Sunday, July 26, 2009

new plans as emailed to a friend...

Did your parents move to Miami? I think you mentioned that before but it is only now sinking in. My mother is moving to Australia and my father to Holland. It all seems so fruitless and eratic. I've left too many strings untied in the states and also feel that I am totally out of place here as beer is the number one beverage. I don´t know. I should go to some muslim country where alcohol is forbidden along with women (those inferiors) reading the koran. lol. I can´t win. But I think my mission in life is to have absurd observations and to write about them. Maybe it matters to other people but it will definitely even my thinking out. I can only live a normal life as long as I am recording my abnormal thoughts. When the two worlds interact (as they have been doing lately) then...well, it's just a complete disaster. I recently called Hannah Montana the anti-christ. I think that's a good example of something that belongs in a humorous essay, and not something to say after dinner. This compartmentalization is important for someone like me since I do have thoughts that don't fit in normal society. But you already knew that.

So I want to drive to Los Angeles and sell my van and buy a motorcycle and drive across the country to see my mother before she leaves. Then take some time in Canada or Maine or maybe Nova Scotia watching the leaves change. That sounds normal, right? I guess there will be some work in there and hopefully some writing. I´m not sure. I will be lucky if I make it to San Diego or even the next town north. One thing at a time.

SO you may be thinking too far in advance with moving in with your girlfriend and all that. Who can predict anything? But I´d say moving in with someone because it is the next logical step isn´t right. "That ain´t right." I don´t know if living alone is better than living with someone for the wrong reasons but I know I´m more lonely when I´m with someone I´m not comfortable around than I am when I am alone. Although, lately, I´m not even comfortable around myself. and it is hard to get away from me...except by writing about it. Then I'm happy I'm a little nuts.

I want to get some new books to read. I´ve been reading George Orwell´s essays. What have you been reading? Seen any crappy Adam Sandler movies lately? Or did someone finally assassinate him according to prophecy.

I saw some ants crawling in a line to get at some food compost in a bag. But the
bag was full and I went to bury it and when I came back all the ants were a
ittle confused and disapointed. THey were returning empty handed from
a place
where there had been so much food. I could see they disapointment and thought
you might understand.
so it was 1998 and I was 28? or 27? Something like that. But the problem is that
ven when I was 17 and 18 I was not much different. I didn´t drink or do drugs
or chat up girls or anything. I just wandered the country and read books by jack
erouac and Herman Hesse. So it wasn´t that I was was I was always a bit
different. That´s why I went to HSU. It was good there though I am actually in
much better health now than then. I remember trying to walk to the donut store
at midnight and having a back spasm on the bridge near C street. I kept going
very slowly, like an old man and I had another back spasm. I really wanted that
fucking buttermilk bar so I held onto the chain link fence and sort of limped
inch by inch in the direction of the donut store. Then I had the worst back
spasm yet and fell down. And it took so long to get up that I figured the donut
store had closed so I had to turn around and limp back to the c street house to
eat frozen sausages and cereal. That was a low point. I guess I was like the
Now I am healthy and have no back spasms. I guess it is because my computer is
broken and I have no internet access so I do other things. the computer really
fucked my back up. Sitting for long periods of time is not possible anymore.
I am worried about crazy D. the last email I got ended with "I am the fatest I
have ever been." that sounds like a dark place she is in now that she finished
her credential and is looking for work. she doesn´t sound like she enjoys the
job at all and teaching is a job that you really have to enjoy. what can we do
to help?

Friday, July 24, 2009

Nueva Gomas

The first thing people ask when they get in the van lately is "What is that noise? It sounds like the whole frame is going to break in half."

Well, I found out it was these worn bushings, or Gomas, between the axle bars and the mounts.
It only took 8 hours and 4 determined men to change these things for the first time in 40 years.
I learned a little bit about Mexican approach.
"Easy, Marco. Easy." they would say when I tried to do too many things at once."

Of course in between the dozen stages of disassembly and installation we actually put a 302 engine from ANOTHER ford econoline (1970) into a 1972 Ford truck. Yes, I realize this had nothing to do with my project, but that is why I mention it. We covered a lot of ground today and not all of it was in the direction or support of El Conquistador. That's how they roll in a Mexican shop and I like it. There were no signs that said, "Customers not allowed past this point."

these are the old bushings. Those big gaps are where a thick piece of rubber used to be in 1980. take that rubber out and it sounds like the frame is going to break in half. It won't, but it sounds like it will.

this is with half the axle off. Jack stands. I can't say enough good things about jack stands.

this is a meaningless pose though we did have to compress the springs to fit a huge crescent wrench in there. Let me tell you, if it hadn't been for three other determined mechanics I would have sworn that several times we were doing things all wrong. The bushings were factory pressed with molded metal and did not slip out easily. Nor did the new ones slip in easy. Fortunately we had reached the point of no return and finished the job. 2000 pesos complete. I gave them 200 extra pesos because I know that is a $400 dollar job anywhere in the united states. 8 hours! At $60 an hour. And there were four of us. and we didn't destroy one bolt.

the proof is when I took it out for a spin and the noise was gone. Al I need is a spare tire and I'm ready to roll somewhere that isn't 110 degrees every day.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Two Emails

These were two emails that I received on the same day.

"Here is the food list for alkaline foods: avocado, hummus, sprouts, lemon squeezed in water, herb tea, veg. broth, tomato, grapefruit and watermelon. Most fruits and veg., but not blueberries! I always eat too many when I pick and then I don't feel good, so it's good to know to eat them in moderation. The acid foods are cheese, milk, cream, ice cream, corn, lentils and olives. But in moderation everything is OK. "

the other one goes as follows...

