My first long-ish story, a P.G. Wodehouse tribute. (More or less.)
THE CASE OF THE MISSING MASHIE
By Doc Walton
It’s all quite so, you know. Only this afternoon, being about and at large, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for to point out an absence of anything worthwhile to do, I rang up my Auntie Paisley and found her in some sort of large colorful tither. This is a condition not wholly unfamiliar to her, but one to which I generally have no response beyond summoning the staff and the salts.
“Dear Auntie,” I shouted into the phone, using my most authoritative and commanding tone which, I now recall, is the one I use when enlightening my butler Jeeves on a subject about which I know nothing at all and the very one he says is reminiscent of amphibian love calls. “Do get a grip on yourself and tell me what IS the matter.” I waited for a moment, visualizing the old girl looking about for some sort of hand hold on her copious frame, then was startled by my aunt’s somewhat softer voice, and I say softer if one is cognizant of the difference between thunder and a nearby head on, responding, “Bertram, you spineless lizard, is that really you?” Auntie’s affection for me knows no limits. “Something dreadful has happened,” she continued without waiting for my reply, which I have noticed of late is a thing all but those who don’t know me frequently do. “My mashie is missing, and I am completely knocked up about it.” Auntie is not here, as some might surmise, speaking of a condition caused by Uncle Willingly Paisley, but rather a golf club, a mid iron, and one of a set of oddly designed implements used in swatting a small dimpled ball about a large lawn in hopes of losing it in a hole. A not unpleasant way to while away an afternoon and rid yourself of unnecessary self-esteem, simultaneously. Auntie, you see, is a bit of a champion, having won her Club’s annual tourney twice running and lacking but this year’s upcoming to have the trophy renamed the Paisley Cup, a feat she has dedicated herself to arduously, if that’s the word I’m looking for.
Uncertain how to reply to a dear one who has had the grave misfortune of losing her mashie at such a critical moment, I fell back on the one thing that has always served me well in times of crisis: I blurt out whatever comes to mind. “Auntie Love,” I heard myself saying, “how about I pop into the two seater, point it your way, and come have a look about?” The quiet on the line went on for such a long time I was beginning to suspect mechanical failure or that my aunt’s enthusiasm for the idea was so great she was momentarily dumbstruck. “I could bring Jeeves along for,” I was about to say “company,” when my aunt, recovering her voice, was suddenly bubbling into the telly about my being a grand nephew and how delighted she would be to see me and by all means to bring that splendid man of mine.
I cradled the receiver a moment later, feeling excited and eager, two emotions starting with the letter “E” that I hadn’t felt together since that time with cousin Gladly Wentfort in the back seat of the Bentley on the water to the theatre. She had accidentally dropped the tickets in my lap and spent just ages looking for them. This time I was E and E to solve the mystery of the missing mashie, if that doesn’t sound too Perry Mason. Jeeves, when I told him, was more than E and E. He was triple E’d, the last being elated, and it occurs to me that a monograph on emotions starting with the letter “E” might be just the thing to establish me with that crowd that’s always writing monographs and polygraphs and such. Jeeves’ elation, when I told him of the mystery and my plan, was clearly visible to me by the slight and momentary uplifting of his left eyebrow, a move he uses to express nearly all his passions and a dead giveaway that he is among the living, a thing that comes into question more often than you would think.
“Jeeves,” I said, “the game is a-something. The game is a-what?”
“Afoot, sir. The game is afoot.”
Now where had I heard that before?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Jeeves,” I shouted above the wind to my companion as we swept through the English countryside at a speed I calculated as fast-as-we-could-go and one that apparently caused some degree of consternation to my old chum as he tightly clutched his bowler with both hands and tried almost successfully not to grimace, “why would someone pilfer just a mashie and not the spoon or the niblick or, indeed, the whole set for that matter? It makes no sense at all if you ask me, and I’m certain Auntie P will do just that. Could the dear old girl,” I continued without waiting for an answer, “be getting on, slipping, losing a bit of the old memory edge and merely have misplaced the mashie?”
“Memory traits are,” Jeeves responded, with, I think, a verbal elbow to the ribs, “rarely passed from nephew to aunt. Your aunt’s edge, it seems to me, has always been quite keen.”
I slowed the two seater to lessen the gale, knowing that Jeeves found shouting on a par with spitting tobacco for social acceptability. It was appalling and just not done in better circles, that is, the circles he wished I would become acquainted with.
“As to your first query, Master Bertram, I admit I haven’t as yet a clue. But in hopes of obtaining one, may I ask of you, sir, is your aunt longish or shortish off the tee, and aren’t we getting a tad too American in our driving habits?”
I steered us back to the left lane, the right one, knowing how fussy Jeeves was about that sort of thing and, taking just a second, searched my entire mind for an image of Auntie P on the links. We had played together but once a season or two ago when, desperate to fill a foursome, she had rung me up. Oddly enough, I thought, she had not invited me back, though I had played well under my 41 handicap and we had only lost the match by two. I clearly remember three-putting the eighteenth for a personal on-green best. I suggested to Auntie P that we request a rematch, but she mumbled something about the members objecting to special assessments for course repairs, so I let the matter drop. It was during the second second of probing deeply into my memory bank, or novelty shop as Jeeves calls it, that the reference to the American side of the road brought to mind the picture of the great U.S. cricketeer, Stanley Musical, all crouched and coiled, ready to do much harm should the bowler challenge him.
“Long,” I shouted, speeding up. “Auntie P is very long off the tee.” Though I hadn’t the foggiest idea why that mattered.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Blimey if we hadn’t just planted our bags on Auntie P’s oval drive when Jeeves and Mulligan, Auntie’s latest houseman, got into a furious row over who would see to the disposition of the aforementioned luggage. I could tell Jeeves was more than just out-of-sorts by his tone of voice, which was, in a word, loud. By loud I mean to say that one could hear him up to three or perhaps even four steps away. Standing at five, I caught no more than something surely Shakespearean that included the words “crude” and “cretinous.” I suspected that Jeeves and Mulligan had met on some other occasion. The matter was settled by Auntie P herself who, appearing at her doorstep in a most timely fashion, shooed this Mulligan fellow away while beckoning Jeeves and me to her ample bosom for welcoming hugs. I say ample bosom because it is the cliché used by polite society to describe women of a certain breast size that even science, with all its wonders, atom splitting, gene splicing, clap-on-clap-off, cannot account for their defiance of gravity. No man’s back could withstand the curious cantilever, and I’m sure there had to be architects employed in the brassiere design. Jeeves, showing first class butlerian restraint, refrained from rushing to Auntie’s embrace and used instead a deep formal bow accompanied by expressions of gratitude, humility, honor-to-be-in-presence, that sort of thing, while I, taking the low road, rushed to Auntie’s outstretched arms that weren’t quite pointed at me and planted myself firmly amidst the wiggling, a sensation not unlike flopping on a gelatin-filled waterbed, if that’s the image I want, and I’m not sure it is.
“Ah, Bartie dear,” says Auntie P, pushing me out to arms’ length, or roughly two inches clearance. “It’s good to see you again. How HAVE you been? You’re looking ALMOST well. Now don’t say another word until we’ve tea in hand. Come along, Jeeves. I can see that you could do with a spot and a crumpet, too. Not another word, just follow along. I have much to talk about and little time. Come, come.” All this and more was said mostly to Jeeves, which I’m sure was Auntie’s way of trying not to be a snob, as we followed her through the great hall and into the library. I could tell she was happy I was there to solve the mystery.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The moment we were ensconced, if that means seated, in the library, steaming Earl Greys in hand, Auntie P began her tale.
“Barney,” she began.
“Bertie,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” she continued. “I’m at a loss, a total loss, over this mashie thing. As you know, the finals of the Rollinginit Country Club tournament are this Saturday, and I’ve drawn a most worthy opponent in Lady Plodsforth. Blast if I can see a way to beat her with an untried new mashie. Why, the last time we contested I barely eked out a three up with two to go even though Lady Plodsforth did not have her wits about her the entire back nine. She had learned of her favorite dog Daisy’s untimely death at the turn. The poor thing had been accidentally shot by Lord Plodsforth during that morning’s ride to the hunt when, as he tells it, he mistook Daisy for the fox itself. Daisy, a Dalmation, was Lady Plodsforth’s favorite and last in a long line of pets to die accidentally in proximity to Lord Plodsforth, who, it is rumored, is quite the great white hunter and boasts of never returning from a hunt empty-handed. One reason, it is also rumored, that Lady Plodsforth doesn’t hunt with him. So you see, Baxter . . .”
“Bertie.”
“Yes, of course, . . .that I must have my mashie for the match or I will feel worse than Daisy by Saturday’s eve.”
Feeling worse than a dead dog was something I was intimately familiar with, having had to arise before nine on several occasions.
“My dear Auntie,” I started at her ramble’s end, “you are not to worry a moment more. I am completely confident that we will get to the bottom of this missing mashie mess in no time at all. Aren’t I, Jeeves?” I ended, turning to my butler, my pal, and the larger part of my deductive reasoning, who by dint of greater fish consumption was often able to see the light while I was still mentally stumbling about in the dark, and to whom Auntie P had directed most of her remarks, though she had almost used my name several times.
Jeeves, for his part, had sat quite still during Auntie’s discourse but was now suddenly, though quietly, on his feet making the shush signal of index finger to pursed lips at a small sound we all heard outside the library door. Indicating with a hand puppet gesture that we should keep talking, Jeeves made way on tiptoe to the distant door. Picking up on his meaning and intent, I quickly broke the silence with the first thing that came to mind. The subject, though not particularly relevant, having to do with this month’s Big Bottoms’ centerfold, was one I usually could count on when chatting with chums, and while in this instance was uttered perhaps a bit too nervously loud, was still lengthy enough to get Jeeves across the room to the door which, with great gusto, he yanked open to reveal the red-faced, startled-eyed, still bent-at-the-waist-keyhole-level hulking visage of Auntie P’s man Mulligan.
“Aha!,” I said, leaping to my feet and looking accusingly at the now erect, trying to compose himself butler, an act that left me pointing a bit like Daisy before her unfortunate accident, but without a further thought to say.
“Aha, what?,” I whispered to Jeeves.
“Aha, Mulligan,” said Jeeves, right on cue, but softly, without quite the caught-you-red-handed emphasis I was looking for.
“Perhaps you could explain, Mulligan,” Jeeves continued, in a voice that sounded somewhere between haughty and private eye, “your presence outside this door when you clearly have not been summoned.”
“Precisely,” I added.
“Indeed,” chimed in Auntie P.
“I . . .I thought, perhaps more tea,” said the, I was now certain, foul villain.
“You thought perhaps more tea; well, well, well,” I said cleverly, then added even more cleverly, “What do you think of that, Jeeves?”
“I think no more tea is required. Am I correct, Lady Paisley?” replied Jeeves, glaring at the shifty butler.
“Indeed,” said Auntie P once more, then adding, “Leave at once, Mulligan. This is none of your concern.”
Mulligan began backing from the doorway, his eyes darting guiltily from Auntie P to Jeeves. He was clearly about to bolt when Jeeves asked him in a quite friendly tone of voice--you know, the kind of tone one might use when petting a stray before grabbing its collar and hauling it off to the catchers-- whether he had ever been in the employ of Lord Peter Plodsforth, the noted fox hunter.
“Why yes, sir,” answered Mulligan, closing the door as he spoke. “And good references he give me.”
The instant the door clicked shut Auntie P and I looked to Jeeves, whose left eyebrow was raised a full inch above his shining orb, signaling a eureka of the first order.
“What have you, Jeeves?” queried Auntie P. “Surely you don’t suspect the Plodsforths?”
“Surely not,” I added, quickly summing up all the facts and cleverly deducing I hadn’t a clue.
Jeeves paused a pregnant moment, if that’s the word I’m looking for, as I’ve heard it means filled with intensity or child, then looked ceilingward while placing a finger diagonally across his lips. All to very dramatic effect, I might add, and do.
“I believe, Madame and Bertram Sir,” he began, “that though the prevailing evidence would indicate a lone culprit, the outcome will show that two men acting in concert, with profit as a motive, are responsible for the cruel and heinous crime of pilfering Lady Paisley’s mashie.”
Jeeves runs on like that sometimes for no apparent reason. It could be all that fish.
“But what about the grassy knoll and missing bullet?” I fired back. “Don’t they matter?”
“Bertie dear,” said Auntie P to me softly and, I’m sure this is the word, sincerely, “you are a putz. A very sweet putz, but a putz nevertheless.” Then to Jeeves, “Do go on.” I took no offense. Auntie is such a great kidder, and she’d gotten my name right.
“Madame, I cannot as yet point an accusing finger despite my suspicions. There are further inquiries that need to be made.”
Auntie P looked disappointed and distraught. Those two D’s are how one looks when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and the barman says its closing time.
“The match, the cup, my hopes are but two days away. Is there time?” Auntie implored, which is, I think, a kind of wishful asking.
“Not to fear, good lady,” said my man Jeeves, somehow looking taller, straighter, bolder. “With young Bertram’s help and his extensive knowledge of certain, um, areas, we shall have this matter cleared up before Saturday’s end. Your mashie, like Lassie, shall come home.”
Auntie took this last with a huge smile, said something about a dear man, kissed us both upon the cheeks, then left the room whistling a cheerful tune. I, on the other hand, was feeling dazed and distressed, these D’s being the condition one feels when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and find themselves short of funds.
“What in the world was that?” I asked the moment the door clicked shut again.
“I believe it’s the Colonel Bogie’s March from the film Bridge on the River Kwai in which William Holden and . . . “
“Not the tune, Jeeves,” I interrupted before getting the whole plot outlined. “The bit about my having special knowledge. I haven’t a whit of special knowledge of anything I know about and I know everything I know about, if you catch my drift.” I was on a roll now, voice and blood pressure rising. “And, furthermore, I can tell you with absolute certainty, I don’t know about anything at all,” I declared proudly.
Jeeves paused a moment, during which I suspected him of considering my physical restraint, then, seeing I was calming, looked at me steadily and said, “Perhaps you could tell me, young Bertram, where is the nearest place to make a wager?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, “I know all about that.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Shortly after dark, at Jeeve’s insistence, I found myself lightly rapping “shave and a haircut” on a door on a pad on a street whose address I’d been told to forget.
“I’m certain this is it, Jeeves old chum,” I said to my butler and constant companion, who was, at this moment, crowding my backside in hopes of escaping the accusing light of the street lamp, “I’d bet my reputation on it.”
“I trust you are right, young Bertram, though I know if you were really certain, you would have wagered something of value.”
I sensed another elbow to the ribs in that one and was trying to reason it out when, from the other side of the door, came an answering “two bits,” followed by a muffled female voice saying, “Ralph, get lost; me ‘usband’s ‘ome,” which I took to mean this was not Reggie the Greek’s place. It also saved me from having to give Jeeves a verbal oneupsman to his last remark. I had “Oh, yeah?” in mind. Instead it was back to the two seater and round the block to a place that looked exactly the last one except for its color and shape, details one couldn’t be expected to remember in a pinch, having taken to heart the earlier instructions to forget it.
This time my “shave and a haircut” summoned a voice more closely resembling a snarl than a whisper, but one I nevertheless recognized. It asked for the password. Lowering the pitch, tenor, and tone of my own voice so as to seem more masculine and to mimic that which I had just heard, I chirped the following: “London Bridges, Picadilly Square, even Shakespeare Canterbury there.”
Once inside, a large dram of brandy dissolved the glaze from Jeeves’ stunned eyes. Reggie, the proprietor, on the other hand, being a man of many moods ranging from dark to black, was not entirely pleased to see us. His first words had something to do with Jeeves’ likely dismemberment and far worse for me if we couldn’t immediately explain our presence and knowledge of the password.
“Reggie, old chum,” I blurted, bucking up with sudden inspiration. “It’s me, Bertie Wooster, and this is my man Jeeves,” I said, turning to my butler and dear companion who was just now coming round to his full senses and was taking this all mutely until I added, “who will explain everything.”
Reggie’s glower, if that word means fierce and menacing, became even moreso as he cast it upon my butler, my ally, and the man I now entrusted with saving my hide.
In some circles, say Trappist monasteries, Reggie might be considered talkative, maybe even verbose, but here a guttural “Speak,” accompanied by an even tighter narrowing of the eyes, was enough to convey his meaning: this better be good.
Jeeves, for his part, seemed unafraid now that the wicket had turned to flypaper and was straightening his back and pulling himself up to full butlerian height, still some half meter shy of Reggie, when I noticed a kind of light appear in the circle directly below his now arching eyebrow.
“Reg? Reg?” Jeeves was suddently aglow with recognition. “Reg Sheepstalker, is it really you?”
I turned back to our host and captor just in time to see his hairline separate from his brows as his eyes opened wide with a degree of interest behind the menace.
“’Tis me, all right, then” he said, Reggie Sheepstalker. “But who the ‘ell are you?”
“You mean you don’t remember me, Jasper Jeeves, from the old gang in the old neighborhood in the old days?” Jeeves ran on, I thought, a bit too pleadingly. “Bully bully bitobearl, let’s tag a bloke and steal his girl,” he added, and I knew I’d remind him of that one later. But as I was looking for a mental pen to write a mental note, if that’s at all possible, hulking Reggie grabs up Jeeves and begins to bear hug him in a manner that makes me fear, if not for his life, then at least for several major organs.
“Jasper Jeeves, Jasper Jeeves,” he’s growling crazily, all the while spinning the fellow about in what I am sure he felt was a masculine, good ol’ boy, hale fellow well met way, but was in fact one that was turning Jeeves a color that only paramedics see on a regular basis. I was looking about for the nearest blunt instrument when Jeeves’ feet returned to the floor and his lungs were allowed once more to partake of their function, a fact noted by the world’s largest inhale. “SSSSSsssshhhhhh” was its sound, and even though a drowning man bursting to the surface could not have made a louder one, it was, in Jeeves’ case, delivered with restraint and dignity. I don’t know how he does that.
“So,” I heard myself venturing boldly on what I surmised was fairly safe ground, “you know each other.” At this, even Jeeves, whom I had never known to guffaw, and I’m sure that’s the word I want, did so loudly as he and the equally heartily guffawing Reginald Sheepstalker stumbled to the other end of the room, arms about each other like tipsy sailors, leaving me to wonder at their familiarity, but also most grateful for it.
