Wednesday, February 28, 2007

David Excursion

We rode to David in our friend Alan's new pick up truck, Alan driving. Alan likes to talk and emphasize the points he is making by gesturing with his hands. A thing that takes his hands from the steering wheel in what would generally be considered an alarming number of times. I say would be, because the disturbance factor is lessened by the speed at which Alan drives. I won't say he's slow, but a comparison to my grandmother on downers would be in order. (Alan if you are reading this, just kidding buddy. I felt safe the whole time except for that moment when you were comparing David to Tanzania or Kenya or some other African place and we damn near collided with those giraffes disguised as taxis.)

Our purpose in going to David was to buy a washer/dryer, stacker style. We found one sporting a decent price at the Do It Center, but they wouldn't let us have it. Our new pal, Tino, wearing a badge that said "facilitator" explained to us that the dryer part was set up for American gas, that is, natural gas, and it would have to be converted to use propane. The guy who does the converting wasn't available until later in the day. In my best Ahnold voice, I said, "we'll be bahk."

Our next stop was to the town's Nissan dealer where Alan had to sign his name...again. He had been trying to get his car registration for weeks but was unable to do so because he wasn't able to duplicate the signature on his ten year old passport. Alan has a slight tremor in his right hand and his signature varies a touch each time he signs it. Couple that with the normal change in handwriting over a ten year period and he just could not get a close enough match to satisfy the local officials. It's kind of funny to watch a guy sign his name and have someone else tell him, "nope, that's not you." Not funny for Alan though. His truck is now illegal and when he explained that to the official all he got in return was a "lo siento," sorry. The problem is still unresolved, but the dealer is going to get Alan's truck papers changed from Panama City where he had made the purchase to the dealership in David where, the dealer says, they are not as particular about signatures. We'll see how that goes.

After a nice lunch at the "Seafood Steak House" which features neither of those things, but rather, Chinese food, we returned to the Do It Center where they hadn't done it. Seems the conversion guy was in Boquete, wouldn't you know, and was not returning until later that day. We made arrangements to pick up the appliance Friday or Monday. Tino gave us his number, should we encounter any problems. I don't anticipate any of those, but I am a little concerned about the washer/dryer's brand name. It's Fridgidaire, the same as our kitchen stove. Our refrigerator? you might ask if I wasn't already telling you. Why that's a Maytag. And I'm not kidding.

Monday, February 26, 2007

The Oscar For Best Blog Goes To...

This is my 164th blog. Who knew I could be so talkative. (Yeah, I know, you're still waiting for me to say something.)

I have a temperature gauge (thermometer?) hanging on the wall next to where I write. It's 71 degrees Fahrenheit, 21 or 22 degrees Celsius. I'm going with the Fahrenheit because it is obviously a lot warmer. A couple of days ago it was 56 in here when I sat down to scribble. Damn near froze my patooty off, which I'm told, can be a painful thing to do. I wear a zip up heavy sweatshirt with a hood on it to keep me cozy on those cold early morns. It has a pale orange number 2 sewn on the front. "I'm number two!" is not a chant you hear very often.

Volcan Baru is not visible from my new blog launching pad. In fact, when I lift my head from the screen, all that greets me is a lavender wall. Less distracting, I suppose, but not exactly inspiring either. There is a window to my right, but the glass is the clouded type you can't see through.

I'm seated at a small computer table with a monitor on top and one of those pull out drawers for the keyboard. The word for drawers in Spanish is cajones, pronounced ka-hone-ace. We used to say "kicked in the cajones" as a euphemism for that place that makes you double over and want to puke, because it sounded like cajones should mean exactly that place. Now that I actually know a little Spanish, six words to be precise, I can see that "kicked in the cajones" makes no sense. Next thing you know they'll be telling me a burrito is not a little donkey.

To my left there is a desk and a doorway and behind me there's a bookcase. On the floor in front of the bookcase is a dog bed in which Gus is now snorfling.

On the walls there hang a clock, a calendar and a carved piece of wooden art that has Honduras etched on the bottom. Other than that, nothing but lavender. Or maybe it's mauve. The color changes with the light. What is mauve anyway?

So there you have it. The scene is set. We're ready for the action.

