I'm a thief, I'm a liarHere's my church and I sing in the choir

I could get used to this, being an expatriate.

Pretending, depending, wondering, wandering, floating, smiling, styling, profiling, playing, straying, squinting, speaking, walking, talking, singing, reading.

Oh well.

Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's coming to get me

In the elevator of my hotel, there is a sign boasting of a Mexican Fiesta on Saturday.

Among the list of activities, such as traditional dances and costumes, is "Cock Fights."

This elicited a series of reactions:

1. Mild disgust. I am an animal lover, after all.

2. Amusement, given that we are situated in a very gay section of Puerto Vallarta. I have been ogled and mentally undressed (by men) about 45 times a day, while Stanette goes practically unnoticed (except by me) in her itsy-bisty, teeny-weenie bikini.

Seriously, it's like the Gay Pride Parade, the Gay Olympics and Dancing with the Stars all rolled up into one sassy, tastefully appointed burrito.

So, cockfighting could mean something entirely different, for all I know.

3. Finally, I cannot stop saying, "Little Jerry Seinfeld goes down in the 5th."

That is all, amigos.