"I had been looking for someone who could connect me up with young women on a pay as you go basis. I hit the jackpot. I met a young woman around 20 who told me she has a lot of girlfriends. I didn't think too much about it until she started bringing one by daily. Yesterday was one of the most beautiful young women with a perfect body I had ever been with. 500 pesos for the girl and 100 for the contact girl. With each girl I get their phone number so I can contact them whenever I want. The problem is that I'm getting tired. Age, you know. But when she brings a new girl by and even though I tell myself "NO" I just can't help myself. They are all so beautiful and inexpensive. This would have worked out great when I was a drug crazed pervert but now I'm not sure I can handle all of this good fortune."

I don´t normally post other people´s emails, but the worlds of difference between these two, and getting them the same day, just tickles me. Needless to say I have to be very careful to make sure I know which one I am responding to. I´d like to see the blueberry author get this response, "Hook me up with some of that beautiful inexpensive pussy! At that price I´ll bang two of those whores!"

I also can´t ignore how I could, in theory, forward the blueberry email to the whore author and maybe make a strange point, that would be quickly ignored. The whore author recently showed me a chart in which he can get laid a certain number of times each week according to his budget. He added that he had "already thrown away two charts that were not working." I found this comment noteworthy and humorous.

"Heh, the only imperfection I could see," he continued, "was the c-section scar. I guess all deliveries are done by c secton in mexico."

I said I didn't know that.

"It's true. I can see why someone knocked this girl up. Man, she was beautiful. I normally don't ever see a whore more than once but I just had to have her again. especially after I made sure she was over 18. I'd like to thank the guy who knocked her up and then split. It sure made my life easier."

¨Are you telling me a guy got a beautiful girl pregnant and then left, probably to work in the united states, and she started turning tricks to feed her kid? Fucking hell. Is that the world we live in?¨

"And," he added with a casual wave of his cigarette, "That C section kept her pussy tight. I mean tight. I was on the verge of orgasm minutes. We fucked for a good hour straight. No break. It almost killed me. Hey, you want a beer?"

This was the third time he had used the word "Orgasm" and I took it as a cue to move on.

"Actually, the accelerator cable on my moped broke today. I gotta go find a bike store with a cable."

"I'd drive you, but I'm shitfaced. You sure you don't want those Johnny Carson Videos?"

I said no. I didn't want any best of Johnny Carson videos. Thanks. And I got on my scooter. It took some work but I got it started. I had managed to stick the accelerator on full speed. It was either full speed or no speed. I had to run next to the thing and jump on when it started. No brakes. No speeds. Full blast down the darkening streets of La Paz.

"You be careful on that thing!"

"Ok, buddy. See you later."

And I was gone.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

George Orwell vs Tucker Max

I am reading two books these days. The first is a complete collection of George Orwells´s Essays from 1928 - 1949. Twenty years of the WWII era equivalent of blogging. During that time Orwell was a soldier in Burma, then a hobo and then a revolutionary and then a writer. The topics range from an essay on the Spanish Civil War to reviews of books of Philosophy to an expose of homeless shelters in England. The second book is entitled I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. It is a collection of anecdotes from 1998 to around 2005, written by Tucker Max, whose claim to fame is a dating application, which is technically a multiple choice test with questions and answers such as

How much does it take to get you drunk?

The smell of alcohol
A few beers
A few glasses of wine
A six-pack
A six-pack of Ripple
I can out drink a Wahoo
I can out drink an Irish Catholic
Ever heard of Motley Crue? I taught them how to party.
"My parent’s won’t let me use scissors.”

When you´ve stopped laughing let me point out that the last line is a quote from Ralph Wiggum on the Simpsons. And get this, ALL the responses include a quote from Ralph. How funny is that? If you, the applicant, guess this correctly then you win something from Tucker. I know, this is unbelieveably generous so I want everyone to have this opportunity by directing you to Tucker´s site, but not without putting up a challenge of my own. Can you guess the name of his website? Anyone? Well, maybe you´ll have a better idea if you continue to read.

Now, my purpose for this article is to compare and contrast these two authors and their work. If I accidentally extoll the virtues of Orwell and thoroughly expose Max for a fraud and philistine then that may be considered an added bonus. I don´t pretend to be unbiased. Believe me, my scoring card already has Orwell ahead by five rounds and the first bell hasn´t even rung. But that´s me. That´s my prejudice and I beg you to overlook it and form your own opinions of the scum turtle known as Tucker Max and the literary luminary knows as George Orwell. Don´t let me influence your final decision at all. Just because Tucker describes his favorite hobby as, "I like to fart in the bathtub and turn around and bite the bubbles." does not mean he can´t be taken seriously. No, on the contrary, it is in times like these that George Orwell chose to examine the common cultural product as a reflection of the generation as a whole. In Orwell´s time he found a violent battle between capitalists and socialists, fascists and democrats, colony and colonizer, a battle that he himself played a major role in with his books and essays. Tucker on the other hand has this to say about his life goal, "To be a celebrity that gets paid to get drunk, act like an asshole, and get drunk some more." Amazingly, this lofty dream is coming true for Mr. Max.

Now let´s take a closer look at these two authors and their respective work:

"No civilized person would wish for an instant to imitate the gypsies´habits, but that is not the same as saying that one would like to see them disappear. Existing in the teeth of a civiization which disapproves of them, they are a heartening reminder of the largeness of the earth and the power of human obstinacy."

