the haiku master's big vegas caper, pt. II

* * *
CHAPTER II

Having received my marching orders from Professor de la Groove, I set about assembling the crack team of skilled professionals we were after... an act that would require more than a little pride-swallowing on my part! Why? Because you can't spell "professional" without the letters "p," "o," "a," and "l" -- all of which can be found in the name of one of Mexico's greatest adventurers, and my onetime sidekick, Paulo!

Paulo: Agent Of Haiku

Unfortunately, Paulo and I were no longer on the best of terms, having parted ways earlier this year after he and our band, Masters of Mariachi, betrayed yours truly in Austin. (Ed. Note: See "Drunk in the Heart of Texas" for details.) Still, given Paulo's wide range of talents, I knew we had to have him if this mission was going to be a success.

"Ésta es casa de Paulo," he said in a language I didn't recognize when I finally got him on the phone. "¿Qué usted desea?"

"Paulo old sport! It's me, The Haiku Master!"

"¿Quién?"

"No, not the Queen -- The Haiku Master! You know, the Hombre muy Extraño? Now turn off the gibberish and turn on the English, son!"

"Oh, you. Well, uh, so what do you want?"

"I want what you want, friend!"

Silence. And then: "Tacos?"

"No! Danger! Excitement! Adventure! Bad craziness!!! That's what kindred souls like us want!"

"Oh. I think maybe you have the wrong number, señor."

"Wrong number?! Why you little rascal! This is about what happened last spring, isn't it?"

"No... Why? What happened last spring?"

"What happened last--?! Are you kidding me? You don't remember Sixsew? When you and MoM kicked me out of the band? And the subsequent unleashing of my infamous Haiku Master Beserker Rage, which undoubtedly landed all of you in traction for a few months or more? Is any of this ringing a bell?"

"Sí. All except the last part. You didn't hit us, señor. You just got mad, smashed two of Sanchez's guitars, then ran off screaming and waving your arms."

"Waving my... Huh. Well I'll be. Then you're not mad at me?"

"No, not me. Sanchez is though."

"Oh. I guess I can understand that. But why'd you say I had the wrong number if you're not mad?"

"Because I don't want those things you was talking about, Hombre muy Extraño. I just want some tacos."

"What about later?"

"You mean after tacos?"

"Yeah, after tacos."

"I don't know. Maybe I will take siesta?"

"A party?"

"No señor, that's fiesta."

"Then what the hell's a siesta?"

"A nap."

Doctor Who Owned The TARDIS, And Even He Didn't Spend As Much Time Talking On The Phone As The Haiku Master Has In This So-Called Adventure -- Ed.

"What the--?! For Pete's sake! What kind of crazy, mixed-up culture uses synonyms for its words for 'nap' and 'party'?!?"

"Sí, well, I'd love to say this was fun señor, but it wasn't. And I still want tacos."

Clearly, hope was fading fast... which meant it was time for the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 to fall back on the convincing power of a little white lie!

"Wait wait wait, Paulo -- listen to me! Remember who we fought on our first case together?"

"Sí, El Diablo. The cock with bones of steel."

"No, not the chicken. The chicken's owner, remember him?"

"If I tell you once, señor, I tell you a million times: is no chicken, is cock!"

"Look, I didn't call to argue semantics! Do you remember the owner, Haikunestro!?"

(Ed. Note: This time, see "Journey Into Mexico" for details.)

"Sí. What of him?"

"He's back, Paulo -- and this time, he's training an army of robot fighting chickens at his top secret base of operations in Las Vegas!"

"No!" Paulo gasped. "This cannot be! He'll drive all the honest cockfighters out of business! Gah -- like my cousin, Pepe!"

"Indeed he will, old friend... unless we stop him first! Now: are you with me?!?"

"¡Sí, Hombre muy Extraño, sí! No matter the cost, you can count on Paulo to help you with this!"

And just like that, Paulo was on board. With him secured, getting the rest of my prospective targets proved to be a breeze... though the mission awaiting us would be anything but!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'THE HAIKU MASTER'S BIG VEGAS CAPER' PT. III---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. IX

***
CHAPTER IX

I was in dire straits. Lying in a pool of my own blood (and Brotherhood urine--Ed.) at the feet of Austin's famous Lenin statue -- body broken, wallet gone -- I felt my qi slipping free of its earthly bounds... when a familiar voice called out!

