A Hobo's Paradise

The shelter slams its doors shut at nine-thirty at night to the chagrin of many a squealing junky. Slept the first fitful night on the dusty floor with a thin mat between the tile and I. Snoring, farting, screaming all perfunctory. Early morning woke up at four (Wouldn't you?) splashed water on my withered face and stare at my borrowed flesh in a mirror cracked. How did this happen? My plans were so simple. Well...No use dwelling on it, roll with it, son, roll with it.

Swig down warm Victory coffee and spend the following day at a porno theater in Pacific Beach to while away the time. Time it seems I have an abundance of. In the flickering dark, trolls and speed queens do their ballet cruising for willing patrons. After receiving a much-needed blow job from a passive pansy, white feller and cute in a collegic kind of way, witnessed a free live sex show by a bizarre couple in the back theater. Muscular yet old coot and a flat-chested puta, to be exact. Stood there arms crossed and watched transfixed and nasty. The bitch was doinked by an old friend and some out of control hippy freak, sweaty and wild mane of hair. A couple encircled by obese and old men masturbating wildly.

Back at the ranch, receive a bunk and casual communication with bunky who seems to be docile and non-threatening. Hoorah. Sleep fitfully and cold, issued paper thin blanket and no pillow. Decide to buy a damn pillow first thing the next day.

The next day, I buy a pillow (Such luxury you can't understand.) and venture down to the house of Chuey in Tijuana to retrieve some of my clothes. Chuey was kind enough to hold my footlocker of personals and a bag of clothes for the duration of this transition. The wifie, Lucy, prepares a mouthwatering Mexican dish of arroz con pollo and fried platanos and I eat like a king or a hog. Depends on how bitchy you look at it. Return to Vinnie's and a much needed hot shower with myself and another white guy hung like a black man. What is this phobia of humongous peni? Makes my mind move in strange directions. Afterwards, I return to the patio and mingle with the local hobos amongst loud patter of speech under a warm starry sky. Meet fellow travelers and compare stories and travels to different and far flung places. Walking past me and I kid you not was my villainous evil arch-enemy, Dan Cokenour, face scarred and body frail and thin, but it was him. I growled through clenched teeth, "Cokenour." His eyes met mine for a split second and then he disappeared into the smoky darkness. Smoke was from cigarettes, kids, I'm not a writer of tacky noir.

The following day, got hired on the spot at a swanky hotel in the posh Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego and will start work soon, I was so happy I bought myself a Frappuccino Mocha from Starbucks with my last fiver. Mmmm. However, must prepare for tomorrow, which has been labeled Bug Day. What Kafkan nightmare will this entail. Distant rumblings from the troops at the mention of this day.

A ver.

Post Modern Manic Depressive Homo-erecto.

Woke up from the rapid knocking of the receptionist at my door. Cell phone reads 4:32 a.m. Television snaps on, porno 24hrs. Nothing like D-P at four thirty in the morning. Wacka-wacka-wairn-nairn. Wash face, teeth, shake out cockroaches and put on black clothes and dash out under a cold and yellow full moon. In the frigid air, I light up a Lucky Strike and stride down Avenida Primera past drag queens and rent boys all on the hustle. Small Indian boy smiles through silver-capped teeth, "Wanna massage, meester?" One coked up lanky transvesti grabs my crotch, "Wanna triple X throwdown, baby?" I stride faster.

At the frontier, a line literally half a mile-long of people blocks my way. Fuck it, my appointment is at 7 o'clock and I decide to walk in front of the throng and to the front of the line. The rabble becomes downright arrogant. Yelling viscous and racist insults, I holler back to shut up.

Jump onto the trolley and rocket to centro San Diego and to my destination, St. Vincent de Paul Shelter for men. Stand shivering with a comp'd cup of Victory coffee and about a hundred lost souls all huddled in someone else's overcoat, collar turned up, and spitting protoplasm onto the cracked sidewalks of the world. Phantoms lurk around their shopping carts and yell at their demons hiding behind pillars of crack smoke. The smell is overpowering.

