Tag Archives: God

Fooling God

plants
Saturday morning on the veranda

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.

It’s a lovely morning.

A good child

Kandra

RECENTLY, A READER lamented that I no longer write about my Mexican relatives, something I used to do quite often.

So here is one of my kinfolk, the lovelier variety. She is 5 years old and the daughter of a nephew who’s had a very difficult life. But things are going rather well for this little girl so far.

When my wife recently asked her why she was so pretty, she replied that it was the way God sent her.

Can’t argue with that. Her name is Kandra.

War against men

I’M MAD AS Hell, and I’m not taking it anymore!

To what am I referring? The corporate war against men. Corporations are the root of all evil, as any clueless Smith College coed will assure you.

And what is the specific battlefield on which I wage war today? To wit: There are two sizes of nail clippers, right? A small version for fingers, and a large version for feet.

But those sizes are for women exclusively. The foot version doesn’t work for men’s feet unless the man is a midget.

I use the foot version for my fingers because the finger version fits my fingernails about as well as the foot version fits my footnails, which is to say not at all.

This is a clear corporate attack on men’s rights, men’s Constitutional and God-given rights to have neat feet.

And I’m sick unto death of it.

footLet’s be clear: The “big” clipper is about half as wide as my big toenail. And the smaller clipper for fingers likewise goes about halfway across my nails.

What are we to use? Hatchets? Cutlasses?

This is a feminist-lesbian plot* to diminish men, to put us in our place. I encourage all men to withhold sex from their women until something is done about this outrage.

Man up for nail clipper equality!

* * * *

*Yes, feminist-lesbians are in bed with corporations. Who knew?

Dying to music

noteWALKING THROUGH the living room the other day, the FM station was playing a nice classical work, and I thought, “That would be good to die to,” and I envisioned falling forward onto the ceramic floor, dead as that doornail.

I was in a good mood when the thought struck me, and dying in a good mood is desirable. Dying to music is common in movies, but I wonder how often it happens in real life. Not much, I think.

A sudden death, which is how I want it, would reduce the chances of dying to good music, something that likely requires planning. Which is best? Dying suddenly to no music or a prolonged demise to good music. The sudden death wins out because you want to go fast, music or not.

Good mood, fine music, healthy and sudden. That’s how I want to sail away. Of course, a sudden death contradicts the notion of healthy, but let’s imagine it was an unknown heart problem that brought down the curtain. Just thinking you’re healthy till the final moment is enough.

But if a sudden death isn’t in the cards, I would like some good music playing on Departure Day. Kitaro’s Light of the Spirit is the top pick, something I’ve loved since the late 1990s. Downing some ecstasy and turning on that Kitaro tune is a religious experience in itself.

Try it. You’ll see.

A close runner-up would be one of a number of songs by the appropriately named Dead Can Dance. A real standout is their Host of Seraphim, a fine piece to shuttle you off into that distant space where resides whatever God or Goddess you put your money on.

* * * *

(A close runner-up to Host of Seraphim is Yulunga. About the 3:18 mark on the video, it moves into high gear visually, going multicultural in a spectacularly fine way.)

God bless Mexico

WHEN I STEPPED outside at 8:30 a.m., the thermometer read 58 degrees.

In July.

In the Olden Days, when I lived in Houston, we would sweat buckets all summer, and I would pray for the first arrival of true Autumn, which I defined as a temperature less than 60. It would invariably show up around October 20, and the city would breathe a sigh of relief and elation.

A friend sent this interesting video yesterday. However, I hope all those Gringos and Canucks head to Ajijic instead of to my mountaintop. We already have too many grown men with ponytails and the sort of women they bond with: Birkenstocks, flower halos and armpit hair.

The anniversary

patios

I’VE HAD THREE wives, and yesterday the third and best helped me celebrate our 13th anniversary, which is far longer than I was hitched to the previous two brides, though I actually lived with No. 2 for more time — 19 years — and I’m now striving to crack that record.

