When Last We Saw Our Traveling Trio...

Hello my poppets, I'm back again with a wee update from the land of volcanoes. When last you read this blog the political situation was a bit fraught, but I'm here to tell you that it looks like things are going to calm down. Amazingly, the Liberal party (who are, funnily enough, conservative) looks like it's going to just lie down and take it from the Sandinistas, who just perpetrated an amazingly brash election fraud. Really, it's hard to blame them; if somebody used the kinds of violence and intimidation tactics on me that the FSLN has brought out against the Liberals, I'd probably put my hands in my pockets, stare at the sky, and whistle aimlessly, too. It's either that or civil war, and I guess they're reluctant to do that. We might see a few more marches, maybe a riotous celebration from the Sandinistas, but for the most part, I predict a coming calm.

So on that note, let me share some more pictures from the Amazing Vacation of Varunski, Moxita the Fifi Poodle, and Cheastypants. When last we saw our traveling trio, we had just left the fabled and fabulous Island of Ometepe and were on our way up to the mountains, to a town called Estelí. It took us a while to get going. First, Varunski had to flirt with every fine lady he met.



Not to be outdone, Moxita and I practiced our best moves of seduction such as The Batting of the Eyelashes, The Dainty Fingertips On the Collarbone, The Touching the Man's Forearm Casually, and, of course, our most successful patented flirting move, The Glance of Unadulterated Seduction:



Sexy, no? Yes, I know. Don't get too distracted, however, I'm still telling a story here. Where was I? Oh yes, we were preparing to depart on our voyage to the mountains. Of course, it was going to be a long bus ride, and we needed drinking water for fortification. It took us a while to find a bottle of water with just the right level of STDs. Not too much, not too little, turns out that 400 parts per million is juuuuuust right.



Ah yes. Now we're ready.



In Estelí we did all sorts of things that I couldn't do the first time I went there on account of how everything was closed. This time I cleverly planned the trip not to coincide with any national holidays or patron saint days, and WA-LA! Everything was open. We went to a cigar factory where they roll those famous puros of Nicaragua.

This excursion was actually way more fun than I thought it would be. They do everything there from sorting to soaking to curing to rolling the tobacco, and except for the rolling part, the jobs are extremely gender-segregated. The women sit in one room around a table where they sort and stack and tear and de-vein, and the men work in curing and building the cigar boxes by hand. The women chatter and gossip in their well-lit room, while the men sit around in dark rooms and stare at a pin-up pictures of very naked hairless women in various compromising positions. Ooh, la la. Most interesting of all, however, was this: my personal lion fetish was never more happily satisfied than on this day.



Also, this was on the wall. Can I just say, on behalf of all deer everywhere, WHAT THE F&CK.



We also did all sorts of fun-to-do-but-boring-to-read-about touristy things, and met lots of fun people, including a fantastic Greek couple that we promptly fell in love with and kidnapped. We took them with us the next day when we rented a car and headed up the mountain to Tisey, where we went to go see the cliff carving artist I wrote about in that earlier post. Oh, it was wonderful, even the second time, especially since this time we got a personal guided tour by the artist himself, who'd been away from home on my first trip. He climbed trees, picked us oranges, and recited his poetry at length while staring out onto the vast expanse of the Nicaraguan wilderness from his cliff-top carving paradise.



Oh, it was grand, just grand. How grand, you ask? This grand:



More photos later of our Leap-A-Palooza throughout the Nicaraguan highlands. Coming soon on this website: The Greatest Yogurt Ever Made In the History Of the Universe. I promise, you won't want to miss this.

A Short Update from Paradise

I'm not sure how many of you remember a post I put up in September about a place called the Laguna de Apoyo, but if you want to go see some pictures of heaven, go check out this post. I am there again now, with Moxita the Amazing Fifi Poodle, of course, and we are completely and totally the happiest people on the planet. No tropical storms, no demonstrations, no protest rallies, no noise of mortars being fired in the neighborhood, no riot police. Ahhhh. Just peace, quiet, hammocks, lovely blue-green water, lovely blue skies. Nice people, delicious food, kayaks, free coffee, and delicious bottles of wine. I feel like a noodle.

Moxita and I woke up at 6 and went swimming around the lake, then breakfasted on gorgeous breads, yogurt, fruit, and eggs. Then I took a nap. I have a book to read for my research this afternoon, and I have kayaking planned for the late afternoon. Anybody who was worried about me can relax. I'm in heaven. I'll update again later, and post some pictures from the rest of the vacation with Varunski and Moxita. Over and out for the time being!

Oops. Weather Report.

I couldn't check the weather forecast before I headed off to the Caribbean coast? Goodbye riots in Managua, hello tropical depression. I've never actually seen a palm tree bend almost in half before, but now I know it's possible. Leaving on the first plane out, back to western Nicaragua. Might just head to the lake. Internet painfully slow. Might start weeping. Or maybe beat my head on the wall? Also an attractive option. At least Moxita the Amazing Fifi Poodle and I are still making each other laugh. You guys should hear the new funny accent I just figured out how to do. That's me, always exploring new frontiers in boredom-inspired hilarity. Will be performing live in Austin this December!

A few notes to address very excellent and valid points raised in yesterday's comments:

Regarding election violence, it will calm down soon. Additionally, all riots are planned ahead and advertised widely, so they are easy to avoid. I just have to read the paper every day and keep talking to people to stay abreast of current news. As for my friend who was killed, he was in Guatemala, not Nicaragua, and he was traveling on a bus that wasn't a major busline, which I will not do. Plus, I'm not going to Guatemala. As for life here in Nica, I have finished all my archival work now (just waiting for final photocopies to be ready for pickup), and am heading up to the mountains (small towns, safe places, very chill) to scout out some field work locations for oral history interviews. I will not be moving about in Managua that much. Believe me, if I really felt that I was in danger, I'd be on the first plane home. This is work, and it is not worth my life. What all this election craziness constitutes for me is a pain in the ass, but not a real danger. I promise, if that changes, I'm out of here. Thank you all for your concern, I promise I'm doing all I can to stay safe and away from political demonstrations.

