Incommunicado

Incommunicado. Shouldn't that be outofcommunicado? Whichandwhatever, that's soon to be us. No electricity, or, as RTGFKAR likes to say playing with the Spanish word electricidad, we'll have no stinking electricity Dad. No electricity means no Internet, means no e-mail, means no blog, means no et cetera which is the past tense of eat cetera. Until we get wired up, turned on and turned loose, the monkeymind will be stilled. Well, you know, almost. It may still run amok, just not on cyber paper.

So here is my last thought to you until next we meet: Merry Christmas.

Okay, it wasn't really my last thought, but it was in contention. I was also thinking about everything I have to do today and you know how I feel about THINGS I HAVE TO DO. There's just no reason. Still...there they are.

I have to eat, drink and be merry. I also have to pack things, pick up things, move things, put things down and unpack things. Where the hell did all these things come from in the first place? I have to make calls, go shopping, find Alan - his phone isn't working - deliver a couple of things and...what else? Oh yeah, something about the dog. First though, I've got to finish this and then shave, shower and dress. And you thought retirement was easy. You younguns got it made. All you've got to do is work.

I better get started or I'll miss the big fun. As Marvin Gaye would say, "Love and Happiness" and from me and the Terminator, "I'll be back."

Ready to Move

I think it's Thursday. Could be Wednesday or Friday, but I think it's Thursday. Hard to tell here in Jubilado Land. I mean it's not like back in the office when you knew it was Thursday because Sally was wearing the grey slacks and blue sweater ensemble that marked the day. Here there are no markers. I will know, however, when it's Saturday. Saturday we move.

Wish I could say I was looking forward to it, but without electricity and no set date to have it turned on, all I've got are apprehensions. I mean, what does one do in the dark for twelve hours of every twenty four? Especially knowing that behind that blank Sony screen there's probably a good football game being played and Alan Shore is winning another case for the good guys on Boston Legal. Sure when you were a kid it was fun to read comics under the covers with a flashlight, but I'm reading The Raj Quartet in paperbacks and these books have print so small I'd need a kleig under there. Okay, I'll give you ghost stories around the campfire, those are always fun, but you know, it's raining most nights here. I suppose we could sit around the stove, put some marshmallows on a stick and fake it, but really, does that sound like fun to you? And going to the new fridge for a snack? Hey, there's nothing like warm milk on your morning cereal and toast that isn't toasted smeared with runny butter. Worse still, no ice cubes for evening cocktails? Puleeeeze, perish the thought.

Okay, forget that. Truth is I'm only ranting for fun. Actually I'm getting anxious to go. Antsy even. The sooner we get there the sooner the moving part will be over. The moving part is the real pain. Yup, antsy, twitchy, nervous, impatient, that's me. I'm ready to be gone.

Trouble is, it's only Thursday...right?

Moving Towards The Door

We are on our feet and moving towards the door...of our new house. Is it ready, you might ask if that's the question that occurred to you. Hell no is the answer I might shoot back if you did. And then when you looked askance I'd elaborate, because an askanced look requires elaboration. We are moving in without electricity, I'd add or something of that sort. Union Fenosa our crack power company and a Spanish phrase that means, "we have no clue how to keep up with the rapid growth in Boquete, so we've developed a long list of excuses in lieu of doing anything, one of which is, 'that's not our department'" has told us we will have to wait fifteen days from some arbitrary date they set roughly a few days ago. We, the residents of the house where I am currently residing, and living too, as RTGFKAR would say, do not have fifteen days. We must make way for new residers who are moving in on Christmas Eve morning.

Well, alrighty then! "Let's get this show on the road" is the first cliche that comes to mind and along with "let's get packing" pretty much sums up our mindset and, of course, we like to set our minds using Black and Decker power tools. I set mine on finding coffee and after that it's open to tinkering. So, as soon as I finish this golden gem and a half dozen other bits of professionalcrastination, I'll grab a cardboard box and put something in it. This I'm told is a first step and even the longest of journeys begins with a cardboard box.

Luckily - and if you say luckily rapidly over and over chickens will gather 'round - RTGFKAR's daughter, LTGSKAL, Laura The Gringo Still Known As Laura, is here to help us with the packing and moving because she's on vacation and people on vacation love to help other people move. They also enjoy living in houses without electricity. And, luckily luckily luckily - here they come a-clucking, calm down Gus - our friend Alan has returned from his journey to that bizarre part of the world known as "The States" where uncalled for goings on occur daily and we have the use of both he and his truck. Alan is a little guy, but his truck is a goodly size.

So, ciao for now as we say here in Panama even if we don't know how to spell ciao and we're not Italian. We'll be seeing ya around the campus. The new campus that is.

Procrastination

I have become a procrastinator. I used to be an amateurcrastinator, but I've recently achieved pro status. This morning I scrambled out of bed at quarter past six and headed to the computer to write this with only that quick stop at the coffee pot to slow me. I thought I'd peek in first at the Denver Post where I read about Denver's impending snow storm and then I headed over to Yahoo news and finally landed on Internet sites Common Dreams, Too Much and Alternet. It's now eight o,clock.
I've learned a lot about Michael Vick - what an idiot - the woman who shot the kid who shot the kids in Colorado, why the rich are getting richer, the democratic presidential race, why J. R. Smith lost his jump shot and a dozen other consequential and inconsequential happenings about the world at large and small, but I've completely lost sight of what I was going to write. Does anybody know? No? Well, no matter I'll think of something. Or, if not, I'll write about nothing which, as you know, remains my favorite topic.

A couple days ago I wrote about a storm. I was premature. (Hmmm, and probably still am if pre-mature is what you are before you reach maturity. What is maturity anyway? Ripeness? I'm ripe, but I've already been picked. Maybe I'm just immature. Childlike not childish Woowoo Charly would say. Whatever, I'm off the track again and plowing through a field of dreams.)We had a storm the night following that storm that made the first one seem like a wuss. (Wuss is a real word. Slang, but a real word. I looked it up. It means wimp. I didn't look up wimp, but I probably should have being right there in the W's and all.) The rain came down so hard I was sure there would be no paint left on our cars in the morning. Luckily they're turtle waxed and those turtles did a damn fine job.

I drove my car, Nikita, with the busted spring on one side making it list to the right, an oil leak and a dead head lamp to The Car Guys, Marcos and Paulino the morning after the storm. They said they'd get right on it. I'm thinking, I'll get it back in time for Christmas. On the way there I had to drive under a telephone pole that was leaning over the road at a 45 degree angle and was threatening to complete its groundward journey at any moment. Several Union Fenosa - our crack power company - employees were leaning on their trucks some fifty yards away looking puzzled as to what to do. They solved the problem fairly quickly though, by blocking the road with yellow crime scene tape. RTGFKAR, who was coming to pick me up at The Car Guys, had to go around the long way. The telephone pole is made of concrete and I'm guessing the rain had so softened the ground that the pole's base had become unstable. Whatever. I'm sure Union Fenosa will get right on that as well. The road should be open again just about the time I get my car back.

And now I remember what I was going to write.

I'm not a complainer. Neither is Woowoo Charly or RTGFKAR. We are easy going, laid back, go with the flow people. This is not a good thing. We need a complainer. Because of our inability to voice our displeasure in any forceful manner, we have a hard time getting anything done correctly and on-time unless we do it ourselves; a thing not always possible. I have a new found appreciation for the "squeaky wheel getting oiled" theory and I'm vowing here and now to get on other people to get things done and no damn excuses. Problem is, I'll probably procrastinate.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

A storm raged noisily outside our windows last night.

(Hmmm. I'm a little concerned with the word raged in that sentence. Sure it's a fairly common adjective for storms and this one if it wasn't exactly raging was surely pissed at something, but I wonder if storms really can rage and if they're able to summon up that very human quality can they also conjure other traits and if so, how would we know? I mean, is there a difference between a happy storm and one with a rock in its shoe?)

A storm passed through Boquete last night, (that seems fairly safe) bringing with it lots of rain, high (and low) winds, lightning and thunder. (Okay, hold on, the storm didn't actually bring these things, the storm IS, in fact, these things. I'll have to try again.)

There was a storm last night in Boquete. Please use your acquired knowledge of what a storm is to fill in the details. Make it colorful and imaginative because I wouldn't want to bore you. Talk about the noise for sure, rain, wind, thunder and throw in something about frogs. Frogs are always good. You might even mention the spooky effect lightning has when it flickers by your windows and casts weird momentary shadows on your walls. You might, but you don't have to. You also, if, you're feeling creative, might talk about the dreams that late night storms inspire. Mine, of course, were all about the bridge being washed out, no place to turn around and there's a light in the window of that old castle there on the hill, but yours, well, they might be less predictable. You could also mention how when morning light makes its daily appearance and you can actually see the storm, it looks so much less threatening than you had imagined lying in the dark and listening to it. Oh, and forget snow. There's no snow in my storms. If you want snow, you'll have to have your own storms.

Alrighty then, you have the setting. Now for the story. In the middle of the night, when the thunder clapped loudest, (Clapped? Clapped? Does thunder have hands?) our dog Gus, a fearless defender of all things us, leaped from our bed and raced around the house barking his head off (not literally) in search of the intruder who was making such a loud noise. He does this whenever it thunders, a thing which during the day we find amusing, but is clearly a lot less so any time during the first six hours of the A.M. period. Finding all things ours secure, he circled back to the bed and with a fairly impressive leap of roughly three times his own height he returned to his accustomed place at its bottom, his head lying lightly across my ankles.

And that's it. As you can see this whole story is heavily dependent on your description of the storm so please...make it a good one.

Neglected Blog

Sorry Blog Old Sock, that I haven't been around much lately, but more pressing matters have come to the fore. I have dialed you up a few times this past week to stare and wonder, but before I could belt out a note of song, verse or version, something always came up to draft my attention.

"Doc there's someone at the door" was an oft heard phrase this week and is a suggestion to me that I go find out who it is. It appears I am the Chosen One when it comes to door opening around here because I'm Mister Spanish. I've been awarded that title by dint of my great command of that mellifluous language if, by great command I mean having the vocabulary of a retarded, five year old Panamanian with speech impediments. "Hola Senor, Que pasa?" or is it paso?

