Golf balls and Peanut Butter.

So I'm walking through Balboa Park in San Diego cruisin' for guys and I see this handsome guy walking around picking up trash. As he gets closer, I noticed that he was my old friend Pablo chicken-pecking* the small loose trash up and placing it in a Target shopping bag.

I knew Pablo from my old Meth smoking days and man had he lost weight. He was still handsome in his tough cholo kind of way. Shaven head, goatee, baggy clothes. He glanced at me and stopped in recognition. He moved in quick galvanized jerks, eyes glowing like telsa coils, pupils the size of Oreo cookies. His jaw was clamped shut as he loudly and abundantly ground his teeth. He jerked and spat, "I know you."

"Yeah." I said calmly, lighting a Lucky Strike. "How ya doin', Pablo." I pointed at the nearly bursting bag of cigarette butts, used fast food containers, wet newspapers, and spent condoms. "Nice to see you keeping the park clean." I smiled.

Pablo jerked in supersonic blur, snapped into focus. "What? Fuck that! Last week I was at the golf course, walking around. Now, my whole goddamn apartment is filled with golf balls!" He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a filthy jar of peanut butter. "You like peanut butter?" In one movement he unscrews the lid, dips in a dirty plastic spoon, and slurps obscenely at a glob of peanut butter. He whirls off into the park. "Mmmmmmmmmmm...." Fades into the distance.

*Habitual action of a tweaking meth freak. Picking up any little white thing on the carpet or any open ground and scrutinizing the object intensely.

frump

E-mail from my sister: My Mother is down with cancer and Dad is wondering why I haven't contacted them since before Christmas. Ugh. Feel so detached from them. I can't worry the old folks about my living conditions and I hate lying to my Mother. If anything I am terribly and brutally honest. She likes that, freaks her out a lot, but she likes that. With my Father...sorry, but I loathe him. Can't stand talking to him, was really a bad Father. And I relished the day that I confided my homosexuality. Did its part as revenge for all the years of anguish and fear that he put me through. I am his only son and the family line ends with me.
Decided not to reply to the e-mail.
Think I'm going to go get some candy instead.

El Bloggo Retardo.

A "Friend" read my blog for the first time and left a scathing critique on my e-mail.

You know, he isn't the first to say that Yours Truly is a nasty condescending bitter faggito.

"Nasty! Just simply nasty! How can you live like that?" Was my favorite line he wrote.

God, you can do better than that! However, I am not 120 pounds, (182, thank you.) I have no problem getting laid (though I don't go trolling for it, it just happens. Curse really.), and although I do enjoy living in a Tijuana slum, I'm not compelled to bicker over whose city is more "real." Don't you love it when people mistake pride in one's city as basis for a personality?

Also, I don't have HIV. Not that I deserve some sort of Gold Star or anything, but this truly pleases me. Everyone should go out, get tested at the evening clinic, and then walk straight into your local bath house with the band-aid and gauze still on your arm -- just like I did! I am one classy act.

I can't wait til the first of the month so's I can start looking for a job and move back into Tijuana. San Diego might be a beautiful city but what a fucking bore the population is. Last night was the first time in perhaps ten years that I visited Hillcrest, the posh Gay district north of downtown San Diego.

With that over-opinionated friend, who we shall refer to as "Doinkus" to remain anonymous, him and I stumbled drunkenly around in that urban gay Mecca wasteland and all that hit on me (Being the "New Meat", those cockjunkies can smell it coming a mile away.) were old, gay, fat, sad, self-hating alcoholics or pinch faced gym boys in body glitter and sleeveless T-shirts and everyone slings tired, faux-witty barbs tacked with a snappy "Mary!" or "Oh, girl" and the night was nothing but a blur of weak, overpriced Red Bull mixed drinks and "ironic" trips to the local bathhouse.

Sigh.

Doinkus felt like he was queen for a day. Smiling, swishing about, and being what he called "Socially Accepted." I don't give a fuck. Went to some yawnfest called the Brass Rail and I almost got into a fist fight with this pansy yuppie because I made a comment about Abercrombie and Fitch clothing and how queers always bitch and moan on how they want to be individuals and yet all I saw were one clone after another. Everyone looked the same. Blech.

I mouth the words, "Socially Accepted". Fuck 'em all, squares on both sides.

Dirty Rotten Shame.

After clomping down the metal stairs at Vinnies at 7:30 in the morning to be disappointed in an unwholesome breakfast, clammy oatmeal, and rock-hard toast, even the Victory Coffee was extra nasty, I decided to pay a visit to Tijuana. I had cashed my last paycheck from the hotel and am in dire need of contact lenses. Vanity and all.

