interzone

A bus was boarded and after a year of numbing comfort - El Paso has become a double exposed memory. Transfixed on the monochrome landscape of New Mexico it saddened me to think I was leaving a place that I would be missing no one. A year of my life has been wasted. And yet, I traveled to a destination with high anxiety - my mind has been altered. Will I be able to cope? Have I changed so much that that lifestyle I gave up a year ago will spit me out and I am doomed to live in mental institutions?

A brief stop in the gray frozen waste of Demming - desolate and colorless - a lone Mexican sat huddled in his meager coat in a futile attempt outside the McDonalds to brave the biting winds - nibbled stale fries - wonder if he shared the same consternations that I did. He looked so sad and forlorn. Several hours later - I had to share a seat with a smelly drunk named Lloyd who went into explicit detail of all his girlfriends in Montany...nearly passed out from his halitosis - was relieved when he disembarked on our four hour layover in Phoenix.

And I hate Phoenix. Every time I traveled there I have experienced bad luck. Psycho was filmed there - twice. This time I was cruised by a blond strung out teen aged speed freak in the men's room - he dropped out when an old codger came in and the coot decided to pick up where the speed freak left off.

Long hours later - had watery eyes of relief as San Diego crept into view. Salty clear air of the sea assailed my nostrils. Clean modern streets - skyline pleasing to the eye! I immediately left the Greyhound station and took the trolley to the border. clikclakclikclakclikclak. My heart was in my throat. The millennium arch rose in the distant - I got that feeling like when you meet an old lover you haven't seen in a long time and you know you are going to have sex again.

Cross the border. You are past the frontier where all the Aztec pitchmen and Mayan street peddlers, chilango quick con artists of the world spread out their goods. Old pushers, embittered by years of failure, mutter through the endless grey lanes of junk amok with a joint (i.e., a syringe), shooting the passerby. The tourist is torn to pieces by Short-Change hypes fight over pieces. Candy Colored Neon tubes glow in the blood of the world. Everyone clear on the shit house wall stand out in white flames of a burning city.

Find a taxi libre and to Hotel Balem - $15 a night joint. Old lesbian shows me to my third floor trap - cockroaches scatter as she cliks on the light and I say gracias - take the keys throw my gear on the red tiled floor. I lay down on the hard bed and sigh. Too excited to sleep, I hit the streets and head to the Plaza. I am looking for a certain rent boy - my favorite rent boy at that. If Saul is working tonight - Plaza Santa Cecilia will be his lurking grounds. When the actor John Leguizamo was young and if he was a hustler - Saul and him would've been twins.

Standing with hip hooked under the lamppost by the McDonald's and sucking on a Baby Ruth so nasty I find said Saul - skinny and tall with big shiny shades and yellow scarf - he sees me and bounds to me like a gazelle flinging arms and legs around me. Laughter, kisses, hugs. I see Saul and the sparks deep in his eyes - he is on.

“Where you been?”

“El Paso".

"Tejas? Por Que?"(Why?)

I shrugged. He grabs me and pinches my stomach.

“And you got a little fat. But we fix that quick."

We walk over and take a seat at cafe El Norteno and have a couple of hot coco's. As foreign and local faggotry whips past us to the various clubs, bars and bath houses - the nights evil sodomy begins to blossom, we update each other on what ever happened to so and so and Saul really know what happened to so and so and I can't take it no more with his little pencil moustache and short black curly hair and amber eyes and slim frame and I close my eyes and when I open them we are on my hotel bed fucking like hyperactive porn stars. Sweaty. Breathless. Painful. Beautiful. Hot. And hour passes, we lay there, covered in each others semen and sweat - he goes limp inside of me. Cleaning up, we share a Lucky and Saul asks if I wanta come to a party. Yeah. Wouldn't you? - and we go out into the clear brisk night with the big orange moon...

All the streets of the city slope down between deepening canyons to a vast, triangle-shaped plaza full of darkness. Walls of street and plaza are perforated by crumbling dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors, hidden by mist and steam - smells of beans, seared meat, mota, and shit. Catatonic emaciated whores stand gray and whithered in the doorless diseased cubicles of Death – beckoning with flashes of silver teeth. Salsa music wails – cops stand with ominous sneer and truckload of them rumbles by kicking up dust with the screams of the prey wail in anguish – drunk loud Americans stumble groped by transsexual deviants of all sorts - Americans need it special. Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked idiots stretches to the horizon.

Oh there’s tequila and vomiting in the streets and the groans under heaven, spattered angel wings covered with pale blue dirt of heaven – angels in hell we, our wings huge in the dark. Entering an apartment building dark and sinister like you don't know, we travel down feces ranked hallways - the green walls flake like sclerosis. We come into a garden in the middle of the building with an opening to the sky. Then I see ten, maybe eight other people all milling around the corners with spoons and matches – all of them junkies, that rugged tenderness, those rough and suffering features covered gray sick slick – the eyes alert, the mouth alert, hat, suit, watch, spoon, heroin, working swiftly at shots. Everybody is shooting up.

Saul grabs two beers and introduces me to faces I don't wanna know but he does and then to

Tonoch - the head of this debauchery. Short, obviously queer and in his mid-forties - though junkies always hide their age. There was no mistaking the neurotic hostility in his eyes, the fear and hate of life. He sat there in his black uniform nakedly revealed as the advocate of death. A business man without the motivation of avarice, cancerous activity sterile and blighting. Fanaticism without fire or energy exuding a musty odor of spiritual decay. Tenoch looked sick and dirty - though I guess he was clean enough actually - with a suggestion of yellow teeth, unwashed underwear and psychosomatic liver trouble. I wonder what his sex life would be.

Tenoch is blind from shooting in the eyeball, his nose and palate eaten away sniffing heroin, his body a mass of scar tissue hard and dry as wood. He can only eat the shit now with that mouth, Tenoch surrounded himself with pretty junky boys - they prowl him like aroused Tom Cats. Tenoch had the expression of a masturbating idiot. The man wants to touch these kids – young faces in the blue alcohol flame, invaded, possessed by the Substance…Tenoch sits eating the young blood, his face in the blue flicker cruel and sated and sexless, Aztec Earth Mother, Priest and Agent of Junk…

Life is a dream in which the same person may appear at various times in various roles. Saul approaches with two syringes and a spoon. Trace a line of goose pimples up a thin young arm. Slide the needle in and push the bulb watching the junk hit him all over. Move right in with that shit and suck junk through all the hungry young cells. Sauls eyes go slack. I roll up my sleeve. It goes in so sweet and clean. I fall back and sit onto a milk crate. And I gave them all a sleepy benediction…and snuggled down into my junk and went on the nod…last thing I remember was feeling Saul's hot breath on my ear, seeing not seeing behind fucked up eyelids his Aztec face in mine and him whispering, "Welcome back, guero - this is where you belong. This is where you've always belonged."

