Purpose-Driven Deaths

It was called ABC and it made perfect sense. Well, the B and the C, certainly—to me, the A is a bit of a stretch.
 

A is for abstinence

B is for be faithful

C is for condoms

See? Anybody who has progressed through the very first books of their lives can get this. And it seemed to be working, down there in Uganda; here’s what one writer had to say:

By 2003, Uganda’s AIDS rate plummeted 10 percent. The government’s free distribution of the “C” in ABC—condoms—proved central to the program’s success, according to Avert, an international AIDS charity.

So—a nice little success story! But before cracking open that bottle of champagne, consider this quote, from the same source:

On New Year’s Eve, 1999, Janet Museveni, who had become born-again, convened a massive stadium revival in Kampala to dedicate her country to the “lordship” of Jesus Christ. As midnight approached, the First Lady summoned a local pastor to the stage to anoint the nation. “We renounce idolatry, witchcraft, and Satanism in our land!” he proclaimed.

What had happened? Well, at least some of it had to do with Rick Warren, who teamed up with a Ugandan preacher, Martin Ssempa, whom Kay Warren, speaking through tears, called “my brother.” And Ssempa, among other things, was the driving force behind a Ugandan paper publishing the photos of…well, here it is:

Warren, you see, had been to Uganda in 2008 to declare that homosexuality is not a natural way of life and so not a human right. This, of course, was the message that our old villain Scott Lively had been pouring into their ears. In addition, it was the message, according to Rachel Maddow, that The Family, a mostly secretive group of fundamentalists who have been infiltrating our government for years now, had given David Bahati, the sponsor of the most recent law.

It wasn’t, therefore, enough to go after homosexuals. What else had to be done? Obviously, the message that condoms would prevent AIDS had to go, since that was a direct contradiction to the message that the fundamentalists wanted to get across. Here comes our born-again first lady again:

Two years later, Janet Museveni flew to Washington at the height of a heated congressional debate over PEPFAR. She carried in her hand a prepared message to distribute to Republicans. Abstinence was the golden bullet in her country’s fight against AIDS, she assured conservative lawmakers, denying the empirically proven success of her husband’s condom distribution program. Like magic, the Republican-dominated Congress authorized over $200 million for Uganda, but only for the exclusive promotion of abstinence education. Ssempa soon became the “special representative of the First Lady’s Task Force on AIDS in Uganda,” receiving $40,000 from the PEPFAR pot.

How involved was Warren with Uganda? Well, involved enough that Ssempa, when Warren finally was forced to denounce the Uganda anti-gay law, published an open letter to Warren. Here’s what he had to say:

When you came to Uganda on Thursday, 27 March 2008, and expressed support to the Church of Uganda’s boycott of the pro-homosexual Church of England, you stated; “The Church of England is wrong, and I support the Church of Uganda”.  You are further remembered to say, “homosexuality is not a natural way of life and thus (it’s) not a human right. We shall not tolerate this aspect at all”

Warren, according to The New York Times, is starting a new program within his church to reach out to people suffering mental illnesses, an issue important to him since his son committed suicide a year ago. I hope it works but…

…why am I so unconvinced?

Where We Cannot Go

What happened to him should never happen to any parent. Because however difficult it might be to lose a child in an accident, or through disease, how much more difficult would it be to lose a child through suicide?

Nor was it the case that they hadn’t tried everything, hadn’t gone to the best hospitals, hadn’t gotten the finest doctors. But a decade before he took his life, Matthew had gone sobbing to his father. “It’s pretty clear,” he had said, “I’m not getting better and I’m never going to get better. So why shouldn’t I kill myself? I know I’m going to heaven, Dad. So why not kill myself now?”

His father was a minister; his answer reflected that.

“Sometimes we don’t know why we’ve been given such great pain, Son. But there is a reason, and we’ll find out in the end. But I am never, ever, as a father going to give up looking for a solution to your problem….”

