black dog

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wrongness as optimism

"We hope to have the oil seepage contained within 48 hours."

cherry popsicles

“Why are you yelling at me? Stickers sell themselves in this forsaken country!” I push the stack of bootleg Spider-man stickers back towards the vendedor. He doesn’t under stand why I wouldn’t want stickers. I don’t understand why anyone would. As he passes, the camposino seated to my back-left begins to unfurl deep-mucus-charged hacks, peppering my nape with pure evil. I begin to whirl around, retaliate with a disapproving “mother hell-beast” of a glare, but I am intercepted mid-pass by the two-toothed smile of the niña seated next to me. She had just bought stickers.

Slumping in my seat, I imagine the River Bear “skull dragging” the vendedor. Or at least puffing his chest and turning red like some kind of awkward tropical bird courtship. He took no guff from their lot, the bus hustler. It was in situations like this I had to man the bucket of ice water. Awaiting the precise moment in which to interlude and douche his inferno with cold rational thought. An arduous undertaking indeed, but it often fell on my crown. Someone had to keep the River Bear from getting knifed.

It’s hard to remember now where the wave broke. Where exactly the novelty of this experience peaked, crashed, and rolled back into the sea of good intentions. Someone asked me once “If this was the best or worst decision I ever made?” I said, “ I couldn’t say, probably neither, but I was proud that I once wanted to do this.” With every new group I see that look, quietly drunk on hope and self righteous expectations. It smells like cherry popsicles. Then there are the hope pumpers on their way out. Walking-talking grad school essays. Selling us-to convince themselves -before they have to sell someone else.

104…108…110…111...102…99…97, were the highs in my valley last week. A woman in the park questions why I wear shorts. Of all things American they have hawked, short pants remain uniquely controversial. Certainly, this makes me doubt how far we can go here. Perhaps if I have handed her a tri-fold pamphlet-explaining it was God’s plan for us all to enjoy short pants-she would have been more open minded. Fore Central America has become the new bull market for proselytes. A few weeks ago Don Carlos, a distinguished educated member of the town council, confronted me with confused eyes. Quickly he directed me into an alley across from his home. He leaned in close and wrangled a paper from his rear pocket. “Brian” he whispered, “did you know that Jesus visited the Indians?” The Mormons had descended on Jocoro.

At first they came in pairs. Pairs, which over night became herds. I explained to my townspeople that when wet they multiply. Yet, no one had seen the movie Gremlins and the joke failed. I was frequently asked if I knew or was of any relation to any of them. I carefully explained that they were just other white people, and that we were not related. The shiny sword-sharp handouts could be found on nary a dining mesa. This was the new exciting way. A uniquely American mythology. More elaborate than your fathers’ Christianity. Packaged and sold by with a smile by darling blue-eyed 18 year olds. Who could resist? It’s not an insult in any obvious way to send an 18 year old on a mission to reroute the lives of grown adults.

They say in El Salvador everybody is selling everything. Save alone us. We aren’t selling anything. Some of us are even sold-out of what we came with. Maybe that’s the best thing about us here. After a while in the sweat, we can’t even remember our own agendas.

Sometimes at dusk, a young sexy couple strapped to a dirt bike roar past my door. I watch them hum and bump violently through the ruts. The men from my town make lewd remarks about the girl on the bike. I call them “The Couple from the Future.” They look so unconsciously modern and out of place here in the valley. The local men say men say they are off,to the milpa, to fuck incognito. I reply she will be lucky to feel anything after that ride. They look at me perplexed.

Two days later “The Couple of the Future” on their magic dirt bike rattle and hum on by us. One of the men slowly begins to smile. Ahh, because of the vibrations….I nod with a smile, and watch as he scurries off to retell his amigos.

Hope springs eternal in the Savior. It smells like cherry popsicles.

gabriel

Save Now

dear brian,

the land of the savior

while amongst the pimps, loons, deviants, angled eyed hucksters, dangerous drunkards, and one ill tempered ex-guerrilla who carries a bedazzled machete in his armpit, one begins to wonder if God himself will come down just to reclaim his good name from this place, El Salvador, welcome.

and then the joy ran out.

Joy Bani 1925-2009

Surely, there is no shortage of people. Honest men and ill tempered degenerates come and go and the world just turns. Unique minds ponder the ephemeral nature of our existence, the mystery of it's significance; while the rest of us just want to fall in love, obtain a reasonable mortgage rate on a two story house, and produce children who won't burn it down. Sadly, it takes an event as powerful as death to balance one with the other.

I adjusted the mic, cleared my airway, I lifted my head and I looked out over those in attendance of St Josephs cathedral, site of my grandfathers funeral....My eyes crawled over saddened family, teary eyed friends, stoic clergy, and sea crazed navy vets...and then I looked down at my grandmother... . Her body formless like an old sweater, slumped in her wheel chair, under the weight of her mink coat. Her chin lifted high in the air, as her attendee dabbed the tears away from her cheeks. The crumpled grace of a proud woman. One who had been the 53 year accomplice of a thick love.

I wanted to yell,

Look here,
these people had it right,
don't let yourself forget this...
bury this in our cynical hearts...
this.
here.
right here, is what we should be celebrating in life...
don't let this fade, please please remember this, because we all need this

Surely, there is no shortage of people, all equipped with uniquely human stories. This one was about a man who took a break from work, looked out of his main st. office window , where he saw this powerfully beautiful woman floating down the sidewalk. He fell into a love so thick it spread over the remainder of their days and then over the edge and down on the lucky witnesses, the friends and family, the story tellers....

This story is about happily ever after.....

+ about a thick love.

-b

and this is called radiohead...can you say radiohead?

Alexander Valenzuela age 6, has only met 2 gringos in his life. In his words, the last volunteer his family hosted had brown eyes ,was old, and smelled funny.....This gringo has blue eyes, still smells funny, and is going to introduce him to radiohead.

track 1 My Iron Lung



Press play
and....Silence.
I ask him if he likes?.....nothing no response

he stares off into the distance and unleashes a massive spit bubble...I take this as a good sign

his world has flattened.

track 2 Creep



Building on my initial success(assumed), we go a little heavier....note to all kids who are raised in a gang infested country don't take well to hand signs...even those intended to rock.

track 3 Karma Police



and I narrowly avert inspiring the first suicide by a 6 year old.

need to pick up da pace...

track 4 Bodysnatchers



back to more loud noise in a language he doesn't understand...

conclusion



When I was 7 my friends older sister sat us down in front of the tv pointed to the gyrating man on the screen in the white leather suit and boldly stated "This is Axl Rose and he is f'n amazing"....and she was right......but I was more impressed by her use of the "f word"...

I think that story applies here.

in a round about way.

We proceeded to make goofy faces into mac camera until it was time for cartoons.

ride the bird,

-b

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