Awesome Totally Awesome - Part 3 The Next 48 Hours

Radioactive Summer Part 3: The Next 48 Hours In Mexico City

The Rays had been in the capital of Mexico for 24 hours following the show at the foreclosed house turn music venue.

The concert itself went really well considering we were all playing (and singing) out of two amps, did a radio interview in a language I really did not have a grasp on Español with the exception of words like mota, cerveza, and no sé, and were slotted to stay the night at Max’s house with his mother, sister, and their dogs that night.

Sometimes, when on tour, bands like us have to stay with whoever is willing to open their place to us as we were going to do with Max and his family. If nothing was set up prior to the show, we would sometimes ask during our set.

“Anybody got a room for us to stay the night, we would really appreciate it,” I would say into the microphone before our last song.

Sometimes, reciprocity would come our way in the form of someone letting us stay with them even though we never had anything to offer in return other than some low-selling merchandise we were willing to get rid of.

And other times, our pleads for warmth and shelter would fall on either deaf or callous ears.

For instance, one time, we had to stay in the parking lot at the University of Washington until we were kicked out by campus security really early in the morning.

We then moved our cars in a suburban area. The neighborhood was cool with us parking there as in no one said anything, but what was not taken into consideration was the need to piss and shit.

Right after I had fallen back asleep in the middle of Seattle suburbia, I was woken up by the shivering quivers of molting lava guts with no place to shit.

I was forced to rush whoever was in the driver seat to haul-ass to the only thing that was open at 5:30 A.M. in a downtown area: a Jack in the Box. The bathroom was a singular stall, elongated by 20 feet with bad lights and little porcelain left on the seat. As I sat there, in a fast food joint, already uncomfortable having to sit on a public toilet, I was startled by someone banging on the door yelling, “hurry up in there!”

Houses are preferred for obvious reasons, but even houses can be tumultuous.

Not all are scenes from Silence of the Lambs though.

In Salem, Oregon, we once stayed with a family that took in foster kids and also ran the community center we booked to play while in the area. Plans to stay with them were arranged prior to the concert, as their house was big enough to accommodate all of us in addition to the biological family they were raising and the children they were fostering.

We followed the dad of the family (and owner of the venue) back to where we would be staying and were greeted with pizza and soda. The next morning we played basketball next to a creek by their house before having stacks on stacks of fluffy French toast with mountains of powdered sugar and assorted fruits to eat on the side.

In Reno, Nevada, we were taken in by the singer/guitarist for this hardcore band who lived in this mansion. Provided inside was enough food, floor space, and insulation to hold three or four bands at a time like some kind of summer band camp.

As a group of five guys that felt like they could rely on each other and our strength in numbers, we rarely worried about things like being attacked, robbed or poisoned. Therefore, we were excited to go to Max’s place already knowing Max was a great guy who was excited to house us.

It was an endearing house tucked away in the city and Max’s family was extremely hospitable by providing the five of us with individual beds wrapped in clean sheets and blankets and a shower with as much pressure as a bird fountain. Regardless, the hygienic accouterments and cloth-wrapped twin mattresses were inviting given the fact that I had not slept in over a day and reeked of B.O. and anal seepage.

The introductory process with the Castellon family was delightful and stuffed with fragmented English and Español conversation.

Max’s mother Marta was incredibly sweet as she kept offering different plates of food and filling our glasses with soft drinks we did not recognize the names of.

Marta also seemed to sexualize every conversation she had with us.

Max’s sister Lydia was younger than he but sweet like the other two and, like her mother, was an independent person cognizant of her womanhood and sexuality.

Dinner was not all eye-fucking and misconstrued sexual musk though. The band (myself included) explained to the Castellon how much we had already loved Mexico City.

One thing that was for certain: in the time of us being in Mexico, we had to see the pyramids.

The Pyramid of the Moon, the Pyramid of the Sun, and the Valley of Death all sounded so mystic and alluring even though we were blindsided by the fact that we would be shown around and taken to them by someone we did not know.

We were told Max’s friend Paulo, who was apparently at the show, would get us to the pyramids the next day. Paulo did not drive and we really didn’t know much about him other than he was younger than all of us and unlike 80 percent the band, Paulo did not speak any English.

This little tidbit of information only emphasized the fact that throughout the trip, we would become very reliant on X’s bilingualism. Not only for our journey planned for the next day, but for the entirety of our time in Central America and to help us translate our thoughts to Lydia and Marta as they too did not speak a lot of English.

Even when we had X facilitate conversation, the women’s glances and X’s high-pitched giggling throughout the ethnolinguistic game of charades gave the dinner the last supper feel…if the last supper was actually a picture taken right before Jesus and all his apostles started fucking each other.

Infrared sniff this shit out in conversation and any time a woman would look at him, he would try to ‘Wolf on Wall Street’ his ass into the situation by flaunting his deeply selfish charisma that set off some pheromonal vibe desperate people were attracted to.

He attracts the kind of person that leaves food out for strays to draw attention to themselves in some way.

The same kind of person that prefaces conversations at the bar with, “I keep a toothbrush and deodorant in my purse at all times for any occasion that might POP up.”

The same exact kind of person that walks up to you while you are smoking a cigarette, asks for one, steals the cigarette from your mouth to stick the lit end to the unlit end of the one between their lips while refusing the lighter and explaining, “I’m really good at sucking.”

People like that swarmed to Infrared because Infrared was that kind of dude. Unlike Marta who was subtly sexy and mature, he was brash and over-sexualized the simplest of interactions.

For example, if he were to pass a woman in a small hallway where restrooms would be in a restaurant, he would unnecessarily put his hands on their waste as they pass each other by. I know this because he did that to my then girlfriend at a party prior to him knowing she was there with me.

Shit’s gross.

Infrared tried his best impression of former Interscope Records artist Rico Suave with both Marta and Lydia alike. Both attempts were unsuccessful unless his goal was to make Max extremely uncomfortable and unless there happened to be some kind of incestual mother-daughter tag-team happening unbeknownst to my sleepless sarcophagus. The latter extremely fucking unlikely.

Ultraviolet recalled being awoken by the gentle whispers of Lydia and Marta tapping him on the shoulder quietly with a joint-in-hand offering to smoke him out.

Where I was during this episode of (potential, yet wildly farfetched multigenerational erotica and) recreational drug use was not known to me that next morning as I had only heard of distant tales of these things happening.

I didn’t care though. Mosquito bites, soft-served poop, and sleep deprivation aside, I was excited about going to Teotihuacan and witnessing one of the truly incredible feats of communal ingenuity and humankind alike.

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