Hey Stinkers,
If the water's clear,
and you open your eyes
as a wave breaks above,
it looks about like...
If you don't know how to describe this, I offer a clue:
BEAUTIFUL.
Well, work's been blatantly tough on the JEFA. Thus we're off for a little vacation empezando ahorita.
It seems I just got started here... AND there's a grip to do.
BUT the local shits are setting their sights on ME... and I'm NOT entirely NOT to blame.
A lapse will help them look elsewhere.
The last thing I need is a machete in my ass.
And really, why not jaunt about a bit? I like to travel.
Surprise! We're going sailing. Trip length is open ended. I've got no choice in the matter and though I'm "EL CAPITAN", I can't help but feel merely along for the ride.
Which, (desu?)fortunadamente, I'm happy with.
Pathetic? Beautiful? Who gives a fuck?!
I'm either IN LOVE or at least seriously PUSSY-WHIPPED.
Which brings us to the lyric of the day:
***
None other than THE BOSS, Springsteen:
You've gone a million miles
How far did you get
To that place where you can't remember
And where you can't forget
She'll lead you down the path
There will be tenderness in the air
She'll let you come just far enough
So you know she's really there
She'll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She's got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away
***
This works. I love seemingly aimless travel. I love hard, pointy effort.
Perhaps with a bit less education I'd know how to LET it all unfold...
But, SERIOUSLY....
Shit. Shit. Shit.
EXHIBIT A:
Why, yes, that is Leticia "Special Letty" VonGomez Gonzalez, 4'11" top Granada stylist with ass for months. Gone is my rats' nest (please note the plurality).
My WARDROBE? Thanks to the thrift store in Rivas and $20 I've got 8 collared shirts and "new" pants originating from I-can't-even-EXPRESS-where.
I need to grow a beer belly lest I come off RETRO-METRO-SEXUAL.
But get me right. It's all self-inflicted.
See, I've gotten a dozen e-mails in the last daze from LONG-LOST LADIES saying WRITE MORE... as in, GAME OVER... as in, WE WIN... as in, the one man approaching ESCAPE VELOCITY has HIT THE BRAKES, DROPPED TROW, BIT THE BULLET, and EMBRACED THE INEVITABLE.
To which I can respond nothing but "TRALSE". So take that as you will.
See, I haven't heard a thing from the GENTS which means they're no doubt disappointed.
But honestly,
GENTS,
were we to escape,
and I know,
cuz' I've escaped countless times in the last year,
WHERE,
REALLY,
do we escape TO?
Sure, we play in the mountains or wind or waves but at the end of the week when the food's all gone we inevitably find ourselves in the BAR... not to TALK... not to DRINK... but to SEARCH.
And you know as well as I for WHAT.
So I'm ON with IT.
La Jefa shopped for and stowed enough food to feed ten men for a month so maybe we're heading to French Polynesia. Odds favor a jaunt to "Secret Kite Island", "Honeymoon Cove", and the flawless waves of Portrero Grande and Roca Bruja.
I used to scrap together a leg of travel on a dime and ten minutes effort. Now I've got 30 liters or drinking water, 3.5 liters or rum, 10 gallons of gas, and an army's food.
FUCK ARTISTIC POVERTY. GET BUSY LIVIN' OR GET BUSY DYIN'.
So yeah, I'm getting fat. I've lost my edge. But I most certainly haven't sold out... just bought into a dream SPAWNed by a Gran-Jefe about as tweaked as yours truly.
Maybe it'll work out. Maybe it won't. But now... I've got everything AND the benefit of the doubt.
They say you can't have ART and LOVE in the same small HEART.
Well, here I am.
Whatever you're looking for, get some.
LOVE, no doubt, LOVE,
MAX