SCROOGE

I don't take any satisfaction starting the holiday as Scrooge, but didn't we celebrate Christmas eleven months ago? Didn't I just take the lights down from the front of the house in June and now I have to put them up again. I'm not climbing any ladder. You read every week about somebody who has fallen from a ladder, hit his head and died a few days later after complaining about terrible headaches. Why don't more women climb ladders?

Too much has changed from the time I was a child and when I had my own children. How does remembering happiness compensate for all the sadness that surrounds us? We have crossed the 270,000 death mark as the Coronavirus pandemic sweeps across the country unabatedly. And there ain't no Saint Nick--Saint Dick might be more appropriate--occupying our highest office who gives rather than takes. 

These are not good times. With all the uncertainty, paranoia rules our every move. I don't fear fear. I fear reality. From Washington D.C. to Brownsville and Austin in between we have no leadership. We have all these rabid Republicans whose religious fervor in their adulation of their cult hero has turned them into fanatics. 

We keep hearing about the Far-Left, but I don't have one acquaintance who would identify himself as Far-Left, but the Far-Right are more prevalent than cockroaches. In fact, I've never known so many Mexican-Americans in one place who are proud to call themselves cucarachas.

Since adulthood I have endured many Christmases alone as I have gone from marriage to marriage. I will probably spend this Christmas alone. There are no children in my life with imaginations that know nothing but wonder who would give me that opportunity to revel in their innocence. I'll buy a few gift cards to meet my responsibilities, but it will be another day for me as most my days are as I live the Golden Years with little gold in my bank account and mounting medical bills as an old, used car requires constant repairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm not asking for pity. For the most part, I am indifferent. It's like sex as you age: You're just not in the mood; the excitement is gone. What's a boner? What's a wet cunt? I'd rather listen to Jobim and sip on wine. I want the memories to go away. I don't want to dwell on the dead. I am the product of a perfect past. Even the bad times only made the good times better in those halcyon times. 

The imperfect present has ruled my life for many years now. There is a burdensome dread that weighs heavy on me. I've grown disgusted with the imperfect me, but born reckless and restless, I can't escape who I am even though on the exterior I give the impression of a placid existence. 

But I do have one Christmas wish: Get that fucking madman Trump out of The White House! And rather than filling his stocking with coal, bury the cocksucker in coal. Santa Claus should have never rewarded this naughty boy who grew into an even naughtier man. He became so arrogant that he could kill a person on Madison Avenue in broad daylight and grab women by the pussies if the urge stirred him and brag that nobody would dare arrest or prosecute him.

And Christians would trust their daughters with this accused rapist??? I so sick of hypocritical Christians who would flock to the polls in support of Lucifer if he promised to outlaw abortion. Jesus would be the first to proclaim that these lemmings couldn't possibly be his followers if they were  pledging their allegiance to the debauched Trump.

And while people by the hundreds if not thousands every week are dying, he continues with his god-awful lying. More than 80 million of our fellow citizens voted against this disgraceful excuse of a human being for president because The White House deserves a more honorable resident.

THE GANDER & THE GOOSE

 CLAUDIA MIREYA OLIVO: "Yup, that's right. It happened again. I had reconciled with my ex-husband. Everything was okay. A couple of days ago he said he couldn't stand the dogs and threatened to harm them. He gives me an ultimatum: It's him or the dogs. Well, I did what any sane person would do. I helped him pack." 

THE ANTI-HERO: Mother decided that the dogs were more important than Daddy and posted her sentiments on Facebook in which she more than insinuates that Daddy is nothing short of a vile animal. And she had the temerity to insist that I refrain from commenting even though she resorted to blatant lies to destroy my reputation because she relishes playing the role of victim, a defense not uncommon among females while the man, as usual since he is a beast at heart, is depicted as the villain. Fortunately, even the alleged guilty party has the right to defend himself in the court of public opinion. You agreed with your mother that I should be exiled to the dog house. I moved to my apartment so there wouldn't be an incident with the dogs--After a year of unrelenting tension I couldn't take their barking and biting anymore and I was on the verge of kicking the shit out of them--in order to save the family. Instead, I'm the one being punished when the both of you gave me no other alternative. Nobody has done more for you--and that includes Mami--than I have and I have never asked for any gratitude in return for my generosity. Teaching you everything you know has been a pure joy for Pops. Your happiness has sufficed for me. I have never separated myself from the family. You are the one who has separated yourself from me when your mother and I reunited. You're the one who no longer wants to throw the football, shoot baskets, hit the weights and play golf with the old man. You've only thought of Daddy when you've wanted food or a new shirt or anything you considered essential to your existence. You and your mother don't want the family and Daddy is considered an asshole because he attempts to keep us all together as one. There will come a day when you will have to offer an explanation for abandoning Daddy for dogs. I could never imagine making such a horrible decision regarding my own father who dedicated all his sweat and blood to his children even in the midst of alcoholism that he battled for years and eventually conquered. I could never conceive of insulting such a noble man over a dog or a cat. When an individual comments that your Daddy must have been a terrible person for you to reject him for dogs, what will be your response? What will I hear next? That you've completely changed your name like your step-brother did because he hated his father so much!!! Did your mother have any influence in your step-brother's odium for his own father? Just curious. If it makes you and your mother happier, I will disappear from your lives so I'm no longer a nuisance. I'm absolutely sure your mother will have no problem finding another man as long as he has sufficient money to meet her needs and I suppose you will be comfortable calling him Dad. You both may prefer dogs to Daddy, but you're not going to humiliate your father and treat him like a dog. Man up, big boy. You'll be 17 on your next birthday. You've only seen the beautiful side of women. You'll remember Daddy one day when you come face to face with their ugly reality. And before you start feeling sorry for yourself, listen to Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue.

ENNUI BREEDS THE ANGST OF INSPIRATION!!!

 I am in my fourth year of retirement. It is a Sunday morning and a norther has swept through our beloved Brownsville. The weatherman has promised overcast skies, cool temperatures and occasional rain. That's fine with me. I don't miss the hot days and I'm looking forward to my walks along Hudson Trails.

I have been an athlete and exercise buff my whole life, but there are times when I want to throw in the towel, return to my corner, sit on the stool and never rise again. Fortunately, these instances of surrender are rare and my system begins to react negatively--more mentally than physically--from the inaction. I climb off the canvas and begin to dance around the ring again. I have a faith in hope, but you won't be able to consummate your chance when opportunity comes knocking in you're a physical wreck.

Though I don't perform the feats of my youth, I recognized the other day that if walking is a physical challenge, then we are declining fast. When you can no longer walk for an hour daily without complaining of discomfort and exhaustion, you are on a downward spiral. If you don't do any other exercise, walk. And walk with enthusiasm. Maintain a brisk pace and keep those arms pumping.

Retired, I don't have anything I have to do. Fortunately, I don't have grandchildren to push around in carts at HEB. I find it sad when my old colleagues tell me that nothing compares to spending time with the grandkids. I would hate to think that I had been sentenced after working all my life to babysitting. But I suppose if you don't have artistic talents, you have to exhibit love to all those around you to find some worth in their appreciation for your unselfish ways. When you die, they will take to the internet and tell their friends that nothing excited you more than the Cowboys and that you will be missed for your infinite kindness.

I wasn't programmed that way. Sometimes nothing is better than something. I have my three sons, but I no longer occupy an important role in their lives. As one would expect, they have departed for their own destinies and I take comfort in knowing that I did the best I could by providing them with solid foundations from which they could build their own lives.

I am not living like a hermit, but I have embarked on a solitary existence. I am going through a withdrawal as I adapt to my unexpected changed circumstances, but I put one foot in front of the other, breathe deeply and move forward. I keep in mind that if we were dead but offered the chance to relive one meaningless day in our past existence, we would jump at the opportunity. 

I could die tomorrow and it wouldn't be a big deal. I could disappear tonight and the search would be called off in two or three days. In many respects, I am here and nothing more. If I could eliminate the anxiety that pervades my system, I would be at total peace, but if that were the case, I would be reduced to an elderly babysitter who never walked.

Perhaps anxiety is my salvation. Perhaps it's the edge that I need. If I feel the blade cutting too close to the bone, I can take a Xanax and go to sleep. When I awake, I am in better shape than when I went to sleep.

I am lucky that I have my intellectual and musical pursuits that save me from self-destruction. I am still committed and enraptured by learning. I never stop reading, I never stop in my futile endeavor to master Spanish, Portuguese and French with both Italian and Latin waiting in the wings if I decide I don't have enough on my plate. Playing the guitar and tennis delight me with the faint delusion that I could become better in both. These are distractions that are a part of my flow.

But here is the absolute bottom line: I don't have to do anything besides eat, shit and maintain my hygiene, the last an option I could eliminate if I were terminating my relationship with humanity. I don't believe I would choose that course because there are cleaner and quicker methods for terminating one's relationship with humanity.

As I mentioned earlier, my two big boys are on their own and my youngest son receives his child support and social security checks in the mail that cover his financial needs. I could throw caution to the wind and permanently move to Brazil and their lives would not be affected in the least by my absence. They might pine for the old man at times and wish they were sharing a meal and bullshitting about a score of subjects with him covering the bill, but these melancholy moments would fade into the mists that cloud every mind.

What are my priorities then? Do I sit in the lotus position all day and vegetate? I have two goals that I have to accomplish. I must write and I must exercise. Goal number one I'm bringing to its conclusion now. I'm crossing the street in a few minutes to HEB Plus to buy food for lunch. I'll read while my meal digests and in the middle afternoon I'll commence a 90-minute walk along the Hudson Trails. And when I hit the sack this evening, I can sleep peacefully knowing that I imbued this brisk Sunday in the month of December with meaning derived from accomplishment.

