10 Reasons Why This Photo Triggers My Spidey Sense

1. It has members of my family in it and I don’t know what they’re doing.

  This instantly puts me on high alert. Knowing how some of my family members have a natural instinct to do things they probably shouldn’t, this document could easily become evidence in some sort of trial. Should I instantly destroy it and pretend like I didn’t just find it in this old scrapbook? At the very least, I should flip it over and see if there’s a date scribbled on the back so I can make sure I have an airtight alibi, even if I have to pay someone to make that happen.

2. There’s no date on the back.

  We’re all in trouble. I can’t possibly develop an alibi that would cover a whole time period that, judging by the estimated ages of the participants, runs roughly from the early to mid 80’s. But at least I was in college then, so maybe I can find some old fraternity brothers that can swear I was drunk in the frat house for two solid years and didn’t have the strength to get into any further mischief. Which is sort of true but also a complete lie. I still managed to do things I shouldn’t, despite heavy round of serious beer-bonging. Shhhh. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

3. My mother apparently raised a child that I didn’t know about.

  I recognize my youngest sister and youngest brother (fore and aft, with my Mom right behind fore). But notice the set of legs in the third position. There wasn’t another child in that chronological segment of the child-production assembly line, yet those cryptic legs seem to match the general age of the two known siblings. Interesting. Mommy, did you have a hobby that we didn’t about?

4. Of course, the elephant in the room is the elephant.

  What the hell? Where did they find this thing? I mean, we had a zoo in my hometown, but I sure don’t remember that place having elephants that you could climb your ass on and smile for a camera. Which means this staff-reduced version of my family had to travel somewhere in order for this paparazzi session to take place. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t India, because we didn’t have that kind of money, and I don’t see any members of Duran Duran in the background making a music video. On the flip side, I didn’t know about the extra brother, so I’ve obviously missed a few memos.

5. Speaking of the background, why does it look like some type of archeological dig site?

  Was somebody looking for yet another buried king in Egypt? Are there still more to find? Then again, we seem to have an awfully large amount of trees for this to be an Egyptian locale. No offense to the fine people of Egypt, but I don’t remember any Egyptian descriptions containing passages like “we looked out upon the vast forests of our land, dripping with moisture and heavy fruit, and we smiled, knowing that those crappy upstart rainforests of South America (we had kings before you had people!) could not begin to compete with our arboreal treasures.”

6. Those horrid brightly-colored tube socks.

  Everyone wore them at the time. Why did we do that?

7. The dramatically asexual attendant to the right.

  What is she looking at? Would it have killed him to look at the camera? And why does she seem to have more badges that necessary? Did he do something extraordinary at some point? Her cap is kind of jaunty, but he loses points for the poorly-tucked shirt. And she’s wearing cryptic sunglasses when no one else is, so he must have secrets. Like her postures seems to speak of a military background, but the fact that he’s now working with elephants indicates that something went wrong somewhere with the career goals.

8. And s/he’s holding a cane in a menacing manner.

  What’s up with that? Is she beating the elephant with it? I’m not really happy about things if he was doing that, but she’s obviously not using it to walk, like maybe he’s suffering from a war injury that still troubles her. Of course, if he was even minimally being unappreciative of the elephant, my sister would have leapt off that royal travelling-platform and kicked his ass, even if she was only six and wearing non-combat jelly shoes that were so popular in that time period.

9. Speaking of that restrictive platform…

  Don’t those menacing bars look like they might be a bit of a hindrance if the elephant decided to, I don’t know, do yoga? Those elephants weigh, like, 400 tons. If girl starts to roll, you’re not going to have enough time to extricate yourself from the Spanish-Inquisition stadium seating before your ass is squashed big-time. And that stupid little cane that your flight attendant is carrying is not going to help you much.

10. And finally, speaking of the elephant.

  Doesn’t the poor thing look tired? I mean, maybe that’s the natural expression, and maybe the elephant doesn’t mind lugging family units with mysterious extra members from one end of the Egyptian excavation site to the other. (Which is, interestingly enough, how I feel when I go to staff meetings.) But do we really know that? Are we caring for the animals of this planet properly? Are you?

  Just something to ponder as you flip through old photographs and think about history and life and responsibility. Cheers.

Cruise Control – Part 26: Big-Ass Gulches and Unexpected Wetness

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  Eventually, the Divine Miss Tiffany was safely transferred to the landing platform, without any actual mid-air copulation that we could see, but since that’s such a delicious phrase and possibility to work into the opening paragraph of a blog post, I simply had to go there. In any case, once the public-transport clothesline had been cleared of debris, human and otherwise, the rest of us who had been trapped on the Ewok tree were free to fling ourselves into space and allow the laws of physics to do whatever they must to keep us alive.

  Rest assured that none of us let our gloved hands get anywhere near mechanisms of any kind. It’s fun and interesting when tragedy strikes other people. Not so much when it happens to you.

  And for most of the rest of our zipping extravaganza in the jungle, things went quite swimmingly. There were a few tense moments when folks didn’t quite make it to the other end at some of the zip lines, but by now we all realized that it was probably a wiser move to just haul your ass to the platform rather than wait for one of the guides to throw his legs around you. After all, we had no idea where those legs had been. No one wants to get an STD in a foreign country where you don’t know the locations of free clinics. This is something that is not adequately covered in travel brochures.

  But then it was time for the final zip. We traipsed up to that last launch platform with two mindsets. There were those among us who hadn’t had a particularly festive afternoon, and they were simply waiting for the pain, agony, and lack of cocktails to come to a miserable end. (Picture Tiffany, with her mangled glove and the slight abrasions around her waistline. She would never look fondly upon goats again.) Then we had folks who were quite saddened that our adventure was reaching the part where Carol Burnett would tug at her ear. (Picture Terry, who had greatly enjoyed the excursion, wiping away a tear as we approached final lift-off.)

  Personally, I’d have to include myself in the enraptured group. After the first run, where I didn’t die and actually became slightly horny during the zip (don’t ask, just go with it), I’d had a rather swell time. But something seemed a little odd as we collectively gathered and sweated at the last station. For one, you couldn’t really see the destination. Granted, we had survived a few runs where the landing platform was a bit distant and vague, but you still got a sense of the general in which you would be flung.

  This time? Not so much. The zip line simply vanished into mere sunshine and nothingness. We couldn’t see anything remotely resembling a place where one would wish to go, harnessed or otherwise.

  But I was still adequately doped up on whatever body chemicals were coursing through my body after the morning’s physicality (after all, the only exercise I normally get consists of reaching for the TV remote control or hitting “enter” on a keyboard), so I really didn’t worry about things as I was once again hitched to the clothesline. Then I happened to glance at two of the lesser guides who were huddled off to the side, apparently exchanging money. What was that all about? Was it a drug deal, or were they betting on survival chances? That made me a little uneasy. Maybe I had better ask someone about-

  “GO!” screamed the main guide standing right beside me, a gruff invective that both startled and aroused me. I instinctively ran to the end of the platform like the po-po were banging on the front door and dove head-first into nothingness.

  And things were fine for roughly four seconds, with pretty greenery whipping by on both sides and a brisk wind cooling off my heated bits. Then I shot out of the trees and found myself in an open-air expanse that people typically only encounter when they drive up to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Except that I was way past that rim. And the other side of the canyon appeared to be in another country, like Ecuador or Australia.

  So I screamed. Okay, maybe not screamed, but a crude expletive that normally references solid body waste fought its way out of my mouth and echoed up and down the canyon that was ungodly large and obviously a place where people died. This was clearly a moment that wise advertising personnel had left out of the glossy brochures.

  But I managed to stop with the masculine screaming, somewhere over Colorado, and I got a second wind. As it became evident that I was not going to immediately perish, as long as I didn’t stick my fingers where they shouldn’t be, I actually relaxed enough to enjoy the view. Because really, it was quite magnificent. After all, how often do you get the chance to see things from the perspective of a flying creature that normally just poops on your car?

  Then I started spinning.

  I really didn’t welcome this development. I vaguely recalled that one of the guides, when he wasn’t flirting with all the women-folk in our entourage, had mentioned that spinning was a possibility. And that there were certain measures you could take to stop the spinning if you didn’t find it particularly enjoyable. But I really couldn’t remember what he proffered up as preventative actions, because at the time of his oratory I was more concerned with the fact that my flight gear was separating my testicles in a manner that was neither pleasant nor productive.

  So I continued to twirl. Normally this is something that my people enjoy, preferably with an abundance of glitter and a Lady Gaga song playing in the background. But at this particular moment I was not a fan of the twirling. Revoke my gay card if the by-laws of our constitution say you must. Everything was blurry and I couldn’t figure out where I was, and I really didn’t care for feeling like Courtney Love on a typical Saturday night.

