My first hummer

In memory of Jack Brock.

FOR A FEW years, since I purchased my Canon, whenever I sat on the Jesus Patio to read my Kindle, I always toted the camera and rested it on the glass-top table.

One might wonder, Why does he do that? The answer is this: I wanted a photo of a hummer. Though the little buggers are commonplace in the Hacienda yard, photographing one has proved impossible. Till yesterday, that is.

The midday was overcast. Perhaps that explains my little friend’s relative lack of shimmering color, something often seen in hummer photos. Or maybe he’s a she and, like many birds, perhaps the hummer ladies are a bit drabber.

He (or she) is puffed up a bit too, a nippy afternoon.

No matter. Like Hemingway kneeling beside an African rhino, high-powered rifle aimed skyward, I have shot my prey. There will be no more safaris. I will read my books in peace.

Life goes on.

Night blooms

WALKING INTO the dining room/kitchen last night shortly before 10, as the clock on the wall clearly indicates, I saw this, and decided to take a photograph.

It’s not a very sharp photograph because, contrary to the camera’s shrill advice, I did not use the flash, just the light hanging from the ceiling, which is not visible here.

Let’s call it a mood piece.

My child bride had turned in quite early — she was in bed with her Kindle — but I was still rambling around.

Two items of note: The wicker backs of the chairs were done years ago by my wife. They’ve held up pretty well. The second thing is the orchid on the table. It was left, already blooming, in our Downtown Casita in February by Steve Cotton.

Five  months later, it’s still in bloom. Amazing.

Nightlife.

The equality people

I FOUND THIS video recently even though it’s from last year, and I’ve been thinking about how to address the situation.

One thing that has happened is that I’m adopting a new phrase: the Equality People (EP).

These are the folks known as collectivists, leftists, socialists, communists, and they make up a huge percentage of those who vote for the Democrat Party in America.

The rest of the people who vote for the Democrat Party (I never say Democratic Party because they don’t really believe in democracy as the last presidential election and its aftermath prove) are what I call the “Be Nice People.” Most are old folks. The EPs are normally younger and naive. Sometimes violent.

Americans under age 35 have never known existential threats, neither to themselves or their homeland.* This has made them goofy and easy dupes to propaganda.

Another aspect of U.S. life is the effect of the 1960s. A significant percentage of Americans in positions of power now sport suits and shiny shoes, but surrounding them still wafts the patchouli-soaked aroma of Woodstock.

Many of these people are now judges, lawyers, educators and even corporate titans. Think George Soros, not American, of course, but think of him anyway.

A nutty culture now exists in America, Western Europe and Canada, which brings us to the video up there. It demonstrates the culture of craziness and fear that grows daily.

Lauren Southern is a social media phenom, a Canadian, conservative activist, and is just barely 22 years old. She is also a reporter of current events.

Last year, to demonstrate the lunatic level to which the culture of Canada has sunk, she had her sex changed legally even though she had done nothing to her body nor did she intend to. She pulled it off due to Canada’s EP laws and people’s fear of saying no.

Southern was making a point, and it was made well.

Last week, her account with a website called Patreon, which exists to financially help “creators,” was abruptly canceled because, Patreon said, her activities might lead to deaths.

Meanwhile, the violent, black-clad, masked gangs known as Antifa continue to have accounts on Patreon. The only “creators” that Patreon wants to help are EP creators.

And left-wing thugs.

Here’s a video about that. She’s cute and talks out of the right side of her mouth, both literally and politically.

EPs swim in a deep, murky sea of irony. Don’t be one.

* * * *

* The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991.

The horrid president

GOOD LORD! Just hear the endless racism, misogyny, jingoism, bigotry and religious intolerance that spews from this orange-coifed guy’s mouth! It just turns my tummy.

And that wife! Can she even speak English?

And the dreadful things he’s done in his first six months! Here’s a list, but brace yourself. Awful, awful, awful.

The election of 2020 can’t come too soon. We’ll be able to install the Pocahontas princess in the Oval Office, and everything will be peachy again, just like with Obama.

* * * *

(Note: I’m posting the list as a public service because I doubt you’ll see it on Huffpost. I cannot imagine why.)

