The highlight of this past week was a package I received from Joe. Being a kind and thoughtful brother, he mailed me this package on his birthday. Coincidentally, I was mailing him a package at nearly the same time. Of course, mine seems a bit more appropriate, but his was certainly appreciated. It contained a few CDs, one by Tres Femmes (on which he is the drummer), one by Duenow (Joe wrote, “And yes, it’s pronounced ‘Doonow,' not 'Dueño.'”), a website client of Joe’s with whom he played for a while, and, certainly the most entertaining, a mixed media disk. This included a wide assortment of comedic selections in the form of pictures, movies, and MP3s. Many of the choices are nothing short of hilarious. As a brief overview of the CD’s contents, he gave me various hits by Wesley Willis, music by “Beatallica” (a band that makes Metallica-esk versions of Beatles songs… with different lyrics… and other stuff, too), various G.I. Joe cartoons (the hysterical altered PSAs), a Norah Jones video, and, probably my favorite, a Nutri-Grain ad that is one of the funniest commercials I’ve ever seen. There was a lot more, too, but it’s far too much to list here. Even more exciting is that it’s merely volume one! Apparently there’s more to come sometime in the future.
The next big news from this past weekend (well, really the only news of any significance seeing that I slept far too much yesterday) was that I participated in a short adventure race. It was a race in Guam’s “GEAR Sprint” series, which seem to revolve mainly around mountain bikes. The race was supposed to be both biking and swimming, however, the swimming portion was cancelled due to rough conditions. So, it was mainly a long bike ride, but a fun one at that.
For some background, these races are done in teams of two. In order to successfully hold your place at the finish line, both you and your partner have to cross. If you make it there first, while your partner gets there dead last, your team is dead last. So, the basic idea is to stay with your partner, in which case you can help each other out (in both motivation and stitching limbs back on). The race involves biking over fairly rough territory (steep red clay hills with a lot of erosion for the most part) and there are some locations where carrying your bike is necessary. There wasn’t much of this (mainly one portion where we had to cross a steep little stream valley), but there was enough to make the experience more interesting.
My partner in the race was Brent, a brave lad who hasn’t really biked much in quite a long time. Brent is definitely in good shape and he did remarkably well for not having biked in so long. However, you’re not here to read about Brent’s muscular thighs. No, you’re here to read about how the race began with Brent forgetting his helmet, thus being forced to start the race with a hard hat duct-taped to his head. It may have been small, it may have been cock-eyed, it may have been digging into his throat since the duct tape was obviously too tight, but he started off the race protected. Albeit slightly delayed, we were off!
I unfortunately don’t have the time (due to an imminent hectic work schedule and need for sleep) to go into great detail about the race, but I’ll impart some highlights. I felt pretty good about the race: physically, I wasn’t too fatigued, although it was hotter than hell… per the usual. There were several portions of the race that were extremely muddy, giving my bike the appareance that it had been ridden by some really cool mountain bike pro, not an average biker who’s a pansy on downhills and can’t transition smoothly between changes in terrain. I think I once again broke my record for most amount sweat in an hour, but odds are the record will be broken again sometime soon.
There were no major injuries, but Brent had a close call at one of the gates we had to cross. It was a welcoming type of steel gate where the top is lined with sharp spikes. We had to cross this gate since it blocked off tne entire width of the trail. At this point, we were all dripping with mud (and therefore really slippery). I crossed over slowly and made it fine, but as Brent was lifting his bike over, the weight of the bike brought his torso down unexpectedly onto the gate, nearly piercing his chest. My back had been turned at the time, so at first I thought he had slipped while crossing over the gate, thus landing with all his weight on a spike. I half expected to see some massive impalement and blood gushing everywhere. Fortunately, that was not the case. In fact, it didn’t break the skin, although it obviously hurt a lot at first. It’s a good thing, too (not that it hurt, that it didn't break the skin)… even though I was prepared to carry him back to the road, all the while screaming, “Don’t you die on me Brent! STAY WITH ME, BUDDY!”
