JUST BABBLING, ANYWAY

Ryder Cup.  

I'm assuming the cup got its name from Red Ryder, he of BB gun fame and mentor to his Indian kid companion Little Beaver, although I haven't the slightest idea why. About the name, I mean.   There aren't any other famous Ryders that I can think of so by deduction the cup name has to come from Red.  

Little Beaver, by the way, (I could have said BTW, but that might also mean Bavarian Toothless Women and I don't want to confuse you) was played by a young Robert Blake on the Red Ryder television show and as an adult he went on to star in the movie,"In Cold Blood" and the television series, "Baretta" before murdering his wife and getting away with it...allegedly.  But now I'm just showing off my Trivia memory so I'll desist.  Trigger, Champion, Tony, and Topper.  Whoops, there I go again!  (Name the horses of four famous movie cowboys.) (Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Tom Mix, and Hopalong Cassidy, respectively.) (Why don't we get good names like Hopalong anymore?) Funny, I can't remember Ryder's horse for certain, but Diablo is popping into my head.  Somebody check that for me, willya?

So about the Ryder Cup which is a golfing competition between players from the United States against players from Europe - an unfair match up, as I see it, when you have one country against an entire continent, much like the unfairness of next week's football game between the city of Denver against the whole region of New England - that takes place every two years seemingly to humble Americans who, with their obnoxious chanting of USA! USA! clearly need it.  I mean, when every other year the competition takes place in Europe, the crowds don't shout EUPOPE! EUROPE! which is a good thing because Americans would think it is a baseball game. (Your up, your up.  C'mon, get with it people!)  Anyway, the U-rope-ians, as I like to call them, came from behind and defeated the Americans for the seventh time in the last nine Ryder Cups. I'm sure Red, who I think is no longer around, would be disappointed.  I know I was, but not much.  Many of my favorite players come from the Continent and they all showed the True Grit that was lacking in the American players and that would have disappointed John Wayne who I am SURE is no longer around.  

And a further anyway: the golf match was followed by The Denver Broncos drubbing the Oakland Raiders 37 to 6.  I mention this for no particular reason apart from the fact that it makes me feel good and who needs a particular reason...anyway. 

WHAT I KNOW

What do I know?  Not much.  I'm told, though, that by knowing that I don't know much I already know more than the average person who thinks he knows much but doesn't really.  I'm also told that the world's body of knowledge is growing so fast that I actually know a smaller percentage of it every day that passes.  This, of course, means that I am growing duller by the moment.  And you are too.

Depressing isn't it?

Well, not really.  Not for me anyway.  What little ego I have left is not particularly wrapped up in how smart I am.  Little Ego, by the way, would be a good name for a rapper.  No, if anything, my ego - defined as self awareness - is content these days to be just, well, content.  And I am that.  Oh sure, I still strive to be smarter.  I read prodigiously, I study Spanish, I listen better than I used to, and I pay attention.  Still, as I have noted, I'm losing ground every day.  Better to be aware, as the Buddhists say, that what is IS, and go with it.  Don't worry, be happy the Dali Lama said in the guise of Jamaican Reggae singer awhile back.  That was during the Dali's pot smoking days for sure, but it still holds true if you ask me.  It might even hold true if you don't ask me, but I can't be certain.  As I said, I'm not that smart.

One thing I've learned that might be true is that there is a difference between Ego and Self Esteem.  Ego, I'm told, is the driving force for everything one does, good, bad, or indifferent.  Self Esteem, on the other hand, is the underlying opinion of those actions.  It is possible, therefore to have a big Ego and low Self Esteem. Ego is the huge facade one displays - I'm bright, I'm successful, I'm great, I'm pretty/handsome, love me, love me love me - while behind the scenes low Self Esteem is saying, "I know the truth." Curious isn't it?  I mean, if this is, in fact, true and it rings so to me.  

(When I say, "I'm told," what I mean is that it is information that I have acquired from more than one source such as books, magazines, newspapers, television, word-of-mouth, etc.  When the info is just from one person I'll put it in quotes or paraphrase.)

Of course a lot of what one "knows" is really just acquired opinion from the information available.  That being said I am now going to tell you straight out what I know.

NFL replacement refs suck. 

 

 

INSOMNIA'S CURE?

I feel like writing this morning, although, about what I'm not sure.

I did have an idea as I drifted off to dreamland last night, a land full of bizarre reactions to bizarre situations, that made me proud in that I was able to implement the idea successfully. Here's what happened:

There were moments throughout my life, as I suppose there were for everybody who has lived long enough to reflect, that I don't particularly want to revisit in my thoughts; embarrassing moments of distressing stupidity, clumsiness, insensitivity, wrong actions, etc.  And yet, on those night when sleep eludes me, it is those moments that pop up with the clarity of a technicolor, 3D, surround sound movie to replay in the theater of my mind.  WTF!  I can't change them now.  I don't have a time machine. Is there a purpose for these thoughts beyond  reminders of, and additional punishment for, my past misdeeds?  Well anyway, I lay there rehashing the moment when I verbally lashed out at a friend for - now I can't even recall what- and lost that friend as a friend and it occurred to me that I didn't have to have these thoughts; that I was the master of my thoughts and not the other way around.  The idea I then had was to move off from the thoughts and view them from afar so that I could write about, journal-ize them, if you will, and that is exactly what I did.  I began to mentally write about the incident from an objective journalistic perspective and I wasn't at all deep into the story before I found myself shooting jumpers from the top of the key off passes from my sons and swishing every one!  I was in dreamland for sure then, because in reality I was only good for about seven out of ten.  Okay six.  

