The full moon remained full for about a week. Maybe even ten days. I just threw my hands up. Nothing I could do. I was just a moon puppet Everything I touched short circuited. Big Time Trouble. Way Gnarly. I wasn’t to the point of howling or biting someones throat. None of that ghost and goblin lore either. It was elemental and elementary. A one-two punch. Sometimes three. It was bigger than the here and now. It was all consuming. The people, places, and things that were appearing out of thin air, and/or being placed within my tender and conscious reach, were just out of this fucking world.
According to the time on the microwave, for the third straight night in a row now, I was awakened at 2:46 am, unable to fall back asleep. Since you’re probably not wondering what I did with that newly found QT, I’m not all that inclined to want to tell you. I will say a few things about the parallels: For starters, on the third morning, when the clock read 2:46 am, i came to find out later that it wasn’t really 2:46 afterall. The clock read 2:46 because I had made microwave popcorn the night prior and had punched in five minutes, knowing in advance that it takes two minutes 15 seconds mas o menos to properly make this particular brand. So apparently I decided it was done after two minutes fourteen seconds. Capice? Pretty gnarly co inky dink I know. Now whether or not that counts in your book as three-in-a row, you still can’t take anything away from the first two identical 2:46 a.m. wake-ups. I’m still blown to bits by it all. The only thing I could put my finger on was the full moon was once again in full affect. And when I say put my finger on it, I really mean put my finger on it. Like break off a piece of Swiss cheese coming in my room putting my finger on it. Te lo Juro! I had a Major Tom moment. Planet earth WAS blue and there wasn’t anything I could do except put the final polish on my version of Bennie and The Jets. And so that is what I did.
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!
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.
There are Gringo Traps everywhere you
look forget to look. The minute you start looking down…you whack your head on a low lying branch or telephone wire hanging over the sidewalk. The minute you begin looking up, you stub your toe on rebar and fall down on the uneven pavement or step in dog shit. This place keeps you on your toes. Personally, I would prefer to step in dog shit with more the ball of my foot.
Speaking of balls on feet. I came across seven teens playing 4v3 on the tall sand. That was my cue. I evened out the sides and went to work. My work is that of hustle and understanding. Skill play in the tall sand takes more practice than I am willing to commit to. It also could mean serious injury. Sprained toes, Blasts to the shin. Sand scrapes and the like. 20 minutes of that was about all I could take. Drenched.
During the middle of the day, when the sun is really doing a job around here, many of the women bust out their paraguas. That would be an umbrella. Strangely, I haven’t seen one single male using an umbrella, and I’m just curious if I should be that man. It’d be so nice in certain situations. Been getting a bit tired of dodging in and out of the shade. Everybody already looks at me and giggles anyway.
The tennis ball bounced over the chain linked fence. I chuckled to myself wondering if it landed near the cadaver of the dead animal that had to be somewhere very near. The smell was rude.
I jogged out of the court area, and went to where I thought the tennis ball had come to a stop. The closer I got to where I thought the ball was, the stronger and fouler the stench became. Yikes!
When I got to the ball, I also got to the dead goat. The ball was inside the dead body. I held my breath and reached out with my racket to pull the ball out. All the blood and guts were exposed.
Just before I walked away, I smeared some additional goat guts over both sides of my nylon strings. Free Gut was tough to pass up. Fact is, gut will control topspin much better than nylon.
I’ve been zipping around town lately on a moto. Thing has some pretty good kick. It probably tops out at 80kph. You really have to be careful when you’re on a scooter around here. There are traffic laws, but not the kind that matter. There are lots of taxis and pedestrians darting in and out of everywhere. Potholes, dogs, topes, sand, you name it. You would never want to wear a helmet because it’s just too hot for that safety measure. Sandals would be a smart play, but hardly necessary.
I’m good though. I’ve been riding bikes for as long as I can now remember. I also remember my dad showing up for visitors day one year at camp completely pizza burger(ed) all up and down his arms and legs. Apparently he had slid out his Vespa. But that won’t happen to me. Too much experience on two wheels. If you play the game defensively, fully grasping the concept that a two wheeler ultimately has the most maneuverability out on the road, then you’re as good as Gold Jerry. Gold!
It’s like this: When I pull tape,(Duct, Duck, Goose, Masking, Bar, Packing, Athletic, Electric, Scotch, and the like) I pull the tape with my right hand, and hold the roll with my left.