From I-phone to I-Pussies

We were in Mexico a couple of weeks ago and Dave lost his I-phone. Thanks to his other I-shit, he was able to locate where the phone was via GPS. Despite repeated texts, the new owner of the phone wasn’t picking up.

It appeared the phone was a couple of miles away from where we were. Of course, being gringo tourist stoner morons, we had no idea how sketchy the area was.

But we decided that it was worth taking our lives into our hands to at least see if we could get the phone back. We had been smokin’ alot of Mexican crabgrass (how we eventually upgraded is a story for another day) and whilst Dave didnt drink, I was slack jaw deep into my third six pack of the evening. And tequila. Bad ideas are always marinated with Tequila.

So, we embarked upon I-Phone rescue.

We were getting further and further away from tourist zone and deeper into the real Mexico. It was approaching midnite and the only other thing on the streets were loose dogs. Lots of loose dogs. No problem there, Dave and I are both dog people.

We were testing each other on stanza’s of Crass’s “Big A Little A” to ease the anxiety. I won.

Finally, after what seemed to be hours, but was probably only 40 minutes or so, we came to the street where we thought the phone was. There were three or four small houses on the block.

And bats. 

A couple of the little bastards were buzzing around our heads, like drones or something.

One of the houses had a truck with a logo that said “blood of the dead” in spanish. We figured those were our boys.

I was about to knock on the door when Dave said, “fuck it let them keep it, I wanna upgrade anyway."

I didnt press the point.

We walked back, with our tails between our legs.

Only we weren’t dog people anymore.

Just a couple of I-pussies.

I Was A Teenage Guinea Pig

Way back in Nazz's young teen years, he was a poor white boy looking for some money. My mom heard about a facility in the area that would pay $20 a week to kids who would allow various substances to be applied to their backs and checked a day letter for "reactions". Yeah, cosmetic clinical testing. SO, I became a Teenage Guinea Pig!

Now... before you look away and say "what the Fuck is wrong with Nazz's mommy for letting her son do this"?; remember, this was the innocent days of the 80's and out there in  the hinterlands, people weren't quite so suspicious of big business (or, for that matter, men in white coats and facemasks in labs).  Yeah- I know. Not too smart.

So, every week, I would go in, and the nice attendants would apply a pad the size of an open palm to my back. This pad would have whatever lotion or concoction that they needed to make sure wasn't too lethal to humans. One would assume this was after the bunny rabbits and chimps had survived; but, really, who knows? After all, teenage boys were made of far sturdier stuff. The next day, the pad would be taken off and my skin (funny, they never worried about anything but the skin- so if I had any toxic poisoning or nerve damage... too freakin' bad...) would be checked for outbreaks.

I did this for about three months.

Every week, when I got my crisp $20 (always in cash) - I would take it to the local record shop. They had a tremendous used vinyl area (this WAS the 80's) and for anywhere from one to three bucks, I could buy "rescued" albums from the 60's and 70's and further my musical education.

Ya see... you young whippersnappers, what we had to do back in the day for our rock n roll? Now it's all easy peasy to download anything you like in 5 seconds.

Weird, I had completely forgotten about this until last nite, when the head that grew out of my back reminded me.

One day, I'll tell you the story of when we got the bright idea to sell our blood in college for booze money.