The affair of the bees was... anticlimactic. I climbed up to the top step of my Three Step Stool, aimed my Black Flag Killer Can and fired. The wet spray soaked the hive in half-a-second and the bee/wasp/hornet bugs dropped like, well flies. Special K suggested, too late, that I smudge stick the little buzzers and ask them nicely to relocate. I don't know why I didn't think of that myself. The only real drama occurred shortly after I had knocked the hive down. It shredded into paper thin pieces and even though I swept up most of them, our dog Matti managed to grab a hunk to chew on. I got her to give it up quickly and it was not a particle that was spray soaked. I, nevertheless, kept an eye on her the rest of the day. She's fine.
Saturday, I awoke to, and here is a redundant theme, the feeling of being sick. Late in the afternoon while watching parts of college football games I didn't care about, I pondered this question: If you are feeling sick, is there some other way to feel? The answer I deduced is yes. Drunk. I grabbed a Heineken from the fridge and poured myself a couple of fingers of Jim Beam into a small glass. Jim Beam is the best selling bourbon in the world, which beats me, as I think it tastes like rot-gut. It was, however, the only whiskey we had in the house. After I had achieved the desired state of inebriation, I grabbed by iPod player and retired to the patio to enjoy some music and the feeling of drunk instead of sick. A good time was had by...me.
Sunday, of course, I got to feel another feeling that was not the feeling of sick but seriously akin to it, the hangover. The great thing about hangovers that isn't true of sick, is that you know for certain it will be gone on the morrow. All that needs to be done to enact the cure is to pass twenty-four hours with as little movement as possible. A sofa or recliner in front of all day Pro Football is a great aid in this regard.
It is now a diamond bright Monday morning and I am devoid of hangover and measurably less sick than I was on Saturday. I'm thinking of writing a treatise on how to feel not sick when you are...sick. The medical community is apparently not on to my method and there may be a Nobel in it for me once my cure gets around.
While I'm waiting, what with the sun out and all that, I think I'll mow the lawn. Or, I suppose, I could wave a smudge stick over it and ask it to relocate. If that works, there could be a second Nobel headed my way. I'll share that one with Special K.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
T-day and Movie Stuff
"Someone's in the kitchen with Rah-Moan, someone's in the kitchen I know oh oh oh, someone's in the kitchen with Rahh-Moannnn, strummin' on the ole banjo."
Actually he's in there by himself, baking bread for today's festivity, Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is the day when all we expats give thanks for being expats. Not that there's anything wrong with the old USA apart from its well documented troubles; I mean it was, afterall, an okay place to trip the light fantastic for most of a lifetime, but, truthfully, now, I'd rather be here, so expats, let's drink to that. (A bit later in the day, of course.)
I never did get to that wasp thing yesterday. It rained at dusk and that in combination with the enervation of my dog walk, put the project on the back burner for now. (Hmmmm, back burner. Are they less hot or less urgent than the front burners?)
In lieu of hive busting I watched a creepy movie about creepy boys in a creepy private school in England. I know that describing a private school in England as creepy might seem a little redundant, but this one was especially so. The movie was shot in color, but it came off feeling like black and white and at least somewhat noirish. There was the usual undertone of homosexuality that is almost a cliche when it comes to private school boy movies, (private girl school movies seem charged with heterosexual overtones...or is that just me?) but it served only to add to the film's overall creepiness. One of the boy leads is dead of a shotgun wound at movie's start, while another is a suspect being interviewed in depth by a woman psychologist. The movie flashes back from this interview until all is revealed. The boys are attractive, upper class and both quite brilliant, although in different ways. There is a kind of Leopold and Loeb arrogance about them that adds to their creepiness, but the actors are competent and I was drawn to them in the same way a small child will watch a bug caught in a spider's web; it's horrible but you can't take your eyes away. I would like to tell you the name of this movie so that you can be deliciously creeped out as well, but I don't remember it. This is not an important detail in that even if I did remember, it would probably not be the movie's actual name. Most film titles here in Central America are changed from the original to refelct, I suppose, something more understandable to Spanish speakers. "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" for instance, might be "Adventure Man In India." Maybe you can go to your neighborhood video store and ask for creepy English private school movies. The clerks may look at you differently after that, but hey, it's a small price to pay for a good movie.
If you are now wondering why I brought this up in the first place, I will let you in on my closely guarded secret. Are you ready?
I have no idea why. Just something to write about, I guess.
Have a great T-day.
"They're singing, fee fi fiddly I oh, fee fi fiddly I oh oh oh oh. Fee fi fiddly I ohhhh, strummin' on the ole banjo.
Actually he's in there by himself, baking bread for today's festivity, Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is the day when all we expats give thanks for being expats. Not that there's anything wrong with the old USA apart from its well documented troubles; I mean it was, afterall, an okay place to trip the light fantastic for most of a lifetime, but, truthfully, now, I'd rather be here, so expats, let's drink to that. (A bit later in the day, of course.)