A ticket was bought, a trolley boarded, and an hour later I was sitting at El Gallo restaurant in Plaza Santa Cecilia drinking good coffee and munching on some juevos rancheros. The funny thing is, that ancient ex-patriot Chuck is usually here every morning for the past twelve years, but this morn he was nowhere in sight. Odd. Hope he ain't dead. Okay, I wouldn't care. Evil old fuck, really. So, I sat and I chatted with my little waiter hottie from Chiapas, Aaron about things. Lighting a cigarette and watching the Rent Boys emerge blinking from the bars, the doped-up drag queens parade up and down the Plaza, and the never-ending march of the Wandering Mariachis.

An hour before noon, I am about to leave for the optometrist when I am approached by beautiful Fernando. This is Chuck's boy. Whenever Fernando is around, the old vampire swoons and coos like a little schoolgirl. Old fags in lust can make a man sick. Fernando is tall, thin, and very, very attractive. Dark, penetrating eyes, hawk-like features, and a smile that melts hearts. You know the type. He has learned silence and has great patience. You have to if you are with Chuck, he who moves kinda slow, just like Uncle Joe, down at the junction. Petticoat Junction.

So, where is Chuck? Asked about four times between us two and the answers are always the same...dunno. Well, I start being my coy and witty self and Fernando is smiling and being hot when I make the comment that I am going to look for my friend Saul. I want to rent a room and make it with my old friend, feeling kinda randy this morning. Fernando, smiling...always smiling like the Cheshire Cat, asks why look for Saul when he would do just as fine. I choke on my coffee.

"But aren't you Chuck's boy?" I ask. You do not hit on one of the old queen's boys here in Tijuana. Chuck knows everybody---cops, killers, cartels---can make your life in Tijuana quite nasty if you get on his bad side.

"We are just friends. Plus, I have kept my eye on you for some time." He flashes that smile again and those fucking eyes hypnotize you.

"Let's go get that room," I say, putting down my coffee mug.

"Let's go."

First we stop off at the optometrists for my contacts. After polite patter with the Doctor, Fernando and I walk over to the Red Zone and Hotel Coliseo. The streets are teeming with life under the hot sun. The smell of seared meat and sewage. Crowds stand around taco carts. A tattooed and shirtless cholo eyes me with lust or hatred, I don't know which. Dogs weave through the taco carts, stop, scratching at their infestations. Hot and muggy. Shirt clinging to me like a wet condom. Police patrols race by with handsome yet brutal young cops clinging to the sides of the trucks knocking up clouds of dust. Old pimp yells obscenities as they pass by from his spot on the cracked and soiled cement. Pregnant prostitutes stare with indifference. When Fernando and I reach the hotel, we have to wait in the patio until the room is cleaned. An hour of embarrassing silence goes by until our room is ready.

The room is small and has a sagging bed and no windows. Smell of bleach and t.v. don't work. Do we need a television?

"Turn off the lights and let's get undressed," Fernando mumbles.

Much kissing and foreplay ensues. I stroke and kiss at his smooth long body beautiful. Fernado is giving one hell of a blow job when loud banging comes from the steel door. Naked, I answer it. It is the hotels apeish looking repair man.

"Perdon, senor. But I have to check the sink for leaks."

"Really?" I sneer through clenched teeth.

Rapidly dressed, we wait in the hall for the full minute it takes this naco to inspect the sink.

After the Supe leaves, back to business. Lot's of kissing and romantic whispers in the dark. Fernando is one smooth cat. Before he screws me, he asks if I want to be his novio.

"But aren't you Chuck's?" I ask, and am dead serious. If Chuck found out about this liaison, I'm a dead man.

"We are just friends..he is too old." Fernando sighs, brushes his lips across mine. I can feel his soft thin moustache.

"Sure, I'd like that." I whisper. Ah, what the hell, you live only once, reet?

The passion that followed was crazy, messy, loud, wet, hot, painful, beautiful. We fell sweating into each other's arms and when our heavy breathing subsided, Fernando lay on top of me and kissed me until he had his fill. We lay there for an hour staring into each others eyes, deep into the souls. And I came to realize that I like this guy, a lot.

I can feel the chemistry between us. "This is so romantic. I think I love you." I whisper and flick a cockroach off of my big toe.

Five thirty rolled around and I told him it was time for me to go. We showered and dressed and after a brief dinner of tacos and beer, said our goodbyes and I returned to the border. Thought of that boy all the way back to San Diego. Fernando wants to meet Saturday morning under the Arch. The same time I usually meet Chuck for coffee in the Plaza. Playing with fire, kiddo.

