Sorta wish I'd seen a bear.

I hurt pretty much everywhere. And, when I go about proclaiming such a thing, I don’t mean to exaggerate. My neck hurts from the absence of some sorely needed sunscreen yesterday, my chest hurts from breathing hard enough to stop this old heart, my left knee hurts because of, well, something or other, the shoulders ache on account of a backpack filled with what ended up being too much water, my butt hurts due to some incredibly long hills (the up kind as well as the down), the arms hurt from their share of swinging and the feet are blistered more than they’ve been in ages (one even bled all over my foot like the red badge of courage it is).

There’s a reason for the madness: it’s something called Hurricane Pass over in Idaho. Seven of us climbed it and nobody died before it ended. Started in Driggs, ID and ended up in Wyoming. This 21-mile up-and-down stretch accounted for about 9 hours of my time. The funny part is that I largely enjoyed myself. Not for the whole time, mind you—I’ll be hobbling around like a wincing old man the next couple of days yet—but I’m glad I never acted on the thought to turn around before it was all over. (There may be a life lesson hiding in there.) I mean, I’d have missed a pretty spectacular view of the majestic Grand Teton if I’d had.

A little advice? When you’re told by someone the night before that your 21-mile jaunt is “not that hard,” find out how many marathons she’s finished in her life first. The many-marathoner in this scenario had done something like a baker’s dozen. If I added my half marathons together, they’d equal two fulls, but that doesn’t really count, now, does it?

The good parts that I can dwell on at the moment are easy to pull up. They mostly have to do with the outdoors. I certainly enjoyed the green trees and grasses, the many fields speckled with so many varieties of flowers and, oh yes, that one, lazy moose. I’m glad Britta was on hand to help herd me in the proper direction. I couldn’t stop staring at the waterfalls, plucked straight out of the Tropics. I even thrilled at falling into a slump and camping that night, waking up to the tallest pines these eyes have ever seen. A slight wind kept them swaying and my attention was rapt. Really and truly.

Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this. Maybe I should already be fast asleeping, trying hard to rejuvenate and the like. No more maybes. I succumb.

Ouch.

For a good time ...

... chew on this little write-up I did about Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears for a while. Hot off the CW presses today! It was one of the worst interviews I've had in ages and ages, but at least the article seemed to come out on the okay side of things. He'll be here tomorrow night to give us the last show of the Twilight Concert Series until next year, so come send this whole thing off properly, yeah?

I was trying to think of the bands I'd like to see stopping by next summer and I can come up with a scant few: LCD Soundsystem, Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings, Band of Horses, Grizzly Bear, Wilco. I mean, that's a good beginning, am I right? Who are your ideas? Don't be shy.

I'll be seeing some of this tonight.

More bearded Sam Beam and less Flamenco dancers, but still. Can you argue with the sexy? You may be able to, but I can't. Not in a million.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLNyVLbqdEg

Wordless Wednesday.

Zee Avi, won't you sang that song for me?

This one time I went to a Zee Avi concert and I was really taken with her and the music and even her little ukulele that looked like a guitar when she played it cause she was just that small and I wrote about it and everything and they decided to put it in City Weekly and then I became a really famous music critic or something because everybody loves my words and wants me to write a whole bunch of books.

Read it HERE and believe it later.

Real life Nacho Libre.

Nobody’s going to ask me what my luchador experience was like. It all happened in one of those blurs people like to mention.

And, you know, I’m betting nobody will ask me about the delicious $1 liver and chile relleno tacos I had for breakfast on Friday morn. I doubt the local band that outdid the Lizard King himself on his own “Love Her Madly” will ever even come up in conversation. That goes, too, for the bacon-wrapped hot dog I inhaled from the hot dog stand, the one that tasted so much better at night than it felt in the morning.

The luchadors, though, were an altogether new beast for me. I want to remember the experience as best I can. One thing led to another, it did. We went from wandering into a tiny shop with various wrestling masks on proud display to learning there’d be a match just hours later to a taxi cab driver dropping us off on a dirty street in downtown Mexico City, the same place Spanish-only-speaking scalpers tried earnestly to sell us tickets at double the listed price.

