The Mexican Bible

This was written by my father in 2006. It's a true story and it reflects some of the issues Arizona's latest and greatest fascist stupid law, SB 1070.

Someone left a Bible in the back seat of my taxi recently.
I know he was an illegal alien because of the nature of how the book got left there. It was Halloween night, and I received a telephone call from a colleague of mine. There were three Hispanic men standing outside a convenience store. They spoke only Spanish. He spoke only English, and was not going to take the trip. Maybe the trip would be worth something. Would I like to talk to them?
I hate to turn down an opportunity without at least looking at it. And besides, I have learned enough Spanish to get by. I drove up to the convenience store to see what I could do.
Three young Hispanic men stood in the shadows by the pay phone. As I eased my taxi to a stop, one detached himself from the shadows, and approached my car. We greeted each other in Spanish, and he proceeded to tell me that he had to get to Los Angeles to see his fiancé.
I know enough about the law to know when to ask questions and when not to. Plausible deniability is not just the prerogative of presidents. I could surmise why they were not taking a bus or airplane. I named a price; they agreed. The trip was uneventful until we got to the Arizona California border. The three men were nervous about the border check point. I told them to relax, the authorities were only checking for fruit coming across the border. I don’t know if it was true or not, but it sounded good. They relaxed.
We swung into a gas station outside of Twenty-nine Palms to fuel up. There was a police cruiser in the parking lot, and once again, the three men in my cab hunkered down, and tried to stay out of sight. I filled the gas tank, and shook my head. My suspicions of their immigration status had been confirmed by their behavior. I didn’t tell the cop. I’m not that kind of person. Besides, I didn’t want any trouble for myself. It might not be legal to cross state lines in a taxi with a cargo full of undocumented migrants. I was not really in a mood to find out.
A few miles away from the gas station, we witnessed a bad car crash. I dialed emergency services on my cell phone, but did not stick around to see the police show up. Again, the less trouble the better.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I left them at a house in Los Angeles. It wasn’t a real upscale neighborhood, but it wasn’t a slum either. Sort of a middle class home that everyone in America dreams of owning some day.
I was home before I noticed the Bible.
The bible is a Spanish version, small, with a battered black leather cover. Inside it had a few notes on small pieces of paper. The New Testament was heavily thumbed through, and the pages of Mark and Luke were rather dog-earred. Many verses had been underlined. The Bible has sat on a shelf in my bedroom since the day I found it. I had not even thought about it until I was tidying up today, while a talk radio station played in the back ground from my clock radio. The host was on some rant about W’s new immigration policy.
I wonder if the talk show host realizes that these illegal aliens have lovers? That they have expectant, future father in laws, who are glad to see their new son in laws, yet somehow apprehensive for the future of their daughters? Does the radio talk show host know the fear these men felt waiting in a gas station for a cop to leave? Does he know the joy on the faces of these men as they stepped out of the taxi in Los Angeles? Does this same radio talk show host that almost every day claims to be a good moral conservative Christian know that an illegal alien left his Bible in my cab? A Bible that had been studied, and marked by some one just as devoted to the same faith as he? Or would such thoughts put too human a face on the issue? Would thinking these things mean that we have to deal with real problems involving real people, not just abstractions of law breakers?
And am I the only one who finds it ironic that the very Bible that both the radio show host and the young Mexican man read says to be kind to the strangers in your land?

MGMT and BRMC

Artist: MGMT
Album: Congratulations
Rating: 4/5

What did you love about MGMT? The raving synths? The primal cosplay? The muted vocals? The ironic, clever lyrics?

Whatever it was, it seems the Brooklyn duo took their sarcastic single from Oracular Spectacular, “Time To Pretend,” a little too seriously. Mocking the heroin-addicted, trophy-wife-toting, sports-car-driving rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle just became too real. Now MGMT is taking the exact opposite route on Congratulations by stripping off everything distinct about them. No more weird makeup, no more penitent nostalgia and most noticeably, nothing that sounds like the raver anthem “Kids.”

MGMT doesn’t even plan to release singles off Congratulations, hoping people will download the entire album instead of stealing a few radio-friendly hits. And not surprisingly for a band that proactively analyzes their own popularity, Congratulations is a direct response to MGMT’s overnight success. The band is reluctantly famous and they loathe every ounce of American celebrity culture.

