Friday, February 29, 2008

Today's Forecast

...'cause Baracking up is hard to do.

That's it. That's all I've got today.

Okay, there must be something else. Let's see, I'm an old guy; I should by all rights be able to talk about the weather.

The wind has picked up in the last couple of days. Picked up everything not tied or rooted down, that is. It's howls from last night have subsided into morning moans but you couldn't tell that from the wind chime outside my office window. It's playing a tuneless tune at a tempoless tempo.

Wind affects me phychologically. (Psycho logic means crazy logic and that's the kind I'm talking about.) I hear its sounds and see it bending the trees outside and it makes me scrunch up my shoulders and put the hood up on my hoodie. I associate wind noises with being cold and you know how I feel about that. In case you don't I'll tell you. Being cold and experiencing mysterious chest pains are tied for second behind kicked-in-the-balls agony on my list of least favorite things. Others on the list are barfing, scatological humor, Dubya (there might be some connection between those three)putts missed inside of six feet and...now I'm off the subject. Wind we're taking about, wind. I know, of course, that it does have its uses. Energy and blowing boats about come to mind. People are always talking about using wind power to generate electricity and I say, come on, how hard is that. Run my TV with still air and you'll get my kudos. Well, at least the ones I keep in a jar under the bathroom sink. Don't worry, there are holes in the lid so they can breathe. Think outside the box, I tell ya, people. You don't want to be dependent upon something that comes and goes as unreliably as wind or your mate's attention when the game is on. Still air is the answer. Wind is just a passing fancy. It's on its way to somewhere else.

And now, it appears, the wind is bringing rain with it. These are a couple of guys who should not be allowed to hang out together. They are a bad influence on each other and in tandem are up to no good. Rain coming straight down is a useful and pleasant weather phenomena when it does so in moderation. Rain riding on the wind and slapping sideways onto building walls suggests more of that psycho logic thing I've been talking about. It sounds cold. Have I told you how I feel about cold?

Yeah, I guess I have.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Burning and Books

Barack Back Mountain

Groggy. That's a fun word to say, groggy. It's funny to look at too, groggy. I slept so well last night I still feel groggy this morning. Groggy in the morning, groggy in the evening, groggy at suppertime. La la la la lala, I'm groggy all the time. Okay, that's enough of that.

The last couple of days while RTGFKAR was building his stairway to somewhere I've been burning coffee goddamn bushes and stumps. It's windy here in Palo Alto (Tall Stick) so the fire has to be watched and tended. While I do that, watch and tend, I also read a book. I've been alternating between R.O. Butler's tome on writing from your unconscious and a slow moving thriller by P.D. James entitled, Innocent Blood. Yesterday, I learned from Butler how to write a novel from short sensory perceptions obtained by sitting in front of a writing pad or computer for weeks without actually writing a sentence. You just jot down the sensory perceptions that arise. Later, you put them all on 3 by 5 cards and arrange them in some order that seems to make sense, though not too much sense because you don't want to bring your intellectual self into the process. Yikes was the first perception that came to me when I gave the thing a go. Yikes, because that's really hard and yikes that fire needs another stump. Of course I don't really see myself as a novel writer, most especially of the "literary" variety Butler is talking about, but also of course, I will someday give it a try if only to prove I'm right. I'm learning a lot from Butler that is applicable to what I do though, and I'm anxious to learn more. My question is, where was he when I first considered putting pen to paper? (Probably still unborn.) P.D. James is a writer of mysteries that unfold at a leisurely pace. Her characters are fully developed and seem so believable that at book's end the reader seems unsure he was reading something completely imaginary and not culled from reality. P.D., I think, straddles the line between literary fiction and genre fiction quite well. Tough to just put her in the "mystery" category.

Well it's tooooo windy to burn today, so I think I'll just go finish one of those books or both. Then I'll sit and access my dreamspace for awhile before starting the novel in which I will reveal all the secrets of the universe. I'm thinking it will be a tell all book because I'm privy to all the universe's dirty little secrets. For instance, did you know that the universe once had a sexual thing with... nah, I'm gonna save it for the book.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Distractions

Now we know why George H. Bush hated Barackaly.

I could just sit here and zone out on the view to my left which takes me past the nearby banana tree that competes for sunshine with an entwined coffee bush and then down to the metal roofed concrete square that houses a seldom seen Indio family and then rises dramatically in shades of green to terracotta roofed structures across the valley that seem dwarfed by first the distance from me and secondly by the mountain that rises behind them, but I'm distracted from doing so by the fly that keeps buzzing by my head and, oh yeah, the blinking cursor eighteen inches from my nose. (Hmmm. Blinking cursor. That sounds like I'm cursing the cursor while trying not to be crude.) I'm distracted by distractions.

Momentito, I'm going for the swatter.

Now, if I can just get him to land...I never miss.

Through the window to my right there's an equally compelling sunlit vista in front of which is a tall thin woman wearing a white tee, blue jeans and lavender Crocs. She's got a hose in her hand and appears to be watering the driveway. Oh, wait, that's Woowoo Charly. Probably just bad aim.

Arrogant little bugger. I set the swatter on the desk while I typed and he landed on it. He's going down, I tell ya, he's going down.

I think it's the fly season, moscas as they are called here, because, suddenly, we have them. The thing with swatting flies, I've noticed, is that you have to clean up their dead bodies right away. If you don't, other flies come to feed on them. Disgusting little shits if you ask me, even though I know they have their place in nature. Thing is, my house is not that place.

I've got the computer set so that if I look straight up over it, what I see is just wall. Sure, there is beauty to be had using my, as Bob Cousy used to say, pahwiffial vision, but I'm doing my best to avoid distractions like beauty and, ah, flies. I'm here to write this thing on a regular basis and distractions are my enemy.

That does it! He's buzzing me again and he's called in reserves. The war is definitely on!

Sometimes, I'm sorry to say, the enemy wins. Hasta manana...if I'm not distracted.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Awards and Other Stuff

And the winner of this year's best song is: Barack of Ages.

I would like to thank the Academy and all the little people who made this possible. Come on little people, stand up and take a bow. Whoops, sorry, you're already standing.

I didn't get to see the Awards. They came on in the middle of the night(9PM)and I'd hit the rack an hour earlier to read my book. Not the whole book, just some of it. I turned off my reading lamp and opened the bedroom door at nine so I could listen to the festivities and thus program my dreams along movie lines. I don't remember either, the dreams or the show. Does Bob Hope still host the Oscars? "But seriously folks." I'm just kidding. I know he hasn't done that for two or three years now.

All of the above was written yesterday. My musings were interrupted to go off in search of Dim Sum which is both a Chinese breakfast and a description of my bank balance. We found the former across the street from the movie theatre attached to the Grand National Hotel in David. RTGFKAR, who had not had the Dim Sum experience heretofore was not impressed. I like the taste of most of the offerings, especially when dipped in a hot and spicy sauce, but I wonder about the ingredients that are hidden inside all the servings wrapped in noodles and pastry shells. What are they really, and why are there so many posters in the neighborhood of lost cats and dogs? Woowoo Charly, of course, would eat there everyday. If the food is exotic she's the first in line. This may in part account for her weighing less than air. As far as my bank balance goes - which isn't far - little damage was done. The tab for the three of us was ten bucks.

After breakfast it was on to the Post Office to retrieve books K sent us. The package of same was addressed to Doc or Charly Walton. I had to sign half a dozen forms as Doc Charly Walton before they would release the books. I then had to open the package as the aduana (customs agent) stood back. Books can be incendiary I've been told, but I've never actually seen one burst into flames. Contents were then examined for I'm not really sure what and I was free to go.

