I Want To Blog You Like An Animal

“I know you got it but you gotta go
I’m gonna get into the batter so the mix might glow
I hate to do it, but I did it though
I’m gonna bite into the body like the risk is no risk
I got the souped up car and what you call
Tripping on the boom bap etymological
I ride the fader and I ride it low
I’m gonna slip into the field like Han Solo.”
~~ Soul Coughing, ‘Rolling’




“When you are a lawyer, your job is to clean up the messes of others, to rubber stamp and make legal someone else’s real work, to essentially be a paper custodian for the people who actually do important things. The people at Yahoo and Cisco and Network Solutions (all our clients) actually did something; what did I do? Stupid, mindless, and ultimately irrelevant bullshit. I was a junior paper-monkey, and I hated every second of it.”
~~ Tucker Max




The quotes really have nothing to do with the rest of my blog. I just thought they were awesome. And besides, the arbitrary use of the quotes is perfect, because today is Random Blog Day! Wooo! Pop the champagne and lather your dog with expensive shampoo (if you don't have a dog, your roommate will do) because today’s blog is a celebration of sheer random sentiments I thought I’d share with you. Enjoy.




Sara and I saw Frisbee dogs perform at the baseball game the other day. The Frisbee dogs were way better athletes than the baseball players. I’d like to see a baseball player jump off a teammate’s back and catch a ball in the air. And Frisbee dogs sure as hell wouldn't lose to a team from Michigan.




I think I have a rash.
Because I’m itching to KICK SOME ASS.




So, after facing tremendous musical abuse from past women, I have devised a new method for picking up girls. I plan on walking into a bar, strutting up to a girl that looks approximately my type and isn’t wearing a wedding ring, and blurting out the title to any White Stripes song. A typical conversation might go like this:

Sketch: You’re Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl).

Girl: Excuse me?

Sketch: Your Southern Can Is Mine.

*girl slaps Sketch*


Now, at this point, I might resort to one of my old stand-by lines:

Sketch: Baby do you have some Tums, because you just gave me heartburn.


Okay, I’ve never used that line. In fact, I just made it up. But it would be hysterical. At least to the outside observer. Anyway, other possible conversation starters, as borrowed from The White Stripes:

“I’m Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman.”

“Sister, Do You Know My Name?”

“Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine.”

“We’re Going To Be Friends.”

“There’s No Home For You Here.”

“I Can Learn.”

“I Think I Smell A Rat.”

“Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me?”


Now, most or all of these will likely result in me getting slapped. But one day, the conversation will go like this:

Sketch: I Want To Be The Boy To Warm Your Mother’s Heart.

Girl: Isn’t that a White Stripes song?

Sketch: Yes! Will you marry me?

Girl: It’s True That We Love One Another.

*sound of wedding bells*




I feel like my earlier declaration about having a rash would be funnier if said by Mo. Or Jack Black.




April is National Donate Life month, promoting organ donation nationwide. I’m thinking of giving up my thumbs.




As an addendum to that last sentence, I’ve made that joke a few times this week, but stopped after every single person responded with, “Thumbs aren’t organs.”

I don’t have time to explain the concept of a ‘joke’ to literalists, so I just put it aside until I had a chance to randomly insert it here. Besides, sometimes the response is funnier than the joke itself.




Speaking of donations, I am happy to donate my sperm to any hot babe on birth control. Or as I like to call them, “human sperm banks.”




Frisbee dogs are sort of like ninjas. They’re all about stealth.




Is it weird that, even though I am not feeling melancholy at all as of late, I find myself listening to Ben Folds’ “Brick” a lot recently? I’m not even a huge fan of the song. But the imagery is amazing, so I listen anyway. I guess that’s weird.




George Michael and his cousin Maeby finally kissed on the season finale of Arrested Development. Televised cousin lovin’! It gives me hope that someday I might be able to celebrate my West Virginia heritage publicly.




Do you think if I changed the prior statement to, “my Appalachian American heritage” I could qualify as a minority? I could really use the scholarships and tax breaks.




From the U.S. Census Bureau: “Women in the United States outnumber men, but they are hampered by higher poverty rates and lower earnings.” Who says minorities can’t live the American dream?




One time I was at my friend’s house and his little sister ran into the room and jumped on the couch screaming, “Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!”

“Dude,” I said. “This is just like on Oprah. I think this is a cry for attention.”

“Nah,” he replied. “She does that all the time. Just ignore her.”




Wouldn’t it be sweet if I changed my sign off named to, ‘T. Diddy’? Is that more ghetto-fabulous than Nas-T?




Well, that’s it kids. Someday I’m sure I’ll have more random crap to share with you.




Peace and love,

Sketch E.

No Blogger Left Behind, Addendum 2

It's just too good to be true!

The National Education Association (nation's largest teacher's union) and several school districts filed a lawsuit against Margaret Spelling, Secretary of the U.S. Department of Education over No Child Left Behind.

Turns out there's a clause in the law that says the federal government cannot require states or school district to spend their own money meeting federal requirements. Of course, this very same law has existed since the Clinton administration, but apparently Congress and the DoE felt they were above such silly liberal laws.

The federal government has spent less than half of what they promised to spend, and even that most likely isn't enough to cover the expenses of NCLB compliance. You can read the AP article here: Teachers And School Districts To Sue Over Education Law (NY Times, 4/20).

NEA general counsel Bob Chanin had this to say: "There's a promise in that law, it's unambiguous, and it's not being complied with."

If you weren't aware, poor states such as West Virginia and Maryland had so much trouble coming up with funds, they nearly decided to give up their federal education budgets when NCLB was adopted in 2002. Several states threatened to simply ignore the law, but political pressure from both voters and the Bush administration eventually forced all states to comply.

My favorite part of the article is the mention of a past exchange between the NEA and former Secretary of the DoE, Rod Paige. Apparently, Paige "referred to the NEA as a 'terrorist organization' for the way it opposed the law, a comment for which he later apologized."

So I guess calling them 'Un-American' is a promotion. The National Education Association USED to be A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION. For you know, pointing out the flaws in NCLB.

To be fair, the White House finally coughed up a decent spokeswoman, Dana Perino. "Perino said Bush has overseen 'historic levels of funding' and a commitment to holding schools to high standards. States are making strong achievement gains under the law, and Spellings has made it clear she will help state leaders as long as they are making proven progress under the law."

I haven't seen any evidence that states are 'making strong achievement gains' or that Spellings has made any such promise to state leaders. And let's get real, the 'historic levels of funding' Bush has provided have all gone to implement these tests, not to improve classrooms in any form. And remember, less than half of the funding has actually been provided to the states. But at least Perino was professional in her comments.

The Washington Post has their own version of the story, which you can read here: 'No Child' Lawsuit (4/20). It also throws in details from the Utah legislation that were already in previous articles.

I'm cautiously thrilled by this. Let's hope school children won't face a loss of funding by actions of either party on this one.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.



* Special thanks to Justin for bringing this to my attention as soon as the story broke.

No Blogger Left Behind, Addendum 1

So Dave IMed one day and pointed out that not all Republicans favor NCLB. Turns out he's right:

Rock on, Utah. (NY Times. 4/20).

Two simple quotes:

"The Republican-dominated Utah Legislature on Tuesday passed a bill that orders state officials to ignore provisions of the federal law that conflict with Utah's education goals or that require state financing."

"Federal officials fear Utah's action could embolden other states to resist what many states consider intrusive or unfunded provisions of the federal law, known as No Child Left Behind."

And all heroes must have their villains:

"Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings warned in a letter to Senator Orrin G. Hatch of Utah on Monday, however, that depending on how the state were to apply the bill's provisions, the Department of Education might withhold $76 million of the $107 million that Utah receives in federal education money. Several lawmakers said the secretary's letter seemed to be a threat."

Way to punish children, Spellings!

Peace and love,

Sketch E.

No Blogger Left Behind

"Truth doesn't make a noise."
~~ The White Stripes




I rarely get involved in politics, especially on a national level. Washington is like a colorful carnival: it’s entertaining to sit back and watch the freaks do their tricks. Joining in is likely to result in personal injury.

But two chance events conspired bring you the following blog:

1) I get extremely restless when I don’t write for a few days. Here’s a hint: when you haven’t slept and it’s 5:00 a.m. and you’re fixing yourself a cup of coffee because you can’t resist sitting at your keyboard and pounding out bullshit words, you’re a writer at heart. I need to recognize this, because I’ve lived in denial for so long …

2) There were so many political events this week that are so far beyond acceptable that it’s downright scary. This needs to be addressed. Here goes.




*Warning: hazardous levels of sarcasm contained within.




*Note: the first issue was brought to my attention by Sarah, and you can check out her blog for more information about it.




Surprise!

My award for Idiot of the Week goes to ... a Republican!

