Won't be fooled Again

Unbelievable. There were Two stars. They were difficult to see, like an African in an unlit alley, but just before your 97 Cherokee scalped another victim, you saw the whites of his eyes, and a peeking glimmer from his teeth, and turned to your wife and said, ’Holy Shit, we almost killed a god damn African, Shit’, but right up close, you could tell, it was definitely two stars.

After weeks of sleeping on strangers’ floors, doubled over sheets disguised as futons, spring protruding mattresses, bone jarring overnight bus trips, and rentable coffins with the detachable crapper 3 flights down, a place that managed to both call itself HOTEL and proudly display TWO worn out stars was a Mexican Eden just waiting to be violated.

I didn’t want the word ‘Hotel’ or the stars, two things that automatically indicate higher prices, like going for the Walgreens butter only to arrive in the dairy section and see your stuck with the wealthy man’s Land o’ Lakes. But you need butter. Your balls can’t live without it. So you buy it. And in the end, everybody’s happy with the upgrade.

Normally in Mexico, there are more choices, and you can find a place that beats your ten dollar budget. But I ended up in this port town by hitcher’s fate.

An old friend of mine, a civilized European, was living in Guatemala, presumably for superiority reasons, and decided to come join me for some adventure in Southern Mexico. We decided we would take advantage of our pasty complexions, and naïve hopes, by isolating ourselves on desolate stretches of pavement, hoping some lustful Mexican would want our company, and maybe some butter.

The problem, or the excitement, with journeys by thumb, is you don’t know where you’re going to end up. As a rule, when night falls, you do as the African should do, and lay low until sunrise.

Darkness came in on the bottom tip of Oaxaca state, in an isolated port town presumed to be on the Pacific, but only a strong breeze and an increased number of empty seafood cocktail stands stood as questionable testimony.

First step, remember your Marine training, and scout out the territory before you make any decisions. We had four potential targets. FOUR. That’s nothing. Supply side economics would not be on our side tonight, just the way The Left wanted it. One place had a lobby. No need to ask room prices there. Another advertised cable television. Also, out. It was between an abandoned motel with rooms wide open, and a half rotted front door guarded by two sleeping drunks and a stray dog, or the two story Palm Hotel, with it’s faded stars, and, well, a fairly accurate rendition of a Palm tree. After a solid Parliamentary debate, the European arguing that discrimination based on class was reprehensible, and we should be supporting institutions, businesses, and whatnot intended for the common man, and the American countering that the rapists who frequent the abandoned flophouse probably don’t discriminate either: between Americans and Europeans. It was further noted, and recorded, that abortion is still illegal in Mexico.

Entering the swanky Palm, the European attempted a final rebuke, showing displeasure for the tacky drawing of the Palm, which apparently showed a complete lack of regard for perspective. The American proudly exclaimed he hails from the land of all things tacky, and as long as America controlled the world’s marketing, the Palm wins.

Behind an abandoned glass showcase, a young man, wearing the latest in Made in China fashion, paused from his cell phone chatter to give us the price: $25! Ouch. But because I was sharing a room, my half only put me $2.50 over budget. And what did two and half dollars get me…

The security guard, who, presumably kept out the drunken rapists from our second choice, also doubled as bellhop. He happily escorted us to the room, making small talk about the windy weather. My first domicile with protection. I was beginning to think the extra money was worth it already, and we hadn’t even reached the room!

The door opened, and immediately, our host went to the window. A bit hot inside, he was quite the gentleman opening the windows for us. But they didn’t open. Cause there was a giant air conditioner in the way. An AIR CONDITIONER. It was obvious the guests at the Palm weren’t accustomed to such luxury, cause the security guard, with Vanna White’s shining smile, proudly demonstrated the multitude of functions available to us on this wonder of mankind. There was a High Cool, Low Cool, High Fan, Low Fan, and the mysterious ‘Economia‘.

The white people in the room looked at each other in disbelief: security and air conditioning. What would a $5 increase in my budget get?

But the security guard had more to show: The box where people and things are displayed in a life-like manner, came with a portable control. A five minute tutorial followed instructing us in the fine points of remote viewing, with a button that made all the voices go silent. Instantly. We were amazed how the three available channels could be accessed by either a direct number input or a button designated for channel scrolling.

The tour wasn’t over yet. We followed our smiling host into the bathroom. The three of us gathered around the curtainless shower as our guide opened one faucet handle to reveal the dispersal of water. Heated water. That’s right, for 12.50 a pop, not only were we getting a secured room with instant cooling and remote control telly, but a proper shower as well. The three of us stood around ingesting the steamy vapors, wondering which one of us would finally turn off the spigot. Clearly, this room of marvels was as lavish for our security man as it was for us.

His permanent smile left the room with an assurance, that anything we needed, he would be glad to help. Hmmm. My cohort gave me the BEHAVE look, the one that said, ‘we’re among a higher class now, we should act like it.’ I shot her back an American look that telepathed, “We act the same, regardless of class, you Marxist Monarchy hypocrites. Aren't we the ones who show up to 'classy restaurants' wearing sweatpants. You people dress up to use the toilet.” She reacted by leaving our secure kingdom for a solitary walk in our waterless port city.

I did what all men do when they arrive at a clean, comfortable, private, secure toilet. It was time to give Montezuma MY revenge.
Three days on a desolate toiletless beach, and a full day of thumb warrioring accumulated a significant amount of buildup. I prepared the altar. TV volume turned up, air con at full blast, and the secure knowledge that my proud Chief of Security was downstairs guarding against unauthorized intruders. Plus, the lady had left the premises. Even though she was just a friend, there is something about crapping and women that just don’t mix.

Some light reading material was scavenged from my backpack, and the stage was set: Montezuma, I’m coming for you.

Twenty minutes later, the attack continued. As the troops settled in to their new base of operations, the General retreated, spiritually cleansed, and ready for some of that hot water we made such a fuss over.

But Montezuma refused to capitulate. I sent the troops down for the final slaughter, overcome the King and take over the temple, but he was fighting back. Flush by flush my fighting poopertroopers would be sent back to base, torn up and scattered. We repeated the attack over and over, but each time, they re-surfaced, exhausted but unable to leave.

I knew I forgot something: We never had our gracious host check the toilet flush. One thing I’ve noticed in Mexico is that the toilet’s can’t handle a real gringo shit. They assume all foreigners end up with watery discharge, so there is no need to invest in a solid tank. But when the neighbors from the North learn how to handle their street stall tacos, the returns are immense.

Time for Plumber Joe to get to work. No time for the hour shower. The tank link removed, I adjusted to let more water in the tank, put the flapper into it’s correct position, and yes, even jiggled that handle.
Still, no go. Do you know what to do when tank operations fail? Find a bucket, and start filling. The waste basket was probably a solid 3 gallons, or 5 and half two liter bottles of your favorite cola. I was like a one man Chinese fire brigade. My Paradise Poop had turned into a 5 alarm crap. I was furiously shuttling my bucket from the shower to the stall, but four of my men still refused to go to war. Fuckin’ pacifists. This is what’s wrong with America, we’re turing into a bunch of pacifist poops, getting our butts beat in Iraq. We can’t beat the Kurds if we don’t have the Turds.

There was only one option left, but I refused to handle my former men, that was an option too low even for me.

As I stood in silent contemplation over my defeated battlefield, dripping with sweat and unheated water, looking for my white flag, the European came in.

Do I tell her the last guests left their dump in the bowl? Maybe hope she doesn’t use the toilet the entire night. I could just say the shower sucks and we need to change rooms. I was certainly wet enough. Before I could dole out a reasonable excuse, she made her way to the john, ’I really need to go’, she said in speed walk position.

I told her. And to my surprise, she calmly answered, ’what’s the big deal, just tell our friend downstairs.’

“But I don’t want him to think different of us. We’re royalty now. And royalty doesn’t do what I did.”

“Just go downstairs and tell him. He’ll fix it.”

Maybe I should be thinking different about my old euro friend. Any girl that is fit to accept the nature of my bowel movements is fit for the zirconium. Too bad she believed in equality.

The security guard was not only the bellhop, but also the janitor. He put back on that genuine smile of his, and told me not to worry about it, he would take care of it.

There is something truly awkward about watching someone else look at your doodies. Especially a stranger. But in the same way you may smell your own gas, maybe take a whiff of your finger after you scratch your ass, there is a perverse delight in witnessing the reaction. What would Senor Security think of my work? And then I got anxious, the remaining survivors were a fragment of their original size. They were baby poops. It was like seeing a black and white photocopy of a Picasso. There was no pride in what remained of my fallen soldiers, beaten to shriveling bits like that. I stood by the bathroom door, like a man next to his car as the mechanic goes to work. Nervous about the damage, and the reputation of America, those seconds felt like days, but the security guard turned his head from the toilet, looked back, and said, “don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

These places didn’t follow international codes of conduct. They could just ask us to leave. But I remembered those stars. Two of them. We should be safe. Stars protect. The promise things. They mean something.

I lay on the bed fidgeting between the three channels, with one eye on the bathroom. He returned with a few basic tools, but after 30 minutes alone with my descendants, he still had the same results:
Montezuma 1 Gringo 0

Next up, he came back with a garbage can. I wanted to shout, “I already did that,” but I figured maybe the Bowl would respect a local more than the outsider. Five minutes later. I was still losing, and the security guard, smile still intact, coolly said he’d return again shortly.

He came back with two garbage cans. My Man knew how to battle. But the war dragged on, and the Gringos were still losing.

He said a friend at another hotel (the one with the lobby or the cable tv?) had some sort of tool or something that he could borrow but it would be awhile. We should go out and he’d take care of it.

His commitment was impressive. I was beginning to understand why American companies keep hiring Mexicans.

An hour later we returned, anxious to get our bowl back. Was anybody staying here? You’d think we would have another room by now. But the Mexicans aren’t people who throw out a ceiling fan cause a blade breaks. They tape it back on, and keep on going. This is not a culture of waste. Things only get thrown out or replaced when they turn to dust. We paid for this toilet and we would use this toilet.

He told us the tool was on the way, so we went back upstairs to wait. And moments later, he did indeed arrive. And what was this miracle tool he was waiting for? A plumber’s snake? A giant plunger? A reformed anteater? No, his last available weapon: A bigger bucket. This was why Mexico will always be Developing, always wondering why they aren’t Developed. Hard work only gets you so far. If you don’t have the technology, you perish like the natives.

He could see my doubtful looks, but his smile reassured that all was under control.

The 2 representatives sent from the Developed world waited against the wall for the election results. The whooping cascades of water could be heard every three minutes. And then they stopped. The War was over. The Battle of the Bowl had been won. But by who?

The Deputized Disposer of my Turd exited the sanctuary. His demeanor hadn’t changed, that same warm smile still there. In his left hand he swung the empty bucket, and in his right was a plastic bag, probably with some wet tools. He looked at us reassuringly and said, “Everything’s ok now, Buenas Noches.”

And as he made his way to exit the air cooled room, I noticed something odd in his plastic bag. I pointed out the suspiciously bagged items to the Euro. She agreed. A Taliban fighter was leaving our room, parading my captured doods across this 2 star Peshawar. Would he show his friends how puny my poop was, further damaging the reputation of the American Stool Movement? Maybe he would take it to the US Embassy and utilize my waste to help get him a visa, and I would get a call from Homeland Security asking about my involvement in illegal immigrant smuggling. I was thoroughly defeated.