I never did get to that wasp thing yesterday. It rained at dusk and that in combination with the enervation of my dog walk, put the project on the back burner for now. (Hmmmm, back burner. Are they less hot or less urgent than the front burners?)
In lieu of hive busting I watched a creepy movie about creepy boys in a creepy private school in England. I know that describing a private school in England as creepy might seem a little redundant, but this one was especially so. The movie was shot in color, but it came off feeling like black and white and at least somewhat noirish. There was the usual undertone of homosexuality that is almost a cliche when it comes to private school boy movies, (private girl school movies seem charged with heterosexual overtones...or is that just me?) but it served only to add to the film's overall creepiness. One of the boy leads is dead of a shotgun wound at movie's start, while another is a suspect being interviewed in depth by a woman psychologist. The movie flashes back from this interview until all is revealed. The boys are attractive, upper class and both quite brilliant, although in different ways. There is a kind of Leopold and Loeb arrogance about them that adds to their creepiness, but the actors are competent and I was drawn to them in the same way a small child will watch a bug caught in a spider's web; it's horrible but you can't take your eyes away. I would like to tell you the name of this movie so that you can be deliciously creeped out as well, but I don't remember it. This is not an important detail in that even if I did remember, it would probably not be the movie's actual name. Most film titles here in Central America are changed from the original to refelct, I suppose, something more understandable to Spanish speakers. "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" for instance, might be "Adventure Man In India." Maybe you can go to your neighborhood video store and ask for creepy English private school movies. The clerks may look at you differently after that, but hey, it's a small price to pay for a good movie.
If you are now wondering why I brought this up in the first place, I will let you in on my closely guarded secret. Are you ready?
I have no idea why. Just something to write about, I guess.
Have a great T-day.
"They're singing, fee fi fiddly I oh, fee fi fiddly I oh oh oh oh. Fee fi fiddly I ohhhh, strummin' on the ole banjo.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunshine Came Softly through My Window Today
The sun is shining (for me and my gal). Okay, you have to be a hundred to understand that parenthetical comment, so for those of you coming in at less than that, let me enlighten and tell you it is a line from a song...an old song. I don't really know any lyrics from new songs unless you count "who let the dogs out" as new. There is also "sirvame la copa rota" which I learned six years ago, but I seldom get to use as it means, (bartender) "give me the broken glass.)
But I digress. The point is, the sun IS shining which is supposed to be a daily occurrence here in Paradise the Panama Edition, but has been a thing, instead, mostly absent of late. Well for sure it has popped out here and there, from time to time, now and again, and I'm not complaining, but I need sunshine like a junkie needs a fix. Don't give me a "taste" when what I need is a blast. Shine Baby shine and hook me up.
I have plans for the day if old sol continues to hang right there polishing the greenery; a dog walk in the afternoon, an assault on a hornet/wasp/bee nest at night. Okay, these are not exactly storm the Bastille kind of plans, but if you have been moping around sick for a couple months like I have, these plans will sound downright ambitious to you. The dog walk - I'm taking just one as all three requires a feat of strength beyond me at the moment - is one of my favorite pastimes as I find it meditative and exhilarating all at once. Lots of being present and lots of deep introspection alternate along the way.
The wasp/hornet/bee - we don't know what-the-hell they are - adventure will commence shortly after dark, (the recommended procedure) if it is not raining. The hive/nest has been growing and is now of softball size. It dangles from our patio overhang and looks quite menacing, but until last Friday, when our cleaning lady and friend Maria was stung on the cheek, has not been a problem. We have been unable to find a specific spray for hornets/bees/wasps to try on our little buzzers (they look like a cross between a fly and a wasp) so the matter has gone unattended. Yesterday I scored a Black Flag six megaton shoulder fired spray missle reputed to do in anything from bees to invading mongol hordes. I am ready for action. Aside: Our telephone ring tone is "Flight of the Bumblebee", so if you call me right after dark, I'll have the proper background music for my assault.
Let the fun and games begin.
But I digress. The point is, the sun IS shining which is supposed to be a daily occurrence here in Paradise the Panama Edition, but has been a thing, instead, mostly absent of late. Well for sure it has popped out here and there, from time to time, now and again, and I'm not complaining, but I need sunshine like a junkie needs a fix. Don't give me a "taste" when what I need is a blast. Shine Baby shine and hook me up.
I have plans for the day if old sol continues to hang right there polishing the greenery; a dog walk in the afternoon, an assault on a hornet/wasp/bee nest at night. Okay, these are not exactly storm the Bastille kind of plans, but if you have been moping around sick for a couple months like I have, these plans will sound downright ambitious to you. The dog walk - I'm taking just one as all three requires a feat of strength beyond me at the moment - is one of my favorite pastimes as I find it meditative and exhilarating all at once. Lots of being present and lots of deep introspection alternate along the way.