One guy wants money. His name is Roberto and he has been installing the security bars at the new casa. Another's a body shop guy who is repairing RTGFKAR's car. His name is William, pronounced Wee-yem and he's here to tell us he's finished. We've also had our Landlady, Edith, and her translating cousin, Jackie, neighbor Aurelio,
people who may rent the house after we move and several others who I can't remember because I met them only this week. Had I seen them in a movie in 1978, their names would come instantly to mind. All of the above seem to have arrived at precisely the moment when blog inspiration was circling the room.

I've been further distracted by trips to Daveed, downtown Boquete, work at the new house and a weak mind. All have conspired to keep me blogless until now. I have not, however, been writingless. That is, if tidying up some old things and retyping them into my computer count. I think it does.

What has happened you see, is that several writers including Yers Truly have formed a group to share their work and I've been the most early and often contributor. It's been fun reading stuff from people whose faces are familiar and I've received some nice reviews along the way. I do have paper copies of some of my old stuff but I'm still missing scads. When I think about it, I realize I've been fairly prolific since that last year in Arboles. If any of you out there in Blogland have any bits of my madness lying about, please let me know. Meanwhile there are ten or twelve of my 260 blogs that are rewrite worthy as separate bits so I've got material to work with. After we move and get settled in, my muse has promised new stuff.

And as for you, Senor Blog, I'll keep in touch.

Weekend

The Weekend is over. I don't really remember it starting and now it's over. Gone. A flickering memory. Oh well, back to the grind.

I love the grind. There's all that lingering over the morning coffee, lingering over the news on-line, lingering in the hot shower, lingering with the next good book. Yup, there's a lot of lingering in my grind and I love that about it. Its opposite of course, unlingering, is a bad thing. You can tell by the way its sounds. "The scales of the Unlingering scraped menacingly as it slid from its hiding place under the rock." See what I mean? Lingering on the other hand, is a happy thing. "The children smiled contentedly as their mother ladled warm Lingering over their steamy bowls of rice." It's easy to see from these examples why I'm a fan of lingering.

I'm also fond of Lazingabout and accomplishing things when you get a Roundtuit. Lazingabout is useful for things like blogging - I mean, c'mon, I'm just sitting here - reading, sports viewing, listening to music and watching my dog scratch himself behind an ear. Lazingabout outside is nice too when the sun is shining like it is today. I'll have to schedule some for later. And roundtuits seem to show up just when you need them. Today, for instance, we have a toilet whose flushy part is broken and I'm betting a Roundtuit will appear in the nick of time so I can fix it. If it doesn't, well then, we'll just use the other bathroom and hope the Roundtuit turns up tomorrow.

Nevertheless, at the end of the week after five long, arduous days of Lingering, Lazingabout and getting Roundtuits, I must admit I do look forward to the Weekends when I get to do something else, something different. What exactly that is, I can't tell right now, because I can't remember, but I'm sure it's something good. Something like, oh I don't know, say Powernapping. Yeah that IS good. Say it again.

Logic

A crackly sunny morning with no rain is lighting up our windows. Woowoo Charly whispered to me that maybe, if we are real quiet, we won't wake up the wind. Makes sense to me.

I also saw the logic yesterday when she told me I had to polish her hiking boots. "Why" I asked, "do I have to polish YOUR boots?" "Because you were in the Army," she answered. Alrighty then, I'll get right on it.

RTGFKAR laid his bit of wisdom on me yesterday as well, while we were pumping iron. "You know" he said, "it's only the last two or three reps that do us any good, so why don't we skip the first seven or eight and just do the last ones?" Can't argue with that.

I should also point out that up at our nueva casa the back wall, the side walls and the roof of the construction shack have been removed. Only the frame, the front wall and the door remain. Luckily, the door is still chained and locked. Wouldn't want anyone to break in.

I understand this logic. What I don't understand is Eastern Standard Time. There's just no reason for it. There's no reason whatsoever for a football or basketball game to start at nine o,clock at night. Seven, like game time in the Rocky Mountains, makes complete sense and gets people to bed at a decent hour which then helps them be fresh and productive the next day. I therefore propose that we put the entire Western Hemisphere on Rocky Mountain Time. This will take a little adjusting to at first, but once the people get the hang of it, they'll all thank me. Are you with me? Do I have your vote? C'mon, it's a logical thing to do.

Waxing Philosophical

"At the moment when there's nothing more to lose, the Ego breaks open - and then we see who we are behind who we thought we were." Ram Dass

Alrighty then. So there's that.

Of course I'm not sure who I think I am. Maybe you know. Who do you think I think I am? Best I can come up with is Old Jock Who Now Blogs In Lieu Of Jump Shots. I mean if I had my druthers I'd probably still be hoisting them up from the top of the key, but then my priorities have always been a trifle skewed. Old Jock With Skewed Priorities might work. Skewed Trifles has also got a shot. According to Ram, though, the real me is hiding behind that guy, whoever he is, waiting for my Ego to bust open. I'm thinking that could take awhile. There's not much left there to break. Can't say I miss it either. Life's more peaceful without the parts of it I've sent packing. I would like to see the guy behind the guy though. He might be taller. Trouble I'm finding is "the moment when there's nothing more to lose." That's a bit worrisome. I've got lots to lose and I'm in no hurry to lose it. Apart from things like my debts and bad back that is. I guess what Ram means by "the moment" is the one when you are on the brink of the Big D and here we're not talking Dallas. We're talking Daisies, as in pushing them up. That's when I'll get cosmic consciousness, enlightenment and a peek at the guy behind the guy. I'm in no rush to go there either. I mean, what if it turns out I'm really Regis Philbin?

Perish the thought.

A Blogless Blog

I toasted up a couple of RTGFKAR's homemade muffins before sitting down to write this. What this means is that I now have a dog plunked down beside me staring at my food. I can understand the attraction. The dog is an English breed and these are English muffins. Suuuurre. Tomorrow I'll whip up some Latvian muffins and put that theory to the test.

The dog's sounding out little whiny noises and trying to get me to make eye contact. He knows if I do, I'm a gonner. Now he's placed his head on my knee. His eyes are all shiny and soft.

Here you go Buddy, have a bite.

Hey, what else could I do? He's got those eyes. If I had eyes like that I'd stand in front of bank tellers and make cooing sounds.

It's rainy and windy again this morning. What's the deal with that? A friend of ours told us last night that she had heard from a reliable Panamanian souse, I mean source, that this was the rainiest rainy season in eighteen years. Hope it's not a trend; part of global climate change and all that. I mean if it only happens every eighteen years, I can live with it. I'll be eighty-three when the next wet one comes around, if my math is right, and probably still bitchin about the lack of golf in my life. I mean some things never change.

Gus is now barking insanely at the front door. There's a woman and a little girl out there. Gus thinks kids are other dogs or toys or something to be played with. Kids think Gus is a tiger. Takes them awhile to get used to each other. The woman has been sent here by our landlady to clean the grout around our tiles. The grout is still gritty from the flood. School is out so the kid is tagging along with mom.

And now, having let them in and calmed the dog and put cartoons on the TV my train of thought has leaped from the track. No loss though. It was a Lionel narrow gauge anyway.

Sixteen Tons and Current Events

"...another day older and deeper in debt."

I'm trying to cross two lanes of traffic on the busiest road in Daveed. I look left and nothing's coming for a long ways so I pull out and block off that lane. I look to the right waiting for a break in traffic from that direction so I can make it across to the other side. Finally there's a gap and I bust my move. Trouble is, guy coming from the left decides to drive into the wrong lane and go around me just as I do so. Crunch. When all is said and done it leaves me as the hitter and not the hitee and no way to prove the other guy caused the accident. Nobody hurt, minimal vehicle damage. Minimal meaning I'm shelling out three hundred at the scene to make the other guy go away and five or six more to restore RTGFKAR's car to its former lovely and talented self. Luckily I'm one of those deep pocket guys. Of course there's nothing in those deep pockets apart from the odd ball of lint but still, hey, they're deep.

We were in Daveed - you all know I write Daveed because if I write David you'll read the pronunciation wrong - to renew RTGFKAR's visa. This has been a monthly ritual since Panama reduced their visa stays from ninety days to thirty. The good news is that RTGFKAR's residency has been approved and only awaits a signature from some nameless bureaucrat to become official. This should occur before the year is out unless Unnamed Official suffers from Writer's Cramp and takes the month off to heal. This, or something like it, has been known to happen, but we remain hopeful.

Further good news I wish to impart, but that sounds painful so Ill just tell you, is that RTGF's stuff has arrived. It only took seven months which leads us to believe it wasn't actually sent by ship but rather packed down by lazy mules with bad feet. Nevertheless, it is here and it is now stored in one of the new house's guest rooms awaiting the completion of the construction to be unpacked and put away in the places designated for, well, stuff. The fly in this ointment is that construction has slowed to a...I won't say standstill, because there is the occasional brush stroke of paint applied, so let's go with molasses creep, and a fair projection will put us in the house just before the world ends in 2012. One hopeful sign though is that a power line has been strung from the main road to the house and electricity may be in the offing. Or is that the on-ing? Whatever. RTGFKAR can now go up and put his arms around any of many cardboard boxes and say, "my stuff" while sighing contentedly.

And on the weather front, there is some. Mostly wind and sideways rain. Noisy too.

Someone from the bleachers yells, "Ya still love Panama?"

"You betcha, damn straight, are bears catholic and does the Pope pee in the woods?" I yell back.

Of course I love Panama. It's impossible not to.

Nothing...again

I have nothing to say today. I am mum, mute, closed mouthed and silent. There is not one single thing that needs to be said from my point of view. Not one. Not even Go Broncos or my foot's asleep, so I'll sit here and muse, ponder and meditate which are not as you might think three of Santa's reindeer, some of the seven little people or a California law firm. No, they are what I am doing. Right now. As I sit here.

Still nothing.

Alrighty then. I'm not a man who is afraid to ask for help in troublesome circumstances - although asking for directions when driving is still out of the question - so I'm inquiring, "what do you do when you've got nothing?" C'mon, help me out here, give me a hint will ya?

