I SHOULD BE BUT I AIN'T

I should be in Portugal, but I ain't.

I should be in Argentina, but I ain't.

I should be in California, but I ain't.

I should be in Matamoros eating cabrito, but I ain't.

I should be drinking less, but I ain't.

I should be smoking less, but I ain't.

I should be hitting less joints, but I ain't

I should be taking less Xanax, but I ain't,

I should be spending more time with my mother, but I ain't.

I should be spending more time with my sons, but I ain't.

I should be spending more time with her, but I ain't.

I should be spending more time with my psychologist, but I ain't.

I should be exercising, but I ain't.

I should be doing yoga, but I ain't.

I should be smacking tennis balls, but I ain't.

I should be jogging, but I ain't.

I should be writing more, but I ain't.

I should be singing more, but I ain't.

I should be picking my guitar more, but I ain't.

I should be blowing on my harmonica more, but I ain't.

I should be optimistic, but I ain't.

I should be enthusiastic, but I ain't.

I should be energized, but I ain't.

I should be motivated, but I ain't.

I should be employed, but I ain't.

I should be earning an extra $30,000 a year, but I ain't.

I should be teaching in a private school, but I ain't.

I should be rising early each morning, but I ain't.

I should be happy, but I ain't.

I should be content, but I ain't.

I should be honest, but I ain't.

I should be forgiving, but I ain't.

I should be practicing Zen, but I ain't.

I should be praying in the cathedral, but I ain't

I should be contemplating the sky, but I ain't.

I should be strolling along the beach, but I ain't.

I should be an eagle, but I ain't.

I should be a tiger, but I ain't.

I should be a towering redwood, but I ain't.

I should be a snow-capped peak, but I ain't.

I should be here, but I ain't.

I should be there, but I ain't.

I should be doing this, but I ain't.

I should be doing that, but I ain't.

I am,

but I ain't.

I am,

but I ain't.

FOR OLD MEN BIRTHDAYS BRING DA BLUES

"Happy birthday, compadre."

"Happy?"

"Didn't Scrooge die a blissful death and rise a happy man?"

"Scrooge you, big guy."

"Remind me not to invite you to my funeral. You'll have all the mourners jumping into the hole with me."

"What is there to be happy about? Most of the time I have my head bent forward as I trudge against a hard wind and a cold rain."

"You gots dem blues, boy."

"Damn rights I have the blues and I will wail my laments E eternally."

"But that doesn't mean you can't pick out an occasional lead and bring some joy to your life."

"I haven't taken a guitar and smashed it into a thousand pieces. I haven't put a bullet in my head for the entertainment of the masses who only go to races to witness the fiery crashes. I haven't surrendered, but I look back at the past and I see the crosses along the road I have taken and in the future I see nothing but a sorrowful trip toward a cemetery until I'm planted under one of those crosses."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 67 today."

"You're young. You look good for your age."

"Fuck you, asshole! It's all a pathetic façade."

"Are you taking your meds? A friend of mine told me he had to divorce his wife after she stopped taking her meds. She became insufferable."

"I'm taking .50 Xanax along with my multi-vitamins, fish jells, aspirin and niacin. I wash them down with green tea."

"You are all hot air. You have an exaggerated opinion of yourself. Accept your nothingness and you will find happiness. I would suggest that in order to find that earthly nirvana you should double your Xanax dosage."

"You want to turn me into the walking dead?"

"I want you to have peace."

"There is only one piece I desire and I can't enjoy it if I'm deadening the pain."

"Are you saying that in order to live the dream you have to endure the nightmare?"

"I'm saying that the numbers don't lie. I'm saying that in three years I will be 70 and in 13 I will be 80. You're almost the same age as me. Even though we can still stroke tennis balls and stroke ourselves, death awaits us around the corner."

"On second thought you need to quadruple your Xanax dosage. How do you go from day to day dragging that cadaver of yours under a black cloud?"

"Because the animal in me won't let it go. Because the animal in me is no different from the millions of those mindless other animals that delight in the cheap thrill. But when I start that steep, final decline, the beast will abandon me forever."

"What about your loved ones?"

"My dad has visited me the last two nights in my dreams. In the first one he wanted me to kiss him on the cheek. In the second we were on a roof being chased by a King Cobra."

"What did you do after you awoke from the second one?"

"I rose from my bed and made sure that all the doors were locked."

"Happy birthday, compadre."

"Thanks, big guy."

WOUNDS

Some wounds heal,

but they leave ugly scars.

Other wounds, however,

bleed and bleed and bleed...

INSANITY INSPIRES SANITY

"What is your mental state, compadre? With the exception of painting the town red the other day, you're not drinking much wine or smoking much dope."

"I seldom turn to alcohol or drugs recreationally when I'm not well mentally, big guy. Alcohol makes me angry and drugs get me paranoid. I had my most terrible outbursts with women when I was drunk."

"What are you doing to stay calm?"

"I'm on a steady diet of Xanax, point five my diurnal dose. I'm redefining myself physically. In the last two months I've dropped from 200 to 185. My goal is 175. When I was 30, I weighed 150. At 67 I have limited appeal and I have to eliminate as many negatives as possible in order to make a good first impression. My biggest challenge is the belly. Underneath this shrinking keg there may be a six pack."

"What are doing to become young and handsome again?"

"I'm doing American yoga every day."

"What the hell is American yoga?'

"As long as I can remember, I've been doing push-ups. I was skinny as a child, the classic 98-pound weakling. I had elephant ears. I was far from cute. The girls had no interest in me. My schoolmates called me Alfred E. Neuman, the character from Mad Magazine who appeared on the front cover. I had a face full of freckles. My appearance embarrassed me and doing push-ups was my attempt to improve my physique."

"How many push-ups would you do?"

"I don't remember, but as part of my American yoga I'm doing ten sets of 30. I also do ten sets of abdominals and ten sets of stretching. I lay in front of the television and exercise for an hour. I can do them anywhere, anytime."

"Is that it?"

"No. I walk between an hour and an hour-and-half every day. Running is too painful. I attempt to find my Zen mind as I pump my arms, count and maintain a steady pace. Hot or cold, windy or rainy, walking is pure pleasure.

"You say you've lost 15 pounds?"

"I have, but I haven't explained the entire program. In my apartment complex there is a gym and I'm lifting weights three times a week and swimming laps when I finish. Lastly, there is my tennis game. I go to the center twice a week. I'm hitting the ball better than at any time in my life."

"Yoga, walking, lifting weights, swimming and playing tennis...you'll be young and handsome in no time. Perhaps you'll blind someone again with that whitewashed facade."

"I have explained only 20% of my strategy. The other 80% is diet. I have eliminated most starches. No more bread or tortillas. I'm consuming little sugar. I have cut my portions dramatically. I'm eating at frequent intervals, mostly fruits, nuts and vegetables. Orange juice, strawberries and cereal for breakfast, a substantial lunch and salads in the evening. I don't like that stuffed feeling and I quiet the growl in my stomach with water. Several cups of green tea assist my regimen. This is my last opportunity to be slim and trim."

"You are using all the negatives in your life for a dynamic comeback. Congratulations."

"I don't kid myself. I am attempting to gain control of myself physically in order to save myself mentally. If I look good, I may feel good."

DEATH OF A BLOGGER

"What happened to the blog?"

"I took it down."

"Why?"

