Oldie #3 Don't read unless you are a golfer

QUEBRADA GOLF COURSE AT VALLE ESCONDIDO
By Doc Walton

Hollywood has nothing on the Quebrada Grande G.C. Nestled in a sweet, green valley just back of town, this nine hole beauty looks like the backdrop for a remake of Shangri La, but plays more like Alien vs. Tiger Woods. You would think on first sighting of the seemingly harmless fairways and benign greens that comprise Quebrada’s six par threes and three par fours, that there would be little danger awaiting the average Joe Golfer. But looks, as we have learned from countless B films throughout the years, can be deceiving. Quebrada has a dark side.

The sixth hole, for instance, has been nicknamed Psycho by the Joe Golfers who play there on a regular basis and it is easy to understand why. At a listed 78 yards it is a mere wedge away and at first glance seems to pose few problems. Of course you are hitting from an elevated tee across a flowery, jungle covered gorge to a postage stamp sized green, but c’mon, it’s right there. Pay no heed to the steep drop-off right of the green or the bunkers that guard the back and left. Forget that a shot hit just a smidgeon right, left or short means a lost ball and enjoy the beauty of the towering wild fig tree that over hangs the green waiting to catch a shot arcing too high, so it can juggle the ball in its branches before tossing it over the side. Really, just ignore all that and play! Oh and that guy standing on the nifty elevated footbridge that leads to the green? Ignore him too. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s Norman. Norman Bates.

The horror movie analogy doesn’t begin and end with the sixth hole. It begins like all good stories – and good golf courses - at the beginning with the first hole and ends with the apparent defeat of the monsters on the ninth.. Of course the monsters don’t really die. They are reborn each time you return to the course to play a sequel. Let’s take a quick look at what else lurks out there at Quebrada G.C. and awaits the unwary golfer. And while we’re at it, let’s give them all names too.

Hole number 1 plays 108 yards from an elevated and palm tree surrounded, back tee box. The fairway drops down in a couple of stages to a goodly sized green that looks close and inviting. Right of the fairway there are hedges and trees landscaped to protect the Pro Shop and Cantina that lie just beyond them. Down the left there are flowerbeds and it is easy on a sunny day for Joe Golfer to stand there on that first tee, look about and say all is right with the world. While he is in that state of mind, the pond in front of the green doesn’t look that big and the sand traps left of the green and just beyond the water don’t seem to pose a serious problem. You can always, Joe thinks, give the shot a bit more oomph and clear everything. I should mention though, that if he clears everything, including the green, there is a river just a trifle beyond it waiting to drown his golf ball. So with a watery grave to the front, a watery grave to the rear and an out-of-bounds watering hole –the Cantina – to the right, all calculated to make your ball disappear, let’s call this hole The Bermuda Triangle.

The river hiding quietly behind the first hole snakes loudly down the entire right side of the second. This hole is a long par 3 - it plays 192 yards from the back tee box - and its principle horror is its narrowness. A very straight shot must be played to the green as any sort of fade will be greedily swallowed by the river and anything hooking or drawing left will vanish in the lush vegetation of a steep hillside that flanks the fairway there. With trees bordering the river right and the hillside left, there is a sort of tunnel feeling here. It is as if you had to hit a ball down a city street without breaking a window. Since having to hit a shot long and straight under pressure is one of Joe Golfer’s most frequent bad dreams, let’s dub this hole, The Nightmare on Elm Street.

The river of broken dreams and water logged golf balls flows across the third hole as well. Here it widens and streams in front of the green which lies some 119 yards from the furthest of the three tiered tee boxes. Bordering the fairway on the left are three Spanish styled condominums whose occupants are sure to smile and wave as they watch your ball splash down and be taken away by the river’s current. It is once again easy for Joe Golfer, already water weary, to lose his head and put a little something extra on his shot. In doing so he may avoid the river, but find his ball flying the green to the paved road beyond where it is likely to bounce and land in Valle Escondido’s horse stables. Lost heads and horses? We must be talking The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

The fourth hole is a 260 yard par 4 with a nice wide fairway and a tempting look at a green that is slightly dog-legged left. The dog-leg puts it in line with a lake that borders the left fairway, but ends about eighty or so yards short of the green. From the lake to the green there is a sort of run-off brook that continues down the left side. Big hitters will be tempted to hit over the lake to the putting surface, but most Joe Golfers will try to hit straight down the fairway. The danger here is that at about 200 yards, a distance Joe can often reach either on the fly or with a roll, there is a small, evil creek that flows right to left directly across the fairway. There is an elevated cart path skirting that right side and next to it is, you guessed it, another small stream. Shots right or left will usually find water as will those carefully calculated lay-ups that roll too far. Joe Golfer’s best bet is to swing a club that he is confident will fly his ball to dry land. The Creature From The Black Lagoon seldom leaves the water.

The fifth hole turns back and runs parallel to the fourth. This puts the cart path and the small stream to the right. To the immediate left are condos under construction and beyond them steeply rising mountains. To the fore sits the hole, a par 3 some 165 yards from the back tee. Between the two lies mostly mud and bog. The green is a large one, but its back and left sides roll sharply down to the aforementioned stream. There is more muck and mire to the greens left, so another accurate shot is required. Should you fail to do so, say hello to your new found friend, the Swamp Thing.

Tip-toe by number 6 so as not to disturb the Psycho and you will find yourself at the 242 yard par 4 seventh hole. Here the fairway climbs gradually up a doglegged left slope to a sharply elevated green. The ubiquitous water on this hole is a stream that runs along most of the left side. Adjacent to the stream is dense and foreboding jungle. Balls hit left on this hole by Joe Golfer are just that… left. A ball hit to the right of the fairway will bounce along a road that parallels the course in search of trouble it will surely find. To aid in its search for golfer agony, the fairway here slopes to the road side. Second shots must reach the green or they will also find trouble. Front and right of the green there are steep and heavily roughed hillsides that include a couple of trees whose branches disrupt any kind of lofty, soft landing return shots. Back and left there is more jungle including some kind of cave or grotto where a light wind emanates and whispers to wayward balls to come and find their final resting place. For this reason let’s name hole seven, The Haunting.

The eighth hole is simply a fright. There are two elevated tee boxes here and from either the distant green seems much further away than its advertised 165 yards. The right side of the fairway is guarded by tall evergreens and a sneaky little rill that twists around and crosses in front of the green. Just beyond the rill and also in front of the “dance floor” is the same river that bedevils Joe Golfer on holes 1 thru 3. Here he can hit a straight, solid shot and still find ball stealing water! I must also mention that to the left of the fairway is a ball gobbling, densely shrubbed hillside. One of those places that Boris Karloff would softly lisp, “man should not tamper with.” Nevertheless, standing on the tee and looking over the vista that is this hole, it is easy to be struck by its beauty and not its bite. In fact, for a name, Beauty and the Beast seems about right.

The end of this Silver Screen journey is nearly in sight. Joe golfer has only to survive Hole Number 9. The last and longest par 4 at 272 yards this monster has given birth to some really horrible shots. Joe Golfer must tee off from a hobbit hole hidden in the woods and fly his ball across another evil lake that surely houses bad tidings and land safely short of the Devil’s own river which has once again wandered in his path. Left lies land Tarzan wouldn’t try, and right there are sand and palms and water and other places where golf balls go to die. If Joe’s ball does manage to land where it can be struck again, there is still a second shot that needs to seek a green surrounded by sand traps and not hooked into the “Oh no, not the river” that has snaked back to his left. This hole should be played with a Priest and crucifix. The water here is not, I repeat, not Holy, so let’s play it with The Exorcist.

After the curtain closes, Joe Golfer can retire to the splendid Cantina to medicate his wounds and replay The Little Shop of Horrors in his mind. There are toasts and kudos to Sam Taliaferro and company for their vision and design of the Quebrada Grande Golf Course and a final thought: That was very hard and very great fun. Can’t wait to go around again.

There’s no accounting for golfers.

Golfers are gluttons for punishment.

The 9th of July

Five days after the fourth, let me see the fifth, the sixth the...yeah that's right five days, the Founding Fathers set forth, a different kind of fourth, upon yet another celebration, the already long established holiday, Doc and Charly's anniversary. Anniversaries being what they are, that is, the yearly toasting of a union, this could have been called Dependence Day, but coming so soon after Independence Day, the Father's decided it just wouldn't sound right, so they opted for the simple and clear, but somewhat long and unweildly title of Doc and Charly's Anniversary. Over the years, as calendar's got smaller, it became impossible to fit this holiday into the little day squares - especially when you added the year, the thirtieth, the fortieth, the one hundred fifty second, etc.- and it was dropped entirely. The omission, however did not stop the celebration.

In keeping with the tradition established by the Fathers, Thomas Jefferson, Bobby Jones, Adams, Trevino, Franklin, Palmer, Watson, Hamilton and the like, we played golf. I won't bore you with a blow by blog description of every hole, - that I've already done in a piece I'm going to send as the next blog - but I will say that we played well and came within inches of a story I would have really liked to write. First I want to tell you about the amazingly long putt Charly made on the fifth hole and the four iron I pured on the eighth. Okay, that being done, let me tell you about the sixth. It was there one year ago that Charly made a perfect swing and recorded a perfect result, an hoyo en uno, a hole in one. I was very aware of this as I stepped to the tee with the clear and present swing thought of "now it's my turn." And that was the problem... my turn. Any golfer will tell you that if you don't get the proper turn of hips and shoulders, you are not going to strike the ball properly. I didn't and I didn't. The ball landed short of the green. Charly, looking for a repeat performance was long. We both chipped up and got down in two for bogies. The story that almost was came later, because the course we were playing is a nine holer and we were down for eighteen. The Sixth came around again. This timeI had no swing thoughts as I teed up and let 'er fly. A nice high arcing PW that looked just like PW shots are supposed to. I could see the ball was coming down a little left of the flag but would be pretty close. And it was, maybe six feet. The ball, however had a little spin, a little juice, a little English on it, and it began to roll toward the pin. Back on the teebox, I'm thinking it might be, it may be, it could be and Charly's holllering, "go in, go in" but...to no avail. The ball came to a final rest at what, from the tee box, looked to be right on the edge but was actually about 5 or 6 inches short. Close but no cigar. Well, not right then anyway.

