Short and Not So Sweet

Madness

2013-08-07T15:21:00.004-07:00

Figure 1

Madness has been defined in many different ways, some fundamentally opposed from each other. It is at the same time described as insanity, lunacy, and folly, while also categorized as extreme elation and excitement. Whichever side of the emotional seesaw you place madness, I like to view it as a state of psychological chaos, of unstable thought, and irrational behavior. The latter derived from the former.

Some would argue that if you claim madness to be irrational and unstable, therefore nebulous and inconstant, how can it be defined at all? Well, that's the point altogether.
Through comparison, the human mind is able to identify behavior and thought by what it isn't, not necessarily what it is.

We've all been mad at some point. Remember how you were thinking, what you felt, or what you contemplated doing and why, when you were in that moment. If you believe yourself to be mad now, take a pause and reflect on your state of mind. If you thought this article was going to be long, informative, and insightful, you were wrong. (See Figure 1)

Have Americans Lost Touch?

2013-08-07T15:01:00.002-07:00

Portrait of Benjamin Franklin

Like a failing marriage, Americans seem to have lost touch with the principles that once guided their purpose. America was founded out of the struggle for economic freedom in Europe. Europe was dominated by monarchies and aristocracies that existed for the purpose of existing, and nothing more. The people's of Europe were heavily taxed and no development to the land, to infrastructure, or to industry was realized from those taxes. The funds collected from the people were used to support a disproportionate government and its extravagances. The opportunity to build a government whose sole purpose was to support the development, prosperity, and happiness of its people was only possible in the New World.

After the American Revolution, industrial and agricultural production flourished. America quickly outpaced many other economic powers that had existed for centuries. An influx of European immigrants fled to America in hopes of a new start where any man could reap the benefits of his labor. Government existed as the foundation to organize these efforts. For, the nation thrives when its people are productive, successful, and happy. The need for infrastructural development was at the core of the nation's desire. From the genius of Alexander Hamilton, a national bank was developed and a report on public credit circulated throughout the financial circles. The idea that the nation could go in debt to itself to allow for an increase of productivity and by way of doing this taxes would increase to pay off the debt/credit originally created. It was a revolutionary idea in banking, one that still has yet to receive its full "credit" today.

The nation was headed by great men, praised and honored by the people. America was showing the world what was capable in a nation when it rides on the side of its citizens.

Let us teleport through time, nearly 250 years later to today's America. People are ignorant. They know nothing of American history, of the principles which founded the nation, and most have disdain, if not hatred for their government. In my opinion this is because they do not understand the true purpose of the government, of its role, and therefore have no way of holding it responsible. Our government is "for the people" and must be organized to protect their interests. It is "by the people" and those people must be qualified for the job. It is "of the people" and those people must know who they are. If you do not understand these concepts and the historic and revolutionary struggles that went into establishing them, then you have lost touch.

After the Constitutional Convention was over, an onlooker asked Benjamin Franklin, "Well, Doctor, what have we got--a Republic or a Monarchy?" To which Franklin responded, "A Republic, if you can keep it."

Mind Your Watch in Mexico

2010-09-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Leilani was carrying a bag full of clean clothes and handmade Mexican clay pottery her grandmother had insisted she take with her before leaving Mexico City. The heat was unbearable but she was wearing a thin sweater to protect her delicate skin from the sun. She tried desperately to cover her face from the sun, but the weight of the bag was straining her arm joints, forcing her to switch the bag from hand to hand every 60 seconds. Her husband towered over her and she tried to walk in his shadow, but with little success due to the angle of the blinding rays. "It's too hot to be out here. I want to go home," Leilani said. "We have to keep going, we're almost there," responded her husband Brent. The two had been walking down the Mexican freeway for nearly 20 minutes.

This was the final leg of their vacation. In fact, their vacation had already ended. They were on their way home and had taken a short flight into Los Cabos from Mexico City, with a 4 hour layover before their final transfer to California. When they arrived in Los Cabos just a couple minutes passed 11:00 am, they exited the small plane into an equally small terminal and were confronted by the Mexican Customs Department. "Toca el botón," said the officer. Pressing the electronic button on top of the slender steel pole, everyone turned and stared at the small digital indicator. The light turned green, the customs agent turned around and waved the couple through into the main terminal. A red light meant a full customs search of all belongings.

The terminal opened up into a well lit main area with 20 foot windows displaying a magnificent view of the local mountain range, "La Sierra de la Laguna." From here passengers could access the airport's over priced souvenir shops, restaurants and currency exchange services while they waited for their flight. Seeing this, Brent reminded his wife that this would be there last chance to exchange their currency for a decent rate. So the couple converted their unspent pesos into dollars and stuffed the envelope they received from the cashier deep into a backpack.

The seating area was near full capacity, many of the passengers wearing clothing that indicated they were from the United States and too were returning home. Brent noticed a teenage girl wearing brown sweatpants with gold lettering which spelled out the name of the high school he graduated from. "It's a small world after all," stating the obvious, but also hinting at their trip to Disneyland the year earlier. Small World was one of his wife's favorite attractions. The plaza was bland and uneventful. Other than the shops, it was surrounded by a few flight gates.  Each unimpressive gateway was constructed of a simple door leading out to the runway where passengers would board planes with the assistance of a mobile staircase. Seeing all this and anticipating the mental agitation and imagining the back pain he would endure during their extensive wait Brent said, "I can't sit here for 4 hours. Let's go to the beach." "Oh my God, why can't he just settle for some lunch?" Leilani thought to herself. She was the more conservative of the two and extremely cautious with giving her consent, as Brent had a history of getting the two involved in raucous adventures.

