My Dog Barks Some.

The sky a dazzling, bright blue. Silver mist from the sea. The hushing swish of breaking waves. Shirtless boys prowl the art fair set up by vendors on my street. Police cruise by in their Ford F-150's with eyes of hate hidden behind wrap around sunglasses, arrest three drunk boys stumbling along the boardwalk. The boys - shirtless with thin, copper skin that glisten with perspiration and sex - hold plaintive looks on their faces, faces that accept the inevitable with calm, animal stupidity. All is well on this lazy Saturday afternoon far from the filth and degradation of downtown Tijuana.

I sit at the cafe with my friend the troubadour, he by the moniker "Doobie". He serenades any passerby or dog or junkie with a sad ballad of life. We chat between great puffs on Luckies and sip coffee by the gallon served by twin brothers who lost their calling as models or porn stars. They both are drop dead gorgeous. I have employed Doobie as a literary translator. I have decided it was time to translate all my books in Spanish.

This change has not settled in yet. I am still paranoid and broke from this mood. A decision that is still up in the air. This new life is idyllic - almost too good. And as we all know, 'too good' and me are bitter enemies. Fucking bitch.

Yesterday, as I was walking through Plaza Santa Cecilia on my way to the States, I saw Old Chuck - the ancient pedophile who I rented with on my last stay here in las playas. He was older, grayer, frailer. He sat with a gaggle of other old queens in front of that notorious bar El Ranchero. Obviously, they are a restaurant now, also. I could never bring myself to eat cuisine offered by that putrid den of debauchery. Could you imagine? Insidious.

I am in limbo. Mentally and physically. Mentally, because I have not contacted SSI and reported my change of address strict from fear. A fear that consumes me, I have to admit. I will next week and let the dice land were they may. What choice do I have? return to El Paso and live an existence worse than death? Physically, I feel tired. Worn out. fatigued often. In my creeping age, I think this body has reached it's limit. Perhaps I need to make an appointment with a doctor and get a check up. I honestly can state that I have never had one - not a full exam, anyway.

Enough bitching, right? I need to handle this like I always have in the past and that is simply to go with it...