On the way out of lovely and talented downtown David we perused the sidewalk stores for artificial Crocs which are a kind of shoe currently popular here among the gringos and were recently voted the ugliest footwear ever to grace the human foot. I had to have a pair. Woowoo Charly said they would make great replacement slippers for me and be much quieter than the pair I've been schlepping around in. We spotted some in a sidewalk bin, so we parked the car and hiked to it. Four or five stores later we found a pair that were large enough. $2.99 + tax. $3.15 total. Alrighty then, I'm croc-ed. As an aside to all of you who have heard the rumor that men who have large feet also have large eeah-danga-schwazoolahs, let me note that I bought a size 44.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

It's Gonna Be Good

Barack a bye baby on the tree top.

The coffee fields burst into bloom last night and the bushes look as if they've been sprinkled with powdered sugar. Neat. Panama's ceiling today is a crisp, baby blue and there are stark white clouds ambling across it. If it weren't for that troubling gray stuff sneaking in from the north, I'd say it was going to be a good day. I'll say it anyway, it's going to be a good day.

I get to put books away este dia and that's a - I want to say good but I've already used the word twice so Im going with "fun" - thing. I've been looking forward to doing so since the day we moved in. With RTGFKAR's help I built book shelves last week, then I stained them and finally, yesterday, I brushed on the verathane or shellac or whatever you call that clear shiny stuff that leaves a nice smooth surface. The shelves are dry and ready now and the books are crying out "get me off the floor." Alrighty then, right after breakfast.

I've also got a CD of a book a friend of ours has written called "Nature Spirit Manifestations" that I want to get under way. I think I can read it off my computer. I suspect the book is going to be "deep" as the author, Stephan Cameron, has been on a lifelong spiritual quest. I'll no doubt be absorbing the book's messages in small doses.

Then, of course, what with this being Sunday, the day that God, The Universe and Nature designed specifically for sports viewing, there will be basketball, maybe soccer and for sure Tiger Woods in a 36 hole duel with Stewart Cink.

Yeah, It's going to be a good day. I better get the pancakes started.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Dreamland

The troops were housed in the Baracks.

A large pig-faced dog tried to come up the stairs and get at Gus' dog bowl, but I kicked it back down. It was much too big for Gus to tackle, so I handled it myself. Unfortunately, my kick woke Woowoo Charly, Gus and me in dramatic fashion as it was accompanied by my shouting get out of here or something like that. Back to back nights of kicking episodes, weird. If I'm supposed to be writing from whence my dreams are born, maybe I should try horror.

The night was still and quiet as death apart from the breathing. There was mine, shallow and rapid as a frightened bird that I tried to choke down so as to better hear the other. It was the other that didn't belong. It came from across the room where the dark was deepest and had an audible rasp like a suppressed growl. It was pacing, moving from side to side. I could hear nails or claws scratching lightly on the floor as it made its tight turn, going back and forth, back and forth. All our windows are barred as is the custom here and the lone exit door was somewhere in the dark beyond the breathing. There would be no escape. I scrunched back onto the bed making myself small in a fetal position. The breathing was louder now, the pacing faster. I knew it would come for me soon. There was only one thing to do. I coiled and waited. If I was to die I would die fighting. When the pig-faced beast sprang from the dark with lips curled back to show hungry fangs dripping saliva, I did the only thing I could. I kicked out with all my strength, screaming as I did so.

"Doc! What the fuck? Wake up. Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?"

Friday, February 22, 2008

Road Trip

There's a guy in Volcan who buys containers of stuff from the U.S. sight unseen at apparently bargain prices, because he then sells what he's purchased dirt cheap. Of course it's not always easy to move experimental products like calcium supplements in the form of fudge or thousands of cans of chile, but I guess there's profit in it because he's been doing it for a long time. Yesterday I picked up a couple of boxes of Tylenol PM for $2.50 each. On a pharmacy shelf they'd retail for ten bucks or more. Nice.

But it's not my job to chronicle the mundane doings of we ancient gringoes as we trek through life here on planet paradise even if you, the readers, might find that an informative, interesting, intelligent and other words starting with "in" thing to do. No, it is my job to access the deeper more meaningful truths hidden in my dreams and, also, what my dog has been doing lately. To that end I can tell you that last night in the coma we call sleep there was something about a lion and later, wolves.
I woke myself up kicking at the wolves. Fortunately, there was Tylenol PM on hand and I quickly returned to sleep. Wolfless sleep. As for my dog, he stayed home and pouted as we, Sam, Judy, Bonnie, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and me, the designated driver, downed plate after plate of Thai food at a restaurant in Volcan owned and operated, by a guy named Paul from Hollywood, Calif whose arms were, ah, beneedled with colorful tattoos and who, after cooking for us and waiting on us, showed most of the group around his carnivorous plant garden. "I'm a big green monster from outer space and I'm bad." Sam and I waited afuera. Gus moved from the bed to the livingroom carpet and back a couple of times before finally turning in a full circle and plopping down by our glass doors to watch his pal, a nameless very old girl dog
who hangs around our house because I give her dog cookies from time to time, while we the gringos I'm not writing about, stopped in this place and the other place before ending up in a plant emporium that was closed. Along the way we had stopped at a store that sold cheese in the town of Bambito and drove right through the metropolis of Bugaba whose residents are called bugabenos. That's pronounced boo-gah-bane-yos. I like saying that, boogahbaneyos. We also motored through a pueblo called Concepcion which had lots of babies and two pizza joints. I don't know if there's a connection. Gus was sleeping as we did this. He was next to awake from his own dreamland where something to do with chasing was going on when we pulled up the drive. He was thrilled to see us if a bit cross about our being gone so long. A juicy bone later though and all was forgiven.

So there you have it, dreams and dogs. Much more fun than writing about people.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Sensual Writing

Barack Around The Clock.

My mentor says I have to write ever day. He says I shouldn't write from my head, I should write from my senses; I should write from the place that dreams come from. I don't actually know my mentor personally, I've just met him through his book, "From Where You Dream, The Process of Writing Fiction." His name is Robert Olen Butler and I doubt he'd take me on as a student if he knew that the first thing I noticed is that his initials spell rob and that if there is a mentor can there be a womentor? I'm not sure the Monkeymind can be disciplined, but I'll give it a try because I like writing fiction. Swell Veldt started with those two words and a story emerged. That's a big kick.

Meanwhile, straight from the mind of the monkey this:

We are off on our second road trip this week. Tuesday we drove to the beach, a place called Las Lajas where Ramon took the waters, Woowoo Charly read in the shade of a coconut palm, Gus made friends with the local dogs, and I contemplated the vastness of the Pacific while drinking Coronas because the whole scene felt like one of their commercials. Today we are off to the town of Volcan, which I think is named after a Saturday morning cartoon show featuring giant barbarians and small but heroic human children in search of lost civilizations with their dog Bob, but might also have something to do with the local volcano. We are in search of rare and exotic plants to put around our rare and exotic home and also the fiendishly hidden baby back rib place for which there is no map. Friends Sam and Judy will be acting as guides as they have actually been there on a previous trek and returned safely despite the giant barbarian threat and pal Bonnie will be along to advise on the plant thing.

And now the words that arise completely from my senses. I'm a little chilly. That coffee's good though. Think I'll get another cup.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Fighting Words

Barack N'Roll!

Woowoo Charly and I had a big fight Monday. Here's how it went.

Me: Did not. She: Did to.

After that we agreed to disagree and went back to whatever it was we were doing before the brouhaha.

Okay, it was not exactly Ali/Frazier but for us it constituted war. I'll bet my blood pressure rose an entire degree and I could tell that Charly was prepared to go all the way to "oh yeah" or even another "did to." We are just not contentious types. At least, not anymore. Besides, it's hard to get riled over much when you're laid back, watching the sunset over Volcan Baru, there's a good dog lying at your feet, a cool drink's in your hand and you're making plans for a day at the beach or an outing at the golf course or just doing more of the same. Why the other day I was even able to say Bush twice without swearing or having the hair on the back of my neck stand up and prickle.