At first Congratulations seems like nothing more than a pop album, but it grows on you.
Starting with “It’s Working,” the album sounds like a party you’re not invited to. But the more you acquaint yourself with the music, the more it grows on you, until you get inside and realize all the guests are moping around wondering where their wonder years went.

Still, the music is crammed with varied influences, particularly ’60s- era psychedelic pop with a dancey heartbeat. Plus, it encourages you to stop being so obsessed about your status (on the internet and elsewhere) or as vocalist Andrew VanWyngarden puts it, “stab your Facebook.” “Flash Delirium” is the nauseated anthem of a self- indulged generation, changing moods like an ADD teen flipping channels. “Siberian Breaks” is a 12-minute, mind-bending trip, like witnessing the end of the world. It’s proof MGMT are not your average musicians.

The lavish dose of hero worship on “Brian Eno” and “Song for Dan Treacy,” along with the line “you’ll never be as good as the Rolling Stones” on “Flash Delirium,” indicate the duo still have someone to look up to. But the bizarre instrumental “Lady Dada’s Nightmare” suggests MGMT wants nothing to do with the amount of stardom the fame monster herself, Lady Gaga, is appointed.

Congratulations asks the question, is fame actually worth anything? The answer from MGMT seems to be “well, it’s something to do.” All the band wants is for that initial praise to mean something in the long run. For now, all that matters is keeping the music fresh and MGMT deserves more than just applause for accomplishing that.

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Artist: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Album: Beat The Devil’s Tattoo
Rating: 5/5

With a name taken from the 1953 Marlon Brando flick “The Wild One,” the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club conjures up images of switchblades, rumbles and that “my girl” mentality. But musically, BRMC are rock ‘n’ roll zombies, bringing good ol’ fashioned garage rock back to life. For good measure, the band throws in some neo- psychedelia and stompin’ Americana, sounding like a White Stripes album but with more sex, drugs and leather.

Lead singer Peter Hayes once played guitar in the Brian Jonestown Massacre before getting kicked out and the Black Rebels were born.

Beat The Devil’s Tattoo is the L.A. trio’s sixth studio album, carrying much of the badass attitude present in their career, such as the time at Leeds Town Hall when the band rocked so hard the floor broke. You don’t get that kind of reputation on accident.

Maintaining it is a different story, so how does BRMC make it look so easy? The album’s title track answers with “I thread the needle through / You beat the devil’s tattoo.” BRMC draws on the taboos of yesteryear, knowing that nothing is as prickly sweet as those bygone years when “hell” was a dirty word and piercings and tattoos made you a social outcast. For BRMC, this model works perfectly.

But BRMC isn’t a one-trick pony. Their influences and styles are far and scattered. “River Styx” is a tantalizing cruise with a fierce undercurrent where “every soul is a setting sun.” “War Machine” has all the vocal power of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son,” but lacks any direct anti-war message. BRMC’s guitar ranges from pop to classic rock on “Aya,” sounding like a softer version of Zeppelin’s “When The Levee Breaks.”

The 10-minute “Half-State” closes the album with distorted, atmospheric riffs and Hayes’ hazy vocals, proving once and for all, rock ‘n’ roll isn’t dead. At the same time, Devil’s Tattoo makes imitators like Nickelback and Wolfmother look pathetic. For flawless, noisy rock reminiscent of the Jesus and Mary Chain or the Velvet Underground, choose to Beat the Devil’s Tattoo.

Confessions of a Meat-Eater (editorial)

Confessions of a Meat-Eater

There’s long been a war between vegetarians and carnivores, a battle that focuses on everything from animal cruelty to the environment to healthy cuisine. Your typical meat-free character is nice about their choice, realizing it’s a personal decision. On the other hand, you have the agenda-pushing, in-your-face, “Meat is Murder!” type, the ones who strip naked outside of KFC and push pamphlets of decapitated poultry into your hands. Organizations like PETA are on a crusade to end the production of animal flesh, doing so in such a way that aggravates and alienates your average McDonald’s connoisseur and even people who genuinely care about animals.

As an unrepentant meat eater, it wasn’t until recently that I considered the merits of these anti-meat arguments, realizing there actually was some validity. I always assumed those videos of pigs kicked in the groin and cows with their throats slit were part of a propaganda machine and the images came from slaughterhouses in third world countries. None of that happened here, not in America.

