It's a Doggie Dog World

He tried to explain that the only discipline worth a damn was self discipline, but his dogs didn't understand. They remained unruly. While rubbing their bellies to keep them happy as he snipped off patches of their matted fur, he patiently explained that good behavior was rewarded and bad was not. No matter, they didn't care and wouldn't voluntarily change their ways. Even while walking them with his arms stretched forward by leashes and his body tilted back against the strain so that he appeared to be a stumbling, mumbling Frankenstein, he calmly, but nevertheless ardently, tried to persuade the two heaving, panting Cockers that they were not Huskies and there was no need to "Mush." The dogs pulled even more stubbornly forward, seemingly deaf to his appeals. I'm beginning to think, he one day thought, that these dogs don't understand English. Continuing with this new to him use of brain cell activity, he further wondered what Jesus, or better yet, what Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer would do. Even though his dusty mind had apparently not been used for several incarnations, it did this time provide an answer. "Whisper" it said, "whisper you Dummy, whisper." Well that answer seemed so logical to him that the man decided to try it. The very next day, confident that his new technique would be the one that finally worked, he let the dogs run free to romp and play and do those doggie things that doggies do. When it was time for them to come home, he pursed his lips in a hissy sort of way and whispered, "Here Mattie, here Raffi, come, come. Come, come. Well the dogs finally did make it home. Of course it was several hours later and it was their dinner time and they were wet, mud caked and ready to dry themselves off on the nearest carpet, but still the man considered the day a success. "See," he said to no one in particular, "this dog training stuff is a piece of cake."

A fortelling and an Afttelling.

If you are wondering where the Monkeymind has been, here is an update: (I had an up date back in '58. She was tall, thin, out-going and pretty enough to be intimidating. Her name was Gloria. She took my hand without me asking and held on to it as if it were a prized possession. After the dance, a high school event, we walked around outside while our double date companions went to retrieve their car from the school parking lot. The separation from them gave Gloria and I the time and opportunity to kiss. Kissing was, of course, forbidden inside at the dance although frequent pecks were sneaked by the going-steadys when "monitors" weren't looking. We found a spot in the darkness of a tree shadow and commenced our lip locking. Gloria had full lips and a sweet tasting mouth. I was using all the nifty techniques I had learned from a novel I had read - start softly and then press gradually firmer while gently sucking and pay attention to one lip at a time - to make the kiss as deep as possible, when Gloria suddenly opened her mouth and pushed her tongue between my lips. Wow! This was exciting! I had never "Frenched" before! I got the hang of it real quick though, and this led us to some fierce body grinding that was just short of heaven. That, of course, was when our ride showed up with bright lights and beeping and laughter. We had a few more kisses in the car, Gloria and I, on the way home but none were as emotionally charged as that first one. Our driver had to have his parent's car back by eleven so there really was not much time for parking and sparking. Still, all in all, I considered that an "up" date although it was followed by only a couple more before Gloria and I went our separate ways.) I've been working my way through my blog bin trying to cull a few for my...I want to say "Best Of" but that, really, is for someone else to say, so I will just call it my Favorites List. This is not an easy task as I'm approaching six hundred of these puppies and reading them all is daunting chore. (Especially the ones I hate.) Nevertheless, (a really odd compound word that) I will have the list shortly.

A Name by any other Rose...

"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction." Blaise Pascal

I like the name Blaise if it is pronounced Blaze. I'm thinking that in Spanish Blaise would be pronounced Blah-ee-say which isn't as good.

I agree with the quote because it sounds true to me and also because Blaise was a smart guy and I am not. I like to agree with smart people when possible. Makes me look good.

You may have noticed if you read this blog on any sort of a regular basis that I like interesting names. I ran across one this morning on my grandson's Facebook page. A friend of his made a comment and her name was Magaly Ulate. (And probably still is.) Now THAT, Sportfans, is a NAME and the best I've heard since Quattro Formaggi.

When I'm introduced to new people - and I have already had, perhaps, a cocktail or two - I like to tell them my name is Donald Lancelot(slash)Willingham Walton The Third. Either that or I just stick out my hand and say, "Bond. James Bond" an idea I stole from #1 son who does the Connery accent much better than I do. Curiously, or maybe not so as most people don't pay much attention to names initially, I rarely get a response other than, you know, Bob Jones here, Real Estate or something like that. It's usually about then I suddenly notice my glass is nearing empty and that's a condition needing immediate rectification. (I've never used the word rectification before. Have you?)

I should mention The World Cup here, since the U.S. was robbed of a victory yesterday when a referee disallowed the winning goal for no reason at all unless you count the large amount of cash he was given by an infamous Slovenian underworld figure named Hereza U. Payoffski, but I won't.

What I will mention is that the U.S.Open Golf Tournament is underway, which is a good thing to be under, and I failed to qualify for it yet again this year. I was beaten out by some eighteen year old Japanese kid named Itchycowpie who earlier this year shot a 58, which, for those of you who don't know golf, is, well, fantastic. Otherwise I'm sure I would have been there matching Tiger stroke for stroke. (No, not those strokes, Dirtymind, the other strokes.) Ah well, I'll get 'em next year.

Magaly Ulate, Quattro Formaggi, Blaise Pacal, Butras Butras
Golly (spelling is not important) Donald Lancelot/Willingham Walton The Third. Now we're talking.

There's two sides to every story...at least.

At five foot ten and one hundred forty five pounds HE was small for his size. The charts said he should be one seventy five. No matter. He could run like the wind and jump like a gazelle and he exuded a powerful inner energy akin to the quiet hum of an idling race car wanting to go, to get with it, to move. He couldn't sit still. In fact, he had difficulty sitting at all. Motion was his milieu.

