Tired of Travel Writing: Everything else...
I was going to have to deal with a few days sans girl gazing. Boo hoo. News Flash Dipfuck: Family Reunion. (I'll forego the tired West Virginia jokes).
Hey, the food's gonna suck too.
Fuck. Now that does piss me off, 'cause expectations were otherwise. C'mon, We're paying $25 per day, per person, to eat fly buzzed cafeteria fare? God, even I don't deserve the double whammy. Couldn't you at least loosen the molars, er, morals, of these always beaming Baptist boppers?
Ah, ya bastuhd.
Well, at least the cousins ah wicked pissah. And they took "Y'all" and, the nonregional catchphrase of the week, "That's what's up," back north. But not before proving Southern culture is already-ah-creepin' up the country, my cousin droppin' a "Right huurrrr" to answer, "So, where are we meeting?" After my knee grabbin' fit I managed to ask, in between the residual giggles of recovery, "Please. Pleeeaaase, can you repeat that, just one more time?"
The question of the week, perhaps my life: How did my family, a (predominantly, not totally) liberal and areligious family if there ever was one, end up at a Southern Baptist compound? Southern Baptists bash cars for Bad Religion decals, not to mention any person who opposes their mindless stances on, oh, say abortion, homosexuality, women's rights, religion, whatever. I really feel like New Mexico must offer at least one other place to meet our minimal reunion requirements: Enough space to house the family, and limited access to TVs.
But fuck it. I kinda like this place. I'm a man, and this place makes me feel badass. Seriously, all I have to do to break rules is go outside and take off my shirt and/or shoes. I'm breakin' rules out of habit. Plus, we're sneakin' drinks nightly, half the family, adults and kids alike, risking eviction from the premises with the contents of our Styrofoam cups.
But while we were breaking Glorieta's rules, some bad Baptist was breaking laws out of habit, trying to molest one of my 13-year-old cousins after we'd accidentally abandoned him in the arcade. At first, the perv came off like any pool hall junkie, just desperate for someone to play with, and just happening to choose a 13-year-old male as his (unwitting and unwilling) partner-in-crime. So my cousin played a game with him. Sometime afterward the rest of us disappeared. According to my cousin, his next exchange with the man went something like this: "Hey, little buddy, wanna race? Just one time. It'll be fun. Come over here and grab some quarters outta my pocket." My cousin held out his palm and waited. After the race, the mystery molester high-fived my cousin. "Oh yeah! Come on. Just one more time." Repeat X 10 before my cousin got creeped out, up and left. As he was running toward the door, the pedophile might have yelled, "Come back, I gotta whole rolla quarters for ya." Later, in the locked safety of our room, what started as a joke about stereotypes ended with the factual revelation the mystery molester wore his hair slicked straight back.
In daytime, there wasn't much to do besides read, play canasta, soccer, or volleyball, or hike. Hiking we scheduled for a hot, sunny afternoon. After lunch, my cousin's Sam, Saul, and Nick C., my brother, and I set off on a difficult hike, a five-mile excursion that would take us past 10,000 feet, a good 3,000 feet above our starting elevation. The first mile was exceedingly steep, and short attempts to play Ironman and jog left everyone winded, and shirtless, too. Eventually the trail leveled off, so jogging was more realistic. Over the course of our fast-paced first 90 minutes, we covered a lot of rocky ground. So there we were, trekking along, when some monstrous, black clouds swept over the mountaintop. We thought the shade was a welcome respite. Even the first fat drops of rain were welcome, a bit cold, sure, but refreshing the same. And the first sand-sized hails were more something to marvel than madden. I mean, look at how quickly that storm snuck up, it can't last long.
But, as the minutes passed and we trudged on, continuing past refreshed to damp to cold and drenched, our confidence faltered. The hail grew to Tic-Tac size, finally to gumballs, pelting us mercilessly; and the barrage was thick, too, on the sparsely wooded mountainside, inescapable. Heavy pings and quick stings rained down upon our unprotected heads, ears, and shoulders, our exclamations and laughter belying more serious considerations. Though they were so fogged as to severely hinder my actual sight, I wore my sunglasses.
