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While I was reading about pheromones, I was tempted to buy a bottle.
But then I came to my senses, hell, if the dick enlarging crap didn't
work, I doubt the pheromone liquid would get me anything but "ewww
what's that smell!". That would suck and the main idea, out on the
trail, was to minimize the humiliation factor. Women can smell
desperation. Yea, once they know you have that insatiable need, you're
toast. Maybe rubbing the smell of a vagina on my shirt would work
better. At least it would trick the women into thinking I was actually
getting some.
When we were out on the trail, women just glommed onto Louis like flies
on shit. I hate to say it that way because some of the women were, in
my eyes, perfect specimens. In no way am I implying that these women
were anything but fine. I'd listen to him talk story, I'd analyze his
body movements and watch the women salivate in hopes of learning just a
little. My game needed a boost to the next level.
Part of the truth is that I'd never be Louis, he had the looks and was
fairly smart. After living that way for so many years, you can't help
but have that air of confidence. It was kindergarten shit for him. For
me, it was a constant battle, a precision bit of maneuvering where
every move counted; like in a chess game.
I couldn't afford to make a wrong move risking defeat. Though I walked
tall with shoulders back, inside, I knew who I was. My confidence came
from being rejected so many times, it didn't feel abnormal nor did it
bother me that much. I just "picked myself up and got back into the
race". That's life eh. In my younger days rejection was devasting but
finally, I recognized that being down was not a good attribute and not
something you can hide.
Louis always had a story about his love machine. He used to say that
women came in cycles. Even Louis and his perfect game would tell us
about his dry spells. He'd say that you can't give up and you don't
want to accept anything but what you truly desire. Times will improve
and when they improve then love comes through like a freight train.
He'd talk about those times when he was inundated with beautiful women.
All coming at him at once with lustful desire. He'd look up and almost
go into a trance with long pauses as he recollected the beauty and
passion of those days filled with love. He even had some videos but to
our dismay, would never share them.
The idea we are saving the world from terrorists is ridiculous. There will always be terrorists as there will always be criminals. You cannot beat a people into submission. "War is a weapon of the weak" (Gandhi). War is an admittance of failure. This war is bringing the hatred of our country to a high pitch and will for several years afterwards, definitely, bring terrorism closer to the heartland.
If there ever were a danger, China could step up and quash the problem instantly. It now, is the keeper of the power. It has the key. It has the largest army in the world, it has the industrial strength both physically and monetarily to crush anyone. It has the population to march people, thousands at a time, into any battlefield on the planet. It's got a large nuclear arsenal and a wise old conscious.
However, they stand aside, watching Americans spend their last dollar on firefights that can't be won like a gambler on social security spending a weeks food money at the casino. They stand aside wringing their hands as the US plays some spoiled childs game with no end but disaster. The Chinese are in the drivers seat now. Just like we outspent Russia and beat them in the cold war, the Chinese are sitting back, patiently watching us fade under friendly fire.
The beauty of life is now and tomorrow as it unfolds like a spring flower; as it reels off like some surround sound virtual reality movie. There's no pause or stop or reject so there is no use looking for a remote.
I can almost touch her in my mind with that vision of my calloused hand reaching out for her soft feminine grasp. And I remember, it wasn't that long ago; not enough to be one of those faded and distorted memories. It was just last winter when barren fields of winter lie fallow, the ground hiding life, preparing for spring as we merely added water and sunshine. It was that easy, nothing to brag about just common sense and intuition; like instant cocoa when you really need it.
Life can be such a fckn good time if you can just get past the bullsht.
The good times are now not then and they could be even better if you allow it to happen. Let the good times roll.
I just love this 80 degree weather. Can you tell?
]]>As the dream unfolds, as the dream gets closer to the next level, as the dream turns to reality, something always seems awry. Patience is the key but it's very difficult for a beer drinker; for the true beer whisperer.
When you live two realities, the future and the present, when you aren't attached to material things, when you are free, when you don't have appointments, you'd be surprised where your mind will take you.
I'm already over there but I'm not. The future isn't here quite yet. So, I have weird dreams like I died last night. I died alright but it wasn't stressful. I saw the death and walked away. I lost my shoes in that dream and thought to myself: " I don't want to wear those shoes I see in the green Fica." Yes I remember the pair of high top black wing tips in the Fica bush. "I'll just go to the shoe store", I thought, "and buy something I want". Besides, I didn't have time to stop and try them on. I hitchhiked home barefoot and that's not even popular anymore.
The jungles of you know where await me. It won't be that long. In the meantime, I have these weird dreams and feel like I'm not really here.
Oh yes, don't give me shit about living in the here and now. The future is here already and gaining ground daily. I am ecstatic about what's going to happen.
