99.9% (lucky you!) of a myspace blog I posted in June, 2006 about a trip to Cancun.

Hola muchachos! I got back from Cancun late last night and have spent pretty much all of today catching up and unpacking. But I wanted to write down what happened because I like torturing you.

SATURDAY
We spent Friday night at Alex’s parents house and his dad drove us to the airport Saturday morning. Nothing truly eventful except we were delayed over half an hour for coke. Yes… they forgot to put soda on the plane so we had to wait for it. After apologizing 79 thousand times (without starting the plane), I decided a vote was in order. “Who wants a coke?! Who wants to fucking go?!” No one answered because I was talking to myself, but I think the large guy behind me agreed as he coughed all over my hair. We ended up in Cancun anyway, and found out we had an amazing view that was literally right on the beach. Local weather: hot and humid. We ordered pizza because nothing was open, and I passed out.

SUNDAY
Exhausted from not having enough coke, we decided to take the bus to downtown Cancun. Huge mistake. There’s nothing there except flies and souvenirs. After walking thousands of miles in blazing heat and crazy humidity, I felt pretty lost and Jewish. Actually, it was maybe a mile or two and I did get a nice view of the ghetto. Arriving back at the hotel (after buying a souvenir to make the trip sort of worth it), we decided to check out the beach. Walking from our back porch to the beach took one minute, but I was parched and still had to stop for a pina colada as soon as I hit the sand. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Dashiell Hammett’s detective stories and not applying sunblock, while Alex read “The Da Vinci Code” and wore SPF 15. That night involved buying some beers for our villa’s kitchen (which, along with limes and crackers were all the supplies we needed for a week) and setting up our touristy activities for the trip, which were climbing the Mayan ruins at Chichen-Itza and going on a Pirate Cruise.

MONDAY
The day was spent at the beach, and I again decided sunblock was for losers and trusted my Italian/Mexican genes to carry me and my pale ass through a week of endless infernos. The water was awesome, and I spent some time playing in the sand like a four year old, and loving it. That night we wanted to check out the night life we saw on the tragic bus ride all the way to easkabumfuck a day earlier. We ended up at Senor Frogs, and while we were waiting for our picture (which you pay $25 for AND tip the guy- for what I couldn’t tell you) my legs felt like they were burning. Chalking it up to being out of Fresno for too long and the heat was getting to me, I had a few gigantic drinks and forgot about it. We danced, watched Southerners and Brits get crazy with the little shows the house puts on, drank and danced some more, went home, and had another beer or two (thanks to the well planned stash).

TUESDAY
We had to be good Tuesday because Wednesday we had to get up early for a trip to the Mayan Ruins (real early, like 6AM, not fake early). When I woke up I realized last night my legs had been EATEN ALIVE by fire ants but I was too drunk/stupid too realize it. I laughed in pain’s face but started furiously scratching my legs and realized laughing at pain and/or death always requires liquor. We spent some more time at the beach- I think I wore SPF 6 that day- and went to town to go souvenir shopping. We got some great stuff, but my legs felt like midget dogs were devouring them with NO utensils and I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to handle it. So… we ended up at the resort bar that night. We met a strange guy- Steve?- who came alone and apparently smoked a lot of weed. We also met this nice Southern couple on their honeymoon who were convinced we needed to have lots of babies. Somehow, throughout the one night we had to behave, Alex and I ended up being the most drunk we would be on the entire trip. I had to close the tab because he was ready to pass out, but I ended up on the beach extremely faded in a nightgown. I wasn’t on a nice resort chair either, I was right at the water line saying incoherent things to cute couples as they went for moonlight walks. I had a bath towel with me that I think I was sitting on, but most of my comments to people involved asking for towels.

