June 01, 2011

June 2011, Vol. 10, Issue 6

It's June and the summer hath arrived. Oh, and Truckin' is now nine years old. Wow? Nine.


1. Cusco to Ollantaytambo to Augas Calientes by Paul McGuire
People were streaming in all directions from all areas. A group of Peruvian guides, all short men around 5 feet in height with reddish brown skin in alpaca hats, had disembarked from what looked like a cattle car and two Peruvian rail workers at the train's doors hurled backpacks into a pile on the platform, where the guides hovered to retrieve their gear. Meanwhile, hundreds of tourists were getting off the train, while hundreds more were scrambling to catch the train before the doors closed. The train from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu ran on the same singular track. A couple of times a day it transported tourists and supplies back and forth, back and forth... More

2. The Chosen by John Hartness
But it's still annoying. I'll grant that visiting a box that hasn't been touched in 25 years might raise an eyebrow or two, but I'm still blaming the attention of the lummox in the off-the-rack suit on my unwanted companion's unabashed card-counting. Either way, the brutes in suits might have had a few questions for me that I wasn't fully prepared to answer at exactly that moment, so I looked at my old pal Lucky.... More

3. Isn't It Good?
by Kent Coloma
I once asked my mother if I could change my name to Jesus. I used to quiz my friends and they all wanted to change their name at one point in their youth. I have a stage name now. It's not Jesus. The usual Hollywood pseudonym. My friends and I used to intentionally mispronounce "pseudo" like "suede-oh" for our own amusement... More

4. Zen and the Art of the Frijol by George Tate
Being able to focus and enjoy the simplicity of everyday things is the joy of living. You're asking yourself where this bullshit is headed. I believe there is a Zen return to the Art of making a pot of beans. Breathe deeply and pour a fine glass of wine. Savor it and its flavor for the moment....More

5. The Beatles and I by Wolynski
To a child growing up in communist Poland, the Beatles were everything. There was Lenin, Marx and Brezhnev staring grimly from posters everywhere, promising a life of desolation, but just beyond the horizon, there was John, Paul, George and Ringo. We couldn't buy Beatle records, but they filtered in anyway.... More


What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...


From the Editor's Laptop

June is upon us, which means Truckin' would make a great addition to your summer reading pile. So print up this issue and bring it with you to the beach, or the pool, or into the bathroom with you.

The contributors at Truckin' are passionate souls and they write for the love of the written word, which is a fancy way of saying they write for free. True passion. What can be more genuine art than writers exposing their souls to you? And that's what Truckin' authors do month after month. I'm inspired by the tremendous amount of courage that flows through the writers. It's not easy to spill your guts for others' amusement.

So, please help spread the word about Truckin' by any and all means necessary. Email your favorite stories on any and all forms of social media possible. Many thanks in advance for your help.

Contact us if you'd like to be added to the mailing list. Or, if you're interested writing for a future issue, then please check out out submission guidelines and drop us an email.

Before I go, I want to thank you, the reader, for supporting us every month since 2002. Nine years? Wow. The long-form written word is slowly dying off, but each of you keep the spirit burning alive with your unwavering support for Truckin'.

Be good,
McG

"The more I see, the less I see for sure." - John Lennon

Cusco to Ollantaytambo to Augas Calientes

By Paul McGuire © 2011

The wake-up call was set for 4:30 -- that's AM, in the fucking morning -- a time when I'm usually winding down the night and going to sleep. I passed out around around Midnight after chewing on a Vicodin to help ease the throbbing headache that accompanied altitude sickness after my abrupt ascent into the 11,000+ zone.

Our caravan had to ship out of Cusco no later than 6am if we wanted to catch the 8am train out of Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes, which was at least a 100-minute drive away. The breakfast buffet started at 5am and I was still in bed at that time, although I heard the shower running in the adjacent room where Sos and Shirley were staying. I assumed the former military man in Sos was up and at 'em before the wake call echoed in the room. I skipped a shower in favor of checking the previous night's scores from the NBA playoffs via wifi that was a step quicker than dial-up, before I made my way downstairs to the dim dining area.

