Touring the Big A.

For the most part, I have joined the ranks of the Unhappy Waiters and Killers of Time. Oh God, are there so many of them in our land? Students who can't be happy until they've graduated, servicemen who can't be happy until they are discharged, single folks who can't be happy until they've found a mate, workers who can't be happy until they've retired, adolescents who aren't happy until they're grown, ill people who aren't happy until they're well, failures who aren't happy until they succeed, restless who can't wait until they get out of town, and in most cases, vice versa, people waiting, waiting for the world to begin.

Dan had really changed since our arrival in New York. He doesn't want to do anything. He lies on the couch and hardly gets up off of it only to get coffee and to shit or piss. The arrogance and hostility I feel emanating from John Bourne are becoming intolerable. Obviously, I am not welcome in their little love nest. As a courtesy to them and to retain my sanity, I would venture out into the Big Apple and go touring on my own.

To lighten my mood, I would visit the sights. The vast expanse of Central Park, the magnificence of the Empire State Building, the glitter of Broadway and 42nd Street, and the sidewalk cafes of Greenwich Village. And on Greenwich Village, I found it very dull in comparison to West Hollywood. As I sat in the Stonewall Bar, nursing my cervesa Corona, I looked around and everyone, the old queens and the young clones looked sad and bitter. Again, stateside queer joints give me the horrors.

And the cold! God, it is so very cold! It continues to snow. The five boroughs are blanketed in the stuff. With the remaining few dollars I have, I would pass the time at the movies. The regular movies since the city mayor wiped clean all the porno theaters in the city. It doesn't matter, the guys at the so-called porno shop I visited off of 42nd Street were butt ugly. The people here are so arrogant and unfriendly. Even the pigeons have a bad attitude.

Everything here is jumbo size. There is a three-story McDonald's Restaurant with Internet computers at each table, a Virgin Megastore that takes up a city block, hotels that stretch up into the stratosphere, subway tunnels that the stairwells seem to lead straight down to Hell. The food is good, though. Had a pastrami sandwich at a deli off of Broadway and for the reasonable price it was enough to feed a family back in Tijuana. And the pizzas...the pizzas I must admit are quite toothsome.

However, I shall try to keep a positive attitude. After New Year I will start looking for a job and I will look into that Columbia Film School. Who knows, maybe I will meet the love of my life amid the masses sloshing through this grey colorless city.

If all else fails, does anybody out there need a roommate? I don't eat much and I'm housebroken.

Putting the 'Ho' in Ho-Ho-Ho.

Christmas Day! In New York City! I awoke and looked out my window and saw that it was so beautiful. The sky was grey and snow covered everything...truly a white Christmas! After I washed up, I went downstairs to the parlor where Dan was sitting watching television, smoking a cigarette, and drinking coffee. John was at the market getting food for tonight's dinner. Dan mumbled it was going to be something special. Dan was acting really weird. Well...weirder. He slept with John last night and perhaps it freaked him out...I don't know why? Dan likes old men. Me? I can't stand the quivering old vampires.

John returned and put the ducks in the oven. The day was spent doing nothing. The parlor became enveloped in a thick fog of cigarette smoke as Dan and John continually chained smoke and drank gallons of coffee. All day, even when John got up to prepare dinner, I had to take his vicious insults. I am really beginning to hate that old man. Is his demeanor towards me based on the fact that I won't have sex with him? Is it because he thinks that I may be attracted to Dan? Both of these ideas fill me with repulsed horror. Did I make a mistake coming here? There is nothing worse than living in a place you are not welcome. And if that old bitch calls me Surfer Boy one more time I shall decapitate him with the firewood poker!

John's guests began to arrive. They were an assortment of over-the-hill ham stage actors who would put down the film industry viciously whenever they asked about my hobbies.

"It's a lost art, dear." Shrilled a fat old queen named Casey sporting a bad permed wig. "The true art of expressionism lies in the thee-uh-tuh."

I was getting pretty sauced and acting like I enjoyed these people’s company. In reality, I loathed them. They were a bunch of hack actors performing in pathetic phantoms of once-famous plays. Tomorrow I have to sit through one of these eyesores. You see, John thinks he is a stage director and believes I can learn from his gift. Ugh. So, manana, I will be sitting in on one of his productions.

Anyway, Marty, the old Jew was putting the moves on me in front of everyone. I just glared straight into his beady eyes and snapped, "It's Christmas, Marty. Why are you here? Don't you realize your people killed Jesus?!"

