2010 Wrapup and Book List

Alrighty then! 2010 saw me write 95 blogs, among which were a half dozen short stories. Next year fewer blogs, more stories.

I also read the 60 books listed below. That is quite a few more than I usually read in a year which tells me that I got out less than usual. Not to worry. I don't mind. I am The Last of the Great Indoorsmen after all.

2010 Book List


1. True North - Jim Harrison A stroll through one man’s complicated life and family. The book encompasses every aspect of the human condition.

2. So Brave, Young, and Handsome - Leif Enger A terrific turn-of-the-century western. I can’t think of a decent summary so I will just add, read this book!

3. Missing Joseph - Elizabeth George Sex, Murder and mayhem in a remote British village. What more could you ask for?

4. Hell - Robert Olen Butler A story told from Hell. Simplistic plot, but often funny. Butler’s prose is always engaging.

5. Spooner - Pete Dexter. Well told tale of an unusual person’s journey through life. Interesting throughout.

6. How I Became a Famous Novelist - Steve Hely A simultaneously funny and serious book. A very good read.

7. The Beast God Forgot To Invent - Jim Harrison Three more excellent novellas. It’s a privilege to read Jim Harrison.

8. Quietly In Their Sleep - Donna Leon Inspector Brunetti and company take on Opus Dei and other troublesome Catholic problems.

9. 1491 Charles C. Mann - Riveting account of what the “New World” was like before Columbus. It was far different than what we were taught.

10. Had a Good Time - Robert Olen Butler Most excellent short stories gleaned from messages on turn of the century (20th) postcards.

11. South of Broad - Pat Conroy Loved this book. But then, I love all of Conroy’s books. They speak to me.

12. Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks (author of “Birdsong”, a book I liked immensely) writing as Ian Fleming. Loved Fleming’s James Bond books, but then, I was very young when I read them. Not so crazy about Faulk’s Bond, but then, I am now very old.

13. Bridge of Sighs - Richard Russo Like being a voyeur, watching other people’s lives. Brilliant.

14. Out Stealing Horses - Per Petterson Much ballyhooed, prize winning novel from Norway. Pretty prose, but otherwise, I suppose, over my head.

15. 200 pages of El Amor En Los Tiempo Del Colera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (In Spanish.) I’m putting this down to read something in simpler Spanish. I spend too much time in the dictionary looking up Spanish words I will seldom, if ever, use.

16. What the Dog Saw - Malcolm Gladwell Articles by Malcolm culled from the pages of The New Yorker, every one a little gem.

17. And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks - Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs The two most famous Beat Generation writers collaborate to tell a fictionalized version of an actual murder that took place among their group. This was an early effort by the two and wasn’t great, but it demonstrated their promise as writers.

18. The Fire Gospel - Michel Faber A kind of “what if?” story about finding a fifth gospel that portrays Jesus as far more human. The book never really grabbed me.

19. Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord - Louis De Bernieres Fabulous magical realism. Louie is a great writer, great story teller.

20. Bananas – How the United Fruit Company Shaped The World - Peter Chapman
Everything we suspected about UFC and more. Big Biz in the tropics. Good read.

21. The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ - Phillip Pullman How the Big Story could have become the Big Story without celestial intervention. An interesting read.

22. As God Commands - Niccolo Ammaniti I like everything about this book except the title. Unlovable characters doing unlovable things. Not a hero in the bunch, but all are compelling to follow.

23. Shattered - Dick Francis Old Dick always delivers the goods. Another satisfying mystery.

24. Ultimatum - Matthew Glass A terrific political thriller. A fast, fun, informative
read.

25. The Path To Better Golf - Peter Croker Yup, this is it. No doubt. I’ll never shoot over par again. Hahahahaha.

26. UFO’s - Leslie Kean To deny that they are here is ridiculous is the thrust of this book. Overwhelming evidence exists. We don’t know what they are or where they are from but they are certainly here.

27. The Blasphemer - Nigel Farndale A good read for no special reason other than it is a good read.

28. Last Night In Twisted River - John Irving A smooth read. Irving’s characters are always interesting.

29. Think of a Number - John Verdon Excellent mystery/thriller. Keeps you guessing and going.

30. That Old Cape Magic - Richard Russo Family complications resolved and not so much. A story of personalities.

31. The Anodyne Necklace - Martha Grimes A satisfying murder mystery.

32. Ritual - Mo Hayder Horror/thriller that I found a good read up to, but not including the end. Unsatisfactory conclusion.

33. This Body of Death - Elizabeth George Her latest and a very good mystery. Complex plot and characters.

34. The Black Cat - Martha Grimes An excellent mystery, lighter in tone than most.

35. The Best a Man Can Get - John O’Farrell Fearlessly funny book. Fearless because its humor rings so true.

36. About Face - Donna Leon Moves along not doing much of anything – one thinks – and then flies to the ending for a wrap-up. Nicely done, although the reader is left with a few assumptions he has to make on his own.

37. The Old Contemptibles - Martha Grimes Complex mystery with satisfying conclusion. Aside: You have to love a writer whose books are often named after British Pubs!

38. I Am The Only Running Footman - Martha Grimes Average, which is to say, for Martha, good.

39. Matterhorn - Karl Marlantes Terrific War novel set in Viet Nam. Gruesome, horrific…but fun to read.

40. Trial Run - Dick Francis Vintage. Which is to say, terrific.

41. Blink - Malcolm Gladwell Old Malc makes tricky concepts easy to understand. Here he takes on “thin slicing,” “the power of thinking without thinking.” Great read.

42. Huck - Janet Elder Nice little heart warming story about a lost puppy. Should have been shorter by about half.

43. Freedom - Jonathan Franzen Beautifully written, close up look at a group of flawed, but interesting people as they journey through life.

44. Baked - Mark Haskell Smith Big FUN read. Off the wall. Entertaining. Fast.

45. The Tipping Point - Malcomb Gladwell Why and how things seem to happen out-of-the-blue. Gladwell researches and relates in an easy to read fashion.

46. The Blue Last - Martha Grimes A nice read. The best I’ve read from Martha so far.

47. American Vampire Snyder – Albuquerque – King Graphic Novel. Star of a comic book series. Big Fun. Very well done.

48. The Girl Who Played With Fire - Stieg Larsson Best thriller, best heroine, most entertaining book in years. My highest recommendation.

49. Diving Rod - Michael Knight A nice little novel about an affair with a bad ending. Interesting characters.

50. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo - Steig Larsson The start of the trilogy. (see #48)
Slower paced than “…Played With Fire” but densely plotted and patiently executed.

51. Ancestor - Scott Sigler Horror story Transplantation goes awry. Can’t wait for the movie.

52. The California Roll - John Vorhaus Fast paced, entertaining tale of grifters doing their thing. A Big Fun read.

53. The Grave Maurice - Martha Grimes This book picks up where The Blue Last left off. More good stuff from Martha.

54. Dust - Martha Grimes Trying to get caught up with Martha’s mysteries. She wrote a bunch, all good. Got another one going as I speak.

55. Zengolf - Dr. Joseph Parent. Yup, it’s all about your head…life and golf. Best golf instruction book ever. I will read this through again and again.

56. The Old Silent - Martha Grimes Martha Martha Martha. What can I say? She’s terrific!

57. Vida - Patricia Engel Tight little first novel with a Latina American heroine.

58. B is For Beer - Tom Robbins Robbins is always a treat. Everything you ever wanted to know about beer…and fairies.

59. How Right You Are, Jeeves - P.G. Wodehouse My favorite book of the year comes at the end of the year! I uncovered a stash of Wodehouse’s in a dusty back room of our local used book store. Christmas arrives early for me!

60. The Downhill Lie - Carl Hiaasen Good stuff, funny stuff as Carl returns to the links in his fifties after having given up the game in his twenties.

It's About Time

IT’S ABOUT TIME
By Doc Walton

It had been a long journey from his birth in Ulm to where he now sat behind a large desk in front of an almost floor to ceiling blackboard at a prestigious university. He had become, mysteriously and miraculously to him, famous along the way and although that fame was not entirely uncomfortable, it did intrude upon the time he spent working and thinking, two activities he considered one and the same. The university had not asked him to teach, but rather to study, to research, to create and hadn’t he himself said, “The monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind”? But, alas, he loved to communicate, loved the interaction with other bright minds and so in the end he had volunteered this time in the classroom.

He now looked about his new, sought after, and finally achieved surroundings, that promised the security he had so long desired and noted the half circle alignment of chairs around his desk. He had asked they be positioned that way to encourage a more intimate dialog with his students. The straight rows facing a lectern that was more common to academia had always seemed somewhat impractical and a touch militaristic to him. Could the students on the flanks really appreciate the nuances of physical gestures that accompany a good lecture? He thought not. And look how many chairs there were! His was not an easy subject. Were the students who would soon occupy those chairs be in attendance to learn and absorb his knowledge, or would they be there merely as testament to his recent fame. He would soon find out.

Yes it had been a long journey, and he was wont to wander down memory’s twisted path, but now was not the moment for nostalgic reflection. A bell had rung somewhere distant, and its echo resonated in the hall outside his classroom door. The students would be here in a matter of minutes. How, he wondered, would he begin this first day as a teacher of such a difficult discipline? How could he make the complex simple? Not to worry, he thought. After all, wasn’t he the one who had said, “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.” He was sure he would think of something.

When the rush of noise and energy that is a classroom filling had subsided, the university’s newest and most prestigious acquisition rose from his desk, smiled at his charges and picked up his long wooden pointer. He was a rumple of a fellow with a shaggy mustache and a head burdened with wooly, unkempt gray hair. He had bright eyes that observers often described as “twinkling.” You could see the humor behind those eyes, and those who knew him were aware that he was not above a comedic quip. He once said, “The Devil has put a penalty on all the things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health, or we suffer in soul, or we get fat!”

The room full of students both eager and curious bent forward in their chairs, breathless in anticipation of the great man’s first words.

As he rose from his desk and shuffled to the blackboard, he remembered again the distance he had traveled from Ulm to this place he could now truthfully call home, Princeton. He placed his pointer on the equation that had made him famous, E=mc2, and gave the class his broadest smile.

“It’s about time” he said. “It’s about time.”

Scrabble Anyone

After reading a list of new words entering the American lexicon since 2009, I couldn't stop myself from writing this little story.


