Meet Murphy and All His Inlaws

I make frequent reference in these posts to Murphy's Law, a principle I'm very familiar with, but until this morning I didn't know who Murphy was. Thanks to Robin Stephens, whose blog appears on About.com, we are now enlightened:

Captain Edward A. Murphy was an air force engineer who worked at Edwards Air Force base on a 1949 project studying how much sudden deceleration a person can stand. During the experiments, 16 accelerometers were mounted to a human subject's body to measure impact during a crash. Upon discovering that a technician had installed all 16 incorrectly, Murphy exclaimed angrily, "If there is any way to do it wrong, he'll find it." Murphy's comment was quoted at a press conference and due to its nugget of universal truth, a generic form of the "law" quickly spread. It made it to the dictionary in 1958.

Robin also included 17 other maxims you can take to the bank, like:

• Whatever you set out to do, something else must be done first.

• The buddy system is essential to your survival; it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at.

• The opulence of the front office decor varies inversely with the fundamental solvency of the firm.

That last one applies perfectly to the corporately-owned nursing home my mother just moved out of Monday. An imposing, airy common room with vaulting ceilings, lots of glass, lovely carpeting and art on the walls...and a staff that was constantly revolving, turning over and clueless. They would gather together for group chitchats in the shower room while Mother was getting a bath, an unnerving experience (she finally started begging my sister to be there for her showers). Patients were carted out and parked in front of the TV all day, with no assistance to the bathroom. Cries for help, even fights in the hallways among the more pugnacious patients were ignored. Nobody knew where anything was, there were rarely clean towels. Mother's clothing was passed out to other patients. Bed checks were supposed to be made at night, every two hours, but Mother fell out of bed twice because the rails weren't put up. No one seemed to be accountable, there was talk of mass layoffs and we suspected the whole enterprise was in trouble.

So she has been moved again, for the fifth time in a year, to another home which was recently rated one of the highest in the region in terms of quality care. It's not a pretty place. I was there when Judy and I did our tour in August, and was put off by the unattractive building (it looks like it was constructed from prefabs), but appearances aren't everything. This one is employee-owned rather than corporate-owned, and most of the staff have been there for years. The cost is the same.

And how's she doing? She's out of her wheelchair and getting around on a walker my sister bought at a yard sale for two bucks. She needs a little navigating help; without it she tends to angle off into the walls. Recently she remarked: "This thing has a mind of its own." She can feed herself, so she doesn't have to sit with the catatonics.

Things may still go wrong. I'm not expecting perfection, but I have hope that life will be better for Mom in her new home.

Happy New Year, Mom.

Acknowledging My Inner Vegetarian

A week ago an avid blogging cook in England posted a photo spread of the typical images that spark her Christmas spirit, and I was struck by the difference between her point of view and what I usually see posted by American bloggers, who go in for snow, sugarplums, sparkles and nativity scenes.

Her first photo was of dozens of dead pigs and geese hanging upside down at the butcher shop. Further down, there was another shot of turkey corpses arranged the same way. These scenes, she said, made her feel "like I’d stepped into ‘A Christmas Carol." As for me, I was reminded of all the Mexican mercados I've explored, with the displays at meat counters where I avert my eyes, exactly the way I do, after a pitying glance, when I spot roadkill on the highway.

It's not the first time I've seriously thought of going vegetarian. Already I've all but stopped buying ground meat except for dogfood, creepily unsure of what unappetizing substances might be going into what we call hamburger in these belt-tightening times. I still like Mexican bacon (though I could live happily without it), and I regularly buy neatly packaged chicken breasts, but I wouldn't want to deal with a whole chicken anymore. When we roast a turkey, the Capt is the one who disassembles it for leftovers. Maybe it's time I got real about my ambivalence toward meat.


Photo from an article on HyScience website, about how vegetables can help prevent diabetes

So one of my New Year's resolutions (or wishes as the Mexicans call them) might just be to go back to vegetarian. I may have to consult with the few vegetarians I know for ideas.

