Voyueristic intensions.

Cold and around 3am. I stand at the window of my room and look out into the sleeping neighborhood. From my second story vantage point I can see the black waves crashing in silver lining - hear their sighing. I take a long drag from my cigarette and pull the robe closer to my body. I hate night's like this - wallowing in fits of insomnia. It is so quiet. I glance down into the vacant rubbly lot adjacent to the house. I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't moved.

He lay in the shadows on a tattered Mexican blanket - legs crossed, hands clasped across his chest as if lying in state. He reached slowly over to a green plastic bottle and took a swig of whatever liquid was inside. Long moments pass - I watch him. I watch - slowly smoking.

He gets up slightly stretching - I know, I think, that concrete can get mighty cold - he is tall and lanky with long black hair in waves, the obligatory goatee. His clothes are old and well worn. Dark skin that soak in the shadows. I watch. He slowly meanders around the lot - in and out of the shadows of the crumbling red brick walls that encircle the lot. He stops and then - as I watch - he creeps so slowly over to the window of another house facing the lot. Fingertips placed on stucco wall, he creeps up to the window and peers in - his shadow extending stretching and reaching the window before he does. He stands there - moments pass. I watch and I slowly take another drag.

Quickly he ducks down - pause - then slowly back up to the window. Moments pass and I watch as he peers into the pitch black window.

Slowly he turns and slinks back to his camp and takes another gulp of whatever is in that green plastic bottle. Then he slowly creeps back to the window and peers in. Moments pass. He tip-toes over to a part of the brick wall that is a meter high and straddles it - like a horse. He sits staring at the black window a few meters away. I watch. He peers at the window then unbuttons his pants and in the half light pulls out his erection. Slowly he caresses it, slowly his fingers glide around the head. He silently lifts himself off of the wall and with his erection swinging out in front of him he returns to the window. What does he see? A couple sleeping? A couple fucking? A small child snoring safely in her/his room? What is he looking at? I take another drag as he slinks up to the windows edge and peers in, one hand on the window sill the other messaging his cock.

Sirens wail and dogs bark as three police patrols hurl down the street and pass red and blue lights blasting and exploding across the lot. He ducks from the window and scampers over to his camp - in one swoop, he collects his little plastic bottle, a bag and blanket and escapes into the shadows of the night...

Brainpootin

The crumbling concrete boardwalk sloped downward into a distant misty haze. Seagulls swooped and dived, a lone figure - black and furtive against the setting sun - walked a small dog at the surfs edge. Huddle next to the bluff out of the all seeing eye of the patrols, a group of six guys huddled and sipped Tecate's and talked and laughed.
I sat on the weathered limestone bench - hypnotized by the crashing of the waves, the silver forever expanse of sea that spread before me. The fiery red ball of sun boiling away beyond the horizon - then yellow, orange, and the stars began to twinkle as I pulled my coat around me shivering and took a long drag offa my cigarette.
I thought of the previous months, last few years, the last couple of weeks and the lonesome kicks started to drift in. People I miss passed in my mind - people I know that I would never see again - they being spread all over my adventures, my travels, pointless wanderings.
A rolling stone gathers no moss, they say. Who wants to be covered in moss, I'd retort. But, I see where they are coming from - I think it has caught up to me - and it is time. Time to gather moss.
I was sitting on the balcony with Chuck the 'Canuck' sipping coffee and chain smoking cigarettes coughing in the dawn - when said I, "You know, what I need to do is - instead of selling all my personals, leaving my place, traveling and then picking up all over again - I should just use this house as my base. Pay you a couple of months rent and go down tom Peru or somewhere next time I get the traveling itch. Then I just come back and relax until the next bout."
"Sounds like a plan to me." He wheezed then falling into a fit of coughing.
Thing is - I am starting to get antsy. Always happens around the holidays - I just wanna go-go-go! But, I am tired - tired of all this seat of the pants wondering. 2700 miles in a week? That's even wacky for me. I am back home though - TJ will always be home - so I guess I need to make the best of it.
Working on my book - it has a definite title now, Just for Kicks - and it horrors me to read it. Seems like a different person. I have changed so much in the last year or so - so much. I even pondered stopping this blog - for what is left to write about? I really don't do anything anymore - and when I do it is the same old shit. And as I've said - I'm even tired of it.
The black waves crashed in the yellow moonlight and I sat on the limestone bench staring off into my abyss - pondering the realities and vindication of my thoughts and immediate goals. Cold crept in amid the swooshing of the surf and I headed back up the dirt road to the house - happy, happy for the first time in a long time at the direction of my life...