The wasp/hornet/bee - we don't know what-the-hell they are - adventure will commence shortly after dark, (the recommended procedure) if it is not raining. The hive/nest has been growing and is now of softball size. It dangles from our patio overhang and looks quite menacing, but until last Friday, when our cleaning lady and friend Maria was stung on the cheek, has not been a problem. We have been unable to find a specific spray for hornets/bees/wasps to try on our little buzzers (they look like a cross between a fly and a wasp) so the matter has gone unattended. Yesterday I scored a Black Flag six megaton shoulder fired spray missle reputed to do in anything from bees to invading mongol hordes. I am ready for action. Aside: Our telephone ring tone is "Flight of the Bumblebee", so if you call me right after dark, I'll have the proper background music for my assault.
Let the fun and games begin.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Night Rains
Night Reigns would be a good title for a vampire movie.
Night rains, on the other hand, like the kind we've been having here in beautiful but soggy Boquete would deter even the hungriest of the neck biters.
Renfield lifting the lid of Dracula's coffin, "Yo Boss, what say we step out for a pint or two of plasma tonight?"
Drac, "Renfield you idiot, do I look like a blood sucking duck to you? Bring me back some take-out."
It rained hard enough to wake me last night. Our roof absorbs most of the sound but last night the rain slapped so insistently against our windows that it sounded like someone trying to get my attention. "Psssst. Pssssssssssst! Dude, wake up." I did, of course, wake up that is. I laid there listening to the sound of the rain for, oh I don't know, maybe half a minute and then, being a man of the age I am, my bladder spoke up. "Listen," it said, "as long as you're awake, you might as well relieve me of this wine residual I'm carrying around." Good idea, I thought as stumbled to my feet and headed across the dark to the bathroom, good idea.
That's when I tripped over the dog.
Finnegan, our Golden, has no special place he prefers over any other to hunker down at night. Or in the daytime for that matter. As I write this, his head is under our bed while his body lies splayed on the floor at bedside. He looks like a palomino throw rug. Last night he chose to recline broadside directly in my bath to the john. Although I was not moving very fast - it was pitch black in the room - I had some forward momentum and I caught him square enough that my balance was compromised enough to begin a fall. What anyone would do in a situation like that is to bring the other foot forward rapidly to gain purchase with the floor and remain upright. That is exactly what I, being the fast thinking, superbly coordinated athlete that I am, did. Finnegan, however, is a very thick dog. My second step was not even close to clearing him, especially as my first thud into his body had awakened him and he was now in the process of rising to his own feet.
I was now at a forty-five degree angle to the floor and falling rapidly. I knew though, from countless other trips (no pun intended there) to the "can", that the handle to the bathroom door was just ahead and to the left of me. If I could reach it, I could slow my fall and lessen the impact. I was not wrong. What I didn't count on was my inability to latch on to that handle. My desperate grab served only to open the door so that my swan dive took me into the bathroom itself where I landed surprisingly soft. I suppose it is not really surprising in retrospect, because I landed on the dog.
Finnegan, I must say, was quite gracious about the whole thing. He merely shrugged out from under me, licked my face once, then drifted back into the dark bedroom to find a new place to circle round three times and lie down.
As for me, I just got up, peed and went back to bed.
Outside, it was still raining.
Night rains, on the other hand, like the kind we've been having here in beautiful but soggy Boquete would deter even the hungriest of the neck biters.
Renfield lifting the lid of Dracula's coffin, "Yo Boss, what say we step out for a pint or two of plasma tonight?"
Drac, "Renfield you idiot, do I look like a blood sucking duck to you? Bring me back some take-out."
It rained hard enough to wake me last night. Our roof absorbs most of the sound but last night the rain slapped so insistently against our windows that it sounded like someone trying to get my attention. "Psssst. Pssssssssssst! Dude, wake up." I did, of course, wake up that is. I laid there listening to the sound of the rain for, oh I don't know, maybe half a minute and then, being a man of the age I am, my bladder spoke up. "Listen," it said, "as long as you're awake, you might as well relieve me of this wine residual I'm carrying around." Good idea, I thought as stumbled to my feet and headed across the dark to the bathroom, good idea.
That's when I tripped over the dog.
Finnegan, our Golden, has no special place he prefers over any other to hunker down at night. Or in the daytime for that matter. As I write this, his head is under our bed while his body lies splayed on the floor at bedside. He looks like a palomino throw rug. Last night he chose to recline broadside directly in my bath to the john. Although I was not moving very fast - it was pitch black in the room - I had some forward momentum and I caught him square enough that my balance was compromised enough to begin a fall. What anyone would do in a situation like that is to bring the other foot forward rapidly to gain purchase with the floor and remain upright. That is exactly what I, being the fast thinking, superbly coordinated athlete that I am, did. Finnegan, however, is a very thick dog. My second step was not even close to clearing him, especially as my first thud into his body had awakened him and he was now in the process of rising to his own feet.