Both reviewed the itinerary, investigating whether they even had time for such an event. Leilani wasn't too thrilled with the idea of leaving the airport, as they had missed their flights before and have had several other close calls. As they were conspiring, a small boy came running through the aisle, tripping over their baggage.  This caused Leilani to look around at the environment, calculating whether the pain and boredom they would experience was less than the risk of leaving the airport.  Across the way a small family was sitting, the mother wiping her noise and coughing, apparently due to a cold she had contracted. Being somewhat sickly and sensitive to contagious illnesses, Leilani imagined green microbes of cold and flu virus floating through the air, making their way to her esophagus. Her throat was already soar and she was convinced that if she stayed in the terminal with the other passengers, she would surely catch something. Ultimately, this, in addition to the beckoning look on the face and in the eyes of her husband, closed the deal. "Alright," she said hesitantly. Brent's eyes lit up and he smiled. "Every day is an adventure with Leilani ," he said. It was his motto.

Leilani wanted to ensure the plan would be seamless and they proceeded to layout exactly how their excursion would unfold. On top of the usual anxiety from taking such a risk, they were in somewhat of a hurry since they had already spent 45 minutes of their layover time exiting the airplane and debating their options. This left them 3 hours and 15 minutes to play, as their flight departed at 3:00 pm. They stepped outside into the warm weather and cloudless sky. Quite different from the high elevation weather of Mexico City they had gotten used to. In fact, contrary to most México vacation advertisements, until now they had spent most of their vacation bundled up in hats, jackets and scarves. An airport employee was helping passengers in and out of their taxi or hotel transport vans, assuredly making good money from rich vacationers and their $2, $3, and sometimes $5 tips. Brent asked the busy worker, "How much is a taxi to the nearest beach?" To their suprise the man answered, "About 200 pesos," roughly $20. That meant a $40 round trip just to get to the beach. "What about a bus? Is there a bus that will take us to the beach?" Brent continued. The couple was directed to the end of the airport parking lot to the "bus stop" on the main road. There was no formal bus stop, just a patch of lifeless, dry earth from all of the foot traffic; mostly employees arriving to and departing from work at the airport. "How long will it take us to get to the beach on the bus?" Brent questioned. In a slightly agitated state, realizing that he was losing business and precious income with every second he spent talking to the couple he responded, "About 40 minutes."  They calculated that if they get on the bus in the next 15 minutes, assume the bus ride will take 5 minutes longer than indicated, the two of them would have roughly an hour and a half to eat and relax on the beach.

As the two of them left the safety of the airport, they both began to secretly wonder whether this was a good idea or not. After their traumatizing confrontation with Tijuana police some years ago, they were extremely wary about placing themselves in unfamiliar territory. But they would be on a bus with many other passengers and expected to find themselves in a populated beach restaurant with other guests from the United States. They were simply taking a cheaper and less extravegant route to get there. Brent still couldn't help wondering if their bus would be the one taken over by highway robbers. After about 10 minutes in the scorching heat, a bus came roaring in from the opposite direction and following the turnabout lane, came abruptly to a stop just ahead of where the couple was standing. Several employees filed out of the bus' two exits, the looks on their faces indicating they did not enjoy their jobs. Brent approached the door near the front of the bus ahead of his wife.  The bus driver, so engrained in his routine, did not make eye contact with the boarding passengers and nearly closed the door on them, failing to see that they had never boarded.

"Does this bus go to the beach?" Brent asked.
"Yes," responded the emotionless bus driver.
"How much is the fare?"
"What beach do you want to go to?"
"The closest beach. How much to take us to the closest beach?"
"You have to tell me which beach you want to go to, they have different prices."
"I don't know the names of the beaches here.  We want to go to the beach closest to the airport." Brent realized that they should have picked up a Los Cabos Tour Guide and map from the small convenience store inside the airport.
"Look, I don't know where you want to go, maybe this is the wrong bus for you."
"You want to go to Playa Palmilla," said one of the passengers. "That's the closest beach to the airport."
"OK.  We want to go to Palmilla," Brent told the bus driver.
"20 pesos each," the driver responded. This seemed expensive since they had been accustomed to paying 2 pesos each for the light rail and metro in Mexico City. But, relatively speaking the round trip for both of them would be less than $10, a 75% discount from the taxi Brent quickly calculated. Leilani still didn't believe it. "That's not the real price," she told him. The two boarded the bus, paid the driver, and received what appeared to be a regular ticket with an additional extension ticket. Perhaps it was because of the distance they were going. After all, 40 minutes was quite a long bus ride. "Gracias," Leilani said to the young man who had helped them, probably in his 20s. He was sitting with a young woman that appeared to be his girlfriend or perhaps his wife and responded casually, "De qué." The first phase of the adventure had been successfully completed: identify destination and acquire adequate round-trip transportation. The next step was to ensure they did not get off too early or exit the bus beyond their destination.

As they commenced, Brent noticed signs that indicated they were traveling on Highway 1 and wondered if this was the same Highway 1 that traversed practically the entire coast of California. They had often taken the highway when purchasing furniture his wife found on Craigslist in the Bay Area or Central Coast. He imagined how different the scenery was along the highway in Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo. The lush green hillsides, pine forests and cold beaches held no similarity to the dry, lifeless desert he found himself in. Small tire shops and restaurants lined the barren road. There were very few trees and every pedestrian had some method for blocking out the sun as they walked. He was thankful to be in the air conditioned vehicle. The bus would stop about every half mile and there was always someone getting on, but rarely anyone getting off.

