It was not easy to pull up roots and relocate to Mazatlán. The hardest part was getting rid of all my stuff. The worst part was saying goodbye to old friends and family. But I’ve made some new friends and family down here, and I’m starting to accumulate new stuff. I certainly have no regrets. When first I came to Mazatlán I was alone and I didn’t know a soul in town. And even better yet, nobody knew me. After living in a small, redneck logging-town-turned-yuppie-suburb for too many years, it was a refreshing relief to be anonymous. I could walk into any restaurant, bar or barbershop and no one would nod and whisper, “ That’s the guy Wes kicked the tar out of for backing into his new car that summer the mountain blew.” I could smile and wink at a pretty waitress and she would not have heard about how I’m the creep who broke L’s poor little heart. And nobody would know about the time the cops raided a Halloween keg party and I was taken to jail wearing a very stupid costume. Some things you never live down. Here in Maz, I don’t have these problems. I have no car, no exes, and drinking is not only legal but encouraged. So I have been given the chance to start on a whole new bad reputation. And in a fun town like this, eccentrics can blend in more easily. Back home, if

you walk down the street carrying a guitar, people look at you like you’re some kind of troublemaker. Here, they stop and ask you to play Hotel California. Before, I couldn’t get a letter published in the local paper. Now, folks from all over the world tear out coupons with bits of my articles on the back. Mazatlán been beddy kood to me. I sure wish my old friends (and especially my old enemies) could see me now, basking in the tropical sun with my healthy children and lovely wife, sipping a nice cold Pacifico and wriggling my toes in the sand, while they are shivering in the rain trying to start their soggy flooded chain saws. I can just hear the old gang at the BGI mumbling through their chew, “ That crazy sumbiscuit sold the farm and headed for Mexico. Prob’ly dead by now.” Sometimes I feel like writing the local paper and trying to snow everybody into thinking I’m suddenly a famous international film producer or something. But the BGPD might chase me down over all those unpaid parking tickets, or L’s brothers might get ahold of me. Better leave things the way they are. Like the Dick Damron song says, “They all think I’ve died and gone to Mexico.” Why disappoint them? * Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone....Clare/Stept/Palmer