Scrabble Anyone?

There I was crowd mining at the post premiere party of the latest mockumentary from a mockumentarist buddy of mine when he saw me eyeing a hockey mom, e-smoker, puffing on her e-cigarette and decided I needed a hetero hug which he eventized forthwith.

The mom who was not really a part of the LGBT crowd that normally frequented this sort of thing, but had recently been divorced and was now niche dating was more comfortable with homedulgence and weisure. I could tell she was O generation and as she returned my glance I could feel her mind casting. I broke free from my Buddie's hip hop hug, which he was clinging to a bit too long for my taste, and sidled on over to the octomom.

After some small talk about bet dieting, carborexia, e-book readers and car czars, we got down to grittier subjects like scroogeonomics, slackonomics and TARP. She said she tried to keep up on what was going down even though she was on a staycation recovering from a bout of H1N1. I told her I had recently been Madoffed, but was still liquid and I was familiar with kabbalese.

With that she whipped out her Palm Pre and p-book, and made a note having to do with her ZIRP. We were both getting premobolan at that point, so we run-walked to her place. No slumdog this lady, her pad was nicely appointed and while we gabbed about flotsametrics and womenomics and cyberwarfare, our passions rose until it was time to set up the SLR and film what turned out to be a great yogasm.

The next morning I offered to cook bacon and eggs but she said she was a VB6.

(Go to the blog before this to read a real story.)

The Order Diptera

THE ORDER DIPTERA
By Doc Walton

It can be argued that Science is the pursuit of understanding Nature and that Nature, for many, is merely another way of saying God. We cannot, therefore, discount the scientific explanation offered by Dr. Derek Williams, having to do with the shifting wind currents of global climate change and the redistribution of insect populations on those currents. This may, in fact, be the case, even if to the retrospective observer the theory seems a bit wishful. Nor, however, can we rule out the Supernatural explanation that it was Martin Blackleg’s spirit summoning that created the flies in their grotesque numbers. If Nature, or God if you will, has an antithesis it is the Supernatural. Until Science can produce plausible answers for those occurrences outside the natural order of the universe, the supernatural will remain a possibility. And, in this case, tossing aside outrageous coincidence, more likely, a probability.

***

It was early autumn in Arboles, Colorado, the small mid-range mountain town to which Carrie Ann Seibel had hastily moved. It was a time when most of Arboles’ citizenry reveled in the last days of warmth and sunshine before the cold and snow of winter drove them sadly indoors or gladly to the ski slopes. For Carrie, though, this time of year meant only one thing: it was fly season.

Carrie hated bugs and if you asked her she’d tell you the little bastards hated her right back. She seemed to be perpetually scratching or picking at skin eruptions from bites and this latest one, the one on the side of her neck, was the size of a marble and oozed a liquid, sticky and yellow. Even though the wound was hidden behind her dark, Indian hair, Carrie's fingers sought out and touched the small bandage that covered it every couple of minutes. The bite was sensitive to her touch, but the searing pain each probe produced was a reminder that bugs were the enemy and should be killed whenever possible.

"Do they seem worse than ever or is it just me?" she said as she swatted a large green headed buzzer against the window glass of the country store where she worked. "I'll bet I've killed twenty of them already and I've only been out here on the porch for five minutes or so."

The man she was talking to nodded and said, "Some years are worse than others." He had just climbed down from his big wheeled pick-up, parked on the store’s dirt-packed lot, and was boot clunking up the porch stairs. He paused in front of the screen door Carrie held open for him and continued his thought, "They'll be gone soon as we get the first good frost."

"Not soon enough for me," said Carrie, snapping another fly onto the window with her free hand and enjoying for a second the gooey looking, red splotch that surrounded the smashed and deformed insect’s remains. She let out a small “yuck” and flicked the dead fly off the window with the tip of her swatter, before following the man into the store.

Following a purchased pack of Marlboro reds and five minutes of weather discussion, Carrie was back on the porch patrolling, weapon in hand. She was counting now, each time she laid waste to a fly that had the temerity to land, "Twenty-four, twenty-five." Customers were few this time of year, the non tourist, non skier time of year, but there was no shortage of flies and Carrie's kills were mounting rapidly. “Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.”

***

Far to the south, the residents of Volusia County, New Mexico, were experiencing a fly problem of their own. Snipe, a close relative of Deer flies, were suddenly in abundance for what was thought to be the first time ever. No one could recall their being present in such numbers and no one had an explanation for why.

Snipe and Stable Flies, both vicious biting species were causing Flagler’s cattle raising community a good deal more concern than was usual. Both fly types, like all species common to the order Diptera, are blood feeders. The Snipe has scissor like jaw parts that tear its victim’s skin and, after the rendering, spits anticoagulant saliva into the wound. It then laps up the flowing blood, bat-like, at blinding speed. The Stable fly uses its proboscis, its pointed beak, to puncture skin, human or animal, so it can suck blood through it in vampire fashion. The bites of both flies are more than just itchy and annoying; they are intensely painful.

Concern for their cattle, which were suffering from hundreds of bites and in many cases growing sickly, was the first reason that Volusia County’s ranching community considered sending for the University of New Mexico’s resident entomologist, Dr. Derek Williams. When the body of a 2000 pound prize bull was discovered so bloated from bites that it was beyond recognition, and, further, when it was impossible to tell if the bites were the cause of the death or subsequent to it, the town’s consideration found its tipping point and the call to Dr. Williams was made.

***

“These are not indigenous flies,” Williams said, holding up a jar containing a number of Snipes he had collected. “These flies are usually found in the Southeast, not the Southwest. As to why and what they are doing here,” he said, absentmindedly scratching his thinning hair, “I’ll tell you truthfully... I haven’t got a clue.”

A group of ranchers had gathered at a local church that served as a county meeting place to hear what Williams had to say. They shuffled their feet and mumbled their displeasure. “A lot of good that does us” and, “Hell, I could’ve told you that myself” were typical of the comments made. One wry old rancher pointed out to Dr. Williams that they were all slapping at flies as they talked.

“Look,” Williams went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “I’m going to take these and some other specimens from around here back to the university for analysis and see if there is anything a microscope can tell us. I’m also going to call a few people I know in Florida where these flies probably came from. See if they know something I don’t. Meanwhile, I’ve got nothing for you. All I can say is stock up on Deet and pray for an early winter. I’ll get back to you.”

***

Whether or not prayers were a factor is difficult to say. Certainly some were offered. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that a short two days after Williams departed, so did the flies. No one could truthfully say why.

***

In Arboles, Colorado, Carrie Ann Seibel now stalked her porch with a vengeance. Her prey gathered thicker than ever and her swatter was seldom still. Although she dressed in jeans and long sleeved cowgirl shirts, she had acquired a half dozen more bites. Each new wound gave fuel to her rage and the insect body count mounting on the porch rose to reflect it. Carrie was growing more and more obsessed.

***

Although the flies had returned to a normal level in Volusia County, New Mexico, one man continued to pray. His prayers, however, were not the bent kneed pleas to a Christian God for expiation and mercy; his prayers had a darker calling and were thrown into the night on liquored breath. His prayers were not pleas, but rather curses to summon retribution and exact revenge. They were hatred, bitter and evil, verbalized to make his prayers reality.

***

Martin Blackleg was an Indian and whether you called him that or a Native American didn’t matter to him because, frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He was a Southern Ute, one of the richest tribes in America. With fiscal holdings in the millions derived from land, mining, and casinos, astute money managers saw to it that all tribal members shared in the largesse. Although Blackleg was only 35, he had recently been granted a yearly endowment of forty grand from the tribe for having ruined a knee in a mining accident. This money, which he received in monthly allotments, meant to Blackleg that he didn’t HAVE to give a shit and allowed him to pursue activities about which he did give a toad’s turd, a short list that consisted of tequila, mescaline and peyote, usually taken in combination and always in quantity. These drugs, which he consumed daily, induced in Blackleg a state he liked to call mystical as he was sure that while in it, he could summon forth spirits of the dead to do his bidding. The catch was, as tribal elders told him, that his prayers had to be offered with a true and honest heart. No problem there Blackleg thought. His heart held only one honest truth and that was he honest to fucking God hated his wife. The bitch had left him and disappeared into the night six months ago. He had prayed for revenge every day since then, prayers to the spirits of buffalo, eagle and bear, but they all proved fruitless. His wife remained gone...and unpunished.

Then one night when clouds obscured the moon and made his world as dark as his heart, an almost tangible bitterness emerged from Blackleg’s drug and alcohol stupor and he quite suddenly remembered his wife’s hatred of bugs. He cursed his prayers that night not to his tribe’s traditional totems, but to the tiny spirits, smallest of all, the petty annoyances that scurry underfoot and buzz about the ear. He prayed to the spirits of insects. When the flies in their fierce density had then appeared in Volusia County, Blackleg was certain his prayers had been answered. And yet still he prayed. With fevered intensity he prayed anew to send them on their way. He prayed the flies to find his wife.

***

There is a man-made lake that runs north and south through canyons that connect Northern New Mexico to Southern Colorado. All but the northern most mile of this thirty six mile narrow body of water called Navajo Lake, lies in New Mexico. The shores of that mile, the Colorado mile, run from the water’s edge up to acres of rock, scrub pine and sagebrush. Among that scruffy southwestern landscape, lies the small hay farming and ranch community of Arboles, pronounced Ar-bo-leez by its inhabitants. It is there where you will find The Arboles Store, upon whose long front porch stalked the bug killing machine named Carrie Ann Seibel. As the flies in their millions made their way steadily north through the canyon in short bursts of flight, alighting on the shores of the lake for only momentary pauses, Carrie Anne Seibel continued her kill count.

***

There are more known species of flies than there are vertebrates. Scientists have categorized over a hundred thousand and as many as a million are suspected. All the biting species, black flies, midges, deer flies, snipe, stable, yellow flies and more, are blood feeders. They can find you by seeing your movement or scenting your perspiration. They can even find you by sensing the carbon dioxide on your exhaled breath. They are relentless in pursuit of their food and they will attack any warm blooded creature. Swarms are rare, but not unheard of. The massive gathering of the Diptera that was moving steadily north above Lake Navajo, however, could not accurately be explained as natural or in keeping with the known habits of the Order. It seemed moved on a greater force; a force as yet unknown to Science and it had what appeared to the objective observer, direction and purpose. It was moving, quite simply, with intent.

