Music from my Teenage Years

Welcome back, World Tour fans!

I suppose the theme of "tour" is starting to fade here, but I felt inspired to get back into the blogging game after a nostalgic trip through my old CD catalog.

Thus, without further ado, I present to you:

A REVIEW OF ALBUMS FROM MY TEENAGE YEARS

I'll spare you the discussion of interesting artists that I may have listened to plenty of times (Grant Lee Buffalo, King's X, Jeffrey Gaines, etc.) but no one other than devoted readers of mid-1990s back issues of Rolling Stone would remember. Instead, I'm going to focus on those gems that so many of us bought and celebrated through a mopey cultural exchange of emotion-laden rock. I mean no disrespect, however, to these alterno-rock titans. The mid-90s were a terrific time to be an angsty, withdrawn teenager. We didn't have to suffer through the whiney, diluted, lip-pierced crap offered by the likes of Blink-182, Good Charlotte, Sum 41, and all the other over-tattooed folks who passed for angst-mongers in the mid-2000s. No, those of us who passed through puberty a decade earlier were treated to pure grunge, distortion-fueled rock likely inspired by bouts of Seasonal Affective Disorder brought

on by Seattle's gloomy climate.

Who are these bards of not so long ago?

SILVERCHAIR (Frogstomp, 1995)

My friend Chris' constant playing of Silverchair on his acoustic guitar may have inspired me to write this entire article. Back in the day, though, I was inspired by the fact that Silverchair--three Aussies sporting the requisite long hair, was nearly exactly my age when 1995's Frogstomp hit the charts.

At 15, the trio of Daniel Johns, Chris Jannou, and Ben Gillies certainly seemed to harbor their fair share of angst. Lord knows what about childhood in sunny Newcastle, Australia prompted this, but according to Johns' wailing on "Cicada," GROWING UP IS LIKE A CIVIL WAR!!!

Frogstomp's lyrics ranged from disturbing ("I fantasize about my death/I kill myself from holding my breath") to almost touching sympathy ("Don't go hiding/hiding in the shade") to completely nonsensical ("There is no bathroom and there is no sink/the water out of the tap is very hard to drink"). Most of their songs read like overwrought teenage poetry--and considering how old they were when they wrote it, that makes complete sense. Naturally, any teenager who wrote something resembling a Silverchair song for an English class assignment would probably find himself the target of an FBI investigation as a possible future school shooter ("Hate is what I feel for you/and I want you to know that I want you dead.")

Accompanying their unsophisticated use of imagery was the equally unsophisticated use of about three heavily distorted chords powering their songs. Yet despite the fact that they rivaled Presidents of the United States of America in guitar-based simplicity, their music was straight to the point, not overly produced, and consistent. You could rage straight through all 45 minutes of the album, then go back to studying biology.

Grades:

A for enthusiasm

D for lyric-writing and sophistication

D for timelessness

In sum, Frogstomp makes a great vehicle for channeling teenage nostalgia but does not pass the laugh test when considered at age 30.

PS As it turns out, Silverchair has cut their hair but still insists on touring. Can anyone explain this 2008 picture, including the use of backup singers and the garter on Johns' leg?

SOUNDGARDEN (Louder than Love, 1989; Superunknown, 1994; Down on the Upside, 1996)

Chris Cornell's signature wail helped make Soundgarden nearly a household name at the outset of the grunge movement. While Badmotorfinger put Soundgarden on the map, it was 1994's Superunknown that got me--and legions of other acne-ravaged youth--to pony up for a still surprisingly diverse album.

Some time after embracing Superunknown, I purchased Soundgarden's second album, Louder than Love, on a bit of a lark. This unintentionally provided me with a trip through the evolution of the band's sound. Louder than Love was a terrific example of music morphing from hair metal to grunge. Cornell et al. took the big, unrelenting sound of the late 80s and previewed some of the themes of the early 90s, packaging them all together in some 53 minutes of screaming--both the vocal and the guitar kind. But if you could decipher the high-pitched warbling coming out of Chris Cornell's mouth, you might catch some deep themes on "Hands all over," the inspiration for legions of dirty mom jokes on "Full on Kevin's Mom," and one of the most get-to-the-point songs EVER with "Big Dumb Sex."

Five years later, Cornell's testicles descended and Soundgarden matured in a way that Silverchair never will. Anyone possessing of a radio in the mid-90s will remember the chart-toppers "Fell on Black Days," "Black Hole Sun," and "Spoonman." (Funny tangent: my misinterpretation of Spoonman's lyrics--all my friends are in the air, I thought--was memorialized on a shirt from camp in 1994.) Superunknown was filled with gloomy, dark imagery, choosing even to rain on our happiest holiday ("I heard it in the wind and I saw it in the sky/I thought it was the end, I thought it was the fourth of July"). But the sound is incredibly diverse across the album, and Cornell's impressive vocal range goes to good use, even to the point of him harmonizing with himself.

My album collection moves onwards to 1996's Down on the Upside. At age 16, I still had my fair share of angst but was dangerously close to getting tired of my own gloominess, to say nothing of the bands providing my life's soundtrack. In that context, Soundgarden seemed intent on making me despise and resent this god-awful world we inhabited. "I've given everything I could/to blow it to hell and gone/burrow down in and blow up the outside world," Cornell purred on one of the album's more romantic tracks. This was the someone-killed-my-dog-the-only-real-friend-I-had-in-the-world album that we had so long hoped for. Music to inspire disturbed teens by!

Grades:

A for a band's ability to grow up

B+ for overall wailing quality

D- for lyrical subtlety, especially in the final album

A+ for making Celia wince (during the song "Big Dumb Sex")

Walk Tall

As I lay upon my bed I began dreaming
how it's gonna be, the day that I am free
(The Jayhawks)

Tomorrow is the day I try to walk. Tomorrow is the day I try that function that is so basic and mindless for most humans. Tomorrow I lean to the right for the first time in two months. Tomorrow I try to stand tall with dignity.

It's been more than two months since the injury and more than six weeks since the surgery, and it's time for me to go see the doctor again. According to Plan Gordo, outlined in a previous blog entry, tomorrow begins the "partial weight-bearing" phase. That means starting to walk again with the aid of a single crutch or a cane.

Bones, muscles, tendons, ligaments, and the other parts of your musculoskeletal system are strange beasts. They don't just heal themselves with rest and time. You have to actually get up and use them to fully repair bone fractures and return your joints to something resembling their original working order.

So it is that I wait for tomorrow with a sense of nervous anticipation. I am excited to move to the final phase of healing. But I am anxious, concerned that this is the point where I will be in significant pain and likely be unstable for a while.

I have, after all, lost a lot of muscle mass. My right leg is distinctly smaller than my left, which is conditioned from months of doing all the work. Since the post-surgery cast came off, I've been flexing my ankle and writing the alphabet with my toes, and I think I can do a pretty good A-Z. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to start strut around with my usual swagger.

I figure it will come with time. Time needed to work out the ankle and remind it of what walking is like. If I can remember, that is...if walking is like riding a bike (which I think I can still do.)

More than walking, though, I'm looking forward to driving again. I've kind of banked on being able to drive myself to class this semester, so I can finally leave Mari Elise and all the other friends who have so kindly driven me to campus alone. I have a parking pass and everything, and I'm hoping to make a regular two-minute commute. And to go out and do things that previously were out of reach.

I must say, thought, that I haven't really been suffering too badly during this crutchy time. I am incredibly fortunate to have family and friends that support me just as well as my aluminum extremities do. People have been incredibly patient and accommodating, and I've had a pretty active social life despite the fact that I move at about 1/2 mile per hour.

I even went to Vail. Yes, I'm probably the only dumbass who traveled all the way to a world-class ski resort with an injury, as opposed to the poor souls who hurt themselves on the mountain. (Photo on your right: someone, not me, enjoying the powder at Vail.) But despite the fact that I couldn't cruise the powder with my friends as I so longed to, I still had a good time, hanging out with people, playing Guitar Hero, and even getting to sample absinthe.

(Note for the record: absinthe, a strong licorice-tasting liquor, recently became legal in the United States. This version lacks wormwood, the notorious ingredient that supposedly caused hallucinations -- though a recent New York Times article noted that any such nefarious effects were really just drunkenness blown out of proportion.)

Classes have resumed for the semester. I am back to trying to better myself through higher education, or at least having something to do. It remains to be seen whether I will be able to successfully complete "Magazine and Feature Writing" given the amount of in-person work I will need to do with my gimpy self. But I shall soldier on and make the State of Colorado proud. (Well, they do sort of pay for my education.)

Tomorrow shall some answers come. Good night.

Obama for President

I've been supporting Barack Obama for President for some time, but now that he won the Iowa Caucuses and more people are starting to take notice of his candidacy, I figured it was time to explain why I picked him.

Feel free to ignore my opinion. You might think I'm what communication theorists call "an opinion leader," or you might think I'm what average people might call a communication theorist ("pompous blowhard.")

But I will say up front that my six years working as a congressional aide has strongly influenced what I think about this race. Not because I have such intimate knowledge of the candidates -- I talked to Hillary Clinton on the phone once (she was very nice) and her spokesman was my boss during my brief stint in Senator Schumer's office. One of Barack Obama's staffers and I share an odd coincidence -- we made up consecutive firings from the Schumer office and then both went on to work on chemical security as one of our issues. And I know Dennis Kucinich's environment staffer pretty well.