So writes Orwell in his 1938 review of Gypsies, by Martin Block, a book concerning the history and status of Eurpoean Gypsies. This is a random selection and Tucker Max deserves the same treatment. After all, Max also exists in the teeth of a civilization which disapproves of him as the following sample will attest to.

"As I sat there on the uncomfortably warm toilet seat, unwiped, smelling my own shit, my ass sweating and falling asleep at the same time - about to come because she was so good [at fellatio] she could bring me to orgasm in a coma-I gave up."

So writes Max in his recollection of an October 2001 romantic affair. October 2001? Didn´t something important happen just a month earlier? What was it? I can´t remember. It´s on the tip of my tongue. Oh, well, nothing important, I´m sure. Nothing that would eclipse important confessions such as these...

"No matter what I did, she wanted more. If I spanked her, she wanted to be spanked until her ass was raw. If I called her a "bitch" during sex, she wanted to be called a "whore." If I called her a "whore," she wanted to be called a "filthy cunt whore." I´m literally a professional at humiliating and debasing people, but this girl was absorbing my entire repertoire and then coming back and asking for seconds."

Would his lover finish the blowjob before or after he finished taking a shit? Would she draw the line or would Tucker Max run out of ways to heighten their sex play? My mind is ablaze with curiosity and thankfully Max has the wisdom to remember and record it. I have scoured Orwell´s collected essays and am saddened to find nary a description of his sex life outside of a recollection of being humiliated by his schoolmarm because masturbation was considered debasing. Masturbation for a teenage boy? Debasing? And giving a blowjob a´la defecation is now a rite of passage. Oh, how fate must laugh at the whims of man. One wonders, was Orwell a prude? A fag? It´s hard to say since his writing focuses on Mussolini, Hitler, Tolstoy and other unentertaining topics. What an asshole, right? Didn´t they have filthy cunt whores to write about in 1930?

I do not know if they serve beer in hell. But I do know what books will stock the shelves of Hell´s library. The seeds of 1984 and Animal Farm are clearly in Orwell´s early essays, but if there is a seed of anything in Max´s book it is of a amateur animation clip involving Ralph Wiggum and a vibrator. Or maybe Ralph will reenact the toilet blowjob with...get this...Lucy from the Peanuts series. How funny would that be? They don´t exist in the same animated universe, see, so it would be even funnier to combine them in a pornographic situation. I can just picture it and it makes me laugh boistrously. Just imagine the hilarious situations you can put two animated characters in. You can actually make them fuck and fellate each other. Think about that! It´s like an unlimited number of possibilities and one day it will be Tucker Max´s responsiblitiy to highlight them all. He will, afterall, need to have something to watch in Hell.

Of course the argument can be made that Tucker does not claim to be a writer of substance. But, and this is the truth, neither did Goerge Orwell. They were both educated individuals who decided to write their thoughts and experiences down for their own enjoyment...not for commercial success. While George Orwell fought in the Spanish Revolution Tucker Max casually insults people of French persuasion because the French surrendered to Germany some 70 years ago. This is as close to a political cause as Tucker Max allows himself to support, and it is mostly for the abuse of a stranger that he does so.

Tucker Max and his friends have their closest historical associates in Alex and the droogs from Clockwork Orange. They are sociopathic, remorseless, unrepentant, amoral, ID-based entities. Call me insecure, call me overly sensitive. No matter, this Tucker individual is a loathsome parasite. His wittier-than-thou manner, maintained while telling stories involving jokes about fat people and clumsy anal sex, is indescribably replusive. George Orwell had no resources to rely on and he produced two of the most referenced dystopian novels of all time. Max simply lives in a dystopia and writes just clear enough to be understood. If he had a nickle for every time he ended up laying on the ground laughing until shit started coming out of his asshole then he would be a rich man. He does have game, that can´t be denied. He can charm the panties off a horny hooker...and manage to get a blowjob without paying for it. The beautiful women he sleeps with (why would he lie about that) are not forced to fuck him. No, they go willingly along and probably consider a one night stand with Max as a test of their own limits, a reminder of why their real boyfriend is so trustworthy. In one of his more revealing anecdotes a girl tells him she has genital warts...and he immediately leaves her. I can only think that this was one of the rare occassions when getting genital warts turns out to be a good thing. Yes, Max represents that unattainable ID mentality we all wish we could cultivate until this stupid thing called "our conscience" gets in the way. Not everyone can have distant and emotionally unavailable mothers like Max. Some of us got brought up thinking we are responsible for our own actions even when drunk. Max is one of those common rat boy types who compartmentalizes so effectively that his behavior when drunk or when recovering from a drunk does not go down on his permanent record. One is tempted to lecture him about the harm he is doing to his body and to the emotions of those he exploits. But what would George Orwell say if he came across Max´s book? I believe Orwell would recognize that Max already knows everything you are going to tell him, that he is in fact an imperfect sociopath because he can only reduce his consience to a whisper with the help of alcohol. A true sociopath is a menace even when completely sober. That´s the difference with "party in a can" personalities like Max´s and real monsters; Max knows he is a fake and the real monsters obey the voices in their heads. Yes, failure to a person like Max is not turning his back on a career in law (AKA filing state paperwork). Rather, failure is knowing you can´t do it without a bottle in your hand. He can´t be a real person, albeit a sociopath, without being drunk. That knowledge kills him and forces him to reach for the bottle and as soon as he is drunk and bulletproof he feels alive. "Record what I´m about to say, because it´s going to be very funny." And to a drunk frat boy who also laughs at movies like Clerks and Clerks II, he probably is very funny.
One can not admire or respect Tucker Max but one must give him credit for recognizing the swine element in society and realizing it fit his swine personality perfectly. One can not ignore an opportunity when it presents itself and Max jumped on this one like a Miami model jumps on a pile of Meth. To turn his back on such an opportunity would have meant a lifetime of inadequacy issues and diet soda. Enter Mr. Tequila and a star is born.

