Ranch Life

Another rough day at La Cañada de la Virgen

Dorks at La Cañada de la Virgen

Mexican Birthday Party

(Another one sailing around the internet)

Top 15 ways to tell it's a MEXICAN birthday party:

1. The party is Saturday, and you get a call from the hostess Friday saying, 'I'm giving Mijo a birthday party tomorrow at 3pm'

2. Some of the guests didn't bring a gift - but brought extra uninvited kids.

3. The party is separated into women cooking, men drinking, and kids playing.

4. The party is at Chuck E. Cheese but they brought their own food, cake and a piñata.

5. It's a child's party, but there are more grown-ups than children.

6. For entertainment, instead of playing pin the tail on the donkey, there is usually a televised baseball or futbol game, or a live fight.

7. The party was supposed to be over at 5pm, but its 7:30pm and the party is just starting.

8. The host calls someone who's on their way and tells them to stop and get some tortillas and ice.

9. You hear someone go up to the birthday child and say, 'Mira, que lindo. I'm going to have to get you something next week when I get paid.'

10. Some guests bring gifts that are still in the Wal-Mart bag.

11. The cake didn't come from the store; it came from the mother of the comadre of your best friend's sister who makes really good cakes.

12. You are told you have to save your plate and fork you ate your food with, so you can eat your cake.

13. It's Mijo's 1st birthday and the party food is carne asada, arroz, frijoles and 10 cases of beer.

14. It's Mijo's birthday, but since his cousin Maria is there and her birthday is in a few days, it becomes Mijo's and Maria's party.

15. Guests automatically wrap up a plate of food and cake to take home.

Skydiving

I enjoyed this communication so I thought I’d share. (Christian is a friend in Mexico City and Toby is a friend from Vienna who is coming to visit for a month.)

Hello Charles!

Next Monday is my birthday, so we are planning to go skydiving the following weekend (Sunday, Feb 1st) in Teques, it’s the safest place or at least the most famous (and safest) one around, so I thought you guys might want to join us since you will be in Mex City with Toby. We would leave Mexico City Sunday morning, 1.5 hr drive to Teques. Jump at 13 hrs., then have lunch around there, and come back, expecting to be back in Mexico City at 18:30 pm.

Price: 2,150 pesos per person, and if you want a video of you taken while in the air, its 950 pesos extra.

As of today, we would jump in pairs (2 persons per flight), but there’s a big chance they are using a bigger plane cause they have more people jumping.

The website is http://www.paracaidismo.com.mx/ check it out.

Hopefully you want to join!

Besos
Christian


Dear Toby,

I already told Christian that "I ain't jump'n outta no frigg'n airplane" but here is the information in case you are interested.


Hi Charles,

Thanks for the info, but I am with you! After 12 hours on a plane the day before, I don't feel like going on another plane the day immediately after with jetlag, just to jump out of it again. I would do skydiving, however if I would do it I'd rather do it over here in Europe with higher chances of survival.

Love,
Toby

Economic Woes

Maybe the title should be, “Watching your dreams disappear.”

The first year of retirement I made money faster than I could spend it. Even with multiple trips, home renovations and a new car, I ended the year ahead. I thought, “Damn, why didn’t I retire earlier?”

That has all changed. The plans for spending six weeks or more in Europe every year, maybe buying another piece of property, adding an entertainment pavilion or another casita; they’ve all evaporated.

Instead of eyeing a beach house, I’m planting a garden. Instead of perusing travel sites, I’m reading garden blogs and talking to neighbors about learning to can what we produce. We’re building a compost bin out of old wooden pallets. Travel outside of Mexico is temporarily off the board.

As I tried to salvage my portfolio, I thought I was making a brilliant financial move when I converted a bunch of dollars to pesos when the peso fell from 10:1 to 12:1. Two days later it was 14:1. (Instead of making 20% on my money, I could have made 40%.) Well, exchange rates are like the stock market; one can’t really time them exactly.

