Okay, so the thing is, I haven’t been to university. Now, while I’d like to say this is because I’m passive-aggressively protesting the increasingly corrupt system of higher education and waging a counterstrike on said system’s perpetuation of class warfare by succeeding on my own terms � well, that’s only half true. The other side is that I could never actually quite afford to attend the schools of my choice, and student loans have always seemed about as appealing as trying to derail a train with my penis.
(And not nearly as fulfilling.)
As a result, I’ve had to glean my education from other sources. You know, like the streets. Talk radio. Tom Cruise interviews.
One BMEfest attendee told me that I reminded her of Keanu Reeves.
(I will now set myself on fire.)
Of course, you can’t rely solely on right-wing cretins and batshit-crazy Scientologists to teach you everything. There are some things that you can only learn by doing, by seeing, or by seeing other people do. Some things that get chalked up to “life experience” and “learning by living” — not the kind of stuff you’ll pick up in a textbook or via some talking head. Important things.
Like how much hard liquor it takes a Texan to incapacitate a trash-collector from Long Island with.
One of the many lessons learned, of course, over the past few weeks when over one hundred members of the BME community congregated here in sweltering La Paz, Mexico for the third annual BMEfest on June 24th.
Naturally, there were countless other pearls of wisdom, gems of learnedness, and most importantly, monolithic slabs of hilarity ...
* * *
NORWEGIANS ARE BETTER THAN REGULAR PEOPLE
After meeting them for the first time during May’s APP convention in Las Vegas, I was thrilled that H�vve (IAM:bleeding) and his partner Christiane (IAM:Christiane) would be making the trip from Oslo, Norway to join us in Mexico, among other reasons, to have H�vve put on a “Pain Solution” performance for the BMEfest crowd.
Clockwise from top:
H�vve, Steve Truitt (IAM:Stainless), Christiane, El Hombre Lagarto.
As it turns out, British Airways aren’t as fond of the Nordic people as I am. Apparently, the airline didn’t see the importance in sending any of their luggage along for the ride, and thus, they arrived empty-handed — no bags, no clothes, and no performance supplies. To add insult to injury, the initial compensation offered to them upon being informed that it was too early to tell how long it would be before they were reunited with their belongings?
Fifty dollars. Each!
There are arms dealers with better customer service policies than this.
Normally, this would send a person’s trip into a tailspin; luckily, Norwegians are better than regular people. Though certainly fuming, the pair seldom let this affect their candor, even in spite of a series of figurative groin-punches from the airline, as well as the curiosity of everybody present in Mexico as to the status of their bags (which, while well-intentioned, probably wore thin after a while).
Salvation came on June 23rd, when four of their five pieces of luggage were finally located and delivered to them — on H�vve’s birthday no less, and just in time for BMEfest the following day. The still-missing piece of luggage, unfortunately, contained his bed of nails, but he maintained that the show would still be able to go on regardless of its absence.
I’ll just come out and say it: As far as I am concerned, there isn’t a better sideshow performer right now than H�vve.
Now, maybe that isn’t even a fair statement to make. For many performers of this nature, it seems that pain is just a part of the larger performance; with H�vve, one could argue that the pain is the performance.
Rather than playing up a gimmick or persona (such as The Great Orbax (IAM:The Great Orbax) or The Lizardman (IAM:The Lizardman) — both tremendous performers in their own rights!), he embodies more the historical spirit of the fakir and street-performer. Equal parts pincushion and populist, he brings to the table an act that relentlessly begs the audience’s attention — no matter who the audience.
Even in spite of the misplaced bed of nails (often used during his finale), the BMEfest crowd was treated to two separate performances: His full-fledged “To Bleed Or Not To Bleed” show in the evening at the after-party, as well as his all-ages “Pain Lite” act in the afternoon on the beach at Tecolote.
Eliminating the rampant bloodletting and general self-abuse of his other acts, the addition of “Pain Lite” to his repertoire has actually led to him being contracted for children’s parties and large public performances during the day in his native Scandinavia. That said, it does still include him piercing his cheeks with long skewers, passing a flaming stick down the inside length of his pant leg, burning hair off of various appendages, and finishing off by stapling a post-it note to his forehead (with “Use your head” written on it in Norwegian, no less). Still a racy show, but cleverly augmented with pseudo-life lessons for children and family-friendly jokes (though not without occasionally dropping an F-bomb).
