Ubernerd's Great Big Mexican Adventure

bBustin' Ass
Mexican taxis are quite possibly the most awesome experience I've had thus far south of hte bo=
FUCKING A! I just spilled lemonade all over myself thanks to the pile of TOO MUCH SHIT on this tiny-ass cabin "desk" surface. Grr... "helpful guidebook" my eye. As I'm sure one can tell, the whole thing's been wreaking havoc on the creative process and, not to mention, my health.
It seems that even after several days at sea, I still have yet to acclimate myself to the operating dimensions within a nautical vessel, as demonstrated by the past few days during which, without fail, I've managed to bust ass at least once a day thanks to either tripping on extra shoes, slipping on wet floors, or getting clipped by closet doors. My most memorable wipeout, by far, occurred on Tuesday when my mother, in her infinite wisdom, faced with the choice between two identical sets of glass staircases, decided to hobble her gimpy self down the one clearly occupied by a crewmember holding a squeegee bottle and a scrub brush (thus indicating that the stairs were, well... WET). Before we get into my lack of respect for my mother's ambulatory habits, allow me to elaborate on the fact that my mother DOES, in fact, have a gimpy foot. It's in an ace bandage and an immobilizing sandal, where it will remain for two more weeks, thanks to her momentous trip down a set of stairs in her house about two weeks ago while she was half asleep and wandering around the house first thing in the morning. She ripped a tendon somewhere along the outer edge of her right foot, and now it's swollen to the size of a small cherry with a color to match, thus explaining her predilection towards hobbling. Apparently menacism is hereditary, as was earlier theorized by one behavioral scientist Tom Harper.
Such being the case, there was no way I was going to let my mother and her gimpy-ass foot go down that set of stairs without following her down myself. Unfortunately, while my mother managed to miraculously make her way down the wet portion of the stairs, I myself, did not. Thanks in part to the nonexistent soles on the bottom of my well-worn hippie shoes, no sooner had I put one foot down on the wet step, I found myself navigating the glass and marble with my ass, only to wipe out and take my mother out at the back of the knees with a sweeping kick.
I won't really get into the details of the aftermath on this one, save that my takedown proved swift and precise, like neen-ja. Beyond this, of course, all other wipe-outs pretty much paled in comparison. She asked me afterwards if I wanted to play a few games at the casino, and as loathe as I normally am to turn down a game of blackjack, I had to tell her "Mom, I dunno. I just fell down the fucking stairs. I sure as hell don't *feel* lucky."

Crazy Taxi
Really, while I'm on the topic of general menacing, I'll return to the subject of Mexican taxis. Mexican taxis are an experience unmatched by just about anything else you'll find in port designed for tourist consumption.
The first taxi ride we officially experienced was during our first stop in Puerto Vallarta on our way back to the dock (for some reason, the van lines will drop you off in the center of town, but they refuse to pick you up). As my brother puts it, "everyone in Mexico hauls serious ass." During the ride, my mothebr alternated between tensely silent and nervously talkative in piecemeal Spanish for the entirety of the ride, glancing out of the window and checking the blind spots every time the taxi tried to change lanes. In Puerto Vallarta, the yellow lines marking the road are merely a suggestion - either that or some joker at the DMV thought it would be funny to tell all these cabbies that "the yellow line goes down the center of your car." So really, our taxi ride went a little something like this:
cab: *SCREEECH*
me: "Oh! Time to grab the 'oh shit' handles!"
mom: "Is muy caliente..."
cab: *SWERVE*
cabbie: *makes eloquent use of a bird*
mom: "Adios muchachos..."
cab: *THUMP THUMP*
me: "Eh, nobody's going to miss one less pedestrian anyways"
mom: "Gracias amigo..."
cab: *HOONNNNNK*
mom: "Is muy caliente..."

Of course, nothing can compare to the "taxis" in Mazatlan, which are really more aptly described as "warrior golf carts with a manual transmission." When we first approached the taxi stand and found a golf cart and a waiting for us, my mother said "you can't be serious," but in the end, lack of alternate transportation outweighed apprehension of a vehicle of dubious safety quality. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous cruising around town in the back seat of a golf cart at 40 mph (I'm only estimating the speed since the speedometer, as well as just about evey other meter taped to the dashboard was broken in both the cab we took into town as well as the one we took out), until we hit tourist traffic down in the Gold Zone and discovered that *every* taxi in Mazatlan is a righteously fearsome golf cart. The fear of these objects of vehicular menacing could be seen in every local pedestrian's eyes as we screamed down the center of the two-lane road into town. I'm pretty sure I even saw a particularly dexterous seniorita dive into a gutter by the side of the road in order to avoid an ignoble death beneath the soulless wheels of a golf cart. And this was just on the way in.
The ride out of town was far better thanks to a baby-blue VW twinkie bus heading up a divided road at a leisurely 25, which, apparently was far too slow for our cabbie's tastes. Deciding he didn't want to follow the twinkie bus, he instead chose to cut over the concrete divider at the next intersection and proceeded to drive up the wrong side of the street for over 2 blocks in order to beat the aforementioned VW to the next left. After checking her supply of blood pressure medications, my mother talked about this incident for three days afterwards, and even mentioned it to our waitress between rounds of selecting dinner rolls that evening on the boat. I doubt she'll ever ride a taxi again.

