Friday, September 25, 2009

Writings in the Dark.

Guess I am official. I have a spankin' brand new Author's page set up on Feel free to follow the link - love the bio!

Born in the Deep South to a lower upper middle class family, Luis Blasini was raised in Los Angeles, California as an ardent fan of the arts. Attending film school and majoring in English Literature at a Southern California University - Luis was influenced by avant-garde film directors and well read in the written works of the Beat Generation. Graduating with honors in both Cinema Direction and Literature.
Bored by the plastic fakes of Los Angeles, he relocated to the slums of Tijuana, Mexico where, integrating with the junkies, thieves, male hustlers, and notorious expat homosexuals of Zona Norte, the Author continued to keep detailed journals of his deliciously degenerate lifestyle among the back alleys of the border slums.
Going on a 'Kerouac Kick', he left Tijuana and for a decade wandered aimlessly as a self proclaimed 'hobosexual' - traveling and exploring via seedy hotels and homeless shelters the span of the United States, Caribbean, Central and South Americas. All the while, writing about his experiences in a world renowned blog.
The Author now lives a sedate and relatively comfortable life in a beach house in Baja.
"I traveled the world in search of myself and all I got was a lousy t-shirt..."

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Puta in Blue Jeans.

Awaken by the ruckus of the youngsters hired to paint the house - the landlady had hired them, you see and are doing a great, if noisy, job. Three good natured lads and not bad eye-candy, so it all works out. During these shenanigans, was visited by two acquaintances from the Plaza. Jonny - usually seen on the corner of said Plaza painted head to toe in silver and doing the robot gig for pesos thrown by passing locals and tourists. An intense 20yr old Honduran with not a lick of schooled education - that is if you don't count street schooling in which he excels.
Then there was Ivan, hunky guy also hailing from Honduras - both illegals everywhere, I reckon - and fluent in English. These two decided to visit for some wacky reason that would be revealed as the day progressed.
Ivan chatted with Chuck - the Master of this Manor - and asked if he could live in our house. Chuck confided in the boy it was a 'gay' house in which said lad stated that he didn't have a problem with it. I should say not - with the benefits of changing from some back alley hovel with a beach front hacienda, what was the problem? The idea of having the youngster in the house on a permanent kick made my mind move in insidious directions. Wouldn't you?
Fed the two grilled ham sandwiches and as soon as word was out that these were fags hording up in the house - the hustler gene in both blatantly spilled out. Ivan began to exercise and show off his physical prowess (As so, I snapped a picture of him) while Jonny went for the more subtle approach and just kept popping erections in his blue jean shorts all the while droning on and on about his sexual escapades with his various girl friends downtown.
Bored with this tripe (Me and Chuck) we all wandered outside in the shade of the house and talked and watched the painters work. Then, Jonny did the worst faux pau, at least on Chucks account - right in front of the group and God, little Jonny fell on the nod. Slumped over the chair, eyes fluttering, tongue lolling out...
I looked at Chuck and rolled my eyes - Chuck picked up on it, too. Ivan fumbled and sighed knowing full well that his cover was blown. He understood that using the house in the future as a shooting gallery with him and his friends were nipped in the bud. And so, the two junkies were asked to leave.
Actually, I guess I would have not of mined Ivan staying here...really a swell fellah. But, the other one would have been a to speak...

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Literary Outlaw

Just published my new novel entitled Tweeker. Spanning a two-week period, Tweeker is a drug-soaked, deliciously degenerate novel that follows a writer's spiraling existence into an endless litany of pathetic addicts, sordid hotels, lifeless romance, and meth induced brawls, as he makes his bitter, brilliant way from one drug score to the next. Tweeker, offers a crude, brutal, savagely funny portrait of the writer's introduction to methamphetamines, subsequent addiction and his on-going hellish relationship with the demon in the slums of Tijuana and his outrageous employment in an all night adult theater stateside. Tweeker is a masterfully vivid evocation concerning the 'vicious circle' of meth addiction, and the many attempts by those afflicted to escape the circle, but once you're in it, there is really no getting out - entirely.
You can order an advance copy direct from the publisher from the site below. It is safe and secure. So, grab a copy and take a wild ride!

