Long Haul: Good Fun

I exited the car with arthritic thump--after 8 hours in my truck, and the last three in grid lock traffic, well, things had gotten a little tight during my clutchin' and shiftin'. The dogs whined from inside the dust laden car; they too were feeling the pinch of a long haul. As I sorted myself out, I let dem dirty dogs out to relieve themselves. They both quickly pissed, and made a B line for my front door...apparently they were as happy as I was to be home. Now don't get me wrong, the day was amazing, but it is one of those reliefs of the familiar--a warm blanket of goodness.

I made plans earlier in the week to head out to Cholula with my friend Julia and her faithful spud nugget, Lucio. We loaded up around high noon and made our way for the hills. Now, foreign as it is to me, I have seen several people engage in the act of alcohol consumption, while in a moving car. Now in the States, if so much as a cracked bottle appears in the car, you are liable to be swimming in deep poo poo. However, here, given the extreme hap-hazard nature of all things, it is okay for passengers to drink a beverage as long as the driver is not. So, as we hit the Viaducto out of town, Julia cracked a brew, and we cranked the tunes. About 20 minutes in, and nearing the border of Estado de Mexico, a portly piggy waved us down. Reflecting on my first experience with a cop in Mexico, I was more than tempted to keep driving. He pulled up to us once--I looked at him and pressed on. Twice--I asked Julia what she thought. Third--I pulled over. The cop came up, with all of his impoverished girth and began spouting rhetoric about no drinking in a car. I pretended to not speak Spanish. Julia took the charge. She began to argue with man, that it was not illegal, and that I had not been drinking. He claimed, as they had done when I entered this great city, that they were going to impound my car. They asked for a driver's license, and I did not have it with me, as I have become accustomed to not carry anything with me, for obvious reasons. Julia gave them hers. They wrote it down. Julia began to make up a story about us taking the dogs to Puebla for a humanitarian effort. The fat bloated goat began to smile. He said some bullshit about how times were tough for us all. Julia called her friend, spoke in English with him, and deduced that drinking in the car was not a crime, and she should just offer him $200 pesos and be done with it. She informed the fat man of his blunder. He then said the issue was that I did not have my driver's license--we can now see, that they were looking for anything to hold on to. Julia said, "fine then, I will give you $150 pesos" and you can lead us out of the city securely. The fat man smiled and agreed--his stained white lapels and dirty fingernails smelled of neglect, poverty, and low self worth. Julia gave him $200 and demanded change--he brought it. We got back on the road, and the adrenaline was still coursing through our veins.

We spent the next 50 km, rehashing the event. I vowed, the next time one of these podunk periphery hick cops tries to flag me down, I am just going to keep driving--they truly have no authority, and really are just a desperate bunch. As we talked, I neglected the gas that was leaving my car by the second. Pedal heavy and up hill, I remembered my need for petrol upon the empty light flashing. I had mild concern, but I saw a Pemex station up ahead, and well, I felt relief. As we pulled in, I noticed that all of the pumps had no nozzles, and were still wrapped in plastic...I realized then, that there was no gas being served, but a hopeful future. We pushed on. We pushed on through the mountains, completely in the red. As if the police escapade had not been enough, now we were fighting a game of time, velocity, and resources. We continued to push up and up. I was praying for a down hill stretch when I noticed a lovely national park, with camping, forests, and food. I made a note: I shall return here sooner than later. However I digress, we continued to fight and fly in the red...finally a holy sign of a gas pump directed us to salvation. We pulled into the station, and I filled the tank to the brim--it was long over due. The lady attendant asked if we were Americans; Julia told her, "we were looking for France, and wound up here."

We charged and barged down the hill, leaving the beautiful forest behind us. I had sort of hoped that we would stay there, but we pressed on. We dropped into a valley, asked several people about the way to Cholula, and finally arrived. Cholula is where Cortez came after staying in Vercruz for awhile. Cortez put a church directly on top of an Aztec temple: He liked doing that. Cortez set a tone with that gesture, and Cholula holds the most churches per capita. It is a cute cobble stone joint. Apparently, many other Mexicans were feeling the need to go there. It was jammed pack. Our mission was not the churches--we wanted the volcanoes--Two towering monoliths laid above the city's skyline. We snaked our way through the cobblestones, and we found dirt. I dropped the truck in cuatro-por-cuatro (4x4) and we began meandering through the rural outskirts of Cholula.

The city proper faded into the backdrop, and the sun hug heavy in the sky, like a drop of honey slowly amassing itself at the end of a dangling spoon. The volcanoes were our guide: we wanted them; we needed them; we chased them. Periodically, as one street lead to another dusty throughway, we would ask the locals, "How the fuck do you get over to those big things?" They would point this way, then this way, laugh at the two presumed tourist gringos in their Californian Car (which looks like nothing around), and then attend back to what needed attending. I must admit, although Julia felt not fear, I was a little nervous that we were going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, and raped and assaulted by some secret bush clan. Julia laughed at me and my conspiracies. The dogs didn't care; they did care about all the street dogs though--goddamn Chops' bark is loud.

We went through several small villages. I began to wonder, when or where our chase was going to end. Finally we asked, "How the hell do you get back to Mexico City?" They said we can go straight over the mountains, in between the volcanoes--perfect. We started up the road, and by road, I mean a nice paved road. We drove the little god sent for a wopping 5 minutes and then hit a road block. There was a sign pointing to a detour. The detour was in dirt, and through the bush--once again cuatro-por-cuatro was employed and we dove in.

