Miata, Television, Poetry

At least once a week, someone tells Fiorella how cute her baby car is, and they're not just guys who are checking out her legs.
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Fio watched a lot of TV as a child and assumed she would end up living in a New York high rise like the characters in the shows she watched. Instead, she lives in in a lovely home she herself designed which is set the middle of a five-acre wooded wilderness that she has yet to totally explore. Life couldn't get any better.
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My goal is the same when I awake
Every morning, and through the day--
To make the world a better place
By what I do and what I say

Five Factoids

Yep, your Fio is a delicate flower. As she confessed to you yesterday, she does not fare well in hot weather. Neither, she wants you to know, does Sonia dog. Poor baby follows Fio out the door, then, five minutes later, barks to be let inside again. Mastiffs aren't designed for Texas summers.
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Three words that Fiorella wants newscasters to memorize the pronunciation of: realtor, nuclear, and athletic. They are NOT re-la-ter, nu-cyu-ler, and a-tha-letic.
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Every life hangs by a thread. Anything can happen any minute, no matter your age, your health, or how careful you are. Fate is fate.
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The way one says "Good morning" in the Nigerian dialect that Tosin at the Verizon store speaks is "e-k-a-a-r-o," which is pronounced like a rainbow. starting at a lower pitch, rising in the middle, and settling at the end. Fio would have loved to have studied a pitch language at some time in her life, but maybe there's still time after she learns Spanish, reviews her Russian, and picks up Telugu again. And then there's her Latin that she'd like to renew, and her German, Fio's study of which was cut short after ein semester. Oops, she didn't mention the French, which she passed a reading a exam on long ago, but which she never did learn how to speak.
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Surely the circus act in DC cannot continue much longer.

Happy Birthday, Daughter!

July 29, O blessed day, the day Fiorella's daughter was born. Baby was an early bird, taken two weeks premature because she was already at nine pounds, nine ounces, and Dr. Stahl was concerned she might rupture Fio's slash line from when Baby's brother had been born nineteen months earlier. But this time around, Fio got an epidural so eveything went smoother. She's told you how she sang "May she be like Ruth and like Esther...." when the doctor announced Baby was a girl. In fact, Fio's told you the whole story before, and be warned--she'll probably tell it to you again next year. July 29 is a sacred day for Fio, as are the birthdates of all her children.

Overcoming Adversity on a Hot Day

Fiorella is running late today because her computer disowned her this morning. She could open it up, but couldn't reach any of her sites, so she packed her computadora in her leather tote along with the cell phone that wouldn't let her post on Facebook and drove off to Click. Of course, her computer behaved perfectly when she tried to show Travis the problem so she packed up and drove over to the Verizon store, where Tison switched her cell phone out of "flight" mode (embarrassment), and taught her how to say "Good morning" in his particular Nigerian language. After depositing a check at her bank and picking up six boxes of Shredded Wheat at Target, she started home.

It was hot and still. Even with the AC on, Fio was sweating like the proverbial pig. When she got home, she collapsed on the sofa, then drank a lot of water, changed into shorts, and opened up her computer. She still couldn't reach any of her sites.

But Travis had warned her this might happen, that the source of the problem might be other electronics in the room, so she moved into the front room to test his theory out. Bingo! And that's why Fio is able to communicate with you today.

Computer, Television, Weather

What happened? Fiorella had written out a full blog and suddenly it disappeared--apparently her left hand had drifted over the keys in some  inappropriate manner. It figures. The computer has a habit of doing Fio dirty. For instance, the pictures of Baby that Son posted on her timeline weren't able to be seen by anyone but her, and everyone knows that the main reason for posting baby pictures is to collect "likes" and "aws" from friends whose baby pictures you've been "liking" and "awing" for years.
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Fiorella remembers a time when when lawyers weren't advertised on television. And neither were doctors, or medicines with long lists of warnings attached, or women's sanitary supplies. How quaint that must seem to her children.
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Fio had wonderful visits with friend Paula and friend Joan in Austin yesterday, but the day was very hot (103+ degrees) and she wilted all the way back to Georgetown, then was out of commission all evening. Fiorella is not made for Texas summers.

