Tuesday, January 26, 2010

It's The Last One To The Left.

I, like Phil, went with the promise of free steak.
The building sat squat and ugly on that dusty corner in the outskirts of the low end section of this no-where tex-mex town. Outside, about ten shabby bums in military jackets leaned against crumbling adobe walls puffing on rollies squinting under the glare of that fucking bright blue morning sky.
With a whine of gears, the city bus pulled away, and Gabriel, Phil, and I walked across the wind swept street - little eddies of gritty dust swirled around us - up to the aforementioned adobe wall and took our place along the line of bent and shivering men. Handshakes and howdies to a guy named Joe that Gabriel knew from the bar Sante Fe.
I looked across the way at our destination this morning - The Bar Frontera. Gabriel knew of the joint - all day Sundays dollar beers and all you can eat steaks and tortillas. I was in. Made the pilgrimage just for the steaks alone - fuck the beer.
As I stood shivering in the bright morning sun, I watched as along side the dirty white washed cantina, stooped two old Mexican Indians in tattered overcoats preparing a gas stove and huge steel woks filled with grease. Then the doors to the bar open and there was a literal bum's rush.
The bar was packed and smelled of soiled linens and locker room sweat. Much pushing and shoving at the long mahogany bar as the ravenous alcoholics shook their huge plastic cups at the barmaids to fill them up at the tap - waving dollar bills in the air like racing tickets. The bar maids whisked too and fro at supersonic speed.
Eventually, Gabriel, Phil, and I got our cup and settled down to a table. The cantina was a dark den - filled with old beer drinkers, wise men, con artists, a couple of sagging boobed hookers and closeted homosexuals. A pretty average stateside Mexican cantina.
And I tell ya, there is nothing better than that first gulp of beer in the morning - it hits you in the gullet lick a judo chop. Gabriel - my native American friend - and I were guzzling our stein sized glasses like water as Phil was daintily sipping his with pinky out as some fucking southern fop.
So, we sat and drank and laughed and watched the football game. There were a couple of wing-nuts - old faerie that would stand in the middle of the scuffed black and white tiled floor and karaoke with whatever song was warbling over the jukebox at that moment. As the beer flowed - the men became more intoxicated and the mood in the joint more relaxed. Phil was disappointed that instead of steak they were serving carnitas.
Stood in the freezing wind outside in line with the other schmucks - mouths watering - as they served up great greasy cracking messes of pork with a chili and tortilla - all scarfed down with voracious speed. Went back for seconds and even thirds.
There were a lot of closeted faggitos in that bar, I had noticed - gotta love that macho gay culture of Mexico - a lot of penis peeping in el bano, also.
Well, after the tacos - which were also served up free and gratis and devoured by fatty Phil like no tomorrow - he complaining they shoulda had at least salsa! - I bid the boy's a goodbye cause I wasn't really feeling it, you know. Still fighting this bought of insidious depression.
So, I took the bus back downtown and return to the mish - wondering when - when?! - will this housing ever kick in?

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

All Good Things...

It's funny. When I want to write, I am never around my laptop and when I don't want to write - I am sitting in front of the infernal machine.
Yeah - I have been neglecting this blog of late. I understand that I have just been a lazy ass and have not been typing out all those sordid little tidbits that your fat ass waits and sits to mentally masturbate about reading and guffawing about "What da fuck dis loser gonna do next, Joe Hawhawhaw" And I don't write about everything, oh no. Like blowing Lalo in the stairwell of the library on Christmas Day out of sheer boredom and believe me it was no big whoop he being a minute man and all or getting stone cold drunk and stealing that Nintendo Wii flat ass out of that store with Gabriel the day after New Years and returning it the next day spending the refund loot holed up in the bar Sante Fe with about six other alkees drunker than shit having a ball. Or having that three way in a broken down van behind the warehouses with that cuter than fuck Jose and his fresh outta the clink cohort Frank and that fucker being real pneumatic in the hips and a ceiling squirter in the middle of the afternoon in broad daylight and I think that old bum saw us but we didn't care. Yessiree!! Yeah, folks - tell ya the truth, I just get bored writing the same shit down all the time. My life hasn't really changed - it's just repetitive and maybe I'm just getting bored with writing in this blog or perhaps I need to slow down a little.
I tell you whats going on though - I know you didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Since I am basically playing the homeless card - and believe you me - you get all kinda free shit when your smack flat on your ass on the street! Example - there is this government housing that I am waiting on that is an extension of HUD, which if you are an American you know about - if you are not an American, sucks to be you - they are paying my rent for a year, see and after that, since I am on SSDI, I pay only 30% of whatever the rent of the apartment rent is which will come to about $100 - for the rest of my life. I have already picked out the digs, see - the Warren apartments (swell place!) - I had lived there before. I reckon I could settle down there and write about ten more horrid novels that no one will want to read and grow old and wither away.
So, there you have it, my fellow pervs - I will continue writing, but not as much and I guess not as avid...cause I'm turning it all down a notch...settling down...finally...so to speak...