Timing is Everything

Well initially I felt a little guilty about taking about 2 and a half weeks of vacation down here, but in retrospect, it turns out that I am a certified genius.  Election violence is really wild down here, and it's been impossible to get anything done in Managua at all for the past week. I called around to the archives, and most of them are closed, or only open for a few hours a day with limited services.  The Sandinistas "won" the municipal elections, but there are widespread accusations of fraud.  As a result, riots, demonstrations, violence.  So far two people have been killed when riot police fired into a crowd, though much of the violence is lower key than that. Moxita went to León on Sunday and arrived here in Managua this morning, as the demonstrations were so violent and huge that she was effectively trapped in the hostel once she got there.  And getting there itself was terrifying, as there were roadblocks, and people kept stopping her bus, boarding it, threatening people, and smashing the bus windows.  Finally the police boarded and the driver decided to continue on to León with that added protection, but it was dicey.  I'm so relieved she's ok.   I checked my email a little while ago and got an Embassy update advising of planned 'demonstrations' (read: riots) in Managua tomorrow (read:  all week). This is an excerpt from the report:

U.S. citizens traveling to or already in Nicaragua are reminded to maintain a high level of vigilance and to take appropriate steps to increase their security awareness.
Violent demonstrations and road blockages continue and numerous injuries have been reported. The situation remains fluid. Street protests and/or clashes are likely to continue in the coming days and can be unpredictable in time, place, and intensity.
Activities observed during protests include, but are not limited to tear gas, rubber bullets, setting off fireworks, rock-throwing, tire burning, road blocks, bus/vehicle burning and some degree of physical violence between law enforcement and protestors or between rival political parties or individuals. Activities tend to intensify in violence beginning in the early afternoon. Passersby and observers are not immune from the effects of these protests.

To make the whole situation a little worse, I've just learned that a friend of mine was killed while traveling up to Guatemala (which Moxita and I had initially planned to do). He was on a bus where I guess somebody was transporting drugs of some kind, though the other passengers didn't know about it. The details aren't clear, but essentially the bus was having problems and turned down a less-traveled road as a short cut to Guatemala City. A drug gang stopped the bus, executed everybody on board (15 Nicaraguan tourists and this guy Rob) and then burned the bus and bodies. It had nothing to do with the current election violence in Nicaragua, but still a sobering reminder of the very real dangers that exist for travelers in some of these places. I still feel pretty stunned. I didn't know Rob well by any means, but we spent a day traveling together in a small group of friends to the Laguna de Apoyo. I remember him particularly because we spent hours talking while floating in the lake, bobbing about in inner tubes. So we wouldn't drift apart, we held hands as we floated, staring up at the puffy white clouds in a blue sky. I still can't believe he's dead, and in such a random and violent way. The guy I held hands with for two hours three weeks ago is dead now.

I'm getting out on the first plane tomorrow morning, and will be cooling my heels on the Atlantic seaboard until the weekend. Again, not sure about internet access, though the hotel did recommend we bring flashlights, which I've interpreted as a clue, so no promises for updates until next weekend.

Oh My God, Where Do I Start. Ometepe? Why Not...

Hello my posies, my poppets, my precious petunias! I am back in Managua now, after one of the most splendid weeks of vacation I've ever had. When last I updated, Moxita the Amazing Fifi Poodle and I had just picked up our friend Varunski from el aeropuerto and were preparing to take off for the wilds of Nicaragua. Oh, I was so happy - it felt completely wonderful to have two of my greatest friends down here with me. So we spent an evening giggling and trading stories and catching up, and the next morning, backpacks packed, off we strode to the bus station.



It was election day, and Nicaragua was preparing for all sorts of hooliganism and shenanigans, so it was oddly quiet in the streets, and there were cops everywhere. Poor us. We'd spent the evening before trying to get a beer, but all the bars were closed. We even got racially profiled, as one of them saw Varunski with two gringas and got immediately suspicious. "Hey, little brown guy," he called. "Come over here and show me your identification papers." EEK! With some quick talking we managed to get off the hook. "No hablo español!" Varunski kept repeating, and eventually the cop believed him.

The trip to Ometepe, a volcanic island in the middle of enormous Lake Nicaragua was absolutely beautiful. Here we are on the ferry, looking happy.



Want to know why we look so happy? It's cause on account of that gorgeous volcano. Yaaaaaay, volcanoes! There are two on the island, only one of which is active, but it hasn't erupted properly in about fifty years. Mostly all they get recently is earthquakes and spewing ash, though neither one happened while we were there.



Ometepe was spectacular. We climbed volcanoes (ow, ow, ow), rented bikes of dubious quality to ride about the island and explore the harder-to-get-to-spots. We swam in crystal-clear natural spring pools of aquamarine waters, and stayed at a hostel that had a pet donkey named Fiona, hammocks, and some of the friendliest tourists around. Also, copious quantities of surprisingly excellent vegetarian food.



I wish I could show you all the pictures we took, but some 500 might take a while to load so I'll just show you a few highlights.
On our bike ride to the swimming hole we stopped to leap with joy at the sight of that gorgeous mountain in the background.



Moxita was particularly excited because she lives in the Netherlands and hasn't seen anything higher than two meters in a few years now.



And the swimming hole... God, how can words even capture how unspeakably lovely, how peaceful, how clear and precious that spot is?



So I know, it looks like all we did the whole time was jump around madly, which is sort of true. But we also spent golden sunset hours sitting around and drinking beer and rum, which I consider valuable time. Also, we had impromptu Spanish language lessons throughout our travels. Moxita, for example, learned that the expression "Mucho gusto" can be applied to many situations. Really, it means "much pleasure," and it's used in the same way that we say "pleased to meet you." Do you like the food, Moxita? "Pleased to meet you!" she'd say, and people would smile. Varunski got by by saying "Donde una cerveza" in every situation, which also made people smile. I mean, really. Is there anything more charming than a cute Trinidadian running around saying "where the beer, where the beer?" No there is not. I have many many more stories that I promise I'll share later. For example, Moxita and the Taxi Driver is a great story, as is our lesson about The Suggestion of Reality, but I'm out of time, so I'll sum up in this way:

After three days it was time to go. We hopped a ride in the back of a pick-up truck back to Managua (bouncy bouncy bouncy) where we took a bus up to the mountains of northern Nicaragua, but that's another story for another day. For now I'll say goodbye and run to catch up on the rest of the stuff I need to finish up today before I take off for a trip to the Atlantic Coast and Corn Islands. Yay! Hasta luego!

