Lean brown side turn - light a cigarette. The Chinese takeout festering on the hotel endtable. Half empty bottle of Fundador next to it. Cheap $15 a night joint. Had to get out of Vinnies for a day, get me a rent boy - couldn't take the badgering of those damn psychiatrists anymore. Enough to drive you mad.

We both got dressed and I walked him to the corner pulled a couple of crumpled bills outta my pocket handed it to him - we shook hands parted and I headed to a cafe for a coffee. Shot the shit with Daniel and he still was trying to convince me to relocate back to Tijuana. I don't know...just don't know. Been checking out Mexicali. Sounds real tasty. Kinda the rough edges of Juarez City but not as fucked up as Tijuana - if that makes any sense. Of course it doesn't. How the fuck, you The Reader, can possibly ever understand?

So, I light a Lucky and sip some coffee and eat a taco and yap in my atrocious Spanish as some naco puto eyes me from the plaza but I am definitely not feeling it. I have grown so cold inside. So distant from the human race I don't think I am ever coming back, you feel me? You dig what I am saying? No? Fuck you.

I spot Ivan on the corner and after a backslap and a hip handshake I cop some weed from him and we walk around the corner to his no window single room trap and smoke that shit. Now I am already dosed up on psychotropic medication - add some chronic to the mix and I am one happy cowboy - yeehaw!

We bust out onto the street and that fucking Mexican sun is big and bright under that dazzling blue sky and we trump down El Revo and cascade into El Caliente and hit the slots but don't win shit but I hit it with this hot little fucker that works there and he says he wants to meet me tonight after he gets offa work round seven but thatsa no can do cause I gotta be stateside at seven and back at the Hive for buttcheck - I mean bedcheck.

So I smile big and say adios to Ivan and that hot little fucker and make the line to the border and there is a big ass fucking line at the border with the assholes barking - "Five dollars taxi! No wait to cross!" - which is a scam, I took it once and had to wait two hours. Assholes. So, I wait in line and I cross and hop the trolley back to Vinnies and grub some dinner - puke on a plate - hob nob with some hobos, hang around the computer room and bang this shit out. Waiting for the first of the month so I can get active and do something.

Lay in The Hive on yellowed old sheets - around me the mummer of voices don't know if they are real or my imagination cause the meds are kicking in and I tell you they are a real loo loo! I lay there anyway on my bunk and at that moment my skin gets all tingly like ants the old saying goes or something like it but it's crawling - just the cheeks anyways - on my face not my ass, you goofy bitch. My arms are a different matter - they take on the weight and substance of granite - slabs of solid granite that I can barely move and I find this fucking curious because the next moment they are bone thin - feel like they are void of skin and muscle and veins. I stretch my fingers and hear the joints pop and snap and I look at my hand but they appear normal. The voices they - they continue to whisper. Drift off into a sleep and I dream of a tomb stone on a hazy gray rain can't make out the inscription on the heading. What does the dead say? Can they talk? My eyes blink open and I feel sluggish - like I am drunk or something.

I get up all dizzy like and walk out onto the balcony and light up a Lucky Strike. The sun is bright like it is late in the afternoon. I stand - blink and I wait. Wait to do something.

Something.

My life is so esoteric so weird so funny so beautiful. One week my neck is covered in hickeys from a night of sweating passion from a platonic friend and the next week I have a black eye from a night of drunken stupidity from a jealous fallen angel.
I love my life!

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night ...

The best film ever about polish whores.

