Puerto Vallarta, Mexico 2008 Photos

As I continue to feed images into the wood chipper more albums emerge.

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico 2008 Photos

All of the underwater photos and the first three images here were taken with a cheap disposable 35mm camera. I have no use for prints, so I had them developed at a drug store straight to CD-ROM. Considering the production tools couldn't be any lower, the results are surprisingly good. And while I'd never go back, I do find I have an affection for film photography I'd forgotten.

Adios Puerto Vallarta

As I sit on the balcony of my villa and watch the sunset on the last night of my Mexican holiday I can’t help but reflect.

Puerto Vallarta is a lovely place. Despite a full schedule I’m rested and content, not exhausted as I have been after many of my urban holidays.

But it’s not without its blemishes. It’s jammed to the teeth with tourists. In *most* of the bars and restaurants I visited the *only* Mexicans were the staff.

The city has the feel of being both unfinished and falling down. I’m told this is common in Mexican cities.

But Puerto Vallarta’s charms far outweigh any detractions. It’s pretty and balmy. The people are friendly and beautiful. The scenery is picturesque. Most of this place’s faults are charming or just harmless.

And what a time I’ve had! Even losing a day to stupidity and another to food poisoning I still had all the adventures I’d hoped for and many unexpected ones.

I’ve wined, dined, imbibed and partied. I’ve breathed under water and swum with dolphins. I’ve marveled at the majesty of the seas and the heavens.

I’ve heard the Mexican Hat Dance as taxi driver’s cell phone ring. I’ve seen the Wicked Witch of the West bussing tables. And I’ve seen a pimped out bus with undercarriage lighting.

I’ve told an eavesdropping, interrupting, white-trash skank in a restaurant to go fuck herself in response to her demands I stop criticizing American tourists for being obnoxious. (Oh the irony.)

I’ve drunk tequila, eaten crickets, gone native and come down with a most delicious case of jungle fever.

I remembered more Spanish than I expected, but far less than I needed.

In other words, I’ve had a most excellent adventure.

Gracias, Puerto Vallarta. Hasta Luego.

Pollo Jesus

Mexicans love chicken.
And Mexicans love Jesus.
But Mexicans *really* love Chicken Jesus.

Quiero La Señora Del Flan!

All Gay Men Secretly Want To Be Madonna

Although with Carson, it's not much of a secret.

Today I Swam with Dolphins and Named a Baby Whale

No snappy headlines today. Just an amazing set of memories. Today I swam with dolphins and named a baby whale. Really.

Carson and I went on a dolphin and whale watching boat ride this morning and boy did we hit the jackpot. We saw three or four pods each of humpbacks whales and dolphins.

Our plucky marine biologist guide gave us an interesting lesson on marine mammals before we left. She and other scientists track humpbacks from Alaska to Canada past America down to Mexico for their annual migration culminating in mating in Mexico.

She said they use distinctive tail and fin marks, scars and pigmentation to identify and track them.

"Do you see whales you recognize often," I asked.

"Well, since there are about 900 from Alaska to Mexico we don't recognize them often."

But then, over the course of the day, she recognized three. One of the mothers is named church key. And we saw a baby she recognized. She said the baby was among the more playful, breaching repeatedly near boats often. I asked his name and she hadn't thought of one and asked for suggestions. I offered Tigger, after the bouncy Winnie the Pooh character. She liked it and logged it.

And that's how I named a whale. His characteristics and name will be sent north to other scientists as he migrates back north.

I'm honored, moved and humbled.

As if the morning hadn't been good enough, swimming with dolphins was next. I'd brought my mask, snorkel and fins. On sighting a pod our guide told us to jump in. Carson and I were the only ones with gear so in we went while everyone else watched.

At first I didn't really get it. With no bait to attract them, they seemed distant and disinterested. But she urged us on in the open water and eventually I understood. Dolphins are playful and they came to investigate us.

Visibility was poor and I was startled when the appeared right in front of me. One started to cut a circle around me, just out of arms reach. I pursued and he continued around. I cut five tight circles with the dolphin cutting slightly larger circles around me.

He literally ran rings around me. And I got to hear their chirping. It was exhilarating.

This was one of the greatest adventures of my life.

¿Crickets for Dinner?

Delicioso!

