I cannot tell a limbaugh. I did chop down the cherry tree.
He was limbaughing through his teeth.
Caught limbaughing to the Grand Jury, Bonds was sentenced to five years in the slammer.
He's a pathological limbaugher.
Did you catch the remake of that old flick, "Sex, Limbaughs and Video Tape"?
He limbaughs like a rug.
There is no such thing as a little, white limbaugh.
Tell me no secrets and I will tell you no limbaughs.
You can tell when Bush is limbaughing, his mouth is moving.
And don't forget there are limbaughs of omission.
'tis a sin to tell a limbaugh.
Though his ball was in the rough, he had a pretty good limbaugh.
Who are the biggest limbaughers, fishermen or golfers?
Remember that old song, "You cheated, you limbaughed, you said that you loved me"?
That's a big, fat limbaugh!
Every time Pinocchio told a limbaugh, his nose grew longer.
That's a bald faced limbaugh!
And how about that Eagles song, "You can't hide your limbaughing eyes"?
Limbaugher, limbaugher, pants on fire.
Feel free to add to this list.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
As Told to Doc by Dara ... 9/11
Abner, didn’t want me to leave that morning – Dave had already left - Abner followed me around meowing, crying - getting in my way - wondered what was wrong – stones coming back or just wants company - thought about it all the way to subway - that and what a beautiful morning – sat and read on train - oblivious for most part - looked up when stopped extra long at Chambers Street on C line – under the Trade Center - man gets on there – upset, disheveled – ranting – assume a crazy – New York has plenty – shouting about smoke coming from Trade Towers - says plane hit one.- I think, possible – I think, small plane – they fly lower – man in suit – maybe not crazy – remember footage plane crashing Empire State Build in Forties – have film at Sekani. (Documentary Archive Co. where Dara worked at the time.) – mood weird when I leave train – disturbed – it’s eight something – after first plane hit – before second.
Everyone at work in conference room – watching news - join them – second plane hits tower - like in slo-mo - like my mind can’t make sense – we now know first plane not accident - reports coming in - other planes, other places – don’t remember when I called you - can’t remember when I called you – couldn’t get a line at first – e-mailed I’m okay – finally get through to David at Random House - agree to meet at friend Terrence’s in Murray Hill – get through to you then David’s parents- watch more news – all hell breaking loose - Tower’s burning and smoking – people jumping from windows, ledges – horrible.
Office in rush to find places for non Manhattanites to go – city shutting down - friend Elaine from Queens goes with me - start walking to Terence’s - everyone outside frantic, dazed looking - car doors open – radios on news - blaring everywhere - hear reports from D.C – White House – Pentagon – Pennsylvania - rumors of more - think of movie Independence Day - feels like disaster flick – looks like disaster flick – but people calmer - more subdued – eyes full of fear – sidewalks packed – hard to walk – grateful have sensible shoes - hold hands – buy water at Deli – supplies going fast – takes two hours to Terence’s – forty minute walk - beautiful day, no clouds – warm - stunning – approach Murray Hill -30’s on East side – start to see smoke in sky – people shaking soot – walking rapidly away - get to Terrence’s - David and others from RH there - Terrence cooking for all - Terrence’s father arrives - huge Chinese man – speaks little English – checking on Terence – assured okay, leaves for Long Island – we watch more news - see Bush get report – go on reading - hear Cheney and others herded underground – car outside catches fire – don’t know why – very random, very scary.
Late in afternoon learn some trains running again - worried about cats - David and I walk to F Train - looking downtown see void where Towers were – much smoke – blowing opposite direction - back in Brooklyn - all hits home - so to speak - wind now blowing towards us - ash, soot, scraps of paper making air thick - smells terrible - suddenly realize –smelling death - inhaling people - cover a/c in window with blanket – keep air and smell at bay - hold each other – watch more news – say silent prayers.
Next few nights a blur - one night huge storm - booms of thunder - so frightening - mixes with sound of fighter jets overhead - sleep impossible - expecting bombs – more attacks . offices closed – no work - city shut down for days – don’t know what to do with selves - finish painting apartment – seems a hopeful, optimistic thing to do – parents call often – want us to leave city – Dad says he’ll drive from Colorado – come get us – we tell them all no – we’re New Yorkers – we won’t be scared away.
Everyone at work in conference room – watching news - join them – second plane hits tower - like in slo-mo - like my mind can’t make sense – we now know first plane not accident - reports coming in - other planes, other places – don’t remember when I called you - can’t remember when I called you – couldn’t get a line at first – e-mailed I’m okay – finally get through to David at Random House - agree to meet at friend Terrence’s in Murray Hill – get through to you then David’s parents- watch more news – all hell breaking loose - Tower’s burning and smoking – people jumping from windows, ledges – horrible.
Office in rush to find places for non Manhattanites to go – city shutting down - friend Elaine from Queens goes with me - start walking to Terence’s - everyone outside frantic, dazed looking - car doors open – radios on news - blaring everywhere - hear reports from D.C – White House – Pentagon – Pennsylvania - rumors of more - think of movie Independence Day - feels like disaster flick – looks like disaster flick – but people calmer - more subdued – eyes full of fear – sidewalks packed – hard to walk – grateful have sensible shoes - hold hands – buy water at Deli – supplies going fast – takes two hours to Terence’s – forty minute walk - beautiful day, no clouds – warm - stunning – approach Murray Hill -30’s on East side – start to see smoke in sky – people shaking soot – walking rapidly away - get to Terrence’s - David and others from RH there - Terrence cooking for all - Terrence’s father arrives - huge Chinese man – speaks little English – checking on Terence – assured okay, leaves for Long Island – we watch more news - see Bush get report – go on reading - hear Cheney and others herded underground – car outside catches fire – don’t know why – very random, very scary.
Late in afternoon learn some trains running again - worried about cats - David and I walk to F Train - looking downtown see void where Towers were – much smoke – blowing opposite direction - back in Brooklyn - all hits home - so to speak - wind now blowing towards us - ash, soot, scraps of paper making air thick - smells terrible - suddenly realize –smelling death - inhaling people - cover a/c in window with blanket – keep air and smell at bay - hold each other – watch more news – say silent prayers.
Next few nights a blur - one night huge storm - booms of thunder - so frightening - mixes with sound of fighter jets overhead - sleep impossible - expecting bombs – more attacks . offices closed – no work - city shut down for days – don’t know what to do with selves - finish painting apartment – seems a hopeful, optimistic thing to do – parents call often – want us to leave city – Dad says he’ll drive from Colorado – come get us – we tell them all no – we’re New Yorkers – we won’t be scared away.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Clearing Continued
Chapter 2
Monday night brought with it a partial moon and a darkened sky. Old Doc sat outside his country cabin, sipping a scotch, smoking a stogie and watching his dogs at play.
It had been a warm Summer's day and the temperature had dropped little when darkness had pushed the light away. Perfectly suitable, Doc thought, tilting his head back and blowing smoke into the night, for sitting outdoors. And, he further supposed, for chasing ghosts if one were of such a mind. He wondered then, how things were faring down at the Arboles store. He imagined chanting. He imagined rattles and noise makers like drumsticks on empty cans. He imagined Sharman led Indian dancing for surely some of the ghosts must have been Southern Utes, they'd been in the area for centuries. And as he sat there constructing in his imagination the mass exorcism, he chuckled quietly to himself at what he felt was the sheer silliness of it all. It would be fair to say that his mind at that moment was somewhat less than open. Had he known for sure, however, what was actually occurring at the Arboles store, he might have sung a different tune.
The store had been closed shortly after nine, locked up, lights out. The Woowoo spook chasers assembled in its most open area and formed a circle, linking hands. At Sharman's instructions, each began to visualize a crystal staircase rising up from the store's floor and disappearing into the darkness above. When the image was as clear and sharp as they could make it, they were then to mentally begin urging the ghosts to climb and be gone, to go home, to leave this place where they were no longer wanted. Although at no point were the ghosts ever visible, all four participants were later to say that their presence could be felt throughout the episode and that as they stood there, gently suggesting the ghosts take a powder, they could feel their invisible targets getting more and more agitated. They clasped each other's hands tighter than ever and focused for all they were worth. They more than sensed they knew, something big was about to happen.
Monday night brought with it a partial moon and a darkened sky. Old Doc sat outside his country cabin, sipping a scotch, smoking a stogie and watching his dogs at play.
It had been a warm Summer's day and the temperature had dropped little when darkness had pushed the light away. Perfectly suitable, Doc thought, tilting his head back and blowing smoke into the night, for sitting outdoors. And, he further supposed, for chasing ghosts if one were of such a mind. He wondered then, how things were faring down at the Arboles store. He imagined chanting. He imagined rattles and noise makers like drumsticks on empty cans. He imagined Sharman led Indian dancing for surely some of the ghosts must have been Southern Utes, they'd been in the area for centuries. And as he sat there constructing in his imagination the mass exorcism, he chuckled quietly to himself at what he felt was the sheer silliness of it all. It would be fair to say that his mind at that moment was somewhat less than open. Had he known for sure, however, what was actually occurring at the Arboles store, he might have sung a different tune.
The store had been closed shortly after nine, locked up, lights out. The Woowoo spook chasers assembled in its most open area and formed a circle, linking hands. At Sharman's instructions, each began to visualize a crystal staircase rising up from the store's floor and disappearing into the darkness above. When the image was as clear and sharp as they could make it, they were then to mentally begin urging the ghosts to climb and be gone, to go home, to leave this place where they were no longer wanted. Although at no point were the ghosts ever visible, all four participants were later to say that their presence could be felt throughout the episode and that as they stood there, gently suggesting the ghosts take a powder, they could feel their invisible targets getting more and more agitated. They clasped each other's hands tighter than ever and focused for all they were worth. They more than sensed they knew, something big was about to happen.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
More of The Clearing
My head hurts. Celebrations are not good for cerebration.
Los Molinas (The Windmills) has a restaurant in the hotel part of its upscale housing development. It's located out on the flats just south of Boquete and it is where we went to celebrate RTGFKARS first anniversary of living in Panama. We, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and Yers Trewly were with friends L and R -good company they -but lacked our usual companions B and L as the Old Redneck had sprained his back and opted for home and Aleve rather than squirm in pain on a restaurant chair. After enjoying a sumptuous meal (hmmm, don't think I've ever used the word sumptuous before)we retired to the restaurant's wrap around porch for a post dinner Gran Marnier and to listen to a group of Panamanian guitar players who gather there from time to time, we were told, to jam and sing. They were all older, played beautifully and sang well. It was an unexpected treat to hear them.