The Absence of Self.

Tomorrow I return to Tijuana - back to what I left.

Hustlers of the world,
There is one mark you cannot beat --
The mark inside.




And of course I will file a full report strung out on a syringe of lost hope and bring downs. I won't worry though, The Zone takes care of it's own...

Bargain Basement Traveler.

MHMR - that nuttiest of nuthouses, has went and pulled a wild card out of the proverbial Madhatter's hat. The high muckitty mucks have graced me, deeming it in my best interest and continuing sanity, to purchase me a one way bus ticket back to San Diego. I think it is just to shut me the hell up. I leave December 9th.

Man - what a relief. To finally wipe away the stink of this desolate desert. I have accomplished what I came out here to find - to conquer my inner demons; but I had stayed too long and I yearn for the sweet sweet calling of Tijuana and all that it offers. Of all my journeys that is the only port that I ever feel homesick for - the only place I ever feel safe and secure. Screwy ain't it? It will be so good to be home. I realize it will be hard at first and my plan? You faithful readers know the routine, I will attain refuge at St. Vincents, acquire employment and then settle into Tijuana and pick up where I left off - only this time with a more level head.

Recently, I have attained an online romance with someone via my arch nemesis MySpace. This person is sweet and bring out emotions I have not felt in years and that is because we all know online you can be yourself without those barriers you usually uphold when you are with live people - especially fags. Yeah, this guy makes me feel good - down deep, he makes me feel alive again. Ever changing me. May Desolation Angel forever rest in peace.

Went to the Porno Theater for some kicks. The weather was nasty - horrid dirt storm. If you never experience an El Paso dirt storm - go outside and have a friend throw dirt in your face by spinning out the back wheels of his car all on you. Anyhoo - went to the Porn Theater and must've had an AARP discount because it was wall to wall geriatrics, man! I hate old people - so squishy!! One Mexican guy came in and he was cute so we did the old suckaroo with each other but that was it - to old for me so I split.

Just went home and prepared a Cesar salad with a nice glass of Merlot - slice of Muenster cheese (my favorite cheese. Cheese is made from milk.) and hunkered down to a quiet night of telly. Thought of all the positive thoughts of leaving...all good.

All good.

Hollywoodland.

Was lounging around my trap sipping green tea and thumbing through old photo albums. Especially my pictures of when I lived in Hollywood, California a million lifetimes ago. It seemed a different life - a different person. Nowadays and for the past ten years I never talk of my life in Hollywood because when I do relate any brush with the famous it is usually responded with a raised eyebrow of disbelief to a downright, "Stop lying." So, I never speak of it anymore.

However, of you Dear Readers that live in Hollywood and the Los Angeles area know as a fact that it is all that the outsider has heard about - movies and television production are going on all over the place and at all hours of the day or night and the locals; you just become jaded to it. Like the time I was walking home late and was upset that I had to detour because of the filming of Barry Levinson's Bugsy with Warren Beatty at the main post office on Wicox Avenue; had it all dressed as some 30's government building - only some tourists were thrilled to see Beatty and Harvey Keitel who were present, but a local elderly woman shared my annoyance, we stood there and bitched long and hard. Or the time I was walking to work at Macy's in Beverly Hill's and Nicholas Cage drove up to the curb and asked directions - directions were given as if he were a average citizen. No big whoop. Or like eating at a Sizzler steak house on Highland Ave. and seeing gay porn star Jeff Stryker there - okay, that was something. Your steak did seem a little tastier.

And working at that Beverly Hills Macy's had it's perks. I was in the women's accessories department - had a wacky time selling a leopard print hat to Roseanne Arnold and chic sunglasses to Terri Garr which jazzed me to see her wear to some comedy awards she attended on television that very night.

At one point I was a volunteer at the Teen Canteen on Hollywood Blvd. and Vine. Back in it's heyday, the Canteen was a nightspot of entertainment for G.I.'s of WWII by the Hollywood Stars, such legends as Bob Hope and May West performed there and many more. Now it was a day shelter for runaway teenagers - a safehouse for all the youth that flocked across the country to become stars but wound up junkies or prostitutes on the boulevard of broken balls.

Famous actress Shelley Winters, star of The Poseidon Adventure and A Place in the Sun - found it in her heart to teach afternoon acting classes. I remember the few short weeks that took place was a hoot - she brought with her once the legendary Don Knotts and the whole day was improvised hilarity. And obviously I am not alone - here is another blogger I found writing about his time at the Teen Canteen with Ms. Winter's:http://maxsparber.blogspot.com/2006/01/shelley-winters.html

Shelley Winters and I hit it off well and when she complained of the drive from her home to Hollywood I stepped up to bat and offered my free services as chauffeur. This lasted only a period of three weeks because she turned out to be a tyrannical dotting old weirdo.

Case in point - driving down Hollywood Blvd. and I mention I'm hungry cause I been dragging the cow all over town on errands, right? So, she bleats in her famous whine, "Let's pull into Musso and Frank's for a salad." So, we pull into this famous restaurant of the stars and she orders a small side salad. One. And we both share it. Ugh. Cheap ham.

But, it was all done for networking. I was a young filmstudent and I saw her as my key to hobbnobbing with some Hollywood hopefuls. Around this time, cable television was young and for $30 you could air a thirty minute show of almost anything on public access. The Edison Diego Show was born. My bizarre brainchild - a cross between PeeWee's Playhouse and The Tonight Show. A talk Show far before it's time - highlighting Hollywood's seedy underbelly - on Tuesday nights at 10:30pm on channel 3, Los Angeles was treated to Edison Diego, a slick talking greaseball with pencil mustache in a Beetlejuice suite, his wacky black transvestite co-host Velveeta Jones, and Duane Thomas and his all Asian orchestra decked out in black shades, berets and turtlenecks. Formula was simple, Edison opened the show with jokes and schtick, followed by a guest star, a comedy act and then a local rock band - peppered by real strange "about town" spots. Lasted five episodes - the first guest was Shelley Winters, followed by Don Knotts, Joyce DeWitt, Robert Culp, and then Oscar Dela Hoya.

Oscar Dela Hoya was the cause of cancellation. After some sweet talking to his agent, he agreed to be on the show. This was right after he had won the Olympic gold medal and would tub thump on anything - I told him it was a project for kids to stay off drugs of some stupid lie. I was shut down for accusing him of being homosexual...in so many words. It went like this -

ME - So, Oscar, there are many of our female fans that would like to know is you have a girlfriend?
HIM - No. Not right now. I am on the road a lot...I have the support and love of my trainer and agent to keep me occupied.
ME - Oh, so...you prefer the company of older men? Hmm...Sugar Daddy's are en vogue these days.

