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Chicks are crazy. I’m not afraid to admit it. We all have a little crazy in us. Some most definitely more than others but its always there, lurking under our cool and collected exteriors.

I was chatting with a friend the other day about her latest crush. Next thing you know we have spent a good 30 minutes analyzing everything he said and did in the last 48 hours. He said this, do you think that means he likes me? Or is he just saying that because he thinks that I think that he thinks… etc etc. You all know exactly what I am talking about. He scratched his left butt cheek then yawned. Certainly that means he’s in love with you…

Then I caught myself and said, “Friend, listen to us. We is crazy. We just spent the last 30 minutes analyzing whether the fact that this dude handed you a napkin means he wants to have babies with you.”

I am actually kind of proud of the fact that I recognized the crazy and halted it.

Awareness is the first step to saneness.

The fact of the matter is, if a guy likes you, you will know. Stop making things up. Stop making excuses for them. Stop analyzing everything they do so you can twist it into a reason for why they haven’t revealed their undying love for you. Its just not healthy. Find someone that does make it clear how they feel about you. Or, just cool your jets for a bit and let things happen.

As for all the other crazy stuff we women do. I can’t really comment on that. It’s just hardwired. Like migration and hibernation.

If you don’t want us anymore, we want you more. If you chase us, we’re not interested. If you say the wrong thing at the right time of the month, we’ll take your head off. Essentially, your damned if you do damned if you don’t. Its not a matter of finding a woman who isn’t crazy. I assure you, this mythical woman does not exist. You just need to decide how much and what kind of crazy you are willing to accept. Men operate on a dousche spectrum. They all have a little bit in there. Women operate on a crazy spectrum. Unfortunately, there aren’t crazy beacons, so it’s not as easy to identify what the crazy factor is when you first meet someone. In fact, the most crazy ones often seem like the most sane at first. They are masters at the art of the crazy cover up and then they will unleash the crazy when you least expect it.

Just sayin.

Speaking of crazy people I saw this guy on 6th street the other day. He was marching down the sidewalk with garbage on a stick, like he was trying to gather a following and lead some sort of march. Reminded me of that guy we saw at ACL a few years ago. At ACL, everybody brings flagpoles with various things hanging from them so they can find their friends. One dude just grabbed a giant tree branch and hung a bunch of trash from it. Clever.

But this guy is not at ACL. Nor does he have a bunch of people following him. Maybe he wasn’t trying to get people to follow him. Maybe he’s like the Pied Piper of Austin. Maybe he was luring the ants from my apartment. They are gone. I think the caulk blocking must have worked…

Garbage on a Stick

Off to have a ladies night. That’s when we let all the crazy hang out.


I’ve been sitting on this one for a while. It took place during my 2009 blog outage but I still find it worth discussing, if it helps just one douschebag cross over (does that even happen?).

I refinanced my house a few years ago. My mortgage guy seemed friendly and fun during our phone conversations. When I arrived for my closing, I was giddy with anticipation… I had even seen a headshot on his business card and it wasn’t scary (I was able to set aside the fact that he shared his name with a very famous infomercial personality).

When he greeted me at the bank…

I know it’s totally superficial, but we all have limits that we operate in, spectrums if you will. I know when someone is out of my league, and I also know what I’m not able to tolerate in someone I date. These boundaries can be crossed on the rare occasion that someone’s personality is so fantastically awesome that the physical annoyances fade to the background. No such luck with this guy. He was lumpy, hunchbacked, snaggle toothed and had a big ole wedgie from his polyester pleated khakis. Not exaggerating, and yes, apparently khakis do come in synthetic wrinkle free, breathe free material.

