First World Problems

While sitting at Taverna Tony’s today, beneath the ivy walls and at the whim of Malibu’s sea breeze, I overheard some things that make the howling fantods seem like a nice alternative. Witness the following:

Four blond ladies, all pushing sixty, but sporting plastic physiques and even more plastic faces, are discussing their dietary habits. While debating the menu items, the dialogue moved forward as such:

A: I’m thinking the pasta.

B: The pasta has carbs.

A: I know, but I have these pills which means the carbs don’t process. You eat two of them before the meal and you don’t get the carbs.

B: Wow, I need to get some of those. I had almost three carbs yesterday and I’m feeling it.

(author’s note: are you fucking kidding me?)

C: What are they made of?

A: That’s the weird part. They are made of carbs.

(unfathomably real uproarious laughter from the ladies)

A: It’s crazy but I can eat all the carbs I want and not get the carbs.

C: We all need to get those pills.

(Heads nod in agreement)

D: Where’d you get them?

A: I’m not sure I should tell.

D: You’re kidding.

A: Well, sleeping with a man for pills makes me sound like a drug addict.

(awkward giggles)

B: Someone should write a book about you.

A: What kind of book?

B: Like a bestseller.


That’s right about when I started contemplating suicide. But it gets worse. When I turned my ear to my right, toward the mother, the three year-old, the baby, and what I can only assume was a Hispanic nanny, the following ensued:

Baby: “Mama, Agua pease?

Mom: “You want water? Ok.

(a pause)

4 year old: “Mama, quiero zapatos nuevos.”

Mom: “What?”

4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos.”

Mom: I can’t understand you.

4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos, Mama”

(mother turning red with frustration)

Mom: “What is she saying!”

Nanny: “Sheneeds new shoes.”

Mom: “OK, well I have a salon appointment so can you please get them for her this afternoon.”

Nanny: “Yes, Mrs. xxxx”


That this kid is using Spanish to have her needs fulfilled says way too much about the parenting situation. Plunging my knife into my neck just didn’t seem like it would solve the problem. So, here I am, writing about it, attempting the wipe the stench of humanity from me, trying to figure out whether these apocalyptic events truly indicate the end of civilization. These are the folks who have proverbially “made it.” When mountains become cliff’s edges, I no longer want to climb.

By ccxander


This little junket to Arizona has given me the howling fantods.

I’ve been a bit under the weather lately, so rather than heading over to LAX for a thermometer evaluation and the nasty looks from Xanax-laden passengers who might think I’ve acquired the Ebola virus, I chose to drive from LA to Phoenix, which meant six hours of sand, Joshua trees, and enough heat to make my ass-crack look like Moses’s work – yes, I could have gone with a better image, but if we’re being honest, that pretty much nailed it.

At 6:00 a.m., I hit the road, rifling through LA traffic at a 13 mph clip and wondering when the hell rush hour became rush dawn. By the time the sun rose above my upper windshield, I was outside of Blythe, and I felt that half-mast thing happening to my eyelids – you know, where you start slapping yourself and sticking your head out the window and wondering what would happen if you just closed your eyes for a few sleep-filled seconds.

I’m listening to the comedy station on Sirius radio and hoping a Robin Williams segment comes on, when some Kentucky wildcat chimes up telling redneck jokes that knock me into a Theta state. With my eyes closed – yes I know how dangerous and idiotic it is, and I am confessing it all here and thoroughly embarrassed by my carcolepsy and stupidity – with my eyes closed, I feel my tire tag the braille bumps in the road and I snap my eyes open to hear the comedian say “…and then she put a finger in my ass,” and when I look to my right, here is the view:photo 22-46-16

Back in high school, I had some friends who went out to the desert and ate mushrooms and then came back to recount their hallucinations and a new connection with nature. I called bullshit – cowshit actually – but I was a drug prude in my teens and I never investigated the psilocybin high. Point being, there is no explanation for what the hell was happening.

I’d like to be able to report that things went smoothly from there. I’d like to be able to say that the things I heard and saw were just part of my dream state. But then, there’s the evidentiary photo…. and then that uncomfortable comedy sketch came on again an hour later.