I was now at a forty-five degree angle to the floor and falling rapidly. I knew though, from countless other trips (no pun intended there) to the "can", that the handle to the bathroom door was just ahead and to the left of me. If I could reach it, I could slow my fall and lessen the impact. I was not wrong. What I didn't count on was my inability to latch on to that handle. My desperate grab served only to open the door so that my swan dive took me into the bathroom itself where I landed surprisingly soft. I suppose it is not really surprising in retrospect, because I landed on the dog.
Finnegan, I must say, was quite gracious about the whole thing. He merely shrugged out from under me, licked my face once, then drifted back into the dark bedroom to find a new place to circle round three times and lie down.
As for me, I just got up, peed and went back to bed.
Outside, it was still raining.
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's True, They Sucked Rocks
I hate to see a Monday pass without having posted a new blog. Writing something first thing Monday morn sets the tone for the rest of the week; gets it off to a good start, so to speak.
The Denver Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday and I just wanted to throw things at the TV screen.
How's that for tone?
I've read that there are more instances of spousal abuse after football games than at any other time during the week. Hold on a minute while I go beat up Woowoo Charly.
@@#%&^*$#%$^%^^%%^#&%*^%$#%#$#@$@!%$$%$%#%#$!@%$#^&^%#$^&$%#@%!%#^&*#%@$@!@#%^
Okay, she bloodied my lip, kicked me in the knee and put me in a step over toe hold that made me scream she's my daddy. I've got to stop reading stuff like that.
I was happy to see Michelle (The Big Wheezy) Wie, birdie the eighteenth and win her first LPGA tournament before she died of old age. I mean the girl is twenty already. That brightened my Sunday a little bit after watching the Broncos ineptitude. (Ineptitude is a fancy way of saying SUCKED ROCKS that I'm using to keep from repeating myself.)
Yesterday the Denver Broncos SUCKED ROCKS. (Oops, I can't seem to stop.)
There were other sporting events yesterday I'm sure. For instance, somewhere in Spain some guys put numbers on their chests, donned silly helmets and raced on bicycles. Or maybe it was Italy. My new pal Joe can tell you all about it. This, however, does not take away from the seemingly ever present new knowledge that the Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday!
(That's it, take deep breaths, count from ten to one backwards and calm yourself. Better? Now tell us more.)
In other news, Jesus returned yesterday, riding a glorious long maned white stallion just as predicted in Revelation and other well read texts like USA Today and The Bayonne Inquirer. Behind him were heaven's minions and they were making short work of sinners throughout the Asian, African, and European continents. Included among the slain were bicyclists whose only sin was wearing goofy shorts. Although it was clear that Jesus and pals were working their way towards the western hemisphere and should arrive sometime early Tuesday, nobody cared... because... the Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday.
The Denver Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday and I just wanted to throw things at the TV screen.
How's that for tone?
I've read that there are more instances of spousal abuse after football games than at any other time during the week. Hold on a minute while I go beat up Woowoo Charly.
@@#%&^*$#%$^%^^%%^#&%*^%$#%#$#@$@!%$$%$%#%#$!@%$#^&^%#$^&$%#@%!%#^&*#%@$@!@#%^
Okay, she bloodied my lip, kicked me in the knee and put me in a step over toe hold that made me scream she's my daddy. I've got to stop reading stuff like that.
I was happy to see Michelle (The Big Wheezy) Wie, birdie the eighteenth and win her first LPGA tournament before she died of old age. I mean the girl is twenty already. That brightened my Sunday a little bit after watching the Broncos ineptitude. (Ineptitude is a fancy way of saying SUCKED ROCKS that I'm using to keep from repeating myself.)
Yesterday the Denver Broncos SUCKED ROCKS. (Oops, I can't seem to stop.)
There were other sporting events yesterday I'm sure. For instance, somewhere in Spain some guys put numbers on their chests, donned silly helmets and raced on bicycles. Or maybe it was Italy. My new pal Joe can tell you all about it. This, however, does not take away from the seemingly ever present new knowledge that the Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday!
(That's it, take deep breaths, count from ten to one backwards and calm yourself. Better? Now tell us more.)
In other news, Jesus returned yesterday, riding a glorious long maned white stallion just as predicted in Revelation and other well read texts like USA Today and The Bayonne Inquirer. Behind him were heaven's minions and they were making short work of sinners throughout the Asian, African, and European continents. Included among the slain were bicyclists whose only sin was wearing goofy shorts. Although it was clear that Jesus and pals were working their way towards the western hemisphere and should arrive sometime early Tuesday, nobody cared... because... the Broncos SUCKED ROCKS yesterday.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Dragon of Avelox
"...a more congenial spot, for happy ever-aftering than here in Avelox."
Acute bacterial infection with chronic bronchitis, to put a name on it, is the rogue dragon tormenting my kingdom.
