Also not my "bag", but also fun to write was this month's writer's club assignment. The theme was SciFi. (What is my bag anyway? I'm sure I have one.)
Blood Raiders
By Doc Walton
Their blood lust momentarily sated, the crew of the Vladmir Tepes lay in a deep, dreamless coma as their craft knifed up through gravity and on into space. Left behind was an eerily quiet planet. There had been life there once, animal life and a scattering of adventurous humans. Now though, a few scant months later, all was silent, all was still.
*
On Argon7 a call went out for help. This most distant stop of mankind’s reach was located on the cusp of the Milky Way and Galatia. It had an earthlike atmosphere, rare in either galaxy, and supported a human colony of some three thousand people on its surface without artificial aid. Although it was small, approximately the size of Earth’s moon, its densely oxygenated environment and lazy orbit around a distant sun – its days
and nights were 45 hours long - made it a haven for thousands of blood bearing species, both indigenous and imported. Humankind had arrived at Argon 7 some twenty years earlier and, having learned how from colonization elsewhere, adapted themselves seamlessly into the fabric of the planet. Their purpose was to create a platform for mankind’s next venture into unexplored space and their first launch was nearing readiness.
Chief Petty Officer Mina Murray received the curiously unencrypted message from Deltaan, Argon’s7’s nearest planetary neighbor. It simply read, “They’re coming.” Repeated attempts to acquire elaboration had failed and Murray worried that one of the relay satellites blinking in orbit between the two planets had shut down. If this was in fact the case, Argon7 would be cut off from all other human outposts. When it was clear that further contact with Deltaan seemed unlikely, Murray forwarded the message to her cousin, Jonathan Harker, the base commander.
Admiral Harker read it and gave two orders. The first put a reconnaissance ship on its way to Deltaan, a trip of five Argon7 days, and the second had ComU personnel sending distress calls both directed and random in hopes of attracting the attention of anyone anywhere. If Deltaan was silent, something was seriously wrong.
Two days into its recon voyage to Deltaan, Argon 7’s explorer craft picked up distress signals from a spaceship identifying itself as the Vladimir Tepes. The explorer’s crew charted a course for an interception and Argon 7 was advised. The last communication from the explorer craft was logged some two hours, eleven minutes later. “We are boarding the Tepes now, stand by for further Intel” were the words spoken by the craft’s pilot, Captain John Seward. Neither Seward nor any one of his four man crew was ever heard from again.
Admiral Harker issued a red alert and began making defensive preparations. Laser shields were activated, space fighters readied their crafts.
First Officer Lucy Westenra queried the Base Computer for information on the Vladimir Tepes and received a “not in files” response. An order for a further search by personnel in Archives was made and Archives self dubbed “geeks” set to work. A day later they reported that the information they had was sketchy and very old. If what they uncovered was to be believed, some two hundred seventy years ago, nine “Immortals” as they were then referred to, had been sealed in their caskets, placed on board the Tepes, and then launched from Earth into distant space. Even less believable were mentions that the Immortals fed on blood and shunned light of any sort, but particularly sunlight. “Geek” consensus was that some work of fiction had crossed into the Tepes computer file and corrupted the data.
Admiral Harker agreed, but ordered a doubling of the alert staff during the hours of darkness as an extra precaution. Following that, there was little else to do but wait. The Vladimir Tepes, if Arkon 7 was indeed its destination, would arrive he reasoned, within the next two days.
*
The newly commissioned Starship Demeter exited Blackhole Carpathia on its shakedown cruise and was testing its ComU ports when it picked up the distress signal from Arkon7. Its captain and commander, Victor Van Helsing, ordered an immediate cessation of further testing and plotted a course to that distant planet; its projected travel time; an Earth week.
*
On board the Tepes, the Immortals were rising from boxes of their native soil to feed on the animals they had captured and stored for that purpose. A darkness scheduled to their biological rhythms had enveloped the craft’s interior and each of the creatures rose from its casket with a ravenous hunger. Exotic and ferocious animals collected from the planets of several galaxies were loosed from their cages, but presented no difficulties to the Immortals whose strength and quickness assured them of a kill. The animals were gathered and quickly torn to shreds by tooth and claw filed to razor sharpness. Flesh was rendered and blood was drained. Both were consumed
The Tepes had drifted in space for over a hundred years before the Immortals had deciphered its encoded navigational specifications and learned to control the ship’s course. Since then, the craft had wended its way slowly back to within Earth’s long space arm, stopping often to feed on planets supporting blood bearing creatures and to restock their ship with the live food they needed.
Deltaan had been the Immortals first encounter with human beings since their departure from Earth. Initially they were cautious, fearing that a human species might have invented weapons of destruction from which even they might not be immune. When they learned that such was not the case, they feasted on their natural food for the first time in centuries. With appetites now whetted by the rich, metallic taste of human blood, the Immortals programmed the Tepes’ auto-navigator to Argon7 and returned to their coffins. The next darkness would bring them into orbit.
*
When the Demeter arrived at Argon7 space, Van Helsing put it into a close orbit, one within easy reach of the surface by its Human Transport Module. It also circled the planet on its sunny side, directly opposed to the orbit of the Vladimir Tepes which moved in perpetual darkness. Communication with the Argon7’s remaining inhabitants – their number had been reduced by half – was established and an advance team was HTM-ed to the planet’s surface. An emergency query was directed to Earth Central from the Demeter’s advanced ComU System for information about the Tepes.
*
The only weaponry extant on Argon7 was located at the travelport where the Spaceprobe R.R. Renfield awaited its first voyage into the unknown. It was to there that Admiral Harker called for the planet’s people to make a last stand or, if firepower failed, to flee in the Renfield, a craft designed for deep probes into outer space, but not for transporting large human populations. Fewer than seven hundred people made it safely to the travelport. The rest, along with the Demeter’s advance team and most of the planet’s other blood bearing fauna, were torn apart for Immortal instant gratification or brought to the Tepes for later consumption.
*
The Intel reply from Earth Central to the Demeter was startling. The Immortals, according to their files, had almost instant regenerative powers and could not be killed by anything other than prolonged sunlight. A scientist who was, curiously, the great grandfather of Commander Van Helsing, had uncovered the locations of each of the nine Immortals and crafted the plan that ultimately led to their being captured in their coffins and launched into distant space, never, it was hoped, to be dealt with again.
A good plan, Van Helsing thought, but not one likely to work a second time. He would have to devise one of his own. “Get me to Harker” he ordered, “I need to conference.”
*
Admiral Harker had made every preparation he and his staff could think of to ready for the assault they knew would come as they became the planet’s last blooded beings. He was surprised when an HTM from the Demeter appeared within his defensive perimeter and Van Helsing strode from it. Why would anyone risk coming to Argon7 now? The question of evacuation to the Demeter had already been considered and found implausible. The ship’s lone HTM could only transport three people at a time and it would take too long to move the population. Who would be saved and who would be left to die were decisions Harker was not willing to make. Van Helsing, he was to learn, now had a better idea; an idea that became the planet’s best hope.
Argon7’s remaining populace began to dig.
*
The Immortals encircled and then closed on the travelport compound. Though their blood thirst was net yet sated, they were unhurried. The humans, after all, had no place to go. The nine Undead, as they had also once been called, were enjoying this hunt, this freedom from the confines of the Tepes, now guarded by mechanical drones. All nine would be there at the last to literally taste and savor their victory and drink in its blood reward. They moved slowly and deliberately towards the circle’s center, driving the last of the humans before them.
Harker and Van Helsing were the final two into the tunnel that lay at the center of the Immortals diminishing circle. They waited just long enough in the tunnel’s corridor to hear the blood eaters follow them, then ran quickly to the tunnel’s end inside the Spaceprobe Renfield. Argon7 technicians were already there locking in the final navigational directions for the ship’s immanent departure. When all was in readiness, Harker, Van Helsing and the techies disappeared through an adjoining hatch and into yet another recently dug tunnel, this one leading away from the craft. With them were the Renfield’s launch controls and three explosive detonators.
*
All nine Immortals entered the tunnel driven by a blood lust gone suddenly urgent. Their hunger had been awakened by the arrogance of the pitiful food things who thought they could deny them. They raced through the tunnel and then up into the ship, each one ready to appease its unholy appetite. But there was no one there; no one, no thing, no blood or flesh to render. There was nothing, just the suddenly noisy rumble of the craft’s engines starting to fire. As if with one thought, the Immortals fled backwards to the tunnel only to find it collapsed from the first of Van Helsing’s planned explosions. Another explosion and then a third sealed the second tunnel and the craft’s natural exits. The Immortals were cleverly and effectively trapped. There was rage among them then, violent, furious rage, but in the end, there was nothing they could do.
As the Spaceprobe Renfield began to ascend, a boarding party from the Demeter landed on the Vladimir Tepes and quickly overcame its defensive drones. All Immortal captives were released.
On Arkon7 the planet’s survivors watched the Renfield climb rapidly into space and disappear before loosing a deafening cheer. Jonathan Harker and Victor Van Helsing were among the loudest. Beside them, a thoughtful Mina Murray waited for the din to subside then quietly, almost sadly, pointed out that the Immortals were gone again, but possibly, probably, not for good. If they could survive without their coffins and native soil, the Immortals would one day return to ravage human kind again.
“I don’t think so,” Admiral Harper was quick to point out, “Because, you see, this time, Cousin, they are not being sent into far distant space. This time, their locked in, fixed, unalterable destination…is the sun.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Weather, Dogs and Other Stuff
The trees are being lashed by wind and rain and complaining loudly. I don't blame them. Despite the continual waves-crashing-on-the-beach like sound, I can hear one determined bird cackling maniacally somewhere to my left. Must be an avian version of the guy who finds it clever to say something he thinks funny during a moment of silence. Yeah, I know, that's me or one of my boys. It's the third consecutive morning that I've had to confront this weather mess when I let the pups out at 6:30 to do their daily do-do.
Make that four consecutive days. I wrote that first paragraph yesterday. I guess I should also point out that each morning serves up a decent rainbow that arcs across the persistent grey glop that is our sky, but I find little joy in that as it does not herald the end of the rain. It's anachronistic, if that's the word I'm looking for and knew how to spell.
What I mostly miss is my dog walk. I don't have nearly the grit needed to bend into the wind and rain while trying to restrain three frisky pups. Too bad I say, because the walk gives the dogs needed exercise and provides me a spell of what I think of as meditation. I used to do the traditional kind where one sits quietly and watches his thoughts drift by without judgment, but the dog walk serves to do the same thing and adds a modicum of calorie burning, cardio stimulating, aerobic action to the mix. Nice. It is, actually, all the religion I really need as I feel very close to the big Oneness while being dragged along by ever-in-the-present puppies. I wonder if they can access a third eye and be an impartial observer of their own thoughts. Puppies seem to lack a spiritual sense, but grown dogs, it seems to me, often tap into something apart from themselves. You can see them staring into that "middle distance", accessing who knows what. Probably though, it's just an unfamiliar scent traveling on the wind, but I like to think it is something more supernatural.
Special K arrives in Panama tomorrow and we are stoked and psyched and other euphemisms for excited about her visit. We truly hope the weather improves.
I may or may not be blogging during her stay, but I will be posting a sci-fi horror story within the next week or so.
Tal-way-go.
Make that four consecutive days. I wrote that first paragraph yesterday. I guess I should also point out that each morning serves up a decent rainbow that arcs across the persistent grey glop that is our sky, but I find little joy in that as it does not herald the end of the rain. It's anachronistic, if that's the word I'm looking for and knew how to spell.
What I mostly miss is my dog walk. I don't have nearly the grit needed to bend into the wind and rain while trying to restrain three frisky pups. Too bad I say, because the walk gives the dogs needed exercise and provides me a spell of what I think of as meditation. I used to do the traditional kind where one sits quietly and watches his thoughts drift by without judgment, but the dog walk serves to do the same thing and adds a modicum of calorie burning, cardio stimulating, aerobic action to the mix. Nice. It is, actually, all the religion I really need as I feel very close to the big Oneness while being dragged along by ever-in-the-present puppies. I wonder if they can access a third eye and be an impartial observer of their own thoughts. Puppies seem to lack a spiritual sense, but grown dogs, it seems to me, often tap into something apart from themselves. You can see them staring into that "middle distance", accessing who knows what. Probably though, it's just an unfamiliar scent traveling on the wind, but I like to think it is something more supernatural.
Special K arrives in Panama tomorrow and we are stoked and psyched and other euphemisms for excited about her visit. We truly hope the weather improves.
I may or may not be blogging during her stay, but I will be posting a sci-fi horror story within the next week or so.
Tal-way-go.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Talking 'bout the Weather
I have now finished rewriting Matthew (Gezundeit!), Mark (Mywords), Revelation (T cornpone)and am ready to start on Luke (Warm). Big Fun. First though, I have to finish a space epic I began yesterday, tentatively entitled "Blood Raiders", for this month's Writer's Group assignment. Also Big Fun.
Weather here in the Palo Alto (Tall Stick) section of Boquete continues to be, in my less than humble opinion, ah, what's the right word?, I know, crappy. We are getting more sunshine of late but it is usually accompanied by wind and that is often accompanied by "bajareque" the lovely Panamanian word for mountain mist which is in itself a lovely term. All that loveliness, though, just obscures the fact that bajareque is effing rain, you know, the stuff that makes you wet...and cold. I try to remind myself that climate conditions have improved greatly from recent weeks, but I know that is like saying this new kick in the shins is better than last month's kick in the groin. It gives me no solace. Still...I'm not complaining, I'm not complaining,...the hell I'm not. But then, somebody has to.
The reason for my sudden disaffection with all things afuera (outside)is clearly Tiger Woods. He made a reappearance on my television screen yesterday playing golf in splendid weather. Never was he pictured grabbing his hat to keep it from blowing off or discovered squinting into sideways rain. This, clearly, is what millions of dollars can do for you; buy good weather. (The shots of the golf course taken from a blimp above show a parched desert with 18 patches of non indigenous green. That green, for those who don't know, is money.)
Okay, I admit it. My complaining is "tongue-in-cheek" - a thing that makes talking coherently impossible - and weather conditions here, compared to where you are, are "not that bad." "Not that bad" though, and paradise can't be used in the same context. Paradise excludes "not that bad." Henceforth I will desist from calling Boquete paradise until the wind becomes a gentle breeze, the rain ceases to fall, the sun shines in a cloudless sky and temperatures hover in the seventies. In other words, when I next play golf.
I'm jonesing real bad.
Weather here in the Palo Alto (Tall Stick) section of Boquete continues to be, in my less than humble opinion, ah, what's the right word?, I know, crappy. We are getting more sunshine of late but it is usually accompanied by wind and that is often accompanied by "bajareque" the lovely Panamanian word for mountain mist which is in itself a lovely term. All that loveliness, though, just obscures the fact that bajareque is effing rain, you know, the stuff that makes you wet...and cold. I try to remind myself that climate conditions have improved greatly from recent weeks, but I know that is like saying this new kick in the shins is better than last month's kick in the groin. It gives me no solace. Still...I'm not complaining, I'm not complaining,...the hell I'm not. But then, somebody has to.
The reason for my sudden disaffection with all things afuera (outside)is clearly Tiger Woods. He made a reappearance on my television screen yesterday playing golf in splendid weather. Never was he pictured grabbing his hat to keep it from blowing off or discovered squinting into sideways rain. This, clearly, is what millions of dollars can do for you; buy good weather. (The shots of the golf course taken from a blimp above show a parched desert with 18 patches of non indigenous green. That green, for those who don't know, is money.)
Okay, I admit it. My complaining is "tongue-in-cheek" - a thing that makes talking coherently impossible - and weather conditions here, compared to where you are, are "not that bad." "Not that bad" though, and paradise can't be used in the same context. Paradise excludes "not that bad." Henceforth I will desist from calling Boquete paradise until the wind becomes a gentle breeze, the rain ceases to fall, the sun shines in a cloudless sky and temperatures hover in the seventies. In other words, when I next play golf.
I'm jonesing real bad.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Dogs in the Wild
We set up our camp on a mountainside in north western Panama. It was here we hoped to gather data and learn more about the habits of the dog species commonly referred to as the short-legged, stump-tailed, floppy eared Goofus Canineus. The male of the species, the Cocker, we learned, differs only from the female, the Vaginer, in having a less aggressive temperament and a, usually, somewhat smaller size. Apart from these minor differences, gender proved irrelevant to our studies.
After several years of general observation of Goofi and other related species in the area, we focused our attention on a newborn pair of the pack and determined to concentrate solely on them in hopes of achieving a greater in-depth understanding of the type. We named them Rafael and Mathilda.
The first bit of data gathered about the pups - the young of the species are referred to as pups - indicated that the Goofi awaken with the dawn of each new day. In order to capture the full scope of their activities it would be necessary for one of we scientists to arise with them. Team member Doctor D.L.Walton, fully credentialed by the Society for the Prevention of Society, being a so called "morning person" volunteered to witness and record the pups early activities. Here are his initial findings:
"Somewhat before achieving a state of full wakefulness, the pups begin to whine, cry, growl and exhibit other signs of annoyance at the darkness. As the first ray of light slips into their domicile, the pups begin to mock fight in a playful manner which we believe is a defensive preparation for attacks from a competing local species, the infamous Kitty Cat. A grumbling adult of the pup's pack, awakened by their fussing, then arises and leads them from their sheltered sleeping space and off into the surrounding open area where they will deposit their urine and scat in a seemingly random manner. By careful study of this habit though, we have concluded that the placement of the scat is a deliberate effort by the pups to have it stepped upon by careless natives and thus spread over a greater area. Curiously, a canineus pup of another type, a member of the Doofi family, has been adopted by the pack and trails happily after the Goofi, imitating their every move. We have named him Finnegan.
After ridding themselves of waste, the pups go in search of nourishment, which we researchers refer to as "reloading." The adult of the pack is seen to go into a space that is part of the Goofi and Doofi's jungle home and return with bowls of food that have been stored there. The pups wait impatiently outside. Each pup receives his bowl excitedly. They must, however, be kept apart as they eat, because the one we call Rafael will chase the others from their bowls and, to use the most technical of terms, bogart all the food for himself.
