gooooal!!!! gol,gol, gooooal!!!

I am so sick of hearing this. Since it's World Cup and I am lost in the third world it's the only news available. We, they,are mesmerized by 'fubol' We, they, listen to or watch every single game of the World Cup.

Supposedly, there are just 65 games in total that make up the World Cup. It's really closer to 65 thousand and they try to play it down. When a game is finished it should be done with but, it is not. On off days when no live games are scheduled yesterday's games or the day's before that are replayed. Endless panels of sports writers, ex-jocks and pundits review every bit of minutia known to man for every team.

In the case of the big name teams likd Brazil, Germany and Argentina we are titillated with their past games. I mean way in the past. Scratchy black and white films from the forties, fifties and so on may be found on several channels far into the wee hours.

It's not that I am so against 'futbol' it's just that as a person not weaned on the game it becomes a monotonous overkill.

Yes, I know, in the U.S. they drone on and on over the Super Bowl and the World Series and a heavyweight title fight but, these are singular events. Even the World Series can't last more than seven games. But, each of these events has an ending. When they're over they're finished until the next time. Not so with World Cup 'futbol'. It goes on for a month and It only takes place every four years so, therefore, its newsworthiness is eternal.

We, they, will relive, re-watch and re-evaluate, each game of the 2006 World Cup, praying the outcome will be different, for the next four years.

We, they, will hear that obnoxious voice a million more times screaming: Goooal!! Gol,gol, goooal!!!

God, if only they allowed pistols in the arena.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

Unlike art and sex, money always arouses interest. - Mason Cooley


MEXICO (as I see it):


In Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico there is a Lenten carnival which is said to be the third largest in the world. The first, of course, is Carnival in Brazil. The second is Mardi Gras in New Orleans and then Mazatlan. These carnivals continue non stop for seven days. I was living in Mazatlan during a Lenten celebration and
feel lucky that I am here to tell about it.

A Lenten carnival is a real circus, if that is possible. The first three days I was able to sleep very little. After that exhaustion demanded its due.

The noise level is incredible. The loudest noise is the music. The duration of each song is exceeded only by the number of bands
playing simultaneously. The decibel level rivals the disco scene
and, remember, all of the bands are outdoors.

I have never seen a greater display of organized debauchery in my life. The plan seems to be to get the largest number of people as drunk as humanly possible and to compact them as tightly together as the oxygen supply will support. Then they are cordoned off into a few city block area and cut loose to dance,sing and do a ton of other stuff.

One is buffeted, pushed, stepped on, rubbed and felt in a crowd so dense that one's arms are pinned to one's sides. There is a nose-to-tail procession that creeps along at a snail's pace. A giant pulsating, bouncing mass of humanity showered in confetti, masked and unmasked, costumed to nearly naked, gyrating to wild Sinaloan rhythms.

My apartment happened to be within the cordoned area. A few
feet from the front gate was a gigantic beer tent. I was so
close to the 24 hour a day action that I soon felt like a carny.
But the worst, or best, of it, depending on what you like, was the 'buena vista' my third floor apartment afforded. Directly
below my balcony, erected over an open manhole, was a two section, open roof shithouse!

Perhaps I'm being a little unfair concerning this spectacular event. Yes, there is some pushing and shoving, some rudeness and crudeness but there is also an exuberance of the human spirit. The atmosphere is electric with energy. It is truly a grand celebration.

The music, constant and vibrant, works its way into your soul and soon has you absorbed in an endless series of hip-swinging, finger snapping and toe tapping activities that translate to any language, any culture.

There is a barrage of stunning colors. A range of fantastic
hues from the rainbow arrangement of the 'carros alegoricals'
(parade floats), to the golden sparks of light emanating from the
ebony eyes of the children.

Styles of dress, representing almost all the states of Mexico, are exhibited in their finest tradition. Bows, ribbons, wrappings and sashes of all the colors the eye can absorb. Whites, leafy greens, lavenders and shocking pinks. Dresses with piping and stripes and dots clinging to mahogany brown skin.

Cowboy hats, silver buckles and boots. The black hair, ivory teeth and red lips provide a panorama as multi-colored as the
confetti which floats about forming kaleidoscopic snow drifts.

The foods, which are served from a thousand carts located in any direction one chooses to walk, are as varied and colorful as the native costumes. Treats from Oaxaca, Durango and San Luis Potosi. Specialties from cities as diverse as Monterrey, Morelia and Merida. The aromas of things sizzling and simmering over fires, built with wood carried from home by the vendors, are enough to make one forget the pageantry for a moment and 'belly
up'.

The myriad of dancers, both professional and regular, are of a special Sinaloan type. They are, at the same time, finely
synchronized and out of control. The dances themselves have a prancing quality about them which can only be compared to the hi-jinks of a parade pony or the stately strut of the peacock.

All in all, I suppose, the aura which surrounds this massive pouring forth of emotion out-weighs the bawdy rowdiness that occurs at the earthly level. Beside we have the next 40 days to
recuperate.

Reading the daily news...

can make one say 'damm it'.

Rush Limbaugh, wingnut radio's fat, pasty, defender of Republican mentality was delayed for three hours at an International airport because he was carrying prescription drugs that were not in his name.

Whose name were they in? A doctor's. What was the drug? Viagra! Where was Rush returning from? The Dominican Republic renowned for sex tourism. Coincidental? Maybe not.

Now, I'm not particularly against Viagra or sex tourism. What I am against is this pompous, sanctimonious, hypocritical, fat,
pasty, trumpeter of Republican values who presumes to speak for the rest of us.

How does he maintain an audience that runs into the millions, who internalize his every pasty word? I don't know. But, I know it's part of what makes America so scary.

Oh yeah, Limbaugh explained his Viagra was in a doctor's name for 'privacy reasons'. Better go to plan 'B' Rush.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities - Voltair


MEXICO (as I see it):


In Mexico it is wise to remember that one should, one ought to, one absolutely must... carry toilet paper.

