MEXICO NINE: Twin Peaks at a Strip Bar

[Note: Blogspot lists these chapters in reverse order. To read earlier adventures, scroll to the bottom or click here to go to the beginning.]

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO__ part 9 (part 8 will come later)

“The very core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. “ --Christopher McCandliss

[My friends told me not to go to Mexico. They said it was dangerous. I do not listen to my friends. My conscience told me not to go to Arizona. It said the place was evil, a hotbed of racism and xenophobia. I do not listen to my conscience.

I'm here because my Mexican friends have made a cover band. It's a cover band of my songs from my old group ARTLESS. Called Sin Arte, we're supposed to play in Arizona and Mexico. Three shows in the latter, two in the former. Things don't work out like that. That's life.

This blog skips a bit. My traveling companions from Cojoba have left. I'm on my own with Gilberto. We're off to Aqua Prieta, his hometown. This blog appeared in abridged form as a column in Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Here's more of the story-- and pictures!]

I'm not like other people. I love to watch naked-- or near naked-- people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick. I love to watch naked nipples, and the pulsing spiral of an exposed anus. Yes, in that way I'm normal. 

But, I cannot get off on a lap dance. It's my curse.

No matter what the gender, age, endowment. No matter how hard or light the pressure. No matter if it's frontwards or backwards. No matter nothing. Rubbing my stiffened stub from outside my clothes will not give me an orgasm. It may even unstiff the stiffness.

 

Now: I'm in Guau Guau, a titty bar in Aqua Prieta, right over the border from Douglas Arizona. In one hand is a beer from my 180 -peso-a-bucket special. In the other hand is a single dollar bill.

 

AP is one of those cities that the US government issues warnings about. One of those places where headless bodies turn up on Main Street. Where the local drug cartels run the drugs, the restaurants, the shops and the government. One of those places where the U.S. State Department says DON'T GO:

Since 2006, the Mexican government has engaged in an extensive effort to combat drug-trafficking organizations (DTOs). DTOs have erected unauthorized checkpoints, and killed motorists who have not stopped at them. According to published reports, 22,700 people have been killed in narcotics-related violence since 2006.

Yow! Here I am!

At the end of the town's main street is a single mountain with an ominously cup-shaped top.

 

“My family told me it was a volcano,” says Gilberto. “Now, I don't think so... but you never know.”

You've already met some of the characters in this story. There's Gilberto, my best Mexican pal and organizer of this trip. It's for his birthday party that I find myself in this town.

(And what a party it is. Mexicans have relatives and friends from here to Arizona. From 8 to 80. At least Gilberto does. He's a pretty popular guy.) Check out this crew!

 

  

Then, there's Barichu. Here's a picture of him and me outside Guau Guau. 

Aka the Mexican GG Allin, he's been arrested by the police more times than I've paid for sex. That's a lot. When he went after the cops waving a plastic gun, they broke his nose. Newspaper headlines were (in translation): Drugs or Satan? What's behind the bizarre attack?

Barichu's hobby is mashing up dried dog shit... and snorting it.

Then there's Ingrid, Gilberto's roommate in Boston. She's a pretty perky blonde with skin so pale you can almost see through it. Her visit to Aqua Prieta engenders erection impeded walking from every male between the ages of puberty and final decay. With me, she always talks about her BOYFRIEND back in Boston. For some reason, whenever I meet attractive people, they all immediately talk about their BOYFRIENDS... always in capital letters. Ingrid won't let me use her real name, so she gets Ingrid, for the blond hair and general sexiness. 

Also in A.P. is Pamela. Ah, what a great story that is. We know each other through Gilberto who gave her a copy of my book I, A Me-ist, as a birthday present. She was not amused. 

“¿Quien es ese pinche pirata?” she wanted to know.

After meeting me in real life, though. We got to like each other. Seems like I'm not as bad as she thought I was. I even stay at her place in Flagstaff when we go to the Grand Canyon. More on that later.  

She surprised me as much as I surprised her. Though her refrigerator magnets are a bit on the sinister side:

She was cool enough to come to the strip club with us. And she proved to be a lot more fun than her fridge magnet would indicate! That's her in the middle, between Gilberto and one of the many folks whose name I forgot.

I also don't want to forget Tavo Poison. He's one of Gilberto's punkrock pals, and a nice well-connected guy. He brings the hardcore Tequila to the birthday party. He's filled with stories. I really like the guy, but sometimes girls find him... creepy. Then again, sometimes girls find ME creepy. Here's a picture of him at Gilberto's great birthday party with Gilberto and Barichu.

But the real star of this story is Agua Prieta itself. A wry place with a sense of humor lurking on every corner. The local convenience store is Walmarcito.

It's just down the street from the fast food joint, Burger Queen.