After eating, the pups will spend the next hour or so romping around in a form of play we refer to as "annoying the adult." Attempts will be made to attract the adult's attention by doing things such as chewing on objects they shouldn't, disappearing for too long a time, fighting too roughly with each other, digging where they shouldn't, and otherwise trying to elicit from the adult cries of "no, stop, quit that and where the hell are you." This behavior seems common to both the Goofi and the Doofi. When the adult arrives at what we scientists refer to as "wits end" he leaves in search of another to take his place. The pups will then repeat their actions in an attempt to drive this new adult into a state we call "round -the-bend." Fortunately, the pups eventually tire and the adults of the pack are given respite when the pups collapse and nap.
The Canineus Goofi and Doofi have varied and interesting lives throughout the day, all of which will be chronicled at a later date when greater data has been accumulated.
After several years of general observation of Goofi and other related species in the area, we focused our attention on a newborn pair of the pack and determined to concentrate solely on them in hopes of achieving a greater in-depth understanding of the type. We named them Rafael and Mathilda.
The first bit of data gathered about the pups - the young of the species are referred to as pups - indicated that the Goofi awaken with the dawn of each new day. In order to capture the full scope of their activities it would be necessary for one of we scientists to arise with them. Team member Doctor D.L.Walton, fully credentialed by the Society for the Prevention of Society, being a so called "morning person" volunteered to witness and record the pups early activities. Here are his initial findings:
"Somewhat before achieving a state of full wakefulness, the pups begin to whine, cry, growl and exhibit other signs of annoyance at the darkness. As the first ray of light slips into their domicile, the pups begin to mock fight in a playful manner which we believe is a defensive preparation for attacks from a competing local species, the infamous Kitty Cat. A grumbling adult of the pup's pack, awakened by their fussing, then arises and leads them from their sheltered sleeping space and off into the surrounding open area where they will deposit their urine and scat in a seemingly random manner. By careful study of this habit though, we have concluded that the placement of the scat is a deliberate effort by the pups to have it stepped upon by careless natives and thus spread over a greater area. Curiously, a canineus pup of another type, a member of the Doofi family, has been adopted by the pack and trails happily after the Goofi, imitating their every move. We have named him Finnegan.
After ridding themselves of waste, the pups go in search of nourishment, which we researchers refer to as "reloading." The adult of the pack is seen to go into a space that is part of the Goofi and Doofi's jungle home and return with bowls of food that have been stored there. The pups wait impatiently outside. Each pup receives his bowl excitedly. They must, however, be kept apart as they eat, because the one we call Rafael will chase the others from their bowls and, to use the most technical of terms, bogart all the food for himself.
After eating, the pups will spend the next hour or so romping around in a form of play we refer to as "annoying the adult." Attempts will be made to attract the adult's attention by doing things such as chewing on objects they shouldn't, disappearing for too long a time, fighting too roughly with each other, digging where they shouldn't, and otherwise trying to elicit from the adult cries of "no, stop, quit that and where the hell are you." This behavior seems common to both the Goofi and the Doofi. When the adult arrives at what we scientists refer to as "wits end" he leaves in search of another to take his place. The pups will then repeat their actions in an attempt to drive this new adult into a state we call "round -the-bend." Fortunately, the pups eventually tire and the adults of the pack are given respite when the pups collapse and nap.
The Canineus Goofi and Doofi have varied and interesting lives throughout the day, all of which will be chronicled at a later date when greater data has been accumulated.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Fast Food Funky
I had a Subway Sandwich for dinner last night. Boquete's first fast food franchise is Subway and that makes me - I was going to say "a happy camper" but that's so cliche I just can't do it - Not that I don't use cliches; I use them all the time when I'm talking, (I need to work on that as well) but when writing I ought to be more careful, so instead of a happy camper I'm going with - an ebullient, which can mean "overflowing with enthusiasm," tent pitcher, although I don't really know what camping has to do with it in the first place. (Punctuation sticklers feel free to be hands on with this paragraph if hands on is not an over used cliche.) I love Subway sandwiches; the in-house baked bread, the chilled cold cuts, the fresh veggies - and here I was going to say accouterments but I don't know how to spell it - choices, the servers with their surgical white rubber gloves. It's all good I tell ya and I say that with the certain knowledge that both "it's all good" and "I tell ya" are cliches no longer in common use, so I am at liberty to revive them. And in addition to these wonders, you can, apparently, eat Subway sandwiches, lose three or four hundred pounds and get filthy rich - wait! Filthy rich won't do. Let's go with - disgustingly well heeled - no! Well heeled won't work either - fat banked. (Yeah that's good; lose body fat, gain bank fat) making commercials like that guy Jarod. This is such an appealing way to make money that I am considering putting on the necessary weight to apply for the job. However, to do that I would probably have to stay away from Subway sandwiches. These are the dilemmas we jubilados have to face.
There are days when the monkeymind can not be restrained without a whip and a chair.
RTGFKAR and I made another foray into lovely and talented David yesterday. This time to put in motion the process of obtaining RTGF's driver's license and series two of Finnegan the pup's inoculations. Only the latter went as planned. There were delays, crossed signals, waits and money changing hands to accomplish RTGFKAR passing his driver's test without ever leaving his chair. The certificate of such is now headed for Panama City where it will be approved and stamped - always the stamp in Latin America - and then sent back to David, after which, and this is just wonderful, RTGFKAR will be allowed to take his written test for which he has already paid someone to accompany him and provide the correct answers. After that, quien sabe? which is Spanish for who knows? and by using it I cleverly dodge the use of who knows? in English which is a possible cliche.
You may think I have now abandoned the theme of fast food restaurants but you would be wrongo Burger Breath. At one point in the day we were left with but a mere half hour to lunch; not time enough to even attract the attention of a waiter in many Panamanian restaurants. But lo! There on the horizon were the Golden Arches. A zip through the Drive-in where it is entertaining to speak Spanish into a speaker that returns your request in what sounds like Farsi spoken under water and we were on our way chicken McNuggets, fries and soda pops in hand. (In order to achieve the poundage necessary to qualify for Subway commercials, additional visits to Micky D's might be necessary.)
Now, you think, he will move off to another topic, but alas, Thick Shake Belly Rumble, you would again be wrong. There is more.
We had a third goal on our agenda ayer, which is Spanish for yesterday because I didn't want to say yesterday again, but now I have gone and done it anyway. That goal was to bring back KFC for Woowoo Charly. A couple of David trips ago I had forgotten to do that very thing. There was Big Trouble on the home front on that occasion and, as you know, Big Fun is my cliche of choice on an everyday basis. As we motored into Dolega, a town roughly half way home, it occurred to me I was remiss again. We had departed David in a New...Haven hurry, dog and people being - of course I was going to say "over it", but the monkeymind is still alert - distraught by the difficulty of the day and thus KFC was not on our minds. Well, maybe the dog's, but I can't be certain. What to do, what to do? Carry on I decided, and I'll think of something. When, after several stops, we arrived back at Casa Dragon Something - I forget what RTGFKAR named it - I had in my possession a nice pollo burrito, a Subway sandwich and a small box containing earrings and a necklace. These turned out to be adequate substitutions for KFC.
Alrighty then. It is late morning and I am now officially ravenous. "Hey Babe. Do we have any cheesecake?"
Watch out Jarod, I'm after your job.
There are days when the monkeymind can not be restrained without a whip and a chair.
RTGFKAR and I made another foray into lovely and talented David yesterday. This time to put in motion the process of obtaining RTGF's driver's license and series two of Finnegan the pup's inoculations. Only the latter went as planned. There were delays, crossed signals, waits and money changing hands to accomplish RTGFKAR passing his driver's test without ever leaving his chair. The certificate of such is now headed for Panama City where it will be approved and stamped - always the stamp in Latin America - and then sent back to David, after which, and this is just wonderful, RTGFKAR will be allowed to take his written test for which he has already paid someone to accompany him and provide the correct answers. After that, quien sabe? which is Spanish for who knows? and by using it I cleverly dodge the use of who knows? in English which is a possible cliche.
You may think I have now abandoned the theme of fast food restaurants but you would be wrongo Burger Breath. At one point in the day we were left with but a mere half hour to lunch; not time enough to even attract the attention of a waiter in many Panamanian restaurants. But lo! There on the horizon were the Golden Arches. A zip through the Drive-in where it is entertaining to speak Spanish into a speaker that returns your request in what sounds like Farsi spoken under water and we were on our way chicken McNuggets, fries and soda pops in hand. (In order to achieve the poundage necessary to qualify for Subway commercials, additional visits to Micky D's might be necessary.)
Now, you think, he will move off to another topic, but alas, Thick Shake Belly Rumble, you would again be wrong. There is more.
We had a third goal on our agenda ayer, which is Spanish for yesterday because I didn't want to say yesterday again, but now I have gone and done it anyway. That goal was to bring back KFC for Woowoo Charly. A couple of David trips ago I had forgotten to do that very thing. There was Big Trouble on the home front on that occasion and, as you know, Big Fun is my cliche of choice on an everyday basis. As we motored into Dolega, a town roughly half way home, it occurred to me I was remiss again. We had departed David in a New...Haven hurry, dog and people being - of course I was going to say "over it", but the monkeymind is still alert - distraught by the difficulty of the day and thus KFC was not on our minds. Well, maybe the dog's, but I can't be certain. What to do, what to do? Carry on I decided, and I'll think of something. When, after several stops, we arrived back at Casa Dragon Something - I forget what RTGFKAR named it - I had in my possession a nice pollo burrito, a Subway sandwich and a small box containing earrings and a necklace. These turned out to be adequate substitutions for KFC.
Alrighty then. It is late morning and I am now officially ravenous. "Hey Babe. Do we have any cheesecake?"
Watch out Jarod, I'm after your job.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
More dog stuff...mostly
If Alex Rodriguez, who reportedly earns 27 million dollars per year, wished to be included on the Forbes magazine's 400 richest men in America list, he would have to have ten times as much at the end of a year as he does now. Just thought I'd mention it.
I wasn't going to blog around the block this morning; didn't feel like it. And yet, here I am. Don't know what that's all about.
I've been told that one should always be suspicious of merchandise being sold from someone's garage or the trunk of their car. The stuff is probably hot. I don't know how this relates to veterinary services, but yesterday we had Raffi and Matti, our Cocker Spaniel pups, spayed/neutered in a neighbor's garage. Doctor Dan Evers, a U.S. vet, comes to Panama on a regular basis and sets up shop in his two car and then some garage. He brings with him to Panama more equipment and veterinary support paraphernalia than we have seen in any Panamanian vet's office to date. Woowoo Charly and I got to assist in the two operations - more or less, mostly we watched - and observe close up what happens. Matti turned out to be a bit of a problem. After she was anesthetized, a portion of her underside was shaved and disinfected. Dr. Dan then made a neat incision there about two inches long. After that he began probing about inside the incision. He probed and then he probed some more. "What are you looking for?" I asked, because it seemed like a reasonable question. "The uterus" he replied. "She is so small it is difficult to find." He then began removing stuff gently from her insides, "intestines and ligaments", until he had a pile of these gooey things about the size of a fist mounded outside the incision. The word that came to my mind as it often does when seeing something unexpected was "Yikes!" Dr. Dan eventually located the uterus which was a very tiny thing indeed. He clamped it and cut it and sewed it and then stuffed the other stuff back inside the dog. After that, he quickly and neatly sewed three layers of stitches.
While Raffi was being, ah, attended to, I left to rescue our car which we had abandoned on the side of our servidumbre because the way was blocked by a dump truck there to aid in the road's repair. It was nearing five in the afternoon and past Panamanian worker's quitting time, so I guessed the route would now be unimpeded and I was right. I didn't really care that I was missing Raffi's testicle demise. Matti's ordeal had been enough for me.
Both dogs were "out of it" for quite awhile after we returned home, but they had a quiet night and seem okay, but of course subdued, this morning. We have had to put one of those goofy collars on Raffi to keep him from bothering his stitches.
Our third pup, the Golden, got a check up by Dr. Dan and was declared perfect. He's depressed this morning because the other dogs don't want to wrestle with him.
Somewhere along the day's way, we learned that one of the brothers of our friend Dalys had died. We didn't know the brother but we extend our condolences to Dalys, her immediate family and her two brothers, Alberto and Rolando that we do know. Lo siento senores.
I wasn't going to blog around the block this morning; didn't feel like it. And yet, here I am. Don't know what that's all about.
I've been told that one should always be suspicious of merchandise being sold from someone's garage or the trunk of their car. The stuff is probably hot. I don't know how this relates to veterinary services, but yesterday we had Raffi and Matti, our Cocker Spaniel pups, spayed/neutered in a neighbor's garage. Doctor Dan Evers, a U.S. vet, comes to Panama on a regular basis and sets up shop in his two car and then some garage. He brings with him to Panama more equipment and veterinary support paraphernalia than we have seen in any Panamanian vet's office to date. Woowoo Charly and I got to assist in the two operations - more or less, mostly we watched - and observe close up what happens. Matti turned out to be a bit of a problem. After she was anesthetized, a portion of her underside was shaved and disinfected. Dr. Dan then made a neat incision there about two inches long. After that he began probing about inside the incision. He probed and then he probed some more. "What are you looking for?" I asked, because it seemed like a reasonable question. "The uterus" he replied. "She is so small it is difficult to find." He then began removing stuff gently from her insides, "intestines and ligaments", until he had a pile of these gooey things about the size of a fist mounded outside the incision. The word that came to my mind as it often does when seeing something unexpected was "Yikes!" Dr. Dan eventually located the uterus which was a very tiny thing indeed. He clamped it and cut it and sewed it and then stuffed the other stuff back inside the dog. After that, he quickly and neatly sewed three layers of stitches.
While Raffi was being, ah, attended to, I left to rescue our car which we had abandoned on the side of our servidumbre because the way was blocked by a dump truck there to aid in the road's repair. It was nearing five in the afternoon and past Panamanian worker's quitting time, so I guessed the route would now be unimpeded and I was right. I didn't really care that I was missing Raffi's testicle demise. Matti's ordeal had been enough for me.
Both dogs were "out of it" for quite awhile after we returned home, but they had a quiet night and seem okay, but of course subdued, this morning. We have had to put one of those goofy collars on Raffi to keep him from bothering his stitches.
Our third pup, the Golden, got a check up by Dr. Dan and was declared perfect. He's depressed this morning because the other dogs don't want to wrestle with him.
Somewhere along the day's way, we learned that one of the brothers of our friend Dalys had died. We didn't know the brother but we extend our condolences to Dalys, her immediate family and her two brothers, Alberto and Rolando that we do know. Lo siento senores.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Noir You Ready?
Here's my "noir" story. Not really my bag, but fun to write anyway.
Pony Tale
By Doc Walton
The sign on the door reads “Peter Malone, Private Investigator.”
Big deal.
I was half drunk, wearing a slept in suit and down to my last sawbuck when she appeared in my doorway like the sun bursting through a cloud. I mean this dame could light up a room better than a 100 watt.
“Hello Pete” she said, “long time no see.”
I eased my chair back a little, clasped my hands behind my head and causally put my feet up on the desk. I was stalling for time, trying to picture where I’d seen her before.
“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “I’m Sally Swan, Katie’s little sister.”
It hit me like a sledge. The Brat. The one that followed us around like a lost puppy. See Katie and I had had a thing a couple years back that threatened to get serious. Well, at least on my part. I was this close to popping the question when she tossed me out like last year’s shoes. I apparently didn’t fit her image of “Mr. Right.” Mr. Right, it turned out, was handsome, rich and connected. I couldn’t come up with one out of three. A month after she dumped me she hit the jackpot and was riding polo ponies
“Hello Brat,” I said. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you. Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me what I can do you for.”
She snaked across the room to my desk with the kind of walk you’d stop everything just to watch. She had more curves than a Gran Prix race course and they all moved…well, you know how they moved, like a slinky on a stairway only without the hiss. She pulled the one other chair in the office around to the side of my desk so there’d be nothing between us. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was fragrant and flagrant, nothing subtle about it. Mixed nicely, I thought, with the bourbon stench drifting off my own self.
“So,” I ventured the moment she looked comfortable which was right away. “what brings you knocking on old Pete’s door?” I threw in the “old” as a reminder to myself I had ten years on her, maybe more.
Something troubled passed behind her eyes and she looked a little uncertain for the first time since she entered the room.
“Maybe you ought to offer a lady a drink before we get down to business, she said. “All you…you gumshoes, right?, you keep a bottle handy, doncha?”
I slid the desk drawer open and grabbed the bourbon and a couple of paper cups. I was looking at the Brat while I did so thinking she was what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? I poured a short one for her and long one for myself. I said “cheers” and threw mine back. She took a small sip and then went all soft eyed.
“Pete,” she said in a smaller, quieter voice, “Katie’s dead.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The booze in my gut went suddenly sour and my chest got tight as a navy knot. There was pain there, a new kind, something I’d never felt before.
“What happened?” I managed to ask with “Katie’s gone, Katie’s gone” screaming like a fresh wound in my head.
“I don’t know… really” the Brat, I mean Sally, said in small voice, something just a notch above a whisper.
She was nearing tears and losing her composure fast. Another man might have reached for her hand at that moment. I reached for the hooch. Poured us both a couple of fingers. This time she gulped, I sipped.
“The police” she went on, “the police say it was an accident. I don’t believe that. They say a horse in Carl’s string…Carl’s her husband…got startled or something, and broke through its stall door. They say it trampled her, Pete. They say they found the horse loose in the paddock outside the stable. It was frightened they said, and there was blood on its hooves. I… I just don’t believe them…It can’t be. You know Katie, Pete. She loved horses. Had a way with them. Katie was too...too…smart about them for this to happen like they said.”
I did know Katie. Horses and riding were her favorite things in life. I figured that’s why she’d left me for the polo putz in the first place. The police were probably right though. I mean it sounded open and shut to me, but this was Katie, my Katie…well almost anyway, and I felt closure, huh, closure, what a stupid word, might be good for both Sally and me.
