How dey tawk

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY recently banned the use of the word “man,” one more example of leftist lunacy, especially leftist campus lunacy. It all comes from the crowd that votes for Democrat candidates.

Democrats have long since shot themselves into outer space over words and stuff. From down here in Mexico, watching much of the American scene these nutty days is like seeing a bad Fellini movie.

Though the video above purports to be lip-synced, it’s actually the true version. What you saw on television was lip-synced. It was altered in an attempt to seem sane and win votes.

Trust me on this.

The bookish artist

reader

THIS MAN is an artist who’s been roaming our mountaintop streets for years. I do not know his name. At times he totes his work with him, out and about, and it can be quite large.

One of his very large paintings was leaning against a concrete column just behind him when I shot this photo.

For sale, one assumes.

He sat at a coffeehouse table for hours recently, reading a book. He does not own glasses though he clearly needs them. Instead he uses a magnifying glass.

And he’s the fellow sharing the table with the shocked woman who was featured here last week. But this photo was shot the following day.

This photo and others can, of course, be viewed bigger and better at Felipe’s Fabulous Fotos.

* * * *

AND FURTHERMORE

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The above are the same two girls shown in the recent photo on the post titled Divergent Lives. They appear a couple of years older here. They’re standing in the same positions.

The one on the right, again, is my child bride. The one on the left, a sister, is, well, she is what she is.

My wife adores children though she never had any. Maybe that’s why she likes them so much. The one in her arms is a brother, one of many siblings.

The faces of the two girls are revealing, reflecting their personalities, their true inner beings.

As mentioned previously, the one on the left went on to have four illegitimate children and lived unmarried with a bum for many years. The one on the right twiddled her fingers until her early 40s, waiting for me. ¡Qué bueno!

August roof view

ON THE ROOF recently to wipe the rods of the solar water heater, I took this video and snapped the photo below.

I’m a sharing sort of fellow.

At about 10 seconds into the video, you can see what I call the Garden Patio down there with the red water tank. It’s where I keep yard gear. And then at about 23 seconds you can see the solar heater at the left, briefly.

In the photo below, the brick surface is the roof of the kitchen. Farther along, the red tile covers the downstairs veranda.

In the upper right corner is the home of our grumpy neighbors, the ones with the horse, pigs, dogs, etc.

It’s fun to go up on the roof because the view is spectacular, not just the neighbors but the mountains.

roof

The only other video I’ve shot from atop the roof was made five years ago. It’s on YouTube, not Vimeo, and presents quite a different perspective. Plus, it’s got Hillbilly music!

The video was shot very early. That’s morning mist.

That’s all for today. Enjoy yourself.

Muslim beach bunny

Somewhere beyond absurd.

SCARCELY A DAY passes in which I fail to see a cringe-worthy photograph depicting the abysmal condition of women in the Mohammedan world.

This one, however, contains an extra poignancy.

When I saw the photo, my first reaction was that it must be a beached whale in Zihuatanejo. But it’s not.

It’s a Mohammedan woman or girl. Who can know her age, appearance, anything about her?

The poor creature is trying to enjoy a day at the beach.

The sheeting of women is not in the Koran. It’s a tradition begun later by sand-leaping, scimitar-swinging, bloodletting, towel-headed, camel jockeys who just want to keep their womenfolk to themselves, in their place.

Simple as that. Possessions of the highest order.

It’s no surprise that where actual slavery still exists in today’s world, it’s often in Mohammedan zones.

Mohammedan men’s attitude toward women make the most macho of swaggering, tequila-swilling Mexicans seem tailor-made for banner-wavers in a Gay Pride Parade.

* * * *

IRONY AND HYPOCRISY

And yet in the United States, dimwitted university students and nincompoop faculty stand ready to support Mohammedan cultures while mouthing anti-Semitism that would make Heinrich Himmler puff up with pride.

And 99 percent of them vote for the Democrat Party.

These are the same vacuous people who advocate freedom of choice and claim all cultures are of equal value.

