Terry Hatcher and Alyssa Milano look a lot alike. Anyone else notice this? I didn't think so.
Halloween! Alrighty then!
I'll be killing time until the bloodletting and mayhem come on the tube. That's right, it's Saturday. Time for college football. There will be "Blood and Chocolate" (2007) and "Ginger Snaps" (2000) scattered about if anyone tries to pry the remote from my hand as I surf back and forth between the games and the Halloween fare on the movie channels. "The Innocent" (1961) will be part of "The Descent" (2007) I take into a self imposed "Quarantine" (Year unknown) so that I can see long passes and the best of "Exorcist III" (199?), an underrated sequel. There will be "Paranormal Activity" (2006) on "Mulholland Drive" (2001) if I have any say, and "The Eye" (Hong Kong version 2002) will witness goal line stands as we approach "Near Dark" (1987), followed by "30 Days of Night" (2007) if I "Let the Right One In" (2008). I am not actually part of "The Dog Soldiers" (2002) or "The Brotherhood of the Wolf" (2001), but if I lived in "Cloverfield" (2008), I would be. The best I can hope for is to see some of these horror/terror pics between touchdown replays as they are all on my list of must sees or must see again.
Tomorrow though, the Denver Broncos play the Baltimore Ravens and I fear the true horror will then begin. "Ray Lewis Unchained"(2009) has yet to be filmed.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Doughnuts and the Demented
I just ate a doughnut. RTGFKAR picked up a box of six at PriceSmart yesterday per my request. It wasn't very good. It was a little stale and much of the icing had stuck to the top of the box they came in. I had to scrape it off and put it back on the doughnut. It was, though, nevertheless, exactly what I needed. It contained enough sugar to sweeten a curmudgeon's disposition, which, now that I think of it, is a good secondary reason for eating it in the first place. My primary reason for ingesting the sugary grease bomb being that I wanted something I could actually taste.
I've noticed of late that if a food item isn't spicy, salty or sweet, it is as savory as a lot of mushy or chewy nothing; like munching a hunk of cheap white bread lacking a spread. In other words, borrrrring. I realize this is part of my less than healthy condition, but I want you to know I am not complaining. Really. I can now eat doughnuts, chips, french fries as a salt delivery system, green chile by the bucket and not worry for a moment about what they might be doing to my heart, arteries or waistline. I can eat like RTGFKAR who never worries about those things anyway. (And, I should point out, seems healthy as a horse if we're talking about, you know, a horse that is, uh, healthy.) Eating, when you are feeling less than chipper is all about taste because, what-the-hell, eating to maintain good health, vigor and a slender profile have already gone bye-the-bye.
Pass me that one with the gooey chocolate on top.
I was eating cocktail peanuts not nearly salty enough and drinking the prescribed red wine while watching "Boogeyman 2" last night. It was a typical gore fest, but I liked the premise. A group of young people are housed in an institution where they are being helped to overcome their phobias. We had an afraid of the dark, an afraid of germs, an afraid of the outdoors, an afraid of being fat, a girl who was afraid of her inner thoughts so she cut herself repeatedly to distract her from them, and our heroine who was simply afraid of the Boogeyman. Each of them, excluding the heroine, dies hideously as a result of their fears because that is what the Boogeyman does, he preys on your fears. Nice. A better director, a better budget, more sex and less gore could have made this a good horror flick. As it was...just missed. I give it two stars.
Ah well, maybe tonight I'll find a better scary to eat by. I'm thinking a fried doughnut, salted and dripping sugared grease will be just the thing. Pass the Tabasco.
I've noticed of late that if a food item isn't spicy, salty or sweet, it is as savory as a lot of mushy or chewy nothing; like munching a hunk of cheap white bread lacking a spread. In other words, borrrrring. I realize this is part of my less than healthy condition, but I want you to know I am not complaining. Really. I can now eat doughnuts, chips, french fries as a salt delivery system, green chile by the bucket and not worry for a moment about what they might be doing to my heart, arteries or waistline. I can eat like RTGFKAR who never worries about those things anyway. (And, I should point out, seems healthy as a horse if we're talking about, you know, a horse that is, uh, healthy.) Eating, when you are feeling less than chipper is all about taste because, what-the-hell, eating to maintain good health, vigor and a slender profile have already gone bye-the-bye.
Pass me that one with the gooey chocolate on top.
I was eating cocktail peanuts not nearly salty enough and drinking the prescribed red wine while watching "Boogeyman 2" last night. It was a typical gore fest, but I liked the premise. A group of young people are housed in an institution where they are being helped to overcome their phobias. We had an afraid of the dark, an afraid of germs, an afraid of the outdoors, an afraid of being fat, a girl who was afraid of her inner thoughts so she cut herself repeatedly to distract her from them, and our heroine who was simply afraid of the Boogeyman. Each of them, excluding the heroine, dies hideously as a result of their fears because that is what the Boogeyman does, he preys on your fears. Nice. A better director, a better budget, more sex and less gore could have made this a good horror flick. As it was...just missed. I give it two stars.
Ah well, maybe tonight I'll find a better scary to eat by. I'm thinking a fried doughnut, salted and dripping sugared grease will be just the thing. Pass the Tabasco.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Out Demon! Out!
After completing five weeks of my doctor's long term cure for my illness and her need for a new wardrobe, with her goal being achieved and mine still lacking, I decided an alternative approach to ending my distress was called for.
"Come in my son, come in. Now how can I help you?"
"Father, I'm here for an exorcism."
"Have you been throwing up guacamole.?"
"No, but I'll give it a try if you've got some."
"Head spinning all the way around?"
"No. It stays stationary while my body does the full three sixty.
"And you suspect a demon?"
"I'm sure of it. I speak in a strange voice and often in a strange language with a lot of vowels. I can feel it inside of me and it's going, 'Heh heh heh, gotcha ya bastard.' Worse than that, I haven't felt like playing golf and when I cough, my dogs flee the room.
"That golf thing is really bad. Tell me my Son, are you Catholic?"
"Uh, No."
"What are you then?"
"Well, I'm a kind of Buddhist/Taoist/Christain/Jew/Agnostic...more or less. I believe in something. I just can't define it, but like the Supreme Court, I'll know it when I see it."
"Oh that's bad."
"Why so?"
"Because the demons of that religion are the toughest kind to get rid of. Holy water, crosses, and tossing a lot of Latin at them just doesn't work. Your situation may be hopeless."
