THE LONELY LIFE OF A LOSER

"I heard you were well-accompanied at the Beer Fest," my ex-girlfriend texted me.

Someone must have seen me with a young thing who is nothing more than a friend. We have played music together on occasions and she has a boyfriend.

"I'm too old," I texted as well as adding the extra information.

"Who would want to be with you?" she answered. "You don't have a car. You don't have a house. You live in a hotel. You have nothing."

I am sitting in El Hueso de Fraile drinking a Topo Chico as I read my cell.

"I don't need anything," I responded. "I have my money. There are plenty of women who want a companion who wines and dines them and treats them with respect. If I fall in love again, she will be a middle-aged professional with everything. I will find a space in her closet and hang my clothes. She will know that I have my money. By then she will also know that I am a generous person, so I will be in a position to lessen her financial burden and provide the extra cash for entertainment."

"You're a loser!"

Bobby Wightman-Cervantes, Brownsville's only unbought blogger, wrote recently that I suffered from a poor self-image. If he had made that remark when I was ten, he would have been right. I was skinny with big ears and freckles. Everyone would say that I looked like Alfred E. Neuman, the anti-hero of Mad Magazine. I hated that comparison.

But as I live my 67th year, I am content with myself although I deal with anxiety and depression. I also drink too much, abuse Xanax and smoke marijuana. And, of course, there is no pleasure without Viagra.

Among my many talents as a writer, I am oftentimes at my best when I am in confessional mode. I have the ability to objectify myself. The same merciless style I bring to my journalism, I bring to myself and those who occupy my world. But it's not about me. It's about finding a fount of inspiration in order to compose prose that has substance. My good friend Bobby, as is his wont, is too quick to jump to conclusions. I am fine with myself, but for the record that feeling of serenity doesn't preclude the possibility of putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger.

As a product of the late sixties and seventies, I took away one important lesson: There was no reason to compete with the Joneses. I have never sought fame nor fortune. I am the nominal leader of the anti-materialistic movement. As I have stated in earlier posts, I am living in a hotel room with my clothes, my laptop, my guitar and my tennis racket. I want nothing but money in my pocket so I can buy a nice-looking chick or my sons dinner whenever the moment presents itself. And I always enjoy buying a round for the table.

"It's so embarrassing for me to see you walking down the street," my ex-girlfriend would yelp at me. "'Why doesn't Jerry have a car?' everybody keeps asking me."

I have been chronicling the fall of Fire Chief Carlos Elizondo. He was materialistic. He wanted to be a somebody. He wanted something that would substantiate his existence in the eyes of others. For those who aren't blessed with artistic or athletic talents, power fills the void. If he were more like me, he would be a happy man today. He already had everything.

Apparently the ex is yearning for me, but I have little desire for her. She is an easy screw. She knocked me off my feet when I first met her, but my many sources informed me that she had slept with half of Brownsville. It is a sure bet that she had pleased a guy or two since I last tickled her. A man conquers many women and he is held in esteem. A woman gives herself to many men and she is held in contempt. Even though I have no morals, I find easy women disgusting.

I'm sure we'll find ourselves under the sheets again. She'll catch me in a horny mood and she is fun in the sack, but I don't respect her. I think of all the guys who have drilled her and I almost want to kill her. It's the animal in me.