Homework.

If I had to choose a favorite novel, I would say Revolutionary Road, by Richard Yates. It has been made into a movie starring Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet. Yes, they were in Titanic together.

´´Rose! You´re so stupid, Rose!´´

´´Draw me like one of your French girls.´´

Etc. What a movie.

Now, as much as I enjoy Titanic, get thee to a bookstore or library and read the book before star-crossed lovers Jack and Rose forever replace Yates´s own star-crossed lovers.

In other news, I went to Costa Rica for three days in order to renew my tourist card. It was an experience that I may or may not blog about at length, but know this: having spent all of yesterday in the company of Nicaraguans who work there and were coming home for the holidays, I am shaken by the sacrifices these men make in order to keep their families afloat. Obviously I´m aware of people living similarly in the States, but there was something significant about being on the road, shoulder to shoulder, with these guys who hadn´t seen their wives or children for 51 weeks. One of them befriended me and guided me through the border, and on the Nicaraguan side we took a series of interlocal buses in order to disguise the fact that we were coming from Costa Rica. He was carrying a year´s worth of earnings, and if we were to take the express bus to Managua, he was afraid that upon disembarking we would be robbed, as thieves are well aware that around holiday time, anyone coming from Costa Rica is like a walking bank.

The fact that, as we speak, men are losing everything they worked for over this past year -- and to their fucking countrymen -- it makes me sick.

Here.

I finished the 3rd draft of my novel Sunday night. When I say 3rd draft, I'm including two aborted attempts, so I'm not sure if this is version 3.0 or 1.3. Anyway, here it is on my bed. I printed it off at the Xerox today and I was absurdly proud to inform the gentleman helping me, "This is a book that I have written." I neglected to mention that I've still got months of revising ahead of me. But, for now, I party.

Volcano

I finally climbed a volcano. Cerro Negro is more of a hill than a mountain. In fact, it means "Black Hill" in Spanish. It is only a few centuries old, having pushed up out of farmland over the course of a few exciting weeks. It last erupted in 1999 and supposedly erupts every eight years. Eight years on, there was nobody to keep us from entering the crater. The ground was hot underfoot. I am shielding the back of my head from sulphur fumes. In examining at this picture I am struck by this thing where my abs used to be. Is that a -- a -- belly? Someone needs more exercise! Someone needs to cut back on rice and beans!











Another group of hikers. The divide between green and black down below.












Wilbert, a friend of mine and my guide for the day. He is fluent in English, largely self-taught, and justifiably proud of this.


In other volcano news, one of the volcanoes on Ometepe Island, in Lake Nicaragua, erupted on Saturday. We're unaffected by this in Leon, and, as with the Hurricane, the locals are unimpressed. "Not a real eruption," they say. "It's just -- you know -- activity."

Back on Stage

Friday we returned to the stage. We played Via Via, a hostel operated by Belgians who don't believe in charging admission for live music. Thus, the place is ordinarily quite full. Friday it was exceptionally full (check the bottom photo). You can see pieces of a very odd mural on the wall behind us -- I have never been able to make sense of it.
Mario, Roman, Don Will, and John.

Look, I'm dancing! (You can tell I'm dancing because I'm snapping my fingers.)

Candy and Cement!

Last week was Saakje's birthday. Saakje is one of the Dutch girls living in my house, and I'm certain that I'm misspelling her name. Anyway, we bought a pinata and she beat the hell out of it with my broom but this was a very sturdy pinata, and so eventually she had to remove her blindflold in order to break it. Upon its destruction, we discovered that its insides were coated with cement.


This is Goofy, the house terror, awaiting for candy to fall from above. All the girls hate him. He bites their feet. Me, I had a soft spot for him until recently -- rather than bite my feet, he humped my leg. However, yesterday morning he pissed on my laundry. I'm still waiting for an apology.

Baseball

It's been raining constantly here for more than two weeks, washing out highways and giving everyone cabin fever. As a result, the baseball playoffs have become a much-needed distraction from wet feet, not to mention mold. (The girls who live in the low-rent rooms in the back of my house are finding mold in their clothing and books -- my room is drier because it's more expensive -- I have a real ceiling.)

The locals are huge baseball fans. Most of them are rooting for the Red Sox because there's a Nicaraguan pitcher in Boston's farm system.

Last night at the bar I ended up at a table of Americans. I hadn't been around Americans in a long time and it was a pleasant surprise to be able to shoot the shit with some countrymen. Turns out I was sitting with two players in the Cleveland Indians organization (they're in AA) and a player-turned-coach, who was featured as one of Billy Bean's top prospects in the book, Moneyball. Ex-prospect's wife was there, too.

They're in town playing winter ball in Leon, and none of them speak Spanish. I had my hands full translating for them. Once the locals found out these guys were playing for their beloved team, they went a little nuts, saying things like, "This city depends on you," etc.

It was fun to get a professional perspective on the game. At one point a batter swung at a Papelbon fastball and missed, and I was like, "Oooh, nasty!" Pro says, "Uhh, that was a terrible pitch. Dude missed his spot by three feet." As Indians, they were furious when Kenny Lofton was held up at third base. I cheered very quietly for the Sox.

Anyway, they'll be in town for a few months and looks like I'll be going to lots of games. We're going to get a poker game going as well. It's about time I got some income.

The sun finally came out today and if the rain holds off, I'll get my bi-weekly basketball game in. I started playing pick-up games a few weeks ago and do pretty well against the local competition. It helps that there's always somebody my size to guard. The Americans are giants in comparison.

The Wedding

A couple of weeks ago we played a wedding at the Hotel El Convento, the fanciest place in town. (It used to be a convent, then squatters took over during the revolution, and it was rescued from oblivion a few years ago by one of the wealthiest local families, who also own the art museum.) The wedding was between a local fellow and an American, and the Americans kept telling us to turn the music down during the first set, but once they'd consumed enough liquor they got used to the noise (everything is overamplified here -- that's how the Nicas like it), they stopped complaining and tried to dance. To the left is our guitarist, Don Will, who brought me into the band. He teaches guitar lessons to the kids who live in my house. His sons are in one of the most popular rock bands in the country, and one of them, Lenin (yes, L-e-n-i-n), is taking English classes from me. Will's childhood girlfriend lives in San Francisco, and appropos of nothing, he loves to say to me, "Michael ... San Francisco ... mi amor," and kiss his fingertips.

John, the ex-Canadian, the organization behind the outfit. He teaches music at a private school in Managua to the children of foreign dignitaries, etc. On the road every morning at 4:30am, and on Fridays, when we perform, none of us get home before 2am. I'm not sure how he does it.

Salsa-ing. You can see that people dressed up. I bought new dress shoes for fifteen whole dollars. For some mysterious reason, our timbales player missed the memo (timbales are drums, but most of the time you hit the sides instead of the tops) and showed up in a green t-shirt -- he's just visible in the lower left-hand corner of photo #4. He tried to fit into one of my shirts, because I live across the street from the hotel, but despite being the same height, he's got a few pounds on me and he couldn't move his arms when the shirt was buttoned. Anyway, his green shirt -- "la camisa verde" -- is now infamous.





Another shotof Don Will. He's the big draw of the band -- the man knows how to milk a crowd. I have told him that my big regret with trumpet is that while I'm playing, I can't make the faces that he makes.