Throwing Poo

Back in October, I wrote a post about my love for all things Halloween.  Much of this Octoberlust is based on the imminent thrill of dressing up in a costume and being someone else.   I'm what you might call a Transylvestite *rimshot*.

Envisioning and crafting a unique and amusing costume for public display is something I take quite seriously.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. doesn't understand my obsession, but she accepts me for who I am.  My father, however, will never understand.

Anyway, my fixation on costume ideas usually doesn't begin until late August.  However, NS and I were recently invited to an 80's theme costume party.  For me, this is better than Christmas in July, Yom Kippur in March and Arbor Day all year long combined.

As a true child of the 80's, I find the idea of dressing up in new wave attire less amusing than most.  Somewhere out there photos exist of me at a Loverboy concert, every limb fully accessorized with a gratuitous number of bandanas.   I looked like a wounded soldier from a civil war at MTV. 
This wakes me up at night.

So instead of donning thin ties, silky shirts and the obligatory Flock-of-Seagulls hairdo, I decided NS and I should go as characters from an 80's movie.  Here are my leading ideas so far:

Mr. Miagi & Daniel-san from "The Karate Kid"
I think this would be the most recognizable costumes, but N.S. doesn't want to dress in drag (is it still considered drag if a woman is dressing like a dude?).  I keep telling her that Ralph Macchio hardly qualifies as a man, but she's not convinced.
 

H.I. & "Ed" McDunnough from "Raising Arizona"
For me, this is the most appealing idea because I could spend my entire evening annoying other partygoers by quoting lines from the movie out of context.   N.S. doesn't like it, though, because she thinks no one will recognize the costumes.  I disagree.  "Ed" just has to wear a police outfit and carry a doll in a blue hooded sweatshirt while H.I. needs a mullet wig, mustache and sideburns and the following outfit (including the mug shot board):

I could also carry a package of Huggies to drive the point home. 

Snake Plissken & Maggie from "Escape From New York"
This is the coolest.  I've ALWAYS wanted to be Snake Plisskin.  No one would get the Maggie costume, but who cares when you're on Snake's arm at the party.  He's such a badass; tough, mean, fit, handsome...

Then again, maybe I just better keep this one in the vault.

Marty McFly & Doc from "Back To The Future"
This is my least favorite.  While the idea is amusing, I don't think it would be good for our marriage (and the duties therein) for me to see my wife looking like Michael J. Fox. 

Yech.

Now, you might be wondering how this is any different than seeing her as Ralph Macchio.  Without getting too graphic, let me just say that we occasionally like to do a little boudoir role-playing, and the Karate Kid scenario is a family favorite.  Oh, yeah.  Just thinking about "wax on, wax off" and "paint the fence" gets my motor running. 

Anyway, those are my best ideas so far.  Other ideas, input or validating feedback would be greatly appreciated.   

P.S. For anyone who cares, I just want to say that I haven't given up on the "Now What?" project.  However, I've gotten to a point where I'm completely stuck and need to spend some serious hours working it out.  Maybe I'll get to it this weekend (if the cable goes out). 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Ask any new homeowner and they'll tell you that one of the problems with buying a house is you then have to fill it.  No matter how many milk crates, beer lights and cinder block bookshelves you have in your crappy little apartment - which, by the way, smells like a dirty sweatsock someone pulled out of a yak's ass - it isn't enough to fill even the smallest of houses.  

This is not to say you need to have Pier One Imports candles and Precious Moments figurines inhabiting every square inch.  You do, however, need enough wood and fabric (or, for some of you, plastic and burlap), to deaden the horrible echo that reverberates through the house every time you excitedly call your wife into the room to watch the lions screw on Discovery Channel.

This is where Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I find ourselves.  Even though we have been in this house for three years, we've never purchased any real furniture.  As I write this, I am sitting on a couch purchased from J.C. Penny in 1994, listening to my 15 year-old Technics stereo with dual-cassette deck through mammoth, wood-grain floor speakers that could house a family of homeless midgets.

We need some new shit.

A few weeks ago we began talking about getting a living room set: a sofa, two chairs, some end tables and a rug.  In my OBON (Opinion Based On Nothing), I figured this would all cost maybe a couple grand. 

