In the winter of 1998, I flew to Australia to write and announce a water-ski show for an amusement park named “Wonderland.” The theme park was wrought with roving packs of Scooby-Doo’s and an appropriately lazy sloth of Yogi Bears that delighted children and the mentally ill alike. Either they had some affiliation with Hanna-Barbara or legally benefited from the anonymity of the park’s hemorrhoidal position on the Earth. I didn’t care. It was a job and they paid me in, what I could only assume was, some sort of cash. I really didn’t know. Their money is blue, pink, and a shade of green that doesn’t appear in nature. Aside from pictures of British royalty gleefully swimming in shark infested waters, it was also plastic. I found this to be ingenious because it didn’t rip and would only annoy those insensitive few who garishly light cigars with $100 bills. I’m looking at you Monopoly Man!
I arrived a few weeks after the park happily celebrated its 13th birthday. Triskaidekaphobia aside, the date was dubious for other reasons. This joyous occasion, a girl innocently mentioned, was “a very festive day here- December 7th!” I instinctively recoiled from her. However, it’s difficult for a 22 year-old bloke to recoil that much from a flaxen-haired, tan-skinned, harebrained Sheila who didn’t mean any harm. While her blunder hung in the air, she just batted her eyelashes innocently like a puppy who just laid a giant turd on your carpet. But, I’d probably never see this puppy again and I knew it’d never lick me if I slapped it with a rolled up newspaper. So, ashamed, I let it slide and made my quiet apologies to the men of the battleship Arizona.
Now, besides the upside down field of stars, Orion looked like he was doing a headspin in a break dancing competition, there were other differences I dazzled myself with. First, being a savvy man of the world, I knew the toilets all spun counter-clockwise. On my first day, I was more excited than usual after my morning bowel movement because of this fact. After I pressed the lever, like a game show contestant might spin a wheel listing fabulous prizes, a great woosh washed my dreams and my breakfast straight down the commode. “What the hell,” I managed in my disappointment. After the toilet filled, I pressed the lever again the way a distraught sports fan might replay a close play that went against him. “Maybe, it’ll be different this time?” But no. The water didn’t spin. It was sucked down like an airplane toilet. I’ve ridden on airplanes! I was more disappointed than I wanted to admit. So, I hunted out the other differences with that much more gusto.
Next, there was the enormous time difference. Apparently, it’s still the 19th century in Australia. How else could you explain that in a city of 4 million people, you couldn’t get a pizza delivered past ten on a Saturday? And the hourly difference was spectacular as well. Eating lunch on January 7th, I remembered I had missed my brother Christopher’s birthday the previous day. Realizing that my birthday was in a scant few months, I frantically called him. Coincidentally, the family was sitting down for his birthday dinner on the other side of the international dateline. The conversation was cut short, however, when I noticed a four foot red-bellied black snake in a planter by my hand. I had read they’re “not generally fatal,” but you’d be surprised how little comfort that gives you when it recoils in the striking position. Regardless, my brother is still both impressed I remembered and oblivious to the fact I was a day late.
That was actually my second most memorable lunch at Wonderland. My first, was the time a friend of mine named Bree decided to grab a hamburger with me at one of the park stands. I handed over the pink, plastic visage of Queen Elizabeth boxing a kangaroo and the kid handed me a beautiful burger. I had to admit, the thing looked great. Bree was asked if she wanted onions and she replied in the standard Aussie three-syllable “Ynooooooyuw.” I’ve tried often to reproduce this but to no avail. I’m convinced scientific studies would show this to be the most adorable way for a girl to say “No.” I still insist that it must be at least a small comfort to hear this charming growl after a girl turns down even the most desperate of requests. “Will you marry me or, at the very least, remove your Buick Regal from my right foot? No? That’s okay, then.” That’s how nice these people are!
While she collected her onion free burger, a lazy Yogi was refused a soda. I wondered what he would do with it had they gave it to him, and I took an American-sized bite into my burger. Now, I should have known something was up when it made the squish sound- like a sponge being squeezed over a sink after the dishes were done. But I blindly started to chew. Somewhere in the maelstrom of meat and ketchup, my mouth began to sense something amiss. My eyebrows furrowed and my face took the serious expression of a gazelle’s when a lion is near. Squish, again?! It was a beet and I spit it onto my plate like an eight year old.
Now, this maybe no big deal for you or countless Ukrainians. But ever since I mistook one for a sugary slice of jellied cranberry sauce as a child at Thanksgiving, I have had a basic and instinctual hatred of beets. Since that fateful day in Australia, I have eaten beets only once and just enough to politely get through a small dinner party. In distinct contrast, I had no problem with two whole octopi inexplicably served at a barbecue restaurant. And this wasn’t like calamari, or a steak, or some other thing that you’d need a butcher and a biology degree to know where it came from on the animal. Plopped on my plate, they looked as though a couple of well-placed breaths and compressions may revive them fully. No. Big. Deal… I. Hate. Beets.