The majority of the lights were shut off in the lobby with the exception of a few stray lights illuminating the dining room. I peeked into the metal buffet tins and didn't see much edible fare to my liking. No bacon, instead, they offered up what looked like mini-hot dogs as their breakfast meat du jour, the Peruvian version of nitrate-riddled breakfast sausages. I skipped the dogs and scooped up two spoonfuls of runny puke-yellow tinged scrambled eggs, then tossed a couple of hard rolls on my plate next to a couple of slices of fruit. Along with a glass of orange juice and a cup of coca tea -- that might have been my only fuel to carry me atop of Machu Picchu. The runny eggs tasted as expected -- like runny eggs. I just prayed that the eggs wouldn't run right through me with a two hour ride in the Peruvian countryside ahead of me. I'd really hate to have to shit on the side of the road and I made sure I took some extra TP with me -- just in case.

By 5:55am, I checked out of my room and waited in the lobby with Sos and Shirley for the little old lady with the limp who spearheaded our entire tour. Two large groups of other travelers surrounded us, one American and the other Brits, where the median age was anywhere from 15-20 years old than us and everyone looked like wealthy retirees of the adventurous sort, spending a portion of their savings on a trip of a lifetime. I felt a tinge of luck because I got to embark on the same trip at a much earlier juncture in my life and sorta got paid to do it because my client got me halfway there -- I was already in Peru, all I had to do was figure out how to get from Lima to Machu Picchu in order to cross off an exotic destination that appeared in the Top 5 on my bucket list. That's where the little old lady with the limp came in.

Two huge buses idled in front of our hotel, but we were not on neither bus. The little old lady with the limp waved over to us and we followed her to a white station wagon parked behind the buses. She arranged a private car to take us from Cusco to Ollantaytambo. Our driver, Joseph, spoke passable English and cranked up a mix of reggae songs on his car stereo. I stuffed my bag in the back and slid into the front seat. I was gonna be riding shotgun all the way to Ollantaytambo and hoped that I didn't have to shit my pants.

Our route took us up to the outskirts of Cusco up into the hills and we quickly passed any of the big buses on the way. We reached a valley surrounded by rolling hills and farmland that was flanked by the ominous Andes Mountains in the background. At one point, Joseph stopped the car and parked on top of a vista for us to snap a few photos. After an hour or so of driving, we reached the town of Ollantaytambo, located in a valley, and we made our way down from the mountain. We drove through the main part of town, the only route to the train station on the outskirts. We got caught up in traffic at the end of one square. A clusterfuck of small vans and buses filled with tourists were trying to force themselves into a one-way cobblestone road. An exhausted solider with a rifle slung over his shoulder acted as a traffic cop, but there was nowhere to go. We had about ten minutes before our train left the station. At some point I wondered if we should start walking...but then the traffic miraculously subsided and Joseph dropped us off in a parking lot adjacent to the train station.

Vendors as young as six years old swarmed us as we walked down a hill to the depot. It reminded me of Shakedown Street in the parking lot of a Phish or Grateful Dead show -- minus the spun-out wooks slinging drugs -- instead locals were hawking hats, sunscreen, bottles of water, and batteries.

We found the toilet, but it cost 1 soles (35 cents) to get in, and an old lady on a stool front handed you two squares of toilet paper -- hardly enough to clean yourself if you seriously busted ass. The runny eggs were rumbling inside of me and I rushed for one of the two stalls. I was greeted by no toilet seat and the toilet itself was rather small, only a few inches off the dirt floor. I had a false alarm, which was good, because I wasn't prepared to shit in a hole in the ground.

We approached the platform and got caught in a crossfire of mass confusion. People were streaming in all directions from all areas. A group of Peruvian guides, all short men around 5 feet in height with reddish brown skin in alpaca hats, had disembarked from what looked like a cattle car and two Peruvian rail workers at the train's doors hurled backpacks into a pile on the platform, where the guides hovered to retrieve their gear. Meanwhile, hundreds of tourists were getting off the train, while hundreds more were scrambling to catch the train before the doors closed. The train from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu ran on the same singular track. A couple of times a day it transported tourists and supplies back and forth, back and forth.

Sos found a Peru Rail worker who pointed out our exact train. We had less than a few minutes to spare when we boarded what appeared to be a "first class" car. The little old lady with the limp arranged us passage in the "vistadome" car which had windows partially built into the ceilings to view the Andes on our two hour trip to Aguas Calientes.

I had a window seat and noticed that a Japanese guy sat in the aisle seat in my row and his girlfriend sat across from him in the aisle. With the few Japanese phrases I knew, I excused myself and asked him if they wanted to sit together. They were extremely grateful for the gesture and continuously thanked me as the train pulled out of the station, even offering to take a photo of me. Sos gave me a little guff for becoming their new best friend and a celebrity in Japan.