The Mexican Toilet Story
The third and final port on my family's vacation itinerary was Cabo San Lucas, which brings me to my now infamous Mexican Toilet story that I'm sure many of you have already heard. For those who haven't, I will begin by pointing out that Cabo San Lucas is located real close to the equator, the climate evoking thoughts of baking dirty underwear in brine. As my mother would have said, "is muy caliente." Not having set foot in port for more than 5 minutes, I was repeatedly mistaken for Lucy Liu by a particularly persistent bathtub captain selling "glass bottom boat tours." My first reaction to this was "damnit, Sanchez, do you really think all asians look the same? I don't even have freckles," though it was soon replaced by a reassuring feeling that if nothing else, I must make a damn fine O-Ren Ishi'i when I'm wearing my white kimono. Go figure. Alas, we did not buy a glass bottom boat tour from our dear friend the captain after briefly glancing over his shoulder to observe the fine ameneties offered by the "boat" docked behind him, which resembled nothing so much as a 5-foot wash basin with a glass tabletop precariously caulked into the bottom. Death by sinking into a Mexican bay due to faulty bath caulk is a pretty embarrassing way to go, and frankly, it's been so long since I've played Yohoho Butt Pirates that I'm pretty sure bilging a sinking boat is no longer my forte.
With that, we proceeded to take the advertised "10 minute walk from the marina to downtown Cabo." I'll remind readers once again of my mother's gimpy foot, which, combined with her penchant to slowly take ambulate and take an inordinate number of bad, semi-posed "candids" of her children looking irritable and douchy against foreign landscapes, really turned the 10 minute walk into a grueling 20 minute trudge in the heat thanks to whatever brilliant architect decided to build the marina as one single, angular, concrete slab with NOT A SINGLE SPECK OF SHADE TO BE HAD ALONG ITS ENTIRETY (I bet the culprit was that motherfucker Frank Gehry, what with his hard-on for concrete abominations and all). Any of you curious about what palm trees in Mexico look like? I'll give you a hint: they look exactly like palm trees in the US. Mexican clouds? Same as American clouds. Mexican trash cans? Same as American trash cans. I'd say that the pictures are worth a thousand words, but in this case, looking out the nearest window would probably be just as easy.
Photos notwithstanding, this grueling 20 minute march while boiling in my underpants left much to be desired - but above all, liquid refreshment. Of course, everyone knows about the water in Mexico and Montezuma's Revenge, but unfortunately at this point, the only hydration option available was a mostly-full Arrowhead bottle full of cruise-ship tap water - four days in re-use and absolutely rife with cowboys and backwash from having been passed around the family (or so my phobia of drinking food bits from my relatives' mouths told me), warming in my mother's purse. As parched as I was, the unappetizing bottle of water convinced me I could hold off until lunch time.
After walking several blocks into two and visiting a number of unremarkable tourist shops, the three of us unanimously reached a breaking point whereby a lunch and refreshment break was imperative, lest we risk unleashing any homicidal tendencies that had been building up since the beginning of the cruise (you'd be surprised at what staying in a tiny little ship cabin with two other family members can do, even on a ship as large as the Carnival Pride). Thus, an executive decision was made to go to Margaritaville - a restaurant aptly named for its "specialty," which, sadly, was nowhere near as good as the Margarita that my mother and I split in Mazatlan while regaling my brother with "the tale of how Mommy passed out in the can at The Olive Garden in San Diego during a business lunch thanks to Margaritas." I have a feeling that the bartender at Margaritaville was using the good ol' Insta-Margarita - just add Mexican ball sweat... uh, I mean, tequila - mix from a bottle to serve up a frosty one for us.
It's really kind of a shame that I can recognize the bottled stuff from a house mix, but it does go to show that I've had more than my share of ghetto-ritas - something I'd rather not admit to most folks, being a self-respecting alcoholic and all.
This would be the day that I would come to rue as The Day That My Mother Outdrank Me, if only by technicality. Thanks to my stubborn refusal to consume the San Expellegrino from my mother's purse, I was no more than 1/4 of the way into the giant frozen margarita, when I realized I was getting alarmingly drunk at an equally alarming rate, and not the good kind of drunk, either.
Over the course of years of research, I've discovered that I tend to be predisposed primarily to two modes of drunkenness: the pleasant invicible type of drunk, and the unpleasant heart-pounding head-spinning stomach-exploding type of drunk, genetically inherited from my father and mother, respectively. Usually, the latter type of drunk occurs when I am drinking while - you guessed it - dehydrated. This time proved true to theory, and after excusing myself from the table, I found myself lying on the floor of an official Mexican bathroom, clutching an official Mexican toilet, and puking official Mexican guacamole, thus nicely rounding off my entire Mexican experience, complete with digestive distress!
My mother appeared in the bathroom ten minutes later to offer her motherly assistance.
"Are you drunk and dehydrated? I'm so sorry."
"Ugh, *burp* I'm fine mom, thanks."
"Do you need water?"
"Yeah... water would be good."
And on that note, I found a bottle of - you guessed it - the backwash water, passed under the stall door. I knew better than to refuse it this time, cowboys be damned. Folks, this is family bonding at its best, here - nothing like a little assistance with vomiting in a Mexican bathroom to bring a mother and daughter together. I highly recommend it - even despite the humiliation of returning to the table to find that my mother - from whom I inherited the "bad drunk" mode - had drunk more of the Margarita than I.
As I've been writing this sordid account of my family's Mexican Cruise thus far, it seems turmoil rages elsewhere in the world. Thanks to the arrest of a couple of assholes in the U.K. and the subsequent uncovering of a "terrorist plot to possibly blow up more airplanes around the world using liquid explosive substances," it seems that liquids of any sort are now prohibited materials on all airline transportation. I swear to god they had better be kidding about this because if they stop me at airport security from bringing my bottle of duty-free X.O. in to Massachusetts, I'm going to fucking start funding Osama Bin Laden to help get rid of this goddamn chickenshit excuse we have for a government. Grow a spine, meatsucklers. Oxygen's a dangerous substance too, you know.

Further bulletins as events warrant.