Famous Urinals I Have Known

January 2, 2012

Understanding Priorities

by Fred Reed

It was getting late in Ajijic when Vi and I headed for the Camaleon. The narrow streets were empty and somber. Gringos do not go out as much as they once did now that the narco wars have reached the town.

Light and music poured from the door. For some reason I thought of what the country must have been like in 1900, a wilder and cruder time with dirt streets and few people. Not much law, less schooling, raw tequila and suchlike bust-head in adobe cantinas, horses, guns, and rattlesnakes. Not a great world, but I would love to have seen it.

We took our usual table next to the fireplace. It is seldom lit. When it gets really hellishly cold here, you might need a light sweater. We ordered drinks and I wondered at the strangeness of life. (I know, I’m the only one who has ever done that.) I mean, what am I doing with an exotic Mexican woman in a town in Jalisco? (The exotic part is absurd, but I like saying it.) I communicated this to Vi. She responded that I wasn’t exactly what she had expected when she was fifteen either.

Which will interest nobody. But it supports my view that living wisely is a bad idea. I’ve seldom done anything sensible that wasn’t boring. Maybe my only contribution to the sum of human knowledge is that if you get sick of being a news weasel in Washington, Gualalajara isn’t Washington. By a long shot.

Ajijic is pretty much Mexico as conceived by sappy drones at Disney and gelded by expats who don’t really want to live here but don’t have the money for Lauderdale. Still, traces of Mexico remain among the boutiques. This is especially true at night when the bleakness of blank walls and cobblestones—actually empedrado—hold the modern world at a distance and hint at Mexico as it was. And, in many places, still is.

Mexico still has bars that are bars, joints where if the owner’s dog, or a customer’s, or the dog belonging to the bar down the street wants to come in to see what is happening, no one cares. So far as has been recorded, no one has died of dog poisoning.

The Camaleon is such. The jukebox bellows and rumbles perpetually. The place does not look to have been designed at corporate and when you order you don’t get a very nice waiter who says, “Hi! I’m Bruce and I’m going to be your waitperson and I hope you have a wonderful dining experience.” When you take a leak you do not feel as if you are profaning a surgical suite. The urinals have character.

A nation’s character is embodied in its whizzenzimmers, loos, and johns. From this example, at the Camaleon, one sees that Mexicans are stark mad. It is a pleasant condition, and I hope that it spreads northward.

In the United States real bars still exist, corner joints in blue-collar Chicago, the Last Chance Saloon at the top of the Florida Keys, maybe the Sunset Grill in Washington, a million others. Yet the trend is toward the unpleasantly clean, obsessively controlled, capriciously regulated, and over-policed with cops lurking outside with Alkasensors. However spelled. From a Commie under every bush, America has moved to a Mommy behind every bush. Can I have my Commies back?

An air of predatory virtue diffuses across the US, of passive-aggressive goodness by do-gooders taking out their unhappy lives on others. I would rather be left the hell alone. This isn’t what the country was. It is what the country is.

Mexico used to be stranger than it is now. I think I was nineteen when I first dropped down into Saltillo from Laredo. In those days bars were for men only, except, in Saltillo, for the Arizpe Bar in a hotel. I found myself one night in a murky working-class mescal chute where your mother definitely would not want you to go. I was probably the first Caucasian the place had seen. A fellow came in with a wet-cell battery and a step-up transformer slung over his shoulder on a strap, with two cables leading from it to silvery hand-grips.

Los toques. The idea, if it rose to that level, was that to demonstrate your toughness, you held one contact in each hand while the proprietor of the things gradually turned up the voltage. Your muscles would begin to spasm and at a certain point you would not be able to release the toques. Or so I was told. I didn’t make the experiment. The wisdom of applying a voltage across my chest did not leap to what mind I had at that age.

There is in segments of the American population a sniffish sense that bars are vicious places, ridden by Demon Rum and productive of drunkenness and maybe even billiards. In the parlance of those limited souls afflicted by these notions, one doesn’t drink, but “uses alcohol.” One should therefore seek help from a therapist. I think therapists need to go to bars.

In fact bars are places of philosophy, of conviviality and conversation. Yes, any town has its drunks, chain smokers, and people dependent on Prozac. They are few, except for the Prozac gobblers. In any event, I prefer the occasionally sozzled to the Depakote zombies, the Xanax-disabled, and the Valium-dependent.

Mexico still has bars that by custom though not law are for men only. This works no hardship on women since bars integrated by sex are everywhere, and in any event the male-only establishments are not such as to be attractive to women. It apparently infurates a subset of the American women here who, having a sort of Rosa Parks complex, go barging into traditionally male cantinas to integrate them. This creates considerable ill-will.

Which is curious. If women started an all-female bar, men wouldn’t care at all.

A horse galloped past outside. I love it. Mexico is nothing if not motley. Teen-agers rush around with smart phones and build websites and engage in the cyber-larceny of music. And yet horses—real ones, with feet, ears, tails, all the credentials—clop about. It isn’t really primitivism. If you are going to raise cattle and goats in the rocky hills hereabouts, a horse is the only practical vehicle. I like hosrses. They eat grass and mind their own business. I can think of countries that might try the approach.

So much for searching insights. Actually there are probably only a dozen or so insights to be had, and everybody has already had them. We paid and left. The streets were again empty and silent. A cat saw us and ducked around a corner.

