I'm busy this morning, so here's an oldie.
The Bridges of Archuleta County
By Doc Walton
Meggin stood quietly at the river’s edge adding her tears to the water’s gentle flow. Dirk was gone from her now, gone for good and with him her only hope of happiness. She was not the kind of woman who could easily love and lose, then love again. Her heart had been given for always and belonged now to a man she could no longer see or touch or lend underwear to - A man who not so long ago had held her in his arms and swore his eternal love for both her and pickup trucks with four wheel drive - A man who bought her flowers and beer, then drank too much and woofed in the vase - A man who took her breath away with long kisses while pinching her nose - A man to be missed for a lifetime. Gone now, forever, with her little sister who could do that double jointed thing with her lower torso the fellas liked so much. Gone and betrayed. It was so much to bear.
And then, as her tears dripped onto her reflection, enhancing the image, a form appeared beside her in the water that was so like her lost love she feared to turn and find that it might be only her foolish, wishful imagination. She stood there motionless, fighting the river’s current with her eyes, desperately trying to discern the features that were so seared on her memory, but the image in the water wavered too much for a positive ID. She would have to risk a quick glance. Summoning the courage that only great love can inspire, she wheeled suddenly about and looked straight into the eyes of a man who looked a lot like her Dirk. Only this guy was taller and had different color eyes and hair and was maybe thirty pounds heavier and had features that were sharp and angular instead of rounded and puffy. Still, she found uncanny similarities. They both had arms, legs, that sort of thing.
“Oh, hello, sorry,” she blurted, realizing her mistake. “I thought you were someone else.”
“That’s okay, I once thought I was someone else too, but it turned out I wasn’t,” the stranger replied, grinning.
Meggin felt something deep inside her warm to his humor. She had grieved far too long she knew, but still felt the need to hold back a little of herself in memory of the man who had left earlier that day.
“And since I’m pretty sure it’s me again and you’re probably you, why don’t you tell me what you see in the water down there.”
Meggin wondered if he talked like this all the time or was just kidding. She felt so unnerved, so unsteady with him standing so close. She sensed that word games and banter would not be enough for this man. Only the plain truth would satisfy him.
“I…well…I was watching the water and seeing all my hopes for love and happiness wash away and I was feeling lonely and depressed and in need of someone to comfort me when suddenly you were there and I don’t know how to thank you.”
Megin could not stop. Looking into the clear multicolored hues of this man’s eyes caused a truth serum of passion to flow within her.
“I needed someone to come along and save me and you did. Now what can I do for you? I’ll do anything you want me to Bob.” Somehow she knew his name was Bob.
“Its Al, actually, and I was just hoping you’d tell me if there were fish running down there.”
Meggin grew more entranced by this straightforward, plain talking man and her instincts, urged on by sexual tension, suggested that subtlety was out. She would have to be more direct.
“No they are not Bob, they are not running today. And since they’re not, and that leaves you with some time on your hands, why don’t we walk over to that stand of tall willows where we can be completely secluded and no one can see us, no one at all Bob, and you can tell me about yourself and I can slip out of these dreadfully warm clothes.”
She watched as the light bulb came on in his eyes, not click I get it, but gradually dawning, like turning up the dimmer switch.
“Its Al, but you can call me Bob. Let’s do what you said.”
He was talking funny again but for Meggin it was too late to turn back. She was aflame with desire and a mild sunburn. She had to have this man and she had to have him soon. Her knees went suddenly weak.
“Uh Bob, could you uh, carry me? I sprained my ankle when I was a kid and I think its acting up.
“Well sure Hon, no problem,” Bob answered, leaning forward and lifting her
Meggin’s passion went completely out of control and she moaned softly with pain and pleasure as Bob’s shoulder dug into her gut with each of his long strides. She could feel his forearm across the back of her legs and she wondered idly if he were a fireman as her head and torso hung down his back and her nipples grew hard rubbing against his rough shirt. She had to bite firmly on her own hand to keep from shouting his name aloud, whatever it was.
Finally they were deep in the shady wood and Meggin was propped against the broad trunk of an ancient willow. Her arms rested on Bob’s shoulders and her hands were linked behind his head holding it steady and preventing flight. Overcome by Bob’s significant charms, he was male and breathed in and out cleverly, Meggin found herself covering his mouth with her own and wondering if many men had oatmeal and garlic for breakfast. As her tongue forced its way through his lips and teeth, she could feel Bob’s hands begin to roam about either in search of something soft or just a decent grip. Meggin led him to her left breast, the good one, while Bob searched high and low for the other. Rising passion made three out of four of their knees weak and together they slumped to the ground, Bob fighting the one stubborn knee and Meggin humming show tunes.
Lying on a soft carpet of willow stems, leaves, twigs and branches, feeling all of Bob’s two hundred something pounds atop her and that one sharp rock under her, Meggin was nearly faint with pleasure. Now that Bob had got the hang of that kissing thing his lips were plastered to hers and getting some air was one of her short term goals. She could feel his manhood or perhaps some fishing gear, it was hard to tell, digging into her thigh and she whispered huskily that he should empty his pockets. Bob looked at her with a curious expression and said his pockets were bare. “Oh good.” said Meggin adjusting her position.
Eventually their ardor became too much to resist and they shed their clothes in that button and bodice ripping manner so common to new lovers. Meggin, a little unsure of her femininity, made nervous small talk as Bob examined her biker tattoos.
“So Bob, You like hockey?” was the question on her lips when he entered her at last. “Puck me Bob, puck me” was planned for later but Bob kept hollering. “Its Al damn it, Al! and was sent to the penalty box for a two minute game misconduct - something about high sticking.
Later, as the two lovers dressed and exchanged underwear, they were unaware of the dark eyes that had watched all through the lens of a camera. This, thought the camera man, is better than shooting bridges.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -The End--------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
a word about...
A word about wine. It's not about price. In fact, I have found fine wines at $3.75 that are just as good as those at $4.50.
And speaking of wine, which is often the fuel for spiritual thought, ask any priest, I came across this bit from Ram Dass - or is it Dam Rass - or maybe it's VanDam Rass twelth degree bad ass guru - that has nothing to do with wine. "To materialist eyes, India is a developing country; to spiritual eyes, the United States is a developing country." Ram and I will now accept comments...or wine.
I think Ram is right about that. Ram Dass, by the way is pronounced Rahm Dahss. If you pronounce it rammed ass, it will never get by the censors. Right, at least about the U.S. part. I don't know enough about India to speak on its behalf, but I will if they ask me. It seems to me that I have met more people in the last few years who express interest in the search for spiritual grounding. Most, oddly, although not really oddly if you think about it, are looking outside of religion for answers to those eternal questions of who am I, why am I here, what happens next and where do I get more wine? I myself and Lance my other self have asked those same questions. In fact, along with who shot Kennedy and just how many steroids did Barry Bonds take, these are probably the most asked questions of all. I realize, of course, that some of you look to me for more than just the questions so I will now take a shot at providing answers in the deep and profoudly serious way you've come to expect. The first question, who are you, is probably the easiest to answer by simply saying, Yo, Dimwit, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. The second, why am I here requires a gentler and more tactful response as it involves your parents, a lot of wine and probably some music. Either that or alien intervention. If you were ever involved in Texas politics the latter is probably the case. Actually, I don't think I can fully explain the why you are here thing without the aid of hand puppets so I may just have to take that up another time. As to what happens next and where do I get more wine, the answers are one and the same. It's a place called the 19th Hole. You can go there now - When Ram Dass wrote "Be Here Now" he was at the 19th Hole - or you can go there later. It doesn't matter if you want to go there or not. You will go there eventually. Everybody does. That's why it's so crowded.