And it had gone on for years. Matthew, their third child, had been a remarkable child; since birth, he had been different. Shy, sensitive, he could sense in a moment the person in the room who was hurting the most, and would make a beeline for him or her. For the rest of the evening, he would stay by that person’s side, laughing, joking, trying to cheer him or her up.

“He had an amazing ability to help people, and he knew it,” his father said. “He once told me, ‘the only person I can’t help is me….’”

Yes, different; different almost from birth. The father had feared something was wrong from the very beginning; indeed, almost from the day Matthew had been born, his father had started to dread that his son would kill himself. There was that sensitivity, the inability to shrug off pain, a softness that wasn’t like other boys’. He played different, he acted different, he…well, was different.

And so they had prayed, yes, but they also knew—they had to get help. It all came clear after the first suicide attempt; then there was no choice. Matthew had swallowed the Tylenol and had left the bottle on the bed when they found him. It was, as the doctor said, the classic call for help.

Help that, despite their best efforts, they could not give him. They tried—they lost count of the number of psychiatrists, psychologists, family counselors, pastors, prayer groups, professionals, friends…  It was numbing, after a while, and in itself depressing, as well.

“We had pulled him off from the edge more than once,” said his mother. “And the night before, Matthew and I were in his bedroom, and I was begging for him not to kill himself. And he was crying and sobbing and rocking on his bed, and all I could do was hold him, and beg him to go on, and tell him that it would get better, and he just cried harder, and started pounding on the bed and shouting that I didn’t understand. That it was never going to get better and that he was in so much pain and he couldn’t go on—and it was so unfair of me to ask him to take this pain, he couldn’t bear it. He was screaming in my face that no mother would want her child in so much agony. And I was screaming back that I couldn’t let him die, I just couldn’t, no mother could. And I couldn’t bear it, seeing him in such pain and there was nothing, NOTHING I could do to help him. My son, my son, in so much pain! And I remembered when he was a child—he’d fall and cry and I’d pick him up and it would be OK. And I never imagined that there would come a day or a night when I couldn’t help him.”

“At last, he quieted down, and began to talk about going home. And something, I don’t know, something didn’t feel right. He was too calm; too collected. He had gone too quickly from utter despair to being, well, collected. We begged him to stay, we pleaded with him to stay, but he was firm. And that’s when he said it. He turned around, as he was leaving, and said, very slowly, very forcefully, ‘you know, if you ever call the police on me, or call 911 to get me help, it’s an instant suicide.’”

“I was stunned—the look in his eye was awful. But it was his voice, how cool he was, as if he had settled on something. Of course, neither of us could sleep, and we kept calling and calling. I texted him—‘just send me one word, ONE word telling me you’re OK.’ Then we drove to the house, about three in the morning. All the lights were on. That’s when I knew—but we didn’t have a key. And what should I do? Should I call 911? Was it a bluff? Would he really have the courage, or the desperation or the despair to do it? So we were sobbing, Rick and I, and holding each other in the driveway, and praying. And that’s when I knew. We left, and then got the call from the police department. We went to the house, and a cop came out, and we looked at him and he just nodded.”

All right, Readers, why have I spent 891 words telling you this story? Because I read in The New York Times last week that Rick Warren, the pastor of the mega-church Saddleback Church, and an outspoken opponent of marriage equality, was going to start a mental health outreach ministry in his church. Why? Because, with some poetic license, the story of Matthew, above, is the story of Matthew Warren, Rick and Kay’s son.

It happened just over a year ago, and if I knew about it, I had forgotten it. But what’s significant about the story—for me, at least—is that I immediately assumed Matthew was gay (which of course was why I was banging that “sensitivity” drum up there). So I turned to find a picture of him, since gaydar will—very occasionally—work with photos. Here he is, and no, it didn’t work….

Well, it’s a heart-breaking photo, this boy who seems to be telling us, ‘one day you will know, you will see, you will understand this half-smile of mine…” And it’s sad, as well, that even in death, Matthew’s photo, when I saved it just now, had “rick-warren’s-son” as the default save option. Matthew was not Matthew, but Rick Warren’s son.

