Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Tearing Up and Losing Time

We had dinner at B and L's last night - a spectacularly clear, it doesn't get any better than this kind of night - and were joined by new friends of ours, a veterinarian and his wife. Near the end of the evening our conversation drifted to our love of dogs and why they are so special. I suggested to Dan, the vet, that he Google the poem "Rags" as it expresses this "special" sentiment quite perfectly. I also told him I had never been able to read the poem without "tearing up." Tearing up is how we manly men say crying. We also use "getting emotional" to convey that we are not really crying because, you know, we manly men don't do that. This morning, to verify that the poem has the power I ascribed to it, I Googled it myself. Its actual name is "They Called Him Rags." Half way through the poem I began tearing up...literally. By poem's end, I was bawling like a baby. Now I realize that I had some stored up tears accumulated by wrenching away from my NY loved ones, but the sobbing waterfall that occurred this morning was freaking ridiculous. Somebody has to do something about this poem. Change the ending or something, anything. If they don't, I may never get the hang of this manly man thing.

Sometime in the next few days I will write my 500th blog. I don't know the significance of that, there's probably none, but it does seem some sort of achievement to me. I mean that's 500 hundred times I've been "present." (No small feat for an Enneagram Seven.) One of the definitions of "present", I think, is, a period in your life when time is absent. You are so engaged in the moment that time doesn't exist. What makes writing special to me is that even though while scribbling, I am not aware of time, I now have a record of its passing, to wit, here is the blog or the story or or the poem that was created while time was irrelevant. In the words of one quotable person or another, cool beans!

Raffi Doodles has just come into the room, gone under my desk and is now lying across my feet. Dogs.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

The Walking Live

I realize that every single one of you among the (ha ha) thousands reading this knows that the Heavyweight Champion of the world is Vitali Klitschko. Unless, of course, you are talking about the OTHER Heavyweight Champion of the world who is Vitali's brother, Wladimir Klitschko. This is knowledge shared by all and common as knowing that Vitamin C and other dietary supplements when taken on a regular basis, do, well, something. You know this because they make your pee turn yellow and that's a good sign, right? What you don't know, and what I am about to share, is the name of the Super Bantamweight Champion of the World. His name - and I am not making this up - is Poonsawat Kratingdaenggym. You get this on a need to know basis because I know you need to know.

Alrighty then. Let's get ready to rumble.

When we weren't "on our feet moving towards the door" in New York, I spent time (If you have it you should spend it) reading a graphic novel called "The Walking Dead." (It's called that I learned, principally because that is its title.) The book is about a post plague world in which zombies shuffle about trying to dine on plague immune survivors.

"The Walking Live", on the other hand, is a blog I am writing as we speak. Why it is on the other hand I don't know but I'll look into it and get back to you when I do. "Live" is about a band of humans roaming throughout New York drinking and dining incredibly well while frequently passing posters for a new movie entitled "Zombieland", which, of course, I can't wait to see. I also can't wait to see the sequels which will surely include "Thelma and Louise Meet the Klitschko Brothers For the Zombie Championship of the World." That should be a good one too.

To get a feel for the Walking Live, picture some or all of the following people gathered around a restaurant table, talking, laughing and making "yummy" sounds: DC Dave, DZ Dara, Special K, Jackson My Man, Homie #2 Todd, Woowoo Charly and Yers Truly. We were also joined and entertained on one occasion by Newwoo Joe. If you don't know any of these people...sorry, that's your loss.

Some of the tables we gathered around were at these places: Mezcals - good Mexican food, margaritas by the pitcher. The Stone Park Grill - Upscale and pricey but worth it because the staff was friendly and the food terrific. The Miracle Grill - best french fries EVER, which is saying something because how good can french fries get? El Lobo. Mura. Mizu. Grimaldi's - waited in line for an hour to get in, then waited awhile longer to get pizza! Can you believe that? Trust me, it was worth the wait. Two Boots, The River Cafe, Pershing Square, Sete, a few more I've forgotten and best of all, Dave and Dara's apartment where the fun seemingly never stops.

Woowoo Chuck and I also trained to Connecticut for an afternoon with my ninety something (and going strong) Aunt Ruth and Uncle Horace. A very nice day indeed.

