Monday, March 30, 2009

BELIZE: metal monkeys

This is the singer in my new band. His name is Howlard.

Humanity might be fucking up the planet, but Nature is protesting as loud as it can. We went to bed that first night and I was like, “What the fuck?” Bugs. Bugs are loud as shit. In the pitch black, it sounded like we were surrounded by thousands of pencil sharpeners, electric shavers, and tattoo guns. Everyone was getting ready for the new school year, sharpening their pencils, shaving, and getting inked. TZTZTZTZTZTZ!

And don’t forget about the birds. They don’t make bird noises. They make fucked up noises. They practically talk. The first bird I became friends with in the wee hours of the morning over the din of pencils, shaving, and tattoos, was the “Week Ago” bird. It said, “A week ago.” All night. A week ago. A week ago. A week ago. A week ago. So I started singing along with it. The bird would go, “A week ago,” and then I’d go, “I wasn’t here hearing you sing—“ “A week ago!”

A week ago I wasn’t here hearing you sing a week ago I wasn’t here hearing you sing a week ago I wasn’t here hearing you sing…

Another bird said, “PINK WHEELS!” over and over again. And then Tania named one bird “The Gary Bird” because, like Gary, it would smack its lips then go, “Meh.” Another one sounded kind of like when Pac Man dies. I had a little butt shaker dance for that one.

All this noise occurred around 4am and we were totally wide awake and ready to start our day. “This must be what it’s like to be an old person,” I said. “All wide awake at 4am and pissed off that Home Town Buffet isn’t open yet?”

On top of all the Nature noise, I was making my own natural noises. I was farting like crazy and blowing the sheets off the bed. Every time I farted, I pretended it was a mosquito and I’d swat it dead. “PFFFT!” SMACK! “Got another one!”

“They don’t let farters into the Home Town Buffet,” Tania said, smacking me.

“That’s all they let into the Home Town Buffet,” I said, “old farts.”

We had no idea how loud it was going to get, though. You haven’t heard “loud” until you’ve heard a howler monkey. I didn’t really do any research on them before we left. We just read that at the lodge we were staying at that “Monkeys and birds abound!” I just figured we’d get to see some silly little monkeys that make weird noises. I kind of pictured those colonies of monkeys that live around the temples in India and eat fruits out of your hands. Like these guys. “Watch a group of macaques run amok in a produce market, raid an empty kitchen, and ransack a bootlegger's cache of moonshine.”

Oh man, those mischievous li’l monkeys! They’re crazy. (Also note the happy circus music in the background. That’s pretty much the monkey soundtrack that was going through my head before we encountered the howler monkeys.)

We saw three monkeys total, but they were far away and high in the trees. This is the only photo I managed to get of one.

Howler monkeys, we soon learned after our arrival, are not cute li’l monkeys that dance to circus music. No, howler monkeys are pure evil. They are gnarly monkeys.

That morning, at dawn, while we were lying in our bed farting and waiting for the Home Town Buffet to open, the air was filled with a deep, terrifying roar that sounded like it came from another time, millions of years ago. “What the fuck is that?” I said. It was followed by another, and another. It was very loud, and very scary. It drowned out all the pencil sharpeners, shavers, tattoo guns, even the “Week Ago” bird. “It sounds like a dinosaur,” Tania said. It really did, it sounded like there was a fucking T-Rex in the jungle.

It was the howler monkeys. I have never heard anything like it. It’s just so low and guttural. They kind of sound like what every death metal singer wishes he sounded like. I mentioned that later to a fellow about our age at the bar, and he said, “Thank you! I’ve been saying the same thing, but no one here knows what I’m talking about.” Old people don’t listen to death metal. They just listen to death.

Probably the most interesting thing about the Howlers is that they are the loudest animal on land. (I’m assuming whales own the title of “loudest animal on earth?”) The Guinness Book of World Records has tracked the Howler’s calls at up to three miles. “Male monkeys have large throats and specialized, shell-like vocal chambers that help to turn up the volume on their distinctive call,” it says on the National Geographic site. And apparently they are not evil. They just sound evil. I guess the call is simply to let other troupes know where they’re at. I also read that they’re too lazy to be violent. They rarely touch the ground and they spend about 80% of their time doing absolutely nothing. Except around dusk and dawn when they kick out the jams.

