The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

I overheard this conversation between two early 20-something women while hiking down Runyon Canyon and wanted to share. (Editor’s note: Though it may seem unlikely, I have neither embellished or paraphrased.)

“Some guy is taking me out tonight.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you, like, not know his name?”

“I totally just talk to my dates until I figure out their names and then I put them in the customer file.”

[no segue, but the same girl is speaking]

“When I, like, totally get famous, there will probably be a photo of me, like, picking my butt and I, like, totally won’t care. I’ll be like, yeah, this is totally me.”

“Totally.”

THE END (Thank God)

I love all things ninja. Why this is, I have no idea. My parents didn’t ship me to a covert ninja camp at a Bhutan monastery when I was a child. Yet, I have a ninja outfit (official ninja speak) that I have worn on more than one occasion and am constantly looking for other excuses to wear it. I dream, eat and sleep in ninja. I own throwing stars and a cross bow. Granted, they are plastic and the crossbow shoots suction-cup darts, but those are silly technicalities.

When I heard about the movie Ninja Assassin, I waited with bated breath for its release. It was the fight scenes and the stealthy crawl of the ninja that I love. I watch. I learn, for I am a ninja in training…one that needs guidance beyond what “Ninja for Dummies” can offer. And I couldn’t have asked for a more comely teacher than the lead in Ninja Assassin. Rain is the actor who plays Raizo—bad ninja turned good after killing only a few people—and has officially become my new hunk crush for obvious reasons.

Rain was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to pose in my living room. Of course, I was happy to lend him a ninja-esque weapon to ensure the photo was authentic. We later compared six packs.

The gore and gratuitous violence was to be expected—the promo poster gave that away. Typically I cringe and watch through the slits in whichever hand is covering my face when heads are lopped off and blood gushes like Buckingham Fountain, but not so much in this movie. Probably because the blood was an unnatural shade of red…possibly a nice Sherwin Williams Fire Engine Red matte. The odd color wasn’t comforting by any means, but it wasn’t realistic either, which is why it was bearable to watch it spewing from necks.

Michele and I loved the movie, but Deutsch was less than thrilled, probably because the premise consisted of minimal plot with a focus on maximum shirtless Rain. And I was just fine with that. But it was a fun action flick with beautifully choreographed fight scenes. And what a concept—the actors actually had mad martial arts skills instead of the typical Hollywood-cut-and-paste-create-a-martial-artist software program used for those who’ve never thrown a kick other than when they’ve accidentally slipped on ice.

I was either walking away with a photo or a story about getting my ass kicked by a guy wearing a lamp shade on his head. But, this was a happy ending, for my stealthy, ninja ways kicked in and I was able to snap a few photos before he knew what had happened. He turned around once, but we pulled the old “group tourist photo” trick. Lamp shade guy had no idea…or it’s possible that he just didn’t care.

Only in LA. And to think I documented all of this fodder enroute to the Arclight Theatre where we saw 2012.

As for my review—the movie was campy and ridiculous. Save your money and wait until HBO features it two years from now. There were great actors in it: John Cusak, Amanda Peet, Oliver Platt, Danny Glover, yada yada; but it still isn’t worth it. The writers interjected levity where there should not have been levity; and it was drowning in cheese. The previews were my favorite part.

Here are a few things that I could have purchased with the money I spent on a 2012 movie ticket:

• half of what a PVC French maid outfit would cost (not that I’ve researched it)
• 7 rawhide doggie bones
• 4 bottles of Boones Farm (there’s a fan club by the way)
• bribe to stay out of a Mexican prison
• one hour’s worth of Pai Gow poker (if you know what you’re doing)
• a Man Groomer
• one Wiglet from CVS, two from Walgreen’s
• a Kenny G CD
• an appetizer at the Chicken Ranch

I subscribe to a variety of travel sites including those that provide info on travel bargains. I just received an update today that I thought was worth passing along in the event anyone is searching for fabulous deals to the Caribbean. CheapCaribbean.com is offering discounted packages to destinations such as Puerto Rico, Aruba and Jamaica. Included is the SPF 100 Sunshine Protection deal, which means you get $100 off the cost of your trip if it rains during your vacation.

There is an upside to a down economy—great travel deals.

About a week ago, I posted a brief synopsis of my friends’ traumatic experience in Puerto Vallarta—they were abducted by the Federalis and imprisoned for several hours. I spoke to them after they arrived back in Chicago and Bob stated that he believed at one point, they were both going to be killed. I think it was about the time the pickup to which they were handcuffed headed down a dark, deserted road and stopped for several minutes. Their captors were either drinking more beer or deciding the fate of my two friends—they never took the time to share. Anyway, Bob’s story is below. Pass it along to anyone considering a trip to Mexico because they should be aware of the danger to tourists.