Other than those obviously paltry connections, my knowledge is about what any other halfhearted political junkie might now. What is unique about my background is that I got an intimate look at how Washington works. Or doesn't, if you want to be a cynic. Or doesn't because it isn't supposed to, if you want to be all philosophical about it.

Let me give you some idea of what I'm talking about. For most of the time I worked on "the Hill," us Democrats were in the minority as the Republicans ran the show. That meant that my job was simple -- to cause trouble. In general, I wasn't trying to solve the big public policy challenges of the day. I was instead trying to help the various members of Congress I worked for make the case that the guys in charge, the Republicans and President Bush, were "a bunch of bums," as one of my bosses would have put it. If we can prove to enough Americans that our opposition was no good, then we could win elections and start making policy. Lo and behold, in 2006 we did just that.

But while Democratic control of Congress made a big difference in my opinion, it left a great deal unchanged. Washington is still a city where politics is just a game to be played by young, clueless folks like myself who are really good at writing intelligent talking points and by crusty old lobbyists who get paid gobs of money to know just a little more than I did, forcing me to consider seeing the world from their clients' eyes. Congressmen generally did what made them look good and made their party look good. And why shouldn't they? That's their job.

What was lacking was real leadership. This isn't something that comes from Congress. Say what you want about Nancy Pelosi or others, but they're really just the titular heads of a rollicking body of people trying to sort out the nation's various interests. Leadership, in terms of changing the direction of the nation and the world, comes from only one place -- the presidency.

This isn't the place for a rather obvious diatribe against President Bush, but the point here is that he and his Administration were sorely lacking in leadership. They kowtowed to their favorite interests, played partisan games, and generally made the atmosphere in Washington worse. More partisanship. More lobbyist influence. Less desire to work together, and less consideration of a wide range of public input.

So the question becomes, who has the ability to change the way business is done? How to end eight years of games and make politics into a serious tool for improving the lives of Americans and people all over the world?

Let me first say that I generally shy away from candidates without a realistic chance of winning the nomination. Bill Richardson, you're funny and smart, but people still have no idea who the hell you are. Sorry.

I turned my attention to Obama not only after his 2004 convention speech, when everyone first noticed him, but also after seeing him speak at a 2006 rally in New Jersey. His charisma and personality were incredible. I've watched countless politicians speak, and many of them are impressively articulate. But few are able to actually describe a vision and bring the energy that makes people believe the vision will actually come to pass.

And he inspired me. Let me tell you, I am a political burnout. I started out idealistic when I first interned in Senate offices in 2000 and 2001. Then I got my first job. The idealism was beaten out of me like an ACME anvil being dropped on Wile E. Coyote. It wasn't pretty.

So for me to be inspired is quite a feat. Thing is, I believe Obama. It helps to read his first book, Dreams from my Father. He wrote it well before actually getting into politics, and it tells much of his life story. It's a very real story of a very unique childhood. (It's also damn well written.) What it said to me, more than anything, was that Obama understands the complexities of the world and the people who filled it. Unlike the average Washington animal, Obama would see the consequences of his actions as affecting real people.

He has been accused of being a bit lacking in substance. And yes, Obama has not exactly gone around touting detailed solutions for every policy challenge. But is he supposed to? Presidents are supposed to provide vision and direction for the country, be someone that our citizens and the rest of the world can look to for direction and inspiration.

Details will be worked out. No presidential initiative goes through Congress without changes. That's what the administrative bureaucracy is there for. Presidents need to create the context that make initiatives actually succeed.

And experience? What exactly does that mean for a President? Obama actually has more formal foreign policy experience than every post-Nixon president except for George H. W. Bush, whose years in intelligence didn't exactly make him a foreign policy-whiz.

But any president makes things a crapshoot. Having oodles of time serving in the Senate or wherever doesn't always guarantee you'll know what to do when shit hits the fan. And "experience" often really is a code word for playing the game the usual way.

Which is my most serious criticism of Hillary Clinton. Let me be honest, I like Hillary. She's a very nice person and an extremely capable legislator who has performed quite well in the Senate. If I were a New Yorker I'd be thrilled to have her there.

She does, however, play the political game the way it's usually played. She and her husband have been in the spotlight of national politics for sixteen years now. They play the game. They aren't going to change it. Hillary in the White House would, unfortunately, mean more of the usual shenanigans of the last seven years, the ones that helped drive me out of Washington.

And John Edwards, whom I also really like (a picture of him with my friend Geoff and I from back in 2000 hangs on my wall) really wants to make Washington into one big fight. Everything's corporate greed against the middle class for him. A nice tagline to be the next Che Guevara, but not what we need to lead the entire United States.

Imagine: a President with the speaking skills of Reagan but the brains of JFK. With the charisma of Bill Clinton but the clean behavior of Carter.

Americans are already starting to imagine just what I described, and they're showing it, coming out in record numbers in Iowa and likely in New Hampshire.

Some years ago, I watched a PBS documentary about Robert F. Kennedy. He was a fascinating figure -- rarely mentioned is that he was one of Joe McCarthy's counsels during the infamous House Un-American Activities Committee hearings that exposed supposed communist sympathizers.

What struck me about that documentary was that when RFK ran for president in 1968, he was greeted by increasingly large and passionate crowds everywhere he went. Rather than simply being someone that people tended to prefer, he seemed to be a phenomenon in himself. The Hannah Montana of the late '60s. And after he was assasinated, countless thousands lined the railroad along which his body was carried.

The modern political cynic in me thought that either PBS had used rose-colored glasses to show the support for RFK or that such adulation was simply impossible in these days. When did you ever see throngs line up for Al Gore or John Kerry? To defeat Bush, that was something worth screaming at the top of your lungs. But did John Kerry really get a rise out of anyone?

Sure, Howard Dean did, but that was more of a coalescing of the anti-war movement than any true personality attraction.

Obama, though, seems to have the magic touch. He seems to get people to believe he can actually deliver change. Record turnouts in Iowa -- something Howard Dean never achieved -- attest to that.

And he got this cynic to believe.

A Little Truthiness

This picture of Republican Presidential candidate Mitt Romney in Iowa was on the New York Times' website today. It's a wonderful visual deception.

I'm not talking about Romney's statuesque hair, which can withstand weather better than Gore-Tex. I actually want to draw your attention to the handmade signs behind him: "Mitt 2008," "Iowa [heart]'s Mitt," "Ann for 1st Lady," and the like.

It's time to let out a little political secret. This is a democracy after all, and democracies are based on people being informed. Well, I'm informing you that those signs are bullshit.

Trust me when I say that eager, everyday Iowans who think the Mormon from Mass is the second coming of Ronald Reagan did NOT make those signs. I would even be so brave as to say that Joe and Jane Q. Public had virtually nothing to do with any part of those signs before holding them at that rally.

The campaign made them. Likely it was a volunteer who had a way with markers or a low-level young staffer whose handiwork got a quick nod from a higher-up in charge of the event where they would be used.

Politics isn't a baseball game. People don't come to campaign rallies with handmade signs designed to get them noticed on C-SPAN. (Clinton Sees Plenty Ahead for our Nation!) Like as many parts of a campaign as possible, the signs are scripted and created by the campaign and distributed at the rally to eager volunteers.

I'm not implying that there is some grand sign scheme. Just that campaigns try to control as many things as possible, among them what's written on signs at their rallies and events. So while your four-year-old's rendering of Mike Huckabee and Chuck Norris might be cute, the Huck people will make you chuck them if you want to come to the party.

In 2000, I volunteered at Al Gore's last rally in Pennsylvania. Held outdoors in beautiful Fairmount Park, there were a little less than 2000 people held neatly behind barriers. These partisans were itching for a chance to cheer, but they were told (partly for security reasons) to bring nothing with them.

My job was simple -- to give them signs. And since "Al -- U Put My Heart in a Lockbox!" was verboten, I had a massive stack of preprinted, snazzy "Gore-Lieberman" signs to hand out. With my friend Erin accompanying me handing out pom-poms, I took the signs and headed down the "chute," as they called walkway through the crowd that Gore would later use for his entrance.

The crowd, which really hadn't had anything to do for a while, took my appearance as a sign of things happening and erupted in raucous cheering. I turned flush in the chill autumn air, reveling in the weirdness of having a big crowd shower you with adulation, even if they had not earthly idea who you were.

While that moment of glory shows you how eagerly campaigns control the "visuals" at their events, I was handing out signs that were very obviously created by the campaign, since they all had that familiar moon-to-a-star logo on them.

But literally campaigns break out the Crayola and make some handmade ones, too.

Last year I was in New Jersey helping the state Democratic campaign, most of which was focused on getting Bob Menendez to beat out Tom Kean, Jr. (not to be confused with his father) in the race for Senate.

We had arranged for Barack Obama, the closest thing to a rock star in politics, to come to a rally in support of Menendez and the other slate of Democratic candidates, which happened to include the two congressmen I've worked for (Rush Holt and Frank Pallone, Jr.)

Before the rally, we fueled up on Dunkin' Donuts (greatest breakfast ever) and got to work with some white posterboard and a party full of markers. We were making a lot of directional signs but also rally signs. I was quickly taken off the job because of my poor artistic skills and made to serve penance by standing on the side of the road waving people into the parking lot.

