YAYA DEL MARI

I wasn't your father,

but for a brief time in our lives

you were my daughter.

Did you lack for anything?

Didn't I devote many hours to you?

Didn't I impart good advice to you,

particularly regarding the art of tipping?

When you smash a winner down the line,

do you remember who taught you tennis?

Did I ask for anything in return?

No. Nothing.

To hear you call me "Daddy-O"

with a warmth that welled from your heart

more than recompensed my love for you.

DIRECTOR SCOUTS BROWNSVILLE

John Durst, the director of cult thrillers Three Pennies Too Many and Miss Smith's Rotting Cadaver, visited Brownsville with the intention of finding a suitable town for the filming of his new movie, Diarrhea Soup.

"I'm looking for a locale where desperation reigns and the inhabitants will do anything to survive," said Durst as he drank a beer and ate a hamburger at the Palm Lounge.

"Brownsville rates at the top of the selection list. The mayor told me we would never find a seedier town and he's absolutely right. In my travels throughout the nation I have never seen the look of hopelessness in so many eyes that I have seen in Brownsville.

"It's a dirty place, which is a requisite for the movie. I can't believe I'm in the United States when I walk the streets of this sad city. The standard of living, I'm sure, is much higher in Central America than here."

Durst's story centers on a community succumbing in droves to a rampant and virulent cancer as a result of corrupt politicians cutting a deal with a chemical factory that pours toxins into the atmosphere.

"I didn't think I could find a Third-World City in this nation to make my movie, but I was wrong," continued Durst. "I feel sorry for the people who live here permanently. There is so much misery. At least I'll be able to hire extras cheap."

CHARLES STILLMAN TAUGHT DONALD TRUMP ALL THE TRICKS!!!

Charles Stillman, Brownsville's founder, arrived in the second quarter of the nineteenth century to assist his father in the latter's mercantile business in Matamoros.

"I was in love the first day I walked around the plaza in front of the cathedral," Stillman told Richard King years later as the two along with Miflin Kenedy divided up vast tracks of land they had finagled from the original settlers through the corrupt American courts.

"I thought the weather was hot; then I fell into the arms of one of those hot tamales. I never knew the true meaning of 'picante' until I dabbled with a bush in the brush. My father warned me and he was right: 'Once you go brown, you never come back 'round.'"

Stillman named a street to honor his wife, Elizabeth, but he sent her back to New York in the early 1850s. He forbade her return to the border, convincing her that the health conditions posed a serious threat to her and their children.

"It wasn't a childless marriage, but it was certainly loveless," said South Texas Independent Journalists Association (STIJA) President Anthony Starr. "His society would have never permitted a union with a Mexican-American. Racism, between the Mexican-American War and the Civil War less than 15 years apart, was murderous. Blacks were held in higher regard than Mexican-Americans."

Stillman, in a diary discovered in one of the tunnels that link Brownsville and Matamoros, estimated that he slept with more than 1500 Mexican-American women--many of them prostitutes--during his 25 years in the region.

"The ladies found his blue eyes irresistible," confessed Juan Cortina, the famous bandit. 

In a poll STIJA has named Stillman the city's most hated gringo. The result has infuriated the community as the large block of Mexican-American writers who comprise STIJA attempt to rewrite history.

"The son of a bitch has been dead for more than 125 years!" said an incredulous Starr. "But his designation isn't incomprehensible if you study history."

Stillman, according to the erudite Starr, initiated the corruption--from buying elections to defrauding the common man--that continues to this day.

After the Mexican-American War, Stillman crossed to the north side of the river and established himself as the kingpin in South Texas. He recruited King and Kenedy to operate his steam boats. The two became wealthy ranchers and his closest allies.

Covering all the bases, Stillman took Francisco Yturrria under his wing to control the Mexican-Americans. Lawyer Stephen Powers left the military to advise Stillman and provide him with the documentation to legitimize all Stillman's nefarious land and business deals.

"Stillman had no scruples," explained Starr. "He considered principles obstacles. Making as much money as possible was his religion. In his estimation God was green. Though he was a Yankee, he renounced his citizenship and joined the Confederacy.

"He recognized that he could make a killing shipping Southern cotton to Europe via Matamoros since the Union had blockaded all the other Confederate ports. He banked millions. Contraband, which still flows freely through the porous border, became an honorable profession with Stillman's blessing.

"Stillman set in motion a system that has allowed the elite of succeeding generations to exploit the many for the benefit of the few. South Texas most despised Mexican-Americans have adopted his techniques. The man was an authentic piece of shit. He was the original Donald Trump of Brownsville."

"DON'T LEAVE A MARK ON HIM, SIR."

I taught two years from 1975 to 1977 at Brownsville High and resigned in frustration. Showing movies every day, I turned off the light, closed my eyes and endured my daily headache. My life depended on the projector functioning smoothly, which wasn't always the case. Then chaos ensued.

I was part of a program for at-risk students entitled Coordinated Vocational Academic Education, CVAE for short. The district didn't expect its riff-raff to last the year. Several of the boys didn't last but a few years on this planet, but the girls replenished their fallen numbers with the next generation of losers.

The boys took three-hour classes working on engines while the girls learned the fundamentals of keeping house. Both sexes knew little of personal hygiene. Scabies were rampant. To complete their schedule, they had an hour each of math, English and P.E. Most of them realized the district's self-fulfilling prophecy by dropping out before June.

The majority of the boys were expelled and the majority of the girls were impregnated. I have seen the girls at supermarkets or department stores with the passage of time. They are 50 to 100 pounds overweight. Their dainty adolescent days are distant memories. The boys have disappeared, many of them forever. They are either without life or sentenced to life.

As bad as the boys were, I was more dissolute. My saving grace was a significant one: I wasn't a criminal, notwithstanding the drug use and the drunk driving. I spent most my time boozing, smoking dope and fucking. Matamoros was my playground with cheap food, alcohol and whores. My life has been marked by decadent periods. The little I remember, these were a memorable two years.

I'd be walking to school. A car with students would stop and offer me a ride. They'd be passing around a joint and I would take a couple of hits. It never occurred to me that there might be repercussions for my reckless behavior.

I was living an out-of-control existence. I could care less if the BISD fired me. This stay was nothing more than a short stop on my journey into the unknown. If worst came to worst, I could return to California and my family. That was my ace in the hole if I were down to my last chips.

But the current changed and the course of my life altered dramatically. Towards the end of my second year at Brownsville High, I found a part-time position on The Brownsville Herald's sports staff. I began my apprenticeship as both a reporter and a writer. I discovered a purpose. The twin pillars of reporting and writing have sustained me for more than 40 years.

My first two years as a teacher weren't for naught and provided me with a foundation when I returned to the profession three years later. I was a product of the school of hard knocks. I had a half-dozen fist fights in the classroom. One incident remains indelibly printed in my mind.

It was time for the bell before lunch. The students were restless. I was recovering from a hangover after returning from across the border at four in the morning. A tension reigned over all my classes. The students didn't want to do anything and I was incapable of teaching them anything. They didn't respect me and I didn't hold them in high esteem either.

I was on edge as I patrolled the aisles between the desks when a delinquent, giving the impression that he was sleeping with his head resting on the desk, tripped me. I fell and the students laughed derisively. I exploded. I approached the skinny miscreant from behind. The loud guffaws were music to his ears. He had never raised his head.

I grabbed his left arm, pulled it behind his back and pushed it to the base of his neck. With my right hand, I cupped his head and pounded his face into the desk. When I released him, he jumped to his feet, delivered me several choice words and bolted out the door like a jack rabbit.

"Shit!" I thought to myself as I rubbed my forehead with both hands. "What the fuck have I done?"

I went directly to the office. Juan or Jose, since all poor boys were named Juan or Jose in those days, was sitting before the desk of Lupe Rocha. During my time at the school I had never shared one word with the assistant principal.