Chrys Page, one of my singing mentors, has this advice about resolutions: express them as though they are already a reality, not something we are going to do in the future. An example: "I am a singer (vegetarian? nonsmoker? writer? a considerate, thoughtful friend?) I know it's my destiny to be successful. I practice every day, and the Divine Spirit that runs the universe is right this minute working to give me my heart's desire! I am confident that as I continue to work on my dream, it cannot help but materialize for me."

Looks like it's time to go put on a pot of beans.

Incense Junkies

My friend and fellow blogger Cynthia accompanied me to mass on Christmas Eve, and sat near the altar through the whole procedure, which must have been an ordeal at times. The padre, knowing some in the crowded church wouldn't be back until Semana Santa (Easter), gave an extra-long homily, little of which Cyn or I could understand. And there were dense clouds of incense.

A young man in a somber black cassock, had the job of keeping the front of the church filled with fragrant smoke. Actually swinging the censer so close to the padres' faces, I had to wonder how they avoided coughing. When it burned out, he'd hurry through the choir loft into the back room for a refill. We singers busily fanned ourselves, except for poor Lolita, la Maestra, whose hands were occupied playing the organ. Occasionally I'd hear a discreet little cough from her.

Heavy incense can not only make breathing difficult, but can cause some people to become dizzy or faint. More than one lapsed Catholic has told me that as a child she would pass out regularly in church. To be fair, the San Fernando services don't always include incense; I was told it's just Christmas, Guadalupe day and Semana Santa.

As Cyn and I walked back toward her apartment she asked me, "Why the incense? What's the deal with that?" Lolita would probably have a better response, but I drew some analogy from worshippers such as Tibetans who believe the smoke carries their prayers to heaven.

Today I 'Stumbled Upon' a more scientific answer, from Brain Mysteries.

"Studies of how those psychoactive drugs work have helped us understand modern neurobiology. The discovery of how incensole acetate, purified from frankincense, works on specific targets in the brain should also help us understand diseases of the nervous system. This study also provides a biological explanation for millennia-old spiritual practices that have persisted across time, distance, culture, language, and religion -- burning incense really does make you feel warm and tingly all over!"

But apparently there are effects beyond warm and tingly:

"...an international team of scientists, including researchers from Johns Hopkins University and the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, describe how burning frankincense (resin from the Boswellia plant) activates poorly understood ion channels in the brain to alleviate anxiety or depression. This suggests that an entirely new class of depression and anxiety drugs might be right under our noses."

Santa Needs a Bailout Too

...or there won't be anything under your tree, he tells Congress

Santa Claus Bailout Hearings - watch more funny videos

You Ain't Gettin' ME in That Pool...

More video: a ball, a very dirty pool and a very smart dog.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

You gotta love the Internet! This morning I found a YouTube vid by four Latinas demonstrating the Macarena in their living room. It's a line dance -- you don't need a partner! Muy fácil!

I know, everybody else did this years ago, but I'm a late bloomer.


Ever want to learn La Bamba? These kids in Colombia are fantastico!

The Way The Cookie Crumbles

The Capt isn't going to stay here in San Carlos and work on the project boat this winter after all, and wants to do some solo sailing.

A lot of the songs I sang at open mic last Sunday at the Captain's Club are about loneliness (like "I Don't Need No Doctor"), and sweet revenge, too ("I Put a Spell on You," for instance). We had just started performing again, with mostly new songs. But that progress is now on hold.
Abandoned. Home alone. "I'll Have a Blue Christmas," Elvis croons in my head.

I have to leave the room when he starts telling friends his plans. He will sail the day before Christmas Eve and has no idea how many months he will be gone.

I've been invited for Christmas dinner with friends and our choir will sing two Christmas masses. But January, the longest and dreariest month looms. On my refrigerator the plastic magnet letters spell out the command, "GET MOVIN" (I ran out of G's). The theory is that if I get enough momentum, I won't collapse like a puppet with its strings cut when he sails away. I made an impossibly long list of things I could or should or want to do and while I don't seriously plan to get around to all of them, at least I'll have possibilities to sort through. There's the novel I started in November, still sitting in my computer. There are at least three orphanages in the area that will need volunteer efforts long after Christmas. There's a beautiful malecon here where I can ride my bike. There are places to go dancing with my amiga Alma who also dreams of dancing. And I could bake cookies.