Re-edited and completely over-hauled (I was never happy with the first rushed result) Borrowed Flesh has been put back on market bigger and better than ever! From the back cover:
A literary cry from Hell, Luis Blasini frankly tells the exhilarating true story of restless years wandering south of the border in the slums of Mexico and across the United States from flop house to seedy hotel. Blasini brings out the junkies, hoodlums, prostitutes, sexual perverts, and thieves crawling in the back alleys of the world. Taken from the notebooks he kept while on the road and written in a hard boiled style, Borrowed Flesh composes a very tough, yet very funny narrative of his adventures with drugs, homelessness and lifeless romance. Borrowed Flesh is hard, derisive, inventive, frankly homoerotic, comical, serious, poetic, and ineradicably American - a fast paced quirky work in which you are not permitted to laugh and yet, at times, will find yourself doing so. A lucid, shattering portrait of a life going down the tubes.
Again, you can clik on the link and grab a copy of this literary insanity directly from the publishers estore before they hit the bookstores!

Saturday, September 12, 2009

One More Drag.

It is awfully bright. I roll over on the bed - sheets and blanket rumpled - gaze on my side out the window. The chipped wood frame has no screen as heat and dust wash over my sleepy, hungover face. Two floors below me, I see a panorama of The City in all its glory. Honking, choking autos sluggishly roll over shimmering concrete, filthy prostitutes of both sexes parade and lean and stare catatonic under the bleak sun as terrified and belligerent tourist paw over their diseased wares with lascivious finality. An old man sits in his own waste and stirs a putrid puddle in the sidewalk with a twig as filthy children play and frolic - dashing around obese mothers and between legs of hip-hop pushers of fine fine medicines. It is too much as I roll upon my back.
Flashbulb of images from the previous night assault my mind. Standing on darkened corner with friends under pale yellow light of lamp post, smoking and spitting and talking of sexual bravura. Entering dank bar with five local lads and one snooty American queer and chugging caguama in a booth by the blasting rockola - commenting on each song - across from the booth was the metal entrance to the mensroom. Smell of sour beer and piss and bleach. Saul and I snorting lines of meth off of toilet paper dispenser. Dancing with some doe eyed queen - awfully - to Mexican top 40. Almost fist fighting some macho hustler in denial, set him straight - so to speak - Saul and I did. Outside in the cool night, Saul and I repair to cheap hotel room and do things that would had made Caligula blush.
The squalid room is small. Mattress up on cinder blocks, old rickety chair with my clothes flung across, squeaky ceiling fan churning slowly stirring the musty funk of the room. My body - I am wearing just my boxers - is covered in a fine layer of grimy sweat. I reach down to the dusty black and white tiled floor for the near empty fifth of cheap tequila and take a swig. It burns going down. My mouth is foul and evil tasting.
Two knocks on the worn wooden door and Saul bursts in without notice. He smiles, "You still in bed? C'mon! Get dressed. Let's get something to eat."
I grunt, sit up, and painfully put on my clothes. They smell of sweat and cigarettes. I grab the huge plastic square attached to the small room key and mumble, "C'mon...let's go."
Clopping down well worn wooden stairs, I hand the key to the fat mamacita at reception and dart out into the bustling street.
Dodging groping hookers and grasping hands of dirty children, Saul and I syphon into a booth at a small cafe in Zona Norte. We sip horrid instant Nescafe and my eye catches a young Mexican queer sitting on a metal stool - glancing at me from the diner. Red and white striped polo shirt and tight blue jeans. He smiles. Handsome until he smiles - mouth a forest of rotted black teeth. I stare out the window - dead black flies line the sill.
After the waitress slams our plates of eggs and chorizo onto the formica table, Saul pleads, "Don't go, guero. Your life is here. Your friends are here."
I sit and listen down into myself. I jerk into focus, "I can't stand TJ anymore, man. I can't connect with anyone. Everyone - present company included - are all on the hustle. I am burned out with this town."
He smiles, "Tijuana is your home. That's why you keep coming back. And you know you can't live with out your friend." He glances down at his crotch.
"A big cock doesn't make a life complete." I smile.
As to answer his question, there is commotion outside across the one way street. Two hoggish police have cornered a pelon thug - he falters and starts fighting back. The crowd gathers. Two paramilitary trucks pull in. The soldiers swarm the thug and with club and boots and rifle butts beat him to a bloody pulp - dragging his unconscious blood splattered torso to a paddy wagon and fling him in. Hookers and transvestites scowl at the soldiers and mutter to themselves. We return to our cold tasteless breakfast.
I light a cigarette and blow smoke up to the high ceiling of the cafe - painted mint and dangling with dust bunnies.
"Look, Saul - I already bought my ticket to Tucson. It's too late to change my mind. And plus, I already promised Paco that I would sell my laptop to him. I meet him this afternoon."
Saul's face goes slack and ethereal - he says as if the words were transmitted from somewhere else, "You have to stop living like that. You will die if you continue."
I take another one more drag, "I'm hoping on it."