I'm not sure this is a permanent cure for my occasional bouts of insomnia, but I hope so.  As I have noted before, a good night's sleep is worth its weight in gold.  How much a good night's sleep weighs is another question. One I'll have to sleep on.

 

THE RETURN OF THE ABOMINABLE DR. P.

It's barely dawn, the grey sky is still hedging its bet, my stomach is debating my choice of coffee as a wake up call, and I'm not sure about this or any other thing.  Maybe I should go back to bed.  Trouble is, if I could sleep I wouldn't have left my miracle foam dream inducer in the first place.  It's conscience, I think, that's nagged and dragged me to an upright position. 

You see, I've been meaning to write a blog about the Abominable Dr. P since my encounter with the Demented Dermatologist this past Thursday, but I've been distracted by the usual litany of life's vital endeavors which include everything but sitting down and writing.  You know what I mean, there is football to watch, there are books to read, and staring off into space to do.  Like I said, vital things.  The problem, as I see it, is that I don't really have anything new to say about Dr. P that I haven't already said in the long ago and, of course, as Norman Mailer was quick to point out, repitition is the death of creativity. He pointed that out on several occasions.  

What I have, though, in lieu of words, is a couple of pictures to document my face to face with the Mad Medico. Okay it wasn't really a face to face. It was more of a face to scalpel and face to electric cauterizing gizmo but, trust me, the doctor was in attendance.  I could see him through my watery, squinted gaze, silhouted against the we-have-ways-of making-you-talk intense light he was shinning on me so as not to miss any opportunity to slice off another bit of my own self.  As you can see from the photos (If I can get them attached) nary an opportunity went a-begging.

If this session with the Abominable Dude looks a might rash to you, fear not.  Four days post trauma I have no bandages and only small scabs to show for my venturing into the doctor's lair.  What happened was that I had a few "spots" that warranted more than the usual freeze offs.  The Dermo Doc, low on liquid nitro anyway, figured, what the hell, I'll just go ahead and slash and burn them all off. I agreed to the plan not realizing that a painful needle full of pain killer - what's the point of that? - would be required at each and every spot.  

Ah well.  All's well that ends well, someone said whose end was, well, well. My hide is good to go for another three months or so, and I got these cool photos to show for it.  What with pictures being worth a thousand words, think of all the time I've saved for more of those vital things... like...you know... a nap comes to mind.

ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT

When I say I find the Cincinatti Bengals' uniforms psychologically disturbing,  Woowoo Charly says I'm neurotic, which is a given, but really, does that change the impact of seriously ugly-assed football unis? 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

What follows is a blog written from notes I made while slightly in-my-cups, which, I suppose, is comparable to being slightly pregnant. 

A tradition which I am loathe to give up, okay not so much loathe as reluctant although loathe is the word I used in my notes, is Friday Night, an event that occurs for me now just post Friday lunch.  Age does have its limitations after all.  It, Friday Night, remains a celebratory time about whose origins I wrote in another blog about a million blogs ago; something to do with my humble working class upbringing and other drivel along those lines.  Those Friday Nights were often spent trying to create moments worthy of country/country songs - you really don't hear much western anymore - but never quite living up to them as in truth I wasn't country in either reality or spirit.  I mean why would anyone want to get that drunk and lose his girlfriend, wife, best friend and job?  

But I digress and one should never be caught digressing in public.

My Friday night celebrations here in the immediate past which is defined as the one I still remember because I take notes, can be described thusly:  (I am aware that THIS thusly is just one way to describe it and there are surely others, but I only have time for the one.)

I take wine, beer or cocktail glass in hand - fuel is required - along with my iPod player out to our carport.  Said carport is a two car enclosure and we, Woowoo and I, having but one, find there is abundant space for the table and chairs that usually reside on our nearby patio during the non-rainy season which is defined as some other Friday.

What happens next is that I crank up the tunes, most often but not always, from my "Favorites" list and fire up a dirt cheap, but still smoke-able Panamanian made cigar.  The end of the work week is here, pay no mind to my not having done any, and I am celebrating that and being alive and well in this miraculous place called Boquete, Panama.  I am not unaware or lacking in gratitude for the beauty that surrounds me.  I sip my cocktail, scotch this week, and I puff on my Churchill while watching my pups, Raffi and Matti at play, whistling them back from time to time when they wander from my sight.

There comes then an inevitable moment when the music grabs me and compels me to my feet for a dance along.  I have no reticence about doing so as 'Tuesday with Morrie"'s Morrie, Jesus, Buddha, and  John Travolta - there's a reference that's worrisome - say it is the correct thing to do.  Travolta, a Scientologist, even hints that it may be the only way to get on his planet and receive 76 MGM virgin chorus girls as a reward.  Something like that anyway. 

So I do it.  I dance.  I dance around the carport and out into the drive beyond.  I dance to up-tempo tunes and down-tempo melody driven ballads.  Matters not, I dance and have a grand time of it.  Make no mistake I am under the influence of alcohol which is not to say I am influenced by "demon rum" as the religious right might suggest, to do things I would not otherwise do, but rather, I am nudged by the booze to cast of my lethargy and get my booty off the chair and moving about to the music.  It is in fact, an encouragement I can't resist.  And then comes the disturbing part.  Aren't there always one of those?  

Although I have no fear of being seen in this alcohol fueled celebration, I am not after all a dancing geek, and even if I was, who really cares besides the MGM chorus girls waiting for me to join their conga line on Planet Neverhappen, I find that my skills have diminished.  That's right, my skills, not my "skill set." Even though I had learned years ago to unlock my hips and thereby allow the rest of my body to respond to the music, I now find that my feet, my traitorous feet, no longer want to do anything that requires quick-stepping.  The Bastards!  Nevertheless, I'll say it again, nevertheless, because as I have noted before, nevertheless means alwaysthe more and I am in favor of that, I carry on carrying on, abeit half-timing to the music more often than not.

