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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, I chase the pills with a glass of water at my side.

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 don't need to walk the streets. I know this town so well that I can dedicate myself to writing fictional/realism without leaving the house. I'm deadly 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.

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 Herald you would think we were living in a crime-free, 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 the editor's rancid mouth kills cockroaches.

Enter the bloggers. I wish I had a permanent room 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. The border 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, but I'm not willing to risk my life for a Tecate.

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. 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 stealing?

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.