You could have heard a souffle drop. After that, Marty avoided me like the plague. I didn't care. Those snobbish old phonies made me ill. I trudged through dinner (More snaps from John to me for the entertainment of his guests. Thank you.), had a couple of drinks, and then, after excusing myself, retired to my room.

Luckily, my window faces southwest. I looked out of it, squinting to the horizon. Toward Mexico. Enrique. Little Carlos. Ricardo. Pablo. Jose. Are you having a good Christmas? Estrenos muchos, mi amores.

Ne'Yak, Ne'Yak.

New York City. December. Eight thirty in the evening, according to the position of two mechanical hands on an arbitrary dial. Mars was in the House of Virgo, Jupiter was in the House of Values, and Venus was in the House of Pancakes. The weather: hot hokey sewage gas with billows of industrial paranoia blanketed in twinkling snowfall. Manhattan smelt like the litter box for the Kitty of the world. It had twisted its body into the dog shit asana. Close by, but far away, in a world beyond odors, ghosts of the original inhabitants were laughing their feathers off, remembering how they stuck the white devils with this doomed piece of real estate for some very chic beads and a box of Dutch Masters. The Big Apple, polished by Trump spit and shined with the baggy pants of a multitude of Puerto Ricans, was ready for the chomps and nibbles of Party Monsters from everywhere. Junkies were stirring in their warrens, pizzas were stirring in their ovens, Wall Street was resting its bloody asshole, and the Statue of Liberty wearing a frown that would not quit.

Here we were, among these teeming masses, in the greatest city in the world...and I was scared. I was paranoid that Dan's sugar daddy would be jealous of me and not want me in his house. This John Bourne had asked Dan several times via cell phone if Dan and I were lovers. Dan assured me that it would be all right. But, I know how evil queers can be, especially old bitter queers.

I stared wide-eyed out the window of the plane as Manhattan appeared out of the darkness like the Emerald City. It was awesome...breathless...ominous. After we landed and departed from the jet, we grabbed our luggage and hailed a taxi. As we whisked through the city, I found that metropolis very intimidating. The sidewalks were teeming with thousands of people and the buildings towered above you so high that at times I suffered from vertigo. The taxi drove across the Brooklyn Bridge into the neighborhood of Park Slope in Brooklyn Heights. This was a historical district of old brownstone apartments dating back to the 1800's. Dan and I got out, paid the cab, and up the stairs to the main door of John Bourne's house. A small old man answered the door drunk off of his ass. It was John Bourne. He looked a lot like Yoda in an Argyle sweater. We dropped our gear in the hall and were led upstairs to the parlor. John was having a little cocktail party with a couple of friends. John was all gaga over Dan smooching and hugging him for about ten minutes.

"Sit down, dear, do sit down. Take a load off of those lovely tootsies. Yes, sit right there. Would you fancy some sherry?" The decanter John lifted was dusty on the outside, sticky empty on the inside; a stiff fly lay feet up on its lip. "Shit oh goodness, I'm all out of sherry...how about some ripple?" He reached into the midget refrigerator beside his desk and removed a bottle of pop wine. After a shameful amount of effort, he tore loose its cap and filled two sherry glasses.

"You know what ripple is, don't you? It's Kool-Aid with a hard-on! Hee hee!" Though he was a proper old queen, the fussy mannerisms were broken by that grating accent of Ne'Yak.

The other two socialites that were there was Jim, a middle-aged hippie who looked like the sixties were really good to him. He worked for an advertising agency in upper Manhattan. He said he was leaving soon for Tampa, Florida to do some photo shoots on the beach. The other was Marty, a seventy-eight-year-old Jew whom I can't recall ever seeing sober. He took a liking to me but I was so cold to him. The man was thin and grey with pinpoint eyes, the prison shadows in them like something dead.

Dan was right about John's house. He referred to it as the Bourne Museum. A three-story brownstone, the house was a collection of old, tattered dusty antiques. I saw them as junk, Dan accused me of being uncultured. I just know junk when I see it.

The night progressed. The elders got drunk as John pawed on Dan. As I tried to be pleasant, John would scowl and give me sour looks. Refer to me as 'The Surfer Boy'. Marty would breathe rotten gin and halitosis into my appalled face; staring blankly at my crotch when he spoke mostly incoherently to me.

Eventually around three in the morning, I was shown to my room where I unpacked and went to sleep. It was an okay little room with a single bed, an armoire, and a little window that overlooked the snow-covered garden. At least it has a small table and chair to put my laptop on so I can work.

A ver.