"Really Father, isn't there anything you can do?"
"I have heard of a case where another substance sacred to The Church was called upon to aid a similarly stricken individual. I am not, however, permitted to recommend this treatment."
"Please Father, I'm suffering here."
"Okay then, it's only a small sin for me to tell you, but I cannot do so aloud. The Church has ears everywhere."
With that he scribbled one word on the palm of his hand, showed it to me, and then fled the room.
"Thanks Father," I hollered after him. "I'll get right on it."
The word?
"Wine."
No wonder everyone in this country is Catholic.
"Come in my son, come in. Now how can I help you?"
"Father, I'm here for an exorcism."
"Have you been throwing up guacamole.?"
"No, but I'll give it a try if you've got some."
"Head spinning all the way around?"
"No. It stays stationary while my body does the full three sixty.
"And you suspect a demon?"
"I'm sure of it. I speak in a strange voice and often in a strange language with a lot of vowels. I can feel it inside of me and it's going, 'Heh heh heh, gotcha ya bastard.' Worse than that, I haven't felt like playing golf and when I cough, my dogs flee the room.
"That golf thing is really bad. Tell me my Son, are you Catholic?"
"Uh, No."
"What are you then?"
"Well, I'm a kind of Buddhist/Taoist/Christain/Jew/Agnostic...more or less. I believe in something. I just can't define it, but like the Supreme Court, I'll know it when I see it."
"Oh that's bad."
"Why so?"
"Because the demons of that religion are the toughest kind to get rid of. Holy water, crosses, and tossing a lot of Latin at them just doesn't work. Your situation may be hopeless."
"Really Father, isn't there anything you can do?"
"I have heard of a case where another substance sacred to The Church was called upon to aid a similarly stricken individual. I am not, however, permitted to recommend this treatment."
"Please Father, I'm suffering here."
"Okay then, it's only a small sin for me to tell you, but I cannot do so aloud. The Church has ears everywhere."
With that he scribbled one word on the palm of his hand, showed it to me, and then fled the room.
"Thanks Father," I hollered after him. "I'll get right on it."
The word?
"Wine."
No wonder everyone in this country is Catholic.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Rainy Dog Monsters
We get rain showers here in Panama that make regular downpours seem like a sunny day. This is why if you feel the top of any Panamanian's head you will feel small indentations like hail bumps on a car hood. Really. If you don't believe me, go feel a Panamanian.
In the why us category, I have finally figured out why our dog Raffi, after months of being "house broken" has regressed and now finds going indoors worth the anger and screaming he gets from his adopted parents. He doesn't like to walk on wet grass. This morning I decided to start retraining the mutt. I put him on a leash and walked him outdoors every hour on the hour. Each of the three times so far that I've done this, I've had to drag him off the sidewalk and onto the grass. Once there he acts like we would if we two legged breeds had to walk barefooted across broken glass. He treads very lightly. As this is the "rainy" season, the grass in our fenced-in area is seldom dry. I'm hoping by next week my strength will have returned from where ever strength goes when one is sick (or even two) and I will be able to take the critters walking in the morning. A good hike always induces dog poop piles along the way.
But enough of the mundane recounting of less than earth shattering news. Although yesterday's rains did shatter a bit of earth, the earth didn't seem to mind so I'll not waste time with that and tell you instead about the return of horror movies to the big screens near you and the little screens - by comparison - in my house leading up to Halloween my favorite, as a kid, holiday.
The ads for new flicks are all in the horror genre with lots of remakes of old classics like "Prom Night" which has as its theme what to do with teenagers who get a little sexually naughty. Dismemberment is the answer to that as teens will tell you themselves, which accounts for why they line up impatiently outside theaters to watch assorted hackers and choppers do their thing. As far as I can tell, though, none of these movies has served as a deterrent to teenage, ah, shenanigans. I tune in and watch for the thrill of being safely frightened and to admire the cleverness of modern directors who continually find novel ways to do in adolescent boys and girls. I also admit to a touch of envy because I never got the chance to rile up a monster back in the Fifties when I was a kid. Petting and "dry humping", I suppose, were just not enough to inspire murderous rage. Movie monsters in those days mostly did in grown-ups and truthfully, at the time, I didn't know what they (the grown-ups) were up to. Probably dancing too closely. I know at my Prom Night close dancing could get you in real trouble with the Monitors.
Anyway, I'm in Hog Heaven if that means a good place and not where hogs go after death, with a choice of a good Scary almost every time I turn on the tube. I still prefer horror flicks with a plausible premise, a good director, and a decent budget but any old monster mayhem will do in a pinch.
(Now that I think of it, plausible is the the key isn't it? Maybe that's why I enjoyed "Alien Versus Predator, Requiem" last night. I mean that's plausible, right?)
In the why us category, I have finally figured out why our dog Raffi, after months of being "house broken" has regressed and now finds going indoors worth the anger and screaming he gets from his adopted parents. He doesn't like to walk on wet grass. This morning I decided to start retraining the mutt. I put him on a leash and walked him outdoors every hour on the hour. Each of the three times so far that I've done this, I've had to drag him off the sidewalk and onto the grass. Once there he acts like we would if we two legged breeds had to walk barefooted across broken glass. He treads very lightly. As this is the "rainy" season, the grass in our fenced-in area is seldom dry. I'm hoping by next week my strength will have returned from where ever strength goes when one is sick (or even two) and I will be able to take the critters walking in the morning. A good hike always induces dog poop piles along the way.
But enough of the mundane recounting of less than earth shattering news. Although yesterday's rains did shatter a bit of earth, the earth didn't seem to mind so I'll not waste time with that and tell you instead about the return of horror movies to the big screens near you and the little screens - by comparison - in my house leading up to Halloween my favorite, as a kid, holiday.
The ads for new flicks are all in the horror genre with lots of remakes of old classics like "Prom Night" which has as its theme what to do with teenagers who get a little sexually naughty. Dismemberment is the answer to that as teens will tell you themselves, which accounts for why they line up impatiently outside theaters to watch assorted hackers and choppers do their thing. As far as I can tell, though, none of these movies has served as a deterrent to teenage, ah, shenanigans. I tune in and watch for the thrill of being safely frightened and to admire the cleverness of modern directors who continually find novel ways to do in adolescent boys and girls. I also admit to a touch of envy because I never got the chance to rile up a monster back in the Fifties when I was a kid. Petting and "dry humping", I suppose, were just not enough to inspire murderous rage. Movie monsters in those days mostly did in grown-ups and truthfully, at the time, I didn't know what they (the grown-ups) were up to. Probably dancing too closely. I know at my Prom Night close dancing could get you in real trouble with the Monitors.