I decided almost immediately that I wanted to start a death metal band with them. So I made a recording in the jungle. I think we’re going to be one of the gnarliest death metal bands ever. Shit, I don’t even need to play guitar with these guys. I could accompany these motherscratchers on a pan flute and we’d still be gnarlier than anything Cannibal Corpse or Deicide ever put out. Check it out.

Still, not sure on the name, though. Metal Monkey is good, but not quite tough enough, you know? I was also thinking HOWL, but then that contains some Allen Ginsberg-y homo poetry stuff that isn’t consistent with the direction our band wants to go. I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and I also forgot to mention that if they don’t like you, they throw their shit at you. And apparently their shit is totally uncool. The locals were telling us it’s kind of like being hit by a skunk, but worse. The smell is so vile, you can’t wash it off for days. Despite my best efforts to get hit by some howler monkey shit, I left Belize smelling much the way I did when I arrived. And while we heard them every day, we only saw a couple of them in the trees, and only at a great distance. But just imagine how fucked up our band is going to be? Loudest band on earth, with a bunch of poisonous-shit throwing monkeys! Makes GG Allin look like a pussy.

To hear a better recording of a red howler monkey, go here and scroll down.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

BELIZE: The Cotton Tree Lodge

The jungle, from the air.

Our first stop in Belize was the Cotton Tree Lodge. It’s a compound that was carved out of the jungle on the Moho River about 30 minutes east of Punta Gorda. Someone described the yurts in Big Sur as “luxurious camping”—meaning, it’s part hotel, part camping—and the Cotton Tree is somewhat similar, although I would say it leans more towards the camping side of the spectrum. For one, you’re in the middle of nowhere and the only thing between you and nature are some flimsy screens and mosquito netting. Plus it’s “off the grid,” an annoying term this drunk, douche bag from San Diego used to excess. Grrrr, more on him later. But it’s completely self contained, runs on a generator, they have their own organic garden where much of the food came from, etc.. “OFF THE GRID, BRO!” Fucking douche bag.

These are a couple of the huts. They're hard to photograph because they're all clumped in trees and shit.

Everyone stays in a thatched hut cabana. They’re kind of like little tree houses along the river. “The cabanas,” their site reads, “each have hot and cold running water with a private bath, bay leaf thatched roofs, eco-friendly flush toilets, screened in windows, ceiling fans, and some feature spacious private decks with hammocks that overlook the river.” Cold water? Yes. Hot was a bit more of a challenge. “Eco friendly toilets” means you can’t flush your toilet paper. You have to throw it away in the garbage can next to the toilet, Brazil style. On one trip to Brazil, my roommate, Chuck Wampler, complained that our room smelled like shit. “I wonder why,” I said, “maybe it has something to do with that BASKET OF ASS next to the toilet?”

Our room in our cabana hut.

In short, there’s was some mild “roughing it,” but you’d have to be a complete pussy/priss to complain about the accommodations. I thought it was amazing and I never felt uncomfortable once. We had a porch with two hammocks, surrounded by some of the most amazing nature I’d ever seen. There were strange fruits hanging from every tree, the leaves were as big as your torso, every bird was a different color—and I mean COLOR, red, blue, yellow, how do they stay alive, you can see ‘em a mile away?

Tania, totally roughing it with her rum punch in her hammock on the porch.

Tania's view of me in my hammock.

After we arrived and settled into our cute little tree house, we hit the main lodge to relax and have some beers and wait for dinner. The one weird thing about the Cotton Tree Lodge is the cruise ship mentality that pervaded our visit. It’s created by the scheduled, communal meals. There’s a set menu every day: breakfast is from 7-9, lunch from 12-2, dinner from 7-9. The first two are more casual and serve-yourself, while dinner is more of a group affair.

Dave drinking beer and letting his gut hang out.

As we were playing dominoes and taking it all in, a gaggle of gals loudly approached the lodge. Have you ever seen a rich white lady at a luau? That’s how they were all dressed. Brand new tropical dresses, mumus, sandals, and exotic flowers in their hair did. We barely had time to take them in before we were attacked. “OH! YOU PEOPLE ARE NEW,” one of them said swooping in our table, “WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?” I stood up and politely shook her hand and gave our names. “DAVE? TANIA? WHERE ARE YOU FROM DAVE AND TANIA?”