I almost watched The Oscars last night. Mostly what I saw was the pregame show. The actual Oscar show didn't come on until nearly nine. I can't tell you how much I miss my beloved Rocky Mountain Time Zone. Eastern Standard Time bites rocks. Prime time for RMT is seven to ten. For EST it's eight to eleven. There is no need for EST in Panama where the two largest population groups are North Americans with an average age of roughly 84 and Latinos under 10. Both those groups should be going to bed early and not staying up to the wee hours to watch someone they never heard of receive an award for Sound Mixing.

A friend of ours came over with his Panamanian girl friend (novia) to watch the show. He is a friend of Forest Whitaker and wanted to see if Forest copped the big acting prize. A thing, the copping, I learned this morning that he did. The girlfriend left early as she had a muy temprano morning wake up to deal with and I took that cue to go to bed. Woowoo Charly and our friend stayed the course though, and saw the whole show. They deserve some kind of award themselves, especially considering that the show was being instantly dubbed into Spanish, including the songs if you can believe that, and all traces of humor and juicy insider Hollywood stuff were mostly incomprehensible.

So there you have it, blog 164 is in the can. It's not likely to make my "best of" list, but it's better than being kicked in the cajones, whatever they are.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

An Orderly Mind

"A place for everything and everything in its place." Somebody taught me that. Maybe my mother, she was very neat. Maybe my father, although that seems less likely as he was wasn't particularly tidy. Most likely it was an Army DI from long ago who barked in my ear loud enough to make the lesson stick. "YOUR FOOTLOCKER WILL BE ARRANGED AS SHOWN ON THE CHART OR YOU WILL WALK GUARD DUTY ONE HOUR FOR EACH MISPLACED SOCK. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"

"Yes Sergeant."

"I CAN'T HEAR YOUUU."

"YES SERGEANT!"

Whatever the lesson's origin, it was learned and incorporated into my personal philosophy which includes other bits of useful wisdom like "if you can't be on time, be early" and the indispensable "when in doubt whip it out." That last one, of course, is no longer as pithy as it used to be. ( I looked up pithy to make sure it was the word I wanted there. The dictionary says, "full of pith, having substance and meaning" so I am now going to rewrite the last sentence. That last one, of course, is no longer as full of pith as it used to be.

The point that I am trying to get to is that I am sure the lack of order in our nueva casa for the last several days has contributed greatly to the heretofore written Cross and Irritable conditions that prevailed throughout. "Where the f*** did I put that blankety blank?" was an oft heard expression and one that did little to bring the monkeymind to a peaceful place. Had the Dali Lama been here to remind me of this, it would have been a good thing. I could have smacked that fat littleTibetan upside the head a few times and relieved my tension.

What has to be understood is that we Sevens, Monkeyminds, Looney Tunes, whatever you choose to call us, need our stuff put in the same place all the time every time or we would mostly be without life's small essentials like car keys, wallets, socks, underwear and wives. We would simply forget where we left them last. Happily, and here is the good part, I am here to tell you that order has been restored. I have located all my essentials but one and I can hear her nearby calling the dog so I suspect she will soon be in place as well. By my side.

Life is good and I love Panama.

Oh and Dali, I was just kidding big guy. What, you can't take a joke?

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Cross and Irritable

Cross and Irritable. No that is not the name of a law firm, it's a description of Woowoo Charly and I getting through this adjustment period in a new house. It ain't easy and we're a bit edgy.

My day starts with fighting this bizarre Spanish keyboard that has weird punctuation that are often not pictured on the keys. I am a lousy typist to begin with, I look down at the board, I wanted to use a dash there, not a comma, but fuck if I can find one, and some of the most frequently used keys have their symbols worn off by age. Oh, and by the way,I hate this desk chair, my back is killing me.

Get a new board you say? * I found the question mark earlier. It's on the key that pictures a dash* We have been trying ever since we moved in. The town has been shut down since last Thursday to celebrate Carnival. Very few places are open, none of them computer supply stores. What seems odd is that there are no real parties happening, those are taking place in other towns, but Boquetenos are taking the time off anyway. Good for them, I suppose, but it's driving me to ONE and my wife along with me.