Digital Suicide

(a bit whiney this one. But I'll bet you can relate.)

It's impersonal. It's faceless. It's full of stalkers. It's a waste of time. It's Facebook.

And I refuse to socialize like this anymore. I deleted my Facebook, as best as I can*.

A friend said to me, "If you delete your Facebook, you'll basically cease to exist."

Well, fine. I don't want to exist if that's what this means. I'd rather be a ghost, floating through life unaccounted for, off the grid. Gone.

I remember when MySpace first became popular. Some friends were talking about being up all night, talking to each other. I felt left out, so got an account as a joke. I predicted it was a fad, but five years later, I'm an adult and still using a similar childish application.

So now, I refuse to allow my friendships be numbered and ordered and pushed into grids. People shouldn't be shelved away like dusty library books. And I'm tired of being watched silently by people who are supposed to care about me. If someone does care, they "like" it. That's it. No one really talks to me online anymore or reads what I write except five core people.

I already talk to these five on a daily basis and would tell them about my day-to-day regardless. For everyone else, shame on you. Why the fuck am I forced to talk to you through social networking? Yes, forced. If I delete my Facebook, I'll never hear from you again. Why can't you be adults, living people dammit, and just give me a phonecall one day? Why are we communicating through screens? Smoke screens, even! Are you expressing true emotion or putting on a front? How the hell can I tell? Why are we ranking each other, ignoring each other, adding each other, like some kind of insane baseball card collector?

I've felt this way about social networking for a long time, but I didn't stop because I wanted others to care about what I had to say. Yeah, that's right. I stopped caring about the stupid shit you were spewing, but not enough to stop spewing it myself.
And nobody cared, except those five people. Those five people that I would rather talk to in real life anyway. It's degrading to do otherwise.

Now I don't care who cares about me. I don't know why I ever did. But this is like inviting everyone you know to a birthday party. Of those who show up, you know they really care. Well, no one has showed up to my life, so I'm cutting the cords on this dead weight. (haha, that sounds like a suicide note. And maybe it is, in a way. I'll no longer be anyone now. I've committed digital suicide.)

Goodbye, Facebook. Good riddance.
I'm going to treat the people in my life like people. I'll now have hours of spare time freed up that I won't waste on your stupid website. So I'm going back to reading books. Keeping a journal. Going outside.
I'm going to create, love, breathe and die.
It's sad that I let you get in my way.

Computers are a weed, rapidly outgrowing themselves. They are a virus that replicates the human mind.
They will never outgrow the capacities of the human brain because we will never accommodate them.
A human being cannot create something better than himself.
Even the Tower of Babel crumbles beneath us.

I predict a great computer crash. When they cannot advance any further at all, people get stuck, stop feeling amazed with pixels and .mp3 downloads.
Then people will return to their lives and embrace them like never before. It will be a time of great prosperity.

Or not.


*You can't really delete your Facebook, only deactivate it. This is disturbing in and of itself. Facebook will always retain your personal information. One log-in and you'll get it all back, exactly how you left it. I'm not going back, I've promised myself, but it'll always be there.

Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die

Artist: Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die
Album: Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die
Rating: 4 out of 5
These aren’t exactly the Care Bears. Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die, Flagstaff’s most devilish, ursine death metal bandits, are releasing their self-titled debut this Saturday at the Orpheum’s third annual Hammerfest, blaring with all the growling and screaming of a grizzly versus a boy scout troupe. As the band’s vocalist, Gupie, puts it, the music “wraps you in its bear hug of cuddly rage.”
Since their formation in late 2008, the Teddy Bears have left their claw marks on Flagstaff’s local scene, playing with other heavyweight acts Regicide and Black Orchid. The Bears are Gupie on vocals, Mike Mercer on bass, B Low on guitar and Johnny Longhammer on drums. The quartet mixes thrash metal with hardcore punk, part Dethklok and part Sex Pistols, driven by their sardonic sense of humor and cynical social commentary.
“Drunk Driving Speed” is their snarling kick-off, a sarcastic one-finger salute to MADD, the cops and anyone driving alongside them. And even if it’s an old joke, the Bears mock Hot Topic groupies and dime-a-dozen pop-punk bands on “Skinny Jeans."
In the eponymous track “Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die” a New Kids on the Block tape is placed inside a talking teddy bear (Teddy Ruxpin, for those of you who remember those things) creating some of the creepiest, darkest metal riffs on the album.But the Bears have a violent side, too, like manic-depressives that went off their meds (bipolar bears?). Angry anthems and dark, hateful lyrics abound on songs like “Da Tofr Da Beddr” when Gupie sings “Landfill mouth/The s**t you spout/It can’t even be real/Clogged up ears/Don’t even hear/Too numb or dumb to feel.” The enraged “Ho Bag O’ S**t” curses out some cheatin’ whore with more f-bombs in two minutes than even the best gangsta rap.For their first studio album, Where The Teddy Bears Go To Die have done well, able to entertain metal fans (and a few non-fans) with the best and funniest thrash metal has to offer.