Okay, I understand. You don't want to give up your secrets. When you've got nothing you go to your bag of tricks - which is something right there - and you pick one to suit the circumstance. I don't have a bag of tricks. Wish I did. I can see how it would come in handy. What I've got is a big bag of nothing. You could root around in there for days and not find a thing. It's empty I'm telling you. A vacuum. A hole in space. An empty vessel waiting to be filled.

Still waiting. I've heard that stuff is drawn to a vacuum.

Still nothing.

I've watched five movies in the last two days. Do I want to comment? Nah. Nothing there. The weather's changing for the better, but do I want to write about the weather? Uh uh, don't think so. The guy across the street is said to have died last week. I saw him drive up and park his pickup yesterday. Can ghosts drive?

Okay, now there's a topic. Ghosts.

So you see, you just need to wait awhile. Patience is the best policy, someone said. Or was it me? I've got plenty of patience but of course now I'm out of time. Out of time? How can you be out of time the wise man asked, it's endless.

And there's another topic.

Food Freak

As you may have grocked from reading past blogs, I am interested in all things sent down from Foods R Us except cook books, but including diet books. Okay, that's not like I'm interested in literature, sports, movies, music, current events, spirituality, art, humor, super models and dancing with wolves or stars, but I do pay attention when the subject of food comes up and the subject of food comes up...daily. ("food comes up" may not be the right choice of words.)I mean somebody is always asking what's for lunch or what are we going to do about food, after which plans are made to eat some, so you see I am aware that this is a subject dear to the hearts and stomachs of most people and must be taken...with a grain of salt. So to speak.

Now here I need point out that I am a vegetarian and have been for quite some time. I'm thinking eight, maybe nine days. I'm pretty strict too. I've only had meat four times in that period. What brought me to this less than mainstream dietary regimen was The North Beach Diet. This is a diet in which one only eats carbohydrates. Lots of carbohydrates taken in as many diverse forms as possible is recommended by the author of the diet who shall remain anonymous as I don't like using my name in vain. Today, for instance, in honor of the Pilgrims whose own diet preferences and attitudes are revealed when you break down their group moniker into its component parts, ie: "pill" and "grim", I plan to start the day with cinnamon rolls and move onto pie. In between, who knows, but you can be sure I'll get my share of carbos and hydrates because I don't want to be decarboed or dehydrated.

Thanks Happygiving.

Teething

I'm always impressed by people with perfect teeth. Met a couple yesterday, she from Costa Rica, he from Panama who both had perfect teeth. Their kid, who is two, had imperfect teeth, but he was wearing braces. Braces at two? Aren't they just a first set of choppers destined to fall out? Oh well, what do I know?

I'll tell you what I know,(and that won't take long) they were a nice couple, they complimented my Spanish and, as you might guess, they smiled a lot. People with perfect teeth always do. They were at B and L's house visiting when we, RTGFKAR, Woowoo and I, dropped in, which is how I got to know about their excellent taste in Gringo Spanish speakers and their perfect teeth. The guy, whose name is, I'm thinking Nicholas or maybe Nicole, imperfect memories go along with imperfect teeth, told me about his travails trying to get residency in Costa Rica so that he and his family could live there part of the year and spend time with his wife's parents. Their son, John Paul, the two year old with braces, was born in Costa Rica which automatically grants him CR citizenship, but leaves him lacking legal status in Panama. Nick, let's call him that for short, said the whole thing is a living nightmare, but he smiled throughout the telling. Can't say I blame him for that. With teeth like his, I'd smile at a funeral.

John Paul, by the way, was named after the Pope of the same name. The wife whose moniker is Michelle or some Spanish version of that, wanted to dub the child Juan Pablo, but the husband didn't like the way that sounded so they opted for the English version. The wife explained to me that she talks to the Pope and he's a close personal friend who answers her in her heart. My Spanish isn't good enough to translate uuuuEEEEuuuu so I let it go. Besides she was smiling and it's hard to take issue with perfect teeth.

Your probably wondering why I choose to tell you about all this, but then, so am I. Especially when I could have just said, Go Broncos. Hey, that Bronco horse logo has got some mouthful of teeth doesn't it?!

Progress in Spanish

I finished reading "Harry Potter Y El Misterio del Principe" the sixth book of the series yesterday after months of pecking away at it. I'm getting a bit sick of the little twerp and may root for Voldemort when the seventh book gets translated into Spanish. I'm now on to Gabriel Garcia Marquez' "Ojos De Perro Azul", (Eyes of the Blue Dog) a book of short stories by the great man. Gabe's themes are more complex than the simple good versus evil you get in Potter and I'm looking forward to that. What I'm not looking forward to is the more complex Spanish. If you're wondering how I manage to read this second language with my wizened old brain, the answer is, of course, slowly. I look up lots of words; mostly nouns and verbs and the occasional adjective. There are too many adjectives and adverbs to learn and so many that I just will never use. For instance if the author writes, "Harry said wryly" (in Spanish I'm talking)I'm not going to look up wryly, because it is a word I'll probably never find a use for unless I decide to write in Spanish which seems unlikely in that I'm just now getting the hang of English... more or less. I realize I miss a certain subtlety the author is implying by not looking up wryly, but, c'mon, I'm old. I'm saving time for learning words I can use in actual conversation. Words like "chupar", to suck. That way I can say, Los Yankees se chupan when I talk to someone wearing an NY baseball cap. Someone small, frail and old that is. I've found that after I've looked up the same word about four times it sticks in my mind and I remember it the next time it appears in the text. Unfortunately, this doesn't mean that the word is now a part of my spoken vocabulary. For that I have to use the word aloud, in a sentence context, an additonal three or four times. Again, like chupar. I use that a lot. I would be further along conversationally if I weren't essentially shy. I'm not one to strike up a chat with a stranger, a thing useful for getting the hang of a new language, and even when I am forced to converse, I try to keep it short. A couple of cocktails will loosen my Spanish tongue, but I don't think that's an advisable training aid. Or is it? A little scotch in the morning coffee might be just the thing.

Nah, I think I'll just go read a book.

This and That Part 3 or Maybe 4

Yesterday's blog was entitled "Blogging Religiously." Have I used that before? The Monkeymind has a monkey memory. No matter. There's nearly 250 Monkeymind blogs floating around in cyberspace annoying cyberspacemen and I can't remember a four item grocery list without writing it down, so I won't stress over using a title twice.

The rainy season ended abruptly yesterday as I said it would. The day dawned sunny and warm and remained so throughout. It's gone today though. Short dry season.

I fell asleep writing a poem in my head last night. It had something to do with the beloved lump in the covers beside me. Wish I could remember it. Would make Woowoo Charly happy. 'Course she'd think I was talking about the dog. Later, I started another about my boys. Been missing them lately. Can't remember that one either. I like rhyming though. I'll have to write some verse for real. Soon as a topic comes to mind. Something about Barry Bonds maybe.

I took my Barry Bonds to the bank
and they weren't worth a dime.

Yaddidda yaddida homerun rank
the Cream, the Clear, the Crime.

Something like that. Or maybe not.

We got our washer/dryer fixed yesterday. Remember when we had the flood? It's been broken since then. Had to order a part from Panama City. Took three weeks to get here. I could walk from Panama City in three weeks. Not that I'm complaining. I got to learn more vocabulary talking to the women at the Lavamatico where our clothes were cleaned in the interim.

Interim is a good word. Is there an outerim?

The rain has stopped and the big yellow ball in the sky has reappeared. Wait a sec...
there it goes again. Gonna be one of those days.

Blogging Religiously

"The mind is a servant. Don't let it be the master." Osho and others.

Alrighty then. I'm keeping an eye on mine.

A busy week is drawing to a close is what my mind wanted to write, but then I pointed out that a week is just a measurement of time elapsed and as such it can't be busy and I'm certain it can't draw. One must be vigilant.

There are times, though, when it's best to let the mind loose for a stroll around the premises. Some call that exercise. I call it blogging.

And away we go.

Watched a movie this week entitled "The Man From Earth" in which one of the characters purports to be 14,000 years old. He starts life as a Cro Magnon, gets to be about 35 and remains perpetually there. As the movie begins, he is about to take leave for parts unknown and is explaining to a group of his colleagues, all PHD's in one field or another, that he must move on, because as they age and he doesn't, things will get too dicey and he doesn't want to end up being a guinea pig in a lab somewhere. The questions then begin and our hero highlights episodes of his life in answer to them. One of the most intriguing parts is when he reveals that he was Jesus. Yup, that Jesus. He explains that he had studied under the Buddha for awhile and then, believing in the big fella's tenets, he had wandered east and began teaching what he had learned. This drew to him a small following from among the people and big, bad trouble with the Romans. He was crucified by them - hung up by ropes not nails - but used his inner training to slow his vital signs and thus simulate death. After being encrypted, he brings himself back to normal and makes his escape. Unfortunately, his recovery and departure are witnessed by a few others and, Ta Daa, a religion is born.

My own take on the Jesus segment of the film is that it was delivered with enough plausibility to make one think it might just have happened that way. I, however, still subscribe to the Freke/Gandy theory described in their "Jesus Mysteries" trilogy, that Christianity was born from a compilation of earlier Pagan myths and came to fruition during the reign of Roman Emperor Constantine when the Literalists split from the Gnostics and Constantine sided with the Literalists, making their version the accepted religion of the Roman Empire.

The film throughout is fascinating and a "must see." It's a small, low budget offering and I suspect it will get limited play for this reason and also because I'm sure the fanatical Religious Right will want it banned and burned.

Having written the above, the monkeymind now ponders what's next? It makes a short leap to this thought, gleaned also, I think, from Osho: There are over 300 religions in the world, but only one science. Science does not require blind belief. It is an ongoing search for knowledge and truth. Those who "believe" quit searching and the truth will ever elude them.

Whoa, that's heavy.

And here comes another. Laughter is meditation. When you laugh heartily there is no thought. If you think, the laughter stops. When there are no thoughts, that IS meditation.

Okay mind... enough! Back in your box. I can take it from here.