Next Morning after that aired his agent called the cable company and said if they ever run The Edison Diego Show again they will sue for slander. Goddam faggot! Hmmm, years later Jay Leno made similar quips when Oscar was a guest and Leno was never cancelled. I hate Dela Hoya to this day. This show was getting a good following and it was nipped in its infancy - I still wonder what would ever happened if it continued. Really must contact Mother, she has the only copy of those episodes on tape...

Speaking of hate. I landed a gig for Miss Kitty's Koncessions, dressing as a Bellboy and serving cigarettes, candy, water, and dope from a box slung around my neck at the underground clubs to those crazy club kids. Our group was asked to be at the opening of Club Arena on Santa Monica Blvd. It was a hip star studded event. I was working the crowd - selling cigarettes from my box when has been 80's pop star Madonna purchased a smoke from me. It is customary to light ones cigarette, hoping for a tip - but as I reached out with my lighter a dozen fag hands slapped my hand away and a black queen screeched, "Ms. Madonna don't need no light!" And the lackey lit her cigarette. Not to be upstaged, I retorted, "How about a tip?" She began to walk away. "C'mon, Bitch, you can buy Disneyland but you can't give me a tip?!" Can't stand that cunt even now.

Another bitch that worked me was Molly Ringwald. I was at a party in the Hollywood hills and got pretty toasted and decided to lay down on the couch. Next thing I know this red headed tart is snatching my beer out of my hand and yelling, "You had enough! You're making a fool out of yourself!" I pointed straight into her face and slurred, "I got two words, bitch "Space Hunter". Her boyfriend pushed me back into the couch and they just walked out. Lucky for them! Not so lucky for Kevin Dillon, brother of Matt. At another party weeks later, a gay one at that, I had made a pass at him and instead of saying no the fucker smacks me in the jaw with his fist. It was on like Donkey Kong, baby! We thrashed around the room knocking blows and smashing furniture and smashing priceless faggy artifacts until the host broke us up - cross eyed bitch left with Robert Downey, Jr. - probably to do dope and then to fuck him in the ass.

There are many other occurrences - after the Northridge earthquake (I was housesitting for a friend and his 50 pound metal framed portrait of Madonna hanging over the master bed would have smashed my brains in if I was over just a couple of inches - I swear that bitch is out for me!) Anyway, Northridge Quake - L.L. Cool J and I serving breakfast in the hotel adjacent to the apartment I was sitting. (He was attending the premier of House Party 2 and staying at the hotel.)

Yeah, so many more...do I miss it. Nope. Memories are sweet. Candy colored memories. I don't mind if people don't believe me nowadays. I know these things happened - like the bulk of this blog - I have been ridiculed about it's validity. Fuck those faithless philistines - it's not my fault they live boring dreary lives. I have lived these incidents firsthand - I know they happened. I can't control my life - it controls me.

And it continues.

Doe-me-Doe Duds.

With any luck, this will be me in my Golden Years.

Red Skies at Night.

I am doomed to live a life of repetitiveness. It may be my depressive sickness - it may be the curse of the fates, but whatever it maybe I am damned to it.

Roberto never arrived from Idaho to transfer to San Diego - I text him and his response was that his father had fallen ill and he was now asking for another week. Muddled, I text him back asking if he was dicking me around - I had already waited three weeks for this boy, he assured me that he really wanted to move to San Diego so I am giving the little schister his week. Why? I am having my doubts. My logical rational side is saying to stay here in El Paso and take advantage of the two year free rent I am getting from MHMR. Get a job, bank my feria and figure out what to do the rest of my life. But on the flipside, Desolation Angel, that swaggering wacky bitch - wants to sell all my shit, race to San Diego to suck cock in that homeless shelter Vinnies again only to wind up moving back to Tijuana getting banged by every Mexican hustler he comes across. Sigh. I will let things take their course. As Major Grubert says, "What is meant to happen will happen."

Last night walked over to Juarez City with Hector to extraordinary Arab restaurant that looked like a remodeled bus station. Bare, galvanized iron roof. A huge banana palm growing in the barn-like or hangar-like room with bamboo tables scattered here and there. Served by a snotty Arab queen who was barely courteous when we ordered two plates and one order of cous-cous. An Arab stew of chicken, nuts, raisins, and corn meal. Delicious. I was high offa mota and never got such taste kicks. We had just been in Bar Buen Tiempo, where I encountered a barrage of hostility. Oscar P. was there and wanted to cut me, but I am learning the practices of this dreary tribe. I never saw him, he never had the chance to cut me. Bruno - the owner, wanted not to serve me, rolling his eyes in disapproval, but there was Hector, a good customer. (Bruno has heard that I am a dope fiend. More than that, he instinctively feels me a danger, far out, an ill omen.) So I sat there, loaded on mota. Savoring their impotent disapproval, rolling it on my tongue with a glass of good, dry martini.

Two drunken faggots as faggots can be drunk - Hector decided he wanted some tacos and then some coke in that order. Ditching those lifeless bitches through dark cobblestone streets of the Old Market - whores, fat and nasty, stand and wait forever sucking on a silver tooth. Black phantoms lurk in the alleys between closed shops - reek of stale urine and vomit - house the quivering junky. We stop for chicken tacos, slop on a plate, down two glass bottled Pepsi - then jet down Avenue Mariscal - furtive glances from pimps as we dodge buses belching air so dirty that it clogs your pores.

Up to Burrito Row. Angelic Beto is working his stall - his fine ass smiles and greets us, Hector and I make small chit-chat. Some of the doormen of the titty bar across the street - Erma's - catches glimpse of my gringo ass and starts the hustle:
"Hey buddy - no cover!"
"Over here! Big pussy!
"Nice lady! Nice lady! Pussy women!"

I wave them on with a poker face, cause I mean business and they sulk away only to pounce on three other American assholes.

Heated conversation between Beto and Hector en Espanola that ends with Hector handing Beto some crumpled pesos, which were placed under the till - a small white packet of wax paper was placed in Hector's hand and we walked out the door - both saying, "Gracias!"

"Orale." Said back.

We cut across Juarez Avenue, past loud and drunk college touristas in hip-hop garb, past taxi drivers on the hustle under the glaring ugly neon of teeny bopper discos catering to the El Paso University crowd. Down the dead end street paved in beer bottle caps to Hotel Bombin - $20 a night trap, pay the haggish lady behind the grill, up the white tiled stairwell, unlock the deadbolt.

