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