"Wart," the voice said. "Wart!"

The air before me began to shimmer, coalescing into a ghostly version of my former sensei, the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski -- just like Ben Kenobi did in Empire Strikes Back!!

The Ghost Of Charles Bukowski Pulled A Ben Kenobi On The Haiku Master

"Sensei Bukowski?!" I gasped, weakly. "I thought you were dead?"

"I am," he said, hiccupping. "And still drunk, too, if you can believe that. Who knew they'd have booze in heaven?"

"Well, Dean Martin must be happy!"

Sensei Bukowski's eyes flew open, a mixture of disgust and hatred raging across his face. "#$@% Dean Martin!" he shouted. "Why'd ya have to bring him up?!"

"S-sorry, Sensei. I, uh, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Alright, forget it. Just forget it. That ain't why I'm here anyway -- I'm here to tell you it ain't your time to die. Not yet, at any rate." He waved his hand, and my wounds were magically healed! "There, that oughta do the trick."

"Thank you, Master!" I cried, rising from the ground in disbelief.

"No problem," he said, just as his etheral form began to dissipate. "Oh, and be sure to check out the TXRD while you're in town...it's all-girl roller derby...not to be missed..!"

My sensei faded completely... only to reveal Texas Kelly and his henchman, Dubya, quickly approaching!

"H.M.!" Kelly shouted. "Gawdammit, boy! We been looking all over town for your ass! Where the hell you been?!"

"You can run," Dubya assured me, "but you can't hide."

"Oh, here and there," I replied. "You know, 'TCBing,' as they say. What's it to you and that pack of traitors in Masters of Mariachi, anyhow?"

"Aw, hell!" Kelly spat. "Look, I didn't have nothin' to do with them kicking you out! Shit, if'n it were up to me you'd still be their lead singer, but you ain't, and getting all pissy about it ain't gonna change nothing. Word?"

I stood silently, arms folded across my chest, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Word??" he repeated, tilting his head menacingly.

"Word," I finally conceded, rolling my eyes.

"Good," he said approvingly. "I'm glad that's behind us. Okay then -- who's hungry?"

"Ooh! Ooh! Me!" Dubya shouted, jumping up and down frantically.

"Yeah, I guess I could go for a bite," I said. "But you have to take me to something called the 'TXRD' after that! It comes highly recommended."

"Roller derby, huh? No problem," T.K. grinned. "Matter of fact, the Hellcats are taking on the Holy Rollers later tonight. Now, c'mon -- tacos are on me!"

So they were. At Kelly's suggestion, I ordered the Barbacoa de Cabeza tacos. Turns out that means "head barbecue tacos," which would've been handy to know before I'd started eating. As it was, I found out halfway through my second helping.

The Haiku Master Doesn't Recommend Barbecued Head Meat

The Pharaoh of 5-7-5 vomited long and hard at that point -- much to the amusement of Texas Kelly and Dubya. Who laughed and laughed, and oh, how they laughed...

***
EPILOGUE

Sunday afternoon was a blur, having spent the remainder of our petty cash on a bottle of liquor each and three tickets to that night's roller derby festivities. When the booze was gone, we headed out, Dubya behind the wheel of Kelly's Mercedes.

The Haiku Master, Dubya, And Texas Kelly Spent Sunday Afternoon Downing A Bottle Of Sam Houston, Jim Beam, And Dalmore, Respectively

Is it dangerous to ride in a vehicle driven by a drunken 7'-tall freak who may or may not be some kind of imperfect duplicate of America's president? Of course! But one doesn't become a Haiku Master by playing it safe, kids.

As for the roller derby itself... well, let's just say I've come to realize there are greater sports in this world than cockfighting. What do you get when two gangs of hot girls on old-school skates beat the crap out of each other for a good hour or so while music blares, and a couple of punk bands perform beforehand and during intermission?

One satisfied Haiku Master.

The Haiku Master Does Recommend Austin's TXRD, Home Of The Holy Rollers

I don't know when I went to sleep that night, but I do know the morning came too fast and too ugly for the third straight day -- though much of Monday's ugliness was likely caused by Dubya's less than tender method of waking me up.

"Get up!" he bellowed, smacking me in the face with his open, hair-matted palm. "Get up! Check out time in 10 minutes -- Master Kelly tell Dubya to take Haiku Master to airport!"

