New joint. Mexico City Blues. At the Collected Poop Stories.

Happy we are to be part of the Collected Poop Stories, now a blog, soon an anthology, we think maybe, yes? Yes, so thank you to the John Wentworth Chapin for that, and drinks on us, for sure, when next we meet. Cool? Cool. Excerpt? Of course.

"We were in Mexico because of my mother. It was her idea to take Adam and me south of the border. Her vision was that we would see the great artists of Mexico City—Rivera, Orozco, Siqueiros, and Kahlo—and then hit the beach in Cancún. But things started going wrong and, on our third night in Mexico, a country where everyone actively discourages you from drinking the water, we all decided to order shrimp scampi.

I can’t remember what the meal tasted like; I can tell you however what happened the next day at the airport as we prepared to catch our flight from Mexico City to Cancún. It started with Adam saying he had to go to the bathroom. We waited, and waited, but as the minutes passed it began to seem less and less likely that he would return, and at some point I went to look for him. The bathroom was dark and quiet, and Adam was nowhere in sight."