A snort or two of the coke offa the dresser - wheeee! - clothes are flung off fall onto the bed naked, clinging to each other, kissing passionately. Fingers, tongues, and cocks are sucked - lying on our sides in the position of 69, giving each other the best of the best. Rolled onto my stomach and lube is applied, Hector slides himself in so long and nasty. Shiiiiiiit! With quick jabs the Mexican pounds my ass for a good haffa hour more or less - bed springs boinging and I squeal and moan like the loud puta I am. His thin muscular brown hips smacking against my smooth and tenders, grinding that cock up into my ass hot and savage he grunts into my ear, "I'm almost there - let me cum in your ass!"

"No!" I groan,"Cum on my face!

He yanks himself outa me and flips me on to my back - my ass hurt and throbbing. Hector sat on my chest, masturbating wildly, "GODAMGODAM!!"

Creamy! Eyes closed, I feel the hot squirts splatter across my face and chest - hear Hector gasping. He rubs his erection across my lips, my tongue licks the thick tan head. I look up at him - that silly look on his face. Pause. Laughter. "Let me get a towel, guero." Hector retrieves a ragged towel from the bathroom, long skinny cock still hard and glistening - swinging free.

After I clean up, we lay side by side and share a joint. Hector takes it from his mouth and places it in my lips. As a mariachi band plays ghostlike down a dark street, I stare up at the ceiling fan whirling slowly - maybe I should stay off leaving. Rolling stones gather no moss - so they say...

Happy Halloween!

Changes.

As I was packing I came across a transcript of an e-mail dated February 17, 2000. Funny how I don't remember this - so much has happened - and then again I find my mind has moved in so many directions - I remember so little of my past nowadays - that is the purpose of this blog.
Anyway - I want to print it here for posterity on what I was doing at the turn of the millennium and what happened afterwards:

I smiled my pearlies when I realized that I'd be back in the the land of Mexico on which Brownsville bordered. Setting up camp at a hostel for travelers such as me, I enjoyed the nightly company of many young Central American youths. Yes, the New Years Eve came in a bang of grunts and moans from an orgy of manly throats. And yet, I was not happy. Brownsville had nothing to offer in order of employment, and so with the company of two Americans, the hulking Aryan, Jeff Fisher and the old smelly toothless fogy known only as Dumpster Dave, I set off once again to join a traveling carnival.

With sawdust in my veins and cotton candy in my mouth, I spent a grueling three weeks rolling in mud and slime, hocking trinkets and stuffed toys at the cruel whip of my low browed and hairy show boss. Once in a small town in the middle of literally nowhere, I escaped the homophobic atmosphere of those sadistic merry makers and headed for the border town of Laredo.

Once in Laredo, I experienced a whole plethora of ups and downs. Too many to mention here, let's just say they were wired. Running out of money, I quickly debarked for the metropolis of San Antonio to look for work. However, my guardian angel apparently fell asleep at the watch, for our poor hero had to live on the streets amid freezing rain and foul transients. For all the shelters where full and I didn't have any money for a hotel room. But, alas, with a leap of intelligence, our hero formed a plan.

With the money from his income tax, he would use the income to rent an apartment and look for a job and get the hell out of this horrid situation. Wrong! The winds of fate blew me back down to Laredo for another week of cerveza and dick. Then, out of the blue, God woke up and smiled on me. My good friend Anthony from Costa Rica felt pity for our hero purchased me a plane ticket and invited me down to his homeland in Central America. Within moments of boarding the plan, I had a paranoid change of heart, sold the ticket and took the next bus to the desert city of El Paso.

What strange adventures are in store for our for our hero? What evils lie ahead? Stay tuned for:
Episode 11: The Bitch Strikes Back!

--e-mail reply to Alberto Vargas and concern of my whereabouts the last few months

And that was my first trip to El Paso. There is an end of the world feeling to El Paso - something sinister in complete laissez faire. Even stepping first foot in this city back then I never liked it - it is a trap that takes hold and never lets go.
But, this last year here has changed me - in a way that I don't know the exact result. I am disinterested in all aspect of pleasures of the flesh. The contact of human beings is beginning to repulse me - physical and mental. I am becoming. What? - I have no idea. Is it the meds that MHMR put me on? Is it years of hedonistic and dispatched lifestyle?

I think that I have gone so far out that I may never come back.

Who knew Being a Bitch Could Be So much Fun!

Sick.

Was waiting for the bus to go downtown this morning. Waiting with me were two black students - probably on their way to UTEP, the university here in El Paso. Just standing there - one talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Then a fucking white cop rolled up in a squad car and began to harass them for no reason - asking them all sorts of idiotic and mundane questions. His excuse? He was on the look out for two black burglars and they fit the description - classic cop bullshit. This country is pathetic - it is the 21st century and we still live with racism and hate and distrust.

No wonder the world hates us.

Tangible Dream.

Decided to take the last bus down to J-town and trudge over the International Bridge al in lieu that Joaquin Q. threw a party in honor of his new apartment. Two room rat hole with a rusted steel balcony and panoramic view of the Whore Zone. Nice if you wanta see smog, criss-cross of wires, and bloated transvestite hookers clop up and down the broken puke covered pavement. But, ah yes, the aforementioned fiesta. All types of sordid junkies and nefarious types lurked in the smoke filled shadows of Jose's colonial apartment. Cocaine, marijuana, and booze passed many a hand.

Raggeaton music and screaming and the vecinos rush in like flaming Furies.

Stumbled over Eduardo in the bathroom and he said "I'm killing myself with this stuff." And looked at me with sick cocaine be-bop eyes. I take a snoot or two myself and feel it.

"Pinche tu madre, cabrone."

Half a bottle of Jose Cuervo too soon and effects of cocaine cause me to lose control. I stumble and sway and the music! The music was all around me. Sniffing, I lean against chipped pink painted wall and listen to hyped up drug fueled patter of Joaquin gab in galvanized gestures at some ratty whore strung out on goofballs. "...shots of heroin by candlelight - they had turned off the lights and water. Was Pacheco glad to get rid of his roommate. Never take a dude with a monkey.

And my buddy went away. Like a cat somebody gives him more food and one day he is gone. No good. No bueno."

Suddenly, I see this Mexican Indian boy in sharp focus with handsome dark Aztec features. He is hooked and sick, sniffing and all the bones stand out on his face. He catches my look and walks over and leans on the green metal table and says:

"Could you help me?"

Lean brown hand gently rubs against my hardening crotch. The guy is short, but handsome with strong Aztec features. In his hazel eyes flicker pinpoints of light.

