Sunday, April 30, 2017


Race. Class. America.

You want some verdad? Congratulations. You came to the right place. Of course, my verdad may very well not be your verdad. You may read my verdad and mutter,"Bull fucking shit." Pero. This is my blog so I write my version of the truth which at the end of the day is the only version of the truth I fucking know. I will not presume to speak to anyone's truth but my own. Truth is not objective.

This is not an essay or a rant or a ramble. This is not a cohesive piece of journalism. This is a word collage colored with rage, frustration, sorrow and futility. The television is on. It isn't my television. I'm living with my white ex-husband in his brick house in a quiet subdivision. There's a pool. It isn't as clean as I'd like it to be. The other night there was a block party. I did something I always wanted to do. I karaoked most of "Boyz N The Hood." About halfway through the song a black man took the microphone out of my hand and finished the rap because I wasn't executing it to his satisfaction and I tell don't fuck with Eazy E. I'm a white woman, they tell me, and I don't know shit about a black man's version of La Verdad. I was born to a couple of dirt poor white teenagers in a little town you've never heard of in 1973. I've researched my lineage but not extensively. Cherokee. French. Swiss. Irish. Scottish. My blood doesn't matter unless it's on your hands. I grew up hearing and singing "Do Lord," "Old Rugged Cross," "Jesus Loves Me," "Jesus Loves The Little Children," "How Great Thou Art," "The Battle Hymn of The Republic," "Victory in Jesus." I grew up drinking sweet iced tea and Kool-Aid, any flavor you can think of. I grew up eating mustard potato salad, fried chicken, fried porkchops, fried catfish, fried SPAM on white bread, bologna on white bread, peanut butter and jelly on white bread, Cheetos, Nacho Doritos, tacos my white mom fried in a black skillet, biscuits with butter and jelly, biscuits with butter and maple syrup, biscuits with butter and white cream gravy, donuts, honeybuns, peach cobbler, watermelon and fried pies, any flavor you can think of. No shoes in the summer, just like the Loretta Lynn song. Punishment was spankings with hands, leather belts and plastic flyswatters and soapy rags in my mouth. When I was five I called my uncle a "motherfucker" because he wouldn't stop tickling me. My grandmother pulled me into the bathroom, stuffed a soapy rag in my mouth, closed the door, left me in there for a while to think about what a vile piece of shit I was.

Oscar The Grouch was green. Big Bird was yellow. Grover was some damn kind of blue. I went to art school for a few months and I still can't tell you the exact color of Grover. Lo siento. Why do I have a blog called Chupacabra Disco? Why do I pepper my English with Spanish? I ain't brown. I'm white. I didn't know I was white until I was in the first grade and playing with my brown friends in their backyard. Their mother chased me out of the yard with a broom screaming at me in Spanish. Wait. That isn't true. I knew I was white when I was playing with my mixed friends next door in Goree, Texas. Their mother was brown. Their father was white. And my best friends were Stacey, a girl who looked white, and her brother Jay, who looked brown. My ex-husband is watching a show about Rodney King and the riots that ensued after the white cops were let go without so much as a slap on the wrists. I tried watching. I said,"I can't watch this bullshit." Why am I angry? I'm angry because I want to see anarchy in America but not that kind. I want to see heads rolling in the streets but I don't want the focus to be on the color of skin. You know that saying KILL THE RICH? I can dig it. I'm enraged that Cracker Barrel Nation voted a talking Cheeto into the highest fucking office. I'm kind of pissed that the richest I've ever been is when playing MONOPOLY with my son. Oh I can show you all kinds of OUCHES and most of them have nothing to do with the blood that courses through my veins and everything to do with my bank account and credit score. I was playing with my friends Stacey and Jay next door and Stacey thought she was some kind of fucking authority, the little bitch, and told me that when I got older the worst mistake I could make would be to have a black boyfriend. Por que? What the fuck did a little girl with a white dad and a brown mom know about black boys? She also told me that I shouldn't ever do drugs. Okay. Sage counsel. Words to live by. One night I was working at the Fantasy Ranch in Arlington, Texas. This was in 1995. I was living with my pimp, of sorts, a sociopathic white man who came from one of the wealthiest white families in Kerrville, Texas. We were living in a Super 8 motel room across the street from Fantasy Ranch. I was wearing a glittery g-string. I had short hair. I was probably wearing a fuckton of makeup. I'm sure I was wearing deodorant and cologne. I was giving a black man a lap dance because he paid me $20. At one point during the lap dance the black man started sucking on my pink nipple. I have two pink nipples. He was sucking on one of them. I can't tell you at gunpoint if he was sucking on my right nipple or my left nipple. Right. Left. Right. Left. Wrong. Right. Black. White. Verdad. Lies. Memory. Construction. Race. Class. America. A black bouncer pulled me aside and said,"Don't let him get away with that shit. He ain't payin' you enough money to pull that bullshit." I am paraphrasing, not quoting the man word for word. This happened when I was twenty-two years old. I'm forty-four years old now but I'm still white and my nipples are still pink.

