Incognito Auto Repair
back in my heyday, when the weed was plentiful, the klonopin crushed up, and the strippers spiderweb-tit-tatted, i would have my car serviced by the proprieter of the abovementioned establishment.
He once charged me 75 bucks for a fake inspiction sticker.
But Dave Incognito, GNOS though he may have been, is not the subject of this story.
Faithful SoK readers may have noticed my startling absence over the past days. Some may have conjectured that I may have passed away, or been jailed, or deported. Fear not loyal readers, my silence has been due to a far more glorious and time honored purpose.
Research.
What, you may ask, was the topic with which my research was concerned? Was it a complete reading and cross-referencing of David Foster Wallace footnotes? Possible experiments with the space-time continuum? The Higgs boson? To which I respond, much like the populace of New York in Brewster’s Millions: none of the above.
While all these projects would have been worthy uses for an intellectual talent such as mine, I was looking into far more important aspects of the natural world we live in.
Namely; prosthetic limbs, handguns, and mescaline.
Hmmmmm.
Thats probably what your thinking. Your probably wondering what these three seemingly unrelated products of the military industrial complex could possibly have in common? And how a misanthropic 24 year old TV hack could have somehow embarked upon an experiment in which all three were critical components. I can almost see the wheels turning in the collective SoK temporal lobe.
******
The story begins on a beach in Mexico. Wait, you say. Sam hasn't been to Mexico in the last two weeks. How could the story start there? To which I reply its my story and i can start it wherever i want, and fuck you if you dont like it.
Let me explain:
Chemical Ali and myself, having been denied entry to Guatemala due to lack of proper paperwork, were holed up at said beach twiddling our thumbs as our visas expired. This unfortunate event meant that our immigration status was quickly transforming from the innocuous "transmigrante" to the far more nocuous "illegal alien". And there wasn't shit we could do about it.
But as the days slipped by and our migratory condition became more and more suspect, we did manage to strike up a friendship with the perma-baked salvavidas who occupied a small red-lit shack in the middle of the beach.
Zipolite, which was the name of the beach, is famous for the treacherousness of its waves. 10 or so people a year die in the undertow. Adrian, rightly, wondered how many of those poor fuckers might have been saved if the lifeguards didn't spend the better part of each afternoon burning els that would make Bob Marley choke.
One evening they sold us some mescaline. Or so they said. What we bought looked like it came from a crematorium
We took the bag of gray dust and made little hand grenades out of toilet paper, which we then choked down in the front seat of our rhode-island plated jeep cherokee. Then we set off down the beach, because our erstwhile Samsons had told us that the way to get the mescaline to kick in was to raise your heart rate by walking down the beach. Then they told us we would vomit uncontrollably, afterwhich we would be off on the trip of our lives. Oh the things we put our bodies through to escape our tortured reality.
So AT and I, mustachioed, walked off down the beach.
Upon reaching the far end, I turned to my companion and inquired as to his degree of gastrointestinal unrest.
Me: you feel sick yet?
AT: not at all. you?
Me: nothing
So we walked to the other end of the beach, and, upon feeling no pangs of nausea, decided we’d have to take the situation into our own hands. At which point the finger-down-the-throat game began. Afterwhich ensued the finger-down-the-throat-combined-with-stomach-punch game. Afterwhich the thought that we, with a combined 300 grand or so worth of education, were sitting on a Mexican beach trying to make each other vomit, set in. Which is not, by any means, a bad thing. Unless you’re a functional human being.
****
Flash forward 1 year. Our hero lives in the rotten apple. His mustache is gone, his job is semi-legit, and he’s buttoning his shirts nearly to the top. He goes to to the Hamptons, where he is treated to dinner by a duo of jewish septuagenarians. As he’s finishing up his clams and ordering his fifth G & T, he manages to strike up a conversation with the waitress. She’s got a fat ass for a white girl and hoop earrings, which he happens to have an innocuous fetish for. As conversation continues after dinner, he’s making real progress. And when the topic of Mexico come up, he’s on familiar ground and confident of his ability to charm this service professional with his intricate knowledge of the red, the white and the green.
Me: yeah I spent some time in Mexico
She: really? me too.
Me: Oh yeah? Where?
She: Zipolite.
Me: no shit. me too—I was stranded there for like 3 weeks with visa problems.
She: I lived there for 6 years.
At which point I probably should have suspected something. But, for better or for worse, I persisted with the same line of questioning.
Me: wow. what were you doing down there.
She: Oh I had a baby by one of the lifeguards.
Blam! Her baby’s father sold me bad mescaline! That slore! This turn in the conversation was one that I was utterly unprepoared for. So I said the only thing I could think of, which was oh, I know your baby daddy that piece of shit sold me bad mescaline. Which, predictably, ruined our rapport a little bit. Like completely. She stalked off and that was that.
Later in the week I found myself at an after hours spot on Essex. It was 6 in the morning, and I was listening to bad techno and drinking a 10 dollar gin and tonic. And I was talking to a chick with a back full of intricate tattoos, fuck-me glasses and a wooden leg. Actually wooden is a misnomer—it was some manner of aluminum PVC alloy. But there I was anyway. I asked her if she’d ever been to Mexico. She said no. So I went home.
The next day I got a gun pulled on me outside a Zox concert. Ask Mike. It happened. But that’s a story for another time.