“Listen Brat, er uh, Sally” I said. I’ll look into this. If something happened different from the police report, I’ll find out what it is. No promises, but you can count on me for that much.”
For a moment she looked reassured.
And then, because it was me…and because of the suit and the sawbuck and all that, I said, “Have you got any money?”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I started with the usual unreliable source, our local news-rag. I’d missed the story first time around. I usually scan the dailies to keep up and all that, but lately I’d had a couple Ray Milland episodes. You know “Lost Weekends.” The news reports told essentially the same story as Sally only with more words. “Society Dame Dies Ugly” was pretty much the gist. One quote though, from a day laborer hired to swab out the stalls, gave me an idea. I got an old bud, Jim Hannifin, on the horn and next morning with a work ticket in hand from Jim’s labor hall, I was on my way to Rocky Top Stables where Carl Bland boarded his string of ponies.
First thing I learned when I got there was polo ponies ain’t ponies, they’re horses. Second thing…manure smells like shit.
The day was a shovel, sweep, mop routine that took me from one end of the stable’s stalls to the other and then back again. I was playing open and friendly as I worked and saying hello to everybody that passed by, mostly trainers, grooms, owners and few rental horse riders. The trainers were all business, but the grooms didn’t mind passing a piece of day with a temp looking for gossip.
“Hey,” I said to each one, “isn’t this the place where that lady got killed by a horse a couple weeks back?”
“Yeah, crying shame that” was the response I got from most of them. Along about mid-afternoon though, when I was leaning on my shovel and wondering how it was possible for a horse to dump out more than it took in, a guy came strolling by I hadn’t seen before. His brow was all wrinkled up and his eyes had that peculiar inward stare a person gets when he’s thinking about something else and barely watching where he’s going.
“Excuse me Buddy” I said as I grabbed his arm to slow his progress. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya, would ya?”
The guy’s eyes came back front and center and he looked at me a moment, kind of getting himself together.
“Huh?…yeah… sure,” he said, reaching into a shirt pocket, “but you can’t smoke in here, you hafta go outside.”
I gave him my “isn’t this the place where” spiel as he handed me an Old Gold and his eyes did a whole new thing. They jumped left and right a couple a times before getting still. The guy stopped completely, spun into a quick one eighty and then turned back to me again. Confident then I suppose, that no one else was listening, he said, “Yeah it is… and I was there.”
“No kidding?” I said, all perky with interest “That must have been something. Did you really see it happen?”
“Not the whole thing. I came in this end of the stable just as the horse went out
the other. It was first thing in the morning and it was just getting light. The stable was still kind of dark, but I saw the girl right away. She was lying there real still and there was blood all over the place. The thing is…the thing that bothers me…I mean I can’t be sure, I only got a quick glimpse…and it was dark…but when the horse ran through the doorway and into the light at the other end?... I think I saw someone riding it. You know, hunched over real low like a jockey.”
Guy got nervous after that. Realized he was sounding off to a total stranger. “Just seeing things I guess,” he said with a forced little chuckle. “Too much bracer in the morning cuppa joe” He gave me a little wave, turned, and shuffled off in a flat hurry like a man who just remembered he had something to do.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I put in a couple more days moving manure, but learned nothing further. I wasn’t sure where to go after that, so I called my bosom bud Moynihan down at the fourth precinct. Moyny and I used to run the streets together as kids. He got real straight as we grew up while I just got bent. By the time I got my act together I was pushing thirty and it was too late to get a real badge. Moyny had his gold shield by then. I told him what I’d heard at the stable.
“Ah, you know Petey me lad” he said in his completely affected Irish brogue. The man was fourth generation Mick, but he wouldn’t give it up. “The whole shebang reeks o’ the fish if ye be askin me, but it taint me case, so don’t ye be askin. I’ll not be steppin’ on me fellow coppers toes.”
“The woman killed was Katie, Moyny, my Katie. I have to ask.”
“I’m thinking I can tell ye this much, Petey me boy. Where there be room for a horse to go ‘round, a horse WILL go ‘round. You might think about seein this for your own self.”
I hung up and dialed Hannifin. First light I was back in the stable.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was just me and the ponies about an hour later and I quickly turned one of the more skittery nags around in its stall. I shut the door at one end and parked my self in the middle of the aisle between the horse and the other end. I had a rope tied to the stall door and I used it to yank the door open suddenly and loudly. The horse bolted out and charged at me like it was cavalry trained. It was on me so fast I hadn’t time to move even if I wanted to. And truthfully...? I wanted to real bad. Then it was gone. By me and gone in a whoosh of air and an ear shattering clatter of hoof beats. I exhaled…long and loud. Accidental trampling, I thought… not likely.
I’d already asked my self who stood to gain by Katie’s death and come up with a big fat nobody. Her husband had enough dough that Katie’s insurance payoff would be little more than chump change to him To rule out another broad, I tailed Bland twenty-four seven for the next ten days. Man was a monk. I was stumped, clueless, leadless and at the end of the Brat’s per diem. I was reaching for the desk hooch when the phone rang.
“Petey, me Bucko,” - it was Moynihan - “and how will ye be doin this fine day?”
“Not good Moyny” I said. “I’m dead ended. I got nothing solid on Katie’s death and I know damn well it wasn’t an accident. I’m stumped Moyny, and it’s driving me straight to the drink.”
“Aye tis a short drive, that one” he said. “I’ve been thinking of ye Laddie. Thinking you might be wanting to talk to a fella name of Kegler, Max Kegler. Owns a string in the same stable as Bland. One of me lads here at the precinct’s working a horse doping angle and he says auld Maxie’s torn up same as you over Katie’s sudden passin.”
I had seen Max Kegler at the stable, but he’d never deigned to talk to me, a lowly shit shoveler. When I approached him there this time, I was flashing a badge and acting important. The man could not have cared less. He was as hang-dogged and downcast as
anybody I’d ever seen. Answered my questions in grunts and nods and when I’d finished moved off like a man on his way to a funeral, maybe his own. It didn’t take a shrink to see what was wrong with Maxie. The man was hurting. The man was grieving and carrying a heavy torch.
It was time to talk to Bland. I had enough now that I thought I could run a bluff and maybe get him to open up, get him to say something incriminating. I doused a couple of barn lights and folded myself into the shadows of an empty stall and waited. I knew Bland’s usual routine and it had him coming my way in less than ten. My plan was to jump him, pull him into the stall and apply some muscle.
Bad plan.
First part worked all right though. I grabbed him by the lapels as he walked by, spun him into the stall and pinned him to the back wall. I got up in his face and spit words through my teeth. “You killed my Katie, you Bastard. Ran her down like a dog in the street. Give me one reason I shouldn’t break your neck right now.”
I had to hand it to the guy. He stayed cool, real cool. Looked at me a second and then said, “I know you. You’re the low class PI Katie dumped to marry me. What is this, sore loser payback? Aren’t you a little late?”
I ignored that though there was some truth to that sore loser part. If I got nothing here on Katie’s murder, I might still consider taking away a little satisfaction on that score.
I had a nice tight grip on Bland’s lapels and I tugged him upwards a little for emphasis. I said, “I’ve got a guy saw you do it, saw you ride right over her. Wouldn’t talk to the police…too afraid of you. He’ll talk now though, he’s more afraid of me.”
Nothing. Bland’s expression never changed.
My hands and arms were getting tired but I took one last shot. “And I know why you did it,” I said. “Katie was going to drop you for Kegler just like she dropped me for you. That’s it pretty boy, that’s it, isn’t it?”
What happened next happened real fast and most of it I experienced through the haze of a crippling pain. Bland went berserk. I’d heard an adrenalized man can perform feats of strength far beyond the norm, but I hadn’t seen it until now. I had 20 pounds on this creep, but he spun me around like rag doll. He slammed my back into a hay trough and I thought it was broken. He let go of me then and I slumped to the ground like a punctured balloon. I squinted up at him through the pain and saw a man defining rage. His eyes had gone wild and his whole body looked tight enough to snap apart. I knew I was in real trouble.
“That’s right” he said in a voice half snarl, half hiss. “I killed her and the bitch deserved it. I saved her from a crap life with a punk like you, gave her everything and what do I get in return? Nothing, not a goddamn thing. It’s all about what she wants and you know what that is? Kegler. Kegler for Christ’s sake! That sorry sap can’t train a decent pony, he takes my woman? No way I’m letting that happen.”
I was pulling myself to my feet in small increments as he dropped his rant on me. I was almost upright when his expression changed and he got all spooky calm again. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a hypo with something piss colored in it. “Horse doper impaled on own needle” he said, squirting a little of the liquid into the air. “Should make a great story.”
I was trying to bob and weave as he started towards me, but none of my parts were working properly. I knew I couldn’t elude the jab in my present condition and I suddenly began too wonder what was in the needle and how bad it was going to hurt. My eyes were fixed on it as Bland got one step closer and then another, before stopping abruptly no more than a couple inches from me. His face was close and I saw his eyes go weird wide then drop fast to look at his own chest. Blood was spurting from holes in his shirt where the tines of a pitchfork had appeared and disappeared in what seemed an instant. He looked back at me for just a second then dropped like a sack of manure to the stall floor. Standing just beyond him, still as death itself, stood a dull eyed Max Kegler.
Kegler stared at me for a long moment asking something from me with those vapid orbs, forgiveness perhaps, or maybe thanks. I had nothing. I just stared back. Suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, he looked down and a flash of anger brought life back into his eyes. He grabbed the pitchfork with both hands and drove it straight down, hard. It stuck there, neatly protruding from Bland’s back. We looked again at each other and I saw the same unbearable sadness creep back to his face that I’d seen there earlier in the day. There was nothing I could do. Kegler just stood where he was, still as a statue, shoulders slumped, eyes gone dead again.
After a minute, I moved slowly, quietly, carefully, around him. And then I walked away.
Pony Tale
By Doc Walton
The sign on the door reads “Peter Malone, Private Investigator.”
Big deal.
I was half drunk, wearing a slept in suit and down to my last sawbuck when she appeared in my doorway like the sun bursting through a cloud. I mean this dame could light up a room better than a 100 watt.
“Hello Pete” she said, “long time no see.”
I eased my chair back a little, clasped my hands behind my head and causally put my feet up on the desk. I was stalling for time, trying to picture where I’d seen her before.
“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “I’m Sally Swan, Katie’s little sister.”
It hit me like a sledge. The Brat. The one that followed us around like a lost puppy. See Katie and I had had a thing a couple years back that threatened to get serious. Well, at least on my part. I was this close to popping the question when she tossed me out like last year’s shoes. I apparently didn’t fit her image of “Mr. Right.” Mr. Right, it turned out, was handsome, rich and connected. I couldn’t come up with one out of three. A month after she dumped me she hit the jackpot and was riding polo ponies
“Hello Brat,” I said. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you. Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me what I can do you for.”
She snaked across the room to my desk with the kind of walk you’d stop everything just to watch. She had more curves than a Gran Prix race course and they all moved…well, you know how they moved, like a slinky on a stairway only without the hiss. She pulled the one other chair in the office around to the side of my desk so there’d be nothing between us. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was fragrant and flagrant, nothing subtle about it. Mixed nicely, I thought, with the bourbon stench drifting off my own self.
“So,” I ventured the moment she looked comfortable which was right away. “what brings you knocking on old Pete’s door?” I threw in the “old” as a reminder to myself I had ten years on her, maybe more.
Something troubled passed behind her eyes and she looked a little uncertain for the first time since she entered the room.
“Maybe you ought to offer a lady a drink before we get down to business, she said. “All you…you gumshoes, right?, you keep a bottle handy, doncha?”
I slid the desk drawer open and grabbed the bourbon and a couple of paper cups. I was looking at the Brat while I did so thinking she was what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? I poured a short one for her and long one for myself. I said “cheers” and threw mine back. She took a small sip and then went all soft eyed.
“Pete,” she said in a smaller, quieter voice, “Katie’s dead.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The booze in my gut went suddenly sour and my chest got tight as a navy knot. There was pain there, a new kind, something I’d never felt before.
“What happened?” I managed to ask with “Katie’s gone, Katie’s gone” screaming like a fresh wound in my head.
“I don’t know… really” the Brat, I mean Sally, said in small voice, something just a notch above a whisper.
She was nearing tears and losing her composure fast. Another man might have reached for her hand at that moment. I reached for the hooch. Poured us both a couple of fingers. This time she gulped, I sipped.
“The police” she went on, “the police say it was an accident. I don’t believe that. They say a horse in Carl’s string…Carl’s her husband…got startled or something, and broke through its stall door. They say it trampled her, Pete. They say they found the horse loose in the paddock outside the stable. It was frightened they said, and there was blood on its hooves. I… I just don’t believe them…It can’t be. You know Katie, Pete. She loved horses. Had a way with them. Katie was too...too…smart about them for this to happen like they said.”
I did know Katie. Horses and riding were her favorite things in life. I figured that’s why she’d left me for the polo putz in the first place. The police were probably right though. I mean it sounded open and shut to me, but this was Katie, my Katie…well almost anyway, and I felt closure, huh, closure, what a stupid word, might be good for both Sally and me.
“Listen Brat, er uh, Sally” I said. I’ll look into this. If something happened different from the police report, I’ll find out what it is. No promises, but you can count on me for that much.”
For a moment she looked reassured.
And then, because it was me…and because of the suit and the sawbuck and all that, I said, “Have you got any money?”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I started with the usual unreliable source, our local news-rag. I’d missed the story first time around. I usually scan the dailies to keep up and all that, but lately I’d had a couple Ray Milland episodes. You know “Lost Weekends.” The news reports told essentially the same story as Sally only with more words. “Society Dame Dies Ugly” was pretty much the gist. One quote though, from a day laborer hired to swab out the stalls, gave me an idea. I got an old bud, Jim Hannifin, on the horn and next morning with a work ticket in hand from Jim’s labor hall, I was on my way to Rocky Top Stables where Carl Bland boarded his string of ponies.
First thing I learned when I got there was polo ponies ain’t ponies, they’re horses. Second thing…manure smells like shit.
The day was a shovel, sweep, mop routine that took me from one end of the stable’s stalls to the other and then back again. I was playing open and friendly as I worked and saying hello to everybody that passed by, mostly trainers, grooms, owners and few rental horse riders. The trainers were all business, but the grooms didn’t mind passing a piece of day with a temp looking for gossip.
“Hey,” I said to each one, “isn’t this the place where that lady got killed by a horse a couple weeks back?”
“Yeah, crying shame that” was the response I got from most of them. Along about mid-afternoon though, when I was leaning on my shovel and wondering how it was possible for a horse to dump out more than it took in, a guy came strolling by I hadn’t seen before. His brow was all wrinkled up and his eyes had that peculiar inward stare a person gets when he’s thinking about something else and barely watching where he’s going.
“Excuse me Buddy” I said as I grabbed his arm to slow his progress. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya, would ya?”
The guy’s eyes came back front and center and he looked at me a moment, kind of getting himself together.
“Huh?…yeah… sure,” he said, reaching into a shirt pocket, “but you can’t smoke in here, you hafta go outside.”
I gave him my “isn’t this the place where” spiel as he handed me an Old Gold and his eyes did a whole new thing. They jumped left and right a couple a times before getting still. The guy stopped completely, spun into a quick one eighty and then turned back to me again. Confident then I suppose, that no one else was listening, he said, “Yeah it is… and I was there.”
“No kidding?” I said, all perky with interest “That must have been something. Did you really see it happen?”
“Not the whole thing. I came in this end of the stable just as the horse went out
the other. It was first thing in the morning and it was just getting light. The stable was still kind of dark, but I saw the girl right away. She was lying there real still and there was blood all over the place. The thing is…the thing that bothers me…I mean I can’t be sure, I only got a quick glimpse…and it was dark…but when the horse ran through the doorway and into the light at the other end?... I think I saw someone riding it. You know, hunched over real low like a jockey.”
Guy got nervous after that. Realized he was sounding off to a total stranger. “Just seeing things I guess,” he said with a forced little chuckle. “Too much bracer in the morning cuppa joe” He gave me a little wave, turned, and shuffled off in a flat hurry like a man who just remembered he had something to do.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I put in a couple more days moving manure, but learned nothing further. I wasn’t sure where to go after that, so I called my bosom bud Moynihan down at the fourth precinct. Moyny and I used to run the streets together as kids. He got real straight as we grew up while I just got bent. By the time I got my act together I was pushing thirty and it was too late to get a real badge. Moyny had his gold shield by then. I told him what I’d heard at the stable.
“Ah, you know Petey me lad” he said in his completely affected Irish brogue. The man was fourth generation Mick, but he wouldn’t give it up. “The whole shebang reeks o’ the fish if ye be askin me, but it taint me case, so don’t ye be askin. I’ll not be steppin’ on me fellow coppers toes.”
“The woman killed was Katie, Moyny, my Katie. I have to ask.”
“I’m thinking I can tell ye this much, Petey me boy. Where there be room for a horse to go ‘round, a horse WILL go ‘round. You might think about seein this for your own self.”
I hung up and dialed Hannifin. First light I was back in the stable.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was just me and the ponies about an hour later and I quickly turned one of the more skittery nags around in its stall. I shut the door at one end and parked my self in the middle of the aisle between the horse and the other end. I had a rope tied to the stall door and I used it to yank the door open suddenly and loudly. The horse bolted out and charged at me like it was cavalry trained. It was on me so fast I hadn’t time to move even if I wanted to. And truthfully...? I wanted to real bad. Then it was gone. By me and gone in a whoosh of air and an ear shattering clatter of hoof beats. I exhaled…long and loud. Accidental trampling, I thought… not likely.
I’d already asked my self who stood to gain by Katie’s death and come up with a big fat nobody. Her husband had enough dough that Katie’s insurance payoff would be little more than chump change to him To rule out another broad, I tailed Bland twenty-four seven for the next ten days. Man was a monk. I was stumped, clueless, leadless and at the end of the Brat’s per diem. I was reaching for the desk hooch when the phone rang.