AND

In Mexico, the auto horn demands total and immediate human response. If you are honked at you are supposed to either run toward the sound or away from it depending on whether you know
the driver.

I hope you all feel safer...

now that Brother Corey and his gang have been captured.

Have any of you seen this guy? He's just another jive-ass homey who can't put together an intelligible sentence in English let alone destroy Chicago. He's been labeled as a 'home grown' terrorist. He looks and sounds more like a home grown pothead.

If al Qaeda is depending on this dufus they're going to get their asses kicked.

Oh, something else interesting. One of Brother Corey's crew, called Brother Sunni by the FBI, is known to his own sister as Sonny. All his life. Curious little play on words don't you think?

I guess Brother Sonny doesn't sound as diabolical in the headlines. Hard to keep people frightened with nothing but a Brother Sonny. A Brother Sunni though makes it a different story.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

The urge to save humanity is almost always a false face for the urge to rule it. ~ H.L. Mencken


MEXICO (as I see it)


Culture shock is a real thing. Anybody who has changed homelands will testify to it. Here in Mexico, we foreigners seem to feel we are the only ones who must face up to it but, culture shock cuts both ways as I recently found out from a Mexican friend.

My friend is an executive, impeccably educated, from a well to do family, who has recently returned from a year in Boston Massachusetts. He was fortunate enough to be selected to be a Sloan Fellow and attended a one year seminar on international
finance at M.I.T. University.


When I asked him about his experiences I was devilishly delighted to hear that, even he, had been stupefied by certain cultural folderol.

As it happened the Sloan Fellows were divided into working teams of four people each. Since the one hundred participants were half American and half foreign business men the teams were correspondingly a mixture of nationalities. My Mexican friend was teamed with two Americans and a Japanese.

It was also arranged by M.I.T. that the team members socialize together as an extension of their total American experience. The whole program was sophisticated and well thought out. No plan, however, can touch all bases and in such a diverse conglomeration of people there were bound to be gliches.

My friend told me of the first dinner party he and his wife were invited to, hosted by the Japanese couple. He had received a written invitation, which my friend thought was very formal since the team spent every day working together. But stranger yet, the invitation not only noted the hour of the dinner party, which was 7:00 P.M., but also included the hour of departure, which was 11:00 P.M. There it was then, completely arranged, down to the going home time.

Well, you can be sure that my friend was unable to grasp the concept. In Mexico it would be folly to put a departure time on
an invitation, unthinkable. A party in Mexico goes until the guests decide it's over. A host understands that if he invites
his Mexican friends to a party at his house he is in for the
duration even if it means breakfast the next morning. And, no one is looked on as inconsiderate for wishing to continue the festivities. Anyone even mentioning the lateness of the hour would be thought to be a wet blanket, a party-pooper or worse.

In Mexico, the stated time a given event is slated to begin is only the vaguest of suggestions. It makes no pretense at being accurate. In fact, if one were to arrive at a Mexican party precisely on the hour indicated on the invitation it would border on bad taste and everyone involved would be embarrassed. A guest of such punctuality would be rewarded with a painful hour, or so, wait with no chips, dip or drinks. He will sit, with nothing to do but listen to muffled voices coming from the back rooms as he waits for his hosts to bathe and dress so they may come out to greet him. Talk about anti-climatic.

If it's a dinner party you've been invited to and you show up at the appointed hour packing a serious appetite you may faint dead away before the first morsel of food appears. Dining at 10 or 10:30 P.M. here in Mexico is very common.

With this in mind my friend was surprised when his phone rang at 7:45 P.M. and when he answered finding his Japanese host on the line.

"Hello"

"Hello, Gustavo? It is already 7:45 P.M. and we cannot begin to eat until you arrive. Are you coming or not?" said the host speaking English in a peevish yet sing-song accent.

"Yes, of course were coming. I'm sorry we have held you up." my friend said feeling a little wounded by the man's tone.

It was a cultural lesson not soon forgotten. Promptness in some parts is considered indispensable and any bending of it will not be looked upon with humor. Anyway, my friend and his wife quickly showered and threw on some clothes and sped for their Japanese friend's house.

Once arrived there were no preliminaries before being seated to dine. No chat, no chips, no dip, no cocktails, but straight to the, now overdue, dinner. It was clear to my friend he had missed the preliminaries and they were not to be resurrected for late arrivals.

One more thing I....

didn't know about Mexico. What's new huh? I haven't known anything about this place since I first walked across the border in 1987. Found this quote on a Latin News web site:

[equality of the sexes] That's a relatively new idea in Mexico, where women weren't allowed to vote — or even be defined by the constitution as citizens — until 1953.

1953! Probably sounds neolithic to most of you but, I assure you, it was not all that long ago.

In 1953: Stalin, the scourge of the U.S.S.R. died. Goerge C. Marshall won the Nobel Peace Prize for developing the Marshall Plan which led the way to NATO, an organization which still exists. Everyone's favorite guy, Richard Nixon was Vice President.

Sir Edmund Hillery and his partner scaled Mount Everest. Yankees beat the Dodgers in the World Series. The first edition of TV Guide was published as was Playboy magazine.

The Pulitzer Prize for literture went to Ernest Hemingway for Old Man And The Sea. The Oscar for Best Picture went to The Greatest Show On Earth produced by Cecil B. DeMille.

And I? I returned from working on a salmon fishing boat off the coast of Bellingham Washington and in March of 1954 joined the Marine Corps at the ripe old age of 17. So, you see, it couldn't have been that long ago.

To this day, in Mexico, women in rural or remote areas are not permitted to participate in politics and I'm sure, many of them still don't know they are citizens.


My new favorite bumper sticker: WAR IS NOT PRO-LIFE.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

For me a religious experience is walking into a really good New York Jewish deli. - my mom (KOS)


MEXICO (as I see it):

Playing chicken on the sidewalk is a favorite Mexican game.

Who must cede the right-of-way is like a reproduction of 'Little'
John and Robin Hood on the bridge.