But take heart. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, open-minded, friend-of-the-poor, gay-loving Republican. This is Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, who has publicly sided with my favorite breed of Republican, the Christian conservative. According to the New York Times, Frist “has agreed to join a handful of prominent Christian conservatives in a telecast portraying Democrats as ‘against people of faith’ for blocking President Bush's nominees.”

I encourage you to check out the NY Times article (4/15) Frist Set To Use Religious Stage on Judicial Issue. For those of you who are Net-tarded, the NY Times actually likes people to read and be informed (crazy left-wing propaganda if you ask me), so you can register TOTALLY FREE on their website and read this article. It takes a good five seconds of your life away, but let’s face it, if you’re reading this blog, you have time to register.

Anyway, here’s the deal: the Democrats are using the filibuster and other means to block President Bush’s nominations for judiciary positions. A Christian conservative group known as the Family Research Council has decided that Democrats are doing this as an attack “against people of faith.”

Clearly, they are right. Who woulnd't have faith in a president that wants to appoint John Bolton as an ambassador to the U.N. (Washington Post, 4/11)? What party would have the nerve to block 10 out of 52 appeal court nominations?! Unless, of course, you believe crazy old John McCain:

“’By the way, when Bill Clinton was president, we, effectively, in the Judiciary Committee blocked a number of his nominees,’ Mr. McCain said.”

Nope. Sorry, Mr. McCain. This is not the Democrats rationally thinking through the ramifications of appointing right-wing judges whose views on issues like abortion and school prayer are clearly aligned with a Christian conservative agenda.

The simple truth is that Democrats are pagans and/or witches who hate all Christians, and want to punish them by blocking the appointment of appellate judges. The 204 nominations that have been approved were a fluke, or perhaps a mandate from God. Clearly, Democrats hate “people of faith.”

Whew. Ok, sarcasm aside, Frist and the FRC are not referring to all people of faith here. They are only referring to people of Christian faith, and even then only to people of a certain type of Christian faith. There are plenty of Christians, for example, who are perfectly fine with school prayer being restricted. Frist and the FRC are only referring to a very tiny bloc of Christians, and this is a major part of the problem.

Conservative Christian groups such as the FRC make up a very tiny but extremely outspoken political activist group. What a lot of people don’t understand is that these people are the minority of Christians. These groups, including the FRC, push school prayer issues, the teaching of “intelligent design” as a legitimate science and suggest that teaching children not to harass gay classmates is a scheme to further a homosexual agenda. These campaigns (including the issue of the blocked nominations) are carried out by fliers, Internet ads, television and radio broadcasts (on Christian stations). You can check out the FRC website for more information. I encourage you to go. It’s a grand time. A much more fair and balanced look at politics than, say, the Times. Let’s face it people, the Times is left-wing propaganda coloring book defecated by liberal journalists, what with their “quotes” and their “sources” and their “research” and their “facts.”

Oops, sarcasm slipping back in there.

So, one problem here is that most of these issues are obtuse perversions of Christian beliefs. This is a very tiny minority of Christian faith, but most people don’t recognize that. And why should they? They are extremely outspoken and passionate. Worse, the media and the Bush administration treat them as the voice of Christians everywhere. Even this article is written with two sides: that of the Democrats, and that of the Republicans / Christian conservatives. They at least interviewed McCain as an example of a Republican who isn’t brainwashed. But what about other Christians who disagree with this sort of campaign? On behalf of the rest of the Christian community, as well as people of different faiths, I am offended by the obnoxious generalizations of people like Tony Perkins, president of the FRC:

“For years activist courts, aided by liberal interest groups like the A.C.L.U., have been quietly working under the veil of the judiciary, like thieves in the night, to rob us of our Christian heritage and our religious freedoms.”

Am I wrong to believe that protecting the rights of Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist or agnostic faiths does not rob me of my Christian heritage or religious freedom?

Another problem here is the political course of retaliation. Rather than working out a compromise or finding new choices, Republicans decided to just change the rules of the filibuster (CNN, 4/18)!

One voice of reason in this mess is Chuck Hagel (R-Nebraska) who says, “When we talk religion and government, neither should become an instrument for the other. And I see drifting here in different directions that are, I don't think, healthy for our country.”

But the biggest problem, from my perspective, is the use of the phrase, “against people of faith.” It is propaganda, and it is wrong. This is not political debate. This group is not making a rhetorical case to convince people that the Democrats are blocking nominations based on religious bias. No, that would take time and effort and numbers and quotes and facts. And who is listening anyway? (Remember Ross Perot’s infomercials on how he was going to get rid of our national debt? Of course you don’t.) It is much simpler to resort to propaganda, and this is a tactic used almost solely – with the exception of Michael Moore – by the Republican party. Terrorists are called “evildoers” and “freedom haters.” Dissenter to Republican opinion are deemed “un-American” or “against people of faith.” A flawed, little-read bill designed to whittle away our civil rights is labeled the Patriot Act. And one of the most worthless education policies this country has ever seen is dubbed, “No Child Left Behind.” And who could vote against something like the Patriot Act or NCLB and expect to return to office? Republicans are banking on American Idle. We won’t educate ourselves – nor will our elected officials. We will take the names at face value. Hell, the Patriot Act sounded great at the time. And who gave a damn if NCLB was under funded and contained no provisions for handicapped or foreign-language children to pass standardized tests? Nobody but our teachers.




NCLB is my next Problem Issue. the New York Times also ran this article (4/13): Study Finds Shortcoming In New Law On Education.

The lead sums it up well: “The academic growth that students experience in a given school year has apparently slowed since the passage of No Child Left Behind, the education law that was intended to achieve just the opposite, a new study has found.”

And guess what! Standardized testing is (gasp!) racially biased! Who would’ve thought non-english-speaking students from rural areas would have trouble understanding a test provided in English language? Let’s make the little bastards learn fucking English. If it’s good enough for George W., it’s good enough for the rest of the world. In fact, if you don’t learn English (in a country, by the way, with no official language), you must be an Un-American Freedom Hater.

Fortunately, there are Informed Dissenters, who point out the flaws of the study:

“’It's hard to know how much you can extrapolate from this study,’” said Ross Wiener, policy director for the Education Trust, which released its own report in January showing mixed results on student performance and achievement gaps. ‘I don't think you want to make generalizations about what's going on nationwide.’”

Honestly! How dare those silly scientists generalize from their data! How can 320,000 students from 23 states possibly represent a national trend? And let's not forget, most of the major cities were left out of the study. I’m pretty sure minorities probably made great advances there. But our real secret weapon is the other studies, in which education officials report improvements in academics and the achievement gap. Obviously this study is not worth its weight in toilet paper.

Ho ho, fair readers! Let’s momentarily put the sarcasm aside yet again. First of all, the testing agency openly admits their results aren’t fully representative. But the numbers are still impressive. And the article notes that they went the extra mile:

“Rather than relying on test scores at just one point in the year, the Northwest study looked at how students fared in the fall and then again in the spring, in an effort to see how much they had learned during the year.”

And you know what? Scores did go up. By less than one point.

My other criticism, which is not addressed in the article, is the fact that reports of “progress” are coming from “education officials.” Generally, state education officials are either elected to their jobs, or appointed by another elected official.

When I read this, I said to myself, “Who among these officials is going to stand up and say, ‘You know what? My school / district / state sucked this year. The kids didn’t make any progress at all!” Especially when no progress means the government cuts your funding.

As it turns out, there is at least one such lady, who managed to make it into the Times a mere five days later (4/18): At The Front Of The Fight.

That bold woman is Betty Sternberg, recently appointed head of Connecticut’s Department of Education. She openly criticizes the flaws in NCLB, including the lack of provisions for disabled students and the amount of funding states must find to meet the requirements. It will cost Connecticut about $8 million to meet the newest requirements of NCLB.

In a snide television appearance, Margaret Spellings, the secretary of the United States Department of Education, called opponents of NCLB “Un-American” and said they demonstrate the "soft bigotry of low expectations."

Did you pick up on the propaganda? No? Fine, I’ll beat you over the head with it. Margaret Spellings could have addressed this issue in a professional manner by explaining the strengths of standardized testing (I’ve yet to be convinced there are any) and addressing the weaknesses of the NCLB act. Instead, she simply called opponents a Dirty Name. How can you be American if you want your child left behind?

Of course, you could ask, “How can you be American if you enforce a racially biased testing policy on students?” or “How can you be American if you don’t want children to have funding for their schools?”

But a rational person would see the frivolity of rhetorical questions, or the outrageousness of calling an opponent with reasonable concerns “Un-American” instead of working to resolve the issue.

Fortunately, Betty Sternberg is one such rational person, and demanded an apology from Margaret Spellings. That apology is pending.





Onto my final problematic issue. Now, I’ve always claimed that there are moron Democrats that are every bit as soulless as Republicans. This is the condition of politics as a whole.

To appease those who are probably even now attacking me for being so horribly biased, here is my Democratic Idiot of the week, from my home state of West Virginia!