I kept my camera out of sight. I shot a few minutes of video en route to Ollantaytambo, but didn't want to shoot my load taking photos/videos of the mountains along the Urubamba River, an uniquely dangerous waterway where no boats could traverse the narrow river because of all the jagged rocks underneath the water that created rapids that were unnavigable, even for the most astute class five rapids adventurers. I understood why the Spanish never conquered or reached Machu Picchu, because it was in such a remote place, then boats could not get in and the only way to reach the spiritual center of the Incan empire as by foot on the Incan trail.

The railroad had been built at the turn of the 20th century and it followed alongside the Urubamba River, which I nicknamed as the Chocolate Milk River because of it's milky brown color. On the other side of the river, you could see the infamous Incan trail, and a few brave souls were in the middle of their arduous hike.

Our first class car was filled with tourists from all over the globe, which I quickly learned from the variety of languages spoken. A teenager next to me was from Argentina. In front of Shirley and Sos were Germans. A few Brits were in front and a horde of Brazilians were behind us. They went a little loco when the train pulled out of the station and made its first turn through the mountains. Everyone with a video camera or professional camera went berserk in the narrow aisle of the train, elbowing each other for a shot of the mountains. At first I was perplexed -- it was just mountains and not Machu Picchu -- why the fuck was everyone going apeshit trying to get a few seconds of videos in the mountains?

That frenzy died down after twenty minutes and it felt good not to have someone's sweaty ass in my face trying to steady themselves to snap photos of cloudy mountains. I ignored the vapid jackals and settled in with my iPod and mentally prepared myself for the eventual summit at Machu Picchu.

An hour into our voyage, the crew served us a snack in baskets comprised of cookies, fruit, and a roll with a slice of ham and cheese. I skipped the cheese and ate everything. I ordered a coca matte to drink because I needed another injection of Incan Red Bull before we reached the end of the line.

As we inched closer to Aguas Calinetes, the rolling hills and farmland gave way to thick, jungle canopy cover. The mugginess set in and the train grew eerily quiet as we inched into the station. Aguas Calinetes had hot springs at the edge of town, but the mood seemed somber and intense. The lush, green mountains shot up all around us like New York City skyscrapers, but it was surrounded by puffy white and grey clouds, which blocked out the sun and gave the air a smoky, dreamlike quality to it.


Paul McGuire is the author of Lost Vegas and Jack Tripper Stole My Dog.

The Chosen

By John G. Hartness © 2010

Chapter 1

I sensed him before I saw him. I always do. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, playing a little blackjack when I felt his presence over my right shoulder.

“Hi, Lucky.”

“Big A.”

I hate that. He always has to go there right away. And he’s supposed to be subtle. Ass.

“Been here long?” He asked.

“A while. Playing a little cards. You?”

“Well, you know me, Big A, I’ve got a place here. I love this town. Everything about it just calls to me.”

“Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere.”

I finally glanced over and gave him the satisfaction of a look. A new look for him this time around – red riding leathers, no helmet of course, black boots, black hair tied back in a ponytail and sunglasses. The sunglasses were kind of a given, I suppose.

“Nice outfit. You look like one of the cavemen in that insurance commercial.”

“Thanks. You, as always, look well put-together.”

I’ve never been sure how to take his compliments, and I wasn’t in Las Vegas to think, so I just went for face value. I was wearing a worn t-shirt I’d picked up at a roadside store somewhere in Montana sometime in the past, and a thrift store work shirt with the “arry” over the left breast pocket. I don’t know if it used to say “Larry” or “Harry.” Neither one was my name; I just gave Goodwill $2.99 for the shirt.

“Thanks.”

For once he didn’t press the issue and stopped talking, just sat beside me and slid the dealer a hundred. So we played blackjack together for a while. Me playing green chips, him moving quickly from green to black to purple all the way up to the yellow $1,000 chips in a couple of short hours. He lost just enough hands to keep from getting thrown out, but not quite enough to keep the eye in the sky from getting suspicious.

“A, looks like we’ve got company.”

“You got a mouse in your pocket? I’m not the one that’s been sitting here counting cards for three hours.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who took twenty grand in chips out of my safe deposit box this morning. Chips, I might add, that came from a casino that was demolished a couple decades ago.”