Nor was I the only gay man who had wondered about the question, since apparently Twitter and the social networks erupted. And I’m sorry to report that a number of my gay brethren pounced on the death as god-or-the-devil-sent stick with which to beat up Rick Warren. Here’s one example….

Was @rickwarren's son gay? Maybe conversion therapy, condemnation and hatred towards gays was too much for matt...#ripmatt

— Samir Perez (@SamirPerez) April 7, 2013

That is by no means the most egregious; here is one of the 70 comments made to the article referenced above:

I wish I could come up with the right set of sentences that would drive this pain (if Mr. Warren actually feels such, being an experienced con man) deep, deep into Mr. Warren such that he could no longer cling to his sick delusions of god service.

The only 'god' Rick Warren serves is himself. He has poisoned the minds of millions.

He is NOT a friend to democracy.

Religion comforts...and cripples.

Or how about this:

Rick Warren's son has committed suicide // ‪#IWOULDTOOIFIWASHIM ‪#FUCKRICKWARREN ‪#UGANDA ‪#GAY ‪#EXECUTIONS ‪#LAKEFOREST

Guys? There are some places we cannot go, and just as we abhor the Phelps family—which of course came out and said the usual about Rick being an apostate and worshipping a false God and, anyway, no matter what, God hates you-know-whom—we cannot, let me say it again, we CANNOT do this to a suffering family.

That much I knew. What didn’t I know?

The skinny on Rick Warren’s celebrated AIDS program in Africa.

Drop by tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about it….

To the Ramparts!

OK—this is not the news that you necessarily need to hear when the week is young, but my duty, Dear Reader, is clear. So here it is:

We’re fucked.

Sorry for the strong language, but it’s pretty clear: with the most recent decision of the Supreme Court, democracy just retreated to a minute dot in the rearview mirror.

So, allow me to present you the guy who has just gob-sacked us.

Yup, it’s John Roberts and why shouldn’t he be smiling? He has just handed the rich and powerful a major victory; in the process, he has ensured that anybody who isn’t rich and powerful is screwed.

Roberts was one of five guys who just decided—not only are corporations people (the work of Citizens United), but now there are absolutely no limits to how much spending overall in politics an individual can make.

I came to this issue via an article in The New York Times; here’s the sentence that triggered it:

She has been battered by $10 million in negative ads against her, most of it underwritten by the Koch brothers-backed group Americans for Prosperity.  

Who’s the “she?” Kay Hagen, a United States senator from North Carolina. And the Koch brothers? Two guys, neither of whom live in North Carolina (full disclosure: I have not checked this out…)—but even if they did, so? Why should a guy be able to give 10 million bucks to a political party, when an average guy like you or me is going to have a hard time to cough up a hundred bucks?

“Do you think Citizens United is going to be the Dred Scott of the 21^st century?” I asked Mr. Fernández over the dinner table.

“Probably,” he said.

Well, if it’s not Citizens United, it’s McCutcheon versus Federal Election Commission. And the decision raised the question: did Roberts know what he was doing? Did he really think that giving money to political parties was “free speech?” Was he naïve?

Well, consider this line from his decision:

In a bit of irony, the Chief Justice reveals his deep understanding of how Washington works in his discussion of disclosure.  Right after pointing out how effective our current disclosure law is, the Chief adds the following:  “The existing aggregate limits may in fact encourage the movement of money away from entities subject to disclosure. Because individuals’ direct contributions are limited, would-be donors may turn to other avenues for political speech. See Citizens United. Individuals can, for example, contribute unlimited amounts to 501(c) organizations, which are not required to publicly disclose their donors.  . . . Such organizations spent some $300 million on independent expenditures in the 2012 election cycle.”   

In short, Roberts—who, after all, is a Harvard man—knew all too well what he was doing.

But who am I, except the guy at the last red table in the café? Right, so it was time to call the legal department, which in this case was Johnny, my brother.

