Mexican Pups & Mean Streets

Tails wagging as they tumbled in the dirt by the side of the road, the puppies didn’t know they had been dumped to die. It probably looked to them like it was fun to run around the open space by the restaurant. They had no idea what cars were, or a busy road, or imminent death, it just seemed like a good place to play.
Ribs are sprung from empty bellies. Fur clumped from scratched flea bites, so many critters their fur seems to move from the busy biting of the monsters feeding off succulent puppy blood.
We were playing bridge, Nancy and I. There were an odd number of teams and it was our turn to sit out for three hands. She smoked, I sat for company. “Look, I said. There are puppies playing over there.” We walked over to see.
One was brown and white spotted. Sweet face little girl with black rimmed eyes as if eye-liner was carefully applied that morning. The tail's incessant as it showed joy at some attention.
The other, brother, shy and not as adventurous, hung back for a while and then, he too came for some attention. His tail wagged so hard it almost came off.
We looked over the wrought iron fence into the nearby campo. Momma dog and family must be close and looking for these sweet pups. I tried to open the gate when a man appeared from the restaurant. “No, no, don’t let the pups in, big dog kill them.” I looked at the man who was making vehement “no-no” signs at me.
“Don’t they belong here?” I asked.
“No, they from Ejido in mountains. All the time they come and dump baby dogs, cats in front of restaurant. Open car door and throw out. Same with these dogs.”
“You mean no one owns them?”
“No, no one. They dumped.”
Nancy and I are softies and we know it. Tears started to well up. We’re dog lovers, she with two, I have four. We looked at each other, then back at the tiny creatures at our feet, tails still wagging in the joy of our attention. We shook our heads. What would we do? Suckers both, there’s no way for us to avoid the necessity for rescue of these two little souls. It would be certain death for them. Either starvation or truck wheels over hapless bodies. No way.
The call came for us to play bridge once more. “Bye guys.” We called over our shoulders as we went back to the game, a game of skill with no resultant life or death at the end.
“Anyone want a puppy?” We asked the other players.
No takers. Mexico is a land filled with dogs in streets. The culture is such that men refuse to neuter the males. Belief in retention of masculine testicles is so strong that a flinch of horror is the result of even a hint of the cut being made. But no one wants the pups that result from dogs loose and giving semen freely to any bitch in heat. Mexico is fecund. It overflows with unwanted life. Creatures live, they die, it seems to be all the same.
So the gringos, soft hearted idiots that we are, try to take care of the some of the disposable life on Mexican streets. Now education is tried. Veterinarians give seminars on the necessity for neutering, keeping pets off the streets, good diet, care, the dangers of tying dogs up by the neck and leaving them alone for years. Not too many pay attention. Still, the horror of losing one’s balls predominates over the need for reducing excess dog population. So much for philosophy, it’s like preaching to the choir. We leave the pups to snooze on steps in the shade and go back to play bridge.
After the bridge game is over, the pups are still curled together on the steps of the gate house to the campo. Nancy and I gather them up in arms and put them in a box in my car. The fleas don’t seem to mind as the pups snuggle once more to sleep, now seeming to feel safe that they are in human hands. The pups don’t know of the dangers to be faced - men who pick up the strays to use at bait to train the fighting pit bulls, trucks careening by heedless of small bodies in the road, hungry coyotes and big mean dogs jealous of their turf. We know, Nancy and I, and don’t want these two served as lunch. We know also they are only two little souls out of millions on the street, but we also know that to save lives you have to start somewhere.
We pile the pups in my car and off we go to try and find a sanctuary hidden high in the hills above town. Two hours of driving over dirt roads, up and down to no avail. We end up at the feed store and veterinarian. The pups are left overnight for baths, shots, food and water. Hopefully the million fleas they sport will be reduced in number.
At Tai Chi the next morning I ask if anyone would like a puppy. Shock and surprise, the Tai Chi Master has been looking for a pet. He wants a “real dog” not a little fou-fou one - like my four poodle mixes. He comes with me to the vet and gets his pick of the pups, taking the little black male with white feet. This one’s faces bears the slightest markers of a possible pit bull heritage somewhere back in the generations and it’s paws speak to a large future. He is not happy to be separated from his sister, they have been constant companions.
Sister cries in a large crate on my patio while my dogs look on. I can read in their faces the questions: Are we getting a new addition to our pack? Will she ever stop yowling? Is she going to steal my toys?
Soon a friend, Jan, will come and we will try again for the sanctuary or find another solution. Sister’s panic is winding down; she’s tired of crying and looking at the chew toy I gave her. Her face is sad white and light brown and her made-up eyes are rimmed with tears from the loss of her brother and companion. We take her to the vet who treated the pups, Jan knows that he will put them at the front of his store and give them away to someone who wants a pet. As I hand her over to the boy who puts her in a cage with a hand-lettered sign “For Free” I remember that I still have her chew toy and I run to get it for her. As I push it through the cage I start to cry again. What if someone takes her to train their pit bulls to fight? What if they let her roam loose in the street? I can’t take her home, I already have four dogs. I run out of the store and into my car. The streets of Mexico can be cruel.
All I can do is hope she’ll find a kind home and loving family to compensate for the loss of her brother.
And - if I could find the man who threw the pups out of his car, I would be most pleased to assist in the removal of his genitalia, and not gently.