A black woman of titanic proportions exits main building with much pomp like a celestial Negress goddess and issues The Lottery. Among screeches and grunts she yells out fifteen random ticket numbers. Faces mute and slack listening with forlorn hope. My ticket is called: 3526 the ticket says, fourteenth called. The process begins, much blah-blah and regulations, herded into communal showers with said Fifteen. Lathering up with three per room, scoping out two teen-aged black bucks. Dr. Martin Luther King was wrong, all men are not created equal. Shower with some consternation and penis envy. Freeze dried your personals, fed Victory stew and after you get your steenkink badgeez, asked to return at 9 p.m. to be issued a bed.

Time is well spent viewing Kung Fu Hustle. Agree with another patron that we haven't laughed that much in a movie in a long time. After flick, cruise Border's Books and then a porno store. Jack off to Paris Hilton getting boinked by hung and handsome boyfriend in flickering green light.

Outside said shelter I converse with old friend from past junky days and Jose is really out of it. A scrawny cackling mess. Nothing there inside or out, so 'round nine I am issued a bed among the snoring and the flatulence. Sleep fitful and scarce. Had a dream of being sealed into a black steel box and suffocating. The smell of metal in my lungs. The same metallic smell when I used to smoke meth. Woke up at five this morning and washed up to go to canteen and drink more Victory coffee and a donut that was fresh last Tuesday. Jumped the trolley and went to T.J. to eat menudo with Chuck and enjoyed the best cup of coffee...ever. I check wallet, funds deteriorated to a sawsky plus five and tired in a way I can't describe, rent a $10 room at the Hotel Belim and slept. Will return to Vinnie's and pick up where I left off.

Or try to.

do it to it

 

Tijuana Fried Chicken.

Woke up to the sounds of kids playing in the trash-littered streets below. My third-floor room has a grey concrete balcony covered in pigeon dung overlooking The Red Zone or Zona Norte if you're a local. I sit on the ledge in my pajamas and drink horrible Victory coffee and smoke my last cigarette. It in itself withered to a butt. The city sprawl before me is a bland colored hazy polluted mess. Various musical styles permeate the choked yellow sky. Lights keep changing, there are wires in the air and the asphalt, and the asphalt is all around me. The ever-present moaning of a transvestite hooker getting fucked down the hall echoes in my head. Shrivel in the cold shower and don my clothes and take a stroll two blocks to The Plaza and sit in with Chuck for breakfast. Orange juice and sweet bread followed by the best coffee. Ever.

Chuck is an ancient Canadian who has been here since day one or so it seems. Every week we meet for coffee and conversation and he is continually being rolled by the indigenous youth that crawls over him in his beddings like aroused kittens. Uncounted televisions, radios, and other personal items have been lifted from this shriveled gentleman of leisure. He believes that there is no such thing as a bad boy...same as that fruit Father Flanagan. Both pedophiles by an act of Congress
But, I digress. Wouldn't you?

After banal chatter, made my way to The Hawaiian Bar to pay a visit to my oldest and bestest friend in T.J. a short guy by the name of Chuey. I have known Chuey forever and after much backslapping, handshakes, and six cervezas Sol later I relate my woes to a kind ear. No big whoop, I say...time will sort it all out. As always, Chuey kindles my hopes with uplifting patter.
After explaining the whereabouts of a couple of bathhouses to some snooty queens from Los Angeles looking for an easy fix, I drunkenly wobbled out of the cantina and down into the heart of Zona Norte, cabron. Preteen hookers coo and grab at me as I stroll by lost in the sauce, no...no cunt for me. I am out on the hunt for some rough tattooed sex. Chuey recommended that I hang out in front of the Tijuana jail. Now there's a thought.

