Edwin MacInnes was lounging half-asleep on the hotel bed when the phrase “This am good stuff” spewed from the television. The screen showed a face very close to the camera, saying “You want bite of eat? Not time enough for food real? Pop a snack top of handy Puffin’ Pita, packed is with real bacon and cheddar cheese!”

Oh Lord, he thought. Between cartoons spouting lines like “I are Weasel!” and ads announcing “This am good stuff,” the English language was doomed. He’d watched so much of this TV crap during his life he could feel the overflow of bad programming leaking out his ears.

Edwin’s stomach growled, announcing that it wanted dinner. He rolled off the creaky bed and padded across the shabby carpet, heading toward the bathroom to wash up and make himself presentable. He’d been sweet talking a cutie pie over at the diner for three nights now, priming her for a date. Edwin’s job would keep him in town at least another month and he didn’t want to spend all that time alone.

“Coming up later tonight,” said a voice from the television, “News Ten have exclusive footage of an twister that touched down outside Lawton, Oklahoma, and see how Senator Kennedy started uproar his with comments gun control.”

Edwin frowned at his image in the dingy mirror, absently wondering what was wrong with the television. Was it a question of bad grammar, or the audio circuit mangling words? He splashed water in his face, dried off, combed his hair, and examined himself again. Face okay. Hair okay. He turned, shut off the light, and headed for the door.

“…Christopher be three-and-half when emergency cut short,” said a woman on the TV. “Be he thirteen now—” Edwin shut it off on his way out.

The diner was across the street and a half-block up, a brisk walk through the cool fall air. He passed his livelihood — a big ugly vacuum truck — gave it a quick check for oil leaks or unlocked compartments, then headed across the street. Peering through the plate glass windows of the diner, he spotted Barbara Ann, a handsome aging blonde with bright eyes, a quick smile, and no wedding ring. She poured coffee and chatted merrily to another patron.

Putting on the smiling, confident face he used for winning over women, Edwin entered the diner. Inside it smelled of steak, fries, beer, and cigarettes. “Hey Barbara,” he said to the waitress. “Another hard day over.”

“You hungry tonight?”

“You bet I am.”

“Well come over here and sit down,” she said. “I’ll fix you right up.” She smiled at him, and he smiled right back, and as he sat down it occurred to him that they were both wearing the same mask. Not genuine smiles, but smiles that were a front, a shield between them and the rest of the world, something to make a good impression that had nothing to do with how they really felt.

It deflated his mood, leaving him feeling stupid and lonely. Edwin relaxed his face, and his smile ebbed. “Steak and eggs,” he said.

Barbara Ann stood with her pad, staring at it and not him. “Not chicken fried steak tonight?”

“No.”

“How do you want the steak?”

“Rare.”

“Fries or baked potato?”

“Fries.”

“Coke or Beer?”

“Beer.”

Something in his tone made her look up from her pad. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah. I was going to ask you out.”

That caught her off guard. She stared at him for a few seconds, blinking, and her smile faltered. “You were?” she said finally.

“Yes. I thought maybe a movie after you get off work.”

“I don’t get off until midnight.”

“That’s what just occurred to me.” It was a lie, but it sounded good. “It must be hard with this shift.”

“Not really.” A few moments passed, then she said, “Why were you going to ask me out?”

“You’re not wearing a ring.”

“Oh.” Suddenly conscious of her naked finger, she seemed not to know what to do with her hand. “Well,” she said, “um, let me go get your order in.”

“Okay.” He watched as she walked away, and sighed. Boy, he thought, I messed that up.

A TV hung from the wall off in a corner, the volume down low. Every once in a while he caught snatches of dialog. He’d seen the show, a sitcom where were four young women lived together in a beach apartment, and all but one seemed to be in love with the handyman. “…I be thinking, Mr. Ro-ma-no,” the typecast airhead blonde was saying, “if you am lend me your car, we can bling moth things at once.” The actress had enormous breasts, simply unreal spheres with big nipples poking hard against her blouse, and she pushed them forward at the greasy-looking Mr. Romano. “What think you?”

“Here’s your coke,” Barbara said, returning with a tall plastic glass.

“Thanks,” he said.

“How about Friday night?” she said.

“What?”

“I’m off Friday. Is that good for you?”

Now his smile was genuine. He could actually feel his mood rising, an elevator-going-up sensation. “Yes,” he told her, “Friday is very good for me.”

She pulled out her pen and wrote her phone number on a napkin. Her smile seemed genuine as well.

#

Edwin’s standing joke was that his job sucked, but he loved it anyway. He didn’t really, but he was at least used to it, and took pride in being an expert at something. Driving the vacuum truck paid well but forced him to be a vagabond. During his rare off-times, when work slowed down, he retreated up to some wild acres he owned in the mountains where he could camp and relax. Other than that, he had no actual home.

That morning as the union boys set up the work site, Edwin tried to read the Thursday paper, but he barely saw it. His mind kept wandering to his date with Barbara. He’d called her last night and they talked for a long while, and they’d decided on a dinner and a movie.

Besides, the newspaper was defective.

Either the writers and editors were smoking crack, or there was a problem with the computers that set the type. “…you can find also good tips,” one article read, “for global going it checking the guidelines adopted by them Organization of Economic Cooperation. Though nonbonding, that am virtual tax …”

“Jesus,” Edwin muttered, dropping the paper. “What in the hell is going on?”

“Huh?” said one of the union men.

“The paper.” Edwin told him. “It’s gibberish!”

“Yeah,” the man said, nodding. “Been that way for years.”

“It’s giving me a headache just looking at it.” Edwin dug into the truck’s glove compartment for aspirin. Finding the bottle, he shook out two and swallowed them with lukewarm coffee. Then he picked up the paper and thumbed through it looking for the funnies. Finding them, he stared for long moments, his expression dismayed.

