Thursday, August 31, 2006

The New What?

A Yahoo news headline says 60 is the new 45. I didn't read the article ( yes I did, but only after writing this and it changed nothing) but I assume they're talking age because if it's just numbers then the newest new math promises to be as confusing as the last one. The old math, now that was good one. It's why we were given fingers and toes which to this day gives us an advantage over animals lacking in the digit department. But I'm not here to talk about numbers, I'm here to talk about...well, whatever I want. 60 being the new 45 for instance. I understand the reference of course, one can still be vital, striving, climbing, achieving, acquiring, grasping and amassing at 60 because there is no need to slow down now that good drugs and plastic surgery are available, but I have to ask why would, uh, one? Granted I never understood the reason for all of that wheel spinning in the first place beyond obtaining the essentials of life like food, clothing, shelter, a good book and a good time, but if society or the government or the forces for evil like The Yankees, Darth Vader and Dubya are now telling the populace they should be busting their collective asses at 60 just like they did at 45, then Monkeymind, a guy who has lived both those ages is here to tell you don't do it! And, if you don't believe him, listen to Shakespeare, Buddha, Tuesdayswithmorie, and Herb Leviticus a close friend of mine who ghost wrote parts of the Bible, when they tell you there is a season for all things. Around 60 begins the season of Choice. If you are among the fortunate few who have lived the life you have wanted all along, then by all means carry on as if 45 were your permanent age. If not, it's time to rethink, reevaluate, replan and renew. It's time to quit being "another brick in the wall" and to move on to what YOU want to do. I have. For me 65 is the new 12. Let's go play some ball.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

I'm blogging in the rain, just...

"What is this thing called blog." "I'm in the mood for blog." "Just an old fashioned blog song."

What is this thing indeed. I have no blogging idea. A pasttime, I suppose, a hobby. Something to do while sipping morning coffee. I could probably make better use of the hours studying Spanish or reading a book. That's what Woowoo Charly does, the book part, but blogging has become a habit now and habits are so hard to change. Ask any Nun. Well, see, there's the thing isn't it. The blog is playground monkeybars for the monkeyminded to swing on; entertainment and exercise all at once. Or is the blog a cyber shrink's couch, where the past gets rehashed, the present rearranged and the future invented? Beats me Sigmund, what do you think? I used to perceive blogging as a creative act and it is in the sense that building sand castles between waves is creative. Nothing, I suspect, really lasting is being born. Of course, longevity may not be the point. Blogs are a here today, gone tomorrow kind of thing. Like rain or the Red Sox being in first place. Or maybe they are just public diaries, little daily entries put out there for the odd sort who likes to read about other people's lives. Beats me. For awhile I thought it was an ego thing, a hey look at me the writer, but I've read my blogs and many others as well and there is not a lot to shout about. So what is it really, that we the bloody bloggers do? Is it all of the above or something else altogether? Inquiring inquirers want to know.

"Blog me tender, blog me true." "Yesterday, blog was just another game to play." B-l-o-g-e-c-t find out what it means to me. Blog it to me, blog it to me, blog it to me."

Things have gotten quiet here in the rainy season. We play more Scrabble, watch more movies that we never heard of on HBO and Cinemax. Sometimes we don't even know what they are when we watch them because the remote control viewer guide description doesn't match what's on the screen. "Who is that actress Charly, I can't remember her name?" "The guide says it's Penelope Cruz." "Funny, I don't remember her being a chubby blonde" It's all a mystery to me. Like blogging.

"Blog is a many splendored thing." "All you need is blog. Yum ta dump ta dump."

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Swell Veldt Part 7

Well, thought Sahib Sackable, while streaming last night’s used gin on a handy bush and taking stock of his desolate surroundings, I didn’t get to be Earl for nothing. It required a lot of luck, money and being carefully born to just the right parents. I’ll have to use all those skills now to get me out of this fix.

“Bongo you bloody bugger” he shouts aloud. “Bring me the phone.” But there is no Bongo and there is no phone and along with noticing that his shoes are getting wet comes the realization that he’s doing two things into the wind. The second is shouting.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Male lions are not particularly noted for their sense of scent, nor for keen eyesight or fleetness of foot. If one thinks about it, he will note that most of the film footage of the species has them lying about taking the sun and awaiting the delivery of their dinner by their female counterparts. In this respect they are much like male humans. Why the females of either species puts up with this is cause for wonder, but it is so and although not germane to this story is a thought in passing much like the one Leo was having as he prowled about the swell veldt trying to pick up the scent or sight of anything at all edible. Leo, as noted before, has neither mate nor pride and has to fall back on his own prowess as a hunter to survive. Were the lion documentarians to stumble on Leo as a subject, their footage of his prowess might well be titled Blind Luck.

The bright African morning had found Leo equidistance between the rhino trackers and the lost Earl. There was in fact a rhino with a bad temper – which is a bit like saying a leopard with spots – snuffling about and Leo wanted no part of that program. His choice was to move toward the trackers who had already made a mess of one night or toward the faint, odd scent arriving from upwind; a scent British pub goers would call used Tanqueray, but to a lion, a scent that meant man made. As there was no other potential food source in evidence, Leo loped off to investigate its source.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Okay the blasted sun rises where, thought Sahib Sackable. As far as he could tell the only answer was…in the sky. He was looking up and to his chagrin the sun was looking down. Neither appeared to be moving. Sahib quit staring at the yellow ball and spun around a couple of times in a full circle. This action, combined with the bright little spots in front of his eyes acquired by the sun watching, gave him a bit of the same buzz that was his familiar state when gin was available. “That way” he said, pointing confidently to his fore, “That way.” Then he spun about again, but missed the full 360 by a few degrees which left him trotting off diagonally to “that way.” No matter. His current course had him intersecting with Leo in roughly four hours. They could both use the company.

Monday, August 28, 2006

What's the Game?

I used to be very competitive when I was younger. As an example of that it says below my High School Yearbook photo, "A worthy opponent in any contest." I'm not so competitive anymore. In fact, I'll bet you ten bucks I'm less competitive than you are. Ha!

I thought of that last night while watching the Emmys. All the show biz awards are interesting in that no one really is competing for them while they are competing for them. What they are doing is their jobs and they're trying to do them as well as they can not so they can win awards, but so they can get more jobs. Doing their jobs well is the primary objective. Winning an award is a bonus, an afterthought for that job well done. In sports you generally win awards when you win your competitions. The difference here is that in Show Biz you can hoist a trophy even if your film was a box office bust or your tv show was cancelled. In sports, you will rarely find an MVP chosen from a losing team and a guy knocked out in round 12 doesn't get the gold belt for being better the other eleven rounds. You must win the competition to win the award. I think the Show Biz way is better from a participant way of thinking. At least that way if you do your job above and beyond you're in the hunt for something even if your team lost, your company nose dived or the girl turned you down. "Let's hear it for Bob from Marketing. He was personally responsible for the early success of the Goober Juice campaign. Not his fault those kids got sick." From a spectator point of view, I like the sports way better. There are only three possible outcomes, a win, loss or tie. The end is clearer, more decisive and that's a good thing.

So what am I trying to say here? Boy, if I knew I'm sure I'd say it better. Something about different styles of competitions, how they compare and which I like best. I like the do or die aspect of sports, but show biz more closely mirrors real life (like I know what that is) where sometimes you don't know if you are competing or cooperating and the rules are open to interpretation.

One thing is a certainty either way you look at it. This blog never got into the game.

Dreamland

Yesterday's blog today! After writing a blog yesterday that was nominated for a Bob Pulitzer, a Grammy and a Grampy, I watched helplessly as our Internet connection failed and the blog drifted off in Space. Dismayed, discouraged and just plain dissed, I considered all the usual options, rope, poison, shotgun and a drop from a tall place, but as this is my only computer, I let it lie and took my dog for a walk.