To mark the occasion, we had a nice lunch downtown, walked around our 500-year-old Colonial burg, then took a ride out in the countryside. Here are some highlights from the day.

The top shot is self-explanatory. That’s the sort of town in which we live. It’s old.

Then we hopped into the Honda, heading to the countryside. On the outskirts of town, we spotted this ice cream parlor, which is not too far from where we live. It’s a fairly recent addition to the neighborhood. What’s a celebration without ice cream? We stopped and ordered.

nieve

Sitting at an outdoor table by the highway and railroad track, we enjoyed the lovely day. The sky was blue, the air was cool, the company was spectacular, and the ice cream was good.

cupsMine was not actually ice cream. It was lemon ice. My child bride ordered that dark stuff that looks like crap in a cup, but she liked it.

After that, we took a trip along a little-traveled route abutting our high-mountain lake. I should have taken another photo because it’s a spectacular ride, but I didn’t.

Then we came home. We’re not big party people. Thirteenth anniversary has a certain ominous ring to it, which is why some hotels skip the 13th floor. But when you think about it a moment, you realize that the 13th anniversary actually marks the end of the 13th year and the beginning of the 14th. If there was cause for concern, it was a year ago.

ship

Yesterday evening, like most all evenings, we watched a movie on Netflix, supped on a nice salad and went to bed around 11ish. Passing through the living room, I saw this sailing ship that sits on a table. It’s a symbol of my continuing voyage to God knows where.

Dios and doctors

church

I’M SITTING ON a hard pew in the main cathedral of the state capital. Instead of praying or even reading the Bible, I’m waiting and occasionally reading Donald Rumsfeld’s memoirs on my Kindle. That fellow in the pew ahead of me is probably praying enough for the both of us.

God and doctors. That’s the theme for today. God because, well, look where I am, surrounded by religious trappings as only the Catholics can do it. I enjoy sitting here. Wish I had a cushion, however, for my skinny butt. Doctors, because my wife is visiting one right now.

Allow me to rub it in some more, to those of you who live outside Mexico, poor darlings, trapped by “free,” socialist, medical schemes in both Canada and, now, Barry’s America.

My child bride was unfortunate enough to have two medical crises at the same time, neither life-threatening but both physically unpleasant. It began on Monday, so we phoned Specialist No. 1 in the nearby state capital and easily made an appointment for the following day at 10 a.m.

Monday night, problem No. 2 erupted, so as we were driving to the state capital Tuesday morning, we phoned Specialist No. 2 and easily made an appointment for 11:30, 90 minutes later.

Can you do that where you live? Heck no.

While she was at the office of Specialist No. 1, I walked the four blocks to this cathedral. Yes, I’m not actually sitting there at this moment. Luckily, she finished in time for us to drive to Specialist No. 2, whose office is in the annex of the Star Médica hospital, a great Mexican chain.

Both issues were handily resolved, and we paid the reasonable charges in cash.

And that, mis amigos, is how health care should be handled.

Efficiently, intelligently, affordably.

Quite a lovely day

Friday, the 17th of October in the year of the Goddess 2014.
Friday, the 17th of October in the year of the Goddess 2014.

SITTING ON THE web chair Friday next to the glass-top table on the yard patio and under the big brown umbrella, I look over yonder, admiring this photo scene I’ve seen a gazillion times and that people who’ve visited here with any regularity have seen 563 times. No matter. I love it, and I’m a sharing sort of fellow.

At noon, the sky was mostly clear. It had not rained the past few days. Could the Mexican monsoon be over? Let us pray so, which is what I considered doing as I sat with my Kindle reading H.L. Mencken’s Newspaper Days, one of a recently issued Days trilogy. The other two books are Happy Days and Heathen Days.

I’ve never read a book by Mencken before, just the occasional quote. Here is one that I, of course, concur with:

“Whenever A annoys or injures B on the pretense of saving or improving X, A is a scoundrel.”

But that was yesterday. It broke my heart when late in the afternoon, the skies over the mountains blackened (no racial ill will intended), but it held off. No rain. And here this morning, Saturday, it is overcast but still dry.