These are but two examples from my experience. I've seen it plenty more times. Take it from me, reader -- those signs aren't what you think they are. It's all part of the show.

Oh, and for the record, during campaign season when you see political letters to the editor (usually adulatory ones), those are also not from Mollie Happy Citizen, as they would have you think. Campaigns write letters to the editor, then find willing supporters ready to send them in to newspapers. As long as they're not sent in under the name of a campaign staffer, they paper doesn't have a good leg to stand on for denying them. But it's more theater, I assure you.

Gordo out.

3 Years, 5 Months, and 2 Days in the Life of...

First off, I want to give a shout out to Ryan, who dutifully reads this blog and comments on it. A salute of the crutches to you from the World Tour.

Well, for those who have not yet had the pleasure, I want to assure you that Guitar Hero III is indeed just as awesome as you think it could be. But let us recap in chronological order, lest dear reader become perplexed and think he or she wound up in last season's finale of Lost.

So when we last left off, I was waiting for el Older Gordo to arrive, which he did in due course. To show him a Boulder good time, we headed off to the Boulder Beer Company (maker of such brews as Hazed & Infused), where the beer is tasty and the food is not quite as tasty. Cool building, though.

The next day, after EOG got energy from having gone to bet at 8:30pm the previous night, it was off to the mountains. Where? Why? Oh, we shall not worry our small minds with such questions when the universe has grander designs on us.

I have no idea what that means. More importantly, we took the GordoMobile and headed off into the mountains. After a short trip down I-70 where we saw the aftermath of a terrible rollover accident, we headed north on US-40 in the direction of Winter Park. As we climbed the windy road, things got more and more covered in snow...well, it had snowed the previous day. But the plows had been out and the GordoMobile was up to the task.

It was brilliantly sunny but colder than Hillary during the Lewinsky trial (oh no!) The car's thermometer hit 2 degrees at one point. No matter, we had places to drive aimlessly around and deep discussions about the future of Yucca Mountain to have. We made our way up to Granby, whereupon we struck a more northerly course on Route 125. It was at this point that the road got snowier and emptier, while the scenery got more suh-weet. "If we break down out here, we're kind of screwed," EOG noted.

No breakdowns for the GordoMobile. We pulled into Walden (population: not so much), where they have an affinity for moose. Funny story, those moose. Glenn the Power (Forest) Ranger informed me while helping my injured ass off the mountain all those weeks ago that moose were reintroduced into Colorado some years ago, but there is still some debate as to whether those swampgrass munchers were ever native.

Our bellies full but senses of adventure unsatiated, we piled back into the car and headed east. The next 100 miles or so wound through canyon country that would have made more sense in Arizona, but there it was, red rocks and such. And much less snow, which made EOG eager to return to his usual crazy style of driving.

The adventure culminated with a drive past Fort Collins, then it was back down the highway to Boulder. One long trip to REI, one dinner with two Icelanders (they tell me their people are rude), one night in a hotel, and one plane flight the next morning later, and I was in Los Angeles.

Standing at the curb of LAX on my crutches, it was easy for Michelle "Stone Cold" Alig, a college friend, to pick me up in her trusty Saturn. Then it was on to Hermosa Beach to hang with Nicole and her husband Hans, who despite repeated visits still has no earthly idea what my name is. It's okay, though, he came from a foreign country.

We played a lot of Wii that day. Quite a lot. So much that I in fact did develop a bit of a case of Wii tennis elbow. But it's okay -- at least I got something resembling exercise. As I found out, you can play all Wii sports from a sitting position. In the great Wii championship, we came to a tie -- Michelle won bowling and boxing, I won tennis and baseball, and we tied in golf. Next year -- grudge match.

The next day we ate lots of pancakes (What do I have to do to get pancakes around here??? Yo quiero pancakes! Click, click, pancakes!) and played Trivial Pursuit (I rule) before heading to the Alig family household for Christmas Eve dinner with more Jews than Christians. ("If there is a manger here, I am just going to schvitz!") 'Twas excellent, with culinary delights prepared by Mommy Carol Alig and the tall, taciturn, and now engaged Brother Dan Alig.

Having gotten my fair share of that old time religion, it was off to bed and the airport the next day. I was headed to Phoenix, Arizona, the Valley of the Sun. A place where even the rocks try to find shade during the day. But it wasn't all that warm...well, at 55 degrees, this is something resembling winter in the Southwest.

So here I was with el Parentalos, and it was time for another Christmas Dinner. This one was courtesy of Zinc Bistro, a.k.a., the only joint open. We dined with our neighbors the Johnsons, whose family includes two young tykes, Seth and Cole. Mom brought games for them to play, and we quickly discovered that tic-tac-toe is a terrible game. Seriously, no one ever wins. Who invented this idiocy??? ANSWER ME!!!

Okay, I'm calm. Anywho, after dinner the Johnsons invited us over for pie (er, how about a cookie for the freak with a broken leg and nut allergies?) Luckily for Yours Truly, Seth and Cole had Guitar Hero III. A precious item, indeed. And I rocked. It's not an easy game, folks. Bon Scott was right...it IS a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

Secret weapon, though. I knew a lot of the songs and could pretend to have rhythm. Hooray for growing up in the 90s!

Elsewise, I have been tooling around the greater Scottsdale-Phoenix area and trying to keep el Lego elevated so as to try to speed the healing.

Oh, and I have to exercise it. Remember that? Good fun. Now, adding color, leg lifts, hip rotations, and other things to keep me occupied. Paaaarrrrrty...

A Day in the Life Of...

Finals are over. People have left. Gordo is alone with Das Boot on his leg, a couple Netflix, and, luckily, the infinite wisdom of the Internet.

So what do I do all day? I have no idea. But let's go over what today has been like:

9:30ish am: Get woken up by a phone call from Gaby, who apologizes for falling asleep and not saying goodbye before James and I finish watching Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo at her house. Murmur something incomprehensible in response.

10:30ish am: Get re-woken up by Otro Gordo (older brother Jon), who informs me that when he flies in here tonight he will come straight to my apartment. Murmur something incomprehensible in response.

11:15am: No longer sleeping, just trying to stop the weird pain in my heel. Get a call from el padre, ensuring that I have read emails from him.

11:15-11:45am: Read in bed. Attempt to elevate the sinful leg.

11:45am: Wake up and take care of business. Eat waffles while paging through Outside: Go, potentially the most ridiculous magazine ever written. Notice that it's snowing outside.

12pm: Putter around on the Internet, mostly confined to responding to Facebook messages and browsing the NY Times website.

1pm: Eat a delicious, nutritious lunch consisting of Morningstar buffalo nuggets (almost sort of doesn't taste anything like chicken!) and Polly-O String Cheese (the best part of the pizza!)

1:15pm: Continue looking at that ridiculous magazine. Think that heli-skiing in Nevada's Ruby Mountains would be cool. Try to think of ways to secure the necessary $12,000.

1:30pm: Return to puttering on Internet. Play four simultaneous games of Scrabulous (Scrabble without the trademark) on Facebook.

2pm: Trim beard.

2:15pm: Return to computer. Respond to more messages. Engage in a comparison of internal leg hardware with my friend Taryn's friend Colette. Turns out we both put x-ray pictures up on Facebook. Hers is way more badass.

2:30pm: Read the University of Pennsylvania section on Uncyclopedia. Realize it's slightly amusing but largely incomprehensible.

2:40pm: Due to links on the previous Uncyclopedia page, wind up looking at Chuck Norris Facts. Favorite new one: "Chuck Norris once played 18 holes of golf with a 12-inch strip of rebar and a sun-dried tomato. He shot a 54."

3:00pm: Think about writing blog.

3:15pm: Poke around more on Facebook.

3:30pm: Write blog.

And now -- ??? Anything can happen fans, anything. Well, except "4pm: Went for a run, played a quick game of pickup basketball."

Progress Update!

Good news -- there's no bad news!

Yesterday was the day for the first post-surgery checkup, unless you include the fact that Dr. V very kindly called me after the surgery to make sure I wasn't in agonizing pain. (Not with all those fun pills you gave me, Doc...)

Ron, who mightily carried me off the mountain after the injury to avoid the World Tour becoming a frozen dessert, was kind enough to pick me up and take me over to the offices of CU Sports Medicine. Imagine this for yourselves, Fans -- the waiting room is adorned with photos of college athletes playing every sport imaginable, from football to tennis and ice hockey.

"So, are all these people former patients?" I hopefully asked the woman at the front desk.

"Oh no, those are just pictures," came the reply.

Hmph.

Well, there was nary a wait before I was invited to hobble back to the exam room. Things were clearly not busy, because shortly after that Sarah the X-ray tech led me back for more doses of tasty radiation. This time was much more comfortable than the last, if for nothing else than that I didn't have to try to hold my legs up while being rolled in a wheelchair completely lacking in footrests.

The pics done, I was back to the exam room and presently got a visit from Dr. V, who is more formally known as Dr. Armando Vidal but maybe sometimes in his weekend softball league gets called "Armsy." I don't actually know this, but I feel free to speculate.

Armsy was pleased to look at my freakish x-rays with the giant screws and humored me as I asked the most frequent questions I got from World Tour fans.

"So, some people want to know, am I going to set off metal detectors?"

"No, definitely not."

Sidebar here, since I currently can't go through a metal detector without using my metal crutches, that's a bit of a moot question.

