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Jessy Chick (excerpt from Escape from the Vortex)

Jessy chic was this vulptuous singer, song writer, and piano player. They were all amazing. Any time I need a woman to make me feel better they were there for me. Jessy Chick was the founder of the open mic night as well. So I’d stop there and hang out in the hammock. Maybe have a Jim Beam Black on the rocks with a squeeze of lime and just watch the waves roll in behind the abundance of beautiful women on the beach. From there I’d jump back on the motorcycle and make my way toward crack bridge. It’s where all the derelicts, crackheads, and rasta would congregate. I’d hand out money and cigarettes. They would give the day’s news. Who got stabbed, who went to jail, and who died, sometimes.

Chapter 1 - Discovery of the Vortex

Escape from the Vortex. A true tale of rock n roll and debauchery in a Caribbean Paradise.

Chapter 1 

Discovery of the Vortex

I turn the corner, to what I now know as Black Beach, on my motorcycle for the first time. I have my digital patterned camouflage backpack. My Honda 400cc dual sport motorcycle comes to a purr. My eyes wide, under the glass of my shades and wind screen. I feel the energy, almost instantly. For the record, I don't even believe in energy mumbo jumbo bullshit. That said, I could feel it, it was a "cross roads". It was a vortex of creative, free thinking, artistic, like minded people. I didn't realize the strength or gravity of the Vortex upon arrival. This realization comes much later. At this first meeting, with Puerto Viejo, I go looking for a place called “Swingin G's”. When I was traveling around Costa Rica fellow Vagabonds and partiers all said, "Loveless, you need to go to Puerto Viejo. It's crazy there." So I did. 

I'd been working as an ultralight aircraft pilot on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, but the economy crashed and the business just wasn't there to support me or the business. My finances were running thin, and I needed to find a way to survive outside of the United States. I wasn't sure what my next move was going to be. I decided to find a new path and a new way to make some money. I quit my job, flying airplanes, and started traveling around Costa Rica for a new place to call home. Everything I owned fit in my back pack. I stopped in several cool surf villages and gringo party towns. Nothing quite felt right. I asked lots of questions and followed lots of misguided advice from fellow travelers. I made a complete loop of Costa Rica on my motorcycle. There was this one place that seemed like it might be right. A place people told me about in everyplace I stopped. It was my last destination before entering into Panama, and it was my last stop on my exploration of Costa Rica. My tourist Visa was going to expire in four days. I made my way South down the Caribbean Coast.

Almost to Puerto Viejo, I come to a town called Limon. This was a disappointing sight. I started to make my way through this dirty town. Shipping containers stacked ten high and ten wide passed on either side of me. Giant trucks hauling bananas, and other tropical fruits made traffic a painful crawl. There was trash everywhere. I kept thinking "this is what people told me I'd like? What the fuck do they think I like?" I continued on through Limon. At the final turn out of Limon, toward Puerto Viejo, there was a dead dog bloated and covered with flies right in the middle of the cross walk. I sat in idle at the stop light. I watched as the locals stepped over and around it as if it were a natural, daily thing to see dead dogs lying in busy intersections. I was about ready to skip Puerto Viejo at this moment, but it was going to be dark soon, and I try and avoid nighttime travel on a motorcycle. Reluctantly, I proceeded in the direction of the Vortex.

I start traveling the last forty kilometers, of my journey, toward the Vortex. The road was complete shit, riddled with hundreds of potholes. Cars swerved in and out of my path, as I swerved in and out of theirs. It consumed all of my concentration and energy traveling this road. Once the road got nicer, I started thoroughly enjoying the view on my left. Wow! Spectacular palm lined beaches, with the occasional wooden shack here and there. About twenty kilometers away from Puerto Viejo, the jungle thickened around me. It was a gorgeous carpet of dense vegetation and wildlife. The beach disappeared. The road was weaving casually with long swooping curves through the jungle paradise. Finally, the beach comes into view directly in front of me. The sun was attempting its descent as I rounded the corner. I stopped for second to ask someone, if I was in Puerto Viejo yet? They pointed down the black sand beach, toward the lights twinkling in the late afternoon twilight. "Puerto is right over there." I gave a nod and continued the final two kilometers into Puerto Viejo.

I crossed the first bridge into town and took an immediate left. This bridge was surrounded by Rastas and crazy wide eyed black women strutting to and fro, talking crazy. I pulled to the side, lifted up my face shield and asked a Rasta man, who resembled the lion from Wizard of OZ, for a hammock hostel called "Swingin G's". He pointed in the direction of the infamous hostel and muttered some words that I couldn't understand. I confirmed, "So this way then?" He nodded. I rolled through town toward the direction of my destination. I saw sexy Latina, Black and white women swinging their bikini wrapped asses back and forth. There were over loaded tourists wandering everywhere wide eyed and tired. Black boys were playing basketball. Four wheelers, motorcycles, and bicycles whizzed by in every direction. The smell of marijuana and fried chicken was in the air. I started to smile as I made my way slowly forward. Finally, I see this hostel I've heard so much about come into view. I figured this was the place since, a steady stream, of backpackers were filing in like soldiers returning to camp from war. The entrance is flanked by two giant dragons made from welded rebar. I pulled into the lot, unloaded my gear and headed in. The folks, at the restaurant, hollered out, "Yo! Dude... reception is that way.”  

I wandered inward, completely overwhelmed by mosaic tile and colorful works of art. The reception area has a three story ceiling shaped like a pyramid. I was over stimulated. I dropped my trusty backpack at my feet, and made a complete three hundred and sixty degree rotation of my head and body. The hostel was gorgeous. No walls, hammocks everywhere, beautiful women everywhere, and the smell of weed everywhere. Everything there sparkled with an essence of magic. They asked me, "hammock or tent?" It took me a second to answer. I was completely over whelmed by this first encounter. "A hammock, I guess." They gave me my locker and hammock number. I stored my things and plopped my ass down in my assigned hammock. It was the first hammock in an open air atrium of about fifty or so hammocks. I just lay there, smoking a joint gently rocking back and forth. There was a constant stream of half-naked, gorgeous women from all corners of the globe. There were old hippies with canes wandering about. Kids were playing guitars and banging on drums all over campus. I just sat there rocking in my hammock, smiling ear to ear, watching the circus of sex, drugs and rock n roll circling me.

I kept noticing this slightly manic character, with tattoos and a Mohawk. He kept cat calling out to the guests "Happy Hour, All Day Every Day!" Immediately, I assumed this must be Rocking
J. As my hunger set in, I made my way to the restaurant in the front of the hostel. I sat down and ordered a chicken burrito and a whiskey on the rocks, with a squeeze of lime. I asked the Mohawked madman behind the bar, "Are you Swingin G?"
He replied, "No, I'm Swingin G's younger brother Erik. I own the bar."
We carried on small talk back and forth for a bit, but it was difficult to carry on a steady stream of conversation with Erik. He kept yelling, "It's Happy Hour, All Day, Every Day." Or, he'd run out into the dining room, which was the entrance to the Hostel. He headed off weary travelers with offers of culinary specials and greeted every beautiful girl with a charming and mischievous grin. Most of the time, that I was at the Hostel, people just assumed that he was Swingin G. He was the showman, the front man, and the muscle behind the Hostel. Every night, Erik would throw an epic party at Swingin G's. I referred to him as the master of Mayhem. It was hard to leave this little Hostel.

The first week, I never really spoke with Swingin G, because I didn't have titties or a vagina. I'd occasionally see him stroll through his small kingdom with a girl on each arm and a joint behind his ear. He greeted guests with a "Hey Rock star. Welcome to Swingin G's." He was a consummate ladies’ man. The ladies under his arms rotated daily, never the same face, and always the most beautiful girls in the Hostel. I lay in my hammock there, the first few days. I wondered, “how was I going to be able, to leave such a paradise. I'd lay there and smoke weed in my hammock all day. I’d just watch the parade of beautiful bikini clad women. Occasionally, I'd get up to wander around the Hostel or take a shower. The place was magical. Pretty much every square inch was covered in mosaic tile artwork. There were greetings, left by previous guests, in the walls and on the floors. Lots of peace, love and drug references. There were also theses amazing bathroom doors. These doors really caught my eyes on that first encounter, beautiful pieces of art on every bathroom door. My favorite was the door that faced the ocean. It said "APE SHIT" in big letters and had a cartoon ape dude sitting on the toilet. You can sit in this bathroom and peer out of this tiny peep hole at the beach as guests come and go, while you popped your squat.