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Either Way - You Lose.

Poor, frustrated, destitute. I entered the ATM kiosk to withdraw my last ten dollars out of my bank account - bitter in the knowledge that I would still be residing in that horrible hellhole for another month and a half. No one was there. I stared at the screen and something was not right. The icon asked if I wanted to finish my transaction or return my card. I hadn't put my bank card in the slot yet. Someone had left their card in the ATM before me. I hit the button that asked withdrawal amount. I typed in $100. Five $20 bills spat out. I snatched them and shoved them in my pocket. My breath quickened - my mind wheeled - all problems seemed to melt away. I hit the icon that displayed the bank account amount. $74,987. I start pushing buttons and twenties spat out. I withdrew the card and walked briskly out of the ATM into the cold morning air. My breath puffing out in front of me as I strode down the gray sidewalk in that bright morning sun.
Then it hit me. What have I done? This is not me! I can't possibly get away with this! I didn't even look at the card and tossed it into a nearby gutter. I knew I had committed some heinous crime and was to serve some long sentence behind bars - so, before returning the money, I guess I should get my thing in order.
I returned to the mish, packed my bags and confessed to my caseworker what happened and asked if he would hold onto my luggage and laptop while I was locked up. He assured me - no, it was as if you had found the money - you didn't steal it, but, the right thing was to return it. So, he drove me to back to the bank. Dropping me off at the corner, I entered and promptly asked for the bank manager but was led to some assistant.
I explained what happened - the assistant listened, took the money ($900) my personal information, said thank you and I went on my way.
This isn't over - though several people have assured me that I did the right thing by returning the money, that I really did not steal anything - I am sure that this will make it's way back and somehow bite me in the ass. That is okay - I am willing and prepared to accept whatever circumstances that ensues from this stupidity on my behalf...

Monday, January 04, 2010


"You ruined my sobriety, you fat pig!" I yelled and slapped him across the face. It didn't matter, the fucker was so drunk he didn't feel anything and Tralala - laughable, lovable, always salacious Tralala threw up into an old tramps lap.
The alley held that distinct pungent stench of old piss common to all bum hangouts all over the world. I took another swig of Old English and slurred, "The problem with ya fuckin' addicts is ya gotta one track mind."
The Indian - Native American, excuse me, you politically correct fucks - that I just tagged, focused on me with his blurred vision, smiled and rumbled in his baritone voice, "Now, let me learn ya something, white boy - for one, I am not an addict." He started in his distinct Chicago accent. Tralala rose up from her prone position next to the old past out tramp and wobbled across the length of the alley to the opposite side. Gabriel, the Native American, took the bottle from my hand and continued, "I just like the drink. And I must admit - a bit on the heavy side. But, as you probably heard - it is in our peoples genetics." He takes a big gulp - Adam's apple bobbing up and down his scarred and bristled throat.
Gabriel passes the bottle to me - side glances down the way for cops. Tralala squats against the wall, yanks down stained torn panties and discharges runny brown shit onto the cracked pavement. I take a big gulp from the bottle and belch into my fist, "Wattaya mean it's in your genes? Alcoholism ain't genetic. That's absurd!"
Tralala starts rummaging for newspaper to wipe her ass. Gabriel shakes his head, "Yeah it is. After generation upon generation of that shit - it is. And it's all your peoples fault."
I start turning red, "Aw c'mon! That's just fukkin stupid! If you're not going to have a realistic conversation - don't even bother opening your mouth!"
Silence. Well, the sound of Tralala on her hands and knees dry heaving -but, silence between Gabriel and I.
"Want to go hang out at Sante Fe? Get some two dollar pitchers?" Gabriel finally suggested.
"Sure." I sighed.
We left Tralala snuggled up under the fire escape with that filthy old tramp with half a bottle of Old English dreaming dreams of nostalgia.

Friday, January 01, 2010

Ready. Set. GO!

Woke up New Years Day. Pretty much like this. Bathroom was down the hall, so we were puking into a pink plastic waste paper basket. And, instead of a woman - it was some damn obnoxious thirty five year old Mexican drunk I had met stumbling somewhere between the Sante Fe Bar and the Greyhound Station. He was taking a piss and said or slurred that he had a room at the Hotel Merlott. Twenty dollar rat trap around the corner that you reached by way of steel stairs in an alley. Sloppy drunken tussle in bed, afterwards shared smoke under smelly sheets by the flickering hotel marquee light - brought in 2010 downing a gallon of fucking Port with this joker until we both passed out with the howl of steam engine trains rumbling by and frozen hobos screaming in the alley below us.
Happy New Year...