"Okay, okay..." I muttered. "Give me a sec..."

"No time!" he shouted, smacking me again. "Up! Now! Or me put you on no-fly list!"

We were soon on our way, Dubya weaving in and out of traffic at a fantastic rate of speed, just as he had done on my arrival. As we pulled up to the terminal closest to my waiting Haiku Plane, I turned to shake his hand... only to receive a long blast of mace in the face!

"Gahhrg!" I shrieked. "Mufferfuggerwhathfugchewdothafer!!"

"Ha ha! That for messing with Texas!" he laughed, shoving me out of the car. "Don't mess with Texas!!"

Dubya drove off with a squeal of rubber, leaving me writhing on the sidewalk outside Austin-Bergstrom International. Adding insult to injury, my violent arrival attracted plenty of attention from airport security, requiring me to answer questions for some 32 hours before finally being allowed to return to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs.

And that, gentle readers, is the true story of how I had mariachi stardom in the palm of my hands, only to have it snatched away by a guy from Mexico. That's right! Me! The Sultan of Syllables -- outsourced! Now I know how all those textile workers feel!

Oh well. Life goes on, as they say. They, and me...The Haiku Master!

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. VIII

***
CHAPTER VIII

Happier Times: Masters Of Mariachi Huddle With Texas Kelly And Dubya Before The Ill-Fated Fresh-Plus Gig

The Fresh-Plus gig... well, let's just say it did not go as planned. Everything seemed fine at first -- it was a beautiful day, my hangover was rapidly receding, and the bargain-minded shoppers before us were eager for a stern mari-rocking. What could possibly go wrong?

"Eh, excuse me, Hombre muy Extraño," said Paulo, clearing his throat. Rudy nudged him forward. "The other guys, they uh, they have a suggestion..."

"Fear not, young grasshopper," I said, graciously. "You'll find the Sultan of Syllables to be all ears when it comes to ideas for improving Masters of Mariachi."

"Heh heh," said Paulo. "Sí. It, uh, it is funny what you say, señor. Heh. Uhhh..."

"Come on, man -- out with it! We haven't got all day! The good patrons of Fresh-Plus await!"

Rudy nudged Paulo again, harder this time.

"Hoo. Okay. Uh, well. See the guys, uh, they think maybe your talents lie outside of the singing."

"Come again?"

"They, uh, they think maybe you would like better the, how you say, triangle?"

"The triangle?! What the hell is the triangle?"

"Eh, you know. Three sides? Pointy? Made of, uh, metal?"

"Well, what does one do with that? Blow into it?"

"No, señor. You hit it. Make nice sound, no?"

"Make nice sound..? No, I -- oh, wait a minute. This is a joke, isn't it? Huh? Are you boys playing a trick on the old Haiku Master? Huh? Huh? Come on now, you can tell me. I won't be mad."

"Uh, no señor," he said, shaking his head slowly. "They, uh, they don't want you to sing no more. They want me -- Paulo."

"Say what?!" I gasped, incredulously. "You're firing me? You little bastards are firing me?! After all I've done for you?!"

"Señor, please," Paulo pleaded. "Don't take it so hard, eh?"

"Does he speak the truth?!" I demanded, turning from Paulo to the other MoM members. "You guys are firing me?"

To a man, and to what will no doubt be their eternal damnation, they nodded in the affirmative.

"You don't fire me!" I screamed, wagging a disapproving finger in their faces. "I fire you! You got that? I! Fire! You!"

With that, the infamous Haiku Master Berserker Rage overtook me, and the world went black. When I came to, I found myself perched at the feet of Austin's famous Lenin Statue... the necks of two smashed mariachi guitars clenched 'tween my bloody fists!

The Haiku Master Ponders His Next Step At Austin's Famous Lenin Statue

"My god!" I hissed. "What have I done? Sweet baby christ, someone tell me what I've done!"

"You've made a big mistake, that's what you've done," came a rough-sounding voice from behind me. I spun around -- only to be smacked in the face by a large, greasy catfish! Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a vicious gang of catfish-wielding heavies, each more fearsome than the one before!

"So, you got questions about The Brotherhood, do you?" one drawled, smacking a catfish into the palm of his open hand. "Let's enlighten him, boys!"

