"Beach books, books defined as light, entertaining easy reads are no doubt fun and each year I peruse my share of them. Elmore Leonard, Dick Francis and a host of others grace my bookshelves while they await their turn to be exchanged for, usually, more of their kind at The Bookmark Bookstore in Dolega. The books I keep though, are the books that touch something deeper than my ordinary pleasure levels. Books that sink in, remain and add to the sum of what I am. Books wherein I find words in combination so beautiful, clever, and original that they tap into my subconscious and release the pure joy that is housed there. Books, books, books, that enrapture. And so it is with Pat Conroy's latest, "South of Broad" brought to me by daughter K on her recent visit. One hundred pages in and I was looking about for the proverbial toothpicks to prop open my drooping eyelids as night and sleepiness conspired to shut off my consciousness. No matter, this is a book I don't wish to hurry through. Raptures are even better when they can be prolonged.
K and J flew out Friday morning, back to NYC where their real lives waited to be continued. They used an airplane to depart although I'm not sure one was necessary. They were already flying on a cloud of new love. After leaving them at the airport, Woowoo Charly and I drove wordlessly to breakfast at the Grand National Hotel. We were both lost in our own thoughts; missing the lover's happy energy that we got to share for a week. We were a little down, but not awfully so. Our own lives and love do not permit the blues for long.
Well, not the real ones, anyway. I'm singing you done left me baby because all of my blind draw team picks for the NCAA basketball championship have gone bust and I am out of the pool. Each of the four other participants in the draw, Bookworm Bonnie, Redneck Larry, RTGFKAR and Woowoo Chuck, none of whom cares a whit about college hoops, has a team still in the hunt. Is this fair, I ask you, is this fair?
One further question I have for my readers: While clicking through photos of K and J's visit, I noticed that several of them featured and old guy with a large growth beneath his chest. My question then is, where do I go to get my lips sewn shut and my stomach stapled. Or is there some other way?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Dog Power
Shortly after receiving our hugs and kisses from Olga the proprietress of Punto del Encuentro and polishing off a wide assortment of breakfast fare, Special K started feeling the first symptoms of a migraine headache, nausea and tunnel vision. We were on our way to B and L's house to check out Bookie Bonnie's impressive jardin (garden)when this occurred and, upon arrival, K engaged in a quick lay-down to head off the impending mind melter. Lying in the shade on a chaise while the rest of us did this and that, K was joined by B and L's dog Trudy, a Basset hound of goodly proportions, who took it upon herself to come to K's aid. She hopped up on the chaise, a thing she had never done before and no small feat considering her short legs and ample girth, and began working her dog healing magic. It's an invisible sort of thing with touching and staring being the only techniques clear to we humans, but it's tried and true - in this case tried and Trudy - and in no time at all, K was feeling better; enough so, that later that day we walked the grounds of El Explorador and ran errands downtown with no after affects of the migraine. Nice.
Paradise Gardens, no, not the one with Eve, apples and serpents, our original destination and not our original sin, we learned is closed on Wednesdays. It is our new goal for today, Thursday. We'd bring Trudy along for emergencies, but dogs aren't allowed at P.G., which is an animal rescue center, so that makes no sense if you ask me. Go ahead, I dare ya, ask me.
We had dinner at a new restaurant, The Rock, that had, in a previous incarnation, been destroyed by a flood a couple of years ago. The restaurant has been elegantly restored and we all enjoyed our meals. K's novio (boyfriend) and I had the Fettuccine Alfredo. We both agreed that carbs were our "comfort food" and, to prove his point, J had a side of mashed potatoes. This from a guy who is lean as a whip and on a good day might weigh a 150 pounds. Curiously, during the meal, J sat quietly and lost weight while I moved about animatedly and gained ten pounds. I wonder if Trudy could help me with this problem.
Paradise Gardens, no, not the one with Eve, apples and serpents, our original destination and not our original sin, we learned is closed on Wednesdays. It is our new goal for today, Thursday. We'd bring Trudy along for emergencies, but dogs aren't allowed at P.G., which is an animal rescue center, so that makes no sense if you ask me. Go ahead, I dare ya, ask me.
We had dinner at a new restaurant, The Rock, that had, in a previous incarnation, been destroyed by a flood a couple of years ago. The restaurant has been elegantly restored and we all enjoyed our meals. K's novio (boyfriend) and I had the Fettuccine Alfredo. We both agreed that carbs were our "comfort food" and, to prove his point, J had a side of mashed potatoes. This from a guy who is lean as a whip and on a good day might weigh a 150 pounds. Curiously, during the meal, J sat quietly and lost weight while I moved about animatedly and gained ten pounds. I wonder if Trudy could help me with this problem.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Beaching
It rained yesterday so we headed to the beach. I know that sounds like a strange plan, but here in the land of milk and honey...make that coffee and bananas, if you don't like the weather, drive fifteen minutes in any direction and you will likely find some that is different. At the beach it was warm and sunny.
We parked alongside a restaurant in Las Olas (The Waves) situated just up the beach from a large hotel. Between the open air (roofed, but wall-less), very throw-back Panamanian restaurant (La Costena - put a squiggle over the "n" to make the pronunciation co-stain-ya) and the large modern hotel, lay an expanse of vacant lot featuring, if featuring is the word I want...probably not, scruffy weed-like plants and brown sand. I suspect that both the hotel and the restaurant appreciated the separation.
We lunched there after I had written our orders in Spanish for the waitress/proprietor. Three of us, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, had corvina, which is not a new Chevrolet model, but rather, a very nice tasting white fish. They were served with their heads on which I always find somehow disconcerting, particularly when the meal is finished and you look at a plate that contains only the fish's head and its skeleton. Joe had a serving of fried chicken that looked good and both he and I were glad the chicken wasn't served with its head intact. Kira had salad. All the plates included rice and lacked only beans from being a "tipico" Panamanian repast. They were out of beans.
After the meal, J and K headed for the water's edge to fool around, cool off and look like happy lovers, which they are. RTGFKAR, Woowoo and Yerstruly dodged the sun and took comfort under a shady waterside palapa. We sipped cool beers, watched the surf showing off ten foot waves and discussed Super Colliders, Big Bang and String Theory, Quantum Physics and trying to "wrap your mind around" such things. Okay, I didn't have much to bring to the conversation, nothing at all really, but then I was too busy contemplating how hard it would be to walk to the horizon.
Eventually it was time to go, so we did.
At home, we patio-ed some more and Joe played my guitar for awhile singing us a little John Denver, James Taylor and Joe Clark while I skimmed through the latest issue of "The Walking Dead" comic book that D and D had sent from NY. Thanks D and especially D.
Later we had a pile of sushi that J and I had picked up at the Tuesday Morning Gringo Meeting/Farmer's Market early that morning. The accompanying wasabi was so mind and sinus liberating that we were all actually able to "wrap our minds" around
Quantum Physics, Quarks and such, but we chose to use our expanded intellect to tell old family stories and laugh a lot instead. What the hell, we can always get more wasabi.
Today it is off to Olga's (La Punto De Encuentro) for breakfast with B and L and then on to Paradise Gardens. (Lot of things around here with the word paradise in their names.) After that? Maybe El Explorador.
There is no rain today. The sun is shine-ing. (Spelled correctly, shining, looks like it has something to do with the front of your lower leg.)
Hasta.
We parked alongside a restaurant in Las Olas (The Waves) situated just up the beach from a large hotel. Between the open air (roofed, but wall-less), very throw-back Panamanian restaurant (La Costena - put a squiggle over the "n" to make the pronunciation co-stain-ya) and the large modern hotel, lay an expanse of vacant lot featuring, if featuring is the word I want...probably not, scruffy weed-like plants and brown sand. I suspect that both the hotel and the restaurant appreciated the separation.
We lunched there after I had written our orders in Spanish for the waitress/proprietor. Three of us, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, had corvina, which is not a new Chevrolet model, but rather, a very nice tasting white fish. They were served with their heads on which I always find somehow disconcerting, particularly when the meal is finished and you look at a plate that contains only the fish's head and its skeleton. Joe had a serving of fried chicken that looked good and both he and I were glad the chicken wasn't served with its head intact. Kira had salad. All the plates included rice and lacked only beans from being a "tipico" Panamanian repast. They were out of beans.
After the meal, J and K headed for the water's edge to fool around, cool off and look like happy lovers, which they are. RTGFKAR, Woowoo and Yerstruly dodged the sun and took comfort under a shady waterside palapa. We sipped cool beers, watched the surf showing off ten foot waves and discussed Super Colliders, Big Bang and String Theory, Quantum Physics and trying to "wrap your mind around" such things. Okay, I didn't have much to bring to the conversation, nothing at all really, but then I was too busy contemplating how hard it would be to walk to the horizon.
Eventually it was time to go, so we did.
At home, we patio-ed some more and Joe played my guitar for awhile singing us a little John Denver, James Taylor and Joe Clark while I skimmed through the latest issue of "The Walking Dead" comic book that D and D had sent from NY. Thanks D and especially D.
Later we had a pile of sushi that J and I had picked up at the Tuesday Morning Gringo Meeting/Farmer's Market early that morning. The accompanying wasabi was so mind and sinus liberating that we were all actually able to "wrap our minds" around
Quantum Physics, Quarks and such, but we chose to use our expanded intellect to tell old family stories and laugh a lot instead. What the hell, we can always get more wasabi.
Today it is off to Olga's (La Punto De Encuentro) for breakfast with B and L and then on to Paradise Gardens. (Lot of things around here with the word paradise in their names.) After that? Maybe El Explorador.
There is no rain today. The sun is shine-ing. (Spelled correctly, shining, looks like it has something to do with the front of your lower leg.)
Hasta.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Making It Up As You Go Along
Shhhhh. It is so quiet this morning, the bird chatter that serves as white noise to our Boquete lives sounds riotous, even raucous. Hold it down out there! The dogs have been up and about for an hora y media and have not yet barked. Small miracles abound. K and J and Woowoo Charly are sleeping-in and RTGFKAR didn't make his first appearance in the kitchen until 7:30. Here at the keyboard I'm typing as softly as I can to keep the key clatter down. Shhhh everybody, shhhh.
There are darkening clouds to the north which may change our plans for the day. That's alright, they weren't hard, fast and fixed to begin with. We will just have to play it by ear, which works for me because I don't know how to read the musical notes, signs and symbols of life anyway. To my way of thinking life isn't a planned orchestration to begin with. It's Jazz. "Lead on MacDuff, and damned be he who first says, "Hold, enough!"
Kira and Joe flew into lovely and talented Daveed at 6:30 Friday eve. We loaded their small, sensibly packed bags into the car and headed home. By the time we got there, it was dark, so Joe, making his first trip here, was unable to see the spectacular landscape that surrounds us. To use a couple of Woowoo Charly's favorite lines, "it cracks me up" and "makes me giggle" to see the expressions on the faces of first time visitors when they wander onto the patio in the early morn and look about. Even if they don't say it aloud, you can see the "Wow! in their eyes. Joe was no exception.
We coffeed awhile out there and then drove to Cafe Lerida up above Alto Kiel for a late breakfast. This is another landscape painter's dream location that features good food and another "Can you believe this!" kind of view. After breakfast we took the loop around Baja Mono to see the abandoned castle and nifty waterfall. When we returned home, RTGFKAR set off for the last day of the Daveed Fair. K, J, Chuck and I just hung out. You know, good talks, laughs and for K and J, some sun. J is one of those Insta-tan people. We watched him turn from pale gringo to darkened local in a matter of a few hours. Amazing.
We all piled into RTGFKAR's car around six - he had returned and said the Fair was a disappointment, all the exhibitors were packing up and it was Daveed hot, temperatures in the nineties - and drove the short trip, dodging kids and makeshift soccer goals in the road, to Il Pianista Restaurant. There we had terrific Italian food and over-priced wine. Doris, the proprietor, was her usual patient self, as I ordered this latter. My usual banter goes something like this. "We would like a bottle of dirt cheap wine, but not just any dirt cheap wine, we want your FINEST dirt cheap wine." What we got cost twenty-two bucks a bottle and we had two. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw the price on the check. Next time its beer, or better yet, water. Makes me wonder, though, what the expensive vino costs.
Another hour or so on the patio watching the dogs romp and night fall, then early to bed and book. Somewhere just past ten.
Life is Jazz I tell ya, Jazz. And ya just gotta love it.
There are darkening clouds to the north which may change our plans for the day. That's alright, they weren't hard, fast and fixed to begin with. We will just have to play it by ear, which works for me because I don't know how to read the musical notes, signs and symbols of life anyway. To my way of thinking life isn't a planned orchestration to begin with. It's Jazz. "Lead on MacDuff, and damned be he who first says, "Hold, enough!"
Kira and Joe flew into lovely and talented Daveed at 6:30 Friday eve. We loaded their small, sensibly packed bags into the car and headed home. By the time we got there, it was dark, so Joe, making his first trip here, was unable to see the spectacular landscape that surrounds us. To use a couple of Woowoo Charly's favorite lines, "it cracks me up" and "makes me giggle" to see the expressions on the faces of first time visitors when they wander onto the patio in the early morn and look about. Even if they don't say it aloud, you can see the "Wow! in their eyes. Joe was no exception.
We coffeed awhile out there and then drove to Cafe Lerida up above Alto Kiel for a late breakfast. This is another landscape painter's dream location that features good food and another "Can you believe this!" kind of view. After breakfast we took the loop around Baja Mono to see the abandoned castle and nifty waterfall. When we returned home, RTGFKAR set off for the last day of the Daveed Fair. K, J, Chuck and I just hung out. You know, good talks, laughs and for K and J, some sun. J is one of those Insta-tan people. We watched him turn from pale gringo to darkened local in a matter of a few hours. Amazing.
We all piled into RTGFKAR's car around six - he had returned and said the Fair was a disappointment, all the exhibitors were packing up and it was Daveed hot, temperatures in the nineties - and drove the short trip, dodging kids and makeshift soccer goals in the road, to Il Pianista Restaurant. There we had terrific Italian food and over-priced wine. Doris, the proprietor, was her usual patient self, as I ordered this latter. My usual banter goes something like this. "We would like a bottle of dirt cheap wine, but not just any dirt cheap wine, we want your FINEST dirt cheap wine." What we got cost twenty-two bucks a bottle and we had two. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw the price on the check. Next time its beer, or better yet, water. Makes me wonder, though, what the expensive vino costs.
Another hour or so on the patio watching the dogs romp and night fall, then early to bed and book. Somewhere just past ten.
Life is Jazz I tell ya, Jazz. And ya just gotta love it.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The News in Sports
My last posting, the Lazarus story, was a clever idea, but I sure didn't write it very well. Someone once said that the secret to writing is rewriting and I agree with that even though I seldom do it here on Monkeymind. If I ever get around to doing a "Best Of", something I've been thinking about, I'll clean up (as in rewrite) my selections.
Broncos trade for Brady Quinn. I can't tell you how thrilled I am, because if I did I'd be lying. Now I grant you that Brady Quinn in an excellent Irish name and if the Broncos needed an excellent Irish name, this would be a good trade even though they gave up Payton Hillis another excellent name of unknown derivation although it sounds English to me. No, what the Broncos need is an excellent throwing arm attached to a stout body with quick feet and a quicker mind. To put aside the latest rumors, I will tell you that it is not true that I have been tendered an offer. Unlike Bret Favre, a decidedly funky name, I would not come out of retirement even if I had been. On the other hand, if I am offered tender, well then, I would have to give it some further thought.