They had been riding for about 25 minutes and the young man from earlier leaned over, got the couple's attention and said, "We're getting off soon. Your stop is fairly easy to recognize. You will go around a large bend overlooking the ocean and will come upon a stretch of highway with an underpass below it. After that you will go up a short hill and at the top of the hill is your stop." The couple was both relieved that they had received clearer directions but still concerned they weren't going to recognize the stop when they saw it. The bus came to a halt and the couple stepped down. They walked passed a sign with an arrow pointing down an adjacent road that read, "San Jose del Cabo - El Centro." Brent wondered if they were going the right direction. He had heard discussions and remembered watching "Mexico's Best Beaches" on the Travel Channel and have seen photos of luxurious hotels in Cabo San Lucas and Los Cabos. Now this third similarly named town, San Jose del Cabo, caused him to have a slight doubt about their travels. Were these names all describing the same place? He thought about how people in California refer to San Francisco as "The Bay," or "The City" and "Frisco." Brent quelched his fears and reassured himself that he was leading them on the right path. He had somewhat of a photographic memory and was quite good with directions. As they flew into the airport, Brent saw what appeared to be some kind of dirt filled stadium. Asking his wife about this, she told him that most likely it was for rodeos and bull fighting. While pondering the frequency of use of such a facility he also noted the highway's westward directionality towards the coast.  Realizing he was now on the same highway he had seen from the air, he imagined looking down on himself from the plane, watching as the bus scooted along and envisioned arriving at the beach any moment. He caught himself in his enchanted state and realized his wife was doing the same. Had it continued, they would assuredly pass their stop.

Suprisingly, the bus driver notified the two that their stop was coming up. They expected that he would drive passed it unless they indicated their desire to get off. It was just as they had been told. The bus bent around the seaside curve, revealing the Pacific for the first time. The water was beautiful and the anticipation of putting his feet in excited Brent. His wife was preoccupied with watching the road, anxiously waiting for the bus driver to tell us when to get off. Unlike other stops, the bus veered off the highway onto a side street at the top of the hill. Here the bus driver stopped, opened the door and looked back at Leilani indicating this is where they should exit. They thanked the driver and he responded with a half smile, trying to be polite.

An older gentleman, dressed in work pants, long-sleeve shirt, boots and a hat also exited the bus with the couple. His stride and demeanor indicated he was familiar with the area and his destination seemed clear. As the bus pulled away, the couple realized that they were surrounded by, well... nothing. Large banana trees, small shrubbery and tall palms bearing coconuts hugged the road, blocking the view of the highway. "Which way do we go?" asked Leilani. Brent pondered a moment. He was expecting to see restaurants and tourist type accomodations as soon as they exited. Unknowingly, they had been taken far beyond the closest beach. Instead they were routed to Punta Palmilla, a private resort and community that was originally a vacation destination of sport fisherman and Hollywood movie stars. Realizing there were no immediate destinations, Brent thought that perhaps they should head towards the ocean, which they could see in the distance.

Rather than begin wandering down unknown streets, Leilani decided to ask the man heading down the hill towards what appeared to be private housing. "Excuse me!" she shouted, not loud enough for him to hear. She jogged closer and exclaimed again, "Excuse me sir!" This attempt reached the ears of the stranger and the man heard and turned around. "We're looking for a restaurant on the beach. Is there anything nearby?" she questioned. "No, there is nothing around here," he quickly responded. He went on to tell them that there were no restaurants or public hotels and the compound they were approaching was a private community named "Villa del Sol."  "Do you work there?" asked Brent. The man was a landscaper for the community and maintained the extravegant yards and gardens of the homes in this desert oasis. He reiterated that they would not be able to enter and access the amenities of the community but did recall that there was a restaurant at the bottom of the hill belonging to the Hotel One and Only Palmilla. Leilani and Brent had no expectations of where they wanted to eat, they were simply trying to pass the time and have an enjoyable experience outside of the airport terminal. They thanked the man and the three of them continued walking. Shortly thereafter the man entered through a security station, protected by an electronic gate which maintained the entrance to the property. He said goodbye to the couple as they continued down the hill to the famous resort.

The lush plantlife and spotless streets spoke to the quality of the area. Sidewalks were neatly lined with tropical flowers and maintained with modern sprinkler systems. Of course, they never saw the sprinklers in operation, but the fact that they were installed was impressive. That the community would get enough water to maintain the foiliage was a miracle in itself.  A high wall surrounded the remainder of the compound along the street. A woman dressed in her sports attire and expensive sunglasses jogged up the hill with her small dog on a short leash, leading the way. The two walked vigorously down the hill, gravity helpfully pulling them towards the bottom. After about 20 minutes, the greenery began to fade into yellows and browns. The well kept landscaping slowly flared off into rough neglected land, more common to the area. It was at this point that Leilani became concerned, as it appeared they had passed their destination and now were headed into underdeveloped territory. Just as they began to discuss their options, a man came around a corner just down the hill in a golf cart. He noticed the couple and rapidly approached.

The man pulled along side the couple, and asked them what they were doing there. The couple told him about how they had taken a bus from the airport and were told by the gardner that there was a restaurant at the bottom of the hill. The quasi-security guard responded, "Restaurants? No, there aren't any restaruants here. Well, there is one, but it costs nearly $100 per plate."  The security guard instructed them that in order to get to a regular public restaurant, "You need to go back down the highway. The closest restaurant to here is a place called 'Zippers.'" Doubtful the man was telling them the truth, as they were told in the beginning that Palmilla was the closest beach, but they had no other choice except to take his advice. Realizing that they had walked quite a way from the bus stop, he offered to give the couple a ride to the top of the hill from where they came. Leilani sat down in the passenger seat of the guard's two-person golf cart, displaying minor relief that she was able to set down her things. Brent stood on the back of the golf cart, holding on to a section of the roof for grip. Despite the setback, he was actually enjoying the ride and was getting a mini thrill out of the whole ordeal. He always liked experiencing quirky things like that.

