El Viaje Primero

The clouds were passing very thick and white across the long, glimmering length of ocean and beach behind us. We sat at the bar of La Palapa, a Mexican restaurant with good tequila and expensive frozen drinks. She shuffled the cards and I stared at her warmly as she neatly interleaved them at the corners and then slid them together into her hands. It was hot. The counter was wet and sticky from sugar and syrup and spilled drinks, and the cards were getting soggy and bent as we played. My luck had run out since the day before. I had held onto a respectable lead and it had irritated her, and now she was playing to win. She smiled and laughed and relished in her victory as she won over and over again. A pair of bees, rum-drunk from all the alcohol in the drinks, swarmed around me and menaced my head and hands as I tried to focus on softening my losses.

"This is hopeless," I said. 

Laughing and rolling her body toward mine she said, "I'm glad. Now you know how it feels."

“You do, too."

Out on the beach the waves hissed as they fell and sunk into the sand. Giant pelicans floated high over the shore like feathery fighter jets, waiting for the right moment to dive down and splash into the water for a fish. 

"It's your turn," she said. 

"Is it? Sorry, I feel out of it."

"We don't have to keep playing if you don't want to," she said with a smirk. 

I played a few more hands and lost more than I won. We walked outside and went past the sweating maitre de toward the beach boardwalk which was hot even under the clouds. We'd been in Puerto Vallarta for a few days now. Most of the time we found ourselves walking the length of the malceon, stopping here and there for a cold margarita or to look at a piece of art, all while being pestered by people who tried to sell us things we didn't need or want. Other times we laid on the beach drinking cheap Mexican beer sold to us at exorbitant prices as the sun pressed itself against our sunscreened skin. At night, after a day of drunken leisure, we'd roam the cobblestone streets of the city in search of an authentic Mexican restaurant or a solid street taco. After, we'd walk back to the hotel room and kiss and fuck and fall asleep. Before the trip I'd never been to another country, never mind with a girlfriend. I'd been to Canada twice, but that hardly counts; English is the dominant language there and the place is barely different enough from America to be called a separate country. That's not the case in Mexico, even in a tourist town. Perhaps especially in a tourist town. 

As soon as we landed we made our way through the airport to stock up on some local currency: pesos. We waited in line in front of what we thought was an ATM but instead turned out to be a bus ticketing machine. Luckily we realized before feeding it 2000 pesos each. No one ever tells you about the sinks in a Mexican airport. They don't have motion sensors, or handles that can be lifted or turned. I tried three different sinks before considering I might be doing something wrong. Beneath the faucet dangled a strange metal rod with a bulbed bottom. I tried pushing it up with my hand but nothing happened. A moment later someone else appeared beside me and applied a liberal amount of soap to his hands. I watched curiously to find out what his next move would be, half hoping to see him struggle as I had, if nothing else for confirmation of my own sanity. Instead water gushed from the tap and, after drying his hands, he was gone. Huh. I walked to the sink he'd used and inspected it for any variances. Nope, same sink. Suddenly he reappeared to claim the sunglasses he'd left behind. "Push it to the side," he said. Ah, of course. 

We walked out of the airport and crossed an overpass perched above the highway. It terminated at a dirty, half-busy looking Mexican joint. We were starving so we approached the entrance. Something felt out of place. I suddenly felt unexpectedly anxious and indecisive. After a minute of hushed deliberation we awkwardly decided to get something closer to the hotel and hailed a cab. We drove through streets full of dilapidated storefronts and old buildings showing clear signs of disrepair. The streets looked dirty. A decrepit old Volkswagen beetle passed by and kicked up soot and black smog that choked the air. I felt like I was backsliding. There was a certain dizziness about landing. The subtle imbalance and wobbliness of arriving in a different country, especially one with such obvious signs of poverty, had my head spinning. More than that there was the feeling of guilt; the realization that this town was a byproduct of American exploitation.