It's very fashionable of late to say of another that he or she is "competitive." It's an apellation meant as a compliment and I agree it is, if you are talking about sports or games. For day to day life though, give me cooperation every time. In life there is always someone richer, better looking, more successful, in fact, more or better in any way you care to measure. In other words, if you see life as a competition...you lose. It's best, I think, to live life, to enjoy life, to savor life than to play it as a me against you kind of thing.

Yeah, yeah,I know, I'm preaching, teaching and reaching for philosophy that exceeds my grasp. I should leave that for the world's thinkers and get back to making funny, my bag, such as it is. Either that or pick a fight with my wife.

"Hey Charly, your mother wears combat boots!"

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Notes and Not Much Else

The difference between the Devil and the Republican Party (and the Libertarians if I understand them correctly) is that the Devil doesn't claim that his policy of greed and self interest helps others.

I left the following note to myself a couple of night's ago:

"Okay, so here's the deal. I'm the third person narrator. I'm suppossed to know everything."

The note, written late at night was intended to spark some line of thought in the morning. So far the only thought inspired is, huh? This sort of thing happens on a regular basis, night time epiphanies fading to black by day. If I force wakefulness on my drowsy self and then write a more detailed note, I have difficulty getting to sleep. Sleep, as I've noted before, is to old folks what food or sex is to the young; a strong motivational force. Gotta have it. "Ah well, I tell myself, because I'm a what is, is, kind of a guy, it probably wasn't that good of an idea anyway.

I don't really have a political party although I seem to side with the liberals, be they Democrats, Greenies, Socialists or even Communists in the sense that Jesus was a Communist and not the totalitarian versions that exist on the planet for the moment. I sense that there are larger things happening than politics address and it is these things, call them cosmic or spiritual or merely unexplained science that most attract my interest. I'm drawn to mysteries. Can there truly be a shift in worldwide consciousness? Are there other dimensions? Is time linear and could I take Barack Obama one on one in a game of twenty-one winner's out when I was his age? These are the important questions. The Party that can answer them is the Party I'll join.

Meanwhile, March Madness is coming up. I'll make a note of it.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Whiling Away

If I had any laurels I'd be resting all over them, but since I don't I'll have to carry on. (I wonder what my Panamanian friend Alberto, living in Canada, who reads my blog, thinks when he reads a sentence like the first one here. I mean, I'm often a tough read for English-as-a-first-language people. Ah well. Hey, how ya doing Alberto?)

The other day I did whatever it is I do in the mornings and then found myself cigar in hand and Panama cerveza at the ready listening to 95.7 on my FM dial. RTGFKAR was off doing something useful as he most often is and Woowoo Charly was either reading a book or searching the Internet for clues to the Mysteries of the Universe. Apart from Gus who was hanging about nearby doing and thinking inexplicable dog things, I was alone on the patio with the music and my thoughts. 95.7 plays Spanish ballads and love songs with few commercial interruptions throughout the day. At night it airs mind numbing Salsa and Rock with a repetitive beat that I suspect prepares listeners for the coming age when they'll all be drones with chips implanted under their skin and can be found jumping up and down in place to that very same beat while awaiting orders from their masters. You can see early evidence of this by looking at footage of our current "rock" concerts. But I digress and as I've mentioned before, you should never do that in public. So there I was in a sort of reverie, if that means a state of peaceful daydreaming and it does - I just looked it up - but I was not quite putting the music to its best use. In between my mind wandering off to explore the wonders of this and that I was trying to understand the Spanish lyrics dancing about my ears. This is a bit of an oddity when you consider that I rarely listen to the lyrics of English language songs, a thing that leaves me later singing my own words to popular melodies and listeners wondering where I had escaped from. Still, there I was trying and halfway succeeding in understanding what the tunes were all about. It wasn't until my third drink when I had switched to scotch that an actual awareness of the music caught my attention and I switched my focus from learning to listening. Who cares what the singers were saying. The overall effect of voice and instruments was a beautiful sound. Well, either that or the scotch was exceptionally good. Whichever, it was a nice afternoon and I highly reccomend 95.7. The Johnnie Walker is optional.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Return to the Quadrangle

With amulets, holy water, crucifixes, silver bullets and wooden stakes in our golf bags and priests, rabbis, shaman and the National Guard standing by, we, the fearsome foursome of LJ, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and Yers Truly reentered the zone of lost egos and disappearing golf balls known as The Boquete Quadrangle located in Valle Escondido. We were determined to challenge anew the evil that stalked the course.

We started by splitting into two teams; Woowoo Chuck and I on one, RTGFKAR and LJ on the other. It was clear on the very first hole that something was different about this day when Woowoo and I birdied it and Team Two parred. Only one ball, mine, found the water. Though we changed teammates twice more during the seven hours we thrashed about the valley, little evidence of the demon's existence appeared and the film crews from CNN, ESPN and The Discovery Channel all departed and declared the whole thing a hoax. There was the mysterious loss of my Top Flite on number eight when a well struck three wood landed a foot or so from the green and we watched as the ball caromed high into the air and far into the jungle and there was also an odd force of gravity that sucked down every attempt of RTGFKAR's to clear the pond on number Nine. Each of us for certain had a shot or two go weirdly awry but these anomilies were chalked up to natural causes by the media. We who have played there often know better, but yesterday we lacked solid proof. The demon was clearly biding its time, waiting for another day. Once we realized this was the case, we took advantage, fired up our games and posted three good rounds of scores. There was nary a one over 40 on this Par 30 nine. There were three team efforts, in fact, of 33. I don't ever recall our doing better.

We're not fooled though. We know IT is still out there growing hungrier for having put off its appetite on this mid-week day. You won't find us in the clubhouse shelling out big bucks for new Titlesists or Top Flites or any ball that costs more than a half a buck apiece and we won't brag where the course can hear. Noooo, we are the wise and the wary. We know about the evil. We know that it hides and waits.

For one day though, one shiny warm Boquete day, we had bested the beast. Now with the knowledge that it is possible to play without pain, we're psyched to wrestle with the devil again. So take note Demon. We'll be back.

