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Yeah. That time.
10.08.04 + 1:18 p.m.
Thing about cruises, you don’t do anything. That’s their appeal, apparently. You sit by the pool, eat from the ever-flowing cornucopia of freely available food, drink lots of rum-laced stuff, and watch fellow cruisers engage in such ice-breakers as line dancing, “The Men’s Hairy Chest Competition,” (gotta wonder about that gender distinction,) and, bless me, the goddamned Hokey Pokey.
Yeah, I had fun. I got more sun when I was asea than I have in the past, say, six years, since I hate bathing suits and am averse to public nudity in the daylight. But I sucked it up and sucked it in, donned a bathing suit, and laid in the sun with my sister, laughing, reading, and drinking multicolored drinks with parasols and polysyllabic names like Mexican Mango Madness Splash.
It was sort of a long week, though. I mean I’ve no complaints about the great service, incredible food, getting all dressed up on a nightly basis, and getting a kind of intense facial in which the skin specialist kept comparing my skin cells to grapes and raisins, but it took me a few days to settle into the forced lethargy. On the plus side, the cruise line I was on was the most affordable of the lot, and geared towards the Young, Single, and Perpetually Broke, (reprezent!) and families. In other words, it was Floating Redneck Disney Vegas.
So, when I wasn’t in the mood for gluttony or the Macarena,* there was plenty of opportunity for people watching and the passing of moral judgment. Not to mention, I also got to spend some quality time with sisterbeans.
Upon the Ignorami They Once Served
Our first day on board, we were served by a Panamanian waiter named Elmer. A member of our very large group, most of whom I hadn’t previously met, decided that our brown-skinned friend didn’t “look like” an Elmer, and insisted on calling him Carlos, Miguel, Julio, and Jose, all within the same sentence. It was ugly.
Elmer laughed graciously, but I swear, his eyes were saying, “Drink up, asshole. Oh, and you don’t think I ‘look like’ an Elmer? I bet you don’t think that creamy shit in you Pina Colada ‘looks like’ my ejaculate, either.”
Every day, a Trinidadian reggae band named “Caribbean Vibes,” or “Vibous Caribbeous,” or “Vibathalon,” or something, played on the pool deck. They were quite good, and enthusiastic despite the fact that they were seemingly only allowed to play the A-side tracks of Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits. During rendition #79 of “I Shot the Sheriff,” another member of our group said, “You know, I really like this song, but I don’t understand why they’re singing with Jamaican accents.”
Every night at dinner, we were treated to a waitstaff-performed conga line, aria, or fully choreographed “Feelin’ Hot! Hot! Hot!” dance number. It was fun to watch, but Christ, bless those poor folks who have to do that shit twice a day, seven days a week, with pastries balanced on their heads. Some days, it must seem like doing penance in TGI Friday’s.
#1. I don’t understand Florida’s appeal at all. The weather SUCKS like HELL-WEATHER, with gah gross yucky stoppit humidity blanketing EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING! How the hell does anything get done in Florida? I don’t mind the frequent rainstorms, but I can’t stand the rest of it. Goddamn, that kind of weather just pisses me off. Florida feels less like a place where people live, and more like a place where airplanes go to avoid rusting.
I think I intended to write more, but the moment has passed, the tan has faded, and I’m once again completely sleep-deprived.
I had fun, but I was so glad to get home. When my plane landed in Chicago, I boarded the el, and was soon surrounded by immigrants, indie rockers, homegirls, and greasy crazies. It made me happy.
Happiest of birthdays to one Mr. Sinsky Kluganovski, who has been rockin’ this sad planet for three whole decades. Congratulations, Mr. K, on 30 years of excellence. Looks like you’re just about ripe.
I will put something in the mail for you as soon as I remember to stop being such a damned airhead, but until then, I’ll just shoot the mooooon for yoooouuuu.
Happy! Birthday! Klugarsh!
I love birthdays. I freak out when someone’s birthday rolls around, I get all squealy and lame and huggy. I must sound like a phony asshole, when, really, the squeal is the result of repressed over-exhuberance. If I were to try to convey my full level of vicarious birthday excitement, I’d explode in a burst of glittery confetti, and fuck that.
Yay for friends’ birthdays. I’m so glad my friends got born.
Yeah, babydoll. I’m real glad you got born.
I don’t know why it’s impossible for me to relate to any of my co-workers. Yesterday, a bunch of folks were chatting in the break room, joking and laughing, and I swear I couldn’t understand a single fucking thing anyone said. Oh, I understood the words, they were speaking English in full sentences and whatever, but for whatever reason, I could not grasp the topic they were discussing. More, I don’t think I could fathom why they were having the conversation. It was a really, really strange reaction, and I think I might be an alien.
Job sucks balls.
Right. So, who wants to come over tonight and crash my pity-party of one? It’s okay, I’ll be busy feeling inadequate and unloved, but I can make time to accommodate unannounced guests.
I’m so glad it’s raining today.
Woo, Friday night. I'm so fucking excited, I could shit my own weight. Dammit.
* Hee! Come to find out, Macarena is in my spell-check. It has ARRIVED! The word "asea," however, is not. Microsoft Word is stupid, and has apparently not read much Melville.
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Summertime Fix in Hawaii - 06.12.07
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