In Rotation: Gorillaz - Plastic Beach

Gorillaz

Plastic Beach

3/5

In the five years since their last release, the Gorillaz have changed from the inside out. According to Damon Albarn, the brainchild behind the virtual apes, Gorillaz isn’t about four animated characters anymore. The focus is now on collaboration with other artists, creating new projects and pushing this idea as far as it will go.

Plastic Beach is the product of that idea. A follow-up to 2005’s Demon Days, the album employs a sweeping cast of guest stars from Lou Reed to Mos Def to Snoop Dogg, including many of the same existential, post-modern themes.

In the world of Plastic Beach everything is fake, super fast and jammed with glitz. But it isn’t a condemnation of this culture—instead it’s identifying with this new ecosystem, claiming that artificiality has its place in the world.

The Gorillaz became popular for their brilliant combination of electronica and hip-hop. With each release, the band dabbled in new genres (punk, trip-hop and children’s choirs) so it’s no surprise Beach throws in some reggae, disco and more. But this album pushes pop to the limit, almost losing track of the actual music. Most Gorillaz albums get right into the groove, but it takes nearly three tracks for this one to pick up.

Plastic Beach could do without the overdone orchestral intro, Snoop Dogg’s cheesy “Welcome” and the misplaced “White Flag.” It’s not until “Rhinestone Eyes” that we get the Gorillaz we’re familiar with.

Next is “Stylo,” the pumping, driving kind of single fans were waiting for. It even has the expensive video to match, starring Bruce Willis in a high-speed car chase alongside some high-end computer animation.

With the amount of fame and glamour associated with this band, how can they condemn the silicone-obsessed, money-loving culture they’re part of? The answer is they don’t. And they aren’t about to apologize.

Other highlights from Beach include Lou Reed’s appearance on “Some Kind of Nature,” the depressingly poppy “Melancholy Hill” and the industrial-dance groove “Glitter Freeze.” But overall, the music doesn’t have the strength or direction it used to. The album fizzles out with the lazy “Pirate Jet,” leaving a resounding “that was it?”

The Gorillaz know better than anyone all that glitters is not gold, but that isn’t to say shiny, fancy things are worthless. Plastic Beach isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but the few tracks with strength make the album a worthwhile vacation.

originally published in Flag Live

Fiesta, Fiesta! or, Three Hours In Tijuana

At the first of the year, I took a little crazy adventure to the south of California and tripped over the border to Tijuana. When relating this story to people, most are surprised or confused, so I'm cementing this tale in writing for anyone wanting to know how bizarre and terrifying Mexico's streets are during the hours of darkness.

It began at night, in the terrifying parking lot of a shady motel on the outskirts of San Ysidro, San Diego. I was crouching down below the seat while Luke went inside to buy us a room. They charged more for two, so I hid, more from bizarre ideas in my head than anything else. I believed people were coming out from the shadows for me, gonna kick me down and put their boot above my head. Fears like this gripped me the entire night.

I texted my friend and said, you know what to do if I die, right?

Going up to the room shocked me as I realized I'd never bought a motel room for myself before. Somehow, this room being completely ours gave me a surge of power. The feeling quickly subsided as I opt to watch Mexican "Funniest Home Videos" television, one of the more bizarre things I've seen, instead of nearly burning down the Travelodge.

We stretch into Denny's, and order some toast to-go.

"We haven't done anything normal on this trip," Luke says. "I feel like California was this bubble and we existed in it, but didn't disturb anything."

"Thousands of people all around us, going through their daily routines, and we were just the background," I say.