You won't want to eat there, though. Because Gilberto's uncle has La Cabaña, “the biggest non-cartel restaurant in town.” I suggest you go there and try the cow-udder tacos. You won't find them at Taco Bell.

 Gilberto's uncle introduces me to some wild concoction of beer, soysauce, line, chili powder, and Clamato^® for God's sake! It's called a michelada.

Pamela is in town for the two day birthday party. Ingrid comes tomorrow. The party's a wonderful affair hosted by Gilberto's aunt and uncle... with a ton of kids, grand-dads, relatives, friends of every gender, age and description. Igrid, with her blonde hair, thin body, and gringa good looks, stands out like a beard at a lesbian bar 

She and Barichu hit it off pretty well. The only two smokers in the place, they have that special camaraderie that pushes social outcasts together in the most unlikely combinations. Like homos in a small town in Alabama.

Then there's Guau Guau, the strip club. You pronounce Guau Guau like WOW WOW in Sonoran Spanish. It means something like BOW WOW! But the girls here are as far from being BOW WOWs as Barack Obama is from being progressive.

Tavo gets us in free. It's him, Pamela, Gilberto and me. He's got a ton of free admission tickets. It must be like New York. There the guys give out free admission cards to Gentlemen's Clubs. They lurk on every midtown corner and hand them to anyone who looks like they'd enjoy the show. I got a ton of 'em.

Inside the club, on the stage are beautiful girls who give you a kiss when they pick up the dollar you leave.

Yeah, they bug you for lap dances. Walking around after their set, putting their hands on your thigh, asking if you want a private dance. It is a strip club, after all. Tavo is soon off in the back room. He returns with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I'll buy you one, Mykel,” says Gilberto. “You should do it.”

“No thanks,” I tell him, not going into detail about my personal... er... impairment. “I just like to watch.”

He goes off with one of the more attractive strippers. I keep feeding dollars to the girls on the stage. Each kisses me on the cheek after I slip a bill under an elastic band, near the good part. 

In my 71 years, I must've gone to a hundred strip bars... but up til now, I've never been to one where the strippers kiss the patrons for tipping them. 

The next night, Pamela has gone back to Flagstaff. Ingrid joins our crew for the night. I return to Guau Guau with Gilberto, Tavo, Barichu, and Ingrid. It's great enough to meet a girl who likes a guy like Barichu. But it's even greater to meet a girl who likes STRIP CLUBS! This trip I meet two of them! In the 70s, even girls who WORKED in strip clubs didn't like them. Ah, change is not all negative.

One of Gilberto's friends gets us in for free. We huddle around the stage, nose-close to the dancers.

Ingrid lays those dollar bills down almost as fast as I do. She gets a flash for each one, and a nice peck on the cheek. 

Gilberto brings one of the best strippers, tall, curvy in the special way that Latinas do curves. You know, ass-not-hips. Skin, the color of cinnamon. Breasts like twin Mount Fujis. Makes me want to erupt.

Gilberto speaks to Ingrid in English. “Hey Ingrid,” he says. “You want a lap dance? This one's the best. I'll buy you one.”

I laugh.

Ingrid doesn't.

“Sure,” she says. 

By the time I close my gaping jaw, she and the Chicana walk off to the back. Brown and white, like a peanut butter sandwich made in heaven.

In twenty minutes, Ingrid's back. Her face glows in the soft light of the club. 

“They were watching me, Mykel,” she says. “All those bodyguards and bouncers. Back there... it's like an office... with cubicles... she sat on my lap and we were surrounded, these guys... those guys with no necks who work here... they came around to watch... you could see them jiggling themselves... their hands in their pockets.”

“YOU should have charged THEM,” I tell her. 

By this time, another Mexican beauty is on stage. This one darker and lither than the first. Like a sexy snake, she slithers full length across the stage... crawling on her arms and legs to the edge. Her petite but proud breasts just touch the wood. She slides right in front of Ingrid and reaches down. 

She grabs both of Ingrid's arms and pulls her on stage. But our Indrid isn't dancing. At least not in the normal sense of the word. She's lying on her back. The stripper is over her. Rubbing her brown body against the white girl. 

Then the dancer reaches down. She pulls Ingrid's sweater up, over her head. In the soft light, Ingrid's breasts, as perky as her personality, sparkle bright and white.

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

Gently, the dancer takes one, then the other nipple in her mouth. 

Looking at the men in the audience, I can see sympathetic tongue movements on each of them. We're in this together.

Together we lick those nipples. We lick each and then lick down to a place between them. We lick in a line from breast to navel, back to breast. We lick downward again. We press our collective chins against her individual crotch and keep licking. We're collectively disappointed when Ingrid keeps her pants on. We're collectively inspired when she licks back at the woman on top of her. We become Ingrid as she takes those brown mounds into her hands. 

All too soon, it's over. All too soon, we let go of our breath and applaud our collective appreciation. Ingrid puts her sweater back on and climbs down from the stage.