==========+++==========
It was summer in Arboles, the tourist season. The store would be open late to accommodate boaters, campers and fishermen straggling in from the lake. A weekday seemed best for the "clearing" and the following Monday was chosen by the fearless foursome. Doc had declined an invitation to join the group pointing out, rightly, that someone needed to stay home to consume the post work cocktails. He preferred his spirits in a glass. The group would gather at the store shortly after its close and Doc's departure. All the lights would be extinguished so as to discourage any would be late shoppers from banging on the doors in hopes of scoring a late six pack or a carton of cigs. No need to startle the ghosts or their chasers. Sharman would then instruct the group in whatever steps were necessary to rid the store of its lingering presences taking her cues from the ghosts themselves. A simple plan, really. One you might later describe as a piece of cake, or easy as pie. If you believed in ghosts, that is. And if they were so, would they really go?
Next - the plan put into action.
Los Molinas (The Windmills) has a restaurant in the hotel part of its upscale housing development. It's located out on the flats just south of Boquete and it is where we went to celebrate RTGFKARS first anniversary of living in Panama. We, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and Yers Trewly were with friends L and R -good company they -but lacked our usual companions B and L as the Old Redneck had sprained his back and opted for home and Aleve rather than squirm in pain on a restaurant chair. After enjoying a sumptuous meal (hmmm, don't think I've ever used the word sumptuous before)we retired to the restaurant's wrap around porch for a post dinner Gran Marnier and to listen to a group of Panamanian guitar players who gather there from time to time, we were told, to jam and sing. They were all older, played beautifully and sang well. It was an unexpected treat to hear them.
==========+++==========
It was summer in Arboles, the tourist season. The store would be open late to accommodate boaters, campers and fishermen straggling in from the lake. A weekday seemed best for the "clearing" and the following Monday was chosen by the fearless foursome. Doc had declined an invitation to join the group pointing out, rightly, that someone needed to stay home to consume the post work cocktails. He preferred his spirits in a glass. The group would gather at the store shortly after its close and Doc's departure. All the lights would be extinguished so as to discourage any would be late shoppers from banging on the doors in hopes of scoring a late six pack or a carton of cigs. No need to startle the ghosts or their chasers. Sharman would then instruct the group in whatever steps were necessary to rid the store of its lingering presences taking her cues from the ghosts themselves. A simple plan, really. One you might later describe as a piece of cake, or easy as pie. If you believed in ghosts, that is. And if they were so, would they really go?
Next - the plan put into action.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Updates and The Clearing Continued
As of last Thursday RTGFKAR has now been here in Panama one year. We are heading out to dinner at Las Molinas tonight to celebrate.
Old Girl has moved in. Well, not quite. We've made a bed for her from old towels out on the patio. She's not a house dog. We feed her in the early evening which, I'm thinking, is something her actual owners may not do. She is free to go at any time, of course, but as long as she hangs out here, I can't look at her skinny self and not feed her.
Our new grass is green and our flowers are, well you know, flowers. Pretty and all that.
It hasn't rained for a week.
==============+++===============
Charly was the first of Sharman's converts to the idea of "clearing" the ghosts from the store. After her, the other two were easy. Charly is Doc's wife and usually a stable, rational woman who seldom makes any sort of decision without first acquiring as much information as possible. She is a self described "information junkie" and a quick study who devours books at a prodigious rate. Where her rationality leaves off though, is where any sort of magic begins. Not the slight of hand, divert the eye, trickster magic of stage magicians, but rather the, yes I will use the term again, woowoo magic inherent in nature and beyond. Dancing and chanting can make it rain, foreseeing the future is possible, auras exist and are readable and ESP is merely a gift that some people possess are a few examples of Charly's magic beliefs. Naturally, she and Sharman had become fast friends. And naturally, when Sharman said the ghosts had to go, Charly was fully in favor.
The "clearing" plan was then sold to Charly and Doc's oldest daughter Laura and her boyfriend "Big" Brian. Both were children of nature who had fled the ugliness of the city to find their comfort zone in the rural wilderness of southern Colorado. There they had thrived and were not unfamiliar with life's "exceptional" moments. Laura had heard Bigfoot at close range, previously had seen ghosts and believed much of the supernatural was natural. Brian had traveled in India and witnessed the spiritual magic of Indian gurus and had hands that could generate intense heat at a moment's notice; useful healing tools for bruises and sprains. He was also tall and thick, hence the appellation "big" before his name. If worse came to worser as Doc put it, Brian might be able to scare the ghosts away.
Tomorrow, the plan.
Old Girl has moved in. Well, not quite. We've made a bed for her from old towels out on the patio. She's not a house dog. We feed her in the early evening which, I'm thinking, is something her actual owners may not do. She is free to go at any time, of course, but as long as she hangs out here, I can't look at her skinny self and not feed her.
Our new grass is green and our flowers are, well you know, flowers. Pretty and all that.
It hasn't rained for a week.
==============+++===============
Charly was the first of Sharman's converts to the idea of "clearing" the ghosts from the store. After her, the other two were easy. Charly is Doc's wife and usually a stable, rational woman who seldom makes any sort of decision without first acquiring as much information as possible. She is a self described "information junkie" and a quick study who devours books at a prodigious rate. Where her rationality leaves off though, is where any sort of magic begins. Not the slight of hand, divert the eye, trickster magic of stage magicians, but rather the, yes I will use the term again, woowoo magic inherent in nature and beyond. Dancing and chanting can make it rain, foreseeing the future is possible, auras exist and are readable and ESP is merely a gift that some people possess are a few examples of Charly's magic beliefs. Naturally, she and Sharman had become fast friends. And naturally, when Sharman said the ghosts had to go, Charly was fully in favor.
The "clearing" plan was then sold to Charly and Doc's oldest daughter Laura and her boyfriend "Big" Brian. Both were children of nature who had fled the ugliness of the city to find their comfort zone in the rural wilderness of southern Colorado. There they had thrived and were not unfamiliar with life's "exceptional" moments. Laura had heard Bigfoot at close range, previously had seen ghosts and believed much of the supernatural was natural. Brian had traveled in India and witnessed the spiritual magic of Indian gurus and had hands that could generate intense heat at a moment's notice; useful healing tools for bruises and sprains. He was also tall and thick, hence the appellation "big" before his name. If worse came to worser as Doc put it, Brian might be able to scare the ghosts away.
Tomorrow, the plan.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Off and Running On A New One
Okay what will it be today? Nothing really on my mind that matters much. I may need to get another piece of fiction underway. Get that mysterious part of the brain that works apart from reality going. Been meaning to do that anyway. Just been trying to clear up other stuff first which is a laugh, because there is ALWAYS other stuff. Well alrighty then, here goes. And who can say for sure whether what follows is really fiction?
How about "THE CLEARING" for a title? Work with me, we can change it later if you like. Oh, and don't be too critical. This is only a first draft.
Chapter 1
You have to consider the players involved before you pass judgement on their actions. Sharman Alto was the prime mover. She was first to suggest the existence of the ghosts. She was the one who said they were there, in the store, and that nothing would bode well until they were sent on their way. The others just nodded agreement and asked what had to be done. Well all but one, that is. The lone skeptic being old Doc Walton, who along with his wife was the store's co-owner. His attitude was there probably are no such thing as ghosts, but if there are, why rile them up? He would play a small but critical role in the mysterious events to follow.
Sharman Alto was the town's foremost New Age personality. She looked like no one else is this rural region where denim ruled the fashion roost and clothes suitable for outdoor work were worn by both men and women. Sharman wore instead colorful dresses or slacks, often Native American inspired and tops of intricate patterns. Around here neck there were either strings of beads or necklaces adorned with stones. Magic stones with life and secrets to tell. Or so she said. Atop her head there could usually be found some sort of funky hat, occassionally feathered. Sharman could talk with authority about auras, vibrations, shifts in consciousness, crystals and their power, angels and spirits, and was a frequent invitee to Native American rituals including rain and harvest dancing. She could sing, played several instruments and was a noted healer who had treated nearly everyone in town at one time or another. She was in short, what came to be known as a Woowoo. A person in touch with elements on the periphery of ordinary reality, perhaps even multi dimensional that less sensitive types did not even suspect were there. She put forth her convictions honestly and without guile. If she said there were ghosts in the store she would be believed. Well, by some anyway. We'll get to them tomorrow.
How about "THE CLEARING" for a title? Work with me, we can change it later if you like. Oh, and don't be too critical. This is only a first draft.
Chapter 1
You have to consider the players involved before you pass judgement on their actions. Sharman Alto was the prime mover. She was first to suggest the existence of the ghosts. She was the one who said they were there, in the store, and that nothing would bode well until they were sent on their way. The others just nodded agreement and asked what had to be done. Well all but one, that is. The lone skeptic being old Doc Walton, who along with his wife was the store's co-owner. His attitude was there probably are no such thing as ghosts, but if there are, why rile them up? He would play a small but critical role in the mysterious events to follow.
Sharman Alto was the town's foremost New Age personality. She looked like no one else is this rural region where denim ruled the fashion roost and clothes suitable for outdoor work were worn by both men and women. Sharman wore instead colorful dresses or slacks, often Native American inspired and tops of intricate patterns. Around here neck there were either strings of beads or necklaces adorned with stones. Magic stones with life and secrets to tell. Or so she said. Atop her head there could usually be found some sort of funky hat, occassionally feathered. Sharman could talk with authority about auras, vibrations, shifts in consciousness, crystals and their power, angels and spirits, and was a frequent invitee to Native American rituals including rain and harvest dancing. She could sing, played several instruments and was a noted healer who had treated nearly everyone in town at one time or another. She was in short, what came to be known as a Woowoo. A person in touch with elements on the periphery of ordinary reality, perhaps even multi dimensional that less sensitive types did not even suspect were there. She put forth her convictions honestly and without guile. If she said there were ghosts in the store she would be believed. Well, by some anyway. We'll get to them tomorrow.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Getting Back To It
Alrighty then. Sit up straight, get you hands positioned over the keyboard and look alert. Shake off your lethargy, fight through your coma and prepare for the zone. Come on zone.
When I haven't written for a few days, it takes a period of staring blankly and unblinking at the flashing cursor waiting for something to happen. Inspiration really isn't a lightening flash that sets one to action, it's more like something that quietly emerges from effort and dedication. Well, for me anyway. People with big talent may find their spark easier to access.