Anyway, next time, I’m flying to Phoenix. Maybe people thinking I have the Ebola virus isn’t that bad after all.

My blogs are not usually this crass, but today sort of got to me. Sorry.

By ccxander

On Racism, Cultural Ignorance or Self-preservation

I’m having a hard time with this recent cultural code, where everything we say seems to offend someone or something. We are asked to change our language to ensure we don’t offend anyone, and we must offer compassion and tolerance for all things outside of our own immediate culture. If we do not, we are criticized for being intolerant and ignorant, which I suggest to you is a pretty hypocritical response from people who say compassion and tolerance are the only means to unite civilization. As society’s sectors vie for acceptance and empowerment, we’ve reached a point where national unity is becoming subjugated to diversity.

In the interest of understanding, I’m posing the following and hoping some educated people will chime in.

If you are walking down the street and see a group of white kids with sunglasses and tank tops and tattoos and pants halfway down their asses, or a group of black kids with sunglasses and tank tops and tattoos and pants halfway down their asses, or a group of Hispanic kids with sunglasses and tank tops and tattoos and pants halfway down their asses, etc. would you move to the other side of the street, and, if so, why?


If not, can you comprehend a person’s reason for choosing to do so? Would you say they are racist if they moved across the street? Would you say they lack awareness of the cultural idiosyncrasies of this generation? Would you say they are being intolerant?

Is there any reason to think race or intolerance might not be involved in this matter so much as the idea of self-preservation?


To think that a person might not have time in his/her life to avail him/herself of all the cultural nuance of each ethnicity or culture, means sometimes people will act according to their own limited knowledge. Andif that knowledge doesn’t include the cultural habits of today’s teens, then they will move to the other side of the street simply because the people in front of them present something different and perhaps uncomfortable to their own way of living. Does this make them racist, or insensitive? If one fears something because one doesn’t understand it, does that make one a horrible person, or culturally insensitive, or racist? In today’s culture of not tolerating the people who are intolerant, it seems that is so.

So now we are faced with this ISIS issue. This is a culture many of us don’t understand, one, which feels we should homogenize humanity into one religion, under one Law, and with one goal. Eliminate the non-believers and they’ll have a world where common dogma presides.

If we do not accept their way of life, do we have to flog and berate ourselves for our lack of cultural understanding and reprimand ourselves for our intolerance?


If tolerance and political correctness and acceptance of cultural difference are the mandates for civilization, are we okay with people cutting off heads and slaying the innocent in order to espouse their own beliefs? Or, do we see those actions as anathema, and antithetical to tolerance?

Certainly we do not have to embrace their beliefs, but in the spirit of political correctness and tolerance for difference, shouldn’t we let them continue their actions without interference? If not, we would be imposing our own values upon them, and suggesting our definition of humanity’s worth is greater than theirs. We would have to propose that our system of morals and ethics and principles is more important and worthy than theirs. But, that is precisely what the concept of tolerance argues against. Or perhaps we think there is a point where we can no longer tolerate people who don’t tolerate other people.


See the problem? Tolerance and compassion only work when everyone values tolerance and compassion. When a dedicated tolerant and compassionate society encounters a society that promotes intolerance and harbors a lack of compassion, the values must bend and break beneath the onus of inhumanity, or they die.

So now what America?

When we meet these mutations of humanity who are trying to destroy the human host, will we decide to skim the gene pool, or will we embrace the virus, and allow it to reconstruct the human race.



By ccxander

New word of the day: CAFFEINENATION (def) see below…


The whole idea of paying someone four dollars for roasting beans to create flavored water gives me the howling fantods, and so, I’m not a coffee drinker. However, given the staggering number of somnolent citizens who perform the A.M. stumble into their local Starbucks, I’ve decided to investigate.

Though some would argue the coffee drinking demographic is ubiquitous and varied, there appears to be an explicit subculture in these places of morning adjustment. Let’s start with the wood (that’s not what I meant by “morning adjustment” but what a follow up sentence!). ‘Bucks is unswerving in its décor, shooting for something library-ish or rustic, although frankly, one can imagine the high-office suits in Seattle observing some pretty hyped-up focus groups finger pointing at various shades of brown.