***

As Carrie Ann Seibel slapped her swatter down on a tightly bunched cluster of flies, she was vaguely aware of distant noise emanating from somewhere to the south. She paused in her grim pursuit of insect death for just a moment to glance in that direction. Although the morning was lighted elsewhere with bright sunshine, a thick, dark cloud was visible on that southern horizon, moving slowly, but inexorably in her direction. Around her, the flies were growing thicker as well, and Carrie Ann renewed her lethal efforts. She was killing too fast to count now, thinking this would surely be a record day. Fly bodies crunched in clumps littered the porch floor, but Carrie Ann was too busy to stop and sweep them away. Her swatter whizzed and snapped with deadly efficiency.

***

Who can say how many flies it would take to fill a sky and darken a day, but whatever the number, they descended on the Arboles Store with the noise of a thousand chain saws at full rev. This noise, this hideous, terrifying noise, would be the last that Carrie Ann Seibel would ever hear and she would hear it but for a second. Flies in swarm dense as dirt filled her ears, clogging her aural passages. They crowded and crawled into her nostrils and when she gasped for air, they filled her mouth by the thousands, vomiting and shitting as all flies do when they alight. They crawled down her throat and choked off her air. It took but another moment, a finger snap, an eye blink, for Carrie Ann Seibel to crash to the floor and disappear under the gathered mass of the Order Diptera. Death, however, sweet now longed for death, was much slower in coming. Long minutes passed as countless microscopic bits of flesh were torn from her body in the flies’ pursuit of the blood that flowed within.

Though screams were impossible for Carrie Ann Seibel, prayers were not. She knew the origin of her death as she lay there being ravaged and consumed on the porch of the Arboles Store. It could be nothing else but hate manifested and directed. She knew of only one person who could hate with such murderous intensity, and so it was that Carrie Ann Seibel’s silent prayers were not for life or salvation, but were instead, for revenge. She prayed to the creatures of the Order Diptera to fly from whence they came. She prayed with a will that ignored pain and defied death for longer than human reason would allow. She prayed to send the flies back to Martin Blackleg.

***

That only two human deaths were recorded during the fly infestation of that year can be attributed to luck or, as Science would have it, unhappy coincidence, but surely a closer examination of the events would have been called for had it been known the victims were related. It wasn’t until much later that Carrie Ann’s name change from Blackleg to Seibel was revealed and the connection made. By then, no one really cared. Swarm flyovers had been reported during the incident by dozens of people across the landscape from Volusia County, New Mexico to Arboles, Colorado, the roughly 150 mile round trip the flies had taken. Why none of those people were attacked constituted the principal flaw in the scientific explanation. It was, so to speak, the fly in their ointment. That Supernatural forces were at work in the deaths of Blackleg and Seibel is a theory that continues to be ignored by Science despite the evidence that such is the case being heavily in that theory’s favor. Science, that is, the community of those who are supposed to be the most open-minded of all, are often not.


Copyright Doc Walton December, 2010

Scroll Back

The Monkeymind is on sabbatical. I'm not really sure what sabbatical means or even if I've spelled it right, but I'm on it anyway. If you wish to read some Monkeymind for what ever twisted reason you may have, I suggest you scroll back to July 9, 2010 and pick a selection from the list that is posted there.

May the sun shine brightly on your every deed except for the ones you do in the dark.

Ciao.

A Respite

It is clear to me that this trinket mine has been played out. The veins have been dribble dried and there's nary a costume jewel nor glitter flake to be found. I have strip mined, deep holed and panned for every scrap that could be used and have arrived at the moment when it's time to pack up the mule and head down the mountain. The Monkeymind Mine is now officially shut down, boarded up, abandoned. A ghost or two may appear from time to time - all mines have them - but apart from those apparitions, all will remain quiet; silent as empty space.

Ciao.

Little Ado about Anything

There are thin, nearly see-through clouds loitering about this morning's sky. They are hanging there like petrified puffs of smoke which tells me there is no wind aloft to shove them on their way. Somewhat lower, tree level to be exact, there is an evident breeze as I can see leaves shimmering and shaking like your sister Sue.

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Special K has a blog called, "Just Over My Shoulder." The other day I read this advice from a famous writer: Don't write about yourself, you're not that interesting. Putting those two things together, I've decided to write a blog called, "Just Over Myself." Bahdoompahpah.

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Where are all the horror movies? It is late October, horror movie season, and our local satellite company, Juan's TV, hasn't aired any new ghastly or ghostly flicks in months. I mean, C'mon! There are zombies rising from their graves, ax murderers aplenty, vampires vamping and horny teenagers losing their virginity AND their heads, all while I'm subjected to either sappy boy meets girl or noisy he-man shoots many flicks. Borrrring!

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And talk about rain!

No, I don't want to.

It rained so hard last night there were ducks at our door looking for shelter.

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Well there you have it. When I start talking about the weather, you know my mind has melted to mush and I might as well donate it to the nearest zombie or join the Tea Party. I hear tell they are both in search of brains.

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Ciao.

There is no need for this blog

The world will little note, nor long remember what I blog here today, but four score and seven thoughts ago I had a killer idea; something about using parts of famous speeches to kick off the Monkeymind.

Wish I could remember what it was.

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A dirty chalkboard of a sky out there this morning. Not the kind you'd really want to start your week or lift your sunken, post game, Sunday hang about spirits, but there it is, grey and greasy as the sausage gravy on your morning biscuits. Truthfully, though, I don't mind. I have my day planned and nothing in it requires blue skies.

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And so it was, yesterday. This morning the sky is, or might be, cerulean blue. I say "might be" because I don't really know what cerulean means. Wait a minute, I'll look it up. Well, there you go. It means sky blue. Okay then, cerulean blue is redundant. Sky blue blue. (If nothing else, that's fun to say: Sky blue blue.)

So anyway, yesterday, my well thought out, well planned day, went like this: I wrote a little, worked out a little, read a little, messed with the dogs some, got thrashed at Scrabble, watched no movies and lost no weight. Yeah, I know, you're thrilled.

Today though, what with that cerulean sky and all, I expect momentous happenings. I have a dog walk planned and those are never without incident. There will be chickens and other dogs to avoid, leashes to untangle, horse manure for the dogs to try to eat or, at least, to roll in - what is it with that? - and, well, who knows what else in the fascinating to retell category? My entire life is, as you can see, a pretty much thrill a minute kind of adventure.

Trust me. I'm not complaining.

If I were to complain, though, it would be about my not knowing the eight letter answer to the clue "Hopper and Turner" in my NY Times Crossword Puzzle. It's got a whole section hinging on it.

So there you have it, a brief history of time and the life of Indiana Jones in retirement.

Our fore fathers set forth on this page a new blog, divisible and unreadable.

The Tour De Doc

I've been afflicted of late with a scarcity of blogging ideas. My mind has been much too engaged with a deeply intellectual, complex, complicated, difficult to fathom issue, to bother with the incredible lightness of blogging. As you know, when a thing like that takes hold, it is tougher to shake than a pit bull's bite. I'm talking, of course, about football.

Not to worry though. I'm not going to write about football. I am, instead, as an olive branch to my middle daughter's new fiance, going to write everything I know about bicycle racing. Okay here I go: They do it once a year in France. All the riders wear silly helmets and tight bathing suits. Sometimes they crash.

I feel better now. It's good to shake off the slings and arrows of football mania. And speaking of arrows, I think the Florida State Seminoles have the coolest logo of all on the sides of their helmets, but I'm not writing about football today, so I won't elaborate. I'm writing about bicycling.

I'm not sure when the bicycle season begins. As far as I know, there is only that one race and it occurs in, I think, the Spring. The race lasts a couple of weeks, so that may be the full extent of the season. I could be wrong, but I don't think they have playoffs.

Speaking of playoffs, I'm in favor of a playoff format to determine the college football champion. I would explain why I have this opinion, but I'm not writing about football today.

The bicycle race they have in France every year is, they think, cleverly called "The Tour of France" although the French spell that differently. I don't want to be controversial here, but it's not much of a tour if you ask me. I mean the riders are all humped over and pedaling too frantically to really enjoy the scenery. Plus you don't get to see All of France, just some of it. When the cyclists go through a town they, in fact, don't get to see any of it! Flocks of French gather to line the roads and block their view. The crowds are so thick they make American sport promoters green with envy.

And speaking of green, I like any football team that wears green and white uniforms. Even green, white and black. Michigan State wears those colors and they are undefeated so far this year. I don't like green and yellow or gold as a rule, but I do like the Oregon Ducks who wear those colors. I like them simply because they are the Ducks. Who wouldn't want Ducks as their nickname. But I won't linger here, because I'm not writing about football today.

Unlike other kinds of races, the guy and his bike who cross the finish line first on the last day of the Tour of France is not necessarily the winner. This is not surprising when you consider, as I've said, the race is in France. What happens, as far as I can tell, is that a bunch of Frenchmen get together, drink some wine, nibble some cheese and then vote on the winner. The fact that there are a lot of people in the race and thus a lot of names to remember, may account for why, once the judges have settled on a name, that guy usually gets declared the winner several years in a row.

And speaking of winners, this is a tough year to predict the outcome of NFL games. There are a lot of surprising teams doing well and vaunted teams doing poorly. My team, The Denver Broncos, are not doing well at all and I would talk about why except I'm not writing about football today.

Another confusing thing about the Tour of Some of France is the issuance each day to one of the participants of a yellow jersey. This has nothing to do, I understand, with any act of cowardice, but is more like the game of "You're It" that children play. Apparently, the other racers have to catch this yellow wearing guy and if they do, then they get to be "It." I know this sounds confusing, but...again, this is a French thing we're talking about.

And speaking of French things, what's the deal with this guy Favre? (That's a French name isn't it?) The guy is always in the news and on my nerves. I'd like to discuss this, but it's football related, so I'll not mention it today.

In conclusion I want to mention PEDAL. As today's blog is all about bicycle racing, I thought I would enlighten the unenlightened (Because to enlighten the enlightened would be a waste of time) about what the acronym PEDAL means, so here it is: Performance Enhancing Drugs. Armstrong, Lance.

"What's Up?" You ask.