“Football am good,” said Charlie Brown. “Better than is the baseball.”

“Kick now it,” said Lucy. “Promise be I straight hold.”

Edwin groaned. Lucy always yanked the ball before Charlie could kick it. He never learned, and once again the kid landed flat on his back.

“Grief good,” said Charlie Brown.

That night after work he had to keep the television off. Lots of his favorite programs were on, but he couldn’t take the gibberish. It seemed like TV conspired to evolve English into some other language. Edwin had a hard time understanding, and that ruined it for him.

He tried to read a magazine but found the same problem. “Among honorees in was 19^th annual ceremony,” an article read, “for Roll Hall them on Thursday New York…” It was frustrating, like the words were rearranging themselves as he tried to read them.

Then something occurred to him … maybe this was some sort of computer virus. Spread through the publishing world, the virus rearranged everything just before going to press, when it was too late to stop it. And on television, it infected the computers that powered the teleprompters, and the inane television personalities didn’t know any better than to read what was in front of them.

That had to be it. It had to that or something like that. And everyone was just too blasé to do anything about it.

Feeling better now that he had a handle on the phenomenon, Edwin was able to settle down in his lumpy motel bed and sleep. One more day of work, and then he had a date with Barbara. She was a sweetheart. She really was. She might be the one to convince him to stop his vagabond lifestyle and finally build that cabin up in the mountains. Smiling to himself he thought, Well, I can dream.

#

The next morning he tried the television again, but it was worse than ever. The picture wasn’t even coherent. It was a man, then a woman, and then a man again. He/she was saying: “Man face pyramid Mars tomb sand dance live see, hook pipe Egyptian silent…” Utter nonsense, so disturbing that Edwin slapped the off button in horror.

Later during the day, while the union boys were lounging on their lunch break, Edwin wandered into a used book store and picked up an old, dusty Mark Twain novel. Thumbing through the pages he was gratified to see they were normal. Some guy got punched so hard it sent him back in time, and he woke up in the days of King Arthur. Edwin laughed and bought the book, happy to have something to read.

At quitting time, Edwin rushed back to the hotel and got ready for his date. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Barbara’s number.

“Hello?” she said, answering.

“Hi, this is Edwin. Are we still on for tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Do you mind driving? All I have is my truck.”

“No problem. You’re at that hotel across from the diner, right?”

“Yes.”

“See you in about thirty minutes.”

Edwin sat on the bed and, instead of turning on the TV, he cracked open the dusty old book he’d bought that afternoon and found where he’d left off. The hero of the story, the Yankee, had Merlin thrown into prison and was preparing to blow up the old sorcerer’s tower. Suddenly Edwin stumbled in his reading, his eyes tripping over an awkward sentence. “We have could blown up the Tower of London with use these charges.” He stared at the words, reading them over and over, feeling a creepy chill. But the next sentence was normal, as was the next after that. Just an isolated set of typos, he told himself. Just a coincidence. The book, after all, was printed back in the early 1960’s. His theory about the computer virus wouldn’t explain such an old book being corrupted.

Barbara Ann arrived and honked her car’s horn. He went out to greet her, climbed in her car, and let her drive where she pleased. She had a restaurant all picked out, as well as a movie, and both were fine with him.

At the restaurant Edwin couldn’t read the menu. It was in French. Barbara snickered and said, “I can’t read it, either.” They put their trust in the maître d’ and let him order.

Over the next hour Barbara told Edwin vignettes of her life growing up in a horrible little town called Barstow, and Edwin in turn described to her his life, working up and down the entire west coast, and told her about his wild acres up in the mountains. They both found out they liked dogs better than cats. They listened to the same music. They both enjoyed camping and fishing. She began touching him as she talked, and he found an occasion or two to squeeze her hand.

Edwin paid the outrageous bill, not even wincing at the generous tip, and they went to her car and drove to the theater. Barbara had picked a date movie about lovers inadvertently involved in international espionage. When Edwin and Barbara settled in their seats he put his arm around her and she didn’t mind.

The screen lit up and the pre-movie reel was run. Sound boomed out of two dozen speakers. Dancing popcorn and cola cans appeared on the screen.

Popcorn! Inyet vit pith Popcorn! Neek Popcorn!

Ayatollah Coca-Cola!

Edwin sunk slowly into his seat, staring at the screen in horror. The words glowing in front of him didn’t make any sense, nor did the booming, overloud announcements: “Water butter mouth Popcorn! Time wait now no snakes, fun go to movies! Candy! Candy! Candy!”

He glanced over at Barbara. She glanced back, gave him a smile, and leaned into him. Then she turned her attention back to the screen.

The screen ran through the coming attractions. Harrison Ford in a tense, dramatic scene said, “Mayco bandanna! Death cuts limpet brochettes. Days come and mean.” There followed a car chase scene, then an explosion.

Barbara put her head up against his, saying “I can’t wait until this comes out.”

The movie started. The credits assembled in dramatic computer formations. There was a black sky, a moon, stars, and dark trees. A quiet street. Cars screeched onto the screen, and gunfire erupted from barrels pointed out the car windows.

The scene cuts to show a bold newspaper headline:

In Murdered Found with Aide
Congressional Springdale

A blond, handsome man is holding the newspaper. “Heymade,” he says. “Seen pot go for tack sediment?”

“Yondiman?” says the brunette woman next to him.

“Baynard merg,” he replies. “So new not clam in time?”

Staring intently at the screen, Edwin sank even lower into his seat. The dialogue grew more and more incomprehensible, reaching a point where most of it was made up of meaningless vowels and consonants. Non-words. It was like watching a foreign film without dubbing or subtitles.