My major faux pas of the race, and something I seem to do often in these damn things where there is a somewhat marked trail, was veering off course. Towards the end of the race, we were doing well. I was a little ahead of Brent when I came to a steep hill. I decided to ride up the hill and wait for Brent at the top. At the summit, at which there was an intersection with a paved road, I sat for at least five minutes and Brent didn’t show. I knew he would’ve been there by then, but I didn’t know where else the trail would have gone. I mean, I just kept going straight on the road we had been riding on. Well, after biking down the paved road for at least a mile, I turned around and, feeling like an idiot, went back down the huge hill looking for where I lost the trail. Lo and behold, there was a very sharp turn to the right I hadn’t seen in my concentration on making it up the hill. Shitballs. I was mainly annoyed for not having seen the turn, rather than losing a lot of time in the race.
By this point, Brent had made it to the finish line. Despite the numerous times I had zipped ahead and later waited for him, I was the fool who lost us the big 6th place finish (or somewhere thereabouts) by getting lost. Grrr. Anyway, I soon crossed the finish line, sealing our commanding finish of 10th place out of 12 teams. It was a good race and definitely something I’d like to do again, minus the whole biking off course for 20 minutes part.
“What other excitement has happened in Guam since you last entry, old friend?” This question may be on your mind. Well, not all that much. I’ve done some snorkeling over the past couple weeks, once last weekend with Claudine and her friend Anne and again yesterday on Tumon Bay. The plan last weekend had been to go snorkeling at Spanish Steps, supposedly the best spot on island for snorkeling. It’s off of military land, so few people have access to it. The location is also an area where large battleships and cargo vessels are loaded with munitions. Because of this, the area is generally closed to the public. Last weekend was supposedly one of the few times it was scheduled to be open. Upon arriving there and seeing the gigantic boat docked at our dive spot, we knew such was not the case. We did get to do some snorkeling in an area nearby, which proved to be a cool spot even if it wasn’t Spanish Steps.
The snorkeling yesterday occurred just off the balcony of a place where Haldre and Brent are currently staying. Haldre is house-sitting for a helicopter pilot who goes by the nickname “Trigger.” She doesn’t know Trigger all that well, but apparently some of his friends recommended her as a good person to watch over the place (ha!). Haldre actually knew the people who lived there previously, so she has some history with the place. A significant event in that history was when she was staying there during the last typhoon, which ended up becoming a super typhoon.
Guam is frequently bombarded by typhoons, but since this beast of a storm, things have been pretty quiet. Too quiet. I personally think we’re due for another one, but for the sake of our closed population study (and the incredibly expensive fence that goes along with it), let’s hope I’m wrong. Anyway, Haldre and some other folks were staying at this place as the typhoon hit. Now, this is a nice place. It’s well built, but it’s also directly on the water. There are also large windows that essentially make up the entire wall facing the ocean. A great place to be most of the time, but basically the last place you would want to be during a typhoon. However, they didn’t think the storm would be that bad (apparently the forecasters had seriously downplayed the severity and miscalculated its trajectory), so they stayed. This proved a bad decision, when they found themselves huddled in a closet at the back of the apartment with a mattress over the door. This is where they sought refuge as the windows blew in, along with some of the walls, and giant waves crashed over the balcony.
I need to close this entry, but I have two last things to say, one for information sake and the other as big news. First the information: tomorrow is the official start of another rapid response team training. Karen and I will be running this one with very little assistance from Haldre, so it should be interesting. I think it will go well, but we are going to be incredibly busy. So, it’s likely I won’t be posting here again until at least early June. It’s possible I’ll throw in a couple brief entries, but I just thought I’d give some of you a heads up (seeing that a few folks were worried during the last training when I hadn’t posted for a month).