Saturday Happenings

A walnut sized frog leaped from the dark of our bedroom into the light of our bathroom as I exited the latter last night a tick or two after four. The little guy just sat there looking at me as I scraped sleep from my consciousness and pondered what to do. I could catch the frog and walk the length of the building where I could unlock a door and effect his release or I could turn out the light, close the bathroom door and deal with the tiny croaker in the morning. I knew if I made the walk, I'd be up, awake and finished with sleep for the night, so I tossed that option aside and returned to bed and dreams of happy hoppers.

It's morning now and there is no frog.

Earlier last night we, RTGFKAR, Woowoo and I, had dinner with friends Lane and Rhode before motoring on to Snoopys to see Neil Simon's play "God's Favorite" performed by our local theatre group. I could review the play as a serious critic of serious art and pan the production, but that would be unfair to the people who worked so hard to put on the show. For what it was, an amatuer offering for live theatre lovers, it was just fine, although not quite dandy.

During intermission I talked with a guy named Mark who had his golden retriever Happy on a leash and was attracting a bit of attention. I mean, most dogs don't attend theatre unless one of their own is featured. Little Orphan Annie comes to mind, arf arf. Mark and I bragged awhile about the intelligence of our respective pets and I noted how Gus will dry himself after a bath if you give him a towel. Mark nodded, unimpressed and then said, "yeah but can he count?" "Huh" I shot back cleverly. Mark then asked Happy how many people were in the group to our left and the dog gave four short barks. Alrighty then. I was one upped and returned to the play.

The thing I have noted about amateur productions is that the actors deliver their lines too rapidly. It is as if they can't wait to get through them correctly and get out of the spotlight. Professionals on the other hand, savor their lines and deliver them with proper timing and careful word emphasis. They love when it is their turn to shine and they don't rush to leave the spotlight. Neil Simon delivers a punch line in almost every sentence of his scripts and last night's cast slid over quite a few of them. Nevertheless, all in all, remember the Alamo and win one for the Gipper, the show was more than worth the seven buck ticket.

Now about that frog. "Yo Gus. Come here. I want you to find something."

We'll show that Happy a thing or two.

The House

We are at the part of house construction here in Panama where many people lose their cool and their minds and can be found running naked through the streets yelling, "Hep me somebody, hep me Jesus." We are thiiissss close to moving in and lack only a few essentials like cabinets and closets and, oh yeah, electricity or we'd be happily ensconced already. (I like that word ensconced. "Jack was fully ensconced in the tapioca filled hot tub when the super model slid in.") The problem at this stage of construction, stage 955 of 1000, is that everything slows down. Woodworkers can't keep up with demand and bureaucracy makes obtaining electricity roughly the equivalent of getting your hands on the Holy Grail. Little wonder the lost cool, the lost minds and the naked street runners. (Never having had much cool and missing a mind for years, there is little danger that I personally or even I impersonally will suffer this fate. I do worry though about Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR, but they too are showing Zen like patience.)

In pursuit of an actual move-in date, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Chuck and I drove to Daveed this week to register our finca (the property) and our corporation (the owner of the property.) This is the first step in obtaining electricity. The last, I think, has something to do with polishing the Grail and sending it up with a kite and a key. Woowoo waited in the car while RTGF and I entered the municipal building like lambs going to the slaughter. Inside we were greeted by a scene that looked a lot like a U.S. Motor Vehicle Agency, counters and lines and people sitting about looking bored or bewildered. We were directed to a queue we hoped was the right one. When our turn came, I explained to the woman clerk in my very best Spanish exactly what we were there for and she, of course, said, "What?" Or in actuality "Como?" which can mean what. I tried again and she got the drift and began asking us a series of questions. The problem here was that even though I could understand much of her Spanish when I could hear it, I often couldn't hear it. It was very noisy in the building and I don't lip read Spanish very well at all. Eventually, after my countless pleas of "repetas por favor", the woman took matters in her own hands and checked off a number of things on several forms and showed me where to sign. RTGFKAR owns our corporation, but I'm the prez, so I do all the "firma y fecha", signing and dating. We were then directed to another line where RTGF whipped out his credit card and payed for whatever it was we had just accomplished. We were then sent back to line 1 where some stamping of this and that occurred and we were given receipts and told to return at five o,clock. We didn't want to hang around Daveed all day so we asked if we could return on another day and were told yes. We did that two days later and are now in possession of everything, we hope, to take to Union Fenosa (a fun thing to say) our local Power company and get, well, wired. That will be next week.

As for cabinets and closets we might be doing better if we could pronounce the maker's name. Miggily or Meggelleddy or mig something. Doesn't fit our English speaking tongues. Nice guy though. Does good work. "Mig old buddy, pronto por favor."

And that's all I have time for today. I've got to get undressed and go for a jog. It just seems like the right thing to do.

Baseball And The Enneagram

Here's a capsule summary and some nicknames for the nine types of the Enneagram to help those unfamiliar with the subject to follow along when I monkeymind over to the nine positions on a baseball team. These summations lack any sort of depth and are about the equivalent of me explaining baseball by saying here's a bat, a ball, a glove, a base etc. The Enneagram is an ancient, complex, deeply profound and spiritually interesting endeavor. In other words, just the kind of thing I like to screw with.

1. The Perfectionist. The Reformer. This type seeks perfection in all things and is, consequently, hard working and often driven to make things "right."

2. The Helper. The Caretaker. People who have a need to be needed. They are happiest when serving.

3. The Achiever. The Motivator. To be successful in everything they do is the bottom
line.

4. The Individualist. The Tragic Romantic. People striving to be different or special. They walk to the beat of a different drummer.

5. The Investigator. The Observer. Always in search of more information. They wish to be omniscient.

6. The Loyalist. The Stalwart. Safety and security are principal goals. They flourish in team situations.

7. The Generalist. The Enthusiast. Happiness is their primary goal. Often confuse fun with happiness.

8. The Boss. The Leader. Wants to be in control and the center of attention.

9. The Mediator. The Comforter. Sees all points of view but is in search of their own.

So there you have that and now you understand everything, right? Me neither.

Alrighty then. With no further ado or adon't, here's my Enneagram baseball team.

Playing catcher and batting in cleanup for the Enneagram Philosophers is Number 3, Joe Achiever. Catchers are the on field coaches. They call the pitches, they run the show. I want my 3 in a position to be successful.

Pitching and batting ninth or not at all, depending upon which league we are playing in, is Number 8, Joe Intimidator. I want my 8 in a position to impose his will. A thing he likes to do.

At first base and leading off is Number 1, Joe Perfect. I want my 1 at first where perfection is most needed. Everything thrown to him must be caught.

At second, and yes there is a symmetry here, I've got Number 2, Joe Helper and he bats second as well. I want a good double play combination and a guy who can help by sacrificing and using the hit and run.

Shortstop is the infield hub and I've got Number 7, Joe Energiser Bunny, my high energy guy holding down the position and batting fifth. He needs to be in on the most action so his mind doesn't wander.

Over at third I'm playing Number 4, Joe Artist our team's specialist, because third is like no other infield position and it takes an unusually gifted athlete to play there. I've got him batting sixth for no special reason.

Centerfield is manned (this is a guy's team) by Number 6, Joe Teammate. Joe will do what it takes to fit in and help the team win. He's batting third for that very same reason.

In Right I've got Number 5, Joe Thinker Not Dooer, because it's a position with usually less excitement, but when the action does come, Joe will make the right decisions. Number 5 bats seventh, because something about a five in the seventh position sounds right.

Playing left is Number 9, Mr. Amenable, because that's where we all agreed he should play and he said it's okay with him. He'll also be the team captain and will bat eighth.

Designated Hitter is Joe Anynumber, but usually a 3. They just like winning so damn much. He'll bat third or fourth and push everyone else down a spot in the batting order.

My manager will also be a 9 because I want everyone in the locker room to get along and 9's are best suited to make that happen.

I could also make a case, and this is a little more woowoo, for starting at first base and calling it position 1, then go around the infield as positions 2, 3 and 4 and with the outfield as 5,6 and 7. All with their Enneagram number corresponding to their baseball number. The pitcher and catcher would be 8 and 9 respectively. Hmmm, I like that a lot. Oh well, too late to change my mind, it's on to football.

My football team will be composed of all 8's except at quarterback where the 3 lives. The 7's will be over with the cheerleaders.

A Small Ordeal

A foul sort of day, rainy, blustery and of course for me, cold. Sixty something degrees.

It's a smidgen short of eleven in the morning and we've already had a small adventure.

RTGFKAR got the call at 7:30. The driver of the ARC Mandarin truck said they had arrived in Boquete and needed us to direct them further. We hopped in RTGFKAR's car and headed to the park to meet them. Loaded on the truck were our shower stalls and a couple of bathroom mirrors. We had arranged this delivery yesterday in David and although we were prepared for the early morning call, we really didn't expect the truck to be on time. They seldom are.

We made the connection and led the way to our house. The road there as some of you know is, ah, dreadful. Especially when it is raining and it was. Doing that. Hard. We crawled along over the rocks and through the mud and got the clunky looking, box truck to the site. Our goods were unloaded, checked, signed for and all seemed well. Well, that is, until the delivery truck bogged down in the mud at the turnaround spot. Alrighty then. Not to worry. Mighty Mitsu to the rescue.

RTGFKAR's car is a Mitsubishi Nativa. A four wheel drive SUV. These kind of cars are technically classified as trucks, but if you ask me - and somebody should - they are really just glorified station wagons. I wasn't sure we could help, but of course we had to try. I got the car turned around up by our house so that I could pull down the drive and park in front of the the truck. No one had a chain but the truck guys came up with a rope and we hooked on. I dropped the gears into four wheel low, eased forward and, eureka, pulled them right out! We weren't done though. The truck still had to turn around in the turnaround and when it was finally pointed in the right direction it was, ta daa, stuck again. Still not to worry, we hooked up and yanked them out anew.

The surprising thing to me apart from the car actually pulling this large truck from the mud, was the attitude of the truck's occupants, a driver and a helper. They remained cheerful and seemingly undisturbed throughout. I thought back to how I would have acted at a similar age, twenty something, and the picture I conjured of my truck stuck in the mud on a rainy day, deliveries backing up, was not that of the proverbial happy camper. I would have been, okay what's the word I need, angry. Very angry. Extremely angry. The kind of angry I never actually get at other people. It's a kind of mad anger reserved exclusively for things that don't do what they are supposed to. It's a real mad, a murderous mad. Afortunadamente,I'm better now. Age has tempered the temper. I realize that those inanimate objects that so pissed me off in the past meant well all along. They were just doing their thing, being things. So I was impressed by the truck driver and his helper's steady calmness throughout our small ordeal. Their Wah, their Zen, their evolution was far ahead of mine at a similiar age. (But then, who's isn't? Wasn't?)