Anywho, I signed my papers, shook his hand and left with a 5 pt lower interest rate. Then the texting started. Via text, he would invite me to do this or that and I would decline for one reason or another. Here is the crazy part, the random texts continued for over 13 months (again, I have no need to exaggerate. This shit happens to me). 13 months of texted date requests. 13 months of declines. On one random day though, he caught me at a very low point. I was having my yearly phase where I come down hard on myself for not giving people a chance and worrying that I will find myself rotting away or on a senior citizen dating reality show in 40 years (you know its coming), when one of his texts came in. I thought, “What they hay? It’s one date. A lot can change in 13 months. Maybe he’s been working out. Maybe he got braces. Maybe my memory is fuzzy…” So I accepted a dinner invitation…

Dear completely lacking self-awareness disrespectful text stalker,

I am sure you are thinking persistence pays off after I finally accepted your dinner invitation 13 months later, but I feel the need to point out a few things that took place during our date the other night…

  • You called me when 3 blocks from my home, to tell me that you had forgotten your wallet “in your buddy’s truck”  and unless I was cool with covering, you would have to drive the 45 minutes back to pick up said wallet (shame shame shame on me for not sending you away right then).
  • When we got to the restaurant, you ordered a martini… and a shot. Then continued the pattern 4 more times.
  • You immediately launched into the fact that you dated your secretary then fired her so you could marry her. Then complained that she didn’t have a job and didn’t even have dinner on the table for you when you got home every night, so you divorced her 6 months later.
  • You looked at me and said, “You are even hotter than I remember! You must think I am good looking too, if you agreed to go out with me.” (Dude, 13 months of texting.)
  • You told me your favorite places to go were Pangea and Qua and that you love places with bottle service (Dousche Beacon)
  • You looked me in the eyes and said, “I didn’t ever get a college party phase, so I am doing that right now.” (I’m in my thirties dammit)
  • After the miserable dinner, and after I paid for the dinner, (casualty of you being my banker and knowing my exact income), you piped up with “Hey, I just remembered! Do you mind if we stop by the Belmont before I take you home? I left my credit card there last night, I’ll buy you some drinks.” (OMFG)
  • At the Belmont, you immediately ordered a drink and insisted we sit outside on a rare cold Texas evening so you could smoke a cigar.
  • You then used this opportunity to try rubbing on me in an effort to “warm me up.”
  • When I told you I would appreciate you keeping your hands off of me, you responded with, “Obviously you’ve been hurt before. Don’t shut me out, I’m not going to hurt you. Let me in. Quit putting up a guard.” (Ewwww. Where does this utterly unwarranted confidence come from???)
  • Then, once you were a few more Mexican martinis into it, you started to pick up on the fact that I was responding to your every comment with disgust. To which you responded by motioning like you were shooting yourself in the head every five minutes.
  • I finally demanded that you take me home, informing you that I had to drive to Houston at 6am for work and you responded with “We’ll here is how I see it… we are going to be hung over either way. We should hang out for a few more hours and you’ll be a little tired on your drive. What have you got to lose?” (Um no, and thank you for being so supportive of my career)
  • Then when I insisted that I was leaving, you asked if I had any wine or beer at my house and could we just continue to hang out there? (Um still no)
  • When you dropped me off, you actually had the nerve to go in for some action. I pushed you away, got out and slammed the door.
  • You texted me 10 minutes later and said “I can’t believe you are running off to Houston tomorrow after such a great night. Can I see you when you get back on Saturday?”

No. You cannot see me on Saturday. And I am very sad that I now have to switch banks, but it’s really creepy that you have access to all my personal information.

My skin still crawls,


I know, readers. I am ashamed to share this because I should be teaching women to stand up for themselves and not let this type of behavior last past the wallet incident. We learn from experience and I’ve grown quite a backbone since then. Don’t waste your time. Don’t go through standards lowering phases because you don’t think you are worthy of the men you deserve. Don’t put up with being treated like crap. Don’t hang out with someone that makes your skin crawl. Trust your gut. It’s right… pretty much always.

HP is one of those romantical people who used to read the “Shot in the Dark” column in the Austin Chronicle. You know, the one where people take out ads to find that woman they bumped into in the yellow dress in line at Wich Wich? I always thought that was a complete waste of head space to peruse those classifieds, then HP recently had this interesting encounter unfold…

So she met some chap at the Chicago airport on her recent trip to Austin. The conversation ended when she ran into a friend of ours. Next thing you know, she’s here in Austin and gets a Twitter message from a friend that goes like this: OMG KERRI! THIS IS ABOUT YOU!!!