Since neither of us have any sense of design, we decided to pay an interior decorator to give up a few tips.  To prepare for our meeting, the decorator gave us some furniture websites to check out to get some perspective.  I felt this was an excellent idea and thought I might learn something in the process.

Do you know what I learned?  Apparently there are people out there who pay $8,000 for a sofa, $2,000 for a chair - that's ONE fucking chair - and $500 for a lamp.  Unless I've unknowingly turned into the out-of-touch old lady who expects to pay two dollars to have her lawn mowed (and don't forget to rake up afterwards!), this seems a little exorbitant.

On the other hand, over the past three years I have spent hundreds of hours stripping paint, patching walls, painting surfaces, and ingesting unspeakable amounts of lead dust.  We don't want to start getting cheap.  I mean, you don't go all the way to Beverly Hills to get a boob job and then show them off by wearing a tube-top from Wal-Mart, do you?

Maybe there is an acceptable middle ground.  However, during our meeting on Saturday, I'm sure it was no accident that the first thing the interior designer said was that we wouldn't have called her if we wanted Pottery Barn furniture.  Having no idea at the time what that meant, N.S. Esq. and I eagerly chuckled along. 

Now I feel like I've got to spend my free time researching furniture to determine what is cheap, what is good, and what is apparently a tax shelter.  Then, once I do, I need to make sure it all goes with my framed Asia poster.  

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (13)

This week the Cleveland International Film Festival (CIFF) is being held in, um, Cleveland.   Since we are intelligent, philanthropic and highly sophisticated members of the community, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I will be in attendance.  Also, there tends to be a lot of full frontal nudity.

How, you might ask, is attending a film festival any different than just plain old going to the movies?  Before I explain, I'll ask you to first put down the Old Milwaukee, stop punching your wife and focus your one good eye on me.  I'm only going to explain this once.   

The simple answer is that boorish hayseeds like you go to the movies to eat nachos and guffaw at the clichéd antics of Eddie Murphy in a fat suit; I attend international film screenings to explore the intricate meanings of daily life in Crapistan. 

Other than the quality of the attendees, a film festival has a number of other festive activities that one gets to experience. 

Instead of just buying a ticket, entering the theater and finding a good seat, Festival Attendees get to purchase tickets weeks in advance, made to wait in long lines outside the theater while all the good seats are bogarted by the CIFF donors, friends and family, and then get herded in like lemmings to fight over the scraps. 

The regular movie-watcher mindlessly shells out face value for a ticket and payment is considered duly rendered.  The Festival Attendee purchases a ticket and, as a bonus, receives a constant barrage of guilt-mongering from CIFF staff and volunteers in attempt to extract additional dollars.

Movie-watchers must endure ticket-tearing by a minimum wage lackey with acne.  Festival Attendees get to be relentlessly concierged by an army of film prodigies.  And who knows, the goth chick who ignored your questions or the Kevin Smith wannabe who sent you to the wrong line could turn out to be famous some day!

Crass movie-watchers will complain when a Sandra Bullock flick is bad.  Festival Attendees understand that film is art - art that oftentimes you must let flow over you.  A French language film that lacks subtitles should be enjoyed purely for its visualization.  It doesn't matter that no one understands what is going on.  We know to sit there for 95 minutes and keep our mouths shut, lest we appear churlish.* 

Finally, when a movie is over, vapid movie-watchers will drag their flailing offspring out of the theater and stagger their separate ways.  Festival Attendees will casually linger, accosting and quizzing each other on the meaning behind the scene where the guy ate a piece of bread.  This is intellectualism at its finest.   

Now you know the difference between the watching movies and attending films.  Since this year's festival is coming to a close tomorrow, you have approximately one year to clean yourself up, get a job, learn to read, and develop the self-restraint required to sit quietly for 95 minutes without burping, farting or screaming filthy obscenities at the screen.  Then, and only then, you will have earned the right to attend the Cleveland International Film Festival.  Who knows, maybe I'll even see you a screening.  

Hopefully it will be one where they show some tits.