"Ripples in a pond. Or purgatory."

"Where are we going now?"

"Hell."

We headed to a huge sidewalk stretched over the highway. We walked above the freeway and I felt like I was floating, Last Crusade-style, over a huge chasm. All the cars below, everyone heading to the border. Looking over the road, was a hillside brimming with lights. A million homes like candles in a Catholic church. It was so hard to imagine less than a mile away was an entirely different world.

THROUGH THE GATE

Just imagine this at night. source: Wikipedia

We parked a block from the border and as soon as we hit the sidewalk we were surrounded by people, herded in this mass exodus to the border. There was a train station and terminal. Everyone carrying their luggage, walking quickly, hailing cabs. But this wasn't like the airport, where everyone stands around quietly stifling yawns. Here, everybody was a refugee of some sort, eyes darting around in paranoia, bags clutched close to their sides.

I could just envision a huge bombing going off and everyone fleeing for their lives, their sole belongings on their back. I was stuck in a scene from Children of Men mashed with the cantina in A New Hope. It's wrong to forget we're all refugees at some point.

We were instantly lost in this mess, until some disgruntled border guards pointed us to a sign that said TO PARKING GARAGE AND MEXICO. To get to Mexico, a country that has a population of 111 million and a G.D.P. of $1.563 trillion dollars, you have to walk through a parking lot. A goddamned parking lot. It's as humiliating as it is bizarre.

We head up three stories of ramps, then cross through long, dark concrete hallways over the road. You could look through windows down on the miles of traffic snaking into the country. Then, it's down three more ramps to a walkway. We go through a giant, fenced in turnstile. Once you're through, there is no going back, except as Swiss cheese. This really did feel like a long corridor of Hell.

Everyone trudging in front of us is Mexican. Most are carrying shopping bags, going home after a long day cruising American business. There is a beautiful artsy mural on the wall where a couple of armed guards are standing. The guards are masked and not looking at anyone, tightly holding M16's. Up ahead is another turnstile, but this one is small, like for a carnival or a movie.

Then, we were through. It was just that easy.

AVENIDA REVOLUCIóN

As we walk down the sidewalk, there was already a huge crowd of people, mostly Mexican men in business suits handing out fliers. If you've ever been to Vegas, the same thing happens, except people there generally stand in a line and slap their palms with booklets of prostitute ads. Here, they come right up to you and don't even care if you already have a dozen of these stupid ads.

Loud music was playing, flooding the air and I immediately felt like I was invited to the world's biggest party. I looked down at one of the cards, which was for a stripclub called Amnesia. I don't know about you, but after a night in Tijuana, I really don't want to black out at a seedy strip joint.

We come to a cab stand, a parking lot filled with yellow cars. A fast-talking man in a suit immediately ushers us over to a cab and said, "Where do you want to go?"

We have no idea where we're headed. We didn't think we needed a cab to get there, either, so we turned and tried to escape. Men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded us, arguing with us that we wanted to take a cab. There was no way out, so we jumped in.

It was five dollars to Avenida Revolución, the main "party" strip in the city, which is six or seven miles from the border. There was no way in hell we could walk there and stay alive. We didn't have weapons or cell phone service or even know martial arts. We were at the mercy of this cab driver. There was no meter and he didn't speak much English. He had the radio tuned to a station that was American friendly.

A shitty drunk picture of Amnesia.

"This whole place feels like Pleasure Island," I said to Luke. "We are going to wake up feeling like jackasses."

Luke smiled and said, "Why do you say that?"

The cabbie dropped us off at Amnesia, where a bouncer opened the cab door for us, trying to usher us inside. Again, we wanted to wake up in the morning without stitches, so we politely declined and walked on. They wouldn't take no for an answer. A second bouncer flanked us from our right, begging us to go inside.

"We got the best girls. C'mon, they'll do anything, you'll have fun." One bouncer said. We dodged to the left and a man in white business attire ran down the steps at us, clapping his hands and saying, "Fellas, fellas, what's wrong?" Now his hands were out, flat, begging.

The only way we could get away was by jaywalking across the street, dodging into a dollar store and regrouping.

"It's going to be like this all night," Luke said. "I've heard that the cabbies have it in with the clubs and they basically demand you go inside. Do you want to go through this all night?"

"I'm having the time of my life." No going back now.

