The Final Dispatch from Harry the Horse

Well boys,

If you’re reading this, it finally happened—I’ve assumed room temperature.

No, I didn’t get hit by a jeepney. Didn’t get knifed over karaoke. Didn’t die doing something impressive (or even suspicious). I just went to bed and never got up—exactly the way I always hoped to check out. No pain, no drama, no complaints. Just the quiet shutdown of a body that’s been running a pretty decent marathon.

Let’s not get all misty-eyed. I had a hell of a run.

After retiring from the military, I did what made the most sense—I stayed here in Angeles City. It was the only place that ever really felt like home. I got involved in tourism, dipped a toe into politics, and committed myself to a steady career in barstool diplomacy. I ran the Blue Boar Inn and La Casa Pensione, met travelers from every corner of the map, and somehow wound up collecting more hot sauce than any man reasonably should. Those bottles still line the walls of BBI like an unhinged chili sauce museum. If you’re ever there—look at the wall. That’s me in every bottle.

Somewhere along the way, I started writing. First at Harrythehorse.com, and later, less frequently than I’d hoped, at JimmyDHorse.com—after the first got sold to someone with more cash than taste. I turned writing about beer bars, bikini contests, and local chaos into something that (depending on your standards) passed as public service. I tossed in the occasional political rant, sure, but mostly it was about which bar had closed, which one reopened with the same furniture, and which waitress made you wish you were 30 years younger—or 30 years richer.

The Would If I Could segment? That was me, respectfully appreciating beauty while pretending it was journalism. Vina—bless her—let me get away with it. More than that, she made it all possible. She gave me the freedom, the love, and the perfect cover story to turn late nights barhopping into something resembling work. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it once more, loud enough for the record: I would not have what I have without her.

Now, don’t bother organizing a big send-off. No candles, no chanting, no one mispronouncing my name into a microphone. I’d rather you just raise a glass—nothing too fancy, I wasn’t much of a drinker unless it was that annual gathering of a certain secret club. You know who you are.

Tell a few lies about me. Make them funny. Make them big.

And to all of you who read the blog over the years, thank you. You gave an old man something to look forward to. A purpose, a sense of duty, and a perfect excuse to haunt the town I loved most.

And most importantly…

Remember: Always be kind to horses.

—JimmyD
(Harry the Horse)
Final post.