Sunday, September 06, 2009


Trudging down by the seashore, ocean spray fogging my glasses, wires criss crossing over my head, sea gulls diving and swooping in a scavenger frenzy, and that blue Mexican sky so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it.
So, like I was saying, I'm walking over to the cafe to meet a friend - she knows some unethical croaker that doles out high octane diet pills that will melt that fat and all toxic toxins from this withered frame.
Withered? Who am I kidding? Since my seclusion in November to knock out these horrid novels - soon, Luis, soon - I have kinda let the old cuerpo go. And, long time suffering friend Saul was no boost to the old ego the night before.
He smiles walking into the murk of some dingy street, "Hurry up, ya chubby fucker!" Platonic laughter.
I stopped and wearily stated, "I prefer the moniker 'Flabbily Delicious', thank you."
Later that night, I stand in front of full length mirror naked as God intended and was repulsed by my my middle-aged man body. Next morning, I dutifully wobbled to the market and purchased a new jogging suit and sneakers - will attempt to get back in the rut jogging in the morning. Time I have, since I am done with that last book and want a break before pissing the ol' familiar off with my next tome concerning the most fucked up childhood ever.
Okay. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah - at the cafe. Thanks, glad you're paying attention.
So, my friend was not there, of course - she being like me and nuttier than squirrel shit with time and appointments being meaningless. I stomped over to her apartment building, looked up to the third floor window of hers and hollered:
"Michelle!! Michelle!! In apartment 403!!! The pill popper and chronic masturbater!!! Are you there?!!" My voice echoing through the apartment complex.
No answer. Nice. Nothing left but to get drunk. Which I did.
So, I'm sitting all prissy like out front of playas' only fag bar, Arco Iris cooing and cutting my constituents to pieces with gay double entedre, slugging back beers and watching the boys parade on the malecon. Had a nostalgic ping as at th next building were they sold stomach destroying camerones; a live band from Sinaloa tootled away and the folk sitting at the outside tables danced in the heat - happy and clapping on the sidewalk.
Try finding that life in America, I thought.
And then, an old balding pinche turista americana sat blatantly with me - lost I suppose and befuddled at the lack of a Police State scrutinizing his every move - and started to bitch and whine and over opinionating about the good ol' U.S of A.
I sat and half listened to this long-winded ass thinking to myself - if you don't like the States, leave! I did.
Tired of this crap, I repaired back to the cafe only to find Michele and her dwarf of a boyfriend waiting for me (Five hours had passed) and invited me to join them to the annual FestiArts festival at a nearby park.
A huge affair of local artists selling their wares of handmade jewelry and paintings. Three huge stages offered live bands. All were good until on one, an alternative band called Bogo hit the stage. Reminiscent of early Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cafe Tacuba, and thier own distinct style - this band rocked. The lead guitarist named Blazko was sexy as fuck and I was surprised that Michelle knew him.
Already we three were blitzed off of large amounts of tequila (First time I tried Tijuana Beer - awful concoction, tasted if it were dredged from the Tijuana river itself and then drained through a hobo sock) when Bogo left the stage, Michelle wanted to go to their private trailer and talk with them. She has a small online promotion business on the side, you see.
At said trailer, we were barred by the biggest bouncer in Baja, so I did my best Raul Duke, drunk as I was:
"I have to see Blazko now - I know him from my childhood, we grew up together - I used to romp with him!"
The drummer was coming in, saw Michelle, and allowed us access. The trailer was filled with a gaggle of giggling groupies and sitting in the middle of this harem was lanky Blazko. He offered us drinks and I sat on the overstuffed couch next to him under hostile eyes of jealous teeny boppers discussing art, music and the writing of the beat generation in which he was a fountain of knowledge. Good times.
Eventually, he had to fuck said groupies in turn, so we said our goodnights and over delicious tacos carne asadas at an all night taco stand, Michelle and I drunkenly poured over the evening.
I definitely have to say, Bogo has a new fan...