Monday, June 20, 2005


One of the nice things about living in Southern California is the close proximity to some magnificently diseased places. The two most obvious are Las Vegas — an excellent place for illusions and one that Mr. McFriend here has set fires in — and Baja, Mexico — a haven for hustlers, handshake drugs and whores, among other things. Although those things stand alone in their awesomeness, the place also has a physical beauty, and by damn if a portion of the McFriend family didn't take a trip down there this weekend to encounter this Latino pulchritude.

Though your ol pal's business is by no means lucrative at this juncture, I was able to secure us a place with the following view to serve as our base of operations:
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Upon arrival, a five-minute piss was in order, and then the tequila began to flow like wine. After a short cab ride, five McFriends found themselves here and the madness was put in motion. I'd like to offer a warm thank you to the tattooed freak in the crow's nest who made direct eye contact for much of the afternoon with a lonely wizard that you all know, all the while showing her chest and bending over to touch her ankles at the thumbs up sign that I got so used to giving.

Mariachis on the beach and children smoking Cuban cigars came and went. Food was mostly neglected in favor of beer, and the family became drunk in the heat of the Mexican sun. Later, we wandered the alleys and backstreets of Rosarito, buying trinkets and mota, getting lost in the swirl of colors on the pregnant wanderers and peasants selling chiclets. The Pooch, in particular, was in grand form, and his penchant for making up Spanish words and phrases was an inane mixture of bad TV lines and Taco Bell menu items. But this kid knows how to party.
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A plan for the evening was set in order, and we lounged on the balcony of our hotel room, taking turns walking through a gringo wedding reception, where the single women in attendance took offense to my requests that they make out with me on the altar. It became increasingly obvious that I was not going to get laid on this trip for free.

A lobster spread in Puerto Nuevo assuaged the longing in my loins, and the kindly waiter was impressed after dinner when I complimented him so: "Eres un hombre guapo senor, pero no soy un maricon!" We stopped at a farmacia, and after asking for ritalin, soma, cocaine, ecstacy, LSD, steroids and a host of other good drugs, we were roundly rebuffed and asked to leave. It was time to fiesta, so we got dressed up and ready for the evening.
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Back at the nightclub in Rosarito, things got mostly out of control. I called a Dutch girl Euro trash, but told her she was hot. The Pooch scored a date with a surfer chick from Anaheim. Sasefina made friends with a group of warped scientists, one of whom performed a decent backspin. Anhski put on a Mexican wrestler mask and got her groove on in a circle of admiring freaks. After a few rusty illusions and several more rejections, we decided for a change of scenery, and thankfully, the Bada Bing accepted us with open arms.

The strip club reeked of crime and collusion, and we were quite clearly the marks. Hustled intensely for lap dances and "sexo," we started to worry when a fat waiter charged us $25 American for two tequila shots. Though that was unacceptable, we decided that $5,000 pesos could help our cause. I have not the heart to tell you what happened after that, but it involved dinero, cowboy hats, screaming, scratching, pyrotechnics, hombre arana ("Spider Man"), a knife fight, blood, and a "friends and family" discount. Our final cab ride of the night, with Frankie from Jalisco, resulted in a Spanglish shouting match and two drunk Americans shortchaning this unscrupulous fuck.

At our sprawling hotel complex around dawn, Pooch and I maintained an incorrigible appetite for trouble and local "talent." After a long and laugh-filled urinating session off a 50-foot bluff overlooking the dark Pacific, we sought assistance from the night staff, two veritable mutants, one with a roving eye and the other, a bionic arm. No shit. The conversation is blurry in my memory, but I remember several phone calls, a Mexican operator's voice, insults in both Spanish and English and the following two lines: "No offense, senor, but what kind of self-respecting hotel clerk doesn't know how to get escorts?" and "Perdon amigo, but I have more pesos than I know what to do with."
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The following day was lost in a lot more cerveza, a pirate ship, "Guantanamera" and a long, slow journey across the border, where 8-year-old jugglers made off like bandits with small bills.

I will return, to be sure, but certainly not before a few days in the tank to clear my head. After waking at 4 am last night to shit liquid jalapeno for 45 minutes, I understand the reality of Montezuma and his vendetta against the Caucasian people. It is no picnic, definitely no siesta.

Shakes y que tenga la buen noche.

This one goes out to Carlos, who helped me meet my late-night quotas with his "muy lento" speech and tricked out Fiero. I also want to give a shout to my brother Jay-boy, who is convinced that I am an alcoholic, but maybe starting to agree that I am still functional. Actually, I doubt that.
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