ROACHES AND RATS

Well, wouldn't you know! Just when I thought I had culled every last memorable memory from the Monkeymind, two new ones were excised from its mushy grey interior and brought to the fore by a show on Animal Planet I think was called, Infestation. It was about roaches and rats.  Here is what it triggered.

When my father and I first moved to Louisville, Kentucky so he could marry his second wife, I was in the Fourth Grade.  If the math I learned there serves me, I was ten years old.  Clara, his intended, lived with four of her five children in a housing project that was directly across the street from the "negro" section.  This was in the early Fifties, segregation was in place, and you couldn't get any poorer or any lower classed than to live elbow to elbow with the "negroes."  (I'm using negroes in lieu of the term now referred to as The N word; a term far more common than negro in those days.)  Picture row after row of two story, rectangular brick buildings in serious disrepair separated by crumbling sidewalks and patches of dirt serving as lawns and you'll get the backdrop.

One of my soon to be new siblings was a boy named Earl who was a year younger than I was.  He introduced me to the area kid's most common toy.  It was called a Rubber Gun. It was a homemade weapon that was fashioned from three parts.  The first was a one by three piece of wood about two and a half feet long.  Using one inch thick rubber bands cut from discarded car tire inner tubes, the second part, you fastened a clothespin, the third. to the butt edge of the board by stretching the rubber bands the length of the board so that they held the clothespin tightly in place with the pin hanging an inch or so below the board.  You then stretched another band fastened at the top front edge of the board to the other end where you twisted it flat and then fastened it to your weapon by pushing the bottom edge of your clothespin to create a space at its top.  When you released the pin the top of it snapped back and the band was held in place.  Your weapon was now loaded and ready.  You fired it by simply pushing the bottom of the clothespin. This would release the top band and send it flying through the air ten or twelve feet with enough velocity to produce a welt on bare skin.  It would also smack a cockroach flat.

Armed with these weapons Earl and I would periodically go over to one of his friend's place, his name is long forgotten, whose parents were - how should I put this - far less diligent in keeping their pad clean than Clara was. We would retire to the friend's room, pull the shades, turn out the lights and wait quietly for a minute or two.  We were crack snipers waiting patiently for our foe to come in range.  If you listened carefully, you could hear the enemy scurry from their hiding places and venture up the walls. That sound was our signal to hit the lights and blast away.  Three rubber guns, three kills and sometimes four or five if the bugs were clustered close.  We would then make some whooping boy noises and begin again.  Big fun to our young selves, big fun. Well, of course this activity made an ugly mess on the walls, but neither Earl or I or the friend ever thought to clean the stains. We did, though, sweep up the dead carcasses. The spattered walls just became part of the decor.  In truth, I can say now, I found the whole thing somewhat gross, but I was new there and even though I did not then know the phrase for it, I was simply doing in Rome what the Romans do.  

A year, maybe a year and a half later, we had moved to a nicer but still very poor neighborhood.  I was boxing in Gold Gloves then and a peculiar thing happened.  I was sparring on the lawn with one neighborhood kid or another when a rough looking man approached me. He asked me if I knew his son - another forgotten name but I will call him Billy - who lived down the street a few houses.  I said yes, I knew him.  The man then offered me a dollar a week to teach his son to be, his actual word, "tougher." I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said to just box with Billy a few times a week so that he can learn that punches don't hurt all that much and you should fight back. He said he would make Billy come to my house for the lessons.  I agreed. A dollar a week was a fortune!  My allowance was only fifteen cents and came on an irregular basis what with nickel deductions for bad behavior like "talking back" to grown ups being randomly assessed.  Okay, so my being paid to beat up Billy three times a week - I actually went light on him and even taught him a few tricks - is not the crux of this story.  It is only the back drop.  There came a day near the end of the summer some five or six weeks later when I ventured over to Billy's house to collect my dollar.  Our houses all backed up to an alley and I walked down that alley to Billy's house. No one appeared to be home. It was late evening and the house was dark.  The back door, however, was hanging open.  I approached carefully and hollered in was anybody home?  Billy's father's voice answered yes and told me to come inside.  The door opened onto the kitchen and Billy's father turned on the light.  He was sitting at a small table upon which there was a bottle of whiskey, a small jelly glass and a pistol.  He sounded a little drunk.  He told me he was shooting rats and pointed to a dead one over along the wall.  He said they only came out when the light was off but he could still see them to shoot.  He asked me if I wanted to try.  I said no sir I only came by to collect my dollar.  He said no, that deal was over, his kid would never learn. I didn't argue.  