“To Bleed Or Not To Bleed,” however, is another beast altogether. Leaving the jokes alone and focusing on the body rites, it is a truly brutal and beautiful piece of work.
Spinning and spitting bright orange flames; blood streaming over his face and torso from needles piercing his forehead, chest and arms; lying atop sharpened machetes and digging blades deep into his limbs. Perhaps the only unfortunate aspect of him performing in this setting is that, while still stunning to watch and awesomely executed, the acts themselves may be somewhat “old hat” to many in the BME community — fire play and play piercing tend to be far more daunting to the “uninitiated,” so to speak.
All said, for 30 to 40 minutes, H�vve assaults his body in fashions both exacting and evocative, finally bowing out as a blood-drenched, charred being — by all accounts, more flush with life than drained of it.
* * *
IT’S NOT GAY IF IT’S “GOOD GAME”
Truthfully, an entire article could easily be dedicated to the topic of blatant homoerotic behavior at BME events. Now, make no mistake: This is in no way to imply that the people who engage in said behavior are gay themselves, and is certainly not to suggest that there is anything wrong with it (or homosexuality itself, obviously!) — it’s just interesting to note how widespread this phenomenon has become among ostensibly heterosexual individuals at these events.
BMEfest was no exception. Growing up in the small Alabama farming town of Toronto, Canada, the idea of two straight men throwing down for a friendly round of grab-ass was a foreign one; needless to say, I was initiated quickly. Within moments of arriving at a barbecue early in the week, I met a set of beefy sideburns attached to a fellow who introduced himself as Brian (IAM:Perk900), and thinking nothing sinister of his presence, I continued on past.
As I would come to discover, turning my back on this man would change the course of my week — nay, my life — irrevocably.
With my next step, I felt a hand plant itself firmly on my behind, followed by the haunting words made famous by mustachioed little league coaches everywhere: “Good game.”
... Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
For some reason, however, I felt neither violated, cheapened, nor taken advantage of. After a moment of quiet reflection to gather my thoughts as to what had just transpired and a few courtesy tears (a reflex from days as a member of the Vienna Boys’ Choir), it struck me that this was not an attack, an assault, or even an acknowledgement of my trim, boyish figure: This was a comedy goldmine.
From that moment, it was game on for good game. You brought someone a beer? Good game. Meeting someone for lunch? Good game. Threw a good set of hooks in someone’s back for a suspension? Great game.
It became one of those things that I couldn’t help but laugh at every time I saw it. If you dished out a high-quality good game to someone, in my books, you were betting with the house’s money. You could do no wrong.
(Let’s also keep in mind that I’m the same guy who can zone out for hours at a time watching and laughing at “The Drew Carey Show,” so maybe my opinion shouldn’t be taken quite at face value.)
As trivial, dumb, and potentially invasive as it may seem, this is the sort of thing that makes me realize that this community, by and large, has some pretty special qualities to it. Seldom found are groups where the straight fellows involved are comfortable enough with their sexuality to engage in activities that would usually have their orientations openly questioned by many others — sometimes violently, and always stupidly.
Are these men (and the occasional bandwagon-jumping woman) heroes? Maybe. Pioneers? Some might say. Predators? Well, that’s for the courts to decide. But one thing, however, is for certain — one indelible fact that rises above, reigns supreme, and trumps all other assumptions and accusations�
It’s not gay if it’s good game.
* * *
MEXICAN ROOM SERVICE IS THE BEST IN THE WORLD
From a conversation with a BME associate:
“I can’t believe it. I completely clogged the toilet in the hotel room bathroom yesterday morning — I mean, there was just no fixing it — but when we got back there last night, it was working perfectly! I don’t even want to know what they must gone through to get it working again. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take a dump right in the middle of the room � you know, just to see if they clean it up.”
Yes, I work for the same company as these people.
* * *
THERE’S A LOT TO BE SAID FOR TRAVEL-SAVVY
For anyone planning on or wishing to travel to La Paz, Mexico for any future BME-sanctioned events:
-- Plan your trip carefully. In addition to scheduling your destination (La Paz, of course), also be sure to make plans to return home following your vacation; do not underestimate the importance of this. As with most things in life, travel should — at least to some extent — have both a beginning and an ending. Purchasing a one-way ticket to (or otherwise stranding yourself in) a foreign country where you may or may not speak the language or be acutely aware of the customs, nor have any concrete plans for an exit-strategy is a recipe for disaster. (Feel free to make your own Iraq joke here.)