Here then is roughly what I wrote yesterday:

I dreamed last night that I was at a high school basketball practise where a bunch of kids, one of my sons included, were shooting around. Two college scouts, both women, both stout came into the building and I called my son over so I could introduce him to the scouts. "This" I said, "is the best point guard in the state." The scouts asked him two questions. The first was "how old are you?" to which he replied "31" and the second was, "what toothpaste do you use?" Dreams can be like that.

I recently read a theory that stated dreams are the mind's attempt to put in some sort of order what had passed through it during the day. I had thought of my son during the day but not specifically separate from all my kids and I'm sure that basketball had nary a moment of my mind's attention. If the dream had produced football, Selma Hayak and The Mills Brothers singing "You Always Hurt The One You Love" I might be inclined to give the theory a bit more credence. Or I might not. I'm pretty stingy with my credence. Give away too much credence and pretty soon you don't have any at all. Dreams are, to my way of thinking - and this is not a theory because you know you can always go to Monkeymind for the honest truth instead of the other kind and also for the answers to the great questions of the Universe and even some of its small ones like does a bear shit in Tiger Woods? and are Brittany Spears sharper than the French ones? - simply the world's best Home Entertainment Center. Movies, music, sports and something interesting with Cherries Jubilee and the hunk or hunkess of your choice are all available and what's more is that YOU get to be the star! Eat your heart out HBO. All that's really required is that you master the Remote Control, a thing I can do with my eyes closed. Actually that part is kind of necessary. Once you get this down, you can jump from dream station to dream station and your boss will never appear except in episodes involving the Marquis De Sade, Hannibal Lector and Roseanne Barr. My advice is don't delay. Put your order in now. For $19.95 or its equivelent in cheese sent to P.O. Box Around The Clock you get absolutely everything! Refunds are small and highly unlikely.

As for me, it's back to bed. I've got to hear the answer to that toothpaste question. I think the kid's a Colgate man, but what-the-heck we're talking dreams here. He might be using Guiness. At least I hope so.

Friday, August 25, 2006

In Search of Comfort

Last night while sitting around eating one of our comfort foods, chile, and sipping our comfort drink, wine, while wearing our comfort clothes, jeans, Woowoo Charly and I decided that what the world needed was some comfort kick-ass. We are not violent people really, we'd rather have a comfort chat, but there are occassions when words fail and idiocy reigns and a comfort blow upside the head to a Tom Delay or an Ann Coulter seems as natural as wanting a warm batch of chocolate chip cookies. Nothing personal, mind you, just stress relief. Here perhaps, is where cloning could actually come in handy. So many people would be lining up for their comfort whup-ass of Donald Rumsfeld or even Donald Trump for that matter, that hundreds would have to be made. Just think what the Derek Jeter and A-Rod clone sales would be in Boston. I'm not sure they could be cranked out fast enough. Presidential approval polls would then be completely simplified. The only number needing to be counted is how many people beat the crap out of the Prez last week. Seems fair to me. After all the Bushes have each had their own comfort invasions. Too bad Dubya didn't quit after Afghanistan, but no he had to reach for that extra comfort cookie Iraq and now he, and we unfortunately, are geting drubbed on a regular basis.
Personal confort clubbing clones would also be a way to measure you own recent assholishness. "Just read your blog Monkeymind and I took you out to the woodshed...twice." Or, in some cases, it might even be the tonic to restore rationality. "You know, after beating you pulpy I was restored to my comfort level and in retrospect, much of what you said makes sense. I've just given your clone a comfort t-bone for his eye."

I think this is a good idea, except for the clone part, I was reaching there, and good ideas are comfort ideas. Maybe just punching bags with assorted slip on personalities would do the trick and nobody would actually get hurt. I know a Bush bag on my balcony would do my wife a world of good and any Con weather Neo or Oldo should get a comfort thrashing at least once a week.

I feel better now. Thanks for your attention. You have just read a comfort blog.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Noise in the Night

"Once more into the breech."

I've got the scoop on Panama roosters. They are not expected to do their thing at dawn. No, they are thought of more like church clocks that go off once an hour. And I love this next part, their crowing is not called crowing, or cawing or screeching or howling or what is that god awful noise, it's called, can you believe this, singing. Alrighty then. If that's singing than Tarzan just became Pavarotti.

MacDog doth murder sleep. Just when we had adjusted to the, uh, singing of Caruso the Wonder Chicken comes now the caroling of our neighbor's dogs. For several days, and more notably, nights, these grim sleep reapers have been baying at the top of their voices. They are doing so even as I speak. Their howling has a pitiful, wounded quality to it like coyotes who got into some tainted rabbit. Long, plaintive wails of pain. Our neighbor says there is a female in heat... stop right there. A female in heat. Now there's an expression that requires something. An explanation perhaps or at least a comment. Let me think....Female in heat.... Okay I got nothing, but c'mon, there's agonized dog moanings in the background and it's hard to be clever when you can't hear your own thoughts. He, my neighbor, says the heated up, hot to trot, hussy bee-atch is responsible for his mutt's distress and that may be so. Last night, at roughly two, when the howling achieved decibel levels heretofore only reached with electrical amplification, we also heard, added to the din, several other dogs snarling and snapping at each other in an effort to respond to whatever canine come-ons the female was using. "Hey Sailor, looking for a good time?" This brought our dog, Gus, who had been ignoring the howlers, to instant life as defense of our property against dog intruders is his first priority. The nearness of his sudden barking and frantic door scratching was the final end to blissful dreamland.

It's 9:30 in the morning now and the dogs have just this moment abruptly stopped baying. Funny, I didn't hear gunshots. Maybe Minnie the Mutt has found her suitor and is off to the dog motel. No matter. Whatever. It's quiet. I'm headed for a nap.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

SV Part 6

The next morning, a typical African morning, where the sun shines brightly, the birds sing gaily and there’s a lot of that sort of thing going on all over the place, Sahib Sackable reached for his bottle of eye-opener and found it gone.

“Blast” he bellowed to no one in particular, followed by, “Bongo, where the devil are you?” which was more specific, but an equal waste of time, because you see, at that very moment Bongo was miles away sampling Sackable’s gin with the rest of the Earl’s porters.

After a series of further expletives, each one louder than the last, the Earl burst from his tent with both malice and mayhem a forethought, only to find there was nothing and no one upon which to deposit either one. He was alone in the bush, adrift on this swell veldt.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



Back at the base camp Miles and Cynthia had somewhat recovered from the night’s ordeal and although feeling a trifle fatigued from lack of sleep, they were both also feeling the glow of life that comes from having survived a near death sort of thing. When one has gone through that with another person, there is an emotional bond that grows between the two. Sort of like soldiers in war, but in this case rather more physical. You could say there was love in the air, but with the rain gone the “blasted bugs”, the “bloody bugs” and the “buggered bugs” were all rising from the grass and love was struggling to find air space of its own.

When Cynthia had awakened from her swoon the night before, the first thing she saw was Miles standing in the center of the tent holding Noblong’s gun at the ready. He looked so heroic she had nearly swooned again. Instead she crossed her hands on her formerly heaving bosom and gave forth with a heartfelt, “Oh Miles.”

Miles himself had noticed the gun while flipping Cynthia onto her backside - she had gotten quite heavy - and thought it might be even more useful than a human shield. He had just picked it up and was looking at the tent entrance when Cynthia came to and sighed “Oh Miles” in such a way that he knew she had not witnessed his less than heroic behavior. He sensed that they could not pick up where they had left off at the lion’s appearance, but felt he still might have a shot at a good clutch and a tight embrace. Though Cynthia was willing, this proved an awkward task as Miles would not put down the gun.

Now, over bowls of Congo Puffs, a rice based cereal with flakes shaped like tiny poachers, the almost lovebirds eyed each other furtively for fear a held glance might embark them on a path to things that shouldn’t be done while the sun was shining. It was at this nearly tender moment that the swift Noblong reappeared and announced that while tracking the lion, harrumph harrumph, he had picked up the spoor of a rhino.