And speaking of wine, which is often the fuel for spiritual thought, ask any priest, I came across this bit from Ram Dass - or is it Dam Rass - or maybe it's VanDam Rass twelth degree bad ass guru - that has nothing to do with wine. "To materialist eyes, India is a developing country; to spiritual eyes, the United States is a developing country." Ram and I will now accept comments...or wine.
I think Ram is right about that. Ram Dass, by the way is pronounced Rahm Dahss. If you pronounce it rammed ass, it will never get by the censors. Right, at least about the U.S. part. I don't know enough about India to speak on its behalf, but I will if they ask me. It seems to me that I have met more people in the last few years who express interest in the search for spiritual grounding. Most, oddly, although not really oddly if you think about it, are looking outside of religion for answers to those eternal questions of who am I, why am I here, what happens next and where do I get more wine? I myself and Lance my other self have asked those same questions. In fact, along with who shot Kennedy and just how many steroids did Barry Bonds take, these are probably the most asked questions of all. I realize, of course, that some of you look to me for more than just the questions so I will now take a shot at providing answers in the deep and profoudly serious way you've come to expect. The first question, who are you, is probably the easiest to answer by simply saying, Yo, Dimwit, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. The second, why am I here requires a gentler and more tactful response as it involves your parents, a lot of wine and probably some music. Either that or alien intervention. If you were ever involved in Texas politics the latter is probably the case. Actually, I don't think I can fully explain the why you are here thing without the aid of hand puppets so I may just have to take that up another time. As to what happens next and where do I get more wine, the answers are one and the same. It's a place called the 19th Hole. You can go there now - When Ram Dass wrote "Be Here Now" he was at the 19th Hole - or you can go there later. It doesn't matter if you want to go there or not. You will go there eventually. Everybody does. That's why it's so crowded.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Doc Meets The Blog
Alrighty then! Here I am blogging away. My very first written at the blog site blog. It's a bit intimidating. Okay, it's not De Niro saying "you talkin to me?" but it does give one pause. This space coming up?,that's the pause. It first occurs to me that I should have to depersonalize what I place here on the off chance that a strange reader peer in and have a peak. But on second thought...and I'm only good for two at a time, thoughts that is, it would be a strange reader indeed who dropped in on a site called Monkeymind. Jane Goodall, I suppose might have a look, but apart from she and her peers, who is going to pick this site from all those available for perusing. Sites like Naked Celebrities Tell All and The Best of Gilbert Godfrey are sure to attract more visitors. With that in mind, well not for long, I have to move it out to make room for the next thing, I will now get on with today's short subject(Dudley Moore at 5'3" was a short subject) secure in the knowledge that only one or two of my kids will actually stop to read all of this now that they think there really is a site called Naked Celebrities Tell All.
Last night on cable station CCC here in Panama I finally got to watch a movie I have awaited with the same anxious anticipation as I did for "Frankenstein Meets The Wolfman", "Godzilla vs. Mothra", "Freddy vs. Jason" and George Bush Meets Reality." I am of course talking about "Alien vs. Predator." This extaordinary film, which was somehow overlooked by The Academy, brings into conflict two of our favorite film fight failures - Alien having been defeated by Signourney Weaver in her underwear and Predator dropping a close one to Arnold wearing mud - in a nevertheless highly anticipated tussle along with a cast of humans with names I don't remember because, well, they just weren't memorable, whose principle role in the film was to be killed in bloddy, gory and other highly entertaining fashions. I won't tell you the ending, or the beginning and middle for that matter, but I will say that like those other classics I've mentioned,(apart from the Bush one where Reality loses) there is no clear cut winner. Nor will I say this is the greatest movie ever made because it ranks at least a notch below "Big Trouble In Little China" and "Plan Nine From Outer Space." It is, however, more entertaining than "Citizen Kane"... but then, what isn't.
And so ends my first blog. Lest you think I am here solely to entertain, I now offer a word to the wise. Nevermind, the wise are still reading Naked Celebrites Tell All.
Last night on cable station CCC here in Panama I finally got to watch a movie I have awaited with the same anxious anticipation as I did for "Frankenstein Meets The Wolfman", "Godzilla vs. Mothra", "Freddy vs. Jason" and George Bush Meets Reality." I am of course talking about "Alien vs. Predator." This extaordinary film, which was somehow overlooked by The Academy, brings into conflict two of our favorite film fight failures - Alien having been defeated by Signourney Weaver in her underwear and Predator dropping a close one to Arnold wearing mud - in a nevertheless highly anticipated tussle along with a cast of humans with names I don't remember because, well, they just weren't memorable, whose principle role in the film was to be killed in bloddy, gory and other highly entertaining fashions. I won't tell you the ending, or the beginning and middle for that matter, but I will say that like those other classics I've mentioned,(apart from the Bush one where Reality loses) there is no clear cut winner. Nor will I say this is the greatest movie ever made because it ranks at least a notch below "Big Trouble In Little China" and "Plan Nine From Outer Space." It is, however, more entertaining than "Citizen Kane"... but then, what isn't.
And so ends my first blog. Lest you think I am here solely to entertain, I now offer a word to the wise. Nevermind, the wise are still reading Naked Celebrites Tell All.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
just say no
Ladles and Menvermin, in the absence of anything interesting to say today, (What is an interesting thing to say anyway? Something about global warming? The Middle East? Progress in women's undergarments?) the Great Waltoni now asks that you throw out a topic, any topic, for him as the World's Least Most Authority to discourse upon. Do we have any volunteers? You at the back waving your foot. What's that you say? Arithmetic? Alrighty then.
Hrrggg and harumph. (Clearing throat of frogs and the cat that has his tongue) (Disgusting really) Arithmetic in and of itself is not the danger it is purported to be. Many people use it successfully in moderation with apparently no harm or negative long term effects. Admittedly, studies show there may be some cases of addiction, but these are rare and at its worst find their victims habitually double counting their change. No it is not Arithmetic we must fear, but rather, what it can lead to. I am talking here specifically of that most dangerous and addictive of all endeavors...Mathematics. Math, or Crystal Math as it is known by its enthusiasts, cannot be used casually or recreationally because even those among us with the strongest of discipline will find themselves returning for more, ever more. Soon the streets of our fair land will be crawling with people holding a phone in one hand and the dreaded calculator in the other. Many... and here is where my warning to you all is most important...many will begin to mainline their Math and become, you guessed it, Accountants! From there, my constituents, I need not point out, it is only a short step to Kenneth Lay! Soooo, if your child has taken to adding and subtracting things, I suggest you keep a close watch, or better yet, give him a book and be sure he doesn't stare at the page numbers. Remember my words. Arithmetic is not safe for everyone.
Hrrggg and harumph. (Clearing throat of frogs and the cat that has his tongue) (Disgusting really) Arithmetic in and of itself is not the danger it is purported to be. Many people use it successfully in moderation with apparently no harm or negative long term effects. Admittedly, studies show there may be some cases of addiction, but these are rare and at its worst find their victims habitually double counting their change. No it is not Arithmetic we must fear, but rather, what it can lead to. I am talking here specifically of that most dangerous and addictive of all endeavors...Mathematics. Math, or Crystal Math as it is known by its enthusiasts, cannot be used casually or recreationally because even those among us with the strongest of discipline will find themselves returning for more, ever more. Soon the streets of our fair land will be crawling with people holding a phone in one hand and the dreaded calculator in the other. Many... and here is where my warning to you all is most important...many will begin to mainline their Math and become, you guessed it, Accountants! From there, my constituents, I need not point out, it is only a short step to Kenneth Lay! Soooo, if your child has taken to adding and subtracting things, I suggest you keep a close watch, or better yet, give him a book and be sure he doesn't stare at the page numbers. Remember my words. Arithmetic is not safe for everyone.
potpourri
Old, chubby guy who can't dance a lick wins American Idol. There's hope for all of us.