I mentioned that my tourist Visa, for Costa Rica, expired in three or four days. I barely left the hostel campus for forty five days! I let my Visa expire and just left my ideas of reality at the front gate. While I was laying in that first hammock, in the main open air atrium, I began meeting an incredible group of people. Travelers, from all over the world, would pour in every day. They were all on their way to somewhere interesting, coming from somewhere interesting. They'd usually lock up their backpacks, pull down their hammocks and start smoking a joint or asking if anyone knew where they could get one. We'd start telling stories of our travels to each other. I'd tell them about my stay so far at Swingin G's and how I couldn't really seem to escape it. This is when I coined the term "Vortex". I'd tell them all, "Be careful this place is a fucking Vortex." Many of these folks had trouble leaving this little paradise as well. Some of them, like me, would extend their stay from three days to three weeks. There is even a sign in the reception area that states, "No stay longer than three months!" It was difficult to pull yourself away from the twenty four hour drug fueled party. There were even more reminders in the signs around the Hostel that this place is dangerous. My favorite, "All guests must shower DAILY!" If it weren't for these reminders of reality, I'd have to forgotten to shower even more than I already did.

I finally managed to pull my sorry ass out of that hammock and finally made my way to Panama. I got my Visa stamped and pondered my situation. Short on funds, not wanting to tap into my reserves, I decided to return to the states to refill my coffer. I rode my motorcycle back to Samara on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. Sold all my belongings and headed stateside, the whole while I had this sense of regret that I had not discovered Puerto Viejo sooner on my travels.

Mexican Marijuana Shortage

After several years of living on the beach in Costa Rica, I decided that I wanted to ride a Harley Davidson Sportster from Seattle to Panama. It was the beginning of September. Marijuana laws were changing in Seattle. The weed was amazing, lot's of indoor hydroponic mind blowing shit. I bought a couple of ounces for my journey South through the United States. I stopped along the way to visit friends in Oregon, California, and Arizona on my way to the Mexican Border. I'd smoke them out when I rolled into town. I didn't want to cross the border into Mexico with Marijuana on me. So, I did my best to hand out samples and smoke as much as I possibly could before crossing over into Juarez, Mexico from El Paso Texas. By the time I arrived there I had only one joint left. I casually smoked the tasty treat before getting on my bike and riding into Mexico. No border control! No checkpoint! No Police! "Well, damn!", I thought. I should have saved some of my kind bud. I had no idea it would be so easy. They didn't even make me stop my motorcycle. Some guy in a booth just waved me through.

I met up with my German girlfriend, Marie, in Juarez to start the journey to Panama. We spent a couple of days there preparing for our journey. The first night we tried to find weed. Let me preface, this by saying I can find weed almost anywhere. The past five years I've done a whole lot of globe trotting and I've been a daily pot smoker since I was 15 years old. I am 40 now. I never had a problem to find drugs in a matter of hours after arriving in a new city. I figured this place, that supposedly had a raging drug war, would have a thriving drug culture. At least, a thriving Marijuana culture. Even, Mexican ditch weed should be easy to come by. It took us two days to find a tiny, over priced and under quality little bag of pot. We found out by asking some folks at a Tattoo shop. They were nervous about selling it to us. I thought it was humorous how up-tight they were, after having been in Washington, Oregon, and California.

We made our plans to travel down the Carribean Coast. We traveled long and hard across the Mexican Desert. At night, it was good to smoke a joint and chill after the hot and tiring travel. The little bit of weed we bought in Juarez quickly diminished as we made our way toward Chihuaha. The roads got worse and the towns got poorer. We finally ran dry of our tiny stash in Palacio Gomez. It was a quaint little Mexican town. We headed out for beer and started asking arouind for pot. We were recieved with kind of a blank stare like, "Huh?" There weren't any white people or tourists to be seen, anywhere in town. We attempted for several hours to find some herb. No luck. We went to the parks and asked the Hotel clerks. Nothing! Damn.

Onto Monterey, we crossed the mountain and into the city.Bam! All of a sudden we were in deep, high speed traffic. It reminded me of Los Angeles. Cars were zooming every where. It was madness. Surely, we could score some weed here. We ended up staying in a hooker hotel where they charged by the hour, commonly known in Central America as an "Auto Motel". We asked the front desk guy. Nothing. We wandered the streets, for a little bit in the seedy part of town looking for something to smoke. Still nothing. I kind of needed my daily weed, so I was a little agitated at our current situation.

The following day we headed for the Carribean coast. Maybe, the surf towns on the beaches had more to offer? We meandered East, finally, arriving in the old historical town of Tampico. No tourists. No white people. No money. No market for weed. We asked every glossy eyed derelict we could find, if they could point us in the direction of some smoke. We were, at this point, a week or so without marijuana. Marie was determined. She went out in the early evening on a mission to find us some pot. About an hour later, she returned and said, "I didn't get any weed. They thought I was a hooker and just offered me money for sex." Probably not the best idea having my pretty white girlfriend wandering around after dark. But she's an adeventurer and can handle herself pretty well. However, safety versus the weed desire played out in my head for sure. It was around this point when I thought, "I should write an article for High Times about how there isn't any weed in Mexico." Now we had something to look forward to in every town we stopped. Could we find weed? Or, couldn't we?

We began our journey South down the coast. The ride itself was nothing short of spectacular, but the country seemed economically depressed. Everything seemed like it had just stopped in the mid 80's and had never been updated or painted again. We passed amazing coast lines with nothing but run down buildings and peeling paint. There was one point in the journey when he hadn't seen other white folks or tourists for 2 weeks. It was mind blowing to think how the tourists from North America just stopped traveling to Mexico. It had been abandonded by the almighty dollar. The market for the common young street hustler just wasn't there. Neither was the market for thieves. We encounter no theft on our trip. There wasn't any one with enough to steal from... so the market for thieves and marijuana basically evaporated down there. It was strange.

We arrived in Tuxpan right around Christmas time. I vividly remembered how many bright, shiny and crappy Xmas decorations there were everywhere. The town was dirty and crazy. We asked a cabby if he knew where to get weed? He said that he did and to get into the taxi. We then proceeded to drive around the ghetto, him knocking on doors and asking sketchy people standing on corners. I will sidenote: we were offered cocaine in every place that we visited, but that's not what we wanted. We just wanted some weed, man! After about an hour of this ghetto tour, the driver returns us to our hotel free of charge and empty handed. What the fuck? This was becoming humorous. I updated my FaceBook staus daily on our journey, "Still no weed!" My friends in the Pacific Northwest would send me pictures of themselves holding up giant buds to make me jealous. Or explained how they were so high every night. It was frustating. Didn't Mexicans get blamed for introducing Marijuana to his Northern white neighbors? Seemed silly now, none of them were using or selling it. Times do change, apparently.

From Tuxpan we made our way farther down the coast. We stopped in a little place called Casitas just before Veracruz. The strip was completely deserted. Multiu-million dollar resorts just left to die. The money left this place in a hurry and didn't leave any of itself behind. We pulled into the only small Hotel that seems to be open, "Hotel Cocoloco". It was owned by a 50 year old Swiss man named Marteen. He had bought an RV several years ago, parked it on the beach and never left. We were his only guests in quite some time. Definitely the only white ones in an even greater time. Some other motorcycle adventurers here and there. We asked if he knew where we could get some weed. He laughed, "Weed? People can't afford weed here. In fact, very few people along this coast can even afford cigarettes." He was a good sport and told us where, maybe, we could get some weed... down the beach or in the next town. We headed out that first night to the boat launch down the beach. There were a few drunkards stumbling around so we thought that we'd finally found the place. Some old guy comes up to us in the dark, and asks if we need anything. Marie explains we need some weed. He says it's 10 bucks, but one of us needs to come with him. I wasn't about to leave my shiny Harley, and Marie had been in worse situations. She's got the soul of a gansta. So, she went off through the palm trees headed toward some shacks. About 20 minites go by, Marie and the old man come back. She's still holding the money. Damn still no weed! Unbelievable.