The small vehicle struggled up the hill under the weight of its three passengers and cargo.  Shortly they arrived at the place they had been just 20 minutes ago and the guard repeated the directions and landmarks to look out for. The two had the option to get back on the bus, but the guard's explanation made it seem as though the restaurant was just a short walk. So they began the trek. Little did they know that Zippers was over a mile down the dangerous highway. As they walked down the onramp to the highway, they were exposed to a spectacular view overlooking a pristine golf course belonging to Villa Del Sol, lined with tropical flowers and normal beach greenery. Wishing they could trade places with the wealthy home owners spending their time playing golf and drinking fancy beach cocktails, they stopped to take a photo.

Just down the road, the highway was under some minor construction.  Several construction workers were on the shoulder handling large steel cables, shoveling gravel and swinging picks in place of heavy equipment to break the hard concrete. The couple was forced off the shoulder and briefly into the road to avoid walking through the construction site. They were cautious of oncoming traffic and quickly passed the workers who stared at the couple with an intrigued look on their faces. Brent, with his white skin, made much more of an impact than his Mexican wife. As they stared, Brent said, "Hola!" in a very nonchalante manner to break the silence and akward moment.

The severity of the sun had gone unnoticed while walking on the shaded neighborhood streets but now that they were fully exposed on the open highway, it was quite different. They had only been walking for five minutes but the heat beating down on them and the radiation of the black road beneath their feet was cooking them on both ends. Leilani was carrying a bag full of clean clothes and handmade Mexican clay pottery her grandmother had insisted she take with her before leaving Mexico City. The heat was unbearable and she put on a sweater to protect her delicate skin from the sun. She tried desperately to cover her face, but the weight of the bag was straining her arm joints, forcing her to switch the bag from hand to hand every 60 seconds. Brent towered over her and she tried to walk in his shadow, but with little success due to the angle of the blinding rays. At no point along their journey did the highway have any sidewalks. The shoulder was paved but angled towards the edge of the road to direct water runoff to the hillside below. This made it very difficult to walk at any regular pace and the two were not making very good time. After a while of walking in silence his wife blurted out, "It's too hot to be out here. I want to go home." Brent lovingly responded, "Let's just keep going, we're almost there."

Sure enough, after about 25 minutes of walking they came upon the landmarks the security guard had told them about. It was the same underpass they had seen during their bus ride. They walked off the highway, down towards the underpass. Just on the other side of the pass was a small notice spray painted on the wall that read "Zippers," with an arrow pointing towards the back of the buildings. Brent asked, "Are you sure you want to eat here?" It was obvious that Leilani was frustrated with the whole ordeal and responed in a somewhat irritated tone, "Ya, ya me cansé." She mostly wanted to use the restroom, the water she had been drinking all along had taken its toll. Brent just wanted a cold beer and an ocean breeze.

Suprisingly, the quaint restaurant was very welcoming and quite clean. Established direcly on the beach, this was the destination they had been searching out. Brent plopped down in his chair and removed his socks and shoes beneath the table, while Leilani frantically searched for the restroom. After she returned and too sunk into her chair, their muscles relaxed and the cool ocean breeze blew over their faces. Everything around them told them to relax and take thing slow, but their massive miscalculation and misdirection, resulting in the trek on the highway had cost them precious time that they would no longer have to lounge on the beach. In fact they were already feeling somewhat frantic. "Where is the waitress," said Leilani. It was then Brent realized that she too was thinking about time. The restaurant staff was extremely friendly and attended them moments later. After asking the waitress the location of the closest bus stop to return to the airport, they calculated that they had a mere 30 minutes to enjoy their lunch and the ocean view.

After ordering they observed the other restaurant guests, consisting mostly of English speaking American tourists. Some had their children playing on the restaurnt provided playground and others came to have a short meal and drink after their golf excursion. Most had sun drenched skin, indicating that they were not from the area. Several men with black velvet lined display cases were selling jewelry on the beach. They had been looking for gifts to bring back to friends at home and Brent thought that perhaps they might have something adequate for his best friend's fiancé. The quality of the products was very cheap. Thin metal, supposedly silver, with unexciting designs filled the case. The recipient was very fond of animals and so they searched for some necklace or bracelet with such a theme. A butterfly necklace stood out and when asked the price, the man requested $15. Knowing that he had hundreds of these items, most likely purchased in bulk from China, Brent refused to pay such a price. They tried to strike a deal, but the man was insistant on his price and the couple decided not to pursue the purchase. As they returned to the table, the man made one last attempt with a lower price, but his customers had already lost interest.

Once their food arrived, they hurried through their meal, leaving them just enough time for a photo opportunity on the beach. Brent pulled the camera from his backpack and setup a shot with the mini tripod, asking Leilani to walk out into the water and onto the rocks to help him focus and center the photo. He set the timer and ran to meet his wife in the warm ocean water. "This is going to make a great photo in our 'Adventure Album' at home," Brent thought. They had kept a photo album of events, trips or moments that include photos only of them. He always made an effort to capture these moments because he knows their future value when the two of them are old and gray.

They quickly packed up their things and Brent cleaned the sand from his wife's feet before she put on her socks and shoes. As they made their way back through the restaurant and again onto the highway for a short jaunt to the bus stop, the cool marine air and ocean breeze dissipated into a sweltering heat.

As they waited at the bus stop, several cars, obviously riding together passed the couple. Brent's white skin stood out like an ink drop in a bowl of milk against the dark, sun kissed skin of the local riders. As they passed, they looked at Brent with a sinister grin, calculating the chances of valuables in his backpack. In fact, because there were no lockers or storage facilities in the airport, they had brought all of their valuables and remaining cash with them. The backpack was worth approximately $1400 in cash and prizes. Luckily the caravan drove on. "Watch for that car. If you see it again, let me know right away," he told his wife, trying not to alarm her. He would spend the next couple minutes surveying the surrounding area for escape routes, imagining what dangerous scenarios could arise and the instructions he would give his wife should if they did.

