Somewhere, if I am unlucky, stuffed away in  a box in a garage or attic in Roseville are two of the most embarrassing photographs ever taken of me.

 It was back in the days of instamatic cameras.

That means I’ve been spared from having them posted in the ever-expanding cesspool of useless information the internet has become. 

The journey down memory lane was triggered by cleaning out boxes in my garage.

One box contained remnants of two weeks I spent in Mexico in 1983 covering a sister city trip between Roseville and Chignahuapan in the State of Puebla for The Press-Tribune.

There were 80 people in the group including a pair of older ladies who had cornered the market on Kodak Instamatic film cartridges.

Perhaps I should set the scene for you.

I was 27 years old and weighed 320 pounds at the time. My employer required reporters to wear either suits or slacks with suitable jacket while working. A tie was optional but it was frowned upon if you did not wear one.

Today I’m 69 and weigh 180 pounds.

Every chance I get I wear shorts. I no longer own a suit or a tie. That’s a far cry from 1983 when I had five suits and enough ties that I could have tied them together and created a rope to jimmy my way down to the ground from a second floor window.

The first photo opportunity that could easily get 600,000 likes today on the internet, especially if it were a video, was during a tour of  a federal senator’s hacienda.

The vaqueros — working cowboys — were trying to get someone to try their hand at learning the art of bullfighting.

Well, OK, not exactly.

They wanted someone to try and replicate the moves they made with a cape to get a steer to charge them.

No one was biting. Then all of a sudden a few people started suggesting that I do it.

Let me be clear. My judgment was not clouded by alcohol or drugs. I can say honestly that I’ve never have done either. But like an idiot, I let them talk me into it.

I had photographed a few rodeos prior so I was confident I could make it to the fence and get out of harm’s way if anything went south. Besides, the steer they were going to use seemed relatively small and therefore — in my mind— harmless.

So, there I was.  The biggest target in the group standing in the middle of a relatively small fenced-in arena wearing black wingtips dressed in a dark blue suit that contrasted nicely with the dust that would soon be flying.

There were three vaqueros in the arena, including one that was coaching me on how to move the cape.

Given my Spanish was extremely limited, his English was non-existent, and gestures he was making were more than confusing, I should have realized it wasn’t going to end well.

 The steer looked bored and kind of just milled around.

My “coach” kept making “scooting” motions with his hands. I took this to mean I should move toward the steer, which I did.

It is one thing to taunt a 350-pound steer waving a red cape. It is another to move toward him while doing it.

It moved backwards until it bumped the fence.

The only thing I remembered after that until I picked myself up off the ground on the other side of the fence was the startled look on the steer’s face, a slightly guttural noise and the steer coming toward me at anything but a leisurely pace.

 The other sounds I heard for what seemed like an eternality but was less than 15 seconds by the time the steer started coming toward me and I was back on my feet on the other side of the fence were gasps, laughter, and the familiar clicking of instamatic camera shutters.

Fast forward a few days.

We’re back at the senator’s spread for a sit down lunch for 200 people in a large barn.

As I’m eating, I’m told the vaqueros wanted to share a bowl of their traditional Sunday meal with me for being a good sport. The name translated into English was “goat’s head stew.”

It was a dark grayish concoction that had an odor that could clear a room. I ate a few spoonfuls  and then one-by-one six vaqueros slapped me on the back.

The smell made people around me nauseous. Not me.

It was horrible, to be honest, but I was having no problem eating anything offered on the trip. This, by the way, was three years before I swore off all meat— and that includes poultry and  fish as well as meat that’s been scrapped of a goat’s skull.

That’s why it was so ironic what happened the next day

It was the last night of the trip in Mexico City. I decided to order a filet mignon at a restaurant. That did it.

By dawn I was 15 or so pounds lighter after what my roommate said was close to 30 trips to the bathroom. They wanted me to go to a hospital but I was getting on the plane.

I figure by then I could make it to Los Angeles without having to use the facilities.

Everything was fine until after we  were in the air after a stop in Guadalajara. Two women had boarded and were seated next to me.

At some point after I had dozed off, they were served coffee. My wakeup call was the adjoining passenger knocking her coffee directly onto my lap.

Yes, I made a rather loud noise.

This brought the stewardesses and prompted everyone behind us to try to see what was going on.

The stewardess had me stand and  motioned for me to move to the aisle, which I did. Then another stewardess handed her a can of club soda.

That is when I learned club soda can help prevent stains from setting.

That wasn’t the worst part.

Given the language barrier, I had no idea what was going on. The stewardess only smiled then put her hand down the front of my slacks with her palm facing forward while the other poured club soda on the fabric as she used a cloth in her other hand  to rub it into the coffee.

Of course, I’m standing looking toward the back of the plane and there are at least six people taking photos like there was no tomorrow.

Rest assured my face was as red as the red eye likely caused by the flash cubes there were going off.

This column is the opinion of editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com