On rushing young women play the game best, that is to say,
they are the most possessive of their sidewalk space. The women come straight at their target and act as if they are going to
walk right over the top of the other person. A collision is averted at the last possible second as someone veers slightly
whizzing past the other so closely that their hair wafts in the ensuing breeze and a whiff of bath soap and perfume may be
smelled for five paces after the near miss.

It's hotter than a ......

four balled tom cat. As some uncouth marine, fireman, gandy-dancer or other illicit type I have called buddy said.

Can't keep up with the garden. It's slowly losing its luster to the too hot sun. I feel guilty that I'm not doing more to battle the elements and save the little pansies. But, I'm about as withered as they are so I decided to save myself.

Now it's up to the rain gods and you know how chicken shit they are.

As you know from reading Bamboo Lemur Boys...etc., today is Fathers' Day. Leti always makes an issue of it even though we have no children in common. She insisted we do something. We decided to buy a bag of shrimp and treat ourselves.

Seafood is what we go for when there's an 'occasion'. It's probably because seafood is so expensive that never buy it unless there's something up.

Half the bag went for making shrimp cocktails. The rest were pan fried 'a mole de ajo'. Mole de ajo is nothing more than lots of smashed garlic in melted butter and cooking oil. Really yummy but, I pay for it with the garlic burps several hours later.

Leti makes an 'agua fresca' from the leaves of a tree known as the 'Challa' tree. The resulting water, of the same name, is green. Dark green to start with but, as it settles it becomes pale green ( a more agreeable shade). It's a very refreshing drink. A tall glass of 'agua de challa' goes very well alongside a brandy over ice.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

And what can be more obscene than our own imaginations? - Mark Twain


MEXICO (as I see it):

Note: This article was written in the ninties. The dry laws have been largely elliminated, except around election time. The national presidential election will be held on July 2nd so I thought the piece might still be of interest.


Mexico is still subjected to what used to be called 'Blue 'Laws in the United States. Everybody can remember 'dry days'. Here it is referred to as 'Ley Seca' or the 'Dry Law'.

To a drinker it seems like the Ley Seca is in effect about a hundred days a year. Actually, on a non-voting year the law is implemented about twelve or fifteen times a year. But, every sixth year there is the presidential election plus state gubernatorial and senatorial elections. All this activity spawns an extra five or six 'dry days' during said year.

The purpose of these stoppages of liquor sales is not exactly clear. The government would like us to believe that the no drinking days insure a more wholesome voter turnout. This concept seems to imply that without such restrictions a significant percentage of the registered voters of Mexico would be too drunk to make it to the polls and voice their opinions.

Few people agree with the government's perception of the issue. In the first place any Mexican citizen, who is a serious drinker, like serious drinkers throughout the world, already knows when these dry days are scheduled. He and his buddies simply load up the night before to bridge the gap. So, the only drinkers who get caught short are the tourists and a few members of the ex-patriot community, none of whom are allowed to vote, drunk or sober.

A more likely reason behind this enforced abstinence is that the government is not at all sure it can handle the populous if they had a snoot-full and began to talk over the pitiful state of affairs extant in their country after generations of political corruption and dry laws.

It's one thing for citizens to intellectually accept that they are victims of unscrupulous mercenaries but, quite another, when they get lit up and start feeling a certain comradeship. A little booze can sometimes give people the courage of their convictions. They begin nodding to each other, putting their arms around each other's shoulders and comparing notes. Once they feel insulted as a people, as a nation, instead of as isolated individuals they are apt to get vociferous about their situation.

A noisy populous, fired up and expressing its distaste for the powers that be can reign havoc on an election day. The government has the forces to control such a demonstration, as they proved in 1968 in the Zocolo of Mexico City, but, in 2006 they really can't afford another shot of worldwide condemnation. After the assassination of a Bishop in broad daylight at the Guadalajara Airport and the shooting of Colosio, the ruling party's presidential candidate, and implicating members of the sitting president's family in the murder, the country could hardly stand another jolt.

The peso is already on its ass and Mexico's looking outside its borders for band-aids to stop the hemorrhaging so any new moves to maintain the status quo, at the on going expense of the people, would poison any and all pleas for monetary assistance by the government.

To avoid all the international chaos Mexico just tries to keep alcohol out of the equation. It's probably a good idea but, with a shot of inspiration from the agave plant things might open up a little and the Mexicans might do a bit of creative voting.

The 'Ley Seca' serves only a very narrow range of interests and all of those are aimed at taking advantage of people's natural reluctance to 'talk back' or 'make a fuss'. Besides, the Mexicans could hardly do any worse voting drunk than they have done voting sober for the past century.

Well, either way, good luck Mexico and ¡Salud!

Very hot and humid...

as we wait for the mythical rainy season. Garden is beginning to look puny. Hardly enough water pressure to give it a good soaking by hose. Even my 5 sq. meter lawn has lost some of its enthusiasum. Looks like the plants will have to make do just like the rest of us. I never promised them a rose garden.

But, at least, the latest demolishing of bricks and concrete has come to an end. After tearing them down they had to be put back in a neat and orderly fashion. It's sort of like the Myth of Sisyphus, Mexican style. Finally, though, the washing machine no longer needs to be hooked up to the hose to be filled. And, the hose has its very own spigot.

Glory be! With such advancements can the Twentieth Century be far off?


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

The meek shall inherit the earth . . . if that's alright with everyone else - anon.


MEXICO (as I see it):


Children dominate every household. The younger the child the more consideration it is given. They are doted on by every member of the family and satisfying their whims becomes a communal responsibility. Small children are spoiled, demanding and, at times, overbearing but there is never any question that they are loved.

There is a point at about age 8 or 9 years of age when children begin to abandoned their infant ways and become more reserved, and surprisingly mature, allowing those behind them to take over center stage.

One of the up sides in all this close contact living is that a
Mexican child is never uncomfortable having to express itself in front of others. It is not intimidated by any numbers of strangers. A small child may enter a crowded shop, push its way to the head of the line, standing on tip toes, to put his money on the counter and begin insisting on service. And, they'll be served immediately. Nobody in the busy shop will take offense.