But football is of no import right now. This is March and the Madness is upon me, a thing that has nothing to do with my St. Patrick's Day birthday, (Okay maybe just a little) but rather, the roundball I so dearly love. I have no predictions apart from this one: a team featuring blue in their school colors will win the NCAA Tournament. 'Nova is the team I have backed this entire season, but I think it is more likely that Duke, Kentucky or Kansas will cut down the nets at the end of the tourny. Of course, if I had it my way, Woford would shock the world and I don't even have a clue as to what colors they wear, I just like saying the name. Woford.
And, in the world of futbol, David Beckam blew out his Achilles and is flying to Finland for an operation. Who would have thunk that Finland would be a medical destination country? Are Finnish surgeons renowned around the globe? If so, it's news to me. Besides, to fix a torn Achilles tendon, shouldn't Greece be considered?
In other sports news, Tiger and baseball will return at about the same time. I'm finding it difficult getting excited about either. Must be the Madness.
Broncos trade for Brady Quinn. I can't tell you how thrilled I am, because if I did I'd be lying. Now I grant you that Brady Quinn in an excellent Irish name and if the Broncos needed an excellent Irish name, this would be a good trade even though they gave up Payton Hillis another excellent name of unknown derivation although it sounds English to me. No, what the Broncos need is an excellent throwing arm attached to a stout body with quick feet and a quicker mind. To put aside the latest rumors, I will tell you that it is not true that I have been tendered an offer. Unlike Bret Favre, a decidedly funky name, I would not come out of retirement even if I had been. On the other hand, if I am offered tender, well then, I would have to give it some further thought.
But football is of no import right now. This is March and the Madness is upon me, a thing that has nothing to do with my St. Patrick's Day birthday, (Okay maybe just a little) but rather, the roundball I so dearly love. I have no predictions apart from this one: a team featuring blue in their school colors will win the NCAA Tournament. 'Nova is the team I have backed this entire season, but I think it is more likely that Duke, Kentucky or Kansas will cut down the nets at the end of the tourny. Of course, if I had it my way, Woford would shock the world and I don't even have a clue as to what colors they wear, I just like saying the name. Woford.
And, in the world of futbol, David Beckam blew out his Achilles and is flying to Finland for an operation. Who would have thunk that Finland would be a medical destination country? Are Finnish surgeons renowned around the globe? If so, it's news to me. Besides, to fix a torn Achilles tendon, shouldn't Greece be considered?
In other sports news, Tiger and baseball will return at about the same time. I'm finding it difficult getting excited about either. Must be the Madness.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Lazarus' Story
As Lazarus stepped through the Pearly Gates and into Paradise at a prematurely early age, his mind wandered momentarily back to his childhood and his encounter with a strange little boy. The boy was an ardent student of scripture and prophecy who was always too quick to hold forth on one thing or another with his holier than thou attitude. One day, Lazarus had enough of the boy's righteousness, more, in fact, than he could bear, so he stepped forward and gave the boy a sound thrashing. This was one little kid giving another his own personal "might makes right" philosophy. The kind of fight that happens everyday on schoolyards everywhere.
Lazarus shook the thought from his mind and looked around. The street before him was indeed paved with gold and running towards him upon that glistening road with smiles and open arms were all his loved ones who had gone before him. As they smothered him with their kisses and hugs of welcome, they told him of the many wonders he was about to experience, endless food of every variety, music, dance, wine and revelry, leisure without worry and even women if he so chose. Nothing of pleasure would ever be withheld and he was here for all eternity.
Lazarus took this all in with a feeling of tremendous awe and enormous gratitude, but his mind gave up one last thought of the strange boy he had known so long ago. I wonder, it pondered, where he is now?
And it was at this precise moment that Lazarus awoke to find himself in the dirty, poverty stricken hovel that was home to his life before death. He knew at once as he looked into the familiar eyes of the boy he knew in that distant past, that he would have to live a long and dreadful existence before he would ever walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven again.
And now you know why Jesus resurrected Lazarus from the dead.
He was just getting even.
(This little story was inspired by a line from a Jim Harrison book, in which one of the characters inquires, more or less, (I'm too lazy to go find the actual quote) if the afterlife is such a good place, why did Jesus bring Lazarus back?)
Lazarus shook the thought from his mind and looked around. The street before him was indeed paved with gold and running towards him upon that glistening road with smiles and open arms were all his loved ones who had gone before him. As they smothered him with their kisses and hugs of welcome, they told him of the many wonders he was about to experience, endless food of every variety, music, dance, wine and revelry, leisure without worry and even women if he so chose. Nothing of pleasure would ever be withheld and he was here for all eternity.
Lazarus took this all in with a feeling of tremendous awe and enormous gratitude, but his mind gave up one last thought of the strange boy he had known so long ago. I wonder, it pondered, where he is now?
And it was at this precise moment that Lazarus awoke to find himself in the dirty, poverty stricken hovel that was home to his life before death. He knew at once as he looked into the familiar eyes of the boy he knew in that distant past, that he would have to live a long and dreadful existence before he would ever walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven again.
And now you know why Jesus resurrected Lazarus from the dead.
He was just getting even.
(This little story was inspired by a line from a Jim Harrison book, in which one of the characters inquires, more or less, (I'm too lazy to go find the actual quote) if the afterlife is such a good place, why did Jesus bring Lazarus back?)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
This from a fellow blogger and acquaintance who lives in David. His gratitude mirrors mine.
Chiriquà Chatter (is the name of the blog.)
It’s A Wonderful Life
Mar 9th, 2010 by Don Ray
I was just reflecting today how fortunate I am. I arise every morning to a beautiful blue sky and birds chirping, the aroma of coffee and bacon in the kitchen and a new day to experience. It is like this at least 360 mornings out of the year. The other five days are even better.
I turn on the television and get news from the US and other parts of the world. I can sense the stress and pressures that exist in the location of the broadcasts, and yet at the moment, I feel very few of them.
Compared to many in the world, I am a wealthy man. Compared to many in the world, I am a pauper. However, I am a very contented person. I have good health, I have lots of love in my life. I have a few coins in my pocket at the end of the month. I eat well, feel great and worry little. What more can a person ask for.
You can’t take it with you, so having a lot more than you need won’t make you any happier. I know because I have had more and I wasn’t happier.
I try to do what I can to make my Panamanian host feel happy that I have moved here. I hope to be remembered as giving more than I received.
Panama is one place where no matter how much you have, it is probably more than many can even conceive of. That is why it is important to share a smile with those you meet. Giving the loose change to the grocery store bag boy is another way to say thank you God, for letting me be so lucky. There are many people in Panama that only work for tips and the bag boys are some of them.
I have now lived in Panama for over seven years. I feel like I understand Panama better. I feel like I understand life better. I feel like I understand me better. I feel like I have been given a real gift of being able to enjoy life to its fullest. I feel I am very very fortunate.
I am now going to go take my shower and move on to what the rest of the day brings me. I wish you all a wonderful day. Remember, smile at everyone you meet today. You will feel better and they will feel better.
It would also be a good time to tell those that you love, what a difference they make in your life. I think I will go do that now.
Chiriquà Chatter (is the name of the blog.)
It’s A Wonderful Life
Mar 9th, 2010 by Don Ray
I was just reflecting today how fortunate I am. I arise every morning to a beautiful blue sky and birds chirping, the aroma of coffee and bacon in the kitchen and a new day to experience. It is like this at least 360 mornings out of the year. The other five days are even better.
I turn on the television and get news from the US and other parts of the world. I can sense the stress and pressures that exist in the location of the broadcasts, and yet at the moment, I feel very few of them.
Compared to many in the world, I am a wealthy man. Compared to many in the world, I am a pauper. However, I am a very contented person. I have good health, I have lots of love in my life. I have a few coins in my pocket at the end of the month. I eat well, feel great and worry little. What more can a person ask for.
You can’t take it with you, so having a lot more than you need won’t make you any happier. I know because I have had more and I wasn’t happier.
I try to do what I can to make my Panamanian host feel happy that I have moved here. I hope to be remembered as giving more than I received.
Panama is one place where no matter how much you have, it is probably more than many can even conceive of. That is why it is important to share a smile with those you meet. Giving the loose change to the grocery store bag boy is another way to say thank you God, for letting me be so lucky. There are many people in Panama that only work for tips and the bag boys are some of them.
I have now lived in Panama for over seven years. I feel like I understand Panama better. I feel like I understand life better. I feel like I understand me better. I feel like I have been given a real gift of being able to enjoy life to its fullest. I feel I am very very fortunate.
I am now going to go take my shower and move on to what the rest of the day brings me. I wish you all a wonderful day. Remember, smile at everyone you meet today. You will feel better and they will feel better.
It would also be a good time to tell those that you love, what a difference they make in your life. I think I will go do that now.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Huella Dactilar is Fun To Say and Banyo Beauty
Huella Dactilar is the name of a teenagers in trouble with ghosts and ghastlies movie I watched the other night. In English the title is Fingerprint. I wouldn't recommend streaking to your nearest video store to rent it, but if you should stumble across the film on the tube sometime, do have a look-see. (I need a rating system for my horror reviews, something along the lines of "I give this three bloody butcher knives out of five, or maybe small pictures of beheaded corpses. I'm open to suggestions.)
We went to a BIG party at a neighbor's house last night; catered, open bar, live music. One entire room of the house was dedicated to desserts. There were at least a dozen. I had samples of a few, the chocolate cake, the coconut cheese cake and the coconut cream pie. I spent long moments though, staring at all the others and remembering the days when I could have waded through plates of them and not gained a pound. Of course, in those days I could also play basketball for seven or eight hours at a time which, I'm told, has a tendency to keep one's weight in check. I had a few nice conversations at the party with semi-strangers, people I know a little but not well and one extremely entertaining moment.
I was chatting with Woowoo Charly and Bonnie the Bookie and asked them where the nearest bathroom was. "Right behind you" they said, pointing at a nearby door. There was a pale glow of light where the door met the floor, so I knocked tentatively and then tried the handle slowly before entering. The door was not locked. I entered and found myself in a small office sized room, not really noticing particulars as I was headed to the bathroom that I could see a few paces ahead. Its door was open and I started toward it when a beautiful young woman came around the corner from inside the bathroom pulling up a shoulder strap of her evening gown. (A few people at the party were dressed "to-the-nines and some even to the tens.) I was taken, as they say, aback. She was not. She gave me a big, sexy (to my way of thinking) smile as she walked past me saying, "Can I help you with something?" in English. I was too busy sputtering, "Whoops, lo siento, sorry" and the other inanities a person spouts when caught off guard to throw out a snappy comeback. I did turn to watch her walk through the office door and out into the crowd where I could see Woowoo Charly and Bonnie grinning at my surprise. I wasn't really embarrassed - I'm too old for that - but I was a bit off kilter. (I'm not really sure what kilter is but I could tell mine was out of plumb.) I think, in retrospect, what got me was the young woman's not just composure, but seemingly getting a kick out of the situation. I can still see that smile. She was either just messing with the old guy or trying to make his day. Either way works for me. It was a fun, funny, moment.
We went to a BIG party at a neighbor's house last night; catered, open bar, live music. One entire room of the house was dedicated to desserts. There were at least a dozen. I had samples of a few, the chocolate cake, the coconut cheese cake and the coconut cream pie. I spent long moments though, staring at all the others and remembering the days when I could have waded through plates of them and not gained a pound. Of course, in those days I could also play basketball for seven or eight hours at a time which, I'm told, has a tendency to keep one's weight in check. I had a few nice conversations at the party with semi-strangers, people I know a little but not well and one extremely entertaining moment.
I was chatting with Woowoo Charly and Bonnie the Bookie and asked them where the nearest bathroom was. "Right behind you" they said, pointing at a nearby door. There was a pale glow of light where the door met the floor, so I knocked tentatively and then tried the handle slowly before entering. The door was not locked. I entered and found myself in a small office sized room, not really noticing particulars as I was headed to the bathroom that I could see a few paces ahead. Its door was open and I started toward it when a beautiful young woman came around the corner from inside the bathroom pulling up a shoulder strap of her evening gown. (A few people at the party were dressed "to-the-nines and some even to the tens.) I was taken, as they say, aback. She was not. She gave me a big, sexy (to my way of thinking) smile as she walked past me saying, "Can I help you with something?" in English. I was too busy sputtering, "Whoops, lo siento, sorry" and the other inanities a person spouts when caught off guard to throw out a snappy comeback. I did turn to watch her walk through the office door and out into the crowd where I could see Woowoo Charly and Bonnie grinning at my surprise. I wasn't really embarrassed - I'm too old for that - but I was a bit off kilter. (I'm not really sure what kilter is but I could tell mine was out of plumb.) I think, in retrospect, what got me was the young woman's not just composure, but seemingly getting a kick out of the situation. I can still see that smile. She was either just messing with the old guy or trying to make his day. Either way works for me. It was a fun, funny, moment.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Keeping You Posted
Gully is not a word meaning shallow trench - these days - but rather tough, macho or even brutal. It can also be used to mean genuine as in "keep it gully bro." This is one of those things you need to know if you travel with a hyphy, (amped up), hip posse of wankstas (pretend gangsters) like I do.
I realize that most of you, having jobs and families and such are not always able to keep up with we fast paced geezers, so I try to put in the latest stuff I've become aware of in an effort to keep you abreast of "wass happenin dude."
And speaking of Dude, I learned last night or maybe it was the night before, that Jeff Bridges is up for an Academy Award. I'm sure this is for his portrayal of Dude in the Big Lebowski, but the Academy, always slow to recognize greatness, will probably nominate him for some other flick. The Big Lebowski is among my favorite movies because I was just one more acid "trip" from having it been my life story. Most people don't get to see what would have happened if they had taken a different path, but right there up on the big screen was my other could-have-been life. I certainly like the life I've chosen better, but I have to admit that being "The Dude" would definitely have had its moments. So I say Academy Members - because I know you are reading this - give the statue to Jeff. He played me better than I could have done it myself.
I realize that most of you, having jobs and families and such are not always able to keep up with we fast paced geezers, so I try to put in the latest stuff I've become aware of in an effort to keep you abreast of "wass happenin dude."
And speaking of Dude, I learned last night or maybe it was the night before, that Jeff Bridges is up for an Academy Award. I'm sure this is for his portrayal of Dude in the Big Lebowski, but the Academy, always slow to recognize greatness, will probably nominate him for some other flick. The Big Lebowski is among my favorite movies because I was just one more acid "trip" from having it been my life story. Most people don't get to see what would have happened if they had taken a different path, but right there up on the big screen was my other could-have-been life. I certainly like the life I've chosen better, but I have to admit that being "The Dude" would definitely have had its moments. So I say Academy Members - because I know you are reading this - give the statue to Jeff. He played me better than I could have done it myself.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Golf
When Tony and Carm retired, they, like most new Jerseysians sought a warmer climate. Florida was already too crowded and, besides, many, of Tony's less than friendly associates did business there. Not wanting to take on the challenge of a foreign language, Tony and Carm decided to head west. Tony had taken up golf quite seriously in his later years, so a place where there were lots of courses was a prerequisite. Phoenix, Arizona is where they finally touched down and began their new lives. Phoenix had dozens of golf courses within easy driving distance of their scaled down, but still impressive domicile.
A couple of quiet years went by and Tony, who had been a "mover-and-shaker" in his day, was feeling restless and decided he needed to get a piece of the local action. He called up a few of his old goombadas and proposed a plan. Several of these good fellas were also golfers, so they jumped at the chance to be part of Tony's latest brain-storm. They were somewhat hesitant about the risk of a start up plan involving for them, a fresh type of occupation; one they knew nothing about. Most of them had at one time or another been in the business of removing garbage and, uh, occasionally other things, so when Tony proposed that they merge their old knowledge with their new love of golf, they all quickly chipped in the monies necessary to make the deal happen.