We wrapped and winded through the hills. In my mind, I was thinking it was just going to be a quick re-route. We most definitely drove on an unpaved dirt path, through epic pine forests, straight up a hill, for the better part of two hours. In the end, it had been just what we wanted. A tourist trap for church goers, was not what we were seeking.

In the security of the forest, traveling along with a handful of other detoured folks, we cracked a few beers and several jokes. We discovered, that if sung properly, all songs can relate to the name Lucio. We stopped a few times for some pictures, and we stopped to let the dogs run. Towards the top of the mountain we stumbled across and eco-outdoors camp with archery, fishing, camping, etc. It was crazy how it was nestled right up against nowhere.

Finally, we summited the mountain while the sun set. The sun was flirting with the snow capped peak of the volcano. We stopped for a timer shot, and it was moderately successful--it took a few attempts, and all of them were sort of blurry.

Blah blah blah, we rejoined the paved road, and descended back to the state of Mexico on the Paso de Cortes. It was a trippy scene, as the sun set, and small fires lined the road; relics of the Aztec era, still cooked dinner on the side of the pass--for themselves and the weary travelers. Lights flicked on in the valley miles and miles below like Christmas lights that spilled like gravy across an abandoned dance hall floor. Somwhere after I dreamt up that ridiculous similie, my glasses broke striaght down the center--I didn't know that actually happened, but when you buy $12 prescription glasses from China, anything is possible. I stopped at a refugio to tape them together with some bandages from my first aid kit (hooray for using a contingency!)

The bottom of the hill to the inner city limits, can be summed up by one word: traffic. It was bumper to bumper forever and ever. Mexico is building a great new highway for 2010--they began it 10 years ago, and according to Julia it is in the same state of progress. Due to their lofty goals of construction, many sections of road are limited to one lane. We made the best of it--music and jokes. Julia had to pee. There were no bathrooms--she peed in some bushes by the side of the road.

Like I said, it was a great day, but it was amazing to get home. The dogs and I barged up the stairs. I let out several audible sounds of contentment. I made a salad, microwaved a frozen pizza, and watched the second part of the Project Runway Finale (Mom, Annie, and Maggie--I still watch--do you?).

I slept like a baby. I don't think I made it past 10.

As for today...Well today I will be going back to Parque Ghandi. A fellow dog owning teacher told me about this place, and well it is a gem. It is closer to my house, and it is huge. Today is a Mexican Holiday, and well I don't have school, though I do have plenty of work to do. So it goes.

Love and blessings.

Hittin the Hillsides: Life is Nice on the Periphery

I do some of my best dreaming in the middle of the day. It is a treat and a joy to spend so much time, thinking about what is going to be--and I feel I am still doing a good job of being here and now.

Point in case, yesterday I got up early and went to the dog park. I read a chapter in Slaughterhouse-five, and I enjoyed the early morning light. I made a phone call about a hypothetical plan, which had been hatched earlier last week. After grocery shopping, I got the call that it was a go--dogs included. I hauled the pooches over to Condesa, picked up Them Crooked Spaniards, and we hit the road.

We headed through the fray of DF's traffic. We were en route to Xochimilco (So-chi-milk-oh)--well actually, the mountains above the town. The town is about an hour away from DF proper, and it is still within city limits. In some respects this is a kin to LA living--everything is encompassed within the city.

We took some very circuitous winding roads, and eventually wound up atop a mountain. We made our way down an unpaved road, and found ourselves at a grand old colonial styled ranch. The place was huge. The brick work was phenomenal. There were all sorts of little courtyards and patios. There was a chicken coop filled with prize winning fighting cocks--when released, Flow took a moment to investigate that area.

Horses, hens, dogs, cats, goats, and sheep--it was all there. I was apprehensive to let the pooches loose. They are not privy to the ways of the farm. One time, on a road trip not too long ago, we stopped at a rest stop in New Mexico. Aside from it being the nicest rest stop of my life, there were also a ton of cows, and well the dogs spent the better part of 15mins, chasing cows along a fence. This time around, Chops, did his typical piss-ant tactic, and he barked loudly at the animals he did not understand.

Eventually, Julia saddled up, and we took the dogs out to the hills for a hike and stroll. I let the dogs off, after being urged by Julia to relax and let it happen. Chops and Flow, followed Lucio along side the horse, and we were at peace with the world. The dogs literally walked on the heels of Martin the Great, and did not get the slightest inclination to take a piss at the caballo. We walked along the rural hillside. We came across two burros tied up in a field, and Chops took off. He got right up the mix, and barked his head off. He chased them in circles; Lucio joined in. Chops, thank the lord, does not have any balls left--I think he would be an utter nightmare if he did. Finally the asshole got over his antics--well, Pablo grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him off; Pablo and Ana, were nice enough to untangle the Burros which had been tangled in their own ropes. Watching all of this, were a horde of young hill dwellers. A rag tag group of precocious little Mexicanos and their two bloody dogs--literally bloody. Their pitbull had definitely been commissioned to fight earlier that day. The bitches mockingly said good bye in English--I am getting use to the poor youth trying to grab a little power by mocking the white boys.

We walked back. I climbed a wall to check the scene over yonder. An amazing castle like house lay atop a beautiful piece of land. I then hopped back on my faithful steed, and rode him on into the coral--Chops is my caballito.