“Let me see it” cried Miles.

“One doesn’t see a spoor sir, one follows it” you bumbling British nitwit, replied Noblong with the non quoted bit being an unspoken part of his thought.

“Oh I see,” said Miles not having a clue, and in fact visualizing something along the lines of a bread crumb trail. “Well then, my good man, do lead on.”

And off they all happily went, across the swell veldt.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

SV Part 5

Noblong, having heard the shouts, the screams and the roars, had grabbed his gun and come running apace. He was not a particularly heroic type, but if his meal ticket was becoming a meal, he felt he should at the very least see if there was something he could do. He threw back the tent flap, stepped in and took immediate note of the riot on the bed-cot. He was about to contemplate the blackmail possibilities of that situation when he took secondary note of the lion in the room. In fact, “Lion In The Room”, was the exact phrase that lit up his thoughts in flashing neon. As fast as Noblong had entered the tent, his departure was many times faster. In fact the only action visible to the human eye between the coming and going was when he threw his gun in the lion’s general direction; an action that diverted Leo’s attention from the dinner arranging itself on the bed-cot.

A fleeing thing is a frightened thing and hence to a lion’s way of thinking, prey. Instinct demanded chase, so Leo bounded out the door and after the running man. His chances of catching the fleet African, however, were less than good as Noblong was half Kenyan, half Ethiopian. As any track and field aficionado will tell you, these people weigh nothing at all and are as a result not slowed much by gravity.

Miles, on the other hand, felt both gravity and Lady Sackable’s softly lumpy weight as he lay plastered to the bed-cot. Looking over her fair shoulder he had seen the lion bolt off in pursuit of Noblong and his fear factor had dropped from a high of “I’m going to die now” to its current “What if it comes back?” Even with that latter in mind, he took a deep breath and lay back to enjoy the feel of Lady Sackable’s contours against his own. What allowed him to do this was the realization that his shield was still in place.


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Monday, August 21, 2006

Tiger Woods

I love it when athletes talk about staying in the present, being in the moment and keeping their minds still. These concepts all came from spiritual disciplines, made their way into modern psychology and are now thrown about by jocks with no clue of their origins. Prior to their inclusion in sports vernacular, the closest anyone came to the concept of complete awareness was when they spoke of being in the zone or playing the game in a state of slow motion. The difference is that these last were things that happened to the player as if by accident. Many of today's players now understand these are states of being that can be achieved.

Tiger Woods may be the best example in sports of a competitor who grasps and employs the concept of complete focus on the task at hand. Golf afficianados will tell you he has the strongest mind on the tour. What they are saying is that he is best able to block out distractions that can cause errant shots; the most important and most prevalent of which are the golfer's own thoughts. Think a negative and you will achieve a negative result. Ask any golfer how many times he has hit his ball in the water after thinking don't hit the ball in the water. In team sports a player's mind can wander to the cheerleaders from time to time. His teammates will carry the ball. In golf if you lose your focus you've lost your mind and the game gets away from you in a hurry. Watching Tiger demolish the field at The P.G.A. over the last four days was in some ways like watching a person who has evolved to a higher plane. For the first two days many of the other players were able to match Tiger's intensity and, as a result, his scores, but as the tournament went into the weekend and the pressure to make good shot after good shot grew greater, they all fell away and Tiger was left with what seemed an easy victory. And maybe it was.

Spiritual teachers will tell you that the mind can be trained as well as the muscles. It takes the same discipline, practise and effort a player brings to the training of his body. Tiger, with his part Asian heritage, may have been privy to this wisdom at an earlier age and thus further along in his development. He credits both of his parents for instilling in him the strength of mind and character he brings to the game. But what could they have taught him that other player's parents didn't know and pass along? It would be interesting to find out and perhaps one day Tiger will tell us. He was the first interviewed player I ever heard talk of being present and staying in the moment and maybe that's the complete story. But now, with so many other players expressing, and maybe even grasping, the same concepts, will Tiger be able to maintain his dominance? Time will tell, of course, but I'm guessing there are more wins, more stories and more wisdom to be gleaned from this amazing young man.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

The Question of Beloved

Beloved is an interesting word. I'm thinking a thing has to be around for twenty years or so before it can achieve beloved status. I mean you can't have beloved socks, but an old, comfortable robe might qualify.

It was fun sitting around listening to my beloved Denver Broncos whipping up on The Titans last night even if the players were different than the ones I was beloving twenty years ago. I miss watching all the games on television, but listening to them on my computer is a decent second choice. It reminds me of "back in the day" before television, when I listened to just about everything except whatever my parents were trying to tell me. Something about paying attention, I think. That was radio, of course, and in retrospect, it was every bit as beloved as television. Who doesn't remember crowding around the old Philco to listen to "Inner Sanctum" or "The Great Gildersleeve?" Yeah, I know, everybody younger than the pyramids. It was somehow more engaging when it was necessary to let your mind and imagination fill in the visuals. Paying attention -who said that?- was vital to keeping up with the story...or the game.
Last night I tuned in, attentively, as Dave Logan, a former Bronco, gave his listeners down and distance and a nice portrayal of what he was seeing on the field. Give the guy another twenty years or so and he might attain beloved announcer status.

And speaking of beloved, sports and back in the day - I was speaking of those things wasn't I? I'm not really sure myself, I wasn't paying attention. I was trying to remember what my parents told me years ago - I wonder how sports figures achieve beloved status? It can't be just winning. Arnold Palmer won and is beloved. Jack Nicklaus won far more and is not. Michael Jordon is admired, but not particularly beloved. People flat gush overMuhammed Ali these days, but nobody wants to cuddle with Evander Holyfield, a four time champion. Then there is Tiger Woods who usually beats Phil Mickelson like a drum, but it's Phil who gets beloved status. And, back in the day, Joe Dimaggio was beloved and Ted Williams was, apart from Boston fans, not well liked. Of course that may be because Joe never flipped off the crowd. I think the telling factor, along with being a winner, is likableness. If you aren't likable, you aren't going to be beloved. Barry Bonds, for instance, has no shot, while in Boston, Johnny Damon gets cheered by the crowd even when he returns in a Yankee uniform. Johnny's likable, Barry's not.

So, having solved that conundrum, a word I have never used before and will now look up in my Funk and Wagnalls, a reference only my fellow pyramid builders will get, I will now go watch my beloved PGA golf tournament on television. Why? Because golf sucks on radio.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

What Goes Down...Should Stay Down

I just hate it when life intrudes on my life. There I was happily annoying my wife with derogatory comments about Phil Mickelson while watching The P.G.A. (Pregnant Girls with Attitude) golf tournament, eating peanuts and sipping a soda when I suddenly became sick. My wife, who is more generous than I, didn't say serves you right for picking on Phil, but I know she was thinking it as I beelined for the bowl. If it was a karmic response to my gentle jokes, "yo Phil, what's with the orange shirt, proof that pumpkins can play too?" and other, er, high quality jibes like that, than I promise to be a Mickelson fan from this day forward, because barfing doesn't rank among my favorite things to do. It ranks, in fact, only a notch or two above choking to death on a chicken bone. Retch is what I did, repeatedly, and wretch is what I was, completely. There are, I'm sure, grosser things that life has to offer and I'll give an example in a moment, but really, is there any less dignified pose than to be on your knees in front of a toilet bowl spewing what seems to be all your insides into a receptacle designed for your backside and not your face? Tough to maintain one's poise and composure. "I say Old Girl, retch puke vomit, sorry about that, heave toss puke, Mickelson thing. Barf spittle bleck. Do hand me the brrrraggghhhhhh towel like a good sport, won't you?

In a way it might have been a good thing. First I've been eating way too many peanuts lately and that had to stop. They had become my snack of choice and, well, they are fattening don't you know. I guarantee it won't be a problem now. If I even see that that Planter's guy with his top hat and stupid glasses - what peanuts have bad eyesight?- I am definetly going to take a poke at him. Secondly, when the golf was ended and the Sox/Yankee game came on, I had nothing left to contribute to the bowl. The Yankees scored twenty five runs in the double header. Ever see a whole team throw up on themselves?