Avelox is one of five brave knights sent forth to slay the beast. It comes in pill form in a push-out package that reads "Made in Germany by Bayer AG for Bayer of Mexico SA de CV, packaged in El Salvador. Alrighty then, this is one well traveled Knight.
(Aside: I popped one of these dragons slayers about two hours ago and I got so wired I had to lay down while my stomach tripped the light fantastic. Whoa Nelly.)
Bold Knight Sir Spirivia also marches forth from Germany and is an anticholinergic secret agent. It's good to have one of those on your side. This knight's job is to prevent "bronchospasms", a thing I am prone to every time a Bronco misses a tackle or drops a pass. In order to utilize this knight, I put a capsule into a HandiHaler where, by pushing a button a few times, the capsule is crushed and turned into powder. I then, you guessed it, inhale the powder.
With that knight positioned for action I then call upon Sir Cam, which is what we call him for short as his real name is Betamethasone. Cam is a glucocorticord steroid antiinflamatory we bring to the fray because we don't want any of those wily inflamatories gumming up the works at the last minute.
The brave Lady Miflonide from the Netherlands via Switzerland arrives in the nick of time to slay any asthma-like assaults by the dragon. She flies into battle with the use of an Aerolizer, another pill to powder gizmo that I will introduce to the fight twice a day.
Last but not least from Mexico comes Sir Mucosolvan The Latino knight. His task is one of the most difficult of all. He has to, and here I quote exactly from the military manual, "dissolve the sticky phlegm." It takes a knight of great courage to bring down the dragon's mighty phlegm.
The battle is enjoined. Wish me luck.
Acute bacterial infection with chronic bronchitis, to put a name on it, is the rogue dragon tormenting my kingdom.
Avelox is one of five brave knights sent forth to slay the beast. It comes in pill form in a push-out package that reads "Made in Germany by Bayer AG for Bayer of Mexico SA de CV, packaged in El Salvador. Alrighty then, this is one well traveled Knight.
(Aside: I popped one of these dragons slayers about two hours ago and I got so wired I had to lay down while my stomach tripped the light fantastic. Whoa Nelly.)
Bold Knight Sir Spirivia also marches forth from Germany and is an anticholinergic secret agent. It's good to have one of those on your side. This knight's job is to prevent "bronchospasms", a thing I am prone to every time a Bronco misses a tackle or drops a pass. In order to utilize this knight, I put a capsule into a HandiHaler where, by pushing a button a few times, the capsule is crushed and turned into powder. I then, you guessed it, inhale the powder.
With that knight positioned for action I then call upon Sir Cam, which is what we call him for short as his real name is Betamethasone. Cam is a glucocorticord steroid antiinflamatory we bring to the fray because we don't want any of those wily inflamatories gumming up the works at the last minute.
The brave Lady Miflonide from the Netherlands via Switzerland arrives in the nick of time to slay any asthma-like assaults by the dragon. She flies into battle with the use of an Aerolizer, another pill to powder gizmo that I will introduce to the fight twice a day.
Last but not least from Mexico comes Sir Mucosolvan The Latino knight. His task is one of the most difficult of all. He has to, and here I quote exactly from the military manual, "dissolve the sticky phlegm." It takes a knight of great courage to bring down the dragon's mighty phlegm.
The battle is enjoined. Wish me luck.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Elusive Angry Zola
Here's a line I've thought of, but have never had the opportunity to use: "Aw gee, you don't mean that. You're just saying that because you're sober. That's just the lack of whiskey talking."
We drove into Lovely and Talented Daveed again yesterday to take another shot at seeing Doctora Xiomara Anguizola. (Try pronouncing that one you Spanish beginners!) This time she was not out of the country as she was during our last attempt, but she was out of the city. I asked if there was another pulmonary especialista I could see and was told no. Alrighty then, I said inquiring, when can I see Angry Zola?
See, the problem here starts with the telephone. When I first called for an appointment early last week, I talked to a woman whose Spanish was far too fast and far too sophisticated for me to understand. I hung up the phone thinking what she had said was the fandango is the dance of religious fanatics in heat and I should come in tomorrow, in the morning. When I did show up the next day, Angry Zola was fuera de pais, out of the country. "She would be back Monday...probably." That ellipsis there, those three dots, represents what was a very long pause before the word probably. When I called on several occasions Monday, there was no answer. Tuesday was a holiday, so we waited until yesterday to try again. I thought unwisely, my usual mode of thought, that if Angry Zola wasn't in, I would see someone else. Well fat chance Lizard Lungs! There is, apparently, only one of each kind of doctor in the greater Daveed area. Despite the fact my ears were plugged from the combination of my ailment (whatever it is) and driving from altitude to sea level, I persisted through the "repeta por favors" until I was able to obtain an actual cita (appointment)from the two young nurses person-ing the desk in a hallway outside the doctor's office. One of them, I should mention, was making swabs from a bundle of cotton and a bunch of sticks. A penny saved is...not much, but idle hands are the devil's tools or workshop or something like that, so let's keep busy. The problem with this appointment, if there is one, is that it is for noon Friday. I'm thinking Angry Zola will be out to lunch.