Inside the counter-adjacent glass cases, the calorically-listed choices are sugary in ways that make the diabetically-inclined skittish, and when combined with the caffeinated drinks, you get the sense that something could go awfully wrong in here. Because the place is like an LA traffic jam, the menu items have time to take effect and the progression is an endocrinologist’s dream. The back of the line is filled with bed hair and baggy sweats and half-mast eyes on people whose Louis Armstrong voices suggest last night’s antics may have included excessive bong-tokings or performing fellatio on a chainsaw. Two minutes after they take their first swig (“add a triple espresso shot” is a frequent phrase), their eyebrows explode skyward, spines straighten, a rapid foot tap appears and the radio announcer speech pattern takes on its side-effects speed. Consequently, the entirety of the line looks like one of those Chinese Parade Dragons where the guy in back is pretty much just being dragged along by the out of control “head part.”

Too though, there now appear to be an ungodly number of commercial items for sale at these former coffee houses, and seeing as how the captive crowd is pretty much functioning at unconscious mode, one can see the formula here – get them in the door and they’ll buy anything. I’m not certain but fairly certain that no one goes into Starbucks looking for the latest CD, a new sweatshirt, or this week’s version of the Ham Sandwich, and yet, all three are available for a premium price along with your morning adrenalin jolt. Who knew One Republic and a Triple Espresso could have such an invigorating effect on the national psyche.

This is all to avoid mentioning the little adolescent turds who stand behind the counter and display unparalleled illiteracy when it comes to spelling what your average thinking person might consider easily spelled names – No, Craig is not Kreg, and Jenny is not Genknee – are you kidding me! Don’t even get me started on the damn smiley faces tbey draw on the cups to disguise the fact that the next generation of American youth will not only fail but won’t even be able to spell SAT.

Look, I know I tend toward the cynical side of life – as if in today’s world there’s any other way – but Starbucks really brings out my worst. Now that they’re more ubiquitous than McDonalds, I’m thinking I should just give in and become a coffee- drinking automaton like the rest of the population. So, if anyone wants to join me for a cup, I’ll be the one with the unruly bed-hair and the scratchy voice and too-low sweatpants, screaming out lunacies at the back of a slow line.

By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 11

I’d love to start tonight’s entry by saying both girls won, but that didn’t happen. With the mosquitoes leading 27-2, it’s been a rough day in the trenches. Girl number one, who will remain nameless because of her adolescence, (and she’s shy as hell) competed against a Russian today. Overcoming a few early jitters, she settled in and chalked up her first professional loss, playing some great points and tossing in enough nervous errors to eek out a defeat. After the match, she expressed a million thoughts, not the least of which was, “I will beat her next time I play her,” and that’s pretty much symphonic to a coach’s ears. Post-match, I also saw enough teeth to let me know she enjoyed the experience. Girl number two, who will also remain nameless ( I fear notoriety more then popularity!) battled until almost midnight, and despite having some serving issues, played the best match she has ever played against a Division 1 college player. She came away expressing the same sentiment of being able to beat her opponent. Whether they gained a million lessons on this trip (which they did), or just this one, truly doesn’t matter. That they now believe they can beat professional players, means they’ll be training with a different mindset. That in itself is worth the price of admission.

And now on to the resort front….

Having now been here almost two weeks, I’ve made a few observations about the employees here. There’s a pretty palpable hierarchy thing going on. All the workers wear uniforms – apparently to be distinguishable from the guests who traipse around in nothing but flip-flops and bathing suits that are supposed to cover unmentionables but which mention them, contemptibly – and the uniforms come in varying degrees of skin coverage. For example, bellhops dress in safari hats, and tan collared shirts, reception folk bear jackets, while pool attendants sport white cotton and Bermuda shorts and the beach monitors get shorts and puka shells, and well, you get the point. As one moves from habitaciones toward the water, the clothing shrinks, the laborers get fitter and better looking, and one gets the sense that someone in HR is job profiling using a high school yearbook – dorks here and cool kids over there.

What I’ve come to learn is that your associations determine how you (the guest) are treated.