MOUNT RUSHMORE

One of the great and regular joys of my youth I experienced for the first time in decades Thursday afternoon. Since nobody invited me to share a turkey supper with the rest of the family and friends because one more guest might be the tipping point and turn a gathering into a COVID spreader, I stayed hunkered down in my modest cell and feasted on a bologna sandwich, potato chips and a coke. It was a sumptuous repast.

I don't have a television and I know nothing about live streaming on the computer. I write at my card table in the tiny den next to the kitchen. On the counter I have a cheap radio that I keep tuned to to a sports channel. There is nothing worth the listening time on the FM and AM bands unless your musical tastes are pathetically pedestrian.

I turned on the radio to clear the apartment of solitariness and by coincidence the Cowboys' game was starting. As a sports fan and a Texan for 45 years, I follow the Cowboys but without the fervor of a fanatic. I'm familiar with their announcer Brad Sham and he calls an adequate game. He doesn't allow his natural biasness to usurp his objectivity. 

When Dallas is playing as bad as they are playing now, there is no silver lining. The offense, the defense, the special teams and the coaching are horrific. Only Trump could possibly put a positive spin on these losers by accusing the refs of being Democrats and the numbers on the scoreboard of being rigged. As to reality, the Pokes were at their worse yesterday, the coaching appalling.

I was raised on four announcers: Lindsay Nelson who did the Notre Dame games; Vin Scully who did the Los Angeles Dodger games; Bill King who did the Oakland Raiders games; and Howard Cosell who did all the big fights. They shared several characteristics: They were articulate, they described the action so precisely you could visualize it and they weren't homers. They respected for all participants but held them accountable to professional standards.

My dad, a salesman, was a product of the eight-to-five world. He was home on the weekends. Every Saturday he dedicated himself to yardwork and repairs. Since Notre Dame was in the Mid-West and we were in California, the Irish games would be blaring from the radio at 10 a.m. because Dad was oftentimes at the other end of the house hard at work on mother's latest assignment. 

Nelson called the games in a straight-forward style with a hint of a Southern drawl. I later learned that he began his professional career as an English professor at the University of Tennessee. He had a touch of those old-time announcers who seemed to be reporting the news rather than broadcasting sports, but there was a subtle flair in his delivery that added to a game's excitement. For three hours every autumn Saturday I could hear in the background Nelson's call as Dad would whoop in delight and wallow in despair as the Irish battled for my national and religious heritage.

I became a Dodger fan when the team moved from Brooklyn in 1958. I have never lived and died so many times following one team. Scully, born in Manhattan and a graduate of Fordham University with a major in English, moved west with the team. 

To listen to Scully was to listen to a violin speaking with a human voice. He flowed. There was a melodious quality to his coverage. Nobody spoke a more perfect English. His eloquence would have caused Winston Churchill to blush. 

And yet he captured the essence of baseball in its anecdotal rhythm. His knowledge of the players past and present was inexhaustible. Between pitches as the hurler would rub the ball, crumble dirt in his fingers as he stood on the mound, toe the rubber and bend down to study the catcher's signs, Scully would launch into a short tale until the action once again commenced: 

"The count's two-and-two. Koufax winds and fires. A swing and a miss. Sandy records his ninth strike out of the evening. Three up, three down. No runs, no hits, no errors. Dodgers lead, 1-0." And when the commercial ended, Scully would resume: "The centerfield flag has begun to flutter. A Santa Ana breeze is sweeping across the field as we move into the bottom of seventh with Maury Wills, Junior Gilliam and Willie Davis appearing in that order at the plate." 

I don't claim to do him justice with the preceding monologue. If our ears were mouths, Scully poured a fine wine into us with his impeccable and poetic prose.

I followed the Raiders when they were wrapped in a mystique. It was a mystique different from Terry Bradshaw and the Pittsburg Steelers, Joe Montana and the San Francisco 49ers and Troy Aikman and the Dallas Cowboys. For the record, Bill Belichick, Tom Brady and their New England Patriot teams didn't have a mystique. Belichick programmed the robot Brady with the rest of the players nothing more than cogs in a well-oiled machine.

The Raiders, however, had their own mystique. They were criminals. They were riverboat gamblers. They were womanizers and drinkers. The most unruly individuals found a home with the Raiders where their ruthless talents were promoted rather than thwarted. They were cunning on offense and cruel on defense. They wanted to hurt you. During their heyday, these hellions in the silver and black reveled in their notoriety. Bill King, in language so colorful that he once received a technical foul for a comment while announcing a Golden State Warrior game, exalted these anti-heroes.

To compete during the Raiders' apogee, an individual had to have a big personality. Self-educated, King was the classic Renaissance man with his a love for literature, opera, ballet and Russian history. As a product of Jack London's home town, he escaped in the off-season by sailing to distant locales. 

With his handlebar moustache and Van Dyke beard, he resembled a circus barker promoting a show featuring the most marvelous feats of mankind just inside the tent. He related the action with a controlled excitement that would fill the listener with adrenalin. This is an example of his spontaneous play-by-play describing the last down of the game between the Raiders and the San Diego Chargers: 

"The ball, flipped forward, is loose! A wild scramble, two seconds on the clock...Casper grabbing the ball...it is ruled a fumble...Casper has recovered in the end zone! The Oakland Raiders have scored on the most zany, unbelievable, absolutely impossible dream of a play! Madden is on the field. He wants to know if it's real. They said yes, get your big butt out of here! He does! There's nothing real in the world anymore! The Raiders have won the football game! The Chargers....they don't believe it. Fifty-two thousand people are stunned. This one will be relived forever!"

Because he was the foil to Muhammad Ali, he may have considered himself "The Greatest" too among other accolades. To his credit there are many pundits who consider Howard Cosell the greatest sports broadcaster of all time. A lawyer, he broke the mode. His tell-it-like-it-is approach defied tradition. He reduced stars to mere human beings with the ordinary flaws of an average person that Cosell never thought twice about pointing out.

Though he was gifted in any sport in which he cared to opine and more associated with television rather than with radio, I especially appreciated his boxing perspective told from ringside. He specialized in the "ebb and flow" of a match, a phrase that found favor with him. He didn't miss a punch and he immediately spotted the telling blows. He had no qualms about employing his bombastic language polished from his courtroom days, but he could cut to the chase like a straight right as he did when George Foreman defeated heavyweight champion Joe Frazier, the beginning of the end rendered by Cosell as he shouted into the microphone, "Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!"

Looking back on my education, these four were my mentors. They taught me the art of telling a story, recounting an event and valuing the English language, They taught me to treat a subject with enthusiasm. They taught me that writing has to be concise. They taught me that writing has to have verve. And they taught me that if you can't write with honesty, then you are nothing more than a hack with no credibility. There is nothing more enervating than a writer who relies strictly on embellishments, all frosting, no cake.

They occupy a place in my life today. This afternoon I will do my hour's worth of Yankee Yoga. In order to inspire myself, I will go to YouTube and watch the first fight between Sugar Ray Leonard and Tommy Hearns in which the latter prevails with a 14th round TKO. And like Homer recording the epic struggles in the Iliad and the Odyssey, Cosell will be narrating this historical confrontation.

PIED PIPER TRUMP

 Trump is COVID in the human form 

and millions have obviously 

been infected by him. 

He is a madman who has lost his sanity 

from syphilis after grabbing too many vaginas 

and then violating these women for good measure. 

He is currently facing rape charges. 

But the lemmings only see the good Christian 

with the bible held over his head. 

Of course, the only passages Trump reads 

has to have the word "formication" in the verse. 

More than 80 million Americans voted again him 

because only rats follow this Pied Piper.

THANKSGIVING

 On this Thanksgiving Day with 265,000 now dead from Coronavirus who had planned to celebrate the holiday this year and a president who is more interested in stealing an election which he lost instead of leading the charge against a pandemic that is robbing thousands of Americans of their lives, I stare at this screen with a troubled mind.

I do give thanks that my sons have their health and they are pursuing successful lives, but I don't view the future with optimism. I'm getting old and my body is slowly breaking down. I'm not surrendering without a fight. I've returned to the basics, which I call the cake. They are walking and Yankee Yoga. 

What is Yankee Yoga? From childhood since I was skinny with a big head and big ears, I have done stretches, sit-ups and push-ups. Not always religiously, but I have continued with this workout throughout my life. 

I lie before my computer, find a good boxing match on YouTube and commence my hour workout. The beauty of both walking and Yankee Yoga is that I can do them at or from my apartment and not waste time in transit back and forth to the gym.

If those are the cake, what is the frosting? The frosting is playing tennis. There is no sweeter sound than stroking the ball on the sweet spot. There is also the youthful sensation of athleticism. Occasionally, I capture that flowing movement from my youth. I do give thanks to Viagra that does restore that flowing movement from my youth.

This is the first line of defense against a growing depression. You hope that a healthy body provides the foundation for a healthy mind. Physical activity at a minimum helps an individual escape negative thinking. An unhealthy mind can be inspirational artistically, but are a few good poems worth the life Edgar Allen Poe lived?

Personally, these are unsettling times for me. I have always lived life on the edge, but at this stage in my existence I am not quite as dexterous as I once was and I could slip and fall. I look down and I see a bottomless pit. I fear that the bottomless pit is awaiting all of us. 

There are those who find refuge in religion and there are those who are naturally optimistic and grateful about the brief joy of consciousness. I am sympathetic to the latter philosophy except when the darkness extinguishes the light. In those moments you ask yourself: "Is consciousness worth the torture and turmoil?"

Some of my colleagues insist that I'm lucky that I survive in the penumbra. They insist that I'm at my best when I turn to my confessional style because readers want to know that someone is suffering more than they are futilely endeavoring to make sense out of this existence. 

They don't want to read about happy people surrounded by love and luxury. They pine for the lugubrious perspective. If others share their gloom, they don't feel alone and abandoned. At times they even convince themselves that their state of being is the natural human condition.