The Story

A SWELL VELDT
By Doc Walton

The rain beat down heavily on the African veldt, a swell veldt if I ever saw one. Miles Everhard the noted pretty good white hunter stood outside the tent of Lady Cynthia Sackable and inquired in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din if Lady Sackable might not care for a spot of company. Shooing Noblong Ndive her personal porter and parasol bearer, who at that very moment had been applying insect repellent slowly and diligently to her backside – an area most vulnerable on the veldt or so he had said – out the rear tent flap, Cynthia hailed back at Miles to do come in as she was ever so lonely.
Abandoning his umbrella purchased through the mail order Snobs-Are-Us catalog Whitecrest, U.K. to the night, Miles slipped through the tent’s front flap and found Lady Sackable had arranged herself on her cot in a fashion that suggested she had, well, arranged herself on her cot. She was seated directly in its center, nightgown somewhat askew with bedding pulled to cover this and that but allowed a peek of the other thing. Her mosquito net lay tantalizingly open, but she had little fear of the nightly nippers and felt particularly safe on her backside where there were simply oodles of protection.
Positively ravishing thought Miles as he shook the moisture from his water repellant White Hunter Jungle Garb, the official off field garb of the Nairobi Nasties, the local futbol club, and the thought was so compelling that he took the next moment to just blurt out the words that had rushed to his suddenly fevered brow. “I say Lady Ess, beastly night this. Have you got anything for a fevered brow?” Being British, the concept of getting to the point without first mentioning the foul weather had been completely erased from his DNA.
“Would a spot of gin help? And do call me Cynthia” said Lady Sackable. “And while you’re at it, getting the gin and calling me Cynthia that is, be a dear boy and freshen this as well.” She handed Miles her own nearly full glass. “I’ve a bit of a fever myself.”
Miles strode to the dressing table and poured two healthy droughts from the Deep Rock Gin Dispenser and drank his off in long full swallows, because that’s how manly white hunters take their spirits. That, and of course, furtive swigs from their flasks when out in the bush and large things toothy are about. The gin had the immediate effect of stiffening Miles resolve and reducing the impact of his British reserve to the point where he was able to get beyond both the weather and his fevered brow.
“About tomorrow,” he said, handing over Cynthia’s tumbler of gin, “if this blasted rain” – apparently the weather thing was still with him – “lets off, I think we will be able to find you your rhino. I know how anxious you are to get the horn.”
“Oh just ever so eager Miles. I must get horned before Lord Sackable returns from the bush or I dare say I won’t get horned at all. You know how possessive he gets. He’ll be wanting all the horning for himself.”
Lady Sackable said this while leaning back on her pillows and placing a forearm across her brow in a manner that suggested just how distraught she was at the prospect of going much longer without a horn. “Do come sit by me Miles and tell me of your plan.” She added this last as an after thought, though it was not quite the thought she was after.
Miles for his part was approaching a state resembling all of a tither and couldn’t believe his good fortune. He did have a plan of course, well not really a plan, more of a vague hope and it had nothing to do with rhinos in the morning though he thought “rhinos in the morning” a catchy sort of a phrase. Miles knew that when a swarthy, hairy chested, white hunter enters a woman’s tent on a swell veldt he does not go there without conquest a forethought. Miles, lacking swarth and sporting but a small patch of chest hair was nevertheless hoping a light embrace might be possible. Something on the order of “buck up old girl, I’ll find a horn for yet” while perhaps placing a comforting arm ‘round her shoulders. If luck then held, violin music would swell mysteriously up and there would be locking eyes, trembling lips and passionate words not needing to be said.
Taking the proffered seat next to the object of his desires, Miles was about to employ his ploy when Cynthia quite suddenly took his hand in hers, put them on her thinly night-gowned lap and looking up at him earnestly said, “My word, your brow actually is quite fevered.”
“It’s nothing really” Miles shot back. “Touch of jungle fever, I suspect. Happens all the time.” And then something that sounded like har har, eh what and wouldn’t you know. Miles was growing a bit tense, if by tense one conjures the phrase stiff as a lamppost.
Lady Sackable, gazing at Miles meaningfully, shifted all four of their hands from her lap to his where she hoped to discover a local uprising and was not disappointed as she in turn said, “Yes, I quite understand.” And “I’ve heard it’s really quite common when two people are alone…all alone…in a tent on a swell veldt in the dark of the night…and there’s rain shushing all about them…and…the lanterns are glowing softly…and… gin is available in large quantities…to be suddenly stricken with all sorts of tropical fevers and…” she added, fearing her point was too subtle, “the only known cure as far as I can surmise… starts like this.” She moved their hands again, this time to her breasts which were not quite heaving yet as heaving is such a tough go when four hands are involved. She removed her own, the top ones, to achieve the proper quota and allow the heaving to commence in earnest. This abrupt departure of her knowing hands left Mile’s uncertain mitts plastered there alone to enjoy the aforementioned heaving which is as you know an up and down sort of thing. While he took this simple pleasure Lady Sackable searched his eyes for signs that he had caught her drift. She found them opened quite wide and unblinking no sign of life apparent, so she just let her gaze slip to his lap where the evidence of his comprehension was becoming clearer. Or as she was more likely to put it, ever so clear.
It was at this moment, this inevitable moment when hunter and prey come together in that age old joining that symbolizes man’s ultimate destiny, the fate of the world and heaps more poetic nonsense along those lines, that the lion who had been nipping about the camp in search of scraps, handouts or the hands themselves, decided to enter the tent.

=============================+=================================

Lord Sackable, the Earl of Erstwhile, head of Sackable Safaris and chair of the Let Them Eat Scones Society was enjoying his own gin and gin after a long day of beating about the bush. His section of the swell veldt, some twenty miles away, was free of rain and after having cheerfully flogged a porter or two and cursed the rest he had retired to his tent to await his dinner and the arrival of a village virgin. He had become accustomed to having each of these on a regular basis as he was, after all, very rich.
“Bongo,” he bellowed at his headman, because that’s what he’d heard wealthy Earls do, bellow. “Isn’t that blasted dik-dik done yet?” Dik-dik was his favorite and he had been able to shoot one earlier in the day after his bearers had trapped it and tied it to a tree. He’s gotten a quite nice photo of himself afterwards, holding up the dik-dik’s head and posing triumphantly.
“No Sahib, a few minutes more are required” Bongo shouted back. He called the Earl Sahib because that was his name, Sahib Sackable, and the two were on a first name basis. He rolled the spit a quarter of a turn and added a blast of his own saliva to the dik-dik browning over a low fire. Bongo, having served a stint with an impoverished and consequently mannered Earl, had become accustomed to “I say, would you be so kind as” and hence did not approve of bellowing.
“Well hurry it up then” Sackable bellowed even louder. “I’m quite starving in here.”
Bongo glanced angrily over his shoulder at the Earl’s tent before unzipping his trousers to add a bit more to the dik-dik’s natural juices.

============================+=================================

The lion was as lions go not very big, which accounted in part for his traveling alone. Not being able to whip up, as it were, on his fellow pridecats he had been relegated to the kitty end of the dining table and the pickings there were usually quite slim, a bit of grizzle, the odd bone and such. He was forced, therefore, to seek out dietary supplements in the form of food he could steal from smaller animals and edibles he found just lying about. The latter, as one might suspect, was most in abundance when humans camped on the veldt. Leo we will call him, because it means lion in one of those everyday African dialects such as Swahili or Zodiaci, didn’t particularly like humans as they smelled ghastly and moved about on their hind legs like bizarre, featherless, flightless birds. A gray maned old timer had once told him that in a pinch men were edible, but not nearly as tasty as warthog. Leo had no desire to find out if this was true, but his growling gut compelled him to push his way through the tent flap and into this odd human cave.
“Shreeeeek” screamed Lady Sackable or rather something like it. The actual sound eludes transcription here as there were notes available only to dogs and banshees.
“Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell” was Mile’s contribution, one that was admittedly a bit of a broken record at that.
The most startled of the participants, however, was Leo as the teeming rain had eliminated any warning odors and he had burst into the tent unaware of its peopled condition. Before he had time to think, never his strong point anyway, a short series of loud frightened roars had forcefully escaped his throat. Animal translators would later determine these sounds to mean either “Oh My God” or in the case of MGM, “Relax and Enjoy the Movie.”
For a brief moment, three lives flashed before six eyes and then Miles, a man of action, acted. He leaped behind Lady Sackable, clutched her shoulders and pushed her forward as a human shield. Years later, remembering this day he would still feel no remorse for his actions, because, as he was quick to point out, “Come on! It was a lion!
Fortunately for Miles his less than heroic performance went unnoticed by our heroine as at the very moment of the deed, Lady Sackable fainted dead away. The consequence of her leaving the consciousness scene was that Miles was abruptly caught with a dead weight on his hands and in trying to adjust stumbled backwards and onto the bed, pulling Lady Ess atop him. They had just hit the mattress when Noblong entered the room.
Noblong having heard the shouts, the screams and the roars had grabbed his gun and come running apace. He was not a particularly valiant type, but if his meal ticket was becoming a meal he felt he should at the very least see if there was something he could do. He threw back the tent flap, stepped in and took immediate note of the riot on the bed-cot. He was about to contemplate the black mail possibilities of that situation when he took secondary note of the lion in the room. In fact, “Lion In The Room” was the exact phrase that lit up his thoughts in flashing neon. As fast as Noblong had entered the tent his departure was many times faster. The only action visible to the human eye between the coming and the going was when he threw his gun in the lion’s general direction; an action that diverted Leo’s attention from the dinner arranging itself on the bed-cot.
A fleeing thing is a frightened thing and hence to a lion’s way of thinking, prey. Instinct demanded chase, so Leo bounded out the door and after the running man. His chances of catching the fleet African, however, were approaching nil as Noblong was half Kenyan, half Ethiopian. Any track and field aficionado will tell you that these people weigh nothing at all and are as a result not slowed much by gravity. Miles, on the other hand, felt both gravity and Lady Sackable’s softly lumpy weight as he lay plastered to the bed-cot. Looking over her fair shoulder he had seen the lion bolt off in pursuit of Noblong and his fear factor had dropped from a high of “I’m going to die now” to its present “what if it comes back?” Even with the latter in mind, he took a deep breath and lay back to enjoy the feel of Lady Sackable’s contours against his own. What allowed him to do this was the realization that his shield was still in place.