CNN (4/12) reports that West Virginia accidentally made English the official state language! Our dear sweet Senate Majority Whip, Billy Bailey (D), snuck a rider onto one of the final bills of the legislative session, which read:

“English shall be the official language of the State of West Virginia.”

In a rush to finish the legislative session, the bill was passed before anyone had a chance to read the fine print.

Then the arrogant bastard bragged about how he lied to others just before the bill was passed:

“’I just told the members that the amendment clarifies the way in which documents are produced,’ Bailey, a Democrat, said Monday.”

HEEEE-HAWWWW!

Way to set West Virginia back another 200 years. Why don’t we just make literacy tests before people can vote, while we’re at it?




*sigh*




This is the sad State of our Union, folks. Don’t forget this shit when the next election comes around.




Peace and love,

Sketch E.

Sketch E. writing at his private cabin at the Posada Quepoa, Costa Rica.

Istanblog (Not Blogstantinople) -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 10, Final Edition

“I had a flash of something I hadn’t felt since my first months in Europe – a mixture of ignorance and a loose, ‘what the hell’ kind of confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard straight line toward an unknown horizon.”
~~ Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary




Aside: Prelude To A Finale

Know this fact: my trip to Costa Rica changed the course of my life.

If you haven’t gathered this from the previous entries, you are Dense, and should seek professional help, or at least eliminate your reproductive parts to spare our gene pool the incompetence of your posterity. I suggest popping a couple Vicodin and performing the surgery yourself; it’s much cheaper that way.

Anyway, romantic hyperbole aside, I am not drastically different. Just, different. But I’ve never been abroad without feeling altered on some fundamental level of my personality. My trip to England gave me my entire philosophy on life (future blog?). Australia refreshed my optimism, reinvigorated my enthusiasm for all things Nature. The changes from Costa Rica are much more subtle and complex. It’s the difference between enjoying wine and becoming a connoisseur: the basic appreciation is already in place – I can now enjoy the texture and flavor and color of my travels.

My challenge then, in this final blog on Costa Rica, is to convey the subtle alterations to my moral fabric. Each previous story was a step toward this final entry; a footprint of a journey through my two-week Jungle of memories, my fingers a textual machete, clearing a path for readers to follow. And now, at the end of the Rhetoric Rope, at the peak of Prose Mountain, as we hang from the highest limbs of the Treatise Tops, let us look back, reflect, and trace the solo path that starts with one man and ends with another.



For emphasis – sparkles and shiny bits – and mostly because I can’t help myself – I’ve decided to inject song quotes throughout this piece – not just any song, a very particular song -- “On Mercury” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers -- which I believe mystically found its way into my heart on this trip – I don’t generally buy into mysticism, but this song sums up my attitudes so perfectly it has become a sort of anthem from the music gods – who, by the way, are my favorite gods – if there are multiple gods and one or more of those gods are music gods and you truly are omniscient and thus are reading this blog you are doing a fantastic job of providing a soundtrack to my Wild life – or maybe it’s just some sort of muse, but that’s pretty sweet too – muses are like mystical ninjas – anyway let’s get this show moving along – my point really is that if you wanted to skip the whole damn blog and just listen to that song, go ahead and do that instead -- it’s wonderful and the Chili Peppers are wonderful and deserve your attention more than me. Rock.




“Memories of everything
Of lemon trees on Mercury
Come to me with remedies
From five or six of seven seas”


I am sitting on the balcony of my personal cabin at the Posada Quepoa. It is raining. The river, which ran clear my first few days, now looks like the chocolate river in Wonka’s factory. I lean back in my rocking chair and think about my trip and listen to the water.

This is not the soothing random of a babbling brook. This is the Rio Naranjo, and it sounds like a wave forever breaking. The roar is at first unsettling, but eventually you tune it out. Then the sound is as constant and dependable as the hum in your refrigerator – you have to be in the right state of groggy awareness to notice it.

It’s as if we arrived on the very threshold of the rainy season; as if the week that subtly gave us new perspective on a foreign land carried us over that threshold; as if we drank from the last fermented coconuts the beach will have for many months; as if the dry season has migrated for the winter, and the rainy season simply fills the void.

It is peaceful, writing in the rain. I sip juice from a plastic mug and think about endings and beginnings and adventures. Nostalgia seeps in. Nostalgia before I even left the country. Nostalgia for this place and the people I’ve grown to know and care about, and the people who’ve cared for me. They have contributed to some enormous change, a spark of mental motors that feels enormous to me, but which the world may never know …




“I’ve got myself
In a masochistic hold
Why don’t you let go?”


When I left for Costa Rica, things were pretty stale. My problem is unlike the problem of most Twixters. It’s not that I have no direction, it’s that I have too many directions. For example, I would enjoy the following careers, in no particular order:

- writer
- journalist
- veterinarian
- environmentalist
- biologist
- rock-and-roll star and/or musician
- award-winning documentary filmmaker; award-winning fictional filmmaker; any sort of filmmaker with a cult following
- inventor
- chauffer
- chef
- astronaut
- stand-up comic
- teacher
- ninja
- eccentric millionaire
- civil rights activist
- underwear model
- participant/patron of something akin to Warhol’s Factory
- public health official
- Gandhi
- owner of rock club
- syndicated columnist
- Vegas card dealer
- diplomat
- psychologist
- FBI profiler
- Broadway actor
- magazine editor
- fire engine



You will note this is all too much for one man to do in one lifetime. Also note that I am too out-of-shape to be a ninja, astronaut, or special agent for the FBI. Also note ‘video store clerk’ is not on this list. It was on my list, until I actually became a video store clerk, and dealt with so many morons that I quit that job and promised I’d never find myself so desperate again. I crossed it off my list.




“Shake it up
Just to redirect my flow
Come on, let’s go”


It was time to get out of Columbus, out of Ohio, out of the U.S. and into the Jungle. And since Carney and I were starting a non-profit business raising money for a group in Costa Rica, it seemed the obvious choice.

Costa Rica was intimidating for a variety of reasons. Ticos speak Spanish, haggle prices, practice Catholicism – all foreign concepts to me. Furthermore, I’d never been camping. And this wasn’t just driving M & P’s SUV out to the lake and pitching a tent thirty feet away from it for the weekend. This was Hardcore camping – we had no idea we had running water prior to our arrival. We were literally on the far edge of the Jungle – the nearest ‘civilization’ was a few miles away, and the first town was many miles further than that. Not to mention I only knew two of the people going on this trip. One a dear friend, the other barely an acquaintance.

But as I said in my first entry to the Costa Rica Diaries, sometimes it’s necessary to do an unapologetic cannonball into a new scenario; immersing yourself in a foreign situation forces you to gain a new perspective. Costa Rica was perfect to get me out of the rut.

Lucky for me, I thrive in new environments. My style is, for many people, Unsettling. Those comfortable in their niche are often intimidated by me, because I love awkwardness. It is one of the tricks one can use to discover the true nature of people. When a person is ill at ease, he or she can’t just put on their game face and be chill – they have to deal with things in a way that is natural. Some panic, others become aggressive, others just shrug and go with the flow. This is how a New Scene works – and it doesn’t have to be the Jungle to be troubling. In a new situation, everyone is uncertain, nervous. A person like me, who is completely comfortable in an uncomfortable environment becomes an enigma. People want to share in my relaxed attitude, and this gives me confidence.




“We don’t stop rock around the clock
Motor mouthing off
In front of every other roadblock”


Fortunately for me, these students were My Type (but then, who isn’t?). They were Adventurers, Extroverts, and they certainly knew a lot more about camping than I did. They welcomed me into their group – I ate and worked and partied with them. In fact, many of them were confused – even at the end of the week – that I was not from USC. These people Don’t Panic. They go with the flow.

This is essential on a trip such as this. When you uproot 38 students from their American city homes and thrust them into a Savage Jungle, you can expect that things will Go Wrong. And they did. A Government Conspiracy held a girl in L.A., we got lost on a fucking school bus, Carney stepped on a rusty nail. People who Panic are not welcome in situations like these.

And unforeseen disasters are part of what changes people in a foreign environment. You cannot predict these events. You must learn to deal with them. When you return home, dirty and smelly and Alive, the petty concerns of your usual life are easier to manage. For example, my empty bank account is not nearly as terrifying as the thought of a school bus crashing through a rickety bridge and dumping its occupants into a Jungle Swamp.