Most fiction is confessional with the protagonist baring his soul in the third person rather than the first person. As much as I am attracted to the confessional genre, I find that I am writing more lies than truths. How honest can we really be? And when it comes to family and friends, are we willing to pay the price divulging their secrets?

But ultimately, it's all about putting pen to paper. I know that I can't feel good about myself physically if I don't exercise. And I know that there is no hope for me mentally if I am not writing.

I will spend this Thanksgiving alone. I can congratulate myself on making a small contribution to the containment of COVID unless I already have it and in a few days I will have a high fever, artic chills and trouble breathing. Nothing exacerbates depression like paranoia.

Thanksgiving, of course, is filled with family memories. For me I have this remembrance of my father in a white T-shirt and apron in the kitchen shooing us away as he moved about preparing the turkey and the fixings. He's almost a decade gone now. Reliving old memories can be worse than viewing old pictures. Too many dead people that you loved.

My guitar is standing in a corner of the front room. I think I'll play the only verse of my Thanksgiving Day Blues: I'd give thanks, but I ain't got no money. I'd give thanks, but I ain't got no money. I'd give thanks, but I ain't got no honey.

BLOG RETURNS

 Reader: I haven't been able to access The McHale Report. Did Trump close you down because your fine commentary cost him the election?

Editor: Funny.

Reader: I'm serious. Did the racists, rednecks, renegades, reactionaries and religious right bigots who comprise the Republican Party convince Google that you were bad for America and needed to be silenced?

Editor: We had a temporary glitch that eliminated us from all search engines. That problem has been resolved and we're moving forward with new resolve.

Reader: Can we expect some nice words giving thanks for our many blessings this Thanksgiving?

Editor: I doubt it.

Reader: You're not going to thank the gods for helping Biden defeat Lucifer.

Editor: Is the SOB out of office yet?

Reader: No.

Editor: Until that worthless bastard is condemned to replacing the nut case Sean Hannity, I won't be giving thanks for anything. He is trying everything within his power to steal the election and he won't stop until the Washington D.C. police escort him to the edge of town and threaten him with an immediate arrest if he shows his ugly face in the nation's capital again. 

Reader: Do you think he will be back in four years?

Editor: I don't give that possibility any thought. I just want him out of office as soon as possible.

MICHAEL I

 I received a call from Mami. It know it's difficult, but I needed a break from the house. It may be better this way, but I couldn't live with those dogs. Everything will be fine. Don't think for a second that I'm not very depressed, but I'm here for you. I just can't live in that house with all the shit in my head. Just concentrate on your football.

Michael: I'm trying to talk straight to you. I'm not a five-year-old anymore. I'm 16 years old. I'm not going to choose you over mom or mom over you. You guys are both my parents. You guys will never work out. That's just how it is. You need to respect mom. It will help everything. Don't write about her. That's embarrassing to me and to mom. I love you and I love my mom. Mom has feelings as well and I can't imagine myself in that position being written about. I really am fine with you guys never getting back together again. Don't blame the dogs and don't say that mom chose the dogs over you because you and I know that it's not true. I love you, Dad. I really do. I don't like you writing about this. This is supposed to be a private family. I'm a private person and I hate my life and mom's life being on the internet. Please just try to respect mom and move on. I am fine with you guys never being together again. I survived most of my life like that. I am fine with it. I will never choose one over the other. You guys both care and love me. Just please try to respect what I am trying to say and don't blame my mother and say cruel things about her. You have to realize that she is my mom. She is not turning me against you so don't ever think that or say that. I am my own person with my own thoughts. I love you and I care for you. We can always hang out and go out to eat like we always love to do. Mom didn't make me write this or anything. You just need to respect me. You don't need to write about her. Nobody will benefit from that. You're a great writer. Just don't write about me and my mom about private stuff. You don't need to reply to this yet. Don't say that mom is turning me against you or that I wouldn't understand. I do understand. I am aware you guys need to move on from each other. You guys won't work out. Honestly, you guys are better off without each other. You can see me whenever you want. Mom is not and will never restrict me from seeing you. I am my own person and I can see you whenever you want. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the stress you cause me. I just want to enjoy my life and you guys won't let me do that. Don't blame the dogs. The relationship between you and mom has been over for a long time. The only thing that should matter is our relationship. We can live in peace with you living over there and me over here. This can be fine if you can just move on. I'm not turning against you or anything like that. So don't say that. I love you and I always will. Good night, Dad. I love you.

You don't know pain. When you do you will understand your father's anger.

I am here for you and I always will be. Just think things through and what's the best for all of us. Anger will never cause anything good. It will solve nothing. I love you.

You want to talk man to man. Imagine if Ari deceived you! I know this is difficult for you and I respect your opinion, but you don't understand pain and torture. You don't fucking know pain and humiliation. If your mother was committed to our family and to our relationship, she would have gotten rid of those dogs. Most mothers would immediately call the pound and get rid of those fucking dogs. If Ari told you that she preferred a dog over your relationship, how would you feel? If you want to join her defense of the dogs over daddy, that's your call. It won't affect my love for you, but your mother has fucked me by joking that she prefers her dogs over the father of her son. I gave up Carlos and Joaquin for your mother and they hurt so bad that they didn't speak for seven years because I had destroyed our family. Your mother could keep out family together, but she has chosen the dogs instead. It's my karma to pay for Carlos and Joaquin's pain. I love you more than anyone in the world and you know that, but your mother has done nothing but fuck my brain for years and now once again over fucking dogs at the expense of my baby boy. I'll probably be dead when you learn your unfortunate lesson at the hands of a woman, but then you'll remember your daddy who was humiliated and lost his family over two mongrels.

You knew the dogs were here when you came back. You can't ask mom to throw away something for you. Nobody can do that. Can you just move on from mom and forget about it? I understand your pain and humiliation. You need to let it go. I don't care about this. I'm stressed about something that I have been dealing since I was ten. I'm sick of this constant something between you and mom. It's over. Mom needs to realize this won't work again and you do too. We have never been a family. We were only a family when I was a baby until I was seven. After you guys divorced, you were never the same. I'm fine without you guys calling yourself a family. I'm sorry for what you have gone through, but you have to move on from her. I love you. You motivate me and I care for you. You taught me so many things and made me the man I am. I will tell my kids about you and the adventures will go on. Please don't ruin our relationship over these dogs. I've known Chloe since I was in the first grade. You can't just ask a person to do that in life. You just either have to deal with things or move on. You had a different woman at one time. I love you. I understand your pain and what you're going through. I don't want you to ever think I will turn against you. I am your son and will forever be your son. Be the better man, Pops.

Do you want to someone at Ari's side besides you? Do you want to see some asshole at your mother's side besides daddy? You have no problem with Mami ending out family because she wants to be with other men? You have not walked in my shoes so you don't know. I respect your perspective, but inside we are animals and some people kills and physically hurt each other when they have been dissed by someone they loved. I'm not a violent person, but I'm not going to be humiliated by dogs so your mother can run off with another man. Maybe I'll be better in the morning. I love you.

Mom doesn't even think about other men. She's in too much pain by what you have caused. Just think. I love you, too.

I could take this conversation about your mother down a dark hole which has precipitated one nightmare after another for me, but I won't. You deserve better. I will not write about your mother publicly, but when I am communicating with her personally, I will speak my mind. She fucked me! I gave up my two beautiful boys for her, raised her two children better than any other father could have and she chooses two dogs over me. No mas!

I only want you to be happy and I know that under the present circumstances that's impossible. I even hurt more than you do when the quarterback isn't accurate in his passing to you. I didn't want to leave, but it was either I exit or I would harm the dogs. It wasn't because I didn't love your mother. I hated them and it was taking me to the breaking point. I hate them so much that I couldn't stand the sound of them lapping water or crunching their food. I had to find peace. My nerves were scintillating with tension. I was ready to explode. They were driving me to the point that I could have killed them. It was horrible, but nobody cared about my anguish. I accept this fate as my karma because I have sinned many times and we don't escape this earth without paying for our trespasses. Alleluia!

I want to do the right thing by you and do the right thing to make you happy, but my anger has run its course because your mother fucked me. We were having such pleasant moments together and it gave me great joy to make you happy by doing all the little things for you. Your mother stabbed me in the heart and you want to believe that is little more than a scratch. I told you many times to stay out of our problems, but your mother purposely pulled you into them. She is not thinking about you. She is thinking about herself. Sit back and learn because you can learn valuable lessons that might help you avoid these unfortunate circumstances. As far as when I was living with you, you stayed in your room and only came out when you wanted something to eat or a new shirt. I promptly embarked on these tasks to make you happy. And, besides people fight like this all the time. Get used to it because you will experience it more than you care to know. I have been a great dad, but your mother has shitted on me because she doesn't give a shit. If she drives a wedge between us, she couldn't care less as long as she comes out ahead. You don't think your mother contributed to the hate her kids feel for their father? Man up! It's not the end of the world. The storm will pass and there will be sunny days until the next storm comes.

Your mother says she is sending all my texts to her to you. If she is, she is the opposite of a real mom who would protect her children from pain. She knows that when people discover that she gave up her family for dogs, she knows that people are going to question her judgment. They are going to think that there is something mentally wrong about her. I hate all of this more than you but a huge piece of shit has been dropped in the middle of us and it has to be cleaned up. It is never a pleasant job.