Other annoyances that have come our way are the inability to buy a three step stool, we can't reach kitchen cabinet top shelves, end tables for the bedroom, we are using hampers to put our reading lamps atop, knife, fork, spoon separator, place mats, fly swatters, hangars, shower caddy for Woowoo's bathroom, surge protectors, night lights, a toilet plunger, an ice bin, a mop bucket, a whisk, sieves for cooking, a grater, mixing bowls, measuring spoons, a kitchen timer, a paring knife and a cutting board. Oh and did I mention light bulbs, wash cloths and towels, an 8' ladder so I can change bulbs on our high ceilings, satellite cable to the living room, they are now in the bedrooms where we don't want them, shelves for the pantry, all our non refrigerated food and all pots and pans are on the floor, a washer and a dryer, our laptop hooked into the new system, so we can access the Internet on it as well, and some plastic chairs to sit on out on the patio so we can have a cocktail, stare at the beautiful scenery and bitch about the stores not being open.

We hope to get about half this list accomplished by day's end. If we do, I'll feel better, if we don't , I'll drink heavily. Actually, having said that, I'm feeling more chipper already. Maybe I should rant more often.

Nah.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Monday Laments

Watched Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth" last night and came away feeling that if you are less than sixty you're screwed. Al's more optimistic than I am though, he thinks we are only screwed if we, and by we I mean you and America the land of the free to do whatever you want to the environment as long as it's good for business, take several difficult steps to chill out global warming. To which I say... Al, be serious. You're talking about a country that made Dubya its president...twice. What are the odds you can get the populace behind your plan when, I bet, more than half wouldn't be able to understand what you are talking about in the film. Give it your best shot though Big Fella and I'll help out wherever I can. I've got grand kids too.

But enough complaining about that, let's complain about the weather. Or is that the same thing. * I'm using a Spanish keyboard and when I type a question mark, I get this_ a line. When I type a parenthesis, I get this * a star. This though, is not a complaint. I am happy to have a second computer.* What is a complaint is the wind and bajareque, mountain mist, that is both noisy and wet and making the world outside my window look quite foreboding. Just because we have had weeks of warmth and sunshine doesn't mean we now have to bite our tongues and remain silent while the wind blows rain sideways all over the place. C'mon, Big Al, fix this and I promise that if I ever buy a new car, it'll be a hybrid, low emissions puppy.

I'm feeling better now. The coffee has kicked in. No complaints at all about the new house other than that it is huge and Woowoo Charly keeps getting lost. Luckily we have a dog with a good nose. I just put one of Chuck's garments under his nose and he tracks her down for me. "Go find your mother Gus. Good boy!" Wonder what Gus thinks about melting Arctic ice caps. Probably, like the average American, not much.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Mouse Hunt

I have to get packing, literally, but I want everyone to know we did catch the mouse. Go to my blog entitled, "What Spiders Ain't Enough?" and click on comments. There I describe a humane way to catch mice that Woo Charly found on the internet. It works and it's really cool.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

V-Day

It is very still, very quiet as I write this. My valentine lies abed in a deep slumber and even my dog, curled beside me, makes not a twitter. Outside my window the world is also breathless. The trees display their beauty but no movement and though I can hear the birds symphony, none are visible. Mighty Baru rests its head against a pillow of clouds. Incline your head my pets, my loved ones, and turn your ears so that I may whisper softly there the words of love that fill my heart on this the international day of romance.

ALRIGHTY THEN!

Let's hear it for old Saint Vee. Guy must have been something, what with all that candy and flowers and cards, don't forget the cards. Remember when you were in grade school and you used to measure your worth by how many of those little love notes you got from your classmates. Or weren't they still doing that when you came along? And what about those hard as stone, heart shaped candies with their tiny sentiments like "cutie pie" and "I luv u"? I couldn't get enough of those. Are they still around? What I want to know now though is what's the deal with all the red? Does it have something to do with blood and hearts and all that or was it just Saint Vees favorite color? I mean you know how I feel about red. It's not on my top ten list of colors. It's better than, say, mud brown, I suppose. Imagine what your department store windows would look like decorated in mud brown.

But I digress. It's Valentine's day and we are all feeling warm and valentiney. I'm taking my sweetie out to lunch and to find boxes to pack with. After that we'll spend a romantic afternoon stuffing said boxes. What could be better? I'll turn to her with the love in my heart shining from my eyes and say, "hand me that willya?" and she'll meet my eyes and respond in kind with a loving, "here ya go, catch" and somewhere, in another dimension perhaps, Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah, Triston and Isolde, Abbott and Costello, and even Saint Vee himself will be saying, "what, no chocolates?" Later, though, there will be wine. Red wine at that.

