Observations From Clines Corners, New Mexico

Its been about four hours since I arrived here at Clines Corners. People have come and gone, countless people. Hurrying into the cracking parking lot for gas, then quickly slipping into the darkness from which they appeared. Others come in and chat for a minute with the cashier. Who is awfully nice.

There is a new cashier working now, she has a terribly thick limey accent. I’m assuming the previous cashier didn’t explain to her my situation. Since I’ll be sitting in this chair tucked in the corner for the next five hours I’m sure she’ll ask what I’m doing here. If she tells me to leave I’ll simply moon her from the outside, show her the old queen on my ass. An obese customer just came in and exclaimed “No Hostess cupcakes!?” Ha. I wonder what I’ll do for the next five hours. There’s simply nothing else around. Just dying grass and desert brush. There’s a sign in here that reads “CLINES CORNERS- 60 MILES FROM ANYWHERE, YET SO CLOSE TO EVERYWHERE” 60 miles isn’t close to anything if your motorcycle is lying in a ditch on an abandoned stretch of Mexican Highway.
I don’t think the new cashier is from England. Her accent has a touch of Dutch. So I’m going to assume she’s from South Africa. I wonder if she will still be offended when I show her the queen on my ass. I’m sure my bare buttocks will be offensive enough. God it’s white. Pale enough to make Edward green with envy.
The sheriff just walked in with a tactical thigh holster. I wonder how much action he sees out here. Not nearly enough I bet. He looks like the kind of cop that gets all riled up everytime he pulls someone over. Works himself into a frenzy hoping the suspect pops out of the car guns blazing, one in each hand. He plays this dramatic scenario over and over in his mind frequently. Especially when he’s pounding his equally muscular wife, it helps him climax. He knows he’ll keep his cool in this situation, calmly crouch behind his bullet resistant door, and stitch the bastard a couple times across the forehead. Of course, all this will be recorded on his dash-cam. He’ll be awarded the Sheriffs equivalent of the Medal of Honor. Then that night, after the ceremony he’ll give the old woman a solid boning, while watching the footage, naturally.
I have a creeping suspicion this officer is incredibly insecure. I’m going to assume he was moderately popular in high school, but certainly a follower. Judging by how short he is I’m guessing he suffer from severe micro-penis. The main and driving reason he became a lawman. The oversized pick ups and tactical thigh holsters issued by the Torrence County Sheriffs department undoubtedly attracted him and his female repelling penis to the force.
But I’m sure his days are filled by handing out “80 in a 70” speeding tickets, interspersed by the occasional domestic violence call to the local Indian reservation.

An Ode to South America

Early in the morning again.
I do my best writing between the hours of two and four am.
spent my day
Dreaming of drinking rum with honduran dogs;
thirsty for tales of the promiscuous and suckle American dream.
Lounging in the equatorial sun, drifting into the sinkholes of San Salvador.
In my dreams I have a straw hat.
A weightless symbol of true, unadulterated freedom.
I am the personification of care-free.
My train of thought swerves wildly
at the very idea of contemplating the obvious setbacks to come.
My assignment is to crawl into the raunchiest spider holes of corruption, civil vandalism and any form of vulgarity.
And become a creolized gringo; a familiar face in the most hole in the wall cock fighting pits and brothels; guerilla encampments and booze tents.
then report back to the American public, inform them of the  third world bliss.

The Crowell Hole - I Venture into the Realms of Employee Housing

In the quaint village of West Dennis, Massachusetts lives a rowdy bunch. The employees of a classy hotel on the waterfront who drink all night and slave all day. Busting ass for the high class to pay for their binge of elixir. I happen to know the heir to this establishment and he invited me down for a couple weeks of beaching and boozing at whats known as the Crowell Hole.

With only 2,500 residents in West Dennis, word of a party house spreads faster than the Clap in Cabo. Consequently the Crowell Hole serves drinks six nights out of the week.
The house was absorbed by the hotel mongers from the Crowell family decades ago. And ever since it has housed the raunchiest employees on Cape. Before it was the set for teenage orgies and similar debauchery it was a home for the mentally retarded. Housing about five actual employees, theres plenty of room for three or four squatters at any given time.