Now I'm no English major, but I'm fairly certain dictionary mogul Funkand Wagnalls doesn't define "enlighten" as sadistically catfish-whipping a person into unconsciousness before urinating on him and stealing his wallet. That is, however, exactly what happened next... as I had finally come face to face with the infamous Brotherhood of Catfishermen!

Needless to say, it's not an experience I'm eager to repeat.

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. IX---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. VII

***
CHAPTER VII

I awoke with a start on Saturday, finding myself on a lawn chair by the Stuart Beach Inn's pool. My head was sore, pounding like a Keith Moon drum solo as it had the previous morning.

The Pool Area At The Stuart Beach Inn

"Swear to god someone's been kicking it!" I groaned.

"Ha ha, señor!" came Paulo's voice, startling me. I whirled around, and saw that my bandmates had also slept poolside. Texas Kelly was nowhere in sight. "You drink too much again last night, Hombre muy Extraño! Too much, too much!"

"Heh heh," added Rudy. "Sí, you made a real burro out of yourself, Señor Amo del Haiku! You should be more careful!"

"Yes, I suppose I should," I conceded. Still, I'd begun to suspect Paulo wasn't being entirely forthcoming on this matter.

But there was no time for that now -- not with a gig to be played at Hyde Park's Fresh-Plus in just a few hours! I headed up to the room with the other Masters of Mariachi behind me, curious as to what had become of our manager.

Throwing the door open, I bore witness to something that made me pray for blindness: Texas Kelly, sleeping in the room's sole bed with two of the mentally challenged groupies who had attacked our bus the day before! And, of course, a giant bag of Lay's potato chips.

Texas Kelly (Center) And His Friday Night Conquests

"Heavens to Hefner!" I gasped, waking Kelly up. "Talk about giving comfort to the enemy -- what the hell do you think you're doing, T.K.?"

"Aww, shucks," said Kelly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "This? Just educating these little fillies in the ways of cheap physical love, Texas-style."

"But they tried to kill us yesterday!"

"Kill us? Hell, they were just overly excited." Kelly climbed out of the bed, and started to pull on his clothes. "Don't worry, though. I wore these two plum out. They won't be no more trouble."

"But they're underage, man!" I continued. Paulo and the boys swarmed the bed, apparently wanting to verify Kelly's claims of the girls' exhaustion.

"Oh yeah, that," Kelly said, pulling his boots on. "Well, that's why I told 'em my name's the Muffin Man. It'll serve that #%@$er right to get hit with some statutory rape charges, after all the times he's tried to #%@$ my up-and-coming bands!"

The issue settled, Kelly woke the girls and put them on a bus back to their academy, handing them the Muffin Man's phone number as they left. Then, we were ready to mari-rock the Fresh-Plus... and though I didn't realize it at the time, it was a show that would mark the Pharaoh of 5-7-5's last-ever appearance with Masters of Mariachi!!!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. VIII---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. VI

***
CHAPTER VI

Upon our return to the Stuart Beach Inn, Rudy, Sanchez, Jesus, and myself decided to bust into a high stakes card game.

"¿Eh...usted tiene dos?" said Jesus, speaking to me.

"What did he say?" I asked Rudy. "What did he say?!"

"He asked if you have any twos, señor," Rudy answered.

"Whew," I said, wiping my brow in relief. "In that case, you can tell him to 'Go Fish.'"

"Usted va a pescar, Jesús," said Rudy.

"Mierda," Jesus sighed, adding more cards to his already sizeable hand. "No otra vez."

Suddenly, the door burst open, whacking Jesus on the back and causing cards to fly everywhere! I jumped up in a Haikung Fu fighting stance, but there would be no need for violence -- for walking into the room were Texas Kelly, Paulo, and Dubya, looking no worse for the wear after their Muffin Man hunting expedition!

As it turned out, they'd been unable to track down M.M., and had instead relieved their frustration by shooting up an old boat and a plastic nativity scene Baby Jesus, the latter of which can be seen here:

Texas Kelly, Paulo, And Dubya Didn't Find The Muffin Man, But They Did Shoot Up This Plastic Baby Jesus

"Ha ha, Jesús," said Paulo to MoM's Jesus, while pointing at the plastic Baby Jesus. "We shot you up beuno, hombre!"