Left to fend for myself, as it were, and it certainly was, I took the opportunity to scout the premises and soon found myself several quid down and raising a bet with a poker hand full of nothing to a large gentleman lacking a neck but sporting more than his share of muscles. He had to be bluffing, was my guess, and I hoped that guess a good one as I was decidedly short of the necessary funding and I doubted this fellow would take my marker without first taking my hide. My guess looked to be wrong, and my luck, which I thought had been fairly good thus far this night, run out when No-neck saw my raise and then raised me back by a considerable sum, all the while clenching and unclenching his massive jaw muscles. I was about to fold and take my chances with flight or the miracles of modern medicine when Jeeves reappeared at my side and suggested a further raise, a plan unwise and lacking merit I was sure, but one I hopped to immediately, knowing that if my bluff were called Jeeves’ prowess in the manly art of self-defense would be less than adequate but would be the diversion I’d need to run for help. “All for one” is my motto at times like this, and when Jeeves needs help, I can be counted on to go get some.
Luckily, none of these heroic actions were called for. Something about Jeeves’ quiet assurance and upright bravado must have offset my visibly trembling, card holding hands because the most unlikely thing then occurred. After I raised back, old No-neck jumped to his feet, snarled something with the clarity and style of Boris Karloff’s most famous role containing the words “luck,” “sissies,” and we’re not sure about this last, but we think, “Smoke good,” then threw down his hand and stomped from the table.
“Come back here and say that,” I shouted after him, almost loud enough to be heard. “Jeeves and I will teach you some manners.” I continued, getting louder and louder with each departing footfall until I was at the very top of my whisper, and finishing with “You mindless buffoon.” I was very proud of this last, thinking most people would have gone for the less scholarly “oaf” or “idiot.” Jeeves, however, was not impressed. I could tell because he looked quite askance, if that means vaguely disapproving, and quietly uttered, “Really, Bertram.”
“Really,” I fired right back, but he knew I didn’t mean it.
Still, I was feeling victorious and triumphant, two emotions rare to me that don’t start with E, so I was looking about for a large elephant to ride upon at the head of my legions, when who else should reappear but Addams family lookalike Reggie the Greek with his hairline fully lowered to his eyebrows and his glower progressed from menacing to sinister.
“In a word, Bertie,” he says to me, darkening further and presenting some kind of ledger, “your accounts.”
That was two words, I thought, climbing down from my pachyderm, but not something I needed to point out.
A tip from a former friend of mine named Shady O’Grady had induced to me wager a goodly sum, and I say goodly sum in the sense that any sum that is more than I’m good for is a . . . well, you get my drift, on a horse whose name I can no longer recall and whose fate I hoped was never to sire. It was payment of that loss that I was now confronted with by our grim host and Jeeves’ old pal, Sheepstalker. When one considers the man and his name, one fears not only for himself but for the highland herds and wool futures as well. Though my poker winnings were substantial, they were but half the funds needed at the moment, so once again I called on all my mental resources, which were, as they so often are, in Jeeves’ head. Pulling him a bit to the side, I whispered cleverly, “What do we do now?” It was the “we” that was the clever part. Jeeves responded with my favorite, surely classic phrase, to wit: “Leave it to me.”
Off they went again, my hero and the sheep abuser, but this time they substituted conspiratorial whispers for their earlier guffaws. I was left alone once again to wonder at my fate, which is not a good thing when one tends to expect the worst. I won’t tire you with the grim scenarios my mind chose to give other than mentioning that most were unmentionable. The one, in fact, dealing with the term “drawn and quartered” seemed particularly visual. Fortunately, Jeeves returned in a nonce, if that means quickly rather than some transportation device, which is what it sounds like, and we were soon out the door and back in the two seater making haste and conversation.
I started with “Bully bully bitoberl?” and Jeeves countered with “Canterbury there?” and the truth was soon all out.
The sheep diddler fellow, as I now thought of him, and who is to say I’m far from the truth, and Jeeves had been, unlikely as it now may seem, boyhood neighbors who had struck an equally unlikely friendship by virtue of compatible skills. Jeeves, who as a boy differed only by the addition of the word “spindly” from his description now--tall, pale, and reserved--had then the beginnings of his quick and agile mind. His counterpart Reggie, a boy upon whom puberty had arrived shortly after sandbox, was a mite of muscle. Protection was soon exchanged for homework, book reports, and the like. This arrangement suited them both until middle school when Jeeves was sent to Academy to train for service, leaving Reggie to trade protection for grades directly with his teachers. Needless to say, he was on track to graduate with honors when he heeded his mum’s advice to “do what yer good at.” This advice led him to drop his schooling and pursue his natural calling: a profession listed in the yellow pages under the general heading “Thug.”
“Alrighty, then,” I started, after hearing all this from Jeeves, “but I’m a bit under speed as to why we had this giddy reunion with your old chum in the first place. What were we doing there, if you don’t mind me asking? Surely you weren’t placing a bet,” I mused.
“Actually, Bertram, we came not to wager but to wonder,” said Jeeves, sounding vaguely Latin. “Specifically, to wonder if there was any, I believe the word is “action,” on Lady Paisley’s upcoming golf event.”
“And was there?” I mused again, possibly making me a serial muser.
“Indeed there was, and before we departed there was quite a bit more. Did you know that your Aunt is a three to one underdog?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I answered, somewhat surprised. “I mean, not that she’s an underdog, but that there’s wagering on the thing at all. If I had known early on, I’d have put a bob or two down on the old girl myself. Now, what with the missing mashie and all, I couldn’t see my way clear to give more than my complete moral support.” This last I said wistfully, if that’s the word I want, trying to sound as if I were following the intelligent course instead of my impulses, a feat I often attempt but never quite pull off.
“Well, act-u-al-ly,” Jeeves started but then trailed off, leaving me no choice but to respond in hyphenated kind.
“Act-u-al-ly what, Old Boy?”
“Actually, Bertram, you do have a small sum invested in the outcome of this weekend’s sporting event. You see, in order to facilitate our exit, or in your case, escape, from Reggie’s emporium, I took the liberty of placing the balance of your debt squarely on Lady Paisley’s nose. A threefold return will get you square with Reggie and leave you with a tidy sum as well. I also agreed to pay something called a vigorish. Perhaps you could tell me what that is.”
I told him about the ten percent commission and all that, then slumped in my seat to better envision my impending demise, but I like the phrase “impending demise” so much that I said it over and over until it had no meaning and I dozed off. I apparently was still saying it, “impending demise,” when Auntie P shook me awake at the end of our drive with an, “Oh, rubbish, quit your sniveling” and a “What have you learned, Jeeves?” I could tell she was happy to see me again.
A bit later, in the study, a room whose principal function has always eluded me, teas once again in hand, I was made an important cog in Jeeves’ plan to unravel the mystery, expose the villains, and regain the missing mashie. My part, critical to the whole plan’s success, was to not get in the way. I vowed to remain incognito if it were nearby.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Instead, when Saturday broke all Britishy bright and damp, I found myself among a small gallery of members, friends, and assorted officials on hand to witness the match. Jeeves was perfectly resplendent: starched, pressed, and properly dressed in white togs matched smartly to the hue of his indoorsman skin, until he added a black waistcoat against the morning chill. That addition gave him the look of a lanky but somehow dignified penguin, if that’s the image I’m looking for, and it seems unavoidable. Jeeves was Auntie’s choice to be on her bag throughout the day, leaving Mulligan, her usual caddie, behind with household chores to attend to. Though Jeeves was a skilled and competent caddie (I always used him as such to save me the cost, not to mention the ridicule of professionals), he seemed to my trained Jeeves-watching eye a touch apprehensive. I noticed an occasional shift of weight from one foot to the other. For Jeeves, this was tantamount to a fidget. To the rest of the gallery, I’m sure he appeared quite implacable, if that’s the word I want, and I’m sure I do though I have only a vague idea of what it means. I wondered if it was the match, the mystery, or the banner across his back that read “Paisley” that was causing his distress.
A “crack,” followed by the oohs and aahs of the gallery and a lone loud voice at the back shouting “You da Aunt!” startled me back from my wonder. Auntie P had just put her ample girth to her cherry wood driver, and the match was underway. As the crowd turned to see which blithering idiot had broken the hallowed rule concerning acceptable golf noises, I noticed among their faces that of Sheepstalker, his crony the Karloffian card player, and, surprisingly, as he should have been attending to duties elsewhere, Auntie’s man Mulligan. Their presence together meant what, I thought. Something . . . something . . . . Where was Jeeves when I needed him? . . . something. I know, “Not good!” I blurted aloud, and the gallery turned to glare at me again.
As the match moved along it became clear why Auntie missed her mashie. Being long off the tee frequently left the dear old girl facing a second shot that was precisely mashie distance from the green. The look of consternation she wore at such times was a near equal to the one Jeeves put on when watching me struggle with some difficult task like tying my shoes. Auntie would consult with Jeeves, then pull a club from her bag that invariably left her a bit short or a bit long. At the turn, she was three strokes down to Lady Plodsforth and had no interest in the tea that players and gallery alike were sharing. Her opponent, on the other hand, was having a spot with her caddie, a bloke whom I gathered by his intimate manner to be that noted huntsman, Lord Plodsforth himself. He appeared quite pleased and full of himself, as if he were the one swinging the clubs rather than carrying the bag. I wondered why he wasn’t out shooting pets.
The tenth and eleventh holes were played even, but on the twelfth Auntie spooned one in from the fringe to get within two. The thirteenth and fourteenth were also halved. On the fifteenth, Auntie rolled in a twelve footer to save par, and a surprised Lady Plodsforth lipped out her shorter putt. Auntie P was now only one hole down with three to play.
I had become so engrossed by the match and my aunt’s courageous performance that I’d completely forgotten the consequences riding on the outcome. I was abruptly reminded of my “impending demise” when on the sixteenth tee I chanced to look up and catch the glower of Reggie Sheepstalker. Threatening and menacing don’t quite capture the look that held my eye, but I stared back unflinchingly. I couldn’t actually, flinch that is, as my eyelids were locked open. I stiffened my spine and called up my own courage and fortitude. “Jeeves, Old Chum,” I called. “Could I have a word with you?”
“What is it, Bertram sir,” Jeeves said as he approached. “You look about to wet yourself.”
I was a bit upset that he recognized my distress, but I let that go to get my message over quickly. “Listen,” I said, hoping I sounded commanding and not pleading, knowing there was little chance. “If you really have a plan, shouldn’t we be using it soon, or maybe even now?
“Not to worry, young Sir,” Jeeves replied. “Madam Paisley’s win is virtually assured. You might even say, if I may borrow a phrase of yours, Bertram, that the match is in the bag.”
With that, he walked back to the tee box, leaving me pondering and perplexed, two words that start with P that reminded me that I’d better find a porto before locking gazes with Sheepstalker again.
When both Auntie P and Lady P knocked their drives at the sixteenth squarely down the center, I became aware how still and quiet the crowd had become. I also noticed that Lord Plodsforth was no longer smiling and smug, but rather more worried and a bit damp looking. He kept wiping a sleeve across his forehead. A mere two or three paces from the nervous Lord stood Reggie Sheepstalker, who had pushed his way to the front of the gallery. He had turned his gaze away from me and seemed instead to be staring at the back of Lord Plodsforth’s head. I was grateful for the respite. I looked about for Reggie’s Karloffian crony and found him standing on my side of the fairway and a few paces from another worried looking chap, one named Mulligan. I was going to wonder what it all meant when the clink of an ill struck iron brought me back to the match. Luckily, I’m easily distracted.
Auntie P had hit over the green into some deep rough, and Lady Plodsforth was in a greenside bunker. Neither player was able to salvage par, but both made sizable putts for bogie. They walked together to the seventeenth, a long par three, Lady Plodsforth still clinging to a one hole lead.
When Auntie’s low three iron chased up the fairway, landing some fifteen or so yards short of the green but rolling on and up and not stopping until it was no more than three feet from the hole, the pressure found her opponent. Lady Plodsforth knocked her drive hard a port, and, when it took her two swings to reach the green, she conceded the hole. The match was now all square with one hole to play, and tension filled the . . . no, that’s not the word I’m after, it’s fear that filled the air. Mine. Could Auntie win the hole without her mashie and save me from the Wrath of Reggie, whose company slogan, “We leave no bones unbroken in search for what yaz owe me,” needs a bit of editing but makes a strong point? Does Jeeves really have a plan?
That’s it, I decided. I can’t wait a Liverpool second longer. I’m not going to rely on Jeeves to save my skin this time. I’ll make my own plan and resolve this crisis decisively. When the first opportunity to take action arises, I will. I’ll run.
I was flexing my knees and committing to this plan when the sound of club to ball brought me back again. Auntie P had smacked another long and true, her ball landing near the center of the fairway, perfect mashie distance from the hole. Lady Plodsforth put wood to her shot equally well, but without Auntie’s great distance. Her ball rolled to rest some thirty yards behind my prodigious relative’s. I postponed my flight.
A cool Lady Plodsforth, being away, was first to hit. I admired her composure as she stood over her ball, some sort of wooden club in her hands, preparing to swing. Her back was to me, and I watched as she calmly went through her complete preshot routine, including a good relaxing shake of her bottom. Her composure may have been admirable, but her waggle was world class. Her swing on this particular try was also a grand thing, and the ball arched high and straight for the green. However, one of the problems that can occur with using a wooden club is the forward spin it applies to the ball. When Lady Plodsworth’s own dimpled sphere arrived at the front edge of the green, true to her aim, it hit and rolled and rolled and didn’t come to a stop until it was caught up in the first cut of fringe, some forty odd feet from the flagstick. It was, nevertheless, an excellent shot, and I was applauding along with the gallery when all pandemonium broke loose. Pandemonium will do that when no one keeps an eye on it.
During the clap (an unfortunate phrase that), I looked to Lord Plodsworth to see what he thought of the shot. He had just picked up Lady Plodsworth’s bag when a browless Reggie Sheepstalker stepped from the crowd and whispered something to him that caused the Lord’s eyes to open large as a Big Bertha head cover. I was counting my blessings—let’s see, one, Sheepstalker seems to have forgotten me, and two, who needs two, one is good enough--when the plan that I had so carefully crafted just a shot or two ago ESPed from my head right into the goggle-eyed Lord’s. He made a sudden but ill-advised, it seemed to me, break for it. I say ill-advised because he was hemmed in by the gallery and there was simply no place to run. His only hope of escape, as far as I could tell, was to crash through somewhere. Of course, that’s when he turned in my direction.
I’m quite sure I was hollering something in capital letters with an exclamation point like, “WAIT!” or “STOP!” or “HOLD IT!” when the panicked Lord crashed into me like a runaway golf cart meeting a stay-at-home tree. We went down in a jumble of bag and clubs, and we both were scrambling to get back up when Reggie, who had been snapping at Plodsforth’s heels, landed atop the pileup with what American officials would call a late hit. He was growling all his pet phrases as he tried to corral the two of us in his long arms, and I could make out the words “Maim,” “mangle,” and “murder” as I snatched up the nearest golf club, squirmed to my feet, and, with upraised arm, threatened the three M’s right back at him. I was bluffing, of course.
“Don’t move a muscle” were the words that cut through the melee and froze me in place, though I thought it a peculiar turn of phrase considering how few I have, muscles, that is. But it was Jeeves’ voice, after all, and he was using that commanding tone he summons before brushing a spider from my back, so I stood my ground. Lord Plodsforth, however, having apparently no fear of spiders at all, once again bolted for freedom, followed by Sheepstalker, in what’s usually called hot pursuit, and I see no reason to call it anything else. The two had just cleared the gallery when, amazingly, they were joined by another two streakers: Auntie’s man Mulligan, who burst from the crowd to join the fleeing Lord, and on his heels Reggie’s pal, No-neck. We all watched breathlessly—Auntie, Jeeves, the gallery, and me—until the chase disappeared over a nearby hill. It was then that I quite suddenly found myself giving off an exhale of approximately the same volume Jeeves had achieved at the end of Sheepstalker’s bear hug. My tormentors were, at least for the moment, gone.
“My dear Madam Paisley” was the next thing I heard above the murmur of the crowd. Jeeves was addressing my aunt, which I knew right off because, if he’d been talking to me, I’m sure he would have used MY name. “Allow me to present you with your missing mashie,” he said. Then, turning and addressing me, see I’ve made my point, he said, tone again commanding, “Bertram, give your aunt her club.”
“Jeeves, old chum,” “I don’t have,” and “Where would I get,” and “Are you?” were some of the things I was about to say when a glance at the shaft in my hand (another unfortunate phrase) revealed the long lost iron. “But how?” I managed to say, twice actually, “But how, but how?” before Jeeves, using his calming tone, stopped me before I but howed again, “Not to worry, Young Sir. I will explain all at the match’s conclusion.”
“The match IS concluded,” came a voice from out of the murmur. “A count of Lady Plodsforth’s clubs, with the inclusion of that mashie, puts her one over the tournament limit. The rules call for disqualification.”
It was Baxter Smallwit, president of Rollinginit Country Club, looking wonderfully puffed and pompous, making this announcement.
I’ve won! I’ve prevailed! I’ve done it all! Found the mashie, bested Sheepstalker, and saved the day, were the first thoughts in my head. I have no idea what just happened, thank God for Jeeves, and how lucky can you get were my next. Nevertheless, I had waited all my life for a moment like this, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I began my Endzone Dance. I call it The Funky Twit in honor of another pet name my aunt has for me, and I was hopping about and flapping my arms quite rhythmically, I thought, despite what appeared to be looks of horror from those about me, when . . .
“I won’t have it,” stopped me in my tracks. All eyes turned to Auntie P. “Lady Plodsforth knew nothing of the stolen mashie in her bag,” she went on, to my growing distress. “It was her dastardly husband, Lord Plodsforth, who was the culprit, and I will not see her disqualified.” Auntie can get all worked up and quite stubborn in that queerly British way when fairness is the issue. I watched as she did that chin up, back-stiffening thing that signifies no surrender.
Smallwit was quickly cowed. “All right then,” he declared with a magisterial wave of his hand and the sinking of my heart, “do play on.”
The match was rejoined, and my demise was impending again. Auntie P hadn’t hit a green from this distance all day, and with the distractions of the past few minutes and the pressure applied by Lady Plodsforth’s good shot, it seemed unlikely she would do so now. Still, she was able to stop me in mid fret. “Bertram!” she barked, “Buck up and hand me my mashie.”
I was startled to see I was still clutching the prized club. I handed it to her quickly, muttering something that came out faintly Australian like, “G’ luck, Dearie,” then stepped aside to watch her play the shot that would decide my fate.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“If you will slow to something a bit under warp time, Master Bertram, I will do my utmost to make it all clear, though I doubt, considering the question of skull thickness, bone density, and all that, that perfect clarity is possible in your case.” Jeeves was shouting at me in response to my “But how?” I wasn’t sure what he meant there, but I slowed the two seater until the wind noise was just under howling.