“Guau Guau!” I say.

She smiles and we (Ingrid, Tavo, Barichu, Gilberto and I) walk out to the car.

“I'm sorry you had to see my breasts,” she says. 

“I'm 70 years old,” I tell her. “I've done more than people twice my age would have done if they lived that old. I've eaten Piranha in Peru, had sex under a Mongolian staircase, been in a threesome with one girl in Thailand, been kidnapped in Albania, but never in my life before has someone said to me I'm sorry you had to see my breasts.”

 
She smiles.

“Please don't be sorry,” I tell her. “I sure as shit am not.”

We got back to Gilberto's tio's place where the party is still going on. 

“Mykel,” asks Gilberto's tia, “¿Mykel, porque andas todo pintarrajeado??”

The lipstick! Whoops. I forgot about that.

I wash my face as best I can. The various shades of lipstick on my cheek meld into one another, but never completey disappear. 

We drink some more, eat some more, and somehow Gilberto ends up in bed with Ingrid. I sleep with Barichu.

 
FLASH AHEAD: It's Arizona. Ingrid wants to see the Grand Canyon. That's what you do in Arizona. I don't want to give the state any of my money... and I certainly don't want to do any tourist shit. But I'm out-voted and Gilberto has the car. So it's to Grand Canyon we go.

We pay $20 to park, then go to the guest house and souvenir shop. I can buy a Grand Canyon Collector Plate, a Grand Canyon Ceramic Cup, or a Grand Canyon Refrigerator Magnet. I don't.

The gift shop is in a rustic-looking shed. Log cabin-ish, though there aren't many logs in this area. One wall is Plexiglas. It overlooks the canyon.

A crowd of tourists presses against the glass, oooowing and ahhing. Being 5'3” tall, I decide not to compete with them, and walk outside for a direct look. I look. It's a hole in the ground. A big hole... and that's it. 

Twenty dollars for a hole? I've paid that in Thailand and the DR, but in those cases I got a hole I really enjoyed! 

Sometime ago... in the Wild West... some Indian stumbled on this place and said, “let's sucker the gringos. Tell 'em it's special. A really big hole. The rube's be lining up to buy fridge magnets. Those white folks. They can't tell their ass from a hole in the ground.”

I don't take one picture. I don't even stay and look. I head for the car and let Ingrid and Gilberto ooooh and aaahhh. 

For me? Aqua Prieta was more ooooh and aaah than the Grand Canyon will ever be. Walmarcito, Burger Queen, the volcano at the end of the street. 

That's worth some oooohs and aaaahhs. Ingrid's own twin peaks, the lipstick all over my face, Gilberto's birthday party, that's what I'll remember from this trip. I can tell an ass from a hole in the ground. I'll take the ass any day. 

-end-

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More later.

[This is part 9 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. Part 8 has not been posted yet. To read the rest, click on the right spot:]

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can and should go directly to Mykel's own website.

MEXICO SEVEN: Michael Jordan & Purple Snatch

[Note: Blogspot lists these chapters in reverse order. To read earlier adventures, scroll to the bottom or click here to go to the beginning. You can click on any photo to enlarge it.]

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO__ part 7

[My friends told me not to go to Mexico. They said it was dangerous. I do not listen to my friends. My conscience told me not to go to Arizona. It said the place was evil, a hotbed of racism and xenophobia. I do not listen to my conscience.

I'm here because my Mexican friends have made a cover band. It's a cover band of my songs from my old group ARTLESS. Called Sin Arte, we're supposed to play in Arizona and Mexico. Three shows in the latter, two in the former.

This blog picks up right after part 5. I'm now in Guaymas Mexico. My Mexican band canceled our first show, and I was left as a roadie for my friends in Cojoba. My feet are wrecked from too much walking in deadly boots. Worse than blisters, the boots have torn the skin of every part of those tender organs. And speaking of tender organs, I'm suffering from the worst case of jock itch I've had in my life. I bathe my testicles in tea tree oil which doesn't seem to help much. It does make me smell like a giant Halls cough drop. And speaking of cough drops, I've a bad cough from sitting next to a snot-dripping yuppette on the plane from New York to Arizona.

Last night, it was a fifteen hour drive from Tijuana to here. Almost no sleep now for 48 hours. Between the pain and sleep deprivation, I feel like a detainee in Guantanamo.

Am I having a good time? You bet your Chicano ass I'm having a good time!]

Maybe I need to reintroduce the characters here. Besides me, there is Gilberto, the tour organizer. And Ray, Taina, Moe, and Javiar from the band Cojoba. Then there's Sabo, the Buddha of Guaymas who set up the show here and is our host. At the club tonight, our friends from the great Tijuana band, Verbal Abuse also play. As did our other friends from Solucion Mortal.

