Somewhere, if I’m unlucky, locked in a box in a garage or attic in Roseville are two of the most embarrassing photos ever taken of me.
It was back in the days of instamatic cameras.
That means I didn’t add them to the ever-expanding cesspool of useless information that the internet has become.
The trip down memory lane started by cleaning out boxes in my garage.
One box contained the remains of two weeks I spent in Mexico in 1983 covering a sister city trip between Roseville and Chignahuapan in Puebla State for The Press-Tribune.
There were 80 people in this group including elderly women who had covered the market with Kodak Instamatic film cartridges.
Maybe I should prepare the situation for you.
I was 27 years old and weighed 320 pounds at the time. My employer required journalists to wear suits or trousers with a suitable jacket while working. A tie was optional but not allowed if you didn’t wear it.
Today I am 69 years old and I weigh 180 kg.
Every chance I get I wear shorts. I don’t have a suit or tie anymore. That’s a long way from 1983 when I had five suits and enough ties to tie together and rope myself down from a second story window.
The first photo opportunity that can get 600,000 people today on the internet, especially if it was a video, was during the tour of the hacienda of the federal senator.
The vaqueros – working cowboys – were trying to get someone to try their hand at learning the art of bullfighting.
Well, okay, not really.
They wanted someone to try to copy the steps they did with the cape to get a driver to charge them.
No one was biting. Then suddenly several people started suggesting that I do it.
Let me be clear. My judgment was not impaired by alcohol or drugs. I can honestly say that I never did either. But like a fool, I let them talk to me about this.
I had taken a few rodeos before hoping I could get to the fence and get hurt if anything went south. Besides, the guide they were going to use seemed small, so – in my mind – harmless.
So, I was there. The biggest target in the group standing in the middle of a small fenced field wearing black wings wearing a dark blue suit that contrasted well with the dust that was about to fly.
There were three vaqueros in the arena, including one who taught me how to carry a cape.
Because my Spanish was so poor, his English was non-existent, and his gestures were so confusing, I should have known it wasn’t going to end well.
The driver seemed annoyed and almost distraught.
My “coach” was always doing “scooting” with his hands. I took this to mean that I should go on strike, which I did.
It’s one thing to mock a 350-pound striker rocking a red cape. It’s another thing to get close to him while you’re doing it.
It went backwards until it hit the fence.
The only thing I remembered after that until I was holding myself down on the other side of the fence was the look of horror on the face of the boatman, the loud noise coming at me in any way without comfort.
The only sounds I heard for what seemed like forever but was less than 15 seconds by the time the strike started coming to me and I was back on my feet on the other side of the fence were laughter, laughter, and the usual clicking of camera shutters.
Continue for a few days.
We’re back in senatorial style for a 200-person lunch in the big barn.
As I eat, I am told that the vaqueros wanted to share their traditional Sunday bowl with me for being good sport. The name translated into English was “goat’s head stew.”
It was a dark blue scent that could clean a room. I ate a few spoonfuls and suddenly six vaqueros hit me on the back.
The smell was irritating to people around me. Not me.
It was horrible, to be honest, but I had no problem eating anything offered on the tour. Somehow, this happened three years before I swore off all meat—and that includes chicken and fish as well as decapitated goat meat.
That’s why it was amazing what happened the next day
It was the last night of the trip in Mexico City. I decided to order filet mignon at the restaurant. That did it.
By dawn I was 15 pounds heavier after what my roommate said was about 30 trips to the bathroom. They wanted me to go to the hospital but I was getting on the plane.
I think by then I can get to Los Angeles without using the tools.
Everything was fine until after we were in the air after stopping in Guadalajara. Two women were riding and sitting next to me.
Sometime after I fell asleep, they were offered coffee. My wake-up call was the passenger next to him knocking his coffee into my lap.
Yes, I made a lot of noise.
This brought in the managers of the managers and motivated everyone behind us to try and see what was going on.
The housekeeper made me stand up and motioned for me to move in my chair, which I did. Then another attendant handed him a can of soda and some cosmetics.
That’s when I learned club soda can help prevent stains from setting.
That wasn’t the worst part.
Because of the language barrier, I didn’t know what was going on. The attendant just smiled and placed his hand down the front of my slacks with his hand facing forward while the other poured the soda cloth onto the cloth while he used the cloth in his other hand to pour coffee into it.
Sure enough, I’m standing looking at the back of the plane and there are at least six people taking pictures like there’s no tomorrow.
Sure enough my face was red like a red eye probably from the flash pieces going off.
This column is the opinion of the editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the views of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com
#photography #Internet #ensure #shamed