After I threw out the burger entirely, I ate my fries and most of Bree’s as some sort of punitive action. I got back to our area and immediately brushed my teeth like a germaphobe might wash after sitting on Charlie Sheen’s cloth sofa. And as I came slowly down from my bad beet trip, I noticed the sink filling up with water and I recognized this as my opportunity. Only one day from leaving Australia, I turned the water on full blast and the pressure was too much for the tiny drain to match. When the water, still foamy from enough toothpaste to brush the teeth of a fully grown crocodile- which Wonderland also had- reached the top, I abruptly turned off the faucet. At first, the water belched quietly under the surface. But I knew it was going down from the “legs” the slurry on its surface made against the edges. Then, it happened. The water began to spin counter-clockwise and a great wave of peace and satisfaction washed over me. So much so, I left the sink a bubbly mess for the next confused user.
A couple of years after I left, another American disaster would signal the end of Wonderland. As tourism dropped sharply after the 9/11 attacks, the park became completely insolvent. They managed to keep the doors open for a few more years, but in 2004, the world would witness the largest single lay-off of Yogi Bear costume characters to date. Lackadaisically mismanaged and ridiculously strewn with beets as it was, it was a pretty good time. Sure, there would be the occasional red-bellied black snake, but remember they’re not generally fatal. Besides, they had plenty of rides, a live crocodile, and the best damn water-ski announcer I’ve ever seen.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Kids Drink Free
I moved back to Austin, TX three years ago. It is the site of my misspent youth, the part of your adolescence where there’s a good chance you may drink blue liquor out of a fishbowl but you can still be tried as an adult. It’s when you consider dropping a class to get a refund of a student loan as “making money.” Aside from me, a flourishing music scene, and a bunch of people who are trying too hard to look like they’re not trying at all, Austin is home to one of the largest universities in the United States.
With a larger population than twelve state capital cities, The University of Texas boasts an enrollment of precisely one-and-half craploads of people. And they are everywhere. Once you add these students to those not attending the school (but also not doing anything else), a thriving sub-genre of Austinites, I can’t drive around this town without getting the feeling that everyone is having a better time than I am. And as this group is constantly replenished with new blood, as I age, they are frozen in time like a vampire, Dorian Gray, or Bob Costas.
But, I thought back to my trip to South Carolina. I was in my early twenties and went there because I was sure I was madly in love with a girl I had met twice. It would be the first of a litany of out-of-state, recently divorced, or otherwise impossible infatuations in my life. Unfortunately, she only liked me for my mind and I had far more tangible ways of expressing my interest in her. These were ways that required precautionary stretching and Gatorade to replenish eagerly worked off electrolytes. She would later visit me in Austin, but this would only serve to lengthen my delusions. It was like treating dementia with copious amounts of hallucinogens- just a waste of good drugs… or in this case, Bare Naked Ladies concert tickets.
Mind you, I’m not ashamed of having liked her. She was brilliant, funny, and could order great take-out. It was just the fact that I only care to invest myself in lost causes. I find that I’m still prone to these types from time to time but, thankfully, not as much as I used to be. Sure, the star-crossed romanticism always appealed to me on some level. However, that was the most innocent aspect; the most easily tenable. I mainly flock to women too unobtainable because there’s a built in, no-fault, rejection. “Well, she was great but will be moving back to Guam soon, and with my American education, I can’t readily locate that on a map.” Happily, the fear of being rejected by someone you are deeply drawn to isn’t the only problem the “out-of-towner” alleviates. You also don’t have to worry about any type of commitment either.
Historically, my feelings regarding commitment could be summed up by the fact that I have three brands of mustard in my refrigerator. Another example is when my boss once visited my office and asked for a stapler. I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the stapler was. You see, I preferred paperclips because I didn't like the commitment of staples. He stared at me blankly. “Merino, you got problems,” he said while his wife laughed out loud. Minutes after he found a stapler, he sheepishly asked me for a staple remover. Apparently, he had joined the wrong set of files and needed the saber-toothed instrument that violently rips the staples out of your now tattered papers. “One divorce, coming up,” I snorted as I handed it to him.
This kind of attitude is fine, even advisable in your early twenties. I feel that it’s a time best spent on you and who you are going to be. However, once you get into your thirties and still have this bearing, you realize you’re just spinning your wheels and wasting time. Or worse, you're hiding from a fear of failure. This can easily happen when your same talent for observation that allows you to mercilessly eviscerate the lady with 32 items in the express line, turns on you when no one else is around. It is such a sharp and unforgiving instrument, it amazes me when others are oblivious to their own shortcomings.