“Thank you. Now if you will further allow me the privilege of a small dissertation, I will detail the sequence of events as I recall them, leading to the mystery’s conclusion. Perhaps then your questions, like the mystery, will also find an end.”
Jeeves has a way with words sometimes, but I’m not without my own resources in that department. “Sure,” I answered, “dissert away.”
My companion stared at me blankly for a second before a look of something, I think it was wonder, drifted across his face.
“Yes, well the . . .,” he started. “In brief, my first clue was simply the skulking about of that disgrace to the profession, Stuart Mulligan. You see, Mulligan had been out of service for some time, having to do with charges of pilfering, which is why I refused to relinquish our luggage. When I learned that he had recently been in the employ of Lord Plodsforth and, further, that he had received good references from him, I knew something was amiss.”
“But how . . . ?”
“You see, Bertram,” he continued, ignoring me, “if there is something missing and a thief is about, one will most likely have something to do with the other. The question I then asked myself was, Why? Why would Mulligan steal a golf club that was in and of itself not particularly valuable? I had no answer until it came to me as it had earlier come to Mulligan that the club was valuable, but only to Lady Paisley. Without it, she felt she could not win her Club’s championship. Mulligan, having caddied for your aunt, knew of her dependence on the mashie shot. How could this knowledge be useful to him, I wondered, until it dawned. There was indeed a way. Remove the club; then make a wager. It was then that I suggested the trip to Reggie’s emporium.
“But how . . . ?”
“Once there, more of the puzzle came together. I was somewhat bothered by why Mulligan would take the risk. I couldn’t imagine that he could scrape together enough funds to place a bet that would return a sufficient amount to make the caper worthwhile. His position at your aunt’s was a good one and not worth losing over a small sum. And, of course, only a fool or, um, a brave man like yourself, would bet more than he could pay with Reggie Sheepstalker. Though betting is usually a most confidential thing, I traded upon my childhood friendship with Reggie to inquire as to the parties who might be wagering on such a small thing as a country club golf tournament. There were few, but amongst them was a name I knew, and it was not as I expected, that is, Mulligan. It was Lord Plodsforth. The connection was obvious. Mulligan needed Plodsforth to make a really large bet, while Plodsforth needed Mulligan to snatch the mashie, the profits from the wager to be split in some agreed upon manner, The amount they had risked, I should add, on what I am certain they felt a sure thing, was substantial. With the facts becoming clear and, of course, needing an exit, I added your paltry sum in opposition to their bet.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Upon our return to Paisley Manse, I made some further inquiries via telephone to several of my colleagues in service. Through them I learned what apparently Mulligan did not know. Lord Plodsforth was broke. He had frittered away the family fortune riding to the hunt and betting large sums on the outcome with other members of the gentry. My friends had witnessed the money changing hands on many occasions. Lord Plodsforth was now trying to recoup both his losses and Lady Plodsforth’s affection, which he had also lost by his continual elimination of her pets, in one fell swoop.”
“But how . . . ?”
“It was then I devised my plan—two plans, actually. The first required a bit of good fortune to be successful. A calculated risk, if you will. I suspected that Lord Plodsforth, having so much at stake, would want the mashie close at hand to assure that it would not be found and returned to your Auntie Paisley. The only way he could do that and conceal it while caddying would be to put the club in Lady Plodsworth’s bag. I was a touch nervous at the start of play until I was able to edge close enough to spot the club where I had hoped it would be. After that, I knew all would be well. If your aunt had played poorly, I would have revealed the club’s presence much sooner so as to effect the disqualification and put an end to the things. I didn’t know, of course, that your aunt wouldn’t settle for such a conclusion. As it was, the old girl played with such grit and determination that I just stood back and enjoyed the performance.”
“But how . . . ?”
“My second plan, should the mashie not appear in Lady Plodsforth’s bag, was simply to have Reggie and company thrash the two villains until the truth was out. I had alerted Reg to the whole scheme, and he does not take kindly to people who try to beat the odds by fixing a contest to cheat his establishment, especially when they have no ability to pay should they lose. A thrashing was now in order whether for my plan or not; hence the chase.”
But how . . . ?”
“I know what you are driving at. No scene ever plays out exactly as planned, Young Sir. I could not have anticipated Lord Plodsforth’s escape attempt before the match was even decided. I gather that with your Auntie Paisley making her gallant comeback and Reggie whispering his company motto in the chap’s ear, it was simply too much, and he cracked. I also could not have anticipated the excellent tackle you would make at that point, momentarily preventing his escape, but, more importantly, saving the mashie. How you then selected it so quickly from the cluster about you has me yet amazed. You have my highest commendations.”
“Yes, well, er, thank you, Jeeves. Bit of rugby, training, quick thinking, that sort of thing” was all I could mumble to explain my blind luck. I was finally out of “but how’s,” my questions, I thought, all answered. Jeeves, though, had more to say.
“One last thing I must mention, Bertram. Because of my first plan’s success, the match was, I shan’t say “fixed,” let’s say “assured,” in your aunt’s favor. This being the case, your winnings are, of course, forfeited. But you will, I’m sure, agree that it was all worthwhile to save the day and be witness to your aunt’s last shot.
I might have agreed; that is, if I actually had seen the shot.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Auntie has no waggle, which is a good thing. With her size, the air displacement could be threatening. Instead, she employs a kind of club twitching back and forth as she stands behind the ball and takes dead aim down the fairway. Once over the ball, she is as still and steady as the Rock of Ages. Or is it the Rock of Gibraltar? I’m not sure, so whichever one moves the least, that’s the one she’s still and steady as. Her backswing is slow and deliberate as her hips and torso turn into a powerful coil. When she actually swings, it looks a rather leisurely thing, but it somehow imparts terrific force. The ball seems to jump off her clubhead. Even with all the pressure this day had brought—the tournament, the mashie, me standing behind her saying, “Oh please, oh please, oh please”—Auntie was able to bring her best swing to the ball. “Whoosh” was the sound the mashie made as it propelled the dimpled orb into the sky, and “whoosh” was the sound that closed my eyes. I just couldn’t look; there was too much riding on it. Away flew the ball, a thing of beauty, I was told later, that bounced twice lightly on the green and then rolled to the hole, where it gently tapped the flag then disappeared. The crowd’s murmur turned instantly to a deafening roar, and I opened my eyes in amazement. Auntie’s ball had found the bottom of the cup, the match had been won . . . and the Funky Twit was back.
It was all perfect, just, and grand, if that’s the end I’m looking for, and I’m sure it is.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Ancient Mariner
I am going to post a few more of my scribblings on Monkeymind so that won't get lost. Here's the first, my epic poem.
THE RHYMES OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
By Doc Walton
We set off to the sea, (my companions were three)
In a truck loaded down with our gear.
Cap’n Randy and me in the front feeling free
With the women plunked down in the rear.
Gus too was aboard, on our laps he was moored
When not up to his usual dog antics,
Like scratching the floor or attacking the door
Somewhat nervous but not really frantic.
The trip was a gas and the time warped and bent
As we drove o’er the mountain divide.
Our momentum was spent as we made our descent
When our road was blocked off by a slide.
There seemed nothing to do, but watch the work crew
Making haste to push out a clear lane.
Yet the hour we lost was not time we would rue,
I’ll give pause here and try to explain.
“Look there” cried a man pointing high to our right
Where a sloth wandered up a tall tree.
“And there” said a girl pointing left to a site
Are two more we could all plainly see.
Spotting the sloths is a rare natural treat
We were part of fortunate few.
We gave thanks to our stars and waved from our seats
Bidding bye, adios and adieu.
The sight of the sea filled us all with great glee
Though we viewed it from grim Almirante.
This backwater town offers little to see,
That it’s charming I truthfully can’t say.
It’s here in the heat and the oft dreadful stink
Where they taxi o’er water with focus.
So we parked safe and neat behind a chain link
And skimmed o’er the waves out to Bocas.
2.
Now this quaint isle place has a much better face
Than the pier we had quickly departed.
You could make a strong case that this sandy space
Helps you go from just warm to warm hearted.
It is here that you’ll see the fast future to be
Mixed carelessly with the near past.
Though a lot of the new suits us all to a T,
You hope some of the old will long last.
From there we would trip at a much slower clip
To the isle that housed our marina.
For there in a slip awaited our ship
Wondering when we would get there to clean-a.
A catamaran with the name Wanda Jean
She had docked there for months unattended.
While Randy and spouse built a house from a dream,
But were back now to make their boat splendid.
A boat on its own left awhile all alone
From wet air becomes mossy green.
Despite the loud moans and some long painful groans
To restore it the crew was quite keen.
So we rolled up our sleeves and set off to work
With pails of white vin’gar and water
Scrub off the stains and wash of the murk
Were the things that we did ‘cause we oughter.
In no time at all we had washed all the walls
Wanda Jean feeling much less inferior.
Though outside still appalled, inside she stood tall
As she glowed from her sparkling interior.
We dropped our work pails and unpacked our small bags
Then made ready for dinner afar.
We’d worked off our tails and were ready for gags
So we hoofed to the lone island bar.
We were so indisposed ‘cause the bar was shut closed
And our hunger demanded great haste.
So a cabbie we chose, by the water he posed
As we told him there’s no time to waste.
We flew ‘cross the sea like a bird in the dark
A seagull perhaps or a loon,
To a place for a fee where we could debark
Called The Blue Nasty Mermaid Saloon.
3.
It was there on a pier jutting over the sea
Para sailors aloft in the sky.
That we sipped a sweet wine and dined elegantly
Tilting back at the end with a sigh.
For despite its odd name, the real claim to fame
Of the Blue Nasty Mermaid Saloon
Has nothing to do with a nautical dame,
But its food served by light of the moon.
Back at the Jean we began to unwind
From our efforts at both fun and labor.
Our reflections on these I hope you won’t mind
Because we find them sweet moments to savor.
Now relaxed on the deck at the back of the boat,
My scotch and cigar come to play.
I opened my pad and carefully wrote,
“How could all this have been just one day?”
I am up with the sun and quick from the bed
To coffee and food at the table.
Maryellen’s the one, when all has been said,
For cooking’s both ready and able.
She and I softly chat about that and this
While our spouses continue to snooze.
As the day’s travel by we learn nothing’s amiss
They will sleep in the whole bloody cruise!
We’ve got buckets and brushes, rags and a hose
To get after the mildew and mold.
I’m down on the floor in a real awkward pose
Wondering how this idea I was sold.
It’s a beautiful day with the promise of play
When Wanda gets shiny anew.
So I roll up my sleeves and start to make hay
And my boat mates get after it too.
Randy’s over the side to the ‘neath water hull
A job needing his talents at scuba.
Scraping barnacles there is a task hardly dull
When you’re sucking your air through a tube-a.
Maryellen’s inside with her vinegar pail
Making sure things are clean in the galley,
Woowoo Charly’s with me cleaning decks by the rail
‘Cause she’s not just my wife, she’s my pally!
4.
Barnacles a word that I’ve often heard,
So I pondered its meaning one time.
Bar knuckle fights is prob’ly absurd,
But the pun there’s not really a crime.
Barn uncle however can make me a louse
When I say what pops into my mind
“Cause that one’s the uncle kicked out of the house
By an aunt feeling far less than kind.
With the humans at work on the muck and the murk
Gus found new friends furry and feathered.
With no cars as a perk and no long chain to jerk
He roamed his new island untethered.
At a point in the day when the sun had its way
And the heat was oppressive and grim,
From the shade where he lay, Gus decided to stray
And go for his first puppy swim.
From the edge of the shore to the boat at its moor
Measured water in yards about thirty.
From a rock Gus would soar to the watery floor
To swim ‘cross the channel like Gertie.
At the side of the boat I was happ’ly afloat
Just watching my dog from the dingy
It was later I’d gloat, I’d been there to take note
When my pet had his first water flingy.
Later that day in the town we would play
And I sang with a group on a pier.
Street singers they’d say, who sang for their pay
But would eagerly settle for beer.
“Matildas” the song where I sang along
And my efforts were really quite sound.
My vocals were good and my harmony strong
Yet I still wound up buying the round.
The best song that they gave, about which I’d rave
Was not one that I’d heard before.
You are given a choice of who you would save
That’s part of Calypso folklore.
Your ma and your wife are fighting for life
In the deep sea they’re both gonna drown.
A decision so rife, it’s sure to cause strife,
Which one do you bring back to town?
5.
“Pardon me” gleefully, sang the man with this song,
“But in this life I have but one mother.”
So you may disagree, if you think I am wrong,
“But a new wife I can get another!”
I coughed out my brew to laugh and to cheer
At this music so fun and so clever.
As I rejoined my crew and departed the pier,
I knew I’d remember it ever.
Just off the main drag on a nearby back street
We stopped for our groc’ry supplies.
Out front I would lag with the dog at my feet
While the women were making our buys.
A half dozen men were dancing quite near
Latin music played loud from their cars.
To passing mujeres they offered their beer
Which they poured into clear empty jars.
The men sang and clapped and the ladies did twirl
To the music both raucous and arty.
To the beat my feet tapped, even Gus was awhirl
As we joined this impromptu street party.
But the fun was short lived, when my ladies arrived
With satchels of foodstuffs galore.
My new friends I high fived as the girls and I strived
To haul or new goods to the shore.
Back at the Jean Cap’n Randy is seen
Working hard at installing new hatches.
We unpacked the bags and prepared the cuisine
While he finished off bolting the latches.
As the engines were tuned, from the speakers there crooned
Sweet music of Ella Fitzgerald.
We’d be setting off soon, at the wane of the moon
To see what the sunrise would herald.
It’s a beautiful morn and we’re quickly sea borne
Maryellen and I standing aft,
We are looking for shallows the captain to warn
For to cruise there you’d have to be daft.
You can see by the sea and the change in its color
Where boat bottom might eas’ly scrape down.
It was all news to me, that the water is duller
And where shallow it looks sort of brown.
6.
After roughly a mile, Randy says with a smile
You can pull up the sails if you please.
We’d been clear of the brown for a long goodly while
And now we had caught a nice breeze.
So we hauled on the ropes, just as happy as dopes
And away in the quiet we sailed.
But the weather said nope and we soon moved like mopes
As the wind dropped and suddenly failed.
Down comes the main sheet, folded neatly in pleats
To the cross beam lashed tightly and snug.
With foresail wrapped neat, it was hardly a feat
To move smartly with engines a-chug.
By the close of the day, we achieved the small bay
A lagoon really, with sev’ral fine features.
But the one that held sway, I’m forced here to say
Were the nearly invisible creatures.
No-see-ums the term that’s most often heard
For these nasty and prolific blighters.
It’s truth and it’s firm, it’s totally “Word”
When it’s said they are vicious mean biters.
Like vampire bats they fly out in the night
In search of exposed tender skin.
Trapped inside like rats, we had no way to fight
We waited for sun-up to win.
I’ve seen movies two, ‘bout lagoons black and blue
The first dreadful the other quite scary.
Gill-man gets a boo and escapes from a zoo
While a teen grows up tall dark and hairy.
The Black had a plot, the Blue really not
Two monsters prowling water and fields.
The wrong one gets shot on the Hollywood lot
“Cause the other grows up as Brooke Shields.
When old sol climbs real high and the ‘Seeums all die
And the water looks cool and inviting
In the dinghy we fly to a place by and by
That is hard to describe in rhyme writing.
For it’s over the side in snorkeling gear
To a world that is wondrous and new.
With flippers I glide through the water so clear
And in soft silence I cherish the view.
7.
I could wax on and on in a poetic way
About the strange beauty I saw.
But a laugh is my pay at the end of the day
It’s a thing I think should be made law.
Now a dinghy’s a craft that’s made fore and aft
Of canvas in which you pump air.
I was climbing abaft this dumb bobbing raft
Trying might’ly but getting nowhere.
I pulled and I tugged trying hard to heave in
But the sea and my weight kept me down.
I clung and I hugged clearing only my chin
Wond’ring how far the swim was to town.
Maryellen arrived and helped save the day
By teaching then showing me how.
You kick with your fins in a serious way
Then leap up when she cries out “Now!”
You then cling to the edge like a man on a ledge
Who has grabbed a hold over the top.
You vow, pray and pledge and your bets you don’t hedge
As you scramble and tumble and plop.
Down into the boat and once more afloat
Remembering your goofy sea gaffe.
You grin, even gloat, ‘cause that’s all she wrote,
At that picture you just have to laugh.
Next day there was rain and some sore muscle pain
So into the game box we’d dabble.
My intent was quite plain ‘cause clearly I’m vain
‘Bout my skill at the board known as Scrabble.
Right after the rout with the sun coming out
We dove from the boat to the sea.
So that Gus wouldn’t pout or loudly dog shout
On a cushion he swam next to me.
M. E. and Charly, such a sight you should see
As they bobbed in the old ocean blue.
Esther Williams would be’s, with their synchronized knees
MGM should send lawyers to sue.
But this happy pair would give not a care
That the movies would quick send them packing.
They laughed at their flair and shook their wet hair
Not worried that their skills were lacking.
8.
Later that night we watched the big fight
At a place called the old Alamo.
It didn’t seem right, our boys lacking in might
Reinforcements just got there too slow.
So we plugged in a race, ‘cross a dry desert place
Where the wind and the sand were the foe.
We set a fast pace for the others to chase
And won with our horse Hidalgo.
In dugout canoes native peoples would cruise
To our boat peddling art, toys and such.
It’s easy to choose and there’s little to lose
‘Cause whatever you pick won’t cost much.
Charly fancied a turtle and a funky old rabbit
Each carved from a small black of wood.
It’s not much of a hurdle, so we’ve made it a habit
To spend where the bucks do some good.
The very next day off an island we’d lay
In a place after which we had hankered.
It was here we would stay, to scout and to play
So we’d dropped sail and hastily anchored.
We had spoke ship to shore, got permission to tour
This island where few folks are seen.
We learned plants and more, even ‘bout cocoa lore
From the owners named Dave and Lin Green.
We wandered their finca about which I’d thinka
For days after we had gone home.
On their isle they’d tinka with nary a blinka
Thirty acres were theirs to just roam.
There were caimans and monkeys and tropical plants,
They could grow almost all their own food.
When their feelings got funky like ants in your pants
Take a boat to a bar, change your mood.
This last was a plan, we agreed to a man
Was something we just had to do.
In Dave’s motorized pan ‘cross the water we ran
To dine at a place that he knew.
It was there we would eat and otherwise fete
At a table set fit for a king.