To wit: This morning I stood poolside chatting with a beach bartender (cool group) and a photographer (also cool group but with less masculinity) when one of the reception desk workers (uncool with Chewbacca resemblance – someone didn’t think through the idea that these folks would be greeting guests and the face time would be pretty high), anyway, one of the reception desk workers passed by and saw me high-five the bartender. A few hours later, when I went to reception for my Yes-I-am-a-guest-who-should-be-wearing-a-helmet fourth lost key of this trip, they ignored me. I might not have taken offense, but a few moments later, one of the towel elves (seriously uncool due to hats with bells) said he was out of towels when there was a four-foot stack of fluffy cotton right behind him. I started to question the vengefulness of this social stratification.

Not the kind to hold a grudge, I let it pass, assuming I was just the unassuming victim of some employee altercation in the lounge, and maybe this was just the smart kids way of getting back at the jocks. This resort, after all, spans thirty football fields and who really cares who gets along with the bartender?

Apparently, everyone! Turns out, the previous night, the bartender had a torrid fling with one of the guests (very frowned upon in this here resort where the dominant clientele is couples) and my inappropriately-timed high-five coincided with his morning-after antics, which included bragging to his fellow employees about last night’s catch du jour. I’m now trapped in a tropical soap opera where my inadvertent willingness to converse with a just-turned-adulterer has labeled me pariah.

To be ostracized by a resort labor force, and to walk around as a confederate of immorality in Mexico is rather daunting, and so I’m now relegated to embarrassed smiles and “I’m both sorry and really misunderstood” head shakes to all service folk. Truth is, life’s associations can be pretty costly, but then, for those who know me, I should have already learned that lesson.

I could have ended the story with that last statement, but there’s a point to this whole thing. My experiences in the resort mirror the competitive arena. When these young girls walk out to their first practice session, the other players immediately categorize them by who they are hitting with, who they hang with, how hard they try, and their brazenness to hit boldly or to wither in the face of greater strength. To be exiled after day one can destroy a player, so it takes a lot of mental preparation to overcome the nerves and anxiety one experiences on day one of the first pro event. In other words, if you’re trying to make history, don’t fuck it up on the first day!

See how nicely that all tied together. :-)


By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 10

The girls made the cut for this week’s tournament and qualifying starts tomorrow, although their intro to pro tennis comes with its attendant difficulties. With both men and women playing here, the warm up court is a converted basketball court with no fences and a pretty shaky net, which mean there’s a pretty good chance of getting skulled by a 90mph forehand at some point in the day and the way some of these guys chase down balls reminds one of a little kid running away from his mother at the park.

For those who’ve never seen pro scheduling, matches do not have start times, but rather, court assignments, meaning “you are the sixth match on court 4 and matches start at 10am,” and since you don’t know whether matches will take an hour or three, scheduling your warm-up is a bit like global warming – you are aware of things happening, and you think you should do something about it, but there’s a lot of people who think otherwise, and well, maybe I’ll just wait around and see. Tomorrow’s scheduled sees one player who will probably start around 5 p.m., while the other one will take the court sometime between 10 p.m. and sunrise. For those inclined to complain about stuff like this, this is Mexico and they have prisons.

Due to the tournament director’s generosity, one of my girls made the tournament draw, and while that may sound unscrupulous, it really just means she pulled a bunch of chips out of a bag and let the referee fill in the draw sheet. To her though, getting a behind the scenes glimpse of professional tennis’ inner workings was invaluable. To me, who spends time each day explaining how important fitness is, the whole idea of starting a tournament by pulling chips out of a bag just gives me the howling fantods.

Anyway, tomorrow they play their matches. As a result of this week’s hard practice sessions, they are playing much better, but one never knows what psychological issues will arise when thrust into a bigger pond.   They will be prepared for many of them, but the human brain certainly has a will about it – reminds me of that grocery cart wheel.

I’ve noticed a few things about the resort employees lately. Will update you in tomorrow’s blog.

