FOR MANY YEARS I have pointed out the perils of promoting multiculturalism.
Did anyone pay me any mind? No, and we have arrived at the current conditions that exist in the United States.
Fact: People prefer the company of those similar to themselves.
Fact: People forced into the company of those very different from themselves get edgy.
Fact: Edginess in time leads to mayhem and murder.
Fact: Nations are families, i.e. very large groups of people who are alike in religion, race, language and culture.
Fact: People want it that way.
Let’s look at university campuses. Go to the student union cafeteria. In spite of campuses being ground zero of diversity-loving, you will find black students sitting together over here, white students sitting together over there, and Orientals sitting together on the patio outside, studying.*
Multicultural violence is increasing in the United States, and it’s just going to get worse. I see no light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Promoting multiculturalism is the kerosene that fuels the fire, daily.
Multiculturalism within a nation — or any society — is a problem that needs to be addressed in the kindest way possible. It is never to be encouraged.
It’s putting a pistol to your head.
We’re all just people, you say, and must learn to live together in peace. Likewise, lions and tigers are all big, carnivorous cats. Does the male lion invite tigers into the pride in the name of diversity? No. There would be murder and mayhem.
It’s a good analogy. Lions are smarter than Americans, Western Europeans and Canadians too.
Listen to your sage.
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* The black students will be planning their next BLM march. The white students, embarrassed about being white, will be wondering if they’ll be invited to participate. The Oriental students will still be studying.
TWO HOURS after shooting the video above from the upstairs terraza, I was sitting on the Jesus Patio eating seedless green grapes and listening to the hog next door expressing displeasure with her situation, which she does often.
This is being written yesterday, Saturday. The previous night had seen a heavy downpour that lasted I don’t know how long because I went back to sleep after waking briefly to notice it.
Some things don’t change much in these parts, and the sounds of sunrise are one of those things. Roosters, tractor-trailer trucks on the highway up the mountain behind us, crickets, the loudspeakers of the house-delivery propane trucks.
However, some things do change, and they’re generally for the better. We got some great news recently. An international chain of movie theaters, Cinépolis, is opening here in our mountaintop town. Hooray! Now we won’t have to drive to the state capital for first-run flicks.
The changes that have occurred over the past 17 years that I’ve been here are considerable. There were no major supermarkets. Now there are two. There were no stoplights. Now there are many. There were few Gringos. Now there are way too many!
I wonder how they’ll react to the Cinépolis chain. Over a decade ago, the Mexican convenience store chain Oxxo opened its first store here, and the Gringos, many of whom are aging hippies, went bananas. Egad! Modernization!
We have numerous Oxxos now, including one directly on the major plaza. Another sits on the nearby smaller plaza. Their signs are subdued, not intrusive.
I’m praying for a full-blown Walmart and Costco.
Convenient shopping is a good thing, and it does not detract from the morning views I get from the upstairs terraza, something I love and that never changes.
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An old friend emailed me this week. I rarely hear from people above the border, so it was a welcomed event.
He and I worked together on newspapers for decades both in New Orleans and Houston. Like me, he is divorced more than once. Unlike me, he is not currently married. He’s three years older than I am, and he lives alone in a home he bought in Colorado after he retired from the Houston Chronicle.
I had sent him a note after seeing him briefly on a Netflix documentary of Janis Joplin who was a close friend of his in high school in Port Arthur, Texas, and later in her early years of fame and drug-addled degeneracy.
My friend is a much-published poet, but not in recent years. He said his life now is mostly whiskey and music. And that all his major life decisions were wrong ones. That last resonated with me because all my major decisions were wrong ones too. Till 1996 when my major life decisions did a 180.
What happened in 1996? I stopped drinking. My friend is 76 years old, and I doubt he will do that.
I didn’t even mention it.
Here’s to music and whiskey! And staying the course.
MY GRANDPARENTS, all four of them, were born two centuries back, the late 1800s. Jeez, I must be old.
I came upon a genealogy website (geni.com) recently, so I searched for my father, and there he was with links to his parents and other kinfolk. There are even photos of the headstones of my grandfather and father.
I didn’t know my father has a headstone.
I then switched to my mother’s side, and there are my maternal grandparents with names of their parents and siblings, names I did not know.
The website knows more about my relatives than I do. For instance, my maternal grandmother’s mother — that would be my great-grandmother — was Georgianne Zillytholan Virginia Courtoy. There are no typos in that.
We are Southerners, obviously.
My mother’s name was Virginia, so now I know where that came from, her own grandmother.
Family trees have limbs, and I’m hanging out on the tip of ours. There is only one fruit that hangs out farther, my daughter, my only child. She’s the last apple.
My mother was an only child. My father had just one sister, a lesbian who never reproduced. I have only one sister too, a lesbian who never reproduced — what’s going on here? My daughter is in her early 50s and has no children.
We’ve reached the end of the limb. This is probably a good thing, considering how nuts and conflictive we are.