Learning The Art Of Living

This is the Curmudgeon Gal, sitting today in beautiful Baja, California, Mexico where you get twice the fun at less than half the price! Like for instance, a one bedroom condo with ocean view, pool, one and a half bath for $119,000 where a similar one might be a bargain at $575,000 on the other side of the border.

We who hunker down on the North West coast of Mexico have been encased in what is known as "May Grey" and "June Gloom." This year it's lasted from the middle of April and is still going on - almost two months longer than usual. The fog drifts in from the ocean and usually burns away mid-day only to come back in the latter part of the afternoon. It's the fog that keeps the temperature down and gives both Baja and San Diego the reputation of the best climate in the world. In Mexico, just a few miles south of the border, we have the same climate at a fraction of the cost. Ya gotta love it!

Al Gore is probably right about climate change, or we are in an El Nino effect? Whatever! I'll leave it to the climate experts. What I want to talk about is just the art of living, no matter what the climate, country, continent or coast – pick what gives you the most pleasure and go for it!

I spent over 45 years as an attorney and executive, much of it behind a desk and the rest on the road, or should I say "in the air," all over the world at meetings and conventions. Talk about a schedule? One trip around the world I had 40 flights!

My regular routine was to be at the office between 7:00 and 7:30 AM, much to the angst of the team who worked with me. Some thought they had to come in early too, maybe to impress me, maybe they thought I was checking what time they came in. Both ideas were wrong. I came in early to miss the commuter rush, relax and enjoy my coffee, call different time zones and get the jump on my day.

Today I live most of the time in Baja Mexico North. My roommates are four dogs: Gertie, Lorenzo, Daisy and Henry. Daisy and Henry are what I call "Mexican Street Poodles." They are the ones sold on the street not yet weaned and most destined to die unless they are grabbed by a crazy gringa lady like me who gives them a chance at life. Lorenzo is a small Yorkie-Poodle oooops who never met anyone he didn't love on sight, and Gertrude, a rescue from a puppy mill in Oklahoma who was in three homes before she came to me. Gert, as she is fondly known, is a poodle cross of some unknown sort, but from her temperament it must have been a pit bull. She constantly mutters and is the official CEO (Canine Executive Officer) of the house…she who must be obeyed!

I get up early but now first order of business is to let the dogs out. Then I enjoy my coffee and still get the jump on my day - like writing this blog, or podcasting, for instance.

For all those years in business, I was on a tight schedule, checking my watch to see if I was going to be on time for my next meeting, court appearance, or flight. I had planes to catch, people to see, deals to make. Like that.

Now my schedule is basically set by the mutts. They demand to be fed relatively on time. They don't seem to mind an hour or so late, but if I go much longer they get snippy and Gertie makes a big deal out of it. She has been known to gently nip my ankle if I don't feed her promptly. Food is a big deal to her, the others could care less. I make sure to let them out so they can attend to their business.

The dogs are more schedule oriented than me. For instance, if I don't head to the computer by 9 AM, they crowd my feet and herd me into the office. Are they afraid we won't have enough money for their next box of dog cookies? Anyway, as soon as I sit at the computer, they relax and head for a snooze on their respective pillows. I can hear them let out a sigh of relief as they drift off to doggies' dream-land.

A while ago I was sitting at a sidewalk table talking with some friends. We were watching people walk by. Epiphany! Like I was struck by lightning, it all came back to me. Those days of rushing by sidewalk cafes on the Croisette in Cannes on my way to the next meeting. I'd look longingly at all the people sitting at the beach restaurants. There they were, enjoying the sun, a good meal and sipping a nice cold white wine and their friends. Damn! It made me jealous.

I thought back to the almost thirty years I spent in mid-town Manhattan. I used to dream of a day off to just walk around the City and see parts of it I'd never seen before. My reverie included sitting at a sidewalk café in Greenwich Village sipping espresso as I watched people go by. I never did it. There was no time left for sitting while I went to college and worked several jobs, then law school, the bar exam, taking care of a family, practicing law and eventually succeeding in business.

It seemed there was never enough time to just relax and enjoy. I checked my watch and drummed my fingers on the table. Time to go, time to work; make money, next class in Graduate School, next meeting… Who the hell wants to smell the freaking roses anyway?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I loved my job and was joyful as I went to work. No day was ever the same as the one before it. Imagine being paid to travel around the globe spending time with some of the world's most interesting and intelligent people – those who program the world's television stations. It was great fun and I considered it a privileged village to live in.

