Bench Wire, a Valley blog based in Hidalgo County, reported in 2018 that Clayton Brashear had hired an unsavory rapper for one of his Spring Break shows that year. The entertainer was accused of sexually abusing a 13-year-old child, a crime that didn't seem to affect Brashear's financially driven instincts.
Noted the blog in regards to Brashear's attitude toward young girls that smacked of Jeffrey Epstein inviting his pal Donald Trump over to his pad for a little fun with freshmen fannies, "Even if you cancel the show at this point, I still know where you stand. Come out with an apology, a sincere one, cancel the show and make this shit right. If not, stay out of my inbox and don't complain when people drag your ass through the mud in social media. You are absolutely disgusting."
Is anyone surprised that Brashear would hire this predator to entertain college students? Like Trump, he has only one standard: Make as much dinero as possible at Clayton's Beach Bar & Grill even if people are dropping like flies throughout the state from Coronavirus after visiting his joint and South Padre Island.
As a professional, Brashear is an individual who has no scruples when it comes to his establishment. To him, the Coronavirus means that his customers are on a Corona binge. Brashear is cut from the same cloth as the Harlingen Heathens Jim Tipton, Terry Ray, John Reed and Harry McNair: White is right.
Brashear may live high on the hog as an millionaire, but no amount of money can change the fact that he is a low-life. He recently ran for mayor of South Padre Island and the voters rejected him overwhelmingly.
Prior to his political endeavor, there was his sizzling love affair with former State Rep Tara Rios that the Harlingen Valley Morning Star promoted as the scandal of the year and which resulted in the end of Rios' political career ( Others attribute her downfall to various controversies.) and the destruction of two families in the four-sided triangle.
Brashear's excesses give the impression that only money and sex are his driving forces. We have excoriated former SPI Mayor Bob Pinkerton for promoting the COVID-19 orgy at the Island, but he says consenting adults are the culprits.
At The McHale Report we have responded that he and his buddies are providing the beds in order to pocket the quick cash, but as a former politician he has never had any qualms about crawling under the dirty sheets with other avaricious movers-and-shakers.
Like Trump, Brashear's insensitivity defies logic. He could give a shit about the COVID-19 death toll as long as the victims bite the dust with one of his expensive drinks in their twitching hands. Nobody would be surprised if he were supporting Trump for president.
These are the Ugly Americans!
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
DEMOCRATS & UNION
Like Trump, South Padre Island Republicans don't want to accept responsibility. From Roma to Brownsville, we have all made mistakes and as a region we all must take responsibility.
The SPI Republicans, however, are beyond reproach in their own estimation. We know that Trump is a blowhard who isn't tough. His hordes of haters are bullies who are really 98-pound weaklings. Their outrage rings hollow.
We can only hope that come November we can teach them a lesson and then rub salt into the wound by adding two more stars to the flag with Puerto Rico and Washington D.C. attaining statehood and assuring the Senate of four more Democratic senators.
Just like the Union had to put the Confederacy out of its memory, it's time the Democrats put the Republicans out of their misery.
The SPI Republicans, however, are beyond reproach in their own estimation. We know that Trump is a blowhard who isn't tough. His hordes of haters are bullies who are really 98-pound weaklings. Their outrage rings hollow.
We can only hope that come November we can teach them a lesson and then rub salt into the wound by adding two more stars to the flag with Puerto Rico and Washington D.C. attaining statehood and assuring the Senate of four more Democratic senators.
Just like the Union had to put the Confederacy out of its memory, it's time the Democrats put the Republicans out of their misery.
SCREW YOUR HEALTH
BOB PINKERTON JR: "I took exception to your painting the Island as the sole problem regarding the spread of Covid-19, Jerry. As if in the Valley people went no where or did nothing EXCEPT come to the Island. When the Governor opened up the state May 1, you are implying that the spread of the virus was because of the Island. The people didn’t go to bars, didn’t have parties and didn’t do any other socializing except come to the Island? Even in your brain, don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch? So many bars, clubs and restaurants in the upper Valley and to some degree in Brownsville doing business, but you blame the island? The only thing I did was rent the condos I manage for my owners. If the Island stayed shut down, people would gone somewhere else. So go spread your stuff somewhere else as the Island doesn’t deserve all of the blame. Yes, some operators are not abiding by the rules. I agree with you on that. But the Island does not deserve the entire blame."
(EDITOR'S NOTE: The Island is not responsible for the breadth of the pandemic, but SPI has contributed to this false narrative that all is normal. I have just posted an article on Cameron County Judge Eddie Treviño and his medical expert failing the community with their false figures on deaths and cases. Their numbers have almost been a criminal underestimation. We live in an impoverished region with thousands packed in barrios. Coronavirus couldn't be more at home. Thousands more cross from Mexico where the pandemic is out-of-control. And like Treviño, we can never trust their government's numbers. As to Brashear, he ran for mayor. As to Rios, she was a state rep. As to you, you were a successful mayor. But what do you all have in common? You're politicians who went public with your ambitions. Becoming a target is the result of becoming a politician. Those, who don't agree with you, can amuse themselves using you as bullseyes to pass the time while they're trapped at home during these dangerous times. In your case, I have always admired your responses because you counter the criticism without trying to impugn the messenger because you don't agree with the message. Once you step into the center of the stage, however, you no longer control the limelight by arguing that you are no longer a politico. Like losing your virginity, there is no going back. As to Brashear's comment, he lit up the internet with an overwhelming negative reaction. His scorn for people's pain plays into my argument. I would suggest the SPI Chamber of Commerce promote this slogan: "It's all about our wealth! Who gives a fuck about your health?" And for those who can't handle criticism, you should vote for Trump and maybe he will amend the Constitution to exclude free speech.)
(EDITOR'S NOTE: The Island is not responsible for the breadth of the pandemic, but SPI has contributed to this false narrative that all is normal. I have just posted an article on Cameron County Judge Eddie Treviño and his medical expert failing the community with their false figures on deaths and cases. Their numbers have almost been a criminal underestimation. We live in an impoverished region with thousands packed in barrios. Coronavirus couldn't be more at home. Thousands more cross from Mexico where the pandemic is out-of-control. And like Treviño, we can never trust their government's numbers. As to Brashear, he ran for mayor. As to Rios, she was a state rep. As to you, you were a successful mayor. But what do you all have in common? You're politicians who went public with your ambitions. Becoming a target is the result of becoming a politician. Those, who don't agree with you, can amuse themselves using you as bullseyes to pass the time while they're trapped at home during these dangerous times. In your case, I have always admired your responses because you counter the criticism without trying to impugn the messenger because you don't agree with the message. Once you step into the center of the stage, however, you no longer control the limelight by arguing that you are no longer a politico. Like losing your virginity, there is no going back. As to Brashear's comment, he lit up the internet with an overwhelming negative reaction. His scorn for people's pain plays into my argument. I would suggest the SPI Chamber of Commerce promote this slogan: "It's all about our wealth! Who gives a fuck about your health?" And for those who can't handle criticism, you should vote for Trump and maybe he will amend the Constitution to exclude free speech.)
QUEEN MELANIA
LISA LACKNER REMY: "Jerry McHale's STORIES are very entertaining. I’m even in The McHale Report. Wow! I’ll get great publicity from his half dozen followers. What a delight!"
(EDITOR'S NOTE: And as a special bonus for you, Lovely Lisa, I'll remember you on slow news days and delight my half dozen readers with encore tales. Every poet needs a fantasy to inspire him. You will be my muse. I'm sure that Christopher Putegnat will agree that Brownsville will finally have its own Greek goddess. From this day forward thou shalt be known as Queen Melania. With the Star Spangled Banner playing in the background, we take a knee before Your Highness. Long live King Trump!)
(EDITOR'S NOTE: And as a special bonus for you, Lovely Lisa, I'll remember you on slow news days and delight my half dozen readers with encore tales. Every poet needs a fantasy to inspire him. You will be my muse. I'm sure that Christopher Putegnat will agree that Brownsville will finally have its own Greek goddess. From this day forward thou shalt be known as Queen Melania. With the Star Spangled Banner playing in the background, we take a knee before Your Highness. Long live King Trump!)
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
ROBERT LACKNER HIDES
LISA LACKNER REMY: "You are the typical left, Jerry McHale. You don’t like what someone says, so you try to shame him. Fortunately, people don’t take you seriously anymore. Leave my family alone."
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Lisa! Lisa! Lisa! You are the typical Fox News blond bombshell. Did I submit Robert's comment? Did I submit your comment? Leave my family alone? I have never had anything but respect for your family. I am only responding to you and your family. I did not start this conversation. Robert posted his Trump talking points. As far as shaming your brother, cry your alligator tears elsewhere. There are no sympathy cards in my deck. You sound as thin-skinned as the panocha-grabbing Trump. Robert is a big boy. You step into the ring and you believe that you're the only one who throws punches? Brawl! Don't bawl! You believe that Robert is entitled to his opinion, but we on the left must remain silent? And why isn't Robert defending himself? He knows my opinion isn't personal. You are the one humiliating him by allowing Robert to hide under your skirt. (I would recommend that you never allow Trump to hide under your skirt!) I write for my own amusement. I don't care if I'm taken seriously or not although your hormonal horror indicates that you must take me seriously. These are life-and-death times and our country is being ravaged by a savage tyrant. We on the left, whatever that means and I would gladly post your definition of that alleged political philosophy on this site, are going mano-a-mano bare-fisted against the racist, redneck, religious right and right-wing rich Republicans who offer Trump refuge. As far as having a pillow fight with you, perhaps Robert, whom you have reduced to the status of a henpecked husband emasculated by your temper tantrum, can fill your weapon of choice with rocks. Your words will never hurt me. They only make my laugh, which, during these troubled times, is a welcomed diversion. Thank you.)
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Lisa! Lisa! Lisa! You are the typical Fox News blond bombshell. Did I submit Robert's comment? Did I submit your comment? Leave my family alone? I have never had anything but respect for your family. I am only responding to you and your family. I did not start this conversation. Robert posted his Trump talking points. As far as shaming your brother, cry your alligator tears elsewhere. There are no sympathy cards in my deck. You sound as thin-skinned as the panocha-grabbing Trump. Robert is a big boy. You step into the ring and you believe that you're the only one who throws punches? Brawl! Don't bawl! You believe that Robert is entitled to his opinion, but we on the left must remain silent? And why isn't Robert defending himself? He knows my opinion isn't personal. You are the one humiliating him by allowing Robert to hide under your skirt. (I would recommend that you never allow Trump to hide under your skirt!) I write for my own amusement. I don't care if I'm taken seriously or not although your hormonal horror indicates that you must take me seriously. These are life-and-death times and our country is being ravaged by a savage tyrant. We on the left, whatever that means and I would gladly post your definition of that alleged political philosophy on this site, are going mano-a-mano bare-fisted against the racist, redneck, religious right and right-wing rich Republicans who offer Trump refuge. As far as having a pillow fight with you, perhaps Robert, whom you have reduced to the status of a henpecked husband emasculated by your temper tantrum, can fill your weapon of choice with rocks. Your words will never hurt me. They only make my laugh, which, during these troubled times, is a welcomed diversion. Thank you.)
Monday, July 20, 2020
ROBERT LACKNER
ROBERT LACKNER: "All I see are young punks running roughshod in our US cities and inflicting violence on cops, whites or anyone whom they oppose. This is what scares the shit out of me and what needs to be dealt with immediately!"
(EDITOR'S NOTE: You are obviously blinded by Fox News. Sácate tu nariz de tus nalgas, pendejo! It's what you don't see that should worry you, Beto. We have more than 140,000 dead Americans. The number will be close to 200,000 by election day. How many people are rioting in the Valley? Zero. How many are dying? Hundreds. I would be much more frightened by the pandemic waiting to strike my parents or my children or little ol' innocent me at any moment than a non-existent protestor bloodying my head with a rock. You are grasping at straws as you try to distract us from the real culprit--Donald "Dick" Trump. Like the racists, the rednecks, the religious right and the right-wing rich, you refuse to accept that Satan's bastard son has egregiously failed us. And why? Because he has no soul. He is a human penis with a hard-on for humanity who is fucking the shit out of us!!! Never have we know such enmity since the Civil War. Never have we known such death from disease since the Spanish Flu. Never have we known such economic distress since the Great Depression. Never have we known such civil unrest since the late 1960s. But what should we expect from a man who refuses to wear a mask, who refuses to social distance and who promotes large gatherings to inflate his pathetic and fragile ego in his reckless response to COVID-19!!! But what should we expect from a man who boasts he can grab a woman by her private parts with impunity and who brags he can shoot a person on Fifth Avenue and nobody ain't gonna do nothin'!!! His own niece says he's insane and should resign immediately before he inflicts more harm on our nation. He is pure evil. He is dangerously incompetent. He wanted to be the greatest, but God has punished him for his hubris by making him the worst president in the history of the United States. To defend Trump is the same as waving the Confederate flag and defending traitors and slavery. We, who are shouting that the King is a bare-ass fool, aren't haters. We love our country too much and we're not going to give him the satisfaction of wasting our emotion on a cagapalo whose shit stinks so bad that he could fumigate the White House with one far. But we have drawn our line in the sand and we is ready to rumble, muthaphuckas!!!)
