Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Ain't That The Truth
The sign at the airport said, "Threat Level Orange," but I ignored it and went into the terminal where nobody unknown to me asked me to carry anything aboard the plane and I saw nothing suspicious to report to authorities. The truly suspicious people these days are the authorities.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Mary Gauthier
Mercy Now
Written by Mary Gauthier
My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor
Fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over
It won't be long and he won't be around
I love my father, and he could use some mercy now
My brother could use a little mercy now
He's a stranger to freedom
He's shackled to his fears and doubts
The pain that he lives in is
Almost more than living will allow
I love my brother, and he could use some mercy now
My church and my country could use a little mercy now
As they sink into a poisoned pit
That's going to take forever to climb out
They carry the weight of the faithful
Who follow them down
I love my church and country, and they could use some mercy now
Every living thing could use a little mercy now
Only the hand of grace can end the race
Towards another mushroom cloud
People in power, well
They'll do anything to keep their crown
I love life, and life itself could use some mercy now
Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don't deserve it
But we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance
Dangle 'tween hell and hallowed ground
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Los Locos
Yesterday was perhaps the most fun of all San Miguel's religious festivals -- the Locos parade. Apparently it began in the 19th century as "an act of faith and devotion" where orchard workers danced to give thanks and ask their patron saint (Pascual Bailon) for a prosperous year. Since then, the event has evolved into a Mardi Gras-esque display of weird costuming and general eccentricity. Over 10,000 crazies participate! The San Francisco Chronicle once described Los Locos as a mix of the Gay Pride Parade and Brazil's Carnaval. If that's the case, we caught the PG-rated version this year, but nonetheless had a great time. Like at Mardi Gras, the participants toss goodies to the crowd. Candy, however, not trinkets. The family next to me collected enough to create a decade's worth of dental problems. To those of you who keep claiming to want to visit The Goots sometime, mark your 2008 calendar for the first Sunday after June 13th. Especially since a participant friend has agreed to get me into the parade next year... maybe as a giant gerbil.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Rutbuster
The Calf-Path
by Sam Walter Foss
One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed – do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf,
And though this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed this zigzag calf about
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way.
And lost one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.
A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf.
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.
Sunday (el domingo) in San Miguel
We were awakened somewhere between three and four a.m. with what sounded like an artillery barrage. Seems as though this past weekend was a festival weekend honoring some saint or another. This particular saint must be a patron saint of our colonia (neighborhood) as the fireworks -- and subsequent parties -- were frighteningly, distressingly close. When at dawn we finally gave up trying to sleep, we got up, cleaned up and headed downtown.
On the way, we dodged fifty or sixty exhausted Spandex-clad mountain bikers just finishing some kind of early morning ride. They were high fiving, guzzling water and dodging the old ladies selling balloons and pull toys.
We hung out for a while in the jardin (town square) chatting with friends and enjoying my all-time favorite kind of street music -- a five-piece Peruvian group playing all manner of hand-made wooden flutes and the world's smallest guitar. I desperately wanted to add to my collection of Peruvian street artist CDs, but Karen threatened me with death. I settled for tossing some pesos into their collection hat. We then mosied over to a small, locally-owned restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely 2-hour breakfast, people and pet watching.
Afterward, with black clouds looming on the horizon, we scurried home to take in our drying laundry. On the way we were waylaid by a festival parade. First came a troupe of folks (kids and adults) in buckskins and painted faces, dancing and rhythmically clashing their machetes to the beat of several very enthusiastic drummers. They were followed by a large group in random costumes -- ranging from black capes and ghoul masks to oversized clown heads and giant rabbits. Don't ask. Next came -- are you ready for this? -- a guy dressed as Jesus toting an oversized, green-foil-covered cross, flanked by two hefty, lance-toting guys dressed as Roman Centurians, and followed by a real live priest. And to cap it off, surrounded by a slew of folks who live in our neighborhood, came a brass band that was playing what I could only describe as Dixieland jazz. Oh yeah, interspersed among them all were rowdy young guys shooting off bottle rockets just, I guess, for the hell of it.
Once we got our dry towels safely stowed, we headed back downtown to a local sports bar to watch Mexico & Honduras compete in the Gold Cup soccer tournament (played, ironically, in the U.S.). After several tequilas and cervezas, we were comfortably back in our soccer parent mode, jumping up and screaming and booing the refs. As we trudged back up the hill after Mexico's unexpected loss, the weather seemed to mirror our mood, and moments after arriving home the temperature dropped, the skies opened up and our newly planted garden began to sing, "Hallelujah!!"
We then shifted into rainy-day-Sunday mode: Karen tuned into a mindless action thriller on one of the movie channels -- (Passenger 57, avoid it at all costs) -- and I cooked us a nice grilled arrechera (skirt steak) with mushroom cream sauce and rice.
Sated and happy, we finally headed upstairs hand-in-hand to enjoy the cool, clear, star-filled sky... at the exact moment our devout, pyromaniacal neighbors unleashed another, hour-long salvo of airborn explosives and cranked up a nearby jukebox, playing -- of all things -- classic 1950's Elvis. Work or school on Monday? Getouttahere. Not on my saint's day. Not in San Miguel.
Whatever. We were soon sound asleep, dreaming foxhole dreams of Emiliana Zapata and Ann-Margaret.
Chris Smither
By Chris Smither
Well Eve told Adam, steaks I’ve had em,
let’s get out of here,
go raise the family somewhere out of town.
They left the garden just in time,
with the landlord cussing right behind,
they headed east and they finally settled down.
One thing led to another,
a bunch of sons, one killed his brother,
and they kicked him out with nothing but his clothes.
And the human race survives
because all these brothers found wives,
but where they came from ain’t nobody knows.
Then came the flood, go figure,
just like
no one who couldn’t swim would make it through.
The lucky ones were on a boat,
think circus, and then make it float,
and hope nobody pulls the plug on you.
How they fed that crowd’s a mystery,
it ain’t down in the history,
but it’s a cinch they didn’t live on cakes and jam.
Lions don’t eat cabbage
and in spite of that old adage,
I ain’t never seen one lie down with a lamb.
Well Charlie Darwin looked so far
into the way things are,
he caught a glimpse of God’s unfolding plan.
God said I’ll make some DNA,
they can use it anyway they want,
from paramecium right up to man.
They’ll have sex and mix up sections
of their codes they’ll have mutations,
the whole thing works like clockwork over time.
I’ll just sit back in the shade
while everyone gets laid,
that’s what I call intelligent design.
Yeah, you and your cat named Felix,
both wrapped up in that double helix
is what we call intelligent design.
