The godlessness of driving in Guadalajara
Driving in Guadualajara reminds me of the T.S. Eliot poem, “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
Driving in Guadualajara reminds me of the T.S. Eliot poem, “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
I have always been troubled by people who emigrate to lakeside and flaunt their wealth — big haciendas, fancy cars, restaurant dining every night — and turn their lives into a show of privilege.
There’s a mystery down here in Mexico. It’s asked about over and over again.
Mexico has caused quite an excitement here with its recent showing in World Cup Soccer, enhancing a world record for advancements into the Group of 16, the finals – and beating out the record-setting political assassinations in Mexico for media ratings.
When Ghengis Kahn began plundering Europe, I can assure you the initial reaction in Europe was: “Hey, this can be settled diplomatically.”
Plastic bags are well-nigh immortal. In many cases they will survive for over 100 years as landfill waste or litter, and can be used by vampires for lunch bags.
After examining about a week of my emails not long ago, I realized how far we’ve come from the lovely hand-written letters we wrote when writing was an art.