And your day?

Memories

Trivial Pursuit yadida yadida yadida. Computerized trivia games in bars yadida yadida yadida. Jeopardy yadida yadida yadida. Okay there you have the first paragraph of yesterday's lost blog. Woowoo Charly and I were - probably still are - good at all those things. But...

Paragraph two, the one I was writing when the screen went black, was talking about the nature of our recall ability at the moment. (I'm sorry, what was I saying?) All those distant names and events come as readily to mind as they always have. In fact, it's not unusual for either Charly or I to quickly dredge up some obscure character actor's name while watching an old film. "Hey there's old Claude Akins. Wonder what he's doing these days." It's the recently added data that seems most difficult to retrieve. A couple of days ago we were watching a film in which the heavy was played by a young, and here is a direct quote, "that's the guy from, you know, Gladiator and the movie about blowing the whistle on cigarette companies, whatsisname." I can't remember, but I know who you're talking about." It wasn't until the credits when Russell Crowe's name popped up that we both said, "of course." I'm trying to discover if this is normal or if we both enjoyed the Sixties and Seventies too much or even if, as Homer Simpson says, "every time I put in a new thought, it pushes an old one out." Maybe our minds are reluctant to discard those tried and true bits of trivia so the new ones aren't sticking. Anyway, I hope it doesn't get any worse. Woowoo Whatsername and I need to remember...The Maine, The Alamo...something.

That was yesterday. Wasn't it?

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Gone

We just had a three minute power outage and I've lost today's blog. Our computer battery is shot - we have a new one on order- so nothing was saved. I'm too bummed to try rewriting today. Maybe tomorrow. The blog was about the nature of memory. Hope I recall it tomorrow.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Moving Thoughts

Our last week up here on Jaramillo hill begins today. And that's not jar-a mill-o, it's har-a-me-o. By next Sunday we will be gone, moved briefly abajo (below) and then onto Palo Alto. Palo Alto I've just learned by looking it up in my Harper Collins Spanish English Dictionary (Harper by the way, is Joan and Jackie's less talented sister) means tall stick. Alrighty then. I am now anxious to be on the way to Tall Stick, but still apprehensive about the move. There's all that packing and lifting and lugging and unpacking and cleaning and well, all that moving stuff. Seriously, do you know anyone who likes moving apart from the guy in cell block 4 whose sentence just got commuted? The only saving grace is that we don't own much. A bunch of books, a couple of basketballs, some clothes and a toaster oven. Our golf clubs are already in the car. We have two friends who have volunteered trucks and backs - may the universe shine upon them always, because a true friend is one who will help you move - so the task is not really daunting but still, it is moving and psycholgically that is somehow disturbing. Freud said, "sometimes a move is just a move" no he didn't, but if he did he would be wrong and Jung would point it out. A move is more than a move, it's an ending and a beginning. It is, as yet another famously deep thinker, Monte Python once said, "and now for something entirely different." That most likely is at the root of my apprehension, that entirely different part. Despite being an optomist - my glass is always half full because I add a little to it each day to account for evaporation - I still have that nagging (7) fear based concern of will the entirely different offer me fewer or greater choices.? Fortunately my heroes, Alfred E. Newman with "What, me worry?" and the reggae guy singing "Don't worry, be happy" are always there to see me through. Couple those with "Zippidy Doodah" (the Great Karnac's answer to the question, what do you do when your doodah is open?) and Woowoo Charly's IN with the spirits of nature, coldcuts, and the Law of Intention and all should go well. We'll see.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

A Sunday Post NFL

I was just staring at Baru and wondering why mountains loom but looms never mountain.

Today is Sunday and here in Panama that is an apt and appropriate name as the sun is almost always shining. Of course no one here calls it Sunday, they call it Domingo for reasons that are unclear to me, but it might have something to do with a horse that won the Preakness some years ago. It also might be what you shout aloud when you've covered five numbers on your card at the church bazaar. Domingo! So much of life is still a mystery to me.

Yesterday the day was called Sabado and that makes a lot more sense to me as I believe that is Spanish for "save your dough." Sabado. In Italian it's probably Sab a you do.

