Sixteen years of Mexican matrimony

TODAY IS MY ANNIVERSARY, 16 years of wedded bliss.

I’ve been married three times, which has been interesting. The first lasted just five years but resulted in my only children. There were two. A girl who’s now almost 52, and a boy who died in the hospital after three days.

I then got a vasectomy. I was just 24.

My daughter is named Celeste, and my son was named Ian Lee.

The first was a self-imposed shotgun marriage. The second, which lasted 10 years though we lived together 19 years, was done for practical matters, health insurance mostly. The moral of this is don’t point a shotgun at yourself, and don’t marry for practical matters. Do it for the traditional reasons.

Do it for love and romance.

This last marriage, the ceremony, took place in the interior patio of my sister-in-law’s coffee shop on the main plaza. A judge presided. I had no idea how civil marriages were done in Mexico, so it was all a surprise to me.

You stand there with your witnesses, and the judge goes through the words. You don’t say, I do. You say, I accept, but in Spanish, of course.

wedding

Here we are waiting for the judge to show up. She was late. That’s me on the left, of course, my child bride, her sister who seethed with envy the entire evening (note face) and her husband, a man who later shot himself to death by mishap in a “cry for help” after his wife tossed him out in the street.

Mexico is full of endless drama.

We had a great time. About 30 people showed up, and we danced in the patio after the rather dry ceremony with the judge. This fellow provided the music.

This video was not shot during the wedding, but that’s the guy.

Having been married three times, twice to Gringas and once to a Mexicana, I cannot avoid making comparisons. Since the nations’ cultures are drastically different, so are the women. I recommend the latter over the former.

There is no comparison.

While I rather fell into the first two marriages, I was quite deliberate with this one. I even got down on my knee to propose, and I did it between two pyramids built centuries ago by the indigenous folks of our area.

pyramids

These are the actual pyramids. Women like it when you make a splash.

Whether it was the pyramids, the singer known as El Potro, the magic of the judge or some other unknown factor, this marriage has been a keeper.

Best move of my life.

The bedroom wall

wall

RETURNING HOME late yesterday afternoon after sitting on the big plaza downtown, watching workmen erect metal scaffolds to support canvas roofs under which the yearly Semana Santa market will unfold next week, I walked into the bedroom and noticed this part of the wall in the light of early evening.

The camera asked for a flash, but I ignored it.

The lamp light did the trick, along with a little extra from the nearby window. Sometimes, you just gotta follow your gut instinct.

The hilarity of Hollywood

SHOWBIZ HAS become a caricature of itself.

Its prime function is to entertain us, and it’s now doing that more than ever, but not in a way it thinks or wants.

The Oscars have become a leftist, lip-flapping session. Movies hype political correctness so blatantly that it’s hard not to howl with derisive laughter.

Case in point:

Last night on Netflix we watched a new Natalie Portman flick named The Annihilation. It was pretty lame but not due to the rampant pushing of political correctness. It simply is not a very good movie.

But let’s look at the PC aspects. There was a team of four that entered a zone of no return, a place where other teams had entered and vanished. It’s a sci-fi movie.

In a realistic movie and in real life, the team would have been four tough, beefy guys with backpacks, camos and guns, men with Special Forces backgrounds. But what was the team in The Annihilation? Four women, and not just four women.

Our racially and sexually diverse lady team sported backpacks, camos and guns, just like guys, in spite of their being ladies of science, not soldiering.

Women can do anything!

Two white women, one Latino woman and one black woman. The black woman was a lesbian. Extra diversity point! Natalie Portman’s character, earlier in the sequence of events, had an affair with a married man. He was black, of course.

Multi-racial romances are the rage in Hollywood. Nobody hops into the sack anymore with anyone who even vaguely resembles themselves, which is how it works almost all of the time in real life.

The dialogue: There were occasional mentions of romances and marriages. The significant others were never referred to as men. They were invariably a “person” or a “partner.” The script sounded as if it had been written in a gender-studies class at Berkeley or the University of Wisconsin.

The only entertaining aspect to this silliness was watching almost all the gals gruesomely die. If they’d only brought Clint Eastwood along.

Evening on the veranda

veranda

THIS EVENING I sat atop a rocker just after sunset, alone, inhaling the night air, something I did more often years ago before they invented Netflix and the internet.

This photo was shot 14 years ago, but it hasn’t changed to any appreciable degree.

It was fairly quiet, and there was a slight breeze which excited a couple of the wind chimes, so I had musical accompaniment, a fine thing especially when it’s soft.

It was the hour of bats, but I saw none. Maybe I had sat too late, or maybe it’s just not that time of year. I lose track, as I lose track of lots of things.

It’s a good place to sit at all hours, but especially evenings or nights. If there are bats heading out for their nocturnal meal, that’s just gravy for me or a dessert of sorts.

I should do this more often. That’s what I said to myself.

I hope I remember.