“Come again and tell me
What you’re going through
Like a girl who only knew
Her child was due”


Nothing is more important for cultural experience than communicating with the locals. Indeed, had I spent a mere week partying with American college kids on their spring break, it would have been an entirely different encounter. Fortunately, between our scheduled program and my own adventurous endeavors, I learned quite a bit about Costa Rica from residents. In many ways, the Tico perspective of the country is quite different than the American one. In other ways, it’s quite similar. Here are three examples:


1. We sold organic, free trade, shade-grown coffee as a fundraiser for the trip (if you don’t know what these words mean, ask me). The coffee was purchased from a co-op, and on the trip we actually got to meet one of the farmers. This was important; we didn’t just buy coffee from some farmer in Costa Rica. I know a farmer we bought coffee from in Costa Rica. He approached our bus thanking us; it was his first organic yield, and we’d purchased the equivalent of an entire farm’s worth of coffee – just in time for Christmas. He explained to us the importance of organic coffee, and described the environmental impact inorganic fertilizers can have on both his community and the surrounding environment. This is Important to him, and by association became more important to me. This wasn’t America. He was not trying to push his product on us, or sell us on an idea. This is not a corporation telling us organic coffee defines us as a person, or a bureaucratic health administration telling us it’s good for us (didn’t They say that about milk?). This is just a humble farmer, telling us how it is.


2. When I stayed at the Posada Quepoa, the Argentinean family who runs the retreat adopted me as a family member. This is quite different than being a guest. I was not invited to participate; I was expected to join. It’s amazing to have a close bond to people you hardly know, people who don’t even speak the same language as you. One day, they took me to the beach at Manuel Antonio, a notoriously touristy beach.

“Isn’t this amazing?” they asked me.

Remember, I’d just spent a week on a private beach with hardly a trace of human development. Now I was looking at a beach littered with bars, cars and Loud Americans.

“It’s great!” I said, feigning enthusiasm.

Later, the mother pulled me aside and told me a bit about the beach’s history.

“It used to be my private paradise,” she told me. “15-20 years ago, Manuel Antonio was like Playa Rey. Now it is crowded. I miss my paradise.”

She told me the beach was once almost strictly visited by Costa Ricans, with a single bar (still operating today). But now it is overrun with American tourists, and the once pristine Jungle surrounding the beach has been torn out to make room for hotels and bars. This is the deep hypocrisy of ecotourism in Costa Rica. People go to experience the land, but the land is being slowly washed away in the sea of Imperial development.


3. It is almost as difficult to justify my own presence in Costa Rica. One night, the youngest son in the family asked the sort of question typical of children, innocent and earnest and blunt:

“Why would you pay to work?” he asked me.

I laughed.

“Buena pregunta.” I told him. Good question.

His mom had to help me translate, and he is too young to share her understanding of the ravaging of Manuel Antonio. But I think my point was clear enough.

“You know how Manuel Antonio was once very clean? And now it is polluted? Well, my friends and I recognize the harm tourism can cause. We pay to come and visit your country, but we work to keep it beautiful.”

He seemed satisfied.




"Sit up straight
I'm on a double date
I've got to find my way
Into the light, heavy middle weight"


The Argentineans were not the only ones who took care of me. The restaurant’s chef – a 19-year-old culinary wizard -- called me ‘hombre secreto,’ or secret brother, roughly. He spoke no English at all, but that did not stop us from communicating. Between my broken Spanish and our staggering miming abilities, we usually got our message across. If not, we’d just say, “Pura Vida” and leave it at that. The language barrier is not enough to stop a bond from developing.

These bonds are important. As much as I love awkwardness, it is Unfair to make someone uncomfortable when they are offering such hospitality. I have Friends in Costa Rica, secret brothers who would care for me if I needed it. Achieving this bond is a delicate balance, finding a middle road between ignoring those who are being generous and overextending one's welcome. But once this bond is in place, it is Strong, and not easily broken. It is a reminder to celebrate common decency and respect for human beings, including their cultures.




“You always took me with a smile
When I was down …”


And then, of course, there was the girl. It had been awhile for me. Not long like, “Gasp! I can’t believe it hasn’t fallen off from lack of use” long, but long enough. And suddenly she was there, and we formed a bond stronger than a mere sexual one. Not strong like Ethan Hawke / Julie Delpy Before Sunrise strong, but strong enough.




“Looking up into
A reverse vertigo
What an undertow”


No, that’s not a reference to my head-spinning rum overdose. This is, for me, a representation of finding your situation spinning wildly out of your control.

Anarchy: it does a body good.

I did my best to describe what it’s like to stand on a foreign beach in a Savage Jungle and stare at an ocean that glows even without moonlight. But words are no substitute for Experience. So fuck this blog. Leave your house. Get on a plane. Fly to Costa Rica. Take a bus to Manuel Antonio. Sneak onto Play Rey one night. It isn’t hard, but be wary – the rangers carry guns.

Stand on that beach, look at the stars, admire the fireflies, consider the utterly incomprehensible magnitude of the sky and the sea and the Jungle. This will Scare you. And then you will understand our awe.

Or maybe not. Maybe you don’t want to feel what I felt. Maybe you want your own experiences, dammit. And if that’s the case, I applaud you. Fuck this blog. Leave your house. Get on a plane to anywhere, and tell me the stories when you get back. I will never see or experience everything in this world, although I would consider that a noble goal. I must, to some extent, live vicariously through the people I know. Tell me your stories, whether they be relationship problems or drunken madness or travel tales or pure innocence. I’m a writer. I’m a junkie for anecdotes; I’ve a fetish for stories. Everyone has one. I’ve told you mine. What’s yours?



“Memories of everything
That blew through.”




Pura Vida.

~ Sketch E.

I Fought The Blog ... , The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 9

“He sees the sign and hollow sky
He sees the stars come out tonight
He sees the city's ripped backsides
He sees the winding ocean drive
And everything was made for you and me”
~~ Iggy Pop, 'The Passenger'



“Now it’s dark.”
~~ Dennis Hopper, Blue Velvet




I suspected San Jose was Savage before, and I’m certain of it now. It is Maundy Thursday, and in a country that is roughly one million percent Catholic, this means no alcohol. That ruins my game plan: to relax and slowly get drunk. Drunk enough to forget I am trapped in this pisshole of a city. But the bars and restaurants and convenient stores are all closed for the entire weekend, and I am stuck sober and lonely.

Mal Suerte. Bad Luck.

In a fit of boredom, I wander the streets – unwise in a strange city in the dark. San Jose is not a friendly city; it is unlike the rest of Costa Rica. A glance at the street is all it takes to make a visitor want to go home. Iron bars block off the windows and doors. The street is dirty, filled with garbage and rank puddles of water. Stone sculptures that might have been beautiful once are now marred by sloppy graffiti.

Worst of all are the drivers. Rumor has it that San Jose has the highest auto-related mortality rate of any city in Central America. Costa Rica is listed among the 10 worst countries in the world to drive in. And auto accidents are the 7th leading cause of death in this country. These people drive like gorillas on a crack binge. Most streets poorly indicate traffic patterns, and drivers openly ignore red lights, stop signs and pedestrians.

But this is a Holiday. There is little traffic tonight. I randomly pick a direction away from my hostel and sally forth.

I am a block away when a crazed Nicaraguan pulls me aside to offer me drugs. Nicaraguans are not welcome in Costa Rica, not even in San Jose. Men like this one do nothing to ease racial tensions. I decline, but the Drug Dealers are as persistent as the taxi drivers. They are bastard vultures. You have to give them an emphatic no and swat them away. Showing confusion, or even saying “no thanks” is the equivalent of a deep and bloody cut in shark-infested waters. Predators sense your weakness, and begin to circle. I push a small coin into the man’s hand to get rid of him.

Around the next corner, I gain the attention of a prostitute. She hisses at me. She is a cat, a pussy, with huge tits. I shrug her off, and she follows me for a block before getting the hint.

What sort of fucked up city is this, where access to Sex and Drugs is easier than booze? It is enough to fracture the fragile human mind; to cause memories to bleed internally, seeping down the skull and into consciousness, tainting thoughts with shades of Violent and Dark.

The streets are too crazy even for me tonight. I return to the hostel, and the scene there is equally bizarre. It is FILLED with people, all yearning for action but knowing there is none to be found. A group in the TV lounge is watching a Hallmark movie. Sad.

I find a bean bag in the ‘smokers lounge,’ which is in the lobby area, directly across from the desk. The room is painted to reflect the Jungle – green plants on the walls and Weird animals staring out at me. A pillar in the center of the room is made up like a tree trunk, complete with owl. Branches spread across the ceiling, and become engulfed with the flaming glow of daylight. This ends abruptly in an outline of a crescent moon, with stars and clouds filling the rest of the ceiling. It is a good mural, tastefully done despite the creepy Technicolor monkey adorning the desk.

I share stories with the people at the hostel. One couple stayed on the beach next to mine, with a family that ran Jet Ski tours out of Manuel Antonio. The couple went out on their boat every day, and camped on the beach every night. Another couple traveled around the entire country on their spring break. They rented motorbikes to get around, and showed me the scars of their wrecks. I vow to learn to ride a bike this summer.

Two people have had their passports stolen. They had intended to leave Costa Rica this weekend, but they won’t be able to, because the U.S. Embassy is closed due to the holiday. They are stranded in San Jose, with no buses running and not a drop of alcohol. Fortunately, they’ll have hookers and drugs.