Built like a penguin, he had a swarthy complexion. Under his black pompadour he never showed any emotion. He would become a principal and serve long stints at a junior high school and an elementary school. He suffered from diabetes, the scourge of the Mexican-American, and died shortly after retiring. I took a seat.

"Juan, here, says you just beat him up, sir?"

"I never touched him, sir."

The assistant turned to the lowlife and dashed his sinister hopes.

"The next time I see you in my office, you will never step on this campus again."

Juan and I shared the same stupefaction but for different reasons. He was certain that he was going to exact his revenge after years of mistreatment at the hands of teachers, but as he slinked out of the office he realized that he would never defeat the system. I, on the other hand, had been saved from perdition.

The assistant turned to me. Smiling serenely, he imparted this sage advice: "If you're ever going to hit a kid, don't leave a mark on him, sir."

To this day I can't understand the reason a BISD school doesn't bear the name of Lupe Rocha.

COUPLE ENJOY OTIS REDDING MOMENT...

From the view at the south end of the Island, Annie Gunn, girl of song, and Mort Heinman, Brownsville's only uncircumcised Jew, watched the shrimp boats head back into the gulf waters. It was a Friday afternoon, a week behind them, a weekend before them.

"I could buy a place here and never return to Brownsville," said Annie. "You don't realize how bleak and backwards Brownsville is until you leave it."

Mort has never been quick to criticize his adopted hometown. While he slopped down a dozen oysters and fast-forwarded to the night when he was going to drive Annie to the point of insanity by eating her pussy until the muscles in her thighs turned into knots, he said, "I'm happy in my cell."

Annie had been with her share of guys, but there was something about the unpretentious Mort that had excited her beyond her wildest fantasies. She couldn't put her finger on the key ingredient, but it wasn't his uncircumcised cock, which she found distasteful. And it wasn't Brownsville, which she found even more revolting.

JUSTO LEYES

Justo Leyes, The McHale Report's legal expert, took a few moments from his busy day to express a pet peeve:

"Brownsville needs more Anglos to impose English on the local inhabitants. If leaders don't impose their culture on the community, Brownsville will become indistinguishable from Matamoros.

"I studied English at the Shakespeare Academy in Guadalajara. The Jesuits were in charge of the school and demanded English at all times. They thrashed any student who spoke Spanish. During my first year my knuckles were beaten raw by the priests. Each time I uttered, "No entiendo," they would whack me again.

"When I would return home from my regular tannings and complain to my parents, my father would unbuckle his belt and whip me until he raised welts on the backs of my thighs. By the end of the first grade, I had memorized a dozen sonnets and could quote passages from Hamlet and a number of other plays.

"When I hear lifelong Brownsville residents speaking Spanish, I pity these individuals because they didn't have the Jesuits patrolling their playgrounds punishing transgressors.

"Fortunately, Brownsville has its cultural police. As long as we have a few Anglos imposing their wisdom on the ignorant masses, we can call ourselves a part of the United States of America."

ESTANISLAO CONTRERAS

"When you are an adulterer and a puto, it is only fair that the gods give you a taste of your own medicine when they sentence you to an adulteress and a puta, but when I met Kali, I was hoping for one last chance at redemption," said Estanislao Contreras.

"Even though we deserve a whipping for our sins, it doesn't make the punishment any less painful. Mary, my wife before Kali, was both a virgin and a Christian. Only her family mattered to her. When I left this beautiful and faithful woman, who through time became quite adroit under the sheets, for Kali, the gods condemned me to hard labor for not appreciating the gift they had bestowed upon me."

Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, gulped a beer before continuing with his soliloquy as he picked through the pieces of a dysfunctional marriage.

"I have asked only one thing of her: Fuck me! She doesn't have to cook for me. She doesn't have to wash for me. She doesn't have to clean for me. I'm not a macho who expects her to wait on me hand-and-foot. Just fuck me! But she can't do it. She can't understand that dedicating ten minutes to me and she will have me eating out of her hand after I have eaten my fill of her pussy and left a little whipped cream for dessert.

"Women are shocked when they discover their men have looked for scraps at others' back doors. They treat us like dogs and we become dogs.

"'Fuck me, goddammit!' I beg her. 'Fuck me, goddammit!'

"But she won't do it. She looks at me with scorn. I hate her. When she fucks me, I can't tell if I have a person or a cadaver under me.

"As my frustration has grown and my penis hasn't, I dredge up a story that adds combustibles to the conflagration.

"'After a guy had fucked you once, what would happen the second time he was with you?'

"'When he picked me up, we would fuck. When we came back to his place after dinner and dancing, we would fuck. In the middle of the night we would fuck and in the morning before he took me home we would fuck.'

"For the five years between marriages she described herself as out-of-control. She would combine ecstasy and alcohol and screw some cat she had met three hours earlier in the parking lot of a club. For me, however, there have been few ecstatic out-of-control moments. Those have been saved for her new lovers when she has chosen the joys of adultery over the woes of matrimony.

"'Fuck me, goddammit!' I beg her. "Fuck me, you goddamn cunt!'

But she won't.

NO TWO ARE THE SAME...

No two clouds
are the same.
No two snowflakes
are the same.
No two fingerprints
are the same.
No two persons
are the same.
Yet, everything
is the same...

THOSE WERE THE DAYS

With the violence in Mexico as bad as Afghanistan and Iraq, nights across the river are a distant memory. It is a tragedy beyond the ruthless killing. There was a time when eating and drinking at Garcia's was considered beneath the dignity of a true Matamoros connoisseur.

But to sit next to one of Garcia's big windows in a deep chair over a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer to accompany the salty treat with a trio strumming the classics in the background!

Brownsville is benefiting in the short run, but without the siren song of the south, the border has lost its flavor.

The forays to the boxing venues are over. El Bravo, the leading daily, half-heartedly promotes cards to stir the enthusiasm of a paranoid populace. Confronting a bloody reality, the propaganda fails miserably.

Among his many other duties, Max Maxwell, dean of the Rio Grande Valley sportswriters and The McHale Report's sports editor, once penned a boxing column for The Brownsville Herald. He reminisced about an adventure on the other side.

"I went to see Lupe Pintor at his room in the Hotel Ritz the night before his fight at the Arena Mexico," recalled Maxwell. "Pintor was an ascendant name who would capture championships in both the bantamweight and featherweight divisions.

"'What round are you going to knock out this sacrificial lamb?' I asked him. 'The second,' he answered. I accepted bets at ringside taking only the second round. Everyone was happy to pocket the crazy gringo's money, but when Lupe decapitated his inferior foe with a Frazier left hook midway through the second, my credentials were permanently established among the regulars."

TISHIA

"How much?" she questions me after hearing my proposition.

I have seen her standing at a corner a block from Market Square for the last month . In the distance she doesn't look bad. She is slender and shapely.

"What's your name?"

"Tishia."

"Where are you from?"

"Puerto Rico."

"How long have you been in Brownsville?"

"Four months."

She cuts the conversation short.

"How much?" she repeats with a touch of impatience in her voice.

I look at her. Her toothless gums are smoother than the quilt that covers my mother's brass bed.

"Five dollars," I say.

"Fine," she answers.

I pull a $5 bill from my wallet and give it to you. She smiles. She must have been a good looking woman in her prime. I step back and take her picture.

"One more," I supplicate.

She isn't greedy. I thank her for her time. She flashes me that empty grin. She doesn't leave the area but continues to look for employment opportunities.

INDIANS DEFEAT SPANISH

Historically, Brownsville takes pride in the distinction that the battles beginning the Mexican-American War and the battle ending the Civil War were fought in the city's vicinity. Is it possible that the first recorded conflict on United States soil between Europeans and Indians took place in the Brownsville area?

In 1519 Spanish Captain Alonso Alvares de Pineda dropped anchor at the mouth of the Rio de las Palmas, now known as the Rio Grande by most experts. Pineda commanded 270 men in four ships. He spent a month exploring inland and reported that 40 rancherias occupied both sides of the riverbanks.