(EDITOR'S NOTE: You are obviously blinded by Fox News. Sácate tu nariz de tus nalgas, pendejo! It's what you don't see that should worry you, Beto. We have more than 140,000 dead Americans. The number will be close to 200,000 by election day. How many people are rioting in the Valley? Zero. How many are dying? Hundreds. I would be much more frightened by the pandemic waiting to strike my parents or my children or little ol' innocent me at any moment than a non-existent protestor bloodying my head with a rock. You are grasping at straws as you try to distract us from the real culprit--Donald "Dick" Trump. Like the racists, the rednecks, the religious right and the right-wing rich, you refuse to accept that Satan's bastard son has egregiously failed us. And why? Because he has no soul. He is a human penis with a hard-on for humanity who is fucking the shit out of us!!! Never have we know such enmity since the Civil War. Never have we known such death from disease since the Spanish Flu. Never have we known such economic distress since the Great Depression. Never have we known such civil unrest since the late 1960s. But what should we expect from a man who refuses to wear a mask, who refuses to social distance and who promotes large gatherings to inflate his pathetic and fragile ego in his reckless response to COVID-19!!! But what should we expect from a man who boasts he can grab a woman by her private parts with impunity and who brags he can shoot a person on Fifth Avenue and nobody ain't gonna do nothin'!!! His own niece says he's insane and should resign immediately before he inflicts more harm on our nation. He is pure evil. He is dangerously incompetent. He wanted to be the greatest, but God has punished him for his hubris by making him the worst president in the history of the United States. To defend Trump is the same as waving the Confederate flag and defending traitors and slavery. We, who are shouting that the King is a bare-ass fool, aren't haters. We love our country too much and we're not going to give him the satisfaction of wasting our emotion on a cagapalo whose shit stinks so bad that he could fumigate the White House with one far. But we have drawn our line in the sand and we is ready to rumble, muthaphuckas!!!)
GENERAL CORONAVIRUS
I feel like I'm living in Stalin's Russia or Pinochet's Chile or any other dictatorial land where the population lives in fear of its repressive regime. When will I hear that dreaded knock at the front door and the government's secret police will drag me away to a dungeon where I will perish alone and isolated?
COVID-19 is that ruthless tyrant with Donald Trump elevated to General Coronavirus whose word represents life or death. It is his job to enforce the despot's mandates: No masks! No social distancing! And large crowds to publicly display their loyalty to the autocratic rule.
Because the masses have not accepted their fates, thousands have died and thousands more are dying.
I have done everything to abide by COVID-19's dictates, but I sense that my fate is no longer in my hands. I follow the commands, but I fear the command that will culminate in my disappearance.
We live in confusion. General Coronavirus, with all the sympathy of the Great Reaper, bellows from his bully pulpit dutifully surrounded by his henchmen that the truths are false and only lies are the ultimate facts by which we should conduct ourselves. He holds a Bible above his head as he speaks with the vehemence of a god.
"Kneel in homage to my words," he orders as the Star Spangled Banner plays in the background.
While we know little because COVID-19 operates surreptitiously and General Coronavirus seeks to condemn us to darkness, we communicate among ourselves to learn who has passed and who is breathing his last. We discover that the torturing never ceases, the crematoriums burning night and day.
I've locked the door and visitors avoid my house, but I tremble cognizant of the dire knowledge that my wife and children could be dragged away just as easily as me and never be heard from again.
COVID-19 has only one aim--to kill and to maim. As General Coronavirus ignores the bodies piling skyward like the Tower of Babel, he bangs the podium that we are being misled by left-wing fascists who are conspiring against him because he has done so much good and the bad resent his many Christian contributions to our community. But he abjures that they will be eliminated by the most powerful army ever assembled in history.
"In the same manner as Moses speaking for Jehovah, I am the voice of COVID-19 and only I can curb his wrath!"
I do not sleep well. When I finally succumb to a troubled slumber, I dream that someone is pounding at the front door. I awake panting and perspiring. I cannot go back to sleep. I suspect that I will never rest peacefully again until General Coronavirus decides that my time has come and I'm sentenced to an eternal sleep.
COVID-19 is that ruthless tyrant with Donald Trump elevated to General Coronavirus whose word represents life or death. It is his job to enforce the despot's mandates: No masks! No social distancing! And large crowds to publicly display their loyalty to the autocratic rule.
Because the masses have not accepted their fates, thousands have died and thousands more are dying.
I have done everything to abide by COVID-19's dictates, but I sense that my fate is no longer in my hands. I follow the commands, but I fear the command that will culminate in my disappearance.
We live in confusion. General Coronavirus, with all the sympathy of the Great Reaper, bellows from his bully pulpit dutifully surrounded by his henchmen that the truths are false and only lies are the ultimate facts by which we should conduct ourselves. He holds a Bible above his head as he speaks with the vehemence of a god.
"Kneel in homage to my words," he orders as the Star Spangled Banner plays in the background.
While we know little because COVID-19 operates surreptitiously and General Coronavirus seeks to condemn us to darkness, we communicate among ourselves to learn who has passed and who is breathing his last. We discover that the torturing never ceases, the crematoriums burning night and day.
I've locked the door and visitors avoid my house, but I tremble cognizant of the dire knowledge that my wife and children could be dragged away just as easily as me and never be heard from again.
COVID-19 has only one aim--to kill and to maim. As General Coronavirus ignores the bodies piling skyward like the Tower of Babel, he bangs the podium that we are being misled by left-wing fascists who are conspiring against him because he has done so much good and the bad resent his many Christian contributions to our community. But he abjures that they will be eliminated by the most powerful army ever assembled in history.
"In the same manner as Moses speaking for Jehovah, I am the voice of COVID-19 and only I can curb his wrath!"
I do not sleep well. When I finally succumb to a troubled slumber, I dream that someone is pounding at the front door. I awake panting and perspiring. I cannot go back to sleep. I suspect that I will never rest peacefully again until General Coronavirus decides that my time has come and I'm sentenced to an eternal sleep.
TRUMP'S FOURTH OF JULY
Donald "Dick" Trump, our perverted president, stood on the balcony at the White House on the Fourth of July. Only Ivanka, his daughter, was at his side.
The First Lady was locked in her room. She fears that her husband's touch could precipitate her death, either from AIDS or COVID-19. Or maybe both at the same time. Whenever he comes near her, she demands that he maintain his six feet of social distancing. She also demands that he wear both a mask and a condom even though she has no intention of kissing him or fucking him.
He has been a fuck-em-and-forget-em-guy all his life. He remembers the good ol' days when Jeffrey Epstein was his buddy and he could count on his friend for fun. Melania isn't much more than a financial burden these days. He is still resentful that she intimidated him into negotiating a new prenup when he won the presidency. If he didn't cut her a better deal, she was going to remain in her plush New York City residence and leave him to recruit his lovely niece Mary to fulfill the First Lady duties. Melania smiled at Donald, reminding him that Mary might need material for a second book.
After so many bankruptcies, Trump knew when to fold. Just like he could grab women by their private parts, he could not escape the reality that his wife had grabbed him by the balls and was squeezing them mercilessly. Reduced to a masochistic macho as president by his wife's rejection and her refusal to share the same bed, he felt a pleasure in the pain. It had been years since she had held his genitals in those soft hands, those soft and pliant hands that had delighted some of Europe's most handsome and richest men.
More importantly, he had to maintain her good will. Though dozens of unflattering books had been written about him and the $150,000 he had paid porn star Stormy Daniels had been an expensive fuck, he recognized that figure couldn't compare to the eight figures publishers would offer Melania to write a book that would outsell the Bible. He could hear her dictating the title now: "He wasn't a man! He was a monster!"
He did have a regret that superseded his fear of Melania. Why did Ivanka have to be his daughter? The sole story he remembered from the Bible was Job's daughters getting him drunk and then seducing him. While screwing Tiffany might bring back memories of his second wife Marla Maples, nothing could compare to sucking Ivanka's surgically sculpted tits, jamming three, maybe four fingers, in her pussy shaved smoother than a silk sheet, and then fucking the holy shit out of her. There was no way her prim and proper husband was doing justice by her.
For a person who once could have anybody, he had nobody. After Clinton ruined everything for his successors with Monica Lewinsky, Trump had no options. He was left with his crude imagination in which he was abandoning Washington D.C. in flames and fleeing to Lee's house across the Potomac River with Ivanka and Tiffany in tow. The Confederacy would rise again!
But Donald Trump triumphs in the end he told himself. He didn't hear fireworks bursting around him. Instead, he was hearing an endless 21-gun salute to the 130,000 Americans he had condemned to death. Ivanka and Tiffany, and even Melania, might be escaping his grasp, but there were thousands upon thousands of dead Americans he had fucked. And he had fucked them good.
The First Lady was locked in her room. She fears that her husband's touch could precipitate her death, either from AIDS or COVID-19. Or maybe both at the same time. Whenever he comes near her, she demands that he maintain his six feet of social distancing. She also demands that he wear both a mask and a condom even though she has no intention of kissing him or fucking him.
He has been a fuck-em-and-forget-em-guy all his life. He remembers the good ol' days when Jeffrey Epstein was his buddy and he could count on his friend for fun. Melania isn't much more than a financial burden these days. He is still resentful that she intimidated him into negotiating a new prenup when he won the presidency. If he didn't cut her a better deal, she was going to remain in her plush New York City residence and leave him to recruit his lovely niece Mary to fulfill the First Lady duties. Melania smiled at Donald, reminding him that Mary might need material for a second book.
After so many bankruptcies, Trump knew when to fold. Just like he could grab women by their private parts, he could not escape the reality that his wife had grabbed him by the balls and was squeezing them mercilessly. Reduced to a masochistic macho as president by his wife's rejection and her refusal to share the same bed, he felt a pleasure in the pain. It had been years since she had held his genitals in those soft hands, those soft and pliant hands that had delighted some of Europe's most handsome and richest men.
More importantly, he had to maintain her good will. Though dozens of unflattering books had been written about him and the $150,000 he had paid porn star Stormy Daniels had been an expensive fuck, he recognized that figure couldn't compare to the eight figures publishers would offer Melania to write a book that would outsell the Bible. He could hear her dictating the title now: "He wasn't a man! He was a monster!"
He did have a regret that superseded his fear of Melania. Why did Ivanka have to be his daughter? The sole story he remembered from the Bible was Job's daughters getting him drunk and then seducing him. While screwing Tiffany might bring back memories of his second wife Marla Maples, nothing could compare to sucking Ivanka's surgically sculpted tits, jamming three, maybe four fingers, in her pussy shaved smoother than a silk sheet, and then fucking the holy shit out of her. There was no way her prim and proper husband was doing justice by her.
For a person who once could have anybody, he had nobody. After Clinton ruined everything for his successors with Monica Lewinsky, Trump had no options. He was left with his crude imagination in which he was abandoning Washington D.C. in flames and fleeing to Lee's house across the Potomac River with Ivanka and Tiffany in tow. The Confederacy would rise again!
But Donald Trump triumphs in the end he told himself. He didn't hear fireworks bursting around him. Instead, he was hearing an endless 21-gun salute to the 130,000 Americans he had condemned to death. Ivanka and Tiffany, and even Melania, might be escaping his grasp, but there were thousands upon thousands of dead Americans he had fucked. And he had fucked them good.
Sunday, July 19, 2020
TOURISTS VISIT BROWNSVILLE
Tourists come to Brownsville for its history. A couple endeavoring to recapture their romantic past take a room at the Cameron Hotel on the corner of Ninth and Washington. The accommodations are commodious.
They stroll hand-in-hand to The Library for drinks and The Kraken for pizza. Slightly buzzed, they return to their lodgings for sex and a restful night's sleep. Tomorrow will be a consummating experience.
During breakfast the next morning at Arandas they study their downtown map. The college campus and the old high school act as bookends.
There are a number of approaches to the historic district. The Immaculate Conception Cathedral at Twelfth and Jefferson, Sacred Heart Church at Sixth and Elizabeth and St. Thomas Church at Second and Jefferson offer the Catholic angle.
The lovebirds could choose any number of desultory courses of their own. Armed with Betty Bay's Historic Brownsville, they can cater to their whims, perhaps stopping for lunch at the Oyster Bar on Levee, later dining at Terra's Bar & Grill on Elizabeth before capping their day at El Hueso de Fraile down the block with the dependable Doc Scully Blues Band pounding out the hits.
No promenade is complete without a stop at the old cemetery. The names on the headstones resonate today: Edelstein, Yturria, Putegnat, Celaya. The dead have not died. Their spirit survives.
They stroll hand-in-hand to The Library for drinks and The Kraken for pizza. Slightly buzzed, they return to their lodgings for sex and a restful night's sleep. Tomorrow will be a consummating experience.
During breakfast the next morning at Arandas they study their downtown map. The college campus and the old high school act as bookends.
There are a number of approaches to the historic district. The Immaculate Conception Cathedral at Twelfth and Jefferson, Sacred Heart Church at Sixth and Elizabeth and St. Thomas Church at Second and Jefferson offer the Catholic angle.
The lovebirds could choose any number of desultory courses of their own. Armed with Betty Bay's Historic Brownsville, they can cater to their whims, perhaps stopping for lunch at the Oyster Bar on Levee, later dining at Terra's Bar & Grill on Elizabeth before capping their day at El Hueso de Fraile down the block with the dependable Doc Scully Blues Band pounding out the hits.
No promenade is complete without a stop at the old cemetery. The names on the headstones resonate today: Edelstein, Yturria, Putegnat, Celaya. The dead have not died. Their spirit survives.
LAST NIGHT I PLAYED TENNIS
Last night I played tennis with Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, at the tennis center. We have been swatting the ball for four decades now. We started at the Border's Apartments. In those days we used to call the complex a poor man's country club. There were two courts, a swimming pool and lots of white chicks who had come south from the Midwest to work in the school district when the BISD had a teaching shortage. Those were the good ol' days, Matamoros our usual playground. We embarked on adventurous sojourns into the wee hours of the morning. Contemporary youth have no idea the education they have lost as a result of the chaos and violence in Mexico.