Cojoba are a big hit. One fan falls so in love with Taina, that he fashions a flower for her... from a beer can. It is pure adoration. He can't wait to present it to her when the band is finished playing.

Or maybe it's subterfuge. On the table, where the beercan boy fashioned his gift, lay Taina's iPhone... Only it didn't. It disappeared. Gone. Poof! Stolen, during the flower distraction? We'll never know.

Flash Ahead: We're staying at Sabo's place... I think. Just back from the club, I limp out of the truck, squeeze through a garage, then enter what seems like a private bedroom. There's a computer in the room that I avoid. Part of the joy of this trip is NO COMPUTER! Two weeks of i-freedom. There are also two beds in the room. THESE capture my interest.

Taina and Javiar take one. I look longingly at the other. Ray and Moe both have sleeping bags. I don't.

“We'll sleep on the floor,” says Moe laughing. “Let the old cripple have the other bed.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say. But actually I'm really glad. This old cripple has not been sleeping very much and a night's rest on a real bed will do the trick. Nothing like being an old cripple to score the perks. I don't even need to ask.

Ray and Moe spread out their sleeping bags on the floor. I peel off my boots, looking at what's left of my feet. Blood seeps from the band aids. Lights out! Ah sleep!

Yeah right.

BLAM! The door opens. It's some heavy metal guy. Looks like a biker.... Big guy..., Hell's Angel's beard... Stomach out to here... Motorhead t-shirt.

“Aaahdgrabaggadaadaa!” says the guy to none of us in particular.

I'm thinking my Spanish has taken a nosedive. I can't understand a word.

“No entiendo,” I say.

“AAAHDGRABAGGADAADAA!” he shouts.

I look at Taina and Javiar. Spanish is their FIRST language. They look at me and shrug. We all watch the guy go over to the computer, turn it on. YouTube or some other video site... awful heavy metal music at jet engine volume... loud... louder... LOUDEST.

He's head-banging, throwing his head up and down, back and forth to the music. Playing air guitar, singing along. Having a dandy ole time. Some more people come. It's a party. Right there in our room. Right there at 3 in the morning. “AAAHDGRABAGGADAADAA!”

What that means is: HERE'S the party. The room explodes with people POW! Tons of people... from all over... play this! Find that on the computer... It's as if we don't exist. Ray and Moe on the floor. Me, Taina and Javiar on the beds. Nothing. It's party time... that's all.

Ray groans... I sympathize. I can do without food for 24 hours. I do it every Yom Kippur. But no sleep? I get mighty cranky... and this is the first time I got to lay down in 48 hours. Last night we were in Tijuana... then the 15 hour truck ride to Guaymas.... At most I slept an hour, sitting up... But...

“I know. I know,” says Ray before I can even open my mouth. “It's punk rock.”

Eventually they leave. The sun starts to make its way into the Mexican sky. Through the window I see the sky slowly shift from black to purple. I'm faced with a deadly choice: to piss and shit or to sleep. I'll stay in bed. Stay in bed. I can't stay in bed.

FAST FORWARD AGAIN: After a good five hours of actual sleep, we're off... a free day in town. Sabo is gonna be our tour guide. It's a resort town. On the coast... California bay... I didn't bring my bathing suit, but I love the beach. I can peel the bandages from my feet and let the sand seep between my toes. I imagine tiny pools of bloody water, bathing my broken blisters.

We're in Sabo's truck. Gilberto Me, Taina and Javiar in the back. Moe, Ray and Sabo in front. Gilberto and I take the shade side, Javiar and Taina bask in the sun. Look at the picture. Cute huh? See how one side of Taina's face is covered and the other side is brightly lit? Ho ho! By the end of the day, that brightly lit side will be brightly RED from sunburn. Red and white... Taina will spend the rest of the tour trying to even out the color.

Our first stop is the ocean. In order to get to a place we can enter, we have to drive up a steep hill on the outskirts of town. The way up the hill is treacherous.... more than a 40^o angle. High plants are on both sides of the street right up to the pavement. Where there aren't plants, there's a wall. It's really tough for the old truck to get up the hill. I can't imagine what it will be on the way down... I mean we're not even drunk yet.

Because of the danger of runaway cars... as well as the narrow road, parking is prohibited everywhere. That doesn't stop Sabo. He's got a special dialect of Spanish. Even Mexicans from other towns can't understand what he's saying. In the rest of the Spanish-speaking world, an E in a red circle with a slash through it means: No Estaciona, no parking. In his dialect, it means, no parking for anyone else.

Sure enough, there's a place with one of those signs. Just big enough for our truck. We pull over, jump out, and lock up.

 

 It's a two minute walk to the gate that … er... welcomes us to the shore. The English reminds me of some of the signs I saw in Japan.

