THE UGLIEST AMERICAN. . Intro to Honduramala
Trip Start
Nov 04, 2006
1
15
Trip End
Dec 03, 2006
Antigua,
Guatemala
Saturday, November 4, 2006
Sudoku-free zone, my amigos. Iīm flying over the
Gulf, writing this intro as my ears are poppinī and
downtown Miami is a neon pink speck in my wake. I
think I can see Phillip Michael Thomasīs career from
up here. I am speeding towards Central America to
complete the caffeinated journey that began with a
single sip. . .But letīs not get ahead of myself.
I want to take a slight moment to thank you all for
once again coming with me on the run. Sure, you donīt
actually get to see firsthand the seat of Mayan
civilization or experience the mystery of the
Caribbean. But then again, you also donīt have to sit
through this inflight showing of "The Lake House"
without sound. Iīll just have to throw in some
Verbena in the old CD and quietly whisper "Whoa" to
myself whenever Keanu comes onscreen. If Iīm lucky,
thereīll be a nude scene or something. Now, back to
our regularly scheduled intro, already in progress:
You know, the Early 90s were a crazy time, Robert
Stack was daring us to solve his mysteries, Sebastian
Bach and Sean Lennon joined forces to protest a 3 week
war in Iraq, nobody was a somebody til their picture
was on a Pog, and most of us were all mopey and awash
in mismatched flannel. Somehow, in the midst off all
of this, in between my daily injections of Taco Bell
Fountain Dew and my intake of, ahem, "around the
counter" stimulants, I found a suitable ELIXIR to
soothe my troubled soul. Now granted, my "troubles"
consisted of fighting off my ADD long enough to pass
my badminton class, produce a polka show on NPR, and
maybe catch a boot of Premo at the Caledonia while
wrangling the psychotic hijinx of a certain
manic-depressive Pollyanna with way too much meds on
her hands. But things were tough all over, and just
because I had 69 problems (and a bitch was one of
them) didnīt mean I didnīt have the skillz to turn out
a Granada Lakes keg party wearing nothing but a Living
Colour T-shirt and a crappy acoustic guitar. But the
"haze" cleared when I walked into a nameless coffee
joint in 93 and tasted some Antigua Guatemalan java.
It was dark, complex, and nicely balanced (much like
the Nigerian girls gymnast team, but without all the
locker room drama). I loved that shit, and by the
time my Yankee ass hit Austin, TX, I was drinkinīit
bold and cold, truth be told. And my love affair with
the bitter fruit of the rich volcanic soil of the Agua
Volcano kept going.
Fast forward 8 years. We now have a 3 YEAR war in
Iraq, beer guts galore, our kids are all growing up
(Dylan, Cody, Anna and Brooke), our hair is
short/missing, and we have debt. Ok, YOU have debt.
So itīs time to go back. Back into our place in the
wristband line outside of the downtown Daytonīs, back
to the railroad trestle above the Blue Earth river,
back into the 7th St. Entry "dressing" room, back to
Salem Green (Wait. . .we never left).
Can a single cup of coffee do that for me? Can that
expertly written song be right? "The fountain of youth
is a coffee machine"? Thereīs really only one way to
find out.
So join me on another trip, South of being conscious,
and North of being humble. This is my excessive
excursion into Guatemala, Honduras, and the next stage
of my so-called life. I think Iīll call it:
THE UGLIEST AMERICAN: Beer and Loathing in
Honduramala!
Stay tuned.
(and get back to work/surfing porn/free cell)