After a day or so the guilt receded. Numbed to it, I began to relax. Drinking helped. There’s something palliative about sustained sunshine, margaritas and Mexican food. They soften and slow the mind, almost to a fault. Because it was the week of New Year’s Eve, all of the resorts and restaurants along the beach were full. Tourists flocked to chains like Señor Frogs, Bubba Gump Shrimp and McDonalds. Why, I’m not sure. There was plenty of good, local food a stones throw in any direction, but there is safety in familiarity I suppose. One day, while walking through the city on high sidewalks paved with uneven, half caved-in bricks, we stumbled upon a streetcart selling delicious smelling tacos. The cart was called Moreno’s. We sat down on the dark metal benches and placed our orders. After my first grande taco, I couldn’t help but order a second. The experience was odd though. There was the feeling of being an intruder, of being secretly unwanted. Never before had I experienced what it was like to be a complete outsider, a minority in a foreign land. When I spoke the language I knew I must have seemed a bumbling fool, displaying all the grace, eloquence and mastery of a four-year-old who’d just thrown up on his shirt. What’s worse was that it was unclear whether this feeling was real or imagined. It could have easily been a projection of my own feelings of inadequacy and general helplessness stemming from the knowledge that I couldn't effectively communicate. I didn’t even know how to say “toilet paper.” Papel de baño? 

Speaking of toilet paper. It would be a point of pride for me to be able to say I went to Mexico without suffering the wrath of Montezuma’s revenge. And I almost did, save for one morning after visiting Moreno’s for the second time. Before we left the hotel room my stomach had been feeling a bit off. I had slight heartburn and Holly had given me a pack of Tums.

“How many should I take,” I asked her.

“Just one, I think. They’re extra strength."

“Fuck it, I’ll take two, just to be safe.”

Back at the taco stand, as I took the last bite of my lunch, I felt something inside my stomach crawl and then putrefy menacingly. Maybe it was the Tums, I thought. We left and walked aimlessly through the town in search of somewhere to get a drink, possibly a snack. We were on the outskirts of civilization, in a veritable no man’s land when it hit me. I had to take a frothy brown piss, and I didn’t have much time. I knew where we were, and I knew that there weren’t any bathrooms nearby. I quickened my pace. When we passed the block with the bus depot I was battling the urge to break into a light jog. It was important to me to maintain a poised and cool exterior. “Let’s swing by Margaritaville for a drink,” I said. I knew the place was called Margarita Grill, but we’d cutely been calling it by the wrong name the entire time and I wanted to stay true to form so she wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. When we turned the block I darted for the bathroom. I must have been wide-eyed and sweating, as panic stricken as a car racing the wrong way down a one way street. A worker in the back saw me and immediately asked, “baño?” as he pointed me in the opposite direction. Relief was close, I could feel it. The thought occurred to me that the bathroom might be single occupancy, that there might be someone already inside, and I prayed to Jesus Christo that wouldn’t be the case. When I got to the door I found it unlocked and unoccupied. Hurriedly I ran in and tried to shut the door. A horrifically Pavlovian thing happens to the body when it knows it’s inside a bathroom. In extreme cases of distress certain muscles begin to twitch and tremble, flirting with the idea of relief, regardless of whether your pants are still on. This meant I had only seconds. But the door wouldn’t close. I pulled it open and tried again. And again. Still no luck. Something was blocking it. My intestines were bubbling, kicking from the inside. Frantically, I eyed the crack of the door and found that there was a wreath precariously placed so that each time I tried to close the door it swung out into the crack and prevented the door from closing. I shut it more slowly this time, taking care to avoid displacing the wreath, but the goddamned wreath still found its way in between the door. I cried out in frustration and started yanking madly at the wreath until I ripped it clean off the door and I hurled it into the sink behind me. I locked the door and sat down just in time for the avalanche. After, back at the bar, when I relayed the story to Holly she laughed uncontrollably at my misfortune and nearly fell off her chair. We decided, as a cautionary measure, that we should remain that day at all times in close proximity to a restroom. So we did. 

On one of the nights we'd gone out to a high-end restaurant, to see what finer things Puerto Vallarta had to offer. We made a reservation and walked there, arriving right on time. It was fancy. We were seated outside, in the back, on a romantically lit patio decorated with exotic plants that lent the impression of being in a jungle. We ordered the tasting menu with the wine pairing. We didn't realize it at the time, but this meant we'd receive a full glass of wine with every course. The meal started with an oyster covered in foam. It was perhaps one of the most delicious oysters I've ever tasted in my life. In the middle there was a pumpkin soup with something indescribably creamy in it, and at the end we received a piece of duck cooked so expertly that the meat fell right off the bone if you looked at it long enough. The meal was incredible. The creme brûlée was so good it was criminal. Still, I think my favorite meal had been the night we'd drunkenly bought a roast chicken. It had been placed into an aluminum foil sack full of roasted potatoes and handed to us with two plastic containers; one full of beans and the other rice. We walked back to the hotel, intent to eat our dinner on the beach, when we realized we didn't have any utensils. In the hotel restaurant we bargained with our lives for plastic forks and knives. On a darkened beach we found two empty chairs separated by a propitiously placed small table. We sat and ate. The chicken was mouthwatering. I ate it with my bare hands, which felt warm and juicy against the cool ocean air. The skin was so flavorful that we each let out small moans of satisfaction after each bite.