Both Spanish and Italian are Romance languages which is okay with me, but I have to ask in all seriousness...why? I mean what, you can't be Romantic in Hungarian? And how about those Chinese? Somebody had to say something romantic here and there or you don't end up with a billion bicycles, many of them built for two.

Have I gone far enough with this? Alrighty then.

Last night we had friends over for dinner and Woowoo Charly made chicken. She didn't actually make the chicken, she just cooked it. Our friends though are Southern, so as far as they were concerned, she fixed chicken for dinner even though, I'm pretty sure the bird wasn't actually broken, just dead. Charly put a lot of stuff on the chicken before she baked it and then put more stuff on top of that when it came out of the oven. Before serving the chicken she added even more stuff and the result was really tasty. Stuff is a main ingredient in all of Charly's cooking.

And I suppose I should say something about the noble chicken itself, because when you consider the part it plays in the diets of people throughout the world, it should be every country's national bird. I'm afraid though, if I wax too, well, Romantic about the clucker, I won't be able to eat our tasty friend anymore no matter how much stuff Woowoo Charly bakes it in. I mean consider what happened with Hindus and cows. I'm going to, because what the hell, it's Sunday, there's no football on television and that's just wrong.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Multi-tasker

I'm multi-tasking, drinking coffee and thinking about writing something. I'm good at this. It's the part where I put the coffee down and type something onto the screen that I often find difficult. The monkeymind is so easily distracted. Maybe if I was one of those enneagram types who complain about judgemental little people on their shoulders whispering in their ears I would have an outside source I could rely on for a topic. I'm not sure I want to go there though. I might sound too much like whiney Andy Rooney. "Why do we have to have so many cereals? Do we really need all these cereals? Whose idea was it anyway? Kelloggs? Posts? Those damn Quakers? And why is THEIR oatmeal so special? It's just oatmeal." See what I mean? No I'm probably better off just staring into the middle distance -where ever that is - and waiting for something to dawn on me. This, of course, supposes that being dawned on is a good thing.

Sometimes I have something to write about, important stuff like catching mice, the definition of cameltoe or my bid for high elective office. Then I get to fly on the keys. That is, as we enneagram sevens say, big fun. The words are easily found and I'm all for easy. In all honesty though, because you can't have part honesty, that wouldn't be honest at all, when I struggle, in retrospect, it's sometimes even more fun. I'm forced to work harder, dig deeper and snatch from where ever creativiy lies, the words that eventually find their way to the screen or onto the paper. Those words often surprise me and that is big fun as well. Someone once said that writers don't like to write, they just like to have written. I like to do both, but then, what the hell, I'm a multi-tasker.

Friday, February 09, 2007

What, Spiders Ain't Enough?

We have a mouse. I have been trying to trap it for over a week to no avail. I'm thinking of just making it a pet and leaving it for Alan when he moves in. I looked for the humane traps that allow you to catch the little buggers alive, but they don't seem to be available here. I figured I could catch Mickey's cousin and then release him at some distant point or maybe toss him into the volcano. I ended up with the snap and trap usual kind; the Terminator of mouse traps. They are almost always the answer.

Not this time, though. I have baited the traps, three of them, on eight or nine occasions. On all but one, the mouse has managed to remove the food without springing the trap. On the other, both Woowoo Charly and I were awakened by the sound of the trap snap and commented, "got 'em" before going back to sleep. But wrongo there rodent breaths, the following morning revealed two snapped traps sans mouse. I suspect this critter has an S on its chest or Mighty Mouse has reemerged from Toonville. I'm not sure what to do now. Maybe we can just get him a little bowl and put it down next to Gustavo's. You know, feed it on a regular schedule and teach it to sit, come, stay and like that. Keep him out of the cookies.

We went to a "Pot Luck" dinner with friends, neighbors and newcomers last night. Woowoo Charly doesn't usually like Pot Lucks. She never knows what to bring. She made deviled eggs this time, some curried and some with wasabi. They ended up saving the day as the people bringing the main dishes turned up late and the eggs got devoured staving off hunger, short tempers, fist fights and gunplay. You know how those Pot Lucks go. Alan was an invitee and I spent a lot of time talking to him and learning more about birds and snakes and such. It also turns out that he, like me, is a horror movie buff. "Forbidden Planet" was the flick that rocked his world as a kid. As most of you know, it was 1951's "The Thing" that rearranged the chromosomes of both Woowoo Charly and I when we were tykes. I can still hear the movie's music in my head. Not exactly a hum-able tune.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

For the Birds

We went to the Tuesday Gringo Meeting because our friend Alan was giving a lecture and slide presentation about his book, "On the Wing." He has now given this talk in 23 countries and many U.S. universities including Harvard and U.C. at Boulder. Alan and an 80 something pilot tracked peregrine falcons in an ancient Cessna airplane from Texas to the arctic and then back to Texas and on into Central America. His book and the lecture was about that journey. Fascinating.