And this is why... this very weekend, if you tune in your area's CBS station at the right time, you can watch "The Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament." Tony and Carmelo Soprano and friends are keeping a lower profile these days, so you probably won't catch them on camera. If, however, you are in the neighborhood, you can stop by the Bada Bing Hospitality Tent and have a glass of Chianti on the house. One word of advice though. Don't say anything negative about Tony's putting.
And the girls dancing with the tent poles? Leave them alone, they're working.
Scroll down.
Best line of the week: From RTGFKAR. In a discussion of right-to-life vs. choice, he said, "Life starts at deception."
A couple of quiet years went by and Tony, who had been a "mover-and-shaker" in his day, was feeling restless and decided he needed to get a piece of the local action. He called up a few of his old goombadas and proposed a plan. Several of these good fellas were also golfers, so they jumped at the chance to be part of Tony's latest brain-storm. They were somewhat hesitant about the risk of a start up plan involving for them, a fresh type of occupation; one they knew nothing about. Most of them had at one time or another been in the business of removing garbage and, uh, occasionally other things, so when Tony proposed that they merge their old knowledge with their new love of golf, they all quickly chipped in the monies necessary to make the deal happen.
And this is why... this very weekend, if you tune in your area's CBS station at the right time, you can watch "The Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament." Tony and Carmelo Soprano and friends are keeping a lower profile these days, so you probably won't catch them on camera. If, however, you are in the neighborhood, you can stop by the Bada Bing Hospitality Tent and have a glass of Chianti on the house. One word of advice though. Don't say anything negative about Tony's putting.
And the girls dancing with the tent poles? Leave them alone, they're working.
Scroll down.
Best line of the week: From RTGFKAR. In a discussion of right-to-life vs. choice, he said, "Life starts at deception."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Out-Of-Shape
Listening to a lot of blues lately. To my mind, Buddy Guy is THE guy. (But of course all you people under the age of 100 are now going to send me the names of blues people I've never heard of. "Doc, haven't you listened to Fat Matt the Rat's latest CD, "If these Are Hard Times How Come My Baby Ain't Moved My Stimulation Package Fo Weeks?")
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Per Request
Special K has requested that I comment on the following two quotes for reasons known only to her and the physician who dispenses her drugs from the trunk of his car late at night. The first is a pithy thing from Ayn Rand - and yes, I do occassionally lisp. It reads as follows:
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Seagal and Zombies.
The meek may inherit the earth, but in the meantime I have noticed that people cut in front of them in lines.
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
Monday, February 01, 2010
Turkeys Galore
Countdown to the Super Bowl begins now. I estimate four hours. I'm talking about the bowl of gravy that will be placed next to the turkey that Woowoo Charly will be roasting today for the simple reason that you can never have too much of that big bird. Unless, of course, as my mother once told me, provoking a sleepless night as I pondered its meaning, "your eyes are too big for your stomach."
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Saga
Wednesday.
"Nice to meet you" says Doctor Rafael Rodriguez offering me his hand across the desk.
I'm partial to alliterative names, my first real girlfriend was named Laurel Larson and my father went through life as Walt Walton. I like Dr. Rodriguez right off-the-bat for his warm smile and firm hand shake as well as his mellifluous moniker.
"What can I do for you?" he asks as we settle into chairs at his desk.
How do I put this?, I think. "Well" I say, "I have a sort of mystery illness that latched on to me last October and won't let go."
"Tell me about it," he says, so I describe my symptoms in detail and emphasize the one that bothers me most, my freakin' fatigue. "I have no energy, doctor, and I tire faster than a fat guy in an uphill marathon" Truth is, I'm taking more naps than Rip Van Winkle." We then chat about my previous lifestyle for ten or twelve minutes before we get back to business.
"What medications have you taken to treat your problem?" he asks and I list the antibiotics, inhalants and steroids I've popped over the last three plus months in the so far fruitless attempt to exorcise my be-sicked bod of its demon.
"Hmmm," he says, "are those your X-rays?" They are. I've brought them along even though I had been told by two other physicians that they don't show anything of interest other than that I had smoked for three or four hundred years. I hand them over. There are two, both chest X-rays, one taken in October the other a month or so later. As he takes them from their enormous envelopes and hangs them on his light screen, I tell him they've been dubbed normal.
He looks at the oldest first, then the other. He goes back and forth between them a few times and then says succinctly, "These are NOT normal." He waves me over to his side and points at a circle of light on my left lung appearing in the October X-ray. "This" he says, is pneumonia." He then replaces that X-ray with the November one and notes that the pneumonia is gone. Nice, I think. No problem there. He then points at another circle of light emanating from higher up on my lung and says, "This is what concerns me." He shows me that the spot exists on both x-rays. Although I like to be creative from time to time, my next question was the same one that everyone on the planet would ask, to wit, "What is that?"
"I don't know" he answers. "It's a mass of some kind...Let's sit down."
A MASS! A MASS! I DOAN NEED NO STEENKING MASS!, I'm thinking in large neon letters as we get back to our seats.
The doc says, "My first thought when you described your symptoms was that you might have Myasthenia Gravis. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Well a little bit anyway. It's a muscle disease of some sort. I nod my head. I'm still mostly thinking, A MASS!
He says, "And that may, in fact, be the problem, but I need more information. What I am going to recommend is that you get a Cat Scan so we can have a closer look at your chest and then we can decide how to proceed. We have to know what that mass is."
I note that he is avoiding all the scary words like tumor or cancer, but he does say something about "and whether the mass is benign or not."
Being the well-heeled fat cat that you all know I am, living as I do on the ginormous amount of money Social Security pays me each month, you can guess my next question.
"Not much" he answers.. "About three hundred dollars." (It turns out to be three-forty.)
I tell him I can handle that and we schedule the scan for Friday morning, nine A.M. as I need to be in David that day anyway for a skin check and stitch removal by my friend and yours the Abominable Doctor Panagas. I had had a skin cancer on my back incised by him on Monday.
My new pal in the medical profession, a profession I really don't want to have anything to do with but, hey, what else CAN you do, Doctor Rafael Rodriguez, then writes me a couple of scripts to clear up my lingering pneumonia/bronchitis symptoms, a cough and phlegm, and off I go. RTGFKAR is waiting for me in the cleverly named Waiting Room admiring the receptionist's butt, a thing I can't blame him for as it is truly an eye magnet. I follow it all the way to her desk where she sits and I pay her thirty-five dollars for the visit.
Thursday is uneventful and passes slower than usual as I ponder the word "mass" and what it might mean.
Friday morning I wake up with the answer. It must be the skin cancer I had removed from my back Monday. It was more or less in line with the spot on my X-rays. It would have been there growing gradually back in October and November when the rays were taken. I make a note to ask the doc if this might possibly be the answer to what the mass is.
And I would have asked him had he shown up that day. While waiting for my turn at the Scanner, Lovely Butt calls and says the doctor needs to reschedule for Monday, nine A.M. Alrighty then, I say, I'll wait until Monday.
"Where's your cat?" the Scan tech asks me as I peel off my shirt.
"What cat?" I ask in reply.
"This is a cat scan" he tells me. "I can't scan your cat if you didn't bring it."
Okay, that only happened in my mind.
In reality I climb up on the table and the tech and I have a quick conversation in Spanish about me not moving and when I should hold a deep breath and when I should breathe normally during the scan. The table moves me electronically under a huge plastic arch where I hear nothing but do see some spots of light blinking across the front of the scanner. In less than three minutes we are done.
Woowoo Charly is with me on this day and we next truck along to the La-bor-a-tory where it is colder than an Igloo and where I have a quart or two of blood removed from my arm for some other tests old Doc R.R. has ordered. After that, Woowoo and I head for breakfast. I had been warned not to eat before the scan.
After breakfast, still having hours to kill before my appointment with Panagas, we wander over to the Casino across the street from the Gran National Hotel. Armed with five rolls of nickles each, we assault the slots. Playing Deuces Wild Poker on one of them, I hit a Royal Flush (with three deuces) and win 125 nickles. I'm thinking my luck is still holding in the good to excellent range since I won a raffle drawing at La Reina Department Store before Christmas. The machine asks me if I want to go double or nothing, high card wins. I say you betcha. It goes first and draws a king. So much for good luck. My nine of hearts comes up woefully short.
Later, at Panagas' lair, he answers my question about whether my skin cancer could be the spot on my X-ray with a decisive, "No way, it's not possible." He also tells me that the biopsy on the chunk of my back he shoveled out Monday had not yet come in, so he was unable to clue me if it was one of the "bad" cancers or just another basal cell, my usual.
It's going to be a limbo weekend all around, I think. I'll have plenty of time to watch college hoops, NFL football and further contemplate that peculiar word "mass." Curiously, I'm not worried. I don't feel bad, I have no pain and I'm just a little tired. Despite my double down result, I still feel lucky.
The above was written Saturday morning.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday 1:30 P.M.
Fat! Fat! Who woulda thunk it? Placing the scanned cat on his light board Dr. R.R. points at the suspicious mass and says, "This is just fatty tissue, a thing not uncommon in people your age." Behind me I hear a quiet but still audible "pheww." Woowoo Charly is standing there. As for me, well, I knew it was nothing all along. I do admit, though, to not spelling relief R-O-L-A-I-D-S but rather with a lower case a-l-r-i-g-h-t-y t-h-e-n!
That worry now gone I can return to fretting over the Broncos not having a franchise quarterback, Carmelo Anthony's latest ankle sprain and what-the-hell is wrong with me anyway. "Let's talk some more" is Doc R.R.'s suggestion.
He has no answers for the Broncos or Melo so we get back to me.
We rule out depression and any connection to my pulmonary problems. My symptoms with the latter are almost gone. We mostly rule out my on going, seemingly life-long stomach woes, but I do get a script for Nexium. I'm also handed a script for an immune system booster aimed at people with bronchial problems and a new inhaler. Pharmacies throughout Panama are considering parades. My fatigue, the one remaining symptom, seems to emanate from somewhere along my upper spinal column. This, I'm told, could mean a neurological problem, IE; nerves or muscles. I don't have Myastenia Gravis or even not so Gravis, but I might have something that mimics the symptoms of same. For this reason I am referred to yet another doctor for, whoopee, more tests. If I wasn't depressed before, the mounting cost of this fiasco, has me heading down that road. So there I am happy about not being terminal or, at least no more than the rest of us, but upset over the cost and lack of a medical conclusion. Let's just say I'm conflicted.
When we leave the office, WooWoo Charly cries a little. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm glad she cares that much, but I didn't want her to worry so. I feel bad that she did. I am, wouldn't you know it, conflicted de nuevo, (again). Chuck, though, is relieved and I'm happy about that.
We now return to a deja vu scenario. After locating my new doctor's office elsewhere in the building, we learn he is not there. Nor is his receptionist. We are told to return in an hour which we do to no avail. Neither person has made the scene. How familiar is that? We do, however, manage to score a telephone number. I will try to make a cita (appointment) later today. No need to wish me luck. I'm already up for another double down.
So there you have the latest chapter of this mind numbing saga. Sorry to bother you with it but, you know, I can't help myself. The Monkeymind carries on.
"Nice to meet you" says Doctor Rafael Rodriguez offering me his hand across the desk.
I'm partial to alliterative names, my first real girlfriend was named Laurel Larson and my father went through life as Walt Walton. I like Dr. Rodriguez right off-the-bat for his warm smile and firm hand shake as well as his mellifluous moniker.
"What can I do for you?" he asks as we settle into chairs at his desk.
How do I put this?, I think. "Well" I say, "I have a sort of mystery illness that latched on to me last October and won't let go."
"Tell me about it," he says, so I describe my symptoms in detail and emphasize the one that bothers me most, my freakin' fatigue. "I have no energy, doctor, and I tire faster than a fat guy in an uphill marathon" Truth is, I'm taking more naps than Rip Van Winkle." We then chat about my previous lifestyle for ten or twelve minutes before we get back to business.
"What medications have you taken to treat your problem?" he asks and I list the antibiotics, inhalants and steroids I've popped over the last three plus months in the so far fruitless attempt to exorcise my be-sicked bod of its demon.
"Hmmm," he says, "are those your X-rays?" They are. I've brought them along even though I had been told by two other physicians that they don't show anything of interest other than that I had smoked for three or four hundred years. I hand them over. There are two, both chest X-rays, one taken in October the other a month or so later. As he takes them from their enormous envelopes and hangs them on his light screen, I tell him they've been dubbed normal.
He looks at the oldest first, then the other. He goes back and forth between them a few times and then says succinctly, "These are NOT normal." He waves me over to his side and points at a circle of light on my left lung appearing in the October X-ray. "This" he says, is pneumonia." He then replaces that X-ray with the November one and notes that the pneumonia is gone. Nice, I think. No problem there. He then points at another circle of light emanating from higher up on my lung and says, "This is what concerns me." He shows me that the spot exists on both x-rays. Although I like to be creative from time to time, my next question was the same one that everyone on the planet would ask, to wit, "What is that?"
"I don't know" he answers. "It's a mass of some kind...Let's sit down."
A MASS! A MASS! I DOAN NEED NO STEENKING MASS!, I'm thinking in large neon letters as we get back to our seats.
The doc says, "My first thought when you described your symptoms was that you might have Myasthenia Gravis. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Well a little bit anyway. It's a muscle disease of some sort. I nod my head. I'm still mostly thinking, A MASS!
He says, "And that may, in fact, be the problem, but I need more information. What I am going to recommend is that you get a Cat Scan so we can have a closer look at your chest and then we can decide how to proceed. We have to know what that mass is."
I note that he is avoiding all the scary words like tumor or cancer, but he does say something about "and whether the mass is benign or not."
Being the well-heeled fat cat that you all know I am, living as I do on the ginormous amount of money Social Security pays me each month, you can guess my next question.
"Not much" he answers.. "About three hundred dollars." (It turns out to be three-forty.)
I tell him I can handle that and we schedule the scan for Friday morning, nine A.M. as I need to be in David that day anyway for a skin check and stitch removal by my friend and yours the Abominable Doctor Panagas. I had had a skin cancer on my back incised by him on Monday.
My new pal in the medical profession, a profession I really don't want to have anything to do with but, hey, what else CAN you do, Doctor Rafael Rodriguez, then writes me a couple of scripts to clear up my lingering pneumonia/bronchitis symptoms, a cough and phlegm, and off I go. RTGFKAR is waiting for me in the cleverly named Waiting Room admiring the receptionist's butt, a thing I can't blame him for as it is truly an eye magnet. I follow it all the way to her desk where she sits and I pay her thirty-five dollars for the visit.
Thursday is uneventful and passes slower than usual as I ponder the word "mass" and what it might mean.
Friday morning I wake up with the answer. It must be the skin cancer I had removed from my back Monday. It was more or less in line with the spot on my X-rays. It would have been there growing gradually back in October and November when the rays were taken. I make a note to ask the doc if this might possibly be the answer to what the mass is.
And I would have asked him had he shown up that day. While waiting for my turn at the Scanner, Lovely Butt calls and says the doctor needs to reschedule for Monday, nine A.M. Alrighty then, I say, I'll wait until Monday.
"Where's your cat?" the Scan tech asks me as I peel off my shirt.
"What cat?" I ask in reply.
"This is a cat scan" he tells me. "I can't scan your cat if you didn't bring it."
Okay, that only happened in my mind.
In reality I climb up on the table and the tech and I have a quick conversation in Spanish about me not moving and when I should hold a deep breath and when I should breathe normally during the scan. The table moves me electronically under a huge plastic arch where I hear nothing but do see some spots of light blinking across the front of the scanner. In less than three minutes we are done.