I've had THINGS TO DO lately that have interrupted my morning mental monkeymind manipulation (masturbation?)that I call a blog and my other writings that I call MY OTHER WRITINGS, because I'm clever like that. THINGS like getting the car re- insured, inspected and re-registered. THINGS that HAVE to be done. I hate those. They always take longer than what I would consider necessary and they frequently go from being chores to all out quests. Take, por ejemplo, our oven. The little light bulb that shines from the back so that you can peer through the window glass and see how your roast is progressing burned out a couple of weeks ago. Since then, we have been in search of a replacement. The bulb is about as big as my thumbnail and as it has a thick glass safety cover that screws in over it, no other size will do. Store after store sent us away saying "no lo tengo", I don't have it. Yesterday I returned to a store that I knew carried our oven brand and they suggested a store I had not yet tried. That store suggested another and now you see how it goes. Eventually I arrived at a tienda that also said no lo tengo but promised to order it for me. "Alrighty then" I said, "ordename tres" which I think means order me three. No sense in driving back to David for just one 49 cent bulb. Might as well go all out and spend the big bucks.
We did save time at the car inspection place though. I drove into the entrance of a huge car repair shop where I knew from previous years that they perform inspections. I told the woman at the service window that I wanted my car inspected. She asked me if I had a car insurance policy and I said yes, having obtained it an hour earlier. She then looked out the window at my car, typed up the necessary form, took my ten dollars and twenty five cents and proclaimed the car tested. A guy came over, shot a couple of car photos and zap, we were out of there. Now that's my kind of bureaucracy.
And today I HAVE to weed whack. The jungle is taking back the part of our property where we have removed the coffee plants and it has to be cleared to be useful. First though, I am going to write something.
There, that's done.
When I haven't written for a few days, it takes a period of staring blankly and unblinking at the flashing cursor waiting for something to happen. Inspiration really isn't a lightening flash that sets one to action, it's more like something that quietly emerges from effort and dedication. Well, for me anyway. People with big talent may find their spark easier to access.
I've had THINGS TO DO lately that have interrupted my morning mental monkeymind manipulation (masturbation?)that I call a blog and my other writings that I call MY OTHER WRITINGS, because I'm clever like that. THINGS like getting the car re- insured, inspected and re-registered. THINGS that HAVE to be done. I hate those. They always take longer than what I would consider necessary and they frequently go from being chores to all out quests. Take, por ejemplo, our oven. The little light bulb that shines from the back so that you can peer through the window glass and see how your roast is progressing burned out a couple of weeks ago. Since then, we have been in search of a replacement. The bulb is about as big as my thumbnail and as it has a thick glass safety cover that screws in over it, no other size will do. Store after store sent us away saying "no lo tengo", I don't have it. Yesterday I returned to a store that I knew carried our oven brand and they suggested a store I had not yet tried. That store suggested another and now you see how it goes. Eventually I arrived at a tienda that also said no lo tengo but promised to order it for me. "Alrighty then" I said, "ordename tres" which I think means order me three. No sense in driving back to David for just one 49 cent bulb. Might as well go all out and spend the big bucks.
We did save time at the car inspection place though. I drove into the entrance of a huge car repair shop where I knew from previous years that they perform inspections. I told the woman at the service window that I wanted my car inspected. She asked me if I had a car insurance policy and I said yes, having obtained it an hour earlier. She then looked out the window at my car, typed up the necessary form, took my ten dollars and twenty five cents and proclaimed the car tested. A guy came over, shot a couple of car photos and zap, we were out of there. Now that's my kind of bureaucracy.
And today I HAVE to weed whack. The jungle is taking back the part of our property where we have removed the coffee plants and it has to be cleared to be useful. First though, I am going to write something.
There, that's done.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
A Quiet Friday Night
Saturday. Alrighty then, let's go down to Bromwell School and shoot some hoops. Maybe get in a pick-up game. Full court but no fast breaks. Don't want to give the young guys an edge.
I sat out in the dark last night with my radio and my dog, puffing on a stogie and sipping a Baileys. From the indoors I could hear the sound of both our televisions when I chose to tune them in. RTGFKAR was watching a History Channel offering about big guns in WWII and Woowoo Charly was getting down with American Idol, the weekly vote off show. I had my radio turned up to a moderate level playing Latin ballads and I listened to it whenever one song or another caught my attention. Mostly though, these sounds, music and televisions, were background accompaniment for the insect symphony that performs here on a nightly basis, no charge. I listened to their music until my thoughts drowned all away and my focus turned completely inward. I must have gotten very still then, because Gus stopped his constant perimeter patrol and lay down at my feet.
The smells of the night, earthy and wet played on a lightly moving breeze that blew off my cigar smoke and brought an occasional whiff of one flower or another. I would have preferred the smoke, but the sweet scent of flower wasn't all that bad and probably helped inspire the pleasant thoughts that were drifting through my consciousness. Most of them were along the lines of "how good is this!" but I let them pass waiting for the flash when inspiration replaces contemplation. It is often during these moments of both inner and outer quiet - a state not easy for we monkeymind types to achieve - that I get an idea for a piece of writing or a solution to a current dilemma. When I don't, like last night, and the thoughts drift idly by carrying nothing new, not all is lost. The sense of peace and calm that pervades my stillness lingers awhile after and leaves me feeling light hearted and very content. I can't think of a better mood to be in when heading to the sack and beyond that, to Dreamland.
I sat out in the dark last night with my radio and my dog, puffing on a stogie and sipping a Baileys. From the indoors I could hear the sound of both our televisions when I chose to tune them in. RTGFKAR was watching a History Channel offering about big guns in WWII and Woowoo Charly was getting down with American Idol, the weekly vote off show. I had my radio turned up to a moderate level playing Latin ballads and I listened to it whenever one song or another caught my attention. Mostly though, these sounds, music and televisions, were background accompaniment for the insect symphony that performs here on a nightly basis, no charge. I listened to their music until my thoughts drowned all away and my focus turned completely inward. I must have gotten very still then, because Gus stopped his constant perimeter patrol and lay down at my feet.
The smells of the night, earthy and wet played on a lightly moving breeze that blew off my cigar smoke and brought an occasional whiff of one flower or another. I would have preferred the smoke, but the sweet scent of flower wasn't all that bad and probably helped inspire the pleasant thoughts that were drifting through my consciousness. Most of them were along the lines of "how good is this!" but I let them pass waiting for the flash when inspiration replaces contemplation. It is often during these moments of both inner and outer quiet - a state not easy for we monkeymind types to achieve - that I get an idea for a piece of writing or a solution to a current dilemma. When I don't, like last night, and the thoughts drift idly by carrying nothing new, not all is lost. The sense of peace and calm that pervades my stillness lingers awhile after and leaves me feeling light hearted and very content. I can't think of a better mood to be in when heading to the sack and beyond that, to Dreamland.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Feeling Groov....Grubby
Old Girl is back! Turned up this morning looking for treats. Wouldn't you know.
When I hold down alt and press 164 nothing happens. Manana.
Do you ever feel really grubby? I do. Today comes to mind. I didn't shower after golf yesterday, haven't shaved in two days, spent a tossy, sweaty night in bed
and here I sit first thing in the morning, hair greasy and matted. Grubby. I'd jump right up and shower away the debris but I've got to follow this blog with an exercise session so, no point. Think I'll just "get into" my grubbiness. Go with the flow and enjoy the sheer feeling nasty of it all. Yeah, that's it.
Nah. My mustache is hanging down over my lip line and I can't have that. Feels funny. Tickles. If I'm going to take the time to trim that back I might as well shower up, shave, put on some clean clothes. You know, be presentable. Then I can sit here where no one sees me and feel sharp, natty, ready for company. Might even take my picture. Post it on line.
Nah. I kind of like rubbing the back of my hand against the grain of my facial stubble. Feels like a fine pebbled sand paper. And the hair on the back of my neck is getting really long because I haven't visited Roxanna my barber since last December. It looks like someone took a whisk to it on mornings like this one after a rough night's sleep. There are sprouts sticking up on top too. It's completely unruly and truly a mess. I think I like it. I think I'll leave it.
Nah. I've got to spruce up. Life is taking me downtown again later today to run some errands. I don't want to frighten the natives. Besides, I have to put on clean clothes and you just can't put them on over a dirty body. Over a dirty mind, sure, but never a dirty body. And it is getting late. Another layer of grubbiness has descended upon me as I have sat here and this one feels, I don't know, heavier. I better get to my workout.
Yeah.
When I hold down alt and press 164 nothing happens. Manana.
Do you ever feel really grubby? I do. Today comes to mind. I didn't shower after golf yesterday, haven't shaved in two days, spent a tossy, sweaty night in bed
and here I sit first thing in the morning, hair greasy and matted. Grubby. I'd jump right up and shower away the debris but I've got to follow this blog with an exercise session so, no point. Think I'll just "get into" my grubbiness. Go with the flow and enjoy the sheer feeling nasty of it all. Yeah, that's it.
Nah. My mustache is hanging down over my lip line and I can't have that. Feels funny. Tickles. If I'm going to take the time to trim that back I might as well shower up, shave, put on some clean clothes. You know, be presentable. Then I can sit here where no one sees me and feel sharp, natty, ready for company. Might even take my picture. Post it on line.
Nah. I kind of like rubbing the back of my hand against the grain of my facial stubble. Feels like a fine pebbled sand paper. And the hair on the back of my neck is getting really long because I haven't visited Roxanna my barber since last December. It looks like someone took a whisk to it on mornings like this one after a rough night's sleep. There are sprouts sticking up on top too. It's completely unruly and truly a mess. I think I like it. I think I'll leave it.
Nah. I've got to spruce up. Life is taking me downtown again later today to run some errands. I don't want to frighten the natives. Besides, I have to put on clean clothes and you just can't put them on over a dirty body. Over a dirty mind, sure, but never a dirty body. And it is getting late. Another layer of grubbiness has descended upon me as I have sat here and this one feels, I don't know, heavier. I better get to my workout.
Yeah.
Monday, April 14, 2008
More Just Stuff
Don Ray, enjoy your break, but come on back when it's over. You know you can't stay away.
Old Girl has never returned. I fear she is gone.
When was the last time someone shot 75 on the final day of The Masters and still won?
The day dawned grayly but has now begun to lighten. (But then, they usually do, don't they?)
What are you reading? I've got Laura Esquivel's "La Ley Del Amor" (The Law of Love)underway in Spanish and it's a heavy (as in serious) and slow reading tome. Slow because I have to look up many words and slow because the concepts are difficult. In English I've got a fast read going in Sara Gruen's "Water for Elephants." The book is proving fun so far.
The Monkeymind is curiously still this morning. I better have more coffee.
Not all ideas are good ones. I just deleted a lame paragraph. (I wonder how many blogs I'd have left if I did that to all of them.)
We can shoot little movies on our new camera. (That's right Spielberg, be afraid be very afraid.) I'm looking forward to filming our golf swings tomorrow.