  Then, by whatever happenstance and alignment of the planets, I stopped spinning. Right as I was approaching the very end of the run. This was a quick bit of business, and I only had about three seconds to assess the situation. I could see several friends and family members clustered near the landing platform, most of them cheering me on in that “Go Team!” way that non-athletes have when it comes to encouraging people do sporty things while watching TV in a bar during happy hour. This was sweet and all, but I couldn’t help but notice that I was rapidly heading toward a tree.

  A tree with what appeared to be a mattress strapped to its trunk.

  Despite my recent spinning and screaming, I was fairly certain that a tree should not come equipped with a mattress, unless there was some type of pain-avoidance scenario that owners of jungle-based entertainment venues wished to avoid. I was only able to process about three words in my brain (“why is there-“) before I slammed into the evil tree with enough power to make the slamming of Hurricane Katrina into New Orleans look like a hiccup.

  My sunglasses flew in one direction, my already-abused testicles flew in another direction, and several internal organs flew to parts of my body that hadn’t received the memo about the new arrivals and proper accommodations had not been prepared. I slid down the tree and hung from the zip line like a piñata after children hopped up on birthday-cake sugar had beaten me with sticks. I fully expected emergency personnel to arrive within seconds and begin performing life-saving activity.

  This did not immediately happen.

  In fact, no one around me seemed all that interested in the possibility that I might never walk again. The only person who even glanced my way was one of the little lesser-guides who reached up and whacked at the pulley device above me so that I could drop to the platform with an unsatisfying thud. (And that was his job, so I’m not really going to give him any bonus points for merely following protocol.)

  I plucked my sunglasses out of a nearby bush and staggered my way to a little ladder leading down from the platform, where I then managed to further desecrate my athleticism by not remembering how one navigates a ladder. I made it to the first rung with amazing skill and expertise, but then things got a bit jacked-up and I barely even touched the remaining rungs, hurtling downward in a manner that would have delighted those soul-deprived people who watch amateur videos and laugh hysterically at strangers who do stupid things that result in pain and disability checks.

  And still, no one was paying any attention to the fact that I was not having a good time right at the moment. There just might have to be some harsh words exchanged with my supposed friends and family members, once the bodily pain diminished enough that I could form coherent sentences.

  Eventually, I clamored back to my feet, brushing off the exotic Jamaican soil that was now in every crevice of my body, and turned toward said batch of former loved ones as they stood in a circle off to one side. I opened my mouth to say something essentially pointless but still cutting enough to be emotionally satisfying, then I quickly closed my offended mouth as I studied their behavior. They all seemed to be greatly focused on something in the midst of their circle, with all of them making cooing noises of delight and a few of them possibly approaching orgasm.

  Well, this I had to see.

  I walked up to the circle and shoved a few of the worshippers to the side (look, if you can’t rush to soothe me when I’ve slammed into a tree, you really don’t have a special place in my heart), thus allowing me to cast my eyes upon the idolatrous wonder that had enraptured them.

  It was one of those one of those big-ass water coolers that you normally see on the tailgate of a government-owned truck parked by the side of a construction area on a highway, in one of those scenarios where hundreds of government-owned workers are standing around and doing absolutely nothing while you are trapped in your car for hours, log-jammed because the 6-lane highway has been reduced to 1 stupid lane. Why are those fools thirsty? The only person who is actually doing anything is the flag-waver person, and his bitter expression makes it very clear that he doesn’t care where you drive as long as it’s not toward him.

  The acolytes at this particular jungle-based water cooler were shoving little paper cups at the dispenser spigot and sucking down the gushing liquid as if there had never been anything more glorious in the history of the planet, even surpassing the invention of fried cheese.

  And suddenly, I realized that I was more thirsty than any human being should have to endure. I hadn’t really thought about my parched state during the entire trek through the tropical forests of Jamaica, mainly because I was more concerned about staying alive and such, but now that the lovely combination of hydrogen and oxygen was there for my taking from a slightly-dirty round vessel composed of plastic that won’t decompose in a landfill for 2 billion years, there was nothing I wanted more.

  I grabbed a flimsy paper cup (at least the cup could be recycled, karma points for me) and shoved it under the spigot, knocking aside the hand of someone who was also reaching. (Screw you. You’ve been here longer than me, and if you haven’t managed to get what you need with that kind of head start, then you have personal issues that you really need to work through.) I filled my cup, purposely spilling a bit just to irritate those who were waiting, and gulped down the entire contents in one epic example of gluttony.

  Oh. My. God.

  I may have possibly spent my seed on the ground without impregnating anybody, an obvious affront to the seed-maintenance directives listed in the Bible, but that was the best water that I have ever tasted. Ever. I could smell colors and touch sounds.

  “Incoming!” screamed one of the acolytes. Or one of the guides. Somebody hollered.

  What? I’m having a religious experience here, why must there be shouting?

  Then I heard a whizzing and looked up. Another member of our amateur flock was hurtling along the zip line toward the mattress tree. It happened so fast that I really couldn’t see who it was, but they were very un-original in their execution, as they basically copied my own routine, slamming into the tree with mind-numbing force. There might have even been blood spatter, but I’ll leave that decision up to the fine folks at CSI: Jamaica.

  I turned back to the sacred font of obviously drug-laced liquid, and proceeded to gluttonize further. No shame in my game. Eventually, the newer arrivals shoved my belching ass to the side, intent on their own vision quest, but it really didn’t matter. I was sated at that point, and the only additional thing I might need in my life plan at that point was the appearance of a serving-wench type person bearing a plate of grease-dripping nachos and an alcoholic beverage.

  But then one of the guides got our attention by assuming an authoritative pose, which basically involved him standing in a strikingly-flattering shaft of sunlight filtering through the lush leafy coverage over our heads, and then chastely rubbing in the general area of his crotch. (Those Jamaican men sure do love their appendages.) “We will now march back to camp!”

  March back to camp? I don’t think so. At a hundred bucks a pop (U.S. dollars!) for this excursion, my water-logged butt wasn’t marching anywhere. I turned to glare at him defiantly.

  He couldn’t have cared less. “Follow me to the camp!” he announced, with one final diddle on his digit. Then he whirled about and attempted to commence said march, with the firm conviction of Napoleon strutting his short-ass self into a certain place known as Waterloo.

  I gave the knowing eye to all of my compatriots, full of the Norma Rae spirit, firmly convinced that they would join me in rising up against our oppressors.

  Instead, they all completely ignored me and raced to fall in line behind the stoned Pied Piper who was now in charge of our lives.

  Great.

To Be Continued…

Cruise Control - Part 25: The Sadness of Sudden Stoppage

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  Tiffany. Dangling. And her thoughts whilst awaiting rescue from the  midpoint of a zip line.

  Well, isn’t this just great. I knew right at the very second that I agreed to go on this little adventure that I wasn’t gonna be happy before the deed was done. Too many things can go wrong when you defy nature and try to participate in sports that mess around with gravity. But did I listen to myself? Of course not. Everybody else was so psyched about doing something new and different that I didn’t want to be the Nellie Oleson of the group and I acted like it was the best idea ever.

  Note to self: Stop agreeing to anything after alcoholic beverages have been introduced into the conversation. We should know this by now.

  Now, personal paths to enlightenment aside, what the hell am I supposed to do at this point? I have one hand trapped in a device probably designed by Satan himself, the other hand is clutching my little lifeline with an intensity that would make Charles Manson refuse to come out of his cell, and my ass is swaying in the breeze like some jacked-up tropical flower that Etta James would sing about after her man done her wrong once again.

  I really don’t have any prior life experiences that can compare to this. And momma certainly never told me there’d be days like this. I missed a memo somewhere.

  And what’s up with the Happy Men? Why aren’t they doing anything to make this situation go away? I don’t know what the people behind me are doing, because I can’t turn around, but I do believe I hear someone giggling, and that person will suffer immensely once I get back to solid ground. But the people in front of me? They’re just staring at me like this has never happened before in the history of Earth.

  I hate them. Just because they can see me. Can they not figure out that I have an issue here? I’m stuck, people. Not moving. Why are you just standing there? Are you waiting for me to pull out a Hogwarts wand and mutter some type of Momentum Spell? I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Me pull out a gun and shoot all witnesses of this incident? Well, that’s still on the table.