*This actually happened two years ago.  N.S. and I sat in a packed theater watching French actors spew out subtitle-less gibberish for ten minutes before walking out.  As far as we know, no one else left the theater.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 02:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

This week my job required that I go to Grand Rapids for a couple of days.  Instead of spending ten hours in the car driving from Cleveland, I decided to fly to Chicago Midway and drive the remaining distance.  While the total trip still takes ten hours, I only spend six hours driving and the other four are available for reading, writing, and my new hobby: collecting interesting and exotic airborne pathogens.

This itinerary is totally rational and efficient, except if your flight gets delayed.  If that happens, the plan turns into a colossal time sink and sends me into a downward spiral of self-loathing. 

Guess what happened today? 

Even though I wrapped up my work in GR (Grand Rapids or God's Realm, either fits) at 10:00AM this morning, I won't arrive home until 8:30PM tonight.  Remember all that bright and cheery shit from yesterday?  Yeah.  That's long fucking gone.  Stupid happiness.

Since I'll be spending at least 6.5 hours in an airport, I thought I'd share with you an excerpt from my new book, "YUCK! A Germophobe's Guide To Business Travel."  This is from the chapter titled  "Making Lemonade":

Face it, my fussy friend.  Unless you're willing to risk an intestinal burst, you're going to have to relieve yourself in an airport bathroom.  But relax.  Planning is the key to satisfying, anxiety-free crapping in any public toliet. 

First, check the airport layout and choose a restroom that has multiple stalls.  The last thing you want when you're settled in for a session is some ill-prepared IBS sufferer pounding on your door and pleading for mercy.  Even if you are able to ignore this slob and finish your business, you still risk slipping in their imminent remnants as you exit. 

Now, the most important thing to remember when using an airport restroom is to not touch anything.  Picture, if you will, that all the surfaces and objects - from the walls, faucets, and floors to the other patrons  - are covered in shit.  The reason for this is that, quite literally, they are.  Bend your hands inward at the wrists and let them hang like slabs of dead meat - they are of no use to you here.  Bathroom survival is all about elbows.  Think elbows.  You are Mr. Elbows. 

Elbow-open a stall door and make sure there is plenty of toilet paper - you're going to need it.  If so, hip-check shut the door and hang your bags from the coat hook.  Using the heel of your shoe, flush the toilet three times to freshen the bowl.  Next, being careful not to touch the dispenser, tear off the first few sheets of toilet paper and toss them in the bowl.  From this point on, the toilet paper is considered clean.  (NOTE: Do not use paper from a loose roll.  God only knows how many cretins have stuck their shit-covered fingers in the tube.)  Next, generously squirt Purell on the seat and wipe vigorously with toilet paper.  Flush again - the Purell on the toilet paper will act as an additional sanitizing agent for the bowl.   Once the seat is sanitized, cover it entirely with two seat covers or layers of toilet paper. 

But wait!  Don't drop trow just yet.

Stream two double-sided lengths of toilet paper from the seat down the front of the bowl.  This will protect your exposed calves from the horrible germapalozza festering on the sweaty outside of the bowl.  

Finally, if you are a fastidious person, you might want to layer the floor in front of the bowl with several sheets of toilet paper.  This will protect your trouser cuffs from the invisible moat of piss and shit that surround the bowl.

Now you're ready to sit. 

Check for a cellophane-wrapped copy of "YUCK" at a Bookstore neat you. 

P.S. I'm not crazy.

P.P.S. I brushed past Wesley Clark in Midway Airport.  He was the VP on my 2004 Dream Team Ticket.  How cool is that?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Even though I've put in a 16-hour day and am alone in a two-star hotel in Grand Rapids, it's been a pretty good day.  Despite struggling through a lousy workout in the broom closet of dilapidated equipment that is unashamedly listed as a "fitness center," I'm in a good mood.   Never mind that I had a bag of peanuts and a bottle of Gatorade from the gift shop for dinner, and who cares if there is no liquor to be found.  I feel good.

Maybe it's because the last of the virus that spent last week speed-bagging my tonsils and log-jamming my colon has finally vacated the building.  Or it could be because I accomplished the non-profit equivalent of closing the big deal today.  Then again, maybe I'm just really stoked about having a fun writing project to work on...on which to work...whatever.   I don't know.