Carlos lay next to me in the cool grass of Balboa Park. The sky was a bright blue - clouds drift under a startling sun. We talked and joked and drank the fifth of Popov - got really toasted. There were two other fags lying a few yards away with their dogs - kissing and embraced like two lovers. Won't upstage us, I thought.
Slowly and like a dream Carlos and I inch closer and I feel his warm lips on mine - organs stiffening from the warm glow of alcohol looseness. Laugh shyly, sighs. The sun goes down in long black shadows and I am rolled onto my stomach the back of my pants slowly pulled down and he climbs on top and slides in. Our moans permeate the chilled air as he thrusts and lunges into me - like a heated cat I tongue his arms, hands. His cock stiffens more the head expands slips out and he lets loose hot white squirts across my pale backside. Clean up with napkins from our lunch and lay entwined silent under that big white moon. I point out Orion's Belt and small patter about Sirius."I'm leaving for Yucca Valley tomorrow." He says with that cute shyness. Yucca Valley up by Palm Springs? Seems he has broken parole to come and work in San Diego. I take another swig from the bottle and smile and say okay.
We stumble back downtown and munch in a Subway - cops eye us as we gobble the food with drunken voraciousness. At the corner of Broadway and "C" we shake hands and say our goodbyes.
"Walk me to the Greyhound?"
I wait as he purchases his ticket. I mutter that I will miss him or something like that. I hop a trolley back home and leave him on the corner - wondering why I can never meet a long time partner. I am ready for one. Finally.
Last Friday I had gotten the first of my SSI benefit checks. Spent the next day shopping, buying $400 in clothes and a cell phone with a camera, took in a screening of There Will Be Blood.

Good flick - Daniel Day Lewis has to get the Oscar for that one. Spent the rest of the day being ravaged in a porno theater by a young black guy and some Mexican thug - was great. I broke a sweat in that back row seat. After they were done with me I quip pulling my pants back up, adjusting my shirt, "That was free, right?" They laugh.
It is strange - I am truly free now. Free to go and do whatever I want for the rest of my life. I believe at the first of March I may take a road trip - from San Diego to Miami and then who knows? I really want to start enjoying life. To truly live.
I feel so complete now...

He was shocked - shocked and mortified - when I said I was queer.

"I have never been gay before," he droned nasally, "But I am always happy, I guess."

We casually strode down Market Street towards downtown under the blast of clear morning sun bantering back and forth like only a confused heterosexual and confirmed homosexual can - I wanted to check the rates for a hotel tomorrow night. I had requested a night out from Vinnies and decided to get a room with a tub, some wine, and relax away from that madhouse.

I explained this to him and he begged to come and stay the night with me - but I guess he didn't know. Niether did I.

I met him sitting on the curb a week ago outside a soup kitchen in skid row. He is so attractive - dark cut body, handsome hairless face - too bad he is nuttier than squirrell shit. A street dweller, but keeps himself physically fit somehow - and is working them Dickie shorts something fierce, grrlz! But, don'y look like anything will occure with him tomorrow night. No matter though, I have a backup guy - he being Carlos. And Carlos is hip to my plan of debauchery and relaxation tomorrow evening.

So, the wind up is the conversation turned sour and I left that fool in the public library and headed up to Balboa Park for an afternoon of evil sin. But the place was a wasteland as far as I am concerned. In that oh so cruisy public mens room, I had nary a hook up except with one guy and he was, like, eh. Slobbered that hard on in the pissior like a champ, though. Not much of any interest after that.

I swallow my pride and trudge back downtown to Border's Books and waste time reading.

Time. It seems a lot of that I have. Since you need a passport to cross the border as of today - I have decided to wait in Vinnies until the first of March before going on any adventures - paying my dues and obtaining my papers while I stir in my own evil. I recieve the first of my SSI checks tonight and sometimes during the month my back pay of ten grand. Then and only then will I make any sudden departure to who knows where - though Juarez City is still looking good - I also would like to take a vacation to Puerto Rico for a couple of weeks.

I don't know. My age is definatley catching up to me...

The view clacked past as the trolley sped south to the International Border. I sat and watched mired in deep thought. My intention was to search for a permanent residence in Tijuana - settle down finally and live a sedate life befitting my progressing age. However, I did not feel comfortable. I am burned out with TJ, you know what I mean? I want to live in my comfort zone; yet in a Mexican border town.

Pulling into the San Ysidro station, humped it across the bridge - the sky was that bright sunny blue. - the wind was biting cold. As I passed the metal turnstiles into the city and trudged along to Plaza Santa Cecilia - I wished to find some old friends that hopefully worked in a restaurant there - I thought and thought and thought as I journeyed to the arch at the base of El Revo.