“Petey, me Bucko,” - it was Moynihan - “and how will ye be doin this fine day?”
“Not good Moyny” I said. “I’m dead ended. I got nothing solid on Katie’s death and I know damn well it wasn’t an accident. I’m stumped Moyny, and it’s driving me straight to the drink.”
“Aye tis a short drive, that one” he said. “I’ve been thinking of ye Laddie. Thinking you might be wanting to talk to a fella name of Kegler, Max Kegler. Owns a string in the same stable as Bland. One of me lads here at the precinct’s working a horse doping angle and he says auld Maxie’s torn up same as you over Katie’s sudden passin.”
I had seen Max Kegler at the stable, but he’d never deigned to talk to me, a lowly shit shoveler. When I approached him there this time, I was flashing a badge and acting important. The man could not have cared less. He was as hang-dogged and downcast as
anybody I’d ever seen. Answered my questions in grunts and nods and when I’d finished moved off like a man on his way to a funeral, maybe his own. It didn’t take a shrink to see what was wrong with Maxie. The man was hurting. The man was grieving and carrying a heavy torch.
It was time to talk to Bland. I had enough now that I thought I could run a bluff and maybe get him to open up, get him to say something incriminating. I doused a couple of barn lights and folded myself into the shadows of an empty stall and waited. I knew Bland’s usual routine and it had him coming my way in less than ten. My plan was to jump him, pull him into the stall and apply some muscle.
Bad plan.
First part worked all right though. I grabbed him by the lapels as he walked by, spun him into the stall and pinned him to the back wall. I got up in his face and spit words through my teeth. “You killed my Katie, you Bastard. Ran her down like a dog in the street. Give me one reason I shouldn’t break your neck right now.”
I had to hand it to the guy. He stayed cool, real cool. Looked at me a second and then said, “I know you. You’re the low class PI Katie dumped to marry me. What is this, sore loser payback? Aren’t you a little late?”
I ignored that though there was some truth to that sore loser part. If I got nothing here on Katie’s murder, I might still consider taking away a little satisfaction on that score.
I had a nice tight grip on Bland’s lapels and I tugged him upwards a little for emphasis. I said, “I’ve got a guy saw you do it, saw you ride right over her. Wouldn’t talk to the police…too afraid of you. He’ll talk now though, he’s more afraid of me.”
Nothing. Bland’s expression never changed.
My hands and arms were getting tired but I took one last shot. “And I know why you did it,” I said. “Katie was going to drop you for Kegler just like she dropped me for you. That’s it pretty boy, that’s it, isn’t it?”
What happened next happened real fast and most of it I experienced through the haze of a crippling pain. Bland went berserk. I’d heard an adrenalized man can perform feats of strength far beyond the norm, but I hadn’t seen it until now. I had 20 pounds on this creep, but he spun me around like rag doll. He slammed my back into a hay trough and I thought it was broken. He let go of me then and I slumped to the ground like a punctured balloon. I squinted up at him through the pain and saw a man defining rage. His eyes had gone wild and his whole body looked tight enough to snap apart. I knew I was in real trouble.
“That’s right” he said in a voice half snarl, half hiss. “I killed her and the bitch deserved it. I saved her from a crap life with a punk like you, gave her everything and what do I get in return? Nothing, not a goddamn thing. It’s all about what she wants and you know what that is? Kegler. Kegler for Christ’s sake! That sorry sap can’t train a decent pony, he takes my woman? No way I’m letting that happen.”
I was pulling myself to my feet in small increments as he dropped his rant on me. I was almost upright when his expression changed and he got all spooky calm again. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a hypo with something piss colored in it. “Horse doper impaled on own needle” he said, squirting a little of the liquid into the air. “Should make a great story.”
I was trying to bob and weave as he started towards me, but none of my parts were working properly. I knew I couldn’t elude the jab in my present condition and I suddenly began too wonder what was in the needle and how bad it was going to hurt. My eyes were fixed on it as Bland got one step closer and then another, before stopping abruptly no more than a couple inches from me. His face was close and I saw his eyes go weird wide then drop fast to look at his own chest. Blood was spurting from holes in his shirt where the tines of a pitchfork had appeared and disappeared in what seemed an instant. He looked back at me for just a second then dropped like a sack of manure to the stall floor. Standing just beyond him, still as death itself, stood a dull eyed Max Kegler.
Kegler stared at me for a long moment asking something from me with those vapid orbs, forgiveness perhaps, or maybe thanks. I had nothing. I just stared back. Suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, he looked down and a flash of anger brought life back into his eyes. He grabbed the pitchfork with both hands and drove it straight down, hard. It stuck there, neatly protruding from Bland’s back. We looked again at each other and I saw the same unbearable sadness creep back to his face that I’d seen there earlier in the day. There was nothing I could do. Kegler just stood where he was, still as a statue, shoulders slumped, eyes gone dead again.
After a minute, I moved slowly, quietly, carefully, around him. And then I walked away.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Testifying to Congress
The best combination of (2) flavors, by far, no debate, is red wine and dark chocolate. (You may disagree if you have nothing against being wrong.)
Alrighty then.
I recently testified before a congressional committee that I have never knowingly used steroids. That I have put on 20 pounds and upped my writing average far beyond my standards of five years ago are merely coincidental. Should, however, the "Clear" and the "Cream" ever become legal, I would not be adverse to giving them a try. The good folks at Balco say these are tools that will aid me in my attempts to go long. They say with proper application of the "Juice," a novel is not out of the question.
I also swore at my deposition that I don't carry illegal weapons when I go clubbing. Despite my celebrity status I have never felt in danger while in public. Of course I rarely travel without my bodyguards, RTGFKAR The Rotund, and noted sorceress, Woowoo Charly. Even when I choose to wear my most expensive jewelry, I feel safe with these companions in tow. A person would have to be crazy to make a grab for my Timex when these two toughies are around. On the home front I have the protection of three vicious attack puppies, so I have no worries there either.
I made it a point, when the subject came up, to note on my own behalf that I have never been arrested for domestic (or foreign) violence. I don't have any domestics, but if I did, I would treat them real nice.
I did admit, however, to testing positive for marijuana on a couple of occasions, but not during the writing season. The congressmen at the hearing were undisturbed by this revelation and were further relieved when I told them, "At no time did I ever not inhale." They apparently worry about waste.
I also swore that if I ever retired from the game I would, in fact, retire, and not make repeated comebacks that annoy the shit out of people who want to watch ESPN for real sports news. I also promised that if I did stray from the straight and narrow path that has earned me... hundreds, I would not make some lame apology, swear I now had Jesus in my corner and hope to be forgiven by my fans and, more importantly, keep my endorsements. I would take my medicine and go quietly away.
After my hearing was over, one of the Congressmen, I think he was a Republican, shook his fist at me and said "If everybody was like you, you Jerk, we Congresspeople would also have to keep our noses clean. Get out of here and don't ever come back you...you Commie!"
Alrighty then.
I recently testified before a congressional committee that I have never knowingly used steroids. That I have put on 20 pounds and upped my writing average far beyond my standards of five years ago are merely coincidental. Should, however, the "Clear" and the "Cream" ever become legal, I would not be adverse to giving them a try. The good folks at Balco say these are tools that will aid me in my attempts to go long. They say with proper application of the "Juice," a novel is not out of the question.
I also swore at my deposition that I don't carry illegal weapons when I go clubbing. Despite my celebrity status I have never felt in danger while in public. Of course I rarely travel without my bodyguards, RTGFKAR The Rotund, and noted sorceress, Woowoo Charly. Even when I choose to wear my most expensive jewelry, I feel safe with these companions in tow. A person would have to be crazy to make a grab for my Timex when these two toughies are around. On the home front I have the protection of three vicious attack puppies, so I have no worries there either.
I made it a point, when the subject came up, to note on my own behalf that I have never been arrested for domestic (or foreign) violence. I don't have any domestics, but if I did, I would treat them real nice.
I did admit, however, to testing positive for marijuana on a couple of occasions, but not during the writing season. The congressmen at the hearing were undisturbed by this revelation and were further relieved when I told them, "At no time did I ever not inhale." They apparently worry about waste.
I also swore that if I ever retired from the game I would, in fact, retire, and not make repeated comebacks that annoy the shit out of people who want to watch ESPN for real sports news. I also promised that if I did stray from the straight and narrow path that has earned me... hundreds, I would not make some lame apology, swear I now had Jesus in my corner and hope to be forgiven by my fans and, more importantly, keep my endorsements. I would take my medicine and go quietly away.
After my hearing was over, one of the Congressmen, I think he was a Republican, shook his fist at me and said "If everybody was like you, you Jerk, we Congresspeople would also have to keep our noses clean. Get out of here and don't ever come back you...you Commie!"
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tormenta II The Sequel
Alrighty then.
That was interesting. If by interesting I mean something akin to watching mice nibble off your toes. "Surely this can't continue" was the comment most expressed after day two, but by day four the sarcastic, "Oh look, it's raining" leaped to the fore. Following those snappy epithets, RTGFKAR and I were oft heard loudly clicking our fingers and saying "Lights on now!" to a not laughable no avail. Electricity, we determined then, was a very useful thing to have. (Whatever it is.) Compounding the problem,(I almost said "issue) were the two words that appeared as if by magic on our cell phones that read: no service; a condition that meant we would not be able to report our lack of lights, computers, television and good humor. We could, if we dared to brave the high winds, sideways falling rain and rapidly deteriorating servidumbre, climb into our car and motor to Union Fenosa to make our report. We, however, dared not, as the memory of the last time we had chosen that option was still in mind. On that occasion, the honcho in charge at U. F. had scribbled a phone number on the back of our bill for us to call. No, we would just have to ride out the storm visualizing someone out there on the job splicing wires, raising downed power poles, throwing switches and sacrificing those less and less handy virgins to the electricity gods in hopes of bringing light back into our lives. It took five days.
I could say we made the best of it, but I'm not sure what best implies. Using the time to invent, create or compose something to cheer all mankind, perhaps. We didn't do that. We read and played scrabble by day and slept fitfully by night; night being defined as dark, mas o menos six o,clock. We also contributed to the world's economic stimulus effort by thrilling the manufacturer and employees of a paper towel company by using roll after roll of their product to clean up the messes left by three puppies reluctant as we to brave the wind and rain. The environment, I lament, no doubt suffers from the loss of the rain forest needed for the production of the absorbent towels.
Yesterday brought storm's end. Still powerless and phone-less, RTGFKAR and I, saying "Let's do it" while stopped and evaluating our chances of driving on the servidumbre over a culvert where the sides of the road had collapsed into the water leaving a barely wide enough path to traverse - we hoped - set forth on a mission to tell someone about our lack of life's finer things, like, oh, contact with the outer world comes to mind. We made it safely across the culvert, renewed breathing and then achieved all of our goals. We purchased a generator in David, I got my license renewed - a thing that had taken weeks of trying - reported and later had our power restored, picked up our bar stools that had been ordered months before, eaten pizza and brought home KFC for Woowoo Charly.
Life is good again. Good being partially, but not insignificantly, defined as puppies peeing outside.
That was interesting. If by interesting I mean something akin to watching mice nibble off your toes. "Surely this can't continue" was the comment most expressed after day two, but by day four the sarcastic, "Oh look, it's raining" leaped to the fore. Following those snappy epithets, RTGFKAR and I were oft heard loudly clicking our fingers and saying "Lights on now!" to a not laughable no avail. Electricity, we determined then, was a very useful thing to have. (Whatever it is.) Compounding the problem,(I almost said "issue) were the two words that appeared as if by magic on our cell phones that read: no service; a condition that meant we would not be able to report our lack of lights, computers, television and good humor. We could, if we dared to brave the high winds, sideways falling rain and rapidly deteriorating servidumbre, climb into our car and motor to Union Fenosa to make our report. We, however, dared not, as the memory of the last time we had chosen that option was still in mind. On that occasion, the honcho in charge at U. F. had scribbled a phone number on the back of our bill for us to call. No, we would just have to ride out the storm visualizing someone out there on the job splicing wires, raising downed power poles, throwing switches and sacrificing those less and less handy virgins to the electricity gods in hopes of bringing light back into our lives. It took five days.
I could say we made the best of it, but I'm not sure what best implies. Using the time to invent, create or compose something to cheer all mankind, perhaps. We didn't do that. We read and played scrabble by day and slept fitfully by night; night being defined as dark, mas o menos six o,clock. We also contributed to the world's economic stimulus effort by thrilling the manufacturer and employees of a paper towel company by using roll after roll of their product to clean up the messes left by three puppies reluctant as we to brave the wind and rain. The environment, I lament, no doubt suffers from the loss of the rain forest needed for the production of the absorbent towels.
Yesterday brought storm's end. Still powerless and phone-less, RTGFKAR and I, saying "Let's do it" while stopped and evaluating our chances of driving on the servidumbre over a culvert where the sides of the road had collapsed into the water leaving a barely wide enough path to traverse - we hoped - set forth on a mission to tell someone about our lack of life's finer things, like, oh, contact with the outer world comes to mind. We made it safely across the culvert, renewed breathing and then achieved all of our goals. We purchased a generator in David, I got my license renewed - a thing that had taken weeks of trying - reported and later had our power restored, picked up our bar stools that had been ordered months before, eaten pizza and brought home KFC for Woowoo Charly.
Life is good again. Good being partially, but not insignificantly, defined as puppies peeing outside.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Killer Cockers?
Police in Boquete, Panama are reporting a death by mutilation of a squeaky toy at the Hoff/Wal residence. The innocent toy, a large mouselike replica was last seen in good condition catching a few rays on the Hoff/Wal lawn late Sunday afternoon, the first of February. Nine-one-one calls reporting squeaks for help were logged early Monday morning.
"It was horrible" a Hoff/Wall neighbor said to this reporter shortly after the event occurred. "You could hear the poor thing squeaking helplessly above the snarls and growls of the beasts that got it. I'm going to have nightmares because of this, I just know it."
When police arrived on the scene they found a headless, disemboweled and eviscerated toy corpse, its parts scattered about the Hoff/Wal property. "I've never seen anything like it" the Chief Inspector said. "The internal squeaker was completely removed from the body and chewed almost beyond recognition. The head, well, for now let's just say it's missing. I don't want to speculate as to where it might be."
The residents of the Hoff/Wal property were interviewed but denied any knowledge of the crime. "We were watching the Super Bowl at the time it happened" one of them, a so called Woowoo Charly, said to investigators and this reporter; a story to which the other house members concurred. "Besides that," Woowoo continued, "we are the ones that brought the rodent into our home. Why would we want to see it harmed?" As each crime scene resident provided an alibi for the others, they were permitted to remain at large pending further investigations into a possible conspiracy.
Two Cocker Spaniel puppies found at the scene were taken into custody for questioning, but later released to their owners as there was insufficient evidence to hold them. Although they were bright eyed and tail wagging, the pups were uncooperative and refused to speak when ordered to do so. Police were not ruling out their possible involvement in the crime. A third dog, a Golden Retriever puppy, was questioned and also permitted to leave as not having sufficiently developed teeth to have taken part in the heinous death of the mouse toy. Both the residents and the Golden were cautioned not to leave town. Though the police do not believe they were the perpetrators of the crime, charges of aiding and abetting could be filed if they were in any way involved with the helpless rodent's demise.
The case remains unsolved and Boquetanians fear further attacks on their toys may be forthcoming. A citywide alert has been issued.
"It was horrible" a Hoff/Wall neighbor said to this reporter shortly after the event occurred. "You could hear the poor thing squeaking helplessly above the snarls and growls of the beasts that got it. I'm going to have nightmares because of this, I just know it."
When police arrived on the scene they found a headless, disemboweled and eviscerated toy corpse, its parts scattered about the Hoff/Wal property. "I've never seen anything like it" the Chief Inspector said. "The internal squeaker was completely removed from the body and chewed almost beyond recognition. The head, well, for now let's just say it's missing. I don't want to speculate as to where it might be."
The residents of the Hoff/Wal property were interviewed but denied any knowledge of the crime. "We were watching the Super Bowl at the time it happened" one of them, a so called Woowoo Charly, said to investigators and this reporter; a story to which the other house members concurred. "Besides that," Woowoo continued, "we are the ones that brought the rodent into our home. Why would we want to see it harmed?" As each crime scene resident provided an alibi for the others, they were permitted to remain at large pending further investigations into a possible conspiracy.
Two Cocker Spaniel puppies found at the scene were taken into custody for questioning, but later released to their owners as there was insufficient evidence to hold them. Although they were bright eyed and tail wagging, the pups were uncooperative and refused to speak when ordered to do so. Police were not ruling out their possible involvement in the crime. A third dog, a Golden Retriever puppy, was questioned and also permitted to leave as not having sufficiently developed teeth to have taken part in the heinous death of the mouse toy. Both the residents and the Golden were cautioned not to leave town. Though the police do not believe they were the perpetrators of the crime, charges of aiding and abetting could be filed if they were in any way involved with the helpless rodent's demise.
The case remains unsolved and Boquetanians fear further attacks on their toys may be forthcoming. A citywide alert has been issued.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Gone 'Round the Bend
Well of course I'm insane. It's never been any big secret. That I actually believe in the Golden Rule and don't believe in any war in which people are killed or wounded, along with the inescapable truth that I love and play golf, all bear witness to my insanity. That I'm not a danger to myself or others has kept me from padded cells and rubber rooms so far, but incarceration is only a naked romp through downtown away. My latest walk on the whack-o side gives further credence to my dementia, but before you all rush to there he goes again judgment, I ask only that you look at the photos that accompany today's blog. How could I, given the scrambled eggs that are my heart and brains, possibly NOT have yielded to this latest and greatest mad impulse? It simply could not be done. Well, not by me anyway.
His name is Finnegan, probably Finny for short. Raffy, Matty, Finny has a certain flow to it and closeness of sound that when calling one I'm likely to get all. That works for me as I'm reminded that Woowoo Charly still calls our daughters Laurakiradara when signaling for one of them just to make sure the right name is in there somewhere. Finnegan is an eight week old Golden Retriever and of course the "Golden" is a part of the rule I mentioned earlier. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you and if you get an opportunity to get a Golden Retriever jump on it." It's in the Bible. You can look it up. It's the reason it's called the "Golden" rule.
