Thursday, July 13, 2006
The Misogynist
By Pete Moss
As I sat on the barstool I suddenly felt a nose nuzzling in my ear. Then a voice said softly: "I've missed you Pete."
I turned around to Tessie. The last time I saw her I'd been smacking her around and she was stabbing me with a ballpoint pen. After that we took a cooling off period but before we could reconnect she got popped for meth.
I'd heard she got 17 years but now it was only 3 years later and here she was, all 4 foot 11 and 97 pounds of her.
I'd missed her. Some people would probably call our relationship dysfunctional or worse, I just called it entertaining.
"Baby..." I said.
Tessie put her hand over my mouth. Her eyes were bright and her tail was bushy and something was way up.
"You busy?" said Tessie.
"Not at all."
"C'mon."
I hopped off the stool and followed Tessie out of the bar. We strolled down to the marina, it was only a half dozen blocks. I put my arm around her waist but she brushed it off. Same old Tessie, utterly resistant to PDA.
Down at the Marina there was a boat, a trim little Coronado 24.
Tessie jumped aboard.
"Permission to board." I said.
"Permission granted."
It was good to see her smiling and happy. 3 years ago she'd been in the grip of python called Meth, squeezing the life out of her. Misery came off her like stink off an onion.
She was eager to show me around the little boat. And after the short tour she broke out Margarita fixings.
The next thing I knew it was morning and I was waking up in the bunk.
We were not in the marina anymore. We'd put to sea. Judging by the rocking of the boat we were beyond the breakwater.
I rolled out of the bunk and made a cup of instant coffee. I went topside and there was Tessie in pair of cut-off sweats and a wife beater, her right hand on the tiller and her left holding a ciggy.
"Hope you don't mind I kidnapped you."
"No I don't mind. You got a phone so I can call in sick?"
"No, no fone."
"Oh well." I looked around. We were getting near the west end of Catalina.
"You hungry?" I said.
"Yeah."
I went below and scrounged around. A few minutes later I came back up with some Tuna sandwiches on English muffins.
Tessie wolfed hers down.
Then we sat and watched Catalina getting bigger.
After a bit I turned to look back at the mainland. Then I looked again. I went back below and found some binocs and came back up and took another look.
"You didn't happen to borrow this boat without asking someone first?" I asked Tessie.
She frowned, "Of course not!"
She looked back to where I had been looking.
"And you got out fair and square, not some kind of escape?"
"Jesus, Pete!"
"Well there's a big coast guard-looking boat gaining on us."
I handed Tessie the binocs and she looked.
Then she shrugged. I was quite sure that she'd stolen the boat and probably escaped from jail as well, however I sensed she was honestly puzzled by our pursuer. If it was a pursuer. Whoever they were, they gaining real real fast.
We'd know for sure in about 15 minutes who it was and what, if anything, they wanted.
Actually it only took 10.
It was Pam. My ex.
Pam had been an Air Force MP. In some place like Beiruit she'd taken out a truck bomb full of terrorists. She'd lost an ovary to shrapnel and gotten out of the Air Force with a few medals and full disability and benefits.
Pam stood 6 foot 2 and weighed 220. She was out of shape from when she'd been in the Air Force due to her weakness for sugary drinks and fried foods, but she was still pretty formidable, especially with a mad on.
The cigerette boat blasted up and circled us then throttled down. It eased up beside us and Pam hopped from boat to boat. Tessie tried to fight her off but it was like a humming bird attacking an alligator, Pam knocked Tessie down with a casual backhand.
Pam pulled a Glock and aimed it at me.
"Get in the boat," said Pam.
"Fuck you." I said. Tessie was getting up. Now she charged Pam.
"Fuckin Nigger bitch," Tessie said as she charged.
Pam picked Tessie up and threw her into the sea without further ado.
"Get in my boat," said Pam.
"I will not."
"C'mon Pete....Please," said Pam.