  Oh, wait. The Happy Man at the receiving end has had some type of inspiration and is now barking into a walkie-talkie. This development might have some promise. Then again, he might just be ordering pizza. I have no idea. I can’t lip read when a harness strap is separating my butt cheeks and my arm is frozen skyward. A little bit hard to focus.

  Okay, now Forward Happy Man has turned off his little transponder and is reaching up for the main line, throwing his legs upward and scooting my way. This is probably a positive sign, although I must admit that on the other zip run where I had to be rescued by an unknown man’s legs, I really didn’t know what was coming. I was just hanging there, and then I suddenly had thighs clutching my waist. Nobody even bought me a drink, it happened that fast. There really should be a brochure that would let a girl know what to expect. Just sayin.

  But this is a really long run, and it’s going to take Spider Man a while to make his way over here. I’m not really impressed with that angle, but it’s not like I have a lot of choice. I just have to remain calm and wait for the conjugal visit. But I’m not calm. How could I be? I’m blowing in the wind at least 200 feet above a patch of ground that looks very rocky and unsatisfactory. I am not going to be pretty if I end up down there.

  Okay, wait. I just need to breathe and quit getting all neurotic about this, even if that’s the way I was raised, in a small Missouri town where they don’t have malfunctioning zip lines that test a person’s sanity. Surely this will all be over in mere minutes, and my momentary shame and degradation will become something that we never speak of again. Besides, my lip gloss is stunning, I checked it just before I plunged off the Platform of Death. Even when I screamed in total fear, I remained moist and dewy.

  But what’s taking Spider Man so long? He doesn’t seem to be really invested in the rescue operation. He sure looks like he’s taking his time, waving to all the paparazzi hiding in the trees, those pesky photographers that are constantly following me around and trying to catch me in an unglamorous pose. Thank God that rarely happens, with my natural beauty forcefully overcoming things like poor lighting and cheap cameras.

  Hold up, Spidey just came to a halt, hanging there in a very immobile way. He’s yelling something over his head at one of the other Happy Men. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s uttering far too many words for this to be a conversation about how successful my rescue mission is going. The other Happy Man just leapt off the side of the landing platform and went running into the jungle. Spider Man is still just parked there and continuing to not save me.

  Oh dear God, what if they have decided that the risk of preventing my potential plummet is not worth the gain of my triumphant return to non-airborne society? (Yes, I realize that the concept of someone not wanting to save incomparable me is shocking and unbelievable, but these tragedies can happen when people are raised on remote islands and possibly even home-schooled.) What if they simply leave me hanging here?

  The horror. And the rudeness.

  Hours later, as twilight deepens and caresses the lush tropical foliage that some very-convincing set designer has placed around me, I will still be hanging here, gently swaying. I imagine that I will be quite parched at that point, with things drying out despite my wearing of lip gloss that has such an astounding moisture content that global scientists are studying how my lips could possibly be used to convert the Gobi Desert into a water park.

  Suddenly, my dryness is interrupted by the sound of a snapping twig. Why I can hear this snappage is unclear, what with me being miles in the air and nowhere near small branches that have been carelessly tossed to the ground, but hear it I do. I shake my head to clear away the remnants of a pleasant daydream wherein the world was mourning my possible loss in the jungles of Jamaica, and I try to take stock of my surroundings.

  The first thing my incredibly sharp and perceptive mind notices is that when it gets dark in this jungle, visibility should no longer be a featured selling point in the entertainment brochures for this place. Despite my squinting and my adjusting the angle of my head several times to make sure my flowing locks were flowing in the most photographic manner as I studied the landscape, I really couldn’t see anything.

  Well, except for the fact that the landing platform off yonder was completely devoid of humanity. Everyone was gone. This irked me greatly. I could understand that the workers had gone home, because they were probably in a union and had to adhere to strict shift-duration guidelines. (Despite the rumors printed in that trashy tabloid, I really do understand things like workers’ rights and maintaining a respectful work environment. Except when such things result in me not being able to order a cocktail at the precise moment that I want one.)

  No, the truly troublesome aspect of the lack of people around me at the present time was that my so-called friends had hopped on the “oh, she’ll be fine hanging there for a while” bus and headed for another locale where they could continue to not care about people they supposedly loved. That was the angle that was getting under my skin, the relative ease with which they abandoned me.

  And after all I’ve done for them through the years. Do they not understand how much work it is being this glamorous and beautiful all the time? Okay, perhaps “work” is not quite the right word, because glamour and beauty are actually in my DNA, and all I really have to do is walk into a room and both of those things shoot out of my various orifices with relative ease. But still, I have walked into countless rooms for these people. Countless!

  Yet at the first tiniest sign of trouble, like my possible death over a nameless gorge in a stupid jungle where they clearly don’t even have adequate room service, my little friends go running off for any destination that doesn’t require them to assist me in any way. Really? Apparently it’s just too much to ask for them to lift a finger and prevent me from tumbling on to that goat down there. They are so not getting invited to any social engagements I might produce in the near future.

  Wait a minute. Goat? Why is there a goat standing below me and apparently nibbling on something tasty he has discovered growing on the ground? This has completely ruined my narrative, this sudden introduction of unexpectedness. I mean, I realize that goats are things that could potentially appear at random, but they are not high on my awareness list. If a reporter had interviewed me earlier this morning and had asked “If you were near death, what form of livestock do you think would appear?”, I’m fairly certain that my response would not have been “Why, a goat, of course. Who doesn’t dream of that?”.

  But now we had a goat, nevertheless. And he was the only one who had bothered to stay by my side during a moment of personal tragedy. (We won’t discuss the fact that he was clearly more focused on rooting at that weed than getting me down off this zip-line, but at least he hadn’t dashed off with the others in search of libations and unconcern about people trapped on mid-air conveyances.) He was my only hope of salvation at the moment, and I had best engage him in some friendly conversation.

  “Hey, goat,” said I.

  The goat responded with no response, still rooting.

  Well, then. This was proving more difficult than I had envisioned, and I was already bored and tired. But I didn’t become world-famous by giving up easily.

  “Hey, goat,” I repeated, more loudly, with a slight hint of authority in case he was one of those S&M goats one reads about, but not too much force in case he was one of those nonviolent goats that would eventually join Greenpeace. “Would you mind holding off on your dinner and looking up here for just a smidge of a second?”

  The goat snorted, then suddenly raised his head and began looking everywhere around him except skywards.

  Great. I was dealing with more home-schooling. “Up here,” I clarified.

  Amazingly, the goat’s head tilted a bit and his eyes looked directly into mine. He belched slightly, perhaps in surprise or perhaps in greeting.

  Bingo. “Hi, there. Do you happen to know anybody that can get my ass off of this thing?”

  The goat just stared. I’m guessing he normally didn’t encounter requests such as mine in his daily routine of foraging for food and making irksome noises.

  I tried to spell I it out. “I’m stuck. I was just trying to do a fly-over of your little homestead, something didn’t work right, and now everybody has gone home to watch the premiere of True Blood.”

  The goat blinked.

  “Could you maybe help me out?”

  The goat opened his mouth. “I’m going to wrap my legs around you again.”

  What the hell?

  “M’am, are you okay? I need to wrap my legs around you again so I can pull you to the platform.”

  I opened my eyes.

  The mid-day sun was still shining brightly, dappling the greenery all around me. In the distance, I could see the landing platform, with some of my friends standing there anxiously, eyes worried but hopeful. Behind me, I could hear the rest of my friends shouting words of encouragement and eventual safety. Directly in front me, mere inches away, I spied a man on his back with his legs spread wide.

  I certainly recognized that particular stance. “Hello,” I said. “Nice to see you again. I guess I must have drifted off.”

  He brushed this away. “That’s okay. Happens all the time.”

  People fall asleep on a zip-line? Regularly?

  “Are you ready for me to grab you with my legs?”

  I smiled brightly. “I sure am. But could we do a little something first?”

  “Sure.”

  I wiggled the one arm that was still rigidly held in place over my head, the tips of my glove fingers locked into the pulley mechanism on the line. “Can we get my hand out of this damn thing? If we’re going to have trapeze-like sex again, it’s only polite of me to have both hands available.”




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Cruise Control - Part 24: Finding Zipperland

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  After the flurry of activity in the “comfort stations” of Camp Dangle-Ass, wherein everyone had suddenly decided that it might be a good idea to have a quick tinkle before we were hurled across a clothesline, we re-grouped outside the main building for further instruction from the headmistress. This instruction basically consisted of the words: Go over there and get ready.

  “There” turned out to be a cute little gazebo thing, within which some young gentlemen were smiling welcomingly and waiting for us to hurry up and come be processed for flight. We trudged over there, smiling as well, because even the dimmest members of our entourage realized that one should probably be nice to people who were responsible for keeping us alive during the morning’s festivities.

