We were introduced by a mutual friend, a buddy of mine who knew her from his days on the Mexican border.  We sat down in a dirty Mexican hole in the wall in (of all places) Provo, Utah, and there she was.  My buddy would go on to wait tables at the biggest Mexican place in town, but I still remember tiny Moya’s, its little bar and its warm, small tortillas.  That’s where I first saw Horchata.

It started as a fleeting crush, that’s all.  There was a mystery to it– milky look, but watery texture, cinnamon with a touch of citrus.  It takes time to understand a combination like that.  I moved on, Horchata did too.

I was still fiercely loyal to root beer back then.  I used to brew my own in Portugal, nursing my home-made bottles along just like all those winos out on the streets.  Root beer got me through those years, and I wasn’t about to walk away now that life was easier.

We moved to Washington D.C. and established a favorite Mexican place.  We probably went there 20 times in three years, and not once did I look for Horchata.  Time was precious and life was full—I wasn’t looking for anything serious.

Back in Utah, I wandered through a little street fair, just down the block from my apartment.  Chocolate bananas, fresh donuts, and then a taco stand, heavy on the fresh cilantro.  In the back, behind the tired old Mexican lady sitting on an overturned jug, there it was—a five gallon bucket, greasy on the outside, cooled on the inside with ice floating in a white pool of cinnamon motion.  It was the first I’d thought of it in years, but I was instantly thirsty.

In the heat of that day with a little plastic cup in my hand, it was made perfectly clear to me.  The watery thin-ness isn’t a lack of substance- it’s the exact scientific density of refreshment.  It is silk made out of sugar and rice, and it is the best thing at the fair, whatever fair you’re at.  It wasn’t a crush anymore.

Dramatic Tension

I started looking harder for it, but Horchata was evasive.  Mexican restaurants are everywhere, but some of them don’t have it, and some of them don’t have the real thing.  I realized that Horchata may be the most misunderstood of specialty ethnic drinks.  I tried to tell people- you can’t get Horchata from a syrup.  No, shouldn’t be thicker than milk.  Costa Vida mixes it as thick as rice pudding.  It’s delicious, but decadent.  Horchata without the innocence is hardly Horchata at all.

So I learned to make it myself.  The recipes are complicated.  I chose one that required pureeing raw rice in water and then straining it through a cheese cloth.  After an hour of sweaty labor, I looked down past my cheese cloth to see less than a cup of concentrated rice juice, like precious oil pressed from olives.  It made me doubt my devotion.  I mixed it up into Horchata anyway.  It was good, not great.  Two kids strolled by and took a swig.  “Hmm,” said one.  “Needs more . . . taste.”  “Yeah,” said the other.  “More taste.”  Whatever.

Earlier this year we went on a vacation to Mexico.  I asked for Horchata.  “What?” said all the waiters in the touristy resort towns.  No one had heard of it.  Macy asked me if I had made the whole Horchata thing up.  Maybe it’s actually from Brazil? she asked, or maybe it’s just an American novelty trying to pass as an exotic import?  She likes watching me bristle.

Boy Gets Drink

We come home from Mexico, and I think about moving on.  Those virgin margaritas down there were nice—maybe there’s a fling to be had.  Or maybe just accept adulthood and sign up for a tedious life of Diet Coke.  It’s depressing, but I start to resign myself.

Down at the food court, a new restaurant opens- a satellite outpost of Red Iguana.  I don’t even think about the implications.

The day of the grand opening, I order the chile verde.  “Do you want a drink?”  I eye the soda fountain.  It’s boring.  “You like Horchata?”  Bells ring.  Mexican angels sing—arias backed by castanets and Spanish guitars.  The cash register closes.  I swallow it all before I start to understand what it means.  It’s close to authentic.  Thin, smooth, the taste comes to you only after a few gulps.  Perfect.  Then I see.  It’s not just one cup now.  It’s in my life– for good– just a few feet from my office.  I won’t ever want for Horchata again.  And it doesn’t require a cheese cloth either.  Thank you, Mexico.

A few weeks ago I was out at lunch with some slightly older friends and they started discussing how their kids were starting their Beatles phases.  I was surprised at how nonchalant they were, as if they had always known this moment would come.  So I asked a few questions about the “Beatles phase.”  After it became clear that I was still a bit over-sentimental about my own Beatles phase, one of the guys looked at me and said “Bell, did you really think you were the only one that had a Beatles phase?  Everyone has a Beatles phase.  It’s like the number one most common teenage milestone in America.”

Yeah, I knew that. I knew when I was buying life-of-John-Lennon comic books that I was just one more kid among countless other fans.  All those times I watched HELP!, with my friends and all alone, laughing at the clever one-liners and quirky details that could only be fully understood by John, Paul, George, and me (Ringo didn’t seem to be in on some of the smarter puns), I was well aware that this was a mere rite of passage for a huge swath of American adolescents, rather than a lonely but transcendent trail blazed by one uniquely gifted fan.  When I paid good money for the George Harrison live double album, a collection of concerts for the people of Japan, I didn’t for a moment consider myself far more entitled to the music than the masses of ignorant people applauding in the background.

