I was always intrigued about the life-style of fast money and wild women that go hand in hand with the Mob or underworld activities. I think maybe in my past life I was a made man in some fashion. Till this day I don't mind knowing what it's like to be involved in something like that, but I don't have the guts to do it. If Al Capone was alive you can bet that I would track him down and get a good write-up about his life story. Unfortunately, Snorky is not around but someone else is.
The stars were aligned in a certain way that I made a connection with a key figure in the cocaine empire. A film was made about the rise and fall of a small town kid from Weymouth, Massachusetts who made 100 million dollars in the Medellín Cartel under Pablo Escobar's control of cocaine trafficking in the United States.
If you've seen the movie BLOW, you will know who I'm referring to. Before I introduce him let me tell you the journey that it took to make this happen. I'm always searching for a great write-up on fascinating people or at least have in impact on my life that I can share with you and maybe it'll be something inspirational that you can pass to others.
I decided to write him a letter that I wanted to do a story on him. I mailed it in and forgot all about it until he wrote my back. He basically said if "You are creative enough we could do that voodoo that I do so well". I didn't waste time and hopped on it and did my research to ask the right questions. I didn't want to sound like a typical so called interview where it sounds like couple of robots talking without a soul.
Let's face it... We've seen the movie, but how much of it is true? Visually, Hollywood likes to make things look good and tweak the truth a little bit. I, on the other hand befriended the source of the trip that you're about to take. He writes me back segments at a time and basically has condensed my questions into a detailed story as if it's a staged reading of Jack Kerouac's ON THE ROAD. He writes in poetry and it's a lot of psychedelic perceptions that forces the reader to think. I told him before that he should’ve taken the path of a writer and it's never too late. He's very articulate and the way he phrases his words together, genius. What you read below is word for word how it is in the letters that I have. Enjoy!
Let me introduce to you, Boston George Jung:
Allow me in slap dash fashion to depict a journey caused by an electrochemical surge that turned a kid from middle class America into a whirling dervish or better yet, The Rise and Fall of an American Villain/
I grew up in a fifties environment very close to the show 'Happy Days'/ White middleclass America in the fifties was a time of innocents/ We saluted the flag and recited the lord’s prayer in small wooden school houses/ Dads worked and Moms stayed home/ It was all so safe- so simple/ Drugs and violence did not exist nor should they ever have/
Tuna was my blood brother, the merry prankster/ Tuna was like a flash of lights lightening streaking naked across your lawn/
Graduating in 1961 from Weymouth High School in Massachusetts, the Tuna went off to college in Colorado and I went South to the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg now made famous by Brett Favre and myself/ Two years passed on into 1964, Tuna and I decided that the West was the best and it was time to leave the beast in the East/
The country was plunging into chaos/ The killing of President Kennedy, Vietnam, and civil rights/ America was turning deeply neurotic a nation divided against itself/ My generation began to look upon the country as a disingenuous wasteland with an evil government intent on war in Southeast Asia/
Something was lost and Tuna and I went looking for it/ Twenty four years on the planet kept Tuna and I stumbling down the corridor of existence/ Huxley, Orwell and Jack Kerouac drove us in search of the mystery/ It took the Budweiser Buddha Tuna, the great fish himself to open the doors of perception/ His words exploded inside my twisted head, "Fuck the know, George"/ "Give me the unknown"/ "Mexico!!"/ Tuna now foamed Budweiser from the mouth, "Mexico"/ "That's it, George! We can watch tits and ass frolic in an ocean of mystic crest topped waves plus tequila is a buck a bottle"/
So it was in the great steps of mystics and the like of rebels without a cause it happened/ The blue pulse of fate speeded up/
One more once! Wisdom is the coin of my tiny realm/
So the story goes and goes/ Tuna, the great fish and I were presently buying kilos of Mexican marijuana on the California side, Manhattan Beach to be exact - We transported the weed via motor home to the New England area abound in colleges/ The profit margin elevated the fish and I to the upper income bracket/ We dealt with boyhood friends attending colleges in the Boston and surrounding area/ The simplicity of this game sucked all the majesty from our desperado souls/ Fuck, we were more like vacuum cleaner door to door salesmen than pirate, poet outlaws/ Hordes of money and no soul/ The Tuna and I needed to fuel inject our American epic with Mexican high test/ Pagan creeds and native tribes we found no succor in Buddha and Moses or living under the sheer weight of the unthinking masses/
For real high octane adventure why not buy the weed in Mexico and smuggle it across the border, why not explore the challenges and dangers of drug smuggling/ Nihilism at its best!!
Sitting at the Strand Bar in Manhattan Beach, California sucking down Red Mountain wine coolers - The great fish rode across waves of bikini delights to prop open my twisted sister erotic mind/ Puerto Vallarta is the place we ought to be the mistress of chance plucked it out of a travel folder and there it was like the moon in bloom/
Tuna and I were salivating like tigers planning a menu/
Implications of translations/ "Live without hypocrisy, never ask God's forgiveness"/ Tuna and I lived an invincible summer and shared our mind set with Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison/ I asked the big fish where he came up with the Hypocrisy and never ask God's forgiveness line/ Fish whizzed around the pool table at the Strand Bar and leaned across the table, "Yogi Berra said it"/ Tuna was indeed my rebel without and with a cause/ Tuna's manual to freedom was an already worn paperback copy of Jack Kerouac's "On The Road"/ He claimed that the book saved, dazzled and propelled him into wonderment allowing him to escape the straight jacketed community of Weymouth, Massachusetts/ I loved the colossal vitality of Tuna's illusions as he leaps into phone booths howling at the moons/ We were shiftless Bedouins littered across the landscapes retreating from reality into pharmacological haze - purple haze/
We never allowed disillusionment to overpower the mystery and its magnetic force/ "The mystery of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age"-Aldous Huxley/
So it was way down Mexico way...