The days bled together. The listlessness and leisure permeated even the clocks, caking the gears with sand and heat. Everywhere there was the smell of coconuts, salty air and sunscreen. On one particular corner, down the block from Margarita Grill, there was the foul smell of hot, fetid trash, which was unfortunate because a beautiful mural decorated the wall there, made of cut glass and colorful stones which swirled and danced over the building's face. The malceon, which stretched almost the entire length of the playa, sometimes smelled sweetly of fried carnival foods and Spanish corn. In the evening, the artwork would glow and big, brilliant piñatas would illuminate the night. Street performers danced and sang and played wooden flutes for the nonstop stream of passerbys. Once, on nearly clear night, we stopped by the shore to sit and watch the waves. Out in the darkness, floating like a buoy on the water was a pale and stoic pelican. Holding hands, nestled up against one another, we watched him on the waves. 

"He looks lonely," I said. 

"Yeah."

"Oh, look, he's got a friend."

Another pelican emerged from the darkness and sat near him. 

"Lie down with me," she asked as she flattened her back against the ground. 

We stared up at the thin, wispy clouds drifting across the sky. Little stars poked through, glimmering like blue diamonds caught in a celestial wash of cotton. A feeling of vast insignificance blew in from the ocean and floated down from the sky above.

"Look at all the people," she said, "they look slanted."

Arching my neck, I tilted my head back to see all the upside down people behind me. They did seem strange, almost insectile; a sea of clothed bugs clamoring around a piece of fruit. Looking down at us, some of them held eye contact for too long as they passed. I wondered whether they thought we were drunk or on drugs. In a hushed voice a nearby panhandler told me he had de weed en de blow. He told me he had it right now. His urgent expression seemed to suggest it was something I needed to have. I thanked him and told him we were fine. His sweating face receded like a squid-ink shadow into the crowd. Eventually we left the spot, passing through the teeming throngs of people and the barking toy poodles with flashing lights for eyes, and made our nightly voyage back to the hotel.

Sometimes, in the night, after having dreamt she'd been taken, or having forgotten entirely she was in bed beside me, I'd wake up and reach for her in the dark, just to feel her there. When I would touch her, goosebumps would spread out over her legs and soft breaths and sighs would float from her mouth as she'd gently wake and pull me nearer. A note, full, resonant, and deep hummed inside me and harmonized with hers. I felt a rising wave pulling, lifting us up to that brief place of buoyancy and patiently holding us there. Until earlier that day I didn't know what it was like to feel the pull of the tide. Since I was a child, and because I never learned how to swim, I hadn't set foot in the ocean. I never wanted to. The ocean had always represented a beautiful, aqueous sort of danger to me, and fear kept my feet in the sand. That'd all changed when I followed her into the water. I loved the symbolism of it. Hand in hand, smiling, laughing, with mouths and eyes full of saltwater, we battled an endless ocean of waves. Some of them clobbered us, some of them we moved through with ease, but through all of them we had each other; in the unforgiving, uncaring largeness of it all, we weren't alone. She laughed at me and found my apprehension endearing. I felt clumsy but her happy nature was contagious and soon I couldn't wipe the salty wet smile from my face. Suddenly we were in a place so sacred even gravity had to loosen its hold on us.