I hate hate this, I hate this, I hate this, but just the dogs were driving me crazy, she is driving me crazy. I told her to keep you out of this and the first thing she does is drag you into this and keeps dragging you into this. Who has always taken care of his baby boy and has never asked for anything more than a kiss or a hug? I have shared every bit of knowledge I have with you and the satisfaction of your successes has satisfied me. I have never even come close to hitting you. I have only hugged you. And I have done my best to show you a good time and slip you a twenty on a regular basis. But don't forget that I am a person with deep feelings and I hurt and become angry just like any other person. Tell your mother to stop unloading bullshit on you that is only intended for her and me. Stay out of it as I have told you a thousand times since daddy knows the reality of the future. Put an end to her negative tactics. I've told you that we're going to fight and you just have to distance yourself from his crap. She is using you and you have to have enough sense to end it. I have my confrontations with her, but I have no control over her method of revenge, but you have to remain outside the fray and do your own thing. But never forget the consequences of every decision you or your mother makes. Because you and your mother chose to care for the dogs than for daddy, you forced heavy expenses on me and I have to pay higher bills. You decision has cost you a new car that I was in the process of negotiating. And do you think for a second that Mami is going to have the cash for your extra needs. Now both you and your mother will know what it's like not to have daddy around. When people ask you about me, you can say that you made your mother happy by choosing a dog over daddy. Life is a tough game with lots of ups and downs. This is your longtime coach talking who advice he hopes will end in a winning record because there will be losses regardless of the best counsel. It will probably be another tough day, but imagine you're playing the best team in the Valley and wins don't come easy.   

Remember when you go home now, there will be an empty space. Ain't no way the dogs can fill that empty place your old man once filled. There will be no more Bicelli as Daddy hit the weights or the sound on the computer keys as Daddy typed his stories. Did you hear the door close as Daddy departed or did the barking dogs drown out the sound of Daddy's final exit? 

I'm drinking a beer and watching a football game without my best friend. I have not written about your mother but I'm getting sick of it. She is going to have to explain why she picked two dogs over the father of her son. If you want to take her side that you would rather have your two dogs than Daddy because he was a worthless SOB like Bebo's father, then tell me. Your mother doesn't want Brownsville to know that as a mother she picked two dogs over her family because people will question her sanity. If you want to side with her and say that you would rather have two dogs than your family and daddy, that's your call. If you don't want me to be a part of your life that the dogs are more important than Daddy, I won't bother you or your mother anymore. And I'm glad she's buying you a car. That's the least she can do for convincing you that the dogs are more important than Daddy. You have no idea about the truth as your mother does her best to convince you that I'm the villain. I told her to keep you out of our fight, but just like my big boys turned them against me for seven years until they learned the truth, your mother is doing the same thing because mother's know how to manipulate their own children for their own benefit. My big boys ultimately learned the truth and now they can count on me more than her although they love her just the same. Nobody in their right mind destroys a family over dogs.

Last night was endless. Daddy is in a very dark place. Like Humpty-Dumpty, I have exploded into a 1000 pieces and I don't think I can be put back together again. I held everything inside too long and I blew apart. I am so shattered by anger that I am a dead man walking. I know this is very difficult for you, particularly when making you happy has been my top priority. I love doing the little things for you. But I couldn't take it anymore and I collapsed. I am emotionally and mentally suffering. I know that your mother has done everything possible as she views life to make our family work. Please stay strong for Pops, papacito. I adore and love you, but I'm very weak right now and I need your strength. But come Monday, I will be in the lineup, the All-American slot receiver from the University of Notre Dame with hands of glue and sweeping across the field on the wings of an eagle. You're always in my thoughts.

Big games showcase big players. This is the biggest challenge of your career. I need you to play big.

You played a great game. Now it's Pace. Buckle up, motherfuckers. It's kamikaze time!!!

I wish everything were perfect for you, papi, but that isn't life. You're a fine football player. You are a natural, but if you want to be great, you have to put in the hard work. The weights are there. Just thinking about you I lose my cool about Mami, but she has done everything possible to be a good mother. It's my fault. I have many talents, but there is something wrong with me. Like my hate for dogs, I have this side to myself that I don't understand. I have this wild beast in me that doesn't think straight. It's scarily weird. Despite my drawbacks, I have tried to do my best to be a good father to you. Nothing excites me more or brings me greater joy than watching you play football. You are beautiful to watch, but you have to commit yourself with a strict discipline or you will lose the gift that the gods have given you. I hate that my little boy is gone forever, but I hope the good things you have learned from Daddy will make you a better man.   

CLAUDIA II

 Here you go again: "Did you read that part 'he's sick of the stress' that you always cause. He just wants to enjoy life and you're just making it miserable for him. This is too much for him. I've forwarded all texts from you to Michael. If you want to talk, fine. I'm just not going to read your texts." Why do you draw Michael into this? You are the one hurting him. Even if you win his sympathy against me, you are only hurting him more. It's a game you can't win. Instead, you should go to your parents and friends and tell them the truth. It was more important keeping your dogs than keeping your family together. It is beyond my comprehension the more and more I think about it that a mother would destroy her family over dogs and separate an excellent father from his son. And because of those dogs and the expenses that I will now have, Michael won't have his new car, which was his biggest dream. You can call me a coward, but I hope you have the guts to tell those around you that you picked the dog over me. You have caused me incalculable anguish because of your promiscuity, but you will not humiliate me over two mongrels without paying a steep price. You say that losing the dogs would crush Michael, but losing Daddy is no more traumatic that throwing out the trash. I will be writing a story that maybe Trump hasn't left the White House, but I have left your house and I'm returning to my solitary life again. You will not humiliate me bragging about all the guys you fucked, charging me to fuck you and mocking me to your friends that you would rather choose your dogs over your husband. You have no concept of the depth of my anger short of violence. When I have my quiet apartment without the barking and biting dogs, I going to write shit that will give you diarrhea. How are you going to defend yourself destroying a family over dogs. I could tell in Michael's remarks that you are doing everything to turn him against me. I have plenty of experience of a mother turning her boys against a good father. 

You are making things worse by the day. The way you are dragging Michael into our fight is reprehensible. No mother would use her children to defend herself for choosing dogs over her family. You're abusing Michael defend the indefensible. You are the one who rejected our family to keep two dogs. Don't fuck with me because you're turning my against me. You saw the blog today. That is the signal. If you use Michael again, then I will tell Brownsville the real story about you. Again! If you use our baby again to defend your half mutts/half mongrels, that will be the final straw. You don't love Michael. You are exploiting him. You chose to destroy a family and a father and son's relationship. Defend your decision. Don't use Michael as a scapegoat. If course, I should remember that someone who would fuck three different guys in three different weeks and brag about all the other guys she had fucked because she was out of control is capable of any outrage. Don't fuck with me and don't tell me you love me anymore because no woman would charge her ex $100 to fuck like a common prostitute. Quit playing the innocent virgin when you would run off to Denver to fuck some guy among your drug-filled and drunken flings while you dumped your kids on your parents so you could have sex-filled Saturday nights wehn the next guy who would eat your pussy in the parkinglot and fuck you in the backseat of his pickup or any number of encounters with your many fuck friends who enjoyed rights to a chick with no morality. And now because you have no values, it's no big deal to fuck some asshole that you had only met a few hours earlier. And now that it's all over, are you bragging to your friends that you chose the dogs and you are even convincing Michael that a dog is more dear to him than his daddy.

It's very sad to be alone and to think that we were together only a few days ago, but you chose the dogs over daddy. I hated those ugly mongrels, but you loved them more than me. It was your decision. It's not like I haven't resumed my solitary existence before and you in your usual manner will move on to your next romance as you have always done. And Michael? I guess you have to convinced him he needs the dogs more than daddy. Are your friends enjoying a good laugh that the fiercely independent Claudia  has displayed that a dog and not a man is a woman's best friend? I have always loved you, but you have never understood karma. You will pay for your terrible mistakes. I gave up my two beautiful boys for you. And you can't give up your two mangy mongrel mutts for me even though it costs a loving relationship between a father and a son as well as our love? Does this lack of common sense explain the reasons you could give yourself to your loser ex and all the other pendejos in your miserable life? What is your defense, your defense for your grotesque immorality because breaking up your family for street curs crosses all moral lines? Everybody probably agrees that you choosing two dogs over another dog was the right decision as well as finding the entire ordeal extremely humorous, but they also find when communicating among themselves your decision to be very sad in that you would destroy a family over animals. 

The night seems to last forever as I wake up from dream after dream. You have left me in a dark place. I fear the worst. I know in your own way you have tried your best to make our family work. Maybe it was COVID cabin fever that took its toll. After you take Michael to football practice, put on a nightgown with nothing underneath and I will seduce you.  

CLAUDIA I

 I gave up my two beautiful boys for you. I raised your two children better than any father could. But when it can to keeping a family together and the special relationship between a father and a son, you chose two dogs. In my piece today in which I explain that I have left The White House to return to my solitary existence, I'm sure you will find plenty of supporters to endorse you decision just like Trump successfully convinces his airheads to support him. As more and more people discover that we are not together, they too will find it hilarious that you chose two dogs over a good father and the sacredness of a family. I'm sure that you and your friends will share a good laugh over your daring decision. But if tI gave up my two beautiful boys for you. I raised your two children better than any father could. But when it can to keeping a family together and the special relationship between a father and a son, you chose two dogs. In my piece today in which I explain that I have left The White House to return to my solitary existence, I'm sure you will find plenty of supporters to endorse you decision just like Trump successfully convinces his airheads to support him. As more and more people discover that we are not together, they too will find it hilarious that you chose two dogs over a good father and the sacredness of a family. I'm sure that you and your friends will share a good laugh over your daring decision. But if they knew your first husband and your endless list of lovers, they would be surprised by your decision. Of course, most of them are about as stupid as you. What kind of woman decides that man's best friend is more important than the man in her life. I will write today that we have parted. You deserve to be congratulated for being a strong woman who has such admirable qualities that she has refused to compromise her principles. You're like your old lover Vitas. He put his drinking ahead of his daughters until the authorities arrested him for not paying his child support. You put your dogs ahead of your family. Your kind of thinking must be the explanation for going from guy to guy and topping your erotic escapades by doing three different guys in three weeks and then bragging about it like it was a great accomplishment, but you obviously don't think like a normal mother. The community will learn about our split today. It's a slow news day. 