Montezuma’s Modest Disdain

So you’ve come to Mexico, wanting the complete and authentic experience, but you don’t have the two weeks for a full case of Montezuma’s Revenge? May I then recommend you pop into a local, fast-food taqueria and pick up a quick case of 36-hour food poisoning?

Oh sure, it doesn’t offer the full ride you get from e-coli or dysentery. But it’s still a whole lotta fun.

Planning is essential. Have on hand yogurt, Gatorade and ten liters of bottled water. You may as well go with bland white bread to provide the raw materials for building the beaver dam you’re gonna need in your gut, ‘cause you’re not going to be able to keep anything else down.

And finally, for the full, five-star-luxury experience, I suggest Mexican maid service. She’s there to wash your underwear for you. About once an hour is good.

Nothing Gay To See Here, Move Along

One heartfelt post about astronomy and now we’re back to nipples. I feel so much better.



As you can clearly see from the photo, there is absolutely nothing gay about these “Hard, Sexy, Hot” guys. They are “For Crazy Ladies Only” and not gay at all. Nope. Not gay. Not even a little. No gay here. Just ladies’ men. Who are not gay. At all. Just a big pile of Latin dudes. Who are not gay. Nope. Not gay. They are “The Best, The Biggest.” And totally straight. Meaning not gay. At all.

"The Watchers" and "The Oblivious"

Sorry, no sarcasm or partial nudity in this post. What kind of trash rag do you think I'm running here anyway? You probably think this is the sort of blog that will use any and every excuse to shoehorn nipples into totally unrelated topics. Well ... it is. But never mind that. I want to talk serious stuff today ... life, the universe and everything.

Imagine my delight at discovering I had quite unknowingly booked a vacation to the part of the world offering ideal viewing of this year's total lunar eclipse. What luck! I've seen partial lunar eclipses before, but never a full one. The event was quiet and small, yet majestic and moving.



First the moon slowly fades to red, as it enters the Penumbra and is hit by color-shifted light bent around the earth. Then, as it continues into the Umbra, the red moon is gradually obscured until finally the last thin slice disappears leaving nothing, void, just black sky. If you didn't know it had been there a moment before, you wouldn't know where to look for it's slow return a few minutes later. The whole event takes about an hour.

I found myself thinking back to the early astronomers of China and the Aztecs. A thousand years ago, the human conceit that our fortunes are told in the stars was the province of the monarch alone. Only the king was important enough to have a horoscope. On a night such as the one I enjoyed, if you'd been the royal astronomer, you'd have some quick thinking and fancy talking to do. Unexpected events in the heavens were believed to be bad omens. Astronomers who failed to predict and explain them often found themselves looking for a tube of ACME Severed-Head Glue.

These days eclipses are understood and reliably predicted. The idiocy of astrology is such a pedestrian affair that people rarely loose their heads over it, alas.

My own attempts at photography were mostly unsuccessful. That's OK. There are plenty of great photos of the eclipse out there.

The fascinating part of the experience for me was the human element, how people on the streets of Puerto Vallarta reacted. As the first subtle signs of the eclipse began, almost no one was watching. The only ones who were watching were retired couples sitting quietly on window sills, woman quiet, man with a camera. I chatted with a few. These early watchers had a reasonably good, basic understanding of what was happening.

Then slowly, as more eyes turned to the sky, more people, younger people, began looking up. Eager to cue these oblivious souls into what a special experience they we're missing, I gave quite a few impromptu astronomy lessons on the street.

As quizzical eyes darted back and forth between us watchers and the sky I found that a simple "It's a once in a lifetime experience, man," would usually grab their attention for a few minutes. I'd explain, catch a momentary glimpse of wonder in their eyes, and then they'd shuffle off.

I wanted to jump up and down, yell and tell everyone to look up. I wanted to bust into the sports bar and scream, "Stop, stop, stop! Stop watching this silly, zero-sum contest over a projectile. Go out there and see a true wonder of our solar system. Go and look ... if only for just a minute during the beer ads. Please I beg you."

But I refrained and my patience was rewarded.

It was heartening to see that by halfway into the event about half the people on the streets were looking up. This created a silently bifurcated world ... those of us quietly sharing a wondrous experience ... and the rest, tourists mostly, intent on finding their next margarita.

And so it went, "the watchers" and "the oblivious".