Just past the gate comes another important warning sign. This one in Spanish... but the meaning is easy to... er... grasp:

Through the gates... past the NO PISSING sign... to the beach. We spread out the blanket and admire the view. Every time a boat passes, Sabo calls out to it. I'm not exactly sure what he's saying, but I know there is the word Marijuana in it.

He's a man of many nicknames... he gives them, not gets them. I'm Pinche Viejo Marijuano: “The Fucking Old Stoner. Ray, the only black guy in the group (and with a shaved head to boot) is Michael Jordan.

“This is what I came to Mexico for!” says Ray on seeing the gulf of California. He starts to undress.

“Hey Michael Jordan!” Sabo calls to him, pushing a thumb over his own shoulder. “Locker rooms are THAT way!”

Ray laughs and peels down to his underwear. He's the happiest I've seen him this whole trip. He's got a gym-built body, and now he can show it off. He jumps in and swims far enough out to meet some boat wakes. Strong guy. While he's out swimming, we're drinking on the sand. In not too long, he's back... wet and pumped. He doesn't dress again until we leave the beach. We continue to drink.

From the beach, we get back in the truck and go up... up... up... to some cliffs overlooking the ocean. At the bottom of the cliff... to the right... the bay: looking huge ...like an ocean. To the left... an open space with a sand sculpture... rocks on sand.... looking odd... like a giant penis.

We take a ton of pictures, scare the other tourists who are there with their kids, girlfriends, or the local retirement community. It looks like they're redeveloping this area. Gonna make it a draw for the gringos... sell condos. I think we're putting a wrinkle in that white shirt and tie.

The cactuses are beautiful.

“Cacti!” says Taina

The cactuses are cacti. They form a great backdrop to our adventures on the cliff. Carrying a case of Tecate beer we walk toward the sheer-drop cliffs. We dare each other to climb over the wall. We all do. We dare each other to get close to the cactus... er... cacti. We all do. It's a great hour or so on the cliffs. Much to the consternation of the tourists and other visitors, none of us dies.

After the cliffs we drive down the hills again. Actually, Sabo drives. This time we are sloshed. The road is as nasty as it was before. The Tecate party continues in the back of the truck.... and inside the truck. In the driver's seat.

SLOW DOWN! shouts Ray.

Yeah right.

Riding the the back of a pick-up truck with a Mexican and two Puerto Ricans. Yeah! I feel like we're all Mexicans. We're migrants going to harvest lettuce for the California farms. We're all Mexicans... braceros... like in the 60s. I've never felt so Hispanic as these moments drinking and rolling down the side of a hill in the truck. Banging first on the right curb, OLE! Then the left curb. OLE! Then the right again. I feel so Mexican I want to break into a parked car and steal the stereo.

Sliding down the hill, we have our encounter with the Mexican police. You can read about that in a previous blog entry. Then we're at a restaurant. A beachside place with a thatched roof and plenty of menus with pictures on the wall. A cute tropical place. Built for tourists or locals who want to take their families somewhere special on a day off. They are not ready for us.

“Hola Verijas Lilas,” Sabo says to the attractive young waitress. I means hey Purple Snatch. She comes to our table wearing a smile that seems as forced and unnatural as the suits on those thugs whose lawyers make dress up for court appearances.

There is a prix fixe meal and it comes with your choice of Coke or lemonade. Ray, Moe, Taina, and Javiar take the Coke. I go for the lemonade.

“Be careful Mykel,” says Ray. “That stuff has ice in it.”

“Yeah,” says Moe, “ someone told us to look at the ice cubes. If they have holes in them, they were made by machine with purified water. If they don't, they came from somebody's faucet. Paramecia, typhus, You'll die Mykel.”

Verijas Lilas comes back with the lemonade, I reach two fingers into the drink to grab an ice cure. No hole. Uh oh, but I drink it anyway.

I do not die, but continue. We have a show later that day... in Hermosillo. With La Merma, making a debut after 10 years of silence. It'll be pretty spectacular. Plus SIN ARTE will finally play... me singing in front of a buncha drunk Mexicans. What more could I want?

After lunch, it's on to HERMOSILLO!

-end... for now--

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More later.

[This is part 7 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. To read the rest, click on the right spot:

PART 1    PART 2    PART 3    PART 4    PART 5    PART 6

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can go directly to Mykel's own website.

MEXICO FOUR: Tijuana

BREAKING THE BOYCOTT... OR MYKEL SELLS OUT TO HIS EGO__ part 4

TIJUANA

Recap: Despite a pledge to boycott Arizona because of its ethnic cleansing law, Mykel agrees to go to that state as part of a tour of Mexico. Mexican fans have put together a cover band of Mykel's old tunes (previous band: ARTLESS) and invited him to sing. He'll tour with Cojoba, a Puerto Rican band he loves... from New York.