Anyway, I'm in Hog Heaven if that means a good place and not where hogs go after death, with a choice of a good Scary almost every time I turn on the tube. I still prefer horror flicks with a plausible premise, a good director, and a decent budget but any old monster mayhem will do in a pinch.
(Now that I think of it, plausible is the the key isn't it? Maybe that's why I enjoyed "Alien Versus Predator, Requiem" last night. I mean that's plausible, right?)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Blooooooggggg !
Did you know that the U.S. Adult Video (read porn industry) out grosses (good choice of words there) mainstream American cinema by over a billion and a half dollars in a typical year? I didn't either until I read David Foster Wallace's "Consider the Lobster." I also learned that Kafka is funny, Dostoevsky is better than I thought, dictionaries are politically biased, Mailer, Updike and Roth are the "great male Narcissists", Garner's "A Dictionary of Modern American Usage" is not about sex toys, but rather, a book worth having if you are a word junkie like Yers Truly, how 9/11 was viewed from a Midwestern point-of-view as it happened, all about Tracy Austin's short but amazing tennis career and why sports autobiographies always suck, the inside scoop on John McCain's 2000 run for president, the truth about the lobster festival in Maine and you bet it hurts to be boiled alive and everything you ever wanted to know about right wing talk radio,...among other things. I'm looking forward to reading more from this brilliant writer not only because I was so impressed with "Lobster", but because who could pass up books with the following titles?: "A Supposedly Fun Thing To Do I'll Never Do Again" and "Brief Interviews With Hideous Men."
The sun was up and about as I lowered myself onto my desk chair this morning, but has now, about an hour later, left to brighten, lighten and warm some other part of the world. Our garden, most of which I can see from where I sit, is pleading with old Sol to come on back and polish their petals. I'm not truly fluent in Plant but I can make out one bush saying something that translates roughly as, "Hey! Enough with the rain!"
I did watch and nap to the Real Madrid vs. Milan soccer match yesterday and it was as good as advertised. The Italian squad pulled out a 3 to 2 victory and what with the announcer screaming "Gooooaaalllll" at the top of his voice five times and our Cockers leaping from my lap whenever small birds had the audacity to land on our lawn, my nap was a bit of a jumpy, twitchy, nerve jangling experience. I do, though, like the joy and enthusiasm expressed by the soccer announcers when a goal is scored, so I am going to incorporate it into my daily life whenever I reach a goal of my own. To wit:
BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGGGGGG!
The sun was up and about as I lowered myself onto my desk chair this morning, but has now, about an hour later, left to brighten, lighten and warm some other part of the world. Our garden, most of which I can see from where I sit, is pleading with old Sol to come on back and polish their petals. I'm not truly fluent in Plant but I can make out one bush saying something that translates roughly as, "Hey! Enough with the rain!"
I did watch and nap to the Real Madrid vs. Milan soccer match yesterday and it was as good as advertised. The Italian squad pulled out a 3 to 2 victory and what with the announcer screaming "Gooooaaalllll" at the top of his voice five times and our Cockers leaping from my lap whenever small birds had the audacity to land on our lawn, my nap was a bit of a jumpy, twitchy, nerve jangling experience. I do, though, like the joy and enthusiasm expressed by the soccer announcers when a goal is scored, so I am going to incorporate it into my daily life whenever I reach a goal of my own. To wit:
BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGGGGGG!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Not Today
Nevermind. I was going to write a blog, but after staring off into the fog outside my window and mentally sifting through potential subjects that I know enough to expound upon, ie: my dogs, the Denver Broncos, how to operate a television remote control device and phlegm, I've decided to spare you and skip the whole thing because, really...well, just really.
Tomorrow though, when I'm feeling better, I'll tell you all about the wasp nest that has been hanging above us on the patio for some time now and our plans to do something about that real soon which we have also had for some time now. I will probably also talk a bit about the weather and how I can tell when it is going to rain by the heads up I get from assorted body parts I damaged in 1958 and also by the sky which I've noticed usually gets darker in our neighborhood. I might even discuss a book of essays I'm reading called "Consider the Lobster" which is a title I think is so awesome, I'm going to copy the theme and write a book called "Consider Crabs." If you are lucky, there's a chance I will discuss today's UEFA League Futbol match between Spain's Real Madrid and Italy's Milan which promises to be a good one to nap to. If I am truly inspired I will go on at length about how exciting it is for me to move from one room to another and just how educational it is to make these journeys through what I now call my wider world. Travel truly is broadening. And finally, if my muse slaps me around for awhile, I will likely discuss how weird I find it that Vanity Fairs's latest "Collectors' Edition" has a picture of a child molester on the cover.
All these and more tomorrow...probably. For today though, there is nothing of note, so I'll just skip it.
Tomorrow though, when I'm feeling better, I'll tell you all about the wasp nest that has been hanging above us on the patio for some time now and our plans to do something about that real soon which we have also had for some time now. I will probably also talk a bit about the weather and how I can tell when it is going to rain by the heads up I get from assorted body parts I damaged in 1958 and also by the sky which I've noticed usually gets darker in our neighborhood. I might even discuss a book of essays I'm reading called "Consider the Lobster" which is a title I think is so awesome, I'm going to copy the theme and write a book called "Consider Crabs." If you are lucky, there's a chance I will discuss today's UEFA League Futbol match between Spain's Real Madrid and Italy's Milan which promises to be a good one to nap to. If I am truly inspired I will go on at length about how exciting it is for me to move from one room to another and just how educational it is to make these journeys through what I now call my wider world. Travel truly is broadening. And finally, if my muse slaps me around for awhile, I will likely discuss how weird I find it that Vanity Fairs's latest "Collectors' Edition" has a picture of a child molester on the cover.
All these and more tomorrow...probably. For today though, there is nothing of note, so I'll just skip it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What is it, really?
When you scratch these things out first thing in the morning as I do, the results are not often immediately clear. Was that a blog, a journal entry, a dear diary, an essay or something culled from a psychiatrist's couch? My original intent 500 and whatever blogs ago was to entertain whoever happened to stumble upon this site. If you were to scroll back to the beginning, you would find that most of the entries were written with a humorous bent and a goal of obtaining a chuckle here and there. Since then I have gone far afield, sometimes to my satisfaction and sometimes not. Excluding the stories, poems, reviews, essays and what-have-yous that I have written and posted on the blog, my humorous entries are still my favorites. That said, I now ask you to scroll back to "Clandestine Clinic", read that and the two subsequent blogs and then return to this dreary dissertation.