Anyone who truly believes in women’s rights, freedom of choice and equality has to be a cheerleader for Israel, the sole Mideast nation that embraces democracy and religious freedom.

And then there’s the U.S. presidential race with a cackling crook in designer tents facing an arrogant tycoon* with a comb-over who can’t keep his hoof out of his mouth.

I weep for the future.

* * * *

* No matter. I’m still voting for the arrogant tycoon over the cackling crook. Ugly choices must be made. Meanwhile, I continue to mourn for Ted Cruz’s candidacy.

Say what?

CAN’T HELP but wonder what this woman just heard. Her companion at the coffeehouse table was a local “starving artist,” and they were having a very animated chat.

I was at another table with a café Americano negro.

Note the woman’s coat, which provides a clue about our summertime weather on the mountaintop.

This recent edition and other photos can, of course, be found in Felipe’s Fabulous Foto collection.

Muse revisited

(This website’s subtitle is Fact, Fiction and Opinion Stirred in an Odd Pot. Fact is, however, that Fiction hasn’t appeared here in quite a spell. The muse appears to have gone thataway.

(I think we likely can attribute this in part to age. If not entirely that, to the fact that my move to Mexico was thrilling, inspiring, for a long time, years, but it’s worn off now. Truth is I don’t know what the Devil is going on.

(No matter. I like to re-read my old stuff now and then. Here is one of my favorites. I may repost others on occasion just for the ever-living heck of it. And I gotta justify the subtitle.)

THE BROKEN STAIRCASE

Stairs

Five steps rotted and collapsed in the middle of the staircase, and that’s how it all began.

Alcott was upstairs. He never left his home again.

He decided to write a history of mankind. It would be thorough, but due to having no reference materials upstairs, it would be fiction by necessity, a history of mankind as it should have been, the perfect people. He liked the idea, and dedicated the rest of his life to writing fictitious history.

. . . which should not be confused with historical fiction. No, he wrote history hidden by a mask, creating a dream world, but really, after all, it was not so different from actual historical writing at times.

But first there was the matter of survival. For that he turned to his old friend Beaman whom he had known since boyhood.

Beaman lived nearby.

There was the question of food.

Beaman tossed up a rope, and that was how Alcott received his daily meals, a basket connected to the rope. Beaman’s wife, Aldyth, simply made a bit more than she and Beaman ate each day, and Beaman took the leftovers to Alcott.

We should mention that Alcott was married too. His wife was Godeleva, but Alcott had not loved — or even liked — Godeleva in many years.

As luck would have it, Godeleva was downstairs when the five steps rotted in the staircase. She noticed the problem even before Alcott. She smiled, walked into the downstairs bedroom, packed two bags, and headed to the beach.

. . . and never returned.

* * * *

Alcott was not a social man, so the upstairs isolation suited him, plus there was lots of time to invent fictional history.

Luckily, there was a bathroom on the second floor of Bockingfold and an antique typewriter.

Bockingfold was the name of the home, which had been in Alcott’s family for generations. Godeleva had always found it dreary there.

About a year after the five steps rotted in the staircase, Alcott awoke one morning thinking of Godeleva whose body was as fine as her personality was foul. That afternoon, during their daily chat through the second-floor window, as warm stew was ascending, he asked Beaman for a woman.

Man does not live by stew alone, he said, or something like that.

There was an obstacle. The rope was medium-weight, and the basket had been bought at a discount outlet that imported from India.

The woman, they concluded, must be lightweight and short, a wisp of a girl.

This was acceptable to Alcott, desirable even, because Godeleva, although quite beautiful, was big-boned. And Alcott was ready for new adventures.

Find a mini-version of womankind, Alcott said to Beaman, but she must be over 21 because Alcott wanted no problems with the police.

One week later, Beaman stood beneath the window with Vulpine, which means like a fox.

She said she was 26. And she was quite small, a midget actually, which should not be confused with a dwarf. She was well-formed, firm and fine.

Her hair and full lips were flaming red.

She fit perfectly into the basket, holding the day’s stew in her lap. Alcott, with a bit of extra effort, hoisted both dishes to the window sill and inside the room to which Vulpine hopped effortlessly and looked up at him, smiling.