The couple began to get anxious, anticipating the return of the suspicious vehicles and worried that they would not have sufficient at the airport prior to their flight. The bus finally arrived and they confirmed with the driver that they could be transported to the airport. Brent asked how much the fare was for the two of them. "Fifteen pesos," said the driver. Leilani whispered to her husband, "See I told you that first bus driver was lying. Qué Cabrón!"

Drained from the sun, both found it difficult to stay awake. Brent secured the strap of the back back around his ankle, just in case he nodded off. But the anxiety that they weren't going to have sufficient time to make their flight kept him concsious. The lack of passengers on the returning trip allowed for a shorter ride and they arrived close to departure time, but still on schedule. Again the bus turned around at the airport and the couple found themselves at the spot where their adventure had started. They made their way across a small patch of desert landcape, Brent watching for possible rattlesnake encounters, and into the aiport parking lot. They rushed into the terminal and quickly began looking around for their gate to see if their flight was already boarding. Everyone was still lazily lounging around and things were just as they left them.   The expressions of boredome on people's faces and how they avoided that gave Brent great satisfaction. Smiling at his wife Brent said, "See. We made it just on time." He knew that, had they missed their flight or even had a minor scramble to the airplane, it would be a long while before his wife approved any future adventures.

It was 30 minutes until their plane boarded and Leilani recounted their earlier mistake at the beginning of their vacation, running across the airport because of a last minute gate change. "Go ask the woman if this is the gate for our flight," she demanded of Brent. His pride told him that he was smart enough to know what gate their flight would be leaving from, but he hated to be wrong and to please his wife, he decided to ask the airline employee, "Is this the gate for the flight to San Francisco?" The woman asked to see the boarding pass, looked at the gate number behind her, and confirmed he was at the correct gate. Brent returned to his anxious wife and ensured her that although the gate signage currently referred to a flight to Los Angeles they were in fact in the correct location. "See, I told you," he said with an unnecessary attitude, just to make his point. Brent also checked the flight itineraries on the overhead monitors to see if their flight was running late. "On Time" was indicated next to their flight number. "We should be boarding any minute," he said.

Ten minutes had passed and the usual rustling and preparation of baggage and forming of lines was not occurring. The sign above gate 7 still clearly read, "Los Angeles" and this was making both Leilani and Brent very nervous. "Did we miss our flight!?!" Leilani worriedly questioned. "No, no, don't overreact. They just told us that this is the gate for our flight. Plus I still see that girl with my high school uniform over there. I'm sure she is on the same flight we are." Brent pointed across the terminal to where the girl was sitting. Leilani grabbed his hand and looked around to see if anyone noticed her husband. She did not like it when he pointed, making it obvious of what they were talking about. "But what if the lady is wrong? I don't want to pay for another flight!" Brent was beginning to get irritated with her incessant worrying.

If there was a problem or a conflict, he was raised to actively search for a solution, though he didn't always have the patience for it. For him worrying was a passive way of complaining and paralleled doing nothing but, he understood the cause of Leilani's worrisome demeanor. She was raised in a big city, where dishonesty and confusion could be around any corner. She was raised to always be cautious, always expect the worst and assume someone is trying to take advantage of her. Although they often argued along these lines, the two complimented each other nicely. Brent showed Leilani that sometimes you have to trust people and that there are people that care and genuinely wish to be helpful. Leilani taught him that sometimes you need to be cautious and investigate further before jumping into a situation.

When their boarding time was upon them, he knew the anxiety was only going to get worse and to preempt another of his wife's demands, Brent decided to go talk with another airline employee. "Our itinerary says that our flight should be boarding at this gate right now.  Are we at the wrong gate?" Again, a man asked to see the boarding pass and again confirmed that this was their gate. "But your flight leaves at 3 o'clock," said the man impatiently. Brent looked at his watch, it was 3 o'clock. Then it hit him, although their flight was short, they had traversed two time zones. It was 1 o'clock. Red in the face, Brent felt both a sense of overwhelming embarrassment and ease that they were still on track. After their military paced marching, hurried lunch and stressful bus ride home, they still had 2 hours in the airport.

Escaping Juárez: Part 2

2010-08-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

There was no way Gloria could ever put the death of her parents behind her. Instead, their deaths became the necessary air, the oxygen giving life to the growing fire within. The loss of her father, while not tolerable, was manageable because of her mother's continued dependence. Once they were both gone, the recurring thoughts of the circumstances which brought about their demise drove her passion and at the same time gave her a prolonged sense of their presence beyond their worldly existence. She was not exactly certain of her path, her goals or the methods of obtaining them. All she knew is that something had to change and she was going to be the catalyst.

It wasn't until after hiring a professional cleaner to remove all residual evidence of her mother's passing and a glass repairman to replace the broken window of the shop that she realized, "This is my store now." It would remain vacant she decided, since she never had the desire to be there in the first place and no longer had her mother as a reason to keep it operational. She immediately put the store up for sale, all items and inventory included. It was a successful business, relatively speaking, and it wouldn't be long before someone would solicit its purchase. [A small "For Sale" sign hangs in the front window with a chain and lock across the front doors, securing the business.]

Gloria entered a state of deep depression and melancholy for some time. Her daily routine consisted of waking up extremely late in the day and not sleeping until very late at night or early morning. Many times she would be on her way to sleep as the sun was rising. She thought that when the rest of the world was quiet and motionless she would somehow stumble upon an answer to her own confused questions. Once she awoke, her day began by eating a poorly prepared lunch, usually just eggs and tortillas, nothing that required the use of too many kitchen implements as she was avoiding exerting any kind of effort. Oftentimes she would eat straight out of the pan or on paper plates to avoid the extra cleaning. After her half-hearted attempt at nutrition, she would proceed to walk the streets, taking care of any necessary errands, avoiding all unnecessary social interactions. She would sometimes deviate from her customary pace in order to spend time at the corner Internet cafe where she would search the online news ads about other people killed as her parents were.