I am falling in love with the hostel scene. Everyone has a story, and a fascinating life. I have yet to meet someone studying accounting or Real Estate Law. These people are bartenders, musicians, doctors, public health experts. My story: journalist, businessman. This is Wild and Weird in Columbus, but it is hardly worth mentioning in any hostel in the world.

Most interesting are the older crowd. These are people over the age of 40 who are experiencing the thrill of youth by traveling via the hostel scene. A woman here, easily in her 60s, has dreadlocks down to her ankles. She has been cultivating this masterpiece for 14 years. She loves Eminem and the American hip-hop scene. Everyone knows her by name.

Hostels are exciting and adventurous. The people are friendly and interesting. But there is something sad about them as well. These are Lost Souls, scraping cash together to pay for a clean bed each night. They have given up the value of privacy – not that they mind – for a chance to see the world.

But why?

My reasons are clear. I am a Reporter, and the World is my Field. I am here to do business, and verbally capture the scene while I’m at it. You can’t travel without personal growth, and I relish that as well.

But what drives the others? What makes bartenders and musicians and doctors leave the comforts of their world and seek this Wild and Weird environment?

I ask them what brings them to Costa Rica, and answers are vague. They are On Vacation, or Spring Break or Holiday. Most are here because they are traveling through Central America on the way to South America.

Some offer blunt answers. The motorcycle couple made a drunken pact one night, then followed through with it. Others are meeting family members or heard the camping is good.

But surely there are better places to camp in the world. Surely there are more convenient places to meet with family. I’m told there are better places to see the Caribbean and I know for a fact there are better cities than San Jose.

These people have come here looking for something, and I wonder if Costa Rica will provide it. Most likely it will not, and they will move on: Nicaragua, Grenada, Mexico. Or South, to Panama, Columbia and the rest of South America.

When does it end? When do the Lost Souls find themselves? When does this deep soul searching produce results? Most go home when their tickets tell them to. Others when they run out of cash. I’ve yet to meet someone who has found what they came for, and are going home satisfied.

This is not the condition of the typical eco-tourist. They stay in the swanky hotels. They come with plans, an Itinerary. Successful completion of the Itinerary means money and time well spent.

This lost searching is the sole function of the campsites and hostels of the world. It is the plight of the traveler, the yearning dreams of the Poor and the Lost. This is the road of the erratic Wanderer, and I wish someday to follow it. For now, I soak in the thin wisps of hope and discovery that are left in the wake of those who carried them here.

San Jose has become the Fiendish culmination of this lifestyle. A dead city, barred to the world outside, yet visited by millions each year. I’m told every major city in Latin America has a pulse, a unique feel. This is not true of San Jose. There is no heartbeat to this city – the dead have no pulse. It is simply a soulless mesh of cars and bad drivers and tourists and buildings. If a heartbeat does exist, it exists as the thrum of the Wanderers, moving in and out in a mindless shuffle, searching for an unknown cause.

Pura Vida?

Not in San Jose.

~ Sketch E.

Cheesebloggle In Paradise, The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 8

“I’m a lot like you so please
Hello, I’m here, I’m waiting.
I think I’d be good for you
And you’d be good for me.”
~~ Weezer, 'El Scorcho'




We all love our crushes, just a little.




A conversation:

Sketch: Then she said, 'Do you want to listen to the Beatles? It's Abbey Road.'

Duffman: Holy shit. I can’t think of anything I’d rather hear out of a girl’s mouth. That’s better than, ‘Do you want a blow job’ or … or anything.




My (too) few days with this girl were more than Wild and Weird nights together. We spent whole days together, and when you spend entire days with a person, you get to know them very well very quickly. I liked her. She was easy to talk to, enthusiastic, loved music and wildlife …

To illustrate my point, I offer you a few random, asexual memories:




I tell her how much I love the glowing plankton, and she tells me about working summer camps in her home town. They made exercises designed to teach the kids about bioluminescence, and the kids, naturally, were thrilled by anything glow-in-the-dark. The waves hold a particular nostalgic appeal for her, reminding her of summers past. These sorts of character moments are fascinating to me. Her stories remind me of my own days working camps at the zoo, and the sorts of fun educational games we played with the children there. It is my turn for nostalgia, and I think how amazing it is that two people from vastly different backgrounds, from different states, separated by a monstrous continent can be connected by this sort of memory.




The fireflies also bring us together. She has never seen them – apparently, fireflies are nonexistent in the Pacific Northwest. She is ridiculously excited by them – glowing bugs! How amazing that must seem to those of us who do not take them for granted, and it just so happens I do not. Fireflies are among my favorite animals, and one of life’s most simple summertime pleasures is watching their random flashes at dusk. This is an activity she wholly embraces.




We are donating supplies and free trade soccer balls to students at several local schools. The last school challenges our entire group to an impromptu soccer match. It is too damn hot to play soccer, but many people give it a shot anyway. Other group members offer students piggyback rides in the corner of the field, and I can’t resist. I give her my camera and take off. Sometimes, I look over at her and catch her smiling at me. At one point, we just look at each other and laugh. Shared glances are sexy. Maybe that should have been in my top five.




When we reach the river campsite, two of the girls take off to explore the woods, and I follow. Eventually, one leaves, but SHE is still fascinated, and we keep searching for crazy animals. We catch lizards of all sizes. We find a giant termite mound in a dead tree. Best of all, we discover a colony of leaf-cutter ants, marching along in their little ant brigades. We are enthralled. Watching a few ants on a single leaf, we each pick one and cheer it on as it saws off a tiny segment of leaf. This is an epic struggle for such a wee beastie. She wants to follow them, find the source to this flowing river of ants. We step carefully beside their trail, moving from the leaves to their mound, then off in a whole new direction. “Look!” she yells. “Look at them here! Look where they go!” This sort of enthusiasm is Rare and Precious. There are 38 people on this trip, but she and I are the only ones sharing this moment. That’s a great feeling.




Let’s not forget Chasing the Goat. That sort of bonding experience is enough to make anyone feel a special connection.




It’s our last day together, and we arrive at the Posada Quepoa. Four people to a beautiful two-story cabin. I admire the downstairs: comfortable living area, dining table, sink, refrigerator, wooden counter, beautiful bathroom. The upper level has two bedrooms: the first holds two twin beds, the other has a comfy-looking queen-size bed. I wander into this room, and she’s already getting her stuff out. “I’m claiming this room,” she says. I look at her with puppy eyes, and she laughs. “I’m not excluding you,” she tells me. I am confused. I have a scruffy, unkempt beard, a vicious buzz cut and a peeling sunburn where my scalp used to be. I reek from a week of camping on the beach under the smoldering Costa Rican sun. Of course, she is just as filthy, but I love dirty women. I have no alcohol. And still she wants to share this bed with me, and laugh and kiss and talk about home and pets and the Beatles and vegetarianism and Buddhism and sexism and Randomness. As a mock romantic gesture, I’ve placed the Team Disco Flask disco ball on a rafter, and lit it with my headlamp. The result is hundreds of motionless dots sprayed across our ceiling, more reminiscent of stars than a dance party. She loves it.




These are the special memories. The moments when I look upon her with extra fondness. More than a friend (with benefits), more than a casual lover or a crush or a fling. Don’t get me wrong, this was Spring Break and the two of us live 2,000 miles apart. We were perfectly attuned to this fact. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t moments of genuine warmth. These are the rarest and most exciting moments of human interaction: the initial stages of dating, when a mere touch or look evokes an involuntary current of Thrilling electric adrenaline. When women play coy but get what they want. When men act smooth but win her over with goofy quirks and a few sweet gestures. The Hopeless Romantics live for moments like these, and I’m glad I shared them with her.

Pura Vida, wherever you are.

~ Sketch E.

Rio Naranjo -- more Savage than it looks, taken from our Campsite.

The Restaurant -- site of our Wild and Weird party.

Blog Sugar Sex Magik -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 7

“This whole world’s Wild at heart and Weird on top.”
~~ Laura Dern, ‘Wild At Heart’




“Last night was the Weirdest night of my life,” she said.

I concurred. Friday night was Wild and Weird. This is usually my favorite combination, but that night put my Allegiance to Anarchy to the test. It wasn’t Weird like everyone got drunk, naked and had an orgy. But it was damn close, and very Weird anyway. No matter. What happens in Costa Rica stays in Costa Rica. Unless, of course, you are a Writer, and the Internet is your medium.

Pura Vida.



We made camp by a river, insects be damned. Our Base was next to a gorgeous open-air restaurant/bar. It was barn-sized: two stories tall, though they only served on ground level. The rest of building was wide open, all the way to the rafters, which were thatched with palm fronds to create a stunning rooftop. The cement floor was covered with hand-carved wooden tables and stools. The bar itself was gorgeous hardtop, probably teak. The kitchen was set behind the bar, and everything was open and airy, giving the place a festive feel.