"Well, I suppose that's for the best," I offered. "I mean the part about you not killing the Muffin Man, not the whole Baby Jesus thing. After all, we don't need murder charges interfering with Masters of Mariachi's Sixsew domination now, do we?"

"Gawdammit!" T.K. hollered. "I already told you, man -- it's 'South by Southwest!' Not 'Sixsew!' Now stop #%@$ing around!!"

"Oh, right," I said, cowed. "Sorry."

"Judas Priest!" he said. "You guys get me so worked up I almost forgot the good news: I got you another gig, right here in Hyde Park tomorrow morning."

"Really?"

"Damn right. Over at the Fresh-Plus -- something to do with some kind of Latino advertising promotion or such shit. Still, should be good exposure."

"Well allllllllllllll riiiiiight!!!" I shouted, giving a cool Fonzie-esque double thumbs-up. "Let's celebrate; dinner's on me! I could go for some local fare..."

That said, we climbed aboard the official MoM tour bus, speed demon Dubya once again at the wheel. As we pulled out of the hotel parking lot, though, tragedy struck -- we were swarmed by a mob of groupies from an all-girl academy for the mentally challenged! Whipped into a lust-feuled frenzy, they howled in frustration as they tore at our ride, shaking it back and forth savagely!

Finally, Texas Kelly could take no more, and leaned out a window with his trusty Taser in hand! After three long blasts, the crowd began to disperse.

This Overzealous Fan And Her Companions Nearly Tore The Official MoM Tour Bus Asunder

"We're clear, Dubya!" Kelly shouted. "Floor it!"

Floor it Dubya did, scattering the remaining girls as we barreled out of the lot.

"Whew, that was close," said Kelly, holstering the Taser. "You guys are heating up like a match on an oil slick! Hot damn!"

Indeed we were... and as subsequent chapters will reveal, it was that selfsame wildfire popularity that would eventually tear our merry band apart!!!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. VII---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. V

***
CHAPTER V

Things looked bleak. The Muffin Man was swinging his meat cleaver wildly, and the only thing standing between him and my bandmates' certain death was my battle-hardened Haikung Fu! I leapt into a fighting stance, ready to deliver a devastating technique known as the Purple Nurple... when the Muffin Man was tackled by Texas Kelly's henchman, Dubya!

Dubya

"Bring it on!" the bearded giant roared. He knocked the Muffin Man to the pavement, causing his pudgy foe to lose his grip on the meat cleaver. "Bring! It! On!"

"Aiyeeeeee!!!" the Muffin Man gasped, squirming out of Dubya's grasp. "You cheap #%@$ers! You haven't seen the last of me! You haven't! No sir, you sure haven't! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Hoo hoo! Pbbbbbbt!"

With that, he was gone, beating feet down the hot Wal-Mart parking lot.

"Good riddance to that freak," I said, just as Texas Kelly arrived on the scene.

"What in the hell's going on here?" he asked.

"Terrorist," Dubya said. "Me take the fight to him."

"Some cat calling himself the Muffin Man," I added. "Know him?"

"Know him? Do I ever!" said T.K. "I can't believe that sonuvabitch was messing with you guys -- I told him to stay away from my bands, confound it!"

Our manager took his hat off, and threw it to the ground in frustration. "Dammit!" he shouted. "Now he made me get my hat dirty!" He stooped down, picked the hat up, dusted it off, and put it back on his head.

"That's it -- I'm killing that cheap bastard this time!"

T.K. stormed over to the bus, went in, and came out with his trusty "peacemaker" -- a K-Mart brand .22 rifle!

"Dubya, Paulo! You're with me -- Dubya, go find us a taxi!" he commanded. "H.M., you take the rest of the boys back to the hotel and wait for us there!"

"Well, uh, whoa! You mean, you're really going to kill him? Like, you know, kill him? Dead?"

"Do I look like I'm foolin', boy?!" T.K. howled. "Now get on outta here!"

From Left: Paulo, Texas Kelly, And Dubya Go A-Huntin' The Muffin Man

Though the Sultan of Syllables is morally opposed to cold-blooded murder, he has an even stricter policy against arguing with angry gun-toting people. As a result, Rudy, Sanchez, Jesus, and I were soon hightailing it back to the Stuart Beach Inn... but not before stopping off for a lukewarm case of Tecate: The Official Cerveza of Paulo, Agent of Haiku!

