desayuno de los borrachos

4:35 am and starving.
when the clock struck two hours before, the misses and i were wandering through the cold austin streets, having our fair share of india pale ales and miller high lifes. not arm-in-arm but my thoughts running and pining for that moment where we would be, the four of us enter la mexicana in its fluorescent open arms. i flipped through my memory folders filed away and tucked in a corner of two years ago, remembering nights like this one but with an entirely different set of people. an entirely different set of motives. an entirely different set of eyes.

as i approach the counter, i almost stutter, "vorrei un piccolo...." wait. back up. my spanish is dusty and rusted over these days, still mixing in with the dwindling italian i know but i forgive myself and try to mutter in a "due... lo siento... dos tacos de huevos y papas?"
she replies, "con queso?" and i smile and feel better at shaving off the rust a while. i order her a vegan tortilla con aguacate and the two gentlemen some migas and barbacoa. they, even though my verbs were all wrong, were impressed.

the clock somehow winked at us around 6 am, as we were caught up talking about barcelona and roma and just europe in general. one of us were half-passed out, and i dreaded the fact that we'd have to leave the dive and drive back. i looked across the table at a gentleman who i find myself really found of... and i shook my head at what's ahead.

the monks are still singing, but
im just not really paying attention that much anymore.


i am a monk these days

soaked in oil and ready for the fish fry, i
unlock the key and am home from a twelve hour serigraph printing session
it was merely one bag of tazo black and one cup of cafe ole joe that
brought me to finish some of the best prints ive pulled thus far.
leaving the print shop at sunrise never felt so cleansing,
and yet
i cant wait for the next drink.

the a cappella clergy harmonizing in san minato provide the white noise
to this monk-month of mark-making and the freeze.

my sketchbooks are filled with marty-mcfly pizzas from the future
and men in speedos ready to dive
as i play this new cd i bought for my brother and i,
i sigh
and allow my skin to absorb something more than an after-shower baby oil slather