It was the one step I refused to do in the toilet purging process. He did it. This is why our borders are inundated. Why should an American company upgrade its services when a Mexican can figure out a way with the existing components.

Montezuma 1 Gringo O

The European wanted to celebrate. As a surprise to me, she grabbed some reading material and shut the door. But something wasn’t right. “Get out, get out of there” I screamed, the sounds of FIRE in the air.

“What?”

“He didn’t fix it. Don’t release. I repeat, Stop pushing, close your hole, and get out. NOW.”

Was this how they did it up in here? Was this what two stars really meant? I wasn’t so enamored with our smiling master of ceremonies anymore. I marched down the faded yellow linoleum hallway, rounded the corner, and made my way downstairs. We needed a talk. Mano to Mano.

“Ok sir, not a problem. Don’t worry. We will put you in another room. It’s fine. Get your things ready, and I’ll meet you upstairs to show you your new room.”

Fine. That was easy. I kept wondering if we would have to sit through the demonstrations again. The European seemed pleased. Minutes later, he was at the door, bucketless, and a new set of keys waiting.

“Why are we going downstairs? Can’t we stay up here where it’s quieter?”

“Everything is full up here, you’ll be moving to the rooms out back.”

There was an ‘out back.’ Were we all of a sudden in the country? I didn’t see a yard with cabins. But sure enough, on the other side of his security stool, the doors opened into a courtyard, where the original Palm still stood. The Bates Motel vibe here rivaled the abandoned rapist palace.

“Really, it’s full upstairs. I didn’t see anybody. There must be a room.”

“Yes, it’s full or there are rooms that are a different style than your room. We don’t have any more like the one you paid for.”

Probably cause their toilets worked.

And with the same enthusiasm he showed in our first room, the tour was given again. The air conditioner only worked in one setting, and dated from the Carter era, with embedded rocks in the vents that added a nice broken muffler sound to the windowless room. The rabbit ear tv could be turned manually, as he demonstrated meticulously, using a chair and a tiptoe reach. The bathroom once again provided hot water, it would just take some time to heat up, he said. And what about the missing toilet bowl seat? These rooms didn’t have seats, but if there was anything else, he works through the night, don’t hesitate to ask.

Can we just have our old room back? We’ll open the lid on the shower drain and use that. But the European whispered to me that we should just accept what he gave us. I’m American dammit, if we accepted things, you’d still be speaking German. She mumbled something about the Russians, and I went off into the courtyard to look up at our old room, number 14, the lights left on to taunt us with my crime.

This was not two stars. We were better off in that straw hut on the beach. I felt helpless, defenseless, un American. It was a one party system here, and only one man held power. Our ‘friend.’ Who could I lodge a complaint against? Where were the rules regarding grievances? And it was after midnight, where we could we move to? We were stuck. It was so unfair. I was being punished for my above average size fecal deposits. Why didn’t they have a sign like the airports? If your luggage doesn’t fit in the rack, you’ve got to check it in. You know the size of your little brown creations. Everybody does. And if I didn’t like the measurements I saw, we could stay somewhere else. On the converse, I could use a ruler and a digital camera to obtain a refund. I sat out there, pouting, furious over the deceit the 2 stars held over me. Marketing. Death of the human race. The European was sleeping by the time I returned to the incessant rattling that would surely affect my dreams of defeat throughout the night.

I was awakened in the early daylight hours by a movement. This was the famed Pacific Rim, earthquakes were common. But my half awake state had fooled me. It was time for a second round against the Bowl. So soon, but I guess the four day backlog had more work to do.

Goddammit. Fuckinshit, motherfucker. I couldn’t believe it. Again, it happened again. I wasn’t going to conform and squirt taco shakes like the other Gringos. I was an individualist dammit. I could be like a Mexican, and a gentleman, and remove it with a plastic bag, so that my traveling partner could at least have a nice clean bowl for her morning ablutions. But I wasn’t a Mexican. I was American. And I want my money’s worth. And the right to poo as I choose to poo. Poop stays.

Leaving the Palm, we noticed our friend was still working, 14 hours after we had checked in. He shot us that genuine, giving smile and said, “it was nice to meet you, have a good day”, like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t spend two hours face to face with my excrement. Why couldn’t I show humility and warmth like this man? Why do I deserve to have things the way I want, when he obviously finds a way to accept things, with grace.

I’ll tell you why: Cause two stars shouldn’t stand for two toilets. It should mean something, the way it did in the old days of Vegas. A Palm and two stars, and you knew things would be alright for a night. Stars and palms shouldn’t be abused just to lure in unsuspecting budget travelers, hoping for a brief stay in moderate first world comfort. If we can’t trust the Star system, what’s that say about those Film Festival winner stamps, or Organic or Internet ratings?

I decided to abandon my addiction to marketing,which may be a violation of The Pledge of Allegiance. I’ve gone back to sleeping on couches in the homes of generous Mexicans, completely comfortable with broken toilets, bucket showers, and 5am fireworks. Life seems easier again, accepting with no expectations, removed from the marketing, that is, until I sit down at a restaurant, and notice in the corner of the menu, ‘Five star cuisine.’

Every Town's Got Something

Every American small town has something it’s proud of: Reddleton, Iowa - America’s Longest Piece of Yarn. Tonala, South Carolina - World’s Widest Galvanized Pipe.
Edensville, Wyoming - Home of the Smallest Goldfish in the World. Sycamore, Oklahoma - Proud Home of America’s Drunkest Native American. 4 years running.

And if one should happen upon these towns, to visit a fifth cousin twice removed, or to simply sample the local talent, all legal residents will proudly exclaim that you absolutely must go down the road to see the yarn. Ain’t none bigger anywheres. No sir.

In small town Mexico, often times the object of pride is something American, or, at least non-Mexican. Si, there is, if you walk across the street, behind the chickens, you can see Pedro’s Ford truck. Normally, on Sundays, me and the husband take a walk to see it. It’s the only one for 50 km. People from the other villages come too.

Si, si, I can take you soon. You remember the green house you passed when you entered the town. They have a washing machine. Usually, they only let people come watch on Saturday mornings, but I know the daughter, Roberta, and she will let us in today. The family throws their clothes in like a garbage can and when they return, everything smells great. You will love it, I promise.

Claro, senor. On the other block, we have a beautiful tall statue of the Spanish fellow, Cortes. Excuse me? No, I’m sorry I don’t know much about history, but the statue is really nice. You must go see.

Welcome to Villa de los Reyes, a small town in the north central Mexican countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, with the faint illusion of mountain type structures in the distance. And no statues, but I did see two large pick up trucks at the town entrance.

It was my first day in Mexico, after a 2 day bus journey from Chicago. I came here to meet an internet friend. One of those mystery avatars who normally remain in Webfantasy. Time to break the 4th wall, meet the molester in person. It’s part of society these days, the Moment of Judgement, when weeks of business emails, or that used couch correspondence, or the stove repair chat room leave the screen for the soil. This isn’t match punto com dating. You don’t have photos of your subject, or fantasies, but surely, a bit of curiosity. It was a site dedicated for travelers who want to meet local people in random (and not so random) corners of the world.

He was waiting in the bus parking lot. With a pick up truck. Wow, he could be the town celebrity. Was he tall? Muscular? Sensitive? Did he smell like worn leather and winter spices? How big were his hands? Did he still have all his hair?
A hug. I got a hug. Avatars hug. Who knew. He looked like any other 30-something mixed blood Mexican who uses the computer to lure people to his small town to demonstrate his family’s slightly used Kenmore washing machine. But sitting next to him, raised up on the seat hump, that part of the pickup usually reserved for the 3rd redneck to join the party, was a fine product of Iberian rape and Indigenous acquiescence. She could probably fit in my backpack, but not for long, with wide piercing blue eyes and that tasty cocoa butter skin white girls get skin cancer for. I didn’t want to disrespect my hugging host, but knee high leather boots and a tight wife beatin’ tank top, stretched to capacity, were gonna be a problem. Shoulders touching, I had no choice but to put on the perv shades and hope for the best.

So, are we off to see the indoor super market, or the largest cactus in Mexico?

Ha. You think all Mexican towns are backward?

No, no more than the U.S.

Look over there. Across the street. You see that, it’s a Laundromat, and next door, an internet café with XBOX. This town is cool dude, trust me.

Whoa, you speak English. Did you live in the states?

Sure, for 2 years in Boston.

And I also lived there for 2 years, in Michigan and Louisana.

Ok. I want to hear about your time up North.
But what’s the plan for today? Where to?

Somewhere cool dude, even Rosa here hasn’t been. It’s a hacienda, just a bit outside town, the Zorro place.

Oh my god, really, we’re going there. I’ve always wanted to go there. Do you have your camera that I can use, I forgot mine?

Zorro lived here. Wasn’t he a fictional character? I didn’t know he had real blood.

Haha. No, it is where they made the movie.

Which movie, weren’t there like 20 movies and tv shows about Zorro?

You didn’t see the Zorro movie, with Antonio Banderas and Caterina Setajones? Oh my god it was so good.

Twenty minutes later, at the end of a gravel road, we drove straight into an abandoned hacienda, sprawled out in various states of decay. A flock of white roses pecked out from the overgrown weeds around the main courtyard. Some of the exterior walls still had Hollywood scaffolding that partially obscured the stage hand’s marigold yellow plaster work on the crumbling façade. Various brick ruins showed signs of tequila distilling and something like a Mayan ball court, where, perhaps the Don of the hacienda sent his weakest serfs to battle it out for his son’s birthday presents. Pieces of American quality construction lumber spiraled up a few walls where the cameras had been positioned, and a clean golden retriever roamed the property, likely forgotten by the film crew as they desperately fled the set after weeks of rural tedium and Antonio Banderas complete monopolization of all functioning vagina.

The truck came to a stop on the side of a half filled promenade fountain that probably doubled as the Help’s bath. Rosa ran out of the truck, camera in hand, and disappeared like a horny rottweiler in search of Zorro’s forgotten panties.

Eddie, as my host preferred to be called, self nicknamed after his favorite movie, Eddie and the Cruisers, walked me over to the former tequila distillery. We took a seat on the collapsing brick walls of a deeply dug well. An instant later, Rosa appeared from a second story window, her dwarfish zeta jones screaming out for Zorro, or some apparent line from that award winning movie.

Now was the time to get the juice on our 3rd mate, lost in the abyss of Hollywood dust and wet Hacienda dreams.

So, what’s the story with Rosa, you guys been together for a long time?

Rosa? No, well, it’s complicated dude. She’s just a friend, really.
Is she a friend that provides beneficiary services?

What is that about?

You know, does she give you the keys to the palace, let you give her a good zorro-ing?

Dude, can you maybe tell me in Spanish, because I haven’t spoke English in a few years.

Are you intimate friends or only friends?

Something in the middle.

Fine, I could wait for another stunning Mexican to accidentally sit next to me. No need to ruin a new friendship, even if it is only internet deep.

So is this thing, the Zorro house, really the biggest attraction around?

Yes. People come from all over Mexico to visit it.

But it’s a story invented by an American, and portrayed in this movie by a Spaniard and Welsh girl, who married a Jew, if that matters.

But he is suppose to be Mexican, and that is why the people come. He is like Pancho Villa.