However, there was a tropical storm out in the sea, and that could dump an arm of the Mexican monsoon on us today. Perhaps those black clouds last night were related. Looks marginally clear right now.

I think the Goddess controls the overall atmosphere and perhaps contracts out tropical storms to some other spirit. I hope she keeps the storm spirit under her thumb today. She can be stern when needed.

Speaking of the Goddess and the related Christian God, have you been following the hubbub in Houston where the lesbian mayor wishes to have final say over sermons in churches? She doesn’t want anybody disagreeing with gay marriage or, I suspect, anything related to the collectivist playbook.

They brook no disagreement. The First Amendment pains them.

The backlash has been fierce, and it appears she’s tucking her tail between sections of her ample hindquarters and heading behind the nearest Texas duck blind.

Are there any lesbian conservatives? There are conservative gay guys, but is there even one lesbian conservative? Probably the only person to come close would be Camille Paglia, but it’s dang difficult to pigeonhole her. She’s conservative only in some areas, depending on her mood when she wakes each morning.

Let’s hope it does not rain today, and the kids in the barrio can fly their homemade kites. I’ve seen quite a few this week. At the moment, one is hanging high and stranded in a tree across the street. It’s visible through the window over the monitor. Another crash-landed two days ago in our back patio. I would have liked to reunite it with its master, but no telling where he might be.

The local kids paste these things together and launch them with a line of sewing thread. It’s always sewing thread, which breaks very easily, of course, when it’s half-a-mile long.

If the rain stays at bay another day, we’ll see more kites flying. It’s not advisable to fly a kite in the rain because you might have a Benjamin Franklin moment, and that could get ugly.

Below the floor

I WENT TO church yesterday. Basilica, actually, but I went to basilica doesn’t sound right, bounces off the ear funny.

Driving down the cobblestone street, I passed the basilica and got a hair up my backside, so I parked and went up the long stone walkway to the huge old door. I didn’t have to doff my hat because I’d left the hat in the Honda.

dahliaI went inside and sat on one of the shellacked pine pews, in a spot where the place to kneel was flipped up because I don’t kneel and because the kneeling things make it a tight squeeze for feet. I like legroom.

The basilica ceiling is very high. In spite of its being a small town here, the Spaniards built a first-class operation. You can’t have a puny basilica. It makes a bad impression on God, or I imagine that’s how it would be seen.

It was late afternoon, too late for Mass or perhaps too early, or both. Not a priest in sight. There had been a powerful rain, and few folks were inside the basilica with me, perhaps seven or so. It was grandly decorated with massive buntings, red, white and gold, hanging from on high. And floods of fresh flowers.

There were three confessionals and electronic candles because wax candles have gone the way of most full-penguin nuns, a thing of the old days. Nuns want to be comfortable, and nobody wants to burn the basilica down.

You do forfeit the nice smell of hot wax.

We have our own Virgin Mary. She’s named La Señora de la Salud. All over Mexico, towns and villages have their own local Virgin Marys. I really don’t get it, all those Virgin Marys instead of just the one. Our local Virgin Mary, made of cane paste and very old, sits up high in a glass-enclosed perch in the basilica. People here take her very seriously.

I sit in the basilica every couple of months, and I always look at the marble floor and think of who’s beneath it: my brother-in-law, the one who accidentally shot himself to death with a little .22-caliber pistol some years back. There are tombs down there. You descend narrow steps under a ventilation grate in the floor.

If you didn’t know it was there, you’d just walk right over it, thinking of other things, not of all the rotting corpses below. I’ve been down two or three times, those tombs where Catholic people spend eternity.

On leaving the basilica, walking back down the long stone walkway, you have the option of crossing the cobblestone street and continuing ahead. Four blocks down a hillside, on a perpendicular street, sits another church, almost as big, but not a basilica, just a normal Catholic church.

I don’t visit there. I don’t sit. I know no one below the floor.