We buy a bunch of beer and head back to CocoLoco. We're sitting on the beach, listening to the waves, getting drunk and discussing how much better this experience would be with a big fat joint. I decide to head into the next town to find some fucking weed, man. Marie stays home on this run. I drive about 40km or so to San Rafael, I start asking around. It's getting late, almost midnight. I find a late night cantina blaring latin dance music. I swing open the door and walked up to the bar. The bar maid is a 50ish latin man with shaved eyebrows, lipstick and a horrible messy black beehive wig. He keeps brushing his fake bangs out of his eyes. I do a 360 degree glance and notice I'm in a late night gay/transvestite bar. They were drunk and rowdy. I had a shot of whiskey. Wasn't my first time in a gay bar, but realized I had my work cut out for me getting some weed without having to see some guy's dick.  But, I was determined to bring me and my girl some weed home. For the next hour, I used my best Spanish trying to locate some pot. They kept telling me a guy was coming soon. I was fed free shot after free shot, with my shiny blonde hair. I fended off advances the entire time. When, finally, the dude comes in. They all point him in my direction. He introduces himself, then invites me across the street into his old closed up garage space. He pulls out a big bud and smokes a giant joint with me. I ask him if I can buy some. He tells me that he doesn't have any to sell just to smoke with me. Then his story... he explains to me that he used to make a lot of money growing weed on his farm, but now it's worthless. He shows me some kind of Lima bean he's growing and explains to me that he now grows these, because it's worth more these days. He brings out photos of his gangsta past. Days long gone by. I asked him why he thought it changed. He said, "The white man left. People can just afford food now. No one has any money here. It used to be booming." The same thing that Marteen told us. He was gracious enough to left me take the roach back to Marie, which I let her savor.

Veracruz was next, it was a port city, so hopes were high. A gorgeous town with old Spanish and French colonial architecture. Marie and I were starting to argue a bit. So in a fit of frustration I exclaimed, "I'm getting some weed come Hell or High Water, Today! We need it!" We went to the giant park in the center of town and started looking for the sketchiest folks we could find hanging around the place. Finally, a lead! Finally! A young Mexican man in the park, with long hair, said that he could help us. He led us through alleys and crowded streets, finally stopping in an open air market. They were selling all kinds of shit, food, shoes, toys, bootleg DVDs, etc. He said, "Give me 20  bucks." He walks up to a street vendor and returns with an ounce packed into hard bick form. I was so happy to have that shitty brick weed in my hands. We went back to the park and smoked him out as a "Thank You". We spent a couple of days there, due to he fact we were so high after having been sober for so long.

From Veracruz we were heading to Pelenque for the "Rainbow Gathering" for end of the world celebration, aka. the end of the Mayan Calender. The event landed just before Xmas on December 21, 2012. We slowed our pace and enjoyed our weed. We knew that we'd soon be surrounded by a bunch of naked, guitar playing, pot smoking hippies. We arrived in Pelenque on the 18th of DCecember. That night we stayed in a Hotel. We'd run out of weed again, but this was Pelenque. It was known for shamans, and hippies. This was the "Super Bowl" of shamans and hippies. Immediately, we noticed WHITE PEOPLE. We also noticed the natives in Pelenque were not nearly as friendly as the natives in the places we'd just been. Hmmm? Where the white men gathered, the place became uglier some how. Not nearly as many open arms or genuine smiles. We just thought it curious and thought about it, often enough, to remind ourselves that people were rude because they were around alot of other white people. Oh I am white by the way. So don't go slamming me as a whitey hater racist. Seriously, though, it was completely noticeable. More White People equalled more unhappy native people. Fucking weird. It was apparent there. Marie decided since I had scored the last time, that she would would take the Harley out to the hood to find some weed, I'd had a log day in a rain storm that I couldn't manifest away the day before. I could hear the Harley drive away from the basement of the Hotel. I sat there and smiled at what a cool girlfriend I had. She was off into the Mexican jungle "hood" on the shiny loud motorcycle. She was on a mission. It became a game for us. I'd been living in Costa Rica, the place had weed everywhere? Good weed? Well, no. But WEED WAS EVERYWHERE! Come on Mexico! Help a weary traveler out?

She did come back, and she came back with the same ditch weed that we'd had before. The next morning, we climbed on the Harley and headed out to the Rainbow gathering. We met up with some other free thinking rockstars, that we knew from Costa Rica, Gracie and Joseph. We cruised down the dirt road headed out to the campsite. There were throngs of freaky deaky people hiking into the jungle. As we road by, we got 'Devil Horn Salutes' the whole way for being the only ones on a Harley. We pulled into the gathering and attended orientation, some one asked where they could get some weed. The response was, "I think there's someone selling some around the gorunds." I laughed, thinking sure there was. We located Garcie and Joseph after strolling through crowds of naked men and women playing music and skinny dipping in the stream. It was like what woodstock must have looked like. It was different to say the least. We set up tent and went to the big bonfire. Joseph and Gracie told us there wasn't any weed to be found. I shared our story and smoked them out with what little we had. Joseph tried to help us find more, but we came up empty. I was literally shocked that we were, where we were, and none of these hippies had any weed. Everyone was on the hunt. That night was pretty cool though, other than the lack of weed. There was a giant drum circle with twenty or so drums all wailing away while two hundred, plus, people danced around a giant bonfire. All of a sudden, the place lit up like "green" daylight, went dark and then bright again. The biggest shooting star that I'd ever seen screached across the sky. The crowd roared. This place seemed like it had some magic happening. It was a really rough campsite. Marie and I opted to get back to the comfort of a Hotel. Plus, I really wasn't a "rock out with my cock out" kind of guy.

I thought for a little while about going and buying up all that guy's brick weed in Pelenque and selling it at the "Rainbow Gathering", but it just never materailized. I'm just not a drug dealer, I'm the consumer. We only returned to the rainbow gathering to get our gear a few days later. We ended up spending midnight 12.21.12 in a Mexican strip club instead, and was glad we did. That night, flash flooding and thunderstorms washed the rainbow gathering off the land. Pelenque town center was suddenly full of cold, wet, and broke hippies looking for cheap places to stay or warm showers. Everyone had a cold virus it seemed, as well. We found our friends. They told us of the chaos. I asked if they ever got any pot. They told me no, but explained that two young hippies went off to do what I wanted to do and got murdered. It made me glad that I didn't do that myself. The universe has this way of watching out for me. We said our good byes and headed toward Guatamela.

At the Mexico/Guatamala border we once again smoked the last of what we had to cross the border clean. It was a river border crossing. Myself and three other guys loaded the Harley into a small wooden river boat. We laughed about if we were going to be able to find any weed in Guatamala. We pulled up to a river bank with five or six police officers waiting on my arrival. I was nervous and stoned. Apparently, the cops just came to help me get the heavy motorcycle out of the boat. The boat captain had called them.  It was quite a scene watching all these police officers help my stoned ass get my motorcycle up the heavy embankment. We'd made it all the way through Mexico, it was time to reflect.

I will mention in closing, don't be afraid to travel through Mexico. People were fucking awesome, and they could use some of their Northern neighbor's money in their pockets. It was a shame seeing so many beautiful beach towns completely broke and deserted. Oh, and bring your own weed with you, if you like smoking high quality marijuana. Welcome to Guatamala! Now let's get some weed.

Muslim Boarding House Shitheads

I was escorted to the train headed East, into France, by the Police. I fell into a coma like sleep as the rickety rack of the rails clicked under me. I peel my eyelids open with all the effort I could muster in response to some one or some thing poking on my arm. In front of me, two men that resemble Laurel and Hardy in dress and stature , a fat one and a skinny one, peer over the two seats in front of me. They are sporting dark grey tweed suits with plaid vests and bee-bop hats as if they walked out of Charlie Chaplin's time machine. Maybe they jumped off of a silver screen somewhere or perhaps got frozen in an old ice truck. Anyhow, the fat one says, "Hey you, this is the last stop. You need to get off here." "Where am I?" "Marseilles, France." "Where are you headed?" "I have no idea." (always an appropriate response for adventure).

I gather my gear and groggily follow the two fellows off the train onto the platform. They give me one last glance back and say, "You got a place to stay?" "No." "We're heading to a boarding house about 12 blocks from here. It's only 5 bucks." I agree to follow the comical pair. We trek through the streets of  Marseilles looking like a space traveler guided by two chimney sweepers.

As we arrive at the tall skinny housing compound, I read the facade of the building, "Welcome fellow Muslim brothers." Underneath that it says, "No alcohol, No smoking, and No profanity." I hastily grab the fat one. I realize by now the skinny one doesn't speak at all (in perfect Penn and Teller fashion). "Hey man, this is a Muslim boarding house, I'm a smoker, I'm an alcoholic, and I'm an AMERICAN! Dude this is not cool. I'm gonna stay some place else." Always follow your gut instinct, but I faltered when he reassured me that he'd been here before and they were cool. So I reluctantly booked my room. We were all sober at this point... so everything was seemingly cool. The receptionist, a 40-something half black/half middle Eastern man. "He" was one of those. A real GRINGO, WHITEY hater. God forbid I start talking Devilisms to him. He probably would have shot me with his Chinese made rifle.