Finally, as proof that life has a theme, at four this morning I was awakened by the sound of my dog tossing his cookies, kibbles and anything else that may have neared his mouth earlier in the day. Not wanting to actually witness this oh so familiar event, I lay back and closed my eyes for what seemed a moment. The moment after that I was reawakened by the dog scratching at the door to go out. I drug my sorry and sick butt out of bed and went down to face the mess and open the door. After doing the latter, I turned to look for the former and there was none, not a spot, a drop or a dribble. Don't think about where it went.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

SV 4

This is part 4 of a continuing story.

The lion was, as lions go, not very big, which accounted in part for his traveling alone. Not being able to whip up, as it were, on his fellow pridesmen, he had been relegated to the kitty end of the dining table and the pickings there were usually quite slim; a bit of grizzle, the odd bone and such. He was forced, therefore, to seek out dietary supplements in the form of food he could steal from smaller animals and edibles he found just lying about. The latter, of course, was most in abundance when humans camped in the neighborhood. Leo we’ll call him, because it means lion in one of those everyday African dialects such as Swahili or Zodiaci, didn’t particularly like humans as they smelled ghastly and moved about on their hind legs like bizarre, featherless and flightless birds. A gray-maned old timer had once told him that, in a pinch, men were edible, but not nearly so tasty as warthog. Leo had no desire to find out if this was true, but his growling gut compelled him to push his way through the tent flap and into this odd human cave.

“Shreeeeek” screamed Lady Sackable or rather something like it. The actual sound eludes transcription here as there were high notes available only to dogs and banshees.

“Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell” was Mile’s contribution, one that was admittedly a bit of a broken record at that.

The most startled of all, however, was Leo as the teeming rain had eliminated any warning odors and he had burst into the tent unaware of its peopled condition. Before he had time to think, never his strong point anyway, a short series of loud, frightened roars had forcefully escaped his throat. Animal translators would later determine these sounds to mean either “Oh My God” or in the case of MGM, “Relax and Enjoy the Movie.”

For a brief moment, three lives flashed before six eyes and then Miles, a man of action, acted. He leaped behind Lady Sackable, clutched her by the shoulders and pushed her forward as a human shield. Years later, remembering this day, he would still feel no remorse at his actions, because as he was quick to point out, “Come on! It was a lion!”

Fortunately for Miles, his less than heroic performance went unnoticed by our heroine as at the very moment of the deed, Lady Sackable fainted dead away. The consequence of her leaving the consciousness scene was that Miles was abruptly caught with a dead weight on his hands and, in trying to adjust, stumbled backwards and onto the bed, pulling Lady Ess atop him. They had just hit the mattress when Noblong reentered the room.

To be continued.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Charlie Chan, Bugs and Mel Gibson

"Better to let cat out of bag than to drown same."
"Smart Rats know when to leave ship."
"Owner of face cannot always see nose."
"Shot in dark sometime find eye of bull."

Who needs Rinpoche, when you've got Charlie Chan? Some of the 42 Charlie Chan movies have been showing here on our classic cinema channel. There is even one entitled "Charlie Chan in Panama." It's about a plot to blow up the canal. I've seen Charlie in Panama, Charlie in London, Charlie in Paris, Charlie at the races, Charlie at the opera, Charlie at the circus and Charlie at the wax museum. He gets around. Solves the case every time while expounding ancient Chinese wisdom written by ancient Chinese screen writers in the Thirties and Forties. "Soothing drink like summer shower. Bring grateful relief." Good stuff.

I sat on the balcony and listened to the bugs last night. Their's is a high harmony needing a bass line. It plays in your head steadily and at a set volume so it's easy to consign to white noise. I heard an occassional couterpoint from frogs in baritone, but no real bass to feel in your gut and get your attention. Without that it's tough to dance to.

One of the expressions my wife occassionally uses and most recently did so when talking about Mel Gibson, is "he gives me the creeps." The creeps. I like that. It's so evocative. We all know the feeling. It's an odd spooky tingle that rises on your skin and walks up your arms and the back of your neck. Creeps up, actually. You get it when something or someone you find...off putting, (my wife would say, "causes a negative visceral reaction" but being more British than she is I'm going with off putting) makes an appearance in your world. Other celebs from show biz who give her the creeps are Charlton Heston, Eddie Fisher, Art Linkletter and Bing Crosby. (Bing Crosby?) All creep blasts from the past. Nowadays, most of her creeps inducers are in politics. There's Bush, of course, something reptilian there she says. Rove and Rumsfeld make the list and even Dick Cheney who seldom comes out of his cave these days. Ann Coulter tops the list of women creeps generators and Ralph Nader makes it as the token liberal. If you want to creeps her out, like totally dude, turn on Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson. I'm not as creeps sensitive as my wife, but shouters like Bill O'Reilly can get me going. That feeling may be more violent than creepy though. I'm not really creeped out, I just want to pop the guy. Stop him from shouting down his opposition. Something about Condy Rice I find off putting. Her continual locked onto the party line makes her seem like a Stepford Cabinet member. Hilary Clinton weirds me a bit as well. Mostly I get the creeps from creepy things. You know, things that go bump in the night or anything slimy or sticky. Horror movie directors have gone from trying to scare us to grossing us out with goo. It gives me the creeps but it's not as fun as a good adreniline jolt.

So...what gives you the creeps? Inquiring bloggers need to know.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

SV 3

Meanwhile, Lord Sackable, the Earl of Erstwhile, head of Sackable Safaris and chair of the Let Them Eat Scones Society, was enjoying his own gin and gin after a long day of beating about the bush. His section of veldt, some twenty miles away, was free of rain and after having cheerfully flogged a porter or two and cursed the rest, he had retired to his tent to await his dinner and the arrival of a village virgin. He had made it a habit of having each of these on a regular basis as he was, after all, very rich.

“Bongo,” he bellowed at his headman, because that’s what he’d heard wealthy Earl’s do, bellow, “Isn’t the blasted dik-dik done yet?” Dik-dik was his favorite and he had been able to shoot one earlier in the day after his bearers had trapped it and tied it to a tree for him. He’d gotten quite a nice photo of himself afterwards, holding the dik-dik’s head and posing triumphantly.

“No Sahib, a few minutes more are required” Bongo shouted back. He called the Earl Sahib because that was his name, Sahib Sackable, and the two were on a first name basis. He rolled the spit a quarter of a turn or so and added a blast of his own saliva to the dik dik browning over a low fire. Bongo, having served a stint with an impoverished and, consequently, mannered Earl, had become accustomed to “I say, would you be so kind as” and hence did not approve of bellowing.

“Well hurry it up then” Sackable bellowed even louder. “I’m quite starving in here.”

Bongo glanced angrily over his shoulder at the Earl’s tent before unzipping his trousers to add a bit more to the dik-dik’s natural juices.

To be cont.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Where's That Time machine When You Need It?

One of my girls, when she was little, used to say she was going to be a psychiatrist when she grew up. When I asked her, some years later, why she had said that, she told me it was the smartest profession she could think of. In other words, she wanted you to know that she was going to be smart. And now she is. She didn't actually become a psychiatrist, of course, but she could frequently use one. (Right here, if she were writing this about me, she would add "hee hee.") Hee hee. I think it was that early declaration and a great deal of determination that made her the smart girl, er, woman she is. Well, that and good genetics, I suppose. So you have to be careful about what you say. You never know what path it may lead you down.

There I was, standing at my locker putting back one book or another or maybe reaching for my sack lunch when a member of the high school yearbook staff came walking up with a pen and pad in hand. "Filling out your profile" she says. "You know, for the yearbook."

"Okay," I responded, smiling goofily. This was a pretty girl I was talking to afterall, and mustering any kind of speech was a small miracle when one of them was looking at you.