Well look at that, would ya. It's been over a week since I last blogged. What in the world was I doing all that time if I wasn't tripping the light fantastic on my keyboard? Beats me. Something productive, I'm sure, like helping achieve world peace or curing cancer. Not ACTUALLY those things, but LIKE them. I manged to get out of the house to buy Woowoo Charly some birthday presents which is an activity whose outcome is VERY similar to scoring world peace. Okay, so it's only the peace in our house, but I'm thinking that's a step in the right direction. AND, I did Effudix some spots on my face which does IN FACT cure cancer. Some kinds, anyway.

(I LIKE putting words in caps. It gives them EMPHASIS.)

(Emphasis? Sounds like a disease. "Her emphasis was improving, but she was still quite SWOLLEN.")

(Swollen? that's a funny word too.)

Alrighty then, where was I? I know, recounting the busy-ness of a week that kept me from blogging. Well, okay, I will confess. I did write another blog. It was about ligion, which is what you have before you have religion. I didn't like it, though, so I deleted it. Not every word I write is precious. Only this one: precious.

Here's an oddity: (Colons are cool. Semi colons are semi cool.) There is a device attached to most blogs called "Followers" that enables readers who sign up for it to be alerted, I think by email, whenever the blogger has posted a new one. I clicked on my followers this morning and discovered that three, out of a whopping five, were people who fell into the "I have no freaking idea who they are" category. If you are one of the three, please comment and be a pal.

Another thing I've done in the past week is read two thirds of Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom", all of "Huck" a dog story that is too long, some of "Zen Golf" which might be helpful, and I've made headway (Headway? How much does a head weigh?) on Paulo Coelho's "El Vencedor Esta Solo", a book I'm reading in Spanish. Factor in football watching on the weekend - an activity coded into my DNA at birth - and you will note that I have not been without productivity despite not blogging.

Also, I've been writing other things.

Other things. There, I've done it again.

Digging the Day

There is little in Boquete retirement to get your heart pounding, your pulse racing, and your undivided attention apart from the odd coral snake, baseball size tarantulas, scorpions, floods, earthquakes, strange noises in the night, (What-the-hell-was-that?) and the fear that Tea Party members might at this very moment be en-route to our happy home. It is little wonder then, that I find Football Season so much fun. Big Fun, in fact, which as you know is my highest rating.

My team, the Denver Broncos get short shrift from the national sports media so I...(Wait a minute. Short shrift? I don't think I've ever used that before. I better look it up. It means a quick confession to, and then absolution by, a priest. Who would a thunk it?) Anyway, the Broncos get a short one of those and I get little news of them during the week. Sundays, though, when they play, I am tuned in adrenaline at the ready, nerves all a-jitter, apprehension and excitement battling for space in my consciousness. I am, quite literally, a nervous wreck. And that, Sportfans, is what I call Big Fun! I mean, who wouldn't like that? Oh sure, there's always those people in their right minds, but be serious, nobody pays any attention to them. When the Broncos win, as they did yesterday - this winning thing an occurrence that for several years now only happens about half the time - I have noticed that the sun shines brighter, food and drink taste better, there are fewer alien abductions, and the face in my mirror looks goofily happy a degree more than is usual. The entire week following the game will be more pleasantly spent.

That said, I will now begin doing it, that pleasantly spending it part, because next week...well, it's not looking so good.

A Wise Decision

The sky was blacker than a villain's soul as I sat on the patio to listen to the heartbeat of the night; insects mostly, and a light breeze brushing across the surface of broad leafed plants. The loudest sound, the one most urgent, was the big dog to my front panting an eager huh huh huh huh as he waited for me to throw the knotted bit of rope that is his favorite retrieval object. The two small dogs, curled on padded, wicker chairs beside me were soundless, content, happy to just be out at this later than usual hour.

I was content too; flipping the dog's toy out into the yard and then patting his head gently each time he returned it to my lap. There was a half full glass of wine on the table to my right and a half smoked, small cigar beside it in an ash tray. The sweet, fragrant aroma of Reina De La Noches captured my attention each time the wind shifted to push it in my direction. I took off my glasses and placed them on the table as well. I wanted to see the world I was accustomed to, rather than the newer, sharper focused place the recently purchased "lentes" provided.

And then, in the midst of this amiable reverie, this calm, almost meditative state, The Monkeymind chimed in with a thought: What's all this nonsense about Universal Themes writers are always going on about? We don't know a damn thing about themes on other planets, let alone what they might be on other galaxies. I mean the Universe is a damned big place. The Milky Way Galaxy may have some overriding unifying thread that we might one day capture, but what about The Snickers Galaxy and The Three Musketeers Galaxy? Yeah, I say, what about them?

And following that, because I was now onto clearly large, important issues worthy of scientific inquiry, I began to wonder why I was still controlled by, and concerned about, Time, while Woowoo Charly gave less than a hoot. She took off her watch the day we retired and has never put it back on. Big fat I, on the other hand, resent having to take off my keeping-track-of-time-piece to hop in the shower. Where does Time go when it is not on my wrist?

I contemplated that for awhile, along with themes on The Baby Ruth and Clark Bar Galaxies. As I did so, I realized I was alternately opening and closing my eyes to see which was darker, the night sky or the inside of my eyelids. The sky won hands down. As it turned out, this was the only puzzle posed by the Monkeymind last night that got a definite answer.

When the Monkeymind turned from all these questions of great import to whether Tim Tebow should be used by the Broncos in goal line situations, a wise decision was made. I decided I needed neither that last half glass of wine or the remaining unsmoked part of my cigar. I locked up, went to bed and took the dogs with me.

(The time was a little after nine. I just couldn't help checking.)

Girls never make passes at men who...

Read magazines and Non-fiction books for information and knowledge. Read novels for wisdom.

People who do the following make more money than people who do the opposite: Work indoors, play outdoors.

This wearing o' the glasses has not been the easiest adjustment I've ever had to make. (Hhmmm, let me see, the easiest would be... sliding into retirement. No work today? Oh darn, what will I do?) Woowoo Charly put on her new spectacles and to my knowledge has never taken them off. In fact, I'm sure I saw her coming out of the shower yesterday with her specs tucked neatly in place. I, on the other hand, have always been the kind of whack-job who would shun even the wearing o' shades (gafas oscuros in Spanish, a fun thing to say) unless old sol shot me in the eyes with annoyingly bright beams or I thought at some given moment, usually incorrectly, that they would make me look cool. Even then I would snatch them off if there was something I felt needed to be seen clearly. Now when I snatch off my glasses, I find myself puzzled that the image I was hoping to sharpen turns out to be even fuzzier. Weird, I tell ya, weird.

A Facebook friend wrote this comment that I immediately seconded: Right-wingers and Tea party people need to come up with their own slogans. "Worst president ever" and "Let's take back our country" have already been used.

A woman called me the other day from Mobile Net, our Internet provider and said that if I came in and signed a new contract, I would get four times faster Internet service for less money. Aware, of course, that if a thing sounds too good to be true, it probably is, I nevertheless signed up. We now await the installation of a new signal grabbing gizmo which should happen some time in the next two weeks. Wish us luck.

On My Mind

"Time heals all wounds."... Anonymous. "Bullpuckey."... Zendoc

Here in Jubiladoland, retirement, I have little that causes me pain, physical or mental, and only small worries of my own choosing; mostly those concerning the health and welfare of family and friends. My life is simple, satisfying and in many ways ideal. Why then, I wonder, are there nights when sleep is elusive? Why do memories of misdeeds done long ago surface like unwanted short subjects to rob me, occasionally, of deep sleep and sweet dreams? Mind you, in my lifetime, I have committed no criminal offenses of note apart from a few years of illegal drug use and fairly typical adolescent misdemeanors. If you were to read my thoughts as I replay my transgressions from years past, you would likely laugh and suggest they were nothing to lose sleep about. But there they are, the unintended cross word that needlessly hurts another, the red faced moments of embarrassment, bouts of stupidity, missed opportunities, small failures, and the like. Emotional wounds so old that you would think they would be long healed or, at least, long forgotten. And so they are, except for that now and then when they rise from their graves like zombies that won't die to chase away the kinder and gentler thoughts that usually lead down the path to sleep. And YES, I have taken them out for examination, these small torments. I have viewed them from afar, dissected their parts rationally, scoffed at my own silliness and laid them forever to rest, never to return. But, of course, they still do, every now and again. I ask you then, Monkeymind readers, is it the same for you? Is this a universal concern or am I uniquely bonkers as I lay me down to sleep. Do tell.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Alrighty then! After you have confirmed my diagnosis and confined me to a rubber room, never to be loosed without adult supervision. I have another Monkeymind experiment I want you to try. It has occurred to me that since the left side of the brain is supposed to be rational and straight forward while the right side is designated the creative part, maybe we can address the two sides individually for a more successful functioning of both. So here's what I've been doing and I want you to try: (You should always listen to the desires of madmen, they may be onto something.) Whenever you are reading informational stuff, close or cover your right eye and read solely with your left. This way, I say, nothing logical gets clouded by intrusive creativity. Whenever you read poetry or really good prose, cover or close your left eye and read only with the right. This, of course will see to it that nothing artistic gets spoiled by needless logic. Give it a go and let me know if it works for you. After that, we'll apply for a grant.

Girty Rutsaphrats Pegaloomer!

Here's my "What my Dad said" pithy saying of the day: I thought of a good one last night, but I forgot to write it down and now I can't remember what it was.

I say that a lot.

Here's another one I say at least once or twice a year: Mo#&*#*&#!hump*#*#@co(&^^&%^&*ing&%piece*o&^&^ sh(*&*%^&*&(*er!

I say that when, like today, I realize I have lost a page or two of writing I had squeezed out like blood from the turnip that is my head. Yesterday I managed to do the trick while transferring the work to my freakin' "save it here" device! Can you believe that? I tell ya, it's not easy being an idiot.

So that's why I am here today at Monkeymind instead of working on "The Book of Luke I am Your Father" from the New Testament. I need a couple of days to simmer down, because I am currently all simmered up and I can't write, or rather, rewrite in that condition.

I had a dream. True Dat. Last night. In the dream I was on a train somewhere in Italy traveling to somewhere else in Italy. A stranger shares a joint with me and I take two or three tokes. I realize this is really good stuff and I am very high, so I lie down to sleep it off. When I wake up, IN REAL LIFE, a short while later, I am still high! I stumble to the bathroom, splash water on my face and return to reality. Now what in the world was I thinking?! I am happily stoned traveling through Italy and from this I want to wake up? As I've noted above, it's not easy being an idiot.