WEDNESDAY
Alex and I wake up feeling like someone set off dynamite inside of us. Here it is, 6 something in the morning, we have a bus waiting for us, and I can’t get him to put any pants on. We end up at the bus through the mercy of Dionysus and feel like absolute old shit for the first part of the ride. When it started wearing off I compared it to having a nail in your foot that feels nice when it’s out, but you’re still bleeding. Yeah… Alex thought that was a bad analogy too. Anyway, we get to Chichen-Itza, me covered in bugbites and both of us hungover, along with a busful of nice old tourists. The ruins were amazing, but you could only climb on some of them because some dillhole decided it was a fantastic idea to graffiti the inside of the temples. Our tour guide, Pepe, told great stories about treasure hunters using explosives on the temples and how the winner (or maybe loser, no one knows) of the Mayan equivalent of basketball was beheaded after the game. We also talked about sacrificing virgins (no cracks about how safe I must have felt, you dogs) and how the Mayans had a superior grasp of acoustics. You can clap at certain points in the ruins and it will reverberate your panties off or make twanging noises from high up in the great temple. Pepe said some other stuff but I was hungry and it was too damn hot to try and decipher his accent all day. We also saw a sinkhole where they sacrificed “pure people” by throwing them in. I sat next to it and scratched my bugbites thinking of how badly I wanted a ham sandwich. The bus drove us to a good Mexican restaurant for lunch, and our next activity was swimming in an underground cave. Being a germ freak, I only sat on the side and estimated the number of parasites everybody else was going to walk away with, but it was really pretty.

THURSDAY
Still tired from Wednesday’s excellent adventure, we had to recoup in the morning for Thursday evening’s Pirate Cruise. (Yes, bitch, it gets capital letters.) Everyone was going to dress like a pirate, we’d have an open bar AND a steak and lobster dinner. So, to rest up, more fun at the beach! This time, however, all the previous time in the sun finally caught up to us and took a hearty dump. My back was HOT from the burn, and Alex referred to himself as “Lobster Man” and made up a theme song which was something like him half-singing “lobster man” over and over. We sack up and go to the pirate cruise, which was amazing from the beginning because we started out standing in a huge line! Ye-eah! The pirate cruise really got going when we got one of the worst seats right next a speaker on tiny stools with 80 other people (some fortunate souls got the side of the boat). A fat captain calling himself “Cap-i-tan Hook” screamed half-english into his microphone, which was amplified into our little section of the deck. I looked at Alex with pleading eyes and said, “We have to find better seats, or this will be the worst and most un-piratey experience of our lives.” His attempts to rescue us were shot down by the pirate servers. I saw a young couple slide into a prime spot one deck above us, and mustered all the rage a pirate-obsessed American tourist can have onto an unsuspecting deckhand. I wandered over, raised a shaking arm and said, “Can we sit there?” I pointed (angrily!) to the other half of the excellent seats. “Sure.” We ended up getting a great view of the show and the sunset, and the young English couple next to us were just as interested in getting beers as we were, making the cruise pretty cool.

FRIDAY
Just relaxed and packed for our morning flight the next day. Drank the remaining beers. Enjoyed it.

An email I wrote from New Orleans about 1/2 of my trip for Mardi Gras.

Of utmost importance now is speed.  I am presently being raped in my anus by a large internet cafe dildo and don’t have the time to correct errors and/or bother to make any damn sense.  Here’s what I’ve been up to:

THURSDAY
Got off the plane.  Met a gay man who shrieked when he even smelled turbulence and a woman who was born in New Orleans and loved her dog more than her son.   Proceeded to take 2 hour taxi ride with several guys insisting I had to flash them or risk angering the “Boobie God.”  Laughed nervously and told the driver to hurry the fuck up (the taxi continued at a snail’s pace despite my telepathic aid).  Met up with my cousin Chelsea and our friend from Colorado, Dustin.  Got drunk and saw some parade.  Details are sketchy at this point.  Went to a bar and took shots out of waitresses tops. Dustin about shit himself with glee.

FRIDAY
More drinking and parades.  Ended up on Bourbon street.  Lots of people.  Aided Dustin in snagging a
Girls Gone Wild Hat.  Looked at some stuff.  Saw more parades and drank a lot of rum.  Was separated from my friends.  Ended up getting really smashed and talking to strangers in various accents.  Ordered a pizza and carried it down the street giving slices away in an English accent.  The people, they loved it.  Saw someone piss in the hotel lobby.  Rejoined Chelsea and Dustin, who were incredibly baked and saying nasty things about the Olsen twins respectively.  Again, details are sketchy, at best.

