I’m a nincompoop

My town’s plaza with the obligatory church.
Part of that other town’s plaza. Meh.

I’ve resided in what I habitually call my woebegone barrio for 19 years. Another, more formal, name for barrio in Mexico is colonia.

Ever since we built the Hacienda, I’ve thought our barrio was a colonia of the nearby mountaintop town even though there is a fairly open stretch of highway a mile or two between here and the edge of there.

Incredibly, I learned last week that my barrio/colonia is actually a separate town, part of what Steve Cotton refers to as the county over which presides the “county seat,” i.e. the bigger town next door. This “county” has the same name as the neighboring, principal town.

How I have gone 19 years without knowing this can be explained in only one way: I am a nincompoop. That and the fact that I do not socialize with my neighbors. Nor do I participate in civic events.

On mentioning this revelation to my child bride, she said, “I’ve told you that before.” If that is true, and I have my doubts, she did it in the Mexican fashion, low-key, quickly, almost quietly, and she never mentioned it again even though I’ve referred to our colonia a billion times. She just let it slide.

But this discovery pleases me. I like our woebegone barrio, town which, in decades long gone, was referred to as The Village of the Damned. Though we’re not called that anymore, it provides a badass chill up my backbone, which is agreeable.

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The cat invasion

As mentioned in the previous post, cats from the neighbors’ property have grown fond of sneaking over here in the dead of night to sleep and crap on the furniture of our upstairs terraza. Kind readers suggested various solutions.

I have started out with one of those suggestions: Mothballs. Apparently, cats dislike the smell of mothballs. I bought a bag yesterday, put the furniture back in place (sans cushions) and left mothballs. With luck, the cats will have modified their travel habits by springtime, which is when we’ll be sitting out there again, preferably atop cushions.

Mothballs rest on the seats.

The street sweeper

The suburban street on which I lived for nine years (1986-1995) in Houston never required sweeping. I never swept it, and no mechanized street-sweeper ever passed by either. It just stayed clean.

The situation in my hardscrabble barrio now, however, is quite different. It often requires sweeping, and if I don’t do it, nobody does. I did it this morning after a lengthy spell of ignoring it.

The photo does not do the situation justice. It was worse than it appears. First, I use a rake to sift up the plastic cups, the junk-food wrappers, pieces of tossed paper, etc., left by ill-bred passers-by.*

That all goes into a trash can. Then, using a broom and dustpan, I sweep the sidewalk and, far worse, the street of dirt.

The dirt goes into a bucket — two trips today — and I lug it down the street — it’s heavy! — just beyond the white wall on the right side, and I heave it into a ravine.

Speaking of my previous home in Houston, as I’ve mentioned here in the past, I gifted it to my ex-wife a few months after our divorce. Though she was living there, it was entirely mine, but I was concerned about her, and I stupidly gave it to her. What was I thinking?

She did send me a nice card which said: Thank you forever!

Forever was short-lived.

We continued on good terms for the five years I remained in Houston. When I moved to Mexico in 2000, I asked if I could park my pickup in her driveway because I did not know if my Mexico adventure would pan out. When it did, I asked if she could sell the pickup a year later.

Nah, didn’t want to be bothered. I had to fly up there and do it myself.

Just recently, due to our advancing years, I emailed and asked if she has me down to get my house back if she dies before me. Nah, she’s leaving it to someone else.** It’s worth about a quarter-million dollars now, far more than we I paid for it in 1986.

And she doesn’t even have to sweep the street.

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*That’s what my Houston neighborhood lacked: ill-bred passers-by.

**She’s never remarried and has no children, so Lord knows to whom she’s gifting the my house.

‘Diversity is our strength’*

It’s always a hoot when I can combine one of my favorite fellows, the brilliant Dr. Thomas Sowell, with one of my favorite topics, diversity, or rather the imbecility of promoting diversity, i.e. multiculturalism.

Here, Dr. Sowell addresses the topic of diversity and how almost everyone kowtows to it like a numbskull religion without knowing diddley-squat about how it plays out in real life.

Last October, Moon Contributing Editor Simon Webb provided historical evidence of the horrible effects of promoting multiculturalism. You can read that here.

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*When you hear someone say that, know that his cup is only half-full.

The black crackers

I come from Cracker roots, a flatland, southwest Georgia sort of Hillbilly. I remember red-clay roads, mule-hauled wagons, segregated buses and schools, Hereford cows in pastures, cotton fields and black laborers who lived in unpainted shacks, and who pulled water from underground with hand-cranked pumps made of cast iron.

I remember all that and more like it was yesterday.

And most of it has vanished now.

Gone With The Wind.

Above is a video from the Thomas Sowell channel. It focuses on us Southerners, both black and white, and the traits we’ve shared. It offers a compelling explanation for today’s ghetto culture.

America is all up in arms these days about race. It’s a Democrat Party-fueled crisis that normal people of all colors are quite content to put behind us, if only it were permitted.

The obsession with blacks nowadays is so pervasive that it enters the realm of absurdity. And it’s not just America. It’s Europe too, especially Great Britain. Moon Contributing Editor Simon Webb below briefly addresses the irrational focus on blacks that he sees across the pond.

The sequel Webb mentions in the above video follows. He addresses the importance of attitude and how it affects your life.