These natives were the Coahuiltecans, primitive hunters and gatherers. Martin Salinas, in his book Indians of the Rio Grande Delta, estimated the population between 10,000 and 15,000.

Pineda reported that the inhabitants were hospitable. He likewise whetted his countrymen's greed for riches with descriptions of gold ornaments adorning these people. Pineda departed south and lost his life in the Panuco area, but his surviving crew members returned to Jamaica and delivered this information to Francisco de Garay, the island's governor and underwriter of the undertaking.

The stories of gold proved irresistible and the following year Garay outfitted another expedition under the command of Diego de Camargo.

"Camargo took 150 men, seven horsemen, and, in the likely event the Indians resisted giving up their gold necklaces, he brought an ample supply of artillery," pens Brian Robertson in Wild Horse Desert, a historical account of the Rio Grande Valley. "Camargo's group also included brick masons who carried materials to build a fort to protect the new colony."

Camargo and his conquistadores advanced 30 miles up the river when the goodwill between the Spaniards and Indians came to an abrupt end.

Salinas relates the following showdown: "A large number of Indians joined together and threatened Camargo, who decided to attack. While on the way to burn one of the Indian camps, Camargo's little army was broken up by the Indians. The soldiers tried to escape, some by land, others by water. The Spanish boats were driven from the river by a large number of Indian canoes. The Indians killed at least 18 Spaniards and all seven of their horses. The Spanish sailed southward toward Veracruz."

Though Camargo reached his destination, many of his men died of starvation during the arduous sojourn and Camargo himself perished shortly after his arrival. This confrontation and the Spanish losses may not rival the Little Big Horn in romantic lore, but the Indians inflicted such a disastrous defeat upon the Spanish that the setback would retard Europeans' progress into this region until Jose de Escandon established Reynosa, Camargo, Mier, Revilla (Guerrero) and Laredo in the late 1740s and early 1750s.

The Coahuiltecans of the Rio Grande Valley had challenged the best soldiers in the world and had crushed them. It would be more than 220 years before the Spanish would conquer the area. The time has come for the Valley's native peoples to receive credit for their remarkable achievement and commemorate this battle as the first of its kind between Europeans and Indians on U.S. land.

BILLY BAKER RECALLS GOOD OL' DAYS

The Baker Boys, the famed investigative team, insist that the public is looking for the mayor in all the wrong places.

"The mayor hasn't disappeared," said Billy, the more talkative of the Baker twins. "It's just that he's never here. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the port director and his commissioners have journeyed to Asia on one of their semi-annual junkets with the mayor leading the delegation.

"The taxpayers will cover the expenses for this exotic voyage. You don't think that these successful businessmen would spend their own money to travel 10,000 miles for a full-body massage!?!

"I remember when our past congressman and our deceased port director were making monthly visits to China. The Chinese reportedly were going to unload cargo in southern Mexico, transport the goods to Brownsville via a superhighway--specifically constructed to assist the contrabandistas move their drugs north--and then export their merchandise to Europe via the port.

"We believed our congressman and port director until their $21 million scam to build a non-existent bridge from Brownsville to Matamoros exposed them as con artists.

"The voters threw our congressman to the dogs and our port director in a hole, but Brownsville politicians never change. They have a fanatical attachment to corruption. Muslim and Christian madmen are motivated by a higher calling. Easy money is the religion of our leadership."

THE BLOGGER

I was in my mid-twenties when I applied for a sports writing job at The Brownsville Herald. I haven't put the pen down since that date except to pound the keyboard. 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 the editor's 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. 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 McAllen 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 observing him. That doesn't mean these bastards aren't getting away with murder on a daily basis.

I wish I had the artistic inspiration to write about Brownsville 24/7. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Downtown is pure prose and poetry and photos. It is art. It is a living museum.

The border in general is endless copy. I'd like to saunter across the border and record my impressions of Matamoros on a more regular basis. I used to know that town well. Unfortunately, I'm not willing to risk my life in pursuit of art.

I think young, but I feel old. My only duties, I tell myself, are to work, rest and earn money for my kids.

"You make no difference," I repeat to myself to keep everything in perspective. "When you die, it will be like you never existed. Your void will be filled by new lovers and father figures."

I don't despair. As I 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 Street restaurant for breakfast and friendly banter with the waitresses.

I am a cop on the beat. It is important to keep a constant eye on organized crime, known as the Cameron County Democratic Party. It is equally important to keep a constant eye on our drunken and depraved politicians. Who aren't they screwing both literally and figuratively?

I must 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. 

JOE KENNEY

Joe Kenney, a tough Irish kid from the mean streets of Philadelphia, married Brownsville's Nora Lisa Perez and followed his wife to the border. A welder and pipe fitter by trade, Kenney had dreamed of running his own bar & grill with Philly cheese steaks and cold beer anchoring the menu.

He opened Checker's Café in 1983 on Washington Street, which quickly became a local institution. The Connectors were the de facto house band, but downtown's slow death claimed his joint two years later when he closed the doors on the dilapidated structure.

Disappointed but determined, Kenney embarked on a decade-long apprenticeship. He recommenced his career at South Padre Island's Tequila Frog, returned to Brownsville for a three-year stint at Dan's Social Club, snidely designated as Dan's Social Disease, before leaving to Harlingen and a six-year stint at the Valley Greyhound Park.

While never abandoning his dream of a downtown club, Kenney envisioned a hangout overlooking a resaca. When Trudy's Piano Bar, near the corner of 802 and Central Boulevard, ceased operations, Kenney discovered the perfect locale.

History will record that at the beginning of the 21st century Cobbleheads was Brownsville's "in" spot.

"Cobbleheads is a sanctuary where you can retreat from the pressures of everyday life and truly feel that you have a second home," rhapsodized Kenney over a second margarita and another cigarette. "We are never rushing you and worrying about turning tables like most restaurants. The seats are full of happy regulars."

BRAD DOHERTY

Brad "Boner" Doherty, the international photographer who has grown skinny and weary working for decades at The Brownsville Herald on slave wages, may be using Viagra. He has been looking tired although he continues to conceal the advancing years well.

Though there are no facts to substantiate the suspicion and this may be nothing more than the beginning of another nasty Brownsville rumor, Doherty is reaching a stage in his life when he could use a small boost to make an afternoon of sex more enjoyable. Doherty, like State Rep Rene Oliveira's legislative aide Tony Gray, has been a strong advocate of medicinal drug use.

"I believe Brad would find Viagra helpful if he isn't already using it," said Gray. "It has made a wonderful difference in my life. After a bottle of Merlot and a plate of pasta, I swallow a pill with my last glass of red and head to the hotel room.

"By the time I cross the threshold I'm seeing red. The chick I happen to be seeing at the time I screw all night and I come like a bull. Everybody says that Brad has a good marriage. My response is simple: Why can't he have a better marriage!?!?"

THE SACRIFICE

The young woman walked  into the county courthouse and bowed before the powerful politico.

"I need a job," she pleaded.

He looked at her tiny figure and her cleavage caught his attention.

"If you want a job, you are going to have to fuck me first," he said.

She gasped as she pressed her hands against her chest.

"But I thought you were a happily married man," she said. "I saw the picture of your wife and handsome son in the paper and I thought to myself that you must have the perfect family."

A scornful laugh issued from his mustachioed face.

"There are two realities," he pronounced in a mocking voice. "There is the public reality in which I provide for you and there is the private reality in which you provide for me. If you want a job, you have to fuck me."

"But I remember you saying during your campaign that nothing fulfills you more than helping the less fortunate."

A hoarse sound escaped his throat.

"You stupid little bitch. Nothing would fulfill me more than filling you. Besides, I can't help those who can't help themselves. Either you fuck me or get the fuck out of my face."

She was poor and uneducated, but she had a pretty face and a seductive body, two features that hadn't been lost on the politico.

"Where?" she asked.

"Follow me to my office," he commanded. "When we finish, you can fill out a job application."

Together they took the elevator to the top floor. 