I kinda like Juarez City more - it is cheaper, more tranquil, the cops don't fuck with you as much and the boys are well behaved.

I strode up to the restaurant El Patio and found Felipe sitting there - it seems with the new law of Americans possessing passports to return from Mexico has taken its toll on the tourist trade. The Plaza was a dead museum - as I had predicted a year ago. Felipe and I shot the shit and I half inquired about an apartment for rent but I wasn't feeling it. It just didn't seem right - the thrill has been squeezed out.

I sat and drank coffee with Felipe and Victor as I explained my good fortune with SSI. Damn! Where is everybody? No hustlers, drug pushers, hookers clopping around...the place was damn depressing. The street vendors and roving musicians stood blinking in the sun slackjawed with no tourists about to hustle. A great era apparently has come to an end.

I said my adioses to them and moved on. Stepping in a side shop to buy a pack of Faros - I noticed Old Chuck huddled in a cafe table nursing a cup of ever present coffee. Blabbed with that relic for a few minutes - boring. Moved on and returned stateside. After standing in a line half a mile long to cross, I made my decision to definitely return to Juarez, buy a laptop and write that stupid book. Who knows - I might find success and fame down that avenue.

Para la mayor parte, he ensamblado a filas de los camareros y de los asesinos infelices del tiempo. ¡El dios del Oh, está allí tan mucha de ellos en nuestra tierra! Estudiantes que no pueden ser felices hasta que han graduado, mecánicos que no pueden ser felices hasta que se descargan, sola gente que no puede ser feliz hasta que ella ha encontrado a compañero, los trabajadores que no pueden ser felices hasta que ella se ha retirado, los adolescentes que no son felices hasta que la crecen, la gente enferma que no es feliz hasta que ella está bien, las faltas que no son felices hasta que ella tiene éxito, agitado quién no puede esperar hasta que él sale de ciudad, y en la mayoría de los casos, viceversa, gente que espera, esperando el mundo para comenzar.

Soy tan triste. No puedo conectar con cualquier persona. La soledad come lejos en mí como un estómago por completo de gusanos. Cada uno aquí es así que impar y yo no puede relacionarse. Imanes polarizados gusto. Deseo ir a casa. ¿Hrumph... casero? No tengo ningún hogar. Por diez años no he tenido ningún hogar. Por diez años he flotado en un incapaz actual malsano encontrar un puerto seguro. Me siento como estoy en una campana de salto, golpeando el fondo de los cables de un Mar Negro... separados. Mi solamente línea de conducta es escribir mi salida.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Waiting...

But I saw this yesterday and it was damn good.

Waiting...

Waiting...

My life is so fucking great! This morning I walk into the social security office expecting to be spat upon and ridiculed by some insane office clerk during my first SSI benefit interview - instead I walk out with a check for ten grand and one thousand dollars a month for the rest of my life.

I was approved for my SSI one year ago and I never followed up on it and they couldn't contact me - the government owes me a little over ten thousand dollars which I get on the first of February.

I have no idea what I will do with all that money.

Costa Rica? Argentina? Thailand?

Surely you will stay tuned and find out? I know I will...

(Sorry - I am so excited right now I can't write.)

I know how you feel, Fred.

"So?"

"So."

"What's the diagnosis?" I sat in the stuffy office of the mental health clinic. The smell of chloride and mildew.

Dr. Pap leaned back in his chair - creaking loudly. He pressed his fingers together and looked at the ceiling. Eyes boinging around his skull like loose marbles. Drawing it out for dramatic effect, I reckon.

"Manic depressive with schizoid tendencies." His face as calm and remote as a card dealers. "Bi-Polar."

I pursed my lips, "I see." Damn, I thought, I must be a real loon. But the life I lead? Well, you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?

The next course of action, lit a cigarette tromped down to the Social Security office to get my SSI benefit papers. Long waits in shadows of coughs and soft mutterings of tramps and schizophrenics. Obese black woman babbling about her urinary tract. I sat there waiting for my name to be called and I smiled, yeah - it was bound to come to this someday.