Woowoo Charly bought Gus a Garfield doll a few weeks ago knowing that he likes to tear open stuffed toys and pull out the insides. I thought the gift was a little twisted actually, but, you know, what the heck. Gus had other ideas though. He's made Garfield his pal and just likes to carry him around in his mouth. Last night he took Garfield to bed with him. Talk about twisted. I tried to explain that Garfield was a cat, an evil waste of fur and the mortal enemy of dogs, but it did no good. Gus wouldn't listen.
I read this morning that a remake of "Prom Night", a slasher style horror film was number one at the box office last week. Well alrighty then, my favorite movie genre still rocks.
Where is Spawn of WrayJay? Haven't heard from her in awhile.
How goes it in Canada, Alberto? Still cold?
The wind chime outside my office is tinkling a merry tune this morning. The fact that I'm noticing it means my attention is not where it should be. Guess I better go.
Sox took two out of three from the Yankees. All is right with the world.
Old Girl has never returned. I fear she is gone.
When was the last time someone shot 75 on the final day of The Masters and still won?
The day dawned grayly but has now begun to lighten. (But then, they usually do, don't they?)
What are you reading? I've got Laura Esquivel's "La Ley Del Amor" (The Law of Love)underway in Spanish and it's a heavy (as in serious) and slow reading tome. Slow because I have to look up many words and slow because the concepts are difficult. In English I've got a fast read going in Sara Gruen's "Water for Elephants." The book is proving fun so far.
The Monkeymind is curiously still this morning. I better have more coffee.
Not all ideas are good ones. I just deleted a lame paragraph. (I wonder how many blogs I'd have left if I did that to all of them.)
We can shoot little movies on our new camera. (That's right Spielberg, be afraid be very afraid.) I'm looking forward to filming our golf swings tomorrow.
Woowoo Charly bought Gus a Garfield doll a few weeks ago knowing that he likes to tear open stuffed toys and pull out the insides. I thought the gift was a little twisted actually, but, you know, what the heck. Gus had other ideas though. He's made Garfield his pal and just likes to carry him around in his mouth. Last night he took Garfield to bed with him. Talk about twisted. I tried to explain that Garfield was a cat, an evil waste of fur and the mortal enemy of dogs, but it did no good. Gus wouldn't listen.
I read this morning that a remake of "Prom Night", a slasher style horror film was number one at the box office last week. Well alrighty then, my favorite movie genre still rocks.
Where is Spawn of WrayJay? Haven't heard from her in awhile.
How goes it in Canada, Alberto? Still cold?
The wind chime outside my office is tinkling a merry tune this morning. The fact that I'm noticing it means my attention is not where it should be. Guess I better go.
Sox took two out of three from the Yankees. All is right with the world.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sunday Rambling
General Betrayus? Did I hear that right? No. Can't be.
Killing time until The Masters comes on. Someone once said to me that "if you've got to kill time, you should work it to death." I think it was Fred Hooey, but I usually attribute the quote to my father. Hooey is a good name, fun to say. I think it's Swedish.
So here I am working it to death, more or less. What are you doing? Woowoo Charly has dragged herself away from the Sunday morning political puffed up pundits and is watering flowers. She's killing time until The Masters too. RTGFKAR is cleaning up the dishes from the splendid, golden brown, fluffy pancake breakfast I prepared. RTGFKAR doesn't kill time, he uses it. Gus is taking a nap. He got his share of pancakes and, like me, wants to sleep off the calories. Don't we all wish that worked.
I just finished a book entitled "Fifth Business." I could not figure out the significance of the title until, near the end, the author clued me in. In permanent opera companies like they have in Europe, there is a prima donna, always a soprano, and her lover, a tenor. Then you have a contralto who is the soprano's rival and a basso who is the villain or the tenor's rival. In order to make most opera plots work you need one more character to move things along and this character is usually a baritone. In the profession he is called Fifth Business. So there you have it. Isn't that interesting? The protagonist in the book was being asked if he and his life were just Fifth Business. I think most people are Fifth Business in someone else's opera, heroes in their own. I know I am, but then I have no choice, I'm a baritone. (Some people might say I'm a nary-a-tone.)
It's a crackling, crisp, cool, clear, cumulus cloud spotted kind of Sunday. The kind of day it always is when you want to stay in and watch sports for three or four hours. The kind of day designed to make you feel guilty for not going out and enjoying it instead of sitting on your butt ogling images on a screen. Fortunately, here in Boquete, these kind of days are routine so we can always get to enjoying the "great outdoors"...manyana. (I have to spell it that way, I don't have a squiggly mark to put over the first n.) (Great outdoors. How come nobody ever says the great indoors?) I don't feel guilty though, because, well, I just don't feel guilty. Probably comes from not being raised Catholic or Jewish. My parents never used guilt to manipulate me so I never got the hang of it. They just used fear. It's less subtle, but equally effective. Maybe that's why I like being inside. As I kid I wasn't allowed in the house except for breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime. "Go outside and play" was the usual command. Later, of course, as a teenager, who really wants to go home? Now I'm just making up for all that lost indoor time. No reason to feel guilty.
Sure I'm rambling. I'm a rambling kind of a guy. Watch me now as I ramble over to the TV. It's CBS, right?
Killing time until The Masters comes on. Someone once said to me that "if you've got to kill time, you should work it to death." I think it was Fred Hooey, but I usually attribute the quote to my father. Hooey is a good name, fun to say. I think it's Swedish.
So here I am working it to death, more or less. What are you doing? Woowoo Charly has dragged herself away from the Sunday morning political puffed up pundits and is watering flowers. She's killing time until The Masters too. RTGFKAR is cleaning up the dishes from the splendid, golden brown, fluffy pancake breakfast I prepared. RTGFKAR doesn't kill time, he uses it. Gus is taking a nap. He got his share of pancakes and, like me, wants to sleep off the calories. Don't we all wish that worked.
I just finished a book entitled "Fifth Business." I could not figure out the significance of the title until, near the end, the author clued me in. In permanent opera companies like they have in Europe, there is a prima donna, always a soprano, and her lover, a tenor. Then you have a contralto who is the soprano's rival and a basso who is the villain or the tenor's rival. In order to make most opera plots work you need one more character to move things along and this character is usually a baritone. In the profession he is called Fifth Business. So there you have it. Isn't that interesting? The protagonist in the book was being asked if he and his life were just Fifth Business. I think most people are Fifth Business in someone else's opera, heroes in their own. I know I am, but then I have no choice, I'm a baritone. (Some people might say I'm a nary-a-tone.)
It's a crackling, crisp, cool, clear, cumulus cloud spotted kind of Sunday. The kind of day it always is when you want to stay in and watch sports for three or four hours. The kind of day designed to make you feel guilty for not going out and enjoying it instead of sitting on your butt ogling images on a screen. Fortunately, here in Boquete, these kind of days are routine so we can always get to enjoying the "great outdoors"...manyana. (I have to spell it that way, I don't have a squiggly mark to put over the first n.) (Great outdoors. How come nobody ever says the great indoors?) I don't feel guilty though, because, well, I just don't feel guilty. Probably comes from not being raised Catholic or Jewish. My parents never used guilt to manipulate me so I never got the hang of it. They just used fear. It's less subtle, but equally effective. Maybe that's why I like being inside. As I kid I wasn't allowed in the house except for breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime. "Go outside and play" was the usual command. Later, of course, as a teenager, who really wants to go home? Now I'm just making up for all that lost indoor time. No reason to feel guilty.
Sure I'm rambling. I'm a rambling kind of a guy. Watch me now as I ramble over to the TV. It's CBS, right?
New Story
THE AFFAIR
By Doc Walton
They were both married, she to a rising star in the architectural world and he to a head turning, willowy beauty, but they had been friends before their marriages and remained so now, some years later. Circumstance, call it fate if you are of a mind to dramatize, had dictated that she would join her husband’s firm to see to the financial end and he would be brought in to handle reprographics and generally be of use wherever he could. It became their custom, having long been friends, to lunch together on those days when her husband was away soliciting new business or solidifying old. As the company was moving steadily towards success, this was more often than not and the lunches became an automatic, a habit, a thing so commonplace that it felt odd when her husband was there to join them. At first, these mid-workday breaks were merely an opportunity for people who enjoyed each other’s company to spend time together, talk work, other people, movies and all the standard lunch time fare, but as the days passed inexorably by, a growing intimacy between the two was apparent to anyone who cared to notice. It was perhaps not inevitable, but certainly probable, that some sort of deeper connection would have to take place.
There came then, a moment - again, fate if you will - when both she and he were emotionally at risk. The world had been presented with incontrovertible proof that smoking was a serious hazard to health and the two, long time smokers, vowed to quit once and for all. Those of you who have wrestled with nicotine withdrawal will understand how vulnerable people can be at such a time.
They continued to meet for lunch as usual, that would not change, but the aspect of the hour spent was curiously altered. They talked less, ate more and faster, and had leftover time at the end of the meal to lift their heads from their plates and look across the table at each other with no excuse to look away. It was precisely then, at this eye locking moment, that the affair began. Idle talk turned to curious, more probing questions and small bits of personal histories were disclosed. With each new disclosure an intimacy unrecognized earlier became clearer to both and they were soon leaning across the table talking softer and staring more intently at each other. When rising tensions got too much for one or the other to bear, they would break them by leaning back, laughing gently and declaring, “God I wish I had a cigarette.” Some form of “me too” was always the answer.
And then one day it happened. At meal’s end he pushed his plate away, turned to the smokers at a neighboring table and asked “could I bum a couple of those?” Two minutes later – there was a short discussion of should they or shouldn’t they with a resounding conclusion of “yes, definitely yes” - they were lighting up and both knew there would be no going back.
This “thing” whatever its nature, was serious now and it felt exciting, illicit, somehow dirty and it was their secret. They promised to meet for lunch on the morrow and they could hardly wait. That first cigarette, that exquisite surrender to the moment cigarette, had tasted fine and wonderful, but it had left much to be desired. It was, after all, only foreplay.
They chose their restaurants more carefully after that, selecting those a bit further out where the possibilities of meeting colleagues were fewer. Discovery would be unthinkable. They brought their own now, first two, then three and finally four as they rushed through their meals to get to the delights beyond. Their first cigarettes were always hastily consumed, like eager lovers tearing away each other’s garments. There was an urgent rush to reach conclusion, a desperate need to extinguish longing. The smoke was thick and the ash burned hotly, each smoker taking their own pleasure selfishly. At its end there were sighs, a relaxation of taut muscles and usually laughter; two sinners giggling at their shared sin.