We Now Pause For Station Identification

Just a heads up that I'm heading off into the wild and wonderful land of the backpacker kingdom, and it might be a week before I get back on this blog to update. Having said that, I'd like to leave you with a few images of joy and bliss from my recent weekend at the beach with MOXITA THE AMAZING FIFI POODLE!

Oh, it was heavenly. We walked, we swam, we lounged about in hammocks, we ordered fish for lunch and got FISH. As in whole, grilled, head-and-fins-and-skin-attached fish. I love fish like this, but it was a first for Moxita. It came out on it's huge plate, a lime wedge stuck in its befanged mouth, and Moxita looked at me in dead shock. "But Cheasty, that's a real fish!" Why yes, it is. And soooooo delicious!



On our long walks up and down the beach we saw all kinds of natural wonders. Mussels wiggling their way back into the sand, whole conch shells washed up on shore, bleached sand dollars, and best of all, something I've never seen outside a petting zoo. Live sand dollars.

href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjovG8WW8ZW75XEpRqzyhjhn7LMDe45rUWYODiPimHVBoFRD-S7u14HpEABVy16BvgQNH3CpmkX2_IzZBLjmuqEzD9DDXWCbVGHpukS4zEntueOz-5VWnRInX_CWQZ25DxTpDdMhV6FE3c/s1600-h/sand+dollars.JPG">

Oh my goodness I was so excited to find these things! I love the way their little tentacles wave and circle, and the patterns they leave on the sand when they burrow underneath it. These were another first for Moxita, too, and she loved them at least as much as I did. Look, she even kissed them goodbye when it was time to go. Goodbye, little sand dollars! Thank you for playing!



After a long and beautiful evening, a dinner picnic on the beach with cheese and foccacia crackers and a bottle of very wonderful wine, and an hour or so of star-gazing and rambling conversation, we toddled off to bed at the positively geriatric hour of 8:30. I know, ridiculous, but we were drunk, tired, and happy, and there was nothing else going on. Today we came back to Managua to pick up our great friend Varunski (pics to follow later) and tomorrow we head off on a week of travels to places with very little internets. How excited am I? I feel like I could dance the Dance of Unending Joy and never ever stop.

So off we go. Wish us luck, wish us happiness, and tune back in next Monday to see how it all went. Hasta entonces, amigos...

What Joy, What Bliss!

Well hello there, my pretty ponies, I am the happiest Cheastypants in the world. The sun is shining, Obama will be president, and best of all, my amazing wonderful brilliant beautiful and hilarious friend MOXITA THE FIFI POODLE just arrived to visit me!!! She got here last night and in the 12 hours since she arrived we've laughed so hard we cried. Twice. There is nothing better than a good friend, nothing better at all.





So over the next few weeks I'm taking a hiatus from research to have some fun around here. Initially I wasn't going to take this coming week off at all, but Nicaragua's municipal elections are coming up this weekend, and in an effort to help his party win, President Ortega declared many many days off work. Clearly, this was a sign from God that I must leave Managua and have some fun. Also, they've banned the sale of alcohol for the four days surrounding the election. Crazy. The whole environment here is insane right now with huge spontaneous demonstrations and parades and shouting throngs of crazy flag-waving Sandinistas and lunatic Liberals hanging by the dozens from the rooftops and beds of trucks and buses. And here's something nutty: the Liberals here are actually Conservative. How wild is this country, I ask you? Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Gabriel García Márquez novel.

Ok, updates to come forthwith. Today, I work, tomorrow I go to the beach. That's as far as we've gotten in planning, but I think it's a good start.

Stunderfied

If you've been reading this blog for longer than, say... I don't know. Two days? Then you will know that I am rarely at a loss for words. I am now. Regardless, I will do my best and sally forth in fine old Cheastypants style. But really, where do I start? I cannot even narrow down what I'm feeling right now to a short list of words. Proud? Yes, definitely. Captain Mommypants spent all day out going door-to-door, driving people to polls out in North Carolina, and I couldn't be more proud of the part she played in bringing Obama to the presidency. Umulu sent in my absentee ballot, and Crasey voted early. Amazed? Yes. The Fairy King, who in his own words would "rather be in church" than think or talk about politics, drove himself an hour away to the last place he'd registered to vote, and brought Obama to the presidency. Stunned? Yes. I am not what you would call an optimist, and I was terrified, absolutely convinced that victory would slip through our fingers on election day. And yet we won in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Colorado, Virginia, and NORTH CAROLINA (hi, family!), something I never thought I'd see happen. Relieved, overjoyed, excited beyond words? I believe I will come up with my own word, since none that I am aware of are quite doing the job. I am stunderfied. Part stunned, part wonderment, part terrified of the great task we have set ourself to. I am stunderfied.

I do not know what a President Obama will do for this country. I am sure that at times I will celebrate and at times I will disagree quite strongly. But I tell you what. Today, after years of feeling that my vote was a futile act, I am proud to say that I, along with millions of Americans, voted for the chance to change, to improve, to build upon hope and energy and an urge to do good both at home and in the world. Regardless of how this whole thing turns out four or eight years down the road, I am proud of my generation and of my country in this moment. I looked at the crowds gathered tonight for McCain and Obama, respectively, and at one I saw nothing but white, well-coifed heads in one of the most luxurious hotels in Arizona. And in the other I saw the diversity in age, race, and creed that is the future face of the United States. We are changing, demographically, culturally, and politically, and seeing those crowds -- hundreds of thousands of people -- gathered in the open public spaces of cities and states around this nation, I was both proud and wistful. Proud that I am witnessing the moment in which the hope for change expressed itself in the voice of the people, and wistful that I am watching history happen in my home from so far away.

Congratulations, President Obama, and good luck.