The cigar came at the Cantina where we had beers and watched the first half of the World Cup final. Zinedine Zidane scores on a penalty shot and France leads uno a cero.

After that it was home to watch the second half and wait until we were hungry enough for dinner. Italy scored on a header to tie the game and went on to win in a post overtime shootout.
Yeah, I'm thrilled too. Zidane got kicked out for knocking a guy down with a headbutt. Nice.

I would tell you about dinner, but really, what is there to tell about a dinner unless you are Andre and that other guy. It was lovely. I say lovely because anniversary dinners can't be good chow, great grub, hearty fare and like that. They have to be lovely and ours was even though we both had steak and potatoes.

Home to music, wine and dancing in the dark. We left the fireworks to that other July holliday, but we did make some noise. The Fathers would be proud. Here's to us.

Powerless in Panama

I just finished showing my wife the generic Latin move. This is a move one must be able to execute if one ever hopes to dance to Latin music. I use it to shake out the kinks I acquire from sitting at the keyboard for a couple of hours. I do it to the music in my head. As my wife doesn't hear the music in my head, she merely peers over the top of her book and looks at me as if I were crazy. This look and the exasperated, now what are you doing, are two of her most common expressions. I love her very much.

Yesterday our power was out for several hours. We were powerless. Helpless. At the mercy of the elements and Union Fenosa the power company. Say that a couple of times, Union Fenosa, it's kind of fun. What does one do when one has no Power, you ask? (I'm using "one" here instead of the more common "you" as a way of classing up the blog. It's a Norman Mailer thing.) What we ones did, (see how classy that is) was to move chairs out front, pour some wine and watch the flowers grow. We also had a deeply intellectual talk. Something to do with golf, a deeply intellectual subject. Eventually our power was returned to us and we went inside and watched some deeply intellectual tv. Scrubs was on. But the whole thing got me to thinking, which, as you know, is rarely a good thing. How could our power just go away like that? We paid for that power. Does Dubya's power shut off unexpectedly? Heck no. He's paid millions for it. In fact there are corporations paying him millions to get some of his power for themselves. So I guess that's the answer. If you can afford a lot of power, you can keep your lights on and you can, you know, rig elections, start wars and buy a lot of red ties. One would think though, maybe even two or three, that with all that power, GW's bulb wouldn't burn so dimly.

But this is not a political blog, this is an educational blog. This is a blog where one goes to learn the esoterica of a monkeymind. And today's bit of that is...the English language has 42 sounds that are spelled, are you ready for this, 400 different ways! Or, if you are George Bush, several thousand. (Whoops, sorry.) And here I sit with a spell check that doesn't work. Also not working is my grammar check, my content check, my focus check and my where am I now check. I can dance though, watch this. I'm empowered.

Inspiration and The Blues

I'm sitting here bright and awake, but once again, uninspired. What is inspiration anyway? I mean apart from the old saw that says it's two parts sweat, one part vodka martini. Yeah, I know perseverence is one of the synonyms bandied about for inspiration, but any word that has severe as part of it can't be all good. You just never hear severe used in a happy context. It's always, "she has a severe case of this or that" or "he's had a severe heart event." Heart event. Yeah that's a good one too. Can you get tickets to those? I had a severe recovery from my pneumonia. It just doesn't work I tell ya, so I'm ruling out perseverence. You also hear hard work bandied about as the key to inspiration. This one's truly a crock. Hard work. Next time you see some guy swinging a sledge or digging a hole, ask him if he feels inspired. Don't stand too close though, he might be inspired to lend you his shovel. Can it be luck, good fortune, joss, karma? Nah, too much brilliant stuff out there to be chance. I have heard it said that inspiration is just another way of saying talent, but, Damn! I hope THAT'S not right. I hate being left behind. Nope, I'm thinking the old axiom I started with is the only answer. Two parts vodka martini, one part sweat. I'll be right back.

Kenneth Lay has had a heart event. A SEVERE heart event. This event will be the inspiration for millions of written words. I may even toss out a few. He was the potato chip guy, right? Just kidding. Even I know about Enron and what I know could fill up a darn big thimble. I don't like to speak badly of the dead but sometimes it's called for. Hitler was a bastard, Stalin was a son-of-a-bitch, you know, like that. I don't think old Ken is going to make their list, but it will be interesting to see what is written about him in the coming weeks. Kenneth Lay dead is just the first.

The Blues versus The Blues is the World Cup's final match up. France against Italy and both teams calling themselves the Blues. That's the color not the music. I am rooting for France and I have a good sound, ah sound, reason for doing so. They have two players whose names I really like to say, Zinedane Zidane and Thierry Henri. Go Blues.

An Independence Day Carol

Last night, after a long day of burgers, beer, beans, salad, a delicious mystery dessert and enough Chilean wine that that country's trade minister was seen facing France and saying, "in your face", at precisely 2:am, I was visited by the The Ghost of 4th of July Past. He was dressed exactly like the guy in The Samuel Adams beer commercials, but he wasn't smiling because his pewter mug was empty. I took him downstairs to the fridge, got him a refill and poured myself a bracer as well. It's not everyday you see a ghost. "Sam", I said to him, because what the heck I had to call him something, "what seems to be the problem?" He looked at me for a few seconds, threw back a long sip of suds and then pulled a small 13 starred colonial flag from...somewhere. Thin air comes to mind. He waved it about a couple times, like a kid at a parade and zap I was transported to a room full of serious faced guys all wearing wigs. "Gustavo" I said to my dog, "I don't think we're in Panama anymore." It was pretty clear that none of the wigwearers could see or hear us, but when I started to say something to Sam he gave me the shush sign, so I did exactly that and just listened. Some of the guys in the room looked vaguely familiar and as they talked to each other I got their drift. These were our country's fathers sitting around founding. They were trying to compose some kind of document to send King George in England that would give him a hint what they thought about him and also be an outline for a new country they were proposing to start. One of the guys, whose name was Walton and who would later be a signee on the finished product said, "Why don't we tell him to just go eff himself?" Most of the others agreed this was a good idea, but the guy named Jefferson who was taking notes, softened that a bit when he wrote it down. After a while they got down to the crux of the matter and started talking about freedom and the inalienable rights of man. I wasn't sure what inalienable meant, but I think it had something to do with Signourney Weaver. Mostly they seemed to be talking about freedom from government. Things like no wiretapping phones, no stealing elections, making sure everyone could see a doctor and get leeches when they needed them, no invading foreign countries without Congress' permission and insuring the right to wear wigs whether you were bald or not. They were really a well meaning bunch of guys. After a couple of time travel units, I really don't know how much regular time had passed, Sam did his flag waving thing and we were back in my kitchen. "So," Sam says to me, "you see how it was." I nodded and poof...well not really poof, it was more a kind of gradual disintegration like getting beamed up on Star Trek, the first one...he was gone.

I stood there in the kitchen with my empty beer mug thinking I should either refill it or give it up forever. I decided to sleep on it. No sense being hasty, it might all be a dream.

Sometime later, again I'm not sure about the time thing, I've got to give Steve Hawkings a call, I was awakened by The Ghost Of 4th of July Present. This guy looked nothing like a beer commercial. He was dressed in a nice suit, wore wing tipped shoes and carried a bible. "Come with me" he said, and zappo we were transported to a place that- I've never really been there so I'm only guessing - could have been The White House. Again a group of guys were sitting around drafting a document. I couldn't actually see what they had written so far, but the title of the manuscript was The Declaration of Oil Dependence. Everyone in the room seemed in agreement that this was a good idea, including the King George who was present this time, and they all thought they could sell it to the public because they had another work to be called either "NeoConstitution" or Neoconning- the-Institution, they hadn't decided yet. This work had some interesting chapter headings like, "Who Needs the Environment?", "God's On Our Side Or We Wouldn't Be Rich", Up The Corporation Because We Won't Always Be In Office" and near the end, a chapter called "Overpopulation" with the subtitle, "The Poor May Be Edible." These were all earnest young men who thought they were doing the right thing, because they all had personally met Jerry Fallwell. "Yo Ghost," I said to my spirit guide, "whatdaya say we move along?" And we did, right to the Future.

Somewhere along the way I was passed off to another ghost whose attire changed spookily from one minute to the next. First it was a kind of space suit, then cave man furs, then something from a Madonna video, then, well, on and on. The way people dressed in the future seemed to be either a matter of choice or, it dawned on me, uncertain. That's what I was getting as the ghost and I watched the human race being wiped out by natural disasters, invaded by bugs, saved at the last moment, beamed to their home planets, living underground, living in bubbles, eaten by the rich and, in one instance, living happily ever after. The future was uncertain. Up in the air. A matter of choice. Personally I liked the insect scenario, because I'm a SciFi buff, but when I mentioned this to my ghost buddy he turned into a giant version of a tomato bug and I quickly changed my mind. I ate tomato bugs. Shortly after that I was plopped back in my bed and all the ghosts were gone.

I lay there awhile thinking what was the point, what was the point? I'm not real bright about politics, I'm much better with literature. I suppose that's why, in the end, I gave up trying to figure it all out and decided on a simple course of action. I'd find some crippled kid name Tim and buy him a turkey.