BUTCHERS MAKE BILLIONS

Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss doesn't think twice when he has an ill patient who requires specialized care. He orders him or her to Houston. He explains:

"Flocks of vultures have blackened the skies above Brownsville. They have arrived from the four corners of the globe. Their rapacious eyes are on the lookout for new victims. Their voracious appetites are insatiable. They descend upon their helpless prey with razor-sharp talons and meat-shredding beaks, quarrelling among themselves as they rip their victims limb from limb. Who are these monstrous creatures? They are the doctors of Brownsville.

"Their incompetence is only exceeded by their greed. In their pursuit of money, they come to blows over the patients. Many of these foreign doctors have abandoned their own afflicted people. The sacred dollar is their god. They are scavengers in search of fresh meat. During lulls at the hospitals they don't think twice about playing a friendly game of soccer. No ball? There's a fetus or two lying around.

"In Brownsville's Third-World environment where corruption rules and incompetence reigns, these doctors have found a second home. They push themselves beyond their physical limits in their recklessness to treat as many patients as possible. They must finance opulent lifestyles. Overworked, they make mistakes that result in injury or death. Most residents can relate horror tales experienced at the bloody hands of Brownsville doctors.

"Allegedly, Brownsville doctors, upon the completion of their studies, take the Hippocratic oath. They swear to uphold ethical standards. Instead, Brownsville's charlatans, upon weaseling their way through medical school, take the Hippocratic oath. They swear to triple charge patients, gouge insurance companies and badger each other for referral fees.

"The medical community once occupied an honored position in Brownsville. The doctors were respected professionals. Elderly residents fondly remember the Sisters of Mercy and the unselfish service they rendered the city.

"A new reality prevails. Locals are at the mercy of black-ops operators who ravaged their victims with the ferocity of hyenas. These killers are laughing all the way to the bank. Brownsville doctors and life aren't compatible."

"Brownsville doctors have learned from the likes of the politicians who rule the Third World Capital of the United States. They will leave a scar the size of a rope on a person's belly, but they won't so much as leave a scratch on that same individual's billfold while extracting every last dollar from the helpless quarry.

"Their lust for money rivals a child molester's uncontrollable urges. The macabre murders of several physicians are grim testimonies to the maniacal nature of Brownsville sawbones."

CLAP

Maclovio O'Malley, la Voz de los Vatos, noticed the irritation a few days after he had picked up the maid from San Luis at one of the 14th St. cantinas. At first he had hoped it was his jeans rubbing against the head of his penis since he hadn't been wearing briefs. A pile of dirty clothes in his bathroom was a testimony to his laziness.

The next day the evidence told a different story. When he awoke in the morning, he gripped his cock and pus dripped forth. He had the clap. During the late sixties and early seventies gonorrhea had been a regular occurrence. A trip to the county clinic and a shot of penicillin in the butt cured the problem. A week later Maclovio would be back on the streets having unprotected sex with as many as three or four different partners in a week.

Sex had been as commonplace and as recreational as getting together with a buddy for a game of tennis. It was little more than good exercise. AIDS, however, had changed the nonchalant attitude that had prevailed in his youth. Every encounter might be an introduction to death. The promiscuity of the baby-boom generation had shattered the natural laws of biology and the repercussions were sweeping away the guilty and innocent alike. How many wives were paying the price for their husbands' excesses?

As a result of this decadent reality, Maclovio had reversed the condom process. While he might forgo protection at a chance meeting, he used a condom with his wife. Maclovio would be the first to admit that his existence was a sad one, but it was the only one he had known.

He took a piss. The evidence was incontrovertible: The stinging sensation had transformed into a full-blown burn. He was too old for this shit. He stared into the mirror and squeezed out a half dozen blackheads. They reminded him that his blood ran adolescent hot and that he would never transcend his animalistic state until his hormones evaporated and left a lump between his legs. Thankfully, he wasn't a rapist although bets would be off if he were leading a conquering army.

Maclovio had to call Dr. Pangloss. He must submit to a blood test for AIDS, syphilis, hepatitis and the many other diseases and infections that he feared might be coursing through his system. He knew that he didn't have many years left. His heart was sputtering and the proctologist was reaping an annual crop of fresh polyps from his colon. He would die of cardiac arrest, a stroke or cancer before AIDS slayed him.

He wondered how many AIDS infected individuals were purposely spreading their death seed in order to exact revenge for their bad luck? He hoped his own vindictiveness wouldn't spur him to such extremes. With AIDS his hopes of meeting his soulmate were probably over.

He was curious if Dr. Pangloss had access to pills that would deaden his penis without shriveling him into a shuffling fool. Mystics achieved nirvana by forsaking sex. It would be liberating to exist for a few months without the incessant pressure pounding him, attacking him and leaving him paralyzed with a mounting guilt once he ejaculated. It would be interesting to deal with women disembodied from their sexuality.

He might not need drugs or alcohol anymore. He could vegetate in a meditative state. He could reconstruct his family life. His wife would flourish without sex as long as there was a provider who wasn't crushing her with his constant needs. He would become a hollowed-out ghost who had turned inward and was endeavoring to become one with all. The incandescent essence that was his ego would extinguish itself. He would join the walking dead.

BALLI LEGACY

At the time of her death in 1803, Rosa Maria Hinojosa de Balli was the most powerful person residing in the Rio Grande Valley. She owned more than 650,000 acres, the land inherited from the passing of her father and her husband.

Though she resided in Reynosa, she established her ranch headquarters in the La Feria area. She gave birth to three sons, one an eventual priest who bequeathed his calling in the naming of Padre Island.

"Dona Rosa exercised unquestioned authority over the area," write Teresa Palomo Acosta and Ruth Winegarten in their book entitled Las Tejanas--300 years of History. "

"She was the godmother of many children baptized at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Viejo Reynosa. She also built a family chapel and donated funds for churches in three Mexican cities. Neighboring ranchers kept their valuables and papers in her strong box, sought her advice and borrowed her farming tools. Although the ranching empire declined after her death, her memory was cherished because of her wealth, generosity and piety."

THE PAST

My father couldn't look at photos. They made him too sad. He couldn't believe that time could pass so quickly. If someone had told him 92 years ago that he would live 87 years and that his oldest son would be writing this piece five years later, he would have shaken his head in wonder.

I'm sitting in my hotel room listening to bossa nova while the air-conditioner purrs. I am alone. In my heart of hearts I know that everything is destined to end badly and sadly. Nevertheless, artists require dark edges in order to carve out their visions. (Will all my writings be lost?)

I am staring at three photos, the last three photos I have of my sons. As part of leaving as much as I could behind too make myself as light as possible for the final ascent, I filled two large manila envelopes with pictures that I split between the two oldest and the baby. Two of the photos are of the older two taken approximately 25 years ago and only minutes apart.

In the first they are sitting on a couch with their hair slicked back and attired in ties. In the second they are standing in the garage with their backs to the camera and their arms around each other. Carlos, the bigger of the two, has his arm draped over Joaquin's shoulder while Joaquin has his arm wrapped around his brother's waist. The last time I talked to their mother I started yelling at her. It is all so terrible, so merciless, so final. Those two little boys have long since passed into the penumbra. Like my father's grave, there are only searing memories.

The third picture shows Michael with his hands deep in his pockets. He is eleven and this photo was a school picture taken a few years ago. That little boy hasn't disappeared totally, but he is fading. Michael McHale. What a beautiful name! When I used to collect him at his daycare, the children would be playing outside. I would exit the back door and call, "Donde esta mi hijo bonito?"

My three boys have a profound love for each other. The tears are streaming down my face as I shake my head in frustration. Three failed marriages. But the children stay said a South Texas legend who had mas o menos 30 kids.

"Every one asks me if I had them con la misma," he would tell his audiences. "Yes, I had all of them con la misma."  He would pause for a few seconds while every one would be shaking his or her head  that he had had this many kids with the same woman when he would add, "Con la misma verga!"

Besides an unfathomable and incomprehensible love, it is humor that steels you to the end.

