Black Fire.

Met some young hipster train jumpers hanging out down at a local coffee house near the tracks. Wanted to size up some citizens to get real and write. Prostitutes with itchy scabs and purple scars, convicts with nervous furtive glances, and drab hobos sit dunking pound cake with the smell of sour feet and unwashed genitals. Good taste in music. Johnny Cash. Santa Fe art dons the peeled walls.
You know how old people lose all shame about eating, and it makes you sick to watch them? Old junkies are the same about junk. They jibber and squeal at the sight of it, the spit hangs off their chin, their stomach rumbles and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook up, dissolving the body’s decent skin, you expect any moment a great blob of protoplasm will plop right out and surround the junk. Really disgusts you to see it.
So's I meet this one cat, Billy he says, blond sandy hair, skin red and toughened and wrinkled by years of exposure to the elements, not an old guy...but handsome. The smell of locker rooms and flop houses. In the men’s room, he is shooting up with his Indian and asks "Wanna bang?"
"Naw. Cut that crap eons ago."
Pinpoints in his eyes and he slumps against the wall, shoulder sliding down against white grimy tile, t-shirt clinging. Dragged down by the pull of junk. The Indian, toothless old woman smile takes the spike, and jabs. The Indian is down for the count. I stood there with the cooler system clacking in a foul-smelling bathroom, slowly toking my joint as I watched Billy and the Indian go on the nod with dreamful nostalgia.
Ted, tall and could be a model with raven hair and jagged looks, enters in swishing of a long black trench coat and searches through Billy's pockets for the stash. Wouldn't you? He looks up at me with steel blue eyes, "That greedy fucker shot it all?" I shrugged, watching a large cockroach skitter across a drainpipe. Beer got warm and strictly from boredom I returned to the bar. Savage Charlie, a man of the grossest dimensions sidles up to me and puts down the faggot patter. Compliments. Free booze. I gots lots of cash, he grins with his cherub smile. Lose 150 lbs. and we'll talk. So quiet between us after that. Song changes. Sunday Morning, by Pat Boone. What asshole played that? Oh, yeah...me.
An Indian from the Rez enters the fray. Tall and lean and a face so smooth and pure. Jet black hair and warm brown eyes. Torn black jeans and a black t-shirt with a white wolf on it. Goes by the moniker Lester. Guess you can't win them all. Still striking and lovely at the same time for a guy of twenty-one.
"You new here?" He asks, ordering his Bud Lite. I drank Corona. I go into my spiel and we jibber-jabber of Mexico, the Rez (Indian reservation, for you uneducated.), and the glories of marijuana. "You like good weed; I got some back at the rez. We can take my car." I see where this is leading. Flop into his Hyundai, rattling fender and coughing muffler, we shoot south to Injun territory. He lives with his uncle and little brother in a trailer surrounded by dirt and cacti and old rusted cars. Out back of the blue and white mobile home, we sit next to a shed on crates and junk and smoke the sweetest herb I have ever enjoyed.
Discussing literature and the decline of Western Civilization, the sun sets crimson behind the mountains in a glorious blast of fury. As the stars twinkle, Lester steals a kiss and it doesn't go further than that. We talk more and giggle and joke and toke. Chatter of Science Fiction and homosexuality. He says he likes white boys and would like to "do it". Wouldn't you? In the shed, fumble, kiss, masturbate. Blowing Lester, penis was short and uncut, he comes quickly in great hot spurts and apologizes. Don't worry, handsome, I smile. Long ride back to town, I shared a hamburger and my fries. Just Breathe croons Melissa Etheridge, and I do.
Never had an Indian until today. I shower and go to bed high and happy.

The Rarebit Fiend.

Had a strange dream. It was so vivid. I used to keep a dream journal, but for the longest time, I would wake up and not remember a thing. Not this time, my oompa-loompas, so away we go:

I was living in my parents house in Georgia with my co-worker Jason from the job I have now. Jason is this Aryan hottie of nineteen. He also, in the dream, was a veterinarian. So, he told me that a rich old couple was bringing over their cat so he can check it out.

