March Madness comes to an end in early April with an "Instant Classic" between Duke and Butler and You Were There. You weren't? So sorry. Let me tell you what happened. With the clock showing three seconds, Butler forward Gordon Haywood pulls down the rebound of a missed foul shot and dribbles quickly to half court where he launches a Hail Mary heave the strikes the backboard, ricochets around the rim and then drops softly through the net for a three pointer that gives Butler the upset win over mighty Duke, 62 to 61. What's that you say? The shot missed? C'mon, don't tell me that. It took me all night and several consciously directed dreams to make the game come out my way. Ah well, you can't win 'em all and I did get a Sox win over the Yankees to start the looooong baseball season.
Tiger Woods press conference was a snoozer. I found myself wishing that the room was full of British tabloid journalists asking the questions and not the mainstream U.S. sports media. I mean, "Tiger, how's the knee?" was not exactly the probing type of query I was looking for. "Yo Tig, I've got you down as having 17 girlfriends. For the record, is that the right number and of them, which one would you say was the most, ah, er, proficient at what they do?" is more along the lines of what I wanted to hear, but then, as you know, the warp of the Monkeymind can take it just about anywhere. #1 Son aka (among the family) The Duke of Disgusting, would also have been a good choice as an interlocutor. I can hear him now. "So Tiger, did Nike help supply your wood or was that strictly the girl's job?" Bada ding bong ding. Swoosh.
On the distaff side of golf you will be surprised to learn a Korean named pick-one-from-many Kim did not win the ladies' first Major of the year. Nope, the winner was Taiwanese. I'm told there is a difference. To offset this imbalance in nature, Anthony Kim won last week's men's run-up to The Masters. Anthony, however, is from South California and not South Korea. I'm told there is a difference there too.
But enough about sports, let's talk about bicycle racing. Ha!
Just kidding.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Friday, April 02, 2010
More news Because I'm Saving My Creativity For Other Things.
Well here I am blogging when I should, perhaps, be doing Other Things. Not to worry, I tell myself, I'll get to every Thing in due time.
Yesterday's Boquete.org site had a posting from Panama's President something Martinelli. I can't remember his first name. It was very formally written and stated that all immigrant residents of Panama would have to learn Spanish and pass both a written and oral exam to prove they had done so. (I'm also betting that you would have to know Martinelli's first name!) Responses to the posting included a lot of "Oh my Gods!" and other outbursts of panic. I thought to myself (as if I could think to someone else) that I was sure I could pass the written test, but the oral exam would depend on who was doing the testing and how rapidly they spoke. Of course I might end up living alone after the deportation of Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR. The posting was a hoax, an April Fool's gag, but I found myself thinking the whole thing might be a good idea. With a little tutoring and cramming, Woowoo and RTGF would make it through, but all those "Why don't they learn to speak English like us?" ugly Americans would be sent packing and I'm all for that.
I finished reading "South of Broad" yesterday and concluded that it was a perfect example of why I read in the first place. To wit, I read in hopes of every now and then stumbling upon a book as intellectually, emotionally, and... something else, spiritually perhaps, satisfying as "South of Broad." That said, I am also aware of the "different strokes for different folks" concept, so if you read the book because of my recommendation and don't like it...I'm sorry...for you. (Ha!)
And this from the No Reason To Mention It But I Am Going To Anyway Department: Our dogs wake me up every morning between six and six thirty. I only mind on those mornings when their fussing rips me from a good dream. I love a good dream.
Yesterday's Boquete.org site had a posting from Panama's President something Martinelli. I can't remember his first name. It was very formally written and stated that all immigrant residents of Panama would have to learn Spanish and pass both a written and oral exam to prove they had done so. (I'm also betting that you would have to know Martinelli's first name!) Responses to the posting included a lot of "Oh my Gods!" and other outbursts of panic. I thought to myself (as if I could think to someone else) that I was sure I could pass the written test, but the oral exam would depend on who was doing the testing and how rapidly they spoke. Of course I might end up living alone after the deportation of Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR. The posting was a hoax, an April Fool's gag, but I found myself thinking the whole thing might be a good idea. With a little tutoring and cramming, Woowoo and RTGF would make it through, but all those "Why don't they learn to speak English like us?" ugly Americans would be sent packing and I'm all for that.
I finished reading "South of Broad" yesterday and concluded that it was a perfect example of why I read in the first place. To wit, I read in hopes of every now and then stumbling upon a book as intellectually, emotionally, and... something else, spiritually perhaps, satisfying as "South of Broad." That said, I am also aware of the "different strokes for different folks" concept, so if you read the book because of my recommendation and don't like it...I'm sorry...for you. (Ha!)
And this from the No Reason To Mention It But I Am Going To Anyway Department: Our dogs wake me up every morning between six and six thirty. I only mind on those mornings when their fussing rips me from a good dream. I love a good dream.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Damn You Fred
I've been reading the other Panama gringo bloggers that I know of and every one is flat jump up hallelujah happy to be here. There is some concern about the gringo man who was murdered in nearby Dolega a few days ago, but it doesn't seem to have dampened the enthusiasm for Panamanian life that is shared by, well, most of us anyway. I was feeling good, even privileged, to be in residence here until I clicked on the Fredoneverything.net site that is one of my favorites. Fred is an ex-pat living in Mexico who I find to be an original thinker and truly creative writer. Fred is not, however, the most optimistic of bloggers. By that I mean the sun apparently never shines on Fred's neighborhood. His column today, called "Why Mexicans Hate Gringos" was disturbing in that much of what he says could apply to the Panamanian/Gringo relationship as well. The dozen or so Panamanians that Woowoo, RTGFKAR, and I know well, I'm convinced, like us and find us good people. I doubt, however, that we are representatives of the average gringo attitude here. We live very low profile lives among both the Panamanian and gringo communities. We try to fit in quietly, unobtrusively, recalling Star Trek's prime directive, "First, do no harm." We don't want to change Panama in any way that Panamanians don't want for themselves. Few of them, however, know this about us, so I have to wonder as I walk through Panamanian streets, if the average Panamanian thinks I am an average gringo, which is to say according to Fred, (more or less) a rich asshole. I hope not, but I fear that it is perhaps true.
(And now I have bummed myself completely out. Or is it Fred's fault?)
(For those of you who know me and find the words "quiet" and "unobtrusive" a surprise in my description of myself, know that, for the most part, these descriptions are now true. Of course I can still be affable and out-going when the occasion is called for, but the difference is that I no longer seek out those occasions. I am content where I sit.)
And now to erase Fred's inflicted bummer, I will go read more of Conroy's "South of Broad", but not too much, I don't want it to be over in a hurry. After that, I will contemplate tomorrow's golf, a sport, I doubt seriously, Fred plays and, I hope, never writes about.
(And now I have bummed myself completely out. Or is it Fred's fault?)
(For those of you who know me and find the words "quiet" and "unobtrusive" a surprise in my description of myself, know that, for the most part, these descriptions are now true. Of course I can still be affable and out-going when the occasion is called for, but the difference is that I no longer seek out those occasions. I am content where I sit.)
And now to erase Fred's inflicted bummer, I will go read more of Conroy's "South of Broad", but not too much, I don't want it to be over in a hurry. After that, I will contemplate tomorrow's golf, a sport, I doubt seriously, Fred plays and, I hope, never writes about.
Monday, March 29, 2010
A Wrap Up
"Beach books, books defined as light, entertaining easy reads are no doubt fun and each year I peruse my share of them. Elmore Leonard, Dick Francis and a host of others grace my bookshelves while they await their turn to be exchanged for, usually, more of their kind at The Bookmark Bookstore in Dolega. The books I keep though, are the books that touch something deeper than my ordinary pleasure levels. Books that sink in, remain and add to the sum of what I am. Books wherein I find words in combination so beautiful, clever, and original that they tap into my subconscious and release the pure joy that is housed there. Books, books, books, that enrapture. And so it is with Pat Conroy's latest, "South of Broad" brought to me by daughter K on her recent visit. One hundred pages in and I was looking about for the proverbial toothpicks to prop open my drooping eyelids as night and sleepiness conspired to shut off my consciousness. No matter, this is a book I don't wish to hurry through. Raptures are even better when they can be prolonged.