The delays, in truth, don't bother me. I keep thinking I'll wake up one morning and the evil crud demon that has taken hold of my air in-take apparatus will be gone, saving me large quantities of balboas (dollars) that I would otherwise give to the Panamanian medical industry. Sure, the demon is still there today, but hey! and c'mon! and like that...I've still got tomorrow!
Do I really mean that or is it just the coffee talking?
We drove into Lovely and Talented Daveed again yesterday to take another shot at seeing Doctora Xiomara Anguizola. (Try pronouncing that one you Spanish beginners!) This time she was not out of the country as she was during our last attempt, but she was out of the city. I asked if there was another pulmonary especialista I could see and was told no. Alrighty then, I said inquiring, when can I see Angry Zola?
See, the problem here starts with the telephone. When I first called for an appointment early last week, I talked to a woman whose Spanish was far too fast and far too sophisticated for me to understand. I hung up the phone thinking what she had said was the fandango is the dance of religious fanatics in heat and I should come in tomorrow, in the morning. When I did show up the next day, Angry Zola was fuera de pais, out of the country. "She would be back Monday...probably." That ellipsis there, those three dots, represents what was a very long pause before the word probably. When I called on several occasions Monday, there was no answer. Tuesday was a holiday, so we waited until yesterday to try again. I thought unwisely, my usual mode of thought, that if Angry Zola wasn't in, I would see someone else. Well fat chance Lizard Lungs! There is, apparently, only one of each kind of doctor in the greater Daveed area. Despite the fact my ears were plugged from the combination of my ailment (whatever it is) and driving from altitude to sea level, I persisted through the "repeta por favors" until I was able to obtain an actual cita (appointment)from the two young nurses person-ing the desk in a hallway outside the doctor's office. One of them, I should mention, was making swabs from a bundle of cotton and a bunch of sticks. A penny saved is...not much, but idle hands are the devil's tools or workshop or something like that, so let's keep busy. The problem with this appointment, if there is one, is that it is for noon Friday. I'm thinking Angry Zola will be out to lunch.
The delays, in truth, don't bother me. I keep thinking I'll wake up one morning and the evil crud demon that has taken hold of my air in-take apparatus will be gone, saving me large quantities of balboas (dollars) that I would otherwise give to the Panamanian medical industry. Sure, the demon is still there today, but hey! and c'mon! and like that...I've still got tomorrow!
Do I really mean that or is it just the coffee talking?
Monday, November 09, 2009
Down Memory Lane...To The Bar
I sometimes miss going to bars; the soft lighting, the music, the conversations (often inspired, or at least they seemed so) with strangers, the hale and hearty, (and I mean hearty not hardy although that can work too) well met, good show, camaraderie of it all. "Let me buy these fellas a round." There was always smoke in the air and one in my hand and I miss that too. Bartenders and cocktail waitresses are for the most part friendly people whose job is to help you have a good time no matter what mood you might have brought to the room. And over the years I brought every mood in my repertoire from feeling low to feeling good - okay, those are my only two - at one time or another, and I seldom left without having them altered to the high side, no pun intended.
Nowadays we go to the bar, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and I, to meet friends for a civilized cocktail or two and we sit at a table while making our small conversations. Don't misunderstand me, it is quite nice and I look forward to those occasions. Sometimes though, if I can see the bar from where I sit and there are people there drinking, laughing, interacting, I feel the urge to join them, hear what they are talking about, have a laugh or two myself. It is, I suppose, "remembrance of things past" that inspires the urge, because I know it is not a rational desire. I know the bar "scene" is for younger men and unless I'm in the company of centenarians, I can't be counted as among that group. (Among is a funny word to say repeatedly.) My group is the one that has a hangover after four drinks not fourteen.
I can't remember the last time I went into a bar with no agenda and, here's the important part, no timetable. I could stay as long as I wanted to or as long as I was able to. Most of the time the nebulous concept of "tomorrow" was enough to keep me from "staying too long at the bar" but for sure there were times when it didn't. It is not the latter of those two that I miss. It's the former. It's leaving with a head full of new jokes, tidbits of conversations to be passed along, and a lighter heart that are causing me this morning to "wax nostalgic."
Hmmmm.......but now I'm done. The nostalgia is polished to a high shine and I'm ready to move on. So here's to the good old days I say as I raise my coffee cup. And here's to tomorrow. Best of all though, I say raising my Cafe Ruiz "Volcan Baru" mug even higher, here's to now.
The Past was fun, but the Present is always the best of all. I know because the Woowoos tell me so.