Get out of here. Bar. Grocery store. Antennae of television suck the sky like greedy periscopes. The boy lived in a dead end sub-division. Rats scurry in gutters and the cockroaches...the cockroaches were downright arrogant. Old 19th century Spanish apartment with rusted iron balconies.

Dim light hangs from wire attached to the ceiling. Windowless room of concrete. Smell of mildew and unwashed linens. I tear open a small bag of cocaine, he rips open a packet of lubrication. Undress quickly and erect penis is oiled up. On all fours, I clench the thin brown blanket as the smack-smack-smack of his hips hit my naked ass. The coke explodes behind my closed eyelids like fireworks as he shudders deep inside of me to some kind of climax.

Through dry lips we both sigh together, "Muy bueno."

In the back of a taxi, the lights of the city flicker across my face as we do a kamikaze race to frontier. With the window down, the cold night air plays in my hair. I grin behind screwed up eyes. Will be moving back to Tijuana on Thursday.

Ah...finally.

Forward to Go.

Woke up to La Sirenita by I think Plastalina Mosh. Man, did that make me homesick. I started to wonder about all the friends I left behind in Tijuana. The urge to return pains my stomach in knots. Showered, got dressed and went downtown to a cafe I haunt called Cafe Tejas - the coffee is quite toothsome.

Two drunks were sitting at the bus stop, passing a bottle of Jack between them. At six in the morning - stood there with Lucky Strike hanging from my lip grinning at their silliness. Oh, well. When you gotta have it you gotta, I guess. Any other time I would have joined them. But I still am down with this damn cold. I wish I didn't smoke that weed last night with Hector...I am so tired. So weak. I have had a soar throat for about two weeks now. Perhaps a trip to the croakers is in order. Fuck that - the doctors here in El Paso are so pathetic the drunk quack would probably crash into the room loaded on crank and sew a live monkey up into my abdomen.

Downtown, time went a little slow. Nothing happening - El Paso is a dead museum. Same old shit. Man what a boring normal existence. I dream of Tijuana on a daily basis. Bored to nostalgic tears, went home and cooked dinner. Grilled chicken in tomato salsa with Spanish rice. Nice glass of Merlot. Did some final edits on my laptop to that movie I want to do - someday. It lifted me out of the doldrums for a bit. Hector came home from his job, we talked, ate, and fucked. His girlfriend is on the rag so I am benefiting from the deal. That boy really can make one work up a sweat. Went to sleep around nine thirty.

The time is now. Unlike Lots' wife - there is no turning back. Before I crashed, Roberto called from Idaho last night - he will definitely be here next Wednesday to leave for San Diego. Thank God! I will be going home. For a while anyways - until I am ready to debark for Central America.

I came to this miserable city sick in mind and body with the assumption of staying only three months and wound up a year - I couldn't possibly have seen myself trudging through one or two more years in this God forsaken hellhole. How I loathe El Paso - with such a passion you cannot believe. Everything about this wicked little town is wrong.

It will be so good to be in a civilized city again - my writing and creative juices will flow - employment opportunities will be better - and more adventures for your perverted little minds to read.

All ready, I can't contain the girlish glee...

Porno pals.

The sound of Mexican kids playing outside awoke me at 9 am this morning. Stumbled to the kitchen and as I ate a big bowl of Cap'n Crunch, Whitney Houston wailed on about how she was every woman. I gargled with coffee and dressed to the nines this fine day. I decided to go hang out in Plaza San Jacinto and take in the local hipsters.

I pulled on my black chinos, grey t-shirt, black leather jacket, and some black zipper shoes that I had purchased from a Queen in Tijuana. Shaved, brushed my teeth, and moussed the hair and I was out, not before giving a wink back at my Buddy Christ who gave me the thumbs up on my stereo speaker.

I took a raggedy bus all the way to downtown under a blast of big blue Texan sky. Now, dressed this good I knew I was going to cause a ruckus. Your average citizen would be comfortable in a black and wrinkled Iron Maiden T-shirt, green army pants, and sneakers. Very butch to be sure, but I decided to turn heads. But, for the moment, I was upstaged. There was this old drunk wobbling to and fro harassing the few people at the bus stop adjacent to the Plaza. He was asking some unintelligible gibberish when this other equally unfortunate slob - looked like Poopdeck Pappy - strode up and popped him in the jaw. The old drunk went flying into the street - money and personal affects spilling everywhere. The old man hobbled away into a convenient store as the old drunk jumped back up, screaming obscenities into the sky and swinging fists.

The city bus, with a whine and some protest of gears, stopped to pick us up, screaming drunk and all. The bus was full with folk, old corpses in the front, petrified whites in the middle, and the cool kids in the back. All permeated by the screaming baby and the screaming drunk. My head began to throb...but, NO! - I will not become bitter. Gazing out at the passing decaying urban sprawl I saw XXX Adult Shop on Texas Ave. and my hopes lighted. I always got time for porn!

Off the bus, through the turnstile into the shop I was met by several dubious eyes as the cruising Mexicans and elderly watched my every move. Like animals sensing danger their heads slowly rose behind stacks of porn as I brazenly approached the clerk and plunked down five dollars. "Your theater, please."

Entering the small cinema, my eyes adjusted to the putrid darkness as my nose adjusted to the smell of spent semen and unwashed penis. Up on the screen, some bimbo was getting it doggy-style by a black gentleman, sweaty and grunting. I took a seat near the far wall in the corner. Not before my seat let out it's last adjusting creak, did this old grey phantom with halitosis plop next to me. With galvanized movements, his gnarled hand creeped along his leg and onto my knee. I grabbed his hand and hissed, "Look, Yoda, I'm in hear to enjoy myself - so keep your semen stained mitts off of me, got it?" I got up and walked to the otherside of the room and sat down.

Looking to my right, the shadow six seats down formed into the most beautiful boy. He looked like a young Benjamin Bratt. Aquiline features, long wavy black hair, his torso long, hairless and lithe, the body of youth. He looked over to me and smiled, mouthing silently, "Come here." And motioned me to sit next to him. I did and as he put his arm around me I noticed two things. He wasn't wearing any pants and a young, smaller Mexican - Aztec Indian-style - was kneeled down between his legs sucking his dick like his life depended on it. That little fuckers head was bobbing up and down at supersonic speeds. Pop! I got a hard on.

"So," I whispered. "Where did you..." And before I finished, my mystery guy pulled me close and slid his thick, hot tongue between my lips. We sat there groping and kissing until he moaned out and the little Mexican mouth was bloated with cum. I pushed a black curly strand from his moist forehead and said, "So, what's your name?" He said Carlos and he doesn't know the name of the guy that was blowing him. Isn't gay life funny?

