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Chapter 11. Music and New Friends.
It is crazy how much can change in a short period of time. Last week was incredibly slow and today I find myself scrambling to see what I should take care of next. So many stories I pitched that I need to write. So many emails for other gigs. A completely different feel than last week.
And it’s not only that change. This city changes constantly. And that changed my tours. And it also changed me.
I rarely do bachelor parties. Or like how my last tour called them “stag parties.” Much less just take a single individual to the strip clubs.
My last tour wasn’t even a real tour. It was more like real work. Irish reporters found me through the internet and they hired me for two days to help them with their work on the border. We covered a lot of Tijuana ground. I helped them with some interviews. And I helped them navigate this city.
We got pretty amazing shots.
They got some really great interviews. It’s not the report I would like about Tijuana since they are focusing on migrant issues and the border. Not a travel piece about Tijuana. But once it was all done, we got to hang out more and had a couple of beers.
I never thought my tours would turn into that. I never thought I would be back into photography. I never thought I was going to be writing this much or that I would actually make money doing this.
I still can make more money. I have to work so much more.
But the goal of the beginning of this year was to finish this silly book.
So now I have three photo gigs to take care-off, the tour is over, two long stories, and perhaps a couple of short stories.
And I need to get to work.
So… I had my own apartment. A roommate that was barely home. And when he was, we partied a lot.
Routine settled in.
Every morning wake-up, shower, go to the office, pick breakfast on the way.
Come back late in the afternoon, drink a beer, do more work, go to bed.
Rinse and repeat for a few months.
I almost fell in love with a girl who was friends with my roommate. She told me she thought I was gay because I lived with him.
I had no idea my roommate was gay.
He has never told me.
I never asked him. We never talked about it. I love that guy. We hang out often. I just don’t think he wants to talk about it.
That girl was in love with her ex. It ended as quickly as it began.
And then I met him.
My sensei-master at writing.
The one that might be editing this text.
It’s getting near the end of the tales since I’m catching up with current times of what happened to what is happening.
I met the Chad master at a show in Mous Tache. That’s what I did for the weekends. I went to shows in the city.
Chad looked like a young Santa Claus. German looking blond with blue eyes, a protruding belly, with a caguama in one hand, cigarette dangling in his mouth, and his goofy fucking smile.
He doesn’t remember the first night I met him. He remembers a different night a few weeks later.
That first night, he told me he was a writer. He told me how much money he made per article. He failed to tell me this was for cover stories or for his own columns, not every writer made that much.
Also, he had been writing for the Reader for years.
That’s when I started losing interesting in writing about soccer. I was tired of the job and routine.
As far as Tijuana Adventures go, there wasn’t much tourism and I wasn’t getting many customers.
I was going to shows and meeting bands and musicians. I would tour them around and help them with anything I could.
That’s when I thought about doing tours for traveling bands.
Stupid me didn’t realize that bands never have any fucking money.
So those obviously never went anywhere except partying with musicians.
That’s the night Chad remembers. When Mothers of Gut came to town with HABITS.
I don’t think either of those bands exists anymore. But they were great.
HABITS was a crazy synthesizer band mostly done by Dustin. The singer would climb speakers while singing distorted shit whilst the drummer made noise next to a keyboard and more synth shit.
Something like that.
The genius behind Mothers of Gut was Aaron. His band was just fucking crazy. The drummer had the body of Super Saiyan Zach Hill mix with the veiny full of heroin arms of Iggy Pop. He fucking beat on them drums like a motherfucker. The guitarist had long hair and looked similar to the singer of HABITS. The bass player was missing his front teeth.
Two songs into the show of Mothers of Gut, the bass player fucking tripped off stage and broke the head of the bass.
Show over. There weren’t many people at the show anyway.
The large group ventured into Zona Norte. I don’t remember much of that night except finding out that the drummer did not have an ID of any form or shoes.
He had crossed the border and forgot to grab his passport or any ID. Not forgot… He didn’t have any.
There’s also a picture of the toothless bass player with a prostitute in Hong Kong.
I believe they all crashed in Chad’s apartment that night.
A small friendship developed that night. That friendship would change my life.
Later on, I would show a stranger that I met a coffee shop the CD that Mothers of Gut gave me. He fucking loved it.
And another small friendship developed with Danger Dave.
Chad, Danger Dave, and Pachangas Matt. The year of the Rumble Fest.
That’s coming up next.
But not before explaining a bunch of other mess that was going on.