He kept glancing at Barbara, but she was completely absorbed. She didn’t notice anything at all, or at least wasn’t showing signs of it. Maybe, he thought, she’s only pretending to understand it. Looking around at the other moviegoers, he wondered if they were experiencing the same thing. No one understanding anything, but too embarrassed to admit it to anyone?

The movie ended and the credits rolled. People got up to leave, but Edwin remained seated. I have to face it, he thought as he stared at the screen full of incomprehensible non-words, letters white on black, scrolling from the bottom toward the top. The problem is with me.

Barbara was looking at him. As he turned toward her, she leaned forward and lightly put her lips against his. Once, twice. Then she pulled back and said, “Yank prew. Ibit don fall mack rue new.”

Edwin’s heart raced. In a shaking voice he said, “What?” Some dim part of him hoped he’d just misunderstood, or misheard, and that if she spoke again he’d understand her.

“Yong woah? Yet bent down folm wogone?”

“Uh…” Edwin was shaking. “Um, I’m having problems hearing.” He felt lost, confused, wondering at his sanity.

She spoke more gibberish, and a panic rose in him. He abruptly stood. “I can’t understand you,” he said, trying to keep the hysteria from his voice. “There’s something wrong with my hearing.”

“Hawt?”

“I think I need to go to the hospital. Can you take me to a hospital?”

“Hawt?” she said again.

“Hospital,” he said. “Can you understand me? Hospital. I need to go to a hospital.”

Looking very concerned, she nodded and stood up. Taking him by his hand, she led him up and out of the theater and to her car, got him inside it, and trotted around to the other side. “Toko yode heemer nomo?” she said as she got in. “Ipstittle?”

He was shaking, and felt faint. “Whatever,” he said. “Whatever.”

“Toko nomo? Ibit ipstittle?”

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. “Whatever,” he said again, feeling doomed.

Barbara was evidently able to understand him, because she drove him directly to a hospital. He very calmly and patiently tried to explain to the nurse at the desk what was wrong, but had no idea if he was getting anything across. “Needah insu edense?” he was asked. “Been provo het dosoto?”

The nurse took his temperature, and pulse, and blood pressure. Despite her medical professionalism, she looked concerned. Another nurse took him back to a room with a large machine, and had him climb onto a table. The table slid into the machine and the machine buzzed around his head.

Much later a tall, weary-looking doctor walked up to him. It was past 3:30 AM. Edwin wondered if the doctor had been called in on his account. The man looked over Edwin’s charts, took his blood pressure, and attempted communication. It was obviously futile. Finally, the doctor pulled out a stack of his business cards and took a pen, writing words carefully on the backs of the cards, one word per card. Then he numbered the cards, and spread them out in front of Edwin on a table.

Edwin looked very carefully at the numbers, then at the words

1. Silent
   
2. Stroke
   
3. Brain
   
4. Damage
   
5. Language
   
6. Processing
   
7. Broken
   

It took a while for the words to all come together and gain meaning. He’d had a stroke and didn’t realize it, and part of his brain — the part dealing with language — was damaged. Edwin thanked the doctor and kept the cards.

#

Barbara was a sweetheart and wanted to help, but it wasn’t her problem, and Edwin was determined not to burden her with it. On Sunday they released him from the hospital, making him understand he was to come back for therapy. He had no intention of coming back. I’m dying, he thought. It’s time to retire.

He saw Barbara one more time. He’d packed up his belongings and moved out of the hotel room, then walked over to the diner and looked through the window. She saw him and came outside, and immediately put her arms around him. They kissed and hugged, then squeezed hands, and then he left. The ponderous vacuum truck lumbered down the road, heading toward the freeway.

Edwin drove up north to San Jose where he kept a rented storage space, and he emptied it out, piling it all into the truck. It was mainly camping gear. Before he left, he closed his account, speaking as little as possible and communicating by pointing and nodding. Then it was back on the highway once more, still heading north into the mountains.

There was a broken down fence marking the boundary of his land. Beyond was lush green brush and tall trees. Edwin drove over a broken part of the fence, bulldozed his way through the brush, and parked in a peaceful clearing under a tree.

He got out and walked stiff-legged around the truck, and then pulled out a fishing rod and his tackle box and headed down to the river. His footsteps were heavy, smashing through the brush, kicking at rocks. He practically threw his gear down at the bank. Staring down into the clear running water, he had an urge to jump in. Instead he sank to his knees and, leaning forward on his arms, plunged his head in. It was cold, and the muted trickling of the stream seemed amplified, loud in his ears. Water was going up his nose.

Yanking his head back out, he gasped, shook his hair, and wiped his eyes. Then, sitting there with water streaming down his neck and soaking his shirt, he began to laugh. A lid on some psychic pressure gave way and he felt himself relax. Sure it was unfair. Sure he was frustrated. But Hell, he was still alive. He was still sitting there by the stream. He was in a place he loved, and there was no one here to talk to, or listen to. Coming up here, he realized, was the best damn move he could have made.

He caught two medium sized trout, cooked them on sticks over a small fire, then had dinner as the sun sank and the sky blossomed in crimson and violet. By the time the stars were out he was inside his tent, wrapped in a soft if somewhat musty sleeping bag. Edwin fell asleep quickly, with only a few fearful thoughts. His dreams began as confused, threatening things, full of shattering glass and trains crashing through buildings, but toward dawn they’d calmed to easy, peaceful images, a long walk across a deserted plain, a picture of God hanging in the sky.

The next morning he felt recharged, and hungry, so he took his rod and headed down to the river once again. After breakfast Edwin spent some time clearing up his land, thinning brush and deciding on a more permanent living area. Also it was time for a latrine.