I can see Volcan Baru and more beauty than most people can imagine from my carport.  Combine that miracle with music and I'm thinking you would dance too.  Wouldn't you? 
     

CONVENTIONS

I suppose I should say something about the Repub-lycan and Democratic Conventions because everybody else is doing so and who am I to not put my two cents in?  Alas, what can I say that hasn't already been said?

How about this?  The first syllable of the word conventions is con.  Doesn't that tell us enough about what was going on?  If you add the next part of the word you get convent which is where, I think, the liars in both Parties should be sent to learn some humility, get their forked tongues straightened out, and their asses kicked on a regular basis by mean nuns.  (Some of the Lycans, no doubt, will get off on that last part.  The end of the word is ions and if I had paid more attention in Science Class I might have something clever to say about that as well, but, again alas, I didn't, so I can't.  You math/science people will have to do it for me.  Here's a couple of blank lines for you to fill in and showcase your wit:


I try to have an open mind, which is easier for me than most people because there is a lot of unused space up there, but I was pretty certain, okay ninety-nine percent certain, that nothing being said was going to change my mind vis a vis who I was going to vote for. The remaining one percent I left open for sudden death or either candidate saying, "This is crazy! Why would anybody want this job?" and then dropping out.  The "vis a vis" I threw in because it suddenly came to me and I figured if I used it, it might make me sound smarter even though I am not certain I used it properly.  I didn't take Latin in school - that is Latin isn't it? - but if I had, the results might have been the same as my Science Class experience.

Therefore - I say that "therefore" as if anyone still has a thread of what I was heretofore saying - I watched both conventions for their entertainment value.  The Lycans offered very little along those lines apart from Clint Eastwood who was occasionally funny, but in the long run an embarrassment to all we old folk. Romney, the main attraction, was a complete snoozer.  The Dems, however, brought their A-game.  Everyone seemed to have their parts well rehearsed and the biggies, B. Clinton and B. Obama, delivered dandy performances.  Michelle Obama and Elizabeth Warren both fall into the "A Star is Born" category.  Still, as entertainment goes - and I say this humbly and not meaning to offend or imply that these were not important events - I would rather see a movie.

AMATUERCRASTINATION

I was thinking about writing a post on procrastination but I had trouble getting around to it.  I suddenly found it necessary to read most of the blurbs on Yahoo News before getting started. I did take pride in having resisted "Why the Kardashians Are Popular," but lost some of same when I opened "Cameron Diaz Shows Off Her Long Legs."  Hey, some things are worth the loss of pride.  I also read several articles from the Denver Post Sports Section that added to my knowledge not a whit, and I spent long moments contemplating breakfast choices before settling on wheat toast and a banana along with, my stomach is telling me, too much coffee.  When, finally, I got around to writing the post, read now, I forget what it was I wished to say about procrastination  other than that, USUALLY, I'm not very good at it.  I've got this Enneagram Seven thing about getting to the fun as soon as possible, but I also have this weird, probably of judeo/christain origin, although I don't know why they get all the credit (or is it the blame?) idea that you have to get the work out of the way before getting on to the fun and games.  Curiously, well, at least to me it's curious, I find writing to be both work and play so one would think I'd want to get right to it for either of the two reasons, ie; get it out of the way to get to the fun or because it is the fun.  But NOOOO Dirty Keyboard Breath! Not today!  Today I had to diddlypuck around before getting started.  No reason really, unless, UNLESS, (Wait! Now that I see it in caps I realize what a funny word unless is. Un-less. Kind of a weird concept if you ask me. Doesn't that mean more?) it's because earlier today I had written a writer pal about her not writing.  It was shortly after that that I was stricken with my bout of procrastination.  I mean,  who am I to be giving advice to others about not writing when for most of my life I ignored that I could and didn't! So there you have it, one explanation for my tardiness in getting around to  this post.  The only other one I can think of is laziness.  Couldn't be that, could it?




 

NOW IN THE NEWS

 This is a post I wrote off-line awhile ago and forgot about...until now.

"Your server is not responding."

Tell me about it!  I've been sitting here with an empty coffee cup and no Internet for fifteen minutes!  Who runs this joint anyway? 

Which is why I'm back to Self Serve, writing off line and getting my own damn java. 

Woowoo Charly and I are recently back from a three week jaunt to The States.  I could be writing about that but since it would concern mostly family stuff and mostly family reads this, let me just say... talk among yourselves.

Many happenings of blog worthy note passed before during and after our trip and I thought I would address some of them as that is what I was sent here from my home planet to do.

Taking last things first which is the right way to do it on my aforesaid planet, I will begin with the Ichiro trade.  Ichiro, for those of you who are bewildered by the reference, is not a skin disorder, but rather a talented professional baseball player.  So talented, I should point out, that I consider him to be the best all-around player that I have ever seen.  All though his skills (note here that I have said skills and not "skill set" because the latter is a junk phrase employed by mindless, copycat, sportscasters trying to sound like they are on to something when, in truth, they are usually clueless) have declined somewhat at his now age of 38, he will still be an enormous asset to his new team, The New York Yankees, or, as I am inclined to think of them, El equipo del diablo, the team of the devil.  A fall from grace (all other teams) into pin-striped, cloned zombie land is not a fate I would have wished for Ichiro, but is, alas, what happened.  Too bad, I say, too bad.