The great escape

Steve McQueen made a “Great Escape” over a border. Me too!

WHEN I LEFT America in January 2000, I thought I was merely moving to another country to start a new adventure.

While that was true, what I did not realize at the time was that I, just like Steve McQueen in the photo above, was making my own Great Escape. But I wasn’t escaping from the Nazis. I was escaping from the United States.

When I hightailed it, things were fairly normal above the Rio Bravo. Bill Clinton was president. The economy was running well, and people were getting along pretty good.

There was no Black Lives Matter. There were no Antifa thugs running riot in the streets. There were no geriatric socialist presidential candidates. Conservative speakers were not tarred and feathered on university campuses.

There were no Safe Spaces, and public restrooms were either “Gentlemen” or “Ladies” or sometimes “Setters” and “Pointers.” Humor had not been banned.

Still standing were the World Trade Center in New York, Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin. And nobody outside Illinois had heard of Barack Hussein Obama.

Farther afield, there were no Mohammedan mobs being invited into European nations, nor to the United States either. Gays were not suing Mom & Pop bakeries over wedding cakes.

You got your porno on DVDs through the mail. It took some cash and effort. Nowadays it requires neither.

There was no Twitter, Facebook or iPhones.

Television dramas and sit-coms were not expected to kowtow to thought police. I read recently that the wildly popular sit-com Friends could not be made today, and it’s true.

The cast was all white. They poked fun at ethnic groups. The show’s crimes against PC were relentless, but nobody cared back then. We just laughed and laughed.

Seinfeld too would be verboten.

But the laughter has faded away. You must avoid saying certain true things, or you run a real risk of losing your job and/or friends and your social standing.

Everything went to the devil after I moved south. I’ve witnessed it exclusively via the internet, not in person.

Man, oh, man, I got out of there in the nick of time.

PC TV

(Warning: the following post is not advisable for Mennonites, evangelical Christians or 8-year-old children.)

AFTER A HARD day of work, we customarily spend evenings quietly at home sprawled in recliners before the Samsung Smart TV, eating salads and watching something on Netflix.

We are often appalled at what we see.

It is no secret that American universities have become indoctrination centers for raging leftists, that movies coming out of Hollywood relentlessly push political correctness, but television is another matter because any 8-year-old can turn it on and stand slack-jawed before the screen.

What he sees is a combination of lies and deviancies.

* * * *

First, the lies!

Most current series give the impression that many, if not the majority, of romantic relationships and marriages are interracial. This, of course, is arrant nonsense.

Most couples, the world over, are the same race. The exceptions are a minuscule minority. This fact, however, conflicts with the left’s idolizing of diversity and multiculturalism.

So a large percentage of television dramas is a form of reeducation camp that any 8-year-old child can flip on at will while mama’s in the kitchen washing  the dishes.

We just started the second season of Secrets and Lies, a pretty good ABC series starring the normally scenery-chewing Juliette Lewis as a deadpan police detective.

The story line revolves around a rich family where the father is white and his adult kids are black. In the first show, mother is mentioned but not seen just yet. She’ll have to be black for this family to even be genetically feasible.

This is not rare. The script gymnastics the television industry puts itself through to “diversify” families is laughable. Multiracial and multicultural families on television far exceed their numbers in the real world. It is inaccurate and silly.

It is political.

* * * *

Now, the deviancy!

According to the television industry, homosexuals are everywhere. Every family either has gay members or knows numerous gay couples. Yeah, sure.

Modern Family is a great example. A gay couple belongs to the family, a gay couple who’ve adopted an Asian child (hitting the multicultural drum). There’s also an Old White Man married to a young, hot Latina.* Modern Family pours it on.

It’s another ABC show.

Not even the president of the United States is immune. In the series House of Cards the president occasionally gets it on with a guy. It’s a good series, but does the president really have to be a switch-hitter? An unnecessary script element.

Blatant indoctrination, Ho Chi Minh-style.

What percentage of humanity is actually gay? Hard to say. A Washington Post story cites a poll that indicates it’s about 1.6 percent. Gallup, on the other hand, tells you it’s about 3.8 percent. I’ve never seen a number higher than that.