Damn I enjoyed The 4th.

4th of July

Cuatro de Julio. 4th of July. Picnics, parades, fireworks. How about that Revolutionary War? That was a good one, wasn't it? Minute men, Washington crossing the Delaware, Bunker Hill, Redcoats and Paul Revere. Pretty much sums up what I learned in school. That and something about throwing all the tea into Boston Harbor because we had decided to become coffee drinkers. Makes for a good celebration though. I wonder if the Madisons and the Jeffersons got together the year after the war ended for burgers and beer? More potato salad Tom? Probably not. What did they do and why don't we know more about it? Why don't our history books tell us more of these important details? I'll tell you why. Because it's a conspiracy to keep us in the dark. The first of it's kind. The founding fathers, a couple of the mothers and one or two kids huddled up and said, now what? We've knocked off the old country, got rid of tea, soccer, good manners and health care, what else can we do for fun? So they decided right then and there to create baseball, the kind without designated hitters, the Super Bowl, the 4th of July and secret societies where they could meet to determine the course of the world and invent other sports. Motocross is one of those. They were, afterall, conspire-ers, which is a word you can't say three times in a row without making your mouth go all funny. They conspired to rid the country of King George, soldiers wearing red and taxes. They did this by making a declaration. That made them conspire-ers and declarer-ers. Sure we've got George and the taxes back, but our troops look darn sporting in those camouflage outfits. They also conspired, which for those of you who don't know, is when two or more people put their heads real close and whisper, several other things like the right to bear arms and children, not knowing at the time that we'd bear too many of both. And then because other people were suspicious what with them whispering all the time, they declared all their stuff out loud and on paper and that's why we have the Declaration Of Independence, The Constitution and The U.S.G.A. Rules of Golf. Reason enough for burgers and beer.

Being Me?

It's not easy being me. Okay it's easy for me to be me, but you try to be me and see what happens. For one thing, you probably won't be able to fit into my head. I have a small head. Size 7. Can you put all your stuff in that size head? I didn't think so. Another thing is, what will you do when an idea like how come sighs and size are pronounced the same pops up? Or what is George Bush doing at this exact moment and why are we letting him? I'll bet you'd have no idea. Some parts of me you'd like though. Some parts are still fully functional after all these years. For instance, my left knee is completely unscarred and I have at least four toes that haven't been broken. You might like my attitude too. I'm generally pretty cheerful and it takes a lot to get me down. A two game Broncos losing streak will do it. That and a chest cold and I'm suicidal, but mostly, I'm up, eager and optomistic. An example of that is I believe I can get to the end of this paragraph even though at the moment it looks like a no-hoper. You see, what I've done is I've written the first thing that popped into my head to find out if it would lead me anywhere. This is another thing that you trying to be me probably wouldn't care for. I'm having fun taking the monkeymind out for exercise while you'd more likely want to cop some extra zzz's. Or maybe read about trade deficits with China. Who are you anyway and why would you even consider wanting to be me? Do you know I have a bad back and my jump shot just...isn't? Do you know I walk, talk and think with a limp? In fact I'm limping the thought right now that you need to reconsider this whole project. Because...as I've said...it's not easy being me.

Annika Sorenstam who is essentially a muscled golfing machine and Patty Hurst who trains at Taco Bell and neither of whom want to be me, are going to duke it out in an 18 hole playoff for The U.S. Open Title, ladies version, in just a few minutes which means I've got to be going. While I'm gone, if you want to be me, have at it.

Oldie # 2

I was browsing through old files the other day and I came across the following bit. It was written as a catharsis to rid myself of a very long day.

ACCOUNTING ESSENTIALS FOR THE NON-ACCOUNTANT
OR
WHAT WAS I THINKING?
By Doc Walton

This all day class and my participation in it was undoubtedly the result of some heinous crime I had committed in my childhood for which I had been previously unrepentant. And, in truth, I thought the Constitution prohibited punishment of a cruel and unusual nature. Some people are just not meant to glean the meaning of “The Accounting Cycle – An Overview” and should not be allowed to commune with those who can for fear of spiritual damage to both.
I meant no great harm at the end of the day when I elaborated to my wife on the depth of the coma and the degree of the boredom I had achieved while attending this class, but I was perhaps too descriptive and too enthusiastic and too colorful in my narration. I should not have dwelled so long on the weirdness and the alien-like qualities of people who do enjoy Event equals Journal equals General Ledger equals Adjustment equalsFinancial Statement equals More of the same for all Eternity, for it was at the precise moment of my most deeply thrust rapier bon mot that my wife leaped to her feet and screamed something about my not knowing what the hell she did all day and how insensitive a butthead could I be anyway!
I plead ignorance, poor memory and being genetically male (hence a sub species), but it did little good. She remained in an angry fugue for the rest of the night and was heard to mumble something about liquidity ratios and my debit and credit entry being precariously unbalanced in her book, so watch out Buster, moments before falling asleep to CNN’s “Wall Street Today.”
I followed her into dreamland perhaps a half hour later; Pat Conroy’s, "Prince of Tides", happily concluded and placed on the bed table beside me. It was on Pat’s pages I had found the words “minatory, circumvallated, flense, anapests, numinous” and more. Words, glorious, wonderful words! I would face the reality and necessity of numbers another day. Tonight I had my words. “Divagation…manumission…chasubles”... sleep.

Bio Bit

Doc here. Six foot four, one hundred ninety lean, hard pounds, cat like movements, gold flecks dance in my eyes. I stole that from a NY disc jockey sometime in the Nineteen Sixties. I can't remember his name, but he could do a mean Ronald Colman impression and, of course, being on radio he could get away with any self description he wanted to use. I used to answer the phone that way, "Doc here, six foot four, etc" Rarely got a laugh, but I liked it. Now when I get the chance I go with "Helloooo, Hellooo, Hellooo, I am your beloved Count Olaf" or, if the caller is a Spanish speaker I say, "Solo Loewe." (Low way way). That's from a men's cologne commercial showing here that cracks me up. Neither of those gets a laugh as well, but if you can't tickle yourself or Halle Berry, what's the world coming to? For any reader out there who hasn't met me - there are a few I'm told that this blog bit is passed along to - I am actually five foot ten, 160 pounds of lean, hard, fat, crablike movements and when things dance in my eyes I up the magnification of my reading glasses. My best impression is of John Wayne and, frankly, it's really bad, so if I start doing it, cut me off and send me home in a cab. Oh yeah, and I'm twenty six years old. (I can only tolerate so much non-fiction.)

I don't know why I wrote that paragraph. One thing just led to another. Kind of like life. Okay, exactly like life. One thing leads to another. It's a good thing too, I suppose, because if one thing led to the same thing I'd be writing the first paragraph again.

I'm looking out my window for inspiration and I'm not getting a thing. There's nothing out there but lush vegetation in every shade of green serving as a backdrop for countless flowers of more colors than your biggest crayon box ever held, a towering volcano whose peak is this morning shrouded in clouds and whose sloping shoulders seem to encircle our house and a huge pale sky with dark, fast moving clouds streaming by like some kind of celestial parade. So with nothing to write about there, I think I'll just call it a day.

It's a day.

Smoking Ban

This is what I dreamed I was writing last night: I've liked bars ever since my father first started taking me to them when I was about eight or nine. Certainly not as old as ten. I liked the smoke filled air and the bitter, clingy smell of spilled beer. These were working men's bars. They were noisy, sometimes raucus and most had either shuffleboards or pool tables. All of them had juke boxes. Five cents a tune or six plays for a quarter. We'd stay while Dad had a draft beer, sometimes two and I drank a coke and listened to the men talk. I really wanted to play Pool, it looked like it would be fun, but the tables were always being used. And then, because I was dreaming and dreams being what they are, I stopped writing and was morphed into some other dream adventure I can't recall this morning. Damn! I was hoping to get at least five hundred words from no work involved dream inspiration. Maybe tomorrow night.

There is though, this link: Denver, the place I consider my home town because I lived there longer than in any other place, put a no smoking ban into effect at 12:01 this morning. That's no smoking in public places including bars. Now, as I've noted in my dream writing above, I like bars. This new ban is going to radically change their character. It is my feeling, yeah I know this is weird, that drinking alcohol should only occur while you are doing one or both of two other things; those things being eating or smoking. Drinking alcohol alone without the social accompaniment of a good meal or a fine smoke means that, it seems to me, you are drinking just to get drunk. Drinking, eating and smoking, are by many accounts, all ways to poison yourself, so why should one be banned and not the other? Shouldn't bar owners have the choice of putting up a sign saying either "Smoking Permitted Here" or No Smoking Here"? I'm not really making a stand, just commenting, because, hey, I'm in Panama. I can eat slabs of bacon, mainline Marlboros, they're a dollar a pack, or swim in rum, but, you know, I like bars and when I go to Denver I'll miss the smoke. Luckily, there's still that swell dead beer smell.

Bela Lugosi and Chimichanga

Dizzy in Brooklyn says she likes to say chimichanga, munchkin and pocahantas. Those are good words all, though the last is a name, a thing of no matter in the feels good to say them department. My favorites, in fact, are Bela Lugosi and Fernando Lamas. Since moving to Panama and learning to roll my R's I've added dozens more. Any name starting with an R like Rolando or Roberto can be trilled at length for maximum effect. Rrrrrrrrrroww- bear- toe!
Other word/names that give me kick are bungalo, Botswana and belly-button. The hard lip blast of a B gets a word off and running. In Spanish the letter B is barely pronounced. B's and V's are almost identical soft sounds. Dizzy also says there are words some people don't like to say. She gives moist and nipples as examples. I agree with nipples. I don't like tits either. I'm talking the words here, not the actual, you know, things. I especially don't like saying scatological words. Fart is my least favorite. It's not even fun to type it. My wife likes the word languid. It sort of sounds like what it means.