Spanish Woes

Fio is still searching for a Spanish language program that suits her.  She tried Duolingo, but it was too slow and repetitive for her, and it never explained errors. Then she tried Babbel, but it was obviously continental Spanish instead of Mexican Spanish, and Fio isn't interested in being hoity-toity. She looked at Michel Thomas too, but ran into la problema misma.  Maybe Mango or Rosetta Stone will work, but Fio needs a break right now.
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Okay, Univision, donde esta mi telenovela La Doble Vida de Estela Carrillo? Fiorella settled down in front of the TV at 8:00 last night, and Joseph of Egypt came on, which irritated the heck out of her because on the previous night, Estela had made friends with an old enemy and was pumping her for information so Fio was expecting a bombshell last night.
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It all would have been much simpler if Fio had taken Spanish in high school, but she went Latin all the way, then added in Russian, German, and Telugu in grad school, all of which went down the drain from lack of use

Not Fio's Day

Fiorella thought she had her day all laid out, but it went to pieces on her once she got to Austin. Her doctor's parking garage was dark as a dungeon, and it was hard to find a space for her Miata what with all the ocean liners squatting in the spaces marked compact. She was finally able to shoehorn herself into a narrow space between two SUVs, but then came the voyage to the medical building while toting a tote weighed down with her computadora, her bolsa, her celular, and her lista amarilla. She rode up to the third floor and trudged down the hall to the doctor's office, slung her tote on the counter and announced herself to the nurse.

Shock. Her appointment was until the afternoon. How had Fio messed up this appt for the second time arround. Are they gaslighting her?  No, Fio. Face it. You wrote down the the wrong date in su calendario.

Nothing to do but set up an appt for next week, reshoulder her tote and stagger back to the parking garage. Getting out was a lot easier than getting in. But what could she do with her time? She had to be back in Gtown for an INR appt at 1:00, but she didn't want to be half an hour early and sit  in the cardiologist's office twiddling her thumbs. Nothing to do but find a Starbucks in Austin and write a little. Of course, she had to purchase something to rent a table, though. No problem--she loves Starbucks' chocolate chip cookies. The day was saved!

Except that Starbucks was out of chocolate chip cookies. All she could do was indulge herself in a cup of milk.

Some days, you just can't win for losing.

Trump Opera

I've been thinking about my Trump tragi-comedy opera. It should start on election day, I think, and Donald should be pacing and singing about the campaign and how wonderful he is, and all the nasty things he's going to say when Hillary wins. ("When Hillary Cheats Her Way Into the White House") Of course, he pauses from time to time to post venomous tweets. (Note to self--use actual tweets---which rhymes with "cheats" and "beats") The results start coming in, but he refuses to watch them, singing about what a winner he is. "I'm winning if I say I am!" When he finally faces the board and sees that he's won, He turns to the audience with shock on his face and says. "What do I do now?"

Fast forward to Inauguration Day, the poor turn-out, and his insistence of the opposite. ("Opposite" aria?) The Women's March, the protests, etc. Arrogance grows, more and more in la-la land. Staff comes and goes. Russians, (Russian chorus?).  Melania floats in and out, a mystery figure. The Trump family is a constant chorus. Maybe the White House (Mar-a-Lago?) is stormed. Not a pretty ending.

And that is as far as Fio's gottten. Is Rossini still available?

Birthday Girls

 Because Fio's birthday was last week and Daughter's birthday is next week, they combined their celebrations and met at Central Market in Austin. That way, Fio didn't have to drive too far from Georgetown and Son and his family didn't have to drive too far from their home near Bastrop. The party lasted about two hours, so it's safe to say that a good time was had by all, but Fio was especially thrilled that, when she got to hold Baby, Barbara made a grab for Fio's nose, sucked on Fio's finger, and pulled an earring out of Fio's earlobe.

A special treat was that Daughter stayed at the table for a while after Son and family left, and she and Fio had a searching talk. Fio is still glowing with pride about the thoughtful, straight-seeing, compassionate young woman that Daughter has become.

Who Is Fiorella?

Who is Fiorella, that all her swains commend her? 

Well, Fio isn't too sure about the swains, but she is all too eager to tell you who she is because, first of all, she's analytical, which means she's always trying to figure herself out--and everyone else.

Second, she's as creative as they come, not just as a writer and an artist, but also when it comes to problem-solving. If you ever want a wacko solution, check in with Fio.

Third, her goal as a college student was to learn every language in the world, and it still is.

Fourth, she's dramatic--the world is her stage.