"Well, some other people are wondering if they can get magnets to stick to my leg."

"No, that's not going to work, either."

Sorry, people. And I was also informed that no, I will not be able to see the screws poking out of my leg, nor will they interfere with my socks.

All this while, the nurse (whose name I did not catch) cut off the bandages around my cast and cut through the padding. Then Dr. V, showing the brute strength required to be an orthopedic surgeon, cracked the plaster wide open like it were, um, something that breaks easily.

Then it was on to getting to know Das Boot, v3. Yes, I have now been in three separate boots and one cast. Party! This particular one involves 27 velcro straps or so and an air bladder that works almost exactly like Reebok Pumps did. Totally took me back to the days when my shoes could distract me for hours. (Not that they had pumps in them, just an aside.)

Dr. V then informed me of my prognosis here on out. In honor of the Clinton administration's ill-fated attempt at drug interdiction in South America, called Plan Colombia, I am going to refer to this schedule as Plan Gordo. And here's what it entails:

Plan Gordo

• Four weeks of non-weight bearing (crip on, cripple!)
• Six weeks of partial weight bearing (using one crutch or -- get this -- A CANE! Snoop, I'm with ya!)
• Out come the screws, courtesy of our good friend Stanley
• Six weeks of no sports that involve "cutting or pivoting"

That last note means no spring ultimate, or as Dr. V refers to it, "bacon for when ski season is over." I'm kind of afraid this might hurt my hippie cred, so it may be time to take up hackey sacking with the high schoolers across the street from me.

But before I get to that point, I've gotta start the unfortunate process of actually moving my happy ankle. Flex it, Armsy says. Make the alphabet with your toes.

Maybe Elmo alphabet tapes will help?

The Glaring Light of Humanity

I could kick this bad world's ass if I could just get on my feet! -- Jon Bon Jovi

It's interesting to see how people react to me in my gimpy state.

It may be that for empathy purposes, Boulder, Colorado is the ideal place to be on crutches. It's certainly not for regular old getting around -- a giant hill on the way to campus and 80 inches of snow every winter don't help matters much.

But many of the people who see me hobbling around are invariably thinking, "Man, I remember how rough that was." I know this because they tell me.

As I hobbled slowly down the steps of a building to get to my exam on Saturday night, a random student saw me and waited to hold the door. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," I said. "Sorry, it'll take me a little while to get all the way down."

"No problem, man," he replied. "I was like that last year, I know how tough it is."

And that's pretty much the theme. From the girl who held the door for me after my journalism class. From someone using a computer next to me in the Business School library. From a lot of people.

Of course, I get everyone's war stories to go with it. Mo, who is in two of my classes, told me how she broke her leg windsurfing while studying abroad in Australia. She also told me how the doctor who was treating her kept the leg in a cast far too long, and it took a friend urging her to go to another doctor to start walking and truly healing it.

Sam Fitch, the director of the Environmental Studies Program I'm in here, told me that many moons ago he managed to pop both knee ligaments while skiing. He got them surgically repaired not too long after doctors actually started doing that type of surgery.

It's interesting to see people try to get out of my way or otherwise wrestle with whether they should do something to help. Some people are just open about it -- "I wish I could do something to help, but I don't think I can," said one woman as I one-foot-and-one-crutched my way down a long flight of stairs.

I thanked her for her consideration. Others seem more awkward, not sure quite what to do. It reminds me of myself, often unsure what to do when I see a blind person or someone in a wheelchair. I know I should get out of the way of the wheelchair and make sure the blind person doesn't step in front of a moving car, but is there a point where I go too far? Is being too helpful to someone whose condition is permanent a potential affront?

People who see me might have that passing thought, but it's certainly a different situation. My condition is temporary. Theoretically, I will regain my full abilities and blend back in with the walking world. Crutches are something many can relate to -- it's not that uncommon to have hurt a leg and needed a pair of these aluminum friends. Besides, in my uncomfortable state I probably need the help.

I do, as I said before, have a great deal of respect for those who make their way through the world with a permanent disability. We might have the Americans with Disabilities Act here (and it's a damn good thing, too) that makes sure we have wheelchair ramps and elevators in new buildings, but that doesn't mean society is all that accomodating. It's meant for the vast majority, for those who can dance foolishly as I used to do.

In Cambodia, I saw land mine victims who made their way around a country with little pavement by using a wooden crutch or a prosthetic leg. We made wheelchairs for them, inexpensive but sturdy affairs with mountain bike tires meant to survive on the country's dirt roads.

When I saw them, they always had smiles on their faces.

99 Problems But a...

Hobbling around on crutches makes life inconvenient. But when, on the weekend before a final and two projects are due my computer stops working, I think, this must be funny. For some reason I have been dealt these cards, and it can be no less than some artful Andy Kaufman-esque humor.

So I will take it that way and wait until Monday, when the repair person will hopefully show up and replace the fan. Then I will rejoice in my ability to returning to that most important of tasks, playing Scrabulous on Facebook. (Please challenge me to a game, I could use the entertainment.)

Luckily, my roommate, who is reading incomprehensible notes about microeconomics, has been kind enough to let me use his computer tonight. Tomorrow I shall get deposited at the fancy new LEED-Gold home of the Business School, where I aim to use a computer lab until my group meeting in the afternoon. (We've already come up with a clever name, MAK'ED Energy Solutions, a play on our initials and a subtle use of sexual suggestion...rhymes with "naked.")

But enough about my trials and tribulations, they are trivial, if I may use another trite word. On to more important things.

As you may know, one of the brilliant innovations of Amazon.com is the idea of letting consumers rate products so others may know whether that really is a good food processor or it fell to pieces within a week.

Amazon, of course, has developed a wide-ranging product catalog, but you can still rate any item. So it is that people have had a field day rating things that probably don't need much commentary...like the Bic pen. The comments range from the ostensibly serious...

"The cap clips into your inside pocket well, but only if you're wearing very thing material." -- M. Greener

...to the poetic...

"I knew a young fellow named Rick
Who was constantly losing his Bic
So he's ordered a box
And secured it with locks
That seems to have done the trick." -- The Glue Man

...to the only-from-the-mind-of-a-Stoner...

"I've noticed that what this pen writes in my diary are the exact same thoughts in my mind. Can the pen be reading my thoughts, I mean, is that possible?" -- O B Vious

...to the remarkably elitist put-down:

"Personally, I can't believe someone would be caught dead with one of these pieces of proletarian rubbish." -- H. Maxwell Harbinger IV

Amuse yourself like I did.

Quotable Quotes

Gordo el Gimpo, back again.

Fans, I thought you might enjoy what is so far the least positive reaction to my injury and surgery:

"You are so gross." -- Tiffany Guarascio, former coworker

Thanks, TG. Way to give it to me straight.

On another note, you know how sometimes snippets of people's conversations that you hear when passing them by often sound hilarious? Well, I've got a good one for you, from one girl to another, overheard while I was standing outside the journalism building on campus:

"Tell me what things an annoying girlfriend would say."

This is just too much of an opportunity to pass up. Fans, let's help this curious young woman with her quest and submit some ideas. Yours truly will get the ball rolling:

"No, I don't think Family Guy is funny."
"Oh, just put your pants back on."
"Why do you like beer so much? I like watermelontinis."
"Journey is so not the greatest falsetto band ever."

Got more? Post suggestions in the comments area or email them directly to the World Tour Webmaster.

On a final but unrelated note, today was my first day trying to navigate in snow. So far, things have not gone disastrously, and at least I know I have a soft landing spot in some places. But I have identified a serious danger -- linoleum. Crutches covered in snow outside turn into useless slippery things on linoleum inside, and I nearly made a very dramatic entrance right in the doorway to my class this morning. But fear not, Gordo has it under control.

Boulder is beautiful in the winter with the mountains covered in snow, and I am truly a snow fan. However, it's supposed to snow an additional 2-4 inches tonight. Tomorrow will be a double adventure.

More thanks, by the way:
-- To Outside Magazine Contributing Editor Florence Williams, for giving me a ride from one building to another so I can continue my higher education.
-- To James the Roommate, who left the warm apartment to drive me to class despite the fact that my crutches knocked over his advent candle last night.
-- To Mari Elise Ewing, who is probably going to have to give me a lot more rides and will have to print out our fascinating report.

Speaking of which, back to it. I'm finding all the demand response programs used by Colorado's utilities. What am I talking about? You'd rather not know, trust me.

Badass X-Rays

Fans, it came and went, and the hero survived scathed. But in a good way.

The surgery was Thursday, as scheduled, and a good time was had by all. It's a curious experience, this whole getting-put-to-sleep-and-cut-up thing. I got to the surgery center courtesy of El Padre y La Madre, and proceeded to do a whole lot of sitting around. Which is similar to what I'd been doing before, but this time I got to do it while wearing a light purple gown.

Luckily for everyone involved, they let me keep my underwear on. I laid on a bed in a waiting area in the surgery center while nurses, including the very nice Cecily, prepped me with aplomb. That meant shaving my leg (nothing to do with the surgery, it's just a common thing in Boulder, you know, all those cyclists), washing it down with disinfectant, and hooking me up to an IV.

Then the fun started. They injected me with something to make me "relax," which actually worked. Whatever it was didn't knock me out, but did quiet my pounding heartbeat and make me less worried. With that coursing through my veins, I was taken down an elevator and into the operating room, where they had nice pictures of branches on the ceiling. Eager to prove that I was neither unconscious nor completely delerious, I told the anesthesiologist to ask me something that I would remember later.

