GENIUS...

" A MOST MEDIOCRE PERSON CAN BE THE OBJECT OF A LOVE WHICH IS WILD, EXTRAVAGANT, AND BEAUTIFUL AS THE POISON LILLIES OF THE SWAMP. A GOOD MAN MAY BE THE STIMULUS FOR A LOVED BOTH VIOLENT AND DEBASED, OR A JABBERING MADMAN MAY BRING ABOUT IN THE SOUL OF SOMEONE A TENDER AND SIMPLE IDYLL. THEREFORE, THE VALUE AND QUALITY OF ANY LOVE IS DETERMINED SOLEY BY THE LOVER HIMSELF.

IT IS THIS REASON THAT MOST OF US WOULD RATHER LOVE THAN BE LOVED... THE LOVER CRAVES ANY POSSIBLE RELATION WITH THE BELOVED, EVEN IF THIS EXPERIENCE CAN CAUSE HIM ONLY PAIN."

- CARSON McCULLERS, " THE BALLAD OF THE SAD CAFE

O Rei

"Life's like a mayonnaise soda" - Lou Reed

   Lisbon is truly a lovely city. Portugal is truly a lovely country. But like all cities and all countries, there's a lot of weird shit.

There's a guy who almost everyday stands in the square below my window. He calls himself, "The King of Portugal". He stands near the statue of Camoes, the great Portuguese poet, and like a snake handler on acid, shouts and screams to everyone around. What exactly he rants about, I'm not totally sure ? Much of it is of a political nature, for example stating that he is the king of Portugal (there is no longer any royalty here). Much of it seems aggressive and most people think that he's totally fucking nuts. Schizophrenic perhaps or an extreme alcoholic.Maybe he just doesn't give a fuck. What if he's totally sane and he just doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks about him ? People generally don't like things that make them uncomfortable, okay maybe masochists and homophobes do, but do they count for much ?

Let Her Be

   She made me wonder - what is the difference between obsession and addiction, and was there some kind of cosmic connection between attraction and the letter "

B" ? I met her in Brussels. It seemed like every girl that I either really liked or was obsessed with ( addicted  to... ?), I met in Brussels - or oddly enough, in a city beginning with the letter "B". Baltimore, Boulder, Brussels - strange. Was it simple coincedence ? Probably so. I never fell for a girl in Barcelona or Buffalo or Belfast. But then again, I've never been to Buffalo...

There Are No Trains Here

J.M.S.

Leaving behind the monochromatic night - speeding south, west -away.
Rocket-fueled departures/arrivals/rendevous.
Whispered whiskey pauses,
Roses whirl in the wind here.
Nothing's static,nothing's teathered.
Kinetic volcanic emissions from million cathedral hills
and
masked luchadores drowning in mist.
And I left to think about
gardens,
and bridges,
and fire,
and beans.

Rum, Ron, Rhum... Run, Run, Run !!!

The night was holy, but then again they're all holy if you look hard enough. Nonetheless, you still gotta watch your back around here. There are Poblanos, Swiss, Germans, Swiss Germans, Irish, and even real-life gringos running around. Anyone of which could sneak up on you and force you to drink rum. Rum, the drink of pirates, slave traders and beach bums. This is not just urban legend - it happened, and continues to happen almost daily. If you add this danger to all of the other dangers here, San Cristobal de las Casas is one hell of a lesson in survival. Collectivos and taxis - each trying to make you forget how to walk, loose single cigarettes sold at discount prices, gum and candy galore, strangers smiling indiscriminatly, tempting tacos, empanadas, and tamales, brilliant radiant sun, and heavenly royal mezcal - all of which are trying to sidetrack you - trick you, lull you into a state of relaxation. And there are even more distractions than those - some too graphic and lustfull for the ears of proper society. My personal account is a tragic and sad one. Hopefully, it will serve to warn others of the dangers of smiling charming Poblano rum swillers and others of their kind.