3000 Feet over Graceland.

Hey, Merry Christmas, have a great New Year and remember, kids, Big Brother is still watching you! Here I sit on this here jet, clicking away at this lap top, watered down whiskey and coke next to me, and my foil Dan asleep, drooling on his complimentary pillow. What awaits me in the Big Apple? I am still a little hesitant, I mean Dan did rip John Bourne off of thousands of dollars with his credit cards. I wouldn't be surprised if that distinguished gentleman met us at the door armed with a sawed off double barrel shot gun. Well, to quote the great explorer Major Grubert: What was meant to happen will happen. I shall sleep the rest of this trip and try not to worry of such things. Son cosas de la vida.

Even Cockjunkies get the Blues.

So, as of this writing here I find myself at the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. Our flight to New York City leaves in a little over an hour. Dan is at the bar downing whisky sours, happy as a little girl. Wait, I guess I should explain how Dan and I arrived at this point.

Well, if I must...Roll the film!!

Yesterday, it had already become dark and the streets were teeming with drunken revelers throwing beads everywhere. The cool thing about Bourbon Street is that you can drink in public. Dan and I meandered to several bars, loud with tourists. We visited several titty bars for the sake of Dan; I found them utterly boring. Dan said he'd compromise and visit a gay bar with me. At the time I had no idea virtually every bar in the French Quarter was queer. There are several queer bars so full every night that the fags spill out onto the sidewalk. A room full of fags gives me the horrors. They jerk around like puppets on invisible strings, galvanized into a hideous activity that is the negation of everything living and spontaneous. The live human beings moved out of these bodies long ago. The fag sits in a bar nursing his beer and uncontrollably yapping out of a rigid doll face. Creepy.

The first bar we visited was called The Round Up. It was basically a neighborhood bar filled with hustlers and rich old queens chasing them. The other clients that inhabited the place, and every other bar in the Quarter, were the transvestites. New Orleans has its own special breed of Drag Queen. These tired old bitches didn't even attempt to look pretty. Crooked wigs, running makeup, smeared eyeliner, dirty dresses, rotten teeth, and facial hair were the norm with these gargoyles. Dan and I sat there and each had a beer. Dan and I soon became quite the popular ones. Dan's chiseled Hollywood looks and my Teen-Beat cover boy face wowed all the smooth-talking daddies there. Guys kept buying us beers, pawing Dan, asking a thousand questions. The men’s room in the joint was a virtual Roman Orgy. Dan would be escorted to the lady’s room by various Amazonian-sized Drag Queens for a "quickie". I, myself, could never come to have sex with a transvestite. I like men too much to be with a pseudo-woman.

An old drunken vampire that resembled Mickey Rooney sat next to Dan. He threw his chubby little arm around Dan's neck and proclaimed slobbishly, "I like this one!"

A handsome young black guy sat next to me and we struck up a conversation. He talked me into going to the local bathhouse nearby and I agreed, by the way, Dan's a big boy...he can handle himself. Once there, the black guy tried to pay at the door with his credit card but it was maxed out. As he screamed and barked at the bored-looking attendant behind the window, I quietly slipped out and snuck back to the bar.

I found Dan surrounded by transvestites and I said I wanted to visit more bars. The bartender told us of a good one with male go-go dancers called The Side Pocket. Dan agreed to come with, so a little drunk we stumbled the two blocks or so to the bar.

The Side Pocket was packed. The music pumped as boys gyrated on the bar completely naked. All around us was every type of sleaze imaginable. Old grey bloated daddies in leather G-strings fluttered around. Muscle men would flex as queens would screech and coo over them. Tired southern fags whirled around in feathers, furs, and fluff. A guy was being blown on the pool table. In the restroom boys getting butt fucked occupied both stalls. All this to a psychotic tribal beat blasting from the speakers. Dan and I ordered a drink and stood there watching the show.

"Ewwww!!!"

"What is it, Dan?"

"That guy that was standing behind me just jacked off onto my arm!"

I caught a glimpse of a fat balding man in a tan Members Only jacket standing behind Dan. When he caught my eye, he sank into the murky depths of the bar. As Dan wiped his arm with a napkin, I ordered more beers. All types of horny faggots prowled around us like aroused Tom cats; buying us drinks and inquiring where we were from.

I got really fucked up. I vaguely remember Dan grabbing my arm and saying, "Let's go!" Then being poured into the back seat of a car and driving somewhere. When I woke up, I was lying fully clothed on the floor in a hotel room. Dan was on the bed--completely naked--vomiting into the ice bucket. I squinted around bleary-eyed and hungover.

"Where the fuck are we?" I looked outside and saw sunshine and pine trees. We definitely were not in the city.

Dan was doing the big spit again. "Oh, God...oh, man. I can't believe I did that!”