It was a blast, a blessing as we blindly blogged under the blankets. Blogging about this makes me blush but I have to boast a bit. What a bonanza blogging this babe who blew my blog boisterously and like a bomb, boosted me boundlesslly; my brim runneth over.
We blabbed some more about bright blogging but my inner buccaneer brochure was brutally brusque and all I could think about was was browsing in her broth like some blogging bum in the buff. She blogged outloud while I blogged in my mind: "God I'd like to just put my blog between her blog and enjoy that blogging buffet.
ANSWER (from Carol):
Certainly, you seem a culprit of covertly cunning computer creations. A word of caution to the culprit ..combining cutesy cursive here can lead to a calamity if you chat up a choir of charming characteristics and cannot come through to culmination.
If you heed not this caution, a chaperone will climb in close to you and your charming charge to compensate and circumvent your clumsy ceremonious circle of chicanery.
REBUTTAL:
Your dexterous diagnosis of my diatribe proved diligent and dignified but sounds a little bit like a dictum diminshing any dynamic discharge from my disciplined culmination.
I'm disheartend and disillusioned feeling dismissed and dishevelled and want to dispel any thoughts of what appears to be doddering dopey dullard like chicanary.
A chaperone for this dubious dribbling dwarf who is drowning in droopy drivel?
ANSWER(from Carol):
Evidently you are eager to engage an evil escapade of excessive and exhaustive experimentation toward enslaving your entourage.
However, I must endeavor to eradicate this elaborate egomanical episode of extreme exhibitionism.. The end...
FINALLY:
Fine, you've finally flustered me with this foggy formation and foppish form.
Figuratively speaking, I forecast a foray
into some fragment of foundation
freezing frightful friction and funny as it functions
I further favor freezing as you mentioned
in your fragrant frame.
Fini!
Here's a country, the newest industrial powerhouse, with a few billion
people and out of those masses are some apparent sweethearts waiting to
be plucked from factories and out of a highly competitive society. We
don't have a clue about the competition either, it's beyond our
imagination.
They are driven in their search for a better life and that may include
an older man from the US. They seem to believe there is a balance
between survival and love. But then don't we all have our tolerances
and ways of balancing relationships and our own well being?
You can't blame them.
How many times have I heard: "I'm so happy alone. I don't need a
man."? But then afterwhile, that idea turns you into a radical
anthropormorphistic freak; you've been hugging that dog a little too
much and eyebrows are raising. Get that damn thing off your bed, it
ain't healthy m'am.
All these different levels but when you analyze it
Everyone's the same. So why not go out for Chinese ?
Hell yes there is much more to the story. Like a lot of you, I could
write a book about this new singles internet thing. But for now, I'm
just contemplating those model looking Chinese singles ladies. What do
I have to do to compromise and go for it in Beijing?
I never said I knew what was right or even correct? I love to judge
the situation or comment on it at the least. What fun. Who are these
people that keep coming into our lives like me to you? See, I'm
already hooked on you but with reservations. I know the probable
outcome, just like you do. But still, here I am. I like the wordy
bullshit, the banter and after three beers, I'll cast all of reality,
good sense and all the other stuff aside and just sit here and write.
Listen, of course I'd like to talk on messenger with you. I'm old,
your'e young, you look good, my ego is boosted, i'm flattered..let's
get it on. Aside from all that, I love to fantacize like all the rest
of us here. I fantacize about the lottery too especially when it's up
there. There again, I've always wondered if fantacizing is destructive
or not. Does it take away time from real life. Does it meddle in
relationships..real relationships? The reality will have a hard time
being realized if it gets so far out, nothing can live up to it.
That's sort of what I see here on these singles sites.
Lots of folks here do the chat thing, do the posting to the forums
etc.; god what a boring life it must be. Where are all these close
friends in your own home town?
I did the same thing last night. I went to Phil Brady's for comedy
night. I talked with total strangers...but it's in person. Totally
different. Body language etc you know. And later I was thinking...I
actually improved my banter by writing here on this site. So maybe it
does have worth. Maybe maybe maybe....
I had bongo drums, poetry and the lotus position back in the late
fifties in Jr. High. Venice beach was only an hours drive along
Ventura hiway alternate (followed the coastline) and the Los Angeles
Times wrote about the beatnik's protesting police violence. When I was
in New York City, I met one of those Santa Monica beatniks who now
lives in the Santa Maria area of Calif. When I had just turned 21, she
and a few other pre hippie radicals changed this middle class beaver
cleaver boy like the first scene with the cow's eye in the film " The
Andalusian Dog" by Dali and Bunuel.
I met Ginsburg, Sari Deines, Stan Vanderbeek, John Cage, Warhol, Tim
Leary and others during my stay there. A fan of Keroac? Without the
heroin, without his demons, I'm a gypsy. Does that relate?
