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...