And the saga continues...
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| Could this be Tina...God I hope not.... That would be 6 months worth of heavy drinking and drugging to explain!!! |
The one truth in life to withstand
the trials and tribulations of time, through and through again… a quintessential
fact like 2+2=4, that prostitution is the oldest profession, or as elementary
as God doesn’t understand Mormons. If a
man has a crazy story to tell, by definition, he has thousands more long forgotten,
and beleaguered by total embarrassment, yet should the narrator take a moment
to humble him-self, and remove his shortcomings and defects of character… (Oh
sorry, I thought I was at an AA meeting for a second…as I was saying), REMOVE
HIMSELF FROM HIS EGO; the hilarious tale becomes an epic saga, or rather a
string of tales, thus becoming a work of colorful art.
To exclude a man who’s first
impressions leaves you remembering a pit-bull Mexican who looks kind of like Abraham
Lincoln, and is so drunk, he’s pissing in plastic tree, in the bathroom, right
next to urinal, and talking to himself about savagely fornicating with an
entire female bloodline, transcending generational gaps and boundaries, possibly starting
as young as sixteen, definitely passing the age of 60, would be like leaving out the color
blue from the sky, in a 10 year old's painting…
You may be asking yourself at this
point “Who is this skanky love muffin I keep hearing about? The heroine of harlots? The most tenacious trollop? Is she really just a wretched whore you made
up one night while you were drinking at your ex-girlfriends house in North
Beach, San Clemente?” The answer to that
question is...no…she’s real…BUT, since shame is not, nor ever was, the contributing
factor to the current state of silence for this savory slut…no doubt the narrator has
fecklessly squandered his memories, one bong hit at a time…thus the interlude
you read before you, (WHICH IS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE)...I shall continue now…
I vaguely remember pulling out of
the Swallows Inn that night. I was in much of a hurry, due to the fact that Juan had just totally fucked up, otherwise being known as being a “blow it”. Juan and I were finishing up our Heineken's,
when we started making up nick names for the four wildebeests that had just attempting
to commandeer my phone number, in a sweaty, alcoholic, ruse. We called the biggest and the ugliest of the
bunch, “Leather Face”… we were unfortunate that her biker husband, whose name
turned out to be Bones, was standing within ear-shot of this comment, however, he agreed with
us 100 percent that his wife was indeed hideous…so he bought us both a round of
Makers Mark whisky to commemorate this event.
Bones proceeded to tell us felonious
fairy tales featuring him, his old “road dog Frisco”, his wife, and their
outlaw lifestyle. Crimes against man, or
just crimes of passion, who knows? One such story featured Bones, Frisco, and
“Leather Face” robbing a Well’s Fargo, in Costa Mesa, CA. Bones and Frisco were wearing woman’s pantie
hoes as their masks, while Leather Face, wore only her face. This story made Juan laugh so hard, he spit
beer out his nose
“What you
are saying, is dat da heina is so
ugly, she don’t have to make a mascara?”
Juan said with a hint of what sounded
like contempt.
“What’s a mascara Juan?” I asked while downing the other half of the only
kind of alcohol that makes me so anxious and pissed off, I get into fights with
trees.
“It’s da masks…pinche gringo! “
“Dude, do I look like I speak
Spanish?”
“No it looks like you have wabos for a face MODERFUCKER!!HAHAAHAHAHAAH!!”
and with that, Juan went in a hysterical
fit of laughter!
I began to protest this ridiculous
notion…but Juan’s brain had clearly undergone a state of alcoholic metamorphoses
unlike any other, the transformation into the “wine-o”, the world’s worst kind
of Alcoholic…EVER!!!
The wine-o is commonly seen in environments
like Europe; the good ole fashion American penal system; and underneath frequented
freeway off-ramps, at some of your favorite tourist destinations. The wine-o has a special distant starry eyed
look…and it was as clear as day in the thicket of night, that Juan’s eyes had
this notorious black out look in them. I
was clearly watching Juan vacillate between the conciseness of man, to drunk,
roll through a black out for a moment, back to man again, just in time once
again to be drunk, then shitfaced, then blacked out for the next 3
weeks…typical fucking wine-os.
The wine-o has such little
coordination and self control, he can’t figure out how to operate a door knob,
yet tries on many occasions. Apparently,
the wine-o’s best thinking tells them to wonder around aimlessly, in a reckless
pursuit of alcohol, companionship, alcohol, shelter, alcohol, food, alcohol, and
then alcohol again. All barriers that
stand in the way of a parched wine-o’s whistle, will be overcome with
hedonistic joy, or met with an unpredictable, emotional barrage, of belligerence,
irrational rage, and over exaggerated humility…followed by an act featuring the
wine-o , pissing himself, lecturing us about government taxes, rolling around in
his piss, then laughing hysterically about it.
He may very well proceed to finish his display of infinite knowledge in
the form of cultural dance…as he squats down like a Vietnamese gacia or store
clerk, smiles, then finishing pissing himself, in front of the liquor store…laughing
about it the whole time!!!
 |
| An example of a wine-o, note that he is very comfortable pissing his pants and STILL WEARING THEM!!! |
Once I saw a wine-o walking around
with poo, all over his jeans…didn’t bother the man one bit…God bless his wine-o
soul!!! Deep in the wine-o’s pickled mind,
there is a quest being had, in pursuit of a treasure that will bring this
tortured soul to rest. Behind every door,
in every bar (and also quite a few in neighborhoods as well), lies a hidden
treasure that ONLY the wine-o is privy to.