The next two cigarettes were clearly lovers at leisure, a part of a continuous whole. They were shared with conversation and thought, verbal caresses and deep imaginings. These were studied smokes with careful attention applied to each satisfying inhalation and full awareness of each exhalation which are nothing if not long visible sighs. The two sat apart, never touching, but there were kisses of a kind to be had as lip and tongue touched filter and strong embraces could be found in the smoke that entwined above them. There were uummms, and aaahhhhs and bits of impromptu laughter, all the sounds of physical love, consummated.
When they were finished, the butts and their fire extinguished in the tray, there was still one more cigarette to follow. This was most certainly the post coital, job well done smoke and it too had its guilty pleasure. It would be the last for that day and the inspiration for the next. When it was also snuffed and left behind, the contented pair would walk back to work, often hand in hand.
=========================+=========================
I have made this next a separate part of the story so that the romantics among us can ignore it if they so choose and find their ending where it already lies.
Days would pass and circumstances would differ. The addiction that is cigarette smoking, no matter how you choose to fantasize it, will not allow a reduction to four a day for long. Soon, both she and he were smoking in earnest again and the thrill of their noontime affair waned and drifted away. Their secret, that they were smoking again, was no secret at all as they fired up throughout the day.
There is little magic in an after lunch smoke when it’s your tenth or twelfth of the day. They were still fast friends and always would be despite the ups and downs of any nearly life long relationship. Over the years, the “cigarette affair” would become part of their history and brought up as a cherished “do you remember when” moment. The word “intense” was then always applied … and so it was.
On a final note, both she and he eventually put their cigarette addiction behind them. He, though, still enjoys a fine cigar.
Doc Walton April, 2008
By Doc Walton
They were both married, she to a rising star in the architectural world and he to a head turning, willowy beauty, but they had been friends before their marriages and remained so now, some years later. Circumstance, call it fate if you are of a mind to dramatize, had dictated that she would join her husband’s firm to see to the financial end and he would be brought in to handle reprographics and generally be of use wherever he could. It became their custom, having long been friends, to lunch together on those days when her husband was away soliciting new business or solidifying old. As the company was moving steadily towards success, this was more often than not and the lunches became an automatic, a habit, a thing so commonplace that it felt odd when her husband was there to join them. At first, these mid-workday breaks were merely an opportunity for people who enjoyed each other’s company to spend time together, talk work, other people, movies and all the standard lunch time fare, but as the days passed inexorably by, a growing intimacy between the two was apparent to anyone who cared to notice. It was perhaps not inevitable, but certainly probable, that some sort of deeper connection would have to take place.
There came then, a moment - again, fate if you will - when both she and he were emotionally at risk. The world had been presented with incontrovertible proof that smoking was a serious hazard to health and the two, long time smokers, vowed to quit once and for all. Those of you who have wrestled with nicotine withdrawal will understand how vulnerable people can be at such a time.
They continued to meet for lunch as usual, that would not change, but the aspect of the hour spent was curiously altered. They talked less, ate more and faster, and had leftover time at the end of the meal to lift their heads from their plates and look across the table at each other with no excuse to look away. It was precisely then, at this eye locking moment, that the affair began. Idle talk turned to curious, more probing questions and small bits of personal histories were disclosed. With each new disclosure an intimacy unrecognized earlier became clearer to both and they were soon leaning across the table talking softer and staring more intently at each other. When rising tensions got too much for one or the other to bear, they would break them by leaning back, laughing gently and declaring, “God I wish I had a cigarette.” Some form of “me too” was always the answer.
And then one day it happened. At meal’s end he pushed his plate away, turned to the smokers at a neighboring table and asked “could I bum a couple of those?” Two minutes later – there was a short discussion of should they or shouldn’t they with a resounding conclusion of “yes, definitely yes” - they were lighting up and both knew there would be no going back.
This “thing” whatever its nature, was serious now and it felt exciting, illicit, somehow dirty and it was their secret. They promised to meet for lunch on the morrow and they could hardly wait. That first cigarette, that exquisite surrender to the moment cigarette, had tasted fine and wonderful, but it had left much to be desired. It was, after all, only foreplay.
They chose their restaurants more carefully after that, selecting those a bit further out where the possibilities of meeting colleagues were fewer. Discovery would be unthinkable. They brought their own now, first two, then three and finally four as they rushed through their meals to get to the delights beyond. Their first cigarettes were always hastily consumed, like eager lovers tearing away each other’s garments. There was an urgent rush to reach conclusion, a desperate need to extinguish longing. The smoke was thick and the ash burned hotly, each smoker taking their own pleasure selfishly. At its end there were sighs, a relaxation of taut muscles and usually laughter; two sinners giggling at their shared sin.
The next two cigarettes were clearly lovers at leisure, a part of a continuous whole. They were shared with conversation and thought, verbal caresses and deep imaginings. These were studied smokes with careful attention applied to each satisfying inhalation and full awareness of each exhalation which are nothing if not long visible sighs. The two sat apart, never touching, but there were kisses of a kind to be had as lip and tongue touched filter and strong embraces could be found in the smoke that entwined above them. There were uummms, and aaahhhhs and bits of impromptu laughter, all the sounds of physical love, consummated.
When they were finished, the butts and their fire extinguished in the tray, there was still one more cigarette to follow. This was most certainly the post coital, job well done smoke and it too had its guilty pleasure. It would be the last for that day and the inspiration for the next. When it was also snuffed and left behind, the contented pair would walk back to work, often hand in hand.
=========================+=========================
I have made this next a separate part of the story so that the romantics among us can ignore it if they so choose and find their ending where it already lies.
Days would pass and circumstances would differ. The addiction that is cigarette smoking, no matter how you choose to fantasize it, will not allow a reduction to four a day for long. Soon, both she and he were smoking in earnest again and the thrill of their noontime affair waned and drifted away. Their secret, that they were smoking again, was no secret at all as they fired up throughout the day.
There is little magic in an after lunch smoke when it’s your tenth or twelfth of the day. They were still fast friends and always would be despite the ups and downs of any nearly life long relationship. Over the years, the “cigarette affair” would become part of their history and brought up as a cherished “do you remember when” moment. The word “intense” was then always applied … and so it was.
On a final note, both she and he eventually put their cigarette addiction behind them. He, though, still enjoys a fine cigar.
Doc Walton April, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Poem Revisited
I'm feeling the need to most certainly read
something I've written inspired.
I'm feeling an urge to jump in and purge
the thoughts from my muse so long mired.
But I'm stayed from the page by an old stubborn fear
that grips me and drags me away.
So I cling to my chair and blankly I stare
at my blog that's not writing just play.
In the night on my bed I can dispel the dread
with promise and furious intention.
But with the first light I awaken to fright
and black thoughts I no longer need mention.
The task is at hand you can strike up the band
there are pages already complete.
I just have to go and regain the flow
where the mind and the muse tend to meet.
But I stay locked inside and I so want to hide
from the work that I know I must do.
Despite and although that it's always been so
that to write is never to rue.
I know I can't quit I've too damned much grit
to leave this hard thing left undone.
So when it comes near I'll confront my fear
and write 'til it's hard on the run.
There, that's better.
And with that said, tomorrow a new piece.
something I've written inspired.
I'm feeling an urge to jump in and purge
the thoughts from my muse so long mired.
But I'm stayed from the page by an old stubborn fear
that grips me and drags me away.
So I cling to my chair and blankly I stare
at my blog that's not writing just play.
In the night on my bed I can dispel the dread
with promise and furious intention.
But with the first light I awaken to fright
and black thoughts I no longer need mention.
The task is at hand you can strike up the band
there are pages already complete.
I just have to go and regain the flow
where the mind and the muse tend to meet.
But I stay locked inside and I so want to hide
from the work that I know I must do.
Despite and although that it's always been so
that to write is never to rue.
I know I can't quit I've too damned much grit
to leave this hard thing left undone.
So when it comes near I'll confront my fear
and write 'til it's hard on the run.
There, that's better.
And with that said, tomorrow a new piece.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Hermiting Happily
Woowoo Charly has pink Crocs. She has abandoned all her other footwear in favor of her pink Crocs. She wears them all the time. I don't get it myself. I have blue Crocs. I use them as slippers, nothing else. They are not THAT comfortable. Crocs and knock off versions of Crocs like ours are, are a phenomena in this part of the world. You see them everywhere. Is it the same where you are? (And have you ever written a sentence with "our, are are" in it?)
===================================+================================================
My life as a hermit has been seriously challenged this week. I have been forced to leave the house every day for one reason or another. These coercions mess with my pat routine of writing, exercising, reading, napping, watching sports on the big screen, smoking a cigar, sipping a scotch and going to bed. Eating is optional, of course, although most days I choose it even if it does take up my otherwise valuable time. As we hermits all know, leaving the hermitage can only lead to problems. Last year, for instance, I left the house one day and came back without a gall bladder. And last week, just to show how bad things can get when I venture too far astray, I went out to try a new restaurant and it cost me over one hundred dollars! Seventy five of that was for a not wearing a seat belt, but you get my point. You don't get traffic tickets if you stay in your cave. RTGFKAR left the house a couple of weeks ago and came back with seriously shorter hair. That's not going to happen to me. I'm not going to lose my strength. No one has held me down and cut my hair since last year. And they are not going to. I'm letting it grow until it's at true hermit length all stringy and nasty. Then maybe people will quit luring me away from the house. I do like to go out and walk around a little bit, but not too far. Every night before going to bed Gus and I go out to "walk the perimeter." We check to make sure the stars are all in the right place and also we pee. I play the light from my flash over odd noises and such, but I never see anything. It's a good ritual. After that we roll the boulder in front of the cave entrance and then we go to sleep. I dream about staying in and staying out of trouble. Gus chases cats. It's not really weird, you know. I do go out deliberately on Tuesdays. Tuesdays I play golf.
