Slouching into Oblivion

I can see the church at the center of San Miguel de Allende from my bar. I can see the entire city from my rooftop. Those have been my views for the last dozen years. It is one of the few homes in San Miguel that has a direct view of the City and its center but that is also a short, flat walk to all of it. It is special and I feel fortunate that it has been my abode for longer than anyplace I have ever lived. This is home. For three more days. And then I will walk out of this compound for the last time. Leaving my home was never in the plan. Indeed, I thought, I planned I would both live and die here. Then came the unexpected, a massive bank fraud, my decision to retire from practice and the attendant travel. That was enough to open for my ex a door marked “Exit,” one I believe she had been looking for. Separation was followed soon by divorce. And a compound this size in the Centro of San Miguel de Allende had, over the years, become too valuable for me to buy her ou...

I turned 70. It’s hard to believe and harder to say. I don’t feel 70. Or maybe I do. I don’t know what 70 should feel like. I remember turning 60. Yesterday. I was in the best shape of my life. High protein diet. 5 days a week in the gym. No drinking. Counting carbs. But my wife still wouldn’t fuck me. So I thought, “If I can’t get fucked, I’ll drink.” And I did. And I do. I’m still in the gym three or four days a week. But half-assing it. You can’t workout enough to eliminate the impact of half a bottle of vodka everyday. Yeah. Time changes. Everything. Not being svelte would have worried me 10 years ago. I just can’t remember why. I guess because then I cared what people thought about me. Now, at 70, I don’t give a fuck. Not one fuck. Time changes. Everything. I always liked bad girls. I dated many and married one very bad girl. And I was looking for another one when I accidentally met a good girl. The first time I met her she told me, ...

A woman wants a man’s soul. Hyperbole? Perhaps. Maybe it’s not a man’s soul a woman wants. Maybe she just wants control. And a smart woman knows she can have it. I know. I’ve lost, or sold, my soul more than once. Like most men, I am weak in the face of that small space between a woman’s thighs, what I call the “gapage.” That half of an inch of light that allows men to see the perfect woman in, well, nearly every woman. Until it is too late. “You told me last night, Jim, that you loved me.“ And I know I was drunk. And I know I can’t remember what the fuck I said. And I don’t know if she is bluffing. And she knows I can’t risk finding out. She wants control. More than I do. And she will play every card from the bottom of the deck to get it. She will weaponize her gapage to get control and to keep it. She knows that most men love women. We worship women. Most women, on the other hand, despise men. They hate needing a man. For anything. And so they tolerate men...

It was dusk and I was standing outside the bus terminal talking to someone I don't know. She was smoking cheap cigarettes, looked like someone who could be paid to tell everything she knew and we shared a half pint of Muscatel I had chambered in a paper sack. We were chatting amicably when a black Porsche with dealer tags slid into the parking lot. Driving was a young black male, MLB hat, about 26 1/2years old, and next to him a young white female, blonde, who reminded me of a jaded American Airlines attendant. I could see she was crying. Her door opened, she got out, said nothing, slammed it and walked towards us. The Porsche crept away and she pulled a cell phone from her purse and started jabbering, interrupting her conversation only long enough to bum a cigarette from my new friend. About 32 seconds later, the Porsche pulled back into the parking lot and she walked over. The driver lowered his window and handed her a small knit bag. She took it, turned on her heels, and ...

I found Big Joe in the south L. A. Greyhound bus terminal in 2008. It’s a long story and one I will tell. Since then Joe has been my constant companion, a thug with no excuse for anything, my bodyguard who wants to do nothing except stomp the shit out of anyone I feel deserving. I began writing about Big Joe shortly thereafter. It’s time to begin again and bring you up to date. I returned from Las Vegas last night and a series of late night discussions with those in know about the endgame -- recession, depression, and hyper-inflation all shot through a fine whiskey-prism. For most, being right on how we lose will determine the few who will win and whether one orders steak tartar or waits in a soup line and fights a toothless hag for their one meal that day. For me it is about posturing correctly to haggle over the ruins. Big Joe was waiting outside the Leon airport in a no parking zone idling the flat-black Suburban he uses for high-speed airport runs. The beast has a 454 with...

I just finished a week that seems more like a month being flogged and pissed on with pointless stories, meaningless anecdotes, and inaccurate and self-serving accounts of “the good old days.” And I feel stupider for the experience. Speaking has a place, of course. There are some things that need to be said, or asked: “Don’t step out in front of that bus.” “I need another drink.” “Put on your fucking mask.” “Would you like to go to dinner now?” Speaking can be effective to transfer valuable information when there isn’t time to write. Yet, I sense most disagree, evidenced by the uninterrupted vomitus of vacuous, needless sounds spewing from wide open mouths, either incorrectly recounting history with no point or expressing their beliefs, opinions, but mostly their prejudices and self-serving fabrications: “I believe (insert something heard on TV.) ” “You know?” “I like/hate (insert something heard on TV.) ” “You know?” “I want/own/have (insert something seen on TV.) ” ...

If I read another travel article touting the wonders of folding myself into an extruded aluminum tube and shot across the skies to see an ever smaller and more homogenized world, I am going to, well, write an essay like this one. Travel isn’t wonderful. It is an escape. It’s an addiction, no different than drugs, sex, and alcohol. I know. I traveled almost every week for 42 years. I waited in endless lines at ticket counters, security checkpoints, and in baggage claim areas for bags that were perpetually late or didn’t arrive at all. I sat in cheap plastic seats in airport concourses, feet stuck to filthy carpet waiting, waiting. And waiting some more. I drove rental cars in deep nights to places I couldn’t find. I was felt up and had my property seized by security for no other reason than they could. I ate food that tasted like dog shit smells or had no taste at all. And, I was lied to relentlessly. But . . . I was paid well to do it. To travel, that is. I wasn’t ...