As I stated, it was a holy night. I'd recently been lecturing on the trials and tribulations of a very unfortunate soul, Boris a young lad from Brazil who had fallen prey to the dangers of whiskey, wine, and fast women. After my rousing speech, my coleague from the great American state of Montana and I decided to take our message of temperance to the streets, to the people of San Cristobal. We couldn't have been walking for more than ten minutes when we were ambushed by an infamous couple of dodgy characters - Alain, wanted gun runner, dealer in exotic meats and cheeses, urban terrorist, architect, and notorious rum drinker. He was also under heavy suspicion for his involvment in international piracy. By his side, his partner in crime, Muriel - Swiss, expert jewel thief and raconteur. Lover of wine and dynamite. Indeed, the two cast imposing threatening shadows.
He was from Puebla.
She spoke German.

Not wanting to be impolite, or seen as ill-mannered, we greeted the deadly duo. They were seated at a lovely streetside bar/cafe laughing and sipping wine. Wine, that most diabolical evil beverage - the spark of free thought, romance, poetry, and revolution. Beware of those grapes! Watch out for wine! Their inviting smiles caught this teetotaler by surprise. I can only assume that my esteemed colleage from Montana was also taken aback by their wine-soaked smiles. They asked us to sit, to join them. I was afraid, not only were they drinking wine, but they were smoking tobacco, and eating popped corn. We obliged, again not wanting to appear ill-mannered or ill-bred.

The Poblano attacked first. With a wide smile, charming eyes, and a vibrant head of hair, he offered me a glass of wine. I stood my ground and shared the horror-filled tale of Boris with the two miscreants. After telling the gut-wrenching tale, it was Muriel's turn to attack, again with a smile and an offer of wine. I stood my ground. At this point, my Montanan colleage, (who I should point out is none other than the famous anti-smoking, anti-premarital sex, anti-labor activist/illustrator/public speaker, Abraham Ryan. He also does my taxes) left to distribute some of our temperance literature.
I was alone.
A sheep amongst wolves.
Again, the two began to assail me with laughter, smiles, and tempting snacks. Before I knew it, Alain, that wicked Poblano, ordered a glass of wine for me. As I've already mentioned, I'm a well-mannered sort, so again I had to oblige. I'd fallen, temptation had it's vice-like grip around me - I was drinking that vile mixture.
When my coleague returned, he was saddened to see how far I'd fallen. Not wanting me to feel alone, ashamed, or embarrassed, he nobly took a glass of wine for himself. I thanked him for the gesture. Soon, that devilish drink was taking it's effect - I too was laughing, smiling, nearly dancing. Oh, the slippery slope...
Once I began laughing and smiling, nearly performing that devil's palsey commonly known as dancing - I was actually entertaining the idea of drinking rum - the horrors...
Unfortunitly, directly across the sin-soaked street was a true house of vice - a liquor store.
One glass of red wine and my colleage and I had abandonded all of our ideals. We walked with our fellow sinners into the liquor store. As if possessed by a demon - a smiling, generous, fun-loving, charming, tricky demon, the next thing I knew my colleage and I were in an honest to God den of pure inequity, Alain´s house, his lair.
We had bought rum...

It was horrible, there was laughter, joking, and worst of all - sinful rock and roll music. Rum you are the devil in liquid form. Once inside that temple of reckless abandon, it was as if time had stopped. The lord's name was used carelessly and even vulgar coital expressions appeared. It was hellish indeed. After being mesmerized by those two dark rum sorcerers and their hospitality, my coleague and I were no better than them - lost souls.
Finally (and thank God), the rum was finished. We left. We confessed our trangressions - clean and holy again, reinvigorated to spread the word of temperance, and to warn of the evil dangers of rum, Poblanos, Swiss, and popped corn.
I'm pretty sure we did cocaine too...

The Easter Cabbage.

- and the cabbage should become the symbol of all that is messed-up, fucked-up,bollocked-up, and just too wierd to understand...

...And a cabbage shall inherit the Earth.  

