Walking on Water
I had just got home from an amazing trip when all of a sudden reality was thrown in my face by this stupid, white Rasta fuck who hangs out at my work. “Yo Ras, Ras?” Fuck it kills me.the closes place to Jamaica that assholes been was the reggae section at Best buy. Every time I hear that piece of shit call me Rasta a little piece of me dies. In an attempt to avoid further aggravation I bolted out back door holding 3 plates of bullshit making a B line for table 23. Once I got through the back do my coworker’s 3 year old daughter Olive was standing before me directly in my path. “Watch out Olive baby”, “fuck off Logan”, was her reply. Being told to fuck off by a 3 year old was an all time low for me. Why couldn’t I be back down south where the good times and the bowel movements flowed like wine.
I had spent the last few weeks touring around Mexico with my homies or to you less cultured individuals, my amigos. Mexico is a lot like summer camp, the foods good and you don’t wanna sit on any toilet seats. Everyone was so amazing and the weather was top notch. Being a Texan man such as myself, it was a very welcomed change to be able to go from 100+ degree weather to 70 degree weather with the crossing of a little imaginary line. The “scene” there is incredible. Everyone’s just trying to have fun. It seemed to me and my “amigos” that people there are just looking for one hell of a good time while trying the escape the same meaningless dull void that we also call life.
The Food:
“Mexican” food or as BSA calls it, “normal” food is gods gifts to punks. Want it vegan? No problem. Want to get down with some carne? Fuck yeah you do. Want it vegan but secretly want them to fuck up your order thus giving you a weird get out of jail “I don’t know how to say no cheese in Spanish” free card. No Problem. Down there they have these things called Tortas or sandwiches as we call them in the Texas. Now tortas are just like sandwiches except that they taste way better then sandwiches. Also a popular traditional Mexican dish is something called a taco. Now, bear with me if you can. A taco is kinda like a burrito or little donkey except it actually stays together when you try to eat. No napkins required. Remember that name Yankees. Taco. Often times while dinning you will be entertained by traditional Mexican folk music. In Morelia we had the pleasure of dinning with crust punk while lulled into an eating frenzy with the powerful rhythms of the Village People and MC Hammer. No shit. Oh well, it beats shitty crust. There’s also this food called….. Well I forgot what its called, but its supposed to taste like fish though its just tvp and bullshit. Anyway, it sucks.
The Terrain:
Mexico has a vast plethora of geographical landscapes for your traveling pleasure. Wither you fancy the deserts of Nuevo Leon or the lush mountainous forests of the state of Mexico, south of the Rio Grande has got a little but for everyone. I swear I saw a chubacabra fucking a jackalope in the desert by Sal Tillo, but I guess it could’ve just been a mirage or a KFC or something. I think my favorite is definitely the mountains. We don’t really have those things here in big Tex, we have something more like big hills which rich people use to build houses on so they can continually be able to look down upon and keep a watchful eye of the poor. We played one of the shows up in the mountains of Mexico City at a squat. We played on the roof while it was raining. It was kinda like a poor mans Woodstock, but for actual poor people, not some rich kids with too much time, money, and bad acid on their hands. There were some cholos from the states trying to get in the show for free who wanted us to get them in. Not on my watch.
Oh, a cholo is just an asshole with style. See Despise You.
The People:
I love Mexicans. Ive been touring with em for years and goddamn I love em. Keep the Dutch. Send more Mexicans. I had so much fun with the people down there that is brought tears to my eyes when I had to leave. Our generous host bought us into their homes, their country, and their hearts. There was Tio, one of my favorites. I know Tio means uncle in Spanish, but I still found myself calling him uncle Tio most of the time.
Tio like 2 things, drinking and Swedish Pop music, which dramatically differed from his appearance. I always preferred it when he drove. Mother fucker drove fast as hell with no disregard for stop sings, traffic signals, and lanes. You can’t drive in Mexico City on certain days so for the seconds Mexico show we had to take trains and then later random cars to get to the show. On the way home, Tio drove us back to Roger’s house during a torrential downpour. The streets got flooded due to the horrible drainage system, but Tio decided during theses hazardes conditions that the best way to get home was a drive real fucking fast thus getting us there in a hurry. If it would have been that I had already shit in a bush by the venue I would’ve right there in his car. Mastur was our driver for the majority of the trip. He also liked equal parts shitty crust and Swedish pop music. Ok, 70- 30 crust to pop, but who’s counting. His dad “Don Master” came to the last show with us in Monterrey. That dude knows how to party and smoke. A friend of Masters gave us some organic tobacco from Oaxaca he has grown. Matt, Master, and I took pulls off that shit like little babies, Don Master took a puff and just shrugged and said he had better. We were green.
That about sums up my Mexican adventure, I miss it more and more everyday. Europe aint got shit on you Mexico. You’re like the Geto Boys and their like Soulja Boy. You got more balls then a dude with 3 balls. No to get back to work and make coffee and serve food to worthless hippies who don’t care if I live or die just so long as I don’t scuff up their yoga mat with my shoes.