Apart from a similar slightness of build, SHE was his stark opposite. Her movements were slow, tidy, considered. There were none without reason, without forethought. She was more sculpture than race car, a work of art timeless and wrought with care. To see her was to stare and wonder. Was she real? She could sit as quietly as a meditating monk, thoughtful, contemplative, motionless, but there was something that suggested an inner fire biding its time, waiting to be released. Something an observer couldn't quite point a finger to but it was surely there; it simmered hot and restless behind her quiet eyes.

Naturally, they fell in love.


Or


HE was a whacko from the word go. A bundle of nervous energy, easily bored, he had never held a job more than a couple of years or a relationship more than a couple of months. When the going got tough, he got going...elsewhere.
He had come to town riding his thumb and would probably leave the same way. Money slipped through his hands like running water and he couldn't care less. Money was never a goal. In truth he had no goals. He was simply in search of something, anything, possibly only the next thing...whatever it was.

SHE had earned her quirks the hard way. She had endured controlling parents, a controlling husband, a controlled lifestyle. She wanted out so she turned in. Inward, rather, where she was in charge. She was safe there and couldn't be reached by anyone unless she allowed it. She wanted to allow it. She wanted someone to reach in and pull her out. Someone who would set her free and let her be. Someone, no doubt, highly unlikely.

Naturally, they fell in love.

It all depends on your point of view.

Futbol and Other Stuff

I may not be a first rate writer, but I am a first class second rate writer. Okay that's not a completely stolen line, I changed the word "composer" in Richard Strauss' version to "writer" in order to make it mine. So sue me.

The World Cup starts today and if I remember correctly, a thing that happens less and less frequently, four years ago I wrote something along the lines of The World Cup is not, as you might think, a device used to protect the planet's groin area. I mention this only because you might have missed it four years ago and also because I didn't steal the line from Richard Strauss. It was completely my own. You, however, are free to steal the line from me as plagiarism is flattery. Just don't make any money from it without giving me a cut.

Since moving here to Peerless Panama I have learned to love futbol as the game is called throughout the world excluding the U,S. where it has been dubbed soccer in an effort to keep it from being confused with football, another game entirely in which the ball meets foot far less than in futbol and should, by all rights, be called something else, say, Mayhem or Large People With Helmets and Protective Pads Fighting In A Semi Organized Manner To Score Points And Impress Cheerleaders, shortened to LPWHAPPFIASOMTSPAIC to save newspaper and Internet column space. Futbol is also referred to as "The Beautiful Game" and it is that, although, in slow motion it can be a mind number while football becomes far more dramatic. I should probably add that basketball, when slowed down becomes a graceful ballet and a graceful ballet becomes a series of still portraits, but that's another subject, Now where the hell was I?
Oh yeah, futbol. The World Cup kicks off today and yes, that is an intended pun, with a couple of games featuring teams I have no rooting interest for. (Never end a preposition with a sentence.) Tomorrow though, The U.S. takes on England and I will be siding with the Red, White and Blue principally because they are the underdogs and because I was accidentally born there. (Woowoo Charly says we choose our parents so my U.S. birth may not have been an accident, but that too, is another story.) My loyalties will be somewhat divided in that I follow the British Premiere League and will know all the players on the English National Team. And also, of course, because I am an Anglophile. One reason for that being this "News Flash" sent to me this morning by a friend: The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been a "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the Great Fire of 1666.

That's good stuff. Really really good stuff. Wish I could steal it but I can't. You know, conscience and all that Old Chum.

Alrighty then USA, go kick some...ball!

Quattro Formaggi

Quattro Formaggi is a character in a book I have just put down. It's the character's nickname and the name of his favorite pizza. (Four cheese most likely) I mention this for no reason other than I like saying the name aloud. Quattro Formaggi. Go ahead, say it again, Quattro Formaggi. It will stick in your head faster than a bad tune. "I'm Henery the eighth I am, Henerey the eighth I am I am." Sorry about that.

The book was written by Niccolo Ammaniti, another name fun to say, and is, by the way, apart from its terrible title, "As God Commands" which leads one to think this is some kind of religious tome, a thing it is certainly not, a fabulous read about mostly unsympathetic but compelling characters and contains not a single sentence as awkward as this one.

So there you have that.

Quattro Formaggi.

Back in the day, 2006,... wait! Let me start again. "Back in the day" has become such a cliche that it grates on the Monkeymind.

In the year of your lord and mine, Rahma Lahma Ding Dong, 2006, when the Monkeymind emerged from the muck and mire that is my thought process, I endeavored to write a blog everyfreakingday. As a consequence there were many written about the subject of "nothing." These were clever, I thought, but then my thoughts are not to be trusted, emanating as they do from the jungle that is my actual - and here I use the term lightly - mind. I had nothing else to write in those days and a blog seemed a good way to, A. keep in touch with loved ones and, B. provide an outlet for my creative urges. (No not those urges, the other ones.) Now I find that I have all sorts of writing to do, a product, I suppose, of having opened up the creative flood gates and loosed the Monkeymind and, as a consequence of that, I only blog when something of note occurs that I find should be recorded or I just feel like messing around verbally. One or both of those incidences are usually enough to provide a couple of blogs weekly.

That being said, here is the summation of last week's notable occurrences: Woowoo Charly and I shared the Tuna steak at Las Ruinas. The restaurant did not have the wasabi mayo that they provided the first time we ordered the tuna a few weeks ago. Woowoo Charly was upset.

Alrighty then. Here it is four years later. I'm still writing about nothing.