A secondary...or maybe terciary...or maybe forthciary theme to our NYC visit, you know, other than zombies, food and fun, was the Wii (pronounced wee, in case like me, you are still living in a twentieth century cave) interactive (with your television) game. I am proud to say I defeated Woowwoo Charly in a three hole golf match. I am proud to say that, because it is the only contest I won in countless tries and I have to be proud of something. I was defeated in several pick up basketball games, (a cruel blow) sword fighting, (by every opponent) and, well, the list goes on. To heap even greater crow on my humble pie, I couldn't keep a beat on the drums, couldn't find the right notes on the guitar, and was booed off the stage singing while being a member of a Wii rock band. As soon as the Wii interactive napping game is introduced, I am going to kick some butt and take my revenge. Until then, to salve my nightly Wii wounds, I turned to Enttemenn's Chocolate Do-nuts. Taken with red wine, these diet blasters made my food foraging complete. I am fortunate they are only available once a year.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Bars and Broncos

At twenty to twelve yesterday I walk up to the local sports bar which has a sign that says, "Irish Pub: Drinking, Dancing, Carry'n On, Closed During Mass" hung on the back bar. Maria, the Italian cutie who tends there, shouts "Hey Panama, how you doin?" as I grab a stool in front of one of the many TVs hung behind the bar and around the room. "Which of these," I ask, pointing at the the nifty flat screen directly to my fore, "is the one dedicated to the Denver game?" "That's it, right there," Maria answers, "the one you're lookin' at." I plop down on the bar stool and order a Killians Irish Red. It's going to be a good day. I can feel it.

I've brought a pullover hoodie with me even though the day is warm and sunny. I'm grateful for my foresight as the temperature in the bar brings back memories of Lambeau Field and its "frozen tundra" Lombardi era Packers. I slip on the hoodie and sip on the beer as every game being televised around the country begins and the bar fills to standing room only in the oft noted "New York minute." I meet and greet three other Denver fans. The fans of Cincinnati, Denver's opponent, rarely show their faces outside of Ohio for fear of public humiliation. Their team colors are black and orange which are nice in combination during Halloween and shyness therapy sessions, but could get you laughed out of town if donned anywhere else that sighted people populate. There are no Bengal fans about as Denver rolls to an impressive one, count them, one first down in the opening quarter and arrives at the end of the half trailing its garish and pitiful foe in every statistic but one, the score. Denver leads 3 to 0.

I am joined by Woowoo Charly and DC Dave giving Denver a six pack of people to cheer lustily, loudly and enthusiastically should the team ever do something remotely worth cheering about. Doesn't happen. There is a contingent of Philadelphia Eagle fans screaming their heads off to our left seemingly every two minutes and we dogged Denver faithful would like to match their intensity. Instead we chat of John Elway and days gone by as Denver punts, then Cincy punts and Denver punts again. The game ranks with being stuck in traffic for pure excitement. With a minute something to go, Cincinnati moves smartly down the field and scores the game's only touchdown to that point, putting them ahead 7 to 6. With only twenty seconds remaining in the game, the juggernaut Denver Bronco's offense finds itself on their own seven yard line. Everyone know a useless pass or two will be thrown and the game will end.

Miracles, of course, do happen. Rarely, however do they happen to Denver sports teams. On this particular occasion, though, Denver was playing a team in the Cincinnati Bengals that is hated by the miracle makers almost as much as they hate Detroit. So it was not so much that the miracle makers want to bring we six Denver fans happily and noisily to our feet as it is to stick it once again to the tastelessly clad tiger striped Cincy faithful filling their stadium, that a harmless sideline pass is tipped into the air and caught by Denver's Brandon Stokely who has the presence of mind and fleetness of feet to carry it 87 yards for the winning score.

Nice.

DC Dave has left before the finish, so Woowoo and I walk gleefully home. We are not the type of people to gloat and we do feel a degree of compassion for the fans who live in Cincinnati. To them we offer this one word of advice:

Move.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Seeing Brooklyn on Foot

Woowoo Charly is always saying, "I could live in New York", to which I usually respond, "I could too", but then, give me satellite TV, a computer and fast internet service, along with shelter, a clement climate, dogs, a comfortable bed, a couple of good, reasonably priced restaurants near-by, clean air, cheap booze, a few close friends, books, jeans that fit, inexpensive golf courses, Tylenol PM, indoor plumbing, and,(of course this goes without saying)an attractive, intelligent, funny wife attuned to my every need, music, good health, occasional solitude, peace of mind, paper products, Advil, telephone service, a recliner, hot showers, a shaving mirror, a well stocked grocery market, spending money, potent coffee, strong tea, rye and Italian breads, red wine, cigars, some travel and well... you know, I could live anywhere. But then, I'm easy.

