Tuesday, July 24, 2007

JULY "CITIZEN LA" & New Piece "Chick Bar Fight" by Jim Marquez

Ladies & Gents!

The July issue of "Citizen LA" is out now on the streets of Downtown Los Angeles. In bars, cafes, restaurants, galleries...If you can't pick up a copy, no worries, just visit:

http://www.citizenla.com/

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Click "Columns" for my piece on the Miss Downtown LA Beauty Contest (check out some outrageous pics from Miss Downtown LA on my "blogs" @ www.myspace.com/jimthewriter).

Also click "Features" for my piece on "Self-Help Graphics".

***
Now, stayed tuned for my new piece that will be running in the September issue of "Citizen LA" & in my updated book "L.A. Bitch IV: The Last Word!" soon...

visit my books @ www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez


"Chick Bar Fight"

by Jim Marquez

There had to be shit already going on in the bar before I got there. Tension with the boys behind the counter was way too goddamn high. Maybe they’re just finally getting old. I mean, I’ve been coming to this joint 14 years and they were ancient then. So much of their lives putting up with the assholes who can’t hold their booze, the whores, the washing of vomit & cum off the bathroom walls, the fights, the shake downs, the storeroom fires, employees taking from the till, whatever; like anything else, it has to get to you.

Anyway, I walk in, 80s mix blaring, and I see Billy, late-60s, shift boss, behind the bar, wagging his finger at some young punk and scolding him as he is wont to do on occasion in order to amuse himself.

I quickly scan the room: fuck sitting near a booth taken up by huddled women playing the “let’s-see-who-buys-us-the-most-drinks-and-wont-get-laid” game and I happily settle between two sweetly intoxicated girls who look like they’re ready for action.


Tall, skinny, white, blonde & medium, portly, white brunette. Blonde is completely twisted on beers and her big friend is pounding cranberry & vodka.


I order my Jameson-rocks. It’s too damn late to be in a regular bar, about 12:30, this ain’t the all-nighter crowd at some Downtown LA underground, should’ve been here 30 minutes ago in order to initiate a contact but I glance over at Blonde anyway, and she, in a far away drunken haze leers back, but she’s doing it to everybody that passes; spinning around and saying “it’s my birthday” and wiggling her bottle in front of her. She gets kisses on the cheek, high fives, a man grabs her ass, she doesn’t mind, and two others latch on to make hits.


Brunette is being chatted up by some black dude who winks at me over her shoulder. I nod and tip my glass.


Then suddenly Billy hurls a bottle into the sink and I jump and he’s grumbling “mother-fucker-mother-fucker”. I look down at the end of the bar, see the kid he was yelling at and the kid looks contrite, slurping his beer, his buddy whispering into his ear and the kid is nodding, slurping, nodding.


And warm tits press against my shoulder and it’s Blonde leaning on me, smiling, she says, “You having a good time tonight?”


“Fuck yeah, baby! You?” I put my arm around her waist and clamp my hand on her ass and squeeze hard and I bring those sweet little titties closer to me and I kiss her neck. Lick her ear.


“Fucking-A yes!” she screams and slams her bottle on the bar and Billy barks, “Hey, watch it goddammit!” and stomps off to yank cold glasses out of the fridge but loses his grip on one and it drops and he growls, indecipherable, and throws the other on the floor in disgust.


Blonde pulls away from me and shoos Brunette off her stool and attempts to sit, crosses a leg under her like women do but she’s too drunk to balance and immediately tumbles with a yelp and falls against me. Her beer shatters at my feet, her body now resting heavy on my back as her friend and the others laugh and I see Billy fuming, think he’s gonna 86 the broad and nobody bothers to help her as she slides off of me and lands on her ass with a soft thump, not even the tatted-up, flip flop wearing, Nazi assholes with their “LAKE HAVASU OR BUST!” muscle shirts who are hitting on her.


So I take Blonde’s hands and hoist. She belches in my face and reaches for the bar: “GIMME ANOTHER DAMMIT AND PUT IT ON MY CARD!”


The other bartender, Conrad, about 60, can barely contain himself but he keeps silent and grabs a beer from the icebox. The drunker they are the more they spend. Why kick ‘em out? They haven’t hurt anybody, right?


And then there are 6 men surrounding Blonde, they smell blood in the water. She’s digging the attention. Inebriated beyond reason, not caring if she makes a fool of herself. Easy pickings. But I sense dread. She’s too fucked up: not slutty fucked up, but reckless fucked up. Two totally different kinds of fucked up. And her friend is not even looking after her. My God, she’s your buddy; you must know how she gets.


Men taking turns, hands on the small of Blonde’s back, sliding south, each stealing pecks on beer flavored lips as she’s passed man to man and the grip on my glass tightens; the air crackles, pussy’s on fire, the music’s grinding, something’s gonna happen, something's gonna happen! Where the hell is security?


Brunette approaches me, slurs, “Hey, I know you.”


“You really should look after your friend, she…”


“You’re that writer, huh?”


“Because...well, yeah, actually, I…” and then I don’t know what gets my attention but I’m looking to my left, a drunk’s hollering, another drama begins, don’t know how long I was spacing out but when I turn back Billy is bellowing at the Brunette, “…THE FUCK OUTTA MY BAR THEN! GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY BAR!”


The Brunette’s crying, “BUT WHY? WHAT DID I SAY?”


“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”


“WHAT DID I DO?!”


“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID! GET THE FUCK OUT!”


“PLEASE, PLEASE, WHAT…”


Billy’s pounding on the bar “OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!” and turns his back.


Brunette screeches “THEN FUCK YOU TOO!” and all cliché aside but in slow motion this woman reaches for a bottle of Bud, rears her arm back-people around me watching, giving her space, she can’t be serious-and fires it at Billy’s head and I scream “BILLY WATCH IT!” and the damn thing is still traversing the air so Billy has time to duck and the bottle crashes into the wall above his head, glass and beer spraying, and I’m falling off my stool onto the dude next to me because Brunette has pushed me aside along with empty glasses & napkin holders & olive-lime containers & she’s half way ON the bar spitting, “I’LL KILL YOU! I’ll FUCKING KILL YOU” and Billy has turned, right hand clutching his heart and charges the woman and takes a swing but misses, slips, falls on his rack of hard liquor and finally two security boys grab the woman but can’t handle the girth-the savagery has taken over-and it’s tough getting around her waist so they teeter and pirouette and she drags them to the ground where they struggle; her dress rips, a bra strap snaps, a large, stark-white breast is exposed, a shoe comes off and she’s quickly hauled off by 3 men now, knocking over chairs, a table, patrons are hightailing it, young women with fake IDs are crying, witnessing humiliation for the first time in public, and she grabs hold of the pool rack by the door but it peels from the wall and chalk & cues scatter and her screams from the street as the men take turns punching her are drowned out by the passing night buses.


Still clutching my whiskey for dear life I get up. Order another…




Jim’s books:
www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez
www.MySpace.com/JimTheWriter

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cheers,

beast...





















