It is my first time in Mexico and as the plane nears the air strip I notice the tightly coiled jungle vegetation, it's all so dense and darkly green and clings closely to the ground, afraid to grow any higher in this heat. It's all so reminiscent of Jamaica, my lovely orphan of the Bahamas, my usual tropical choice of vacation.
I am bouncing along a dusty back road squished in the middle of the front seat of a beat-up Toyota van. The driver is young with slicked-back oily hair curled at the ends. His brown arms are hairless and his fingers keep beat on the steering wheel to a Nirvana tune and that's not an easy thing to do if you think about it. He doesn't speak English and his CD holder boasts Red Hot Chili Peppers, Gin Blossoms, U2. "Any Rolling Stones?" I venture. He gives me a smile and a large gold tooth is planted right in the middle of it.
Good lord, is that four people on one motorcycle, dad, little boy, little boy, mom, all helmeted at least. These are a small brown people.
Back at the resort I begin my laps in the turquoise pool and after sixty minutes a man with more tattooed skin than not looks my way. All afternoon he has been blowing deadly Marlboro smoke in my direction and now he says, "you're nuts." I'm nuts? I'm not the one sitting in full sun this close to the equator sipping Bud Lite when Corona plus lime is available.
I bring my exercise routine on vacation and then I get suspicious looks from the other tourists. I don't talk to them. We are here for different reasons.
I am in my chair slogging through Keith Richards' autobiography, what an awful man, when this group across the pool starts blasting a MP3 comblomeration of country, rap and slimy Bieber ballads. Did you really think we want to listen to your shitty choice in music? Did you bother asking any of us? Can't you see there are drunk people here trying to sleep?
If we were in Jamaica there would be Bob Marley tunes everywhere, every taxi, every village square, every jerk chicken place. "Don't worry 'bout a 'ting, cause every little 'ting gonna be all right . . " It is all right the first few times the song wafts softly on the breeze but by the end of the week you just want to slap someone. And the truth of the matter is, it's not gonna be all right. The fricking Russians are in the Ukraine and now Biden's going over, there's a waste of jet fuel. But then the AP just announced the arrival of powdered alcohol, there's a good idea. You could sprinkle it on frozen pizza, a Hostess cupcake, your breakfast cereal. By god, everything would indeed be all right. Go, Bob.
I am bouncing along a dusty back road squished in the middle of the front seat of a beat-up Toyota van. The driver is young with slicked-back oily hair curled at the ends. His brown arms are hairless and his fingers keep beat on the steering wheel to a Nirvana tune and that's not an easy thing to do if you think about it. He doesn't speak English and his CD holder boasts Red Hot Chili Peppers, Gin Blossoms, U2. "Any Rolling Stones?" I venture. He gives me a smile and a large gold tooth is planted right in the middle of it.
Good lord, is that four people on one motorcycle, dad, little boy, little boy, mom, all helmeted at least. These are a small brown people.
Back at the resort I begin my laps in the turquoise pool and after sixty minutes a man with more tattooed skin than not looks my way. All afternoon he has been blowing deadly Marlboro smoke in my direction and now he says, "you're nuts." I'm nuts? I'm not the one sitting in full sun this close to the equator sipping Bud Lite when Corona plus lime is available.
I bring my exercise routine on vacation and then I get suspicious looks from the other tourists. I don't talk to them. We are here for different reasons.
I am in my chair slogging through Keith Richards' autobiography, what an awful man, when this group across the pool starts blasting a MP3 comblomeration of country, rap and slimy Bieber ballads. Did you really think we want to listen to your shitty choice in music? Did you bother asking any of us? Can't you see there are drunk people here trying to sleep?
If we were in Jamaica there would be Bob Marley tunes everywhere, every taxi, every village square, every jerk chicken place. "Don't worry 'bout a 'ting, cause every little 'ting gonna be all right . . " It is all right the first few times the song wafts softly on the breeze but by the end of the week you just want to slap someone. And the truth of the matter is, it's not gonna be all right. The fricking Russians are in the Ukraine and now Biden's going over, there's a waste of jet fuel. But then the AP just announced the arrival of powdered alcohol, there's a good idea. You could sprinkle it on frozen pizza, a Hostess cupcake, your breakfast cereal. By god, everything would indeed be all right. Go, Bob.
2 comments:
Aww man...did you really hate Keef's biography? Cos I loved it! :-( Mick was my original fave but after reading unofficial , I went to Keith and came away with a sense that i knew him.
I loved the biography, a truly interesting read. LOVED how he talked about music, composition, the guitar as an art form.
He should never have been responsible for raising a child. Me myself, a Beatles fan, yeah yeah yeah.
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