ON THE ROAD AGAIN

I'm off again amigo's. Hopefully I can accomplish what I set out to do, and things will find a groove all of their own. If I've learned anything at all in my short appearance on the often veneered stage of life, it's that sometimes the way you thought the world would spin for you, in reality can turn on a dime. This is the way the cosmic dice tumble. Good, bad, or indifferent, with all it's ups and downs, it would seem that the more we try to force the square peg into the round hole, the more we commit ourselves to an upstream journey. I seem to do better when I just allow the events of destiny play out from their own, unknown to me, agenda.
What's important is that we remember why were here, and not try to over think the unknowable. At least that's what a good friend told me once.
So it's take a deep breath, point the compass south, keep the virgin of Guadalupe in the windshield, and jump in the water. So keep your stick on the ice, and we shall talk later when I get settled.
Adios Por Ahora Compadres.

"KICKED BY THE WIND
DRIVEN BY THE SNOW
DRUNK AND DIRTY
AND DON'T YOU KNOW
I'M STILL
WILLIN"

LOWEL GEORGE

FRIJOLES

I just love beans. I l like the way the look in the pot, I like the way they smell when they're cooking, I even at times marvel at the their ability to turn themselves into an entire orchestra after their digestion. Decorum and personal discretion must always be observed during these legumic symphony's however, and may often be best enjoyed in a solo environment. A certain degree of apre's frijole planning may be necessary.
The history of the lowly frijole is a diverse one, and can be traced to Egyptian kings.
Some were even buried with their stash of the unassuming legume. Imagine that...waking up in the afterlife and the first thing you want is a big bowl of beans. Damn the torpedos, bring me my beans.
For me however the most admirable quality the bean has, is it's compassionate touch. Beans have been easing the pangs of hunger worldwide for centurys. From the single mom in urban areas, to the backwaters of peasant life that unfortunately plague our world, the bean always delivered it's goodness without having lofty ambitions so often found in other basic sustenance food products. You know who I'm talking about Mr. Mais. Limelight stealing, overrated food product that you are. No the frijole isn't in it for the glory. The bean merely delivers nutrient, protein, vitamins and minerals without all the hoopala that the headline grabbing corn and flour are after. How often have we seen on CNN, the sacks of corn and flour being unloaded in some war torn region of the globe, or being spooned out in some famine struck area of a hopeless country.
And where was the bean in all the chaos and camera work? Quietly And without fanfare, the bean would set out upon the business at hand. Feeding the masses.
So take a bow Senor Frijole. On behalf of the downtrodden, the hungry, the food aficionado's, and from the Hobos that ride the rails in search of better times, to homeless persons everywhere, we salute you.
Long live the the bean, the frijole, the magical fruit. If ever a food group deserved sainthood it would surely be thee.

St. Frijole of the Blessed Impoverished

NICKNAMES

This majestic fellow is called a Kara Kara. Or at least that's the most common response to my inquiry as to what the big bird answers to. Mexicans can often be innocently ignorant of the proper names of things, and me being raised in the eat or be food competitiveness of our school system, find it necessary to gather as much useless information as entirely possible. You never know when the knowledge of every known bird of prey will allow you climb over the back of some unsuspecting fool, on the upward, fast as you can, ladder to nowhere.
Knowledge is power.....arrrgh... Use it as weapon.
I have long stopped asking Mexicans the names of certain trees, when for the most part, the most common answer is... arbol.. Spanish for tree. This response is generally followed by a somewhat condescending leer, as if perhaps I would be better served inquiring as to the whereabouts of the nearest insane asylum. Anyone can see it's a tree Tonto.
It would seem that unless one is planning on a career in Botany, any knowledge of trees, other than the most rudimentary, is best left to the people who need to know.
It was not my intent to offend however, and my sole purpose for the inquiry was so that I may gather more ammunition in my never ending quest for banal fodder, and superiority, whether real or imagined. I'm guessing it's the latter.
In all fairness, I'm sure that my somewhat limited grasp of the language may be playing a part in the confusion. Or on the other hand perhaps I may have crossed over some cultural nuance of which I'm unaware.