Ants In My Pants

One of my mother's favorite stories to tell about my childhood is about one sunny spring afternoon when Mom was trying to relax with a book in a lawnchair outside. Normally, as she tells it, I was really good at entertaining myself, coming up with imaginary games and playing with my sister. This one day, however, I was beside myself with energy, and wanted my mother's attention more than anything. So I stood by the side of her chair, and I'm sure I said things like, "Ya wanna play, Mom, do ya? Huh? Huh? How about now, Mom? Now? Now? Mom? Mom?" Except I wasn't really standing by the side of her chair, I was holding onto the arm and bouncing and jumping around like a jack-in-the-box. Finally Captain Mommypants couldn't help herself -- she started laughing, and asked me, "What is going on with you today?! Have you got ants in your pants?"

Apparently, I'd never heard this expression before, and took her quite literally. According to Mom, I looked absolutely shocked and horrified, and I instantly stopped bouncing around. I pulled out the elastic waistband of my shorts and took a cautious peek inside. Then I breathed a sigh of relief. "No, Mommy, I don't have ants in my pants." I told her.

Well, today, 25 years after the day in which I did not have actual ants in my pants, I can report that today, I think I do. It's election day back in the States, and I have never been so nervous or anxious about the outcome of a political contest in my life. I woke up repeatedly in the night just thinking about it, and at 5:30 AM I gave up the ghost when my eyes flew open and the first coherent thought in my head was, "It's election day." I'm completely on tenterhooks, and I need something to distract me. Somehow I don't think I'll be able to focus one lick at the archives, but I'll give it a try anyway because the alternative (obsessively checking the internet) does not bear consideration. I've never been able to sit still for long periods of time, but this is ridiculous. I'm eating breakfast while I type and I've jumped up and down 4 or 5 times already, just from nervous energy. At six o'clock this evening I'm meeting a friend to go watch election results, and I officially forbid myself from sneaking peeks before hand. I've sent in my vote, so there's nothing I can do by hovering nervously besides jinx the whole thing, so I'm banned. Officially, permanently banned from looking. Until tonight.

I'm Getting Married

Oh, at last, at long, long last! For years I've been wondering why I'm still single. Well now I know, and what's more, I now have a handy-dandy little instruction manual to help me find my mate.  All right, so it's written by children, but frankly, all the adults out there aren't helping me out in the least, so I'm willing to give it a shot.  The following came in my email this morning, and let me just be the first to say thank you to the kids who put it together. I am now adequately armed in my quest for happily-ever-after! Hooorayyy!!!

From the mouths of babes... (my commentary in red.)

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?

You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
-- Alan, age 10

Ah, so that's what I've been doing wrong.  Putting chips and dip on grocery list...

No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with.
-- Kristen, age 10

Ok.  So the really weird part is that I THOUGHT THE SAME THING when I was a kid.  No kidding.  I was scared to use the bathroom for months because somehow I got it in my head that boys not only knew who they would marry, but that God had given the boys crystal balls that they could watch us in.  So whoever I was going to marry one day was watching me all the time, and I didn't want him to see me using the bathroom. Where did I come up with that idea? And how did this kid get the same one? Weird-idea stealer.

WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?

Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
-- Camille, age 10

Oh, great.  I'm older than "FOREVER" old.  Thanks, you little twerp.

HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?

You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
-- Derrick, age 8

Hmmm.  Maybe I should rethink this whole "wanting to get married" thing? When you put it like that, well...  frankly I have more fun by myself.

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?

Both don't want any more kids.
-- Lori, age 8

HA!  

WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?

Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
-- Lynnette, age 8

Oh, that's sweet.

On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
-- Martin, age 10

See, Martin, I've been trying that, and let me tell you, it isn't working so well.  Eventually they figure out that my boobs aren't really that big.  Usually it happens when I get hungry and pull a grapefuit out of my bra.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR?

I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
-- Craig, age 9

Ah yes, the dead columns.  I use that one all the time.  Very effective.

WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?

When they're rich.
-- Pam, age 7

True, Pam.  Very, very true.  Never kiss a poor boy, they'll only give you warts.

The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that.
- - Curt, age 7

I like a man who's thinking ahead about not committing statutory rape.

The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do.
-- Howard, age 8

Oh.  That's kind of cute.  Howard, I'll wait for you; don't you go kissing any girls before you're 18!

IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?

It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them.
-- Anita, age 9  

WHAT?!  I had no idea that was part of the job description.  Never mind, I'm not getting married.  EVER.

HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED?

There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there?
-- Kelvin, age 8

I always find it refreshing to find Puritan conservatism in one so young, don't you?

HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?

Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump truck.
-- Ricky, age 10

Bring me cheesecake.  NOW.

Oh, Sweet Baby Face, You're Getting Old Like Me!

I will never forget the day back in 2000 when Captain Mommypants called me on the phone. "Hey." she said, forgoing all formalities. "Meet me today at this-and-such a restaurant at 12:30. Your brother has apparently met someone." Met someone. I could almost visualize the air quotes she used around those two words. Our mother is nothing if not protective, and her little boy, who was still in high school, had informed her that he was dating (dot, dot, dot) a college boy. Cue scary music. The Fairy King came out to our family when he was quite young, and while my parents loved him regardless, both were terrified that, being so young, he'd get involved with the wrong people, get stalked my psychopathic pedophiles on the internet, that sort of thing. The fact that he was now, at the tender age of 17, dating an older man was not, in Captain Mommypants's view, a good sign. She was determined to scare the rascal off and, failing that, show him exactly what he was getting himself into. We AmazingPantses can be a pretty overwhelming bunch, en masse, and en masse we were instructed to present ourselves at a mandatory lunch appearance during which we would do our best to intimidate and frighten the wonderful man we now call family. Needless to say, it didn't work. Sweet Baby Face is made of sterner stuff than my mother expected, and he was not to be deterred. For eight years and counting, Sweet Baby Face has been the Fairy King's better half, and I couldn't love him any more if he were my own brother. This is a man who is not only funny, intelligent, careful, and cuddly, but is also absolutely unafraid to make himself ridiculous.