It was a little over two weeks before he saw another human. A young man and woman with backpacking gear came tramping up the river. “Hey,” the young man said, tall and thin with red hair. “You wouldn’t happen to know how far it is to Eagle Rock, would you?”

The young woman, curvy and dark-haired with big eyes and a pretty face, smiled at him. Edwin nodded and told them it was a few miles further up. They thanked him and continued on their way, and it wasn’t until after they were gone that he realized he’d understood them perfectly. He laughed to himself and shook his head.

Later that day he started the big old vacuum truck. Five miles down the road was a small town with a rustic general store, and in there he bought enough supplies to last another few weeks. He stowed it all in his truck then walked a half block down to the barber’s shop, because there was a pay telephone in front.

As he stood in front of the phone digging in his pocket for change, he heard the unmistakable sound of a television inside the barber shop. Looking through the window he could see it, up on the wall showing Oprah. A bandy-legged old barber was asleep in one of his chairs. “…want to say thank you,” Oprah was saying, “to everyone who sent in donations to fight IOA. Information Overload Syndrome, that strange condition which is forcing thousands of people to leave the Information Age behind. In just one week we collected over seventy-three-thousand!”

There was a round of applause from Oprah’s audience as Edwin gathered together his change. There was only one person he wanted to call, and he still remembered her number. He dialed it in and slotted in the requested coins.

“Some of you,” Oprah was saying, her voice tinny on the old TV, “some of you watched from and included bonus ponies for your local corporate sponges. These am gathered additional thousands dollar each!”

Edwin froze, and then slowly turned his head to look at the TV, fearing what he would see. Oprah’s image flickered with a sick, malignant quality, her eyes popping open and squeezing closed. Her lips jumped unnaturally across her face. “Let’s up things moving to deadline see how cash we raise…”

“Hi,” Barbara Ann’s voice said on the phone. “Here not now am I, leave voice name at beep beep.”

Edwin worked his mouth, speaking slowly and calmly. He told Barbara’s answering machine that he was getting better, and invited her to come up for some camping and fishing. Then he spoke detailed directions on how get to his property. When Edwin hung up, he felt like he’d just open a vein and bled all over. But, now if she wanted to find him, she could. He had a feeling she just might show up.

“You am wanna watch TV on come hair cutting?” said a raspy voice. It was the old barber, having woken up and now standing at the door, smiling and beckoning him inside.

Edwin looked at him as if he were Satan. Of course it wasn’t the old guy’s fault — he had no idea what was going on. Edwin, however, was beginning to understand, and a stroke he had not. Brain damage not him. It be something do with something, world like television, much too much talk talk — meaning not have it. Bad garbage wrecking mind, stealing significance.

Turn he went, left town, drove away. Back, back, away.

Back away.

Away to pure.

Away.

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It was a long drive down. Long, but fun, because we had the stereo blasting and we were singing to Who and AC/DC and the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack. By now L.A. was familiar territory, and I’d spent a lot of time in San Diego. It felt odd to be "just passing through."

We stopped at the border and bought auto insurance, just like everyone and their brother told us to do. Made me nervous about making the border crossing, but we got through quickly and soon were driving in Tijuana. That in itself is not a problem, because everything is in English and there are Americans everywhere.

All I could really think about, though, was Karla. I had Karla on the brain. As it turned out, I would have Karla on the brain for years and years. And years.

But for now, at least, I was doing something exciting, and that was better than being dead. The highway heading south out of Tijuana was lined with unbelievable poverty; shacks built out of scavenged wood, parts of old billboards, crumpled corrugated tin, all up and down hills with no plumbing and no electricity. And there were little kids everywhere.

"Holy shit, Jer," DT was saying, "we’re driving in another country! Another country. Can you believe that?"

I was all too aware of that fact, yes. Once outside of Tijuana the signs were no longer in English, and the speed limit was posted in kilometers — not miles — per hour. I had nothing to translate for my speedometer … mine didn’t have kilometers on it. I drove a little bit slower than those around me and hoped for the best.

The thing that struck me during the drive down was how … you have a nice highway, smooth and straight, well-maintained … and then underpasses looked half finished. Like they built the structure and got it so that it could be used, and started putting the finishing touches on it — tiles, paint, whatever — but then stopped half way. The tiles etc. still sitting there among the weeds, unused, obviously there for years.

I saw that over and over.

We made it without incident all the way to the seacoast town of Ensenada, and drove through to look for the ocean. In front of a nice looking Marina there was a short middle-aged Mexican cop with a mustache standing in the middle of the street, and he waved at me to stop.

Mexican jail, was all I could think of. Raped up the ass by prison guards.

"Hi," I said through my rolled down window. "How are you doing today?"

"I need to see your registration," he said in broken English.

I quickly dug through the Volkswagen’s little glove compartment and produced my registration, handing it over.

He glanced over it, squinting like he couldn’t quite see, and then he said, "This is no good here."

"What?"

"This is no good here." He walked to the front of my car and pointed at the license plate.

"Excuse me?" I said, thinking, Mexican jail.

"Where these plates from?"

"California," I told him, and then realized … these were a brand new design of plates, white instead of blue. He’d probably never seen them before.

He walked back up to my window, still holding my registration. "Is no good here."

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He stared back, registration in one hand, the other hand empty. His empty hand was palm up, fingers gently rubbing together.

Oh my God. He wants bribe money. I knew my dad usually solved everything down here by bribing the local cops, but I never thought I’d end up doing it myself. Still thinking Mexican jail, I panicked and dug out my wallet, and handed over a $20 bill.

He smiled. "I let you go this time." Handing me back my registration, he waved us to drive on.