My father, who slumped to his demise over a two-year period as every step forward was met by three steps backward, was sitting in his chair six months before his death surrounded by well-wishers at a family and friends gathering when someone asked, "How are you feeling, Jerry?"

My mother was standing at his side. He gripped the inside of one of her thighs and responded, "I'm feeling pretty good right now."

MADISON STREET

I have walked downtown's streets a thousand times, sometimes sober and sometimes drunk. With the exception of a few other derelicts and prostitutes, I know the place as well as anyone. Anthony Starr asked me to name my favorite historical street.

Levee has the Capitol Theater and the El Jardin Hotel, but not much else. Elizabeth, Washington, Adams and Jefferson are the heart of the historical district and in my humble opinion rival the French Quarter in both quality and quantity. My favorite sight entering downtown is that canyonesque view south on 12th past the many historical buildings anchoring the corners of Jefferson, Adams, Washington, Elizabeth and Levee.

But if you gave me odds and put a few bucks on the table, I'd wager that Madison offers the best historical experience. You would be hard-pressed to beat a walking tour that ran the length of Madison from International Boulevard to Palm Boulevard.

The Carlotta Petrina Museum, always inviting, sits on the corner of 15th. Across the street towards International is a massive structure with the date 1897 over a door. The Petrina Museum was built in the early 1900s by the Cross family who also constructed a famous home near the market in Matamoros.

The Webb-Martinez home, a brick structure in excellent condition, is midway down 14th. Don "Pepe" Webb, according to the historical marker, toiled as Cameron County Clerk for 34 years. His daughter Josephine became a teacher and the BISD honored her contribution by naming an elementary school in her honor.

The Cueto Building on the corner of 13th was built in 1893 by the Spaniard Andres Cueto. He called his new business La Nueva Libertad. The university bought and refurbished the property. The grounds around the two-story structure are well-tended. The old county jail on 12th is across the street from the penultimate county courthouse renamed after the iconic County Judge Oscar Dancy.

La Madrilena is a gem on the corner of 10th. It opened its doors in 1892 and is the law offices of Ed Cyganiewicz and Carlos Masso. Fred Kowalski, another lawyer, has turned a staid but stately home on the corner of 9th into his law office. Annie Putegnat Elementary School, the site of Brownsville's first school, fills the entire block on 8th.

Washington Park, the oldest green space in South Texas, covers 7th. During the Civil War these grounds served the military for public executions by firing squads. On 6th the old Southern Pacific Railroad Passenger Depot, now the Brownsville Historical Museum, dominates the vista.

The Old Cemetery, the names on the tombstones alive in the pages of Brownsville history books, extends from 5th to 2ed. A white-washed brick wall separates the cemetery from one of the city's most infamous barrios--La Parra. At the corner of 2ed is the Jewish cemetery. Droughts have no affect on this lush, perfectly manicured sward. The tour concludes on Palm. 

THE ELEPHANT ROOM

When you roll into Austin, Tony Gray is right there to meet you within minutes at your choice of downtown watering holes. He arrives with a boisterous greeting and an offer to assist in at way he can to make your stay more enjoyable.

State Rep Rene Oliveira's personable legislative assistant is a jovial and generous host, a gourmet chef and one hell of a storyteller. He's seen and done plenty and has a Homeric way of recounting his adventures, which are remarkable without any embellishment.

In the tradition of great Texas storytellers, he's been known to spin a yarn or two. With a jazz background in his family, he is prone to improvise, to extrapolate, to explore the far-reaching implications of the theme.

In the process of talking to the waitress at the Elephant Room, he was having a little fun with her when he mentioned that I was an official with the Port of Brownsville in town on business. A leak is all it took.

Soon everybody in the joint was expecting me to buy him or her a drink. By the following night I was well-known around the Elephant and started attracting contractors, consultants, legislators and lawyers.

I lost patience and told the hustlers to beat it. The trumpet and sax players were taking turns developing their solos. You wanted to pay full attention. They would never play it exactly like that ever again.

OPTIMIST STICKS HEAD IN SAND

The elite thought the world was going to end when Andrew Jackson won in 1828. The country progressed under his leadership.

Donald Trump loves life. I have confidence that he is going to try and spread the love.

Our country has stagnated, but our strength is our ability to change and to adapt to new realities.

The battle is over. There's no more bullshit to spew. The time has come to find common ground and move forward.

Just like Obama is half white, Trump is half Democrat.

I look at the future optimistically. I refuse to despair.

BROWNSVILLE--THE THIRD WORLD CITY OF THE USA!!!

If Brownsville has qualified twice as an All-American City, what does that designation say about the United States? Would ex-President Barack Obama have showcased Brownsville to foreign dignitaries as an example of their communities' future possibilities?

Brownsville sits next to one of the most violent countries in the world and on the banks of the most polluted river on the globe. Not even the poor drink the water because they fear its contamination.

Poverty and ignorance reign. A corrupt political system flourishes because a conservative newspaper treats its subscribers like 12-year-olds and refuses to upset its advertisers with the truth.

According to national studies, the public school system graduates illiterates and the university produces ignoramuses. The BISD hires the UTRGV products and the cancer spreads.

In the last college and port elections less than 5,000 citizens voted out of a populace of more than 200,000. The streets are full of holes. The parks are hardscrabble. Raising taxes and utility rates finance sweetheart deals among the ruling elite.

Nobody trusts anybody. Those who don't deceive are deceived. Sadness hangs over the town like the summer's oppressive heat.

Nevertheless, Brownsville is an All-American City even though it has more in common with the Third-World conditions of Central America rather than the modern conveniences of North America.

MORT HEINMAN

Estanislao Contreras has been drinking. Mort Heinman has returned after a month in Italy to take care of a child support mix up. They finish two bottles of wine.

"Estanislao, when can we expect the next book?" asks Mort.

"Fuck you, asshole! I can't write anymore. I'm taking downers. I never realized there was such bliss in having a bad memory."

Estanislao opens another bottle. Mort has inherited sufficient money that he can live the rest of his life as a nomad in as many places that catch his fancy.

"How was Italy?"

"You don't want to know. It has exceeded my expectations. It is as close to paradise that we will know on earth."

Estanislao throws his glass to the ground.

"Don't fuck with me! You're bullshitting?"

"You're a sorry fuck, Stan," chortles Mort. "Life's too short to condemn yourself to such misery."

"But I'm a pathetic fuck. I could be in the most beautiful place in the world and it would be the ugliest experience of my existence."

Mort closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"You would forget all this bullshit," he says. "You would be traveling, eating well, drinking better wines, playing tennis and fucking a variety of chicks. You would quickly relegate Brownsville to a distant memory."

WILLIAM NEALE

For those who find Brownsville's politics unfathomable, William Neale may offer an insight. Neale, an Englishman, joined the Mexican Navy in 1821. He participated in the siege of Veracruz against Spanish forces that same year. After Mexican independence, he roamed the country and eventually settled in New Orleans. He moved to Matamoros in 1834 and started a stage coach line from the north side of the river to Point Isabel.

From the Mexican-American War to the Civil War he found himself in the middle of the action. Business concerns were always at stake. In 1859 Juan Cortina and his followers attacked Brownsville and took control of the city. One of the fatalities was Neale's son. He was sleeping in his bedroom with his infant daughter when a Cortina gunman shot him through the window. The house, the oldest building in Brownsville, sits deteriorating in a forlorn corner of the UTRGV campus.

Hurricanes, yellow fever and cholera outbreaks, wars, battles and droughts, Neale weathered them all and lived to the end of the 19th century. He served as mayor of Brownsville on two occasions. He lived it all and offered this analysis of his adopted city in his last years.

"My experience of three score years and ten is that nearly all communities split into two or more parties," he said. "I have known small communities of but two persons, just a man and his wife to split merely on account of their different opinions, tastes or idiosyncrasies.

"This fate appears to be inevitable and fell on our community. We split into two parties, the party that supported the city's claims was called the Blues and the party that supported the adverse claimants was called the Reds.

