Flipping through my rarely-utilized Dish Network channels, I stumbled across Y tu mama’ tambien on the Independent Film Channel. It’s still on, and it’s killing me. The first time I remember talking about this film was with Annie G-funk in the Argonaut newspaper office at the University of Idaho. That was (what?) 2002. I have meant to watch it ever since. (I just heard the titular line in this film!)
So I selected the channel and immediately thought, “Fuck man. That looks like Mexico.” The dialogue started, and I was like, “Fuck man. They speak like Mexicans.” Guey. Bien pedo. Cabron. IMDB search dice que los dos son mexicanos (D.F. and Guadalajara (a tapatio!)). What has followed is gape-jawed, brow-furrowed nostalgique sadness. I really miss Mexico. The thought that I was there this time last year and that I haven’t practiced much Spanish since October fanned the flames.
Yes, I am excited for Spain (and finally bought my tickets this week), but my heart resides in Latin America and checks in every once in a while to see when I am coming back. Methinks this fall for an extended stay, but my bankroll shall tell.
This week was nutty. Teaching (even substitute-style) is exhausting. Thursday was my second assignment, and it was in the elementary school special ed classroom. Another surreal, memory-jolt day; I had crosswalk duty, recess duty and worked with children with severe disabilities. So much was different, but really everything was still the same. The building, with its old wood floors and radiator heat, smelled the exact same as when I was a 3rd grader and made it hard to remember I was there teaching. The “new” wing and “new” upper playground have been there at least 15 (?) years by my count. Recess duty was mostly me dazing off into time travel, thinking of horse clubs and boy chasing. At the end of the day, I felt humbled … and incredibly tired. At home, I got a rejection email from a newspaper with whom I thought I had been in final story negotiations. Fuck.
I took a nap, tried to write and ended up barfing and groaning for the remainder of the evening. I guess it was “the flu.” In my incapacitated state, I tried to recall the last time I had thrown up without alcohol as the dominant factor. Maybe middle school? I went to sleep with an honest-to-god barf bag beside my bed. Scheduled to substitute at the high school on Friday morning, I left a message so they could schedule a substitute for my substitution.
Friday was also apparently deemed a day to converge on St. Maries. Friends from St. M, Coeur d’ Alene and Moscow decided the Gem State was a hot spot. My niece, her boy and my never-met GREAT NEPHEW (what the shit?) also visited from Missoula. Messages from Boise confirmed an ass-rocking Friday, for everyone except me, across the board. For once in my life, I stayed home, claiming flu and family. I have not heard the end of the blame and shame and doubt I ever will.
I’m getting scared about no one buying any Spain stories, but I have my credit cards. And I still have the little-to-no-money circuit to query. I am also in warehouse-supervising salmon cannery negotiations again, though I thought this might be my first summer out of Alaska. I am planning some big time shit for this hyar webby site with retrospective travel and a site-explaining map key. Stay tuned. Check out my published work page because that took me a long time. Now my Mexico movie is coming back on, so it looks like my night is pretty much booked. Time to get bien pedo.