So we get to the top floor of the 5 story compound and see our rooms at the end of the long hallway. As we trudge our gear up the steps, I see serious students reading the Koran out loud. All giving me an eyeball nod as we push upward. We get to he top of the stairs and immediately unload all of our shit. All three of us are in a "hurry up and get the fuck out" kind of frenzy. We scurry down the 5 flights of steps. Time was wasting and we needed the next taste of alcoholic nectar from the Devils. The fat guy stops at the first corner store and recommends a Polish "Fortified" wine beverage. They each buy one for themselves and I follow suit. Wow this shit was rancid but... but... BAM! That first swig already started to give me a buzz... so I could tolerate the dangerous concoction. We wandered the streets of Marseilles, paper bagging our booze. We told stories from polarized upbringings as we made our way to the Harbor. We sat there a bit watching the generic looking tourists stroll the pier. We kept a keen gaze on a giant clock off to our left, as we sipped, chugged, toasted and grimaced the little drinking time we had away.

At quarter til curfew, we started the now completely disoriented march back to base. The booze was hitting heavy after such a rapid consumption on an empty stomach. There was also something else brewing in the bowels of my stomach. As of writing this years later... I can still remember the sound that my stomach made as we were starting to walk at a light, almost jog, speed in order to slide under the curfew's finish line. I alerted my companions, "Whoa... my stomach just flipped in a very bad way. We need to hurry. I need to find a bathroom AND FAST!" The fat guy replies, "We're almost there." I reply, "Umm it's not gonna wait!" So those that know me, should know I'm, fairly modest about peeing in public so this was a real predicament. I glanced the current surroundings for a place to unleash the beast growling in my stomach. NO FUCKING ALLEYS, NO BATHROOMS, just cars, JUST A STREET LINED WITH PARKED FUCKING CARS ! So, I pick the tallest and closest ones I can get to in time. As I'm running toward the impact zone, I'm unbuckling my belt and unzipping my trousers. This was gonna being a moving assault on my stationary target. I make my squat  right there in the street, right at prime time. The streets are lined with folks bustling to and fro. Then it happens. We're not talking diarrhea or a shart (fart that turns out to be a shit). This was a full on ASS EXPLOSION right in the road. There was this loud splash as shit literally exploded out of my ass onto the pavement. Collateral damage sprayed onto the vehicle's white paint jobs with force. People gagged, covering their mouths and hunching over. It was a moment that lives vividly in my mind's eye. After the satisfaction of giving an evil birth passes. I have realization that I have no toilet paper and not even a dirty newspaper in my sight overcomes me. So I just pull up my pants with the roll of my eyes and start hustling toward the boarding house. I can see the skinny one darting into the front door at about the same time I see the fat one leaning against the wall. One hand gripped his stomach and one pressed firmly over his head against the wall. My thoughts as I run to his aid, "OH SHIT!"

I'm trying to buckle my pants, still full of shit spray, as I realize he can barely stand up and is screaming racist profanities at the receptionist. He can hardly stand up and I have no idea what the fuck he's saying at this point. The reception Muslim runs out onto the sidewalk calling me white Devil, disrespectful American put downs. I begin to assist my fatty fatty fat fat friend up the twisting multilevel marble stair case. I'm rushing him to get to our rooms. Obviously, we're late, we're drunk and literally smell like shit. The whole time I'm thinking, "Man I gotta get this dude to the bathroom on the top floor before he has the same ASS EXPLOSION that I just had." It was about this time... up the first flight of "half story" steps... that I realize my friend has already had his demon baby experience. Probably when we hit that first step. I didn't hear it for the fucking asshole screaming in my ear, pointing at the sky and beating me with his "bible". As we make our way up the longest stairway of my life so far, diarrhea and shit trickle out of his pant legs. His weight bearing down on me. All the while, he's screaming "FUCK YOU" to the proprietor. About half way up the building, I start screaming "FUCK YOU" at my FAT FRIEND, all while still helping the fat fuck. I think this is where the other dude, who possibly worked or WORSHIPED there, started poking a fucking mop in my face. He was telling me I'd better clean it up or else(using the old slash my throat with his thumb bullshit). Some kind of Hollywood movie scene chaos bullshit. I finally managed to get this dude to the room. As I was about to finally drop him on his bed, the receptionist guy yells(in perfect English), "NO, NO, not in those pants!" So I unbuckle his pants, I tie the ankles up so the shit will stop coming out of the bottoms and handed it over to the proprietor asshole. He pinches his nose and waves the pants away back in my direction. At this point, I am completely covered in diarrhea  vomit, piss and shit. Oh yeah he vomited on my head somewhere up those steps too. However, POO POO is so much grosser that it's hardly worth mentioning. I rapidly check the pockets for anything. Give the Muslim one last Devil glance and I toss the shit sausages in form of a FAT MAN's flying pants out of the 5th story window. We all bond for that one moment of brotherhood as the pants twirl through the air spewing wet juicy turds on the bustling foot traffic below before it's one final splat. At which moment, the pedestrians look to the heavens to solve the where-a-bouts and what-a-bouts... of the alien like occurrence .. of the shit sausages... from outer space. The same moment forces us all to "turtle in our heads" from the window. The bitching started again.

I ended up hosing him down with a garden hose in the top floor bathtub. I then mopped all five stories of the Hostel. I took a shower. I put on fresh clothes and started to get the fuck out of there at about midnight... when all of a sudden... the reception dude says "You can't leave the building at this time." I gave him my best EVIL EYE and growled firmly. He hit the buzzer and I've never seen any of them since. AMEN!

Keiko - Superstar, Drummer, Showman, Hustler

It's difficlut to pin point the exact moment we met. I'm certain it  was because of a drug deal hustle of some sorts. I'm gonna be  brutally honest in this story. Keiko can be a real pain in the ass,  mother fucking, theiving crackhead on his bad days. We'll blame his  drug addiction for the sake of not trying to tarnish one of my  favorite characters. Now let's talk about the beauty of Keiko. He  is a mid twenties average height, light skinned black man with  beaming big eyes and a smile full of teeth. He struts through town  as the happy street king with himself as king, knight, and jester.  He can be this way because Keiko has a gift. He is the little  drummer boy.

I never saw Keiko playing full time in a band. I can obviously  remember the first time hearing him play... umm not really. He is  the kind of soulful artists that just drums for the love of  drumming. He'll always be fill in for bathroom breaking drummers.  Or finds a way to get his smile on stage smiling and bouncing with  the beat. This magic and his energy make up genuinely for his  obvious shortcomings. I'm a drug addict too. I know how a fix might  put a man with no money in a fix. One night myself, Billy, Quincy  and Keiko went on a 3am drug run. Quincy had a pink umbrella from  Keiko that he was prancing around with in the middle of the street.  I was riding Quincy's bike reluctantly cause he was way out of  sober and couldn't. Billy and Keiko on the other bike. Keiko was  coming out of the crack house with "our" drugs. He jumped on  Billy's bike as soon as the Police pulled up. Billy took off. Keiko  was screaming "no.. no...". LOL. Quincy started screaming  "Loveless... go...go!" And we were off. A police chase at 39 years  old was a little much. The truck quickly started it's pursuit of me  and Quincy. About a hundred meters or so Billy and Keiko passed us  going the other way in the direction on the on coming police truck.  Keiko was still screaming but with enthusiasm as the pursuit became  comical. Quincy and I sped away toward Cocles and ditched the bike  in the shadows next to Tasty Waves. The Police truck screamed by  with full sirens. We hid for a bit as the PoPo slowly returned to  base. One of those whew moments. The next day Keiko came running up  to me at Crack Bridge exclaiming, "Devil, that was awesome!" He  told his part of the story through a beaming smile while jumping up  and down.

I've made several attempts to get Keiko recorded in the  studio. The results always being disastrous  Rocking J didn't  really trust Keiko so getting him on campus and in the ARK was  always a Devil's plea to a stern king. The one time I finally got  permission, I offered Keiko drugs, alcohol, money and food to play  on some pre-selected tracks. He sat behind the drums for about 3  minutes did a drum roll and immediately through a dramatic rock star  tantrum. Yelling that the conditions of the studio were not what he  needed to play. He darted off into the night with the drugs and  alcohol. I vowed to never attempt recording him again. Never say  never.

When Keiko gets behind a drum kit it's magical. This troubled young  man lights up the stage from his drum throne. It's often difficult  to notice the front men while his enthusiasm and presence dominate  the space. His patterns are unique and powerful. His style is  completely unique. He enters into his drum solos with eyes closed  and a sure grin moving his entire body to the grove. His gestures  are large making his performance truly entertaining. His solo  almost always ends in an eruption of applause. At which point he  opens his eyes and rejoins the band with a look of "okay I'm back  boys". As a drummer Keiko is a soulful true specimen of rock star.  So not all is lost in the pursuit of Keiko's talent.