See? Don't you feel better now? I know I do.
Thing is, I don't always feel funny. Most of the time I do, for sure. I mean while the poet waxes grandiloquent over a flower, I note that it seems to be laughing its head off. I find humor at the most inappropriate of times and in the most mundane of places. Can't help it, really, I'm blessed/cursed that way. But...not always.
So what I'm trying to say is a kind of apology. I've looked back at my last few blogs and they seem to me drier than my throat five minutes before happy hour. They are just not, to my way of thinking, (a way, apparently, that excludes anything having to do with the brain) entertaining. It may be because I've been hosting lung lizards for a couple of weeks or it may be, as I suspect, Bush's fault, but whatever the cause, I promise...absolutely nothing at all.
Ah zoe. Veddy gud. In our next zession ve vill discuss your childhood. For now, your hour is zup.
See? Don't you feel better now? I know I do.
Thing is, I don't always feel funny. Most of the time I do, for sure. I mean while the poet waxes grandiloquent over a flower, I note that it seems to be laughing its head off. I find humor at the most inappropriate of times and in the most mundane of places. Can't help it, really, I'm blessed/cursed that way. But...not always.
So what I'm trying to say is a kind of apology. I've looked back at my last few blogs and they seem to me drier than my throat five minutes before happy hour. They are just not, to my way of thinking, (a way, apparently, that excludes anything having to do with the brain) entertaining. It may be because I've been hosting lung lizards for a couple of weeks or it may be, as I suspect, Bush's fault, but whatever the cause, I promise...absolutely nothing at all.
Ah zoe. Veddy gud. In our next zession ve vill discuss your childhood. For now, your hour is zup.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
A Small Rant
Still ailing and bored by it, but lacking the focus to watch anything more challenging than a cartoon kid show, I first dialed up an Adam Sandler flick, then followed it with a Rob Schneider - I hesitate to use the word - comedy and then moved along to a scene or two from Whatsisname, the guy from Saturday Night Live who is in everything these days...Will Farrel. To further prove that my brain cells were leaking at an alarming rate, I then watched a few minutes of a Mike Myers' had to have gone straight to video, movie. There were maybe a half dozen small laughs in the five hours or so I allowed my brain to be inundated with - I was going to say mental junk food, but this stuff makes junk food seem nutritious - garbage. I have apparently lost touch with what is now considered funny. For instance, when did sex become funny? Okay, don't answer that. Sex is funny from time to time, but big dick jokes, humping animals, naked sweaty fat people and hairy crotch references just don't tickle any of my bones, funny or otherwise. A guy repeatedly air fucking does not a funny scene make. Maybe I'm wrong though, because if you compare them to the bathroom humor that is apparently mandatory in modern comedies, sex jokes are a welcome relief. When did diarrhea, farts, load pants, piss pants and the like become staples of humor? To me gross outs are not funny. Gross outs are just gross outs and should be reserved for bad horror flicks. Even in that genre, gross outs should avoid excrement. Shit, to my way of thinking, is never funny.
All this brought to you by a guy who once said "no subject is too sacred to poke fun at." Oh no! Have I, perish the thought, slipped over into Fuddy Duddy Land? Please, say it isn't so. If you are under forty and agree with me, write and tell me at Old Guys Retreat, Fuddyville, Panama.
I did, sometime in the last few days, watch a small movie that I really liked. It was a John Cusack movie that had his sister Joan in it and was about a kid he adopts who says he is from Mars. There were good laughs in this flick and tears as well. Can't remember the name.
Here's my Twitter for the day: I like the Cusacks. If I were to get to pick of Hollywood celebs I'd like to know, they would be high on my list.
All this brought to you by a guy who once said "no subject is too sacred to poke fun at." Oh no! Have I, perish the thought, slipped over into Fuddy Duddy Land? Please, say it isn't so. If you are under forty and agree with me, write and tell me at Old Guys Retreat, Fuddyville, Panama.
I did, sometime in the last few days, watch a small movie that I really liked. It was a John Cusack movie that had his sister Joan in it and was about a kid he adopts who says he is from Mars. There were good laughs in this flick and tears as well. Can't remember the name.
Here's my Twitter for the day: I like the Cusacks. If I were to get to pick of Hollywood celebs I'd like to know, they would be high on my list.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
News Roundup
I was just thinking about writing one of my legendary (in my own mind) off the wall blogs when it occurred to me that I don't know why "off the wall" means out-of-the-ordinary. Does on the wall mean normal, regular, ordinary? If so, why does no one use the phrase? These are the questions that try my mind because why would I worry about war, the economy and man's inhumanity to man when I've got "off the wall" to chew on.
Got an email from a fellow ex-pat today, that, if I understand it correctly, encourages me to contact my congressperson and complain about a bill that will require expats to pay a portion of their income for health care. Health care that most ex-pats can't or won't use. I won't do it though. If the U.S. is going to see to it that everyone has some kind of care, then the means to pay for that have to be found. If the amount is reasonable, (of course) I'm willing to pay my share.
And you thought I never address the tough issues. Why only yesterday I thought long and hard about whether the NFL should expand their schedule to 18 games. (I was about to add other serious thoughts I've had recently, like should Obama be in the running for the Heisman trophy, but now that I've used the phrase "long and hard", well, my mind, such as it is, has gone elsewhere.) (Yeah, I know, that's too much information.) (Hey, c'mon, I've been sick.)
We did go to lovely and talented Daveed yesterday where at Pricesmart we purchased an amount that may not have been a record, but got us a standing ovation from the store's employees. They took a look at our two loaded and rounded carts and visions of sugar plums and raises danced in thier heads. When we placed the goodies in the back of the car, the front tires rose off the pavement. Very nearly anyway. We then drove to King Supers (El Rey) and filled in the unscratched off our list extras not available at Pricesmart. We hadn't shopped for weeks, so now, having accomplished this odious task (for me anyway)the situation called for a celebration. We selected Mrs. Mendozas, a new Mexican restaurant for the toasting and the here heres. Mrs. M's has a very nice light green, frozen margarita that is served in a pretty glass. It tastes exactly like a Seven Eleven lime Slurpy and is worth the $5.25 it costs if you like your margaritas without tequila. Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR disagree with me on this point saying the margs were "Just fine as they are" but, of course, and I can say this in all certainty, they are wrong. Normally in a case like this I would just order a shot of cactus juice and pour it in the drink. Yesterday, however, still being "under-the-weather" (Whatever that means. Really. If the weather is bad are you safer under it, over it, or in it?) I eschewed the shot and drank my slurpy disgruntedly. I should also point out in the interest of full disclosure that I ordered a second. It also had no tequila, so I shared.