The sky was clear and blue and brilliant the day before we left. We woke and decided we should leave the city and head south, to visit Puerto Vallarta's botanical garden. We found a bus to Tuito that would take us there and we arrived just as it was to depart. We climbed on, sat on the side nearest the ocean, and stared out through the dirty, partially cracked bus window. The drive was 30 minutes of curvy coastal roads that twisted in and out of thick jungle overgrowth, mountains and palm trees. Every so often the bus would decelerate, almost to a complete stop, to roll slowly over a speed bump. Next to us, a Mexican kid played high-BPM dance music loudly from his cell phone speakers. Soon we arrived at our destination. We were immediately scammed into paying for a giant bottle of Off insect repellent, to protect us from all two of the mosquitos we would later find in the garden. After reapplying some sunscreen, and a liberal dose of our newly purchased and much needed Off, we headed to the trailhead. 

We passed through hanging gardens and walked over an old swinging rope bridge, we ambled across a small creek and tried hard to avoid killing little lines of traveling ants. It was hot, so it felt good to be in the shade. Eventually we emerged at a narrow path filled with many butterflies. In the distance there was a faint and far away music; the sound of violin and slow Spanish guitar. Butterflies of all sorts and colors flittered and fluttered with an easy, languid grace. A stone stairway led us down to a wide river and we waded in it. It was icy and refreshing on our legs. Upstream a few naked children splashed in the water with their families. We followed the sound of music and found ourselves scaling the stairs of a large restaurant with a gift store at the bottom. When we got to the top we walked past the band and took a seat at a nearly empty bar. They made perfect piña coladas. We left before we were tempted to have a second round. On the way back to the hotel I asked the bus driver to let us know when we arrived at Punta Negra, a beach I remembered reading about once before. He did, and we spent a few hours there in the water. I jumped in wearing cargo shorts and underwear. She buried her wallet and our phones and all our money in the sand. I hid my camera under my hat and kept a watchful eye on our belongings from the water. For a long while we laughed and jumped through waves, kissing as they came. Later, when we got back to the hotel I couldn't find my ID or hotel key. 

"I could have sworn I put them in your shoe," I said, as we both looked down at her black pair of Keds. 

"I don't remember seeing anything," she said, taking them off. She shook out the shoes and a card fell out of each one.

Mental Health Day

I haven't had a chance to write about last week. Better late than never:

On Thursday, after a long night of cracking cold ones with the boys, I took a much needed mental health day. Because of the bed I'd slept in on Wednesday, which had been made completely out of wood, my spine ached terribly and my neck was stiffer than a pedo's pecker in a pediatrician's office. My head hurt, and so did my ass, from sleeping all night on Pinocchio's dick. Earlier that night, while out on the town with my two guests, I'd eaten a wine-soaked pizza, suffered a staggering defeat in a game of two-on-one pool, organized a tour of some of the Mission district's finest dive bars, and then got berated for falling in love with a younger girl, which, I was later told, is frowned upon once a man has reached his thirtieth year. I call bullshit, of course, because the one sharing this morsel of truth was herself over thirty and clearly craving some younger man meat, but, perhaps I am just committing the other cardinal sin they accused me of: not admitting wrongdoing. After I was tried for my crimes, I'd been sentenced to eat at a hispanic bodega called That's It. Even at the time of our post-midnight arrival, a few local patrons had been waiting in line to order what was listed on the menu as a quesadilla, but which was something far more ambiguous: imagine a transgendered taco. What in another life had most certainly been a quesadilla was transformed into a sort of late-night abomination as startling and irresistible as a cock-sized clit. Tres cockos, por favor.  We walked home and cracked our final cold one with the boys before retiring well past 2:00.

So, on Thursday, we set out to seize the day once more. I called out of work and we went and got breakfast; pancakes, bacon, eggs, coffee, juice and mimosas. We drove to Muir Woods and looked at tall, thousand-year-old trees. The New Yorkers were blown away by the sheer size of the redwoods. Hiking through trails they stopped to snap countless photos and stare at nature's splendor which, I'd forgotten, is superabundant in California. As we were departing, clearly unversed in the language of universal human symbolism and signage, Nicole, ignoring the sign which showed a hiking person trapped inside a prohibitory sign, traipsed off the trail and into a recovering habitat. Nicole, I yelled, but it was too late. She'd trampled over what must have been dozens of helpless infant plants. I alone heard their cries. Ignoring my plea, she bent down and picked up a shiny looking twig before returning to the area approved for pedestrian traffic. What, she asked, with mild irritation. I pointed to the sign. Whoops, I didn't see it. She brushed me off as one of those alarmist, tree-hugger types, claiming, after I told her about how she'd destroyed a young and blossoming environment, that I'd been living in California too long and had become a soft little bitch. It was only when a disgruntled bluejay appeared, admonishing her for stealing a twig essential for the safe construction of a home for his family, that Nicole admitted she may have overstepped a boundary.

