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May 14, 2006
Road Trip to the USA...Love Those Crawfish!
Tues, the 9th of May, I took off at 9:00 PM on the Ejecutivo bus from the Mazatlan central bus station and headed for Baton Rouge. I had three pieces of luggage that weighed at least 75 lbs each. At times, it was a real hassle and at times my inept security methods turned out to be laughable. In the end, I don't think anything was missing. Besides, there wasn't much to take except a few things I was carrying in my personal bag which went with me every second of the day.
Hell, I thought I was going to get breaks between towns and have enough time to eat, drink and be merry; not this trip. As I approached each stop on the way to my destination, everyplace but one, my bus left in less than 30 minutes. Unfortunately, in the middle of the night, we crossed the "Devils Backbone", one of the most scenic parts of the Sierra Nevadas in Mexico. Looking at the several hundred foot drop-offs might have taken a little joy out of the trip, but all in all, with a hit of Valium, I slept OK, all night, and arrived safe and sound in Monterrey the next morning. I did this trip the other way around, back in the sixties and in a 57 VW bus but that was so far back in time, I don't remember a damn thing.
By this time, the buses were starting to get crowded and instead of the ejecutivo class, I was on the next level down. There is a huge quality difference most of the time and yes, I hit the big downward slide. Some seats didn't recline, they were lumpy and you couldn't sit alone and stretch out. Some inconsiderate bitch behind me yapped loudly, at an irritating pitch, for at least two hours on her cell phone. I wanted to strangle her and shove that cell phone up her ass but I calmly turned around after being pushed over the edge and told her that the calls were ANNOYING, VERY ANNOYING and I suggested she go into the restroom to continue. Of course, I'm sure, I was branded as a person on the lunatic fringe but goddamnit she quit the high pitch telephone action, moved to a different seat and was convinced what had happened was similar to Al Quaeda on a flight to hell. I was then able to go to sleep. Several people around me quietly said thank you. It's amazing how one can be pushed over the limit from sleep deprivation, being stuffed in a bus seat with too many people sweating and breathing, with not much food and not much to drink but sugar water that's supposed to taste like grape juice.
We got into Laredo, Texas around 6:30PM and that was the first time I had a chance to think about real food and somthing special to drink. By this time, special is meaning like a cold Budweiser. I conned my way into a special secure bus station office that would allow me to store my baggage for free. I did tip the gentleman 5 bucks but it was worth every penny. The situation was purely the opposite of my conflict with the cell phone bitch. No problem. I took off on a quest for at least a beer and a tavern meal. The old part of Laredo was looking good. It had been refurbished like a lot of older US towns and out of nowhere, I ran across the Hooligan Sports Bar. It was cool inside, a change from the 112 F heat outside. The place was well run aside from the fact a couple of Mexican Americans had owned and operated the place for only two weeks. I opted for the Killian's Red, in the big icy mug and an order of Spicey Chicken wings. That was a first in over six years for me. I was feelin good.
I needed to get back before my buddy who stashed my bags went off duty so I was out of there by a little after 7:30PM. O n the way I saw two or three homeless white folks collecting carboard on the street. I said something nice to one guy and he copped an attitude. Yea, back home again and easily descernable you're in the US with all the bums on the street. Luckily, America throws so much away, there's enough for millions of elastic impressionists and their American culture art, plus, enough for the homeless to live their eccentric lives insulting, screaming, drugging out or just being helpless in the hands of ill fated circumstances.
On the next crowded bus, especially indicative of riding the good ol Greyhound, it hit me again that I should have gotten an education in something other than Theater Arts. But then almost immediately, my street smarts kicked in, I thought about the good times in Mexico, I thought about the years of music, art, sex, travelling and once again got in lock step with my fate. With a smile on my face and that feeling of sailing through life more like a loving drunken sailor than an unhappy assembly line slave with a big two by four stuck up his ass, I didn't have debts, spicey boiled crawfish were on the menu for tonight and paradise if not here at the moment, was just around the bend.
Posted by Steve Immel at 07:29 PM
May 03, 2006
Back to the USSR...er the USA
In the face of extremely negative odds, at least viewed from my thinly gold leafed pine chair, I've whined, bitched, complained and expressed myself in a few obscure ways condemning my partially self inflicted fate with disdain, contempt and regret. Not all the time, just on occasion and, not here at this venue saving my unloading for close friends, my over the edge artist acquaintences and sometimes family if I feel they can handle the truth.
Of course when you compare what I have gone through to REAL fucking tragedy pain and suffering, you'd think rather than my mini bullshit depression, I'd been given a gift of survival including a succulent turkey, fresh cranberry sauce from grandmas place and some chocolate truffles from Fabrica de Francia.
Now don't think all that harsh brutal reality takes away from my shitball situation and bluesy feelings of helplessness and personal despair. Don't think that this tired old body looks forward to a year of hard labor with joy and contentment. Ah! and there is the key! Only a year! A minute in the life of an old man.
Soon, I'll be on the Social Security dole and back down in front of the Belmar Hotel, across the street from the Pacific Ocean, drinking a cool Pacifico talking art trash via stream of consciousness low flying words similar to the ease of Pelicans gliding the beaches looking for the tiny prey that swim too close to the surface. That's the true sashimi my friend.
Tacos for 7 pesos, a waitress who grabs my cock as a mere tease with no further plans and a fan at night to lessen the tropical heat where it never gets cold, yes, I'll miss it but by god you can bet your retirement check I'll return in full force to rejoin those folks who mold the next wave of elastic expressionists.
The so called successful baby boomers continue to prove their worth and prowess consuming million dollar houses big enough for a family of 12. They wander around looking for each other forgetting that the children left years ago looking for their own world never to sleep in their well appointed beds again.
The high school banners still linger over the headboard. Now faded and dusty next to the plaster cast of a hand, made at age 6. The future eludes most of them and the visions of things to come are only the same visions we read about over and over again as children; visions of sugar plums and fairies and glass armoirs with sets of long stemmed wine glass not filled since the Thanksgiving of 1982.
Years of forgetting to create, the millions now retiring have nothing but their libraries of personal past memories, photos, albums, movies no longer playable because of modern technology, broken pieces of handmade turtle ashtrays, fingerpainting art on newsprint now faded and thrown into the heap of unused outdated medicine from the last sickness.
Now it's our turn to bore the hell out of our grandkids and talk about the past while they sit politely and think about how to make the highest score on their newest computer gameboy.
You have to be saying by now that Immel has gone completely mad! Well, yes and no. I gave all my old photos away including yearbooks from Cabrillo Jr. Hi. Utilitarian goods were sold at the local swap meet and the stuff not sold was left on the street for the many scavangers digging for their own gold amongst torn black plastic sacks just in time to beat the dump divers at the refuse pit. The goal has been to downsize and simplify and that's what's on my mind.
The only thing left in my moderate collection of memoribilia is a great original oil of King Kong and Fay Raye, done by my friend Brian in Oregon, and a mannequins head that came from a dress shop in Oregon. It was used for showing hats and was made in the forties or fifties. Those two things I just cannot part with.
So, if you don't know already, I'm moving to Louisiana to work for a year. After that, I'll be moving back to Mazatlan and hopefully living the rest of my life as an ex-pat where I feel so much freer and where the livin is easy.
Posted by Steve Immel at 06:53 PM