On the subject of cookies, trust NPR radio to offer a scientific slant on the subject. How to keep them from crumbling (add a tablespoon of water to the flour before mixing). How to keep them from turning out limp. Why it's better to mix the dough the night before, if you're into delayed gratification.

The New York Times has a cookie how-to article claiming the butter is the secret: its temperature (65 degrees), quality (fresh), how it's handled (use medium speed on the mixer).

Maybe, if he plays his cards right, the Capt will get a batch to take with him. We'll see...

Nativity and Matrimony

Some of us bloggers have been sharing our local nativity scenes, so here's the stone grotto outside San Fernando church in Guaymas, where I've been singing with the choir the past six weeks.

This evening we were treated to tightly scheduled end-to-end pageantry at the church, with a christening minutes before the wedding we were singing for. The priest managed to make it a much longer nuptials ceremony by presenting a stultifyingly long sermon, presumably on fidelity (can't say for sure). I sat pondering how a young, celibate man could possibly have so much advice on matrimony.

Finally the bride, in strapless white with a train that reminded me of a peacock's tail traded her big bouquet for a little nosegay which she took to the altar in front of La Guadalupe to pray. While the photographer snapped photos in her face, she began crying. A little boy (hers?) was led to her and when he saw her tears, HE started crying too. I would have been next.

Then she swapped the nosegay back for the big bouquet and headed outside with the wedding party. The bride's dad is the bass in the choir, and he chose to sing with us rather than stand at the altar. We did one Christmas carol, Lolita sang "Ave Maria" and played Bach's "Air on a G String." It went well, I thought. As we left the church, regular evening mass was about to begin. We were not invited to the reception.

A Song Fix

Gracias a La Vida sung by Mercedes Sosa with Spanish subtitles so you can make out the lyrics.

Return of the Prodigal Dog

There's rejoicing in blogdom tonight, at least among all the friends of Cynthia and Mike, who got their dog Sitka back today. The whole story's on Cyn's blog. Sitka has been gone for six weeks, but now she's home.

One, two, three, everybody: YAYYYY!

Dirt Cheap Security System

HOW TO INSTALL A HOME SECURITY SYSTEM WHEN ON A BUDGET
From Viva San Carlos online forum

1. Go to a second-hand store and buy a pair of men's used size 14-16 work boots.

2. Place them on your front porch, along with several empty beer cans, a copy of Guns & Ammo magazine and several NRA magazines.

3. Put a few giant dog dishes next to the boots and magazines.

4. Leave a note on your door that reads:

'Hey Bubba, Big Jim, Duke and Slim, I went to the gun shop for more ammunition. Back in an hour. Don't mess with the pit bulls -- they attacked the mailman this morning and messed him up real bad. I don't think Killer took part in it but it was hard to tell from all the blood.'
PS - I locked all four of 'em in the house. Better wait outside.'

5. INSTALLATION COMPLETE! (It might help to get the note translated into Spanish. And hope the local burglars are literate.)

Could You Love a RoboPet?

Your landlord won't allow pets? You're doing a lot of traveling and can't afford kenneling? You're allergic? Hopelessly irresponsible? Hate dealing with shedding and pooping? Does the price of Pedigree give you sticker shock? Or are you looking for a gift for someone in any of the above situations? Consider a robot pet. They can be pricey, initially, but no vet or grooming bills, and when it comes time to "put it down," you can go buy another one just like it.

Slate Magazine has done a product "test drive" for your shopping convenience. Most of the mechanical critters they surveyed were pretty...well...mechanical. But this golden lab pup lookalike, Biscuit, might just satisfy the craving for furry, responsibility-free companionship. At $169, he's still cheaper than a live purebred lab.

