all inclusive

It’s not altogether unusual that this trip materialized as such: 8 days in Puerto Vallarta with Pico and the Books, possibly staying at a three star hotel, all inclusive, for less than 50 bucks a night.

“All inclusive?” I asked Pico, incredulous that such a deal could be obtained.

“All you can drink and eat from 10 AM to 10 PM for less than 50 bucks a man. A triple,” Pico replied, eager to arrive so as to molest this deal for all it’s worth. “We’ll drink 40 bucks in beer in the first hour we’re there.”

We share a laugh and a sly smile, acknowledging that this could very well be the case. A case or two of beer, consumed with the intentions of releasing the pressures and anxieties associated with “growing up” twenty something in the world today.

(A world filled with doubt and uncertainty, surprisingly though, when society has is more advanced and connected than at any point in history. Cell phones double as personal stereos, virtual mailboxes, weather stations, 3 megapixel cameras, televisions, two way radios with a nation’s reach. Soon enough humans will carry their entire lives in a gadget the size of a pack of gum. )

Security was a breeze. We coasted through without incident. Neither Pico nor I had to submit to George Bush’s presidential prodding of our posteriors although something tells me Jeff would have enjoyed a 300 lb black man checking to see if my young friend had smuggled contraband in the bad place.

And the jet engines hum along, and the pixie haired stewardess has returned to take our coffee cups, and I’m peering over the seat in front of me. Meet Amber Avirill, a beauty of about 5’9”, impeccably dressed for the occasion. A fresh white wife beater over which a brown long sleeved top is tied in a bow just below her bosom. Her toenails are freshly painted, her lips full and soft, her hair luminous as a Pantene Pro V commercial, with freshly shaven legs peaking out just below denim capris. I first spotted her in the terminal. Of course her beauty was striking. She was traveling alone with two bags and a khaki satchel, sitting down just a row away. As she pulled out her apparently fresh leather journal and began writing, I was stunned, awestruck. A girl who’s compelled to write, if only I could learn every detail,…the who’s, where’s, and why’s of her story.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Soundtrack, The Willowz, I Wonder.

My songs, they mean things to me, even if you can’t see..and I wonder if it could be the same, if it could be the same.

I wonder about all the commotion in my mind. I try to write about the trip, but it feels as if it’s forced. Big whip, there’s a beautiful woman sitting in front of me, apparently intelligent, well put together, organized and most likely from a good upbringing, unless of course I’m the only one who is struck by her spreading out her paper dinner napkin on her lap before digging into the Salisbury steak. She’s watching Bridget Jones Diary, The Edge of Reason and I’m wondering what to write and wondering why it is I have no gumption to bother her, to ask her what her interests are, who she be’s with, things that make her smile, what numbers to dial. And yet this is all practice.

Or is it? I’m not going to find the yin to my yang, the south to my north, the Angelina to my Brad if I don’t man up on this vacation. Luckily I’m traveling with “one of the girls” and Books, aka Borskin, aka the Hungarian Hot Buttered Love aka Sex Books aka Marta aka da Trees, aka “Are You Warshing”, aka the most foreign sexual closet pimp white socks with sandals wearing eddie van halen wanna be nicest guy when he’s not frustrated guy I’ve ever met. Books is a guy who I could call out of the blue, stuck in a rut, desperately in need of help and help would materialize. His intentions are true, his mind is focused, his future is certain, certainly filled with abundance as he gravitates towards positivity, not deterred by the devil’s playground….although we’ll have to see about that these next 9 days.