Now the big news: In less than three weeks, one of my closest friends (no irony intended, there), Mr. Brian “Keystone” Keyes, is getting married. Obviously this is a major event and one I am seriously regretting having to miss. If the damn tickets back home didn’t cost such a ridiculous amount of money, I would be there in a heartbeat. I’ve been working on a poem that I’ll be sending another great friend, Chris Moore (“C-Moore” to his fellow ruffians) to read at the wedding. It has been kind of slow going, but I know the inspiration will hit more the further I get. The big day is June 5th, the day after the rapid response training ends. If I swim really fast, I might just make it (given the time change and all).
As I sit and write this, it is still May 3rd here in Guam. That puts those (Dare I say “most?”) of you on the mainland back during the early morning of this date. Now, why is this date so darn special as to make me start off in discussing it within my lately scarce journal entries, you may ask? Why, it’s the first wedding anniversary of my dear brother, Joe, the creator of this site, and his wife, Lisa. As if this weren’t special enough, it’s also Joe’s birthday. “Surely not, no!” you scream in disbelief! Oh, yes, my friends, it’s true.
Joe and Lisa, I wish you a whole lifetime of happy anniversaries (and hopefully birthdays, too) to come. If you’re lucky, you may even reach your 84th anniversary, in which the designated gift is guano.
Things have been moving along quite well here in Guam. On the work front, I’ve been accomplishing various tasks for the upcoming rapid response training. It’s only 2 weeks away now and there’s much to be done. I’ve also been helping Val put together that confounded temporary snake enclosure. We’ve done a lot of the preparation (including the filling of 240 sand bags, collection of rebar, cutting of PVC, and other mundane joys), but we still need to clear out the area and set the whole thing up. It’s going to be interesting.
Enough about work. Let’s talk Tina Turner. You’ve got to hand it to Tina. After all these years, she still rocks out, she still has great legs, and she still gets to pay gigantic, imposing men to beat the ever loving piss out of Ike. Well, that’s how it should be. Last weekend, I was walking down to Tumon for the “block party” our local Subway was throwing. You know it’s going to be the ultimate fiesta if Subway is hosting! Upon my arrival, it quickly became apparent that Subway hadn’t let me down.
Standing on a quickly erected stage that, we hope, had some semblance of structural integrity, stood Tina Turner. Well, okay, what looked sort of like Tina Turner. I came to the stage from behind (no innuendos here, I assure you), so the first thing I saw of her was the hair. Then I heard the song. “Hu, that sounds a lot like Tina Turner,” I thought. I can’t remember which song it was, but it wasn’t one of the smash hits. Then I saw her dress… her VERY short silver sequin dress. She was wearing heels. She was getting down with her bad self. She was a look-alike.
Yes! What better performance could one possibly see on Guam than a Tina Turner look alike FLOWN IN from the mainland? That’s right, kids, Subway spared no expense on this one. This was 100% pure, no holding back, …sort of Tina. The woman performing as our ageless diva was much younger than the real thing, but she did have nice legs, a decent voice, she could kind of dance in heels (I’m impressed that she didn’t tip over or fall once), and, maybe, genuinely big hair. It may have been a wig, but you couldn’t tell if it was.
Things went quickly downhill from there. Next up was some band from Australia that wasn’t all that good (including an apparent lack of rhythm), who managed to botch a Nirvana tune before I decided, for the love of God, let’s get out of here. Luckily, salvation lay right next door. Mac & Marti, one of the nicer bars in Tumon (the one with a large humidor and big comfy couches), often has live bands. April just so happened to be Jazz Appreciation Month, if not everywhere, at least on Guam, so they had a jazz group playing. They were known as the Jazz All Stars and, believe it or not, they were immensely better than the crap going on outside. In fact, they were definitely the most talented group of musicians I’ve seen since arriving here. Dave, Andy’s roommate, was hanging out there with me and he concurred. This was interesting, seeing that he has been on island for much longer than yours truly.