And speaking of sharing I thought I'd share this next with you so my mind wouldn't dwell on off-the-wall and under-the-weather a moment longer. One of the purchases we made yesterday was a bedspread/blanket washable bed cover thing. What we had been using previously was two quilts; one ratty old nasty thing that we used during the day because we allow the Cockers on it and they are frequently, okay always, a mess, and the other at night when the dogs are kenneled and we want to be under something clean. The first thing we did after putting away our other purchases was to put on the new bed cover. Some twenty minutes or so later, as we reclined in front of the tube exhausted from the day, the sound of the dogs low and fussedly growling caught my attention. I got up to see what the fuss was all about. There, in the middle of the great room, all three dogs were having a nice game of tug-of-war with the new cover.
Alrighty then.
Got an email from a fellow ex-pat today, that, if I understand it correctly, encourages me to contact my congressperson and complain about a bill that will require expats to pay a portion of their income for health care. Health care that most ex-pats can't or won't use. I won't do it though. If the U.S. is going to see to it that everyone has some kind of care, then the means to pay for that have to be found. If the amount is reasonable, (of course) I'm willing to pay my share.
And you thought I never address the tough issues. Why only yesterday I thought long and hard about whether the NFL should expand their schedule to 18 games. (I was about to add other serious thoughts I've had recently, like should Obama be in the running for the Heisman trophy, but now that I've used the phrase "long and hard", well, my mind, such as it is, has gone elsewhere.) (Yeah, I know, that's too much information.) (Hey, c'mon, I've been sick.)
We did go to lovely and talented Daveed yesterday where at Pricesmart we purchased an amount that may not have been a record, but got us a standing ovation from the store's employees. They took a look at our two loaded and rounded carts and visions of sugar plums and raises danced in thier heads. When we placed the goodies in the back of the car, the front tires rose off the pavement. Very nearly anyway. We then drove to King Supers (El Rey) and filled in the unscratched off our list extras not available at Pricesmart. We hadn't shopped for weeks, so now, having accomplished this odious task (for me anyway)the situation called for a celebration. We selected Mrs. Mendozas, a new Mexican restaurant for the toasting and the here heres. Mrs. M's has a very nice light green, frozen margarita that is served in a pretty glass. It tastes exactly like a Seven Eleven lime Slurpy and is worth the $5.25 it costs if you like your margaritas without tequila. Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR disagree with me on this point saying the margs were "Just fine as they are" but, of course, and I can say this in all certainty, they are wrong. Normally in a case like this I would just order a shot of cactus juice and pour it in the drink. Yesterday, however, still being "under-the-weather" (Whatever that means. Really. If the weather is bad are you safer under it, over it, or in it?) I eschewed the shot and drank my slurpy disgruntedly. I should also point out in the interest of full disclosure that I ordered a second. It also had no tequila, so I shared.
And speaking of sharing I thought I'd share this next with you so my mind wouldn't dwell on off-the-wall and under-the-weather a moment longer. One of the purchases we made yesterday was a bedspread/blanket washable bed cover thing. What we had been using previously was two quilts; one ratty old nasty thing that we used during the day because we allow the Cockers on it and they are frequently, okay always, a mess, and the other at night when the dogs are kenneled and we want to be under something clean. The first thing we did after putting away our other purchases was to put on the new bed cover. Some twenty minutes or so later, as we reclined in front of the tube exhausted from the day, the sound of the dogs low and fussedly growling caught my attention. I got up to see what the fuss was all about. There, in the middle of the great room, all three dogs were having a nice game of tug-of-war with the new cover.
Alrighty then.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Idiots in Uniform
Baseball is on my mind this morning. It's my favorite sport if you don't count football, basketball, golf, soccer, and full contact sex. I watched one inning of a game last night in which the home team had a two run lead and needed only to register three outs to win. After getting two of those outs while allowing one man to reach base, the pitcher was faced with this dilemma: the man at the plate was a pretty good hitter. The man in the on-deck circle however, was a gentle giant who brought groceries to the poor, helped old women cross busy streets, made daily visits to hospitals to give sick children hope, collected and found good homes for stray cats and dogs, gave 30% of his salary to charity, read to blind people on off days and had a birthmark on his shoulder that spelled out the word "hero." As a baseball player he was always among the league leaders in home runs, runs-batted-in and "clutch" hits. It was, therefore, imperative that the pitcher deal with the batter in front of him. Make him hit the ball, somewhere, anywhere. There is a better than two in three chance it will be caught. But absolutely, positively, by NO, let me say it again, by NO means should the pitcher walk this batter. I mean throw underhand if you have to, but get the ball over the plate. As I and 80 million people around the world screamed, "Don't walk him, don't walk him," the pitcher walked the batter.
What happened next was inevitable. In the poem, Mighty Casey strikes out. In real life, it doesn't happen that way. In real life, the hero strides to the plate and is heroic. The opposition had the chance to dodge this fate and blew it. There is no sympathy for them, only lessons learned. Especially this one: Never walk the guy batting in front of a guy with an S on his chest. It just doesn't pay.
What happened next was inevitable. In the poem, Mighty Casey strikes out. In real life, it doesn't happen that way. In real life, the hero strides to the plate and is heroic. The opposition had the chance to dodge this fate and blew it. There is no sympathy for them, only lessons learned. Especially this one: Never walk the guy batting in front of a guy with an S on his chest. It just doesn't pay.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Typing Practice
A glorious Monday morning. (They are ever thus following a Bronco win.) The sky is a lush shade of a worn too many times white t-shirt and the smell of immanent rain mingles with the dog poop on the lawn to stir the senses and inspire deeply significant trivial thoughts.