I mean… what are the chances??? I want to say its cute and sweet and romantic, but I just cannot. It’s creepy and craiglist-y. There has got to be some other way you could track down this lost love… oh wait, maybe ask for her number when you are chatting her up at the bar? I am also wondering how Kerri’s friend found this post? I am sure there is a logical explanation that doesn’t involve her crawling for new dates on the scariest of websites, such as she finds the craigslist personals funny and amusing (there is some seriously good substance there) but again, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?

The chances are slim, like lottery slim, that someone you met is going to read your craigslist personal ad. And then you shoot yourself in the foot twice because the chances of you actually being attractive to that woman after using craigslist to boost your love life are decreased significantly.

I told her she needs to respond to him, just so he knows it works and he doesn’t give up hope that sometimes you can beat the odds you are given. Hope is a powerful force. Not sure if she is going to follow my advice…  I wouldn’t.

On another note, Chicken Shit bingo? Well… its anti-climatic. In theory, it sounds like a really good time. And I am sure if I was as wasted as that gross dude from Dallas that kept groping HP and I, it would have been a good time. But Jesus Chrysler, birds can take a long freaking time to poop. I was remaining sober due to the work on my desk waiting for me to return, so I was firing on all cylinders and my senses were heightened. It was 107 degrees in there… and it smelled like, get this… poop (except for when Dallas dousche was close talking with his stale beer breath). We were all gathered around and super excited when they dropped the bird in the cage. Everyone was cheering when it would walk over their number. We were all pumped at the thought of going home $108 richer. Then it just got old. That bird strolled around pecking at bird seed and hot dog buns for 1.5 hours. One guy looked at me and held up his ticket number and said, “this thing is like a jail sentence. I’m stuck here now until that damn bird poops.” I wonder if they constipated it so we would stay and buy more beer.

We finally left, as did everyone except 2 people, to go sit outside for a bit. The band promised to holler when the shit fell. At one point, I went back in to check on how things were going and wouldn’t you know it? I was lucky enough to be one of the few that actually witnessed the pooping. And it was freaking nasty. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say that staring at the ass of a chicken when it actually drops a deuce is not at the top of my list of things to do.

Poop shy chicken

Will I go back? Yup. Why? Because I love dive bars. I love good ole Texas music. I love Ginny. I will just know better this time than to stay sober and stare at chicken butt for an hour. I’ll buy a square and put an intern on the poop watchin.

So here is how it unfolded. I’ve been talking about going to chicken shit bingo at Ginny’s Longhorn Saloon for years. I never make it because its on Sundays at 3pm. That is usually the time where the thought of having a case of the Mondays starts rolling in like a black cloud over my glorious Sunday Funday. Today, I was again beginning to waver on our plans to head on out to watch the cocks poop. Then this little conversation happened:

Me: “I feel like we have to go. I’ve been talking about going for four years.”

HP: “Every time you say it it gets longer. I’ve been talking about going since I was seven.”

Me: “My mom wanted to go before I was born.”

HP: “Jesus wanted to go but couldn’t get there in his sandals. Christopher Columbus wanted to go.”

Me: “Why did Christopher Columbus cross the ocean? To find chicken shit bingo.”

At this point, we determined that our mission is to realize the visions of Jesus and Christopher. So to Chicken Shit bingo we will go.

Also part of this conversation:

Me: “Don’t you like the short straws?”

HP: “Yeah, they are like the only good short thing in the world.”

Me: “Because it brings you closer to your margarita.”

Oh come on, we all have one.

So I’m at a fabulous graduation dinner for HP’s little bro. It was at Sullivan’s in Austin. My favorite place to get a yummy steak. And yummy steak I most certainly did get. But they squeezed in about 3 times more tables than should have been in that dining room because it was graduation weekend. I’m not talking a little bit crowded. I am talking log jam, parking lot, sardine style, nobody could move and we were all stuck to our seats due to “too many people eating and boozing in one room at the same time” issues. Anywho, that has nothing to do with what I am trying to say, but it makes me angry when restaurants do things like that, degrade my dining experience, to make the extra cash money. Plus, if there was a fire, you wouldn’t be reading this now.