I have been hitting the ball better. I'm not trying to place winners. The majority end in unforced errors. I'm keeping the ball in play, whacking it hard and deep. (I guess you could say I'm making love to the ball.) I'm a 3.5 player capable of beating a 4.0 on occasion. The conditions yesterday were perfect. There was a nip in the air and no wind. In life we trudge through out existences waiting for the moments. Estanislao and shared a moment of perfect delight.
Afterwards we went to Johnny Carino's. Since I've been gone all summer, I haven't stopped at the restaurant. The company has completely redone the establishment with a significantly larger bar and a more open layout. I suppose it was a pre-emptive strategy with Olive Garden opening soon. As usual, we ate and drank while a boring baseball game and an exciting NFL encounter played on the many televisions. I kept it light: a small Hawaiian pizza, two drafts and a glass of wine. I went home and was asleep by midnight.
I awoke early, checked out the news on the internet and walked to Stripes in the crisp morning air. Fall is in the air. At the convenience store I ordered a tortilla with beans and a cup of coffee. I retired to a table with El Bravo where I breakfasted. This has become my morning ritual as I embark on my first days of retirement after 39 hard-fought but successful years in the classroom and on the soccer pitch. I owe the BISD nothing. In the end the administration intimidated me into retirement. My superiors told me in unequivocal terms: Either quit writing artistically or lose your job! I chose to quit my job in order to pursue my most faithful love.
I have been adhering to the school calendar since kindergarten. Without that schedule, I feel like I'm floating in a void. On the negative side, I'm drinking too much although there have been several fun nights. Downtown is my favorite escape with the Palm Lounge, El Hueso de Fraile, Terra's Bar & Grill, the Kraken and The Library offering plenty of libations, tasty food and companionship. I even slip across the bridge to Garcia's or the Santa Fe restaurant for meals. At the end of a long night someone may offer me a ride, I may take a cab or I stay at the Cameron Motel. There is an ambience to downtown's streets. With the Half Moon opening soon and two or three other bars on the horizon, I relish the atmosphere.
I have been tending to The McHale Report and my Facebook all morning and into the early afternoon. I steal from the dying daily, better known as The Brownsville Herald while incorporating articles from the other blogs: Juan Montoya's El Rrun Rrun; /DP-M's The Brownsville Republic; Jim Barton's The Brownsville Observer; and Bobby Wightman-Cervantes' The Brownsville Voice. Sometimes I'll include several of my pieces and sometimes I only post one, but I place photos between the articles with headlines that true aficionados of the Third World Capital of the United States can appreciate.
I am not taking prisoners these days unless they advertise. I respect those who respect me. They say journalists have few friends because in our estimation copy takes precedence over a compadre. It's all about the story. In fact, the rest of my life will always be about the stories. The creative process gives me worth. My boys are busy with their lives. My latest ex treats me with disdain as her lips curl and twitch in an unattractive fashion when I am in her presence for any length of time, but I still desire her despite her volatile temperament.
It is exactly two. I ate a steak at Denny's and presently I'm sitting nude on my bed composing this piece as if I were blowing on my sax. Real music, as well as real writing, often comes from improvisation. In an hour after my lunch has digested, I'll do my American yoga: a series of pushups, situps and stretching exercises.
My youngest son has his first tackle football game this afternoon. I already have butterflies in anticipation of the action. He is on the Manzano seventh grade A team, starting at end on offense, corner on defense and return man on the kickoff team. I've told him football is a waste of time and he should concentrate on golf and swimming, but nobody listens to me and I feel no need to impose my will on anyone. He is beautiful boy and football is a rite of partnership for him. Daddy has become very secondary these days.
In the evening I may dine with the ex and my son, but I reside on the periphery of their lives. I have no desire to imbibe this evening. I may spend some time working on my 15th book, which I hope to publish on Amazon next year. Entitled Buried in Brownsville, it will be my longest literary undertaking yet unless the critics consider the trilogy delineating the Trials and Tribulations of Tommy Tamaulipas one work.
I have no idea about the immediate future except write, walk, exercise, play tennis, strum the guitar and read. I have jettisoned my plans to travel to Portugal or Argentina. There are too many hassles and too much money spent wandering the streets solo compromising my loneliness in the arms of a prostitute. I'm curious about the possibilities of a foray to Puerto Rico where my credit cards work and my insurance covers me. Puerto Rico is exotic enough to test my wings with some sense of financial security. But, to be quite honest, I don't know my destiny. I'm waiting for my own desperation to provide me with clarity.
And thus I conclude my performance art. I imagined myself playing Happy Hour in Austin's Elephant Room. I was little more than background music, which was fine with me. You can work on your licks more diligently and experiment without fear of rejection because the patrons are content with muffled sounds in the background while they shoot the shit with their friends about sports, politics and the opposite sex. In the world of cheap thrills, there's always the hope that there might be a fuck during the diurnal trek through another forgetful day. It's nice to get the poison out of the system, even if your only option is your wife of who knows how many god awful years of marriage as her body starts to look worse than yours.
I have been hitting the ball better. I'm not trying to place winners. The majority end in unforced errors. I'm keeping the ball in play, whacking it hard and deep. (I guess you could say I'm making love to the ball.) I'm a 3.5 player capable of beating a 4.0 on occasion. The conditions yesterday were perfect. There was a nip in the air and no wind. In life we trudge through out existences waiting for the moments. Estanislao and shared a moment of perfect delight.
Afterwards we went to Johnny Carino's. Since I've been gone all summer, I haven't stopped at the restaurant. The company has completely redone the establishment with a significantly larger bar and a more open layout. I suppose it was a pre-emptive strategy with Olive Garden opening soon. As usual, we ate and drank while a boring baseball game and an exciting NFL encounter played on the many televisions. I kept it light: a small Hawaiian pizza, two drafts and a glass of wine. I went home and was asleep by midnight.
I awoke early, checked out the news on the internet and walked to Stripes in the crisp morning air. Fall is in the air. At the convenience store I ordered a tortilla with beans and a cup of coffee. I retired to a table with El Bravo where I breakfasted. This has become my morning ritual as I embark on my first days of retirement after 39 hard-fought but successful years in the classroom and on the soccer pitch. I owe the BISD nothing. In the end the administration intimidated me into retirement. My superiors told me in unequivocal terms: Either quit writing artistically or lose your job! I chose to quit my job in order to pursue my most faithful love.
I have been adhering to the school calendar since kindergarten. Without that schedule, I feel like I'm floating in a void. On the negative side, I'm drinking too much although there have been several fun nights. Downtown is my favorite escape with the Palm Lounge, El Hueso de Fraile, Terra's Bar & Grill, the Kraken and The Library offering plenty of libations, tasty food and companionship. I even slip across the bridge to Garcia's or the Santa Fe restaurant for meals. At the end of a long night someone may offer me a ride, I may take a cab or I stay at the Cameron Motel. There is an ambience to downtown's streets. With the Half Moon opening soon and two or three other bars on the horizon, I relish the atmosphere.
I have been tending to The McHale Report and my Facebook all morning and into the early afternoon. I steal from the dying daily, better known as The Brownsville Herald while incorporating articles from the other blogs: Juan Montoya's El Rrun Rrun; /DP-M's The Brownsville Republic; Jim Barton's The Brownsville Observer; and Bobby Wightman-Cervantes' The Brownsville Voice. Sometimes I'll include several of my pieces and sometimes I only post one, but I place photos between the articles with headlines that true aficionados of the Third World Capital of the United States can appreciate.
I am not taking prisoners these days unless they advertise. I respect those who respect me. They say journalists have few friends because in our estimation copy takes precedence over a compadre. It's all about the story. In fact, the rest of my life will always be about the stories. The creative process gives me worth. My boys are busy with their lives. My latest ex treats me with disdain as her lips curl and twitch in an unattractive fashion when I am in her presence for any length of time, but I still desire her despite her volatile temperament.
It is exactly two. I ate a steak at Denny's and presently I'm sitting nude on my bed composing this piece as if I were blowing on my sax. Real music, as well as real writing, often comes from improvisation. In an hour after my lunch has digested, I'll do my American yoga: a series of pushups, situps and stretching exercises.
My youngest son has his first tackle football game this afternoon. I already have butterflies in anticipation of the action. He is on the Manzano seventh grade A team, starting at end on offense, corner on defense and return man on the kickoff team. I've told him football is a waste of time and he should concentrate on golf and swimming, but nobody listens to me and I feel no need to impose my will on anyone. He is beautiful boy and football is a rite of partnership for him. Daddy has become very secondary these days.
In the evening I may dine with the ex and my son, but I reside on the periphery of their lives. I have no desire to imbibe this evening. I may spend some time working on my 15th book, which I hope to publish on Amazon next year. Entitled Buried in Brownsville, it will be my longest literary undertaking yet unless the critics consider the trilogy delineating the Trials and Tribulations of Tommy Tamaulipas one work.
I have no idea about the immediate future except write, walk, exercise, play tennis, strum the guitar and read. I have jettisoned my plans to travel to Portugal or Argentina. There are too many hassles and too much money spent wandering the streets solo compromising my loneliness in the arms of a prostitute. I'm curious about the possibilities of a foray to Puerto Rico where my credit cards work and my insurance covers me. Puerto Rico is exotic enough to test my wings with some sense of financial security. But, to be quite honest, I don't know my destiny. I'm waiting for my own desperation to provide me with clarity.
And thus I conclude my performance art. I imagined myself playing Happy Hour in Austin's Elephant Room. I was little more than background music, which was fine with me. You can work on your licks more diligently and experiment without fear of rejection because the patrons are content with muffled sounds in the background while they shoot the shit with their friends about sports, politics and the opposite sex. In the world of cheap thrills, there's always the hope that there might be a fuck during the diurnal trek through another forgetful day. It's nice to get the poison out of the system, even if your only option is your wife of who knows how many god awful years of marriage as her body starts to look worse than yours.
ESTANISLAO STARTS NEW WORK
Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs and Chicano Love Songs, has embarked on his new work entitled Despair & Desperation.
"It is going to be a collection of prose poems that will be odes as in the following Ode to Anger," said Contreras as he sat at El Hueso de Fraile listening to the Doc Scully Blues Band unplugged. "I have always been inspired by Pablo Neruda's odes and his ability to take everyday subjects and fashion poems.
"My presentation will be different however. He may composed 30 to 40 lines per poem, but there are generally no more than three or four words in each line. I will have several long paragraphs composed in prose."
Though few poets enjoy financial success, Chicano Fuck Songs was a sensational debut artistically. His Chicano Love Songs didn't receive the same enthusiastic reception.
"I allowed some of my critics to convince me that Chicano Fuck Songs was too edgy when it was my strength," continued Contreras. "They convinced me to be more conventional and as a result I lost my mojo with Chicano Love Songs.
"I'm not making that same mistake again. I'm not only putting a knife to the bone, but I'm breaking the bone and scooping out all the marrow. These are the kinds of pieces that will get me booted from clubs and keep me off Facebook."
The McHale Report is featuring his inaugural piece--Ode to Anger.
"Contreras is at his best when he refuses to resist temptation," said Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist. "When he holds back, he crashes; when he lets go, he soars. If Ode to Anger epitomizes the rest of his poetry, this is going to be a flight into the stratosphere.
"He has reached the moment of truth in his life. He is confronting the ugly and it ain't pretty. This is the kind of poetry that forces you to look at your haggard face in the mirror with pistols in both hands, but only one has a bullet. He is going to disappear into the darkness. Whether he returns or not, that remains to be seen."
"It is going to be a collection of prose poems that will be odes as in the following Ode to Anger," said Contreras as he sat at El Hueso de Fraile listening to the Doc Scully Blues Band unplugged. "I have always been inspired by Pablo Neruda's odes and his ability to take everyday subjects and fashion poems.
"My presentation will be different however. He may composed 30 to 40 lines per poem, but there are generally no more than three or four words in each line. I will have several long paragraphs composed in prose."
Though few poets enjoy financial success, Chicano Fuck Songs was a sensational debut artistically. His Chicano Love Songs didn't receive the same enthusiastic reception.
"I allowed some of my critics to convince me that Chicano Fuck Songs was too edgy when it was my strength," continued Contreras. "They convinced me to be more conventional and as a result I lost my mojo with Chicano Love Songs.
"I'm not making that same mistake again. I'm not only putting a knife to the bone, but I'm breaking the bone and scooping out all the marrow. These are the kinds of pieces that will get me booted from clubs and keep me off Facebook."
The McHale Report is featuring his inaugural piece--Ode to Anger.
"Contreras is at his best when he refuses to resist temptation," said Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist. "When he holds back, he crashes; when he lets go, he soars. If Ode to Anger epitomizes the rest of his poetry, this is going to be a flight into the stratosphere.
"He has reached the moment of truth in his life. He is confronting the ugly and it ain't pretty. This is the kind of poetry that forces you to look at your haggard face in the mirror with pistols in both hands, but only one has a bullet. He is going to disappear into the darkness. Whether he returns or not, that remains to be seen."
I HAVE BEEN STARING
I have been staring directly into the sun and I haven't been blinded. I have been eating from taco stands on the streets of Matamoros and I haven't been sick. I have been farting in front of my wife and she still hasn't left me in disgust.
I have been living dangerously, carelessly, foolishly, but I haven't paid the price. Despite my sense of omnipotence, I feel death all around me. I smell death. It has an acrid scent. I feel I'm covered with a body odor and I can't scrub myself clean.
I dreamed I was sitting in my mother's front room crying in her presence, but when I looked at her for comfort, she was indifferent, almost ashamed of me. I asked myself what I had done to deserve her scorn, but then I realized what hadn't I done to deserve her scorn.
