Sunday, February 28, 2010


“Excuse me pumpkin, would you happen to know where the bathroom is?”

¿Donde está el baño, querida?

“Yes ma’am, just down the hall, first right, then second left. It’ll be the one with a slender woman on the door.”

“Thanks a lot for— Hey, wait a minute pal. Are you trying to call me fat?”

¿Soy una vaca? Debo dejar de comer?

I looked down at my feet and watched them wiggle. There was a chunk of huitlacoche on my right foot. Puta.

“Are you listening to me mister?”

She was screaming at my nose as if it were a small child – in the classic, patronizing Leave It To Beaver manner.

In that moment all I could think about was huitlacoche and the last time I actually got to eat some. There was that trip down to Mexico a few years back where I ended up drinking far too many passionfruit-agave margs with oiled up nitwits. That damned trance music and the constant thud of Jägerbombs was surprisingly in sync. It always went thud-thud-boom-boom in double repetition, but never boom-boom-thud-thud. Sort of like We Will Rock You sans the leading gay man. This time it was hair gel that replaced spandex bodysuits.

The trip’s mission was comidas exóticas. Cabo Wabo Reposado, Monte Alban Mezcal, J. Cuervo, Asombroso Anejo, Señor Patron, Señorita Sauza – all were fair game. I had a listed itinerary of what I needed to accomplish. I think it went something like: Drink, Drink, Bamboozle, Drink, Meet the Locals, Meet the Visiting Europeans, Meet Anyone At The Poolside Bar, Tan, Pass Out, Taqueria, Drink, Drink. It was very straightforward from the get-go and I was surprised at the lack of Axe bodyspray within the baggage claim terminal.

Most of the time the percentage of sunglasses worn on the back of the head, upside-down, versus on top of the head or even the jejune style of resting them on the bridge of one’s nose was 80, 15, 5. But this time – this goddamn time – everybody was doing it. So while I’m trying to soak in the fresh air of Meh-hee-co, Snookums right here is rubbing up on hubbub with the flip-flip Oakleys.

I never looked up to see if the fat woman was still there. I just kept staring at the huitlacoche. Dinner was getting cold, and someone was at the door, so I made a quick dash back through the dining room. I’m sure the dear pumpkin of my heart found her way to the powder room, even if it meant being stared down by a regularly-sized woman on the door. I bet she took an extra look at herself in the mirror after cleaning up at the sink, glancing at the side shot, the over the shoulder shot and then the straight-on-put-both-hands-on-my-waist shot.

It’s not that she was a vaca at all – no, no. She just needed a bit of control. So I let her have it. And why not? I’m a squash kind of guy anyway.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Thursday, February 25, 2010


It converges upon a point
I look down at it and wonder
Who could be next, what could be next
Someone once said, take it slow, real slow
Breath in for once, take a gander
Feel it through, deep down, from within
More than you ever have before

Daytime or nighttime, no bother
Study this well to be on top
It is a gift for the gander
A small prize for the short effort
Open up, give in, let it come
There are so many more to see
Seconds to enjoy
Did you

Sunday, February 14, 2010


Salome, dear Salome you dance with such allure
You step in tune with my beat, tempting each time
And when I ask to dance, a shoulder speaks
Sultry yet tainted, mesmerizing to all
This is a game perchance you think to yourself
This is my chance
Each word is a turn, each sentence is a break


Are we winning this
Are you winning this

Come again she says, she whispers it really
Eyes scan breathlessly, what is this touch of skin
Your shoulders were bare you once told me, sometimes
Never constricted, always free

Break, a little

Now is your chance

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Les Câpres



Broken Embraces

El Secreto De Sus Ojos

La Teta Asustada

Un Prophet

White Ribbon

There was once a woman who loved flowers more than life itself. Even when her flowers withered, she would water them as if they were living. So one day a man brought her a new bundle of flowers. She rejected them on the basis that they weren’t hers. “But they’re flowers, are they not?” the man noted.

The man, offended, knew not what to do with them other than to throw them away. So he did.

She returned to her flowers, even though they had withered, and took a long breath – placing her nose near one of the pistils. It still retained the sweet smell she was always so fond of. Her eyes closed, enveloped in a blissful state of tranquility.

The man came over, placed his hand on her shoulder, and leaned in toward the flowers. He took a long breath and imitated what she had done. He looked over at her as he placed his nose near the flower. Her eyes remained closed.

“I don’t smell anything,” he told the woman. “Nothing at all.”

Her eyes still closed, a faint smile grew across her face. She took another breath. She exhaled a soft wind between her lips.

“Did you hear me?”

“Did you?”

“I said nothing at all.”