So Kev, HP’s brother, was talking about his love for legos, and mentioned how he really wanted to build the lego version of the Death Star. To which his mom said, “you don’t have enough room in your tiny apartment for the Death Star.” To which Kevin said, “I could put it on my balcony.” To which his friend Andrew said, “Then that would show everyone what a big dork you are.” To which I said, “It’s like a dork beacon.”

Then I got to thinking about this dork beacon phenomenon, and came to the conclusion that we all have them. Sure, some shine brighter than others, but there is a little bit of dork in all of us and its impossible to keep it completely hidden. And, if you ask me, that is AOK. I’m a big dork. There are all kinds of dorks out there. I’m tolerant and rather adoring of dorkiness most of the time. Although, if your particular dork beacon is too much for me to handle, it may keep us in the friend zone.

So shine it bright and shine it proud, but here are a few that you should think about dimming a bit. Actually, these are more like dousche beacons, but nonetheless, kick the bulbs out on these suckers:

  • Nickelback (In your car, on your phone, in your iPod, in your head, anywhere)  = dousche beacon
  • Crocs or mandals (Man sandals. There are very few that can pull it off successfully. Flip flops are acceptable if you are by a pool, lake or beach, or you are consistently drunk) = dousche beacon
  • Puka shell necklace that you just can’t bring yourself to take off. Take it off.  = dousche beacon
  • Balls hanging from your trailer hitch (just don’t) = dousche beacon
  • Chains. around your neck, your ankle, your wrist or to walk your dog. = dousche beacon
  • Man purse. I know its tempting. I don’t know how I would carry all my shit without a bag. Especially with cell phones and what not. But don’t give into the temptation. If it goes over your shoulder, across your chest or around your waist, and it isn’t a duffel for your gym clothes or a messenger for your laptop,  its a purse. a purse is a purse is a purse. no.  = dousche beacon
  • Oh, you don’t get to hang your phone from your belt either. Sorry, I know I am being difficult.
  • Dogs smaller than 25 lbs that you didn’t inherit from someone. (Gay people are excluded from this one) = dousche beacon
  • Flesh colored or barely there beards. Yes, Spencer Pratt style. If you cannot grow it, don’t. You look stupid. = dousche beacon
  • Ed Hardy = dousche beacon

Meanwhile, I had a nice chat with my friend Brian last night. He used to work the party circuit downtown with HP and me back in the day. We were both downtown for dinner last night and were reflecting upon the fact that the area was crawling with people shining dousche beacons and women dressed like hookers. I mean, I love heels. I really do. They make me feel powerful and sexy. Under jeans or with an appropriate dress. But why o why do I now have to consistently compete with women that are in 8 inch heels, with their crotches barely hidden by minidresses and jumpers (who brought those back?). Oh wait, I don’t compete with them because I am pretty sure that I don’t want the men they attract…. BUT, Cosmo (the $9 one I bought in the Cancun airport) told me that all men are attracted to skanks. Literally. Those are the words that were in glossy print. Logically, men know skanks suck (in more ways than one), but intuitively they can’t help being drawn to the dirty.  Of course these mags can now add credibility to their claims by just saying Jesse James or Tiger Woods. Sigh.

Anyway. HP is in town. As are the rest of the Olsens. We went to the Highball last night. I’ve been avoiding it, thinking it was the latest gathering of dousche beacons, but I was pleasantly surprised. Love the people that work there. It has a cool vibe. And we sang the crap out of some kareoke in the hula room. Then HP and I kicked it old school style and had a dance party at my place until 4am. Yeah, just us. Pissing off my neighbors and refining our moves in my kitchen. At least we didn’t break out the tap shoes this time.

God love the Olsens. God love Jameson. God love Ciscos because I’m headed there for migas right now.

I am gradually being eased back into American society. As if there was someone watching over me, ensuring I didn’t go into shock from an abrupt assimilation attempt, I ended up with a Mexican cab driver taking me home from the Austin airport. As soon as I said I came in from Mexico, he spoke to me in Spanish the rest of the way and told me I was mui bonita. He also said if I had called him to pick me up and hadn’t just happened upon him, he would have brought me flowers. Then he asked if I was going out tonight. Yep, just as shameless at the guys in Mexico. He also refused to turn on the air conditioning.