If you still haven´t guessed the address for Tucker Max´s website just remember that Tucker Max must log in to his editing interface while shitfaced so it should be easy for Tucker Max to remember with not a lot of creativity or indirect language to struggle with. The words should just roll off of Tucker Max´s tongue. If you still don´t know what the address is just remember the anecdote Max tells of dancing with a beautiful stranger who later turns out to be a mirror. That should give you idea of Tucker Max´s perfect mate even though we all know he would only break up with himself after two dates because he was simply trying too hard to be clever. When people try too hard to laugh then it either means they aren´t funny or they are drowning out the doubts they hear with forced chuckles.
If you still can´t guess the address for Tucker Max´s site then it means you aren´t smart enough and wouldn´t get his irony anyway. Too bad for you, you filthy cunt whore.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009


I´m not sure who wrote this tune. But I know I´m pretty dissapointed in the playing. I simply haven´t figured out what to do here. It´s sloppy because I´m still practicing. But I have to post it or else there will be nothing to compare to my next video in a year or so. This is where I am at right now with this song. The only way to know I have improved is by seeing where I came from.

Breezin by George Benson

Never underestimate the power of ´70s era instrumental pop. This gem by George Benson reminds me of plaid pants and disco balls. Roller skates and permed hair. Tank tops and swimming holes. Although my performance is cut short due to time limitations it is a bit too modern for this nostalgic tune. But there are some moments of clean playing of good ideas.


Finally, another take on this tune. I´ve only played it a million times but still this has got me going one direction when I should´ve gone another.

Bad Clutch

"She stole the used rubber?"

I asked this question both because you don´t get to say a sentence like that every day and also because I really needed to understand what Ron was saying, or if he was so stoned that he was no longer making sense.

"That´s what got me worried. I looked for it everywhere. She stole it off my cock while I was passed out."

Ignoring the horrible image now developing in my head I ask, "Why would she steal a used rubber?"

"To tell the police that I raped her. You know whores. That´s how I got run out of here five or six years ago. I started getting nasty looks from the taxi drivers and then the sheriff pulled me over in my RV and said, ´drive north.´I didn´t need to be told twice. But on the way north I started hearing this popping sound and I looked behind me and three taxis were chasing me and the motherfuckers were shooting at me with pistols. You know the taxi drivers are the unofficial posse in this country?"

I am under Ron´s dashboard examining his clutch cylinder that totally fell apart this morning. It is a 2003 Ford Focus and 80% of it is plastic. The remaining 20% is aluminum. I am so disgusted that I don´t even care Ron was at one point being chased by taxi drivers shooting at him. The funny thing is that he doesn´t care that I don´t care. I´m not even sure he cared at the time he was being shot at.

"I out ran them for a while but they had called ahead and it got real fucking messy in Loreto. I ended up hiding on top of my RV under a bridge. They had shovels with them. Turns out they thought I was raping girls in La Paz. Why would I rape girls when I can rent their pussies for so cheap? The word got around and they were going to kill my ass. But I got away. How is it looking under there?"

"I can´t believe this car was allowed to be driven. I can´t believe the engineer went to school first. A fucking child who owns a go kart would design a better car. At what point are resources so scarce that people just decide to refrain from manufacturing disposable shit?"

"That good huh? Can you fix it?"

"Give me some fucking credit."

I can fix it. It´s built like a car made of Styrofoam. Awful, but Ron is nevertheless comforted.

"Well, even if you can´t at least I got my shopping done. I got beer. I got a pound of pot. You want some?"


"You want a whore? I´m thinking about buying one. I´ll just get two. You can get a price break that way because they share the taxi."

"That´s all right."

"No? How is it going with your girlfriend?"

I´ve already explained that the girl he is talking about is not my girlfriend, but he calls her that because it is easier, I suppose, than saying "the girl you want to bang"

"We´ve got some bad chemistry." I say simply, though the truth as I interpret it is too complicated to discuss, involving not just chemistry but also emotional security and relationship roles and philosophy and geometry and language.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I say absurd shit, she takes it seriously and uses the opportunity to scold me and feel superior. Then I defend myself and we argue over nothing. I don't think I've told one joke she thought was funny."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was going to sell a kidney and join the Mexican circus. I said I wanted to manage the game where you throw a ball at a stuffed monkey. I was going to be the stuffed monkey wrangler. "

Ron crushed his cigarette and immediately lit another one.

"How much you going to get for the kidney?"

"See, if she had responded like that we probably would have ended up fucking," I say laughing. "God damn it! No. She has to take me seriously? Over something absurd like a stuffed monkey? She says one absurd thing after another..´I want to sniff glue, I drank tequila for two straight days, how does my hair look, I like that dress but not that one. I like shoes with straps...´bullshit. Absurd bimbo bullshit. Do I take her seriously? No. Do I define her by these random statements? No. But I say I want to go to Honduras and die in a revolution and she goes berserk. It´s like my fucking childhood all over again!"

"I thought you said you were gonna wrangle stuffed monkeys."