It was also revealed sometime in the last few weeks that a man with some sort of dementia drove many miles with his dog in a cage on the roof top of his car.  What surprised me when I learned of this hideous act of uncaring callousness, was that this same man was not arrested or fined, but is instead running for president of the United States!  President of the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest Recently Escaped I can understand, but of the U.S.?  How can that be possible?  It was later clarified for me by Woowoo Charly who explained that if you rearrange the letters in the man's name, Mitt Romney, you can make the words butthead, braindead, pawn of the party, and I don't need a mind or a conscience, I have money.

Lastly, and how does one speak of the unspeakable, there is the Aurora, Colorado, theater shooting.  Yet another madman goes berserk, shoots and kills the innocent. "Guns don't kill people" the NRA and others tell us truthfully, but be fucking serious, they sure do help.  How long will it be before our elected chickenshits do something about controlling the sale of automatic weapons and their ammunition?  Ever?

I'm now too bummed to say more.    

  

WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

Oh, I don't know.  Around, I guess.  Here and there.  I don't actually keep track.  Has it really been a month since I logged on to blog on?  It's not like I've been particularly busy.  Oh sure, there was the trip to Maryland for golf and sailing, followed by a jaunt to NYC for fun and games and, well, you all know daughter D came to visit for a week after that, but really, busy?  Not especially.  Yeah, yeah, I know, there was golf and movies and lunches and dinners and long walks and long talks and dogs and new people and laughter, lots of laughter, and the beach and the gardens and the clinking of glasses, but busy?  Not really.  So there is no excuse I say, no excuse at all for not tapping out a blog or two to keep the old monkey mind lubed up and running smoothly.  None. Zip. Nada.  It's just, well, My Bad.

So...what can I do to make up for my lazy old self?  What can I do to make it all right again? 

Thinking.  Thinking.  Thinking.

I know!  I'll drink a lot of coffee and write nonsense!  Here comes some of that now! 

"The exclamation mark is over used," he exclaimed loudly!

The Republican Party.  (When it comes to nonsense the current Re-pub-lycans are a hard act to follow.)

The Denver Broncos will go 19 - 0 and be crowned the greatest team ever; better even than the Gabor's Bar softball team, but not by much, which  won titles in four consecutive years, going undefeated in two of them, that was managed by me and featured my sons and me as star players.  

Interjection:  The above paragraph may or may not be nonsense.  It is simply historical fact not yet recorded or, at least, it exists as such in my mind, a place where I often fear to tread.  And that, of course, is another story.

Sidebar:  I just tilted my cup to take another sip of now cold java and noticed the sludge sloshing about in the bottom of the cup.  Nasty looking stuff.  There is some sticking to the sides of the cup too.  I can't imagine why I drink this oily, dark, substance apart from the fact I like it and it makes my heart go lub dub lub dub in the morning when it is more inclined to go lub....................               dub.

Alrighty then, I'm almost done.  I've got to get back today to writing my novel which I abandoned some months ago because it got hard to write and also because it was awful; two reasons I know are not really good enough to inspire quitting.  I do lots of things that are hard, after all - bending over and tying my shoes comes to mind - and the world cannot really have too many bad novels if paperback best seller lists are any indication.  But before I go I have one or two more things to say that are removed from the nonsense category and border on those of import.

If only I could remember what they were.

I was going to end there with that lame punch line but for a couple of circumstances that cropped up featuring sneezing and dog vomit in that order.  You see I was just sitting here in my recliner, legs up and lap top doing what it was named for, when I began to sneeze.  Not once, not twice, but something in the thirties or forties seemingly without end.  My nose became quite suddenly a running, tickling, dripping faucet of clear liquid that I tried to stem with handfuls of tissues and vigorous blowing to no avail.  Although it is rare, this sort of seizure is not without precedent in my recent history, read living in Panama, and I have learned to keep Clarityne on hand for just such an event.  Ah-chooing my way to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, I did not notice the also clear dog vomit, reminiscent of the goop leaking from my nose, on the floor -  when sneezing, one's eyes close - until slipping on it.  I did not fall, which is to say that my gifted-athlete status remains intact, but I did do a fairly comical slapstick version of man-meets-banana peel- arms-flapping-madly-to regain-balance.  You know the dance.  A You Tube version of such would surely garner many "hits."  I cleaned up the mess while still ah-chooing madly and giving the Clarityne time to kick in.  I would venture that this was proof that life is a comedy but for the knowledge that one of my dogs is sick and that's not funny.  

Okay. Now I'm done.








 

COMPUTERS

Okay, so in reality I am a little short of genius; roughly as short of genius as Danny DeVito is short of the NBA.  I was reminded of this small gap earlier today when a blog I wrote off-line yesterday refused copy and pasting to Monkeymind.  Little bastard just sat there saying no way Jose, I like it here in Documents.  I may have to resort to drastic measures like dragging its reluctant butt onto a storage gismo and then transferring said gismo's contents to the blog. If that's not genius I don't know what is.  (Why do I now hear you all saying, "He doesn't know what is.") Okay, so my technique is a lot like saying I can't figure out how to start the car so I'll walk the 20 miles to town, but at least it gets the job done.  Sort of.

What bugs me about computers is that what works one day doesn't necessarily mean the same thing will work the next.  Overnight someone somewhere may have decided to "upgrade" a program which, theoretically, is supposed to mean "improved."  No one in the computer industry, apparently, has ever heard of the old axiom, "Don't fix it if it ain't broke." To make matters worser (My vocabulary is not broke so I'm not fixing it) these upgrades are often accompanied by pop up graphics asking questions in terminology one would have to be a computer nerd to understand.  Hey, what ever happened to User Friendly?  And! And! If you happen to select the wrong answer to the incomprehensible question, the consequences can be nearly as bad as those of The Lady and The Tiger.  Your ass is going to get bitten.