He kind of looks like Robin, but from the black & white version.

The women love him though, but Robin is considered a hero for the gay men in Mexico.

Yeah, in the States too, him and Sean Penn.
So that’s why we came then, for Rosa. I get it.

Eddie gave one of those you caught me smiles, and defensively claimed, “I thought you would really like the place, its our biggest attraction. And, well, sure, Rosa had never been here either.”

Right on cue, Rosa appeared from the rooftop this time, waving down at us, and chanting something about ‘I can be yours.’
I contemplated searching for the cape and mask to make it happen, but I couldn’t show up Eddy.

Hey, tell me about life in the states, how did you find Boston, compared to life here?

The city was really cool. I worked a lot. I was doing drywall work in office buildings. 20 dollars an hour. That’s how I bought the pickup truck.

And how did you find the people, the lifestyle, things outside of money?

There isn’t much outside money. That’s why we go there. I didn’t have problems with the people, my boss was good, and most people were nice. But I missed my home, my family, and my people. Here, in Mexico, there is always life, people outside enjoying and eating and friendly. There it seemed like people either worked or stayed inside their house. People would say hi to you, but nobody on the street was sitting around laughing like you see here. Very busy all the time.

Would you go back?

Sure, for a couple of years to save some more money, but I would come back here again. I make a lot less money here, but I enjoy the life better here. It’s more free, less restrictive, you know.

Rosa had found her way to a balcony, and was shouting something about a camera. She wanted a photo of herself hanging over the balcony. “Just like Caterina setajones” Eddie said with a smile.

We strolled through the forgotten gardens, like two old men contemplating something that old men contemplate. Interests, disgusts, ideals, our history, cup size, we went through it all. The clean cut retriever started playing with a gringo looking couple. Did they bring their dog to Zorro’s home? Was that permissible? Off leash?

This is the freedom of Mexico. We don’t have
Rules like the U.S. And we have stray dogs everywhere anyway, so the people don’t care.

I can’t believe other Americans found this place. Why?

Why do you think they are Americans? Cause they are white? You know, we have a lot of white Mexicans, they just don’t come to the states cause they own all the land here. Eddie laughed at that last part.

And to prove me wrong, he went up to the dog masters, and asked them what they thought of his town’s international draw. And in perfect Mexican Spanish they responded.

I thought it was only appropriate that a fellow whitey asked them a question.
Who is sexier, Zorro or Robin?

The one in the baseball cap, pulling the ball from the dog responded bluntly, “Neither”

Did you come here just for the architecture?

“No, we came because Caterina setajones was here.”

And then I realized, that not only does Mexico have white people, but they have white lesbians too. No mestizo offspring for them.

Rosa came running out from behind a rotted wood door, swinging from a piece of metal scaffolding. She’d been touched by the ghost of Zorro, her tank top slightly askew, revealing the black sateen of her lucky bra.

Did you know Zorro was really a metaphor for gay men living in the closet, trying to fight off the society that wouldn’t accept them?

Liar. Don’t you remember how he kissed Caterina setajones?

Rock Hudson kissed a lot of women on screen too. Then he got his manhole filled with Hollywood’s best milkshakes.

Huh? Its such a beautiful story. Look over there, by the fountain, you see that bench? That’s where Don Diego asked Zorro to help save Elena. And over there, look, that is where Zorro first appeared in his cape. And above us, on the roof, he had the fight with that evil brother, the one who was guarding Elena.

It’s amazing. I’m really fortunate to be able to see such a place. Hey, you lived in the states also, right?

Yes.

Tell me what you thought about your time there, and the lifestyle, and people.

She switches over to English, for the first time today, in a nearly perfect accent, well, more Canadian Deaf than American, but better than average. I love the U.S. I want to go back really bad, but I can’t because they revoked my tourist visa when they found out I worked. It was the best time of my life. I was working three jobs at one point, and would sleep just a couple of hours a night. I cleaned rooms at a motel, and I was a hostess than a waitress at this family restaurant, and I worked at Subway too.

All at once. Weren’t you tired? Didn’t you worry that you’d become a fatty American from Subway?

I loved working. So much, I really loved it. And oh my god, I really love Subway. Jared lost weight only eating there. It’s healthy.

Jared is fat again.

No.

Yes.

Well, it’s because he stopped eating Subway. I made so much money, and I had my own place. The people in the hotel and the restaurant would be nice to me, and leave me tips. Lots of tips.

Did you offer extra services while you cleaned the rooms?

What do you mean? Oh oh. Nono. I think sometimes the men thought that but nothing happened.

I would have left an extra tip for that.

Eddie gave me a look, and then turned his head away. I could see him laughing.


Are you serious? You worked the lowest skill jobs in America and you loved it. I don’t understand, you have a college education, and you come from a middle class family based on what you said earlier.

Yes, but you can not understand. Here, I am not free. My family expects me to live in their house until I get married. Anything I do, everybody knows about, cause somebody knows somebody that will know one of my sisters or cousins or somebody. And everything is so expensive here on Mexican salary. In America I had my own car, and I drove everywhere, and my own apartment, and I could do what I want, and nobody cared. If I worked harder, I made more money, and I could buy whatever I needed. And here I can’t do that. Even a job in my field, psychology, if I can find one, doesn’t pay enough to leave my house. But with those jobs, in America, I was free. I’m going to get back one day.

Don’t you miss the people here? The warmth and friendliness of the culture.

I don’t think that. The Mexican people are closed minded, and as a woman who doesn’t want to get married now, I’m not respected, and in America, it’s fine. No. I want to go back.

Ok. If you need a green card husband, let me know. I’ll make a good price for you. Maybe even barter.

What is that?

Nothing, we can talk later.

The retriever had vanished, along with his moms, and Rosa finally put the camera away after another 12 shots, maintaining the same mannequin pose, in front of the main hacienda mansion. Why do tourists obsess about having there photo taken in front of famous places? Is a photo of the Pyramids without your forced mug not enough proof that you went there? Why don’t people ever take photos of stuff they should want to remember about themselves? Like that blowjob on a ferris wheel in Istanbul, or vomiting on a military officer in Moscow. Those are the moments you need photos for.

The girl was happy and satisfied. And when the girl is happy and satisfied, you can go. And not a moment before. Eddie and I both made for the pickup, Rosa wandering innocently behind.

We drove through the outer reaches of the ranch, probably passing several bushes where Antonio relieved himself. This urinary history was lost on Rosa. It was a different gate than the one we entered. Locked. We drove to the other end of the property. Passing more bushes with the slightest hint of Zorro pee. At the gate, another lock. We circled the property, completely lifeless except for the phantasm of zorro spluge petrified in those dark corners, off the dirt rail. Eventually all specters of zorro juice behind, we reached the original gate of our arrival. Locked. Cool. We were going to sleep in Zorro’s place. My first night in Mexico would be curled up next to the cute little celebrity stalker, whispering hints of our future together, then I would suddenly mount the scaffolding and perform Zorro like feats in the dark of night. This was the Mexico I wanted. But my new friends didn’t look so happy. Maybe they needed to get online, and resume their avatars.

Rosa, her glowing zorro whore smile reduced to a worried pout, and Eddie, went from his cool collected self to a bit frantic.

I needed to break the awkward silence.
Hey, what’s the big deal. It could be a lot of fun. I bet you don’t know anyone who has slept in Zorro’s place before.

Rosa, irritated, and possibly falling out of love with me, reverted back to Spanish, and pleaded, “You don’t understand. This is Mexico. This is not the U.S. Somebody did this on purpose. It’s not funny.”

Eddie added, “Yeah, something isn’t right, I’ll go see if I can force the gate open.”

Rosa and I sat in silence, her worried look finally weighing down on me. Eddie didn’t seem to be having any luck with the gate. Well, I thought, if I’m gonna be kidnapped or shot by Zorro, or his imposter, at least that’s a good story. I kept imagining my parents explaining how their son died. He was stabbed by a man dressed as Zorro, in the same place where they made the movie. And the Americans would respond, ‘which one’ and then they would have to tell them about Antonio and Catherine.
And then the town would really have something to be proud of.

Eddie got back in the truck, and we sat there. Silent minutes taking hours. A boy appeared, on the side of the passenger window, barely able to see in, about 10 years old holding a rifle in his hand.

I thought I was best prepared to handle the situation. Can you shoot the lock for us, so we can get out. I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.

Rosa kicked me under the seat and gave me a look that said no marriage, no bartering.

The kid just stood there, stoned face, and unresponsive.

Eddie asked the little soldier what the problem was, why were all the gates locked.

You are not suppose to be here. It’s private property. And when people do come, they have to pay. You didn’t pay.

Kid was like one half of the RedRum twins. Evil little fucker. Eddie told him we didn’t know, that there was no one there when we came in. What we were suppose to do.

I added, it’s the law, every small town has one famous thing and this is yours. Im a visitor, I had to see where they made Zorro. Everybody loves Zorro.

Rosa kicked me again. Not even an incidental breast rub was possible now. She pleaded with our jailor to let us leave. We wouldn’t do it again. But he just stood there, rifle in hand, face frozen.

I whispered to Eddie to just step on the gas, and break the gate, make our own movie. Rosa tried to use her cell phone but there was no signal. Eddie told the little twerp that he had to let us out. But the man child flatly said, “You are here illegally.”

What the fuck does that mean? This little shit. Guns, goddamn guns. Its what led to Mexico’s fall, and 500 years later the offspring were getting revenge. I wanted to shout, “Im from the States, I’m innocent.” But then I remembered we stole about half our nation from them. Then I thought about explaining that I was the grandson of immigrants. You don’t want me. But all that came out of my mouth was ‘Por favor”

The news is littered with stories of Mexican gang violence. And I’ll admit, I had a back of the mind fear about getting caught up in a drug cartel shootout. But the international media isn’t reporting about pre-pubescent rifle wielding children who patrol the ruins of Hollywood’s wake, taking hostages at will and forcing them to descend into abandoned tequila wells with no retriever in sight.

Rosa was on the verge of tears. Eddie decided to offer the kid money. But he wouldn’t listen. I thought Rosa should offer some kind of sexual treat. He probably was getting ready for puberty, just hours ago. I doubted it would be penetration, and if so, how bad could it hurt. He’d probably lose it if she just showed a nipple, maybe some butt crack. I’d get bystander benefits, like those guys in strip clubs who never buy a dance. But Rosa was ready to take the rifle and extrapolate my balls from their father. I shut up.

The three of us sat there. Staring at the fence, a mere 50 feet away. Silence. And off to the side, mini PanchoVilla stood in silence as well. His face malnourished but stern, his right index finger on the trigger of the rifle. The sun was starting to set, and there wasn’t a person, vehicle or well diving animal around.

Finally, after an eternity of stillness, Eddie reached into his pocket. Did he have a small knife he could throw at the boy’s eyeball? No it was smaller. I couldn’t see it. Then he went into another pocket. This time I saw a bill. Ah ha, he was going for the bribe again.

He looked at our hostage taker, didn’t say anything, leaned over, and handed him the package. The tiny warrior examined it for a moment, resumed his stare, barely visible over the rolled down window, and then, without notice, he walked toward the fence.