This behavior went on for some time and eventually, but suddenly, Gloria gained the motivation to change her aimless practices. She awoke, as if from a drug-induced state, questioning why she had gone away in the first place. Afraid that she would slip again into this foggy existence she took action upon the first thought she had. As most people who have no other good idea for how to positively cause change, Gloria's first thought was to purchase a gun. It made perfect sense; it was a gun that took her parents from her and she wanted to wield the same power. The ability to take a life with such ease, accidentally in fact, was quite appealing to her. She had no clear idea of who she would point the gun at, but if she needed to, she wanted to have one in her hand. So Gloria drove to the local gun store.

Almost invisible from the outside, with no advertisements and no signage, the inside was simple, small, yet heavily armored. There were enough firearms in that little shop to start a small war. "Perhaps this is where the gunman purchased his gun that killed my father," she thought to herself. Once inside, there were no extravagances; no neon orange vests or other relevant hunting apparel. A stern faced man, in his mid 40s stood behind a short counter, protected with a large pane of high density, polycarbonate bullet-resistant glass.

"I want to buy a gun," Gloria exclaimed. "Are you looking for a rifle or a handgun?" questioned the clerk at the gun sale counter. She was not sure, the rifle seemed bigger and she thought the size would translate into power.  But how would she carry it around? It wasn't very inconspicuous and seemed much harder to handle. That settled it. "A handgun," she replied, "But do you have anything bigger, these look very small." [The gun clerk pulling back the barrel of a handgun in a mock loading action. Behind him are various shotguns and rifles lining the wall.] "This one is nice. Not too big. You're not going to find anything oversize here, this one is just right for you," he said. The clerk explained that due to a long history of gun violence in Mexico, dating back to the time of Benito Juarez, many laws had been put into place to restrict the sale of firearms above the .22 caliber unless a valid reason for more power could be provided. "Even President Juárez had to purchase guns from the United States," he said jokingly in a reference to the 19th Century revolution. What a funny thought, the great president after which her town was named, probably the greatest in México's history, was himself caught in a gun battle nearly 150 years ago.

Gloria thought about coming up with some lame reason of why she needed a more powerful gun, but nothing came to mind immediately and if she hesitated any longer, the story wouldn't have been believable. Plus, she didn't understand the technicalities of the weapons, their uses or what restrictions a low caliber firearm would have. She knew that she needed something to make up for her lack of formal training and experience with guns. All she could do was repeat herself in hope that the man would fulfill her request simply out of irritation. "I need something bigger," she told the gun clerk. "Look, I'm sorry, but as I said before, this is all we have. What do you need something bigger for?" asked the clerk. Gloria responded simply, "I don't know."

She realized her efforts were useless, she wasn't going to get the gun she wanted, assuming she knew what she wanted, and wasn't even sure what she would do with it once she had it. After all, who was she going to shoot at? The next gun wielding hoodlum that drove through her neighborhood? Was she going to track down and murder her mother's killer in cold blood? No, the police had already taken care of that. It was out of an act of desperation, of rash decision making and poor judgment the thought of buying a gun had even crossed her mind. Gloria was back where she started: lost and completely without ideas.

It only took a couple days before the first call regarding the sale of the gift store was received.  The following day Gloria made an appointment with the patron to review the property and discuss the details of the sale. She arrived on site early to unlock the store and ensure everything was presentable. This was the first time she had been back into the little shop since the incident and she easily envisioned her mother sitting in her usual seat by the window, taking on the daily activities outside.  In an instant her mind shifted to an image of her mother's cold body lying dead on the floor. After a moment, her attention was arrested by a passing vehicle outside and abruptly turned her attention to the matter at hand. Upon dramatizing the sale that was to unfold, she was suddenly posed with a conflict. Should she inform the prospective buyer of what occurred or simply avoid the subject altogether? She obviously didn't wish to discuss the details of the incident, but what if subject came up and he was expecting to get some kind of a discount because of it? "Should I take what I can get?" she thought to herself. She decided that she would stay firm with her price and if the subject did arise, she would respond honestly. If she lost the sale, there would always be another, she was convinced.

As scheduled, the man arrived in the late afternoon, just enough time to see the shop during sunlight. He was not overly professional, but did have a certain businessman appearance. He wore a median priced suit and a matching hat to shade his bald head from the sun. Gloria came out of the shop to greet him and answer any questions he may have about the neighborhood or the outside of the building. He made a minor inquiry into the age of the building and how long she had owned it. Gloria responded promptly with little enthusiasm. "This used to be my father's shop," she responded. After further discussion about the window dressings and neighboring shops she prompted the man to enter the store, "Shall we proceed inside?" The man simply nodded and they moved towards the storefront entrance. Just as Gloria placed her hand on the door handle, the man gently grabbed her arm and said, "I'm sorry for what happened here. I can go in by myself if you prefer to stay outside." Gloria was stunned, not so much by the fact that he knew what happened, as news spreads quickly in such a tight-knit community.  It was the honesty of the whole moment. She had prepared herself to make the first move at any sign of the buyer's knowledge of the murder assuming, like many other businessmen, that he would try and take advantage of her predicament. Although she had been raised to be cautious in all business dealings, to never let a friendly smile and warm gestures get in the way of cold, professional business, she was taken off guard and had not prepared for such a heartfelt extension. It was difficult for her be in that place, but she wanted to feel strong and took pride in her ability to conduct business professionally. "It's alright," she lied. The two entered the store quietly with little notice from pedestrians and passers by. Only one of them would exit alive. [The man has just begun lifting the hat from his head as both enter the store. Only their backs are visible.]