Sometimes Ron actually pays attention, which keeps me on my toes.

"Well I say a lot of absurd things. I can say whatever I want and sometimes I say absurd things, but people take me seriously. It isn´t fair. Did you see many cases of plastic explosives in my van? Or AK-47s? Or hand grenades? Or stuffed monkeys? I mean, if I told was going to Russia to marry a woman I had never met what would you say?"

Without hesitation Ron says, "Don´t do it. DO NOT FUCKING DO IT! Those Russian mail order broads are completely insane. You´re better off adopting a pretty Russian girl and raising her to be your wife. You´d be guaranteed pussy then. Believe me, the adult women are beyond repair."

I wince as I don´t know how to respond to this response. I went from trying to prove a point by saying something insanely absurd to hearing something insanely absurd...but dead serious. This is a classic conversation with Ron.

"My point," I say, "is that I think out loud sometimes...and my thoughts don´t come out sounding completely normal. People just have to translate. Why is that hard? I don´t speak English. Only two people in my life have figured that out so far. My best friend...who is now dead. And an ex-girlfriend who now dates women. This girl here, she hasn´t figured that out yet. When I say I want to sell my kidney I just mean that I am bored with life...that I want her to make my life more interesting. That, in fact, wrangling stuffed monkeys in a Mexican circus is the philosophical equivalent of being a supreme court justice. See?"

"Jesus Christ, Oggy, you´ve got some admirable traits but sometimes you make no sense at all. Men are supposed to be the ones who speak directly. Don´t be obtuse. Tell her what you mean. Anyway, the way to impress a girl is not to say you would be happier tending a stuffed monkey...under any circumstances...with or without both your kidneys. I mean, think about it."

"Yeah, yeah. You think I haven´t thought about it? That´s all I do. Give me some fucking credit."

This is my new catch phrase. I look back under the clutch pedal, at a world I understand.

"How much does she charge?"

"She's not a hooker, dude."

"It sounds like she's a hooker to me. Maybe she's playing the long con."

"Well, then she's busting my balls for free."

Ron made some guttural sound. "You see, Oggy, I just like fucking regular young girls who want to make some money on the side. I don´t have anything to offer a girl except wisdom, experience and good conversation."

This is Ron's catch phrase and it never ceases to annoy me. He thinks it is funny because he's understating his qualities and sort of being self-pitying but I have yet to find a good response to it other than indifference. I reach under the clutch pedal and feel around the master cylinder. It is in two pieces but all the pieces are connected to a rod that can only be removed by unscrewing the whole pedal assembly. That´s going to suck.

Ron says, "Hey, I actually know a guy who will buy your kidney."

I throw the wrench down and yell, "I´m not selling my kidney! I´m not joining the circus. I´m not joining a revolution. I just like saying it. It sounds good to my ears. It just sounds good to say, ´I want to manage a stuffed monkey game in a Mexican Circus.´That sounds interesting...but I would hate it after five minutes. So I´m not going to do it. It´s absurd. I know it is absurd but saying it is how I cope with my crummy life. Alright? Give me some fucking credit. I like fixing cars and playing guitar. That´s probably what I´ll do for the rest of my life. But that doesn´t sound as good. So I don´t say it as much. If people would just pay attention to what I do and not what I say then there would be no problems."

Ron laughs. "I was just kidding. Jesus. I can see why you two like to argue. You say one thing and mean another. She says one thing and means another. You´re right about the bad chemistry. Although, usually women who argue are the best fucks."

I groan as I look back under the dashboard.

"Yeah? I argued with my last girlfriend all the time and she fucked like a rolled up carpet."

"Well, Oggy, you don't exactly strike me as a cocksmith.


"I mean, you can probably entertain a girl, charm them, make 'em laugh, sing a few songs, fix their car's brake pads, but when it comes time to fuck 'em, eat their pussies, pull their hair, spank 'em, you're probably no stallion. That's just my impression."

"Can I please try to fix this fucking worthless clutch?" I say shortly.

Ron shrugs. "You can't fuck with metaphors, champ."

"Thanks for the tip. One time..."

"Hey, I´m gonna get a whore. You want one or not?"

After my silence Ron continues, "Fuck it. My back is killing me. I could use a blowjob. You gonna fix that thing or what?"

"I´ll do what I can to this plastic piece of shit."

Ron is already on the phone to his pimp.

"Yeah, make sure she doesn´t have a fat ass this time. OK?" he says loudly into the phone. "NO FATTIES...yeah, that´s what you said last time. Now I mean it. I want her young and with little titties and a tight ass."

He looks at me.

"Big tits just get in the way. Right, Oggy?...No, I don´t care what color her skin is. Just as long as she´s clean and has a tight pussy! I don't care if she's had one or two kids but not a whole litter. The last one you sent was so loose it was like fucking a plastic grocery bag. I...mother fucker!"

Ron looks at his phone and then at me.

"Man, can I use your phone? I just ran out of minutes. I put time on it the other day. I...Goddamn it! I bet that whore used it to call her man last night. The one who stole the used rubber off my cock! Son of a bitch!"

I hand Ron my cell phone and say, "You know what´s getting in the way? This fucking dashboard. Can I take it off?

Ron rips the cap off another beer as he dials his pimp.

"Do whatever you fucking want. You´re the monkey man. I...hey, it´s me...yeah...are we clear? No fatties with loose pussies!"