A typical day at the Crowell Hole would consist of the five people who live there going to work, and the three or four squatters going to the beach to booze. I was on beach duty during my stay in Dennis. With about six beers that I had stashed the night before and the paddle ball gear, I'd hit the surf, covered in head to toe in greasy sun tan oil.
 The worst part of the day was always the same. Walking through the house the night after a liquor instigated display of shamelessness. The smell violated my nostrils like the Columbians of the Northern coast violate donkeys. (www.vice.com/the-vice-guide-to-sex/asses-of-the-caribbean) It reeks a mix of stale beer, condom wrappers and bong water all wrapped up in a vomit omelet. So I’d just hold my breath and stroll out the front door avoiding the broken glass and thumbtacks that littered the floor. Then the other squatters and I would hop in the 80's era red Volkswagen convertible and cruise down to Mayflower, one of the most relaxing beaches on Cape. At low tide you can walk for half a mile in waist deep, roman bath house temperature water. Which is uncommon in the North Atlantic. The only worries that plague Mayflower are running out of beer and the beach patrol.
 After a day of soaking up rays the squatters and I needed a nap before soaking up alcohol all night. I’d wake up around sunset, just in time for the responsible ones to return from slaving. While they all napped I would begin my solo pre-gaming. Before I knew it 10 o’clock would roll around and I’d be on the verge of a blackout. The festivities usually ramped up around 10:30, but the crazies didn’t show up till around midnight. When the moon is at it’s highest and so are the participants of this nightly liquor fueled ritual. And it only goes down hill from there. An average of two holes are punched in the wall every night, for rage or for fun. Gallons of beer are spilled on the floor to quench the carpet’s thirst. If your lucky enough (or unlucky enough in some cases) to find a drunken mate you have a 75 percent chance of getting walked in on by sex starved alcoholics, stark naked and dicks a swinging. Forcefully trying to apply lotion to your tail hole. The night would usually end around sunrise with the true party animals mimicking a drunken goatdance in the living room until they slumped to the beer soaked floor. This viscous cycle will continue till late August when the fun ends and the employees must return to their respective colleges. Where most will do the same thing they did here until next summer. I recommend that anyone who takes pleasure from drunken blasphemy spend a few days relishing in the filth that is the Crowell Hole. 

The night of burning panties

Corndog the hole punching king

Blue Ribbons and Swollen Thighs at the West Virginia State Fair

B-lining it to the corndog stand

Country folk from all 55 counties gathered today to bask in the barbecue aroma of the Lewisburg fairgrounds. Nearly every social class was represented. But most visitors had clawed up from the sinkholes of Appalachia; while a few climbed down from their ivory towers and met somewhere in the middle for a week of true country camaraderie. The Fair has everything the South has to offer. An exotic habitat that consist of Redman chewing tobacco, fried anything, ribs, ancient carnival rides and their equally deprived operators. As I got lost in the maze of farm animals and farm people I began to notice none of the carnies were talking. Just solemnly guiding the children to their seats. As if they had taken a vow of silence. I later found out from the ticket lady that the rider operators didn’t speak so the passengers wouldn’t smell the liquor on their breath. That was very eerie. Knowing half my life depended on the reliability of these rickety carnival rides and the other half on their drunken conductors.