My mother has a robopet, a realistic curled-up yellow tabby whose tricks are limited to a rising and falling belly as it snoozes in its own faux sheepskin bed. So, you see, there is a place for pseudo pets. Since Mom functions on the "out of sight, out of mind" principle, every time we hand it to her, she's delighted all over again. What more could we ask?

P.S. My Gato Divertido (bottom of this page) can do more than any of the robopets in Slate's test drive, and she's free! But not fuzzy.

What's Written on Your Door?

Did you ever see the marks passing hobos used to make on doors to indicate kind ladies and mean dogs, during the Depression? It's done in Mexico, too, but for fellow thieves. Apparently los ladrones are more organized than I thought. The Club Cruceros website in La Paz published this illustration as a PDF, borrowed from the forum of the Guardia Civil. Makes me think my next dog should be a big one. Or maybe I should just find some chalk and mark it up myself, like those fake burglar alarm stickers.

The marks that really give me the creeps are "Older woman home alone all day" and "Kids home alone in the afternoon."

Notes of a Fledgling Librarian

It's been a month now since I started volunteering at our local library, and I've yet to check anybody's books out. Originally I was acting out of greed: we volunteers get first pick of any book that comes in. But now I find myself happy to show up every Friday for the companionship of four very amiable women and the chance to learn more about authors, publishing and the latest San Carlos gossip.

I have been assigned the upkeep of the Mystery section, which is challenging enough for me at the moment. People walk in with grocery bags stuffed with books--returns and donations--and usually three-quarters of them are mysteries.

I separate out the returns which bear yellow stickers and put them back on the shelves, unless they're duplicates. Then I start wading through the donations, checking to see if they are indeed mysteries. Sometimes a spy story, true story or a romance will cross the line and resemble a mystery--and if they make the grade I put yellow stickers on the spine, coded with initials for the authors' last names, and shelve them. Mysteries take up the largest space in the library: an L-shaped wall with shelves almost to the ceiling for paperbacks and a long shelf of hardbound books.

I just hate being forced to buy hard-cover books - they take up too much space in our already cramped bookshelves, but more importantly they're also much harder to read. I like reading lying on my back, and since I don't do any sports my muscles have atrophied to the point where holding up a hard-cover book for hours counts as more exercise than I really consider enjoyable.

Linus's Blog

This little two-room library is part of the Tecalai RV Park's community building, and is possibly the best of its kind on the mainland coast of Mexico, at least as far as I've traveled.

One of the oldest exchange libraries, in Barra de Navidad, was founded by Beer Bob, a recovered alcoholic who donated an entire building to books which were freely traded among locals and cruisers alike. Bob died a few years ago and a couple who live nearby rescued the library, moving it into a downstairs storage room which is too narrow for two normal-size people to pass each other. The thousands of books are definitely worth investigating. Their classification system is not nearly as exacting as ours, but then they're open almost daily, operating on the honor system with scant volunteer help while we have a staff of five working only one Friday a week (sometimes spilling over into Saturday for shelving and maintenance). I did pick up one book that was riddled with wormholes, so I would warn anyone not wanting to contaminate their bookshelf to check out your checkouts.

Another library I visited that was in sad shape was the one near Loreto, in Puerto Escondido, a popular anchorage where almost everyone who sails to Baja passes through at some point. There's a loose organization called the Hidden Port Yacht Club that more or less takes responsibility for it, but the books were kept in a crumbling building I almost hesitated to enter. They were covered in dust, unclassified as far as I could tell, and not very inviting. But then, it's not a wealthy organization; membership dues are only $10 a year, making it possibly the most affordable yacht club in the world.

In contrast is the library at Marina de La Paz, maintained by the Club Cruceros in a small but well-built building, with (I think) at least one volunteer on hand most days during Coffee Hour.

Nancy told me about a library in Mazatlan she says is wonderful, but it was a Sunday, so I missed out on exploring that one. Next time I visit, Nancy, let's make a point of going there, and I'll bring some books to trade.