We were served a delicious dinner – the best food any of us had eaten in a week. Beers were only $1, and soon a party was in full swing, courtesy of bad reggae music pumped from a stereo shelf system above the bar.

I was careful to keep my drinking in check; the last thing I needed was a repeat of the Rum Incident. Fortunately for me, someone else had already bought the last bottle of rum in the joint. But that disappeared quickly, and the girls wanted drinks. They didn't like beer, but this was a party, dammit. I bargained with the staff for nearly an hour, trying to get more liquor.

Finally, they ran of beer as well. This was no good, so some of the staff left to get us more. They probably went to a local bar, and rumor was they also hit up their own liquor stashes to help us out. They returned with cases of beer, plus a few bottles of rancid vodka and a single bottle of rum. I’d pestered them so much they specifically sold the rum to me. For two dollars more than the damn thing was worth.

No matter. This was the Jungle, and the Savage brutes around me would have paid twice that for the bottle. The fools should have auctioned it off. After all, He Who Has The Alcohol Has The Women. This is the Law of the Jungle. I bought an overpriced chaser and cracked the bottle open. We drank deep.

Rum is a vile drink, and when it is present, things get Weird. That’s exactly what happened this night. The rum was passed around the room, with everyone taking 2-3 shots of it. One of our Team Disco Flask members had to chase the bottle down so we could finish it. Carney pounded it, and then it was passed again. Before we knew it, the rum was gone. We drank nearly 250 beers that night, plus two bottles of rum, a half-dozen small bottles of vodka, Smirnoffs, and anything else they had left.

Pura Vida.

We became dancing fiends. Tables were shoved against the walls. One of them broke; another was tossed into a bush. Several dance circles opened around the room. Everyone was rocking and bumping and swinging and pulsing to the sweet sounds of 70s reggae. There was lightning, but most people didn’t notice. I found my girl, and motioned toward the tents. We opted for hers – it was bigger – and had a party of our own. The disco ball was gone – packed somewhere deep in her bag.

No matter. It was crazy in there. Outside we could hear the party raging. The music nearly drowned out the obnoxious sirens of the cicadas in the trees. Loudest damn bugs I’ve ever heard. We could see silhouettes of people magnified against our tent. At one point, someone approached the tent, put their hands on the zipper, and then left again. It was surreal with those shadowy monsters looming all around us. We dozed periodically, and at one point we vaguely registered that it was raining. We passed out again, only to awaken in a freezing puddle of water. Her entire tent was soaked and getting wetter by the second.

“This tent is no ark!” I told her. “We have to get out of here, dammit!”

We sloshed around, searching for our clothes. She found most of hers, but all I had were my pants. My boxers, belt and shirt were nowhere to be found. We flipped up the sleeping mats and felt all around the tent, but they were gone.

Outside the tent it was even colder, and I knew I needed a shirt if I was going to survive this night. I turned to my own tent. Carney was in there, the Mad Bastard, with a girl.

“Carney!” I muttered in a drunken stage whisper. “Carney, you Mad Bastard, let me in!”

There was the scrambling of skin against vinyl. Carney poked his head out.

“I’m busy in here!” he shouted, loud enough to draw attention from the people scurrying to get stuff out of their tents.

“I need a shirt, dammit! I don’t care what shirt. Any shirt. Just give a shirt.”

I expected him to fumble for a long time looking for a shirt. But he instantly thrust his arm through the zipper hole, handing me my red button-down. I turned away, and began buttoning with astonishing accuracy. I thought Carney would disappear back inside the tent, but I was wrong. Au contraire, pardon my French.

“Dude!" he barked.

I turned around. His face was red, his eyes crazed with Rum. He looked like the Mountain Man guide who had come down to join our party. His face was Serious, the way drunks are serious when they are about to tell you they have to piss, like a determined confessional. He enunciated his words with careful precision, wild eyes scanning for possible spies.

“There is NO ROOM in this tent for you,” he said. “Understand me? There is NO ROOM in this tent for you.”

“I understand,” I assured him. “I only needed the shirt.”

I turned back toward the restaurant. My friend managed to grab her sleeping mat, and we squished across the muddy ground to the restaurant. The music had been turned off, and the Masses were huddled together near the bar or around the tables.

We were Thirsty. Obscene amounts of alcohol have this effect. The owners had left, but the kitchen was wide open, so there was a mad scramble over the counter for water and juice. I was too tired to vault over the bar, but the girl managed to snag two bottles for us.

We drank.

Refreshing.

“Nobody’s looking at the lightning,” she said.

What the hell was she saying? Maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe it was the Rum.

“What?!” I asked, hoping she’d actually spoken.

“Nobody’s looking at the lightning. It’s so beautiful. I want to see the lightning.”

“Dammit, woman! It’s a Jungle out there!”

That was both literal and figurative. We were in Camp Chaos, our own private version of Sin City. People were running half naked through the Camp, desperately looking for dry clothes and trying to save their electronic equipment. The last thing I wanted was to stand in the middle of that frenzy, waiting to be struck by lightning. I looked at her to tell her that.

She’s beautiful.

“Ok,” I said. “Let’s get our stuff together, then we’ll go look at the lightning.”

Pura Vida.

We went outside, and stood watching the stormy sky. I stood behind her, and she leaned back in my arms. But the rain was coming down hard, and the lightning was further away than we’d thought. She lost interest soon enough.

“Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.

Good idea.

One problem: her sleeping mat was barely big enough for one person. I looked around to survey the scene. People were sleeping everywhere: on mats on the concrete, stretched out on the few wooden benches around the edges, even curled up on the tiny tables. And there was NO ROOM in my tent. There was nowhere left but the floor.

I turned back to my friend, resigned to inform her I'd have to find some other spot. To my amazement, she produced a fluffy white sheet from her bag. I was sobering up by that point, but that sheet still looked like a Dream Cloud compared to the concrete floor. I was so happy I could have kissed her. Did, in fact.

She spread the blanket next to the mat. I stretched out on my back. She was beside me, but the rain was pouring and someone turned the music back on (softer, this time) and it was cold. The girl got up again, and I missed her, but I was too tired to work out what she was doing.

When she returned, she had a CD player in her hand, with ear buds attached to it.

Shit, I thought.

Women and music and I tend to mix poorly. Torture was imminent. What would it be? Alanis Morissette’s Most Vile Hits? The Sleepless In Seattle Soundtrack? Her own 80’s mix, with Boyz II Men thrown in, because, like, they were totally her favorite band in junior high?

She unravels the headphones and offers me one. This is going to Hurt.



“Do you want to listen to the Beatles?” she asked.

My jaw made an audible CRACK when it hit the cement.

“It’s Abbey Road.”

I was lying on a cloud, and the angel next to me sprouted wings. In that brief moment, she became something more important than a simple crush. I loved her, just a little. Maybe I’ve loved all my crushes a little. Maybe we all do.

I put the bud in my ear, and was instantly lost in those glorious bass riffs, those transcendent harmonies. She pulls me against her, and my feelings are simplistic, like those of an infant: happy, warm, asleep.

Pura Vida.

Sketch E.

A long view of Play Rey.

Blog Through The Jungle -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 6

“Going places that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again …”
~~ Willie Nelson, ‘On The Road Again’

We worked as hard as we partied. Manuel Antonio National Park recently annexed our beach, Playa Rey, to their property. People had illegally constructed small shacks on the beach, which they used as a weekend party pad during the summer. The shacks and a few small houses were torn down to allow for rainforest rehabilitation, and our job was to sort through debris so it could be cleared away. They drove us to our worksites in a hot red pickup truck. At first, they took us out by groups – six volunteers to a truck, plus guide.

Our guide, Jose, was quiet compared to the others. The other guides, even the taken ones, shamelessly flirted with the American girls. They joked, danced and even made “costumes” for the girls the night of the beach party: grass skirts and coconut bras.

But Jose was relatively shy. He didn’t flirt at all, as far as I know. He would talk to us, but usually only after we asked him a direct question. He didn’t volunteer much information on his own.

So when Jose told us he was the National Arm Wrestling Champion of Costa Rica, we believed him.

“Sweet!” we’d say. “He must be stronger than he looks. Do you think he arm wrestles other national champions? Is there a world championship arm wrestling tournament?”

Eventually, we began to suspect this story was bullshit. But it was a damn good story nevertheless, so we didn’t worry much about its validity.

Besides, Jose was a Hardass. He may not be the National Arm Wrestling Champion of Costa Rica, but that doesn’t mean I’d mess with him. Here’s why:

By the end of the week, they were piling as many people in the back of the pickup as they could in an effort to conserve fuel. Students were hanging off the tailgate, struggling to keep hold as they bounced along the rugged dirt road running the length of the beach. We sorted back into our groups near the work sites.