“It’s total bullshit—pretty soon, there will be only person in the country with free speech, and that’ll be the richest guy in the country.”

“And did he know what he was doing?”

“Of course!”

“And is there any intellectual argument or rationale to justify the decision?”

Disgusted noise from the other end of the line.

So I tuned in to the video below—and so should you. And found out, by the way, that there are two states that actually have campaign financing that makes sense. Arizona, for example, has an excellent system, as described below:

Arizona enacted a campaign finance law that provides matching funds to candidates who accept public financing. The law, passed in 1998, gives an initial sum to candidates for state office who accept public financing and then provides additional matching funds based on the amounts spent by privately financed opponents and by independent groups. In 2008, some Republican candidates and a political action committee, the Arizona Free Enterprise Club, filed suit arguing that to avoid triggering matching funds for their opponents, they had to limit their spending and, in essence, their freedom of speech.

What happened to the case? Well, here’s the next paragraph:

The U.S. District Court for District of Arizona found the matching-funds provision unconstitutional. But the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit overturned the case, saying it found "minimal" impact on freedom of speech.

And here’s the last word:

The Supreme Court reversed the lower court order in a decision by Chief Justice John Roberts. "Arizona's matching funds scheme substantially burdens political speech and is not sufficiently justified by a compelling interest to survive First Amendment scrutiny," the chief justice writing for the majority, noted that the holding does not contend that the First Amendment forbids all public financing.

In short, any chance that campaign finance is going to have is slim, indeed. Here’s one writer on the subject:

Indeed, one of the main cases relied on in McCutcheon was the Arizona Free Enterprise Club v. Bennett case from 2011, which struck down a perfectly good public campaign finance statute in the state of Arizona. Ya wanna try to pass one anything like that today? Roberts will laugh you out of the Supreme Court, and he's already now built enough of the chain of precedents to do it.   

What’s the solution?

Well, you can sign a petition for a constitutional amendment here.

I saw the video below advertised on the site of Americans for Campaign Reform (ACR), which supports two pieces of legislation. Here’s what they say:

Federal public funding legislation enjoys bipartisan support in both houses of Congress, with over 120 cosponsors. The bills would create a modern system of public funding of Presidential and Congressional elections based on small donations from citizens.

I mean, we all do want to take the money out of politics..,

…don’t we?

News flash: this story has a—potentially—happy ending, since John Paul Stevens, the retired US Supreme Court justice, has recently written a book, in which he proposes six constitutional amendments. Here’s what The New York Times said:

His own book has, in addition to the chapter on campaign finance, chapters on gun control, the death penalty, gerrymandering and aspects of state sovereignty. Each concludes with a proposed amendment.

And here’s what the 94-year ex-justice said about McCutcheon versus the FEC:

The plaintiff, Shaun McCutcheon, an Alabama businessman, had made contributions to 15 candidates in the 2012 election. He sued so he could give money to 12 more. None of the candidates in the second group were running in Alabama.

Mr. McCutcheon was not trying to participate in electing his own leaders, Justice Stevens said. “The opinion is all about a case where the issue was electing somebody else’s representatives,” he said.

Whew!

Thought I was the only one!

(Felt badly about ruining your day, so check out this dude on cello….)

Poetry? Nah!

Well, Billy Collins might be right—Walt Whitman was nothing if not a great self-promoter. But who knew that he invented pseudonyms and then wrote surprisingly positive reviews of his own work? Great idea—I may take it up….