Here in peerless Panama (alliteration is always fun) the sky is so dark this morning that I have to use a desk lamp to see my keyboard. It is truly storming out there although the rain is inconsistent. What I mean by that is, sometimes it falls hard and sometimes it falls really hard. Doesn't bother me though. I have no problem with moist.

Took a timeout to watch Argentina vs. Germany in The Copa Del Mundial. Germany in Spanish is Alemania which is fun to say and pronounced ah-lay-mahn-ya, although ale mania works for me too and isn't ale/beer mania what Germany is all about? Argentina is impossible to say in Spanish without summoning a lugie in the back of your throat. Don't like lugies so I stick with the English version. Alemania won the game in a post overtime shootout. Yeah, I know, you're thrilled.

The women's U.S. Open Golf Tournament is coming on now. It was fogged out yesterday. Fogged isn't a particularly funny word to say, but it's a funny word to look at. I'm rooting for Lorena Ochoa and Annika Sorenstam because they are a lot easier to say than Jeong Jang and Hee Wan Han although that last one sounds like some kind of a request. Another Korean in the field is Grace Park which is either a place or an order.

Monyahnah.

Charge!

The Pittsburg Pantaloons. The Seattle Suits. The Carolina Cocktail Dresses. The Brooklyn Bikinis. The Syracuse Spaghetti Straps. The Atlanta Athletic Supporters. Just a few names that might have been if the trend in naming teams after articles of clothing had continued. Of course, they would have been more cleverly, or more badly, spelled.

I'm depressed this morning. There's a heavy load on my shoulders that's weighing me down and causing a pain in my neck. It's my head. Damn thing just sits up there staring out the window watching the clouds go by. As far as I can tell the only message it's sending down to the rest of me is how about another cup of coffee. I'm looking for inspiration, my head's in search of caffeine. Maybe what we both need is to go on a Retreat. I don't really know what a Retreat is, but I've just learned that one of my daughters is off to one and I want to go to. Having once been in the military it never occurred to me that a Retreat might be a good thing. In the Army Attacks were good and Retreats were bad, so I've never experienced going backwards. Must have something going for it though or my daughter wouldn't be on her way there. She's pretty smart.

Maybe I'm low because I've just come from surfing the web and my board needs more wax. I found myself wiping out on the big happy waves - Sox win 11th straight - and crashing below the curl - Nuggets draft nobody - and then being tossed about on an angry tide - average CEO makes more in one working day than average employee makes in all 52 weeks. This would probably not upset me as much if any of my kids was a CEO, but c'mon, how many parents have one of those? I wonder if CEOs go on Retreats. Probably not. Bet they own a few though. You know I'm off my game when I've written CEO three times without giving you the names the intials stand for. Clearly Egotistical Ossholes? There you go, I'm feeling better already. After lunch today - we are going out for Mexican - I'll be my old self. Yeah I know I'm my OLD self all the time, you didn't have to bring that up, I told you I was depressed, but a couple of margs and a chimichanga, a word that makes me happy just saying it, should have me back to my old OLD self in no time at all. So with that in mind I say to hell with Retreat. The word for today is Charge!

Sox and Fashion Police

The Boston Red Sox have won ten games in a row which inspires the question: why in the world did they pick the name Red Sox and what the hell are sox anyway? Can't be socks. Somebody in the front office would have caught that right off. Maybe it's an abbreviation for something, like Mets are for Metropolitans, Reds are for 1970's Russians and Rockies are for people who are not steady on their feet...but what? Frankly I'm baffled. I would think though, with a ten game winning streak going for them, this might be a great time to correct the errors of the past and introduce a new name. Something with a more modern sound to it. Something, say, like Blogs! The Boston Bloggers! That's it! I can see the headlines, Bloggers Bash Bronx Bombers. It's a nickname you can work with. Really. I mean what can you do with Sox? Sox Stink? Sox need darning? Sox wearing thin? Clearly Bloggers is the way to go.

It feels like a sports morning to me. I just read where Wimbledon is cracking down on cleavage. (There's a joke in there but I'm too tasteful to go for it even though I do like to keep abreast of things in the world of trophy cups.) Apparently some of the women players have been attired in fashions a bit too risque for the Brits. Not the British public mind you, they agree with me that when it comes to women's tennis little attire is good attire else why tune in in the first place. It's certainly not to hear the grunt thwock grunt thwock that accompanies every swipe at the ball. That would be, by all acounts boring. No, it's the stuffy old pervs who run the show that are making the objections. You can probably find them in the ladies locker room measuring cleavage as we speak. As my son likes to say because he feels it is an underused swear word.....The Bastards!

Ladies golf, by comparison, has taken a terriffic turn for the better. Not only are there a plethora, and where would we be if Howard Cosell had not given us "plethora" of hotties strolling the links, they are wearing whatever they feel suits them. Outfits ranging from short shorts and mini skorts to peddle pushers (how much money could a streetwise pusher make pushing peddles?) (The monkeymind is at large.) are in evidence. I'm sure terms like "skorts" and "peddle pushers" are ancient but they are the best I could pull from my limited vocabulary having not seen an "Elle" or a "Cosmo" since my last daughter left the building for college. ..but you get my drift. The Americans in charge of golf here have it all over the Wimbledon Brits in that they know what sells. Cleavage, I'm thinking is one of those things.

A distant, but persistent voice is nagging my conscience. It says, yeah but what about men's fashions? To this I can only reply...huh?

Podcasts and Pregnancies

Now that I have joined the 21st century, the first half anyway, the second half will require either a serious life support system or something involving hooded robes, chanting and a pentagram, by becoming a blogger -this is cutting edge stuff, right?- I now have my keenly alert and alertly keen senses open to discover new adventures streaking down the technological highway. One of them I have recently mastered - okay mastered may not be quite the right word, bumbled upon while pushing random keys on my computer more closely approximates reality - is a nifty bit of modern wizardry called Podcasts. With Podcasts I can download - a funny word download - movies, television shows, parades, zoos, circuses -another funny word - and everything you do in the privacy of your own home. I'm kidding about that last part. I can't download circuses. Consequently, I have made a practise lately of loading, I don't understand the down part, Bill Maher's HBO show onto my computer and then playing it while I walk up and down, this down I understand, my stairs as part of a futile program to get into what is clearly one of the world's vaguest terms...shape. Maher's wit played at volume keeps me distracted and masks the sound of my huffing and puffing. The ultimate goal of my conditioning is not, as you may think, a sounder mind and body, but rather the last real job available to men of my age and that is selling juicers on infomercials. Apparently you have to be old and in shape to operate these machines properly.

Not all technology suits me though. My pregnant daughter has recently taken to sending us photos of the baby that is INSIDE of her body and describing all the prodding and probings and tests the mad scientists of the modern world are putting her through. This is a bit much in my opinion. Back in the day we got babies the old fashioned way. We had them delivered. You watched your wife eat enchanted combinations of foods like pickles and ice cream for nine months and then you took her to the hospital. There she was whisked away from you to the DELIVERY ROOM where Mumbo Jumbo, Abracadabra and other like phrases were intoned, the mother was given some good drugs and a baby was delivered. That's delivered, like pizza. There was none of that moaning, screaming push and all the bloody stuff so vivid in today's modern birthing. At least as far as we knew, the husbands. Our job was to pace the floor of the waiting room, where, you guessed it, we waited and chain smoked Winstons. "They also serve who stand and wait." It was a tough job and sure we coughed a lot, but it was all worth it when they handed you the kid, although a little bit less so when they handed you the bill.

Podcasts. Next week...Podpeople. The story of The Bush White House.

Dogfight

I haven't mentioned my dog or Bush for quite awhile. Of course, one of those topics is not really interesting enough for a Doc Blog so I'll write about the other.

I took my dog Gus for a long walk yesterday. He was thrilled and I was tired of stair climbing. It was a nice day, sunny and warm and we bopped along taking our individual pleasures. For me that was mostly through my eyes which darted from one bit of beautiful Panama to another and through my ears which were tunneling P.G. Wodehouse's "Hot Water" into my consciousness via my Walkman's ear plugs. Gus, as usual, was getting his kicks through his nose which led him to piles of other dog's poop, a thing that thrills him to no end, horse manure, a thing that requires rolling in, and invisible spoors of invisible creatures that make him wander into the jungle forcing me to whistle him back. Being a "Good Boy" he always returns. Neither of us was paying much attention when another dog, fortunately tied to a tree near its indian shack home, started going beserk in that let me at 'em, I'll tear 'em limb from limb way that dogs have when protecting their homestead and sometimes for seemingly no reason at all. I think I have mentioned on some other occassion that Gus is not adverse to a good scrap from time to time. He's real clear about what's his turf, but a bit dense when it comes to recognizing the boundaries of another dog and the other dog in this case was some kind of a hound mix going a bit over twice as large as Gus. Gus was undeterred and off the leash. For those of you who don't know Gus, he's a Cocker Spaniel who would look good posing next to a turn-of- the- century woman, all long dress, bonnet and parasol in a Rockwell painting, but looks seriously out of place in a dog fight. I, on the other hand, was completely deterred and thinking what would Jesus do right now. The hell I was! I was thinking what would Cesar Milan the Dog Whisperer do and it came to me that it was pay no mind, act like the other dog wasn't even there and walk on by. So that is what I did. Theoretically, your dog will take his cue from you and in actuality, what-do-you-know, that's how it worked. Gus was snarling his little snarl and puffing his hair like a porcupine as he closed on the other mutt, but the further away I got the less interest he showed in the fight until, eventually, he just abandoned it and ran to catch up with me. Neat.

