Samestuff

This is a yearbook. It is not from 1985. It is from 1885. Is if my great grand father’s yearbook. He has the same name as I do. Apparently he was a slacker (I guess that runs in the family) and Tufts back then was not so great of a school.

He got his degree, then went on to become a doctor. I have his certificate for becoming a doctor hanging on my wall back “home.” He then moved out to California. California in the late 19th century was basically cowboy country. That means I am part cowboy. Sort of.

Both my grandfather and grandmother went to Tufts. So did my dad. I however, did not get accepted. My grandparents use to donate the monies to Tufts. After I was not accepted the letters they got changed. They went from “Cool! You love us right!!!? Moniez!!! Send!!!” to “Well, sorry we didn’t accept your grand son, but since we like to fuck with peps, give us moniez!!! Besides, he is a fuck-up!!??”

They read right through that and no longer donate money to Tufts. Nor do my parents.

However, they (Tufts) still want that yearbook. Only like two of these still exist. I essentially (via a very smooth amount of family maneuvering) own one. Tufts will never see it. I plan on getting my graduate degree at not-Tufts. So screw them and their standards. I have a real job that pays real money. What do the Tufts 08 grads have? I’m guessing most are very unhappy with their lives right now. Not in the job they pictured themselves in and whatnot. Recession blah blah obama blah. Whatever.

There really is no point to this. Except for the one. Fuck life plans. I thought I was going to Tufts once 8th grade. American was where I went. I also thought I would name my son George (I am George S. E. the 6th). Nope, his name is Esteban.

That was a lie. I have no son. But if I do he probably won’t be named George. He also probably wont be named Esteban.

Anyway, enjoy life and quit complaining about shit people. Happiness lies in you. And in beer. And in Samurai movies. And in Marlboro Lights. And in Muse. Mostly in Muse.

Fin

Dec 10 2009

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Mexican Transportation

One day I got into my car and drove. I ended up back in DC, but that happened two months later. I had a friend with me too. We had a “trip” planned for about three weeks. Just driving. We made it to Mexico. I should say that I am horrible at languages. I can’t speak a word of Spanish, so I was lucky that my friend was born and raised in Mexico.

The roads in Mexico are in a weird transition period. If they were a human, I would say they are around 13. They are covered in pimples (potholes) and are somewhat uncomfortable with themselves (lots and lots of speed bumps).

They are working on a highway system. When we could we took these highways. They didn’t come cheap though. There were quite a few tolls, ranging in price from 10 pesos to 150 pesos. We probably spent well over $250 in tolls. They were better than the speed bumps though.

The one problem witht he highways was that they tended to end suddenly. Not in a bam no road! type of way, more like they turned into normal (Mexico normal) roads. This means that, on average, there was a speed bump every 500 meters.

We were down south where the mountains in mexico suddenly disappear and you are on a bit of land that decided rise out of the sea a while back. The Yucatan Peninsula. Its very flat. Driving on a highway, then no longer a highway, but a crappy road that they were turning into a highway.

We were going slow, I was driving, not that I’m a slow driver, but we were only going about 15 mph at the most, slowing down even more for the speed bumps.

The car in front of us was…well…one of the biggest piece of shit cars I ahve ever seen in my life. A 199? Nissan POS. Suspension completely shot, all four wheels tilted in at about a 20 degree angle. Faded red and grey paint. Not one window. Hell, the trunk wouldn’t even close the entire way. I was completely entranced by the crappyness of this car.

It slowed for a speed bump, and so did I. But it didn’t slow. It stopped. I didn’t.

KABOOM! SMASH! CRUNCH! EXPLOSION!

…or…tap…maches reality a bit more closely.

None the less, it was an accident. And I was in Mexico. Whatever was going to happen, it was probably not going to work the same way things work in the U.S.; the whole exchanging information thing, insurance numbers, license numbers, etc. To start with, I had no coverage in Mexico. The car I tapped (O.K. fine, hit) also had no license plate. To be honest I was more curious than worried at this point. I wanted to see how things would play out.

So, my friend got out of the car, while I remained in it, and began talking to the two people who were in the Nissan. There were a few hand gestures, pointing at stuff, nothing unfriendly though. My curiosity got the best of me, and I stepped out of the car. I pretended to check for damage (even though I really could care less, my car had plenty of dents already; just another battle scar) while I tried to understand what was going on in the conversation. Normal, I can figure out what people are talking about in Spanish. I had no clue tis time. I joined the group and pretended to listen.

Then the oddest thing happened. They opened the trunk.

In my trunk I keep things like jumper cables, some tools, maybe a sleeping bag. Normal things. Even things that I would conceder normal, like Risk, the board game. What they had in their trunk was not normal. At least, not in the world I know.

In the trunk, looking back at me, was a full size, adult cow. Moo. just looking at me. His feet were tied, but a cow. It popped its head up and looked around. We had a moment together. It was strange. It mooed. I stared. It stared. I looked at my friend. He looked at me, then the cow, then the two guys who had a cow in their trunk.

Me, being me, after a few seconds of confusion, accepted the situation and embraced it. I thrive off of confusion, even mine. Mostly mine.

Talking happened, in Spanish, my friend told me we could go. Everyone got into their cars, Nissan driving off first, then we drove off.

And that was the day we invented cow cracking. Hit a car, and if it has a cow in it you win. I guess.

Dec 9 2009

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I carry around a twig in my bag.

Its true, I do. Here is a crappy iPhone photo:

There is a story. It doesn’t really explain why the twig is in my bag though.

I walk home most days, unless I have my bike or it is raining hard. In my walk I pass a tree (lots of them actually), and on that tree was this twig. It didn’t have any leaves on it, and when I walking, only half paying attention to the world, I frequently walked into this twig. It was at eye level and nearly took out my eye several times.

After walking into this twig many times, I finally got fed up.

One day, after walking into it, I went several steps forward, said “Thats it!” and turned around. I took several paces forward, walking with much intent, and a somewhat angry look on my face.

Then I stopped.

There was a woman staring at me. I decided that I must not look totally sane. I turned around again ad went home. Next time.

Next time was a few days later. I did it in one smooth motion. Twig snapped off. Smile on my face. Twig ended up in my bag, and their it remains.

Dec 8 2009

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Read These

“It doesn’t matter. If you get eaten by a lion, I get fired. If I shoot you, I get fired. One requires more reports to headquarters, but I can’t remember which one. I’ll find out and let you know.”

They are very entertaining. Read them in order. You’ll probably learn something too. I apologise for that.