No heroin but I did leave this world temporarily on a huge ball of
fresh soft hash from the mountains of Mexico. I heard someone in the
distance say: "Do you think we should take him to the hospital?".
Being so far outside the reality universe, I couldn't talk. Some old
time artists who'd survived the junk scene, said,"Leave him alone, the
hospital will really kill him".
On the road for sure. I dream of settling down someday. I'm not sure
if he thought that way. For me, once I'd tasted life outside the box,
there was no turning back. There were times I felt crazy; I mean
really crazy. At times I wished I'd have been a CPA. But I have no
regrets and the synapsis' have dug such deep trails, I'm pretty much
stuck in outer space.
Steve temporarily in Baton Rouge
]]>
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.
]]>
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.
]]>Although, beyond a doubt, I'm not admitting to having changes anywhere near the ferocity of the female species. If you've ever watched Mexican soap operas, you'll see a lot of men crying so down here, it's not so humiliating. The US stll hangs on to that wild west macho independent image that only wussy men shed a tear. That is except for the gurly men, the effeminate hetrosexuals and the educated elite.
With all due respect, no matter what you are thinking or how you are judging what I am saying, don't peg me as anything but pure buck goat. Always have been, always will be. There are certain things I've retained since my youth and with the chemicals now available from Pfizer and others, I'm able to pursue fantasies only imagined by the young and restless. So I'll shed a tear over trivia but then I'll recuperate quickly and head to the frig for a cold Pacifico. Ugg, me like everything about Jane.
Not too long ago, I got a letter from Jonell, a classmate from the 60's at VHS. She expressed feelings about the enjoyment she gets from taking a long walk along the beach and then hopping up to Palermo's Restaurant, where she meets old friends for some good coffee and conversation. I envy you Jonell. I still have great memories of Ventura and all my old classmates and friends from the past. It would be great to spend time there and re-connect with some of the home boys and gurls.
Of course the next question is, if I were to return to Ventura, where do I find a decent rental? I need something under $100 a month. Now that they have demolished the low-income housing in the Santa Clara River bottom, there isn't anywhere for me to put my hand painted paisley refrigerator box. What's the world coming to? It must be the patriot act or the housing bubble.
Looks like I'll have to tough it out, a little while longer, on the coast near latitude 23 degrees North where rent is less than what you'd pay for a meal and a bottle of wine at some moderately upscale restaurant in San Buenaventura. Not to brag, but there are people around Mazatlan who have center consoles in their cars that will accomodate a quart of beer and two glasses. Luckily, the speed limit is only 25 MPH. Decadence and hedonism still exists south of the border and it costs less than a breakfast at Dennys.
25 million baby boomers will soon know the pain of living in poverty until they discover this parallel universe down Mexico way. You can't afford Ventura? Come on down ya hear.
]]>At the end of Seaward was a beach frequented by hundreds of people in the summer. I'd usually have a little money for some Sugar Babies or watermelon while most of the day was spent bodysurfing in the warm Pacific and then lying face down in the hot sand.
That idea of warm is all relative because when I returned to live in Ventura, for two years, back in 1980, the warm water now felt ice cold. It's amazing how tolerant a 10 year old boy can be. We would stay in the water till our lips turned blue and only complained when it was time to go home.
At age 35, it took less than 10 minutes before I thought I was going into a state of hypothermia. My fingers wouldn't work and it was painful. What happened in those past 25 years to make things so different?
This morning, in Mazatlan, I got up at 8:00AM and headed down to the surf. I had my bodyboard and fins, a towel and a change of clothes. The water was about 88 degrees. Fine...so fine!
There weren't many waves but I didn't care. It was either do a power walk or paddle around for an hour. Besides, there was no one out, with an occasional set, 2 to 3 foot every 20 minutes, it wasn't that bad. The water was crystal clear and you could see bright tropical fish swimming around the rocks below.
I returned home and headed over to Calle Aleman for two glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice. From there I went home and put on that old Mamas and Papas album with the song "California Dreamin". Somehow, in the warm sun of Mexico, it feels like old California. Esta toda madre compadres!
 The Japanese Fishing Float |
While scavanging the beach a little north of Ventura and a little south of Jalama Beach, we found about 8 long wooden oars that had been drifting for god knows how long. One of the oddest finds and most lucrative, happened after a strong east wind near the Ventura pier. The wind had blown fiercely for most of the night and in the morning, every dropped coin from any previous beach goer, was sitting on top of a little pyramid of sand. What a score! So what are we finding in Mazatlan when it comes to treasure? Read on.