-- When attending BME events, please show proper respect for your surroundings, fellow guests, and yourself. If you feel compelled at any point to “show off” or become the center of attention by letting people beat the holy bejesus out of you or employing other equally cheap and demeaning tactics, perhaps there are some things in life that you need to evaluate.
-- While in La Paz, there are several fine hotels for you to stay at, as well as the cheaper alternative of a hostel or, if you’re traveling in a group, the option of renting a townhouse is also available. We at BME don’t really care which one you choose, so long as you choose one of them. Likewise, if you are in an impaired state, away from your lodgings, and a fellow BME’er offers you a place to stay, we implore you to accept. Seriously. Falling asleep on the sidewalk, while glamorous as all get-out, is not a viable option. Why, you ask?
-- Because you will get thrown in jail! You do not want this to happen. Not only does it reflect poorly on you, it reflects very poorly on the BME staff members who actually live in La Paz and will be associated with your drunken monkey-ass long after you’ve left the country. Furthermore, in addition to local police officers, in Mexico it is not entirely uncommon to see military police patrolling areas from time to time. Getting arrested in a country where military police still frequently make the rounds is one of those pantheon-level all-time bad ideas, right up there with externally-threaded speculums (patent pending!) and “Speed 2.”
Essentially, if your idea of a “vacation” is fleeing America by buying a one-way ticket to a foreign country with precious little money to your name, then proceeding to get plastered and roll around in the street until you get tossed in the drunk tank, left to stare at the walls of your cell and solemnly wonder what you’ve done with your life, well, there’s a name for people like that: Internet Startup CEOs.
These poor, myopic sons of bitches are not role models! Do not be like them!
(To protect the identities of the foolish, please consider all preceding situations “hypothetical.”)
* * *
Y KANT CERE SPEAK SPANISH
“Donde ... discotheque ... senoritas ... sin robas?”
-- Cere (IAM:Cere) asking a flustered, elderly hot dog vendor where to find a strip club. The man, standing there with his wife and friends, had no real response other than looking awfully uncomfortable and proceeding to ignore Cere (whose other approaches to Spanish included adding an "O" to the end of every word and referring to all of the locals as "Miguel." Classy!).
(The sentence translates literally to: “Where ... dance club ... young ladies ... without clothes?”)
* * *
AN OPERA IS ALWAYS BETTER WHEN THE SINGER IS CRYING
If there’s one thing that brings out the best in performers, it’s being forced to showcase their talent for imminent threat of bodily harm or death. Take, for example, The Ramones’ legendary “Live at Gunpoint” album — oh wait, that was every studio session with Phil Spector!
Ba-dum bum.
Content to play the mostly-figurative role of gun-wielding lunatic — and seemingly hell-bent on securing his position as the most diabolical force in Mexico since Montezuma’s Revenge — Allen Falkner (IAM:Allen Falkner) secured his part early on as the BMEfest attendee most likely to either ruin your political career or leave you with a series of emotional complexes that would make a gymnastics coach blush. Case #1:
Not always necessarily known for being the classiest bunch, we were delighted to have Hilary (IAM:OperaNinja) join us for BMEfest. A professional opera singer, her being there certainly raised the cultural bar for us all — kind of like Christoper Walken inexplicably taking a role in “Joe Dirt.”
El diablo Falkner, obviously not content with her mere presence at the event, decided that to let her talents go to waste and be missed out on by the BMEfest crowd would be criminal. Ever the charming wordsmith, he persuaded her into performing for the crowd on the beach at Tecolote as only a Texan could:
By threatening to drown her ass in the Pacific.
There was always a chance that Spector’s gun wasn’t loaded, but the odds of the ocean being sympathetic to a hostage situation are slim to none.
With a crowd of both BMEfest attendees and local bystanders amassed on the sand, Hilary — all things considered, really being a very good sport about the whole ordeal — belted out a terribly impressive vocal performance, resonating loud and strong across the shore. I’m about as qualified to write critically about opera as I am to conduct complex surgery, so I’ll spare you my amateur meanderings on the subject and say simply that it was an incredibly moving moment; regardless of one’s feelings about the style itself, the raw, organic talent that it takes to pull off is undeniably affecting.
While I don’t generally approve of the actions of overly-aggressive Texans, the end — this time — certainly justified the means. With chills up our spines and our applause ringing across the sea, Hilary took a much-deserved bow and assumedly began pondering the most efficient methods of corpse-disposal in Mexico.