K and J flew out Friday morning, back to NYC where their real lives waited to be continued. They used an airplane to depart although I'm not sure one was necessary. They were already flying on a cloud of new love. After leaving them at the airport, Woowoo Charly and I drove wordlessly to breakfast at the Grand National Hotel. We were both lost in our own thoughts; missing the lover's happy energy that we got to share for a week. We were a little down, but not awfully so. Our own lives and love do not permit the blues for long.
Well, not the real ones, anyway. I'm singing you done left me baby because all of my blind draw team picks for the NCAA basketball championship have gone bust and I am out of the pool. Each of the four other participants in the draw, Bookworm Bonnie, Redneck Larry, RTGFKAR and Woowoo Chuck, none of whom cares a whit about college hoops, has a team still in the hunt. Is this fair, I ask you, is this fair?
One further question I have for my readers: While clicking through photos of K and J's visit, I noticed that several of them featured and old guy with a large growth beneath his chest. My question then is, where do I go to get my lips sewn shut and my stomach stapled. Or is there some other way?
K and J flew out Friday morning, back to NYC where their real lives waited to be continued. They used an airplane to depart although I'm not sure one was necessary. They were already flying on a cloud of new love. After leaving them at the airport, Woowoo Charly and I drove wordlessly to breakfast at the Grand National Hotel. We were both lost in our own thoughts; missing the lover's happy energy that we got to share for a week. We were a little down, but not awfully so. Our own lives and love do not permit the blues for long.
Well, not the real ones, anyway. I'm singing you done left me baby because all of my blind draw team picks for the NCAA basketball championship have gone bust and I am out of the pool. Each of the four other participants in the draw, Bookworm Bonnie, Redneck Larry, RTGFKAR and Woowoo Chuck, none of whom cares a whit about college hoops, has a team still in the hunt. Is this fair, I ask you, is this fair?
One further question I have for my readers: While clicking through photos of K and J's visit, I noticed that several of them featured and old guy with a large growth beneath his chest. My question then is, where do I go to get my lips sewn shut and my stomach stapled. Or is there some other way?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Dog Power
Shortly after receiving our hugs and kisses from Olga the proprietress of Punto del Encuentro and polishing off a wide assortment of breakfast fare, Special K started feeling the first symptoms of a migraine headache, nausea and tunnel vision. We were on our way to B and L's house to check out Bookie Bonnie's impressive jardin (garden)when this occurred and, upon arrival, K engaged in a quick lay-down to head off the impending mind melter. Lying in the shade on a chaise while the rest of us did this and that, K was joined by B and L's dog Trudy, a Basset hound of goodly proportions, who took it upon herself to come to K's aid. She hopped up on the chaise, a thing she had never done before and no small feat considering her short legs and ample girth, and began working her dog healing magic. It's an invisible sort of thing with touching and staring being the only techniques clear to we humans, but it's tried and true - in this case tried and Trudy - and in no time at all, K was feeling better; enough so, that later that day we walked the grounds of El Explorador and ran errands downtown with no after affects of the migraine. Nice.
Paradise Gardens, no, not the one with Eve, apples and serpents, our original destination and not our original sin, we learned is closed on Wednesdays. It is our new goal for today, Thursday. We'd bring Trudy along for emergencies, but dogs aren't allowed at P.G., which is an animal rescue center, so that makes no sense if you ask me. Go ahead, I dare ya, ask me.
We had dinner at a new restaurant, The Rock, that had, in a previous incarnation, been destroyed by a flood a couple of years ago. The restaurant has been elegantly restored and we all enjoyed our meals. K's novio (boyfriend) and I had the Fettuccine Alfredo. We both agreed that carbs were our "comfort food" and, to prove his point, J had a side of mashed potatoes. This from a guy who is lean as a whip and on a good day might weigh a 150 pounds. Curiously, during the meal, J sat quietly and lost weight while I moved about animatedly and gained ten pounds. I wonder if Trudy could help me with this problem.
Paradise Gardens, no, not the one with Eve, apples and serpents, our original destination and not our original sin, we learned is closed on Wednesdays. It is our new goal for today, Thursday. We'd bring Trudy along for emergencies, but dogs aren't allowed at P.G., which is an animal rescue center, so that makes no sense if you ask me. Go ahead, I dare ya, ask me.
We had dinner at a new restaurant, The Rock, that had, in a previous incarnation, been destroyed by a flood a couple of years ago. The restaurant has been elegantly restored and we all enjoyed our meals. K's novio (boyfriend) and I had the Fettuccine Alfredo. We both agreed that carbs were our "comfort food" and, to prove his point, J had a side of mashed potatoes. This from a guy who is lean as a whip and on a good day might weigh a 150 pounds. Curiously, during the meal, J sat quietly and lost weight while I moved about animatedly and gained ten pounds. I wonder if Trudy could help me with this problem.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Beaching
It rained yesterday so we headed to the beach. I know that sounds like a strange plan, but here in the land of milk and honey...make that coffee and bananas, if you don't like the weather, drive fifteen minutes in any direction and you will likely find some that is different. At the beach it was warm and sunny.
We parked alongside a restaurant in Las Olas (The Waves) situated just up the beach from a large hotel. Between the open air (roofed, but wall-less), very throw-back Panamanian restaurant (La Costena - put a squiggle over the "n" to make the pronunciation co-stain-ya) and the large modern hotel, lay an expanse of vacant lot featuring, if featuring is the word I want...probably not, scruffy weed-like plants and brown sand. I suspect that both the hotel and the restaurant appreciated the separation.
We lunched there after I had written our orders in Spanish for the waitress/proprietor. Three of us, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, had corvina, which is not a new Chevrolet model, but rather, a very nice tasting white fish. They were served with their heads on which I always find somehow disconcerting, particularly when the meal is finished and you look at a plate that contains only the fish's head and its skeleton. Joe had a serving of fried chicken that looked good and both he and I were glad the chicken wasn't served with its head intact. Kira had salad. All the plates included rice and lacked only beans from being a "tipico" Panamanian repast. They were out of beans.
After the meal, J and K headed for the water's edge to fool around, cool off and look like happy lovers, which they are. RTGFKAR, Woowoo and Yerstruly dodged the sun and took comfort under a shady waterside palapa. We sipped cool beers, watched the surf showing off ten foot waves and discussed Super Colliders, Big Bang and String Theory, Quantum Physics and trying to "wrap your mind around" such things. Okay, I didn't have much to bring to the conversation, nothing at all really, but then I was too busy contemplating how hard it would be to walk to the horizon.
Eventually it was time to go, so we did.
At home, we patio-ed some more and Joe played my guitar for awhile singing us a little John Denver, James Taylor and Joe Clark while I skimmed through the latest issue of "The Walking Dead" comic book that D and D had sent from NY. Thanks D and especially D.
Later we had a pile of sushi that J and I had picked up at the Tuesday Morning Gringo Meeting/Farmer's Market early that morning. The accompanying wasabi was so mind and sinus liberating that we were all actually able to "wrap our minds" around
Quantum Physics, Quarks and such, but we chose to use our expanded intellect to tell old family stories and laugh a lot instead. What the hell, we can always get more wasabi.
Today it is off to Olga's (La Punto De Encuentro) for breakfast with B and L and then on to Paradise Gardens. (Lot of things around here with the word paradise in their names.) After that? Maybe El Explorador.
There is no rain today. The sun is shine-ing. (Spelled correctly, shining, looks like it has something to do with the front of your lower leg.)
Hasta.