So, I bought a $9 Cosmo at the Cancun airport. And by Cosmo, I mean the magazine, not the drink. Yes, NINE DOLLARS (not pesos). I have now regressed at least one year in intelligence from having read it too. That crap is horrendous.

What I learned from it, though,  is the word “vajazzle.” Yes, its the term for bedazzling your vajayjay. You can now have rhinestones line your runway. Apparently this is not new and I have been under a rock.  But, I still feel compelled to say something. I am horrified. And, if you know me, you know that I am not easily horrified. I cuss like a sailor and drink like a fish. I’ll never make the list for the worlds classiest people, no matter how long it is. But it is people that vajazzle and end up on Cops and Cheaters that are giving Americans a bad reputation. A reputation that I then have to overcome every time I travel to a foreign country. No wonder Salvador and the other ferry men immediately thought I would show them my chi chis.

Cut it out.

Oh, and my plants are dead.

Home sweet home.

Danger is the word of the day week.

As I reflect back on the last week in Mexico, there seems to be a running theme of putting ourselves into situations that are not recommended, or better, flat out discouraged by most of the tourist guides. But we are here to experience authenticity. Right ladies? Crickets… OK, maybe in some of these situations not all of us were completely on board with the plan of attack, but we all ended up having some damn good fun. And we’re all alive. So its all good. I’ll do my best to catch you up on the past few days, but some hilarity might have been lost to the tequila Gods…

After taking the abandoned road to nowhere and running with Marc Anthony we wandered out and about in search of food and beer and what not. Apparently we were lucky enough to be here for the 6th anniversary of the Grand Bazaar… which was, well, bazaar. It was really just a humungous garage sale with people selling old shit. Even underwear. That’s just wrong. It was a zoo. We ran.

The Bazaar Bazaar

We worked our way to the Mega to stockpile groceries, in search of some authentic food along the way. Found it here, along with house shots of tequila that made our eyes burn.

Burning house tequila shots

Danger Alert: After we rolled around Mega for what felt like hours, the four of us piled into a cab to ship us and our stockpile back to the casa. I chatted up, in poor Spanish, the taxi driver, a strapping young 22 year old mexican boy named Uriihas, and asked why we were unable to buy beer. Apparently you cannot buy beer anywhere after 5pm on Sunday. This was a big problem. I somewhat jokingly asked him if we could buy some on the black market and next thing you know, he’s on the phone with someone talking way too fast for us to know what he was saying. When he passed our turn home I motioned that he needed to turn around and he replied “Beer Aqui!” We traveled a ways to what I can only describe as the ghetto. We rolled along getting plenty of stares from locals and shirtless children wondering why these four white girls had left the 3 mile radius around the tourist district. Urihas pulled up to an auto mechanic/black market beer distributor and instructed us to stay in the car, locking the doors behind him. Sure enough, after we sweated it out in the cab for a bit, he brought us two 6 packs, charged us about $1.50 a beer, took us home, gave me a card in case I wanted to return the favor and we arrived safe with our cervesa. No harm done!

Then the rain came. Pouring down rain. It was kind of fun to sit on the balcony, drink our beer and watch it come down in our jungle/pool area. Then the power went out. That was kind of fun too. Until we realized that meant our door code lock would no longer work and we freaked ourselves out. After a few more beers, we got past the fear.

Danger Alert: We hiked up to the roof of our building carrying aluminum beer cans to check out the view from the top in the middle of a raging thunder/lightening storm. The view was spectacular. Even if we were tempting a fate of three fried dead women only found on the roof of a Mexican condo when someone followed the stench.

Next, we were going stir crazy. Our friend squirrel was already fading. Deana said “if Squirrel doesn’t get a second wind, I’ll blow a second wind into her ass.” Mouth to Ass resuscitation became the term of the week.

So we said screw this rain. Let’s find the nearest bar that is open. We ran down the street, 3 drenched rats, and came upon Kool Fish, where we met Alturo. We essentially drank the bar out of tequila. No seriously, my last shot had a mixture of the last drop in three different tequila bottles. Might explain the next day’s near death experience. He sent us home with three buckets of Micheladas.