Halfway home I heard the gun go off.  It was loud, really loud.  I ran the rest of the way. 

Animal Planet did not recommend either of these two methods to end an infestation.  

  

Dilemma and Solution

I'm ankle deep in the surf. The water is cool and softly tickling as it rushes over and back across my feet. I'm enjoying the sensation. Muttly is at the end of his leash about 15 feet onto the beach.  His head is down nosing about what looks to me like a clump of seaweed washed ashore.  I begin to splash further along but Muttly doesn't want to come.  He's straining against the leash.  I walk toward him to see what he finds so interesting.  It's a dead helmet crab, upside down on the sand. Muttly is eating its entrails. 

Dogs.

We only stayed about an hour or so. Just long enough for the mutt to get a good hike and Woowoo Charly and I to stare at the vastness of the sea, meditate and contemplate all those big things inspired by the ocean's horizon meeting the sky.  For me it was game one of the World Series beginning that night and for Woowoo it was the Taco Bell run we were going to make as soon as this beaching part was over.   It was midday and although the temp was pleasant at seventy something and I was fully greased with 50 SPF (Specially Pickled Formaldehyde) we weren't really there for the beach experience.  Those we reserve for early evening when I am in less danger of my epidermis spontaneously combusting; a thing that happens because the mere sight of my exposed skin seems to piss off the sun.

It's the next day now and I'm trying to tug on the loose thread unraveling from my mind's sweater in hopes of putting it back in place.  I'm tugging and tugging and the thread is getting longer and longer and the sweater is disappearing...or is it the whole mind?  

Nope, there's still one small part intact.  Let's see what it has to say. 

Not much, apparently.  Woowoo Chuck and I are living small lives without much external stimulation.  This is not a bad thing, There is a degree of peace that comes with the knowledge that one day is going to be much like the next and that one too will be gentle and stress-less. It leaves little, though, to write about. After 700 blogs I've pretty much sucked the humor potential out of trips to the supermarket and such and I'm running out of words that are fun to say...like blasphemy.  Blasphemy is fun to say and if you didn't know what it meant, what would you think it meant? To me it sounds like a mental disorder.  John's blasphemy was at its worst when he drank, hence his record number of bar fights. 

I came back to blogging regularly, okay semi regularly, as a means of whiling away a pleasant hour or two, but in truth it has been more of a struggle than I had imagined.  So...... long pause after so,  I'm going back to just making shit up and trying to twist it into a story. I will still blog when something of note occurs that lends itself to my version of what a blog is and I will, of course, post any of my fictions that are remotely decent. 

That said.

Through my window I can see a small, glass smiling Buddha leaning against a tree.  I wonder what he's thinking?  







    

Gabors

"Listening to the sound of silence." - Simon and Garfunkel
"Listening to the sound of trash truck." Doc and Reality

Noisy buggers.  Its engine roars for a few seconds as the truck moves from one house to the next and then there is the sound of the hydraulic system as it shoots out a robotic lobster claw and snatches up the can, lifts it, tilts it and throws the contents down its maw like a fierce drinker throwing back a shot.  Move to the next can and repeat.

I miss bars.  Gabors in particular.  Working there was fun - I did that for a few years - but drinking there was funner. (It is too a word! Ask any five year old!)  The lighting at Gabor's was always turned low and when you entered you had to pause a moment at the door to let your eyes adjust.  There was a lengthy bar with 14 stools along one wall,  tables and booths to its front, and in the back, not quite a separate room, a couple of well maintained pool tables. There was a big screen TV for sporting events and a juke box stocked with both old favorites and up to date music.  The bartenders, male and female, were all pros, bright, and decent conversationalists.  The overall decor was Silver Screen nostalgia with black and white photos of the greats from the Thirties to the Fifties gracing the walls.  Marilyn Monroe and James Dean  heavily featured.  The crowd was eclectic.  There were cabbies and cops, working class and suits.  Twenty Somethings loved the place at night and Gabor's was a frequent destination for employees of other bars during their off hours.  Booze was freely poured and reasonably priced. The food was generally mediocre, but few people seemed to care.  Problem patrons, the too drunk, the belligerent, the loud, were quickly 86ed so the atmosphere there was kept safe and friendly. It was, to my way of thinking, what a good bar should be.