Slowly, I began to figure out there might be another life out there as well, but it took stupid me until I was over fifty years old to get it!

One day, at the end of a convention, I was off with Yvonne and Will from Amsterdam, Bill from New York, Stanley, a Dutch friend living in Cannes, and my husband, Pierre, the consummate Frenchman. Our end-of-convention-celebration was lunch at the famous Columbe d'Or in St. Paul de Vence in the South of France. We had one of their famous meals of about a dozen or more hors d'ouvres followed by fillet mignon, poulets aux champignons and Dover sole, with several bottles of excellent red wine. The entire meal was spiced with entertaining conversation. After stuffing ourselves with all that gourmet food, Pierre and Bill strolled off to the local bar. It's a perfect place overlooking the boulles court, catching some sports on TV while enjoying an afternoon drink. Yvonne, Will, Stanley and I wandered around the Columbe d'Or hotel lobby and common rooms admiring the art by Miro, Picasso, Braque and Calder. Stumbling about in a stupor of good food, art and wine we ended up by the pool and, still in business clothes, made ourselves comfortable on the surrounding chaises longues. Within minutes we were all sound asleep. A while later Bill came by to find us snoring in the late fall sun. Heaven! It was the best snooze I can remember.

We stretched, ambled over to the little bar to sip some coffee and watch the boulle games. The teams were locals and included a bricklayer, waiter, storekeeper, several artists, and retired movie stars who make St. Paul their home. No one seemed to care who's who. They're intent on the game. We were intent on the players.

I thought of that day again these past few weeks. With this encouragement in mind, I've embarked on a new venture in learning. I call it the "Art of living." Think of me as a student, now only in Class 101. I've been making a mental list of all the delights I partake of here in Baja, Mexico, and there are many!

The 4^th of July I went to a party in a spectacular house recently purchased by friend Lyndie. It's on a rise overlooking the ocean between Rosarito Beach and Ensenada, Mexico. We stuffed ourselves, not with French food, but with good old American fare of hamburgers and apple pie as the waves washed against the rocks below. Nancy was with me, and we only dragged ourselves away because it was time to feed our respective dogs. It was a great day doing nothing but chatting with Debbie and Chris and other buddies and eating. After all, how bad is that?

The next day I played bridge with pals Patria, Lynn and Joann in Nancy's condo directly on the ocean front. The place is beautifully appointed with tile floors, granite countertops, and a substantial balcony looking down on beach, rocks, pools and seals playing in the waves and Sargasso seas. Tough life, playing bridge to an ocean ambiance, waves lapping…someone's gotta' do it…right?

Then, a few days later, four of us sat around a table in the Playas de Rosarito City Park to listen to music from "Carmen." We sampled local cheese and wine, Mexican drink concoctions with vodka and clams, from the tented vendors who circled the park and watched people stroll by. An elegant lady in 1940's style hat and white gloves watched the crowds filled with families in native Mexican garb, tattooed gang banger wanna-bes, kids flashing by on skate-boards, punks, young lovers and moms pushing strollers while hanging onto toddlers. We watched the people and the lady in the hat.

One of our group, Bill, a tall and big man of a certain age, inadvertently moved his chair too close to the drop at the edge of the cement walk where the tables were placed. Nancy and I, Rosemarie and another friend, also Bill, watched in horror as his chair tipped backwards, as if in slow motion. Rooted in place, we couldn't move fast enough. As if by magic, two gentlemen, each from different tables, arrived. Before the rest of us could close our mouths, they lifted big Bill to his feet, dusted him off, made sure he was unharmed, threw the broken chair away and had him securely in a new chair far from the edge of the walk. As we tried to give thanks they melted away back to their respective tables.

Friends, acquaintances, kids, dogs, all passed by. Some stopped to chat; others stayed a while to watch the endless parade. Four and a half lovely hours later it was time to feed our respective dogs again. We gave our table over to others. What had we done? In the scope of things, not much…but it was a wonderful day!

The next day friends piled into my car and we drove south to Splash, a rather funky place with good food perched on a cliff. If you sit in the first row of tables on a windy day, the waves will splash you. Our entertainment for the afternoon was conversation, wave-watching, people-watching and listening to a good guitar player. I had a Tequila Sunrise and a little of my favorite Mexican beer, Negro Modelo. The food's good, friends even better.

I'm working hard now, practicing my lessons in the art of being in the moment. Taking those wonderful times and enjoying them as they happen and recognizing them as precious.

A friend who recently passed away once said of our travels together around the world, "If I had known they were going to be the good old days I would have enjoyed them more." She was right. I did enjoy them, but to a limited extent. I was always antsy to get on to the next meeting, convention, catch a plane – whatever - rather than fasten my attention on the pleasure to be had around me.

I wish my husband was alive to enjoy with me – now, that I've finally got it. It's the kind of times he loved. But now I'll enjoy for both of us, I guess. Maybe that's a gift he left me - his share of the fun.