One day, a girl from our group ended up in the truck with Jose and no one else from Team Disco Flask. This was awkward, because she spoke no Spanish, and Jose spoke no English. But he beckoned for her to follow him to our work site. His mission: clear two enormous wasp nests out of an outhouse so we could tear it down.

Jose manufactured a torch out of a stick and some flammable materials he found lying around. He set it on fire, held the makeshift torch in one hand, and drew his machete with the other.

Our group member watched with helpless anticipation as Jose jabbed the torch at the first wasp nest.

It is important to note – at this moment of utter suspense -- that these wasps are not your normal run-of-the-mill hide-in-playground-niches-waiting-for-children garden-variety Midwest wasps. These fuckers are huge. They are Jungle Wasps, three times the size of the Flying Terror we are used to seeing, and proportionally angrier. I tried to find some comparative information but I can’t, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

The wasps were less than ecstatic when Jose thrust a flaming stick into their home. They attacked with Savage Anger.

But Jose was ready. With one hand, he waved the torch steadily through air, meticulously burning away the nest. With the other hand, he swung his machete in precise arcs, slicing a wasp cleanly in half. Then another, then another.

Ninjas have nothing on Jose. In fact, I remain confident that if zombies had attacked our campsite (and anything can happen in Costa Rica, pura vida), Jose and his machete would have dispensed of the whole lot of them before they reached the first tent.

He calmly burnt both nests out, all the while slashing at the wasps swarming at his face. He put the torch out, then casually began tearing the outhouse apart, still using one hand to fend off the swarm with his machete.

He’d rip off a piece of corrugated metal, hand it to our friend to stack in a pile, slice a few wasps, repeat.

Our group member, half horrified, half amused, was wondering if there was some way she could be of more service when the wasps finally overwhelmed Jose. A single wasp, one of the last, narrowly missed the slashing machete and stung Jose on the face.

Our group member panicked. She could not communicate with him, and thus could not tell how badly he was injured. Should she get help? First aid? Another guide?

Jose, meanwhile, walked over to a lime tree. He cut down a lime with the machete, removed a slice and put it on the sting. He offered a cheerful smile to our group member, who stared in stunned silence as he went back to work.

Like I said, Costa Ricans are faced with Nature every day, and their instincts and resourcefulness are far superior to our own. If there were a contest for wasting wasps, I’m sure Jose would be National Champion.

Pura Vida.

~ Sketch E.

Sunset over Playa Rey.

Blog On Through To The Other Side -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 5

“I’d rather laugh with the sinners
Than cry with the saints
The sinners are much more fun ...”
~~ Billy Joel



“Staring straight up into the sky
Oh my my
Solar system that fits in your eye
Microcosm
You can die but you’re never dead
Spider web
Take a look at the stars in your head
Fields of space, kid”
~~ Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Parallel Universe’




Top Five All-Time Sexiest Activities:

1) Kissing / Dancing in the rain.
2) Naked in a hot tub.
3) Sex on the beach.
4) Afternoon in bed, particularly if it’s raining or snowing outside. Any sort of precipitation, really. A fireplace helps.
5) Intimate massages.

P.S. What makes water so sexy?




By the time of the second fire, the party was already in full swing. The first came at dusk, as we were finishing dinner. The guides wanted to rid their cabin of an enormous nest of bees, and decided best course of action was to smoke the bastards out.

But in Costa Rica, a small fire or torch isn’t sufficient. No way, Pura Vida. They built a stack of firewood that lit the whole camp when they set it ablaze. When the bees were gone or stunned, they tossed the honeycomb into a bucket, and we had a sample of warm, fresh honey. As if the coconuts, mangoes, papayas, lemons, limes and cashews fresh off the trees weren’t enough.

It was our final night on the beach (we were moving camp to the river the following night), so we had a farewell speech from the park ranger, and received special permission to build a bonfire on the shore. I think he knew we’d have built the damn thing anyway.

While people searched for driftwood, the excitement was too much for everyone else. We started drinking.

Each group was allotted enough vodka and juice to make one screwdriver per person, plus any alcohol we had left over from the rest of the week -- two large cans of beer, in our case, plus two flasks partially filled with Jack. My group was named Team Disco Flask, partly due to the Jack, and partly due to a tiny disco ball the girls had hung in their tent. We stood around the table, said a few words and did a toast to Team Disco Flask with shots of the foulest vodka any of us had ever tasted. The orange juice barely diluted its vicious bite. But this was a party, dammit, and I was thrilled to be drinking anything that wasn’t rum.

Pura Vida.

With so little to drink, everyone pounded what they had, and by the time the bonfire was roaring we were all fairly drunk. Matt pulled his SUV down to the beach and opened the tailgate, piping music from his tape deck.

Things went Well for me that night. Our sixth and final group member overcame the Government Conspiracy that threatened to hold her in L.A. for her entire spring break, and she managed to join our group on Tuesday. She added an entirely new dynamic, and by Thursday I couldn’t help but like her. She was beautiful, laughed a lot and conversations with her were always … lively, to say the least.

This night, she was being aggressively flirty with me, and I was thrilled to flirt back. A group of us finished the alcohol we had, then stared up at the stars and savored our final night on the beach. Eventually, the group thinned out, leaving the girl and I alone by the fire. Matt had long since packed up his party wagon and left the beach.

While a bonfire on the beach has a romantic ring to it, it was actually very hot. We were in a tropical climate, and building fires is not the Wisest of moves, as far as comfortable temperatures are concerned.

“What do you say we move away from this fire?” I ask.

She agreed, and I grabbed my sheet from the tent. We walked a little ways down the beach, but we were still a little tipsy and didn’t make it very far. We spread the sheet out and sat close to one another.

I like pre-sex banter, and I think I’m different than most men in that regard. Maybe men are too impatient to appreciate anticipation. Or maybe most men don’t know for certain they’re getting laid until it actually happens.

But I knew, and that’s a fantastic feeling. Don’t get me wrong – this wasn’t any sort of personal mojo on my end. My smoothness was ejected from my body along with a stomach-load of rum earlier that week. I’d done little to put us in our current position, laughing and kissing on the beach. She wanted it, and it was entirely my good fortune to have been there with her.

And let’s not forget the atmosphere. The rainforest was as dark and mysterious as ever. Lightning bugs drifted lazily over the beach. The glowing waves rushed perpetually toward the shore. Over our heads, there was a patch of clear sky, affording us a modest view of those magnificent stars. But that clear patch dissolved into Ferocious clouds over the ocean. In the distance, we could see brilliant bolts of lightning striking the water in slow rhythm. Electricity was in the air that evening, I tell you. The air was filled with excited tension. This was the calm before the storm.

Pura Vida.

Between the moon and the waves and the bonfire I could see her, little more than a silhouette, but beautiful under the nighttime sky. Her kisses were warm and sweet and savory, and everything seemed to be straight out of a movie …




Aside: My Life As A Movie

There’s a part in the novel High Fidelity where Laura spits a vehement question at Rob: “Everyone’s just a supporting character in the movie of your life, aren’t they?”

I understand that this question is meant to be a caustic attack on his ego, but I can’t help but sympathize with his response: “Isn’t that true for everyone?”

We all see the world through our own lens. Memories flicker through our consciousness like our own personal film stock. These memories can even become slightly exaggerated, fabricated or otherwise fictitious -- idealized over time. I think Rob’s point is valid. It’s sort of like how we all star in our own dreams, while the other people and places in them shift constantly. This ego trip is something we all share. It is the Human Condition. Besides, if I were directing the movie of my life, I could not have made that night any better, any more real, any further stylized. Aside from the occasional pause to retrieve water or go to the bathroom, it was picture perfect. And I never would have thought of the lightning. That was a brilliant touch.



Afterward, we stretched out next to each other, and listened to the gentle crash of the waves. I began brushing sand off my body, and she let out a soft laugh (oohhh, what a sexy laugh!).

“What’s so funny?” I asked, smiling.

“Sex on the beach really isn’t that sexy,” she said.

I laughed. She’s right. We were both blanketed in sand. We were Dirty from a week’s worth of camping and hard labor in the hot sun. The damn insects were biting us everywhere. But we were both laughing because it had been damn fun anyway. And in my opinion, all the uncomfortable displeasures of the beach scene only add to the exotic, erotic flavor. Sex on the beach is Dirtier than anticipated, but -- Pura Vida – it’s sexy anyway. I’m keeping it in my top five.

We walked back to the camp and sat outside our tents talking. This was Weird. Not awkward in any sense, just Weird. I got to know her better afterward than before. And she was genuinely fun to be around – a Biology major with a minor in … wait for it … music. Hot. Eventually we were talking and laughing so loud Carney poked his head out of the tent and hissed at us.

We weren’t tired enough to sleep; we were having too much fun. We walked down the beach in the other direction, past dark lumps that might have been driftwood or other lovers. I decided to show her the Amazing Discovery I’d made earlier that week.