But that's only the half of it. Later that day I got to thinking about how brave dogs are and my dog in particular. Little Gus was going to take on a dog twice his size. TWICE his size. I decided then and there that I needed to be as brave as my dog. It's only fair. So the next time I run into a guy 12 feet tall weighhing 320 pounds. I am going to KICK HIS ASS. No one smaller wll do.

"Having Sex"

When did expressions like "having sex" or "had sex with" first arise? (So to speak.) I'm thinking the Nineties. I don't recall ever hearing people use the word sex to indicate the act itself before then. Prior to The Nineties, sex was just the category in which the act was done. It is a proper usage though. I looked it up in my Wester's New World Order Eat Your Heart Out OED and the fourth definition given says sex is the act of intercourse. I know for sure we didn't "have sex" when I was a teen in The Fifties. There were rumors of other kids "doing it," but these were seldom confirmed and "it" was hazily defined. Watching old Fifties televison makes "doing it" even more suspect. The people were all so clean and well dressed. And women's hair? Yikes, It would take hours to put those do's back together after a bout of torrid "undoing it." The rare bedroom shot on a Fifties show revealed twin beds that looked more utilitarian than inviting and they were always neatly made. We teens did have a few things though, that fell into the category of sex. These were petting, dry humping, copping a feel and talking about "doing it." Not a very satisfying lot. In The Sixties, Ah the Sixties -you have to say that, "Ah The Sixties" if you were actually there - people didn't "have sex' either. They balled. They balled as in "I balled a really hot chick last night" or "we were balling when my parents walked in." Women were Chicks then or Birds if you were British. Which may be why almost everybody "got layed" in The Seventies. Like an egg. Sure there were a few people "getting their rocks off," but there was nary a soul "having sex." And then came The Eighties when we all "got fucked," but I'm off the topic of sex now and on to politics. I don't really remember what the euphemism for intercourse was at the time but I did hear this a lot: Ever since I learned about Herpes I don't even kiss anymore. Oh yeah, now I've got it. People were "sleeping together" in The Eighties. Apparently fatigue played a large part in Eighties sex. So it has to be The Nineties when Clinton "did not have sex with that woman" when "having sex" first came to mean "doing it." (I'm a Fifties kid, remember.) That's my best guess anyway. I kind of like the phrase. It is to the point without the hint of academia like "intercourse" or the too often insincerity of "making love" while not reekin o the nasty like "fucking," "balling" "getting layed" and the like. On the other hand, "let's have sex" sounds like someting you might say when putting down the dinner menu. "I'll have sex, you get the chicken and we'll share."

And speaking of sharing, I have to share this: Jerry Falwell's favorite baseball team is..............
The New York Yankees. Oh yeah, like that's a big surprise.

Finally, how about a comment? I have forgotten who I am talking to.

Blogging Rapido

I have to hurry this morning, the U.S. plays Ghana in about an hour. Is the U.S. Ghana win? I doubt it. (Yeah, I know, the pun is too obvious.) I've really got nothing itching to come out and find a home in cyber space today, so maybe a match between these two world soccer powers, (yuk yuk) will fill me with inspiration and tomorrow I can write a long prosaic blog about "the beautiful sport" as it's known in the parts of the planet where people can, apparently, tie their shoelaces with their feet.

Okay, here's an aside that came as a revelation to me which is no big thing in itself what with the effects of the Big Bang and the Universe unfolding around us and all that, but you might like to know it if you don't already. I was going to write something in the last paragraph about the words prosaic and blog not being compatible thinking that prosaic meant pretty or flowery or something along those lines, but because, I think, I've never actually used that word before, I decided to look it up in my Webster's New World College Dictionary in lieu of my Webster's Old World High School Dictionary which I've misplaced. Prosaic means, like prose, unlike poetry, specifically heavy, flat, unimaginative, commonplace, dull and the ordinary details of everyday life. Who da thunk it? So prosaic and blog do go together and I can't go back to the first paragraph and insert my disclaimer. The sentence is correct as it stands. Bummer.

As I was saying, tomorrow I may be inspired to write a dull, ordinary, comonplace account of the U.S. / Ghana soccer match. No I won't! You wouldn't read it if I channeled Byron or Shelley or Yeats or (insert funny name of your choice here. Liberace? Gilbert Godfrey? Tito Jackson?) One of the four things I know is that the word soccer sends U.S. men scurrying for their tv remotes. No way are they going to read about it. Another thing I know is that the Norwegian Navy is the best one they have. So not to worry. No soccer. Except in passing. Which they do with their feet. After they've tied their shoes.

And looking about for one last idea to complete today's blogginess, I find on my not read pile of books two titles calling for attention. The first is "Hunting Unicorns." I may not get to that for awhile. The second, "Big Bosoms and Square Jaws is screaming read me, read me! I hope it's well illustrated.

Pill Poppin Papa

I just downed my morning doses of Vitamin E, Saw Palmetto, Hepasil, Aspirin and the latest addition, Nexium. I haven't the least confidence that any of these do anything at all including the Aspirin. So much for the placebo effect. The E I'm told is good for the skin and as that largest of all organs is the one most troublesome to me via basal cell carcinomas I take 400 I.U.'s a day. I don't know what I. U.'s are, insect umbilicals comes to mind, but I pop them anyway. Basal cell carcinoma, while I'm at it, sounds to me like a type of jail sentence. Saw Palmetto is an herb reputed to aid prostate health and is obtained by sawing down palmettos, I think. I buy mine from a store, so I can't be sure, but why else the name? Old guys take this because they pee too frequently and Saw is supposed to help with that. Personally I think we just have too much time on our hands and are always looking for anything that feels good to round out the day. Aaahhh is an often heard sound when old guys let er rip. Hepasil is a complete mystery to me. My wife put it next to the computer with the other pills and buys a new batch whenever we run out. Because I'm a curious guy, I read the label, well the big stuff on the front anyway, not all those tiny words on the back and sides, and the most striking thing there, in bold letters is this: B Complex. All my life I've tried to keep it simple and straightforward and now I have a pill to be complex. Is my wife trying to tell me something? It also says, though in somewhat smaller letters: con Silimarina y Lipotropicos. This is, of course, Spanish, but how hard is that to translate? My question is, what the hell is that doing in pill form? Silly marinas indeed. Maybe it's a dream inducer. I mean, tropic lips? c'mon. Then there is the Aspirin. Aspirin's claim to fame is that it is supposed to relieve headache pain. I don't get headaches very often, but when I do, I take something, Tylenol, Advil, Aspirin, Banana, it doesn't really matter, the headache goes away. I've also noticed that when I don't take anything the headache goes away, so I'm not sure what the point is or if what I take is really doing the job. Aspirin is also reputed to be helpful in preventing heart attacks and strokes by making your blood thinner. My thought here is, if we, well the scientific part of we anyway, can create a pill that makes our blood thinner, why can't we create a pill that makes our FAT thinner? Hey, I'm just asking. My aspirin is generic, but at the top of the bottle it says, "Compare to the active ingredient of Bayer Aspirin. Am I wrong, but isn't the active ingredient of Bayer Aspirin...Aspirin? Finally, there is Nexium, a new addition to my deskside drug tray. This puppy is supposed to prevent heartburn, a thing that SOUNDS really painful, heart BURN, and acid reflux, ACID? I'm refluxing ACID? Why did I flux it in the first place, for crying-out-loud, it's ACID! and other nasty little things like people saying, "I just threw up in my mouth a little." Hey, if a pill can keep people from saying that around me, I'm all for trying it. I should, however, point out that the active agent in Nexium is esomeprazol. The key syllable in that word is the one pronounced "pray."

Well, enough of this. I'm going to go consume something I'm certain is good for me like... Guiness Stout. The evidence is in and all those millions of Irish/Brit brats can't be wrong. Yeah, I hear ya, it's nine o,clock in the morning, but you know, I could double up on my Saw.

Ice Cream Sex

I was sitting outside my front door yesterday in the early eve enjoying a Phillies cognac dipped Blunt Cigar, available for 47 cents at fine tobacconists everwhere and sipping a Bloody Mary, available at my house for good conversation if you happen to be around when I'm mixing, when a commercial for an ice cream bar began to play on my television set. I had positioned the set so that I could view it from outside and thus free the house from the lingering scents of fake cognac and cheap tobacco. Not that those are bad scents, mind you. It's just that in an enclosed space they will make your eyes bleed. Normally, when a commercial comes on, I take a moment and allow the monkeymind to leap about in search of an idle thought that may have wandered into the neighborhood. Was Mickelson on drugs Sunday or did he NOT take the drugs he usually takes that give him that zombie stare he sports when actually winning a tournament is an exmple of a thought the monkeymind might have grabbed from a nearby branch. Normally, however, I don't get to see a beautiful woman have oral sex with an ice cream bar on television. Back in the day, when cigarette commercials were second only to booze ads for generating network bucks, it was not uncommon to see the fair sex sucking hard on phallic objects, but they were consenting adults with consenting objects. What I saw from my patio yesterday was a woman doing to a frozen milk product what should only be done in the privacy of one's, ah, I'm thinking kitchen, while leaning over the sink. I mean it was messy. And it was hot! The woman was a dark eyed, dark haired, latin, twenty something beauty, slender and tall who looked right at you as she chomped down hungrily on the chocolate covered bar with white cream oozing down the sides. This was a woman who was GOOD at eating ice cream! She ate it with flair and panache, which are two of the better ways to eat anything and also regulars on Will and Grace. She wore short shorts and a blouse whose top buttons were opened to reveal just enough cleavage to capture any drippage from the bar. A nice touch that, I thought. While I sat there enjoying the ad and thinking of the erotic things I'd like to do to HaagenDaz, it occurred to me that this kind of ad is why so many fat kids are clogging up the sidewalks in the U.S. A. and coming soon to a country near you. As I've said, back in the day, we kids got our subliminal sex messages from cigarette commercials and we all grew up smoking instead of eating and sure we died of cancer at a prodigious rate, but c'mon, we died thin. Didn't take an NFL team to lift our coffins. What does all this mean? Am I advocating smoking? No, not really. Unless, of course, you know, it's cognac dipped.