Saturday, May 19, 2007

"Citizen LA" May 2007 w/Jim Marquez

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I write for this art & culture magazine out of Downtown Los Angeles

Check it out:

www.CitizenLA.com

Click "columns"

Every month I explore the dark side of los angeles...

Also visit me @
www.MySpace.com/JimTheWriter

Don't forget to check out my new book "L.A. Bitch IV: The Last Word!"

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www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez

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CHEERS!!!!!!!!!!

Jim "the beast" Marquez

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Monday, March 12, 2007

"Scotland: Edinburg Falcon Girl"

Falcon Girl.
Edinburgh, Scotland
by Jim Marquez

It was the last day of the festival for me. Ten days is enough of this divine madness. The last night in town I decided to stay up all night because I had a 6am train out of Waverly down to Paddington in London. Four hours. From there it’s a ¼ mile jog to the damn commuter train for the excruciatingly slow and dull and eye-opening 45-minute haul out to Gatwick. I’d arrive, if all went well, one hour before my non-stop flight back to LA. Thirteen hours.

No use heading to bed then. What with the bars I usually got back to the room at 5am anyway.

The “Grassmarket” area below the Edinburgh Castle is a treat to the drunkard. Pub after pub within floating distance of each other: The White Lion, Finnegan’s Wake, The Something-Or-Another-Parrot, and on and on.

Edinburgh also has the latest closing times in the UK. One closes at midnight, but another closes at 1am, yet another closes at 2am, then 3, then 4, then 5. You just keep bouncing along until you eventually get back to your room.

Which is conveniently located in the hostel atop a sprawling concrete staircase.

The Castle Rock Hostel offers jaw-dropping views of the castle itself, which, sits directly across the street. Incredible to wake up to…

I had staggered out of a 2am-closer and was nimbly headed for a 3am rendezvous when I ran into Mary. I was pleasantly buzzed but by no means inebriated as on other nights. I did have a train to catch you know. Just one last spin around the block, I thought.

Before I actually met Mary I bumped into another young lady, a local, walking up the street besides me. “You here for the festival, I take it?” she asked

“Why yes I am. I love it.”

“You wouldn’t love it so fookin’ much if you had half the world tramplin’ through yer fookin’ gardens half the day and into the night. Just stay the fook away I say! Get the fook oot de my city!”

I had to laugh. That’s exactly the way I felt whenever I was in Hollywood catching a movie at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater and kept running into cartloads of tourists spilling out of their overcrowded buses and snapping pictures of the stars and handprints in the sidewalks.

Here in Edinburgh though, a small town, it seemed that the festival had infested every alley, graveyard, backyard, rooftop, stairwell, and public bathroom they could get their hands on. For indeed a few nights previous I had attended a great show situated in an elevated passageway crammed between two narrow and decrepit buildings. But at least they had set up a makeshift bar for us patrons of the arts, god bless them…

“Em, don’t get me wrong na, you yanks aren’t all bad, you’re OK.”

“Well, gee, honey, thanks for the reassurance.”

“Aye. Best be goin’” and she fluttered up the winding road.

There were a drunken lot of us walking up a curving, rising street when Mary nudged me from the side in a slightly tipsy, playful mood. “I reckon’ you’re here for the festival?”

“That’s a pretty good guess, Lassie,” I nudged back.

“Lassie is it? He’s here for the weekend and he thinks he can speak the lingo.”

“Ten days, baby. Ten fucking days in this town. And I was here last year too.”

“Betcha haven’t left your 4-star the whole time, eh?”

“You see any other Americans out here? I’m up at the hostel.”

She smiled a smile that reminded me of a lady professor from college that I used to “date” back when I was 19 and she was 34. A thousand years or more ago…

“And aside from contributing to the bulging masses that clog our streets by day and getting sick in our pubs by night, just where else have you gotten your well-fed and contented arse to?”

We had continued to follow the crowds as we walked. Sudden bursts of savagery banged about the ancient streets. And the smell of potatoes still permeated the air. It’s a scent that immediately sails up your nose as you take you’re your first steps in Edinburgh.

The air is heavy with it, musty; in it too I can smell my father’s hair tonic in the bathroom after he left for work so early on a cold morning. Somebody’s boiling a large kettle of fresh potatoes for that evening’s supper. Odd and strange and comforting and something that’s rarely brought up when discussing travel, but there you have it.

“Let me see now: aside from taking a bus out to Crommond, aside from taking trains up to Glasgow and Sterling, and aside from ferrying across Loch Lommond, trampling through the woods of Bolloch, and then hiking up Arthur’s Seat just this afternoon, I can’t think of a goddamn thing I’ve done here.”

She laughed a hearty laugh, relaxed and vulnerable, like we’d been chatting in front of a fire and drinking cider.

“Well, that’s a start.” Then, she brushed alongside me again.

“Care for a pint?” I asked.

“Not right na. I’m fighting a cold.”

“You hungry?”

“No, afraid not. But I’ll walk with you, help you find something.”

“I want one of those mini-pizzas I see everybody carrying around.”

“Three quid for those. We’ll find them soon enough.”

All thought of a drink left my head. One of the many things a woman is especially talented at is making a man give up the drink. In theory, anyway. It can just as easily go the other way…

“So what’s a decent young lady doing out here all by herself?” I asked and we passed that 3am pub I was looking for earlier but didn’t care about now but was the destination for most of the crowd we were tailing.

“Look at all those kids,” she motioned with her head. Her arms were crossed over her to ward off the night frost. “How can they go the whole night?” I was about to help her with that one when she came back with, “Oh, sorry. What did you say? Oh right: Em, don’t know about the decent part, but I can tell you I was with a few friends tonight that seemed to have vanished on me. Just as well though.”

“Good, you can show me around.”

“Do I look like a tour guide?” she grinned. “But for you, sure, you seem like a good enough yank.”

“You’re the second one to tell me that tonight.”

“Then it must be true.”

“Wow. She’s pretty, funny, sarcastic. Marry me.”

“We just got to talkin’. Besides, my birds have to take a liking to you first. As well as my dad.”

“Birds?”

“I raise falcons. We have a rather large property outside the city. My babies are waiting on me now.”

“Falcons. Now that’s a first. A 24-year old falcon keeper.”

“Aye, you just gave me back three years. Cheers.”

“But you get on me about being the bougeoise American. Look at you: country estate, lands for the birds, a wealthy old man rattling about the halls of a manor occupied with the ghosts of days gone by, waiting to die so he can give his only daughter titles and deeds.”

“You make it all sound so romantic. But you’re fairly close.”

And then we strolled. Haven’t “strolled” with a woman in quite a while. So used to hopping into a car and having to drive 30-fucking miles in Los Angeles somewhere in order to do something.

Passing drunks slapped me on the shoulder and winked at Mary and me and then kept on keeping. Revelry was in the air, unlike, say, the threat of multiple brawls that hang on the verge of consummation in the Temple Bar area of Dublin.