Woowoo Charly is with me on this day and we next truck along to the La-bor-a-tory where it is colder than an Igloo and where I have a quart or two of blood removed from my arm for some other tests old Doc R.R. has ordered. After that, Woowoo and I head for breakfast. I had been warned not to eat before the scan.
After breakfast, still having hours to kill before my appointment with Panagas, we wander over to the Casino across the street from the Gran National Hotel. Armed with five rolls of nickles each, we assault the slots. Playing Deuces Wild Poker on one of them, I hit a Royal Flush (with three deuces) and win 125 nickles. I'm thinking my luck is still holding in the good to excellent range since I won a raffle drawing at La Reina Department Store before Christmas. The machine asks me if I want to go double or nothing, high card wins. I say you betcha. It goes first and draws a king. So much for good luck. My nine of hearts comes up woefully short.
Later, at Panagas' lair, he answers my question about whether my skin cancer could be the spot on my X-ray with a decisive, "No way, it's not possible." He also tells me that the biopsy on the chunk of my back he shoveled out Monday had not yet come in, so he was unable to clue me if it was one of the "bad" cancers or just another basal cell, my usual.
It's going to be a limbo weekend all around, I think. I'll have plenty of time to watch college hoops, NFL football and further contemplate that peculiar word "mass." Curiously, I'm not worried. I don't feel bad, I have no pain and I'm just a little tired. Despite my double down result, I still feel lucky.
The above was written Saturday morning.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday 1:30 P.M.
Fat! Fat! Who woulda thunk it? Placing the scanned cat on his light board Dr. R.R. points at the suspicious mass and says, "This is just fatty tissue, a thing not uncommon in people your age." Behind me I hear a quiet but still audible "pheww." Woowoo Charly is standing there. As for me, well, I knew it was nothing all along. I do admit, though, to not spelling relief R-O-L-A-I-D-S but rather with a lower case a-l-r-i-g-h-t-y t-h-e-n!
That worry now gone I can return to fretting over the Broncos not having a franchise quarterback, Carmelo Anthony's latest ankle sprain and what-the-hell is wrong with me anyway. "Let's talk some more" is Doc R.R.'s suggestion.
He has no answers for the Broncos or Melo so we get back to me.
We rule out depression and any connection to my pulmonary problems. My symptoms with the latter are almost gone. We mostly rule out my on going, seemingly life-long stomach woes, but I do get a script for Nexium. I'm also handed a script for an immune system booster aimed at people with bronchial problems and a new inhaler. Pharmacies throughout Panama are considering parades. My fatigue, the one remaining symptom, seems to emanate from somewhere along my upper spinal column. This, I'm told, could mean a neurological problem, IE; nerves or muscles. I don't have Myastenia Gravis or even not so Gravis, but I might have something that mimics the symptoms of same. For this reason I am referred to yet another doctor for, whoopee, more tests. If I wasn't depressed before, the mounting cost of this fiasco, has me heading down that road. So there I am happy about not being terminal or, at least no more than the rest of us, but upset over the cost and lack of a medical conclusion. Let's just say I'm conflicted.
When we leave the office, WooWoo Charly cries a little. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm glad she cares that much, but I didn't want her to worry so. I feel bad that she did. I am, wouldn't you know it, conflicted de nuevo, (again). Chuck, though, is relieved and I'm happy about that.
We now return to a deja vu scenario. After locating my new doctor's office elsewhere in the building, we learn he is not there. Nor is his receptionist. We are told to return in an hour which we do to no avail. Neither person has made the scene. How familiar is that? We do, however, manage to score a telephone number. I will try to make a cita (appointment) later today. No need to wish me luck. I'm already up for another double down.
So there you have the latest chapter of this mind numbing saga. Sorry to bother you with it but, you know, I can't help myself. The Monkeymind carries on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Lost in Nowhere
A.A. Milne says there is no harder work than fetching an idea from nowhere. Tell me about it. Probably headed for A.A. Walton says it's even harder to find a funny one. How 'bout this? I remember when 'roids were hemm and not sterr. That's funny, right?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Blithering
Sometimes I write a blog just because I peer in at Monkeymind and see my last one sitting there looking stale and outdated. Today is one of those days. I don't have anything in particular to say, but then I rarely do, so there is no news there.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sense Dancing
"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense dancing." William James
I gotcher sense of humor right here, Willy. It's Monday morning and crosswise rain is being pushed along by a wind so noisy it's hard to hear my own thoughts. Is this any way to start a week Willy? I don't think so. Throw in throw-up, yeah two of my dogs have done that this morning, and a puddle of puppy pee in a corner and I just don't see any sense in it at all, common or otherwise.
That's right, I'm depressed Willy. Even though I will probably be sitting here writing, which is a euphemism for staring off into space, which is in itself a euphemism for the contents of my mind, for the next few hours or so, making the weather irrelevant, I feel it might be more cheering if I could glance up from my reverie now and then and see sunshine lighting up the out-of-doors. Is that too much to ask Willy?
Oh sure, I know it could be worse. I could be a Green Bay Packer fan this morning or even worse than that, actually live in Green Bay, so I probably shouldn't complain, but come on Willy! To quote another deep thinker, Dean Martin, "the weather outside is frightful!" While you're over there making common sense dance, I have important chores like edging the lawn, washing the car and walking the dogs stacking up. What if it is still raining tomorrow? I'll be at wit's end or, at least, somewhere past wit's middle.
So what I'm trying to tell you here, Willy, is to save your happy quotes for another day. On the other hand, if you've got something grim, something Poe-ish, something along the lines of "while I pondered weak and weary" then we here in the land of "I might as well go back to bed" might be interested.
(Okay, I'm just kidding, my common sense is dancing. Someone is shooting bullets at its feet.)
I gotcher sense of humor right here, Willy. It's Monday morning and crosswise rain is being pushed along by a wind so noisy it's hard to hear my own thoughts. Is this any way to start a week Willy? I don't think so. Throw in throw-up, yeah two of my dogs have done that this morning, and a puddle of puppy pee in a corner and I just don't see any sense in it at all, common or otherwise.
That's right, I'm depressed Willy. Even though I will probably be sitting here writing, which is a euphemism for staring off into space, which is in itself a euphemism for the contents of my mind, for the next few hours or so, making the weather irrelevant, I feel it might be more cheering if I could glance up from my reverie now and then and see sunshine lighting up the out-of-doors. Is that too much to ask Willy?
Oh sure, I know it could be worse. I could be a Green Bay Packer fan this morning or even worse than that, actually live in Green Bay, so I probably shouldn't complain, but come on Willy! To quote another deep thinker, Dean Martin, "the weather outside is frightful!" While you're over there making common sense dance, I have important chores like edging the lawn, washing the car and walking the dogs stacking up. What if it is still raining tomorrow? I'll be at wit's end or, at least, somewhere past wit's middle.
So what I'm trying to tell you here, Willy, is to save your happy quotes for another day. On the other hand, if you've got something grim, something Poe-ish, something along the lines of "while I pondered weak and weary" then we here in the land of "I might as well go back to bed" might be interested.
(Okay, I'm just kidding, my common sense is dancing. Someone is shooting bullets at its feet.)
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Movies, Sports and Books
Spawn of Wrayjay (RTGFKAR) has returned to the States and we miss her already. Such a sweet kid. True dat. (Statement of complete accord. Synonyms, word up, ditto, mos def, word is bond.)
I'm looking forward to all the new movies that HBO and Cinemax are going to show this year. Some of them I'm told are only five or six years old. For want of anything better to do last night I watched another Steven Segal flick called Pistol Whipped or Riddled With Bullets or something else along those lines. (Okay I admit there were lots of better things to do but I was hunkered down in a recliner with a glass of wine in hand and, curiously, none of them came to mind.) In this movie Steven, who is roughly the size of a house give or take an extra bathroom or two, was often dressed in leather jackets. I'm no expert but the jackets looked like real leather so I figure the material was the largest part of the production cost. If the producers had used synthetics they might have been able to squeeze in another car chase or afforded a better director.
Mike Shanahan, the former Denver Bronco coach, gets a five year contract from the Washington Redskins at seven million per season. I'm thinking if a coach is worth thirty-five mil he ought to be able to take a junior high team and school the Patriots. (school = to trounce or beat.) I mean really. With thirty-five million you could make ten or twelve Steven Segal movies.
Lest you think my entire day was wasted watching and contemplating sports and movies let me also point out that I finished a Jim Harrison novel called "True North." It's called that, I suppose, because that is its title. The book's protagonist is trying to write a history of his family's role in screwing up their part of the world, northern Michigan, with mining and clear cutting. A woman poet and lover of his tells him that as a writer he will never be more than a pretty good amateur. I thought about the description "pretty good amateur" for a long time and decided that it fits me as well.
I can live with that.
I'm looking forward to all the new movies that HBO and Cinemax are going to show this year. Some of them I'm told are only five or six years old. For want of anything better to do last night I watched another Steven Segal flick called Pistol Whipped or Riddled With Bullets or something else along those lines. (Okay I admit there were lots of better things to do but I was hunkered down in a recliner with a glass of wine in hand and, curiously, none of them came to mind.) In this movie Steven, who is roughly the size of a house give or take an extra bathroom or two, was often dressed in leather jackets. I'm no expert but the jackets looked like real leather so I figure the material was the largest part of the production cost. If the producers had used synthetics they might have been able to squeeze in another car chase or afforded a better director.
Mike Shanahan, the former Denver Bronco coach, gets a five year contract from the Washington Redskins at seven million per season. I'm thinking if a coach is worth thirty-five mil he ought to be able to take a junior high team and school the Patriots. (school = to trounce or beat.) I mean really. With thirty-five million you could make ten or twelve Steven Segal movies.
Lest you think my entire day was wasted watching and contemplating sports and movies let me also point out that I finished a Jim Harrison novel called "True North." It's called that, I suppose, because that is its title. The book's protagonist is trying to write a history of his family's role in screwing up their part of the world, northern Michigan, with mining and clear cutting. A woman poet and lover of his tells him that as a writer he will never be more than a pretty good amateur. I thought about the description "pretty good amateur" for a long time and decided that it fits me as well.
I can live with that.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Off and Monkeyminding Again. (Mostly Off)
Fo' shizzle means for sure. It is important here to also know the synonyms starting with mos def. The others are, tizzite, tellivizzle, rizzle, shiznit, hizzouse, bizzatch, brizzle and weezy in the keezy. New Scrabble games will include multiple zees to accommodate these words.
Alrighty then, the new year is underway and drama lurks 'round every corner. Will Elin and Tiger pass health care reform, will Brandon Marshall and Josh McCoach oust the Taliban from the lockerroom, will Obama insist on a playoff system for Tiger's girlfriends, will Skanky Spice leave Beckam and sign with the Sox, will the U.S. soccer team be rank or ranked at the World Cup, and will all be quiet on the western slope? These are the questions on everyone's lips that need to be answered or removed with alcohol and q-tips. Stay tuned as 2010 unfolds and despite all odds and even some evens the earth and politicians keep on spinning.
I will now put the monkeymind on a leash and and walk it to a cage.
New Year's Day was uneventful. Okay, that's not true, there were events. Football games, parades, fireworks, suicide bombings and Book Fairs come to mind and that's not even to mention Brangelina and Madonna adopting more kids. What I mean, I guess, is that I sat on my...sofa all day as I practiced my resolution to sit on my...sofa
more often. Sofa is, of course, a euphemism for...recliner. (For some reason I just can't get myself to say ass.) A euphemism for recliner is...desk chair, the thing I really want to keep my...donkey on more often. I read this morning that Isaac Asimov wrote over 400 books. Now there is a guy who clearly liked sitting on his...duff fo' shizzle. Duff is a euphemism for...gluteous maximus or, in my case, gluteous minimus which is in itself a euphemism for my ass (there, I've said it) has fallen off. 400 books! I think it is Highly Selassie I will catch him in 2010, but watch out for next year when I get the hang of this sitting on my...tush.
While I'm waiting to acquire this keep-your-...butt-in-the-chair skill, I think I will go walk the dogs.
And that's mos def.
Alrighty then, the new year is underway and drama lurks 'round every corner. Will Elin and Tiger pass health care reform, will Brandon Marshall and Josh McCoach oust the Taliban from the lockerroom, will Obama insist on a playoff system for Tiger's girlfriends, will Skanky Spice leave Beckam and sign with the Sox, will the U.S. soccer team be rank or ranked at the World Cup, and will all be quiet on the western slope? These are the questions on everyone's lips that need to be answered or removed with alcohol and q-tips. Stay tuned as 2010 unfolds and despite all odds and even some evens the earth and politicians keep on spinning.
I will now put the monkeymind on a leash and and walk it to a cage.
New Year's Day was uneventful. Okay, that's not true, there were events. Football games, parades, fireworks, suicide bombings and Book Fairs come to mind and that's not even to mention Brangelina and Madonna adopting more kids. What I mean, I guess, is that I sat on my...sofa all day as I practiced my resolution to sit on my...sofa
more often. Sofa is, of course, a euphemism for...recliner. (For some reason I just can't get myself to say ass.) A euphemism for recliner is...desk chair, the thing I really want to keep my...donkey on more often. I read this morning that Isaac Asimov wrote over 400 books. Now there is a guy who clearly liked sitting on his...duff fo' shizzle. Duff is a euphemism for...gluteous maximus or, in my case, gluteous minimus which is in itself a euphemism for my ass (there, I've said it) has fallen off. 400 books! I think it is Highly Selassie I will catch him in 2010, but watch out for next year when I get the hang of this sitting on my...tush.
While I'm waiting to acquire this keep-your-...butt-in-the-chair skill, I think I will go walk the dogs.
And that's mos def.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Old Out, New In
Some of you, unlike Yers Trewly who is always dank, are not up to date on the latest "in" vernacular. To help correct your deficiency in this area, I will define a term for you here and there throughout the new year. Dank, for instance, means possessing ideal properties. Example in a sentence: That is one dank suit Biz-natch! Synonyms: kick-ass, tight, fly, sick, and phat.
New Year's Eve morning. Rainbow doing its colorful arcing thing to my right, chicken clucking "ba-doc ba-doc" somewhere off to my left. Dogs barking at my back. QUIT THAT! Other household denizens still abed. Wait! One of them is stirring. A microwave oven meep meep meeps in the kitchen announcing tea water is hot. Our plan to celebrate the year past and welcome the year lurking round the corner is an early dinner out at El Pianista, an Italian place not far from here. An hour from now would be good for me, but I doubt Doris the owner opens the door this early. Yup, one last pasta blowout before I endeavor to make my profile appear a couple of months less pregnant than it does now. That's my New Year's Resolution. Well, that and achieving world peace, bagging a hole-in-one, tomahawk dunking over Lebron, writing the great Panamanian Novel and returning my new flashlight to La Reina because it doesn't work. A man has to have goals afterall. What pray tell, are yours?
I will miss 2009 in many ways, although certainly not its last quarter when I was besicked. I wrote a lot, more than in any other year and my output included genres I had never tried before; sci-fi, horror, noir and even a truthful accounting of an actual event rendered as a Twilight Zone episode. Big Fun all. I think, though, that in 2010 I will "go long." I have a project already under way. I will continue to blog, but, likely, with less frequency.
Happy New Year to everyone. Don't get too faded tonight. (Faded: intoxicated. Synonyms: bent, baked, blunted and blazed.)