I was stopped by a taxi driver who reminded me of a Mexican Yoda. I remember him, he once stated that he has the biggest pussy in Tijuana. His brother sat next to him nibbling a taco. A scrawny ancient little man in a black police uniform. With that fucking white police motorcycle helmet on his enlarged head he looked like Gazoo. Which I stated. Thought it was funny.
Pretty fucked up, I needed to get more juice, so's I go into some bar. El Dorado? The Happy Naco? Bar Vaquero? Who cares? Smelly dark den with pink coral tiled walls and some short chunky bee-otch in a black thong whirling and jiggling her wares in front of me. Bar had only two others, a junky cholo who sat on the nod like a fool on a stool and a flabby old sweaty American who eyed me fingering his camera ever so nasty. A tall Mexican hottie with Aztec features and pencil mustache donning a blue mechanic's tunic walked in and made a beeline to the trough-like urinal...back there. A couple of Sols later, it was on like Donkey Kong, I am in the pissoir jacking off with the hot guy in the mechanics uniform and the obligatory old fart. The hottie had the most beautiful peni I have seen in many a moon. One hand on my soldier the other traces the black hair on toned pecs. Me and the hottie cum in spurts onto lemons and ice and leave the quivering codger standing there wondering where his youth has gone.
The hottie, Miguel he says, we drink a couple more bottles and I ask if he wants to go back to my room for an afternoon of filthy rotten sin. No, it’s back with the wifie and kids, he says. Shake hands and part. Old queen glares at me from the shadows. Frustrated fruit. Short cholo with shaved head and wife beater is hip to the fact and smiles with silver capped tooth, hard on a-pulsing in the dirty khakis. I exit leaving the cholo to the whims of the withered vampire.
Stumble to the Internet cafe and pound out what yer readin' and stinking drunk with cute guy sitting next to me. Eye contact is made. Nah, I get hungry and go for delicious rotisserie chicken.
Saw way up in the hills in Colonia Perros a restaurant that blared: Tijuana Fried Chicken. Fell out in an uncontrolled fit of laughter.

Darkness and Confusion.

Ever happen to you: You're whiling a morning away with your best friend and sucking his cock; things are going pretty good--he's a squirmin', about to blow when the Mother pops in and literally freaks out? The old gash went freakin' ape-shit! Carlos and I were caught enflagrante with our pants down. There was much yelling, beating of chests, gnashing of teeth and whirling of rosaries. Mother Vasquez kept pointing at me with her gnarled finger and then the picture of Jesus glaring down from the wall with that condescending smirk of his.

I was asked to leave.

Bags were packed, a taxi summoned, and I rolled down the mountain into The Red Zone, that warm cuddly cocoon of sin with only one hundred and twenty dollars and a pack of Lucky Strikes to my name. Rented a crappy $ 10-a-night room at Hotel Coliseo and then did what I always do when I am stressed out. I went to the movies.

Viewed Hostage with Bruce Willis. Pretty decent action flick. Enjoyed the previews a bit more. War of the Worlds and The Hitchhikers Guide to The Galaxy. Can't wait!! Snuck in and damaged my brain with Sahara...good God! What a piece of celluloid crap!

These films being seen in San Diego, I returned to Tijuana via the trolley to gather my marbles and form a plan. I sat at a sidewalk cafe in Plaza Santa Cecilia sipping a cappuccino and watching the carnival of flesh. My mind is in a muddle. I have asked several friends if I could bunk at their place, but they all proved to be unreliable worthless shits. How quickly people turn. All they want from me is a piece of ass. Most folks on this planet are not worthy of my attention anyhoo, can't depend on nobody but myself, I suppose. I'm not bitter...I'll just get myself out of this mess. I always do.

Walking to the Internet cafe, that hub of homosexual intellects and purveyors of porn, I was approached by this horrendous prostitute. Hair a rat’s nest, face of a battle axe, drooping, floppy boobies in a dirty black tube top, flab spilling out of her black caprice, and dirty bare feet. She smelt like rotted pussy.

"Hey, baby!" She blurted in English. "Wanna little fucky-sucky?"

"No. You need to go back to the States and reevaluate your life." I retorted, she was obviously a junky American.

"You think I'm ugly, baby, huh?" She said earnestly.

"No. Not exactly. I think you're...well, you're special."

She smiled a smile filled with rotted brown teeth, "Thank ya, honey!" And wobbled back to the Coahuila Alley.

My life can't be all that bad, reet?

Not veddy, veddy propah.

Woke up, got dressed and went to look for work.

Carlos slept in as his mother and I sat drinking coffee and eating sweet bread. Have you seen the Burger King commercial when this guy wakes up with the Burger King sitting in the bed next to him, silently watching. That is true horror.