I love your message: "I just realized that being a good mother is not having my son around a toxic person like you. You have made my baby cry. I have never seen him like that. You're breaking him. Not me. You!" You pull poor Michael into this because you want to be the victim at any cost. You destroyed a family over dogs and now you want to destroy my relationship with Michael because you are cruel and vindictive and you don't care what crap you pour into his head. Nobody in her right mind that calls herself a mother would pick dogs over a good father. This is between us, but you are so fucked up that your will pull poor innocent Michael into it. A responsible mother would do everything to protect her children from pain, but you are unwilling to accept the consequences of your decision because you know you are wrong. I told you to keep Michael out of this for his sake and the first thing you did was pull him into it for your sake. He knows the father I am. If you are capable of convincing him otherwise, you are doing him great harm. Your Laredo Lover is waiting. Fuck him a few times and he may forget how you fucked him over with lies by telling him I was such a bad guy. If he has any sense, he will know the reason you tried to depict me as the bad guy because you were the bad person as you are reinforcing with Michael by being the bad mother who chose a couple of mongrel mutts over her family and you can't stand being held accountable for your terrible truth.hey knew your first husband and your endless list of lovers, they would be surprised by your decision. Of course, most of them are about as stupid as you. What kind of woman decides that man's best friend is more important than the man in her life. I will write today that we have parted. You deserve to be congratulated for being a strong woman who has such admirable qualities that she has refused to compromise her principles. You're like your old lover Vitas. He put his drinking ahead of his daughters until the authorities arrested him for not paying his child support. You put your dogs ahead of your family. Your kind of thinking must be the explanation for going from guy to guy and topping your erotic escapades by doing three different guys in three weeks and then bragging about it like it was a great accomplishment, but you obviously don't think like a normal mother. The community will learn about our split today. It's a slow news day. 

I love your message: "I just realized that being a good mother is not having my son around a toxic person like you. You have made my baby cry. I have never seen him like that. You're breaking him. Not me. You!" You pull poor Michael into this because you want to be the victim at any cost. You destroyed a family over dogs and now you want to destroy my relationship with Michael because you are cruel and vindictive and you don't care what crap you pour into his head. Nobody in her right mind that calls herself a mother would pick dogs over a good father. This is between us, but you are so fucked up that your will pull poor innocent Michael into it. A responsible mother would do everything to protect her children from pain, but you are unwilling to accept the consequences of your decision because you know you are wrong. I told you to keep Michael out of this for his sake and the first thing you did was pull him into it for your sake. He knows the father I am. If you are capable of convincing him otherwise, you are doing him great harm. Your Laredo Lover is waiting. Fuck him a few times and he may forget how you fucked him over with lies by telling him I was such a bad guy. If he has any sense, he will know the reason you tried to depict me as the bad guy because you were the bad person as you are reinforcing with Michael by being the bad mother who chose a couple of mongrel mutts over her family and you can't stand being held accountable for your terrible truth.

CONVERSATION FOUR

 You: Have you ever been overwhelmed with hate and anger?

Me: Several times. I've raged against rage.

You: What have you done to escape these demons?

Me: I have made drastic decisions to change the direction of my life because if I hadn't, I would have annihilated myself in self-destructive behavior. But there is also an unfortunate reality.

You: What is that?

Me: Sometimes you can't escape them. They haunt you ceaselessly. There are respites from their onslaughts, but there is no rest. 

You: How do you survive in this unsettling state?

Me: Xanax. Cough syrup. Even Excedrin. You may not have a headache that is causing you physical pain, but you have a headache that is causing you mental pain. Excedrin has a tranquilizing effect on me. You do your best to dull yourself to your psychological afflictions without compromising your clarity. On a purely tangible level, exercise and sleep have to be a part of your regimen if you intend to survive.

You: How is your mental state at this moment.

Me: Fragile. I'm dealing with paranoia because I am not in control of myself right now, but like the hate and anger that constantly plague you, you learn to live in this precarious condition.

You: Do you ever contemplate suicide?

Me: Like a bullet entering your brain, I have thought about it, but unless I were terminally sick, I would resort to a drastic decision to alter my situation. I believe one solution is to run from a problem. Some might consider it a lesser form of suicide because of the widespread Coronavirus affecting the country, but I would consider traveling to Brazil as a radical but necessary change. I have said that before I committed suicide, I would live in Portugal for a year and then weigh my options. We're so toxic as a nation these days with the pandemic that Portugal and most Western European countries won't allow us inside their borders, but Brazil has a president as crazy as Trump and there are no travel restrictions for us. And as long as you have money and your health, why would you want to kill yourself? There is always an adventure just around the next corner.

You: What are you doing at this very moment to deal with your desperation?

Me: Writing.

CONVERSATION THREE

 You: Are you no longer pontificating about local politics?

Me: When does it end? I busted my ass covering the county, college, school board and port elections. And I wasn't reticent about opining about my support for Biden and my odium for Trump. I will offer my two cents worth on our politicians because there is a financial incentive in maintaining the blog and I can't suffer certain fools, but I'm on empty these days. We have Thanksgiving in two days and the Christmas season throughout December. Locally, I'm cooked. Nationally, there is the challenge of adding your voice to the chorus that Trump exit and Biden enter.

You: But you're the Voice of Brownsville.

Me: Hardly. I'm little more than part of the cacophony. The ranting and raving never cease just like yet another controversy following yet another crisis never ceases. 

You: How long have you been covering Brownsville?

Me: How long has Brownsville been covering me would be a more accurate questions. I became sports editor at The Brownsville Herald in 1977 and I've been sitting in my 50-yard-line seat for 43 years. Literally. Yesterday I traveled with Claudia to watch our son play against Weslaco East. Once you embark on a certain path in life, you are condemned like a prisoner walking to the gallows to complete your death sentence. I have a constant lament. Over beers one afternoon in Mexico a gentleman informed me that my future might be awaiting me in Brownsville. I took his advice, but couldn't he have told me that my future was awaiting me in Austin or New York City or Miami!

You: How did your son's team do?

Me: It was a 49-0 shellacking, which over my four decades here has not been that uncommon of an experience for Brownsville teams where losing is a football tradition. It has not been that uncommon of an occurrence for Brownsville teams to be behind 49-0 at half.

You: How did your son do?

Me: He caught five passes. Presently, there is no greater joy in my life than watching him play football. As a sophomore he is Veterans Memorial starting end and he plays with an incredible passion. Sports has been the one constant in my life. I have these delusions that I could be a standout tennis player, but at a minimum there are few pleasures that compare to stroking a ball on our windless, temperate autumn evenings.

You: What is your greatest disappointment about Brownsville? You've raised a half-dozen children here. A hip cat like yourself wouldn't torture himself rotting away in a self-imposed prison. You obviously have a deep love for our border town.

Me: Our leadership undermines us. Excluding their misguided calling as politicians because most of them are decent individuals, you couldn't ask for a kinder or more generous people than our fellow citizens. It is the reason I've remained here. Hell, I've married three of them and the only complaint I have about them is that they didn't have better sense in choosing a husband. I do have some strengths, but I have more than my share of terrible weaknesses.  

You: Why don't you run for mayor and lead us to the Promised Land?

Me: I will be 70 in a month. I ran for mayor when I was 32. Unlike my ex-spouses, the voters had the good sense to reject me by an overwhelming margin.

CONVERSATION TWO

 You: How do you escape writer's block?

Me: By writing.

You: But what do you write? You can't just write anything.

Me: Yes, you can. If you have an imagination and search deep within yourself for inspiration, you can rediscover the path to self-expression.

You: Is that your strategy with these stark conversations?

Me: Exactly. You have to prime the pump. The mere act of typing words on to a blank screen has a magical quality of its own. You can't keep your body in shape in you don't exercise. You won't produce a poem or a story or a novel if your fingers don't start dancing across the keyboard.

You: But how do you get them to dance?

Me: What makes you want to dance?

You: Music.

Me: Exactly. I go to YouTube, select Tom Jobim's greatest hits and my fingers find their rhythm and next thing I know I have a product.

You: But is it a project worth reading?

Me: Why do we exercise? We exercise for ourselves. The same is true with writing. I write with an audience in mind, but I write for myself. I know if I'm pleased, somebody else will inevitably be pleased with my snippet of nonsense. Ultimately, the wonderful experience of creating something out of nothing never grows old. It also helps if writing is such a part of your being that life has no meaning without it. I feel sorry for people that aren't imbued with an artistic spirit. A musician composes a three-minute tune and that song can be the anthem for the rest of his existence.

You: But I can't sing.

Me: Then start painting.

CONVERSATION ONE

 You: I haven't seen any insights into life lately from you.

Me: You are right. The writing has been thin.

You: You haven't been writing anything.

Me: I'm in transition and I'm tired.

You: Transition? Tired?

Me: Physically and mentally I am in transit. I am moving from one place to another. I have rented a sparsely furnished apartment. The walls are white and resemble those of a museum without any paintings hanging from them.

You: Are you retreating into your Zen mind?

Me: I wish I could, but my appetites rule me. I am seeking escape from the white noise to a white space. With COVID and Trump, there is too much commotion. I have some hope that with a vaccine and Biden there might be the return to a modicum of normalcy, but my own world has been spinning out of control. As a result of this instability, I am profoundly tired.

You: What is your solution?

Me: Physically, I am turning to long walks and yoga. I can never abandon the joys of beer and wine, but I am consuming less. I don't intend to be a hermit, but there are times that we must realize that we are anonymous individuals and we must accept our meaninglessness. What do we do when we recognize this reality? We retreat. 

You: Where do you go?

Me: You take your place in a long line and wait until they call your name.

You: And when they call your name?

Me: You step forward and hope the news is good.