"What's the capital of Costa Rica?"

"Oh, I know that one! San Jose!"

Anesthesiologists must love these semi-lucid moments from their patients.

Pretty much the last thing I remember is sliding myself onto the operating table. Then they put the hi-test in the IV, and that was that. For a visual of what the operation looked like, see the artist's rendering to the left.

I woke at some point (probably a little more than an hour later) in a bed on the opposite side of the room from where I had first waited. Dream and reality meshed briefly until the pain in my leg put me a little closer to Planet Boulder. Another friendly nurse came by to ask about my pain, and the wince on my face was enough to convince her to dump a couple doses of Fentanyl (a.k.a. a kind of morphine -- boo yah!) into my IV.

From then on it was just a matter of clearing my head and reducing pain. I drank ginger ale and ate the surgery center's supply of sesame breadsticks so I could take a percocet, which helped keep the pain down. No, I'm not going to give you any of my pain pills, stop asking.

El Padre y La Madre came over and soon headed off to the bagel store to fetch some appropriate post-surgery food. El Gordo, meanwhile, thought it was time to take advantage of my addled state, so I dopey-dialed the elder Gordo, who was mildly amused at my attempts to be coherent.

Remarkably, I had no real side-effects from the anesthesia and eventually came back into my own in a fairly short time frame. Then I got to see what the Doctor Hath Wrought -- pics of the screws. You can see them for yourself and will probably have the same reaction: "BADASS."
Ignore the bright white on the lower section of the x-ray, that's the flash. But do note that the doctor clearly went to Home Depot, purchased a couple 2-inch tapping screws for 50 cents each (a stainless steal!) and drilled them in as instructed by his copy of Bob Vila's Do-It-Yourself Orthopedics.

Anywho, after an overnight at the posh Boulderado hotel (sporting the oldest and bounciest elevator in town), it was back to El Casa del Gordo to continue the recuperation and writing of the papers (which I am clearly not doing now.) Meanwhile, it has dumped snow here, and there's probably about a buttload or so on the ground. Who knows, I'm not going outside anytime soon.

Thanks again to fans everywhere who sent best wishes or otherwise sought to distract, entertain, or assist me!

Tomorrow Never Dies

Okay, fans, tomorrow is the day for the cutting and the drilling and the screwing. I get to the surgery center around 9am and wait while they do weird things to me, including taking my blood pressure, making me repeat my medical history, and possibly taking my pants.

Luckily for that last circumstance, I am wearing basketball warm-up pants. Yep, the kind that you can rip off directly because they button down the side. So I expect to be de-pantsed with a flourish.

You may also be interested to know that, according to El Surgeon, I have the same injury that Terrell Owens did. El Surgeon has thus assured me that after my surgery, I will be an all-pro wide receiver with an attitude problem. I'll probably carry a Sharpie around in my sock so I can turn in papers and sign them in a fit of overweening arrogance.

Well, I will update you all (er, really Ryan, my most faithful reader) after I become coherent again (or possibly before, which would be way funnier.) I'm still a bit skeptical about this whole "anesthesia" thing, I feel like I might end up puking or hallucinating or something. But we'll see.

Adios,
Gordo

An Ipod Mix for the Doc

Having a surgeon as a father, I know some of the inside story. One of the things that may or may not be well known about surgeons is that they often operate to music and, of course, get to pick the selection. As a music dork, I feel I should help my surgeon by suggesting an iPod party mix he might want to play while putting Black & Decker to work on my ankle. So here goes:

"Cuts Like a Knife" -- Bryan Adams
"Like a Surgeon" -- Wierd Al Yankovic
"Fixing a Hole" -- The Beatles
"Beautifully Broken" -- Gov't Mule
"X-Ray Eyes" -- Guster
"Breakin' Me" -- Johnny Lang
"The Final Cut" -- Pink Floyd
"Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangster" -- Ghetto Boyz (I just like the mental image of a surgeon listening to this one.)

On another note, my unconscious mind has a sick sense of humor. Twice, I've had dreams where I'm walking down a sidewalk -- just an ordinary sidewalk on an ordinary day. Then I start to realize that I shouldn't be walking, that my leg isn't capable of it. So I stop, but I realize my leg is fine. About that time I wake up and look down to realize...no dice. Still in the cast.

Gordo's Getting Screwed!

Fans, with a headline like that, you know it's gonna be good. Well, okay, it's actually bad. But I still needed an attention grabber.

So the latest update on the World Tour-turned-stay-put-until-you-are-healed: it's time to get sliced and diced. Yep, the prognosis has gotten worse, and I'm going under the knife like so much tenderloin. (Mmm...tenderloin.)

If you want the medical mumbo jumbo, the deal is that my something-something, which is between the tibia and fibula (leg bones) is a bit displaced, i.e., spread apart. That kind of thing apparently is not so good for someone that still wants to spend the rest of their life running, hiking, skiing, and otherwise engaging in physical foolishness.

Thus the good doctors would like to make a wee cut or two and insert a screw to push the bones back together, then possibly stitch up some damaged ligaments. Fun? I think so. Hopefully that will not result in further displacement of the fracture in the fibula, but if it does, it's time for the World Tour to go bionic with some metal parts.

Of course, the important question is, will this result in badass scars that chicks will dig? Sadly, it sounds like the answer is no. Due to "advancements" in "surgical technologies," this apparently will only require small incisions. Post-op, though, it will require more crutching and physical therapy, which I hope will involve a "Rocky"-type soundtrack.

Though many of you doubtless would like to help, be aware that El Padre y La Madre del Gordo are here in Hippietown to guide me through this enjoyable process. For those who don't know, I am part of a very appropriately outfitted family: my dad is an orthopedic surgeon, my mom is a nurse, and my brother runs a medical products supply company. (Let me know if you need some cheap Depends.)

At the same time, the end of the semester is upon me and I must try to actually pass some classes. So in between World Tour Updates, I have to write papers and such. No worries, I just pull them out of my still-uninjured arse.

I must say that people have been remarkably nice and helpful during this situation, so I am going to increase the size of the People Who Deserve at Least Some Good Karma Coming Their Way list:

-- Dr. Lisa Brone at the CU Health Center, who didn't wiggle the foot too badly
-- Dr. Eric McCarty of CU Sports Medicine, who took a look at me at his house on a Saturday morning and gave the bad news
-- El Padre y La Madre, who are taking care of my quasi-helpless self for the first time since I learned to wipe my own bottom about five, I mean twenty-five, years ago
-- Jeff Sherer, who reconsidered some of his other ideas for entertaining me from afar and instead got me a NetFlix subscription
-- Mike Gerber, my editor
-- Kristen Averyt, who is going to at some point lend me her ridiculously cute dog so I can pull off the ultimate method of getting ladies' attention: crutches AND puppy

Do note, however, that the Gordo World Tour refuses to be kept in one place. This winter will include stops in Scottsdale, Arizona and (hopefully at least just to sit there) Vail, Colorado.

And what better way to celebrate a likely healed leg? BON JOVI, March 31st, Pepsi Center, Denver, Colorado.

On a final note, fans, I want to get serious for a second and say that I have a newfound respect for people who go through life with various disabilities, both temporary and permanent. Having to walk and crutches and rely on the good graces of friends and family reminds me not only how lucky I am to have them around but also shows me how difficult things can be. So a hearty World Tour salute to all the invalids out there -- I see your strength and I give you a fist pound.

At some point I'll try to post some x-rays, but the CD-ROM is on the other side of the room and that's pretty damn far, all things considered.

Grounded in Boulder

Friends, Groupies, Fans, Critics --

Greetings and salutations from Boulder, Colorado, where the mountains are high and the hippies certainly aren't low.

It's been a while, I know, and you've all been starved for more dispatches from the World Tour and all. Well, let's see if I can catch you up really quickly. Left Asia, went to Europe -- Bulgaria, Croatia, Romania, England. Learned that herding sheep is easy but can be intensely boring and that Britain's youth are taking dancing to new lows. Returned to these United States, whereupon the World Tour returned to its most dangerous stop, New Jersey. Luckily, that was a country where I spoke the language and can toss out howyadoon and whatchewtawkinbout with the best of them.

But that's all ancient history now, and the World Tour has moved into a new phase. El Gordo has, as you know, relocated to a new studio in Boulder, Colorado, where you learn what a "Trustafarian" is and why they say "a dog in every Subaru." Seriously, why so many Subarus?

On the way, I have procured a Gordomobile, sometimes also called a Toyota RAV4. This nifty bit of hypocrisy has taken me to exotic locales all over my adopted home state, such as Great Sand Dunes National Park and bustling Nunn (population not so many.)

Nominally I am here to get my Master's in Environmental Studies with a concentration in energy policy. As you well know, of course, I am already a Master, but that is besides the point. In addition to the delightful coursework that goes along with such things, I spent much of my time playing in the mountains of my new backyard, skiing, hiking, mountain biking, and otherwise engaging in general tomfoolery.

Now that tomfoolery is what has turned El Gordo into El Gimpy. Because it was only last week that I was high up in the Indian Peaks Wilderness returning from a hike to the continental divide (Pawnee Pass, el. 12,550'), when I slid on some ice, hit my foot on a rock, and wound up with a seriously impressive story.

