Some lesbians are into whales.


Some lesbians are in Whales.


So how did I become Whelsh? How did I come to take this selfie where I’ve got mad chola face like I just climbed up in this muh and am about to jump Yahweh’s favorite fishing lure, Jonah (in Sweden is it Yonah?) and claim this bitch? Can’t you picture me all up in that O.T. prophet’s grill screaming, “This shit ain’t blood in blood out, ese! IT’S WHALE IN WHALE OUT!”


Never mind how Jonah started a fire in a whale. Where’d he get those hot dogs? I know. They’re magic. The Bible is magic. Hot dogs deep inside of whales magic.

Well, I sort of wound up in Whales because of Chinaman.


This is seriously his grave. He’s buried in the little old cemetery nestled in the oaken hills of Los Alamos and his grave is so stark and so like WTF? OH MY GOD?! THERE’S THIS PERSON BURIED HERE IN CALIFORNIA’S BFE WHO’S REALLY FAR FROM HOME AND ALL HE GETS IS  A ROCK WITH HIS GENDER AND NATIONALITY OF ORIGIN? WHAT IF HE’S REALLY A FILIPINO? I noticed his grave once a couple of years ago when my dad took us to the graveyard for a stroll and he and I oohed and ahhed during our first encounter with the AA. Anonymous Asian.

CHINAMAN is super sad but also kind of soothing like that’s it. You live, you work, you do things, maybe really cool things, such as build America, and then you die and are mostly forgotten except your perceived ethnicity lives on with a side of gender. What will your legacy be? BLATINA? DOUBLE RICAN (COSTA, PUERTO) DUDE? WHITE BITCH? PART WHITE BITCH? WANNABE WHITE BITCH? GINGER MANCHILD?

I strongly feel that CHINAMAN might not even be a CHINAMAN. People throw around the word Chinese like they throw around Mexican. Pupusas are Mexican. So is Brazil. And the Pope. And Spain. Thpain.

I went to see CHINAMAN because of an urge to pilgrimage. I’d made a pilgrimage to the giant clam in Pismo Beach a few days earlier in the name of all that is briny and vulvous and for some reason, I felt like visiting CHINAMAN might soothe something itchy inside me. Rub some psychic aloe on it.

You know what? I kissed my dad’s head before leaving home and got Rogaine on my lips.

That sounds like a refrain from a rap song:

Rogaine on my lips/

Rogaine on my lips

You know what else is fun? Taking the word sunshine out of John Denver’s song Sunshine on My Shoulders and replacing it with Rogaine.

Rogaine on my shoulders make me happy…

Near CHINAMAN, I spied this pile of wooden things stacked next to a shack where they keep the shovels and I thought about how the wooden things could be repurposed as really cute bookshelves. I contemplated picking them up and loading them into my car and I even pictured how I’d arrange this cemetery furniture in my living room and what knick knacks and books I’d put in or on it but then I remembered that the last time I stole something important from a cemetery, my friend Stan would up running into the Black Dahlia’s ghost in my living room. His vision, however, might have been a side effect from eating a three day old, unrefrigerated Jumbo Jack.

I left the cemetery empty-handed and went to use the public restroom at the park at the foot of the hills. On my way to the toilet, I found an interracial couple sitting together on a little bridge spanning a crick. They were doing the strangest thing. They were reading.

Getting back into my vehicle, I drove south, through Buellton and past the tunnel Dustin Hoffman drives through in THE GRADUATE. That tunnel is a very safe place. Around it, in those mountainy hills, mountain lions are just waiting to eat your face.

I got to Santa Barbara, pulled off the road to get a snack near the mental hospital where Edie Sedgewick was held in captivity, and wondered what flavor Nixon was into.


What would Watergate taste like? Deception? Water? Hyperhydrosis?

With a styrofoam bowl of fro yo cooling my crotch, I drove into Santa Barbara’s hills. I was ready for another pilgrimage. I’d brought Melody Owens’ DREAM JOURNALS with me and am writing a review of it for another blog and I had the idea to photograph the DREAM JOURNALS in dreamy places. I figured what better place than the Natural History Museum with the life size whale skeleton splashing around next to the parking lot?

That whale skeleton was really integral to the shaping of my scatological imagination.

Dad would bring us to the museum, make us get inside of the whale, mouth first, and narrate how we were being digested. I would imagine being chewed and liquified as I walked along its skeletal shell and of course, at the end, Dad narrated the whale pooping us out as cacitas and then we’d go look at the natural history exhibits as happy pieces of whale shit.

I explained this to the woman whom I paid my admission fee to and she gave me a look like shut the fuck up.

I didn’t care. I will take you on my nostalgic voyage whether you like it or not.

I posed DREAM JOURNALS all over the place but didn’t get to pose it with the bees.




The bees lived in a hive surrounded by glass so that you could witness them working and the most soothing thing in the world is to leisurely watch others work. This is why, in college, I loved to spy on my neighbors through their skylight.

The bees, however, were gone, according to some museum broad they had to get rid of them because nobody knew how to take care of them, and that seems like a bum excuse if you ask me. They were taking care of themselves but whatever. Anyways, here’s a gull barfing a Cheeto and here’s a link to some of my poems that are online today.



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