We killed the rest of daylight with beers and chips. Near dusk, we laoded up the dogs and headed out of the ranch. We made our way to a little hillside shanty known as Don Pancho's. The Don is known for their Barbacoa--sheep/lamb that is cooked/smoked underground. Well we started the meal with a sweet cup of their home style soup, made from the broth of the pit cooked meat. The soup included spices, garlic, onion, and tomatoes--in all honesty, it was better than the barabacoa itself. I was so freaking excited about the food and the experience--I was giddy. The restaurant was outfitted with pottery, that had to have been made in the hillside community. Everything was a burnt umber red, and it was all pretty. We ate, laughed, drank, and left.

The long road back was just that--long, but not too long. We rocked out to the beauty of the ipod. Everything from Neil Young to Fiona Apple, made the lineup. It was a nice conclusion to a weekend of present moment living.







(Pictures provided by El Zeta and his camera)

Like I Should Look

Sunday Morning...

Art for One and One for Art

"Oh, I am moving. In fact I am already gone. What did you want to remember? What did you want to go and get?"



My imagination has got control of me. I spent the better part of last night, using a drill like saw, and cutting out a face of me, which has evolved through my painting efforts. It started with tracing a shadow, and it ended with a drill. Last night, I threw some ink on a recently finished painting.

Today, I awoke early and took the dogs for a lazy walk around the block. I bungeed my paintings together, and I hailed a cab. I setup my artwork, and I sat. I sat all day long. I sat next to eleven paintings of mine. I put a sign under my paintings, which read: "Email me a picture, and I will paint you and yours." Below this notice, I placed a stack of my "human being" business cards. I brought at least 75 cards. I spent the end of the day writing my email on small sheets of paper--the cards were all gone. "Que Padre. Que Padre. Buenisimo. Genial". Compliments were abounding. I shall see if anyone commissions me to paint them and their children. I can say, that out of two hundred artists, I did not see any other paintings in my genre--which, according to other artists is, "Pop"--as in Pop Art. Fine by me. Call it what you want.


There were other teachers with art. I think there was some cool stuff, and there was some other stuff--some of the other stuff, presented in pretty glosses, sold very well.

This was my first public showing of my art--it felt good. I pushed myself to finish my most ambitious painting to date, and it felt good. I enjoyed the process. Between long stretches of sitting, smiling, and reflecting on my reality, I read excerpts from Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I was reminded about the beauty of esoteric humor. I was reminded about the fun in creating.

Once again, Mexico is steering me away from teaching. I feel everything the school is offering me (books, art shows, journalism, etc.) is solidifying in my mind, what must be done: I must move on to a life of art. I must leave the safe haven of a career in a salty substitute, and embrace the full identity of a creative being--I am trickling further and further south. Thank you.

I feel at home in this realization, and I feel as if I am figuring out what I have always known. Since I can remember, I have had glimpses of feelings from the future. I can't describe to you those feelings (excitement and happiness are in there), but I have always had this weird intuition of their future existence in my life. When I was five there was a dream; when I was ten there was a moment with my eyes closed spinning on a merry-go-round; when I was 14, there was this moment in band class; in college I had a moment on stage; today I sat in the sun, and it visited me again. Somehow I have always known what I needed to be, and somehow I am starting to feel like my mind is finally willing to consciously carry me there--beyond talent, choices are finally being made. I realize what Shimmy felt for himself many many months ago. It is an exciting place to be. It's as if I am saying to myself, "Yes Elliott, you can go do the things you want to now--you have waited long enough. Go play son, go play."

Here is to the sandbox within us all--I'll see you out there.

Allow Me to Narrate the State of Things

Lately I've been hanging out in the early evenings by myself. I try to bask in the glory of this--------------------------------->

Sometimes I imagine it as the birth of the universe; other times I just think about what colors I see. The story is all in the leaves, I guess. I mean, sometimes the sky gets in on the narration, but for the most part its the leaves that are creating all the suspense and drama--I think they like me when I watch them.

I've been taking a lot of pictures lately. Most of them are spur of the moment and not well planned. I always admired a good eye with the camera. I always figured those people just saw the world in snapshots, so it was easy. I always sort of view the transpiring of life as a trippy little song stuck to a slow moving movie. All of my pictures seem to be lacking true narration, and I think that is just because, for the most part, they are out of context.


About two weeks ago, perhaps one, I gave Lucio back. His owner returned from her overseas adventures. The little guy, although at times was quite a handful, on the whole, he rocked. Julia, met him at the park. Lucio ran to her...it was one of those story book things, you know. I took a picture as night fell. I just figured out, that my camera can deal with a little darkness...once again, its all about the leaves.


Chops and Lucio get nostalgic when they hang around. Sometimes Chops extends a delicate paw in Lucius Lucio's direction--he likes it in a brotherly way.


Last week, I went to a Malaysian restaurant with my friend Julia. Julia did a bunch of art work there, and has a tab--we ate on her tab (there is a joke there, somewhere). We had coconut soup with mussels, shrimp, and tuna. We also had octopus and chicken satay. I found the meal very agreeable, but the next day was filled with odd bowel movements--still, I have no complaints. After the dinner, we went to a Spanish style cantina. It was perfect. I am tired of the poshy posh. It was loud, raucous, and stimulating. I can't recall what we talked about, but it was time consuming. We left at 2 and I had work at 7...the next day tasted a little bitter.