===================================+================================================
My life as a hermit has been seriously challenged this week. I have been forced to leave the house every day for one reason or another. These coercions mess with my pat routine of writing, exercising, reading, napping, watching sports on the big screen, smoking a cigar, sipping a scotch and going to bed. Eating is optional, of course, although most days I choose it even if it does take up my otherwise valuable time. As we hermits all know, leaving the hermitage can only lead to problems. Last year, for instance, I left the house one day and came back without a gall bladder. And last week, just to show how bad things can get when I venture too far astray, I went out to try a new restaurant and it cost me over one hundred dollars! Seventy five of that was for a not wearing a seat belt, but you get my point. You don't get traffic tickets if you stay in your cave. RTGFKAR left the house a couple of weeks ago and came back with seriously shorter hair. That's not going to happen to me. I'm not going to lose my strength. No one has held me down and cut my hair since last year. And they are not going to. I'm letting it grow until it's at true hermit length all stringy and nasty. Then maybe people will quit luring me away from the house. I do like to go out and walk around a little bit, but not too far. Every night before going to bed Gus and I go out to "walk the perimeter." We check to make sure the stars are all in the right place and also we pee. I play the light from my flash over odd noises and such, but I never see anything. It's a good ritual. After that we roll the boulder in front of the cave entrance and then we go to sleep. I dream about staying in and staying out of trouble. Gus chases cats. It's not really weird, you know. I do go out deliberately on Tuesdays. Tuesdays I play golf.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The 4th revisited
This is from an old blog that I wrote a couple of years ago. I've cleaned it up a bit and sent it off to my writer's group. Some of you may not have read it before.
AN INDEPENDENCE DAY CAROL
By Doc Walton
Last Fourth of July, after a long day of burgers, beer, beans, salad and enough Chilean wine that that country’s trade minister was seen facing France and saying “in your face,” at precisely 2 a.m., I was visited by The Ghost of 4th of July Past.
He was dressed exactly like the guy in the Samuel Adams beer commercials, but he wasn’t smiling insanely like the idiots in all beer commercials because this ghost’s pewter mug was flat empty. I took him downstairs to the fridge, got him a refill and poured myself a bracer as well. It’s not everyday you see a ghost.
“Sam,” I said to him, because what the heck I had to call him something, “what seems to be the problem?” He looked at me for a few seconds, threw back a long swig of suds and then pulled a small thirteen starred colonial flag from…somewhere; thin air comes to mind. He waved it about a couple of times like a kid at a parade and ZAP, I was transported to a room full of serious faced guys all wearing wigs. “Toto” I said to no one in particular, “I don’t think we’re in Panama anymore.”
It was pretty clear that none of the wig wearers could see or hear us, but when I started to say something to Sam, he gave me the shush sign so I did exactly that and just listened. Some of the guys in the room looked vaguely familiar and as they talked to each other, I got their drift. These were my home country’s fathers sitting around founding. They were at that moment trying to compose some kind of document to send King George that would give him a hint about what they thought of him and also be an outline for a new country they were proposing to start. One of the guys whose name, not coincidentally I suppose, was Walton and who would later be a signee on the finished product said, “Why don’t we just tell him to go eff himself?” Most of the others agreed this was a good idea, but the guy named Jefferson, who was taking the notes, softened that a bit when he wrote it down. After awhile they got around to the crux of the matter and started talking about freedom and the inalienable rights of man. I wasn’t sure what inalienable meant, but I think it had something to do with Signourney Weaver. Mostly they seemed to be talking about freedom from intrusive government. Things like no wiretapping phones, no stealing elections, no invading foreign countries without Congress’ permission, and also finding a way to make sure everyone could see a doctor and get reasonably priced leeches whenever they were needed. There was something else about the right to wear wigs whether you were bald or not but I seemed to be slipping away and didn’t get all of that. They seemed like a well meaning bunch of guys.
After a couple of time travel units had passed which were much less in real time, Sam did an encore of his flag waving thing and we were back in my kitchen. “So,” he says to me, “you see how it was.” I nodded and poof, well not really poof, more like the gradual disintegration of Star Trek… he was gone.
I stood there in the kitchen with my empty beer mug thinking I should either refill it or give it up forever. I decided to sleep on it. No sense being hasty about the beer thing, this might all be a dream.
Sometime later – again I’m not sure about the time thing, I’ve got to give Steve Hawkings a call – I was awakened by The Ghost of 4th of July Present. This guy looked nothing like a beer commercial. He was dressed in a nice suit, could have been Armani, but how would I know, wore wing-tipped shoes and carried a bible so pristine it looked like it was rarely opened. “Come with me” he said and Zappo! We were transported to a place that – I’ve never really been there so I’m only guessing – could have been The White House.
Again a group of guys were sitting around drafting a document. I couldn’t actually see what they had written so far, but the title of the manuscript was “The Declaration of Oil Dependence.” Everyone in the room seemed in agreement that this was a good idea, including King George who was present this time. They all thought they could sell this document to the public with the aid of another document which they were going to call either the “NeoConstitution” or “Neoconning-the-Institution, they hadn’t decided yet. This work had some interesting chapter headings like “Who Needs the Environment?”, “God Is On Our Side Or We Wouldn’t Be Rich”, “Up With The Corporation Because We Won’t Always Be In Office” and near the end a chapter called “Overpopulation” with the subtitle, “The Poor May Be Edible.” These were all earnest young men who thought they were doing the right thing because they had all personally met Jerry Falwell and he had given them a hearty thumbs up.
“Yo Ghost” I said to my spirit guide, “whaddya say we move along.” And we did, right to the Future.
Somewhere along the way, I was passed off to another ghost whose attire changed eerily from one minute to the next. First it was a kind of space suit, all shiny and sleek, then it was cave man furs and skins, then something from a Madonna video, I liked the cone shaped boob holders, and then, well, on and on. The way people dressed in the Future seemed to be either a matter of choice or - it dawned on me quite suddenly – entirely uncertain. That’s what came to me as the ghost and I watched the human race being wiped out by natural disasters, invaded by bugs, saved at the last moment, beamed to home planets, living underground, living in bubbles, being eaten by the rich, and, in one hazy instance, living happily ever after. The Future was clearly uncertain, up in the air, a matter of choice. It depends on what we do now. I vowed to the ghost to vote for people who were more like the old boys in the Past and less like, you know, those other guys.
As for all those Future scenarios, I personally liked the insect invasion, but when I mentioned this to my ghost buddy, he morphed into a giant tomato bug and I quickly changed my mind. I hate tomato bugs. Shortly after that I was mysteriously plopped back into my bed, all ghosts gone, hopefully never to return.
I lay there awhile thinking what was the point, what was the point and why visit me, a guy not all that bright about politics. I mean, c’mon, I once voted for Nixon. The answer continues to elude me these many months later, but I did come up with a simple course of action based on a subject I do know a little about, literature.
I would find a crippled kid named Tim and buy him a turkey.
AN INDEPENDENCE DAY CAROL
By Doc Walton
Last Fourth of July, after a long day of burgers, beer, beans, salad and enough Chilean wine that that country’s trade minister was seen facing France and saying “in your face,” at precisely 2 a.m., I was visited by The Ghost of 4th of July Past.
He was dressed exactly like the guy in the Samuel Adams beer commercials, but he wasn’t smiling insanely like the idiots in all beer commercials because this ghost’s pewter mug was flat empty. I took him downstairs to the fridge, got him a refill and poured myself a bracer as well. It’s not everyday you see a ghost.
“Sam,” I said to him, because what the heck I had to call him something, “what seems to be the problem?” He looked at me for a few seconds, threw back a long swig of suds and then pulled a small thirteen starred colonial flag from…somewhere; thin air comes to mind. He waved it about a couple of times like a kid at a parade and ZAP, I was transported to a room full of serious faced guys all wearing wigs. “Toto” I said to no one in particular, “I don’t think we’re in Panama anymore.”
It was pretty clear that none of the wig wearers could see or hear us, but when I started to say something to Sam, he gave me the shush sign so I did exactly that and just listened. Some of the guys in the room looked vaguely familiar and as they talked to each other, I got their drift. These were my home country’s fathers sitting around founding. They were at that moment trying to compose some kind of document to send King George that would give him a hint about what they thought of him and also be an outline for a new country they were proposing to start. One of the guys whose name, not coincidentally I suppose, was Walton and who would later be a signee on the finished product said, “Why don’t we just tell him to go eff himself?” Most of the others agreed this was a good idea, but the guy named Jefferson, who was taking the notes, softened that a bit when he wrote it down. After awhile they got around to the crux of the matter and started talking about freedom and the inalienable rights of man. I wasn’t sure what inalienable meant, but I think it had something to do with Signourney Weaver. Mostly they seemed to be talking about freedom from intrusive government. Things like no wiretapping phones, no stealing elections, no invading foreign countries without Congress’ permission, and also finding a way to make sure everyone could see a doctor and get reasonably priced leeches whenever they were needed. There was something else about the right to wear wigs whether you were bald or not but I seemed to be slipping away and didn’t get all of that. They seemed like a well meaning bunch of guys.
After a couple of time travel units had passed which were much less in real time, Sam did an encore of his flag waving thing and we were back in my kitchen. “So,” he says to me, “you see how it was.” I nodded and poof, well not really poof, more like the gradual disintegration of Star Trek… he was gone.
I stood there in the kitchen with my empty beer mug thinking I should either refill it or give it up forever. I decided to sleep on it. No sense being hasty about the beer thing, this might all be a dream.
Sometime later – again I’m not sure about the time thing, I’ve got to give Steve Hawkings a call – I was awakened by The Ghost of 4th of July Present. This guy looked nothing like a beer commercial. He was dressed in a nice suit, could have been Armani, but how would I know, wore wing-tipped shoes and carried a bible so pristine it looked like it was rarely opened. “Come with me” he said and Zappo! We were transported to a place that – I’ve never really been there so I’m only guessing – could have been The White House.
Again a group of guys were sitting around drafting a document. I couldn’t actually see what they had written so far, but the title of the manuscript was “The Declaration of Oil Dependence.” Everyone in the room seemed in agreement that this was a good idea, including King George who was present this time. They all thought they could sell this document to the public with the aid of another document which they were going to call either the “NeoConstitution” or “Neoconning-the-Institution, they hadn’t decided yet. This work had some interesting chapter headings like “Who Needs the Environment?”, “God Is On Our Side Or We Wouldn’t Be Rich”, “Up With The Corporation Because We Won’t Always Be In Office” and near the end a chapter called “Overpopulation” with the subtitle, “The Poor May Be Edible.” These were all earnest young men who thought they were doing the right thing because they had all personally met Jerry Falwell and he had given them a hearty thumbs up.
“Yo Ghost” I said to my spirit guide, “whaddya say we move along.” And we did, right to the Future.
Somewhere along the way, I was passed off to another ghost whose attire changed eerily from one minute to the next. First it was a kind of space suit, all shiny and sleek, then it was cave man furs and skins, then something from a Madonna video, I liked the cone shaped boob holders, and then, well, on and on. The way people dressed in the Future seemed to be either a matter of choice or - it dawned on me quite suddenly – entirely uncertain. That’s what came to me as the ghost and I watched the human race being wiped out by natural disasters, invaded by bugs, saved at the last moment, beamed to home planets, living underground, living in bubbles, being eaten by the rich, and, in one hazy instance, living happily ever after. The Future was clearly uncertain, up in the air, a matter of choice. It depends on what we do now. I vowed to the ghost to vote for people who were more like the old boys in the Past and less like, you know, those other guys.