We walked past closed pubs and cavernous alleyways and darkened and abandoned courtyards and entire walls covered in those festival fliers announcing plays and other performances for the next day, telling us what times, where, how much, and what the critics are saying about them and all the while we brushed against each other and chatted about nonsense people chat about while trying to think of something bright and clever to say. Is this what it was like? I can barely remember what it’s like to be with a nice girl.

There was an obvious attraction between us that was certain, but acting upon it has become one of my new drawbacks.

I can lie to a woman. I cannot care about a woman and still fuck the hell out of her. I can pay for a woman. I know immediately which woman in a room will fuck me. Which one is lonely and wants to have a one-night stand and then kick me out of bed within two hours. Which one gets beat on by her husband and needs “someone to talk to”. Which one whose boyfriend won’t fuck anymore. Which one will keep calling me for sex at a cheap motel on the outer rims of the county line no matter how bad it is time after time. I can see all that, but when there’s a hint of a real connection it becomes difficult.

I’m afraid of pulling the trigger.

Having been fucked over before, by women I was in long term relationships with, I have let myself become afraid.

Window-shopping in Amsterdam and every other goddamn city on the planet I’ve crawled through has become the standard op. Hundreds. But what of it? Something more was needed for sure.

“Look, there’s yer pizza,” Mary pointed and shuffled me in the direction of a corner stand with a line 25 deep.

I wanted Mary but I didn’t want to fuck her. I didn’t want to defile her. My friends say I contaminate the women I love. I didn’t want to do that to Mary. But what did she want? What did she care?

“I’ll wait over here,” Mary said and sat at the base of a lamp post as I pushed my way through a drunken lot intent on trying to sober up before heading home. Mini-Taxis sped past in one-minute intervals. No police though. And that’s the way it should be…

Three quid did do the trick, and I was rewarded with a slab of greasy bread with greasy cheese slopped onto greasy tomato paste and mixed in with greasy bits of pepperoni and ham that seeped through a greasy box. Goddamn it was good!

“Fancy a slice?” I asked Mary as she stood.

“Christ no! Get that away from me!”

“Spice of life, Love.”

“I’m a veggan thank you.”

“No, really? Damn, see? You just lost points there.”

“Did I? I didn’t realize I was under review. Tell me Mr-I-don’t-even-know-your-name; are you always so presumptuous with the ladies?”

“Never. Now walk with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Continue then.”

“Jim.”

“What?”

“My name is Jim.”

“And I’m Mary. But I shall call you by your given name: James.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Aye.”

Just then some drunken bear of a man came stumbling down the street, eyes on fire-to match his flaming red locks-and he was sweating badly in the cold. His clothes were disheveled and he was giggling and belching at his own stupor. He halted as he came face to face with us. ”You got pizza! Oy, mate, you tink you can find it yer heart to tear off a piece for a fellow journeyman?”

I did better than that and handed over an entire slice. His eyes went wide and he began to salivate. “Hey, you Yanks are all right!” He grabbed the steamy slice and shoved it into his mouth. “That’s a good lad!” he mumbled. “Cheers!” Then slapped me on the back and pranced off.

“That was nice of ye,” Mary said. “Normally we’d tell them to fuck off.”

We continued to stroll, in silence. I could smell the jasmine coming off her hair even in the dampness of the night and I nearly melted. We saw more show fliers scattered on the ground and we kicked through them as we passed.

The drunks began disbursing after 4am. You could see the fingertips of a sunrise just over the purple-black horizon. It gets dark here during the summer after 11pm, but the sun starts to rear its ugly ass well before five. Not good. We also passed another graveyard and that is where we stopped.

“I better grab a taxi,” Mary said.

“Not yet.”

Do I kiss her now? Do I let my passion fly and drag her into an alley and slam her against a storied brick wall? Do I ask for an address? What for? I’m leaving the country in seven hours. A phone number? Same thing. An email?

We can write each other and the next time I’m in town we could hook up. But that never goes well for me. We’ll email for a couple months then the novelty wears off and suddenly I’m a dead to them. They disappear. Better to save myself the heartache. Make it a clean break.

“I guess I gotta go too, get my stuff together.”

“And I have a ways back.”

“Okay.’

“Okay.”

We looked at each other: I’ve often wondered since why she didn’t take the initiative and fling her arms around my neck. I wouldn’t have minded. Why didn’t she kiss me before I left? Was she as gun shy as I? Who fucked her over, and how hard, and when, enough so that she couldn’t let herself desire a night’s passion?

We moved toward one another, hesitantly, then awkwardly, then, extended a hug. Christ, it felt good. “You take care, sweetie. Get home safe,” I whispered into her ear then kissed its lobe.

“You too, James,” and she returned this soft gesture of affection.

I moved to kiss her on the lips; she did too, but stopped ourselves. Two people never wanted to kiss each other so goddamn much, to connect, but god forbid if that should happen again.

Yeah, sure, I want to get married; to have a warm body to lay with that doesn’t make me look at my watch and pretend I have to get up early for work only as an excuse to get the fuck out of there. To share Paris with, an African safari, a fireside chat, hell, a new life.

Before I left I turned, we waved tiny waves at each other, then, I made for the hostel. 5am. Right as rain. I had one hour to get my shit together and run down to the station, which, fortunately, was about a half mile away and all down hill.

I had already packed the night before, just needed a quick shave and to run my head under a shower. Aside from location, the best damn thing about the Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh, Scotland are the showers.

They have large, private shower stalls, like old- fashioned phone booths, with wooden doors, and with plenty of space to reach those hard to find places when lathering up.

It was in one of these booths, very alone, very early in the morning before anybody else got up and began to fight for the hot water, that I choose to cry for a few minutes.

After, I left…



check out my travel book on paris: "Tangles in Paris" @

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Thursday, November 23, 2006

"Laundry Days Suck" An Excerpt From My Latest Book "Tangles in Paris"

Laundry Days Suck
by Jim Marquez

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Laundry days suck. Always have. You can’t go anywhere; you can’t do anything but wait. Maybe have a seat outside on a rickety chair, lean against a wall, and watch the morning trickle of traffic in an isolated Parisian neighborhood.

The Metro Station-Denfert Rochineau-was about a 1/4-mile away so Hector was about as cut off from Paris as you could be while still being in Paris.

Only having been in town a week and already Hector had managed to soil every article of clothing in his pack. He and Billy still had another week to go before shoving off to London, then, parts unknown, but Billy, being the German taskmaster that he is, had already waken early, got his shit together, and was off to the Luxembourg Gardens.

Fuck it. Might as well get it out of the way. Hector brought down from the room a liter-bottle of Beck’s, a pack of smokes, loaded up the washing machine in the launderette-which was damned conveniently located directly across the tiny street from the Mom & Son operated hotel they were staying at-and relaxed.

The usual early morning rain shower had dissipated into those high, wispy, Monet skies with the sun filtering through the clouds to make it feel hotter than it actually it was.

Hector leaned back, beer in one hand, smoke in the other. He saw the young Pakistani who ran the Gyro shop across the street sweeping the sidewalk in front of his storefront. No customers. Just making up work to keep himself from going mad. Hector waved. The young man waved back. Lunch was usually a Gyro to go. Step out of the hotel, turn to the right, and there he was.