Okay, I'm done ranting.  


For now.

 

Genius at work

I am a genius, there is little doubt about that.  Well, not in my mind anyway.  The proof is in the pudding they say, but as I am lacking nearby tapioca I offer this humble evidence of my superior intellectual right stuff:  I have figured out how to increase the font size on this blog!  You see, prior to this very moment I have had to write my recent blogs on my word program and then cut and paste them to Monkeymind because the font on my Inspiron mini computer while writing on the blog was so small that I was unable to see it clearly as I wrote.  The drawback to this technique, as you can see from the blog that precedes this one,  was that when I pasted, paragraph breaks were eliminated.  But aha, no longer! Thanks to my aforesaid genius which I will now attempt to qualify
even though you will no doubt say quit being humble Zendoc, if you got it flaunt it. Sure you will say that, won't you?  Modesty, of course, along with my genius, good looks and winning personality is one of my more noticeable traits.  That said, I have to tell you now that the way I managed the incredible achievement of creating a larger font was in most part sheer accident.  As other geniuses of my stature, like Einstein, for instance, would note if you asked them, fortuitous accidents are the byproduct of trying.  I was, in fact, stumbling about in Template, Settings, Design, and other such cryptic sections of the blog while giving the font growth a go, and, as usual, for this was not the first time, I was confronting abject failure which is, as everyone knows, far worse than regular, ordinary failure, although I had managed to enlarge the font on existing blogs, a totally unnecessary eventuality, when amidst the cursing both sailors and geniuses would be proud of, I had the good sense to throw in the towel, throw up my hands and throw out the one phrase common to all we proud losers from Robert E. Lee to Hirohito to Sarah Palin.  I said, "Fuck it, I quit."  It was at that moment, while hitting my back off arrow on the top left hand part of my computer to escape from just the right screen, a little obsessive I know, that I came to the page on which I was to start a whole New Blog.  There, where I swear it had never been before, was the word "compose" in a little gray rectangle. When I clicked on that, guided indubitably by my subconscious genius, a tool bar appeared that included, can you believe this, a tab for font size! The choices were small, normal, large, very large and largest.  Though largest was tempting, modesty again prevailed and you are now reading large while admiring my genius.


If only I now had something to write about.

More Rain? I Think Not.

I want to talk about rain. Not the fairies tripping the light fandango on your rooftop kind, gentle white noise at worst, but rather the lake turned upside down on your head, how much louder can it get kind that has been a regular visitor to our Boquete clime of late. A truck falling from a height and coming to rest next to your ear would roughly produce the same sort of noise, but for a much briefer duration. I'm talking drown out the rock concert, can I hear myself think decibel levels, and how much water is that anyway? A lot. I like to watch it from a window. What I can see of it, that is. It rains so densely that individual drops are not visible. The normally colorless air becomes a uniformly thick gray and if it were not for the white splashing where rain meets solid surface and those places where water collects and then runs off in rills to a final destination somewhere downward, the whole show would be nearly invisible, its grayness and wake up the dead noise the only tells. Unless, of course, you wander out into it to demonstrate either “a momentary lapse of reason” or that you actually have an answer to the question, "What the hell were you thinking?" In either of those scenarios you will find that a single second from shelter is all that’s necessary to inspire old saws like "soaked to the bone" and "mad as a wet hen." So why, you are asking, why am I writing about the weather? Good question, for which I have no ready answer. Oh sure, there are things on my mind, but not things to write about; small worries, anticipations good and bad, day to day blather. No one, I suspect, really wants to hear them unless I make them funny or more than what they are; a thing I’ve been often wont to do in the past, but not of late. I need a topic to expound upon, poke fun at, construct or take apart. (I could have said deconstruct for that last, but that’s a word that needs to be deconstructed itself and thrown on an ash heap of burned academic puffery.) See, there you go, that’s what I’m talking about. Give me something I can go off on and make me a slap happy keyboard camper. What I’m saying here is that I need suggestions. Por favor. Otherwise, it’s just more rain.

WTF?

The previous post was written with paragraph breaks but shows up without them. I don't know how to fix it. Sorry.