We parked alongside a restaurant in Las Olas (The Waves) situated just up the beach from a large hotel. Between the open air (roofed, but wall-less), very throw-back Panamanian restaurant (La Costena - put a squiggle over the "n" to make the pronunciation co-stain-ya) and the large modern hotel, lay an expanse of vacant lot featuring, if featuring is the word I want...probably not, scruffy weed-like plants and brown sand. I suspect that both the hotel and the restaurant appreciated the separation.
We lunched there after I had written our orders in Spanish for the waitress/proprietor. Three of us, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I, had corvina, which is not a new Chevrolet model, but rather, a very nice tasting white fish. They were served with their heads on which I always find somehow disconcerting, particularly when the meal is finished and you look at a plate that contains only the fish's head and its skeleton. Joe had a serving of fried chicken that looked good and both he and I were glad the chicken wasn't served with its head intact. Kira had salad. All the plates included rice and lacked only beans from being a "tipico" Panamanian repast. They were out of beans.
After the meal, J and K headed for the water's edge to fool around, cool off and look like happy lovers, which they are. RTGFKAR, Woowoo and Yerstruly dodged the sun and took comfort under a shady waterside palapa. We sipped cool beers, watched the surf showing off ten foot waves and discussed Super Colliders, Big Bang and String Theory, Quantum Physics and trying to "wrap your mind around" such things. Okay, I didn't have much to bring to the conversation, nothing at all really, but then I was too busy contemplating how hard it would be to walk to the horizon.
Eventually it was time to go, so we did.
At home, we patio-ed some more and Joe played my guitar for awhile singing us a little John Denver, James Taylor and Joe Clark while I skimmed through the latest issue of "The Walking Dead" comic book that D and D had sent from NY. Thanks D and especially D.
Later we had a pile of sushi that J and I had picked up at the Tuesday Morning Gringo Meeting/Farmer's Market early that morning. The accompanying wasabi was so mind and sinus liberating that we were all actually able to "wrap our minds" around
Quantum Physics, Quarks and such, but we chose to use our expanded intellect to tell old family stories and laugh a lot instead. What the hell, we can always get more wasabi.
Today it is off to Olga's (La Punto De Encuentro) for breakfast with B and L and then on to Paradise Gardens. (Lot of things around here with the word paradise in their names.) After that? Maybe El Explorador.
There is no rain today. The sun is shine-ing. (Spelled correctly, shining, looks like it has something to do with the front of your lower leg.)
Hasta.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Making It Up As You Go Along
Shhhhh. It is so quiet this morning, the bird chatter that serves as white noise to our Boquete lives sounds riotous, even raucous. Hold it down out there! The dogs have been up and about for an hora y media and have not yet barked. Small miracles abound. K and J and Woowoo Charly are sleeping-in and RTGFKAR didn't make his first appearance in the kitchen until 7:30. Here at the keyboard I'm typing as softly as I can to keep the key clatter down. Shhhh everybody, shhhh.
There are darkening clouds to the north which may change our plans for the day. That's alright, they weren't hard, fast and fixed to begin with. We will just have to play it by ear, which works for me because I don't know how to read the musical notes, signs and symbols of life anyway. To my way of thinking life isn't a planned orchestration to begin with. It's Jazz. "Lead on MacDuff, and damned be he who first says, "Hold, enough!"
Kira and Joe flew into lovely and talented Daveed at 6:30 Friday eve. We loaded their small, sensibly packed bags into the car and headed home. By the time we got there, it was dark, so Joe, making his first trip here, was unable to see the spectacular landscape that surrounds us. To use a couple of Woowoo Charly's favorite lines, "it cracks me up" and "makes me giggle" to see the expressions on the faces of first time visitors when they wander onto the patio in the early morn and look about. Even if they don't say it aloud, you can see the "Wow! in their eyes. Joe was no exception.
We coffeed awhile out there and then drove to Cafe Lerida up above Alto Kiel for a late breakfast. This is another landscape painter's dream location that features good food and another "Can you believe this!" kind of view. After breakfast we took the loop around Baja Mono to see the abandoned castle and nifty waterfall. When we returned home, RTGFKAR set off for the last day of the Daveed Fair. K, J, Chuck and I just hung out. You know, good talks, laughs and for K and J, some sun. J is one of those Insta-tan people. We watched him turn from pale gringo to darkened local in a matter of a few hours. Amazing.
We all piled into RTGFKAR's car around six - he had returned and said the Fair was a disappointment, all the exhibitors were packing up and it was Daveed hot, temperatures in the nineties - and drove the short trip, dodging kids and makeshift soccer goals in the road, to Il Pianista Restaurant. There we had terrific Italian food and over-priced wine. Doris, the proprietor, was her usual patient self, as I ordered this latter. My usual banter goes something like this. "We would like a bottle of dirt cheap wine, but not just any dirt cheap wine, we want your FINEST dirt cheap wine." What we got cost twenty-two bucks a bottle and we had two. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw the price on the check. Next time its beer, or better yet, water. Makes me wonder, though, what the expensive vino costs.
Another hour or so on the patio watching the dogs romp and night fall, then early to bed and book. Somewhere just past ten.
Life is Jazz I tell ya, Jazz. And ya just gotta love it.
There are darkening clouds to the north which may change our plans for the day. That's alright, they weren't hard, fast and fixed to begin with. We will just have to play it by ear, which works for me because I don't know how to read the musical notes, signs and symbols of life anyway. To my way of thinking life isn't a planned orchestration to begin with. It's Jazz. "Lead on MacDuff, and damned be he who first says, "Hold, enough!"
Kira and Joe flew into lovely and talented Daveed at 6:30 Friday eve. We loaded their small, sensibly packed bags into the car and headed home. By the time we got there, it was dark, so Joe, making his first trip here, was unable to see the spectacular landscape that surrounds us. To use a couple of Woowoo Charly's favorite lines, "it cracks me up" and "makes me giggle" to see the expressions on the faces of first time visitors when they wander onto the patio in the early morn and look about. Even if they don't say it aloud, you can see the "Wow! in their eyes. Joe was no exception.
We coffeed awhile out there and then drove to Cafe Lerida up above Alto Kiel for a late breakfast. This is another landscape painter's dream location that features good food and another "Can you believe this!" kind of view. After breakfast we took the loop around Baja Mono to see the abandoned castle and nifty waterfall. When we returned home, RTGFKAR set off for the last day of the Daveed Fair. K, J, Chuck and I just hung out. You know, good talks, laughs and for K and J, some sun. J is one of those Insta-tan people. We watched him turn from pale gringo to darkened local in a matter of a few hours. Amazing.
We all piled into RTGFKAR's car around six - he had returned and said the Fair was a disappointment, all the exhibitors were packing up and it was Daveed hot, temperatures in the nineties - and drove the short trip, dodging kids and makeshift soccer goals in the road, to Il Pianista Restaurant. There we had terrific Italian food and over-priced wine. Doris, the proprietor, was her usual patient self, as I ordered this latter. My usual banter goes something like this. "We would like a bottle of dirt cheap wine, but not just any dirt cheap wine, we want your FINEST dirt cheap wine." What we got cost twenty-two bucks a bottle and we had two. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw the price on the check. Next time its beer, or better yet, water. Makes me wonder, though, what the expensive vino costs.
Another hour or so on the patio watching the dogs romp and night fall, then early to bed and book. Somewhere just past ten.
Life is Jazz I tell ya, Jazz. And ya just gotta love it.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The News in Sports
My last posting, the Lazarus story, was a clever idea, but I sure didn't write it very well. Someone once said that the secret to writing is rewriting and I agree with that even though I seldom do it here on Monkeymind. If I ever get around to doing a "Best Of", something I've been thinking about, I'll clean up (as in rewrite) my selections.