Cake is celebratory. When was the last time you had Birthday Pie or Wedding Flan?
Tylenol P.M. makers should be sued for changing from a pill that you could break in half to one you can't cut with a hacksaw.
Charly and I played our 1100th Scrabble game yesterday. I won. I am ahead in the series 1000 to 100. Seriously? No I'm kidding. It's not that close. I'm still kidding.
I found this word in Harry Potter yesterday: quieresveviralmailecombigo I thought, this can't be real. And I was right. It was just Harry nervously talking real fast. Like Dara on coffee. Harry was trying to say, querrias venir al baile conmigo? Which means queer as a vain ear by the lay con me and go. No it doesn't. It translates would you come to the dance with me? Harry gets turned down.
Tea without sugar is dull. But I'm compensating. I drink more coffee. Coffee without sugar is correct. You heard it here first.
Each day I try to get in Tai Chi, meditation, pushups, Stair climbing, (we have 14 stairs, I climb them 30 times. That's like what, a thousand?) a walk, Spanish reading, Spanish grammar studying, guitar practise, a Scrabble game, two meals, an hour of an English language book, chores, (shopping, dishes, some cooking, general cleaning, dog stuff), writing this gobbeldyggoop, an hour of internet news, a half hour of Sportscenter, and, oh yeah, I like to watch Frazier reruns. I sleep eight hours.
What does my wife do? I'm not sure. I haven't seen her for days.
Truthfully, I rarely have a day when I accomplish all those things. Real life intrudes with bad weather, good friends, phone calls and all the unpredictable occurrences that make each day different and interesting. Of course, I am then left feeling guilty about the things I've skipped. Guilt though, like salt when sprinkled lightly, adds zest and keeps me motivated.
Wait a minute. I hear something. It's Charly downstairs drying her hair. So THAT'S where she's gone!
(Taylor Hicks. Give me a break. My boys can out sing this guy any day of the week. Well maybe not Mondays. They're a little raggedy on Mondays. And even David can outdan...Okay maybe not. Whoops. Don't make fun of the pregnant guy.)
Cake is celebratory. When was the last time you had Birthday Pie or Wedding Flan?
Tylenol P.M. makers should be sued for changing from a pill that you could break in half to one you can't cut with a hacksaw.
Charly and I played our 1100th Scrabble game yesterday. I won. I am ahead in the series 1000 to 100. Seriously? No I'm kidding. It's not that close. I'm still kidding.
I found this word in Harry Potter yesterday: quieresveviralmailecombigo I thought, this can't be real. And I was right. It was just Harry nervously talking real fast. Like Dara on coffee. Harry was trying to say, querrias venir al baile conmigo? Which means queer as a vain ear by the lay con me and go. No it doesn't. It translates would you come to the dance with me? Harry gets turned down.
Tea without sugar is dull. But I'm compensating. I drink more coffee. Coffee without sugar is correct. You heard it here first.
Each day I try to get in Tai Chi, meditation, pushups, Stair climbing, (we have 14 stairs, I climb them 30 times. That's like what, a thousand?) a walk, Spanish reading, Spanish grammar studying, guitar practise, a Scrabble game, two meals, an hour of an English language book, chores, (shopping, dishes, some cooking, general cleaning, dog stuff), writing this gobbeldyggoop, an hour of internet news, a half hour of Sportscenter, and, oh yeah, I like to watch Frazier reruns. I sleep eight hours.
What does my wife do? I'm not sure. I haven't seen her for days.
Truthfully, I rarely have a day when I accomplish all those things. Real life intrudes with bad weather, good friends, phone calls and all the unpredictable occurrences that make each day different and interesting. Of course, I am then left feeling guilty about the things I've skipped. Guilt though, like salt when sprinkled lightly, adds zest and keeps me motivated.
Wait a minute. I hear something. It's Charly downstairs drying her hair. So THAT'S where she's gone!
(Taylor Hicks. Give me a break. My boys can out sing this guy any day of the week. Well maybe not Mondays. They're a little raggedy on Mondays. And even David can outdan...Okay maybe not. Whoops. Don't make fun of the pregnant guy.)
I got nothing
714. Babe Ruth and Barry Bond's home run totals? Nope. That's my age in dog years.
And speaking of dogs and other furry animals, what if Dave and Dara expand on our practice of naming pets after literary characters by becoming the first to name their child after one. I'm thinking Dickensian. With an already strong literary last name of Hyde, I think the kid will need an equally forceful first name for balance. No Tims or Tinas or Willys or Nillys or anything floral will do. Although I could make an exception for Bougainvillea. Bougainvillea Hyde, that's not bad. Kid could be Boogie for short. Nevertheless, with the classics still in mind, I'm throwing out for serious consideration the name Micawber because Uriah Heap is already taken. C'mon, give it a chance. Roll it around on your lips a little bit. Micawber. It's catchy and it works for either a boy or a girl. And, as there are only about forty or fifty people left in the U.S. who have actually read Dickens, the name will be a surprising original to all the others. Of course in England where Dickens is read aloud over subway speakers, they might find it a bit odd that someone has been named after a character who is continually penniless, but really there is no need to go to England anyway. It's cold and rainy there and we've seen that changing of the guard thing half a dozen times in the movies. And speaking of movies, as they are generally considered the literature of the times for people with short attention spans, we could add movie names to the possible choices. Has anyone named their kid Rambo yet? What about Spawn? Or we could go the Oprah way. Find a star's name and then spell it backwards. Reggenezrawhcs. Dave and Dara could even pay homage to their old alma mater and again reversing the spelling for cleverness, name their kid Drab. Just a thought.
It's Sunday. Gotta go make breakfast. I'm thinking pancakes, but what can I put on them if I can't use a sugar product? Alrighty then. Eggs it is.
Tanyer Hyde? Runan Hyde?
And speaking of dogs and other furry animals, what if Dave and Dara expand on our practice of naming pets after literary characters by becoming the first to name their child after one. I'm thinking Dickensian. With an already strong literary last name of Hyde, I think the kid will need an equally forceful first name for balance. No Tims or Tinas or Willys or Nillys or anything floral will do. Although I could make an exception for Bougainvillea. Bougainvillea Hyde, that's not bad. Kid could be Boogie for short. Nevertheless, with the classics still in mind, I'm throwing out for serious consideration the name Micawber because Uriah Heap is already taken. C'mon, give it a chance. Roll it around on your lips a little bit. Micawber. It's catchy and it works for either a boy or a girl. And, as there are only about forty or fifty people left in the U.S. who have actually read Dickens, the name will be a surprising original to all the others. Of course in England where Dickens is read aloud over subway speakers, they might find it a bit odd that someone has been named after a character who is continually penniless, but really there is no need to go to England anyway. It's cold and rainy there and we've seen that changing of the guard thing half a dozen times in the movies. And speaking of movies, as they are generally considered the literature of the times for people with short attention spans, we could add movie names to the possible choices. Has anyone named their kid Rambo yet? What about Spawn? Or we could go the Oprah way. Find a star's name and then spell it backwards. Reggenezrawhcs. Dave and Dara could even pay homage to their old alma mater and again reversing the spelling for cleverness, name their kid Drab. Just a thought.
It's Sunday. Gotta go make breakfast. I'm thinking pancakes, but what can I put on them if I can't use a sugar product? Alrighty then. Eggs it is.
Tanyer Hyde? Runan Hyde?
what was I saying
I stand before you this morning ladies and gentlemen with absolutely nothing to say. I realize this has never stopped me in the past as I've always been able to seize on some small aspect of my own overly examined self or some kernal of interest in something obscure, i.e. long Spanish words, to talk about, but today as Chandler from Friends would say when speechless... I got nothin.