He is so SURE while in the midst of an alcoholic blackout, that an
ancient treasure of booze, dirty whores, and money awaits him
Since Juan was too far out their at this point to practice common sense, let alone common courtesy, rational logic goes out the window with it. It was after this comment about Leather Face was made, I got the uneasy feeling that the jokes about Leather Face may be going a little too far. At times it is acceptable to join in on the emotional bashing of others, but unless you are directly connected to the bash-ey, a line must be drawn, and if crossed, hell will be to pay, and in this case, by the Hell’s Angel’s!!!!
“Dat’s okay my frineeed, my last hiena luked like dis…” Juan said as he pulled out a picture of him, with his arms wrapped around the neck of a goat…taken on a farm, somewhere up in the Ortega mountains.
“Juan…I think that’s a goat.” I said…and immediately, Bones chimed in with…
“Damn your girl makes mine look like Megan Fox!”…and that unfortunately, was the final straw…apparently its all right to talk shit about woman, but it would appear that in Pisano culture, never make fun of a mans animals,(especially if there is an outside chance he may be fucking em, but the same could be said about a hillbilly from West Virginia) because at that moment, Juan slapped Bones in the face, clear across the bar…
“Are you FUCKING CRAZY ESSAY?!” Bones yelled as he stood up while simultaneously knocking over the bar stool…
“Don’t you talk shit about Glacia”
“Juan why the fuck…why the fuck would you slap that man.”
“Fuck you wabos!”
“Juan why do you keep talking about wabos?”
“I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP LITTLE MEXICAN BASTARD!!!!” Yelled an angry Bones, whose was starting off toward the pool tables in the corner, where the rest of his biker friends sat around like an outlaw biker cub scout meeting.
Juan sat on the stool, poised ever and enthralled with the picture of him and Glacia, weeping like a little girl with a skinned knee. He was calmly sobbing into the remains of his beer when I yelled…
“We got to get the fuck out of here…JUAN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”
“Relax wabos, I got it under control…You see, da trouf about dat guy is, da trouf is…he is not like you or me…”
“I know Juan, he’s a 48 year old outlaw biker, with multiple felonies, and hundreds of violent friends and the entire crew he knows is HIGH AS SHIT ON BIKER CRANK!!!!!...DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA JUST HOW FUCKED WE ARE NOW??”
“Alright…let’s go let’s go then…”
“I fucking hate you Juan.” I screamed as we began our exodus…
We began to run out the back entrance of the Swallows, but one of the dancers on the floor did a "lopsey loo" to the left, which presented Juan with an opportunity to sidestep his ass into a cigarettes vending machine. This act caught the attention of everyone standing, or dancing, within an 18 foot circumference….for a moment, I felt like I was in a movie, as I grabbed Juan by his arm and yanked him off the floor, super-hero to lesser concerned minority side kick style.
“Quick you fucking baracho!!! Let’s not make any more of a God Damn seen.”
“That cigarette machine was in da way”
"Your a fucking wino and a hedonistic bastard, you know how fucked we are?" I asked, as the sounds of "Fuck You" could be herd chanted from the bathroom
We jumped into my bus, and with all it’s hamster-power , burned out of that crowded country western parking lot, and mashed onto the Ortega Highway, destination, 5 freeway south, toward San Clemente, California. The bass of the engine, roared from my Volkswagen screamed as we went down the road. The live Tonic album, by Medeski, Martin, and Wood was playing as I began to make conversation with a very drunk Juan.
“So Juan…I think I remember you from that Smut Peddlers show…right there at Mulligans, I mean…what the fuck is the name of that place…” I had drawn a Xanax induced blank, and suddenly, could not say the name of Coconuts, even though I could see the sign above the bar…
“Ahhh? Where you talk about?”
“Down the street from that burger joint…” Still no luck, what the fuck was happening hear I thought to myself
“Oh Madonnas?” Juan said, it was at this point I wondered to my self if he was suggesting the pop icon, gone hoe to housewife, had offered her self up as a virgin burger joint…
“You mean McDonalds?” I asked.
“Yeah dats what I say, Madon-as…”
“Ha-ha I’ll drink to that…no it’s just past there, you make a left under the free way…”
“Oh yeah…that place, dair…dair, right dair inside the poking lot, Coconuts” Juan said as he slammed back his Heineken “Coconuts. That’s where I live.”
“Juan, you do NOT live at a fucking bar…where? In the dumpster out back by the Doheny Salon? Or in the tent city just under the 5 freeway and P.C.H? Hugh? Hugh? What do you sleep on a fucking ice plant or something?” I started to feel like I was loosening my ability to distinguish the difference between passionately asking questions and taking genuine interest in a conversation or topic, and just passionately being an asshole drunk now.
“NO, I did not say dat…I do work dair on Saun-day…” Juan started pounding on my dashboard, as he continued, and I began to wonder, since Juan lost his ability to operate a door knob, would God bless me with Juan loosing his ability speak...any and all languages? Was this it? Was he about to stab me in the back because I had been so abrasive toward him in the bar? Would I make a fatal error, park my bus, step outside to light up a cigarette, and get a back full of crude silver wear stolen from a local Denny's? He does look like Abraham Lincoln fucked Fidel Castro...and made a love child…and that love child is the man sitting before me, plotting coyly for his chance to strike. Remain calm…think…tell him something like you got plenty of Allen wrench’s and used air pumps he can use to fix bikes…or perhaps we could scroll through my phone book and I could give him an ex’’s phone number…at that moment my thoughts were interrupted by....
"I don't know what da fuck happened back der, but you can crash at my pad tonight...actually, you wanna be my roommate?"
....Read Tina from the Beginning....
Back to Gonzo Headquarters...
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