Cozumel!
We descended upon Cozumel early, along with the rest of the ship. Cozumel was the shortest of the three excursions; we had to cram beach-going, eating, and shopping, among the more notable activities, into several hours. Being stranded in Conzumel was a more promising prospect than being stranded in Honduras, and decidedly more so than being stranded at sea aboard the Magic, a prospect that must have been in the back of every passenger's mind.
They know how to feed a guy in Conzumel, for one. The passengers were treated to a nice spread, gratis, at the resort, to which we were all bussed en masse. The food was expertly prepared, and gave stiff competition to the Magic's Mongolian Wok and burritos for the week's best lunch. All drinks were also on the house. My wife enjoyed a piña colada that she said was suitable for all ages. Evidently, Cozumel hadn't learned the practice of nickel and diming its visitors, one the Magic elevated to a high art.
Photo opportunities were rare for the duration of our trip. There wasn't much to take pictures of on the ship, and the best opportunity in Honduras was $15 nachos. I was starting to worry. Cozumel's shops put my fears to rest.
Throughout the trip, my wife and I had managed our money well. Our most extravagant expenses before reaching Cozumel were a carton of Kools, a couple of cups of good coffee, and the occasional tip to Magic staff members. One gentleman, upon receiving $5 for bringing us sandwiches early in the morning, called his children back home. We took leave of our senses in Cozumel.
If you walk around long enough in Cozumel, it's inevitable that you're going to trip on a sombrero. I did, and then I put it on my head. Everyone in my family with a camera began snapping pictures of me like they were Japanese tourists. My mom's picture was my Facebook profile picture for a week. She captioned the photo, "We brought this home with us," which was no mean feat. Sneaking back fruits, vegetables, and animals carries stiff enough penalties. I can't imagine what awaits a mother who brings back her son from Mexico in a sombrero.
The subject of most of my photos was the amusing signs in the shops of Cozumel. Some were amusing merely by dint of misspelling, while others were more ominous. One sign read, "We have surveillance cameras for security reasons." This sign appeared most prominently beneath the shelves of vanilla, and was sternly phrased enough to put any notions of my shoving a bottle of the stuff down my pants to rest, yet no less amusing than the other signs.
Back on the ship, due back in Galveston within a day and a half, my wife and I decided that the rest of the trip should be as relaxed and free of fuss as possible. The only things left to do were to get in the hot tub and smoke the nice Cuban cigar we picked up in Cozumel. My parents wanted to eat in the dining room again, but we declined because we'd learned by Day 3 that the food there was largely not worth getting dressed up for, with the exception of dessert. The fig, date, and cinnamon cake is one of the few things I'll dress up for.
Later that night, we settled in to check out Asian Led Zeppelin when I spotted the karaoke binder. As big as Lincoln's tombstone, surely there was something in it I had to perform. I was spoiled for choice. There was greater selection than there was at the buffet. I'd performed "Under My Wheels" by Alice Cooper in the shower to the point at which I'd practically perfected it.
Great tune that it, the Coop's was still too Brill Building for what I was cooking up. I needed a song that would make a more definitive statement. I'd been subject to the manifold forms the cruise director took (by then, in the flesh by the waterslides even), fat kids, bad food, nudity I didn't ask to see, and the nachos of Honduras for close to a week now. The cruise was almost over, and it was time for me to have some fun my way. To accomplish this, I'd need something more crude than Alice Cooper, and "Calling Dr. Love" is probably the crudest song in the catalog of the World's Crudest Band.
The DJ had to be dealt with, and my hat would feature prominently; aside from that, the performance details were vague, at best. I'd established my M. O. the moment I saw the binder: to do as much as I could get away with before I got kicked off the stage. The song's lyrics alone poised me for greatness.
I stopped just shy of summoning up my own blood. The DJ, hired at the behest of the cruise director, was not allowed a word in edgewise and was unnerved from the moment I stepped foot on that Magic karaoke stage. I gyrated every part of my body, including the seven pounds of pizza weight I'd put on since the beginning of the trip. I shoved the mic in peoples' faces and they all liked it, except the DJ, and I didn't like him, either. I utilized the mic stand for the solo portion of the song because it was part of the song. I extemporized many of the lyrics, mostly "yeah yeah yeahs" that weren't featured in the original. I swung the mic, which didn't get me kicked off so I should have done more of it. That didn't matter - by the time the song ended, I was the baddest motherfucker on the whole goddamned ship.
Some dude with a mullet informed me of my newfound status the next afternoon. He asked me if I was going to perform Dr. Love again that night, as conditioned, I got defensive. He extended the olive branch when he said that he appreciated how I'd incorporated my hat in the act. The tension left my shoulders, and I started planning my next performance. Nothing but my rendition of Beth as a drunk Peter Criss falling off a barstool would do.
I'm not sure how many people stopped me with cries of "Hey, Dr. Love!" before we debarked the next day, but I'm certain that one guy in a hat that said "Shit Just Got Real" rolled down his window to yell "Hey, Dr. Love!" at me on the freeway headed back home. I decided to leave them all wondering in favor of spending the night with my wife. We found some room in a hot tub above the fray of the Lido Deck, and let ourselves succumb to the effects of a fine cigar, all obligations on land and at sea vanishing in exhalations regarded by some as dispatches from on high.
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