The blogs are right. I am scum, but it isn't my fault. My parents never gave me enough attention. I married into one of the most powerful families in Brownsville and learned that stabbing people in the back and stealing from the poor were the expected acts from a future leader.
I am the Robin Hood of the wealthy, fleecing the powerless to give to the powerful, but we can't let government fall into the hands of the rabble. There are only a few of us fit to govern.
As a millionaire friend once told me, "You may be a jerk, Pancracio, but you're our jerk."
I have been living dangerously, carelessly, foolishly, but I haven't paid the price. Despite my sense of omnipotence, I feel death all around me. I smell death. It has an acrid scent. I feel I'm covered with a body odor and I can't scrub myself clean.
I dreamed I was sitting in my mother's front room crying in her presence, but when I looked at her for comfort, she was indifferent, almost ashamed of me. I asked myself what I had done to deserve her scorn, but then I realized what hadn't I done to deserve her scorn.
The blogs are right. I am scum, but it isn't my fault. My parents never gave me enough attention. I married into one of the most powerful families in Brownsville and learned that stabbing people in the back and stealing from the poor were the expected acts from a future leader.
I am the Robin Hood of the wealthy, fleecing the powerless to give to the powerful, but we can't let government fall into the hands of the rabble. There are only a few of us fit to govern.
As a millionaire friend once told me, "You may be a jerk, Pancracio, but you're our jerk."
I CAN'T BELIEVE'
I can't believe it's fall. It seems like yesterday we were celebrating July 4th. I can't believe we've been married 25 years. I can still see you sitting next to the pool the first time I saw you. I don't know if it was love at first sight, but it was close.
You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and I could tell that you had a nice set of boobs, but I wanted you to stand up so I could check out your ass and legs. You saved that for later and I haven't stopped checking out your ass and legs.
I can't believe the girls are in college. They have been the frosting on the cake, but I can't look at the old pictures. I can't believe they grew up so fast. They were always such sweethearts.
I can't believe Mom and Dad have been dead for a decade. I'll never forget when Billy called and said they had been killed in an accident. Nothing meant more to them than family. They visit me in my dreams and I take comfort in seeing them again although I have to choke back the tears when I awake. If I could just hear their voices one last time.
Life is an accumulation of memories whose weight if often unbearable, but all joy is tinged with sadness. I can't believe that I'm lying next to you holding your hand. I can't believe that our time is growing short.
I want to scream in pain and despair. I can't believe that we will soon be separated and it will be like we never existed. I can't believe that we will soon be nothing.
You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and I could tell that you had a nice set of boobs, but I wanted you to stand up so I could check out your ass and legs. You saved that for later and I haven't stopped checking out your ass and legs.
I can't believe the girls are in college. They have been the frosting on the cake, but I can't look at the old pictures. I can't believe they grew up so fast. They were always such sweethearts.
I can't believe Mom and Dad have been dead for a decade. I'll never forget when Billy called and said they had been killed in an accident. Nothing meant more to them than family. They visit me in my dreams and I take comfort in seeing them again although I have to choke back the tears when I awake. If I could just hear their voices one last time.
Life is an accumulation of memories whose weight if often unbearable, but all joy is tinged with sadness. I can't believe that I'm lying next to you holding your hand. I can't believe that our time is growing short.
I want to scream in pain and despair. I can't believe that we will soon be separated and it will be like we never existed. I can't believe that we will soon be nothing.
MISSISSIPPI STINK
While the defacing of the stone honoring slaveowner and traitor Jefferson Davis isn't a motive for dancing in the streets, it was only a piece of rock that bore the brunt of someone's anger.
The NAACP estimates that from 1882 to 1968 approximately 3,500 African-Americans were lynched in the United States. There are scores of stories that turn one's stomach describing these executions, but we chose this blood-curdling incident to illustrate the whites' treatment toward blacks. This macabre killing took place in Georgia. The date was May 19, 1918:
Abusive plantation owner, Hampton Smith, was shot and killed. A week long manhunt resulted in the killing of the husband of Mary Turner, Hayes Turner.
Mary Turner denied that her husband had been involved in Smith’s killing, publicly opposed her husband’s murder and threatened to have members of the mob arrested.
On May 19th, a mob of several hundred brought her to Folsom Bridge which separates Brooks and Lowndes counties in Georgia. The mob tied her ankles, hung her upside down from a tree, doused her in gasoline and motor oil and set her on fire.
Turner was still alive when a member of the mob split her abdomen open with a knife and her unborn child fell on the ground. The baby was was stomped and crushed as it fell to the ground. Turner’s body was riddled with hundreds of bullets.
God bless America!!!
We are raised to believe that we're the greatest nation in the history of mankind. It is this kind of arrogance that paves the way to the fall. We are a brainwashed people. While we rail against other countries for building nuclear weapons, we are the only country to use an atomic bomb--TWICE!!! And we allegedly dropped the two for humanitarian reasons if the relentless propaganda rings true.
Brownsville's history is spellbinding, but it is less than glorious. Charles Stillman, Brownsville's founder, owned slaves. Brownsville joined the Confederacy to preserve slavery. Brownsville practiced segregation well into the 1950s.
In 1906 the infamous Brownsville Affair, later recounted in the book The Brownsville Raid, took place. Wikipedia offers this version of the bloody night:
"Since arriving at Fort Brown on July 28, 1906, the black soldiers had been required to follow the legal color line mandate from white citizens of Brownsville, which included separate accommodation for black people and white people, showing respect for white people and respect for local laws.
"A reported attack on a white woman so incensed many townspeople that Major Charles W. Penrose, after consultation with Mayor Frederick Combe, declared an early curfew for soldiers to avoid trouble.
"On the night of August 13, the Brownsville Affair, or the Brownsville Raid, was an incident of racial injustice due to resentment by white residents of Brownsville, Texas of the Buffalo Soldiers, black soldiers in a segregated unit stationed at nearby Fort Brown.
"When a white bartender was killed and a white police officer wounded by gunshots, townspeople accused the members of the African-American 25th Infantry Regiment. Although their commanders said the soldiers had been in the barracks all night, evidence was planted against the men. Local whites, including Brownsville's mayor, still claimed that some of the black soldiers participated in the shooting.
"As a result of a United States Army Inspector General's investigation, President Theodore Roosevelt ordered the dishonorable discharge of 167 soldiers of the 25th Infantry Regiment, costing them pensions and preventing them from ever serving in civil service jobs. The case aroused national outrage in both black and white communities. After more investigations, several men were allowed to re-enlist."
In the early 1990s I accused BISD Superintendent Jack Ammons and Athletic Director Leonel Garza of engaging in racism against black coaches in the BISD. I detailed my accusations in El Rocinante, my first publication.
Both filed grievances against me and asked the BISD School Board to fire me. On a 4-3 vote I kept my job. They next filed against me with TEA with the hope that the state agency would strip me of my teaching license. With Ben Neece representing me in Austin before a kangaroo court, of white Baptist women I prevailed.
In the wake of their failed effort to terminate me, Garza resigned and the BISD eventually fired Ammons. I continued with my teaching and coaching assignments and finished my distinguished 39-year career in June with my head held high upon my exit.
Coincidentally, I appeared before the city council a month ago and reminded our commissioners that Charles Stillman and Jefferson Davis were slave owners and traitors to the Union and that as a community we should think twice before continuing to honor these Judases.
When I spoke before our leaders, I didn't demand that the municipality rename buildings dedicated to Stillman or remove the monument to the Confederate president. I only suggested that we keep these individuals in the proper perspective.
Then, of course, we have been living through the last two weeks attempting to put into context City Commissioner Cesar De Leon's racial slurs. No one would ever say that we live in the greatest city in the greatest country in the world.
When one peruses Brownsville's past, there is a smell that can best be characterized as a Mississippi Stink.
PLUNDERING
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 county judge 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 GBIC CEO plundering today? Who is the the BND buttfucking today. I mean plundering today? Who is the BISD plundering today since their fucking days are obviously not 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.
Who is the county judge 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 GBIC CEO plundering today? Who is the the BND buttfucking today. I mean plundering today? Who is the BISD plundering today since their fucking days are obviously not 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.
SUMMER
If we look at the secular calendar a new week begins on Monday, but if we remember Genesis, God spent the first six days creating the mess we endure today and then took the seventh off to contemplate the failure that surrounded him. He had a good idea, but he wasn't a good artist.
Trying to compensate for falling short of his goal, He spent the eighth day working unlike many of our lazy BISD teachers who spend Sunday drinking and call in sick the following day. We in South Texas are grateful he made the extra effort. Though few people know this fact although many Christians, reborn hypocrites the majority of them who claim they read the Bible but they really don't, God created air-conditioning.
At The McHale Report we read the weekly weather report. By Friday we are supposed to eclipse 90. Summer is coming like a freight train barreling through King Ranch. For all the complaints about the heat in South Texas, it is exaggerated. We have begun May with a rainy, gloomy day and by the end of September when the hurricane clouds roll off the gulf the rain and gloom return again, the temperatures commence to decrease. At worst we have four months of intolerable weather, but there is a silver lining in those dark clouds.
First, a word of advice: Please don't try to sell your old clunker through the months of June, July and September. You won't find many buyers. Second, like a bear but changing seasons, hibernate during the summer.
"You simply don't venture outdoors during the day," counseled G.F. McHale-Scully, the publisher of The McHale Report. "I find the late mornings unbearable. You have been sleeping in air-conditioning and you leave your residence only to step into a wall of still air. The contrast is literally night and day. If you can survive without going to HEB until the later afternoon or the early evening, the dependable southeastern arrives and a refreshing coolness engulfs the town. It is like a change in season. Sitting out in the backyard barbecuing and drinking beer is comfortable."
Our publisher is currently residing in a long-term hotel. A minimalist reduced to his clothes, a laptop, a guitar, a tennis racket and cash in his wallet, he pays $650 a month for a room that includes a kitchenette, internet and limitless air-conditioning. He luxuriates in his room all day, taking an occasion moment to honor Our Creator for the greatest gift he gave humanity.
"If I should die and my cadaver began to discompose, the maids wouldn't notice the putrid smell because I can cool my room down to the temperature of a meat locker and it doesn't cost me anything extra," said the author and journalist who has been contemplating various awesome journeys to Central and South America but confesses he is in no hurry since he already inhabits the Third World as well as having to finish his 15th book Buried in Brownsville.
"The bottom line is that the weather is turning hot and no amount of complaining is going to change that reality. Adapt to the changing occasions. And when worse comes to worse, there is always the refreshing escape of South Padre Island. I remember in my youth I would pass out on the beach from too much partying and awake in the middle of the night shivering. Everything comes with a price and I'll take the heat that rules our southern climes to the cold that settles on our northern neighbors like a sheet of ice from the first of October to the end of April.
"And if Jesus turned water into wine in his first miracle, God doesn't have any problems with our cold beers during the summer. I'm sure He would join us but according to the visions in Revelation, heaven is permanently air-conditioned."
Trying to compensate for falling short of his goal, He spent the eighth day working unlike many of our lazy BISD teachers who spend Sunday drinking and call in sick the following day. We in South Texas are grateful he made the extra effort. Though few people know this fact although many Christians, reborn hypocrites the majority of them who claim they read the Bible but they really don't, God created air-conditioning.
At The McHale Report we read the weekly weather report. By Friday we are supposed to eclipse 90. Summer is coming like a freight train barreling through King Ranch. For all the complaints about the heat in South Texas, it is exaggerated. We have begun May with a rainy, gloomy day and by the end of September when the hurricane clouds roll off the gulf the rain and gloom return again, the temperatures commence to decrease. At worst we have four months of intolerable weather, but there is a silver lining in those dark clouds.
First, a word of advice: Please don't try to sell your old clunker through the months of June, July and September. You won't find many buyers. Second, like a bear but changing seasons, hibernate during the summer.
"You simply don't venture outdoors during the day," counseled G.F. McHale-Scully, the publisher of The McHale Report. "I find the late mornings unbearable. You have been sleeping in air-conditioning and you leave your residence only to step into a wall of still air. The contrast is literally night and day. If you can survive without going to HEB until the later afternoon or the early evening, the dependable southeastern arrives and a refreshing coolness engulfs the town. It is like a change in season. Sitting out in the backyard barbecuing and drinking beer is comfortable."
Our publisher is currently residing in a long-term hotel. A minimalist reduced to his clothes, a laptop, a guitar, a tennis racket and cash in his wallet, he pays $650 a month for a room that includes a kitchenette, internet and limitless air-conditioning. He luxuriates in his room all day, taking an occasion moment to honor Our Creator for the greatest gift he gave humanity.
"If I should die and my cadaver began to discompose, the maids wouldn't notice the putrid smell because I can cool my room down to the temperature of a meat locker and it doesn't cost me anything extra," said the author and journalist who has been contemplating various awesome journeys to Central and South America but confesses he is in no hurry since he already inhabits the Third World as well as having to finish his 15th book Buried in Brownsville.
"The bottom line is that the weather is turning hot and no amount of complaining is going to change that reality. Adapt to the changing occasions. And when worse comes to worse, there is always the refreshing escape of South Padre Island. I remember in my youth I would pass out on the beach from too much partying and awake in the middle of the night shivering. Everything comes with a price and I'll take the heat that rules our southern climes to the cold that settles on our northern neighbors like a sheet of ice from the first of October to the end of April.
"And if Jesus turned water into wine in his first miracle, God doesn't have any problems with our cold beers during the summer. I'm sure He would join us but according to the visions in Revelation, heaven is permanently air-conditioned."
Saturday, July 18, 2020
CONFEDERATE GENERAL TRUMP
PAM GARDINER: "Stop with the damn Trump comments, Jerry! Everybody already knows how you feel. Got it!"