There Goes Another Piece Of My Mind

I wonder how many writers arrive at their ideas without the aid of alcohol, drugs, coffee, oatmeal, or other mind altering substances? I'm betting not many. A couple of nights ago I sat out with scotch in hand to watch the rain and found my mind crammed ear to ear with things to write. I even managed to scribble a couple of the inspirations on a piece of paper for later use and one of them is, more or less, this paragraph. Okay, so it's not Shakespeare, but keep in mind I was drinking scotch not mead.

RTGFKAR says that Finnegan, our Golden, who is clearly obsessive about his retrieval business, needs to learn meditation. I've been working on him, but he only achieves stillness while waiting for me to throw something. His Om, I should mention, lacks length, but it will get your attention.

I called Sky TV last Monday to complain about not receiving the NFL Sunday Ticket package that I had sweat blood and paid for and was assured I would have no problems the following Sunday, yesterday. Well wrongo Football Fanatico! When the pregame shows did not appear at their designated time, I whipped out my trusty Motorola phone to give the bastards a piece of my mind, because, you know, I don't really need the whole thing. For my urgent efforts, I got to hang on "hold" for twenty minutes listening to Sky commercials in Spanish. Every once in awhile - between tape rewinds I suppose - a voice would say "gracias por esperar", (thanks for waiting) and it was then that I would let loose with the tirades from the part of my mind that I didn't need anyway. I eventually got through to a fellow who spoke marginal English and was told "No problema", Sky was merely clearing up some technical difficulties between the U.S. and Panama and that the football games would appear at twelve sharp you betcha. Well wrongo again, Football Freako! No games. Nothing, in fact, but a small on screen sign that read, "If you wish to purchase this program, call customer service." Now I don't have a lot of cool left. I used up most of it when I was younger with, thankfully, no harmful consequences, so not maintaining the little I do have bothered me not a wit. I lost it and snatched up my cell anew. I then angrily punched in Sky's phone number because I just couldn't wait to be put on "hold" to listen to their nifty "buy me" commercials. You betcha my...nevermind. Eventually I got through to another "English speaker" which is a correct description of the fellow only if you can call me a Spanish speaker, a thing you might do if you had never actually heard Spanish, well, spoken. This English speaker, though, was a man of immense talents and brilliant ideas, one of which he put to use right away. He clicked me through to Technical Support. There I got to talk to a man who led me through a series of "Read me the numbers on your box, read me the numbers on the card in your box and now turn to Channel 100 and wait" steps while I muttered stuff that sounded a lot like Finnegan's Om. But then, hurrah, to my great surprise and with an enormous lo and behold, and I'm not talking be hold on the phone but the actual "Holy shit look at that!" behold, a football game appeared on my screen. This event may be a small wonder to some, but it was a big wonder to me and verified what I have said over and over again, "Persistence is an eleven letter word."

The conclusion to this tale is simple: I am going to be credited with my lost football time, but Sky is keeping my cool and the piece of my mind I gave them for further use.

Classic Monkeymind

If you can't be on time, be early.

Let's see. People? Dogs? Current events? Those mines are all played out. I have nothing to write but (thankfully) fiction.

Where to start?

Call me Doak. Call him Ishmael. That's his real name. Mine is made up because my real name, Blovarten, sounds too much like an Ian Fleming villain. Anyway, we're both on a ship captained by a weird one legged old sea salt named Rehab and we're in search of Whitey Ford, an equally old, demon possessed, New York Yankee pitcher from the Fifties who had died and was now serving his penance as a reincarnated whale, albeit a pin striped version. Whitey was still wily in his new fishy bod and just as adept at getting out of
tricky jams as he was in his earlier life. We had cornered him and almost corralled him a couple of times but the truth is that corners and corrals in the ocean are hard to maintain. Whitey slipped off the hook, so to speak, each time. Keep in mind here that we weren't out to do him in. We just wanted to catch him and put him in the big aquarium in Boston where he would be on display with Mickey Mantlemouse and Derek Jitters the dancing half man, half penguin, both of whom were also curiously pin striped and trying to work off their demonic possession in new incarnations. The people of Boston paid big bucks for captured Yankees in any form and Whitey would be a huge score if we could bring him in.

Rehab signaled Ishmael and me along with Quickypeg, our net thrower to his cabin for a conference. "Mateys," he said to us, "you all need more incentive. From now on nobody gets evening rum until the fish is in the boat."

Ish, Quicky and I huddled together upon hearing this and quickly agreed on a course of action. We shot Rehab. It was a mutiny for the bounty.

Truth is we were sick of sailing anyway, so we set a course for Africa and the heart of darkness to ditch the boat and head inland to find the former Yogi Berra who had been reincarnated as a pitchman for feminine hygiene products. The Boston bounty on his head was among the highest, but the strongest motivation for the hunt came from a California Angel who told us that by capturing Yogi we might be able to escape our own future destiny as reincarnated Yankees; a fate so dreadful that it brought but one thought to mind. The horror! The horror!

To be continued.

Not really.

Glasses

Preparation is, as many people have said, the principal key to success. A good night's sleep, in my opinion, is second.

Woowoo Charly and I are now bespectacled people. Well sure, we've been donning the magnifiers for years to read, but the world out there beyond the book was clear enough for the most part. What changed my mind about the "clear enough" was the disappearance of my flying golf balls after about 150 yards. Like Droopy the Dog - remember him? - I was often heard to ask, "Where did they go, where did they go?" Of course some of that was not my eyes, but rather the weird flight direction of the little dimpled bastards, but you get my general drift. Couple that with sitting ever closer to the television screen and avoiding night time driving and you quickly find both Woowoo and I holding a hand over one eye and saying "That's an e, no wait, an f and the next one is an o or is it a c" to a kindly gray haired doctor with a penchant for shining a small bright light in our eyes. When he announced to me, "You need glasses," I refrained from saying "Duh."

I got to put my new enhanced vision to the test fifteen minutes after its acquisition Monday afternoon. We were driving to pick up RTGFKAR at the aeropuerto in David when a rain storm heavy enough to inspire the Noah in us all made headway a creep along carefully sort of thing. "Look," I said to Woowoo Charly who was muttering small ladylike incantations like, "This is fucking ridiculous" as I alternately raised my new glasses above my eyes and then put them back in place, "here's fuzzy gray rain and fog and now here's clear gray rain and fog. I can't see through either one of them."

We made it to David eventually despite stomach knots and shoulders scrunched from tension. We had allowed enough time before RTGFKAR's arrival for a PriceSmart run and while there I noted that not only was I able to read the smart prices, (I was hoping for prices so low they would be considered stupid) I could see all the way to the end of the aisles clearly...Nice.

So there you have that.

One final note, a first. RTGFKAR arrived an hour early! Have you ever heard of any plane touching down that early? What happened was that RTGFKAR was hangin' at the airport so they just put him on an earlier flight. Alrighty then, also...nice.

Should I mention that we have no water again this morning or is that getting redundant?

Special K's Quiz

Alrighty then Walton's At Large. Special K wants us all to do this questionnaire. Send yours to me and I will post them as Guest Blogs. Here's mine:

Q. What's your best secret skill?

A. When taking off my undershorts, I drop them onto one foot and use that foot to flip the shorts into the air. I then spin about and catch the shorts behind my back. I rarely miss.

Q. What was your favorite toy as a kid?

A. The girl nextdoor. No, seriously? A ball, any ball.

Q. What's the best gift you ever gave someone?

A. I can think of several. They were gifts given for no special occasion.

Q. What's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?

A. There were many. I used to embarrass easily. I remember once walking out of the locker room where our football coach had just cautioned us not to reveal our game plan to anyone. I was walking along telling the whole thing to my girlfriend when I realized the coach was walking right behind me. I like ta died, I tell ya, I like ta died!

Q. If your house were on fire, what's the first thing you would grab on your way out?

A. People and pets first. After that I'd snag my wallet and money clip and after that my computer memory storage thingamajig.

Q. What's the one place you've never been, but really want to go?

A. The place: St. Andrews Golf Course. The event: The Final Four.

Q. When you were young, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A. Taller. Seriously. I don't remember aspiring to anything beyond the fantasy of professional athletics.

Q. What's one of your all time favorite books?

A. There are so many. As a kid "The Jungle Book." Now, "To Kill a Mocking Bird."

Q. What's one of your all time favorite movies?

A. Dracula

Q. What's the worst job you ever had?

A. Infantryman in the Army.

Q. Have you ever played a funny practical joke on someone?

A. Yes. And mostly I'm sorry about that.

Q. What's the best advice anyone ever gave you?

A. Same advice I give: Hang in there.

Q. What's your favorite board game?

A. Scrabble. Hands down.

Q. If you could live outside the U.S. where would you live?

A. Here in Panama, the south of France, Belize, and no doubt lots of other places.

Q. What's the best birthday you ever had?

A. 50 was fun. Woowoo Charly and me and our two sons went sky diving.

Q. If you could have any animal in the world as a pet, what would it be?

A. Be serious. A dog, of course. My second choice would be super models.

Q. What was your best Halloween costume?

A. I never had one I was proud of.

Q. What's the bravest thing you've done?

A. Fought bullies, pulled a woman from a burning car that had crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me, run back opening game kick offs, married a woman with three kids.

Q. What's the most fun family vacation you've had?

A. Camp outs.

Q. What's the luckiest thing that's ever happened to you?

A. Surviving my twenties and early thirties with no long term damage.

Things I've Said

Since I am not going to last much longer, another 30 years tops, I thought I ought to leave a list for my children who are already old and forgetful themselves, of "things my father said" just in case they are asked. Of course, to this point I haven't really said much, so I've got to get busy saying things in a hurry or the list is going to be too short to bother with. That in mind, I will start some future blogs saying stuff that may have nothing to do with the blog itself. Just thought I'd warn you. Here are a few things I've said in the past and probably posted on a blog here and there:

Old men like old whiskey, old women like desserts.

The only discipline worth a damn is self discipline.

Life without an education is Burger King.

Blah blah blah is going to happen barring unforeseen circumcisions.

The best combination of flavors is red wine and dark chocolate.