Anyway, we bought him at Melo the same store where we found Raffi and Matti. We were there, in fact, to get those pups their latest series of shots. Finnegan was in his Melo cage putting the eyes on me as we walked by. He was telepathy-ing like a pro that he sure would like to be part of our pack. He said the Cockers looked like fun dogs and I seemed like a nice guy even if I was somewhat..."touched" is how he put it. Turns out touched is something dogs look for in a pack leader. I thought "are you sure?" and he thought back, "you bet" so about an hour later he was riding home on Woowoo Chuck's lap with the other mutts while I drove and RTGFKAR made us promise there would be no more dogs. I wondered then if Melo ever carried pygmy goats.
So I'm up at ten minutes to four, pajama clad, standing in the rain watching a fur ball sniff about for a likely spot to pee while I whisper encouragement. It's not really crazy you know. It's just, well...okay it's crazy. I love it though. And that's the craziest part.
Addendum: Woowoo Charly say she knew I was a goner the minute I saw the dog, but then she's been around the lunacy for a long long time. And, of course, it is catching.
His name is Finnegan, probably Finny for short. Raffy, Matty, Finny has a certain flow to it and closeness of sound that when calling one I'm likely to get all. That works for me as I'm reminded that Woowoo Charly still calls our daughters Laurakiradara when signaling for one of them just to make sure the right name is in there somewhere. Finnegan is an eight week old Golden Retriever and of course the "Golden" is a part of the rule I mentioned earlier. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you and if you get an opportunity to get a Golden Retriever jump on it." It's in the Bible. You can look it up. It's the reason it's called the "Golden" rule.
Anyway, we bought him at Melo the same store where we found Raffi and Matti. We were there, in fact, to get those pups their latest series of shots. Finnegan was in his Melo cage putting the eyes on me as we walked by. He was telepathy-ing like a pro that he sure would like to be part of our pack. He said the Cockers looked like fun dogs and I seemed like a nice guy even if I was somewhat..."touched" is how he put it. Turns out touched is something dogs look for in a pack leader. I thought "are you sure?" and he thought back, "you bet" so about an hour later he was riding home on Woowoo Chuck's lap with the other mutts while I drove and RTGFKAR made us promise there would be no more dogs. I wondered then if Melo ever carried pygmy goats.
So I'm up at ten minutes to four, pajama clad, standing in the rain watching a fur ball sniff about for a likely spot to pee while I whisper encouragement. It's not really crazy you know. It's just, well...okay it's crazy. I love it though. And that's the craziest part.
Addendum: Woowoo Charly say she knew I was a goner the minute I saw the dog, but then she's been around the lunacy for a long long time. And, of course, it is catching.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Paciencia
My rule of thumb - and for those of you who don't know the origin of that phrase, it was once a law that you couldn't beat your wife with any stick thicker than your thumb - is that if you have to go to lovely and talented Daveed for more than two tasks, plan on spending the day. Paciencia, patience, is seriously required. Seriously required. Did I mention seriously required?
George Brewster, a Panamanian who speaks fluent English, and I set out in his tired Chrysler Something Small with no back bumper, windows you pulled up by grabbing glass with your hands and George's own propensity for driving fast. Very fast. Our mission, which we had chosen to accept, was to rescue friend V's car from the Ministerio of Something I've Forgotten where cars that had been stolen, but recovered were now housed. To accomplish this mission we had to do two things before hand. First we had to renew my expired driver's license at the Bureau of Expired Driver's Licenses and then we had to buy a new battery for V's car as the old one was muerte, which is Spanish for kaput.
At the License Bureau, after waiting in line, we were told that my application for a new one would have to be processed in Panama City and I would have it in about a week...or so. We could, however, go around the corner to another motor vehicle office where Olga could fix me up with a one day temporary pass to drive. Alrighty then, on to Olga.
We found Olga and a long line in front of her desk. When our turn came, Olga, did something on her computer, determined the system was down, but no te procupe, not to worry, she still had her phone. The line to Pan City, however, was busy. It remained busy until we said screw it and left to buy a battery.
Our quest had begun at eight. It was now quarter to ten. As Pricesmart was close by, we waited in its parking lot until it opened at ten. They didn't have the right kind of battery. Twenty minutes later we found a parts store that did. We made our purchase and were off to the Ministerio.
We entered and passed through the metal detector which I miraculously did not set off. I mean usually my steel corded musculature and iron will have them beeping like crazy. (They do so.) We mentioned the name of the person we needed to see at the security kiosk and were sent to room such and such a flight up. There we found a receptionist after my own heart, she was wearing a winter jacket against the chill of the air conditioner, who told us to have a seat and she would alert Mr. So and So. Some twenty minutes after that, Mr. So and So appeared. He had some paperwork in hand, looked officious and we therefore figured all signs were go. Well wrongo Bureaocracy breath! He asked us where the mechanic was and our quick thinking reply was, "Huh? What mechanic?" He carefully explained that we needed a certified mechanic to examine the car for damage so that any insurance claims we had would be verified. We got on the phone to V's abogada, lawyer, who had arranged this whole pick up. She said she could get us a mechanic by two o,clock. Nevermind, we said. We could find one faster. Behind the Ministerio, but around the corner, was a huge car repair place, Pepe's. After waiting in Pepe's office awhile, he assigned a mechanic to us with a set price of $40 dollars. This was ten dollars cheaper than the lawyer had said her guy would be, so we agreed. We returned to the Ministerio, rounded up Mr. So and So and attempted to install the new battery. I don't know the Spanish for alas, I'll look it up later, alas, a pause and a long sigh are always required after saying alas.....The battery terminals were on the wrong side for this model car. We would have to go back and exchange it. However on the bright side, Mr. So and So said the mechanic's five minute inspection of the non running car would suffice and he need not return. As it was now nearing noon when the Ministerio shut down for two hours of almuerzo, lunch, two o,clock was our new target time.
We exchanged the battery, dined leisurely at Pizza Hut and returned to the Ministerio at twenty minutes to the hour. After watching a telenovela, soap opera, and discussing women, George's favorite topic, we hooked up once again with Mr. So and So who led us to the Evidence Room in the basement of a parking garage where the attendant asked me if I had voted for Obama. When I replied of course, he gave out with a small cheer. After that I signed several papers and then we waited as Mr. So and So went off with them to make copies. Upon his return we were taken to the car where we installed the battery and determined the car needed gas and power steering fluid. No one asked me to show my driver's license, so I drove off in search of the nearest petrol.
V was in Bocas and our plan was to leave her car at the airport so it would be there to drive when she returned. I hit the first gas station between the Ministerio and the airport and put in enough gas to make the needle move off empty. The station, however, had no power steering fluid so we had to back track and find another. When we eventually made it to the airport, I left the car keys at the National Car Rental Booth, part of the plan. I then hopped back into George's jalopy and we headed home.
First though, we stopped at KFC so I could take a bucket home to Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR who are addicted to the 13 Herbs and Spices the chicken is reputed to have. This I knew, would make me a hero and if you can be a hero by simply going to a Drive-thru I'm all for it.
We were back in Boquete at five. Eight to five, a full day. Coulda, woulda, shoulda, if you are into that, taken no more than three hours. Four at the most.
Lucky for me I have paciencia. (I do so!)I knew this was an all dayer. George, on the other hand, displayed some frustration throughout the day, but always in good humor. George, I should point out is 36. At 36 was I patient?
Sure I was.
George Brewster, a Panamanian who speaks fluent English, and I set out in his tired Chrysler Something Small with no back bumper, windows you pulled up by grabbing glass with your hands and George's own propensity for driving fast. Very fast. Our mission, which we had chosen to accept, was to rescue friend V's car from the Ministerio of Something I've Forgotten where cars that had been stolen, but recovered were now housed. To accomplish this mission we had to do two things before hand. First we had to renew my expired driver's license at the Bureau of Expired Driver's Licenses and then we had to buy a new battery for V's car as the old one was muerte, which is Spanish for kaput.
At the License Bureau, after waiting in line, we were told that my application for a new one would have to be processed in Panama City and I would have it in about a week...or so. We could, however, go around the corner to another motor vehicle office where Olga could fix me up with a one day temporary pass to drive. Alrighty then, on to Olga.
We found Olga and a long line in front of her desk. When our turn came, Olga, did something on her computer, determined the system was down, but no te procupe, not to worry, she still had her phone. The line to Pan City, however, was busy. It remained busy until we said screw it and left to buy a battery.
Our quest had begun at eight. It was now quarter to ten. As Pricesmart was close by, we waited in its parking lot until it opened at ten. They didn't have the right kind of battery. Twenty minutes later we found a parts store that did. We made our purchase and were off to the Ministerio.
We entered and passed through the metal detector which I miraculously did not set off. I mean usually my steel corded musculature and iron will have them beeping like crazy. (They do so.) We mentioned the name of the person we needed to see at the security kiosk and were sent to room such and such a flight up. There we found a receptionist after my own heart, she was wearing a winter jacket against the chill of the air conditioner, who told us to have a seat and she would alert Mr. So and So. Some twenty minutes after that, Mr. So and So appeared. He had some paperwork in hand, looked officious and we therefore figured all signs were go. Well wrongo Bureaocracy breath! He asked us where the mechanic was and our quick thinking reply was, "Huh? What mechanic?" He carefully explained that we needed a certified mechanic to examine the car for damage so that any insurance claims we had would be verified. We got on the phone to V's abogada, lawyer, who had arranged this whole pick up. She said she could get us a mechanic by two o,clock. Nevermind, we said. We could find one faster. Behind the Ministerio, but around the corner, was a huge car repair place, Pepe's. After waiting in Pepe's office awhile, he assigned a mechanic to us with a set price of $40 dollars. This was ten dollars cheaper than the lawyer had said her guy would be, so we agreed. We returned to the Ministerio, rounded up Mr. So and So and attempted to install the new battery. I don't know the Spanish for alas, I'll look it up later, alas, a pause and a long sigh are always required after saying alas.....The battery terminals were on the wrong side for this model car. We would have to go back and exchange it. However on the bright side, Mr. So and So said the mechanic's five minute inspection of the non running car would suffice and he need not return. As it was now nearing noon when the Ministerio shut down for two hours of almuerzo, lunch, two o,clock was our new target time.
We exchanged the battery, dined leisurely at Pizza Hut and returned to the Ministerio at twenty minutes to the hour. After watching a telenovela, soap opera, and discussing women, George's favorite topic, we hooked up once again with Mr. So and So who led us to the Evidence Room in the basement of a parking garage where the attendant asked me if I had voted for Obama. When I replied of course, he gave out with a small cheer. After that I signed several papers and then we waited as Mr. So and So went off with them to make copies. Upon his return we were taken to the car where we installed the battery and determined the car needed gas and power steering fluid. No one asked me to show my driver's license, so I drove off in search of the nearest petrol.
V was in Bocas and our plan was to leave her car at the airport so it would be there to drive when she returned. I hit the first gas station between the Ministerio and the airport and put in enough gas to make the needle move off empty. The station, however, had no power steering fluid so we had to back track and find another. When we eventually made it to the airport, I left the car keys at the National Car Rental Booth, part of the plan. I then hopped back into George's jalopy and we headed home.
First though, we stopped at KFC so I could take a bucket home to Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR who are addicted to the 13 Herbs and Spices the chicken is reputed to have. This I knew, would make me a hero and if you can be a hero by simply going to a Drive-thru I'm all for it.
We were back in Boquete at five. Eight to five, a full day. Coulda, woulda, shoulda, if you are into that, taken no more than three hours. Four at the most.
Lucky for me I have paciencia. (I do so!)I knew this was an all dayer. George, on the other hand, displayed some frustration throughout the day, but always in good humor. George, I should point out is 36. At 36 was I patient?
Sure I was.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Back in my Swiveling Saddle
After a visit from D.C. Dave, Diapering Diva Dara and Jumping to his own Jive Jackson, I took ill - okay I didn't really take it, it gave itself to me voluntarily - and my hand was stayed from my usual keyboard kaleidoscoping. "Not to worry" the Red Queen said, "one more cough and it's off with his head." (I am reminded that it is not the cough that carries you off, it's the coffin.)
I'm back now though, strong enough to press down random keys that make no sense to all but a demented few, you my trusty readers. You are trusty aren't you? (The demented is a given or why else would you be reading this?)
This morning I learned a lesson from my puppies as with careful attention I so often do. (Now there's a sentence.) No matter how rapidly you rush through life, and the pups are especially good at that, you should take time to stop, as they do, and eat the flowers. The yellow ones in particular.
I have to write a "Noir" story. I'm considering this for an opening:
She sauntered into the office like there was something on her mind, but I could see she was far too pretty and far too blond for that to be the case. She paused a moment to blow a curl from her left eye with a little puff out the corner of her mouth. She looked us over for a second or two, then fixed her baby blues on me as she said, "Is there a Dangerous Dick here?"
"It's Dick Danger" I said. "What can I do you for, Dollface?"
Ah, it feels good to have the Monkeymind leaping about again.
I love this line from "Milking the Moon", an as told to biography of Eugene Walter. Never heard of him you say? Well neither did I, but he's an interesting guy who had an interesting life. Anyway the line: "New york is a battleground. Paris is a ruined garden." Think about that for awhile. Okay are you done? Now tell me what it means.
We have half of an intense rainbow, the right half, arcing outside my office window. The other half was eaten by aliens or maybe Pacmen. It just disappears right at the highest point of the curve. Weird I tell ya, weird.
Okay I'm done. Except for that moon hiding behind the tree. Can you see it? I got that shot from two months ago. I've been waiting for just the right moment to post it and this is clearly that moment. I did, afterall, use the word moon a couple of paragraphs ago.
I'm back now though, strong enough to press down random keys that make no sense to all but a demented few, you my trusty readers. You are trusty aren't you? (The demented is a given or why else would you be reading this?)
This morning I learned a lesson from my puppies as with careful attention I so often do. (Now there's a sentence.) No matter how rapidly you rush through life, and the pups are especially good at that, you should take time to stop, as they do, and eat the flowers. The yellow ones in particular.
I have to write a "Noir" story. I'm considering this for an opening:
She sauntered into the office like there was something on her mind, but I could see she was far too pretty and far too blond for that to be the case. She paused a moment to blow a curl from her left eye with a little puff out the corner of her mouth. She looked us over for a second or two, then fixed her baby blues on me as she said, "Is there a Dangerous Dick here?"
"It's Dick Danger" I said. "What can I do you for, Dollface?"
Ah, it feels good to have the Monkeymind leaping about again.
I love this line from "Milking the Moon", an as told to biography of Eugene Walter. Never heard of him you say? Well neither did I, but he's an interesting guy who had an interesting life. Anyway the line: "New york is a battleground. Paris is a ruined garden." Think about that for awhile. Okay are you done? Now tell me what it means.
We have half of an intense rainbow, the right half, arcing outside my office window. The other half was eaten by aliens or maybe Pacmen. It just disappears right at the highest point of the curve. Weird I tell ya, weird.
Okay I'm done. Except for that moon hiding behind the tree. Can you see it? I got that shot from two months ago. I've been waiting for just the right moment to post it and this is clearly that moment. I did, afterall, use the word moon a couple of paragraphs ago.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
More Dog Stuff
Yabba dabba do, alrighty then. Another less than cheerful looking morning here in Paradise With Rain. We've got a sky full of gray glop, rain dripping from eaves to my fore and mud a-mounting all around. Aside from that I have nothing to say which is about as unusual as dishes in the sink.
We made a sudden burst to Lovely and Talented David yesterday and brought the pups along for the ride. We thought they'd sleep after having had a raucus romp earlier in the day with me and their pal Kooka. Kooka is a seven or eight month old Husky pupling that has replaced Old Girl as the latest neighborhood canine to adopt us whether we like it or not. Old Girl has been absent the premises - I know because I check my premises, (That's a kind of inside joke I made for myself) for over two weeks and we suspect she may now be napping curled on a warm spot, making small snores and funny dog snorfs as she dreams about steak in the Great Doggieland Beyond. We were wrong about the pups sleeping though. They stayed awake so they could barf loudly and repeatedly throughout the drive. Ah the joys of dog raising. What could be more fun?
We made it to PriceSmart after a couple of stops to clean up the mess and I volunteered to walk the dogs while RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly took the first shift in the store. A security guard shooed me and the pups away from the building's front, but not before Matti had dropped a line of doggie dumps along the sidewalk fronting the rows of shopping carts. At the security guards request, I further volunteered to pick up the piles and slam dunk them into a handy trash barrel. This was done with the aid of a rapidly shrinking roll of paper towels we had brought along as a "just in case" measure. We are far seeing people.
We had other stops to make, EH (Everything For the Home)and Do-It-Center. At EH we learned that they had everything for the home except the bar stools we had ordered weeks ago. In truth, they did have them, but they had sold the lot to someone else. We ordered more. At Do-It, Woowoo Charly bought a couple pillows which is like buying tools at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I don't know her reasoning but it was probably something along the lines of "you can fix darn near everything with a couple of good pillows."
The ride home was uneventful unless you consider puppy puking an event. Future trips will be "sin cachorros" (without the mutts) until they have the stomachs for it.
Alrighty then, indeed.
We made a sudden burst to Lovely and Talented David yesterday and brought the pups along for the ride. We thought they'd sleep after having had a raucus romp earlier in the day with me and their pal Kooka. Kooka is a seven or eight month old Husky pupling that has replaced Old Girl as the latest neighborhood canine to adopt us whether we like it or not. Old Girl has been absent the premises - I know because I check my premises, (That's a kind of inside joke I made for myself) for over two weeks and we suspect she may now be napping curled on a warm spot, making small snores and funny dog snorfs as she dreams about steak in the Great Doggieland Beyond. We were wrong about the pups sleeping though. They stayed awake so they could barf loudly and repeatedly throughout the drive. Ah the joys of dog raising. What could be more fun?
