Book Club Membership in 1986

Back in 1986, I barely spoke or read English. I had just docked into American waters oblivious to signs and newspaper articles. The inevitable sense of doom was overwhelming. I was 11 years old and I pretty much felt like I sucked at everything. Add to that, the inability to communicate in the native tongue, and you can bet your ass I was concerned. I didn’t even know what ‘fuck you' meant. Sixth grade came and with it a gravitational pull towards jean jackets and stonewashed jeans…and glasses. Fucking glasses. It was not fashionable to wear glasses in 1986. In fact, it was the “Golden Era of the Nerd”. You wore glasses you were a geek. Add to that the fact that I could barely mutter my home address, and yep, I shit you not; I was a geek and a mute.

It was the late 80’s and it was all about metal and freestyle - rocking jean jackets, spiked hair and Nike sneakers. As part of my introduction to the school system in the US, I was placed in the bilingual section of the curriculum, which consisted of another 6 kids. Though these kids had been born in the States, their English was pathetic at best, hence their placement into the club. I needed to learn to speak English pronto damnit! How the hell was I supposed to talk to these girls? Sign language was not an option, unless I wanted to get my ass kicked.

Enter the “60 Book Club”. Simply, you had to read at least 60 books and provide a book report for each. At the end of the year you would be rewarded with a “membership card” and public recognition in front of the entire school. God, I was such a nerd. Nonetheless, it was my ticket out, and I planned to capitalize on it.

The books available at the time ranged from “Pygmalion” to “The Karate Kid” to “A Raisin in the Sun” and so on. I dedicated myself all year to reading these books, and writing book reports for all. I stumbled at times – the pressure of all this reading combined with the combustible atmosphere that is junior high made for quite the cocktail. I was a nerd, plain and simple – but my ambitions were high, and I knew full well that this year of devotion to books would serve as a stepping stone for the rest of my life.

Last week of the school year. 64 books. A cheesy ceremony where I wore my Dad’s old suit, and my god-awful glasses. I had arrived. 64 book reports. A shiny membership card and the official stamp of nerd. A blessing in disguise perhaps, as this spurred me to continue to read and read some more. It certainly didn’t help me in my affairs with the female population, but all roads must be crossed twice sometimes. Inevitably, you find your way.

Perhaps I’m still that kid in my Dad’s old suit. 64 books. I should find that card and frame it.

Finnegans Wake

I have spent most of my adult life doing two things in particular; reading and writing. As far as reading is concerned, I've taken on them all rather successfully; from the Bible to Hemingway to Kerouac and down into Shakespearean territory. Now granted, I have run into fits of despair and may have destroyed a copy or two of Naked Lunch - it all comes down to the following story. A colleague of mine in Galway, Ireland, sent along a book to another travelling colleague of mine, with the sole purpose of it arriving in my hands safe and sound. I was unaware of what book I was to receive. I simply knew that a book was crossing the pond; something unexpected, perhaps something with a greater amount of substance than anything I've ever encountered.

James Joyce.

Yes, James frigging Joyce. I've never read anything from an Irish author in the past, and as fate would have it, James Joyce will be my first rendezvous. In particular, James Joyce's Finnegans Wake. A rather complicated work of fiction known as one of the most difficult in the English language. It arrived Monday, and as of yesterday, colleagues at work were calling me a dork, for even attempting to comprehend it. Finnegans Wake, from word of mouth, defies regular storytelling. Its approach is strictly stream of concsiousness; a never ending loop.

Perhaps I'm biting off more than I can chew, but this is a legit challenge unlike any other. No cliff notes or abbreviated summaries will be employed. I will commit myself to this book and no other, for the next few months. 628 pages, to be dissected; my own notes scrawled upon scraps of paper, napkins, whatever is close. It may drive me crazy, I may lose whatever I have left of hair... I will report back with my findings. James, we have a date.

Sometimes We Become Muddled and Lazy

I often wonder why it is that people wait for an unfortunate event to occur, before they take action. The action I speak of focuses on each one’s legacy. What will you be remembered for when you leave this Earth? How will your children remember you? Will your friends recall stories and memories from long ago where you played the main character? I know…many questions. Perhaps as one gets older, these questions creep in much more often than not. I am fortunate that my folks are both alive and that my younger brother is alive. I do not take them for granted. I speak to them at least twice a week. I reach out to my closest friends as much as I can.

When I ask these questions from others, the answers are often muddled and lazy. “Yeah you are right, maybe I should call him.” “It’s been about three weeks..I think.??” It never escapes me, how important family is, how important those few I call friends are. Life is busy, I know. It’s easy to fall into a quagmire of inactivity; a despondent state of affairs.

A dear friend of mine was here this past weekend, and we chatted about simple things. We talked about the past and brought up fantastic and incredibly funny stories. It didn’t escape me then either, how important those memories are. Years have passed and once in a while, a window opens, when you are reminded, purposely or not, that action must be taken. We must do what we can, while we can.

Legacy.... May your actions and memories linger in boisteroius laughter and joyous admiration, when you are no longer here.

Deep in Costa Rican Territory (Day 7)

March 17 - Leaving Samara. Sad morning, but hopeful that our travels ahead remain full of adventure and steady doses of ice cold beer. As we bid adieu to Samara, we see Napoleon and Pollo driving by us on the other direction, frantically prompting us to yell out to them in unison.."Pollo...!!!" He waves smiling, as if to say, "see you guys soon". Beach bums, gotta love 'em and their unyielding spirit of doing absolutely nothing but enjoying life. We could learn from them.

Onwards we go, north, closely hugging the coast, taking in the ocean scenery, passing small villages, dirt roads, kids kicking soccer balls, the vastness of the Pacific. We make it a point to stop at random beaches along the way, Playa Garza, Playa Rosada.. gorgeous pieces of the Pacific. Then...we hit the mother load; miles and miles of unpaved road, gravel, rocks, the works. The caravan slows to a crawl, to avoid a flat. Jason's lulled almost to sleep with the constant rocking. It feels..endless. The journey takes a strange twist when the Caravan finds itself head on with a semi flooded road. I get out and go in the water with a branch to check its depth. The last thing we want is to be stuck, but we must push forward to our destination - Playa del Coco. The girls get off the Caravan and I instruct the Jason to charge ahead, like a battalion with bayonets..."Chargeeee". Our vehicle makes it through the water unscathed, and the rest of us make it via a walk ramp, safe and sound.

Soon, the road becomes paved. We stop for snacks along the way, replenish our beer stash and on we go. Finally, we reach our destination, and first stop by a soda for some much needed lunch. From there, it's on to the apartment that will become our base of operations for the next three days. Welcome to Playa del Coco.