The Welcoming Party. Remember Alison on the left. You might know who she is.

We were introduced to the mother and the other two daughters. The mother was named, Eve, and the three daughters (all in their 30s-early 40s) were named Toni, Alison, and The One Whose Name I Forget (her name was Stephanie, I think). Although we just called them “The Welcoming Party.” Because they were insanely outgoing and social with everybody. It was surreal. They were very loud, stereotypical Jews from the Northeast. I actually ended up enjoying them, but at first they were quite a shock to the silence and tranquility we thought we had found in the jungle.

Our hut from the outside.

More campers arrived and ordered drinks and mingled. There were only about a dozen people total, so we couldn’t really hide like one can on a cruise. Everyone wants to know where you’re from. “WHERE YOU FROM?” No one’s every from anywhere good. You never hear anyone say, “Milan.”

We were warned about the unremarkable food before we arrived. It is not a food destination and has little to nothing that could be called uniquely Belizean. It’s pretty much straight up American-style fair throughout the country. The food at the Cotton Tree was good. Nothing really worth writing about, but since this is a food blog I feel obligated to at least mention it. This is the only way we’re going to be able to broadcast our Belizean stories is by peppering them with little food bits here and there. But there was a kind of funny story regarding our first dinner at the Cotton Tree.

The menu read, “Eggplant Parmisan.” We were kind of bummed. Not that we weren’t going to eat it, but we had been traveling, we missed lunch, and we were hoping for something a little more substantial. Like some meat. But, whatever, we’ll eat it. I even put a smiley face on the meal, “The eggplant probably comes from the organic garden out back?” Besides, what are you going to do, ask them to make you something else? Well, yes, if you’re a crazy Jew Welcoming Party. They were so bummed on the eggplant that they weren’t afraid to let the kitchen know well in advance of the meal service. “We don’t eat eggplant,” they said, “can you make us something else?” They were very polite about it and all, but they were so polite it was almost condescending. I found it a bit rude considering we were in a poor part of the world where people don’t really have any choices when it comes to eating: you eat what you get. Plus we were in the middle of nowhere and it wasn’t like they could whip down to the store to pick up some chicken strips for them. But they got what they deserved.

This is how you fly around Belize in these tiny little prop planes. If you hate flying, you would have had a heart attack. I sat up front and watched the video game console and pretty much figured out how to fly the fucking thing without asking a single question. Yeah, that strip of dirt is the runway.

Every dinner was the same: soup, salad, then the main. We sat by the Jews. They seemed like funny old ladies. Tania can tell you more about how I gravitate to the funny old ladies. And we all ate our soup and our salad, and then the Jews reminded the staff that they were special and they weren’t eating the eggplant. The eggplant was served. It was actually pretty good. Then they brought the Jews their dinner: fish. HAHAHAH! THEY DON’T EAT FISH EITHER! Fuckers. [Note: when we arrived the staff was all in a tizzy about some guests dietary issues. There was a vegetarian in the group and—and here they were—some anti-fish people.]

They were really cool about it, though. They were the ones that thought it was funny. “Oh my God,” Eve said laughing, and whispered, “we don’t eat fish.” I thought Jews loved fish? What do I know? “I’ll eat it,” I offered. It looked good. It was good. They were happy to give it to me because then they didn’t look like such jerks asking the staff to make them a special dish and then not eating it.

Another photo from the plane. Tania said, "Looks like a turtle!"

Dinner finished and everyone promptly returned to their huts. Everyone except Ira’s fan club. Ira is a Jew from Long Island and he was the self-proclaimed photographer of the group. (I keep mentioning they’re Jews, incidentally, because the Jews really wanted to let everyone know they were Jews.) His photos weren’t bad, but they weren’t great either. But oh how the others gushed over them. And that was the most annoying thing about him: after a day of shooting tourist photos, he’d go back to his hut, load ‘em up on his Mac, and then carry his stupid laptop around and show everybody his dumb ass slideshow. “OH MY GAWD! THAT’S SUCH A GREAT PHOTO!” No it’s not, it’s just a snapshot of the child who tended to the eggplants you refused to eat tonight. We’re in the jungle, one of the weirdest places on earth, and that nerd’s in his little hut making slideshows on his fucking laptop. What a tool. Tania and I couldn’t stand it and decided to retreat to our tree house.