We made it to PriceSmart after a couple of stops to clean up the mess and I volunteered to walk the dogs while RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly took the first shift in the store. A security guard shooed me and the pups away from the building's front, but not before Matti had dropped a line of doggie dumps along the sidewalk fronting the rows of shopping carts. At the security guards request, I further volunteered to pick up the piles and slam dunk them into a handy trash barrel. This was done with the aid of a rapidly shrinking roll of paper towels we had brought along as a "just in case" measure. We are far seeing people.
We had other stops to make, EH (Everything For the Home)and Do-It-Center. At EH we learned that they had everything for the home except the bar stools we had ordered weeks ago. In truth, they did have them, but they had sold the lot to someone else. We ordered more. At Do-It, Woowoo Charly bought a couple pillows which is like buying tools at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I don't know her reasoning but it was probably something along the lines of "you can fix darn near everything with a couple of good pillows."
The ride home was uneventful unless you consider puppy puking an event. Future trips will be "sin cachorros" (without the mutts) until they have the stomachs for it.
Alrighty then, indeed.
Friday, January 02, 2009
The First Day Of....
The first day of the rest of my life began at seis y media en punto, six thirty on the dot. Raffi and Matti were making noisy appeals for freedom from their kennel that couldn't be ignored. I rolled out of bed, dressed and set about my morning chores. I made a pot of coffee, put away last night's dishes and unlocked the front and back doors. I then turned the now seriously crazed puppies loose and they bee-lined to the yard. While they sniffed about for the just right spot to deposit the remains of their last night's dinner, I carried the patio furniture outside. We bring it in at night to assure we will still have it in the morning. I then walked the dogs completely around our house twice which is an exercise that further stimulates their ability to place doggie land mines in random, but somehow carefully selected spots. Why else all that sniffing and circling about before the squat? When I was reasonably sure they had nothing left to donate to the yard work, I brought out their bowls of kibble. The dogs eat their morning meal, separated by our glass patio door. This keeps Raffi the stronger of the two from bogarting all the food. Up to this point my day had not differed a whit from all the days that had gone before since the puppies moved in. Now though, instead of bringing out my guitar and brutalizing the morning stillness with discordant chords, I leashed up the mutts and said "Alrighty then, let's hit the trail." The dogs were all for it.
We walked down our unpaved driveway to the unpaved servidumbre (access road) that ultimately leads to a paved road that takes you to downtown Boquete or up a hill to parts unknown. I've been up the hill to where the pavement ends, a kilometer or so, but no further. My goal as we trekked over the rocks and rubble of our servidumbre that is a now barely passable by car disaster since November's flood, was simply to walk out for half an hour and then walk back; exercise for mutts and man alike. We passed several indian men carrying baskets and bags on their way to pick coffee beans and small herds of noisy indian children on their way to...somewhere. I think school is out now as December starts Panama's summer. Apart from these people, all encountered on the servidumbre, we had the hike to ourselves. I opted to go up the paved road to see how far we would get in our allotted half hour, ten minutes of which had already expired. Progress when walking two puppies is slow as a lot of time is spent separating entwined leashes and encouraging the noses with dogs attached to not stop at every interesting scent. We made it almost to pavement's end before my watch said it was time to turn around. The dogs didn't protest when I headed them home. The small flaw in my plan to make this walk a morning hour was that the trip back took less than twenty minutes, the result of going downhill and puppies in a seeming hurry to get home. We will go further out on the morrow.
When we got back to the house we found RTGFKAR up and about and Woowoo Charly stirring. I put the pups on the bed with her to further the wake up process and then headed here to the office and my computer. Somewhere along the way I found a cup of coffee.
As a follow up to the line "The first day of the rest of my life began" one would reasonably expect something with a more dramatic tone than a dog walk. I shaved my head and entered the monastery might be good or perhaps I told my boss to shove it and drove to Vegas. The dog walk, though,works for me. I consider it a damn good start.
We walked down our unpaved driveway to the unpaved servidumbre (access road) that ultimately leads to a paved road that takes you to downtown Boquete or up a hill to parts unknown. I've been up the hill to where the pavement ends, a kilometer or so, but no further. My goal as we trekked over the rocks and rubble of our servidumbre that is a now barely passable by car disaster since November's flood, was simply to walk out for half an hour and then walk back; exercise for mutts and man alike. We passed several indian men carrying baskets and bags on their way to pick coffee beans and small herds of noisy indian children on their way to...somewhere. I think school is out now as December starts Panama's summer. Apart from these people, all encountered on the servidumbre, we had the hike to ourselves. I opted to go up the paved road to see how far we would get in our allotted half hour, ten minutes of which had already expired. Progress when walking two puppies is slow as a lot of time is spent separating entwined leashes and encouraging the noses with dogs attached to not stop at every interesting scent. We made it almost to pavement's end before my watch said it was time to turn around. The dogs didn't protest when I headed them home. The small flaw in my plan to make this walk a morning hour was that the trip back took less than twenty minutes, the result of going downhill and puppies in a seeming hurry to get home. We will go further out on the morrow.
When we got back to the house we found RTGFKAR up and about and Woowoo Charly stirring. I put the pups on the bed with her to further the wake up process and then headed here to the office and my computer. Somewhere along the way I found a cup of coffee.
As a follow up to the line "The first day of the rest of my life began" one would reasonably expect something with a more dramatic tone than a dog walk. I shaved my head and entered the monastery might be good or perhaps I told my boss to shove it and drove to Vegas. The dog walk, though,works for me. I consider it a damn good start.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Resolutions
Tomorrow, the second day of January, that's the bigee. It's foolish to try'n start your life changing resolutions on the first of January. The first of January is a holiday. Why would anyone want to spoil a perfectly good holiday by eschewing this that and the other evil thing that dogs them or add a healthful regimen in the middle of a party. Tomorrow, I say, tomorrow is the day for changes. Either that or the day after.
My own changes are the same old tired batch of resolutions I make every year. Write more, drink less, eat less, exercise more, practice guitar regularly, get the stumps pulled out, slop the hogs, milk the chickens, see the ball, follow through, be present, respect my elders, turn off unnecessary lights, get a good night's sleep, travel the world teaching kindness, humility and how to be Number 1, get a hole in one or at least in two, shimmy like my sister Kate, dance with the stars, make sure my shoes are shined and my nails are clipped, spend Tuesdays with Morrie or Larry maybe Moe, eat more vegetables and fruit, ask my doctor if Viagra is right for me, let the sun shine in, walk the plants, water the dogs, be-bop-a-lula, fly the friendly skies, get the lead out, learn more Spanish, swear less or more colorfully, read only good stuff, do the macarena and the locomotive, decline taking a cabinet position, get out more, spend more time at home, hike, bike, badmitten, mow the lawn, maintain the car, prevent forest fires, learn from my mistakes, put my toys away, brush regularly, beat the band, don't rain on parades, say a little prayer, whistle while I work, inka-dinka-do every chance I get and, of course, zippedy-doodah whenever my doodah is open, just to name a few.
Not today though, tomorrow.
My own changes are the same old tired batch of resolutions I make every year. Write more, drink less, eat less, exercise more, practice guitar regularly, get the stumps pulled out, slop the hogs, milk the chickens, see the ball, follow through, be present, respect my elders, turn off unnecessary lights, get a good night's sleep, travel the world teaching kindness, humility and how to be Number 1, get a hole in one or at least in two, shimmy like my sister Kate, dance with the stars, make sure my shoes are shined and my nails are clipped, spend Tuesdays with Morrie or Larry maybe Moe, eat more vegetables and fruit, ask my doctor if Viagra is right for me, let the sun shine in, walk the plants, water the dogs, be-bop-a-lula, fly the friendly skies, get the lead out, learn more Spanish, swear less or more colorfully, read only good stuff, do the macarena and the locomotive, decline taking a cabinet position, get out more, spend more time at home, hike, bike, badmitten, mow the lawn, maintain the car, prevent forest fires, learn from my mistakes, put my toys away, brush regularly, beat the band, don't rain on parades, say a little prayer, whistle while I work, inka-dinka-do every chance I get and, of course, zippedy-doodah whenever my doodah is open, just to name a few.
Not today though, tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Book List 2008
Okay, so there are only 26.
1. The Jewel in the Crown by Paul Scott Book one of The Raj Quartet. Densely written doings in colonial India.
2. The Lighthouse Murders by P.D. James Intriguing mystery, neatly solved by Adam Dalgliesh and company.
3. Leave It To Psmith by P.G.Wodehouse Comic entanglements that all work out for the best.
4. The Day of the Scorpion by Paul Scott Book two of The Raj Quartet The continuing saga of India, the British Empire and small histories with large consequences.
5. Sherlock Holmes, The Unauthorized Biography by Nick Rennison Read the first half, skimmed the second. This book is for Homes aficionados only.
6. From Where You Dream, The Process of Writing Fiction by Robert Olen Butler
Interesting ideas. Different approach.
7. Innocent Blood by P.D. James Complex characters in a complex plot with an unusual ending.
8. Fifth Business by Robertson Davies First of “The Deptford Trilogy.” Spectacularly written. Lots of human observations and insights along the way. Not an easy read, but well worth staying the course.
9. Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen Fast paced, fun, circus story. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
10. The Manticore by Robertson Davies Second in The Deptford Trilogy Fascinating character study.
11. I am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe Country Girl goes to college and comes of age among other things.
12. Special Topics In Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl A dark mystery unraveled by the book’s protagonist, a sixteen year old girl prodigy. Brilliant first novel.
13. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole A chuckle fest throughout with a most unusual protagonist.
14. How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas Foster An entertainingly written how to read between the lines book.
15. World of Wonders by Robertson Davies Final book of the Depthford Trilogies. All is revealed and we learn who killed Boy Daunton.
16. Dress your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris Funny sketches by a true wit.
Barrel Fever by David Sedaris Off the wall funny.
18. A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin Book One of a fantasy series. Awesome.
19. The Woman Lit by Fireflies Jim Harrison Three novellas by a great writer.
20. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde Wildly imaginative fun read.
21. Julip Jim Harrison Three more fascinating novellas. Best character writer I know.
22. A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin Second book of the series. Left hanging. Need to get to book three soon.
23. The English Major Jim Harrison Former teacher and former farmer takes an entertaining road trip following his divorce that makes for an enjoyable read.
24. A Good Scent From A Strange Mountain Robert Olen Butler Short stories about Vietnamese told by Vietnamese living here (the U.S.) and there, Nam. Butler of course has written them all, but each voice sounds original and authentic. This book was a Pulitzer winner and deservedly so.
25. Silent Joe T. Jefferson Parker Layered mysteries with a unique central character. A good read.
26. Killshot Elmore Leonard Pro killer meets amateur killer, both get their comeuppance from a housewife. Elmore’s always fun.
1. The Jewel in the Crown by Paul Scott Book one of The Raj Quartet. Densely written doings in colonial India.
2. The Lighthouse Murders by P.D. James Intriguing mystery, neatly solved by Adam Dalgliesh and company.
3. Leave It To Psmith by P.G.Wodehouse Comic entanglements that all work out for the best.
4. The Day of the Scorpion by Paul Scott Book two of The Raj Quartet The continuing saga of India, the British Empire and small histories with large consequences.
5. Sherlock Holmes, The Unauthorized Biography by Nick Rennison Read the first half, skimmed the second. This book is for Homes aficionados only.
6. From Where You Dream, The Process of Writing Fiction by Robert Olen Butler
Interesting ideas. Different approach.
7. Innocent Blood by P.D. James Complex characters in a complex plot with an unusual ending.
8. Fifth Business by Robertson Davies First of “The Deptford Trilogy.” Spectacularly written. Lots of human observations and insights along the way. Not an easy read, but well worth staying the course.
9. Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen Fast paced, fun, circus story. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
10. The Manticore by Robertson Davies Second in The Deptford Trilogy Fascinating character study.
11. I am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe Country Girl goes to college and comes of age among other things.
12. Special Topics In Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl A dark mystery unraveled by the book’s protagonist, a sixteen year old girl prodigy. Brilliant first novel.
13. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole A chuckle fest throughout with a most unusual protagonist.
14. How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas Foster An entertainingly written how to read between the lines book.
15. World of Wonders by Robertson Davies Final book of the Depthford Trilogies. All is revealed and we learn who killed Boy Daunton.
16. Dress your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris Funny sketches by a true wit.
Barrel Fever by David Sedaris Off the wall funny.
18. A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin Book One of a fantasy series. Awesome.
19. The Woman Lit by Fireflies Jim Harrison Three novellas by a great writer.
20. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde Wildly imaginative fun read.
21. Julip Jim Harrison Three more fascinating novellas. Best character writer I know.
22. A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin Second book of the series. Left hanging. Need to get to book three soon.
23. The English Major Jim Harrison Former teacher and former farmer takes an entertaining road trip following his divorce that makes for an enjoyable read.
24. A Good Scent From A Strange Mountain Robert Olen Butler Short stories about Vietnamese told by Vietnamese living here (the U.S.) and there, Nam. Butler of course has written them all, but each voice sounds original and authentic. This book was a Pulitzer winner and deservedly so.
25. Silent Joe T. Jefferson Parker Layered mysteries with a unique central character. A good read.
26. Killshot Elmore Leonard Pro killer meets amateur killer, both get their comeuppance from a housewife. Elmore’s always fun.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Crawling to the Finish
Doldrums. End of year doldrums. Feel like I haven't had a novel thought or turned a clever phrase in weeks. Probably haven't. Standing at the starting line of the new year shaking out the legs, stretching, waiting for the ready, set, go part. What will 2009 bring? More of the same? A not too bad proposition; more golf, more books, more blank screens to fill with nonsense. More family, more friends, more of life-its-own self. So what am I waiting for, let's get on with it. Nope, can't do it. That's jumping the gun. A false start. Have to wait. Be patient. Hold back those resolutions. Have to FINISH this year. Must be how Obama feels.
And speaking of finishing, I finished two light reads last week, if books of murder and mayhem can be called light. The first an Elmore Leonard oldie entitled "Killshot", and the second a T. Jefferson Parker Edgar Award nominee, "Silent Joe", that was the better of the two books. I typed them onto my 2008 book list as numbers 28 and 29 read this year. Most years my count is in the forties, but this year's list included five books of over a thousand pages. I could read four Dick Francis who-done-its for each of those so my pace is about average...for me. Woowoo Charly read the same tomes as I and roughly a hundred more. I now use her as my personal pre-reading critic. I ask her which book will be my next. I'll blog my list shortly, if I can get my old computer to hang onto the Internet long enough to SEND.
There is an intense rainbow out the window to my right. I wish I could describe it to you but rainbows don't have any of the colors that I know, colors like red, blue or orange. They have artist palette colors with names like cerise, magenta, lilac, shaquille and mutombo. Doesn't matter now though. It's gone to wherever rainbows go. Perhaps in search of a new year.
And speaking of finishing, I finished two light reads last week, if books of murder and mayhem can be called light. The first an Elmore Leonard oldie entitled "Killshot", and the second a T. Jefferson Parker Edgar Award nominee, "Silent Joe", that was the better of the two books. I typed them onto my 2008 book list as numbers 28 and 29 read this year. Most years my count is in the forties, but this year's list included five books of over a thousand pages. I could read four Dick Francis who-done-its for each of those so my pace is about average...for me. Woowoo Charly read the same tomes as I and roughly a hundred more. I now use her as my personal pre-reading critic. I ask her which book will be my next. I'll blog my list shortly, if I can get my old computer to hang onto the Internet long enough to SEND.
There is an intense rainbow out the window to my right. I wish I could describe it to you but rainbows don't have any of the colors that I know, colors like red, blue or orange. They have artist palette colors with names like cerise, magenta, lilac, shaquille and mutombo. Doesn't matter now though. It's gone to wherever rainbows go. Perhaps in search of a new year.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Sunrise Sunset
My dermatologist, Doctor Panagas, pronounced pain-in-the-ass, no, wait, that's my proctologist, ( kidding, I don't really have a proctologist and hope I never need to despite all the blog potential there) says I should put sun block on my face everyday even if I don't plan to go outside or the sun isn't shining because you never know when an evil ray from Old Sol might slip through a window pane and zap me on the nose. I told him that if I wanted to put slime on my face on regular basis I would have chosen to be a woman back there in the womb when the choices were being handed out. Women thrive on lotions and potions and do not seem to be bothered by the slime factor. (The S in SPF, in case you don't know, stands for slime.) I have met people who unlike me say they can't stand the feel of the sun on their skin. They prefer cool air touching their bodies. Whackos if you ask me, most likely descendants from a dark planet. We ex pats from Venus where the temperature is a mild 220 degrees or something like that, can't stand cold air blowing across our skin. It makes us scrunch our shoulders, shiver and sneeze. We prefer heat and specifically the kind that comes from the sun. What turns out to be annoying though, is that our basking leads to skin cancer. What, I ask you, do the chill freaks get from walking around cold all the time? Do they have some doctor saying take off your hat, roll up your sleeves, put on some shorts and get out of the shade? Is there some slime they have to use to protect them from cool breezes? I hope so, it's only fair.
As I've noted before, it's good to vent.
I'm catching a lot of sunrises these days. (Puppies desperate to go out account for that.) Apart from the fact that seeing the sun come up means you have made it through the night alive and now it's time to put on your SPF 60, sunrises are overrated. Sure there is a nice, subtle brightening of the sky and the world becomes magically visible as nature turns up the dimmer switch, but compared to sunsets sunrises lack the drama, the oomph, and the color that accompany the sun going down. Of course, as the sun sets I am often sitting comfortably on a patio chair, cigar and cocktail in hand, body slathered in slime, hat pulled low on my forehead, doing my best to bask without harm, so I may be biased on the subject.
As I've noted before, it's good to vent.