"What do you want to know?" was the best I could manage next.

"What are you going to be, like, you know, after this?"

The question took me by surprise. I had never really given it any thought. I wanted to be the next Bob Petit, my favorite basketball player, but he was 6'9", so I figured I'd settle for being the next Bob Cousy. That wasn't the kind of thing you would say out loud though and you definetly didn't want it under your picture in the yearbook. Your buddies would razz you to death. I just stood there kind of blank, not knowing what to say, looking, I'm sure, like the dunce I was certain this real smart girl in front of me thought I was. And then the bell rang giving my sports crazed mind the instant realization that I was saved by it. I bolted for my next class.

"Hey," the yearbook journalist hollered after me, "You gotta give me something."

"Put down" I shouted back. " Put down... writer." It was the smartest thing I could think of.

Well I never did become the next Bob Cousy. Turns out I needed a few more inches of height, about 20 more pounds of weight and a lot better left hand dribble. I could shoot with him though. And I never really wrote much for money, either, just a little here and there. There seldom seemed enough time. What I am certain of now though, certain as death, taxes and my jump shot, is that the reason I'm sitting here putting one word after another on a daily basis, dates back to that impromptu, out of the blue moment back in the halls of LHS. When I go back in my time machine, I'm going to shout, "Rock Star" or "Movie Star" or, wait, I've got it... "Pro Golfer."

That's all for today. I've got to go work on my left hand dribble.

SV Part 2

Lady Sackable said this while leaning back on her pillows and placing a forearm across her brow in a manner that suggested just how distraught she was at the prospect of going much longer without a horn. “Do come sit by me Miles and tell me all your plans.” She added this as an after thought, though it was not quite the thought she was after.

Miles for his part was approaching a state called “all of a tither” and couldn’t believe his good fortune. He did have a plan of course, well not really a plan, more of a vague hope and it had nothing to do with rhinos in the morning though he thought “rhinos in the morning” a catchy sort of phrase. Miles knew that when a swarthy, hairy chested, white hunter enters a woman’s tent on a swell veldt, he does not go there without conquest a forethought. Miles, lacking swarth and sporting but a handful of chest hair, was nevertheless hoping a light embrace might be possible. Something on the order of buck up old girl, I’ll find a horn for you yet, while placing a comforting arm round her shoulders. If luck then held, violin music would swell mysteriously up and there would be locking eyes, trembling lips and passionate words not needing to be said.

Taking the proffered seat next to the object of his desires, Miles was about to employ his ploy when Cynthia quite suddenly took his hands in hers, placed them on her thinly night-gowned lap and looking up at him earnestly, said… “My, your brow actually is quite fevered.”

“It’s nothing, really” Miles shot back. “Touch of Jungle Fever I suspect. Happens all the time” and then something that sounded a lot like “har har, eh what and wouldn’t you know.”

Lady Sackable, gazing at Miles meaningfully, shifted all four of their hands from her lap to his where she hoped to discover a local uprising and was not disappointed as she in turn said, “Yes, I quite understand.” and “I’ve heard it’s really quite common when two people are alone… all alone… in a tent on swell veldt in the dark of the night… and there’s rain shushing all about them… and… the lanterns are glowing softly… and… gin is available in large quantities… to be suddenly stricken with all sorts of tropical fevers. And,” she added, fearing her point was too subtle “the only known cure as far as I can surmise starts like this.” She moved their hands again, this time to her breasts which were not quite heaving yet as heaving is such a tough go when four hands are involved. She removed her own, the top ones, to achieve the proper quota and allow the heaving to commence in earnest. This abrupt departure of her knowing hands left Mile’s uncertain mitts plastered there alone to enjoy the aforementioned heaving which is, as you know, an up and down sort of thing. While he took this simple pleasure, Lady Sackable searched his eyes for signs that he had caught her drift. She found them opened quite wide and unblinking, no sign of life apparent, so she let her gaze slip to his lap where the evidence of his comprehension was becoming clearer. Or, as she was more likely to put it… ever so clear.

It was at this moment, this inevitable moment when hunter and prey come together in that age old joining that symbolizes man’s ultimate destiny, the fate of the world and heaps more poetic blither, that the lion who had been nipping about the camp in search of scraps, handouts or the hands themselves, decided to enter the tent.

To be continued.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

A Swell Veldt Part 1

The rain beat down heavily on the African veldt; a swell veldt if I ever saw one. Miles Everhard, the noted Pretty Good White Hunter stood outside the tent of Lady Cynthia Sackable and inquired in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the rainfall if Lady Sackable might not care for a spot of company. Shooing Noblong Ndive her personal porter and parasol bearer who at that very moment had been applying insect repellent slowly and diligently to her backside - an area most vulnerable on the veldt or so he had said - out the rear tent flap, Cynthia hailed back at Miles to do come in as she was ever so lonely.

Abandoning his umbrella purchased through the mail order Snobs-Are-Us catalog Whitecrest, U.K. Ltd., to the night, Miles slipped through the tent’s front flap and found Lady Sackable had arranged herself on her cot in a fashion that suggested she had, well, arranged herself on her cot. She was seated directly in its center, nightgown somewhat askew, with bedding pulled to cover this and that, but allowed to show the other thing. Her mosquito net lay tantalizingly open, but she had little fear of the nightly nippers and felt particularly safe on her backside where there were simply oodles of protection.

Positively ravishing, thought Miles as he shook the moisture from his water repellant White Hunter Jungle Garb, the Official garb of the Nairobi Nasties the local futbol club, and the thought was so compelling that he took the next moment to just blurt out the words that had rushed to his suddenly fevered brow. “I say, Lady Ess, beastly night this. Have you got anything for a fevered brow?” Being British, the concept of getting to the point without first mentioning the foul weather had been completely erased from his DNA.

“Would a spot of gin help? There’s some there by my dressing table. And do call me Cynthia” said Cynthia. “And while you’re at it, getting the gin and calling me Cynthia that is, be a dear boy and freshen this as well” She handed Miles her own nearly full glass. “I’ve a bit of fever myself”

Miles strode to the dressing table and poured two healthy droughts from the Deep Rock Gin Dispenser and drank his off in long, full swallows, because that’s how manly white hunters take their spirits. That and furtive swigs from their flasks out in the bush when things large and toothy are about. The gin had the immediate effect of stiffening Miles resolve and reducing the impact of his British reserve to the point where he was able to get beyond both the weather and his fevered brow.

“About tomorrow,” he said, handing over Cynthia’s tumbler of gin, “if this blasted rain – apparently the weather thing was still with him- lets off, I think we will be able to find you your rhino. I know how anxious you are to get the horn.”

“Oh just ever so eager, Miles. I must get horned before Lord Sackable returns from the bush or I dare say I won’t get horned at all. You know how possessive he gets. He’ll be wanting all the horning for himself.”

To be cont.

Facts, Fiction and Football

There had to come a time when I'd write some fiction, because this telling of the raw, unexpurgated truth day after day is so trying. There are only so many truths to go around and once you've got past The Yankees are evil, Dubya's a dimwit, We are not alone, Halle Berry's hot for me and never cry Wolf in a crowded theatre, there's not much else to tell. Well sure there's war in several places, corrupt politicians (yeah, I know, that's redundant), global warming, AIDS and Paris Hilton, but everybody's writing about those things. This space has always been dedicated to the deeper, more spiritual, universal truths like why dogs will eat vomit and we won't. Not counting Paris, of course. So even though I will continue to post a fresh blog of cold reality on a regular basis, I am going to add a second posting of a continuing story. That way, when I am frustrated by not having anything to say on my regular blog, I can go over to my story blog and be frustrated by not being able to move it along. What more could a blogger ask?

I'm going to begin with a story I started a couple of year's ago but for reasons known only to my psychiatrist who then blabbed to everyone that I just forgot about it, the story went unfinished. I found its small beginning while looking through my files for something else and upon reading it, decided it needed an end. Or, at least, a continuation. Some of you will remember this story's start as I read it aloud a couple of times on our last visit to the U.S.A. (Unruly Surfers Amalgamated). I have recently added a bit and will now be passing it along...in increments.