I cram myself under the steering wheel again. It´s uncomfortable as hell and my neck is going to be sore from holding it at an angle sideways. As I grab a greasy wrench and begin to dismantle the flimsy soybean fiber dashboard of Ron´s Ford Focus I whisper to myself, "I´m gonna be a stuffed monkey wrangler in a Mexican circus. I´m gonna raise sheep in Nepal. I´m gonna be a professional baseball player. I´m gonna ride a motorcycle across the continent. I´m gonna die in a Central American revolution. I´m gonna join a gypsy caravan in Africa. I´m gonna be an astronaut and fly a rocket ship to Mars. "

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Independence Day

The whithering heat continues to worsen here in La Paz. All non native plants die within a day of not being watered. It is like being in an oven. In fact, the sauna at my old gym was often cooler than it is in my bathroom here. Our clothes are constantly damp. There is almost no relief without going in the ocean or the swimming pool.
My computer is still working but not for long. The desert takes everything.

The previous living situation is behind me now. Needless to say Don is a colorful character if you read the stories below. I will remember him fondly, but "remember" is the optimal word because if you are with him for a few days in a row then you will descend into a place that feels very comfortable and yet is difficult to escape from. The rest of the world seems drab and boring. People talk about food and work. Don talked about nothing except sex and knife fights and drugs and jail...sometimes all appearing as characters in the same anecdote such as...

"this hooker I was fucking went out to buy some meth and came back with three Mexicans armed with knives. I broke one guy's arm with a club I carried and another one got his knife into me before the police showed up and took all my money and then put me in jail for a week. I went through withdrawls and almost died under the prison cot."

the whole time he is casually drinking and smoking and his voice never speeds up or slows down. He's unusual. I told him that the reason he is so unhappy is because he shouldn't be alive. He defied all the odds and survived his own life. Now he has to die naturally and it has made him depressed. After I tell him this Don looks at me and says, "I love fucking pretty young girls with tight wet pussies."

Here’s some sample poetry from Don that furthered my need to leave that apartment.

After the narrator kills a guy in a stolen car…

“The blond she was crying

and starting to pray

I didn’t want her to suffer

I just wanted her to pay

Why you may ask

Why did she have to pay?

She could have been with me

But with him she did stay

Her scream cut short

By the shot that rang out

I opened both doors

And let the bodies fall out

As I cruise down the highway

I see a pretty young thing

Looks like she’s waving at me

She’s as misguided as could be

Standing tall and sexy

Vulnerable and all alone

What she will soon find out

She most surely will atone.”

Not exactly the stuff of romance and flowers. The language is pure jail vocabulary tinged with the bitterness at having your life served to you on a tin plate and being watched over like a child in a cage. It’s a horrible feeling. He hates the world and takes it out on this innocent couple, hopefully in a fantasy world. It says everything…and more.

He wanted me to make it into a song. A Song! To sing in public. No kidding? The next Johnny Cash.

So I'm in a sober house now and we play pool and dominoes and this world of insanity and knife fights outside strip joints is like a foggy dream except the stain is never fully cleaned off my hands.
be careful what you ask for...
there were no fireworks this independence day. Not one. Just heat. I think life would have been different had I grown up in 1776. That's a war I could get behind. That's a side I could choose. Today, I am basically alone in my feeling that America is a repulsive juggernaut devouring the resources of the world so Hannah Montana can sell plastic backpacks. If there were an army that declared war against Hannah Montana then I would join. But it is ludicrous. Who would you kill? Walt Disney? Miley Cyrus? The Vietnamese slave workers making the Hannah Montana barbie dolls? There is no enemy and so no war and I am frustrated.
Everyone needs a side to be on and I'm still looking for mine. I guess that's my independence day message. Find a side and fight for it. Don't be neutral. This is not as easy as it sounds in today's flat world where the Japanese own parts of St. Louis and money is traded like spice and all roads lead to Walt Disney and Coca Cola. Who can you trust?
Did you know Coca Cola couldn't sell to Nazi Germany so they changed their name to Fanta in Europe and did it anyway. That's what I drink down here. Fanta soda: The drink of Jew Killers.
pick a side people. And fight the good fight. United we stand. Divided we fall.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Ass Pirate Looks at 70

“I finally got a good piece of ass last night,” said Ron from the doorway, where he was smoking a fat joint.
It’s like I’d been thinking of nothing but how much ass he had.
“She was real sexy, dancing, shaking her ass. I ate her pussy. We fucked around.”
“What was her name?”
I feel like an old lady asking this silly question.
“I forget. Maybe Crystal. Christine. Something.”

pillow talk

La Paz - 2009 June

“I mean, licking a girl’s asshole?”

Don is talking about how dirty the girls are on the barely legal porn videos he is fond of watching. The girls are 18 years old and fisting each other for a camera. Big dildos. Strap on dildos, vibrators, tongues, fingers, hands. Everything is thrown at these girls and they look good getting dirty Licking each other’s pussies and assholes. How, Don is wondering, did they learn to do that in the few years since puberty? How did they get so fucking dirty so fucking fast.