It was fish and not meat, the drinks were served neat
Of the bill I could happily sing.
9.
Out back of the place was a small island space
Where the natives grew fruit and raised chickens.
With his happy dog face, back there Gus would race
‘Cause he needed to go like the dickens.
Tied up to the pen so she just couldn’t flee
As a kind of production egg booster,
Was a big fat scared hen, whose fate was to be
Continually raped by a rooster.
Now onto this fuss comes our brave fearless Gus
With no malice aforethought intended,
But he noticed her truss and the wild rooster lust
And decided she must be defended.
So into the fray like a dog in a play
Leaps my Gus with bared teeth and a growl.
His only real pay was in saving the day
And preventing a murder most foul.
Now I’m chasing the pup, while the rooster he’s after,
We’re making a Mad Mad World scene.
I’m not sure what’s up, but behind me there’s laughter,
Now what in the world can that mean?
A crowd’s gathered round to witness the clown
With a howl and a cheer and applause,
As he falls to the ground to hold his dog down
And rescue the foul from his paws.
No harm has been done, but son-of-a-gun
I’d ended with egg on my face.
To Gus it was fun to have birds on the run
While I chased him all over the place.
But now he was tied to a leash at my side
The whole episode quite forgotten.
As I hid my red face I boasted and lied
That I’d drown him that damn dog’s so rotten.
The following day we left Dolphin Bay
And set sail once again out to sea.
For come as it may, we’d decided to play
At a place by the way dubbed Crawl Key.
It was our firm belief that out there lay a reef
Which we sailed to ‘midst dark skies and thunder.
We had nary a beef as we got our relief
From the weather we’d carefully cruised under.
10.
For the very next morn the sun was reborn
And blazed in the sky high above.
O’er the side we were borne not feeling forlorn
To the water we’d quick come to love.
Snork’ling all round the deep, like a joyous dream sleep
We swam through the strange coral world.
These memories we’d keep and this happiness reap
As the wonders of sea life unfurled.
Lobster’s the lunch Randy’s bought on a hunch
From a guy paddling in his Cayuga.
We boiled and crunched and wolfishly munched
Got a bit in my throat honked a loogah.
Then came the last night and the heat was a fright
The air was as still as you please.
We choose not to fight, kept cold beers in plain sight
And calmly awaited the breeze.
We shed not a tear as we docked at the pier
For all things must come to an end.
And this end was near, (we were damn low on beer)
So homeward we’d just have to wend.
But first to the spars that were down at the bar
Our goodbyes to them we gave with feeling.
One last look at the stars and the old salty tars
And a glance at what hung from the ceiling.
‘Tis a naked mermaid that hangs there in the shade
No more than four feet out of reach.
Much attention is paid (though she never gets laid)
To this half fish who’s really a peach.
Though she hangs there with charm, there’s no cause for alarm
Even though someone might try to woo her,
Because even a smarm would cause himself harm
As there’s really no way he could do her.
The next day we took float on a taxicab boat
And sailed back to grim Almirante.
Where I made a smart note that I hastily wrote
‘Bout this being a hell strictly Dante.
Now a bit of bad luck as we retrieved the truck
For from it we’d too quickly fled.
Cap’n Randy said “ruck” or some word rhymed with muck
When hearing the batt’ry was dead.
11.
So an hour would pass as we lounged ‘bout the grass
A thing not to pause and to worry.
Though not actually a gas, what the hell and alas
There really was no cause to hurry.
We’d be home soon enough, the long drive held good stuff
For we laughed and we talked…reminisced
Being home won’t be tough ‘cause our lives just ain’t rough
But that Bocas will surely be missed.
Well I’ve gone round and round but no ending I’ve found
That will garner a laugh or a tear.
And I know this must sound like around I have clowned
But there’s one thing I still have to fear.
If this tome doesn’t end I will go round the bend
Just rhyming and rhyming to suit me.
And if this is the trend, my life don’t defend,
Just take out your gun and please shoot me.
Ha!
THE RHYMES OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
By Doc Walton
We set off to the sea, (my companions were three)
In a truck loaded down with our gear.
Cap’n Randy and me in the front feeling free
With the women plunked down in the rear.
Gus too was aboard, on our laps he was moored
When not up to his usual dog antics,
Like scratching the floor or attacking the door
Somewhat nervous but not really frantic.
The trip was a gas and the time warped and bent
As we drove o’er the mountain divide.
Our momentum was spent as we made our descent
When our road was blocked off by a slide.
There seemed nothing to do, but watch the work crew
Making haste to push out a clear lane.
Yet the hour we lost was not time we would rue,
I’ll give pause here and try to explain.
“Look there” cried a man pointing high to our right
Where a sloth wandered up a tall tree.
“And there” said a girl pointing left to a site
Are two more we could all plainly see.
Spotting the sloths is a rare natural treat
We were part of fortunate few.
We gave thanks to our stars and waved from our seats
Bidding bye, adios and adieu.
The sight of the sea filled us all with great glee
Though we viewed it from grim Almirante.
This backwater town offers little to see,
That it’s charming I truthfully can’t say.
It’s here in the heat and the oft dreadful stink
Where they taxi o’er water with focus.
So we parked safe and neat behind a chain link
And skimmed o’er the waves out to Bocas.
2.
Now this quaint isle place has a much better face
Than the pier we had quickly departed.
You could make a strong case that this sandy space
Helps you go from just warm to warm hearted.
It is here that you’ll see the fast future to be
Mixed carelessly with the near past.
Though a lot of the new suits us all to a T,
You hope some of the old will long last.
From there we would trip at a much slower clip
To the isle that housed our marina.
For there in a slip awaited our ship
Wondering when we would get there to clean-a.
A catamaran with the name Wanda Jean
She had docked there for months unattended.
While Randy and spouse built a house from a dream,
But were back now to make their boat splendid.
A boat on its own left awhile all alone
From wet air becomes mossy green.
Despite the loud moans and some long painful groans
To restore it the crew was quite keen.
So we rolled up our sleeves and set off to work
With pails of white vin’gar and water
Scrub off the stains and wash of the murk
Were the things that we did ‘cause we oughter.
In no time at all we had washed all the walls
Wanda Jean feeling much less inferior.
Though outside still appalled, inside she stood tall
As she glowed from her sparkling interior.
We dropped our work pails and unpacked our small bags
Then made ready for dinner afar.
We’d worked off our tails and were ready for gags
So we hoofed to the lone island bar.
We were so indisposed ‘cause the bar was shut closed
And our hunger demanded great haste.
So a cabbie we chose, by the water he posed
As we told him there’s no time to waste.
We flew ‘cross the sea like a bird in the dark
A seagull perhaps or a loon,
To a place for a fee where we could debark
Called The Blue Nasty Mermaid Saloon.
3.
It was there on a pier jutting over the sea
Para sailors aloft in the sky.
That we sipped a sweet wine and dined elegantly
Tilting back at the end with a sigh.
For despite its odd name, the real claim to fame
Of the Blue Nasty Mermaid Saloon
Has nothing to do with a nautical dame,
But its food served by light of the moon.
Back at the Jean we began to unwind
From our efforts at both fun and labor.
Our reflections on these I hope you won’t mind
Because we find them sweet moments to savor.
Now relaxed on the deck at the back of the boat,
My scotch and cigar come to play.
I opened my pad and carefully wrote,
“How could all this have been just one day?”
I am up with the sun and quick from the bed
To coffee and food at the table.
Maryellen’s the one, when all has been said,
For cooking’s both ready and able.
She and I softly chat about that and this
While our spouses continue to snooze.
As the day’s travel by we learn nothing’s amiss
They will sleep in the whole bloody cruise!
We’ve got buckets and brushes, rags and a hose
To get after the mildew and mold.
I’m down on the floor in a real awkward pose
Wondering how this idea I was sold.
It’s a beautiful day with the promise of play
When Wanda gets shiny anew.
So I roll up my sleeves and start to make hay
And my boat mates get after it too.
Randy’s over the side to the ‘neath water hull
A job needing his talents at scuba.
Scraping barnacles there is a task hardly dull
When you’re sucking your air through a tube-a.
Maryellen’s inside with her vinegar pail
Making sure things are clean in the galley,
Woowoo Charly’s with me cleaning decks by the rail
‘Cause she’s not just my wife, she’s my pally!
4.
Barnacles a word that I’ve often heard,
So I pondered its meaning one time.
Bar knuckle fights is prob’ly absurd,
But the pun there’s not really a crime.
Barn uncle however can make me a louse
When I say what pops into my mind
“Cause that one’s the uncle kicked out of the house
By an aunt feeling far less than kind.
With the humans at work on the muck and the murk
Gus found new friends furry and feathered.
With no cars as a perk and no long chain to jerk
He roamed his new island untethered.
At a point in the day when the sun had its way
And the heat was oppressive and grim,
From the shade where he lay, Gus decided to stray
And go for his first puppy swim.
From the edge of the shore to the boat at its moor
Measured water in yards about thirty.
From a rock Gus would soar to the watery floor
To swim ‘cross the channel like Gertie.
At the side of the boat I was happ’ly afloat
Just watching my dog from the dingy
It was later I’d gloat, I’d been there to take note
When my pet had his first water flingy.
Later that day in the town we would play
And I sang with a group on a pier.
Street singers they’d say, who sang for their pay
But would eagerly settle for beer.
“Matildas” the song where I sang along
And my efforts were really quite sound.
My vocals were good and my harmony strong
Yet I still wound up buying the round.
The best song that they gave, about which I’d rave
Was not one that I’d heard before.
You are given a choice of who you would save
That’s part of Calypso folklore.
Your ma and your wife are fighting for life
In the deep sea they’re both gonna drown.
A decision so rife, it’s sure to cause strife,
Which one do you bring back to town?
5.
“Pardon me” gleefully, sang the man with this song,
“But in this life I have but one mother.”
So you may disagree, if you think I am wrong,
“But a new wife I can get another!”
I coughed out my brew to laugh and to cheer
At this music so fun and so clever.
As I rejoined my crew and departed the pier,
I knew I’d remember it ever.
Just off the main drag on a nearby back street
We stopped for our groc’ry supplies.
Out front I would lag with the dog at my feet
While the women were making our buys.
A half dozen men were dancing quite near
Latin music played loud from their cars.
To passing mujeres they offered their beer
Which they poured into clear empty jars.
The men sang and clapped and the ladies did twirl
To the music both raucous and arty.
To the beat my feet tapped, even Gus was awhirl
As we joined this impromptu street party.
But the fun was short lived, when my ladies arrived
With satchels of foodstuffs galore.
My new friends I high fived as the girls and I strived
To haul or new goods to the shore.
Back at the Jean Cap’n Randy is seen
Working hard at installing new hatches.
We unpacked the bags and prepared the cuisine
While he finished off bolting the latches.
As the engines were tuned, from the speakers there crooned
Sweet music of Ella Fitzgerald.
We’d be setting off soon, at the wane of the moon
To see what the sunrise would herald.
It’s a beautiful morn and we’re quickly sea borne
Maryellen and I standing aft,
We are looking for shallows the captain to warn
For to cruise there you’d have to be daft.
You can see by the sea and the change in its color
Where boat bottom might eas’ly scrape down.
It was all news to me, that the water is duller
And where shallow it looks sort of brown.
6.
After roughly a mile, Randy says with a smile
You can pull up the sails if you please.
We’d been clear of the brown for a long goodly while
And now we had caught a nice breeze.
So we hauled on the ropes, just as happy as dopes
And away in the quiet we sailed.
But the weather said nope and we soon moved like mopes
As the wind dropped and suddenly failed.
Down comes the main sheet, folded neatly in pleats
To the cross beam lashed tightly and snug.
With foresail wrapped neat, it was hardly a feat
To move smartly with engines a-chug.
By the close of the day, we achieved the small bay
A lagoon really, with sev’ral fine features.
But the one that held sway, I’m forced here to say
Were the nearly invisible creatures.
No-see-ums the term that’s most often heard
For these nasty and prolific blighters.
It’s truth and it’s firm, it’s totally “Word”
When it’s said they are vicious mean biters.
Like vampire bats they fly out in the night
In search of exposed tender skin.
Trapped inside like rats, we had no way to fight
We waited for sun-up to win.
I’ve seen movies two, ‘bout lagoons black and blue
The first dreadful the other quite scary.
Gill-man gets a boo and escapes from a zoo
While a teen grows up tall dark and hairy.
The Black had a plot, the Blue really not
Two monsters prowling water and fields.
The wrong one gets shot on the Hollywood lot
“Cause the other grows up as Brooke Shields.
When old sol climbs real high and the ‘Seeums all die
And the water looks cool and inviting
In the dinghy we fly to a place by and by
That is hard to describe in rhyme writing.
For it’s over the side in snorkeling gear
To a world that is wondrous and new.
With flippers I glide through the water so clear
And in soft silence I cherish the view.
7.
I could wax on and on in a poetic way
About the strange beauty I saw.
But a laugh is my pay at the end of the day
It’s a thing I think should be made law.
Now a dinghy’s a craft that’s made fore and aft
Of canvas in which you pump air.
I was climbing abaft this dumb bobbing raft
Trying might’ly but getting nowhere.
I pulled and I tugged trying hard to heave in
But the sea and my weight kept me down.
I clung and I hugged clearing only my chin
Wond’ring how far the swim was to town.
Maryellen arrived and helped save the day
By teaching then showing me how.
You kick with your fins in a serious way
Then leap up when she cries out “Now!”
You then cling to the edge like a man on a ledge
Who has grabbed a hold over the top.
You vow, pray and pledge and your bets you don’t hedge
As you scramble and tumble and plop.
Down into the boat and once more afloat
Remembering your goofy sea gaffe.
You grin, even gloat, ‘cause that’s all she wrote,
At that picture you just have to laugh.
Next day there was rain and some sore muscle pain
So into the game box we’d dabble.
My intent was quite plain ‘cause clearly I’m vain
‘Bout my skill at the board known as Scrabble.
Right after the rout with the sun coming out
We dove from the boat to the sea.
So that Gus wouldn’t pout or loudly dog shout
On a cushion he swam next to me.
M. E. and Charly, such a sight you should see
As they bobbed in the old ocean blue.
Esther Williams would be’s, with their synchronized knees
MGM should send lawyers to sue.
But this happy pair would give not a care
That the movies would quick send them packing.
They laughed at their flair and shook their wet hair
Not worried that their skills were lacking.
8.
Later that night we watched the big fight
At a place called the old Alamo.
It didn’t seem right, our boys lacking in might
Reinforcements just got there too slow.
So we plugged in a race, ‘cross a dry desert place
Where the wind and the sand were the foe.
We set a fast pace for the others to chase
And won with our horse Hidalgo.
In dugout canoes native peoples would cruise
To our boat peddling art, toys and such.
It’s easy to choose and there’s little to lose
‘Cause whatever you pick won’t cost much.
Charly fancied a turtle and a funky old rabbit
Each carved from a small black of wood.
It’s not much of a hurdle, so we’ve made it a habit
To spend where the bucks do some good.
The very next day off an island we’d lay
In a place after which we had hankered.
It was here we would stay, to scout and to play
So we’d dropped sail and hastily anchored.
We had spoke ship to shore, got permission to tour
This island where few folks are seen.
We learned plants and more, even ‘bout cocoa lore
From the owners named Dave and Lin Green.
We wandered their finca about which I’d thinka
For days after we had gone home.
On their isle they’d tinka with nary a blinka
Thirty acres were theirs to just roam.
There were caimans and monkeys and tropical plants,
They could grow almost all their own food.
When their feelings got funky like ants in your pants
Take a boat to a bar, change your mood.
This last was a plan, we agreed to a man
Was something we just had to do.
In Dave’s motorized pan ‘cross the water we ran
To dine at a place that he knew.
It was there we would eat and otherwise fete
At a table set fit for a king.
It was fish and not meat, the drinks were served neat
Of the bill I could happily sing.
9.
Out back of the place was a small island space
Where the natives grew fruit and raised chickens.
With his happy dog face, back there Gus would race
‘Cause he needed to go like the dickens.
Tied up to the pen so she just couldn’t flee
As a kind of production egg booster,
Was a big fat scared hen, whose fate was to be
Continually raped by a rooster.
Now onto this fuss comes our brave fearless Gus
With no malice aforethought intended,
But he noticed her truss and the wild rooster lust
And decided she must be defended.
So into the fray like a dog in a play
Leaps my Gus with bared teeth and a growl.
His only real pay was in saving the day
And preventing a murder most foul.
Now I’m chasing the pup, while the rooster he’s after,
We’re making a Mad Mad World scene.
I’m not sure what’s up, but behind me there’s laughter,
Now what in the world can that mean?
A crowd’s gathered round to witness the clown
With a howl and a cheer and applause,
As he falls to the ground to hold his dog down
And rescue the foul from his paws.
No harm has been done, but son-of-a-gun
I’d ended with egg on my face.
To Gus it was fun to have birds on the run
While I chased him all over the place.
But now he was tied to a leash at my side
The whole episode quite forgotten.
As I hid my red face I boasted and lied
That I’d drown him that damn dog’s so rotten.
The following day we left Dolphin Bay
And set sail once again out to sea.
For come as it may, we’d decided to play
At a place by the way dubbed Crawl Key.
It was our firm belief that out there lay a reef
Which we sailed to ‘midst dark skies and thunder.
We had nary a beef as we got our relief
From the weather we’d carefully cruised under.
10.
For the very next morn the sun was reborn
And blazed in the sky high above.
O’er the side we were borne not feeling forlorn
To the water we’d quick come to love.
Snork’ling all round the deep, like a joyous dream sleep
We swam through the strange coral world.
These memories we’d keep and this happiness reap
As the wonders of sea life unfurled.
Lobster’s the lunch Randy’s bought on a hunch
From a guy paddling in his Cayuga.
We boiled and crunched and wolfishly munched
Got a bit in my throat honked a loogah.
Then came the last night and the heat was a fright
The air was as still as you please.
We choose not to fight, kept cold beers in plain sight
And calmly awaited the breeze.
We shed not a tear as we docked at the pier
For all things must come to an end.
And this end was near, (we were damn low on beer)
So homeward we’d just have to wend.
But first to the spars that were down at the bar
Our goodbyes to them we gave with feeling.
One last look at the stars and the old salty tars
And a glance at what hung from the ceiling.
‘Tis a naked mermaid that hangs there in the shade
No more than four feet out of reach.
Much attention is paid (though she never gets laid)
To this half fish who’s really a peach.
Though she hangs there with charm, there’s no cause for alarm
Even though someone might try to woo her,
Because even a smarm would cause himself harm
As there’s really no way he could do her.