 I was sad to learn when visiting Denver earlier this year that Gabor's had closed.  

Beyond Wit's End

Beyond wit's end (see the previous blog) there is still writing to be done even if that writing is as dry as unbuttered toast.  What comes next is probably a good example of that, a piece in which I drone on about my own obsession, exercising.

I feel better when it's over. There is a sense of accomplishment.  I'm not GLAD it's over, I'm not RELIEVED it's over, it's more the feeling you get when putting a check next to something on your Things-To-Do list.  DONE!.  Well, for that day anyway. I should point out that I don't do forms of exercise that I don't like.  I'm not being put through some grueling session by a Drill Sergeant or a Personal Trainer.  Not that there wasn't a time for that.  There was the be fit and look good so you can get laid time, and after that the, see, I can still compete time, but now in the"Autumn of my Life," or is it Winter already?, I'm more concerned with maximizing the quality of my remaining days and that means Good Health and Good Health requires exercise.  At least, so I'm told and I believe it, so I do...exercise. 

Alrighty then.  What I choose as my exercising modus operendi which is a Latin phrase that clearly means, Mowed us Oprah and I, and I have probably misspelled, is walking the dog and bicycle riding.  Okay, somebody help me here.  I have an almost tune in my head with the lyric "Just a walkin' the dog" driving it.  Is this from an old song or am I writing a new one.  I know there is a Yoyo trick called that - remember Yoyos? Duncan's were the best. - but a song? Of course, I'm not entirely sure about the physical benefit of walking my dog, Muttly, as he has to stop and read through his nose all the dog bulletin boards along the way. Our pace is somewhat less than taxing, but we do stroll for forty five minutes to an hour, often twice a day, and the walks are through beautiful surroundings. I'm thinking some good is acquired even if it is only psychological. (Only psychological?  Psychological benefits may be the best of all. Part of that "Quality of Life" stuff people are always talking about.) 

Bike riding is exercise for sure.  It gives you that alternating go real hard, slack off, go real hard technique that is reputed to heighten the cardio benefits of exercising.  It also gets you to places faster than walking, jogging or even running unless you are Usain Bolt.  If you are me and I'm guessing you're not, a good ride will leave you with a stiff and tightened back.  No problem, I just grab that dog leash and head out to walk it off.  Works like a charm.  At least I think it works like a charm. I've never really owned a charm to put it to the test. 

Oh, and I also do push-ups.  They are no fun but at my age I can't do very many, so the no fun part doesn't last very long.  A small blessing.

So there you have that. Beyond wit's end blabber.  Hope you weren't too bored.  Maybe wit will return before I get to the next blog.  One can only hope. In the meantime, "Hey Muttly! Wanna go for a WALK? I know you do!

MUTTLY AND ME

Not really much to write about these days apart from politics, sports, news, current events, history, technology, science, psychology, normal and paranormal experiences and since I've already covered those in great detail over cocktails in one bar or another across the years, there's really no need for me to rehash them on these pages is there?  I'm left then with only everything else I know to write about or with making shit up.  So here's that: The Boston Red Sox won last night 4 to 3 over the Detroit Tigers, giving them a 3 games to 2 lead in the ALCS.  ALCS, for those who don't know, stands for Alcoholics Love Candy Stripers.  Or is it Strippers?  While this was going on, a Chupacabra tangled with a Bigfoot in my back yard, so I called Animal Control and they said they had better things to do.

And along the lines of personal anecdotes that we all know and love if they are at least half funny there is this:  I was walking Muttly the dog (I threw in "the dog" part so you wouldn't think muttly was an adjective or an adverb) towards the pier at The Shores Counry Club when a woman carrying a small child approached so that she could show her kid the cute doggie.  She looked to be of Latino heritage and was speaking to the child in what, from a bit of distance, sounded like Spanish to me.  Thinking here was a chance to practice my own Spanish, I seized the moment and as she neared I said, "Buena tardes.  Como Estas?  Te gusta mi perro?"  The woman gazed at me oddly so I asked, in English, "Where are you from? She replied, "Lebanon."  "Alrighty then," I said, as the dog and I walked  muttly away.