We went to the NY Aquarium yesterday so Jackson could see the sharks and Woowoo Charly could scope out the walrus. (The plural of walrus may or may not be walruses but if it isn't, it should be.) We walked the boardwalk in Coney Island which is part of Brooklyn and then we walked around Little Odessa which is part of Russia which is part of Brooklyn, and then we got on the wrong (Dara just made me go back and say it wasn't the "wrong" train, it was just a train that was doing something funky that day because of fixing tracks or something like that.) subway train which should be called the sometimes sub and other times above way train that took us several hundred miles out of our way but never out of Brooklyn. Brooklyn is a very big place. We walked from there through the Kalahari, Gobi, and Sahara deserts which are recognizable for their absence of bars until we arrived at a place where we could board the correct train which is known as the "F" for reasons I don't want to get into. When we finally got back home, Dave, Woowoo and I walked to a hot dog emporium at my request because we still had some unwarranted skin left on the bottom of our feet that needed to be rubbed off and because, well, I wanted a dog. After that we read some books, played some Wii, watched some football and waited for Amazon dot com to deliver our new feet which, like anything you can possibly imagine are brought right to your door by Fed Ex. If, of course, your door is in Brooklyn.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Off and Runn...Walking

"I'm not sick, I just don't FEEL good" may be the quintessential denial phrase, but, alas, it describes me this morning. On top of that I took three shots at spelling quintessential before giving up, cheating, and using the spell checker. I have been feeling out-of-sorts for a week or so, (and sorts are not that easy to come by) but chalked it up to either travel anxiety, dengue fever, an allergy or swine flu, none of which would stop me from traveling, although allergies can certainly be annoying. I seem to feel poorly on an every other day basis. If that trend continues, I will touch down in NYC Wednesday chipper as a chipmunk, wary of Thursday and looking forward to Friday. Hey, "It could be worse," Igor said to Gene Wilder. "How?" replied Wilder as Doc Frankenstein. "It could be raining." We all know what happened next. (Don't tell me rain is in the forecast.)

But let us not dwell on whatever is the opposite of the bright side and consider only the shiny. I am completely packed except for, you know, clothes and stuff. My mind is clear if that means empty and I am ready to travel more or less. Being ready to travel is not the same as liking to travel which no one really cares for. Arriving is what we all like to do and I am looking forward to that, after which I will be looking backwards to make sure it all went okay.

Our dogs and RTGFKAR are aware that something is up even though we have tried to keep the trip a secret from them. All four have been acting strangely. Yesterday RTGFKAR went to the beach by himself - a thing he has never done before - and the mutts have actually fought to see which one can jump on our laps and show us how much they love us. We have had to endure frequent lick face fests. It could be worse though. The dogs could have done the former and RTGFKAR the latter.

Twitter: I'm moving from the office now, going to the shower.

Monday, September 07, 2009

A Couple of Jests

We have this book "Infinite Jest" that is so heavy, both intellectually and actually, that I get a double workout when I read it. My mind is stimulated and my upper body gets rigorously challenged. Nice. There is one small problem that arises from this, though, that I feel I should warn the unsuspecting of. (Never end a preposition with a sentence.) If you read "Jest" in bed, be aware that when your eyes grow sleepy and your mind drifts off to I Dream of Jeannie or J-LO or whomever broadens your horizons and lifts your, um, spirits Land, the book may crash down upon your chest causing your reverie to cosmically shift from sensual Arabian Nights to someone placing paddles on your chest and yelling "Clear." I know this for a fact.

We watched a movie on Hobo last night that had a title in English, "War Inc.", that I would never have guessed from the Spanish title it was listed under. (Never sentence a preposition to an end.) Luckily, I clicked on "info" and saw that one of the film's stars was Hilary Duff. I am a big fan of Hillary Duff's, so I watched the entire flick waiting for her to appear. It wasn't until movie's end that I realized I am actually a big fan of Hilary Swank. She wasn't in the picture. No matter, the movie was terrific; a skewering of Bush, Cheney, Haliburton and all things stupid in USA foreign policy at the time. I did miss Hilary S, though.