I was once complimented at work when my manager said, “Paul’s strength is that he knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s great at self-assessment.” I wanted to jump up in the meeting and say, “That’s nothing, Boss! I snore, I drink too much, and have a completely irrational fear of drowning as well!” These things are all true, by the way. Come to think of it, they all reared their ugly heads simultaneously in Las Vegas one early morning. After twelve straight hours at a blackjack table, I realized I had set the land speed record for rum. Feeling particularly rotten, I ran a bath in my equally rotten hotel room.
You see, my college roommate and I decided to spend our precious few dollars on booze and gambling rather than luxuries like cable television and working door locks. There was also a suspicious dark stain on the floor one could easily imagine a chalk outline around. As I slipped into the bath, I yelled out to Neil, “If you can’t hear me snoring, it means I’m drowning.” Then, I passed out to the deafening silence of a close friend debating whether to let me die or fish my drunken, naked body from the tub. Luckily for both of us, he didn’t have to make that Sophie’s choice. So, I guess it’s good to be able to recognize your faults but, maybe, not dwell on them so Goddamn much.
I was once asked the awkward question by a well-meaning idiot, “Don’t you love yourself?” Uncharacteristically, I replied honestly and said, “It’s more of a physical relationship… You know? We’re just having a good time.” And, ultimately, there lies the problem. I wonder if you get the kinds of relationships you deserve. Now, a few more miles have rolled on my odometer and I realize that I’m not old, but I am too old to still be pulling the kinds of crap I did in my twenties. But it’s a slow process, and it’s not like touching a hot stove. These lessons have to be periodically relearned.
Recently, under the guise of kind curiosity, I asked a mutual friend about a married woman the way a New Yorker thumbs through the obituaries looking for apartments. I was charmed by the thought of another brief dalliance with a recent divorcee and scolded myself. It’s not that I find anything wrong with it, per se. I guess I’m just curious about something that means a little more and is actually a little more demanding. Of course, this would mean having to find someone I wouldn’t mind taking a long road trip with. Not that I go on them often, but it always seems to be my measure of someone’s worth. If you could stand to be trapped with this person in a confined space, between Fort Stockton and El Paso, and you don’t find yourself calculating your odds of survival if you leapt from the vehicle, you might have someone worth keeping.
Driving near campus yesterday, I found myself stopped at a light in front of a bar with a full patio of students and half-emptied pitchers of beer. It was a beautiful March day in the low 70’s. Knowing much of the country was still under a blanket of snow, I rolled down my windows to appreciate the mild temperatures- like a child finishing his plate because people were starving in China. With yet another birthday bearing down on me, I turned down the blaring classic rock that was already old when I was their age. I saw them laughing, and horsing around, and obviously not using terms like “horsing around.” But, it actually made me happy this time. I still have this and probably will for quite sometime- maybe, for the rest of my life. However, it doesn’t mean that I can’t move onto other things too. And as I see those countless students floating through life from disc golf course to happy hour, I paused and truly realized that I’ve been just as much stuck in time as they are.
With a larger population than twelve state capital cities, The University of Texas boasts an enrollment of precisely one-and-half craploads of people. And they are everywhere. Once you add these students to those not attending the school (but also not doing anything else), a thriving sub-genre of Austinites, I can’t drive around this town without getting the feeling that everyone is having a better time than I am. And as this group is constantly replenished with new blood, as I age, they are frozen in time like a vampire, Dorian Gray, or Bob Costas.
* * *
Recently, I saw a 17 year-old holding a press conference to announce he was going to play football at The University of South Carolina. Now, I have actually been to South Carolina. I saw a turkey the size of a Volkswagen there. I believe it was the only living thing not smoking. Regardless, I started thinking about how this kid on T.V. was literally half my age. This means I have a t-shirt which says “Betty Ford Clinic” in my possession that, except for the ability to overcome the block of an interior lineman, is old enough to hold its own nationally televised press conference. Of course, it is just a t-shirt, so I guess it would probably have to go to Arizona St.But, I thought back to my trip to South Carolina. I was in my early twenties and went there because I was sure I was madly in love with a girl I had met twice. It would be the first of a litany of out-of-state, recently divorced, or otherwise impossible infatuations in my life. Unfortunately, she only liked me for my mind and I had far more tangible ways of expressing my interest in her. These were ways that required precautionary stretching and Gatorade to replenish eagerly worked off electrolytes. She would later visit me in Austin, but this would only serve to lengthen my delusions. It was like treating dementia with copious amounts of hallucinogens- just a waste of good drugs… or in this case, Bare Naked Ladies concert tickets.