Now enter the three other roommates. The first was an seventy year old midget in black and then the guy who played Lurch in the 60's T.V. show of The Addams Family. Except he didn't wear a tux, he was decked out in a grey plaid shirt and khakis. The third guy was some anorexic junky hobo who I seemed to fear the most. Unshaven, rotted teeth, smelly torn clothes.

So, the elderly couple arrive, a fat lady in white evening gown and jewels and the balding man in a dark green velvet suit. We said our hellos and the midget asked if Jason and I would go into the kitchen and get drinks for the guests. Which I found odd. I didn't trust those strange roommates.

In the kitchen, it is dark outside and when I look out out the window, I see Lurch dragging the old woman and man, who are bound and gagged, into the barn, followed by the midget. The way was lit by a naked bulb hanging from a wire. Other than that it was very dark.

I tell Jason and let him know that I am going into town to notify the police. In town, I am paranoid that the midget and the scrawny hobo are following me, so I casually meander into a Mexican outdoor market and then into the Greyhound bus to inquire about prices to I can't remember where.

I was so scared, from these two guys that I woke up.

Work went by slow today. Except for when this real fat girl fell of her bike across the street. And, yes, she jiggled when she hit pavement. Fat girls are funny. I have decided to return to Tijuana. Purchased my plane ticket online. I can not wait...well, I guess I will. So, soon Borrowed Flesh will be back on the air.

I want to make a website about Tijuana. There is one, though it is straight, it is very well done and informative. They mention Kin-kle in it...one of my favorite bars. Go here and check it out. www.chicachica.net. It is under the section on bars. He warns of Amazonian drag queens feeling you up as you enter the door. Yup, that's Kin-kle. I have a fellow blogger, Chris in San Francisco who would get just all giddy over the hardcore trannies in this joint.

Again, Tucson is gotten blah, so nothing to write about. Birthday today. Called some friends long distance. Why did I leave the ones that meant so much to me? I sit here staring at this screen, sipping my whiskey sour...ho-hum. Maybe I will go to the gay bar in this town. But, it is such a drag. Surrounded by Abercrombie and fitch clones and leering old queens. No, a quite night indoors sounds like a better option.

Mugwump junky.

Well, two things, first I am a little blue because tomorrow it will be my birthday and I shall be spending it alone in a desert town. Got the bum kicks, y'all. Even Gloria Swanson can't dig me out of this one, Jose. However, a comment from south of the border has set my mind in motion. As of today, I have given my one weeks notice to my manager and on the 3rd of April I shall be moving back into Mexico. A co-worker has decided to purchase the meager furnishings I have bought over the three months. I have not made my mind up yet, Tijuana or Cuidad Juarez. Both have their sinful charms...I have more friends in Juarez, though.

Wait. You don't know? Oh, that's right...how could you. You came in on the second act. Before I slid up into Tijuana's ass, I had lived in Cuidad Juarez on the border of El Paso, Texas for many years. From El Paso, I ventured out and did my five year globe trotting with Dan Cokenhour before flopping into San Diego, asshole bloody and beaten. What adventures those were, kids!

And so, perhaps living in those urban wastelands will get the creative juices oozing once again and perhaps getting some kicks here and there in between. I am really looking forward to the trip, Tucson has become somewhat of a snore factory. And everyone is just so unattractive!

Juarez City is high on the flagpole right now, though El Paso is a human void, the Mexican side is quite the party town. Boys, booze, and dope flow freely and with apathy. I can live out my retirement dream and save enough money to open a gay bar in a Central or South American country.

I shall call it The Screaming Whore.

Sabado noche en Tucson.