I'm catching a lot of sunrises these days. (Puppies desperate to go out account for that.) Apart from the fact that seeing the sun come up means you have made it through the night alive and now it's time to put on your SPF 60, sunrises are overrated. Sure there is a nice, subtle brightening of the sky and the world becomes magically visible as nature turns up the dimmer switch, but compared to sunsets sunrises lack the drama, the oomph, and the color that accompany the sun going down. Of course, as the sun sets I am often sitting comfortably on a patio chair, cigar and cocktail in hand, body slathered in slime, hat pulled low on my forehead, doing my best to bask without harm, so I may be biased on the subject.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Bronco Blues
Wombat. Wombatting the Broncos get their butts kicked on national and international TV once again because it is clear the networks hate them and revel in their getting stomped before a world audience. No Bronco game has been shown here in Panama since the first game of the season. The networks have been waiting for just the right moment to humiliate the team and Denver once again and that time has come. The Broncos are on a losing streak, their defense, crappy to begin with, is devastated further by injuries and the whole team lacks heart, guts, grit and leadership, so let's, by all means the conspiring networks agree, show them on worldwide television during Primetime playing a team that has all the qualities the Broncos lack and are rolling along on a nice winning streak. Have these people no heart? No compassion? Don't they know how this is going to affect we poor slobs, who being fans, will be compelled to watch. Don't they know this is the Christmas season when charity and mercy should abound, or do they only care about the larger market share that is San Diego where there will be dancing in the streets at game's end? It's a shame, a crime and an insult to the loyal fans of a good city's team that has fallen on hard times and I'm not going to put up with it. I'm going to write a blog about it and tell the world just how I feel. That'll show 'em.
Alrighty then. It's good to vent.
Christmas Eve Day. Time to go put up our decoration.
Alrighty then. It's good to vent.
Christmas Eve Day. Time to go put up our decoration.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Restart
I'm not ready to blog. I'm sitting here sorting through my mind's thought inventory and nothing strikes me as blogable. Of course I never really have all that much on my mind, so the process doesn't take long. I need help, Freud, Jung, Adler, Dr.Phil, maybe even Frazier and Niles. I'm blocked. Haven't written for three days and it feels like three years. What would you do? A couple of writer pals recommend "automatic writing." This is a stream of consciousness, blurt it out, let it flow, write every little thought that comes to mind and see what you get style of writing that works for them. Well, alrighty then, let's give that a try.
Five minutes have elapsed and I got a quick glimpse of something regarding Batman but it slid by before I could type it out.
Okay here we go. That was a good flick and so is It's a Wonderful life. I'd like to see Christian Bale and Jimmy Stewart change roles. "Wha wha wha were is she ca ca ca Commissioner Gordon?" "It's too late now Batman." "You might want to think twice about that twinkie comment bartender. Just because my friend dresses in a Halloween costume on Christmas Eve doesn't mean he can't kick your ass." Oh yeah Christmas, now there's a subject I don't even want to get on. The music is good though. Well some of it anyway. "Jack Frost roasting on an open fire, yule dust snorting up your nose. Although it's been said many times many ways, bah the humbug, bah the humbug, to you." New Year's Eve, now that's a holiday. Time for reflection and nostalgia while at the same time looking optimistically forward. I'm guessing there won't be much nostalgia for 2008 in most of the U.S. of A. what with the financial crash and other catastrophes like the Phillies winning the Series. I enjoyed the year though, for the most part. Great trip to NY, MD and CT. Wrote lots and read much. Losing that dog was sure no fun. Need to come up with a good resolution for 2009. Any suggestions?
Well that almost worked. I don't see anything there that I could blog around the block with. I see some longer pieces I could crank out, but none particularly funny and I prefer particularly funny. I think I'll go back to my own way of kick starting the word machine. I'll type one word and then I'll type another. After that I'll read those two and then I'll type another and so forth into the...near future. Let's get started.
Wombat. Tomorrow.
Five minutes have elapsed and I got a quick glimpse of something regarding Batman but it slid by before I could type it out.
Okay here we go. That was a good flick and so is It's a Wonderful life. I'd like to see Christian Bale and Jimmy Stewart change roles. "Wha wha wha were is she ca ca ca Commissioner Gordon?" "It's too late now Batman." "You might want to think twice about that twinkie comment bartender. Just because my friend dresses in a Halloween costume on Christmas Eve doesn't mean he can't kick your ass." Oh yeah Christmas, now there's a subject I don't even want to get on. The music is good though. Well some of it anyway. "Jack Frost roasting on an open fire, yule dust snorting up your nose. Although it's been said many times many ways, bah the humbug, bah the humbug, to you." New Year's Eve, now that's a holiday. Time for reflection and nostalgia while at the same time looking optimistically forward. I'm guessing there won't be much nostalgia for 2008 in most of the U.S. of A. what with the financial crash and other catastrophes like the Phillies winning the Series. I enjoyed the year though, for the most part. Great trip to NY, MD and CT. Wrote lots and read much. Losing that dog was sure no fun. Need to come up with a good resolution for 2009. Any suggestions?
Well that almost worked. I don't see anything there that I could blog around the block with. I see some longer pieces I could crank out, but none particularly funny and I prefer particularly funny. I think I'll go back to my own way of kick starting the word machine. I'll type one word and then I'll type another. After that I'll read those two and then I'll type another and so forth into the...near future. Let's get started.
Wombat. Tomorrow.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Poop Patrol
Sung to the tune of "I say a little prayer for you": Whenever I wake up, before I put on my...bathrobe, I let the dogs outside to poop.
True. Everyday. Somewhere between six and six-thirty. I can barely get the door open fast enough. I don't know exactly what is in Science Diet Puppy Food, the listed ingredients are surely a sham, but some combination of rocket fuel and laxative are unquestionably part of the mix. That and an expansion agent that actually allows a greater volume of matter to be expelled than was originally ingested. Yesterday at six A.M. we had a poop free lawn. At ten I counted eleven piles. These from two pups who together can't weigh thirty pounds. I'm not complaining mind you, merely stating the facts. In reality (that place where I live apart from all others) I am actually grateful. These are eleven piles of poop I can snatch up with the scooper and toss into the jungle with a quick underhanded softball snap of the wrist. The poop piles that appear subsequent to the morning cluster bombing frequently manifest themselves mysteriously indoors with nary a pup present. These are stealth poops placed strategically about by puppies who don't want the wrath of the two legged giants to rain down upon them in the form of "Bad Dog! Bad Dog! Outside!" and other such expressions of human displeasure that are so far akin to pissing up a rope for all the good they do. These pungent piles must be picked up with TP or paper towels, an act that places the highly odoriferous substance much closer to one's nose and invariably evinces a "show me your Yaeger face" of disgust. The dogs know that it is okay to poop outside. They know because they are rewarded by exclamations of approval from the same giants who are so unforgiving when they do their doggie dumping inside. What they have learned in their clever canine brains is not "woof woof let me out" but rather "heh heh heh, now's my chance, they're not looking." We three, the giants, are at wit's end, which is to say "it ain't funny Mcgee." We watch like hawks for the opportunity to snatch up a squatting puppy and flee with it to the great outdoors but our efforts are seldom rewarded. I now believe the dogs are working in concert. "Look at me, look at me" one will puppy yap, "I'm doing something adorable and cute." While we chuckle or ooh and aah, whichever is called for, the other quietly leaves evidence of its hyper speed digestive tract and then comes to join in the fun with dog number one. When the evidence is discovered, the guilty pup just looks askance as if saying, "not mine, wasn't me, you can't prove a thing." I have resorted to lecturing at length, but this too has proved fruitless. "Listen you floppy eared bozos" I tell them, "a dog who doesn't learn to do their business exclusively outside has to live outside. Get it?" They don't. But then, as I've noted before, my Dog, like my Spanish, is not all that fluent. I have even tried to emulate Cesar Milan, but the mutts didn't understand whispering either.
Alas and alack and oh well. As my friend Bill Baer used to say, "It's a doggie dog world." And that's the truth.
True. Everyday. Somewhere between six and six-thirty. I can barely get the door open fast enough. I don't know exactly what is in Science Diet Puppy Food, the listed ingredients are surely a sham, but some combination of rocket fuel and laxative are unquestionably part of the mix. That and an expansion agent that actually allows a greater volume of matter to be expelled than was originally ingested. Yesterday at six A.M. we had a poop free lawn. At ten I counted eleven piles. These from two pups who together can't weigh thirty pounds. I'm not complaining mind you, merely stating the facts. In reality (that place where I live apart from all others) I am actually grateful. These are eleven piles of poop I can snatch up with the scooper and toss into the jungle with a quick underhanded softball snap of the wrist. The poop piles that appear subsequent to the morning cluster bombing frequently manifest themselves mysteriously indoors with nary a pup present. These are stealth poops placed strategically about by puppies who don't want the wrath of the two legged giants to rain down upon them in the form of "Bad Dog! Bad Dog! Outside!" and other such expressions of human displeasure that are so far akin to pissing up a rope for all the good they do. These pungent piles must be picked up with TP or paper towels, an act that places the highly odoriferous substance much closer to one's nose and invariably evinces a "show me your Yaeger face" of disgust. The dogs know that it is okay to poop outside. They know because they are rewarded by exclamations of approval from the same giants who are so unforgiving when they do their doggie dumping inside. What they have learned in their clever canine brains is not "woof woof let me out" but rather "heh heh heh, now's my chance, they're not looking." We three, the giants, are at wit's end, which is to say "it ain't funny Mcgee." We watch like hawks for the opportunity to snatch up a squatting puppy and flee with it to the great outdoors but our efforts are seldom rewarded. I now believe the dogs are working in concert. "Look at me, look at me" one will puppy yap, "I'm doing something adorable and cute." While we chuckle or ooh and aah, whichever is called for, the other quietly leaves evidence of its hyper speed digestive tract and then comes to join in the fun with dog number one. When the evidence is discovered, the guilty pup just looks askance as if saying, "not mine, wasn't me, you can't prove a thing." I have resorted to lecturing at length, but this too has proved fruitless. "Listen you floppy eared bozos" I tell them, "a dog who doesn't learn to do their business exclusively outside has to live outside. Get it?" They don't. But then, as I've noted before, my Dog, like my Spanish, is not all that fluent. I have even tried to emulate Cesar Milan, but the mutts didn't understand whispering either.
Alas and alack and oh well. As my friend Bill Baer used to say, "It's a doggie dog world." And that's the truth.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Doc and the Diet Thing
We had a rainless day yesterday. Weird, huh?
We lunched at a new restaurant, Tammy's, reputed to have the best hamburger in town. I believe the reputers are right. I split mine with Woowoo Charly who had ordered falafel which is pronounced fa...any way you feel like. I don't know what falafel is for certain, but it was served as ping pong ball sized fried things and came with a side order of hummis another thing I can't account for and pita bread for which I can. It's a Greek tostada right? It was all good.
RTGFKAR had a bacon cheeseburger that came garnished with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and onions and it's always entertaining to listen to him as he removes said garnish with the explanation that if he wanted a salad on his burger he'd order one. RTGFKAR won't eat uncooked vegetables.
The night before, Randy and Maryellen the Texas twosome who are back from cruising the world - okay a small section of it in the Caribbean - took us to dinner at Aura's, a place close to where we live, and there too we were served a fine repast. (It's repast now but it was represent then.)I had an espeghetti con pollo and everyone else had...other stuff. Again, all good.
With that in mind let me tell you how my diet is going. Okay it's not really a diet, it's a goal. No it's not really a goal either it's a plan. My plan. My plan is that every time I reach 170 pounds on our bathroom scale which is clearly unreliable because it always shows me as heavier than I really am, I sure of it, I will restrict my caloric intake until I lose five or more pounds. This will leave me at fifteen pounds overweight, an amount I can live with because it takes so long to lose five pounds that the thought of all the time it would take to lose fifteen more puts me into a deep depression that only high caloric foods can relieve. Pass the cheesecake please. I will then eat whatever I want until I ACHIEVE 170 again and then start over. If my plan works I'm going to incorporate it into a diet book called The Yoyo Diet Plan with a subtitle of How to Lose and Gain Weight for Fun and Profit, because diet books sell like crazy (the profit part, gaining the weight back is the fun part) even if they are exactly that...crazy.
Wish me luck.
We lunched at a new restaurant, Tammy's, reputed to have the best hamburger in town. I believe the reputers are right. I split mine with Woowoo Charly who had ordered falafel which is pronounced fa...any way you feel like. I don't know what falafel is for certain, but it was served as ping pong ball sized fried things and came with a side order of hummis another thing I can't account for and pita bread for which I can. It's a Greek tostada right? It was all good.
RTGFKAR had a bacon cheeseburger that came garnished with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and onions and it's always entertaining to listen to him as he removes said garnish with the explanation that if he wanted a salad on his burger he'd order one. RTGFKAR won't eat uncooked vegetables.
The night before, Randy and Maryellen the Texas twosome who are back from cruising the world - okay a small section of it in the Caribbean - took us to dinner at Aura's, a place close to where we live, and there too we were served a fine repast. (It's repast now but it was represent then.)I had an espeghetti con pollo and everyone else had...other stuff. Again, all good.
With that in mind let me tell you how my diet is going. Okay it's not really a diet, it's a goal. No it's not really a goal either it's a plan. My plan. My plan is that every time I reach 170 pounds on our bathroom scale which is clearly unreliable because it always shows me as heavier than I really am, I sure of it, I will restrict my caloric intake until I lose five or more pounds. This will leave me at fifteen pounds overweight, an amount I can live with because it takes so long to lose five pounds that the thought of all the time it would take to lose fifteen more puts me into a deep depression that only high caloric foods can relieve. Pass the cheesecake please. I will then eat whatever I want until I ACHIEVE 170 again and then start over. If my plan works I'm going to incorporate it into a diet book called The Yoyo Diet Plan with a subtitle of How to Lose and Gain Weight for Fun and Profit, because diet books sell like crazy (the profit part, gaining the weight back is the fun part) even if they are exactly that...crazy.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Scenario # 3 and More
Scenario #3
Rockmont’s new stable hand was fresh from his second year at veterinary school and seemed to have the caring hands that all good animal people possess. Cynthia Rockmont, just eighteen today, watches as he gently examines the stable’s prize filly and imagines those hands on her own withers and loins. It has been a long summer for Cynthia, isolated out here on her grandparent’s bluegrass acreage where no one, until yesterday, was under fifty and the memory of her last high school caress was fading to nothingness. She longed to be held again, to smell the sweat and pheromones of a boy in heat, to feel his want and his need. She watches excitedly as the new vet-to-be brushes and grooms the sleek animal, gliding his hands over its haunches and hips and down the long slender legs. The horse responds to its gentle care and turns to nuzzle the man with its nose each time he comes near its graceful neck. Cynthia feels herself growing flush. There is an unexpected heat emanating from her groin, drifting over her breasts and onto her cheeks. She knows she is reddening. This is silly she thinks. Why my hesitation? Look at him. He’s beautiful. She suddenly realizes she is desiring a man for the very first time. Well sure there had been plenty of boys in school; after all, she had been prom queen both Junior and Senior years, and though they had been sweet, they were mostly clumsy and immature. They had kissed her ardently and been allowed to pet some, but not one of them had aroused Cynthia sufficiently to get any further. They had certainly never achieved in her the feeling she had now, a feeling so… so… so damned URGENT! She made up her mind right then and there to give herself a birthday present. One she could hold and touch and be touched by. Her grandparents were away at a horse auction and the house was empty. She calls to him from the veranda, using the nickname the other hands had given him. “Doc” she cries out. “ Doc! Come here. Quickly. I want you.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“He comes off a pick and takes the inbounds pass two steps in front of the half court line. There are two seconds on the clock. He turns, rises and shoots all in one motion. Goooooooood!
President Doc steps to the podium and says “Good evening my fellow earthlings. I come before you deeply honored that you have elected me the first world president. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed, I’ve got a lot of good shit planned.
“Doc dives to his left and snags the low, hot liner. He’s on his feet instantly and tags the runner from first who had gone too far thinking the ball was through the hole. Now if he can race to the bag before the runner headed to third can make it back…and he does! Unassisted triple play!
As Doc steps from the wings to accept his Nobel Prize for Literature he thinks back to the opus that had kicked off his brilliant run of critically acclaimed best sellers. Who would have guessed that “Ninjas in Love” would be such a winner?
The ball was a beautiful, twirling spiral right on line to the fleet wide receiver as he speeds into the end zone, but Doc has him covered tight as a too small sleeping bag. With perfect timing and at the last possible moment, Doc leaps in front of the would be hero and makes a one handed, finger tip interception. Now all he has to do is out run the dogs snapping at his heels to the far goal line. When he gets there he strolls in. He’s put a good ten yards between he and his pursuers, maybe more. We’re talking speed Baby, speed!
“I’m whispering here Ladies and Gentlemen, because I’m standing pretty close to Doc Walton as he prepares to hit his approach shot on the eighteenth. He needs a birdie here to win his seventh Masters and break the tie with Tiger Woods. He swings and the ball arches gracefully towards the green. It lands past the flagstick but backspins to the hole, stopping within a foot. Start etching that trophy gentlemen, this one’s in the bag.
Doc sits and tries to imagine himself as a real live hero. He’s pushing seventy, has creaky knees, a bad back and carries twenty pounds too many. He’s still got attitude though, and imagination. On top of that his wife and kids love him and his dogs think he’s swell. That’s hero enough for Doc.
Rockmont’s new stable hand was fresh from his second year at veterinary school and seemed to have the caring hands that all good animal people possess. Cynthia Rockmont, just eighteen today, watches as he gently examines the stable’s prize filly and imagines those hands on her own withers and loins. It has been a long summer for Cynthia, isolated out here on her grandparent’s bluegrass acreage where no one, until yesterday, was under fifty and the memory of her last high school caress was fading to nothingness. She longed to be held again, to smell the sweat and pheromones of a boy in heat, to feel his want and his need. She watches excitedly as the new vet-to-be brushes and grooms the sleek animal, gliding his hands over its haunches and hips and down the long slender legs. The horse responds to its gentle care and turns to nuzzle the man with its nose each time he comes near its graceful neck. Cynthia feels herself growing flush. There is an unexpected heat emanating from her groin, drifting over her breasts and onto her cheeks. She knows she is reddening. This is silly she thinks. Why my hesitation? Look at him. He’s beautiful. She suddenly realizes she is desiring a man for the very first time. Well sure there had been plenty of boys in school; after all, she had been prom queen both Junior and Senior years, and though they had been sweet, they were mostly clumsy and immature. They had kissed her ardently and been allowed to pet some, but not one of them had aroused Cynthia sufficiently to get any further. They had certainly never achieved in her the feeling she had now, a feeling so… so… so damned URGENT! She made up her mind right then and there to give herself a birthday present. One she could hold and touch and be touched by. Her grandparents were away at a horse auction and the house was empty. She calls to him from the veranda, using the nickname the other hands had given him. “Doc” she cries out. “ Doc! Come here. Quickly. I want you.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“He comes off a pick and takes the inbounds pass two steps in front of the half court line. There are two seconds on the clock. He turns, rises and shoots all in one motion. Goooooooood!