I crossed my arms and sat down. Tessie bobbed up spluttering and cursing and started swimming towards us.
"Give me the gun, Bam Bam," I said. I held out my hand.
"Don't call me that," said Pam.
"Give me the gun." I stood and started towards Pam. Tessie kept coming. She would be at the swim step in about a dozen strokes.
"You comin wif me," said Pam.
"I am not."
Pam looked at me with abject pleading in her eyes, then she moved her arm and fired the gun without taking her eyes off me. The bullet hissed and spit as it cut the water maybe a centimeter from Tessies left ear.
"You comin wif me," said Pam.
"Awright awright, don't shoot her," I said.
I went and hopped in the cigerette boat, Pam right behind me.
The driver of the cigerette boat looked like Dennis Rodman. He sat for a minute. Clearly he was uneasy about leaving Tessie out in the water.
Pam clopped him in the head.
"Whatchou waitin fo Dushawn!? Drive the damn boat back to Long Beach!"
Dushawn did as he was told, leaving Tessie to fend for herself in the shark infested waters of the Catalina channel.
As soon as we were back up to speed, skimming over the ocean like a giant skipstone, Pam went below.
Dushawn looked at me.
"Man, I thought I had women troubles," He said.
I kept my mouth shut.
Presently Pam came back topside. She's changed into a two piece which did not look good on her at all. I looked away as Pam paraded around on the deck, her glistening rolls of blubber jiggling as the boat bopped from wave to wave.
When Pam realized she was grossing me out she sat down on the deck in a heap and started to cry. I got another one of those if-looks-could-kill looks from Dushawn.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Dear Pete,
My GF is fat, stupid, lazy, and drunk most of the time, so we make a good couple. Only problem is she won't ever shut up. She talks while she's eating, she talks while we fuck, she talks in her sleep. If I try to talk she just talks louder and drowns me out. What should I do?
---Dale Dribble
Dale--
Stick something in her mouth besides food, see if that works. I'm thinking like a tennis ball or maybe your dick. I don't know how big your dick is so maybe a tennis ball would be better, also you don't say how big your Girls mouth is, maybe you'll need a grapefruit. Anyway she must have some hyperdeveloped jaw muscles so maybe you should sign her up for that new sport competitive eating. Good luck
----Pete
Pete--
Men are scum, neenner neener neener.
----Doris Dyke
Doris---
Thank you, have a nice day.
It's hot and I'm bored here in Long Beach, cab threw a rod through the water pump and the serpent belt derailed and George Bush hates me and I can't get drunk anymore. Whoo hoo.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
It never fails, you get something going good and then something else comes along to break it up.
I'm not on nites anymore.
Ride of the Day just doesn't have the same ring to it.
The last Ride of the Nite was all about Harold and Kumar come to Long Beach.
All these Hindus showed up for some kind of pow-wow.
I don't know if Hindus drink much. I've known a few who did drink but as a whole I think Hindus are not one of the drinking tribes. I guess they're more smokers, with their Ganja and incense and all that.
Anyway there was all these young Hindus running around Long Beach wanting to sample some good Western alcoholic depravity and debauchedness.
I swear I had Harold and Kumar in the cab. Them and their GFs, all four. They had to argue about it. The Hindettes really weren't that up for it but Harold and Kumar definitly wanted some booze.
But finally Harold and Kumar talked Rawindi and Chanda into it and they all piled into the cab.
I figured these kids couldn't be more than 17, but they seemed pretty confident so I figured they probably had fake IDs. Most kids do nowadays.
They wanted to go to the nearest liquor store so I drove them all of 8 blocks, which they complained about, apparently in their mind a big decadent American city should have a stinky liquor store on every corner.
But I did drive them to a stinky ass ghetto liquor store and they were suitably impressed with the general air of decay and corruption, the shit fouled winos passed out and the niggers sucking blunts and the deadpan Russian storekeeper with a barely concealed 12 gauge and a psychotic nephew stocking the wheezing reefer unit.
