Tijuana - Its Rough Around Here...

Whenever I speak with someone about Mexico, they always ask if it is safe, or simply overrun with violence.

Well, yes and no.

If you're not in the drug cartel business, it's safer in Mexico than in any American city. You see, the average Mexican does not have access to guns, and most don't own one. It's just that the cartel killings are so sensational, usually involving torture, beheading or mutilation. One musician who banged the wrong girl was found shot with his cock and balls taped inside his mouth.

I just returned to Mexico and there are a few new stories.

Richard and Solomon are dead, Hector the Mexican FBI man is in jail, and Zak is scared shitless.

Apparently Richard, a tall, clean-cut American, was running an escort business, and borrowed a lot of money, and went into shooting porn. He answered the door and a man and woman shot him in the face. Evidently he had filmed the woman in a porn video and posted it on the Internet, and her family found out. Bang - you're dead.

Hector, who works (worked?) for the Mexican FBI, was rounded up with 70 other agents and hauled off to Mexico City for interrogation. Looks like they've got him dead to right on corruption charges (they'd been monitoring his cell phone calls), and he'll spent maybe the rest of his life in jail, and lose his retirement. Now that I think of it, he showed all the signs: a big house, a wife and a girlfriend, drinking in the bars all day and night, and sometimes shooting off his pistol into the ceiling. In fact, a few weeks ago my brother said he needed a gun to shoot the pigeons in the courtyard, and Hector handed him his revolver.

I always thought he was a bit creepy and arrogant, and it seemed he might go off at any moment. But the choices aren't so easy for Mexican lawmen, you see, when the drug cartel men come calling, they say, "Take my silver or take my lead." So they have little choice. Eventually the protection breaks down and it all comes out.

Poor Solomon -- a slightly mentally ill older African-American who was always drunk on the first of the month when his check came. He used to fight and beat his crazy white wife. She died a few months ago and he was saying, "Now I don't have anyone to blame things on!" He seemed lost.

I don't know what happened, they say "he fell," and maybe it was natural causes, but it seems fishy to me that Solomon, who was always scraping by, suddenly was talking about buying some land and hanging around sketchy types and soon he was dead. Maybe he was getting some sort of insurance or inheritance from his wife's death. All I know is that soon after she died, about 4-5 black men began hanging out with him and playing cards. And blacks in Mexico are pretty unusual, even in border cities. So I have my suspicions as to how he died, and why.

Then there's Zak, from Kenya, who runs these escort service-like parties, and basically pimps out women. He speaks perfect English and Spanish, and has a beautiful son by a pretty Mexican woman. He's a dedicated dad, and a bright guy. A few days ago he was sitting and bouncing his knees, as nervous as a cat. "There was this lesbian coming down from L.A. and throwing all kinds of money at hookers; well, she got kidnapped -- but the police found her a couple of days later and arrested the four men who did it. But this other guy, he's sort of in the same business as me, and he got killed. And they know where I live!"

It's the sort of rough-and-tumble environment that surrounds New Orleans. But, like New Orleans, if you're not involved in the drug business, or other criminal stuff, it doesn't affect you.

All this doesn't break my bliss near the ocean, listening to the waves and watching the grand Pacific sunsets.

Maybe there's a book in it.

Why Write?

Whew!

Just got back from a whirlwind tour of Mexico's Caribbean coast and then to my hometown for the big high school "70s Mega Reunion" that I organized. It was a lot of work, but mostly it took time, and right up until the last bank deposits were made I sweated the financial side, hoping it would not lose money. Well, we made it. Nearly 600 attended the Friday night social and dance, and another 200 or so went to the ice cream social for retired teachers and the picnic. So it felt good to put in that effort over the last nine months to make it happen. And to have brought that many people together to share memories and reconnect was a good thing.

After I had all the reunion events on track, I scheduled a last minute book signing with Barnes & Noble for that Sunday. I was exhausted, but I had a hearty breakfast at Ross' and showed up.

Funny, no one else cares much about your writing, except maybe the few close friends and family, and even they believe it's a sketchy occupation (when I was writing my first book, my mother said, "What is it now -- a BOOK?" Like it was a dumb thing to do.)

Most of the people who showed up at the book signing were from my childhood church! Firstly, I felt guilty for skipping church that morning. And one church lady whispered in my ear, "Don't forget Jesus Lord in your life," like she had imparted the greatest secret ever.

Well, I sold some copies, supposedly enough to top the local bestseller list for a week, but I was giggling inside -- and cringing -- at the thought of these 80- and 90-something church ladies reading my filthy, blasphemous book! Oh well, I hope they have a sense of humor. Maybe my mother will be ostracized, or maybe they won't get past page three. I was trying to make some serious points in the book about religion and life but use the story and humor to deliver them. I quoted (and mocked) actual verses from the Bible in it. I also pointed out just one instance of Shakespeare having some fun when he was editing the King James Version (in my first chapter).

But really, the satisfaction from writing doesn't come from acclaim or money, it comes in finishing a piece of work, and being able to look back on it. Few professions can say that: people work and work and work and there is nothing to really show for it. An architect can see their buildings, a musician can listen to their recordings, and an actor can see their films, but mostly, people work without the pleasure of seeing something lasting created.

A couple of weeks ago I re-read my first book, the Hurricane Katrina story, and I will have to say that even though I would make some changes now, I enjoyed the trip to the past. I mean, some of those people are dead now.

Now I am proofing the latest version of my play. I made substantial revisions, cutting out two characters and adding in two more, including James Dean, (who was in the original version). The director who said it would be impossible to cast a "young Brando AND a young James Dean" read and critiqued the play, and told me to put Dean back in since, "this play belongs on Broadway, and in New York you can find those actors." So I did, and I'm pretty happy with it, although I am still making minor edits, and, of course, it will not be the best it can be until I can see it performed on stage and make additional edits.

But again, the satisfaction of holding and reading something you have put years in to is immense. And to know that future generations will be able to read my work long after I'm gone is gratifying too. Not to be arrogant, but the fact that these books are printed on demand, means they will never go out of print. Plus there are the physical copies.

So that's why I write.

Back to the book signing -- when I pointed out what crap is on the bestseller shelves, the manager said, "Yes, but that''s what sells." I told him I write what I want, and in the form I want, based on emotion, not logic (i.e. for the money) and he told me the other authors who come to town say that their agents and publishers will not let them stray from formulaic writing. That sort of makes me sick to my stomach. I cannot imagine having my imagination governed by business decisions.

I write for the passion of it, for the love of it, not for the money or fame. And I think that is the only true reason to write.

That is what motivated the great writers of the past.