We learned that only a tiny percentage, less than ten, of Peregrines are born naturally in the wild. DDT and other pesticides have so poisoned their food that their eggs won't hatch. "Clean" birds are bred in captivity and their hatchlings are placed in the nests of wild peregrines. What happens is this: Naturalists climb to the falcon's very high nests during the breeding season, chase off the birds and then steal their eggs. They replace them with lookalike ceramic eggs. The birds then return and continue thier sitting. After the proper interval has passed, the naturalists return to the nests with healthy hatchlings, chase away the parent birds a second time, and exchange baby birds for eggs. Alan referred to the baby birds as "Baby Hueys" because they are much larger than newborns should be. "Like giving birth to a ten year old." The papa bird finds this a bit strange and won't have anything to do with the babies, but the mother adopts them immediately. After a while the pop gets used to the chicks and aids in their feeding. Is that amazing or what?

Alan was able to track the birds on their migratory path because tiny transmitters about the size and weight of an aspirin are placed on the feathers of some of the hatchlings. The trackers rarely had to be closer than five miles from the birds. The principal difficulty for Alan and his pilot was to find a place to land each night, avoid the authorities and obtain gas for the plane so they could be off before dawn to pick up the birds trail. Peregrines, apparently are early risers. There was no official sanctioning of the whole expedition and Alan financed it by himself, mostly with credit cards. Run- ins with Canada's Mounties and Mexico's army (they landed on a restricted base in Mexico and were believed to be spies) made for an interesting tale.

All in all a terrific meeting. Especially after consecutive weeks of first health insurance people and then builders. Now I've got to read the book.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Golf Lessons

In order to get to the page I am on, I have to sign in on the comment section of the previous blog and then click on a "Blogger" logo that is about half way down the page. Weird. The regular access just doesn't work and "help" is of no use at all. Any suggestions?

Here's a little slice of golf history that I find entertaining: Why do golf courses have 18 holes, not 20 or 10 or an even dozen for that matter?

During a discussion among the club's members at St. Andrews, site of the first golf course, in 1858, a senior member pointed out that it takes exactly 18 shots to polish off a fifth of Scotch. By limiting himself to one shot of Scotch per hole, the Scot figured a round of golf was over when the Scotch ran out.

Now you know.

If my Irish ancestors had invented the game, there would be a liquor store at the 19th and the game would go on until somebody fell down. I mean, that's the logical ending.

Once, when we were playing 36 holes at Hidden Valley in Aztec, New Mexico, I was playing so badly (and had been for weeks) that I just said screw it and began to drink tequila and beer at the beginning of the last nine holes. By the time I got to the ninth, I was laughing and silly and having a good time despite the fact the my golf was getting, understandably, worse and worse. Suddenly though, I had a moment of absolute clarity and I turned to Charly and said I have just figured out what I have been doing wrong and I'm going to remember it when I sober up. I then went back to flailing at the ball and finished the round. The next time we played, incredibly, I did remember what occurred to me and made the adjustment. I had been standing too far from the ball and it was making my swing outside and flat. I moved about an inch closer, golf is a game of small adjustments, and began striking the ball solidly again. I played my normal okay golf for the rest of the summer. Now I'm sure there is some kind of cosmic lesson to be learned from this, but I'm also sure I have no clue what it is. Best I can figure is if you are playing crappy golf, drink tequila. I haven't played badly enough to test that theory a second time, so if any of my golfing family and friends are having a tough time on the links, please give this a try and let me know what happens.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Blog Fog

I have been unable to get into this blog for almost a week. Now that I have been "reenabled" after dumping my "cache" and my "cookies" and back dooring through my comments section, the morning is shot and I have to head off to the gringo meeting. Barring unforseen circumcisions, the Monkeymind will return tomorrow.