By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 9


Seven a.m. practice sessions have now become routine and I no longer have to hear the girls’ near-dead whisper when I give them the morning wake up call. Thankfully, I’m already three miles into my day, having strode the sands beneath a rising Caribbean sun, and I’m realizing how well it prepares me for the day. That’s the thing about routines, they place you in a certain mind frame, they organize things so you can become comfortable in uncomfortable situations, they provide a roadmap for success. All that is to say I’ve been working on routines with these kids, explaining tactics and strategies and time management between points and myriad other unsexy things that help athletes compete better. While young minds absorb things quickly, they are also undisciplined and stimulated by any new sensory experience. It is a battle to help them become comfortable – after all this entire professional experience is new to them – but we are making progress.

After practice, we got off the tournament site for a few hours, heading out to Tulum, the ancient Mayan city that hosts ruins and one of the world’s top ten beaches.   I was here last year and wrote an article about Tulum, so I’m including it at the end of this blog entry. The story won a travel writing contest soI guess it didn’t suck as badly as I first thought.


Today we swam in Bomb Pop blue water atop sands so white they could have been wearing hoods. A few thousand years ago, Mayan civilians tramped about this beach to ward off incoming invaders. Now, tourists pack the sea, shooting thousands of photos that do no justice to this breathtaking place.  Across a five hundred yard expanse, Tulum hosts ruins of temples and government buildings and a few residential edifices. The place is swarming with iguanas, which, if you believe the local mythology, are re-incarnated warriors playing sentry to the city’s citadel. Based on how quickly they get out of the way when you chase them, I’m not sure I buy it, but it’s good legend.

When we return to the courts, the girls battle against an Australian and another South American. The tennis is stunning, as though Tulum’s power and history sunk into their souls. They are following routines now, playing with intention, staying focused for longer periods of time.

Crystal waters, ancient stones, and tactical awareness. For this I will travel anywhere.



The Mayan Riviera’s colectivos traverse the pot-holed, coastal thoroughfare with laughable disregard for anthropological safety. Fighting the vaguely digestivesmell inside, I shout “Tulum!” through nine perspiring passengers, and spend the next thirty minutes battling the spinal hum.   Eventually, the white van vomits me onto the highway, and from his quickly-receding window, the driver’s brown finger directs me toward the Ancient Mayan fortress.

At the entrance, weathered women grasp and pull my six hundred pesos through flaking metal bars and then offer professional smiles developed over years of promoting this local attraction to curious tourists. Their insincere wrinkles betray my intrusion into their culture. I hoist my camera and begin the trek over Tulum’s gravelly trail.

Sunlight slants throughspiky palms and I’m uncomfortably aware of the avian life now squawking out my presence. A hundred crunchy strides forward, Tulum’s ruins sit atop a 12-metercliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea. Like sentinels, iguanas populate the site and legend suggests the reptiles are ancient Mayan souls still standing guard over their seaside home.


Ilock eyes with one of the beasts and stagger backwards as I sense his golden irises pulsing with the history of centuries. His power touches something in my limbic brain, liberating me from the constraints of civilization. I am now his guest, permitted to negotiate the terrain without the shackles of modernity. It is a feeling of freedom I’ve not known before.

Making my way across the seven-acre site considered one of Mexico’s most endearing locales for photographic indulgence, I see El Castillo strike its commanding pose above the coastline.   Anthropologists believe the castle once served as a beacon to canoe-bound sea travelers. Today, however, it is one of three still-standing buildings at Tulum and the way the iguanas patrol its foundation, one gets the sense it will remain erect for years to come.

After some time, amidst the the rubble tunnels and tumbling structures, searching for a connection with the ancient culture that ruled Mesoamerica for over six hundred years, I venture toward the sea. A wooden staircase spits me onto oatmeal-colored sands. Along the sugary beaches that make my tanned toes look like churros, I am struck by the water’s warmth.


Around me, as though being attacked by the liquid army of an ancient civilization,

sun-screened children with fierce faces scamper from the water’s edge. Grown men groan at the beauty of their wives silhouetted against a backdrop the color of faded denim. Selling stitched linens and orange fruits, local Yucatan women pass through the touristy throng.

I recline at the water’s edge, succumbing to the power of the seascape.   Eons have passed here above the sea’s slow shifts : El Castillo’s falling stones, bronzed men eroding into rising reptilian ghosts, and the Mayan culture fading from dynasty into decay.