I LEAVE THE WHITE HOUSE

 Even though the dark COVID cloud hangs over us and threatens to drown us in a black rain, I couldn't bear the claustrophobic enclosure of my hotel room. I am in transition as I have been many times in the past, but like death, it never gets easier. I decided to head downtown to El Hueso del Fraile and listen to "Delta" Dave Handelman and his son Sam, the front men for Handelman Park. After their set, "Delta" joined me at my table to help me finish a bottle of wine.

"I hear you're on the streets again," he said. "What happened?"

"It has happened so suddenly that I'm in shock. I'm slowly extracting myself from the wreckage and checking myself for injuries. I have definitely sustained both emotional and mental trauma."

"Can you give me any details?"

"I'm in a state of shock presently. My two passengers are in the same condition as I am and they're blaming me for losing control. As a result, I find myself abandoned. As to a final report on the incident, I am leaving Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, to finish his investigation and subsequently submit his literary version of the event and the accompanying factors that contributed to the unfortunate occurrence."

"Where are you staying now?" pressed "Delta" as he took a gulp of his wine. The conversation was too serious for a mere sip.

"I'm at the WoodSpring Suites behind the Denney's on the frontage road, but I'm moving to the Sun Colony Apartments behind the HEP Plus tomorrow."

"Do you need help moving?"

"There's nothing to move. I have my clothes, laptop, guitar and tennis racket in a rented car. That's all I own. Everything of worth in my estimation is stored on the computer."

"And that would be your writing?" questioned "Delta" as he put his guitar away.

"That's it. I'll go to Walmart in the morning and buy an inflatable mattress, a card table with four chairs, bathroom towels and the basic necessities one needs in a kitchen. I am going to live a spartan existence, which I have lived in one form or another several times in the past. I want tranquil space. I want to walk through my front door and feel no tension. You know I can't stand animals. I was sharing a house with two dogs that never quit barking and nipping at my feet. I could not stir in my bed without them yapping. Despite the fact they are a pair of mongrels, they were treated better than me. It was horrible. My nerves were shot as I tried my best to live with these surly and unruly curs, but it was an impossible task. I will have serenity now with HEB across the street to provide for my basic needs."

"You look discombobulated."

"I am. I am in both a fragile and volatile state. I am so infected with anger that it's pouring out of me like pus. If my anguish were blood, I would be standing in an expanding red puddle right now."

"Sounds like Xanax time, but you are going to need something more than a temporary fix."

"With the COPD, I'm not smoking dope. I don't need the paranoia that marijuana sometimes induces. I need to dramatically curtail the drinking. When I'm consumed by fury, I'm only stoking the fire with alcohol. I must keep hitting the weights and playing tennis, but I need to go on long walks. Access to the Hudson Trails is less than a block from the apartment. I will maintain my daily discipline of  writing, playing the guitar, attending my daily Portuguese and French classes on-line and reading. I have to breathe deeply and hope that COVID doesn't ambush me and pray that Trump will soon be gone."

"I'm sorry to hear that your good intentions have backfired and left you in such a delicate psychological condition. I believe the solitary life will relieve you of your strife. You're too old for this shit. You have been a good father and you have three fine sons who should bring you succor. I bet the American people are wishing that the president was leaving The White House as quickly and as quietly as you're departing your former abode."

"Shall I order another bottle?"

"No! I will not contribute to your self-destructive tendencies. You need to embark on the straight-and-narrow right now. Let me leave you with this counsel that you once gave me: No matter how bad things are, it gives you something good to write about."

I returned to the hotel. I watched the cable networks and learned the latest on Trump's blatant attempt to steal the election and rule as a dictator. I turned off the television. I turned off the lights, but I couldn't turn off the wrath. Only a double dose of Xanax could turn off my mind.

CLAUDIA

I tried my best, but psychologically I can't handle it any longer. Your lies and cheating and promiscuity destroyed our marriage. You told me at the beginning that you had been out of control and from the many stories that you have told me and the fact that I was the third guy to fuck you in a three-week period more than substantiate your claims. I should have seen the red flags, but I was blinded by infatuation. I have never been able to accept that you were so easy. But you continued with your lustful lifestyle during our seven-year separation. Even Viro's mother at the V told me that I had to let you go while he and his friends were broadcasting throughout Brownsville, even to the bloggers who included you and him hugging each other tightly in a photo, that the two of you were having an affair. During this last election Montoya's anonymous contributors never quit reminding his thousands of readers of you placing a pair of horns on my head screwing him. How many friends with benefits were there over the five years before you met the Laredo Loser? You're the type of woman who can't go long without being with a man. You certainly proved that between your two marriages. Habits started at 15 are difficult to break. But for me the unrelenting mental torture has been you flinging yourself into the arms of the Laredo Loser. You call the year-long relationship a "romance" during which you traveled with him. He promised to free you from working, put a roof over your head and give you a ring. He introduced you to his son and his family. Nobody does this in a serious "romance" without sexual intercourse. You denied any physical involvement while you were fucking me and lying to him. Nobody would buy your story for a second. Then, of course, there are the mongrels, two of the ugliest mutts who have ever walked the earth. You know how much I hate them, but you mock me by telling your friends that you would choose them over the father of your son. I hope the laughs have been worth the consequences. And if I suffer from manic depression, you have greatly exacerbated my condition. I can be fine, but at any moment of every day my battered brain is suddenly filled with the image of you sucking someone's dick, getting dog-styled, sitting on a fool's prick, having your pussy eaten and then opening wide as your cunt is filled with cum. And then bragging about these romps afterwards. How many guys when you were drunk or on ecstasy have escorted you to the backseat of their cars, up the stairs of a hotel or into their apartments and had their way for you? How many different guys have you fucked, Claudia? It's a question I ask myself a dozen times a day. Speculating on this figure is a very depressing math. This is the story that should appear on the internet with the infamous picture of your right hand flattened against his belt buckle and his right arm firmly squeezing your shoulder. I keep that photo close to remind me that you ended our marriage so you could experience disgusting moments like this one. I believe there is little chance that Michael would hang this photo from his bedroom wall. With the exception of me, nobody knows the real Claudia. 

NOT EVEN TRUMP HAS AS MUCH SEX AS AMERICAN PHAROAH!!!

"What has been my most memorable moments during my long career, you ask?" posed Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, as we quizzed him about his many experiences during an extended drinking session on the patio at ex-Mayor Trey Mendez's Dodici Pizza & Wine.

"I've told this story on several occasions, but nobody believes me," he commenced. "I attended the Kentucky Derby in 2015. It was one of those objectives on my bucket list. It was incredible, not only the ambience, but the historic outcome of the race as well.

"Everyone was dressed to the nines, even yours truly. I thought back to my youth attending mass when all the women once wore hats although not quite as decorative as the ones I saw at the track. I drank a Mint Julep in honor of tradition, but I switched to The Oaks Lily, a combination of vodka and cranberry juice, that has become fashionable in recent years and gulped down more than my share.

"When I heard 'My Old Kentucky Home' as the horses started their walk to the starting gates, I felt the same shivers whenever I'm at South Bend and the Irish take the field to the music of their fight song. The day itself was overcast and the track was muddy, but Maximum Security, the favorite, took the lead from the outset and won wire to wire, but he was disqualified 20 minutes later because he went too wide on the final turn and the officials ruled that he hadn't stayed in his lane. For the first time in the derby's history a winner was disqualified and The Country House, a 65-1 longshot, was declared the champion. Not even boxing has had a more controversial decision.

"I shot the shit with several individuals. Everyone was extremely friendly and gracious. I was luxuriating in that much-hailed Southern Hospitality. One gentleman suggested that if I was going to remain in Louisville a few days, I might consider a drive to Coolmore Ashford Stud Farm, which he said was less than an hour's trip. I noticed the puzzled look on your faces.

"Coolmore Ashford Stud Farm is home to some of the finest thoroughbreds in the business. American Pharoah, the Triple Crown winner in 2015, stables there and I couldn't resist the temptation to view this magnificent specimen with my own eyes. I went Monday morning. I feared there might be a crowd remaining from the Saturday spectacle who might share my idea, but I suppose most tourists departed the next day. There was hardly anyone there. I compared the tranquility to the calm after the storm.

"There is a greeting center. A young Southern belle was manning the desk. I told her I had driven all the way from Brownsville, Texas to catch a glimpse of American Pharoah. She told me with a smile that she would summon an employee who would personally escort me to the horse's stall. I couldn't believe my luck. Five minutes later I was in a golf cart. My escort told me he had to run another errand. He pointed to American Pharoah's stable and informed me he would return in 20 minutes.

"I entered the stable, built like a typical American barn, and walked down the breezeway until I located his stall. I leaned against the gate just as he turned to meet my gaze. I recognized him immediately with the faint white star on his forehead. I had read that unlike his more high-strung mates, his trainers inevitably praise him for his gentleness. True to form, he approached and raised his head slightly as I stroked one of his cheeks. I've shaken hands with famous athletes, but I've never touched such greatness. For ten minutes I ran my hand all over his face and he never stirred. Overcome by the moment, I retreated a few steps to catch my breath. I was looking at my faintly trembling hands when someone said, "What's your name?"

I looked around and there was nobody in the stable. Maybe I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances that I thought I must be hearing things when I heard the same question again, "What's your name?"

I stood dumbfounded.

"What's your problem, grandad? Don't you understand English. It's me, American Pharoah. What's your name?"

"Max Maxwell," I stuttered. "But you're talking!"

"Of course, I'm talking," he neighed. "My great-great-grandfather was Mr. Ed."

"The talking horse?" I stammered.

"None other."

"But nobody has mentioned that you talked."

"Do you think I'm a fool? It would be the end of my tranquil existence. I don't need any intrusions into my private life. I don't want to meet the same end as Mr. Ed."

"What happened to Mr. Ed? "I asked as I pinched myself wondering if I was having an alcohol flashback from drinking too much Bourbon the previous night.

"He died from a drug overdose, but it was Hollywood that killed him. His real name was Bamboo Harvester. With his nervous temperament, he wasn't meant for the bright lights and the flashing cameras. My family told me he regretted leaving the blue grass serenity of Kentucky."