Well not quite. There is Arianna Huffington. Now there is a name to say aloud more than once. Arriana Huffington. Isn't she a character in " Where the Wild Things Are"? Arianna Huffington. C'mon, how can that be a real name? If I hadn't seen her myself on one political show or another, I would have to guess she was fictional. This morning while perusing the Common Dreams internet site in search of Molly Ivans latest column, I stumbled on Arianna's. It was an interesting bit about politicians running scared, but I'm not here to espouse the party line, because actually, I don't have one. I come not to praise Caesar, but to make fun of him. No, what caught my attention, a thing that needs to be caught as it jumps around like an A.D.D. patient on crack, is Arrianas use of the description, "pusillanimous poltroons."
No need to run to your dictionaries, I already have the scoop. It means cowardly cowards. A redundancy for sure, but a darn good one. I have heard this short alliteration used before, but I can't quite pull the who and where of it from the arcane knowledge section of my brain that is used to house things like this and Stan Musial's lifetime batting average. I'm thinking Spiro Agnew. He of the "effete effeminate snobs" fame. Well that and making "nolo contendre" a theretofore seldom used plea...common. (Does anyone out there have any idea what I'm talking about?) (I told you, I got nothin.) Nevertheless, historical and redundant as it may be, I feel strongly that pusillanimous poltroons should once again become part of our family's (families?)(Kira, which is the correct possessive?) daily argot. I therefore instruct you all to use pp at least once a day for the next week. You will all find many opportunities as you all have bosses, rivals and are aware of the New York Yankees. Pusillanimous Poltroons. Let's get after it.
What I am doing here, the big picture, is getting back to the habit of writing everyday. I had lost the discipline. When I feel like I have opened the creative locks of my mental dam sufficient to let the good stuff flow, I have unfinished pieces I need to get back to. In the meantime, while I WD 40 the lock innards, you'll just have to put up with me.
Well not quite. There is Arianna Huffington. Now there is a name to say aloud more than once. Arriana Huffington. Isn't she a character in " Where the Wild Things Are"? Arianna Huffington. C'mon, how can that be a real name? If I hadn't seen her myself on one political show or another, I would have to guess she was fictional. This morning while perusing the Common Dreams internet site in search of Molly Ivans latest column, I stumbled on Arianna's. It was an interesting bit about politicians running scared, but I'm not here to espouse the party line, because actually, I don't have one. I come not to praise Caesar, but to make fun of him. No, what caught my attention, a thing that needs to be caught as it jumps around like an A.D.D. patient on crack, is Arrianas use of the description, "pusillanimous poltroons."
No need to run to your dictionaries, I already have the scoop. It means cowardly cowards. A redundancy for sure, but a darn good one. I have heard this short alliteration used before, but I can't quite pull the who and where of it from the arcane knowledge section of my brain that is used to house things like this and Stan Musial's lifetime batting average. I'm thinking Spiro Agnew. He of the "effete effeminate snobs" fame. Well that and making "nolo contendre" a theretofore seldom used plea...common. (Does anyone out there have any idea what I'm talking about?) (I told you, I got nothin.) Nevertheless, historical and redundant as it may be, I feel strongly that pusillanimous poltroons should once again become part of our family's (families?)(Kira, which is the correct possessive?) daily argot. I therefore instruct you all to use pp at least once a day for the next week. You will all find many opportunities as you all have bosses, rivals and are aware of the New York Yankees. Pusillanimous Poltroons. Let's get after it.
What I am doing here, the big picture, is getting back to the habit of writing everyday. I had lost the discipline. When I feel like I have opened the creative locks of my mental dam sufficient to let the good stuff flow, I have unfinished pieces I need to get back to. In the meantime, while I WD 40 the lock innards, you'll just have to put up with me.
sugar daddy
I've given up sugar. The kind you find in a bowl or on a doughnut. (oh no, not doughnuts!) The kind you find in cookies and sodas and pastries and pies. And puddings. I will no longer plop heaping teaspoonsful of white granules into my tea or onto my cereal. I will forbid the creampuff, napolean or cinnamon roll and I will eschew the bearclaw. Ice cream and milk shakes will not again benumb my tongue. If it comes from the cane, I can't. I will not, however, forbid the sugars disguised as wine or scotch. Wine is derived from grapes and scotch from grain and secret ingredients placed there by Highlanders in a successful attempt to make New England Americans buy plaid. Wine and scotch are in their essence a fruit and a vegetable. In other words, necessities and therefore exempt from my list.
Lest you think I jest or will waver in my resolve to rid myself of lemon meringue and its evil cousins, I will now submit a partial list of other things I have successfully given up.
I have given up running fast. Or far. I have given up touching my toes on a regular basis. I have given up jumping up, down or over and I only skip when I feel pretty. I have given up most of my teeth and brown hair. I have given up playing baseball, football or any sport that requires exertion with the exception of basketball, the half court variety. I have given up slam dunking. Okay that's a lie. I have given up hitting a golf ball over 220 yards. I have given up a strong back, good knees and better than twenty twenty vision. I have given up reading without glasses and walking without a limp. Oh and I gave up cigarettes. A long time ago.
So you see this sugar thing should be apiece of cake. Cake? Cake? Hell no I'm not giving up cake.
Lest you think I jest or will waver in my resolve to rid myself of lemon meringue and its evil cousins, I will now submit a partial list of other things I have successfully given up.
I have given up running fast. Or far. I have given up touching my toes on a regular basis. I have given up jumping up, down or over and I only skip when I feel pretty. I have given up most of my teeth and brown hair. I have given up playing baseball, football or any sport that requires exertion with the exception of basketball, the half court variety. I have given up slam dunking. Okay that's a lie. I have given up hitting a golf ball over 220 yards. I have given up a strong back, good knees and better than twenty twenty vision. I have given up reading without glasses and walking without a limp. Oh and I gave up cigarettes. A long time ago.
So you see this sugar thing should be apiece of cake. Cake? Cake? Hell no I'm not giving up cake.
arsenal vs. barcelona
It's not really the Brits I love, it's the idea of them I've acquired from fiction and film over the years. Tut tut, hip hip, hush hush, stiff upper lip, cheerio, good show and all that rot. It started with Ronald Coleman - what a gentleman, what a voice! - and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and moved on to Errol Flynn and Cary Grant. They were good guys with good manners, at least in the movies, refined and fearless at the same time. For some reason I was taken with their restraint, " I do say old man, please don't get up or I shall be forced to knock you down again" as opposed to the welcome of violence exhibited by American stars like Cagney, Bogart, Edward G. Robinson through Eastwood and on to Stallone, Bruce Willis and all the current action heroes. "I'll knock your block off" "Go for your gun" "Bring it on" "You want a piece of me?" "Go ahead, make my day." I suppose it is really just a choice of which fantasy world I'd prefer to live in, that of P.G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie or that of Raymond Chandler and Dashiel Hammett. I'll take the former by a long shot. Even their evil doers do so with class and style. Blair is certainly head and shoulders above Bush in that category. Shakespeare, Dickens, Christie and Wodehouse in that order have all played their parts in making me an anglophile, and recently Dick Francis, but it is the movies I think that were most telling( even though, when I write I can channel P. G.'s voice, but unfortunately, not his talent.) And now when my anglophileness is fully in place, the movies still nurture the condition. Think Dudley Moore as Arthur, what a sweet character. Or Emma Thompson or Anthony Hopkins in any period piece. They are always complex, complicated, even haunted characters, frequently stick-up-their-butts kind of people as Americans would describe them, but always mannered and polite. What can I say, it appeals to me because conversely, they, the Brits, can also be funny. Has there ever been a more laugh-out-loud show than Fawlty Towers? What about Monte Python? And wasn't Benny Hill the British Milton Berle? There can be great nuance and subtlety in English humor, think Peter Sellers in any movie other than the Pink Panther series or great slapstick, think Peter Sellers IN the Pink Panther series. All great, funny stuff.