Look Ma, No Pants

If you're a straight guy at a beach bar and you create a commotion dumping a daiquiri in your lap, I supposed you just sit there being embarrassed with ice-cold, soggy genitals and suffer.

If you're a gay guy at a beach bar and you create a commotion dumping a daiquiri in your lap, just parlay the event into the beginning of a show. Calmly get up, remove your shorts and rinse them in the beach shower. Show off your fabulous underwear in the process. Take a bow. Sit back down.



Congratulations. You've just converted embarrassment into several offers for dates.

I love being gay.

Daddy, I Want a Boat with a Helicopter

This yacht belongs to the new richest man in the world, Carlos Slim Helú. While Bill Gates had the whole world to screw with his software monopoly, Helú made his money screwing mostly just Mexicans with his phone monopoly. That's a lotta screw. And it buys you pretty toys.

I wonder if I can get a boat with a helicopter just screwing the East Village. I'm willing to try.

Helpful Advice for the Curious Traveller

Suppose while traveling you decide on a warm afternoon to seek a brief respite from the sun in a friendly neighborhood dispensary of libations. And suppose further that halfway into your drink it occurs to you to wonder whether the establishment perhaps caters to patrons who are occasionally inclined to seek the company of members of their own gender.

Well then, dear reader, here are my travel tips for you.

First, when pretty boys clad only in leather aprons serve daquiries poolside in front of a giant rainbow flag, odds are pretty good you are in a gay bar.

And second, for reasons that elude me, fags smoking cigarettes, reading magazines and sipping martinis do not seem to appreciate cannonballs, no matter how artfully executed.

Caffine Depravation is the Mother of Invention

Discovering my villa had coffee filters but not a coffee maker I spent
a couple hours assembling this contraption and ingredients for it.

I was so proud of my ingenuity ... until I used it. The thin, pale, nearly-flavorless liquid it produced can be described, at best, as coffee like.

Nonethless, I still refuse to go to Starbucks ... mostly because my lesbian, fair-trade-coffee-activist friends would kill me when I got home.

Muy, Muy Bonita

Yo soy el gaucho de las mariposas

I've gone native. My new persona ... the faggot wrangler.

Arrived! At last.

Travel Diary of a Moron, Continued

(This post will make more sense if you read the one immediately prior first.)

When I wrote the previous post I thought my travel misadventure had concluded. Pero no. There was more to come.

When I got to my flight, the one two hours later for which I’d volunteered on which I was supposed to be flying first class, I was told I couldn’t have the seat printed on my boarding pass. “That’s the pilot’s seat.”

Um, what? He’s not going to in the cockpit? This bird must have a helluva cruise control.

“We have three pilots.”

So the third one sits in first class and … what? … Pilots the champagne? Pilots the Sandra Bullock movie? What?

But I didn’t say any of that.

So apologies were made, along with further concessions, and I was downgraded back to coach an escorted to the back.

When the flight attendant and I got there, it emerged that an aisle seat was not available because quite a few of the passengers had rearranged themselves to reunite several families. This exasperated the attendant who proclaimed that this just wouldn’t do and began demanding to know where people had started.

The attendant informed everyone that I had been in first class and had suffered the ignominy of a downgrade and was therefore entitled to an aisle. As tensions rose, arguments began, objections were made, the demands, voices were raised and a mother was, quite literally, about to be separated from her two children.

I hadn’t asked or wanted everyone to be dislodged for my comfort. I’d just wanted help finding a seat on a very crowded plane. I had this moment of absolute clarity.

I could now be the hero or the jackass from first class. I picked hero. While I do often enjoy being the magnificent bastard, being just a plain ‘ole bastard is a bummer (Plus, I didn’t want to baby sit.)

In my most magnanimous voice I announced I had no desire to separate this good lady from her children and would be happy to take the only remaining seat, a window.

I was hailed as the savior of Flight 718. The mother thanked me repeatedly over the course of the flight. I was complimented by many. I received more apologies and concessions. The crew gave me freebies the whole flight. And at the end of the flight, one of the attendants, the gay one of course, shoved a bag at me and said, “Your duty free, sir.”

I had purchased no duty free. But this has happened to me before. I knew exactly what was in the bag (left over goodies from first class) and exactly what to do (nonchalantly say thank you and do *not* look at your loot until after exiting the plane).