I have had many good experiences in Mexico; however, I will never go back until the country gets its crime under control. I’m not referring to the petty crime that takes place everywhere—I mean the real crime instigated by the Mexican police that includes robbing and abducting tourists. They are as corrupt as they come. My partner and I just returned from what was supposed to be a nice, weeklong vacation. Our trip to Puerto Vallarta, a place we have visited numerous times and have often recommended to friends and family, was abruptly cut short.

We were stopped and arrested by the Mexican police as we were walking down a sidewalk doing absolutely nothing disruptive. The street was dark with no one else around. The police pickup did not have “Police” written anywhere on the vehicle. Two men got out of the white pickup and approached us. (We were aware that crime has been on the rise in Mexico because we have friends who have been victimized.) We walked faster trying to reach a well-lit corner. I began whistling loudly, buzzed the doorbell of a hotel in an attempt to get someone’s attention and also started yelling for the police. After a few local people came out to see what was happening, they tried to resolve the problem with the police. The police did not want to let them help translate. The “police” frisked us, handcuffed us together and put us in the back of their beer can-littered truck bed. Then they handcuffed us to the bed of the truck, drove us down a deserted road, stopped the truck for several minutes with no explanation as to what was happening. Eventually, they took us to the police station about 30 minutes away.

After an hour cuffed to an outside bench, they interrogated us, gave us a breathalyzer test, smelled our fingers for drugs and put us in a jail cell for more than eight hours. Never once did they tell us why they approached us to begin with or how long we would have to stay. We asked to contact the U.S. Consulate and/or make a phone call. They told us that we would be able to do so later and that they would contact the U.S. Consulate, but they did neither.

When we asked again, they said in a mocking tone that they would contact the U.S. Consulate for us. Finally, we were told that we would have to stay for 12 hours and that we were arrested for aggressive behavior. A Mexican immigration official came shortly afterward. When we explained what had transpired, he told us that immigration had no issue with us and that we could stay or leave the country without a problem. We asked him if he could contact the U.S. Consulate and he said that he would get in trouble with the police.

It was quite obvious that he knew we were jailed wrongly. He then said he would see what he could do to free us. Eventually, someone told us that we could use a lawyer who happened to be there and each pay his $500 peso fee to get out of jail. If we did not use him, we would have to stay eight more hours, which was four hours more than what we were told originally. But, if we waited the extra time, we would “probably” be released without a fee. We paid the fee, which amounted to about $40 dollars each. We were not allowed to have copies of any of the paperwork and had to sign without reading it.

This ordeal should never have happened. A few other notes you should know: The jail cell smelled of urine, there was a broken toilet that leaked all over the floor, there was no bench or anything to sit on other than the floor, there were bugs and flies everywhere. Also, the handcuffs cut our wrists. I have bruises on my arms. My wrist is swollen and sore to the touch as well as an area of my back. When the officer put me in the open bed truck he told me that he would have me deported the next day. The other officers were talking among themselves and made insulting remarks in Spanish, not knowing or caring that we could understand what they were saying. They also said to us, “We don’t need people like you here.”

We were released in an area of town where no cabs dared come. Each time I saw the police when we were heading back to the hotel, I felt sick to my stomach. I also feared being put back in jail, because we looked out of place in the area of town where the jail was located. Needless to say, we left on the first flight we could get back to Chicago.

After speaking with several people, we found out that this is a common event in Puerto Vallarta and all of Mexico. Please be careful if you have plans to travel there and possibly reconsider visiting a place more worthy of your travel dollars.

Grand Turk, Turks and Caicos, British West Indies

One visit to Grand Turk was all it took before I decided to abandon my life as a Chicago city girl and call this humble island home. Upon my arrival at the Grand Turk airport in January 2007, this Caribbean island seemed like nothing more than a cactus-ridden sandbar. But that sentiment changed when I saw the pristine water, white sand beaches the consistency of flour and my first sunset with some random guy at the beach-side bar who called himself Rainbow Boy. Ah, nirvana. (Caveat: Sand the consistency of flour tends to creep into crevices one would not think possible. On the upside, it’s also nature’s exfoliator.)

My days consisted of a casual routine of diving in the mornings, exploring neighboring islands in the Turks and Caicos archipelago, imbibing with new friends (the locals were quite friendly) and killing blood-sucking mosquitoes the size of my head. I was forewarned, but nothing can really prepare first-time visitors for the blood lettings and the tenacity of the dive-bombing bastards. OFF became my perfume of choice for the first four or five days—until the new meat smell wore off. Eventually I became less appetizing than the new, fresh meat that arrived daily.