We are totally getting sued.
* * *
CERE VS. HARD LIQUOR
The night before BMEfest, Cere — an infrequent drinker to begin with — challenged Allen Falkner on the grounds that he could not make him drink to the point of sickness.
Allen was up to the challenge.
"Allen Falkner is the devil!"
And, of course, the morning after:
Cere <3’s Pedia-lite.
Granted, he wasn’t alone.
"Uggggh."
* * *
MEXICO: NOT TOO SHABBY AFTER ALL
Ever since I moved down here to La Paz, it’s been the same thing from everyone back home: “So, Mexico, what’s that like? Got a nice tan? Drinking margaritas on the beach every day? Join a mariachi band? Had any week-long peyote binges and woken up in bed with a cactus � again?”
Evidently, these people don’t realize that I’m a hermit no matter where I am, be it Mexico or the Moon. Unless there’s an opportunity for free food, live music or sensibly priced men’s-wear, chances are pretty good that if you need me, I’ll be behind my desk, sitting at my computer and developing a vitamin deficiency.
Rachel smacking Shannon around a bit.
Living in Mexico and vacationing in Mexico are two very separate things; once you’re living and working here, there are plenty of things that you’ll “get around to seeing,” or that you’ll “make plans to check out.” I’ve been here for four months, and up until two weeks ago, La Paz to me basically consisted of my bedroom, the beer store, an old dog that came with the house, and the occasional smell of open sewers.
Ah, paradise.
But I kid La Paz. It’s a lovely place that I, unfortunately, hadn’t really taken the opportunity to explore — so imagine the disappointment of the people filing into our little city for BMEfest who actually expected me to have some offhand knowledge about the place I’d been living for the last third of a year. But really, would you ask the girl Buffalo Bill trapped in his pit which cupboard the plates were in or where to find the rosemary? I didn’t think so.
(Okay, maybe not my finest analogy.)
The truth is, I was just as excited to do some exploring as our visitors were, and while the idea of taking a boat-tour of the Sea of Cortez — followed by snorkeling with sea lions — seemed incongruous with well-worn BMEfest traditions like substance abuse, group sex, and heat stroke, all who signed up for this were promised an experience they would never forget.
The experience, of course, delivered.
Brian (IAM:Perk900) performs a seductive striptease on the beach.
With the group split up and piled into several boats, we all set off from the shore of Tecolote — the beach playing host to the daytime portion of BMEfest — and set out onto the relatively calm sea, the morning sun just beginning to heat up. My boat, luckily, had a young buck of a captain — a fellow who seemingly had no problem granting some silly gringos their wishes of racing with the other boats and other painfully touristy requests.
Another lucky happenstance was being able to count Jason of Gorilla Glass (IAM:Gorilla) among our ranks; fluent in Spanish, he translated our captain’s descriptions and anecdotes while we motored around, enabling us to get the full experience (or perhaps playing us all for fools).
With Tecolote barely visible in the distance, we began to approach Isla Espiritu Santo and the surrounding islands — most of which reached high with looming, jagged sides, occupied by all manner of birds and crustaceans, and covered in copious guano stalactites. Weaving us through passages of rock so narrow that we were warned to keep our hands inside the boat at all times, our captain guided us through a number of the island’s caves and alleys, pointing out rock formations with names (translated by Jason) such as “The Protector” and “The Toadstool.”
Fearing, I suppose, that he was losing us with stories about rocks and bird crap, the captain kicked it up a notch. While passing by a small fishing village on one corner of the island, we were informed about the near-daily practice there (and in many other cities by the sea on the Baja Peninsula, for that matter) of goat slaughtering; for neither fun nor profit, this is simply to stem the growth of the goat population before it becomes overwhelming and unsustainable. Apparently, this particular village had noticed that the numbers had escalated incredibly on a nearby plain atop a mountainous section of the island, and, with the aid of a few helicopters and some shotguns, well � got medieval on their asses. The long and the short of it was that, by the end, nearly 4,000 goats had been killed and left to rot. We were enthralled. With an awed, quiet laughter usually reserved for those special moments when live television catches a bench-clearing brawl or a natural disaster in progress, we all started to imagine being an oblivious vacationer or tourist in the area, climbing said mountain only to reach the top and see a vast killing field littered with horns and hooves. How would you react in this situation? Has this happened before? Did Ashton Kutcher just option this idea for a TV show?