I get the form and cut. Walking down 5th street I bumped into an old friend, Rafael and after what ever happened to so and so and Rafael was really up on knowing what ever happened to so and so I offered him to a pitcher of beer at Chee- Chee's. Entered that dark din on Broadway, fetid old transvestite propped up on a stool - garish in the glow of neon, looked like a predatory bird. Rafi and I talked and played music in the jukebox. It was mid afternoon and the joint was a mausoleum.

"Let's get outta here - how bout Balboa Park?" I said looking at my empty glass.

Stopped at the 7-11 for Cokes and added vodka to them before zipping up to the Park. Walking through the arboreal tranquility with an alcohol buzz, Rafael split on account of a booty call so I was left to my own devices in that massive park.

Decided to cruise the filthy public restroom and tall skinny Mexican offered his erection for my inspection. Did my crime and in that stall he came to some sort of climax. I cut and followed the jogger's trail and was propositioned by Anglo marine and I sucked his big and nasty in the hidden brush of the trees. Next up was a cute Philippine jogger - "Hey."

"Whatcha looking for?"

I grab him and pull him close, "Looking for that dick, man - I want to suck it."

He smiles, "Wow you are so bold. You're crazy." I glare at him and chuckle, obviously.

Pecks on the cheek, ear nibbled, pull out his brown erection back in the brush and he moans and squeals because I give it to him like a champ.

The sun goes down over the trees in a blast of orange and yellow fury and in the lingering chilled shadows I walk the line to the crazy part, the sleazy part, the Hot Spot. The place is a god damn fag feeding frenzy! Nameless cocks are offered and some taken some denied. The night crawlers do their stylized silent ballet in the never ending quest for that perfect cock. Get my share, I reckon. My jaw gets tired so I return to downtown, and I think. Think long and hard. What an uncertain future I have...what to do? What indeed. I guess I will calmly go through the motions and get this SSI shit...then again, maybe not.

Unfinished cigarette. Rain comes down in sheets. Morning dark and wet and sordid. He stood under the awning to the adult novelty store - glanced with that hazy cloudy look of intoxication. Unfinished cigarette. I stood there silently watching the cars splash by. The rain bounced up and hit my pants leg under the awning. He had the look of a predatory lizard.

"I don't think they are open yet."

He shrugs. Looks at me then away.

"Wanna go get some Starbuck's?"

Wind howls sounds like whispers through dead trees we slip in and served hot coffee by imperialist fag. Julio reads his name tag. Stupid American queers. Wanna give him a B production dramatization and slam four pennies onto the counter for a tip, but I digress. I digress.

We sit in the window in big comfy warm chairs and - what was his name? Thomas, yes - thank you. I inquire why he was hanging in front of F Street Books and he smiles - eyes yellow pinpoints of fire - "Nothing else to do - was gonna jack off to some movies, I guess."

Three old queens swish into the cafe and eye us like rabid dried up vampires. I glare hostile back - one of the bloated hags fidgets, looks away.

"Where you stayin', Thomas?"

"Hotel Gateway above Horton Plaza. I't's a rinky dink small room but it's warm." He says and goes into a novella of coming down from Washington losing all and living on the streets. Not bad looking - half black half Chinese. His is wirery thin and I wonder if he's on junk.

Order a double espresso and sit watching the fools rush through the grey windy haze outside as the be bop jazz wails from hidden speakers. Snooty fag barista wipes down the counter.

Thomas looks up from his blueberry muffin, "Let's crash at my room. Get outta this rain."

Sure. Wouldn't you?

Make the two blocks through incandescent pools of shit and trash to his tattered old hotel adjacent to the fabulously rich Horton Mall. Through the cavernous lobby and up the ancient elevator. The room is a closet - cot bed, end table dresser - closet. Candy wrappers and take out food containers litter the room and an ash tray brimming over with butts, Dr. Pepper can used for the same purpose. Smell of ashes, mildew and dried semen.

Thomas lays back on his bed and I sit on the end table. His long skinny frame in worn jeans and frayed Dickies jacket. I can't help glancing at that crotch protruding like an obscene tumor but he gets it and starts talking about the porno shop and jacking off and coming...