There’s something about both traveling and putting on a sport jacket that turns me into a gentleman. I find myself using more pleasantries than usual, saying things like, “I’d be most grateful,” “You are too kind”. I call people “ma’am” and “sir” and I perform more acts of random kindness.

What I did on the plane was barely worth notice. I don’t relate it here to hold myself up as some shining example or to seek praise. It was the obvious thing to do … the only thing, really.

My point is this … I like this version of me. I’ve noticed this in the past. And I try to find ways to remind myself to be this “Dale” instead of selfish, pushy, contrary “Dale”. There are many factors that affect which “Dale” shows up on any given day. But the most reliable one is so very simple.

Dress the gentleman, act the gentleman.

I find if I overdress just slightly, whether it’s work, a party or just putting on a jacket when the rest of the tourist schleps are wearing shorts with black socks, I am a better version of myself.

And that feels good.

So let’s make a final accounting of the travel misadventure that started with me missing my flight as a direct result of being a colossal idiot.

If there were any sense in all this, the airline’s attitude to me would have been, “look, stupid white boy, you missed your non-changeable flight ‘cause you’re a moron and you should be on your hands and knees thanking us for getting you to your vacation at all.”

I’d hang my head in shame and accept my well-deserved ridicule.

Instead I walked away with:

Two bottles of wine
A dozen mini-bottles of liquor
A sack full of sweets and munchies
And a whopping one THOUSAND three HUNDRED dollars in free travel vouchers

I win.

Don’t try this at home kids, I am a free travel perks professional.

Me + iPhone = A Very Special Kind of Stupid

Yesterday I went LaGuardia to head to Mexico for my fabulous Mexican scuba holiday. And now ... 24 hours later ... here I sit ... still in America ... at Newark Airport.

I wish I had a great story to tell, like, “A gang of May Kay Stylists hijacked the plane because they ran out Final Net Hairspray on Long Island and it was the fastest way to get to New Jersey.” Alas the explanation is far more mundane.

I am an idiot ... a huge, raving, colossal idiot.

I arrived at the airport a healthy hour in advance and had no problems with check in or security. And then, thanks to listening to music videos on my iPhone, I missed my flight while they paged me repeatedly over the P.A.

I’ve missed subway stops plenty of times thanks to my iPod/iPhone. But never have I missed a plane.

I was terrified that my ultra-not-changeable, not-refundable, frequent-flyer ticket would mean I lost out on my whole holiday. I watched my plane pull away without me. And when I failed to get the standby seat on my last chance to make my connection, I left the airport filled with despair and shame.

But travel gods smiled on me. The airline rebooked me onto a flight the next day, this one non-stop! But it gets even better. I got upgraded to first class and also received $800 from the airline for volunteering to get bumped to a flight 2 hours later. Ever the travel perks schemer, I made them throw in a pass for the first class lounge and a meal.

Stupid never felt so good.

From now on when I arrive at the airport I am setting an alarm on my iPhone twenty minutes before boarding that will interrupt whatever trash, europop boy band videos are conspiring to turn me into a retard.

I Am Aquaman!

"Who got 100% on his scuba diving certification exam," you ask?

Me, baby!

Which sounds impressive until you see the test and realize it's written for 14-year-olds. Really. You can get scuba certified at 14. So it's an easy test. The whole process is designed to keep stupid people from killing themselves underwater.

What's terrifying is that 70% is a passing score. What makes this so scary is there are any number of questions that would result in death if you get them wrong.

"If you accidentally exceed the maximum safe time for your dive by more than five minutes you should:"

1. Drop all your gear and immediately surface. (YOU DIE.)
2. Dive deeper and equalize. (YOU DIE)
3. Rise to 5 meters and make an 8 minute safety stop. (YOU GET A REALLY BAD CASE OF THE BENDS AND MAYBE DIE.)
4. Rise to 5 meters and make a 15 minute safety stop, after which you should not dive again for 24 hours. (CONGRATULATIONS, YOU LIVE!)
5. Use your dive knife to go on a killing spree, starting with your dive partner, moving on to your dive master and then turn on any nearby sharks or dolphins you can find. (OK, I MADE THIS ONE UP.)
   