At first it was the basic Gyro: slab of greasy beef sheared off a rotating carcass-god knows how long that fucker’s been hanging around-then it’s slapped into a stale slice of pita bread, add a raunchy salad with watery dressing, and top it off with a pinch of stringy, greasy French Fries.
But after going there day after day, and, seemingly, being the only return customer, the servings became substantial: double portions of beef, fresh salad, thicker dressing, and soon steak-cut fries were overflowing take-a-way bags.

Not to everyone’s liking, but goddamn, what a treat after the all night boozing, the morning self-flagellation, curses at God, the shakes in the shower, then the slow crawl to the front door at half past noon.

The Pakistani made another pass in front of his doorway, then, with head down, stepped back in. The faint echo of Mariachi style Mexican music coming from around the corner at the neighborhood Brasserie caught Hector’s ear next.

The busboys were cleaning up from last night’s drunken reverie where they had made quite a mess of it. A surprising number of French have a refreshing taste for things Latin: Salsa clubs, Mexican restaurants, and many speak more Spanish than English.

Sure, everybody has prejudices-The Vichy Government comes to mind-but all Hector cares about is that when he’s in Paris it is absolutely the best he has ever been treated. Well, Scotland is a runner up, and the carnival of souls they call Amsterdam. Fuck it, it’s just a sweet and refreshing change of pace from L.A. is all.

The Brasserie around the corner was a place he and Bill said they would check out, but never did. The need to dash over to the metro and shoot off into the rest of the city was overwhelming. They can be bad drunks, and have the attention spans of monkeys, and so usually everything else falls by the wayside.

Halfway done with his beer now, Hector could see the park where he ate his lunch. The park was divided in two. Across the street children played pick-up games of football. On this side, grandparents sat and waited. Or nibbled on their lunches. Or played checkers on the benches, with their legs crossed, their bodies supported by the high comfortable backs, one of their arms slung over the top.

Hector, sat on a bench of his own, devouring his Gyro, listening to his Walkman, his head bopping up and down. Must have been a shock to the old Parisians; but, like most things, they got used to seeing him everyday; two even smiled at him, and how could they not?

Hector sat there with a big ‘ol the-condom-ripped-and-she-doesn’t-even-know-it-grin on his face, happy as hell to be in the middle of Paris, having lunch, locals around him. Why shouldn’t he be happy? Very few get this tranquil opportunity, away from the tour buses, away from the mobiles, away from the sonorous gaggle of demanding Americans.

Up the street from the park there was the Boulangerie. Bread baked fresh every morning, he could smell it coming in through his balcony. That was the last stop before hitting the main drag. A genuinely sweet “Bonjour” from the mid-40s Husband & Wife proprietors started off a day the right way.

Hector soon discovered that buying one long loaf of bread was cheaper than buying two shorter halves. His daypack was compact, and simply breaking the larger one in two cost a few Euros less. Screw it, he budgeted on the road and it always paid off.

Then, there was the Egyptian girl-must there always be a girl?-he saw standing outside her doorway, holding on to the doorframe for balance. She and her mother ran the shoebox-sized market to the left of the hotel as you walked out.

Talk about convenient. Jesus. Anything you wanted, from high-end hooch all the way to the brown baggers. A true godsend because every night before heading out for the evening, a stop and grab was made by Hector and Billy for the cheapest of wines and the most bitter whiskey.

Suddenly, Hector caught a quick glimpse of the Young Pakistani as he reappeared at his own doorway again. Broom still in hand, looking over at the girl too. He looked back at Hector and ducked inside without acknowledging him.

“You perfume is pretty, yes.” Those were the first words the oddly attractive 13-year-old Egyptian girl said to him as he put his purchases on the counter for checkout a few days ago. The mother sat heavily on a stool guarding the register. Shawl over her shoulders; unfocused light in her eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Hector smiled back, flattered. “It’s cologne.”

“Oh yes; okay. Mother say your perfume smells very nice.”

“She does, huh?” Hector looked at Mother. He doubted she even knew he was standing there.

“Well, thank you, Mom.”

“I like it too,” the girl said and fidgeted with her fingers.

“Glad you like it.” Great, the first local female to notice him and it’s a kid. “It’s Tommy.”

“Oh, yes, I know the Tommy. It is expensive.”

“Not really.” She smiled at him while ringing up the booze.

“Dude,” Billy nudged Hector in the back, “We gotta get going. The women are waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah,”

“Okay. You are all good.”

“Yes, we are. Merci, Mademoiselle.” She giggled at that.

“Merci, Monsieur. Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir.”

Oddly arousing indeed. Sure, Hector had his fill back in Amsterdam, their first stop on this mad dash across the continent, two whores a day for five consecutive days, but this was a local. All right, not from Paris exactly, but Christ, take a look around, who was? Despite the looming shadows of resurrected Nazis, this was still the place to see half the world.

“And exactly what are the statutory laws in France these days?” Billy prodded Hector as they high tailed it to the metro.

“In England it’s 16. The Czech Republic is 15. I’ve done my homework on this one, but France…I forgot.”

“You didn’t even notice she had a handicap, did you?”

“What?”

“Didn’t think you did after raping each other with your eyes.”

“What handicap?”

“Dude, her leg. Her left leg is crooked, like, bent in at the knee; turned inward almost. Pretty fucking nasty.”

“Underage and handicap, huh?”

“Oh you sick fuck.”

Hector saw the girl the next day, and the next day, and everyday the conversation grew. Where are you going now? Do you like Paris? How was the museum? How were the catacombs? Have you met any girls? Do you have a girlfriend in America?

Then there were the coy, blank, yet, curious gazes into his eyes, and always the mother was at the register. Never said a word. Never moved. She could have been dead for all he knew. Hector wondered what would happen if he leaned over the counter and planted a big wet kiss on her daughter’s pouty, desperate-for-affection-lips.

A girl will always steal a glance at another man even if she is with her mother; flick her hair back behind her ear, or maybe pretend to adjust her sandals, all the while looking. Fathers are tougher to be around for the girls because daddy is always keeping guard, they know the dogs that are out there. A boyfriend though doesn’t notice his woman is looking elsewhere. He actually thinks he’s the only one. A husband half cares; doesn’t. He takes comfort in the fact that he’s the one she’s going home with.

It takes balls on a wife anyway if she’s going to stray, but eight times out of ten she digs the attention, then she’ll brag to her girlfriends on the phone all about how some dirty little so-and-so was leering at her down at Starbucks.

But how could Hector think of this girl with such embarrassing desire? No, it’s not right. Well, once, passed out on his bed after an all night romp through the city, he did rouse himself back to semi-consciousness and tried to masturbate; under his blanket, thinking about bringing her up when Billy was out somewhere in the middle of the day, but he was just too goddamned tired to finish.

The next morning Billy was off to another museum, but Hector wanted to be outdoors, maybe do some writing by the Seine. He saw the girl as he was about to run down the steps of the metro. She stood by the entrance, near the curbside of the busy boulevard. “Hey!” Hector shouted too loud, too enthusiastic.