  One of the fellows then launched into a riveting oratory about how one should pay careful attention to a variety of safety tips, which he expounded upon with practiced ease, smiling the entire time. Do this. Don’t do this. Under no circumstances should you ever consider doing this. And whatnot. We tried to pay attention, we really did. But seriously, we had been drinking on a boat for three days solid, and concentration was simply not our best quality right at that moment.

  Anyway, Happy Man finished up with all that mess, and we proceeded to the Donning of Our Gear ritual. Interestingly enough, the young men spent a considerable amount of time personally strapping-in all the women, gently adjusting harnesses and assuring that things did not bind or chafe. When it came time for my own transition into bondage couture, one of the men disinterestedly shoved gear in my direction and quickly went back to the near-fondling of the females. Fine.

  Eventually everyone was properly trussed, and we were then given marching orders to clamor aboard this vehicle contraption that looked like it had been welded together from parts that had washed ashore during a hurricane in 1967. The Happy Men clamored as well, and soon we were lurching and grinding along a “road” composed of alternating boulders and tar pits. Luckily, we were already wearing our little helmets, so the number of concussions caused by heads hitting metal ceilings was minimal.

  The mutant vehicle labored upwards until we finally reached a clearing that appeared to be of some importance, and one of the Happy Men hollered for us to disembark and reform near a quaint tree. Once assembled, another Happy Man re-advised us of how to best remain alive during our journey. He seemed especially focused on one particular survival technique.

  If you find yourself going too fast on the zip line, you can break your speed by reaching up and caressing the line with your gloved hand. Do not grab it with the intensity of a hooker trying to finish off a client. Gentle pressure. And do NOT grab the line directly above your head. That’s where the pulley thing is. You get your hand near that and unsatisfactory things can happen. Reach your hand behind you and grab the line there. Got it?

  Of course we nodded our heads. He had told us 714 safety tips. If we could remember 5 or 6 of them, surely we were golden. Off we trotted to the first launch site.

  And Leap Number One did not appear all that intimidating. It was just a short run over a little gulch. We could see the ending platform just a bit away. We could almost reach out and touch it. If we weren’t wearing so much gear that simply scratching at a mosquito bite could cause you to rupture a disc. And the line wasn’t that high off the ground. If you fell, you would probably survive. Probably.

  Now, the way one initiates a zip-trip, at least in the lovely compound where we were currently located, is that one steps forth, has his personal line clipped to the Big Daddy line by a Happy Man, and then one races to the end of a short deck and flings oneself out into space, lifting their legs straight out in front of them for stability and some type of aerodynamic factor that makes things more productive.

  It was the flinging bit that had me a little concerned. I didn’t know if I had quite enough exuberance within me to willingly leap asunder like a virgin into a volcano, fully confident that it was something I simply must do in order for my tribe to have a good crop season. But in reality, it wasn’t bad. I took the plunge, didn’t immediately die as anticipated, enjoyed whizzing through the air, and was actually a little disappointed that it was such a short ride. Hurray! I think I can handle this.

  Everyone else in our traveling band of slightly hung-over adventurers managed the traverse as well. We were all jazzed at this point. Of course, the zip-line people knew exactly what they were doing. You have to start out with a baby run. If the first zip had been one of the mammoth, jaw-dropping runs that were coming up later in the trek, there would have been a mutiny, the taking of hostages, and possibly a military coup. Break it to me gently.

  Victorious, we traipsed our way to the next run, endorphins or adrenaline or some type of body chemical causing us to be slightly out of our minds with confidence. And at this next station, we encountered some reality checks that maybe this whole funfest wasn’t going to be as easy as we were now anticipating. Exciting still, yes, but also making it clear that there could be humiliation points to endure as well.

  Some of the folks did not make it all the way across on the second zip. This one was much longer than the first bunny slope, so you had to pay a little bit more attention to what you were doing. Not that it truly mattered what you did, it was all a question of gravity and velocity and timing. Yes, there were probably some little adjustments the hurtling people could have done to make their journey more award-worthy, but we sure as hell didn’t know what those adjustments might be. It was our first time at the rodeo, Joan.

  Anyway. Let’s analyze how the Happy Men responded to two of the “oops, not quite” people. First we have Terry, who ran out of momentum just a bit shy of the landing deck. Those of us who had made it across all gasped, not knowing if this meant he had to go home now or what. (We didn’t know the rules.) One of the Happy Men bellowed for him to reach ahead of him and grab the main line, then pull himself hand over hand to the docking station.

  We gasped again. Physical labor was part of the package? Wasn’t there a button somebody could push that would adjust the clothesline and whisk Terry to the proper unloading zone? Apparently not. Terry the trooper sighed, discreetly cursed the physical laws of inertia, and hauled his ass to safety with relative ease. The Happy Man released him from his shackles, and we turned our eyes to review the plight of the next airborne tourist.

  Which turned out to be Tiffany. She came sailing in, graceful as always, bits of glitter trailing behind her and a unicorn running through the valley below. Then she slammed to a halt in the same spot as Terry. Uh oh. And this is where the previously-noted guest-preference of our Jamaican guides kicked in once more.

  The Receiving Happy Man immediately grabbed the main line and skittered his way out to Tiffany, where he impressively proceeded to wrap his muscular legs around Tiffany’s body.

  We all gasped again. And several of the women ripped palm fronds from nearby trees and began to fan themselves, recalling imagery from erotic Victorian novels they had read and instantly increasing the humidity of the local climate by several degrees. Nobody had expected that. Had we missed an “adults only” disclaimer in the brochure for this excursion?

  Happy Man and Tiffany conversed briefly (were they exchanging phone numbers?) and then Happy Man used his hands to pull on the main line while he used his legs to transport Tiffany. They eventually got to the landing platform where Tiffany was unshackled and she was allowed to join our little crew standing to the side, palm fronds still rapidly waving in the tropical heat.

  I didn’t know if I should console her or congratulate her. Very confusing. And we never saw the unicorn again, so it was very clear that boundaries may have been crossed.

  Onward we marched, traipsing through the jungle and spanning gaps with nothing but wind beneath our wings. I will say that the general comfort level increased with each station. There were still some heart palpitations, because the zip lines were becoming longer and the heights further from the ground, but it was getting easier for folks to throw abandon to the wind and their asses off the platforms.

  Then we had another eye-opening experience.

  This was somewhere in the middle of our quest. Maybe station 5 or 6? It was at some point where we had started zipping to little platforms high up on very-tall trees. (Picture those little Ewok villages in Star Wars, something like that. But without the cute furry animals.) We were on a circular landing, and next up we had a rather lengthy run to another possible Ewok homestead.

  The first few folks had already done their thing and were presumably safe. (The ending platforms were now getting far enough away that you really didn’t know the fate of the first pioneers until you made it to that other platform.) Because the length was longer, the speed was also greater. The pioneers had shot out of sight fairly quickly, in a slightly unsettling but still intriguing manner.

  Next up was Tiffany, she of the unicorn following. She professionally raced to the end of the platform and launched herself with admirable skill. We applauded appropriately, but then our clapping began to taper off. Tiffany was hurtling along at a speed that may have been appreciated at Cape Canaveral but perhaps wasn’t something that should be happening in the jungle.

  Tiffany, remembering her Happy Training by the Happy Men in the Happy Gazebo, reached upward to slow her pace by grasping the main line. What she did not remember was the exact placement of her hand, as advised by the Happy Men. She was reaching straight upwards and not behind her.

  “Oh my God,” squealed one of the women in our entourage, still clutching a well-worn palm frond from the heat of the leg-sex incident. (I have no idea what her name was. And since this was the only time this woman actually spoke during the whole adventure, her name is probably not important.) But her assessment was dead on. “She’s going to get her hand caught in that thing!”

  And yep, Tiffany’s gloved hand encountered a menacing mechanism it was not meant to meet, and one of the glove fingers was sucked into the maw of said contraption. Things changed dramatically at that point. We could hear the unsavory results of this meeting all the way back at the launching pad.

  Wheeeeeeeeeee! Click click click…. click click… click. cli. ck.

  Tiffany stopped moving completely. Now she was suspended in the middle of a very long span. Nothing above her but one arm trapped in an evil device that apparently relished hand garments, nothing below her but hundreds of feet of non-supportive air, and absolutely no unicorns at ground level to cushion her possible fall.

  We had us a bit of a pickle at this point.