Escaping Juárez: Part 1

2010-08-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

Ciudad Juárez, México. El Paso del Norte, as the Spanish originally referred to it, has been a gateway through the southern Rocky Mountains for centuries. The first wood bridge crossing the Rio Grande in the 18th century handled local commerce, general foot traffic and the Spanish slave trade. [Spanish soldiers in uniform and local trader carrying a satchel of corn on his burro crossing the bridge.] It wasn't until the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848, establishing the border between the United States and México, that Ciudad Juárez and El Paso Norte would gain new importance.

Ever since there has been a border, there has been someone guarding it and for as long as there have been guards, there have been ways to get around them. Today, in our time, some cross the barren desert, risking dehydration. Others stow away inside refrigerated cargo trucks, suffering the threat of deep freeze. Many cross legally, with valid documentation, never to return to their homeland. What is it that drives them to risk their very lives? Are they simply reaching for a better future? No... that's not it. They're fleeing from the bloodbath they call, "home." [A small family staring into your eyes with a deep look of desperation, helplessness and death on their faces.]

In the last 20 years, Ciudad Juárez has become a center for drug and human trafficking, resulting in over 1,000 unsolved murders of women alone. [Body of a women by the roadside, clothes torn, suggesting rape before death.] Justice does not live here. Then again, Justice is not alive, it doesn't impose itself upon others. Justice is enforced and today more than ever, it needs an enforcer.

Gloria was never known for strict enforcement of rules, nor did she always abide them. The town knew her as "Chiquita," for her physical size. She had good rapport with her neighbors, was friendly to her customers and has always been good to her family. She was admired by many in her neighborhood. They never would have expected that she would be their savior.

A little shop on the corner of the main street, filled with gift bags, piñatas and wrapping paper stands out against the bleak gray cement and poor window dressings of the other businesses. [Quaint shop with colorful metallic pink, yellow, green, white and red decorations in the windows.] Since the death of her father in a police raid of a local cantina 5 years ago, Gloria and her mother had come to own this little shop, earning just enough to make ends meet. Unmarried and uninterested in romance, Gloria focuses on her mother, her remaining family. Though the death of her father struck her with great force, she has kept her frustration, depression and rage bottled up, brewing and fermenting, as not to affect her mother's health. She had to be responsible; all they have is each other.

On a usual business day, with few purchasing customers and the frequent window shopper, a sound was heard not far off. The wailing of police sirens as the cars tear through the streets, further destroying the already dilapidated roads, is a common occurrence here. But today would be different for Gloria. It was obvious the police vehicles were approaching their location, causing general interest and concern of those on the street and in the shops. The sound was now close enough to make out several separate vehicles, all approaching together. Sure enough, two police cars and one mid-sized pickup truck, filled with masked officers and armed with bullet-proof vests and assault rifles, roared down the narrow street at almost uncontrollable speed. Had they the need to abruptly stop for pedestrians or cross traffic, they would have no ability to do so. They flew by the business just as fast as they had arrived and the sound of sirens was no longer approaching, but receding and eventually faded away. The excitement was over; some other poor neighborhood would feel the force of law enforcement today.
Business continued as normal for a moment, until the sound of sirens once again awakened the monotonous lull. The sound was approaching from the opposite direction, the direction in which the previous party had fled. "They must be coming back this way," Gloria said to her mother. As the caravan approached, Gloria could see the panic and frantic running of people on the street, outside of her shop. The people gained momentum, flying into any open door or behind any vehicle or large object they could find. The police were within sight and in front of them was a large black SUV, with two men hanging out of the front passenger and driver side back window, firing at the police. With the sound of police sirens were machine gun fire and the screams of nearby pedestrians. Bullets from the assailant's machine guns rip through car doors and windshields of adjacent vehicles as they blindly fire at pursuing officers from their windows, embedding themselves in the thighs, abdomen, chest and brains of the innocent passengers. Police gunfire, aimed directly down the street, is hitting storefront windows, parked vehicles and pedestrians. In a desperate instant, Gloria runs for her mother to help her into cover, but she is too late. As she dashed across the small store lobby to her mother sitting near the window, she felt the impact of the lead slug as it shattered the glass window, passed completely through her right shoulder, continued on its path and finally came to rest in the eye of a pink donkey piñata. The impact knocked Gloria to the floor, momentarily stunned. As she fell to the floor she could see her mother turn her head, as if captured with a high speed camera to look at her daughter for the last time. Once the turn was complete, a bullet entered the back of her head. The vision of Gloria lying bloody on the floor was the last image imprinted on her mother’s retina before she left this life.

The whole parade flew by and what seemed like an eternity, passed in a matter of moments. The news later reported that the vehicle was finally arrested by police not more than two blocks down the same avenue, both gunmen and the driver slaughtered in their seats. Six other innocent bystanders, dead.
As Gloria recovered, she walked over to her mother lying dead, face down on the floor. In utter shock, Gloria could not help to recall the body of her father and how he met a similar end. She imagined them lying together there, almost as if Fate had brought them together through the same grotesque process. She replayed the incident over in her head once more: one minute her mother was happily gazing out the window, enjoying the lives and activities of their small community. The next, she was a statistic in México’s crime wave.

Gloria did not pick up her mother to hold her or stroke her hair, for fear of further mutilating the poor woman’s head. Instead, she sat their on the floor, blood poring down her arm from her wound, with her hand on her mother’s back, staring at the breathless body. As others rushed into the store to assist Gloria and provide mediocre medical attention, Gloria’s eyes stayed; her body motionless, her mind never more fervent. Had any of the persons attending Gloria seen into her soul at that moment, they would have taken flight. A deep rage was brewing inside the small woman. She had nothing left, nobody to care after and nobody to care for her. Her home was falling apart all around her and the rate of the crumbling was accelerating. She had made her mind that there was no need to escape from Juárez; Juárez needed to escape from her.