"These colors were chosen in lieu of party names to designate the parties so that the Mexican voters might know to whom they belonged, for it would have been a hopeless task to have made them understand either our political differences or our municipal affairs.

"The elections in those days were combinations of force, fraud and farce, and the smartest 'fishers of men' like the apostles of old gained the day. I don't see that we have improved up to this day. The same two colors and the same two parties are in existence, but by some mysterious process the parties have changed colors."

DOWNTOWN AFTER DARK

Downtown is a dismal place after dark. The prostitutes, transvestites, drunks and transients crawl out of their holes once the sun sets. The day and night experience evokes the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde contrasts. As has been said before, Brownsville is a tale of two cities. When will the downtown renaissance take place? Not anytime soon. That is the sad truth.

After six, there are no restaurants open. The police enforce tranquility, but there is no reason for any families or professionals to venture into Brownsville's underbelly.

"It's a place for the lost and the losers," opined Don Pedro, the venerable voice of the dying daily known as The Brownsville Herald. "All downtowns suffered the same fate when businesses moved to the suburbs, but many cities rediscovered their roots and return their downtowns to their past glories. That accomplishment has eluded our leaders.

"The majority of our residents don't give a damn about downtown. They have the same attitude toward downtown as they do toward Matamoros: It just ain't worth the effort."

WOMEN LIKE TO FUCK

The South Texas Independent Journalists Association (STIJA) has released the results of a stunning sexual survey.

"We discovered after a comprehensive study that 83% of Brownsville women are cheating on their partners," said Anthony Starr, STIJA's president. "We didn't distinguish between married or single women. We also discovered that 91% of Brownsville females are losing their virginity by the age of 15. They are taking their cues from their mothers."

The county judge, who fears that his reelection may be in jeopardy, is studying these findings for political capital. Buying into the Cameron County Democratic Party's philosophy that all women love to fuck and ooze with goo when their cunts are stimulated by bushy moustaches, the politico wants to legalize rape once every four years on February 29th.

It is a risky political proposition. The county judge is having second thoughts. He fears that his opponent will take the opposite approach in order to impress a conservative constituency.

"I would caution the him to move slowly," said Justo Leyes, The McHale Report's legal expert. "Before legalizing rape, I would recommend a less drastic measure like legalizing marijuana in order to test the waters."

FATHER JESUS P. CADISSIMO

Father Jesus P. Cadissimo, the defrocked priest who ministers to the poor of Cameron Park, has called the Catholic Church more corrupt than the Cameron County Democratic Party. He says that the number of pedophile priests who populate the ranks of the clerics would make Donald Trump seem like an altar boy. This was Cadissimo's homily delivered last Sunday on the colonia's soccer field:

"I have never understood why the anti-abortionists try to rally God to their cause. He has never had any problems destroying life, particularly the lives of babies and fetuses. It all began with the Flood when he drowned millions of children and pregnant mothers because humanity had infuriated him.

"Over the following generations he learned anger management. His ire with his ungrateful creation took a more specific turn, his next incendiary outburst the conflagration of Sodom and Gomorrah, thousands of children and pregnant women incinerated.

"When the Pharaoh refused to heed Moses' word, God came to the aide of his liberator by slaughtering untold numbers of Egypt's firstborn males.

"In the New Testament God did his best to abandon his vengeful ways by commissioning others to do his bloody work. When his son was born, he permitted King Herod to kill all the males under two in Judea. That was God's idea of transitioning from an eye for eye to turning the other cheek.

"God, who allegedly founded heaven for humanity, has sentenced most humans to hell for failing to follow his commandments. If it weren't for the aborted fetuses, there would be few beings to inhabit his celestial paradise.

"In Leviticus he explains his predicament: 'I have no use for the plants that have grown wild in my earthly fields. I have ordered my angels to cut and cast them into an everlasting fire. I will collect the seeds and sow them myself. Freed from man's perverted touch, I will tend them in my empyrean gardens.'"

LET IN RAIN

There will be no painting if the artist doesn't take his brush and drag it across the canvas. There will be no poem or story or novel if the writer doesn't put pen to paper. There is no more difficult challenge than sitting down and doing it.

I wish I had one of those callings that required me to write eight hours a day in order to maintain my sanity. I am not without discipline, but I don't have the spirit of a missionary who wishes to enlighten the world and dedicates his life to a precise objective.

I don't write with a fervor because I am not part of any crusade. I have few beliefs. I believe that when I'm dead, I'm dead. I am not suppurating with passion. I do succumb to cheap thrills, but I have paid a high price for my excesses.

I want to write about anonymity, infinity, eternity and futility. Dark clouds hang over me. Thankfully, I love the rain. My own sorrows are washed away by my own sorrows. I am a self-fulfilling prophecy. I want nothing and in the end I will have nothing.

MR. BIG

A Brownsville commissioner sat in a bar with a friend.

"I feel bad," he said as he drank his beer as if he feared losing a drop. "I don't know what to do. If I speak my mind, I'll lose clients Mr. Big has sent my way."

His friend looked at him and felt sorry for the city commissioner. Almost apologetically, he told him, "You are no longer the man you once were. You gave up your spirit and honor in return for Mr. Big's endorsement. You once spoke out. You were a champion of what was right and just. Now you can't even look at your reflection in your beer. You have let your people and your family down."

The city commissioner cried out, "What if I stand up and speak out? It's not too late. I will tell Mr. Big and others like him that I will be my own man. I will be the honest and just person my friends think I am."

The city commissioner then looked into his beer and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. He appeared to be searching for something he had lost in the glass. Both the politician and his buddy knew that the commissioner's soul was lost.

He had sold it in return for whatever recognition Mr. Big had thrown his way. He lived in shame while Mr. Big counted his riches. Mr. Big slept well knowing he owned so many souls. He liked counting those names that once stood for integrity. So goes Mr. Big, so goes Brownsville.

GRANT REFLECTS ON FOUTH OF JULY

"I don't remember much celebrating that Fourth of July," wrote Ulysses S. Grant in his memoires. A second lieutenant in the U.S. Army, Grant and 3,000 other soldiers were camped on the north bank of the Rio Grande overlooking Matamoros. The date was July 4, 1846. An earthen bastion christened Fort Texas but renamed Fort Brown after Major Jacob Brown's death was the only construction of any significance.

"The heat was unbearable," continued Grant. "Most of the troops were either Irish or German immigrants or from the northern states. They were miserable. Many were suffering from stomach disorders from the close quarters and the unclean water. The glorious victories of early May at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma had faded. Riverboats were transporting our forces up the river to a hellhole called Camargo. The return trips carried many of our dead boys who were dropping like flies under the horrendous conditions.

"I was riding back and forth from the front lines every week in order to advise General Taylor on our readiness for the march south to Monterrey and a battle that many of us feared would be our last. Morale was pitiful. There was too much unnecessary dying. Many of the Irish were deserting to the Mexican side and a few Germans were following them. To them July Fourth meant nothing. While General Taylor and his staff prepared a small party for the officers in honor of independence, the Irish and German enlisted men felt more enslaved than the blacks serving the military.

"I was living in a god-forsaken time in a god-forsaken place. At West Point we studied war. Thousands of miles away from the comforts of our homes we were learning war. We were still many weeks before we would have the necessary numbers and supplies to embark south and face our entrenched enemies. I felt like I was inhabiting a no-man's land between purgatory and hell.

"After dining on beef and chasing the sinewy meat down with several toasts of a clear, rotgut, Mexican alcohol that the quartermaster assured us was safe to drink, I retired to my tent. Mosquitoes made rest impossible although we were no longer routed from our sleep by snakes and spiders. Like the Mexicans, they had retreated into the thick brush that surrounded us."