"I've been reporting for 40 years and corruption is worse than ever. The sheriff is in prison for escorting drug lords with their loads through South Texas. A judge, the district attorney and a state rep are on their way to prison for racketeering. The port spent $21 million on a bridge that wasn't built and the money disappeared into Mexico. Our disgraced district attorney conducted an investigation and in a one-page report found no wrongdoing. The mayor is buying properties with municipal monies. His partner is representing the owners and pocketing lucrative commissions. Knowing somebody isn't sufficient anymore. You have to be related to someone if you want a job with the school district or any other government entity. I could go on and on."

"There is the future."

"The upcoming generations are worse than their progenitors. We weren't materialists. We had no need to keep up with the Joneses. These youngsters are building big houses and buying expensive cars before they are 30. They are living beyond their means. They seek power because access to money is the first benefit. Like the thousands of underlings in the drug ranks, there are plenty of candidates to replace a fallen leader. The same is true here. I can say with 100% certainty that corruption will increase exponentially in the future."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not closing the blog out of bitterness or frustration. I have no problems with our reality. Life is imperfect. I accept that reality. I've been dabbling in poetry and short stories. I want to mine my years  of experience and see if I have real talent. I have an idea for a novel, maybe two or three. I need time and tranquility to write. Though Brownsville and South Texas will remain the backdrop for most my ideas, I want to distance myself from the day-to-day grind of local life."

"You will be missed."

"None of us will be missed, big guy. It won't be long before we're both gone. Sixty-three years have passed in a blur and we're living in fast-forward times. I want to withdraw before nature permanently withdraws me from existence. We come from nothing and we return to nothing. We should revel in our nothingness."

"When the shit hits the fan and you don't have the vehicle to fulminate against injustices, aren't you going to feel frustrated that you won't be able to vent?"

"One of the bloggers will be more than happy to lend me his screen. In the past if someone submitted an excellent comment, I would publish it on my front page. It meant I had to post less or not post at all. As longtime journalists we are anal-retentive about breaking a story every day. It's part of our DNA. It's like exercising. It's something you have to do or you don't feel good about yourself."

"Writing in anonymity won't bother you? Haven't the people in the streets inspired you?"

"I don't give a fuck!"

"What did I tell you about that 'don't give a fuck' attitude? It's going to send you down the path of self-destruction. I'm not comfortable with the news that you won't be reporting the news."

CLASSLESS WRTING

"When do you write?"

"When I have the chance. Sometimes I'll write at the end of the day. Other times, after ten minutes of tossing and turning, I'll write early in the morning. Many times I'll find an hour during the middle of the day. I can't go two days without exercising my mind."

"I read yesterday on your blog among other outrageous comments that the college president was taking it up the ass and the bishop was rhapsodizing about black dicks. What's the point of those classless insults?"

"We need to show more persons in positions of  power a lack of respect. Power goes to their heads and it's important to spit in their faces for their own good. We don't want them to become tyrants."

WHIMPERING BABYBOOMERS

"Did everything go according to plan yesterday, compadre?"

"When you speak of everything going according to plan, you are speaking about one thing, aren't you, my amicable pervert?"

"What would that one thing be, my amiable prude?"

"Whether or not my one thing joined her one thing in the only thing?"

"You do have that ability to take a thing and reduce it to its essence. That's the reason I find your conversation entertaining. If it weren't for the retelling of your adventures, my life would be boring. There was no way my father and his generation were living your lifestyle when they were our age. They were living the eight-to-five existence and spending their weekends cutting the yard and making repairs around the house. They must have had an affair or two, but their only extravagance was an occasional drunk. I live the same boring life without the felicity of finding fulfillment in the mundane ticking of their clocks."

"They were happy. They had found contentment in marital bliss and raising successful families after surviving the bleakness of the Depression and the violence of WWII. These experiences had taught them to put life in the proper perspective."

"Boring, no?"

"You don't miss what you don't know. We are the generation of the cheap thrill. Without abandoning the sacred tradition of alcohol, we benefited from the enlightenment of drugs and the liberation of birth control. Why would anyone want to give up getting high and getting fucked, particularly when both are plentiful and accessible?"

"Aren't you cheating yourself of something more profound?"

"What would that be unless you have brainwashed yourself into thinking by living a centered life and advocating a certain belief it will result in an ultimate reward? I can't surrender to some transcendent idea. I have a daughter who keeps me focused and connected. I have my own flights of fancy that I might write something provocative and entertaining, but that doesn't mean I don't entertain the thought of putting a bullet through my head."

"If you put a bullet through your head, there is no way that things can go according to plan. Instead of consummation, you have culmination. A well-devised plan, as you explained previously, can culminate in consummation."

"My hopeful, amigo. It's all hopeless. I look into the face of my optimistic angel and I know that age, sickness and death will one day sweep her away. And that doesn't include all the travail she will endure between now and then."

SPORTS

My first memories are about sports. My dad told me I was ten-months old and sitting on his lap in the fall of 1951 when the New York Giants' Bobby Thompson hit the home run heard around the world to beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in the third game of their iconic playoffs.

There wasn't a Notre Dame game from the thirties or forties that he couldn't retell, but he would get misty eyed when he would relate me this anecdote: "I was sitting on my father's shoulders as the Notre Dame players stepped down from the train on their West Coast journey to play SC, when my father suddenly started pointing and said, 'There's Knute Rochne!'"

I was a California guy. I worshipped Sandy Koufax and Maury Wills and the Los Angeles Dodgers before my allegiance changed to the Oakland A's and Catfish Hunter and Reggie Jackson. I initially followed the Los Angeles Rams with Roman Gabriel at QB (pronounced RO-man GAB-ri-el before I switched my allegiances once again, first with the wild Oakland Raiders and all their characters and then to the more sedate San Francisco with Joe Montana at the helm, the greatest quarterback in NFL history until Tom Brady replaced him.

I played football in the fall, basketball in the winter and baseball throughout the spring and summer. There were countless days spent in neighborhood school yards where the action was as intense as any games played under the Friday Night Lights. Sports was, is and will always be the metaphor for everything in life.

When I want to achieve a Zen transcendence, I go to the bar at Campero's, drink, eat and watch sports. It is generally quiet and dark. With or without company, those are my most sublime moments.

Yesterday my youngest brother called. After receiving the basic information about the family, we discussed the Super Bowl, both of us agreeing that the Pats will prevail, the greatness of Roger Federer, the beauty of basketball as displayed by the Golden State Warriors and that Willie Mays was a streaky hitter.

Today I will take my three sons and significant other to Cobbleheads where we have a table reserved to watch Super Bowl LII. I still remember Super Bowl I well when the Green Bay Packers thrashed the Kansas City Chiefs. And nobody from my generation will ever forget Super Bowl III when the New York Jets' Joe Namath predicted that they would defeat the Baltimore Colts. I don't know if "Broadway" Joe proving true to his word was more or less shocking than the degenerate Donald "The Dick" Trump winning the presidency.

As Sonny and Cher once sang: "The beat goes on!"

BULLSHITTING ABOUT MYSELF

Another cold front. I love them. They don't last long and our finest weather follows. Those days evoke places like Cuernavaca that enjoy an eternal spring. I pull up the blinds over my window and gaze at the gray skies and falling rain.

I may go to Austin this weekend or early next week. Of my three boys, number two has been residing in the capital for the last decade pursuing a musical career. He is 28. My oldest son is 30 and is teaching at a Catholic school in Harlingen and my baby is 13. He is hitting the weights, trying different hairstyles and looking at himself in the mirror every 30 minutes. He thinks he can be a slot receiver and follow in the steps of the Patriots' Julian Edelman and Danny Amendola. To his credit, he plays the guitar well and can hit a golf ball straight and far.