I went the school's homecoming game. I wrote the article for their tri-annual magazine, Focus. The game was fun. I played the snare drum in a sweet impromptu drum core. I think the article turned out well. I sure as hell don't write like I used to. I don't have any notebooks filled with poetry. I find my writing to be sprayed across the digital landscape, and to be half muttered over sloppy chord progressions--I haven't stopped, but it just ain't what it was--perhaps that is perfect.

Work is a fun game of laughing and trying to stay awake. I spend most of my off periods dreaming. I looked heavily into seasonal firefighting work. I have read the entirety of the Wikipedia file on both Vancouver and Montreal--Vancouver gets the nod in my book (Sorry Glo). I regularly look through the available job listings in Austin Texas. Dog walking and sitting seems ripe for the picking. Housing in Austin is also quite cheap. I also talk to one old friend, and routinely we commiserate about the possibilities and "what ifs" of the future. Somewhere, my stomach always tingles when I dream my dreams. There is a sense of flight tucked into these dreams. As if to make one of these choices real, is to commit to creating my life into what I want. I think that is what Mexico was all about. It wasn't-slash-isn't about coming here to reignite my fervor for teaching. It was about the process of getting here. It was about the job fair and the applications. It was about the money spent at the mechanics, and the 3000 miles of sight seeing. It was about culture shock, and language acquisition, new people and new streets. And for all that, it has been great. In many respects, it has only deepened my wander lust. I see the choice to move somewhere new, as a continuing commitment to pursue being someone new--to not stagnate or bog down in the ambivalence. Somehow to move is to commit to grow. I am shedding skins with each bunny hop and it is good. I think I am hopping my ass to where it needs to be. I am shedding my security and comfort. I am giving birth to music and creativity as a center fulcrum. The next city shall be an exodus of the incubation in the womb. That makes sense to me, but I am not articulating it as pretty as it is in my head. Its all coming up to the top.


Saturdays have been good. I like playing ultimate frisbee--I think I need to be even healthier--one day soon.


Halloween was the beginning of my hibernation. Lately, I have loved being in my house. It is quiet, my dogs are quiet, and I feel as if I am studying perpetually: guitar licks and paint strokes abound. Halloween--I was a dog. I think it was a good look. I wore my Maggie Kline Beanie, applied some black makeup to my nose, and wore brown. I also sported Flow's collar. The party was filled with drunks of all denominations. I was but a quiet little angel on the periphery. I drank two drinks and skedaddled home. As I shimmied through the park, I played a little harmonica--people don't mess with a harmonica playing dog.


Sunday was a home day--all day. I watched several movies and played a lot of guitar.


Saturday...Chops hurt his leg. He is ok. My friend Mauricio and I took him to the vet around the corner...it was super convenient, and it was thorough and cheap: the cost for two stitches, cleaning, and medicine--$45. Chops is a trooper. He has been hurt often in his short life--but he is still a lovable little turd.

This is Hector my neighbor and Spanish teacher:












This is the lady who owns the cafe where I have Spanish class. On several occasions she has made reference to kidnapping both me and my dogs--she is harmless and very nice, and she makes some amazing cups of joe.













Pablo, Mauricio, and Ana came over to jam. They all smoke cigarettes.












This is a candle, in front of a coffee, on a table, next to a glass, beyond a couch, in a house of a girl named Monica; Monica is Mauricio's girlfriend.

Reminder

While speaking to a disorderly student, I took a severely serious tone--mockingly authoritative. A sweet student turned to me and said, "You could have been an actor."

Thank you life for reminding me of not letting my talents become a past tense song and dance.

Snail Trails of Rain Drops and Time

So it has been awhile...ahoy. It is raining like a small child's midnight tantrum. Personally, I like it. While the sun sank and my livingroom filled with various shades of blue, I played guitar with the lights off. Two dogs, who I think shall travel many places with me, are lying in a festive slumber--they played for hours, and their only answer is to deep breathe and stretch. I am not saying the world is perfect, but it sure ain't bad. At 10 am I played 3 hours of ultimate frisbee--my body wants to join my dogs on the floor. It is raining right now. I am going to resist slumber and trudge into the wet darkness--there I shall find a cab and head to Condesa. Pablo's parents arrived two weeks ago. They were here on business. Today they left. Some teachers are getting together at 10pm for drinks and music. At 9pm I will meet Ana and Pablo to celebrate his parents departure. Julia will be there. Julia owns Lucio. Julia got back from Barcelona last week. Lucio is with her now. Tonight Lucio will be at her house. Tomorrow I will post a picture of their reunion. Tonight I will not read Slaughterhouse-Five. Tomorrow I will grade ten papers. Sometime next week I am going to paint a picture. Next Saturday I will display all of my paintings at an art show. Yesterday I played the snare drum and I made rhythms with other people. Last night was the Girl's soccer game. The girl's soccer game, was also the homecoming game. I am currently writing an article on the homecoming event. The article is due Nov. 2. I will send a draft to someone sometime this week. The article will appear in the school magazine entitled, Focus. Right now it is 8:30pm, and I need to get going. It started raining during the Nike Human Race, which started an hour ago. I would think it would not be ideal for a race of humanity to happen in the rain--perhaps it is perfect. Perhaps you are perfect. Perfection.