We drove northward on winding roads, through the miles of beautiful golden hills and bristling open meadows full of horses and cows. The sun, turning fields of yellow flowers into luminous lakebeds of glowing light, as we hit Tomales Bay, shimmered on top of the gentle water in soft, sparkling ripples. Sitting on the bay at Hog Island, we ate barbecued oysters and then shucked some of our own. Buena Vista Social Club played while a pair of deer, unaware and unconcerned with us human onlookers, amused themselves in the nearby brush. Complete perfection, save for the bees. Dozens of them swarmed us, stingers ready, crawling on our hands and assailing the air around our faces while they inspected the quality of the oysters. Proudly I notified my friends of my striking composure, explaining my extreme aversion to flying insects, especially ones that sting. While trying fruitlessly to showcase how much I'd grown, how much I'd overcome - literally in that very moment - my lifelong fear of bees, neither Alphonzarelli nor Nicole were impressed. Frankly, and with a happy, contented smile, I told them to go fuck themselves.

Driving back to San Francisco, we were greeted by an eager policeman after having allegedly "rolled through" a stop sign. None of us recalled anything other than the seemingly objective complete stop, but everyone knows an officer's subjectivity trumps collective fact and otherwise damning eye-witness testimony. Alph had a small, single drink the entire time we'd been at Hog Island, and it was consumed immediately upon arrival, so there was no way he was intoxicated. When the cop arrived at the passenger window however, he leaned in and said, "so who's been drinking." What a greeting, I thought to myself, biting my tongue and trying hard not to worsen an already stressful situation. Faggot. Whoops. What?, he said. Oh, I mean, I'm a faggot. The only thing I've been drinking today is cum. Can you step out of the vehicle. No, I don't think that will be necessary. Are you refusing to comply? What ever happened to mutual consent? The next thing I remember is being viciously dragged from the car. I wasn't driving, why am I being given a breathalyzer? Oddly, I'd never seen a flesh-colored breathalyzer machine before. But, come to think of it, I'd never actually seen a breathalyzer. I blew on it and remember thinking it smelled funny, kind of musty, as though it hadn't been properly cleaned since its last use. Only after the patrolman convinced Alfalfa to softly whistle the alphabet backwards into his open nostrils did he let us go. Fucking pigs.

A dinner reservation had been secured for 7:30, at a Peruvian restaurant on highway one, but we needed to get back to the city, shower, and change before heading south to eat. The incident with the traffic ticket had cost us some precious minutes. We rushed, all of us entering the shower at the same time, washing each other like wet elephants and plucking giant dingleberries from our ass-hair like apes, until we were squeaky clean in record time. Not wanting to drive any longer, Al suggested we take an Uber, and we did. Because we managed to arrive early, we sat downstairs and drank pisco sours to celebrate our punctuality. Soon we were seated in front of an enormous window overlooking the pacific ocean. Cups of delicious ceviche had been placed in front of us, along with lovely glasses of chilled white wine. We ate and smiled and talked of how perfect the day had been. The sky, free from any unwanted fog that might have crept in and ruined an otherwise sunny evening, had been clear and lent a spectacular view of the sunset. We watched through the window, over the silhouetted head of a balding man with a wispy tuft of hair, as the sun blazed in all of its glory into a simmering sea. Then we ate the heart of a cow. And had lomo. And paella. And chocolate cake and ice-cream with Peruvian beer and fernet.

On the way home someone farted in the back of the Uber. Nicole said it wasn't her because she was asleep. Alfeef, quoting Shaggy, said, "it wasn't me." I believe him. My money is on sleeping beauty.

She got that woke booty.

Hwoes Before Bros

Precious little time to write tonight. Friends from the least coast are voyaging best as we speak. The hwoe is arriving before the bro - who is actually her cousin, and who gets here sometime tomorrow - so I'll have to gather her and her collection of luggage packed full of cosmetics and feminine hygiene products from the airport this evening. I've rented a U-Haul for the trip. I'm hoping it's large enough.