"What some relief?" I ask lighting a cigarette. No time for pleasantries I guess.

"Yeah" Stretches and that lump in his jeans starts to expand. I hand him the unfinished cigarette an lay next to him with one fluid motion of unbuttoning his pants. No underwear. Thick cock flips out moistened at the tip shiny and transparent. Grab it and lick the head and he says ahhhh. Smell of musty clothes and rectum I suck and lick and stroke in mechanized movements of unpeeled raw lust. His toes point outward and down as he ejaculates in my mouth. Acrid - gooey. I swallow - whatever.

We lay smoking and talking and he puts the soft touch on me for five dollars. Hair products, he says. I smack the fiver into his brown bony hand and excuse myself. He mumbles something about sleeping. He hands me the unfinished cigarette.

I walk back out into the drizzling rain the sky the color of a dead channel and I head to the movies. Think I'll take in an afternoon of cinema - perfect day for it...

Decided it was time to visit a croaker at the local nut house - got a bag of dope offa him. Psych meds only, you understand - nothing habitual.

"There will be side effects."

"Such as?"

"Oh nothing that should surprise the addict."

I have decided - and life is a myriad kaleidoscope of decisions, Fair Reader - that I shall recover and retire on SSI benefits alone. Keep part time jobs to smooth me out and stay stable. Yup, settle down in Calexico or Laredo and live a leisured life.

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.
This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.
This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called “The Better ‘Ole” that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, “Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?”
“Nah I had to go relieve myself.”
After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: “It’s you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit.”
After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole’s tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneous — (did you know there is a condition occurs in parts of Africa and only among Negroes where the little toe amputates spontaneously?) — except for the eyes you dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn’t give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab’s eyes on the end of a stalk.

Decided to spend the night of New Year's Eve with the boys. But, the excessive whining due to young Enrique taxed my nerves and I lopped them off. Left them on the concrete wall of the marina - goodbye, kids, so long.

Walked into the Hyatt Regency to use the toilet and was pleased to see free drinks and hors dourves. Got drunk - wasted - and with a constituent hobo slovenly entered that piss elegant restaurant and ordered a lobster. Before The Man got wise, we split, but not before snatching a wine offa the table of Ms. Richenasty.

Stood behind the warehouse - tipsy and horny - he drops my pants and starts sucking in the new year. Splatter of semen among rubbish and the smell of urine.

Fireworks at midnight to the dead sky and I return to The Hive and crash. Next morning a hangover me, and Father Joe, the hobo czar holds a feast of roast beast. Depression hitting full swing and there is only one course of action I decide on - I am waiting to see the loony doctor and am in need of starting my SSI again. I am going quietly into the woodwork....

The night was cold and bitter - my mood exactly. To alleviate I wondered out to talk to the boys. Found them shit faced off of King Cobra and propped up against a warehouse wall like giggling pretty boy idiots. Taking pictures under the yellow lamp - "You go to Espana wit us, Luis, it will be muy bueno." - Yeah I probably will. I probably won't. Will decide in two months. Had enough of that ruckus and returned to my bunk snuggled down into a coughing fit sleep.

Last day of the year and I am accosted by pendejos early on - fucking tramps always sticking their snouts in my business and then pissed off when they can't buffalo me. Fools. Oh, well, decided to hang with Enrique and Marco out at Balboa Park - will attend a alcohol drenched fiesta to scream out the new year tonight. Of course I will file a full report...

Happy New Year!

Gotta call for a job - reservation agent at some swanky resort. Yeah, I'll take it. Seems things are beginning to swing upward. Everything is coming up daisies.

Last night wiled away time on the street guzzling booze and flirting with the pretty boys - they didn't mind and reciprocated.

However, just got outta the movies after seeing Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd - not bad. This movie stunned me so much that I could hardly move from my seat when it was over. The dark cinematography is brilliant and works so well to enhance the story. Johnny Depp has given us so many amazing performances in the past and you can put this one up there at the top of the list. I approached the movie with trepidation because actors put in singing roles seldom work, but not this time. The singing was not only terrific, it was mesmerizing. I have to warn you this movie is for movie fans that love music (Broadway, classical or opera) and have a cast iron stomach. I heard they used 70 gallons of fake blood filming it and I believe them. All I can say is you can see the bloody scenes coming a mile off so you have plenty of time to avert your eyes.