Broncos trade for Brady Quinn. I can't tell you how thrilled I am, because if I did I'd be lying. Now I grant you that Brady Quinn in an excellent Irish name and if the Broncos needed an excellent Irish name, this would be a good trade even though they gave up Payton Hillis another excellent name of unknown derivation although it sounds English to me. No, what the Broncos need is an excellent throwing arm attached to a stout body with quick feet and a quicker mind. To put aside the latest rumors, I will tell you that it is not true that I have been tendered an offer. Unlike Bret Favre, a decidedly funky name, I would not come out of retirement even if I had been. On the other hand, if I am offered tender, well then, I would have to give it some further thought.
But football is of no import right now. This is March and the Madness is upon me, a thing that has nothing to do with my St. Patrick's Day birthday, (Okay maybe just a little) but rather, the roundball I so dearly love. I have no predictions apart from this one: a team featuring blue in their school colors will win the NCAA Tournament. 'Nova is the team I have backed this entire season, but I think it is more likely that Duke, Kentucky or Kansas will cut down the nets at the end of the tourny. Of course, if I had it my way, Woford would shock the world and I don't even have a clue as to what colors they wear, I just like saying the name. Woford.
And, in the world of futbol, David Beckam blew out his Achilles and is flying to Finland for an operation. Who would have thunk that Finland would be a medical destination country? Are Finnish surgeons renowned around the globe? If so, it's news to me. Besides, to fix a torn Achilles tendon, shouldn't Greece be considered?
In other sports news, Tiger and baseball will return at about the same time. I'm finding it difficult getting excited about either. Must be the Madness.
Broncos trade for Brady Quinn. I can't tell you how thrilled I am, because if I did I'd be lying. Now I grant you that Brady Quinn in an excellent Irish name and if the Broncos needed an excellent Irish name, this would be a good trade even though they gave up Payton Hillis another excellent name of unknown derivation although it sounds English to me. No, what the Broncos need is an excellent throwing arm attached to a stout body with quick feet and a quicker mind. To put aside the latest rumors, I will tell you that it is not true that I have been tendered an offer. Unlike Bret Favre, a decidedly funky name, I would not come out of retirement even if I had been. On the other hand, if I am offered tender, well then, I would have to give it some further thought.
But football is of no import right now. This is March and the Madness is upon me, a thing that has nothing to do with my St. Patrick's Day birthday, (Okay maybe just a little) but rather, the roundball I so dearly love. I have no predictions apart from this one: a team featuring blue in their school colors will win the NCAA Tournament. 'Nova is the team I have backed this entire season, but I think it is more likely that Duke, Kentucky or Kansas will cut down the nets at the end of the tourny. Of course, if I had it my way, Woford would shock the world and I don't even have a clue as to what colors they wear, I just like saying the name. Woford.
And, in the world of futbol, David Beckam blew out his Achilles and is flying to Finland for an operation. Who would have thunk that Finland would be a medical destination country? Are Finnish surgeons renowned around the globe? If so, it's news to me. Besides, to fix a torn Achilles tendon, shouldn't Greece be considered?
In other sports news, Tiger and baseball will return at about the same time. I'm finding it difficult getting excited about either. Must be the Madness.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Lazarus' Story
As Lazarus stepped through the Pearly Gates and into Paradise at a prematurely early age, his mind wandered momentarily back to his childhood and his encounter with a strange little boy. The boy was an ardent student of scripture and prophecy who was always too quick to hold forth on one thing or another with his holier than thou attitude. One day, Lazarus had enough of the boy's righteousness, more, in fact, than he could bear, so he stepped forward and gave the boy a sound thrashing. This was one little kid giving another his own personal "might makes right" philosophy. The kind of fight that happens everyday on schoolyards everywhere.
Lazarus shook the thought from his mind and looked around. The street before him was indeed paved with gold and running towards him upon that glistening road with smiles and open arms were all his loved ones who had gone before him. As they smothered him with their kisses and hugs of welcome, they told him of the many wonders he was about to experience, endless food of every variety, music, dance, wine and revelry, leisure without worry and even women if he so chose. Nothing of pleasure would ever be withheld and he was here for all eternity.
Lazarus took this all in with a feeling of tremendous awe and enormous gratitude, but his mind gave up one last thought of the strange boy he had known so long ago. I wonder, it pondered, where he is now?
And it was at this precise moment that Lazarus awoke to find himself in the dirty, poverty stricken hovel that was home to his life before death. He knew at once as he looked into the familiar eyes of the boy he knew in that distant past, that he would have to live a long and dreadful existence before he would ever walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven again.
And now you know why Jesus resurrected Lazarus from the dead.
He was just getting even.
(This little story was inspired by a line from a Jim Harrison book, in which one of the characters inquires, more or less, (I'm too lazy to go find the actual quote) if the afterlife is such a good place, why did Jesus bring Lazarus back?)
Lazarus shook the thought from his mind and looked around. The street before him was indeed paved with gold and running towards him upon that glistening road with smiles and open arms were all his loved ones who had gone before him. As they smothered him with their kisses and hugs of welcome, they told him of the many wonders he was about to experience, endless food of every variety, music, dance, wine and revelry, leisure without worry and even women if he so chose. Nothing of pleasure would ever be withheld and he was here for all eternity.
Lazarus took this all in with a feeling of tremendous awe and enormous gratitude, but his mind gave up one last thought of the strange boy he had known so long ago. I wonder, it pondered, where he is now?
And it was at this precise moment that Lazarus awoke to find himself in the dirty, poverty stricken hovel that was home to his life before death. He knew at once as he looked into the familiar eyes of the boy he knew in that distant past, that he would have to live a long and dreadful existence before he would ever walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven again.
And now you know why Jesus resurrected Lazarus from the dead.
He was just getting even.
(This little story was inspired by a line from a Jim Harrison book, in which one of the characters inquires, more or less, (I'm too lazy to go find the actual quote) if the afterlife is such a good place, why did Jesus bring Lazarus back?)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
This from a fellow blogger and acquaintance who lives in David. His gratitude mirrors mine.
Chiriquà Chatter (is the name of the blog.)
It’s A Wonderful Life
Mar 9th, 2010 by Don Ray
I was just reflecting today how fortunate I am. I arise every morning to a beautiful blue sky and birds chirping, the aroma of coffee and bacon in the kitchen and a new day to experience. It is like this at least 360 mornings out of the year. The other five days are even better.
I turn on the television and get news from the US and other parts of the world. I can sense the stress and pressures that exist in the location of the broadcasts, and yet at the moment, I feel very few of them.
Compared to many in the world, I am a wealthy man. Compared to many in the world, I am a pauper. However, I am a very contented person. I have good health, I have lots of love in my life. I have a few coins in my pocket at the end of the month. I eat well, feel great and worry little. What more can a person ask for.
You can’t take it with you, so having a lot more than you need won’t make you any happier. I know because I have had more and I wasn’t happier.
I try to do what I can to make my Panamanian host feel happy that I have moved here. I hope to be remembered as giving more than I received.
Panama is one place where no matter how much you have, it is probably more than many can even conceive of. That is why it is important to share a smile with those you meet. Giving the loose change to the grocery store bag boy is another way to say thank you God, for letting me be so lucky. There are many people in Panama that only work for tips and the bag boys are some of them.
I have now lived in Panama for over seven years. I feel like I understand Panama better. I feel like I understand life better. I feel like I understand me better. I feel like I have been given a real gift of being able to enjoy life to its fullest. I feel I am very very fortunate.
I am now going to go take my shower and move on to what the rest of the day brings me. I wish you all a wonderful day. Remember, smile at everyone you meet today. You will feel better and they will feel better.
It would also be a good time to tell those that you love, what a difference they make in your life. I think I will go do that now.
Chiriquà Chatter (is the name of the blog.)
It’s A Wonderful Life
Mar 9th, 2010 by Don Ray
I was just reflecting today how fortunate I am. I arise every morning to a beautiful blue sky and birds chirping, the aroma of coffee and bacon in the kitchen and a new day to experience. It is like this at least 360 mornings out of the year. The other five days are even better.
I turn on the television and get news from the US and other parts of the world. I can sense the stress and pressures that exist in the location of the broadcasts, and yet at the moment, I feel very few of them.