But now for what I really wanted to talk about. Today is Sunday in the middle of August. The sun is shining, hence the day's name, it's hot and gorgeous outside and we all know what THAT means...It's football season! Well sure it's just preseason, but c'mon, the boys are suited up and tossing it around. Sportcenter is showing highlights and I'm as happy as dog in a bone factory! It's time to ignore the weather and stay indoors watching the tube until your eyes bleed. Anybody know the date of the first triple header?

So... stay tuned to this space for my fearless forecast and the ultimate truth. Go to my other space for what, I hope, might be, could be, may be, an epic adventure on a Swell Veldt.

Oh, and as always, Go Broncos.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Me and Rinpoche

In case you missed it, from the comments this: "Blogging has no object, no purpose, no reference point. One just blogs. One just simply blogs without aim, object, purpose, without anything at all. Nothing whatsoever. One just blogs. Blogging is just being there like a piece of rock or a disused coffee cup sitting on the table. So blogging is just sitting and being, simply." Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

To which I replied: He took the words right out of my mouth, which explains why I didn't say them myself.

What is a disused coffee cup anyway? I prefer sitting and being, complexly. But hey, that's just me. I like Rinpoche's name. It's kind of fun to say. Chogyam. That's a winner. Reminds me of my favorite writer. His name is P.G. Wodehouse. Pelham Grantham Wodehouse. We're talking a mouthful. Maybe Rampincher should shorten his moniker to C.T. Rumpoacher. Hard to give up that Chogyam though. Chog yam. I think those are grown in Tibet.

Not sure I'm really in accord with old Rudepuncher, though admittedly it's hard to disagree with a name like that. I think there's more to blogging than just being. I think, there's creativity, communication, self expression, philosophy and a laugh to pass along. The whole question of "good vibes" saved from The Sixties and reborn in the present. I think blogging has an object and a purpose. Well, mine anyway. Those other guys are just weird. My OBJECT is to put words on paper (which is now a figure of speech what with computers and blackberries and all) with the PURPOSE of entertaining myself and, hopefully from time to time, my readers. So Ringdinger, blogging may not have a reference point, but it does have a point of view. In this case old whatsisname's, me.

Sorry, Chogyam. I apologise for playing with your name. It's just too tempting. I realize you were simply trying to say something profoundly Buddhist about blogging, but to Monkeymind's way of thinking,..... dude, you need to lighten up. Have a beer. Watch a sitcom. Read my blog.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Drug Free Blogging

Most bloggers are once a week-ers or now and then-ers, posting blogs when it suits their fancy. Wimps. We REAL bloggers flex our mind muscles and pump our iron brain cells on a nearly daily basis. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, he's beefed up on steroids, but it's not true. All my tests come back clean. I don't even use The Cream in my coffee or tea. It's my strict workout regimin that gives me the edge and keeps me putting up the big numbers, 75 blogs to date, and the long words, extraordinariamente. (About here, all the non- sportsfans are scratching their head and thinking, what? To them I suggest, remember the words of Winston Churchill, who said when asked why he read the sport section first, "Because there is listed mankind's accomplishments. The rest of the paper recounts its failures." He also said something about fighting them on the shores and in the air and under the bed, but that wasn't about sports so you don't have to remember it.) Yes, every morning like clockwork I roll out of the sack my wife has tied me up in, and - Wait, who is clockwork and why does he roll out of his sack every morning? These are the questions that torment us down through the ages - and throw on my sweats in preparation for my workout. I then stumble down the stairs, open the door to the great outdoors and...let the dog out. For me it's over to the kitchen to brew up something stimulating, because stimulus is not only something fun to say and probably a Greek name, it's needed to be a daily blogger. I then retrace my stumbles back up the stairs to my own personal internet cafe where I spend an hour or so reading first about The Sox latest losing streak and then the recounts of mankind's other failures. There's lots of those, especially since that Bush guy has been around, so this takes awhile. After that workout, jacked up on only natural stimulants like the beans we have found that we can crush into powder and pour scalding water over or the leaves we put in odd little bags to dunk in that scalding water, both in peparation for drinking the stuff! - a perfectly natural thing to do - I take to the playing field and begin to blog. Day after day. Like a REAL blogger. And I do it with a manly voice.

Oh that one about cake baking? Forget it. I was out sick that day. My wife wrote it.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Abogodas and Veterinarias

We descended from our rocky, Panamanian moutain high for a visit to our lawyer Fatima. Can you say Fatima without thinking of desert sands, scorching suns, mirages, camels, tents, an arab with a hookah watching a veiled woman with bloused, see-through pants dance erotically, an oasis in the middle of nowhere sporting a clear, blue water pond, sheiks, arabian horses, the French Foreign Legion, sword fights with curved swords, harems, Bhagdad and Damascus, flying carpets, magic lanterns, Abbott and Costello, Turhan Bey, The Mummy, Dorothy Lamour, Jon Hall, Sabu, and a cast of thousands, most of whom could sing? I can't. But then I saw a lot of movies in the Forties and Fifties in Technicolor, a term that meant technically colored a whole lot brighter than your drab real life.

Our modern day Fatima smacks of none of that. She is a Panamanian professional woman. Okay right there you have learned several things. First off, she's a Panamanian woman which means that she is shorter than you are and has high heels on all her footwear, slippers, sneakers, flip flops, everything, to compensate. Second, being a pro, she wears a suit. I like women in suits. Women bring something to suits that men can't...their bodies. Men in suits? Who cares. Third, and this is what I like best about our abogoda, ( a much more fun word than lawyer) she has a sense of humor in two languages. She does, however, after making a funny in English, say "that's a joke" or "I was kidding." I don't know whether she is not sure she said her wit correctly or if she is afraid we would not "get it" and misunderstand her. No matter, it is very charming.

So I sat there in her Boquete office behind the Mexican joint, holding Gus on his leash, and listened as my smart wife and this smart abogoda exchanged questions and answers about buying property in Panama. It was all kind of pleasant, a thing rarely said about visits to lawyers. I did, however, occasionally think of figs and dates and women gently waving big feathered fans.

After the abogado we took Gus to a vet's office. That's vet as in veterinarian, not When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again kind of vet. He has been scratching himself bare in patches. Gus's Vet is a Brazillian woman- that's not a number George W, that's a nationality- which would ordinarily conjure scantily clad black women dancing wildly at Mardi Gras, but, because Dr.Chelly speaks no English, I was forced to leave my fantasies behind and concentrate solely on understanding her Spanish. No hay problema. Gus has a common dermatological condition easily treated with a salve and a medicinal shampoo for which Dr. C. wrote prescriptions. The charge for the visit...five bucks. I love Panama.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Blogger's Block

Jogging is easier than blogging. All you have to do is lean the top half of your body forward. When you reach the point where gravity wants to pull it down, the bottom half of your oh-my-god-I'm- falling self will spring into action and step forward to prevent your nosedive. Keep leaning, keep stepping and look at you, you're jogging. Piece a cake.

There are no tricks to get blogging. I tried just putting one word after another and it came out bedraggle floor me dangle porche on pretzel high, so that doesn't really work. I also tried leaning my top half forward while sitting down and my nose tapped out a series of n's which, although it is a nice letter, doesn't really say much. No, apparently you have to have a thought in your head to start blogging and that, of course, is one of my three failings. The others are not being tall or born rich. Tall, wealthy people with thoughts in their heads don't feel the need to blog. They pay short people to blog for them. So that leaves me, barring the occasional event that screams write about me, like "101 Hottest Bodies" or a day spent picking a nose, with having to come up with a topic each time I sit to blog. And I have to do this, you will remember, without a thought in my head. This is not an easy task like the aforementioned keeping from falling down. This is Herculean in scope. This is The Jets in '69, The U.S Hockey Team in, you know, whatever year that was, and other grand stuff like the time George W. Bush said something coherent. It's a real challenge.