Fifth, she has an easily-ignited irreverent sense of humor, as you may have already figured out.

Sixth, she's high energy and always wants to be DOING something. Not things like whacking a tennis ball back and forth, which she considers to be a waste of time (precious time, of whch there is so little), but projects which would make her world, her family's world, and everyone's world a better place.

Seventh she has always attracted a following and is intensely loyal to her friends, but loves everyone, even the people she dislikes.

Eighth, she is always praying God for help and sending up paeans of gratitude, but she also talks to animals, rocks, her car, and all other beings because everything has a soul.

Ninth, sometimes her life falls apart and she collapses like a deflated balloon, but so far, she's always fought through and survived.

Fio's sense of balance tells her there should be another characteristic that will bring the list up to an even ten, but she's run out of steam. See you tomorrow!

Telenovela Foresight

No! Fiorella's telenovela was pre-empted by a copa oro soccer match last night, and she's still fuming. La Doble Vida de Estela Carrillo is not her favorite Spanish-language soap opera (she liked El Color de la Pasion better), but Wednesday night left Estela in a very precarious position, and Fio wanted to see how it turned out. She's sure the judge will find Estela "not guilty" of everything that chief villain John B. Green is accusing her of, but who knows--there are always loopholes and complications.

The big surprise to Fio, who started watching the show after it had already been on a couple of months, is that Paloma. Estela's little girl, is not really hers, but a baby she rescued from John B four years ago.  Fio's a bit hazy on the details, but apparently Greene was involved with a prostitution ring.

Fio thought the La Doble Vida was about ready to wrap up, then read that it had gotten a contract for a second installment  in 2018. Guess Fiorella knows what she's going to be doing from 8:00-9:00 p.m.for a while yet

Overnight

7-19: Fiorella has given up on the house--it will be what it will be. But she hasn't given up on herself. Instead, she's doubled down on her own life and what is important to her--writing, languages, art, family.

7-20: Fiorella woke up bursting with joy. Maybe it was that she slept soundly, without disturbing dreams, and apparently in such good posture that she could mmediately leap to her feet without her back hurting. Maybe it was that she ate the right things yesterday (chocolate chip cookes,  hamburger, chocolate ice cream?) or that her book is moving, really moving, again. Maybe it's that the irritating webs cleared from her brain ("Gene Kelley and Fred Astaire" were her first thoughts of the morning.) Maybe it's that she had a long, rambling phone conversation with Daughter yesterday, or that she attended church with friend Sharon, then had a two-hour visit with her. Maybe it was because her telenovela is resolving or because of the Russian flavor of the stupid Colbert show. Or maybe it's an intimation of something wonderful about to happen. On the personal scene, will all Fio's personal problems be resolved? On the national scene, will Trump be trumped?

Whatever, Fiorella cannot stop grinnng. She feels cleansed, powerful, and ready for action. God's in his heaven, and all's right with the world.

Suffused

Fio lives in a house overflowing with wires and cords. Everything is connected to something, and then there are all the loose cords, like the ones that have found a snarled home beside husband's recliner, the ones under his desk, the ones in the several snarls of cords in the garage, and the many hoses outside that twine around each other like a family of boa constrictors and trip Fio when she goes out to water the yard. Wireless electronics cannot come soon enough for Fiorella, but the hoses will be always around...and around...and around.

Rooskee Yazeek

Fio will admit that she screamed "Dummkopf!" at Stephen Colbert last night when he mispronounced the Russian word for "Thank you." She loves her languages, especially Russian with its wonderful "zh's" and "kv's" and "rrrrr's." She hasn't retained very much of it, and she could never have carried on a conversation in it, even in her third year, because translation of a written text was the teaching emphasis back then. Maybe a fourth year would have helped, but the Linguistics Department at UT required two semesters of a non-Indo-European language, which meant Fio had to drop Russian and take up Telegu. Fio grew to love Telegu too, especially because, like with the rooskyy yazeek, she had to learn a new and different script. But again, she has lost most of the language. If you don't use it, you lose it.

And, by the way, "dummkopf" is German (Deutsch), which Fiorella had one glorious semester of.

Speaking Of

Fiorella is the beloved of the mosquito community. There's something about her that attracts them even as she sleeps.  Blame her DNA.