Really, really want to make movies again and cut out all this traveling crap. But, aver...

Not much to write will post manana being the last day of 2007. Adios, bitches...

Foul and black have been my mood lately. Today doubly so. Rolled out of my bunk cold and hacking up ectoplasm in wrenching fits, shuffle to the fetid bathroom and take a cold shower under the watchful eye of the aging queer.

Spend the better part of the morning with Enrique and Marco, those fucking pretty boys - light patter of conversation amid sips of cheap coffee. After lunch - ghastly hamburger served with smelly something topped in ugh - I have a cold Steel Reserve beer with some youth from Colombia named Oscar and this handsome ex con I have been flirting with lately named Eddie. Us three stood in the shadow of the Petco Stadium downing beer macho yaps of pussy and the tolerance of jotos - mainly me. So, when the beers are gone - Oscar splits and Eddie flatly states that he needs to be serviced in the worst way and if I am obliged to help him. Yeah, sure. Wouldn't you?

So, we high tail it over to the sixth floor of a swanky hotel where I know there is a banos solo and the freakin' door locks. A God send really. Once in there, pants are yanked down - "Let's see whacha got, Louie." - big Cheshire Cat grin on his part, and I suck that fucker like a champ. He squirms and moans at getting his nuts blown. Spicy! So after three years being locked up I get a mouthful of thick goo and we shake hands and he says thanks.

Down at street level we both race over to get a haircut and the trim looks absolutely fabulous, you bitches! Eddie splits after that and I return to Vinnies and I ain't feelin' it, you know what I mean. I have been so angry lately. And I know why. I am stuck here. I have to get these warrants cleared before I can get a passport - and I want to go! go! go!

Where? I hear Miami is nice this time of year. Want to use that as my springboard to Puerto Rico and all points south...

Navidad was a hobo hullabaloo - out in front of the 40 million dollar Petco Park hundreds of tramps ate, drank, and were merry. Several churches fed delicious homemade vittles - the best was the black Baptist Church, there soul food was downright amazing.

Smoked a gigantic Cuban cigar courtesy of a Hell's Angel and ate chocolate covered cherries handed out with yule tide cheer with my two handsome friends eres Espania - Enrique and Marco. Later that night as Marco stroked his erection under his coverings, wrapped in another blanket idle hands took care of Enrique under that crystal clear moon. My fingers sticky from his holiday goodness.

Next day, wobbled bloated like an engorged tick from all the eatin'. Lie in bed playing someone else's GameBoy. Felt tired and slothful but as usual up to no good.

Following morning up before the birds had time to brush their teeth to be whisked off to Los Angeles for a prescription scam - made a hunnert dollars though. Now I think I really need to leave the country before the axe comes down.

I don't know if it's just me - but the fucking fags are flying out of the closet at Vinnies. It's a homo Renaissance - but all is well, it takes the edge off. Flirting again with the indigenous tramps - oh, naughty me...

Urm...merry christmas....

Shifting through time and The Long Wait. Cigarette smoldered down to a butt - the cries and shouts and hacking of a hundred hobos echo in my mind. I stand and I wait. Waiting for the world to turn.
I am up to speed with the necessities of my quest - that long walk to Nowhere. But I am doing it anyway, you dig? The natives are getting hostile and I am quite drained from thier antics - I don't wanna here of your pathetic problems, got my own.

Nothing to write - cause nothings going on.

Exept the fact that I am sending the kid back to El Paso. A month of nothing. Guess the fool can do nothing there, too.