Speaking of horror, on the trolley from the border to San Diego, met some tourists from England or Britain or The United Kingdom or whatever they call their little island these days. Man, do they believe in dentists? The female of this brood would guffaw and shriek like a herniated yak exposing the most horrid teeth every time I made a comical quip! And gassing the other passengers with her halitosis. Of coarse the bloated sweat factory of a father wanted to talk politics.

Ugh.

Going on and on about how Bush is a war monger. I guess he forgot how Bush and Blair skipped around hand in hand like giggling schoolgirls during the beginning of this fucking war. I mean, I don't particularly like Bush either, but did these fucks completely forget their leaders hand in this. No, it is so much easier to bash Americans. It's en vogue. Blithering twit. I truly felt sorry for their spotty and sulky children.

Got some good leads for work today. Went to the clinic and got an AIDS test. Hafta come back Friday for the results. Speaking of such meaningful crap, was cruising a real attractive black guy on the trolley. I kept staring at his crotch. It was funny that he started to fidget and look around nervously. He struck up an overly animated conversation with a female across from him just to prove his manhood.

Right. Why was he getting an erection when he saw that I was scoping him out? Those wacky heterosexuals...when will they learn?

the zone takes care of its own

Woke up in a strange bed in a strange room. (Which is not odd for me.) I was wearing nothing but a black t-shirt and was lying on my stomach. (Again, nothing out of the ordinary here.) However, when my eyes focused I noticed a little grizzled old Mexican man sitting in a chair opposite the bed.
"Hola." He said, staring with glistening eyes.
"Hola." I croaked.
I felt like crap. My mouth was foul and evil tasting. My stomach hurt as much as my head and I was a bit disoriented. I was in a cheap hotel room. It was day time. The room was squalid and consisted of the sagging bed, an antique banged up amoire, and a wooden chair occupied by some ancient midget in soiled clothes. He didn't say a word. He just sat there. The room smelled of bleach and old linens.
"Pass me my pants, please," I said in Spanish.
The old scruffy man handed me a pair of well-worn green army fatigues. "No. Es no mios." (No. That's not mine.) He picked up a pair of black jeans and black cotton boxers. Yep, those are mine. I checked my wallet...money gone, credit card gone. Watched as I got dressed. Old coot explained that he was the receptionist and came to wake me up, for it was time to check out. I stumble out the room and down the hall, swatting small swarms of flies that fluttered in the dark corridor. walking through the shabby lobby and outside into the noisy polluted streets. Hotel Lupita, cheap $10 a night joint.
What the fuck? I shuffled under the relentless sun to a corner taco stand and tried to patch together the previous night. Two tacos and an horchata later...
I remember that I spent the first half of the day in Plaza Santa Cecilia at a sidewalk cafe, sitting outside drinking coffee and watching the hot guys pass by and shooing away the relentless onslaught of roving mariachis and dirty children selling gum. I was approached by a guy that seemed very familiar with me. He was very tall and lean, wore all black and sported a goatee. He smiled and shook my hand and said in English, "Hey! How are you? Did you have a good time at Adelita's last night?" He glared with fire in his brown eyes and a smile that melted your heart.
Now for the unwary, I shall educate you, Adelita's is a hetero strip joint. A place I do not frequent under any circumstances and hence my confusion. However, this guy was unordinarily handsome, like a model for Interview Magazine. Tall, dark and really really hot. Big muscular hands and long feet.
"Uhm..it wasn't me." I stated. I sipped my coffee.
"You sure?" He smiled and pointed at me. "You look like that guy."
That guy? What guy? "No, kiddo, ya got me all wrong. It wasn't me. I'm..." And I made the Universal Fag Sign. I flipped my wrist down.
His face went blank. "Oh." He said pensively. "You gotta boyfriend?"
"No."
"Well, you wanna...?"
"No." I said flatly.
"Well, here," he said scribbling on a piece of paper. "There is a fiesta tonight on La Playas. Be my guest. Call me." We shook hands and he walked away. I stared at the paper. Scrawled: Pablo 653-5362 besos.
Okay. Whatever. Paid the bill and went to Bar Ranchero. Bottom floor was empty except for several tired looking old fags and a plump transvestite that tottered drunkenly on her cha-cha heels. Sat at the bar, boy-whore on the other side of the bar kept eyeing me and rubbing his money maker. I ignored him and drank my Sol. Struck up a conversation with two guys sitting next to me. One real ugly and short and the other okay in a plain-looking way. They kept after me and getting very drunk, I wound up paying for all the drinks. The ugly guy kept trying to kiss me, but I wouldn't reciprocate, which made him hostile. Then that guy Pablo from the cafe walked in and pulled me away from them. We ordered drinks and plopped into a booth. That was it! I remember! That fucker put something in my drink! I don't remember anything after that.
I went home after the tacos and took a cold shower. Carlos' house does not have hot water. Carlos asked me where was I all night and I related this story to him. He, in his beautiful sensitive way, cautioned me and talked me into going to get tested for AIDS and everything else tomorrow. I agreed.
I don't get him. He knows me. He understands how I am. Anyway, the Zone takes care of it's own.