Speaking of DNA, the headline in today's newspaper is "Illness linked to SUVs hits APD hardest," which reminds Fio once again that we  live in an acronym age, an age of LOL, WTF, LGBT, GOP, DNC,  and POTUS. Linguists of the future will have no trouble tracing the decline of American English back to the internet.

Speaking of the internet, it will also have to take responsibility for print news going down the tubes. Newspapers in the thick of the action like the NY Times and the Washington Post still attract readers, but for how long? It's so much easier to listen to broadcast programs or read capsules on your computer.

Fiorella in Three

Fiorella, a let's-face-reality kinda gal, does not understand people who aren't, the ones who prefer fiction, who cling to anger and revel in lies. How can anyone still support Trump? Don't they see by now that the emperor has no clothes? And even worse, that he doesn't know he has no clothes, that he's living in his own self-delusional world?
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Fiorella is still reveling in the birthday greetings she received yesterday. Birthdays are important to Fio, and she celebrates not only family birthdays, but the birthdays of her friends as well. It's her way of saying she's glad they're stilll walking this earth with her.
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Fiorella is a dog servant. When Sonia wants out, Fio opens the door. When Sonia lets herself in, Fio closes the door. She dishes out Sonia's kibbles, refills her water bowl as needed, and periodically washes the vinyl dog tray Sonia's bowls rest on. Then there's the required morning pet, which must include clucking and a body massage, and then there's the  required distribution of rawhide bones throughout the day. Yup, Fiorella is dog tired.

Immersed in the Past

Is this how it starts? Is this how carefully organized, nicely decorated homes turn into junk piles? Fio remembers Husband's aunt's house, and his sister's house, even the house of his family's life-long maid, and the winding trails between stacks of stuff the three of them had collected through the years. Did his aunt and his sister and the maid all start out with the good intention of honoring those who had gone before them? When does honoring turn into hoarding? How can one move forward when one is immersed in the past?

Passing It Down

Fiorella's brother unloaded two stacks of family memorabilia on her, and she is both thrilled and overwhelmed. Dad's high school graduation picture hit her hard, and the elementary school essay on Christopher Columbus by her uncle Russel, who died of a burst appendix when he was fourteen, made her cry. Then there were Mother's report cards and the  carefully preserved receipts for her payments on the loans she had to take out to pay for her final years of college.

The emotion is overflowing, but so are the chairs in the front room. So are the shelves in the bottom of the china hutch and the shelves beside the front room fireplace. How can Fiorella respect the memories that were precious to her parents, Husband's parents, and those back down the line without setting up a fire hazard? And how can she preserve the albums and photos and miscellany without unduly burdening her children?

One thing for sure--Fio better start winnowing her own memorabilia. No need to add to the pile.

Like Attracts Like

Romance Writers of America is a world-wide support group founded by seven Texas writers thirty-some years ago, and it works. When Fio was at the bank yesterday, she not only gave her own business card to the lovely young woman who helped her, but, when she learned the woman was from Louisiana, also gave her the name of a Louisina author (Farrah Rochon) whom she might want to check out.

Romance writers are pack animals. We clump together for improvement, encouragement, and inspiration, and it's not a new concept, but a universal of mankind--think of the Byron-Shelley-Keats crew,  of clubs you've joined, of your work relationships, of your family ties. Where would we be without each other?

Stability

Mother's house was her snailshell, except that she never moved it, perhaps because her childhood was spent moving from house to house according to her father's employment fortunes, which were controlled by how well he knew the local politicians and how much he drank. Well, Mom did move once, to Texas, because Dad, who was also good with people but who didn't drink, got a job promotion.

Waco, Texas, was a shock to her because it was so different from Akron, Ohio. Texas accents back then were so strong that they sounded like a foreign language. And there weren't many natural trees around. And the rather plain one-story house Dad had bought for the family was so different from her charming two-story in in Ohio. Sure, the Texas house came equipped with a dishwasher, washing machine, and two bathrooms, but its front porch was minuscule, the kitchen was a quarter of the kitchen she had left behind her, it lacked a real dining room, AND THERE WAS NO BASEMENT.

Fio remembers the look of horror on Mother's face, the tears in her eyes, when she met the house for the first time, but being her mother's daughter, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work, dragging Dad in her wake. The garish wallpaper was the first thing to go.