Tecate: The Only Cerveza Endorsed By Paulo, Agent Of Haiku

It was many hours before we saw the other three, but that sweet, sweet cerveza really made the time fly while we were waiting. Ask for it by name!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. VI---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. IV

***
CHAPTER IV

Needless to say, the Wal-Mart show was a huge success, leaving thousands of concertgoers highly satisfied... both with our performance and the store's astoundingly low prices! From our opening number, Motorhead's "Bomber," to our encore finale, KISS's "Detroit Rock City" (changed to "Austin Mariachi City" for local flavor), our mariachi covers of classic metal songs had the audience caught up in a bona fide orgiastic frenzy!

MoM Saw A Million, If Not Hundreds Of Faces At The Austin Wal-Mart, And Mari-Rocked 'Em All

Afterwards, Texas Kelly went to collect our fee from the store manager, and my bandmates and I moseyed back to the official MoM tour bus to start a well deserved post-gig celebration. But as we neared our communal ride, a strange man with a ghost puppet on his hand leapt out at us!

"Boooooooooo," he said in an eerie voice, speaking from behind his puppet. "My name is Gho-o-o-o-stie! Wo-o-o-o-n't you sto-o-o-o-o-p and talk to my friend, The Muffin Man?"

"Er, maybe," I said, sensing danger. "Where... uh, where is this Muffin Man?"

"Oh, hello," the man said again, this time in a thick -- and obviously fake -- Cockney accent. "That would be me -- The Muffin Man, at your service." He extended his non-puppeted hand, clearly expecting me to reciprocate. Which, given the way he introduced himself, is not something the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 was keen on doing. I mean, just look at this geek:

From Right: The Muffin Man And His Sidekick, Ghostie

"Let's go, Hombre muy Extraño!" Paulo urged me, tugging at my shoulder. "This guy -- he plum loco!"

"Yeah," I said, "I think you may be right, Paulo..."

"Oh, your little friend is right!" squeaked the Muffin Man, dropping the accent. "I am crazy -- crazy about your sound, baby! I have to commit it to vinyl! I wanna be your producer, baby, your producer!"

"Commit it to... Listen, no offense, but you may want to consider commiting yourself! I mean, Jesus! What's with the weird ghost puppet?"

"It's..."

"And the bowler hat?"

"I..."

"And all those freaking pens?!"

"Um..."

"'It's...I...um!' And you want to produce our record?! You are a textbook case, man -- a textbook case!"

At that point, I recalled a lesson taught to me by my former sensei, the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski.

"Listen, Wart," he had said, reclining on his cot in a hot Vietnamese hotel room, shortly after vomiting into a nearby bucket. "Never bust a crazy guy's balls. They go nuttier than a bull goose when you do that."

"Okay, Sensei," I had said.

"Good boy," he had said back. "Now, go fetch me an ice cold beer. And a few of them local whores. Chop chop."

The Late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

Man alive, he sure would be mad if he knew I'd forgotten that one -- not to mention its countless companions. Still, probably not as mad as the Muffin Man was now.

"You dirt-eating, flower-sniffing, city-loving son of a son of a son of a bitch's bitch!!!" he shrieked, pulling violently at his own hair. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! Every last one of you bastards! Every last one of you!! Ah-haha! Hahaha! Haha-hahahaha!! Hahahahahahaha!!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Then, he calmed down and we all had dinner together. Just kidding -- he went nuts, pulled a giant meat cleaver out of the back of his pants, and attacked!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. V---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. III

***
CHAPTER III

Friday morning came fast and ugly, gentle readers, thanks in large part to the healthy doses of mescal and whiskey that intertwined MoM's late night practice session. That didn't stop our manager, Texas Kelly, from letting out a startling bloodcry as he jumped off the room's only bed.

"C'mon, li'l doggies!" he hooted. "Y'all's gig's in thirty minutes, and I don't reckon to be late!"

My bandmates and I rose from our less than comfortable sleeping positions on the floor, all the misery of the world etched in our faces. I had vague recollections of things getting out of hand the night before... and I'm pretty sure my "sacriligeous reverend" persona had surfaced at some point, as my Universal Life Church minister credential was lying on the ground near my head. Sadly, this picture tells me more than I want to know:

From Left: MoM Fiddler Rudy And Lead Vocalist The Haiku Master Get Crazy At Thursday Night's Practice Session

"Christ, my head," I muttered. "Feels like someone's been kicking it!"