The trodden path beneath our feet had, within 15 minutes, disappeared under the path wide, 6-inch deep river rushing past, down the mountain, smarter than us. The water was cold and looked like a slushie, entire portions covered with floating ice particles so numerous and dense they looked like sheets. All around us, glinting gumballs crashed off tree trunks and ricocheted off the ground. I realized I was shivering uncontrollably, my nipples like torpedoes trying to escape my chest. My hands were numb, my feet, too, yet we were still tiptoeing up the path, our pace reduced to a crawl out of concern for broken ankles and such, far from ideal mountaintop injuries especially in inclement weather. "Guys, I weigh like 165," I blubbered between chattering teeth, "I'm too fuckin' skinny for this shit." Thoughts of New/Pneu-Mexican-Monia became as intense as the shivers racking my body, "If I break a leg or something, just call the bears or kill me on the spot. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to live through this shit." I said, "I'm gone," and my cousin Nick took off behind me.
Staying off the submerged path, running beside it on sturdy, visible ground, weaving around fallen trees and impassable obstacles, we didn't rest for over a mile. The rain and hail slowed, but even the workout didn't warm me. Only the hot shower to come sustained me, as it used to during the coldest, rainiest soccer games. Nick and I were the first back to 7,000 feet, rushing into the lodge toward our respective bathrooms, and the others trickled in a little later. The only casualties of the day: the cell phones people had packed.
And I'm glad I made it, because we had a lot of volleyball left to play. Again, being taller than everyone made me a sort of superstar by default. Since I could elevate higher than any relative, blocking and spiking became my duties, leaving the hard work, like setting and hustling for sniper shots, for my cousins. Admittedly, I did make a few remarkable plays with my feet, directing impossible to reach balls back over the net or high enough for a teammate to spike, turning sure points into our serves. One foot-play was so remarkable it earned props from Chester, my hilarious, all-around cool-dude Uncle some distance removed, an intense competitor, and one of the most talented and relentless shit-talkers I've ever encountered, whether on the field or at the dinner table. Playing volleyball Chester was on the other team, and coming to shake my hand was the only time over fifteen plus games he crossed the net for any reason other than to berate, insult, or tackle a player from my team. That itself is certainly more noteworthy than the actual play I made.
Another noteworthy volleyball incident made me feel like a complete jackass. Over many games, I became decent at driving clench-fisted spikes into the dirt. Even if the fist punch isn't considered technically sound, it sufficed for my untrained practices. Anyway, at some point a teammate set a ball for me, perfectly, so it hovered at the optimal height for me to spike with full force. My fist windmilled to the top of the ball, crushing it downward with a solid thump. Not having aimed my shot, I watched in horror as it rocketed toward my cousin Giuliana's face, the girl I claim as my unofficially adopted sister, the last person on earth I'd ever want to injure. The shot, unanimously acclaimed as the best and hardest hit all week, hit her square in the nose, knocking her off her feet so her body was parallel to the ground before she landed in the sand. The first sound came from one of her brothers, my teammate, "That's a point." I was already rushing under the net. "Oh goddamnit. Giuliana, are you alright?" I gushed, "SHIT! I'm so sorry!" Luckily, Giuliana is as badass and tough as she is cool and fun, and she quickly stood up, brushed the sand off, checked her magically unscathed glasses, and assured me she was OK with a few words and a laugh. I apologized profusely for the rest of the night and Giuliana, happy to joke about the assault and still hang out with me, was as playful as ever, a major relief.
And one particular night of drinking shouldn't go unnoted, the majority of the youths, some of age, more underage, gathering in our room around midnight with several decks of cards, several cases, and several fifths. Starting at midnight, the rowdiness reached its peak around 4:00 or 5:00 AM, as was reported the next day by the relative who slept in the room above ours. That night is indescribable, but over three hundred photographs were snapped to help tell (and remember) the story, including some hilarious posed indiscretions with the bible. Those of us still awake at 6:00 AM swerved over to the dining hall, loitering outside for the thirty minutes until it opened, the first to patronize the dining hall that morning, and the only time we made breakfast all week save the last morning when we had to get up early to check-out.
Loud, obnoxious, alcoholic, fun, fratty, and hilarious are a few of the adjectives I'd use to describe some or all of those within my contingent of all-around amazing cousins.