Was he going to stand in front of us execution style? I figure he would be slow to load the second bullet and I could get out, snap his little shitty neck, and then win back Rosa. Or, I could quickly prepare a mask, slip out through the door while his back was turned, climb the nearby rooftop, and then jump on him. I would then vanish, leaving Rosa wanting me even more. I would wait a few weeks before the return though, guaranteeing sufficient buildup of her feminine juices to warrant her complete submission. As I prepared to pull my shirt over my head for the mask, my fantasy was about to be ruined, once again, by this crappy little punk. He grabbed the lock, and moments later, the 10 foot high gates were opening.

I could have taken him. That bastard. It was my turn to be mad. As we drove out of the compound, I looked back and said, in English, ’cocksucker, I better not see your face in town.’ Rosa didn’t even bother to kick me this time. Just a stare. One of those, You are pathetic stares that I’m accustomed to.

Screw her. How did we get out of that disaster? I thought the kid wouldn’t except money.

How much did you have to pay him?

50 pesos.

That’s it. 4 fuckin’ dollars. It cost $1.33 each to save our lives from that maniac.

That’s the average wage a day in the countryside. Kid may not even make that.

And what was in your other pocket, poison?

No. Bubblegum.

Unbelievable. Now this little Mexican town can tout a new national attraction: ‘Home of Mexico’s Youngest Gum Chewing Bandit.’

But does it Have to Happen in the Desert?

Meheeko. A nation rich in both culture and landscape. Some visitors come here for the mystical ruins, or the endless beaches, or the cheap tequila, or to see real live Mayans, or to make love to real live Mayans, or to simply get the shits and go home.

A really driven visitor, one who is goal oriented, a real American, will attempt the combo platter, and get himself a genuine Mayan at his preferred ruin, and then whisk her away to the nearest seaside town, where he’ll get intoxicated with her on the fermented agave, and then perform acts of gratuitous coitus on golden grains of Pacific sand, before standing up and excrementing chocolate chunks of ecstasy over his sand-burned legs.
Malinche’s Revenge.

As much as I enjoy all of the above, I came for other reasons. One of which was a natural resource those gold raping, beautiful skin making Spaniards didn’t touch. A local crop of Mexico’s north eastern desert, a botanical mystery rising just inches above the ground. In ebonic terms, it is known as Pay Yo Tee.
And as a strong believer in the Going Local movement, the only way to sample this solid little shrub was in her native soil. I mean, once you’ve eaten Chinese food behind the Great Wall, General Cho’s Chicken just doesn’t cut it anymore.

The problem: Well, there wasn’t just one.
I didn’t know how to find it. I wasn’t prepared to wander the desert like my supersuper great granpa Moses. I didn’t want to end up on some new age earth humping psychedelic group tour. And I was too cheap to pay someone to assist me.
My new Mexican roommate recommended I head three hours north, to the high plains desert, where I could find lodging in a small town known as 14. Yes, it’s name is 14. He told me he tried it once but nothing happened. Was he lying? Well, not about the town anyway, cause shortly after, all the local people I told about my next destination would just giggle, and make jokes that boiled down to “14. Haha. Peyote. Haha. 14. Peyote. Haha.” Great. Verification process complete.

The day of departure I came across an organically inclined Canadian girl, nationally identified by her American sounding voice and affronted countenance at my personality. She had been to 14. On a pilgrimage, with a group of fellow non-bush shaving Canucks. They really respected the Peyote, and came to make ceremonies, like the native Huichol Indians, she said. Those are the people who continue to come to this desert to worship sacred sites under the influence of the little bitty plant thing. She told me she really understood the powers of the plant, and it needed respect.

Tickled, I replied, “The only reason native groups considered hallucinogenic plants sacred was cause they weren’t blessed with the gift of Christ. He simplified everything with his Pa’s explanation for life and his willingness to take a beating for any problems that may arise. If they understood simple chemistry, they would know that the plant caused hallucinations which caused their mind to create situations, like, maybe, an 8 foot horned frog who promised them the fuckin’ rain they needed to survive, or assurance for the health of their dying child. But if someone had given them a television, they could have watched some smarmy tanned guy tell them what the next 5 days had in store. Same goes if they had health insurance. But you know what…they didn’t. Like all pre-western organized religion people, they had no single book, no single science to turn to, so, they fucked themselves up on shrooms, killed a few babies, some animals, and saw strange creatures that told them the rain was coming.”

“Wow,” she said, “you really are an ass.”

“Hey, if I’m such an ass, and you’re so respectful, why don’t you say a prayer every time you eat a strawberry, or a banana, or some grains, things that actually keep you alive.”

“I’m an organic farmer, so obviously I respect all the crops we plant.”

“Ok. Great. But do you do a ceremony, do you construct some kind of elaborate ritual every time you pop a juicy organic cherry tomato into your mouth?”

That sidewalk friendship devolved pretty fast, but at least I knew I was going to the right place, ceremony optional.
And what’s with this culture of the self-righteous left who purport to know what is best for you. Locally grown grass fed organic crotch, why don‘t they recommend that. And then they come to places like rural Mexico or the Congo, and bemoan the influence of capitalism on the native people, cause naturally, microwaving your food in 3 minutes is so less appealing than 8 hours over a dung burning stove. Or the banality of dropping your clothes in an automatic washer when you could spend 5 lovely hours, down by that lush winding river, dodging malaria and debating how you’ll carry the 62 pounds of wet laundry 3 miles back to your house.

Ditching the Greenies, I made it to somewhere in the desert. It was night, and when you arrive somewhere for the first time, in darkness, you could be anywhere.

I learned that 14 was so popular it divided into three little enclaves. My journey started at the summit of a 7,500 foot mountain, where the stone façaded town of Real 14 dwelled. Stone streets, stone homes, stone churches, and stoned doors. A real ghost town, at least on a rainy night.

“Psss.Psss. Hey gringo. You wants something for your mind. Peyote?”

None of that. No stores selling peyote mugs, or peyote blankets. No peyote theme park. One woman I befriended, the caretaker of a converted courtyard estate, now a boutique lodge, told me that Real 14 was one of 35 specially designated ‘Magic Towns’ in Mexico. How cool is that? Mexico actually calls certain town’s MAGICAL. That means, there are 35 places in this country where somebody can really lose their fuckin’ mind. Why don’t we have more of our people coming here illegally? She did confirm that peyote was nearby, but wouldn’t try it, nor knew how to get it. There was the little man with the big sombrero who took care of the cemetery chapel. He chuckled at the mention of the mystery plant, but once again, no experience and no directions. The woman at the torta shop told me it was down the mountain somewhere. A horseride was a nice option, she said. She slipped something into my hand, but it wasn’t what I thought. A business card. She gave me her card and said to call if I had any problems. Well, yeah, my problem is I’m trying to find the pay-yote, and, why does a woman working the sandwhich counter in Magic Town have a business card?

I thought maybe Alfredo would know, he was my knew friend who ran a little produce shop, and taught children how to play romantic songs on the guitar. “Do you know any KISS?” After extolling the virtues of the serenade, and being unable to answer why Cuban music was so completely superior to the Mexican Circus tunes that blare out of every passing vehicle, Alfredo once again confirmed the nearby existence of my subject, but could offer neither personal or GPS assistance.

Freezing temperatures, and the occasional hail drop left only two other whities in town, an Italian couple who had also heard about the area’s mystical reputation but weren’t interested in the desert plant, despite being proud organic vegetarians. What no Osso Busco? But, they were infinitely cooler than the Canadian, maybe just for the sheer fact that they were Italian, but once again put a dark cloud over the Green movement by choosing to chain smoke cigarettes rather than ingest a friendly little mind opening plant.

There were a few shady looking men, with thick mustaches and cantina worn faces, who lurked around the gazebo-ed central plaza (even towns of 500 have a plaza in Mexico…beats a McDonalds), and were offering horse rides down the mountain where they assured me they could help in obtaining my objective. The only problem, well, the two problems were horses look cool in the movies, or with the Marlboro Man, or telling your friends that The British Are Coming. But if you’re not accustomed to riding, and you happen to be of the biological male persuasion, they hurt your nutsack more than a coke bingeing German Dominatrix.
Second, I didn’t want to pay for nature’s gift.

By the third morning, my 44 degrees cooled room, and damp gray skies were telling me to head down the mountain. Head to the valley, son. A modest gift of fate presented itself in the form of a Mexican hippy outside a souvenir shop. No, he never ate it, nor he did he resemble Cheech, but he came from a town at the start of the desert, ¾ of the way down, where I could find what I had been looking for. Thank the Lord for the Long Hairs.

The horse jockey’s said I was crazy, it was at least 2.5 to three hours walk. Why not take a ride? Cause the sun was starting to shine for the first time in three days, and I would need my nuts, eventually.

The steep, rocky descent, was offset by sunshine. We forget how delicious that glowing ball of cancerous warmth is until we’re sequestered by the cold, or the rain, or both.

I’d rest every so many minutes, watching the raging waterfalls gushing wildly with their recent additions as I stared beneath the occasional cactus trying to find this sacred diminutive outcrop. How was I going to find this? And were some of them poisonous? Would I die like that kid in ‘Into the Wild?’ Shouldn’t I have brought my own mushrooms into the desert? I was starting to get nervous. The desert plains were visible past the river’s canyon, and somewhere among those spiky green crosses lied my medicine. The descent continued.

An occasional concrete shack, or it’s protective mutt would greet me, the river meandered off into unknown lands, and step by step the mountain leveled off into flat fields of green and brown. As I passed another solitary concrete dwelling, I saw a teenager and a small child sitting idly in a pickup truck, now that the path had become a true dirt road. Maybe she would know how far to my town.

“Do you know how much further the town of Carts (as it’s know in English) is?”

“You’re here.”

“Do all of you live in that one shop/home?”

“No, there are about 60 families but their homes are spread out.”

My new friend, and her little nephew accompanied me to the covered concrete porch that flanked the town store. I had to be careful. I didn’t want them to think I was some drug crazed freak. Nono. Just an innocent gringo curious about the botanical properties of an indigenous specie. We went through my typical list of questions in which she talked about her family, her community, her opinions of life in Mexico. She answered them all quite thoroughly, and surprised me by showing genuine appreciation for her isolated desert town life, and having no desire to go to America. It was immediately after that confession, that she turned to me, and said, “Are you looking for the peyote?”

“Uh, what is it that you said?”

“Peyote. White people are always coming through here, trying to find it.”

“Oh. Huh. Well, it must be interesting. I’d like to see it. Sure, that could be cool. You know, see what it looks like.”

“I don’t know how to find it, but you can take a horse out to find it.”

“How about walking?”

It was at this point that the remaining people in ‘town’ came out from the sand and surrounded me on the porch. Mostly children, and a skinny defeated looking guy.
He took over the conversation for his lady friend.

“It’s a far walk, maybe in an hour or so, but it is very hard to find. And there isn’t that many.”

“Hmmm. Well, it’s getting late in the day, and I don’t have time. Is there not something closer?”

I had plans to make it back to the city that evening, and join my new friend for a Friday night out.

“I know somebody who sells it. I can get you some?”

“How much? Uh. Ok. You know, wait. Wait. Forget it, I don’t want it anymore.”

I had come all this way, and for less than ten bucks I could have this coveted mystical plant coursing through my blood. But that was like paying for shade in the forest. And it made it feel illicit. And all these kids watching me. I wasn’t about to influence a generation of peyote dealers. That was it. I was out. I would continue to wander through the desert, and catch a ride back to the City.