All of that time, all of that money, all of that emotion- that was just my Beatles phase.  No big deal.  The photographic histories I pored over; the mythology; and the trivia.  Tons and tons of trivia.  From the rise and fall of Pete Best and Stu Sutcliffe to the secret origins of the Walrus to the strange effects behind the organ solo in For the Benefit of Mister Kite.  I knew it all, every bit of it.  I never for a moment thought that this knowledge, this veneration, made me unique in any way, or qualified me for any special approval or blessing from the masters themselves.  Nor did I ever indulge in drawn out daydreams in which I was called upon to sing backup vocals for every song on Rubber Soul, or to mediate a peace between Paul and Yoko.  I knew very well that there could be no reason I would be selected for such things over the rest of those millions of teenagers who had devoted their own hearts and souls to knowing each of these geniuses intimately, through their lyrics, rhythms, life histories and romantic tastes.  I was just an average kid going through a Beatles phase, and I had no illusions that that was anything special at all.

So I think it’s cool that kids these days are still going through this same old stage in life, even though it’s all been done like a million times.  It’s funny to me that these kids think it makes them all ‘deep’ or something to point out the appearance of the Sitar on Norwegian Wood or talk about the legal difficulties Apple Records had to deal with.  It’s not deep, kids, get over yourselves and just enjoy the music.  And honestly, you’ll never understand them like I do anyway, so don’t even try.

Have you seen this one?

Seriously? They’re spending Christmas together, they’re blissfully in love and he doesn’t know how to do sign language? What are they going to do for the rest of the day? How long have they been together? When on earth is he going to get around to learning how to talk to her? After a few more trips to Kay’s, I bet. I guess the other possibility is that she’s tried to break up with him a bunch of times and he just nods and smiles and signs “My name is Jason.”

This one’s nice too:

“I’m really going to amaze her this time. Gonna get that necklace out of the box, gonna put on all my snow stuff, gonna go outside, then stand by the window. Then, when she goes by the window- draw two shared hearts in the window steam that for some reason is on the outside of the window, and when she is touched by that display of affection, BAM- drop the necklace on her. Well, show it to her, and then go back inside and take off my snow stuff and give it to her. Gonna be great.”

Women in jewelry commercials are pretty great too. They have one characteristic: blown away. Doesn’t matter how you decide to present your jewelry (obviously you’re going to do something amazingly romantic and sweet, though)- she’s gonna be on the verge of tears every time. That’s just how women are. They’re also adorably mute.

This one might be my all time favorite:

He’s sensitive, he’s cute, he’s endearingly tuned in to the weather (both current and historical), and he gets that women, like dogs and small children, are frightened by thunder, and he always has a jewelry box ready to pull out whenever she’s feeling distraught. Others in this series: Part II: She trips on the stairs; he picks her up and says “Are you okay?” then produces a jewelry box and says “Hope it’s OKAY if I give you some jewelry now.” Part III: She burns the breakfast; he appears behind her with a hug and says “Smells like carbon,” suddenly he’s holding a jewelry box and says “I took the liberty of buying you some ultra-hardened carbon, to show you I’ll always be here when you burn the breakfast.” By the way, all of these lines are said with the same husky delivery that this guy uses to say “and I always will be.” (go back to :08 in the video) Deep, sensual, chin down, eyes up, lips extended, the most serious thing on earth. Really, one of my favorite commercial line-deliveries of all time.

Since seeing this commercial, I try to say at least one thing to Macy every day with that exact same tone of voice, just to keep the spark alive. Try it with me: “Do you know where my keys are?” Any guesses what that does to her? (Do you know the sign for “read my lips?”)

A few more for your delectation and discussion (in case you get into this stuff like I do): Commercial IV ; Commercial V

Anyway, that was a very good year, jewelry advertisers. Seriously, great job everyone. See you at the end of 2010!

There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who are Navy SEALs or Delta Force, and those who . . . actually, there are three kinds of people in this world. Those who are Navy SEALs or Delta Force, those who could and should be Navy SEALs or Delta Force but mistakenly took another path, and then there are the rest of you who aren’t SEALs or Delta Force, nor were you meant to be, nor could you ever be. The vast majority of people in the world fall into the third group. For an example of a typical Group 3 person, please see here. Also here.  I view myself as being pretty much in the first (please see here), although I suppose you could make an argument that I’m in the second.

You can tell if you are in Group 1 by A. Inspecting your pecs, and B. Remembering if you have recently killed or are currently killing a few hundred AK-47-wielding bearded people in the Middle East with your bare hands. As to the second and third groups; here’s how to tell which one you belong to:

Remember a couple months ago when a SEAL team of snipers and divers took out the Somali pirates holding that American captain hostage? The snipers terminated them with shots to the head, dealing with the bouncing waves affecting the ship they were shooting from and the one they were shooting at, while a few of their teammates surreptitiously scuba dove (in shark infested waters, no less) and silently surfaced to storm the ship at the exact moment the snipers fired. Remember that? When you heard about that did you say to your wife “Wow, those guys are just incredible. I have no idea how they do what they do.” You’re in Group 3. Or did you flex your jaw and slowly nod your head a couple times before endorsing the mission with a “Ya, that’s about right. I probably would have had Sniper #2 a few feet to the south, but they basically followed protocol.” If so, you’re in Group 2.

