Devil Monkey Boy

The tale you tell depends on when you do the telling. It depends on other things too, but mostly that. Example: the tale I would have told about Mexico City would have been very different back on Friday when I returned than it will be now. That tale would be filled with playing hard, working hard, luxury and toil. Today, as they say, is another story.

There's something angry in my stomach. It doesn't like company and has evicted its fellow guests. It cares not a whit about what the landlord thinks. Did it come from Mexico or is it Brooklyn local? Is it the same thing that makes my legs weak and rubbery? Or is that the heat? The stress maybe? Something else?

There was work foo that ought to have been done in my absence, but it was not. My PC army has deserted. Have they gone upstream, gone native? Kurtz, with Intel Inside? Or maybe they went back to their families in Topeka? Or was that Wichita? Doesn't matter. They are gone. I need new recruits. Uncle Zan needs you! There are few takers in today's political climate. They know they will never return. They will maintain their post for years at a time, under the cover of a lawyer's desk. They will burn out, their motherboards crying copiously as they are put to rest with the thanks of a grateful company and fuck all else. Or perhaps they will survive, limping on with a sputtering fan, a fragmented hard drive. Theses sad few will return without fanfare, to a Help Desk that does not want them, doesn't know what to do with them or where to put them.

See, I told you the story depended on the when. This one wasn't about Mexico at all. Maybe next time. Now there's a war on. Good lord, the heat! The rhetorical questions! The tortured metaphors! And there is never, ever enough water.