Lambs to the Slaughter

I was deep in a bottle of whisky. Too deep to resurface, even for air. My only hope was to keep drinking. My twisted logic was the brainchild of Evan Williams.
“Come on, man!” My friend and fellow concert goer was pouring whisky into his flask.
“Were gonna miss Lamb!” I could see the excitement in his eyes, I could feel it in the air. And smell it on his breath.
“Alright just a couple more shots” I slurred, grabbing the green label bottle from Kimon.
I had to be beyond black out. I myself am not a huge fan of Lamb of God. In fact, heavy Metal is pretty far from any other music I enjoy. Kimon is a different beast entirely. His unsatisfiable thirst for the hellbroth that is angry metal is unquenchable. The man was forged from birth to stomp around rhythmically to double bass and screeching guitars.
But I do enjoy drinking, and pseudo-violence. Plus Kimon guaranteed it would be a shit circus.
I tossed back what would be my final shot of the night. I let it swim about in my mouth, flow between my teeth and soak into my gums. Not intentionally of course, Evan Williams tastes like the piss of an asparagus eating demon. I just couldn’t get it down my rotten esophagus.
I spit the foul whisky all over the table.
“Ahh! what a waste!” Kimon shrieked.
“lets hit the road, head straight for the pits” I said, ignoring his cries and taunting.
We could hear Lamb of God’s distinct mating call 50 yards away. For some twisted reason, God had granted us the ability to stagger all the way to the Boulder Theater without collapsing of alcohol poisoning.

There was no one in line and the doorman scoped us from across the street as we repositioned our various flasks into our pants. There was something about his untamed hair and track marks that gave the impression he didn’t mind we had been doing a little drinking.
“Enjoy, boys” The homeless looking doorman said in a raunchy tone.
I entered the Theater as my flask started to slide down my pants. I waddled over to the stairs and adjusted my liquor situation. I stood up to find Kimon was no where to be seen, I was alone.  Drunk and surrounded by these shaved headed half naked animals. They could be high on anything, crazy and desperate. They came to Lamb of God to vent.
“If Kimon is still alive he’ll be in the mosh pits” I slurred to myself and sighted out the terrain from atop the staircase. There were to two separate circles of drunken fighting going on towards the front of the stage. One bigger than the other. ‘Go big or go home’  I thought, as I stumbled towards the group of violent beasts.
I pushed through the screaming crowd and got closer to the pit. As soon as I saw an opening I sprinted in and found myself in the middle of the ring. Mohawk donning freaks skipped around the circle. Shirtless behemoths covered in cheap tattoos head butted each other to the ground.
“Woo!” I let out a demonic scream from the center of diaphragm.
I felt the energy of the mosh pit, I raised both my arms in a rockers salute and bellowed at the top of my lungs “LAMB OF GOD!”
Just as God had come out of my mouth, a shirtless skinhead lowered his shoulder into my once powerful diaphragm. Flattening me to the ground instantly. My head ricocheted off the wood floor, causing me to bite off a small fragment of my tongue. It remained swollen for three days, resembling some sort of slug you might find in the Amazon.

I had no choice but to get up immediately and start crackin’ skulls. I violently frolicked around the mosh pit, observing these crazies in their most comfortable environment.
Kimon was still nowhere to be seen. I gasped for air as I clawed my way out of the pit and towards the stage. Randy Blythe was screaming incoherently about something or other. I was far too drunk to decipher the throaty noise. I was leaning over the stage,  growling belligerently when I felt a heavy slap on my shoulder. I whipped around and showed the attacker my fangs. It was Kimon!
“Sup dude!” He was grinning like a hyena.
“This is insane!” Sweat rolled off my lips. Kimon noticed I was about to die of heat stroke and I followed him to where he ‘hid’ his jacket.
I followed him to the front where his jacket laid in the corner. We left our valuables in the nook and headed back for the pits.