I really enjoyed the class. In particular, and to my surprise, I really enjoyed sitting with a text book and doing homework.

I mentioned this to a few young friends of mine, all of whom immediately offered to drop off as much homework as I'd like. Of course, I enjoyed homework because I haven't had any in about 20 years. Which strikes me as just about the right frequency for homework.

There's a lot to learn in scuba diving. None of it is difficult so the challenge comes from the sheer volume of it.

Luckily just when I'd be in danger of getting bored the training DVD would throw me a gem like, "you may notice that plants are easier to sneak up on than animals."

Really? Fascinating.

By far my favorite was, "Learn to identify sensitive bottoms. As much as possible, avoid contact with sensitive bottoms."

That may well be the best advice I've received in my entire life.

Additional hilarity was provided by the only other student in my class, a bright but extremely nervous Asian chick.

She was so neurotic about scuba diving I started to wonder why she even wanted to do it.

"I'm scared of boats."

"Will I breath water?"

"How often do divers get eaten by sharks?"

"When you drown under water does your body sink or float?"

"If I drink a Diet Coke before I go diving will the bubbles make my head explode?"

OK. I made that last one up. But really, she was a wreck.

Like a dance teacher showing a student how to lead, the rescue exercises in the pool were a farce.

"No, hold my vest here to keep me from drowning."

"No, grab me this way to save me."

Sigh.

In the end, though, I did have to give her props for her sheer determination in the face of her fears and we both graduated.

But if that chick's dive buddy ever needs actual help, he's screwed.

(Do you like how I started out with comics of Aquaman, moved on to photos of Alan Ritchson as Aquaman, and finally just degenerated into photos of Alan Ritchson, underwear model? Really, would you expect anything less of my blog? OK. I'll stop. Well ... maybe just one more.)

One of the things that made the scuba class so enjoyable is that scuba diving is not so much a sport as it is applied science in service of recreation.

I went into the class thinking scuba diving is an athletic activity requiring strength, stamina and a high level of fitness. I thought this because I've done a fair bit of snorkeling which is rather athletic. I therefore concluded scuba diving, which is similar, is also athletic. This could not be more wrong.

My misimpression was shattered by my instructors. Alas, my fantasy of casually hunky Australian dive masters like in the DVD was not to be.

My two instructors turned out to be an out-of-shape, ex-hippie, rotund, hilariously-bickering married couple, older than God's dirt. (Note, that's both older than God and older than dirt.)

The combination of my male instructor's age and the particular challenges of putting on a wet suit offered me the opportunity to enjoy a charming, old-world expression never before uttered to me.

"You might might want to dress to the right for this."

Which is a gentleman's way of saying, "if you don't stuff your junk down the right leg of your wet suit, you're going to get it jammed in the zipper."

But "dress to the right" is so much more civilized, no?

(I went looking for a photo for the above section, but in a rare moment of restraint decided against it. So you'll just have to Google bulging crotch photos yourself. Sorry.)

My first thought looking at my geriatric instructors was they couldn't make it up a flight of stairs, much less do anything requiring stamina. But they knew their stuff. She has over 11,000 dives under her belt. So I thought "If they can do it I can do it."

Which is when I realized, scuba diving is not an athletic activity.

Scuba diving is your chance to be a Zeppelin.

When you skin dive (snorkel without a tank) it's just you, the water and your breath control. It takes a lot out of you.

When you scuba dive, you put on 80 pounds of bulky equipment that turn you into a nearly immobilized cow and then you waddle into the water.

But once you hit the water, a magical thing happens. All that heavy, bulky equipment just vanishes. You and the equipment become one, weightless, perfectly balanced unit. And while you may be a slow-moving, bloated cow, you are a slow-moving, bloated cow with absolutely perfect boyancy control.

You breath in and gently rise. You exhale and gently descend. And when you want to go somewhere, you gently paddle your legs and take your slow, sweet time getting there.

Scuba diving is surprisingly tranquil, serene and relaxing.

So now I'm off to beautiful Puerta Vallarta!

Only 21 hours left to learn Spanish. No problem. 51 more Coffee-Break Spanish podcasts and I'm there.

"Yo tango uno refresco en el cafe del mar con el burro con queso."

See? I'm golden.

Wish me luck with my quest for underwater adventures and pretty mexi-boys.

"When do the beatings start?"