And Collins is right, too, about the poetry being a verbal bear hug. Consider this, randomly drawn from the Calamus section of Leaves of Grass:

I do not know whether many, passing by, will dis-

         cover you, or inhale your faint odor—but I

         believe a few will;

O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit

         you to tell, in your own way, of the heart that is

         under you,

O burning and throbbing—surely all will one day be

         accomplished;

O I do not know what you mean, there underneath

         yourselves—you are not happiness,

You are often more bitter than I can bear—you burn

         and sting me,

“Enough,” you want to cry. Or maybe—here’s a thought—join in? Right, here goes:

O ever stretching, ever-churning Atlantic, your waters seething with the salt and the foam and the violence of wave;

O ever-stirring prairie, your gold poured out on the ribbon of the earth, the wheat, the oats, the soybeans waving gently in the humid night air;

O Poet’s Passage, the quiet Stephan murmuring to his charge, Lucia stroking the coffee that has been freed from the bean, the hapless writer deep in his toil;

All you do I love, all you do I seek, generations of teachers, and writers, and baristas to come, to all you who come,

From Maine to Missouri, from Wisconsin to Wyoming, from the plains of Kansas to the fruited slopes of California, you, all you,

Do I love!

OK—that’s mean. That’s unfair. But why is it that so much poetry—wrote peotry, but it got corrected (and is now red-squiggled), dammit—just leaves me cold? Why do I distrust it so much? And especially stuff that everyone else gets—why am I so immune?

Let’s take a favorite of my mother’s—Walter de la Mare, or not. Since it’s an unknown world to me, why not fall flat on my face and write one?

To A Poem

You’re in there, I know,

Dammit, clutching a wire in the

Hard drive,

Lurking under the keyboard

Flitting fleetfoottedly from the number

Pad to the keyboard to

The screen.

You glare out,

Sticking your tongue on

Which letters glisten

Out at me.

Letters that circle and spin,

Drop up and rise down

And will not form

A simple sort of word.

You tease me, you poem that

Drank coffee with me in the morning

Made my bed, dusted the

Fireplace…

And then…

Took the suitcase from the closet shelf,

Brushed off the cat hair,

Packed a dictionary and thesaurus

And walked out of my life, forever…..

The Curious Case of the Parrot Rustler, Resolved

Now that it’s over, now that the stress is off, now that justice has been done…but wait, was it?

Readers of this blog know the story—Montalvo, a 21-year old kid whom I barely know but who has made me several hundred dollars of excellent coffee, got it into his head to…wait, I’ll do bullets:

·      Get stoned up to his tits

·      Wander the streets of Old San Juan

·      Interact with a blue macaw, estimated value $15,000

·      Really look into the bird’s eye

·      Feel a magical connection to the bird

·      Magical turns to mystical!

·      Share a destiny with the bird

·      Remember that it’s his mother’s birthday

·      Put the bird on his shoulder

·      Take numerous selfies of himself and the bird

·      Decide to give the bird to his mother

·      Stroll to his apartment in the seaside community of La Perla, where the police arrest him

You may ask, and Montalvo—in his stoned-up-to-his-tits state was probably asking as well—why did the police arrest him? What was the big deal?

There are, it appears, people in this world who bring an unduly fussy approach to the concept of private property. As well, that macaw was a working bird, since its job was, yes, to sit on shoulders, as it obligingly did with Montalvo. Unfortunately, Montalvo, instead of venturing to La Perla, was supposed to smile, get his picture taken, and then pay 20 bucks and take the photo.

There was another problem—the picturesque seaside community of La Perla has a commendable system of local justice: it’s swift, cost-effective and certainly efficient. And for certain offenses, the community….

OK—drop the ironic voice. Two days ago, somebody stumbled on a dead body right in front of La Perla, and I spent several hours worrying that it was Montalvo.

“There was a guy with a tattoo of a number under his right eye—and he spent several hours looking through the window,” said María, who works in the coffee shop where Montalvo had worked and been fired seven times. There’s something about Montalvo—he has second chances as cats do lives.

The guy with the tattoo was replaced by a punk with a mohawk.

The community, you see, was interested in resolving an issue with Montalvo, since he had violated a sacred precept of the group: you don’t bring the police into La Perla.

So that was a problem, since the owner of the café has her 14-year old daughter being home-schooled in the café.

For this act of parrot rustling, Montalvo was sent to prison in a neighboring town, where the first question presented to him was his gang affiliation. The prisons, you see, are segregated by gangs, in this case either the Ñetas or the G27s. And how do all these gentlemen get along? All amicable in the gang world?