Why is it that whenever I meet someone special and all is right between us, it's gotta be under fucked up circumstances?

Back at Vinnies with the fiery yellow sun blazing down the horizon, I found Pensacola Jeff and his friend Slim standing on the corner. Feeling it, I invited the two to a twelve pack of Steel Reserve and we walked to the marina to drink. But, was asked to leave by the Police Patrols. Where is the freedom in this country?

Fuck 'em, we stumbled over to the parking lot of Petco Stadium and drank there. Until we were run off by the police, again. We then just meandered through skid row and drank in the streets among the tramps camping out on the sidewalk amid piss and shit and vermin. Getting a pretty hefty buzz going, we returned to Vinnies where we joked with the local hobos and crazy folk and then crashed in our bunks.

Son cosas de la vida, cobrones.

Burracho-a-Go-Go.

Steel Reserve is some evil shit.

Spent the afternoon at the Embarcadero marina in downtown San Diego with my friend Jeff and a retired old vet named Slim who wove his witty tales of life in the military circa the early 1970's. Hilarious antidotes of whorehopping the Orient. I really love a great adventure story. Especially when they're dirty. We sat at a dung covered picnic table, watching the boats float, gabbing, downing a twelve pack of Steel Reserve.

Now for you uneducated snooty faggots that sip mint juleps and giggle at bubbly, let me reiterate. Steel Reserve is some evil shit. This beer will fuck you up. Quick. Plastered. Drunk. Intoxicated. Belligerent. Yelling flagrant and filthy remarks at passing seagulls. Lewdly eyeing passing boys with skateboards, mumbling sexual antidotes. Uh oh, can't fag out in front of these two, gotta cut.

Must leave, I stated as the sun set over Coronado Island. Lit a Lucky Strike. Stumbled out of Embarcadero Park and made my way to Horton Plaza, that six story eyesore of a trendy mall. On the top level, tottering and watching the stars twinkle in a blue velvet sky. So beautiful. So serene.

"Hey. What ship you assigned to?"

I turned and saw a guy standing next to me and seemed in my fucked up mind a dead ringer for a younger Harry Connick Jr. He wore the white sea uniform of a Navy recruit. Nice pecs. He said again in southern drawl, "What ship ya assigned to, ship mate?"

"The Enterprise." I smiled.

He stared and smiled and I tottered, "I'm kidding. I'm not in the military."

"Oh. My mistake." He extended his hand. "Hi. Louis Kowalski, I'm stationed on the U.S.S. Arizona. This is my first time in San Diego."

It might of been the beer talking, but he was hot. Hot in a white boy well toned Navy uniformed kind of way. Ya dig? And as any red blooded faggot, a sucker for a man in uniform.

Well, small patter and chit-chat ensued and we both found our selves at the Star Bar, a local tavern for local scum bags. Japanese war brides served beer with a sneer and ancient and young military swooped about, playing pool and patting backs. The Jar-head paid for round after round of domesticated cervesas and I started to get a good buzz on. More beer guzzled and as I went to relieve myself his intentions were made clear as I saw him checking out what I got at the urinal.

"Whachu lookin' at?" I slurred, with a hint of coyness.

"Not bad." He smiled. Then those dreamy brown eyes of his gave me that look. And we all know the look. Transcends any form of verbal communication.

Well, beer was downed, doors flung open and the sidewalk rushed under our feet. Laughing all the way to the Hotel Pickwick, that sleazy twenty-dollar-a-night trap on Broadway for a little hoodily-hoo.

Boy flung me on the bed like a sack of taters, tongues wrestled, clothes flung about, orifices and protuberances probed and sucked. This guy sure was liberal with the tongue action. Rim jobs a specialty. Penis lubed, condom attached, and ahhhhhhhhh shiiiiit! Was fucked fore and aft whilst on my stomach with such force and passion that I thought my spine was going to snap. Back bit up, the familiar slap-slapping of skin on skin. Pillows and sheets a mess. Erection quivers and can feel the pulsing of his semen being shot into the rubber. Now I know how it feels to be a Filipino Whore. Not thirty seconds after he glides off of my soaked torso, I ask if he wants to return to the bar for more drinks.

"No can do, baby. I gotta return to the ship, we sail out tomorrow."

I lie there with sore and throbbing asshole as I hear his boots clomp down the hall to the elevator.

Took a shower, watched some Green Acres, (Mr. Haney, you funny old rascal!) and then returned to Vinnies and flopped into my bunk.

Come to think of it, Steel Reserve is some fucking good beer. Will try it again.

Racists?!