Even though the island is only seven-miles long by one-mile wide, the demographic is quite diverse. Expats are mostly from the U.K. and Canada; but include a lovely German woman who owns and runs the Salt Raker Inn as well as Dominican and Haitian immigrants. Sleepy was the best way I can describe the island. And even though Cockburn Town is the nightlife mecca on the island, the description still fits. In 2007, only four bars existed on the road by the beach, all of which had a copious stash of mosquito repellent and beer. I’m guessing much has changed given that a year ago, Grand Turk was slammed by Tropical Storm Hannah and then a week later by Hurricane Ike, which was a Category 5.

A beach in Cockburn Town, just a conch throw from Manta House

On my first visit, the island was mostly undeveloped saved for the monstrosity marring the Southern part of the island. A corporation thought it would be brilliant to level a beautiful coral reef to build a cruiseship dock. The same corporation also introduced some horrid chain restaurant in the vicinity, though I can’t remember the name—Margarita Madness, Cowboy Dan’s Beastly Barnone, I dunno. What I do remember is a giant, neon green margarita glass on the roof beckoning the throngs of over-eating cruisers into its greasy lair. On my second visit, I was told that Wyndham Corporation was planning to build a hotel near Cockburn Town on coveted beach-front property. As far as I know, the hurricanes didn’t scare them off.

My second visit not quite a year later later was to determine if I could live on a desert island without a proper haircut (the Suck-Kut doesn’t count), a coffee shop, Cheetos and Sephora. My final decision was a big fat “no.” But I miss Grand Turk and think of it often. Both charming and simple, it reminds visitors about how life should be lived—without stress or the pressure of productivity and on-time arrivals (hence the term “Island Time” coined by the locals). Adapting to Grand Turk’s way of life is the easy part—it’s leaving that’s difficult.

Just so you have an idea of where you're going.

Getting there: Most major airlines fly into Provodenciales. From there, you can take a island commuter flight to many of the Turks and Caicos islands.

Hotel and Diving Information

I’m unilingual, unless Pig Latin counts. This is not a fact of which I’m proud, but it is truth. I suppose it’s because I attended Brewster High School where the business teacher was also the volleyball and football coach. Dee Depe, my English teacher extraordinaire, did her damnedest to incorporate a German language program into our curriculum. But it was met with apathetic acceptance by the school board, and we students just couldn’t grasp how it would benefit us.

I attempted Spanish in college, but the teacher was hateful and developed an immediate aversion to me. Probably because I answered “cerveza” when she asked what I had for breakfast. Anyway, she gave me a C- to ensure I passed, but also to ensure that I would never again take her class. Not that she needed to be concerned with that—she had a heart attack after finals and went to that Espanol lab in the sky. I developed a healthy respect for karma after that incident.

Anyway, that was a long, roundabout introduction to my topic: How to spend seven days in either Spain or Italy for free. All that is required is fluency in English and the purchase of a plane ticket. Oh yes, a passport should probably be on that list.

Pueblo Ingles is a company in Spain that recruits, what it calls “anglos”, to act as teachers for intensive English-speaking camps. In exchange for room and board, the 25 anglos talk. Yep, that’s it. Those paying for the camp are those who don’t speak English as a first language. And there is no escape—the company sees to that.

I was sequestered in Valdelavilla, a quaint mini-village in Soria, Spain’s wine country, which was occupied only by those attending the camp. The closest town was five miles and we were brought by bus, and therefore, trapped like rats. And if that’s how rats live, count me in. The food was delicious and plentiful and accompanied by bottomless bottles of wine at lunch and dinner. But the bar was where the real lessons took place. Somewhere in Spain a guy is walking around telling people that he is “hung like a horse.” And yes, I explained with gestures what it meant so he knew it wasn’t appropriate for a conference call.

It was good fun, I met amazing people and I can proudly say that the Americans weren’t the craziest anglos there. A few of the Canadians in attendance probably should have been medicated. I still have the moosehead key chain given to me by one of the more insane members.

Valdelavilla in the middle of nowhere

When G.W. ran for president a second time, I swore I would leave the country if he won. Well, we all know how that election turned out and the train wreck that ensued for the next four years and beyond. Anyway, I didn’t follow through with my threat, save for checking a few job boards in foreign English-speaking countries such as Australia and the U.K.—I was too much of a wuss. Instead, I just sucked it up, drank more and bitched until I was blue in the face about the suckiness of the Bush administration.

But while I was searching for a way out, I found a few interesting Web sites dedicated specifically to expatriates, or rather those who soon hope to achieve that status. One in particular is specific to leaving the United States, but others apply to anyone wanting to relocate to another country.

www.expatriates.com: This site includes everything from job searches, housing and child care to language exchange programs. I haven’t made a thorough comparison with an Atlas, but it seems that most countries are included on the list.