After work, I decided to go and cruise the local porno theater. Perhaps I have low self-esteem. Perhaps I was just horny. The fact that I'm pretty damn lonely doesn't help either. Anyway, it was a magical time because of all the faeries and the trolls doing their ballet through the theater. The local inhabitants here are a sorry-looking bunch. Cruised by nothing but oldie moldies, I watched the movie, which was a wacky episode of Bang Bus. Porno lunacy.
As I left even more frustrated than before I arrived, I stood at the bus stop and as I waited, a freaking transvestite on a beach cruiser bike flew by in the darkness. Black dress, blue wig, black horn-rimmed glasses, red garter belt outside the dress, and old-style black high-top sneakers. I hummed The Witch's theme from The Wizard of Oz as she whisked by.
Kooky.
Anyhoo, saw The Ring Two. The couple in the row summed it up best, the guy started snoring. What a yawn fest. The first was far better. Just for kicks and giggles, saw Be Cool. It was entertaining. Great cast and had a few laughs, especially The Rock and Vince Vaughn were both funny. As were Andre 3000 and Cedric the Entertainer. (Great speech on racial tolerance!)
Ran into David on the bus again, he said Hi and I mumbled my response. He offered me some of his cheesecake and I accepted. How can you turn down cheesecake? It was the longest bus ride downtown, though. He said his wife, kid, and himself were shacking up in a tramp motel. Downtown, shook hands and parted. Went home feeling the faggot blues.
Blech.

Hillbilly Children and a spun lezbo dwarf.

Never talk of work much, cause it’s a drag. Work usually is. Nothing really goes on. What can I say, I am a sassy front desk agent at the largest hotel chain in the world. I had to work Friday night because one of the blubbery women I work with came down with The Curse or some other insidious female infirmary. Thank little baby Jesus I was born a man!
There is a national basketball playoff going on at the University near here, so the hotel was sold out. So, my night consisted mostly of turning tired travelers away. The only things that made the night interesting were the lesbian midget and the hillbilly kids.
Ready? Here ya go...
Was standing there admiring my reflection in the window when this small SUV came hurtling up the parkway and screeched to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. With steam pouring out of the engine, the driver’s door flung open and a little dwarf of a woman popped out and skittered to the front desk. Her eyes were glowing and her body was vibrating like a tuning fork. She wore army fatigues and sported a blond mullet. I just love mullets, don't you? Overrated, really. She flung herself onto the reception desk and babbled, "Ihavn'tsleptinthreedaysandi'mlosti'mtryingtofindperrystreetandican'tfinditcanyouhelpmeplease?!"
"Okay...slow down," I said, understanding her because I speak Junkie. "I'll help you find Perry Street. It's real close."
"IcanttakenomoreIhaftafindPerrybutIcan'twhereisthenearestpolicestation?"
"Why do you need the police? Perry is two blocks, sweetie...you're real close."
She swirled her dirty little hands around her head and through her spiked blond hair. She burst into tears. This girl was a mess and I didn't want to deal with her. I drew her a map and sent her back into the darkness.
Man, I thought, I used to be that fucked up?
Now, who told fat white girls that wearing tub tops with their pansa hanging out was sexy? I think it's a fucking eyesore and I had three of these bitches standing in front of me. French braided hair, nose rings, low-cut jeans. All in their tweens...egads.
Well, the older stated that their mother was staying here and after stating that no one by the last name that was given was staying at the hotel, she then asked to use the phone to call the trailer park where they lived (One of the younger girls actually said, 'Call the trailer park.') and asked Uncle Pooch for gas money. All of the kids (Four girls, and one guy.) decided to hang around the hotel property until Pooch arrived.
I returned to my dazed dreaming and when I looked out to the hotel grounds, the young guy had his pants rolled up and was dancing a jig in the pond, one of the lil' uns was pulling the small lamps out of the ground, and yet another was spooning the pond water into her mouth.
"Mmmm, this water's good!"
I yelled to them to get out of the pond, stop destroying property, and that the water's poisonous.
The girl drinking the water's eyes bulged, her face turned blue, and fell back onto the ground, twitching. The rest of the kids scattered. But the boy picked up his little sister, threw her in the back of the car they arrived in, and drove off.
Fade out to Country Bear Jamboree music...

Terrorist transvestites and little Ling-ling.

