I believe I’ve killed way too many brain cells over the years. Let’s see, I had just officially been relieved of my duties in summer, 2001, from one long term, nightly metro Phoenix gig at a chain-style, corporate “laid back Caribbean” restaurant/bar, and what do I do? Of course, line up another long term, nightly metro Phoenix gig at a chain-style, corporate “laid back Caribbean” restaurant/bar, this one called “Bahama Breeze. Solid paychecks, easy gigs, a house sound system, sing “Margaritaville” ten times a night…you know the routine.

     I did break up the monotony with some other really cool gigs over the next six months, not only in Arizona but also Southern California and even my old stomping grounds of Puerto Penasco just a couple hundred miles away. And a November, 2001 write-up by Curtis Grippe in the Arizona Republic newspaper gave me some surprisingly nice PR.  Two weeks later, one of my songs, “I Love You”, was featured in a sleazy nationally syndicated TV show called “Elimidate”. Shame on all of you who saw it.

     I swear these things only happen to me.  On December 29, 2001, I had the distinction of being fired halfway through a show while performing a weekend gig in Penasco. That hadn’t happened since the early 90’s when I got tossed after barely thirty minutes from a trashy south Phoenix bar called  “Joe and Dolly’s Silver Pony”.

     This time, however, I was playing at a Mexican owned seafood restaurant called “Balboas” down at the harbor in Rocky Point. It was owned by a local family, apparently excellent fishermen and wonderful folks, but positively the most brain-dead and clueless individuals I’ve ever met in terms of running a business, other than me. Up until that night, they never had more than a dozen or so people at a time in their restaurant, a hidden place pretty well unknown to the gringo crowd.

     But on that December night, after getting the word out to all my visiting Americano friends, we packed ‘em in. Every seat in the house was full, and these people were eating, drinking, and spending money like it was going out of style. This is what they hire me for, right? Even John “There’s Always Manana” Gorman was there, and when HE shows up, believe me the bar is gonna make some cash.

     Now, remember this rule of thumb: In Mexico, when no problem exists, you go out of your way to create one. You guessed it…after ninety minutes the “manager” informed me that there simply wasn’t enough room for the large lineup of folks patiently waiting to get in the door, and this was apparently a problem that they had never dealt with before, so please go home, sir.  Rapido!

      After realizing that this wasn’t some “Saturday Night Live”  style attempt at humor and that the fellow was actually serious about getting rid of these folks spending all that money, I told the crowd what was going on, with as close to a straight face as I could muster. I have to be careful about what I say on microphones in Mexico, or I could not only be tossed from a bar but escorted out of the country. Anyway, the crowd of happy gringos didn’t initially believe me, and laughed their butts off at the mere premise of my story, ‘til they saw me start packing up my guitar. Within fifteen minutes the place was a ghost town, as the entire crowd and the outdoor line all sped off to another bar down the street. Balboas has never drawn a crowd again, ever. The good thing is there is PLENTY of room inside in case a line ever forms at the door. (Note: I’d like to personally congratulate the manager for singlehandedly and permanently destroying a business that took years to build in a matter of seconds, something that usually takes Mexican management days to do.)

      Second time I had been fired in less than six months. This was getting old!  But hey, the next day nearly everyone who had been at Balboas the previous night was kicking back in the sand at John Gorman’s place, beverages in hand while I sang to them from his beautiful front porch overlooking the ocean This was all thanks to a drunken public invitation to the entire bar issued by John the night before, just before I got fired. There is no better stage that I can think of. There were Jeeps parked up and down the beach, kids playing in the sand, pelicans diving, and an awesome sunset to end the day. While folks e enjoyed a few cold cervezas and watched me sing I took in a gorgeous view of the one and only Sea of Cortez. Life was good once again.

     There were still some fun times waiting for me up in the States, but I began to realize that my days there were numbered.  The Cortez was callin’!     .

     Which is probably an excellent time to fill you in on one VERY important part of the story that I’ve left out up to this moment. Before moving to the United States and just prior to the birth of Marcos, Adela and I had actually purchased a little two bedroom, one bath, single story home on the beach out at Cochorit, south of Guaymas.  A place that I had walked by countless times back when I had rented that beach shack from Cesar Machado’s brother several years before.

     It was a simple but nice little home that we figured we could rent out for a few years, and possibly retire in someday, since I figured I’d never make enough money to support a family working in that area as a musician. The only folks who lived anywhere within miles of there were a few Mexican panga fishermen, who were usually too lazy to do anything but drink beer. Other than their shacks and a stretch of a dozen or so abandoned homes, there was nothing on that beach except for Cesar’s Bar.

     So after borrowing some cash and spending every penny I had ever saved dating back to my days as a paperboy, we had purchased my “poor man’s paradise”. What made it even better was that we already had a renter already living there. He was a gringo who loved the place and had planned on buying it from the previous owner, but we managed to come up with the cash first. He was never really happy with us from that point on, even less happy with us when one day in 2002, after nearly two years of re-introduction to first world living,  we informed him that it was time to move out ‘cause we were coming back to Mexico. To Guaymas, to Cochorit, to the place I loved most. Life is short.  Time to go home.