I hate that he always has more information than he rightfully should. I suppose, to give him his due, that he does have people literally everywhere in this town. But it’s still annoying. I’ll grant that visiting a box that hasn’t been touched in 25 years might raise an eyebrow or two, but I’m still blaming the attention of the lummox in the off-the-rack suit on my unwanted companion’s unabashed card-counting. Either way, the brutes in suits might have had a few questions for me that I wasn’t fully prepared to answer at exactly that moment, so I looked at my old pal Lucky.

“Keys?”

“Might I suggest California? I hear San Francisco’s nice this time of year, and you know how much you love seafood. Why not check out Fisherman’s Wharf, visit Alcatraz, you know, see the sights a little. My bike’s out front. You’ll know which one. You owe me.”

“We’d have to be even for me to owe you. And we’re not even. This doesn’t even come close. Nowhere near to close.”

“You really know how to wound a guy, Big A.”

“Bite me.” With that, I grabbed Lucky’s keys from the table, tossed a green chip to the dealer and headed for the cage. I spotted another security goon between me and the cage, so I decided on discretion as the better part of valor, tossed a couple grand in chips into the air and used the resulting pandemonium to make my less-than-subtle way to the exit. As I glanced back towards the table where I had left Lucky, I noticed that he and the two guards were having a beer and yukking it up like long-lost frat brothers. Which for all I knew, they might have been.

He was right; I picked out his bike right away. It was a big, loud ostentatious black thing with flames painted on the gas tank. Subtle. I swear the thing looked hungry. I put the key in the ignition (an apple key chain? Really?) and headed South down the Strip, putting California firmly behind me as I remembered Lucky suggesting it. I’m not a contrary person by nature, but I learned a long time ago that it was a pretty safe bet to do the opposite of anything that Lucky wanted me to do.

Okay, so looking back on it, maybe opening a 25-year-old lock box wasn’t exactly the most under the radar move I could have made. I know that people take out safe deposit boxes in this town all the time. But not all of them pay the rent on those boxes with automatic debits from numbered accounts. And I just had the bad luck to run into the same security guard that rented me the box the first time, on his first day of the job 25 years ago. Little bugger had a good memory, that’s for sure. And I guess I hadn’t changed much since then. Ok, make that not at all. But I’m still blaming Lucky. After all, he’s been taking the blame for things for millennia now, so what’s one more little incident?

Maybe I should back up a little. This is as good a time as any for introductions. My name is Adam. No, I don’t have a last name. Yes, that Adam. No really, you can feel for the rib if you like. But it’s better if you don’t. I’m ticklish.

John Hartness is a writer from Charlotte, NC. He's the author of The Chosen.

The Beatles and I

By Wolynski © 2009


The Beatles are back, not that they ever went away, it’s just that there’s new, expensive Beatle product to be flogged to aging baby boomers.

To a child growing up in communist Poland, the Beatles were everything. There was Lenin, Marx and Brezhnev staring grimly from posters everywhere, promising a life of desolation, but just beyond the horizon, there was John, Paul, George and Ringo.

We couldn’t buy Beatle records, but they filtered in anyway.

In 1969, my father got kicked out of Poland for being Jewish - this was such good fortune, that suddenly everyone was scrambling for Jewish ancestors. We had to spend ten days in Vienna. I remember going to a record store and looking at the latest Beatle album “Abbey Road”. Little did I know that within 6 months I’d be living at 40 Abbey Road - visible on the cover if not for the trees.

All these Americans tourists would descend on Abbey Road, posing for pictures on the zebra crossing and holding up traffic. I laughed at those silly Americans - well, we’re destined to become what we laugh at, because I’m a foolish American myself now.

On Dec 15th, 1969 John and Yoko were giving a charity concert the Lyceum (I found snippets of it on You Tube). My friend, Kasia, a popular composer in Poland was visiting, and we decided to go. Other acts on the bill I remember were Blue Mink and Delaney & Bonnie. Then John and Yoko came out with their band: Eric Clapton, George Harrison, Keith Moon of the Who, Billy Preston and others. Wow.

The first number was fine, if unrehearsed, but then Yoko started screaming. Kasia, also a voice coach, said she’s projecting correctly (if unpleasantly) and protecting her vocal chords and she could go on for hours. And indeed she did. The place practically cleared out. It was December 69, before the Beatles had officially broken up and people were confused - what was Lennon up to with this dreadful woman? What about the Beatles? They were having none of it - they’re not hanging around for this shit, some Asian woman yelping like a cat in heat. Lennon was not exactly popular in 1969.