Through the years, Mother brought that little house on Proctor Avenue to its glory. It was her creation, her haven, her stability, and she lived in it the rest of her life, never having to move again.

Bras, Kardashians, Estela Carrillo, Trump, Afterlife

How do men survive without bras? Fio stores her glasses, credit card, car keys, lipstick, and a couple of Kleenexes in her bra while she's out gadding about. Good thing she doesn't have go through any metal detectors.
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Fiorella is tired of the stupid Trump family. She wants everything back to normal--you know, with the Kardashians being the dopiest family on television.
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Fio will admit she herself has been around long enough to know it's true that what goes around comes around, like names, fashion, politics, and philosophies. Nothing new under the sun, as they say. Hey--maybe that will apply to people too. See you in your next life!
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La Doble Vida de Estela Carrillo is drawing to its inevitable close, but it's still spitting out screwball drama. Danilo knocked out Estela with an anesthetic for horses so he could rape her, but she doesn't know it yet because she was--well--knocked out. That boy's getting more and more vicious--remember that he strangled Tommy to death last week--and there's not much further he can go, though it might be a good idea if, on his way out, he took down Mr. Green, the evil Americano politician who held Estela and her daughter captive for a week or so.
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What if Trump once upon a time had a brain of his own which was replaced by a Russian model installed by Putin and is operated by Melania?

The Best Is Yet To Come!

It's a wonderful day today! A friend of Fiorella's won $10,000 on a TV show last night, and was given a national commercial to boot! And yesterday afternoon, Fio's critique group met and had a great time! What better introduction could there be to a brand new week--a week, Fio privately confides in you, that will wind up with her own happy birthday.

Hoopla!

Three Questions

Item by item, Fio is checking off her list--watering the yard, paying the bills and balancing the checkbook, doing the laundry, emptying the dishwasher, practicing piano, studying her etiquetas, picking up prescriptions, working on her book, pretending to be human.  Is it any wonder she sleeps like a log at night?
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Fiorella is both horrified and fascinated by Donald Jr's use of a Twin Towers cartoon showing his father as one of the Islamic terrorists. Repulsive, yes. Bad taste, yes. But could casting his father in a villain's role have also been an expression of deep-seated resentment, even hatred?
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Can Fiorella sue Governor Abbot for releasing her voting record to Abbot?

POLITICIZING

Putin's hand held in his
Putin's ring in his nose
He shall have riots
Wherever he goes.
I thought that I
Would never see
A president
As dumb as he

To Spanish or Not to Spanish

Husband is tucked away upstairs for the night so Fio has parked herself on the couch to watch La Doble Vida de Estela Carrillo--but there's some dumb awards show on instead. GRRRR!
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Fiorella can translate written Spanish better now, but she hasn't made much progress with the spoken language. It's a matter of not having anyone to practice with.
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Strangely enough, trying to learn Spanish has triggered Fio's long-forgotten Russian again. She keeps saying things like myedlenuh, puhzhaulsta (slower, please) or deliberately combining the languages, like gdyeh estan mis pildoras (where are my pills?), which makes her laugh. But then as Husband has always said, Fio is easily amused.
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Fio is looking at the awards show screen now. Good grief. The "dress" that Mexican cantante is almost wearing looks like a single layer of some ultra-shear semi-fabric. Fio knows that's show biz, but she'd like to see more taste and less skin, more elegance and less "I've gone about as far as I can go." Has it ever dawned on anyone that the end of extreme has been breached and the only outfit that would be different enough now to draw everyone's attention is a something simple and in good taste?
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Fiorella has learned a lot about the Mexican-American music industry from La Doble Vida. And about being undocumented. And about drug lords and crooked politicians. Yep, it's cup runneth over.

Down to Austin and Back

Fio's said it before and she 'll say it again. There's nothing like busting thirty-some miles down the road to Austin to rev up her writing brain. She actually pulled off to the side a couple of times, both ways, to record her thoughts--well, actually, one of those times, she had the fortune to get caught at a red light.

On the way down, Fiorella thought about Trump and the way that every time it seeems like she's run dry of blog topics, he comes through with something dumb, mean, or obscene that she can comment on. She also thought about how FB responders, by doing such things as mistaking the Declaration of Independence for an anti-Trump rally call, reveal their low IQs and educational levels.