(EDITOR'S NOTE: It's a civil war, Pam, and the last one went on for more than four years. We've already lost 140,000 Americans at the hands of the Confederate sympathizer with many more of our fellow citizens--maybe even us--destined to die, so you won't find me retreating on this front. Just like the Confederacy, Trump represents evil. You and I disagree, but that doesn't mean I don't respect you nor does it mean that there are other issues we can't respectfully discuss. But for me, I've drawn my line in the sand. Even though my voice is drowned out by Trump's crashing waves, I will give no quarter in my commitment to bring down this repulsive and disgusting individual who as a result of his incompetence has destroyed our health, undermined our economy, sowed civil unrest and pitted one American against another because he believes that by dividing he conquers and wins a second term in the White House. When I pick sides, I don't straddle the fence.)
(EDITOR'S NOTE: It's a civil war, Pam, and the last one went on for more than four years. We've already lost 140,000 Americans at the hands of the Confederate sympathizer with many more of our fellow citizens--maybe even us--destined to die, so you won't find me retreating on this front. Just like the Confederacy, Trump represents evil. You and I disagree, but that doesn't mean I don't respect you nor does it mean that there are other issues we can't respectfully discuss. But for me, I've drawn my line in the sand. Even though my voice is drowned out by Trump's crashing waves, I will give no quarter in my commitment to bring down this repulsive and disgusting individual who as a result of his incompetence has destroyed our health, undermined our economy, sowed civil unrest and pitted one American against another because he believes that by dividing he conquers and wins a second term in the White House. When I pick sides, I don't straddle the fence.)
Thursday, July 16, 2020
FOR TRUMP, IT'S A NUMBER...FOR US, IT'S A TRAGEDY...
The Coronavirus impact has hit home. After a few days of serious suffering and testing positive, Joaquin, my number two son, has rebounded. He is exercising and evaluates himself at 95%. But that is the only good news. The pandemic is lashing Brownsville and the Rio Grande Valley like a category five hurricane. Humans, like palm trees, are crashing to the earth. In my network of friends and acquaintances, seven persons have died in the last ten days and a longtime drinking buddy is, as the Mexicans say, debating between life and death. The cruelest blow of all, however, has been the COVID-19 death of Jose "Junior" Sanchez, who in his prime was simply known as Junior, his one-name fame reminiscent of the Brazilian soccer players a la Pelé. For those who respect my small accomplishments in Brownsville, Junior, as well as many others from his generation and backgrounds, gave me a credibility and respect that endure to this day.
In my oft-related autobiography that my few readers can recite by heart, I arrived a stranger to Brownsville in April of 1975 following a lead learned in Mexico that the school district was desperate for teachers. The rumor proved true. From the fall of 1975 to the spring of 1977 I taught English to tattooed hoodlums and pregnant teenagers before I quit disgusted by my own ineptitude. I found a fulltime position as a sports writer at The Brownsville Herald. In the aftermath of backstabbing infighting, I emerged unscathed as the newspaper's sports editor. Besides covering games and composing features, I took my first steps as a writer by penning a column three times a week entitled The Peerless Observer. As a lad I read the columnists in The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Examiner. They took no prisoners. Their commentary brought the city to life for someone like myself living in Sacramento. Words became a picture. Born and bred for controversy, I brought head football coaches to their knees in Brownsville once I took the reins at the daily, four of the six I dragged through the mud week after week fired at the end of the season. They wanted to blame me for their terminations. Like Trump, they couldn't accept their 0-10 records had precipitated their departures.
To make a long story short, I quit after a year and wandered throughout Texas, California, Mexico and Central America for two years. I supported myself by landing journalism jobs in all those locales. At the end of this odyssey, I found myself back in Brownsville and unemployed. I returned to the BISD as an English Second Language (ESL) teacher. I slowly learned the craft and stayed in the district for 37 more years. On the social ladder the ESL students ranked at the bottom rung in a community 95% Hispanic. Their fellow Mexican-Americans thought of them as no better than wetbacks. It wouldn't be far-fetched to suggest that Klansmen held African-Americans in higher esteem. Alienated, they were the pariah of the border as they navigated a multi-culture environment that exceeded being Mexicans adjusting to their status in the United States. But they all shared an abiding quality--they were the sweetest kids. As the first gringo to attain prominence in their lives, I fascinated them. I would tell them that they were mesmerized by my blue eyes and they would howl with laughter.
And the boys shared the same passion--soccer, or more accurately, fútbol. I would see them in the distance on a patch of grass at the edge of the campus playing their sandlot games. There wasn't a boy who didn't attire himself in an América or a Chivas or a Tigres jersey for class. Their ostracization tormented me. I convinced a wealthy merchant to sponsor them in an adult league. I knew sports and had accrued a smattering of soccer knowledge from my sojourns south of the border. Regardless, somebody had to take command in this chaos. Lo and behold, I coached them to a third-place finish in a ten-team league against twenty-somethings who didn't think twice about using their cleats as lethal weapons or throwing wicked elbows into the unprotected faces of my kids. These frustrated machos who had never realized their dreams couldn't accept youngsters were outclassing them. The next year Texas approved soccer as an official UIL activity and the school district named me head coach of the Porter Cowboys. Over the next ten years, six as the official coach and four as the unofficial coach (Challenges complicate life that require adapting to the unexpected circumstances or face relegation to the bench.), Porter was either champs or co-champs nine of those seasons.
Junior arrived at Porter as a freshman my fourth year as head coach. Two years earlier I had taken Porter to the state finals only to miss the playoffs by one point the following year with the same crack squad. I had lived on my laurels and had paid the price for my lack of effort. I vowed after the disappointment that I was going to make a 110% commitment or I was going to resign. By the age of 12 or 13, an outstanding athlete's reputation precedes him. When Junior presented himself at the athletic hour the first day of class, I once again tipped my hat to the beauty of soccer. You don't have to be a physical specimen to be a star. In fact, you can be short and slender, but your talents and your drive can turn you into the axis around whom the entire contest revolves.
In Junior's case, the football coaches might--and with reason--dismiss him as tiny, perhaps fragile on the gridiron. He was 5'5" and 125 pounds at most, but beneath a shock of wavy brown hair emanated a confidence caught in a wry smile. (The Brownsville Herald's longtime photographer Brad Doherty caught that puckish grin in the photo above.) At 14 and with an insistent mother at his side to whom I would only respond, "Yes, ma'am," Junior was his own man. He would soon turn Porter into his own team. Among the many stellar players who hailed from both Porter and Hanna, Junior was the standout of the 1980s although others might counter, and rightfully so, that Hanna's Salvador Garcia--who is now a legendary coach in a still flourishing career crowned in 2015 with a 28-0 record and the state's first 6A title--was his equal, but they never went mano-a-mano as Garcia had graduated when Junior first stepped onto the field at Sams Stadium. There was no doubt, however, that Junior, Garcia and their many accomplished teammates established a foundation that has culminated in several Brownsville state titles.
When Junior arrived, he was the piece--an attacking midfielder--around whom I would have to rebuild my eleven, but I was blessed with an incoming squad who would be baptized by the Herald as the Fabulous Freshmen and subsequently the Super Sophomores. Frank Perez was the forward with the unforgiving shot. Kevin Gaona, who had played alongside Junior since they were nine, was an outside midfielder with tree trunks for legs that fired missiles from outside the area. Happy-go-lucky Fausto Retta solidified the defense as a left fullback. And no team can aspire to a championship if the players don't have a blind faith in their goalie. I informed the new arrivals that I didn't have a returning goalie. The next day a tall, solidly built youngster appeared in a goalie jersey wearing gloves the size of baseball mitts and for the next four years Alejandro Lara would be the class of the Valley.
These five and their teammates were socially different from my inaugural recruits. Even though they had deep ties to Mexico and a profound pride for their roots, they had been in the BISD since their primary years and were at home on the north side of the river. But like the ESL students, they were a pleasure to teach and coach. They were also studs, reviled by the football coaches for their skills (The Porter football team was in the middle of a 47-game losing streak.) and they were intent on taking Porter to further eminence. I would be remiss if I didn't add that this quintet was surrounded by top talent and a capable bench, but Junior, Frank, Kevin, Fausto and Alex started from day one and would be the face of the team for the next four years, four years that seem like yesterday but have been more than 30 years ago during which time Brownsville has solidified its fame not only in the state but in the nation, the product of Junior and his teammates as well as their bitter foes from Hanna. The showdowns between those two during the 1980s, called El Clásico, were the most anticipated of all sporting events in Brownsville and everybody at their favorite restaurants over huevos rancheros the next morning would be asking the same question even if they didn't know the first thing about soccer, "Who won?"
Junior and company shared a co-championship with Hanna their freshmen year and advanced two rounds into the playoffs before falling to a physically overpowering adversary, in high school the strength and speed of 18-year-olds too much for the finesse and touch of 14-year-olds. But the Cowboys had drawn a line in the sand, which communicated in no uncertain terms that they would be a force in the forthcoming seasons.
"Great teams generally prevail if they have a great player leading them," said Juan de Dios Garcia, Hanna's mentor for more than three decades and the true father of Brownsville soccer who in his youth starred on the clay-baked pitches in Matamoros before reaching the professional ranks. "From the beginning of his high school career, Junior was that key element. He was the difference maker. I knew I had to stop him if we were going to stop Porter because their game flowed through him. I would place my defensive midfielder in front of him, my stopper behind him and warn my sweeper to keep an eye on him, but besides being a capable scorer himself with a magical right foot that made him particularly dangerous on free kicks and corners, he was an unselfish player who as a deft distributor derived as much satisfaction from an assist as he did from a goal. He didn't seek the spotlight; he sought victories, which was clearly evident during his 85-and-16 reign."
Gaona, his boyhood buddy, described Junior's skills in this matter: "In American football terms, I was the fullback who could bull his way for a first down in a crucial third or fourth down situation, but Junior was a precursor of today's premier quarterbacks who could run or pass for a score from anywhere and at anytime on the field. He was an athletic artist, always moving, giving him an almost invisible presence on the field with the uncanny skill, perhaps instinctual, of being in the right place at the right time. Despite his slight built, he was both tough and fearless and he never missed a game during those four years. And with weapons like Frank and the many other fine players who proudly wore the blue and white of La Máquina Azul, he was our Tom Brady who gave us the conviction we could beat anyone. We didn't feel invincible. We had too much respect for our opponents and we knew that every game was yet another test to prove that we were worthy of our distinction."
As sophomore and juniors, Porter, with Junior as the Cowboys' captain, notched consecutive district championships. Their style captured the public's attention as much as their accomplishments. Like Magic Johnson's Los Angeles Lakers, they were run-and-gun, their style more vertical than horizontal. Their concept of an impenetrable defense was another goal. They operated with emotionless precision. Each player recognized that he was a cog in a machine. The motor never overheated. They performed with the coolness of a predator relentlessly stalking its victim.
"Hanna had formidable teams with no weak links," remembered Retta who spearheaded a defense that would bend but not break. "The Eagles' achievements speak for themselves. They came within an inch of qualifying for the state finals when in the semi-final match Kevin Salgado's penalty hit the crossbar in overtime before they lost in a shootout. But Hanna was all intimidation. They would taunt you that your sister was a puta and they would sleep better at night knowing they had bruised your legs and bloodied your noses. They were constantly trying to unnerve you with their 'mamas verga' and 'chinga tu madre' insults because they wanted you to lose your focus, but we would never fall for their barbs. We concentrated on the ball at all times. We knew that the ultimate 'chinga tu madre' came at the end of the game when the scoreboard read: Porter 1, Hanna 0."
"We advanced to the regionals our sophomore and junior seasons," said Lara recalling the good old days. "But different from now when Brownsville hosts regional tourneys, we would pile into an old yellow school bus, huff and puff our way to San Antonio and encounter their two best teams on their field on a Friday night and a Saturday afternoon. In those days Churchill, MacArthur and Alamo Heights were their stellar squads. They were tough teams comprised of big, fast, strong, rich white boys who had been playing soccer since they were five and many were members of select teams. We might eke out the Friday game, but we didn't have the little extra to squeeze out a Saturday result although the center ref annulled one of Frank's goals with a non-existent off-side call that cost us a trip to state, but that's a whole other story about questionable calls that don't go your way."
As seniors, Junior led a juggernaut. Porter steamrolled through district and the playoffs until the Cowboys met Churchill on a hot Saturday afternoon in the Alamo City. Churchill scored early and dominated the first half, but Junior placed a 25-yard free kick into the corner of the goal where the spiders spin their webs and Porter managed to reach half-time even. Only Lara's acrobatics had repelled Churchill's onslaught. The second half commenced and once again Churchill tallied early, but the heat began to take a toll on the home team. The Valley boys, at home in the suffocating humidity, turned the tide as they controlled the tempo against their heavy-legged foes. With five minutes left in regulation time, there was a scramble in front of the Churchill goal. A dozen legs flailing in every direction, the ball trickled into the back of the net to send the contest into overtime. In the second overtime, Perez was knocked down in the area and the ref awarded Porter a penalty.
"I was going to take the penalty, but the ref ruled that I was injured and I had to leave the field," recounted Perez. "The responsibility fell on Junior. Who wouldn't you want to take the penalty at this crucial juncture. He had already connected over a wall from 25 yards. Here it would only be him and the goalie from 12 yards. Rather than aiming for inside one of the posts, Junior thought that the goalie would guess either right or left and would dive in one of those directions because he had already been victimized by Junior's marksmanship. Anticipating the goalie's strategy, Junior fired a shot straight down the gut. The goalie didn't move and easily snared the ball. Churchill prevailed in the shootout and a week later they garnered the state championship.