Was standing on the corner, around seven-thirty this morning, with my friend Jeff from Pensacola. We both were standing there taking in the warm morning rays and sipping the Victory Coffee provided by Vinnies free and gratis talking about the film Crash that we both checked out the previous night.
Now, I want to educate you in the fact that this was one powerful movie. Being a Los Angelino I myself and perhaps none other can relate to that torrid tale of racial conflicts. Yes, powerful movie.
Now standing on that corner, there is much foot traffic, with the pushers and the junkies and the stainky ass whores with their Speed Freak boyfriends shuffling around with their shopping carts overflowing with their memories. You got the Cuban refugees and the African expatriate, all on the hustle. Peddle thy ass, young buck. Lying in the mud at your feet, two or three pre-corpses lay wrapped in filthy, torn blankets too tired to get up and face what God will hurl at them. Looking down, oh looking down at the cracked and stained sidewalk covered in phlegm blossoms. Blues, yellows, and greens all glistening in the morning sun.
Wait. Getting sidetracked.
So, Jeff and I are rappin' about the movie when my rather handsome negro friend comments, "That was one racist movie, you dig?"
This little midget of a wanna-be hip hopper stops in his tracks, eyes all bugged out and blacker than black with his timberland's and Fubu wear and looks Jeff in the eye without blinking, "Wher ee at?"
"The movie Crash." Jeff said. "It was racist."
"Where ee at?" The little dude repeated, getting agitated. Twiddling fingers rocking back and forth on his heels.
"It's at the Pacific Theaters, that's where..." Jeff tried to explain.
"No. "The little guy said, vapid look. "Da Wasist? Where da wasist at?"
"Wasist?" I said, sipping my coffee. "Dat wascally wasist?"
"No." Jeff said. "I said the movie Crash was racist. There are no racists here, man."
The little man just waddled away. There was many a joke after that concerning the Wascally Wasist. Heh. Retard.
Okay, highlight of my day? Sat through Revenge of the Sith. Twice. I am a Star Wars fan, okay. And it was quite good. Out of the three prequels that Lucas cranked out, it is the best of them. Now I have to wait until September to buy the DVD and then my collection will be complete.
Side note: Walked over to the community college to use the computer so I can relate this dribble to you, but first decided to pop into Mickey D's for a couple of dollar cheeseburgers. 'Cause I'm a cheap bastard. Walked up to the thirty-something black man standing behind the register. He looked aloof and a bit angry, staring left out the window.
"Hi." I said.
No answer. Not even a blink.
"Everything okay?" I questioned.
Nothing.
"All right, fuck you, if you don't wanna serve me, I'll go someplace else." And I walked out as the supe was coming from the kitchen, wondering what was going on.
Living outside of this country for several years and looking in, the culture of the United States is pretty fucked up. No wonder everyone wants to blow our arrogant asses up.
On a lighter non-racist note: I became famous for fifteen minutes. A friend of mine who is currently taking speech class at the college needed a story to recite for his final. He confided after reading my blog, that if you read them out loud they are funnier than shit. His words. Well, I sat in on the session two nights ago and after ten minutes of listening to boring uninspired crap from other students, my friend stood at the pedestal and recited my blog entry "Post Nasal Drips." (2/28/05) The entire class was rolling in hysterics. It is funnier when it is read out loud from somebody else. I got a standing ovation. Maybe there is a future in this writing gig.
Yee-haw!

Grasping at Shadows.

"First we fix the writing machine and then we fix the life."---Kiki. Woke up mouthing the word Navajo. Tried to piece together the last two days. All darkness and confusion. When Jose found me, I was crouched in an alleyway filled with shit and garbage clinging onto a bottle of Knob Hill. Filthy and a shaking wreck, can't remember the last time I bathed, pants stiff and shiny over the dirt. I recall: Jose stooped down next to me. He called my name several times. "What is the matter?" I wobbled up, leaning against the wall, a passing smile. "Oh, nothing. Slipped gears, crossed wires. Nothing out of the ordinary. And you?" He looked down at me with those big beautiful brown eyes, "Let's go. Let me get you home." Tears filled my eyes and I sank back down onto the stinking concrete. "Home? I have no home...I can never go home." I sobbed as that fact hit my heart like a gunshot. "Never go home...never..." Pulling me back up, Jose whispered, "Come on, mijo. First we fix your head and then we fix your life." White flash bulb of deja vu. As I said, woke up in the Detox Clinic in downtown San Diego amid the hacking and coughing of thirty or so junkies. Shiny white walls and guerrilla faced interns. Blank and slack stares from resident relics. Old man offered me a cigarette. Was a Lucky Strike. There is a God. "You're too young, kid." He wheezed. "Too young to be here." Spit protoplasm onto tiled floor. The rancid smell of hospital filled my nostrils. Wrapped in the flames of devils. Looking into cold dead fish eyes. I moaned and rolled over in my cot. My stomach felt like it was filled with red hot barbed wire and my head felt worse. And so, there you have it Dear Reader. I will be signing off for awhile until I get my head on straight. I guess you can't live in madness without going a little mad yourself. Goodbye and thanks for all the kind words. End Transmission.