I just finished recording my first two CDs with 12 songs each: Hughes Blues and Brownsville Blues. In the first I took the poetry of the great African-American poet Langston Hughes and put them to the blues. It was a perfect marriage, much like marijuana and wine. In the second they are my original compositions. And these were all one takes. My production costs for the total product was $430. I wanted to sound like a toothless black guy sitting on his front porch in the Mississippi Delta strumming his guitar. I believe I achieved that goal. At the end of this article I will print the title song of the second CD. I had 50 of each printed and I can have many more printed inexpensively.

With my son, we're going to visit some joints and radio stations and leave the music. Maybe I'm a natural talent or, as many friends have told me, I have no talent. You can never let negative criticism blind you to your vision. My son becomes frustrated that his art isn't receiving the attention he feels it deserves. I tell him that I have been writing and singing for four decades and I'm not discouraged because I have never sought fame or fortune through my crafts. I have run into enough people at HEB Plus who have told me with a chuckle that they have found my musings entertaining or they have congratulated me on my show at El Hueso de Fraile.

I haven't surrendered in my quest to avail my material to more people. The CDs I'm going to package and send throughout the country. Over the years at my own expense I have published seven books and currently I have 14 books of novels, short stories and poems available at Amazon. Since I became sports editor at The Brownsville Herald in 1977 when the dying daily was a controversial newspaper staffed with aspiring journalists, I have been pontificating about Brownsville non-stop.

I started my own publication, the iconic El Rocinante. I was Brownsville's first blogger and I continue to pound at the keys on a regular basis. I have all the material written for a 15th book, but I need to arrange and edit the contents. I have a trilogy entitled The Trails & Tribulations of Tommy Tamaulipas and my 16th book will be the epilogue to that trio. I have every confidence that it could be my finest work if bad health and insanity don't undermine me.

As I wend my way through my 68th year, besides my three sons and three divorces, I have many other accomplishments. I ran for both mayor and city commissioner of Brownsville. In my mayoral campaign my motto was: "Let's make our resacas blue." I was 32 years old. My hair hung to my shoulders and I coordinated my campaign from the Palm Lounge.

I retired in June after 39 years in the BISD. Since I spoke Spanish, I was a natural for the ESL students. And it was the ESL students who gave me credibility. When UIL approved soccer in the early 1980s, I became the coach at Porter and we won one championship after another, the first Brownsville school to reach state. We could have called ourselves the Matamoros All Stars. When we faced the gringos from the north, I would tell the kids to speak Spanish. I knew this would intimidate the white boys who would think they were meeting a bunch of 20-year-old ringers from Mexico.

I could go on and on, but I need to do my Yankee yoga--ten sets of pushups, situps and stretches--as I look at myself in the mirror and endeavor to convince myself that the remnants of youth remain in this aging body and I can't go down without a fight. I haven't thrown in the towel regarding true love, but if I'm walking around with a belly that hangs over my balls, I won't be getting the pick of the litter. Although many women are desperate and will take anything if he can help with the bills, I certainly wouldn't be content being with human litter.

I take a deep breath. I need to begin exercising because I'm meeting Tony Gray, State Rep Rene Oliveira's charismatic aide, for dinner. We'll eat and drink well as we have often done. We'll cover the local political scene as we have often done. When I ran for mayor, Tony would distribute my campaign literature. He claims he picked up a few chicks hitting the hustings for me. I'm looking out the window. It's gray and cold and misty. I think of the long and dusty and windy summers and I embrace the moment. Long live the moment!!!   

ANOTHER WEDNESDAY

I hate to sound like some kind of Scrooge, but either you love someone every day and go to mass every Sunday or you play the hypocrite with a false display of affection on Valentine's Day and appear at church on Christmas Day.

I asked my favorite lady friend if she wanted to enjoy an early dinner tonight before the crowds filled the restaurants, but she said no. I drink copiously many nights to accompany my meals, so I'm always ready to hit the town, but she said no. I, at least, went through the motions. I don't want to be accused of failing her again in the near future although there are no doubts that she will soon remind me within the next few days that I am less than perfect.

It is seven in the morning. At six I walked over to Stripes, ordered a tortilla con papa y chorizo and fixed myself a cup of coffee. I bought the Brownsville Herald and El Bravo. The dying daily, as usual, had nothing in it while the Mexican newspaper was all about dying with graphic pictures depicting murders, suicides and fatal accidents. Mexico is a pinche mess although it will be the USA that precipitates the end of the world when we start launching nuclear weapons at our many enemies in the name of God.

I've put George Ramirez's 105.1 FM on the radio. It may be the best station in the country. Ramirez, who owns the Half Moon and promotes the Latin Jazz Festival, is a man of eclectic tastes. Unlike the rich, racists and religious right who are making one last stand a la Alamo in the name of the Aryan race and via the Republican Party, I embrace all cultures. Blacks and Browns have contributed so much to making my life richer that I am sure when the whites are in the minority in this country we will be a stronger nation.

I have to fill my blog in order to satisfy my insatiable three readers. I read Juan Montoya's El Rrun Rrun, /DP-M's The Brownsville Republic, Bobby Wightman-Cervantes' The Brownsville Voice and Jim Barton's The Brownsville Observer and steal from them. I will have this article to commence the day and I will pen another at the end of my production after I have posted the best of Montoya, /DP-M, Wightman-Cervantes and Barton.

I have nothing in particular to say about local politics although with the BND and TSC candidates having to file by Friday and the early voting beginning for the county elections on Monday, I'm sure something will occur to me. Maybe I'll have the South Texas Independent Journalists Assocation endorse Judge Juan Magallanes. I have advertisers who have paid their 30 pieces of silver and I must do my best to accommodate them. The good news is that I'm out of the blocks this Wednesday morning and within a few hours I will have finished The McHale Report and I can turn my attention elsewhere.

BISHOP PEDRO PHILE

Like many revolutions that took place in Latin American, the insurgents fought the Catholic Church for its abuses of the poor and its support of the rich. The counter-revolutions turned the tables as reactionaries made restoring the Catholic Church to its former stature part of its platform.

Brownsville bishops have never stood with el pueblo. They have never made public stands against the political corruption, the poverty and the mistreatment of immigrants. They will pay lip service to these challenges that The Brownsville Herald duly notes on its front page, but the institution has never waged an uncompromising struggle for social justice. Drinking good wine and sodomizing each other when the bottles run dry is the impression that most educated people have of the Catholic Church today.

Therefore, Bishop Pedro Phile's passionate defense of Eddie Lucio Jr. caught the public off guard. He never makes a public appearance. The effeminate prelate turns wine into Christ's blood in the morning during mass and then rides the buzz for the rest of the day until dinner when he washes down his sumptuous repast with a Riojo. Sometimes he'll knock off a second because it was a particularly bloody day for Jesus.

The bishop has no standing in the community. Where are his balls? Is that why he wears a cassock so he can keep his gonads tucked safely out of sight? La raza ambushed him with this hit when they said he was full of shit. If he were a real man, he would have a woman or at least a cute seminarian whom he wouldn't hide in the closet.

"'Sucio" is an unacceptable word when associated with a Mexican-American name," pontificated Bishop Phile who prefers that the faithful kiss his ass rather then his ring. It sends an electrifying tingle up his bunghole. Nobody thinks twice about saying a perverted priest or a dirty politician in contemporary conversations. There is nothing wrong with combining "Sucio" with "Lucio," particularly when it's place in a political context. Hasn't Trump's one great contribition been the destruction of political correctness!?!?

I can hear two teenagers shouting at each other prior to a fight.

"Chinga, tu madre!"

"Sucio!"

"¿Que?"

"Sucio!"

"Mamas pura verga, puto!?

"Eres sucio."

"¿Que pendejo?"

