SATURDAY EVOLVES INTO SUNDAY

There is much to be said for drugs, running the gamut from health to recreation to emotions to spirituality. Then, of course, there is alcohol. As long as we can rise to the occasion (There is much to be said for drugs.), there is the temporary distraction of sex.

The woman I am seeing commenced our outing in the late afternoon. By the time we had touched all the bases and called the encounter a victory always remembering that today's performance means nothing tomorrow, she dropped me off at my residence at seven.

I put bossa nova on the computer and surfed the television, occasionally stopping to watch a meaningless bowl game. Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, told me that we need at least eight if not sixteen teams in the college football playoffs.

Besides writing newspaper articles, short stories, novels and nonsense, I sing songs of my own composition as well as the poetry of Langston Hughes. My first album will be entitled Hughes Blues.

The right portion of drugs and alcohol inspires me musically. I'm convinced their teamwork improves my vocal cords. In pursuit of perfection, I took 2 milligrams of Xanax and washed the pill down with a glass of wine. I turned off the television, inhaled some fresh schwag from a pipe that my Mil Usos had recently purchase for me. The redolence of marijuana wafting down the halls of my complex is not an uncommon odor. My 13-year-old tells me he likes the smell of dope. So it goes. What should I expect from a budding guitar playing.

I picked up the guitar and sang the majority of my repertoire. I perform off and on at El Hueso de Fraile Thursdays whenever I warn Laura Foncerrada in advance. Unlike other proprietors of establishments who have informed me that my services are no longer needed in the future, the Foncerrada family shares my vision, but that is the difference between those who are artists and those who aren't.

The cold weather makes me feel poetic. Tom Jobim's Brazilian lyrics and melodies have no equal. As I strum in a trance, I play with the idea that next Thursday I will take the last municipal bus downtown, eat dinner at Terra's Bar & Grill, do my gig at El Hueso, stop for a drink at The Library at and finish the night at the Half Moon before catching a cab home.

I put the guitar down. I've heard enough bossa nova for the night. I prop myself against a pair of pillows and continue with a book about a Vietnam double agent who flees his country and embarks on an adventuresome but troublesome life in The United States.

Tomorrow is Sunday. I have no plans. Read and write as usual. I haven't done my Yankee yoga for a few days that is my last-gasp stand if I'm going to retard the inevitable onslaught of aging. Hopefully, Estanislao's car is running and he can collect me for a late afternoon game of tennis before the Cowboys/Raiders game.

I'm taking one day at a time. I'm living in a state of laziness. I have until January First to fool myself with a batch of resolutions, but as it has been said over and over again: You can't reach an old dog new tricks.