Scoring In A Tijuana Slum.

Jose Perez and I walked briskly through the old Mercado in central Tijuana. The Mercado was a section of small streets all lined on both sides with bazaars. Merchandise and Mexican curios overflowed onto the cobblestone lanes. We dodged crockery and washtubs and trays of combs and pencils and soaps dishes and cheap electronics. A train of burros loaded with goods blocked our way. I pushed through, twisting my body sideways, squeezing past people. The hot desert wind blew little eddies of dust and trash into the side doorways.

A native of Ciudad Juarez in the Chihuahua Desert, Jose was a tall thin boy in his early twenties. Coffee-colored skin and a smile that melted hearts, he was the type that literary fags would write poems about. With curly black hair that he kept shortly cropped and penetrating hazel eyes, he was strikingly handsome and at one point wanted to be a model. But, it seemed his guardian angel fell asleep at the watch. With a little help from his friends, Jose was a full-blown junky. Since the death of his parents, he worked for his uncle who was connected with one of the major drug cartels of Northern Baja. He helped his uncle many times to smuggle a fair amount of illegal drugs across the border, and since he was never caught, Jose carried the air of unstoppable youthful arrogance.

In the bustling market, Jose and I passed the many stalls that sold all types of curios and toiletries and weaved through the throng of people until we came upon a worn-out metal gate. Six tired looking and slightly obese Mexican whores stood at the white-washed entrance with bored looks upon their heavily painted faces. Above the door a sign read in English: Hotel Paris: nice girls, clean rooms.

A scrawny prostitute grabbed at me and said, "Pst, pst. You wanna fuck me, gringo?"

"Not today, Esperanza." Jose smiled, pushing her away from me, and we continued rapidly walking down the clammy hallway into the decrepit hotel.

The lobby of the hotel was old, dank, and filthy. The furniture was tattered and the foyer always stank of cigarettes and urine. The paint was flaking off of the yellow walls as a radio blared La Serinita by Plastilina Mosh. The view from the window from the registration desk was of a canal that was backed up with last month's sewage; yellow feces slowly swirled in the sun.

Four spandex-clad whores sat in the corner on an overstuffed blue couch with the stuffing bursting out, waiting under the red glow of Christmas lights strung up in the corner. A prehistoric hag sat behind the desk. She was in a flowered old frock and her face was plastered with so much make up that it took on the characteristics of a kabuki mask. She lit a dark brown cigarette in trembling gnarled hands. Her fingers were yellow from the nicotine. She eyed me with suspicion like I just raped her virgin daughter. To her left was a big husky Mexican named El Chivo. A human tank, El Chivo stood motionless in dirty t-shirt and jeans with arms folded. His bloodshot eyes watched us enter the lobby from behind wrap-around shades. El Chivo's faded red t-shirt read Where's the Beef?

Jose stopped and hugged the old lady, "Hola, Senora Alma."

"Hola, Pepe, is everything good?" The old woman croaked.

"Si, Senora Alma." Jose gave a curt nod to El Chivo and exchanged a street-wise handshake. Jose motioned to me. "This is my friend, ****. He is an American living in T.J."

Alma extended her hand and I shook it. Her bones rattled. "You are always welcome here, gringuito."

"Thank you." I smiled.

Jose looked around. "Have you seen Gabriel?"

Alma took along heavy drag from her cigarette pointing up with her thick black lashed eyes. "He is in his room."

Both of us climbed the rusted spiral staircase into the dilapidated dank corridor littered with garbage and dog shit. Somewhere from down the hall music was blaring No Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones. From one cubical the loud moaning of a whore earning her rent.

At room twenty-six Jose tapped on the eroded green wooden door.

With a series of clicks a scrawny whore named Maria answered by cracking the door open. Her hair was a wild matted black frenzy and her skull like face was painted up with red lipstick smeared; front teeth stained and capped with silver. She stood there looking at Jose; eyes unfocused.

"Hola, Maria." Jose said, trying to look past her ratted hair. "I'm here to see Gabriel." Without waiting, Jose pushed past Maria into the room.

The hotel room was small with flaking, graffitied walls painted avovado green. The room contained a black chest of drawers, two old wooden chairs with their black leather seats cracked and full of slashes, blue milk crates with a small black and white television that never worked, a large stained black iron framed bed with a small wooden table next to the bed painted yellow. The neon light bulb flickered with the death throws of moths within. As with the rest of the hotel, it smelled of feces and cigarettes.

