Mesopotamian Gang Bangers

It’s a Lovely Ensenada Morning, and Rusted out mid eighties model buick Skylark comes careening around the painted corner. The Driver’s neck is pencil thin, and his eyeballs are glazed over with the kind of thousand yard stare you see in a man who has been running on autopilot since he hit puberty. That neck is so damn skinny- and the skin a deep Mexican tan. I can’t figure out if it’s from a lifetime spent under the sun Or a thousand generetions spent under the sun. Some of the people out here are more olive, but others are tanned like rawhide. The Kids in the Back seat- I’ve seen many of these cars- The Kids in the back seat, there are usually between five and nine of them wave from the back seat, grinning as they claw over one another to get a better look at us. People in this country adhere to some very strict if not trashy conventions. They are nervous, timid people, in general. They have beautiful heroes but cruel leaders. They know to stay out of trouble- And I haven’t seen yet a mean looking Mexican. Purportedly they exist.

We crossed a bridge and looked down into the river, swollen to a reasonable size from the recent rains. A tidal wave was running up it and hamsters were surfing the break. It carried several hundred yards up stream, brown water rushing over black and rounded the bend.

I’m floating in the Ocean on a Surfboard and three Boogie boarders run their Spanish mouths off because we’re stealing their right off this point. I don’t know Spanish so it’s about goddamn time I got my flatulence under control. Seven or eight malignant retards hoist geriatric shaman types on their shoulders and the wrinkly feeblists twirl Aztec crucifixs and their pointed toques undulate over their pointed heads. The High water mark is visible as a ribbon of plastic flotsam from pacific places near and far. The ground is made waterless beneath me. I’ve come ashore and I’m ducking the crossfire of dueling gringos. The Land is privately owned by some Taco hating asshole. The nearby Marina is full of expensive yachts that are heavily guarded by gunmen who wave their rifle barrels across my chest and motion for me to turn around and walk another way. After wiping their ass, they put their hygienic paper in the wastebasket. This American made Rv park is a layer of gravel over another of pavement. Jay is Building an IED from his old cellphone and Troy picks out the elaborate two-chord structure of “Free Falling” on his guitar. Middle aged women in golf carts painted up to look like ladybugs snort around spinning doughnuts in the gravel and on this morning a heavy fog that rolled in over the night is slow to lift. I feel like dying, maybe. Or I feel like I’m already dead. Spilloff from the recent rains has turned the waters near shore from a crystal blue green to a murky brown. The Swell is at eleven feet and slowly rising. I don’t know how to skateboard, but I’m trying. I don’t recommend eating the Tuna in salsa- they don’t have the same kind of quality control standards here in Mexico as in the developed world, and all edibles are in question. The Mixed fruit jelly is 90% high fructose. The yogurt is watery. The bubble gum turns to powder when you chew it, and Mexican M&M’s are made with the peanuts that aren’t good enough for westerners. The salsa is soupy. Chicken burritos have a bit of chicken, but mostly contain unrecognizeable mush. The Beers though, are good. I went to urinate in the weeds and ended up pissing on a dog carcass. There is a gigantic Mexican flag snaking through the wind, the flag is fifty feet high, it’s pole is three hundred feet high. On a clear day, when the smog lifts, you can see it from fifty miles out at sea. The Americans here are kind, but ridiculously ugly.