We peeked out the door and quickly headed down the street. No idea if we were heading south or north or any direction. Passed an Italian restaurant, which was a laughably bad idea. The sidewalks were wide and crowded, trash piled near the street and Mexican teenagers leaning against graffiti-coated walls taking drags on cigarettes. Occasionally, large statues of Mayan or Aztec gods blocked the street.

Every couple of feet we passed an old men peddling clove cigarettes (which are now illegal for sale in the U.S.). His eyes followed us, peering out from his trench coat. There were loads of people selling like this and it seemed like they could all offer something else.

Every storefront we trickled by had handwritten signs selling Viagra and Vicodin.

We passed dozens of clubs, the music pumping so loud it hurt my ears from the street. The city was alive in so many ways that it makes a normal American town seem dead. I half expected the streets to be filled with a parade instead of countless cop cars and cabs.

A man approached us and asked us if we wanted some prostitutes. $40. He asked us if we wanted drugs, or something called a "sucky, sucky". I kid you not, he used the term sucky sucky, not even realizing he was a parody of himself. Then, no kidding, he offered us a donkey show. Was this place for real? It seemed we were in a bad Will Ferrell comedy.

We told this old man no, but he kept pressuring us, shoving ads into our hands. So we ducked around the corner and into a karaoke bar called the Black Bull. It was small, but modern and clean. No one was singing. A few people were crowded around the bar, speaking to the bartender, who decked out in a tuxedo.

An incredibly short woman approached us, asking something in Spanish. My mind blanked. Selfishly, I must admit, I thought that everyone in this country knew or would prefer to speak in English. I thought they would attempt to accommodate us and become like us as much as possible. That makes no fucking sense and I'm embarrassed to ever have thought that. It's an idea that's nationalistic, egotistic, even a bit racist.

So I try to speak back to this woman in English.

She gives me a confused look. "Do you speak Spanish?"

Like an idiot, I admit, no. Then, there was a creeping paranoia that I would now get ripped off. I kept my wallet close and my passport closer.

"What would you like?"

We order two Dos Equis for $2 each (cheap!), played a round of pool and tried to act normal. Luke pointed over to the center of the bar. There was a lonely stripper pole.

I miserably lost both games while quickly smoking a cigarette, nervous as hell. Luke wanted to leave and didn't even want to finish his beer. So we went further down the street, avoiding the old bastards on the corner. Outside a seedy massage parlor, a man asked us if we needed a backrub. $40 and he hinted at a happy ending. No thanks. In that case, better just go for the whole package. It's the same price.

We passed club after club, each one teeming with life, each with a man at the door trying to drag us in. One of the straight forward names of these places was Peanuts and Beer. What a joke.

We reached the end of the street which was filled with closed shops. A Whataburger. A G.A.P. These gaping storefronts seemed like a parasitic intrusion into the integrity of this city. The place does have integrity. Yeah, maybe Tijuana isn't safe. In 2008, there were 843 murders in the city or 56.8 murders per 100,000 people. All these drug cartels rule the streets and there's definitely an air of chaos. But building American shops shadows over the good things about this place.

"There is nothing good about this place," Luke says. "Let's either go into a club or get the fuck out of here."

CARLOS MENCIA

We dodge into the biggest and most yellow club we can find. It has a basketball hoop on the front and sad, deflated balloons on the rails. According to Luke, two girls were leaning over the balcony and winked at us. What a fitting choice.

The music could have burned holes in even a siren's eardrums. It was this bizarre, endless remix of cacophonous American pop songs that were popular a year ago. Every song was covered by Spanish-speaking musicians mixed in with random Mexican styles and a rattling techno undertow. Everything sounded vaguely familiar, like a hyperactive muddled meth-infused memory.

The bar is built on the second story and decorated in obscure American memorabilia. One sign has Smacky the Frog, another says, Lover's Lane. There are postcards of Marilyn Monroe and cacti and many other weird, misguided American relics. Somehow, this was like being in the wrong factory in Taiwan, filled with sentiments that have nothing to do with each other each one far, far outdated.

But the bar is empty. For all the loud music and being 10 p.m. at night, no one is here. A waiter serves us drinks and we drink alone and stare over the balcony at the busy street. The girls from before reappear at the end of the balcony.