I expect she'll be hungry and utterly unruly when she lands. Before her departure I received a flurry of texts and photos, one of which included a picture of her clutching a fistful of shrimp wrapped in a greasy bed of lettuce and dripping with cocktail sauce, indicating she was taking them aboard as a snack. She also told me she "felt kind of cool" because, as she arrived to the gate, hauling an armoire on wheels and swinging a school of dead shrimp in her hand, she heard her name being announced over the loudspeaker. Apparently she was the last person to board the plane, and because of this they forced her to check her cavalcade of luggage. Irate at having been singled out and publicly demoralized, she took the opportunity to take advantage of United by demanding free drinks for the duration of her flight under the threat of a social media explosion. The last text I received from her read, "lil bitches rushed me for nothing." I don't know if she was talking about the shrimp or the flight attendants. Either way, she'll be ready to consume the souls of countless men in San Francisco. I've heard they taste as good as airplane food.

The week's weather forecast is full of sunshine and auspicious skies, but I'll need to find a way of faking my death in order to dispense with work for a day or two so I can party with my old friends. It's hard working two jobs; tech-worker by day and tour-guide by...also by day, and hostel operator by night. Always it seems there is never enough time. For anything. How ironic that our most precious resource is squandered, in large part, on the monotonous and mundane, the supremely quotidian drudgery none of us very much enjoys. We live out our lives in this way, at great cost to ourselves, experientially, only ever achieving a fraction of what we'd hoped to see or do. An entire world awaits us while we move over and over again in the same domestic circles, eschewing the new and novel for the safe and familiar. Madness.

I have made little in the way of plans, hoping instead for them to spread their hatchling wings and fly about the city on their own. In fact, my longtime bro, Alfons, the cousin who will be driving up to San Francisco from a bachelor party LA, will be fine left to his own device. In New York, he's what's referred to as a hipster; he knows all the latest fads and trends, and despises them with appropriately wrathful measure; he's privy to all the latest crazes in obscure art, music and food, and likely already knows about places to check out that haven't even opened yet. I have a perfectly chilled pack of Red Stripe, the only lager he'll drink, special imported straight from Jamaica and waiting in the fridge for him when he gets here. And while he might not tell me he's happy for the beer, or show any outward sign of excitement or approval short of a compulsory "rad," I'll know he's grateful in his own way. He's already told me he intends to borrow and ruin my only tent on some kind of gay camping retreat with his buddies in a town called Glansville, or Glansland or some shit like that. Just imagining the amount of scrubbing required to remove the gobs of spilled, caked-on semen which will surely have decorated the inside and outside of the tent to look like a Jackson Pollock painting, makes me shudder with horror. Perhaps I'll ask for a prized possession of his, as collateral. In exchange for the tent I'll take the Nirvana smiley-face pin he keeps casually adhered to the lapel of his denim jacket. That should suffice.

Speaking of Nirvana:

I'm so happy because today
I've found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cause so are you
We've broken our mirrors
Sunday morning is everyday for all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles in a daze
'Cause I've found god
Hey, hey, hey

I'm so lonely but that's okay I shaved my head
And I'm not sad
And just maybe I'm to blame for all I've heard
But I'm not sure
I'm so excited, I can't wait to meet you there
But I don't care
I'm so horny but that's okay
My will is good
Hey, hey, hey

I like it, I'm not gonna crack
I miss you, I'm not gonna crack
I love you, I'm not gonna crack

I killed you, I'm not gonna crack

I like it, I'm not gonna crack
I miss you, I'm not gonna crack
I love you, I'm not gonna crack
I killed you, I'm not gonna crack

Novelty Nirvana

The room was small, pitch black, and full of warm, salt-soaked water. It was more of a cell than a room, quite literally designed for those seeking the cutting edge in solitary confinement. For a small fee, adventurous meditators can pay to be placed for an hour into this square submersible coffin to enjoy the spacious ceilings and contemplate their mortality, or test the boundaries of their claustrophobia. To get in and out of the room there is a small mortuary door, about the size of a human body, that clasps firmly shut and blots out any outside light or air. Upon entering the box, freshly showered and completely nude - save for a flashy pair of orange earplugs - I quickly noticed there was absolutely no difference between closing my eyes and having them open, and no amount of time would allow them to adjust to the darkness. As I lowered myself into the warm water, I was taken by a powerful buoyancy which, for the first time in my life, allowed me to float on my back. Always in water, no matter how much might I try to breathe and relax, my body just sinks like a stone to the bottom of the pool. But not here. Here I giggled with delight at the sensation of weightlessness as I floated like a happy seal.