  I just wanted to buy a cabbage.
Cabbage and ham on Easter morning - brilliant idea. The only thing missing would be a proper pint of Guinness - not in Mexico though. It wasn't really morning any more, but still, it was Easter. I love Mexican food, but the idea was to cook something typical from the place I was from. I went to the outdoor market.
  I just wanted to buy a cabbage. I searched, stepped on a rotton tomato that managed to gracefully adorn my flip-flop clad feet.  No cabbage. Loads and loads of everything else from the fruit and vegetable world, but no cabbage.
  I went to the supermarket. I really didn't want to go.It was strange, I thought as I crossed through the stream of collectivos, vendors, and taxis, from the much less expensive outdoor market to the giant soul-fucking supermarket, that in a poor country, in the poorest state of that country, one couldn't purchase of the world´s all-time classic poor people foods. I went in, found the produce section and allelejah - cabbage ! The last lonely cabbage in the supermarket, perhaps the last lonely cabbage in the world. The sign above read 11 pesos per kilo, cool. I went to the woman who weighed, priced, and labeled it. Great, picked up the ham and headed to the check-out. The obviously bored girl working the register smiled, "¡ Hola ! Buenas tardes." She scanned the ham. She scanned the holy cabbage."Espere un momento por favor." Okay. Then a balding, middle-aged, chubby manager -type with a full mustache and a frazzled look in his eyes arrived. It really looked like he either hated his job or just didn't know what he was doing. He spoke with the cashier, typed some hyroglifics into the computer, quitely spoke to the cashier again, and left. The polite cashier then tells me that the cabbage was not in the computer's system and she couldn't sell it. What the fuck - the price was written on an offical sign of the store, the price was written on the label, and they couldn't sell the damn cabbage. Maybe it really was a holy cabbage, but I doubt anything holy could exsist in that evil monster of a store . Of course, the poor cashier was only doing her job, the chubby manager as well. What could they do ? I thought to myself, while smiling politely to the cashier and paying for the ham, if you can't sell it, why don't you just give it to me then ? I was totally perplexed, a little amused at the absurdity, and a even bit sad as I left, thinking about the future fate of that lonely cabbage.
 All around the world, all around Mexico, in Chiapas, at that very minute, that very second, maybe within moments away from where I was - someone was hungry, malnurished, starving - and I just wanted to buy a cabbage.
       P.S. I went to the same supermarket the next day, the same cabbage was still there...

A Six Thousand Peso Fine For Sex on the Beach and Two Peso Tacos. ( an illuminating acedemic illustration of economic disparity in Mexico.)

p.s. - Fuck You Salinas !

Carlos Salinas was - and is - a dick. Carlos from Chile agrees - and someone from Chile should know bad leaders. Carlos Salinas was the president of Mexico from 1988 until 1994. He and his sidekick brother Raul really screwed over the beautiful republic of Mexico. They stole a lot of money and helped to badly devaluate the currency He lives the Dublin, in the beautiful republic of Ireland now. His brother Raul lives in a club med-like prison in Mexico. But I digress, this is meant to be academic, I should reserve personal opinion - we'll return to Salinas later...

Carlos, (from Chile, not Salinas), told me an interesting story about the coital restrictions in the amazing Mexican state of Oaxaca. Oaxaca is one of the loviest, most diverse, visually stunning states in Mexico - beaches, mountains, mezcal, magical small towns, and incredible food. There are secret clandestine  glorious beaches, where if one is with the right person, and the proper amount of rum or vodka, whiskey, etc... romantic events can very possibly take place. This happened to Carlos,(from Chile, not Salinas). He met a gringa. Here in the great republic of Mexico, techically a gringo or gringa is from the USA. However, many people assume that Canadians and Europeans are gringos as well. She was from Canada - Quebec.