Tomorrow--pictures. Tonight--life.

Fly the Week Like a Flag

Another Friday has saddled up to my half hung eyelids. Actually, last night I curled up around 9:30pm; I was awoken by a taunting text message at 11:30pm, initially thinking it was my 6am alarm, I smiled at the text attack on my weekday warrior status, and I turned a cheek, adjusted Lucio (positioned between my feet), and went back to slumbering the night away.

The weeks seem to be flying, and I am alright with that. I am okay with the workday disappearing like a fart in the wind--its when it lingers that it begins to stink. This week was filled with essay grading (halfway done), new book introductions, good journals and discussions, and a healthy dose of Elliott and Dog time. I also attended Spanish class twice this week, living up to my two day a week goal. Hector and I meet at a little cafe 4 blocks from our house. The cafe is set in the front of a house, and it is run by a pair of pint sized Mexicana twins--I don't know their names, but they are super kind and have a quirky sense of humor--the way most short, slightly round, munchkin-esque women do. I bring my dogs with me, because they are solid warriors of the cafe scene. The two cherub ladies love them. They walk them down the block, bring them water, make itty bitty cute noises in their face, and in general, grovel over them. Aside from the coffee and good vibes, the Spanish lessons are awesome. Hector is a great teacher. I need to apply what I am learning more regularly, but I am definitely acquiring the solid fundamentals.

So politically speaking, this country is in turmoil. On Sunday I accompanied my buddy Mauricio to a used car lot in a far off area of the city. As we walked through the Centro, I noticed that all the newspapers displayed at the newsstands are adorned with graphic front page images of dead bodies, blood, and assault rifles. Now one could say it is just for publicity, and this is definitely true. However, somewhere this shit is real; this is definitely real in the state of Sinaloa, the current epicenter of the drug war (Note: I will not be driving the coast line this summer as I iintended, for this goes through the heart of the Sinaloa State. Perhaps the gulf shall be my route.) In any event, aside from the bloody pics on the newspapers, I have come to learn that the current president, Felipe Calderon, was elected under much scandal, and in many people's eyes, unfairly so. The opposition candidate, and the one who was popularly elected, was far more radical and in tune with the masses of folks living below the poverty line. In any eevnt, last week Presidente Calderon, during Mexico's World Cup qualifier game, sent armed police into Luz y Fuerza, the main provider of electricity in central Mexico. According to Calderon, the company, which is federally owned, was mismanaging and stealing money. So Calderon and his minions, guns en tow, stormed the building, and it was announced that all employees have been fired. I do not know if this sort of news makes it to the States, but it is a big deal down here. Luz y Fuerza is a huge employeer and this action has put many people out of work.

Over the next few days several picket lines and demonstrations have littered the streets of Mexico City. Last Friday there was a march from La Angel (the Angel statue that stands as a beacon for all social gatherings in DF), to Los Pinos, the President's Palace. However, yesterday was the real deal. Sarah and I took the subway home, because the streets were packed with cars. Fired employees and sympathizers from all over Central Mexico, converged on DF to demonstrate their anger, frustration, and collective action. As we walked home from the subway, La Reforma, the main street holding the iconic La Angel, was a see of red claden Mexicans. Hombres with wide brimmed cowboy hats, were obviously workers from outside the city. Bannars, drums, whistles, and battle cries, all saturated the senses. I know there are a lot of people in this city, but to witness this convergence was absolutely insane. I was blown away by their ability to organize so quickly. Groups from all over the country made their present felt.

Sarah and I dipped out of the fray, and we made our way down San Cosme, via bike. We arrived in the Zocalo, and it was already bubbling over with people. In front of the President's palace a huge stage had been erected. Vendors pedaled their goods amongst the protestors and hanger-ons. The vibe was spirited, but not tense or viloent--the people were peacifully demonstrating. One of the largest flags I have seen waved brilliantly in the late afternoon son. Gold trickled over the tops of the colonial montors that flank the four corners of the Zocalo.

After a half hour of observing we skedaddled home. I stopped a street side burger joint--where for two dollars, I had a Hawaiian style burger. I make this promise: if you come to visit, I will treat you to a burger at this 24 hour streetside haven.

After that, I went home, loaded up illegal episodes of The Office--consequently "The Injury" season 2, as recommended by Gloria, is probably the best episode ever--followed by episode 17, of the same season, entitled "Dwight's Speech".

I closed my eyes at 9:30pm, and it felt marvelous.

Austin Remembered and The Future

Long ago, I posted a little ditty about some good times spent in Austin, TX. This good time was a two day affair, but I only posted a one day synopsis. At this point, I shall give you the belated "quick and dirty":

We arose fairly early in a dank and swampy room; two dogs and three humans, all mouth breathers, in small square footage, makes for a steamy wake up. We arose, aired out, and hit the breakfast scene. Over some waffles and salmon eggs benedict, we decided to scrap a long distance hike in favor of an in town delight--disc golf. It just so happens that Austin has 5 courses within its city limits. So we strapped up the dogs, grabbed a few discs, and we made our way west, I believe.

The sky was a damp gray, but absolutely perfect. The course was necked up against a flowing stream, and hole three gave us the opportunity to play right across it. Marissa made it over, I made it over, and Danny went straight in the drink.

Note: As I right this, the Jack Russell I am dog sitting, Lucio, who is curled up by my feet, is ripping the most teriffic farts; it literally smells as if someone is depositing small particles of sulfur into my nostrils.