This morning as I sat at my favorite hangout, The Grill downtown on Congress St., I looked up from my bowl of Cap'n Crunch to see Tony staring and smiling back at me. I knew he was doped up on speed and invited him to sit and have a cup of coffee.
After a shaky couple of sips of Joe and a long puff on a Lucky Strike, he asked if I wanted to go and visit a friend of his. Sure, I said, got nothing better to do. We hailed a cab and pulled up in front of this seven-story red brick building. The elevator didn't work, so we took the stairs. From down the stank hall, with its yellow and flaking paint, hissing pipes, and shredded red carpet, Tony and I heard muffled yelling being drowned out by Ricki Martin's Shake Your Bon-Bon being blasted at high decibels. Knocking on the door to 7E, it was flung open by a tall fat guy in a flowered mu-mu and dark sunglasses. His brown sweaty face was covered in black stubble. She looked like a third-rate Divine but had the grating voice of Harvey Fierstein. Drunk off her ass, she invited us in. Now being accosted by drunken transvestites is nothing new to me at 9:36 in the morning. But, this one put me on edge.
The small one-bedroom apartment looked like Elton John threw up in it. Everything was red satin with tassels and boas hung from dusty chandeliers with cheap gay pornographic pictures ripped from magazines taped to the yellowish walls. Christmas lights twinkled in an electric spiderweb. There were clothes, dresses, and theatrical costumes everywhere. Sitting on the floor in the lotus position gazing into a large mirror propped against the leg of a table stroking their eyeliner, were two naked transsexuals, one black, one Mexican. Naked. Their penises and large breasts for the world to see.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi" They honked and smiled and returned to their mascara.
"Higher, Goddamnit!! I said higher!" Screamed the big drag queen to a little Asian guy who wore nothing but blue running shorts and sandals. He crazily teased a beehive wig on a Styrofoam head. The titanic transvestite slapped the Asian on the back of the head. "I want more height, you fucker! Make it fuller! Goddammit, Ling-ling, can't you do shit right?"
Ling-ling continued to tease and tease.
The big drag queen turned to Tony and me. "Hey, bitch!" She smiled, took a toke from a joint buried in an ashtray, and stomped over to Tony with arms outstretched. "How the fuck are ya?"
"Hey, Marcus," Tony said, his small frame being swallowed in sweaty fat. "This is ****, I invited him over."
"Oooooh, he's a cute white boy." She tottered and we hugged and pecked cheeks. names were exchanged and drugs and liquor were offered. The morning went by and Tony, Marcus, and I sat on the rickety couch smoking pot, drinking whiskey, and watching The Jerry Springer Show. The gay double entendre flew! I had everybody laughing, except for the occasional outlash, verbal and physical, from Marcus to Ling-ling. Who the fuck were these freaks? Why was this little Asian being tortured by this thunderlizard?
When Marcus found out that I was a filmmaker, he went ape-shit and talked me into driving around town and filming him in drag terrorizing the locals. Hell yeah! I said. And once we drove to my apartment in his ratty Volvo to get my video camera I soon came up with a couple of ideas.
Marcus dressed his 350lb. six-foot-two frame in a white spandex dress with horizontal black pinstripes, Jackie-O sunglasses, black cha-cha heels, and the huge beehive wig Ling-ling labored over. Marcus...I'm sorry Ida Slapter, stood at a bus stop and waited for one to arrive. Tony and I got onto the same bus route but a couple of stops before her. When Ida Slapter clomped onto the almost packed bus, I sat in the very back middle seat and filmed the whole debacle.
"Excuse me." She asked the bus driver, "How much is the fare?"
"A dollar."
"Oh, all I have is a ten-dollar bill." She then proceeded to walk down the isle of the bus and ask each and every appalled and terrified patron if they had any change. Trust me, the look on their faces was fabulous! Finally, a little Mexican guy gave her change and we were off.
Ida sat next to an old, retarded man wearing shorts, t-shirt, and rain galoshes. He quivered and fidgeted with that huge bitch sitting next to him. Wouldn't you?
"Humph, that grrlz ready for Hell and high water." Ida quipped, casually pointing at the galoshes, and some patrons snickered and laughed. The retarded guy had a nervous tick in a way that he kept swaying his head back and forth like he was saying no.
"Excuse me," Ida asked him. "Do you know the way to San Jose?"
The retard kept moving his head.
"No? (Man continues to swing head back and forth.) You don't? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) No? Really? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) Why do you keep nodding your head no? (Continues to swing head back and forth.) Stop being so negative!"
The back of the bus was loud with laughter.
We were asked to put the camera away and leave the bus by the driver. Spoilsport!
I videoed Tony and Ida sashaying down the street, arm in arm, right past a construction site. There were cat calls and faggot was yelled a couple of times. Oh, the men were going nuts! It was a fun time with that big bitch and Tony today. Ida invited me to come watch her and her two roommates, Cameltoe and Virginia Hamm, perform at a Drag Bar this Friday called The Hawaiian. I told her I'd red-mark it on my calendar.
We then spent the remainder of the evening at Venture In and got very drunk. After a few Martinis and Cape Cods, I remember I met some real cute white guy with blue eyes and black hair (I'm a sucker for guys with black hair!) from the University of Arizona and made out with him by the pinball machine. Tilt! Ding! Ding! Ding! I think Tony had my video camera and taped that softcore porn. Egads!
Well, I'm back home and sitting on my bed in my boxers typing on my laptop and I wanna say Hi to everyone. Because I'm drunk.
Hi.
Welp, good night and don't let the bed bugs bite!