The point is, I'm happy.  I'm looking forward to going home tomorrow and spending time with my wife and my cats.  The weather is supposed to be good, so I'll have a nice drive.  Plus, we've got tickets to a bunch of shows at the Cleveland Film Festival this weekend, so I've got that going for me.  

I guess the only question is this:  Aren't I supposed to be pissed off about something?  What about the douche-bag on the airplane who wouldn't shut-off his Blackberry during the landing, even though he was asked three times, once by another passenger?  What about the fact that I had to stop at three different places to find an unoccupied commode when my Sudafed-induced constipation suddenly left me while driving in the middle of buttfuck Michigan? 

Nope. I got nothing.  Nothing except a boring-ass post about being a happy, grinning idiot for no apparent reason. 

Christ, what's wrong with me?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

During my trip to LA two weeks ago, I met an old friend for dinner.  As we got to talking, the topic of writing came up.  She mentioned this cool idea for a screenplay she has been kicking around over for almost a year.  The problem is that she always procrastinates when the time comes to put pen to paper. 

Since I had consumed several drinks, was suffering severe jet lag and, I would later learn, my immune system was being savagely attacked by a west coast rhinovirus with a boob job, I made her a deal.  Starting in two weeks, each of us would begin writing our own screenplay and every week we would email the other two pages; the logic being that the peer pressure would motivate us both to make progress.

This probably sounds reasonable except for one tiny matter: my friend has attended screenwriting workshops, consumed numerous books about screenwriting, and has a S.A.G. card.  As for me, I've attended movies that were produced from screenplays, consumed numerous tubs of popcorn, and have a saggy butt.  

Honestly, I might as well have made a deal to wrangle ostriches, cure cancer or satisfy a woman.   Like screenwriting, these are all areas that I don't know the first fucking thing about.

Am I such a fool as to believe that this filthy, pathetic little blog qualifies me as a writer? 

Yes, apparently, and then some. 

Instead of using my weekend to frantically read books about screenwriting and develop some semblance of a coherent idea for "my movie," I spent it fantasizing about my imminent fame and writing my Oscar acceptance speech.  Here goes:

Holy shit!
(Quickly cover mouth and act embarrassed, as if this accidentally slipped out). 

Oh, sorry.  Sorry.  I just can't believe it! 
(Pull out speech). 

You know, these speeches are like life insurance policies: you do it because you're supposed to, but you never think you'll actually use it. 
(Pause for laughter and nods of approval).

First things first.  To my currently employer:  I quit.  Ha ha ha.  No, seriously.  I've got "fuck you" money now, so go screw yourself.   And don't even think about not paying me for my remaining vacation time, assholes. 

To my wife:  Thanks for all your support, honey. I couldn't have done it without you.   But now that I have done it, this would probably be a good time for you to start looking for an apartment.  By midnight tonight, Mr. Oscar and I are gonna be waist-deep in Hollywood hookers...oops...I mean ACTRESSES.  Right, Gwyneth?
(Wink at Gwyn).  

And don't forget to take the cats with you.

(Hold up Oscar)
By the way, what's a good cleaning solution for the Golden Dildo here? Anybody know?  Where is Colin Ferrell?  Ah, I'll figure it out later.

Finally, to all those unknown, aspiring young writers out there like me...er...like I USED to be.  People will try to convince you to quit; to give up your dreams.   I'm here to tell you one thing: take their advice. 

(Point to self)
Talent like this doesn't grow on trees, especially trees with rusty jalopies and old bathtubs rotting underneath them.  Find solace in occasionally affording the price of an admission ticket - probably on payday, right before you drink the rest of your check - to witness in some small, totally insignificant way the cinematic bliss we have suffered to bring you.  Puny as it is, that's your destiny as sure as this...

(Wave Oscar high in the air)

... is mine.

Leave art to the artists and we'll leave frying bologna and raping livestock to you.
 
Thank you, everyone!   Colin, I'll see you at the party, bro.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. severely questioned my use of the word "fags" in yesterday's post.  In her opinion - one of many, I assure you - using the word makes me sound like a small-minded, mullet-wearing basher and maybe I should think twice before throwing my lot in with the likes of political psychopath Ann Coulter. To which I replied, "Don't be such a fag."