I'm at wit's end, so I'll stop.  No point in going on without wit.

DITHERING

Dither is a fun word to say and so is the the act of doing it, dithering.  I like saying it better than doing it, though, because if you dither too long the only thing you get done is dithering and we just can't have that, can we?

Alrighty then.  I guess I've cleared that up.

Woowoo Charly likes to sit at a table with her computer, reading about politics while she is listening to and somewhat eye-balling politics on television, MSNBC most often, to be specific, for sometimes hours at a time.  To her it is like watching a ball game while reading the sports section of a newspaper.  (Or at least I think so, I couldn't do either one.)  By now she doesn't even have to really pay attention.  She just ABSORBS the information via photo synthesis or that other process whose name I learned in eighth grade biology class but have now forgotten. Wait! I got it! Osmosis! (Hmm. Osmosis.  Sounds like a good name to call the Wizard's magic tricks.)  But I digress, which is better than regress, but that may be happening too.  If you, and by you I mean me, then say a key word, phrase, or name around her, Republican Caucus for instance, she will give you the lowdown on that phrase, word or name in minute detail.  As we are new here in Sunny Florida, a reputed "Purple" state, and don't know anyone, I am most often the recipient - she would say beneficiary - of her acquired knowledge, although Muttly the dog gets his share as well. Both he and I, thanks to Woowoo, can now debate and name drop with the best of them vis a vis politics.   Don't believe me?  Go ahead, ask me anything.  (Just don't ask me what vis a vis means.)

Heritage Foundation. See, you thought I wouldn't know that didn't you? 

I could go on in this vein, Boehner is not pronounced boner but possibly should be, for instance, but I won't as I prefer to talk about something I, that's right, I, know about.  Something I can go on about for hours at a time.  

Pardon me while I dither. 



 

 

Just Playing

Just taking the Monkeymind out for a spin.  It's been gathering dust, maybe even rust.  

My subconscious mind is dormant and my conscious mind is, well, sub.  I need to shake off the lethargy. 

Doc wore his lethargy like an unbuttoned overcoat.  A quick shoulder shrug and it would fall in a heap at his back.  

Shrug is a fun word to say and sounds like a creature in a book for children.  

When the enormous blue Shrug approached,  the Gleams ran for cover.

I did some push-ups this morning.  I won't say how many because that would be embarrassing for me, but I will say the number reached double digits and there was a 2 involved.  It ain't easy being an athletic ectomorph.  (In the old days I was an ectomorphic athlete.) In my next life I am going to be a tall mesomorph.  A real smart one, though.  Not one of those who are all muscle, no mind.

Honestly, I don't know why I brought that up.

I want to say something about the Tea Party and politics in general, but I was taught, "If you can't say something nice..."  Truth is, I can't say anything that's even in the neighborhood of nice.

I usually need a butterfly net to capture random thoughts fluttering about, but today there are few and those few are sluggish. I can grab them with a free hand.  Here's one I just caught:  Sluggish sounds like a stew served at a lumberjack camp.  "Hey Cookie, what da hell's in dis sluggish, road kill?"

And then we get to the part where the mind starts to get orderly.

It is cloudy and cool this morning.  The previous night's rain tapered off near dawn, but has left the air wet and fresh in its wake.  The sun is trying to make a comeback, but lingering clouds are fending it off. This may be an all day struggle with both clouds and sun having the upper hand periodically.  For reasons having something to do with the way I feel, I'm rooting for the clouds.  Allow me to clarify because I want to dispel the notion that men can't talk about their feelings.  

I feel less than well. 

Alrighty then.  Now that I have forever put to rest that old myth I can get on with my day.  

Yesterday I found an Irish Pub/Sports Bar within an easy bicycle ride of my house.  It's a perfect place to have a beer, smoke a cigar and cheer for my favorite teams.  Or at least it would be if beer wasn't so expensive here (compared to Panama) and if I hadn't quit cigars two months ago - not that they are allowed in bars anyway - and I had the drinking stamina to sit for three hours doing same, which I don't. Ah well, old age has other compensations.  I can't think of any at the moment, but I'm sure they exist.  Wisdom!  See, there's one! 

I'll be getting that any day now.