What's In A Name?

Everything I have to say save one this morning has to do with sports or deportes as we like to say here in Latin America, okay we don't actually like to say it, we just do so, so people will know from whence we speak, which is something we really like to say because, c'mon, how many times do you get to say from whence we speak, so I'll get to the one thing first and get it off my chest.

I have just learned that the real name of legendary blues great Muddy Waters is...McKinley Morganfield. If you are wondering why I needed to get this off my chest, then you try carrying McKinley Morganfield around on yours. Smart man, old Muddy. He could sense that MM didn't quite have the proper tone for the blues. Needed something a little ruddier, a little, well muddier. "And now Ladies and gentlemen, on our stage for the first time, bringing us down, breaking our hearts and wearying our worried minds, please welcome McKinley Morganfield!" Just wasn't going to work. It is kind of a shock to learn though. Next thing you know they'll be telling me B.B King is Ashly Lamont.

Maybe the real trick is to become a one name icon like Brazilian soccer stars and American entertainers. Yesterday a new name emerged joining the long list of Brazilian greats such as Pele, Ronaldo, Ronaldnino and most recently...Kaka. I submit for your approval the goal clinching scorer in yesterday's fierce match with Australia...Fred. That's right, Fred. The great Fred. The mighty Fred. Fred goes to Disneyland...and Hollywood! Think of it. There's Cher, Madonna, The Artist Formerly Known As Prince and now...Fred. Tomorrow's star? I'm going with Ralph.

And then there was the U.S. Open Heart Surgery in slow motion starring Phil Mickelson who, it is rumored, is now singing the blues and has changed his name to Dirty Diapers. He was in danger for a while of becoming a one namer, either Phil or Mickelson would do, put he's definetly put that to rest. On the other hand, the tournament's winner has a perfect moniker for one name status... Ogilvy. I like saying that, Ogilvy. Ogilvy meets the Tiger. I'm looking forward to it. Maybe at the British O.

And finally, from the do movies mirror real life or does real life imitate movies argument comes this: I saw a commercial yesterday for a new movie that stars the Charlie's Angels girl who is not Cameron Diaz or Lucy Liu, I can't remember her name and neither can my wife and memory, and in the movie she is dating a guy who is a crazed Red Sox fan. In the clip the guy is on one knee in front of...whatever her name is, holding a small box. The kind that usually holds a ring. As he says something to her, you can't hear what in the clip, he slowly opens the box to reveal... a pair of Red Sox game tickets. Now I wasn't there when my daughter D was proposed to and I've heard romantic tales of how it was supposed to have gone down, but I know her husband well and I'm thinking this was a moment stolen from their lives. Somebody should be sending them money.

Father's Day

Inconsequentialness. I was thinking about the incon... of this blog when one of my readers referred to it as masturbation. I thought perhaps he was right, but then on further reflection, I realized that I get enough feedback from other readers to know this is not just masturbation, but actual, full fledged, intercourse! (And if you are going to have intercourse it should be fledged, fully) That said, let's get it on. (Inconsequentialness has 19 letters, how much foreplay do you need?)

Today is Father's Day, another Hallmark creation celebrating a part of the consequentialness of intercourse. One minute you're screaming, "Oh Baby oh Baby" and the next minute you've got one. I don't know the connection there but you'll never hear me screaming, "Oh Walrus." Father's day is a good holiday even if it was created to sell cards and last year's ties, because it gives an excuse to play golf or go fishing or sit on your ass and watch The U.S. Open wondering if Phil Mickelson should wear a manziere. It's also a good day because each and every one of your children will call you or email you and wish you a happy or they will GO TO THEIR ROOMS AND STAY THERE UNTIL THEY ARE READY TO SAY THEY ARE SORRY. Wives, on the other hand, will think back to Mother's Day and act accordingly. I made breakfast for mine, gave her presents, played golf with her and took her to a fine restaurant for dinner. Okay, so it wasn't all in the same year, but I did do those things. I am personally going to celebrate Father's Day by not doing all those damn things I have to do every other day. Like...like... shaving. I am NOT going to shave today and I'm going to enjoy the heck out it. I am also Not going to make dinner. Wait a minute, I don't do that anyway. So nevermind that, but I am definetly NOT going to shave. And if I were the rest of you Dads out there, I wouldn't either. Today is the day to make a stand.

Happy Father's Day to those of you who qualify, and, what the hay, to the rest of you as well.

The Devil and the NYTimes

I've just come from my morning fix of news, weather and sports. In the news it's good to see that Hooters is paying back the $200 for the bottle of champagne they received from the Katrina funds and the weather, from what I can see out my window, is clement. In sports, Clement goes on the disabled list. That would be Matt Clement a Red Sox pitcher. Also in sports, the U.S. soccer team did not lose to the Italians yesterday as I expected for reasons having to do with the game not being scheduled until 3 o,clock... today and, Tiger Woods missed the cut at The U.S. Open. Tiger shot 76 Thursday and 76 again yesterday and missed playing the weekend by three strokes.

I would sell my soul to shoot 76 on a golf course as hard as Winged Foot. (Our Spanish announcers pronounce that, "win-ged phooot") Hell, I'd sell my soul to shoot a 76 at any...wait a minute, some guy just showed up next me. Wants to talk. He's wearing a nice suit. Looks a little like Bush. Looks a lot like Bush. Says he'll take me up on the deal. What deal, I ask him. The soul thing? C'mon, it's just an expression. He says he will up the ante. A 76 or better every time out. Hmm, tempting, but no, I don't have that many rounds left. Says he'll knock off twenty years and put new tires on the beast. He's got my attention. I tell him it's a deal if he throws in world peace for, oh let's say, a thousand years. He says it is out of his hands. I say get out of Panama. Like that, he's gone. Wus. He'd a probably freaked out ayway when we got to that signing in blood part.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Tiger. 'sa shame.

Lots of blogging about the NY Times list of the best books of the last 25 years. Toni Morrison's "Beloved" was the number one pick. There were multiple entries from Philip Roth, Don Delilo and Cormac McCarthy. I've read them all, the authors that is, not all their books, and they are without doubt, damn fine writers. How they could have more than one book on the list while writers like Tom Robbins, Richard Russo, John Irving and well, a slew of others have none is a bit puzzling though. And I wonder what criteria was used for "best." Obviously, most popular was not a consideration or "The DaVinci Code" and other long running best sellers would have made the list. I suppose it was just the favorites from a select group of literati hanging around The Times office looking for free coffee and something to do who got to choose. Why they didn't ask me remains a mystery. If I had been "The Legend of Bagger Vance" and "Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates" would have been high on the list. "Beloved"admittedly, was good and I like that a ghost story was selected number one, but the best of the last 25? Nah, no way. That would be "Jitterbug Perfume." Or "The Cold Six Thousand." Or "The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night." Or...well, you tell me.

Hodgepodge

I sing to my dog, but he remains unmoved.

Yesterday I bought a bunch of bananas. There were seven on the cluster. Big fat yellow beauties. Cost me 18 cents. Four limes cost 20.

I also bought Nexium, a drug reputed to be the end-all in heartburn avoidence. Fourteen pale pink pills whose cost could have bought me a banana plantation. I'm looking for a green chile, pepperoni, garlic pizza to put them to the test. Wash it all down with a nice acidic glass of red. See what happens.

I was wrong about The Open coverage yesterday. We didn't get four hours. We got Nine. I missed a couple buying bananas and watching Inglaterra defeat Trinidad and their Tobago Sauce In The World Cup. Which is a misnomer by the way. At least in Spanish. In Spanish the games are called Copa Del Mundial. If you want a cup of tea here you ask for a taza de te. Taza is a cup. If you want a glass of wine you ask for a copa de vino. Copa is a wine glass. The World Wine Glass continues today with the U.S. playing Italy. I think I'll watch golf. And eat bananas.

I fell asleep last night thinking of Things My Father Didn't Teach Me That I Also Forgot To Pass Along, But No Matter, My Kids Are SmarterThan Me and Learned Them Anyway. Things like working hard is good but it guarantees you nothing. Working smart and Being smart is better. And work indoors, play outdoors. People who work outdoors tend to gravitate toward bars for entertainment. There is fun there but golf is better. And so are fishing, camping, boating, hiking, cycling, volleyball and skiing. Okay forget that last one. And, of course, as Dave Barry once said, never lick a steak knife.

There will be further bits of too late wisdom passed along in this blog as they come to me. Perseverence is an important one. It's why I'm now off to sing to my dog.