Possibly.... Possibly... I should not know the names of trees.
Possibly.....Possibly... Simply knowing would be cause for unease.
The trees cannot talk.
The trees cannot see.
If it weren't for the trees
Then where would we be

Two can play at this game Suess..... "Doctor" seems extremely suspicious.
But I seem to have digressed somewhat.
I guess I can now add a resentment to children's authors to my ever growing list of fanatical neurosis.
I would like to point out at this juncture that I, in no way had anything at all to do with the late, Good Doctors...AHEM... demise, and if asked I'm sure I could render a reasonable alibi.

Now to the topic at hand folks.... Nicknames
I know, I know, I forgot what it was too.
It would seem Mexicans, not unlike peoples from anywhere else on the planet, when unknowing , or simply unhappy with an assigned label for something , simply give it a different one.
There is evidence of this wherever we wander, or even right in our own families.
My own youngest sister,Margaret, when brought home from the hospital, had enormous ears, and when my father,whom had probably had a few too many gin and tonics, and was still trying to come up with a plan as to how he was going to feed number six on the Catholic, populate the planet hit parade, called her Pixie. As in the elf....Ahhh...Gin. The poor mans L.S.D.

There are other reasons for using nicknames, that I have just recently noticed, and these seem to apply to ex-patriots, whom have become, to me, a plethora of untapped sources of minutia, and nonsensical, ideologies. A wannabe writers, nirvanic abyss of the surreal.
God bless the sixties.
The Ex-Pat's reason is deliciously simple.
Foreign and domestic governments wish to monitor their every move.
In short.....Anonymity
So in order to bring you, the reader of this diatribe, along for the ride, I have compiled a list with some of my favorite attempts at eluding big brother by proxy of manufactured aliases.
Enjoy............

Ding Dong Don........Something to do with a past career in the porn game

Michigan Mike ..... A bit revealing, but I don't think the onset of paranoia has took hold yet

Perfect Peter...... At least that's what the ladies say

Gestapo Bill......A migratory fellow just up from Brazil...
Nice Guy....Runs a lab

Immaculate Lynda.... No I didn't forget the girls........Refuses to elaborate

Ordeal......A.K.A..... Ardell.....Because she is one

One Eyed Mike........ Odd in so much as he has two eyes

One Ball Paul.....Do not know the status, and or, actual ball count here, and none will be forthcoming in a future publication

Well there is just a sampling of some of the people of whom I have had the great pleasure in knowing over the years..Look them up if your ever in the neighborhood. Oh and by the way, they are" NOT" in the book.

YO YO BO BO JOJO'S

I'm unsure as to why this photo appeals to me. Is it the flagrant lack of concern for appearances that I find admirable, or is it that this brand of laziness somehow makes my life seem very ambitious. Whatever it is, be sure that this particular form of personal hygiene is not for the faint of smell.
Well to recap my existence on the big blue ball....... (however insignificant)
I've managed to make it back to the cool blue north just in time to partake of the flue festival that has swept the region by storm. This years headliner is none other than the as yet unknown, headpounding, body aching variety. All of this combined with the adjustment period I go through every time I return from a place where anything goes, to the anal retentive hyperbole, that constitutes a self proclaimed civilized society, has given me the blues.
If I weren't so damn white I'd probably write a song. I guess that's why we have Merle Haggard.
Oh well this to shall pass. I believe I shall turn my compass southward again after I have sorted out some details, and continue my love, hate relationship with my tropical home.
BoBo Jo Jo's may get off the ground yet.
Con Dios E Suerte

I LIVE ON A BIG BLUE BALL
I NEVER DO DREAM I MAY FALL

JIMMY BUFFET