I often refer to "crack" bridge in my writings. This is where Keiko  and his girlfriend Erika call  home, under the bridge. They have a  make shift living room. Cook food for locals. It's quite cozy.  You'd be surprised. One night in pursuit of fried chicken, he  offered the last of his Yucca soup. It was amazing. Keiko has lent  me his shoes to walk through a rough glass strewn path. He's always  full of love and always kind. It's just those low points when he  makes bad decisions. He once slapped Erika in Tex Mex, at which  point she grabbed an empty beer bottle, broke it in two, and  proceed to stab Keiko in the arm and chest. The crowd erupted in  support of her. Blood went everywhere and Keiko fled. Erika came up  to me and said, "I need a hug and some love Devil." Which I gladly  offered as she cried on my shoulder for 10 minutes or so.

One night during my last two weeks in Puerto Viejo, right before  Rocking J permanently altered the studio and right before the loss  of the studio's computer due to Quincy and Jenn's bullshit. Keiko and I finally got the chance to lay down an epic session of Keiko's  brilliance. If I remember correctly... my druggie brain sometimes  combines two events... but I'm pretty sure it went like this at  this particular 10pm: Loveless, "Dude my drug habit is out of  control. I'm leaving town for a while. Rocking J is out of town. I  can rent the studio by the hour off of my credit with J. How about  I buy a couple grams of blow for myself, a fist full of crack rocks  for you and let's finally get a record of you?" Keiko agreed. We  went to my dealer first on the "Devil's Motorcycle". We then  stopped in the ghetto for his rocks. He was anxious and grumpy. We  walked into together. We got the goods and proceeded back to my  bike. Not even 10 steps out of the crack dealer's house, Keiko hits  his pipe and turns toward me glossy eyed and happy, "Hey cheif, can  you see the rainbow?" (moving his hands across the dark night). I  still laugh to myself every time I replay this scene in my eyes. We  proceeded to the studio where Keiko took charge and basically laid down the set he always wanted to ley down. He was in charge and I  was obedient. There was one point where "Jesus" Joseph said,  "Loveless, you have to let me in there. I've gotta record with that  guy." Which he did.

I hope Keiko is not one of my 27ers or even my 25ers. As a  truly gifted rock star that I love truly... I hope I do justice in  representing the Demon and the Angel... but most importantly the  FUCKING BAD ASS ROCK STAR THAT IS KEIKO! The last night I saw him in  Puerto Viejo, he told me, "Hey Chief a guy from Italy is such a  fan that he is giving me a drum kit." I hope Keiko picks drums over  drugs... but I think Keiko will always be able to manifest a drum  to play as long as his turbulent life allows him to breathe. AMEN  brother. Devil Horn Salute. I will always love you. Rock On!

Paradigm Shifting Suffering

I take personal safety as a calculated risk. If I'm the pilot I  give loose restraints to my choice. Occasionally, I get to kiss  death on the cheek, speed away with a two fingered devil horn  salute, a glance or two in the rear view... and a whew. On these  days I think about my life and what I've accomplished. What would I  like to say as my last breathe of words... what comes to mind is,  "Wow that was fun, wow nature is ruthless and brutal, can't believe  I lasted this long, too bad so many humans are douche bags, I hope  I confused, concerned, enlightened, twisted or "even better" loved  you, I hope I don't have to do this again, and how many square  meters of fire does my family own exactly, be nice to each other  dumbass fucking meat puppets... do you realize how small this  sphere is? and how much damage I could incur to this tiny little  ball of dirt if I really had decided to? He's out there and he's  working on it already. Be safe, be nice, be respectful, be  generous, and be strong.

Seriously, I've value everyone and to the animals I ate a special  BIG ups. Some of you were an instance of pure love prepared by some  one with love for me. I fell in love more than once while eating  your flesh. I've thought of it often and still eat meat sorry, I'm  a Devil. However I did try and appreciate the countless lives of  livestock and insects I've killed along my journey. Tis a brital  world sucks to be you. Today, in shower I saw a grand daddy long  legs spider crawling along the edge. I thought "wow I bet these  giant water drops are deadly to his tiny little spindly legs," So I  cupped my hands under the shower head and diverted water on top of  his location in space time. I just wanted to see if he was truly  that delicate. His legs immediately collapsed under the weight and  the surface tension in the small water puddle held him crippled. I  returned later to see him lifeless. I thought wow, how cruel a God  would create a life so delicate that heavy rain water or a  philosopher in a shower would be so deadly.

Suffering to me is a completely unessecary and God who loves you in  any way would not have created such game full of danger and pain.  Why is it that you even know what safe and pleasurable feel like? Because you need to know what pain feels like? Seems pretty cruel idea that such a violent beast would be trying to comfort me at all? It's  good to be top of the food chain, but just witness the vicious  killing machine that compromises nature. It survives on death and  destruction. I'm most afraid of it. Call it God, Creator, Jah, etc.  It's not something I would worship out of respect or love. Rather,  if I worshipped at all, it would probably be due to intimidation  and fear, but instead I signed up to be in my family so that I maY USE EVERY LAST jEDI SKILL IN ORDER TO END SUFFERING ALTOGETHER. The architect is violent... it gave me the idea of violence. I bring passivism to a violent source in order to request changes. SUFFERING MUST END BY SOME FUNDAMENTAL TWEAK IN REALITY. I'M HERE TO PUSH ON THAT TWEAK.

The "SAVE" Loveless Program

I sit here in a cabina at Rocking J's wondering why this woman is even a consideration in my decisions. I reflect on everything I've accomplished on these grounds. My favorite beach... my favorite past. My greatest achievements as an artist and philosopher have occurred here over the past 3 years. I've seen friends die. I've heard friends lie. I've tasted friend's cries. I tried to tell them how to treat and deal with me as Chris, as Loveless, and as the DEVIL. They always question my motives and my ways. Many people in my life try to save me. These friends usually need saving themselves. So more often than not I let them try to do what they think I need. I try to be as true as I can without changing my ways. I hope that they might learn about themselves more than learning about or fixing me. I have evolved into a truly free spirit. I live by this principal. Allowing people to interfere or suck my energy is always my main concern. The most dysfunctional people in my life are the most eager to volunteer for the job of re-habbing "Loveless". Ma and Pa Dope are obvious exceptions, although the humans might label them dysfunctional for various reasons I'm sure.

So usually it starts with a newly single friend or one that is going through a divorce kind of thing. So far they all know of my failed marriage. They are all looking for an excuse to party. They are all experiencing loneliness and heart break for the first time. They seem to see me as their future junkie selves, and they want to save me. I assume they may subconsciously think, "Wow, if I ever get like Loveless I hope that some one will save me. I'll save him." So this has occured more times than you might think. Sometimes, it's a 3 day event or a several month epic drama. The bonding strand of similarity is that it usually ends in a violent or extremely dramatic display of angry energy. I always see it coming into my moment, but instead of avoidance I let the moment of collapse come. Several times I thought that this person may indeed kill me. They are in moments of rage as I stand patiently absorbing their negativity. I always remain calm. That's not to say that my mind isn't racing with escape strategies and calculations on their current sanity and anger levels.

I often wonder what their breaking point was exactly. Was it their acceptance of the fact that I didn't change? Was it acceptance or realizatiopn of their own predicament?  Was it their realization that they are not free or happy? Or simply that I didn't conform to their idea of who they think I'm supposed to be? Whatever it is, it inevitably happens. This breaking point eventually and predictably happens to everyone that attempts to save me. As sure as the sun shines... this moment of irrationality comes as well. I'm tolerant up to a point. I stand there often wincing to the continual spit spray of profanity projected from their mouths. I tell them that I love them and to relax. I re-assure them that I'm listening and understand. This is where things either go violent or go calm. It's this confrontational moment they'd been seeking the whole time. I'm just a reflection of them. Everything they yell in this free fall moment they are yelling at themselves. Everytime after this moment of confronting me with their all their problems their lives fork permanerntly, some in bad ways and some in good ways. Depends on on their karmic reflection . There is this Devil in me thats spins negative bullshit back at you through the universe space time thing-a-majig. The harder you scream at your reflection the harder the energy immediately comes streaming at you. I usually do nothing more than stand there unless the situation turns violent. Then i chose the quickest way to leave this coordinate in order to assess next actions. I only judge those that judge. And as long as this never comes into play in this exchange. I will remain silent. Once an immediate attack on my character occurs. I will immediately take offensive intellectual action to annihilate your logical ability to even think of challenging me. Most folks never cross this line only the few. It's pretty humiliating for them. The moment they realize they are completely wrong and I am completely right. Sucks. Very few people can even shake my philosophical, spiritual, diabolical Devil. Jedi's, Devils, Buddhas, and Rockstars are smarter than to cross into my anger zone altogether. Thanks.