Don throws back his head in ecstasy and says, “God damn it - I love fucking sexy young bitches! When I was in Thailand about nine or eleven years ago I bought these four young whores for $50 and we…”

Don and I are eating shrimp and fish tacos and chips in La Paz, B.C.S. Both our watches are wrong by several hours. Don talks about time in terms of “Five to seven years ago I…” I am living in a van and gauge time by the full moons. The topic of the day is sex, the same topic as it has been with Don since he invited me to the local strip club. All facets of sex are on the table. It is his mission in life…a life now entering its 66th year, to fuck as many “young pretty girls” as he can. I, of course, am above ground, and male and thus can talk about sex as often as the subject is raised. When it comes to the subject of fucking young pretty bitches there is hardly a man alive who will cover his ears. As far as why these young actresses can act so dirty it is a question one should ask the girls, not the letch who watches them. My first guess is that someone like Don gave them $500 -$1000 to spend the night with them and the girls learned quickly. Of course there is also a director saying, “Now lick her asshole, don’t be shy. Put the vibrator in that pussy and…” which makes being dirty as easy as connecting the dots.

After Don is through telling me about the Thai whores of a decade ago and the weekend of pure carnal exploration we get back to how to make a living in this world and stay happy. I pop a corn tortilla filled with shrimp into my mouth and say, “You ought to be in porn. You ought to just pay young chicks to fuck you on camera.”

“Why?” asks Don as though he knows the answer.

“Because it solves both cash flow and sex problems at once,” I say as though I have thought this out.


“Because you fuck and you have a product to sell.”

“You can’t sell porn unless you are a huge company.”

“Naw, you are giving these guys too much credit. The amateur stuff sells and it has no production costs.”

“But that becomes your whole life.”

I consider pointing out that since I have met him he has talked of nothing but fucking young pretty girls. It has already become his whole life. You can cut it any way you want and this pie still comes out in the shape of sex. My suggestion of producing amateur porn is just a gesture of practicality in our shapeless conversation. Instead of diverting the conversation into a philosophical debate of what defines Don’s life I say generically, “But you get fucked and that’s good.”

“Well, I like to get to know a girl, talk to her. I’m a letch but I don’t like to feel I’m a letch.”

This sarcastic humor of Don’s is what I like most about him. He is unlike most letches who are past the point of no return and can not identify themselves as such. They are oblivious to their zippers being down or the ASS MASTERS LOLITA EDITION magazine laying openly on their dashboard. Don wants to set himself apart from the crowd by admitting that he knows what he is. He knows that conventional society rejects his worldview but he isn’t exactly apologetic when he says, “I like a regular girl who likes to make some money on the side.” He repeats this phrase as often as Roosevelt’s “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” maxim.

“I like to fuck regular young girls with tight pussies,” he says as though he is defending his preference for Chopin over Satie. “I don’t care if they want my money. Everyone wants everyone else’s money. If they are nice to me then I’ll pay them for their time. I’ll pay them for being young and sucking my cock. Hey,” he says as he gestures at the tortilla chips, “You gotta eat some of these chips. I can’t eat them all.”

The ease with which Don says these lines is so casual that I’m slightly afraid I’ve become “one of those degenerates” with whom other degenerates confide because they radiate death and the black hole of infinity. It’s possible, but I’m completely sober, eating a taco and not even drinking soda pop because of its high sugar content. Am I a degenerate? Wait, don’t answer that question. The answer is that Don talks to every man like this. He has absolutely no tolerance for prudes…and he likes to talk about sex. So, my opinion or state of degeneration is irrelevant. I take a handful of chips, quietly ignoring their empty calorie content, and say, “Every girl has her price. Even the straight girls I have known, the Mormons, the real bible thumpers, have a price. I don’t care who you are. Hell, I’ve got a price.” I say as I squeeze lime juice onto a chip full of cheese and avocado. “It’s pretty high, but I’ve got a price at which I’ll do just about anything. Money is a drug. We’re trained to suck cock for money. You ever just offer a girl some money?” I eat the chip and look around at the tables for a reaction. I’m pretty sure a nearby couple understands every word we are saying.

“What do you think I’m talking about?” Don says.

This is a funny comment because it makes me realize I’m trying to imagine the scenario in which Don, a 66 year old man with white hair roots and a hunched back, is fucking four pretty 18 year old girls. The truth is that I have no idea how this would occur. As Don has pointed out a few times, “You’re too young to have to buy a whore.” Yes, I guess I am, but I’m not dumb enough to think I haven’t paid for sex in one way or another. It’s an age old exchange. While everyone wants to be that well adjusted couple who fucks “because they are in love” the other 98% of us are groping glory holes in the dark and throwing time and money at pussy.

Our pretty young waitress walks over and asks us, “Algo mas?”

Are we ready? She is probably asking this because one of the bilingual customers has complained that we are filthy gringos and should be evicted. Don is oblivious to everything but young women.

I say no, nothing more, and before she is out of reach Don says, “I like the way they shake their pussies. Hmmmm! You think she can fuck?” Before I can respond Don says, “It’s like Leaving Las Vegas, the movie, I bought fifty pairs of underwear when I came down here so I wouldn’t have to leave the bedroom. I could call the hookers and they would come to me and that’s it. Done! I die! You see, Marco, I like regular girls who like to make money on the side.”

I nod, as though I have heard this kind of talk all my life, which isn’t true. I think Don is the extreme example of a pleasure purpose we all share. We all want to be 65 years old and having the best sex of our lives with the most attractive, desirable partners we can imagine, sometimes four at once. Yes, it will come at a price, but that’s true of everyone…even rock stars so most of us realize this is a path of diminishing returns. Most of us see how quickly “paying pretty girls for sex” will turn into something demonic and destructive. Most of us realize that pouring money into young pussy is not sustainable. Most of us settle for cribbage and a yank mag by a muted television.

“A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but one.” Says Don with cigarette smoke coming out of his mouth. “You have to confront your fears. I was afraid of heights my whole life (on account of falling off a mountain when I was young) so ten or fifteen years ago I decided I was going to fly an airplane. So I hired a pilot and we went up in the plane and I was so scared my arms were shaking.”