Today I rode with my white ex-husband and our white son in my white ex-husband's black SUV to Whole Foods. For the first time in my forty-four years I sat at the bar in Whole Foods and ordered a glass of Calixo. That's cava. That's Spanish champagne. I paid five bucks and change with my debit card. I left the barmaid a six dollar tip in cash. I think she was brown. I was definitely white. The Calixo was golden and bubbly.

"There ain't no answer. There ain't gonna be any answer. There never has been an answer. That's the answer." Fred Sanford said that once. I jest. Gertrude Stein, a white woman, is famous for that quote and a few other things. She loved the fuck out of Alice B. Toklas. Alice B. Toklas made kick ass brownies.

I've loved various men. The man I loved longest, hardest, deepest, truest is brown. Can I prove that love in a court of law? I cannot. I was willing to prove that love in a Catholic church. Pero. Pero. Once in a karaoke dive bar on South Padre Island I serenaded my man with "My Man" by Billie Holiday, my favorite singer. He walked up to the bar while I was singing my heart out and ordered another beer. While a skinny white woman (big smile) (long blonde hair) from Austin was onstage singing some bullshit rah rah ree golly gee it's good to be ME pop song the man I loved longest, hardest, deepest, truest wolf whistled and cried out,"Damn, girl!" I guess he liked the way she hit those high notes.

"Damn, girl. You're still stuck on THAT? Move on. I have."

Yes. I wrote a book. I published a book. I loved him but I couldn't prove it. I could write a hundred books and sing a hundred songs and donate pint after pint of plasma and make chicken fried steak that melts in his mouth and park my white ass on gray concrete for two hours waiting for him to meet with the probation officer and give him $1750 because I'm a rich white bitch (financial aid) (disability) (six or seven maxed out credit cards) and BABY YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR and that is nada nada NADA. It hurts, a little. I take the ache and I make art. White people are fake. White people don't ache. What do I know about pain? Nada. Nada. Nada.

I'm living in a brick house with my white ex-husband and our white son. Today I rode to Whole Foods with my white ex-husband and our white son in my white ex-husband's black SUV. I used two different credit cards to pay for organic maple syrup and kale and asparagus and my favorite soap (Sunshine, it's called...smells like lemons) and soap for my son and some kind of gluten free frozen treats for my son and a few other things and I liked how the brown paper bags looked so snug inside the silver cart and I liked looking at the blue sky today today because I contributed, I was happy, I wasn't the black cloud my mom accused me of being last year after my grandfather, her father, died. "We are burying our family patriarch so don't come here if you are just going to be a black cloud because you're upset that some scumbag broke your heart." She said. I paraphrase. You get the gist. Is my mom a horrible person? Is my mom a monster? No. She's flawed. I'm flawed. You're flawed. Who is morally superior? Who is immaculate? Send me an eloquent old school snail mail letter if you have the heart and the guts, telling me exactly how morally superior and immaculate you are. If you send me an e-mail telling me exactly how morally superior and immaculate you are I will mark you as cowardly and small and cheap and petty and not worth a second of my fucking time. I require postage.