I grabbed my bag, and made to go, when my pimp told me to follow him. We walked about three minutes, maybe four, into the neighboring desert. He started digging under some tree, and pulled up something that looked eerily similar to photos I’d seen. Crap. All this hope, all this sacred hunt, and here it is, some fungal matter under a tree next to his house. It didn’t seem so glorious anymore. Like spending 4 or 5 or 6 years to get through College to finally get a piece of paper. You look at it, and go, ‘really, that’s it, I did all that work to get this. Great.” And then you get a barrista job at Starbucks where the manager is a high school acquaintance who never made it to the Uni.

He showed me how to clean them, these solid mushroom figures with their blue-ish felt tops. But he implored me to not eat them near the village. Or store. The people frowned on drug use, and he didn’t want to be seen as my accomplice. He didn’t do drugs he said. Just drink.

“Isn’t that a drug?”

“No. It’s alcohol. It’s different.”

He got a little dose of the Canadian hairy crotch lecture. “Do you eat fruits, like oranges, or strawberries, or mango?”

“Yes.”

“Do you take medicine? Maybe some local medicine like certain herbs or lotions that make you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s the difference. They all come from the Earth. Peyote is as natural as a mango or tea herb for your stomach. Putting the word DRUG on it makes it bad, when it’s not. You’re drinking, that’s a drug. That’s something Man had to make so you could feel the affects. And that’s why it’s addictive. Peyote, Mushrooms, Marijuana. They don’t have addictive properties. I really think you should go teach your local people the facts.”

“What? Can you please not eat those here?”

Another pointless lecture. I stuffed my palm sized treats in my back pocket, and took a long walk back to the store. As we wound our way through man sized agave’s and twisted cactuses, Rudolfo, my impromptu guide, told me his American adventure.

He walked through the Mexican desert for 4 days with seven other people who had payed the smugglin’ Coyote 800 bucks a pop. Then they crossed the Border River on a small rickety boat at night, and after a day walking in the American Wild, Immigration Rangers saw them at a distance, and they started to run. Five of the eight were caught. Another three days and he miraculously arrived at some desolate Texas horse ranch where his brother had been working illegally for years.
The owner treated them well, could speak some Spanish, and apparently was friends with Mr. Bush. He claims that one day, while out in the fields, he saw the parade of black cars and sirens coming onto the property, and that their Boss always talked about his friend, the President. Now I know why ol’ Dubya never truly pushed the anti immigration law through.

How did you get back to Mexico, by the way, I asked Rudolfo.

A big smile came over his face, and he said, “The Bus.”

But he wants to go back. Not enough work for him in these little villages.

Why not start a peyote tourism business?

It was an idea, he thought, but the draw of the US was too strong.

But why? You have this nice simple life here, and all of your family is here, and it’s peaceful, and you have a place to live. What do you want?

We were leaning against the side of a newer large white F150 Ford pickup truck. The type every 16 year old male in Bunkdunk county, Tennesse gets for his birthday. Without the deluxe hitch accessory package.

My potential peyote hunter gave me this sad puppy look, and mumbled, “I want one of these”.

Whose is this?

It’s my brother’s. He sent it back from America.

So, you can use it while he’s gone. And there’s a chance he may not come back. Can’t you drive it around?

He pulled out the keys. “Yes, I use it all the time. But I want my own.”

And that’s it. I solved it. America can solve its alleged immigration problem by giving every Mexican adult an automobile. Based on many of the cars the current illegal immigrant population drive, this can also help alleviate the overflow from the Cash for Clunkers program. Send our old auto polluters south, to friendlier skies. And white people can finally go back to washing restaurant dishes and picking grapes.

I bid farewell to my village friends, and hoarded my magic snacks down the desolate road into the open desert. Like a kid after a midnight cookie raid, as soon as I was out of sight, I took refuge under the only shady tree I could find and pulled out my cock. To p. And then I unveiled my precious friends, one at a time. Laid out before me on a sunlit rock, I imagined their sacred powers. Then I imagined the weather man, and recognized my reality. I like to experiment. And I crave new experiences, and the truth is, that natural hallucinogens heighten the environment to the point that even a fanatical lumberjack, under the influence, would be unable to cut a tree again. I wanted the desert to come alive, so that every spike on every plant had luster, and powers to seduce, so that you were left in awe at every living thing. A granule of dirt. The leg of an ant. The spine of a cactus. The clouds. The mountains. Air. Sun. It all became art masterpieces that left you in rapture until you could finally snap yourself out and move on to the next piece. That’s what has happened in the past. And what I expected again.

As I stared at my three new babies, like rare baseball cards or boogers, whichever you prize, I saw a cowboy hatted man approaching on horseback. I didn’t think to move the children as I was just observing some local flora.

“What are you doing with those?”



“I’m looking at them.”

“Why do you have them?”

“Cause I like to look at small plants.”

“How did you get those?”

“I found them.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ok. You don’t have to.”

“But tell me, how you found them.”

“I just did.”

“You can’t. You have to know where to look, and they are not easy to find. I work with tourists, and I take them out here to find them.”

“How much do you charge?”

“Great, I just saved enough money to live here for a few more days, and, of course, my nutsack.”

“What’s wrong with your nuts?”

“Nothing, but the horse hurts them.”

“Not for me.”

“You don’t have big nuts, like me.”

“Listen, I want to help you. Don’t take those in your bag. The Police stop people on the highway, and if they find them you will get a very heavy fine or go to jail. You should either eat them, or give them to me.”

“Ok, I’ll guess I’ll try them. Good bye.”

Nosy bastard. Thinks he can monopolize mother nature. The moment of truth had come. I gently placed one of the buttons in my hand, and we stared at each other, an arranged marriage that may not work. I went in for the first kiss, and as her fuzzy lip entered my mouth I wanted to vomit. My imagination of fecal matter flavor, as a bi-curious youth, didn’t reach this level of disgusting. It could have possibly been the most bitter substance on Earth. No wonder there wasn’t a single known animal who would eat it. What could offset that nasty taste? A softball glob of peanut butter. 4 snickers bars. A tonguerectomy. I had no access to any of those.

Tucked into a forgotten corner of my backpack was a bag of sweetened apple granola, a remnant from my bus journey from America. It helped ward off my gas station beef jerky fetish. I proceeded to fill my mouth with granola until it was falling out, and then jam a piece of peyote right into the middle of my tainted grains. It was still like trying to force down cottage cheese and rotten peaches, just so you could enjoy some Pillsbury dessert.

And then I waited. The thing is, these things never hit you right away. You’re just waiting, and waiting, and eventually things change slowly. I knew this, but it didn’t make it any easier. As I sat beneath my sun blocking buddy, an hour had passed, and nothing seemed different. Maybe they weren’t the right ones, or I didn’t eat enough, or my body was preparing for a massive seizure, and the village people would bring me back up the mountain where my friend at the cemetery would take care of me.

Maybe walking around a bit would help induce something, anything. I walked up to an agave plant, to introduce myself.



Funny name for a plant, I said. Likewise, it responded. The 5 foot fronds seemed life-like, like a headless person. No not a person, but an energy about it that I don’t think was there before. Or was it? Was it? Shit, what have I done. I’m noticing a warm sensation envelop my body, and my head also, a sort of light ecstasy sensation where I feel slightly removed from my body, but everything is still clear, just heightened, and very detailed. All the plants of the desert come into view now. They are no longer in hiding. I move a little further into the desert. Back against another tree, this one leafless, providing a vista of the mountains I just came down off. At this moment, all I wanted was a cigarette. I never want cigarettes. Shit, my trip had begun. What did I do. I’m alone, in the desert, no phone, nobody knows where I am, and I have no idea how long this is suppose to last. Mom!!!!

Why do they call it a ‘trip?’ According to ancient legend, a subject would ingest chosen hallucinogen, and then be whisked away into a world of his creation, often set into motion by his subconscious. So, those crazy, monstrous tribal masks one may have seen on display in tourist shops around the world were created to combat the JUST SAY NO campaign. The heightened creativity awakened by the drug would turn the people donning those face shields into larger than life Lords of the Gulf Stream, who could provide you with up to the minute weather reports and do really cool stuff with fire, and the beating hearts of local children.

At it’s core, a trip simply takes one’s natural environment, whether that be Disneyland or Uncle Fred’s basement, and incorporates that with your thoughts to create your own personal Alice in Wonderland. Often times, one trip turns into many, so that, say, an adventure with you playing kermit the frog chasing around pigs in bikinis may suddenly turn into a maze of crystals, when the lights go out and Pink Floyd begins to spin. But have no fear, opening the door and turning off the music, may bring you into a strange but amusing labyrinth where assorted cans of Chef Boyardee become characters in a play you have suddenly created, where the lone can of beef ravioli is subjecting his feudal serfs, the Spaghetti O’s, to a life of bottom dwelling immobility and rust, while he enjoys an unrivaled existence from his top shelf fortress. If you are feeling physically active, you can wage a war, annihilate King Beef Rav I, and release the sleeping anger of his minions, and soon the floor will become alive with swimming O figures enjoying the spoils of anarchy. And if all this is too much for the tripper he or she only need to go into a dark closet with no noise or objects, and gradually their mind will release the secrets of our existence before eventually burying the subject in his own worst fears. At that point, you would open the door, turn on some cartoons, twirl around some lit matches, and all would be fine.

But Peyote is sacred. It belongs to the Earth. Not in an amusement park, or your split level home. And I was here. Live. All I cared out about anyway was an enhanced awareness of nature, some way to finally support Al Gore, and stop sending my monthly checks to Farms Are Better For the Rainforest Investment Fund. And gosh darn’it, if somebody was looking for a renewed appreciation of nature, the magic mini crop was the ticket.

Each, and every single cactus, succulent agave, leafless tree, granule of soil took on it’s own life. Not in a frightening way, where you were being strangled by the organ pipe arms of a nearby spiny monster. But rather, a real awareness that every single thing around you was breathing, living, inviting you to touch, not harm. The sun’s radiating warmth, and the desert valley’s cool dry air combined to envelop you in a sort of maternal love. Lying on your back, each and every cloud presented itself to you, perfectly painted in a shape of your choice. I chose the floating harem of elongated Aztec princesses but this was quickly overcome by stupid animal patterns.

If you wanted, the sky could become an impressionist explosion, bathing you in pastoral fantasy before releasing you into the heavenly expanse that had become your home. The surrounding mountain range delineated itself so that even from a great distance, you could still consume each individual valley, follow her varying peaks, be dominated by her pure immensity. The mountain’s rich ebony, the sky’s infinitely optimistic blue, the cloud’s mesmerizing cotton fluff. They all joined to wrap me in a world of natural love that is impossible to find in a man-made environment. Jesus, I was turning into Emerson. Or worse, a Greenpeace poet.

During this period, there were no fears, preoccupations, a future, a world of ‘if only’s’ and “but, if I could just’s’. And as this paradisiacal universe sucked me lovingly into her big fat juicy bosom, I noticed something in my pocket. No way. You’ve got to be kidding me. Why the fuck do I have a cell phone, in Mexico, in the desert.

And that very moment, upon recognition of man’s modernity, my trip was about to take a new direction.

