Monday, February 20, 2006


The professor that teaches one of my favorite classes, english composition, told me today that my syntax is, well... shit basically.
I have to re-write the O'Connor's paper about the Misfit, he told me that the ideas where terrific, but the composition was disastrous. It hurted his eyes.
Nothing that can't be corrected, I hope.

Today, someone read and interpreted me the I-Ching... it was fucking scary. I mean it. It really freaked me out, I don't even want to talk about it. So, announcements:

My sister's blog has been redirected. It is now available at: Gaby's new blog (too pink for my taste); and you can find it at the Critics, friends and Interesting Blogs links list as Drachen (Dragon).

I was invited to a collective blog called:
One hundred bars. Don't be afraid of my participation in it, my contribution to this blog is rather irresponsible; so don't mind about it. The blog is constructed by known and respected characters in our fair school and by some others equally qualified for the job. The post are based on important songs from popular culture, so a check-out will probably make you addicts. You can find it also at the links list.

This is important: something quite annoying is happening in the blogger site. Apparently, some posts are mysteriously "disapearing", so you I strongly suggest to back-up your posts. Seriously.

I need books, an I-pod and some heroin (joke)... so if you're feeling strangely generous tonight (or at anytime), please, consider this:

Thank you anyway.
Catch you on the flip side.


From my audio-stash to your heart:
"Cocaine Blues", by Johnny Cash
(there is a slight problem with this stupid link; what you should do is to click on it, you should see a green "Download Now" link below the name of the song, click it quickly and then click on the Save or Guardar button; otherwise the site will redirect to some e-greeting cards site [a hedious one, by the way])

Monday, February 13, 2006

He was Carrying a Guitar Case

I have heard of it before: from my sisters, from my mom, from my girlfriends.

We were at Acoxpa and División del Norte; I was sitting facing the left side of the bus, with the backdoor on my left, a fourteen-year-old kid at my right and a man with a guitar case standing in front of me. An adolescent girl (a pretty one, you don’t get to see a cute one very often on this route) was also standing in front of me, but turned around, butt-to-butt with Guitar Case. They were both standing.

I was half-sleeping when it woke me up: a hard breathing coming from somewhere near me, it sounded like a series of contained coughs, like a badly restrained yawn, and it was getting louder.

I turned to my right to find out if the kid was making this noise, all I could see on his face was some kind of nervousness, which at that time I interpreted like shamefulness. The first thing I thought is that he had farted repeatedly and he was embarrassed for it, but then he looked at me and I saw something quite different from embarrassment: his face was a mixture of defeat and fear. Then, I noticed that he was looking at his lap and glancing constantly at some point in front of me.

I followed his view to that particular point of the universe.

The man with the guitar case was standing, as I said, in front of me with his right hand holding on to the tubes of the bus to keep his balance, his left hand (at least, some of it) was resting at the top of his guitar case, being a cloth case, he had to hold it with his thumb and his index, while with the other three fingers he was rubbing the girl’s ass.

The noise was coming from him.

He was making some sort of sigh that was a bad-disguised moan of pleasure, making it louder when some lucky finger reached the girl’s asshole, or when the bus stopped suddenly and he actually got a chance to grab a whole buttock of the girl.

Bus stop: left buttock.

Bump: right buttock.

Bus stop: middle finger deeper in her asshole.

The girl started to shake, the man with the guitar case started to sweat.

Watching those fingers was like looking at a dead seaweed massaging obscenely a sandy beach.
I was astounded, looking simultaneously at the man, the girl, the fingers, the kid to my right.
The I-am-so-turned-on noise grew louder.

Why the fuck doesn’t she do something? Kick him in the balls, you stupid girl!

I watch at the other passengers. A nun, a nurse, two students older than me, and three plumbers or electricians. All looking purposely away, the kid to my right joined them.
I keep watching: sweat, hard breathing, shakes, ass, asshole, fingers, case.

“Stop it now, motherfucker.” It came out of my soul.

Sweat and noises and harder shakes (weeping?).

I stood up. The perv was a feet shorter than me. The noise had stopped. All I could hear was my heart beating faster than ever. Rage? Pre-fight adrenaline?

“STOP IT NOW!” This time I yelled, making the passengers to stare at both of us. He was still ignoring me and trying to fingering the girl.

“Wha- What?, Are you talking to me?” Fingers stopped.

“You heard me, you piece of shit. Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I saw you. You fucking touch her again and you will leave this bus limping”

She started to cry. One of the students stood up and gave her his seat. I was expecting that he came to my side to face the perv, but he walked as far as he could, looking scared and confused.
The man with the guitar case blushed and mumbled a set of short phrases: “It was the movement of the bus”, “You idiot”, then to girl “I’m sorry”.

He looked at me hatefully and pushed the stop button moving very carefully in order to stay away from me. The big faggot.

He got off the bus at Miramontes, just beside the Muertortas.

The bus: silent. Only the crying of a young too-pretty-for-this-city girl.
I sat down slowly with my jaw feeling like steel, my fists still firmly closed. I looked around.

Nobody gave a fuck.

The nun and the nurse where sleeping (or pretending to be), the plumbers-electricians where looking by the window, and the two students where sharing a UNAM Gaceta.

The girl still crying with her head between her hands.

I finally got off the bus at Tenorios, feeling the eyes of all the passengers of the Route 1 bus on me; I looked back at the girl. Her head hung.

Smoking a cigarette on my way home, I wondered how many other asses the guy and his case will share tomorrow.

Tomorrow, another common day in this pigsty we call home.

Tomorrow, another day to carry a guitar case.