Lopi Kuwak: An Intergalactic Beverage

2010-07-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

It was his work that brought him to this part of the galaxy. As a young traveling salesman, Bodoh methodically scouted out potential buyers for his company's new cleaning product, NGC 409. He had made his way across the four Jovian planets of the Sirius Star System and had done quite well in his efforts. After establishing several recurring sales accounts and thereby establishing a certain residual income, Bodoh intended to celebrate.

The next morning Bodoh decided to sit down for an expensive breakfast, "Perhaps some of the local river food, which I usually can't afford," he thought to himself. So, after some minimal inquiry at the local travel station, he found himself sitting at the bar of the “Jovial Café,” the solar system’s premier coffee house. While browsing the menu, he came across a beverage with the unique name, Lopi Kuwak. He recalled some years ago his friend Lelucon telling him that, "On the smallest of the four Jovians, you will find the home of one of space’s most rare and sought after beverages, Lopi Kuwak." He couldn't believe it, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. An overwhelming sense of curiosity had taken over all thought processes of our friend, he was consumed with this advantageous situation he found himself in. The time had come for him to order his very first vial of Lopi Kuwak.

Bodoh waited a moment in hope that someone else would order the drink before him and he could listen in to the way it was ordered, for of fear of making a fool of himself or placing an improper order. He had made a similar mistake at BuckStar's and vowed it would never happen again. But nobody showed and the anxiety was becoming too much to bear. After briefly surveying the surrounding area to assess if anyone else had already ordered the beverage, Bodoh placed his order. “I’ll have a ‘stellar Lopi’” he said, trying to appear as if he drinks them regularly. Like most fine dining facilities, the prices are never openly displayed on menus and signage and this was the case at the Jovial. Bodoh’s throat practically imploded when the bartender replied, “That’ll be 1,275 star credits.”

“1,275 star credits?!?” Bodoh thought, “That’s a week’s wages!” But the cultural pressure, the attention he had already received from other patrons upon hearing him place his order, and the fact that the bartender had already begun preparing his drink made it impossible for him to cancel his order and avoid the astronomical fee. He reached into his pocket and removed his iPaid, connected to the payment module and transferred the requested credits to the Jovial Cafe. It was done.

A moment later, the bartender arrived with the drink. The crystalline container sat upon a thin leaf of the local Buritan tree and was neatly garnished with a small portion of dehydrated Kotoran root. He had thought about requesting Tikus cream, but supposed the beverage should be consumed neat, since the bartender never offered. He smelled the rich aroma of the coffee and as he leaned in to take his first sip, he was interrupted, "You're not going to drink that are you?" He peered down the bar and noticed a middle-aged man, not a year beyond 138, sitting and drinking nothing more than room temperature water. As Bodoh lowered his glass the man prodded again saying, "Were you really going to drink that?"

Bodoh wasn't sure whether he should be insulted at the rudeness and untactful approach of the man or fearful that the man new something he didn't, but should. "What do you mean?" asked Bodoh. "Well, it's just that, you were going to drink that," the man responded. "Of course I was, that's why I paid for it and it cost me quite a bit of credits at that," replied Bodoh. "What's your name boy?" asked the stranger. "I'm Bodoh and who are you?" "I'm Kebenaran, but my friends call me 'Keb'." Bodoh wondered whether the man actually had any friends. "So Keb, why shouldn't I drink this?" Bodoh insisted. Keb took his glass of water, raised it up and peered through it, as if to admire its clarity. He then slowly downed half of the liquid and gave an obvious "Ahhh," indicating his enjoyment. He raised his eyebrows, smiled and nodded his head, as if to say, "Now, that's good!" After a moment of contemplation, Keb began to explain to the boy his reasoning behind his interjection.

The bartender was watching this little drama unfold and just before Keb could begin his explanation, the bartender interrupted by saying, "Listen pal, we don't take kindly to harassment here. This gentleman ordered this fine beverage and deserves to enjoy it in peace." As if the bartender never spoke or Keb was completely deaf, he began to explain once again his reasoning for his disturbance. Seeing this, the bartender quickly moved down to Keb's end of the bar and stated, "You finish your drink and get out!" Had the bartender not been an Ular, Keb might have continued the defiance. Never mind the size, the demeanor of the bartender alone was enough to build consensus. "All right, all right," Keb said sarcastically. He slowly finished his water in one pass, staring at the bartender the whole while. He then got up from his seat and made his way towards the exit.

As the man arose Bodoh hurriedly took a full gulp of his now luke warm beverage in anticipation that he would be interrupted once again. As the flavor filled his mouth, he tried imagining the liquid embedding itself in each taste receptor cell. He wanted to maximize this experience, as it very likely would never happen again. His first response was nothing spectacular, in fact, after this whole ordeal, he was quite disappointed. He made a slight frown, down turning his eyebrows and closing his eyes in an attempt to route all sensory power from his vision and hearing to his sense of taste. As the flavor made its way down to the afferent nerves, a completely different gustatory reaction was experienced, one of disgust. "This is the most horrible drink I've ever had," he mumbled, just audible enough to be noticed. The bartender gave the customary sneer, reserved only for rude customers. It seemed to have an extra hint of agitation since he had just defended him from Keb's insistent chatter. "What is this drink made from?" he asked the bartender in hopes that he could be educated on the subject.

Kebenaran heard this utterance just before he reached the door. He turned his head over his should, just enough so Bodoh could hear him say, “Why do you think we call Sirius the ‘dog star'.”