Compared to many in the world, I am a wealthy man. Compared to many in the world, I am a pauper. However, I am a very contented person. I have good health, I have lots of love in my life. I have a few coins in my pocket at the end of the month. I eat well, feel great and worry little. What more can a person ask for.
You can’t take it with you, so having a lot more than you need won’t make you any happier. I know because I have had more and I wasn’t happier.
I try to do what I can to make my Panamanian host feel happy that I have moved here. I hope to be remembered as giving more than I received.
Panama is one place where no matter how much you have, it is probably more than many can even conceive of. That is why it is important to share a smile with those you meet. Giving the loose change to the grocery store bag boy is another way to say thank you God, for letting me be so lucky. There are many people in Panama that only work for tips and the bag boys are some of them.
I have now lived in Panama for over seven years. I feel like I understand Panama better. I feel like I understand life better. I feel like I understand me better. I feel like I have been given a real gift of being able to enjoy life to its fullest. I feel I am very very fortunate.
I am now going to go take my shower and move on to what the rest of the day brings me. I wish you all a wonderful day. Remember, smile at everyone you meet today. You will feel better and they will feel better.
It would also be a good time to tell those that you love, what a difference they make in your life. I think I will go do that now.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Huella Dactilar is Fun To Say and Banyo Beauty
Huella Dactilar is the name of a teenagers in trouble with ghosts and ghastlies movie I watched the other night. In English the title is Fingerprint. I wouldn't recommend streaking to your nearest video store to rent it, but if you should stumble across the film on the tube sometime, do have a look-see. (I need a rating system for my horror reviews, something along the lines of "I give this three bloody butcher knives out of five, or maybe small pictures of beheaded corpses. I'm open to suggestions.)
We went to a BIG party at a neighbor's house last night; catered, open bar, live music. One entire room of the house was dedicated to desserts. There were at least a dozen. I had samples of a few, the chocolate cake, the coconut cheese cake and the coconut cream pie. I spent long moments though, staring at all the others and remembering the days when I could have waded through plates of them and not gained a pound. Of course, in those days I could also play basketball for seven or eight hours at a time which, I'm told, has a tendency to keep one's weight in check. I had a few nice conversations at the party with semi-strangers, people I know a little but not well and one extremely entertaining moment.
I was chatting with Woowoo Charly and Bonnie the Bookie and asked them where the nearest bathroom was. "Right behind you" they said, pointing at a nearby door. There was a pale glow of light where the door met the floor, so I knocked tentatively and then tried the handle slowly before entering. The door was not locked. I entered and found myself in a small office sized room, not really noticing particulars as I was headed to the bathroom that I could see a few paces ahead. Its door was open and I started toward it when a beautiful young woman came around the corner from inside the bathroom pulling up a shoulder strap of her evening gown. (A few people at the party were dressed "to-the-nines and some even to the tens.) I was taken, as they say, aback. She was not. She gave me a big, sexy (to my way of thinking) smile as she walked past me saying, "Can I help you with something?" in English. I was too busy sputtering, "Whoops, lo siento, sorry" and the other inanities a person spouts when caught off guard to throw out a snappy comeback. I did turn to watch her walk through the office door and out into the crowd where I could see Woowoo Charly and Bonnie grinning at my surprise. I wasn't really embarrassed - I'm too old for that - but I was a bit off kilter. (I'm not really sure what kilter is but I could tell mine was out of plumb.) I think, in retrospect, what got me was the young woman's not just composure, but seemingly getting a kick out of the situation. I can still see that smile. She was either just messing with the old guy or trying to make his day. Either way works for me. It was a fun, funny, moment.
We went to a BIG party at a neighbor's house last night; catered, open bar, live music. One entire room of the house was dedicated to desserts. There were at least a dozen. I had samples of a few, the chocolate cake, the coconut cheese cake and the coconut cream pie. I spent long moments though, staring at all the others and remembering the days when I could have waded through plates of them and not gained a pound. Of course, in those days I could also play basketball for seven or eight hours at a time which, I'm told, has a tendency to keep one's weight in check. I had a few nice conversations at the party with semi-strangers, people I know a little but not well and one extremely entertaining moment.
I was chatting with Woowoo Charly and Bonnie the Bookie and asked them where the nearest bathroom was. "Right behind you" they said, pointing at a nearby door. There was a pale glow of light where the door met the floor, so I knocked tentatively and then tried the handle slowly before entering. The door was not locked. I entered and found myself in a small office sized room, not really noticing particulars as I was headed to the bathroom that I could see a few paces ahead. Its door was open and I started toward it when a beautiful young woman came around the corner from inside the bathroom pulling up a shoulder strap of her evening gown. (A few people at the party were dressed "to-the-nines and some even to the tens.) I was taken, as they say, aback. She was not. She gave me a big, sexy (to my way of thinking) smile as she walked past me saying, "Can I help you with something?" in English. I was too busy sputtering, "Whoops, lo siento, sorry" and the other inanities a person spouts when caught off guard to throw out a snappy comeback. I did turn to watch her walk through the office door and out into the crowd where I could see Woowoo Charly and Bonnie grinning at my surprise. I wasn't really embarrassed - I'm too old for that - but I was a bit off kilter. (I'm not really sure what kilter is but I could tell mine was out of plumb.) I think, in retrospect, what got me was the young woman's not just composure, but seemingly getting a kick out of the situation. I can still see that smile. She was either just messing with the old guy or trying to make his day. Either way works for me. It was a fun, funny, moment.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Keeping You Posted
Gully is not a word meaning shallow trench - these days - but rather tough, macho or even brutal. It can also be used to mean genuine as in "keep it gully bro." This is one of those things you need to know if you travel with a hyphy, (amped up), hip posse of wankstas (pretend gangsters) like I do.
I realize that most of you, having jobs and families and such are not always able to keep up with we fast paced geezers, so I try to put in the latest stuff I've become aware of in an effort to keep you abreast of "wass happenin dude."
And speaking of Dude, I learned last night or maybe it was the night before, that Jeff Bridges is up for an Academy Award. I'm sure this is for his portrayal of Dude in the Big Lebowski, but the Academy, always slow to recognize greatness, will probably nominate him for some other flick. The Big Lebowski is among my favorite movies because I was just one more acid "trip" from having it been my life story. Most people don't get to see what would have happened if they had taken a different path, but right there up on the big screen was my other could-have-been life. I certainly like the life I've chosen better, but I have to admit that being "The Dude" would definitely have had its moments. So I say Academy Members - because I know you are reading this - give the statue to Jeff. He played me better than I could have done it myself.
I realize that most of you, having jobs and families and such are not always able to keep up with we fast paced geezers, so I try to put in the latest stuff I've become aware of in an effort to keep you abreast of "wass happenin dude."
And speaking of Dude, I learned last night or maybe it was the night before, that Jeff Bridges is up for an Academy Award. I'm sure this is for his portrayal of Dude in the Big Lebowski, but the Academy, always slow to recognize greatness, will probably nominate him for some other flick. The Big Lebowski is among my favorite movies because I was just one more acid "trip" from having it been my life story. Most people don't get to see what would have happened if they had taken a different path, but right there up on the big screen was my other could-have-been life. I certainly like the life I've chosen better, but I have to admit that being "The Dude" would definitely have had its moments. So I say Academy Members - because I know you are reading this - give the statue to Jeff. He played me better than I could have done it myself.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Golf
When Tony and Carm retired, they, like most new Jerseysians sought a warmer climate. Florida was already too crowded and, besides, many, of Tony's less than friendly associates did business there. Not wanting to take on the challenge of a foreign language, Tony and Carm decided to head west. Tony had taken up golf quite seriously in his later years, so a place where there were lots of courses was a prerequisite. Phoenix, Arizona is where they finally touched down and began their new lives. Phoenix had dozens of golf courses within easy driving distance of their scaled down, but still impressive domicile.
