WE WERE IN Mexico City for four days, and a couple of important things happened.
My birthday — I am 69 yet again — and the shocking death of Juan Gabriel. First things first.
People unfamiliar with the Latin world might not know of Juan Gabriel. He was Elvis. He was Frank Sinatra. He was everything. He died, and Mexico went bananas.
Juan Gabriel was a fantastic singer, prolific composer and a stunning showman. I’ve been a fan for decades, far longer than I’ve lived below the Rio Bravo.
Gabriel was also a flaming queen, making his fame ironic in macho Mexico. We forgave him everything.
He came from very humble beginnings and even spent a spell in prison due to — according to him — being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.
Like Elvis, he started young and handsome, and he ended fat, dissipated-looking and filthy rich. No matter. His talent and heart overshadowed it all. I will miss him.
And the second matter: I keep getting older. I have already racked up six more years than did Juan Gabriel.
Were I to light an accurate birthday cake, we’d have to phone the fire department. Just recently I was sitting on the Jesus Patio when my child bride took this photo.
Our brief jaunt to Mexico City was to air out the apartment and pay a few bills that cannot be paid online.
But it’s sweet to be home at the Hacienda. We returned yesterday.