Moving through the edge of night - dust is dancing in the space - a dog and bird sound far away. Hacked up the last of that hobo virus sick and gelatinous in a shivering dawn sitting cold at my cot on a bright sunny San Diego morning. Walked downtown - pass the hot construction workers and that stinking ass bum that lays in the same place - at least he is consistent - I walked to the pharmacy and bought some dope to clear my head and it is clear. Right as rain, you stuck up bitches.
Made nicey-nice with The Father and I guess I am getting sentimental in my crotchity old age - even mailed the old man a Christmas card. I hate fucking Christmas.
Spent the afternoon in the cinema and sat through I am Legend, the third go round of that apocalyptic tale of old. Charleston Heston and Vincent Price are rolling in their graves - wait! Chuckie is still with us. He's pissed.
Flirting with the various indigenous characters that inhabit that hive that I currently reside in. Mostly waiting, waiting for something to happen - to get a sign. But, mostly lay in my bunk and think - think of getting back to TJ and settle in and start making movies again. Fuck Costa Rica - bunch of snotty slobs with no class to them. I'll stay in the land of the free, home of the brave. Or at least until the Thought Police come and get me at night while I sleep...

Started these therapy Challenge to Change classes. Death! Where is thy sting? What a soupy mess of therapeutic crap! But, I gotta - so I did.
Life is horrid at the Hobo Hilton - I am suffering from some form of hobo virus and it is racking my ass! Perhaps I will get pneumonia and keel over - finally!
Speaking of changes - cut that dead weight cancer from my life. Remember that kid I imported from El Paso. Gads! What a terrible mistake - boy's been a drag from day one. Lopped him off but good and it's conscience free smooth sailing from now out. Unlike Lot's wife - I am not looking back.
Seems that the job search is over - my pal John has secured me a shipping and receiving position at his warehouse - cake job and will be moving back into Tijuana by the end of January.
Hurrah for me!

The sky was a mottled grey from the drizzling rain. The wailing of an ambulance below, distant rumble of air hammers, always building and repairing in The City.

I sat naked in the rickety hotel chair and watched the boy sleep. 1:47 p.m. the clock said. Could be wrong, felt later. Lighting a cigarette, I sat transfixed as his erection melted away in the early afternoon. Fransisco, he said his name was and looked enough like a Latino Leonardo DeCaprio from Gangs of New York to pass as his brother, floppy light brown hair and scraggy goatee. He lay naked on his back amid rumpled yellow sheets in this ratty hotel embraced in the arms of Morpheus and content as a nodding junky. I took another drag and scoped him out, hairless thin frame, eyes shut, pouty lips parted in sleep breathing.

We met last night at a dive bar on Broadway called Chee Chee's and struck up a conversation amid the thieves and the dykes and the just released cons with Black Eyed Peas blasting over the juke box. Next day had brunch with him at a local Chinese resturaunt - afterwards we walked over to a bar. Chit-chat ensued over many drinks and then walking drunkenly to the Hotel Pickwick, a flop that by American standards can't get any shittier. Looking at me and smiling, Fransisco said he needed to score for some meth and would I front the twenty? Sure, why not? Walking down several alleyways covered in shit, bums, and abandon shopping carts, copping his dope from a slick coon with gold caps, we soon entered the dank hotel lobby. Flaming old withered fag with bad purple-tinted permed wig at reception.

"How much for a room?" I croak.

"Two Queens?" The receptionist asked.

"Nah, just two boys that need some sleep." Quipped Fransisco. I laughed with cigarette between my lips and the warm glow of five whiskey sours in my gut.The room was occupied by large black roaches and bad tattered furniture. The television got three channels; English, Spanish, and soft core porn.

I lay on the bed and watched Fransisco take a shower, water running down his long thin smooth frame, over an ass that was like a peach. He sits naked on the bed and asked if I wanted to try a bang. Nah, not in any condition. Needle clogged twice, thin line of blood from inner elbow to wrist. I look away, always freak me out watching someone probe for a vein. He sighs as it goes in sweet and pure. I sure can pick 'em.
The sex was much needed - hostile, violent, hot - the bed banged and binged with our fucking. Your basic crimes against nature. Several nasty positions later, covered in sweat and semen we lay embraced as the rain pounded down outside our fifth floor window.

Like I said, sat there and watched the boy sleep. Finished my cigarette, gargled with what was left of a can of Steel Reserve, got dressed and left twenty dollars on the nightstand. Sweet dreams, kid.