* * * *

Vulpine did not speak much about her past. There was something about a circus, a prison and horse rides through the mountains with a man named Smoke.

Alcott and Vulpine hit it off immediately. She liked the security, the daily stews, and he liked the look of her, the red lips, the hair blazing like a bonfire.

redhead1And that’s how it stayed. The years passed, and Alcott wrote. In time there were 35 volumes of fictional history. He grew old and gray and stooped.

But Vulpine never changed a bit. She was like magic, and that was what he wanted.

No one ever repaired the staircase of Bockinfold, and when Alcott died one day, Vulpine kissed his cheek, shimmied down the rope like a child and walked off into a sunny winter afternoon, her hair lit like Christmas candles.

Another cord cut

IT SAT IN my email folder at dawn on Monday. Your account has been canceled. Your credit card, that is.

My last Gringo card. Zapped for inactivity.

I moved south 16 years ago with four credit cards, all issued by U.S. institutions and all paid in full every month via the checking account I opened in 1999 at Banamex USA,* the U.S. branch of the Mexican behemoth Banamex.

I’d been a longtime Wells Fargo Bank customer, but I was planning my move to Mexico.

sailor-knot-9-ana-maria-edulescuThe four cards were a Wells Fargo Mastercard, an AT&T Universal Visa and two other Visas from another bank, somewhere in the Dakotas, the name of which I have long forgotten.

The two Visas from the Dakota bank were the first to go. I had to cancel them both 12 years ago after one was skyjacked by Sky cable television down here. Never give Sky your credit card number for recurring charges.

That is very good advice for most Mexican firms.

That left me with two credit cards, which didn’t concern me.

A few years later, Wells Fargo sent a renewal card to my post office box here. But due to living in Mexico — a shady land, you know — they insisted I go to a bank here and jump through all manner of hoops to prove I am who I am.

Screw that, I muttered to myself as I cut up the card.

That left me with just one card, the AT&T Universal Visa. I was starting to get a little nervous. To have a backup, I went to Banamex here where I had a checking account and requested a credit card. They gave me one with a $10 limit, only a slight exaggeration, and there was a fat annual fee too.

About a year later, I got a hair up my keister about something, and I canceled the card. I hadn’t used it much.

So, back to just one credit card.

THE LETTER

Then the letter came in 2014 from Banamex USA. Your checking account will be canceled shortly. That happened due to a new U.S. law known by its initials, FATCA.

It’s all Barry Obama’s fault, of course.

Banamex USA was my only way to pay off the U.S. credit card. No other option existed.  I do not now qualify for another U.S. bank account. No U.S. address or driver’s license.

That effectively nulled my last credit card. But I never canceled it because, I thought, maybe one day I might need it, though I could not imagine how, where or why. I held onto the account, my final Gringo credit card, a lifeline.

There was no annual fee.

For many months, I was left only with a Banamex debit card, which is not as secure as a credit card, especially online.

I asked for my Banamex credit card again. They wouldn’t reissue it. It was due to FATCA, but they danced around that fact. Irked, I canceled my Banamex account that I’d had for 14 years. They didn’t seem to give a hoot.

Heartless, greedy capitalists!

HUNTING ALTERNATIVES

I opened a checking account just up the street at HSBC-Mexico. I asked for a credit card. Not just yet, they told me. Later maybe. Later came and went. No credit card.

So I went even farther up the street and opened a checking account at Bancomer, still keeping the one at HSBC. Again, I requested a credit card. Wait three months, they said. I waited, and they gave me a credit card. Yipee!

And another for my child bride. For this and other reasons, I’ve become a yuuuge** Bancomer booster.

I requested a credit card from HSBC many times, and they always said no with little explanation. I gave up. Months later, out of the blue, they asked if I wanted one.

I said sure. Go figger.

So now I have credit cards at both Bancomer and HSBC. I also had my AT&T Visa, the Gringo card, till this week, useless as it was, an emotional tie to the old country.

Gone now, like so many other cards and cords.