We did buy them. Eventually. It was “only” 200 pesos to get us ringside, which sounded like a good idea and price and what-not. There was more wandering after that, but more for perfect masks (Dan scored a nice horned number with a fat cross in the middle of the forehead) and shelter from the surprise rain and occasional driver out for blood. And, as the shops began to line the street outside the Arena Mexico, it became more and more clear what kind of cash cow the whole operation was. Whether it was luchador masks, plastic figurines, glittery bandanas or a fancy red beanie (too bad its one size fits all did not quite fit), there were some serious pesos being spent.

Getting into the arena I’ll chalk up to that whole magical stroke of luck part. Initially, the security cronies wouldn’t let us inside, as we had cameras and it was against their rules to actually grant us the very same privileges the Mexican press had. We mentioned we were with a magazine in the USA and had tried to call to request permission ahead of time, but nobody answered (both truths). Phone calls were made, text messages were sent and we waited, waited and continued to wait until some kind PR woman showed up and saved our hides. She took us inside, granted us permission to snap from a certain row (an even better one than the scalper had promised to us) and told us we could even shoot in a room just outside the locker room.

I believe that, at this point, there was a collective sigh of relief. That, or mine was just extra loud.

I don’t know that I can ever properly explain what it was like to be at the match. I suppose it was a bit like the WWF back in America (I’m not entirely sure which came first), though it was almost a little disconcerting to see seemingly ordinary fans in the crowd, patiently waiting for the match to begin ... only with a full vinyl head mask over their heads. The vendors sold big expensive beers and popcorn and even Cup ‘o Noodles to the hungry, but they sold masks as well. Horns were constantly blown and whistles blasted and names of luchadors yelled out (in between the actual Spanish swear words being shot out right above me) as the night unfolded, a combination of theatrics, precision, face makeup and sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

My personal favorite scene involved some Ewok looking wrestler, a midget dressed as a blue baby gorilla. First of all, was it spooky? Oh, yeah. He didn’t do very much but, when given the one rare opportunity to perform, he did not hesitate to drop kick a wrestler 10 times his size when his opponent was flat on the mat. I could have seen it happen six more times in a row and been fine with it. Alas, I can only replay that one in my head. (Last count over the past few days leaves me somewhere in the low hundreds.)

That match counts as some of the fastest three hours of my life, methinks, but we left with some grins, we did. When the taxi driver lucky enough to take us back to our hotel charged us double on account of the time (it being somewhere close to midnight), I didn’t even mind. Much.

Who knew colored masks and spandex could account for so much of the happy on my part? Certainly not me.

Mexico wins!

I don’t even know where to start, but here’s a shot.

I should have known something was up when I saw a guy all trussed up as Uncle Sam Wednesday morning in the hotel lobby. He didn’t have the white hair and KFC goat to go with his getup, and he was very likely of Mexican descent, but he was Uncle Sam all the same. Not an hour later, I learned Mexico would be taking on the United States for a shot at the World Cup happening next year. As in futbol. As in soccer. And what was I doing instead of watching? Why wasn’t I glued to a TV or finagling myself into a sold-out-for-weeks stadium? Oh, you know … doing my job.

I’ll fast forward through the middle part of my day, as it consisted of overpriced taxis, garbled Spanish and talking to some kind folks, taking some pretty photos of them and other stuff of that ilk. (I’ll write their stories later. I’ve plenty of notes.) However, one of them was gracious enough to offer her TV so we could catch the end of the game. We saw that fated second goal, the one Mexico made … the one that changed the tides a bit and broke a tie. It was the last goal of the game, the one that effectively won the game for the country. She cheered long and loud about that 2-1 final score and we tried not to sulk.

The good part was that we made it back home some hours after the game had ended. They didn’t think that’d happen. As a result of the win, the street surrounding our hotel was actually closed off. The friend driving us there had to stop a couple blocks away and we had to cross a couple of angry policemen to get to where we wanted to be. We even got called some Spanish names I best not repeat here.

On the way, I saw an old, frail man being helped to the sidelines of Reforma Street, lest he crash his drunk body down and break something brittle. Saw another guy holding his buddy up by the back of his pants, saving him from meeting a similar fate with the concrete. And, by our hotel, there were about a hundred policemen, wielding their plastic shields, just waiting for something to happen. Eh, mostly they looked bored, but it was still plenty bizarre.