Then all of a sudden they wouldn't get out of the cab. I started to get a wee bit impatient, I mean if they were complaining about going 8 blocks and then were to pussy to get out of the cab and I had to take them to a swankier joint that would be at least 30 blocks away.
But that wasn't the problem. Finally their plan revealed itself.
They wanted me to buy up. Yeah right. The Long Beach Vice detail lives for that kind of shit. Sting operations on cabbies who buy up for underage kids.
I think it was Harold seemed like he might actually break down and cry when I shot them down. They had been so looking forward to corrupting their temples with liquor. I can relate, on the other hand I can't relate to a bullshit courtcase.
But I adamantly refused to buy up for the kids, even after they offered me 20 bucks.
I did suggest that if they were really determined to make the acquaintence of demon gin they could ask a nearby wino to buy up.
I pointed out one I've seen around downtown Long Beach for years, commonly known as Lefty because not only is he missing his left arm but also his left eye. For awhile social services provided Lefty with a glass eye but Lefty kept losing it so for the last few years he just runs around with an empty socket. Actually his name may be "Left Eye", like Lisa Lopez.
Anyway, when I pointed out Lefty to Harold and Kumar both gulped and visibly paled at the idea of entering into a commercial transaction, however fleeting, with such gruesome looking dude.
And here I thought that places like Bombay or Calcutta must be swarming with Leftys and that Harold and Kumar must have been used to dealing with such from earliest childhood.
Finally after hushed but urgent discussion in the back of the cab they handed me my fare and disembarked.
I think it was the girls who pushed the matter. They wanted to see just how bad their boys really were.
The boys had thought that Long Beach was probably awash in alcohol and obtaining a bottle would be no trouble at all.
This scene was repeated 3 or 4 times over the whole weekend the Hindus were in town. There was 1 variation, one group of Harold and Kumars wanted to go to a nudie bar. They swore with a totally straight face that there are no such things as Nudie Bars in India.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Ride of the Night.
Picked her up at the Queen Mary.
She was the Spirit of LA., as in the Queen of the Angels of the Souls of Feotuses that were Flushed Down the Toilet After Backroom Abortions, or whatever the medieval Spanish monks long-winded Mexican name for LA was.
Glittery eyeshadow, perfect Cupids bow mouth, painted bruised purple, outlined with a fine line of black just to emphasize the impossible poutyness, perfect corkscrew curl hair. Wide set coal black eyes that flashed like stars in a pitch black desert winter night.
She had on a flowing gown. Some kind of knit number, magenta, slit up the front, with brilliant emerald green silk teddy kind of thing underneath.
She gets in the cab and wants to go to Southgate.
People think Southgate is the ultimate Barrio, as in Colonia, as in Tijuana cardboard shacks getting washed away by untreated sewage in a winter storm.
That's people who have never been there.
There's some wealthy-ass beaners up in that town.
So I asked La Reina for a deposit cause its a 40 dollar ride. She gave a tiny shrug of disgust at the venality of Anglos and threw a c-note at me. Then we set out. She spent several minutes getting herself properly arranged in the back of the cab. Whatever she sets her ass on becomes a throne, naturally. This is an important resposibility that demands thought in the application.
So we are barely out of the Queen Mary parking lot and some nut in a very noisy, shiny, swoopy Jap chariot races right up behind us and flicks on his brights, and these are those blue tinted brighter-than-fusion brights. Then he speeds around us and slams to a stop. I stop, he blasts off again with a terrific chirp of his tires. I start up again.
He does an Immelman and gets back in behind, flashing his brights and chirping his tires.
'Is this some freind of yours' I ask La Reina.
'Ees my Hosband,' She says with a weary shrug in her voice.
'I see' I said.
But the ride is paid for and so I set out to get on the 710 and head up to South Gate. Of course Juan Carlos keeps buzzing me with his bride in the back of the cab, her cell phone is ringing constantly, she ignores it all with royal nonchalance.