First, let me emphatically state that I have absolutely nothing against gay people, except maybe them being against me in, like, a biblical sense.  Seriously, though, I have gay friends and totally support gay rights and all that queer stuff.

However, I'm not prepared to give up the word "fag."  As a kid, it was something we called other kids who were chicken or afraid.  My knowledge and use of the word predates any understanding of homosexuality whatsoever.  In fact, I don't think I've ever used it to describe someone who is gay, at least not with hateful intent.  Therefore, I think I should be able to use it as I please, like getting grandfathered-in or something.  

Anyway, NS, Esq.'s comment got me to thinking a lot about words, especially pejorative terms.   I enjoy calling people names, so for me, like blowjobs, frequent flyer miles and antibiotics, pejorative terms are something you can never have too many of. 

But pejorative terms can be confusing to the inexperienced.  Sticking with the example above, seasoned name callers might use the term "fag" to describe a pussy, pantywaist or sissy.   However, we would never use "fag" to describe a homosexual.  Not when "pillow biter," "rump ranger" and "shit-dick" are available.  There are also many contradictions.  "Fag" means "pussy," which, in itself, is confusing, while "cocksucker" means "asshole" and not "fag" as one might think.

Then you have the gender-specific anatomical terms.  Similar to "cocksucker," "dick" and "prick" also mean "asshole." However, "cunt," "twat" and "pussy" mean "bitch," "idiot" and "sissy," respectively.  I think this shows that women are complicated, multi-faceted beings while men are just assholes.  That, or, assuming men develop most pejorative terms, we don't understand the first thing about the female anatomy.

Anyway, to paraphrase George Carlin, there are no bad words, only bad people and bad intentions.  For the most part, I don't think I'm a bad person and my only intention is to entertain myself by employing words and phrases I find humorous.  If that hurts anyone, it is completely unintentional.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

In the spirit of the cold & flu season - in which I am an unwillingly yet wholly immersed participant - I thought I'd take a break from sneezing, coughing, and shooting snot from my nostrils to post this public service. 

How To Make The Best of Being at Home With a Cold:

If you accidentally hack on your lunch, pretend you are Brundlefly and hungrily slurp up the mess.

Every time you sneeze, scream, "At least it's not cancer!" at the top of your fluid-filled lungs.

If you need to stuff tissue in your nose to keep it from running, make a matching eye mask out of toilet paper and call yourself "The Lone Loogie."

While staring at your irritated, bright red nose in the bathroom mirror, sing "Be A Clown" and do a little dance until you get lightheaded and pass out.

Post totally shitty, Sudafed-induced entries on your blog. 

Come up with marketing catchphrases for Airborne, the modern-day snake oil for hypochondriacs, which you've been taking for three days to no avail:

"Airborne - It's fizzy, so it must be scientific!"

"Airborne - Developed by a school teacher*, so don't expect it to work during the summer or after 2:45PM."

"Airborne - If you read the package where it says 'Not intended to cure, prevent or treat any disease,' and still bought it, maybe you'd interested in some Florida swampland?"

"Airborne - Double-blind research studies are for fags."

"Airborne - Thanks for the $10, shit-for-brains!"

 *They actually promote this line like it means something.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Huge shipments of leftover "Members Only" jackets (Recent photos indicate that it may be too late.  However, containment is still an option.)

Anal warts.  If they do get them, it's probably due to a dirty toilet seat.  I've been clean for over six months.  I swear.

A new theme song.  The old Flock of Seagulls one is just fine by me.

Various magazines in the mail that they never ordered and don't want.  I was drunk and angry when I forged all those subscription order cards.  Oh, and Iran shouldn't be surprised if they get a call from the U.S. Navy recruiting office, too.  Sorry.

A bigger house than mine.  I hate feeling like I need to "keep up with the Khomeinis."

My pin code

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

After two sleepless nights, eight stressful hours of travel and two bottles of wine, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. settled in for our first of seven long, restful nights of vacation sleep (after consummating our new accommodations, of course).  As carefree dreams of blue oceans, mountain hikes and cold beers danced in our heads, a looming evil lurked just outside out cottage. 