DRUNKDAY
Three parades.  Shittons of beads.  My neck was practically bowed.  Seriously, I understand how
rappers feel now.  Even more than in the sense that they are my fellow pimps. Got hit in the face with a sack of beads.  Excellent parade.

TODAY
Got up before God Himself to go to a brunch.  Turns out it’s this huge Bacchus brunch deal and Elijah Wood was elected or kidnapped to be Bacchus.  So he shows up and throws coins and shit at us, and the girls went crazy.  I got bored when he couldn’t figure out his digital camera.  He’s pretty short, too.  Was close at first but didn’t have my camera, so the pictures I did take are from further away and his hobbit ass may not show up too well.  Dustin wanted to scream out, “Frodo!” and run away, but we decided to walk out smoking with our sunglasses on instead.  Chelsea was too drunk to be reached for a comment.  So now I’m in the mall, looking for shoes for some fancy ball business tonight.  Honestly, I just want to get my ass to the Bayou and wrestle some alligators.  Mmmm.

All the food here sets my pants on fire.  I sucked the brains out of a crawfish today.  Fine cajun cuisine.
Thanks to those who wrote me (my favorites!) and sorry for being a douche and not personally responding.   I’ll get in touch with you when I can.

There is no good segue into this story so I’m just going to go balls out on it: Yesterday, I was on the Price is Right.  Not just in the audience, but on the show.  30 something of my housemates and I got on a Green Tortoise bus and went to LA with group reservations for the show.

Before I go on, let me tell you about this bus.  Green Tortoise buses are hippie busses with bunk beds instead of luggage compartments and huge mattresses instead of seats.  The driver will make liquor stops whenever you want and share his Cherry Garcia with you. The upholstery smells like sweet, sweet hashish and there’s a compartment in the back with a door for sweet, sweet scrumping.  We left at about midnight, and I had just returned from Santa Cruz so I had just enough time to tear my room apart looking for my passport, trip over my roommate’s stupid chair, and run out to the bus holding my sweet, sweet shin.

Fast forward many long hours and it’s Casa Zimbabwe in LA.  We split into two groups for the two tapings of the day and I (of course) fell into the later group.  We walked to Melrose, had breakfast.  I had an enormous cup of coffee (black, like the devil made it), and we stolled around aimlessly looking at the funny SoCalians.  Back at CBS studios, we entered the golden years of our lives waiting in a five hour processing line.  The highlights of the wait were making up dances with my mate Ben, listening to Dustin sing about “pizza rakes,” and screaming the lyrics to “We are the Champions” before the interviewer told us to shut up.  So we wait, get nametags, wait, sing, wait, run to Quizno’s, group sex, wait, get interviewed, wait, FINALLY get into the studio.

It’s a lot smaller than I thought.  So, we’re sitting there clapping like trained monkeys and this announcer comes out (not Rod, he’s dead), and starts making dirty jokes.  Not impressed.  We’re sitting there, applauding the applause sign, and they start filming.  They call out names.  The third name they call is mine.  “Capn Nobear” is what he actually called, but if Ms. Nobear had gotten up to contest my spot, I would’ve shot her face off.

The next part is a little hazy.  I remember looking back to my group, specifically this guy Keith, for help, and not being able to hear shit while I was bidding.  I eventually was the closest when I bid on an exercise bike, and ran up onstage and stood next to the man himself, my personal god, Bob Barker.  He asked if I was excited and I think I said “Yes.”  I might have slipped and said, “I just wet myself with joy,” but you can’t prove that.  Then Bob said, “You’ll be more excited with this!”  And all I hear is “A new car!”  I remember seeing a truck and a big board with some numbers roll out.  I remember guessing the price of the truck.  I also remember dancing around like a fucking idiot and hugging Bob Barker.

I’m a little tired and, as always, lazy, so I’ll be brief: I filled out forms, spun the wheel, creamed my jeans, smoked a ton, drank a shitton at a bar where they gave me ice cream, drank on the bus, arrived at home and called my dad.  I came away with a Dodge Dakota, an exercise bike, $95, a year’s supply of Alka-Seltzer, and an autographed picture of Bob.  And they let me keep the signs with my name on them.  You can see me act like a greedy fool on December 24th, around 3pm.  I am out of my mind right now.  My sister didn’t believe me, either.