I putter along, it's after midnite and normally I would be barrelling up the 710 at 90. But tonight I do a leisurly 60 on the nearly deserted freeway, and Juan Carlos soon gets bored and blasts off in dazzling display of lightspeed.
La Reina and I drive on up to Southgate. She directs me to her house, which might as well be in Vera Cruz or Guadaljara, for all the Stars and Stripes you don't see and all the Tri you do.
The houses are substantial and the cars all spanky new and there's lots of expensive kids toys littered on the lawns. Little battery powered Hummers, and bicycles and huge Jungle Jims and all kinds of soccer gear.
I stop and La Reina alights. Of course Juan Carlos has beat us there. As soon as we pull up he revs his 48 valve biturbo V8 and flashes his lights. I'm really getting tired of those Kliegy headlights.
La Reina ignores him and makes her regal way into her domicile.
As I drive off Juan Carlos makes to follow me but but he's obviously torn, should he follow me and pull me out of the cab and shoot me with his silver-plated Beretta, or should he go back and commence with the domestic drama. It's not good to keep a Queen waiting. Finally he makes the right choice.
I drive awaay into the early morning streets of the Eastside.
I can imagine the scene back at the casa.
La Reina hissing and spitting, eyes throwing flames.
"Jes you Pendejo, I sucked the Pito of the filthy Gringo cab driver, I got down in the back of his stinking little cab and sucked him all the way and swallowed every drop of his foul semilla, and you know my incompetent Hosband, his Pito his so moch grander than yours.'
And the husband going berserk with jealousy.
Whatever. The bitch didn't tip me a dime.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
So I'm here back on the blog to do the 'Ride of the Night' about being a cab driver at night in Long Beach.
Except I didn't work last night and the night before that was dead flat crapola nothing happening and on and on.
So I got pulled over on my bicycle by a snotball punk cop and I had to spend most of yesterday chasing down his supervisors and complaining but I think I got somewhere with that.
I also found out some info in that basically these airport cops are not actually sworn officers of any civic entity. They don't actually have a badge, just a guard card and a carry license.
The copboy at one point informed me that passing a background check 'Don't mean shit', his exact words. And he seemed like he wasn't more than 19 and he was behaving like a total moron so I'm inclined to agree with him. I mean if a punk like him passed the background check and is now strutting around with a gun and some kind of search and arrest powers, well that's a scary thought.
But here's the thing, these airport rent-a-cops aren't really sworn to anything beyond continuing to collect their paycheck. If they fuck up there's a whole huge corporate aparatus behind them with lawyers and insurance. They have private databases and impentrable chains of command. An average citizen caught in this mess is gonna be overwhelmed in about 45 seconds.
All these years I figured that the threat of a police state was gonna come from the state, the public sector. Now I find that the implementation of the police state is actually gonna be carried out by the private sector, and not for any politcal reason but merely because oppression makes money.
The company that has the security contract for Long Beach Airport is charging the city of Long Beach millions of dollars a year.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Am I on the air?
Back to the blogosphere. What's it been, lemme look. It doesn't say when was my last post. Well so what. It says it at the other site I can look there when I get around to it.
Been a year I bet. The last thing I recall is writing a bunch of stuff about Cassie, who is now doing 17 years for meth. Poor Cassie.
The last nite I ever saw her I beat her and she stabbed me in the hand. Then I went on a drinking binge, draining a swimming pool full of Vodka in a little less than 60 days, I kid you not.
Then One sunny morning in May, two pints in the tank, I drove my motor bike into a car up in Hollywood.
I made it through without any major broken bones, just a busted finger and some cracked ribs and scrapes and bruises, and I got a pretty good knock in the head but I had a helmet on, but it was an old helmet, and lately I notice my memory seems to play tricks on me sometimes, like pugilistic dementia maybe, except it's more like old biker dementia, if you wanna get tech about it.