Some of the bioluminescent dinoflagellates (that phrase belongs in a rap song) get trapped in the sand when the waves rush over it. When the waves recede, and you step on the wet sand, tiny little glowing green pinpoints appear – a sparkling outline of your footprint.

She loved it. She was so delighted she began hopping down the beach, watching her feet and squealing with laughter.

Yeah, this is bio-nerdy. But I’m a zoologist, dammit, and between you and me, I found it sexy. I began jumping down the beach with her. We attempted to see if we could make different patterns of sparkles (sort of) until finally we were tired and headed back to Camp.

She gave me a surprisingly warm kiss, and we crawled into our tents.

I fell asleep smiling.

Pura Vida.

~ Sketch E.

Blog Like An Egyptian -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 4

“I’ve met some people along the way
Some of them split some of them stay
Some of them walk some walk on by
I’ve got a few friends I’ll love ‘til I die
From all these people I try to learn
Some of them shine some of them burn
Some of them rise some of them fall
For good or bad I’ve known them all
We live our life in our own way …”
~~ The Bouncing Souls, ‘True Believers’



Not everything Wild comes from the Jungle.

We sat enjoying our final breakfast together on Sunday morning. There were only 11 of us left; most of the group had gone home the day before. A lucky 10 people were chosen to accompany me up to the lovely mountain retreat called Posada Quepoa, in the tiny won of Londres. I would be spending the rest of the week alone there, so I savored the company while I had it.

As we finished our meal, we realized we still had an hour left before the bus came to pick us up. Several people went to chill in their cabins (yes, we had our own cabins) while others went to explore Londres.

I didn’t really give a damn what I did. I had a week to myself in this mountain hideaway, which meant I had plenty of time to explore. I was considering my options when Carney said a very strange thing:

“Who wants to go see the crazy lady?” he asked.

I was, naturally, his first volunteer. Two girls from our group opted to come along as well.

Carney claimed he’d run into an American woman on the streets of Londres the day before, as we walked from our campsite on the riverbank to the Posada Quepoa. She offered him maps of the entire area, and in the Jungle, a map is worth more than a Ferrari, if only because a map is more practical. So the woman was more wildly enthusiastic than crazy, but the moniker stuck.

We made a short but hot walk through town. The villagers stared with bemusement at the dirty gringos tramping wide-eyed and sweaty down the street. Carney swore he knew the way – pura vida – and we followed him along a forlorn gravel driveway, to a pleasant house hidden in a grove of trees. The house seemed empty as we approached it. For perhaps the second time on the entire trip, Carney faltered.

“Uh, hello?” he called.

From within the house came a frantic rustle.

“OH! HELLO!”

I caught a glimpse of blue dress before the door to the house exploded off its hinges in a massive concussion of pounding feet, fur, drool and barking.

Holy shit this woman is a maniac! I thought to myself. No time to panic. Sacrifice Carney and save the women.

But I have a sharp mind, and before I did anything Foolish, I realized there was more to the scene. The woman was accompanied by two overly-enthusiastic dogs: one Rottweiler, one Hell Beast. It was the animals that were manically insane, jumping on us, jumping on their owner, doing back flips, spinning plates to Crazy Circus Music …

The owner was only marginally less energetic. We managed to introduce ourselves, but before any of us could say another word she was running around the side of her house.

“This way!” she sang out.

We had to run to keep up with her. She gestured frantically to her right.

“This is where more beds will go!” she yelled in a fit of ecstasy.

Confused? So was I. I barely had a moment to glimpse a large wooden building, similar to a small barn, hollow on the inside. Then we were running again. I tried to make eye contact with the others, but they were too focused on keeping up with her. She bounded up a short slope, where an enormous tub of water was poised precariously on a wooden post, with cords dangling all around it.

“This is for the showers!” she said, beaming with pride.

I tried to get Carney’s attention, but one of the dogs jumped on me, nearly knocking me back down the slope. I heaved it off and grabbed Carney’s shoulder.

“This is Madness,” I hissed. “What the hell is going on here man?”

“She’s turning this into a hostel,” he explained, then ran after our host who had already moved on.

Carney struggled to get her attention.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted. “But, um, we don’t have much time. We have to catch our shuttle in 15 minutes …”

“Don’t worry!” she called back. “I’m just giving you the quick tour!”

This is precisely the moment when I decided I liked this woman. She ignored Carney with a fiendish determination. She has personality with panache. She is Unique. She plays by the Chaotic rules to a game she invented herself – some sort of warped real-life version of Calvin Ball. We were in that game now, fumbling desperately to keep score. There are those who bend the rules of our social universe, and those who function on an entirely different parallel. The latter are the true Individuals, as punk as punk gets. It is these Individuals I most admire.

I was mulling this over when the woman thrust a fistful of leaves into my face.

“Smell this!” she piped.

I took a tentative whiff.

“No, no,” she said. “You have to crumple them up!”

I took a leaf and crumpled it up, inhaling deeply. She passed leaves around to everyone, then turned back to me.

“What is it, Trevor?!” she asked. “Hurry up! Tell me what it is!”

I opened my mouth to answer.

“You don’t know?! Come on, everybody knows!”

One of the girls, Rachel, came to my rescue.“It’s cinnamon,” she said.

I thought the woman was going to kiss Rachel full on the mouth.

“Excellent, Rachel!” she yelled, and motioned us onward.

Next she grabbed a fistful of grass and handed us each a blade.

“Chew it!” she said.

Some sort of date rape herb, I thought to myself. Pura Vida.

I stuffed the whole damn blade into my mouth.

“Trevor! What is it?!”

I chewed furiously, trying to redeem myself.

“You don’t know? Come on then!”

Rachel saved me yet again.

“It’s lemongrass,” she said.

The woman capered about like an elf in a Disney movie.

“Rachel!” she squealed. “Two for two! You’re so good!”

We continued this way for some time, the woman periodically shoving exotic herbs into our faces, and us having to guess what each one was. She also pointed to various fruit trees all around her property, explaining each time how the Ticos were convinced the crazy gringo woman would never be able to get them to grow or reproduce. And she succeeded, each time. I told you she lived her life in her own way. Most interesting was a plot of pineapple plants. She told us volunteers plant a new pineapple when they stay, and name it. Then they are encouraged to return in six to eight months and see how their plant is doing.

We were running very short on time. Carney expressed this to the woman, but she shrugged him off.

“You can’t leave before you see the river!” she said.

She skipped onward, but stopped abruptly when a wooly white beast lurched out of the grass in front of her.

Holy Jesus, I thought. What are these goddamn animals?

It turned out to be a white goat of some indeterminable breed. It had some ridiculous name, which I can’t remember at the moment, so let’s call him, oh, say, Henry. The goat had a long chain around its neck. A stake held the chain in the ground. I felt like I was in Jurassic Park.

“Henry!” the woman yelled.

She pulled his chain out of the ground.The poor goat had a long gash in its neck from where the chain had rubbed through the skin. It also had some sort of problem with one of its hooves.

“Henry has to go to the doctor,” the woman declared.

“And we really should be going,” Carney replied.

We finally started back toward the house, dogs bouncing down the trail in front of us.

Just as we reached the corner of the house, Henry saw his chance. He took off through the woods, a flash of furry white lightning.

“Henry!” the woman yelled after him.

She began to chase him.

“Can we please have those maps?” Carney pleaded.

The woman stopped, torn between his request and her desire to save her goat.

“Maybe someone else can go after Henry,” Carney said, looking pointedly at me.

“Uh, I’ll go,” I said.

“Great idea!” the woman proclaimed.

“You go after Henry and I’ll go get the maps!”

Rachel was already running. I took off after her, and after Henry. We reached a fork in the road, and neither of us knew which way Henry had gone. We began frantically shouting his name, walking in crazy circles, looking for direction.

This was the Pinnacle moment of my journey. For all the Wild and Weird adventures I had, this was, by far, the Wildest and Weirdest, no rum required. I had expected to spend the morning lounging around a mountain retreat, and now I was chasing some Individual’s pet goat through the steaming Jungle.

I just couldn’t stop laughing.

I finally caught a glimpse of Henry through the trees, and we ran down a path to find him.

Henry, that Clever Bastard, had doubled back on us somehow, and was casually munching on some grass at the corner of the woman’s house when we finally caught up with him.

We collected our posse, maps carefully tucked into Carney’s pocket, and raced back to the Posada Quepoa.

So ended our time together as a Group. We had served our Purpose, and we parted ways. But I am convinced that this Wild and Weird journey ended in such a spectacular way for a reason. I am generally a Skeptic, but in this instance, I am certain that some Cosmic force drove us on that madcap tour. Perhaps those maps hold some Savage Secret, to be discovered upon our Triumphant Return this summer. Or perhaps it is my job to come up with my own twisted metaphor. So here’s to all of us who went on that Journey … may we always be chasing the goat, wherever we are.

Pura Vida.

~Sketch E.