Our house as you may or may not know is made of concrete. It has concrete floors, concrete walls and a concrete roof. Even some of our furniture is built-in with concrete. I have constructed a bar from concrete and RTGFKAR is building concrete bookshelves as we speak. I mention this only to suggest an explanation for the house's acoustics. Sound here is not dulled by soft surfaces. Like most people, I don't like sudden, unexpected, loud noises. They inspire instantaneous adrenaline rushes and exclamations like "What the F---!" and "Jesus Christ!" because I am not nearly composed enough to go British and calmly utter, "I say Old Chum, bit of a startle there, eh what?" You may also know or not know that we have three dogs, two of which (whom? same?) are attuned to noises in the Cosmos that no other man or beast can hear. When the Cosmos calls, our dogs answer...suddenly...loudly. It is a triumph of the human spirit that RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, still have a viable nerve or two left in our bodies, although, admittedly, none have gone unjangled.
(Okay I could have said it freaks me out when the dogs bark suddenly, but I need the typing practice.)
It is Monday and the active volcanoes that are my lungs are still spewing lava on a semi regular basis. My voice has gone from sounding roundly basso to a raspy baritone. I'm thinking about abandoning my search for the perfect "Hello Darling" of the country/western scene and shooting, instead, for the scratchy, throaty, soul sound of a James Brown or Janis Joplin. I am still limited by having only a three note range, but there must be a way around that.
I was drifting off to a movie the other night, dropping slowly into sleep like a hypnosis subject being put under, when I was suddenly aware there was a naked woman on my television screen. A thing like that requires some wakeful attention, so I yanked myself from the clutches of Napland to see what this was all about. Some sort of frat party was in progress in the movie and a very attractive nude young lady walks through the crowd and exits to an equally crowded patio. The camera pans to another part of the room where another naked young twenty-something turns to a companion and says, " I can't BELIEVE she's wearing the same thing I am! The companion, trying to appease her distraught friend, replies, "Yeah, but it looks a lot better on you." I stayed awake for the rest of the movie hoping for more good lines or, at least, more naked ladies, but that was the last of both. I never did get the title. Does anybody know what movie this is?
I am hoping to be well enough to hitch up the buckboard and go to Daveed for supplies tomorrow. We are perilously low in essentials like cereal, wine, dog food, wine, soup, wine, vegetables, wine, and paper products. Did I mention wine? There are some things essential to promoting good health.
Our house as you may or may not know is made of concrete. It has concrete floors, concrete walls and a concrete roof. Even some of our furniture is built-in with concrete. I have constructed a bar from concrete and RTGFKAR is building concrete bookshelves as we speak. I mention this only to suggest an explanation for the house's acoustics. Sound here is not dulled by soft surfaces. Like most people, I don't like sudden, unexpected, loud noises. They inspire instantaneous adrenaline rushes and exclamations like "What the F---!" and "Jesus Christ!" because I am not nearly composed enough to go British and calmly utter, "I say Old Chum, bit of a startle there, eh what?" You may also know or not know that we have three dogs, two of which (whom? same?) are attuned to noises in the Cosmos that no other man or beast can hear. When the Cosmos calls, our dogs answer...suddenly...loudly. It is a triumph of the human spirit that RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, still have a viable nerve or two left in our bodies, although, admittedly, none have gone unjangled.
(Okay I could have said it freaks me out when the dogs bark suddenly, but I need the typing practice.)
It is Monday and the active volcanoes that are my lungs are still spewing lava on a semi regular basis. My voice has gone from sounding roundly basso to a raspy baritone. I'm thinking about abandoning my search for the perfect "Hello Darling" of the country/western scene and shooting, instead, for the scratchy, throaty, soul sound of a James Brown or Janis Joplin. I am still limited by having only a three note range, but there must be a way around that.
I was drifting off to a movie the other night, dropping slowly into sleep like a hypnosis subject being put under, when I was suddenly aware there was a naked woman on my television screen. A thing like that requires some wakeful attention, so I yanked myself from the clutches of Napland to see what this was all about. Some sort of frat party was in progress in the movie and a very attractive nude young lady walks through the crowd and exits to an equally crowded patio. The camera pans to another part of the room where another naked young twenty-something turns to a companion and says, " I can't BELIEVE she's wearing the same thing I am! The companion, trying to appease her distraught friend, replies, "Yeah, but it looks a lot better on you." I stayed awake for the rest of the movie hoping for more good lines or, at least, more naked ladies, but that was the last of both. I never did get the title. Does anybody know what movie this is?
I am hoping to be well enough to hitch up the buckboard and go to Daveed for supplies tomorrow. We are perilously low in essentials like cereal, wine, dog food, wine, soup, wine, vegetables, wine, and paper products. Did I mention wine? There are some things essential to promoting good health.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Blogging To Pass Time
The President's Cup is not, as you might suspect, a device Obama uses to protect his groin during basketball games. It is a golf tournament which pits players from The USA against players from around the world.
The Philadelphia Phillies have a pitcher whose last name is Bastardo.
These are the kind of facts one acquires while sitting around sick. Unless, of course, like my bro RTGFKAR, you watch reality shows like Loggers In Love, Big Trucks Trucking Their Brains Out, Fishing In Cold Stupid Places and Eat Bugs For Big Bucks, in which case the facts you acquire may be different, but no less forgettable.
You also get to watch a lot of movies on HBO and Cinemax that played in regular theaters if by regular theaters you mean some studio exec's basement. These are not high quality films. I saw one the other day about a guy who had no short term memory. Everything that happens to him he forgets a few minutes later. I would tell you how it ends but I've completely spaced it out. (Does anybody say that anymore, I spaced it out?) There are also a lot of Stephen Segall movies. In each one he gets bigger and bigger. He was so big in the last flick the only thing they could dress him in was a giant overcoat. He wore it indoors and out. Kung Fu by London Fog. He doesn't really fight anymore, people just run up and bounce off his coat. One enjoyable afternoon, though, I got to see a young Jackie Chan in "Drunken Master" followed my a modern martial arts fairy tale in which an older Jackie teams up with Jet Li to do in the bad guys. These films are right up there with "Big Trouble In Little China" for entertainment value. Especially if you are easy to please and also sick.
Tonight we are going out to celebrate Woowoo Charly's and friend L's birthdays. This means I will have to meet real people who live outside my house. I'm not sure I'll know how to act. The last time I went out looking and sounding as I do now, I had to put up with a lot of genuflecting strangers hollering "Back Back" and "Away Demon." Ah well, we'll see how it goes.
The Philadelphia Phillies have a pitcher whose last name is Bastardo.