You do have to confront your fears. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately. To live in fear is the worst condition. You have to be fearless to live in this world, fearless to succeed, fearless to perform, fearless of all consequences because some of those consequences are terrific. You can’t select which consequences you get. The trouble is that so much of our childhood is spent with fear as a major motivating factor. Be afraid of that hill, that house, that side of town, that skin color, that family, that way of thinking, that bottle of chemicals, that food, that sport. Fear will keep you alive, is the rationality, but what really happens is we grow up afraid of myths and phantoms. That hill isn’t very steep, that house isn’t full of gypsies, that side of town is where the good music is, that skin color is just darker than mine, that family is just poor, that way of thinking is liberating, that bottle of chemicals is for cleaning cement, that food is better with beer. These fears must be overcome, one by one. But what if they aren’t overcome? What if the fears are so well implanted by our parents that we still avoid that hill or that house or that food 25 years after we were told to? That is when you are in a world more troubled than Don’s. Yes, Don is on a treadmill chasing young girls and paying them for sex. Yes, he’s an estranged degenerate and a letch and fucked up living in Mexico on social security. Yes, his main accomplishment for the last few months is throwing away his box of barely legal porn because, “If I’m not getting off then I don’t want to watch it.” He also kicked his speed habit and only drinks beer now and smokes a little bit of pot. That’s Don. He’s no candidate for the noble peace prize. But living in fear of some shadow menace that was implanted by some guy who knocked your mom up isn’t much better. I mean really, you fear the menace that never comes. Some people get over it. The fear wasn’t the same, but some families are so good at making you afraid that it becomes a complex. Then you are fucked, you may not know it but your fear directs all your actions. Bypass the fear and you will succeed, or at least die an adult, but obey the fear and it will keep you inside looking out at the world passing by. It does not take a genius to raise a child but it doesn’t take a monster to fuck one up either.

I could eat three more tacos but it is better to remain hungry. We leave the restaurant. I notice several customers giving us menacing looks. We walk into the La Paz heat. Don wants me to show him the sex shop. He wants to make sure he can buy sex there. And he wants to get a massage, a “real” massage, because his back is injured from the long drive from Ensenada. He almost hits a pedestrian on his way out of the parking lot. “I hate running over people with my car,” he says. “One time, about ten or fifteen years ago I got hit by a jeep. It threw me twenty feet and gave me this.”

Don shows me a jagged scar on his hip.

“It’s not the drugs and alcohol that fucked me up,” he says as we gain speed in the direction of the sex shop, “It’s the shit that happened while I was fucked up on drugs and alcohol. Look! Holy shit! You see that sexy girl?”

Don brakes hard at a busy intersection to look at a pretty senorita in skin tight jeans and we are nearly demolished by a speeding bus.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

words of wisdom

"I go forth to make new demands on life. I wish to begin this summer well; to do something in it worthy of it and me; to transcend my daily routine and that of my townsmen...I pray that the life of this summer may ever lie fair in my memory. May I dance as I have never done! May I persevere as I have never persevered!"
it sounds like Thoreau. maybe Emerson or Whitman. I don't know but I know you need some inspiration. and words usually don't work. Actions are the only currency. I swear to god this is true. words are just bullshit and it is easy to substitute words for action. rock on.

news from the grease monkey

July finds me underneath a 1969 van, arms covered in decades old grease fixing a
ruptured timing cover gasket that caused all the coolant to leak out. A serious
job for any mechanic since it involves removing many components. No local mechanic
can be trusted to tackle this job so I did it. The conditions under which
this repair job was complete were ridiculous. I may as well have done it in
a fucking oven or a sauna with my hands tied. It was less a repair job than an
archaeological dig to find a part that broke off a steam engine in 1880...and then
to fix that steam engine so it will run again. Insane. The one real miracle was that I was carrying the 22mm
socket I needed to take the vibration damper off the crankshaft nose.
that is a miracle because
A) this is a ford van and uses SAE sizes.
B) That socket was originally purchased to take the top caps off a 1986 Honda Motorcycle
so we could change the oil seal on the forks.
C) I had no other sizes bigger than 19mm.

but it fit perfectly and it popped off. That would have really been a pain to get that part.

I'm trying to find a rhythm to
my life again. traveling with no definite plans is a bit insane and everyone
(meaning everyone but hobos and gypsys) looks at me as a useless piece of scum.
It is difficult to maintain dignity. I can see why hobos just continue being
hobos. To re-adapt to society is too much. The monkey has been evicted from the
family and can not be allowed to poison the greater tribe. I see that. I'm no
dummy. or maybe I'm a little dumb.

I'm in la paz, Mexico, playing solo jazz guitar at an empty restaurant and
singing cat stevens cover songs. I want to be a cat stevens tribute artist
complete with beard and no shoes and glass bead necklaces. Is there something
wrong with that? I may even get a wig.
Not everyone can be a foreign dignitary or heart surgeon. There must be a place
in this world for cat stevens tribute artists who play to empty restaurants in
obscure Mexican towns. well, now that I put it that way maybe there is no place
for such a person. But I don't want to conform. What kind of a person would I be
to conform now after I have refused to conform for so long? A quitter?
I've got to live. I've got to get in the game.

I lived in Venice Beach. Near Vernon. on Rialto Ave. vernon, I believe, is in
Dogtown, the place where you buy crack. But that is all of Los
Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.