Way back then - when I started this mess, this literary experiment - it was all based on some joker long forgotten by now. For years I roamed looking for that taste of sweet lovin' I had lost - mm'mm and that was some good eatin' boy I tell ya!
So from town to town, shack to adobe, trailer to homeless shelter across America the beautiful I rocked and I rolled kissing the lips of mysterious strangers under a big round orange moon so close you could just reach up and goose it, you know what I'm saying?
And I was getting it good and plenty I tell ya brother - strutting around with my ass in the air like some cat bitch in heat with nary a worry of only one thing - that black fear of loneliness. The dark cold emptiness of being solo. Comprende, hombre?
But the more I loved someone - or the facsimile thereof - the more I became emotionally wounded. Like dead leaves falling the years passed and I metamorphosized into what many a faggot becomes in this fair land of ours: Embittered with resentment and untrustful of anyone. Pinch faced old bitches! After some time - deep down inside, you unnerstan - I just wanted to be left alone and listen to the hollow nothing inside. As my Father dully noted via the last telephone communique, "Son, it sounds like you gave up." Fuck you, old man...
So the farting winds of fate blew me to El Paso - snore capitol of Texas, where the horny toad yawns in the shimmering heat of the slow burn of desert hell fire. I nestled down into a numb cocoon existence well knowing in the fact that I was born alone, lived alone, and I will die alone. Kinda an absolute - needed to face up to it.
Also smacked me in the kisser that this love crap was a myth - that emotion had been long crushed squeezed pulverized burned hacked out of me. Like the Tin Man - he of Oz - empty, void, and cold became I. There had been numerous attempts by several callers to win over my heart - poor jerks! I need a heart first, fellas...
I said it once and I'll say it again and I'll say it slow and country simple: I am not boyfriend material.
First off, I'm nuts - nuttier than squirel shit! Mood swings, manic depression, random fits of hilarious wackiness - and besides that, your Reporter has some rather peculiar habits that are best left unsaid.
I do not play well with others.
So content in my misery I mired - until one day I was being pestered via Internet by some foreign kid who one way or another got my wheels going - he somehow pushed all the right buttons and started the old love machine pumping again. Before you know it, your Reporter is dancing and singing in the streets, kissing babies and hugging bunnies.
Star struck - love sick - or just plain retarded, I roll up tent and head west back to California to earn just enough - just enough mind you - loot to get down to this magical land where my Prince Charming dwelt. Hell or high water, no holes barred - love will conquer all kind of shit! Man, everything was outta whack! All my premade plans of setting up shop were thrown askew because it was rush, rush, rush, him, him, him....
Sigh. Basta.
But reality set in. On top of the stress of the squalid living conditions I was in, on top of the strain of attaining employment - I started to think...El Paso was a vacuum and that Internet Kid filled a void. But now that I am back in the land of milk and boy whores I have no need to travel half way across the globe for companionship - there are 27 thousand pretty boys in my own back yard: Tijuana!
All said - that raging fire of passion I held in El Paso has dimmed down to a flickering flame. Quite honestly - I feel almost nothing for the kid now. And I have come to this final conclusion after years of searching:
Love is not worth the time nor effort. It is a hindrance and a bother. I deem it unnecessary in my life. To accomplish my goals in life, a relationship or that silly love concept does not fit into the equation.
However - however! (Banging my fist on the desk for emphasis) - after ping ponging 2700 miles in two months and just tired and over it, dearies, I have found my Shangri-la, my home of happiness. The place I have pitched tent is - at the moment for my forever wandering mind - is a tranquil tree lined hacienda on the playas of Tijuana. Gay owned and operated - not by the simpering, screechy fairies that send shivers up and down my spine - but quiet nonaddicted sane folks with goals and purposes in thier lives. An influence that Your Reporter desperately needed.
And so, at this writing, I will be here a while and do what I deem necassary.

Oh-oh, here I go...