The girl stood as tall as she could despite her handicap for she straightened up when she saw that it was Hector. She ran a hand through sloppy curls, adjusted her eyeglasses. If there were a mirror nearby she’d put on more of the lipstick she was forbidden to wear in her household.

Her clothes, faded, flare leg jeans, pajama-pattern-top, 70s style, and tan, suede boots were the norm for most young European kids. Not because they tried to copy any retro movement of The States, but because that’s all many could afford, the thrift store fashions.

Go to the Czech Republic someday. Take a bus out of Prague, an hour’s ride, then, get off at whatever town you come across. Hector had chosen Terezin: sideburns, wide collars, polyester jackets, elastic waist slacks. Paris, London, Munich; sandals and black socks, tennis shoes and pantyhose. Fashion capitals of the world, hardly.

And then there was her leg. Her left leg was just as Billy had said. All this time Hector had saw her standing behind the counter. The girl stood with her hands at her hips, and she balanced herself, like a person does when he or she sprains an ankle.

They favor the foot, lift it, and let it hang, and they try to balance themselves in spot if they have nothing to lean on. That’s what she was doing there in front of him, but trying not to do it. Her knee looked to be slammed over to its side, like somebody stepped on it, hard, at birth, and permanently maimed her.

Hector remembered handling his puppy, Pokey, a thousand years ago when he was four, then dropping her accidentally onto the kitchen floor. She landed on a hind leg, forever pushing that leg of hers in more than it should. And if you looked at her from behind as she ran you noticed the limp….

There was nothing slight about this girl’s malady though. And yet it still aroused Hector. Like fucking a pregnant woman, and then getting to milk her before her own baby does.

“Hi,” she finally answered. You have any money?”

“What?”

“My mother gave me little money for school, but I want to be with my friends. You have twenty Euros?”

Hector was startled. The fucking nerve! “Um…no.”

“Ten then?”

“Honey, I need that for the rent.”

“I see how you buy liquor in our shop. You must have a little something.”

Shit, no getting around that one. She had him there.

Then, Hector, caught between rage and arousal (is there any other place?) heard the girl say what Hector hoped he wasn’t thinking: “I can earn it,” she said.

Oh Jesus. Is it written across my forehead? Does it say WHOREMONGER? DEPRAVED FIEND! CHILD MOLESTER?

“You like me, yes?” she asked me in a whisper above the rush and madness of early afternoon traffic; horns, motor scooters, languages other than French.
Just leave! Don’t say anything! Don’t say anything!

“Yes.” Oh you’re a fucking asshole!

Christ, was this how she made her spending money? From the foreigners like himself? From the Young Paki back in the neighborhood? Had he fucked her too? Was that why he was out there as Hector did his laundry, to keep an eye on him?

Was he her boyfriend? No. Girls like that didn’t have “boyfriends”, at least not in the traditional sense. But the boys and men she fucked thought enough of themselves to anoint that honor you can be damn sure.

Do the French give a damn about this? After all, it is the city of love, isn’t it? Think about it: if she’s willing, why not? Who’s going to know? Hector’s never had any moral objection to this to be honest despite all the melodramatic inner conflict-one must at least try to keep up the pretence of humanity-but as long as they initiated it, as long as they consented, as long as they used protection, as long as they were cool about it, as long as….

Ok, just how many times has Hector done this? Well, none. The girls in Amsterdam were under sneaky suspicion, and it wasn’t until afterward that he asked and was told “16” by two of the girls. One was “14”. The rest were no more than 20.

Then again that could have been part of the “male fantasy”: fucking a young girl; maybe they were keeping up the act. No. You could tell.

How young? How old? Who’s inexperienced? Who’s had a kid? Who’s had several? Who’s uptight? Who’s a slut? Who thinks she’s a slut? Who wants to be a slut but will regret it and then months later send you damning e-mails complaining that all you did was shove it in and that you never said you loved her after you came?

But the real question here is this: where? Where can you take her? Back to the room, but what about The Boy? Either The Boy or The Mother was always at the front desk at the bottom of the staircase before you headed up.

You could never just walk by without having to exchange pleasantries: Bonjour, Monsieur! Comment tu vas? Ca va? Ca va? You like my city, yes? You like my city? Oh, and by the way, just where exactly do you think you’re taking that obviously underage girl and why do you have a massive hard on stretching your pants there? Hey, that girl looks familiar too! Isn’t that the girl from the shop? Oh my god! STOP! POLICE! POLICE! STOP THAT MAN!

Jesus, then what?

Run!

“What?” And Hector looked and the girl was suddenly at curbside gingerly getting onto the back of someone’s motor scooter, the kind the French use to deliver the mail. “Where?” Hector barely got out but she had already pulled away, her arms wrapped tightly around a man’s waist. Looked like a local. She glanced over her shoulder as they skirted into traffic and she smiled at Hector and then they were gone.

“Fuck!”

A shaky writing session at best out by the river followed…

That was yesterday.

The washing was finally done, but now the hard part: at least two hours in the dryer. Hopefully. Hector stuffs the machine and sets the timer. He sits back down in his chair outside, reaches for his bottle. Empty.

He sees her again, in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe for balance. She’s looking at him. She looks over at the Gyro shop and sees the Young Pakistani peeking out. She waves Hector over. Who hesitates, smacks his lips, thinks it’s time for another. Stands up, lets the chair fall, and makes his way across the street.




"Tangles in Paris": A petit book of stories about the City of Lights as told through my blood-shot eyes. Pick up a copy today, web only, at www.LuLu.Com/JimMarquez

$14.50 each plus shipping


Thursday, November 16, 2006

21st Century War Memorial Sites in Germany

21st century Nazi Sites in Germany
by Jim Marquez

“He who closes his eyes to the past, closes his eyes to the present. He who suppresses the memory of man’s inhumanity to man, is himself in danger of one day becoming inhuman.”
--Richard von Weizacker
1985

Mayhem ensued for myself and my buddy as we trekked across Germany for World Cup 2006 this past summer; gracious and kind hosts the Germans were. This being my fourth world cup experience, I especially looked forward to not only the matches and football fan festivities shared by the 4 million international guests, but, also to the darker, more historical aspects that Germany openly sheds light upon.


Two such places exist for our benefit: the “Documentation Centre on National Socialism” in Cologne along the Rhine River, and the newly christened “Memorial to the Murdered Jews in Europe” in the middle of Deutschland’s capital of Berlin. Both are staggering glimpses into the madness that once was.

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“The EL-DE House”, Cologne:

On an unremarkable middle-class neighborhood corner, just down the street from a pedestrian-only zone of shops and cafes frequented more by the locals than the tourists sits the “EL-DE House”. The old headquarters of the secret police, or “Gestapo”, from 1935-1945. And that’s usually the case, isn’t it? Where horror dwells, on any given, drab anonymous street just around the corner from the local bread shop.