And I’ve found these neat little things called “CETES” which are Mexican government backed securities where your capital is protected and they pay about 7% APR after taxes. They mature every 28 days and the interest is deposited directly to my checking account, giving me the option to roll over the capital or withdraw, as I see fit. So far, so good. As long as there is not a revolution I should be ok.

Just when my money is at its lowest, governments seem to be coming to me for more.

My property taxes went up 300%. (But to put it in perspective, I was only paying about $300 USD per year. Now it looks like it will be about $900 USD.) I’ve written letters and today I went to the assessor’s office with a lawyer. It is not over yet but it looks like there is no way out. I guess the good news is that the assessor told me that I should be able to sell my property for three times what I paid for it only four years ago. (I asked him to find me a buyer.)

And now the state of California seems to think that I owe them income tax even though I don’t live or work there any more. Something about earning income from a California based company. (Yeah, well some of the properties are in California and some are in Oregon. Two are in Nevada. Does that mean that Oregon and Nevada are going to come after me as well?)

The current state of affairs in the U.S. also has an enormous impact on Mexico. After Oil, Mexico’s second largest commodity is U.S. dollars sent to Mexico by Mexicans working in the U.S. Many of those Mexicans work in the construction industry. Many of them are now out of work. (I sure that is part of the reason that the peso has lost 40% against the dollar. Dollars are now harder to get.)

But when it is all said and done, I still consider myself lucky. I have no debt and a house that is paid for. My overhead is low. I live in a beautiful place with an amazing partner. We have a wonderful circle of friends. We have our health.

If this is just one of life’s wake-up calls, so be it. I can find pleasure in nature, focus on being grateful for what I have rather than cry over what got away. I believe that I can hang on.

However, Go Obama! (I don’t want to have to return to work when I’m 60.)

The Straight Man Kiss

I got one this evening, unexpectedly. A kiss that is.

I went over to Melanie and Eric’s ranch to talk about building a three-system compost bin. Our other friends, Megan (from the U.S.), her Chilean husband David and their baby Matilda are living at the ranch now as well.

Melanie met me at the gate with a glass of wine in hand, and pointed out where some bees had migrated through their property. Eric and I sat down with composting plans while David was sanding the latest piece of furniture that he is making. Matilda was sleeping in her crib in the shade.

After we hammered out our composting design plans, the afternoon wound down into lounging in the courtyard, drinking homemade wine and watching Matilda wake up from her nap (and preventing her from doing tongue kisses with the dogs through the mesh of her playpen).

Melanie whipped up an amazing curry stir-fry dinner.

As we were leaving, David was giving me a hug goodbye and kissed me on the cheek.

There is something so special when a straight man kisses me on the cheek.

It is different when a bi-curious man kisses a pretty young guy. Kind of like, “Yeah, I’m straight but if I were gay I could so hit that!” But this is very different, when a young straight man kisses a middle-aged gay man spontaneously.

And I don’t think that it is a cultural thing. Maybe in David’s case, being Chilean. But my first such kiss here in Mexico was from a straight young American from Chicago. And I’ve gotten one from the father of my Mexican godchild as well.

It catches me off guard. I feel like, “Wow, I should have kissed them back!” But I’m usually so surprised that I’m clumsy.

Thank you though; to this generation of straight young men who are so unabashed in their show of genuine, spontaneous affection. And so unaffected by the gay – straight stigma. It warms my heart and reaffirms why I live here.

Navidad 2008

Two years ago, I attended my first Christmas with the family and I was nervous as hell. I was the first boyfriend that Rod had ever brought home for Christmas so it was kind of his “coming out” Christmas. Everyone knew, but that was the first time that it was in their face. And an older gringo to boot.

However, after four years together, I’ve met most of the immediate family and we’ve hosted aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews here at the ranchito. So this year, instead of walking in the door to meet a crowd of strangers (who speak a different language) I was greeted with back-slapping hugs, kisses on the cheek and children jumping into my arms.