Black Dogs Run At Night.

Woke up with Saul complaining of lack of sleep. Flojo! I instructed him in the fact and vice versa that I need to contact my friend Carlos. You see, being a sly and crafty faggito, I had made arrangements with Carlos that before my sudden departure to New York I would entrust with him a footlocker containing my private collection of personals: Films I had done, books I had written, art, among other things. (Hence to you two readers out there in bloggieland that are still awaiting my book, well this is the reason you had not received it yet. It was holed up in Tijuana. So, shut yer yaps, it'll be comin' soon.)
And so, after taking care of each other’s morning erections, Saul and I showered and had juevos rancheros and the best coffee in a corner cafe. Went to the house of said Carlos to find to my dismay that the little brown fucker has rolled up and moved.
Crap.
Spent the afternoon in a local bar, Noa-Noa, that transvestite joint just on the fringes of The Red Zone sipping beer and guzzling tequila pining over my streak of sour luck. Saul was drunk and we made out amid piss and shit in the men's room as a naco watched with a hard on. Came up with a cock-eyed plan of renting a taxi libre and hunting down Carlos' brother Erik who lived somewhere up on the mountain. Somewhere.
Sheesh.
Night falls and we, Saul, myself, and several pink elephants stumble back to the hotel, kicking over trash cans and passed out bums when with the screech of breaks and the flash of red lights, Johnny Law--Mexican style--is upon us.
"Uh-oh. Five Oh. Five Oh." I mutter.
Hands on the car, senor. Where are you going, senor? Your amigo does not have identification, senor. That is very bad, senor. We will hafta lock him up for 20 hours, senor. We can take care of this here, senor. Twenty dollars, senor.
Fucking, pigs. Pay the fuzz, light a cigarette and walk back to the hotel with Saul. I take it out on his ass real nasty. With each vicious jab, Saul utters filthy words in Spanish through clenched teeth as I screw him doggy-style to the beat of White Stripes' Hardest Button to Button on the radio. Fall asleep to the sounds of a rattling air conditioner and police sirens and Whitney Houston going on about how she is every woman.
The next day, search for Carlos to no avail. Rent a taxi libre and crawl all over that mountain and just as I was about to give up, Erik, the hoggish and unfortunate-looking brother to my beautiful Carlos, comes careening down the hill on his black Vulcan chopper. With much honking and waving of hands precariously out of the taxi's window, I flag Erik down and smear his ears with my predicament and tales of woe. Paying the driver, I hop onto the back of the chopper and Erik and I rocket off up the mountain to Carlos' house.
Zig zagging up and down on the concrete roller coaster like madmen through cars and rickshaws peddling stinking messes of food, the neighborhood was a mixture of half-built houses perched on ravines and cardboard shacks sprouting up like mushrooms all covered in dust and graffiti. Mangy, sickly dogs prowled the streets with packs of cholos. It was a graveyard of automobiles all rusted under the sheltering sky. A river of last week’s sewage and filthy shit wound its way through the ravine, that little Indian kids splashed and played as obese mothers in sack dresses that said Old Navy or Guess or Fubu hung laundry with weary apathy. Several different styles of Latin music wafted through the putrid air. The motorcycle came to a dusty halt on a dirt road in front of a grey cinder block house with high walls.
"Aqui." Grunted Erik. I debark and the Vulcan tears off down the street.
Ecstatic is the word. But, with reservations. Carlos and I exchange hugs, handshakes, and backslapping under the squinting eyes of his mother. Nothing is more uplifting than being reacquainted with an old friend. Enter the long banal chatter of updating the last four months on both sides of the border. I offer Carlos, and his dear mother, two hundred dollars to rent the back room while looking for work in San Diego. Seeing the state of their living conditions, they agree. Carlos shows me that my footlocker is doing all right and as his mother prepares dinner, he gives my crotch a squeeze. I smile and look deep into those honey-colored eyes. Quick fumble of a kiss and grope, but not why Mother is around. Mother doesn’t tolerate that queer shit in the house, her being a Christian woman. Jesus scorns at me from the wall above the door where he hangs.
I return to the hotel, via taxi, retrieve my bags and settle down into my new digs at Carlos' home; comfortable in the knowledge that all is well in the universe tonight.

