We don’t go to porno picture shows
We don’t swap our wives with our neighbors
And we keep our kids away from Mexico.
I don’t know about you guys, but I had a pretty damn good weekend. Hung out at the Texas Book Festival all Saturday, as I said I would, and got Kinky Friedman to sign his new book, Blast from the Past, for me. He signed it, “See you in hell…” I read the entire book on Sunday, and bought another of his books, God Bless John Wayne, yesterday. I also heard him sing and do a bit of standup Saturday during which time he sang the song which heads and ends this entry. Pissed some woman from El Paso off who then left to his saying, “I haven’t lost my touch.” Great stuff, I’m tellin’ ya.
Today in English we had to write a “happy thought/memory.” Essentially, we had to get into that whole Wordsworth “memories collected in tranquility” mood and write down the good memory that came to mind. This is what I wrote:
My happy thought took places only seconds after I plummeted toward earth tied to life by only a small cord. I have no photographs of this experience because the day before, while scouting locations for the jump, my friend had thrown the camera from a bridge high above a Mexican river. The camera’s fall (and my own soon afterward) were all part of a period my friends and I remember as The Summer of Spontaneity. During that summer, we did whatever came to mind – whatever felt good – that was feasible and at least semi-moral. It was a lot like the Sixties except for the lack of sex and drugs. We played rock and roll constantly.
As they strapped the cords around my waist and ankle, I looked down at where our former camera had made its final descent into the unknown and felt a lump of adrenaline form in my throat. Could I do this? I looked around at my friends standing about the bridge joking and awaiting their turn – I had no choice. Well, I had a choice, but handling ridicule is not my forte.
Connected to life by only a thin cord, I felt as if I were once again in my mother’s womb – helpless and dependent.
On my way down, over the roar of passing air, I heard a familiar voice ring out, “I looooooove moonpies!”
A place where sweet young virgins are deflowered.
You walk down the street knee-deep in tacos
And the wetbacks still get twenty cents an hour.