It was nine o’clock. We couldn’t believe we were tired, but we decided, fuck it, let’s go to bed. We got into our mosquito net bed, pulled up the covers, and turned off the light… and then marveled at the noise. Holy shit, nature is loud! We didn’t know it, but it was about to get a whole lot louder. The “loudest,” actually.

To be continued. Next post: howler monkeys.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

BELIZE: Bat Attack!

The Belize flag has some strange homoerotic imagery on it. What the hell is that, a spanking paddle? Regardless, we decided that the models were our friends Jason and Dave.

Our trip to Belize consisted of two parts: first we stayed in the jungle in the south on a river in Punta Gorda, then we stayed on the beach a little further north in Placencia. But before any of that, we had to spend a night in Belize City.

When not being attacked by bats, the canal behind D'Nest was very nice.

Technically, we were between the city and the airport at a B&B called “D’Nest.” It was a nice place on a canal, but there was nothing around except a grocery store. So we resigned ourselves to getting some beers, smoking cigarettes and just hanging out and playing Pentago [to read my first story about Pentago, go here].

No sooner had Tania kicked my ass in the first game, then we were under attack. “What the fuck is that?” I said. We were getting dive bombed by a big ass, black butterfly. “Jesus Christ,” I said ducking. “Maybe it’s a moth and it’s trying to get to the light?” But it wasn’t going for the light. It was just doing this figure-eight pattern in the air just over our heads.

“Oh shit,” I said finally, “I think it’s a bat?” Tania and I shrieked and hid under the awning. It seemed too small for a bat. We decided to get our cameras out and capture it “on film” with the flash. The thing moved so fast and was all over the place, we could barely follow it. We’d just stick our cameras out into the night and press the shutter button and hope it flew into the flash.

Tania was the first to score a hit. “Yep,” she said, looking at her camera, “that’s a bat.”

Tania's first photo of Dracubat. He's by the BBQ. Close up below.


I got the next one. “Yep,” I said, “that’s a bat.”

I'm more accustomed to shooting captive wildlife. Like in zoos and aquariums. Tania calls me "The Greatest Captive Wildlife Photographer in the World." Not used to shooting real animals in the wild, but I got one here.

Tania named him “Dracubat.” I didn’t like Dracubat. I wanted Dracubat gone. For some reason I decided bats were allergic to smoke. So I wanted to smoke a cigarette and blow the smoke into the bat’s holding pattern. Maybe it would mess up his sonar? The first problem, though, was getting a cigarette. Every time I stepped out from the protective awning, I’d get dive bombed by the li’l fucker. “Goddamn you Dracubat!”

Scary hands! Whoa! Whoa! Dracubat is actually in this picture back by the wagon wheel.

I eventually got a cigarette out and quickly learned that cigarette smoke has little to no effect on bats. Especially a bat that was feeding. We soon realized that Dracubat was eating mosquitoes out of the air. (This is a food blog, right? Well there’s the food: bats eating mosquitoes. Delicious.) So Dracubat was actually a good thing. He was eating the mosquitoes that were dining on us. Still, he was annoying, so we retired to our balcony above the futbol pitch to watch the neighborhood match.

Night soccer.

It was pretty funny, it was just a bunch of dudes from around the neighborhood. Shirts vs. Skins under three lights. Some dudes didn’t even wear shoes. They had a ref, though. He wore jeans and a whistle. I started rooting for the shirts for some reason. Not sure why. But they ended up winning 2-1 thanks to the stupid Skins goalie. He taunted a Shirts player with the ball, and while bouncing it on the ground, the shirt just kicked it out of his hands and into the goal. Idiot.

The next morning we ate breakfast at D’Nest, and then flew to Punta Gorda, where our jungle adventure began.

The "bed" part of our B&B. You can't really tell in the picture, but that bed is like chest high. I had to use a foot stool to get into it.

Tania enjoying the "breakfast" part of the B&B.