Before long I was focused only on my breathing. Because of the earplugs, and because my head was completely underwater except for the area around my eyes, nose and mouth, the sound of my breath had been augmented to sound like an astronaut's. Suddenly there was the impression of being in the comforting hollows of a womb. Then of infinite space. Then, of death. Stanley Kubrick, eat your fucking heart out. With my mind emptied and my senses all muted, I wondered how closely the experience emulated death. For many people, such a realization might produce profound fear, or a sudden existential panic, but instead the idea seemed to calm me, pushing me deeper into the meditation, allowing me to compare and contrast the earliest stages of life with those of the last. Next a sense of timelessness washed over me, and it was unclear whether five minutes had passed, or twenty. Not that it mattered, I was completely adrift, an amniotic astronaut, a sea lion just floating on the abyss.

An odd thing happens after a while, where the subtle, almost imperceptible currents in the water - which must arise from the pulsing of the heart and the breath - begin to produce a slow disorientation. At times there is a maddening sense of swinging, as though for a moment the strength and direction of gravity have changed, tugging the whole of reality towards some darkened corner which might be two inches, or two miles away. The only analogue I can think of would be a paper boat perched on a puddle after a rain, the breeze catching its sails and sending it spinning wildly on the whims of the wind.

Strangely, I found the experience wasn't nearly as intense or meditative as I was led to believe. People told me of terrible anxieties, of the possibility for full blown hallucinations, and other unpleasantries rivaling those of a bad acid trip. None of that happened, though. Perhaps the novelty of it all overshadowed the act of meditation, creating distraction instead of focus. But more than anything the experience instilled in me an unflappable calm. I tried to sink deeper into the meditative state, but I was but a buoy. Sure, I was breathing long and slow, and my mind was as still as the surface of the water, but that was all. It became clear that I would not achieve heaviosity while floating there - the rules of density simply would not allow it.

What I did come into contact with was a very mild, diet-soda sort of nirvana as I bordered on a state of non-being. In that moment death seemed less scary. Even in the moment it was clear this was illusory, because it is only through being that we can even contemplate non-being. Ruminating on non-being is one thing, but actually being non-being is another still inconceivable thing. So, in fact, this experience tells me nothing of death. No experience can. Because there is no experiential quality in death: there is only the moment of dying. Death, by definition, is to not experience. Anything. Ever agin. We can glean no insights, except for those inferred through an impossible negation.

The closest we can ever know of death is dreamless unconsciousness, a vacuum into which awareness cannot penetrate or escape, and whose only hallmark is oblivion.

Becoming a Commie or The Lying Libation

The fireworks will be starting soon. I've realized The Fourth of July isn't one of my favorite holidays. Well, it is if I'm eating burgers and hotdogs and drinking, but this year none of those things interest me much. Slowly but surely, I'm becoming a Commie. Lately drinking just doesn't give me the same satisfaction it used to. Perhaps I'm getting old, but instead of enjoying it my mind fixates on how bad I might feel tomorrow, or how drinking doesn't make much sense, about how bloated my stomach is, or how the likelihood of going to the gym falls off with each successive beer, how I'm damaging my brain and liver and who knows what else.

I'm starting to believe people only trick themselves into thinking drinking is enjoyable. It's not the drinking they like - it's the feelings associated with it; lightness, warmth, affability, openness, comfort, happy frivolity. In this way alcohol becomes a crutch that serves to atrophy instead of rehabilitate. We're all trying to mainline happiness one glass at a time. We rely on alcohol to provide us with these feelings instead of cultivating them ourselves. Alcohol encourages dependance, it enslaves while selling a lie of liberation. If you want proof of alcohol's ugliness, hang out at the bar but don't drink. Observe how people behave when they're drunk. It won't be long before you'll want to leave.

Perhaps I should make a distinction between drinking and drunkenness. Surely one can drink without becoming oafish or aggressive or slurring one's words. Having two drinks and stopping at a buzz is an enviable and achievable goal, but few (if any) of my friends drink this way. In fact, I've only seen a handful of people between the ages of eighteen and thirty "drink responsibly." All-night binge drinking is the commonest and most preferred method of consumption. Maybe I shouldn't poopoo The 4th and drinking. Who doesn't like colorful explosions and alcohol? Dogs, for sure, and probably those handless men among us who've only semi-successfully mixed the two. The true American patriots.

