Lotsa wives, lotsa in-laws

AS YOU MAY know, I’ve been married three times. That means I’ve had three fathers-in-law and three mothers-in-law. This can be a good thing or not.

Let’s look at my in-laws because it’s the in-laws who created the wives.

* * * *

Buddy and Violet

My first in-laws lived in a shack in the woods of Louisiana on the outer reaches of New Orleans. Well, not exactly the woods, but it was close to it.

It looked like a shack in the woods. A car motor slept on the floor of the living room, and as you sat on the toilet you could see the ground through a hole in the floor between your legs. The shack sat on stumpy brick pilings.

There was ancient grease on the kitchen ceiling.

My father-in-law was a carpenter when sober and a raging drunk when not. He was more the latter than the former. In spite of this, he and I always got along fine, not because we were drinking buddies because this was before I started drinking.

And I never drank like him. He was a world champ, and I never rose above bush-league status. My first father-in-law was named Durward, but everyone called him Buddy or Bud. Maybe it was after Budweiser.

Buddy was a beer man, 100 percent.

To his credit, in late middle age, Buddy went cold-turkey, completely on the wagon, and he never drank again. When sober, he was charming. He was also a wonderful artist.

His wife was named Violet. She mostly bore up. It was a life of endurance. I liked her. She never drank at all that I recall.

* * * *

Art and Dorothy

My second in-laws lived in a big, beautiful house in St. Louis, Mo. You couldn’t see the ground through a hole in the floor in any of their bathrooms.

I don’t recall exactly how they came to live in that lovely house because my in-laws didn’t buy it. Someone bought it for them. I forget the details.

Art was a schizophrenic who spent long periods institutionalized. He’d be released on occasion, and my second wife-to-be would find herself with another sibling. Release, baby. Release, baby and so on. They were Catholics.

People who breed.

When he wasn’t in the mental hospital, he was a lathe operator, apparently a very good one. He finally was put on lithium and spent the rest of his life very subdued. Dorothy, who always welcomed him home with open arms and open legs, worked, but I don’t recall exactly what, something to do with offices.

They had ten children. My second ex-wife was the first of the litter.

I don’t recall meeting Art more than once. We lived in New Orleans and later Houston, and we never went to St. Louis but one time.

* * * *

Carlos and Margarita

I never met my third set of in-laws because they died before I came upon the Mexican scene, but I hear good things about them. They were neither drunks nor schizophrenics.

They were hard-working folks.

They had one thing in common with my second in-laws, however. They were fertile, producing five babies. There definitely would have been more had not Margarita died in labor while having her final child. She was just 31.

Carlos was a doctor, a general practitioner and surgeon in Los Reyes, Michoacán. He remarried and went on to produce another six babies, well, that we know of.

The doc was a lover. A heart attack killed him when he was 61.

I would have liked to meet my third set of in-laws, if for no other reason than they produced the best — for me — wife of the lot. Carlos was not fond of Gringos, I’m told, but that was true of the whole family. My charm brought them around.

* * * *

One’s roots

It’s said that one’s childhood plays a large role in forming the adult. I put more stock into this idea than many folks do. I believe the effect is enormous.

I look back on my in-laws and later the problems I had with their children, my wives. And I look at my parents and see issues my former wives had with me.

With luck, you mellow as you age. I think that’s why my child bride has few problems with me. I have none with her.

A nation gone mad

New Image
Brought down by a politically correct control tower. Courtesy of the Obama Administration.

NO, I’M NOT referring to the fact that Mexico likely will soon elect to the presidency a guy who goes by his initials AMLO. I’m referring to the United States.

Apparently, this has been going on for a while, but it only came to my attention recently. The U.S. federal government, during the Obama administration, changed the rules for hiring air-traffic controllers.

While the primary goal previously was hiring the most talented applicants, the main goal now is to bring diversity into the control tower. Too many air-traffic controllers were white men. The horror!

Whenever affirmative action enters a process, quality suffers. While this is not so critical when it’s done in universities or corporate offices, doing it with air-traffic controllers is nincompoopery on a stunning level.

While political correctness in the United States has become so overboard that one wearies of rolling one’s eyeballs, this action takes potential consequences to new, stellar heights. This nonsense, as this sort of insanity invariably does, comes to you from the Democrat Party.

Next time you’re flying into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, know that it may be Maxine Water’s previously unemployed grandson who’s guiding the pilot on final approach. And as the fireball races down the aisle, rest easy in the knowledge that racial injustice from two centuries ago has finally been corrected.

Watch the video. The situation’s actually worse than I’ve indicated.

Visiting another world

BREAKING BAD was one of the best series ever to appear on television.

This is my favorite scene.

It’s Jesse Pinkman taking his first dose of heroin. I became familiar with drugs during the period 1995 to 2000, the time between the failure of my second marriage and my move to Mexico.

I’ve never taken heroin and never will. I’ve never used a needle and never will. I doubt I will ever use an illegal drug again. The drugs I took during that period are not addictive: psilocybin, LSD, ayahuasca, San Pedro cactus and ecstasy.

I recommend them all to you with some reservations, and I recommend that you never do them alone (exception: ecstasy). Have a sidekick with you who’s got his feet on the ground because things can get weird.

Best at night. Best with music.

What stuck me about the above scene is that it’s extremely realistic. Ecstasy won’t do this to you, but the others can and far more. And whoever directed the scene, or perhaps the actor added it, has first-hand experience. Notice Jesse clutching his heart, something  I have done.