Memories being made at the State Fair

A girl and her goat

High Adventure-A day with the Rainbow Children

Oliver Jones

High Adventure

A Day with the Rainbow Children

There is always something weird happening in Nederland. Especially on a nice day, when the village folk of this small mountain town crawl out from the woodwork and begin to roam. It was on one of these nice days I met Ox and Freddy. At first glance they appeared to be nothing more than the average dirty locals, but something about them intrigued me enough to want to learn more. I crossed a barren, silty parking lot and sat down next to them. I asked if they knew any good lookout spots in town I could take pictures from within walking distance. There were none. “But we were just about to go back to our casa in the woods, theres plenty to see there.” The larger, more intimidating homeless person said, nodding towards a shitty black nissan. Hmm, very intriguing I thought to myself. What kind of pad do theses mountain men have in the still snow sprinkled woods of Northern Ned? I agreed to hitch a ride and thus introductions were made. “The names Ox, and this here is Freddy.” Freddy smiled a disgusting toothless grin, yet no less heart warming than that of a Southern Preacher. Ox stood a solid six two and appeared exceptionally healthy for a vagrant. On the other hand, it was painfully obvious Freddy was malnourished and dying. We walked over to the sagging Nissan, I knew it was going to be an interesting day when I could smell the car before I could read the license plate. We all clambered in, Freddy decided to sit in the back with me, which I found odd. To make room he pushed the mountain of trash and trinkets over a bit, resulting in an avalanche of empty gallon jugs, cheap whisky bottles, and vienna sausage cans to collapse onto my lap. “Gotta wait for the Capt’n.” Ox yelled over the snarling engine. We didn’t have to wait very long. A man with a raggedy gray beard in biker attire came sprinting out of the convenience store. My very first thought was, oh fuck I am involved in an armed robbery. No less in a town who undoubtedly takes justice into their own hands with pitchforks and heavy chains. The man dove into the passenger seat and immediately introduced himself. “I’m Capt’n Coon, damn glad to meet ya!” So after that my new friends and I headed up US 72, old peak to peak highway to god knows where. Captain Coon poured himself an admiral nelson’s and coffee and began telling me his life story. I couldn’t help notice it was 9:30 in the morning, but I didn’t say anything. Turns out Captain Coon is short for Captain Coonass. A Louisiana native and unlicensed tugboat operator. A year ago he quit the swamp life, as enticing as it was and sold all of his belongings for an almost brand new Harley. Ever since he’s been ‘livin’ the life’. He couldn’t quite remember how he ran into Ox and Freddy, but thats not important anyway. What is important, he said is that “we’re all Rainbow Children now”. Ox verified with a grin and a nod. Freddy was busy reminiscing on an old acid trip via flashback so he didn’t have much to say. About a half hour later we arrived at the Rainbow Children encampment. I crawled out of the car and observed my surroundings, I felt oddly out of place wearing my boots. The majority of the dirt worshippers didn’t have shoes on. They all skipped around, swan dancing over the sporadic patches of Colorado snow. The ‘casa’ reminded me of a refugee camp, with tarp shelters strung up from tree to tree. Captain Coon’s shelter was the shittiest of them all, it wasn’t much more than a swiss cheese tarp and a bag of coals for a pillow. Ox had been trying to ‘manifest some grass’ since before I knew him. It turns out Captain Coon is an avid pot smoker and had the supply to get high in his bag of coals. Ox, Freddy and a few other revolutionist left over from the summer of love began to toke on one of those pipes that kind of looks like a faucet. But in this case it looked more like a rusty faucet. I passed the piece to the Captain and watched him suck the bowl through and swallow the ash. “Bowls kicked” he said and put the pipe in the bag of coals. About 15 seconds later three Boulder County Sheriff SUVs rolled up on the camp ground. I immediately separated myself from the group, for fear of being rounded up by the pigs and thrown in the jailhouse with the squatters. But I was severely mistaken, the police had come to thank the Rainbow Children in person for going around and picking up trash at all the other campsites. Captain Coon, high as a kite, chatted up the Officers with Kennedy like charm. I could see the relief on the faces of everybody at the camp when the cops pulled away. And before long the hippies had a fire going and pot of boiling water. I sat around the warmth and enjoyed a bit of Old Crow and macaroni before Ox offered to take me back to the bus station in Ned. It was getting dark and he could tell I wasn’t too down to spend a night with one of the rainbow daughters. After getting out of his nissan I waved goodbye as I walked to the bus shelter. “Don’t stop exploring!” is the last I ever heard of Ox as he ripped on up 72.