"Heh heh heh," Paulo chuckled nervously. "Sí -- you were kicking it! Like old school! You drink too much, Hombre muy Extraño! Too much, too much!"

"Yeah, I suppose that's it..." I said.

"Enough of that!" Kelly roared. "C'mon, we gots to go!"

Within moments, we were loaded into the Masters of Mariachi tour bus, with Kelly's henchman, Dubya, at the wheel.

"Dubya drive," the lackey grunted. "Dubya drive fast. We get there real soon, you see. Shock and awe!"

I certainly wasn't going to argue with the bearded freak, and took a seat at the back of the bus. The ride to the Austin Wal-Mart was uneventful, though I was put off by this seemingly innocuous road sign:

The Brotherhood Of Catfishermen Rule South Austin With An Iron Fist

"Sweet Jesus!" I gasped. "The Brotherhood is here? In Austin? For how long?"

"Ages," said T.K. "In fact, they're backing today's gig. But let's drop that subject -- they have spies everywhere, and I'd just as soon not piss them off."

"'Nuff said," I agreed, as the bus pulled into the massive Wal-Mart parking lot. Thousands of eager mariachi fans awaited us with baited breath. And why not? They were, after all, about to get Mari-rocked!!!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. IV---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. II

***
CHAPTER II

After landing at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, I was greeted by Texas Kelly's lackey; a wild-eyed brute who smelled of aerosol cheese and clove cigarettes, and bore a distorted resemblance to our nation's leader. He introduced himself as Dubya.

Dubya

"Like the president," he grunted, hoisting my bags on his shoulders. "Now come. Master Kelly waits."

He led me to a slick Mercedes convertible in the airport garage, and we were soon underway. Dubya drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic at a fantastic rate of speed until we arrived at our destination -- the Stuart Beach Inn in Austin's Hyde Park area.

"Good, looks like the boys are already here," I said, noticing the official Masters of Mariachi tour bus parked outside our place of lodging.

The Official Masters Of Mariachi Tour Bus

"Yes," said Dubya, retrieving my luggage from the trunk, "they come last night. Very drunk. Very loud. Master Kelly have to detain them."

"Detain them? What do you mean, detain them?"

"You see. We go there now."

I was led up an exterior flight of stairs to room 222, where Dubya knocked out a stacatto take on "shave and a haircut."

"C'mon in!" Kelly shouted from inside.

We entered... and walked smack dab into an international incident in the making! There, in the middle of the room, was my band -- hog-tied in a circular formation, with thick slabs of duct tape wrapped 'round their mouths!

"Sainted mother of Nixon!" I gasped. "What in the hell is going on here?!"

"Aww, shucks," replied Kelly. He was sprawled out on the room's only bed, cradling a giant bag of Lay's potato chips. "Them little buddies of yours were all hopped up on mescal when they got here, caused a real ruckus. Had to mace 'em down and tie 'em up after one of 'em started waving a nasty switchblade around."

Texas Kelly

"Oh, all right then. As long as it's not some kind of weird Abu Ghraib sex game thing."

"Never in hell," he assured me.

Catastrophe averted, I untied Paulo and the boys before changing into a fresh ascot and smoking jacket. Then, it was on to a long night of intense band practice -- after all, those mariachi fanatics at the Austin Wal-Mart weren't going to rock themselves, now were they?

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. III---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. I

Click For Larger Image

***
CHAPTER I

Stand fast, thrill-seekers! It's me, The Haiku Master, here to regale you with the true facts of my savage journey into deepest Texas for SXSW 2005!

It all started when my once-trusted agent Paulo and I gave up on our dreams for an American cockfighting league, diverting our energies into making it big as professional musicians, instead. Within days, we'd assembled the most rootinest, tootinest mariachi band this side of hell -- Masters of Mariachi, a.k.a. MoM -- and our manager, Texas Kelly, had landed us a gig at the world's most prestigious music festival.

Masters Of Mariachi (From Left): Rudy, Paulo, Sanchez, Jesus, And The Haiku Master

"The Austin Wal-Mart?" I shouted into the phone upon hearing the news. "During Sixsew? You have to be kidding me, man!"