A couple of quiet years went by and Tony, who had been a "mover-and-shaker" in his day, was feeling restless and decided he needed to get a piece of the local action. He called up a few of his old goombadas and proposed a plan. Several of these good fellas were also golfers, so they jumped at the chance to be part of Tony's latest brain-storm. They were somewhat hesitant about the risk of a start up plan involving for them, a fresh type of occupation; one they knew nothing about. Most of them had at one time or another been in the business of removing garbage and, uh, occasionally other things, so when Tony proposed that they merge their old knowledge with their new love of golf, they all quickly chipped in the monies necessary to make the deal happen.
And this is why... this very weekend, if you tune in your area's CBS station at the right time, you can watch "The Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament." Tony and Carmelo Soprano and friends are keeping a lower profile these days, so you probably won't catch them on camera. If, however, you are in the neighborhood, you can stop by the Bada Bing Hospitality Tent and have a glass of Chianti on the house. One word of advice though. Don't say anything negative about Tony's putting.
And the girls dancing with the tent poles? Leave them alone, they're working.
Scroll down.
Best line of the week: From RTGFKAR. In a discussion of right-to-life vs. choice, he said, "Life starts at deception."
A couple of quiet years went by and Tony, who had been a "mover-and-shaker" in his day, was feeling restless and decided he needed to get a piece of the local action. He called up a few of his old goombadas and proposed a plan. Several of these good fellas were also golfers, so they jumped at the chance to be part of Tony's latest brain-storm. They were somewhat hesitant about the risk of a start up plan involving for them, a fresh type of occupation; one they knew nothing about. Most of them had at one time or another been in the business of removing garbage and, uh, occasionally other things, so when Tony proposed that they merge their old knowledge with their new love of golf, they all quickly chipped in the monies necessary to make the deal happen.
And this is why... this very weekend, if you tune in your area's CBS station at the right time, you can watch "The Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament." Tony and Carmelo Soprano and friends are keeping a lower profile these days, so you probably won't catch them on camera. If, however, you are in the neighborhood, you can stop by the Bada Bing Hospitality Tent and have a glass of Chianti on the house. One word of advice though. Don't say anything negative about Tony's putting.
And the girls dancing with the tent poles? Leave them alone, they're working.
Scroll down.
Best line of the week: From RTGFKAR. In a discussion of right-to-life vs. choice, he said, "Life starts at deception."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Out-Of-Shape
Listening to a lot of blues lately. To my mind, Buddy Guy is THE guy. (But of course all you people under the age of 100 are now going to send me the names of blues people I've never heard of. "Doc, haven't you listened to Fat Matt the Rat's latest CD, "If these Are Hard Times How Come My Baby Ain't Moved My Stimulation Package Fo Weeks?")
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Per Request
Special K has requested that I comment on the following two quotes for reasons known only to her and the physician who dispenses her drugs from the trunk of his car late at night. The first is a pithy thing from Ayn Rand - and yes, I do occassionally lisp. It reads as follows:
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Seagal and Zombies.
The meek may inherit the earth, but in the meantime I have noticed that people cut in front of them in lines.
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
Monday, February 01, 2010
Turkeys Galore
Countdown to the Super Bowl begins now. I estimate four hours. I'm talking about the bowl of gravy that will be placed next to the turkey that Woowoo Charly will be roasting today for the simple reason that you can never have too much of that big bird. Unless, of course, as my mother once told me, provoking a sleepless night as I pondered its meaning, "your eyes are too big for your stomach."
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Saga
Wednesday.
"Nice to meet you" says Doctor Rafael Rodriguez offering me his hand across the desk.
I'm partial to alliterative names, my first real girlfriend was named Laurel Larson and my father went through life as Walt Walton. I like Dr. Rodriguez right off-the-bat for his warm smile and firm hand shake as well as his mellifluous moniker.
"What can I do for you?" he asks as we settle into chairs at his desk.
How do I put this?, I think. "Well" I say, "I have a sort of mystery illness that latched on to me last October and won't let go."
"Tell me about it," he says, so I describe my symptoms in detail and emphasize the one that bothers me most, my freakin' fatigue. "I have no energy, doctor, and I tire faster than a fat guy in an uphill marathon" Truth is, I'm taking more naps than Rip Van Winkle." We then chat about my previous lifestyle for ten or twelve minutes before we get back to business.
"What medications have you taken to treat your problem?" he asks and I list the antibiotics, inhalants and steroids I've popped over the last three plus months in the so far fruitless attempt to exorcise my be-sicked bod of its demon.
"Hmmm," he says, "are those your X-rays?" They are. I've brought them along even though I had been told by two other physicians that they don't show anything of interest other than that I had smoked for three or four hundred years. I hand them over. There are two, both chest X-rays, one taken in October the other a month or so later. As he takes them from their enormous envelopes and hangs them on his light screen, I tell him they've been dubbed normal.
He looks at the oldest first, then the other. He goes back and forth between them a few times and then says succinctly, "These are NOT normal." He waves me over to his side and points at a circle of light on my left lung appearing in the October X-ray. "This" he says, is pneumonia." He then replaces that X-ray with the November one and notes that the pneumonia is gone. Nice, I think. No problem there. He then points at another circle of light emanating from higher up on my lung and says, "This is what concerns me." He shows me that the spot exists on both x-rays. Although I like to be creative from time to time, my next question was the same one that everyone on the planet would ask, to wit, "What is that?"
"I don't know" he answers. "It's a mass of some kind...Let's sit down."
A MASS! A MASS! I DOAN NEED NO STEENKING MASS!, I'm thinking in large neon letters as we get back to our seats.
The doc says, "My first thought when you described your symptoms was that you might have Myasthenia Gravis. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Well a little bit anyway. It's a muscle disease of some sort. I nod my head. I'm still mostly thinking, A MASS!
He says, "And that may, in fact, be the problem, but I need more information. What I am going to recommend is that you get a Cat Scan so we can have a closer look at your chest and then we can decide how to proceed. We have to know what that mass is."
I note that he is avoiding all the scary words like tumor or cancer, but he does say something about "and whether the mass is benign or not."
Being the well-heeled fat cat that you all know I am, living as I do on the ginormous amount of money Social Security pays me each month, you can guess my next question.
"Not much" he answers.. "About three hundred dollars." (It turns out to be three-forty.)
I tell him I can handle that and we schedule the scan for Friday morning, nine A.M. as I need to be in David that day anyway for a skin check and stitch removal by my friend and yours the Abominable Doctor Panagas. I had had a skin cancer on my back incised by him on Monday.
My new pal in the medical profession, a profession I really don't want to have anything to do with but, hey, what else CAN you do, Doctor Rafael Rodriguez, then writes me a couple of scripts to clear up my lingering pneumonia/bronchitis symptoms, a cough and phlegm, and off I go. RTGFKAR is waiting for me in the cleverly named Waiting Room admiring the receptionist's butt, a thing I can't blame him for as it is truly an eye magnet. I follow it all the way to her desk where she sits and I pay her thirty-five dollars for the visit.
Thursday is uneventful and passes slower than usual as I ponder the word "mass" and what it might mean.
Friday morning I wake up with the answer. It must be the skin cancer I had removed from my back Monday. It was more or less in line with the spot on my X-rays. It would have been there growing gradually back in October and November when the rays were taken. I make a note to ask the doc if this might possibly be the answer to what the mass is.
And I would have asked him had he shown up that day. While waiting for my turn at the Scanner, Lovely Butt calls and says the doctor needs to reschedule for Monday, nine A.M. Alrighty then, I say, I'll wait until Monday.
"Where's your cat?" the Scan tech asks me as I peel off my shirt.
"What cat?" I ask in reply.
"This is a cat scan" he tells me. "I can't scan your cat if you didn't bring it."
Okay, that only happened in my mind.
