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...

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It must be nice to eat a fine taco with a less than desireable companion in a Country where no one cares if you like Carne Asada,......LOL

Great writing Luis.....