To give away the ending, I turned out to have a slight fracture in two places on my right leg. But at the time, all I knew was that the ol' kicker wasn't doing what it should. So with two miles of snow, ice, and rock left to get back to the trailhead, I engaged the help of my trusty hiking partner/lifesaver Ron and took six hours to hike back. Thankfully we were met by the capable Ranger Glen, who aided me through the end of the trail and drove us back to the Gordomobile so I could be taken with all due haste to the fine folks at Boulder Community Hospital.

So yeah, I'm in an Aircast for the next several weeks and hobbling around on crutches in the vain hopes that some pretty girl will feel sympathy for me and decide to become my live-in nurse. Since that hasn't happened, I've relied on the extremely generous support of some good friends here:

Ron "Leaf-Eater" LaCoss
James "You're Going to Graduate and I'm Going to Be An Alcoholic" Meldrum
Mari Elise "Bourbon" Ewing
Gabriella "Spin the Bottle" Stockmayer
Rebecca "Don't Mess with the Prius" Johnson

To them, a hearty thanks. And to all, a good night. Until the World Tour resumes...

Time for Another Continent

Hello again, World Tour fans.

My time in Asia is coming to a close. As I reflect on my experiences here, I think, dammit, won't this bus driver stop honking?

That's actually one of the interesting but somewhat aggravating things about China. Everyone honks incessantly, and yesterday's bus driver was far and away the worst. He blew long blasts at every other vehicle we passed, whether or not they were remotely near us.

In other news, you'll be glad to know my tour here ended last night with a big karaoke session. They know how to do karaoke right here -- we got a big room where all 13 of us could sit, get confused by the Chinese on the buttons, and belt out some tunes. I did the Rick Astley dance, for those who know it.

It's been a great time in China. I believe I left off after telling you about the time in Tiger Leaping Gorge, which was pretty impressive. After that we had a little time to hang out in Zhongdian and ate at a Nepali/Tibetan/Indian restaurant. There, our leader Mill found out that the owner of the restaurant is from the same part of Nepal as her husband. This was apparently very exciting. The rest of us could do little but marvel at Mill's ability to switch freely among Nepali, Chinese, and English (and she also knows French, Spanish, and Korean).

The next day we went to take a hike around Emerald Lake, a high alpine lake located at about 12,000 feet. It was a beautiful, idyllic scene with a few horses roaming around a meadow. Unfortunately, the trail didn't go very far, so we wandered further down the road, looking at the mist-shrouded mountains and valleys. From there we went to a natural hot spring pool which was rather warm but also disturbingly green. The bottom was fuzzy, as we found. It wasn't perhaps the finest of hot spring experiences, but hey.

Our next stop was Dali, a town further south next to enormous Er'hai Lake. The group split up, with some people taking a bus tour around the area and the rest of us commencing yet another hike. After fending off the world's most persistent taxi drivers, we climbed a rather steep slope following the line of a chair lift to a temple at the top of a ridge. From there, we realized that there was a broad, paved ridge walk through the mountains.

It was yet another example of the extraodinary construction projects China is apt to do. This was a smooth, paved path that often clung to sheer cliffs. How they even built it is beyond me, but it made for a spectacular walk in and out of canyons and around the front of peaks.

At one point we hiked up to a series of waterfalls called the Seven Dragon Maidens Ponds. Here, water coursed out smooth, rounded rock features and collected in clear pools. We hiked to the top pool and admired it when Anders, my Danish roommate, started the insanity.

He stripped down to his shorts and plunged into a pool that we all knew was frigid, backing up into the waterfall. After some consideration, almost all of the rest of us stripped to our skivvies and jumped in. The water was so cold it was actually hard to breathe and painful on my legs. But we stayed in long enough to amuse nearby Chinese tourists and get some pictures...you'll have to see these.

After more walking and an aborted attempt to hike down (kind of lost the path), we took the cable car to the bottom and returned to town. After dinner that night (and buying more knock-off outdoor stuff, including a Mountain Hard Wear soft shell and Chinese-made Acme sleeping bag) some of us played the old around-the-world ping-pong at the hotel, then left to make our rounds of Dali's bars.

It was a long night out. Let me advise you not to listen when someone says, "Let's all order a drink you've never heard of," because a Green Hat is disgusting. I think we got back to our rooms around 3:30pm.

Anyway, that brings us back to the present. My next trip is off to Bulgaria. Why Bulgaria? I don't really know. But I will be off to join an ecovolunteer project trying to help save rare breeds of Karachan dogs, sheep, and horses in the remote Pirin mountains. Where do you come up with this stuff? Good question.

A Couple Days Almost in Tibet

Current location: Zhongdian, China, also known as Shangri-La.

I'm on a backpackers' tour with Intrepid travel, a New Zealand-based company known for responsible travel and extensive touring throughout Asia. My tourmates are mostly Brits and Aussies, but our leader is a woman originally from Chicago. Which is good, because otherwise I'd probably be saying that I need to go to the "loo" and that I'm feeling "peckish" if I there weren't another Yank around.

China has been pretty fascinating. We left Kunming and rode for more than eight hours to the city of Lijiang in the far northwest of Yunnan. There we stayed in the old city and roamed around at night, admiring the good views from up high.

The next day my roommate Anders (from Denmark) and I rose at 5am to join our leader Mills for a sunrise hike up Elephant Hill overlooking the city. When we got there we saw the gate was closed, but as numerous other Chinese came in and jumped the fence, we did like the Romans did and walked around the guardhouse to get in. Hiking up, we heard weird yelling -- apparently Chinese like to yell from hilltops. Of course I joined in.

That day we took another bus ride to Qiaoto and met Margo, our local guide through Tiger Leaping Gorge. After a short lunch, we started to hike, and things got steep quickly. The trail wended its way along one side of the gorge and rose precipitously, the whole time giving us more and more views of Jade Dragon Mountain (elevation approx. 18,000 feet) on the far side of the gorge.

It was a spectacular but actually fairly difficult hiking day. We rested for the evening at Tea Horse, a well-appointed guest house along the trail. Naturally, there was plenty of Tsingtao beer to go around.

The next day we had less of a challenge with the hiking, but more distance. Margo again led us, chatting the whole way in her Aussie twang and encouraging her two-month-old dog Baby to keep up with us. At the Halfway House we stopped for apple pie, which was ironic for me given that it was July 4th back in the US. Happy birthday, America.

After reaching our destination, the Tibet Guest House (with no less impressive of a view) and eating lunch, several of us chose to descend all the way down to the river. After a wrong turn through a cornfield, we found the trail but had to pay 5 yuan (about 60 cents) each to a woman who claimed it was her land. Oh well. The trail was ridiculously steep and in desparate need of some more switchbacks, but dropped quickly to the river, where we came upon some serious rapids. At some point enormous chunks of white quartz had tumbled down from the far side of the gorge, creating what were likely Class IV-V rapids. Sweet.

I led the way back up, holding a pace swift enough that we actually ascended in less time than it took to go down. Reaching the top, we found the rest of our group half-drunk at a guest house and playing the game "I never." Later that night the rest of us (with the exception of one reticent Aussie couple) joined in with the help of many Tsingtaos (not even $1 for a double-size bottle!) and found that people were incredibly forthcoming in a situation like this when they probably won't see each other again.

Today was mostly a bus ride to Zhongdian and a trip out to a huge monastery. It looked impressive from afar but upon closer inspection its only interesting feature was a very large Bhudda. Three of us went in a door marked "Ladies Stop" and found it to be monks' quarters. There a man gave us chunks of yak cheese and some other unidentifiable stuff which we nibbled before discreetly getting rid of.

Back in town, I realized that knock-off outdoor gear is incredibly cheap, so I am left to wonder whether I should get a $25 soft shell or fleece. I mean, it's so cheap...for things that would be easily $250 in the US. The quality might be questionable, as I have discovered with my North Face bags.

Until the next Internet time,
Gordo

They Love Adidas Here

Hello, World Tour Fans.

Again, apologies for the relative lack of blogging. In Cambodia my biggest problem was Internet speed, but I was also fairly busy.

Anyway, here's an update on what's going on. Saturday morning I bid farewell to Sophanit and Lulu and Cambodia, the country that had been so friendly for a week. I hopped on a short flight to Bangkok to see the city for a day before moving on.

Bangkok was, to put it mildly, not my favorite destination. It's been described as the New York City of Asia, but I would say it's New York City on crack. Take NYC and add more traffic, more pollution, more street vendors hawking random stuff, more guys bugging you to buy anything, more scams, and legal prostitution. Thus you have Bangkok.

It was too late when I got there to see any real sights, but I did manage to get a glance at the Golden Mount and the Giant Swing, which did not seem to do any swinging-related activities. I then tried the Night Bazaar, which should be billed as the World's Largest Collection of People Selling Things You Don't Need. My quest to replace the rain jacket I lost was getting nowhere there.

My cab back to the hostel ripped me off as it was raining -- he claimed the meter didn't work and that it would cost 200 baht, or about $7. Since I'd just crossed the city for 70 baht, I knew it was a crock and called him on it. He again pretended that the meter didn't work but agreed to charge me 100 baht.

I got out of the cab in the light rain, continuing to marvel that a country where it rains so much doesn't sell a single rain jacket. Out of curiosity, I wandered down the street where I was staying, in the middle of a business district. Brightly lit side alleys seemed interesting until I realized what was there -- brothels, or "clubs" as they called them. Now I was fascinated.