Jewishless?

I was asked many times in my life how come I consider myself a Jew when I have a rather checkered religious heritage.

Mom is the daughter of an Irish Catholic mother and Protestant father. There was no contest there; she was raised in the Catholic Church. Her mother, Annie McGuinness was a woman who must be obeyed.

Pops' parents were both Jews whose forebears came from the German-Polish border, immigrated to England and then to the United States. All Pops' male relatives in England were either barristers or solicitors, and one was supposed to have been in practice with Disraeli. Don't take that as truth, it may be apocryphal. I have no idea where my paternal grandmother came from or anything about her other than the fact her name was Salina.

The German Jews who ended up in England considered themselves to be of a higher class then the Russian and other Eastern European Jews. The Spanish Jews were the top of the heap, but don't remind the Germans of that or they'll get snarky. On the other hand, they weren't very high on religious practices and in my father's case, let's say nil to none. Did he go to Shul? As far as I can remember, only if it was a wedding or funeral of a close friend. Did he observe the holidays? Yeah, he stayed home from work because the office was closed. It was, after all, a Jewish law firm and had to give a nod to the proprieties. Pops either went fishing or played golf instead of going to Shul. He considered himself Jewish, but in reality couldn't have cared less about practicing any religion.

Mom on the other hand had been a practicing Catholic, that is, until she was excommunicated. She did the unthinkable, divorce her first husband who she married in the Church and then, horror of all horrors!!!! – married a heathen Jew! Abomination! So, being pitched out of her Church, she was pissed off at the Catholics and decided I was to be raised as a Jew like my father, except he wouldn't be part of anything that had to do with religion.

Mom had patience though. As soon as Pops died, she bundled me off to the local Synagogue to learn how to be a Jew. It was Conservative and they threw me out since she wasn't Jewish and under the Law of Return, then neither was I. That did not daunt my mother – by hook or by crook I was going to be Jewish like my father. The joke was many years later I found out I was smuggled as an infant into the local Catholic church and baptized Catholic. The deed was done by one of my Irish Catholic nursemaids. I guess it didn't hurt me and it certainly doesn't worry me.

Next on Mom's list was Rabbi Schwartz at the Reformed Synagogue in White Plains. He was happy to take both her donation and me. Three years of Saturday School later I was confirmed. Yes, that was what it was called. In the 50's the idea of a woman having a Bat Mitzvah hadn't caught on yet. So, I guess I'm Jewish but I still don't think I could move to Israel. I'm probably not Jewish enough and I guess they wouldn't take me.

When my kids came along, their father was Jewish. Well, about as Jewish as my father had been. After Irwin and I divorced, the kids and I lived in a small community at the end of Long Island. There were very few Jews. It didn't bother me until the following event.

My daughter, Mimi, is adopted. She is part Korean and part American Occupation Forces in Korea. Her early education was at the nursery school and kindergarten at Temple Emanuel in Manhattan - the crème de la crème of reformed New York Jewry. Here was a beautiful little Eurasian five year old who could sing songs in Hebrew and about dreidels. Go know?

When we moved to Long Island she was about ten and the product of fancy private schools in New York and Temple Emanuel. She was terrified she was going to be discriminated against because she was Eurasian when we moved to a farm and fishing community on the North Shore of Long Island. I worked hard to tell her the word "discrimination" went two ways, people of discriminating taste only wanted the best things and she was so beautiful I was sure she would be all right. That was right on the money. She went to her class and at first everyone wanted to be her friend, all the boys swarmed around her and she was an instant success. That is, until the day she came home from school upset and laughing at the same time.

"What's up, Mim? Something bad happen at school today?" I asked. It wasn't like her to be upset.

"Mom, you won't believe this!" She wasn't sure it she was going to pitch a fit or laugh again.

"What happened?"

"Well, remember that I took off for the Jewish holiday last Friday?"

"Yeah, so?"

"The kids asked me why I missed school and I told them it was a Jewish holiday. Now they all hate me… because I'm Jewish."

I looked at her with my mouth open. This was something else. "Because you're Jewish?"

"Yeah mom - Jewish!"

That did it. I was going to make sure the kids at least understood what it was to be Jewish if they were going to be discriminated against because of it.

There was a very small synagogue in town that shared space with a local church. I went to see the Rabbi who informed me there was no religious school; there weren't enough Jewish kids in town to support one and he didn't want to deal with it anyway.

After polling some local Jewish buddies with kids, I discovered they wanted to send them for religious education - if it was available. Back to the Rabbi with five kids for his school – still didn't want to be bothered.