Suddenly, at 3:12AM in the morning, we were startled awake by what I can only describe as the sound of chaos. 

Given its isolation, you might think that Saba would be unexposed to the ills that plague the western world.  A virgin, if you will, to the wicked ways of modern man.  Not so.

Gangs.  Even though everyone knows, the locals don't talk about it.  The guidebooks - either by incompetence or intimidation - fail to even mention it.  It is an unlikely island curse, but a curse just the same. 

Saba is infested with gangs. Traveling in packs, they fight, destroy property, raise hell and menace the good people of Saba and vacationers alike.  Like the Crips, they don bright red headgear so as to be easily distinguished and leave their marks wherever they go.  And they own the goddamn place.

The noise was so abrupt, so loud and so close that we both shot straight up in bed and looked to each other for clarity and comfort. 

"Did you hear that?" Nerdy whispered in a scratchy, frightened tone.

"Shhh," I held up my hand.

At home, I would already be reaching for the baseball bat in the bedroom closet.  But this was a strange place and I had no weapon with which to find immediate courage.  I needed a moment to get my bearings and consider the options.

Again, screams shattered the silence.

Nerdy grabbed onto me, "Christ, they're right outside the door!"

"Quiet!" I demanded. 

I needed to think. Think, dammit, think!  It sounded like six or seven of them were right outside.  There was no way I could fight off that many.  I needed to find a way to defuse the situation so that no one got hurt.

Suddenly, it came to me.  I grabbed one of the extra pillows above the headboard and handed it to Nerdy.

"Here.  Put this over your head."

"What?"

"Ignore them and maybe they'll go away."  I grabbed a pillow for myself.  "It's all we can do."

Luckily, my instincts were right.  Even though we slept with one eye open, the next morning they were gone; their markings left behind.  Venturing out to assess the damage, I was able to snap a quick photo of a lone, straggling thug.

In Saba, roosters rule the streets.  Not the friendly roosters who wake the eager farmer with a chipper cock-a-doodle-doo.  Savage gangs of unconscionable delinquents whose screeching shrieks will split your spine and damage your brain.  Worse, they crow whenever the fuck they feel like it.  And, unfortunately,  they feel like it all night long.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Where there's no such thing as coming too quickly.

We (heart) Turbulence

If you thought getting raped in a phone booth was fun...

No fatties.  Seriously, it's just way too cramped.

You don't have to be married with children to have hurried intercourse in a germ-infested environment while someone is banging on the door.

Jerking off counts, too!

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

St. Martin is the jumping off point for most of Caribbean destinations in and around the Dutch Antilles.  A few of the islands - St. Bart and Antigua in particular - are popular vacation spots for the exclusively wealthy.  Because of this, St. Martin airport (SMX) looks like trophy wife convention.  Throw a bottle of duty-free scotch in SMX and you'll likely hit a beige, bejeweled blonde or her fat, festering husband.  If you want to hit both - and why wouldn't you - I recommend a bank shot off one of the blonde's giant silicone floatation devices.

Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are heading from St. Martin to Saba, a tiny, isolated (meaning exclusive for not-so-rich people) island that lies just south of St. Martin.  A mere five square miles, Saba is a dormant volcano that juts out of the Caribbean Sea like a misplaced pyramid.  Everywhere in Saba is either uphill or downhill and, until the 1950's, the island didn't even have a road. 

Getting to Saba is not easy.  Ferries from larger islands run on a weekly basis, and one small, local airline flies to the island - with pilots who are specially-trained to land at a steep angle onto the shortest runway in the world (so you'll need to pack at least one extra pair of underwear).  Picking your choice of transport is like picking black or red at the roulette table; your chances are the same but, either way, the odds are against you.  Nerdy gets seasick, so we are taking the flight. 

At SMX, the ground crew begins jamming us into our rusty, old, twin-prop, twelve-seater airplane like cocktail weenies in a can of, um, well, cocktail weenies.  Normally, I would say that they were jamming us in like sardines in a can, but Nerdy Squirrel, Esq, is the only woman on this tin can with a wing.  Otherwise, it's all men.  You might say, it's raining men, if you get my drift. 

