In the face of extremely negative odds, at least viewed from my thinly gold leafed pine chair, I've whined, bitched, complained and expressed myself in a few obscure ways condemning my partially self inflicted fate with disdain, contempt and regret. Not all the time, just on occasion and, not here at this venue saving my unloading for close friends, my over the edge artist acquaintences and sometimes family if I feel they can handle the truth.

Of course when you compare what I have gone through to REAL fucking tragedy pain and suffering, you'd think rather than my mini bullshit depression, I'd been given a gift of survival including a succulent turkey, fresh cranberry sauce from grandmas place and some chocolate truffles from Fabrica de Francia.

Now don't think all that harsh brutal reality takes away from my shitball situation and bluesy feelings of helplessness and personal despair. Don't think that this tired old body looks forward to a year of hard labor with joy and contentment. Ah! and there is the key! Only a year! A minute in the life of an old man.

Soon, I'll be on the Social Security dole and back down in front of the Belmar Hotel, across the street from the Pacific Ocean, drinking a cool Pacifico talking art trash via stream of consciousness low flying words similar to the ease of Pelicans gliding the beaches looking for the tiny prey that swim too close to the surface. That's the true sashimi my friend.

Tacos for 7 pesos, a waitress who grabs my cock as a mere tease with no further plans and a fan at night to lessen the tropical heat where it never gets cold, yes, I'll miss it but by god you can bet your retirement check I'll return in full force to rejoin those folks who mold the next wave of elastic expressionists.

The so called successful baby boomers continue to prove their worth and prowess consuming million dollar houses big enough for a family of 12. They wander around looking for each other forgetting that the children left years ago looking for their own world never to sleep in their well appointed beds again.

The high school banners still linger over the headboard. Now faded and dusty next to the plaster cast of a hand, made at age 6. The future eludes most of them and the visions of things to come are only the same visions we read about over and over again as children; visions of sugar plums and fairies and glass armoirs with sets of long stemmed wine glass not filled since the Thanksgiving of 1982.

Years of forgetting to create, the millions now retiring have nothing but their libraries of personal past memories, photos, albums, movies no longer playable because of modern technology, broken pieces of handmade turtle ashtrays, fingerpainting art on newsprint now faded and thrown into the heap of unused outdated medicine from the last sickness.

Now it's our turn to bore the hell out of our grandkids and talk about the past while they sit politely and think about how to make the highest score on their newest computer gameboy.

You have to be saying by now that Immel has gone completely mad! Well, yes and no. I gave all my old photos away including yearbooks from Cabrillo Jr. Hi. Utilitarian goods were sold at the local swap meet and the stuff not sold was left on the street for the many scavangers digging for their own gold amongst torn black plastic sacks just in time to beat the dump divers at the refuse pit. The goal has been to downsize and simplify and that's what's on my mind.

The only thing left in my moderate collection of memoribilia is a great original oil of King Kong and Fay Raye, done by my friend Brian in Oregon, and a mannequins head that came from a dress shop in Oregon. It was used for showing hats and was made in the forties or fifties. Those two things I just cannot part with.

So, if you don't know already, I'm moving to Louisiana to work for a year. After that, I'll be moving back to Mazatlan and hopefully living the rest of my life as an ex-pat where I feel so much freer and where the livin is easy.