On Thanksgiving Day, I watched football and ate tacos.  I can’t begin to tell you how important tacos are down here.  You can find them being made on and around every corner here in Puerto Escondido.  Real Food.  Authentic & Abundant.  I am very Thankful that I am being shown the Taco ropes.  I got taken to an underground spot in The Lazaro last week.  Locals Only.  No menu.  No silverware.  Open when it’s open.  It really isn’t even a restaurant OR a spot, rather somebodies backyard.  Flat out knock your dick in the dirt delicious, and a fraction of the cost of say Taco Hell.  Which reminds me of a True Story.  On December 24th, 2010, at 6:30pm, as most normal folk were Caroling About w/ Jack Frost, I sat in my van and ate Jack in the Box tacos on Ocean Avenue for dinner.  You know the ones.  Does it get any more disgusting?  To offset that dog food, and re-establish my street cred., tonight I am having Xmas Eve Dinner at Mayra’s.  You know the one.  Taco Royalty in Puerto Escondido.  Buen Provecho!

The Mexican Pipeline

Here’s one for all my surfer friends.  Especially the over-the-hill pseudo athletic ones that watch all the videos, read all the magazines, and surf Pleasure Point semi-irregularly when it’s two foot:

There are waves at Zicatela beach everyday.  Every single day.  When it’s considered a lake, there are waves.  When infants and toddlers can frolic near the shoreline with Papa, there are waves.  When the Norwegians and Germans are paddling around on the back third of their rented nine foot soft tops, there are waves.  It’s a wave pool.  Every single day.

It’s winter here in Puerto Escondido.    As places like Northern CA and Oregon begin seeing their most powerful surf for the year, Puerto Escondido sees their most playful surf.  Some will say the lip softens up quite a bit down here during the winter months.  I am almost ready to agree with that.  Unfortunately I have a fat lip disproving that theory.

No matter what time of year it is here, there are piping water tubes up and down this amazing beach.  Picture perfect almond shaped barrels.  Big and small.  Sometimes there are surfers in those barrels, but most of the time there are not.  Thousands and thousands of water barrels.  Detonating onto the shallow sandy Pacific Ocean floor like a guillotine.

Today it was six foot.  I would say the faces of the set waves were about 20 feet tall.  I watched from the sand.  Ten guys out.  All the action was happening within 150 yards of the shoreline.  Full Magilla Gorilla.  Lights out powerful.  And my back hurt.  And the internet was down.  And I was hungry.  No wait…thirsty.  And it was closed out.  And I was.  And it was.


30 ft. above sea level, Calle Bajada Las Brisas, Far Bar @ Zicatela, 12/24/11, 9am

Passive Aggressive Prick

Ok, so German guy.  Seemed nice enough.  Gave me a measly 100 peso deposit, we shook hands, and he promised to appear the next day at 11am.  When he showed up at 10:40am, I had the early stages of suspiciousness.  Nobody shows up early for anything around here.  You’re lucky if they show up at all.  So he was early and it was noted.

He played the Passive-Aggressive card.  He came to my penthouse 3x his first night.  First to ask the WiFi password.  Next to ask if I had a wine bottle opener.  Finally to ask(tell) me if(that) there was(wasn’t) hot water.  He told me I should consider a stronger password.  No I don’t and You don’t Need It were my answers to visits #2 and #3.

He talked way too much.  Probably why he has an EX girlfriend.  I don’t know how she could have been with him for five minutes, let alone five years.  He is a professor in Berlin, or maybe he’s not.  I have no idea.  He started in on canines, futbol and Lance Armstrong.  I looked at my my watch and noticed it was time for him to shut the fuck up!

Jackass was in the process of getting my goat.  Big Jim sat me down and explained to me the two most important things about how to handle Passive-Aggressive behavior in our hotel.  First, never ever show anybody where you tie up your goat.  And second, understand that all guests will leave your life way sooner than later.  “Trust me,” he said.

Check this one out.  He asked for the key to the utility closet.  I asked why.  He said he wanted to clean his room.  I opened the closet.  He found me 30 minutes later to tell me that his room is now cleaned the right way, and that I should educate our maid on how to properly do it.  He wanted to know if I wanted to see what he cleaned.  I flinched.

I totally went Jekyl and Hyde on his ass.  I’m good at it too.  I don’t love doing it, but I don’t hate it either.  Sorta takes some talent and wit to create lingering and befuddling impressions like I can.  He couldn’t draw on any of his world experience to battle my new and APProved persona.  He began to tip toe around me.  Ho Ho Ho dickhead!

You missed a spot

I made the Big Man feel welcome.  He was just two days removed from competing in a Mr. Universe qualifying comp. in Germany, and one of those days was a full day of travel to get here.  I was sure he was wacked.  Big Jim brought him coconuts.