BELIZE 2: Beerlize

The only beer in Belize. Well, this wasn't the ONLY beer in Belize. That would have sucked. There were lots of them, but this was the only KIND of beer.

I didn’t notice this while we were in Belize, but Tania pointed it out when we got home. “Did you notice that there was ZERO fast food there?” she said. “None at all. Nothing even close.” She’s right, there were no fast food restaurants in Belize. Most noticeably: no McDonald’s. After a little research on the internet, it’s true, Belize is one of the few countries in the world that does not have a McDonalds. Pretty cool. (Belize did have a fast food burger place, though, called HL’s burgers. It’s a local establishment and it’s been around for 30 years, but apparently it just filed for bankruptcy last month? Not much info.)

The one area where we immediately noticed the lack of imports while we were there, however, was beer. You can only get one beer in Belize: Belikin. From WIkipedia:

The name "Belikin" comes from the Maya language and means "Road to the East". This is a term which some have suggested is the origin of the name of "Belize" (although the most accepted derivation says the name comes from the Belize River, meaning "muddy"). The Belikin label features a drawing of a Pre-Columbian Maya temple-pyramid at Altun Ha.

Belikin makes three beers: regular (a light lager, it’s what you get when you order a “beer”), Lighthouse Lager (which is really hoppy, I didn’t care for it), and Stout. I didn’t even try the stout. I’ve had enough stouts over the years to know that if it doesn’t say “Guinness” on it, I don’t like it.

I don’t even like Guinness [Tania's text in blue], so I too stayed way the fuck away from the stout. And I also noticed that many of the locals stayed away from the stout as well. I guess it was because they, like Dave, preferred Guinness. I can’t think of a grosser liquid to pour into my mouth on a hot, humid day, but they had it and they drank it. Yep, they had Guinness there. Guinness and Red Stripe were the ONLY other beers besides Belikin we saw the entire time. Red Stripe, being kind of understandable due to Belize’s proximity to Jamaica, but Guinness? I found out that the Belizean Guinness is bottled and distributed locally by Belikin brewery as well (they had a serious monopoly on beer), so it probably didn’t even taste like “real” Guinness, whatever that is. And all the uppity micks who insist that it doesn’t even tastes like a Guinness unless it’s actually poured in Dublin would have had a shit fit about Belizean Guinness, I’m sure. I wouldn’t know, because that crap tastes like stale coffee no matter where it’s poured (I’ve had it in Dublin, thanks. It’s still booty). So in Belize I stuck with Belikin, mostly because I had no choice, and I have no complaints at all.

The Lighthouse Lager had a very strong, bitter flavor. A little overpowering. It kind of tasted like New Zealand’s (now Coors’) Steinlager. But the regular Belikin was good. It was exactly what it said it was: beer. It was crisp, cold, not unlike any American shelf beer, like Coors. It was a perfect warm weather beer. And we drank a lot of them. In fact, they went down so easily that I began to grow suspicious of the bottles.

It seemed like a full 12 oz bottle of Belikin went down way faster than a 12 oz bottle of Coors. Was it because we were closer to the equator, or were the bottles smaller? They were definitely heavier. An empty bottle of Belikin was as heavy as a full bottle of American beer. (I wondered how those Boozy the Clown motherscratchers would approach a bottle of Belikin?) Was the glass so thick that it was displacing a couple ounces of beer? My conclusion, which isn’t based on any evidence whatsoever, is that they were jipping me a couple ounces. Sneaky fuckers.

This, incidentally, was the view from our balcony in Placencia. They advertised it online as "40 feet from the water" and we were, literally, 40 feet from the Caribbean Sea. More on that later.

And I suspect that, like Mexico, the brewery likes to hold on to their massive glass bottles and recycle the things (They do. Every Belikin bottle gets recycled an average of ten times). It was a couple days before I figured it out. Every time we ordered a beer, the bartender would make a great effort to wrap the neck in a napkin and cram it into the hole. Every beer. We didn’t know what to do with all the napkins. By the end of the night, we’d both have pockets full of ‘em. Then it finally dawned on me, “Oh. They probably recycle the bottles, but don’t clean them very well.” So the napkin was offered to clean off the previous owner’s ass face AIDS lips. Once I figured that out, I cleaned the shit out of every bottle I got before taking a sip.