At the end of Germany’s involvement in the war, April 1945, Cologne, targeted for its strategically placed rail system and close proximity to the French and Dutch borders, was wiped off the face of the map by Allied bombers. Two structures withstood the hell from above: the city’s 1,000 year old cathedral, and, ironically, western Germany’s Gestapo HQ: “The EL-DE House”, so named after the initials of the building’s architect Leopold Dahmen.

Imagine the odds. And, after 5o years of collecting dust, it wasn’t until 1997 that the building was put into full use for one sole purpose, the same as with all the memorials in the new Germany: so people won’t forget…

Entering the building, bright lights, antiseptic in the air, cold despite the insufferable heat of the summer, the only thing that stands out in the oversized lobby is an old man sitting at a bare desk, smiling, asking for a modest donation. He hands you a brochure and directs you to start your tour down a stairwell. After, he says, you can take your time upstairs in the archives room.

In contrast to the lobby you enter a dark, musty, corridor with flickering lights, yellow streaked walls, and squeaking doors. Low ceilings add to the claustrophobic vibe. You immediately feel something is not right. It’s the same itch I got when I entered Dachau some years ago. And, Terezin outside of Prague.

Nothing is pretty down here. The basement has retained the old horrors. The coffin-like cells remain. Those used to squire away the political prisoners before the war broke out, then, used to torture, brainwash, rape, and persuade others to serve the Fatherland. The air is heavy, hopelessness settles over your shoulders. There is no escape, other than at the end of the hallway and out back where the small courtyard sits with a tiny patch of grass that was used for the executions.

Most disturbing are the scratches of words, sentences, drawings, etched up and down the pitted and poorly plastered walls of the cells. Whittling away time before your next beating. Or worse. Thankfully the rooms are closed off by Plexiglas; you see the entire cell, catch a glimpse of the confines, shiver, then move on. The air gets harder to process. You must leave.

Shaking off the effects from below is no mean feat, but they quickly abide when you take the stairs back up into the light and continue to the archives: an airy, spacious but oddly sickly-tinged series of rooms. Again, that uneasiness returns but there are at least windows open to breathe in fresh air. And, haphazardly displayed about this top floor of the building are the meticulous records that were kept to document a regime thought to last a millennia.

War photos, government sanctioned newspapers, typed orders, propaganda cartoons, portraits of various officers, and films are placed somewhat in chronological fashion, but most are scattered on the walls, the floors, in book cases, on tables, matted within hanging glass partitions; not the tidiest of museums, the viewer is left to wander on his own, to gather information at a leisurely pace. There are no headsets to fumble with, nobody waving you on with a folded umbrella leading the tour, no peering security guards, no coat check-in. As unobtrusive a museum experience I have ever had.
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Though this may turn off those used to a more traditional gallery excursion, you will certainly be rewarded by what you find near the end of your visit: a movie theatre.

Actually, a darkened room. With benches. And a screen. Push a button on the console below the screen and any of the dozens of pre-programmed movies they have pop up. Black & White. Silent. Pristine quality. Hitler riding into Cologne in an open air-car, the camera riding over his shoulder as he blesses the adoring crowds. Snippets of film showing a tracking shot riding alongside Hitler as he waves to the children in particular. Another angle of his hand up in his famed salute, but the camera has caught the setting sun from behind and it looks as if he is holding the sun in his right palm.

Films of the Nazis marching into Cologne by the Cathedral, out of the train station, and young girls swooning over them. Rallies with hundreds of thousands, at night, raising torches and chanting Hitler’s name. Hitler smoothing out his hair and mustache before going to the podium. Stuff you never saw in high school history class that’s for damn sure. The propaganda machine working overtime. Fascinating. Like watching a car wreck. You absolutely want and should look away, but you’ll find yourself, mouth agape, pushing the replay buttons over and over and over again...

“Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe”, Berlin:

Taking a few hours off from the World Cup was a must, for beyond the Brandenburg Gate was the nightly two-mile long fan fest and match viewing party. But just off the bustling Unter Den Linden metro stop, at the famed Adlon Hotel where heads of state spend the night, and past the British Embassy with its numerous armed-to-the-teeth-guards, sits the newest and most staggering of Holocaust memorials.

Opened in May 2005 and designed by American architect Peter Eisenmen (topside) & Berliner Dagmar von Wicklen (below ground) at the cost of Euro 28 million, this memorial is ironically and sweetly situated above the war time offices of Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels and a mere 300 meters from the Fuherbunker itself.

The memorial is simply a large parcel of land with 2,711 concrete slabs of various lengths and widths, placed head-to-head, side-to-side, row by row, short and tall, perfect rectangles, box-like shapes with no discernible names, writings, or dates; a grey and ominous labyrinth meant as a not too subtle glimpse at what it might be like if lost at a cemetery in purgatory.
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You are left alone to wander the mazes, but be careful, the ground underfoot is undulating, so you are constantly veering left to right, up and over mole hills, at eyesight to the slabs one second and the next finding yourself standing nearly 5 feet below and traversing a canyon of these 2001- Space-Odyssey-type monoliths. Quiet as a morgue on a Sunday afternoon too. And since there is nothing but dull gray and cold concrete that flashes across your field of vision, you are left to your own thoughts, disquieting, and, no doubt an unnerving proposition to many. What are these things supposed to be? Caskets? People? And why are there only 2,700 of them? There were more victims than that.
You feel dizzy upon emerging. But, you are not done.

After a time to reflect, head down to the “Information Centre”, easily one of the most comprehensive and beautifully realized of such establishments.

Divided into five distinct rooms, the visitor is continually reminded of what is above because the same motif and color scheme is integrated into every square inch of the place. Dark hues, rectangular rooms, and the shapes of the slabs are embedded into the ceilings as if to show they are one and the same.

The “Introduction Room” is a long hallway with the history of the Third Reich and their insidious plans done up in photos, text, audio recordings and presented in large, clear, easy to follow text in multiple languages. The information is a bit much to take in all at once, but well worth the perusal. You are then led into another darker, chillier, and muted “Room of Dimensions”.

Personal accounts of their eradication in the forms of letters, postcards, diary pages, and scraps of paper are enlarged and encased in frosted, dimly lit displays embedded into the floor. You have to walk around these parcels of illumination and look down, just like visiting a loved one’s grave site.

Here is one postcard that was found on a dirt road in eastern Poland written by a 12 year old girl:

31 July 1942
Dear Father,
I am saying goodbye to you before I die. We would so love to live but they won’t let us. I am so scared of this death because the small children are being thrown alive into the pit.
Goodbye forever. I kiss you tenderly.
Yours, J
(Judith Wischnjatskaja)

The next “Room of Families” is just that. Fifteen families, young to old, are traced, followed before, during and after their persecution via family photo albums, government records, and letters in an intriguing attempt to personalize the tragedy even more for the visitor.

The “Room of Names” is an innocuous moniker, but it is the most haunting of the whole lot. The cavernous room is dim, cold; benches that look like tombs are spread out and about. Jumbo screens adorn the walls on all fours sides. It feels like you’re in a lonely train station in the middle of the night. A distant voice, then, intones the names of the dead. Their photos, worn & tattered & black & white, most smiling, flash on the screens along with their names and places of birth and eventual places of death.