"Eres muy sucio."

"You can suck my dick, pinche cagapalo!"

"Ay! Eres muy, muy sucio."

I can visualize the aggressor scratching his head and walking away. He is confounded because he can't put 'sucio' into the proper context. He can only recall his mother using the word when his baby brother has shitted in his diapers.

Perhaps the bishop lived a sheltered life. However, he responds to this description of his upbringing as inaccurate.

"I once had a pillow fight with another altar boy who was spending the night," he lisped his his falsetto voice.

With the health crisis and the spreading pandemic, one would think that the bishop would have much more serious issues to address, but rather than come to the aid of a COVID-19 victim suffering from HIV, he is more concerned with saving Lucio's political life rather than saving a person's life.

At The McHale Report we are all Catholics. We know first-hand that it has deteriorated into a rotten religion. As to Bishop Pedro Phile, he needs to pull his head out of his anus because his defense of Lucio is nothing short of heinous for a man who is allegedly so pious.

SARA VS. EDDIE

The McHale Report's office located on Washington St. has been quiet for the last three months. Besides Managing Editor Scott Steinbeck, there is seldom anyone behind a desk as the staff is hunkered down during the pandemic. Following health officials' guidelines have left the journalists unscathed, but nobody is taking anything for granted as the pandemic rages through Cameron County, the Rio Grande Valley and South Texas. And through Matamoros and Mexico for that matter.

Steinbeck, a Vietnam vet who was seriously wounded during the Tet Offensive, is not easily intimidated. He crosses the bridge once a week to feast on the cabrito at Los Norteños and he'll down a couple of Tecates in Garcia's bar when he fills his Viagra and Xanax prescriptions. He refrains from venturing into the heart of the city where young girls abound desperate for a few dollars. Unhappily married, he isn't willing to risk his safety or his health for a good fuck. He has learned to live without sex during the COVID-19 crisis.

He was surfing the net when Maclovio O'Malley paid an unexpected visit. Unlike his colleagues, he has been hitting the hustings in The Southmost and Las Prietas on behalf of Sheriff Omar Lucio, Gabby Garcia and Sara Stapleton-Barrera's candidacies. Nobody works la raza like Don Pedro's nephew. Besides whiskey and women, politics in his great love. He believes that the Sheriff will win based on experience, that Garcia will prevail comfortably and even if the Senator ekes out a victory, he has already lost.

"What are you talking about?" asked Steinbeck.

"Besides being a Cameron County Treasurer and Commission, he was a State Rep for four years before becoming State Senator in 1991, a post he has served until the present," replied O'Malley. "You would think that an incumbent with that tenure would run on his record. Even if he hadn't done anything on his own, he could post a page in The Brownsville Herald with his voting record over the last 34 years with measures that have benefitted Brownsville and his district. Instead of running a positive campaign and comporting himself like a gentleman, he attacks his opponent Sara Stapleton-Barrera, an attorney and mother of three young children, as if she were a member of ANTIFA. There was general shock when he flooded every household with mail-ins that depicted her as 'not being one of us,' not a true South Texan, 'mala,' divisive, a defense lawyer who defended criminals and a murderer for her Pro-Choice sympathies. After reading his over-the-top attacks, I'm surprised the Child Protective Services hasn't taken her children as Lucio's has more than insinuated that she is an unfit mother."

"There must be polls that tell him he isn't doing well and he's become desperate, smearing his adversary's character the most effective strategy among his braintrust. Are the voters turning against the Lucio dynasty? Little Eddie in his reelection for State Rep only defeated Erin Gamez, 54% to 46%, and she didn't throw her hat into the ring until the last minute, ran a mediocre campaign and never challenged her foe's record. Sara, to her credit, has been aggressive from the outset and brought 'el pobrecito' Eddie to his knees when she called him 'Sucio' Lucio. You would have thought that she had accused the bishop of urinating on a statue of The Virgin of Guadalupe Eddie went so ape shit. Is this contest so close that he felt he needed to play the race card by claiming the 'Sucio' Lucio jab was a racial slur? He even convinced the emasculated bishop, who looks like a transvestite in his cassock, that Sara had committed a mortal sin by implying that Lucio was 'a dirty Mexican.' If the prelate had interpreted Lucio to mean 'politician,' he would have at least been accurate in stating that Sara was categorizing categorically that Lucio was 'a dirty politician.' It was hilarious that a woman had reduced Mr. Macho Man to a crybaby. And by the way, most people in Cameron County think that 'Sucio' is his first name. You say Eddie Lucio and they have no idea about whom you are speaking."

"He is always playing that Catholic card, also," continued O'Malley. "He reminds me of Trump standing in front of a church with a bible in his hand. He wants to present himself as a person of principle, but he is nothing but a hypocrite. Explain this to me: He was a teacher as a young man, so he was earning enough to live month to month, but during the last 34 years as a State Rep and State Senator, his annual pay has been $7,200. You have to be kidding me. How did an individual surviving on a pittance became a millionaire? Have you seen his palatial home complete with a chapel near Los Fresnos? You would think he had been raised an Yturria. What was the source of all this money?"

"He is called 'Sucio' Lucio, by his own people, for a reason. He lists his occupation as a consultant. A consultant!?!? What expertise does he have except lining up a putt and, according to el rrun rrun, lining his pockets? There are so many rumors regarding his duplicity. These are some of the more juicier ones that have arrived to my ears. If a company profits from his legislation, he becomes their consultant. That is the alleged baseline for his fleecing operation."

"But aren't there any particular stories that required him to admit in the confessional that besides masturbating, smelling his sister's panties and staring at the Playboy centerfold for hours, he hadn't been an altar boy?"

"There was Eddie at his Christian best facilitating a process that allowed Philippine teachers and nurses to come to the United States and find employment, but he reportedly collected a fee from each of them. Recently, and Dr. Sylvia Atkinson may have been involved in this intrigue, he was attempting to cut a lucrative food deal with the BISD that had less success than the barbacoa fiasco. And then there was the Willacy County detention center scandal that cost a few politicians their freedom and left Eddie promising to God that he would never be a bad boy again if he escaped prosecution. People call him 'Sucio' Lucio because he is the classic dirty politician who via dirty money has evolved into a powerful plutocrat. Never put your trust in the pillars of society unless you want to find yourself buried under their rubble. Seriously, however: Do you think Sara has a legitimate chance against Eddie? This would be the greatest political upset in South Texas history?"

"I have mentioned previously that she has made the impossible, possible," offered O'Malley. "If she doesn't win, she may have accomplished a moral victory."

"And what is that?" questioned Steinbeck.

"She may have ended his political career. He was having second thoughts seeking this term. His performance in this election proves that he has lost his mojo. He blasts Sara for her inability to work across the aisle. Eddie doesn't work across the aisle. He is in the Republicans' backpocket with his own seat on their side of the aisle. He would literally ejaculate in his pants when Governor Rick Perry would hug him. It would be a shock if he stayed on his side of the aisle and voted with the Democrats for a change. Eddie no longer has credibility as a Democrat in Cameron County. If he were a fetus, State Democratic Chairman Gilberto Hinojosa would abort him. As it is, he is a still-born Democrat."