But I digress. Marissa, who was wearing her amphibious hiking shoes, hopped in the stream and snagged the disc. We played on, and as we played the rain's presence continued to grow. As we came up to the wide prairie of hole 9, we decided to pack it in--nine holes was enough for today, and we were all feeling a nap brewing-- so we skedaddled back to the car, and made haste for Gorlick's house. No wait, we did not head home, how could I forget...No, we headed to Mam's BBQ and then to some pawn shops. This will serve as a perfect segue to my current news.

OK, so we headed to Mam's, a rustic little dive situated next to a enormous freeway overpass. Mam's had beautiful vintage 70's yellow and red diner booths, and various hot sauces littered the table tops. The walls held everything from wagon wheels to lanterns, and the fake wood paneling almost looked real--it was perfect. We ducked in to find not a soul was in attendance. Initial concerns about this fact, were quickly erased when we saw the spread. I ordered the customary, Three Meat & Two sides combo: Jalpeno and Cheese sausage, brisket, and pork ribs, with a side of green beans and macaroni and cheese. Over the top, the attendant ladled their house sauce. Needless to say we crammed it down and slapped it around.

After the grub down, we headed to some pawn shops to look for some guitars. I was in the market for an electric. We went to a few shops. I found a few American Made Fenders (strats and teles), but they were in the neighborhood of 6 to 700 dollars...it was a little too rich for my blood, and I am not enough of a guitar expert to tell if what I was buying was quality or abused. Everything down from there, was crap. I was hopping to find a nice 300 dollar buy, but it did not present itself. In retrospect, I believe I would have bought the American Made Telecaster with tweed case for $600 or so bucks--but that was then and this is now.

Yesterday, I headed to the Centro with my buddy Mauricio, the gregarious Chilean. We hit the "Music" neighborhood. It was impossible to find used guitars. Everything was new, a lot of it was no name crap, and a lot of it was wicked expensive. I was looking for a Mexican Made Fender. I finally found a few, but the prices were steep. We happened upon a guitar center equivelant, and I found a wall of fenders. Their American made guitars were all well over 1000 dollars. Then I saw it, a 2008 Sunburst Mexican Made Fender Strat Standard. I plugged it in, and gave it a test run--the sound was warm and sweet, the action low, and it seemed to make my fingers move quicker than they ever had before. In haste, I bought it. In retrospect I paid about 100 dollars too much ($500 with a gig bag...should been about $400), but in the long run I think it shall be fine--it is a memory and a token of my time here, and a symbolic commitment to the dream at hand. I had a little bit of buyer's remorse upon returning home, so I began furiously googling info about the guitar--something I should have done prior. It turns out that since 2006 the Mexican Made Fenders are the closest you can get to an American Made Fender. The body and the neck are all machined and manufactured in the U.S.A., utilizing the same wood and materials used in the more expensive American models. They are then shipped to Mexico for finishing. According to a few blogs, the MIM (Made in Mexico) Strat gets an A+, with regards to the bang for your buck--this made me feel a little better about the purchase.

I am treating this purchase as a commitment to getting better at guitar. I refuse to let the excuse, "Oh I am not good enough", stop me from doing what I want to do. My personal mission is to start jamming in a band within the next year. So practice, practice, practice, here I come.

I finished yesterday in the dog park, and spent my evening getting to know my new guitar. Today, I am going to get on some grading and head out to Bosque Chapultepec to sit, read, and grade. I much rather be outside than in my house.

To the good times.

Austin City Dig It: Day One

I slipped back into my country, and re-birthed myself onto a Texas prairie. I ate, drank, and wandered across the motto, "Everything is Bigger in Texas." I have resurfaced as a foreigner, quieted my slang, and smooched my dogs.

Thursday of last week started rather well: I woke up early; I realized my flight left later than I thought; and I realized something else, which was fortuitous, but at this point, it escapes me. All I know is, Thursday started well, and the whole weekend followed suite. I got the papers I needed, I taught that class that I had to, and I skedaddled home right when I should have.

I hailed a cab, and we hit the Circuito Interior for the Aeropuerto. In the cab, I was struggling to identify a nervous feeling in my stomach. Initially I confused my excitement for that dreaded suspense of forgetting something. I checked my papers twice and I settled in for the ride.

Terminal 2 greeted me with open arms. My entrance, in all honesty, went as easy as this: ticket, metal detector, immigration, stamp, smile, candy and gum, sit, smile, board, seat, sleep, chicken sandwich, ginger ale, TV, land, customs, coffee, American Slang, and Danny (with dogs). It was around 8 pm or so, and we had a three hour drive in front of us. I bought Danny and myself a mocha. It was a great idea, until I stepped outside into the 80 degree humidity. I slammed my beverage, and sweated it up. Danny arrived and the journey began.

Some friends never get old, or awkward, or misaligned with the person you have become; some friends strike a chord, to a rhythm, to a song you will always sing, and you can't help but to harmonize. We settled into the car, I greeted his dogs, and we hit the road. Houston is about 2-3 hours from Austin, and we were on a mission. As the Texas landscape slipped into darkness, we caught up on each others lives--two months ago I had stopped in Bryan and seen a bit of the life Shaggy was leading there. Currently his fiance, Thanksgiving Tina, is in New York, working on an externship, while finishing her DVM. Danny is bleeding pigs 4-5 days a week for Texas A&M. We chatted, made jokes, shared music, and hurled through space.