These libraries, plus the random book exchanges found in bars, marinas, restrooms and coffeehouses where gringos congregate are crucial because there are very few English-language bookstores in all of Mexico, and it's not like you can order from Amazon and have your book within the week.

When I find a good book exchange or library in Mexico and come away with an armful of good books I feel rich. And although they may not have the vast resources of US libraries, they're much more relaxed, less intimidating places to browse. Chatting is not only allowed but encouraged, and you can even bring in your dog as long as he's not pugnacious.

I'll be the first to admit I do far too much reading, having enforced a reading-deprivation week on myself this summer and experiencing profound withdrawal symptoms. But at least I'm not watching TV.

Confessions of a Weather Wuss

You know it's officially winter here in northern Mexico, when I pull on my long pants and fleece-lined slippers, and make a big pot of soup. 

It must have gotten down to the mid-sixties today. Brrrrrrr. But then there's the ironically-named Aloha, Oregon, near Mt. Hood, where my friend Sue lives. She sent me this color photo but I guess the grey skies froze all the colors out of it. A fellow blogger referred to that stuff on the trees as "white crap," and although it's picturesque, it would take a lot hardier soul than I to live in it. Aloha, indeed!

So you won't hear me complaining. I'll just whip up another cup of hot cocoa.

Throw another log on the fire and have a happy birthday, Sue! 

Feliz Guadalupana (koff koff)

The choir had a "gig" late last night for the Vigil of the Virgin of Guadalupe, followed by a menudo party at Lolita's house, and yours truly the Party Girl showed up for the whole thing. This meant breaking the official gringo rule, "Do not drive in Mexico at night...especially LATE at night," and my own personal rule, "Do not eat weird Mexican animal products." I should add one more, considering I'm a singer with vulnerable lungs: "Do not hang out in smoky rooms." (koff koff)

I hung with Cynthia and Mike for about an hour at their apartment, a block from the church since I wanted to catch up on their doings. Cyn is still thriving at her teaching job, in spite of the fact that two teachers have already wimped out and quit at her school, two months into the semester. They need a good plumber...their shower drips hot water to the tune of 450 gallons a month!! Caramba! Their front door was replaced so they're not so vulnerable (the old one could have been kicked open by a three-year-old), but it's metal, painted black and they're going to have a solar collector next summer if they don't get it repainted.

When I arrived at the church in my uniform (white blouse, black pants), Laura loaned me a bright red rebozo, since the choir was supposed to be draped in red. The altar for Guadalupe was loaded with roses: a bank of pink ones and vases of American Beauties, even the baptismal font was stuffed with roses, and Cecilia, one of our sopranos, was busy adding more. The padre came over with a handful of incense sticks and stuck them into the font. (koff koff) Right after him came the vice-padre (or whatever he's called) who was swinging the censor like a baseball pitcher, creating clouds of smoke (koff koff), and the choir, only a few yards away, began madly fanning ourselves with our music. Just before the service, the padre came bearing gifts: Guadalupe prayer cards for everyone. I noticed the prayer on the back was in Spanish and Nahuatl dialect.

The music went well, even without a mariachi band (mariachi is traditional for the Guadalupana mass). Lolita led the choir and played the organ, and percussion was a single tambourine. Whenever the incense smoke drifted away, one of the deacons in suit and tie would come around again, swinging the censor. Then, when it was almost over, a taka taka band, hoping to be blessed, pushed their way to the front and began a vigorous rendition of "Las Mañanitas," with everyone in the crowded sanctuary singing along. Buoyed by the music and singing, I was almost floating, when I saw Ale, threading her way through the crowd to greet me (I had alerted her by email that the Vigil was happening). She and Ulisses aren't Catholic, but they thought it would be an interesting cultural experience anyway. And she got photos, which she posted on her blog, because when I whipped out my camera, the batteries were dead...again!

I had just about talked myself into skipping the menudo party, but on the way out everyone in the choir prodded me, "You ARE going to Lolita's, aren't you?" It was after midnight and I had been feeling pretty wiped out, but the fresh air outside and a brief blogger meetup with two of my favorite people (Ale and Ulisses) perked me up, so I trotted on up the street.