Time clicks on and Time runs up. Finances run slow like old man's bowels. Unable to pay a month at that roach motel - hacking of tramp in rickety elevator, carpets smell and smell rotten - I swallow my pride, pack my shit and jump train down ol' Mexico way. Clakclakclak and I have paranoid fits of nostalgia or perhaps just feeling my age. Fuck it, I mumble and tromp across border, lugging my gear.

I head towards Cafe Norteno and look up patient and understanding friends. I inquire to weary ears about renting a room but get shrugs and no intiendos instead. Wonder aimlessly all over centro in vain attempt to set up camp under weary eye of cholo who wants nothing but to rob and murder me, I reckon.

Back at the cafe, I rap with timid and soft spoken waiter named Samuel and offer a hundred bucks to sleep on a couch for a month and by way he is I see in his sad beat eyes it is a small fortune I offer. He agrees but with reservations, cause he knows next to nothing of this wild eyed be-bop talking gringo that chains smokes so nasty.

Up in the mountain that surrounds Tijuana proper where adobe houses perch precariously over trash filled ravines prowled by vicious dogs and tattooed gun toting gangsters so handsome makes me blush, Mary. But, something wrong with my host - bitch is having second thoughts. And when I am returning from Market with articulos I bought - mop, broom, bucket, and cleaning supplies - I run into old friend from shadowy past who is so burrocho it is the stench of stale beer wafting from his bowels that I notice first outta the dark. Made bad impression on my host as said friend pulls out a half empty bottle of Cognac and loudly proclaims that we must get drunk for old times sake. I say nah and after the fifth time this drunken fool pesters us from out of the night, I reckon Samuel had just about had it. For after a night of me sleeping on the concrete floor with nothing but a sheet between me and the dust, Samuel wakes me up at 7am to say he don't need no roommate. Returns the cash I gave him - good lad - and I make dramatic exit back down to centro.

Stirring in anger and cursing my bad luck, I hardly taste the delicious menudo I am slurping down, when outta heaven comes my savior. Old Chuck, the Canuck - old time resident queer of Tijuana, been here since day one, dearie - listens to my wails of woe and informs yours truly that he has a room to rent at his swanky two story Spanish hacienda on the beach of Tijuana. Oh happy day!

We spend the evening on the balcony of said palacio sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes and talking of trivialities as his servant boy sees to our needs, the waves crash black under a big yaller moon and all I can say is I really wouldn't trade my wondrous, fantastic, cool life with any of yahs!

Really truly, I am happy of the outcome...

Optomistic Patriotics.

The 44th President of the United States has been elected by a landslide vote. And I couldn't be happier of this countries decision. In other news, Mexico is once again treating me quite well...Not too sure about the locals, though.

Loosey-goosy.

So I'm sitting on a curb wallerin' in my own sadness stirring a puddle of black iridescent water with a stick when a little fat ass cherub hurls itself outta a fuckin' cloud, flutters up all buttery like and whispers in my ear, "Go check your mail, dumb ass."

Trudge over to the Neal Goode Center - habitual flocking ground of San Diego's homeless elite wafting in that pungent smell of urine and rolled stale tobacco, and am surprised that I have received that IRS stimulus check just in the nick of time. As I open it the clouds part and a ray of light hits me with ethereal chorus in back ground and I hear a whispering soothing voice say, "I'll always look over you."

"Shaddap!" I retort, cash the check and rent a room for a month at the swanky ever so skanky beat hotel, The Plaza. Love the corner room, great view, writing desk, and just right to do my work. Now I can settle in and finish editing my book.

Ride the rickety elevator down and buy some new clothes, unpawn my laptop, and take in a viewing of Max Payne which of course was absolutely hideous. Jolted afterwards round the block to Borders' and bought a copy of William Burroughs's Jr.s biography Cursed from Birth - I had always wanted to read it and it is bout time I got literary, cabrones.

Night fell and Halloween was full swing in The City - streets swarming with costumed revelers, some quite impressive - bought a cheap trashy hooker outfit and clomped around 5th Ave. like a drugged up Courtney Love. Dropped a few beers at the Star Bar and camped it up (flicking cigarette ashes at the unwary tourist) with some hot guys dressed as cheerleaders they of the straight Navy inclinations and unknowing of my dastardly intentions. But, I was feeling it and around 1am I stumble all loosey-goosy back to my flat and crash watching Herschel Gordon Lewis' Blood Feast on cable.

Yes, all is well again in the Universe....