But it was fun seeing my limb of the family tree. Perhaps the best part was learning that my great-grandmother was named Georgianne Zillytholan Virginia Courtoy.
I MIGHT HAVE titled this post A Tale of Two Dentists because they are so different.
One is a woman. The other is a man. One is young, the woman. The other is not so young, late 50s. One is a periodontist, the woman. The other is just a normal dentist. They are both good-looking, intelligent and talented.
One has a very noticeable office that screams at you in yellow and orange. The other has an office that you would not know is an office had no one informed you.
There is no sign outside, and he does not even advertise. My dentist is strictly word of mouth, so to speak, and he’s talented enough to pull that off.
The two of us had a dental day on Tuesday. She had an appointment with the periodontist, and I had an appointment with the dentist. She has an issue, but I only needed a cleaning, which I schedule about every five months.
I also was at my dentist a week earlier when he took impressions for the implant I will get next week.
Three months ago, I wrote here about my need for an implant. Beats a bridge, I say. Those are for old folks, not me.
Dental care, like healthcare in general, is — as one never wearies of pointing out — one of the many superlative reasons to live South of the Border.
On Tuesday, everything was paid out of pocket in cash, and we were not bankrupted in the slightest.
One more week, and I’ll have my implant, losing the pirate smile I’ve sported for the last three months. I rather enjoyed the snaggle-toothed grin.
THIS SATURDAY is somewhat different than most, so I thought I’d gossip with you about it.
Normally, Saturdays are identical. My child bride is in her private kitchen out by the property wall, preparing her pastries for the afternoon sale on the big plaza downtown.
But not today. She’s going to church this morning.
But first, here’s what I’m doing, and it’s not much different than what I do every Saturday morning. I make rounds under the cursed peach tree scooping up fallen peaches to toss out.
Then I sweep the veranda. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I hear a lively Mexican tune blaring from the backstreet neighbors. I also hear the electric pump that’s sending water from the underground cistern to the tank atop the roof. And I hear birds. Lots of stuff to listen to.
Soon I’ll be hearing the lawnmower and weedeater because Abel the Deadpan Yardman arrives later to trim the grass.
The sky is blue. The air is crisp. The lawn is wet because it rained quite a spell last night, making sweet sounds.
Now here’s why she’s going to church. It’s to fool God.
Relatives often ask us to be godparents to the endless array of babies they birth because we look like the best deal going in the family. Problem is that our marriage was only a civil one, not a religious one. A judge connected us, and that’s not good enough to be godparents. I suppose we’re seen as living in sin.
There has been a recent spate of new babies among the bunny-breeding kin, so we received at least two new invites to godparenting. I pass. But my child bride really wants to. There’s nothing she loves more than babies.
This morning, she’s pretending to be single to get the proper paperwork, so she can be a godmother without me tagging along. The proper paperwork requires a three-hour instruction from a priest. She’s doing that in a church downtown.
I hope she remembers to remove her wedding ring.
This amuses me while I sweep the veranda and wait for Abel to cut the grass that I’ve already liberated of fallen, rotting peaches.
I WAS 50 years old before I bought a new car. It was a 1995 Ford Ranger pickup, so not really a car but a pickup.
Before then I’d always purchased used vehicles and darn few of them too. Not a car guy.
Shortly after marrying my first wife in 1965, I inherited a 1956 Plymouth Savoy from my granny. About three years later, I bought a VW Beetle convertible, used. Now that was fun. But I left it behind when we split in 1971, and I continued sans car.
I had bicycles and motorcycles.
My second wife had a 1975 Toyota when we met in 1976, so that was what we used until about 1985 when we bought another Toyota, used. Later, we bought a third Toyota, used. That was our ride when she dumped me in 1995.
Her current car is a Prius. She votes Democrat.
And that was when I purchased my first-ever new car, er, pickup, which I drove until I moved to Mexico five years later. I sold it in 2000. Most people who move to Mexico bring their cars — and as much gear as they can manage, foolishly — but the pickup would not fit into either of my suitcases.
It was after moving to Mexico in 2000 that I shifted into high gear and began buying new cars. I have purchased four in the past 17 years. All from dealerships, all paid in full, in cash. The last was in late 2013 when we bought my child bride’s 2014 Nissan March, a model that isn’t sold in the United States.
I bought new cars, in direct opposition to the fact that it’s smarter to purchase relatively new used cars, because I did not trust used cars in Mexico. I have since altered my tune, and were I to buy another car it would be a “pre-owned” from a dealership. I still wouldn’t buy one directly from a local.
My first car here (2000) was a Chevy Pop, very much akin to a Geo Metro from the turn of the century. It was a real honey, and we kept it till we bought the Nissan March in 2013. We sold it to a nephew, so it’s still in the family.