I put the VW into gear and eased away, out into the street and driving aimlessly along while I shook and felt sick to my stomach. DT later said I was white as a ghost. "You handled that well," he told me.

"Fuck!"

"It was better than getting a ticket."

"Fuck!"

I drove around another twenty minutes looking for a likely hotel, and got completely confused and ended up going the wrong way down a one way street. I quickly pulled into a parking lot, followed immediately by another cop car. This time, though, they had a legitimate reason to pull me over, and they told me to follow them down to the police station.

Mexican jail, I thought. Raped up the ass by prison guards.

"Can I pay the fine to you?" I asked. "Instead of going to the police station?"

One of the two cops said no. The other one said yes. I paid them $20, which made the "no" cop very agitated and nervous. They let us go, with a "warning."

This left me afraid of getting back into my car. "I don’t want to drive anywhere here anymore," I told DT. "Not a single damn block."

"Let’s just leave the car here and walk," he said.

That sounded good to me. "We’ll find a hotel, drive the car directly there, park it, and leave it there."

About five blocks away we found a standard looking hotel, nothing fancy, and went in to inquire about rooms. I was worried, already being down $40 with nothing to show for it — well, besides not being in Mexican jail — so I was worried about having enough for the room. I figured it would be about $60 for two nights.

I was wrong. It was $17 for two nights. I asked him several times to make sure, thinking there was a language translation error. No, there wasn’t. Wow, I thought, cool. After we paid and left with the keys, we went up to look at the room — it wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t bad — I was ecstatic. Finally I could relax.

"Beer!" I said. "We need beer!"

Across the street we were able to buy two six packs of really good Mexican beer — Tres Equis, which you can’t get any more — for about $2, and that was after they upcharged us for being Americans. Back at the hotel we filled the bathroom sink with beer bottles and ice, and were all set.

Popping open a couple, we sat on the beds and drank.

We were in Mexico, and we were drinking beer.

Yeah.

Drinking beer. In a hotel room. With no television.

In Mexico.

"Okay," I finally said, "this is boring."

"I know," DT said, "let’s go to a bar."

"Yes!"

Ensenada is really nice as long as you’re right on the water. Inland it’s a rickety desert town that exists in a perpetual tan haze of dust. There’s garbage in the street, the cars are all bashed and dirty, windows cracked, and throngs of Americans wander around buying touristy Mexican-themed junk made in China. The Mexicans look at you in terms of dollar signs.

We wandered from bar to bar, happy at how inexpensive the beer was, and finally ended up at a really loud, crowded place where the drink specialty was to have you hold a bugle to your mouth while they poured booze through it, and after you’re gagging on that, they kick you in the head. I watched this happen in total disbelief, over and over, amazed that it left the victims on the floor laughing hysterically. They even did it to a cute, dark haired American girl, though she didn’t seem to enjoy it much, and ended up slugging her boyfriend.

All the while poor DT listened to me whine and moan endlessly about Karla.

The man, I swear to you, is a saint for putting up with me.

About eleven o’clock we decide to start heading back to the hotel. I remember I wanted to do some writing in my journal, and besides, we had not slept for about 36 hours. So we’re walking back in the dark, through some pretty spooky neighborhoods, and passing this one building a guy comes walking up to us from a stairway. Panhandler, I thought. But no, the guy said, "Hey, you looking for girls?"

"What?"

"You looking for girls? Pretty, naked girls?"

"Yes," DT said immediately.

"Down here," the guy said, pointing to the stairs. The stairs which led down into a basement.

I was not at all sure about this, but DT was already going down the steps, so I really didn’t have a choice. Once through the doors we were hit with a wall of loud music and flashing red and blue lights. Shockingly naked women danced on a stage and on the bars and on several tables. One did tricks with her shaved vagina, blowing out candles and shooting ping pong balls with amazing accuracy.

The audience was full of American sailors. In uniform. All of them bellowing, whooping, and shoving each other. I don’t know why, but that made me feel a lot safer. We sat down, and from the shadows were immediately joined by two beautiful Latino girls. The one beside me said, "Buy me a drink?"

"Um, okay." I had the feeling I had no choice in the matter.

I sat there awkwardly drinking with this girl while other women wiggled their naughty bits at me and begged for money. DT got into some animated laughing conversation with his girl, and at one point something was announced in Spanish and his girl said, "Oh! That’s me!" She told DT she’d be right back, and then ran up to the main stage, stripped her clothes off, and showed all her deep dark secrets under harsh stage lighting. DT whooped and hollered like his horse was winning at the races.

My girl seemed to be in the same bleak mood as I was, and she hardly touched her drink. "So," she finally said, "would you like for to make love with me?"

"What?"

"I like you," she said. "I would like for to make love with you."

"Are you serious?"

She nodded.

I was thinking to myself … she is a hooker, right? This is going to cost money, isn’t it? Can I afford to do this? Do I want to do this?

"I … um," I stammered, "I just broke up with someone."

"¿Que?"

"I have a broken heart," I told her. "I can’t really … I mean, I’m not … you know. In the mood?"

"¿Que?" she said again. I think I was treading outside her limited English vocabulary. "You no want to?"

"I would like to … I mean, you’re beautiful and all … but my heart is not in it."

"Oh." She nodded, not looking me in the eyes. Her expression remained bleak, but not disappointed. I got the impression that she was miffed that she’d wasted valuable time drinking the expensive drink I bought her.

She stayed exactly long enough to not count as leaving immediately, then thanked me for the drink, kissed me on the cheek, and got up. I watched her walk to the other side of the room where she sat down next to a very drunk sailor. She was with him maybe two minutes before they got up and left together.

Meanwhile, DT’s girl had finished her dance and returned to him, and apparently made him the same offer. Turning to me he said, "I’ll meet you at the hotel. Later."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes, I’m sure." He and his señorita got up and left.