To give you an idea—the G27s call the Ñetas gusanos, or worms. The Ñetas call the G27s insectos.

Montalvo, in short, was going to have to declare an affiliation. Nor was that the worst—Montalvo was 21, relatively short, and cute. So what had saved his virginity, those eight days he spent in jail before his mom bailed him out? Well, he’s a vegetarian, and the prison was reliably feeding him meat. So Montalvo gave the meat to his cellmate, who announced to everybody that Montalvo was off limits, guys, Montalvo was his meat, so to speak. So, for eight days it worked, but would it work for eight years?

“Where the hell are his parents,” I said to Lady. Well, the father has been out of the picture for most of a decade. Mom has no money, and not much patience, since this road? It’s not the road less traveled.

There’s a wonderfully descriptive and extremely coarse word —beginning with the letters pendej… in Spanish which means a little pubic hair. Why? Because there are some people who sit around and watch while someone else is having all the fun.

Also, there are some people who pay while someone else has the fun….

“So what are we gonna do,” I ask Lady.

Lady knew a lawyer, who put the matter quite succinctly to Montalvo: you fucked up.

For that he went to law school?

So all was perfectly splendid; Montalvo drifted off to Arecibo, to spend quality time with his grandmother and get away—very incidentally—from the heated air of Old San Juan. During that time, and the day before the trial, we got the tab for the lawyer.

It was not cheap.

Nor was it unreasonable. Because the likelihood that Montalvo could sail into court, get everything settled in one day, and walk out was less than likely. The cops had to show up, and guess what? They worked a night shift the night before, and then they’re gonna go sit in court all day? Nah—so they don’t show up. Or the parrot guy—who, by the way, had been convicted of stealing a parrot himself, or so said the street—he might not show up. Not to mention the judge…. In short, in Puerto Rico we have a plethora of people who might not show up….

It came down to the wire—what were we gonna do? Would we throw Montalvo to the wolves, let him take his chances with a public defender, and live with knowing that Montalvo was getting raped in prison?

Readers, send me congratulations and prayers.

I’m a father.

Damn fool got two years probation.

Just don’t expect cigars.

I’m broke!

Death Comes to the Goat Sucker

Well, I shouldn’t be writing about this because, well, this is a serious blog. Yesterday, for example, I dealt with the eschatological views of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. So today I’m gonna talk about the chupacabra??

To those fortunate enough not to have heard of the chupacabra, well, let me introduce him, via Wikipedia:

The chupacabra (Spanish pronunciation: [tʃupaˈkaβɾa], from chupar "to suck" and cabra "goat", literally "goat sucker") is a legendary cryptid rumored to inhabit parts of the Americas, with the first sightings reported in Puerto Rico.[1] The name comes from the animal's reported habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats.

Well, well—it’s something to know that Puerto Rico has given (in addition to Ricky Martin and salsa) the world the chupacabra. What I didn’t know was that the chupacabra has been busy, since it was first seen in August of 1995 in Canóvanas, Puerto Rico; sightings have been reported from Chile to Maine in the Americas, and even in Russia.

The first attacks in Puerto Rico were on eight sheep, which were, according to Wikipedia, afflicted with three-teethed puncture wounds in the chest and drained of blood. But was that enough for the chupacabra? Absolutely not, because the island went mad for chupacabras.

It was on everyone’s lips, it was believed in fiercely and disputed fiercely, it was a joke, it was a prank, it was a satanic cult, it was all bunk. Even scientists got into the picture; here’s Wikipedia again:

In late October 2010, University of Michigan biologist Barry O'Connor concluded that all the chupacabras reports in the United States were simply coyotes infected with the parasite Sarcoptes scabiei, the symptoms of which would explain most of the features of the chupacabras: they would be left with little fur, thickened skin, and rank odour. O'Connor theorized the attacks on goats occurred "because these animals are greatly weakened, they're going to have a hard time hunting. So they may be forced into attacking livestock because it's easier than running down a rabbit or a deer."