In reality I climb up on the table and the tech and I have a quick conversation in Spanish about me not moving and when I should hold a deep breath and when I should breathe normally during the scan. The table moves me electronically under a huge plastic arch where I hear nothing but do see some spots of light blinking across the front of the scanner. In less than three minutes we are done.
Woowoo Charly is with me on this day and we next truck along to the La-bor-a-tory where it is colder than an Igloo and where I have a quart or two of blood removed from my arm for some other tests old Doc R.R. has ordered. After that, Woowoo and I head for breakfast. I had been warned not to eat before the scan.
After breakfast, still having hours to kill before my appointment with Panagas, we wander over to the Casino across the street from the Gran National Hotel. Armed with five rolls of nickles each, we assault the slots. Playing Deuces Wild Poker on one of them, I hit a Royal Flush (with three deuces) and win 125 nickles. I'm thinking my luck is still holding in the good to excellent range since I won a raffle drawing at La Reina Department Store before Christmas. The machine asks me if I want to go double or nothing, high card wins. I say you betcha. It goes first and draws a king. So much for good luck. My nine of hearts comes up woefully short.
Later, at Panagas' lair, he answers my question about whether my skin cancer could be the spot on my X-ray with a decisive, "No way, it's not possible." He also tells me that the biopsy on the chunk of my back he shoveled out Monday had not yet come in, so he was unable to clue me if it was one of the "bad" cancers or just another basal cell, my usual.
It's going to be a limbo weekend all around, I think. I'll have plenty of time to watch college hoops, NFL football and further contemplate that peculiar word "mass." Curiously, I'm not worried. I don't feel bad, I have no pain and I'm just a little tired. Despite my double down result, I still feel lucky.
The above was written Saturday morning.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday 1:30 P.M.
Fat! Fat! Who woulda thunk it? Placing the scanned cat on his light board Dr. R.R. points at the suspicious mass and says, "This is just fatty tissue, a thing not uncommon in people your age." Behind me I hear a quiet but still audible "pheww." Woowoo Charly is standing there. As for me, well, I knew it was nothing all along. I do admit, though, to not spelling relief R-O-L-A-I-D-S but rather with a lower case a-l-r-i-g-h-t-y t-h-e-n!
That worry now gone I can return to fretting over the Broncos not having a franchise quarterback, Carmelo Anthony's latest ankle sprain and what-the-hell is wrong with me anyway. "Let's talk some more" is Doc R.R.'s suggestion.
He has no answers for the Broncos or Melo so we get back to me.
We rule out depression and any connection to my pulmonary problems. My symptoms with the latter are almost gone. We mostly rule out my on going, seemingly life-long stomach woes, but I do get a script for Nexium. I'm also handed a script for an immune system booster aimed at people with bronchial problems and a new inhaler. Pharmacies throughout Panama are considering parades. My fatigue, the one remaining symptom, seems to emanate from somewhere along my upper spinal column. This, I'm told, could mean a neurological problem, IE; nerves or muscles. I don't have Myastenia Gravis or even not so Gravis, but I might have something that mimics the symptoms of same. For this reason I am referred to yet another doctor for, whoopee, more tests. If I wasn't depressed before, the mounting cost of this fiasco, has me heading down that road. So there I am happy about not being terminal or, at least no more than the rest of us, but upset over the cost and lack of a medical conclusion. Let's just say I'm conflicted.
When we leave the office, WooWoo Charly cries a little. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm glad she cares that much, but I didn't want her to worry so. I feel bad that she did. I am, wouldn't you know it, conflicted de nuevo, (again). Chuck, though, is relieved and I'm happy about that.
We now return to a deja vu scenario. After locating my new doctor's office elsewhere in the building, we learn he is not there. Nor is his receptionist. We are told to return in an hour which we do to no avail. Neither person has made the scene. How familiar is that? We do, however, manage to score a telephone number. I will try to make a cita (appointment) later today. No need to wish me luck. I'm already up for another double down.
So there you have the latest chapter of this mind numbing saga. Sorry to bother you with it but, you know, I can't help myself. The Monkeymind carries on.
"Nice to meet you" says Doctor Rafael Rodriguez offering me his hand across the desk.
I'm partial to alliterative names, my first real girlfriend was named Laurel Larson and my father went through life as Walt Walton. I like Dr. Rodriguez right off-the-bat for his warm smile and firm hand shake as well as his mellifluous moniker.
"What can I do for you?" he asks as we settle into chairs at his desk.
How do I put this?, I think. "Well" I say, "I have a sort of mystery illness that latched on to me last October and won't let go."
"Tell me about it," he says, so I describe my symptoms in detail and emphasize the one that bothers me most, my freakin' fatigue. "I have no energy, doctor, and I tire faster than a fat guy in an uphill marathon" Truth is, I'm taking more naps than Rip Van Winkle." We then chat about my previous lifestyle for ten or twelve minutes before we get back to business.
"What medications have you taken to treat your problem?" he asks and I list the antibiotics, inhalants and steroids I've popped over the last three plus months in the so far fruitless attempt to exorcise my be-sicked bod of its demon.
"Hmmm," he says, "are those your X-rays?" They are. I've brought them along even though I had been told by two other physicians that they don't show anything of interest other than that I had smoked for three or four hundred years. I hand them over. There are two, both chest X-rays, one taken in October the other a month or so later. As he takes them from their enormous envelopes and hangs them on his light screen, I tell him they've been dubbed normal.
He looks at the oldest first, then the other. He goes back and forth between them a few times and then says succinctly, "These are NOT normal." He waves me over to his side and points at a circle of light on my left lung appearing in the October X-ray. "This" he says, is pneumonia." He then replaces that X-ray with the November one and notes that the pneumonia is gone. Nice, I think. No problem there. He then points at another circle of light emanating from higher up on my lung and says, "This is what concerns me." He shows me that the spot exists on both x-rays. Although I like to be creative from time to time, my next question was the same one that everyone on the planet would ask, to wit, "What is that?"
"I don't know" he answers. "It's a mass of some kind...Let's sit down."
A MASS! A MASS! I DOAN NEED NO STEENKING MASS!, I'm thinking in large neon letters as we get back to our seats.
The doc says, "My first thought when you described your symptoms was that you might have Myasthenia Gravis. Do you know what that is?"
I do. Well a little bit anyway. It's a muscle disease of some sort. I nod my head. I'm still mostly thinking, A MASS!
He says, "And that may, in fact, be the problem, but I need more information. What I am going to recommend is that you get a Cat Scan so we can have a closer look at your chest and then we can decide how to proceed. We have to know what that mass is."
I note that he is avoiding all the scary words like tumor or cancer, but he does say something about "and whether the mass is benign or not."
Being the well-heeled fat cat that you all know I am, living as I do on the ginormous amount of money Social Security pays me each month, you can guess my next question.
"Not much" he answers.. "About three hundred dollars." (It turns out to be three-forty.)
I tell him I can handle that and we schedule the scan for Friday morning, nine A.M. as I need to be in David that day anyway for a skin check and stitch removal by my friend and yours the Abominable Doctor Panagas. I had had a skin cancer on my back incised by him on Monday.
My new pal in the medical profession, a profession I really don't want to have anything to do with but, hey, what else CAN you do, Doctor Rafael Rodriguez, then writes me a couple of scripts to clear up my lingering pneumonia/bronchitis symptoms, a cough and phlegm, and off I go. RTGFKAR is waiting for me in the cleverly named Waiting Room admiring the receptionist's butt, a thing I can't blame him for as it is truly an eye magnet. I follow it all the way to her desk where she sits and I pay her thirty-five dollars for the visit.
Thursday is uneventful and passes slower than usual as I ponder the word "mass" and what it might mean.
Friday morning I wake up with the answer. It must be the skin cancer I had removed from my back Monday. It was more or less in line with the spot on my X-rays. It would have been there growing gradually back in October and November when the rays were taken. I make a note to ask the doc if this might possibly be the answer to what the mass is.