As for all those Future scenarios, I personally liked the insect invasion, but when I mentioned this to my ghost buddy, he morphed into a giant tomato bug and I quickly changed my mind. I hate tomato bugs. Shortly after that I was mysteriously plopped back into my bed, all ghosts gone, hopefully never to return.
I lay there awhile thinking what was the point, what was the point and why visit me, a guy not all that bright about politics. I mean, c’mon, I once voted for Nixon. The answer continues to elude me these many months later, but I did come up with a simple course of action based on a subject I do know a little about, literature.
I would find a crippled kid named Tim and buy him a turkey.
Where is that damn dog?
Ah, The Masters. The tournament that is all about the short game. And then there is The U.S. Open which is all about staying out of trouble, followed by The British Open that requires shots not normally played on Park style courses and then the Major season ends with The P.G.A. where the goal is to make birdies and shoot way under par. Alrighty then, let's get it on.
For a while here we had a very raggedy dog come visit us on a daily basis. She was too old to be much fun for Gus, but she had a sweet disposition and I would give her a few dog cookies each time she turned up, because she appeared a bit under nourished and was always so grateful to receive them. She looked like some kind of terrier mix with short hair of a mottled, gray, black, brown color combination and she had ears that she could point straight up or flop down. Her face was mostly gray and bore several scars and she had dark, watery eyes. We guessed that she had had many litters over the years as her black nipples hung down below her all twisted and gnarled. She was really a walking mess of a little dog, but, like most dogs, she had a way about her that made her lovable. We called her Old Girl. She's been missing for a week now and we are all concerned.
There is a house positioned on the right side of the ninth fairway just short of the green at Valle Escondido and each week as we played we would be greeted by a gardener there who would sell us golf balls that he had found on and about the property at a rate of fifty cents apiece. Most weeks I would buy four or five bucks worth as we lose golf balls on this course at a prodigious rate. Two weeks ago I bought eight balls - that was all he had - but I found only a ten on my money clip and the gardener had no change. I let him keep the ten and extracted his promise to give me twelve balls the next week. Needless to say, else why would I be writing this, he didn't show. What do you suppose he did with the extra six bucks? Quit his job and retire? Move to another town? Blow it on booze and hookers? I want to believe he was just sick and absent that day and he'll be back with my golf balls next week. Of course, I also want to believe that Bush is a swell guy and really wants to enact a more equitable distribution of wealth.
Bought a new camera. With luck there will be pics attached to some future blogs.
For a while here we had a very raggedy dog come visit us on a daily basis. She was too old to be much fun for Gus, but she had a sweet disposition and I would give her a few dog cookies each time she turned up, because she appeared a bit under nourished and was always so grateful to receive them. She looked like some kind of terrier mix with short hair of a mottled, gray, black, brown color combination and she had ears that she could point straight up or flop down. Her face was mostly gray and bore several scars and she had dark, watery eyes. We guessed that she had had many litters over the years as her black nipples hung down below her all twisted and gnarled. She was really a walking mess of a little dog, but, like most dogs, she had a way about her that made her lovable. We called her Old Girl. She's been missing for a week now and we are all concerned.
There is a house positioned on the right side of the ninth fairway just short of the green at Valle Escondido and each week as we played we would be greeted by a gardener there who would sell us golf balls that he had found on and about the property at a rate of fifty cents apiece. Most weeks I would buy four or five bucks worth as we lose golf balls on this course at a prodigious rate. Two weeks ago I bought eight balls - that was all he had - but I found only a ten on my money clip and the gardener had no change. I let him keep the ten and extracted his promise to give me twelve balls the next week. Needless to say, else why would I be writing this, he didn't show. What do you suppose he did with the extra six bucks? Quit his job and retire? Move to another town? Blow it on booze and hookers? I want to believe he was just sick and absent that day and he'll be back with my golf balls next week. Of course, I also want to believe that Bush is a swell guy and really wants to enact a more equitable distribution of wealth.
Bought a new camera. With luck there will be pics attached to some future blogs.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Stuff Of Little Interest, But Somebody Has To Say It
The tree in our yard that looked so dead a couple months ago is now lushly leafed. It has become a bird magnet and I can see four species of our avian pals out there right now, chirping their heads off, trying to distract me from the task at hand. "Hold it down Worm Breath, I'm trying to write here!" Yesterday, there was a large hawk with dark wings and a pale yellow under belly perched up there and I put the glasses on him for a closer look. Beautiful. We are getting more and more birds of late and I don't know if it is a seasonal thing or whether they are just returning now that the noise of construction has stopped. No matter, it's nice to have them around even if they are bit flocking noisy.
There was a nice downpour for an hour or so yesterday and the lawn is looking chipper and the flowers perked up this a.m. as a result. RTGFKAR's homemade drainage system - he buried many feet of pipe - passed its first test. The hard rain, did though, like a good teacher, demonstrate to RTGFKAR a few more spots that need attention before the wet season begins its annual deluge. When your house is carved into a hillside, you can't have erosion.
From the here's how it works in the Third World department, are two stories I'll tell briefly. (A friend of mine used to say, "to make a long story a headache.")
I hitched up the buckboard to go into town and pay my seat belt ticket Friday. I went first, as suggested by our cleaning woman, to the Municipio where I was told that I needed to go to the Tesoro on the other side of the building. I drove around to the other side because it was a large building and I had Gus with me and he gets frantic when I've gone to some place out of his sight. There were four entry doors on the building's far side and at the fourth, the only one unmarked outside, I found the Tesoro. (treasury) I waited for ten minutes while the only person there talked on the phone. At the conversation's conclusion, the woman said, "Digame" (talk to me) and I showed her my ticket. She perused it for a minute or so and then shouted to someone unseen somewhere else. A voice answered back in unintelligible Spanish for the most part, but I did catch the word David. I need to go there to pay the ticket because it was issued by a Transito cop and they're out of David. Guess I'm lucky I didn't get a ticket from a Panama City cop.
Friday, I called my local number for Direct TV because I wanted to order the Baseball Package. After a long, struggling conversation is Spanish, they gave me the number for the home office in Pan City. It was an 800 number so it couldn't be called on a cell phone, the only kind we have. I drove to B and L's because they have a land line and called from there. Got a nice fellow on the phone who spoke English. After giving him our account number and passing myself off as RTGFKAR - the account's in his name, he asked me for my identifying number. What's that I asked and he said my passport number. I asked him to hold and called RTGFKAR on my cell. He didn't answer. He was probably outside burying pipe. I then picked up the phone and tried to explain that I wasn't really RTGFKAR but rather his brother and I didn't know his passport number and I would have to call back after I had returned home and got it. The guy was very understanding, not the least bit suspicious, and suggested that he call me because I didn't have a land line to call out from. Nice. Fifteen minutes later he did, talked to RTGFKAR and now we have two baseball games a day for the rest of the season. I will probably only watch one or two a week, but that's worth the $55. cost.
And now, this being Sunday, breakfast is in my hands and I need to get to it. I'm thinking bacon and eggs because RTGFKAR made apple cinnamon bread last night and nothing goes better with it. Yum. Tonight we go to B and L's for chicken fried steak. I have been exercising diligently for three weeks now on both the elliptical strider and our free weights and have only lost two pounds. Can't imagine why. Can you?
And, oh yeah, Go Kansas.
There was a nice downpour for an hour or so yesterday and the lawn is looking chipper and the flowers perked up this a.m. as a result. RTGFKAR's homemade drainage system - he buried many feet of pipe - passed its first test. The hard rain, did though, like a good teacher, demonstrate to RTGFKAR a few more spots that need attention before the wet season begins its annual deluge. When your house is carved into a hillside, you can't have erosion.
From the here's how it works in the Third World department, are two stories I'll tell briefly. (A friend of mine used to say, "to make a long story a headache.")
I hitched up the buckboard to go into town and pay my seat belt ticket Friday. I went first, as suggested by our cleaning woman, to the Municipio where I was told that I needed to go to the Tesoro on the other side of the building. I drove around to the other side because it was a large building and I had Gus with me and he gets frantic when I've gone to some place out of his sight. There were four entry doors on the building's far side and at the fourth, the only one unmarked outside, I found the Tesoro. (treasury) I waited for ten minutes while the only person there talked on the phone. At the conversation's conclusion, the woman said, "Digame" (talk to me) and I showed her my ticket. She perused it for a minute or so and then shouted to someone unseen somewhere else. A voice answered back in unintelligible Spanish for the most part, but I did catch the word David. I need to go there to pay the ticket because it was issued by a Transito cop and they're out of David. Guess I'm lucky I didn't get a ticket from a Panama City cop.
Friday, I called my local number for Direct TV because I wanted to order the Baseball Package. After a long, struggling conversation is Spanish, they gave me the number for the home office in Pan City. It was an 800 number so it couldn't be called on a cell phone, the only kind we have. I drove to B and L's because they have a land line and called from there. Got a nice fellow on the phone who spoke English. After giving him our account number and passing myself off as RTGFKAR - the account's in his name, he asked me for my identifying number. What's that I asked and he said my passport number. I asked him to hold and called RTGFKAR on my cell. He didn't answer. He was probably outside burying pipe. I then picked up the phone and tried to explain that I wasn't really RTGFKAR but rather his brother and I didn't know his passport number and I would have to call back after I had returned home and got it. The guy was very understanding, not the least bit suspicious, and suggested that he call me because I didn't have a land line to call out from. Nice. Fifteen minutes later he did, talked to RTGFKAR and now we have two baseball games a day for the rest of the season. I will probably only watch one or two a week, but that's worth the $55. cost.
And now, this being Sunday, breakfast is in my hands and I need to get to it. I'm thinking bacon and eggs because RTGFKAR made apple cinnamon bread last night and nothing goes better with it. Yum. Tonight we go to B and L's for chicken fried steak. I have been exercising diligently for three weeks now on both the elliptical strider and our free weights and have only lost two pounds. Can't imagine why. Can you?
And, oh yeah, Go Kansas.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Update
That blog a few days ago that was a pseudo poem? I was trying very hard not to rhyme, a thing that comes easily to me, rhyming that is, and write instead a more sophisticated poem; one that expressed a view and a feeling without spelling it out too literally. Big failure eh? Not to worry, next time I'll rhyme it up. In fact I may even go back and fix that one. Gotta stick to what you do best. The thing I was trying to say, in case you didn't get it, was that I needed to be writing something other than this blog as I was getting "blogged" down. Since then I have been flooded with ideas and now have three other things underway; two mostly still in my head, but crying to come out. I guess, as Woowoo Charly is often wont to say "you have to throw it out to the Universe and see what happens.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Contemplating Introverts
Seventy-five bucks for a seat belt ticket! You gotta be kidding me. (They're not.)