So if you are one of the "saviors", you should probably start by saving yourself instead or invite the Devil into your situation if you need a dramatic answer to easy questions. AMEN! Save yourselves friends. I'm totally good with the giant electron. Be nice!

Modern Day Bible Stories and Manifesting Powers

So there's all kinds of people and there's all kinds of nuts and there's some nuts that sometimes... make sense and have magic powers. I'm not sure why some people just have this thing in them. Some kind of X-man kind of power over their world. Lately I've been fascinated with 3 or 4 friends that have what I call "Manifesting Power". So this is a trick I highlight in my close, but I really wanna tell you about the bible stories I live amongst.


There is at least one "Devil" and "God" represented, if not several. We have pyramid builders scattered throughout town. One friend of mine, Rocking J, has built an ARK similar to Noah's but more industrial. It is made of several upside down shipping containers with the doors welded shut. This new modernist ARK contains a music studio, ice bar, art gallery, and recording studio. All activities in this hip little town pretty much center around solar, lunar, and planetary phases. The most insanity happens on the full moon, of course. We have prophets spinning tales of impending enlightenment and /or doom. We have blacksmiths, carpenters, gangstas, artists, musicians, soldiers, and tax men. Some resident space aliens are freethinking farmers with ideas for new agricultural ideas. We don't have much parental supervision in our little experimental town. This tiny society also lies in a small, quiet, unsuspecting picturesque Caribbean beach town. A town which happens to be in a special land bridge between North and South America. I call it a Vortex. The biggest vortex I've ever experienced.


I'm not one to beleive in much. I don't believe in angels, fairies, ghosts, space aliens (earth visiting aliens... that is), time travel, esp, fortune tellers, magic, or prophets. However, since living here I'm starting to believe in all those things. Some of us, Jedis, Buddhas, GODs, and Devils, have a special power called "manifesting". Manifesting is the ability to conjer up things in the material world by just wishing them into existence.


Rocking J is probably the strongest manifestor I know personally or maybe Robert Cuigini in Seattle. Both of these men could manifest large material objects with ease. They also have created an almost fantasy like personal existence. I've seen Rocking J say, "I need a lighter" and one will appear loose on a table or a stairwell usually 3 meters or so ahead of his current path. One time, me and some friends were talking about sundials. I hollared up to J's window, "Hey man, you got a sundial." He replied instantly, "Like this one." There was one instantly in his hands. Those are small magic tricks or intuition by a powerful manifestor, but he goes big as well. He walks through his hostel's grounds dreaming out loud about changes, additions, and new features. The workers start the transformations immediately and he always does "exactly" what he says he's gonna do. He conjurs up things he imagines into his reality with ease. These folks seem as well to have a very sensitive awareness to future events. Almost psychic like abilities.

Well, there's a shit ton of manifestors in this town. Franke owner of Franke's Pizzeria had instantaneous access to small material objects like lighters, screwdrivers, car parts, and various small items. It's really interesting with these people. They can ask for anything... like a knob for an unusual European oven. It will appear if out of nowhere from a traveler that just happens to have that exact duplicate knob. It's fucking weird this shit. Who fucking carries oven knobs in a backpack?

Personally, I've been manifesting my whole life. I didn't really have a name for it until more recently. If I really want something. I get it. So, in a test of my own manifesting powers I've been experimenting with changing the weather. I'm at least 90% percent if not more on my accuracy to either change the weather in view of several witnesses. Several times. I have manifested lightning. I have manifested minor flooding. I can make it "not" rain on me. I have manifested double rainbows. I have manifested wind direction to change. Or maybe it's that I'm just so attuned to the nature around me. I think it's magic. I truly believe in myself so much... that my belief, just as Jesus spoke about in the Bible, is capable of moving a mountain. This apparently is a true magic ability that we can all perhaps tap into it. I'm doing my best to quantify and qualify me and my friend's abilities. There's got to be some kind of scientific truth in this way of conjuring up things out of nowhere, and changing weather. Native Americans still have rainmakers and have a long history of such weather manifesting shamans. Most cultures have similar folks representing almost the same kind of magic powers over local weather. As well as... other seemingly mystical powers.

I'm not sure how this shit got in me, but it got in me. As I age I will continue
to record my observations and continue to have credible witnesses confirm my facts. For the record, because of this Vortex land bridge or the intensity of the nature surrounding, my powers are at least double in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica. So I encourage you to test out your powers and lemme know what works and what doesn't would you? I'm trying to build a rock star X-man army.

Zen and the art of motorcyle riding

I sit behind "Lazy Mon" plugged into an outdoor socket in a tree. The waves lap in gently three meters from my feet. I just heard "Jessy Chick" before her intermission. the sun goes down behind a grey cloud base.there are barely hints of orange and pink.. I've got a cold whiskey with a squeeze, fesh pack of smokes. There is a single palm tree that consumes my scene to the left. There's a certain sense of peace in a palm tree on a beach backdropped by the sight and sound of rolling waves.

It's the rythym of the earth... the waves. If they get wacky, better believe something wacky this way comes. Across the cove on the "Black Beach Pennisula" I see a flickering bonfire. The air has this certain oceany feel, There's no wind. I now hear the keys of "Jessy Chick" behind me again. The familiar warmth in her voice. Tonight I start to reflect on mostly this one moment. Where should I put my foot next? Should it even be a foot? Should it be wheels? Should it be wings? Should it be writing? Should it be music? Should it be art? Should it be love? Should it be all of that? Or should it be none of that?

I'll leave here in a little while on my motorcycle. Oh my motorcyle. Sweet freedom. Sweet moments it gives me. When I leave here on a night like tonight, there's this moment as soon as I'm off the curb... or in my case...the beach. My feet retract like landing gear. The centrifugal force of the spinning wheels take over giving a sense of faith in pysics. All my thoughts dissapear. I twist the throttle as I release the clutch. The machine starts to accellerate at an ungoldly rate. I become totally aware of my line. My grace... my quickest path through space time, cars, bicycles, people and dogs. As my speed increases and the jungle beach road unravels before me, I start focusing my projected coordinates in this dimension farther and farther ahead in time. By the time I'm full speed... I'm God. Completely in tune. Completely aware. Completely absorbing intense time chunks at an extremely rapid rate. On a good night, I won't brake at all until my final destination.


This motorcyle experience here in Central America is grand. The smells the sounds, the terrain, the beauty. The ability to go as fast as you can without hurting yourself or others. The moonlight casts it's light, hinting at the road ahead and flashing like a strobe light in the night as I fly through time. A pilot of a magical two wheeled land speeder of sorts. This two wheeled device is the most efficient machine I've ever operated. I weave around pot holes 200 meters away, but they pass under me almost instantly. Sometimes one will sneak up on me. I give a quick jerk upward on the handlebars. The bike doesn't even lift, but this strong yet slight movement, keeps the bike in its linear horizontal path. The pothole passes under as my ride passes over. Not even a bump. My velocity is constantly increasing as my acceleration and margin for error decrease. About halfway to Manzillo or in the middle of town are these speed bumps. They have a perfect concaved face coming up each side. I compress my suspension at about 20 miles an hour, drop down into second on a full clutch pull, hit the six inch high launch pad, pop the clutch right before springing off my shock compression, I squeeze the throttle as I launch some one meter high and clear at least three meters distance. If I'm on point that day, I land rear wheel first while maintaining a constant angled wheelie with the front wheel easing down like a kiss. Somtimes not so graceful. Like last night.


These are my moments of clarity and freedom. On my bike, speeding through town or down the jungle roads. There really not ever traffic or interections with stop lights and turn lanes. Just the town crazie's screaming "Loveless" or "Devil as I go by or occasional hotties bikinis. It's motorcyle riding at it's most pure. I usually just wear my crocs and rarely wear a helmet. I've had some accidents here and there. Usually after a fifth or two of whiskey or completely sober. Never in between. Similiar to a cat I always land on my feet and have nine lives. Amen to me, and Amen to all the folks I know that need their bikes more than they need love.

Carribean Beach community, Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica.

I live in a magic place. A place full of people that do not accept what society says is normal. A place where the law is loose, the police are complacent, the tourist are naive and the rockstars are free. The community base is strong. Hidden in the jungle are a massive collection of people who came here with a dream of a better life. A life that most folks would cringe at. There are not many TV's, there aren't many air conditioners, there aren't many closed mninded people. There are just us! The wanted and the unwanted. We stand here on this beach. We support each other, even if we don't agree with each other's views we still try our best to support each other's freedom of choice.