Who is a scumbag? Who is a black cloud? I don't know. I know nada. I know today the bags were brown and the cart was silver and the sky was blue and that made me happy. Mucho.

(cannot be denied)


Everything is caricatural here. I take a plane to see my father on his death-bed and up there in the clouds, in a raging storm, I overhear two men behind me discussing how to put over a big deal, the big deal involving paper boxes, no less. The stewardess, who has been trained to behave like a mother, a nurse, a mistress, a cook, a drudge, never to look untidy, never to lose her Marcel wave, never to show a sign of fatigue or disappointment or chagrin or loneliness, the stewardess puts her lily-white hand on the brow of one of the paper-box salesmen and in the voice of a ministering angel, says: "Do you feel tired this evening? Have you a headache? Would you like a little aspirin?" We are up in the clouds and she is going through this performance like a trained seal. When the plane lurches suddenly she falls and reveals a tempting pair of thighs. The two salesmen are now talking about buttons, where to get them cheaply, how to sell them dearly. Another man, a weary banker, is reading the war news. There is a great strike going on somewhere. Several of them, in fact. We are going to build a fleet of merchant vessels to help England next December. The storm rages. The girl falls down again. She's full of black and blue marks. But she comes up smiling, dispensing coffee and chewing gum, putting her lily-white hand on someone else's forehead, inquiring if he is a little low, a little tired perhaps. I ask her if she likes her job. For answer she says,"It's better than being a trained nurse." The salesmen are going over her points; they talk about her like a commodity. They buy and sell, buy and sell. For that they have to have the best rooms in the best hotels, the fastest, smoothest planes, the thickest, warmest overcoats, the biggest, fattest purses. We need their paper boxes, their buttons, their synthetic furs, their rubber goods, their hosiery, their plastic this and that. We need the banker, his genius for taking our money and making himself rich. The insurance man, his policies, his talk of security, of dividends...we need him, too. Do we? I don't see that we need any of these vultures. I don't see that we need any of these cities, these hell-holes I've been in. I don't think we need a two-ocean fleet either. I was in Detroit a few nights ago. I saw the Mannerheim Line in the movies. I saw how the Russians pulverized it. I learned the lesson. Did you? Tell me what it is that man can build, to protect himself, which other men cannot destroy? What are we trying to defend? Only what is old, useless, dead, indefensible. Every defense is a provocation to assault. Why not surrender? Why not give? Give all? It's so damned practical, so thoroughly effective and disarming. Here we are, we the people of the United States: the greatest people on earth, so we think. We have everything. Everything it takes to make people happy. We have land, water, sky and all that goes with it. We could become the great shining example of the world; we could radiate peace, joy, power, benevolence. But there are ghosts all about, ghosts whom we can't seem to lay hands on. We are not happy, not contented, not radiant, not fearless.


Saturdays Are For Bathing Betsy

I am thinking about Betsy almost all the time now.
I am also thinking about the relationship between
a man and his watch. I am amazed at how each sort
of animal and plant manages to keep its kind alive.
Shocking poultry. Maybe there's a movie playing
downtown about a dotty fat woman with a long knife
who dismembers innocent ducks and chickens. But it
is the reconstruction of the villa of the mysteries
that is killing me. How each sort of animal and
plant prevents itself from returning to dust
just a little while longer while I transfer some
assets to a region where there are no thinking creatures,
just worshipping ones. They oscillate along like magicians,
deranged seaweed fellows and their gals, a Nile landscape
littered with Pygmies. I'm lolling on the banks.
I am not just a bunch of white stuff inside my skull.
No, there is this villa, and in the villa there is
a bathing pool, and on Saturdays Betsy always visits.
I am not the first rational man, but my tongue
does resemble a transmitter. And, when wet, she
is a triangle. And when she's wet, time has a fluff-
iness about it, and that has me trotting about,
loathing any locomotion not yoked to her own.