New Year's Eve morning. Rainbow doing its colorful arcing thing to my right, chicken clucking "ba-doc ba-doc" somewhere off to my left. Dogs barking at my back. QUIT THAT! Other household denizens still abed. Wait! One of them is stirring. A microwave oven meep meep meeps in the kitchen announcing tea water is hot. Our plan to celebrate the year past and welcome the year lurking round the corner is an early dinner out at El Pianista, an Italian place not far from here. An hour from now would be good for me, but I doubt Doris the owner opens the door this early. Yup, one last pasta blowout before I endeavor to make my profile appear a couple of months less pregnant than it does now. That's my New Year's Resolution. Well, that and achieving world peace, bagging a hole-in-one, tomahawk dunking over Lebron, writing the great Panamanian Novel and returning my new flashlight to La Reina because it doesn't work. A man has to have goals afterall. What pray tell, are yours?
I will miss 2009 in many ways, although certainly not its last quarter when I was besicked. I wrote a lot, more than in any other year and my output included genres I had never tried before; sci-fi, horror, noir and even a truthful accounting of an actual event rendered as a Twilight Zone episode. Big Fun all. I think, though, that in 2010 I will "go long." I have a project already under way. I will continue to blog, but, likely, with less frequency.
Happy New Year to everyone. Don't get too faded tonight. (Faded: intoxicated. Synonyms: bent, baked, blunted and blazed.)
2009 Book List
BOOK LIST 2009
1. The Given Day Dennis Lehane Boston cops, Labor unions, Babe Ruth and racial strife leading up to the 1920s, make for an entertaining read.
2. Milking the Moon Eugene Walter as told to Katherine Clark Eugene’s life told through his own entertaining anecdotes. Talented seven from Mobile Alabama goes to NY, Paris, Rome, befriends artists of all sorts and has a fun life.
3. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle David Wroblewski A mute boy and his mother and father raise and train their own breed of dogs. Father dies. Boy knows why. Drama begins. The dogs role is key to story. Brilliant first novel. Loved it.
4. Indignation Philip Roth The old guy – what is he, a hundred? – has still got it. Here he writes a tale about a teenager that’s perfectly believable. Good read, hard ending.
5. Eats Shoots and Leaves Lynne Truss A book about punctuation that is – believe it or not – a page turner. Well, at least for those of us who care; helpful and funny throughout.
6. Cesar’s Way Cesar Milan TV’s The Dog Whisperer’s “as told to bio and philosophy” to Melissa Jo Peltier. Helpful in understanding dogs.
7. A feast For Crows George R.R. Martin Fourth book of the Fire and Ice Series Story of derring-do and intrigue continued.
8. O’Hara’s Choice Leon Uris Tight little “love against all odds” story. The “choice” was not what most people would expect. I though, ta daa!, was on to it.
9. On God Norman Mailer with Michael Lennon A conversation about Norman’s take on the big picture. Old Norm’s thoughts are always interesting.
10. Widow’s Walk Robert B. Parker Spencer, Hawk and Susan are always a welcome respite from “serious” reading.
11. The Inheritance Details the crap Obama was left to deal with. It’s not looking good for the good guys. Peace and prosperity seem doubtful.
12. Cryptonomicon Neil Stephenson The book makes the title seem tidy. Long enough for four books (1152 pages), it alternately engaged me and passed by over my head. In the end, I plowed to the finish by sheer determination augmented by skimming.
Among the plots were code breaking, winning WWII, finding Nazi gold, laying telecommunications under the sea to the Phillipines, dodging rivals and linking a diverse group of people from different eras. Well done…I think.
13. South Beach Brian Antoni My kind of book. Offbeat characters doing offbeat things in an offbeat setting.
14. The Lost City of Z David Grann Non fiction tale of explorer P.H. Fawcett’s attempts to find a mythical city in the Amazon wilderness and the author’s subsequent attempt (as well as many other’s) to find Fawcett and his son who never came back from their last trip there.
15. Pandora in the Congo Albert Sanchez Pinol Entertaining “off the wall” account of a Congo adventure, a love story, a subsequent murder trial and a young writer’s struggle to deal with all those events.
16. The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford This tale of love gone awry among the leisure class, published in 1927, holds up well. Common human flaws bring a bad end to all.
17. A Great Deliverance Elizabeth George The first of many mysteries by Liz that I will have to read. Great characters, believable plots, terrif writing.
18. Payment in Blood Elizabeth George Mysteries intertwined with mysteries. All unraveled nicely. Great stuff.
19. Can’t Buy Me Love Jonathan Gould Comprehensive biography of the Beatles and their Times. Well researched, well written.
20. Is Tiny Dancer Really Elton’s Little John? Gavin Edwards. Subtitled, “Music’s most enduring mysteries, myths, and rumors revealed.” That says it all.
21. If You Didn’t Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat? Bill Heavey Humorously told hunting and fishing stories. Misadventures for the most part.
22. Dave Barry’s History of the Millennium So Far Often laugh out loud funny.
23. Well Schooled In Murder Elizabeth George The mystery is solved, the murderer caught and the continuing cast of characters…continue.
24. Ser Como El Rio Que Fluye Paulo Coelho (Read in Spanish, of course) Paulo’s thoughts on this and that as he travels the world in search of spiritual truths.
25. Dude, Where’s My Country? Michael Moore. A lot of the book that was good stuff at the time (2003) is now dated. Much remains, though, that is still interesting. Reasons, for instance, why Nixon was our last liberal president and that one million Americans have been killed by guns since Kennedy was assassinated. (More than if we had fought Viet Nam 15 times.)
26. The Walking Dead This is a comic compendium whose authors I diligently wrote down and just as diligently misplaced. Plague survivors against zombies and each other. Quite compelling, actually.
27. A Suitable Vengeance Elizabeth George More murders and mayhem in Jolly Old with the usual cast sorting things out.
28. Cold Skin Albert Snchez Pinol An island, a light house, monsters from the sea and madness make this another Pinol whacko wonder. Strange, but nevertheless entertaining read.
29. The Last Duel James Landale A tediously told story of the last duel in Scotland and a history of dueling in general. Interesting here and there.
30. Stillness Speaks Eckhart Tolle Old Eck, his friends call him Eck, joins a long line of spiritual guides telling us To Be Here Now. Ram Dass (not pronounced rammed ass) was the first one to get to me. I’ve been trying ever since. Sometimes I’m successful.
31. For the Sake of Elena Elizabeth George Liz’s fifth and best book so far in her write-em-until-I-die-ogy. Murder solved, human relations resolved…for now.
32. Consider the Lobster David Foster Wallace I can’t define brilliance, but like a Supreme Court Justice once said of pornography, “I know it when I see it.” Brilliance is displayed here and there in this book of essays.
33. The Appeal John Grisham Predictable. Kind of a fictionalized version of “A Civil Action.”
34. Electricity Ray Robinson A British woman with fierce epileptic seizures searches for long lost brother. Very unusual narrative voice.
35. The Old Fox Deceiv’d Martha Grimes I love these British murder mysteries. They are so….civilized. Most of the time…even the murderers. Grimes and George together with Dick Francis, my cup runneth over.
36. The Book of General Ignorance subtitled Every thing you think you know is wrong. John Lloyd and John Mitchinson Fun facts about stuff you think you know but don’t really.
37. The Inimitable Jeeves P.G. Wodehouse The second time I’ve read this book. Needed a P.G. fix and couldn’t fine any I hadn’t read here in Panama.
38. The Satanic Verses Salman Rushdie I can’t say I fully understand this book; there’s mythology and fantasy alternating with reality and an unclear (to me) timeline, but the prose is spectacular and very readable.
39. Greenwich Killing Time Kinky Friedman Funny, somewhat Elmore Leonard-like prose. Reminds me of me, only Kinky is better.
40. The Unbearable Lightness of Being Milan Kundera Non-typical love and philosophy during the Czech occupation by the Soviet Union. A deep read.
41. The Reader Bernhard Schlink A boy’s affair with an older woman leads to a Nazi back story, a trial and a sad ending. Good stuff.
42. Odds Against Dick Francis Well told, well plotted, well done.
43. The Farmer’s Daughter Jim Harrison Three novellas featuring less than main stream characters. All are sexually charged. Jim has grown more ribald with age.
1. The Given Day Dennis Lehane Boston cops, Labor unions, Babe Ruth and racial strife leading up to the 1920s, make for an entertaining read.
2. Milking the Moon Eugene Walter as told to Katherine Clark Eugene’s life told through his own entertaining anecdotes. Talented seven from Mobile Alabama goes to NY, Paris, Rome, befriends artists of all sorts and has a fun life.
3. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle David Wroblewski A mute boy and his mother and father raise and train their own breed of dogs. Father dies. Boy knows why. Drama begins. The dogs role is key to story. Brilliant first novel. Loved it.
4. Indignation Philip Roth The old guy – what is he, a hundred? – has still got it. Here he writes a tale about a teenager that’s perfectly believable. Good read, hard ending.
5. Eats Shoots and Leaves Lynne Truss A book about punctuation that is – believe it or not – a page turner. Well, at least for those of us who care; helpful and funny throughout.
6. Cesar’s Way Cesar Milan TV’s The Dog Whisperer’s “as told to bio and philosophy” to Melissa Jo Peltier. Helpful in understanding dogs.
7. A feast For Crows George R.R. Martin Fourth book of the Fire and Ice Series Story of derring-do and intrigue continued.
8. O’Hara’s Choice Leon Uris Tight little “love against all odds” story. The “choice” was not what most people would expect. I though, ta daa!, was on to it.
9. On God Norman Mailer with Michael Lennon A conversation about Norman’s take on the big picture. Old Norm’s thoughts are always interesting.
10. Widow’s Walk Robert B. Parker Spencer, Hawk and Susan are always a welcome respite from “serious” reading.
11. The Inheritance Details the crap Obama was left to deal with. It’s not looking good for the good guys. Peace and prosperity seem doubtful.
12. Cryptonomicon Neil Stephenson The book makes the title seem tidy. Long enough for four books (1152 pages), it alternately engaged me and passed by over my head. In the end, I plowed to the finish by sheer determination augmented by skimming.
Among the plots were code breaking, winning WWII, finding Nazi gold, laying telecommunications under the sea to the Phillipines, dodging rivals and linking a diverse group of people from different eras. Well done…I think.
13. South Beach Brian Antoni My kind of book. Offbeat characters doing offbeat things in an offbeat setting.
14. The Lost City of Z David Grann Non fiction tale of explorer P.H. Fawcett’s attempts to find a mythical city in the Amazon wilderness and the author’s subsequent attempt (as well as many other’s) to find Fawcett and his son who never came back from their last trip there.
15. Pandora in the Congo Albert Sanchez Pinol Entertaining “off the wall” account of a Congo adventure, a love story, a subsequent murder trial and a young writer’s struggle to deal with all those events.
16. The Good Soldier Ford Madox Ford This tale of love gone awry among the leisure class, published in 1927, holds up well. Common human flaws bring a bad end to all.
17. A Great Deliverance Elizabeth George The first of many mysteries by Liz that I will have to read. Great characters, believable plots, terrif writing.
18. Payment in Blood Elizabeth George Mysteries intertwined with mysteries. All unraveled nicely. Great stuff.
19. Can’t Buy Me Love Jonathan Gould Comprehensive biography of the Beatles and their Times. Well researched, well written.
20. Is Tiny Dancer Really Elton’s Little John? Gavin Edwards. Subtitled, “Music’s most enduring mysteries, myths, and rumors revealed.” That says it all.
21. If You Didn’t Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat? Bill Heavey Humorously told hunting and fishing stories. Misadventures for the most part.
22. Dave Barry’s History of the Millennium So Far Often laugh out loud funny.
23. Well Schooled In Murder Elizabeth George The mystery is solved, the murderer caught and the continuing cast of characters…continue.
24. Ser Como El Rio Que Fluye Paulo Coelho (Read in Spanish, of course) Paulo’s thoughts on this and that as he travels the world in search of spiritual truths.
25. Dude, Where’s My Country? Michael Moore. A lot of the book that was good stuff at the time (2003) is now dated. Much remains, though, that is still interesting. Reasons, for instance, why Nixon was our last liberal president and that one million Americans have been killed by guns since Kennedy was assassinated. (More than if we had fought Viet Nam 15 times.)
26. The Walking Dead This is a comic compendium whose authors I diligently wrote down and just as diligently misplaced. Plague survivors against zombies and each other. Quite compelling, actually.
27. A Suitable Vengeance Elizabeth George More murders and mayhem in Jolly Old with the usual cast sorting things out.
28. Cold Skin Albert Snchez Pinol An island, a light house, monsters from the sea and madness make this another Pinol whacko wonder. Strange, but nevertheless entertaining read.
29. The Last Duel James Landale A tediously told story of the last duel in Scotland and a history of dueling in general. Interesting here and there.
30. Stillness Speaks Eckhart Tolle Old Eck, his friends call him Eck, joins a long line of spiritual guides telling us To Be Here Now. Ram Dass (not pronounced rammed ass) was the first one to get to me. I’ve been trying ever since. Sometimes I’m successful.
31. For the Sake of Elena Elizabeth George Liz’s fifth and best book so far in her write-em-until-I-die-ogy. Murder solved, human relations resolved…for now.
32. Consider the Lobster David Foster Wallace I can’t define brilliance, but like a Supreme Court Justice once said of pornography, “I know it when I see it.” Brilliance is displayed here and there in this book of essays.
33. The Appeal John Grisham Predictable. Kind of a fictionalized version of “A Civil Action.”
34. Electricity Ray Robinson A British woman with fierce epileptic seizures searches for long lost brother. Very unusual narrative voice.
35. The Old Fox Deceiv’d Martha Grimes I love these British murder mysteries. They are so….civilized. Most of the time…even the murderers. Grimes and George together with Dick Francis, my cup runneth over.
36. The Book of General Ignorance subtitled Every thing you think you know is wrong. John Lloyd and John Mitchinson Fun facts about stuff you think you know but don’t really.
37. The Inimitable Jeeves P.G. Wodehouse The second time I’ve read this book. Needed a P.G. fix and couldn’t fine any I hadn’t read here in Panama.
38. The Satanic Verses Salman Rushdie I can’t say I fully understand this book; there’s mythology and fantasy alternating with reality and an unclear (to me) timeline, but the prose is spectacular and very readable.
39. Greenwich Killing Time Kinky Friedman Funny, somewhat Elmore Leonard-like prose. Reminds me of me, only Kinky is better.
40. The Unbearable Lightness of Being Milan Kundera Non-typical love and philosophy during the Czech occupation by the Soviet Union. A deep read.
41. The Reader Bernhard Schlink A boy’s affair with an older woman leads to a Nazi back story, a trial and a sad ending. Good stuff.
42. Odds Against Dick Francis Well told, well plotted, well done.
43. The Farmer’s Daughter Jim Harrison Three novellas featuring less than main stream characters. All are sexually charged. Jim has grown more ribald with age.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Good Ideas
Yahoo, from which I derive all my news except for the news I get from other places, recently had a list of the five foods you should NEVER eat. These were as I recall, Strychnine Coated Cocoa Puffs, Arsenic Almonds, Other Human Beings, Doggie Doodoo Doughnuts, and micro-wave popcorn. Yahoo was particularly adamant about the popcorn. Eating micro-wave popcorn will, apparently, cause bad things to happen like heart hernias, hip hemorrhaging and home team defeats. Because I believe everything I read on Yahoo - extra terrestrials ARE targeting Mississippi high school drop-outs fishing in remote places - I went directly to my nearest hot air popcorn popper store and bought one. Popcorn popped by this machine is perfectly safe for children and even adult users if precautions are taken. Salt and melted butter must be applied to the popcorn in the right order. For those of you uncertain, here it is: Butter first, salt second.