It is calculated that it will take 6 years, 7 months, and 27 days to read all the names of these dead. Over six million. On a constant loop. Sometimes it is a female’s voice, or young man’s but the effect is chilling either way. You sit; lower your head, listen, an eternal roll call. A man can only take so much.

The next two, the “Room of Sites” and “Holocaust Memorials”, offer the visitor interactive screens, computers, audio, maps, all designed to show where these atrocities took place; their addresses, facts, figures, camp photos, death march routes, deportation centers, mass graves.
Nobody is left wanting for information.

These are but two of the many sites in Germany that house the knowledge to help us understand, reason, and learn. Never forget. Never again.

For more visit:
“The EL-DE HOUSE” Cologne.
www.NSdok.de
“The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe”
www.Stiftung-denkmal.de




Thursday, November 09, 2006

Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup Part 3

Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup 2006
Final Installment-Part3
by
Jim Marquez


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June 22, Nuremburg: USA v. Ghana

*Third & last opening round match. 40 minutes outside new home base of Munich. Nurm a medieval town, wish we could’ve explored. The freakin’ trials were here, man! But badly hung over. No dicking around this time. Make for stadium.

And what a blessing: 10 minute commuter train/5 minute walk. Voila! ‘bout fuckin’ time we get to a match easy instead of the hell we went through back in Gelsenkirchen & Kasierslautern for the other two.

Stadium: half the crowd from the Italian match where we slapped some respect back into those turf-divers to a 1-1 tie. Great seats here, 10 rows behind goal, but sense air is flat. There’s no tingle in the groin. We heard Italy is already up 1-0 over Czech so a win here would advance us.

But we come out flat. That miracle of 5 days ago took a lot out of our boys. That listlessness transfers to the crowd. Try to holler, rile up the troops, but no go. Ghana is huge, smart, surprising how they control match. They go up 1-0 quickly, but we tie in minute 90. Life anew! We can do this after all!

Then last minute of stoppage time we get called for a non-existent take down in the box. Penalty Kick is awarded by German referee Markus Merk and we know then the fix is in. Germany will NOT let the U.S. make the next round. Damn near defeated them Cup ’02 in the semis. This is their revenge, for many things no doubt.

Second half Ghana takes out our captain Claudio Reyna, shattering his knee. The ref conveniently scratching his ass elsewhere and no red card pulled. The air is let out. All hope is lost for those that dared enter.

We watch Ghana jump for joy as they advance to play a sub-par Brazil. Joey & I stew. Miserable in our seats. Dark faces. Frustrated. Too old for this. Sulking & bitter. Off myself….

June 23, Munich:

*Consider blowing off Berlin for Budapest. Get email from Joey’s distant relatives, he’s half Austrian. They’re visiting from neighboring town. Let’s meet for coffee. Ok, do something civil.

*Great lady, 70, and her daughter, world trekkers, teachers, defenders of the old liberal guard. End up at posh tea garden. My brown buffalo-ness stands out like an empty pocket at a strip club. They foot the bill. Homemade apple strudel! At one point the grand dame says, “They spotted Bruno The Bear 20 miles from Nancy’s house.” What? Bruno’s still alive? I had forgotten him. Poor beast, I must see him! Touch him! We’re invited to spend weekend at Nancy’s with her family in Landsberg.

*That night hit the “Hofbrau House”; Hitler’s early, zanier days. And true to those ear splitting times, this historic beer hall, due the freaks that have descended upon it for the cup, have placed the joint teetering near the last rung of the Inferno.

I wept when I saw tables overstuffed with supporters from each country violently shouting each other down, jumping table to table, women dancing on said tables, much nudity, grinding, loopy & lascivious behavior. Flashes going off, stars exploding, chocolate-flavored cigars probing, banshee wails, beer steins pounding, primal; frightening.
Alle-fucking-luia!

June 25, Landsberg-45 minutes outside Munich:

*A village, really. Joey’s third cousin’s house, in the country, by a river. Time comes to pleasant halt. Picked up at station, fed with grand feast in their gardens; could hear the waters flowing beyond the trees. After, a hike into surrounding hills; then, off to a festival complete with oompa band & bonfire by river’s head; fireworks across the late darkening sky; the soft buzz of a summer night as we sat & smoked & chatted at local beer garden. Away from the carnal madness of Cologne & Munich, the insanity of the matches, the horror of travel days. Heart rate slows. Antennae down. Introduced to townspeople as “our American friends”; get smiles, handshakes, tips of the hat. Then, to sleep on clean sheets, on a bed! In my own room!

*Next day, despite heat, husband takes us to two former concentration camps hidden in back fields. Yet more not taught in American schools. Amazing! The old man’s father was a political prisoner at Dachau before the war. He managed to escape.

*Here, by the river now, getting dark, storm coming. This town an absolute treasure. Sedate. So unexpected. Best part of trek. I-don’t-want-to-leave! It’s cooling off fast. No Bruno in sight. The family inside, Joey out for stroll. Decided to forgo Budapest. Make a b-line for Berlin. An incredible journey so far. Money’s tight.

June 26, Midnight Train to Berlin:

*Munich station waiting for train. Hellacious thunder & lightning overhead. Buy wine, beers, Jagermeister for 8 hour trek north. Fuck sleep! We’re off. Booze goes annoyingly fast. Smoke hash in WC. Hit bar car. There’s a party. Private stock passed around. 16 year old women exercising their legal rights to pick up on car load of drunken, singing internationals. A joyous journey to the nation's capital.

*Pull in 8 am. Hostel far from city center. Not good. “TAXI!” It’s 7 stories high. 800 beds. Blue pastel on every floor. Casino-pattern carpet! Bad, early 80s tunes in hallway speakers 24/7. And one working elevator. Drudgery. Running on fumes. Crap room w/bunks. Pass out.

June 26-June 30, Berlin:

*Huge-fuckin’-city. Manic. Expensive. Wicked. Over these days life becomes a dizzying, whiskey splashed blur. Touring is out of the question as daylight hours are reserved for hibernation. Everyday I come to I check to see if Joey’s still alive in the top bunk then see if our gear has not been stolen by the Ukrainian kid who’s been hiding out nights in our room and disappearing whenever the house manager knocks. There’s also an Italian, but he too is just a kid, we stay cordial.

Gallons of water are consumed as much as the alcohol. A long, freezing shower is a must too, and since I get up so late there’s no line. Laundry done in the sink hangs on window sill. The hallways are empty; our schedule’s a vampire’s, feels as if we’re the only ones there. Lunch is a greasy doner kebab; soaks up the booze and gives you energy. Then it’s off to the next match at the fan zone set up behind the Brandenburg Gate.

Security horrific but oddly manageable. It’s a 2-mile stretch of movie-screen size plasma TVs, beer gardens, carnival rides, DJs, stages, & bars. And the young women come to dance and drink and enjoy the afternoon/evening matches. Every night’s favorite to win I buy their nation’s flag and wear it across my back. Our own team crapped out, might as well make new friends. I do, but can’t keep up with Joey. Masher!