Despite the worse case of jock itch he's ever had, Mykel, wearing a Fuck You Arizona t-shirt and combat boots, has boarded a plane for Phoenix. (His doctor warned him against those boots (but not the t-shirt). Mykel feels that ten days can't do much harm. Mykel will be wrong.)

On the plane, he sits next to a coughing/snot dripping yuppette. In a day, Mykel's got the bug... lodged in his chest as a stomach-wrenching, hacking, cough.

In Phoenix, Mykel meets up with Gilberto who he teaches to lie to get a car rental with a debit card.

Then on to Tucson.

There, he stays one night in Mexico-town with Güera (bass player of the ARTLESS cover band: Sin Arte) her dog Mona, a big guy named Beef, the band Cojoba, and Ivan from La Merma, another band that will tour with Sin Arte.

 

The first show is in Tijuana, a long drive from Tuscon. We've traveled in a rented car from Tuscon to San Diego. WE is Mykel, Gilberto the driver and tour organizer, and Cojoba. Sin Arte, won't be playing in Tijuana, but will be doing the rest of the shows in Mexico-- and a couple in Arizona.

It's a trolly from San Diego to the border. Then a long trip across the border, through a winding series of bridges and tunnels, through Mexican customs and immigration.

We're worried about being late. The show starts at 9. We're supposed to be at the club by 8. Our friends from Tijuana, in the band, VERBAL DESECRATION, are coming to meet us on the other side of the border. 
 

By this time, Mykel's boots are beginning to rub the back of his heels. Although the food is great, his cough is so severe, it's tough to keep down. And he reeks of the tea tree oil he's been applying to his balls for the jock itch. Between that and the cough drops he's constantly sucking, he smells like a eucalyptus forest.

We start this chapter just walking through the gates from Mexican immigration into the second most dangerous town in Mexico.

From the bridge to the town, Tijuana looks lit up. The city lights are bright against the night sky. The streets look alive... like a party's going on. Like a resort town in America. There are not a lot of people walking on those streets, but they are bright.

“See that?” says Gilberto, pointing to a red arch way in the distance. “That's the marker. It's the gateway to the entertainment area where we're going to be playing.”

I love that he says we even though he and I will NOT be playing anything. It's like we're all one big family. Equal status. Yeah!

“Wow,” I say. “That's far fuckin' away.”

“Don't worry,” he says. “I spoke to Farinda and Alan. They're meeting us on a corner. Right down the street from immigration. In the parking lot of a Burger King. They've got a car. We could never make it on foot.”

Right down the street. Sure enough, there's a Burger King. A few cars are parked in the lot. No one we know.

Gilberto runs out, checks the street signs. Runs back. “This is the place,” he says.

This is NOT the place.

He makes a telephone call. I only understand a few words. Chiva (Mexican slang for beer.), tarde (late), Cómo debemos ir (how should we go?), esta muy lejos (it's very far).

“They said we arrived too late,” says Gilberto after hanging up. “They went to the club, already. They have to get everything ready for the show.”

“So how we gonna get there?” asks Ray. “This is the most dangerous city in North America...”

“Second,” I correct him. “And not North America, Mexico.”

“Ok,” he says. “But I don't want to just walk around the streets. Let's take a cab.”

“We'll walk,” says Gilberto. “It isn't far, and I don't trust the taxi drivers here. They're worse than New York. You wanna pay seventy-five dollars to get driven around in circles... then mugged?”

“I thought you said we could never make it on foot,” says Ray, “And look at all this stuff I have,” He points to his huge suitcase, sack of drum hardware, and Samsonite^TM cymbal case.

I only have a light backpack. “I'll take something,” I offer.

Ray hands me the cymbal case. It weighs half as much as I do. And we walk.

We walk up deserted streets. We walk up stairs. Over highway by-pass bridges. Down stairs on the other side. My boots cut into my legs... scrape my ankles... rub blisters into my heels.

We walk more. The scenery changes from touristy, to shady, to commercial. That arch that marks the start of the entertainment district never gets any larger. It just stands in the distance, always the same size, like we've taken a walk on a Moebius strip.

The pain in my legs, my ankles, my feet slows me down. The rest of the crew goes on ahead, leaving me lagging behind, by myself, in the most dangerous city in North America... second... in Mexico.

Before long, the blisters... instantly fully formed... burst and begin to ooze....

Now, I can barely hobble. The blood puddles under my feet. The boots have worn holes through the skin. Not only at my heel, but on the ankle. On the legs where the laces jam the top of the boots against my shin. It feels like my legs rest on two thawed packs of hamburger meat.

I can't go another step. I'll die.

“There it is!” shouts Taina.

She points down the block at... at what? I don't see anything. Just a bunch of closed shops, with iron gates in front.

“I'm going to die,” I say.

“No really,” she says. “Right there. CHEZ BAR.”