Children seem to understand their rights and will not take no for an answer. If a youngster interrupts a living room full of chatting adults and wants someone to go for a walk someone will comply, often a teen aged person, because the child's desires are considered as important as anybody else's.

When I see how awkward and uncommunicative many American kids are, myself included during those years, I begin to wonder if there's not something to that 'it takes a village' idea.

Yesterday was another day of....

celebration. The fiesta was for a kids' confirmation. Personally I believe remaining un-confirmed is the safer route, but, that's just me.

As always a lot of food, tons of people and me with my cooler packed with ice cubes, a tumbler and a half pint of brandy. I leave the ice chest in the car. That way I can slip away when I'm feeling needy and I don't attract attention with the rattling of ice cubes.

This party was not too bad. I wandered, as usual, from room to room, corner to corner but I had an out here. My brother-in-law, at whose house we were, has a dog. The dogs' name is 'bandito' or 'bandy' for short.

Bandy is not a nice dog. In fact, there are only two people who can approach Bandy without inviting bodily harm. One, is my sister-in-law who feeds the beast everyday. The other is me.

They've had the dog for nearly eight years and the husband, the kids, neighbors and visitors dare not offer a finger through the fence of his enclosure. Bandy is no bluffer, he will, if given a chance, bite the shit out of you.

On the other hand, Bandy need only hear my voice from inside the house and he becomes overwrought with leaping, tail wagging and little friendly doggy noises. I go to him and sit on the step at the entrance to his kennel and he sticks his paw through the fence, while I scracth his ears. Bandy forces his muzzle through the fence sniffs my ears, hair and neck. This strange alliance is considered no less than a phenomenon among the family. Bandy and I have been the source of several photos which are shown to those who would not believe it when told.

It all began about four years ago when Bandy and I had a serious run in. I was alone in my brother-in-laws' house when some workmen came and said they needed access to a wall which was part of the fierce Banditos' quarters. I said OK, just let me corral the dog first.

Well, I found out damn quick that Bandy had never been corraled and was not about to start that day. I will spare you the details but I was nearly bitten and Bandy was almost garroted.

After that, a mutual respect took over between us. It seems Bandy was willing to see me as papa dog and from that day till now he has been nothing but cordial to me.

So, I passed a goodly portion of the fiesta sitting with Bandy and letting him sniff my whiskey stuff. It turned out to be a nice day.


QUOTATION OF THE DAY:

A country cannot simutaeously prepare and prevent war - Albert Einstein


MEXICO (as I see it)



One of the most fun and culturally educational things to do in Guadalajara is find a major intersection where the traffic light has gone out and settle in the shade to watch the action. 'Oh sure, you say, 'like I've got all day to search for a broken 'semaphoro'.

It's not as difficult as you might think, there are certain
traffic signals that are chronically ill and are good for several
hours entertainment every week. And when the rains come traffic lights all over the city go on strike.

The resulting game, at such an intersection, is what the
gringos call a 'free-for-all smerge'. 'Smerge' meaning something
between a smash and a merge. It's a noisy, gutsy, contest which
borrows a little from the World Tag-Team Wrestling Federation
and also from a rugby scrum. It's good for a laugh or two until one gets thirsty.


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

We left off here:

How outlandish of her to titillate herself with images of a total stranger;a man who wandered the beach carrying parts from cars and ropes and God knows what all!


The widow raised the binoculars to check her Viking's progress and, as she watched him, her attitude began to soften, 'Besides,' she mused, 'I love him. If it is true that love triumphs over all then there is still a possibility that we may yet live out my dreams. One day we will laugh over today's odd occurrences.'

It made the widow smile to envision such a scene, as she was watching her Viking splashing along on his inner tube carrying the knife between his teeth. He was paddling farther out than usual and while he did so, the widow sipped her coffee and allowed the
rhythmic roar of the ocean breakers to carry her away. Again, she began contemplating the future, having already forgotten the weighty vows she had made only moments before.

The widow knew her Viking was a clever man and witty too. Men like that often do the unexpected and this morning's high jinks were nothing more than an example of such whimsy. She forgave him for shocking her so and loved him all the more for being so charming.

At last, he stopped paddling and the Widow Mora brought him into focus the best she was able considering how far out he had gone. She could see that he was taking the pouch from around his neck and began to open it while still holding the knife, or whatever it was, between his teeth. The sun was bright, its rays glittered on the bouncing surf making it difficult for the widow to see
precisely what was taking place. She could tell that he had unwrapped whatever it was in the pouch because he had thrown both the leather bag and the cellophane wrapping into the water.

The Widow Mora tried adjusting the field glasses every way she knew but the distance, the sun's sparkling reflection, and the constant motion of her Viking bobbing in the choppy sea made it impossible to improve her view. Whatever it was he had taken from the pouch was not very large and appeared to be black in color.

Suddenly, the stranger took the knife from his mouth, raised his arm and with a downward thrust stabbed the inner tube. The widow stiffened and gripped the binoculars tightly. In another, almost matter-of-fact, motion he held the black object to his head and the Widow Mora saw a tiny puff of white smoke against the azure
blue of the sea. She gasped, almost choking, as her Viking's body gave a spasmodic jerk, with both legs kicking upwards as if attached to strings. His body folded double and sank through the center of the tube.

What is he doing?! Was this some sort of dive or other experiment? How will he be able to swim in those heavy clothes? "My God," she cried out, seeing now that the deflated inner tube had also sunk out of sight. She tried training the field glasses in exactly the same position, waiting for her Viking to surface, but, her breathing had become so uneven and her chest was heaving so strongly that the binoculars moved up and down. The
widow was not sure if she remained focused on the right spot. The sunlight shimmering on the water and the pulsation of the sea served to obscure her point of reference. She began moving the glasses a little hoping to relocate the point where she had last seen her Viking.

For long minutes the Widow Mora stood frozen by her window not daring to move a muscle lest she lose her place in the sea. After a time, however, her arms became numb with exhaustion and she, finally, had to lower the binoculars. She remained by the bedroom window the whole morning staring, dumbly, at the horizon.

