Shoshone, California pop 164

Did I ever tell you kids about my days out there in the desert? My run in with the naked Indian Chief and activist Corbin Harney. I didn’t think so.

Well, the water out there, see, it’s all aquifers, part of the subterranean Tecopa hot springs system and unfortunately for the indians out there tied in with the underground nuclear testing facility in Nevada also.

But, people came from all over the world to be healed by Corbin. He was the real deal.

Along the way he had befriended many in the nuclear protest movement, he preferred pretty white hippie chicks with groceries, relaxed moral standards and reefer as I recall.

For some reason he liked me too.  At the time I happened to be traveling with one of his old paramours. He lived in a double wide out there, it was actually legally an Indian reservation and he had this six stage hot spring pool that volunteers had built.

The first stage was a deep gemstone masonry bathtub built from onyx, obsidian, chalcedony, basalt and crystal. It was extraordinary, truly. It was really just for him…very hot, crazy fucking hot, but, eventually the water ended up in a really beautifully rendered indoor swiming pool festooned with thunderbirds, rain clouds and various, numerous ,other native american symbolism.

Anyhow, they had showers also, so that when you went in the pool you were fresh as a daisy. You have to understand the pool wasn’t recreational it was for  healing, it was considered theraputic.

Anyhow, I came out of the showers one day and Corbin was in the pool naked, I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable so I jumped in too. Everyone in the room gasped. Not Corbin, he just keep smiling and engaging me in conversation.

Beautiful human being.

It seems that Corbin being a world class healer and full-blooded Western Shoshone elder and Shaman could actually be contaminated and rendered spiritually neutered by a freshly divorced middle aged white guy in cutoffs floating around in his healing pond.

I was just trying to make a new friend.

Who knew?

corbin

What time is it gang?

Fresh start time, that’s what time. I woke up today and realized that I’m not sad anymore.

I’m not putting myself to sleep with Hefeweizen anymore. Or anything else.

Casa Pedro is looking sharp. I’m looking sharp. No baggage, nothing.

You don’t eat for two months and see how you look. It’s mujer time. They can read it too, they know when your batting a thousand.

Chicks my age are a little sketchy though. Not a whole lot of them would pass any kind of objective inspection physically.

Look at Miss Robin…picture of health, one would think.

I blinked twice and she had cancer. The real shit. Not a funny mole. The kind that kills you. Dead.

Well guys, it’s nice out, my laundry is done and I got a bike that needs riding.

Try to get by without me for a day.

Pedro

 

 

Tanto, Tanto, mi amor

Holy shit…where to start?

Not starting at the beginning. Anybody could do that. And I’m not just anybody.

If someone out there has any pull with Kelly liquor on Central could you please get them to reliably start stocking Widmer Bros Hefeweizen. It’s in a yellow box.

Do it for the blog, cause without that beer there is no Casa Pedro…just sayin’

Thinking about Cynthia C a lot lately, the lovely Miss Ortega, you know, from the law library, we broke up years ago, but, she has always been a real friend, rare trait.

Thinking a lot about Miss Robin too, sweet kid, tragic story, she has not, however, been a friend…short timer. Lo siento Flaca.

Where do things go wrong? I’m too old to do much about any of this now, but, honestly I just wanted both of those deals to work… I’m not a person always looking for the next best thing, I settle in and try to make it work.

Work. I make it look easy…….. Easy

It’s probably me…or it’s these crazy bitches… sheeeesh

One of the two.

I gotta admit though, it takes a lot of resolve to walk away from the ol’ African Soupbone. I must of done something wrong.

Well, I gotta go, Nestor’s got the pink eye again and Melanie is teasing the crap out of him and I’m missing all the fireworks…Laters Pedro

 

pretty in sombrero

Pedro dates a real South Valley “Chooter”

It’s been a while since I’ve been out with an Hispanic woman, I prefer them…lot’s of reasons, too many to relate now, you’re just gonna have to trust me on this.