I ask Nerdy if 'Saba' is Dutch for 'sausage-fest.'  She informs me that the island is one of the few gay-friendly islands in the Caribbean.  Sadly, like their Jerk Chicken, most straight guys in the Caribbean prefer their gay eyes blackened.    

Armed with this new knowledge, I immediately feel compelled to show my open-mindedness and support for gay snorkeling, gay stupid T-shirt buying, gay excessive Rum Punch drinking, and all things gay vacation.  Seeking to find common ground with humor, I blurt out, "Look at this fuselage. It's just like that movie, 'Trouser Snakes On A Plane.' Damn, can't a brother get some lesbians?"

No one finds this funny except me.  It seems that homosexuals are no different than heterosexuals when it comes to drunken strangers randomly vomiting out inappropriate things. I spend the rest of the flight being ignored.  Fortunately, it is only 15 minutes long. 

After a steep descent, we suddenly touch down in Saba - bounce down, actually - on the shortest runway on the world (I know I've said this before, but it's kind of a badge of honor).  Fortunately, we are traveling in an aircraft that's propelled by the same engine found under the hood of a Chevy Chevette.  If the plane's brakes fail (there is no need for a reverse thruster on this particular piece of equipment, as there is no actual "thrust" to reverse), at our current velocity, the emergency kite tail will surely stop us in plenty of time. 

Nerdy looks anxious.  I tell her, even if everything goes wrong and the plane slides off the end of the runway, we're simply not going fast enough to cause any major injuries.  Well, at least not until we roll off the cliff, which, as it happens, appears immediately at the end of the runway.  This, I go on to explain, is a design flaw of some significance.  Despite my good and insightful intentions, she finds no comfort in these words, opting instead to stare off into space while mouthing "please shut the fuck up" over and over.  She has never shared my interest in civil engineering. 

Fortunately, we stop in time and taxi over to the gate; a postage stamp of pavement surrounded by a small, white picket fence with, literally, a sidewalk-wide, latching gate.  As we step off the place I want to shout, "We're here and some of us are queer!" but then think better of it. 

Besides being a relaxed and tolerant paradise, Saba is also known for its lack of crime.  Visitors don't need to lock doors or worry about pickpockets.  This sounds wonderful, but as a practical matter, it is a difficult thing for an experienced and wary traveler to fit into his head. 

As soon as we make our way through airport/snack bar, I'm put to the test.  From out of nowhere, a taxi driver grabs for my bags and I immediately move into my Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon stance and prepare to kick this motherfucker's ass all the way to Cuba. 

"Don worry, mon. Saba is different," he reasons.

"Whatever the fuck that means."

Nerdy immediately intervenes, stepping between us and telling me to relax.  She tells the driver our destination, Iris House, and he explains that he has been waiting to pick us up. 

"Maria is suppose to be picking us up," I accusingly belch out over Nerdy's shoulder. 

He holds out a wrinkled piece of paper, " You are on my list."

"See?  Relax, he has a list," Nerdy reiterates, and hands him her bag.

I turn to her, "Oh, so did you read 'the list' in that split second he waved in the air?  No?  Then all he has is a shitty piece of paper...and your luggage.  I'll wait for Maria."

"Saba is different," the driver says.

"Oh, gosh.  My mistake. Here, hang on to my wallet for me," I mock, then make my way over to a nearby bench with my bags.

After a few minutes, Nerdy comes over to me.

"You know, this is a tiny island with no crime.  The guy is not trying to rip us off.  He says he is the driver for Iris House."

"No, he asked where we were going and you said Iris House," I explain.  "You're a fortune teller's wet dream, you know that?"

"Quit being paranoid."

"Quit being a rube." 

"Well, I'm tired and I'm going with him.  You can stay here and wait for the Virgin Mary or whoever the hell you think is going to swoop in and save you from the scary, evil taxi driver.  I'm going to the cottage."

"Fine, but if he rips us off..."

"Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and get in the van."

Reluctantly, I drag my bags over to the cab and the driver smiles at me,  "See? I told you, Saba is different."

Say it one more time, asshole, and I guarantee there will be a sudden and violent spike in Saba's crime rate.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)