These are the kind of facts one acquires while sitting around sick. Unless, of course, like my bro RTGFKAR, you watch reality shows like Loggers In Love, Big Trucks Trucking Their Brains Out, Fishing In Cold Stupid Places and Eat Bugs For Big Bucks, in which case the facts you acquire may be different, but no less forgettable.
You also get to watch a lot of movies on HBO and Cinemax that played in regular theaters if by regular theaters you mean some studio exec's basement. These are not high quality films. I saw one the other day about a guy who had no short term memory. Everything that happens to him he forgets a few minutes later. I would tell you how it ends but I've completely spaced it out. (Does anybody say that anymore, I spaced it out?) There are also a lot of Stephen Segall movies. In each one he gets bigger and bigger. He was so big in the last flick the only thing they could dress him in was a giant overcoat. He wore it indoors and out. Kung Fu by London Fog. He doesn't really fight anymore, people just run up and bounce off his coat. One enjoyable afternoon, though, I got to see a young Jackie Chan in "Drunken Master" followed my a modern martial arts fairy tale in which an older Jackie teams up with Jet Li to do in the bad guys. These films are right up there with "Big Trouble In Little China" for entertainment value. Especially if you are easy to please and also sick.
Tonight we are going out to celebrate Woowoo Charly's and friend L's birthdays. This means I will have to meet real people who live outside my house. I'm not sure I'll know how to act. The last time I went out looking and sounding as I do now, I had to put up with a lot of genuflecting strangers hollering "Back Back" and "Away Demon." Ah well, we'll see how it goes.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Sicko Redux
One of the side benefits of a "viral infection with complications" along with night sweats and painful breathing is a voice lowering of several octaves. While staring into the mirror at my watery looking eyes, sagging sallow skin and uttering my latest greet the morning oath, "yeck", I noticed that the resultant sound was much deeper and fuller than my usual nasal squeak. Aha!, I thought. Here is my chance to finally say the word "Darling" like a Conway Twitty or Sam Elliot. I might even be able to sing like Barry White. I practiced for awhile. "Hello, DARlin. Hell-Ohh Darlin. HUHlo Dahlin." When I thought I had it down JUST right, I ambled onto the patio where Woowoo Charly was having her morning coffee. "Hello Darlin" I said in my most rounded and dulcet tone. "My God, you sound terrible" she said in reply. "You should go back to bed."
Okay, the whole darling thing may be out of reach I decided, but how about the singing? I returned to the bathroom where the acoustics were better and let loose with my most soulful rendition of "I'm Henery the Eighth I Am." I was somewhat hampered by having only a three note range, but the song doesn't really require much more. On my third time through the tune, I noticed a kind of "his voice is changing teenage hiccup" sound that I also thought was pretty cool so I incorporated it into the song. "I'm Henery the YIP I am." The result was amazing. All over Boquete female heads lifted and their voices rang out in answer. It's unfortunate, I guess, that they were all female frogs, but, you know, we can't have everything.
Of course, not all the news is happy like that. I learned first thing this morning that I had once again been defeated in my quest for the Nobel Peace Prize. "Really" I said in my letter of disappointment to the committee, "who is more peaceful than I am, you jerks?" I also threatened them with bodily harm if I don't win next year. That should do it I figure, because most of those wimpy peace-niks are easy to buffalo. My only hope this year is the Literature Prize which is given to someone for their "body of work." With 500 blogs now in the can, I'm thinking I have a pretty good chance. I have noticed, though, that this award is often given posthumously. The committee likes to give the award to dead people, because they are far less likely to cash the award check. To aid my chances of winning, I'm thinking of faking my own death. This shouldn't be hard as I've been stuck in the house for so long that people are already asking what ever happened to old Doc? Suicides are also given heavy consideration so if you hear that I impaled myself on a nine iron, don't believe it. It's a trick club.
I have to go now as I feel the urge to cough up something hideous. Is there a Nobel Phlegm Prize?
Okay, the whole darling thing may be out of reach I decided, but how about the singing? I returned to the bathroom where the acoustics were better and let loose with my most soulful rendition of "I'm Henery the Eighth I Am." I was somewhat hampered by having only a three note range, but the song doesn't really require much more. On my third time through the tune, I noticed a kind of "his voice is changing teenage hiccup" sound that I also thought was pretty cool so I incorporated it into the song. "I'm Henery the YIP I am." The result was amazing. All over Boquete female heads lifted and their voices rang out in answer. It's unfortunate, I guess, that they were all female frogs, but, you know, we can't have everything.
Of course, not all the news is happy like that. I learned first thing this morning that I had once again been defeated in my quest for the Nobel Peace Prize. "Really" I said in my letter of disappointment to the committee, "who is more peaceful than I am, you jerks?" I also threatened them with bodily harm if I don't win next year. That should do it I figure, because most of those wimpy peace-niks are easy to buffalo. My only hope this year is the Literature Prize which is given to someone for their "body of work." With 500 blogs now in the can, I'm thinking I have a pretty good chance. I have noticed, though, that this award is often given posthumously. The committee likes to give the award to dead people, because they are far less likely to cash the award check. To aid my chances of winning, I'm thinking of faking my own death. This shouldn't be hard as I've been stuck in the house for so long that people are already asking what ever happened to old Doc? Suicides are also given heavy consideration so if you hear that I impaled myself on a nine iron, don't believe it. It's a trick club.
I have to go now as I feel the urge to cough up something hideous. Is there a Nobel Phlegm Prize?
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Clandestine Clinic
Fine, thanks. Still coughing up amphibians, but other than that, feeling better.
Doctora Ana Lopez is a sweet young thing, albeit formal and matter-of-fact. After stethoscoping me here and there while telling me to breathe deeply so I could show off the roiling and rumbling ruckus in my lower lungs, she sentenced me to a three day affair with her nurse starting that very day.
Off we scampered to our own private room where, after I had rolled up my sleeves in the classic let's get to work gesture, Nurse I-Don't-Know-Her-Name smiled and indicated that bare arms won't do. What she wanted she told me in Spanish, was that I should drop trou and climb up on the examining table so that she could do her thing. Alrighty then I thought, but being both shy and coy, I suggested in English that she go first. To clarify, I said "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." She stood there grinning but not moving, so I took the initiative and climbed up on the white paper covered hard as rock cot-like table and scooched my jeans down about half moon. The needle she then stuck in my left cheek bore some chemical that could accurately be called liquid fire. Yikes, I thought, what lousy foreplay! These medical types are a bunch of freaks. But before I could voice my complaints, Nurse Now-Smiling-Hugely said "Listo" and I could tell that even though it had been a little painful for me, it had been good for her. A satisfied woman is a joy to behold. We made plans to get together and do it all over the next day.