Tijuana Return.

Hurtling through the stratosphere like a sparkler spurting Flash Gordon rocket, I hadn't time to finish my comp'ed bag of nuts before the transvestite flight attendant snatched them off of my table. "We are landing now, prepare!", she snarled in telepathic pictographs. Screeech, engines died to a whine. A ticket was bought. A bus was boarded. Crossed the International line amid honks and the haze of exhaust.

"Want pussy girl? Titty women?"

"See donkey show?"

"Bullfight?"

I elbowed through the throng of taxi drivers all on the hustle and picked the most handsome I could find from that teeming mass of yellow shirts.

"Hotel Coliseo, rapido." Snap fingers. Chop-chop.

Screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel. Old junky sat on wood chair by the door focused on me with cataract eyes and junky stoop as I paid the driver and enter the crumbling whitewashed building. The smell of sewage and feces filled the lobby, an obese transvestite sat sucking a silver tooth as I paid the old China man the cien pesos and made my way up to the third floor.

My room was painted olive green, paint flaking. Bed sagged to one side with graffiti scratched above the wooden headboard, the toilet ran, and I had roaches for roommates. Glorious view of the Red Zone. The distant moan of a whore earning her rent mixed with the samba music wafting through the pungent, dark halls. I showered in tepid water, got dressed, and left my key with the front desk. Walking sideways through the group of six Amazonian transvestite hookers that guarded the lobby door; catcalls and grabbing at my crotch, I strode through the choking night air, the klaxon of car horns and high decimal banda, the cries of cigarette vendors, the smell of seared meat and sewage...Cops patrolled and gave me a sour eye. Queers passed staring and giggling and pointing at every bulging groin. Dogs sifted through trash next to their masters.

I found The Park and most importantly I found Saul working. He sat on the cold iron bench like a lounging cougar, awaiting prey. His lean body jumped up and ran to me all smiles. Short chit-chat and with the heat rising we faded out of The Park and materialized in my hotel room.

Tongues were probed, fingers poked, and erections were exposed. Saul always was proud of his very long penis and had no qualms of using it. Clothes are thrown around the room. The bed banged and squeaked as Saul fucked me hard and long and afterward, we shared a Lucky Strike. And then he fucked me again. Showered and went downstairs for dinner. The cafe was teeming with life. A life that had been squelched in the States and one that will never resurface again. The States is old and evil. The evil has always been there. Before the settlers, before the Indians. It's been there...waiting.

After tacos and agua limon, I went back to the room for a third time. Sniffing a couple of lines, I rode Saul for nearly an hour. Hair is pulled, sweat is licked off of writhing thrusting bodies. Slap-slap-slap-slap went the sound of his brown hips smacking my ass. We fucked on the floor in the rickety wooden chair and came up with the nastiest of positions. Saul talks filthy to me in Spanish as he degrades my soul. I am seeing stars as that boy rams it home. Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Our racket echoes in the halls as we both moan out in orgasms. Oh shit! Aye caray! Beaten, bruised, and covered in sweat and semen, sheets on the floor and soiled, Saul and I lay there entwined like two snakes.

My digital clock said 4:36 a.m. As he lay beside me sleeping and I stroked his black curly hair, I sighed and looked out the window at the shimmering moon.

I'm home.

Viva Insomnio!

