Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine
Go ahead, laugh at me. Go on, laugh! Everybody else is. I have been asked, well--ordered, to go to NYC next week to be in a...a...I can't even say it...a Playboy magazine photo shoot. I told you you'd laugh at me. No, wait--Teresita fans. It's not me lounging with naked hootchies on a bear skin. It's a veddy correct political authors in expensive clothes looking literary kind of portfolio. Uh, anyway. Not the way I usually imagine myself. I have tried to get out of it, but Little, Brown won't let me slide on this one.

Am I a public figure? Is that what's happened? Please, somebody, can I write books again? Anybody? Books?

There is a Mexian crew here cleaning our rain gutters and washing our windows. They can't possibly know that I'm a Tijuana boy. They don't know I write books about them. I keep bringing them cold sodas because I am feeling creeped out that they're doing menial chores for me and I can understand everything they are muttering. My kids are lounging around watching TV. Holy God, I am the enemy.

I am thinking about Jim Morrison, as I get ready to go to SF tonight: "Strange days have found us./ Strange days have tracked us down...." Did I tell you he sent me some emails? Said he was in Duluth. Manuelito, the Apache medicine man was right: this is all a dream. Luis

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