The little Mexican said thanx or something equivalent and took off. Carlos was kind enough to pleasure me and after I was done I asked if he would like some lunch. "Sure." He smiled and wow what a smile. So beautiful. He told me he had a car and recommended this cafe on Alameda Ave. What a small world. The cafe was nice, I ordered a beef burrito with a Sol cerveza and we talked. Carlos is twenty years old and has been living in El Paso for six months. He moved here from Senora, Mexico and lives with his Aunt and brother. I told him my story and he thought it was quite funny. Carlos laughed and commented that I was a very bad boy. I agreed.

After about an hour of real stimulating conversation about independent cinema and the decline of the Discovery Channel, which I think should change their name to The American Chopper Channel, Carlos and I said our goodbyes. However, Carlos said he frequents the porn theater regularly and if I'm ever in the mood for a little diversion to look him up.

I returned home inspired and for the first time in months I started to really write. I started a new screenplay. A dark mystery about a femme fatale who gets wrapped up in an extortion ring of body parts embezzled out of the city morgue - life imitating art.

My friend Hector came over and I fixed us dinner, pork chops, spinach, with salad. After some television and a shower, we went to bed - sex with Hector is so satisfying, man he screws like a pimp! Staying up to watch the Rob Zombie Show, tonight was Russ Myer's Faster Pussycat - Kill! Kill! As I held Hector in my arms and lay there listening to his relaxed breathing, stroking his smooth copper skin, I thought of Carlos, that seductive imp and fell asleep dreaming of my impending old age. I realize, one day, I will be the quivering old pedophile lurking in a dark theater leaping on unsuspecting youth.

Orale.

The Here and Now.

Got the nuggets to text Roberto to see if he still wanted to go to San Diego last night via cellular. Roberto hightailed it to Idaho to work a high paying temp job - last I spoke with him he was all for the transition to California.

A few minutes later, he text'd back saying he is on his way - he will be here in two days.

And so, here it goes again. I am ecstatic to finally rid myself of this limbo that I have put myself in. Once in San Diego - of course after getting settled and securing a decent job, I then can focus on my Costa Rican venture.

I quiver at the possibilities to come...

Just remember this - all agents defect...and all resisters sell out. That's the sad truth, Bill. And a writer…a writer lives the sad truth like anyone else. The only difference is…he files a report on it.

- and I will continue to do so.

Dig it.

Blue Wind.

I am suffering from a profound depression - the worst of my life. I have a complete conviction that I can't write anymore, that my talent - such as it is - has given out, and sit for hours looking at a blank page - and there is no one I can talk to. I shouldn't be hung up here in El Paso. Of course take more on account of depression - I should have went to San Diego.

Destroyed that showboat of the ego my MySpace account - God, how did I get caught up in that? Glad to be rid of it. A friend in Costa Rica pointed out the photos I posted of me - they never match, he says. I smile at the fact that I got away with it this long. That is why I enjoy talking with him - he sees. A true artist.

So, I erased the whole obnoxious niggardly thing and decided it is time to come out. I took photos of me that I actually like and scanned them into a new account. Now I just need the cajones to activate it.

I don't know what is wrong with me, but it is bad. Every idea ridiculous - like the atomic deal. And everything I write disgusts me. I really feel awful. A feeling of complete desolation.

Job Fair Day.

Today the city of El Paso held a Job Fair at the Convention Center downtown to display all the employment opportunities that the burg had to offer.

I dressed to the ninths and tenths in my black and grey Kenneth Cole's and shuttled downtown to see what was up. As I entered the cavernous hall it was already crowded with about a hundred eager unemployed milling about from booth to booth - my mind vibrated by the circus music piped over the loudspeaker that was intermittently interrupted by an overcaffeinated announcer hawking some telemarketing job. Why is it in these small bergs, telemarketing is always regaled as a fine line of employment when we all know that it ranks three rungs below public bathroom attendant on the job scale. Well, I meandered around and filled out several applications until I got a hand cramp - depressed in the fact that there really was not much to offer. But, at least there was some nice eye candy - and some hotties in ties were checking me out, too. So, it made the trip tolerable.

But, as I walked around the sad booths that offered nothing but mostly industrial crap - that was when I made my definitive decision. I have been playing with the idea since I left Redcats - If I do not attain a reasonably paying employment here in El Paso by the end of this month, I will definitely pull up my stakes and return to San Diego. If I am ever to achieve my goal with this Costa Rican venture - I need a sizable income and stop playing around with these crappy wages. At least in San Diego I know what to expect and how fast I can attain it - and the style of living is a hell of a lot more promising than in this no-where TexMex town! I have nothing to lose and everything to gain from this - plus I can use a little side adventure right now.

Anyhoo, the local faggitos of El Paso I find quite a bore of late - petty and gossipy bunch. So, why not?

Son cosa de la vida, cabrones.

Met My Match - I suppose...

After a bowl of menudo for breakfast and dragging my ass to a job interview that I obviously aced - I raced downtown out of complete boredom to find something to do. In this sedate comfy life I had settled in - this warm snugly cocoon, I am getting slothful, lazy and beginning to gain weight - I am losing my flat stomach! And the most horrid of it all - I look onto this with complete apathy. As the raggedy bus chugged down to centro, I thought I have the Sissy Hankshaw blues. I need to go - I need to travel - I have become such a bore.

Sigh.

Well, for kicks I decided to go troll the porno theater up on Texas Avenue - waiting for the bus I stood there sipping my Dr. Pepper watching all the sad, overweight people and it put me in a funk. I see myself becoming them. I am them.

I walked away from the bus stop and over to Plaza San Jacinto - bummed ever more - changing my mind for the moment on the porno - and was happy to find little Carlos holding up a wall waiting for a bus to go to work. This was the same Carlos that had come to drink with his friends at my house last week. We stood there and shot the shit - laughing under that bright Texas blue sky with dead leaves falling the first kiss of Fall - for awhile he made me forget my depressed funk.

"Hey, I know that vato." Carlos smiled, "He crossed the border illegally this morning - the guy is cool."

I looked and saw the person he was talking about - a short attractive Mexican man walking with this crazy white woman who usually hung out on street corners and strung her guitar badly for change. As soon as he saw Carlos he excused himself from the street wench and jumped up at us babbling in Spanish to Carlos - all the while eying me with suspicion because you realize all white men are border patrol agents, right?

The guy was relieved when he found out that I spoke Spanish and we three stood there for awhile and talked until Carlos had to leave for work. Afterwards, I found out the guys name was Francisco and he was quite charming - so charming in fact that out of the goodness of my heart and the willingness to help any wary traveler in need, I invited him to my trap for dinner, in which he agreed.