This is one big family that has figured out how to handle the masses. With 40 adults and 20 children (even larger if everyone could make it) dinner is somewhat pot luck. However, a couple key members make massive quantities of their traditional dishes. Yes, there is a turkey and a waldorf salad. But little else resembles my traditional Christmas meals. There is “bacalao” which is a re-constituted salt-dried white fish heavily seasoned with garlic and herbs, and a shrimp and herb dish served in a mole (not sweet but spicy chocolate sauce) called “romeritos”. (There is also spaghetti but I imagine that springs from fussy children who won’t eat the “adult” food which tends to be rather spicy.)

There are two seatings for dinner. Those not seated for the first round, serve those who are and when finished the first seating serves the second seating.

After dinner (it is now getting close to midnight) the children form a procession in groups of two, carrying a baby Jesus in swaddling between them, and everyone sings a hymn. Then the children are whisked upstairs to see if they can witness Santa’s arrival.

Once the children are upstairs, parents scramble to car trunks, closets, wherever their secret hiding place is, and retrieve the gifts for their respective children. After the gifts are all laid in front of the nativity scene, an uncle with a very deep voice yells up the stairwell, “HO, HO, HO!” and then the rest of us yell, “Adios Santa!” and the children come pouring down the stairs; having once again, just missed seeing Santa.

With eager faces they all sit in front of the tower of presents, waiting for their name to be called.
(My face almost hurt from smiling so much.)

After all the gifts are distributed and opened, the chaos ensues as everyone plays with their toys and shares with their brother, sister, cousin or even the “friend” of Uncle Rodrigo. The music starts and dancing begins.

If I ever found myself alone, not talking to anyone, all I had to do was sit and wait for a few minutes and some child would find me and share the marvels of their transformer or new doll or would attempt to entice me into a game of one sort or another.

I come from a small family. I’m not accustomed to the chaos that can be Christmas. But to me, Christmas is all about the children. And in Rod’s family, there is no shortage of children.

Family photos were being taken in one part of the house while I was in another. My conversation was interrupted when I heard my name being yelled in chorus from the other room. Rod’s family photo was being taken and I was missing from the group. They were all calling me. (I had to choke back a tear.)

Parts South

Every other Christmas, Rod’s father’s side of the family convenes for a Christmas Eve celebration. This was the year.

In addition, Rod’s father’s 70th birthday was the week before, in Cuernavaca. Rather than drive down twice, we decided to arrive for the birthday celebration, rent a little villa for the week, take some day trips and hit the big Christmas event on our return.

It only took us two hours to drive to Mexico City, but it took three hours to cross it. (One of Rod’s cousins asked me if I found it difficult to drive in Mexico City. “Why would it be?” I asked, “There is a car in front of you, one behind you, one on your right and another on your left; and you’re only going five kilometers per hour. What’s hard about that?”)

In Cuernavaca, we stayed at Las Villas de Bellavista ( http://www.cuernavaca-villas.com/crental4/rental_houses_cuernavaca204.html) which was about 10 minutes from Rod’s parent’s house. It was half the price of the hotel where we usually stay, and it had a big kitchen, beautiful gardens and a swimming pool. Although a little dated in appointments, it was spacious, comfortable, quiet, and the owners couldn’t have been nicer. Two of their cats spotted us for what we are (i.e., animal lovers) and adopted us immediately.

We arrived at the family home around 6:00 in the evening. (The party had started at 2:00, about 50 people.) Rod’s parents and brothers greeted us immediately and much to my surprise, Rod’s older brother was speaking to me in English; the same brother who two years ago, wouldn’t look me in the eye and would only speak rapidly in Spanish. Now, suddenly, he speaks English. And, did I get some food? Do I want any more? Are the waiters chilling my wine? Am I ready for it now? Do I want something else while the wine is chilling? (What a difference four years makes.)