A few snarling, ear ringing tunes later Morton let his last note ring off into the distance.
It was quite literally the calm before the storm. All was silent as everyone halted any movement and gazed up at Blythe. The hair in my ears erected, I frantically looked around, searching desperately for an escape. The ring of  mobbers I was just apart of had split, dividing the audience in half. Leaving only Kimon, myself and a few others that weren’t as savvy as the rest, standing aimlessly in the center. The heavy metal equivalents of Moses. Splitting the sea of enraged drunkards.
Blythe started screaming again just as suddenly as he had stopped. And the chaos followed suit; ten times over. It was the finale of what might be Lamb of Gods last tour. None of the drug addled loons wanted to miss the chance for one final blood spill.
The sea of drunkards we had just parted collapsed in on us. I lost Kimon and once again found myself alone and drunk in the boiling cauldron of anger. But this time I knew what to expect. My greatest fear was going down. I had seen others make this unfortunate mistake, the kind you can only make once. I saw them only as I stepped on their throats to ensure my own survival; clasping onto everyone in reach to keep from being dragged down by the fallen. This fight for my life continued for six minutes.
By the end of it we were all exhausted and bleeding. I don’t know what happen to those brave moshers that went down. Some, I’m sure, lived to scream and stomp in rage another day. But more than a few went straight to the mass graves they dig around concerts like these.

- Oliver Jones
May 24th, 2013

The Mexico Series

THE BLACK SHEDOG . . . RED TAPE PINGPONG . . . OUT OF GAS AND IN THE DARK . . . CHARADES AT THE CUCARACHA HOTEL . . . GIVING THANKS FOR . . .

Shedog and I

While families all over the Midwest were scooting in their chairs for Thanksgiving Dinner, I was smiling nervously, handing out cigarettes to Mexican soldiers at a checkpoint just outside of Ojinaga. Cigarros make a gringo who doesn’t speak Spanish a hell of a lot  more tolerable.
The air was a sweet warmth washing over my face. Squeezing in the clutch I rolled towards a gaggle of camouflaged men with M16s and sweat and mean boredom in their eyes. They waved me over to the sandy shoulder next to their tent, I got off my bike and went for my smokes. I noticed the man who waved me over had the most stripes on his arm as he strutted towards me, the M16 held lazily at his waist.

He nodded towards me and said something or other. Where I was headed maybe?
“Camargo!” I smiled and raised my hands like an Evangelist.
He nodded again.

Half of the squad started walking towards us, some looking at the ground. Others grinning like jackals. But all the men were very relaxed on gun safety, barrels aiming wherever they swung. I offered the pack to Sarge and he took a smoke, the rest of them zoned in with outreached hands. One of them with the stench and smirk of a jackass grabbed two. But I just gave him a squinty eyed grin. 
I stretched out a map of Mexico and drew the route to Camargo with my finger.
“Gasolina?” I looked at all their faces anxiously. By the classic shake-the-tank method I guessed I had about six cups of the rojo left.
They smiled and shook their heads, nothing but desolation from here to Camargo. 260 kilometers of sun scorched Earth and narco terrorist.
I had spent the majority of my first day in Mexico ping ponging back and forth from Ojinaga to various checkpoints; looking for permits, applications, English speaking Mexicans, and paying fines, waving my hands around like an irate Italian.  By the time I got to the military outpost the sun was hanging eerily close to the horizon. The one rule in Mexico, or any Latin American country, is not to ride at night. When the sun goes down in that part of the desert the bandits and cutthroats awaken from their drug haze, ready to rape and slit necks.
A vagrant with a Walmart bag full of dried chiles got out of the back of a pickup truck while I was smoking with the soldiers. He told me the cafe down the road sold gas. I didn’t believe him but at the same time I thought why wouldn’t it? Its Mexico.
About an hour less of sunlight later I was filled up and had a milk jug of bootleg gas in my saddle bag. I waved goodbye to the full titted barista and headed South for Camargo.
Highway 67 is a two lane asphalt trail with trash filled ditches for shoulders. I was ripping down it at 85 miles an hour, cutting through the shadowy blue hue of the final rays of sun. Beneath me was a 1977 Kawasaki Kz 650. Hand painted flat black and covered in duct tape to ward off would be thieves. Highway 67 seemed to be primarily a supply route. Other than dusty Semi Trucks, the only other traffic was the occasional hay hauling pickup, usually a decade old Nissan driven by a sun dried old man with a well worn smile.
The official speed limit all the way to Camargo is 65 kilometers an hour, thats 40 stateside. At this snail’s pace I’d be flayed and dragged through the desert in three hours; So I kept the wobbly speedometer needle between 80 and 90 until the tank was empty, a roaring helldog to any Mexican traveling in that cold desert, leaving only a trail of black plumes from a leaky tachometer cable.
As I rounded a gentle curve onto a 50 kilometer straightaway, Shedog started sputtering and the RPM needle dropped. I was out of gas and in the dark, but I knew it had been about 180 kilometers since the checkpoint. That meant about 70 kilometers till the next gas station. Just far enough for a dirty milk jug that was seductively filled with stolen gasoline to get me to Camargo. I hopped off and pushed the bike as far to the right as possible, careful not to fall into the trash gutter, and took out my last 2 liters.
I caught the glint of a headlight in my sideview mirror and my chest contracted. I turned around to see the dull yellow beams of the three Semis I passed hours ago, chugging along at breakneck speed. Shrieking, I ripped the top off the jug. My hands were shaking with fear and I couldn’t get a grip on my keys.
I howled at the stars while my shadow elongated from the headlights. I finally got the tank open. Flipped the jug upside down over the gashole. Missed. Spilling gasoline on everything, seat, controls. Panting, neck at a twisted angle, eying the ever approaching Mack trucks. I tossed the jug into the trash ditch. The first Semi careened to the left as I spastically flashed my tiny red brake light. The driver yanked down on his blow horn and cleared me by less than an arms length. My shrieks were whispers over the horns and wind and rattling cargo. In a matter of 12 seconds the trucks had passed and I was still alive and screaming.
I straddled Shedog and caught my breath, hands on my hips. The shrinking tail lights of the last Semi urged me to get to Camargo and out of that fucking desert. I turned the ignition and the old Kawasaki made a screeching attempt to start but lost wind. So I curbstomped the kickstarter and ripped after the Semis.