Topolomo grew more desolate as time went on. The tourists never did come as the locals had hoped. Now and again a few young people would pass through, either lost or backpacking, but no one ever stayed more than a day or so.

The Widow Mora continued her life pretty much as always. A week after she lost sight of her Viking she had Cee Cee return the binoculars to the storage room. She did not go to her bedroom window very often because her eyes would always rivet on an imaginary spot in the open sea, and to look there saddened her, forcing her to turn away. She sometime wondered if the nylon bag still lay hidden in the under brush, but she supposed not. Someone
had probably pick it up by now. The widow thought once that she might like to have it but never could bring herself to descend the stone stairs to retrieve it.

The Widow Mora began sleeping later and sometimes forgot to comb her hair. Cee Cee no longer had to lay out fresh clothing at night and she was told to move the serving cart away from the window and put it where it belonged.

THE END

I just read an article...

which should make us all update our opinions on religion.

I cannot, now, document the source but, you can trust me, I read it on a news website. It was neither fiction nor the fanciful imagination of some crazy.

It seems the ultra-orthodox Jewish community is at a crossroads. It has been discovered that the wigs, yes I said wigs, ultra-orthodox women are required to wear to cover their natural hair are made from human hair bought in India. What's the big deal you have a right to ask?

Indian hair is not kosher! First, the Hindus are non believers in Jewish law. That, in itself, makes their hair unfit for Jewish women to wear. Secondly, much of the hair has been dyed or tinted rendering it non-kosher.

The very wearing of wigs has the rabbi's in a quandry. Some of them say wigs are better than the traditional scarves the women of old had to wear. Why?, because, according to these learned gentlemen, there is less chance of a lock of hair slipping out from under a wig and being seen by men. However, others among the sages explain the wigs violate the spirit of the Judaic laws of modesty. Modesty? Since when can a wig be considered modest?

To me, there are some glaring questions that any intelligent human, Jewish or otherwise, should ask about such a 'law'.

First, what is it with Semitic men? The Jews can't stand the sight of a woman's hair, Arabs find it necessary to completely cover their women so not an ankle or an elbow may be seen. Are we to understand that Semitic men are so virile, so sexually charged that with only a glimpse of an ear lobe they are compelled to rape and sexually humiliate the perpetrator?

I've met some pretty horny guys in my time but, all, but the most perverted among them, would not dare claim such 'rights'. I think Semitic men hide their women behind canonic law to avoid having some other man offer his wife what he will not or cannot.

Secondly, how does the dietary law of 'kosher' get extended to human hair? I thought it applied to pickles and lunch meats. Bleaching or tinting or highlighting isn't 'kosher'? Who knew?

All of this makes me wonder about religion in general. Perhaps these ridiculus 'laws' are just made up by a male society that wishes to subjugate their women because women are a lot easier to deal with if they are subjugated.

Maybe, a simpler way to resolve the dilemma is to send Semitic men to a school where they can learn how to act right.

Don't even get me started on the religious cults in Kentucky, Jamaica,Louisiana and Brasil. Just don't!


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

When your dream comes true, You're out one dream ~ Nerissa Nields


MEXICO (as I see it):


There exists a sort of destructive personality among the Mexicans.

Nothing is sacred, so to speak. Nothing is worth saving or preserving if they are angry with it or need it for money making
purposes.

Things that really count are regularly exploited or destroyed to make way for something else; trees, rivers and lakes are paid lip service but are cut down, cleared, dried up, diverted, polluted or contaminated and every Mexican pretends not to notice.

These same people, however, will safeguard forever some meaningless piece of trivia they have picked up on a visit to Sea
World or some faded, fuzzy thing they played with as a child.

Is this a case of being pennywise and pound foolish or am I missing something?


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

we left off here:


There had been too much confusion already for the Widow Mora and now, with the pouch and all, she was mentally exhausted. Her mind ceased to wonder 'why' and she tried to content herself with the simple role of spectator.


He was unsteady on his feet and a little clumsy too; he almost fell twice while completing his tasks. No doubt this was because of the liquor, the widow allowed herself to surmise. The last item out of the nylon travel bag was a knife, or maybe, it was an ice pick or screwdriver. The Widow Mora pressed the binoculars to
her eyes trying to determine which of these it was. Her Viking then threw the nylon bag into the tangle of vegetaion bordering the beach and it disappeared from the widow's view.

As if to encore this morning's bizarre performance he placed the knife between his teeth, picked up his inner tube and charged into the foamy surf, fully dressed.

Once he managed to get beyond the breakers, struggling to overcome the drag of his wet clothes, he fumbled his way to the tube's center and began, yet another, long paddle to open water. Knowing her Viking's routine, the widow lowered the binoculars and gazed into the immensity of the sea and sky.

Her thoughts quickly turned back to what had taken place earlier. Could he have seen her from the beach? If not, how could he have known someone was there? The widow believed she had been too careful to be visible to him. Perhaps, it was coincidence he looked up just then, or maybe he had been looking at the house or the palisade. Still, it all seemed awfully strange to her; and what of the salute and bow? What sort of person would do such a thing if he didn't believe he had an audience?

Although she couldn't explain the incident, she decided she might be making too much of it. She tried to put the whole experience to rest. Nevertheless, the Widow Mora scolded herself, she must stop this insane spying. It wasn't wholesome and she felt as if she were behaving like a schoolgirl.

She began reviewing some of her intimate dreams of these past weeks - dreams of candle light, touching each other, lying between freshly laundered sheets, still smelling of sunshine, helping her Viking dress and bringing him coffee and chocolates. How beautifully harmless it had been, she thought; but now, that he was somehow on to her, it all, suddenly, seemed smutty.

How could she have permitted herself such indulgences? It was, the Widow Mora reminded herself, unladylike and, possibly, un-Catholic. How outlandish of her to titillate herself with images of a total stranger;a man who wandered the beach carrying parts from cars and ropes and God knows what all!

continued....