One of the most intriguing band members to me was the lead singer. When I first saw her, I thought she was just helping the band set up. She had a large, untucked, button-down shirt; some baggy pants; and old black sneakers. Her hair was pulled back casually and she was chewing gum in a less than feminine manner. Basically, she looked pretty butch, if you’ll pardon the expression. I thought, if I looked at her wrong, she’d kick my ass. She just wasn’t your stereotypical jazz singer. However, this lady could sing exceptionally well. She had a really soulful, melodic voice that fit the music perfectly. It definitely took me by surprise and pleasantly so.
The drummer, which, of course, must be the next mentioned, was very good, as well. He actually had rhythm (wow!), great technique, and an appropriate feel for the music. As Joey Lawrence would say, he was “solid!” The one thing he didn’t have was cymbals. These fine metallic disks are often quite helpful when playing the drums. Call me crazy, but I just feel they add a little something extra. Apparently, what happened was that he forgot to bring them, someone was borrowing them from him, or, a little unlikely, he was borrowing them from someone else. Whatever the case, they got through about three songs before his cymbal-bearer finally showed up. Hats off to him for keeping it real sans cymbals. I doubt anyone in the crowd even noticed they were gone.
It was about this time that I met a rather eccentric individual by the name of, well, I can’t remember his name, so let’s call him Bob. Dave, who had been sitting on the couch adjacent to me, had recently left the bar for the evening and this guy was quick to take his place. Bob was probably in his late 40’s, he had long hair (thinning more than gradually on top), and an Atlanta Pro Percussion T-shirt. Bob had some things to say.
He started the conversation, introducing himself and immediately discussing his angst with what he felt was some gangster music going on outside (there were a couple young Japanese guys on stage with turn tables). Setting him up, I asked if he was a drummer, you know, given his T-shirt. Oh, yes, he’s been playing the drums for 4,837,422,385,854 years. I tactfully avoided telling Bob I also play the drums, lest we have more to talk about. Just so you don’t think I’m being too hard on Bob, here are a few of his quotes:
“All that crappy music is saying is, ‘Hey, come and join my gang!’”
“That music is their jazz, you know? Their blues…their rock.”
“That guy [the drummer], now he’s pro. I’m only half pro.”
“I’m into playing disco. Earth, Wind, and Fire; Cool and the Gang, things like that. That’s my gang. That’s what I like to say, ‘Cool and the Gang is my gang.’”
Check, please! I informed Bob that I needed to use the bathroom, which I did. However, I then stood away from the couches to watch a bit more and, having my fill, I slipped out the door. I really wish I could remember more of Bob’s quotes, but I left my Dictaphone back in New Hampshire. There were many more priceless remarks, but I’ll leave those up to your imagination.
The next morning, Haldre and I went for a bike ride up Nimitz Hill, a long, at times pretty steep hill a few miles south of my place. We took the back way up, which, although longer, isn’t quite as steep as the other way. Haldre wanted to take it easy, knowing that she would be up for at least 72 hours…without sleep… at the Quoll adventure race. The girl is crazy. She may even still be in the race right now, but I’m really hoping it’s finished. She is going to need to sleep for a week!
It was a good ride up the hill and extremely sweaty like any physical activity beyond breathing here on Guam. The humidity in the tropics is just amazing. I actually showered with my Camelbak, bike gloves, and watch today (no, unfortunately I wasn’t wearing the Camelbak in the shower) in order to remove the salt and horrible smell they had acquired. I know, just what you wanted to read about (yum!). That’s what it’s all about here at my blog: sweat and stench.
Soon after we got back from our ride, it was time for more live music. This time it was a little group from sunny California. A group of guys who really like to get around, who surf the U.S.A., who really do wish they all could be California girls: The Beach Boys. The boys put on a great show, despite the speaker towers at times not putting out quite enough oomph to compensate for the wind (making it sound as though someone was turning the volume up and down). Brian Wilson was at the helm rocking out, while another one of the original guys kept it going strong on the keyboards. They also had another long-time (though I don’t think original) member on guitar who also sang all the high parts. Man, could he sing the high parts! This guy was probably in his mid-50s but he could still easily belt out all the tunes. You know the song Sherry Baby? This guy sang it perfectly.