Taking these figures as two extremes, that means the number of people who are neither gay nor lesbian range between 98.4 percent to 96.2 percent. Dang near everyone.

This is, in political terms, a landslide for straights, something you’d never know from watching television dramas where gays are as common as the lovable aunt and the cute pooch.

And they’re always kissing. They kiss far more than the straight couples. Kiss, kiss, kiss!

Not surprisingly, most Americans now think homosexuals are considerably more numerous than they are.

This is propaganda in action.

Gallup reports too that the U.S. public believes gays make up almost a quarter of the population! The television industry/reeducation camps are stunningly effective.

Again, this is all political.

Let us continue with the gay theme. First, I chose the word deviancy over perversion intentionally. Perversion is a value judgment. Deviancy simply means outside the norm.

One may or may not consider homosexuality a perversion. However, its being outside the norm is indisputable.

I don’t give a hoot if someone is gay. And I do not believe it’s a choice any more than my being straight is a choice.

We are what we are.

Back to the television industry. It is not content to simply insist that gays are everywhere. Increasingly, it wants to show us precisely what gays do in the privacy of their homes.

It’s way overboard.

* * * *

Barebacking and strap-ons!

Just recently we were watching a fun series called Penny Dreadful starring, among others, the stunning and yummy Eva Green.

Then one evening, there it was, anal, homosexual sex in a graphic manner that once was reserved for sticky-floored movie houses frequented by men in brown overcoats.

It was totally gratuitous, deviant sex that, once again, is available to any 8-year-old who turns on the television.

Are the people who make this out of their minds? No, they simply want you to get on board with this diversity thing.

It is political.

Let us move on now. A couple of weeks ago, we began a new series, but never got further than the first show. We were stopped dead in our proverbial tracks by lesbian love!

Two lovely lesbians going at it (one black, one white!) with vigor on the bed. They finish and the topmost disconnects and tosses an oily, strap-on penis to the floor. Ker-plop!

Camera lingers on firm, rubber penis.

This isn’t pay-for-view. It’s regular, commercial television.

I don’t care if people do this stuff. Power to them. But do it at home. If you want to film, do so and sell it to adults. Bring back the dingy theaters. Don’t make it available to 8-year-olds.

But, it’s political, and you know which side is doing it.

It ain’t my side. We have standards.

* * * *

* This sounds sort of familiar. Not sure why,

Kitchen window

I SEE THIS a lot. It’s where I wash dishes, and I’m the chief washer here. I clean those dishes lickety-split. When she washes them, it can take half the day, or so it seems.

If you don’t let food dry on dishes, washing them is no biggie, which is why dishwashers are silly. I know many disagree, so you don’t need to tell me that unless you can’t help yourself.

Yes, this is the window over the kitchen sink. It has many elements, as you can see.  The most notable is the stained glass, which I did with my own hands.

Ten or 12 years ago, we took a months-long course at a trade school in a town called Santa Clara del Cobre about 10 miles farther up the mountainside.

It was during the rainy season, and we’d get out of class after dark and drive home through forests amid downpours on a winding, rural road with no centerline. It could get hairy.

But we had our stained glass. We made lots of it.

My child bride — she was even younger then — got so hyped up about making stained glass that we ended up buying most all of the gear one needs to do that. It’s been sitting in a box atop shelves in the closet for over a decade now.

Other glass beauties, better than this one, hang in the windows of the living room. But this is the one that gets the most notice, by me at least, while I’m washing dishes, quickly.

The cursed grass

Friday, before Saturday’s grass cutting by Abel the Deadpan Yardman.

IF IT’S NOT raining, I might sit around noon on a web chair by the glass-top table, shaded by the big, brown umbrella, feet atop another chair, for no better reason than pleasure.

I did that on Friday past.

I usually bring my Kindle and camera too in case a hummingbird sits a spell atop a nearby bloom. I’ve been hunting a shot, but when the hummers spot the camera, they zip away. When I don’t have the camera, they’ll come stare in my face.

The top shot was taken Friday when the yard needed a mow. The bottom two shots were taken yesterday after a mow.