It occurred to me this morning as I broke into a spontaneous dance with my coffee cup while humming "Stars twinkle high above me, la la lalala la la la la Laaa" in the center of our great room, that it is very quiet living with two introverts. Neither my wife, Woowoo Charly or my brother, RTGFKAR, have ever been known to do what I was doing at that moment. I don't know for sure if they ever have sudden expressions of joy, but I have to assume they do even if I never catch them whistling a tune, singing aloud, dancing with their shadows or talking much above a whisper. Woowoo Charly moves so quietly about the house that she frequently startles RTGFKAR and I by appearing where she wasn't a moment ago. RTGFKAR does his gardening and landscaping by himself without a radio or Walkman or MP3 player to please the ears while bending the back. In the evenings when we sit outdoors to watch the sunset over Baru, I am the one who generally turns on the background music and initiates most of the conversations although Woowoo Charly will occasionally offer a topic from politics or one of the books she's reading. RTGFKAR likes to jump in with a witticism or a bon mot and to play Devil's Advocate from time to time, but there are long stretches of staring at the view silently while we sip our cocktails and I blow cigar smoke off into space. When you factor in that even I, the one extrovert, albeit a shy extrovert unless loosened with alcohol, spend hours silently in front of a computer and that our dog is the world's quietest canine, it's little wonder that I jump out of my skin (a neat trick that) when the phone rings.
I have to admit though, that here in my golden years? dotage? days of wine and a nice cuppa tea? that I enjoy the quiet. I do wonder from time to time, however, if my companions are happy. It is very hard to tell. Of course happiness is of greater concern to we Enneagram 7's than other types, but still, everyone, I'm told, wants to be happy. My troops are not even frequent smilers, so I have very few clues to their state of mind and emotions to go by. I'm guessing they are happy because they carry on...I almost said grimly, and don't complain. Still, I'd feel better if one of them was seen to jump for joy or whistle a happy tune.
Introverts, go figure.
It occurred to me this morning as I broke into a spontaneous dance with my coffee cup while humming "Stars twinkle high above me, la la lalala la la la la Laaa" in the center of our great room, that it is very quiet living with two introverts. Neither my wife, Woowoo Charly or my brother, RTGFKAR, have ever been known to do what I was doing at that moment. I don't know for sure if they ever have sudden expressions of joy, but I have to assume they do even if I never catch them whistling a tune, singing aloud, dancing with their shadows or talking much above a whisper. Woowoo Charly moves so quietly about the house that she frequently startles RTGFKAR and I by appearing where she wasn't a moment ago. RTGFKAR does his gardening and landscaping by himself without a radio or Walkman or MP3 player to please the ears while bending the back. In the evenings when we sit outdoors to watch the sunset over Baru, I am the one who generally turns on the background music and initiates most of the conversations although Woowoo Charly will occasionally offer a topic from politics or one of the books she's reading. RTGFKAR likes to jump in with a witticism or a bon mot and to play Devil's Advocate from time to time, but there are long stretches of staring at the view silently while we sip our cocktails and I blow cigar smoke off into space. When you factor in that even I, the one extrovert, albeit a shy extrovert unless loosened with alcohol, spend hours silently in front of a computer and that our dog is the world's quietest canine, it's little wonder that I jump out of my skin (a neat trick that) when the phone rings.
I have to admit though, that here in my golden years? dotage? days of wine and a nice cuppa tea? that I enjoy the quiet. I do wonder from time to time, however, if my companions are happy. It is very hard to tell. Of course happiness is of greater concern to we Enneagram 7's than other types, but still, everyone, I'm told, wants to be happy. My troops are not even frequent smilers, so I have very few clues to their state of mind and emotions to go by. I'm guessing they are happy because they carry on...I almost said grimly, and don't complain. Still, I'd feel better if one of them was seen to jump for joy or whistle a happy tune.
Introverts, go figure.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
A Different Kind of Day
I just got out of my morning shower. It's three fifteen in the afternoon. You might think I procrastinated or was - less likely - doing something engaging, engrossing, even important, but noooo blog reader breath, noooo. We had no water. This happens on a fairly regular basis, say, once a month: I get up, turn on the tap to make morning coffee and... nada. I phone B and L to see if they have any of the precious stuff and they say nope out tambien, so I know it's a neighborhood problem. Always comes back though. Well, so far at least.
But I'm not hear to talk about today, I'm here to talk about yesterday and I don't mean yesterday in the back-in-the-day sense that I usually go on about, I mean yesterday the day before today.
Yesterday was Tuesday or Martes in Spanish for those of you who are acquiring the language one word at a time. I was up, showered, shaved and you know, all that, ready for our Martes golf outing when the phone rang. On the phone at the other end was an hysterical woman by the name of Elizabeth, pouring Spanish into my ear at Nascar speed. Elizabeth is our friends Victoria and Scott's cleaning lady. V and S are out of the country and Elizabeth cleans their house every Tuesday and Friday. I go there bi-weekly and pay her with funds V and S have left for the purpose. Elizabeth was calling to tell me the house had been robado. Yeah, that's exactly what it sounds like, robbed. I drove there forthwith, Gus and camera in tow and verified, that yes, this was a serious robbery. Much was lost, televisions, stereo, stove, refrigerator, furniture and who knows how many small things. The robbers clearly had a truck. Next stop the Policia, bureaucracy and frustration for Gringos. Elizabeth and I alerted the police to the crime and then filled out a long form. After that we sat. Well she sat anyway, I took Gus for a walk. Eventually, one of the policemen said he had to go to the "Personneria" and would be right back. Half an hour later he returned and said we had to go there which we did. They said come back later when we had a list of everything stolen. We returned to the station and waited some more. I took Gus for another walk. He alone was having a good time. Two hours of waiting passed, for what I wasn't really sure, and my short Gringo patience finally ran out. I asked if I was really needed and told no, Elizabeth could lead them up to the house and fill in whatever blanks that needed filling. Whew. I returned home, but not before scarfing a couple of bananas I had purchased downtown, five cents for the two, as I had not eaten that morning. Woowoo Charly had gone off to the golf course with Old Redneck Larry and I was going to join them as soon as I could. RTGFKAR was not playing this week as "he hates golf, it's a stupid game" and is cutting back to every other week. I got to the course and arrived just as Woowoo and Lar finished up the first nine holes. Not much here to tell apart from my posting an individual score of 33 on the par 30 course, my best ever. After golf we met RTGFKAR at Bon and Larry's house for cocktails, then left for Aura's Restaurant for dinner. It was closed. We motored on to town and ate at our new favorite place, a new Mexican restaurant named Charros. Driving home, I slowed for what appeared to be a cop investigating an accident, a couple of cars were askew in the road, and as I passed by the cop waved me over. What the? I thought as I did what he said. He finished up with the other cars and they drove off. Peering through the passenger side window he pointed at RTGFKAR's seat belt which he was wearing and then at mine which I was not. Next, of course, he wrote and handed me the ticket.
So there you have it, a day of ups and downs that starts and ends with Policia. It was as frustrating and aggravating as you might imagine and I was feeling very bad for V. and S. throughout. There were though, cocktails, pleasant conversation, a great dinner and a long putt on number eight. All in all an odd sort of day.
And now it's nice to have the water back. I can see RTGFKAR from my window, hose in hand watering the begonias. We have begonias, don't we?
But I'm not hear to talk about today, I'm here to talk about yesterday and I don't mean yesterday in the back-in-the-day sense that I usually go on about, I mean yesterday the day before today.
Yesterday was Tuesday or Martes in Spanish for those of you who are acquiring the language one word at a time. I was up, showered, shaved and you know, all that, ready for our Martes golf outing when the phone rang. On the phone at the other end was an hysterical woman by the name of Elizabeth, pouring Spanish into my ear at Nascar speed. Elizabeth is our friends Victoria and Scott's cleaning lady. V and S are out of the country and Elizabeth cleans their house every Tuesday and Friday. I go there bi-weekly and pay her with funds V and S have left for the purpose. Elizabeth was calling to tell me the house had been robado. Yeah, that's exactly what it sounds like, robbed. I drove there forthwith, Gus and camera in tow and verified, that yes, this was a serious robbery. Much was lost, televisions, stereo, stove, refrigerator, furniture and who knows how many small things. The robbers clearly had a truck. Next stop the Policia, bureaucracy and frustration for Gringos. Elizabeth and I alerted the police to the crime and then filled out a long form. After that we sat. Well she sat anyway, I took Gus for a walk. Eventually, one of the policemen said he had to go to the "Personneria" and would be right back. Half an hour later he returned and said we had to go there which we did. They said come back later when we had a list of everything stolen. We returned to the station and waited some more. I took Gus for another walk. He alone was having a good time. Two hours of waiting passed, for what I wasn't really sure, and my short Gringo patience finally ran out. I asked if I was really needed and told no, Elizabeth could lead them up to the house and fill in whatever blanks that needed filling. Whew. I returned home, but not before scarfing a couple of bananas I had purchased downtown, five cents for the two, as I had not eaten that morning. Woowoo Charly had gone off to the golf course with Old Redneck Larry and I was going to join them as soon as I could. RTGFKAR was not playing this week as "he hates golf, it's a stupid game" and is cutting back to every other week. I got to the course and arrived just as Woowoo and Lar finished up the first nine holes. Not much here to tell apart from my posting an individual score of 33 on the par 30 course, my best ever. After golf we met RTGFKAR at Bon and Larry's house for cocktails, then left for Aura's Restaurant for dinner. It was closed. We motored on to town and ate at our new favorite place, a new Mexican restaurant named Charros. Driving home, I slowed for what appeared to be a cop investigating an accident, a couple of cars were askew in the road, and as I passed by the cop waved me over. What the? I thought as I did what he said. He finished up with the other cars and they drove off. Peering through the passenger side window he pointed at RTGFKAR's seat belt which he was wearing and then at mine which I was not. Next, of course, he wrote and handed me the ticket.
So there you have it, a day of ups and downs that starts and ends with Policia. It was as frustrating and aggravating as you might imagine and I was feeling very bad for V. and S. throughout. There were though, cocktails, pleasant conversation, a great dinner and a long putt on number eight. All in all an odd sort of day.
And now it's nice to have the water back. I can see RTGFKAR from my window, hose in hand watering the begonias. We have begonias, don't we?
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