None of this is what I intended to write about this morning. It's just another distraction. What I intended to write about you'll get tomorrow.

If I'm not distracted.

El Dia De Independencia

It's Independence Day II, the sequel, here in Panama. We are celebrating Panama's separation from Columbia with parades and whatnot. The whatnot, I think, is mostly drums. Later this month we will celebrate Independence Day, The Original, which is a fiesta commemorating Panama's liberation from Spain. That too will include parades and drums. Lots 'o drums. It is 8:20 in the A.M. as I write this and I can hear a steady rhythm in the background. Dumdiddy dum dum. Dump dump. Sounds like Bo Diddly on steroids.

The sun is out though. Which is to say it's here. I don't know where it goes when it's in. It's bombing us with beams as if it really intends to stay around awhile. I know better. Some time after noon Old Sol will duck for cover and a large lake in the guise of a cloud will hover above us like the alien space craft in Independence Day, The Movie. On someone or something's command, Sunny's beam bombs will be replaced by the bottom falling out of the lake; the noise of which, I might add and will, can actually drown - yup, that's the word, drown - the drumming. Too bad. After months of rain, I'll take the drumming.

I suppose I should, and you know I always do as I should, interject right here a short history of Panama's liberation from Colombia. I'm not real clear on the details, but the overall story goes something like this. Old King Jorge the Third of Colombia decided he wasn't getting enough revenue from his Panamanian Colony so he raised the taxes on coffee. This was the last straw for the Panamanios so they dumped the coffee into the Caribbean and formed a militia group called the Minuto Hombres. When Colombia sent a bunch of soldiers dressed in red coats and heavily armed with the latest in modern machete technology, the Minuto Hombres took to the mountains and hid out until Teddy Roosevelt came down from the USA and scared the redcoats away. After that there was a declaration sent to Colombia stating that Panama was an independent country and all the Minuto Hombres who were now famous founding fathers signed it. Juan Manocock signed with real large letters.

The history of Panama's separation from Spain is an equally interesting story, but a lot more complicated. Don't worry though, I'll do my usual intensive research and then get back to you with all the details. I'm pretty sure it started with bull fight protests.

Not Much Today

I'm reading a book by Osho called "Autobiography of a Spiritually Incorrect Mystic", an Elmore Leonard novel and the Sixth in the Harry Potter Series. This last in Spanish. I read Osho while we are playing Scrabble, Leonard before bed and Harry here and there. I'll finish Leonard first then move Osho into that prime reading spot as it's a borrowed book. I'll then move a new book into the Scrabble slot because Potter in Spanish requires too much concentration to play the game well. I'm thinking another P.G. Wodehouse lark. I picked one up at The Bookmark recently and I don't let P.G. lie around unread for very long. He's too funny. Why do I mention all this you say? That's easy. See the picture on the right hand side of the page? That's me and my stuff. Turns out I'm lacking the mind's proper glue and my stuff keeps falling out. No matter. Just makes room for more.

And here's another bit dribbling onto the page. I bought bags of M&M's for the Trick or Treaters last night. The kids don't actually do that trick or treat thing here in Boquete and you'd think I'd know that by now wouldn't you? Well listen up then if that's what you think. Of course I know that. What, I'm an idiot? Come on! How else am I going to justify those little bags of crunchy delight at my fingertips during Halloween Six The Revenge Of Michael Myers? I mean, you can't let them go to waste, can you?

So there you have that.

Halloween

Alas, there will be no dancercise blog. I pulled into the parking lot of Snoopy's where the class was going to be held about ten minutes early. There was one other car there, its occupant also waiting, and friendly guy that I am I knocked on the car's darkly tinted window hoping to inquire a bit about the class. A woman - I could tell by the voice - rolled the window down about an inch and said, "yes?" I asked if I was in the right place for the dance class and she told me I was but that the class was for women only. "Really?" I replied or something else clever like that,
"It didn't say that on the Internet." She said it wasn't mentioned on the change of location email but was on the original posting. I asked if it mattered that I was in touch with my feminine side and she rolled up her window. So...no blog there.

Today is Halloween, my favorite Holiday and my plan was to watch horror movies all day on the off chance I haven't previously seen one of them. It's hard to remember when you are on the seventh or eighth sequel. It's always fun, well for me anyway, to see how the teens do in Michael, Jason and Freddy, after of course, M,J and F have weeded out a sizable number of the hormonally driven lot themselves, and to look for future stars in the casts. Johnny Depp was in a "Nightmare On.." episode. The first one I think. My plan, though, was interrupted by things that need doing. If you're thinking, like I was initially, what can be more important than watching B, C and D horror flicks, then let me point out that one of the things I need to do is go pay the cable bill. I got a call saying it was going to be turned off today if I didn't. It would be nice if the cable company would actually send or deliver a bill to me so I'd know, but at least they called. After that, well there's other stuff I'll do as long as I'm out.

Damn, "Dracula 2000" is on and I'm going to miss it. Ah well, maybe next year.

The Monkeymind and Other Stuff

Here's how the monkeymind works. I was going to return to drinking black coffee this morning to spare myself the calories from milk and sugar. When I looked, however, at my first cup, there I was stirring in the evil dairy and the suicide sweet. I don't recall which parallel universe I was visiting when those substances were added. Call that the down side of the monkeymind. My first thought upon arriving back on this plane was, I'm a creature of habit. My next thought was, no you're not, a nun is a creature of habit. I call that the upside of the monkeymind, because a chuckle is worth a thousand calories.

Sybil Danning. (Just seeing if my boys are paying attention.)

RTGFKAR and I are still pumping Irene. (That's iron for anyone new to the blog.)We have been at it semi-seriously since May. (I've been at life semi-seriously since 1941.) For the doubters and the scoffers who are at this moment going doubt doubt scoff scoff, I want to point out that we are buff old dudes. Okay it is hard to tell because our massive buffness is hidden under our massive consumption of RTGFKAR's homemade carbohydrates, but we have increased our bench press weight by almost 40 pounds and our curls by ten or twelve. How our increased strength relates to our actual lives is hard to gauge, but I am looking forward to 300 yard drives when the rain stops and we return to the links. That would be the golf links and not the hot links from which we have never departed.

In a further effort to return to those thrilling days of fitter years and the never ending search for blog material, I am today joining a class called "Dancercise." Feeling that my long walks at a leisurely pace while my leash arm is stretched to a freakish length by Gus fulfilling his own exercise needs is not meeting my aerobic, heart pumping, lung bursting, body sweating requirements as designed by a reliable source I once heard about through a friend, I figure I'll dance my way to fame and fitness. Stay tuned and we'll see how that goes.

For now though, it's off to Daveed to buy toilets because, you know, we need those too.

Playing the Game

I awoke at 4:45 this morning. It wasn't that I couldn't sleep, it was that I had slept enough. I lay abed testing this had enough theory for about fifteen minutes and then, realizing that sleep had truly departed, I stumbled about in the dark trying not to arouse Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR from their slumbers. Gus, of course, was off the bed with me in a sleepy bound saying this is cool, maybe we're going to do something interesting. Sorry Gus.

It's three hours later and I've answered mail, read on-line news - Sox are up big in the Series, Bush is down big in the polls - and mainlined half a pot of Cafe Ruiz finest blend. I'm ready to blog. Or at least I would be if I had a topic handy.

I left a note next to our computer last night that says, "it's the playing not the winning." I had in mind writing a blog on that theme, but I've been given pause by my knowledge of The Enneagram. "Of course it's the playing" Enneagramers will say, "you are a seven." What they mean by that is that my enneagram personality type, the seven, in search of happiness, is frequently a connoisseur of fun. "If you were a three," the Enneagramers might add, "you'd be all about the winning." I think though, there's more to it than that, so I'll go ahead and blog about playing versus winning because, A. it gives me a topic and B. if I'm wrong and it's not philosophy but merely inherent personality, then no matter, it's what I think regardless of why I think it.

And here's what it is:

The thing about playing the game is this. While you are so engaged you are SO ENGAGED! That is, present in the moment. There is no world, there is no time, there is only the activity at hand. This presumes, of course, that you have chosen to participate in this activity because you enjoy it. What better feeling than being fully present for something you enjoy? The outcome of the activity, a win or a loss, pales then, because to achieve either one means the fun is over! I side with Ernie Banks who used to say, "It's a beautiful day, let's play two." This philosophy is not limited to sports and games. Any activity in life that captures your complete attention is justified by its doing rather than any outcome it may generate. And that's why I play and that's how I live. Hoisting the trophy is nice, but it's not as much fun as the getting there.

Hmmm. I really am a seven aren't I?

Addicted

The challenge of the blank blog. It's an interesting hobby. I have decided that that is what this is, a hobby. (I like those double "thats".) It all started back in Arboles when Charly's woowoo mentor Sharmin consulted her woowoo charms, amulets, stones, vibes, and intuition about the subject of Doc's ennui. (I threw in the word ennui so #2 Son would have something to work with in the comment section.) She decided that what I needed was to be doing something creative. From this suggestion came Woowoo Charly giving me morning time to write and I've been hard at it ever since. I had, of course, dabbled in the old putting pen to paper over the years and always found it a wonderful place for the monkeymind to roam, but never on any sort of a regular (I was going to say disciplined, but that's contrary to the spirit of the monkeymind) basis. Now, after several years of scribbling, I find a morning without the blank blog challenge lacking the fulfilled feeling and the high, yes that's the word, high, needed to make my day. It is true then, I am an addict. Some would say a write-aholic, but then, some are really stupid.

I post this admission not only to clear the air and my conscience, but also to help you, the enablers. You need intervention and I hope to see you at al-anon soon. Remember, the first step is the one I've taken here which is to get the truth out and let it fly free. If it returns to you, then lock it up and keep it close to your heart or other favorite body parts.