Lying on the worn-out bed with tattered discolored sheets, lay Gabriel Fonseca, an emaciated junky in his mid-forties. His forearms a mass of scar tissue covered in crude tattoos. His white tank top was spotted with blood and mucus and his khaki chino pants stiff from not being changed for months, shiny over the dirt. A thick mustache covered his full lips that were drawn down in a grimace of petulant annoyance. The brown eyes were sparkling with an inner fire. On the rickety table next to Gabriel lay his works: a hypo, glass of tepid water, cotton, a blackened spoon, and a pack of black tar heroin. He swung his legs off of the sagging bed and sat up; looking past Jose.

"Maria, go get some flautas. I want to talk to Jose for a moment." Gabriel hung their for a few seconds stroking the long black shiny hairs that drooped over his insipid lips and then said, "It is about time you got here, Pepe, I have a new job for you ."

"For reals?" Jose said to Gabriel. He sat down on a chair next to Gabriel and lit a joint that sat festering in an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

"I just got off the phone with Gordo Bastardo, that pinche gringo wants to buy some shit offa us. I thought you might entertain the idea of taking it to him." Gabriel took the joint from Jose and inhaled a long drag.

"Hell, yeah." Jose said coughing up the smoke and waving it away with his hand. "My friend wants to buy a dime of mota."

Gabriel stared directly at my chest and whispered as if asleep. "Mota. Wants to buy some mota." He snapped back in focus. "How much you want to get, amigo."

"A dime will be fine." I said. This guy creeped me out.

Gabriel reached into the small yellow endtable next to the bed and pulled out a plastic bag with marijuana in it. It was wrapped closed with a rubber band. Gabriel took my money and handed me the bag.

"Thanks." I said.

Gabriel smiled, front teeth missing. He took out a blue bandanna from his back pocket and wiped sweat from the back of his neck. "Jose, be careful with these gringos, I don't trust them."

Jose took another hit off of the joint. "Hey, compa, it's me...remember?"

"For reals, ese." Gabriel reached over and fingered the heroin in the aluminum foil package. He gave a sly glance at Jose. "Wanna take a hit?"

Jose's eyes took on a dreamy gaze. "Yeah."

"But, be careful...this is some strong shit." Gabriel said as he reached for the blackened spoon. He placed the heroin in the spoon and cooked it down. Drawing the solution through the cotton with the hypo, he got up and looked in the frosted mirror on the wall. The mirror had several soccer team stickers surrounding it. With a jab, he plunged the needle into a vein in his neck. His breath hissed through clinched teeth. Gabriel stared at his reflection in the mirror. death looking back at him as he slid the needle out of his vein. His face went slack as the heroin coursed through his junk hungry cells. Gabriel staggered back and handed the syringe to Jose.

"Some good shit, huh?" Jose whispered.

As Gabriel lay back on the bed and exhaling his breath in a warm cocoon of comfort. Jose cooked up his shot. With galvanized movements, he took a bandanna from the table and tied up his right arm for a shot. After probing for a vein with his left hand, Jose jabbed the needle into his flesh and pushed the plunger down, watching the solution drain into his arm. A soft blow hit his heart and then spread through his body.

"Odale." Jose muttered as he too staggered to the bed and lay next to Gabriel. Though his body was slack and immobile as a lizard resting on a rock, his mind raced with images of a brightly lit tableau.

Jose looked at me with a distant dreamy look, held out the syringe. "Hey, handsome, want some?"

No, I said sitting at the rickety table to roll up a fresh joint. "Not into needles, kiddo. Shoot your way to freedom."

Jose glanced over to his friend Gabriel and noticed that he too was off in some nostalgic reverie. Jose stood up, but the gravity pull of junk overtook his weakened body and he slumped into the chair opposite the bed. He tied up for another shot. He had a problem hitting a vein and the needle clogged twice. A line of blood ran down his arm. The dream was gone. Jose looked down at the blood that ran from the elbow to wrist and felt pity for the violated veins and tissue. Tenderly he wiped the blood from his arm. He slid the needle in and pushed the bulb down and felt the junk hit him all over.

Suddenly his head drooped to one side and his tongue fell out. The syringe fell from his hand and rolled across the red-tiled floor. A gust of hot wind blew dirty pink curtains into the room.

I sat back and took a long toke on my joint. Looked over at Jose. Sweet dreams, Jose. Sweet dreams.

A romp in the park

It's a strange world and for schizophrenics and manic depressives a sad one, too.