And let’s not forget Rod’s mother; the woman who did barely more than scowl at me for two years. (I was more than a little afraid of her.) Not only was I greeted with a kiss but she had knitted me a scarf.

A good portion of the week was spent around the family dinner table, eating, talking, eating some more, but Rod and I did manage to sneak off for a day trip.

Our first stop was Las Grutas de Cacahuamilpa (http://cacahuamilpa.conanp.gob.mx/). It was the biggest cave I’ve ever seen, with stalagmites and crystal formations leading two kilometers into the mountain. Even with my claustrophobia, this cave was so big that it was no issue. (There is even a theater for about 200 people in the middle of this thing.) The pathway and surrounding formations were all cleverly and artistically lit. (I can’t imagine the person who found it going in with only a flashlight.)

From there we ventured on to the city of Taxco, famous for its silver production. The drive was beautiful, as was the city itself, set against a mountain side. However, unless you are really interested in buying silver, this town doesn’t seem to have much to offer. The streets are narrower than San Miguel and still they are two-way. And there is hardly any place to park. We were told, “Never go on a weekend.”

One thing that stood out to me on this trip was how much cleaner this part of Mexico is than our state of Guanajuato. I’m frequently annoyed by the amount of litter and garbage that I see strewn about the roadside and countryside. But not here. Not in this part of Mexico.

Probably my favorite part of the week was when all eleven of us (Rod’s immediate family) packed into two cars and headed to the town of Malinalco to see the ruins and to fish for our lunch. The trip took us about two hours from Cuernavaca. (It wouldn’t have taken us two hours except we passed through the mountain town of Chalma where the faithful bath in sacred waters that pass under a tree. Being a Sunday, they were out in mass (so to speak), and roadside vendors were selling beautiful crowns of flowers.)

The first stop in Malinalco was the archeological site. At the entrance we were figuring out who and how we were going to pay for all eleven of us when we were informed that I would be the only one who had to pay. On Sunday, Mexicans and Mexican residents can enter for free. The only proof of residency that I had with me was my Costco card and that wouldn’t cut it. My FM3 was back in the car, at the bottom of the hill, and I wasn’t about to go all the way down and back to save 40 pesos.

After the older boys were done playing “Rey del Mundo” (King of the World), the middle child, Santiago, thought it was time to go. “Vamos a pecar,” he said, (“Let’s go sin,”) instead of “Vamos a pescar,” (“Let’s go fish,”). (I decided then and there that I shouldn’t learn Spanish from a three-year-old.)

We headed off to the trout pond where we used bamboo poles (with cigarette filters as bait) to catch our lunch. The locals cleaned our fish and then we took them across the street to a restaurant where they cooked them for us, three different recipes, for $1.00 or $1.50 depending on our choice, and served them with beans and rice. (The bill for lunch, including soft drinks and beer for all eleven of us, was about $50.)

After lunch there was a brief detour for ice cream and then another for diaper changes, and we got back just after sunset.

Now we’re ready to brave the drive back to Mexico City for Christmas Eve.

Another Small World Story

I was doing a little Christmas shopping at our local natural health store, called Moonrise Health (http://www.moonrise-health.com/home.html). The new owner, an attractive young woman, approached me to offer assistance. We got to chatting and she asked where I was from.

“Most recently from the San Francisco bay area,” I said, “But I grew up in Northern California.”

“Where in Northern California?” she asked.

“Well, the first 13 or so years were in a little town that you’ve probably never heard of; Garberville.”

“Give me a hug!”

(Garberville has a population of about 1,500. What are the odds?)

Her name is Shanti and she graduated from my old high school in Miranda (my high school before we moved to Eureka) and went on to college at Humboldt State University in Arcata.

The store got busy so we didn’t have time to share further. But I’m at her store every once in a while so we’ll have to see if we know anyone in common. I kind of doubt it given the generational difference. But still, it felt good to run into another Humboldter here in the middle of Mexico.