"Do you talk with anyone else? Does anyone else know you speak?"

"Nobody. You can't trust anyone. Besides, nobody would appreciate my speaking talents. As a horse, the media would be curious about my perspective speculating on the existence of God or if I believed in abortion, the usual meaningless issues that you humans endlessly debate."

"I'm curious. Why did you choose to reveal your secret to me? I'm little more than a tourist who is indistinguishable from the thousands of other tourists who must wander through these facilities."

"You are the spitting image of Wilber."

"Wilber! Mr. Ed's only true friend with whom he had the confidence to communicate."

"I saw you and and I felt an instant trust. Besides, like poor Wilber, if you started telling people that you were having a conversation with me, they would think that you were crazier than Wilber. As for me, I talk to myself all the time and I had this need for somebody else to hear me speak."

"I'm honored, American Pharoah. This has been an unexpected surprise to say the least. Do you mind if I ask you a question? As a longtime sportswriter, it's my wont to interrogate subjects and I have never had the privilege to interview someone as famous as you. Instead of traveling the world, you have chosen this secluded existence. Why?

"You drove down from Louisville, right? The countryside is second to none. I'd have to wear blinders in a city. The endless and pedestrian congestion would drive me crazy and I'm not a people person. Mules are more compatible to me than the asses you have to deal with every day. Plus, I have everything I need here."

"Can you be more specific?"

"I have my privacy. The food is second to none--only top of the line alfalfa, timothy hay, oats, barley, corn and beet pulp. Beet pulp is my favorite. Most of my equine acquaintances prefer their beet pulp dry, but I like my moistened. It brings out the juices. I trot every morning and every other day I'll finish my workout with a gallop. In the evening I'll stroll around the paddock for 30 minutes. I have to stay in shape.

"What for besides the logical health reasons?"

"I'm fucking my brains out and that output requires stamina because I'm a money-maker. At a minimum my bosses receive at least $250,000 for the birth of every healthy foal."

"How many fillies are you fucking every year?"

"I would estimate at least 200 different mares. Sometimes I have to do the same one several times before I hit the mark. I'm sure King Solomon would tip his hat to me. They say he had a 1000 women at his beck and call, but many became his wives and he had to endure marital problems on several occasions. I don't deal with that bullshit. I have the luxury of fucking them and forgetting them."

"Are there times when you become attached to one?"

"My handlers only bring me only la crème de la crème. Imagine that all the contestants in the Miss Universe are not only available to you, but they want to be with you because of your reputation. Do you think one is going to dominate your time when you have 99 others only too anxious to open their legs? And the following year there are 100 brand new contestants. That's my existence, Max. I exercise, I eat well and I fuck and fuck and fuck."

"Do you ever feel bored by this surfeit of riches?"

"You know as well as I do, Max: Pussy never gets old."

Just then my escort came careening around the corner into the breezeway.

"Take care, bro," he whinnied. "I enjoyed it."

I wanted to reply, but the attendant was was in a hurry. I knew one thing: If anyone or anything was going to gambol into the sunset, it would be American Pharoah.

DELTA PLAYS ON

 "Delta" Dave Handelman is playing once again on Thursday nights at El Hueso de Fraile. Slowly downtown rises from the lethal effects of the pandemic, but paranoia reigns as the second surge gathers momentum. Border cities El Paso, in particular, and Laredo are battling the Coronavirus tooth-and-nail. 

The virus hops from one epicenter to another like a Mexican jumping bean although lame-dick President Donald Trump insists that comparing it to a Chinese wriggling noodle would be more accurate. Regardless of who is to blame, when we venture outside our homes, we are at the mercy of a dark cloud and its black rain.

Of course, besides taking the simple precautions except the moment we enter bars and remove our masks and return to the besos-y-abrazos era, everyone is going about their business these days as if we had returned to normalcy. We are victims of COVID fatigue and we're throwing the dice that we won't fall victims to the contagion. 

And if we do, we give credence to the odds that we will be asymptomatic or that a combination of azithromycin, Ivermectin (a medication used to treat roundworm and other parasites in animals--steroids and, believe it or not, hydroxychoroquine will cure us of the malady. 

But there is a growing sentiment that unless people are dropping dead in the streets or falling from the windows of hospitals overflowing with sick and dying patients, there will be no more grand scale shutdowns. 

To reduce our fears, thus precipitating more daring behavior, we're all betting the house on the vaccines that will Make American Great Again, particularly with the imminent departure of Trump in spite of his legal shenanigans to convince the courts to change the election's final outcome based on the argument that the Democrats had rigged the result against him. 

"If an individual or an organization was responsible for depriving the president of a second term, we owe that person or persons a profound debt of gratitude for saving our country from certain doom," said "Delta" who had been living contentedly as a hermit playing his guitar six hours a day and spending the rest of his retired time  reading War and Peace after finishing Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, Cervantes' Don Quijote, Proust's Remembrance of Things Past and Neruda's Canto General. 

"Look at the numbers that Trump ignores except for the haunting figures that he lost the electoral college, 306-232, and the popular count by six million votes. As a result of his incompetence and indifference in dealing with COVID, there are  250,000 dead Americans and 11 million others who have been diagnosed with the virus. With a record like that in sports, he would have been fired at mid-season. 

"My sole hope is that Biden doesn't die before inauguration day," concluded "Delta" as he prepared to open his set. "Can you imagine the pandemonium that would unleash? In his typical fashion Trump would raise a bible over his head and assert that it was God's will that he continue leading his followers across the Red Sea and for the raging waters to engulf his enemies. Little does that cocksucker know that God has condemned him to spend an eternity in hell. 'That Man's Evil' is a new blues song I've been composing. I hope to debut it shortly."

"Delta" took the stage. On the Titanic, the band played on. In the country, Coronavirus rages on.

THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL

They say that a book writes itself. I don't disagree with this statement. The four novels, the dozens of short stories and the scores of poems that I have written for the most part wrote themselves. After the first draft, I turned to my skills and talents to refine the final products. For all intents and purposes, this commentary is writing itself on a sunny Friday morning in the month of November as I listen to the best of Tom Jobim and his bossa nova classics while a nervous anticipation builds in my stomach. Michael plays tonight. We went for a full-body massage last night after his practice. Over dinner, he talked about the long pass and the double-reverse the coaches had designed for him. His dream world is my reality.

As I have mentioned many times over the past several months, I have been compiling material for my memoir, The Coronavirus Chronicles, destined to become an American classic according to Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist. Who am I to argue with such an insightful literary critic! But with this endeavor, I'm learning an important lesson. Books don't simply write themselves and end when the author has placed his final period.

Originally, I was going to end the memoir at The Palm Lounge with City Commissioner Ben Neece and me discussing the national and local results. Biden was ahead, 253 to 232 (I had already called North Caroline for Trump). Leaving the readers in suspense (There, of course, will be no suspense about the outcome if this work is ever published.), I was going to finish with an epilogue which would feature the inauguration and a recap of all the events that had transpired in the almost three months since the election.

The book that is writing itself has nixed that idea. Too much is happening presently to permit a prolonged interregnum. Trump has not conceded the election. Presently, Biden leads Trump, 290 to 217, in the electoral college according to the media. The winner needs 270 to win the presidency and Biden has obviously passed that goal. Those who reside in the real world are calling him President-elect and Trump a lame duck. 

Trump is enraged that he has been reduced to a lame duck. He is firing former underlings right and left and is filing suits throughout the country right and left in order to overturn the result. There has never been such an assault on our institutions as Trump is launching one false fraudulent claim after another hoping the courts will eliminate chunks of Biden's votes that will lift him to victory in several states and provide him with the needed electoral votes. It is called the "Hail Mary Pass" by his critics, but in a desperate last move nobody doubts he is capable on enacting, he will pressure state houses to nullified the results in their states and select electors to the college who will vote for him.

(This isn't the article, but I will write a story in the next few weeks about this facade of a democracy that we have when electing a president. It is a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that are round and square that reveal our democracy as little more than a joke. Just like we have at the state, county and city levels, we need to streamline the process based on our one-man, one-vote "democracy" and the victor who prevails owns the highest popular vote total. The red-herring arguments that the poor people of Maine or Montana will be disenfranchised as California and New York will receive more attention from the candidates since they have significant higher populations is balderdash. Every vote counts and aspirants who ignore segments of the population, as Hillary Clinton learned to her chagrin 2016 against Trump, will more often than not lose.)

What does the chess board look like at this moment? The press has put Pennsylvania, Nevada and Arizona in Biden's column, which has increased his total to 290. The press has awarded Alaska to Trump which puts him at 217. Only two more states remain, North Carolina with 15 electoral votes and Georgia with 16 electoral votes. The pundits are prognosticating that Trump will win the former and Biden the latter, thus giving the former vice-president a 306 to 232 electoral college triumph. But Trump has unleashed an army of lawyers to assail the courts with a variety of charges that allege fraud in most cases. He is gambling that his legal shenanigans will turn the tables in his favor.

His supporters are grudgingly admitting that they are dealing with a petulant child having a temper tantrum. The Republican leadership is stating off-the-record that Trump's uncontrolled behavior will run its course and he will go quietly into the sunset which Democrats pray is the entrance to hell. As usual, the Republicans are retreating into their self-delusional state when it comes to this evil man, which is the reason he can comport himself outrageously at this immediate moment because these cowards have tolerated his outlandish antics throughout his term.

Instead of dedicating his last months to being commander-in-chief and leading the nation against our number one enemy COVID-19 that has claimed more than 240,000 Americans lives and infected more than 10 million others, Trump isn't preoccupied with the pandemic eliminating his fellow countrymen. He is solely preoccupied in eliminating the votes that will keep him in the White House and Biden in his basement in Delaware. There are a myriad of wild scenarios broached these days about the possible consequences of Trump's outrageous excesses. He fired the Department of Defense Secretary and anointed a toady to replace him. Rumors abound that he plans to do the same at the FBI and CIA. Would Trump in his madness attempt a coup d'etat?