Does he care when we mock him mercilessly for his unswerving belief that automotive excellence reached its zenith with the 2003 Honda Accord 4-cylinder, color beige? No he does not. Does he care when I substitute the last syllable of his last name with the word "fart," or when we laugh at him for the name he gave his dog? (Actually, Riley was The Fairy King's dog originally, but Sweet Baby Face stole her with his relentless charm and snuggly love, and he renamed her the following monstrosity: Her Royal Highness The Honorable Duchess Princess Riley DoodleBritches. We now pause for hysterical laughter.) No, he does not care. He just laughs along and lets us mock him. For this, we love him endlessly. Here's a picture of the whole gang (minus Bug, who was 3 at the time) at ACL Festival last year. He loves us too. You can tell, cause he actually put on one of those matching family reunion t-shirts and walked around with us.



So you see why we love him so much? Also, and this is definitely a HUGE mark in his favor, he looks really good with my brother. And that's what really matters in a relationship, you know? I mean sure, they love each other and work really hard to maintain a strong, healthy, and supportive relationship (I mean, who doesn't, right?), but more importantly, they look so damn cute together. Life with Sweet Baby Face is like going through life with an absolutely perfect set of accessories for every occasion.



So, Sweet Baby Fart, here's me, wishing you the happiest birthday a swashbuckling young man like yourself could ever have. I love you, and I wish I could be there to buy you a drink, but it'll have to wait until December. At which point, of course, it will be my birthday, and then I will let you buy me a drink. Naturally. Smoochies!!

If You Dare Them...

Well, it happened. I finally got hit in the head by a complete stranger. I was sitting on the bus today on my way to the archive and we stopped for a red light at a street corner where the Sandinistas were rallying for their upcoming municipal elections. I sat by an open window of the bus, and looked out upon what is by now a familiar sight -- hundreds of folks waving the black-and-red flag of the FSLN, singing along to a Spanish language version of "Give Peace A Chance," and distributing bright pink flyers that informed the reader, "You will win with Alexis!"

One guy I guess was having some trouble off-loading his flyers, and as our bus began to pull away from the intersection, he walked up to my window, grabbed a hunk of about 150 of the flyers, and flung them through the open window. I guess he thought they would catch some air and sprinkle down upon the bus passengers like gently fluttering leaves in the autumn, but he was wrong. Stuck together by some heroic electoral glue, the entire stack hit me upside the head, right in the temple. Then it broke apart and scattered all over me. I must have looked like I'd been tarred and feathered in a gay bar with these flamboyantly pink pieces of paper clinging to my hair, my skin, and my clothes. Everywhere around me, other bus passengers tried not to snicker, but when I began to laugh, the proverbial dam broke and we all shared a moment. "Ha ha, they really scared you!" giggled a little girl sitting next to me. "Yes, they did," I replied. "Well," she asked, "do you mind if I keep the flyers? I'm trying to decorate my room." "They're all yours," I replied.

Happy Halloween!

Hello, my precious petunias! I hope that the scariest day of the year finds you happy, healthy, and strong. In honor of Halloween I'm going to show you a cartoon my Superdad the Grumpy Republican just sent me. Timely, I thought, given what's just around the corner on Tuesday.



So have fun trick-or-treating! Me, I'll be avoiding popular unrest here in the streets of Managua. Apparently the evangelicals are REALLY pissed off about this devil-worshipping pagan holiday. Anti-Halloween protest marches and demonstrations? Whoever heard of such a thing?

New Frontiers in Grossing Me Out

Let me start off by saying that, when it comes to food, it takes an awful lot to really gross me out. I love food, and usually this is an uncomplicated emotion. It feeds me, gives me yummy flavor to enjoy, and because I am not hungry, I am happy. Actually, let me clarify: it's not that I love eating all food, it's more a case of being willing to eat all food. Having said that, I really do enjoy good food. Nothing makes me happier than going to a lovely restaurant, or tucking into a homemade lasagna, a delicious chocolate cake, or a beautiful bottle of wine. In the best of all worlds, I am doing all of those things simultaneously. In other places, at other times, however, I am quite content with whatever is available, which normally goes just fine. Nothing wrong with trying something new, or eating something less-than-fantastic. However, it doesn't always go so smoothly. Occasionally I have eaten things that made me lose my hair, curl into a fetal position, and cry in my sleep.

Like for example, one time I was leading a tour group of American teenagers in the Amazonian rainforest and in a house visit at a little ribereño community I was offered a local delicacy: fat white tree grubs deep fried in palm oil. Having just given the kids my speech about accepting hospitality and being polite, I couldn't very well plead off, so I picked one off of the plate and popped it into my mouth, smiling gamely as I chewed away.  They are surprisingly rubbery, but the heads crunch when you bite into it.  It was, in a word, revolting, but at least I got to wash it down with hot coca-cola. Gah.  

Or have you ever eaten sea urchin? I was at a seafood festival in Chile when somebody offered me a bowl of gelatinous lumpy baby-poop-brown stuff. What is it? I asked. Sea urchin, was the answer. Careful, it's a love-it-or-hate-it kind of thing. Well, tally ho! I thought. Who doesn't love gelatinous lumpy brown sea urchin? Me. It turns out: me. I don't like it. In fact, I almost vomited in my mouth, and for the first time in my life, I actually spat out something I was eating. Gah.

Or god, this one time in Argentina Umulu and I were on one of our EPIC BIKE RIDES that we always inadvertently stumble into. We honestly thought the whole thing wasn't going to take longer than 2 hours, but 40 miles into it, as we laboriously pedaled our creaky rented mountain bikes up and down mammoth hills, we had to face facts. We were shaky-kneed with hunger and still another 10 or 15 miles from town. Luckily, around the next corner we found a guy roasting chorizo (sausage) out of a charcoal brazier set up in the trunk of his car. Oh, yum! We thought. Not so much, it turns out. First of all, the whole thing just tasted a little bit off. Then at one point I looked down at my sausage and realized I was looking at something that was either a tooth or a substantial piece of pig hoof. That was enough for Umulu, who, having found similarly disconcerting things in her sausage, promptly chucked it. But I was hungry, so I picked out the offending items and gamely munched on. Then I bit into something strangely cartilaginous, and pulled a recognizable piece of pig snout out of my mouth. Or or maybe it was an ear? I'm still not sure which, but gah, gah, gah. That did it. It was years before I could eat sausage again.

