My Cancun experience was probably quite dull and boring compared to the fabled experiences of Hunter S. Thompson in Las Vegas, but it did qualify as surreal nonetheless.
Chaotically gyrating co-eds filled every street corner, with five different beats coming from five different directions leaving me standing confused, unsure whether I should nod my head to Ludacris, Jay-Z, 50 Cent, Eminem or Mystikal.
Confused is probably what I looked like on the hotel beach as well. The girls on the Mayan peninsula beaches were nothing short of astounding. Whether it is because our climate allows us to hide under sweaters for the better part of the year or because of our fondness for cheese, there seemed to be a correlation between that female southern twang and the interest of drooling meatheads.
From my sun chair I could hear the meatheads impress the surrounding southern belles. “Our frat has the sweetest basement, and we have these bomb-ass parties like every weekend,” recalls Brother No.1 while Brother No. 1 strips to his shorts in order to heroically “save” his “drowning” Brother No. 3.
I have been told that society pressures women to starve themselves to look good on the beach, but I felt no such pressure to emulate the meatheads after hearing so many desperate flirting attempts to get lucky. For a variety of reasons, I did not “get lucky” last week, but I would like to believe that my physique and pale white hide weren’t two of them. Maybe I am naíve, but it helps me sleep at night and it helps digest my cheeseburger and fries.
One clue you are far from reality is to witness stupid people doing stupid things without witnessing the consequences. Film and television are often criticized for glorifying violent acts without showing impressionable viewers the consequences of the characters’ actions. In Cancun, this phenomenon applies to the live stage.
Take, for instance, Steve-O of MTV’s Jackass fame. His live performance included a variety of “stunts MTV won’t let you see” with the encouragement to definitely try it at home (after consuming enough drugs). In between snorting salt and cutting up his tongue with broken glass, Steve-O received two loogies in his open eyes, courtesy of his aptly described Jackass friends.
I had only heard tales of such pain endurance in PCP lore, but Steve-O insisted all this was possible after only drinking a “whole lotta alcohol” and doing “a whole lotta coke.” The show climaxed when Steve-O took an industrial staple gun to affix his scrotum to his thigh.
It seemed like quality entertainment in the bliss that is a Cancun club, but show his tape in any DARE classroom, and you have Steve-O, America’s latest anti-drug.
Needless to say, in a resort town like Cancun, the population does not seem to care about current events. Those that do care still party like it’s their “birfday” and ride along on the wave of detachment that engulfs them.
I vaguely recall first hearing Bush’s ultimatum to Iraq on CNN at the beach bar. I hoped he would strike as soon as possible so that the university’s usual suspects would be out of town and miss the protests. After the decapitation attempt, I hoped for a 48-hour war so that the first round of the tournament would not get pre-empted with rather biased reporting.
Even those prayers seemed unnecessary after we found a sports book that had live satellite feeds of all the games. In Cancun and at that time, watching the Badgers play horribly and still advance to the Sweet Sixteen made me feel I was plugged back into reality.
The hangover that is reality didn’t hit until my return to Madison Sunday. Reports said U.S. troops were ambushed, and Arab networks were broadcasting the statements of POWs and the fatal head wounds of their peers. The war no longer seemed like a video game playing in the background as I fell asleep dreaming of habanero peppers.
I began to regret the nonchalant attitude toward life that I had in Cancun. Last week’s hedonism seemed as trite as it probably was. Call it guilt if you will, but it was at that moment that I knew the holiday was over.
But as we return to a world of work and school sans boobs, booze and industrial staplers, what is to prevent the war from becoming just another socking and awesome first-person shooter or just another rhetorical tool to deride Bush on Library Mall? Protesters and hawks alike, take note: Spring break may be over, but I doubt reality is here to stay.
A.J. Hughes ([email protected]) is a software developer and UW graduate.