"As I come to grips with Junior's passing, I can still visualize him placing the ball on the ground and preparing for the shot," continued Perez. "In the years that followed, we would have barbecues and feast on fajitas and guacamole. We would drink late into the night and jibe each other as friends do, but we would never mention the penalty because we loved Junior too much and we knew that the miss had haunted him. Anyone who knows soccer and has had the honor and pleasure to play at our level recognizes the crushing magnitude of a missed penalty with the game on the line. Soccer was our religion and we still worship those memories. We share a sense of satisfaction that we paved the way to Brownsville's many state champions. There is no doubt that Junior was one of the storied pioneers. It's hard to believe that he's gone, particularly when he was giving so much back to the community from his own experiences."
Failure, for the undaunted, is a steppingstone to success. Gaona explained Junior taking his game to the next level: "Everybody from the time we played together at Hesston College remembers him the same way we all do. Just a good, all-around kid and a fantastic futbolista. More than ever I am so glad I was able to recruit him to go up there and play. It was our time on the pitch and we had a standout season. We only lost to the eventual NJCAA national champion, Yavapai College. He was the anchor, just like at Porter, in terms of ball distribution, attacking, etc. He was the team captain. and made a huge impact. We went undefeated at home that year and made it deep into the playoffs. We had Yavapai on the ropes in the first half in terms of ball possession and scoring opportunities. But something happened in the second half and once they scored we panicked!"
Junior returned home and completed his college education at UTB. No longer the student but the mentor, he embarked on his teaching and coaching career. In a moving tribute, one of his admirers posted, "Junior was an awesome teacher. He was always willing to help our students. He listened to them. He gave them guidance. He worked with ESL students at Coakley Middle School in Harlingen. He was an innovator and exhorted the importance of bilingualism. He was very much a promoter of mastering two languages. And if that wasn't all, he was an excellent coach. When athletes play for you, you know that you bring a special quality to the table."
In a sorrowful anecdote to Junior's passing, his mother, who nurtured him at every turn, died a few day's prior to his death. She had long battled diabetes, but friends and family lament that the unremitting anguish over her beloved son's deteriorating condition was too much for her to bear and hastened her demise.
With deaths eclipsing 140,000 and cases significantly beyond three million, Trump claims ad nauseum that we are winning the war, but with the passing of Junior, we have lost another battle. For Trump, it's a number. For us, it's a tragedy. Junior was just hitting his stride. The athletic star had evolved into his community's star. His triumphs as an individual transformed not only Brownsville but the Valley into a region renown for its soccer prowess. He was in the vanguard of this movement, a man measured by his deeds.
He may not have appreciated his stature because he was not a self-centered, egotistical person, but he was a role model. Rest in peace, Junior.
JUNIOR
The Coronavirus impact has hit home. After a few days of serious suffering and testing positive, Joaquin, my number two son, has rebounded. He is exercising and evaluates himself at 95%. But that is the only good news. The pandemic is lashing Brownsville and the Rio Grande Valley like a category five hurricane. Humans, like palm trees, are crashing to the ground. In my network of friends and acquaintances, seven persons have died in the last week and a longtime drinking buddy is, as the Mexicans say, debating between life and death. The cruelest blow of all has been the passing of Jose "Junior" Sanchez, who in his prime was simply known as Junior, his one-name fame reminiscent of the Brazilian soccer players a la Pelé. For those who respect my small accomplishments in Brownville, Junior as well as many others from his generation and backgrounds, gave me a credibility and respect that endure to this day.
In my oft-related autobiography that my few readers could dictate by heart, I arrived a complete stranger in April of 1975 following a lead learned in Mexico that the school district was desperate for teachers. The rumor proved true. From the fall of 1975 to the spring of 1977 I taught English to tattooed hoodlums and pregnant teenagers before I quit disgusted with my own incompetency and found a fulltime position as a sports writer at The Brownsville Herald. In the wake of a series of backstabbing incidents, I emerged unscathed as the newspaper's sports editor. Besides covering games and composing features, I took my first steps at a writer by penning a column three times a week entitled The Peerless Observer. I was raised reading columnists for The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Chronicle. They took no prisoners. Their commentary brought the city to life for someone living in Sacramento. Born and bred for controversy, I brought head football coaches to their knees, four or the six head coaches I dragged through the mud after losing game after game 49-0 losing their jobs at the end of the season.
To make a long story short, I quit after a year and wandered throughout Texas, California, Mexico and Central America for two years. I supported myself by landing journalism jobs in all these locales. I found myself back in Brownsville and unemployed. I returned to the BISD as an English Second Language (ESL) teacher. I slowly learned the craft and remained with the district for 37 more years. On the social ladder the ESL students ranked at the bottom rung of the social ladder in a community 95% Hispanic. Their fellow Mexican-Americans thought of them as no better than wetback. It wouldn't be far-fetched to muse that Klansmen had higher opinions of African-Americans. Ostracized, they were the pariah of the border as they tried to navigate a multi-culture environment that exceeded being Mexicans adjusting to their status in the United States. But they all shared an abiding quality--they were the sweetest kids. As the first gringo to attain prominence in their lives, I fascinated them. I would tell them that they were mesmerized by my blue eyes and they would chuckle.
In my oft-related autobiography that my few readers could dictate by heart, I arrived a complete stranger in April of 1975 following a lead learned in Mexico that the school district was desperate for teachers. The rumor proved true. From the fall of 1975 to the spring of 1977 I taught English to tattooed hoodlums and pregnant teenagers before I quit disgusted with my own incompetency and found a fulltime position as a sports writer at The Brownsville Herald. In the wake of a series of backstabbing incidents, I emerged unscathed as the newspaper's sports editor. Besides covering games and composing features, I took my first steps at a writer by penning a column three times a week entitled The Peerless Observer. I was raised reading columnists for The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Chronicle. They took no prisoners. Their commentary brought the city to life for someone living in Sacramento. Born and bred for controversy, I brought head football coaches to their knees, four or the six head coaches I dragged through the mud after losing game after game 49-0 losing their jobs at the end of the season.
To make a long story short, I quit after a year and wandered throughout Texas, California, Mexico and Central America for two years. I supported myself by landing journalism jobs in all these locales. I found myself back in Brownsville and unemployed. I returned to the BISD as an English Second Language (ESL) teacher. I slowly learned the craft and remained with the district for 37 more years. On the social ladder the ESL students ranked at the bottom rung of the social ladder in a community 95% Hispanic. Their fellow Mexican-Americans thought of them as no better than wetback. It wouldn't be far-fetched to muse that Klansmen had higher opinions of African-Americans. Ostracized, they were the pariah of the border as they tried to navigate a multi-culture environment that exceeded being Mexicans adjusting to their status in the United States. But they all shared an abiding quality--they were the sweetest kids. As the first gringo to attain prominence in their lives, I fascinated them. I would tell them that they were mesmerized by my blue eyes and they would chuckle.
Tuesday, July 14, 2020
PLAYING CATCH
I've been playing catch all my life. Baseball was my first belief. My father taught me my first truths. There are pictures of us pitching the ball back and forth as well as other photos of a proud father behind an adoring son with broad smiles adorning their faces and mitts hanging from their wrists.
I would count the seconds waiting for my father to come home from his eight-to-five job so we could toss the ball in the backyard.
I continued the tradition with my two younger brothers Mark and Mick. I started a family later in life, but I maintained the ritual. I have four sons: Xavier (18), Guillermo (16), Francisco (8) and Jesus (2). Xavier and Guillermo are from my second marriage, Francisco is my step-son and Jesus is a product of my present marriage.
I haven't played catch with Xavier and Guillermo in several years since their mother and I divorced. I don't think a day passed when we were together that we didn't grab our mitts, a bat and ball.
Francisco is my partner these days. Of my four boys, he'll probably be the one most likely to heed my advice and emerge the best athlete of the quartet. We are compensated for our efforts in strange ways. Then there is Jesus who caught his first football the other night and is kicking the soccer ball with authority.
There is much to be said for Zen and meditation, but when I'm searching for peace and liberation, I'd just as soon play catch with one of my sons and remember my old man and brothers.
I would count the seconds waiting for my father to come home from his eight-to-five job so we could toss the ball in the backyard.
I continued the tradition with my two younger brothers Mark and Mick. I started a family later in life, but I maintained the ritual. I have four sons: Xavier (18), Guillermo (16), Francisco (8) and Jesus (2). Xavier and Guillermo are from my second marriage, Francisco is my step-son and Jesus is a product of my present marriage.
I haven't played catch with Xavier and Guillermo in several years since their mother and I divorced. I don't think a day passed when we were together that we didn't grab our mitts, a bat and ball.
Francisco is my partner these days. Of my four boys, he'll probably be the one most likely to heed my advice and emerge the best athlete of the quartet. We are compensated for our efforts in strange ways. Then there is Jesus who caught his first football the other night and is kicking the soccer ball with authority.
There is much to be said for Zen and meditation, but when I'm searching for peace and liberation, I'd just as soon play catch with one of my sons and remember my old man and brothers.
WRITERS REEK OF ALCOHOL
Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, and Estanislao Contreras, author of Chicano Fuck Songs, met downtown for breakfast.
"You look like shit," said Contreras.
"I feel like shit," answered O'Connell. "I took a Xanax to ease the pain."
O'Connell invoked the spontaneity clause the previous evening when Tony Gray, State Representative Rene Oliveira's right-hand man, suddenly materialized at his front door.
"Tony and I threw caution to the wind and decided only in danger exists excitement," explained O'Connell as he held his coffee in both his shaking hands and sipped the steaming elixir with his eyes closed.
"Tony and I dived into the belly of the beast. We crossed to Matamoros. It was nasty. I thought I had finally caged the animal, but it escaped last night. When the monster smells meat, it roars."
Contreras laughed.
"On this rampage, did you and Tony solve the world's problems after you had sated yourself on the flesh of your victims?"
"We have control over only two aspects of our being--our health and our jobs. As long as we are healthy and we are working, there are possible solutions to the other challenges we face in our lives."
Contreras slurped huevos rancheros into his mouth.
"And how are you faring in those two departments?" questioned the controversial poet.
"My system is filled with tobacco and alcohol and god knows how many venereal diseases course through my body," sighed O'Connell. "And I'm abusing my sick leave. This binge is going to cost me two days in recovery time and I've already called in sick for tomorrow."
Contreras paid the bill. O'Connell went home and slept the rest of the day.
"You look like shit," said Contreras.
"I feel like shit," answered O'Connell. "I took a Xanax to ease the pain."
O'Connell invoked the spontaneity clause the previous evening when Tony Gray, State Representative Rene Oliveira's right-hand man, suddenly materialized at his front door.
"Tony and I threw caution to the wind and decided only in danger exists excitement," explained O'Connell as he held his coffee in both his shaking hands and sipped the steaming elixir with his eyes closed.
"Tony and I dived into the belly of the beast. We crossed to Matamoros. It was nasty. I thought I had finally caged the animal, but it escaped last night. When the monster smells meat, it roars."
Contreras laughed.
"On this rampage, did you and Tony solve the world's problems after you had sated yourself on the flesh of your victims?"
"We have control over only two aspects of our being--our health and our jobs. As long as we are healthy and we are working, there are possible solutions to the other challenges we face in our lives."
Contreras slurped huevos rancheros into his mouth.
"And how are you faring in those two departments?" questioned the controversial poet.
"My system is filled with tobacco and alcohol and god knows how many venereal diseases course through my body," sighed O'Connell. "And I'm abusing my sick leave. This binge is going to cost me two days in recovery time and I've already called in sick for tomorrow."
Contreras paid the bill. O'Connell went home and slept the rest of the day.
HEIL TRUMP
"Heil, Donald Trump," says Adolf Hitler. "You're a great Nazi."
"Heil, Hitler," answers Trump, his right arm stretched forward like an engorged penis.
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Eva Braun. "I'd love to fuck you."
"You're a great Nazi," answers Trump. "But your barely a five and I'm used to tens. Sorry, bitch."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Heinrich Himmler. "We must establish a secret police and suspend habeus corpus like Lincoln during the Civil War in order to protect our people from their many enemies."
"You're a great Nazi," says Trump. "We must eliminate the terrorists and the dissidents with a Final Solution. And we must seal off our borders before our blood is sullied by inferior races."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Joseph Goebbels. "We must think for the masses because they are incapable of thinking for themselves. We're depending on you to establish the Fourth Reich."
"You're a great Nazi," answers Trump. "Sean Hannity is leading Fox Television and together we have joined the Republican putsch. We are going to save our country from anyone who isn't white or who isn't Christian."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Joseph Stalin. "But you could have been an even greater Communist."
"You could have been a great Nazi, Joseph," says Trump, "but you killed too many white people. We're sending the blacks back, we're burying the browns six-feet underground, we want the reds dead and I guess we can make jello out of the yellow."
While many pundits are worried that Trump may create an international furor if he moves the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, they are surprisingly silent on Trump's desire by executive order to change Washington D.C.'s name to Berlin.
"We are going to have such a great wall along the Mexican-United States border and for such an economic bargain that there will be enough material remaining to build a wall in New Berlin to separate the white from the black neighborhoods," tweets Trump.
"And this wall is going to be so high that even those blacks who brag about being great jumpers won't be able to leap over it. I mean it's going to be really huge. And really beautiful too."
"Heil, Hitler," answers Trump, his right arm stretched forward like an engorged penis.
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Eva Braun. "I'd love to fuck you."
"You're a great Nazi," answers Trump. "But your barely a five and I'm used to tens. Sorry, bitch."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Heinrich Himmler. "We must establish a secret police and suspend habeus corpus like Lincoln during the Civil War in order to protect our people from their many enemies."