For Openers

I don't have an opening line. I need an opening line. Once I have an opening line a second line suggests itself. I need an opening line. Hours pass, days go by. Or, at least, it seems so. Got it! "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." I don't get that. What is this old saw trying to tell us? That we should not have good intentions? That good intentions can go awry? Well, of course, they can, but they don't have to lead us all the way to the fiery furnace. Nah, that's not an opening. That's a discussion. And a short one at that. I need to find something better. Is the past tense of the verb to twitter, twat? I twat, you twat, he, she or it twats? Probably not. I don't think I think as funny as I used to think. Or maybe I just haven't experienced anything of late I deemed worthy of Funnyableing. (The art, in case you didn't know, of making the mundane merriment.) Yeah, there have been golf outings and lunches and such, but I've Funnyabled those in the past. Woowoo Charly and the dogs are still here and although they often give me what one of my daughters describes as moments of light heartedness, they haven't, of late, inspired funny. I know, I know, there is always the news. Barack and the not quite properly programmed Romney Robot are out there for Funnyableing, but better wits than I have that task and I am happy to leave it to them. Politics schmoliticks as a wise person once said. Truth is, I suspect, I am just out of shape. My Funnyableing mechanism has been little used and acquired a layer of rust. The gears are slow and creaky. Where is the WD 40 for the mind when you need it? But not to worry I say, because I like to say that before offering small consolation…in this case: there is funny on the horizon. Well, either that or the horizon holds armageddon, the apocalypse, end of days and, wait a minute! Those are funny. I can work with those. Apocalypse. A description of Angelina Jolie's mouth. Armageddon and there's no telling what they'll get into. End of days was the song title bandied about before the composer came up with I Can See Clearly Now? Yup, there is hope. I just need to get loosened up. Now, if I only had an opening line. Woowoo Charly begs to differ and she is correct. There was a moment not just Funnyable, but outright funny all by itself. I ran into a friend who suggested I get and watch the documentary "Thrive." I went home and asked Woowoo to download the film as she is more computer savvy than me. Days went by and nothing happened. I printed the word THRIVE on a large piece of paper and left it on the computer keyboard each morning as a reminder. More days passed, still nothing. I finally brought the subject up in conversation, asking "When are you going to download the documentary I told you about? "I completely forgot about it," Woowoo answered honestly. "Tell me the title again and I'll do it today." I was aghast. "It's Thrive I almost shouted, Thrive! " Why do you think I've been leaving you that note everyday?" "Oh," she answered with the light coming on behind her eyes. "I thought you were just telling me to thrive. You know, be well, be happy! I lost it then, and so did she.

Hard Porn

Und zo vee begin again mein liebschkins.

I have no idea why I wrote that, but then, I have no idea why I write anything. (Some of you are probably thinking, "I have no idea" would have been 'nuff said.)

So anyway, I begin anew in a more understandable idiom, if by understandable I mean those with multiple degrees in abnormal psychology may have a clue, I was having the urge to type one word after the other and lacking the will power to resist, here I am doing that very thing. (Will Power, by the way, would be a good name for a super hero.)

The next paragraph only applies to people whose consciousness houses both pro football and famous works of Broadway theater.

This thought crossed my mind as I watched Tim Tebow being interviewed as the newest New York Jet: Tim is an incarnation of Elwood P. Dowd from the play, "Harvey." Elwood says something along these lines in the play: I learned early on that I was not very smart, so I decided the next best thing was to be really really nice. (Not a direct quote.) If reading football defenses is an indication of intelligence than Tim Tebow is really, really nice.

Okay, now I feel bad because how can I disparage someone who is really, really nice. I mean, I like Elwood P. Dowd. I like his pukka too. I wonder if Tebow has one of those. And truthfully, I myself can only read defenses when everybody in them stands perfectly still. Yeah, I know, I've got to start working at being really, really nice.

And in politics, that other American fascination that ranks a distant second to the Summer Olympics in events the dent the minds of U.S. citizens every four years, there is a presidential election looming a shade earlier than the end of the world Mayan style. To hear the Re Pub Lycans (Werewolves who didn't get enough to drink at their first pub visit) tell it, the end of the world, actually, will occur if Obama gets the "Four More Years, Four More Years" that is the political chant version of the "USA, USA" we will all be hearing from the London Olympics coming from a television set near you soon.

Really. Have we not heard this all before? Didn't dem O'crats predict the same dire demise before Reagan and Bush 2, the terrible sequel to Bush 1? Yup, they did and yet here we are. It could be worse.

And, finally, the title of this blog for those of you waiting to get to the good stuff, was just a ruse to get your attention. But... because I am a really, really nice guy who doesn't want to disappoint his readers I'll add one more paragraph.

As Timmie's hands slid in behind the warm, firm buttocks of of his teammate, awaiting the sudden jolt of excitement the follows this traditional foreplay, his mind held but one thought. Is that a Cover Two, Base Four or Man to Man. Jesus help me, I have no idea.

Yoga Man

As part of my New Year's To Be Abandoned At The Earliest Forgivable Moment Resolutions, I have added Yoga to my Almost Daily Stay Fit But Don't Hurt Your Back Workout. Yoga, as some of you may know, is a Hindii word meaning, "You want me to bend how? Are you freaking kidding?" practiced mostly in the Western Hemisphere by women who are naturally more limber than men as, unlike men, they didn't take the phrase "stiff upper lip" and apply it to their whole bodies. I was directed to this ancient practice, which by the way, is forbidden by the Geneva Convention to be used as a method of interrogation, by the Wii Fit program on my Nintendo device. The full name of the company manufacturing the device, also by the way, is Nintendo To Hurt You And Make Money While Doing It. They only use their name's first part for obvious reasons.

The initial technique I had to learn in order to yoga-ize my reluctant body was how to breathe. Foolish me thought the in and out with the air part was the whole trick. Well Wroongo Downward Dog Breath! I had to focus on this and relax that other thing and inhale through my nose and exhale out my a...other nose. I'm still working to get it right.

Next I was introduced to the Half Moon pose. They are called poses these Yoga positions because you have to stay frozen in place a long time for the "pose" to do you any good...or so I am told my my Nintendo virtual female instructor who is a Japanese program designer's idea of a Caucasian hottie. I was already aware of the Full Moon version having almost utilized it on an occasion when I was a teenager and was stopped only by the lack of the necessary quantity of alcohol needed to inspire the pose. I suspected a Half Moon pose would entail something along the lines of that displayed by the backside of hunched over repairmen. What it is in actuality is a reach for the sky and then turn yourself into a comma sideways kind of pose. After a month of practice I have achieved a slightly bent exclamation mark that looks sort of like when you tilt your head while you are thinking, "Huh?" My virtual instructor nevertheless says, "You have excellent flexibility." I wonder what she is really virtually thinking.