So there I was munching my safe, healthy treat and washing it down with liberal quantities of safe, healthy, pain relieving vodka, Advil and OJ, contemplating my navel and my liver while watching my beloved Denver Broncos fall short in a late game comeback attempt against the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles, I noted, held an unfair advantage in that their players were better than the Broncos' players. And, in addition, all the game officials were born and raised in the City of Brotherly Love and had promised their neighbors a sure fired Eagle victory. Money had changed hands. My proposal that each team captain alternately choose a player from either squad to make up their team, as is done on the playgrounds of the world, to make for a fairer and more competitive contest was ignored much to my chagrin. My chagrin, by the way, has now left me and is moving to Philadelphia.
Another of my great ideas that has been left dangling in the wind concerns the inability of white adults to appreciate the forms of music known as hip-hop and rap. (That's right, I am changing the subject.) The lyrics of many hip-hop and rap songs shock but fail to awe the Caucasian populace, telling, as they do, tales of violence, drugs and bad things done to ho's, yo momma and yo sista. They are often sung by threatening looking black men who wear their baseball caps askew, their pants below their butts and too much jewelry dangling from their necks over their sports team jerseys which serves to further distract from the message they are trying to impart. My proposal is this: You know the scene in almost every Disney movie where butterflies are fluttering around flowers, bluebirds are alighting on fences, bunnies are cavorting playfully in the grass and squirrels are chasing each other around tree trunks? If you can remember those scenes, than remember also the music that is playing while all that frivolity is going on. It is a chorus of high voiced, chirpy women who sound just a touch more human than Alvin and the Chipmunks. Why not have this chorus singing the hip-hop rap lyrics? Why not have them singing castrate the cops and spank yo ass? I think this would be so palatable to white listeners that they would no-doubt-about-it end up playing the tunes in dentist offices and on elevators.
"Would you push three for me please?" Altogether now in your best falsetto, "Fuck dat, you skanky ho."
That's all for now. Go Broncos, beat State.
So there I was munching my safe, healthy treat and washing it down with liberal quantities of safe, healthy, pain relieving vodka, Advil and OJ, contemplating my navel and my liver while watching my beloved Denver Broncos fall short in a late game comeback attempt against the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles, I noted, held an unfair advantage in that their players were better than the Broncos' players. And, in addition, all the game officials were born and raised in the City of Brotherly Love and had promised their neighbors a sure fired Eagle victory. Money had changed hands. My proposal that each team captain alternately choose a player from either squad to make up their team, as is done on the playgrounds of the world, to make for a fairer and more competitive contest was ignored much to my chagrin. My chagrin, by the way, has now left me and is moving to Philadelphia.
Another of my great ideas that has been left dangling in the wind concerns the inability of white adults to appreciate the forms of music known as hip-hop and rap. (That's right, I am changing the subject.) The lyrics of many hip-hop and rap songs shock but fail to awe the Caucasian populace, telling, as they do, tales of violence, drugs and bad things done to ho's, yo momma and yo sista. They are often sung by threatening looking black men who wear their baseball caps askew, their pants below their butts and too much jewelry dangling from their necks over their sports team jerseys which serves to further distract from the message they are trying to impart. My proposal is this: You know the scene in almost every Disney movie where butterflies are fluttering around flowers, bluebirds are alighting on fences, bunnies are cavorting playfully in the grass and squirrels are chasing each other around tree trunks? If you can remember those scenes, than remember also the music that is playing while all that frivolity is going on. It is a chorus of high voiced, chirpy women who sound just a touch more human than Alvin and the Chipmunks. Why not have this chorus singing the hip-hop rap lyrics? Why not have them singing castrate the cops and spank yo ass? I think this would be so palatable to white listeners that they would no-doubt-about-it end up playing the tunes in dentist offices and on elevators.
"Would you push three for me please?" Altogether now in your best falsetto, "Fuck dat, you skanky ho."
That's all for now. Go Broncos, beat State.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
And The Winner Is...
"Halo. Senyore Dough Nald Wall Tone por favor."
"Este es Dough Nald."
"Senyore Dough Nald soy (unintelligible)de La Reina. Le llamo decir tu gana el premio."
"Really? Cuantos?"
"Doscientos dollars."
"Well alrighty then! I mean, thank you, er gracias. Yo voy ahi hoy."
"...taluego."
La Reina, bouncing, bubbly, beautiful Boquete's (too much Bing Crosby alliteration over the holiday will do this to you) small department store had a promotion for Christmas. For every ten dollars you spent in their store you received an entry for a drawing they would have two days before the big event. I filled out a handful a week or so ago and dutifully put them in the raffle box. After that, of course, I never gave it a second thought. Now in truth, and in general, I consider myself a winner because of all the good I have and have had in my life. But of contests? Fat chance. Seven or eight hundred lottery scratch off tickets later I'm down a couple thousand bucks and hoping to get back to even. My chances of having an entry of mine picked in a drawing ranked right up there with the well known cold day in hell. Not that I had never won anything mind you. I could think back and remember a turkey I'd scored by bowling "best over average" one Thanksgiving eve and Denver Nuggets tickets I pocketed by winning a free throw shooting contest at my local gym. But a blind luck, pick it out of a hat kind of thing? No way Jose.
Well wrongo Raffle Breath and yes way Jose as the phone call written above attests to. That's right, me, Dough Nald - I had to use my passport name to qualify - was now officially a winner of two hundred balboas or, actually, two hundred dollars worth of merchandise. Whoda guessed it?
Now before I move along to far less important stuff than me being a winner, like the annual day in which several billion people celebrate some dude's birthday for instance, I want to add that when Woowoo Charly and I went to retrieve the winnings, there was a parking place directly in front of the store's doors. (Store's doors? Say that five times fast.) How often has that happened to you? And then, after walking around and filling up our shopping basket with what we estimated was in the neighborhood of two hundred bucks, Woowoo and I deposited the merchandise on the counter and had the cashier add it all up. The total? Two hundred dollars and ten cents. Now that Sportfans, is good shopping. We then paraded most of the goodies over to another counter where we got FREE gift wrapping! Really! It is good...very very good to be the king in a store named "The Queen."
And speaking of good. Christmas day was a blast. Good friends, good food, good fun, good times. What more can I say? (Did I mention I was a winner?)
"Este es Dough Nald."
"Senyore Dough Nald soy (unintelligible)de La Reina. Le llamo decir tu gana el premio."
"Really? Cuantos?"
"Doscientos dollars."
"Well alrighty then! I mean, thank you, er gracias. Yo voy ahi hoy."
"...taluego."
La Reina, bouncing, bubbly, beautiful Boquete's (too much Bing Crosby alliteration over the holiday will do this to you) small department store had a promotion for Christmas. For every ten dollars you spent in their store you received an entry for a drawing they would have two days before the big event. I filled out a handful a week or so ago and dutifully put them in the raffle box. After that, of course, I never gave it a second thought. Now in truth, and in general, I consider myself a winner because of all the good I have and have had in my life. But of contests? Fat chance. Seven or eight hundred lottery scratch off tickets later I'm down a couple thousand bucks and hoping to get back to even. My chances of having an entry of mine picked in a drawing ranked right up there with the well known cold day in hell. Not that I had never won anything mind you. I could think back and remember a turkey I'd scored by bowling "best over average" one Thanksgiving eve and Denver Nuggets tickets I pocketed by winning a free throw shooting contest at my local gym. But a blind luck, pick it out of a hat kind of thing? No way Jose.
Well wrongo Raffle Breath and yes way Jose as the phone call written above attests to. That's right, me, Dough Nald - I had to use my passport name to qualify - was now officially a winner of two hundred balboas or, actually, two hundred dollars worth of merchandise. Whoda guessed it?
Now before I move along to far less important stuff than me being a winner, like the annual day in which several billion people celebrate some dude's birthday for instance, I want to add that when Woowoo Charly and I went to retrieve the winnings, there was a parking place directly in front of the store's doors. (Store's doors? Say that five times fast.) How often has that happened to you? And then, after walking around and filling up our shopping basket with what we estimated was in the neighborhood of two hundred bucks, Woowoo and I deposited the merchandise on the counter and had the cashier add it all up. The total? Two hundred dollars and ten cents. Now that Sportfans, is good shopping. We then paraded most of the goodies over to another counter where we got FREE gift wrapping! Really! It is good...very very good to be the king in a store named "The Queen."
And speaking of good. Christmas day was a blast. Good friends, good food, good fun, good times. What more can I say? (Did I mention I was a winner?)
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Keep on Turning
From the Department of Corrections Department comes this: It was the SHORTEST day of the year, YOU IDIOT!
And RTGFKAR adds that every year that passes is shorter than the year before because the earth's rotation is slowing down! So, the shortest day of the shortest year so far, has just zoomed by. My question is, if you walk in the opposite direction the earth is spinning, can you slow the slowing down? This is a question that needs to be answered by the Department of Physics Department.
From the Department of Clarification and Definition Department I would like to get an answer to this question: Is a Concentration Camp a place where people suffering from ADD are sent to learn how to focus?
We split into teams yesterday to tackle two chores at the same time. Both teams failed. RTGFKAR, the team of one, was sent to pick up Spawn of Rayjay at the airport while Woowoo Charly and I invaded the lair of Angry Zola. Spawn missed her flight from Pan City and Zola never showed. RTGFKAR's team went into overtime and picked up Spawn several hours later. Woowoo Chuck and I jointly said, "#*^# this!" (select the profanity of your choice) and mentally fired Angry Zola. See, the thing is, we know Panama is a process country; that is, one where the process of getting to a goal is to be enjoyed as much as achieving the goal, if not more so. In other words, "slow down, you're going too fast, you've got to make the moment last." Our goal, on this occasion was to see Doctura Anguizola at our specified appointment time of eleven AM. Zola's office had called me, in fact, earlier in the day to remind me to be there. Scroll back now to a time when the earth was spinning faster. Our first visit to Angry Zola's found her in Pan City. On our second, we waited an hour and forty five minutes beyond our appointment time and on our third, the receptionist scheduled me with the wrong Angry Zola, our doc's husband, who is a doctor of a different sort. Sheesh. This trip we checked in exactly on time - we are always on time, it's a disease - and waited for an hour. At precisely noon we uttered the above mentioned oath and fled the premises. Process my patootie! I'm finding another doctor.
Alrighty then. And in the evening, it rained. It was supposed to rain on a part of the world just beyond us, but because the earth is rotating slower, we got the downpour instead.
And RTGFKAR adds that every year that passes is shorter than the year before because the earth's rotation is slowing down! So, the shortest day of the shortest year so far, has just zoomed by. My question is, if you walk in the opposite direction the earth is spinning, can you slow the slowing down? This is a question that needs to be answered by the Department of Physics Department.
From the Department of Clarification and Definition Department I would like to get an answer to this question: Is a Concentration Camp a place where people suffering from ADD are sent to learn how to focus?
We split into teams yesterday to tackle two chores at the same time. Both teams failed. RTGFKAR, the team of one, was sent to pick up Spawn of Rayjay at the airport while Woowoo Charly and I invaded the lair of Angry Zola. Spawn missed her flight from Pan City and Zola never showed. RTGFKAR's team went into overtime and picked up Spawn several hours later. Woowoo Chuck and I jointly said, "#*^# this!" (select the profanity of your choice) and mentally fired Angry Zola. See, the thing is, we know Panama is a process country; that is, one where the process of getting to a goal is to be enjoyed as much as achieving the goal, if not more so. In other words, "slow down, you're going too fast, you've got to make the moment last." Our goal, on this occasion was to see Doctura Anguizola at our specified appointment time of eleven AM. Zola's office had called me, in fact, earlier in the day to remind me to be there. Scroll back now to a time when the earth was spinning faster. Our first visit to Angry Zola's found her in Pan City. On our second, we waited an hour and forty five minutes beyond our appointment time and on our third, the receptionist scheduled me with the wrong Angry Zola, our doc's husband, who is a doctor of a different sort. Sheesh. This trip we checked in exactly on time - we are always on time, it's a disease - and waited for an hour. At precisely noon we uttered the above mentioned oath and fled the premises. Process my patootie! I'm finding another doctor.
Alrighty then. And in the evening, it rained. It was supposed to rain on a part of the world just beyond us, but because the earth is rotating slower, we got the downpour instead.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Denver, Time and The Longest Day
My heart was broken, my hopes crushed like a stomped on grape. The evil Oakland Raiders had come into Denver and defeated the home eleven 20 to 19. The sky had fallen and a silence deep as the grave hushed the faithful. Tears and drooping shoulders were worn by all who dreamed of playoffs; playoffs now but a distant, barely flickering hope. Alas, so sad, so sad.
But that was yesterday!
Today this Bronco fanatico is feeling fine and probably dandy too although I'm not sure what feeling dandy really means. It's the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere and if that signifies the area above the equator, than by-cracky, by-jiminy and by-other expressions no one uses any more, Panama is part of it and I don't want to spend the longest day of 2009 mope-ing about. To celebrate the longest day, I've selected a larger font for the blog. Okay, this is not exactly a Mardi Gras of celebrations but, come on, I'm going with what I got. (I was also going to make a list of all the things I was planning to do with the extra time, but apparently I've used it up writing this paragraph. I'll be more frugal with it next year.)
It is exactly 9:AM here which is something like 3:19 in Bangkok by the airport clock of my mind and Bangkok may or may not be in the Northern Hemisphere. Only the Bangkokians know for sure. Bangkokians, by the way, is fun to say. Why I bring this up, or rather make this up, is a question pondered by well known psychiatrists throughout the world, or should be. Bangkokian shrinks especially. For those of you who prefer more precision, I will point out that the hour in Greenwich is, at this moment, unknown. Greenwich is sitting in a corner taking a timeout for being mean.
It's back to Spring cleaning again today although the two days of Spring have been supplanted by the twelve days of Christmas and the five steps to a new and better you.
As you may have noticed, I don't really have a thing to say on this the longest of days. I just wanted to try out the new font (another funky word to say) and air out the monkeymind. It was getting dusty.
Cheers. But not for the Broncos. The stiffs.
But that was yesterday!
Today this Bronco fanatico is feeling fine and probably dandy too although I'm not sure what feeling dandy really means. It's the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere and if that signifies the area above the equator, than by-cracky, by-jiminy and by-other expressions no one uses any more, Panama is part of it and I don't want to spend the longest day of 2009 mope-ing about. To celebrate the longest day, I've selected a larger font for the blog. Okay, this is not exactly a Mardi Gras of celebrations but, come on, I'm going with what I got. (I was also going to make a list of all the things I was planning to do with the extra time, but apparently I've used it up writing this paragraph. I'll be more frugal with it next year.)
It is exactly 9:AM here which is something like 3:19 in Bangkok by the airport clock of my mind and Bangkok may or may not be in the Northern Hemisphere. Only the Bangkokians know for sure. Bangkokians, by the way, is fun to say. Why I bring this up, or rather make this up, is a question pondered by well known psychiatrists throughout the world, or should be. Bangkokian shrinks especially. For those of you who prefer more precision, I will point out that the hour in Greenwich is, at this moment, unknown. Greenwich is sitting in a corner taking a timeout for being mean.
It's back to Spring cleaning again today although the two days of Spring have been supplanted by the twelve days of Christmas and the five steps to a new and better you.
As you may have noticed, I don't really have a thing to say on this the longest of days. I just wanted to try out the new font (another funky word to say) and air out the monkeymind. It was getting dusty.
