Today was another pain in the ass, dear reader.  I have to do some additional work on a project that I did not allocate time to do additional work on.  So I must be brief this evening.

I’m craving an adventure, dear reader.  Which as you may or may not know can mean only one thing: Tijuana.  I’ve been going down there with sometimes alarming frequency for the last 20 years, and it gets more fun every time.  It’s not supposed to be fun, it’s supposed to be scary as hell.  But I have this weird disorder that sort of misprocesses fear as intrigue?  I know, that sounds weird as hell, and it is.  But yeah, if something that can kill me is coming toward me, I get very interested.  Almost curious.  But yeah…that’s why I go.  A psychologist asked me after I returned from the most recent trip, “Why Tijuana?  Why vacation there instead of…anywhere else?  What goes on there?”  Welp, doc, last month it was named the most dangerous city in the fucking world  That is based on the fact that TJ had 2649 murders last year, which is the most per capita of anywhere in the world.  Tijuana was 5th on the list in 2018, but there were 600 more murders in the past 12 months, so bam!  #1!

Seriously, that’s the reason.  I walk around in the States in sort of disinterested auto-pilot mode.  Threats are visible for miles and easily avoided if one so chooses.  But something very…powerful…happens when you walk across that border.  The moment you walk through the clanging one-way gates, everything changes.  If you are like me and walk around the States pretty constantly aware of your constitutional rights, you can actually feel those rights disappear, leaving you totally unprotected.  Stepping through those turnstiles increases your chances of being murdered a full 70%, the government is completely corrupt, and most of the local police are in the employ of the cartels.

God yes…this needs to happen.  I need a vacation, and I could use with some more research for the Tijuana section of the book.  I think I’ll go in August.  It’s blisteringly hot down there in August, but that’s bullfighting season.

Shit…I was supposed to be brief.  Sorry, dear reader…I got carried away.

N.P.: “Rusty Cage” – Johnny Cash