The next pose I, um, mastered was the Warrior Pose. The reason you don't hear about Yoga Martial Artists is because Yoga warriors stand in a manner guaranteed to get their asses kicked. They have their arms stretched taut horizontal to the ground, one forward, one back and their legs apart, also one forward, one back, aligned with their arms. The front leg is bent-kneed, the back leg straight. I did this pose on the lawn one day and a Panamanian woman hung her wet laundry on me to dry. I'm sure this pose does me some physical good, but if someday I am forced into combat, I am equally sure that I will fall back on my own tried and true martial arts technique that my personal Sensei taught me after seeing me fight. It's called "Run."

Two other poses I have, ahem, mastered are called Tree and Something To Do With Standing On One leg and Holding Your Other Knee. I quickly added these poses to my repertoire by using a cryptic and little known Yoga technique called "Cheating." What I do is I hold on to something to keep from falling.

Lastly, (So far. I plan to add more poses, because what could be more fun than increased physical pain?) I do a "Sun Salutation." Although, previously, I've always felt a "Hello Sun" was sufficient to greet the big yellow fellow, I now raise my hands over my head and bend back into a position the human body was not - obvious to me - meant to go. Following this exquisite displacia, I then exhale, bend forward and touch my toes. Yes I do, I touch my toes. You don't believe me, come on over and I'll show you as long as you promise not to freak out at my screams to call 911. While still toe touching, I then bend my knees, put my hands back above my head and return to the starting position. Just to be sure the Sun knows I'm saluting it, I do this three times in succession. Also, so far, the response from the big fiery orb has been the same as when i just said hello. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Why do I sense that when my chiropractor reads this he will be grinning from ear to ear?

Hole-In-One

There is no better feeling than the one that arises after scoring a hole-in-one. There are moments of exhilarating happiness that occur along life's path, but nothing to compare with scoring a hole-in-one. I have caught and intercepted passes for touchdowns. I have hit game winning jump shots and doubled in game winning runs. I have defeated bullies in combat and I have run the good race in all my athletic endeavors, but nothing compares with scoring a hole-in-one. Beyond the field of sports I have sky dived and parachuted from an airplane. I have driven motorcycles and cars at reckless speeds and I have hurdled fences on horseback. I have slept with both virgins and the wildly experienced and I have consumed mind altering drugs. I have known moments of sheer bodily boggling joy as when the woman I loved said yes to my proposal and when my children were born, but nothing, absolutely NOTHING, compares with the feeling you get when you score a hole-in-one. Or, at least, that's what I'm told. I can't say for certain, I've never actually had one.

It's all about me. WTF, it's MY blog.

Stream of Conscience-less would be a great title for several of this year's Republican presidential wannabe's autobiographies. Hey, just sayin'.

Stream of consciousness is what I would call what I am about to write if, in fact, it was delivered as a nice steady thought flow and I could, additionally, lay claim to full consciousness, two occurrences seriously unlikely to happen. I will persist and persevere, nevertheless, because following the completion of this blog, I have a rigorous physical workout planned and that needs to be delayed for as long as MY conscience will allow. That said, I now await the "stream" to begin.

I'm still waiting.

Here's my "Inconvenient Truth": My best ideas occur at inopportune moments. Moments when I am unable or unwilling to write them down. Allow me to explain. Unable means in the shower, driving, or restraining my dogs on a walk. Unwilling means I'm half asleep and prefer to chase the other half to becoming fully awake and having to start the fall asleep process anew. Well, either that or I am in coitus and the best idea there is to not stop to take notes. I am also plagued by occasionally having a complex idea that has to be followed to its conclusion. An interruption to that thought changes it or chases it away. The problem that then ensues is that when I try to recapture my idea in all its complexities later, it as, as they say, a no hope-er. This state of affairs I like to blame on age but, in truth, it has been ever thus.

All the above is an explanation for why you are not getting my best ideas, but merely my second and third best. The difference between my best and second best is the difference between Nobel Prizes and "We are unable to publish your manuscript at this time because, frankly Sir, it sucks." Or, at least, I like to think so. Self delusion is, after all, what gets me through the day. The shunned reality is, I am still aspiring to "it sucks."

Here is an idea that is just short of Nobel worthy if by "just short" I mean it has about the same chance as I have of snaring gold in this year's Olympic Decathalon. It's but a smidgeon out of reach. I've been thinking about reinventing the original me. Some of you reading this may remember that I was once a very social person; a little shy, but still...social. The move to rural Colorado some years ago began the transformation of my own self to a somewhat, but not entirely, quieter more withdrawn type. I wasn't "out there" much because there wasn't much "out there" to be had in that environment. When Woowoo Charly and I moved to Panama, the transformation was completed and I became fully reinvented as a stay at home, read, write and think (if you can call it that) person, a calmer inside, less manic variety. Enneagrammers would say I now inhabit my Five "higher mind" space. Lately, though, I have been feeling restless. Maybe because it is sort of Spring here in Panama and Spring is a time of renewal or maybe I just want to see if what I think is possible, IS possible. I have been obsessed, as my last two stories, Miss Polanski and the other one,(I've forgotten the title. Neither story was memorable) indicate, with the concept of opposites attracting. Certainly my introverted wife was drawn initially to my more extroverted self and vice versa. We were dependent upon each other for the longest time to supply qualities the other lacked. I provided energy, she stillness, and it's been a wonderful merger throughout the years. Lately though, as I've noted while the Nobel Committee anxiously awaits, I contemplate returning to some kind of older replica of my original self.