I went home and stewed about it for a few days, then made a decision. I had some education as a Reformed Jew and damn, I'm smart. In a flash I was back in Manhattan at Temple Emanuel and explained the situation to our old Rabbi. He gave me a list of reading that I bought and the next week started "Jewish School" with my two kids and three kids from friends. We met twice a week for an hour at my law firm and for a couple of years we all learned history and tradition. Believe it or not, we even put on a play at the synagogue on one of the high holidays. By then we had so embarrassed the Rabbi he decided to take over my school. After he did, the kids all dropped out because they didn't like him and it wasn't fun.

My class had been about the history of the Jews, the history of religions, archeology, traditions, culture, ethics, and why rules were needed. We got into reasons for the old rules and how all practices changed through the ages and what was borrowed from or by other religions. Maybe not traditional but I guess it was more interesting than some other religious education. After all, I am a lawyer and historian so it influenced my class. The parents asked me to start up the school again but I didn't want to alienate the rest of the Jewish community in a small town by going against their rabbi.

So the kids were educated about the Jewish religion, ethics, tradition, holidays and culture from a "maybe" Jew who didn't practice and normally wouldn't be caught dead in any kind of religious edifice other than to study the artwork and architecture. But, at the very least, I think the kids got enough knowledge to combat the red-neck discrimination they faced.

The whole thing aggravated my daughter so much she became anti-religion. When she was married many years later the only one available to perform the ceremony was a rather non-sectarian minister, rather like a military Chaplin. She took him by the arm before the ceremony and hissed in his ear, "And don't put in any of that god stuff!" I think she scared him to death because there was not a religious word in the whole ceremony.

My son was enrolled in Bar Mitzvah studies and rebelled, pulling out and refusing to continue. So much for the interest in religion in my family. Maybe it's genetic?

Early on I figured out religion was a disaster for my family. What with an Irish grandmother who called my Jewish father a "heathen" and an ex-communicated mother it wasn't a hard call. Then, I was called a "God killer" in grammar school by Carol Ann Smith who put her hands on her hips and pointed at me, "You're Jewish and you killed my God!" She turned around and stomped away. At that time I was about eight or nine and didn't know that I was Jewish yet, whatever that was, and had no idea what a god was other than my mother yelling "God damn it!" when she burned the ironing or dropped something.

I do remember going to Florida with my mother and sister after Pops died. We had a rented car and drove to hotel after hotel looking for a room but the signs out front all had either "No Jews Allowed" or "Restricted" in large letters – it meant the same thing and included blacks or people of any color other than lily white. Arthur Godfrey, the famous entertainer and radio host, owned several of the big fancy hotels at the north end of Miami Beach and they were all very prominently "RESTRICTED!"

Mom went into one that didn't have a sign out front, got a room and began to sign in. When the clerk saw her name was Greenbaum she was told the hotel didn't accept Jews. Remember Mom was Irish Catholic and Protestant with blonde hair and big blue eyes? She was so pissed off my sister and I had to drag her out of the office as she called the clerk every name in the book; and Mom knew a few combinations and permutations that were quite interesting.

We finally were able to check into a hotel because my sister was married and her married name was Kenney. Nice and Irish, right? Her husband's family name was Kenneshevsky – very Jewish from Poland, but thanks to the agent at Ellis Island who checked them in and couldn't spell or pronounce it, it got shortened to Kenney. The whole time we were at the hotel I skulked around fearful they'd find out we were interlopers, the dreaded Jews, and would be forced to leave. From then on I would pitch a fit if they tried to check into one of the Restricted hotels.

At Vassar College I was put in a far away corner of the dorm with other Jews, a Pakistani girl, an Arab and a scholarship student. There were no African-Americans in the dorm or they would have been stuffed into exile with us too. We were not mainstreamed with the other WASPS in those days. Maybe we were contagious?

I took it on myself to study religions, the Bible, some old and some new Testament, mythology, comparative religions and practices, as well as various beliefs.

By the time I graduated college, I had made a decision. I would be a Jew by tradition and heritage – period! I was a hater of all organized religions and gagged at the idea of believing in some imaginary friend who could cause such a cluster fuck among people. If there was an omnipotent god someplace, then they should have done a better job in figuring out that earthlings are so stupid they'd kill themselves incessantly over beliefs about whose imaginary friend was better.

The mythical being in the sky theory doesn't work at all for me, but what does is a code of ethics.

I really like some of the Ten Commandments. You can strike the first ones, starting with "I am your Lord, your God" going through the stuff about no other gods, no idols, wrongful use of name of god and keeping Sabbath holy. They conflict with the Bill of Rights that grants Americans freedom of religion. Think about that one – I dare you!...double dare?

The rest of the batch starting with "honor your father and mother," fits in with my belief in ethics as do the ones about not committing murder, stealing or bearing false witness; coveting neighbor's goods and wife (I thought the wife was considered part of "goods" or a chattel in those days…hmmmm…) are also just fine to keep the peace.