And I would have asked him had he shown up that day. While waiting for my turn at the Scanner, Lovely Butt calls and says the doctor needs to reschedule for Monday, nine A.M. Alrighty then, I say, I'll wait until Monday.
"Where's your cat?" the Scan tech asks me as I peel off my shirt.
"What cat?" I ask in reply.
"This is a cat scan" he tells me. "I can't scan your cat if you didn't bring it."
Okay, that only happened in my mind.
In reality I climb up on the table and the tech and I have a quick conversation in Spanish about me not moving and when I should hold a deep breath and when I should breathe normally during the scan. The table moves me electronically under a huge plastic arch where I hear nothing but do see some spots of light blinking across the front of the scanner. In less than three minutes we are done.
Woowoo Charly is with me on this day and we next truck along to the La-bor-a-tory where it is colder than an Igloo and where I have a quart or two of blood removed from my arm for some other tests old Doc R.R. has ordered. After that, Woowoo and I head for breakfast. I had been warned not to eat before the scan.
After breakfast, still having hours to kill before my appointment with Panagas, we wander over to the Casino across the street from the Gran National Hotel. Armed with five rolls of nickles each, we assault the slots. Playing Deuces Wild Poker on one of them, I hit a Royal Flush (with three deuces) and win 125 nickles. I'm thinking my luck is still holding in the good to excellent range since I won a raffle drawing at La Reina Department Store before Christmas. The machine asks me if I want to go double or nothing, high card wins. I say you betcha. It goes first and draws a king. So much for good luck. My nine of hearts comes up woefully short.
Later, at Panagas' lair, he answers my question about whether my skin cancer could be the spot on my X-ray with a decisive, "No way, it's not possible." He also tells me that the biopsy on the chunk of my back he shoveled out Monday had not yet come in, so he was unable to clue me if it was one of the "bad" cancers or just another basal cell, my usual.
It's going to be a limbo weekend all around, I think. I'll have plenty of time to watch college hoops, NFL football and further contemplate that peculiar word "mass." Curiously, I'm not worried. I don't feel bad, I have no pain and I'm just a little tired. Despite my double down result, I still feel lucky.
The above was written Saturday morning.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Monday 1:30 P.M.
Fat! Fat! Who woulda thunk it? Placing the scanned cat on his light board Dr. R.R. points at the suspicious mass and says, "This is just fatty tissue, a thing not uncommon in people your age." Behind me I hear a quiet but still audible "pheww." Woowoo Charly is standing there. As for me, well, I knew it was nothing all along. I do admit, though, to not spelling relief R-O-L-A-I-D-S but rather with a lower case a-l-r-i-g-h-t-y t-h-e-n!
That worry now gone I can return to fretting over the Broncos not having a franchise quarterback, Carmelo Anthony's latest ankle sprain and what-the-hell is wrong with me anyway. "Let's talk some more" is Doc R.R.'s suggestion.
He has no answers for the Broncos or Melo so we get back to me.
We rule out depression and any connection to my pulmonary problems. My symptoms with the latter are almost gone. We mostly rule out my on going, seemingly life-long stomach woes, but I do get a script for Nexium. I'm also handed a script for an immune system booster aimed at people with bronchial problems and a new inhaler. Pharmacies throughout Panama are considering parades. My fatigue, the one remaining symptom, seems to emanate from somewhere along my upper spinal column. This, I'm told, could mean a neurological problem, IE; nerves or muscles. I don't have Myastenia Gravis or even not so Gravis, but I might have something that mimics the symptoms of same. For this reason I am referred to yet another doctor for, whoopee, more tests. If I wasn't depressed before, the mounting cost of this fiasco, has me heading down that road. So there I am happy about not being terminal or, at least no more than the rest of us, but upset over the cost and lack of a medical conclusion. Let's just say I'm conflicted.
When we leave the office, WooWoo Charly cries a little. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm glad she cares that much, but I didn't want her to worry so. I feel bad that she did. I am, wouldn't you know it, conflicted de nuevo, (again). Chuck, though, is relieved and I'm happy about that.
We now return to a deja vu scenario. After locating my new doctor's office elsewhere in the building, we learn he is not there. Nor is his receptionist. We are told to return in an hour which we do to no avail. Neither person has made the scene. How familiar is that? We do, however, manage to score a telephone number. I will try to make a cita (appointment) later today. No need to wish me luck. I'm already up for another double down.
So there you have the latest chapter of this mind numbing saga. Sorry to bother you with it but, you know, I can't help myself. The Monkeymind carries on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Lost in Nowhere
A.A. Milne says there is no harder work than fetching an idea from nowhere. Tell me about it. Probably headed for A.A. Walton says it's even harder to find a funny one. How 'bout this? I remember when 'roids were hemm and not sterr. That's funny, right?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
I haven't touched my guitar since last September. It sits in the corner dying from lack of affection. (The verb for to touch in Spanish is the same as the verb for to play an instrument, tocar.) Since I contracted my less than magical mystery ailment dubbed Moses for its longevity, I have lacked both the focus and the energy to play it. Shame on me I say, and shame on Moses. No golf, no guitar. Maybe I'm just giving up on things that start with the letter g.
In the information for no reason department there is this: I read on Yahoo this weekend that most running shoes are as bad for your legs as high heels. That's good to know. Now we can all chuck our sneaks and be taller.
The NFL playoffs are down to four teams only one of which has never been to the Super Bowl, New Orleans. Go Saints. I like their Fleur de Lis logo.
Okay, I've now spent half an hour and two cups of coffee wandering around nowhere trying to fetch an idea. I don't think there are any good ones in my neighborhood. Wait! What if I wrote about a boy and his stuffed toys. I could name his bear Poo and his tiger Tygger and the boy himself could have a catchy name like Christopher Robin. What, you say? Milne has already done that? It is as I suspected. All the good ideas are gone.
I guess I'll just have to write about 'roids. Which kind do you want to hear about?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Blithering
Sometimes I write a blog just because I peer in at Monkeymind and see my last one sitting there looking stale and outdated. Today is one of those days. I don't have anything in particular to say, but then I rarely do, so there is no news there.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
It is Friday of a week that slid by almost undetected. For most of the week we Boquete denizens were holed up in our houses avoiding the wind and rain. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Charly and I did slip out for a Daveed run ostensibly to see the Abominable Doctor Panagas, but also just to catch a few rays and warm up. Temps around our place have been in the Sixties and that just won't do. Especially for Woowoo Chuck and I who have, as I've noted before, lizard in our DNA. Panagas never showed. I sat in his very crowded waiting room reading an Elizabeth George mystery and chatting here and there with his beautifully smiled receptionist while RTGFKAR and Chuck made a Pricsmart run. They were back and I was gone before Panagas made an appearance in the building. He was, according to Diosylyn, the receptionist, a la mitin de Ministerio de Salud. A meeting at the Ministry of Health. I am rescheduled for Monday.
We did play a couple of games of Scrabble this week (a thing I wouldn't have mentioned had I not won both games) and we watched several movies, the worst of which was the latest version of "The Day the Earth Stood Still." The movie, a real stinker, did, however, provide Keanu Reeves an opportunity to display his full range of facial expressions, both of them. Other than that highlight the movie had nothing to offer and this reviewer says, don't bother. One odd, but curiously interesting movie that we stumbled on accidentally - the title certainly was not the lure - was "Lars and His Living Doll." You might want to check this one out if you like good acting and an offbeat script.
Three indios were killed in a machete fight a couple of nights ago on the street in front of the Flower and Coffee Fair that is going on all this week. I would tell you more but that's all I know. Of course I could make something up.
Cyrano De Guimi stood back to back with Dartagnon de Kuna. Their machetes were unsheathed and at the ready. Around them the president's personal guard crept carefully forward urged on by the evil and cunning Captain Richalulu. "There will be no escape this time," he cries out. "Your coffee beans will be ours." The guard closes in, blades begin to flash.
Something like that would probably be better than another movie review.
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