"Not at all, H.M.," T.K. assured me, "but it's pronounced 'South by Southwest.' World-class exposure, plus two-hunnerd cash and all you can drink from the store's soda fountain. Do we have a deal or don't we, pardner?"

"Do we ever! Wait'll I tell the boys -- they're likely to shit themselves in glee!"

"Sounds great. Yer first gig's Friday morning, so why don't y'all meet me in Austin on Thursday afternoon? We'll be staying at the Stuart Beach Inn."

"Beach? There's a beach in Austin?"

"Naw, some dude from Florida owns it. See you there."

Next, I contacted the band via Haiku International's Mexico office, and gave them the details. I then made my own travel arrangements...by buying a vintage prop plane from one of Russia's frequent black market military surplus sales!

The Haiku Master Prepares To Board His Latest Acquisition: The Haiku Plane!

That's right -- no more low-rent public transportaton for the Sultan of Syllables, and it's all thanks to the tireless work of H.I.'s Minister of Defense, Oswald Carver! (Thanks, Oz; there'll be a little something extra in your Festivus bonus this year.)

One speed-read of Flying for Dummies later, and I was Texas-bound. The die had been cast, loyal readers... but if I'd known then what I know now, I'd have insisted on best two out of three. At least!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. II---

whiskey, blood, meat, groupies

AUSTIN, TX -- Courage, 'ku believers. I think it's me, The Haiku Master, though I can't be sure due to the extreme levels of pounding currently taking place in the rubberized, George Dickel-soaked lump of human waste that's passing itself off as my brain this morning.

No time nor ability to give complete details as to mine and Masters of Mariachi's SXSW success so far, but here's a few highlights:

• Broken whiskey bottles and McDonald's sandwich wrappers littering the floor of our hotel room;

• Groupies from an all-girl academy for the mentally challenged tearing our van asunder in a lust-fueled frenzy;

• Texas Kelly's extreme alcohol poisoning, causing him to vomit geysers of Lay's potato chips on a passing police cruiser;

• Meat -- tons and tons and tons of red meat;

• The Muffin Man's violent ways.

Hopefully I'll be able to make better sense of these notes when I get back to my top secret base of operations in the Baltimore suburbs. In the meantime, once more into the breach!

Best,

are you ready to mariachi?

Great news, haiku fanatics -- Masters of Mariachi have been confirmed for this weekend's SXSW festivities in Austin, TX!!!

Who of What, you ask? And I, The Haiku Master, say again -- Masters of Mariachi! Don't make me tell you a third time or I'm liable to beat you senseless in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy!

Masters Of Mariachi Are A Shoo-In To Take Top Prize At SXSW This Weekend (From Left: Rudy, Paulo, Sanchez, Jesus, And The Haiku Master)

Okay, okay, I suppose I do owe you some more details. As fate would have it, my trusted Mexican agent, Paulo, isn't just a champion cockfighter -- he's also a highly skilled mariachi trumpeter! After our plans for an American cockfighting league fell through, we decided to devote our energies to putting together the rootinest, tootinest mariachi band the world has ever seen... and in just a few short days, Masters of Mariachi was formed! Or MoM, as the hepsters call us.

Besides Paulo, this mariachi superband includes guitarist Sanchez, fiddler Rudy, ukuleleist Jesus, and the one true Sultan of Syllables on lead vocals. Needless to say, each of us possesses oodles of world-class talent. But what really sets us apart from the competition is a playlist comprised exclusively of classic heavy metal covers. Can you say, "Rock on?" MoM sure can!

We never expected to have our big debut at SXSW, though -- talk about a lucky break! I'm tempted to give the credit to my newly acquired St. Matthew's Churches Prayer Rug, but that wouldn't be fair to MoM's manager, Texas Kelly. He may be addicted to Lay's potato chips, but damn if that guy can't book a show.

Masters Of Mariachi Manager Texas Kelly Always Has A Giant Bag Of Lay's Potato Chips On Hand To Feed His Addiction

Took him three days, but he finally got us a gig at a place that's sure to draw lots of crowds -- the Austin Wal-Mart! So if you live in that area, be sure to come by and see us; we'll be on a special stage in the middle of the parking lot... and we will be mari-rockin'!!

Okay for now, loyal readers -- time for this mariachi madman to hit the road! Field reports will be sporadic and unintelligible at best, but I'll be sure to give you a full accounting upon my return!

Best,