Instead of partying, to celebrate our nation's independence I went to the gym and ran errands, read, napped, and then vigorously masturbated until I induced several sizable penile edemas which required much icing and ibuprofen to reduce. It was like a Sunday.

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Know it sounds funny
But, I just can't stand the pain
Girl, I'm leaving you tomorrow
Seems to me girl
You know I've done all I can
You see I begged, stole, and I borrowed! (Yeah)

Ooh that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning!

Why in the world would anybody put chains on me?
I've paid my dues to make it
Everybody wants me to be
What they want me to be
I'm not happy when I try to fake it. No!

Ooh that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning!

I wanna be high, so high
I wanna be free to know
The things I do are right
I wanna be free
Just me! Whoa, oh! Babe!

That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning, yeah
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning, whoa
'Cause I'm easy
Easy like Sunday morning, yeah
'Cause I'm easy
Easy like Sunday morning whoa

Who Wears Short Shorts

I story I was told recently:

So there was this chick I used to date, she was beautiful. The girl looked like Madonna. I mean, she had million dollar legs. There used to be this commercial, "Who wears short shorts?" and she was lined up to be in it. She had an appointment with a photographer and everything. But she was crazy. She was the kind of girl that would hit you if she didn't like what you were saying. I mean literally hit you. One time we were out and I was driving. It was late and I'd gotten tired so I told her I was taking her home. "What a load of bullshit," she said, "you're not tired, you're gonna drop me off and then go out with your friends." I'm not, I told her. So, she punched me right in the face. I almost crashed the car. After I pulled over, I tried to drag her out of the car. I was fed up. Kicking and screaming and clawing, I finally got her out. As I'm walking around to my door she jumped onto the hood of the car and kicked my windshield in. I couldn't believe it. So I ran around to the other side of the car, fuming mad, yelling, and I grabbed her, fighting with her there in the street. A local guy, called Lizard, big guy, comes running out of the bar and tells me to leave the girl alone. "Lizard," I tell him, "mind your fucking business, look at my fucking car, get outta here." Now I gotta worry about fighting this guy, too. But he was a punk, and he ran back inside. She was crying and hitting at me, and I couldn't get rid of her, so I threw her back in the car and drove home. She wanted nothing to do with me. When I got there I told my father to take her home, I was done with her. But after a few days, I was back with her.

She was the kind of girl you couldn't walk down the street with. Everybody wanted to fuck her. Cars would be honking horns, assholes would be whistling, cat calling hey baby and all that shit. You couldn't go anywhere without getting into a fight. One day, this guy Arthur, he was a mob guy, well-dressed, sharp, comes bursting out of a barber shop as we're walking by. Goes right past me and starts putting the moves on her - in front of my face. The guy had no respect. Now what am I gonna do? I'm gonna have to fight this guy, and I'm probably gonna get my ass beat. Even if I don't, and I beat his ass, then I'll have his mob boys on me. I hated being in these situations. But she was crazy though, she'd hit him over the head with a stick or a bottle; there was no way she was gonna let me get my ass kicked. I was lucky this time, she told him she was with me, grabbed my arm and kept walking. Just stoned cold dissed him.

So, I was out on my motorcycle one day. And you know me, I liked to party. Before I took a shower, I ate a few Tuinal. They were barbiturates. They don't make them anymore, but they made you feel drunk, like you were floating. I used to eat a lot of them. My tolerance was so high that if you gave a normal guy the dose I was taking, it would kill him. I ate them like candy. So I'm cruising, and then I see her. She's all dolled up and I tell her to get on and come for a ride. I swear to god I'm not driving a few blocks, when all of a sudden, some dumb motherfucker cuts me off and slams on his brakes. So I hit the brakes and try to swerve around him. As I cleared his car I lost control of the bike and we went down. Got thrown off the bike and we both went sliding onto gravel. Ripped us up bad. She was wearing shorts.

She was supposed to see the photographer the next day. Instead we're lying in the hospital, her legs all bandaged up like a mummy, and she's cursing me out, crying, calling me every name in the god damned book. How was I supposed to know the guy was gonna cut me off?