Awoken early, sun clawing over hazy horizon, by the pathic yelps and rudimentary comments about someone's repugnant foot odor. It was some hobo sleeping on the floor. Went on for about an hour, these four assholes yelping about the stench, so I rolled out of my bed and shuffled bleary-eyed and dangerous to the restroom to wash up for breakfast. Amid the loud farting and pissing, I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth in a sink caked with toothpaste scum and beard clippings.

Down three flights of green metal stairs--clang, clang...clang,clang-- and into the cafeteria for breakfast, shuffle through billowing waves of loud chatter and hawking of phlegm. Bowl of Rice Krispies and Victory Coffee. Cold sausage patty slavered in grease jelly if you want it. I don't want it. Jeff, a cool young black cat from Pensacola sits across from me and we talk of pointless shit. Swig down two more shots of Victory Coffee and Jeff and I decide that we need some cash and fast, so we walk up and through Balboa Park to donate plasma.

Once in the clinic, time crawls to a standstill amid fiending junkies as the faceless Filipino nurses dash two and fro in supersonic speeds with charts in hand but nothing gets done. Two hours lapse and I am thrown on the slab and a hellifyingly big needle is shoved up into my arm and my juices sucked out.

Ouch.

After that biological hazard, Jeff and I part ways and I make my way to Balboa Park to go among the wooded trails. Beware of them woods, young man, they be enchanted. Filled with Trolls and Fairies that'll suck the life out of a man. Well, had that done already, today, another time won't hurt.

So, I clomp down into the wooded trail and witness three young guys jacking and sucking each other off. Two white boys and a passive Latino, all with pants down around ankles. Wanting to join in, they disappear into the foliage like frightened squirrels as I approach. Frustrated, I sit on a fallen tree under a leafy covering and enjoy the peaceful nature. That didn't last long. Old sweaty codger in gym shorts and Gay Rainbow necklace strides up to me from the main trail. He stops right in front of me and grabs an overhanging branch.

"Woo! Now that's a hike!" He says and swings his crotch in my face.

"Hey...calm down there, Tarzan." I hiss, noticing his friend walking up from behind.

Old Man looks down at me and smiles, "Yeah, these woods are beautiful. So private. My buddy and I like to hike around here and get our cocks sucked."

I look off and sneer, "Whatever. I'm not interested in your wrinkled old crotch."

Two slink back into the woods and not dare to meet my imperious gaze. I hate old fags.

Maybe it was my negative mojo, but nothing else happened. Perhaps I disrupted the forests chi. So I returned to Vinnies to take a shower and get ready for work. Had the swing shift and I wasn't in the mood to take anyone's shit.

Throughout my life all evil, all wrongdoing boils down to my interaction with the female of the species. Every job I've had---every job---I have had to deal with at least one pinch-faced, sneering, sullen bitch who as soon finds out that I have no interest in their cancerous cunt, become hostile and plot how to make my life a living hell.

Enter Linda Castro, Front Desk Supervisor. A stunning woman in a navy business dress, flowing brown hair, and boobies that straight guys masturbate to.

First day on the job all smiles and roses and sunshine. Even invited me to lunch. I thought she just wanted to break the ice, glad hand to a new employee on benefit of joining the company. Soon the questions started: What do you like to do? What kind of music do you like? Do you like to dance? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have any children? You seem pretty cool, I hope you don't have any baggage! Tee-hee. And all the while I phase her nasal voice from my head and am studying the hot 19-year-old Latino valet that is eating at another table across from me.

I look her dead in the eyes and say coldly, "I am a homosexual. I can't stand the stench of women...God, the smell. (I wave my fork at her face with that remark.) What do I do? Nothing. I am just waiting to die. I have no interest in anything. I have lost my mind from losing the only love I have ever had and my will to live has expired. I live in filth and degradation and do things that would scare your teeth white. And as for baggage? I have more baggage than LAX and Greyhound Bus Lines combined. Yes, on the outside I may seem "Cool" and look ordinary like the boy next door but down inside it is dark and it is cold and sister, that is something you never want to meet."

"Why the hell did they hire you?" She retorts, trying to stay in control of the situation.

"I said yes." I snapped back.

Well, after that revealing episode, the cooze has been rather snippy towards me and today I couldn't take the bitch and her snide person anymore. She had me filing other people's work, sweeping and vacuuming the carpet in front of the reception desk, inputting everyone's reservations. All the while her and her cackling minions stood off to the side and discussed the latest Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie gossip. I took a serious evaluation of the situation. I quit.