If you’re not in Belize and are interested in trying a Belikin, by the way, you’re out of luck. Well, sort of. They only export 1000 cases a year and all of those cases, apparently, are exported to Los Angeles. So if you really want to be a douche and get some hard to find beer that’s no better than the stuff on the shelf at your local grocery store (highly marked up too. They go for $2 US at a store… and between $3 - $4 US at a bar in Belize), you can probably find some at some fancy pants importer around here, if that’s your thing. It’s probably cheaper to fly to Belize.

Our balcony in Placencia.

I thought it important that you know what we were drinking before I start telling you about where we were drinking it.

Monday, March 16, 2009

BELIZE: Jet's Bar

“You’re going to hate every one of them,” Tania said. She handed me the American Airlines in-flight magazine. It was an article about travelers. I hate travelers. They interviewed five travelers and asked them a standard set of questions. Like most travelers, they were show offs. “This one time when I was in Peru…” Fuck off. Yeah, Tania was right, I hated every single one of them. They had stupid advice like, “If you want your destination to be like home, then stay home.” Yeah, I agree with that, you’re right, but fuck right off asshole. Total douche bags.

One of their questions was, “Best airport bar?” They all had really exotic locations, like all assholes do. “Milan, Milan, Milan.” I didn’t have an answer to the question when I was reading it, but it wasn’t long after we landed—and I had folded the magazine up into the seat pocket in front of me—that we discovered the best airport bar in the world. Airport bar? I have a love/hate relationship with them. I hate the prices and I hate the people (“Are you coming or going?”), but I love them. For one, they all look the same. Familiarity is such an American thing. It’s gross, but that’s how I grew up. I’m a product of my environment. I experience a strange comfort at airport bars. They’re stupid. And traveling is stupid. So it all matches up, yeah? But we found an airport bar like no other. It really is the best airport bar in the world: Jet’s Bar, at the Belize International airport.

Jet personalizes your visit to his bar.

It’s in the corner of a small, five-gate terminal. There’s shops and shit that sell crap. They all sell the same shit. Belize tshirts, etc.. Everything has “81” on it because, apparently, Belize became a country in 1981? Anyway, It’s small terminal. But then there’s this bar. There’s no sign. It’s just a bar. Me and Tania dove right in. “Cool,” I said. I have an affinity for local shit. “Really? It looks horrible and weird?” I’m all over it. And Jet’s was horribly shitty.

I was totally wearing a cowboy hat, too, because nothing says, "I'm a total tool" when you're traveling better than a cowboy hat. This should be in VICE's "dont's" column. I'm no fashion expert, but there's no better mismatch than a cowboy hat and flip flops. Way to go asshole.

Jet’s is a barrage of shit. Shit everywhere. Mostly patches. Like military patches. And photos. Photos with Jet. Every photo had Jet in it. Jet is a little fucking fucker. He’s about four feet tall. He’s tiny. A Munchkin. And like the Munchkins, he has a really weird high voice. I don’t know how he did it, because he’s weird as shit, but that bar has been there for 40 years. “Coldest beer in town, best hot dogs in Belize, and best rum punch in the world,” he said. I heard him say it over and over again.

It was always funny watching a white person approach. He’d attack from behind. “WHAT CAN I GET YOU?” he’d say in his high little voice to their ass. What kind of a bar are you approached from behind? It was understandable how some people would recoil, but I hated every one of them. It was like a litmus test, seeing how people reacted to a little N-word midget asking them what they wanted. “Hotdog?” he’d ask. The ones that were grossed out were fucking assholes. You wouldn’t want them around anyway. “Hotdog? Oh my god, like, that’s sooooo gross!” Get the fuck out of here, jerk wad. But the ones that were like, “Hotdog? Really? Yeah, fuck yeah!” were cool.

