I AM NOT a Baby Boomer, and thank the Goddess for that. It is the generation of the flower children, the hippies, the generation that is destroying Western Civilization.
The politically correct nonsense in which we swim today was created by Baby Boomers, and picked up and honed by ensuing generations to the detriment of us all.
I was born two years too early to shoulder any of the blame. I am a late-stage member of the Silent Generation. It fits me well. Here at the Hacienda, for example, 95 percent of the words come from my child bride. But that’s a woman thing. They talk a lot.
Before us Silents was the appropriately named Greatest Generation. We won’t see their kind again anytime soon, and we can thank the hippie Boomers for that.
All three of my wives — one current, two former — are Baby Boomers. Two were early stage and the last, my child bride, is late stage, but being Mexican she exhibits few Boomer characteristics. It’s why she’s a keeper.
This generational naming is a Caucasian thing, anyway, a result of self-absorption, which is a Boomer trait. But Millennials perfected self-absorption, which is why they are also called the Me, Me, Me Generation, or so said Time Magazine.
The Silent Generation. I like the tranquil sound of it. More people these days should follow our lead into silence. Now I’m going to shut up.
YESTERDAY ON the main plaza downtown, I noticed this old gent. He looks like a Gringo, not a Mexican, but I cannot be sure.
I’m guessing he took the wrong exit out of Woodstock in 1969 and ended up South of the Border when he intended to head toward Haight-Ashbury.
That strange Americans, sometimes on the lam but usually not, have long moved to Mexico is a fact. But many more normal folks are now retiring here because it’s cheaper, and because they think Mexicans are sooo nice. Earlier on, many came down to escape their lives north of the border. That was certainly my story. Escape.
Speaking of hippies, fellow retired newspaperman and blogger Al Lanier recently said there are no hippies in San Miguel de Allende near where he lives. I burst out laughing because there certainly are, thousands of them.
I’d wager that 90 percent of the mess of Gringos who move to San Miguel were stoned and swaying during 1967’s Summer of Love. Probably the fellow in the photo was there too. But San Miguel’s former hippies are now simply far older and wealthier.
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When I arrived home yesterday afternoon, I noticed this view, the colors and light mostly but the bougainvillea too. This is one of my three bougainvilleas that know their places. My sole monster bougainvillea will join them soon in size and good breeding.
But mostly, I just like the late-afternoon colors. The name of the paint color on that wall is Hacienda Red. Really. But any nincompoop can see it’s orange.
SITTING AT A sidewalk table abutting the plaza with a nice café Americano negro and nothing but time on my hands allows me to notice things.
Just up from where I sit are lines of sidewalk stands where people we call hippies (they don’t care for the term) sell wares like earrings, handmade drums, things you tie around your wrist to look artsy, stuff you move to make the sound of rain, Indian incense, that sort of gear. It attracts tourists, especially on weekends.
I took this shot last Saturday. The two women cannot be from around here. They just don’t look like mountaintop people. They look like big-city gals, maybe from the nearby state capital or Guadalajara or even Mexico City.
I’ve spent 40 years, more than half my life, living in tourist towns. New Orleans, San Juan and now here amid the cobblestone streets and bougainvillea. People from more prosaic spots visit and think, “I could live here,” but then they go home and die in Dubuque.