These appeared to be either strip clubs where bikini-clad women gyrated boredly under black lights until a man paid for them or more private places where a few women sat out front. What was most bizarre were the menus, however. If you haven't been to Bangkok, this is one cultural spectacle that will blow you away. The men in front of the brothels hold out English menus listing what women would do if you paid a certain amount. I didn't linger long enough to check any out in detail, but I did notice one: "Pussy in Fish." Any guesses?

I was grateful the next day to climb aboard my Thai Airways flight and move on to China. My destination, Kunming, was surprising. While it was huge and densely populated and polluted, it was also modern and clean and welcoming. The buildings were tidy and traffic was actually orderly. Entire lanes on either side of a major boulevard were dedicated to bikes and scooters only. And the weather was terrific -- warm but not humid, a welcome contrast to Southeast Asia.

I was able to easily find a high-tech rain jacket (made by a Chinese company blatantly copying North Face) for only $25, solving a major problem. The street where my hotel is located is oddly lined with a multitude of sporting goods stores. Apparently, they really, really like tennis and soccer. And Adidas.

Tomorrow, I meet my tour group.

R.I.P.

Rest In Peace: Gordo's Hair, March 13, 2007 - June 26, 2007

Yes, it's true, I've cut the famous shaggy curly mess. Why? Partly because it was so cheap. $2! Yes, two whole dollars got me a haircut, a shave, and a face and ear massage. That last part was strange and unexpected, but apparently a normal part of the haircut experience here.

I also got it because I felt I had enough confirmation that my hair would not become fun and entertaining but would instead continue in its pattern of being quasi-curly. Straight hair would have been good, but not what I had.

So I'm back to the short and straight. Very short, in fact. I might have gone shorter, but I was having a hard enough time communicating with the barber as it was.

In other fun news, I got a new North Face computer messenger bag here for $9. What fun!

Yesterday, we also built our first two wheelchairs, visited the Krousar Thmey orphanage for street children (pictured), and taught some more English.

Temples, Temples

Angkor Wat is only the largest and most recognizable of an enormous temple complex scattered around the town of Siem Reap, where I am now. The temples date from as far back as the 9th century, when they were built by rulers of the mighty Angkor empire, whose sovereignty centered in Cambodia but covered most of modern Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, and other parts of Southeast Asia.

The Angkor empire was originally Hindu, and thus many of the temples are decorated with statues of Hindu gods or bas-reliefs of famous battle scenes from sacred Hindu texts. Over the centuries, the official religion of the empire shifted back and forth from Hindu to Bhuddist (at present the country is officially Theravadin Bhuddist.)

The temples thus also contain several Bhudda statues in addition to the Hindu relics. But above all, they remind us of an empire with tremendous power and resources, with the ability to mobilize huge numbers of slaves and other workers to build these massive temples.

Angkor Wat in particular is three levels with five towers looming over the landscape. You walk down a long stone bridge to cross a moat and enter through a gate in a long stone wall before getting to the actual temple itself.

Like all the temples, Angkor Wat shows its age. Centuries of the moist tropical climate have worn down the stones and turned them brown, while storms and thieves have taken their toll on many of the sculptures.

Yet you still cannot help but be awed by the magnificent scale of the buildings. Inside, it is clear that the numerous corridors were intended for little more than religious worship and the grey stone is only broken up by the bright orange sashes adorning many of the Bhudda statues where Khmer still come in respect.

We spent several hours there, first in the hot sun, then in the drenching rain that comes at least once per day here. Later we headed back to the hotel to rest briefly before going to dinner at the Dead Fish Cafe, a hilarious restaurant catering to tourists who appreciate its combination of cheeky decorations and American 80s music but never fail to visit the live alligator pit in the back.

That night I passed out early and woke up at some ridiculous hour of the morning. I didn't bother checking my watch but flipped on the TV and found that I could watch the Yankees-Giants game live and in English -- it was Sunday morning here, but Saturday afternoon in San Francisco. Giants won, 6-5, in 13 innings.

That morning I enjoyed the hotel breakfast and we gathered again for more temple viewing. That day's tour involved complexes that were significantly smaller, but no less impressive, than Angkor Wat. On the itinerary was Ta Prohm, the temple famous for being used in scenes from both Tomb Raider and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

The real doom for that temple, though, were the tall trees literally growing on the walls and, in many cases, pulling them down. A recent US-funded project had helped stabilize much of Ta Prohm, but nature seemed adamant about returning the stones from whence they came.

Inside one of the temples, Sophanit had us sit in front of a fortune teller who seemed to base his divination on the proportions of your right arm. He told Lulu she was in her first of five years of good luck and that she would be a millionaire.

I, apparently, blew all of this out of the water. In rapid-fire Khmer, the fortune teller laughed to Sophanit that I simply had too much good luck. He measured the distance from a mole on my wrist to my fingertips, then pointed his stick at my crotch, indicating something about my desirability to women. Jeez, dude, could you be a little more discreet?

He also measured out pieces of a stick using my fingertips and ascertained that I would be a billionaire. Well, in riel (4000 to 1 exchange rate), I already am.

Back in town, we showered up for what was to be a real treat -- a chance to attend a Cambodian wedding. Lulu and I were both extremely apprehensive about the notion of crashing a wedding (Owen Wilson, eat your heart out), but Sophanit insisted that the groom was her friend and that it would be no problem.

So it was that, dressed in my World Tour finest (goofy orange collared North Face shirt, convertible pants, and Tevas) I walked with Lulu and Sophanit (who were dressed quite nicely, I should add) and Sophanit's MBA classmates into the open-air wedding pavilion.

None of the family members or wedding party who greeted us on the way in looked at us strangely, though. The bride handed us all nicely wrapped packs of gum (seriously) and we sat down at a table stocked with drinks.

There did not seem to be any formal proceedings to the reception. We drank (one of Sophanit's friends served liberal portions from a bottle of Johnnie Walker) and ate from a variety of tasty dishes that were laid in front of us at random times. Rather than sticking around waiting for it to end, we put money in envelopes as gifts, took a picture with the bride and groom (who the hell is that white guy?) and left.

The sunlight in the tropics threw me off -- it was pitch black but not yet 7:30. Back at the hotel, though, I passed out again and woke up way too early.

Blogger in Japanese?

Okay, I could deal with Spanish. But trying to read the instructions for Blogger in Japanese is a whole new kind of crazy.

I'm not sure why it's in Japanese -- if anything, I'd expect it to be in Thai. Thailand kind of dominates Southeast Asia -- most flights are routed through Bangkok, which is largely the economic hub of the region.

My time in Bangkok was brief this time around. After 18 hours of flying on a Thursday and Friday that blurred into one confused day on three different planes, I got into Bangkok around 11pm, passed through passport control, and attempted to find my hotel.

The only hitch was that my taxi driver couldn't read English and had to consult with others to figure out what my reservation said. But that obstacle cleared, I went off to my airport hotel which was surprisingly nice for $24 per night. They even gave me a free ride to the airport, which I saw in all its glory during the daytime.

Bangkok's new airport is only a year old but is essentially an incredible high-end mall encased in glass. Everything is in both Thai and English, and everything is pretty expensive. The city is pretty overrun with tourists from Europe and the US alike, mostly wealthy tourists who like to shop for expensive things you can get anywhere else.

But I was off to Cambodia, which I got to courtesy of an overpriced ticket on Bangkok Airways. We landed in Siem Reap, the gateway to the impressive Angkor temples, at 9am. My first element of confusion was when I went to the ATM. I expected to do what I did in most foreign countries -- take out money in the local currency. Instead, the machine spit out $200 US, which I then changed into a ridiculously thick stack of riel, the local currency. Had I known every transaction here could be done in dollars, I wouldn't have bothered.

I went to get a taxi to the hotel as I had been told by the woman from Globe Aware, the volunteer organization I'm working with, but immediately after paying I noticed a man with a sign reading "Welcome Eric Samuel." While the use of my middle name was odd, I doubted that there was anyone else with that combination on my flight, so after some confusing back-and-forth, I got in the car with the driver.

He took me to our small but spacious guest house, the Reatry Angkor Villa. There I met Sophanit, our guide for the week, and Lulu, my fellow volunteer. We went over the week's agenda, which included tours of the Angkor temples, building wheelchairs, and teaching English. I felt fairly competent doing those things.

We then took a quick tour of the city of Siem Reap ("Victory over the Thai") and settled down for some Khmer (Cambodian) cooking for lunch at a tourist-filled restaurant. Khmer food closely resembles Thai, but often with less spice. As a fan of all Asian cuisines, I was happy.

After lunch, we got back in the car with my friend the driver, whose name turned out to be Ahn, and headed to go see mighty Angkor Wat. (TO BE CONTINUED; I NEED A SHOWER. BADLY.)

Boulder, Episode 2

Okay, you've all been dying for a picture, I know. Spruce up this dreary prose, o bard of the travels.

This is a view of Longs Peak, one of Colorado's famous "Fourteeners," the mountains in the state that top 14,000 feet in elevation. The snow up there normally lasts until mid-July, and the first snowstorms of the next start to hit the mountains again in September.