She was lost for a second time that night when the book came crashing down.

"CLEAR"!

Sunday, September 06, 2009

In Lieu of Dancing

I'm feeling really good this morning, bursting with energy. I could easily be dancing. So why then, you ask, am I sitting around blogging when doing something productive, like, you know,...something, is available.

Truthfully? Beats me. Of course it is almost quarter to eight and all others here are still abed. Even the dogs, who woke me before six, have gone back to dog dreaming. I would dance, but being the sensitive, considerate soul that I am, I don't wish to wake Woowoo and RTGFKAR with the sound of music. (The Sound of Music? A truly spooky movie. The hills are alive! Run for your life, the hills are alive!) Dancing without the sound of music, I learned on one occasion, can have peculiar consequences. The last time I tried it, I was wrestled to the floor, shot up with tranquilizers and then tested for epilepsy. So that's out. Besides, the song in my head right now is, "Out in the west Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl..." and I can't dance to that. I mean I think it's a waltz. Waltzing by yourself looks a trifle too...limp wristed for me. ("Not that's there's anything wrong with that.") I think I'll just keep blogging. For a little while longer, anyway.

Finnegan, the giant, furry, love machine of a dog has just curled himself up under the desk in front me. Whoops, no, changed his mind. Could have something to do with my socks.

We had an earthquake last night right at Midnight. Jigggled stuff around for about half a minute. I said, "Whoa, Charly, that was a good one." She said, "Zzzzzzzzz."
Wish I could sleep like that.

Okay, I've been staring off into space for several minutes scanning the universe for something else to say and nothing has impressed. This is, I've learned, the universe's way of telling me...I'm done.

Friday, September 04, 2009

Blogging To Put Macbeth In The Rear View Mirror

Just a few final things to wrap up before heading to NYC. Wish I could remember what they are. Packing! That's it, packing is one of them! I better go write that down before I forget.

I mowed the lawn yesterday. This may not seem of particular interest to a lot of people, but as a twitter - at least the ones I read about - this statement is of the seriously intellectual variety and will garner many responses.

A large white pig came to visit us a couple of days ago. It was so undeterred by our barking dogs that it walked right up to the gate for a closer look at them. Woowoo Charly was the first to spot it. She came into the office to alert me to the situation. She said, " Doc, there is pig in our yard." I said, "That's no way to talk about..." but she interrupted and said, "no, I'm talking about a REAL pig." I ran for the camera, but was too late. I barely got a quick glimpse of the prowling porker before it disappeared into the bush where I could hear it snuffling, snorting, coughing and making other sounds, none of which were oinks.

In other news of dramatic effect worthy of a twitter, it hasn't rained much lately.

I watched some of a French documentary last night called "The Earth From Above." There was an English voice over for much of the film, but the people being interviewed most often spoke french. When this occurred, Spanish subtitles ran below the screen. Because the French speak rapidly, the subtitles flew by. I was, however, able to get the gist of what was going on. In short, the interviewees were mostly saying, the planet is fucked. Of course, in French this doesn't sound quite so bad. (Even in English with a French accent it's easier to take. Zee plan-ate she ees foo-ked, hunh hunh hunnnhhh. (The laugh sounds a lot like our visiting pig pal.)
The French, who we all know are such optimistic types, put forth the statistics for the earth's demise, but softened the blow by introducing people here and there about the globe attempting to alleviate or slow the inevitable. The documentary didn't come right out and say it, but if it had, it would have been this: Zeez peep-ole, say are pees-ing in sa fiend. So there you have it, you are all doomed, especially if you are french.

After the film I turned on the Jet game for a little while. You know, the Broncos, aware that Cutler was history, could have traded up and got Sanchez in the draft. But Noooooo. I repeat, Noooooo. Talk about doomed!

RTGFKAR and I went to Amigos's Restaurant last Saturday afternoon to hear friend Randy Pigott sing and play his guitar. (That's pronounced Pee-goat and not pig-out as you might suspect from one of the themes in this blog.) Randy is a talented C/W artist who has recorded and played with many of the biggies in the field. (Older biggies. Leon Russell is a name I remember him mentioning.) We joined a table of other friends and downed a few beers. Good music, lots of laughs, good time. Woowoo Charly was home with a good book and a ladies golf tournament on the tube and couldn't be budged.

Wish us a bien viaje and I will see you in NYC. If, of course, that's where you are.