Bad day? Could be worse!

Skinning a pig is a family affair, but the burro's feelin it's a wee bit close to home.

Everyone need's a man in their life

And mine right now just happens to be Ramblin' Jack Elliot. I can sit here and sing 912 Greens to myself and I'm right there on Hwy 1, in the fog, heading back to Kirk Creek, where Jerry's chasin' around a naked women wrapped in seaweed, and Pete's threatening to throw the keg off the cliff so we can drink it on the beach. And twenty torches moving down the cliffside in the dark, the fog so thick they look like giant fire flies. MT stumblin' into Pete's tent and messin' up the action, Matt Reed climbing up the redwood tree for a photo behind the Henry Miller Library. Sloppy Joes and thick red wine, everyone wrapped up in blankets waitin' to hear Ramblin' Jack. Keith and Mandy laughin and maybe even Henry was there, was he? Spears gettin' pissed off at me for droppin all the wrong lines. Poker on that green cot all day long. All I know is that was a trip of all trips, and I when I'm stuck in Loja sick of eating quimbolitos, I close my eyes and hum a tune by Ramblin' Jack and think about those magical three days in Big Sur. Another another day with the Dudes from Gilas. Another day with all you.

What the hell is pollo criollo?

Can someone please tell me what creole chicken is? We're in bumfuck, on the Peruvian border, and the only thing we can find to eat (other than cow-hoof soup) is creole chicken. The guy swears its chicken. It's like chicken, he says, only better. It's creole chicken.

It's dark meat, and oilier than chicken, and richer, and Aimee swears its beef, but beef doesn't have that speckled skin from where they yank the feathers out. Big chicken? Maybe it's big chicken. The bone on Aimee's plate was bigger than that of a goat leg, so that's one big fucking chicken. It's gotta be gallina. It's gotta be big chicken.

Almond oil stinks

Alright, I don't know, but does a "full body" massage mean the guy's supposed to brush my johnson ten times in the process? I mean, I've never had a full body cleansing massage include the stomache, so that was a new one for me too. But he kept rubbing my abdomen and brushing my pecker with the back of his hand. I mean what the fuck? No big deal, but something seems odd. It's a hippy town, after all, but c'mon!

And now I stink like goddamn almond oil, my hair's oily and all I wanna do is take a shower. So we get back to our hotel, forty-five minutes away by shared taxi, and I go into the shared bathroom, and the electric shower head works for thirty seconds. Just enough to lather up my arms before the water goes freezing cold. Painfully cold. So I get the soap off but still stink like almond oil and I gotta deal the rest of the night. Damnit, we need to get a better hotel.

Does it really matter?

Oof. I'm fucking tired. We've been going nonstop for a month now. Too many beds without blankets in cheap hotels. Mattresses that feel like they're stuffed with golfballs. Bed bugs. Military checkpoints with ugly sargents holding uglier guns. Noise pollution. Dust. Bad, bad cumbia turned way to loud. No purified water so we've been taping plastic bags to ourselves beneath our pants to avoid nasty messes during bus rides. Altitude sickness. Severe cold at 14,000 feet and still freezing with all of our clothes on. Nigua, a wierd toenail mite you get from going barefoot in the wrong sandy beach, chomping away beneath my big toenail, and the only reason I can't feel it is because I'm recovering from another bout of scabies. At least I know it's not monkey herpies. You should look up monkey herpies on line. You might have it yourself.

Click click, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I finally tuned into an American news channel last week (we finally got a hotel with cable TV!) and I just about lost my head. Here's what it said before the commercial break:

Next up, the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. How we've stretched our disaster resources to thin. And how you can help just by going out to dinner.

Problem: disaster
Problem: poor government spending
Solution: Consume more.

Yeah, that's the way to help. How 'bout a rock through the White House window?

On hotmail: how you can help by clicking here. On my bank statements: how you can help by checking this box. On my phone bill: help victims by clicking this box.

I fucking donate 25% of everything I make to the government, just like everyone else, yet I'm hounded for more! Oh gee, I wonder what hapened to our tax money??!!

Community participation and political activism in 21st century USA: consume and click. On with the show.

Sorry for the rant.

Goddamnit, I'm Mexican

So I'm sitting in my hotel room today, writing away, and the neighbor suddenly cranks up Los Tigres del Norte. I'm instantly filled with joy and a longing for home, to hang out with my buggie drinking beers on his porch, his own porch, which he owns himself and which is sure to be a place for his friends in the future. I'm filled with a longing to hear corridos on the radio, norteño music in restaurants, blaring from cars rolling through my neighborhood. Hell, that's the shit I heard all my life. That and KFAT.

I belive in the concept of mañana. I´ll say yes to some things just to be kind, and then bale out later. I do what I can to save face, both for you and for me. I crave carne asada tacos, carnitas, chilaquiles. I want to squeeze lemon into my soup. Hell, I want to squeeze lemon on everything. I want to hear the old ladies calling me mijo. Corazón. I can't stop saying "¡Órale!" I can never find that fucking chingadera when I want to. I get angry when Argentines destroy Mexican food. I like big butts. I grew up trying to understand my neighbors talking in Spanish. The Royal Emperors had headquarters down the street from my house (until they got busted). All those years working in restaurants, the only people in the business I could ever stand were the Mexicans.

If all this is true, well then, shit - aren't I even just a little bit Mexican?
MT? Am I? Can I be an honorary Mexican?

Bus Race

Today we got in a three-way bus race coming out of the toll booth on the road to Ambato. It was fucking hilarious! Three buses side by side, all full, and we hit it full blast toward the two lane road (complete with right curve) ahead.

It was tight outta the booths, but then the bus to our left lagged and I saw the driver and ticket taker busting up. The red bus on our right was half a bus-length ahead of us, and our driver nailed it and we passed him going up the hill. Aimee and I gave the victory fists-up at the other driver as we passed him and he responded with the good ol' three-honk toot and a flash with the brights.

Of course, right after we passed the other buses, to passengers yelled for a stop and the other buses flew past us honking.

That was our second bus ride today. The first was a hairball decent from Sigchos in fog so thick no one could see and the rocks were so slick and muddy that we thought fer sure it was the end.

Ecuadorian bus drivers are the most skilled drivers in the world. They're fucking lunatics, but they definitely know how to move a thirty foot rig around.