Saturday, April 23, 2005

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 hollar 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 celestrial 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. 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. 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.

3 comments:

Wayne said...

So sullen and heavy. I love it.

Walter said...

You lead a bizarre and thrilling life, and I intend to live mine vicariously through yours... keep it up, stud.

ML said...

I miss Tijuana so much every time I come see ur blog, allthough u do have quite a particular take on it brah, then again I wish we all could be california kings.
Peace!