It turns out I kinda like menudo, disgusting as it sounds. Several people were sitting in the living room waiting to eat, but as the mascota gringa I was sent directly into the kitchen and presented with a seat at the table and a big bowl of soup, along with plenty of condiments to make it more interesting. Menudo by itself is fairly bland ("good for the stomach," I was told by everyone) but when you pour in a little hot sauce and a liberal dose of onion/cilantro mixture it kinda grows on you. Or not. In the center of the table was a big frosted, strawberry-adorned bundt cake made by our soprano, Rosa, a professional baker. "Pastel de betabel!" chanted everyone, demanding that Lolita cut into it and start passing it around. It was also pretty good, rather on the order of carrot cake.

For entertainment, we watched the Guadalupe vigil at the newer of the two Basilicas north of Mexico City, broadcast live, on Lolita's enormous TV. This is Mexico's biggest Guadalupe event, near the site of the Virgin's original appearance, and millions of peregrines (pilgrims) arrive there every year, many on their knees. Too classy to hire mariachi, they had a huge symphony orchestra, with opera stars in glittering finery for the solos. They had acolytes and choirboys, dozens of priests and padres. Their communion host was the size of a gordita tortilla. All very showbiz.

Ale and I are in agreement on the Guadalupe story: it could have been a real miracle, this well-dressed, cinnamon-skinned version of the Virgin Mary showing up in the middle of nowhere to request a church be built for her, convincing the bishop with her magic roses, or it could be a very clever marketing strategy on the part of the Spanish Catholic church to win over the Indians by showing them a dark-skinned worship figure they could relate to. But in a country that's 91% Catholic, Guadalupe is adored. Even the gringos have taken up an expression: "Guad bless you."

P.S. the image you see here is, I think, a facsimile of the first painting of the Virgin. Notice the swollen eyes? Small wonder, after 400 years of incense! (koff koff)

A Santa Rant-A

If this vent is a little too vehement, just blame it on Calypso John...he started it with his current post, "Here Comes Santa Claus."

John says the teachers at his local school in Veracruz are using Santa as an opportunity to teach the kids letter-writing. As in "Dear Santa, for Christmas I want..." Apparently the school's playing the "Santa's real" card to get the little darlings motivated. Imagine how the parents feel when their niños come home and insist Santa's coming.

Here in Northwest Mexico I suspect that kind of chicanery took place a generation ago, for the whole ambience here is the typical US holiday theme, complete with tinsely street decor. Walk into Ley and you'll see Santa, reindeer, snow, sleighbells...all the irrelevant North-centric trimmings that seem to come from another planet when they show up in Mexico. Plus the lights, tinsel and glitter that has come to symbolize the holiday. (Maybe all the glitter is a way of combating the SADD-inducing lack of sunshine experienced in El Norte now, but we've no dearth of the real thing here.) It's all geared to the monumental push to get everybody spending, whether they've got it to spare or not. Of course, theft becomes a correspondingly monumental problem, as the have-nots try even harder to catch up with the haves.

In olden days we had the Crusades, the Inquisitions, the witch-burnings. Now we have "You vill buy and buy and buy, or you vill ruin the economy and the recession vill be all your fault."

"Christmas is all about giving," is the cloying rationale. "Santa is the symbol of the giving spirit." But somehow the qualifying and quantifying come in and twist it all into "Christmas is about giving all the right things to all the right people."

Relegating giving to one season of the year, how tidy. The rest of the year we can limit our generosity to bailouts and golden parachutes. I guess I'd better shut up now, I'm starting to get incoherent. But here's the song that keeps coming to mind for me this season:
"Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree for me
I've been an awful good girl
Santa Baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight...

Santa Baby, a '54 convertible too,
Light blue. I'll wait up for you, dear...

Santa Baby, one thing I really do need--the deed
to a platinum mine...

Forgot to mention one little thing,
A ring--I don't mean on the phone..."