Cheers. But not for the Broncos. The stiffs.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Walking the Perimeter
Right around 7:30 at night my dog Raffi begins to put what is called in the restaurant business the fish stare on me. The fish stare is used by waiters to encourage people who are dawdling at their table post dinner to move along: other people are waiting for the table. Raffi uses his unblinking gaze to encourage me to open a door so that he and our other two mutts can go out and check-the-perimeter. Checking-the-perimeter is a practice I instituted with our former dog Gus. It's a euphemism for walking around the property three or four times so that the dogs will have an opportunity to squat and fire before coming in for the night. They, of course, think they are out there to hunt anything that moves, bark maniacally and generally be a nuisance.
At roughly the Witching Hour, eight o'clock, (Boquete's witches party early because nobody is up to mess with at Midnight) I rise from my recliner saying "calm down, calm down" a necessary, but wasted effort on my part, as the moment there is discernible air between the chair and my butt, Raffi goes berserk. He leaps up at me, runs in circles and then hurtles himself at the door. I can't get it open fast enough to suit him. When the door is, to his way of thinking, FINALLY opened wide enough, he runs through it and then turns right around to snarl at Matti and Finni who are trying to follow him out. This, I'm told, is "Alpha" dog behavior. He then runs off into the night in search of any mayhem that might be running around loose.
My job, after that is, with flashlight in hand, to open the yard gates so that the dogs progress around the perimeter is not impeded. When that task is accomplished, I begin walking the perimeter myself in a much tighter circle. I smell the night air, check out the stars and talk to the dogs as I do so. Periodically, either Raffi or Finni will appear briefly in my flash beam before scurrying off. Matti, being a black dog, becomes invisible in the dark and even when she passes through the light beam seems nothing more than a shadow.
On my third or sometimes fourth trip around, being the clever fellow that I am, I close a yard gate behind me. The dogs, always to my front, are unaware I do so. When I've completed my circle, I pass through the remaining yard gate and call the dogs from there. When they are all in, I close that gate as well, trapping them in the yard. Last night, I was particularly proud of Raffi and Finni as they came streaking in on the first call. Matti, I thought, was being stubborn. I called her name several more times while getting annoyed and wondering what the damn hold up was. I became aware then, of a slight shuffling at my feet. I pointed my flash beam down and there she was, sitting and looking at me like I was an idiot. Black dogs can be downright spooky in the dark.
As soon as we are all back inside, I say the magic word "cookie" and the dogs sit like GOOD BOYS AND GIRLS while I give them each a dog biscuit. After that, well, we settle in for the night.
And so we come to the end of another riveting chapter in the exciting chronicles of old Doc's life. Stay tuned for tomorrow when Doc reveals how he sweeps up dog hair on a regular basis.
At roughly the Witching Hour, eight o'clock, (Boquete's witches party early because nobody is up to mess with at Midnight) I rise from my recliner saying "calm down, calm down" a necessary, but wasted effort on my part, as the moment there is discernible air between the chair and my butt, Raffi goes berserk. He leaps up at me, runs in circles and then hurtles himself at the door. I can't get it open fast enough to suit him. When the door is, to his way of thinking, FINALLY opened wide enough, he runs through it and then turns right around to snarl at Matti and Finni who are trying to follow him out. This, I'm told, is "Alpha" dog behavior. He then runs off into the night in search of any mayhem that might be running around loose.
My job, after that is, with flashlight in hand, to open the yard gates so that the dogs progress around the perimeter is not impeded. When that task is accomplished, I begin walking the perimeter myself in a much tighter circle. I smell the night air, check out the stars and talk to the dogs as I do so. Periodically, either Raffi or Finni will appear briefly in my flash beam before scurrying off. Matti, being a black dog, becomes invisible in the dark and even when she passes through the light beam seems nothing more than a shadow.
On my third or sometimes fourth trip around, being the clever fellow that I am, I close a yard gate behind me. The dogs, always to my front, are unaware I do so. When I've completed my circle, I pass through the remaining yard gate and call the dogs from there. When they are all in, I close that gate as well, trapping them in the yard. Last night, I was particularly proud of Raffi and Finni as they came streaking in on the first call. Matti, I thought, was being stubborn. I called her name several more times while getting annoyed and wondering what the damn hold up was. I became aware then, of a slight shuffling at my feet. I pointed my flash beam down and there she was, sitting and looking at me like I was an idiot. Black dogs can be downright spooky in the dark.
As soon as we are all back inside, I say the magic word "cookie" and the dogs sit like GOOD BOYS AND GIRLS while I give them each a dog biscuit. After that, well, we settle in for the night.
And so we come to the end of another riveting chapter in the exciting chronicles of old Doc's life. Stay tuned for tomorrow when Doc reveals how he sweeps up dog hair on a regular basis.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Movies and Television
Beware of movies that have only a piano being played with the right hand as the background music. These movies usually feature bearded and bespectacled men wearing turtleneck sweaters under their sport jackets. The women players are either leotard clad or dressed to the nines depending upon the time of day. Any time beyond noon will frequently find them drinking too much. The movies will consist of mostly pseudo intellectual banter and have no clear purpose. There will be a beginning, there might be a middle, but a straightforward ending will always be lacking. I won't say these movies are boring, because six people living in a well kept old mansion with unused tennis courts and tended gardens outside of Boston will simply "adore" them and who am I to say they are wrong? Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to caution others. Movies of this type have been known to cause painful brain cramps and spark deep feelings of inferiority. Take my advice. When the opening credits roll and the piano tinkles something vaguely jazz-like, reach for the remote without further ado. Your mental health is in danger.
Alrighty then.
Here's a stolen line from a good movie I used on Woowoo Charly last night: "We make the perfect couple," I said, pausing for timing's sake before adding, "Beauty and the Beast." She looked at me tenderly then so I delivered the punchline. "Of course if anyone else calls you a beast, I'll rip their lungs out." (Jack Nicholson as the Joker in "Batman.")
Have I mentioned that I watch movies in lieu of regular television and, in fact, pretty much any movie will do; even the dreadful kind like those Ive described above. (Aside: I like to use semi colons whenever I think they are called for on the off chance that every once in awhile it will be the correct punctuation.) I know there are good, well written, well played, meaningful television shows, and probably, with the plethora of channels, more now than ever before, but...and here I pause to contemplate my use of a very strong word...I HATE commercials. Lest you think I am missing out on a good thing, I should point out that I do watch some shows in reruns while I pedal my elliptical glider. I mean I want to keep abreast of the latest happenings and not get too far behind the times. That Friends show, for instance, is really good even if I do have to suffer through the ads. It's still on...right?
Alrighty then.
Here's a stolen line from a good movie I used on Woowoo Charly last night: "We make the perfect couple," I said, pausing for timing's sake before adding, "Beauty and the Beast." She looked at me tenderly then so I delivered the punchline. "Of course if anyone else calls you a beast, I'll rip their lungs out." (Jack Nicholson as the Joker in "Batman.")
Have I mentioned that I watch movies in lieu of regular television and, in fact, pretty much any movie will do; even the dreadful kind like those Ive described above. (Aside: I like to use semi colons whenever I think they are called for on the off chance that every once in awhile it will be the correct punctuation.) I know there are good, well written, well played, meaningful television shows, and probably, with the plethora of channels, more now than ever before, but...and here I pause to contemplate my use of a very strong word...I HATE commercials. Lest you think I am missing out on a good thing, I should point out that I do watch some shows in reruns while I pedal my elliptical glider. I mean I want to keep abreast of the latest happenings and not get too far behind the times. That Friends show, for instance, is really good even if I do have to suffer through the ads. It's still on...right?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Memories, And I'm Not Talking Nostalgia
Not that I'm worried, mind you, but last week I forgot my ATM pin number. I've only used it a thousand times or so, so it wasn't really etched in my memory like, say, my wife whatsername's name, but really, I thought I had it down. I stood there bewitched, bothered and that other one that starts with b and wondered if I was losing it. I don't really remember what IT is, but whatever it is, I'm sure I want to keep it. There are things we seniors? elderly? fogies? are supposed to do to preserve our data banks; things like doing crossword puzzles, learning a new language and memorizing stuff. These are not only puted, they are reputed to keep the old gray matter sizzling. Well I do all those things and still I forgot my pin number. For now I'm going to blame it on the rain. I'm going to put one of those "slippery when wet" signs on my forehead to explain why this and that slip my mind. Later, I'll come up with a better excuse. Remind me.
Aside: One thing I've noticed about crossword puzzles is that very few of the words are actually cross words. Most of them are quite benign.
I've completely forgotten what I was going to write in this paragraph, so I'll skip it and go right to the next.
As for learning a new language, now that I have mastered Spanish, (Yeehah!) I'm considering tackling English. There are a lot of movies shown on television here that are made in England and I would really like to know what the people in them are saying. Woowoo Charly and I continually turn to each other during these movies and ask, "did you get any of that?" The answer is always, "not a word." I'm told that English is one of the most difficult languages to learn along with Chinese and Australian, but I figure if I want to keep the old synapses (I forget exactly what synapse are) firing, I should take on something challenging. So... English it is.
Aside: One thing I've noticed about crossword puzzles is that very few of the words are actually cross words. Most of them are quite benign.
I've completely forgotten what I was going to write in this paragraph, so I'll skip it and go right to the next.
As for learning a new language, now that I have mastered Spanish, (Yeehah!) I'm considering tackling English. There are a lot of movies shown on television here that are made in England and I would really like to know what the people in them are saying. Woowoo Charly and I continually turn to each other during these movies and ask, "did you get any of that?" The answer is always, "not a word." I'm told that English is one of the most difficult languages to learn along with Chinese and Australian, but I figure if I want to keep the old synapses (I forget exactly what synapse are) firing, I should take on something challenging. So... English it is.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Dawn of the Damp
My dogs are sick of it. "Hey," one of them told me this morning, "we get you up everyday at dawn so we can enjoy the sunrise together, but what do you give us in return? Rain...and wind... and, and, general unpleasantness, that's what. It ain't fair, I tell you." I've tried to explain to them that I'm not in charge of the weather, but they don't understand. After all, I appear to be in charge of everything else, providing food, opening and closing doors, walks, rides, snacks, even making it light in the house when it's dark outside. I tell them to have patience the day will improve, the sun will rise, the wind and rain will abate, and even memories of the Denver Broncos latest defeat at the hands (in particular the right hand of Peyton Manning) of the undefeated Indianapolis Colts, will wane. They doubt it. Dogs aren't long on patience. I point out the rainbow that is arcing as it does every morning this time of the year in the vicinity of Volcan Baru as evidence of the day's improvement and all three dogs look skyward and say, "Yeah, so?" Dogs care as much for rainbows as they do patience. "Look," they tell me, "we did our job. We got you up, barked at nothing to be sure you were wide awake, hounded you (no pun) until you fed us and now, well, we're tired. We're going back to bed. Good luck with that computer thing. Oh, and, could you do something about the weather, before we get back up?"
The definition of eclectic reading: I'm reading Kinky Friedman in English, Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Spanish and Milan Kundera in English translated from the Czech. "Greenwich Killing Time", "El Amor En Los Tiempos Del Colera", and The Incredible Lightness of Being", respectively. Two of the three books are great; I've read them before. About the third, well, Kinky is a funny guy.
Alrighty then. The blogger sits at the keyboard dressed in old sweats he has pulled on over his PJ's, stare-ing disconsolately inward in search of a thought...any thought. He has none. Surely, he reasons, breaking the long stare, there must be something to blog about un-blogged about heretofore. But nothing comes. Ah well, he thinks before signing off, maybe tomorrow.
The definition of eclectic reading: I'm reading Kinky Friedman in English, Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Spanish and Milan Kundera in English translated from the Czech. "Greenwich Killing Time", "El Amor En Los Tiempos Del Colera", and The Incredible Lightness of Being", respectively. Two of the three books are great; I've read them before. About the third, well, Kinky is a funny guy.
Alrighty then. The blogger sits at the keyboard dressed in old sweats he has pulled on over his PJ's, stare-ing disconsolately inward in search of a thought...any thought. He has none. Surely, he reasons, breaking the long stare, there must be something to blog about un-blogged about heretofore. But nothing comes. Ah well, he thinks before signing off, maybe tomorrow.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Latest Edition of This and That
Titiya Plucksataporn (I am not making this up) shot a smooth 68 and is now tied for second in the Dubai Ladies Masters Golf Tournament.
"Quantum of Solace", a poor title to begin with as it means a quantity of grief relief and that, as I see it, is not exactly strong motivation to see a movie unless you are looking for something to dampen the old hankie with, is the hands-down, no question, inarguable WORST James Bond movie ever made. The writing was abysmal, giving us as it did over-lapping story lines that were never remotely clear, the action sequences even worse, being chopped, spliced and special effected into incomprehensibility and the acting, apart from Dame Judy Dench as M, was leaden and cliche-ed. I do believe that a drama is only as good as its villains and in this movie the villains fell far short of believable. Should I mention what I thought of the background music? Probably not.
A department store named Conway, pronounced cone-why by Latinos, has opened in David. The store is a Target affiliate (Target in Panama, who-da thunk it?) and consists of three stories of STUFF. I have always made it a point to avoid places that have a lot of STUFF, because I might just inadvertently find STUFF I want there that, prior to the sighting, I didn't even KNOW I wanted. For this same reason I don't even thumb through magazines looking at the ads. I have enough STUFF to suit me and like to merely replace the STUFF I have as it wears out. Right now I could use a new pitching wedge. Not everyone feels this way, I know. Woowoo Charly, for instance, only shares my point-of-view to a degree. Although in no way is she a material girl, yesterday, as we meandered through the store looking for one of those things that fits in a kitchen drawer and keeps your silverware separated - the old one is cracked, stained and ugly - I noticed a certain gleam in her eyes that was not there before. There is STUFF here, I sensed her thinking, that I want. How do I feel about that? Great! I love it when SHE wants something. She asks for so little.
The Abominable Doctor Panagas was smiling and juggling scalpels as Woowoo and I entered his office. "Buenas tardes, good to see you again" he said as he caught the sharpened knives in one hand and offered up the other for a shake. He was eye-balling my third eye hungrily as he did so. "I see you have a new one for me" he said with a widening grin, "but how can I help the lady?" Woowoo pointed out the age spot on her cheek that had recently turned funky and the Abominable Doc's eyes suddenly shone even more eerily. "Come into my lair, I mean my examining room and we will take a closer look." First thing he does after that is measure, that's right measure, the spot on my forehead. "Hmmmm," he says. "this is borderline. I will try to freeze it, but if it is not better in a month you will have to come back so I can chop and hack, I mean, carefully remove, the damage with a small curugia." (surgery) He then whipped up a nice smoking batch of liquid nitrogen and, using a long handled q-tip-like device, proceeded to repeatedly press the nitrogen, what felt to me, deep into my scalp. Hurt like hell. He was much gentler with Woowoo Charly, saying her problem was not dangerous (don-zzger-oose his pronunciation) but nevertheless needed to be taken care of before it became so. He then froze up a few other spots on her upper chest that she hadn't previously noticed. Following her treatment, he put us both into a deep hypnotic trance and gave us a post hypnotic suggestion that said when we receive our bill we will take it immediately to his receptionist and pay it without a second thought. He then snapped his fingers and off we went. I'll see him again next month. Merry Christmas, Doctor.
"Quantum of Solace", a poor title to begin with as it means a quantity of grief relief and that, as I see it, is not exactly strong motivation to see a movie unless you are looking for something to dampen the old hankie with, is the hands-down, no question, inarguable WORST James Bond movie ever made. The writing was abysmal, giving us as it did over-lapping story lines that were never remotely clear, the action sequences even worse, being chopped, spliced and special effected into incomprehensibility and the acting, apart from Dame Judy Dench as M, was leaden and cliche-ed. I do believe that a drama is only as good as its villains and in this movie the villains fell far short of believable. Should I mention what I thought of the background music? Probably not.