"General Taylor had done his best to buoy our spirits by calling this campaign a noble cause. He said that we would reflect upon these days in our golden years as ones of great accomplishments. We were securing our borders and spreading freedom. He concluded that in the future a great city would rise on this very spot to honor our sacrifices. It was a stemwinder. The General could talk with the best of them, but a great city in this wasteland teetering on the edge of civilization...balderdash!"

DOWNTOWN CANTINAS

The Chamber of Commerce has no problems pushing Brownsville as the New Orleans of the Rio Grande, but you'll never hear its leaders promoting its French Quarter as the Cantina Capital of Texas.

From its inception, Brownsville was a Wild West town. Juan Cortina and his bandidos riding into town on a Sunday morning in 1859 and killing their gringo enemies or the black soldiers stationed at Fort Brown in 1906 allegedly shooting up the town under cover of night weren't extraordinary incidents to the citizenry.

Besides the natural disasters and the plagues that would wipe out scores of residents, murders and hangings were common occurrences. In order to deal with these extreme conditions, the people turned to alcohol. In a few words, Brownsville has been a drinking town.

For many, transporting drugs north from Mexico is business-as-usual. During Prohibition transporting alcohol into the United States wasn't considered a crime. For those law-abiding individuals who didn't want to jeopardize their comfortable lifestyles, they could cross to Matamoros and imbibe to their heart's content.

"Catholics aren't afraid of sinning," an Oblate missionary remarked after he returned from a six-week trip along the river's brushland evangelizing to the poor families scratching out an existence. "They are afraid of dying with sin on their souls. In Brownsville they aren't sinners because they are bad people. They are sinners because they drink too much."

Cantinas still dot Brownsville. "Delta" Dave Handelman, the popular guitarist, will drive downtown for an afternoon of drinking.

"I stop at the watering holes that I've been patronizing for more than three decades," he says. "The Barrel House was my original home away from home, but I split my time these days between the Sportsman Club and the Palm. I'm more sympathetic to the Sportsman. Its air-conditioning is full throttle. On a hot summer day, the Sportsman is a cool cave in the middle of hell."

Joe Kenney's Checkers Cafe on Washington is now the Carta Brava. It cooks on the weekend. The New Frontier and Los Pescadores are sad places even on their happiest days. The Chicago Night Club, which once rivaled the Carta Brava in popularity, has reopened.

Informally tabbed the Market Street Cantina District by those publicists facile with nicknames, the historical San Fernando building, erected in 1886, houses four of the funkiest cantinas this side of the Pecos. There used to be five, but Arturo's shut its doors when Arturo Gonzalez, a constable, died. It was a spare joint with a few tables but an excellent juke box.

"If I sell three cases of beer every day, I break even," he used to say. "I'm not in this business to make money. I have this little place where me and my compadres can get away. There's something about this area that gets in your blood. I like the people. There's no pretension. A few cold beers and a cheap prostitute. Keeps everything simple."

Arturo may have moved on to that Great Keg in the Sky, but the tradition continues. La Movida owns the corner across from Market Square while Dominos Club, Mi Tejanita and Norma's Bar occupy the Fernandez building on the Adams Street side. There is nothing fancy about any of these cantinas. The prices reflect that philosophy.

"It's another world," says Tony Gray. "You walk into the upscale establishments on the northside. The gals check you out and you can hear them asking themselves, 'Is this the guy who's going to buy me that $200,000 house because I have something that he wants?' The downtown girls are more down to earth. They ask themselves, 'Can I clip this guy for $20 because I have something that he needs?'"

ROCKIN' & COCKIN' ON THE TEX-MEX BORDER

Anthony Starr, STIJA'S president, thinks he has the attitude of a fearless journalist as he tours war-torn Matamoros. There isn't a strip joint he doesn't know although he laments the number of these establishments have decreased precipitously in recent years with the dramatic rise in violence. He recently regaled The McHale Report's editorial staff with his experiences:

"I am patient and finally she materializes. I buy her a drink and cut to the chase. By the time she has downed her $5 libation, I, as a  veteran cocksman, have negotiated a safe-sex deal. We retreat to the cubicle where she undresses. I drop my pants and masturbate. While she pinches my nipples, I caress her cunt with my free hand. Mission accomplished, I pay her $25, find my seat and finish my beer before returning to the homespun values of the United States.

"Not all customers can handle these challenges with such aplomb. Some gringos aren't prepared for the smorgasbord of sluts and proceed to glut themselves in an unseemly fashion. I will never forget the time I took a tequila-crazed Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, on a foray.

"He went on a spree that sent shivers down the spines of those who witnessed the carnage. He escorted four different dancers back to their cubicles, ate everyone and then fucked them. The blood-soaked beast crawled back to our table.

"'How many years have you been out at sea, mate?' I asked him. 'I don't think I have seen anything more gruesome in my life. Aren't you afraid you might pass a disease on to that pretty little wife of yours?'

"He took a deep breath and wiped his mouth.

"'I'm going to be paranoid and begging the fates for mercy tomorrow,' he replied. 'Let me relish the moment while I'm sufficiently drunk.'

"Rockin' and cockin' on the Tex-Mex border. Ain't nothin' like it!"

I WISH I WERE A 50-FOOT GIANT

I wish I were a 50-foot giant. I would eat a vat of beans and then shit on Mr. Scum and Mrs. Slut, our infamous county judge and his wife.

Since I'm six-feet tall with a six-inch dick, at my new height my cock would measure 50 inches. That's more than four feet long!

I would fill my belly with beer. Bursting with piss, I would pull out my magnificent specimen and drench this loathsome couple in pee until I had washed all the crap from their filthy bodies.

I would next deposit them in the nearest sewer, hoping that the wastewater plant could process this foul pair without contaminating the entire system.

The pair are evil people filled with predatory appetites who can't be appeased. They take and take and take. Their greed inspires revolutions. They are no different from the Latin American dictators who have oppressed their own people both politically and economically, leaving their countries in ruin.

Mr. Scum and Mrs. Slut are plotting again. They are ignorant people with illusions of power. They are conspiring with the usual suspect characters to engineer the election of their corpulent daughter to a county post. An inept lawyer, she wants to suck on the government tit like her father.

For those of you who know the rapscallion county judge and his reprehensible spouse but can't bury this bastard and bitch in shit and inundate them in urine, spit in their faces the next time you see them.

RUDY BELL

Rudy Bell's parents kept their advice short and sweet. Said his father: "Look a person straight in the eye and give him a firm handshake." Said his mother: "Never forget your roots. Hold your head high with pride."

Bell, State Senator Eddie Palacios' chief of staff, was raised in Las Prietas, one of Brownsville's oldest barrios. He graduated from Brownsville High in 1991 and from UTRGV in 1999 with a major in political science and history. He is currently pursuing a master's degree from Texas A&M in public policy and management.

"My father is a preacher and he fulminates from the pulpit, but he proved decades ago that politics and religion don't have to be mutually exclusive," continued Bell.

"He was County Judge Oscar Dancy's executive assistant for years. From my earliest years I can remember accompanying my father to pachangas, holding signs and meeting the movers and shakers. These experiences have stood me in good stead.

"During and after college I held various jobs, but the several years I spent with the Attorney General's office in the child support unit was the most educational although my stint at the city's golf course in the Brownsville Country Club was the most fun," explained O'Bell who recently recorded a hole-in-one on the 18th at the links to defeat the fabled Adrian Garcia by one stroke.

"He was up a stroke," recalled Bell. "Just as he hit his tee shot I said he should use his wife's influence on the school board to finagle the athletic director's post. I unraveled him and his wedge sailed over the green. I hit a soft nine and the ball plunked five feet from the flag and rolled into the hole. Adrian didn't even attempt his chip."

Bell remained active in politics. He participated in several campaigns. A San Antonio judge recruited him to coordinate the Rio Grande Valley for a statewide race.

"I'm a natural sign-holder," chuckled Bell. "Through the years my list of contacts has grown extensively. I have a great base of people. I've tried to find the middle ground. I have been courteous, ethical and careful not to burn bridges."