If you patch those onto the first ten amendments to the US Constitution you've got a heck of a document, don't you think? That way you add on freedom of speech, press, religion and right to petition, right to keep and bear arms (OK Sara, I'll give you one), and freedom from illegal search and seizure, right to trial by jury of peers, and right to a speedy trial. Now that compiles a list that'll help the world to co-exist in peace and it was brought to you by…me…a real person who gave it some thought. I would also add that people should not knowingly hurt their neighbors, and we should be responsible for the care and succor of our fellow man. And for heaven's sake, clean up your own messes! Let's not live in a land filled with garbage. But I'm getting off track. I think the ethical approach, if we really dig down inside ourselves gives us the internal moral compass that tells us what is right and wrong unless we are a sociopath or psychopath, and they don't care a fig about religion anyway. We know when we do wrong, and in many instances too numerous to name, religion has just facilitated, like a co-dependent, man's acting out his basest deeds.

And so ended my journey into the realms of religious beliefs. If I've offend you, I'm not really sorry. It is, after all, only my opinion and I'm certainly entitled to it. Not so by your religion? If that's the case, then I can only hope I've made you think...question?

Search For A Savior

I'm in Mexico where the American residents recently celebrated Independence Day while Mexicans voted. Two populous countries celebrating the fact they are democracies.

In Rosarito we had a very effective and good Mayor, Hugo Torres. By law he can only have one three year term, so we now have a new Mayor. Mayor Torres inherited a bankrupt city, the H1N1 Swine Flu scare, plummeting real estate prices, cartel bloodshed, police graft, beheadings and murders, no tourists, businesses closing everywhere. What a mess! In spite of threats on his life and attacks on the police station, the Mayor managed to push through street paving, improved utilities, beautify the city, fight graffiti, clean up the streets, replace most of the police force, create a new tourist police to aid visitors and foreign residents and have the crime rate drop perceptibly. What a job! I bet he's relieved it's over.

Does the story sound familiar? President Obama, like Mayor Torres, inherited a monumental mess that even with the strength of Hercules couldn't be completely fixed in a short term, two wars, a country in financial crisis, brutal political division, plummeting real estate, bankruptcies, massive unemployment, foreclosures at a rate never seen before.

After all, Mayor Torres and President Obama are only men, good men, strong men, but not superheroes, messiahs or gods. And this is what everyone on both sides of the border forgets. It is what I think of as the "savior" mentality, and it runs strong throughout world culture. And man, has it gotten us in trouble! Once in a while we're lucky and we get strong and ethical men like Obama and Torres concerned with improving the lot of the people they're responsible for. But it can just as easily turn the other way.

So often throughout history, in hopes of being saved men grab power of the ilk of Hitler, Mussolini, Mao, Stalin, Hussein, Geroge W. Bush, Pol Pot, Caligula, Vlad the Impaler, Idi Amin Dada, Fidel Castro, Ayatollah Khomeni, Rev. Jim Jones, Nero, and the list goes on. Think of genocide in Rwanda, Nazi Germany, Sarajevo, Turkey and the Armenians, the Inquisition, and the trail of bodies that would stretch to the moon and back.

More terrifying is not that people chose evil to lead, but it's chosen in the guise of a savior – a strong man who will know how to take care of us. Stalin came into power as a choice against the Romanoffs, Hitler as a way to bring Germany out of financial ruin caused by the inflation under the rule of the Weimar Republic. Mussolini was going to take an ailing and backward Italy to the height of glory once again. The fact that people were going to be killed, ethnic groups targeted as the roots of problems and subsequently disposed of wasn't initially looked at as evil, just a Machiavellian expediency. Evil's success is enhanced by it's many faces; especially the mask of an angel. George W. Bush was going to turn America into a right-thinking Christian theocracy; after all, he had a message from God giving him that mission. He ended up starting an unjustified war, killing untold thousands of people, polarizing and bankrupting a country, all in the course of his so-called "mission." The truth is, that a behind the ascension to power of every tyrant, evil leader and mass murderer in history lies the mistaken belief by some supporters that they were supporting saviors – look, the US voted Dubya into office twice! Shows how many people believed in him, and now, oddly, no one seems willing to admit they voted for him. Funny how that happens. Sara Palin looks like the next demagogue in line to save the country from the black man in office who has to be a spawn of the devil, after all he is probably a Muslim in disguise planted as a sleeper to ruin the country. Oh, sorry, I thought Bush junior already did that.

Modern society, as in the history of the world before us, has been driven by a hard-wired belief in superheroes, gods, messiahs and saviors. Man has ingrained into his subconscious the refusal to take responsibility for his own actions. There is an insistent clinging to the belief that someone will come along to the rescue. The Cavalry will arrive, the Prince will come, Superman will fly out of the sky and all will be better under a savior, a messiah, a hero. Every facet of our world has this belief. Let's face it, women insist on waiting for the knight in shining armor to come and take them away from their hum-drum existence. Many a good man has been refused because a woman waited for something better to come along – her knight, her savior, her Prince Charming. I know a lot of women with long expired shelf-life still waiting. Some people never give up!