GET HIGH ON COVID-19

BOB PINKERTON: "For whatever it’s worth, I totally disagree with you about closing the Island during the Fourth of July weekend. Nobody forced anyone to come to SPI. Don’t people have enough responsibility on their own to know when to socialize and when not to? I do and I live here. I think it’s ridiculous to blame someone else for your own faults. Are you telling me that all of these people didn’t go to bars and clubs and have a grand time? C’mon Jerry, wake up. Stop blaming other people for others' faults. Take some responsibility. I welcome anyone who wants to come and enjoy the beach if you take responsibility for your own actions. If you think you should stay home and lay low, then do it. But don’t go to the party and then blame the host. That’s ridiculous.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: There's shouldn't be a party, Bob. I'm sure Trump, without a mask, ignoring social distancing and inviting large crowds, would have been right at home. It's irresponsible to throw a party, but then we have a perverted president who is intent on destroying his own party. We are at war! I can imagine the Nazis bombing London and some crazy drunk insisting that he had the right to turn on the lights and invite his buddies over for a party. The Brits wouldn't put up with that shit. I love a good party and I love the Island, but I fear for my life, the lives on family members, the lives of friends and the fate of humanity in general. And now Trump and his hordes of haters want to force children to physically attend school? When does the stupidity end? There hasn't been a significant outbreak among children because they have been sheltered and separated from others since the beginning of the pandemic. I taught school for 39 years. The flu would spread like wildfire among the students. There is no scientific evidence that children have a natural immunity to COVID. Until now, COVID has gone from the elderly to the middle aged to the younger generations. If we open schools and the plague still rages, there will be a rebound effect from the youngest to the oldest. Trump has so mismanaged this crisis and is so desperate to win reelection at any costs that he doesn't think twice about exploiting our most precious loved ones as guinea pigs. Let's make Trump and his racist followers the canaries in the mine. When are you going to realize that Trump is evil and should be FIRED? He is absolutely incompetent. Es un pendejo! Almost 135,000 have died with more than 3 million cases and spikes everywhere. Do these numbers mean anything to you, Bob, or is it all a hoax, fake news, a conspiracy concocted by the Democrats and Chinese to topple Trump? I threw caution to the wind a month ago after the reopening and jumped in the car with my wife and youngest son. I needed to get out. I went to Louie's and the place was packed. If 10% of the patrons were wearing masks, that would be an exaggeration. (For the record I was wearing a mask except when I was feasting on the buffet and drinking heavily.) And now we know the reason Texas is a hotspot and registered its highest total of deaths and cases today. Don't keep the lights on for me, Bob. It will be a while before I party at the Island, particularly surrounded by idiots who proclaim, "I'd rather die than wear a mask." We have to give Trump credit for outing the millions of idiots who call themselves Americans.)

PALM LOUNGE DIALOGUES

The Palm Lounge has done an excellent job renovating itself. The complete makeover, after years of neglect, reminds us of the renewed enthusiasm that Sombrero Fest injected into Charro Days when the latter was going through a stagnant period.

Nevertheless, the owners of the historic establishment forgot to leave a relic from the old days. It is the painting of the Native Americans asking the proverbial question. But sometimes moving into the future means abandoning the past.

For oldtimers Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novel, the change has been little more than moving from an old marriage to a new marriage. They still gather for their beers and burgers and talk their bullshit.

"I am paying for my years of excessive eating, drinking and smoking," said Contreras.

"How's that compadre?" asked O'Connell.

"I have suffered from both heart burn and hemorrhoids over the years but never at the same time."

"So are you telling me that you were on the losing end of a double-header?"

"I was swept. My heart burn was so intense I could feel the smoke escaping through my ears and my ass was on fire. Sometimes I feel that the rest of my life will be reduced to that lockerroom adage of no pain, no gain."

"What did you do to relieve your pain?"

"For the heart burn I chose a two-prong strategy of tums and Zantac and for the hemorrhoids I stuck with my Preparation H but you have to buy the more expensive tube that contains lidocaine."

"And how do you feel today, compadre?"

"I'm gobbling down a greasy burger and sucking down brews."

"You never learn, do you, compadre, but that's why I love you. You make the same mistakes over and over again because the moment reigns supreme. You are going to live life even if it is going to cost you your life in the process."

I'VE MET SOMEONE

"I've met someone."

"What?"

"I've met someone. Didn't you hear me the first time?"

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"That's none of your business."

"Who is he?"

"I'm not telling you. I haven't asked you anything about your women?"

"We're married. You're committing adultery."

"You've never had any second thoughts about committing adultery."

"So you're fucking another guy. Does Diana know that her mother is cheating on her father? The reason you wanted your freedom was because you wanted to fuck someone else."

"I want a divorce because I want a faithful man who will treat me right and not give me STDs."

"Bullshit! All you've ever wanted was to fuck one guy after another. Right before we broke up you told me that you wanted a strange cock coming in your nasty cunt. I knew in spite of your protestations that you were nothing but a goddamn puta!"

"Get your fucking ass out of here, old man!"

"That piece of rubber that is your whore pussy is nothing but a cesspool of sperm. I'm surprised that your mouth isn't covered in suppurating sores from the many cocks you've sucked. Pinche puta! Does your beautiful daughter who wanted her family to stay together know that her horny mother is nothing but barrio basura?"

"Either you leave right now or I'm calling the police!"

In order to sing the blues, you have to live the blues: My baby done left me and my daddy is dead. My baby done left me and my daddy is dead. I've lost my way and I'm losing my head.

BLOGGERS TAKE MORE SHIT THAN THEIR VICTIMS

To a eulogy I wrote about my father, a reader answered, "You enter the Pearly Gates! Pllleeeaaasssseee. You're scum. You're worse than scum. Why do you write this? Do you want attention? Do you want people, especially women, to come to you and give you their condolences while you peek down their blouses? You're a pervert! I heard you're back downtown. Ha! Ha! Ha! Your wife finally came to her senses."

This submission inspired another diatribe: "You're a piece of shit, Joe. Jenny deserves better. You don't deserve a class act. Everyone knows that you're seeing some chick at the county. The way you write about others, someone should write about you. If you are the alternative to corruption in Brownsville, I'll take corruption. You had something beautiful and you turned it into something ugly."

When my father died, I posted an article entitled Patriarch Passes. I wasn't the recipient of universal sympathy. From the dark reaches of the peanut gallery this missive was fired at me: "Why don't you honor your father by becoming the writer you should have been--one fighting for the weak, the poor, the oppressed and the needy? Instead, you have wasted your talents writing about nobodies going nowhere in a falling town. If there, I'd at least have raised the level of discourse by writing not for my drinking pals, but for my abused neighbors who, really, have never had a strong and feared voice in stumbling Brownsville. But, as I like to say, it's never to late to have a happy childhood. Go do your Daddy proud, drummer."

There was this mixed reaction: "Sorry for your loss. Had no idea you came from such a loving father. Always thought you came from a broken home and that is why you write the way you do with lots of anger and hatred. You're definitely the black sheep of your family. Wow! Shame on you then. Your father would not be proud."

Another insulted voice added: "Your father was a man of honor? You are shameless as his son. Joe, you're a piece of shit who hides behind a computer and writes about others. I wish you the worst in life because you deserve it."

Occasionally, a comment staggers me, but like a right to the head, I shake it off and it steels me for similar shots in the future. Fans appreciate great boxers as much for taking a punch as for delivering one. The key in this business is to challenge the big boys. Even if they whip your ass, the aficionados appreciate your bravado. If you intimidate a little guy and he kicks your butt, you're exposed as a paper tiger. You have to ignore the pigeons and go mano-a-mano with the vultures.

SECRET TO GOOD MARRIAGE

Physicians call Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss the most respected doctor in South Texas. At The McHale Report we feel fortunate that he is a contributor both on and off the record. He doesn't often drop by our office, but he had driven specifically to eat at Ricardo's in historic downtown and stopped for a brief chat.