I got the wakeup call at 7:00 AM and was told we'd be heading out by 7:30. The idea was to beat the heat although it really didn't feel that bad this morning. The temps have been running in the high to mid 60's F. and that's pretty comfortable. It's May in Mazatlan and the sun is getting to be very intense by about 10:00 or 11:00 AM. Getting a good jump on the sun was a good idea. Usually, I'm up by 5:30 but since I didn't sleep the night before, I slept in. We were going on an adventure today and there was no question in my mind that I was going to fly out of bed, make a strong batch of coffee and be ready to head out the door. Coffee is always first so I blasted down a cup of good strong java and was ready to greet the challenges the day with a clear mind. In fact, I wasn't even hungry.
At my present weight, I knew I could last a month without eating and knowing I had only 30 minutes to get ready, I passed on breakfast and figured I'd drink water and do just fine. A few years ago, some of us got caught in the desert, outside of Tucson, without sufficient water. We barely made it back to our vehicle without some kind of dehydration accident so if nothing else, I was going to have at least a gallon of H2O.
Our mission was to seek out some pre-columbian artifacts that were being pulled up, from under the ground, by plows in an agricultural area. This place is not a big secret with the local village but only one of our party had been there and his impression was that it was exciting and held the possibility of finding some very interesting pieces. It's not a place I'd tell anyone about and it's not easy to find but when you see the massive amount of artifacts that dot the surface of the land there, it'll blow your mind.
 Real Pre-Columbian Artifacts |
We went through an ejido village that is like going back in time. It's old Mexico to the tee. We drove passed fields of Sarghum, corn and peppers. We opened gates that kept cattle and horses from being where they shouldn't. We ended up at the side of a dry river bed and had to walk about 2 KM to the site. Luckily, on the way, we stopped at a market where I bought some fruit and some freshly baked croissants filled with ham, cheese and peppers. I didn't have to starve myself and I had plenty of water.
My head was protected by a big straw hat; I had on Levis and a light shirt. I carried my water, a small collapsible shovel and a bag for the artifacts in an old green army knapsack. We wandered across the river and up the other side, following a well worn path used by the locals both on foot and with their horses. I could see that at one area a huge cactus was being harvested now and then by whomever came by. I hadn't eaten yet and after looking at that cactus plant, my mind drifted towards one of my favorite meals; nopales and eggs. If you don't know what nopales are, look it up.
We broke out of the brush and trees to a big open field lined with erosion marks from the last rains. It appears that between the rains and the plowing, the artifacts are both unearthed from the ground and rolled into piles from the little streams that run down from the hills nearby. We encountered a local farmer, on the way, and he asked if we were looking for the little "monkeys". The locals refer to some of the rock or clay pieces that resemble humans as "monos" or monkeys.
We all went our different ways and started looking for hidden treasures. There are literally thousands of small pottery pieces and larger pieces of stone grinding tools. I lucked out and found the head of either a spear or an arrow. It's made of obsidian and most likely was from out of the area. In the photo, you'll see what else I found. After an hour and a half in the baking sun, we were ready to leave. I'd like to go back again, more prepared and spend several hours looking for something very out of the ordinary. It was another great day in paradise.
]]>It was hard enough to keep a positive attitude about survival in a place where rents were going sky high and the difference between those who have and have not was racing out of control. Add in the manifestations attributed to the frustration of poverty and the declining standard of living for those outside the big bucks, my friend left the Ventura area in deep despair. I'm sure there were more reasons, but those seemed to be the last few straws that broke the camel's back.
Mexicans, here in the state of Sinaloa, the drug capital of Mexico, endure the highest murder rate per capita in the whole country. Are they depressed or worried?
]]> Steve and Curly, early residents at the elegant Victorian house. |
So here we sit, the year 2005, in a Kerouacesque apartment in Mazatlan. Rent is $90 dollars a month. We are less than a block from the ocean and a mere 5 minutes from a good left point break similar to Ventura's Surfer's Point. This apartment will eventually be torn down and a ritzy high end home will take it's place.
Until then, I interact with our neighbors, a couple from Hermosa Beach. Greg is an old sixties surfer and his wonderful Mexican wife, Gude, who was born and raised on a rancho in Guanajuato.
When the waves are good, Greg and I are there, at daybreak and enjoying at least an hour of surfing alone. After noon, we call up the Pacifico Brewery, they deliver, to the doorstep, a case of cold ass Pacifico in the bottles. Gude, will mix up a batch of Agua Chile; a sort of Ceviche made with shrimp, lime juice and hot peppers.
The three of us spend the rest of the afternoon looking out across the harbor, over the cruise ships and to a beach that meanders for over 15 miles bordered by mango and coconut ranchos on one side and the warm blue Pacific ocean on the other.
Hey man, it's a transcendental experience with the sound of an old Bob Dylan CD playing "Ballad of a Thin Man" on Greg's stereo. I yell out to Greg, "turn up the sounds!" ... "it's my favorite part":
"You raise up your head
And you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says
"It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?"
And somebody else says, "Where what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God
Am I here all alone?"
Because something is happening here
But you don't know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?".
My favorite Mazatlan Surf Spot