Attention Identity Thieves! Don't Miss Our Spring Special!

Used Identity For Sale or Rent

Why go to the hassle of stealing somebody’s identity when there are plenty of folks that would love will unload theirs for next to nothing. Like me.

 

Identity profile:

Last Name: Jablome

First Name: Heywood

MI: none

Age: 60

Sex: M mostly

Height: 6’1”

Weight: 210 with a bullet

Hair color: pending

Shoe size: 11 1/2

Waist size: 35" to 37” depending on where you belt it.

Inseam: 34” and dropping

Occupation: Writer, 

Employment status: none

Education: BS, English Education; MFA, Creative Writing 

Language: Spanglish

Sign:  Pisces

Race: White

Religion: Catholic Buddhism or Buddhist Catholicism depending on the phase of the moon

Ethnicity: British Isles

Political affiliation: Adelai Stevenson Democrat 

Sexual preference: women that wear Brooks Brothers shirts and nothing else, any ethnicity welcome, blacks and freckled redheads preferred

Options include:

Wife, age TBD

SSN: 012 34 5678

Credit Cards: Ralph Lauren Polo Stores #23894829, Exp. Date. 11/2020; CVS; Safeway; Shell; Costco

Bank account ID: Bank of the Azores, chk acct: #098762347

What you'll get:

A classic "boomer" identity like this is a "must-have" in every identity thieve's portfolio. You'll get what's become a lonely life in a Pacific paradise, wiling away the hours singing nonsense melodies to the dog, Mr. Booper (available at extra charge), writing on ridiculous topics like Smart DNS Proxy and FAA Drone Laws, and a penchant for medicating away the indescribable longing in your heart for...for...well, if you can figure it out, God bless ya. Your mind will feel like a swirling vortex of pain and confusion, and, though you will have memories of greatness an delusions of future grandeur, you're likely to get stuck in a cycle of unending regret for bad decisions and missed opportunities. Unfortunately this somewhat dour mental state and internal spiritual rot can manifest physically in the form of loud and odoriferous flatulence, chills, sweats, scrotal itch, bad breath, insomnia, acid reflux, abdominal cramping and debilitating nerve pain in the lower extremities. Fortunately many of these inconvenient distractions may completely evaporate in the face of fierce, self-flagellating, heart-ripping exercise or in the presence of beautiful women with dimpled cheeks and almond eyes. Taken together (the women and the exercise) the feeling of transcendence may last up to an hour. Additional temporary relief can be found in playing the guitar (bass or Spanish) and singing with earsplitting abandon; drugs; alcohol; audiobooks; painting landscapes; sex; gazing at a pair of natural, full breasts; Star Trek Next Gen episodes (featuring Counselor Troi or Dr. Beverly Crusher); dancing or otherwise gyrating to a real or imagined rhythms; Bitches Brew at high volumes; being with offspring and reveling in the hope of future offspring; helping little old ladies cross the street; prayer; meditation; communion; the beach at Sayulita and Mary's mole enchiladas; skiing or memories thereof; magic and other supernatural phenomena; and free money.

Act now, before it's too late!

This identity is still in workable condition but it's not likely to last much longer! Get while the getting is good! Call 1-800-JAB-LOME today!

Return to Sayulita, USA

Just above the scene of the crime

 Awakening on my numeric transition into decade number six to a quiet, cool house in Stinson Beach on a fogless, rainless last day of February morning, wondering how the 5lb baby of a card-carrying anorexic ended up with these splendid manboobs and such a bad case of Dunlap's, to arrive later that same day in the former surfer's hideaway of Sayulita only to be met by the blaring disco of a wedding celebration directly across the canyon. My companions, wife and daughter, are both feeling the instant effects of Cafe Leyza on the plaza, a consistently reliable restaurant that, on our fourth visit, has slipped and fallen on it's face. We should have known by the margaritas that something had changed. There on the third floor overlooking the historic plaza the dulcet sounds of Coldplay, interspersed with semi-live performances - a saxophone, a spontaneous gaggle of background singers, blasted from a massive stereo as tourists dodged the skateboarders. Escaping back to our gorgeous indoor/outdoor casita, the pulsing of the disco beat reminds me of our last visit in 2010 when I swore off this place, deeming it overexposed. But that was Semana Santa, the vacation week leading to Easter when families from Guadalajara migrate to the coast and Sayulita, where there are still plenty of campsites and inexpensive places to stay. They came in droves, standing in the surf and screaming bloody murder every time a wave broke. And I was recovering from a spinal fusion gone awry. 

But this isn't Semana Santa, it's the first wave of US Spring Break, and Sayulita isn't PV or Mazatlan or Manzanillo. Still, somebody is getting married across the canyon at Villa Amor, and there's a disco thing goin' on, or a hip hop thing...everybody sings, or raps along with the chorus: "you gotta love me sweet and you love me?" WTF? My parents couldn't figure out "She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah" and they were a lot younger than I am now. To say that every generation creates their own groove, their own language, their own melody (or lack thereof), well...ain't it the truth.

If the rise beans don't getcha, the raped shrimp will. 

It's my 60th birthday, and I'm sittin' here in Sayulita, wife and daughter with pillows over their heads, regretting every Cafe Leyza bite (daughter not to blame she had a few rough days in Brooklyn then jumped on a plane to PV in a state of emotional asphyxiation) across the canyon from a wedding party. I'm trying to decipher the music - the bizarre marine call and response - the macho bravura, the blatant anger, stumbling half-step poetics, the incitations, the calls to arms, the dark minor dorian blues, the violence, the bitches - comic cartoon synth whoops and weeps over the incessant "yeah yo yeah yo". I try to simply keep up with the breakneck speed of the raps, thinkin' perhaps this goofy poetry over police whistles isn't that different than a bunch a Miles or Freddie trills atop a walk vs. a funky stumble.

Okay, so the folks over at Villa Amor and their wedding clients weren't aware that there was a guy across the canyon trying to celebrate his big six (uh) oh who has come to Mexico to be in Mexico. It may be that Sayulita isn't Mexico anymore. It may be that it's time to move inland to San Miguel and Guanajuato where the artists and serious writers hang out. But I love the warm water, the waves, the ceviche, the Pacifico, the Hornitos. But maybe it's time to find someplace else in Mexico where you can still be in Mexico.

What these folks should have done is invited all the people within in earshot of their wedding bacchanalia, regardless of age, manboobs, or Dunlap's, since sleep is impossible, to make their moves. I mean, I can see the tiki torches, I can hear the girls shoutin' "hey!', I can hear the squeals, I can just imagine the outfits or the lack thereof. It's my birthday, goddamnit, and my girls have gone to bed. But wait, it's eleven o' clock, and...all is quiet. I can hear the waves. The crickets. The distant sounds of town. The crazy moon is down, thank God, and I think it is time to follow suit.

Happy birthday to me. 

PS I wrote this on our first night to the snappy grooves of the disco wedding across the canyon. As I soon learned, Sayulita is still as Mexican as a beach town in Mexico gets. Stay tuned...