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.