EFAM: Escape From America Magazine is one of my favorites because not only is it specific to Americans, the articles are well written and informative. All of the contributors are people who’ve had first-hand experience relocating to another country, primarily because they sought the change and not because of work, etc. The Web site is easy to navigate and you can search for articles on specific countries and cities, which detail cost of living, job searches, visa information, etc. Also, you can sign up to receive the e-magazine for free.

www.easyexpat.com: The tag-line for this Web site is the International Relocation Portal. I think anything with “Portal” in the tag-line just sounds cool. Regardless, here resides a wealth of information with the bonus of the Cost-o-Matic interactive tool that will figure how much money you need to make in whatever given country based on your current salary. The only problem is that the number of cities available for comparison is limited.

www.expatify.com: I’m new to this site, so I don’t know it well. But, it does list the Top 10 best countries for Americans to become expats.

I hope these sites inspire you, at the very least, if not help you on your merry way.

Lake Como—home of Jorge Clooney...sometimes

Today was a noteworthy day in the city of LA because according to STORM WATCH 2009, the rains pounding the city were the heaviest in October’s history. Warnings were issued for drivers and the fire department was called to sweep away water that had leaked into an old folks home. This ghastly display of Ma Nature’s raw power had the potential to dismantle the city leaving only the residents with access to a giant ark alive. (Okay, the last sentence might be a bit sensational—my thinly veiled attempt at upping the ante for FOX.)

But in truth, the rain was a glorified drizzle. When it actually rained, the scene was more of a lazy, just-cleansing-your-skies-of-acid kind of action. Never was it heavy or threatening; but instead, perfect for a hangover day—or in M’s case, a sick day.

So today I laugh a little at the expense of the Californians who are acting as though ham hocks are falling from the sky. I’m sure living in the desert doesn’t prepare residents for inclement weather, but that fact doesn’t make the collective hyperventilating happening across the city any less funny.

Though, one legitimate worry does exist for some. The first rain after a massive fire can, and usually does, cause mudslides. But, that aspect of the story wasn’t included until the end of the news coverage. Of course, it wasn’t.

The deluge of ham hocks is expected to continue all day tomorrow. I can only assume that school will be canceled, offices will shut down and those brave enough to cross rushing gutters will be wearing waders. They’ll be stiletto, bejeweled waders, though—after all, this is LA.

A dollop of ?

Not so long ago, myself and the Happy Couple stumbled upon The Library—a divine bar in the Roosevelt Hotel. Or is that Hotel Roosevelt? Eh, no matter—what’s important are the cocktails. Nay, not just cocktails. To say such a thing sullies the very essence of each concoction’s individual yum factor. These mixtures are Elysium, heaven, liquid sex, whatever you want to call them—just smelling them makes you a little happier. I would travel across a desert on a Little Rascal with no sunscreen while being forced to listen to a Vanilla Ice album just for the opportunity to order a cocktail from Sweet Daddy Matt, the bar’s resident mixologist with verve to spare.

Last night was my second visit, but my first experience partaking of a sage-vodka combo that almost made me weep. Emotions were running rampant, but I kept my shit together; otherwise running mascara would have transmogrified me into The Crow.

The cocktail menu features only a sampling of Matt’s capabilities, which is why I give him the creative license to fill my glass with whatever he sees fit. And each time has been a fabulous success. For instance, he painstakingly crafted citron vodka with sage, agava and other mystery ingredients that were more than happy to party with my palate. He later created a shitaki Manhattan, which might sound like a strange mixture, but it was quite good. But Matt’s liquid love doesn’t come cheap—each signature cocktail is $16 plus tip. I know, I know, it’s crazy. But if only you could taste them, she says with a contented sigh.

And the best part, aside from watching him work (I know it sounds creepy, but it’s appreciation, not stalking) is the fact that all of his ingredients are fresh, purchased several times a week at the Farmer’s Market. Fruits, honey, herbs, vegetables, etc.—all if it is lined up on the bar in neat bowls of nutritional love, just waiting to counteract the damage the vodka hands out to an expectant liver. Ah, Nature’s bounty. Oh, and yes, I did say vegetables. I didn’t have a veggie drink, but the chick sitting beside me at the bar was drinking a red bell pepper martini adorned with a star fruit.

I didn’t take any cocktail photos, so that means I will visit again to provide you with the proper visual aid of Sweet Daddy Matt’s handiwork. It’s hard work, but I only want the best for my LOP readers.

Note: I’ve been spoiled by Matt so that other bartenders will be hard-pressed to measure up. But, that isn’t going to stop me from seeking out others (if any exist) of his ilk who will water me the way I like it.

Somewhere on Maui, this man is running loose