Beneath me, sandgrains shift and I travel in this passage of time. Wearing leather sandals and cotton breechclouts, Mayan warriors once sat here. They created calendars, written langauge, and art. They stared into the morning’s sunrise, called out to their Gods, and perhaps even waved a welcoming hand to a floating tribesman. I close my sweat-filled eyes and imagine the arrival, relishing in the presence of the past.

As champagne waves bubble onto the shore, I gaze up to find my reptilian custodian eyeing me. A thousand years from now, a lady will raise her own welcoming torch and offer liberty to tribesmen of the world.

For now, however, this is freedom.

By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 8

Another day of training found my young charges soaked and exhausted. A 250-ball warm-up without a miss, followed by some serious drilling, can do that to a player, especially in this heat. But these kids need this challenge, to battle against the professional players, to feel the pace of the ball and the intensity of the sessions. In the same way that there are surgeons and great surgeons, there are tennis players and great tennis players. Certainly talent is involved, but with practice comes wisdom and confidence, comes mental clarity and belief that one can solve any problem, comes an understanding of the things rookies lack. We had this discussion last night – about surgeons – and these two young ladies seemed to get it. Today’s practices were excellent. When they looked at me with that fish on the shore gasp and eyes rolling northward, I gave them a brief break before heading into the Caribbean for a swim. So we did, in 80-degree waters, surrounded by fish and French/British speaking tourists.

photo 2

There’s an oddity about tourists on the beach. Some of them look like corpses in the morning and then tend toward the porcine in the afternoon. Others feel toplessness is global, and so there are some teenage boys issuing Gumpish gazes that indicate embarrassment, curiosity and a stifled giggle, all rolled up. Too, there are women with dessert-butt who would probably have been better off avoiding the thong – it’s a bit like sending a zip line through the Grand Canyon. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s just awkward to think a bathing suit can just disappear like that. Finally, there are the “beach selfies,” the folks who’ve spent 64% of their lives in the gym and take this opportunity to preen about sporting six packs and Pythagorean cheekbones. If they could Banach-Tarski themselves, clearly they could get a lot more people to notice them.

This evening we hit the beach barbecue and watched some of the day’s beachgoers stuff steak and lobster into over-red faces. With the setting sun and a slight breeze, it was the perfect ending to a hyper-athletic day. Tomorrow we hit at 7am, and then head out to Tulum – Mayan ruins – and what allegedly hails as one of the world’s top ten beaches.

Almost posted this without the biggest news of the day. Yaneli – my chambermaid with the surreal towel talent – seems to be warming up to me again. Today she origami’d a smiling rabbit.


I’m not sure whether it was the sopping floors or her disgust at me walking naked and wet across my hotel room, but my girl has started bringing me towels again. Doesn’t seem like a big deal, but with six showers a day, there’s been a lot of down time waiting for…well, you know…things to dry.

By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 7

Ate a Teppan restaurant here in Mexico last night, the ones where you sit ten people to a table and the chef/Samurai warrior builds little onion volcanoes that he sets aflame so everyone at the table can “ooh” and “aah “as he burns off his eyebrows. Imagine Iron Chef on Telemundo and you get close. So there I was, chopsticking away at my sushi and trying to have a conversation with a nice German couple when their four year-old son points at me and yells something in German. The mother translates: He said, “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” To be ostracized by a child who’s recently upgraded his transportation means to tricycles is exceedingly disconcerting.

Which brings me to a bigger point.

Given long enough at the athletic table, you can see the women’s game evolving. What once was a world dominated by men, the game is now becoming more physical, more spin-driven, with higher balls and more angles. The girls are playing longer points, lowering their grips, and moving better vertically. Twenty years ago, this wasn’t happening and even ten years ago, they were still Neanderthalic about their commitment to hitting heavy.

But then, younger generations learn from their role models, and apparently some of these young ladies have been watching the likes of Nadal and Djoker and Murray and Ferrer. Fed is more of a Baryshnikovian throwback player so I’m keeping him out of this. All this is to say the next generation is currently experiencing a Darwinian moment. They are becoming the fittest, the most adaptable, the mutated version of women past and men present. Which brings me back to that little German kid – Sometimes, it is the young who make us remember what we already know.