"You're a great Nazi," says Trump. "We must eliminate the terrorists and the dissidents with a Final Solution. And we must seal off our borders before our blood is sullied by inferior races."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Joseph Goebbels. "We must think for the masses because they are incapable of thinking for themselves. We're depending on you to establish the Fourth Reich."
"You're a great Nazi," answers Trump. "Sean Hannity is leading Fox Television and together we have joined the Republican putsch. We are going to save our country from anyone who isn't white or who isn't Christian."
"You're a great Nazi, Donald Trump," says Joseph Stalin. "But you could have been an even greater Communist."
"You could have been a great Nazi, Joseph," says Trump, "but you killed too many white people. We're sending the blacks back, we're burying the browns six-feet underground, we want the reds dead and I guess we can make jello out of the yellow."
While many pundits are worried that Trump may create an international furor if he moves the U.S. embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, they are surprisingly silent on Trump's desire by executive order to change Washington D.C.'s name to Berlin.
"We are going to have such a great wall along the Mexican-United States border and for such an economic bargain that there will be enough material remaining to build a wall in New Berlin to separate the white from the black neighborhoods," tweets Trump.
"And this wall is going to be so high that even those blacks who brag about being great jumpers won't be able to leap over it. I mean it's going to be really huge. And really beautiful too."
THE BLOGGER BLOGS
Exercising and writing are parts of my life. I started doing push-ups and sit-ups when I was in grammar school. I was a skinny kid with big ears. Desperate, I embarked on a self-imposed program to escape the fate of a 98-pound weakling.
My emergence as a writer was more accidental. My parents raised their children without the distraction of television. They forced us to read. I majored in literature during college. Most the professors smoked dope and gave their students passing grades for merely showing up for classes and participating in the discussions. I discovered existentialism as the perfect excuse for a hedonistic lifestyle.
I was in my mid-twenties when a friend suggested I apply for a sports writing job at The Brownsville Herald. I haven't put the pen down since that date except to pound the keyboard. I am addicted to both exercising and writing. I do hit the wall occasionally.
Why am I walking an hour each day when I'm destined to suffer, wither and die? Why am I reporting on Brownsville and humanity when our general condition worsens rather than improves? Tired physically and mentally, I take a break, but I begin to detest myself. I don't feel right. I can't think right. Slowly I recover my will.
We all agree that the cooling temperatures are invigorating. The summer no longer rules the mornings and evenings. The hot weather may make one last stand, but its days are numbered. The news, unlike our brutal summers, never ends although reading The Brownsville Herald you would think we were living in a crime-free, corruption-liberated gringo town of 20,000 in the middle of Nebraska.
The newspaper refuses to meet its responsibilities. Crime and corruption are rampant. Incompetence and ignorance work hand in glove. But the newspaper won't take a stand. It has sold its whoring soul for a few pesos to its advertisers and the special interests. The publisher has a tongue blistered with open sores that drip pus. The stench from editor rancid mouth kills cockroaches.
Enter the bloggers. I became a journalist at an impressionable age and remain a watchdog at heart. Among local bloggers, there is little agreement. In fact, most of us have appeared in court to litigate our differences, but we're all anarchists in a war against those who abuse their authority.
When a local politician is in the dark corner of a Austin club fingering a young thing's twat under the table, he can't enjoy the escapade to its fullest. He fears a blogger may be filming him. That doesn't mean these bastards aren't getting away with murder on a daily basis.
I wish I had an office at the Cameron Hotel and I was writing about Brownsville 24/7. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Downtown is a treasure trove of prose and poetry. It is also a treasure trove of photos. It is art. It is a living museum. And the border, of course, is a cornucopia of copy.
I'd like to saunter across the border and record my impressions of Matamoros. I used to know that town well. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to risk my life for a Tecate.
As I sip wine and contemplate my present state, I'm devising a new strategy for my blog. I'm promoting the downtown revitalization motif. I need to read more histories so I can recreate my own past scenes that capture the essence of downtown and Brownsville. I need to post more photos with nothing more than a headline to keep my audience content with a visual or two.
I need to take advantage of the opportunities to stroll downtown when I have free time. I didn't go downtown this weekend even though few excursions give me greater pleasure than buying El Bravo and ducking into a Washington St. restaurant for breakfast and friendly bantering with the waitresses. I stayed home.
I threw passes to my young son. I'm reading a mesmerizing account of the Civil War. I exercised Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I didn't abuse alcohol. I washed my clothes. I prepared my wardrobe for the week. I called my mother. She is 87 years old. My father passed five years ago. He may be gone, but both of them inspire me to pick up the baton and resume running again.
I am a cop on the beat. It is important to keep a watchful eye on organized crime, known locally as the Cameron County Democratic Party. And it is important to keep a watchful eye on our drunken and depraved politicians. Who aren't they screwing both literally and figuratively? Why are we naming schools after these renegades? Isn't it enough that we are paying them for doing nothing?
I find it horrendous that UTRGV graduates receive their diplomas in the shadows of a building named after Mary Rose "Miss Piggy" Cardenas. Why don't we construct a statue embodying stupidity and dedicate it to her?
It is important that I remain firm in my commitment to a better Brownsville. I will accept nothing less than downtown turned into a Spanish Quarter renown for its infamous drink, the Spanish Fly, as well as a 10,000-seat arena.
As to those who criticize me for being no better than the people I criticize, they are absolutely right. I love this blog. If the best I can do is write shit, then I'll write shit. And if you're a sucker for faith, don't make an even bigger fool of yourself by placing it in the Cowboys.
My emergence as a writer was more accidental. My parents raised their children without the distraction of television. They forced us to read. I majored in literature during college. Most the professors smoked dope and gave their students passing grades for merely showing up for classes and participating in the discussions. I discovered existentialism as the perfect excuse for a hedonistic lifestyle.
I was in my mid-twenties when a friend suggested I apply for a sports writing job at The Brownsville Herald. I haven't put the pen down since that date except to pound the keyboard. I am addicted to both exercising and writing. I do hit the wall occasionally.
Why am I walking an hour each day when I'm destined to suffer, wither and die? Why am I reporting on Brownsville and humanity when our general condition worsens rather than improves? Tired physically and mentally, I take a break, but I begin to detest myself. I don't feel right. I can't think right. Slowly I recover my will.
We all agree that the cooling temperatures are invigorating. The summer no longer rules the mornings and evenings. The hot weather may make one last stand, but its days are numbered. The news, unlike our brutal summers, never ends although reading The Brownsville Herald you would think we were living in a crime-free, corruption-liberated gringo town of 20,000 in the middle of Nebraska.
The newspaper refuses to meet its responsibilities. Crime and corruption are rampant. Incompetence and ignorance work hand in glove. But the newspaper won't take a stand. It has sold its whoring soul for a few pesos to its advertisers and the special interests. The publisher has a tongue blistered with open sores that drip pus. The stench from editor rancid mouth kills cockroaches.
Enter the bloggers. I became a journalist at an impressionable age and remain a watchdog at heart. Among local bloggers, there is little agreement. In fact, most of us have appeared in court to litigate our differences, but we're all anarchists in a war against those who abuse their authority.
When a local politician is in the dark corner of a Austin club fingering a young thing's twat under the table, he can't enjoy the escapade to its fullest. He fears a blogger may be filming him. That doesn't mean these bastards aren't getting away with murder on a daily basis.
I wish I had an office at the Cameron Hotel and I was writing about Brownsville 24/7. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Downtown is a treasure trove of prose and poetry. It is also a treasure trove of photos. It is art. It is a living museum. And the border, of course, is a cornucopia of copy.
I'd like to saunter across the border and record my impressions of Matamoros. I used to know that town well. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to risk my life for a Tecate.
As I sip wine and contemplate my present state, I'm devising a new strategy for my blog. I'm promoting the downtown revitalization motif. I need to read more histories so I can recreate my own past scenes that capture the essence of downtown and Brownsville. I need to post more photos with nothing more than a headline to keep my audience content with a visual or two.
I need to take advantage of the opportunities to stroll downtown when I have free time. I didn't go downtown this weekend even though few excursions give me greater pleasure than buying El Bravo and ducking into a Washington St. restaurant for breakfast and friendly bantering with the waitresses. I stayed home.
I threw passes to my young son. I'm reading a mesmerizing account of the Civil War. I exercised Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I didn't abuse alcohol. I washed my clothes. I prepared my wardrobe for the week. I called my mother. She is 87 years old. My father passed five years ago. He may be gone, but both of them inspire me to pick up the baton and resume running again.
I am a cop on the beat. It is important to keep a watchful eye on organized crime, known locally as the Cameron County Democratic Party. And it is important to keep a watchful eye on our drunken and depraved politicians. Who aren't they screwing both literally and figuratively? Why are we naming schools after these renegades? Isn't it enough that we are paying them for doing nothing?
I find it horrendous that UTRGV graduates receive their diplomas in the shadows of a building named after Mary Rose "Miss Piggy" Cardenas. Why don't we construct a statue embodying stupidity and dedicate it to her?
It is important that I remain firm in my commitment to a better Brownsville. I will accept nothing less than downtown turned into a Spanish Quarter renown for its infamous drink, the Spanish Fly, as well as a 10,000-seat arena.
As to those who criticize me for being no better than the people I criticize, they are absolutely right. I love this blog. If the best I can do is write shit, then I'll write shit. And if you're a sucker for faith, don't make an even bigger fool of yourself by placing it in the Cowboys.
BLOGGING AS USUAL
I kick back on my bed and listen to Muddy Waters. His wife done left him and he don't give a damn. I should be playing lead, blowing on a harp and captivating the crowd with my original licks. Doubling up on the Xanax with a glass of water at my side, I might impress a plain but clean baby. We would ravish each other until the winds starting blowing this wayward soul down the road.
I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. But when I do you better be near a phone.
I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm a gypsy following that railroad track.
I'm empty, which isn't a bad feeling compared to the torment that has become bored with itself. The torment grants me a short respite so it can attack me with renewed vigor. I went to bed early last night, awoke around midnight, read, took a Xanax and slept until noon.
I was at the county courthouse listening to a case and conversing with various lawyers. I ate a shrimp cocktail, returned to my place and took a nap. I'm sitting in my bed asking myself if my mental woes will turn me into working recluse in the same manner that my father was a working alcoholic.
I don't need to walk the streets everyday. I know this town so well that I that I can dedicate myself to writing realistic fiction without leaving the room. I'm lethal on the blog with a photo and Facebook gives me access to thousands of pictures. I can rummage through files like a Peeping Tom until I discover one that excites my creativity.
It doesn't take much to please the public. Three or four articles on a slow day, wild art and anything else that occurs to me is sufficient to placate my public. Blogs are ephemeral undertakings with freedom rather than the future the first priority.
I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. But when I do you better be near a phone.
I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm a gypsy following that railroad track.
I'm empty, which isn't a bad feeling compared to the torment that has become bored with itself. The torment grants me a short respite so it can attack me with renewed vigor. I went to bed early last night, awoke around midnight, read, took a Xanax and slept until noon.
I was at the county courthouse listening to a case and conversing with various lawyers. I ate a shrimp cocktail, returned to my place and took a nap. I'm sitting in my bed asking myself if my mental woes will turn me into working recluse in the same manner that my father was a working alcoholic.
I don't need to walk the streets everyday. I know this town so well that I that I can dedicate myself to writing realistic fiction without leaving the room. I'm lethal on the blog with a photo and Facebook gives me access to thousands of pictures. I can rummage through files like a Peeping Tom until I discover one that excites my creativity.
It doesn't take much to please the public. Three or four articles on a slow day, wild art and anything else that occurs to me is sufficient to placate my public. Blogs are ephemeral undertakings with freedom rather than the future the first priority.
PONDERING
Sometimes I wonder why I get drunk. I know that the next day I will have to pay a steep price that I hate paying, but the moment seems too poignant to compromise with a future that promises nothing better than this instant. I am the product of cheap thrills and that's the reason I refuse to deny myself the excitement of self-indulgence.
Retiring to my own thoughts, I seldom desire the company of others at a favorite cantina unless it's the product of a spontaneous occasion. I prefer the solitariness of sitting alone in my backyard with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other and my favorite music playing the backyard.
Then I surrender myself to the memories and regret that the best of my past isn't with me in the present. With each gulp and each puff I dissolve into the melancholy that brings me a passing peace. Filled with nostalgia, I am tranquil. My addictions were founded on pleasure, but now they offer me a blissful escape into a no-man's land where I wander without direction.
Finally, I have had enough. I toss my half-empty can and flick my still burning cigarette into the darkness. Another challenge awaits me tomorrow. I haven't dived off the deep end tonight. I won't require Xanax to return me to the surface in the morning.
I haven't added to the burdensome guilt. I retire to the bedroom and my sleeping wife with hopes of pleasant dreams. I have walked this path many times I am familiar with every bend in the road.
Retiring to my own thoughts, I seldom desire the company of others at a favorite cantina unless it's the product of a spontaneous occasion. I prefer the solitariness of sitting alone in my backyard with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other and my favorite music playing the backyard.
Then I surrender myself to the memories and regret that the best of my past isn't with me in the present. With each gulp and each puff I dissolve into the melancholy that brings me a passing peace. Filled with nostalgia, I am tranquil. My addictions were founded on pleasure, but now they offer me a blissful escape into a no-man's land where I wander without direction.
Finally, I have had enough. I toss my half-empty can and flick my still burning cigarette into the darkness. Another challenge awaits me tomorrow. I haven't dived off the deep end tonight. I won't require Xanax to return me to the surface in the morning.
I haven't added to the burdensome guilt. I retire to the bedroom and my sleeping wife with hopes of pleasant dreams. I have walked this path many times I am familiar with every bend in the road.