Then of course I have your average run-of-the-mill food hatreds like any normal person. Peas, for example, particularly when canned or frozen. Ugh. And anise. Just the smell of black licorice makes me run screaming for the hills. And naturally, there have been times when I drew the line and just refused to eat something on the grounds of Are You Fucking Kidding Me. Like when my friend GNO and I were eating Vietnamese food in this dingy little restaurant in Austin. We were eating some huge bowl of soup, we'll just call it the Weird-Meat-O-Rama. I had pretty much identified most of it. Heart, liver, kidney, etc, but there was also these big cubes of gelatinous dark brown material. It kind of looked like tofu, but the wrong color. GNO called a passing waitress, held the suspicious item up on his spoon where it quivered like jello, and we asked her what it was. "Oh that?" she asked. "That's congealed pig blood." No. Way.

Yesterday at lunch time, for the first time in a long time, I extended my limited repertoire of Food I Will Not Eat Ever Again. I went to the archive's cafeteria for lunch at about 2pm, having gotten lost in the papers and forgotten the time. Almost all the food was gone, and I was offered a choice between a chicken taco with the ubiquitous Latin American cabbage salad (imagine cole slaw), or spaghetti that looked like it had boiled in water for 30 to 40 minutes, and then sat in sauce for several hours. No contest, right? Chicken taco. Oh, my god, was that a bad decision. See, "taco" here means, well... Let's just say that when they handed me my plate I had a sudden flashback to Inigo Montoya saying to Vizzini, "I do not think that means what you think it means." What they served me was a little bit of charred and dessicated chicken wrapped in a corn tortilla and then deep-fried so hard that even the tortilla burned. Then it cooled off, so they microwaved it for me. The texture was something between dry plywood, shattered glass, and wet sponge. But the worst part was this. On top of my deep-fried-spongy-crunchy-burned-chicken taco and cole slaw, they had squirted unbelievable amounts of ketchup and mayonaise. I tried.  I really, really tried, but I couldn't force it down. I fought mightily just to eat one bite, but I cannot describe how repellent that combination of taste and texture was. Chalk it up, kids. One more food Amazing Cheastypants will never ever eat again.  Gah.

I Love This Joke, Nine.

Small proviso: Normally in the "I Love This Joke" series, I just write in dumb jokes that tickle my funny bone, but today I'm telling a true story that is just as good, if not better, than the best jokes I've ever heard. So here you go.

I was out with Monica and la Mamita de la casa tonight for some coffee talk and cappuccino, and conversation turned to embarrassing and/or hilarious translation gaffes people have experienced in the process of learning new languages. Naturally, I had much to contribute. We chuckled about the time I meant to tell a woman her husband was a gentleman, and instead, accidentally, informed her that her husband was hung like a horse. Caballo, caballero, they sound so similar! We sniggered delightedly about how I thought that all the cars in Santiago de Chile had converted to Catholicism because I misread the word "catalítico" (catalytic converter) on bumper stickers and thought it said "católico" (Catholic). We chortled merrily about how I thought the word for concierge was "consergio" (con-ser-hee-yo) instead of conserge (con-ser-hay) because the conserges at my apartment building and my work place were both named Sergio, and people always said "dejalo con Sergio" (leave it with Sergio). Con Sergio. Consergio. Get it? Har har. I know, these stories never translate well unless my audience also speaks both languages. So basically I told several of the stories I'm most proud of -- that is, the ones in which the most people laughed at my ignorance and stupidity, and got some pretty decent-sized laughs, which I've come to expect over the years, as on top of being glamorous, gorgeous, and unspeakably brave, I am a wickedly good story teller. But then, just as I was patting myself on the back and congratulating myself for telling the funniest stories in the whole world, Monica piped up with her own little linguistic gaffe, and left me clean in the dust. Seriously, I laughed so hard I peed myself. Just a little bit, but I did it. I peed myself. So here's the story:

One time Monica was at some conference in Switzerland. Some sort of international conference, and she was staying in a house full of international people, among whom was an American guy, a very serious type, evangelical Christian, constantly talking about God and living a righteous life, and stopping to pray all the time for whatever little thing happened. Somebody sneezed, he prayed. Somebody sinned, he prayed. Somebody said something off-color, he prayed. So one morning they were at breakfast, and Monica wanted the peanut butter, which was on the other side of Very Serious Praying Dude, and Very Serious Praying Dude was, you guessed it, praying. And praying and praying. Monica speaks English, but she doesn't use it very often, and sometimes, well, sometimes you just get words that rhyme mixed up. So she's sitting there waiting for him to finish praying and praying and praying, and she's getting a little frustrated. Finally he looks up, and Monica seizes her opportunity. "Excuse me!" she called out down the table. "But could you please pass me the penis butter?"

In Which Amazing Cheastypants Bravely Battles Scary Hairy Creatures in the Shower

I, Amazing Cheastypants, am one heck of a brave lady. When faced with frightening situations, I toss my abundant curls with reckless abandon and sally forth in a courageous manner. Face to face with evil horrible hairy monsters, I laugh outrageously in the face of danger and wave a glittering weapon about my head in the manner of Joan of Arc, summoning her troops to battle. I know not fear, have never encountered timidity, and disregard personal safety in my determination to vanquish horrific and terrifying evil creatures. I am Amazing Cheastypants, and none shall defeat me! Cue triumphal trumpet-and-drum music! Bring me my glamorous charger, that fine steed of noble lineage who carries me valiantly into battle, his long and bountiful mane waving gaily in the propitious breeze. Good fortune be with me! Ta-daaaaa!