Two important lessons for those about to undergo a psychedelic experience. Uno: Have no plans, no watches, no method of communication with the outside world. Being unable to lose yourself in timeless fantasy, or heightened reality, will only diminish the experience, and bring to the forefront fixations which negatively alter the journey. Dose: Stay away from humans. If they have not embarked upon this adventure with you, they will only seem alien, and all of their anxieties, awkward mannerisms, and incomprehensible thoughts will further swallow you into a galaxy you shouldn’t enter. Both of these Golden Rules would soon be violated.

Before I embarked on the peyote submarine, I made plans to meet my new friend. My only friend in Mexico. Rodrigo. And the only person who had my Mexican phone number. A big Friday night out. A celebration of some exam he just passed. My first weekend in a regular Mexican city. This wasn’t Cancun. What were the bars like? What did the women wear? Did all the drunks go for marginal quality late night hamburgers? This too was suppose to be part of the South of The Border experience. There would be other weekends. What was I thinking? Crap, no signal in the desert. Could I stand him up? But I hate when people do that to me, plus, half my things were still in his house. The sun was beginning to descend. Oh. So very pretty. The Sun. Please don’t leave me. Alone. In the dark. I was hours away from home base, in the middle of nowhere, I’d have to find a bus, or a truck, maybe a few. Figure out how to meet him. Where will he be? It’s almost 6pm now. Should I go to his house first, or straight to the downtown? Could I even make it back before midnight?
Shouldn’t I just blow him off for this once in a lifetime experience. There was that one nosey guy on the horse, who questioned my procurement procedures, he had offered me a bed to crash. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. My wonderful little wonderland of natural bliss crumbling under my gregarious weight. Why couldn’t I be a social reject, a foul smelling mute who slept in abandoned railroad cars. Goddamn sacred drug was not strong enough to overcome my desire to party with Mexicans.

The advantage of the psychedelic is the power of the mind to create infinite worlds. With experience, there is no reason one can not leave the natural for the material. Who knows, maybe I could do something fun with the Chef Boyardees of the world. Sure, I was violating my sacred oath with the Earth, and I’m sure if my hairy pitted Green Canaider knew of my plans, she’d retch organic bile on my being and ban me from the Holy desert for eternity. But you know what…I’m American god damnit. And these colors don’t run. I can do whatever the hell I want. And yeah, sure, it’s been great and all to hang out with mother nature, feel her warmth and retreat into her peaceful arms, but we are not a one track people, us norteamericanos. We are innovators, Do-ers, inventors of the Blackberry. We will not be subject to a life of monotony, no matter how glorious and comfortable she may be. We make plans. And we stick to them. Dinner at 8, next Thursday. Highways to build. Wars to fight. Ms. Peyote Angela Consuela Diaz-Rodriguez, we are gonna show you the delights of man’s inventiveness.

It is almost 6pm. Based on the last village I passed, it was probably another forty minute walk to the nearest paved road. It was bittersweet moving among my natural friends that brought me such floating bliss. As I made my way, rather quickly, through the rocky paths, each member of the soil would greet me, send reminders of their splendor, entice me to remain, where my mystical pill intended to keep me. I know, I know, I would say, to all of them, as if giving my resignation speech to loyal coworkers, for whom, none if this would be possible, if not for their hard work and dedication. But new opportunities awaited, I pleaded. You have been wonderful to me, supportive, nurturing, but there comes a time in one’s life, when he must move on, to greater challenges, that, sure, provide more risk, but also more opportunity for reward. And none of this would be possible without my time spent here, but please, understand, it’s not you, its me. Soon, the road became visible, and at that moment the clouds stopped moving. The mountains got a bit taller, and the cacti toughened up. Don’t do it, they beckoned. You don’t understand what you’re up against. What you eat in the desert stays in the desert. So tempting, so loving, they were practically on their knees, grouping together, trying to prevent my entrance onto the road which now lie in scorpion throwing distance. As my left foot got ready to make contact with it’s first man made substance in three hours, I turned one last time to my constituency, or my leaders, and told them I was simply weak, and worthless. I am American. A power greater than all the drugs on Earth. An opportunity awaits me. If I stay with you, I’ll never know, and that is a pain I refuse to sleep with. Goodbye, and thank you.

On the other side of the road, two concrete box structures stood. One had auto parts, the was a butcher. I chose the butcher. And thoughts of vegetarianism were abundant. Gross. Who would eat that? I stood motionless in the store’s entry, as three men hacked and hung entire racks of cow rib on flesh tearing hooks. A lightly complexioned guy, heavyset, jolly, in his early thirty’s, approached, his glasses slightly askew on his rather rotund face.

Can I help you?

Uh, ah, uh, um. Dond est el afas asfe sfsa

Shit, I realized I spent the last hours in my own head, my own private Idaho. I couldn’t speak. Not to mention in a second language. I just wanted to shout, “Im on peyote, leave me alone.” But I couldn’t. I tried to return to the old me. The one who talks to everybody, trying to learn their story.

And in a sign of some divine interference, he spoke English with me, learned in a year on the job in Texas, where he worked illegally as a building framer until he fell two floors, and without health insurance, and no disability payments, was forced back to Mexico. He seemed genuinely happy to be back, expressed absolutely no desire to return north, and found the life quite cold and grueling, separated from a community of people who actually knew each other, living in a rough neighborhood which is all he could afford, and having no life outside of the only tedious work he could find. Interesting. But..I’m fucked up man, I got to get out of here. I bummed a cigarette, and retreated outside of the butcher, where I had panoramic vistas of the Eden I just departed. The moment I sat down, back to the wall, eyes on the wild, calming tobacco in my body, peace returned. Maybe my friends of the wilderness were right. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to return. I may get stuck sleeping in the jolly butcher’s shop, in bed with 200 pound chucks of bloody flesh. I’m sure that would go over well with mother nature’s special friend, still swimming fiercely inside my veins. I got lost again in that surreal expanse. Right over there. Across the street. One road separated me from that welcoming land of endless love, and sustained fascination. Quickly, my mind flew over the street, and I was back with family. Every cloud, plant, mountain, renewed it’s capture on me. The marvel returned that feeling of gut warming love. And then people showed up.

One by one, it was meat buying time. Families huddled into the fronts of pickup trucks, would enter the store, staring at the strange white boy loitering out front. Every tick, every thought projected on to me, so it seemed, and, well, it was plain fuckin’ weird. I attempted to talk, but would be met by lukewarm smiles and silence. Was I crazy? Mumbling? Were these your typical country rednecks? Was mother peyote telling me her non-mammalian world was superior to my thin mustached mammals? I had genuinely enjoyed almost every person I had met in Mexico. Was it these particular people? Or my mental state? At one point, I continued to transport myself across the street, 4 different pickups sat parked right in front of me. A state police car, a beat up old Dodge, a cheese delivery truck, and one of those super long Chevy Suburban SUV’s with Texas plates. I thought the cop would arrest me, but he just sat there listening to music while his wife got some meat. I thought the kids in the Dodge would want to play with me, but instead they just stared. I thought the cheese delivery guys would offer me a ride, or some cheese, or maybe both. But they ignored me, and kept working. I tried to talk to Texas guy, one of my peeps, but he didn’t have much to say. Him and his pressed cowboy shirt buddy just got into their gas guzzling beast and drove off. Was this normal? Was I losing it? Were humans awkward? A shout came from inside the Butcher. The last bus of the day would be passing soon. I should get ready cause the driver won’t stop. At least I had a way out. My own little jet across the desert. No need to hitch. I grabbed one more cigarette from Butcher Juan, and planted myself in the middle of the road, so I wouldn’t be left to suffocate under the hold of massive porterhouses and strange country folk.

Mexico has an impressive bus network. Americans should be embarrassed to offer Greyhound. There are buses here with wide leather seats, full reclining capability, flat screen televisions, and the occasional waiter. Like first class on an asian airline at Chinatown prices. One can really traverse this country in style.
The bus that was about to pass was no such thing. It was the bus you imagine, when you think of a Mexican bus ride, without the chickens. Cigarette hole burnt seats, locked into uncomfortable positions, smoke stained torn window curtains, a crooked plastic jesus next to the wheel, broken green tinted windows, aisles full of debris, and shocks installed by the people who make those beds in cheap motels. The only thing going for it was emptiness. Not a sole. The driver stared at the strange creature entering his Desertship Enterprise, seemed to accept my telepathic declaration that I was on peyote and would be positioning myself in the back of the bus.
And thus began the next phase of the journey.

Curled up against the green tinted windows, torn fabric chair permanently lodged in the half recline position, the movie was about to begin. A stunning documentary cine-verite piece featuring a desert at sunset, narrated by thoughts from a madman. Oh I miss thee dear agave. Your thick juicy arms, rising, calling, opening out to all those who will fall into your enchanting limbs, serrated perfectly from your wide supporting root to your finely peaked tips. And all you cacti, single headed, snowmanned, field goal posted…you’re not scary. You’re the clowns of the desert. Whimsical creatures who have only your spiky little helpers to keep the curious from stroking themselves upon your deliciously comical frames. Crap. I just wanted to yell at the driver, to pull over, right here, in the middle of this wherever in the hell I was desert, and let me return to my birthright. And each time that mother peyote planted her wish on my tongue, her disciple’s taunts of regret coming back to haunt, American Logic would fight its way through the drugged haze: YOU MUST NOT GET OFF THE BUS. DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS. FIRST, YOU WILL DIE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT. SECOND, YOU HAVE A PARTY TO GET TO. YOU PROMISED. AND YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THE BIG MEXICAN BAR HOP, DO YOU?

And so, that’s how it went, the next hour or hour and half, or however long it took. Me, like a child looking out the window to see snow for the very first time, trying desperately to transport myself back to that magical landscape, mere yards from the window, and the periodic awakening of my other self. The Guy With A Plan. Jerkoff.

My spaceship would periodically veer off the road, gliding through some 8 house town in search of passengers, the one streetlight refracting green through my teleportal. After a long ride in peace, a young man walked up onto the aisle, a large backpack in tow. From a distance, he looked like, like..Me. Shit. What am I doing getting on the bus out here. Another slight side affect of hallucinogens is that people can appear to be people you know. Really. I prayed that myself wouldn’t come sit next to me and talk. And luckily, he sat next to the driver, chatting with him for the duration of the ride, much as I would do, unfettered by desert dope. I was tempted to get up and see myself. But logic grabbed me by the ass, and said Sit Down.

At this point, I was content to ride out my Light Fantastic on the Peyote Enterprise. Maybe it wasn’t as enriching as wandering the Real Deal, but it was a pleasant middle ground. A front row seat at an IMAX nature spectacular. If I could just get a cigarette. Never could figure out why psychedelics caused a physical craving for tobacco. Suddenly, my spaceship stopped. My cacti and mountains, and wonders of the dry earth had vanished into night. I looked up to see green light beaming in from all sides of the ship. We were under attack. My alter ego was just sitting there looking back at me. The driver was staring at me through the large cracked rearview mirror hanging perilously over his head. What? Oh shit. They knew. And the paranoia came out of nowhere. Get into the desert now before its too late, they were shouting. Somewhere, off in a distance. They were talking. Both of them. To me. Shit. What do I say. How do I say it. Years of Spanish, fleeting, words would not come out. Si. Si. Ok. The ship had landed. And the Captain had to get home. Get your bag and get off.