"What? Did what?"

“I fucked Jabba the Hutt." He rolled over and puked up transparent liquid.

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. He related that at the club last night he met this chef, who weighed about 400lbs and offered him quite a bit of money to have sex with him. I was drunk off of my so they just dragged me along. Dan went into sordid details of what that sick sea cow had him do. It was truly perverted. A leather mask, a candle, twine, and lots of anal lubricant was involved.

"How much did he give you?" I asked, still conscious of our transportation problem.

Jabba gave him four hundred dollars. That was cool to me. The question was why were we in a hotel room in Lincoln, Louisiana? That's a small town about thirty miles north of New Orleans.

Dan assured me that Jabba was going to return for us after he fed his horses on some ranch he claimed to own. Jabba did show up and Holy jumpin' jigglin' Jesus was he fat!! After taking us to lunch (First-time experience with gumbo...deelish!!) Jabba made some excuses and split. We never saw him again. We waited at that restaurant in Lincoln for three fucking hours! I got sick off of all the bowls of gumbo that I ate. It was getting late, and after learning that no bus route went through town, we had no choice but to hitchhike. Passing some black children gawking at the two honkies invading their turf, we headed to the road that lead south to New Orleans.

Dan knew the art of hitchhiking and had his thumb out as we walked under the evergreen-lined road. It was pretty quick to get a ride. This old queen who claimed to own a restaurant in New Orleans picked us up. It seems that everybody in that fucking city is a chef! He couldn't take us all the way, so he dropped us off at the beginning of that bridge that spans Lake Pontchartrain. Dan and I sat in a Waffle House wondering how we were going to get across, it was banned to pedestrians. Another old guy who was obviously queer listened to us as we bitched to the unsympathetic waitress; offered us a ride to the Greyhound in New Orleans.

Dan and I were pretty bummed out once we got to the bus station. I told Dan if he could work a miracle, I'd be one happy cowboy. I went into the men’s room and when I came back out, Dan was finishing up a conversation on the cell phone with John Bourne in Manhattan. Dan looked at me.

"You wanted a miracle? There are two tickets at the airport waiting for us. We leave tonight."

I snapped my fingers and pointed at Dan, "Rockin' good news!"

So, after a cab ride here we are awaiting our flight.

New York City...here I come!!!

Across the Great desert and into the Big Easy.

As of this writing, I am sitting a block off of Bourbon St. at a sidewalk Internet cafe in downtown New Orleans. Dan is sitting adjacent to me fuming over what happened about an hour ago. He hasn't touched his Po'boy sandwich. Larry is no longer in the picture.

Let me explain:

Yesterday morning we pulled out of Tucson very early. We slept well in the hotel and were all well-rested. I explained to Larry that I did not want to stop until we got to New Orleans, he said fine. So we chugged for hours across the Great Southwest Desert and I tell you it can drag you down with its monotonous boredom. And the U.S. drag closes around you like no other drag in the world, worse than the west Texas high mountain towns of El Paso, cold wind blows down from postcard mountains, the frigid air like death in the throat, river towns of the Rio Grande, vultures pecking through the mud streets.

But there is no drag like U.S. drag. You can't see it; you don't know where it comes from. A vast subdivision, antennae of television to the meaningless sky...passing suburb after suburb. America is not a young land; it is old and dirty and evil. Before the settlers, before the Indians.

The evil is there waiting.

I started to already feel homesick from Mexico.

On through the peeled landscape, dead armadillos in the road and vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps. Motels with beaverboard walls, gas heaters, and pink blankets. Motel...motel...motel...broken arabesques...loneliness moans across the continent like foghorns over still, oily waters of black rivers.

The evening finally fell upon us when we hit San Antonio. The stars were bright on that moonless night. It was about this time that Larry informed us that he didn't have a driver’s license and the car wasn't registered in his name. The car was his father's and he had stolen it before he left Ohio. This really pissed me off. Dan didn't have a driver’s license. I didn't have a driver’s license and we were passing through San Antonio at midnight with all types of red-neck nigger killing sheriffs swooping around us! I sat in my seat, knuckles white and a growing fear that some patrolling cop would pull us over for just having the balls to drive that rattling eyesore at night. Soon the questions would spill out and after running those illegal tags, I would be tossed into jail! Branded for GTA. My cute white ass passed around cell-to-cell, being used for currency. A long night of fear as we glided out of the city limits and into the starry blackness of the open road. After that experience, the day broke and we still weren't out of Texas.

We hit the yahoo capital of Houston around nine that morning and that fucking car needing gas every twenty-five or thirty miles. This trip took more of my money than I thought.