The Beach Boys show was free, put on by one of the local car dealerships to celebrate their 90th anniversary. I didn’t quite understand how that worked, but I think they may be referring to an original dealership started on the mainland. There were more people there than I have seen gathered in one place on Guam so far, which was fun. It was also right on the beach, making it all the more appropriate for the main act. I think the Boys played all of their classic tunes, plus several covers. I only wish my Dad could’ve been there because I think he would have really enjoyed it. Being the ungrateful son I am, I didn’t bring my camera, either. Oh, well, there are always the memories.
This weekend was pretty laid back, with the major exception of the hash, which is never laid back. I haven’t hashed in over a month, but it was good to get back into it. This one was located down south in Inarajan, near a place called Talofofo Falls. We did a snake search in that general region when I was training for the rapid response team. The route was almost entirely in a stream/river. An agonizingly slow river, chock full of algae and who knows what else. What all of us who ran (i.e., swam) the hash hope is that we didn’t run through any Leptospirosis. Apparently the worst places for the disease are entirely stagnant pools (like carabao wallows), which we luckily didn’t encounter.
This run was longer than that of a normal hash, but it went through some really beautiful areas. Some of them actually made it feel like you were in real rainforest, rather than the low, somewhat shrubby forests that cover most of the island. In a couple spots, the scenes was perfect except for the lack of M-16s being carried over our heads (picture a bunch of guys chest deep in a slow tropical river). Towards the end of the run, the river became wider, turning into an estuary, where it ultimately dumped into the ocean. There was another long stretch along the beach, with the On-Home held on the shore of a small cove beneath some low cliffs. It was a nice spot with a nice location to have the bonfire.
A bonfire where a whole bunch of people exposed themselves (sadly, myself not included). Yes, there’s nothing like the post hash activities to get people to do drunken and belligerent things. The only difference with this crew is that they won’t regret what they’ve done in the morning. One of the long-time hashers, a woman with the lovely nickname “Needs Meat,” was the star of the hour, since it was her last hash before leaving the island. She made sure to show off her breasts a good dozen times. Make that a baker’s dozen. There was also, of course, much male exposure (moreso, by far, than female), consumption of cheap beers, rude song, and overall revelry. Oh, and if you talked out of turn during the closing ceremony, you got to sit bare-assed on a block of ice.
Before all of you go thinking it’s nothing but debauchery, with no civilized, good, clean behavior here in Guam (well, it’s never clean, but I’ve never been, so just deal with that), let me change the subject. I’ll conclude with a little tale of some very feisty avian attackers. As you may know, I’ve been biking to work several times a week. Well, for the past two weeks, a couple of black drongos have started to nest on the power poles next to the road heading to the refuge.
Normally, these are very mild-mannered little birds, chirping away much like any bird is apt to do. While they’re nesting, however, they turn into winged spawn of Satan. Really (now comes the rational wildlife biologist), all they’re doing is protecting their nest from harm, I just like to embellish a bit. Yes, I know you can tell! Anyway, these little beaked missiles come diving at any passers by (with the exception of cars) within about 50 yards of their nest. One the ride to work, this, and much closer proximities, are mandatory. So, each morning and afternoon, I get attacked by the drongos. None of them have actually hit me yet (I don’t let them get close enough), so no harm done. It’s hilarious to see them come after me, especially given that, as soon as I stop, they back off immediately for fear that I’ll beat them senseless. Given the bird situation here on Guam, the last thing I’m going to do is dust them with a 12-guage. It is fun to stop and see them immediately turn around, almost like a little kid that’s following you and quickly hides when you look over your shoulder. With any luck, I’ll make it through the week without looking like the victim from a Hitchcock movie.