See, there’s an angel of sorts right in front of this place. When Mexico wins, it’s tradition for everyone to come over to the angel and celebrate, running circles around it and cheering. A lot of crazy things have been said to happen, though, so the cops are on hand just in case. They even protect said angel with a fence surrounding it. And the celebrating? It’s like Mardi Gras and New Year’s decided to combine forces. It’s one of the happiest, loudest times I can recall even being partially part of. There are crazy green, white and red wigs being hocked. There are some crazy loud noisemakers being blown. There is running and laughing and soapy foam being sprayed at pretty much everyone.

We entered that storm, simply because it looked like an unpredictable, chaotic party (and because, well, Dan wanted to be that party’s pro photographer). There were waving flags and cheering and popular questions like “Are you American?” Why no, obviously, we were Canadian so, well, you don’t have to put your knife in our guts. I kid, but these winners were sore winners. One guy even told us not to speak any English while we were there and we would be just fine. Otherwise, we were likely to get good and punched. Or worse? It never happened, I did get foamy soap sprayed directly in my eye and got asked to pose in some photos, but all ended well. Essentially? We were walking props. And targets.

Ah, the passion and the pride of Mexico runs deeper than I ever knew. It even makes me want to dust off my cleats and get back to playing some futbol when I get back, all over again. Let’s hope that feeling lasts.

Run for the border.

There's plenty for to complain about this evening, though I've never been one prone to airing my grievances out in print: emotions are far too temporary to do so. My heart's been heavy for one thing after another these past several days and I've had to take my aggressions out in (among other things) many, many games of ping pong (oh, yes ... really). I readjust and move on. I search for the reason for the day or the weekend or entire week to get better, find it, clamber towards it and go about hanging onto it for dear life. For inst: this Monday was some bad news. In that all too stereotypical world of Mondays harboring up the doom as well as the gloom, this one did a number on me. But switching up my car for my cruiser and biking from place to place this afternoon? I really, really liked that part. That's the part of my day I choose to put under my magnifying glass. Maybe this foretells my next life path as a courier. Maybe.

On that note, I'm lucky enough to visit Mexico City once again, care of my job. It's been a good year and s'more since I had my fun over there. I ended up plenty inspired by the sights and sounds and experiences that surrounded me ... and it all bubbled over and came out in words I'm still pretty proud of. (To read what I mean, go HERE.) Sure, I'll be working. But, you know? There will be a crazy amount of tacos to eat. There will be all new experiences to fill these eyes up with. I may even fall in love with what I do for a living again. It's been far too long since that's happened. There's hope in that. Here's to believing.

Ridiculous?

Or ridiculously good? I'm gonna have to go ahead and go with the latter this time.

Meditate the moon.

There is so much I like about a moon—the moon—whether it be entirely full or not. I don’t think it’s quite there tonight (my calendar says we’ve a couple nights of its white light to go yet), but I still enjoy the gauzy haze that surrounds it. Might be incredibly high fog, might be clouds, might be one of those mystery moon shadows ... may even be blurry eyes in this thinking-too-much head I own up to in these wee small hours. It’s one of those werewolf or vampire moons out there, complete with the hundreds of summer crickets chirping in almost-unison and just the slightest hint of a cool in the air, the one that’s been gone too long these last several weeks.

You can get lost in it all if you let yourself.

There is some peace to just being in its presence; there is a pristine beauty there I don’t know that I can fully describe. I feel it. There is a constant pull of intrigue and a nagging desire to lasso it in a little closer. I also like that, even if I wanted to, my point ‘n shoot camera wouldn’t be able to fully capture what I was staring at and turning over in my head. The mental snapshot will do ... it will have to ... and the memory will suffice. I do hope it burns bright when a moonlight hike takes place not too far from now. My skin’s been aching for one of those moon tans after all.

Goodnight, moon.

Josh Ritter does Rattling Locks.

Seen this yet? If not, you totally should have by now. It's been a few days since Josh Ritter blew through town, after all. Nice, smiley, storytelling kinda guy, that Josh. If you missed what the Moscow, Idaho native gave to us, I prolly won't make you feel any better by saying you missed a whole, whole lot. But, well, there's this video from his KRCL in-studio that I filmed all by myself. It's a new song from his forthcoming release called "Rattling Locks" and it's just as good as anything that has come before it. May your eyes and ears both enjoy.