I haven't ridden a motorbike since. I will again but it's not a priority now. Anyway with the bike totaled and myself all banged up I finally quit the courier biz after a quarter century.
Then I spent a month in a total alcoholic stupor. Sleeping in my van and on a freinds boat.
Then I met Vis. She was ex Air Force MP, Born-again Christian and total control freak. I lived with her on her boat for 6 months until finally I got fed up with the Trinity Boradcast Network which she liked to have on 25/8 and I threw her TV into the filthy water of Cerritos Channel and stormed out.
Somewhere along the line I got a job driving a cab, nites, in Long Beach, Cali.
So here goes the latest series of blogs in this on-going history of futility and contempt.
"Ride of the Nite" A brief write up of whichever ride captured my fancy in a given nite. Maybe it broke through my normal state of terminal blasitude because it was funny or sentimental or weird or what, whatever, it's the ride that sticks out in my mind for that nite. Hell, if I'm lucky there might be two 'ride of the nite' sometimes. Hope you like it.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
So my sweet sweet sweeeeet darling Cassie texts me at 2 AM. Booty call, Yeeeesssss!
She comes over and we go in her little white car to the overlook in San Pedro and drink Jack and Coke and discuss her nursing career which flamed out.
These strange Pedro people show up around 4 AM and we don't want to talk to them. I ran out of my house in my Jammies. Cassie liked that. The Pedro people were impressed.
"Hey why you running around here in the cold and fog at 4:30 AM in your Jammies?"
"You got something against Jammies? What you saying I'm gay?"
"Not at all. We think it's cool."
So we drink all the Jack then we go back to my house and I get my bottle of Jack and we drink that and talk about books and cuddle.
See, it's like this: When Cassie and I cuddle, we pretend that's what we're not doing. Am I making this up? Am I reading into it? I'm not sure.
See there's such a huge charge there. You have to pretend it's not there. When you meet the love of your life you have to be very very very careful not to scare them off, or worse, let them know exactly how low you'd go to keep them in your life.
Like just to entertain them and keep them from getting bored you'd let them watch you....well you get the idea.
Whatever I'm talking 2 much.
It was such a perfect day though, I was walking on sunshine. We took a frigging picnic down by the Queen Mary. Two old whores like us going on a picnic. We had a bottle of Boones Farm Sangria and chicken Taquitos and then Cassie, the sweet little darling she is, had some binoculars and we watched a Pelican preen. It was pornographic. Watching the big bird bend her neck and wash herself and spread her wings to dry. Cassie and I sat mesmerized, passing the binocs back and forth.
Now I gotta go. My motherfucking job.
I wanted to write all this out while it was fresh so I could have it and always go back and read about the perfect date with the one I'm so crazy about.
Saving up all the ecstasy and joy for a bad day and read it back and be in wild wild wild love all over again.
Recapture the undiluted rapture of having Cassie out with me.
I riding and she skating and people turning to watch up because we have that aura. Like that aura that never hardly ever comes up.
Like she says she doesn't love me but she acts like she does.
So I can't say I love her, ever, and I can't make any meaningless gesture. Everything has to pack a charge like ten H-bombs, every brush every tiny blink every present every word. Nothing phony, no lies, everything straight from the heart, aimed true and fired straight.
Back to fucking work! they paging me and I need money and the Libe is looking at me over her half-frame glasses.
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Hey,
you can mail Pete at this addess:
Pete Moss
P.O. Box 341534
Los Angeles, CA
90034
Send him good stuff like porn, money, zines etc...
Don't send bad stuff like bombs, drugs, severed heads etc... |
| The
Unfriendly World of Pete Moss |
| Pete
Moss makes home in a world few dare tread. A place of classic
motorcycles, celebrity hobnobbing, drug fueled ruminations and
an endless love affair with female genitalia. Come join him
for a while... |
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