Approaching 50

I received a birthday card when I turned 40 that read: “The good thing about turning 40 is that you know that you’ll never die young.” Harsh.

Last Wednesday was my 49th birthday. Not technically a milestone birthday but sobering nonetheless.

I never thought I’d live to be this old. I used to tell people that I planned to die at 45. “Live hard, die young, leave a pretty corpse,” I’d say.

I was approaching 40 years old when I was on a sail boat some place in the South of France, and I shared my long self projected demise with my friend Debra. She said, “Maybe 45 will just represent the death of your old life and you’ll move onto something new.” (In hindsight she couldn’t have been more accurate.)

Now as I see 50 looming on the horizon, I’ve begun to take stock of my life. And much as one does with New Year’s resolutions, I’m asking myself what I want this second stage to look like. After all, the prospective corpse is not looking as pretty as I’d like so I need a plan ‘B’.

Some times I look at the skin on my hands or my naked body in a mirror and ask myself, “When did I become my father?” And on closer inspection, “When did I grow a second set of eyelids?”

Even though the current state of the economy has dramatically altered my retirement vision, I still have so very much for which to be thankful; a simple, peaceful life, loving family and friends, and so far, my health. And if I’m going to enter the second half of the game, I might want to pay a little more attention to that last item; health.

But oh how I hate exercise. That whole process of going to the gym, eating “right”, etc. I need to find something that I love to do that has a healthy side effect. Tennis? Hard on the knees. Golf? Expensive. Swimming? Fear of drowning. Bike ridding? Flat tires.

Yoga? Maybe I need to think about yoga.

And there is the 50th birthday to plan. Ideally I’d like to get a big group together and go whitewater rafting in Costa Rica. But that is probably prohibitively expensive.

So I’m open to suggestions.

Thanksgiving 2008

I thought we were a large group at 16. But then I ran into a gringo at the flower Mercado who said that he was attending an event of 35. Who does that? Who hosts 35 people for Thanksgiving dinner? I imagine someone very wealthy. Why don’t we know this person?

Alex wanted to provide a farm raised turkey from his family’s ranch. “By the time it gets here, it better look like a store-bought turkey,” I told him. “I wouldn’t know how to deal with a feathers and a head.”

In the end it turned out that their turkeys won’t be ready until Christmas. So off to Costco I went. Picking out a turkey in kilos instead of pounds was relatively easy. And I know the difference in Spanish between a smoked turkey and a regular turkey. I found the regular turkeys but was momentarily confused by a notation that read, “Doble Pechuga!” Double breasts? What? Are there four? What kind of turkey is this? A phone call to Rod cleared it up. He said that it probably meant that the breasts were twice as big.

While searching for sage (“Salvia” in Spanish) I ran into one of Rod’s clients; a Greek woman who lives here. “You’re so lucky,” she said. “Rod cooks too. I have to do the whole dinner myself, for 10 people.”

“Why are you doing that?” I said. “Rod and I are doing the bird, the stuffing and the gravy. Everyone else is bringing everything else.”

“Well that is not the Greek way. You know. In Greece it is the women who do all the cooking.”

“I know. But in Greece the kitchen is full of women all helping each other. You’re just one person.”

“You’re right. Next year it will be different.”

Three stores later I found the sage and bought enough for her in case she couldn’t find any. She did the same so now we both have enough sage to last us for several years.

Christine and Mario joined us, finally reunited in Mexico (after US immigration separated them at the border after their wedding). It is looking like Mario overstayed his tourist visa and therefore will not be able to return to the states for at least a year and maybe as many as 10 years. So Christine has quit her job teaching in Denver and will be renting out their house and moving back to Mexico. They plan to relocate to Queretaro which is only an hour from San Miguel. While I’m sorry that things have not played out as they had planned, I am delighted that “mi hija” will be back in Mexico and so very close.