I sat there alone, watching the naked women frolicking in this den of alcohol-powered depravity, feeling like a wimp. DT had the balls to go off with one. Why didn’t I? How, I wondered, will I ever become that great American writer if I don’t do things like get freaky with a hooker?

Don’t think I hadn’t noticed that writers seem to be overly fond of prostitutes. Hookers all have hearts of gold. All of them. Just crack open a novel and read. It’s there in black and white.

But, no, I was thinking of Karla. Always Karla.

I finished up my beer — and the rest of the drink that my would-be hooker had left — then stood up and threaded my way through the brawling sailors and squirming live pornography, out the door and up those filthy concrete steps to the street above, feeling very much like having come out of the proverbial Lewis Carroll rabbit hole.

I was drunk, exhausted, and nervous. I have no idea how late it was, but it was pitch black out there and I had only a vague idea where the hotel was. I started walking, making each far-and-between street light my continuous goal, searching for familiar landmarks.

After twenty minutes I found the hotel, stumbled my way up to the room, and was about to put the key into the lock when I thought … what if DT is here with his woman? Actually, I hoped he was, otherwise I’d be worried about him. So I unlocked the door anyway, opened it a couple inches, and called into the darkness.

"DT? You here?"

No answer.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

Crap, I thought, and stepped inside. Fumbling for the light switch, I braced myself to find him dead on the floor with his throat cut, or something equally horrible. The dim light bulbs came to life, revealing a bleak, lonely room.

The ice in the bathroom sink had long melted, and the beer was warm. I popped one open anyway and guzzled. Beer is the one thing, I decided, that I can really count on.

I waited for a while, and then waited some more. An hour passed, and I was so tired I was delirious. Finally I crawled into bed and tried to sleep, but couldn’t.

Another half hour went by, then I heard a noise from outside. Thudding footfalls up wobbly steps, and then a key in the lock. I sat up just as DT came stumbling in, looking bleary and covered with sweat.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said.

"So what happened?"

"Well, let me — hold on." DT went and got a beer. He popped it open and quickly drained half of it before continuing. "Well, we went … we left, right? Yeah. She led me to this other building, like half-way across town. And we go in to her room, and we kiss for a bit, right? Then she stops and says it’s going to cost forty dollars."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I say, no problem. Yeah. So she kisses me a bit more, and she’s got her hand down my pants, then she stops and says, she’s got to go get something, she’ll be right back."

"Get what?"

"I don’t know. A rubber, I guess."

"Oh." I grinned. "How was it?"

"Let me get to that. So, I’m sitting there in her room, waiting. And waiting. The walls are paper thin, you can hear people talking and arguing on either side. There was a fight or something, you could hear things falling. Lots of shouting."

I’m sure I was looking at him in horror.

"So I keep waiting," he says, "and I look at my watch — an hour has gone by."

He paused, looking like he didn’t want to continue.

"So?" I said. "What happened?"

"I sobered up and got the hell out of there!" He laughed and then guzzled his beer. "It took forever to find my way back. I wandered all over the fucking place."

"Jesus."

"So, what did you do?" he asked.

"I came back here and worried about you and sobbed about Karla."

He wasn’t surprised. "Oh. Okay. Well, I’m going to sleep."

And sleep we did. Well past the next morning and deep into the afternoon. When we awoke, we cleaned up and went out again, and I decided I was brave enough to try driving. Down to the beach somewhere, is where I wanted to go. I was thinking about that golden time I spent as a child down here, where I met that girl named Linda during the weeks my dad was waiting for a part to repair his Caddy.

I wanted to find that beach. I wanted to wade out into the waves with a beer in my hand and commune with the past. I wanted to resurrect something dear from my memories, to drown out the pain of my present.

We didn’t get a half mile before a cop pulled us over for no reason whatsoever. He, like one of the ones from the day before, tried to tell me that my license plates were invalid in Mexico. After parting with another one of my precious — and dwindling — $20 bills we turned around and went straight back to the hotel.

That’s it, I thought. I’m done.

We had passed a Tourist Bureau office a few blocks up, and while DT went to take another nap in the hotel, I walked over to complain and get some advice. The well dressed man inside welcomed me in and sat me down at his desk. I told him about the cops and the money and asked him what I should do.

He shook his head, concerned and sad, and said, "Don’t give them twenty, they’ll be happy with ten. Also, get their badge numbers and report them to me. I will take care of it, I assure you."

I thanked him, we shook hands, and I left.

DT and I laid low the rest of the day and that night. Money was running low and I was worried about having enough for gas on the trip back. I remembered all too well what it was like being stranded on that long stretch of Interstate 5.

Early the next morning we left, making it out of town without any more police encounters, driving up to the border where customs looked at us like we were drug smugglers. My lack of concern, and happiness to be back in the bosom of the USA, convinced them we were innocent.

It took all day to get up through San Diego and across the Los Angeles basin, and it was well into the night before we were making that long boring shot up Interstate 5 through no-man’s land. I was freaking out because, on the radio, there was a brand new John Lennon song, and it was really good. "What did they do," I asked DT, "raise John from the dead and put him in the studio?"

It turned out to be his son, Julian Lennon. It gave me chills. It was seriously like hearing his father’s ghost.

It wasn’t long after that when we noticed someone’s car was in deep in the meridian between the Northbound and Southbound lanes, flashing their headlights anytime a car went by. Of course no one was stopping. I remember no one stopped for us, either, on our original ill-fated Mexico trip. "Poor bastards," DT said.

"You know, I bet they’re girls," I said. "That’s a girl thing to do, just sit there and flash your lights."

"Let’s go back," he said.