*The only people who bother to email me are an ex-girlfriend, Emmeric J Konrad, Paul Whitehead & Linda Ford. Oh, and my brother. A surprise. During this time also I manage to read “The Brown Buffalo” by Oscar Zeta Acosta.

*The nights get interesting because of “Mitte” or “Center City” off Friedestrausse. An artist’s haven at one point, now more commercial, but still filled with underground galleries, bars and gorgeous Russian-meth addicted prostitutes who openly ply their wares and will unzip you in front of crowded cafes and massage you into going with them. Place reminds me a lot of the Downtown L.A. art scene but without the hot & legal prostys and the fact that cops here don’t care if you drink or “smoke” in public.

Though they have mini-raves at the fests after the last match of the night, thousands, the park rocking, it is only until they decide enough is enough and push you out, so it is back to here, in this “artist district”-though you’d be hard pressed to find any actual artists-where all the serious drinking, drug play and sex come to fruition, away from prying eyes, away from the normals who bed down early for the night and want to tour, of all things, in the morning. And even though Joey and I tried other parts of Berlin, way in the fuck out there, getting lost, taking metros the wrong way, taxi drivers trying to stiff us, where we’d remain for at least one drink to justify the bullshit we had to go through in order to get to some kind of “party” area, it was always back the Mitte.

True to German eccentricities, a beach is set up behind the used-to-be-cool “Troches Gallery” complete with sand. EVERYWHERE! Gin joints surround this staging area and stay open 24h. Zombies float back and forth. Coked up. High on Hash. Blind drunk. Erections & hardened nipples leading the way.

*On one of these nights (and time has become smoke trailing dramatically from the end of a lit cigarette, as we usually hang onto whoever we’re crying all over ‘til the sun rises and shield our eyes as we wolf down large chicken kebabs and hail bored Turkish taxi drivers to take us back home only to have the morning crew at the hostel shake their heads and mumble something in German and point) I actually managed to have a date, of sorts, with a real lady.

Call her “Emily”; an old friend of Emmeric Konrad’s. Emmeric, a gentleman, was kind enough to give Emily a call and told her I was in town. I called post haste (she had a sweet voice that could melt the coldest of hearts), and here we are, Joey and I, looking all over the Mitte for this gallery where we’re supposed to meet.

A stunning woman. We’re on our best behavior. Even washed behind my ears. After the show we end up at this groggily suitable café and sit in the back and laugh and talk loud and drink many drinks. Regale each other with stories of life on the road, tales of Emmeric, the “horrors” of being an artist. And I order away, not thinking of the bill. My God, can I be more fucking bourgeois? But you know what? Fuck it, man, it feels great. I deserve this. Yeehaw!

Getting late, photos taken, more drinks called for, but she must leave early. No, no, no, yes, yes, yes; ok, sweetie, ok. Flirtatious & lurid lobs are served up as we escort her down the street and she makes a mad dash for the ever present taxi and not a moment too soon. Ah, what a lady!

*Another night finds us forming a relentless conga line at the fest with the Brazilians as we watched them defeat Ghana. Bastards! We could’ve beat Brazil. The dancing & free flowing booze stuffed into our hands goes on for hours. Hey, it’s the Brazilians, enough said…

*Another night has us in the midst of a celebration as the surprising team of the tourney, Germany, crushes Argentina and advances. Mayhem. Roman candles exploding in the crowd. Hugging & kissing. Crying. Disbelief. An estimated 700,000 imploded. The city splits at the seams. Horns & cheers fill the air. Civilization at a standstill. Unabashed emotion is rare for the typical German. But not tonight. Fuck no! It’s the end days...staggering the amount of passion & pride. I’m envious.

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And as we careen down the Unter den Liden, past the Hotel Adlon where heads of state sleep, past the British Embassy with their armed-to-the-teeth security, dodging parading hoards, we see him. Standing guard in front of a cheesy, overpriced souvenir shop.

Bruno The Bear!

10 feet tall! Wearing a team jersey. A giant stuffed toy. Passer-bys point and children run up to hug him and scream “Bruno! Bruno!” and we foreigners take pictures and gawk. Fuckin’ Bruno. Is this where you been hiding? Seems so long ago we met. On tip toes I reach, give him a peck on his furry cheek, pose for a photo. Then, crack open a bottle of Berliner Beer. Nasty, but it gets the job done. And I guess that’s all that can be said for a lot of things.

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July 1, Berlin:

*Soul numbing hangover. Over lunch can barely read the headlines: Bruno The Bear Is Dead!

Aww fuck!

100, 000 Euros went to some Swiss hunter.

Damn You! Why did you have to go and fuckin’ die? Am I the last of the beasts then? A brown buffalo lost among the animals?

B-R-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!

*Later to Mitte. Pounding salsa club. Last night in Germany. 3am. Joey’s bouncing off the walls. A Polish girl: Can I buy you a drink? I offer. Yes, come sit with me and my girlfriend. You’re so pretty. That is nice. Thank you. Do you have fire? Of course, love. Few minutes later: Let’s go to the bar, I say, I need another drink. Ok by me. So, how old are you anyway? I am 18. Sure you are, honey. She says, My friend does not like you. They never do. Let’s go outside, I suggest. Get some air. But my friend. It’s ok, she can watch. And we did.

July 2, Berlin:

*Morning get two hours sleep. Leave Joey a note: Hold the line, son! Hold the motherfuckin' line!

*New Berlin Hofbanhauf is a freakin’ palace. Talk about the Jetsons. 8 hours & hung over back to Amsterdam on the screeching-baby-in-a-foreign-language-with-no-air-conditioning-express.

*I have 2 hours in town once I get there, so I stuff my bags in a locker, tie the stars & stripes around my neck and run into Red Light across the street. It’s 106 degrees. Fuckin' Madness!

Who? Where? Ah, here we go. Thai. Little older (mid-20s) than I prefer but time is short. I insist on keeping the flag on…

I scamper recklessly through trams & bicycles, my flag fluttering behind me. I grab my gear and stowaway on a commuter headed to the airport. I hope.

*45 minutes to London. I hate London. Goddamn noise & traffic reminds me of what awaits in L.A. I’m the only one in the hostel bar 'til 4am. I don' t want to hit on women. I don't want to talk to anybody. I don't want to be near people. I don’t give a fuck.

July 3, London:

At Heathrow bumped up to “Business Class” . Yes! First time in my life! Champagne anyone? 13 hours later stuck in endless customs line @ LAX. Entire clans from other nations with steamer trunks, wheel chairs, IVs dangling & 3-seater baby strollers are backing up, pushing & squealing to get in. No AC. They do that on purpose.

“They flagged you, sir.”

“What?”

“Hold on.”

“Why?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Who do you write for?”

“The Arts District Citizen.”

“Never heard of ‘em. Welcome to America. Next!”








books by Jim Marquez can be found at www.lulu.com/jimmarquez