No one is willing to take responsibility for themselves. Years ago, a girlfriend became a Born Again Christian. I asked what motivated her to make the decision and she looked me straight in the eye and said "I've been married twice to terrible men who mistreated me, made many wrong life choices by getting pregnant when unmarried, drank too much, ran around too much, dropped out of school so I've no education and have to work crappy jobs. I've fucked up my life so bad, I figured I'd give it to Jesus and let him have a try...he couldn't fuck it up any worse than I've already done."

Well all-righty now, that made a certain kind of sense to me, nonsense, but sense. The part I couldn't wrap my mind around was - if Jesus was so all-powerful, why screw around with such a fuck-up? He must have much better things to do with his time, like stop racial injustice, rebuild New Orleans, stop global warming, clean up the oil spill in the Gulf, stop the war over Palestine, throw the Americans out of Iraq…like that.

I find it incomprehensible myself. Why would an all-powerful being give a rat's patootie about what happens to us? We are obviously an unworthy species as our main job seems to be whining. We can't take care of ourselves, we keep getting into messes, and like women who make terrible choices in men, and men who similarly make terrible choices in women, we try to choose saviors to take care of us and we end up disappointed. Just another terrible choice!

But no, we insist on superheroes. When the Germans were invading Europe and killing Jews, Superman was born. He was an instant success, because he was the embodiment of what people were looking for – a real, honest to goodness superhero! Okay, so he wore blue and red tights and was an alien from Krypton. Obviously he couldn't come from Earth, we only have screw-ups here. We have to resort to outsourcing to get a hero or savior.

When the obvious thing is not to get into messes like wars, rotten marriages, unwanted pregnancies, tyrannical rule, in the first place, we can't seem to stop ourselves. Hey, when people are bankrupt from medical bills and still scream against universal health care, it's obvious we haven't a clue what side our bread is buttered on.

The downfall of the savior culture always comes when the awaited one falls short of what was expected. As soon as the feet of clay appear everyone is on the march for the next fool to take on the thankless job of superhero-curer-of-all-ills. Prince Charming can't live up to his perfection forever. There has to come a time when he goes out drinking beer with the boys, comes home snockered, passes out and farts in bed. The savior who gets rid of the Jews in Germany also takes the Gypsies and homosexuals because they too are unworthy of living with the Aryan race. And then, shock of all shocks, he also takes all the beautiful young German men to die in his wars. The savior supporters are always astounded when they find out they're either too poor, or outclassed, or unworthy themselves to take a seat at the victor's table where the spoils are divided. Instead, they are shuttled aside to pay the bills in either blood or money. Happens every time. How happy are the warmongers who stood behind Dubbya as he went on his crusade to make America safe when they see the death tolls, but maybe more to the point, they see the financial cost to themselves. Most of his supporters wouldn't send their kids to war, that's for the poor folk. But man, can they hurt in the wallet.

Born Again Christians can do whatever they want and Jesus will forgive and take them in his arms when they are born again, free of all prior sins. Think of kids games and a "do-over". My neighbor years ago employed a butcher in their market who turned out to be playing unsuitable games with all the neighbor kids, and, brilliant man that he was, commemorated the games with Polaroid photos. When he got caught with his pants down, so to speak, he found Jesus in jail and got out early because he had been reformed. I wouldn't trust my kids with him, but the religious community welcomed him as being "cured" of his affliction by Jesus. He went on to become the minister of the small church. Another soul saved. Hallelujah! Praise be!

The abnegation of taking responsibility is a heady drug, better than crack or Valium or Ecstasy. Coke can't compare with the high of doing anything you want in full knowledge that it will be forgiven.

The savior, superhero, Prince Charming, the messiah, is a way to avoid taking personal responsibility. If you wait long enough for your hero to arrive, you can sit on your butt and do nothing because at his arrival, all will be taken care of. Of course, the other side of that coin is that he might never appear. Sometimes it can be a very long wait.

Bye for now and have a great day!

 

Poem by Jacquelynne Garner

When I read the new blog post at the Baja Writer's Workshop today, a fellow writer submitted a poem at the same time.

We decided that without any prior discussion between us, both submissions were in fact both saying the same thing - her version is much shorter.

Jacquie gave me permission to publish her very pertinent poem on my Blog.

 

Heavy flows the river

Thick with scum

No sounds are heard

All mouths are dumb

All feelings numb

What savior will arrive

To save the day

And keep the night's

Dark fears away?

 

Jacquelynne Garner

June, 2010

Still Pissed Off

I'm Baaaaak!

It's been about six months since my last blog and podcast. The hiatus is because of such overwhelming disgust that I didn't really know where to begin. So, here are some random items that have been the cause for months of heartburn and aggravation.