This is not a trivial subject. This is something important and must be dealt with according to Hoyle. A trivial subject would be Brittany Spears or George Bush. I urge you therefore to take action immediately. STOP READING NOW! Okay, not quite now, but soon. I promise. I'm almost finished.

I'm just kidding. You know that, right? I mean I really want you to keep on reading.
You have to keep on reading. You must keep on reading! All the way to the end!

(Man we addicts are needy.)

Blither and Blather

The sun has gone back to teasing us. Mornings are crystal, squinty eyed bright. Around midday the clouds creep in just above the tree line and the sun takes a powder. After that it's duck for cover or cover for ducks, here comes the rain.

RTGFKAR, friend Bonnie and I are off to Daveed this a.m. to take care of this and that. This is getting Ramon's visa extended, that is shopping for our houses. Bonnie needs weather stripping and we need electrical odds and ends.

I'm treading water once again. I've got 45 minutes to stay afloat and then we've got to leave. This then, is killing time. My uncle, Fred Hooey, who wasn't really my uncle, used to say, "if you have to kill time, work it to death." So that's what I'm doing, working the keyboard, working the monkeymind and working my coffee cup at least half to death.

Yesterday, while having lunch on the patio outside Amigos Restaurant, RTGFKAR and I couldn't - for the longest time - come up with a name. The name, which I eventually dug from lazy brain cells, was Raquel Welch. I find this disturbing. It's not disturbing that I couldn't remember over the course of the entire weekend the name of a wishbone quarterback from either Oklahoma or Nebraska who is now an elected politician, because, really, who cares. But Raquel? C'mon, she had memorable qualities.

RTGFKAR and I also decided, when not trying to withdraw names for our memory banks, that burgled is a funny word. Not its definition of course, just the word itself. Say burgled three times in succession and it will make you smile.

From these examples you can tell that we engage and deeply enjoy serious, intellectual conversations while dining al fresco here in Jubilado land.

A guy sitting at a table next to us made friends with Gus who was along for the ride and the table scraps. He told us his wife had just run away with another guy and she'd taken his dog. He was very upset. He really missed his dog.

Alrighty then. That's enough chit chat. Time for the serious stuff.

Whoops, there's the phone. Gotta go.

Distractions

I'm not going to blog today, but if I were, I'd blog about distractions.

A distraction is something that diverts your attention from the the activity you are SUPPOSED to be doing. I don't know about you, but I don't know for sure WHAT IT IS that I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. Never have. It's possible that everything I've ever done is a distraction. I read a book entitled "Ecotopia" years ago in which the author points out that all other mammals engage in play when they aren't eating or searching for food. Sounds good to me. That's why I'm fooling around today instead of blogging. I am, however, being distracted from my not blogging by a guy directly outside my nearest window who is building a wall to prevent the house from further flooding. He's very noisy. I wonder what he is really SUPPOSED to be doing today and why he wasn't SUPPOSED to be wall building at the beginning of the rainy season rather than at its end. I'm guessing he got distracted.

You also have to factor in the distraction that takes you from the current distraction and leads you to another. When I was a kid and thought I knew what I was SUPPOSED to do because my parents told me, I was frequently distracted by them and other adults asking me what I wanted to do when I grew up. Well damn, if THEY didn't know, how was I to know, and was it really a question of what I wanted to do or what I was SUPPOSED to do? Adults were very confusing then, which partly accounts for why I've never become one. Instead I just followed one distraction to the next until I find myself here in Panama not blogging.

John Lennon is attributed with having said "Life is what happens to you while you are making other plans." Clever. And probably true for a lot of people. Some of us though, never really had any plans. We just followed the path the distractions led us down, which is maybe not so bad by comparison. By that, I mean considering the disappointments inherent in Lennon's statement.

Woowoo Charly chimes in with "Things are as they are because that is how they are SUPPOSED to be. They can't be any other way and if they were SUPPOSED to be any other way, they would be." This from the Buddhists, the Iching and George Clooney I think. Of course we really can't trust them, because they have probably been distracted and aren't really doing what they're SUPPOSED to, so how can they know for sure?

It's all very puzzling and that's what I would blog about if I were blogging today. But not to worry, I'll get to it tomorrow. If I'm not distracted.

Further Affairs Remembered

I used to be skinny. Not thin, skinny. I had to grow into thin. There's a mindset that goes with skinny and yesterday I relapsed into that mindset. What happened is, I forgot to eat. Well not completely, somewhere about noon I had a small cup of yogurt and later some popcorn. This gluttony would have sustained me in my skinny days, but here in my look he's swallowed a volleyball days, I found myself hungry right at five o'clock. The feast I participated in the night before at precisely that hour might have been partly responsible for my sudden pang along with the absence of breakfast and lunch, but I had had those wholesome snacks to tide me over, so it caught my monkeymind quite by surprise when my volleyball rumbled and I became aware of the unlikely here in retirement where the fridge is but steps away, hunger.

Not to worry, you say, go get something to eat.

The problem was that five o,clock de la tarde ayer, I was sitting in a high school gym along with Woowoo Chuck, RTGFKAR, Larry, Bonnie and some hundred or so other folk watching assorted decorating committees hang balloons and paste cardboard horses on the walls. The announced starting time of the event, "Adventures In The Old West" was this very same five o,clock and not being daughter Kira whose timing would have been perfect, we had plopped onto our folding chairs at precisely five of. The show would begin a little over an hour later. Okay, a lot over. We did, however, get to see bored gringo women attempting line dances in the aisles to the country music being piped over the sound system and we were further amused by an hombre testing microphones. Uno dos. Uno dos. Chick chick chick.

The reason we were in attendance was not entertainment desperation but to give support to a young woman named Demorris who works for Larry and Bon and who in fact was a part of our after flood cleanup crew. Demorris was in the cast and a member of the Learn To Speak English group that was putting on the night's performance. She got to show her stuff in a dance number near the end and I'm told she was quite good, but I have to confess to not really noticing as the lead dancer was one of those women who have the ability to move their parts separately and in different directions. I find this, ahem...interesting.

Long before that welcomed distraction from the "mean green mutha from outer space" saying "feed me!" that now resided in my gut, several things had occurred. First off, we learned that an early escape would be impossible. Having arrived promptly for the five o,clock showtime and achieved a premium, up front parking space, we were now hemmed in by dozens of other cars. Rats! was the word Larry would have used in place of the one he actually did employ if he had thought of it. I can't use his actual word as this is a family blog, but I can tell you it was a synonym of fuck. The other important thing that occurred was the show itself.

The curtain opened to an ensemble dance number that was not too bad. Not exactly The Rockettes, but not bad. Of course they were dancing to John Denver's Take Me Home Country Road which is about West Virginia, a state not usually associated with our "Old West" but, c'mon, what do we know about Panama? Slack was cut. Following that the judges were introduced. You see there was a contest running throughout the show to determine the prince and princess. Of what was never clear but then just being elected was apparently enough and each contestant had their own rabidly cheering fan club seated in specially decorated sections throughout the gym. After the judges, all Gringos, had been introduced we were treated to sketch 1 called "Law and Disorder" which featured a dozen or so Panamanians in American western garb milling around the stage saying things to each other. What they were saying I have no idea, because "uno dos chick chick chick" man apparently didn't realize that a mike at the front of the stage picks up nothing further than a foot or so away. Ah well, the costumes were nice. After that we got sketch 2 "Wild Wild West" with a hand held mike being awkwardly passed from person to person and it was about Jim West and Artemus Gordon from the television show of the same name, but that's all I really understood as even though all the actors were displaying their best English, it was much like what Panamanians get when I display my best Spanish. We then got another group dance, performances by the princess and prince candidates, another sketch called "Silent Love" which featured a pregnant Indian, played, I think by a pregnant Indian, a fourth sketch entitled "The Lost Bullet" that took place in a saloon and featured the line "not all women who come in bars are prostitutes or pussycats" and then, and then, we bolted. Okay bolted may not be the right word. What happened was we returned to the parking lot and directed traffic for other bolters so that we could bolt behind them. Orderly bolting. Disorderly bolting. Chaotic bolting in slow motion. Whatever, we made our escape. Unfortunately we missed: 1. Questions to the competitors. 2. The Election of the King and Queen. (I thought they were going to be elected Prince and Princess but the show took so long I guess the old monarchs must have died.)3. Presentation of the Winners in the Contest. We will never know, but my vote went to the dancer with the, ah, good rhythm.

It was nine when we finally made it home. Four hours since I first detected that I was becoming a late night Ethiopian telethon plea for food. I rushed to the fridge in near panic mode and there it was, God's own purely finest food...left over pizza. I need say no more.

An Affair to Remember

Sam's a garrulous guy much traveled during his 76 years and Judy's his quieter, ten years younger and nonetheless interesting partner. We had dinner at their place last night.

They live down a long drive on a bumpy road (as doesn't everyone here?) that leads to their splendid house over looking as much of the world as anyone needs to see at one time. It's a top ten Boquete vista. Desafortunadamente, (my longest Spanish word) little of that view was available last night as rain clouds wrapped the house in a soft gray shroud. Not to worry, the antipasto (sp?) spread on the dining room table was such that once seen the eyes found no need to wander in search of further beauty. Sam, we were to learn, as a boy had once worked at an upscale restaurant where he had been taught the art of food presentation. These were lessons he had clearly not forgotten. The table was magnificent. For those of you who know me well and know that I mostly use my eyes to avoid bumping into things and finding the correct letters on my keyboard, let me add that both Woowoo Chuck and RTGFKAR second that appraisal. The moment the Chianti was opened and poured and the toasts completed, we dove into the spread with appetite aforethought. I am not, again as most of you know,a gourmet or even a gourmand, (RTGFKAR just explained the difference) what with buttered bread being my favorite food, but on this occasion I got an inkling of what the world of great eating was all about. As we gobbled, yup that's the right word, Sam gave us a rundown of each item slipping by our taste buds and landing happily in our estomagos, I can't list them all, but olives stuffed with almonds was a favorite of mine. Judy warned, perhaps because we were eating like machines, that there were more goodies to come. Next to good bread and butter in my top five foods ,right after chocolate chip cookies (yeah I know I've got the taste buds of a ten year old) lies spaghetti and because of same I was first in line to fill my pasta bowl with Sam's noodles, sauce and a big fat HOMEMADE Italian sausage. I've never had better. Even the legendary Mrs, De Franzo from my youth could not match Sam's sausage.