Thus it was this morning in the shower, when shampooing the Amazing Cheastypants Hair, I happened to open my eyes and see the biggest, grizzliest, hairiest, nastiest spider in the world climbing toward me on the shower curtain. At first, I admit it, I panicked. I screamed, I hopped from one foot to the other, I jumped out of the shower and dripped suds all over the floor, wringing my hands, and shrieked, "oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god" at the top of my lungs. This is an artistic re-creation of how I felt:



This, however, was neither appropriate behavior for a superhero such as myself, nor was it particularly productive, being that now the spider was OUT OF SIGHT and might at any moment come flying through the air in the manner of Spiderman and LAND ON ME. And since I was naked, who knew where it might land? Maybe ON MY BOOBIES! Maybe ON MY BARE FEET! (I have an unnatural fear of gross things touching my bare feet.) ACK. Must calm down, must calm down. So I gathered my wits about me, and beat the shower curtain so Spider-Enemy would go into hiding. Sufficiently convinced that I couldn't find him, I got back in the shower and finished rinsing my hair (quickly! quickly!), got out, dried off, went to get dressed, and then prepared myself to do battle with the Horrible Evil Icky Hairy Spider-Enemy. I had my weapons with me: digital camera, colander, and cutting board. I was ready, and Spider-Enemy was no match for my formidable superpowers. In short order, I had corralled the pesky nemesis, and emerged triumphant from the donnybrook.



Of course, being the benevolent and magnanimous superhero that I am, I did not send the Spider-Enemy to the stake, but instead let him go free in a green and verdant pasture, with a strict warning not to bother me again.



Only the future will tell if Spider-Enemy will comply, but I left with the impression that he was properly chastened and apologetic, and I remain hopeful for a lasting peace. My work here is done, and I will now depart in a flurry of glamour and gorgeous amazingness. Don't be concerned if the air where I once stood glitters and shimmers for some time after my departure; it was always thus.

Happy Birthday, Superdad!

Happy birthday, my Superdad.

About a week ago I decided that the letter I would write to you today would be about the number one thing I love about you. Only, I've been doing some thinking, and I think you should know that I'm having difficulty deciding what exactly is the number one thing I love the most about you. Being a renaissance man, a renowned genius, a devilishly funny guy, and quite adorable, I hope you can understand that the choice is a little bit difficult. First of all, where do I start? Do I start with childhood memories of Sunday morning special times, and how much I treasured the moments when I was the only kid clamoring to hold your hand? Or how much I loved "helping" you in the garden, or raking leaves, or getting you to read me a story?

Nah, too cheesy. Plus, it doesn't let me build to anything, you know?

Well how about I start with how much I admire your renaissancey-ness. Superdad, you amaze me. First of all, you are wildly intelligent, and just so capable of doing anything. What other man could fly around the globe on business one day, give a speech to the World Bank the next, design vital components of the International Space Station in his spare time, and on the weekend go out in a silly outfit to tend the bees? (I'm joking about one of those things: guess which, Internet!)



And really, I shouldn't forget to mention your winning way with a turkey. Killer, Dad. Nobody stuffs a bird like you. God, I wish I were going to be home for Thanksgiving. (sniff, sniff)



But then again, perhaps what I love most about you is your sense of humor and appreciation for the ridiculous. You are hilarious. Of course, I've already written about that here, and also here, so perhaps I shouldn't take up too much more time belaboring the point today. Except for to tell you that if you somehow get your hands on the Hair-Loom Platter again and give it to me at Christmas, I'm going to make sure you never get in your car again without first checking the back seat thoroughly. Think Nancy Kerrigan. Diamonds, damn it, I want diamonds!

I think, after much deliberation, it comes down to two things that I love the most about you, Dad, but I can't decide, so I'm enlisting the internet to help me out here. So, Internet, what do I love more about Superdad? Is it, A) how much my Superdad loves his kids? Cause he loves us an awful lot. He lets us know it, too. I am thirty years old and my Dad still gives me the best hugs I've ever had (um, he's tied with Captain Mommypants, that is), and I never feel better, or more at peace, than when I'm walking through the woods, holding Superdad's hand.



Or, is it B) the fact that my father, in all seriousness, gets up every morning, looks at himself in the mirror, and says, "You are a handsome devil."



Aw, to hell with it. Why choose? Superdad, I love you, and I miss you so much. I hope your 592nd birthday is the best you've ever had.

All my love,
Amazing Cheastypants.

Oh, Just Hit Me Already, OK?

Today a street lady chased me down the street with a big rock and almost bashed my head in. Really? Did I just type that? Did that actually happen? Yes. I was just walking down the sidewalk on my way to the radio station where I had an interview scheduled, and I saw this lady sitting with her back to the wall. Clearly homeless, clearly a little crazy. As I walked past her, she looked right at me with this sort of odd look, and then picked up a rock about the size of a cantaloupe melon. She got up and started walking after me, bearing down on me from behind. I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, but when she started getting too close, I turned and looked at her in the face. And she started running at me with the rock poised up high, so I started running away from her, and then she threw the rock at me. At my head! Luckily, she missed, but OH MY GOD. For real?

The weirdest part of the whole thing was how quiet it all was. I mean, she never said anything, didn't even grunt or squeal when she threw the rock. And I never said anything, nor did I make any noise, even when the rock whizzed past me and crashed to the sidewalk in front of me. I just kept running. About 50 feet further on I stopped and looked back, only to see that she was walking calmly away from me back to her little spot on the sidewalk. So on I went, just wondering what the fuck had just happened.

I mean seriously, Managua. If you want to rob me or hit me, let's just get it over with already, ok? The señora of the house I live in got robbed at gunpoint right in front of our house last month, on Monday of this week some guy got shot and killed just 20 feet from our front door. Today after crazy rock throwing lady, a guy came running across the street in my direction. He wasn't aiming for me, or doing anything bad, he was just dodging traffic and moving kind of fast, but I almost jumped out of my skin. Let me be absolutely clear: I DO NOT want to get robbed or shot or brained by a crazy lady. But there's such an air of inevitability to it, to the statistical probability that it will happen, and I'm SO SICK of just waiting for it to happen. Gah.