Beer is made of three things, water, alcohol and beer flavoring. The problem with light beers is that they have too much of the first and not enough of the other two.

There are only three things you can do in any situation, change it, live with it or leave it.

If any thing I've said comes to your mind, I will be A. amazed and B. happy to post it.

Revised Dragon Tale

Sightings
By Doc Walton

In a southern part of the country with the dawn breaking softly, early rising flannel shirted men in boats watched both the skies and their bass-seeking, nylon lines. One of them, only the day before, had sworn to seeing a UFO. Catching a big bass would be nice, the others reasoned, but seeing a flying saucer would be even better.

Not far from them, where lake becomes swamp and swamp morphs into jungle, Livingston Laughsalot walked along a trail unconsciously whistling a happy tune not only because sad tunes are difficult to hike to, but because he was mostly an up-beat sort of fellow. If you asked him, though, Livingston would tell you that his name was a misnomer. He wasn't really a guy subject to bouts of strong laughter. He was a subtler sort, more of a chuckle and grin kind of guy or, at least, that's how he saw it. He had once considered changing his name to reflect his opinion, but Chucklesalot was a tad too circus clown and lacked the rolls-off-the-tongue alliteration provided by Livingston Laughsalot.

On this particular day, Livingston was tramping through the jungle in search of a dragon to mess with and thus spend the day in a pleasurable fashion. He was aware that dragon messing as a term didn't have quite the flair of dragon slaying, but the thought of trying to kill one of the elusive, great beasts gave him the Screaming Willies. And, if you've ever had the Screaming Willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth. Screaming Willies are what happens to you when your Heebie Jeebies get out of hand.

Livingston had learned that dragons were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-That who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with heat seeking missiles; this latter a thing in clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons a long time ago. Dragons would, in fact, play any game you could think of and especially those that involved hiding, hunting, flying and, in some cases, frying. What you needed to do, Livingston deduced on his first Encounter of the Third Kind when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was accidentally doing just then... stand your ground. If you did that and were weaponless, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy encouraging another to play. After that, it was just a short jump to teaching the big green, winged, lads and lassies how to perform small tricks like play-dead, barrel-rolls and light-my-cigar from a hundred yards away. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil. Of course, they could also scorch an entire building if they wanted to, but they seldom wanted to. They were in truth pacifists and only fought in self defense. One of the things they couldn't do was fly along while spitting fire, so put from your mind the pictures of them doing exactly that. They would have to fly into their own flames and that’s not likely to happen. You also will never see anyone riding a dragon, so perish that thought as well. Dragons would shake riders free as easy as you would flick a bug with your fingernail. Additionally, if you take a close look at the sharp ridges on a dragon’s back, you will see they are not constructed for passengers. Even if you could sit a dragon, the vacuum created by the down stroke of its wings would suck you off in a blink. And I mean your blink, not the slow, lazy blink of a dragon.

Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, the dragon he had dubbed Fearful because of her at-first shyness, swooped out of the grey and landed in a clearing before him. She then made an exaggerated stage bow which caused Laughsalot to grin and chuckle; a clear signal to her that the game was on. She scurried quickly then, well, as quickly as a dragon can, into the nearby jungle in search of a place to hide. Flying, it should be noted, is not allowed in Dragon Hide-and-Seek unless one is playing with other dragons.
Livingston counted off the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be an easy task, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of treading lightly using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora, becoming nearly invisible. To make the game fair and their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that bush and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day, though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into further giggles, another entity prowled the jungle greenery and this one was not in search of play.
*

Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. He also had a gun.
The path from the pub where Snarly had breakfasted to his abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with the Lord's inebriation was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all the world at that moment was to shoot something, anything really, so he could watch it suffer and die. This act he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the “I’m so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench” plateau which, truth be known, was as high as his spirits ever got. Weaving and stumbling through the bush, Snarly’s foot caught a jungle creeper that caused him to fall. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, he nevertheless realized a ray of hope as his red, pocked and swollen nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong and fresh. There was, surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
*

Livingston Laughsalot being, as we have said, a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off in search I go” a catchy ditty that a dwarf hiding behind an enormous mushroom had years ago put to memory and passed on to other dwarves who did the same with, of course, further elaborations. Eventually the song was co-opted and found its way to the sound track of a Disney film whose artists plagiarized from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry “Gotcha!” Gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world’s loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that eruption and didn’t mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern, charred at the edges, out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful’s leap at any moment. What he didn’t expect was the sudden clap of a gunshot. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
*

Snarly Flatulence was a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot - he being a member of royalty and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience - he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he on this occasion realized he had just put one over the head of Livingston, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Laughsalot were not the best of friends. Although they were the only two residents of the area aware of dragons, this mutual knowledge only served to divide them. Snarly hated the beasts, Livingston as we have seen, did not. Seeing the movement of the brush receding ahead of him, Snarly realized he had missed whatever was out there, so fueled by rage and further gulps of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being in his case, a loose description of staggering with intent.
*

Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family of Texas, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occur below. It wasn’t until mankind took flight in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons understood there was about them now a power that could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to man taking to the air, there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans, but you wouldn’t know that to hear them tell it. Even before the moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and thus, so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth’s private places were you likely to encounter any of the beasts, or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one.

Fearful was not really so. Fearful was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaken her natural dragon reticence for timidity. Fearful’s actual name, that is, the one given her by her parents, was Klaxgrezeck which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Only the boldest dragons would approach a species as violent as humans had proved to be. Seeing Laughsalot rush towards her now – a testament to his own bravery – pushed her dragon adrenals to power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons, she snatched Livingston to her breast and held him squirming there. She was urging him to be calm, telling him she had everything under control, but to Laughsalot her pleas sounded more like a NASCAR pile up, close up, than reassurance. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away, but with this idea failing, he realized he had no Plan B. Oh well, he thought, noting he was unhurt and so, reluctantly relaxing, let’s just see what happens next.
*

Fearful had no back-up plan either, but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was more than sufficient. Using her laser accurate spit fire talent, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary. And there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle...if by fleeing, I mean falling, rising, stumbling, falling, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, being hard canvas affairs. were afire and Snarly was swatting at them as he fled, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail, though, as the heat reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly...and given his rank, royally, pissed.
*

The wide trail left by the fleeing Lord’s corpulent self snaked its way back through the jungle to a bar cleverly, perhaps, named the Trails End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Lord Snarly Flatulence, the customer was a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trail’s End figured he wasn’t drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn’t necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.

As Snarly babbled on while downing one drink after another, the bar’s other patrons, the bass fishermen in from their day on the lake, started to take more and more notice. They began to wonder if Snarly had actually seen something and wasn’t just a raving lunatic, although they were not ruling that possibility out either. “What did this, ah, dragon look like?” one of them asked, “And where did you see it?”
Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his natural state of being, puffed himself up and was about to elaborate when the entire roof of the single storied bar was suddenly peeled back and tossed aside, filling the air with wood and shingle debris. Most of the fishermen dove under tables or ran for the door, but a few, too frightened to move, caught a glimpse of Snarly rising through the dust and disappearing into a sky filled with...was that smoke? They would, later, be the ones to tell the tale.
*

It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to The Trail’s End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees, unwilling to take flight and leave her pal on the ground. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions. What really needed to happen he assured her, for the good of all, was for the Lord to be relocated somewhere else; anywhere else distant would, in fact, do. It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself that Fearful flew off to parts unknown with Snarly held firmly in her grasp. She would be gone for a couple of days, leaving no trace of her journey unless you happened to notice that marching bands from here to there were curiously missing their largest brass instruments.

Back at the Trail’s End, investigators didn’t know what to think of the fish story they were being told,; a story about a hovering saucer, a green creature, red eyes and a beam of light that sucked old Snarly up and gone. Nobody, of course, not there when it happened, believed a word of it and the incident was officially reported as a random tornado.

Doc Walton September 10, 2010

The Drinks Are On Me.

Okay, I'm taking all the advice and doing that healthy thing.

Everybody knows by now that we should all drink 8 glasses of water a day.

So I did that.

I have recently read that older people should drink three glasses of milk per day, preferably skim or one percent.

So I did that.

It has also been highly recommended that we all drink 2 or 3 cups of green tea per day for its ability to fend off free radicals. (As opposed to those in cages I suppose.)

So I did that.

Everyone knows that fruit juices are a daily must; a glass or two for vitamin C.

So I did that.

You may have read, as I did, that people who drink coffee sustain their sex lives longer than those who don't. Three cups in the morning sounds about right to me.

So I did that.

You may have also read, as I did, that people who consume 3 to 5 ounces of alcohol live longer than people who don't drink any alcohol at all.

So I did that. Twice to be safe.

Well sure I'm bloated, sleep deprived, and my kidneys ache, but damn, I'm healthy. Right?

News of Import More Or Less. Okay, Just Less.

Water began trickling once again from the faucets at our casa late yesterday afternoon following another three day absence. To celebrate its appearance I washed all the piled up glasses, dishes and silverware in the sink, because I'm a guy who knows how to party down when the occasion calls for it.

HOLD ON THERE RUNNING MOUTH WITH YOUR RUNNING WATER BRAGGADOCIO!

Woowoo Charly has just informed me el agua is gone again. I should note also, so I will, that we have plenty of water OUTSIDE of the house. It rains every afternoon. I will say that again. It rains EVERY afternoon. And, sometimes long into the night. Lloyd Crikeydude, our local weather honcho tells us that August had 26 inches of rainfall greater than August of '09. More than double that of '09, actually, which is no surprise considering that May, June, and July and maybe even further back than then (I like that "than then") - I'm too lazy to check - also had double up increases. Climate change, climate schmange say the dubious doubters. I, on the other hand, say THEY are all wet. Well, they would be anyway, if they lived here. And, of course, it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. I blame Bush.