I do see an old sign. Yellow and black, that says, CHEZ BAR. But the place is closed. Locked up. A big gate in front of the window. It looks like any other old building... gone out of business since the gringos were afraid to cross the border.

“That place is shut,” I tell her. “It can't be right.”

She runs up to the door and bangs on it. Of course, nothing happens. She flings herself against the peeling wood. Shoulder to door, like in a cop show. Nothing happens.

Javier bangs on the gate in front of the window. Nothing happens. He bangs on the window.

I sit on the curb, unable to stand any longer.

Ray shakes his head. “Who organized this?” he says looking at his watch. “We were supposed to get here at 8. It's almost nine and the place is closed. What the fuck? You call this a tour?”

“It's....” I start, but the pain of my bloody feet makes it too difficult to continue.

“I know,” he says. “Punk rock.”

There is a noise from inside. A shuffling from behind the glass somewhere. A clomping, like someone in boots descending a staircase.

A tall guy in tight black jeans and a black leather jacket opens the door.

“Que quieres?” he asks, looking like we just woke him up.

I'll translate the rest.

“We're supposed to be playing here tonight,” Gilberto explains. “With Solution Mortal, Verbal Desecration, and maybe some other bands.”

“We're Cojoba,” says Moe.

“What's a cojoba?” asks the guy in black. “And there's no show here tonight. At least I never heard of it. Are you sure you have the right place?”

They don't know what we're talking about. They don't know anything about any show.

“At least we can come inside and have a drink?” asks Gilberto in Spanish.

The guy shrugs, opens the door. We go in... up stairs... lots of them. Each step is agony on my bloody stumps. Somehow I make it to the top of the stairs and the bar. Inside the bar is a bartender, a few other guys in black, and us. That's it.

“I'm sure this is the right place,” says Taina. “I remember the name.”

“No creo que hay Punk Rock esta noche,” says the bartender.

“What did he say,” Ray asks me.

“You don't want to know,” I tell him.

Gilberto buys us each a beer.

While absorbing the reality of show? what show? I scope the place out. First, the mensroom.

For those who don't know me, I have to confess to a fault. I'm pee shy. It's been that way my whole life. No matter how much beer I drink, I can't let loose if someone is standing next to... or even near... me. Once the flow starts, it'll just stop right up if someone moves close enough. I usually use the stall. Even if the door doesn't shut, the wall protects me enough to start the flow.

And now, I've got this horrible jock itch. Whenever I go, I have to take out more than the usual and scratch. Scratch until I bleed! Any casual observer is gonna think I'm jerking off. I'll get busted for whatever it is they bust guys for when then jerk off in the bathroom.

I used to think the worst possible mensrooms are the ones where there are no urinals, but just a big open trench. Everybody's right in every body else's business. With only one stinky toilet, you could wait for hours. Yeah I used to think that was the worst, until I see the mensroom at Chez Bar.

This picture is NOT taken through the open door of the mensroom. There IS NO DOOR on the mensroom. That's it. Just a filthy tough with a drain. NOTHING ELSE. No door. No nothing. It's in full view of everybody.

If I ever have to go... I won't be able to. I'll fill up. Explode like an over-filled water balloon. POW! Blood and piss everywhere. I already had one beer.

I limp over to Taina. “I'm gonna die,” I tell her.

She doesn't get it.

“I need protection,” I explain.

“You can get condoms in the pharmacy next door,” she says. “Who'd you meet?”

“No,” I tell her. Then I explain my problem.

“Don't worry, Mykel,” she says. “I'll protect you.”

So, while rich drug dealers and corporate execs have their personal body guards, I have my P-GUARD! Just by standing in the doorway, Taina saves the day...er... night... more than once in that club.

I take care of my first needs while Taina stands guard. Over the flow, I hear Gilberto on the phone. I don't catch the words, but he speaks in that tone people use when they leave a message... not when they're talking to a real person.

After shaking off, one source of discomfort (temporarily) relieved, I limp over to Gilberto.

“I tried to call,” he says. “but there's no answer. I left a message.”

“I can't walk,” I tell him. “If there's no show, we're sleeping here tonight.”

“There's a show,” says Gilberto.

“Didn't you have a back-up?” asks Ray. “What are we gonna do?”

About this time some white people walk in. A bunch of them. Guys and girls. They look like college kids. Shorts, sandals. They're carrying instruments. Keyboards, saxophone, accordian, all kinds of stuff. Do they think it's polka band night?

“You thought there was a show tonight too?” I ask as they huddle in a corner and speak English.

“Huh?” says a friendly guy with a scruffy beard.

By now it's ten o'clock. Two hours after the “starting time,” and the club isn't opened yet. We're tired and angry. Gilberto has tried calling the guys from V.D... several times... voice mail... and more voicemail...

And I thought those guys were our friends. They slept on my floor. They drank my booze. I jerked off to a picture of the guitar player... and they “set this up,” then abandoned us. What the...?