While we ate, the conversation ran the gamut of many things from the personal to the political to the philosophical and it was a further treat to share thoughts with people whose opinions were similar to ours but had been arrived at from very different paths. I find the history of other's thoughts, that is, the road to their opinions, a topic of much interest and our talk included lots of that.

Dessert, I can't forget dessert, was a Judy prepared I'm thinking pudding, but that word doesn't do nearly enough to describe the dish that tasted like a liquid cheese cake...sort of. It was, and here I cannot find an adjective to surpass the praise of a fourteen year old surfer, so I'll just go with that...Awesome Dude.

After the feast we all pitched in with the clean up and following that it was hugs and byes and headed home.

All in all and alrighty then, an affair to remember.

Hey! Remember that flick? Cary Grant,right?

After Enlightenment There's The Laundry

Sung to the tune of Dock of the Bay: Sittin' with my mornin' brew, must be somethin' I can say say-eh to you.

One consequence of the Great Flood Of 07 is that our six month old clothes washer no longer agitates or spins. I no longer agitate or spin either, at least not without the aid of substances fermented or distilled, but in the case of the washer this consequence can be construed as bad. (Construed is a good word. If you didn't know its meaning you'd have to make one up. "Although jack was a bachelor, he construed whenever he got the chance.") The reason the washer was deprived of its action verbs was its proximity to the flood itself. You see, our washer/dryer, a stacker, sits outside at the back of the house where the flood build up was deepest. "Qutside!" you're all saying incredulously, or perhaps outcredulously, "outside?" Well just slow down, hold your horses and I'll explain. (Hold your horses? Who says that anymore. Man I'm old. What do people say now, hold your hybrids?) It's not that uncommon here to find washer/dryers on patios where there is a roof overhead...like ours. It's an indoors space saver. Of course it's also not uncommon here to see women beating clothes on rocks in a stream, a post flood suggestion I made to Woowoo Charly that prompted a look that took me awhile to decipher, but eventually translated as "it's amazing you've lived THIS long." All this is a "not to worry" we hope as we do have a warranty.

And to pursue the repair the warranty provides, we traveled to the "Do It Right" center in Daveed to talk to our man Tino, the store's "facilitator". This is a title we believe because it is printed on his uniform badge and is a Spanish word the meaning of which we were somehow able to deduce. Tino says no problem, he'll get the repairman all set up and call to tell us when he will be arriving in Boquete. I mention this mundane detail only to give another insight into Panamanian culture that we, at that moment, totally forgot. Panamanians do not call back. Not lawyers, not contractors and especially not service people. You must call them. Don't know why, it just is. Ask anyone.

So, that's what I'll be doing today, calling Tino. And, oh yeah, going to the Lavamatico, the laundry. We're low on socks.

Treading Water

Another beautiful morning. They all are. This one's a bit soggy though. The rain sounds like mice tap dancing on the roof. The rainy season, we are told, ends in mid November. We will be moving into our new house, we are told, also in mid November. This sounds like a nice marriage of happy events, but I worry about the we are told part. I mean, you hear a lot of things. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq comes to mind and Bush has live brain cells is another. On a more personal note, RTGFKAR was told by his shipping company that his stuff would arrive shortly. That was last May. And I've been eating my spinach since I was a little kid so I could grow up to be "big and strong." I'm still waiting for the growth spurt.

Optimism prevails despite all because I like saying optimism. Especially this way, OPTOE (pause) Mism. You don't get that? Ah well, the monkeymind is not always capturable. Our house IS nearing completion, albeit at a snail's pace and the rain has stopped in previous Novembers. RTGFKAR was informed that his stuff is on a boat headed this way and I haven't abandoned hopes of topping out at six three. To that end I bought more spinach yesterday. Bush and his Idiocy, I mean presidency, will eventually come to an end and all will be right with the world. Won't it? Well, my world anyway.

It must be clear to you by now that I have nothing to say today. When that happens I just monkeymind about and see what appears on the screen. I usually call that "treading water", but considering my last blog I want to be real careful with the phrase. It is as you know, still raining.

Or is it? The mice have quit dancing. Time for me to start.

Inundada

"It ain't funny Magee." That old chestnut from Fibber Magee and Molly springing to the forefront of my consciousness as a warning to my usual self to recite the facts and just the facts...Ma'am. Of course, my faithful readers being hundreds of years younger than I are no doubt wondering who are Fibber Magee and Molly and if there is a forefront is there also an aftfront? And further, they probably don't get the facts just the facts Dragnet reference. It must be hell to be young.

So, for them I will try to write this account of an "inundada" in an orderly and linear fashion, straightforward and without tongue planted firmly in cheek. I'll just paint the grim word picture and be done with it, so that everyone can understand exactly what occurred on the eve of Wednesday the 10th of October in the year 2007. Yup, that's what I'll do.

Well NO, of course I won't, because there is something inherently funny in standing ankle deep in a raging creek with a broom in hand trying to direct the water's flow. Especially if you are indoors at the time.

Here's how that began more or less. I say more or less because the only one present for the entire event was Gustavo the Wonder Dog. His dog's eye view may not be reliable, but it's the only one we have. He told me that it all went from bad to worse about three o,clock when the rain,intermittently heavy throughout the day, leaped into the torrential category. Gus paused here in his recitation to point out that this was probably my fault for leaving him home alone in the first place and I should never do that again. I didn't quite get the connection there, but I'm not that fluent in dog. He said that when the water first began oozing under the back door he barked his head off trying to frighten it back, but to no avail. As the water crept into the rest of the house, kitchen first, then dining room, living room, oficina and finally bedrooms and baths, it brought with it it's usual rainy season companion, mud. Gus said that at this point his only concern was that we'd blame it on him. He then pointed out that despite the floor's ugly mess, he never even once jumped onto the bed or the sofas. He said, "I was a good boy throughout, where's my bone?"

We, the humans, were at the time motoring back from an errand in Daveed and remarking on just how heavy the rain had become. Our wipers could barely handle the torrent. This again is more or less as I don't speak human fluently either. As I came up the drive and onto the carport, I looked through the car's tinted driver's side window and noticed what looked like oil flowing from under our front door. I said something like, what the? and rolled down the window. It was mud. The tint had made it appear black. I could also see Gus looking frantic behind one of the small windows that rise from the ground vertically on either side of our door. His expression said - and here I don't know how this is possible - exactly what I've used to start this piece, to wit, it ain't funny Magee.

I opened the door quickly and Gus came splashing out with his usual I'm sooo happy to see you and his unusual it's not my fault, it's not my fault. I yelled "down" and "off" a couple of times because I didn't want his wet paws to get my pants dirty. Oh my oh my and yeah right. A minute later I was soaked to the knees.

Those of you who have been to our rental house know that there is a back door off a hallway that leads to a front door. Should you not turn off and enter the house at large, it's a straight shot from one door to the other. The water streaming under the back door was headed to the front, but couldn't escape as that door was closed and sealed tight. You could not, however, fault the back door as it was doing its best to hold back Niagara like forces. It was, at least, until I opened it. First though, I opened the front. I then grabbed a broom from somewhere, I don't really remember, it just seemed to materialize in my hands, and began to sweep the water out the front door and onto the patio. It was still raining extremely hard and this action was not really getting the job done to my satisfaction as much of the water was still turning into the house and flooding the other rooms. I know, I said to myself, I'll open the back door and let the stored up water flow through faster. As I went to do so, Woowoo Charly, who had also materialized from nowhere said, and here I will directly quote, "Don't open the door Doc, don't do it, don't do it." These words struck some vague memory chords in what passes for my intellect, something having to do with a chicken and another blog, but were not strong enough to deter me from my, I was certain, noble, heroic and proper deed. How was I to know that not a backyard, but in fact a lake was lurking just beyond the door. As I swung it wide open and the lake rushed on, by and over me about roughly knee high, if by roughly knee high I mean mid thigh, Woowoo Charly was heard to emit other somewhat high pitched sounds, the like of which fail to be captured with mere words. At their end though, she did manage a decent suggestion and here I will return to directly quoting. She said, "close the damn door." Okay, that may not be exact, damn lacking the force of the word she actually used, but it is close enough to convey the strength of her conviction that this was the action most needed. Problem was, it's very hard to close a door against a lake wanting to be a river. Fortunately I am a man of great resources, if small mind and I used the latest of these, my penchant for pumping Irene, I mean iron,(another blog) to bear on the task at hand. Placing my shoulder against the door, I heaved and heaved, because heaving was clearly called for and at last returned the door to its closed position. Turning to Woowoo Charly to get my "well done, good show, you're my hero" I was presented with the broom instead. It and its close personal friend the mop, were not to leave my hands for the next four hours. As Woowoo Charly and I swept away, RTGFKAR, shovel in hand, rpaired the hole in the damaged dyke, returning the water's flow to its original course.

What had occurred before our arrival at the casa was an eventuality always possible, but never really prepared for. On the hillside behind and to the right of the house flows a lovely waterfall. If you examine the scene in a carefully critical rather than a purely beauty appreciative fashion, you will note that the waterfall is aimed at the back corner of the house. Its bank curves away at the last moment and sends its flow along the side of the house and away from it. On this dire day however, the fall of the water had been so strong that the protective bank had collapsed and the whole, mud carrying mess was redirected at our backyard where the only way it could continue its descent was through our back door. Well alrighty then.

The rain did subside eventually allowing Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and I to get ahead of the flood plane with our cleaning. We swept water to various doors and drains and then mopped until our aching, aging backs said basta, enough. There was much still wet when we fell into our beds. I can't speak for the others, but my dreams included Moses, Noah and the Titanic. Even the young will understand those references.

It's Too Early

If we experience the reality of other planes of consciousness, it makes us a lot less anxious about our lives, because we have a context for them. Ram Dass

Alrighty then. I wonder if Ram was passing out the other planes of consciousness pills as he said that.