In other vital news of import comparable to the realization that mankind, that most favored of God's creations (I'm told) can in fact fuck things up royally, come these tidbits of infornacamation: Zendoc and Woowoo Charly bought new sneakers (That's tennis shoes for those of you who don"t come from the "sneakers" parts of the world) yesterday for absolutely no reason whatsoever other than their old sneakers being trashed beyond repair. To round out this afternoon of frivolous shopping, the now fashionable couple dined on Fried chicken from Nelvis' Fried Chicken and Other Stuff Eating Establishment. Yum. Tonight, in order to keep the eat, drink, be merry and wear new sneakers roll, rolling, the happy couple will be attending "The BCP Does Broadway", a "Musical Revue" at the BCP theater, formerly Snoopy's Restaurant. BCP, I'm pretty sure, stands for Born-again Christian Polygamists, but I probably need to verify that with someone more in the know. Football season did, in fact, begin last night although it was only the college version which is almost real football but not quite. The pros, those men playing in the NFL, which stands for Not Financially Lacking, begin next week. Here, because it is mandatory when writing about anything pro football related, I am obliged to mention Tim Tebow, so I will. If Tim Tebow were Tim Elbow, he would be a body part.

I will close now, because, clearly, I have gone too far.

A Day Well Spent

I spent almost the entire day, yesterday, sitting on my butt. This is only partially unusual. That first part, the "almost the entire day," is the unusual part. Although I frequently spend mornings at the keyboard, most afternoons will find me more or less upright. The usual part is that "sitting on my butt" part. If you have ever tried sitting on a body part other than your butt, you know what I'm talking about. I could have, therefore, said I spent the entire day sitting, but then what would I have written? I mean one thing follows another as surely as the day follows the night...or is it the night follows the day. Seriously, which one came first?

And speaking of that, let's talk about werewolf movies. (If you are looking for the segue, you will have to read between the lines where I have imparted all the wisdom of the universe including the run-up to "Silver Bullet" the movie I am going to talk about.) Last night while sitting on my elbow, I watched the film "Silver Bullet" whose story was taken from a Stephen King novel of the same name. Although werewolves lack the sex and box office appeal of vampires, they do provide a greater fright factor per frame than the blood suckers. This is, perhaps, because most audience members would prefer to have their blood drained through small puncture wounds on their necks than to be torn to shreds by fang and claw. Anyway...well not maybe any way, but some way, I found this picture as entertaining a werewolf flick as I have seen to date, even as I note that the metamorphosis of the werewolf in "Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein" scared me more than anything, well, pretty much ever. Of course, I was only seven at the time. (Writer's note: I'm talking vicarious fears here. In real life I've had things like children, mortgages, and Republican presidents that would have most people screaming in panic.) I have noted somewhere, possibly only in the padded room that is my mind, that in order for a horror/terror movie to be successful, it must establish characters the audience really cares for and then, and only then, put them in peril. Monsters running about doing in great mobs of people early in the flick numb viewers rather than heighten their fear. A small, enclosed setting helps, which is to say that a monster loose in New York where random prey is available is not as terrifying as the one on a small island where only the people the audience cares about reside. (Think "Alien" on the space ship, Nostromo, vs. Godzilla stomping about Tokyo.) Music and sound effects are critical too. I will remember the soundtrack from "The Thing" (1951 version) and Carpenter's "Halloween" for the rest of my life and, who knows, maybe in the beyond where I will need their familiar strains to blot out that insipid harp noise. Gratuitous loud noises that startle the audience are another big no no. Cheezy flicks use them at the end of a scene when cutting to the next. This gets really annoying. If the music and noise level rise, something important better be happening on the screen. What I'm getting at... finally, you say, is that "Silver Bullet" met all of my criteria for a good fright flick and is worth the watch if you come across it. I give it five dismembered corpses out of five.

Update

Ahhh! That shower felt gooood. Even if it was colder than a Neo-cons heart.

Water service was restored late Saturday afternoon. Our agua calentador (water heater), however, having vacationed from working for a week, now refuses to return to the job. I have a call in to our plumber, but alas, it is Sunday and I have only achieved a message left to his answering machine.

El Hombre Lobo, The WOLFMAN, Benecio del Torro starring as the beast, was everything you could want in a remake of a B Movie classic. A grizzled Anthony Hopkins co-stars and gives his usual most excellent performance portraying Benny's father and the villain of the pic. The film's photography is terrific and had me wondering if a Blue-ray gismo will be my next techno upgrade. Every scene was moody, atmospheric and almost three dimensional. There were no real scares, of course, for we veteran horror buffs, (one indication of a movie's ability to successfully frighten its general audience is that it will generate the sale of toys and games related to it. Remember all the sharks after Jaws and the alien...dolls(?) after Alien and its sequels?) but there were thrills and acting strong enough to have us invested in the characters and storyline. I gave it four Eviscerated Corpses out of a possible five.

Football season will begin in a week and the weird, other-world, but somehow still lifelike feeling that exists when it is not here will fade and be replaced by the knowledge that all is again right in the universe. I can hardly wait.

Water Water Everywhere...

And then, on the fourth day, the Lord said, "Let there be water." Unfortunately, Juan, working down at the aqueduct, said, "Not so fast there Big Fella!"

RTGFKAR became aware that our water had been turned on yesterday in the early eve. His awareness of this happy event was funneled through his socks which had suddenly become wet. Because he is, at the moment, okay all the time, hearing impaired, RTGFKAR was watching television with the volume setting used by SETI when trying to attract an alien response from outer space, consequently, leaving him unable to hear the water pouring from the nearby guest bathroom's spigot. That the spigot had been turned on and, further, that the faucet itself was turned sideways and thus was dumping its water flow onto the counter and then to the floor was a consequence of my having fallen from a roof and broken my back when I was nineteen years old. How so?, you might ask, and just because you might, I'm going to tell you. You see, now that I am older than the dust bunnies under Pyramid beds, I have what is technically known in medical circles as a Bad Back. Because of this bad back business, I list bending and lifting, either separately or together, as things to be avoided whenever possible. As you might or might not know but will for sure in a minute, we have had no water service to our house since Sunday. No tsk tsk so sads are necessary, we can handle it. RTGfKAR and I go down to our nearby quebrada and fill tubs with water for cleaning and toilet flushing. Potable water we get from neighbor and pal Dalys who has a well. It's that toilet flushing thing linked to my back that caused the problem. Being a be prepared former Boy Scout drop out, I had brought a bucket to the bathroom filled with water to use as a flushing aid. To those of you who don't know that a bucket of water dumped into your john will make it flush, I can only say, whoa Dude, sorry. Because a bucket of water is a heavy sort of thing, I decided to not put it on the floor where I would have to bend to pick it up. I decided, instead, to set it in the bathroom sink where I or others could grab it and use it without subsequent back strain. The sink's spigot, its griffo, I think the word is in Spanish, I turned sideways to allow room for the bucket. Unbeknownst (I like that word) to me, I also turned on the cold water faucet as I did so and, hence, enabled the mini water disaster that was to follow.

When RTGFKAR got up from his viewing during a commercial break to forage for a snack, he and his sandals and socks found the water streaming from under the bathroom door. As it was raining at the time he feared it might be water seeping through an exterior wall but was happy, more or less, to find it was only the sink and bucket problem I have herein described. He and I then set about cleaning up the mess, he with a water vac of some kind and me with a mop and pail. It took less than half an hour and it was a task we didn't really mind as it meant, Hooray, our water is back on!

It was shortly after that that Juan said to God not so fast and shut us off anew.

I would be remiss if I didn't also mention that Enrique down at the power plant - to demonstrate his power, I suppose - turned us off as well for the rest of the night. He, though, I also suppose, being a gentler, kinder sort of bloke, lit us back up first thing in the morning.

This saga will continue if it continues.

RTGFKAR's Tale

Here is a guest shot by RTGFKAR.

The saga of Hospital Chiriquí (OSS-PEE-TAL CHEEROKEE)

About four weeks into my ear problems; let’s borrow the understated term from our friends across the pond and refer to them “the troubles”; a resurgence of those old demons, “Wha?”, Huh?” and “Say again?”, I mean much more so than the expected aural infirmities of old age would allow for, told me that the treatment was not working.

Allow me to recap, or rather, having not broached the subject before, cap.

Having survived a childhood peppered with occasional bouts of earaches so severe I remember crying myself to sleep at night , and made it to adulthood, those memories faded, only occasionally surfacing when the inevitable cold or flu bug visited, their choice of guest quarters for the duration being my ears.

The cases were infrequent enough and those bad memories might have vanished into complete disremembrance, but for the next otic happening four decades into my mortal coildom.

Waking up one morning, I found I had lost the hearing in one ear. The upshot, to skip all the concern and conjecture you can imagine, was a flushing of excess earwax into a kidney-shaped pan held not-quite-tightly enough against my neck to prevent some of said agua-cum-cerumen mixture from dribbling down my neck, my shirt and my pants. A small price to pay to regain one’s hearing. Although there was also the matter of a stiff co-pay to our less-than-stellar insurance company, but that’s a rant of another choler.

When a similar situation arose a year later, experience led me to expect another flushing , preferably holding the kidney pan much tighter! Instead of the pan, though, I got a scan (cat, that is) and that feline prying into my cranium uncovered a cholesteanoma in my inner ear. Not a small hairless domesticated mammal cultivating potatoes in my ear canal, but “a growth”, the doctor said.

I wonder why doctors seem to have no idea where such a phrase leads your thoughts when they casually toss it out? But no, it was not a big Cee-little a-n-c-e-r growth or a tumor growth, I eventually discovered , but a growth of skin. My facial skin apparently forgot that it was supposed to stop growing when it reached my eardrum and so continued merrily on into my inner ear, where it proceeded to start dissolving part of that trinity of bones, the stirrup, the hammer and the sickle, that convey sound to your (or in this case, don’t convey sound to MY) hearing thingamabob.

OK, I know it’s not the hammer and sickle, I was just testing if you were paying attention.

Timpanomastoidectomy (Lets see Doc translate that into Spanish!), which sounds like the percussion section in the Johns Hopkin College marching band, or the final round question in the Lake Havasu Middle School spelling bee, was the procedure I needed to undergo.

Simply drill a hole in my head behind my ear, go in and snip-snip away the nasty growth and, oh yeah, salvage what you can of the remains of those anvil, iliad and oddessy bones with a little superglue, close up and WALLA!, good as new! (I eschew the French spelling of voila because I mean, really, how can you get ‘walla’ out of v-o-I-l-a?).

Quicker than Captain Kirk could say “Make it so!”, it was so. (I know, I know, testing again) What, however was supposed to be a short out-patient procedure (in at seven, out by three) turned into an overnighter when the anesthetic disagreed with me, leaving me groggy and nauseated beyond belief, I thought it went rather well.

