to extended weekends.

no, i don't have my license. yes, i've been drinking. all we have is ten bucks, ok? good night. right, good morning.

for the last time, it's a curling iron burn. so i burnt myself twice.

excuse me? oh, so you can get a shot of my spine?

i would not like to give you my money, absolutely not. hi-yah! oof. hi-yah! ow.

flowers blossom.

since the war on terror will never be over soon, they've installed a permanent temporary fence around the u.s. embassy down here. i recognized it as we arrived from the airport. inside that fence, beyond the snacking guards and through the back door there's a stifling little room where i encountered nothing more than two nails, a wire and a car battery - on a table of course. oh right and two chairs. i sat alone, drenching my clothes in that hotbox for what seemed like minutes and minutes, possibly four. now the thoughts that entered my head are too morbid to mention here yet i'd consumed enough media to know that the situation had some nasty potential. it'll suffice to say that i was all ready to have to explain michael jackson between jolts to my punctured testicles when, finally, the door cracked and in walked a thin old lady with her hands behind her back. she sat down across from me and placed her right hand on the table to reveal a hammer she was holding. while lightly petting the tool she grabbed the nails with her left hand, stood up and pounded them into opposing walls. and then she left. i was promptly greeted by another gray hair. she didn't sit down but grabbed the wire with both hands and pulled it straight, like she was ready for action. but then she walked to one of the nails, tied the wire to it and did the same with the other nail. and then she left. the third vieja came in and sat down across from me. she'd brought a clothes hanger with her. she stood up, took off her jacket, placed it on the hanger and hung it on the wire. and then she left. then an old man entered the room, picked up the battery and motioned for me to follow him. we approached a beetle in the parking lot and he placed me in the driver's seat. he installed the battery, knocked on the roof a couple times and i drove home. i probably ate some tacos on the way.

attempted absolution.

jerome, hunter and henry were all fuckups in their own special ways. but goddam could they spin a verse. and perhaps that's the ticket: feed your weaknesses and thereby, your creative inner monster. good thing i'm already a hermitic control freak, sucking blotter and rum on the terrace, peeking down pubescents' shirts.

don't ever tell me.

i just had our baby and he thinks it's his.

the irs is here to see you.

the test results are positive.

i didn't mention it because i don't want to be the only one on medication around here.

i've had better.

we're not going to be able to reattach it.

actually, the mormons had it right.

grandpa, i got a fresh diaper for you.

...

mexico city.




tepoztlan.


.

mom is not proud of you.

nothing gets easier with age
besides
sex complacency fatigue submission

stop the caring and begin the living
buckle to the realization of unfulfilled potential
smaller paychecks
looser pussies
weaker narcotics

enjoy the spiked trails
cherish the scars
embellish the tales
disregard the detractors
accrue insanity and fuck the timid

entitlement gets us nowhere
but reinforces stale egos
endlessly picking apart realities for subplots
that never materialize.

cynicism is sexy.

if you think you can go to a foreign country and 'just pick up the language,' you're probably wrong. if you've done this, i hate you.

passive-agressive attention whores are to be avoided.

ned flanders and terence mckenna share a disconcerting amount of visible and audible characteristics.

more people have marijuana growing tips than i'd ever imagined.

if you stop in front of a hospital and sweet, crimson blood begins to gush from your shin, a few people are bound to point you to the emergency room.

expect little, get surprised often.

alright.

first things first, please don't bother pretending like you give a damn; i like it better this way. i have no business here but i'll post occasionally and if you bother to look, please give me some grief about it. the more baseless and personal your criticisms, the better. anyway, i'm just doing this because i like typing, self importance.

so here's what's going on: i finagled a sinecure in the tropics and i'm riding it out. i stick out like a giant, bald white thumb. my past titles include missionary, milkman and step-dad. i currently pattern my life after tom hanks' character from big, but with more sex and drugs and less trampolines. and my soundtrack's better.

tree climbing is underrated.