The great cave of Bustamonte looms large in the overstuffed memory of many of us who have spent time in Mexico. Some of you may not approve of my remembrance, but the statute of limitations must surely have passed by now despite the fact that I can't remember the date. In fact, I'm not even certain we are talking about the same place. It is in the desert north of Monterrey and was accessed by means of a spectacular funicular, right? Or am I thinking of the huge cave in the anticline? Damned if I know.
Whichever cave it was, no one was around so I simply went in by myself then down the long sloping passage strung with a dead lighting system reminiscent of the galvanic system used to revivify Frankenstein. Beyond the end of lights I kept on going until I reached a grotto wherein there was a shrine to Hey Zeus (Which is no doubt how he got his name. They saw the Jewboy wandering the temple with a halo behind his head and somebody said, "Hey, that must be Zeus!") But I digress. There were countless votive candles of the sort you can buy in WalMart only Mexican, the wax from which formed speleothems identical to those composed of calcite. There were offerings of all sorts scattered about, money, ribbons, cigarettes, dead flowers, and dried up shots of rotgut aguardiente. These were similar to the offerings left at the tiny "spirit houses" often found on Thai doorsteps. The Buddha might be aloof, but the lesser animistic deities are always hungry for propitiation. There is something about a sacred space that inspires the Weazel to loot the place, so I selected two of the tall candle glasses, one of which was entitled "Sagrada Corazon de Jesus", and the other, "Mano Poderosa". My Spanglish is limited so I couldn't make much sense of the rest of the inscriptions on the glasses. I later showed them to several fluent Spanish speakers and they assured me that the inscriptions didn't make a bit of sense because the person who made them was illiterate. The votive candle glasses were empty of wax but full of money. I figured that Jesus needed the money more than I did, and besides, this was during the days of the devaluation of the peso, so I poured the pesos into a pile and tucked my trophies into my pack. Back at home I cleaned them up. Since they were sacred objects I put them to the use which god intended, to serve as holy vessels for the serving of "Girl drinks", thus named for the ability to knock the panties off a Nun. Here is how to make a girl drink: First a goodly measure of good rum, I personally recommend Flor de Cana. Then an equal measure of tonic since malaria is an ever present threat to those who travel south of the border. Squeeze in half a fresh Persian lime (limon in Mexico) then stir. Fill the very tall glass to the top with crushed ice, stir once more, then let the drink mellow while you roll up some Michoacan madness. Hand the drink to the Nun in question. The sequence of events will be similar to those immortalized in the country music song, "Tequila makes her clothes fall off". There is no way to even begin to estimate the number of girl drinks that have been thus served over the years. Suffice it to say that the inscriptions are barely legible, all the lead from the paint having long since been ingested or rubbed off by fingers clutching the sweaty glass. At this very moment both tall glasses take pride of place next to my bong on the shelf reserved for sacred relics. I bring them out whenever there is a special occasion, but any occasion will do. In fact I plan to fix myself a stiff drink tonight for I am but a lesbian trapped in a man's body and thus fully entitled to the honor of sipping from the sacred glasses pilfered from the bowels of Bustamonte. Sleazeweazel