The next day we took float on a taxicab boat
And sailed back to grim Almirante.
Where I made a smart note that I hastily wrote
‘Bout this being a hell strictly Dante.
Now a bit of bad luck as we retrieved the truck
For from it we’d too quickly fled.
Cap’n Randy said “ruck” or some word rhymed with muck
When hearing the batt’ry was dead.
11.
So an hour would pass as we lounged ‘bout the grass
A thing not to pause and to worry.
Though not actually a gas, what the hell and alas
There really was no cause to hurry.
We’d be home soon enough, the long drive held good stuff
For we laughed and we talked…reminisced
Being home won’t be tough ‘cause our lives just ain’t rough
But that Bocas will surely be missed.
Well I’ve gone round and round but no ending I’ve found
That will garner a laugh or a tear.
And I know this must sound like around I have clowned
But there’s one thing I still have to fear.
If this tome doesn’t end I will go round the bend
Just rhyming and rhyming to suit me.
And if this is the trend, my life don’t defend,
Just take out your gun and please shoot me.
Ha!
Monday, July 19, 2010
Monkeymind Monday
"Sunshine came softly through my......window today."
I don't know why, it just popped into my head. What does that mean, "came softly"? If sunshine came hardly through my window would that signify it was real bright or barely there? These are the questions that try men's souls. Well some men anyway. Put most men's souls on trial and they would get off for insufficient evidence.
It's a Monkeymind Monday for sure.
The dogs are barking at nothing just outside my window. Nothing is the principal thing they find needs barking at on a regular basis. Following that there are other dogs miles away that need a good barking at and let's not forget birds flying overhead.
It is actually, in reality or a damn good likeness of it, a sunny morning.
I have just read on Yahoo that in the Americas Panama has the third happiest people. Costa Rica leads the way among the gratefully grinning and Canada comes in second. So there you have that. It's the Bronze Medal for we Panamanian denizens in the Happiness Olympics. The U.S. of A., I should add, was not among the listed. My guess is they lost in one of the preliminary races and didn't qualify for The Finals; pulled up lame with a hamstring or something. Maybe nipped at the wire by Belize.
Later today I am going to mow the lawn (Yeah, I know, stop the presses) which has grown to the height of ripe wheat since I mowed it last, I'm thinking an hour or two ago. Rain, which we have had a bit of lately, say, about enough to fill Lake Superior a couple of times, followed by sunshine causes our grass to grow about as rapidly as one of those time lapse motion picture sequences. There's the acorn, pass me the popcorn, and here's the giant oak. That small complaint by me is probably why Panama lags behind Costa Rica on the Happiness scale.
Woowoo Chuck and I watched a documentary film on the tube last night about a New York couple that were trying to live an environmentally "No Impact" (the name of the film) lifestyle for one year right there in the city. Both people were writers, she for a New York financial mag and he the author of a couple of history books and both were presumed to be intelligent. She was, we learned, forty and he was somewhere around that number as well. What annoyed us about the film was that both people talked like teenagers. Their conversation was filled with "totally"s and "I was like, you know, SO this and that" and many of their declarative sentences ended in question marks. "I went to the store? And I bought some granola? Drove us crazy, but we hung in to the end. At the film's conclusion we applauded their efforts but Woowoo Charly and I both knew we could never follow their spartan regimen. I mean really...be serious... no toilet paper? That's just not happening.
I don't know why, it just popped into my head. What does that mean, "came softly"? If sunshine came hardly through my window would that signify it was real bright or barely there? These are the questions that try men's souls. Well some men anyway. Put most men's souls on trial and they would get off for insufficient evidence.
It's a Monkeymind Monday for sure.
The dogs are barking at nothing just outside my window. Nothing is the principal thing they find needs barking at on a regular basis. Following that there are other dogs miles away that need a good barking at and let's not forget birds flying overhead.
It is actually, in reality or a damn good likeness of it, a sunny morning.
I have just read on Yahoo that in the Americas Panama has the third happiest people. Costa Rica leads the way among the gratefully grinning and Canada comes in second. So there you have that. It's the Bronze Medal for we Panamanian denizens in the Happiness Olympics. The U.S. of A., I should add, was not among the listed. My guess is they lost in one of the preliminary races and didn't qualify for The Finals; pulled up lame with a hamstring or something. Maybe nipped at the wire by Belize.
Later today I am going to mow the lawn (Yeah, I know, stop the presses) which has grown to the height of ripe wheat since I mowed it last, I'm thinking an hour or two ago. Rain, which we have had a bit of lately, say, about enough to fill Lake Superior a couple of times, followed by sunshine causes our grass to grow about as rapidly as one of those time lapse motion picture sequences. There's the acorn, pass me the popcorn, and here's the giant oak. That small complaint by me is probably why Panama lags behind Costa Rica on the Happiness scale.
Woowoo Chuck and I watched a documentary film on the tube last night about a New York couple that were trying to live an environmentally "No Impact" (the name of the film) lifestyle for one year right there in the city. Both people were writers, she for a New York financial mag and he the author of a couple of history books and both were presumed to be intelligent. She was, we learned, forty and he was somewhere around that number as well. What annoyed us about the film was that both people talked like teenagers. Their conversation was filled with "totally"s and "I was like, you know, SO this and that" and many of their declarative sentences ended in question marks. "I went to the store? And I bought some granola? Drove us crazy, but we hung in to the end. At the film's conclusion we applauded their efforts but Woowoo Charly and I both knew we could never follow their spartan regimen. I mean really...be serious... no toilet paper? That's just not happening.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Morning
Five thirty A.M. and I snap out of sleep like a raw recruit snapping to attention. It's quiet as a ninja on the prowl and dark as the inside of a coma. The dogs, even, are stir-less. I slip around the room putting on this and that piece of clothing, comfortable as a blind man in the inky dark. I know this room. I have no plan, just the need to be up.
It is, miraculously, not raining. Rain as constant as a toothache has been our reality for several days, keeping us mostly indoors, book in hand and Scrabble board at the ready.
I weave through the dark to the kitchen where I punch the get-with-it button on the coffeemaker. I had prepared it for this moment the night before. It's got a timer, but I never use that because we have frequent power outages during the night and I would have to get up and reset it each time one occurred. Besides, I'm not in that big of a hurry. I've got a few chores to do while I wake up and work up a coffee jones. I put away dishes left in the dry rack from the day before and wash the few glasses soaking in the sink. I unlock and open the patio doors, folding the metal barred ones neatly back. I then do the same to the front door. The dogs are making a fuss now, so I let them out of their nighttime kennels. They're stretching, rolling around on the rug and wagging their tails, happy to see me. I greet each one with pats and pets and my own happy to see you too morning chuckles. I then give them a couple of handfuls of dried dog food - their main meal is in the late afternoon - followed by rawhide chewies to keep them busy. The coffee is now dripped and ready. I pour a cup and beeline to the office. It's still dark as a smoker's lungs, but I stab at our computer's on button and plop down on my exercise ball; the one my chiropractor has me sitting on in lieu of a chair. The monitor light has me glowing in the dark. I read awhile. It's the hottest year ever so far, Hilary is in Afghanistan, Sox win, Rocks lose and like that. I'm ready to write now. I pull up Monkeymind and stare at the screen. I have no idea what I am going to say.
It is, miraculously, not raining. Rain as constant as a toothache has been our reality for several days, keeping us mostly indoors, book in hand and Scrabble board at the ready.
I weave through the dark to the kitchen where I punch the get-with-it button on the coffeemaker. I had prepared it for this moment the night before. It's got a timer, but I never use that because we have frequent power outages during the night and I would have to get up and reset it each time one occurred. Besides, I'm not in that big of a hurry. I've got a few chores to do while I wake up and work up a coffee jones. I put away dishes left in the dry rack from the day before and wash the few glasses soaking in the sink. I unlock and open the patio doors, folding the metal barred ones neatly back. I then do the same to the front door. The dogs are making a fuss now, so I let them out of their nighttime kennels. They're stretching, rolling around on the rug and wagging their tails, happy to see me. I greet each one with pats and pets and my own happy to see you too morning chuckles. I then give them a couple of handfuls of dried dog food - their main meal is in the late afternoon - followed by rawhide chewies to keep them busy. The coffee is now dripped and ready. I pour a cup and beeline to the office. It's still dark as a smoker's lungs, but I stab at our computer's on button and plop down on my exercise ball; the one my chiropractor has me sitting on in lieu of a chair. The monitor light has me glowing in the dark. I read awhile. It's the hottest year ever so far, Hilary is in Afghanistan, Sox win, Rocks lose and like that. I'm ready to write now. I pull up Monkeymind and stare at the screen. I have no idea what I am going to say.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Another List
Stuff I've written elsewhere and posted on Monkeymind.
2006
The Bridges of Archuleta County Short Story May 31
Accounting Essentials for the Non-accountant or What Was I Thinking? Essay July 3
Quebrada Golf Course at Valle Escondido Essay July 11
A Small Conversation Short Story July 12
2008
The Clearing (There is a Signpost up Ahead and it Reads...)
Short Story May 19
Keely the Kid and the KDW 2030 Short Story July 3
Scenario #1 Whimsy Dec. 6
Scenario #2 Whimsy Dec. 8
Scenario #3 Whimsy Dec. 10
2009
Noir You Ready? - Pony Tale Short Story Feb. 13
Blood Raiders Short Story Mar. 11
Jude Interpreting the New Testament Mar. 12
I Live Dreaming Poem Apr. 4
Rant #1 Essay May 5
Another Rant Essay May 6
Ketspaldigo Short Story July 13
Macbeth Review Aug. 13
The Book of Revelation Interpreting the New Testament Apr. 10
2006
The Bridges of Archuleta County Short Story May 31
Accounting Essentials for the Non-accountant or What Was I Thinking? Essay July 3
Quebrada Golf Course at Valle Escondido Essay July 11
A Small Conversation Short Story July 12
2008
The Clearing (There is a Signpost up Ahead and it Reads...)
Short Story May 19
Keely the Kid and the KDW 2030 Short Story July 3
Scenario #1 Whimsy Dec. 6
Scenario #2 Whimsy Dec. 8
Scenario #3 Whimsy Dec. 10
2009
Noir You Ready? - Pony Tale Short Story Feb. 13
Blood Raiders Short Story Mar. 11
Jude Interpreting the New Testament Mar. 12
I Live Dreaming Poem Apr. 4
Rant #1 Essay May 5
Another Rant Essay May 6
Ketspaldigo Short Story July 13
Macbeth Review Aug. 13
The Book of Revelation Interpreting the New Testament Apr. 10
Friday, July 09, 2010
Blogs Past Revisited
FAVORITES
2006
Just Say No May 28
A Word About Wine May 30
Braving the Wild June 2
Teardrops, Idocies, Nightmares June 5
Testing June 6
Ice Cream Sex June 20
Pill Poppin' Papa June 21
4th of July July 4
An Independence Day Carol July 5
Woowoo Magic 102 July 16
Something About Insurance July 25
Andy and the Bird Aug. 2
Bodies and Birds Aug. 3
Where's the Time Machine... Aug.14
The Jump Shot Sept. 8
A Rainy Day Sept. 10
Answering the Critics Oct. 7
A Long Walk Oct. 13
Spooky Stuff Oct. 15
Birth Oct. 21
Is there An Easier Way Oct. 24
2007
Sonnaffa Beach Diet Jan. 9
Arachnaphobia Jan. 22
Return of the Arachnid Jan. 25
Sunday Post NFL Feb. 11
Valentine's Day Feb. 14
Dramas and Dreams Mar. 11
Me and the Prince Mar. 21
My English Side Mar. 24
A Brillinat Mind Apr. 21
Gualaca and the Beast May 29
Bugs Must Die June 2
You Are a Winner June 4
The Magazine Reveals June 22
Pain? June 27
Watching TV Jul 1
Bound For Books July 3
Familiar Phrases Sept. 3
Blogging Religiously Oct. 1
Lost and Found Oct. 7
Inundada Oct. 12
Distractions Oct. 23
Playing the Game Oct. 26
Logic Dec. 2
It Was a Dark and Stormy... Dec. 9
2008
Is Golf in the Offing? Jan. 26
A Quote By Any Other Name Jan. 28
The Boquete Quadrangle Feb. 1
Return to the Quadrangle Feb. 14
Fighting Words Feb. 20
Dreamland Feb. 23
A Fair's Remembered Mar. 15
A March Madness Sunday Mar. 16
Contemplating Introverts April 3
A Quiet Friday Night April 19
Limbaughs and More Limbaughs April 30
Mind Log June 4
Golf Woes and More June 18
Blog Neglect June 26
Inward Bound July 2
I Could Use a Doughnut July 7
Novel or Blog? July 16
Toothache Remedies July 24
Olympic Musing Aug. 11
Every Word Is True Aug. 20
Dems and the Federation Aug. 28
Politics Schmolitics Sept. 8
Wherefore Art Thou Vanity? Sept. 11
Right Parters Oct. 8
The Middle Distance Oct. 15
Football Memories Oct. 17
Sex and Golf Nov.10
Terremoto Nov. 19
Poop Patrol Dec. 15
Bronco Blues Dec. 24
2009
Sense Dancing Jan. 1
Killer Cockers Feb. 2
Testifying to Congress Feb. 12
Dogs in the Wild Feb. 21
AAAHHHH! Mar. 25
Fear and Loathing at Valle Escondido April 1
I Live Dreaming April 4
I Don't Make Excuses April 22
Health and Stuff May 1
Free the Pukka May 20
I Never Know Where... May 31
My Addiction Affliction June 8
Return to the Abominable July 4
Alien Insight July 7
Been Sick Feeling Better Aug. 3
Here's to You Friday Aug. 13
The Wrath of God Aug.15
Seeing Brooklyn on Foot Sept. 13
Bars and Broncos Sept. 14
Tearing Up and Losing Time Sept. 30
Clandestine Clinic Oct. 8
Out Demon Out Oct. 27
Some Valuable Info Nov. 4
The Dragon of Avelox Nov. 14
Tiagra and the Third Eye Dec. 9
Memories and I'm Not Talking Nostalgia Dec. 15
Movies and Television Dec. 16
Walking the Perimeter Dec. 18
And the Winner Is Dec. 26
Good Ideas Dec. 28
2010
Seagal and Zombies Feb. 6
Per Request Feb. 15
Golf Feb. 27
Lazarus Story Mar.11
Spoofing on a Sunny Day April 16
A Horse Of Course May 13
Census Silliness And... May 17
There's Two Sides To... June 15
It's a Doggie Dog World June 28
2006
Just Say No May 28
A Word About Wine May 30
Braving the Wild June 2
Teardrops, Idocies, Nightmares June 5
Testing June 6
Ice Cream Sex June 20
Pill Poppin' Papa June 21
4th of July July 4
An Independence Day Carol July 5
Woowoo Magic 102 July 16
Something About Insurance July 25
Andy and the Bird Aug. 2
Bodies and Birds Aug. 3
Where's the Time Machine... Aug.14
The Jump Shot Sept. 8
A Rainy Day Sept. 10
Answering the Critics Oct. 7
A Long Walk Oct. 13
Spooky Stuff Oct. 15
Birth Oct. 21
Is there An Easier Way Oct. 24
2007
Sonnaffa Beach Diet Jan. 9
Arachnaphobia Jan. 22
Return of the Arachnid Jan. 25
Sunday Post NFL Feb. 11
Valentine's Day Feb. 14
Dramas and Dreams Mar. 11
Me and the Prince Mar. 21
My English Side Mar. 24
A Brillinat Mind Apr. 21
Gualaca and the Beast May 29
Bugs Must Die June 2
You Are a Winner June 4
The Magazine Reveals June 22
Pain? June 27
Watching TV Jul 1
Bound For Books July 3
Familiar Phrases Sept. 3
Blogging Religiously Oct. 1
Lost and Found Oct. 7
Inundada Oct. 12
Distractions Oct. 23
Playing the Game Oct. 26
Logic Dec. 2
It Was a Dark and Stormy... Dec. 9
2008
Is Golf in the Offing? Jan. 26
A Quote By Any Other Name Jan. 28
The Boquete Quadrangle Feb. 1
Return to the Quadrangle Feb. 14
Fighting Words Feb. 20
Dreamland Feb. 23
A Fair's Remembered Mar. 15
A March Madness Sunday Mar. 16
Contemplating Introverts April 3
A Quiet Friday Night April 19
Limbaughs and More Limbaughs April 30
Mind Log June 4
Golf Woes and More June 18
Blog Neglect June 26
Inward Bound July 2
I Could Use a Doughnut July 7
Novel or Blog? July 16
Toothache Remedies July 24
Olympic Musing Aug. 11
Every Word Is True Aug. 20
Dems and the Federation Aug. 28
Politics Schmolitics Sept. 8
Wherefore Art Thou Vanity? Sept. 11
Right Parters Oct. 8
The Middle Distance Oct. 15
Football Memories Oct. 17
Sex and Golf Nov.10
Terremoto Nov. 19
Poop Patrol Dec. 15
Bronco Blues Dec. 24
2009
Sense Dancing Jan. 1
Killer Cockers Feb. 2
Testifying to Congress Feb. 12
Dogs in the Wild Feb. 21
AAAHHHH! Mar. 25
Fear and Loathing at Valle Escondido April 1
I Live Dreaming April 4
I Don't Make Excuses April 22
Health and Stuff May 1
Free the Pukka May 20
I Never Know Where... May 31
My Addiction Affliction June 8
Return to the Abominable July 4
Alien Insight July 7
Been Sick Feeling Better Aug. 3
Here's to You Friday Aug. 13
The Wrath of God Aug.15
Seeing Brooklyn on Foot Sept. 13
Bars and Broncos Sept. 14
Tearing Up and Losing Time Sept. 30
Clandestine Clinic Oct. 8
Out Demon Out Oct. 27
Some Valuable Info Nov. 4
The Dragon of Avelox Nov. 14
Tiagra and the Third Eye Dec. 9
Memories and I'm Not Talking Nostalgia Dec. 15
Movies and Television Dec. 16
Walking the Perimeter Dec. 18
And the Winner Is Dec. 26
Good Ideas Dec. 28
2010
Seagal and Zombies Feb. 6
Per Request Feb. 15
Golf Feb. 27
Lazarus Story Mar.11
Spoofing on a Sunny Day April 16
A Horse Of Course May 13
Census Silliness And... May 17
There's Two Sides To... June 15
It's a Doggie Dog World June 28
Monday, July 05, 2010
Feeling Groov...Soggy.