Coyotes in Puerto Rico? Puerto Rican coyotes? Listen, besides species introduced by man, there’s nothing else here in terms of fauna. OK—I looked it up, and it turns out that bats are native to Puerto Rico. But that’s it.

So we went chupacabra-crazy for a while, and in the end, there were 200 reports in 1995, again according to Wikipedia.

What won’t Wikipedia tell you? Well, I’m delighted to tell you that Tito Armstrong wonderfully caught the story of Chemo “Jones,” one of the very best of our small town mayors, and a man not cowed [sic.] by a mere goat sucker. Tito—tell it!

▪    Picture the scene: a lush forest full of dense vegetation, laced with dangerous beasts and wild, tropical fauna. An adventurer braves the danger to search for an elusive creature which has a propensity to drain its victim's blood. Sound like a movie script? No, it is the real life saga of Chemo "Jones" Soto, Mayor of Canóvanas and part-time adventurer. Chemo has undertaken a quest to capture the Chupacabra before it sucks the entire animal population dry. In the face of Government paralysis, Chemo is the last hope of a desperate citizenry who have given up hope.

▪    Chemo has assembled a crack anti-Chupacabra team and hopes to apprehend the beast sometime this year. He has devised a state of the art "cone-trap" which will no doubt trap the blood-sucking monster within the month. The Mayor's pleas to government agencies for help with the hunting efforts have been largely ignored but Governor Pedro Rosselló has wished him luck. Chemo, who happens to be up for re-election, is running on the anti-Chupacabra ticket and hopes to ride it to victory during the November elections.

Yes! And I might mention, by the way, that this account appears in a site linked to Princeton University—the chupacabra has definitely arrived.

Sadly, all this was taking place in 1995, just a bit before the Internet arrived. So unfortunately, I cannot present you with the image—indelibly fixed on my inner screen—of Chemo Jones and the boys with their chupacabra trap. But any Puerto Rican around at the time will remember it—Chemo and the boys had gone out, presumably after a few beers at the gas station (don’t ask—it’s a Puerto Rican thing….), and found some rusty old rejas (ornamental iron bars that cover all the windows on the island) in the back of City Hall. Responding to the urgent needs of the citizenry, who were faced with certain economic ruin from loss of livestock, and whose very lives were at risk…

Now, where was I?

Ah, so Chemo and the boys patched together a chupacabra trap, into which they put, sensibly, a goat—who was looking very wide-eyed, and why not? Wouldn’t you? Nor was this all, because the boys had gotten in the spirit of the occasion—anything to keep the morale up—and were wearing paramilitary clothes. Here, have a look—though this photo dates from 2010, when the chupacabra made a brief reappearance:

See? Inspires confidence, right? You wouldn’t mess with this dude!

Well, the entire island—especially that part of the island from the opposite party—was poking fun of Chemo, but guess what? He had the last laugh because Hollywood picked up on the story, and made a television movie starring Eric Estrada! Bijte? He who laughs last….

Now then, it turns out that the chupacabra was actually caught by a couple in Texas, as you can see in the clip below (which—even if you inexplicably have no interest in the chupacabra—you should definitely watch for the spectacularly retro-teased beehive hairdo of the wife). And quite a chupacabra it was—so what did they do with it?

Chupacabra Mystery

Dead Animal Won’t Be Tested

Texas can’t handle the truth!

That was the website TMZ’s headline four days ago. Sadly, the Texas couple—so staunch in their belief that it wasn’t a coon, a dog, a coyote—caved to the advice of an “expert” from the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department to put the animal down, because it was “suffering.” And now they refuse to do a necropsy, since “chupacabras are mythical creatures.”

Yeah?

And if you believe that, dear Reader, then might I remind you of the grassy knoll? The suspicious deaths of Lee Harvey Oswald and several key witnesses? The reports of multiple shots? Hah!

It’s a dark day indeed, Readers, here in sunny Puerto Rico….