Who goes to a strip club on Valentine’s Day?

The mind conjures images of crusty old serpents lurking around the dumpster, waiting for the janitor to empty the tampon bin from the dressing room. The heartbroken youth drunkenly flailing his last dollar, forgetting a ship that had sailed long ago.

That’s what I was imagining when I drew out the large capital required for research at a seedy little joint called The Bus Stop.

At the very edge of Boulder city limits lies the grease soaked gentleman's club. A jizz stained pimple on Boulder’s otherwise blemish free face. Conveniently, the bus ride up Broadway takes just long enough to polish off a fifth between a few determined friends.
I brought along two other researchers, anticipating a deviant frenzy in the strip club, I’d need as many eyes as possible. Kimon, the lead observer vomited about a half mile before we got there.
“We’ll make the rest on foot.” I said swigging gin out of a small steel flask.
We made staggered tracks through the fresh powder along broadway.
“C’mon on man, lets smoke one of those joints!” Dex, the third and final member of the team was leaning on me screaming.
“No!” Kimon, eyes closed and stubborn shouted with clenched fists. “I’m too fucked up!”
We walked and drank until we saw the '70s era white sign reading "The Bus Stop." A blasphemous oasis from the arctic winds.
We crossed the slick parking lot to the front door. Sex starved nomads wandering the ice plains in search of warm bodies and sin. We were all self admitted gnats to the red light.
After paying a nine dollar cover and a five dollar ice tea, we nestled ourselves drunkenly at the front of the stage. Notebook in hand I started firing questions at the half naked girl.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Have you noticed an influx of new faces tonight or is it the usual crowd?”
I threw a couple dollars on the floor of the stage as she sullenly crawled towards me. She wasn’t answering my questions, I knew this tactic wouldn’t work. I meandered outside in search of lonely patrons.
I spied a mexican smoking a pall mall from across the parking lot. Casually walking the awkward 20 yards, he eyed me suspiciously.
“Allen Kaufman, journalist” I proclaimed about five feet away. “Lemme ask you, what brings you here to the Bus Stop on Valentines?”
“Ahh, I dunno mane ” His eyes were glazed and aromatic tequila wafted toward me.
“My friends take me” He was sucking down the pall mall at a staggering rate. I could tell he was trying to split, go see some ass. Not talk to some white boy asking questions with a notebook. I turned the conversation in a different direction.
“You know this place is about to get shut down right?” I said confidently, sliding a Benson out of it’s long gold box.
He didn’t say anything, just cocked his head and furrowed his brow. Taking a long drag.
“Yup . . .” lighting my cigarette. “Felony mistreatment of animals, mostly endangered reptiles”
I dragged and judged his expression.
“Leez-ards?” He asked, he was thoroughly confused.
“Lizards, sea turtles, miniature horses,  anything out of the ordinary really”
He whistled. “Shit mane, thats fucked up, what they do?”
I knew he was buying it, his cig was out and he stared at me drunkenly waiting for an answer.
“They make custom fetish tapes, you see these freaks are tired of the run of the mill donkey show”
The look in his eyes suggested I’d hit a nerve of familiarity.
“You tell em’ what animals you wanna see fuck and they’ll set the mood and film it. Easy as that. Only problem is you get 25 to life for sodomizing a Spineless Forest Lizard, they are of course, endangered”
The man’s nose crinkled and he took a half step back
“I’m reporting for the Camera, the story is ‘Boulder’s Oldest Strip Club: The Final Days’”.
My mexican friend stood thinking intently as I flicked my cig and strolled inside.
An 85 pound latina was grinding her crotch on the pole to Pussy Poppin by Ludacris. Her body covered in regrettable tattoos, she radiated the smell of despair. Kimon and Dex staring slack jawed, clawing holes in their pockets. I took a seat and put two dollars on the stage. To my right was a late 20 something white boy donning a yankees cap; the kind of guy that wished he could tell tales of schoolyard gang fights on the hot Brooklyn pavement. But to his egos misfortune he had been raised by a good presbyterian family, fed regularly and only used a gun under close supervision at scout camp.
He grinned as he peddled dollar bill on top of dollar bill, luring the small hispanic stripper off the pole. Kimon, Dex and myself were outmatched by about four dollars. I finally got her attention by snapping a dollar under one of her thongs.
“How you boys doing tonight?” She sounded like she had never left the midwest.
“Fantastic! Hows your Valentines Day goin'?” I slurred.
“Well, its alright” She said as she rotated her hips in a clockwise circle.