Time traveling junkies, Count Dooku, and steaming chili.

Woke up around seven this Sunday morning and after draining my bladder and then my balls, I laid in bed and read some of The Lavender Screen by Boze Hadleigh. Interesting read. Got bored with that and played some Gameboy. Fixed breakfast; diced fruit covered in honey and a cup of black coffee. Originally, I was going to stay home and type out that new script Porno and work on editing my film Crossed Wires but instead, I went to the movies.
Dressed fabulously and took the bus to the El Con Mall. I think Tucson has three malls, but El Con is a mall filled with nothing. I mean, it is a full-sized mall that consists of a Macy's, a J. C. Penney's, and nothing else. All the shops, all fifty of them are closed with blank marquees. Like a bad Dawn of the Dead set. But, there is a remarkable state-of-the-art cinema behind it, which makes it all right.
I purchased my ticket from the frumpy fat girl with the canker sore on her lip and entered the theater. The first film I saw was The Jacket starring Adrian Brody. Wow, what a honker on that guy. The film itself had good intentions but it just didn't quite do it for me.
The Jacket was about a Gulf War Soldier who gets discharged and sent home after getting shot in the head by an Iraqi brat. He's hitchhiking with a cop killer and after the cop killer kills a cop, Adrien Brody gets the blame and is sent to the booby hatch where psycho doctor Kris Kristofferson performs "tests" on him. The test consists of throwing Brody into a strait jacket, pumping him full of drugs, and shoving him into a morgue closet. Where Brody slips through time. Right. I enjoyed the look of the film but 12 Monkeys and the book Slaughterhouse 5 are a lot better. Ho-hum.
Next, I snuck in to see Robots. The kids that packed the house loved it. It was okay, but the trailer to Revenge of the Sith was awesome. Drool. When Ewan McGregor, who played the lead Rodney Copperbottom in Robots talked, I closed my eyes and could tell. But, he does have a very convincing American accent.
On the way home, I was getting on the bus and it was packed. The only seat left was next to David. Yes, David, that rat-fink asshole. I don't know where his fat wife and moppet were. I decided to stand and face the front, but I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head.
Returned home and microwaved me a bowl of chili and played my GameBoy. The New Droid Army. It's a tuff little game. Damn you, Dooku!

Burn, baby, burn.