Three drowned rats and Alturo

To-Go buckets of Micheladas

Danger Alert: Mexican Influenza Monday. I will breeze past this day because it was spent doing a few conference calls for work in the morning and then leaving my bed only to projectile vomit every 30-45 minutes. Thank God it was only a 24 hour bout of flu and it wasn’t the “revenge.”

I was ready to roll the following day and we worked our way over to the Cozumel ferry to find some trouble.

Back in Action!

Danger Alert: Scattered Thunderstorms were expected, but we rented scooters anyway (as if those weren’t dangerous enough). Deana had never driven one and fell off within 5 blocks of leaving. Really, she was going so slow that she just toppled over leaving not a scratch on herself. In fact, all the people in the street were whistling and clapping. One guy was kind enough to walk out into the busy intersection to pull the scooter off of her. Once we knew she was AOK it was really quite funny. I wish I had photo documentation, but I only have the image in my head… and its glorious. Then we rode those damn scooters, in the rain, down the highway with crazy Mexican cab and truck drivers flying by. We R Smart.

We were in search of some Bob Marley bar but it was really really far. We stopped for one margarita at a cute looking bar on the beach. The margarita tasted like sour mix and bug spray. I was tempted to rub it on my legs because I was getting eaten alive by the mosquitos.

Bug Spray Margarita

Back on the scooters in search of Bob Marley. We eventually made it there, after 25 miles of riding scoots through the jungle asking ourselves where the hell we were.

Bob Marley Bar

It was a bar. On a beach. Had lots of old T-shirts and bras and what not hanging from every surface. We had one beer and headed on back. We like danger, but none of us were up for drinking and driving scooters in the rain.

We returned our scooters. Got into an altercation with the owners because they claimed Deana’s scooter had damage, even though they never looked it over with us before we left. I assure you, the damage was not in a spot that could have happened during her little spill. There was arguing and annoyance and ultimately Deana was out another $100. At that point we needed to lift her spirits, so naturally we stopped for beers and tequila and made friends with two freaking crazy ladies from Nashville. They seemed kind of smart and fun, but one of them kept saying “stoled” instead of “stolen” and that just makes you sound stupid. They did however, walk Deana through all the steps she needs to take to get her credit card company to sue the scooter company and get her $100 back.

We freaked out when we found out there was no 7 or 8pm ferry back to Playa. We had missed the 6pm. We were determined to get back though. We sweet talked the man at the other ferry company into giving us four tickets to his 7pm ferry. Before we got on the boat, a Mexican guy ran up to Deana and me and asked if he could take his picture with us. Then like 15 different people were snapping away and laughing and clapping. We were some sort of attraction, but I don’t know if they thought we were famous or just liked the fact that we were white girls in drenched sundresses.

Danger Alert: As we waited to board the ferry, an ugly storm rolled in… so what did we do? No, of course we did not sit inside the ferry. We went to the upper outside back deck that only had a measly roof overhead and was open on all sides. It was a terenchal downpour with high potential for one of us either slipping down the stairs or right over the side.  We sat next to four dirty old men from a small town in Mexico, who had brought on a bottle brandy and passed the cup around the whole trip while they chanted “chi chis! chi chis!” hoping we would give them a first hand view of our tan lines. Alas, we are not those kind of girls. One of the men actually showed us his boob though. It was gross. The brandy was nice though.

Chi Chis Chi Chis!

In the eye of the storm

We walked/swam down a flooded 5th street then searched for a cab home. Well you don’t have to search, but all the cab drivers were telling us 70 pesos, which I knew to be high for where we were going. We were determined not to be taken again like the scooter guy and so many trinkets before, so we kept running through the rain to find one that would take us for 50 pesos. Yes, we spent 20 more minutes in cold pouring rain, soaked to the bone, to save $1.60. It was the principle of the matter.

Today is the last day of our trip. It has been quite a wild ride, but I am ready to get home to my bed, my DVR, TexMex and pizza. But not without one more trip to The Cave, The Dirty and that random bar we call “death stairs” because you have to climb some narrow looking, metal un-sturdy stairway to get to the alcohol (danger alert).

