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26 December 2012

Journal Notes circa 1995

(Here is an excerpt from one of my journals. It is pretty much an outline for one of my novels that is currently untitled. This is un-edited and ends abruptly, but I figured I'd give you freaks an idea of my writing process...as if you care....)

There are places we run from. Places we run too. Then there are places, such as Barrio Libre, that like a cheap tattoo inked with safety pins in the stale neon glow of a condemned warehouse, refuse to leave us and linger somewhere in our dope addled memory waiting to wake us in the deepest of our dreams to remind us there are places we can never really leave, and we our sentenced to carry with us until we slam that final 20 of heroin...never to awaken again, if in fact we were ever awake in the first place.

Even now, Summer drifts down South 6th Avenue offering to trade a tender sliver of innocence for the next fix. Her ponytails, cocked and loaded bait for fat over-worked businessmen cruising the dirty Mexican boulevard for an after work blow-job or a glimmer of their own youth wasted in boardrooms and bank vaults. In text books where life was lived between the sterile pages of a stuffy classroom, and not the sweat drenched nights of blood stained sheets with Henry Rollins spitting "Rise Above" into the booze and piss tainted air from a stolen boombox.

We never hated the Johns that cruised our barrio streets scouting our women. We pitied  them. They served to remind us that life was never really better someplace else. Here we had men with money, and hot surgically altered little housewives lounging by Olympic size pools in three story mansions in the Catalina foothills, always seeking out our women and willing to pay them for a quick fuck. I figured if they were doing that, then life in the ivory tower must not be all its cracked up to be...

Summer. I first met this tiny waif of a junkie panhandling outside the Ice House liquor store I worked at. It was raining a typical Arizona monsoon drivel, and I was reminded of a miniature chihuahua all soaked and trembling with her face and big dark eyes pressed against the glass storefront. I let her hang out inside while I sold 40's of Malt Liquor to wetbacks just up from Nogales for a day job throwing up cheap drywall housing in the normally 100 degree summer heat. This sudden downpour was a reprieve from the daily heat stroke and tequila hangover. I gave Summer her reprieve by letting her suck my dick for a bottle of TJ Swan "Steppin' Out". Nothing like getting your cock honed by a cute homeless chick drunk on fortified wine.

Of course we didn't really sell crack pipes. That would be "illegal". We sold 'Romantic Roses'...a cheap cloth and wire rose tucked into a glass tube. If you peeled the silver tab off of both ends and stuck a little copper piece of Brillo into one end, it became the best crack pipe money could buy. We bought them by the case for pennies. We sold them for $3. I learned real quick if I tossed an extra case onto the merchant order for the liquor store, I could have my own box and sell the things for $5 a piece at 3 am when stores were all closed. Supply and demand, baby. I made $100 a box, and although I was clean at the time, this disposable cash was enough to nurse my own dope demon out of hiding and back into full swing. Summer became a great foot soldier in the cause.

Summer had a real name, although I am not certain I ever knew it. It wasn't too long before I had Pebbles not only selling crack pipes for me at all hours of the night, but she was selling the pipes with a rock already loaded and ready to spark. I was making money hand over fist. Summer's loyalty was motivated by the fact I kept her high enough to realize she could never steal from me as much as I was giving her to smoke on a daily basis. Life was in deed good. Days of riding in shitty vans with shitty bands amped on speed just to get to the next gig were now forgotten memories...

to be continued...