Did I mentionI hate challenges. There's no need for challenges. Who thought up the idea of challenges anyway? Probably one of those bored old Greeks lying around the hot tub in ancient Athens. "I say Hiccupulus, what about you and me seeing who can throw a spear the farthest?"
"Not now, Dementium, I'm trying to blog."

I'm not complaining, really. I'm just stuck this morning. I could write about the things that are in my head in lieu of thoughts, but then I would be into the realm of space time continuum. Okay, mostly space, but I do know that time continuum one minute after another. Or I could ask my wife. She always has a thought in her head. Unfortunately, before she will tell me what it is, she has to have my full attention which I can't give while blogging or watching Bronco highlights from 1996. So that's out.

All of which leaves me with just one option as far as I can tell. I'll skip today and try again tomorrow.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Best Bods?

My body is far and away the best one I have.

Okay, for all of you people who are without televisions or with good sense and are thus unaware of the much awaited by I can't imagine whom outcome of E!'s 101 Hottest Celebrity Bods, here are the top ten. But first a word from our sponsor.

Rundown? Tired? Overworked? Tense and stressed to the max? Feel depressed, anxious and pushed to the limit? Lost your appetite, your sex drive and your car keys? Is the heartbreak of psoriasis and an outbreak of acne ruining your love life? When you look in the mirror do you see bags under your eyes, lines around your mouth, a sagging chin and dull lifeless hair? Do facelifts, butt lifts, enlargements and enhancements seem like good ideas? Well then my friend, you are a sorry son-of-a bitch. And now back to our regular programming.

First off, what is a celebrity anyway? I always assumed it was someone I had heard of who was not a relative or Champ Bailey. That being the case, how did these people make E!'s top ten list? Aishwara, Chris Evans, Raoul Bova and Monica Belluci. Come on, Aishwara is a car model. You know, test drive the new Nissan Aishwara and you'll be thrilled with the ride. Chris Evans must be related to Dale and Monica Bellucci is the dessert you order at an Italian restaurant. We'll take a single order of the Belluci with two forks please. And a Raoul shouldn't be a top ten of anything other than fun things to say. Raahuuoool. So they're off my list. I've replaced them with the woman who plays Grace on "Will And", "Medium"'s chubby star, I think she's an Arquette, the guy who plays House and Queen whatsername. Real people with real bodies whose names I know but, apparently, not too well. There were also three B's in the top ten, Beckham, Beyonce, and Berry. Beckham's a soccer player married to one of the Spice girls. Nasty Naughty Outrageously Sexy Spice was her name and she didn't make the list. I'm kicking out Beckham and putting in his wife. Haile Berry was number 9. I'm speechless. 9. That's not possible. Especially when you consider that Number1, are your ready for this? Number 1 is Angelina Jolie. Either I have lost touch with reality or E! has. Angelina Jolie. I don't know if you've noticed but she has no booty at all and her lips are kind of overly large. Of course, maybe these are attributes in E!'s world, what do I know. But, really, Angelina over Berry. Not on my planet. Brad Pitt was in there somewhere, you knew he would be and Jessica Alba was Number2. My picks have Jessica at 1 1/2 so I have no quarrel there.

So that's over and now you know and knowledge is a good thing. Tune in tomorrow and I'll give you a sneak preview of E!'s top ten astral bodies. Here's a hint, Earth was disqualified for failing a drug test.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Dog Days of August

I can't get started. I'm brain bricking. There's an idea blocked from escaping. Tear down this wall Mr. Gorbachev!

Maybe what I need is coffee, tea isn't cutting it. Be right back.

There are not that many things in a quiet life to make sport of. Yesterday, for instance, after blogging around the block, I took the dog for a long walk, studied the preterit tense in Spanish, won a Scrabble game from my wife, watched Frazier and 101 Bodies on E!, had dinner and then read for two hours. Did I mention I won a Scrabble game from my wife? Oh, I did mention I won a Scrabble game from my wife. Alrighty then. So you see there's not much here to work with. Nevertheless, (when you can get the more) I'll give it my best shot.

When I was a kid...and we sat around the cave fire listening to the elders tell stories and teach us to make high tech tools like flint knives... dogs used to have dog names. Rover, Fido, Rin Tin Tin, Spot, Wiggles, Lassie and such. Nowadays and even nowanights, dogs have people names. Max, Louie, Homer, Sebastion and Fred for example. I don't know why that is. Woowoo Charly and I decided long ago our pets would be named after literary characters which resulted in cats dogs and birds with names like Cyrano, Watson, Gatsby, Balloo, and Quasimodo. Wait! That last one was a former husband. Our current little red, long eared, sweet faced, bone beggar is named Gustavo. Gus for short. Gustavo is named after Gus, a central character in "Lonesome Dove" whose actual name was Augustus, but we Spanishized it to Gustavo knowing it would come out Gus anyway. Gus is a cocker spaniel. I like to call him a Joe Cocker spaniel, but unless you are old enough to have hunted with a sling, you won't get the joke. Cockers are a short breed so that when they run through high grass, or even when they are just excited, they bound like bunnies and their ears flap wildly as if they are trying to get the whole dog airborne. Gus's ears damn near had him off the ground as we set out on yesterday's walk.

It hadn't rained for a couple of days so we were able to leave the road and wander down an inidan trail that is usually too muddy and too steep to traverse this time of year. The trail takes us past a couple of what were abandoned indian enclosures, shacks really, but now had new occupants doing whatever it is that indians do. Nothing it would seem to our eyes apart from staring at the weird gringo in the jungle walking his dog. I mouthed an "hola" and trucked on by. (If this seems like a dry recitation of less than interesting events, you haven't read anything yet. It gets worse.) The trail ends at the same road we started out on only much further down the mountain. Most mountain roads wind back and forth as the make their slow descent. The ones that don't are called cliffs. Our plan, and it was a plan, Gus and I had settled on it after I vetoed walking until HE was tired and then taking a nap, was to return via the road. We had barely got underway when we passed another indian pile of scavenged building materials shaped into a shelter - how do these people survive? - from which peered two sets of wide, unblinking little kid eyes and the excited, happy, oh my god I'm going to pee, thrilled to see another four legged creature, eyes of a puppy of unknown parentage. In the past, when Gus was a pup himself, this would have meant a fight. Now that he is a wise and mature dog of two, it was a quick minute of sniffing private parts and then some dog code that signals let's play. Suddenly, we were three. I figured the pup would leave us shortly and return to his own home. Wrongo Alpo Breath! The pup, whose ribs looked like a canine xylaphone, figured he'd found a new fat friend who might want to share. He stayed with us all the way back to Gus's house which he allows Charly and I to share. I then tried go away, scram, beat it and get lost in three languages, English, Spanish and Profaneish, but nothing worked. Finally, I locked Gus indoors so he could watch me whup my wife at Scrabble with the hope that while I did so, the pup would get as bored as anyone reading this and would leave, depart, go home. Wrongo again Eukenuba! The pup not only stayed he took the wlecome mat literally and made it his doggie bed. We couldn't open the door without waking him. To make a long story a headache, as a friend of mine used to say and probably still does, as the day wore on and I did all those fascinating other things I've mentioned above, I couldn't forget the haunted looking eyes of the little indian kids in their rundown abode from whence the pup had come. What if he couldn't find his way back? Afterall, we're not talking Lassie here, were talking a dog named Whoknowswhat, which in indian is ...who knows what? So I picked up the mutt and tossed him in the back of The Beast and drove him home. I can't say the kids were thrilled to see him as they just stared at me as before with blank, expressionless eyes. The pup, however, seemed happy to be back and bopped excitedly over to them. I waved at futily at the zombie children and then drove away.

(The joke I want to use here is that I've driven a few dogs home in the past but this was the first one with four legs, but I won't because it's kind of sexist.)