Music, food, art, surfing, fishing, farming, ecology and of course alcohol and drugs are the bonding social fabric we have. Crackheads and criminals live side by side with hippies and tree huggers. As long as nobody is stepping on any one else's toes everything has a way of remaining harmoniously balanced. There are so many characters in our little village each deserving of a full length story or epic film I'm sure. Lately, I've been writing articles about all the musically gifted people in town. That's not the only thing that makes this place amazing. It's all the colorful characters here that really help keep the dream a dream.

Recently, I've been showing up at Tex Mex at around 6:30am for my whiskey "come down" after a night of heavy cocaine use. It's the watering hole for early risers and two dayers. The proprietor of the morning crowd is an English white man in his forties named Roger. He has an uppety English accent, sharp wit and a mischievious grin. He's been here a long time. In addition to Tex Mex morning business he also runs Cafe Rico a few blocks down the road. He appears to be rather normal until you get to know him. He of course has a checkered past as do many folks here. His humor is dark and sarcastic. He'll blurt something out occasionally completely wicked and completely on point. It usually takes a second to digest what just came out of his mouth. Then I usually laugh out loud. Did he just say that? One morning he asks, "Hey, Loveless, I'll pay you 100 bucks to go to the 'Shall Remane Nameless Hotel' jump up on the reception desk. Drop trou and take a shit." Some might dismiss this as bullshit. I might have if I had not heard stories of a similar such incident about a year ago with my good friend Erik, Rocking J's younger brother. He paid Erik to jump on a guy's motor scooter and take a shit on the seat, Which, according to local folklore Erik immediately and proudly jumped up on the bike, in the center of town, in the middle of the day, and took that shit. Erik of course is worthy of a several stories which I'll do my best to capture as a write more about my experiences here. Roger though, with seemingly uppercrust British manners, has a twisted sense of humor behind his grin. One time I passed by Cafe Rico to pay a tab, and hollared out for Roger. He suddenly appeared, if from nowhere, by popping his head up from the hedges right in front me and said in his eloquent Britsh accent, "Roger dodger, hello Loveless." I immediately started laughing. It still makes me smile. He's a nut. He is also one of the first Expats to make Puerto Viejo his home and life. I attribute a lot of Puerto Viejo gringo culture to him and a few others like him that saw a blank canvas on an undiscovered jungle beach and started painting his vision of a new life on his own terms. Roger is probaly the most well known person in town, and deservedly so. He is the calm center in a swirling Vortex of insanity.

Then there's others like Alvin. Alvin is a forty something year old black man that is a member of the Brown family. The Brown's are the Patriarchal family of this village. They own most of this town and the surrounding lands. They are many. I meet a new Brown at least once a week. They range in personalities from uptight shrewd business folks to wandering beach bums. Alvin being the latter. I love Alvin. I don't know many facts about him, but I know him and stories of his legend. I noticed him the first time I visited Puerto Viejo. He walks with a limp and a cane. He always has the most beautiful tropical flowers slung over his shoulder. Walking from business to business he trades or perhaps sells these flowers for what he needs that day. The smile on his face is always genuine and his eyes are as deep as the deepest sea. I ride past him almost daily giving a Devil horn salute in his direction. He acknowledges me with a loud unique howler monkey styled grunt and a grin. Occasionally I stop to share a smoke and ask about how he is doing. He never asks for me anything. He is a non materialist from a rich family. His home is on the most beautiful stretch of jungle beach. It consists of of two aluminum roof panels leaned together against some bamboo poles. He is loved by many, known by no one. His presence here is as beautiful as the flowers he harvests. Such a simple man with such a grand presence deserves rockstar status.

I'll bounce the other way now, back to my beloved bar scene. A couple of years ago two couples moved into our stretch of paradise to start a dream in surfer's dreamland. "Tasty Waves Beachfront Bar and Cantina" Bryton and Steve were the two partners I think. The toll of time and who knows what... leaves Bryton here today standing solo. So let me try to describe Bryton . Bryton  is barely 30 I think. It's a tough call because he has a relatively healthy existence. Although, I've seen him barely able to stand up in front of  Mango's Sunset Grill more than once. Amen brother. His bar is at the very North end of Cocles beach called tasty waves. His appearence and demeanor was very similar to Spicoli from "Fast Times at Ridge Mont High" when I first met him. Nowadays, it's all Bryton. He's been one of the most honest, hard working and genuinely upbeat additons to this culture. I've seen him sigh as he turned away to count out bribe money to keep his bar open on that night. He has the courage, as many of us learn, to stand up to street thugs and isn't afraid of getting in a scuffle if he needs to. Especially, if a tourist is in a pickle. Bryton can be seen around town these days on his motorcyle passing out flyers and usually with his buddy Jackson(a character... oh what a character). Bryton is also very supportive of my music and myself. Always makes a point to greet me after my sets and tell me how he enjoyed it. I always see him in the crowd nodding along with a cold beer in hand. Welcome to the family brother.

Then there's Margarita, a fifty something kind of haggared and well worn black woman. She hangs out at the corner near the bank and what we locals call "crack bridge". She's a fiesty, firey, moody ball of energy. She carries a shank, and has no issues using it when things get out of hand in the gang of misfists and junkies. When I first met her some two years ago, she said, "I heard you think you are the Devil?" I replied "This is not something I think. I realized I was God one day and aware that God was evil. That unfortunately would make me the Devil." She replied, "Well I'm the Devil's wife." So I took her by the waist, gave her a dip and stuck my tongue in her toothless mouth. She nearly fainted. Obviously it was totally unexpected for a gringo like myself to do such a thing. We've been friends ever since. She still tells people she's my wife. Occasionally she'll dissappear for weeks on end. Usually, this means she's in the slammer for breaking a bottle over some one's head in an alcohol fueled rage. I like her. She's had a rough life, but still smiles and makes jokes. She is a fire cracker of a woman. Reminds me of my crazy grandmother Alma. She's always wearing these knee lenght shorts with a "pee hole" cut right below the crotch. About a year ago my nose was really fucked up do to my over consumption of blow. She said, "Devil, pee in a cup and snort it. It'll will fix your nose." I didn't try that and don't ever plan to. Lot's of people, hippies and locals, drink their pee for health reasons here. That's really strange for me. and think it's just not something a person should NOT do. To each his own. Amen to fucking crazies.

I love this town. "Ohhhh... these are the people in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood."

will to live

I'm a forty year old divorcey with no kids, no job, running out of money with a rockstar sized drug and alocohol problem. I spent nearly 400,000 dollars in cash over the last 7 years or so. Living life in the fast lane and in the extra slow hammock lane. Maybe it was the divorce that did me in? Or maybe it was my prolonged substance abuse. I'm not really sure exactly where or when I kind of lost my will to live. I wake up for my slumbers with a sense of emptiness. No one is waiting for me. I have no future appointments. I have no idea of what I will be doing beyond that moment. Do I really need to wake up? Why must I arrange food or comfort or projects to keep me fed, warm and occupied? This seems mundane and unnecessary. I've played my roles in society. I was once a millionaire if only on paper and only for 3 days. I have a pilot's license. I've owned an airplane, several motorcycles, and an expensive convertible German sports car. Had a beautiful, smart, successful wife with playboy looks and a rock hard ass. A woman who dressed to kill and fucked liked a porn star.I could continue to present my evidence of success but I'l stop there.

This man today has almost nothing. A fall from Everest type heights. There was a breaking point. I'm pretty sure it was in my office at Adobe Systems where I was working as a software engineer. The moment I realized the woman I loved was in love with some one else. I'll spare the exact details. Even typing those words at this moment some 7 years later, my chest has this deep sense of regret and heartbreak. I really never fully recorved from that moment. Something in my brain snapped. I had been with this woman for 17 years. We were fifteen when we met, just kids. I'd worked and been faithful. I provided a nice life for my woman. I played the game, for my wself not just her. Then this breaking point. This frustration. This dysillusionment. This dissatisfaction. This moment where I decided enough was a enough. I was checking out for a while, and I vowed not to work until I'd run out of money. What I really meant was if I don't die from the excessively risky lifestyle, I was going to kill myself at zero.

So approaching zero... what am I thinking. First off, I'm really fucking tired all the time. I'm burnt out. It took so much energy to conquer the first half of my life. Do I have to muster up the energy to do that again. I did not like it. It took so much out of me. I don't wanna ever go back to having a real job so I write you my thoughts in hopes that it may pay the bills. Shall be seen. Even with that... I find it terribly difficult to wake up everyday. I'm not one to off myself. Not yet. Seems unfair to the rules of the game. Seems like fair play is to be taken out of the game, not take yourself out. Yet still I have no will to live.

