where the writers are The Evil Editor Takes the Autobus Local
Five p.m. today and suddenly it hits me. Lassitude in my limbs,
a sinking in my stomach, a buzzing in my ears. My head aches
sharply. Torpor, not the good kind. Despair.  Oh. I know this
sensation. He's arrived.  I hopped the plane without him, but
he's not left behind so easily. For over two weeks he's been
relentlessly traveling south old-style, relaxing on Amtrak to
San Diego, paying coyotes to carry him over the border the
opposite way from usual, riding the autobus local down the Pan
American highway, hitting the beaches for crispy Huachenango and
to ride a few waves, sleeping in hammocks and probably with
young traveler girls who don't recognize him for the Spirit Suck
he is, catching rides in collectivo taxis, drinking tequila and
mescal, listening to mariachi bands, and finally taking the
mini-van over three mountain ranges to arrive here, in my oasis
of a hideout in the middle of this medium-sized Colonial city.
He wastes no time, stridin