Going back on Interstate 5, especially in that area, is no easy task. We had to drive 15 miles up the road before finding a place to turn around, and drove 15 miles back to see them still sitting there flashing their lights. We pulled over, and sure enough, it was two terrified teenage girls. It took us a couple of minutes to convince them it was safe to open one of their windows an inch so we could talk to them through the crack. One was a beautiful blond, the other one — equally beautiful — had jet black hair. I immediately thought Betty and Veronica.

"What’s wrong?" I asked.

"It runs," Betty said, "but it won’t go."

"It made this funky noise and then a dragging sound," Veronica said.

I went and got a flashlight and looked under the car. Their driveshaft had come detached from the transaxle and lay on the ground. "Um," I said, "you need a tow truck."

Betty got brave enough to get out and look. "Oh great!" she exclaimed. "Can you take us to a phone?"

"Sure."

We drove them 40 miles to the nearest phone, then waited with them for a tow truck, then led the tow truck back out to the car. The tow truck driver looked like your typical apelike guy with food stains all over his shirt. I was concerned with leaving the girls with him there, alone, and as it turned out DT was too. He did a really smart thing … he wrote down the girl’s names, and got the tow trucker’s name and license number before we let them leave.

Veronica had her dad’s credit card and so wasn’t too worried about being stranded. We reluctantly left, but not before both girls gave both of us a kiss. I remember driving away feeling like a genuine hero.

I really needed that.

Much later, at home and recovering from the trip, DT called me sounding excited. "Dude, did you hear?"

"What?"

"The news, have you been watching the news?"

"No."

Apparently while we were down in Mexico, there were a string of murders along the highway we were on by Mexican ex-police who’d been fired for corruption. The victims: American tourists.

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This isn’t really about beer, but it has beer in it.

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I was in a store standing in front of beer and staring at it, as I often do. Waiting for one of them to speak to me. Waiting for that little voice to call out, “Drink me, Jerry! Driiiiink meeee!”

Instead, this distinguished looking fellow named Bari kind of reached around me and grabbed several beers, and said, “Do you like a good German beer?”

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Try the Spaten. It’s wonderful.”

We chatted about beer, and about Germany, and about German beers, and I revealed I was in fact going to be in Germany this month, and he told me a few beer stories about his time being stationed there. I ended up handing him my GroovyMojo Media card and he handed me his … he’s a Senior Intelligence Analyst who works for an organization I’m not sure I should reveal. So, I won’t.

Homeland security and all, you know. Loose lips sink ships. Etc.

And so now here, a week or so later, I sit at home sipping on this beer, and I have to shout out a thanks to Bari for pointing this one out to me.

It’s a nice break from the dark chocolaty malty beers I usually suck down like a thirsty sailor. It’s smooth with a light body, strong but subtly so, the taste predominately a well-balanced hoppiness gliding over the zing of some energetic crystal-tasting malt. This is a endurance beer, one you can drink a lot of.

Do I like German beer? Yes! They make a wonderful beer, putting a lot of time and love into it.

And even though I’m only going to be in Germany for four hours, you can bet I’m going to be soaking up as much of their wonderful draft brew as I can…

…and then spending a lot of time in the airplane restroom all the way to the Land of Nokia.

Spaten is hereby deemed a groovy brew, and give it a modest but well deserved 3.2 on the Holy Grail Scale.

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This is my version of the Hymn to Ninkasi, written from three different translations / interpretations of the original Sumerian. Instead of a traditional hymn form, I used Wickado G (pattern of 4,5,7,6,5,5,3 syllables in each stanza).

Ninkasi is the Sumerian Goddess of Beer and Brewing, and this hymn dates back to nearly 2000 years before Christ. It contains the earliest known recipe for beer. Some say it’s the Holy Beer.

Ninkasi

Crystal clear womb
Water lifegiver
The earth and mother-goddess
Ninhursaja by name
Cared for Ninkasi
On her arrival
Water born

Towering walls
Grand as canyon cliffs
Ninkasi completes them
To protect the city
Standing on the shores
Of the sacred lake
Called Abzu

The great Enki
Lord of deep waters
He did father Ninkasi
From his love of Ninti
Queen of the Abzu
And she gave to him
A daughter

Smooth and golden
Handle in her hands
Hefting the big dough shovel
She mixes the bappir
Beer-bread with honey
Sweet aromatics
And passion

The bappir goes
In the big oven
Hot with the fire of the gods
Ninkasi bakes it well
Then puts in order
The piles of hulled grains
Safely kept

Ninkasi she
Then waters the malt
That she’s spread across the earth
Her tigers stand guard
Even potentates
Are forbidden from
Trespassing

She soaks the malt
In a holy jar
While the waves they surge and ebb
The cooked mash she then spreads
Across large reed mats
So that they may cool
And be ready

Ninkasi holds
Her holy sweet wort
In delicate goddess hands
Brewing it with honey
And nectar of fruit
From the Tree of Life
All blended

Ninkasi then
It is suggested
Poured her most holy sweet-wort
Into a large vessel
But this is a guess
As the next few lines
Are damaged

Delicate hands
Carrying aloft
Places the fermenting vat
Which rings low and pleasant
Appropriately
Atop a large vat
Collecting

Ninkasi she
Pours the filtered beer
Out of the collector vat
It is like the Tigris
And the Euphrates
Raging together
At one time

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I wasn’t the only kid there — the stands were full of kids.  Kids and their dads.  And I was sitting there right next to mine, waiting impatiently.  We really didn’t care much about the race.  We didn’t care about the monster trucks.  We came for a motorcycle.

One motorcycle.  One rider. 

And I forget how many school buses.