We finally rolled out of Texas and into Louisiana. In Lake Charles, we stopped at a Waffle House for breakfast. I sat there steaming mad as Dan and Larry ate in silence. Dan assured me that when we reached New York I'd be making more money than I could possibly imagine. Right.

After breakfast, we continued our trek. When you come into Lake Pontchartrain across from New Orleans there is this twenty-five-mile-long bridge crossing it. First over swamps with moss-covered trees and crocodiles lying in the sun on little islands; then onto the great lake itself. Of course, halfway across, we ran out of gas. I went ballistic. We just gassed up before crossing the bridge and this big shark was gobbling up all my money!

Earlier, as a convenience to motorists that were in our situation, we noticed a van that passed around handing out free gas on the bridge. It of course was nowhere to be seen when we cocked out. I was forced to use the highway service phone and to my greatest horror, the police answered it. They said they'd be out in twenty minutes to help us in the stolen car with no I.D. and no license or insurance.

It was time to be cool as the squad car approached from behind. A lady cop came out and asked what the problem was. I informed her in a nervous squeaky voice that we ran out of gas. Dan and Larry waited in the car as she offered to take me to the nearest gas station to fill our gas can. I sat in the squad car, knuckles white, as she ran the plates. She casually asked whom the car belonged to and I said Larry Colckek. The plates were in his father's name. After I filled the gas can with a short lecture on drinking responsibly, the cop dropped me off back at the car and sped away.

That's all I could take. I blew up at Larry, screaming at him the whole way into town. When we reached a small park, his car staggered again, hungry for gas. I beat the living crap out of Larry, grabbed my bag, and with Dan in tow, marched away and down a moss-covered tree-lined street.

"What are we going to do now? You beat up our ride." Dan asked meekly.

"Don't worry! We will find a cheap motel downtown and things will work out from there!" my face was twisted in hatred and contempt.

We spent most of the afternoon looking for cheap lodging. But to no avail. We finally stored our bags in pay-by-day lockers at the Greyhound bus station and decided to spend the evening in the French Quarter.

After a short ride on one of the famous streetcars, we made it to Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. New Orleans presents a stratified series of ruins. Along Bourbon Street are the ruins of the 1920s. Down where the French Quarter blends into skid row are the ruins of an earlier stratum: chili joints, voodoo huts, decaying hotels, old-time saloons with mahogany bars, spittoons, and crystal chandeliers. The ruins of 1900.

There are people in New Orleans who have never been out of the city limits. The New Orleans accent is very similar to the accent of Brooklyn. The French Quarter is always crowded. Tourists, servicemen, merchant seamen, gamblers, perverts, drifters, and lamsters from every State in the Union. People wander around, unrelated, and purposeless, most of them looking vaguely sullen and hostile. This is a place where I can enjoy myself. I bet even the criminals have come here to relax and cool off.

Well, Dan wants to go walking around. I hope the queer bars here aren't a drag.