This beast that rends me in the sight of all,
This love, this longing, this oblivious thing,
That has me under as the last leaves fall,
Will glut, will sicken, will be gone by spring.
The wound will heal, the fever will abate,
The knotted hurt will slacken in the breast;
I shall forget before the flickers mate
Your look that is today my east and west.
Unscathed, however, from a claw so deep
Though I should love again I shall not go:
Along my body, waking while I sleep,
Sharp to the kiss, cold to the hand as snow,
The scar of this encounter like a sword
Will lie between me and my troubled lord.



I haven't been on meds since 2011. I have Medicare (the government put me on Medicare in 2012 without my consent when I was only thirty-nine...doesn't make any damn sense but not much does) which only pays for hospitalization. These past few years I have tried to maintain (and mostly suicide attempts unless you count alcohol poisoning on my fortieth birthday AND I made the dean's list TWICE at UTSA and I FUCKING GRADUATED, finally) by meditating, exploiting the usual outlets (art, writing, having sex with random men), drinking green tea, drinking lemon water, eating a fuckton of kale and asparagus and sleeping much more than the average human being over the age of five. Planet Fitness treadmill. Hula hoop. Dancing in Goodwill heels. I haven't had sex since I broke it off with the last ex and I can't say I miss it. My vibrator works fine. I no longer have the stomach for half-assed ambivalence. You know how it goes. Maybe you don't. This is how it goes for me, a love addict in recovery: I fall for a man for whatever fucking reason. Maybe his Mars impacts my Pluto in a really poignant and potent fucking way. Maybe I like his command of a foreign language. Maybe I like his hands. His voice. That's the normal biological part. But then the limbic xmas tree bullshit kicks in and I HAVE TO HAVE HIM whatever the cost. So I go there. I go all out. Balls to the wall. "Why must I be a teenager in love?" Except I ain't sixteen. But oops...he still loves his ex-wife or some bitch who broke his heart in 1985. He digs me, make no mistake. He loves fucking me. That's the no duh part, the hard dick and wet pussy part. That's the Tecate and Amy Winehouse on Saturday night and breakfast tacos on Sunday morning part. But beyond a good purposeful easy fucking...there's the now what? There's the stale donut and shitty coffee. There's the,"Let's take it a day at a time, Misti." So you can see how a bitch could remain discombobulated. Romantic love has always been hard-won for me, even when I was seventeen and a size zero. I chased both men who decided to marry me. I had to convince them I was worth a ring. I cut my teeth on Rapunzel, Snow White, "Gone with The Wind." The fairy tale silver screen magic big deal big time LOVE thing never happened for me. I've been teased by it for four decades and I am finally done. I'm bitter, yes. I don't want to be. I have had plenty of highs. I can say I've been to the ball. I've been to the banquet. Selah.

But. Wow. Excuse the ramble. I feel like I need meds again because I'm in dangerous territory. It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed and leave the house. I've often thought of selling my car, taking off, living in some rat hole motel room or studio apartment in another state or country, just hiding out, writing my little stories and poems, walking to the store, talking to the shadows and constellations and planets. Being balls to the wall batshit crazy and not apologizing for any of it. Pero. I have a son. I love him too much to abandon him for good. The few months I spent without him in San Francisco and Eagle Pass were more than enough. I've stared down the suicidal ideations because, finally, that's a legacy I don't want to leave my son. It's the deepest, strongest love I have ever experienced. I'm constantly humbled and amazed. So. I'm thinking of road tripping to Acuna, Mexico and loading up on meds. Prozac. Celexa.Whatever I can crush and snort with a rolled up dollar bill. Whatever the fuck can make me feel halfway human. I haven't bought meds in Mexico since 1990something when I bought a year's supply of birth control pills for something like twenty bucks. The last time I crossed in March 2016 I showed the border patrol asshole my passport and he didn't give me any trouble, just the usual terse lizard brain Texas drawl condescension. I hadn't sinned. Just traded a pair of wedges an ex bought me at Target for a silver tortuga necklace. I'm wearing it now.