That was one of the coolest things about Jet’s: they served two things, hotdogs and booze. Although there was some details that accompanied both. You could get any drink you wanted (if you were a dick), but they were pushing rum punch and beer. That’s it. “Best rum punch in Belize,” Jet said. As for food, they had hot dogs. They had Pringles, too, but they didn’t mention those. The Pringles came in the can, of course, but the hot dog came with mustard, ketchup, mayo, relish, onions, and hot sauce. “Best hot dog in Belize,” Jet said. How could you not get one? I hated every vegetarian donkey fucker that turned their nose up to even the suggestion of a hot dog. Because even if I were vegetarian, I would have ordered a hot dog from that man. “Hot dogs?” they’d say. “Please…” and walk away. How dare they?

Best hot dog in Belize!

Incidentally, it WAS the best hot dog in Belize. And that’s only because it was the only hot dog I had in Belize. It was the best. The rum punch? I had a lot of rum punch in Belize and I hate to admit it, but Jet’s was not the best rum punch I had in Belize. It was good, but it didn’t win the trophy. It did get me hooked on rum punch, though. More on that later. Mmmm, rum punch…

Best rum punch in Belize! Just drink it and shut up.

All around the bar are pictures of Jet. I noticed that in every picture he’s posing with ladies. I threw Tania under the bus immediately. “Jet!” I said over the bar, “Can we get a photo with you?” He looked at me. Then he looked at Tania. I’m pretty sure he looked straight at her tits. “Yeah,” he said in a very tired manner. He was famous and had been posing with ladies for years. “C’mere,” he said to Tania, motioning that she should walk around the bar. Tania shot me a “whatthefuck?” but I just shrugged and gave her the, “Too late now?” look. Do it.

Jet is tit-height. And, like most men, Jet loves tits. Tania went around the bar and put her arm around the little man. The little man put his arm around Tania and slammed his face into her boobs. Tania could not stop talking about how hard he pressed his face into her boobs. Apparently Jet really REALLY likes boobs. And then after looking at all the photos on the bar more closely, I realized he slammed his face into every woman’s bosom. If it were anyone else, I’d have fought him. Instead, I just ordered another rum punch and a hot dog. And giggled my ass off. Tania felt violated. But, like, funny violated. I mean, really? Wouldn’t you slam your face into Tania’s boobs if given the chance? I do it all the time. But I’m afraid you’re not offered that opportunity unless you’re a four foot tall little N-word that makes the best hot dogs and rum punch in Belize. Plaze.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

It Runs In the Family!

Hey guess what, guys! I’m a published food writer now too! Woofuckinghoo motherbitches! But instead of writing about some sausage I had in Vegas, I got to interview my culinary hero (and adopted mom, even though she doesn’t know that I have adopted her) Lidia Bastianich. (Click on page for larger view.)

Did you guys just see her on Top Chef this season? Wasn’t she the coolest? She was wearing sandals to the final dinner event. Sandals! FTW Lidia, you rule! Too bad her pick didn't get to be winner and that stupid bald fuck who can't cook fish (but can cheat on his girlfriend) did.

I was seriously the gayest interview ever because all I did was agree with everything she said. And I didn’t even have any real questions because I basically know her whole life story. I even refer to her as my mom because I want nothing more than to be part of the Bastianich family. I want to share in the excitement of the family winery and bask in the success of the family restaurants. I want to pass the gravy to all of them on Thanksgiving and play hide and seek with all the nieces and nephews. I want to see Lidia crack chicken bones with her big, sturdy paws (dudes, she's got hands bigger than a polar bear). Seriously. I want nothing more than this, and I go about my private life believing that I am related to my mom, Lidia. Dave does too. When Lidia’s Italy comes on TV he always let’s me know what my mom is cooking that day from another room. “Hey, Tania, she’s making gnocchi with her other daughter Tania!”

See?! She already has a daughter named Tania. I was just born in the wrong house, is all. Oh man, they're so cool, you guys. So, so cool. They even party with Mario Batali (and build restaurants with him). Ohmigosh, ohmigosh!

Oh whatever, I know you guys are laughing at me right now. You know what? Big deal. I can't hear your laughter all the way in Belize, where me and my old man will be relaxing for the next nine days, bitches! All I'll be able to hear is monkeys and toucans in the trees. So whatever, keep on laughing. Go ahead and think to yourself that I am delusional and a little too obsessed. I don't care! I have my mom's love (and awesome food) and a rainforest vacaction to keep my spirits high. And so I will end this on a positive note like she ends every show: "Tutti a Tavola...a Mangiare!"