Mind you, I’m not ashamed of having liked her. She was brilliant, funny, and could order great take-out. It was just the fact that I only care to invest myself in lost causes. I find that I’m still prone to these types from time to time but, thankfully, not as much as I used to be. Sure, the star-crossed romanticism always appealed to me on some level. However, that was the most innocent aspect; the most easily tenable. I mainly flock to women too unobtainable because there’s a built in, no-fault, rejection. “Well, she was great but will be moving back to Guam soon, and with my American education, I can’t readily locate that on a map.” Happily, the fear of being rejected by someone you are deeply drawn to isn’t the only problem the “out-of-towner” alleviates. You also don’t have to worry about any type of commitment either.
Historically, my feelings regarding commitment could be summed up by the fact that I have three brands of mustard in my refrigerator. Another example is when my boss once visited my office and asked for a stapler. I had to confess to him that I had no idea where the stapler was. You see, I preferred paperclips because I didn't like the commitment of staples. He stared at me blankly. “Merino, you got problems,” he said while his wife laughed out loud. Minutes after he found a stapler, he sheepishly asked me for a staple remover. Apparently, he had joined the wrong set of files and needed the saber-toothed instrument that violently rips the staples out of your now tattered papers. “One divorce, coming up,” I snorted as I handed it to him.
This kind of attitude is fine, even advisable in your early twenties. I feel that it’s a time best spent on you and who you are going to be. However, once you get into your thirties and still have this bearing, you realize you’re just spinning your wheels and wasting time. Or worse, you're hiding from a fear of failure. This can easily happen when your same talent for observation that allows you to mercilessly eviscerate the lady with 32 items in the express line, turns on you when no one else is around. It is such a sharp and unforgiving instrument, it amazes me when others are oblivious to their own shortcomings.
I was once complimented at work when my manager said, “Paul’s strength is that he knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s great at self-assessment.” I wanted to jump up in the meeting and say, “That’s nothing, Boss! I snore, I drink too much, and have a completely irrational fear of drowning as well!” These things are all true, by the way. Come to think of it, they all reared their ugly heads simultaneously in Las Vegas one early morning. After twelve straight hours at a blackjack table, I realized I had set the land speed record for rum. Feeling particularly rotten, I ran a bath in my equally rotten hotel room.
You see, my college roommate and I decided to spend our precious few dollars on booze and gambling rather than luxuries like cable television and working door locks. There was also a suspicious dark stain on the floor one could easily imagine a chalk outline around. As I slipped into the bath, I yelled out to Neil, “If you can’t hear me snoring, it means I’m drowning.” Then, I passed out to the deafening silence of a close friend debating whether to let me die or fish my drunken, naked body from the tub. Luckily for both of us, he didn’t have to make that Sophie’s choice. So, I guess it’s good to be able to recognize your faults but, maybe, not dwell on them so Goddamn much.
I was once asked the awkward question by a well-meaning idiot, “Don’t you love yourself?” Uncharacteristically, I replied honestly and said, “It’s more of a physical relationship… You know? We’re just having a good time.” And, ultimately, there lies the problem. I wonder if you get the kinds of relationships you deserve. Now, a few more miles have rolled on my odometer and I realize that I’m not old, but I am too old to still be pulling the kinds of crap I did in my twenties. But it’s a slow process, and it’s not like touching a hot stove. These lessons have to be periodically relearned.
Recently, under the guise of kind curiosity, I asked a mutual friend about a married woman the way a New Yorker thumbs through the obituaries looking for apartments. I was charmed by the thought of another brief dalliance with a recent divorcee and scolded myself. It’s not that I find anything wrong with it, per se. I guess I’m just curious about something that means a little more and is actually a little more demanding. Of course, this would mean having to find someone I wouldn’t mind taking a long road trip with. Not that I go on them often, but it always seems to be my measure of someone’s worth. If you could stand to be trapped with this person in a confined space, between Fort Stockton and El Paso, and you don’t find yourself calculating your odds of survival if you leapt from the vehicle, you might have someone worth keeping.
Driving near campus yesterday, I found myself stopped at a light in front of a bar with a full patio of students and half-emptied pitchers of beer. It was a beautiful March day in the low 70’s. Knowing much of the country was still under a blanket of snow, I rolled down my windows to appreciate the mild temperatures- like a child finishing his plate because people were starving in China. With yet another birthday bearing down on me, I turned down the blaring classic rock that was already old when I was their age. I saw them laughing, and horsing around, and obviously not using terms like “horsing around.” But, it actually made me happy this time. I still have this and probably will for quite sometime- maybe, for the rest of my life. However, it doesn’t mean that I can’t move onto other things too. And as I see those countless students floating through life from disc golf course to happy hour, I paused and truly realized that I’ve been just as much stuck in time as they are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)