"You have to eat your greens."
"Green leafy vegetables are good for you."
I sure hope so. I'm looking out the window and there are zillions of green leafy plants available to eat should I choose to do so. I'm wondering, though, just how many of them are truly edible.
The reason I bring this up is that this choice to graze or not to graze may be made for us...immanently. By immanently I mean in, say, a year or so. You see our friendly neighborhood weather guy, Lloyd Crikeymate, recently emailed to our community the latest rainfall statistics. We here in Boquete received 51 inches of rain in the month of June. This compares with the 24 inches we received last year and the 13 inches we sloshed about in the year before that. Do you see the trend? July, I should point out, is off to the same "my socks are soaked" start as June. At the current rate of accumulation, the actual town of Boquete, nestled as it is in a valley, will be inundated and flooded over by early next Spring. Only we on the mountainsides will have our heads above water. But not to worry, Dear Reader. We have plenty of coffee to pick up here and all those green plants to nibble upon. I'm going to start right now on the leaves of that bush with the purple buds. The humming birds adore it, so why shouldn't I? Besides, it can use some trimming back.
Grass might be tasty. We have plenty of that. In fact, you know the expression meant to convey idleness that goes, "Just sitting here watching the grass grow?" Well in Boquete this time of year, if you stare at it intently, you can actually see the the grass grow. I'm not kidding! Well, maybe a little bit. Of course next year this will be a good thing. Instead of mowing we will just chew it down.
But enough of that. I have a serious question to ask. I want to take advantage of the vampire popularity phenomena by writing my own unique vampire story. As far as I can tell there have been vampire everythings except in the following category. So tell me, which do you think I should go with, vampire puppies or vampire kittens? Blood sucking Bunnies, I should mention, have already been done. (Nevermind, I've got it. TEENAGE vampire puppies!)
Is it football season yet? No? Soon though, right? Promise me.
"Green leafy vegetables are good for you."
I sure hope so. I'm looking out the window and there are zillions of green leafy plants available to eat should I choose to do so. I'm wondering, though, just how many of them are truly edible.
The reason I bring this up is that this choice to graze or not to graze may be made for us...immanently. By immanently I mean in, say, a year or so. You see our friendly neighborhood weather guy, Lloyd Crikeymate, recently emailed to our community the latest rainfall statistics. We here in Boquete received 51 inches of rain in the month of June. This compares with the 24 inches we received last year and the 13 inches we sloshed about in the year before that. Do you see the trend? July, I should point out, is off to the same "my socks are soaked" start as June. At the current rate of accumulation, the actual town of Boquete, nestled as it is in a valley, will be inundated and flooded over by early next Spring. Only we on the mountainsides will have our heads above water. But not to worry, Dear Reader. We have plenty of coffee to pick up here and all those green plants to nibble upon. I'm going to start right now on the leaves of that bush with the purple buds. The humming birds adore it, so why shouldn't I? Besides, it can use some trimming back.
Grass might be tasty. We have plenty of that. In fact, you know the expression meant to convey idleness that goes, "Just sitting here watching the grass grow?" Well in Boquete this time of year, if you stare at it intently, you can actually see the the grass grow. I'm not kidding! Well, maybe a little bit. Of course next year this will be a good thing. Instead of mowing we will just chew it down.
But enough of that. I have a serious question to ask. I want to take advantage of the vampire popularity phenomena by writing my own unique vampire story. As far as I can tell there have been vampire everythings except in the following category. So tell me, which do you think I should go with, vampire puppies or vampire kittens? Blood sucking Bunnies, I should mention, have already been done. (Nevermind, I've got it. TEENAGE vampire puppies!)
Is it football season yet? No? Soon though, right? Promise me.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Dreaming The Night Away
Sleep hung on me heavy as a wet overcoat. I threw coffee in quantity at it hoping to shake the lethargy, but to no noticeable avail. I slogged through my morning chores like a zombie on downers, not present, not aware, not anything but groggy; a fighter barely up at the count of eight. Maybe I had taken too many pills or hits on the J, or maybe I shouldn't have finished that entire bottle last night, but that all seems unlikely. I don't have any of those things and my friends don't share. No, it was clearly something else weighing me down, something thick as gravy and serious as a secret. It was a dream, a dream that played out all night and haunts me still this morning like one of those specters you can only see from the corner of your eyes. Damn thing won't face you head on.
The girl had been as tall and leggy as dame in a Spillane crime novel. She was a blond, of course, with hazel, no green, no gray, no...eyes that changed color to match either her wardrobe or her mood; it was hard to tell. She had given me the come-on, the come-hither, the do-you-want-to-know-more with moves so subtle I was hesitant to make one of my own. What the hell, I thought, I'm probably dreaming anyway. I screwed up my courage and moved in eagerly like a vulture on a fresh road kill. She wasn't much of a talker at first but she listened real hard and seemed at least vaguely interested in the stream-of-bullshitness I was putting out. When I finally noticed she was glancing wistfully at the room's dancers, I took her hand and moved her to the floor. She folded into my arms like cheese into a souffle and fit there tight as a too small leotard. We danced, as the saying goes, the night away and love was begun...this part is as unclear as any dream...anew.
But who could she have been, this angel of my unconscious? I struggled in my morning murk to mentally scrape away the fog, but fog can't be scraped. It has to lift on its own. I waited for it to do so, but eventually abandoned the chase for this gray matter ghost. With cup in hand I settled in front of my computer to write of other things, movies perhaps, or dogs. You know, my usual fare, but obviously, given what I have written so far, the subject has not been forgotten. Who can this haunting, arresting, spectacular dream woman have been?
And then suddenly, there she was. "Good morning" she said, climbing from our bed. "Why are the dogs barking?"
OMG! I've been dreaming of my own wife!
That's kind of cool when you think about it.
The girl had been as tall and leggy as dame in a Spillane crime novel. She was a blond, of course, with hazel, no green, no gray, no...eyes that changed color to match either her wardrobe or her mood; it was hard to tell. She had given me the come-on, the come-hither, the do-you-want-to-know-more with moves so subtle I was hesitant to make one of my own. What the hell, I thought, I'm probably dreaming anyway. I screwed up my courage and moved in eagerly like a vulture on a fresh road kill. She wasn't much of a talker at first but she listened real hard and seemed at least vaguely interested in the stream-of-bullshitness I was putting out. When I finally noticed she was glancing wistfully at the room's dancers, I took her hand and moved her to the floor. She folded into my arms like cheese into a souffle and fit there tight as a too small leotard. We danced, as the saying goes, the night away and love was begun...this part is as unclear as any dream...anew.
But who could she have been, this angel of my unconscious? I struggled in my morning murk to mentally scrape away the fog, but fog can't be scraped. It has to lift on its own. I waited for it to do so, but eventually abandoned the chase for this gray matter ghost. With cup in hand I settled in front of my computer to write of other things, movies perhaps, or dogs. You know, my usual fare, but obviously, given what I have written so far, the subject has not been forgotten. Who can this haunting, arresting, spectacular dream woman have been?
And then suddenly, there she was. "Good morning" she said, climbing from our bed. "Why are the dogs barking?"
OMG! I've been dreaming of my own wife!
That's kind of cool when you think about it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
It's a Doggie Dog World
He tried to explain that the only discipline worth a damn was self discipline, but his dogs didn't understand. They remained unruly. While rubbing their bellies to keep them happy as he snipped off patches of their matted fur, he patiently explained that good behavior was rewarded and bad was not. No matter, they didn't care and wouldn't voluntarily change their ways. Even while walking them with his arms stretched forward by leashes and his body tilted back against the strain so that he appeared to be a stumbling, mumbling Frankenstein, he calmly, but nevertheless ardently, tried to persuade the two heaving, panting Cockers that they were not Huskies and there was no need to "Mush." The dogs pulled even more stubbornly forward, seemingly deaf to his appeals. I'm beginning to think, he one day thought, that these dogs don't understand English. Continuing with this new to him use of brain cell activity, he further wondered what Jesus, or better yet, what Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer would do. Even though his dusty mind had apparently not been used for several incarnations, it did this time provide an answer. "Whisper" it said, "whisper you Dummy, whisper." Well that answer seemed so logical to him that the man decided to try it. The very next day, confident that his new technique would be the one that finally worked, he let the dogs run free to romp and play and do those doggie things that doggies do. When it was time for them to come home, he pursed his lips in a hissy sort of way and whispered, "Here Mattie, here Raffi, come, come. Come, come. Well the dogs finally did make it home. Of course it was several hours later and it was their dinner time and they were wet, mud caked and ready to dry themselves off on the nearest carpet, but still the man considered the day a success. "See," he said to no one in particular, "this dog training stuff is a piece of cake."
Saturday, June 26, 2010
A fortelling and an Afttelling.
If you are wondering where the Monkeymind has been, here is an update: (I had an up date back in '58. She was tall, thin, out-going and pretty enough to be intimidating. Her name was Gloria. She took my hand without me asking and held on to it as if it were a prized possession. After the dance, a high school event, we walked around outside while our double date companions went to retrieve their car from the school parking lot. The separation from them gave Gloria and I the time and opportunity to kiss. Kissing was, of course, forbidden inside at the dance although frequent pecks were sneaked by the going-steadys when "monitors" weren't looking. We found a spot in the darkness of a tree shadow and commenced our lip locking. Gloria had full lips and a sweet tasting mouth. I was using all the nifty techniques I had learned from a novel I had read - start softly and then press gradually firmer while gently sucking and pay attention to one lip at a time - to make the kiss as deep as possible, when Gloria suddenly opened her mouth and pushed her tongue between my lips. Wow! This was exciting! I had never "Frenched" before! I got the hang of it real quick though, and this led us to some fierce body grinding that was just short of heaven. That, of course, was when our ride showed up with bright lights and beeping and laughter. We had a few more kisses in the car, Gloria and I, on the way home but none were as emotionally charged as that first one. Our driver had to have his parent's car back by eleven so there really was not much time for parking and sparking. Still, all in all, I considered that an "up" date although it was followed by only a couple more before Gloria and I went our separate ways.) I've been working my way through my blog bin trying to cull a few for my...I want to say "Best Of" but that, really, is for someone else to say, so I will just call it my Favorites List. This is not an easy task as I'm approaching six hundred of these puppies and reading them all is daunting chore. (Especially the ones I hate.) Nevertheless, (a really odd compound word that) I will have the list shortly.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
A Name by any other Rose...
"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction." Blaise Pascal
I like the name Blaise if it is pronounced Blaze. I'm thinking that in Spanish Blaise would be pronounced Blah-ee-say which isn't as good.
I agree with the quote because it sounds true to me and also because Blaise was a smart guy and I am not. I like to agree with smart people when possible. Makes me look good.
You may have noticed if you read this blog on any sort of a regular basis that I like interesting names. I ran across one this morning on my grandson's Facebook page. A friend of his made a comment and her name was Magaly Ulate. (And probably still is.) Now THAT, Sportfans, is a NAME and the best I've heard since Quattro Formaggi.
When I'm introduced to new people - and I have already had, perhaps, a cocktail or two - I like to tell them my name is Donald Lancelot(slash)Willingham Walton The Third. Either that or I just stick out my hand and say, "Bond. James Bond" an idea I stole from #1 son who does the Connery accent much better than I do. Curiously, or maybe not so as most people don't pay much attention to names initially, I rarely get a response other than, you know, Bob Jones here, Real Estate or something like that. It's usually about then I suddenly notice my glass is nearing empty and that's a condition needing immediate rectification. (I've never used the word rectification before. Have you?)
I should mention The World Cup here, since the U.S. was robbed of a victory yesterday when a referee disallowed the winning goal for no reason at all unless you count the large amount of cash he was given by an infamous Slovenian underworld figure named Hereza U. Payoffski, but I won't.
What I will mention is that the U.S.Open Golf Tournament is underway, which is a good thing to be under, and I failed to qualify for it yet again this year. I was beaten out by some eighteen year old Japanese kid named Itchycowpie who earlier this year shot a 58, which, for those of you who don't know golf, is, well, fantastic. Otherwise I'm sure I would have been there matching Tiger stroke for stroke. (No, not those strokes, Dirtymind, the other strokes.) Ah well, I'll get 'em next year.
Magaly Ulate, Quattro Formaggi, Blaise Pacal, Butras Butras
Golly (spelling is not important) Donald Lancelot/Willingham Walton The Third. Now we're talking.
I like the name Blaise if it is pronounced Blaze. I'm thinking that in Spanish Blaise would be pronounced Blah-ee-say which isn't as good.
I agree with the quote because it sounds true to me and also because Blaise was a smart guy and I am not. I like to agree with smart people when possible. Makes me look good.
You may have noticed if you read this blog on any sort of a regular basis that I like interesting names. I ran across one this morning on my grandson's Facebook page. A friend of his made a comment and her name was Magaly Ulate. (And probably still is.) Now THAT, Sportfans, is a NAME and the best I've heard since Quattro Formaggi.
When I'm introduced to new people - and I have already had, perhaps, a cocktail or two - I like to tell them my name is Donald Lancelot(slash)Willingham Walton The Third. Either that or I just stick out my hand and say, "Bond. James Bond" an idea I stole from #1 son who does the Connery accent much better than I do. Curiously, or maybe not so as most people don't pay much attention to names initially, I rarely get a response other than, you know, Bob Jones here, Real Estate or something like that. It's usually about then I suddenly notice my glass is nearing empty and that's a condition needing immediate rectification. (I've never used the word rectification before. Have you?)
I should mention The World Cup here, since the U.S. was robbed of a victory yesterday when a referee disallowed the winning goal for no reason at all unless you count the large amount of cash he was given by an infamous Slovenian underworld figure named Hereza U. Payoffski, but I won't.
What I will mention is that the U.S.Open Golf Tournament is underway, which is a good thing to be under, and I failed to qualify for it yet again this year. I was beaten out by some eighteen year old Japanese kid named Itchycowpie who earlier this year shot a 58, which, for those of you who don't know golf, is, well, fantastic. Otherwise I'm sure I would have been there matching Tiger stroke for stroke. (No, not those strokes, Dirtymind, the other strokes.) Ah well, I'll get 'em next year.
Magaly Ulate, Quattro Formaggi, Blaise Pacal, Butras Butras
Golly (spelling is not important) Donald Lancelot/Willingham Walton The Third. Now we're talking.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
There's two sides to every story...at least.
At five foot ten and one hundred forty five pounds HE was small for his size. The charts said he should be one seventy five. No matter. He could run like the wind and jump like a gazelle and he exuded a powerful inner energy akin to the quiet hum of an idling race car wanting to go, to get with it, to move. He couldn't sit still. In fact, he had difficulty sitting at all. Motion was his milieu.
Apart from a similar slightness of build, SHE was his stark opposite. Her movements were slow, tidy, considered. There were none without reason, without forethought. She was more sculpture than race car, a work of art timeless and wrought with care. To see her was to stare and wonder. Was she real? She could sit as quietly as a meditating monk, thoughtful, contemplative, motionless, but there was something that suggested an inner fire biding its time, waiting to be released. Something an observer couldn't quite point a finger to but it was surely there; it simmered hot and restless behind her quiet eyes.
Naturally, they fell in love.
Or
HE was a whacko from the word go. A bundle of nervous energy, easily bored, he had never held a job more than a couple of years or a relationship more than a couple of months. When the going got tough, he got going...elsewhere.
He had come to town riding his thumb and would probably leave the same way. Money slipped through his hands like running water and he couldn't care less. Money was never a goal. In truth he had no goals. He was simply in search of something, anything, possibly only the next thing...whatever it was.
SHE had earned her quirks the hard way. She had endured controlling parents, a controlling husband, a controlled lifestyle. She wanted out so she turned in. Inward, rather, where she was in charge. She was safe there and couldn't be reached by anyone unless she allowed it. She wanted to allow it. She wanted someone to reach in and pull her out. Someone who would set her free and let her be. Someone, no doubt, highly unlikely.
Naturally, they fell in love.
It all depends on your point of view.
Apart from a similar slightness of build, SHE was his stark opposite. Her movements were slow, tidy, considered. There were none without reason, without forethought. She was more sculpture than race car, a work of art timeless and wrought with care. To see her was to stare and wonder. Was she real? She could sit as quietly as a meditating monk, thoughtful, contemplative, motionless, but there was something that suggested an inner fire biding its time, waiting to be released. Something an observer couldn't quite point a finger to but it was surely there; it simmered hot and restless behind her quiet eyes.
Naturally, they fell in love.
Or
HE was a whacko from the word go. A bundle of nervous energy, easily bored, he had never held a job more than a couple of years or a relationship more than a couple of months. When the going got tough, he got going...elsewhere.
He had come to town riding his thumb and would probably leave the same way. Money slipped through his hands like running water and he couldn't care less. Money was never a goal. In truth he had no goals. He was simply in search of something, anything, possibly only the next thing...whatever it was.
SHE had earned her quirks the hard way. She had endured controlling parents, a controlling husband, a controlled lifestyle. She wanted out so she turned in. Inward, rather, where she was in charge. She was safe there and couldn't be reached by anyone unless she allowed it. She wanted to allow it. She wanted someone to reach in and pull her out. Someone who would set her free and let her be. Someone, no doubt, highly unlikely.
Naturally, they fell in love.
It all depends on your point of view.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Futbol and Other Stuff
I may not be a first rate writer, but I am a first class second rate writer. Okay that's not a completely stolen line, I changed the word "composer" in Richard Strauss' version to "writer" in order to make it mine. So sue me.
The World Cup starts today and if I remember correctly, a thing that happens less and less frequently, four years ago I wrote something along the lines of The World Cup is not, as you might think, a device used to protect the planet's groin area. I mention this only because you might have missed it four years ago and also because I didn't steal the line from Richard Strauss. It was completely my own. You, however, are free to steal the line from me as plagiarism is flattery. Just don't make any money from it without giving me a cut.
Since moving here to Peerless Panama I have learned to love futbol as the game is called throughout the world excluding the U,S. where it has been dubbed soccer in an effort to keep it from being confused with football, another game entirely in which the ball meets foot far less than in futbol and should, by all rights, be called something else, say, Mayhem or Large People With Helmets and Protective Pads Fighting In A Semi Organized Manner To Score Points And Impress Cheerleaders, shortened to LPWHAPPFIASOMTSPAIC to save newspaper and Internet column space. Futbol is also referred to as "The Beautiful Game" and it is that, although, in slow motion it can be a mind number while football becomes far more dramatic. I should probably add that basketball, when slowed down becomes a graceful ballet and a graceful ballet becomes a series of still portraits, but that's another subject, Now where the hell was I?