Strange planet, this place. I descended with my twin, who turned out to be a white skinned Mexican teacher who went into the desert for weeks at a time before returning to his home base. I tried getting him to help me, to not leave me stranded in this strange town, to bring me into the trees, or his home, or somewhere, but not here. It was too late. My twin left. Kirk left. It was me, alone, surrounded by 6 chunky elderly women, wearing aprons, cooking tortillas. Across the street were taxis, each driver looking more menacing than the next. I should probably get a taxi to the bus station. It was already 8pm. All around me were one off trees, poking out from a crack in the sidewalk, a broken off median, the window of a home. I wanted to rescue them. All of them. But instead I just stared at a flowery bush, unaware of the eyes staring at the Alien who had just landed in their town square. A junior captain approached, more Tijuana Psycho than our admirable Kirk. When he whisked me away, through the cobblestone streets of this forsaken town, it was if we were cruising through that Star Wars desert village where the really cool bar was. The diminutive Mayans substituting nicely for Ewoks or whatever those things were. The streetlights continued to cast a greenish blue haze over the landscape. Was he taking me to get raped? Beaten? Observed? I asked him but his answer implied that something else exited my mouth. We’d be there shortly. Ok. Where? Ah, yes. Spaceship Terminal 2.

The man behind the counter said the last bus would be here in 30 minutes. He asked how my trip was? Did I find any peyote? WHAT? He said this. He did. How do you know where I went, to 14? Well, the only people passing through here come from there, and, you bought your first ticket here. All the gringos go up there looking for peyote. Have you tried it, I asked the ticket clerk? No, he said. He likes to drink instead. I told him the peyote was natural and took a seat outside. Three tall shrubs, and a strange tilted succulent guarded the terminal. A bored taxi driver, right foot up against the concrete wall, shuffled me a smoke, and I walked over to the isolated custodians of the terminal, exiled to an inaccessible island wedged between the highway and the taxi drop off lane . I wanted to sit with them, these poor creatures, cut off from their homeland, where I should have stayed. And as I went over to chat, alone, in the middle of some green barrier island with a fence, I realized the people at the terminal were staring at me. What am I doing? Idiot. Better to observe the horticulture from a distance, not rouse any suspicion. It was too late. I could feel them, branded Freak Gringo by all these haters. I retreated to the backside of the station, where my Ship would soon arrive.

Sitting on bench, brushed up against an ice cream cooler, its rumbling coils forming electronic music against a treeless landscape. A ship pulled in. I watched as the travelers descended. One by one they pulled their baggage, dragged their boxes, carried their offspring into the Terminal, never to be heard from again. Except one. She walked right up to me. A live incarnation of Shaman. An elderly Indian lady, hunched over, with a hand knit poncho, long, wavy grey hair, with an occasional black strand, and wide knowing eyes. An image of a wolf featured prominently on the back of her shawl. And in her arms was a child. Her grandson maybe. Upon closer look…you’ve got be kidding me. I am not THAT fucked up. She was cradling a plastic child. Something that children play with that urinates on command or that religious freaks leave on Catholic altars. This shit only happens on drugs. They should have changed those frying egg commercials from The 80’s and simply shown a woman holding a real baby. And then in the next clip depicted the same woman with a fake child. Breastfeeding it. That would have scared a lot more people than a fried egg. I like fried eggs. A little on the runny side. But I like them. So not only does the living apparition of a witch doctor stand in front of me, her companion wolf staring me down, but she is coddling an artificial child. Did her grandkid just die? Was she practicing to be an adoptive mom? Maybe she won the thing at a county fair. If only I could form complete Spanish sentences now. Crap, worse, she was sitting down, right next to me. I wanted to touch the kid. Maybe I was fucked up, and the kid was real. No way. Look at the sheen on his cheeks. And that full set of hair. It was frozen solid. And that smile, plastered on his face, unflinching. Bulllshit. Shaman mamma was up to some weird voodoo stuff. She knew. She knew I violated my pact with the Earth, and she sat here to teach me a lesson. The Desert people sent her to find me, punish me, maybe encapsulate me in plastic like her catatonic baby boy. I wanted to move, to run, to get the HELL out of there, but I was captivated. Locked. Afterall, what would anyone else do, riding a wave of peyote, stuck in an isolated bus terminal, sitting next a old shaman lady, with a wolf shawl, carrying an oversized fake child in her arms, wrapped in two wool blankets. Damn right. You sit there and stare. She asked me to watch her things, a cargo train full of mismatched suitcases. I tried to ask if I could guard the child, but once again, what left my mouth was not Spanish. Domdwe secular el beabeio srwfs? From complete fluency to a bumbling idiot in a matter of hours. Maybe the next inter-planetary ride would fare better.

Boarding time. This was the Mexico SpaceShip authority I had grown accustomed to. A giant leather reclining chair. First class style, built to suck you in. Ample leg room. A flat screen television right in front of me. It would be a smooth second half. Nobody next to me, I sprawled out, preparing myself for the movie du jour. I barely got my legs up on the neighboring seat when I heard a voice ask what seat number I had. Before I could find me ticket, I almost shouted, NOT AGAIN. I went from Shaman lady with fake baby to Knockout Mexican babe with fake boobs. One of those Selma Hayek types from a daytime soap opera. Cruel. Mother peyote was a cruel bitch. Evil little shrub twat. I have traveled tens of thousands of miles, literally, on every known transport man can ride, well, almost, and I’ve waited a lifetime for a beautiful woman to be trapped in my two seat confine. Ok. It happened once before. On a transcontinental flight. She was a stewardess deadheading back home to Chicago. We talked the entire flight. She gave me a ride home from the airport in her slightly beaten down four door sedan. She didn’t want to let me out of the car. It was time for the kiss, or a date. But the problem with fantasy, romantic fantasy, is that the longer you spend with that Fantasy the more The Reality scares you. My beautiful leggy blonde mile high mistress had turned into a struggling single mother, riddled with anxiety disorder, upset over her flight schedule, unable to deal with a new puppy, distrustful of men, hounded by a bitter ex, and generally skeptical of all things living. In the end she liked me, and all I could say upon arrival, in that awkward moment as she sat staring at me, “Nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll catch you on a flight some time.” And I never looked back.

I know, hallucinogens heighten reality so things may not be as exaggerated as your mind perceives. But I swear on all things swearable, the woman outside the bus was a shaman cuddling a plastic child in a blanket. And this Mexican porn star was sitting inches from me. I offered to move but she asked me to stay there and sat next to me, despite the bus being half empty. I thought my Trip was winding down, maybe I could talk to her afterall.

Hi.

Hi.

Uh, hi. How are you?

Fine, and you?

I’m going to die. I mean, uh, yes, hi.

She stared at me. A look of disbelief, fright, and bemusement all rolled into her dazzling deep chocolate eyes. I couldn’t take it. I should move my seat. But maybe something could happen between us. I should just get off, find another bus. It was a two hour ride, and the drug had yet to wear off. I know cause I saw four other people I recognize get on the bus. And I don’t know 4 other people in Mexico. Christ, you should see her. Just laying there, gazing straight ahead, nothing to do, no one to talk to. One of those tight white tank tops adorned with specks of glitter could barely restrain her bronzed upper half from snatching my moribund head into it’s welcoming ravine. That thick long black wavy hear, the way those ripped jeans hugged her legs, gently crossed to reveal a gleaming pair of white leather high heels. The irony of my situation refused to escape me. I was the prisoner, locked up for 20 years, who gets castrated on his release day.

All I wanted was lights out, and a movie. I got my wish. No more distraction over on my left. Organism of the desert, I’d like to introduce you to Hollywood. We’ll see how you behave now, with no vegetation to yank us through the window, and a siren of my nirvana pinning us into the corner. Our feature presentation, Houdini. Dubbed in Spanish, ol’ Harry was quite the charmer. It wasn’t exactly a selection for the Peyote Film Fest, but I did let out the occasional Ahhh when an apparition scene appeared. As the movie went on, my taunting beauty had turned to her side, those lusciously plump lips just centimeters from the dividing line. She was practically begging me to hold her. Wasn’t that the fetal position. What if I just stroked her hair, maybe gave a gentle shoulder squeeze, the slightest of cock grazes. Something. Damn. Harry was about to hang upside down locked in a strait jacket and, and, and, I…was…losing….concentration. Would she fall over the seat barrier, land on my lap, Would Harry break free? The suspense was driving me mad. Couldn’t she just fall into my lap, with her mouth open, and in a few minutes I could go back to focusing on the main presentation.

Excuse me, could you do me a favor. I couldn’t do it. It would probably come out like, ‘Excuse me, would you bite me on my leg?’ and she would. And I would cry, and everybody would laugh at me, and of course, I would miss Houdini’s death. So I shut up, and started praying she would take an empty row. I was so utterly distracted by this sultry dame, so disgusted by my complete inability to communicate, and my growing interest in Harry’s mistress and her fraudulent behavior. I couldn’t come to grips with what I was about to do, it still bothers me. I’ve lost sleep over it. I’ve fantasized it never happened. I abused my telekinetic powers, just like Harry. I willed her to leave. To get up and find another seat. Slowly she elevated from her slouched, cleavage dripping, lip pursing pose, and began to look at the free seats. I willed harder. She put things in her purse. I willed more than Harry would will. And as she caught that last psychic wave, she was finally on the move. But to where…right across the fucking aisle, so she was still staring at me, provoking this inner turmoil of what it means to be a man. I was failing. My gender was going to dismiss me. Fine, if I didn’t look, I would have no way of knowing she was there. Even though, well, I know where she is sitting. Harry Houdini was a man. I would watch him.

I thought the affects had mostly worn off until Houdini died, and Animal Planet Survivor came on. These were people who filmed their real life encounters with deadly wild animals. I could feel the intensity of the leopard fighting the sloth, and curled up in pain when the camera man was attacked. The same for the guy in the shark cage. Every time the Great White would ram the jailbars, I would cringe convinced I it was me getting rammed. And not by my neighbor. Oh, and that enormous octopus, strangling the underwater cameraman. I had to take extra breaths. Really. Then, somehow, that program became Storm Chasers, which was probably the basis for that Oscar movie, Twister. These people would drive around sci-fi looking cars so they could get sucked up into a live tornado. And it hit me, another psychodel deep thought. All these crazy fucks were American, from Harry to the camera people to the weather freaks. A great country should be judged by its eccentricities. Mexicans would never build a car to launch them into a hurricane, or feed great white sharks in the open ocean, or attempt to lock themselves in chains, submerged in sunken boxes. Mexicans like celebrations, and ceremonies, and lots of good home cooked food, and socializing on the street. Americans don’t have time for that nonsense. We need to figure out a way that an egg shaped piece of plastic can clean your feet, and spending the day partying is not going to help.

Hey there. Its ok. You can come back now. I’m not that messed up anymore. We can talk. I’ll stroke your hair lightly while you tell me what a bad bad man your boyfriend is. As I gently rub the backside of my hand against your sliding tear, a moment of recognition will flash before you, one where I become your living symbol of Security and Provider. We’ll both sink lower in our seats together, the sides of our foreheads locked, as we giggle about our first kisses. You’ll allow my left hand to remain on your thigh. I’ll continue petting your hair, while you tell me about the boss who makes inappropriate passes and won’t let you handle the big accounts, and the story of your sister who still won’t invite you to her house, after four years, because she thinks you’re trying to steal her husband. At some point, shortly after you express hurt at the way your mother was left out of her parent’s will, I’ll slide my thumb gingerly along the periphery of your ear. Then, suddenly, with no advance notice, no enriched physical contact, you’ll allow me to penetrate you.

