headed down and back again

Shudawudakuda. I’ve missed so many opps to tell silly little stories about what’s going on, but what ya gonna do. Backtrack!

It was all smooth sailing back to Nashville. Made it home safely last night after a busy and adventurous summer. Driving home, we spent our first evening in Matehuala's “swanky” Capris Hotel where I smoked a Cuban cigar overlooking a mirky swimming pool sporting a large, partially submerged blue tarp (and lord knows what was swimming underneath). Crossed the border with no drama then made a beeline to Juan's Gorditas in Devine, Texas where we dined al fresco with an excellent view of a giant pile of used tires. Bliss! Drank my beer from a brown paper bag. On our way down in May, we stopped at Juan’s because the Devine Tortilla Factory was closed. After placing my order of a few Carne Asada tacos I was trying to decide between Mexican Coca-Colas and regular Coca-Colas. “What’s the difference,” I asked. From behind me a voice answered: “Mexican Cokes are Bad Ass!” And the voice was correct. Now, Juan’s is a tradition. So good. On the way home we spent the night at San Antonio's Market Street La Quinta Inn, then two nights in Locust Bayou, Arkansas with Becky's folks. Enjoyed a sweaty family reunion under their carport lined with deer trophies from JT’s numerous Mexican hunts, plus wild boar tusks, turkey beards, and a plastic clock that reads 3pm 24 hours a day. And pretty barn swallows flitted about. 99.7 degrees in the shade. Lovely view of the highway twenty yards away with logging trucks rolling on by, and the neighbor's ex-husband with his new girlfriend sitting in HER pickup (waiting with a golden retriever relaxing in her generous lap). He kept returning things to his ex that weren’t quite his during our visit, and JT kept calling out to him: "When you going to sell me that gun?!." The reunion's fried catfish, okra, grilled pork and bbq chicken were amazing! I love Becky’s family, and we had a great time catching up. Terry, Connor, and I practiced shooting red cups, plastic luchadores, dragonflies and lively grasshoppers with Connor's bb gun. After the gathering, the night sky was so clear and full of so many stars, and I enjoyed JT’s salty stories (wish I’d recorded them all). The drive home on Sunday was flat and uneventful, but I had forgotten how lovely Tennessee is until we crossed the Mississippi. Damn it is hot, but so green, rolling, and beautiful.

mas nonsense

Signed the completed edition of Clutch y Frenos this trip. Looking forward to exhibiting Mexico imagery back home, plus at the Ex-Colegio in March. The fine folks at the Jesuita are amazing. I've been creating lots of new pics and finished prototypes for two new nonsense books. And mucho commercial gigs fuel my late night explorations hither and yonder. They also provide fuel for my Honda which we'll be pointing north in a couple of weeks.

la mujer de las cucharas

Sketchbook's hemorrhaging...in desperate need of a tourniquet or duct tape. Gas Express started up just before 7am, beating my alarm by minutes but bested by the roosters. Hundreds of roosters. My neighbor's duck is quacking and a collectivo just drove by. Guinness is sitting on the tiny balcony outside my studio barking at the passerby walking to work or buying pan dulces across the street. Looking east towards Morelia, the mountain is being swallowed by an enormous cloud and the morning's kitchen fires make the whole world smell like piñón. My feet are cold, so I'm headed downstairs for socks, more coffee, and if I have change...maybe a sensible donut.

iglesia

Sketchbook's gettin' fat, heavy and sticky.

Hojalateria y Pintura

Trying my best to fill this damn sketchbook before I get home. Among other things. Mashing together my past and present, what I've seen with what I'm seeing, what I've made with what I'm making. Think I carved that squirrel in the ninth grade. Figure it all out when I get home, maybe. Sure would like to hang that Vulka tire I found on my walk yesterday, above my drawing table. And that tooth-like Clutch y Frenos sign parked near La Guera on the Libramiento...next to it. A beauty. Funny listening to RVU on itunes down here, typing this with dried gel medium on my fingers.

smokin'

Brrr, it’s super chilly on my rooftop watching fireworks exploding over the Estribo while smoking a Cuban cigar. Reminds me of shooting Chinese bottle rockets from Coca-Cola bottles to celebrate the fourth when I was a kid, and of shooting Roman candles at each other in Donelson. Of sparklers and Black Cat firecrackers, and of Jimmy Fleming smoking one once. He said it had a cool mellow taste until it blew his lips off…right in front of us. Jimmy used to eat frozen French fries and dog biscuits to impress us, I guess. His brother David once sold my dad an Elk rack for a quarter. Tonight I’m drawing beer bottles, frogs playing guitars, cuckoo clocks, and bras hanging from tv antennas, while Becky’s recovering downstairs reading Hardcore Troubadour. I’ve been reading Murakami this summer, and the summer’s tunes have largely consisted of Jeanette “Baby” Washington, Barbara Lynn, Sonny Burgess, Memphis Slim, Fern Jones, and Paul Burch. And of course the rockin’ tunes of Gas Express and Gas del Lago competing for my business early. A dog’s howling a screechy weird howl next door and the rain is settling in for the evening. I’m shuttin’ down soon because my cigar is almost down to its band but not before the end of Femme L’a Dit. On second thought, maybe I’ll scribble some more, then brush my teeth.

Santa Ana

Today around 11:30 am there was a knock at the door, just as we were finishing Becky's amazing French toast made with Ibo's life enhancing bread, and Guinness barked like mad. Nothing new there. Becky answered the door, and it was Silvia. "We'd like to invite you to Artemio's birthday party this afternoon. You can be late." We showed up around 5:30 just as the band started up. Lots of great folks in attendance at Pat and Vero's beautiful home. Dogs, kids making art, and everyone dancing on wooden boards. More please.