President Doc steps to the podium and says “Good evening my fellow earthlings. I come before you deeply honored that you have elected me the first world president. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed, I’ve got a lot of good shit planned.
“Doc dives to his left and snags the low, hot liner. He’s on his feet instantly and tags the runner from first who had gone too far thinking the ball was through the hole. Now if he can race to the bag before the runner headed to third can make it back…and he does! Unassisted triple play!
As Doc steps from the wings to accept his Nobel Prize for Literature he thinks back to the opus that had kicked off his brilliant run of critically acclaimed best sellers. Who would have guessed that “Ninjas in Love” would be such a winner?
The ball was a beautiful, twirling spiral right on line to the fleet wide receiver as he speeds into the end zone, but Doc has him covered tight as a too small sleeping bag. With perfect timing and at the last possible moment, Doc leaps in front of the would be hero and makes a one handed, finger tip interception. Now all he has to do is out run the dogs snapping at his heels to the far goal line. When he gets there he strolls in. He’s put a good ten yards between he and his pursuers, maybe more. We’re talking speed Baby, speed!
“I’m whispering here Ladies and Gentlemen, because I’m standing pretty close to Doc Walton as he prepares to hit his approach shot on the eighteenth. He needs a birdie here to win his seventh Masters and break the tie with Tiger Woods. He swings and the ball arches gracefully towards the green. It lands past the flagstick but backspins to the hole, stopping within a foot. Start etching that trophy gentlemen, this one’s in the bag.
Doc sits and tries to imagine himself as a real live hero. He’s pushing seventy, has creaky knees, a bad back and carries twenty pounds too many. He’s still got attitude though, and imagination. On top of that his wife and kids love him and his dogs think he’s swell. That’s hero enough for Doc.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Scenario # 2
She was all mine.
I had separated from my companions when my hunting dog, Leonard, had bolted into the woods in search of who-knows-what. He had never spooked a rabbit or bird in his life, so I doubted if the game was afoot. I trailed after him, listening to his bark grow more and more distant and finally drift off altogether. It was then I realized I was lost. I was deep into a Maine forest and night was closing in fast. I climbed a scraggily pine for a look about and saw nothing at first but other trees. I was set to climb back down when off to my left I spotted a thin column of smoke rising above the forest top. I estimated the distance to it at no more than two hundred yards. Twenty minutes later I was there, standing in front of small, well kept cabin.
A woman appeared in the doorway, looked at me for a moment and then asked if I wanted to come in and “take a load off.” I was stunned and nearly speechless. The woman was like no one I had ever seen outside of the movies. She was tall, real tall, over six feet for sure and when she turned to go back inside after my stuttered “yes”, I feasted my eyes on an ample butt that my friend Johnson would have characterized as “a lot of junk in the trunk.” The cabin was nothing more than a kitchen, a bedroom and a couple of chairs before a fireplace. I sat in one of those, turned so that I could watch her “fix” us a couple of drinks. The light where she stood was bright and I took note of all her features as she went about icing, pouring, mixing and stirring some sort of cocktail I wasn’t familiar with. She had a high forehead with a horizontal line running across it wide as a highway divider. Her hair was roughly the texture of a tired mop and it hung loosely down her back. It wasn’t like any color I had seen before, but that was just the first of her many surprises. She had a thin nose with large nostrils displaying some sort of weed in abundance. When her full, red lip parted - I could only see the one as her under-bite overlapped the top - a set of attractive yellow teeth were revealed. There was a nice gap between the front two that looked a lot like a tunnel entrance. On her chin was one of those cute Kirk Douglas dimples, only hers had something in it I couldn’t quite make out. It might have been a piercing piece, but then again it could have been a hood ornament or a raisin cluster. I was hoping to get a closer look. She had narrow shoulders, but made up for it with real wide hips. Her breasts poking out her biker tee shirt, one about an inch further than the other, looked plump and ripe and especially so as it was growing cooler and her nipples made dents in the fabric like roofing nails not quite hammered all the way in. I was growing increasingly aroused as I watched, but I didn’t get my hopes up until the goddess handed me my cocktail and said, “This is just for starters.” It was then I knew with a certainty that couldn’t be denied. She was all mine.
I had separated from my companions when my hunting dog, Leonard, had bolted into the woods in search of who-knows-what. He had never spooked a rabbit or bird in his life, so I doubted if the game was afoot. I trailed after him, listening to his bark grow more and more distant and finally drift off altogether. It was then I realized I was lost. I was deep into a Maine forest and night was closing in fast. I climbed a scraggily pine for a look about and saw nothing at first but other trees. I was set to climb back down when off to my left I spotted a thin column of smoke rising above the forest top. I estimated the distance to it at no more than two hundred yards. Twenty minutes later I was there, standing in front of small, well kept cabin.
A woman appeared in the doorway, looked at me for a moment and then asked if I wanted to come in and “take a load off.” I was stunned and nearly speechless. The woman was like no one I had ever seen outside of the movies. She was tall, real tall, over six feet for sure and when she turned to go back inside after my stuttered “yes”, I feasted my eyes on an ample butt that my friend Johnson would have characterized as “a lot of junk in the trunk.” The cabin was nothing more than a kitchen, a bedroom and a couple of chairs before a fireplace. I sat in one of those, turned so that I could watch her “fix” us a couple of drinks. The light where she stood was bright and I took note of all her features as she went about icing, pouring, mixing and stirring some sort of cocktail I wasn’t familiar with. She had a high forehead with a horizontal line running across it wide as a highway divider. Her hair was roughly the texture of a tired mop and it hung loosely down her back. It wasn’t like any color I had seen before, but that was just the first of her many surprises. She had a thin nose with large nostrils displaying some sort of weed in abundance. When her full, red lip parted - I could only see the one as her under-bite overlapped the top - a set of attractive yellow teeth were revealed. There was a nice gap between the front two that looked a lot like a tunnel entrance. On her chin was one of those cute Kirk Douglas dimples, only hers had something in it I couldn’t quite make out. It might have been a piercing piece, but then again it could have been a hood ornament or a raisin cluster. I was hoping to get a closer look. She had narrow shoulders, but made up for it with real wide hips. Her breasts poking out her biker tee shirt, one about an inch further than the other, looked plump and ripe and especially so as it was growing cooler and her nipples made dents in the fabric like roofing nails not quite hammered all the way in. I was growing increasingly aroused as I watched, but I didn’t get my hopes up until the goddess handed me my cocktail and said, “This is just for starters.” It was then I knew with a certainty that couldn’t be denied. She was all mine.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Scenario #1
Writer's group project for the month is to make ourselves the hero of a piece. To me this says fantasy, so I thought I would do several scenarios in a kind of Harlequin/Argosy style. Here is the first:
I was lost, out of fuel and going down fast. The fog was thick, but I could see what looked like land below and hoped for a stretch of beach to put down on. My engines were sputtering but they gave me just enough lift to keep the nose up. There it was! A fat patch of sand reaching out from the jungle and stretching down to the water, but not nearly enough to land on. I had one hope. If I could hit the surf flat enough I might be able to skip like a stone and make it to the beach.
Moments later my head was ringing and my eyes were giving me cartoon images, but I wasn’t quite out. I had skipped all right, nice as could be, but the sand was soft and I had plowed into it hard and fast. My seat belt had restrained me but something flying loose in the cockpit had given me a pretty good knock. I was trying to focus, regain my sight, but darkness was closing in fast, consciousness slipping away. There were people, natives I thought, outside the plane but I… but I… and then I was gone.
When I awoke I found myself bound and being carried on a kind of make shift stretcher. There were women all around me with wild eyes and hair, dressed, if you could call it that, in animal skins. Most were nearly naked, some fully so. They carried spears and bows and they looked at me with a kind of hunger in their eyes. They took me to a jungle encampment dotted with grass huts. I was propped against a pole somewhere close to the center. For a moment the women just stared at me, but then curiosity or something else I couldn’t quite read compelled them and they closed in and began to touch me. They were murmuring and whispering amongst them selves, sort of fighting for position when a clear voice rang out that startled us all. “Leave him” it said. “My rights as queen make him mine first.” I looked up to see a tall, dusky skinned beauty clutching some kind of silky cloth to her voluptuous body emerge from the nearest hut. She stood apart from the others for a moment as they backed away to clear a path. When she began to move towards me, slowly and sinuously, I could see that her eyes were the hungriest of all. As she neared, her cloth slipped from her shoulders and floated to the ground.
I was lost, out of fuel and going down fast. The fog was thick, but I could see what looked like land below and hoped for a stretch of beach to put down on. My engines were sputtering but they gave me just enough lift to keep the nose up. There it was! A fat patch of sand reaching out from the jungle and stretching down to the water, but not nearly enough to land on. I had one hope. If I could hit the surf flat enough I might be able to skip like a stone and make it to the beach.
Moments later my head was ringing and my eyes were giving me cartoon images, but I wasn’t quite out. I had skipped all right, nice as could be, but the sand was soft and I had plowed into it hard and fast. My seat belt had restrained me but something flying loose in the cockpit had given me a pretty good knock. I was trying to focus, regain my sight, but darkness was closing in fast, consciousness slipping away. There were people, natives I thought, outside the plane but I… but I… and then I was gone.
When I awoke I found myself bound and being carried on a kind of make shift stretcher. There were women all around me with wild eyes and hair, dressed, if you could call it that, in animal skins. Most were nearly naked, some fully so. They carried spears and bows and they looked at me with a kind of hunger in their eyes. They took me to a jungle encampment dotted with grass huts. I was propped against a pole somewhere close to the center. For a moment the women just stared at me, but then curiosity or something else I couldn’t quite read compelled them and they closed in and began to touch me. They were murmuring and whispering amongst them selves, sort of fighting for position when a clear voice rang out that startled us all. “Leave him” it said. “My rights as queen make him mine first.” I looked up to see a tall, dusky skinned beauty clutching some kind of silky cloth to her voluptuous body emerge from the nearest hut. She stood apart from the others for a moment as they backed away to clear a path. When she began to move towards me, slowly and sinuously, I could see that her eyes were the hungriest of all. As she neared, her cloth slipped from her shoulders and floated to the ground.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Monsooner or Later
The rain, which had lessened to a trickle, (trickle is a fun word to say) returned in force yesterday afternoon, continued through the night and is with us still this A.M. Swell.
I bundled up and sat out on the patio anoche, (last night), to watch the rain fall with cigar and whiskey close at hand. RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly were hunkered down in the living room watching CNN and catching up on the doings in the world without rain. Their show was probably better than mine. Mine was akin to watching a landscape painting; nothing really changed from moment to moment. My goal, if I had thought about it and decided on one, was to be present in the weather while letting my stogie and whiskey do the relaxation magic they do, but I wasn't aware of that end as I puffed and sipped and stared mostly into inner space. I don't really do goals anyway. Focusing on the end result of any activity causes me to miss too much of the process where I find the real fun lies.
The weather event we are experiencing has affected me less than others as I am the self proclaimed "last of the great indoorsmen" anyway and much of what I like to do takes place under roof. RTGFKAR is the most affected in our household as his usual, read non rainy, days are spent outdoors landscaping, gardening, building and such. Woowoo Charly, like me, misses golf and is somewhat emotionally affected by the lack of sunshine. We are all cope-ing, though anxious for rain's end.
So there I was on the patio savoring my Crown Royal and blowing smoke into the mist. My thoughts were flying by like fast moving clouds and I only stopped to gaze at a few of them. One of them had to do with the book I am reading in which there are tribes called Quartheen and Dothraki among others. I find those to be wonderful words and there are many more like them in books by George R.R. Martin. I also chuckled (another fun word to say) at Charly's discovery of the ghost on our pup Mattie's chest. I had difficulty photographing it because she wouldn't hold still, but the image is a perfect little Casper. From time to time Charly would join me on the patio for a smoke of her own and we would have short conversations about the pundits punditing on CNN or whatever was in my head at the moment, one time sports, another, the obvious, weather. Throughout most of my sit-out I had pups on my lap curled about each other sleeping. There is something wonderful about stroking their warm fur and feeling their gentle breathing and tiny heartbeats.
Sure there is rain, but life goes on and it is still good. Hope yours is too.
I bundled up and sat out on the patio anoche, (last night), to watch the rain fall with cigar and whiskey close at hand. RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly were hunkered down in the living room watching CNN and catching up on the doings in the world without rain. Their show was probably better than mine. Mine was akin to watching a landscape painting; nothing really changed from moment to moment. My goal, if I had thought about it and decided on one, was to be present in the weather while letting my stogie and whiskey do the relaxation magic they do, but I wasn't aware of that end as I puffed and sipped and stared mostly into inner space. I don't really do goals anyway. Focusing on the end result of any activity causes me to miss too much of the process where I find the real fun lies.
The weather event we are experiencing has affected me less than others as I am the self proclaimed "last of the great indoorsmen" anyway and much of what I like to do takes place under roof. RTGFKAR is the most affected in our household as his usual, read non rainy, days are spent outdoors landscaping, gardening, building and such. Woowoo Charly, like me, misses golf and is somewhat emotionally affected by the lack of sunshine. We are all cope-ing, though anxious for rain's end.
So there I was on the patio savoring my Crown Royal and blowing smoke into the mist. My thoughts were flying by like fast moving clouds and I only stopped to gaze at a few of them. One of them had to do with the book I am reading in which there are tribes called Quartheen and Dothraki among others. I find those to be wonderful words and there are many more like them in books by George R.R. Martin. I also chuckled (another fun word to say) at Charly's discovery of the ghost on our pup Mattie's chest. I had difficulty photographing it because she wouldn't hold still, but the image is a perfect little Casper. From time to time Charly would join me on the patio for a smoke of her own and we would have short conversations about the pundits punditing on CNN or whatever was in my head at the moment, one time sports, another, the obvious, weather. Throughout most of my sit-out I had pups on my lap curled about each other sleeping. There is something wonderful about stroking their warm fur and feeling their gentle breathing and tiny heartbeats.
Sure there is rain, but life goes on and it is still good. Hope yours is too.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Thoughts, More or Less
I just polished off a piece of RTGFKAR's homemade banana bread and am reminded of the the food conversion scale for elderly humans. That one six to eight ounce piece of banana bread can convert into four pounds of stomach fat is a fair example of how the scale works. The canine conversion scale functions somewhat differently. Feed our puppies the same piece of banana bread and it will morph into two pounds of poop. Both scales defy logic and reason but their truth is unquestioned.
I was hoping to write without mentioning the weather but a phenomena exists at the moment that calls for comment. I sit facing a corner in my office. There is a window to my left that looks out to the southwest and a window to my right that does the same to the northwest. To my left there is a clear blue sky spotted with puffy white clouds. To my right there is gray. Serious gray. Ominous gray. It is as if I were looking out onto two different worlds. It's weird I tell ya Pappy, weird.
RTGFKAR and I are off to Lovely and Talented Daveed later today to stock up on provisions in preparation for our next weather siege; one we hope will include sunshine. Woowoo Charly will remain en casa to puppy sit. Last night while watching Woowoo Chuck play tug-o-war with one of the pups, RTGFKAR and I pointed out how brave the ten pound dog was to take on an opponent who weighed three or four times as much as it did.
The sky is brightening to my right, a hopeful sign.
I don't know about you but I enjoy routine. That is, a schedule of activities I have set for myself, not one imposed on me. I allot time for everything I want to do and by applying self-discipline and sticking to the schedule, I poco a poco make progress in all my tasks. When "real" life intrudes as it does on such a regular basis that I suspect it has its own agenda, it knocks the hell out of my routine and I find it difficult to get back to my good (Good? I think they're good.) habits. When I eventually do return to my artificial, read "not real" but enjoyable grind, time has been lost and it cannot be found. I know I've looked everywhere. Oh well, not to worry, cosas de la vida, c'est la vie, que sera sera and any expression in any language that I can interpret to mean...alrighty then!
I was hoping to write without mentioning the weather but a phenomena exists at the moment that calls for comment. I sit facing a corner in my office. There is a window to my left that looks out to the southwest and a window to my right that does the same to the northwest. To my left there is a clear blue sky spotted with puffy white clouds. To my right there is gray. Serious gray. Ominous gray. It is as if I were looking out onto two different worlds. It's weird I tell ya Pappy, weird.
RTGFKAR and I are off to Lovely and Talented Daveed later today to stock up on provisions in preparation for our next weather siege; one we hope will include sunshine. Woowoo Charly will remain en casa to puppy sit. Last night while watching Woowoo Chuck play tug-o-war with one of the pups, RTGFKAR and I pointed out how brave the ten pound dog was to take on an opponent who weighed three or four times as much as it did.
The sky is brightening to my right, a hopeful sign.
I don't know about you but I enjoy routine. That is, a schedule of activities I have set for myself, not one imposed on me. I allot time for everything I want to do and by applying self-discipline and sticking to the schedule, I poco a poco make progress in all my tasks. When "real" life intrudes as it does on such a regular basis that I suspect it has its own agenda, it knocks the hell out of my routine and I find it difficult to get back to my good (Good? I think they're good.) habits. When I eventually do return to my artificial, read "not real" but enjoyable grind, time has been lost and it cannot be found. I know I've looked everywhere. Oh well, not to worry, cosas de la vida, c'est la vie, que sera sera and any expression in any language that I can interpret to mean...alrighty then!
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