Twenty Thousand Keys Under the Sea

Once upon a bender ago, I went to Bolivia on a coca quest after seeing Evo Morales at the United Nations. President Morales would later tell me in person that the coca plant was sacred to his people and they didn't give one whiff about it in the powdered form. Cocaine he said was American's problem and without our demand there would be no market and therefore no production. Whatever. Though it's no secret how coca leaves are turned into cocaine, the mysteries of distribution are a bit more elusive.

I'd been wondering how the cartels were transporting this "devil's dandruff" to the US ever since the CIA shuttered their Mena, Arkansas cocaine importation and supply hub. Cuz unlike oil, there is no drug shortage in sight. You can rest assured that powdered baggies are still lining the watch key pockets of hipsters from sea to shining sea and in these trying economic times the bathroom stall installation biz is probably a good investment opportunity if you don't want to risk becoming a dealer straight up.

But I digress. Coke is good for daydreaming and when you have money and minions you can make some wacky shit happen. So taking a page straight from Jules Verne, the hustlers started building submarines in the jungles of Colombia and launching them from the Pacific coastline where muddy rivers loop into the ocean. It's a smugglers' paradise.

The Captain Nemo of Coke, Enrique Portocarrero built a cocaine armada of 20 smuggling semi-submersibles. These ocean going jalopies are the pinnacle of rural sci-fi design. So take heart in knowing that your hard earned drug money is not merely wasted on a cheap buzz but also going to a good cause: the support of 3rd World industrial arts. And people hate the NEA!

My Bolivian Marching Powder adventure can be sniffed out here

Gaze of the Dead

The nice part about dying is that people finally think fondly of you. Even if you're a total fuck up while you're alive [link to Stockbauer on you tube hahaha], once you're dead the slate is wiped clean. As usual the Mexicans got it right (remember – they're MexiCANs, not MexiCAN'Ts). When it comes to honoring the dead, it's best to throw a big party. On Saturday, I was at the Oakland Museum of California where they spent some of their fancy museum money to throw a community celebration for Days of the Dead. The morning started auspiciously with a dead cat in the koi pond. Alters were erected upon which visitors placed their remembrances of loved ones. Of course being Mexicans these included sticky glasses of foamy pulque and cheap cigarettes. Some people went all out and typed up essays about the deceased, but I liked the more basic efforts. The best one was the stick figure of the dead cat, which was apparently more beloved than the koi pond cat, since no one made an offering for it before we pitched it into the dumpster. Some say that lilies are the flower for funerals, but the Mexicans go with marigolds for their gaudy color and rank smell that are said to attract the dead. They also burn lots of incense just in case you can't smell the flowers when you're dead. It's a colorful, stinking affair, just like most good parties. Add Aztec dancers with feather headdress; senoritas in white blouses, ribbioned braids, and traditional skirts; kids with their squishy little faces painted like skeletons; ladies making tortillas; hand painted sugar skulls; taco stands; a guy in a devil costume, an alter to dead gay lesbian and transgenders (it is the Bay Area after all), and a mariachi band selling peyote buttons, and you've got a party thrilling enough to raise the dead.

Posted by
A. Brown