I can’t wait to see you in three.
Hey, the food's gonna suck too.
Fuck. Now that does piss me off, 'cause expectations were otherwise. C'mon, We're paying $25 per day, per person, to eat fly buzzed cafeteria fare? God, even I don't deserve the double whammy. Couldn't you at least loosen the molars, er, morals, of these always beaming Baptist boppers?
Ah, ya bastuhd.
Well, at least the cousins ah wicked pissah. And they took "Y'all" and, the nonregional catchphrase of the week, "That's what's up," back north. But not before proving Southern culture is already-ah-creepin' up the country, my cousin droppin' a "Right huurrrr" to answer, "So, where are we meeting?" After my knee grabbin' fit I managed to ask, in between the residual giggles of recovery, "Please. Pleeeaaase, can you repeat that, just one more time?"
The question of the week, perhaps my life: How did my family, a (predominantly, not totally) liberal and areligious family if there ever was one, end up at a Southern Baptist compound? Southern Baptists bash cars for Bad Religion decals, not to mention any person who opposes their mindless stances on, oh, say abortion, homosexuality, women's rights, religion, whatever. I really feel like New Mexico must offer at least one other place to meet our minimal reunion requirements: Enough space to house the family, and limited access to TVs.
But fuck it. I kinda like this place. I'm a man, and this place makes me feel badass. Seriously, all I have to do to break rules is go outside and take off my shirt and/or shoes. I'm breakin' rules out of habit. Plus, we're sneakin' drinks nightly, half the family, adults and kids alike, risking eviction from the premises with the contents of our Styrofoam cups.
But while we were breaking Glorieta's rules, some bad Baptist was breaking laws out of habit, trying to molest one of my 13-year-old cousins after we'd accidentally abandoned him in the arcade. At first, the perv came off like any pool hall junkie, just desperate for someone to play with, and just happening to choose a 13-year-old male as his (unwitting and unwilling) partner-in-crime. So my cousin played a game with him. Sometime afterward the rest of us disappeared. According to my cousin, his next exchange with the man went something like this: "Hey, little buddy, wanna race? Just one time. It'll be fun. Come over here and grab some quarters outta my pocket." My cousin held out his palm and waited. After the race, the mystery molester high-fived my cousin. "Oh yeah! Come on. Just one more time." Repeat X 10 before my cousin got creeped out, up and left. As he was running toward the door, the pedophile might have yelled, "Come back, I gotta whole rolla quarters for ya." Later, in the locked safety of our room, what started as a joke about stereotypes ended with the factual revelation the mystery molester wore his hair slicked straight back.
In daytime, there wasn't much to do besides read, play canasta, soccer, or volleyball, or hike. Hiking we scheduled for a hot, sunny afternoon. After lunch, my cousin's Sam, Saul, and Nick C., my brother, and I set off on a difficult hike, a five-mile excursion that would take us past 10,000 feet, a good 3,000 feet above our starting elevation. The first mile was exceedingly steep, and short attempts to play Ironman and jog left everyone winded, and shirtless, too. Eventually the trail leveled off, so jogging was more realistic. Over the course of our fast-paced first 90 minutes, we covered a lot of rocky ground. So there we were, trekking along, when some monstrous, black clouds swept over the mountaintop. We thought the shade was a welcome respite. Even the first fat drops of rain were welcome, a bit cold, sure, but refreshing the same. And the first sand-sized hails were more something to marvel than madden. I mean, look at how quickly that storm snuck up, it can't last long.
But, as the minutes passed and we trudged on, continuing past refreshed to damp to cold and drenched, our confidence faltered. The hail grew to Tic-Tac size, finally to gumballs, pelting us mercilessly; and the barrage was thick, too, on the sparsely wooded mountainside, inescapable. Heavy pings and quick stings rained down upon our unprotected heads, ears, and shoulders, our exclamations and laughter belying more serious considerations. Though they were so fogged as to severely hinder my actual sight, I wore my sunglasses.