On the resort front, while dining today, I took a moment to observe the gastronomical watering hole that defines the term all-inclusive. Tourists enter with a frenetic indecisiveness, as though a bout of palsy has taken them while running a 100 meter sprint. With sun-blocked hands and some pretty grotesque lip-licking, they over-fill plates with pastas and steaks and enough fatty sauces to make Biggest Loser candidates seem like nutritional experts.   Plates drop, forks tumble, knives slip, and glasses break, all under the intense frenzy of people who appear to have never seen food, but too, appear to have eaten a hell of a lot of it. The average weight here is north of 250, which means small children reaching up to the counter have a pretty good chance of being muffled, crushed, and then shoveled onto a plate.

The workers keep tight tabs on empty trays, refilling them at about the 20% level, and if you so much as turn your head to watch someone vomit, they’ll bus your plate before you can get your skull back around. Most of them have professional smiles that indicate they are here for your service, but if you watch closely, you can see the various headshakes and hands-over-mouths shock they perform while watching tourists dine.

When the tourists have completed their food acquisition, it’s pretty much a picnic game to see who can finish first – think pie-eating contest and you’re almost there. They stuff and drink and refill and stuff and drink and belch and make faces that suggest something horrible is coming up from inside them, and then push whatever it was back down until it re-appears and they place a hand over their mouth to prevent an unwanted ejection and well you get the idea. It’s not pretty.

Today, the little four-year old came up to me at lunch and he appeared to recently have been attacked by a chocolate ice cream cone.


He was still slurping when he got to me and I pointed at him and said with a big smile, “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” at which point he yelled, “I don’t understand English!” while launching an arcing cocoa stream onto my shirt.   Thus, I’m headed off to do some laundry before returning to the court. Damn kid!

Tomorrow: Practice at 7:30 a.m.

By ccxander

Quintana Roo, Mexico – Day 6





It’s rarely good when a person says, “I think I’m about to die.” But then, as a coach trying to expose younger players to the work required for professional advancement, those words are evidence of success. Thus, when my player said those words to me this morning after ninety demanding minutes beneath a 90-degree sun, I simply smiled and said, “Keep working.”

The day before we witnessed two finalists play a 3-hour-and-40-minute match in midday heat, so my sympathies ran short. John Wooden said, “Sports do not build character, they reveal it.” Whether this type of training breaks or makes these kids, only time will tell.   The truth is, they need to battle through this, grabbing their racquet and pounding away every single day to perfect the imperfectable so they can compete against the international community, knowing that every hour they miss is an hour where their competitors are grinding away on the practice courts trying to better themselves, knowing that the sun will never relent and the real enemies are time and fitness, and knowing that they better get it right before they retire because eventually they’ll look back and think, “remember when.”

Unknown 18-38-00

Consequently, we have two more hits scheduled today.

On another note, every morning since I’ve arrived, I’ve hit the beach a little before sunrise, digging my arches into those warm, white Caribbean sands and shedding a few lbs. on my dawn run. Along with the requisite Crayola skies and lapping waves, there’s a pint-sized Mexican man, in what looks like a drab UPS outfit, holding a rake and sporting an upper lip snarl that you just know means “don’t trifle.”


On day two, he gave me a subtle raised-palm wave and we’ve become A.M. acquaintances. His name is Mario. Mario has almost five teeth and sundrenched skin that suggests prosciutto. His job description entails sanitizing the beach of the seaweed that washed up the previous evening, presumably because the thought of morning kelp touching international tourists is just about the worst thing this hotel’s management can conceive.

When I run past, I refer to him as Super Mario for the sheer fortitude it must take to grab a metal rake and to do daily combat against the entire fucking Caribbean Sea, in what has to be the most Sisyphusean job on the planet. The guy is a mensch!

Imagine knowing that you’re going to spend the next few decades getting up early, putting on the same outfit, grabbing the same tool and heading out to the same gritty surface to try to perfect something imperfectable. See yourself laboring, day after day, with little appreciation for your efforts, with no hope of ever stopping the adversarial tide, and knowing that age and sun and the international community will eventually grind you into an old-aged hack who stares at the horizons and thinks, “remember when.”  Waaait a minute….




By ccxander