s mindless, crude humor, but it makes me laugh from time to time. I’m (presumably) a far cry from a SAD SIC; I’d call myself more of a PACO (Poorly Attempting Clever Observation… these are the jokes, people. Forget it! If you wanted real funny, you should have gone to
Dave Barry or The Onion, judger!).

Musings of the Mediocre is simply an exercise in writing. I scarcely expect my friends to read this (who know I’m not funny), much less a wider audience, so I’m pretty much free not to fit into a specific genre. I’d like to keep a healthy mix between my fiction writing and commentary. I’d especially like to focus my commentary on how dumb Brian Beutler and his seemingly genuine attempt at “real” bloggophilia are. You’re dumb Brian, and I’m on a one man life’s mission to drag your name shamelessly through the mud. Find
Brian and give him a piece of your mind. "Oooohh, my name is Brian Beutler and I'm a real writer... I write real things and use proper spelling and abide by every rule of grammar ever. I'm smarter than you because I use words such as 'ostensibly' rather than 'like' because I'm...ummm... smarter."

We at Musings of the Mediocre have but three words for you, Mr. Beutler: I hate you.

That's all.