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Said it’s in my, in my heart

December 2, 2011

It’s funny in car commercials when the car drives through a construction site, sparks flying, mud sloshing around in slow motion, because you can’t just drive through a construction site. Somebody must’ve invented the car-through-the-construction-site shot and I bet that person never got any credit. It’s entirely possible that the individual actually is celebrated in the annals of car commercial history, though it’d be my guess that it was the work of a copywriter or two that tossed it into some script for Chevy or Ford at the last minute after having revised it thirty-seven times just to see what would happen. And they went for it. And now so does every commercial with a truck, or Jeep, or brakes or bumper cameras or flat screens or whatever they put in cars now. And I bet that copywriter is still alive , wishing he could’ve achieved the kind of status attained by the guy who thought to use the karaoke-that-goes-s0-terribly-and-uncomfortably-wrong-that-it’s-endearing scene in RomComs.

Anyway, there’s some decent TV in expensive Mexican hotels.

So, back from Mexico, back from the wedding, back from living a weird reality with a bunch of short haircuts from the Dress Barn corporate event –– which was happening at the hotel the first week we were there. Some incredible specimens parading around the premises..

Lots of upright, brown lizards shuffling around the pool, wrapped up in Lycra and Spandex, or whatever Dress Barn swimsuits are made of, asking for mojitos and cervezas at ten in the morning. Me, I stuck with pina coladas at ten in the morning. And throughout the day. Not sure how that happened, but I drank more pina coladas in a five or six day period than I’ve ever had –– and probably will ever have –– in my entire life.

I sped through The Goliath Bone the first day we were there, one of the two Mickey Spillane novels published posthumously by his buddy and fellow writer Max Allan Collins (who also wrote Road to Perdition.) It was decent enough but didn’t feel like a true Mike Hammer novel. I’m sure Jehova’s Witnesses or the Internet or 9/11 can be blamed for that.  Anyway, the book was good. Then I read Love, Lucy, Lucille Ball’s autobiography that her daughter found, also published posthumously and really, really great. It’s a cheap paperback and really fun and interesting. I’d get a Lucille Ball tattoo if the wife would let me. Spent countless mornings watching I Love Lucy reruns… Read Bossypants because I tried to start Teju Cole’s Open City (which my friend had given me back in New York before he left for London) and couldn’t get through it. So I picked it up again. And put it down again.

I kept stopping after a couple pages, mostly because it didn’t interest me and I resented the writer, but also because my mind kept wandering back to Chichen-Itza.

The place was incredible. The hotel, in comparison, was kind of one big, gaping, white shame on the beach. It was great, but that’s what they all were, that’s the economy, that’s what’s off that strip of the 307 highway. Big, sprawling, all-inclusive resorts where you can live like an asshole for a couple weeks, or a month if you’re Canadian or Australian or English. I just wanted to go back to Chichen-Itza, stare at the ball court, which was ten times the size I’d imagined, and hear stories about Quetzalcoatl and the jaguar gods that escort you around after you die. Obviously, this is a gross oversimplification. More on this later…

Anyway, back to reality. I did finally pick up The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which I started reading yesterday. Glad I started with The Power of Myth, it made for a good introduction. I eventually did get through Open City, I think it just took me a minute to switch paces, mentally. It was a nice book, the guy is thoughtful in the way I feel like I used to be. Maybe that’s why I kept putting it down when I first started reading.

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