Then, Carlos Mencia appears. He's a guy with a NY baseball cap, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a whistle in the other. He blows this whistle in our ears and demands to pour the bottle down our throats. We decline, again and again, but he won't go away. I don't mind getting drunk, but barfing in the streets of a dangerous, strange country seems like a death warrant.

It was then my Spanish speaking skills start to take over. In desperation, I pick important vocabulary from my brain. Alto. Alto means stop. And if you yell it at a guy with a whistle, he'll shuffle off for a while.

Carlos goes over to the two girls and pours a drink down their throats, watching us the whole time, whistling in their ears. The girls are very Mexican, very pretty and very young.

Now Carlos Mencia comes up to us and demands that we pay for the drink we just watched him pour down the girl's open mouths. Luke negotiated angrily and made sure that we got some drinks ourselves. Without consulting me. Suddenly, my neck is tossed back and a vat of tequila is sloshing down my throat. I can't hear anything with all that whistling, I can't see anything and the world is spinning.

The tequila is greatly watered down, so I'm not worried anymore. But after I raise my hand and say alto again, Carlos Mencia picks me up on his shoulder and spins me around the bar. When I'm set down, I nearly walk into a wall. My legs are springs.

This whole charade with Carlos happens at least four more times during the night and each time, he demanded we pay him. He won't take no for an answer. As the bar got more crowded and the more I got spun, the more I, the stupid American, was laughed at by young, rich Mexicans.

Our waiter kept coming back to refill our drinks and we kept telling him, we're taken care of. Then he leaned down and asked us what we thought of the girls next to us. We were promised both for $40. Everything in this town is $40.

Some well-dressed Mexican kids came in, giving the impression that they had rich parents and were "slumming it" and started flirting with the girls. They danced, for a very long time, sometimes girl grinding on girl. The music got increasingly more annoying.

"He's paying for that, you know," Luke says. "He's paying $40 to dance with a girl."

I had to piddle, so I padded over to the urinal. A man sat at the sink, reading a newspaper and watching me piss out of the corner of his eye. He had a sign that said "Your tip is my salary" which immediately got me thinking he should get a real job. I paid him a dollar and didn't even have him wash my hands.

We drink a bit more, don't dance and try to avoid Carlos Mencia. I stare over the balcony at the street, smoking cigarette after cigarette and watching people. I watch an old white man talking to a young Mexican man for an hour. I want to know everyone's story, feeling at once connected and cut off to the whole world.

HASTY EXITS

We sneak out of the club quickly before we get tied down and force fed more watered down alcohol. This time, walking down the street we avoid the calls of shady businessmen by pretending to be bored and deaf. There were flashing strobe lights at the end of an alley. Ominous and terrifying. We're tempted to stroll down and check it out, but run into that same old man again.

He offers us the same things all over again, coke, weed, prostitutes, a sucky sucky. We ask about the donkey show. How cool would that be, to sear our corneas forever watching people fuck a fat, lethargic Eeyore? Of all the dirty, despicable experiences available in this city, this had to be the most left field.

"Just get into this cab," the old man says. And suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Possibly, going to the outskirts of town to see this in the most seedy, creepy place on earth. We decided to leave this hellish place.

We get in a cab, but don't have change, so he drops us off at a currency exchange. I'm drunk as hell, going up the slot and had no idea what to ask for. The guy didn't speak English anyway. I came back with a fistful of Mexican money, not sure it was the correct amount or not. We were off.

The cab pulls up the sidewalk and a kid opens the door, his palm out. We don't tip the little bastard and scurry down the street past all the poor Mexican women selling purses and luchador masks laid out on blankets.

Then it's through one of those gate turnstiles and down a long corridor. There's no crossing over the street. There's a line. A guard takes your passport, asks if you have anything to declare and swipes the card. The end. As long as you have a piece of paper, you can enter into the glorious country of Amerika.

Tijuana was one of the best experiences of my life, for the three hours spent there. I don't think many people understand the place. It's dirty, terrifying and dangerous, but it still has value. It doesn't deserve to be wiped off the face of the earth on principle alone. I'm probably lucky to be alive, even though I didn't do anything particularly dangerous.

I had a fair share of culture shock and fear, but I wouldn't trade those feelings for anything. It made me realize how safe and boring Americans want their life to be, and the petty thoughts and judgments I have could fill a book.

Anyway, time to watch some more TV.