Monday, July 13, 2020
DELTA DAVE'S LEGACY
In the annuals of the Brownsville Herald sports history, no editor impacted the business like "Delta" Dave Handelman. Handelman brought the fanatic's love to the game, a desire for detail and a savvy for stats.
The newspaper's coverage has steadily deteriorated since his resignation in the early 1980s when he chose to pursue his musical and writing careers. He has recently abandoned the blues on his guitar for bossa nova. He is also scrutinizing his checkered past for incidents to inspire his third novel.
"Nobody churned out copy like Handelman," said Anthony Gray, the former Herald columnist once employed as State Representative Rene Oliveira's aide. "We used to call him Tolstoy because he wrote voluminously. He was a painter who surrendered the brush for the pen. He brought an outsider's appreciation and sensitivity to the Valley that we haven't seen since his artistic departure."
Sports without controversy is a beautiful face without gorgeous lips. Many fans lost interest in the Herald when Handelman succumbed to a higher calling. There has been an endless line of milquetoast hacks appearing at the Herald's doorstep like mongrel dogs begging for scraps over the past three decades.
"Handelman may be gone, but the poetry of his prose echoes in my mind," said Gray.
The newspaper's coverage has steadily deteriorated since his resignation in the early 1980s when he chose to pursue his musical and writing careers. He has recently abandoned the blues on his guitar for bossa nova. He is also scrutinizing his checkered past for incidents to inspire his third novel.
"Nobody churned out copy like Handelman," said Anthony Gray, the former Herald columnist once employed as State Representative Rene Oliveira's aide. "We used to call him Tolstoy because he wrote voluminously. He was a painter who surrendered the brush for the pen. He brought an outsider's appreciation and sensitivity to the Valley that we haven't seen since his artistic departure."
Sports without controversy is a beautiful face without gorgeous lips. Many fans lost interest in the Herald when Handelman succumbed to a higher calling. There has been an endless line of milquetoast hacks appearing at the Herald's doorstep like mongrel dogs begging for scraps over the past three decades.
"Handelman may be gone, but the poetry of his prose echoes in my mind," said Gray.
SEXUAL HARASSMENT
Justo Leyes, The McHale Report's legal expert and Judge Art McDonald's campaign treasurer, is defending a male client who is being accused of sexual harassment as part of a divorce case.
"She initially accused her ex of mental cruelty and infidelity, but when we countered with the same accusations, she suddenly changed her tactics. With all the controversies haunting men these days in regards to their conduct with women, she is apparently endeavoring to exploit these issues by portraying herself as the victim of sexual harassment. Let me read you her testimony:
"'The first time we dated, he stopped in front of my house at the end of the evening and kissed me without my permission. The second time we dated, he once again stopped in front of my house and began kissing me and groping my breasts. On the third date we went to a hotel. He undressed me, lay me on the bed and spread my leg with his knees. I begged him to stop, but he inserted himself anyway. I have never recovered from the humiliation of these three incidents.'"
Leyes, who frequents The Library at La Rioja downtown and is frequently found in the company of local celebrities Estanislao Contreras and Maclovio O'Malley, threw back a shot of tequila and concluded:
"After 14 years of marriage and four children, she is claiming sexual harassment in a desperate attempt to gain the court's sympathy. If she represents females' current thinking, is there a man on the face of the earth who isn't guilty of sexual harassment?"
"She initially accused her ex of mental cruelty and infidelity, but when we countered with the same accusations, she suddenly changed her tactics. With all the controversies haunting men these days in regards to their conduct with women, she is apparently endeavoring to exploit these issues by portraying herself as the victim of sexual harassment. Let me read you her testimony:
"'The first time we dated, he stopped in front of my house at the end of the evening and kissed me without my permission. The second time we dated, he once again stopped in front of my house and began kissing me and groping my breasts. On the third date we went to a hotel. He undressed me, lay me on the bed and spread my leg with his knees. I begged him to stop, but he inserted himself anyway. I have never recovered from the humiliation of these three incidents.'"
Leyes, who frequents The Library at La Rioja downtown and is frequently found in the company of local celebrities Estanislao Contreras and Maclovio O'Malley, threw back a shot of tequila and concluded:
"After 14 years of marriage and four children, she is claiming sexual harassment in a desperate attempt to gain the court's sympathy. If she represents females' current thinking, is there a man on the face of the earth who isn't guilty of sexual harassment?"
MICHAEL
As one of the chief bloggers in a thriving blogging community, I have an obligation to report the news. I choose to present the scoop du jour in an informative and entertaining manner. Nonetheless, I am not going to speculate on who is and who isn't running in the Democratic and Republican primaries slated for early March. Candidates must file by six this evening. I will wait until tomorrow when I will release the South Texas Independent Journalists Association (STIJA) poll on all the contested races.
I have more pressing matters that engage me at the moment. I have three sons. There's Carlos who is 30 and teaching science at St. Anthony's in Harlingen. There's Joaquin who is 27 and pursuing his musical dream in Austin while he lives an artist's existence. And last but hardly least, there is Michael who is 13 and attends Manzano Middle School.
All my sons are athletes. The McHales are athletes. We take our sports seriously. I will be 67 in two weeks and I am playing the best tennis of my life. In my youth I couldn't get enough football, basketball and baseball. As a senior, I started for a 6A California high school as a shooting guard.
Michael is my baby and I spoil him, but as a former coach who knew the glory of championships, I talk to him straight. He loves football. He loves the pain of the game. He loves his teammates. He has a Marine's attitude. This year he started at wide receiver and corner. The Spartans went 7-2. Their two defeats went down to the wire, but they gained a measure of satisfaction when on the last game of the season they ruined Stell's perfect season by upsetting the Warriors, 22-21, on a last-second touchdown.
Michael moved to track next. He's at that age when he is looking at himself in the mirror all the time in pursuit of being the best he can be superficially. Like his daddy and his writing, he still lacks that 24/7/365 commitment, but, damn, he's a kid. I never pushed my two big boys and I'm not going to push him, but I am demanding in the sense that a father wants his son to realize his potential.
He did disappoint me earlier in the school year. I bought him a saxophone last year and he took a year of music as a sixth grader, but he begged me to free him from the dictatorial excesses of band directors. He is an excellent guitar player for his age and I wanted him to study three years of band in junior high so he would be proficient reading music.
He asked his mother if he could exit music, but she deferred to me. After listening to his anguished plea and promising that he would work extra hard on his guitar, I relented and gave him permission to drop the class. I took the saxophone back to the dealer and he have me $500. The instrument had depreciated $400 in a year.
Sams Stadium hosted the junior high district meet on Saturday. Ten Brownsville schools participated and junior high kids give it their all. Sports, for most, is the number one priority in their lives. Michael's four-man team won the 800-meter relay and finished second in the 400-meter relay. In his previous meets, he had run the 200-meter and finished second every time.
The night before the meet I told him over dinner at The Vermillion where we feasted on nachos, ceviche, onion rings and guacamole, "If you win the 200 tomorrow, I will give you a $100."
"Really, Dad?"
"Really, son."
He burst out of the gates and gained the psychological advantage over his nemesis by sprinting at his fastest and taking the early lead with no regards to pacing himself. Ten yards short of the finish line he ran out of gas. He told me he felt he was in a dream where a person is running in place as somebody or something chases him. With pain streaking his contorted face, he willed his legs to keep pumping and by a nose crossed first before he went tumbling, leaving himself covered in abrasions and with a bump on his head.
I was so proud of my little boy. He had compensated for his decision to leave music by leaving everything on the field. The first thing he said when I collected him at school, well, I'm sure you can guess it: "Do you have that hundred? And by the way, I'm starving. Let's go eat wings."
Success, however, has not come without a cost. His head has swelled. He has taken to bragging. Since I live by karma and feel firsthand the struggle between the ying and the yang, I have consistently warned him to never feel that he is better than anyone else. You never know!
The next night he was at a Christmas event. One of the activities featured an old car. For a dollar anyone could pick up a sledgehammer and pound the vehicle. Mr. Macho Michael picked up the sledgehammer. He hit one of the bumpers but the sledgehammer kept going south and landed with a full impact on his toe. God had punished him for his arrogance.
"What did I tell you, papacito?" I said as we drove this morning to my pediatrician, Dr. Romeo Montalvo, who has been my children's doctor for more than three decades. "You have to be humble. You have to be respectful. You have to be grateful. You have to work harder and you can't take anything for granted. And you have to become a better basketball player if you really want to stand out as an athlete."
Dr. Montalvo checked his toe. If it were broken, the fracture would be so near his nail that there was nothing that could be done except apply ice, take Motrin, stay off his feet and rest. As to the knot on his head from the 200 when he went crashing to the track, the doc pronounced him fit. And for good measure, the nurse gave him a flu shot but not before Dr. Montalvo reminded me he would need his second HPV shot in February.
Pobrecito! He may enjoy sports as much as I did, but he isn't going to experience sex as I did. And unlike me who was kept ignorant of the facts of life in parochial school and only lived in fear of hell, Michael is familiar with the birds and bees. Sadly, he must always live in fear of the consequences in a modern world rotten with venereal disease.
Our children are innocent for short a time. In my opinion, it is one of life's greatest tragedies.
I have more pressing matters that engage me at the moment. I have three sons. There's Carlos who is 30 and teaching science at St. Anthony's in Harlingen. There's Joaquin who is 27 and pursuing his musical dream in Austin while he lives an artist's existence. And last but hardly least, there is Michael who is 13 and attends Manzano Middle School.
All my sons are athletes. The McHales are athletes. We take our sports seriously. I will be 67 in two weeks and I am playing the best tennis of my life. In my youth I couldn't get enough football, basketball and baseball. As a senior, I started for a 6A California high school as a shooting guard.
Michael is my baby and I spoil him, but as a former coach who knew the glory of championships, I talk to him straight. He loves football. He loves the pain of the game. He loves his teammates. He has a Marine's attitude. This year he started at wide receiver and corner. The Spartans went 7-2. Their two defeats went down to the wire, but they gained a measure of satisfaction when on the last game of the season they ruined Stell's perfect season by upsetting the Warriors, 22-21, on a last-second touchdown.
Michael moved to track next. He's at that age when he is looking at himself in the mirror all the time in pursuit of being the best he can be superficially. Like his daddy and his writing, he still lacks that 24/7/365 commitment, but, damn, he's a kid. I never pushed my two big boys and I'm not going to push him, but I am demanding in the sense that a father wants his son to realize his potential.
He did disappoint me earlier in the school year. I bought him a saxophone last year and he took a year of music as a sixth grader, but he begged me to free him from the dictatorial excesses of band directors. He is an excellent guitar player for his age and I wanted him to study three years of band in junior high so he would be proficient reading music.
He asked his mother if he could exit music, but she deferred to me. After listening to his anguished plea and promising that he would work extra hard on his guitar, I relented and gave him permission to drop the class. I took the saxophone back to the dealer and he have me $500. The instrument had depreciated $400 in a year.
Sams Stadium hosted the junior high district meet on Saturday. Ten Brownsville schools participated and junior high kids give it their all. Sports, for most, is the number one priority in their lives. Michael's four-man team won the 800-meter relay and finished second in the 400-meter relay. In his previous meets, he had run the 200-meter and finished second every time.
The night before the meet I told him over dinner at The Vermillion where we feasted on nachos, ceviche, onion rings and guacamole, "If you win the 200 tomorrow, I will give you a $100."
"Really, Dad?"
"Really, son."
He burst out of the gates and gained the psychological advantage over his nemesis by sprinting at his fastest and taking the early lead with no regards to pacing himself. Ten yards short of the finish line he ran out of gas. He told me he felt he was in a dream where a person is running in place as somebody or something chases him. With pain streaking his contorted face, he willed his legs to keep pumping and by a nose crossed first before he went tumbling, leaving himself covered in abrasions and with a bump on his head.
I was so proud of my little boy. He had compensated for his decision to leave music by leaving everything on the field. The first thing he said when I collected him at school, well, I'm sure you can guess it: "Do you have that hundred? And by the way, I'm starving. Let's go eat wings."
Success, however, has not come without a cost. His head has swelled. He has taken to bragging. Since I live by karma and feel firsthand the struggle between the ying and the yang, I have consistently warned him to never feel that he is better than anyone else. You never know!
The next night he was at a Christmas event. One of the activities featured an old car. For a dollar anyone could pick up a sledgehammer and pound the vehicle. Mr. Macho Michael picked up the sledgehammer. He hit one of the bumpers but the sledgehammer kept going south and landed with a full impact on his toe. God had punished him for his arrogance.
"What did I tell you, papacito?" I said as we drove this morning to my pediatrician, Dr. Romeo Montalvo, who has been my children's doctor for more than three decades. "You have to be humble. You have to be respectful. You have to be grateful. You have to work harder and you can't take anything for granted. And you have to become a better basketball player if you really want to stand out as an athlete."
Dr. Montalvo checked his toe. If it were broken, the fracture would be so near his nail that there was nothing that could be done except apply ice, take Motrin, stay off his feet and rest. As to the knot on his head from the 200 when he went crashing to the track, the doc pronounced him fit. And for good measure, the nurse gave him a flu shot but not before Dr. Montalvo reminded me he would need his second HPV shot in February.
Pobrecito! He may enjoy sports as much as I did, but he isn't going to experience sex as I did. And unlike me who was kept ignorant of the facts of life in parochial school and only lived in fear of hell, Michael is familiar with the birds and bees. Sadly, he must always live in fear of the consequences in a modern world rotten with venereal disease.
Our children are innocent for short a time. In my opinion, it is one of life's greatest tragedies.
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