A sad story

I MET SAM about 15 years ago in the aisles of Walmart in the nearby capital city.

He was a decades-long friend of my wife’s, and he became an acquaintance of mine. He was a greater friend of my wife’s sister, the one who lives in the capital city.

Over the years he would unexpectedly show up here at my other sister-in-law’s coffee shop on the plaza for a visit. The capital city is only 40 minutes down the mountainside.

Sam was a union official, which means he did pretty well for himself. He always drove a nice, late-model car, and he owned a lovely home in the capital. He retired about five years ago, but we did not see him more often then. Actually, we saw him less.

Once we had lunch at his home. That was about 10 years ago, I think. Sam’s hobby was raising exotic birds which he kept caged in a glassed-in patio. They provided musical backdrop for lunch that day.

Once, maybe twice, he spent the night at our Hacienda.

When Sam would visit the coffee shop, he often would bring a young man with him. It never was the same young man. Yes, Sam was single for a reason.

Aside from birds, Sam’s other hobby was psychology. He was fond of taking university courses in that foggy discipline. Maybe he was trying to understand himself.

We got a phone call yesterday from a nephew of Sam’s. Sam had been found naked and murdered on the floor of his home. He had been on the floor three days. The police have announced no details, but we know what happened.

He was killed by someone he brought home from a gay bar.

About two years ago, Sam was beaten in his home, and his car was stolen in similar circumstances. Sam invented a story for that attack, but we knew the truth.

I have never personally known a murder victim before now. I have known suicides — three of them — and victims of accidents — about the same number — but Sam is the first murder victim. Sadly, my wife cannot say the same because two of her brothers were murdered decades ago in totally unrelated events. Murder is not rare here.

Sam was 60 years old.

A fruitcake* Zapata

nude

MUCHOS MEXICANOS, yours truly included, are incensed at this painting of my father as a raging queen astride a horse with a raging woodie.

That this exists is yet another example of corrupt Gringo culture and mindset filtering south of the border where most of us do not want it.

Shockingly, this painting is on exhibit in the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City where it has been the focus on plentiful protests. Good.

That it sits in the Palace of Fine Arts instead of a privately owned gallery, which would be bad enough, puts the government Seal of Approval on it, which is pathetic, but we have ignorant left-wing regimes now on both the federal level and in Mexico City too.

Sad.

In the same vein, Netflix has just released a Christmas special about a gay Jesus. All I can say to this is: Jesus!

* * * *

* Superlative fruitcakes are available at the Collin Street Bakery. I endorse those tasty things. Just keep them off horny horses.

Let’s laugh at leftists!

logic
This would be funnier if it weren’t so true.

A CLEAR-THINKING amiga sends me this sort of stuff on occasion. Here are two you will — or won’t if you vote for Democrats — find entertaining.

People who still vote Democrat (I long did!) are always entertaining and worrisome at the same time due to the growing prevalence and danger of their nutty notions.

The above illustration focuses on Democrats’ loony love of Mohammedans, a religion that runs completely counter to the gods of diversity, equality, women’s rights, gay rights and all that other stuff Democrats crow about every day.

Go figger.

Bonus issue: Democrats also weep about the “oppression” of Palestinians, a totally bogus oppression, which they attribute mostly to the beastly nation of Israel, the only spot in the Middle East where women walk free and democracy reigns.

If you want to be knowledgeable about this faux oppression, watch this.

Now to the photo below. Perhaps you don’t know — if you read the New York Times, Huffpost, Slate, etc. — but there’s been lots of questioning about whether Michelle Obama is a transvestite. It seems some photos of her appear to show a crotch bulge.

I do not subscribe to that belief, nor do I think Weepy Barry was born in Kenya. There are — and continue to be — lots of reasons to dislike those two, but their gender and birthplace are not among them. You may disagree. Feel free.

image001
Nothing gets past the queen.

Rocket men, the Caribbean and deviancy

IN THE MID-1970s, I was sharing a home with a sports writer directly on the beach in the San Juan, Puerto Rico, suburb of Santurce. There was a lime tree in the backyard that supplied my rum-and-Cokes with a nice, free squeeze.

For reasons I cannot recall now, I later moved next door where I rented a room in a home owned by a couple of gay guys from New York City.

Both homes were spectacular, not least for being directly on the beach. Well, you had to cross the two-lane street outside, the one that paralleled the ocean’s edge, before you actually set toes into the sand.

Elton John’s Rocket Man was popular at that time, and whenever I hear the song, it takes me back to San Juan. So does I can see clearly now by Johnny Nash.

But I associate Nash more with the second of my two stays in San Juan, the one where I lived with a blonde from Brooklyn named Mary. We did not live right on the beach but three or four blocks inland and right across the street from a small restaurant where I often ate chicken and rice.

Nash’s song was on the restaurant’s jukebox. I had Elton John’s LP with Rocket Man, but I only heard Nash on that jukebox, but I heard it a lot because I liked chicken and rice a lot. Still do.

Speaking of Rocket Men:

* * * *

The Waco Spaceman

Billy Bob deployed one iron anchor and then the other. The wooden space ship was bouncing loonily.

Moments earlier, before skidding onto the moon’s surface, he opened a big silk parachute he had purchased at the military surplus in Waco.

The parachute and two anchors combined to slow the ship down pretty darn good, and he was skipping along the moonscape now at diminishing velocity.

Billy Bob was a deacon at the Second Baptist Church in Waco, so he was praying to God Almighty.

He had built this spaceship out of wood planks, and he’d shellacked it 37 times for re-entry protection. Billy Bob sat in a wicker chair inside the wooden rocket in a steel septic tank he had uncovered in a Waco junkyard.

The tank was kept intact by a compressor he’d purchased at Home Depot. The blastoff from his backyard was done with dynamite. The trip had taken two days during which Billy Bob dined on Cheetos, Moon Pies and RC Cola.

Suddenly, the spaceship stopped.

Billy Bob opened the septic tank, then the wooden door, and stepped out. He had a goldfish bowl over his head, duct-taped at the neck. A scuba tank — full of mesquite-flavored Texas Hill Country air — sagged on his back.

How you doing, honey?

The voice startled Billy Bob, and he swung around. There was a hole in the ground, and the most dazzling woman he had ever seen was standing there, half out of the hole and half in. Her smile was stunning.

Billy Bob later learned that millions of Moon People lived below the surface, and that 95 percent were lovely women whose average life span was 32. Men, being in critically short supply, were highly prized.

Billy Bob never went back to Waco. And he quit being a Baptist too.

(I wrote Waco Spaceman many years ago. Billy Bob was a Rocket Man.)

* * * *

But let’s return to the sands of Santurce.

The second home in which I rented a room was owned, as I already stated, by two gay guys from New York City. I never met but one of them, a little fellow who was likely about 45 years old at the time. He liked adolescent boys, and some adolescent boys liked him too, especially the money he paid them.

They would ride their bicycles up and down the street in front of our house in the warm, breezy afternoons — almost all afternoons were warm and breezy — and my landlord would walk out and bring one in. They would disappear into his bedroom for a spell, and then the boy would leave, mount his bike and depart.

This happened very often. I asked the landlord how much he paid the boys. It wasn’t much, just a dollar or two. Of course, that was four decades ago when a dollar meant something.

As I write this, I see a black-vented oriole on the fan palm in my yard.

* * * *

(Postscript: Here’s another version of life on the beach of Santurce that I wrote over a decade ago. It addresses not only the New Yorker and his boys, but a beautiful girl from Chile and an Army Ranger who slept with a Bowie knife beneath his pillow.)