Started another project...

involving cement, bricks and cold chisels and sledge hammers. Idiot tools is how my father described equipment like shovels, picks and any other 'grunt' tool.

Am going to re-route a water line. But, before any re-routing can be contemplated the water pipe must be exposed so one can get at it. As I have mentioned Mexicans build with bricks and cement. Everything is embedded in these materials, electrical, gas and water. Any alteration must first be accompanied by beating and smashing and cursing the concrete to uncover the goody.

Wood is not used in any quanity here. This project would be duck soup if we were in the U.S.. What wood they use here is of poor quality, warped and crooked. The only decent wood is used in kitchen cabinets and interior doors, and even that is not what one expect north of the border.

To sum up: Who thinks up home improvemnt plans? Them that don't do the work I suspect. Concrets work is best done by uncouth lads and not by elderly gentlemen whose hands are better suited for holding a double old fashioned glass. And, the only good thing about not having wood in the houses is that nobody has to buy fire insurance.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

If there are no dogs in heaven, then I want to go where they went. - Will Rodgers



MEXICO (as I see it):

Mexicans appear to enter business arrangements, often long range, expensive propositions, with little or no research. Even if it is all but a guaranteed failure they will cheerfully wade in.

There must be millions lost every year through failed business adventures. If these losses are subtracted from the GNP it surely means that Mexico has been in the red during its whole existence.


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

We left off here:

While she waited for his arrival, and her coffee, the widow began painting her nails which, after much attention, were finally taking shape.


When, at last, her Viking appeared in the distance, she could tell there was something strange in his manner. He was wandering from side to side as he plodded through the sand. He was having trouble keeping the inner tube over his shoulder. Her Viking also was carrying a small, nylon travel bag. It was the first time the widow had seen it.

Once in front of the widow's house he let the tube and travel bag drop to the sand. The Widow Mora watched intently as he took from the elastic waist band of his swimming trunks a pint bottle of tequila or, perhaps, she guessed, it may have been vodka or gin since it was colorless. Whatever it was there was less than half of it remaining; this much she could see when he put the bottle to his lips, threw back his head and took a long drink from it. The liquid bounced vigorously in the bottle as it gurgled down his throat. Her Viking arched his back and staggered a couple of steps backward as he drained the contents of the bottle. That done, he spiked the empty bottle, with great force, directly at his feet as if to put an exclamation point on its passing.

What followed stunned the widow so as to increase her respiration and send her mind into a whirl. Her Viking turned toward her house, raised his eyes and looked directly into the lens of her binoculars. He raised his arm, showing the back of his hand, and saluted the Widow Mora in the typical Latin fashion; then, with
the grace of a polished actor, he swept into a low, theatrical bow. The widow's arms lost all strength and fell to her sides almost dropping the field glasses. She reeled backwards, away from the window.

"Good Lord! He was looking right at me!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "How could he have known I was here? Can he see me? Has he been watching me all along? No! Impossible! He seldom even glanced up here. He couldn't have seen me." The Widow Mora stopped talking to herself and fell silent.

But, these mad visions persisted, turning her face red. She was ashamed, believing she had been uncovered. The widow clasp her hand over her mouth when her erratic reasoning suggested that the stranger might somehow have known of her fantasies these past few weeks.

'My God, no!' she thought, 'It can't be. Calm yourself you fool.' For a time her mind continued racing out of control with horrible imaginings. Slowly her pulse rate subsided and she was able to collect herself.

After the widow sorted out what was possible, and what was not, she sneaked back to the bedroom window. It seemed to her that an appreciable length of time had passed while she was wrestling herself back to reality but, actually, only a minute or two had gone by.

Her Viking was still on the beach making ready to enter the water. Still a bit shaken, the widow timidly raised the binoculars to her eyes. She watched as he unzipped the travel bag and peered into it. The first item he took out was a long sleeved blue shirt and he promptly put it on over his T-shirt. The Widow Mora decided it was to protect his skin from the sun. The next thing out of the bag could not be explained so readily; it was a pair of heavy denim trousers of the type known, collectively, as Levis. Again, without hesitating, her Viking stepped into them and pulled them up over his kahki trunks.

'This,' the widow thought, 'is foolish.' Didn't he realize how heavy those trousers would become after being soaked in water? If he were to be separated from his inner tube how, she wondered, could he stay afloat with so much added weight.

He continued adding surprises to this morning's venture. Her Viking was now fondling a small, leather pouch gathered at its top by a long draw string. Then, he took something else from the zippered bag. It wasn't possible for the widow to tell what it was because it was wrapped in cellophane and taped. He put this object into the small leather bag, tying it closed with the draw
string and having enough of the string left to loop it over his head allowing the pouch to hang around his neck.

There had been too much confusion already for the Widow Mora and now, with the pouch and all, she was mentally exhausted. Her mind ceased to wonder 'why' and she tried to content herself with the simple role of spectator.

CONTINUED...

Bush is out stumping....

for a constitutional amendment defining marriage as between a man and a woman, only.

The national debt? The slaughter in Irag? The torture question? The domestic spying issue? Posh and piffle. What really matters to this administration is who is allowed to get married.

A quote from Reuters today:

"Several religious leaders joined Allard on Monday to argue that the ban is needed to counteract an array of social ills, from rising divorce rates to out-of-wedlock births."

These assholes don't even make sense and we're supposed to amend the U.S. Constitution on their say so.

It's the same old GOP story. Guns, bullets, bombs and war they're OK with. Anything sexual causes their brains to freeze up.

The Christian Right is neither.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

If you're going through hell, keep going. - Winston Churchill


MEXICO (as I see it):

Not one Mexican driver in ten thousand would agree that 'topes' (speed bumps)are a positive force in curtailing what would, otherwise, be total mayhem on city streets.

Mexicans resent 'topes' because they are fool-proof. Other than jumping the curb or driving on the sidewalk, which many drivers try, a properly installed 'tope' cannot be gotten around. One must slow down or risk tearing out the oil pan of one's car.

