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Literally translated, "El Centro De Desarollo De Medicina Natural" means "A Scary Looking Wood Shack On The Outskirts Of Town Where A Scarier Looking 'Doctor' Sits Barefoot On The Dirt Floor Of A Room With Tattered And Anatomically Indecent Posters Of Miscellaneous Body Parts And Is Surrounded By A Dozen Burning Candles Whilst His Assistant Runs Repeatedly To THE BIG VAT OF THICK GREEN STUFF That Is Clinically Guaranteed To Heal Anything That May Ail You." Traveling without my Modern Spanish Phrase Book, I understood the sign to read, "A On The Of A Doctor On The Of A With And Of And To The Of That is Guaranteed To Heal Anything That May Ail You." So I went inside.  Watching the spider crawl across the ceiling was the first indication I should have grabbed my clothes, prayed reverently to the God Of Hot Dripping Wax and gone home to find solace with a dry tortilla and several hours of Zamfir - Master of the Pan Flute. Instead, I lie there in my shiny-white-skin glory, wearing pin-stripe boxer shorts and calf-length black socks. Pulled up to my knees. The Doc entered quietly. Beaten Tanned Leather was the color of his skin. His face, a topographical study of rolling hills and soft valleys and sharp ridges, was all knowing. His huge fat hands hung at his side, waiting. The whites of his eyes were layered with confusing red lines that neither started nor stopped where you thought they should. His mane of thick black hair was a perfect mix of Early Elvis and string cheese. And

. In a recent Letter to the Editor, Jt writes: . "wow, it's pretty tough to be back here. i mean, i dig san francisco, but it's hard to relate to people...their conversations and all the (explicative deleted) associated with living here. not a complaint, just an observation. still looking for some freelance writing so i can refill the bank account and split. soon, i hope. . the picture is me and a buddy in tlalixtac de cabrera, mexico. he's a painter. and a crazy one. this is in his kitchen. his wife's father is a manufacturer of mezcal, that's what all those big glass jars are on the shelves. they would put fruit and coffees and stuff in for different flavors. madness. and all very abstract." . Another Gonzo Travelogue by Jt -Click Here- . Contact author John Torrente -Click Here-

Returning just moments later with a small canister of Mystery Oil, the Doc made his way to the base of the operating table and ran his fingers along the sides of my legs. The oil was warm and smelled funny. Real funny. Then he started to breath heavy. Or I started to breath heavy. SOMEBODY WAS BREATHING HEAVY. Maintaining his concentration, the Doc ran an oil-saturated thumb up and down the sides of my legs several times. He did the same to my abdomen. Then, in an all out assault on the Hyperventilating Goofy Bearded Guy From New Jersey, the Doc arched his back and using both of his Nine Pound Hands, he tried to push my chest THROUGH the operating table. Moments later, while waiting for my thorax to regain structure and for my breathing to normalize, he moved to my arms. Just as my body was functioning normally, he reached for my neck. 

Now I admit, the rest of the Authentic Tribal Relaxation Technique is a bit fuzzy. But, just before the Happy Little Purple Monsters started showing slow motion infrared videos of my life as a child, I recall the Doc using one hand to administer 2000 pounds of thumb pressure on what I think is commonly referred to as the Carotid Artery, while his other hand reverted to the old schoolyard technique of pulling hair. Mine.

When the Doc saw I was at the height of relaxation (read: just shy of Code Blue), his grip subsided. Quietly, he whispered in my ear “Take a deep breath and rest.“ Then he pulled the sheet up OVER my face and walked out of the room.
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