Friends who came to give me a ride home said my dazed visage, unshaven and bandage-swathed head made me look like a Hell’s Angel after Altamont.

A couple of weeks of vertigo, lightheadedness and light-wallettedness (don’t get me started on that co-pay business again, this one was largantic!) and I was good as new! Well, OK, 70% good as new hearing in my left ear, but then, what’s a few more “Wha?s” among friends

Good otic hygiene and the use of Debrox for earwax removal and hydrogen peroxide for much cheaper ditto got me through the next two decades and into the third.

Now we’re getting to the more recent part of the cap. A couple of months ago that ole debil “Wha?” rose his ugly head again and drove me to a local ear, nose and throat guy who nodded in Spanish, gazed into my ears , flushed out more wax with a high-pressure fire hose and prescribed antibiotics and eardrops.

My eeriness diminished but did not go entirely away and subsequent visits resulted in more flushings, more antibiotic pills and butt shots. After another week with little improvement and an up-scaling of pain, the next visit to my OT-YGN (otolaryngolgist; Hey, women have OB-GYNs right?) brought the decision that the intra-muscular shots were not strong enough and that I had to go over to Hospital Chiriquí (HC) to get a couple of intravenous shots.

That about does it for the capping (and carping) and brings us up to the present day. Since we had missed lunch, we corrected that omission before heading over to HC where I went in with bro Doc for moral and linguistic support. When we were directed to the admissions office rather than the shots-are-us department, and the woman there began pulling out forms, I suspected there was more than a shot afoot.

Turns out the ‘couple of shots’ was a regimen of drips, drops, drugs and drafts: an intravenous drip, lots of eardrops, pills and shots of drugs and , of course, drafts, courtesy of the backless hospital gown.

Not having expected an overnight visit to beautiful and lovely David (Daveed) and, having none of the necessary accouterments for an ensconsement in HC, I opted to go home, pack some stuff and return. The admission lady said she would be there until five, so I had plenty of time. I left Boquete about 2:30.. Since there is only one route from Boquete to David and since time was important, you can guess that all did not go smoothly.

Just past Dolega, traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a stop, to only intermittently moving in fits and starts. After about 50 minutes of creepy-crawling we reached the hill where the Atlas cervaseria (brewery) was. There were cars sprawled along the verge and a beer truck being towed away. Happy hour had apparently gotten out of hand.

The majority of Panamanians seem to work from 7:00 to 4:00, so the full press of Davidians trying to get home and the mass of suburbanites trying to get out of the city were being alternately routed along the one remaining lane where they had to drive as slowly as possible to rubberneck , or perhaps they were looking for some errant beer bottles.

I did make it to HC before 5:00, and, assured that some actual medications would be administered this day and I would not merely be checked in and put to bed, I checked in. No roach motel jokes, please.

Despite the fact that I had HC health coverage (note: $500 a year as opposed to the $650 a MONTH I was paying Kaiser Permanante in the US!) I had to pay a deposit. I guess to cover damage from the wild parties in the room. One’s reputation precedes one.

My coverage entitled me to a semi-private room, which was private for two days of my stay, since I had no cell-mate, er, room-mate.

Things proceeded quickly and efficiently. After I checked in to the room I was disrobed, begowned, heighted, weighted, blood pressured, deblooded and had a IV connection inserted into my hand and drugs injected, but no IV stuff.

I got ear drops, water and dinner; not bad,: ground beef, carrots, potatoes, yucca soup and pineapple yogurt, but still no IV juice. About 8:00 a nurse came in and unhooked the line I had been hooked up to. “Ahorra?” I asked, “Manana?” She replied, “Mas tarde.” Later.

This place is as quiet as a hospital. The halls are deserted and with my hearing loss there is an eerie silence over everything. Maybe the Earth has traveled through a deadly glowing comet tail and radiation has killed everyone and I am the last person alive on the planet!

Nah! The nurse just came in to hook up my IV and it’s dripping away. “Aunty Bee Ottico”, the nurse said. I wonder if I get Andy and Opie Bee Otticos, too? 9:00 PM it is.

The typical television cop/medical show IV setup looks like a big soft rubber bag with a long tube that goes into the patient’s arm. Mine had that, but between the bag and my arm was a clear plastic cylinder. The nurse would lower the cylinder below the bag, fill it, using about a quarter of the bag’s contents, inject a shot or two into a Y connection in the cylinder ( or the one in my hand) and let it drip merrily away.

Position and height was apparently important, for there was much adjusting of both and at one point the nurse asked me to lie down for the process and lowered the bed. Unlike the movies, where the patient is provided with a wheeled stand to hold the IV, that you can pull and roam around the room and halls, I couldn’t, because it was affixed to the bed frame (although the bed WAS on wheels, maybe I could… no, I’d never get it through the doorway!)

I noticed that lack of mobility one time when I neglected to pee before being hooked up and realized I was hostage to the six foot length of the IV tube. I evaluated my options:
1 remove the IV and go pee.
2 lift the whole apparatus, carry it to the John and go pee
3 Use my water cup and go pee
4 just go pee (Hey, it ain’t my bed!)
5 call the nurse
6 tough it out
I’ll let you decide which option I chose.
Under ‘thinking outside the box” I guess you could include the Catch 22 option too.

“Forty five minutes”, the nurse said it would take. It was more like an hour, given all the adjustments. Subsequent IVs did go faster after I learned to position my hand (and how to control the little plastic valve doohickey) I got a second at midnight and then 6:30AM.

I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, which might have fit nicely with the schedule here if only the sleepy-bye times and the wakey times coincided with the hospital schedule

About five different nurses visited me overnight , sticking thermometers in my ears, clamping my finger in a small device and clamping my biceps with a hydraulic strap and then listening to them scream with a stethoscope.

Breakfast. Served at 8:00; I would have expected earlier. A cup of warm milk with a tablespoon of what I took to be oatmeal floating on the bottom. I guess oatmeal is really expensive here. Fruit cup, juice (pear) two slices of lunch meat wrapped around a cheese filling and a wedge of eggy/potatoey omelet. And a cuppa, this IS Panama you know.

More clampings squeezings and stickings, I await more dripping. Oh, if you decide to have a stay here, bring shampoo. All they give you is a teeny bar of soap. There is a soap dispenser above the sink, but it hurts when you bang your head on the wall tile!

I wandered about while awaiting my meds. The drugas cart was a few doors down so I anticipated a short wait. My room was number six on the corridor from the nurses’ station with the room beyond mine the last one occupied. The hall extended down to room twelve and than a suite. Another corridor of rooms branched off near the end, which led down to another nurses’ station and more rooms. All were vacant. Doctors in Chirique must be doing a damn good job to be keeping the hospital so empty!

12:15 brought lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Chicken, rice and veggies, a piece of fried chicken, and tomatoes. Also a soup of chunks of potato, yucca and something similar to both. They all tasted the same. Oh, and a couple pieces of chicken in the soup. Pollo day at HC

After lunch another IV drip. My left hand gave out and the drip reduced to a dribble, so they had to open a new pipeline in my right. Inconvenient. I can’t write while being intravenoused, and I keep reaching for things, forgetting about the line.

My main concern now is whether I getta go home or will have to stay over another night. No one seems to know, only the scarce Dr Pazmino. I will have to buttonhole an English-speaking nurse and try to find out. Hmm, let’s see, how do you translate ‘buttonhole’?

Alrighty then. The elusive Dr Pazmino (Paz-mean-yo) ‘he no come to de osspital today”. I did, however, get a commitment from the nurses to call him. Obviously I hope not to have to stay over another night and definitely not a third, since I only brought two pair of clean underwear. What would happen if I had to drive home in dirty underwear and had an accident and had to go to the hospital? Every mother’s worst nightmare. She would turn over in her grave (an interesting concept, since she was cremated).

Alnotrighty then! Dr P showed up, examined my canalii and exclaimed “Mucho mayor!”, either “much better!” , or “I want your vote for mayor!” Even though it meant the former, he explained that the infection was so bad, that to stop the IVs too soon would result in my eventual return to HC. So I need to stay over not only this night, but the next as well! I guess I have to put my faith in modern medical science. Did I mention that I hate hospitals?

The rest of my vacation went about the same; lots of drips and drops. More chicken-heavy repasts and lots of wandering around the hospital for exercise and relief from boredom. Doc and Charly had come and recharged my underwear supply and coins for the coffee machine.

I had expanded my micro-fiefdom to include my roomie’s recliner for TV viewing (mine was a storage rack), his roll-about table for my beverage cart and in general usurping all I surveyed. I returned from a walkabout in the afternoon to find that my room had reverted to, well, a hospital room, my square footage severely restricted.

As I surmised, that afternoon brought another patient to the Ramon Arms wing of the HC resort. He was immobile and asleep the majority of he time, but had seven or eight generations of relatives attending him at all hours and his wife stayed all night, sleeping in my TV chair!

I was surprised to see the good doctor early Thursday morning; he examined me and said I could check out (easier said than done). No more medication, just go home. Were it only so easy!

I started asking nurses how to check out, the equivalent of banging my tin cup on the bars for the jailer to release me. The procedure was to start the ball rolling in the admissions office (shouldn’t there be a demissions office?), who would alert the accounting office, who would check with the nursing staff and consult various oracles. Basically, “We’ll get back to you.”

When I got back to my hood, a nurse informed me that I should go to my room where my meds were waiting. one last IV and eardrops . Apparently Dr P had meant to say no more medication not already scheduled. Well, it gave me something to do while the bureaucratic wheels ground.

When the IV finished, I asked the nurse if she would remove the IV from my arm (the third location, the second having dried up as well), but she would not. First I had to get a note from my mother and then a note from admissions which I couldn’t get until I paid up at the cashier., all of which awaited the proper portents and signs. Apparently they thought I wouldn’t be able to leave without paying if I had the IV needle still stuck in me; diabolical!

By eleven or so all the stars had aligned and I was able to bid adieu to the Chirique Resort and Spa. I still felt like I had balls of cotton stuffed in my head, and puncture scars and several prescriptions, but I had tasted my last of the chicken and yucca soup.

The overall experience wasn’t bad; the nursing care was very good, the rooms clean and modern, the food OK., not that I’d care to repeat it anytime soon. My 30% of the tab was under $500 for the three day stay;. Beats the alternative.