So far, though, in case you are wondering and why wouldn't you be at such a fascinating inner dialogue that ranks up there with whatever is going through The Thinker's mind while he sits and, you know, thinks, I have not gotten past the contemplation stage. Maybe, just maybe, I am simply entering one of those "Seasons of Life" one hears so often about. Or is it? I guess we shall see. Or I will anyway.

Author's note: I warned you in the title it was all about me!

2011 Book List

2011 BOOK LIST


1. Angel of Darkness Caleb Carr Terrific thriller set at the turn of the century. (19th to 20th) Cast of characters carried over from “The Alienist” meets evil villainess.

2. The Code of the Woosters P.G. Wodehouse. Good as it gets. Bertie, gets hopelessly entangled with lovers, silver cow creamers, cranky judges and more. Jeeves to the rescue.

3. Lord of Misrule Jaimy Gordon National Book Award Winner about the underbelly of horse racing. Spectacularly well written, fabulous characters.

4. Summer Lightning P.G. Wodehouse I want to live in P.G.’s imagination, a place of gentlemen and ladies where everything turns out well in the end.

5. Just Kids Patti Smith Beautifully written summation of the authors entwined life with the artist Robert Mapplethorpe.

6. The Turn of the Screw Henry James Well crafted, many layered ghost story. A little slow moving for my tastes.

7. Ring For Jeeves P.G. Wodehouse One of my favorite books. Also published as The Return of Jeeves. This was the third time I’ve read it.

8. The Confession John Grisham Anti capital punishment treatise rendered as a thriller. Well done.

9. Help the Poor Struggler Martha Grimes Fast paced mystery. Nothing special, but, nevertheless, entertaining.

10. Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter Seth Grahame-Smith Good idea. Strong start, excellent ending, tedious middle.

11. Sally Gives a Party P.G. Wodehouse An engaging heroine, a gentle love story. I liked it.

12. The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest Steig Larson Nice Wrap-up of the Lizbeth Salander trilogy. Sorry these books are over and sorry Steig is gone.

13. The Clicking of Cuthbert P.G. Wodhouse Ten great humorous golf stories. Several out loud laughs included.

14. The Coming of Bill P.G. Wodehouse Marriage goes awry over how to raise baby Bill and a sudden influx of riches. All’s well at the end.

15. The Power and the Glory Graham Greene Beautifully written, but otherwise not my cup of tea.

16. Sock Penn Gillette This is a find. A small treasure. Clever. Original. Imaginative. Penn is at least as fine a writer as he is a comedic magician. (Penn and Teller)

17. Hooking Up Tom Wolfe Essays mostly on the state of this and that in the year 2000. Some fascinating, some skimmed.

18. The Informationist Taylor Stevens Big disappointment. More talk than action is not the right formula for an as advertized “thriller.”

19. Damsel in Distress P.G. Wodehouse. Entertaining romp when theatrical music composer saves upper crust woman from a horrible fate…marrying the wrong man.

20. The Pump House Gang Tom Wolfe Interesting, but dated articles from Tom’s time as a magazine writer.

21. Bossy Pants Tina Fey Nothing to shout about. Funny here and there.

22. El Vencedor Esta solo Paulo Coelho (Read in Spanish) Murder and mayhem at the Cannes Film Festival. Does not end well for the good guys.

23. The Mating Season P.G. Wodehouse Bertie and Jeeves come to the rescue of several friends whose love lives have gone astray. Lots of funny stuff along the way.

24. The Help Kathryn Stockett Well done tale of early 1960s Mississippi, told through the eyes of two black maids and an aspiring writer, a young white woman.

25. The Glorious Cause Jeff Shaara Fabulous depiction of how the Revolutionary War was fought and won. Shaara brings all the players to life.

26. War of the Worldviews Deepak Chopra and Leonard Mlodinov Science vs. Spirituality. Seekers of wisdom and truth will find some of each within these pages.

27. Mister Slaughter Robert McCammon Detective series set in colonial times. Well written but didn’t grab me.

28. Let the Great World Spin Colum McCann A spectacular novel. Never a false note struck.

29. Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a world that can’t stop talking.) Susan Cain All about the “quiet” types and how they contribute. Turns out I’m one of them. Whodathunkit?

First Blog 2012

The first blog of a new year should be carefully considered, deeply contemplated and skillfully crafted. Lacking the were-with-all to do any of those things, I'll just call this the the second blog and do what I do best which is spit out whatever is on my - some call it a mind but they are not to be trusted - and declare it a blog. I will be blogging a bit more this year as I'm in the process of writing a novel and when I get bogged down in it, a thing that happens with uncommon regularity (uncommon regularity sounds like a phrase from a laxative ad)I find myself not writing at all and that scenario leaves me feeling that time is a wasting. If I'm going to waste time, I might as well choose how to do it and not have it thrust upon me like that. Today's waste of time is as follows.

Football announcers have been annoying me of late. When one comes up with a word or phrase to describe the action that is new, the others snatch it up and make it part of the lexicon as if it were there all along. For instance, when was the last time you heard an announcer say a team used a time out? Teams don't use time outs anymore, they "burn" them. And you might note that players no longer have skills, they have a "skill set." A team's secondary or defensive backfield has become the "back end" or the "back side." I don't know about you but back side conjures something different for me. Here's another that's getting worked to death: Running backs are no longer difficult to tackle, they are "hard to get to the ground." They also rarely turn the corner these days, they first have to make it to the "edge." "Edge being the new end. The one particular word that most drives me to distraction and a refill is the word used to describe a trick play or trickery. It is "trickeration." That's right, "trickeration." You know what, you mindless copycat announcers, I got your "trickeration right here!