"There is a group of four nurses with whom I frequently chat in the hospital cafeteria. I am substantially older than any of them and our relationships are strictly professional, but there is an affection and frankness among us. There isn't a subject we won't broach. Sex is a dominant subject. I find sex can be a transfixing subject in a conversation, but once you've had sex with that person, the discussion ceases. I suppose reality erases the fantasy.

"One of the gals was complaining that her husband wants a piece of her every night. She says that he is wearing her out, but she surrenders against her will to refuse him on occasion. She admits, though, that she is at the breaking point."

"Do you love him?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"Is he a good husband?"

"Yes.

"Is he a good father to your two daughters?"

"He's an excellent father. He loves his daughters very much."

"Is he a good provider?"

"He's a hard-worker and enjoys his job."

"And you can't show your appreciation?"

"What do you mean?"

"He is only asking for 15 minutes of your day to satisfy himself. You can lie there like a dead fish. As long as you open your legs, allow him to penetrate and ejaculate, he is content. If you deny him his satisfaction, he will grow frustrated and seek it somewhere else."

"You talk like an expert, Doctor."

"I had a woman whom I loved dearly. She was a nurse also. She made good money and we shared a condo together. I told her she didn't have to do anything for me except make love to me. She didn't have to clean for me or wash for me or cook for me since I had been a bachelor and could more than take care of myself. Sadly, she was constantly rejecting me. And when she would give herself to me, she had this long, disgusted look on her face. You don't know the repugnance I felt for her at those moments. It was humiliating that I was begging for sex from my own wife. I ultimately found refuge elsewhere. What could have been a beautiful relationship ended in an ugly fashion. If you can't show your husband 15 minutes of gratitude each day for his many positive contributions, then don't act shocked when your lovely home comes tumbling down."

A few weeks later I was walking down the hospital corridors and she stopped me. She has the sweetest smile.

"I took your advice, Doctor. Thank-you."

"I'm glad. I hate to see good marriages destroyed when women forget that they have certain responsibilities."

WE'RE NOT A GREAT NATION

The compadres gathered at Campero's in the establishments long, dark bar that is always quiet. It is a good place to take a movida without detection during the week. Golden State was playing somebody and Durant, Curry, Thompson and Green were putting on their usual show. Speaking historically, they border on greatness.

"We will never be a great nation again, compadre, as long as we have that racist and misogynist as president. No great nation could give birth to such a bastard child."

"First and foremost, compadre, we have never been a great nation. Read history. Ask the native Americans if we have been a great nation. Ask the African-Americans if we have been a great nation. As the Mexican-Americans if we have been a great nation. Ask women if we have been a great nation. We have been a great nation for a few rich white guys who have exploited us for their billions. When they talk about a great nation, it is in the fifties, sixties and seventies when dumb gringos could get a factory job with outrageous wages and benefits. For the WASPs there was a period of prosperity that our parents enjoyed, but contrasted to our nation's existence, most of our citizens have suffered as they have struggled from week-to-week paychecks if they had jobs at all."

"Trump and his followers must feel that they are making their last stand at the Alamo surrounded by the dark hordes. I was brought up in an Irish Catholic family where half my relatives thought like Edward Kennedy and the other half thought like Sean Hannity. The latter hated black, browns, reds and any color that wasn't white. Those are Trump's people. And take a racist and make him rich and you have an ignominious ignoramus."

"And the gun fanatics!!! The NRA is no different than the KKK. I have no problems with an individual owning five pistols to protect his family in case of a zombie attack. He can own five shotguns, one each for quail, pheasants, doves, ducks and turkeys. And he can have five rifles for deer, elk, boars, alligators and spouses if the worse half deserves a bullet between the eyes. But these assault weapons represent an extreme mentality."

"Do you see any hope for the future?"

"We will never be a great country. If we want to base our greatness on comparing ourselves to Mexico, then we are only fooling ourselves. People argue freedom by contrasting ourselves to a totalitarian state and insist that we could not express ourselves in our manner if we were living in Russia. Pendejos!!! Freedom is freedom. Either you have freedom or you don't. Just because a Chinese can't criticize his government and I can mine doesn't mean I have freedom. Freedom is never given; it is taken."

"So you have surrendered, compadre?"

"Until I am old and sick and at death's door, I will never surrender. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. I am banking that most clear-thinking Americans are disgusted by Trump's attempt to divide the country and that a vast majority will unite and throw him and his henchmen on the trash heap of history. With Trump as president, not my president, I am not proud to be an American."

"At least he has ended political correctness so writers like you can express their shit. And he has exposed the religious right for the hypocrites they are. These jihadist would vote for Satan if he outlawed abortion."

"Screw it, compadre. The beer is cold and the food is hot. If I didn't have that mad desire for a woman occasionally to satisfy my carnal instincts, I would be a happy man. Every woman thinks she possesses a gold mine, but in the end you discover that you are the victim of fool's gold. I don't give a damn about greatness. Happiness is my sole goal."

"Great bar, compadre."

"It's my favorite, compadre."

COMMISSIONER NEECE UPBRAIDS BLOGGER

Commissioner Ben Neece was angry.

"You've not only deceived me, but you have deceived your many followers who depend on you for the truth," he bellowed. "You strut around like Mr. Macho Man on The McHale Report, but Facebook reduces to you a 98-pound weakling. Don't you have any self-respect?"

Ben and I go back. He has made my transitions from marriages to bachelorhood easier. He saved my ass several times when the BISD and TEA wanted to fire me for my writings. He has resolved lawsuits when my writings once again found me in hot water. We've played music together on countless occasions. One gig ended in our sudden termination. The proprietor didn't share our vision. Wine and women have come and gone, but we have faithfully stood by our sons.

"Chingao, carnal! Have all the bars closing downtown put you in a bad mood?"

"This is about your integrity, bro. You are one of the most respected voices in our community. You have gonads on The McHale Report, but Facebook castrates you. Where is the breaking news? Where are the controversial insights? Where is Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully who turns prose into poetry?"

"Writing for the blog and writing for Facebook is the difference between being single and being in a relationship. I have no one henpecking me on The McHale Report. Therefore, I can throw caution to the wind, but with Facebook, if I want to maintain the marriage, I have to compromise. How many times do I have to have my belongings thrown in the street before I learn that I'm either going to have to abide by Facebook's rules or our ties will be cut? Just like a permanent woman in your life can serve a temporary purpose, Facebook serves my purposes at this juncture. It is an outlet that I can use to my advantage, so I do my best to reconcile when we have differences."

"But you're an artist, bro. You have to stay faithful to your principles. Take this job and shove it! You have The McHale Report. Facebook is undermining your talents. I can understand kissing ass when it's your job, but when it's your art, you need to tell them to shove it up their asses. You're too good on The McHale Report to be so bad on Facebook. Why is Facebook forever silencing you?"

"I have to serve these 30-day sentences for flaunting community standards, for using hate speech, for bullying and for harassment among other social sins. It has reached a point that almost every criticism fits under one of those categories and I'm summarily banned. I have to learn to write about nothing. It can be black, bleak, cynical, banal, minimalistic and existentialistic that delves into my own solitude and insignificance with meaningless the icing on the cake, but it must avoid all themes that would prompt an anonymous complaint and once again find me exiled from Facebook. And sex can only be implied and not explicit."

"So you're saying that everything that is Donald Trump, you can't be?"

"Your question could get me canned, but exactly. Facebook forbids its contributors from angering its readers. Since there isn't something that doesn't fill at least one person or group with fury, I have to learn to publish nothing. I find the challenge of exploring nothing intriguing. Facebook has left me with no other choices if I want to continue posting here."

"And our conversation? Are you going to print it?"

"Yes. It's my first foray into the black hole of nothingness."