FORGET AMERICA

My goal these days is to have as little to do with that troubled land above the border as possible. The norm, it seems, for Americans living in Mexico is the opposite, to keep connected to the greatest degree possible.

They keep bank accounts, addresses, homes, relatives. You name it, they keep it. Their Mexican ties seem tenuous.

They’re always visiting up north. They’re always having friends bring down “stuff” they can’t find here, stuff they think they can’t live without. Someone recently posted on a Yahoo forum catering to local Gringos a list of “essential” stuff one needs from above the Rio Bravo. I guffawed.

  1. Workshop tools, as if you cannot find tools in Mexico.
  2. Down comforters, as if Costco doesn’t offer them, and so does Bed, Bath & Beyond.
  3. Mosquito nets, as if they’re not easy to find here.
  4. Smartphones. We Mexicans still use tin cans and string.
  5. Up-to-date laptops. Best Buy, Walmart, Sears, etc., in Mexico just sell crusty Commodores and dusty Ataris.
  6. Linens “to fit your bed.” Somehow, my Mexican linens always fit my beds, both king and queen.
  7. Walking sticks. Certainly, no walking sticks can be found here. I wonder where I found mine?
  8. Good binoculars. Only defective binoculars are sold in Mexico, of course, leftovers from pirate times.

That’s just some of the stuff I saw on the list, all of which is available in Mexico. Do they cost a bit more at times? Sure, but factor in your minuscule electric bill and fresh, cheap veggies and low restaurant tabs, you’re way ahead.

And the beautiful women.

I don’t go north anymore, nor do I have things smuggled down. It ain’t necessary. You can live quite well here with what’s available, and that’s what I try to do.

And now I have no Gringo credit cards at all.

If you read all this, you’re a better man than I am.

* * * * *

* Banamex USA is closing entirely this year. There has long been talk of its involvement in money laundering. HSBC’s reputation along those lines isn’t much better.

** Trump allusion.

(Note: There is a Mexican credit bureau. It has no connection with credit bureaus in the United States, so you start from scratch below the border no matter how good or bad a credit rating you had in the United States.)

Loving BarryCare?

INSURANCE GIANT Aetna has announced huge losses due to participating in Weepy Barry’s apparently laughably named “Affordable Care” scheme.

I say apparently laughable because I do not live above the border and have not set foot in that troubled nation since BarryCare was made law of the land.

I have not felt BarryCare’s pain first-hand.

We here in Mexico, of course, have a superior healthcare system that basically consists of two levels: a government-supported level for poor people that anyone can use, rich or poor, and a private system, which also is open to all.

New ImageThere’s no government healthcare oppression. You get your medical care wherever you want, going wherever you can afford.

Is the bottom level ideal? Of course not. Is it better than nothing? Sho’ nuff! I have always used the private system even though I am enrolled in a free government plan.

Aetna lost $300 million last year due to participating in BarryCare in 15 states. It has canceled plans to go into other states. Forbes says there’s “overwhelming evidence that ObamaCare caused premiums to increase substantially.”

BarryCare is built, to a large extent, as a Pyramid of Cards. The broad base is young people whose premiums essentially underwrite older folks’ coverage. Since young people would not do this voluntarily, they face a tax hammer.

But many young people are finding it cheaper to suffer the tax hammer than to buy costly insurance.

Whoops! Who’d a-thunk it?

It appears that leaving the United States was a wise move on my part. I’m interested in hearing how you Gringos like BarryCare. Is it as bad as I hear?

Here is The Unseen Moon’s first-ever poll.

The vote is anonymous. Don’t be bashful:

Divergent lives

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Roundabouts 1968

THAT’S MY child bride on the right when she actually was a child. The other is a sister, one of many.

They lived in a small town in the State of Michoacán.

My child bride became a civil engineer and, at the age of 42, married her first husband, a Gringo.

This sister, who is one year older, never married anyone, had four babies from two men, and lived for many years with a worthless drunk who is now dead.

Divergent lives.

Fact, Fiction and Opinion Stirred in an Odd Pot

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