The Open Opens

The U.S. Open begins today. The golf version not the tennis version. The tennis version is for people who enjoy turning their heads from side to side in a rhythmic sort of way and who say things like, "he has an excellent forehand." The forehand is, of course, the one opposite the afthand. The golf version of The Open is for golfers. I can't imagine anyone else tuning in to hear an announcer in his most dramatic whispered voice say, "this three footer breaks left to right ever so slightly Bob," other than Phil Mickelson groupies who on the whole make Desperate Housewives look like a stable group. Hence Charly and I will be watching all four hours each day for the next four days. It is either that or England vs. Trinidad Tobaggo. We define this as fun. We get to comment on the play and follow our favorite players while reading books, cleaning house, playing with the dog, or anything else we can squeeze in between the fast paced action on the tv screen. Charly's favorite players are the aforementioned Phil Ficklehead and old guys Fred Couples and Ben Crenshaw. I like Tiger and Ernie. One name guys. Like Pele and Kaka. On the distaff side - I don't think I've ever said that before. Distaff. Dis staff heah is da staff of life - we both like Lorena Ochoa because she is a cutie and a fellow Spanish speaker and I always like it when Natalie Gulbis is in the hunt, because, A. she is a fox and B. How much fun is it to say Nat Tal E Goool Biss? Lots. We realize that this kind of activity, golf watching, like sword swallowing or scab picking is not for everyone on a daily basis, but we do reccommend that you tune in on Sunday when the competiton gets really tight and you've got time to, say, rebuild your car engine or knit an afghan that will cover the garage while Mickelson lines up a putt. It's really exciting. For golfers.

Snow and Kaka

Born to blog? I don't know, I'm all blogged up this morning. There are blog bits flitting around me like fruit flies, but I can't seem to bag one. Sports and world news provided no inspiration this morning unless you want me to detail why Brazil didn't look particularly impressive at the World Cup yesterday while ekeing out a 1 -0 win. You do? Okay, in a nutshell, the MVP of the game went to Brazil's Kaka. I did not make that up, it is a player's name.

In order to watch Kaka I spent a good forty five minutes in a deja vu like trance twisting, turning, telescoping and cursing my new rabbit ears antennae to rid my television screen of snow. As I have chronicled on countless occassions, snow is a bad thing. It causes people to strap boards to their feet in an effort to break bones that would otherwise remain intact and, well, I'll leave it at that for now. Snow is bad, it was on my screen and I was fiddling with one of the world's dumbest looking contraptions like it was 1954 and the Army-Navy game was about to come on. As you will all remember, at least all of you over forty, while the antennae is actually in your hands, you can achieve a watchable picture. It is when you let go of the thing and move away from the tube that the blizzard returns. The best receptor of tv waves, magic or whatever leaps through the air and onto the screen appears to be the human body. With this in mind, I pondered how to get my wife to stand there for two hours while realizing the suggestion alone could cause me grievous bodily harm. If I was going to watch this game being played on a sunny day in Germany, I was going to have to watch it through snow. This trajedy being necessitated by the fact that the most watched sporting event in the world, The World Cup, was not being shown on any of my 300 satellite channels. Well, life is, as they say, hard and then the sun comes out. Literally. The cloudy day we were experiencing here in Panama gave way to sunshine and the snow on my television shrunk to tiny flickering dots that were... bearable. Too bad the game was a clunker.

Adding to my list of sporting complaints are two others I need to vent away. Last night, the third game of the NBA finals, the most watched sporting event in Miami, Dallas and parts of New Jersey, was not shown here either on cable or in snow. What was available, and is too frequently the case, was the Yankee game. I'd rather lose at Scrabble.

Dreaming

I dreamed I was awake last night trying to get to sleep. Talk about a nightmare. I was lying there, in my dream, thinking about the U.S. getting drubbed by a Czech team that featured a 6 foot 10 inch bald guy as their best player and it was keeping me awake. Well that and the Will and Grace Christmas show rerun I had watched earlier in the day. Christmas. This is June, isn't it? You can see why even in a dream these things would be disturbing. I probably shouldn't be too upset about that last thing though. Holdays here are all out-of-whack. For instance, Panamanians have no idea when to celebrate the 4th of July. They do it sometime in November and they do it twice! Both times without a turkey or a barbecue grill. So I lay there thinking in my dream that I have to push this stuff out of my head and get some rest. I begin to dream I'm counting. I don't do the sheep thing, I just count. Slowly. Backwards. From a hundred. It doesn't work. Pretty soon I'm dreaming the clock thing. You know, the if I go to sleep now I'll get five hours of sleep. Four hours of sleep. Three hours of sleep. Luckily it's only a dream, I think in my dream, or I'd feel terrible in the morning.

It's Tuesday morning. I feel terrible. If I didn't know better I would swear I'd been up half the night. I made chile for dinner last night. Made it spicy. Somewhere around midnight, just before I started dreaming I was awake, the chile made a bold attempt to escape my body. Through my chest. I thought of Sigourney Weaver and her pals. I tried to imagine what a chile induced Alien would look like. I kept getting the Geico Gecko in a sombrero and really nasty teeth. Just lay real still, I thought, and it will subside. That's when I fell asleep and dreamnt I was awake.

I read an article on the net this morning that said a chemical in beer, the hops part specifically, helps to prevent prostate cancer. It also pointed out, however, that for it to be of significant value, a person would have to drink 17 beers or more per day. Better get started.

Los Angeles and The World Cup

I just perused my last blog. It cries out for something, but what? Yeah, I know, a rewrite.

Is there such a thing as a midblog crisis? I'm feeling the urge to buy a fancy new keyboard and entertain younger ideas.

Ah Panama. You gotta love the place. Saturday our friend D was on her way here in a downpour of biblical dimensions over a road that is only familiar with the word paved because there's a sign that says someday it will be so. She got to a part of the road that she knew was narrow and noticed it was narrower yet. Hers is a wide car. Not today, she thought and implemented plan b, which was an alternate route over another road that gives new meaning to the term pot holes. The new meaning is craters. On this road her right rear tire pancakes. Yes pancakes is too a verb. Afortunadamente - possibly my favorite Spanish word - there were three Panamanian construction workers there who were standing around waiting for the rain to stop. Let's call them los angeles, the angels, and if it works out we can name a city after them. These guys jump into the mud and set about changing D's tire. Everything is going fine until they try to release the spare. I don't want to get too technical here, not everyone is a car person, but there is a little hole on the bumper thing through which you stick a weird crooked, tool gismo and latch onto a splocket (I made that up) that you then turn to lower the spare tire onto the ground. Because this was all happening under dark skies, the guys couldn't see into the hole thing to find the latch thing. They needed a flashlight. D didn't have one. What she did have was a cell phone and our number. Happy to play Knight's Errant or is Errand, I grabbed my umbrella and car keys and headed for the beast. "Don't you want the flashlight?" my wife and larger part of my memory hollered after me. "Oh, yeah, sure, that." About twenty minutes later I arrive at the scene and all goes as planned except that neither D nor I have any dinero with us to tip los angeles. Arrangements are made to return and take care of that the following day. Not that it would matter. These guys are Panamanians. They were happy to help. As we drove away in our separate vehicles I was hollering out the window in my best Spanish, "Muchisimas Gracias" and one of the guys was waving and hollering back in his best English, "Hello hello!"

Here's the news you've all been waitng for: The World Cup is underway. Yesterday I watched Mexico defeat Iran 3 to 1. Had I not already determined which teams I was going to pull for, this one would have been easy. Can't root for Iran because they are Evil, Islamic Bad Guys and all that? Nah. They were wearing red. It would be like cheering on Nebraska, it'll never happen. Mexico wore green. What I have decided to do is back all the teams from this hemisphere. And England. When they play each other, I'll think of something else. The U.S. goes against the Czecks? Cezcks? Ceczks? Let's just call them the Check Republic, today. The Credit Card Nation versus The Check Republic. It is being billed(so to speak) as an even match. I hope the U.S. goes with blue.

Friday Nights

Yes, that's right, I am the doctor. Plop yourself on my couch and let me hear it. I do have a PHD (Partial Hearing Defect) and that makes me a doctor of philosophy. So, if your philosophy is sick, bring it to me and I will restore it to balance and beauty. I am not, however, licensed to prescribe or deal drugs, but I know where we can find good scotch, cheap. And wine. You bring the cigars.

I want to write something about Friday nights here, but I'm not sure what. It's something about being the son of a working man and growing up in that culture. It's not as bad as Jerry Lee Lewis singing "payday nights and painted women they do strange things to me" but there is an importance I still attach to Friday nights. The end of the week requires a reward, it seems to me, and a celebration. It most definetly needs music. I found myself on our balcony last night with a glass of wine, a cheap stogie and a head full of Friday night reminisces. (spell check doesn't work so go with it...reminisces) I had some music in the background, including Jerry Lee, who my wife hates but who inspires in me memories of honky tonks, my favorite kind of bars, and the it's Friday night every night attitude that prevails there. This will come as a surprise to any of my old drinking buddies who may be listening in, but I never went to a Honky Tonk in anyone's company but my own. I knew a half dozen of these country/western dives in Denver and I would go to one, sit at the bar and just watch that world so different from my own. This wasn't a thing I did often, mind you, only a few times a year, but I loved being anonymous and making up a completely different me in whatever conversations cropped up. I was my own country western song. In my hippie years, (No this in not a memoir. When I write one of those there will be a lot more lying.) Friday nights were often spent at a friend's house doing one kind of psychedelic or another. They were great night's too. Lots of laughter and wonderful insights. And then there were my suit wearing years which were sort of mixed in on and off throughout my working life - I don't think the suit thing ever really took - I went to better quality places. I drank the same booze though, it just cost more. And conversations were the same too; money women and sports, mostly women. They were delivered with better grammer and larger vocabularies, but they were the same conversations. I didn't have to make up a new character for myself on those Friday nights. I was wearing a suit. I was already pretending.

So I want to write something about Friday nights and I just don't know what it is. Something about sadness and celebration all at the same time. When it comes to me you'll be the first to know.

Blog In My Throat

Todd wants to know who thought this up: go hang a salami I'm a lasagna hog. The thought that then came to me was: When I showed her my palindrome she said it was the longest she had ever seen. Hey don't blame me, I just work with whatever comes my way.