But alas and alack, (thank you Shakespeare) I digress. What I am here to talk about is sports, namely today's UEFA Champions League Championship Futbol Match between England's Arsenal team and Spain's Barcelona team. Guess which one I'm rooting for?
Wrongo baseball breath! It's Barcelona in a rout. You know, something like 2 to 1. My man Ronaldnino, who by the way, has just become the highest paid athlete (endorsements and other outside income included) surpassing David Beckham another soccer player, and Michael...something German sounding, a race car driver, is unstoppable. Go Barsa! (A side note to that highest paid list is that Michael Jordon is still in the top ten and he hasn't played basketball for what, five years?)
So Love and Chin up, That's a good lad, Be a Sport eh what and Alrighty then.
But alas and alack, (thank you Shakespeare) I digress. What I am here to talk about is sports, namely today's UEFA Champions League Championship Futbol Match between England's Arsenal team and Spain's Barcelona team. Guess which one I'm rooting for?
Wrongo baseball breath! It's Barcelona in a rout. You know, something like 2 to 1. My man Ronaldnino, who by the way, has just become the highest paid athlete (endorsements and other outside income included) surpassing David Beckham another soccer player, and Michael...something German sounding, a race car driver, is unstoppable. Go Barsa! (A side note to that highest paid list is that Michael Jordon is still in the top ten and he hasn't played basketball for what, five years?)
So Love and Chin up, That's a good lad, Be a Sport eh what and Alrighty then.
rambling on
Here’s a word to wrap your tongue around: extraordinariamente. That’s right 19 letters and it means exactly what you think it means. At least I think it means what you think it means. I mean I don’t really know what you think it means. You might think it means something completely different from what I think you think it means so I guess I’ll have to tell you. It means an extra ordinary dinner mint. See how easy Spanish is. Now if I could just figure out how embarazada came to mean pregnant I’d have it down pat. (downo pato)
I stumbled on my new favorite long word (see above…and it’s not embarazada) while reading Harry Potter Y El Caliz De Fuego, the fourth book in the series. I’m not a big Potter fan, but I’ve heard it’s a law that if you read one you have to read them all. Okay, maybe it’s only a law in England, but I know you know how I feel about the Brits. Wait, how do I know you know how I feel… Nevermind. Anyway I’m plodding along at a rate of about ten pages a day. That may seem extraordinariamente slow to you, but hey, It’s Spanish! Took me ten or twelve years to get the hang of English and I still don’t know why cereal and serial are pronounced the same. The best word in the Potter books is not really a word, it’s a name. Voldemort. That’s a stroke of genius. Voldemort. Even if you know nothing about the books you know that is not the name of a good guy. At least I think you would know. You might think it’s the name of a duke or a count or a queen, but then, you’d be wrong and weird to boot. To boot? Is that English or Canadian?
I’m also finishing off a book entitled “Wolf Boy” that despite it not being an extended version of an Inquirer story about a kid stolen from his parents by a she wolf who has lost a pup and raises the kid as her own; a she wolf who then defends the helpless child against every kind of danger the wild has to offer until he is grown and returns to his natural people where he uses his knowledge of plants and herbs to cure cancer and in so doing becomes the most famous man on the planet and a catalyst for world peace and also looks a lot like Elvis, I am enjoying even though it is a rather sad book about a family grieving over the loss of an older brother, each in his/her own unique way. Granted the first story, had it been written, might have been a more cheery read, but the second, an actual story, is highly recommended by me, the guy who only a paragraph ago said he had the hang of English, but who’s word on the subject after this current paragraph is now highly suspect.
I am now nearly a full page in and I have not mentioned my pal Gus who is lying next to me in his doggie bed gnawing on a bone that he has protected against all the dangers the wild has to offer, namely the next door neighbor’s dog Bobby, and that he hopes will one day grow up to be a cow. Gus. He’s now been mentioned.
Charly is abajo, pronounced ah bah ho which means below or in this case downstairs and is not the New York way of saying woman who sells sex at a pub, watching House which is a show that has nothing at all to do with one.
So you see it has been a very complicated and confusing day and I’m going to bed now to have the sweet dreams you know I will have. Well I don’t really know you know but…
Voldemort. That’s good, that’s really good.
I stumbled on my new favorite long word (see above…and it’s not embarazada) while reading Harry Potter Y El Caliz De Fuego, the fourth book in the series. I’m not a big Potter fan, but I’ve heard it’s a law that if you read one you have to read them all. Okay, maybe it’s only a law in England, but I know you know how I feel about the Brits. Wait, how do I know you know how I feel… Nevermind. Anyway I’m plodding along at a rate of about ten pages a day. That may seem extraordinariamente slow to you, but hey, It’s Spanish! Took me ten or twelve years to get the hang of English and I still don’t know why cereal and serial are pronounced the same. The best word in the Potter books is not really a word, it’s a name. Voldemort. That’s a stroke of genius. Voldemort. Even if you know nothing about the books you know that is not the name of a good guy. At least I think you would know. You might think it’s the name of a duke or a count or a queen, but then, you’d be wrong and weird to boot. To boot? Is that English or Canadian?
I’m also finishing off a book entitled “Wolf Boy” that despite it not being an extended version of an Inquirer story about a kid stolen from his parents by a she wolf who has lost a pup and raises the kid as her own; a she wolf who then defends the helpless child against every kind of danger the wild has to offer until he is grown and returns to his natural people where he uses his knowledge of plants and herbs to cure cancer and in so doing becomes the most famous man on the planet and a catalyst for world peace and also looks a lot like Elvis, I am enjoying even though it is a rather sad book about a family grieving over the loss of an older brother, each in his/her own unique way. Granted the first story, had it been written, might have been a more cheery read, but the second, an actual story, is highly recommended by me, the guy who only a paragraph ago said he had the hang of English, but who’s word on the subject after this current paragraph is now highly suspect.
I am now nearly a full page in and I have not mentioned my pal Gus who is lying next to me in his doggie bed gnawing on a bone that he has protected against all the dangers the wild has to offer, namely the next door neighbor’s dog Bobby, and that he hopes will one day grow up to be a cow. Gus. He’s now been mentioned.
Charly is abajo, pronounced ah bah ho which means below or in this case downstairs and is not the New York way of saying woman who sells sex at a pub, watching House which is a show that has nothing at all to do with one.
So you see it has been a very complicated and confusing day and I’m going to bed now to have the sweet dreams you know I will have. Well I don’t really know you know but…
Voldemort. That’s good, that’s really good.
rambling man
Drove to Gualaca (pronounced wah-lah-ka as in, wah-lah-ka da good cigars) yesterday with Charly aboard reading aloud from a tome entitled, "TheBook of Understanding." The book was written by Osho, which is not, as you might suspect, a government agency, but a rather serious, contemplative and insightful, fellow human being. Or is at least so if Gus is any judge as he was in the back nodding at every word. Unless it was vibration moving his head about. The Beast is not the smoothest of rides. The book starts, " I do not believe in believing. My approach is to know, and knowing is a totally different dimension. It starts from doubt, it does not start from believing. The moment you believe in something you have stopped inquiring. Belief is one of the most poisonous things to destroy human intelligence." Well now, a thought like that will capture even my wandering attention in speedy fashion and Gus was all ears as well. Of course Gus being a cocker spaniel is mostly all ears to begin with. So there we were whizzing along listening to concepts like Zorba the Buddha and watching the landscape change from mountainous to prairieous (it is too a word). Or rather I was. Charly's eyes were on the book and Gus, while pondering the philosophy, was also alert to defend us against any foolhardy dog or cat who might decide to attack our vehicle. He can puff up and snarl like an insane grizzly when dangerous tire biters are about. Of course at this point you don't care about that. You just want to know more about Osho and Zorba and the like. Sorry, that's not my job. You will have to read it for yourself. I will tell you this much. It's fascinating stuff. My job though, is not to inform you of the fascinating. My job is to supply you with the boring because without it you would have no balance. I know Osho would agree. So, with that cleared up and still in mind, I'll continue to drone on.