The picture was taken from the top of Estes Cone, elevation 11,006 feet. Jon (the elder of the Brothers Gordo) and I joined Jimmy (the guy from my CU program who I've been staying with) in a six-and-a-half mile hike to the top of this rock formation on the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. Later we drove through the park on Trail Ridge Road, the highest continuous paved road in the United States.

So you all know, this has been a productive trip. I have secured both a Gordomobile (yes, for the first time in history, Gordo has a car all of his own) and a new Casa de Gordo. So I'm set when I get back here.

Catching Up

World Tour Fans --

Apologies again for the slacking in my postings here. I hope you all appreciate the new features on the blog, though. Nothing makes it better than statistics, I tell you. And I think I'm going to be disturbed by the number of places I'll end up sleeping in this summer.

I should let you know the epilogue to the Argentina tour.

I visited Iguazu Falls, an impressive display of nature's power and sheer tourist numbers. No matter how choked it was with people, however, there are few sights that cause me to gasp audibly, but Iguazu Falls' Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat) certainly had that effect.

This is what looking at oblivion is like, I thought.

Untold quantities of water poured from three sides into a boiling cauldron below, giving off so much mist that it actually created a cloud overhead. There was nothingness at the bottom, just brown water pouring off into a great white expanse. And water everywhere, soaking me when I waited too long to take pictures.

The rest of the falls was pedestrian in comparison, but impressive nonetheless. The park there includes metal walkways that let you stride over the top of massive waterfalls or walk right up to the base of them for a good soaking. And rainbows were omnipresent, making photography practically a joke.

I only spent about four hours at the park seeing the falls and taking a short, pointless hike in the jungle. A cab outside the park entrance took me to the tiny Cataratas de Iguazu International Airport. The cabbie and I had a second-Spanish-class-ever-conversation:

"Where are you from?"

"United States?"

"Did you like the falls?"

"Yes. Very beautiful."

"Have you been to Patagonia?"

"No...um, I want to go to Patagonia."

"Oh, next time."

"Yes. Need much time."

I'm so good.

Spanglish -- and forgetting to write Jessie's address down properly -- got the cabbie in Buenos Aires mad at me, and it was all I could do to convince him that we were on the wrong street and he should not throw me out of the cab in annoyance.

That night, Jessie and I went to Claudio and Paula's apartment to learn how to make empanadas. I did some of that but focused more on eating various types of chorizo (sausage) and drinking glass after glass of wine. I did learn an incredible amount about Argentine politics from a long conversation with Paula -- there is apparently still a great deal of dissatisfaction with the government, and class issues are much more obvious than they are in the U.S.

Their friend Antonio, a very short man who works in his family's restaurant, also told me something interesting about the origins of the word boludo. This little gem of the Argentine lexicon is a bit tough to translate -- it seems to be somewhere between "asshole" and "dude," but is often used by guys greeting their friends.

Apparently, the word comes from the revolutionary struggles. The revolutionary fighters stuck the black slaves at the front lines and had them throw big stones at the Spanish -- thus the literal translation of boludo, "big balls." Given that the Spanish were armed with guns, the slaves were little more than human shields. This tragedy is apparently one of the reasons why Argentina has such a small black population.

Back in the good old US of A, I spent several nights on Ben's couch in Adams Morgan, where I was fortunate enough to be sent off with a good party at Childe Harold. Two things I learned at that party:

1. Journey still rules, and likely always will.
2. The Russia House is really creepy. Don't go there.

Five days later, I was off to Boulder, where I am now, getting to know my future home. The weather is beautiful -- hot and sunny during the day, cool at night. I think I've found an apartment/place for ski friends to come and visit. Things are going well.

Argentina.9: First Blood

Sunday dawned clear and warmer. I woke early to take care of my travel plans, and managed to book a flight to Buenos Aires on LAN, the Chilean airline.

I arranged to meet Jessie Tuesday evening back at her apartment and said goodbye to Chris, our new good friend. He was staying in Salta for another day before pressing on into Bolivia as part of a South American tour that was to end up in Colombia. We exchanged email addresses and I told him I would drop him a line if I ever wound up taking my long-desired Southern road trip and he wound up at the University of Mississippi for law school.

I walked to the bus station and tried to figure out where my bus would come. There was no handy overhead board as there had been in Buenos Aires, so I stood along the edge of the platforms and waited. I noticed a number of foreign-looking backpackers and listened carefully to see if any might be speaking English.

I finally decided the couple closest to me must be speaking English, so I inquired carefully. "You guys speak English?"

"Yeah," the guy replied.

"Waiting for the bus to Iguazu, I suppose?"

"Yeah, trying to find out where it's going to come." Good, now I had partners in confusion.

It turned out to be no problem, as the Flecha Bus marked "Tucaman" pulled up right in front of us. We loaded, and it turned out that my English-speaking companions were sitting right across from me. They were from London, it turned out, on their way south after several months of travel starting in Brazil.

A scruffy-looking man boarded and turned to me. "Is that your seat?" he inquired in English.

"Yeah, let me get my stuff out of your way." It turned out I was surrounded on all sides by Londoners in the midst of mega-backpacking vacations. My two weeks' of travel here paled in comparison to my seatmate, who was nearing the end of seven months.

As the bus coursed its way out of Salta and through the foothills, the Londoners discussed their homeland in a rapid-fire conversation that involved a lot of -bridges and -shires. The guy from the couple, Elliot and Abby as it turned out, related with delight the story of a particular village fair where "you've got these three grannies lined up. And at the same time they reach down and pick up a piece of fruit, and if all three hold up the same piece of fruit, you win a prize."

"It's a granny slot machine?" I laughed.

As the ride continued, my British friends were treated to some of the finest cinema my homeland had to offer. Actually, it was a parade of reasons why I was a bit embarassed for my country.

We started off with Failure to Launch, a Matthew McConaughay-Sarah Jessica Parker romantic comedy about a woman hired by parents who want their thirty-something children to move out already. The movie selection was ironic, given that a large number of Argentines live with their parents until they get married -- the peso crash makes it difficult to afford a place by yourself as a young person.

"Do they really have services like that in the US?" Abby asked me.

The next movie started promptly, and we groaned in unison as Wesley Snipes' name flashed on the screen. It was The Detonator, another Hollywood mistake.

We changed buses in Tucaman, and the movie parade continued. This time it was First Blood, Sylvester Stallone's emotional portrayal of the difficulties an ex-Green Beret Vietnam Vet has dealing with civilian life. Things come to a head when he is taken in by an unnecessarily hostile small-town sherriff. Stallone's only real words of the movie come at the end, when he breaks down and babbles incoherenly. Touching.

Night fell, and I turned to reading my book. Outside, things seemed a bit surreal as the bus turned up a strip of pavement wide enough for one car but used in both directions. Cars repeatedly had to pull onto the dirt on the side, kicking up huge clouds of dust that obscured our vision and created an odd brown nighttime fog. I finally pulled my hat over my head and fell asleep.

I woke the next day to a netherworld of broad, fog-covered plains. The mist was so thick that at one point the police were standing in the middle of the road, waving at people to slow down. We finally pulled into the first big stop on our journey, the town of Posadas. I stepped off the bus into a chilly fog, glad to stretch my legs for the first time in more than 20 hours.

Back on the bus, we watched Al Pacino in 88 Minutes, which was at least a good movie if a bit disturbing. As the film ended, I chatted with Abby and Elliot about finding a hostel -- I had already reserved a dorm bed at Timbo Posada, just down the street from the bus station.

The conversation turned to a discussion of how foreign tourists were treated in South America. "All over Ecuador and Bolivia, all the locals would walk down the street, shouting, gringo, gringo!" Elliot said.

"I haven't heard that yet here," I replied, "but I did see graffiti in Salta that said 'Yankees go home.'"

"Don't take it personally," Elliot laughed.

"I don't. Really, they hate you guys a lot more than me."

"I know. We were warned not to mention --" he lowered his voice "-- the Falklands."

The Falkland Islands War is effectively Argentina's only international military conflict since their independence. In 1982, the military government here, seeking to bolster their popularity with an increasingly discontented public, invaded the Falkland Islands (Argentines call them the Malvinas), which were under British control.

These rather uninteresting pieces of rock east of Tierra del Fuego became the site of nearly three months of battle as British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher responded with force, repelling the poorly-equipped Argentines in short order. The embarassing defeat was effectively the end of the military junta.

"Well, when we're asked, we're just going to say we're Aussies," Abby said.

"Yeah, and I'm Canadian," I replied. "Anyone want a Molson, eh?"

We pulled into the town of Puerto Iguazu, where the weather was nearly perfect -- about 70 degrees and sunny. Abby and Elliot tagged along with me to my hostel, but said their goodbyes when they realized there were no private rooms available.

I used my awful Spanish to get settled into my bunk, then set out to satisfy an unfulfilled quest -- to eat choripan, a common sausage sandwich. Half an hour of fruitless searching later, I wound up at a restaurant without a written menu. Oops.

Again, my Spanish did not help me much, and after ordering I wound up with a hamburger topped with cheese, egg, and ham (come on, people!) and a beer that was far too big for lunch. I finished quickly, though, and set off to find the post office to send some postcards.

The post office was closed for siesta, so I wandered down to the river. A sign there indicated various activities in Spanish and English, including some spectacular Engrish. "Deportive Fishing," the sign read. Shit, one lousy fishing trip and you find yourself kicked out of the country.