===========================+===================================

The next morning, a typical African morning out there on the swell veldt where the sun shines brightly, the birds sing gaily and there’s a lot of that sort of thing going about, Sahib Sackable reached for his bottle of eye-opener and found it gone.
“Blast” he bellowed to no one in particular, followed by “Bongo, where the devil are you?” which was more specific but an equal waste of time, because you see, at that very moment Bongo was miles away sampling Sackable’s gin with the rest of the Earl’s porters. After a series of further expletives, each one louder than the last, the Earl burst from his tent with both malice and mayhem a forethought only to find that there was nothing and no one upon which to deposit either. He was alone in the bush, adrift on the swell veldt.

===========================+===================================
Back at the base camp Miles and Cynthia had somewhat recovered from the night’s ordeal and although feeling a trifle fatigued from lack of sleep they were both also feeling the glow of life that comes from having survived a near death sort of thing. When one has gone through that with another person there is an emotional bond that grows between the two. Sort of like soldiers in war, but in this case rather more physical. You could say there was love in the air, but with the rain departed the “blasted bugs,” the “bloody bugs” and the “buggered bugs” were all rising from the grass and love was struggling to find air space of its own.
When Cynthia had awakened from her swoon the night before the first thing she saw was Miles standing in the center of the tent holding Noblong’s gun at the ready. He looked so gallant she had nearly swooned again. Instead she crossed her arms on her formerly heaving bosom and gave forth with a heartfelt, “Oh Miles.”
Miles himself had noticed the gun while flipping Cynthia onto her backside – she had gotten quite heavy – and thought it might be even more useful than a human shield. He had just picked it up and was looking at the tent entrance when Lady Sackable came round and sighed “Oh Miles” in such a way that he knew she had not witnessed his less than leading man behavior. He sensed that they could not pick up where they had left off at the lion’s appearance, but felt he still might have a shot at a good clutch and a tight embrace. Though Cynthia was willing, this proved an awkward task as Miles would not put down the gun.
Now, over bowls of Congo Puffs, a rice based cereal with flakes shaped like tiny poachers, the almost love birds eyed each other furtively for fear a held glance might embark them on a path to things that shouldn’t be done while the sun was shining. It was at this nearly tender moment that the swift Noblong reappeared and announced that while tracking the lion, harrumph harrumph, he had picked up the spoor of a rhino.
“Let me see it at once” cried Miles.
“One doesn’t see a spoor sir, one follows it” you bumbling British nitwit, replied Noblong, with the unquoted part being unspoken but truly felt.
“I see, I see, yes of course” said Miles not having a clue and in fact, visualizing something along the lines of a bread crumb trail. “Well then my good man, do lead on.”
And off they happily traipsed, across the swell veldt.

=============================+=================================

Well, thought Sahib Sackable while streaming last night’s used gin on a handy bush and taking stock of his desolate surroundings, I didn’t get to be an Earl for nothing. It required a lot of luck, money and being carefully born to just the right parents. I’ll have to use all those skills now to get me out of this fix.
“Bongo you bloody bumbler” he shouts aloud. “Bring me the cell phone.” But there is no Bongo and there is no phone and along with noticing that his shoes are getting wet comes the realization that he is doing two things into the wind. The second is shouting.

=============================+=================================

Male lions are not particularly noted for their sense of scent, nor for their keen eyesight or fleetness of foot. If one thinks about it he will note that most of the film footage of the species has them lying about taking the sun and awaiting delivery of their dinner by their female counterparts. In this respect they are much like male humans. Why the females of either species puts up with this is cause for wonder, but it is just so, and a thought in passing like the one Leo was having as he prowled about the swell veldt trying to pick up the scent or sight of anything at all edible. Leo, as noted before, has neither mate nor pride and has to fall back on his own prowess as a hunter to survive. Were the lion documentarians to stumble on Leo as a subject, the footage of his prowess might well be titled, Blind Luck.
The bright African morning had found Leo equidistance between the trackers and the lost Earl. There was, in fact, a rhino with a bad temper – which is a bit like saying a leopard with spots – snuffling about and Leo wanted no part of that program. His choice was to move towards the trackers who had already made a mess of one night or toward the faint, odd scent arriving from upwind; a scent British pub goers would recognize as used Tanqueray, but to a lion a scent that meant man made. As there were no other potential food sources in evidence, Leo loped off to investigate the smell.

============================+==================================

Okay, the blasted sun rises where? asked Sahib Sackable to himself. As far as he could tell the only answer was…in the sky. He was looking up and to his chagrin the sun was looking down. Neither appeared to be moving. Sahib quit staring at the yellow ball and spun around a couple of times in a full circle. This action, combined with the bright little spots in front of his eyes acquired by the sun watching gave him a bit of the same buzz that was his familiar state when gin was available. “That way,” he said aloud, pointing confidently to his fore. “That way.” He then spun about anew, but missed a full 360 by degree or two, a thing which left him trotting off diagonally to “that way.” No matter. His current course had him intersecting with Leo in roughly four hours. They could both use the company.

==============================+================================

As the intrepid troop – one can’t say troop these days without first saying intrepid even if, as here, the word meaning bold or fearless misses the mark by a mile or so – trekked across the swell veldt in search of its destiny or at least a good camping spot and Sahib Sackable and Leo the lion closed the distance to their rendezvous with fate or a near miss, Sahib’s headman, Bongo, was having second thoughts. Sure the Earl was a first class English prig and sure he bellowed constantly and made outrageous demands, but you had to balance that against his other attributes, the good ones which were – here Bongo had cause to pause – which were, which were…paychecks! Sackable always paid at the end of his safaris amounts called variously “a pittance, a trifle, chump change or slave wages,” but he did always pay. Now with the Earl’s gin neatly polished off, Bongo’s anger had subsided and his head was clearing between throbs. He was beginning to feel pangs of something he couldn’t quite grasp, so he paused again for further introspection. He quickly tossed off guilt, remorse and regret because, after all, the gin had been good and the Earl was…well, we’ve been over that, and he skipped the entire my brother’s keeper thing along with the whole question of loyalty. What he settled on finally, and didn’t feel a bit bad about, was avarice, greed and complete self interest. It was the Earl himself who had schooled him in these traditional western values and he supposed there was a bit of a debt owing there. How many times had he heard old Sackable say, “money makes the veldt go round.” It was this thought that convinced him. Snatching up his rifle and gear and waving moompow to his companions Bongo set off to save the Earl and of course, more importantly, his paycheck.