Head down pussy, pussy poppin’

Head down pussy, pussy poppin’

Head down pussy, pussy poppin’

“I’m celebrating alone this year, my boyfriends in jail” She turned around and viciously swayed her ass from left to right like the rogue boom of a sloop in a hurricane.
“Alriiight, lets give it up for Tiana” A voice came from above, and Pussy Poppin came to an inaudible end.  This is my least favorite part of a strippers act. When all the drunken womanizers are howling and whistling as the lone and naked girl picks dollars off the ground.
“Everyone give a warm welcome for Nashville!” The same voice overhead said. A tall brunette walked onto the stage and winked at me. I noticed a tattoo across her shoulder blades as she buried her head into Dex’s crotch. It read ‘LOVE LIFE’ in old English text. She was nice enough.
Night was turning into early morning, the desperate hours. I took another frenzied look around; where are the patrons? It was beginning to look like the answer to my question that had dragged us here was, in fact, ourselves. We were the kind of people that go to a strip club on Valentines Day.
This realization frightened me. I wouldn’t stand for that. I have too much class. I followed the DJ out to the parking lot where he lit up a smoke.
I went through my wrap. Allen Kaufman, journalist, strip club ect...
“Ya most nights its just regulars. This isn't really the kinda place you just stumble upon”
I was scribbling short hand about to ask another question.
“Hey could you not put my name in that?” He looked worried, but calm. I hadn’t asked his name.
“Ya no problem, So where is everyone tonight?” I probed.
“Well most of the regulars have wives, their probably spending time with them” He said casually.
I took my seat next to Kimon. A stripper was struggling to let him motorboat her but her breast were simply too small. It looked like she was about to poke one of his eyes out with her antenna nipples. An interesting explanation for an eye-patch at least. The girl turned around and attempted to latch onto Kimon’s shoulders with her legs; But he was leaning back just a couple degrees too far and it sent him flailing onto his ass.
It was most definitely time to leave. The bouncer eyed us like a hawk to a small nervous mammal. I yanked Kimon up by his vomit soaked collar and placed him in his seat, smiling convincingly to the crossed-arm door man.
Grinning like a jackass, Kimon slid a dollar in front of the straight faced stripper.
“Sorry ‘bout that ma’am” slurring worse than Romney after the election.
She snatched the dollar off the stage and crawled over to the cretin in the Yankees cap.
“That guy is writing terrible things about you girls and the club” The bastard was blowing my cover.
The stripper stared me down savagely as she slapped her sagging A-cups around.
“Hey jack, you don’t know dick!” I pointed at him and stood up out of my chair.
He flipped us off and tucked a dollar into her greasy g-string.
“You get what you pay for asshole!” Dex stood up screaming, spewing dip spit all over the stage.
I tugged at Kimon, his head was hanging and he mumbled something about more ice tea.
The bouncer had called us a cab ten minutes prior, without our knowledge. We piled in the backseat ranting about the assholes that go to a strip club on Valentines day.
“Step on it! South Boulder, quick, before these animals lynch us!”

- Allen Kaufman

February 14th, 2013

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