He’s a 40 y/o cop from Paris.  Different.  Bodybuilders can get that way at his level.  He tries to fit in here, but it’s impossible.  He boogies.  If I had anything in common with the dude, I am sure I would find him to be Universally different than me.

He likes to tan himself in a tiny thong in the mornings and evenings down at the beach.  I saw him sunning with a pretty Mexican once.  She was topless.  He called me over to them.  The ‘booby’ traps I fall into around here never end.  Solid B cup.

He appeared at my penthouse suite at about 3pm this past Tuesday.  He had a sunscreen bottle in each of his hands.  “Oh don’t fucking tell me!!”  Good Gawd!  Yep, that’s what Biggie wanted.  HOLY CRAP!!  And he wanted lots of it put on too.

Well, did you really do it?  I personally would have told the Hulk to Beat It!  Tell me you didn’t lather the Big Boy up with lotion.   Oh Dude!  That’s Classic!!  You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to do what you just did.  Grow a sack amigo!!



He yelled my name twice from the ground floor.  Maybe even a sharp whistle.  I forget which.  It’s how it’s done around here.  I stopped fighting it.  I get it.  Mexican Doorbell.

He was sending an older couple from Italy up to see me.  Apparently they wanted to stay for a month.  This was going to be interesting.  Hopefully they spoke PigLatin.

He spoke only Italian.  She knew a bit of Spanish.  I love New York Pizza.  He wouldn’t know a bagel if it hit him across the head.  She wasn’t buying into my presentation.

The young French surfers showed up 45 min. later.  In a combo language zey vondered es de coot tenian la cuard perfecto y dinero no pro-lame.  Zees gut?  Seguro en Merci.

Studio 54

On Saturday Night, December 10, 2011, I coordinated a party for thirty people on the roof at Casa Agua Azul.  It was our(my) very first attempt at an event such as this since making the roof of the hotel safe enough to host an event such as this.  A pretty young lady named Madison was turning 21.  I did everything in my power to make it the best night of her entire life.  Damn near killed me!  To be responsible at any level down here is nothing short of miraculous.  You try it!  Anyhoot, I hired The Legend to make fifty, Five Oh, of his famous Puerto Burgers.  I put out an organic spread of beautifully manicured vegetables and various dips and salsas.  I served ICE cold Coronas.  There were twinkly white lights.  There was a Pinata.  We had a cake.  I was supposed to play piano for the first hour, but haired out.  The birthday girl created a play list on her Ipod, and I pumped the volume through my speakers.  The party began at sunset and it shut down at midnight.  As I faded into a tired oblivion, the kids took their party down to the playa.


For Elise

I was resting inside my darkened room.  It was the dead middle of a hot day.  To my surprise, Elise appeared at my sliding glass door.  Her reason?  She said she just hadn’t seen me in a while.  She was in a skimpy bathing suit, and appeared intent on staying a bit.  I quickly tidied up overhauled the bathroom.

She saw my setup.  She apparently had no idea that I am a Piano Man.  I explained to her that I drink alone.  I offered her up an ice cold beer.  I played Going to California, Wild Horses, and a few others.  She had the Madonna thing going with her two front teeth.  She asked if I knew any Beatles.  

I cranked up my wheelhouse.  I played her Something that I just learned Yesterday.  We sang Carry that Weight and Glass Onion as a duo.  She stepped outside for a cigarette.  I desperately needed a cold shower.  She left a personal belonging behind.  One of the oldest tricks in the book.


Maid Service

Part of my job description here at Hotel Royale is that it is description-less.  There is absolutely no telling what a particular day is going to have in store for me.  It could be fixing and cleaning toilets, making copies of keys, doing favors for guests, surfing all day, painting, hiding out in my room and pretending to nap, taking people to the bank so that they can pay us, playing host, or even convincing a young male traveler that two beautiful females slept in his soon-to-be bed for three whole nights, and that if I were him, I would take advantage of that soil, hence preventing me from having to make a new bed.  The list does goes on..
My favorite thing around here to do is to comb the rooms once a guest has left.  It’s typically a score.  Lotions, Sunscreens, and Shampoos are pretty common.  Especially the bigger bottles.  I score a lot of pasta, olive oil, salt and pepper.  I picked up a good book and a fin key today.  First aid kits come in handy for sure.  It makes me wonder what the maids at a Hilton or Marriott are summoned to do when they find things in rooms.  Big Jim usually asks how I made out. He still beats me to some rooms.  He once came into my room w/ a $10 bar of Chocolate.  No way in hell he bought it. He broke me off $5 worth. The gourmet shit..