My point, hidden, obscure and unclear as it is, is to relate what we do when we drive to anywhere further than an hour away. I drive, Charly reads aloud, Gus does dog stuff and we learn...things. Sometimes Charly reads Spanish and I translate what I think she is saying. Gus likes that a lot because having been born here in Panama he understands Spanish better than we do. So there you have it, another episode for no reason at all.
I suppose though, that for clarity, a thing that I and the Bush administration find difficult to achieve, I should mention that we went to Gualaca to get our car registration renewed. A thing we accomplished because we are accomplished people.
My point, hidden, obscure and unclear as it is, is to relate what we do when we drive to anywhere further than an hour away. I drive, Charly reads aloud, Gus does dog stuff and we learn...things. Sometimes Charly reads Spanish and I translate what I think she is saying. Gus likes that a lot because having been born here in Panama he understands Spanish better than we do. So there you have it, another episode for no reason at all.
I suppose though, that for clarity, a thing that I and the Bush administration find difficult to achieve, I should mention that we went to Gualaca to get our car registration renewed. A thing we accomplished because we are accomplished people.
and more
We were awakened twice last night by quakes and were fully awake to experience their gentler after shocks. Feeling a quake while lying in bed is not quite as unsettling as when your feet are on the ground - it’s merely a quick startle like someone plopping down next to you on a waterbed – but this recent frequency of tremors leaves me unsure of what to think. Should I abandon my first impression of whoa cool that was different and adopt a more concerned attitude, or should I latch on to the ho hum just another quake and shake, normal as rain? I think I’ll stay with the whoa cool even though it violates my most trusted axiom which is to go with understatement whenever possible. British reserve and all that you know. You shouldn’t miss a chance to understate something that cries out for a big response. “I say old girl, it’s a trifle warm what with the lava flow and all that.” Of course now that I think about it, and I am prone to thinking about these sorts of extremely important things, whoa cool if stated correctly, that is somewhat dryly, can actually be an understatement instead of a superlative. So there you have it. My stated and considered attitude to all things quake-ish is officially, whoa cool. If, however, things start falling down, oh shit may be an acceptable alternative.
Here is an unfinished Enneagram thought: Do I like blues because I am a 7? That is, an upbeat, happy person attracted to an opposite? Do introverted 4’s and 5’s like reggae for the same reason? If so, what about 3’s? Do they like music that will never hit the charts? Sorry I don’t have time to pursue this, but I’m awfully busy contemplating my posture on, well, posture. I’m sitting up pretty straight at the moment.
Oh, and about cakes. I finished baking my seventh day before yesterday. It has a cherry cake part with vanilla frosting in the center and chocolate frosting on the outside. I use whatever frosting is leftover from the previous cake so I frequently have more than one kind on a cake. Here’s a tip: If you put left over frosting in the fridge to use on your next cake it will be too hard to spread. If you then microwave the frosting, you can pour it on the cake like syrup. Saves time. Of course it is then necessary to put the whole cake in the fridge to re-firm up the frosting. This requires, if you have as small a fridge as mine, that you remove all perishables from it and place them on the table where a little tropical warming may or may not do them any good. But then, what the hell, they’re only fruits and vegetables and who needs them when you’ve got cake?
Why am I baking cakes? I don’t really know. I’m pretty sure it’s not a hormonal change, I mean I don’t wear an apron or a bra while I’m baking and I started before the earthquakes became a daily occurrence so that’s probably not the reason. There was an old Seinfeld episode where Costanza’s father says about his future daughter-in-law’s parents, “What they don’t serve cake? What kind of people don’t serve cake, a lousy piece of cake?” or something like that. Might have something to do with it. I mean I remember the episode. Or maybe I’ve got a sugar deficiency. I doubt I get more than a half pound a day. That should be enough though, right? Probably, I’m thinking, probably it’s because I like cake. Nah. Too simple. There is a profound and complex psychological factor at work here and I’m counting on my brilliant family to supply me with answers before I go off the deep end and move along to pies. Yes this a cry for help.
Here is an unfinished Enneagram thought: Do I like blues because I am a 7? That is, an upbeat, happy person attracted to an opposite? Do introverted 4’s and 5’s like reggae for the same reason? If so, what about 3’s? Do they like music that will never hit the charts? Sorry I don’t have time to pursue this, but I’m awfully busy contemplating my posture on, well, posture. I’m sitting up pretty straight at the moment.
Oh, and about cakes. I finished baking my seventh day before yesterday. It has a cherry cake part with vanilla frosting in the center and chocolate frosting on the outside. I use whatever frosting is leftover from the previous cake so I frequently have more than one kind on a cake. Here’s a tip: If you put left over frosting in the fridge to use on your next cake it will be too hard to spread. If you then microwave the frosting, you can pour it on the cake like syrup. Saves time. Of course it is then necessary to put the whole cake in the fridge to re-firm up the frosting. This requires, if you have as small a fridge as mine, that you remove all perishables from it and place them on the table where a little tropical warming may or may not do them any good. But then, what the hell, they’re only fruits and vegetables and who needs them when you’ve got cake?
Why am I baking cakes? I don’t really know. I’m pretty sure it’s not a hormonal change, I mean I don’t wear an apron or a bra while I’m baking and I started before the earthquakes became a daily occurrence so that’s probably not the reason. There was an old Seinfeld episode where Costanza’s father says about his future daughter-in-law’s parents, “What they don’t serve cake? What kind of people don’t serve cake, a lousy piece of cake?” or something like that. Might have something to do with it. I mean I remember the episode. Or maybe I’ve got a sugar deficiency. I doubt I get more than a half pound a day. That should be enough though, right? Probably, I’m thinking, probably it’s because I like cake. Nah. Too simple. There is a profound and complex psychological factor at work here and I’m counting on my brilliant family to supply me with answers before I go off the deep end and move along to pies. Yes this a cry for help.
this, that and the other
It was a dark and stormy night and the bridge, some bridge, any bridge may or not have been washed out as we watched the Sox game through the fifth inning between intermittent power outages. There was rain of course, we get that without the necessity of a storm, and thunder that clapped often enough to sound like applause. The gods must have been watching the deluge and going, “good show, good show, eh what” because the gods are, after all, British. Gus, our fearless ball of Cocker Spaniel, loves the thunder. He charges from the house growling and snarling in search of the beast who’s making all that racket. Gus likes nothing better than a good scrap with another dog which is the reason I mostly walk him on a leash. I’ve seen him fight. He’s not that tough. I turn him loose on thunder though. He gets to feel as if he’s run off the biggest dog of them all. You know, done his protect us job. I don’t speak much dog, even less Spanish dog, but I think Gus is saying as he charges around the yard, something on the order of, “Come back here you wimp, wherever you are.” Either that or “Oh cool, I get to run around in the rain.” Like I said, I don’t speak much dog.
So we watched the rain and we watched the dog and we watched the TV blink on and off – the phrase “Searching for satellite signal” appears on the screen in English, which is interesting – and we watched Schilling, Curt that is, be unable to keep his pitches down in the strike zone. I knew he was headed for trouble and in the fifth he found plenty of it, causing me to abandon the game and head for the upper regions of our manse and a seat at the computer. It turned out that Schilling was so bad the Yankees had knocked both he and our internet out. Damn... Yankees. It is still out this morning so I am unaware if a Sox comeback or collapse took place.