Walk out into the world and find cheap hole in the wall 24hr diner, Lee's Cafe I think and eat a mess of grub all served by faceless Chinese man. Decide to take in a movie, see The Golden Compass. Ho-hum. A little disappointed. Being one of my favorite books, the movie did not do it justice in my fuck'd opinion. I remember the first time I had read the book. Way back when I was in High School, living in Long Beach, California and after the daily beating from my loving Father I decided to run away to Hollywood to live a life of glamour. Hanging out all night in a 7-11, I had found a copy of the book and it all kept me up all night. Read it cover to cover, slurping on my Slurpee. The next day I returned home. To more abuse. To more beatings.

Sigh.

No time to recollect those Wonder Years, I am strong and defiant now and have made peace with said Old Man.
So, I'm walking down the street in the rain with ciggy dangling doing my best Kerouac production and I come across another old friend, Tommy, he of Native American decent and as fucking handsome and sexy as all get out and we fall into whatever happened to so-and-so. So? Tommy understands that I am a wily faggito so the conversation wonders into wacky sexual innuendo and offers me to come up to his room in a low rent apartment for a nightcap and a little humpity-hump, but I refuse and after saying adios, I return to Vinnie's to see what the hell's going on. Stand out on the balcony alone and star gaze as I light up a Lucky Strike. 'Round 10:30, turn in for a little shut eye.

Was asked today by a grinning and freaky bible thumping street minister if I am happy with my life. I grinned, yeah. I'm happy.Wouldn't you?

Have crippling depressions. I wonder how I can feel this bad and live. Very few people are ever in contact with that area of human despair. I lay and do nothing - no feelings for nobody.
I cannot shake my feeling of apartness from the rest of the human race.

Saw this film yesterday evening at the ArtHaus in Downtown amid sniffs and polite belches and silent farts. Wonderful. Pure cinema.

Based on the bestselling novel by Patrick Süskind, Perfume is a story of murder and obsession set in 18th-century France. I have acquired the book and I now can not put it down.

Sitting in the Gaslamp District outside Tin Fish - a swanky fag fish food joint jotting notes into my little brown notebook. Sky a bright blue with that salty breeze off the bay - little concrete park with fountain. Swishy homos walk by with a parade of petite furrballs. All normal in their complacency of delirium. I am outside that loop - you know that, Dear Reader and it is a matter of choice.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
American homosexuals are like dogs, not gods - as long as you don't get mad they'll bite you - but stay mad and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow.
Queers in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
Oh little American Queer if there had been some way to send a cry to you even when you were too little to know what utterances and cries are for in this dark sad earth, with your terrors in a world so malign and inhospitable, and all the insults from heaven ramming down to crowd your head with anger, pain, disgrace, worst of all the crapulous poverty in and out of every splintered door of days, if someone could have said to you then, and made you perceive, "Fear life, but don't die; you're alone, everybody's alone. Oh little American Queer, you can't win, you can't lose, all is ephemeral, all is hurt."
I get bored and walk around the district - Christmas Commercialism is in full swing it seems. All is shiny and glittery with multi flaming tinsel and oversized balls.
I'd like to light a mall Santa's beard on fire. Because that thing's attached to him and made of, I'm guessing, a wildly flammable material. I would stand there with a cup from Orange Julius as he thrashed about, and when he grabbed for it to douse himself, I would laugh, "The cup is empty! Ha! Sucker!" Of course, this would all be "movie magic." No Santas would be harmed during the production of the USA original movie Luis Blasini's -- A Santa on Fire .
Clopped by the cineplex and caught I Love You. By the power of Hilary Swank's gigantic teeth, I have the power! If one of Hilary Swank's mega-choppers ever gets knocked loose, I want that thing. If I attach it to an axe handle, it would be more helpful and handy around the house than a team of illegal immigrants. I could open tin cans, aerate a garden, chop down an avocado tree, and I haven't figured out the exact logistics, but I'm pretty sure I could brew coffee with it.
Fade out to mambo music...