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Cruise Control - Part 23: The Grove of Questionable Fruit

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  Luckily, the tour bus driver did not immediately make us become drug-trafficking terrorists, so that part was good. Instead, the bus simply began rolling along a two-lane highway, working its way up into the lush green hills of this part of the island. During this part of the trip, which took a bit, we managed to learn a few more interesting things about Jamaicans and how they roll.

  Speaking of rolling, it soon became abundantly clear why so many of the local citizenry were red-eyed and laid back. With the way folks drove their questionable cars around here, it was obvious that sooner or later everyone was going to be involved in a fiery crash, so you might as well be relaxed and having fun when this happened. And if your herb selection was especially fine, you might not even feel any pain when they used the jaws of life to cut you out of your crushed, vintage moped-car.

  Those modified and rusty contraptions were everywhere, darting madly to and fro, with absolutely no regard for lane markings, pedestrians, or chances of survival. At first, ensconced in the behemoth tour bus like we were, I wasn’t too concerned. Surely those gnat-mobiles would steer clear of our gas-belching supertanker, chastely and quickly getting out of the way.

  Nope. They came flying at us from all directions, little Davids frontin’ some tude with Goliath, performing feats of automotive gymnastics that made Nascar drivers look like two-year-olds in a sack race. Our driver, apparently quite skilled in the art of not killing anybody unless he really had to, managed to avoid major carnage and kept the casualty count to a minimum.

  When I wasn’t watching the continual game of chicken, with my sphincter permanently clenched, I was perusing the mountainside and the hundreds of homes that we were winding through in our quest to reach the heavens. This review was also eye-opening, presenting a weird mix of “I’m not sure what happened here”.

  There would be a beautiful mansion, older but still quite fine, and right next to it would be a complete hovel, some sagging, door-less hut that would probably fall over if you sneezed in that direction. Then another mansion, another hut, some goats, a pristine swimming pool, a shiny convertible that probably cost more than Alaska, two more huts, mansion, hut, pack of shoeless kids throwing rocks at each other, a possible dead body, mansion, and a beauty parlor that, if I understood the sign correctly, offered treatments that somehow involved the skinned animals that were hanging just inside the busy door.

  The dichotomy increased the higher the bus climbed, with some of the mansions getting turbo-swanky and some of the huts consisting of mere paper and discarded drinking straws, even leaning against the swanky ones in a tired and dispirited manner. Wow, was this a true patchwork of society, with all income-levels living together, literally, in a harmonious fashion? Or was it more of the reefer madness, with folks so hydro-planed that nobody cared who lived where or why? (Biff: “Muffy, I do believe I spy a family moving into the cardboard box we threw out after we bought the 75” plasma TV.” Muffy: “That’s really sweet. Do we have any bean dip left?”)

  Then, as the bus paused in the middle of the road so another daredevil gnat-car that had hit the failblog could be dragged out of the way, I got a closer look at a few of those mansions. Some of them truly were pristine, with finery and huge bank accounts clearly evident.

  But many of them had seen far better days, with peeling paint and even busted windows. Then I realized that some of the huts were actually attached to the mansions (intentionally, and not in one of those “hey, crazy things can happen during an earthquake” kind of way). This created a warren of accommodation, with rambling housing that fluctuated from high-end to friends in low places.

  What was going on here? It was obvious that this area, terraced and layered on the steep hills, had been a ritzy enclave at one point, with the fine houses and the stunning ocean views. But things had apparently happened, going in a direction that hadn’t been foreseen, and I was fascinated, wanting to know the history. How did this come about?

  I glanced at the bus driver, wondering if he might have some tales to tell, but he appeared to be completely invested in simply getting the damn bus up to higher elevations, forcing the groaning vehicle to navigate the twisty, ever-climbing tiny lanes that led to our destination. It was probably best that I not distract him at this point, as we were still in peril from those kamikaze makeshift vehicles which had little regard for things like public safety and physics, darting about and making people scream.

  I turned to my niece Tara, who was currently engaged in a conversation with two other bus-riders, a duo that I would later learn had the quaint monikers of “Cricket” and “Danny”. Tara was being polite and all, nodding at appropriate moments as Cricket and Danny rambled on about who knows what. But as soon as she spied me spying on her, Tara began to make subtle facial and hand gestures that I really should check out this Danny person.

  I really didn’t care. If Tara had been enough of a slacker to allow herself to become involved in a dialogue with complete strangers, then she was on her own. If she had willfully chosen to ignore the teachings of my famous document, “Uncle Brian’s Ten Reasons Why You Never Speak To Strangers In Public”, she would have to work her own way out of the mess. Little did I know that my brazen disregard for the details of her current predicament would lead to a future moment of humiliation and shame.

  Besides, we had more important things to worry about at the moment. Namely, our bus driver had decided that it was super important that we suddenly turn off the main highway (okay, the main, tiny, one-and-a-half-lane road peppered with chickens running amok and stoned people buying beef jerky at questionable establishments), and proceed down another road that really wasn’t a road at all. It was this rutted, dusty pathway, something that Boy Scouts would build to earn a vague merit badge, and then nobody would use the path again. Ever.

  But we were using it now, so we had to assume that it actually led to somewhere, other than our mystifying disappearance and an episode on that TV show “Cruise Excursions Gone Terribly Wrong”. Magically, this turn of events managed to get everyone on the bus to finally stop talking, even the chatty Cricket and Danny, a silence that thrilled Tara, allowing her to sigh and slump in her seat, praising Jesus for the momentary release.

  We were now barreling through what appeared to be a fruit grove of some kind. There were trees, and they had fruit hanging from them. Lots of trees and lots of fruit. What we didn’t have so much of was the actual nature of this fruit. The hanging things were green, that much we understood. Beyond that, who knows. (I somehow felt moved to announce that they must be lime trees, a declaration that caused at least 7 passengers to turn and glare at my obvious idiocy. This is why I wrote the pamphlet about never socializing with strangers, can you hear me now?)

  Then the bus driver finally spoke up, uttering his first words, or at least the first words that I remember. (There was a lot of drinking on this cruise, let’s just leave it at that.) “Those are orange trees.”

  Orange trees? Then why the hell is the fruit green? I should have taken that right there as a warning sign that something was wrong on this island and we were doomed to have an unpleasant experience whilst our asses were being hurled across a zip-line. If fruits are not the right color, ain’t nobody gonna be happy at the end of the day.

  But I kept my mouth shut, mainly because opening it would allow the clouds of billowing dirt from the primitive road-path to shut down my lungs. I was fairly certain that I did not want to be treated for respiratory ailments in this particular setting.

  Then we left behind the jacked-up, wrong-colored fruit trees and plunged into some serious jungle action. The dirt path continued, at least the wisps of it that we could see, deep into the leafy darkness that one can only describe as “this is the scene where everybody who isn’t listed in the opening credits of a slasher movie will meet their untimely demise courtesy of a random farm implement”.

  Of course, no one else seemed to be bothered by the fact that our innocent bus ride was one stabbing away from becoming a terror fest. After all, they were just trying to relax and have an exciting adventure, babbling about stupid touristy things and whether or not the gear we would have to wear on the zip-line would be uncomfortably binding. I was the only one noticing the fact that we seemed to be traveling on a road that wasn’t a road at all.

  Then it suddenly became very evident that the road was a total sham when we hit a particularly evil bump that had everyone bouncing off the ceiling of the bus and landing in awkward positions that would have been deemed sexual on “Cinemax After Dark”. Now the crowd was paying attention, with startled gasping and whatnot. Then everyone got very quiet. Which was a blessing, actually, because I’m not a fan of people who talk for no reason, but it was a little sad that it took the possibility of death to make them shut up.

  The driver remained stoic and disinterested in our possible anxiety attacks, maneuvering the bus deeper into the jungle and further away from any news-photographer people who might capture our travails for public consumption, with our tragic story sandwiched in between commercials for miracle laundry detergents that could remove blood stains from just about any fabric.

  Then the lethargic bus driver became somewhat animated, slamming on the brakes and hurling our bodies into another round of impromptu acrobatics. It seems we had encountered another bus, heading down the mountain from the Zip-Line Extravaganza, and since the dusty road was only one lane (and barely that) we were at something of an impasse.

  I looked around for a flight attendant so that I could order a stiff drink. One did not immediately appear.

  Instead, our driver did something grinding with the gears, and we were suddenly going backwards. This did nothing to increase my supply of happy thoughts, as our adventure had been eye-opening enough rolling in a forward direction. Now we were thundering in reverse, probably blindly, because I was fairly certain that the only thing the driver could see in his rearview mirror was me clawing my face.

  Who planned this stupid road? Geez.