"You're wrong. There is substance in our dialogue. This is something."

"You don't instantly arrive at nothingness. It's like peeling back an onion. There is something to each layer until you arrive at nothing. Ultimately, Facebook will decide. Facebook may immediately conclude that receiving nothing from me realizes my goal of achieving nothingness. If the censors find that my pursuit is harmless, I will embrace the opportunity. It forces me to think differently. For those adamant in their attachment to something, there is The McHale Report."

"I'm not sure if I understand, but I find the state on not-understanding fascinating," concluded Ben on a happier note. "Let's tune the guitars and open a bottle of Malbec that I've been saving for a spontaneous moment. As to your new calling regarding writing about nothing, you may have found the perfect space mentally because the walls are certainly shrinking around us."

WIFE AGES GRACEFULLY

"I didn't appreciate your remark, bro?"

"What did I say?"

"You said my wife was aging gracefully."

"I was complimenting her."

"What would my wife think if I said to her that she was aging gracefully?"

"I'm sure she would appreciate your kind words."

"Since she is always looking for a fight, do you really think she would appreciate my kind words?"

"I don't know why she wouldn't."

"What does aging gracefully mean?"

"It means that a person, and in your wife's case, is taking care of herself."

"Bullshit! If I told her that she was aging gracefully, she would immediately attack me for saying that she was looking old. There would be a general outburst that if I wanted a woman with no wrinkles around her neck, firm breasts and a flat stomach, then I should leave her while she still had some youth remaining to find someone to replace me and I could try to find that young thing I so desperately desired."

"I'm sorry, but there were no bad intentions on my part. Your wife is very pretty."

"You've been single for more than a decade busy as a bee pollinating one flower after another. You don't remember the travails of marriage because your many romances have erased those troubled times from your mind, but when you have been mired in a marriage as long as I have, anything positive can be turned into a negative before you have punctuated your initial statement with a period."

"I understand. I recall those days when my wife no longer found amusement in my sense of humor when she would originally laugh uproariously during our courtship. My apologies."

"I hope you have learned your lesson because it may serve you well in the future. When you say to a woman that she is aging well, you are saying that she doesn't look too bad for her age."

THE IRISH

I was standing at the bar at Cobbleheads as Thursday night drifted into Friday morning. I saw Joe Kenney walking past and I grabbed him by the bicep.

"Pretty flabby for a guy from Phillly," I said.

"Fuck you, Scully," snapped Joe before continuing in that goofy accent. "What do you want?"

"I didn't get a chance to wish you Happy St. Patrick's Day! I'd pinch you on the butt since you're not wearing green, but you have a lousy lookin' ass. Let's toast the San Patricio Battalion."

"A bunch of filthy traitors," spat Joe. "General Scott should have hung all the bastards instead of branding the majority of them."

"You were in the Herald saying that Mexico and the United States had special ties as a result of these Irishmen switching sides in a war that Abraham Lincoln criticized as imperialism run amok."

"It's all about business," confessed Joe. "I can't express my true sentiments about those Benedict Arnolds. I have customers who buy into the myth about the noble San Patricio Battalion."

"So you were just bullshitting in the article?"

"You are a bigger pendejo, Scully, than I thought you were. If I had been President Polk, I would have sent the Texas Rangers into Mexico and dragged those Irish cowards back to the U.S. and strung them up here."

I like Joe. He's like the anonymous contributors to the blogs. It's not about the messenger, they argue. It's about the message.

It's a story I've told ad nauseum, but I love evoking the image of my father. Like most Irish, he liked alcohol. Beer was his poison of choice and he could drink on Saturdays and Sundays from the late morning until the wee hours.

He'd be sitting in front of the television filled with growing fury as Notre Dame fell further and further behind when he would thunder, "Do you know, kids, who are the most despicable people on the face of the earth?"

We knew the answer because we had heard the question a thousand times, but we would play dumb and respond, "Who Daddy?"

"The Irish! The Irish are the most despicable people on the face of the earth!"

It was a pride that a father instilled in his children. To this day both the McHales and Scullys are proud to belong to a race characterized as the most despicable people on the face of the earth. This knowledge is our strength.

MY HEB

It is an old argument that the Lopez Supermarkets have the best meat in Brownsville. Whoever defends that view hasn't pushed his cart through the HEB Plus aisles. Married men enjoy shopping these days as they stroll through the store and admire the beautiful women.

"You need tampons, honey? No problem. I'll run to HEB."

The action gains momentum in the meat section. Forget the fajitas! Forget the costillas! Forget the pollo! Forget the sausage! Well, it's hard to forget the sausage because it has a mind of its own.

Desire forces the shopper onward. The wine section is the favorite watering hole. We old lions use our experience to narrow the distance between the prey and ourselves. We also look for those with a slight limp.

While perusing the reds and whites, I have the opportunity to set my trap. A recent study revealed that women who drink wine have a more liberal attitude toward sex. They like to experiment; and wine is all about experimentation.

"I notice you've been standing here for ten minutes," I gamble. "May I suggest something?"

Then follows a long conversation discussing the particulars of the occasion and the right red.

"You'll be intrigued by a Malbec," I suggest. "Anything between $10 and $20 will do."

She is a pleasant person who has taken some pleasure in our discussion. Maybe I'll see her again. If not, there will be others.

SPORTS

Competition awakens the animal from its sleep. Jesus rose from the dead because he refused to accept defeat. I grew up on the sandlots and playgrounds. We moved with the seasons. And no matter the numbers, we could still split ourselves into teams and play football, basketball and baseball.

Basketball was the easiest. Some of the greatest confrontations were one-on-one showdowns. It soon got around whether or not you could play ball. One-on-one was difficult in football and baseball, but two against two more than sufficed.

In football we created narrow but long fields that demanded all of one's running, passing and tackling abilities.

In baseball we had a variety of two-against-two games that included fast pitch against a wall, but our favorite required the batter to hit the ball out of the infield on a fly for a single. The teammates pitched to each other. On the opposing team one player played a deep short while the other played left field.

All fouls and balls hit to the right side of second base were outs. Each team had six outs per inning. A ball that rolled to the fence was a double, off the fence a triple and over the fence a homer. It was nothing but hitting and fielding. We played this game for hours.

These were desperate solutions to appease our need for competition. Usually there were dozens of kids milling around waiting for someone to organize the games. These were neighborhood gatherings and there was a understanding that a sufficient number of participants would arrive by a certain time.

After school, on weekends and during vacations dads would be returning home from work and honk to their boys locked in their life-and-death struggles that were highlighted by harsh words and occasionally by bloody blows. One thinks of the many great athletes who as poor and working-class kids learned their craft without any organized instruction.

There was Little League, but my father didn't allow me to join until I was eleven. According to him, Little League had never produced one major league player. He had his beliefs. This was in the late fifties and early sixties. I don't know if there was any truth to his assertion, but he finally relented. To his credit, however, his belief proved true in my case.

One made his mark in high school sports. There was no specialization. You played the big three. None of my friends picked up a golf club or a tennis racket. Peer pressure was too strong. Golf and tennis weren't masculine sports. Dad was 6'2'' although he was barely 150 pounds. He played the big three and carried a knee injury for the rest of his life from football.

I arrived in high school at 5'4" and and 105 pounds, much of the weight in a set of huge ears that caused me constant consternation. By the time I finished high school, I measured 5'10'' and weighed 175 pounds. I had earned a fair athletic reputation for myself. I started at wide receiver and strong safety, could pop twenty-foot jumpers as the number two guard and covered third and batted second.