A clomping comes on the stairs. Guess who? Fuck those guys. Am I pissed! I'm gonna tell 'em off. And then I see their smiling faces. Remember this is Mexico... and punk rock in Mexico at that... and suddenly, I don't think I've ever been so happy to see anyone as I am to see those guys.

The doors to the club open. Slowly a crowd comes in. The white guys play. They're a band called Thrash Attack. Despite the weird instrumentation, the music is really punkrock, if a bit... er... experimental.

 

Next comes Verbal Desecration, with one of their greatest shows... (until the next). Alan, the drummer, and one of the thousands of people who've slept in my apartment will also play in Solution Mortal. More about them later. Right now, Verbal Desecration takes the stage.

I don't know how they do it, but no matter the day, place, time, this band has the energy of a dozen other bands. I guess it does take a lot out of them, though. After their set, Alex, the bass player, naps through the rest of the bands with a pretty girl sleeping on him as a blanket.

Then Cojoba...I don't know how they did it... they must've hidden some... er... energy booster in a guitar case.

But they too manage to play a wild show after traipsing the same traips I traipsed, through the wilds of Arizona, Mexico, and the streets of Tijuana.

The crowd loves all the bands, and the pit is boisterous, fun, and what can I say? It's what punk rock's all about.

After Cojoba comes Solution Mortal. They are one of the reasons I came to Mexico. I've “known” S.M. since 1984, when I produced an international sampler cassette for ROIR. Called World Class Punk, it had bands from 23 different countries. Solution Mortal was the only band from Mexico-- and one of my favorites. I've probably paid them 73¢ in royalties by now... and never met 'em. Letters, checks, everything through the mail... for almost thirty years, and here we are meeting for the first time.

And these guys. As old as me... almost. Still playing punk rock. Jorge, Alan's brother, leaning so far out into the crowd it almost defies gravity. Singing with such an intensity. Everything with such an intensity. I forget my pain... for the moment. And go out there on the dancefloor, fists flying. Baddabadda. Baddabadda. Baddabadda. Baddabadda. BOOM! Baddabadda. Baddabadda. Baddabadda. Baddabadda. BOOM!

I'm not sure what it is with these Mexicans. Maybe it's all the beans and bad water. They just fart and shit out whatever it is about getting old that makes you short of breath, long on pain, turns your balls red and your feet to ground beef. They keep it up so much better than the gringos across the border. Maybe that's one reason the gringos are afraid of them. 

During Solution Mortal's set, a friendly, very drunken older guy comes up to me. Long hair, half closed eyes, he lumbers over to me and gives me a big hug.

“¿Tu me recuerdas?” he asks.

It's obvious from my squint that I don't recuerdo.

“It's me, Guicho,” he says in English. “I slept on your couch.”

“Everybody slept on my couch,” I tell him.

He looks hurt that I don't remember him. Gilberto steps in to save me.

“He's from Sociedad Discriminada,” he says. “Remember Mykel? It was THAT NIGHT.”

Jeezus! How could I forget? They played ABC NO RIO and got me the drunkest I've ever been without requiring immediate medical attention. They wouldn't let me pay for anything. Just kept buying the booze. One after the other. It's like my rich Tio from South of the Border shows up to show his nephew a good time. The hangover the next day DID require immediate medical attention... or at least that's what it felt like.

“Ah claro,” I say. “Ahora me recuerdo. ¿Cómo podría olvidarlo?”

He laughs and we take a few pictures. Then Sociedad Discriminada, plays. A bitchin' set with the same political masks they used so well in New York.

After the last band plays the last notes of the night. We three drunken oldsters drink together. We talk about how many people didn't make it. Who died, who's almost dead, and who should be dead. That's what old people (and punk rockers) talk about. Old men in general talk about their prostates and how prices have gone up so much... Tonight, we are not old men in general... but we are old.

Wadda way to start the tour. Wadda great show. Now, we've got to get to Guaymas for the next show. THAT is a fifteen hour ride. Then immediately on stage. Sleep on the way. That's it. Sin Arte, “my band,” will debut. My first show in Mexico.

Right now, we don't know how we're getting to the next town. We left the van in San Diego. We're all drunk, as is everyone else in the bar.

There are 6 of us (Cojoba, Me, and Gilberto), plus a shitload of stuff. And I'm a cripple. So how are we going to manage the trip? Stand on the street and hitchhike from the most dangerous town in North America?... Ok second... in Mexico

“You should have planned this better,” says Ray after we get out of the club and are standing on the street with our bags. “What are we gonna do now?”

More later.

[This is part 4 of Mykel's Mexican adventure. To read the rest:

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

The story of the Yellow Chili Pepper is here.

And, you can go directly to Mykel's own website.

(Want even MORE Mykel? Check out his home page!)