And so ends the dog walking part of my day. Do you want to hear the rest? Me neither.

Did I mention I beat my wife at Scrabble?

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Bodies and Birds

For lack of anything else on during that particular time slot, 5 PM, we have been watching an E channel presentation called "The 101 Hottest Celebrities Bodies." I know what you are all thinking, what's my number?, so I'll tell the truth and admit I didn't make the cut. But c'mon, neither did Wilford Brimley and he's hot, right? They said I had to have a six pack to qualify and my Guiness in the fridge didn't count. Tough graders. What are they looking for, Heineken? Anyway, the show is counting down to number one at about twenty hotties a day. Wait, let me amend that. Make it fifteen female hotties and five guys who do a lot of sit ups. We are now committed ( and in my case, as Yoda would say, committed he should be) to watching the next couple of nights to find out who is number one. Five clock, I should also point out, is Happy Hour here in Happy Land which means I am likely to be sipping something alcoholic while Pamela Anderson displays her implants and Matthew McConaheehee does crunches for the camera. I have added this as an after thought only because I want you to know my judgement was clouded when E in general became an option. Should this option persist after I've learned who has the hottest celebrity body, I'm thinking Hemlock will be my drink of choice. Meanwhile, I want to tell Haile Berry yes you have my support, so you can quit calling me everyday. Ever since that one crazy night, she just won't leave me alone.

Back in the day, by the way, hot didn't mean sexy, it meant sexually aroused. To get a girl hot was every teenaged boy's goal. You would never say, she's hot, but you might say she makes ME hot. This message was brought to you by Old Farts R Us. One stop shoping for virtually useless trivia.

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I don't think Andy ever meant to hurt the bird. Being the not particularly selective Romeo that he was, he probably just figured here was a golden opportunity. Hence his mad scramble with bird in mouth to the nearest bedroom. For my part, as I dashed in pursuit, it was pretty much Oh shit oh shit oh shit! I did make a nice head first slide across the - I can't remember, hardwood or tile, something slippery - floor, when I tried to snag the birdnapper before he made it under the bed. Just missed, so the Sportcenter highlight featured the dog going for extra bases and not me making the grab. My flopping and shouting did freak Andy though, and put him off his... game, so to speak. He dropped the bird and ran to daylight. (I know, I'm mixing my sports metaphors.) Free of the dog and any remaining bird sanity, Cyrano resembled the proverbial headless chicken. Catching him was impossible. But I am a wise man don't you know. I fell back on the wisom of the ancients and I channelled the Bird Whisperer. My calmness became truly zen like and Cyrano responded in kind. When his last ruffled feather had returned to its normal place, I made my move. The very slow and deliberate move we had practised every day for weeks on end. I extended my bird flipping digit as carefully and with as little trembling as I could muster. Cyrano then made his move. He took one hop forward and latched onto my finger like a gator on a warthog. I won't say it hurt, because I'm a manly guy who watches E, but I will say that my finger was a gusher and it was my turn to squawk bloody hell. I knew if I tried to grab the bird with my free hand, he'd just find another spot to chomp and if I tried to shake him off I was likely to hurt him. What I did instead, was one of the two brave acts of my life. The other was facing up to the sixth grade bully, which just made her mad so she beat me up worse than usual. I walked as quickly as I could to the bird's cage and put my hand, bird aboard once more...more or less, inside and waited for him to let go. A thing he did, thankfully, almost at once when he realized he was home.

I closed the little door and headed for the bathroom to tend my finger. Andy, of course, boogied for the couch. Afterall, The mail was due.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Andy and the Bird

Raucus, that's a good word. We need to use raucus more often.

It's raucus out my door esta manana. My neighbor's parrot has joined his rooster in a an unnerving aria of what sounds like complaint. Separately, neither bird's cry is particularly intrusive during daylight hours, but together they sound like a prison break. I don't speak much bird, but it sounds like they're screeching, "Attica Attica."

I had a bird once that an ex-girlfriend had given me either to remember her by or just to get even, I'm not sure which. It was a cockatiel I named Cyrano. Cyrano had moments of raucus, but mostly he sat on his perch looking out at the world with an expression I judged to mean, "do something." I decided what Cyrano needed was out-of- cage time and to that end I bought a book. I don't remember the actual name of the book, but it was something like, Sigfried and Roy's Tips for Flipping the Bird Or Taming It. Following the instructions in this book I began slowly putting my fist in Cyrano's cage, extending my bird finger horizontally and pressing it gently on Cyrano's lower abdomen just above his feet. The net effect of this was much as you would expect. Cyrano threw himself all over the cage screaming bloody murder in Bird with a few choice English words my sons had taught him thrown in. He wouldn't shut up until I removed my hand from the cage. I am, however, persistent and after several days of trying, I was able to get my feathered friend to step up on to my finger. Several more days of moving him about the cage on my digit, up and down around and around we go Chubby Checker, and I determined it was safe to take my finger with Cyrano aboard and move it to the greater world of my living room. All this without a whip and a chair. I was proud of myself and proud of my bird. We were trainer and trained doing our jobs well. Besides, what could go wrong? Cyrano's wings were clipped so he couldn't fly and if he squawked too much, I'd put him back, get him a cracker, calm him down. The flaw in my well meant plan to give Cyrano more freedom, was the other pet in my household, a half beagle, half dacshaund, silly looking mutt named Andy.

Prior to this moment, Andy's seemingly favorite thing in life, was to perch himself on the upright portion of our sofa. A sofa that's back was pushed up just below the sill of a large picture window. From there Andy could see the world and the world could see Andy. The only problem with this picture is that Andy found the world a very erotic place. Anything that moved beyond the glass - bird, cat, squirrel or mailman - inspired in Andy an almost immediate erection. I don't know to this day whether Andy so loved the world that he would... or if he was just flashing. I do know, he was quite famous in the neighborhood.

Cyrano was thrilled to be outside his cage. So thrilled, in fact, that he did something he had never done before. He hopped from my finger. He hopped boldly off where no bird had hopped before, onto my floor. Of course, being a bird he didn't actually expect to land on the floor, he thought all his mad flapping of wings would give him flight. Silly bird. Cyrano meet Andy.

To be continued.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

The Road to Our Place

"We serve hod Licka to hod men who wanna get drunk fast."

That's Sheldon Leonard as the bartender in "It's a Wonderful Life." It popped into my head this morning because my son Todd does a fabulous impression of Sheldon using that very line. I can hear him in my head. Today is Todd's Birthday. Happy birthday buddy. Stay away from the "hod licka."

We hitched up the buckboard...buckboard? That's an interesting euphemism for wagon. Must have had some frisky horses back in the day...and went into town for supplies. You know, sack of flour, dried beans, some gingham for curtains and like that. They're building a new road out to our place on top of our old dirt road in small leaps and even smaller bounds. They being the Panamanians in charge of road building and the strange disappearances of road builders. What happens is, as you wander down the mountain, you pass a crew of 20 or 30 guys working diligentemente - one of my favorite Spanish words - creating gutters, grading, spreading gravel and all the stuff that goes into making roads. When you wander back, they're gone. Sometimes for weeks at a time. They also don t seem to be caught up in that silly start here and go to there concept so prevalent in other countries. You can find them working anywhere along the old road at any given time, so that the effect is stretches of smooth road followed by stretches of whoa Nellie pull back on the reins road followed by more smooth and then I know there is a road here somewhere road. Muy interesante. During the strange disappearances of the road builders the rainy season takes its toll and much of the road returns to where it was before any work had been done at all. I'm thinking job security. And I also know what many of you are thinking. It's a third world country what do I expect, but personally I blame Bush. He wants us to buy four wheel drive buckboards because they use more gas. Definetly a right-wing plot. Like suits and televised dart tournaments.

"Wah Wah Wah Where's the money Uncle Billy, you silly old fool." That's Jimmy Stewart in the same movie. My other son, the skin head, does that one. I can hear him too.