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.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 20, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 17, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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?
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?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 10, 2010
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
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
Thursday, September 09, 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?
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?
Friday, September 03, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
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.
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.
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