No one has a sense of humor these days. I try to say funny things to lift the dreary and the normals out of their daily humdrummery, but it all backfires. The citizens of Tucson just can't get my witty repartee. Three things happened today and I was shot down by all-around sour pusses! Firstly, I was visiting a friend’s house for coffee and Danishes early this morning, and, well, to put it mildly, his wife has a really fat ass, okay? I mean, there's a lotta junk in da trunk. And she wears stirrups. Blech. Well, she bent over in front of me whilst I was sitting on the couch and gave me a face full of stuff. So, I just pointed at her titanic Montana-sized buttocks and squealed, "Good God, that's no moon, that's a space station!" And began to laugh like a herniated donkey.
I was asked to leave.
So, I was on the bus (Public transportation is so underrated.) sitting in the back with the hip kids, when this tall, thin, elderly black gentleman got on board and sat down across from me. I noticed he wore a black baseball hat with a small dirty feather jutting out of the side. So, I pointed and quipped, "I get it...macaroni."
"Fuck you, honky!" He retorted.
The back passengers all laughed at me, the goofy Chinese kid with the bad bed hair, the fay Indian guy whose boobs jiggled when he laughed, the scrawny speed freak sniffing and snorting and guffawing..
Well, at least the old guy was Old School about it. Honky.
Later, I was crossing the street after purchasing a Yoo-hoo, I just love Yoo-hoos, don't you? Well, I'm crossing this street and some gimp is walking next to me, braces clicking and clacking, and comments with a smile, "It's hard to walk fast after that operation."
"Well, slow your goofy ass down," I said blankly. Thinking I was simply stating the obvious. I mean, I stride kind of fast.
"You got an attitude problem, ya fucking faggot!"
"Why do you paraplegics and cripples always hafta be so bitter?"
"I ain't no goddamn cripple!"
"And illiterate. I pity you" Taking a rather Imperious swig of my Yoo-hoo and walked away on my perfectly good legs.
I left him there, fuming.
Yeah, I'm going to Hell.

Snaps back wash after wash...

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And slowly, the world continues to spin...

I work hard for a living. I slave all day under the brutal whip of my Hindu overlord! Taking daily abasement and ridicule from the geriatric demons that rent rooms from the hotel I am now employed at! But I tolerate it with a smile and a "How do ya do?".
Yesterday, as I dragged my weary and tattered ass home, and as I pushed my front door open, what did I find? Some little curly-haired girl sitting on my living room carpet playing with my collector edition Superman action figure, no slobbering all over my collector edition Superman action figure with one-year-old glee. The Son of Krypton was covered in baby saliva and goo.
Sitting on my brand new futon couch, the very same futon couch that David and I would thrash and moan in ecstasy in the still of the night was some fat Mexican girl with big boobs smiling moronically at me.
I said, "Hello, who are you and where's David?"
"Hola." She meekly said.
I repeated myself in Spanish and walked into the bedroom to find David crashed on my bed, the very bed that we banged each other in the love that dare not speak its name on a nightly basis, crashed out in his boxers with that distinctively pungent aroma of freshly fucked panocha wafting in the air. Scattered about MY bedroom were a couple of suitcases of lacy feminine clothing scattered about. I gasped at bras and shrieked at panties. I stared at a box of fucking Tampax and went ape-shit.
"DAVID!!" I yelled.
He jumped up and I asked who that bitch was on my couch. You see, David had returned to Nogales, Mexico for the last three days to take care of family matters or so it was claimed. Casually and calmly as he dressed, David told me that the girl was Maribel.
His.
Fucking.
Wife.
And the kid gnawing on the Man of Steel? Cindy, his one-year-old daughter. He then proceeded to explain that he smuggled the two across the border and now we all can live as one big happy family. He strode into the kitchen and swung open the cupboards to show me all the food that he and she had purchased to show that they were serious in "helping out" while living here with me.
Now, have you ever blacked out? So angry that you lose all control of your mental functions? Where the only thought that burns in your mind is the complete annihilation of those in your immediate vicinity? No? Well, I tell you it is a rush...a confusing cartoon vortex of adrenaline and unbridled hysteria and madness.
There was a lot of screaming, slapping, Mary-ism...front door was opened, clothes--his and hers--flinging down the metal stairs and hurling into the street, Superman was yanked from baby clutches and the family unit excised from the apartment.
Slam. Front door closed.
I lay on my sofa too angry to cry, my mind contorted in hatred and contempt. Why? Why am I to be used like this? Finally, after years of scraping Felix off of the bottom of my shoes, I opened my heart to someone who in all earnest showed nothing but compassion in return only to wait and use my feelings as a second fiddle when his wife was not here. I wondered why David took those weekend sojourns down to Nogales. He said it was to visit his mother. Oh, I am so bitter. My heart is so much colder now. No love. No nothing.
I need crystal, I need heroin, I need pot...something for me to forget. Well, this crappy town's got nothing.