I left off at the health care reform debacle. That was the major cause of runaway dyspepsia. If anyone had any doubt Americans are the dumbest people on earth, that issue should have dispelled it. As part of the only so-called civilized country in the world without universal health care, I shivered at the ignorance of those screaming epithets at the President for trying to take care of his country. And it was fueled by right wing-nuts who managed to trick those who needed health care most to once again be on their side. WOW! I get a chill when we flock in to support issues against our own interest.

Take for example the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The President placed a hiatus on deep well off-shore drilling. Man, you'd think he outlawed driving to work or something! That is now off the books and under future discussion. And why, you might ask as the oil pours daily into the ocean polluting water, land, adjacent swamps, beaches, killing fish, birds, animals, not to mention the death of life styles of all those who live near affected areas. Well the answer is simple, the revenue brought into the state of Louisiana by off-shore drilling is far in excess of the revenue from tourism and the fishing industry combined, and who the heck gives a flying Fig Newton about a few dead birds or critters. Screw'em! Drill Baby Drill! Bobby Jindel, Governor of Louisiana and male clone of Sara Palin, is fighting to get the oil industry revenue back on track.

It's simple, money once again is King. The fact the Gulf of Mexico is going to be a dead sea is unimportant. Not even ecologists are mentioning the death of coral in the area, the vanishing of the bait fish that made the Gulf one of the best fishing grounds in the world, the species becoming extinct because their breeding grounds have been turned into toxic dumps. Get big oil pumping again - get those drills turning and money to fill the pockets of anyone who profits from the oil business.

Louisiana, under Jindel's Governorship hasn't recovered from Katrina, after all, those people displaced and screwed over were just poor Blacks and no one cares about them. By the way, where are they? No one's heard from or about them in years. See, I told you no one cares.

Money at the moment is tight in most quarters. I find sickening what's been spent on the elections in California. Mega Million Meg Whitman poured over 72 million of her own funds just to secure the Republican Gubernatorial nomination. The most unpleasant television time of the year has been living through the smear campaigns of both Mega Million Meg and her opponent Steve Poisner. After months of bombardment by their bullshit, I was so sick of them both I wouldn't vote for either…but then that left Jerry Brown…oh my God, we are so screwed California!

Three M, my new name for Meg, thinks spreading her money around makes her a good choice. She first aligned herself with the dot-com biz and then went to Goldman Sachs - kinda like the resume of a Country Club jail inmate. Is that supposed to make her a good candidate? If she wanted respect she'd support a few charities with the money she made at Goldman Sachs, maybe like Warren Buffet or Bill Gates. Those mega bucks guys are at least doing the right thing.

It's good I spend most of my time in Mexico. Margaritas on the beach are such a nice way to forget rampant stupidity. This is a worse election than putting Dumb and Dumber up for office. And have you seen the ads for Carli Fiorino? She says she's endorsed by Sara Palin. To me, that's an immediate vote for her opponent.

Several weeks ago I went to see the new "Sex And The City" movie. I was a fan of the TV series and found the first movie okay. But the new one I found embarrassing and disrespectful. If the producers/writers wanted to give a perfect illustration of the ugly American, they were right on target. If they wanted to be funny, they sure missed their mark with me. Maybe I'm more sensitive because I worked in International business for over thirty years. Shakespeare had it right – "When in Rome do as the Romans do." In Italy I respected signs on the outside of churches requesting women not to enter in sleeveless clothing or shorts. In restaurants that prohibited women in trousers years ago (Yes they did, believe me!) I complied and wore a skirt. Now I don't agree with covering women up, making them wear veils, and treating them like chattel, but the movie went too far. If any human living today doesn't understand the dress codes in the Arabic countries, then they are certainly deaf, dumb and blind. The film shows Americans as self-absorbed, rude, disrespectful people. Oh, sorry, they were right after all, it is an accurate description. Guess it did hit the mark after all.

I won't go into the Tea Party, or the new Arizona legislation except to suggest it's not a good idea to have dark hair and a suntan if you want to make a visit to that state.

But getting back to respect, the thing that angers me the most is the disrespect being paid to our president. The poor man inherited a bankrupt country on the verge of tanking into third world obscurity. He's given us back a little street cred in the international community, worked hard on universal health care. He's tried to stem the fall of the real estate market and is attempting to reign in the wanton profligacy of the financial markets. But the right wing-nuts keep insulting him, pointing the stick at him as if he created the mess he inherited. They have convenient memories that oblige them by deleting the eight years the country spent behind the Bush while the carpetbaggers raided our coffers with Haliburton and Blackwater no-bid war contracts, government subsidies to oil companies, and in the last minute before their lease on that big White House was up, their final gift to Bush/Cheney buddies of unregulated hand-outs to Wall Street. I think it's expedient to remind everyone once in a while and not give in to those convenient short-term memory losses. Respect for the Office of the President was a given for generations. I suppose after we have Presidents like Bush, it's hard to keep that idea in mind.

So those are just a few of the things that have been sticking in my craw lately. When I remember the rest, I'll get back to you.