The state senator enlisted Bell in his inaugural campaign in 2007. He eked out a majority against three other candidates. This year he is seeking a fourth term without opposition in the primary but a Republican looming in the general election.

"My boss in a natural," said Bell. "Politicians from both sides of the aisle respect him and he prides himself on being a consensus builder."

The senator represents a district that includes North and West Brownsville, Military Highway, San Benito and half of Harlingen. Bell notes that the varied constituency makes for a challenging juggling act, but he insists that his boss moves easily in any crowd, from la raza to the county club Anglos.

Bell is confident that the senator will win reelection, but he admits that the Cameron County Democrats have taken a beating with the numerous scandals. He calls the entire situation "embarrassing" with traditional Democrats expressing their lack of trust in the party.

"It has been hard to accept this change in the attitude toward my party, but I wouldn't despair," he cautioned. "We can't be reactive. We have to fight the budget cuts that have a ripple effect on employment. The funding formula for the budget is a disaster. We must completely overhaul it.

"We're fighting for a second causeway to South Padre Island. We will regain the confidence of our people because we are taking a positive approach. The Republicans coalesce around negativity. They don't want to build. They want to destroy.

"I believe the tide has turned. Brownsville is going places. You can feel the energy from downtown to the mall. The senator is excited about the future and his staff reflects that same enthusiasm. We're here to make a difference and we will."

HER PLUMPNESS DEVOURS COMPETITION

Her Plumpness, the matriarch of Brownsville's most contemptible family, has won the hot dog eating contest hosted on the deck at Cobbleheads.

The state senator awarded her efforts with an American flag that hung over a whorehouse in Somalia.

"If the Muslims knew that the four virgins awaiting them after martyrdom resembled Her Plumpness, these fanatics might think twice about killing themselves," joked the politico afterwards.

Though all the competition withdrew prior to the affair when they saw the eventual winner waddle onto the premises, she didn't disappoint her followers. She dispatched 69 hot dogs in less than five minutes.

"I inhale them," she said. "That's my secret. I don't swallow them."

Exhausted by her gastronomical efforts, she plopped down on one of Cobbleheads' chairs that shattered into a thousand pieces. She further amazed her admirers by burping and farting at the same time.

"Where's my flan, goddammit?" she demanded.

Joe Kenney, who would serve Hitler a garnished Jew if he were a regular customer, presented Her Plumpness a slice.

"Kenny, you Irish Prick!" she fumed and frothed. "I want the whole cake you conniving, cocksucking son-of-a-bitch."

Kenney, who religiously adheres to the commandment that the customer is always right, muttered, "Yes, ma'am."

MILITARY HIGHWAY SKIRTS PRESENT

We depart Brownsville and plunge into a setting sun, past fields of sorghum, cotton and sugar cane, past battlefields where blood ran and wars raged, past mesquites, ebonies and retamas, past shaded cemeteries with names on tombstones like Cortez, Mendez and Sanchez, past ranchitos christened Carmen, Cavazos and Calabaza, past stands of mangos, watermelons and strawberries, past abandoned houses and forgotten churches until the historical highway empties into the present.

Before the railroad arrived in the Rio Grande Valley at the beginning of the 20th century, the riverboats plied the Rio Grande from the gulf to Roma, the cavalry and the rangers patrolled the brushland from Brownsville to Laredo and the Oblate missionaries ministered from horseback to the poor along the sun-blistered frontier.

Military Highway was the most dependable lifeline connecting forts, towns and outposts clinging to civilization in a land ruled by the ruthless, whether they be white men, brown men or red men, in a land ravaged by hurricanes, droughts and diseases, in a land where murderers, bandits and rustlers hung like rotting fruit from the nearest branches.

By its very nature the past is destined to disappear and the Military Highway isn't immune to this phenomenon as development first denudes and then consumes the wide open spaces, but there are glimpses of yesterday that will have vanished tomorrow.

BROWNSVILLE'S FOUR SISTERS

Brownsville has four sister cities. Why would any of them admit to being part of this family with such a wretched sibling?

Matamoros has no choice. They grew up together. Brownsville's first inhabitants--Indians don't qualify, particularly the brutes who ate their own feces and washed down their meals with swallows from the Rio Grande--were born in Matamoros.

Santa Catarina, a small town located near Monterrey, is the runt of the litter. Will the Santa Catarina cadets march in the next Charro Days parades? Why are Santa Catarina and Brownsville sister cities? Did this arrangement further a business deal that escaped the sleeping Brownsville Herald's attention?

Tampico is the third sister. Is Brownsville trying to convince Tampico of its special affection and admiration while it steals cargoes from its port?

San Miguel de Allende is the rich sister who married well. Many Brownsville residents rate San Miguel as their favorite retreat. Many San Miguel residents rate Brownsville as the last place they would visit.

Is a sister city trip a lame excuse for a taxpayer-paid trip? Will the mayor, in the company of a few city commissioners and several other municipal officials, attend a summit meeting in San Miguel in which meals and toasts will be offered and our leaders will return home with nothing tangible except hangovers?

MCHALE REPORT TAKES DEEP BREATH

In the wake of The McHale Report's office being vandalized and several other technical problems, the blog's staff is functioning with a skeleton crew. The McHale Report's editors and reporters are utilizing this down period to take much needed vacations.

Editor Scott Steinbeck, whose idea of play is work, has joined Bob Rivard at the Rivard Report, San Antonio's number one blog. Rivard recruited Steinbeck, with whom he covered wars in Central America in the 1980s, for the month of June to assist him in fine-tuning his site that is competing mano-a-mano with the Express-News for the hearts and souls of the Alamo City.

Father Jesus P. Cadissimo is awaiting a hearing at the Vatican. Since his excommunication three years ago for asserting that the Brownsville diocese was not only protecting but promoting pedophile priests, he has been fighting the ruling while attending to his faithful in Cameron Park. He will receive his hearing in Rome next week.

Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss and his wife are on a two-week vacation in Italy. It is a wine-tasting excursion. Last year they visited Argentina and became honorary citizens in Mendoza as their enthusiasm for Malbec intoxicated the city's denizens.

The Baker Boys, Billy and Bobby, both divorced, are taking their young girlfriends to Costa Rica. They are seeking the cool climes of that magical country in contrast to the hot days of a romance's early days.

Max Maxwell, dean of the RGV sportswriters, is flying to California as part of a baseball fantasy. He plans to see the Padres and the Giants in their modern stadiums, the Angels and the Dodgers in their venerable venues, and the A's in the crumbling coliseum.

Annie Gunn wants to get fucked. She has had it with the Viagra-filled Mexicans and the beer-belly gringos of South Texas. She plans to go topless along the Mediterranean coasts of Spain and France with hopes that some European Don Juans will find a 40-year-old with boobs that hang to her belly attractive.

"Some 20-year-old Adonis can suck my nipples and eat my pussy at the same time," said Annie on the deck at Cobbleheads before departing. Added proprietor Joe Kenney: "She's fuckin' funny. She's going to get her brains balled out. Hell, she gets her brains balled out in Brownsville!"

Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, is the featured speaker at the New Yorker's magazine summer literary celebration. Contreras' Ode to a Dead America is being compared to Walt Whitman's best poems. He is the current darling of the literati.

Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, will retire to his condo at South Padre Island and continue to write in anonymity. He insists that it is more important to have the quantity and that the quality will follow when he is discovered.

Mort Heinman, Brownsville's only uncircumcised Jew, plans an extended stay in Manhattan where he will view the museums during the day and visit the jazz clubs at night.

Justo Leyes, The McHale Report's legal expert, and Maclovio O'Malley, la Voz de los Vatos and the blog's premier stringer, are traveling to the Iberian Peninsula where over a three-week period they hope to cover much of Spain and Portugal.

"We need to recharge our engines after an eventful year," said G.F. McHale-Scully, The McHale Report's founder and publisher. "I'm hangin' out in Austin and then visiting my family in California before we start hangin' all our incompetent and corrupt politicians and leaders during the upcoming year as part of a purge of our crooked community."