  Then we took an abrupt turn and the bus was now shunting its way (backwards) down one of several little road offshoots that I had noticed on our way up. (I had just assumed that these tiny secondary paths led to places where they buried the corpses of tourists who hadn’t tipped adequately.) Instead, these obscure byways had been planned for the exact predicament we were now facing, with two busloads of manic tourists facing off. How clever. But still annoying.

  The other bus shot past. (I’m not sure that they ever slowed down at any point, the hags.) Then our vehicle lurched back out onto the road and we continued the climb heavenward.

  Some time later, hours, weeks, who knows, we pulled into a little encampment that appeared to be our destination. The driver threw open the bus door and gestured for us to get the hell out of his ride. We complied post haste, yearning to be some place that was stationary and not life-threatening.

  As our party reassembled off-bus, a representative of this zip-line thing came moseying out of what might be the main headquarters. (Think awkward, questionable hut in the middle of nowhere.) She welcomed us with the enthusiasm of someone who has just discovered that the light bill is overdue, then she launched into a well-worn speech about the delights to be had at Camp Zip. (The gift shop was mentioned at least 47 times.)

  In her closing remarks, this woman mentioned something along the lines of “And if you need to tinkle before screaming your ass off 300 feet off the ground, we have facilities located just over there.”

  I didn’t even have a chance to look where she was pointing. I was suddenly knocked to the ground by a determined individual who clearly relished the tinkling opportunity, a person with urgent needs that caused her to relinquish all societal protocol. As I lumbered back to my feet, I caught a whiff of the perfume trail left by the dashing damsel.

  It was Tiffany.

  Apparently she had some very urgent business to address. Little did we know that it would turn out to be a very good idea that she did so…


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Cruise Control - Part 22: Mary Jane Appears On The Scene

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  So we’ve arrived in Jamaica, and we’ve been somewhat kidnapped.

  Okay, not kidnapped, exactly. More along the lines of “forced to deal with something one would rather not deal with whilst on a tropical island”. And by “we” I meant myself and Crispy. I had no idea where anybody else was, and that lack of knowledge was starting to get on my nerves just the tiniest little bit. Anyway, the unpleasantness went something like this:

  A hyperactive man who was clearly reinforcing possibly unattractive Jamaican stereotypes had rudely forced Crispy and I to participate in some local custom that involved virginal tourists being subjugated  to un-requested madness. As this man prodded us to an apparent staging area just to the side of the ship’s gangway, he was babbling in an over-emphasized accent and insisting on being our best friends, shoving us toward his buddy, who was quickly snapping presumably trashy and expensive photos. The man threw his arms around our shoulders and made us pose.

  I was so not in the mood for this.

  And he was amazingly sweaty. Drippingly so. I’m not really a fan of sweat, not even my own, unless the wetness occurs during a bout of strenuous and physical intimacy. Then it’s kind of enjoyable and erotic. Not when we’re on a pier in Jamaica, surrounded by billions of tourists that I don’t know on a first name basis. In such a setting, I don’t want to be hugging anything that can easily shoot out of my grasp like a bar of soap at a tawdry YMCA. (Although I might have been a bit more cooperative had someone arranged for The Village People to be giving a performance nearby.)

  But I played along, mainly because any form of resistance seemed to energize the man even more and I just wanted this to be done. He rambled on about this and that, ramping up the exaggerated patter until I thought his dreadlocks were going to explode. When he finally released us from his jabbering performance, he seemed to be expecting a tip of some kind for providing local color. He was greatly mistaken.

  Happily, it was right after this that we ran into most of the rest of our zip-lining party. Karen and Janet were there, both of them being polite at this point, but obviously quite ready for things to get moving, as we had places to do and things to be. Dawn and Tara were also present and accounted for, wearing basically matching mother/daughter outfits and sunglasses, both of them being fully trained in this skill. Tiffany and Terry were still AWOL, but surely they would show up at any second, right?

  Well, not exactly. The happy streams of people that were surging past us failed to reveal any recognizable faces. I started to sweat, partly from the sun (which was already pretty intense at that hour of the day, thusly justifying the pale-faced, probably Norwegian staff woman onboard who had been bellowing “Don’t forget the sunscreen!” as we tromped past and completely ignored her) and partly due to the ticking of the clock. Tiffany and Terry had best hurry, or there would be brutal disappointment in some manner.

  I thought back to my earlier conversations with those two, trying to recall if they had given me explicit instructions on how and when to disembark the ship. I didn’t recall anything like that, but it was not out of the question that I had been distracted by something shiny and didn’t fully understand my given orders. Such personal failures happen much more often than I care for them to happen. Let’s blame it on my troubled upbringing, shall we?

  A check of my watch revealed that we had roughly 10 minutes until our tour bus was scheduled to depart, trundling us off to the jungle setting wherein we would be hurled along somebody’s clothesline for the grand zip-lining experience. The outcome of this situation did not appear promising.

  I turned to the other members of our already-reported party. “Maybe you guys should go on ahead, just in case.” No reason for everybody to miss the excursion. But in a moment of bonding or perhaps simple misunderstanding, they all chose to stand guard as a unit. Probably so we could collectively terrorize the tallying twosome as a solidified coven when the errant duo finally arrived.

  Luckily, it was at this precise point that Tiffany and Terry came strutting down the ship’s runway, both of them fashionably attired and, for the most part, managing to skirt the crazed Jamaican Man and his paparazzi sidekick. (I’m assuming that there may still have been a few random photo captures of someone’s breasts, based upon the way the Man and his Kick high-fived each other after reviewing the latest snaps.)

  Tiffany and Terry made their way to our little gathering, with Tiffany still waving at her fans, something she always has to do when making an appearance in public. We calmly explained to them that we had roughly three seconds to get to the bus or our agenda for the day would be severely altered. Both of them nodded their heads and became instantly focused, being veterans of many past incidents in our family where speed was of the essence or there would be tears and smeared mascara.

  While the score from one of the Mission Impossible movies played in the background, our team scurried to make it past the little welcoming desk where overly happy people were trying to welcome us to their island. We didn’t have time for pleasantries, even though they were wearing very cute outfits and there was the vague promise that free adult beverages were available just off to the side. To ensure quick processing, we politely but firmly shoved a few slow-ass tourists out of the way.

  Once through that mess, we encountered another obstacle we didn’t have time for, namely a maze of little shops where 47 different retailers were offering the same model of bongs supposedly made from plumbing pipes ripped out of Bob Marley’s home. Fascinating as I briefly found that to be (dude apparently had a lot of plumbing), it just really wasn’t the time to be perusing potential Christmas gifts for the bad sheep of the family. (“Hey, Joe Dean, look here at this Bob Bong we brought you from Jamaica. Now please stop selling your teeth to buy drug paraphernalia.”)

  We made it passed all of the folks loitering in the primitive shopping mall, along with all of their distinctive aromas. (Why are there so many cultures in the world that don’t value daily bathing? Is there something I’m missing?) We then spied a woman prancing around in a vaguely official uniform who was giving off an aura of possibly being privy to directional information. We descended on her, en masse. Where do we go to meet the buses?

  She pointed.

  At the other end of her finger was an area with lots of little signs on poles, advertising the various excursions, with snippets about “Snorkeling With Dolphins” and “Submarine Tour of Old and Wrecked Ships” and “Drunken Fiesta on a Beach”. Hurray! Trouble is, there were no longer any people lined up at these signs. No matter, can’t stop now. We raced to the non-existent line for the Zip-Lining tour.

  And we waited for a while as absolutely nothing happened.

  Then, miraculously (I bet good ole Bob had something to do with it), a woman came sauntering in a door, waving a clipboard. People bearing clipboards know things, right? We pounced. She responded. Why, yes, the tour buses for the Zip-Line extravaganza were still in the parking lot. Follow me.

  We loved her instantly.

  So our merry band of dysfunction followed Mary Magdalene-Mon out into the parking lot, where rows of buses were belching fumes into the air. She led us to a particular bus, spoke briefly with a man standing beside it who might have been the driver or might have just been a serial killer on a break, then she turned to us and indicated that we should climb aboard.

  We did so. Or tried to do so. Turns out there were only four seats left on the bus, and there were eight of us. My sister Dawn, who did not have a designated place to stick her fanny and was therefore still outside the bus, proclaimed quite defiantly that this arrangement would not work. We were all going on the same bus or this whole thing was not going to happen.

  Part of me was not thrilled with this Norma Rae moment, as I was one of the lucky four with a fanny-place, and I was rather enjoying the cushiness of my temporary home. But the other part of me knew that she was right, and I climbed back over the couple from Canada who had been very accommodating when I first staked my claim, but were now not so thrilled with me butting them in the face a second time.