==============================+================================

Rhinos are not a particularly social animal. Rarely will you catch them clustered around the water cooler discussing Desperate Mouse Lives with others of their kind before setting off about their daily routines. No, they prefer solitude to company which in the grand scheme of things is probably to the betterment of all as rhinos are quite cranky at the sight of the rising sun. Their attitude ascends from cranky steadily along to irritable during the day and I would be remiss if I failed to point out the completely appalling dispositions they achieve by nightfall. It was, therefore, as Miles Everhard squinted through his binoculars at the great black beast pawing clouds of dust around him that he was looking at an animal it would be fair to say who was not in a cheerful mood.
Miles made one of those slow dry swallows lacking a trace of liquid that end in an audible gulp and reached for his flask.
“What is it, Miles?” said Cynthia, intercepting the flask and taking a belt herself. Lady Sackable was a modern woman and thus believed that the fair sex was quite capable of doing whatever men were doing and especially if men were doing shots. “What do you see?”
“Oh nothing really Lady Ess, just the longest horn I’ve ever spied, quite intimidating actually, and the fellow sporting it looks somewhat menacing as well. Here then, take a look for yourself.”

Miles and Cynthia exchanged flask and binoculars with Miles getting several quick swigs in the process while Lady Ess adjusted focus on the distant rhino. When at last the image sharpened she jumped back at the seeming closeness of the great beast.
“Oh my word,” she exclaimed as she regained her composure and refitted the glass to her eyes. “He’s magnificent. I’ve never seen such a horn. Oh Miles I must get my hands on it.”
“And so you shall if I have anything to say about it and I do have something to say about it” Miles declared boldly.
What he said next though, was a shock to no one who knew him well. He called out in the best I’m in charge here tone he could muster, “Noblong Old Sock, come over here. I’ve got a job for you.”

==============================+================================

It was not going well for Lord Sahib Sackable who now thought of himself as Lord I Need A Drink as he stumbled across the vast veldt. Some of the spots he was seeing before his eyes took to landing on parts of his exposed skin and nipping him viciously while the others remained in place despite his efforts to wave them away. Bongo and his boys had slipped off with the Earl’s gin, but had left him otherwise well provisioned. Unfortunately, where the Earl was least equipped was between his ears, the place where good sense had been replaced with bad temper. Without Bongo to lead him about the bush, Sahib was hopelessly inept.
It would be difficult to say which of his many mistakes was his first, but among the early ones was the discharging of many rounds of ammo into the air. The Earl had done this not in hopes that someone might have heard and rushed to his rescue, but rather in an angry fit of pique that to him required noise above the decibel levels usually achieved by his bellowing. When his own ears had begun to ring from the sustained barrage he had put down the rifle, the only weapon left to him and taken note of the many shell casings fallen to the ground. I wonder if he thought, and then checking confirmed how many bullets were in fact left. They totaled three.
As the day wore on and warmed on as well, Sackable began to discard the few possessions he had brought along. Back pack and utility belt were abandoned first and then pieces of seemingly unnecessary clothing, jacket, scarf, pith helmet and whatnot were left strewn behind him. The lord was not accustomed to carrying much beyond himself and when fatigued not even that. They don’t call them bearers for nothing was his motto at such times. In a little less than two hours he had reduced his burden to rifle, canteen and a mounting surliness that rivaled the fabled rhinos. Beastly it was and beastly it would remain.

==============================+================================

When Bongo arrived at the Earl’s deserted campsite he feared at first that Sackable might have been carried off by one of the swell veldt’s various predators. A quick reading of the signs though, well not so much the signs, but rather the actual tracks, told him his employer was safe and had set off on a path to, he thought in error, no place in particular. A more thorough study of the tracks had indicated that the earl had done so in some haste, but not before spinning about and then performing what appeared to be dance steps. Bongo placed his own feet in Sackable’s footprints mimicking their movements and quickly realized he was performing the Watusi, a dance his own tribe had invented to amuse white people shooting movie footage. In private they waltzed.
Slinging his rifle onto his shoulder Bongo set out after the Earl. He could tell from the general direction his tracks pointed to that his former boss was headed for difficulties; perhaps even real trouble if that’s another way of saying a horrible, painful death. Ahead lay lion country, rhino country, leopard country, hyenas, wild dogs and a mean species of impatient buzzards. Ahead lay The Great Water Hole where all the veldt’s toughest creatures came to bathe, drink and annoy each other. The bumbling but still bellowing Earl was making a beeline, which if you’ve ever watched bees is not the straightest of lines, towards this the veldt’s most dangerous place. If he didn’t stop to take on pollen like the aforesaid bees, he’d be there in no time at all.

=============================+============================

Noblong would probably not have complied if not for the outside hope of one day returning to the pre Miles ritual of anointing Lady Ess’s backside with insect repellent. But here he was, nevertheless, crawling through the bush, getting ever closer to an always angry rhino with the vague intent of somehow frightening the beast towards Miles and Lady Sackable, a duo who were at that very moment risking their lives, more or less, some twenty feet up a very stout tree. “Don’t worry,” Miles had assured him, if anything goes wrong, we’ll do…something.”
The rhino, for his part, was trying very hard to focus on the brush some fifty yards to his front. His eye sight like that of all rhinos fell far short of twenty-twenty and though he regretted this lack he knew it would be light years before rhinos could qualify for the laser and he was too vain for glasses. Something was moving out there and he thought it best to trot over and get a closer look.
Noblong’s eyesight though not eagle-like was sufficient to tell him that when a rhino appears larger and larger it most likely means he’s drawing closer and closer. This bit of information was duly processed in Noblong’s frightened crania and followed by the necessary action, mindless flight. Noblong bolted from his hiding place and made haste for the hunter’s tree.
As noted earlier, when a thing flees lions read prey and give chase. Rhinos are not carnivorous and therefore the concept of prey quite eludes them. When a rhino espies a fleeing object he pursues purely for the hell of it. It’s something to do and breaks the monotony of, well, being a rhino. Shifting to its highest gear the great armored looking beast made for the fleeing blur with a chance for goring and stomping at the forefront of its mind. These activities, two of its favorites, were also useful in passing the time. Even with his aforementioned fleet feet, whether Noblong would make it to the safety of the tree was going to be a near thing.
============================+==================================

Miles and Cynthia, both propped comfortably on a fat limb in the shade of a broad leafed tree, finished off Mile’s flask and were embarking on their long postponed second embrace. Cynthia was thinking, at last at last my hero at last, while Miles wondered what he was going to do now that he’d taken his last swig of courage. They were completely oblivious to Noblong’s plight as they cooed and balanced precariously on their lofty perch. They might have even billed and cooed had they known what the former was, but in truth what with the balancing required they were busy enough. When Noblong’s shouts alerted them to the dilemma below, Miles retracted a hand from a soft spot on Lady Ess that might have been one of her good ones - difficult to tell through the thick foliage – and reached for his gun. Cynthia, similarly alerted by Noblong’s cries, made note of the hard charging rhino and stretched for her own flask carefully stashed in her boot for emergencies like wild animals charging or Mile’s flask coming up empty.

===============================+===============================

Sahib Sackable was kneeling at waterside to fill his depleted canteen when the shot rang out from over the hill on the far side of the Great Watering Hole. The affect this sound had on the Lord was a rising of spirits, a renewal of hope and a predictable bellow of “it’s about bloody time. Putting down his canteen and picking up his rifle he quickly fired an answering shot into the air and began to ford the GWH which was really just a wide part of a small river that traversed its way on a winding course across the swell veldt. He had taken no more than ten or twelve steps from the bank when a second harsh sound reached his ears; a sound as frighteningly familiar as the gunshot. Though the water in which he stood was quite warm and reached to mid thigh he was suddenly chilled to the bone. With shoulders hunched and teeth tightly clenched, Sahib Sackable turned to confront his fear in the dramatically slow motion fashion common to bad actors in B movies. He had just achieved a full look back when the lion made its leap and the outsized crocodile slipped out of its guise as driftwood and under the water’s surface.