By the third day though, (today) the magic was gone. The shine, the glow, the very luster of our naughty affair had dulled to a matter of ordinary routine. When I pulled up my jeans at the end of the session, I turned to my smiling, needle wielding intimate and told her we just couldn't go on. It was hasta la vista and ciao baby for me and her. I had to get down the road.
I'll say this for her. She took it well. Her smile never wavered. It still lit up the room like a power surge even though behind the shine I could see the hurt settling in. She'll be all right, I thought. She's a tough one. She'll survive. Someday another pale pink rounded rump will find its way to her table and she'll happily plunge her needle to the hilt in the cheek of her choice. When she does, I thought, I hope for just moment, she'll think of me.
Doctora Ana Lopez is a sweet young thing, albeit formal and matter-of-fact. After stethoscoping me here and there while telling me to breathe deeply so I could show off the roiling and rumbling ruckus in my lower lungs, she sentenced me to a three day affair with her nurse starting that very day.
Off we scampered to our own private room where, after I had rolled up my sleeves in the classic let's get to work gesture, Nurse I-Don't-Know-Her-Name smiled and indicated that bare arms won't do. What she wanted she told me in Spanish, was that I should drop trou and climb up on the examining table so that she could do her thing. Alrighty then I thought, but being both shy and coy, I suggested in English that she go first. To clarify, I said "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." She stood there grinning but not moving, so I took the initiative and climbed up on the white paper covered hard as rock cot-like table and scooched my jeans down about half moon. The needle she then stuck in my left cheek bore some chemical that could accurately be called liquid fire. Yikes, I thought, what lousy foreplay! These medical types are a bunch of freaks. But before I could voice my complaints, Nurse Now-Smiling-Hugely said "Listo" and I could tell that even though it had been a little painful for me, it had been good for her. A satisfied woman is a joy to behold. We made plans to get together and do it all over the next day.
By the third day though, (today) the magic was gone. The shine, the glow, the very luster of our naughty affair had dulled to a matter of ordinary routine. When I pulled up my jeans at the end of the session, I turned to my smiling, needle wielding intimate and told her we just couldn't go on. It was hasta la vista and ciao baby for me and her. I had to get down the road.
I'll say this for her. She took it well. Her smile never wavered. It still lit up the room like a power surge even though behind the shine I could see the hurt settling in. She'll be all right, I thought. She's a tough one. She'll survive. Someday another pale pink rounded rump will find its way to her table and she'll happily plunge her needle to the hilt in the cheek of her choice. When she does, I thought, I hope for just moment, she'll think of me.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Fighting the Good Fight
Alrighty then, here it is, number 500 on the way to...well, 501 seems a realistic goal. I wouldn't want to commit beyond that though. I mean 502 sounds like a lot of work.
I'm bringing to today's blog a heavy chest cold that is hanging on as stubborn as dryer lint. Every morning since Wednesday I've swung my feet on to the floor while shoving dogs off the bed who have jumped up there to tell me how happy they are to see me, paused a moment to take stock, and then declared myself still sick. To use a word born of drug lore but co-opted by the mainstream to mean the opposite of gooder...BUMMER! Not to worry though, I have used this down time to Zendoc the illness by removing myself from it so as to hold it up and examine it closely. We Buddhist/Taoist wannabes do this sort of thing on a regular basis because we have been told that by doing so we separate ourselves from the object and are then able to "let it go." Right. There I was looking at this chest cold from just short of arm's length. It's a sticky thing about the size of a ping pong ball, black and gooey. I tried reasoning with it for awhile, but getting nowhere, I lost my cool and my inner righteous bully fighter came to the fore. My third eye watched as it slapped the chest cold silly, but to no avail. It wouldn't cry "Uncle. The cold wanted back in my lungs and my psychic jabs could no longer hold it off. Looking for any face saving out, I then offered a deal and the cold accepted. It would leave when it felt like it, but it would leave. I have no choice but to trust it.
And speaking of fights, more needs to be said about the Klitschko brothers who hold three of the four heavyweight title belts, because I know that all the readers of this blog are huge fight fans, especially my daughters. (Hahahahahaha.) These two Ukrainians, raised in Germany, are a disgrace to the sport. They both hold doctorate degrees and they speak four languages. What kind of an example are they setting for our children? Where are the ear biting, "I will eat your babies", Mike Tysons of the world when we need them. Who are we going to point to while talking to our children and saying, "don't be like that?" Ah well, there's always the Yankees.
I'm bringing to today's blog a heavy chest cold that is hanging on as stubborn as dryer lint. Every morning since Wednesday I've swung my feet on to the floor while shoving dogs off the bed who have jumped up there to tell me how happy they are to see me, paused a moment to take stock, and then declared myself still sick. To use a word born of drug lore but co-opted by the mainstream to mean the opposite of gooder...BUMMER! Not to worry though, I have used this down time to Zendoc the illness by removing myself from it so as to hold it up and examine it closely. We Buddhist/Taoist wannabes do this sort of thing on a regular basis because we have been told that by doing so we separate ourselves from the object and are then able to "let it go." Right. There I was looking at this chest cold from just short of arm's length. It's a sticky thing about the size of a ping pong ball, black and gooey. I tried reasoning with it for awhile, but getting nowhere, I lost my cool and my inner righteous bully fighter came to the fore. My third eye watched as it slapped the chest cold silly, but to no avail. It wouldn't cry "Uncle. The cold wanted back in my lungs and my psychic jabs could no longer hold it off. Looking for any face saving out, I then offered a deal and the cold accepted. It would leave when it felt like it, but it would leave. I have no choice but to trust it.
And speaking of fights, more needs to be said about the Klitschko brothers who hold three of the four heavyweight title belts, because I know that all the readers of this blog are huge fight fans, especially my daughters. (Hahahahahaha.) These two Ukrainians, raised in Germany, are a disgrace to the sport. They both hold doctorate degrees and they speak four languages. What kind of an example are they setting for our children? Where are the ear biting, "I will eat your babies", Mike Tysons of the world when we need them. Who are we going to point to while talking to our children and saying, "don't be like that?" Ah well, there's always the Yankees.
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