3:15 AM the next morning and quake number something high shakes us awake. "Did you feel that?" "Yeah it was a biggie." What does one do after that you ask. Go back to sleep we answer. Because, c'mon, its three in the morning. What else are we going to do? Oh yeah, well there is that. Don't know why I didn't think of it.
I am writing this the morning after that morning. Our internet (inter net. The net between the nets. Is that like a fishing term or what?) was out until last night. ("Where are you going?" ("OUT ! Just OUT" !) When it returned from whereever it went, slightly tipsy and talking funny, I determined immediately that the Sox had lost and that Bush was still in office, two depressing conclusions, so I went early to bed in order to early to rise and write this dribble.
And speaking of Bush, yesterday we drove the beast to David in order to have it inspected, this being a necessity for obtaining this year's registration. We were told that in order to pass the inspection we would have to replace the bushings on both front wheels. I told the mechanicos that I preferred clintonings and they replied that clintonings were no longer available. You can see from this how our freedom of choice is being gradually eroded. We were also told we needed an alignment which we agreed to, and now, I swear, the car pulls to the right. I'm tellin you these neocons are damn tricky.
We did have a nice lunch though. Having two hours to kill while Bush's covert operatives repaired our car to their satisfaction, we walked to Panama Bill"s, a gringo owned restaurant we like. After eating, we sat at their outdoor bar and watched Panama go by. It was nice. I had a cigar. We talked and drank a couple of beers.
After that it was home to watch American Idol toss off my favorite, Paris, (We get the show a week after you) while leaving that goofy Taylor guy who loks like some teenager's dad pretending to be a rock star. The guy can sing but moves like a guy, who, if you were a girl, you would dread to have come over and ask you to dance. Needless to say, Charly likes him. Ah, poor Paris. Don't know what she'll do now, but I can see her dressed as a french maid walking around my house singing and dusting things.
So there you have it, another episode in the lives of people who really have no episodes to write about, but do it anyway.
Doc
So we watched the rain and we watched the dog and we watched the TV blink on and off – the phrase “Searching for satellite signal” appears on the screen in English, which is interesting – and we watched Schilling, Curt that is, be unable to keep his pitches down in the strike zone. I knew he was headed for trouble and in the fifth he found plenty of it, causing me to abandon the game and head for the upper regions of our manse and a seat at the computer. It turned out that Schilling was so bad the Yankees had knocked both he and our internet out. Damn... Yankees. It is still out this morning so I am unaware if a Sox comeback or collapse took place.
3:15 AM the next morning and quake number something high shakes us awake. "Did you feel that?" "Yeah it was a biggie." What does one do after that you ask. Go back to sleep we answer. Because, c'mon, its three in the morning. What else are we going to do? Oh yeah, well there is that. Don't know why I didn't think of it.
I am writing this the morning after that morning. Our internet (inter net. The net between the nets. Is that like a fishing term or what?) was out until last night. ("Where are you going?" ("OUT ! Just OUT" !) When it returned from whereever it went, slightly tipsy and talking funny, I determined immediately that the Sox had lost and that Bush was still in office, two depressing conclusions, so I went early to bed in order to early to rise and write this dribble.
And speaking of Bush, yesterday we drove the beast to David in order to have it inspected, this being a necessity for obtaining this year's registration. We were told that in order to pass the inspection we would have to replace the bushings on both front wheels. I told the mechanicos that I preferred clintonings and they replied that clintonings were no longer available. You can see from this how our freedom of choice is being gradually eroded. We were also told we needed an alignment which we agreed to, and now, I swear, the car pulls to the right. I'm tellin you these neocons are damn tricky.
We did have a nice lunch though. Having two hours to kill while Bush's covert operatives repaired our car to their satisfaction, we walked to Panama Bill"s, a gringo owned restaurant we like. After eating, we sat at their outdoor bar and watched Panama go by. It was nice. I had a cigar. We talked and drank a couple of beers.
After that it was home to watch American Idol toss off my favorite, Paris, (We get the show a week after you) while leaving that goofy Taylor guy who loks like some teenager's dad pretending to be a rock star. The guy can sing but moves like a guy, who, if you were a girl, you would dread to have come over and ask you to dance. Needless to say, Charly likes him. Ah, poor Paris. Don't know what she'll do now, but I can see her dressed as a french maid walking around my house singing and dusting things.
So there you have it, another episode in the lives of people who really have no episodes to write about, but do it anyway.
Doc
this and that cont.
It is 7:58 in the morning, a time that used to be 8 oclock before digitals, and I am on my fourth cup of tea, the last one in the pot. I've been up since 5:30 which has something to do with having gone to bed at 8 or maybe it was 7:58 last night. It was dark when I rolled out of bed and not wanting to wake my sleeping beauty I tip-toed downstairs to read awhile and await the light. (I first wrote "await the dawn" but it sounded too much like a guy in a foxhole readying for an attack. There is dread in the phrase) It's chilly in the mornings so I had grabbed my sweats from the hook on the bathroom door and put them on before heading for the downstairs couch. I didn't make it to the beckoning sofa right away though. I noticed the pile of pots, pans and dishes in the drain basket, the undisturbed coffee pot and the unmade tea. I set about putting the first away, starting the second and boiling water for the third. (Darn exciting stuff here, eh? Too bad. You are my family and you have to listen when I feel like babbling.) When I finally made it to the couch I stretched out prone, pulled a blanket over me, propped the book "Wolf Boy" on my chest and realized the light was insufficient. Mumbling or was it muttering, there's a fine line there, something that would have been profane years ago, but which I have now shortened to unintelligible sounds that vaguely suggest something German like "frankenzee flueggin plotzer", I kicked the blanket off, sat up, turned around and placed the lamp on a pile of Spanish textbooks so the light from it would shine more directly onto Wolf Boy. I then resumed my formerly comfortable position on the couch. I got a page, maybe a page and a half read, just enough to get my mind locked in with the wolf kid and away from the real world when Gus came rattling down the stairs to announce he wanted to go out for his morning romp. How he does this is to stare at the door until it opens. There is no bark, scratch, whine, whimper, nothing. If we are not immediately attentive, he lies down and stares. I should have such patience. This morning, however, as I was right there, he added to his routine the further act of stareing at me. Stare at the door. Turn around. Stare at me. "Getztorgen fleishten housen." I kick off the blanket again, stomp over to the door and let the mutt out. He's not even grateful. Gives me one of those it's about time looks. I prop open the door with the two bricks we have right there for that purpose, because Gus will scratch away and carry on wildly to get back in if the door is closed. Dogs, go figure. I return again to my warm, inviting, foam filled couch with the light just right and my head positioned perfectly on the throw pillows and what's that I hear? You guessed it...or not, the tea kettle is whistling its happy tune. I scramble over to turn it off before it shrills and wakes Charly. What the hell, it's light now. I head upstairs with teapot, cup, spoon and milk carton juggled successfully, to read the morning sports news, answer emails and ignore all current events having to do with further Bush atrocities. I like to leave them for Charly so she gets them fresh and unused. That way she is the first to know and can tell me about them with the proper amount of outrage. I always get it wrong.
It's after 9 now and I should be getting...something. Motivated I suppose. I have become very lazy after being sick for so long. I've lost all my good habits and I'm finding it difficult to overcome my lethargy and get cracking again. The weather is not helping. It has been rainy season like and it's too early for that. No matter, I'll get back in the groove eventually. My OCD side insists.
So there you have my morning. How's yours?
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It's after 9 now and I should be getting...something. Motivated I suppose. I have become very lazy after being sick for so long. I've lost all my good habits and I'm finding it difficult to overcome my lethargy and get cracking again. The weather is not helping. It has been rainy season like and it's too early for that. No matter, I'll get back in the groove eventually. My OCD side insists.
