Edición dominical

Storm memories

I’D LIKE TO BE able to say that I got out of Houston in the nick of time. But nearly 18 years ago hardly qualifies as a “nick of time,” but I did get out.

As the nation’s fourth-largest city dries out, I am happy that only two people still live there for whom I have feelings. One is my former wife, and the other is Victoria who is now a real estate agent with a child she adopted four years ago.

I emailed my ex-wife the day after Harvey hit to inquire about her well-being and that of the house I so generously and perhaps stupidly gifted her shortly after our divorce in 1995. She replied from Oklahoma! She and a friend had fled Houston on Thursday, a day before Harvey arrived onshore.

I asked about the house, and she said it was high and dry. I asked how she knew that, but she has yet to reply. I also emailed Victoria. She, her home and the tyke are well.

Before moving to Mexico at age 55, most of my life had been spent within spitting distance of hurricane-prone coasts. In spite of that, I got hammered head-on just once by a hurricane.

Once was more than enough.

Betsy in 1965, New Orleans. Category Four.

The eye went right over my head.

I want to tell you something: Hurricanes are scary! And I don’t mean Halloween scary. Or fun scary.

I mean, Am-I-going-to-see-tomorrow scary.

I was 21 years old and holing up with my parents. The three of us had moved to New Orleans from Nashville just months earlier. None of us had been in the middle of a hurricane before, which is why we stayed put in New Orleans. We were clueless.

Perilously uninformed.

We were in the second-floor of a duplex rental.

People who’ve not been hit directly by a major hurricane have no idea what they’re up against. It is beyond belief. I always roll my eyes on seeing news clips of “hurricanes” supposedly during one. I have never seen a news clip that even approximated what you experience in a real hurricane.

What you usually see is billboards flapping, lots of rain, some dumb reporter in a raincoat leaning into the wind, tins and bottles hopping down the sidewalk and street.

This is dangerously misleading.

Believe this: In the middle of a major hurricane, you don’t go outside to shoot news film. You don’t even approach a window or glass door unless you’re feeling suicidal.

A major hurricane is incredible. You’ve heard tornadoes being described as “sounding like a freight train.”

The tornado freight train lasts just seconds or a minute. The hurricane freight train goes on for hours. If you stick your head up from where you’re squatting on the floor and risk a look through a window that’s not boarded up, you see this:

Trees bent at 45-degree angles or more. Electricity leaping along power lines like escaped white snakes.

And the incessant roar. Everything in the neighborhood flying all over the place in every direction possible.

My father left his Rambler parked beside the house, not even in a garage, which shows how dumb we were. Later we found a number of small holes in the car body that had been caused by stones penetrating it at bullet velocity.

I left New Orleans and my parents two days later and moved to Baton Rouge to enroll at LSU. Baton Rouge’s damage was minimal, nothing like New Orleans where my parents did not get electricity in the house again for weeks.

No matter. We were lucky to be alive, and I learned a permanent lesson. If a hurricane is on the distant horizon, hightail it to Oklahoma. Fast as you can. Don’t dally.

Edición dominical

The equality people

I FOUND THIS video recently even though it’s from last year, and I’ve been thinking about how to address the situation.

One thing that has happened is that I’m adopting a new phrase: the Equality People (EP).

These are the folks known as collectivists, leftists, socialists, communists, and they make up a huge percentage of those who vote for the Democrat Party in America.

The rest of the people who vote for the Democrat Party (I never say Democratic Party because they don’t really believe in democracy as the last presidential election and its aftermath prove) are what I call the “Be Nice People.” Most are old folks. The EPs are normally younger and naive. Sometimes violent.

Americans under age 35 have never known existential threats, neither to themselves or their homeland.* This has made them goofy and easy dupes to propaganda.

Another aspect of U.S. life is the effect of the 1960s. A significant percentage of Americans in positions of power now sport suits and shiny shoes, but surrounding them still wafts the patchouli-soaked aroma of Woodstock.

Many of these people are now judges, lawyers, educators and even corporate titans. Think George Soros, not American, of course, but think of him anyway.

A nutty culture now exists in America, Western Europe and Canada, which brings us to the video up there. It demonstrates the culture of craziness and fear that grows daily.

Lauren Southern is a social media phenom, a Canadian, conservative activist, and is just barely 22 years old. She is also a reporter of current events.

Last year, to demonstrate the lunatic level to which the culture of Canada has sunk, she had her sex changed legally even though she had done nothing to her body nor did she intend to. She pulled it off due to Canada’s EP laws and people’s fear of saying no.

Southern was making a point, and it was made well.

Last week, her account with a website called Patreon, which exists to financially help “creators,” was abruptly canceled because, Patreon said, her activities might lead to deaths.

Meanwhile, the violent, black-clad, masked gangs known as Antifa continue to have accounts on Patreon. The only “creators” that Patreon wants to help are EP creators.

And left-wing thugs.

Here’s a video about that. She’s cute and talks out of the right side of her mouth, both literally and politically.

EPs swim in a deep, murky sea of irony. Don’t be one.

* * * *

* The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991.

Mexican life

Eating cheese

plaza
All the Christmas tourists have gone, thank the Goddess.

WALKING ACROSS the plaza Friday heading to the coffee shop, I was unaware that soon I’d be hauling cheese.

No sooner had I sat down with my café Americano negro and opened my Kindle to Charlemagne than my child bride walked up and deposited a bag with a container of cream and a half-kilo of cheese on my table.

Please take this home, she said.

She was heading to the gym.

One of the many things you’re warned about on visiting Mexico is not to eat the cheese. Isn’t pasteurized, they say, or something like that. I pay it no mind.

If someone puts a tasty cheese in front of me, I eat it, no questions asked, and it has not killed me yet.

This is named queso fresco — fresh cheese — and it’s my favorite. We  recently found a butcher shop in a bad neighborhood that sells great queso fresco.

When I got home, I took a photo for you. Half a kilo is a big hunk of cheese, and it will last us a while.

cheeze

Till I got it home it wasn’t even refrigerated.

I am fearless.

Libertarian view

Decision day looms

BRITAIN VOTES tomorrow on whether to remain or flee the collectivist, Kumbaya, European Union.

Everybody’s favorite faggot, Milo Yiannopoulos, tells us here why getting out is essential to not just Great Britain but, in the long run, to you too, amigos.