The 'tope', then, represents effective control; no loop-holes, no pay-offs and no amount of conniving makes a 'tope' go away, it must be paid attention to. It is this kind of regulatory action that Mexicans would rather eat a bug than submit to.


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

We left off here:

Nonetheless, the Widow Mora was ecstatic that he was here so close that, with the binocular's help, she could almost touch him
with her tongue.

A shiver ran through her being whenever she thought of such things. In these past several days the widow's body had been sending signals she had not felt since before she was married. At times, her inner thighs tingled with an electric sensation that demanded all her strength to keep from touching herself.

With her Viking so near the Widow Mora was able to study his body
more thoroughly.

Each time he emerged from the salty water his T-shirt and swimming trunks clung to his body allowing her to see the outline of his chest and rib cage. At times, she could even see on which side of the khaki shorts his penis lay.

Occasionally, her Viking would take off his wet T-shirt to wring it out and the widow then pressed the binoculars hard against her face.

Her dreams were becoming more direct than ever before. 'Does he sleep on his back or his side? sheasked herself. 'Does he snore? I wouldn't mind,' she thought, reassuringly. 'How nice it would be to hear him breathing so close to me. Would he prefer to sleep
untouched or intertwined? Which side of the bed would he like?' These things and many others tantalized the Widow Mora. All of this served to make sleeping through the sticky, tropical nights even more difficult.

The unforgettable morning dawned in a rosy glow and promised a beautiful September day. The sky was so blue that the widow could not look into it without shielding her eyes. On the horizon a stupendous line of cumulus clouds, whiter than bleached muslin, were joining forces to present an afternoon shower.

The Widow Mora had been by her window for more than an hour before her Viking was due. Her hair was already combed, and pulled back tightly, in the classical Spanish style, and fastened with an iridescent hair comb made from mother-of-pearl. She had briskly washed her face until her skin shown almost pink; smoothed on lotion and dabbed her lips very lightly with lipstick.

For some time now the widow had not come to the bedroom window dressed in her cotton sleep wear. Instead she had been having Cee Cee lay out a freshly ironed skirt and blouse each night before retiring. This morning, the Widow Mora was wearing a traditional Mexican white cotton blouse with a macrame-like piping along the
neckline and a long, cotton skirt, ringed with stripes of three different shades of blue. While she waited for his arrival, and her coffee, the widow began painting her nails which, after much attention, were finally taking shape.

continued...

Still amazed at....

the juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern that exists in Mexico.

Leti and I took a ride yesterday. I haven't mentioned Leti as yet. It's because I don't know exactly how to introduce her. It's like trying to introduce Mount Rushmore or an ocean, it takes some thought. Leti ( pronounced, lay-tee and the diminutive for Leticia) is the reason I'm married and the reason I'm in Mexico. Between Leti, Mexico and the 'we' equation is why I live in a constant state of not knowing what's up.

Anyway, the ride. Not ten miles from the avenue of mayhen and chaos on which we live we began to wander some back roads. Rough, dirt, back roads until, in no time, we were lost.

We drove past old, deteriorated haciendas whose ruins loomed on the horizon like eleventh century castles. The rains have made the countryside bright green. Cattle lazily grazing along side horses and goats. Freshly tilled fields, moist and dark, promising a well fed future. But, no people to ask directions.

Finally, at a fork in the road, we paused to have the usual discussion when we noticed a young girl sitting in the shade.
Leti asked her where would we be if we took the left tine? San Antonio she answered, I added, and the other? La Merced she replied. These names are the remnants of famous haciendas that ruled this country more than a century ago.

Leti asked the child if she were waiting for a bus or a ride? The girl said she was not. She seemed content to be where she was, so we left her to it.

We had opted for the route to San Antonio. Shortly we began to see a series of low slung houses up ahead. They were dotted along a small hill which seemed to be setting for San Antonio. The dirt road changed into a narrow stone street. The stones for these streets are hand laid in exactly the same way as the Roman Iters.

The houses were a mish-mash of construction styles. Some old time adobe, some in uncovered brick and a few with plaster over the brick. Tiny courtyards and entrances were guarded by a variety of barriers. Live cactus fences, dried, thorny ocotillo woven together to make it impenetrable. Stones, some large, some smaller, stacked precisely so as to form walls that would take some doing to assault. Iron gates and fences, welded locally, graced a few of the places.

Cows, hobbled so they don't wander too far,roam the streets unconcerned with their own incongruity . Burros tied under trees waiting to be told what's next. Dogs lolling about, too disinterested to even notice a strange vehicle.

Flowers everywhere. Mexicans love flowers. They line their rock walls, they are planted in any obsure corner. Hundreds of plastic buckets, jars and jalapeño chile tin cans bursting with flowers.

How could this place be? In the same moment that I was worried if I had turned off my computer I was in the world of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata. While I was able to communicate with China or have quantum physics explained to me I sat on a spot of the universe that mirrored scenes which can only be found in history books.

Still amazes me.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

How many of you believe in psycho-kinesis? Raise my hand. - Steven Wright.


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

We left off here:

After seeing that her Viking only left the line is the water long enough for it to pay out, then re-wound it, paddled 20 or 30 meters further on and repeated the procedure, the Widow Mora discarded her fishing theory. 'Besides,' she sniffed, 'even the Americans can't catch fish using just a rock.'


Having dashed her only idea as to what he might be up to she simply became resigned to the fact that this mysterious person was not to be figured out. Once that weight was lifted from her, the widow found it was much easier for her to just relax and fantasize about her Viking.

What would it be like to have him staying in her house? Would he like dinner late? With wine, perhaps, or did her Viking not drink alcohol? Might he hold her chair as she seated herself?

Maybe, since he awakened so early each morning, he would prefer his main meal earlier in the day, say, 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Then, later in the evening, just coffee with something sweet. Cee Cee is asleep so early at night that the widow understood she herself would be responsible for making him coffee at night. She did not mind having to do it.