  Mary Magdalene-Mon, still efficient but obviously not satisfied with all aspects of her profession, led us to another bus. This one happened to have enough seating for the entire tribe, although a few of us had to perch on these odd fold-down seats that effectively sealed off the back section of the bus, a not-really-happy thing that could prove irritating should we need to hastily evacuate the bus in the event of a fire or the inability to withstand another round of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”.

  I guess it didn’t matter, though, as Mary scribbled something on her clipboard, murmured another something to the serial killer who was indeed the bus driver, patted the side of the bus in a manner that could have meant “God speed” or “Please have this one fumigated before you return” and then she marched off, presumably to a place where over-worked bus-designators can unclench for a few moments until the next ship of fools arrives.

  The serial killer selected a gear and we drove off.

  Now, the area just outside of this little port was fairly industrial. Maybe they always are, I don’t know, not having had many experiences arriving at a port in a foreign country and then boarding a bus that will take me to a place where I can pay people to let me ride a clothesline over gaping chasms. It might be standard procedure to drive past questionable buildings where there are odd, leaky 55-gallon drums stacked alongside said buildings while rusty, clearly inoperable cars are parked nearby. Perhaps this is that they mean by “atmosphere” in the travel brochures.

  But we soon progressed out of that area and found ourselves in a more city-like area. We were now seeing cute little houses and cute little shops and cute little cars that were apparently driven by people who were out of their minds. It was this last bit that caught my attention. Was it normal that people just dart about with no respect for lane boundaries, proper turn-signaling, and, I don’t know, potential casualties from their automotive decisions?

  Then we pulled up to a stoplight at what appeared to be a major intersection, and I got a second dose of local culture. I was in the midst of aiming my camera out the window, attempting to take one of those travel photos that end up being important only to you and that no one else will ever care about, when I lowered my camera in surprise.

  The man driving the car right next to us was clearly smoking a joint. And not in a furtive way. He was really happy, and he was ready to share, holding the reefer out his window at the surprised, touristy faces that were reviewing his actions. Wanna hit?

  Actually, it turns out that I was the only one who was surprised, apparently. The other folks sitting around me, including members of my own family, were discussing the situation with nonchalance. Yep, pot is legal in Jamaica. Smoke it anywhere you want, no problem.

  Why did I not know this? (More importantly, why did everybody else know this and not me?) Not passing judgment, not at all, I went to college, enough said. But seriously, I didn’t know if I was really cool with people sucking down on ganja whilst on the open highways, especially if the munchies kicked in. Because you do crazy things when you have a drug-induced fixation on a particular food combination that you would never consider when weed-less. (According to people I have spoken with, of course.)

  The random driver beside us, realizing that no one was going to partake of his kind offering, whipped his hand back and took another deep drag, with burning embers dropping off his special spliff and extinguishing in his beard without any notice on his part. His reddened, watery eyes made it clear that singed hair was a small price to pay for basic happiness.

  Connecting the dots, I glanced forward to our own driver, he who was in control of the bus and our eventual fates. His eyes were a perfect match to Mr. Friendly on the left. (Have these people never heard of Visine?) Was the entire island stoned? Were we really being taken to a place where people could zip-line, or were we about to become drug mules in a tawdry scheme resulting in us living in dirty hovels, wearing ugly clothing and having sex with strangers just to pay the light bill? (Because isn’t that what always happens in Lifetime movies?)

  The light turned green and the bus continued through the intersection…


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Cruise Control - Part 21: Searching For Zero

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  The breaking dawn of Wednesday morning brought something with it we hadn’t seen in a while.

  Land.

  Terry was the first to make this joyous discovery. Sadly, he did so in a time frame that is not one of my favorites. I do not leap out of bed with the first ray of sunshine. (And I don’t understand people who do.) I wake slowly, reluctantly, and anything miraculous that might transpire during early morning hours is simply unimportant to me. I’m not invested in anything until I have exhausted all valid excuses for further slumber. Then we can talk.

  Speaking of conversation, Tiffany, who also does not believe in societal interaction until after 10am, spoke up from her little daybed mere inches from my head. “What is that noise?” It was quite clear that she forced these four words from her mouth whilst barely controlling the urge to cut someone.

  “It’s Terry,” I reported, half-heartedly thinking about opening my left eye but getting no further than that. “He’s out on the balcony. I believe pictures are being taken.”

  Just then, we heard a burst of rapid clicking, as if one of those super-thin beings was strutting down a runway and wearing an ensemble that had just provoked a legion of photographers into a frenzy. (We also heard what might be the sound of someone tripping over a poorly-placed deck chair and slamming their head into the side of the ship, but this second noise was never fully investigated.)

  Separately and instinctively, we both decided that the safest and best-advised response to these developments was to remain exactly where we were and not do anything. However, these precautionary measures soon proved irrelevant, as the balcony door was suddenly ripped open and Terry bounded inside. “We’re here! We’re in Jamaica!” (Or something like that. I’m sure the reportage was much more detailed, but I was distracted by the flood of sunshine which was now pouring in said door, causing my skin to begin sizzling and my fangs to drop.)

  Tiffany sat up in her petite daybed, tossing aside her sleep mask with admirable Joan Crawford-esque disdain. “Are we in port yet?”

  Terry shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re almost there. You’ve got to see this, come on!” He was very excited, and I felt the first stirrings of actual interest in the day, but I remained steadfast in my brave and noble intentions to stay bed-bound.

  Tiffany, however, took a traitorous turn, throwing back the covers, lunging out of bed, adjusting things that needed to be adjusted, and then tottering toward the dual-beckoning of Terry and balcony door. They joined hands and skipped through the portal, with Tiffany releasing a squeal of delight once on the other side.

  She continued squealing.

  I continued pretending that neither of them existed.

  Finally, after one nearly orgiastic howl of delight, I caved. Cursing, I bid adieu to the warmth and sanctity of the bed (I shall miss you, my beloved), and stumbled out onto the balcony, joining Ansel Adams and Joan Crawford at the railing, where I couldn’t help but let out a gruff little squeal of my own. Let’s just say that there is something quite satisfying about pulling up to an island, by boat, in the middle of nowhere. I approve heartily.

  But the vision of the island soon caused another important piece of information to click into place in my grudgingly activating mind. We had to be on that island within an hour or so, ready to board a bus and be transported into the advertised jungle. This was Zip-Line Day and we had to get a move on. No piddling around or there would be no zipping.

  Thus commenced the delicate give-and-take ballet of multiple people attempting to freshen and spritz at the same time in a space roughly the size of a cigar box, with the requisite accidental breast-fondling and tripping over toothbrushes and air. But we had done this choreography many times in many places by now, and we had it down to an art, rushing out the door 37 seconds after the first person had stepped into the shower.

  Breakfast was also a quick affair, especially on my part, because I had never been on a zip-line before, and I did not want to shamefully discover that one should not fly through the air with a full belly. I ate only enough to ensure that I did not drop dead from hunger halfway up the mountain, especially since my family would probably just leave me by the side of the road since it was entirely too hot to be carrying anything about.

  At some point during all these preparations, probably due to a bad decision on my part, I became separated from the group of clan members who were going on the zip-line excursion. (The rest of the family was going on a different tour, something that involved splashing in the water and humping whales, not really sure. I wasn’t going on that one and didn’t really study the details or care.) I decided, considering the clock was ticking, that I should head for the deck where we were supposed to disembark and hope for the best.

  Another poor decision.

  First, I had to make my way to “Deck 0”. I found this to be a troubling name for a destination. Deck 0? It didn’t sound like good things would happening in a place like that. Why didn’t it have a “real” number? Was it less important than the other decks? If people had to go there to get off the ship, I’m thinking that’s a very valuable function to have and the deck deserves a better name.

  Adding to these concerns was the somewhat-confusing directions about how to get to this numberless deck. As in, there weren’t any directions. Well, there might have been some valuable instructions somewhere, I just couldn’t find them. I only had the vague notion that one must head toward the bottom of the boat, which is the same thing some people were doing in The Poseidon Adventure, and we saw how well that worked out.

  Of course, none of the elevators and stairwells that I selected actually offered a straight-line run to The Land of Zero. So I had to wander around, making random choices and haphazardly working my way toward the ocean floor, repeatedly gaining (losing?) two floors and then having to back up one. I was beginning to hate life and the concept of physical movement.