So there you have my morning. How's yours?
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Do You Yahoo!?
Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around
http://mail.yahoo.com
this and that
Tue, 9 May 2006
Seismic activity. Hmmm. Size Mick Act Ivity. Nope, nothing really there to play with. Last Friday we had an earthquake. A tremor really. Saturday we had six. One rearranged the tiles on our Scrabble board and caused Gus to hide behind our bathroom door. It was about a three second shaker and was noisy too. I can't really describe the sound, it is but a moment. Roughly I'd say thunder underground. The feeling, though, is graspable. It is akin to being in a small boat on a quiet body of water. You're in a reverie, not paying attention when you suddenly cross the wake of a larger boat. There is the one big thump as you hit the wave that brings you back to the present and then the small after rocks as the boat returns to stillness. It can be disconcerting. Especially as you realize that solid earth is moving under your feet. Or in our case Saturday, a concrete floor. We had another smaller tremor Sunday morning as we lay in bed, but nothing since then. Speculation as to why we are having so much seismic activity - no one can remember ever having so many tremors in such a short period of time - range from Volcan Baru becoming active again to the land saying Gringos go home. We have read that a team of seismologists (seismologist...now that is a word I could mess with) is on the way here to determine for us and Marvin Gaye, what's going on. Of course, I already know. I've seen the movies. Some idiot steals jewels from the eyes of the stone god, the volcano blows, the earth shakes, splits open and the old professor, that would be me, who was there to chronicle native ways and his wife the flower loving botonist, that would be Charly, and several dinosaurs fall into lava filled chasms while the handsome hero makes his escape in a dugout canoe provisioned with a lovely native girl in a sarong. She may or may not have a flower behind one ear. Apparently that's optional.
Other than learning what it is like to be a grain of salt in the shaker, all here in Paradise is as usual. The sun shines, the birds and American Idol wannabes sing and our Venezuelan televison feed fails to show me NBA playoff games causing me far more stress than mere earthquakes. Fortunately, I have become a soccer fan and the up coming World Cup should keep me from writing poisonous pen letters to Manuel Chavez about his country's lame tv programming. Of course that might be refreshing to him after getting all those complaints from Bush and Company about him using his oil profits to better his country's health care and education systems and thereby spoiling it for the other countries who use their profits to, you know, get rich. Man what a jerk. But I have digressed and you should never digress if you live in a glass house. The one problem with futball (soccer) is that unlike most popular American sports you can't read a book while watching it. There is continuous action with no commercial breaks. This last may be why the U.S. networks have never made an attempt to popularize the game.
But I'm drifting off now. Nothing to really write about. Need a good shake to wake me up. Whoops, be careful what you wish for.
Doc
Seismic activity. Hmmm. Size Mick Act Ivity. Nope, nothing really there to play with. Last Friday we had an earthquake. A tremor really. Saturday we had six. One rearranged the tiles on our Scrabble board and caused Gus to hide behind our bathroom door. It was about a three second shaker and was noisy too. I can't really describe the sound, it is but a moment. Roughly I'd say thunder underground. The feeling, though, is graspable. It is akin to being in a small boat on a quiet body of water. You're in a reverie, not paying attention when you suddenly cross the wake of a larger boat. There is the one big thump as you hit the wave that brings you back to the present and then the small after rocks as the boat returns to stillness. It can be disconcerting. Especially as you realize that solid earth is moving under your feet. Or in our case Saturday, a concrete floor. We had another smaller tremor Sunday morning as we lay in bed, but nothing since then. Speculation as to why we are having so much seismic activity - no one can remember ever having so many tremors in such a short period of time - range from Volcan Baru becoming active again to the land saying Gringos go home. We have read that a team of seismologists (seismologist...now that is a word I could mess with) is on the way here to determine for us and Marvin Gaye, what's going on. Of course, I already know. I've seen the movies. Some idiot steals jewels from the eyes of the stone god, the volcano blows, the earth shakes, splits open and the old professor, that would be me, who was there to chronicle native ways and his wife the flower loving botonist, that would be Charly, and several dinosaurs fall into lava filled chasms while the handsome hero makes his escape in a dugout canoe provisioned with a lovely native girl in a sarong. She may or may not have a flower behind one ear. Apparently that's optional.
Other than learning what it is like to be a grain of salt in the shaker, all here in Paradise is as usual. The sun shines, the birds and American Idol wannabes sing and our Venezuelan televison feed fails to show me NBA playoff games causing me far more stress than mere earthquakes. Fortunately, I have become a soccer fan and the up coming World Cup should keep me from writing poisonous pen letters to Manuel Chavez about his country's lame tv programming. Of course that might be refreshing to him after getting all those complaints from Bush and Company about him using his oil profits to better his country's health care and education systems and thereby spoiling it for the other countries who use their profits to, you know, get rich. Man what a jerk. But I have digressed and you should never digress if you live in a glass house. The one problem with futball (soccer) is that unlike most popular American sports you can't read a book while watching it. There is continuous action with no commercial breaks. This last may be why the U.S. networks have never made an attempt to popularize the game.
But I'm drifting off now. Nothing to really write about. Need a good shake to wake me up. Whoops, be careful what you wish for.
Doc
Saturday, May 27, 2006
music, golf and more
I lay in bed last night thinking the oddest things. For instance, what if countries were musical instruments? Great Britain would surely be a bagpipe, France a french horn and Spain a guitar...and castinets. Germany must be a piano because of its long list of famous composers or...a complete martial marching band. Italy is a violin and in eastern Europe there are a slew of countries that are accordians. India is a snake charmer's horn supplemented by that tinkly thing the ladies shake while wiggling. Or is it wiggle while shaking. Or maybe it's a sitar. Japan and China are the annoying wooden flute that plays in both the background of martial arts movies and meditation tapes. A little schizo there. Think David Carridine in Kung Fu. ( I am so peaceful and calm I can't keep my eyelids open, but nevertheless I must now kick your ass.) Panama is drums. They were beating furiously in the distance last night which may have inspired this whole train of thought. If inspired is the word. And train is probably off the mark as well. More like a couple of volkswagons creeping along in traffic. For Brazil I'm thinking Congas, but for the rest of South and Central America I haven't a clue. Mexico is a mishmash of horns, coronets, bugles, trumpets, tubas. I hear bullfight music. Canada. Canada? I don't know, do they have music there? Probably an organ if anything. Background noise at the hockey game. And the U.S.? My first thought was that the musical instrument that most represents the U.S. is a hammer. Then I softened a bit in regards to my misguided motherland and thought symbols. We do clash. Ultimately, I couldn't settle on anything. What is the instrument of Blues, Rock, Jazz, Gospel, Rap, Hiphop, Doo Wop and on and on. maybe it's the voice. What do you think?
Then flipping the page to the Sports Section, I note that Virada Nirapathpongporn is in the lead at the Corning Classic Golf Tournament. Just exactly what kind of porn is that anyway? Nira path pong porn. I think I'll just leave this one alone.
And, on a serious note, a note played by the instrument of your choice, something mournful like a cello will do, I have just read that at least 2500 people were killed by an earthquake in Indonesia yesterday. I may have to revise my thinking about our recent tremors. Whoa cool is just not cutting it.
Love at ya,
Dad/Doc
Then flipping the page to the Sports Section, I note that Virada Nirapathpongporn is in the lead at the Corning Classic Golf Tournament. Just exactly what kind of porn is that anyway? Nira path pong porn. I think I'll just leave this one alone.
And, on a serious note, a note played by the instrument of your choice, something mournful like a cello will do, I have just read that at least 2500 people were killed by an earthquake in Indonesia yesterday. I may have to revise my thinking about our recent tremors. Whoa cool is just not cutting it.
Love at ya,
Dad/Doc
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