It was warm by her window and the Widow Mora felt cozy sitting there with the binoculars on her lap. How she enjoyed dreaming up new scenarios for the two of them. She imagined they might go up to the roof at sunset to marvel at the spectacular colors of the sun and sea. Another evening they might wait there on the roof as enormous thunderheads piled one on another until, with a booming explosion of sound and light, the rain came. Fresh gusts of the moist sea breeze would blow their hair back, exposing their faces to those first, ploppy, drops that would begin smacking against the roof. She saw them scampering down the spiral, metal stairs, laughing all the while, making it to the door barely in time to avoid being drenched. Once, safely inside, they might like a glass of red wine or, perhaps, she'd have Cee Cee fix a wonderful snack to savor during the shower.

More than three weeks had gone by since the stranger
first appeared and the Widow Mora had been watching his
movements during the whole time. After so many hours of
faithful observation she was now thoroughly in love with
him.

Things could not be better than they were right
then because, to the widow's delight, her Viking had
arrived in front of her house for the past three days.
It seemed that he had settled on this spot to continue
what ever it was he was doing. Each morning he carried
his inner tube and a coconut but now, she noticed, he no
longer brought the coil of rope. Still, though, every
time before entering the water with his tube he threw the
coconut into the noisy waves and waited, sitting or
standing, sometimes walking short distances then
returning, until the rhythm of the surf methodically
carried it out to sea.

The widow could not understand why her Viking had
chosen this stretch of beach since the waves were
especially large and thunderous and the undertow was
treacherous. If anyone were to be caught in it they
would never be able to return to shore. Nonetheless, the
Widow Mora was ecstatic that he was here so close that,
with the binocular's help, she could almost touch him
with her tongue.

continued....

Not as tired and...

crabby today. Still old though. No cure for that one.

Rained last night. Big clouds on the horizon right now, could we be near the rainy season? Noooo..not for a bit more. This is only a preview. Nice anyway.

New 'no parking' regimen is holding up pretty well, for here. Only violated a couple of times a day. Of course, I've had my vehicle parked there everyday from 7:30 AM to 5:00 PM.

I see the Prez is at it again, he..."will promote a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage on Monday, the eve of a scheduled Senate vote on the cause that is dear to his conservative backers."

I have never understood why anything involving anatomy below the waist makes Republicans break out in hives. It seems they must be in Americas' bedrooms or they're not fulfilled.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:

In the beginning the universe was created. This has been widely criticized and generally regarded as a bad move. - Douglas Adams


MEXICO (as I see it):

If you are into ‘symmetry’ Mexico is not the place for you.

AND

It's not too difficult to tell which Americans live in
Mexico and which don't. There is a worn, almost threadbare
quality about those who live here. Gone forever is the crisp,
starched and pressed look of the tourists.

Apparently, there is a natural erosion process during which
a person's garments, and even that person himself, is slowly worn
away.

Each time the laundry is returned every article has one more
indelible stain. They are all small, of course, but indelible
nevertheless. Soon there is a 'pulled together' look about one's
wardrobe; very much unlike the pastel, coordinated, look of the
visitor.

The people living here are different as well. It's as if
they have been worn smooth and have no sharp corners left. A
resident glides through throngs of shoppers veering, twisting and
swiveling avoiding bodily contact by mere centimeters. The
tourists travel by fits and starts, with their new straw hats
pulled down resolutely, yet upon their faces a questioning look
prevails which seems to ask: Don't these people ever pay
attention to the fucking traffic lights?!


THE SERIAL Her Viking:

We left off here....

Her Viking stopped directly below her house and threw down his things. Today his experiment was to begin from this point and it afforded the Widow Mora a birds-eye view of his whole operation. With the aid of her powerful field glasses she could almost count the curly white hairs on his forearms.


He stood for a few moments, hands on his hips, contemplating his surroundings as he had done before every morning's excursion. When he turned from the sea and scanned the hillside his eyes fixed briefly on the widow's house. It seemed, to her, that he was looking directly into her bedroom window. Unable to stand the pressure, she lowered the binoculars and shrunk from the window. When her Viking resumed his preparations she crept back into position and then was able to see that he now carried a coil of lightweight rope, which had tied to one end of it a rock about the size of a grapefruit.

After watching another coconut disappear into open water, he thrust an arm through the coil of rope, held his inner tube in front of him, and ran into the violent surf. The widow observed as her Viking was toppled backward several times while trying to put himself to sea against the broiling waves. When finally past the breakers he got onto the tube. Unlike the first few days with the tube, he was now much better at flopping himself into its' center and even managed quite well with the coil of rope hanging from his shoulder.

At this point, the Widow Mora reached for her cup of coffee. She knew there was time because now her Viking would paddle out to sea for the next twenty minutes or so. She looked at herself in the mirror and rubbed her eyes trying to erase the two indented circles the binoculars had imprinted there.

While she waited, she thought more about her Viking. 'Did he like to dance?' The widow wished it were so because, although it had been many years, she adored dancing. She had always loved the sensation of the broad palm of a man's hand on the small of her back; first, gently pulling her to him, then, relaxing the pressure as they glided in the opposite direction. The widow was certain he would be an excellent dancer.

When the widow again took up her vigil, he was practically out of sight but with her field glasses she was able to locate him and draw him into focus. Her Viking had stopped paddling and the tube was drifting as he worked with the rope. It was difficult for the widow to make out the details of what was going on, but she was able to see that he dropped the rock, tied to the rope, into the water and let the line pay out untill it hit bottom. While watching him retrieve the rock, looping the line into a new coil, the widow surmised he must be fishing. Though, even with the binoculars, she could see no evidence of any kind of fishing tackle on the line. She wondered if it were something new from the United States that made it possible to catch fish with nothing but a stone. After seeing that her Viking only left the line is the water long enough for it to pay out, then re-wound it, paddled 20 or 30 meters further on and repeated the procedure, the Widow Mora discarded her fishing theory. 'Besides,' she sniffed, 'even the Americans can't catch fish using just a rock.'

continued...