Oh yeah, futbol. The World Cup kicks off today and yes, that is an intended pun, with a couple of games featuring teams I have no rooting interest for. (Never end a preposition with a sentence.) Tomorrow though, The U.S. takes on England and I will be siding with the Red, White and Blue principally because they are the underdogs and because I was accidentally born there. (Woowoo Charly says we choose our parents so my U.S. birth may not have been an accident, but that too, is another story.) My loyalties will be somewhat divided in that I follow the British Premiere League and will know all the players on the English National Team. And also, of course, because I am an Anglophile. One reason for that being this "News Flash" sent to me this morning by a friend: The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been a "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the Great Fire of 1666.
That's good stuff. Really really good stuff. Wish I could steal it but I can't. You know, conscience and all that Old Chum.
Alrighty then USA, go kick some...ball!
The World Cup starts today and if I remember correctly, a thing that happens less and less frequently, four years ago I wrote something along the lines of The World Cup is not, as you might think, a device used to protect the planet's groin area. I mention this only because you might have missed it four years ago and also because I didn't steal the line from Richard Strauss. It was completely my own. You, however, are free to steal the line from me as plagiarism is flattery. Just don't make any money from it without giving me a cut.
Since moving here to Peerless Panama I have learned to love futbol as the game is called throughout the world excluding the U,S. where it has been dubbed soccer in an effort to keep it from being confused with football, another game entirely in which the ball meets foot far less than in futbol and should, by all rights, be called something else, say, Mayhem or Large People With Helmets and Protective Pads Fighting In A Semi Organized Manner To Score Points And Impress Cheerleaders, shortened to LPWHAPPFIASOMTSPAIC to save newspaper and Internet column space. Futbol is also referred to as "The Beautiful Game" and it is that, although, in slow motion it can be a mind number while football becomes far more dramatic. I should probably add that basketball, when slowed down becomes a graceful ballet and a graceful ballet becomes a series of still portraits, but that's another subject, Now where the hell was I?
Oh yeah, futbol. The World Cup kicks off today and yes, that is an intended pun, with a couple of games featuring teams I have no rooting interest for. (Never end a preposition with a sentence.) Tomorrow though, The U.S. takes on England and I will be siding with the Red, White and Blue principally because they are the underdogs and because I was accidentally born there. (Woowoo Charly says we choose our parents so my U.S. birth may not have been an accident, but that too, is another story.) My loyalties will be somewhat divided in that I follow the British Premiere League and will know all the players on the English National Team. And also, of course, because I am an Anglophile. One reason for that being this "News Flash" sent to me this morning by a friend: The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been a "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the Great Fire of 1666.
That's good stuff. Really really good stuff. Wish I could steal it but I can't. You know, conscience and all that Old Chum.
Alrighty then USA, go kick some...ball!
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Quattro Formaggi
Quattro Formaggi is a character in a book I have just put down. It's the character's nickname and the name of his favorite pizza. (Four cheese most likely) I mention this for no reason other than I like saying the name aloud. Quattro Formaggi. Go ahead, say it again, Quattro Formaggi. It will stick in your head faster than a bad tune. "I'm Henery the eighth I am, Henerey the eighth I am I am." Sorry about that.
The book was written by Niccolo Ammaniti, another name fun to say, and is, by the way, apart from its terrible title, "As God Commands" which leads one to think this is some kind of religious tome, a thing it is certainly not, a fabulous read about mostly unsympathetic but compelling characters and contains not a single sentence as awkward as this one.
So there you have that.
Quattro Formaggi.
Back in the day, 2006,... wait! Let me start again. "Back in the day" has become such a cliche that it grates on the Monkeymind.
In the year of your lord and mine, Rahma Lahma Ding Dong, 2006, when the Monkeymind emerged from the muck and mire that is my thought process, I endeavored to write a blog everyfreakingday. As a consequence there were many written about the subject of "nothing." These were clever, I thought, but then my thoughts are not to be trusted, emanating as they do from the jungle that is my actual - and here I use the term lightly - mind. I had nothing else to write in those days and a blog seemed a good way to, A. keep in touch with loved ones and, B. provide an outlet for my creative urges. (No not those urges, the other ones.) Now I find that I have all sorts of writing to do, a product, I suppose, of having opened up the creative flood gates and loosed the Monkeymind and, as a consequence of that, I only blog when something of note occurs that I find should be recorded or I just feel like messing around verbally. One or both of those incidences are usually enough to provide a couple of blogs weekly.
That being said, here is the summation of last week's notable occurrences: Woowoo Charly and I shared the Tuna steak at Las Ruinas. The restaurant did not have the wasabi mayo that they provided the first time we ordered the tuna a few weeks ago. Woowoo Charly was upset.
Alrighty then. Here it is four years later. I'm still writing about nothing.
The book was written by Niccolo Ammaniti, another name fun to say, and is, by the way, apart from its terrible title, "As God Commands" which leads one to think this is some kind of religious tome, a thing it is certainly not, a fabulous read about mostly unsympathetic but compelling characters and contains not a single sentence as awkward as this one.
So there you have that.
Quattro Formaggi.
Back in the day, 2006,... wait! Let me start again. "Back in the day" has become such a cliche that it grates on the Monkeymind.
In the year of your lord and mine, Rahma Lahma Ding Dong, 2006, when the Monkeymind emerged from the muck and mire that is my thought process, I endeavored to write a blog everyfreakingday. As a consequence there were many written about the subject of "nothing." These were clever, I thought, but then my thoughts are not to be trusted, emanating as they do from the jungle that is my actual - and here I use the term lightly - mind. I had nothing else to write in those days and a blog seemed a good way to, A. keep in touch with loved ones and, B. provide an outlet for my creative urges. (No not those urges, the other ones.) Now I find that I have all sorts of writing to do, a product, I suppose, of having opened up the creative flood gates and loosed the Monkeymind and, as a consequence of that, I only blog when something of note occurs that I find should be recorded or I just feel like messing around verbally. One or both of those incidences are usually enough to provide a couple of blogs weekly.
That being said, here is the summation of last week's notable occurrences: Woowoo Charly and I shared the Tuna steak at Las Ruinas. The restaurant did not have the wasabi mayo that they provided the first time we ordered the tuna a few weeks ago. Woowoo Charly was upset.
Alrighty then. Here it is four years later. I'm still writing about nothing.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Dogs!
There I was pedaling away the pounds on my Elliptical Strider, almost watching a Biography Channel show on the Oklahoma City bombing - I say almost, because I pretty much knew the details and my mind was wandering - when a couple of dogs appeared amidst the rubble. Dogs, for some reason, grab my attention almost as fast as willowy brunettes. They are both near the top of my Fondness For list. The dogs on this occasion were leashed and sniffing about the bombing's debris trying to find survivors. After some early success, the show's narrator tells us, and as the hours dragged on with only dead bodies discovered, the dogs began to exhibit signs of depression and apathy. They were going about their task in what we would describe as a half-hearted manner. Seeing this, the dog's handlers coaxed several firemen to hide at the site so the dog's could find them...alive. When the dogs did so, they immediately perked up and went back to sniffing with renewed enthusiasm. This five minute segment of television so warmed my heart that I moved dogs past pizza and the red wine/dark chocolate combination on the aforementioned Fondness scale. Until, that is, this morning.
Not too long ago at Woowoo Charly's insistence we visited a new Ropa Americana store here in Boquete. "Dogs have to have toys" she told me, "and Bookworm Bonnie says they have a whole tub of stuffed ones here in the store."
"But," I protested, "they make such a mess when the dogs tear them open."
"So what" she countered, "it's not that big a deal to clean up and they have so much fun."
We took home six used and abandoned teddy bears of assorted sizes.
I opened the door to the yard and let the dogs out at 5:58 this morning. I mention the time to emphasize that it was not yet 6:00, an hour that one might more or less reasonably suggest as a time to rise. As 5:58 was lacking the necessary two minutes to actually be 6:00, I decided to go back to bed. On the way there I kicked a stuffed Teddy or two out of my way. Now if you have dogs you know that an inert toy does not get much of their attention. One on the move, though, is fair game. I was vaguely aware as I pulled the covers over my shoulders, that a scuffle of some kind was going on in the next room. No matter, I thought, and then sleep was upon me.
It's true what Woowoo Charly said about the eviscerated toys not making too big of a mess. The large clumps of white cottony stuff that most are filled with are easy to pick up. We learned this morning, alas, that not all stuffed toys are filled with that material. As I reemerged among the living at 6:30, I noticed small, nickle sized clumps of orange matter whose origin was clearly not of this earth. I had never seen anything like it before. Scattered on the floor throughout the house - I doubt that there was a six inch square area that didn't contain at least one piece - and on several pieces of furniture, the little chunks looked something like the debris left from a pumpkin explosion. I should say here that I was not amused, the cockles of my heart were not warmed, and my dog love was being severely tested.
Usually, for reasons I can't describe, I take some pride in being a madrugador, an early riser, the first one up. Not so today. I knew that Maria, our once a week limpiadora (cleaning lady) was due in two hours and I could not in good conscience leave this mess for her. So, of course, I mean what would you do?, I set about, piece by piece, picking and sweeping up the tiny, shredded, orange chunks of teddy bear insides.
The dogs, I probably don't need to mention, were no help at all.
Not too long ago at Woowoo Charly's insistence we visited a new Ropa Americana store here in Boquete. "Dogs have to have toys" she told me, "and Bookworm Bonnie says they have a whole tub of stuffed ones here in the store."
"But," I protested, "they make such a mess when the dogs tear them open."
"So what" she countered, "it's not that big a deal to clean up and they have so much fun."
We took home six used and abandoned teddy bears of assorted sizes.
I opened the door to the yard and let the dogs out at 5:58 this morning. I mention the time to emphasize that it was not yet 6:00, an hour that one might more or less reasonably suggest as a time to rise. As 5:58 was lacking the necessary two minutes to actually be 6:00, I decided to go back to bed. On the way there I kicked a stuffed Teddy or two out of my way. Now if you have dogs you know that an inert toy does not get much of their attention. One on the move, though, is fair game. I was vaguely aware as I pulled the covers over my shoulders, that a scuffle of some kind was going on in the next room. No matter, I thought, and then sleep was upon me.
It's true what Woowoo Charly said about the eviscerated toys not making too big of a mess. The large clumps of white cottony stuff that most are filled with are easy to pick up. We learned this morning, alas, that not all stuffed toys are filled with that material. As I reemerged among the living at 6:30, I noticed small, nickle sized clumps of orange matter whose origin was clearly not of this earth. I had never seen anything like it before. Scattered on the floor throughout the house - I doubt that there was a six inch square area that didn't contain at least one piece - and on several pieces of furniture, the little chunks looked something like the debris left from a pumpkin explosion. I should say here that I was not amused, the cockles of my heart were not warmed, and my dog love was being severely tested.
Usually, for reasons I can't describe, I take some pride in being a madrugador, an early riser, the first one up. Not so today. I knew that Maria, our once a week limpiadora (cleaning lady) was due in two hours and I could not in good conscience leave this mess for her. So, of course, I mean what would you do?, I set about, piece by piece, picking and sweeping up the tiny, shredded, orange chunks of teddy bear insides.
The dogs, I probably don't need to mention, were no help at all.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Watchmen and the Tea Party
There's a certain stillness to be had after an early morning rain. I'm having it now. It's as quiet in here as a silent prayer at the bottom of a grave and even the ubiquitous bird noise beyond my window glass seems subdued. I can see raindrops dripping from bush and bower out there, but that too is a soundless affair. The sky above bird, bush and bower is the color of a chalkboard after the formula for world peace was accidentally erased. It's easy on the eyes, heavy on the heart. The real world, the one outside my head, is either gone or still asleep; hard to tell right now.
Last night after watching the movie "Watchmen," which was a cinematic rendition of the graphic novel of the same name with the only difference between the two being that the novel took a couple of hours to read while the movie went on for...I don't know, what's today's date?, a long time, Woowoo Charly said at its conclusion, "Awesome!" I wanted to second that, but I couldn't because I didn't agree. I thought that a 47 hour movie like this one could have been tighter, but then I understand that the director wanted to be true to the novel, a complex, complicated and intellectual tome. I doubt that the flick could have been a success at the box office with its running time being just short of an average life span in Botswana, but I could be wrong. It has happened once or twice before. Besides its length, the film required one to think, which is an activity foreign to movie-goers who have "Dumb and Dumber" on their Top Five list and they make up a goodly sized portion of the ticket buying public. The concept of thinking to understand came up later that night as well, when I fluffed my pillows and settled down to read a book and await sleep.
"Bananas", subtitled "How the United Fruit Company Shaped The World" is the book I'm currently perusing and enjoying. About half way in I discovered the following passage gleaned from Edward Bernay's book "Propaganda" written in the 1920s. Its concern was the group mind. "The group mind doesn't think," Bernay's wrote, "Instead it has impulses, habits and emotions. The key is for some force to harness them. The force is propaganda or 'the conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses.' This process of manipulation is an 'unseen mechanism of society' and those that make use of it are an 'invisible government' and the 'true ruling power of our country."
I no longer wonder how the Tea Party got started.
Last night after watching the movie "Watchmen," which was a cinematic rendition of the graphic novel of the same name with the only difference between the two being that the novel took a couple of hours to read while the movie went on for...I don't know, what's today's date?, a long time, Woowoo Charly said at its conclusion, "Awesome!" I wanted to second that, but I couldn't because I didn't agree. I thought that a 47 hour movie like this one could have been tighter, but then I understand that the director wanted to be true to the novel, a complex, complicated and intellectual tome. I doubt that the flick could have been a success at the box office with its running time being just short of an average life span in Botswana, but I could be wrong. It has happened once or twice before. Besides its length, the film required one to think, which is an activity foreign to movie-goers who have "Dumb and Dumber" on their Top Five list and they make up a goodly sized portion of the ticket buying public. The concept of thinking to understand came up later that night as well, when I fluffed my pillows and settled down to read a book and await sleep.
"Bananas", subtitled "How the United Fruit Company Shaped The World" is the book I'm currently perusing and enjoying. About half way in I discovered the following passage gleaned from Edward Bernay's book "Propaganda" written in the 1920s. Its concern was the group mind. "The group mind doesn't think," Bernay's wrote, "Instead it has impulses, habits and emotions. The key is for some force to harness them. The force is propaganda or 'the conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses.' This process of manipulation is an 'unseen mechanism of society' and those that make use of it are an 'invisible government' and the 'true ruling power of our country."
I no longer wonder how the Tea Party got started.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Singing in the Rain
"On the day that I was born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true. So they sprinkled car rust in my hair and gave me tricky underwear, to rue. That's why you, so want to be, close to me."
Ah, ya gotta love the old songs.
I was going to mow the lawn or mew-dee-loan as the French say, but it is going to rain or lluvia, which is not, as you might think, a female body part, but rather, what the Spanish say. I say it is good to be poly-lingual. It's probably even good to BE Polly Lingual, but then you would have to ask her.
So, what was I going to go on about before the Monkeymind, having written, moved along?
Beats me. (Yeah, I know, you're saying somebody ought to.)
I'm serious about the rain, though. The sky is so low this morning... (How low is it, Zendoc?) the sky is so low this morning it is lower than James Earl Jones bottom note on a-frog-in-his throat-day. I'm talking low. I can still see the big tree in front of our house, but beyond that the world is misty gray. Misty Gray is a girl I dated in high School. She was so wide I couldn't see beyond her either. Lawn mowing is out of the question, I don't remember what the question is, but lawn mowing is definitly out of it. Before you kick me out of the cab, I want a mobile shout-out. "Hey buddy, what is the question?" "To be or not to be. That is the question." God, I hate smart alecks almost as much as I hate dumb alecks.
Now I have two more hours of this day to fill I hadn't expected...to have. What shall I do with them? I could turn on the television and watch a movie, but I did that yesterday and saw ten minutes of a Will Ferrell flick that sent me screaming from the room. I mean, what if the movie is still there? I just can't risk it.
And now here it comes. The rain I'm talking about. It's gentle so far, I can hear the birds singing through it. "You're in the mood for love, simply because you're near me." Another one of my favorites.
I should end there because, you know, I've tied in the first paragraph to the last one...until now. Now I've lost my chance at any continuity whatsoever. Story of my life. It's all out-of-context. You can't just take parts of it and show it to me one day at a time. I want to see the whole thing all at once. You know, the Big Picture. This one day at a time stuff just confuses me. If I knew how it was all going to come out, I would know better how to act now. Here I am having to deal with today and its two extra hours without knowing what's going to happen tomorrow. I mean, what if it rains again?
"Don't know why, there's no rum up in the sky, horny leather."
There. That's better.
Ah, ya gotta love the old songs.
I was going to mow the lawn or mew-dee-loan as the French say, but it is going to rain or lluvia, which is not, as you might think, a female body part, but rather, what the Spanish say. I say it is good to be poly-lingual. It's probably even good to BE Polly Lingual, but then you would have to ask her.
So, what was I going to go on about before the Monkeymind, having written, moved along?
Beats me. (Yeah, I know, you're saying somebody ought to.)
I'm serious about the rain, though. The sky is so low this morning... (How low is it, Zendoc?) the sky is so low this morning it is lower than James Earl Jones bottom note on a-frog-in-his throat-day. I'm talking low. I can still see the big tree in front of our house, but beyond that the world is misty gray. Misty Gray is a girl I dated in high School. She was so wide I couldn't see beyond her either. Lawn mowing is out of the question, I don't remember what the question is, but lawn mowing is definitly out of it. Before you kick me out of the cab, I want a mobile shout-out. "Hey buddy, what is the question?" "To be or not to be. That is the question." God, I hate smart alecks almost as much as I hate dumb alecks.
Now I have two more hours of this day to fill I hadn't expected...to have. What shall I do with them? I could turn on the television and watch a movie, but I did that yesterday and saw ten minutes of a Will Ferrell flick that sent me screaming from the room. I mean, what if the movie is still there? I just can't risk it.
And now here it comes. The rain I'm talking about. It's gentle so far, I can hear the birds singing through it. "You're in the mood for love, simply because you're near me." Another one of my favorites.
I should end there because, you know, I've tied in the first paragraph to the last one...until now. Now I've lost my chance at any continuity whatsoever. Story of my life. It's all out-of-context. You can't just take parts of it and show it to me one day at a time. I want to see the whole thing all at once. You know, the Big Picture. This one day at a time stuff just confuses me. If I knew how it was all going to come out, I would know better how to act now. Here I am having to deal with today and its two extra hours without knowing what's going to happen tomorrow. I mean, what if it rains again?