On the way back, Fio reflected about over-eating, probably because she had just dined on chocolate chip cookies with Friend Evelyn at Starbucks and a hamburger with Friend Paula at Dan's. The spices were still on her tongue and the warmth was still in her digestive tract, but she knew that in an hour or so, the taste would turn bitter, her stomach would feel bloated, and she'd never want to eat again. Yeah, sure. Once Fio has downed a couple of chocolate chippers, her brain turns into a ravening beast and it's only the prospect of total embarrassment that stop her from going up to the counter and buying a box of them. Certain foods are  like drugs to Fio, but if there's one thing she's has learned from "My 600-Pound Life," it's that over-eating is emtionally driven, and that instead of trying to smother one's emotions, one needs to investigate and understand them.

Besides, the more cookies she eats, the more GERD she'll have later on.

Pondering Species Regarding Fourth

Daughter drove Son, Wife, and Baby across the miles to spend the afternoon of Independence Day with Fiorella and Husband, and we were thrilled, not just because they came to see us, but because we got to know Baby a little better. It's important to us to be part of the life of our granddaughter, the one-half of us that will survive.  It's important to her too because species-wise, offspring are safer in an extended family unit.

(Sorry to be running so late. Fio wrote the above paragraph last night, but forgot to specify when she wanted it posted.)

Three for the Fourth

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! Fio and Husband have Daughter, Austin son, his wife, and baby coming over, and, since Husband is still incapacitated, they will do the cooking. We are blessed.
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Fiorella remembers Fourths when she was a child. "Uncle" Wiley Smith and his wife. Emma, would host parties at their farm in Mogadore for the foreman he supervised at General Tire. Fio doesn't remember what the meat was, but she developed a lasting taste for roasted corn.
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Fio dropped off flags and chocolate kisses to Click and Mazda this morning. Good people deserve recognition and appreciation, and not just on the Fourth of July.

Early Morning Tweet Again

THAT POST. 

Fiorella could say that it's fake news, or that we should ignore it because it's just what we might expect from a grade school mentality. Or that it's hilarious because he can't even walk seven hundred yards, much less wrestle anyone to the ground. Or that Ivanka should have closed down his Twitter account months ago. Or that Fio wants him to continue tweeting vicious stupidities in the early morning so everyone can see what a dumbass he is. Or sigh and say his dementia is getting worse, then mention that a regent replaced George III when he went dotty.

Your choice.

Show more re

Rag-tags

Fio met Friend Patricia at the gucchi Starbucks yesterday afternoon for chocolate chip cookies... er, FOR A WHOLESOME SNACK. They discussed their dogs, their blogs, Fiorella's yard man, Patricia's horses, their families, and the importance of true grit. And that just about covered the watefront.
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What will Fio be doing on the Fourth, you ask? What she does every day--try to keep up with her life, but Daughter and Austin Son will be visiting as well. Fiorella is blessed
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Big Bang Theory, Lucifer, Bodies Bizarre, 600-Pound Life--all of Fiorella's faves are off for the summer or in reruns. Fio has a lot of other things to keep her busy, but she'd like to have a little of her favorite entertainment too.
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How odd that a man with a face like a smashed pumpkin and the bodye of an overstuffed dumpling feels he has the right to criticize the looks of a rather pretty woman--or any woman, for that matter. But one would guess that someone who's never had to abide by boundaries never will. Sad.
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Fiorella has never fully adjusted to the electronic world because it is based on algorithms, which are exact, step-by-step instructions, and Fiorella has always done things her own way, skipping rungs and leaping right to the top of the ladder. And algorithm or not, she'll figure out a way to continue skipping the stupid stuff.

Here and There

The older Fio gets, the more she likes clouds. Hope that means she's headed to heaven someday.
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 Ah, a new month, a new chance. And this month has Fio's birthday in it, which gives her a double chance.
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Fio's book is jolting along, and what drives it is some advice Fio's literary agent, Liza Dawson, gave her four years ago: every scene must move the story forward. (To which Fiorella adds what Tracy Wolff once said at an RWA meeting: let the POV be from the viewpoint of the person who has the most to lose.)
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Fio's getting closer and closer to signing up for an on-line Spanish class. She just can't stand not knowing what the characters on the telenovelas are talking  about.
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Speaking of telenovelas, Minnesota Son said most of the guns the characters on La Piloto were toting were berrettas. Apparently there is not much diversity in the television gun wardrobe closet.