Finally the time came.  The announcer spent five minutes building it up.  A dark haired rider in wild red-white-and-blue revved his motorcycle to an insane pitch, sent it flying across the grounds, hurtling up an impossibly high ramp…

…and flew…  …flew…  ……FLEW…….

…above the top of all those big yellow school buses!  He landed perfectly on the other side, choreographed with fireworks and the hysterical screams of adulation.  I remember we left right after that, my ears ringing and my throat sore.

Evil Knievel was one crazy rebel, and in so many ways, a very pure American.

Amazing he lasted to 69 years old, after all the abuse that body took.  Simply amazing. 

RIP Evil.  Jump those wide, weird canyons on your winged mount on the Other Side.

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“How much money do you got?”

I counted change in my pocket, including a dollar bill. DT counted his. Gary added some to the pile.

Not much, but enough. Clearly, though, we needed to go for quantity above quality. Piling into my old 1960 “unsafe at any speed” Corvair, we headed down to the local cheap-o-rino grocery store and invaded their beer aisle. The question of the night was, which beer would give us the most cans per person for the money available?

The answer: Schaeffer’s beer.

We could buy an entire case for the price of a six pack of what I usually drank. It didn’t taste that great but at least it wasn’t horrible like Bud nor practically water, like Coors. After three of them, they started to taste just fine.

Another thing we liked about it was that each month they featured different packaging art, all based on natural themes. Aimed, no doubt, at hunters, because all the animals featured were ones people would be most likely to point guns at (while drinking their beer).

That first night, it was a squadron of mallards coming in for a landing, and so from that point on it became “Attack Duck Beer.”

The next month, it was “Staring Elk” beer.

Month after that, we were buying “Dying Trout” beer.

These were the bum years. We were attending a local junior college and holding down the occasional low paying short-term job. My dad had a storage property at the time, managing it for a business partner, and he gave me one of the storage sheds to use. We fixed it up with a round table made form a large cable spool and two benches on each side, and strung hammocks that with a flick of a hoop off a spike would drop down from the ceiling.

We routinely stayed there all night long drinking beer, bullshitting, building plastic model space ships, and writing things that would never be published. Occasionally we’d plug in an electric guitar or two and jam until someone in the neighborhood behind us called the cops.

We called the place, “The Creative Juice Factory.” It was fuelled almost exclusively by Staring Elk, Dying Trout, or Attack Duck beer.

It was a lost couple of years, but they were damn fun, and proved to me you don’t have to be rich to enjoy life.

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“Aaaaaaaaaaa?” the hard faced, white-haired lady said. “It says ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa.’”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

“Your name is ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa?’”

“It’s pronounced ‘Bill.’”

“Bill?” She stared at him in outrage. “How do you get ‘Bill’ out of eleven A’s?”

“It’s a foreign spelling.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous!”

“It’s on my birth certificate.” He proffered his wrinkled document.

“I’m not issuing a driver’s license to ‘Aaaaaaaaaaa.’”

“Bill,” he corrected.

“I don’t care how you pronounce it!” Her eyes scanned further down the paperwork. “And what’s this? Your last name is ‘Puffiboomboom?’”

“Yes…”

“Puffy … boom boom?”

“Well, it’s, um—”

“What, do you pronounce it, ‘Smith?’”

“Actually, it’s pronounced, ‘Ledbetter.’”

“Ledbetter?” Her wrinkles flushed crimson. “How do you get ‘Ledbetter’ from ‘Puffiboomboom?’” She held up her wiry hand. “Don’t tell me. Foreign spelling.”

“Yes.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” she said. “This has to be a prank!”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m not buying this, not at all!”

“I have all the paperwork filled out—”

“Aaaaaaaaaaa Puffiboomboom is not getting a driver’s license. Not from me.”

“Ma’am, I didn’t choose this name. It’s something I’ve had to live with all my life.”

“Well, it’s time to choose something else!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? If your name is ‘Bill Ledbetter’ then why don’t you just spell it that way?”

“Can we do that?”

“Well,” she said, “let’s see.” She typed angrily at her keyboard for long minutes, and then a machine whirred. She grabbed a stamp, smacked it down on his paperwork like a judge banging a gavel, and then slid the whole pile at him. “There, Aaaaaaaaaaa Puffiboomboom, it’s done.”

He stared at his brand new driver’s license. The picture was typically horrible, but the name was spelled “Bill Ledbetter.”

“Thank you,” he said to her.

She huffed, then looking past him at the long line, shouted, “Next!”

Bill gathered the papers and his new license and walked quickly outside to where his friends waited. He showed them the license, pointing at the birth date. Magically, he was now over 21 years old.

“Dude!” yelled one of his ecstatic friends. “Let’s go buy beer!”

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A guy walks into a bar, sits down, and asks, “Bartender, got any specials today?”

Bartender answers, “Yes, as a matter of fact we have a new drink, invented by a gynecologist patron of ours. It’s a mix of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer and Smirnoff Vodka.”

The guy asks, “Good grief, what do you call that?”

The bartender replied, “It’s a Pabst Smir.”

- From our big dusty archive of funny email
(Authors Unknown)

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A man came home from work, sat down in his favorite chair, turned on the TV and said to his wife, “Quick bring me a beer before it starts!”

She looked a little puzzled, but brought him a beer.

When he finished it he said, “Quick bring me another beer. It’s gonna start!”

This time she looked a little angry, but she brought him a beer.

When it was gone, he said, “Quick get me another beer before it starts!”

“That’s it!” she blows her top, “You oaf!  You waltz in here, flop your fat ass down, don’t even say hello to me and then expect me to run around like your slave, getting you beer after beer.  Don’t you realize that I cook, and clean, and wash, and iron all day long?”

The husband sighed, and said, “Oh drat, it started.”

- From our big dusty archive of funny email
(Authors Unknown)

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