The south holds many fastfood chains, the pinacle being Whataburger--essentially, a down and dirty In-N-Out. It is heads and tails above all other burger joints around, and especially over the prolific poop pedaling franchise known as Sonic--crap! We passed two Whataburgers, and decided Jack in the Box would have to do. We both endulged in the mini-sirloin burgers--yippie kai-yay! As we stood in the middle of a nowhere Texas heat, Danny enjoyed the stinging bite of a passing beetle. Shags lets out a trademark gravely squeal, accompanied by a series expletives. As we got back in the car he announced, "Oh fuck man! That thing is really lightin' me up. It's throbbing!" At this point I enjoyed my first bit of hysterical laughter--this would be the tone for the weekend--gut busting hilarity. We pressed on into the night.

We arrived in Austin somewhere around 10 or 11. Marissa greeted us, and we unloaded the wagon of love. The dogs found their new home in Marissa's room, we met Jess her roomie, and we settled into a night at home. Two things: One, Texans like a beer called Lone Star. Two, every beer must be put in a koozy or cozy--one of those foam things that keeps your beer cold. We played Dominoes, drank beer, and I realized that being mildly mentally impaired, negates my ability to learn something new, like a game, and to utilize mathematics effectively. Apparently, the same is true for Danny, because we were slaughtered by the ladies. So it went and we trickled on to 4 in the morning. I had no idea we were up that late. I made my home on the couch, Danny took a futon, and we crashed.

At some point in the night, Cheryl, came trapsing back home with a few male suiters. Danny is a light sleeper. I am not a light sleeper. Danny was awake for all the conversations that came with the mystery people's late night enterence. They were drunk and horny, and negotiating what action to take--according to Danny, they took a long time to discuss this. Somewhere in their conversations, they made this comment about me: "Man that guy snores really fucking loud." I did not wake up to respond. In fact, the following morning, I was completely unaware of their late night return. In any event, we arose at 8 am, because Danny's dogs needed to pee. I reluctantly joined Marissa and Danny on their early morning awakening. We stumbled down the street to Mi Madre's, and hunkered down for a little coffee and breakfast. The coffee flowed rich and dark, and the breakfast tacos were thick and juicy (that's what she said). We ate, talked, and mapped out our day. Our waitress had just bought a scalped ticket, and would be high tailing it to the concert after her shift. We settled up on the check, and we took a stroll back home.

After some short mid morning lounging, we geared up for a long day in the son. I brought along my Maggie Kline designer jean shorts, which feature a plush green khaki patch and several journey worn rips, heart shaped sunglasses donated by Gloria's forgetfulness, a Teotihuacan wide-brimmed bucket hat, Sean Rudolph designer New Balances, and a shirt from an organization named Los Ninos. We layered on the SPF, packed up the essentials, and went outside to prepare our steeds: borrowed weather beaten bikes. Both bikes needed some tire love, and we collectively made quick work of the dilapidated machines. Within the hour of 12, we hopped on bikes and headed to the fair grounds.

Our ride through downtown Austin was beautiful. UT (University of Texas) is brilliantly woven into the architectual and social fabric of downtown. We stopped at Marissa's lab and printed our tickets for the show. We then made another pit stop and bought some water and gum. Although hilly at points, the ride was absolutely beautiful--we were sun soaked music warriors, drifting into the beauty of melodic battle.

We passed the sea of black folks buying and selling tickets. We passed the sea of burnt out hippies, hocking jewelry, pipes, and substances. We passed the cops, and those walking. We also passed pedi-cabs---nostalgia for Marissa and I ran deep (perhaps a future in part-time pedi, exists for us both). We locked our bikes up on racks that held well over several hundred other bikes---most likely a thousand or so. We entered, we smiled, we arrived.

Zilker park, is insanely huge. It sits on the water front, and as far as you can see, there are rolling hills of Zilker grass--a beautiful genetically resiliant strain of grass, that is both spongey and hardy. It was beautiful to look at the long fairways leading concert goers like meandering buffalo on the prairies of the past. Sonrisas, sonrisas, sonrisas.

Danny and I will be beautiful pervy old men. When we are around one another, the male sport of oogling, day dreaming, whistling, skeeming, and generally just degenerating into cavemen, occurs. We had a blast, and Marissa tolerated us pleasantly.

Show One: Blitzen Trapper. I would describe them as an atmospheric folk group. They jammed with a lot of distortion and layered effects. The lead singer looked like a short Jewish boy, but he had practiced his Rock N'Roll panther growl, and he made the crowd come along with him. The drummer had a beard to match the gurth of his gut, and the rest of the members were forgettable--but, the music was good. We swayed and jibbed out. It was a nice beginning.

Show Two: We skiddadled from Blitzen Trapper, over to The Avett Brothers. On the way we snagged a Lone Star, and stopped for a picture. Side note: The prices at this event were respectful to the captive audience. A 24oz of beer was $8. All food was locally provided, and reasonable: fried pickles $4, bratwurst with the works, $5...it put a good taste in your mouth, to not be screwed while eating (that's what she said). The Avetts are real brothers. Their band was simple down home rock it out folk. The gyrated and animated their songs, and their old stuff rocked. Their new album, was as Marissa and Danny put it, "Too Campy!". Rick Rubin produced their last album, and I think he is tainting them with a caricature of who they are. In any event, they were damn good.

