The other direction

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Pirates buried here?

THE BEST-LAID plans often fly awry. Our plan yesterday of doing lunch on the shore of a nearby, high-mountain, lake was thwarted by a huge traffic jam caused, it appeared, by the balloon festival downtown.

So we went in the other direction.

We ended up in a restaurant just past a village with the cute name of Tzintzuntzan where we had fish and chicken and mole and guacamole and sopa Tarasca.

Instead of returning directly home after dining, we continued all the way around our local high-mountain lake, a jaunt of just under an hour, depending.

This route is a rural two-laner with spectacular views of mountains and lake. One passes wandering burros and indigenous women toting this, that and the other.

During the ride, I snapped the above photo of a cemetery gate. The photo might have been better had I not forgotten that I’d put the camera on video mode earlier.

It was on video mode because just as we were leaving for lunch, it started pouring rain. I stood on the veranda and used the video of my Canon camera for the first time.

The rain ended quickly, and we had a great afternoon. At times, the other direction is the best route.

It’s a good Rule of Life.

Object of envy

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How it looked today, June 30 of 2016.

HERE I SIT on the veranda, just in from the morning walk around the neighborhood plaza, something I do most days to maintain my boyish physique and high humor.

I am an ideal object of envy. No job. No money worries. My health is good. My wife is young and beautiful. The weather is wonderful. Waffles and maple syrup (100%) await.

Birds sing. Burros bray. Horses neigh. Dogs bark. Hogs oink. All within earshot, night and day. And last night till 2 a.m., musicians howled on the plaza, so we slept with earplugs, something that doesn’t warrant envy, alas.

Hereabouts 11 a.m., the sky is blue and white. The temperature is 69. My utility bills are low, and my grass is high, green and damp. My wives are all alive and my daughter too.

I have no dogs, no cats, no outstanding bills, and both of our cars run smoothly though they could use a wash. It’s the rainy season, a constant battle for self-respecting vehicles.

The waffles are ready now, I’m advised. The maple syrup too, the daily second breakfast around the hour of 11.

It’s an enviable position in which to find oneself.

Rise for the judge

TWO “RAPE” CASES have gotten lots of buzz above the Rio Bravo.  Here’s how Judge Zapata would have ruled:

(1) At a Stanford University frat party, a young woman, 23, got herself plastered, passed out, and a horny boy, 19, had his way with her behind a dumpster. How romantic.

She reportedly was unconscious during the encounter, a vital point to remember as we move along.

New ImageA judge gave the frat boy a six-month sentence, which has hordes of people up in arms. A petition for his recall has many thousands of signatures.

The boy is the primary guilty party, of course. The girl is the secondary guilty party, in spite of feminist blather that the “victim” never shares any fault at all.

In this case, she does, big-time.

If she hadn’t drunk to excess — her choice — and passed out at a frat party surrounded by boozed-up, hormone-charged adolescents and young men, she would not have had her skirt lifted. Where was her brain?

Since she was unconscious during the booze-fueled event, she was not traumatized in spite of a long, weepy letter she sent to the judge after sobering up and hoping to excuse herself.

And she wasn’t a virgin. No university coed of 23 is these days with the possible exception of Brigham Young University students, certainly not at Stanford.

Had I been the judge, my sentence would be this:

For the horny frat boy: 40 days of community service.

For the very stupid girl: 30 days of community service.

I wouldn’t have been recalled. I would have been tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a burro’s backside.

Such are the silly times in which we live.

* * * *

(2) A woman schoolteacher — I forget where — was arrested and charged after it came to light that she had an ongoing sexual relationship with a male student, aged 13. She faces some very serious hard time in prison. Decades.

This is arrant nonsense.

A grown man taking advantage of girl of 13 is one thing, but it’s different when the roles are reversed. In spite of current cultural fads, males and females are very different.

The boy of 13 was not abused. As a former teenager — and every honest man is nodding his head — I can tell you without the slightest chance of being mistaken, that the kid has a smile plastered permanently on his face, and all his guy friends are giving him high-fives. The teacher is a looker.

Here is what Judge Zapata would do in this case:

Fire the teacher. Period. She clearly lacks sufficient sense and self-control for the job. Better that she works at Hooters.

But prison? Gimme a break.

* * * *

The court is now out of session. The judge is napping.

* * * *

(Note: The first sexual encounter would never have been publicized had not two European grad students happened by. It would have been just another of thousands of inebriated sexual encounters that occur at boozed-up frat parties.)

Little comas

THE HUMAN body does strange things.

For instance, we spend a third of our lives in a coma, a state of suspended animation. We have a soft place to lie down for this, and we put on comfy clothing, or we just strip naked.

I refer to our need for sleep, of course.

I sleep like the proverbial log, normally. It helps to not have something worrying you. Have you noticed that worries magnify magnificently at night? A trifling concern in daytime becomes a monster worry after the lights go out.

And then when you wake in the morning, that same worry shrinks to its proper proportion, easily resolved.

My child bride worries about everything, so she doesn’t sleep as soundly as I do. She has a mob of relatives, all of whom have big-time issues, being Mexican and all, and she worries about every one of those relatives, nonstop.

I don’t worry about her relatives at all, and I only have two on my side. My daughter who lives in a field of clover, and my nutty sister whom I have not heard from in three years.

You’d think I might worry about that latter, but I do not. Quite the contrary. It gives me peace of mind.

Unlike lots of aging men, I don’t get up repeatedly at night to take a whiz. Just once, usually. Sometimes not even that. My svelte body  works well — he said, as he knocks on wood, the desk I had made by carpenters years back.

This happened just once last night, about 4 a.m. Waking up at night here is interesting. There are sounds. Last night, I heard a burro bray and there were the unsettled chickens that overnight in the neighbors’ apple tree.

croissantIt’s also said we require less sleep as we age. I haven’t found that to be true. I get a good seven or eight hours as always.

Maybe my nights pass smoothly because I have a beautiful babe next to me, even if she is fretting over relatives.

Our comas end with bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese or, on special occasions, croissants and orange marmalade.

It’s a great way to return from the world of the comatose.