Vacation in Translation. "Lost," beards, Muertes en la marina,

Tanned, unfit, less ready than ever

It’s super-easy to take pictures of yourself and then post them on the Internet, and so like it or not, I’d like you to meet my vacation beard. Which I may or may not bring to work with me tomorrow. Probably not. Too much trouble there already.

Vacation was in Mexico, the little village of Sayulita (an hour outside Puerto Vallerta, I recommend it heartily) and much fun and damage to be had there. Kids learned to surf. I swam and snorkeled, read the vast majority of Jimmy McDonough’s “Shakey,” then dove into “Middlesex” and parts of “A People’s History of the United States.” Drank beer on the beach just after 10 am. Won’t make a habit of it, but still.

On “Shakey”: Awesome in parts, troublesome in others. Sort of like Neil’s career, which may have been the point.

Another great virtue of vacationing in a small fishing village: No internet to speak of, no tv, no English newspapers. Missed the whole health care denouement, but did notice the Mexican tabloid that leads, every single day, with a fresh and gorily-illustrated tale of a new murder, always illustrated with a half- or un-dressed corpse, flat out where he breathed his last. One guy bit on his boat (“Muerte en la marina!”). No matter where, tho, Mexican crime victims seem uniformally un- or underdressed. Porque?

Caught up with last week’s “Lost” just now. Won’t even attempt to analyze, let alone deconstruct, though the wine-in-the-bottle metahpor – the cork, the red wine, etc – seems to do a thought-provoking job of weaving the physical/metaphysical aspects of the island’s power into one groovy idea. Then there’s the devil and the deep blue sea, and Jacob not being quite as dead as all that, and the man in black taking his own (brief) vacay away from Locke’s bod. He takes many forms, and rarely is who you expect him to be. . . .hola, Isabella. Which now makes us wonder about good old goofball Hurley, who is hanging with Isabella in his odd hours (!) and can commune with the dead….all of which makes me wonder if the “Lost” guys dream up their stories on a beach somewhere, drinking way stronger beverages way earlier than 10 a.m., with thoughts of murders, marinas and all the more gurgling through their bearded heads…..

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