Woke up at three-o-five this morning and didn't go back to sleep. Seems the cause of this insomnia is quite evident: My plane leaves tonight at 6:25 p.m. for San Diego. I have already packed and Jose, a friend from my last job came by yesterday to pick up the furniture that he bought from me. His brother was hot! Didn't take the bed, though. Too macho to sleep on a bed defiled by homosexual hanky-panky. Guess I will have to leave the bed. That was a $400 waste. Oh, well...just material crap.
Laid in bed until 7:30 a.m. reading Before Night Falls, the memoir of Cuban author Reinaldo Arenas. His words are so moving, I dig him like a kindred spirit. Except for the prepubescent chicken fucking. Even I know that's kinda weird. But as a writer, I find him breathtaking.
Took a long hot bath, lying there listening to the local talk radio show. Irreverent fluff. Dressed and went downtown to The Grill on Congress St. and had breakfast. Served by a surly transvestite. The toast was quite good. I always enjoy toast and a good cup of java.
No one here I want to say goodbye to. Isn't that a waste? Such dreary people who lack personalities. All meth addicts without any flare. Why the hatred of my own race? I do get quite hostile when I'm around "whiteys". Ha. Perhaps I am saddened and disgusted by their decline from being on top for so many years. Now, they are just broken and bitter people. I don't know.
Well, playing the waiting game. Again. I guess I can sit through Sin City. It is worth a second viewing. That sounds great...losing an afternoon in a darkened movie theater. Great therapy.
As soon as I touch down in San Diego, I will find a cheap hotel in Tijuana. The following day I will seek out Carlos. But, tonight my tired borrowed flesh belongs to Saul...here I come, dulcito, ready or not.

10:30 on a Saturday.

Waiting. Waiting. Trying to fill time. Stomach still hurts. Perhaps preg. But who's the father? Just heard the Pope died. Bought a cool refrigerator magnet, one with Joan Crawford on it and it says Drama Queen. Waiting. Ugh, so slow these hours drag by.

Thumbing through one of my favorite periodicals, The Weekly World News. BIGFOOT SAVES BABY FROM FLAMING CAMPER, screams the cover story. Actual picture of Bigfoot running from said camper with tot in tow. Flaming camper. Hmmm. I'd have the picture of Mr. Foot running from enraged pedophile Drag Queen in Annie Oakley outfit without changing the headline.

Christ on a stick! I hate waiting. Spent an hour today admiring myself in the mirror. No!! No!! My stomach muscles are going away! Layered by a thin film of squishy fat! I weigh myself....a whopping 183lbs!!! I'm a grotesque hog!!

Blech.

Plusgood/doubleplusungood.

Well, yesterday was my last day at work and I went home and purchased a ticket on Southwest Airlines one way to San Diego. My flight leaves this Tuesday. I miss Carlos and Hector and all the others. But will reunite with those scurvy chaps soon enough. Will stay with Carlos until I get employment and start saving cash for The Grand Project. More on that later.
Woke up sick. My insides seemed to turn to mush. Every time I go to the toilet, it's like chocolate pudding being blown out of the muffler of a '57 Chevy. Laid in bed and played my Gameboy. Boring, so's I trot downtown and meet Tony and the Downtown Irregulars (Some crack whore and two unfortunate-looking queens.) for breakfast. Because of my delicate condition, it was toast and 7up.
One of the queens, a tween runaway from Illinois, shivered and said, "I saw the scariest movie last night...Carrie two."
Ugh.
He continued, "You know...it scared me because it could happen."
I said between nibbles, "Okay, when was the last time a girl gave you the evil eye and you burst into flames?"
Boring drivel. I said my goodbyes and decided to go to the movies.
Sin City. Jesus fucking Christ that was one of the best American-made films I had seen in quite a long time!!! An ultra-violent adaptation of the comic book that stars Bruce Willis (For this I forgive him for The Whole 10 Yards.) and Mickey Roark. Everyone in this film is evil and fucked up. Elijah Woods is just damn creepy! I won't spoil the storyline and review it here, but just get your asses to the cinema and check it out! Fabulous!
After that, I was so drained, I returned home, had a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and hunkered down to a good book. George Orwell's 1984. Worth the re-read. Still feeling sick, though.