This game sucks... I know what I feel like knowing... and even that bothers me. Life is cruel, violent, and dark. There was darkness before light. There was violence before calm. There was Devil before God. This is truly disheartenbing. I have not much will to wanna perform tricks in its twisted little circus show any longer. I wish to be set free from this man machine so I can have peace. I have no peace. Tomorrow I'll crawl out of my slumber to do it all again... even without the will to do it. Really? Why? Suffer? Really. "Because that's the rules earthlings. Now go get some money so you don't die! Muhahahaah"

Jungle Night (descriptive composition)

I sit and listen to all the electric sounds in the full moon jungle tonight. It's almost midnight. I lay alone in my bed for almost five years now. There's a need for me to be alone in my cell with my cocaine induced delusions, as the insects play their symphony in the night. Awareness that I'm never alone over comes me. The jungle is mystical draped in pale blue moonlight. I can hear the waves crash on the nearby beach. They roll gently on this night. The air is fresh and cool with a light breeze. The dogs are jingling in the darkness outside as they fend off their itch. An old ceiling fan hums along with the insect orchestra. There is only an ambient laptop glow in my open air bungalow. I type these words into the curious machine using my fingertips to conjur my current now in your future mind. My nose is numb from cheap pure powder flake cocaine. My teeth hurt from grinding them all day. The 2 day high starts its enevitablr crash. I can hear my breathe wease as I lay against two pillows propped against the head board. I exhale an aroma of stale cigarettes and whiskey. My room is a dysfunctional array of scattered tye dyes, cigarette butts, empty plastic coke a cola bottles, and tiny bags once full of blow. The mosquito net howlrts out its purpose as a mosquito lightky bounces into my screen. I hear a consistent crunching beside my bed. I light a candle to investigate. A cat has an unlucky rodent for dinner. This reminds me to take a deep breathe, blow out the candle, turn off this computer and enjoy my moment now on this jungle night.

Jim Mac Dougall- Piano Man/Showman/Singer/Song Writer/Super Star/Jedi/Mentor/Teacher

I can't really quite remember first meeting Jim Mac Dougall. I think "Rockstar J" told me to consult him about the construction of the studio. I had seen him around town always riding a beach bike with ape hangar handle bars and sporting a Panama Jack style straw Fedora. He's a low key ladies man moving through town with a relaxed but sure pace. He's often collecting softball sized rocks for a wall he's building in front of his modest, yet colorful bungalow. Everytime I meet with him, he speaks in a low confident voice, "Hello Loveless, (insert witty comment... ie. "I hope Less is more Love for you.") His comments are consistently more clever than my example. I always get two or three sentences ahead of what he said... and laugh. Turning his way, "That's fuckin funny Jim, I just got that." He has a certain Humprey Bogartish presence. It's all Mac Dougall though.

Jim is possibly the premiere, numero uno, rock-star of our artistic village, Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica. When ever I'd asked any of my musically prodigous friends about song writing or studio talent, the answer was always, "You need to ask Mac Dougall." The more I learned about this man, the more I appreciated his immense talent and his vast knowledge base. He can basically play anything... I think.  Over the past few months I've been getting to know more of Jim as a performer and a friend.  I'm always amused by his being.

Mac Dougall is the standard house musician of open mic night at Lazy Mon (beachfront bar). Every Sunday night Jim has been plugging away at the keys, with a Gin Tonic and a grin. As I was building the recording studio with "Rocking J", Lazy Mon was building an "Open Mic Night" audience simultaneously. I didn't make my way there much, because I was distracted with my own harvesting of local and traveling musicians. Slowly, as my studio time stabilized, I made my way there more and more often. These days I make it a regular haunt to sing some kind of Vortex, Drug or Devil song. I tend to enjoy a freestyle over a random jam. It's seems Jim has become my regular backing band.  We work well together and I've gained at least some of his confidence that I'll be able to effectively entertain the crowd. I'm getting better at grooving with him weekly.

When he's not tickling keys and and telling one liners, Jim is the most prominent music teacher in town. After a few recent shows, he's offered to take me on as my piano teacher. He'd mentioned to a friend, "I'd love to get Loveless on some keys." So one night, at the season opening of Stashu's restaurant where he was performing I approached him on the subject. "So I hear you want to teacher me some keys Jim?" He said, "Well, you'll have to make an appointment Loveless." I laughed. You see my current existence is made of 2 or 3 day drug and alcohol binges. I have zero responsibility. No job. No woman. Just fuckin off and making music if I feel like it. I replied, "Well I guess we're not meant to work together." He laughed and said without an appointment, I'd be without a lesson. I carried on my daily existence of debauchery. Sometimes I'll drop by and see if he's busy. Maybe I can hit him at a moment when he's in the mood. Lately, he tells me that he appreciates my persistence... and maybe one day... we'll get some time under my belt.

These days you can find Jim still peddling around Puerto Viejo on his Ape Hangar Handlebar Beach Bike, straw fedora, straight posture moving slowly around town with something always in his bicycle's basket. He sometimes meets the gang of early risers or 2 day'ers at Tex Mex right as the town wakes up and starts bustling. Or dressed in appropriate beach casual wear entertaining the throngs of locals and tourists here looking for a good time, usually in company of John Doriate on guitar.

His past life included nightly cruise ship entertainer. He says, "Loveless I was performing over water 5 miles deep." I've heard passing dialogue of some kind of arthritic condition that, for some reason, is not so harsh here in our little magical mystical Vortex. He's not only one of my favorite musician jedis, he's also a nice man and becoming a great friend. He's always full of color, character, class, and reserved dignity. AMEN to you Mac Dougall. I love you. Can't wait to get you tracked on my "I love drugs" song.

Jessy Chick (Jessica Chick)

Hmmmm... this one is a toughy... just because I try and give an honest unbiased type article, but I've grown to Love her so much. Perhaps I touch on this as I write. I first met Jess about 2 and 1/2 years ago. My newish friend Joe Carlino said he knew where we could get a marijuana cake thing and it was known to debilitate even the master druggie stoners... even Pacific North Westerners. Shout out to the Seattle, B.C. and Portland friends. So me and Joe went to the place where Jessie worked.  Cakes and shit aren't terribly common given many folks don't have ovens out here in the jungle? Maybe too much space? Maybe too much propane? I dunno so it's not common. Anyhow, I had small expectations of our 50 dollar cake thing. Jessie sauntered out... always pleasant, she has this certain caring nature to her. She is a curvy little woman. I remember a black dress once... the gravity immediately glued my hand to her most voluptuous booty. She gave me a look... like "I liked that but I'll slap you in the face if you do that again." So Joe and I got our cake. It was too expensive per piece for broke ass stoners to afford... cause this tiny little... nothing sized piece of cake would cause hallucinations.  Against Jess' warnings we ate this whole fucking cake over the next 30 hours or so.  We were incapacitated for 4 or 5 days... I can't even remember  ... Joe turned to me at one point and muttered, "Loveless, I don't want to be stoned anymore... fuck Loveless make it stop!". I gave him a blank drooling look.

So we all understand Jess knows her THC brain games and is a good cook. I didn't see much of Jess the first year I was here. I'd see her pass on her bicycle in a hippy kind of passing image. Her skirt would blow in the wind, her full brown locks would swing to catch up with her glance, as she'd give a huge smile before being hailed by some other fan or friend. When I started constructing the recording studio with "Rocking J", I started to hear talk of this amazing talent. Who was this girl? Why hadn't I met her? Well, I already knew her... but apparently too full of myself and my own projects to notice. Soon enough I started to follow the trail. Jess had a blooming rock-star life blossoming in this paradise before I even thought about the studio here. So, I would ask her to come meet with me sometime and record some music. She'd always say something like, "Well, I have a gig that night, and I have to work before that, and I have 2 gigs the next day, then I'm working a double the day after that... but I'll try and cross paths with you when I can." She's a busy girl.

Eventually I meandered into Lazy Mon for open mic night. Jessy played keys and had a star presence on the mic. Her songs are lyrically rich and original. Her voice is smokey and smooth. Her strokes are delicate and intentional. She has been the organizing engine behind the open mic nights at Lazy Mon... along with a few others. As far as a potential famous super star... I don't see how that wouldn't happen. I would rank her as one of the top three or four musical artists in our town. She's only recorded one song in the studio with me so far... and we're missing a duet. Recently she's been pondering a European tour... may be with a Loveless. Shall be seen. These days you can find her working at Lazy Mon, bar-tending or singing songs in one of the many upscale restaurants in Puerto Viejo or Cocles.