A little while ago we wrote about how the San Diego CityBeat was hitting some hard financial times, and was soliciting donations from readers to help keep it afloat. Doesn’t look like that effort is going too well, because the paper is shedding writers. Last week, after four years with the CityBeat, columnist Enrique Limon penned his final piece for the paper.

At times, I’ve felt as if my tenure at CityBeat has played out like low-budg version of The Devil Wears Prada (“a million girls would kill for your job” is one of my many mantras). So, with my love not just for alt-media, but journalism in general, still intact, I decided to kill the baby, so to speak.

I announced this decision to my editor months ago during a rare one-on-one meeting and told him that it was my wish to reach the mini milestone that is this space’s four-year anniversary before the infant-bludgeoning.

A lot was said in that meeting, both good and bad, and although I had the Mommy Dearest boardroom monologue memorized and ready to go, I never once lost my cool. At risk of damaging his street cred, I’ll share this much: We sealed the encounter with a hug….

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Columnist Enrique Limon unveiled one of the least merry Christmas stories we’ve ever read in this week’s San Diego CityBeat. Limon was arrested for public drunkenness on Christmas day by San Diego police, despite only drinking what he says was a “thimbleful of Beringer (rosé, for that touch of class).”

Limon says his Xmas nightmare started after a police officer detained him after crossing a street in Downtown San Diego.

The officer, sans badge or ID tag, instructed me to surrender my identification, proceeded with what I believe was an illegal search and wrote me a jaywalking ticket. He mentioned—as I was spread against the car that, by signing it, I wasn’t admitting guilt.

“What happens if I don’t sign it?” I asked in a normal tone.

“That’s it!” he shouted. By then, a crowd had gathered, and the looks and giggles coming from the gaggle of gays had proven too much for him. He grabbed my right hand and began handcuffing me. Swift as a butterfly, I grabbed the pen and signed the ticket with my left. Therein lied the Catch-22.

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