And…. lights. LIGHTS. What the fuck. Who turned on the lights? I was about to commence insertion into a Mexican cover girl. Where was the manager? An usher, somebody? Help. Hellllllpp.

She vanished. Most of the bus vanished. The Captain, up front, was looking at me. Where the hell were we? Should I run? Were the Federales here? But…but, I’m not ready to go. Can’t I just stay on the bus a little longer. I can’t handle it out there. I don’t need another girl, just give me a movie, and please, for the love of your god, turn out the lights.

No, senor. Adios.

What had I done. I was back in San Luis, the magical desert daisy still blowing around my head. People, traffic, noise, smog. I thought I’d catch a local bus, but apparently the taxi mafia mandates local buses stop running by 10pm. 11. Shit.

My texted instructions said, “Santa Bar, Downtown.”

We passed the long rectangular park, the one bursting with palm trees, that signified the entrance to the Old City. Downtown. I wanted to stop the driver and run in the trees. I didn’t want to go hang out in some place called Santa Bar. Obviously, I expected Christ kitsch draping the walls and reindeer drawings on the tables. And a fat white bearded Mexican man to greet me at the door.

A short wiry dude stood watch, donning a biker’s leather jacket and tight jeans that made a fine urban adaptation of Ol’ Nick. After taking my 2 dollar cover charge, he asked in English where I was from.

No man. Shit. I from Chicago too.

Estas bromando?

Shit man. No. 20 years. South Side. 51st and Wood.

Peligroso, no? No hay muchos mexicanos alli?

Man. I tell you. I be telling these young guys here what it be like in the hood man.

This was too fucked up for me to believe. Even after the absurdities of the last several hours. Off all the places in the world, this guy comes from the same city, and he speaks English. Two things not common here. He calls his friends over, presumably to prove that he lived in the states, and that his English is functional. They shake my hand and ask about ghetto life. My new friend starts telling his near death gang stories. I gain amigo points by exclaiming the superiority of Mexicans over Puerto Ricans in their daily ritual of who is the city’s King Hispanic. You can see the eyes of Santaland’s young bouncers widening in anticipation of their eventual illegal arrival in the Windy City, where they too will supplement shoddy drywall work with low quality marijuana sales, and walk the streets with hormonal raging pitbulls while feverishly chomping away at a mini bag of the always coveted Extra Cheesy Cheetos.

Where the hell was my friend? I just hauled myself back from the desert, still flying around on peyote, to celebrate something or the other, and now I’m trapped at the door, witnessing the moral decay rap music has implanted in the naïve skulls of the developing world’s young male population. Or was I being a bit hypocritical. I supported the Rock world. Wasn’t rap just rock re-packaged? --a way for a segment of society, normally shunned by the mainstream, to stand up and say, ‘Fuck off, we don’t need you, we’ve got our way.’ Wow, another heightened illumination: Rap = Rock. + a little murder here and there. But Rock has been known to encourage strict obedience to the Dark Lord, well, when played backwards by people on, well, substances not that different to this.

Have you seen my friends?

No. I can’t describe them. I don’t know. A guy with hair and clothes, and there might be a girl with him, same idea, but she’s a girl.
Fine, I’ll go inside, and look over there. Next to the who?
The shamanes.
Wait a second. Are you fucking with me? My friend is with The Shamans. The Shamans. There are Shamans inside that bar. Right now. I’m going to find real Shamans.

The bouncer swore it was all going down inside.

A scattered group of leather and eyebrow rings showed no signs of my mate. Until finally, right next to the stage, we locked, and I knew I was home.

My trip, the physical one anyway, was over. Finally. But I had to find these Shamans.

Have you seen the Shamans, I mean are there really Shamans here?

He pointed to the stage.

Those guys are the Shamans. When does the ceremony start?

And before he could answer, I looked up from the stage to see walls covered by swirling orange flames and dancing blue skulls. And the fire would spring up, spring down, while the skulls spun around, stopping long enough to make eye contact.



Lucky for all, my slight bouts of paranoia had dissipated, and what should have been an omen of impending death turned into a round of really cool visuals. Yeah. In a place where you can’t here anybody, and your mind warp medicine hasn’t warn off, nothing beats a 30 foot wall smothered in psychedelic death symbols.

Then something snapped, a new dimension had been opened, and the music finally made its way in. Mexican headbangers were singing my high school anthems. Iron Maiden. Ozzy. Metallica. Motley Crue. Guns and Roses. These were not avenues I wanted to explore. But my core had been touched, and Seek and Destroy had me snapping my head around in epileptic fits of joy. Music. I had denied myself the auditory pleasures included in the hallucinogenic experience. It may not have been an old tribal man in his loin cloth creating howling wind noises on his hand carved wooden flute, but The Shamans had me singing The Scorpions Rock you Like a Hurricane. And if anyone needed proof of the deleterious effects drugs have on the mind, look no further than the unabashed sing along to a group of questionably talented Mexican metalheads playing one of rock-n-roll’s most nauseating anthems. Here I am, rock me like a ……

The infernal wall finally stopped its gyrating, a living barometer to indicate the waning moments of peyote’s hold over me. Between sets, my buddy Ricardo motioned that a nearby mare was interested, and I should go talk to her. So, eager to vanquish that embarrassment from the bus journey, I eagerly headed over to my suitor’s table. My first lines were ready for launch, the world was coming back together, and I was inches from her back. As I rounded her table, entering her periphery her friends inching forward on their chairs, I realized something: u-g-l-y.

She was a real live Scorpions groupie from 1987 who flew in all the way from Hamburg just for the show.

It’s never an easy thing to do, the Speed Shift. You see your prey from across the room. Sometimes, a little eye play, maybe a smile. You decide the time is right, the hunt is On. You glide casually across the room, a mixture of confidence and nerves fighting for supremacy. As you gain ground, sometimes just mere inches from the Kill, something changes. The light isn’t the same. Is it even the same person? Your Wonder Woman turns into Werewolf Woman. Acne, whiskers, a missing eyelid, overgrown incisors, maybe an adam’s apple. There is little time to think. You try to avoid the rude maneuver of ‘sorry, I thought you were better looking’ for a simple smile at some imaginary person behind your soon to be free prey, and then you swiftly increase your foot speed so that what almost happened never happens.

Soon, we were free. Away from the Shamans, the groupies, the spinning blue skulls.

We headed for home, or what I had been temporarily calling my home. It was one of those late night philosophy talks, the one where you solve the world’s problems and figure out who’s been playing God all these years. The natural speed of the drug kept me going so sleep wasn’t an option. Right about the time we figured out a solution to the botched Nafta agreement, a group of 11 drunks, all 25-30 years old, immediately surrounded me with introductions, and forceful invites to join them in 4am carousing.

You don’t want drink after this day, you want sleep. But the laws of hospitality state When Offered, You Accept.

These rodeo clowns, leather cowboy boots and untucked button downs, pulled me off the couch and started the interrogation.
The spokesman was the lead singer of a local 10 piece band, tall for a Mexican, square jaw and a stringy soul patch, still dressed in full regalia, his bands name embroidered on his shirt, like a bowling team captain.

Que Pedo, he shouted enthusiastically.

Huh?

Que pedo.

Uh, that wasn’t me, I haven’t farted since yesterday.

Man, your crazy. Nobody is talking about that. Its how we say ‘what’s up’ to our friends.

Seriously? You have taken the Spanish word for fart and given it a double meaning. Isn’t that a bit, well, strange. Couldn’t you have chosen something a bit lighter, like ‘air’ or ‘wind.’

No man. That’s what Mexican friends say to each other. Que pedo.

Well, with my luck, I’ll say it to a woman, and she’ll slap me.

Man, we don’t use it with the women.

What do you say, ‘What a queef?”

What is that?

It a fart that only females make. But it doesn’t smell.

Bullshit.

No really. Some girls can even queef songs.
I knew a girl who did almost our entire national anthem.

White people are crazy.

The group of 11 broke out into some high pitched song, leaving me trapped in the middle of their flatulent greeting circle.
My bed would not be getting any closer. Another interrogator stepped forward, shaved head, his shirt half unbuttoned, speaking in the early stages of a drunken stutter.

Hey hhhey, what you thththink about the Mexico ssssoo far?

I like it. Especially the desert.

Oh si, the ddedesert, you wwewent tto fffor the pppepepeyote?

No, I went for the sand, but I came across the peyote.

Yyouyou try it you try it?

Yeah.

And then, as if the puppet master pulled their strings at once, the entire group wailed with laughter and hoots and back slaps.

The lead singer resumed his role as public relations officer.

You’re a real Mexican now [followed by laughter all around]. You understand our land. Our way of life.

Really. I kind of feel like that. You like the peyote too?

Not a chance. Even the donkeys won’t eat it. Stuff will make you sick man. Only some old Indian people, and you crazy gringos eat that garbage. You want to be Mexican man, come drink with us. Cerveza and Tequila, that is Mexico.

For the next hour, in the last of the pre-sunrise darkness, liters of beer were passed around, and everybody took turns singing something very Mexican. My Spanish had returned, nobody looked familiar anymore, and the potted plants were just, well, potted plants. Mother peyote left me here, alone in the chaos, unconnected from her unique perspective. And I liked it. Life was good. The slowly intoxicating beers didn’t affect your ability to talk, and the world was a simple place, a land where deep thoughts were unnecessary and your fellow humans brought you the emotion that those silly little plants used to.

Something else, something I really really needed: FOOD. Damn holy little shrub robbed me of appetite for the last 12 hours. Maybe these off duty mariachis would want some food.

Is there a good taco place at 6am around here?

Tacos. Tacos. TACOS!!! Vamos for tacos.

The madness ensued. A few members had faded away, but nine others crammed into a little sedan, lying on top of each other, passing around glass beer carafes, as we headed for Mexico’s best drug, Tacos.

As the group gathered around the crowded late night trailer, singing songs to the tortilla girls behind the counter, I took one of my juicy pork pastor tacos, topped with a thin slice of glazed pineapple, cilantro, onion, and lime, and headed over to the bushes. I figured, what the heck. In all the revelry, nobody would notice.

Face to face with one of my prized agaves, dead pig thigh stuck in the crevices of my teeth, I questioned her about my journey today.

I used to feel so strongly about you. You were everything to me. But now, when I look at you, I don’t feel the same anymore. I mean, you still look great. I’d put you in my house, and all, but those feelings, those overwhelming urges to be with you, they’re gone. It hurts, I’d like them back, but I don’t know how.

Eat more peyote.

Again. Now.

No. That was a joke. Can’t plants have a sense of humor. Look, our love is forever. We’re here until one of you accidentally runs us over in a drunken rage. Its better to take this piece of advice from your voyage today: Whatever your doing, make it the best thing to do. Don’t fight what’s happening, don’t think there is something better, just find a way to enjoy whatever moment you’re in.

Another voice was yelling at me from a distance, in Spanish: Hey gringo, what you doing over there? Come here. The taco girls want to here you fart that song you told us about.

Mexico, it doesn’t matter what you’re on, it’s always an interesting place to be.