Pollo a la Cacerola

(A tangy way to prepare chicken, that just falls off the bone. Rod got this recipe from his mother and I ask him to make it about once a week.)

5 or 6 chicken thighs w/o skin
Salt & pepper
1 Tbls cooking oil
Two large potatoes, peeled and chopped into 1 inch cubes
Apple vinegar
2 large bay leaves
1 Tbls flour
2 cloves minced garlic

Wash chicken thighs, dry with paper towels and season with salt & pepper.

In a deep pot (that has a lid) brown chicken thighs in the cooking oil. Add the chopped potatoes and nearly cover (about 7/8ths) the chicken and potato mixture with apple vinegar. Use water to finish covering the mixture.

Put flour in a glass jar with 1/3 cup water and shake to mix. Add to pot and stir. Stir in bay leaves and garlic.

Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until potatoes can be easily pierced with a fork but are still a little firm (about one hour).

Remove lid and continue to simmer until sauce is reduced by half.

Hipo (Hiccup)

Doesn’t everyone keep their kittens in a bowl?

Padrino (Godfather)

You may remember some years back when I was asked to be the Godfather to Karla and Pawis’ daughter Enya. It was quite an honor, being invited into my first Mexican family.

Since I am gay (and not Catholic) it was not an official baptism but rather a spiritual service performed under a tent in or front yard by our friend Reverend Nancy Anderson, and translated by Rodrigo.

That was over three years ago. Since then Karla and Pawis divorced and Karla took Enya to Cuernavaca where they have been living with Karla’s mother. So I only get to see Enya on the occasional visit to San Miguel which, thus far, has been about once a year.

Monday was one of those days.

My heart melted as I opened the door and Enya threw herself into my arms for a fierce and long-lasting hug. Throughout the afternoon she would yell, “CharleS!” (with a special emphasis on the “S”.) But my favorite was when she called me “Padrino.”

We spent the afternoon looking for ‘ranas” (frogs) in the pond. More often than not Enya was carrying our kitten “hipo” (hiccup) wound up in a ball in her arms.

What amazed me was how much and what this three-year-old would eat. First she consumed two bananas before lunch. At lunch she ate rice and chicken in poblano sauce (Thanks Bob and Karen for the leftovers!) and César salad. Later she had a couple pieces of Halloween candy and just before leaving, she ate a ripe tomato as one would eat an apple.

As they drove out the front gate, Enya insisted on leaning out the window for her third kiss goodbye.

Rodrigo’s father’s 70th birthday is in December with Christmas falling the weekend after. We’re thinking about renting a house in Cuernavaca for that week thereby allowing us to spend time with Rodrigo’s family and now, of course, with Enya and Karla.

The Election

A couple of firsts;

The first time I’ve ever been glued to the television watching election returns.

The first time I’ve ever voted for someone younger than I am.

I had a dream last night, after the election, that I was asked by Obama to be a political advisor. I wasn’t certain, in my dream, what advice I might be qualified to offer, other than how to make a good salad dressing. But I accepted and was very excited at the prospect of dispensing my opinions in the west wing.

I’d come out of retirement for that job.

Subprime Banking Mess

La Boda (The Wedding)

We’ve hosted parties here before, up to 80 or so people. We’ve even hosted a wedding, but the entire wedding party was only 12 people. Christine and Mario’s wedding was by far our biggest, at 130.

I was fairly successful at keeping my control freak nature at bay. I provided the space and my maid (who, along with some family members, prepared the meal). Christine and her family did the rest.

The wedding was a huge success. The bride was beaming and exquisite, the groom happy and handsome and Alex and Pao officiated brilliantly in English and Spanish. The food was even great.

I think the one thing that set this wedding apart from so many others that I’ve attended, was the very bi-cultural nature of the entire evening. Family and friends from both sides blending together, communicating with whatever language skills they had. Some would effortlessly switch back and forth between English and Spanish, while others muddled their way through with “Spanglish”. But it worked. It worked very well. So well that it didn’t end until 5:30 in the morning.