===============================+===============================

Leo had been closing steadily on Sackable throughout the day and finding no other potential food on the trail he determined to appease his lion sized appetite with large chunks of Earl. He had crept within can’t miss striking distance at the very moment Sackable dipped to fill his canteen, but was brought up short by the blast of gunfire from over the hill. When the Earl answered with his own blast, Leo quite rightly decided to abandon the chase. He was not cowardly, just reluctant to approach noise makers louder than himself. When next, however, the bellowing Earl began to slosh out into the stream like dinner cleansing itself before being served, Leo changed his mind again, sprinted from his covering bush and throwing caution to the wind leapt to the attack.

============================+==================================

The croc, of course, had just been biding its time.

============================+==================================

Miles shouldered his rifle, aimed carefully, pulled the trigger and missed by a mile. The sharp clap of the rifle did cause the rhino to pause in its charge and that pause allowed Noblong to make it to the safety of the hunter’s tree, up which I might add, he scrambled in a manner to make even critical monkeys proud.
The rhino, though foiled in its pursuit by hesitation, returned quickly to its bad tempered gallop and swerved to miss the tree only because the sound of the second shot drew its interest to the far side of the hill. This interest coupled with the effort it takes to apply the brakes to a rhino at full tilt boogie, caused a denser cloud of anger to inhabit its brain and its charge went on unabated.

================================+==============================

Sahib Sackable got off one misaimed round before Leo’s leap knocked him onto the crocodile’s back and all three were submerged in the muddy waters of the GWH. What then commenced was an unpleasant thing to watch if one was nearby and a difficult thing to make out at all if one was watching from a distant hill as was the case with Sahib’s less than faithful headman, Bongo. Bongo had arrived there just in time to identify the figure being attacked as his soon to be former boss. Although not effectively out of range, Bongo feared hitting the Earl rather than the animals and eschewed popping off a shot of his own. He opted instead for a slow jog towards the combatants with the thought in mind that retrieval of any of Sackable’s body parts might be worth something to the Earl’s family. He was caught up short and more than surprised when Sackable somehow separated from the fray and although bleeding profusely from both here and there, made it to the far bank of the stream. He turned then to see if he was still being pursued and it was as he did so that Bongo saw the new danger and tried his best to shout a warning. The word that here suffices best is, alas…alas.

===============================+===============================

“Oh Miles, don’t let him get away” said Cynthia to her hero who was staring fixedly at the flask in her hand. “I must get horned before the day is out.”
Miles sprung into action which is another way of saying he snatched the flask from Cynthia and drained what was left. Refortified, he then turned to Noblong and signaled let’s go, but the still frightened aspiring masseuse clung fiercely to his new best friend, a spot high in the tree he found too cozy to leave. Miles would have to go it alone, an option not high on his list of same, but a thing which after gazing again into Lady Sackable’s gin shiny but nevertheless adoring eyes, he did.

==============================+================================

When the rhino crested the hill and began its descent its speed increased immeasurably. There was no conceivable way it could stop before reaching level ground and the impact of its collision with Lord Sackable was, therefore, of such force that the Earl would have been air born for a record distance had he not been neatly impaled on the very horn so ardently coveted by Lady Sackable. The rhino’s momentum carried it and the Earl to the center of the stream where it joined the scrum being conducted by Leo and the croc. Mayhem, it must then be said, ensued.

===============================+===============================

The sun was setting out of habit and the light was growing dim on the swell veldt when a tired but still jumpy Miles Everhard stumbled down the hill towards the GWH. There were night sounds springing up and Miles found their song less than comforting. At river’s edge he frightened buzzards from the bank and while examining their dinner discovered fragments of the day’s carnage; a bit of rhino, a bit of croc, a bit of lion, and an unfortunate trace of Earl. He wondered what had occurred.
A voice then rang out as voices are wont to do when darkness gathers on the veldt. “You there,” it said, “would you like to buy a rhino horn?” Bongo had been foiled in his search among the devastation for any recognizable and therefore salable chunk of his late employer. He had recovered the Earl’s rifle and in fact had used its last bullet to shoot the crock swimming off with a rhino horn locked securely in its jaws. Rhino horns he knew were valued in some quarters for their supposed aphrodisiac powers. When he had spotted Miles poking through the rubble that was once his boss he thought that here, perhaps, was one last chance to end the day with a profit and it was his voice that rang out with the offer of purchase. “It’s very big and I’ll sell it cheap” was his further come-on. Cheap being to him three or four times the horn’s actual worth. He was preparing his mind for the give and take of bargaining he thought about to commence when Miles shouted back a response that warmed his heart and gave truth to the phrase an ear to ear grin. What Miles said was, “Name your price.”
===============================+===============================

The rain had begun again when Miles Everhard was once more beckoned into the inviting confines of Cynthia Sackable’s tent. He caught a quick glimpse of Noblong scurrying out the back flap and knew that Lady Ess’s backside was safe again from the wily mosquito. “Beastly night” he began, because some habits are never fully overcome, “but I have brought you a rather nice surprise.” He than watched as Cynthia arranged herself in that skillful way she had and she in turn watched him with, shall we say, mounting expectations.
“Oh do tell Miles,” she said. “I could use a surprise and you’re the man I want to surprise me most.”
Miles didn’t quite get that, but reached behind his back and brought forth the horn. Lady Sackable was heard to shriek with joy as she ran to her hero for a passionate embrace. Horns got momentarily in the way, for now there was more than one, but places were quickly found for all and a short while later further shrieks pierced the night. Lady Ess made some more noises as well.

==============================+================================

Outside the tent the rain continued in force and a bedraggled and still hungry Leo paused to consider the new noises coming from within. Although they didn’t sound quite human and might in fact be something to eat, he felt it best to pass on by. He turned and ripped off one last growl of disappointment then disappeared into the night. Far in the distance a one horned rhino snorted in answer. In the quiet that followed there was a notable absence of bellows. All had returned to normal on what was now a really swell veldt.


Doc Walton January, 2008

Monday, February 11, 2008

Just Walking the Monkeymind About

A lot of things on my mind this morning. Give me a minute. Urrrgghhhh. Okay, got 'em off.

My car is sitting in the driveway with a dead battery. A BRAND NEW dead battery. Some evil agent has visited in the night and done it in. This is the second battery in two weeks. In between the two I've had a new alternator installed so it can't be that. Friend LJ say it's a sell a noid situation. If I knew what a noid was I would sell it, but I haven't got a clue. My plan for today was to jumper cable the car to life and then take it to The Car Guys, but it's raining like the dickens, to beat the band, hell and assorted other cliches meaning hard and I'm not going out there unless it eases up. Looks like a good day for the three R's, reading, wRiting and cRossword puzzles.

For those of you who have been with the blog long enough to remember "A Swell Veldt", you will be happy? excited? thrilled? completely unmoved? to know that I have finished the tale. For those of you who don't go back that far, be advised I will be posting the entire bit of whimsy in the next couple of days. It comes with an "R" rating, which means must be accompanied by an immature adult, and contains language and situations likely to tittilate if taken in the presence of alcohol. Driving while reading is recommended for the professionally unfit.

I have just been advised that we are off to Daveed in twenty minutes.

(Wish my spellcheck worked. Is recommended two c's or two m's? And what about tittilate? Am I even close?)

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Meat, Monkeys and Other Stuff

RTGFKAR believes that people shouldn't eat meat... more than three times a day; breakfast,lunch and dinner.