Puerto Escondido is a lovely beach spot in Oaxaca - full of travellers and houses of libation. Carlos met "la Quebecois" in one of the many houses of libation - a bar. They drank, they danced, they sang, they talked, they had amazing eye contact. They even ate peanuts. Live music was playing - a rockabilly/surf punk band. When Carlos, (from Chile, not Salinas), and "la Quebecois" decided to leave, they were both feeeling quite happy, a bit drunk, and liberated. It should be noted that people from Quebec really do not like to wear clothes. At the first sight of sun, the first hint of warmth - nudity. Now Carlos and his French/English - speaking friend were obviously attracted to one another, so with the aide of laughter, liquor, and liberation - nature took it's course. They began to walk to the beach. The moon was high and the beach they found themselves on was empty. Beautiful nature again.
Carlos removed his shirt while the lovely girl from Quebec danced to a song stuck in her head, The Proclaimers, "1000 miles". She performed her dance as she gently kissed Carlos' right hand. After hopping on one foot, fumbling with clasps, buttons, and zippers, both Carlos and his friend achieved total nudity.
Once again, beautiful nature took it's course.
Ten or fifteen in to their spontainious manifestion of passion and joy, there appeared a new non-lunar source of light - a police offficer´s torch. His flashlight. "¡Oje!" "¿Que paso jovenes?" Mexican police officers are not known for their technical or intellectual brilliance. However, they are quite proficent at asking stupid questions and asking for/demanding bribes. Carlos quickly covered his trouserless bottom, while the lovely girl from Quebec simply smiled and waved at the officer. She made no attempt to cover up. "Bueno jovens,  necesitas pagar para esta - no esta bien." "¿Cuantas?", Carlos sighed while still trying to get dressed. "Seis mil." "Tabernac !, yelled the Quebec girl, still naked and still not attempting to cover up. "¿Como?", exclaimed the officer, being completely ignorant of French, let alone Quebecois, expressions of  exasperation -as all Mexican police officers are. "Don't worry, I'll take care of this," said Carlos in English. " And put on some clothes." "Allez, what's the problem ?", replied the brunette. " Just do it, we're gonna run", Carlos replied, remembering that Mexican police officers are also improfficent in speaking English. As the young Quebecois begrudgingly got dressed, Carlos explained to the officer that he would have to go to an ATM to retrieve the money. Once his female friend was dressed, Carlos nodded with his head and whispered, "now, go", and they were off. It's important to point out out that not only are Mexican police incapable of speaking English or French, thay are notoriously overweight and unfit. After chasing the pair of moonlight lovers from the beach to the sidewalk 300 yards away, the chase was over. The officer, winded and doubled-over, mumbling curses, thought about what he could've done with the six thousand pesos.
He also about what he could have done with the six thousand pesos and the lovely naked brunette girl.

The average Mexican police officer,(pre-bribe), earns just 5,000 pesos in a month.
The alleged richest man in the world is from Mexico - Carlos Slim, ( again, not Carlos from Chilie). He probably earns that every minute. I write alleged because there are many people who believe that Carlos Salinas, former president and asshole, is in fact the richest man in the world. They believe that Carlos Slim is nothing more than a puppet of Carlos Salinas - a face.

In San Cristobal de las Chiapas, Mexico, it's possible to buy tacos for two pesos. With six thousand pesos one could buy a lot of tacos, twelve thousand to be exact. Carlos Slim ( or Salinas, it makes no difference), could buy twelve thousand pesos a minute. Just think how much more overweight, out of shape, and generally incompitent the panting Oaxaca police officer would be if he had twelve thousand tacos all to himself ? In fact, Mexican law enforcement should be glad that Carlos,( from Chilie, not Salinas or Slim), and the girl from Quebec got away. If they had paid the bribe, maybe all the money would've been spent on two peso tacos ?

Carlos Salinas still lives in Dublin, in the beautiful republic of Ireland.
Carlos Slim still lives in Mexico, D.F., in the beautiful republic of Mexico.
Carlos, from Chilie, is still travelling somewhere in the beautiful continent of South America.
The police officer is still sad he didn't get the six thousand pesos and the girl from Quebec still doesn't like to wear clothes.