Those quaint customs of those colorful people
Narration of an anthropological film shown in schools in the 1950s
I had been dragooned into attending a fundraiser in Mulege to benefit an animal clinic. We made a bowl of ceviche to take as an appetizer for the event where there was an excellent crooner doing a great impersonation of Frank Sinatra. With the exception of only a few casual acquaintances, I knew hardly anyone. And after that KA and I were off to Scotty's to see the Oregon Ducks play North Carolina.
Keeping to ourselves, there was plenty of time to observe the crowd. First thing I noticed was the demographic shift. The average age of the crowd was close to 70. That would be the way the whole US might be around 2050. No spring chickens here! They would all die soon enough. The next thing we noticed (besides the fact that they were 100% white) was that they didn't dress like us.
You know as well as everyone that old new lefty revels in Northwest grunge. Me? I'm not happy unless I'm dressed like a homeless person, and this crowd was way too tony for me. For this occassion, Mom made me wear a clean black tee shirt and new jeans. But I was not fashion compatible with well tailored polyester blends. Clearly, although I was an oldster, I was not of this zip code.
Think of your average well to do RV owner, or how about those golden elders frollicking along the sands of Fort Lauderdale, Florida? Speaking of which, I caught a glimpse of Roger Stone talking with Alex Jones in Fort Lauderdale, and let me tell you -- Roger was out of uniform! He had a black beret, thick black round sunglasses, and a black tunic. Very 1920s Fascist if I do say so.
Mind you, this Mulege crowd wasn't tony enough to pal around with Russian oligarchs, although many of them would match the couples in those Viagra commercials. Insurance ads on TV would appeal to this crowd very much. Not really being interested in the company, KA and I scooted over to the bar to watch the basketball game.
The Oregon - North Carolina game was on, and we found ourselves in an Oregon cheering session of about 8 people. Oregon was ahead in the first quarter by as much as 8 points, but it fell back and North Carolina was ahead at the half. A dark cloud quickly began to form over my head, and I knew that I had come to curse the Ducks with my presence. KA and I know when our Duckies are going to lose when we watch or listen to the games. And the only antidote is to turn the damn machine off and not watch or listen. This is the only way we can help an Oregon victory.
There was a fat guy sitting next to me who came from Tigard. He was on vacation in the southern part of the Bajia Concepcion. He said that he'd traveled 56 miles to see this game. He was a big Ducks fan too, but he was a rooter who always had an "attitudes up!" approach. Both KA and I reek of Nordic pessimism by nature. And so there was a mutual incompatability between the two of us immediately. He could not understand why I was putting the heebie-jeebie on the Ducks game. He said a few snarky remarks, and then he retreated to a corner of the room to eat his large pizza.
And once in a while, he'd come back to get closer to the screen, and then he'd have to endure my snarky commentaries on what I was seeing on television. Nate Silver came on during a break to talk about sports probabilities. This got me all ticked off at Trump because of Silver's optimism about Hillary's chance of winning. I admit I confused the pizza eater when I first said something derogatory about the Orange Wonder, and then I appeared to say something nice about Trump, but the fat one was not smart enough to appreciate my irony when I said with a sneer, "Nate Silver said there was a 35% chance that Donald Trump would win the presidency." Take that you smarty pants millionaire from Harvard! I hate the world. I hate Trump, and the whole world sucks! This was what I was trying to get my audience to think about, but the fish did not bite the hook. Cultural differences were rearing their ugly heads.
Then there was the halftime chat with the North Carolina coach. The sports hen stuck her mike in the coaches face, and I yelled, "What's the matter with you people? Can't you speak English?" The Mexican bar crew got even with this racist remark by screwing with the remote, sending the halftime inanities into the black ozone of channel listings. When we looked like we were leaving, the game came on. 99% of the crowd thought that I was being a creepy, knuckle-dragging piece of scum white dude, but I was referring to the coach's North Carolina accent. People did not appreciate or even hear the lame remark I made about being a true, blue Yankee. Me and my sick sense of humor.
It was soon becoming obvious that I was not the type to be hanging out all the time in bars. You see, I found myself to be one of those smart, dangerous types who saunter in now and then. In the movies, this is where the whole bar crowd goes silent. They don't know what kind of trouble this guy is looking for, but he's trolling for some super-powerful negative mojo. This disturbs the owners of the restaurant, as eventually there will be the guarantee that some major low-life scum will come into the place. The last time I opened my big fat mouth like that in an eating establishment, I managed to attract a significant segment of the crystal meth population in town.
I told the pizza eating guy from Tigard that the best thing I could to help the Ducks was to get the fuck outta there ASAP. KA and I drove home, and we avoided the problem of going home more boozed up after a Duck loss. I can sort of take it, but KA goes mental when the Ducks lose, and they did.
It wasn't until now until I realized that I was consorting with Trump supporting Republicans.