In no time - as a fact seconds after the door to my apartment was shut - Francisco asked to pop my porn into the DVD player - which I always keep handily displayed on top of the counter. Sure - why not. An hour passed of watching porn and watching him crotch grab until finally we both just said Fuck It and flung the clothes off. Wooh! This was not a boy - a 38yr old man with experience and he fucked me - twice - like a freaking porn star. When we where done we lay next to each other - soaked in sweat, my asshole battered and my back splattered in semen. Afterwards, we showered and he said he had to return downtown - so I walk him to the bus stop, said our goodbyes and left.

I went into my flat - ate a Ceasar salad and watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and the Even Cowgirl's Get the Blues. My ass never hurt this bad - he really let me have it. I could not sleep from the uncomfortable feeling - at least Rob Zombie had a double feature cult show of Plan 9 and This Old Dark House - but my butt hurt. I think, for the first time in my life - I had met my match. Or maybe I am just getting old.

Pendejo.

Was feeling rather excited – okay horny was the word and obviously was not going to get a fix in El Paso - so ‘round nine I took the last bus leaving past my trap south to the border to spend an evening of evil in good ol’ J-Town. Headed straight to the whore zone – the Zone takes care of its own, you dig?
So, crossing the International Bridge and with a sigh of relief I was sitting in a cheap cantina off Avenida Meriscal – La Cruda. The place was suffused with a dim blue light – garish and hid the fat and nasty hooker being finger banged by the ancient cowboy in the corner, her silver teeth reflecting. A moldy looking bullhead mounted on a plaque hung over the mahogany bar. Pictures of luche libre decorated the walls along with strings of Christmas lights – most burnt out. The word pendejo was etched in the frosted-glass swinging door. I found myself reading the word pendejo over and over.
I had been sitting in a vomit reeking booth with two Mexicans, drinking tequila. The Mexicans were fairly well dressed – standard hip-hop gear. One of them spoke English - they where the 'So how do you like Mexico variety'. A middle-aged, heavy set Mexican with a sad, sweaty face sang songs and played a guitar. He was sitting at the end of the booth in a chair. I was glad the singing made conversation with him impossible.
A couple of cops came in - I figured I might get a shake, so I slipped my stash of weed in my Lucky Strike cigarette package under the table. The cops had a quick conversation with the bartender and then took off..
The two hip-hop Mexicans took off promptly. When I reached under the table, my weed was gone but the cigarette package was still there.
Pendejos.
I sat there staring into my warming cerveza Sol when two guys walked into the cantina and sat next to me at the bar. I said Howdy; they said Hola; and introduced themselves - Juan was tall and thin with a shaven head, goatee, blue football jersey, and green army fatigue pants. The other guy was a little younger, about 21, with black slick back hair and wore a black t-shirt with dark cargo pants and looked vaguely oriental. After bumming a cigarro, he said his name was Ignacio. Ignacio? What kind of name is that, I asked – the flirting engine started to rev up. I knew full well of the name Ignacio – had many friends named Ignacio – but I thought I’d play the cutesy-pie gringo. And he went into this long tirade about Aztec culture and that Ignacio was a name based in Aztec tradition. Whatever. I flicked a cockroach offa the bar with indifference.
We joked and talked and the beer started to flow and we got mas burracho. Juan said he wanted to go to a bar and see strippers, so we left the little bar and hoofed it down to the Red Zone and popped into one of the hundreds of hoochie houses – the best of the best I guess, Club Hollywood. As we sat there and watched this short fat Indian jiggle in all the wrong places, I told my two new escorts that I was going to go. The last thing that I wanted to see was a bunch of old men ogling a floppy boobed dancer in a smoky cockroach infested strip joint. Drunk, Ignacio laid a hand on my shoulder and asked me, "Which one do you want?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, quite perplexed.
He pointed to himself and then to Juan, "Which one of us do you want to take to the hotel, guero?"
I sat there for a moment. Inside I was giggling like a little girl - these two guys were competing over me! What a complement. I looked at Ignacio with a serious look and said, "Come with me, Ignacio."
He agreed and we stumbled back to the ten dollar a night hotel room that I rented – a filthy trap that was no more than a coupla mattresses on the floor and a bathroom that was a biological nightmare. Once inside, Ignacio and I downed shots of Fundador and soon my head started to spin. Next thing I know, the clothes come off, I'm escorted to the raggedy bed by Ignacio and laid on my stomach. The hottie sat in front of me and I sucked that thick uncut dick like a champ as Ignacio fingered my ass. Ignacio climbs onto my back and slides up in me and I am taking Mexican like the filthy whore I am! Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! He thrusts up into me biting up the nape of my neck and I am moaning and he is grunting talking filthy to me en espanol. Ignacio whirls me around onto my back and with my feet on his shoulders he took no prisoners; the boy went at it like a madman - kissing me passionately as he pounded away that caused me to lose my cool and I came on myself, splattering all over my stomach and chest. With a groan and an Aie Caray! Ignacio pulled out and hosed me down with hot white spurts of his own.
As I laid there panting, covered in sweat, semen, and saliva, Ignacio lit a cigarette and after taking a drag, placed it between my dry lips. I stared at the ceiling fan and wondered why the fuck I ever moved out of Mexico...

Yeah...

Stupid Drunk Straight Boys.

"I'm straight."

"So's spaghetti until you get it hot."

- conversation overheard in New Orleans gay bar.

Payday - decided to throw a freaky-deaky party at my humble apartment. After taking care of my business downtown - I met the boys at the San Jacinto Plaza, a gang of cholo's who are just all drop dead model cute - unfortunately they are all four time losers. In and out of correctional institutions - hanging around the Plaza all day begging for change to buy beer. Great eye candy, though. Except for little Carlos - he is the sole holder of employment - boys got ambition.

Well, they all decided to invite themselves - Manny, Jose, Carlos, and Fabian - it did not matter that they all were heterosexual - save Fabian, I have already tasted that forbidden fruit and it was tasty - but back to the party guests, I agreed sure why not call me 'round nine and there will be plenty of beer and mota for all.

"Will there be bitches there?" asked Manny, that MS13 hottie - tats, pelon, and all.

"Sure." I mumbled. Well, a bitch anyway. So, off I went to buy the liquor and food. Spent the next coupla hours cleaning the trap and drinking martinis when the cellphone rang and Jose and Manny had arrived and where looking for my place - I found them wondering around and oh, isn't that great, Manny brought a girl with him - though I had to admit she was quite pretty.

