CHAC/Mayan God of Rain imagesourceunknown Peeps, I have always been drawn to them; they seem to pull me in, and then hold me captive as my mind and imagination runs endlessly through vast areas of unchecked possibilities--some sensual and some not, perhaps heart pumping erotic but I will never tell--and then back again to the image upon which I dare not lay my head for fear of nirvana. It may have been an earlier copy of National Geographic, or the mid-day Sunday bouts held on Bird's Isle where shirt-less pugilists performed in front of a rowdy, blood-thirsty crowd of sport-fans and gamblers. Dare say it could have been a younger Henry Rollins, taunting, sweaty, fierce; he is forever locked in my memory, an image of an alpha, the face and voice of a past persistently present. Yes, yes, I remember him now, that easily conjured image--alone in the spotlight, he (is) with arms akimbo. In the French quarter, they appeared like ghosts, or dreams, from out o...