I guess at 5:30 in the morning we were a little negligent about closing shop, because Rodrigo awoke to find the neighbor’s two dogs curled up asleep on the couch; the front gate open as well as the front door. (The dogs must have enjoyed themselves because the next evening they were waiting outside the front gate for someone to let them in.) In retrospect, I guess it was a good thing that the dogs were there. Otherwise, someone could have walked in and robbed us blind while we were sleeping.

The drama began the second day after the wedding.

Christine and Mario left Monday morning for Mexico City. That afternoon I called Christine’s parents at the house that they were renting, in order to plan a hand-off of some items that Christine couldn’t fit in her luggage. That is when Ruth (Christine’s mother) told me that she was taking Larry (Christine’s father) to the hospital. He was admitted that afternoon. Diagnosis: amebas and severe dehydration (particularly dangerous for Larry since he has a kidney transplant). He was immediately started on intravenous antibiotics and saline solution.

Meanwhile, the bride and groom were in route home to Denver, Colorado. Mario, traveling on a tourist visa, was turned around at U.S. Immigration and, after a night in a holding cell, sent back to Mexico City (supposedly because he did not have six months remaining on his visa).

The next day we moved Ruth from the rental house up to the ranchito, to wait for Larry’s release from the hospital.

In summary, Larry recovered and he and Ruth returned to the states on Saturday (one week after the wedding instead of the planned three days). Christine is in Denver, working and wandering around their new home, which has to feel very empty without Mario. Mario is with his family in Mexico City and he and Christine are working with an immigration attorney to try and figure out when, and if, Mario will be able to return to the U.S.

It’s complicated.

San Miguel de Allende - Independencia 2008

The clip above was taken from the roof of Alex’s mother’s house, on Independencia. Independencia is Mexico’s 4th of July.

Many people think that Cinco de Mayo (or the 5th of May) is Mexico’s independence celebration. It is not. Mexico’s Independence Day is September 16th. The night before the “Grito” or cry for freedom is re-read all over Mexico (with the attending crowd screaming “Viva!” after each line) and then there are fireworks. San Miguel de Allende and neighboring Dolores Hidalgo, are considered the seats of independence because they are where the grito was first read which ultimately lead to revolution and Mexico’s independence from Spain.

Cinco de Mayo is rumored to be a Corona holiday, designed to sell more beer in the US. The 5th of May is a day in history, when Mexico defeated an attack from the French. But here in Mexico, it is almost a non-event.

Obama-fest

I don’t think he’s really this tall, do you?

Alex and I dropped in at the Obama-fest fundraiser last night. This was my first democratic event in San Miguel and I have to say that it was an interesting crowd.

Think social mixer (about 400 people) at a retirement home for hippies. (It wasn’t a retirement home, it was a private residence, but that was the feel of the event.)

When I thought about it, doesn’t it make sense that democrats that live abroad might just be a lot of old hippies? (Many with money, but hippies nonetheless.) They would probably be the first to leave the trappings of corporate America and the policies of the current administration.

After watching the first presidential debate tonight, I sent the following to the Democratic National Party website:

"After watching the debates tonight, I have a suggestion. I hated the way that McCain kept saying that Obama " . . . doesn't understand . . .", clearly trying to imply that he, McCain, is older and wiser. I think that Obama, when rebutting a statement, policy or point of history, should start with, "John, you probably don't remember . . ." (Just an idea to level the playing field.)"

Pet Diaries

(Lifted from the internet)

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary:

* 8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
* 9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
* 9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
* 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
* 12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
* 1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
* 3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
* 5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
* 7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
* 8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
* 11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Diary:

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow - but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now . . .

A Growing Family?

Rodrigo found this little girl abandoned in the back of a pick-up truck.

Tisha says she’s not welcome.