Nowadays we go to the bar, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and I, to meet friends for a civilized cocktail or two and we sit at a table while making our small conversations. Don't misunderstand me, it is quite nice and I look forward to those occasions. Sometimes though, if I can see the bar from where I sit and there are people there drinking, laughing, interacting, I feel the urge to join them, hear what they are talking about, have a laugh or two myself. It is, I suppose, "remembrance of things past" that inspires the urge, because I know it is not a rational desire. I know the bar "scene" is for younger men and unless I'm in the company of centenarians, I can't be counted as among that group. (Among is a funny word to say repeatedly.) My group is the one that has a hangover after four drinks not fourteen.
I can't remember the last time I went into a bar with no agenda and, here's the important part, no timetable. I could stay as long as I wanted to or as long as I was able to. Most of the time the nebulous concept of "tomorrow" was enough to keep me from "staying too long at the bar" but for sure there were times when it didn't. It is not the latter of those two that I miss. It's the former. It's leaving with a head full of new jokes, tidbits of conversations to be passed along, and a lighter heart that are causing me this morning to "wax nostalgic."
Hmmmm.......but now I'm done. The nostalgia is polished to a high shine and I'm ready to move on. So here's to the good old days I say as I raise my coffee cup. And here's to tomorrow. Best of all though, I say raising my Cafe Ruiz "Volcan Baru" mug even higher, here's to now.
The Past was fun, but the Present is always the best of all. I know because the Woowoos tell me so.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Some valuable Info and Some Not Quite So
My favorite new piece of information garnered while lying about or waiting my turn at the Scrabble board is this: Darkness consists of nothing but you can't see through it.
Other tidbits of equally memorable import are these: Nero didn't fiddle while Rome burned. The fiddle wasn't invented until the 15th Century. There are an estimated 3000 to 4700 tigers living in India. There are over 4000 tigers living in captivity in Texas alone. There are an estimated 12000 being kept in private residences throughout the U.S. Mike Tyson has 4. A barnacle has the longest penis of any animal relative to its size. It is seven time longer than its own body. Half the human beings who have ever died, perhaps as many as 45 billion people, were killed by female mosquitoes. The males only bite plants. The second greatest killer of humans is the marmot. It carries bubonic plague and spreads it around by coughing on fleas, rats and ultimately, humans. The largest living thing on earth is a mushroom. There is one in Malheur National Forest that covers 2200 acres.
I could go on, but I have examples of notes I made to myself during "An Evening With Margarita and Friends" that I now have to decipher. The first says, "so lacking in talent to describe the fog, the gentle rain, the grass, dogs, feeling of it all. The conversation, the Joy!" I deduce from this that I was having a good time.
The second says, "I hate that I have to get semi-drunk to appreciate the world around me. (To get out of my head.)" Hmmm. I do seem to see things in a more mult-dimensional way when I am, ah, less than straight. I think that is what this note is telling me.
Then there is this one, "Sick is like feeling hungry. How do you explain it?" I have no comment on that.
The next is a bit more cryptic. "Love the way my wife gives toys to the dogs. Penguin, heads, arms, legs, evisceration." She bought them a half dozen stuffed toys yesterday. Not dog toys, regular stuffed toys for children. I don't think they will make it through the weekend.
The next note is very scribbled and I'm not sure exactly what it says but it looks like, "My alter ego never - two indecipherable words - my actual ego says?" That could have been a fun thought. Dueling egos, both mine. I wonder what it really means.
The last, and I am surely in my cups at this point, says, "Show me a culture that does not revere animals, especially dogs, and I will show you a culture without love." Oh my. I do get sentimental.
In 1945 a chicken in Fruita, Colorado had its head chopped off. It lived almost two more years and was featured in Time and Life magazines. It was fed and watered using an eye dropper and gained six pounds after it lost its head. Just though you might like to know.
Other tidbits of equally memorable import are these: Nero didn't fiddle while Rome burned. The fiddle wasn't invented until the 15th Century. There are an estimated 3000 to 4700 tigers living in India. There are over 4000 tigers living in captivity in Texas alone. There are an estimated 12000 being kept in private residences throughout the U.S. Mike Tyson has 4. A barnacle has the longest penis of any animal relative to its size. It is seven time longer than its own body. Half the human beings who have ever died, perhaps as many as 45 billion people, were killed by female mosquitoes. The males only bite plants. The second greatest killer of humans is the marmot. It carries bubonic plague and spreads it around by coughing on fleas, rats and ultimately, humans. The largest living thing on earth is a mushroom. There is one in Malheur National Forest that covers 2200 acres.
I could go on, but I have examples of notes I made to myself during "An Evening With Margarita and Friends" that I now have to decipher. The first says, "so lacking in talent to describe the fog, the gentle rain, the grass, dogs, feeling of it all. The conversation, the Joy!" I deduce from this that I was having a good time.
The second says, "I hate that I have to get semi-drunk to appreciate the world around me. (To get out of my head.)" Hmmm. I do seem to see things in a more mult-dimensional way when I am, ah, less than straight. I think that is what this note is telling me.
Then there is this one, "Sick is like feeling hungry. How do you explain it?" I have no comment on that.