My favorite jewelry is the jewelry I give myself. All the other stuff ends up at the pawn shop or on eBay.


Private videos, photographs and Misti scented panties available via PayPal payments. Books. Art. Dental floss. Lipstick. Everything is for sale, even my ass. Especially my ass. There's a ten second timer on my $200 Kodak. I'm still searching for that holiest grail, Legitimate Work From Home Gig. My panties are legitimate. My beauty and sex appeal are fading fast. Capture what you can while you can. I could die soon! I drive a subpar vehicle all over San Antonio! The other day I was hit from behind while leaving the Walmart parking lot. The asshole in the Mercedes was gesturing and screaming and making ugly faces because he was so goddamn anxious to get to wherever the fuck he was going. I put my Chevrolet Cobalt in park. I got out of the car. Slammed my door. I had hell in my eyes. Asshole got out of Mercedes, said,"Are you okay?" I said,"Don't talk to me, I'm getting my phone." My phone was in my trunk because the passenger door doesn't lock. Checked my bumper. No damage. I grabbed my phone, got back in my car, slammed the door and drove home. I wasn't crying. So maybe I shouldn't be on disability, after all.


alice well beyond wonderland

SPF. Lemon water. Kale.

somewhere east of acuna

Monday, April 10, 2017

How To Sell Books in America

Don't live in Texas
if you can help it.
Familiarize yourself
with your audience.
Show up at coffee houses
and bars and try to look
and smell better than okay.
You want your audience
to trust you.
Your audience will not trust you
if you do not look and smell
much better than okay.
If you have long legs
that might help.
What kind of television
does your audience watch?
You need to know this.
Be able to converse
about politics,Game of Thrones,
sex, socialism, capitalism, taxes,
the best hiking trails,
Sammy Hagar
and colon cleanses.
If you are a hermit
who reads the King James bible
and never gets drunk or laid
no one will trust you.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Why all those selfies?
You don't get out much, do you?
Do you even eat cheeseburgers?
You eat kale with honey?
Sure, a vibrator is a good friend to have
but you have to develop some kind of social skills
so you can increase your tribe.
Look at Koresh.
Look at Jones.
These men had tribes!
All you need to know about David Koresh
is that he had more groupies than Robert Plant.
All you need to know about Jim Jones
is that he died with a handful of pussy
and a mouthful of ass.
So. Yeah. Gotta have charisma.
Gotta be able to brag in the locker room
about all that pussy and ass cred.
To sell books in America
you have to sell yourself first, basically.
You can't be no basic ass bitch.
Don't be weird about it.
Be Ted Bundy about it.
Motherfucker was only weird
in hindsight.

broKen reCord//reCommended reading

My books ain't selling.
I write about sex quite a bit.
Sex sells.
But my books do not sell.
People are not buying books.
People are not reading books.
People are more interested lately
in talking cheetos and tomahawks
and rabid conservative republican
sex scandals involving mucho dinero.
I would like very much
to have a place at the table.
I, too, wish to see the fucking world.
Not on Pinterest or Instagram
but in my face
so I can
bite it.
Buy my books.

scent by jackson pollock

birth by lee krasner

i know nada


it's 1983 and my name is Roxi


silent film star

anoNyMiZe me

Monday, April 3, 2017


the barbecue sauce was out of this world

1969 wedding


barbie drunk dials ken


beneath the limbic xmas tree





somewhere west of new orleans

ketchup required

forget everything you thought you knew

obViouS ART

nipples are still illegal

maS BaSuRa