Different Point of View

The very first auto I ever had was a ’65 Ford pickup I bought from my brother. The places that old girl took me.

Before I returned to college for my sophomore year, I got the brilliant idea somewhere that I would be the weed supplier for the student population of which I was a member.

What could possibly go wrong?

Captive audience.

Generous markup policy.

Generous markup policy.

I was eating breakfast at Denny’s on the American side of the border of Nogales, Arizona. Deep-fried breaded pressed steak of some kind swimming in a mudslide of artery-clogging white Country sausage gravy.

Absolutely delicious!

I ended up speaking with a gentleman possessing a nefarious history, to be polite. Definitely out of my league, a good Catholic boy, I was glad the meeting went quickly.

I was given a choice.

I could buy 100 pounds of marijuana at 60 dollars/pound here, on the American side, OR I could leave my truck with them, they would pack it on the Mexican side, and return it to me all for forty dollars/pound.

I admit, I have done stupid shit in my life. What do they say about something that sounds too good to be true?

First we had to meet El Hombre, the boss, and the next thing I know I was in a small Mexican town in a dingy cantina that smelled of urine and tobacco smoke.

El Hombre was sitting at the bar with a bottle of Mezcal and a twelve-pack of Tecate.

It was eight in the morning.

Lined on the first eight rickety old steps of the staircase were this evening’s house “offerings,” an assortment of down-trodden, tired old working girls well past their prime trying like hell to summon a look of interest in, well, anything.

Sexy.

El Hombre was a pool player and had his own showroom-new custom nine-ball table, but only very few saw it and even fewer played on it.

Vectors.

That’s all pool (billiards) is.

Angles, you know the stuff from Mathematics class?

I got 100 pounds of Oaxacan Goldbud weed packed into two-fifty-gallon saddle tanks for TEN dollars a pound.

Delivered.

And damn, if they didn’t leave the truck washed and with a full tank.

I would write a song about a prostitute at one of the little brightly-lit cantinas on Canal Street.

My birthday is tomorrow and it is hard to believe I will be sixty-nine years old!

Fronting a rock and roll band.

I must be out of my mind.

If you check out my website at marksplayhouse.com, you can hear samples of my music and covers. We have a few practice clips on youtube.com under Sedona_Band.

We need to get a website up and running

Stay well.