Downfall of America

Crosses are rarely seen on Unitarian churches, probably never.

I’ve given this topic lots of thought over the past few years. There are numerous reasons for the downfall of America, and I’ll list three here in no particular order of priority.

  1. People who attend the Unitarian Church. As I was a Democrat until 2008, I favored the Unitarian Church for much of my life before moving south of the Rio Bravo. Both of my first two marriages were officiated by Unitarian ministers, and both marriages failed. My third (successful) marriage was officiated by a Catholic judge.
  2. Unmarried women who sport men’s haircuts, especially the older gals. These women invariably embrace horrendous political views, doubly if they live in Philadelphia.
  3. Anyone who listens to National Public Radio. Again, I long was guilty and, again, I have recovered. Sweet music is played on NPR, but between the tunes, you’re fed nuttiness that smites the psyche.

Women who attend Unitarian churches often listen to NPR, and they also have men’s haircuts. The perfect storm.

Do you know what sort of people go to Unitarian Church? People who do not believe in Jesus, but who like to go to church on Sundays.

I never believed in Jesus or had a church-going habit, so I never really went to the Unitarian Church, but when I needed it, there it was, mostly to certify bad marriages.

Far fewer women in Mexico sport men’s haircuts than do women above the Rio Bravo. This is one of the many plusses of living in Mexico. More often than not, when you see a woman down here with a man’s haircut, she’s a nun or wishes she were.

National Public Radio does not exist in Mexico, but you can tune in online. I don’t, but you can. We Mexicans get our ignorance from other sources. Listening to our doofus president is a top choice for many.

Crochet and craziness

We have many crucial topics to cover today, from crocheting to transgendering to the praise of diversity (again!) and on to beauty pageants, so let’s hop right into it.

People cope with the Kung Flu nuttiness in various ways. My child bride flipped from pastry sales on the downtown plaza to staying home and crocheting. Above is her latest creation, a unicorn. She taught herself to do this with the help of YouTube.

Never let a pandemic go to waste.


Now let’s address matters being pushed by leftists, those who think it’s great that Sleepy Joe and Hoor Harris occupy the White House and the man who scored five Nobel Peace Prize nominations, who didn’t start wars, who engineered various Mideast Peace Accords, who crushed ISIS, who accomplished U.S. energy independence, who lowered taxes and reduced economically crippling regulations, boosted border security and the military, etc., has been tossed out the White House door.

By fraudulent means.

First, there is the transgender nonsense, the notion that there are endless sexes, and you’re free to pick one. And then you have the right to compete in sports in the gender of your choice with others who were born to that gender, who had Mother Nature do the picking for them. It’s the Democrat Socialist Party that supports this nincompoopery and we conservatives who oppose it, who embrace the “actual science.”

The race clip shown at the start of this brief video says it all. Plus it demonstrates why even many feminists, in spite of their normally cockeyed stances, see the nuttiness of it.


Moving onto one of my favorite topics, one that I’ve embraced for many years. Yes, way back, over a decade ago, when few people were saying it, I was hollering it out loud. Encouraging multiculturalism is disastrous. And here we are today with almost everyone, all organizations, all businesses, all schools, having it written in their mission statements that they are all about diversity and the promotion of it. It’s a given.

Our buddy Simon Webb addresses the issue brilliantly, as usual.

“Diversity is our strength.” Is it really?


Here in Mexico, federal legislators — undoubtedly ugly female ones — have proposed the outlawing of beauty pageants because “it degrades women.” I pray this American nuttiness does not get a foothold here. Mexicans love beauty pageants and their weather girls. And if Mexico cancels beauty pageants, where will narco bosses get their girlfriends?


Have a nice Valentine’s Day. Hug someone you love or someone you just like.

Any port in a storm.

Happy birthday, Diane

Today is my sole sibling’s birthday. She turns 80, and lives — still I imagine — in a stationary, double-wide trailer* in the Northern California town of Arcata. We have not communicated in nine years. I was the one who called it off.

Around 1955.

She was a good Big Sister in our youth, always having my back, but in her late 30s she got involved in what many consider a cult, and things went drastically downhill from there.

It’s a “therapy” cult that had a guru in New York City. He had many slavish female followers. It’s, not surprisingly, called Social Therapy, and the guru is Fred Newman, now deceased.

I often asked actual therapists whom I ran into if they had heard of Social Therapy, and no one had.

Diane was married briefly in her 20s to a guy I liked. She once said this: “He zips, flips and knows where it’s at.” This was the 1960s, and some people actually talked like that. She dumped him after a few short years, but they remained friends for a spell.

About the same time she enlisted in the cult, she decided she was a Lesbian, and her personality began a descent into fanaticism. She developed a hair-trigger personality. Her politics went hard left. She became a fan of the French writer Michel Foucault. Her guru, Newman, also has a book. My mother and I tried to read it, but it made no sense to either of us. It was utter nonsense, but it became Diane’s Bible.

She was a university English instructor through much of her 20s and 30s, but then she turned to her “therapy.” The cult runs “therapy” centers, which are actually traps, around the United States, and she co-managed one in Atlanta. She found a partner, a California woman named Roxan who was divorced with three adult children. They stayed together for decades till Roxan died about four years ago, something I learned on Facebook.

They moved from Atlanta to Arcata to be near Roxan’s family, most of whom were not overly fond of Diane. So they were two divorcees, one with kids, who had flipped to Lesbianism. I liked Roxan quite a bit. Unlike Diane, she was not explosive. She was cuddly.

Diane had a falling out with the co-manager of the cult’s Atlanta outpost, so she opened a private therapy practice that focused mostly on occupational issues, and later became a “life coach.” You may have heard of that relatively new field. It’s all the rage. Interestingly, my second ex-wife also became a “life coach” after our divorce.

I have been surrounded by female “therapists” for years. My first ex-wife is a therapist. My daughter became a therapist. And there, of course, is Diane. I wonder if she still practices. Her website remains online but looks inactive.

Until I canceled my Facebook account a few months ago, I used to look at Diane’s page where she almost daily posted “Woke” pronouncements and other leftist, PC nuttiness.

Many people mellow with age. I have. She hasn’t. And today she is 80. I wonder if someone brought her a cake.


* Which I learned via Google Street View.

Where hippies still live

hippie

YESTERDAY ON the main plaza downtown, I noticed this old gent. He looks like a Gringo, not a Mexican, but I cannot be sure.

I’m guessing he took the wrong exit out of Woodstock in 1969 and ended up South of the Border when he intended to head toward Haight-Ashbury.

That strange Americans, sometimes on the lam but usually not, have long moved to Mexico is a fact. But many more normal folks are now retiring here because it’s cheaper, and because they think Mexicans are sooo nice. Earlier on, many came down to escape their lives north of the border. That was certainly my story. Escape.

Speaking of hippies, fellow retired newspaperman and blogger Al Lanier recently said there are no hippies in San Miguel de Allende near where he lives. I burst out laughing because there certainly are, thousands of them.

I’d wager that 90 percent of the mess of Gringos who move to San Miguel were stoned and swaying during 1967’s Summer of Love. Probably the fellow in the photo was there too. But San Miguel’s former hippies are now simply far older and wealthier.

* * * *

When I arrived home yesterday afternoon, I noticed this view, the colors and light mostly but the bougainvillea too. This is one of my three bougainvilleas that know their places. My sole monster bougainvillea will join them soon in size and good breeding.

But mostly, I just like the late-afternoon colors. The name of the paint color on that wall is Hacienda Red. Really. But any nincompoop can see it’s orange.

bougain
I subject this plant to stern discipline.