I’ve had people ask me, “What’s up with the lawn? It doesn’t look like Mexico.” Well, the grass was mostly here when we bought the double lot. There’s wasn’t much else, but there was plenty of grass, an endless, freaking headache.

I’ve been telling myself for years that I’m uprooting all of it, or most of it, and laying down concrete and rock, but I never do it. Two reasons: the cost and the (temporary) mess.

But I feel steel in my spine. I’m more determined. Alas, the rainy season started last month, so the work cannot begin till November at the earliest, giving me months to change my mind.

But I’m not going to change my mind!

I’ve even worked out a plan. Do it gradually.

When the rains end, we’ll do most of the section in the photo at the very bottom, empedrado* only up to the Jesus Patio. Beyond the Jesus Patio — that’s the Jesus Patio where you see chairs and a table — a larger and far more elegant patio will be dreamed up to eliminate all of the grass in that area. Next year.

The yard is too large to be included in one photo. From the upstairs terraza, I can see more of it but not all, even from up there. It’s absurdly big. There is no backyard because the house is built against a corner of the double lot.

If I had been smarter, I would have built our house on half the space, facing the main drag, and another, a rental, facing the back street. There are two entries. But I was not smart.

I was a dumb Gringo in over his head.

But at least, gradually, I am now determined to resolve this grass curse.** Pray the steel stays in my spine till November.

I want to sit on the (much enlarged) Jesus Patio, which will need a new name, and gaze upon stone and cement, less grass.

Like the Reverend King: I have a dream.

This large semicircle is the only grass I want to keep. About a third of it all.
This is the first grass that will go. It continues way off to the left.

* A surface of concrete and stone, very common in Mexico. The sidewalk is empedrado.

** A curse due to its lunatic growth during the five-month rainy season. You can never turn your back. You surely cannot travel anywhere more than a week.

(Note: Another grass section is to the right of the middle photo. It’s sizable but the smallest of the three sections. It’s where sit the monster bougainvillea and the towering nopal tree. It will be filled with stone and cement too, but not this year. The bougainvillea and nopal will stay in place.

Mexican Bond

THE BODY sprawled by the pool on the first page of Ian Fleming’s novel From Russia With Love sported, among other things, a Gerard-Perregaux wristwatch.

He may have seemed dead, but he traveled in style. Fleming called the Gerard-Perregaux a “badge of the rich man’s club.” I also wear that badge in spite of not being rich.

Mine.

I found the watch in 1998 in an antique store in the Heights neighborhood of Houston.

The watch was inoperative, frozen, and I knew nothing of the brand. It was a time two years before I became Mexico’s Bond.

The watch was priced cheaply because it did not work. I forget how much I paid, but I immediately left it in a repair shop where it was resurrected for about $100.

Gerard-Perregaux, founded in 1791, is a Swiss maker of very high-end watches that sell new for thousands of dollars. They are every bit as good as Rolex though they make fewer watches and don’t crow about it so much.

I bought the watch for one reason. It was motion-activated. Battery-run watches screech to a halt on my wrist in a matter of hours. You may have heard of this odd phenomenon.

It is no myth.

I can only wear motion-activated watches or the old style you actually wind up. Try and find that these days. So, it’s motion-activated, or no watch at all for me.

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, it was easy to find motion-activated watches, but they gradually vanished until the late 1990s when it was almost impossible to locate one. These days, they have become popular again, considered “eco” or “green.”

I wore my Gerard-Perregaux for about five years, totally unaware of its snazzy rep, till it stopped dead again in Mexico. I took it to a humble repair shop, and the guy got it running — for about a week. I tossed it into a drawer and bought a Citizen.

Sometime during the decade it sat in the drawer, I learned what it was that I had, but I did nothing about it. But six months ago I fished it out and took it to the repair desk at the Liverpool department store in the state capital.

A month later and with my wallet over 3,000 pesos lighter, I picked it up, and it’s been running like a watch ever since. I pray this will continue for the rest of my days. I rather like being Mexico’s Bond, or at least resembling him in one small way.

Seems about right to me.

Fact, Fiction and Opinion Stirred in an Odd Pot

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