There were several buddies who received scholarships to Pac Eight schools. I was happy when Sac State recruited me for football. I earned my stripes on special teams my freshman year and started the next three years at strong safety. I could hit with the best of them.

There are times when I wonder if the several concussions I suffered are precipitating mental problems, but I accept that we have burdens to bear and blaming football for my woes ain't the kind of thing a strong safety who thought of himself as a stud would do.

WHY DO I BLOG

Why does Juan "El Muckraker" Montoya publish El Rrun Rrun? Why does Bobby "The Unbought Blogger" Wightman-Cervantes publish the Brownsville Voice? Why does Jim "Balls" Barton publish Mean Mister Brownsville? Why does /DP-M publish The Brownsville Republic. Why do I publish The McHale Report? Because we're cursed!

A superior being relegated us to keeping Brownsville accountable. This is not a high calling. Do you think we enjoy covering the likes of Eddie "Little Hands" Trevino and the rest of these ingrates cluttering our minds?

We should be writing poetry, short stories, novels. Instead, we occupy the lowly rank of The Brownsville Herald of the blogs.

I remember sitting in a Tampico bar and a man took a seat next to me and said that if I ever wanted a teaching job, Brownsville was desperate for applicants. Why didn't he say New York City or Miami? Because this superior being had a much smaller vision for me.

Am I complaining? No. I have the runoffs to amuse myself. I'll write my early predictions based on the latest South Texas Independent Journalists Association poll. And there will be an article or two about a candidate or two.

With Springbreak behind us and summer on the horizon, the time is right for some free-flowing bullshit. Perhaps I'll finally discover my genius. More likely, I'll find myself writing more and more about the November elections.

When a superior being condemns you to hard labor, there's not much you can do but accept your sentence.

DON PEDRO EVOKES CHARLES BUKOWSKI

I'm sitting here at The Palm Lounge with a hot prostitute and a cold beer. What do I call her "hot"? Because she fucks me for free. She respects her elders. When worse comes to worse, she gives me a senior discount.

Who is the mayor plundering today? I was going to use "fucking," but plundering evokes "raping," which I don't want to associate with the positive image I have of "fucking." If it weren't for the anticipation of my next fuck, I don't think I would get up in the morning.

Back to plundering: Who is the hermaphrodite county judge plundering today? Who is the the university president buttfucking today. I mean plundering today? Who is the superintendent plundering today since her fucking days are obviously over? Who is Trump plundering today? Or who isn't Trump plundering today?

We know who The Brownsville Herald is plundering today. The newspaper is plundering its readers by writing about the mayor, the county judge, the university president, the superintendent and the president's wonderful contributions to our community.

And who am I plundering today? I am plundering no one. I am fucking today. I am going to escort Veronica to my favorite room at the Cameron Motel and fuck her until her scabs run with pus. Then I'm going to slurp her pussy with my tongue until I have licked her cunt clean of both infection and my erection.

I wish I were a more honorable person, but I'm just a nasty old man.

CHINGOS DE BESOS

Tu eres la mujer mas bonita del mundo. I can still taste the wine on your breath the night of our first date as we sat on the beach. Eres tan chula. Live! Live! Live! Let me whisper sweet nothings into your ear. Let me clean those perfect teeth with my tongue. Let me suck your tits! Let me eat your pussy! Let there be no secrets between us. I'm listening to the blues and he's singing about the woman who wants to give him good loving. Throw caution to the wind. The pleasure that I will give you will more than compensate for the pain you dread. Make your ex do his duty and take care of his daughter. We'll slip away for a week to an exotic locale and pretend that we're leads in a romantic comedy. Don't be coward! As my coaches used to say: "No pain! No gain!" If you're afraid to lose, you'll never win. You need to escape the past and embrace the present. My wings are spreading. I've been living in fear too long. I want to fly. I want to get naturally high. No more drink. No more drugs. We will never have it better than now. We need to slip across the border to Matamoros for another bottle of wine and rent a room in the Hotel Ritz near the plaza. Eres muy buena, chica. Open your heart, soul, mouth and legs to me. I would go loco talking nasty to you. Chingos de besos.

PANGLOSS TREATS TRUMP

I had a dream that President Donald Trump arrived at my office with an embarrassing problem. He had gone to bed and awakened the next morning with a penis for a nose. I felt like telling him that God had punished him for screwing so many innocent victims, but I refrained from the remark and comported myself professionally.

"Every time a woman walks past me I feel like Pinocchio after he has told one of his lies," began Trump. "Can you do anything for these woodies?"

I felt sorry for the president. Nobody should have to walk around a Christian country like ours with a penis dangling past his lips. I also needed to put his place in history in the proper perspective.

"Don't flatter yourself," I answered. "Pinocchio was a good friend of mine and you're no Pinocchio."

I had lopped off cancerous breasts, but this was a challenge beyond my capabilities.

"First of all, you need to stay away from Viagra," I said. "We could perform a circumcision, but I don't think reducing your penis a few centimeters will make much of a difference although the cosmetic change might enhance your appeal with the gals. They always prefer a pretty dick."

Trump gave me that same forlorn look I've seen when someone refuses to donate to his campaign.

"By the say," I ventured, unable to contain my natural curiosity, "is you nose stuck smelling your ass?"

CHARLES MANSON

This manuscript was found among Charles Manson's papers at the time of his death:

I read about Donald Trump and he excites my killer instincts. The man will do anything to advance his interests. In order to be killer, you have to have the same mindset. I also like the fact that he has had many female followers. Some of his women remind me of my girls. They are as crazy as him just as my gals were as crazy as me.

When I read about the bloody mess he is leaving the country during his savage spree as president, I can't help but recall the two nights when we stabbed those people to death. I wish Donald and his latest lay had been members of my gang. We could have killed dozens more. We could have swum in gore.

I relate to Donald. Why? We're both monsters. In the fantasy worlds we inhabit, we rationalize any behavior, no matter how bizarre, as acceptable. When I'm lying on my bunk and speculating about Donald's latest outrageous deed, I feel I'm in the company of a fellow madman. I ejaculate imagining the destruction we could have cause together.

Donald is working his maniacal magic on the rednecks, the racists and the religious right. If he convinces the most prominent figures of the Republican Party to help him paint the streets red with the blood of their fellow citizens, I will cut my hair to honor an individual crazier than me. You can count on Donald to do the most terrible things. He's blessed. He doesn't suffer from a guilty conscience.

THOSE WERE THE DAYS

With the violence in Mexico as bad as Afghanistan and Iraq, nights across the river are a distant memory. It is a tragedy beyond the ruthless killing. There was a time when eating and drinking at Garcia's was considered beneath the dignity of a true Matamoros connoisseur.

But to sit next to one of Garcia's big windows in a deep chair over a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer to accompany the salty treat with a trio strumming the classics in the background!

Brownsville is benefiting in the short run, but without the siren song of the south, the border has lost its flavor.

The forays to the boxing venues are over. El Bravo half-heartedly promotes cards to stir the enthusiasm of a paranoid populace. Confronting a bloody reality, the propaganda fails miserably.

Among his many other duties, Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, once penned a popular back in the 1980s. He reminisced about an adventure on the other side.

"I went to see Lupe Pintor at his room in the Hotel Ritz the night before his fight at the Arena Mexico," recalled Maxwell. "Pintor was an ascendant name who would capture championships in both the bantamweight and featherweight divisions.

"'What round are you going to knock out this sacrificial lamb?' I asked him. 'The second,' he answered. I accepted bets at ringside taking only the second round. Everyone was happy to pocket the crazy gringo's money, but when Lupe decapitated his inferior foe with a Frazier left hook, my credentials were permanently established among the regulars."