Gringo-Mexican retired newspaper editor living in the mountains of Central Mexico since the dawn of the 21st Century. Felipe Zapata is a nom de plume.
Formerly toiled at the New Orleans States-Item (now defunct), the Times-Picayune (New Orleans), The Houston Chronicle and the San Juan Star (also defunct) in Puerto Rico.
ONE OF THE Moon goals is to raise the level of international consciousness. At times this can be done with videos. Personally, I prefer brief videos like this one.
I watch this fellow most every morning. He’s in Sweden, and his YouTube channel is called Sanity for Sweden. But he’s broadened his scope considerably beyond Sweden, and he speaks English quite well and calmly.
Seven centuries ago, he would have been a Viking. His name is Stefan though it could just as easily been Hendrik or Gottfrid.
He’s almost always sitting with a black shirt and vest in front of a stack of firewood. It gets cold in Sweden, of course. The only time I’ve seen him elsewhere was once in his barn sitting in front of an old tractor.
The reason I’m presenting this particular video is his addressing an issue of the U.S. political conflict, especially the #WalkAway movement which, apparently, and I did not know this, the leftists claim is a Russian hoax. Ha! And he speaks too of a longtime Democrat who, out of rare curiosity, decided to attend a Trump rally and what happened.
AUGUST DAWNED chill and gray. I like the chill part.
The first day of any month brings chores. I pay my Megacable bill online. I do my monthly car checks — air, water, oil, etc. And sometimes the first of the month falls atop other chores unconnected to the first of the month. That was the case today because I had to drive downtown early — to avoid heavy traffic — and check my post-office box, which I do every second Saturday. Only one item in the box, which is about par.
Often there is nothing, which I prefer.
I very rarely get mail these days from above the border, and 99.9 percent of the mail in the PO box comes from above the Rio Bravo, invariably pension stuff.
And since it’s Saturday during the rainy season, Abel the Deadpan Yardman came to cut the grass, something he’s doing at this moment as I write to you.
August is the month when the incessant rain becomes obvious in the yard, which gets very beefed up, so to speak, greenery thick and abundant. It looks nice.
We’ll be having beans, rice and sausage for lunch today, and this afternoon we’ll drive to another small burg abutting our lake to look for some religious thing to attach to my mother-in-law’s tombstone in the not-distant town of Taretan.
My child bride and some of her sisters had the tombstone renovated recently because it was in bad shape. She died over half a century ago at the age of 31.
It started for me in 2007 when it came to light that the Obamas had sat for 20 years in the church of the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, he of the “Goddamn America” sermon. Wright was quickly muzzled by Obama’s handlers.
It went downhill from there between me and the Democrat Party for which my entire family had proudly voted for decades.
There was Political Correctness, that ham-fisted ideology that blossomed in the 1990s and just got worse. Later, the lunacy kicked in. Putting fat gals in the Swimsuit Edition of Sports Illustrated in the name of “equality.” Obesity is a serious health issue, not something to be glorified. Obesity isn’t just another valid lifestyle choice.
And there is Cancel Culture. Share our opinion or be fired. From the disturbing, it’s descended into madness. Take Aunt Jemima off the syrup jar. Change the names of sports teams. Don black clothing and masks to march and riot in the streets.
Can’t dress like Pancho Villa for Halloween unless you’re Mexican. Actors can’t play disabled people in movies unless they are themselves disabled.
Last night at the restarting of the NBA games, every player and coach on both teams, 100 percent, took to their knees before the national anthem, thumbing their noses at the flag of the nation that made them wealthy and privileged.
Conservatives are squelched online by Big Tech. Black Lives Matter — which consists to a great degree of white leftists whose aim is Marxism, a word they wisely removed from their website not long ago — still laughably states on its website:
We disrupt the Western-prescribed nuclear family.
The film classic Gone With the Wind is blocked from online streaming. Statues are toppled, not just of Gen. Robert E. Lee but the Great Emancipator Abraham Lincoln himself, which demonstrates a dizzying level of ignorance.
Speaking of nincompoopery, here’s a very smart and brave girl who goes by Cringe Panda online. Her internet fame has skyrocketed since the first of the year. Watch her address the appalling state of public education.
No need to watch the entire thing. The first five minutes will educate you.
All of the above and much more flows totally from the left side of the political divide, those people who vote Democrat. All of it, 100 percent.
And if you are unaware of the things I mentioned, consider finding news sources other than The New York Times, Washington Post, Huffpost and MSNBC.
You’re being duped.
If you are aware of the things I mentioned, and you still vote Democrat, that is far worse, and I’m ashamed of you. But let’s move on to:
The presumed Democrat presidential nominee is that hated thing, an old white man, and decades-long political hack. How did this happen?