We went backstage, just walked in - John and Yoko were holding court, totally out of it, glassy-eyed, wishing everyone peace and understanding. Yoko sat there like a malevolent squaw. Kasia and I exchanged pleasantries with the Lennons, John signed Kasia’s album and they wished us peace. I guess if you become the most famous person on earth at a young age, it’s OK to crack under the strain.

On Dec 8th, 1980 I was doing a gig at Beefsteak Charlie’s on 8th Ave & 45th St. I was on stage when suddenly the audience lost all interest in me and I heard loud whispering. John Lennon had been shot, forty blocks from here. Early the next day, I had to go pick up my green card - 9th Dec 1980 is when I became legal.

Just think - they’re selling music now that was popular over forty years go. In 1965, nobody bought music from 1925. Nothing much has changed since the 60s, except for the Internet and cell phones. And as long as the baby boomers are still around, nothing much will change. Hip hop only exists to remind us we’re old farts. On the bright side, women in their sixties are becoming the most powerful demographic.

Actually the Beatles got remastered for the Cirque de Soleil spectacle “Love” in Vegas - they had to do something to play it over a few hundred speakers. I hated the CD “Love” - it concentrates on the late era, psychedelic Beatles and is pretentious and pompous, sucking the simplicity and joy out of the band.

I’ve listened to a few of the new remasters - the sound is fuller and lusher, the instruments more separated. But, hey, maybe the Beatles wanted their guitars squished together. The old recordings are just fine - it‘s not like you listen to the remasters and can‘t go back. In fact, you can‘t wait to get back - I like my Beatles gritty.


Wolynski is a photographer and former comic who lives in Las Vegas.

Isn't It Good?

By Kent Coloma © 2011

My favorite Beatles song is Norwegian Wood. I’d always liked it, but then I heard the song that one night at the UCLA party where we ran into Mike Fortner quite unexpectedly. His name isn’t really Mike. It’s David. His older sister was there too, and I can’t remember her name for some reason, even though she was one of those older girls that was always very sexy and memorable and unattainable, because girls never date their younger brother’s friends in the same way Victoria’s Secret models don’t date regular humans. Hers was and old fashioned name, 1920s or so, but she was calling herself something different that night at UCLA, something more feminine.

It’s weird I can’t remember her name. That’s one skill I have, though it wasn’t always so. I’d meet people and wouldn’t listen or I was drunk or I just didn’t care what their parents called ‘em. Now I’m really good and like to call people by name when I know they’ve forgotten mine, which is a dickish little move, but if I could change they could too. My parents named me “Edward,” but nobody ever calls me that, except bill collectors who call on the phone. They think they’re being clever sometimes and say, “Hey, is Eddie home?” but nobody ever calls me that, either. Marlo, from “The Wire,” says “My name is my name!” He’s lucky that way.

“Sorry,” I say when the credit card people call. “He doesn’t live here anymore.” It’s a short-term solution. ”No, I don’t have a forwarding address.” Sometimes, I tell them there might be an Edward or an Ed or a Ted or a Neddy, but I’m not sure since the number they have reached belongs to a commune of sorts, lots of people hanging around, coming and going, lots of people without names or with made-up names. I live alone and drink Jameson with one ice cube.

John, Paul, George and Ringo. Always in that order. First name basis. Hierarchical ranking. We had climbed into an upstairs room via the roof, via the window and Norwegian Wood was just starting to play. “I once had a girl or should I say she once had me.” There were speakers mounted in the four corners of the room and I fell into a beanbag. Mike Fortner. Here! We called him “Mike” because a high school English teacher mistakenly called him that more than once. It was an easy class, independent study mostly, and we sat in the back and sang Simon and Garfunkel songs or went to the cafeteria for chocolate milk and sugar cookies.

I once asked my mother if I could change my name to Jesus.

I used to quiz my friends and they all wanted to change their name at one point in their youth. I have a stage name now. It’s not Jesus. The usual Hollywood pseudonym. My friends and I used to intentionally mispronounce “pseudo,” like “suede-oh,” for our own amusement. I call them Don and Brett. Always in that order. Scott wasn’t there that night, the night we were really high and listened to Norwegian Wood in a strange room you entered via a window, but if he was there, I would have said Don, Brett and Scott.

