Baja Blasted

Home. Finally. Fried. No. Refried.

LAX-to-RDU redeye roasted. Beached triggerfish toasted. Baked as deep and dry as the parched arroyos that criss-cross beneath Mexico Highway 1, running down the rugged, scoliotic spine of the Baja Peninsula.

Slow-cooked, forsooked, over-booked, totally fooked, tired. Y tengo un dolor de cabeza.

Home with an odd number of socks, funny lookin' money, and a notebook full of scribbles that are oddly familiar but utterly illegible. That's okay. I never worry much about the details. It's easier that way.

So get ready. There's tequila-tainted tales to tell.

But, I'm afraid that they'll have to wait for a good night's sleep, or two, and for me to clear the big red oak that fell across the driveway in my absence.

Bienvenido a casa, amigo. Welcome home.

Refried. I'm tellin' ya.