I had a steak last night and meatballs (bolitos de carne)in my spaghetti the night before. Prior to these two carnivorous orgies I had gone six or seven weeks eschewing the chewing of calf, cow, piggie or porker. My reason for the flesh fast has nothing to do with any particular turn of philosophy - although in theory if not in fact I generally like to avoid those things that are reputed to be "bad for you" like cigarettes for instance, and seek out the hearty and the healthy like long walks and a good cigar - but is simply that since my gall bladder has left the building, digesting meat seems a harder thing to do. I don't know if I am more salubrious for having minimized my intake of mooing and oinking animals, I don't feel any difference, but I have noticed that my dreams now frequently involve footlong hotdogs smothered in mustard and relish floating airborn like a halo about my head. I'm not sure what this signifies, but I think it has something to do with baseball.

Other news on the homefront and the homeback as well, include Woowoo Charly and I taking our neighbor Dalys, pronounced Doll-ees, and her two youngest kids, Daisy and Roberto to Paradise Gardens to see their assortment of rescued animals. Our assigned tour guide was a young woman from Belgium who spoke English, Spanish and I assume French,(unless there is a language called Belgic or Belgish)whose linguistic skills came in handy as the two kids only speak Spanish and I only speak when spoken to. We all learned much about the rescue, care and feeding of kinkajous, margays (think small ocelot), three kinds of monkeys, parrots, mccaws, toucans, and the like including two "cute as they can be" boxer puppies which, we were told, would one day be the garden's guard dogs if they ever stopped wrestling with each other.

After the tour there was ice cream. I declined this treat as well, because they didn't have my favorite flavor. Roast Beef.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

My Computer and Super Tuesday

I trust my computer about as far as I can throw it, which, considering its non aerodynamic shape is about 15 feet. Let me test that. Yup, 15 feet it is. (Hmmmm, I wonder...what's the record?) After its having eaten most of my life's work, admittedly a small sum but nevertheless of worth to me, I find myself nervous?apprehensive? worried?, okay, FREAKING when it performs uncalled for functions. Today, for instance, it refuses to allow me to comment on the comments. It offers me choices of things to do that it has never offered before and then, of course, won't accept my choices. A couple of blogs ago the spell check ceased to function. I've tried slapping it around, a technique that works for me when my pillow gets out of shape, but that doesn't seem to help. Curses and threats fall on deaf ears as well. People say machines are not sentient, but I don't believe them for a minute. Anybody who pays attention will tell you that a well kept, clean car, spoken kindly to runs far better than a neglected version. My computer thinks and that's for sure. Trouble is, I doubt it's of sound mind. It's either that or it just likes messing with me.

"Barack to the future" and "Barack to the drawing board" are gems Jr. Keep up the good work.

I watched a little of Super Tuesday last night but after realizing that what being said was mostly a redundency of the redundency, I went to bed. The commentators had a lot of air time to fill with little to fill it, so they said the same things over and over but(skillfully?)phrasing their thoughts differently each time. It's probably the ability to do so that gets them the job in the first place. My own political BS threshhold is low to begin with, so boredom set in muy rapido. I'd rather read Op Ed pieces for info than listen to talking heads babble.

I wonder - and here's a Monkeymind thought linking paragraphs first and last - do you suppose, could it be, is it possible, my computer's a Republican? Nah. It's cryptic, but it's honest.

Monday, February 04, 2008

On Any Given Monday

And now a word about the Super Bowl. Niiiiice. Do you belive that catch? Now when Denver goes 19 - 0 next year they won't have to share that greatest ever title with New England.

RTGFKAR is constructing a pathway made of pored concrete blocks that have chips of colored tile placed in them. Looks good. The pathway is going to wend its way down the path - which is why it is cleverly called a pathway - and into what is now a field of coffee trees. (Some people call the trees bushes, but I don't like to say bush without an expletive before the word.) Eventually, when we are old and gray...okay, when we are old and a yet to be determined color, we will have fruit trees and ah, other stuff down there. You'll have to ask RTGFKAR and Woowoo about those as they're not my department. For now I am relegated to removing coffee and getting out of the way.

Woowoo Chuck has not been feeling well of late and has taken to reading RTGFKAR's pile of Sci Fi books. I don't know if the two things are related - being sick and reading Sci Fi - but she's going through them like a kid through a bag of MnM's. She was cheered yesterday, as she is every Sunday, by a morning filled with political talk shows. While I was taking credit for coining Obama-ination and Obama's-nation she came up with the topper. "He's McCain but not able." Nice.

As for old "Doak", he's writing some fiction again so these carved in stone factual blogs will appear somewhat less frequent.(ly)

And now, while the sun is doing its "I'm a big yellow orb that you can't look directly at or you'll hurt your eyes" thing overhead, I think I'll go chop down some coffee goddamn bushes.

Ciao.

Friday, February 01, 2008

The Boquete Quadrangle

Boquetanos, in an effort to keep their flourishing economy in high gear have become increasingly more closed mouthed about a mystery that rivals those of Loch Ness, Bermuda and the Himalayan Yeti. Their silence about the subject is understandable when you consider the tremendous sums of money being generated by the town's rapid growth and its benefit to the population at large. Fear that word of their "problem" will spread to the outside world and slow the money stream has made an entire community mute. There are, however, a few of us who feel that it is time the truth were out and that serious investigatory agencies be advised and brought to the task of solving the riddle that is known here simply as...The Boquete Quadrangle. From you, the readers of our disclosure, we ask only that our names be kept the closest of secrets. Because, with so much money involved - and here I speak not only of development revenues but of the lost out-of-pocket dollars to those foolish enough to wander into the Quadrangle itself - our very lives could be in danger. It must never be known that we four are the whistle blowers.

There is an area hidden in a valley on the southwestern side of town that is roughly quadrangular in configuration. We, WWC, RTR, LJ and myself had wandered there on many an occassion as had a small coterie of other golfers after the course's opening some four and a bit years ago. At day's end we had occassionally mentioned that our supply of Titleists, Top Flites, Pinnacles and such had been somewhat diminished, but we thought little of it. We chalked up their disappearance to what we laughingly called "bad shots." Bad shots, as any golfer will tell you, are rarely remembered. Good shots, on the other hand, cling to the brain cells and are available to talk about ad neauseum post round. As the bad shots were forgotten, so too were the lost golf balls.

Until yesterday. Yesterday the mystery was unveiled and made crystal clear. For those of you who have never played the game let me point out that it is not uncommon for bad shots to penalize a golfer with an additional stroke on his scorecard. It is far less common for his ball to actually disappear as a result of the shot. Not so yesterday. As we four watched in amazement, ball after ball was drawn to the left or right by mysterious forces and dropped into lake, stream or jungle never to be seen again. LJ would tee up and find himself possessed of demons demanding duck hooks and RTR's topped shot would see his ball sink into quick-mud not fifteen feet from where he stood. WWC's wild John Daly back swing sent balls disappearing into pond and puddles placed like trolls to lure the dimpled innocents to their final rest. The worst though, may have been the swing this reporter took on the seventh hole that resulted in a ball flying so far into the jungle that trying to find it would, by comparison, make that needle in a haystack thing look like a piece of cake. Further, the evil force possessing us all, but which on that particular swing grabbed me alone like Megan in "The Exorcist" and had me swing so hard that I was left lying on the ground clutching a couple of balls that were not engraved with any company's logo. I don't have the medical term to pass along to you for clarification, but I suppose "groin pull" is descriptive enough.

Abnormal occurrences were clearly happening on the course. Golf balls were disappearing at a ridiculously unprecedented rate. I'll grant you that we hadn't played for some time, but we all swore we couldn't be THIS bad. Invisible and clearly evil forces were at work and they had become increasingly malevolent during the five months we had been absent from the course.

And so in summation I say, beware beware, you that venture there. The Boquete Quadrangle grows stronger each day and must be fed. For the brave and the undaunted I have but this small bit of advice: Bring forth your rangeballs, your cuts, your bruised and damaged. Bring forth your aged and your brand x. But never I say, never, open a sleeve of new. The Quadrangle likes them best.