"Don't know why, there's no rum up in the sky, horny leather."
There. That's better.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Census Silliness and the Importance of Horror Movies
The census taker was a serious young man who insisted on speaking English even though it was clear in the first five minutes that our Spanish was better than his English. I'm sure he thought this was a great opportunity to practice, but his inability to bite down on his consonants made him a kind of a yodeler and difficult to understand. I responded to his questions in Spanish because, well, I could, and doing so I thought, would speed the process a bit. Naturally some confusion arose. At one point after discussing financial matters, he asked, "Sons?" with a very hazy "n" and no "s" at all. Not realizing he was moving on to a new section, I thought he was asking for a sum. The answer then would have been tres mil (three thousand) which is what I said. The guy's eyes widened and then went blank. Woowoo Charly was the first to understand. "No Doc" she said, "we don't have three thousand sons!" We all laughed then, including the census guy, who made some comment about me being a pretty impressive dude and, poor Charly. After that it was back to being serious. But being serious, apparently - I can't say for certain because it is a condition rare to me - doesn't necessarily make one error free. The census guy came back three hours later, having forgotten an entire section concerning RTGFKAR.
In the Boy Scout fashion of being prepared, we had printed out an English version of the census forms. There were some interesting translations and intriguing questions there. My favorite of the former was this: "Then it plunges the whole of persons for sex and note down the numbers in the respective pigeonholes." Alrighty then, I'll get right on it!
Section 23 was entitled HERE OR IN ANOTHER PLACE: SOME OF THE PERSONS WHO LIVE IN THIS HOME. Hey, some of the persons living in this home are often in another place and even more often, without even leaving the house.
Under section 7 WHAT TYPE OF MENTAL DISABILITY DO YOU HAVE?, was the choice "Mental Delay." Most days I've got that in spades. I didn't check it off though because I didn't think of it quick enough.
Under section 5 WHAT IS YOUR MARITAL STATUS? one of the choices is "15 year old minor?" I'm not sure how that quite relates to the question.
Under section 22 IF YOU DID NOT LOOK FOR WORK LAST WEEK, WHY? one of the choices is, "I got tired of looking." Hey, I can dig that. (We did not have to answer these type questions.)
And here is my personal favorite: WHAT PLACE DO YOU USE IN THIS HOUSING WITH MORE FREQUENCY TO POOP? Actually, I'd most like to know what your second choice would be. That way if I'm at your house, I could avoid stepping in something.
I was happy to note, though, that under GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS Section 2, SEX there were only two choices.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
So there I was contentedly watching "Bloodrayne 2", a vampires in the old west saga with Billy the Kid being the worst of the bunch, when a surprising bit of philosophy was passed along by one of the guys still filled with blood at the end of the flick. This tidbit is so good and so right on a couple of levels, I feel it incumbent upon me to pass it further along as many of you were likely to have missed "Bloodrayne 2", an eventuality I'm sure you will regret the moment you have read what's next.
Life is like a penis.
When it is hard, you get screwed.
When it is soft, you can't beat it.
Go ahead, argue with that.
In the Boy Scout fashion of being prepared, we had printed out an English version of the census forms. There were some interesting translations and intriguing questions there. My favorite of the former was this: "Then it plunges the whole of persons for sex and note down the numbers in the respective pigeonholes." Alrighty then, I'll get right on it!
Section 23 was entitled HERE OR IN ANOTHER PLACE: SOME OF THE PERSONS WHO LIVE IN THIS HOME. Hey, some of the persons living in this home are often in another place and even more often, without even leaving the house.
Under section 7 WHAT TYPE OF MENTAL DISABILITY DO YOU HAVE?, was the choice "Mental Delay." Most days I've got that in spades. I didn't check it off though because I didn't think of it quick enough.
Under section 5 WHAT IS YOUR MARITAL STATUS? one of the choices is "15 year old minor?" I'm not sure how that quite relates to the question.
Under section 22 IF YOU DID NOT LOOK FOR WORK LAST WEEK, WHY? one of the choices is, "I got tired of looking." Hey, I can dig that. (We did not have to answer these type questions.)
And here is my personal favorite: WHAT PLACE DO YOU USE IN THIS HOUSING WITH MORE FREQUENCY TO POOP? Actually, I'd most like to know what your second choice would be. That way if I'm at your house, I could avoid stepping in something.
I was happy to note, though, that under GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS Section 2, SEX there were only two choices.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
So there I was contentedly watching "Bloodrayne 2", a vampires in the old west saga with Billy the Kid being the worst of the bunch, when a surprising bit of philosophy was passed along by one of the guys still filled with blood at the end of the flick. This tidbit is so good and so right on a couple of levels, I feel it incumbent upon me to pass it further along as many of you were likely to have missed "Bloodrayne 2", an eventuality I'm sure you will regret the moment you have read what's next.
Life is like a penis.
When it is hard, you get screwed.
When it is soft, you can't beat it.
Go ahead, argue with that.
Friday, May 14, 2010
RATAVA
For those of you handicapped by only being able to read from left to right, the title of this post is AVATAR spelled backwards. Before I get into the implications of the storyline, I want to say that this is the most visually stunning film EVER MADE to date. It surpasses the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Ironman, Batman, Monkeyman and you name it. It even out shines Abbott and Costello Meet the Transformers and the Transsexuals. This film is so spectacular to watch, it will affect your dreams. In fact you well be asking of them, "Is that all you got?" And I'm saying this having NOT seen AVATAR in 3D! My comment to RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly during the film is that it was like watching a million Boris Vallejo and Frank Frazetta paintings one after the other. If you don't know who these cool artists are, you will have to look them up on your Funk and Internet.
I'm thinking James Cameron, the writer and director could have named this flick Avatar and Avarice or, to be clearer, Democrats vs. Republicans. There were the planet(Pandora)loving and protecting environmentalist species, the Democrats, but herein referred to as the Navi, pitted against the war mongering, profit seeking, planet resource sucking corporate Republicans, herein referred to as the Bastards. The movie, is of course, a fantasy, so the Navi win and the Bastards lose which makes it fun to watch. In real life we know the Bastards win on a more than regular basis which accounts for this movie's premise, ie: Earth has been used up and now its greedy Bastards are off to steal whatever it needs from other planets. The use of force to do so is permitted. The thrill for we Tree Huggers in the audience is seeing the Bastards get their comeuppance, and, additionally, seeing the personal issues of the protagonists resolved. Here here, cheerio, good show, great flick.
Today's movie review was brought to you by the makers of D and L and T and K and D. Good Navi all.
I'm thinking James Cameron, the writer and director could have named this flick Avatar and Avarice or, to be clearer, Democrats vs. Republicans. There were the planet(Pandora)loving and protecting environmentalist species, the Democrats, but herein referred to as the Navi, pitted against the war mongering, profit seeking, planet resource sucking corporate Republicans, herein referred to as the Bastards. The movie, is of course, a fantasy, so the Navi win and the Bastards lose which makes it fun to watch. In real life we know the Bastards win on a more than regular basis which accounts for this movie's premise, ie: Earth has been used up and now its greedy Bastards are off to steal whatever it needs from other planets. The use of force to do so is permitted. The thrill for we Tree Huggers in the audience is seeing the Bastards get their comeuppance, and, additionally, seeing the personal issues of the protagonists resolved. Here here, cheerio, good show, great flick.
Today's movie review was brought to you by the makers of D and L and T and K and D. Good Navi all.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
A Horse Of Course
Two minutes before the earthquake rippled our bed, Raffi began barking in his kennel. What's wrong with that dog we wondered. Two minutes later we knew. This occurred shortly after five in the morning. Two minutes before six, Finnegan achieved maximum decibel level barking from the kitchen where he was prowling about for reasons of his own. "Now what?" I growled as I drug myself out of bed. I hadn't really slept since the quake and my hopes of returning to dreamland were rapidly being crushed. Oda Figaramous Pegaloomer. I pulled on my sweats, climbed into my Crocs and headed for the kitchen. I was hollering to Finny to hold it down, get a grip, and to "SHUT UP" as I did so. I was bee-lining to the coffee pot in the semi-conscious fashion that is my usual state of being first thing in the morning. There I could hit the "ON" button and start the heavenly drip of the sweet smelling, bitter tasting wonderfulness that is my blend of Cafe Ruiz' French and Italian roasts. Finny was still going berserk and I was in the middle of my own loud SHHHHHH when I noticed the horse standing outside our kitchen window. "What the? Ha!" and "That explains it." all rushed to my mind. "Good boy Finnegan, it's okay, calm down it's no big deal" came next. I alerted Woowoo Charly to the situation and told her to come have a look. "Yup, that's a horse all right" she said and headed back to bed. That wasn't going to happen though, the little dogs were now fully awake and filling the air with piercing yaps to be let out of their kennels. I couldn't get out the front door because Old Girl was sleeping and leaning against it and I didn't want to wake her. Old Girl is a neighbor's dog who hangs out at our house on a regular basis. At some point - I was still not fully functional so a precise time-line is not quite available. I mean I hadn't actually had my coffee yet - I managed to grab our camera and shoot a quick picture of the horse through our bedroom window. Moments like these need to be documented. I then unlocked and went out the back door, walked around the house and approached the horse. It had a long lead attached to its rope bridle, so I just walked up, took the lead in hand and said good morning. I was pretty sure the critter belonged to a neighbor of ours down the road. My guess was that it had been spooked by the earthquake and run off.
I hollered to Charly to throw my jacket over the back fence - there was an early morning chill - and then I set off with the horse in tow. We had a nice conversation along the way and I told him he could visit any time, but that he ought to call first so the dogs wouldn't be so upset when he arrived. When I got to the neighbor's house, there was no one up and about. I opened their front gate and let the horse into the yard. A portion of fence surrounding their property was down, probably from recent high winds and rain, but the horse now seemed content to stay put. He was happily munching his owner's lawn.
"Talwaygo" I said, waving. and then I headed home. The coffee was ready and waiting.
Addendum: The horse picture shot through the window was too dark to show. Also, horse may be a white mule. It's hard to tell.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Television Anyone?
Strolling through the living room where RTGFKAR sits watching mainstream television, I pause a moment to check out the images on the screen. Has anyone else noticed that most of the shows consist of close-ups, very close-ups and one face damn near fills up the entire screen-ups? RTGFKAR watches NCIS, CSI, and probably other shows featuring initials in capitals like, say, MSG or IUD, while I watch shows with the initials NBA, NFL, PGA, etc. The difference is that my shows feature distant camera work and unknown endings, while RTGFKAR's focus on human heads larger than beach balls - he has a very big television - dialog and a scripted conclusion. Both viewing choices are worthy television fare and I make no judgments here - to each his own is my motto and I learned that from The Platters in 1958 - but those giant heads do fascinate me. Is it for financial considerations - sets don't have to be very elaborate if heads obscure the backgrounds - or is it just a directorial style trend? When I think back to shows that I did watch, Cheers, M*A*S*H, innumerable westerns, and Kolchak The Night Stalker a show that was clearly television's finest hour, I can't envision them being a series of talking heads. There was just too much movement to dwell for long on a single face. Oh well, I suppose that once more I am "out of the loop." Someday, I'm going to find that loop and jump right in so I can see what that feels like. For the moment, though, I'll just stand apart and make my comments as I see it passing by.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Chiros and Cadillacs
Snap, crackle and pop.
"How's that feel?"
"Better."
The preceding is a summation of my chiropractic encounter with Dr. Matt Verstratete yesterday. Isn't it amazing how your bod can be twisted, bent and torqued into poses you are unlikely to achieve during your everyday endeavors and find that you have come away with less pain than you started with? I'm going back Friday for more of the same with the goal of playing better golf next Tuesday. If, however, my golf is worse, I'll return to the good doctor and have him put everything back where it was. I think it was both Shakespeare's Horatio and The Silver Screen's Boris Karloff who were fond of saying, "There are some things in heaven and earth that man should not tamper with." Karloff said it best because he had a funky, lispy, soft British accent and could deliver the line in a most ominous fashion. (Wait, it wasn't Horatio, it was someone talking to Horatio...I think.)
Sitting in front of this computer screen is doing my back no good at all; a circumstance that inspired me to go see Doctor Matt in the first place. Well, that and the golf thing. Matt recommended I go get one of those big exercise balls you sit on and, uh, sit on it. Alternating between the desk chair and the ball being the best thing, he says. Alrighty then, we are off to Arocha in David today, where, Matt says big balls can be found. (And right now I can hear my homies saying they can tell me where else to look!)
Anybody see the movie "Cadillac Records"? It's the story of the recording company, Chess Records and its owner, Leonard Chess, a white man, that/who brought great black talent into the mainstream back in the Fifties. Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry, Etta James, Little Walter, Willie Dixon and others. The film captures the feel of the music scene of those days and the music itself is, of course, terrific. Near the end of the film, Beyonce Knowles playing Etta James sings, "I'd Rather Go Blind" (than see you walk away from me). This has always been one of my favorite songs sung by Etta and Beyonce's version, coming as it does at the end of one of the movie's dramatic sequences, had me in tears. If you like Rhythm and Blues, you have to see "Cadillac Records".
"How's that feel?"
"Better."
The preceding is a summation of my chiropractic encounter with Dr. Matt Verstratete yesterday. Isn't it amazing how your bod can be twisted, bent and torqued into poses you are unlikely to achieve during your everyday endeavors and find that you have come away with less pain than you started with? I'm going back Friday for more of the same with the goal of playing better golf next Tuesday. If, however, my golf is worse, I'll return to the good doctor and have him put everything back where it was. I think it was both Shakespeare's Horatio and The Silver Screen's Boris Karloff who were fond of saying, "There are some things in heaven and earth that man should not tamper with." Karloff said it best because he had a funky, lispy, soft British accent and could deliver the line in a most ominous fashion. (Wait, it wasn't Horatio, it was someone talking to Horatio...I think.)
Sitting in front of this computer screen is doing my back no good at all; a circumstance that inspired me to go see Doctor Matt in the first place. Well, that and the golf thing. Matt recommended I go get one of those big exercise balls you sit on and, uh, sit on it. Alternating between the desk chair and the ball being the best thing, he says. Alrighty then, we are off to Arocha in David today, where, Matt says big balls can be found. (And right now I can hear my homies saying they can tell me where else to look!)
Anybody see the movie "Cadillac Records"? It's the story of the recording company, Chess Records and its owner, Leonard Chess, a white man, that/who brought great black talent into the mainstream back in the Fifties. Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Chuck Berry, Etta James, Little Walter, Willie Dixon and others. The film captures the feel of the music scene of those days and the music itself is, of course, terrific. Near the end of the film, Beyonce Knowles playing Etta James sings, "I'd Rather Go Blind" (than see you walk away from me). This has always been one of my favorite songs sung by Etta and Beyonce's version, coming as it does at the end of one of the movie's dramatic sequences, had me in tears. If you like Rhythm and Blues, you have to see "Cadillac Records".
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
A Wrapup
"Out Stealing Horses" Great title, though I didn't particularly like the book.
One sportswriter (at least) has renamed Tiger Woods, Cheetah Woods. That's clever.
Saw the biographical movie "Milk" about Harvey Milk the gay activist. Sean Penn is spectacular in the title role.
Tim Tebow jerseys jumping off the shelves faster than any rookie jersey in NFL history. Imagine how well they will sell if he actually turns out to be a decent pro player.
Yers Truly headed to chiropractor to address lingering back pain that keeps him from shooting record low scores at the golf course. Sure it does. I mean what else could it be?
Ulbaldo Jimenez. Rockies pitcher. Great name to say aloud. Ou-bahl-dough He-main-ess.
Sunny mornings, wet afternoons. The rainy season already?
Got our car registered for 2010. License plates expire this month but new ones, I'm told, won't be available until July. Have to tape an explanatory document to back window to prevent getting pulled over. What's with that? In some U.S. states, plates are manufactured in prisons. If that's the case here, maybe we need to throw more people in the slammer to keep up with production.
My Bud, the Old Redneck, being treated for Dengue Fever but may have been misdiagnosed. Docs are now saying he has Mono. Also possible he has both. Needless to say, he is suffering.
"What the Dog Saw" by Malcolm Gladwell is an excellent compilation of his columns from The New Yorker. Each one is an interesting and entertaining little gem. Malcolm can make any subject a fun read.
Our dog Raffi just peed on our bed. I don't know what he saw to inspire that, but Woowoo Charly is not a happy camper. I screamed and hollered and made a big fuss, but although Raffi made a beeline to the backyard, he doesn't seem too upset. Where is Cesar Milan when you need him?
As the sun rises slowly into the sky because it has nowhere else to go, and the clouds drift by on their way to somewhere else, probably New Jersey, the Lone Blogger eases back in his chair, surveys his work and declares it finished. "Hey" he says, it's better than nothing."
Or is it?
One sportswriter (at least) has renamed Tiger Woods, Cheetah Woods. That's clever.
Saw the biographical movie "Milk" about Harvey Milk the gay activist. Sean Penn is spectacular in the title role.
Tim Tebow jerseys jumping off the shelves faster than any rookie jersey in NFL history. Imagine how well they will sell if he actually turns out to be a decent pro player.
Yers Truly headed to chiropractor to address lingering back pain that keeps him from shooting record low scores at the golf course. Sure it does. I mean what else could it be?
Ulbaldo Jimenez. Rockies pitcher. Great name to say aloud. Ou-bahl-dough He-main-ess.
Sunny mornings, wet afternoons. The rainy season already?
Got our car registered for 2010. License plates expire this month but new ones, I'm told, won't be available until July. Have to tape an explanatory document to back window to prevent getting pulled over. What's with that? In some U.S. states, plates are manufactured in prisons. If that's the case here, maybe we need to throw more people in the slammer to keep up with production.
My Bud, the Old Redneck, being treated for Dengue Fever but may have been misdiagnosed. Docs are now saying he has Mono. Also possible he has both. Needless to say, he is suffering.
"What the Dog Saw" by Malcolm Gladwell is an excellent compilation of his columns from The New Yorker. Each one is an interesting and entertaining little gem. Malcolm can make any subject a fun read.
Our dog Raffi just peed on our bed. I don't know what he saw to inspire that, but Woowoo Charly is not a happy camper. I screamed and hollered and made a big fuss, but although Raffi made a beeline to the backyard, he doesn't seem too upset. Where is Cesar Milan when you need him?
As the sun rises slowly into the sky because it has nowhere else to go, and the clouds drift by on their way to somewhere else, probably New Jersey, the Lone Blogger eases back in his chair, surveys his work and declares it finished. "Hey" he says, it's better than nothing."
Or is it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