Above is a little draw-up I created to help you non-military types visualize the pirate assassination

When you go to the zoo with your young child (if you are in Group 1 you refer to the child as an S.M.T.L.; Slow Moving Tactical Liability) do you relax, enjoy his company, and coo with him at the exotic animals? Or do you view each animal as a potential threat, constantly assessing what your plan will be when, for example, you hear the screams of human and non-human primates and realize an escaped 700 pound Siberian Tiger is bolting toward you at 35 mph? Are you sizing up improvised escape routes, objects to be adapted as weaponry, and obese or old people to use as diversions?

If you’re in Group 1, you and five of your unit members noted the potential threat from the Siberian Tiger months ago, rappelled into its cage from a Blackhawk, and neutralized it with a coat hanger and a throw pillow.  If you’re now thinking, “My goodness, I had never considered the possible danger at the zoo,” then I’m sure you’ll make a fine grief counselor or Pilates instructor and you can stop reading now, as the rest of this post has nothing to do with you. If you’re nodding your head as I describe the above scenario, then you, like me, are in Group 2 and are what I call a Citizen SEAL. Please read on.

Basically, the only difference between a Military SEAL and we Citizen SEALs is a few weeks of BUD/S Training (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL). Also, the government buys all the weapons for one group but blindly refuses to buy them for the other, even after repeated letters to Congress.

Many people ask why we Citizen SEALs never become military ones. The question implies that we wanted to, which is ignorant and annoying.  Why didn’t you ever become super rich and marry a gorgeous woman?  Anyway, you should know that being a Citizen SEAL is better in some ways. For example, Military SEALs have all sorts of rigid R.O.E.s (Rules of Engagement) they have to observe. We know that some of these are useful and give them the steely discipline they—and we—are famous for. But some of these strictures hold them back unnecessarily. For example, the rule about any individual SEAL not having spontaneous authority over civilian police officers and magistrates in the U.S. You and I don’t have these restrictive shackles and can judge each situation as it occurs and act accordingly. Another example: it is not “permissible” to fire a Rocket Propelled Grenade into a crowd of foreign children who are taunting you. Citizen SEALs recognize that allowing someone to taunt you without forfeiting their life degrades the reputation of the entire SEAL family and puts all of us in danger.

Anyway, back to the question of why I never became a Military SEAL. For me it’s as simple as a bad rotator cuff and a misguided high school guidance counselor.

Guidance Counselor:  “Education this, education that.  My education was so valuable that it enabled me to become a high school guidance counselor. You should definitely follow in my footsteps, because I have this terrible job in which I am surrounded by people even more bereft of hope and cat-scented than myself.”

Citizen Seal Bell: “What about Delta Force as a career path, maggot? What about me learning to snap your doughy neck four different ways with my feet while defusing the bomb the Taliban stuck into your pocket? What about that career path?”

But that’s okay. I took a different route and I’m happy with it. Like, imagine if instead of becoming President, Barack Obama had become a tour bus guide, showing Germans and Asians around Chicago. He’d still be happy, just in a slightly different way.  Not in a better or worse way. Just different.

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]]> http://www.dontdodumbthings.com/2009/12/07/you-an-army-of-none/feed/ 20 http://www.dontdodumbthings.com/2009/12/02/something-to-consider/ http://www.dontdodumbthings.com/2009/12/02/something-to-consider/#comments Wed, 02 Dec 2009 13:54:39 +0000 Christian http://www.dontdodumbthings.com/?p=273

If you’re anything like me, you usually have two things on your mind as you go through your life’s daily activity:

1. How often do military divers have encounters with man-eating sharks? Let’s be honest, pitting the ablest underwater humans against the fiercest underwater creature is very appealing. One very rarely finds any reports on this, although it does happen (see here)

2. I wish I had more information on Oceanic white tip sharks. They are the coolest, most terrifying shark you’ve never heard of. Even we in the professional shark community know very little about them beside the fact that they haunt the open ocean, eating any shipwrecked humans they chance upon. Unfortunately, these humans aren’t around to give us their stories, and missing those stories leaves me with a hole in my heart.

It’s very difficult to get reports on either of these topics, and you can just forget about the two topics ever being together in one story. Then, the other day the Heavens smiled down upon me. I was listening to the book Shark Trouble (nonfiction) by fellow shark expert Peter Benchley, author of Jaws. He tells a true story about two navy divers diving in mile-deep water near the Bahamas. They were doing whatever navy divers do when an Oceanic white tip came out of nowhere, took a big bite out of one of the them, then started pulling him down into the deep. His buddy held onto him, trying to wrestle the poor fellow free from the beast. But as he got to around 300 feet deep he knew he had to let go or soon be in depths that would kill him. He let go. True story.

Not sure if that will make your day better or worse. Either way, I thought you should know.