The Pop had become my wife’s gym car. It had no AC, no airbags, not even a radio. It had squat aside from reliability. We once drove it from here to Atlanta, barreling down the U.S. interstates with the windows wide open in springtime.
But the Pop ceased to be our main car in 2004 when we bought a Chevrolet Meriva, another vehicle that’s not sold in the United States. It was sold in other parts of the world as an Opel or Vauxhall. It too was a gem, but it had no airbags, was a stick shift, no cruise control, not so basic as the Pop, but eventually I wanted something more suited to an old coot.
So we bought a 2009 Honda CR-V with automatic transmission — the first automatic of my life — A-C, of course, cruise control and airbags front and side. Mexicans drive like lunatics, so airbags are not optional equipment.
The Honda got its 170,000-kilometer service yesterday, and the mechanic informed me that the front shocks needed to be replaced. We’ll do that next week. The cost — parts and labor — will be 7,300 pesos, which is a bit over 400 bucks.
It’s the first repair of any consequence I’ve had to do with the Honda, which is a pretty good car.
Maybe we’ll buy another car one day, depending on how long I keep breathing, but if we do it’ll be a late-model used one from a dealership. I’m thinking Nissan.
Or maybe a motorcycle.
* * * *
(Note: Until recently, Gringos living in Mexico could tool around in cars with long-expired U.S. plates, and Mexico looked the other way. But a few years ago, rules were changed, and you’re not supposed to do that anymore. Most don’t.)
(Another note: I was surprised to learn recently that Renaults and Peugeots are not sold in the United States. They’re popular down here, especially Renaults.)
(The following is an editorial from the Investor’s Business Daily. For an even more detailed list of President Trump’s many accomplishments, go here.)
AFTER WEEKS and months of fixating on tweets and Russia, someone in the press decided to have a look at what the Trump administration has been up to since January. Lo and behold, they discovered that it’s getting a lot done.
“Trump Has Quietly Accomplished More Than It Appears,” reads the headline in the Atlantic.
“With the Trump administration’s chaos sucking up all the attention,” the article begins, “it’s been able to move forward on a range of its priorities … It is remaking the justice system, rewriting environmental rules, overhauling public-lands administration, and greenlighting major infrastructure projects. It is appointing figures who will guarantee the triumph of its ideological vision for decades to come.”
It goes on to detail these achievements, many of which we’ve highlighted on these pages.
Border crossings, for example, have plummeted, even though all Trump has done so far is promise to enforce existing laws.
The Supreme Court approved parts of Trump’s travel ban, a success made possible by Trump’s appointment of Neil Gorsuch to the bench.
Trump is busy filling lower court positions with conservative justices. Ron Klain, a White House aide to Bill Clinton and Barack Obama, said that Trump “is proving wildly successful in one respect: naming youthful conservative nominees to the federal bench in record-setting numbers.”
What else? Well, Trump pulled out of the Paris climate change deal, which as we noted in this space is a yuuuge win for the economy.
The EPA, meanwhile, is dismantling Obama’s coal-killing, growth-choking Clean Power Plan, and draining the heavy-handed Waters of the United States rule. When a veteran EPA official resigned this week, she complained in a letter to her former colleagues that “the new EPA Administrator already has repeals of 30 rules under consideration,” which the New York Times described as “a regulatory rollback larger in scope than any other over so short a time in the agency’s 47-year history.”
Trump promised to kill two regulations for every new one enacted, but in his first six months the ratio was 16-to-1.
Trump also approved the Keystone XL and other pipeline projects held up by Obama. He’s also rolled back a ban on coal mining on public lands.
To be sure, Trump hasn’t scored a major legislative achievement on signature issues like ObamaCare and tax reform.
The Atlantic writer describes the administration’s achievements as something akin to a shadow government. But these actions aren’t in the shadows. They’re just being ignored by a media that is obsessed with digging up dirt on Trump.
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(Note: An excellent way to get correct information on the Trump Administration is to go to the White House website and subscribe to the 1600 Daily, which is a brief wrap-up emailed to you of what’s actually happening every day in the administration.)
AS I’VE MENTIONED here on occasion, we own a townhouse downtown, and we rent it to vacationers, mostly Gringos.
Shuffling through internet files today, I happened upon this photo taken six years ago, a photo I had forgotten. Our place is one of those white buildings. They almost look like they belong in Greece, I think. Nice mountains too.
We bought the townhouse in 2010 with money I inherited after my mother’s death in 2009. We purchased it as an investment with no intention of renting it, but after about two years of its sitting there, furnished and pretty, we decided to share the joy.
Turned out to be a good investment. We would have paid much less now than we paid in 2010. The dollar equivalent then was about $76,000. Now it would be about $20,000 less. Oh well, you buy your condos, and you take your chances.
But it’s worth more now than we paid, and it’s fun to have.
We also have a condo in Mexico City, which is far smaller. It was where my child bride was living when we met lo these many years ago. We just recently got the deed to that place, so we own three, free and clear.