Let The Sunshine In

Oh, things are definitely looking up. Nicaragua suffered through 24 consecutive days of torrential downpours, but it appears to be easing up, finally. Not only has it not rained so much in the past three days, the sun has actually been shining for multiple hours a day. It's dizzyingly wonderful; yesterday I almost OD'ed on Vitamin D. So what does one do with a sunny day in Nicaragua? Well naturally, one goes out to enjoy it. Thus it was that this last Sunday, a day of epically gorgeous sunshine, Monica, our new roommate Peludo, and I took off in the car for a spontaneous journey of exploration and fun. Where did we go, you ask? Where didn't we go. We did a tour of the Pueblos Blancos in a little rented Suzuki with a motor approximately as powerful as a blender. We visited Niquinohomo, the birthplace of General Augusto Sandino.



It's a small town with a cute colonial church and friendly people. There used to be a museum with artifacts from the revolutionary hero's life, but then Daniel Ortega's wife took them all (she's his great-granddaughter) and now they live in the President's house. At least that's what the nice guys on the street said. Kind of a bummer, really. But whatever, onward we went, on a whirlwind tour of the surrounding towns. It was really a lovely day. It seemed like every person in Nicaragua was out in their yards or out in the street, soaking up the sunshine. And oh my god, the clothing! For a month, nobody's been able to dry their clothes, but on Sunday it looked like every person had every single article of clothing they owned outside on laundry lines, on fences, hanging from trees, laid out on rooftops. It looked like Buddhist monks had decorated the countryside with prayer flags. We didn't stop for long in anywhere in particular, we just sort of stopped and checked out the town squares, took pictures, wandered about, but finally we ended up in Catarina, where there is a substantial tourist installation and a beautiful overlook of the Laguna de Apoyo, that gorgeous lake I went to my first week in Nicaragua and loved so much.



Here we stopped for a little shopping (ooh, the delicious fruit stands!).



And I fell head over heels in love with lychee fruit, which I'd never actually seen live and in living color before. Oh my goodness it's delicious. And fun to eat!



We had lunch in a sunlit mountaintop restaurant overlooking the Laguna de Apoyo, and listened to meandering musicians as they serenaded nearby tables with Nicaraguan folk songs.



Then we took off for Masaya, where we picked up our friend Alta the Dutch girl, and decided, "Hey. Why don't we go to Granada for the afternoon?" So we did. And good lord, why haven't I come here before. Granada is an old colonial city like León, but it's received a substantial face-lift over the past decade or two. The buildings have been painted in bright, bold colors, and the whole city is sort of duded up for tourists. And I know I should be a good world-traveler and despise all touristy locations, but God help me, the sun was shining, the colors were gorgeous, and I was drinking one of these:



That's a macuá, the national fruity rum drink of Nicaragua. It's luuuurvely. So luuuuurvely. I luuuuurve it. How could I not be thoroughly charmed?

And so it was. We sat in the lovely bar of a beautiful old colonial building and drank rum, and then wandered about in the late afternoon sunlight.



We meandered down to the waterfront of Lake Nicaragua. We laughed and took pictures, and wished we'd brought our bathing suits with us.



And as the sun set over Granada, we headed back to the car a little sunburned, a little sleepy, and a lot happy. God, a sunny day is just the best thing in the whole world.

Like A Phoenix From the Ashes

In the history of this big old world there have been some amazing men. Some were powerful men who built empires and designed governments that stood for centuries, some men inspired people around them to great acts of heroism, and others were poets and artists who created breathless works of beauty. But of princes and paupers, of war lords and peacemakers, of scholars and saints, there have been none greater than my dear, wonderful, beautiful Mr. Poopie. Winston Churchill, Julius Caesar, Leo Africanus, Simón Bolivar, Mahatma Ghandi, stand aside. It was great while it lasted, boys, but only one man told me how to resuscitate my tragically defunct iPod, and that man was Mr. Poopie. Don't worry, you'll get your own curtain call, but for now, let us celebrate the man who single-handedly revived my flagging investigational prospects, guaranteeing me a future filled with oral history interviews recorded on that nifty little white box of magic. Oh, Mr. Poopie, I love you so.

He told me in the comments the other day not to fret, that my iPod "just needed to be rebooted." What the hell is that anyway. Reboot? How do you "boot" in the first place? I only know the word as a verb from my overly enthusiastic indulgence in a delightful substance called "alcohol." Back in college if I drank too much of this "alcohol," I would become ill and "boot" all over the place. Actually, now that I think on it, I may or may not have "booted" much more recently than college from drinking too much alcohol, but that's a discussion for another day.

This word, "boot," however, strikes me as an apt analogy. Maybe my iPod drank too much "alcohol" from my laptop, and it "booted." And then it needed a little break, as do I whenever I "boot." So maybe it took a nap, had a shower, drank a beer, you know, just to take the edge off, and then magically it could "reboot?" I'm thinking this is a nice metaphor. How Mr. Poopie knew all this I'll never know, but I am so glad he did. Turns out that after taking a few days off, when I pushed this magic button (I'm going to call that button "hair of the dog" from now on) for several consecutive seconds, my iPod CAME BACK TO LIFE. It was spooky, (I mean, didn't I just watch this thing die a tragic and horrible death just recently?), but it was wonderful. Welcome back, little white box of magic. I'm so glad you're still with me.

So now I find myself in a rather awkward situation. I believe that in a fit of mixed parts joy and skepticism I promised Mr. Poopie, and this is a quote, "if you're right, i'll kiss you a million times squared." How many kisses is that? I have only a tenuous grasp on the finer points of mathematical equations, but I believe it's somewhere around one trajillion gabillion, which is quite a lot of kissing for a man I've never met. Mr. Poopie, as I'm currently out of the country, would you mind very much if I took a rain check? Or how about some virtual kisses? I hate to leave a debt unpaid, but as we're only acquainted via the intrawebs, the logistics of debt execution are mind-boggling to say the least.

P.S. If you (or any other readers) have any idea why my iTunes keeps spontaneously turning itself on, I am now accepting solutions. I turn it off, and a few minutes later, boing! It's on again. So I turn it off again and within minutes, boing! On again. It's like that awful song from Chumbawumba from back in the late 90s. Honestly, I shouldn't complain. Between the horrid torrential downpours (and resultant humidity) and now an infestation of teensy flying ants that have taken up residence in my keyboard, I am lucky the stupi--, er, wonderful machine turns on at all.