It happened because actual Democrat voters, most of whom are not Marxists, participated in the primary elections, and apparently grass-roots Democrats were not happy with the radical choices they saw on the debate stages. Every Democrat, for instance, raised a hand when asked if they supported “free” healthcare for illegal aliens. Even Joe.
Voters opted for the old shoe they knew, smelly as it is.
Tulsi Gabbard, the best of the sorry lot, would have shot her candidacy skyward had she the bravery to leave her hand down to the question of healthcare for illegals. The move would have stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb but in a positive way. She killed her chances with that one raise of the arm.
She was the only one who had a prayer of beating Trump.
He will nominate a radical woman “of color” because the leftist party bosses have him by the short hairs. He’ll do anything to be president. He’d get on all fours and bark.
Take a close look at the vice-presidential nominee, and think hard about how Democrats are running cities and states these days. The riots, lawlessness, Antifa, BLM, high taxes, vagrancy, high-priced housing, tent cities, and so on.
Again, if you’re unaware of these things, consider finding news sources other than The New York Times, Washington Post, Huffpost and MSNBC.
You’re being duped.
Consider doing what I did in 2007: Leave the Democrat Party.
NOT TODAY exactly, but at this point in his life, which is to say, as of tomorrow, I will have lived longer than he did. He died in 1991 at the age I am on this day.
Outliving a parent feels strange. I doubt I will live longer than my mother, however, because she made it to 90. I’m feeling quite creaky already, so another decade and a half doesn’t present much appeal.
I never called him Dad or Father or anything like that. I called him Charlie because that was his name, Charles. His middle name was Born. He was a Junior. I was almost a Third, my paternal grandparents’ wish, but my mother put her foot down on that. My father wanted to name me after Confederate Cavalry Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, but that’s when my mother’s other foot came down.
Since Forrest went on to be a founder of the Ku Klux Klan, that name might have been problematic now were I living above the border. But my father, being a lifelong leftist and advocate of “civil rights,” did not admire Forrest for the Klan connection. He admired him for his generalship. Charlie was a Civil War buff, and Forrest was the best general in the Confederacy.
I guess my father just ignored that Klan crap. People rationalize.
Why I never called him Dad I do not know. And I never called my mother Mom or Mother or anything like that. I called her Dee, a nickname my sister invented.
We were a very odd family and remain so today, those of us still breathing. That would be just three — me, my sister and my daughter. No grandkids, no nieces, no nephews, no aunts, no uncles, nada. My mother often called us peculiar. She was referring to Charlie and his family plus my sister and me, her own kids.
She wasn’t referring to her side, the Powells. They were peanut and cotton farmers in the red clay of southwest Georgia, and not peculiar at all, just country folks, but I loved them more than the peculiar clan on my father’s side.
Charlie’s parents were devout Christians, one Baptist, one Methodist, and his one sibling was a lesbian, and so is mine, which explains the absence of nieces and nephews. The peculiarities go uphill from there. Or downhill.
My father and I were clones. We looked alike, sounded alike, had very similar personalities, were both career newspapermen, a field he entered purposefully, and I entered by necessity. He retired early, and I did too. He was a lousy father and, apparently, I am too.
In retirement he became famous in the small world of Haiku poetry. After I retired, I amused and irritated millions here on The Unseen Moon.
Perhaps that count is a tad high.
There were differences too. He lived through the Great Depression, and it affected him mightily. He detested travel, which I love. He married just once, and I married thrice. There was not an adventuresome bone in his body, and I am the opposite.
He was in the U.S. Army in the waning days of World War II, drafted late due to being almost 30 and having a wife and kids. He was sent to Korea on a troop ship. Yes, Korea, and he had a desk job. I never asked him about that experience. Wish I had.
We didn’t talk much.
On discharge, he returned to Georgia, never wanting to leave again. He had been an Atlanta newspaper editor when drafted, but he returned to start a rural life of chicken farming and writing short stories for pulp magazines. That didn’t pan out, and in about five years he was back in the newspaper business, this time in Florida.
Similarly, I left the newspaper business for a spell when I was in my early 30s in New Orleans, and it too did not pan out. I returned to newspapering in Texas.
We were both boozers, and we each stopped in our mid-50s. Life improved immensely for both when we took that smart step decades apart.
But I was never the drinker he was. I was an amateur in comparison.
I did not much like him, and now I’ve outlived him. Well, hold off on that because he died in the evening of his last day, so I won’t have outlived him till tomorrow.
He died in a hospital in Atlanta where he was overnighting for a colon cancer checkup. His cancer was in remission, they learned on the day he died from a massive heart attack right there in his hospital bed. We didn’t even know he had a heart issue.
I was in the Houston Chronicle newsroom that evening. I phoned him, and we spoke briefly before he brushed me off as he was wont to do. We hung up.
Within minutes, my sister called and said he was dead.
And tomorrow morning, I’ll wake to a day he never reached.