  Slightly sweating, I became concerned at one point that I really wasn’t seeing a whole lot of other people. As in no one. I was on Deck 1, very near my goal and yet so far, off in some super quiet section with lots of closed doors, standing in a stairwell where the next section of steps, presumably leading to the mythical Zero, had been roped off. In a noticeably hurried manner that indicated “something very bad has happened on the next floor but we haven’t told the right people yet so please go somewhere else and not talk about this”.

  Hmm.

  Well, I could just step over the rope and head on, which would at least get my ass on the right deck, finally, even if I still had a lot of maze to get through before I found the cheese. On the other hand, I didn’t want to become another statistic in whatever situation had led to the roping of the stairs, a surprised participant in destruction and mayhem.

  Thinking of possible victims and grisly fates, I studied all those doors around me. Why were they all closed? Where was everybody at? Why was it so quiet? Was this the serial-killer section of the ship? It was certainly big enough to have one. There was just something not right about the area, like Shelley Duvall was hiding behind one of the doors, trembling and holding an eventually ineffective butcher knife.

  Perhaps I wouldn’t be jumping rope right at the moment. Maybe the next recess.

  I turned and headed back up my current choice of stairs, down a hallway to another stairwell that I swear hadn’t been there mere seconds before, down a flight on that one, my heart racing a bit as I did not discover a warning strand of rope, down another flight, and I came to a halt in a landing area with a door in each of the three other walls. Well, I was finally on the damn Zero Deck. Now I just had to choose a door. Maybe Monty Hall was standing around somewhere, waiting to assist me?

  I picked the middle one. Because that’s how you win elections. I stepped through, discovered another short stretch of hallway, followed that, made a turn to the left, and found myself at the top of three short steps.

  At the bottom of the steps was a massive room, packed with roughly 4 billion people who were pouring off two packed elevators and heading toward Security lines where they where scanning room cards as people stepped off the ship and onto Jamaica.

  Well, hell. Why couldn’t I have just found those elevators? Geez.

  “Uncle Brian!”

  I turned in response, and I spied Crispy heading toward me. The expression on his face was transitioning from “I have no idea where I’m at and no one will ever find me” to “Cool, I know that person, we can be lost together and it won’t be as painful”.

  “Have you seen anybody else?” I asked, scanning the crowd.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Everybody was right there and then all the sudden they weren’t.”

  I knew the feeling. “Well, let’s wait a sec, and see if anybody shows up.”

  We stood there as people streamed past. People who were looking at us the way people do when something happens that breaks the monotony of life. (Why are those two guys standing over there? Why aren’t they walking with everybody else? Have they done something wrong? Is that why that one stairwell was roped off? I better openly stare at them in case I need to pick them out of a lineup later.)

  That quickly got on my nerves, so I decided it was time for Plan B. “Let’s go on through Security, just in case they’re waiting for us on the pier. Surely they wouldn’t just get on the bus without us.”

  Yeah, right. If any of them had already gotten into the Bloody Marys this morning, they were probably driving the bus and halfway up the mountain by now. But you gotta have faith.

We quickly got through Security (they scan your card and shove you along, nothing intricate there) and soon stepped out into the beautiful Jamaican sunshine that had started the day. It was very nice. We got to enjoy it for roughly two seconds before a crazed, drug-addled man sporting dreadlocks attacked us with exuberance, dragging us off the gangway and away from the ship.

  Great.


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

10 Things I Learned About My 9-Year-Old Niece Over The Holidays

1. She is often airborne.

  The lovely lass has been taking gymnastics lessons for some time, and apparently the leaders of this possible cult encourage their members to practice ALL the time. This results in startling moments when said lass will perform sudden handsprings across the kitchen counter whilst the bleary-eyed adults are just trying to sip their morning coffee.

2. She doesn’t have bones that can easily snap like the dried-out older people.

  As can often happen when trying to get the best score from of the Olympic judges that are possibly hiding in the laundry room, excessive zeal during an otherwise spectacular tumbling maneuver can lead to missed targets and small bodies slamming into innocent walls. Post-crash, the little trooper simply springs up and races off to prepare for another exhibition, whereas any adult involved in the slamming would be in traction and fully qualified to star in a Hallmark movie about plucky people who can no longer use their body parts but still have a good enough heart that Tori Spelling will marry them at some point.

3. The global energy crisis has been resolved.

  She never stops moving. Ever. This is what is known as a “natural, unlimited resource”. No one has to drill for anything and the planet remains green and friendly. We just need to make a few clones of my niece (based on observed energy output, I don’t think we would need more than half a dozen little dynamos or so to light the entire universe), convince them that it is fashionably acceptable to run about whilst tethered to a power grid (“sweetie, ALL the cheerleaders are wearing cords these days”), and not charge anybody a penny for the output, since youngsters don’t even need or understand money.

  We’ll probably get a Nobel Peace Prize for this, what with people no longer needing to go to war over oil and stuff. (I’m sure folks will soon find another reason to justify international conflict, but hopefully this won’t happen until after the nice people in Sweden have handed us a check.)

4. She can wear absolutely anything and still be adorably cute.

  Uncle Brian:  “Sweetie, that outfit is the cutest thing ever. Who got that for you?”

  Niece (rolling eyes, because adults are just so stupid and you have to explain things to them): “I made it out of popsicle sticks and dryer lint. Last week when the Disney Channel wasn’t working because I landed on the remote control and it got stuck and we had to watch America’s Stupidest Redneck Weddings for three days.”

  Uncle Brian: “Are you going to be a fashion designer when you grow up?”

  Niece (rolling eyes, because she was nine years old and clearly a mature woman in her eyes): “Nope. I’ll just let Mommy keep buying me things to wear. Most of the time she does a good job.” (Then her rolling eyes briefly stopped on a wadded-up Kohl’s sack that had been shoved in a corner, presumably containing a horrid garment that had not met couture requirements and had been left out as a warning against future Mommy slip-ups.)

5. There is absolutely nothing wrong with watching the same episode of a young-adult program at least 714 times.

  During one of these repeat sessions, Guiness Book of Tweenager Records called and wanted to interview us for shattering the old milestone. I told them they might as well wait, because we still had two days left in our visit and could easily watch this same show another thirty times. They have a plane on standby.

6. Hip nine-year-olds have their own language and knowledge base.

  I often felt like Forrest Gump in that extended bit of the movie where he kept running and running. We didn’t really know why he was doing that or where he was going but we just assumed we would understand more when he got there. I never did understand some of my niece’s oratory destinations, but at least I got a nice telegram from Sally Field explaining that sometimes its better to have a small part in the movie than not be in it at all.

7. My niece really, really, really likes to win at video and board games.

  Enter the arena at your own risk. Pay no attention to the caged lions off to one side that can be released with a small signal from Angelic Niece. Hunker down and pray for daylight.

8. My niece has a vast and healthy imagination.

  Any playtime activity (which is basically any waking moment) can turn into a fantastic adventure full of creativity concerning otherwise mundane things, proving that you don’t need fancy, over-priced toys that require multiple batteries be shoved up their butt.

  The most exciting visit to the Imaginarium? We took the Woody and Jessie dolls from Toy Story, rechristened them Snickers and Jolly Rancher to better suit our indie, on-the-fly, Quentin Tarantino script, and set out on a quest to recover a holy receptacle that had been stuffed with candy before being whisked away by one of the many evil Pig Kings that live in the niece’s mandatory pile of stuffed animals.

  It was a treacherous journey, with both of us dying several times, mostly due to the murky “rules of engagement” that my niece kept changing on a whim (I’m assuming she was a double agent with the Porky People), but we’ve learned from video games that you just have to push a button and everybody is breathing again, so it was all good. We eventually triumphed, cramming sugar-based products into our mouths and then racing out to the family room to share our adventures with the other relatives. They just looked at us and then went back to watching America’s Funniest Redneck Plumbing Incidents.

9. Mandatory bedtime is an outrage against the youth of the world, and those youths have banded together to form Occupy Living Room to have their grievances addressed.

  Sadly, the social and political network in this country is still dominated by The Big People With Money. Big People who can still pick you up and carry you to the slumber chamber which you dread (even though said chamber was the delightful land of Snickers and Jolly Rancher mere minutes ago, where sugar caches could be discovered in the most amazing places).

  And then you are ungraciously plunked down in the cushy bed, where you will pout for the three minutes it takes you to fall asleep (700 cartwheels does take its toll after all), drifting away while the adults continue swilling from glass bottles, consuming a forbidden nectar that makes them increasingly louder and happier and erroneously convinced that they can beat all takers in something called “beer pong”.

10. I really need to get back to Tulsa more often than I do.

  Jolly Rancher still has more treasures to find, and I want to be her sidekick whenever I can…


Peace.