All original material © Violeta de Jesus Gonzalez Munguia

I Need A Hero

January 1, 2012

Is The Spirit of ’76 Dead?

by Russell D. Longcore

Where have all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where’s the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?

Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need

I need a hero
I’m holding on for a hero ‘til the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero
I’m holding on for a hero ‘till the morning light
He’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And he’s gotta be larger than life…larger than life.


Americans keep looking for a hero. That’s what every Presidential election is about.

Americans are bathed in government from the moment of conception until long after death. Government surrounds us like the water in a fish bowl surrounds the goldfish. Government is so much apart of our every living moment that we often scarcely recognize it. But think about the goldfish. After a while of living in this closed ecosystem and shitting in the atmosphere in which it lives, the water becomes toxic. The fish will gradually become sicker and sicker. To save the life of the goldfish, somebody must change the water.

Secession changes the water.

Here at DumpDC, we incessantly beat the drum for secession. We believe that state secession is the only possible solution and the only hope for personal liberty and property rights here on the North American continent. We hold the opinion that there is presently no stomach among the adult population generally for state secession since the adult population has been mis-educated for 100 years to believe in “one nation, under God, indivisible.” Most Americans were taught that the concept of secession was settled by Lincoln’s War. We believe that only a nationwide economic collapse will provide the sufficient impetus to move many people to seek an alternative to the failed American experiment. We believe that the hunger, crime, disease, death and destruction that will be the result of the American economic collapse will cause millions of Americans to finally awaken from their stupor and embrace secession. And we also believe that when secession becomes a viable choice, Washington will have dissolved also and will not move to prevent secessions, but will cease to exist like the USSR did in 1989.

But at the same time, we acknowledge the reality of the nation in which we presently live. Over 311 million souls call America home. The vast majority of the populace got their education in government schools, where they were programmed to be good little citizens willing enough to pay their taxes and trust their elected leaders to know best. And most of those who got their education in private schools may have gotten higher SAT scores, but the stuff they learned was about the same as the general population. I dare say that home-schooled children likely learned an entirely different curriculum and gained an enhanced sense of individuality. So I expect that most of the American population, suffering under extreme privation after TSHTF, are not equipped mentally to bear the responsibility of personal liberty. They will clamor for a hero to save them from their doom.

Perhaps I underestimate the appetite for liberty here in America. If we looked at America as a bell curve of political thought, you’d have 10% on the left tail as pure socialists, then 80% of the populace, spanning from nearly socialist to nearly anarchist, then finally the 10% right tail as libertarian anarchists. 10% of 311 million is 31 million. Are there truly 31 million people living in America today that are committed to individual liberty and property rights? I doubt it, even if some of the right end of the 80% of the bell curve are counted in the number.

But perhaps it doesn’t matter. I submit to you that 1% (or less) could band together and secede, establishing a new nation on new principles and new forms of governance. The present populations of Alaska, New Hampshire and North Dakota do not exceed 700,000 each. On the other side, my favorite state, Texas, which has the most vibrant independence movement in America, has over 24 million people. I submit that a few thousand individuals committed to secession could lead Texas into nationhood once again.

BUT…it WON’T be a hero that brings personal liberty and property rights back to the North American continent.

Individual liberty cannot be delegated to another. That’s why it’s called “individual.” And individuals may band together to do amazing things. But the moment it becomes about one person…one hero…one Savior…the end is inevitable. The Founders of the First American Secession in 1776 were not seeking a hero. They thirsted for FREEDOM. The very idea that they would trust their liberties to a far-away despot had already borne bitter fruit. They threw off such government and established thirteen new nations, each with a commitment to protect individual liberty and property rights.

Nothing like that exists today in the United States of America.

What we see in the daily news is a litany of hero-worship. The Republican candidates are mostly small people who love big government. And I am not singling out the Repubs, as the Democrats already have their candidate or they would be doing the same traveling theater of the absurd. Inherent and hidden in every news story, no matter if the story is a puff piece or an attack piece, is the desire for a new hero.

The American presidency was NEVER meant to be such a position as it has become today. Listen to some radio news broadcasts. Most lead with a story about what the American president is doing that day. The US Constitution, as old, worthless and ineffectual as it is, started with Congress choosing the president from among its own members. It was essentially a group of managers choosing a head manager for specifically designated duties and no more.

Today, the American presidential candidate is the embodiment of the sought-after Savior. He (or she), replete with various personality flaws, try to be everything to everybody. So, they tend to drift to the lowest common denominator. Every four years, Americans hold their noses and vote for what they usually call “the lesser of evils.”

Some hero, eh?

Most of America is still looking for that superhero in the red cape to fly in and make everything all right once again. And most of America has only the hope of a hero as its plan for the future. Kind of like the guy who never saves a dime but spend $20 a week buying lottery tickets. But those who will actually experience individual liberty and property rights in the future will not be wishers…they will be the ones who forsake hero worship and accept the wild ride that true liberty entails.

As Thomas Jefferson said, “Most men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty.”

Secession is the only hope for humanity. Who will be first?

DumpDC. Six Letters That Can Change History.

© Copyright 2011, Russell D. Longcore. Permission to reprint in whole or in part is gladly granted, provided full credit is given.

Bonnie Tyler- “I Need A Hero”