Don Quixote and his inseparably beloved side kick Sancho Panza set out for the unknown/ It was actually a flying fuck at the moon/ The closest I’ve ever been to Mexico was the Sunday bullfights in Tijuana/ The idea of smuggling pot out of Mexico grew large and lurid until all fear of reprisals vaporized like the wine coolers at the strand/ Life is full of unusually brisk bookings so why not be an absurdist knowing that luck is truly an art form/ The two visionaries with a deadly mix of fermented madness unfolded the plan like a cheap Mexican road map/ Tuna leaped into the phone booth calling the boys in Boston/
Tuna easily convinced Fast Fred and Frank that the West is the best/ It was winter in Boston and his words formed in their heads like smoke from a shanghai opium pipe/ The boys from Boston not really aware that they had been sabotaged by the fish touched down at LAX/ After numerous drinks and a punch bowl of pot i felt it more than fair to reveal the truth of it all/ Fast Fred now slowed by the opiates began to see through the purple haze/ "Mexico! - You and Tuna"/ "Smuggle pot"/ "Hordes of money"/ "Are you fucking crazy?"/ "We're only part time outlaws"/ "We're students not fuckin' smugglers"/
I knew that California weirdness was about to win out/ I prayed between Gin and Tonics and to the Gods of asphalt alters for a one more once with the petal to the metal/
All things are in the act of change/
The Strand Bar was in full swing on Saturday afternoon, full to the rim with Southern California's bikini delights/ Frank now fresh off the plane looked at me with kaleidoscope eyes in an attempt to arrest my technique, simply said "Mexico!"/ "George are you fucking crazy?"/ "Even 'if' we did find a pot connection how do you get it across the border?"/ I could see in his frat house logic that he was about to checkmate me/ "We fly it across frank", both Fast Fred and Frank now laughed themselves into a fine madness/ "OK! OK! Boston George let's write this off to California weirdness and one too many acid trips for you and Tuna"/ "You fuckin' damn well know that none of us know how to fly plus we don't have a plane!"/ Now pissed I beat against the negative current, "Frank do you know what your problem has been your whole fucking life?"/ He took a drink with a that’s no matter kind of look/ "Tell me George"/ "Fucking tell me!"/ "Sure Mr. Frank I’ll tell ya"/ "You’re a Surrogate boredom victim"/ I was beginning to arrest him with technique/ "Tell you what Frank, let's go to Puerto Vallarta and check it out"/ "Believe in serendipity"/ "Fuck! If Tuna and I are wrong, you and Fred can catch the sunset limited back to your Boston fraternity house and safety"/ "Then you can marry Susan on an abba dabba honey moon"/ "Wait Frank it gets better"/ "Have kids and work at IBM"/ Frank caved in at the mention of a lifetime with Susan as I knew he would/ Fast Fred now totally fucked up on Acapulco Gold wrapped in the last page of Kerouac's On The Road, looked out across the Pacific and smiled/
So it was in the great republic as we flew through the night into the unknown/ The four of us were going to a privileged place with a million and one possibilities intertwined with a million and one prayers/ The sunset was spectacular enough to intensify the solar palette/ It resembled quicksilver and peach juice spread full length across the south western horizon like a blood spill/
It was Salvador Dali for two hundred pesos a day/ It was the big over easy sitting at the Oceano Bar overlooking Banderas Bay in the heart of Puerto Vallarta/ Looking out across the bay, I was of single mind set which was to connect with the magic smoke/ Frank was reading my mind still pissed over his cave in at the Strand Bar/ "What's it gonna be Boston George?"/ "Are you grappling with some sinister plot involving cross border smuggling of jelly beans?"/ I'd come a long way to this dream that now seemed so close/ I could feel it in the air as I sent out telepathic messages on my harp to the marijuana Gods/ "Come on baby light my fire"/
Puerto Vallarta was Paradise Lost and found by the four amigos now totally fucked up on tequila and rubbing shoulders with that salamander that sleeps with the Aztec Gods/
A week passed like a comet streaking across Banderas Bay/ No pot was to be had! / Frank, Fred and even Tuna began to put the monster's green eye glare on me along with a numerous I told you so's/ The sunsets at the Oceano Bar now turned into a bad days night/ The boys voted to go home in defeat/ I felt like a sad clown/
It was about the ecstasy of surrender/ She sat in the cockpit of her sex wagon blond on blond, delightful, delovely, divine, heavily perfumed with female nectars/ The lights on the Wurlitzer began to strobe bouncing off her stilettos as she stood aloft at the bar wiping her manipulative chops while sequins of spittle flowed across her crimson cum fuck me lips/ She pointed to the yellow Volkswagen parked at the curb/ "I know many things" she said/ She was electric pink and moist surrounded by soft/ We drove off and up the winding cobble stone path as I wondered who wrote the book of love while The Beatles sang "long and winding road to your door"/ Up, up and away to gold, gringo, gulch behind the cathedral overlooking Banderas Bay/ She was panty less as her spread silt tanned legs stuck out flashing neon signs of perpetual vacancy/ I turned into a wet gremlin in her wild card tarot deck of erotic/ Linda, was the mother of invention that only madmen dream to dream/ Her glorious golden tits bounced to the movement/ She drove me mad with fantasy and rough edged naturalism/ "Boston George there are forces I shall reveal which will allow you to see as I see"/ She passed me a joint and said, "this is what you want"/