The next is a bit more cryptic. "Love the way my wife gives toys to the dogs. Penguin, heads, arms, legs, evisceration." She bought them a half dozen stuffed toys yesterday. Not dog toys, regular stuffed toys for children. I don't think they will make it through the weekend.
The next note is very scribbled and I'm not sure exactly what it says but it looks like, "My alter ego never - two indecipherable words - my actual ego says?" That could have been a fun thought. Dueling egos, both mine. I wonder what it really means.
The last, and I am surely in my cups at this point, says, "Show me a culture that does not revere animals, especially dogs, and I will show you a culture without love." Oh my. I do get sentimental.
In 1945 a chicken in Fruita, Colorado had its head chopped off. It lived almost two more years and was featured in Time and Life magazines. It was fed and watered using an eye dropper and gained six pounds after it lost its head. Just though you might like to know.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Heelboy and Questions Posed
"Hellboy II" Now we're talking. This flick is a nifty marriage of drama and wild imagination made visual by special effects unheard of even a decade ago. The creatures shown here make Hellboy himself appear normal, although some of that may be attributed to Ron Pearlman's very human interpretation of the character. The whole movie is played not quite tongue-in-cheek, but less than serious for the most part. (There is a bit of pathos at the end.) My rating on the Fun Scale (No Fun, Fun, Big Fun, Freakin Fabulous Fun) is Big Fun. Check it out.
I recently read that it takes the average person seven minutes to go to sleep; this, of course, after turning out the lights and hunkering down for that very purpose. Seven minutes seems about right to me. My dilemma occurs during that short interval because I start the slip down to sleep process by thinking of some bit of writing I want to do. Quite often I get an idea that strikes me as worthwhile. I know from past experience that even if I tell myself to remember this bit of worthwhile in the morning, it won't happen. The idea will be lost. My choice then is to let it go or turn on the lights, get up and write it down. If I do the latter, the seven minute process will have to begin again, but this time from a more awakened state than the first time. Seven minutes will likely grow to double that or more as I now have an idea fully formed and ready to chew on. Since I doused the lights, plumped the pillow and pulled the blanket to my chin ready for sleep in the first place, and further, knowing that many of the ideas I have written down on other occasions turn out to be not-so-hot anyway, I most often choose to let the idea slip away. In the morning, though, I can't remember the idea, but I always remember that I had one and this makes me frustrated and guilty about my laziness even though I know that lying in bed not being able to sleep is a frustration of a much higher order. What to do, what to do.
Another bit of frustration (I prefer the English pronunciation, frus-TRY-shun) just occurred. A little square of something popped up in the lower right hand portion of my screen. This happens quite frequently and I don't know what it is as I never see it appear. I only notice it as it blinks off. What in the world is it and what am I missing? Anybody know?
My last chunk of unresolved problems - that's right, problems not issues - concerns my health or lack thereof that I promised myself I would no longer write about, although I appreciate the material it has given me. (If I'm going to break a promise, best it's one to myself.) Maybe this has happened to you. Have you ever felt that you were sick, but not nearly sick enough to go to a doctor and found that the small sick persists...and persists.
I wonder what Hellboy would do.
I recently read that it takes the average person seven minutes to go to sleep; this, of course, after turning out the lights and hunkering down for that very purpose. Seven minutes seems about right to me. My dilemma occurs during that short interval because I start the slip down to sleep process by thinking of some bit of writing I want to do. Quite often I get an idea that strikes me as worthwhile. I know from past experience that even if I tell myself to remember this bit of worthwhile in the morning, it won't happen. The idea will be lost. My choice then is to let it go or turn on the lights, get up and write it down. If I do the latter, the seven minute process will have to begin again, but this time from a more awakened state than the first time. Seven minutes will likely grow to double that or more as I now have an idea fully formed and ready to chew on. Since I doused the lights, plumped the pillow and pulled the blanket to my chin ready for sleep in the first place, and further, knowing that many of the ideas I have written down on other occasions turn out to be not-so-hot anyway, I most often choose to let the idea slip away. In the morning, though, I can't remember the idea, but I always remember that I had one and this makes me frustrated and guilty about my laziness even though I know that lying in bed not being able to sleep is a frustration of a much higher order. What to do, what to do.
Another bit of frustration (I prefer the English pronunciation, frus-TRY-shun) just occurred. A little square of something popped up in the lower right hand portion of my screen. This happens quite frequently and I don't know what it is as I never see it appear. I only notice it as it blinks off. What in the world is it and what am I missing? Anybody know?
My last chunk of unresolved problems - that's right, problems not issues - concerns my health or lack thereof that I promised myself I would no longer write about, although I appreciate the material it has given me. (If I'm going to break a promise, best it's one to myself.) Maybe this has happened to you. Have you ever felt that you were sick, but not nearly sick enough to go to a doctor and found that the small sick persists...and persists.
I wonder what Hellboy would do.
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