'Sorry, I Can Only Sing in the Loo'

Ooooh, fun! The word recognition doodad I got this morning when I went to Debi's site to check out the new camera she's waiting for was POTIMIC. My definition: that just has to be a microphone to a special bathroom karaoke system, for those loooong sessions on the throne. Gives a whole new meaning to the term "toilet training," eh?

Speaking of mics and shipping anxiety, the Capt ordered a professional grade microphone for me a couple of months ago, and we were hoping he would be able to pick it up at our mail drop in Nogales on his recent trip north. Everything else we were waiting for was there, but no mic. Finally, a week later, he was able to determine that the model had been discontinued and our card was being credited what we'd spent. "Sorry." Hey, why ask for our email and phone number if they're not going to USE them? #%@&!!

The Expedition Begins

Jeff and Lila

My wanderlust is going to get a good workout over the next year, following a young couple who just set out on a round-the-world trip on December 1. Their itinerary is definitely off the beaten track (not to speak of economical). Forget London, Rome and Paris--they're going to Cambodia, the Seychelles and Kenya.

Playa de Las Guiones, Costa Rica

I've known Jeff since he and my son Jay were playmates at his mom's daycare facility. Now he has gray in his hair! He and Jay have continued to be friends, schoolmates, housemates and sometimes-business partners over the years. Now Jay is maintaining a website that will track Jeff and Lila on their adventures, which officially began last week in El Salvadore, of all places. If you're curious about the whos, hows, whys and wheres of Jeff and Lila's odyssey, check it out at Jeffnagy.com. They have info pages on each destination and even a page of travel books where you can stoke your own wanderlust.

My Very Own Choir

Corny but fun. The guy in the suspenders is a hoot!

Ladrones, Buscónes and Rateros

The "Oops-I-dropped-my-stuff, kind lady" two-thief strategy, from "How Pickpockets Work" on the website "How Stuff Works"

If you're wondering about crime in Mexico, two blog posts, by Evan in Xico and Calypso John in Veracruz offer advice and "learn-from-this" anecdotes that would be useful anywhere. I love the one about the bird doodoo.

When I lived in California, my purse was stolen from my car in San Rafael, I was knocked to the pavement by a purse-snatcher in San Francisco, lost my sound system to burglars on my boat in Sausalito and was rudely awakened by armed robbers in Healdsburg.

I've yet to have anything stolen from me in Mexico but yes, Evan and John, I'm paying attention. I'm designing a little flat purse I can wear under my shirt to carry ID and most of my cash before I make another trip, for starters.

But who could sleep in a Mexican bus station anyway? I can't even sleep on the bus!

P.S. Interesting: my diccionario says a buscón is a petty thief, but a buscóna is a loose woman.

Stretching Exercises

One of the things I have a soft spot for is Volkswagens, especially older vans, buses and bugs. (I also love Macs, I guess I'm just one of those outsider types.)

So when the Capt alerted me to this website, showcasing an Ontario VW fan's customizing of a Westfalia van with two poptops, and a classic bug, I just had to share. The bug, by the way, is used for weddings.

Fiddling While Wall Street Burns

Am I the only one who's noticed that the word recognition doodads you have to copy when you comment on blogs are starting to look like actual words?

I just sent a comment to Zocalo (check out her shot of a church interior near Puebla!), and the word that popped up was "PAHSTO." Which I take to mean a very masculine form of macaroni, bigger, thicker, in the shape of Arnold Schwarzenegger's arm.

Then I stopped by to read Brenda's post about the Christmas tree lighting in Guaymas and the word was "DIHTYL" -- what do you think, maybe a very small prehistoric bird?

Over at Billie's blog, where she's demonstrating her new camera lens, it was "VIESTRA." Hmmm, very Spanish-sounding, but my diccionario had no translation for it. So I guess I'll go with a new 2010 model by Ford, in a last-ditch attempt to save themselves from oblivion.

All right, enough nonsense. I'm just looking for a diversion from the ugly news that somebody in the White House uttered the word "recession" and my savings took another nosedive. Time for more coffee.