You know the drill. Eyes like two pools of molten obsidian, way too many teeth, boob glitter, giant over the top glammy dollar store pot metal hoop earrings and a Blessed Virgin ceramic bobble head nodder permanently affixed to the rear deck of a late model Chevy Malibu with the trunk lock punched out.

She had it all.

Two fisted drinker too…that part should have been the gravy.  Only… I was buying.

We went to shoot pool and drink beer at Doc n Eddy’s.

I mean choot. They are going to begin remodeling soon. That place was worn out when Jesus was a baby, Holy fuck…It was like prison let out early in there too. Hurt my game a little, I won’t lie.

Here’s one thing about women that shoot a good game…miss one effin’ shot and they will immediately start in with the unsolicited lessons and the heart warming story about being raised by pool “charks” Trust me, these bitches have one fucking move and that’s it.

I’ll miss her.

Pedro…a white man pretending to be a brown man that was taken down a notch and made to finance three double rum and cokes. Life ain’t fair

latina blog

Edwina Balderas of Albuquerque, New Mexico …. be still my heart.

Mother’s Day

Tomorrow, I won’t be calling my mother…she is no longer among the tortured. My stepmother, however, refuses to lay down…good for her.

Went out to see her last Christmas…middle of fucking nowhere California. She met Miss Robin, fell in love with her, now I gotta tell her she’s dead.

Is she dead? I don’t know. I will never know unless it’s in the papers and I don’t read the papers.

But, for all intents and purposes then….”dead to me” I suppose.

If you’ve never been in the room when an oncologist starts their hustle it’s instructive…first, they try to convince you that they and only they will control how much longer you live.

They will name a quite specific number of months you will last without them….generally they quote “six months” just to get your attention; after that your authorized survival will be dependant upon how many courses of approved chemo therapies you will be allowed given your case history, disease, and blood markers.

It’s three card monte in a lab coat.

These fucks control nothing…It is an illusion designed to separate you, your heirs and your insurance company of your hard earned money.

Their official narrative is that nutrition plays no role in cancer survival, don’t believe me? Ask one of these fucks. They probably have a cotton candy machine next to the chemo locker.

You know, catty corner from the gummy bear fountain.

Pedro

Renaissance Pedro…really…I mean it.

Okay, I spent the last two months drinking myself to sleep feeling bad about Miss Robin dying on me after all our plans, but, time to move on.

Miss Robin, you quirky, nutty, little bitch.

You are forgiven.

Just you though…everybody else, I’m still pissed, and with my spinning backfist, take that as a serious warning.

God, what a time to be me though. Had an interesting astrology and tarot read, several actually…turns out, evidently, there could be no better time to be a 59 year old white man dumped by a terminal cancer patient with an eleven and a half inch fully funtional penis.

No better time. At all. I can feel it.

Truth be told, I’ve earned it.

Well, it’s Friday night and I gotta go gang…crack don’t smoke itself.

You got to treat her like a lady.

The newly recommissioned Pedro

 

 

 

 

 

Miss Robin’s Condo Love Nest sells

borachos-600-x-4671.jpg

Woo wee…hope we’re planning on paying ol’ Pedro all that money you owe him Slim.

Not holding my breath…barely got my winter jackets and bluetooth speaker back…sheeeesh

One very liberating thing to note here is that God is taking out the trash for me this time

And as a heartfelt aside:

Thank you Phillip Morris for all your hard work over the years…it’s not like these fucks weren’t warned.

Smoking….who the fuck smokes anymore?

Tomorrow is another day…for some of us babycakes.

The throw rug formerly known as Pedro

P.S. Here’s the clincher…do you kids wanna know what Miss Robin’s daughter has devoted her life to?   ….Marketing…can you guess the product gang?

Yep….. Mother with stage four lung cancer and this little Cupcake is pushin’ cigarettes for the man.

You can’t make this shit up.

“Tell Saint Peter at the golden gate, that you hate to make him wait, but you just gotta have another cigarette”  Excerpt from  the Tex Williams classic “Smoke Smoke Smoke that cigarette”