Not since the Civil War has the country been in a more volatile condition. The remaining 70 days may be significantly worse than the last four years have been. Therefore, the book that is writing itself has commanded me to keep writing. With both Trump and Coronavirus worsening by the day, the book is demanding that I continue with my play-by-play. I was banking on a short break, but I recognize that the book that is writing itself is correct in its mandate and I must continue writing. It is the price an artist has to pay if he is truly committed to his art. And as crazy as Trump is, god knows the crazy poetry and prose that will emerge from my iconoclastic, nihilistic and existentialistic brain that will earn The Coronavirus Chronicles the much deserved title of The Great American Novel.   

NUMBERS

1. When you have a literary mind, you are constantly looking for material. Your brain is always busy, particularly if you're hounded by a muse who demands production but isn't generous with the required inspiration. I can post news articles for the blog, but that is comparable to hitting the heavy bag rather than actually climbing into the ring and going mano-a-mano, toe-to-toe. 2. There are multiple stories that one's family provides, but as Thomas Wolfe noted in his novel You Can't Go Home Again, you must tread carefully, especially if your subjects are easily identified and they are still living. I've walked that path in the past and it has yielded my best writing, but all good writing requires that the author keep probing deeper and deeper and upon consideration of the explosive evidence, this isn't the time to pen the pieces that are begging to be told. 3, Desperate for anything, I imagine a turtle sunning on a log when an alligator suddenly surfaces and eats the turtle. Not five seconds pass and the alligator regurgitates the turtle that swims away. The moral of the story: Don't bite off more than you can chew. I could compile Aesop-like tales retelling old sayings with a new twist, but I'm not excited about the idea. 4. I'm not completely adrift. In the last few weeks I've finished two short stories and one poem as well as the rough draft for my epic The Coronavirus Chronicles. I have almost 700 poems, anecdotes, news stories and short fiction regarding this undertaking in a file. But first, I must buy a printer, print the material and arrange a rough order from beginning to end, but I haven't started moving because the memoir with the presidential race providing the work its backbone only recently concluded--the voting, not the litigation--and I'm taking a deep breath, relieved that I'm no longer mired pontificating about national and local politics. 5. He hadn't been feeling well for weeks. As a physician he checked his vitals daily and there was nothing abnormal. He submitted himself to extensive blood work and the results were negative or within the prescribed numbers. He thought about x-rays, but x-rays of what? He was breathing without difficulty so he deduced that his lungs were functioning fine. Nevertheless, a malaise had taken control of his body. He had less and less energy. As he felt himself declining physically, life seemed to lose meaning. He still went about his day seeing patients and taking walks at night, but something in him was slipping way. "What's wrong, honey?" asked his wife. "I was afraid to say anything because you've thought of yourself as Mr. Invincible, but you haven't been yourself for weeks." He looked at her. He hated her. He had hated her for years. There wasn't a person whom he had hated more in his life than his wife. He knew that he was dying. He only wished at the moment that she were dead. 6. Is the previous presentation the beginning of a short story or a novel? Or is it already complete? It is complete because I have no intentions continuing with the story line. It is part of a greater whole as I languidly meander toward a destination that might be around the bend in the river or I ride the current until it gently deposits me on a sandy shore. Perhaps this is my half-hearted attempt to make brainstorming a literary genre. 7. I haven't visited my daughter's grave in years. Her name was Gabriela Cristina. She would be in her late twenties as she followed my two oldest sons. She was born prematurely, but she was three pounds and the doctors assured us she would survive. She died three months later after a series of complications. Were the doctors incompetent? Quien sabe. I remember visiting her one day and a cockroach was crawling across her forehead. I was recently diagnosed with CPOD by my regular doctor who referred me to a specialist. He ordered a CAT scan from the same hospital. I have solid insurance, but the medical profession puts the squeeze on its patients. The hospital will pocket 80% for its services. I don't intend to pay a cent. If the hospital insists, I will tell them that my daughter lost her life as a result of the hospital's ineptitude and I have tragic stories related to me from acquaintances. If the bill department insists on pressuring me to clear my account, I will have no other alternative but to publish these tales of death on my blog and Facebook. My goal is to die a millionaire...a million dollars in debt. 8. "COVID! COVID! COVID!" ranted Trump at one of his last-gasp spreader rallies before he lost the election. "COVID! COVID! COVID!" he raved. He is a sick and evil man. He specializes in making people hate each other. He holds the bible and as usual scrambles the verse: "Love me as I love myself! 9. I took a break to prepare myself and my youngest son lunch. I fried a sirloin steak for him and I fried butterfly pork chops for me. Two ears of corn accompanied the repast. (My readers say that I use the word "repast" too often, so this description is to give them something to munch on.) I'm stuffed. I assert in self-defense when someone comments on my expanding belly that I don't eat and drink that much, but the facts are too obvious to ignore. The specialist commented that I needed to lose weight. 10. You can never be afraid to take chances. What some individuals might read as goofy, others might find humorous. As writers we aren't etching the Ten Commandments on two stone tablets. Therefore, if Hamlet had been a honey bee, would he have said, "To bee or not to bee? That is the question." 11. A good editor might cry, "Stop!" He might reprimand me for resorting to scribbling filler in order to keep this numerical nonsense going. He might be right. Only time will tell. 12. Besides going to the supermarket to purchase the meat for today's lunch as well as adding to my pharmaceutical collection, I stopped at the tennis club to have my racket restrung. The sweet spot seems to come and go. Sometimes when I stroke the ball, I feel like I'm hitting the ball with a broken bat. As part of my tennis comeback, I'm only as good as my equipment. 13. What is the temperature in Fargo, North Dakota today. The high today will be 39 and drop down to 19 tonight. Tomorrow the temperature plummets to 29 with a low of 14. And Brownsville, Texas, the Third World Capital of the United States? The air-conditioning is humming as we're headed for a high of 88 with a low of 66. I'm hooking up with Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, this evening for tennis. The weather will be perfect with the prospect of being super-perfect if there is no breeze. Tomorrow we top out at 88 and bottom out at 67. A cold front is forecasted for Monday with temperatures dropping to 80 in the day and 62 at night. Poverty isn't so chilling in our winters of eternal spring. 15. This is a writer's mind at work in real time. I'm searching and searching for a subject and I have been unsuccessful as I grope through the sterile void that occupies the inside of my head, but I remain undaunted. I have set a challenge for myself and I will not be thwarted. I am not quitting until I finish entry number 25. I'm empty, but I'm also full of shit. In fact, I'm literally full of shit. Over the past two months one of my latest maladies is constipation. I used to crap like a duck, but when I'm sitting on the throne these days, I feel like a virgin no bigger than a Paris model who is contorted in pain as a well-hung NBA player mercilessly pushes and pushes his penis deep inside her. I am buying a variety of over-the-counter products and they help if I use them regularly. But the battle with constipation precipitates an accompanying reaction--hemorrhoids. They are a one-two punch that if one's anus' had a chin would combine for a first-round knockout. Diet, pendejo! I have a big belly because of my diet. I have constipation because of my diet. I have hemorrhoids because of my diet. I have high-blood pressure because of my diet. I have high cholesterol because of my diet. I tell you: I don't eat and drink that much! 16. I'm taking a mulligan. 17. In the midst of this spectacular display of creative fireworks, I received a call from a car dealer. Michael and I have been looking for a car. We have visited several car lots in search of the best $20,000 deal. The Buick Encore has caught our eye. The 2021 vehicles have arrived, but there are some 2020s still in stock. The owner is a longtime friend of mine and the individual who contacted me extolled the bargains that are presently available. I don't own a car. I haven't owned a car in years. Just like I hate pets, I hate cars. As a result of not having an automobile payment (And let's not forget insurance, gas, maintenance), I always have extra cash in my pocket. Michael has his needs and I can cover his costs easily, but a fuckin' $500 bill for the next six or seven years...No! No! No! One day if we ever return to normalcy again, I want to go to Portugal or Brazil and I don't need any fuckin' bills holding me back. 18. I just made a quick edit. I changed my objective from 25 to 20. I growing bored with this endeavor. 19. How often do we get to use the word penultimate? I never hear it in conversation. I have reached the penultimate step on my literary ladder. How do I feel? I feel great. By coincidence, I do 20 sets in my weights workout. When I reach 19, I know that I'm going to feel that rush of accomplishment. And I generally finish with a flourish adding extra repetitions for the last set. I want my body scintillating with the burn. 20. Why did I have to open my big mouth and say that I finish with a flourish? It must be guilt. Since I reduced my goal from 25 to 20, I have this feeling of cheating and only the challenge of upping the stakes can erase the remorse for resorting to a short cut to achieve my original ends. I AM GOING TO BUY THAT CAR FOR MICHAEL! Shut the fuck up! Foolishness doesn't qualify as a flourish. I'm paging through my notebook where I jot down ideas. Did I have a profound moment or insight that I put to paper before going to bed. Shit! There's nothing. My teeth are grinding. My lips are pressed tightly together. I'm staring at the screen like a tiger scanning the horizon for prey. As a guitarist with a half-ass voice, only the blues can save me: I woke up this morning. It was just another day. I woke up this morning. It was just another day. I didn't know if I was coming or going. I've seem to have lost my way. I rolled myself a fat one. I've put my faith in dope. I rolled myself a fat one. I've put my faith in dope. And by the time I was done, I was feeling a little hope. I don't think I'll die today, but who knows about tomorrow. I don't think I'll die today, but who knows about tomorrow. About death all I've to say, don't waste on me your sorrow. Life has been good to me, so when it's time to go. Life has been good to me, so when it's time to go. Tune your instruments to E and embrace the grave as just another ho'.