I'm barely conscious myself. Prince Bozo the wonder dog known as Gus sat beside my bed at pillow level and whined this morning until I got up and let him out. It was still dark. You'd think he'd at least go pee immediately, but no, his royalness had to sniff around for five minutes or so or, in fact, until both my eyes were open and my heart was thumping fast enough to permit movement towards the coffee pot. While I was shoveling the dark brown grains into the filter part of same, adding water and then impatiently waiting for the miracle liquid to appear, Gus was watching the dawn of the day happen. He finds both dawn and dusk to be wonders, but remains unimpressed when I turn lights on and off. How does he know the difference?

Being abruptly awakened from my alternate plane of consciousness, my deep dream state, does little for my disposition in this my light dream state. Ram and the other Buddha boys are always telling me I'm not completely awake, but then, how do they know? I'm present. I meditate. I think. I feel. I can take a joke. Nevertheless, I sense they are either on something or onto something, so I'll go along and call my waking reality a light dream state although it seems to me that I've got it backwards. When I'm asleep I can fly. When I'm awake I'm earthbound. Which seems the lighter experience to you? Of course, sometimes I can't tell the difference and this may be one of those times. I'm going back to bed for further examination of this conundrum.

Somebody watch the dog.

There's a Topic in Here Somewhere

"Government of the money, by the money, for the money." This from Kinky Friedman on Wolf Blitzer's show yesterday.

I know you shouldn't talk about religion or politics, but by God, politics suck.

Writer's block. The Broncos could learn from them.

I'm looking for something to write about. Anything. On the bottom of my screen it says something about Bold and Italic. My friend Ralph DeFranzo was a bold italic. I wonder where he is today.

It also says Publish, Save and Draft. I'm thinking that's not the proper order.

Books and movies, that's it. You can always talk about books and movies.

Let's see, I'm reading a Jim Harrison book called "Returning To Earth." A movie producer once told Harrison, according to Harrison himself in another book, that he hired Harrison not for his stories but because he created interesting characters. This book is like that; strong, original, believable characters set against a simple plot device, the death of the first character you meet. Lots of musing about the inevitability of death and the uniqueness of individual mourning. Hope and love do come into play through it all, but they seem somewhat underscored. "He said 'After all, the fact of death is the most brutal thing we humans are forced to accept', but then the sun came out again and I told him the day after the burial Herald had said, 'Mother, it can't be awful if it happens to every living thing.'" I will finish this book sometime today, I have perhaps twenty pages to read, and then I'll seek out the two old Wodehouse novels I picked up recently at our local libreria, the Bookmark. I feel the need to lighten up.

As for movies...I'm sure I've seen some.

Lost and Found

I like the way the English say frustration. FrusTRYshun. Either way works for describing my condition at the moment. Last night while sliding into slumber land I had what surely was a great idea for a blog, so I began to write it silently in my head. I should have perhaps written it noisily in my head as it is now completely lost in that cavernous space. I am going to pause a moment and send in a memory rescue team to try and locate the idea.

Lorraine Day and Leo Durocher. John Beresford Tipton. Tinkers to Evers to Chance. Virginia Mayo. Wolfbane and defiling the ancient tombs of Anankh. Cosmo Topper.

There's a lot of trivial junk in there. No wonder I can't find the idea.

Riverboat ring your bell, Maverick was a legend of the West. The Lawman rides with the sun. Rawhide rawhiiiide, CRACK! He makes the sign of the Zee. Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp brave courageous and bold. Have gun will travel reads the card of the man.

Hmmm, that was an interesting period.

Bob Waterfield and Jane Russell. I love Bosco. Maria Ouspenskia. Crazy Legs Hirsh. John Beresford Tipton. Whoops, I must have gone in a circle. Mary Martin is Peter Pan? The Inner Sanctum. There's a signpost up ahead. The Shadow knows. Hi Ho Silver awaaay. Hopalong Cassidy. Nabisco Shredded Wheat.

It's a friggin mess in there. It's a wonder I can find anything.

Danny and the Juniors. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. Red Ryder. Red Buttons. Little Lulu. The Katzenjammer Kids. Humphrey Bogart was the baby on the first Gerber jar. And awaaaay we go. Vivian Vance. Bazooka Bubble Gum. Vernon Presley.

This is hopeless, I give up.

Marjorie Maine. Marjorie Morningstar. Brenda Star and of course Bart. Cavalcade of Stars. Your Show of Shows. Reeeely big show tonight. Gold at Fort Knox, silver at West Point. Win one for the gipper George Gipp...

Help! I can't get out!

Food for Thought

The day feels festive already. It's a bright, clear A.M. and all the troops, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR, Randy and Maryellen, save one, me the Lone Blogger, are on the patio woofing coffee. I can hear the high tinkly sounds of the women's laughter and the low bass counterpoint Ha Ha's of the men. I wonder what has struck them funny. Later today we will wander over to Bonnie and Larry's to eat mounds of shrimp cocktail - we bought ten pounds of fresh shrimp yesterday - large steaks cooked to perfection, which for me means beyond recognition of the animal it once was, and to imbibe assorted alcoholic beverages. Imbibing these beverages, I'm told, is less dangerous than actually drinking them. This good time awaiting all compliments of Woowoo Chuck and self described Old Redneck Larry who are celebrating birthdays here and now abouts. Their respective 39ths no doubt.

Alrighty then, let's carry on.

Do you like garlic? We, the Pnama pundits, have an ongoing conversation about garlic that goes something like this.

Everyone in the world: "Garlic tastes wonderful and is good for you. I can't have too much."

Me: "Nah".

(I'm sure there are some vampire strains in my DNA because lately, besides the garlic thing, I also try to avoid mirrors. If I start ducking crosses, feel free to stake me.)

I surmise, though, that it is not unusual to have eating quirks about foods generally considered by the populace at large and possibly at medium to be, ahem, "good for you." RTGFKAR, for instance, won't eat onions or uncooked vegetables. Woowoo Charly, an extreme example, doesn't eat at all but somehow makes food disappear from the table. She claims to be eating, but when forced to stand on a scale to prove it, the needle doesn't budge. In addition to garlic, I'm adverse to greasy finger foods and anything on my plate that moves by itself.

So all you all fess up ( the Old Redneck keeps rubbing off on me) and tell me your food quirks. While you're doing that I'll go party.

Dancing

Another fine morning. I can hear John Denver crooning "sunshine on my shoulders makes me... sweaty" in the background. Well not really, but I needed to get that old joke in.

So alrighty then. Last night we watched Dancing With Third Rate Stars, Has Beens, Never Were's and Who The Hell Are They Anyway, a show with enormous ratings and women with skimpy costumes which may, in part, account for the enormous ratings. For my own self, and I'm sure I'm not alone, I most enjoy the men "stars" being put through their paces as they are paired with beautiful women wearing daring costumes who actually know how to dance which is to say they are adept at moving all those parts that make them women in an alluring fashion. This may account for my being unable this morning to actually name the men "stars" who performed. Last night was Banish the Baddie Night which means one couple was to be eliminated, a thing that doesn't occur until the end of the show and is preceded by sophomoric and contrived drama and - and this is the part that will keep me from ever watching Banish Night again - 4750 commercials aired roughly ten at time and five minutes of show apart. If the math doesn't seem to work, eliminate more show because there were at least that many commercials. I stayed up and subjected myself to this onslaught only because I wanted to see Boston Legal, the series that follows Dancing. Along with Two and a Half Men, it is the only regular television I watch apart from movies, sports and the now, more than just occasional, news flash about some Republican politician peeing all over himself. I do enjoy these last and they're usually commercial free. Dancing With is apparently on two nights a week, one night to compete, one night to delete, and I am now looking forward to part one, in which the professional dancers vie to see which one can most keep you focused on them and off their mostly lame partners. Should, however, this show be as commercially riddled as last night's, I think I'll just soft shoe my way out to the patio and then two step 'till Legal comes on.

I'm Henerey the eighth I am, Henery the eighth....It's a curse I tell you. A curse.

Sorry - Sports

I'm Henery the Eighth I am. Henery the Eighth I am I am. I got married to the widow next door. She's been married seven times before, and....

Okay, now you're stuck with that song in your head.

Oh, no. Wait. I apologise. That's evil. No one should have to have that song jangling about their consciousness. Well, maybe OJ.

Which makes me think of sports. I try not to write about them too often as there are a plethora of bloggers already in that business, but even the word plethora conjures sports as it was Howard Cosell, a sports announcer, who brought the word into common usage. Sports are there and to ignore them completely is to block out an important part of American culture. I say important in the sense that anything that entertains is important. Not vital, important.

I'm a team guy myself. I grew up playing the big three, football, baseball, basketball and learning the values inherent in cooperating and working in harmony with others to achieve a satisfying end. I've played some individual sports, racket ball, tennis, boxing, track and field, but never found the individual accomplishment as rewarding as sharing a victory celebration with teammates. I exclude golf here as golf somehow transcends sports and takes on a more mystical meaning for me that is summed up in this quote from Arnold Palmer: Golf is the sport in which the walls between the the natural and the supernatural are rubbed the thinnest." Woowoogolf. And yet, even having subscribed to that, I find a greater delight in watching the joyful pile of players at the pitchers mound after a meaningful baseball victory than Tiger's fist pump following his latest triumph. Both are good though, and I'm happy I get to watch.

All of which brings me to the Colorado Rockies. I am not sure I have ever seen before a team flatly refusing to lose despite seemingly hopeless circumstances. I will give a nod to the 04 Red Sox who won four straight against the Yankees after being down by three in a seven game series, but that was pretty much a Goliath versus Goliath match up and lacked the underdog element. The Rockies, with one of the smallest payrolls in baseball, won 14 of their last 15 games over the three teams in front of them to qualify for post season play. The last game, a thirteen inning lose and your season is over affair, lasted four hours and forty minutes and saw the Rocks overcome a two run deficit in the last inning to get to their pitching mound pile up. Wonderful drama ran throughout the game and there were heroes aplenty for both teams. It was truly one of those contests where the viewer is sorry that either team had to lose.

I could go on, but I'll spare you further details and just wind this down with one small note, a plea really, a cry of hope for another seemingly hopeless bunch. You got it...

Go Broncos.