fumble for a cigarette

What a fucking day! I am so tired, but I feel that I must continue writing. I guess I should start at the beginning... This morning around 7 a.m., Dan Cokenhour and I grabbed the little luggage we had. I left the keys to my apartment with my trusted neighbor and we hailed a Taxi Libre to the border. After being processed by customs, Dan and I took the trolley to the 12th and Imperial station to meet this Larry character. Not thirty minutes later, as I departed at the station, a scrawny bespectacled kid in outdated '70s retro clothes one size too big approached Dan and me. We shook hands and said our greetings. "Hey", Larry said. "I'm really looking forward to this trip. Have you mapped it out yet?" "No...not really." Stated Dan flatly. "But, how hard is it to find New York?" I looked drearily around. "Where's your car?" Larry guided us around the corner to the public parking lot. I stopped in my tracks. "What a piece of junk!" I stared. Sitting in the bright morning sun was a multicolored '73 Oldsmobile. It had huge rust holes in the sides the size of my fist. The floorboards were missing and patched with cardboard, so if your feet went through the flimsy floor you would be doing that Flintstones thing on the freeway. The car was over-crammed with smelly junk and reeked of gasoline and burnt oil. Larry stood next to it, smiling. "Hey, it may not look like much...but'll get us to where we are going." Dan smiled and I rolled my eyes and just groaned. The Millennium Falcon it was not. Dan piled into the back seat, horizontal because there were no floorboards back there either. I rode shotgun. On this brisk day in December, we pulled out of the parking lot, and from a loud bang from the rattling muffler we were off. Weaving along the highway outside San Diego, we three joked and made light the situation. Finding Interstate 8, we decided to go east to Tucson, Arizona, and check out the scene there. Larry sat behind the wheel like a lazy predator. I asked him what his story was and he told me. He was aimlessly touring around the southwest from Ohio. He had a fascination with Indian artifacts and their culture. The fact that he was only nineteen made me wary. Or so he claimed. He had jet-black curly hair and looked like an emaciated junkie. I don't trust him Eventually, the trees of California gave way to countryside that was flat and arid. Beautiful mountain ranges feathered the horizon. Old cars rusted black among the brush, brick houses crumbling under corrugated iron roofs housing nothing but rattlesnakes and ghosts of cowboys from the frontier days. We passed long-forgotten gas stations rusting from decades in the unrelentless sun. Rest stops that varied from one western theme to the next; adobe, tee pees, forts. One thing that was constant was paper bags. The brown paper bag which is a staple of the highway vista is the only thing that civilized man has produced that does not seem out of place with nature. Crumpled into a wad of wrinkles, like the fossilized brain of a dryad; looking weathered; seeming slow and rough enough to be the product of natural evolution; its brownness the low-key brown of potato skin and peanut shell--dirty but pure; it's kinship to tree obscured by the crush of industry; absorbing the elements like any other organic entity; blending with rock and vegetation as if it were a burrowing owl's doormat or a jack rabbits underwear; a No. 8 Kraft paper bag lay discarded on the plains of West Arizona--and appeared to live where it lay. Of course, the brown paper bag faced extinction to its bastard cousin, the plastic shopping bag. And I won't go into the evils of that chemicalized demon and its contribution to nature. Along the way and very early on in this trip, Larry had become a very annoying person. Maybe it was his high-pitched nasal voice or the obvious lies he continued to spill forth. whatever it was it was irritating. Dan continued to make jokes of his mental illness and the fact that he left his medication back in Tijuana. "More lithium, please!!" Dan would yell out in intervals and then burst into uncontrolled laughter. Traveling through the vast expanse that is West Arizona; out where tall birds wade in a lake named after Indians. out where the deer and the antelope play. Out where the starlight had no enemies and the badland winds had no friends. Out where the boogie stopped and the woogie began. Late afternoon we roll into Tucson, Arizona. Under the blast of a vibrant blue sky and dazzling sun, the pueblo of Tucson hummed with hipster activity. Coffee shops, used record stores stood plastered with garage band fliers and notices of art shows... ...a three-foot fag with a blond pompadour stands in the entrance to a hair salon smiling moronically, wringing small stubby hands, "How do?"... Drunken Indians shuffle through Ronstadt Station waving away attacks of phantom cowboys under the red flicker of the Hotel Congress, the hub of homosexual hipness...homeless teens play hacky sack outside the Mayor’s Office as El Primo peers through closed blinds with silent insect lust...Tall cacti and angular rock formations set the backdrop for a Road Runner cartoon. We checked into the Hotel Congress, an ancient pile of stone dating back to the frontier days. For fifty bucks a room, we get no television. The three of us showered and went down to the restaurant and had dinner. It seems Tucson is teeming with queers, or maybe it's just this restaurant because they are making up a good percentage of the clientele. While I ate my chicken salad, Dan ordered a hamburger and Larry threw down an order of pasta, Dan asked what was next. I suggested let's follow Interstate 10 to New Orleans and check it out, we have plenty of time. So, after dinner, Dan and Larry decided to walk around downtown and here I sit in the computer room in the hotel. I guess all is fine. I am having my doubts. But, unlike Lot's wife, I'm not looking back. I kinda miss Tijuana...but, I think I will really love New York. And I think I will really get a kick out of New Orleans; I've always wanted to go there. But, tomorrow we leave early, so's I'm going to bed...

Dark Occurence

Well, I had been laid off from my job by a frigid tyrannical dried-up lesbian cooze without a sense of humor. Looks like I have some time on my hands. I checked the old bank account and decided to take a much-needed vacation. I'll hold off job hunting until the beginning of next year.

A couple of days ago, I was sitting in Park Igniente Guererro a block from my apartment. The park is a notorious cruise spot and I decided to go "Buffalo Hunting". As I was basking in the warm sun, I looked up to see Dan Cokenour approaching me. I couldn't believe my eyes. I let out a roaring laugh.

Who is Dan Cokenour, you ask? An old traveling companion, we worked in a roaming carnival a few years back and traveled the mid-west causing all types of mayhem. Dan looked like a young version of that actor Ed Harris, a chiseled-jawed Aryan with blond hair and blue eyes. Dan is quite a character. To keep a reign on his demons he downed a handful of prescribed medication each day. Like myself, he had the unique gift of gab. He used to wow me with his wild tales of misadventures starting years ago in his hometown of Gary, Indiana, and spanning the country. When I first met him, he had spent the last few years working in a traveling carnival as a game jockey. He talked me into joining him and that turned into an incredible odyssey!