The trodden path beneath our feet had, within 15 minutes, disappeared under the path wide, 6-inch deep river rushing past, down the mountain, smarter than us. The water was cold and looked like a slushie, entire portions covered with floating ice particles so numerous and dense they looked like sheets. All around us, glinting gumballs crashed off tree trunks and ricocheted off the ground. I realized I was shivering uncontrollably, my nipples like torpedoes trying to escape my chest. My hands were numb, my feet, too, yet we were still tiptoeing up the path, our pace reduced to a crawl out of concern for broken ankles and such, far from ideal mountaintop injuries especially in inclement weather. "Guys, I weigh like 165," I blubbered between chattering teeth, "I'm too fuckin' skinny for this shit." Thoughts of New/Pneu-Mexican-Monia became as intense as the shivers racking my body, "If I break a leg or something, just call the bears or kill me on the spot. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to live through this shit." I said, "I'm gone," and my cousin Nick took off behind me.
Staying off the submerged path, running beside it on sturdy, visible ground, weaving around fallen trees and impassable obstacles, we didn't rest for over a mile. The rain and hail slowed, but even the workout didn't warm me. Only the hot shower to come sustained me, as it used to during the coldest, rainiest soccer games. Nick and I were the first back to 7,000 feet, rushing into the lodge toward our respective bathrooms, and the others trickled in a little later. The only casualties of the day: the cell phones people had packed.
And I'm glad I made it, because we had a lot of volleyball left to play. Again, being taller than everyone made me a sort of superstar by default. Since I could elevate higher than any relative, blocking and spiking became my duties, leaving the hard work, like setting and hustling for sniper shots, for my cousins. Admittedly, I did make a few remarkable plays with my feet, directing impossible to reach balls back over the net or high enough for a teammate to spike, turning sure points into our serves. One foot-play was so remarkable it earned props from Chester, my hilarious, all-around cool-dude Uncle some distance removed, an intense competitor, and one of the most talented and relentless shit-talkers I've ever encountered, whether on the field or at the dinner table. Playing volleyball Chester was on the other team, and coming to shake my hand was the only time over fifteen plus games he crossed the net for any reason other than to berate, insult, or tackle a player from my team. That itself is certainly more noteworthy than the actual play I made.
Another noteworthy volleyball incident made me feel like a complete jackass. Over many games, I became decent at driving clench-fisted spikes into the dirt. Even if the fist punch isn't considered technically sound, it sufficed for my untrained practices. Anyway, at some point a teammate set a ball for me, perfectly, so it hovered at the optimal height for me to spike with full force. My fist windmilled to the top of the ball, crushing it downward with a solid thump. Not having aimed my shot, I watched in horror as it rocketed toward my cousin Giuliana's face, the girl I claim as my unofficially adopted sister, the last person on earth I'd ever want to injure. The shot, unanimously acclaimed as the best and hardest hit all week, hit her square in the nose, knocking her off her feet so her body was parallel to the ground before she landed in the sand. The first sound came from one of her brothers, my teammate, "That's a point." I was already rushing under the net. "Oh goddamnit. Giuliana, are you alright?" I gushed, "SHIT! I'm so sorry!" Luckily, Giuliana is as badass and tough as she is cool and fun, and she quickly stood up, brushed the sand off, checked her magically unscathed glasses, and assured me she was OK with a few words and a laugh. I apologized profusely for the rest of the night and Giuliana, happy to joke about the assault and still hang out with me, was as playful as ever, a major relief.
And one particular night of drinking shouldn't go unnoted, the majority of the youths, some of age, more underage, gathering in our room around midnight with several decks of cards, several cases, and several fifths. Starting at midnight, the rowdiness reached its peak around 4:00 or 5:00 AM, as was reported the next day by the relative who slept in the room above ours. That night is indescribable, but over three hundred photographs were snapped to help tell (and remember) the story, including some hilarious posed indiscretions with the bible. Those of us still awake at 6:00 AM swerved over to the dining hall, loitering outside for the thirty minutes until it opened, the first to patronize the dining hall that morning, and the only time we made breakfast all week save the last morning when we had to get up early to check-out.
Loud, obnoxious, alcoholic, fun, fratty, and hilarious are a few of the adjectives I'd use to describe some or all of those within my contingent of all-around amazing cousins.
I can’t wait to see you in three.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 12:27 AM
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