So I headed out at the crack this morning for my regular (sans the extra 3 miles down the road to nowhere) run. And by regular, I mean this is the second time. All the locals are at the beach at 7am. Because its freaking hot after 9 and they know how to work the Mexican weather system.

Anyway, I like to run down to the abandoned, except for locals and drug smokers/dealers, end of the beach. It feels more dangerous than prancing past the all-inclusives. What can I say? I live on the edge.

So I’ve already hauled ass to one end and am working my way back. iPod buds in. I’m just asking for an abduction.

I slow down to stroll a little because of the cramp in my left arch when this little Mexican guy comes right up behind me and scares the living crap out of me. I’m thinking, “here we go,” ready to start screaming and kicking him in the groin area, when he motions for me to join him on his run.

“Habla Espanol?”


Then we keep running. In silence. But we are pushing each other. Then I tried to ask him 100 different ways how long the flipping beach was, but he just kept responding “si.”

When we got close to my finish line, he broke into a dead sprint and said “rapido!!” Crap. He is a good trainer. I chased him like this until we came upon my beach exit.

“Yo Finito,” I said. “Como Te Llamas?”

“Marc Anthony”

“Mucho Gusto, Marc Anthony. Gracias for kicking mi culo.”


Hopefully I can find him again tomorrow.

The Colorado contingency is here. Our night was pretty calm as they had a long day of travel. We still drank enough to by stupid crap. A couple donkey blankets and 12 marracas. I think we’re starting a band or something.

Colorado In the House... or The Tequila Barrel

We also hung out with the little white dog named Mote. Yep, that is the Spanish name for weed. The friendly Mexican lady who owns her said they found her and she wouldn’t respond to any other name. I love Mexicans and their dogs.

Can you believe that tourists will pay 5 times what a bottle of tequila is worth just because it has two clay people doing the nasty slapped on the side? Ridiculous. And kind of gross. But I reckon that is something I could master if this whole PR business doesn’t work out…

Kind of messed up

It’s going to be a good day.

  • I didn’t post yesterday because I was taken to this other world called Paamul.
  • There were crazy people and RV’s totally pimped out to be giant palapas.
  • and then it was morning.
  • Oh wait, somewhere in there Karen and I went to The Dirty and the Monkey Cave
  • They suggested that I wanted water. Does that happen in Mexico?
  • I was supposed to shower and head back out to a party on the beach to get the local drug dealer out of jail. It was called Rock Fest.
  • But I woke up on the couch at 2am. Probably for the best.
  • I am now wondering how “Didn’t We Almost Have it All” got on my iPod
  • Was Whitney Houston in Paamul? And did you know that Mexican Doritos have jalepenos in them?

The three ladies from Colorado should be going through customs right about now. Hopefully not behind the dude with 6 bags. Getting ready for round two…

We had gone to The Dirty…

I love me some Karen. She took good care of me. She even took a picture of me trying to take a picture of THE UGLIEST DOG IN THE WORLD that just kept prancing by the bar last night. I mean, I get hairless. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. But this little guy… He had orange mohawks. On his head AND his ass.


He is so damn ugly that I want to adopt him. He will be the dialog lab’s mascot. Jason already named him Chorizo. Once you name them, there is no going back.

Anywho… Still love The Dirty Martini. Met Karen there. Did a little booty shaking at BadBoys. Made friends with the “ceramic cigarette”. Met a guy that had the longest incisor in the world. I mean, snaggle does not begin to describe. Had a fabulous dinner… but I cannot even remember what I ate. Back to the Dirty. It’s a comfy, safe, lovely home base. And I love everyone that works there. All nights in Playa should begin and end at The Dirty.

Karen at The Dirty

Then… I think I walked home on the beach. Well, at least I know I didn’t drive! I am still in disbelief that I have another week here and another crew of visitors arriving on Saturday. Best month ever.

Been listening to Lenny Kravitz, 5, whilst I learn what is going on in the world all morning. God love the interwebs.

And God love The Monkey Cave. I’m going there after an inappropriately early siesta…

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