So, yesterday we sat in the Park watching the parade of hot guys and he related his story of how he dumped his transvestite boyfriend Aaron in a cornfield in the middle of Illinois because she became a psychopathic nightmare. He now has a sugar daddy in New York City, and with his sugar daddy's stolen charge cards, lived the life of Riley down in Guadalajara, Mexico for six months! However, the old man is still madly in love with Dan and keeps in constant touch via a cell phone he purchased for Dan. I conveyed my mad adventures since I last saw Dan in New Orleans. Dan said he now resided at the Rescue Mission in San Diego and that he wanted to return to school and learn computers. I said my interests were still in cinema.

After the last couple of nights hosting Dan in the bars of Tijuana, I invited him to come crash at my apartment and that's when he planted an idea in my mind. His sugar daddy really misses him and wants Dan to move back to New York City so they can live in geriatric bliss. Dan invited me to come along. The house in New York had an extra bedroom and Dan suggested I study film at Columbia University in Brooklyn. The old man, name of John Bourne, said over the phone that he didn't mind. So, plans were made that I go to New York City and give it a try. Sure, why not.

The last two nights with Dan were fun. Dan and I would go to Bar Villa Garcia or Bar El Tourino and we would always score for boys. We would take them back to my apartment for a manage a toi.

Dan and I would sit in a bar and when a handsome boy would approach us (or I would strike up a conversation.) we asked the guy if he would like a sandwich.

"Que?" He would smile.

I'd point at Dan and myself and say, "Pan." And then point at the hottie, "Y tu es el carne." And the guy would then smile coyly.

I know it sounds cheesy, but the guys never said no. And the three times we attempted this, we'd lure the poor guy back to my place and Dan and would go porno on his ass!

But, today, as Dan went to the States for some goofball reason, I ran around to friends selling the various personal items I had acquired during my stay here in Tijuana. My television, stereo, furnishings, and kitchen appliances. I don't care. I'm never coming back to this part of the country again. I packed my clothes, my laptop, and photo albums. Kevin came over and I told him I would edit the movie we had worked on when I got to New York and send him a copy when I was done. We both had a rum and coke and said goodbye, then I gave him my martini set.

A Gay Christmas with Hector.

Was walking through downtown Tijuana late afternoon about 4:30, the fog was thick and the streets bustled with shoppers culminating in a frenzy of consumerism when I ran into my old friend Hector. Handsome in his grey turtleneck and black leather jacket, always the sharp dresser. He was coming out of Dorian's department store with several bags full of Christmas cheer. We popped into a cafe nearby and over double mocha espresso went about with whatever happened to so-and-so. He invited me to a Christmas party at one of the big houses on the hill. It was a very elegant hacienda with hanging gardens and water fountains and red mosaic tile owned by an old rich American and his ancient nelly Mexican lover. Two piss ass well-to-do old queens. The party turned out to be this big social event complete with a live Mariachi band. The guests were all rich Mexican lawyers, doctors, and such. I don't know how Hector knew these two old love birds, but I'm guessing the old Mexican was his uncle or cousin or something on the family tree. I think his name was Kiki or Fufu or Nuni? But, the goofy thing was that Hector was acting bitchy towards him all night and I don't know what he did to upset him. All of us were drinking pretty heavily; this old Mexican queer in tight black clothes with a red pompadour was fan-dancing to mariachi music as the guests giggled and cheered him on. Hector glared at Uncle Fufu with obvious distaste. It was a very elegant party, and being the only gringo there I was the center of attention. These old vampires cooed and purred around me like aroused tom cats. But I really became drunk and caused a scene. At some point, this regal-assed Countess of Tabasco or Xtelopec or something showed up. She was a grand old thing that apparently was liked by everyone. I had no idea who this shriveled-up lady was. She clopped around in diamond-sparkled grandeur greeting and socializing with all that met her gaze. "It is the custom to kiss the Countess' hand in greeting." I was told by one of the old liver spotted fags that stood next to me. "I'd kiss her cunt if it were proper etiquette." I quipped drunk off of I don't know how many tequila shots and I think she heard me. The rest of the night people avoided me like the plague. Around two in the morning, the party was over and the guests left. Hector and I were invited to stay the night and we were shown to our room. It was a fags dream bedroom. Gold gilded furnishings with purple velvet curtains and a huge Victorian-style overstuffed bed complete with purple silk canopy covering the bed. I felt like freakin' Liberace! The old Uncle Fufu tucked us in and kissed us goodnight. (Ever had an eighty-year-old quivering queer slobber on your cheek? Disturbing.) Uncle Fufu then turned out the lights. Hector turned to me and gave me a kiss on the lips. "I like you." He said and smiled. "Hey, skinny, wanna screw?" I looked up into those big brown eyes. "Okay." That night, as fireworks exploded in the distance in celebration of the Virgin Guadalupe, Hector and I lay under the same stars, under the same clouds, under the same blankets, under the same spell. Like political candidates, we frequently switched positions. In the campaign of 69, the polls didn't close until dawn. As dawn's famous rosy fingers grasped the life preserver of the horizon, the early birds rising overheard Hector say, "Every time I tell you I love you, you flinch. But, that's your problem." He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. Answered I, "If I flinch when you tell me you love me that's both our problems." (Cue the music!) The rest of the day we slept in each other’s arms. At 11:30, Uncle Fufu came into our room and served us breakfast on a silver tray. It was juice, fruit, and toast. Hector demanded coffee. I wonder why Hector hated him so? Around three in the afternoon, I bid my farewell and took a Taxi Libre home.

