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.

Blogging Religiously

Another day, another...blog.

Do you have to be ligious and lapse before you can be religious?

I just read an article that says the Religious Right may run their own candidate in 08. Is there a religious left? Or is it religious right and wrong? I looked up religion in my Funk and Wagnals and it said something like a belief in a supreme being who created the universe. Sounds like every kid's parents until he or she hits twelve or so and begins to believe the universe revolves around themselves. I'm not a believer my own self in the God is God and We are We and never the twain shall meet unless you tithe regularly and vote Republican. I'm more of a God is Us and All Things not wearing Yankee pin stripes kind of a guy. A God Force kind of a guy Woowoo Charly would call it. Not that it matters. Unless you are the kind of religious whack job who says my belief is the RIGHT belief and I will foster it upon you or kill your ass to prove it kind of a guy. There are far too many of those and about them, I worry. Which is why I bothered to read The Religious Right article in the first place. What if they run their own guy and win? I thought Bush was about as bad as it could get when it comes to being a "God tells me what to do" kind of a guy, but compared to the old non-reality based RR, his rhetoric is downright tame. I shudder to think, but then thinking makes me shudder anyway so it gets confusing. The Dali Lama or the Dolly Parton once said that "things are as they are because that's how they are supposed to be" and if he or she is right, things are supposed to be pretty screwed up. At least by my standards which include not dropping your dirty clothes on the floor, hanging up wet towels and cutting the other guy some slack. So, anyway, I urge you to vote in 08. Don't vote right though, vote wrong. It's the right thing to do.