He once charged me 75 bucks for a fake inspiction sticker.
But Dave Incognito, GNOS though he may have been, is not the subject of this story.
Faithful SoK readers may have noticed my startling absence over the past days. Some may have conjectured that I may have passed away, or been jailed, or deported. Fear not loyal readers, my silence has been due to a far more glorious and time honored purpose.
Research.
What, you may ask, was the topic with which my research was concerned? Was it a complete reading and cross-referencing of David Foster Wallace footnotes? Possible experiments with the space-time continuum? The Higgs boson? To which I respond, much like the populace of New York in Brewster’s Millions: none of the above.
While all these projects would have been worthy uses for an intellectual talent such as mine, I was looking into far more important aspects of the natural world we live in.
Namely; prosthetic limbs, handguns, and mescaline.
Hmmmmm.
Thats probably what your thinking. Your probably wondering what these three seemingly unrelated products of the military industrial complex could possibly have in common? And how a misanthropic 24 year old TV hack could have somehow embarked upon an experiment in which all three were critical components. I can almost see the wheels turning in the collective SoK temporal lobe.
******
The story begins on a beach in Mexico. Wait, you say. Sam hasn't been to Mexico in the last two weeks. How could the story start there? To which I reply its my story and i can start it wherever i want, and fuck you if you dont like it.
Let me explain:
Chemical Ali and myself, having been denied entry to Guatemala due to lack of proper paperwork, were holed up at said beach twiddling our thumbs as our visas expired. This unfortunate event meant that our immigration status was quickly transforming from the innocuous "transmigrante" to the far more nocuous "illegal alien". And there wasn't shit we could do about it.
But as the days slipped by and our migratory condition became more and more suspect, we did manage to strike up a friendship with the perma-baked salvavidas who occupied a small red-lit shack in the middle of the beach.
Zipolite, which was the name of the beach, is famous for the treacherousness of its waves. 10 or so people a year die in the undertow. Adrian, rightly, wondered how many of those poor fuckers might have been saved if the lifeguards didn't spend the better part of each afternoon burning els that would make Bob Marley choke.
One evening they sold us some mescaline. Or so they said. What we bought looked like it came from a crematorium
We took the bag of gray dust and made little hand grenades out of toilet paper, which we then choked down in the front seat of our rhode-island plated jeep cherokee. Then we set off down the beach, because our erstwhile Samsons had told us that the way to get the mescaline to kick in was to raise your heart rate by walking down the beach. Then they told us we would vomit uncontrollably, afterwhich we would be off on the trip of our lives. Oh the things we put our bodies through to escape our tortured reality.
So AT and I, mustachioed, walked off down the beach.
Upon reaching the far end, I turned to my companion and inquired as to his degree of gastrointestinal unrest.
Me: you feel sick yet?
AT: not at all. you?
Me: nothing
So we walked to the other end of the beach, and, upon feeling no pangs of nausea, decided we’d have to take the situation into our own hands. At which point the finger-down-the-throat game began. Afterwhich ensued the finger-down-the-throat-combined-with-stomach-punch game. Afterwhich the thought that we, with a combined 300 grand or so worth of education, were sitting on a Mexican beach trying to make each other vomit, set in. Which is not, by any means, a bad thing. Unless you’re a functional human being.
****
Flash forward 1 year. Our hero lives in the rotten apple. His mustache is gone, his job is semi-legit, and he’s buttoning his shirts nearly to the top. He goes to to the Hamptons, where he is treated to dinner by a duo of jewish septuagenarians. As he’s finishing up his clams and ordering his fifth G & T, he manages to strike up a conversation with the waitress. She’s got a fat ass for a white girl and hoop earrings, which he happens to have an innocuous fetish for. As conversation continues after dinner, he’s making real progress. And when the topic of Mexico come up, he’s on familiar ground and confident of his ability to charm this service professional with his intricate knowledge of the red, the white and the green.
Me: yeah I spent some time in Mexico
She: really? me too.
Me: Oh yeah? Where?
She: Zipolite.
Me: no shit. me too—I was stranded there for like 3 weeks with visa problems.
She: I lived there for 6 years.
At which point I probably should have suspected something. But, for better or for worse, I persisted with the same line of questioning.
Me: wow. what were you doing down there.
She: Oh I had a baby by one of the lifeguards.
Blam! Her baby’s father sold me bad mescaline! That slore! This turn in the conversation was one that I was utterly unprepoared for. So I said the only thing I could think of, which was oh, I know your baby daddy that piece of shit sold me bad mescaline. Which, predictably, ruined our rapport a little bit. Like completely. She stalked off and that was that.
Later in the week I found myself at an after hours spot on Essex. It was 6 in the morning, and I was listening to bad techno and drinking a 10 dollar gin and tonic. And I was talking to a chick with a back full of intricate tattoos, fuck-me glasses and a wooden leg. Actually wooden is a misnomer—it was some manner of aluminum PVC alloy. But there I was anyway. I asked her if she’d ever been to Mexico. She said no. So I went home.
The next day I got a gun pulled on me outside a Zox concert. Ask Mike. It happened. But that’s a story for another time.
1 Comments:
Sam I am THE MAN, down with the program, Green Eggs and JAMON Y QUESO way down (putin' your finger down) Mexico way! Que viva Mexico y las playas y la comedia y el pais de color y dolor y una vida that most Gringos will never know!
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