Unemployed once again, I found myself walking down past the Petco Baseball Stadium along the train tracks, gazing at the twilight skies and wondered if I really am crazy. Everyone at Vinnie's seems a little touched and God knows the things that I do are not exactly normal. Perhaps I should seek professional help...maybe medication is the cure I need for this violent and disrupted lifestyle. It seems the right thing to do.

Fuck that. I will continue to live my life the way I see fit. Without regrets and with passion!

I'm Evidently His Type of Character

 

Fueled by Lust and Passion.

"A writer lives the sad truth like anyone else. The only difference is, he files a report on it."---WSB

Dust swirled in the morning sun breaking through the broken vertical blinds. The wailing of an ambulance below, distant rumble of air hammers, always building and repairing in The City.

I sat naked in the rickety hotel chair and watched the boy sleep. 6:47 a.m. the clock said. Could be wrong, felt later. Lighting a joint, I sat transfixed as his erection melted away in the early dawn. Steven, he said his name was and looked enough like Leonardo DiCaprio from Gangs of New York to pass as his brother, floppy blond hair and scraggy goatee. He lay naked on his back amid rumpled yellow sheets in this ratty hotel embraced in the arms of Morpheus and content as a nodding junky. Too bad that's what he was. I took another drag and scoped him out, hairless thin frame, eyes shut, pouty lips parted in sleep breathing.

We met last night at a dive bar on Broadway called Cha Cha and struck up a conversation amid the thieves and the dykes and the just released cons with Black Eyed Peas blasting over the jukebox. Chit-chat ensued over many drinks and then walking drunkenly to the Hotel Pickwick, a hotel that by American standards can't get any shittier. Looking at me and smiling, Steven said he needed to score for a shot and would I front the twenty? Sure, why not? Walking down several alleyways covered in shit, bums, and abandoned shopping carts, copping his dope from a slick coon with gold caps, we soon entered the dank hotel lobby. Flaming old withered fag with bad purple-tinted permed wig at reception.

"How much for a room?" I croak.

"Two Queens?" The receptionist asked.

"Nah, just two boys that need some sleep." Quipped Steven. I laughed with cigarette between my lips and the warm glow of five whiskey sours in my gut.

The room was occupied by large black roaches and bad tattered furniture. The television got three channels; English, Spanish, and softcore porn. Whoo-wee!

I lay on the bed and watched Steven take a shower, water running down his long thin smooth frame, over an ass that was like a peach. He sits naked on the bed and asked if I wanted to try a bang. Nah, not in any condition. Needle clogged twice, thin line of blood from inner elbow to wrist. I look away, always freaks me out watching someone probe for a vein. He sighs as it goes in sweet and pure. The sex was uneventful. Your basic crimes against nature. Several nasty positions later, covered in sweat and semen we lay embraced as the big yellow moon glared in our fifth-floor window.

Like I said, sat there and watched the boy sleep. Finished my joint, gargled with what was left of a bottle of Fundador, got dressed, and left twenty dollars on the nightstand. Sweet dreams, kid.

Heh, Rent Boys.

Walk out into the world and find cheap hole-in-the-wall 24hr diner, Lee's Cafe I think and eat a mess of eggs and bacon with toast and coffee all served by faceless Chinese man. Decide to take in a movie, see The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy. Ho-hum. A little disappointed. Being one of my favorite books, the movie did not do it justice in my fuck'd opinion. I remember the first time I had read the book. Way back when I was in High School, living in Long Beach, California and after the daily beating from my loving Father I decided to run away to Hollywood to live a life of glamour. Hanging out all night in a 7-11, I had found a copy of Hitchhiker's and the comedy of it all kept me up all night. Read it cover to cover, slurping on my Slurpee. The next day I returned home. To more abuse. To more beatings.

Sigh.

No time to recollect those Wonder Years, I am strong and defiant now and have made peace with said Old Man. Anyways, the film sucked and I snuck into XxX with Ice Cube and God All Mighty I seemed to like that more.

What. The. Fuck.

So, I'm walking down the street and I come across another old friend, Tommy, he of Native American decent and as fucking handsome and sexy as all get out and we fall into whatever happened to so-and-so. So? Tommy understands that I am a wily faggito so the conversation wonders into wacky sexual innuendo and offers me to come up to his room in a low-rent apartment for a nightcap and a little humpity-hump, but I refuse and after saying adios, I return to Vinnie's to see what the hell's going on. I rap with a young black guy named Blade and talk to squirrely Jose. Stand out on the balcony alone and star gaze as I light up a Lucky Strike. 'Round 10:30, turn in for a little shut-eye.

Was asked today by a grinning and freaky bible thumping street minister if I am happy with my life. I grinned, yeah. I'm happy.

Wouldn't you?