There are names you can’t use anymore for your children. O.J. Adolph. Yoko. Judas.

Norwegian Wood was originally called This Bird Has Flown, which is what John Lennon ultimately decided to use as a sub-title. He wrote the song about a brief affair he once had and tried to make the lyrics as opaque as possible so his wife wouldn’t know. I closed my eyes and the song massaged me from the four speakers mounted in the corner of the room. The older Fortner sister—I remember the younger sister’s name, Catherine—poked her head in and saw us all laying about and shook her head as she closed the door.

I was in a play once and my name was Joel in the play. I’ve always liked that name. It’s strong and close to ‘Joe’ which is a good name, a common name that people recognize and you don’t have to say it four times for them to get it. But it’s “Joel” and different and every time I meet someone with that name, I envy them, even though the play was terrible. I thought I was okay in it, but my phone isn’t ringing much these days, except for outsourced operators calling for Edward, so I guess not.

After the song was over we weren’t really sure what to do and we didn’t do anything, except maybe smoke another joint, until later when that guy from Don’s dorm got too familiar with some girl and she had her boyfriend come on over to wipe the smirk of the guy’s face with his elbow first and then his fist. We kind of stepped in to stop it, but not really because the guy from Don’s dorm spit when he talked and couldn’t hold his liquor, so when he got thrown out of the party we walked the other direction.

When I was little, my Mom’s friend asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, “Famous.” Oh, you want to be rich and famous, she said, and I said no, just famous and I practiced signing my autograph, which is full of flourish and decidedly feminine in a loopy, non-angular sort of way. I write it still, sometimes, when I’m drinking Jameson with one ice cube and I call you on the phone to see how you’ve been.


Kent Coloma is a writer from just outside of Los Angeles, CA.

Zen and the Art of the Frijol

By George Tate © 2011

Pinto beans are the Mexican equivalent of the staple of life. Breath is the staple of life. Being able to focus and enjoy the simplicity of everyday things is the joy of living. You’re asking yourself where this bullshit is headed. I believe there is a Zen return to the Art of making a pot of beans. Breathe deeply and pour a fine glass of wine. Savor it and its flavor for the moment. Drink it down and take a breath. Find the bean crock, spoon, and jalapeno, two cups of pinto beans, onion, minced garlic, seasoning, and chorizo (Mexican sausage). This is simplicity. Take a breath.

Wash the beans in a bowl. Do this gently as the wine takes its effect. Watch the water as it turns from brown to amber and then clear. Turn off the water, take a breath, and pour another glass. Reach in the bowl with both hands and squeeze the beans gently once or twice and pour out the water. Have another breath, savor the wine and fill the bowl with water again. Repeat the complete process while continuing to breathe deeply and savoring the wine.

Heat a pan of water, pour the beans in the crock and add minced garlic and seasoning to your taste. Have a breath and a glass while the pan of water comes to a boil. Cover the beans with the hot water to four inches above the top of the contents, put the top on the crock and breathe deeply in meditation for about 12 hours.

Find the wine and a glass, take a breath and one more, pour the wine and savor it. Find your cutting surface, a good knife, onion, jalapeno, and chorizo. Mince the onion into very fine pieces. Take the seeds from a large jalapeƱo and dice it into very fine pieces. Wash your hands with soap or your meditation will be on the pain in your eye for the next thirty minutes.

Take a breath, pour another glass and find the comal (or frying pan) and chop the chorizo into fine parts. Simmer the meat slowly in the pan until it gravies and turns brown. Take a breath, move the crock to a medium flame and add water to cover the beans at least two inches and put the top on the crock. Savor the wine and the kitchen aroma for a few minutes while breathing. When the pot is boiling, take the flame lower until you find a simmer point.

Add all the ingredients at this time and cover the pot.

Pinto beans let you know when they are done. After four or five hours check the pot and stir it gently. Breathe in the aroma and look for different colors that rise as you stir. Cooked pintos caramelize and throw off their sugars into the water making it a milky brown. When the beans are done turn off the fire and allow them to cool in the pot. Set a place at the table and pour a glass of wine. Enjoy the flavors of the wine and pintos slowly, breathe in and meditate on chewing.

Clean your table and wash the dishes. Sit and meditate for a while, breathe out, BUT don’t breathe in.


George Tate is a former over the road driver of fourteen years that love's travel, wild wimmin', Pisano Wine, and Omaha 08. When they are a package, watch out.