Light-hearted thoughts of genocide on our minds, we turned a corner and caught our first glimpse of our soon-to-be swimming partners — those hulking, blubbery mounds they call sea lions, scattered along the rocks and, for whatever reason, self-confined to this one area. The animals, of course, gave us the most genial greeting they were capable of: Emitting gas in earth-shaking quantities and moulting under the hot sun. Ah, the delicate nature of � nature.
Now, I am not what you would call a “water person.” I think I stopped taking swimming lessons shortly before the first Clinton administration, and never really enjoyed spending much time in the water otherwise. Basically, my philosophy has always been the more clothing I’m able to wear at any given time, the better. Yes, a lifejacket, water wings and safety whistle technically constitute added apparel, but they’re not exactly suitable accessories to my standard issue button-up-shirt-and-relaxed-fit-jeans ensemble. With that said, the idea of jumping into the brisk ocean to swim with some wannabe walruses did not sound as great as several thousand other things I’ve done in my life.
By the same token, I don’t get paid the big bucks to just sit in the boat.
It took some gentle prodding, but I eventually plunged myself into the scrotum-tightening sea. After some violent shivers and pathetic floundering that convinced no one of my aquatic prowess, I awkwardly paddled my way over to the rest of the group, keeping a keen eye for any fast-approaching sea lions.
As far as the sea lions went though, while they did swim by the people in the water from time to time, we were all warned that it was still very much their “turf.” Essentially, it was advised to let them approach you and not vice-versa, to be careful even when they did come close to you, and to be respectful of their habitat.
(Interesting note: This is the same set of warnings given to people backstage at Motley Crue concerts, only without the portions alerting you about the potential for getting pregnant and/or hepatitis.)
Corinna (IAM:Amnesiac).
And of course, as with most things, I’m a big drama queen and nothing is ever as bad as I expect it to be; as a matter of fact, it’s usually much, much better.
* * *
The ocean is brand new to me. To be honest, it was one of those things that had absolutely zero appeal until I experienced it firsthand, along with free jazz and guacamole. Because really, what was it but a big salty lake? People go nuts for this? This seaweed-smelling, self-important, oversized pond? There were folks who would make an effort to get outside for that?
To borrow a line from Bill Hicks, “I’ve got a bathtub and an imagination. I’m staying indoors this summer.”
But then there’s that feeling you get when you’re on a boat in the middle of it all, and you’re rocking upon shimmering waves, and all of a sudden, you’re struck dumb — because you realize that you cannot see land, no matter which direction you look.
You dart your eyes around, thinking that maybe you just missed it, but it sinks in that other than your tiny vessel, you are surrounded on all sides by miles of water.
It hits you in the gut and then the head, like a more visceral variation on one of those amusement park rides that drops you a few hundred feet straight down — that feeling of fear. Not fear the way you might fear spiders or fear losing your job, but fear the way that some religious people might say they fear God. It’s the moment when you start to see the ocean as an entity, as a living thing, and you realize that you are its guest. More importantly, you also realize that when it comes down to it, you are at its mercy.
It’s nothing if not humbling.
Not fear the way you fear getting mugged, but fear the way you fear getting struck by lightning while you run home during an electrical storm.
The fear of acknowledging that there are times when you have no choice but to yield to nature.
And then there’s another point when all that nonsense about the earth’s majesty that you would occasionally scoff at, well, it starts to resonate. You start to feel the rhythm of the waves crashing beneath you. Dry land comes back into view, and you’re told that the island you’re looking at — while currently dormant — is volcanic, and it makes you wonder if this world ever really belonged to you in the first place.
And then before long, I’m standing on a beach eating a ham sandwich and drinking a soda, and the moment is effectively over. That said, I can’t help but be thankful for everything that has brought me to this point. La Paz, as I’ve learned, is more than the two-block radius around my house — just as the ocean is more than a big, salty tub.
I wade out from the shore, and while I know I won’t bother asking, I have to wonder if other people got anything even remotely along these lines out of the morning’s excursion. Then the boats gear up to bring us back to Tecolote, and as we all gather on the sand, between the expressions people are wearing and the words on their lips, they’re all broadcasting — whether directly or not — that, as far as BMEfests go, this has already been the best one ever.
With the day not even close to half over, I have a very hard time believing that I’m alone.
* * *
That’s it! See you in La Paz next year for BMEfest 2006: The Reckoning!
* * *
- Jordan Ginsberg (iam:snackninja)
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Related: BMEfest photo gallery