Break: Food. As mentioned Bratwurst, fried dills, and beverages were consumed. We took a break, and then went to the bathrooms. We found a secret stash of potties, and made quick relief.

Show Three: Daniel Johnston is a small town legend, who lives it in a big way. He splashed onto the scene in the 80's with a quirky tape entitled, "Hi, How Are You?". He landed on MTV's spring break coverage of Austin, TX back in the early 90's, and he sort of road the wave. Bands like Nirvana and Wilco have all covered his songs. His work is this genuinely honest and hopelessly tragic menagerie of squealing vocals and rough guitar licks. Daniel Johnston has struggled with mental illness for years. Once a scrawny curley haird crooner, he now stands as a portly middle aged grey haired man, who trembles from the meds they pump through him. The crowd was huge, and he proclaimed it, "There sure are a lot people out there," Daniel stammered into the microphone. The crowd cheered in support. He launched into his set, and began rifling through tragic lyrics of never ending sadness, and constant loneliness--his truth superceded his musical shortcomings. We stayed, wtinessed, and moved on after a few songs.

Show Four: Phoenix is fronted by a dweeby looking fruit tart with a campy voice---but I like them. Phoneix is one of Gorlick's favorite bands, but as we struggled to move up, Danny and I began to fade. After a few yards of fighting the crowd, we told Gors that we were heading for shade. Danny and I found a large tented sandbox, affectionately known as, Austin Kiddie Limits. Moms and babies plundered the sand behind a fenced off region. Danny and I leaned up against the fence and sighed in relief. As we do, we talked about the passing beauties, the debauchery of yester year, and highlighted enthusiasm for this and that, with ruthless and vulgar vocabulary. I then slightly shifted and noticed the three year old who was sitting not 12 inches from us, on the otherside of the fence. As she happily dug a new world into the sand with each joyous shovel scoop, I reflected on the fact, that indeed this small gate was keeping these kids safe...if for nothing else, it was keeping foul mouthed bastards such as ourself, away from that little girl. I smiled at the effectiveness of a seemingly useless fence.

Show Five: It took Marissa a while to find us; her iphone was failing to do what it should. Eventually we met up and watched a little bit of Raphael Sadiq, former front man for Tony Toni Tone. He had a very stylized show, with all members dressed in matching black and white suits. He busted oldies, covered the Stooges, and brought the afternoon funk. We was damn good.

Show Six: Thievery Corporation is not just two DJ's. Thievery Corporation is a live band with a host of lead singers--it was mind blowing. Ambient insturmental came to life with soaring female melodies, ripping drones from the sitar, and rumbling waves from the bass and drums. Magical. Marissa, Danny, and I sat and enjoyed the scene--small clouds fell from the sky.

Show Seven: Lucky number seven. We meandered towards the XBOX 360 stage, and snuck up to the amassing hordes. People were buzzing, and we all opted to hold our pee in favor of pushing to the front. We got there a half hour early and we waited with spasmodic glee. A super group has been formed and they go by the name of Them Crooked Vultures (or as we like call them, Dem Dirty Vultures or simply Dem Dirty). The Vultures are: Josh Homme on lead vocals/guitar (formerly of Queens of the Stone Age); John Paul Jones on bass (formerly of Led Zepplin), and Dave Grohl on Drums (formerly of Nirvana and Foo Fighters). Homme's accompanying guitar player from Queens of the Stone Age, Alain Johannes, who mirrors Homme's guitar sound, and offers a nice depth to the group, plays with the band for live shows. This band was 100% rock n' roll, and they came out swinging. Homme's first words were, "I feel tipsy", and then they launched into a fucking flury of hard riffs and ripping solos. They pounded and masses gyrated, and it was a ball of energy. I was inspired by not just the musicianship, but the moment they embraced and created. With live music of that caliber and ferocity, the artist themselves truly commit to tapping into the universe and giving it a taste of their perspective. It was dark, haunting, bluesy, and rough. It was an amalgamation of Zepplin, Queens, and Nirvana. Individual sounds and ideas came to the top, like the frothy overflow of a shaken microbrew. The three of us were soldiers in the fight, and we pushed our way to nearly 10 rows back. In a see of several thousands (possibly tens of) we were in the front. I am changed by that moment. I am going to buy an electric guitar. I am going to play and sing at the same time. I am going to practice. I am going to study. I am going to taste what it is to be on the other side of the stage.

We exited that show drained and overjoyed; ears ringing and hearts pounding; spirits lifeted and souls ignited. On our way out we caught the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Karen O, creating a spectacle in a larger than life costume and a beautiful mix of theater and music. It was so good that from a couple of 100 yards off, we decided to stop and watch. She is quite the showman (woman?). We stopped for a moment and then pressed on.

Snagged the bikes and hit the road for a dark night ride. The ride back was hilly and we had to stop for Danny to pee. He peed under a bat filled bridge. Marissa did a phenomenal job of taking us around. She really lead a great tour.

When we made it home, we realized the state of our exhaustion. We grabbed the dogs, stumbled to an amazing pizza place, and stumbled home. We rapidly knixed our plans to go out to the various after parties in town. Instead, the five of us (Marissa, Danny, Myself, and the two dogs), bunked up in Gors' room and passed out promptly--it was a beautiful thing.

This is Day One of Two...I will get there soon.