a languid afternoon in the park

 

Plaza Santa Cecilia.

It was a cold day yesterday. I was bored and decided to go to a bar and maybe meet someone after that train wreck with Alfredo.

So, I dressed in my black leather coat, black jeans, grey shirt, and Kenneth Cole boots and walked downtown to Plaza Santa Cecilia. Plaza Santa Cecilia is the meeting place, the nerve center, the switchboard of gay Tijuana. Virtually every fag in town shows up there at least once a day. Many a gay resident of Tijuana spends most of their waking hours in The Plaza. On all sides you see hustlers from all over Mexico washed up there in a hopeless, dead-end situation, waiting for job offers, acceptance checks, visas, and permits that will never come. All their lives they have drifted on an unlucky current, always taking a wrong turn. Here they are. This is it. The last stop: Plaza Santa Cecilia.

There in The Plaza is the notorious bar Villa Garcia. It is well known for its seediness and blatant cruising of homosexuals and rough hustlers. A hotbed of American pedophiles and drug addicts. The interior is a long low-ceiling room. On one side is a long bar tended by two tough lesbians. On the other side of the bar are old rickety metal chairs and tables where sex and drugs are bought with indifference. There is a jukebox that plays the same tunes over and over again. And in the middle, the main floor where hustlers and queens stand and pose gazing out with probing insect lust. The restroom is a virtual bathhouse in which drugs flow as easily as the piss. Oral sex is openly common back there. There is a little dance floor that caters to strippers and tired drag shows. Oh, and you can dance on it if one felt inclined.

As I found a seat and settled into a drunken stupor with a cold caguama Sol, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. It was Hector R., an old friend staring at me out of the smoke-choked darkness. He smiled, got up, and approached me. We shook hands. Hector was tall and skinny, sporting a black pencil-thin mustache.

"My, God, Hector! How have you been?" I blurted over the deafening disco beat.

"Bueno, amigo, bueno." Hector put his arm around me and led me over to his table. "Please join me and my friends."

At his table was an assortment of the biggest transvestites I'd ever seen! They ranged from six foot two and up! After the introductions, I sat down next to Hector and enjoyed the company of an old friend and four huge Drag Queens. We all had a ball; we joked and laughed and danced. Sasha, this titanic mess of a blue sequined drag (If you took Anna Nichole Smith, held her underwater for three hours, and when she came up gasping for air - that is what Sasha looked like.) Well, Sasha was high and would not keep her hands off of me, which was a little annoying. Then, from the bowels of her costume, she pulled out a bag of cocaine.

I smiled at Sasha, lifting my wrist up to her, "May I sample your wares?"

Sasha tried to focus on me through fluttering fucked up eyes. She handed me her little baggie.

Snort---Wheeee!!!

The beer and tequila and cocaine flowed and everyone got pleasantly toasted. Around four in the morning, we all said goodbye and I took a Taxi Libre home. It was good seeing Hector again and he was as handsome as ever. I first met Hector when I moved to Tijuana so long ago, it seems. I had a schoolgirl crush on him then. He always has a smile and never a bad word about anybody. He was always a beacon of light in the darkness that enveloped me. Maybe if I play my cards right...? He owned his own beauty salon and invited me over someday for a haircut. I've been in such a slump lately and it is good-natured people like Hector that make life all worth it, you know?