When we returned to my place - first thing I noticed to my horror, Jose was already drunk and high. The four of us drank and had a good time - made Jose his first martini. But as the hours progressed he got obnoxiously worse - to the point that my tolerance level gave up, I dragged his drunk ass down stairs and hailed him a cab. As we stood in front of the building waiting for the taxi, I lectured the drunk cross eyed fuck on alcohol tolerance - then I had to pee. 'You stay right here! Don't move!' I barked at tottering Jose - propped him against the wall and returned quickly upstairs to my flat only to find Manny fucking his bitch in my bathroom - him grunting, her panting mixed with the thumping of my toilet. Ew.

Then - Jose somehow stumbles up into my place and the two lovebirds pop outta the can acting as if nothing happened. Well - Manny and Jose started wresting and hurling food all over my place and Jose - the drunk ass - knocking over my bookshelf and tables - that was it. You fuckers gotta go! Manny, who just couldn't take the hint kept stalling for some fucking reason - I grabbed Jose and tossed him out on the landing, locking the door. Manny of course kept letting him in - that was it, angry drunk fistfight time. I grabbed Jose - who ran into my wall and fell flat face onto the kitchen floor - ass up, it looked like a freaking Loony Tunes skit - I grabbed the crumpled boy up by the belt and arm and again threw him out. Grrrr!

I swung open the door and there was Jose sitting on his ass next to the railing - knuckles bleeding, face slack, eyes crossed. If he wasn't so fucking handsome I would have thrown him over the edge of the balcony. I calmly told Manny and his girl it was time to go. Sigh - after more drunken shenanigans - the trio finally left up to the 7-11 where a ride was to pick them up.

Fuck! Maybe I need to hang out with more gay people - tolerate those simpering bitter fairies and their goddamn banal finger snapping head swerving Mary-isms? Nope! I would be the one swinging fists - I may be homosexual - but a roomful of screeching posturing faggots give me the horrors.

I cleaned up the mess when my cellphone rang - God, now what? It was Carlos who had just gotten offa work and wanted to come over for beer - I asked if his friends were not gangsters? Nope. Good - I got some beer left come on over.

Carlos' two friends, Tom and Angel where very attractive students at the University. We sat and drank booze and I made the boys their first martinis - we then popped in the porno - well, Angel did. Carlos wasn't interested, he just joked and blabbed with me as Tom and Angel gazed at the TV - Angel on the other hand, who lounged on my bed had quite the impressive erection. Long story short - 'round three Tom and Angel called it a night and left. Carlos and I stayed up and talked and drank and smoked what was left of his weed. I saw Carlos was getting drowsy and offered him to crash on the floor or my bed - he chose the bed. Cool.

Lying next to him in the dark - drunkenly Carlos mumbled, "Damn we need some bitches here - I want a blow job."

"Well - it's real late, no one here but me. Sorry."

"Damn, I need some head."

"Drop your boxers and I'll do it if you want it that bad, Carlito."

After feigning surprise, the shorts came off and I gave him the bestest of the mostest. Shooting his cum - he gave me the old Don't Tell Anybody Speech. Don't worry, kid - I won't.

Next morning, after I made us eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee - Carlos split and I slept off a hellishly horrifying hangover.

Scooby Doo Mystery.

Came home last night after a crappy night and my front window of my trap was smashed. Sigh. I have come to the conclusion since I have moved from San Diego that I have died and went to hell. Can't think of any culprits - maybe some deranged crack addict or drunk from the project, I suppose. No forced entrance - no attempt at thievery. Very queer. Police were called and a report made.

Spent the rest of the day moping around nursing my hang over. Crap.

Shey ‘ello to muh lil’ friend!

Since I am a complete moron and have no regard for responsibilities, I was forced to pawn my DVD player to buy a monthly bus pass - this act, you see creates more fodder for your judgmental ass to condemn and pass your worthless and irreverent opinion upon me. But, I digress and will continue for your amusement anyway - ruthless bitches.

So, downtown I am after doing the deed decide to do lunch at Jack in the Box - well not in it but al fresco and take my burger and cheap ass tacos to Plaza San Jacinto. Nice day with big Texas blue sky and fluffy white clouds, you dig? I sit under a shaded tree and watch the cops rumble a couple of cuties on the other side of the park. Seems said hotties where partaking in public drinking of alcohol - I gobbled my burger as one cholo grudgingly poured his beer - a Steel Reserve 211 - into a thirsty bush. Too bad, kids.

Finished my lunch and walked around the park - the two guys that the cops harassed came up to me. Damn - they looked even better close up. Problem was - they were shit faced drunk.

"Hey, man!" said the one in the blue baseball cap. "Did you call them cops on us?"

Smiling said I retorted, "Don't be stupid - and I saw they made you pour out your Steel Reserve. That's fucked! My favorite beer. Guess I hafta by you fellas new ones."

Their eyes lit up like Christmas trees and my mind was set in motion - perhaps some madcap sexual adventures will ensue... We walked over to the Circle N convenience store on Mesa Street and I purchased three tall cold ones from the daffy lezbo and with much yuk-yuks and hardy hars I found out the guys name with the blue baseball cap was Steve and his friend with the shaved head was Tony. Both fresh outta the joint this morning - for public intoxication. Life imitating art, people. Well, I was always a sucker for a handsome face and these two had the complete package - so I had nothing to lose and decided to drink with them. But where? Cops were diving and swooping around on 10 speeds like piranha.

We trumped in the afternoon heat to find a safe drinking hole - Steve took it serious. He lead us to a filthy pit behind an abandoned house - No way, buddy! Too dirty for this uppity queen - I mean really! So we stomped up to a small park and under a nice shady tree we started to drink there - until two coppers whizzed nearby on bikes. Ugh - what a bother!

Eventually we found ourselves under the overpass to the I-10 freeway and finished our beers. Discussed many a things. The topic of making jack off videos came up and Tony and Steve whole heartily agreed that much money could be made peddling their whacking vids on the Internet. And I want to state right here and now that it was in no way shape or form my instigation in this matter - okay? Steve even popped a boner - wow - impressive.

Well, we all returned to the plaza and for some reason as we sat flapping our gums in intoxicated candor some scum-bum named Harold - lanky, fuzzed out hair and no teeth - wobbled up to Steve and the two just went at it in a WW Smackdown dragged out fist fight right in the middle of the plaza. After whopping some jerk on a bike that decided to get involved and be some cowboy citizen - mind your own business, ass! The cops showed up and dragged them away.

I just said goodbye to Tony - who mumbled something about returning home and shlupped myself back to my trap. Guess I won't be seeing Steve for awhile...