A department store named Conway, pronounced cone-why by Latinos, has opened in David. The store is a Target affiliate (Target in Panama, who-da thunk it?) and consists of three stories of STUFF. I have always made it a point to avoid places that have a lot of STUFF, because I might just inadvertently find STUFF I want there that, prior to the sighting, I didn't even KNOW I wanted. For this same reason I don't even thumb through magazines looking at the ads. I have enough STUFF to suit me and like to merely replace the STUFF I have as it wears out. Right now I could use a new pitching wedge. Not everyone feels this way, I know. Woowoo Charly, for instance, only shares my point-of-view to a degree. Although in no way is she a material girl, yesterday, as we meandered through the store looking for one of those things that fits in a kitchen drawer and keeps your silverware separated - the old one is cracked, stained and ugly - I noticed a certain gleam in her eyes that was not there before. There is STUFF here, I sensed her thinking, that I want. How do I feel about that? Great! I love it when SHE wants something. She asks for so little.
The Abominable Doctor Panagas was smiling and juggling scalpels as Woowoo and I entered his office. "Buenas tardes, good to see you again" he said as he caught the sharpened knives in one hand and offered up the other for a shake. He was eye-balling my third eye hungrily as he did so. "I see you have a new one for me" he said with a widening grin, "but how can I help the lady?" Woowoo pointed out the age spot on her cheek that had recently turned funky and the Abominable Doc's eyes suddenly shone even more eerily. "Come into my lair, I mean my examining room and we will take a closer look." First thing he does after that is measure, that's right measure, the spot on my forehead. "Hmmmm," he says. "this is borderline. I will try to freeze it, but if it is not better in a month you will have to come back so I can chop and hack, I mean, carefully remove, the damage with a small curugia." (surgery) He then whipped up a nice smoking batch of liquid nitrogen and, using a long handled q-tip-like device, proceeded to repeatedly press the nitrogen, what felt to me, deep into my scalp. Hurt like hell. He was much gentler with Woowoo Charly, saying her problem was not dangerous (don-zzger-oose his pronunciation) but nevertheless needed to be taken care of before it became so. He then froze up a few other spots on her upper chest that she hadn't previously noticed. Following her treatment, he put us both into a deep hypnotic trance and gave us a post hypnotic suggestion that said when we receive our bill we will take it immediately to his receptionist and pay it without a second thought. He then snapped his fingers and off we went. I'll see him again next month. Merry Christmas, Doctor.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Tiagra and the Third Eye
NEW FROM PFIZER AND TITLEIST
Is your sex drive lost in the WOODS? Having trouble keeping UP with your mistresses? Well then it's time to try TIAGRA, the newest innovation from Pfizer guaranteed to ELEVATE your game.
Having trouble getting it STRAIGHT off the tee? Unable to sustain the LONG BALL? Well now there is an answer. New TIAGRA makes it possible to get UP and DOWN at each HOLE and surpass par with bird after bird.
That's right PLAYERS, you'll be breaking out the BIG dog at every BOX and hitting it LONG and DEEP. So don't worry and don't delay, try the new TIAGRA and try it TODAY!
(Well sure it needs work, but it is a funny concept.)
Alrighty then.
We are going to mosey into lovely and talented Daveed again today. I've got an appointment with the Abominable Doctor Panagas to remove yet another chunk of facial feature; this one from the center of my forehead. It kind of looks like a third eye up there, but since I can't see through it, I'll let Panagas and his evil minions scalpel it away.
My actual third eye I keep in a drawer next to the bed. I take it out, screw it on and use it when I meditate. Third eyes, as you know, can only look inward. They are supposed to give you insight. That's in-sight. Why anyone, apart from an MD would want to do that, I have no idea. I mean it's all just slimy and bloody in there. Of course, maybe mine is defective. When I meditate I pass right through all that in-sight, in-novation, in-tuition and get right to the, you know, cosmic consciousness stuff. That's the good stuff. That's where the oneness of everything becomes clear and also where Tiger Woods jokes appear.
So here's another alrighty then, because I can SEE I have nothing further to say this morning. I'll just go put my third eye back in the drawer.
Is your sex drive lost in the WOODS? Having trouble keeping UP with your mistresses? Well then it's time to try TIAGRA, the newest innovation from Pfizer guaranteed to ELEVATE your game.
Having trouble getting it STRAIGHT off the tee? Unable to sustain the LONG BALL? Well now there is an answer. New TIAGRA makes it possible to get UP and DOWN at each HOLE and surpass par with bird after bird.
That's right PLAYERS, you'll be breaking out the BIG dog at every BOX and hitting it LONG and DEEP. So don't worry and don't delay, try the new TIAGRA and try it TODAY!
(Well sure it needs work, but it is a funny concept.)
Alrighty then.
We are going to mosey into lovely and talented Daveed again today. I've got an appointment with the Abominable Doctor Panagas to remove yet another chunk of facial feature; this one from the center of my forehead. It kind of looks like a third eye up there, but since I can't see through it, I'll let Panagas and his evil minions scalpel it away.
My actual third eye I keep in a drawer next to the bed. I take it out, screw it on and use it when I meditate. Third eyes, as you know, can only look inward. They are supposed to give you insight. That's in-sight. Why anyone, apart from an MD would want to do that, I have no idea. I mean it's all just slimy and bloody in there. Of course, maybe mine is defective. When I meditate I pass right through all that in-sight, in-novation, in-tuition and get right to the, you know, cosmic consciousness stuff. That's the good stuff. That's where the oneness of everything becomes clear and also where Tiger Woods jokes appear.
So here's another alrighty then, because I can SEE I have nothing further to say this morning. I'll just go put my third eye back in the drawer.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Monday Shows Up Again
A low flying, dim rainbow is struggling to survive against a graying sky outside my northern exposure window this a.m. There is wind in the willows, well there would be if we had willows, and rain is in the offing. Alas, too bad, tut tut, and like that.
Several days of sunshine and already we are spoiled. To paraphrase the words of the immortal, never to be forgotten What-sis-name from the movie "Treasure of the Sierra Madre", we don't need no stinking rain. Sierra madre, by the way, for you non Spanish speakers, means "Yo Mama" in English.
I awoke this morning to learn that the college bowl games have all been arranged and was thrilled almost to coma to read that Marshall will be playing Ohio in the Little Caesars Pizza Bowl. Yup, there is a Pizza Bowl. I'm betting the broadcasting network of this baby just can't wait to air it's sure-to-be ratings bonanza.
In other news this morning, Tiger Woods has been implicated in the mysterious deaths of Michael Jackson, Princess Di and JFK. When asked to comment Tiger said, "Sierra Madre."
The Denver Broncos, meanwhile, have captured the attention of the entire nation by winning their second game in a row after receiving a half time, locker room, pep-talk from the aforementioned Woods and a buxom cheerleader who Tiger described as just a friend. Nike, Tiger's principal sponsor has declared it's support for Tiger in these difficult times and in an effort to capitalize on Tiger's still massive following is now offering a complete line of skimpily clad cheerleader dolls marketed as "Tiger's Just Friends" and sporting the Nike swoosh in all the right places.
Aside: Saturday Night Live may have had the best Tiger line when it, in a news flash reported, "Tiger hit a tree with his car last night and a whole lot of women fell out of it." This is funny and accurate.
Spring cleaning begins in earnest today as Spring, December 7th and 8th, is now upon us here in Boquete, land of the wild gringo and home of the humming bird-brains. My plan is to do the windows last. I don't want to look at the rain.
Several days of sunshine and already we are spoiled. To paraphrase the words of the immortal, never to be forgotten What-sis-name from the movie "Treasure of the Sierra Madre", we don't need no stinking rain. Sierra madre, by the way, for you non Spanish speakers, means "Yo Mama" in English.
I awoke this morning to learn that the college bowl games have all been arranged and was thrilled almost to coma to read that Marshall will be playing Ohio in the Little Caesars Pizza Bowl. Yup, there is a Pizza Bowl. I'm betting the broadcasting network of this baby just can't wait to air it's sure-to-be ratings bonanza.
In other news this morning, Tiger Woods has been implicated in the mysterious deaths of Michael Jackson, Princess Di and JFK. When asked to comment Tiger said, "Sierra Madre."
The Denver Broncos, meanwhile, have captured the attention of the entire nation by winning their second game in a row after receiving a half time, locker room, pep-talk from the aforementioned Woods and a buxom cheerleader who Tiger described as just a friend. Nike, Tiger's principal sponsor has declared it's support for Tiger in these difficult times and in an effort to capitalize on Tiger's still massive following is now offering a complete line of skimpily clad cheerleader dolls marketed as "Tiger's Just Friends" and sporting the Nike swoosh in all the right places.
Aside: Saturday Night Live may have had the best Tiger line when it, in a news flash reported, "Tiger hit a tree with his car last night and a whole lot of women fell out of it." This is funny and accurate.
Spring cleaning begins in earnest today as Spring, December 7th and 8th, is now upon us here in Boquete, land of the wild gringo and home of the humming bird-brains. My plan is to do the windows last. I don't want to look at the rain.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Tiger's In The Woods
Tiger Tiger Tiger. Far be it from me to cast aspersions upon my fellow man for succumbing to temptation and not being delivered from evil, but this time the situation has gotten out of hand and something has to be said. When I learned of Tiger's marital digressions, I was appalled only to the extent of a quiet tsk tsk tsk, Tiger Tiger shame on you. But when it was later revealed that he was a partner in Michael Vick's dog fighting business, I was truly up-in-arms. Still, because I am a generous man, I was in a mood for forgiveness. When it was further revealed that Tiger fixed up Mike Tyson and Kobe Bryant with dates, I began to wonder about his serial improprieties. Late breaking stories that include Tiger's participation in the introduction of steroids to Bobby Bonds, Roger Clemons and others have seriously damaged my degree of fandom for the king of golf. When I also learned that Tiger is part owner of a bed and breakfast on the Appalachian Trail where Republican Congressman who weren't actually there could be signed in so as to appear present when, in reality, they were off cavorting elsewhere with dates that Tiger had arranged, well, I began to doubt my own loyalty to Tiger Nation. Although Tiger has been mostly lips sealed on his political convictions, new information, just now coming to light, has him linked to Katherine Harris in the 2000 Florida scam to get Dubya elected. Tiger will be quoted by a reliable source as saying, "Katherine and I were just friends, but I truly admire her skill with mascara application." In 2004 Tiger is credited with creating the "swift boat" fantasy and again aiding the Dubya campaign. As for 2008, what can be said? Of course Tiger and Sarah were an item, no secret there, but until the sordid facts are outed I will have no comment beyond saying the world will be shocked.
All this has added up, I am sad to say, in my jump from the Tiger Bandwagon onto that of Phil "Ficklehead" Mickleson's. The rumor that he and Tiger are much...closer, shall we say, than they appear, just can't be true, can it?
All this has added up, I am sad to say, in my jump from the Tiger Bandwagon onto that of Phil "Ficklehead" Mickleson's. The rumor that he and Tiger are much...closer, shall we say, than they appear, just can't be true, can it?
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
A Big Fun Day
We bought a Christmas Tree yesterday, or maybe, given our hazy religious predilections, it should be called a Buddha Bush, a Taoist Decoration or an Agnostic Arbol, but anyway we bought one of the save-the-planet artificial varieties along with several silver wreaths and a box of silver and blue...ornaments. (I was going to say blue balls, but then I would have to go off on a tangent that isn't Christmassy at all.) Woowoo Charly (Maybe our tree should be called Woowoo Wood) likes blue and silver...everything.
We found the tree in our small, local department store, La Reina, (The Queen) which dedicates about a quarter of its floor space to exclusively Christmas stuff. The tree was in a row of other artificial pines all decked out to show potential customers how nice they could look. When I pointed out the one we wanted to a salesgirl, she said it was "unico", the only one, and then went off to find some sort of container. While she was gone, Woowoo Charly and I, not ones to stand idly by, set about removing all the ornaments and other decorations from the tree. We had just neatly polished off the job when the salesgirl returned with a brand new tree in a box. The one we had undecorated, it turned out, was not "unico" after all. Ah well, "No te preocupe", don't worry, we were told, "No hay una problema." Alrighty then.
Earlier in the day, Woowoo Charly had gotten her hair cut and colored. Following that, she and I had a nice lunch at El Oasis Restaurant where she told me this story: She had a bug bite on the back of her head that she had scratched repeatedly. While in Roxanna's, the hair stylist chair, the bite began to bleed a little. Roxanna asked what it was and did it hurt. Woowoo Charly showing off her Spanish said "no porque estoy fuente." Roxanna laughed at that and Woo Charly didn't know why until I explained to her at lunch that she had said, "no, because I am a fountain." She had meant to say "fuerte" which means strong. Ha! Charly also told me that before she went to get her hair cut, she had looked up the Spanish word for layered so that she could explain to Roxanna exactly what she wanted done. When she got there and proudly served up the word, (I don't know what it is) Roxanna said, "Oh, you want it layered" in English. Big fun.
After the haircut, the lunch and the tree buying, Woowoo Chuck and I were having too nice a day to head directly home, so we drove over to the Panamonte Hotel/Bar/Restaurant to have a Cappuccino and Gran Marnier. While we were there, we ran into a friend of ours, who upon hearing of my recent health woes suggested (having had the same problems herself) the course of treatment that worked for her. It involves a steroid called Prednisone that you take seven of the first day, six, the second, five the third, etc. I started the plan at six this morning. It is now nearly ten. At noon I am going to go out, pick up my car and carry it to town. These pills are awesome.
We found the tree in our small, local department store, La Reina, (The Queen) which dedicates about a quarter of its floor space to exclusively Christmas stuff. The tree was in a row of other artificial pines all decked out to show potential customers how nice they could look. When I pointed out the one we wanted to a salesgirl, she said it was "unico", the only one, and then went off to find some sort of container. While she was gone, Woowoo Charly and I, not ones to stand idly by, set about removing all the ornaments and other decorations from the tree. We had just neatly polished off the job when the salesgirl returned with a brand new tree in a box. The one we had undecorated, it turned out, was not "unico" after all. Ah well, "No te preocupe", don't worry, we were told, "No hay una problema." Alrighty then.
Earlier in the day, Woowoo Charly had gotten her hair cut and colored. Following that, she and I had a nice lunch at El Oasis Restaurant where she told me this story: She had a bug bite on the back of her head that she had scratched repeatedly. While in Roxanna's, the hair stylist chair, the bite began to bleed a little. Roxanna asked what it was and did it hurt. Woowoo Charly showing off her Spanish said "no porque estoy fuente." Roxanna laughed at that and Woo Charly didn't know why until I explained to her at lunch that she had said, "no, because I am a fountain." She had meant to say "fuerte" which means strong. Ha! Charly also told me that before she went to get her hair cut, she had looked up the Spanish word for layered so that she could explain to Roxanna exactly what she wanted done. When she got there and proudly served up the word, (I don't know what it is) Roxanna said, "Oh, you want it layered" in English. Big fun.
After the haircut, the lunch and the tree buying, Woowoo Chuck and I were having too nice a day to head directly home, so we drove over to the Panamonte Hotel/Bar/Restaurant to have a Cappuccino and Gran Marnier. While we were there, we ran into a friend of ours, who upon hearing of my recent health woes suggested (having had the same problems herself) the course of treatment that worked for her. It involves a steroid called Prednisone that you take seven of the first day, six, the second, five the third, etc. I started the plan at six this morning. It is now nearly ten. At noon I am going to go out, pick up my car and carry it to town. These pills are awesome.
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