When It Rains in The Dump

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Cutting a Swath Through the Landfill

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Coming to Honduras

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The other day in philosophy class I was teaching about existentialism, a philosophy with which I have myriad problems. The universe is absurd, life is meaningless, authenticate yourself with irrational leaps of faith! Hopeless and disconnected from reality if you ask me. Get out of the café Camus, mix with some common folk! Nevertheless, as I was introducing the material I mentioned that the existentialists really probed the questions of Life's meaning and purpose: "How do I create myself to be unique and significant?" "How do I live an authentic existence?" "How do I give my life meaning and purpose in an otherwise meaningless universe?" These seem to be questions that are attendant to societies that possess extreme wealth and privilege and an over-abundance of leisure time. I have serious doubts that 15th Century English peasants or even nobles for that matter, spent much time contemplating how they might make their lives unique or leave a...
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10 Years In Honduras

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My good friend Jessiel Rivera reminded me the other day that it was 10 years ago this month that I arrived here in La Ceiba. I remember my arrival here from Costa Rica fairly vividly. I had been getting teary-eyed on the plane from a combination of sleep deprivation, my longing to remain with my friends in beautiful San Jose and some sad indie music on my iPod. It was a hot and terribly humid Sunday afternoon when I landed in the La Ceiba airport and when I stepped off the 10-seater hotbox of an airplane onto the tarmac I was sweaty, bleary-eyed and disheveled. I looked like a typical gringo backpacker except for my mountain of luggage that I had in tow. Two members of the Central Mennonite Church picked me up in their car; how they knew I was the Gringo they were supposed to collect was beyond me but they got it right. I remember them remarking on the number of suitcases I had brought (3) and their heaviness (maximum weight allowance); and the resulting weight of embarrassment I felt ...
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Chucu & His Homies

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William, I've thought about what to write all day now and while part of me would like to continue exploring the theme and meaning of Justice from philosophy class, or rail against the seemingly monolithic, lock-step acceptance and use of P.C. language and how it's destroying our culture and ability to communicate with each other, or stake out my claim against the tyranny of gay-marriage; I'm left thinking that in that I haven't truly written anything since September of last year it might be nice to begin this new season of writing and opining with a fresh and sunny story from Los Laureles. Thus I bring you Carlos Jose Ucles Ferrufino, affectionately known in Laureles (and other parts) as Chucu. I shan't write a long bio on him as I did with Chihua; at least not today. I do though want to share with you a scene from his birthday back in November. Normally when a birthday in Laureles rolls around I arrive with a cake, we sing a song, say a prayer, eat, drink co...
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