If you ain't sweatin it, you ain't gettin it. That's my axion for exercise. If your exercise doesn't make you perspire you're just a big fat work out liar. I did 70 trips up and down my 14 stairs day before yesterday. Yes I have buns of steel and quads of quartz, but I also still have the belly roll blues. Six pack abs. Six pack of tapioca. When I finished my 70 trips and stood panting and dripping before my wife, who had been reading me things from the internet while I clumb, - which should be a word - she called me an OCD boy and I thanked her. OCD means Optimally Caressable Dude, right?

From an excellant book I'm reading, "Tears of the Giraffe" comes this: They enjoyed the luxury of an uneventful life. That's it! Exactly! I finally have the answer to the question, how you doon?
"I'm enjoying the luxury of an uneventfull life." Hah! A younger me would never have thought that was possible. The enjoyment part, that is. It would have been, c'mon c'mon c'mon let's do something. Now it's all narrowed down to the things I most like to do and, surprisingly, they're not particularly frantic or dramatic; a bit of writing, a lot of reading, some golf, the company of family/friends and the daily presence of my wife and dog. All the drama I need will soon be coming from Bronco training camp and my daughter's womb. Will Ashly Lelie get traded and who will we get for him and will it be a boy or a girl? And if it is a girl, how about the name Ashly? C'mon c'mon c'mon let's do something. What's the hold up here? We are moving towards the door.

Charly, who says there are no coincidences, thinks it's a coincidence that the rain stops and the sun comes out when I win at Scrabble. We all know that some things must occur for everything to be right with the world. The sun is shining this morning and the hills are alive with the sounds of blogging.

My thoughts?

"I'm just sitting here gathering my thoughts." That was a comment a woman made on an old movie I was sort of watching while reading a book and waiting for a Frazier rerun to come on yesterday. It seemed to be an acceptable thing to do and say as the person who had asked the woman "what are you doing?" just responded "oh" when she heard it and walked away.

Gathering my thoughts. I would do a little of that this morning if I could find any to gather. And really, if thoughts are out there to be gathered, I might be better off gathering someone elses. You know, someone smarter. Let me look around. Hmmn, I'm getting something from Gus about a walk and Charly is memorizing two letter words like ev and da to nail me with at Scrabble, but other than those, the flimsy thoughts that crop up seem to be my own. Or are they? It's some group like the Buddhists, the Taoists or Lee Andrews and the Hearts who say that if you believe you are the thinker of the thoughts, stop thinking them. Turns out you can't. They just keep coming. For instance, this one arrived just now for no apparent reason: What's the deal with human growth hormones? It's not my thought, don't blame me. I always figured Wheaties was a human growth hormone. So I guess the thoughts are out there on their own. They're tough to roundup though and a lot of the good ones never seem to enter my neighborhood. An example is that thirty or forty years ago the buy Microsoft thought was scooped up before it even got to my block. And bet on the Sox to win it all when they were three games down to the Yanks in 04? Never crossed my path. That move to Panama was definetly a good one. Charly thought, or is it caught, that one first.

I'm going to sit here now and see what arrives. Here it comes, here it comes! The parrots are back from cappucino or copacabana or wherever it is they go when they are not here. Wouldn't you know it. I grab that one while the answers to global warming are slamming into some future Nobel Prize winner's head. Hope he pays attention. Oh well, it's nice to have the parrots back. Four pair of them landed on a tree next to our balcony yesterday and just perched there leaning against each other like love birds in a Disney cartoon. Nice.

Oh Oh. Here comes another one. The greatest thing you will ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. Wait a minute! That's Nat King Cole's. Here's what I end up grabbing: The great beast leaped into the blog and was gone. Go figure.

It Won't Do

Lat night between 5 an 7, we received the annual rainfall of Colorado. We got it again between 9 and 11, 1 and 3 and 4 and 6. It is not raining as write this, but it looks like it might at any minute. Gus, who is lying here beside me, as is his wont in the early morn, doesn't like rain. (I threw in the word wont there, because Charly killed me with it in yesterday's Scrabble game.) This morning when I opened the door to let him out to do his business - I'm not sure what his business is, but I think it has something to do with accounting - he paused for a couple of seconds and I swear I heard him say "Sheesh" before he darted out into the downfall. He wasn't gone long. I don't usually mind the rain here in soggy Panama. It's warm, it keeps everything green and growing and apart from keeping me off the golf course a couple of times, it's not that intrusive. Lately, though, it has brought chillier temperatures with it and, as anyone who knows me knows, that just won't do. I didn't come to the tropics to throw another log on the fire.

And speaking of "won't" and not Charly's "wont", the one thing I don't like about Spanish is that there are no contractions. C'mon, I speak in contractions, I write in contractions, I live in contractions. For crying-out-loud they save TIME, which you can then stack next to your books and use when you start running out! I've heard Al Gore, we are running out! Why write or say "it is" when "it's" available? Doesn't make sense. Of course it's only we Gringos who are trying to save TIME. For us it is ( contractions don't always work, even if you are in a hurry.) something to hoard, because, you know, some of it is money. For Latinos TIME is something else; moments to fill with enjoyment and pass with love for one. Or is that two? Well yeah, but I'm also thinking they just have more of it. Why else do they go through life at such an unhurried pace and take the time to use entire words? Of course... they do speak them real fast.

We went to the Tuesday Gringo meeting at the Panamonte Hotel yesterday because the guest speaker was a veterinarian from Denver. He comes here a few times a year to help with the free, (if you have no money) Spay and Neuter Clinic. His topic for the day was fleas and ticks and why they make such terrible pets. He highly reccomends that you switch over to cats or dogs, becuase even though they eat more it's not your blood. We went to see if we could find help for Gus' continual scratching which, when he does so on our bed in the dead of the night and even in the still alive but dying part of the night, mimics the feel of earthquake tremors and can take you away from that sandwich thing you had going with Haile Berry and Jennifer Garner. We learned a lot and should be able to relieve Gus of some of his manic scratching and our dreamus interruptus.

One last thing, I think I have enabled the comment section of my blog. Somebody give it a try will ya. If it doesn't work you can always email me at woowoogolf@yahoo.com

Testing

Back in the day. There's an expression that has recently come into vogue...and probably other magazines as well...that I really like. It's got a little more wistful and nostalgic feel to it than the more often used Good Old Days. Back in the day.

Back in the day, if you wanted to go to college you had to take a series of tests we then called College Boards or the SAT's. (Stigmatizedfor Alle Ternity) I think they are called something else now. These tests were broken into two sections for which you received two separate scores. The sections were called Verbal and Math. It was after these Junior and Senior year tests ( We took them twice in an apparent effort to determine if Senior Year was a waste of time) that I realized there were four distinct kinds of people. People who scored high on the Verbal and lower on the Math, people who did the opposite of that, people who did well on both and people who did poorly on both. My group, the first group, did its best to make fun of the second group because they were clearly the Nerds. They got A's in subjects like Algebra, Trig and Chemistry while my group was good at cool things like diagraming sentences, memorizing baudy poems and being able to spell trigonometry. My group was destined to become lowly paid teachers, highly paid rock stars, restaurant employees and the people who rent the most DVD's, while those Math nerds were on their way to launch rockets, cure cancer, decipher the universe and juggle the books. In other words people that my group must continue to make fun of, because, damn it, they're smarter than we are. As for the third group, the equally smart in all areas group, they went on to be captains of industry, masters of their own fate and authors of self help books that are full of bologna and other cold cuts. From the fourth group we got car salesmen, perfume counter attendants, some actors and all of our politicians. This group was easily the most successful, but then, let's face it, it was far and away the largest. So that's how it went back in the day. I wonder if it has changed at all.

Slapstick meets Irony. Yesterday I opened the freezer door of our fridge to get some ice. An ice pack we keep in there slid out and landed on one of my socks only clad feet. Gave me a nasty thump. Luckily, there was an icepack handy.

Teardrops, Idiocies and Nightmares

The song is Teardrops by Lee Andrews and the Hearts. Son Todd sent the info and also the guitar chords so that I can learn to play the song myself. He neglected to send the talent. While I was waiting for email or blog responses, wife Charly went on the internet, typed in "doowop, teardrops, who?" or something like that and also got the answer. This is one of the reasons why at her last gainful employment she was nicknamed "the smartest woman in the world." I wouldn't go that far myself, but I would say she's the smartest woman in the house.

I've got a stiff and sore right shoulder this morning. Apparently I gave the Sox seven strong innings last night and didn't bother to ice down afterwards. I must have been in too much of a hurry to get to the dance clubs and show the Groupies my moves. Grey haired spastic guys are in this year. Either that or I slept funny. Usually though, when I sleep funny, I wake up chuckling. Chuckling is a funny word itself. Ducklings, Chucklings. Baby Chucks? And there you have a quick demonstration of where the Monkeymind goes when it's loose on the town. Here's another: If a country, any country pick a country, I've got one that comes to mind, elects an idiot as it's president, does that make it's form of government an Idiocy? Just wondering.

This is one of those I Got Nothin mornings so I'll do a chamber of commerce thing and talk about the weather. Wait! Before I do that, I've got to talk about a terrifying horror movie or was it a dream I just saw/had. It was called "The Chamber Of Commerce." I was locked in a dark chamber with weird, suit clad people. We were eating rubbery chicken and discussing how to improve insurance sales when one of the suited creatures, I think he was the leader, he had the most lapel pins, suddenly stood up and shouted "What we need is a better business bureau and with that, some other guys, all dressed alike, rolled in a brand new one, bureau that is, and when they opened its drawers, spread sheets, calculators and profit and loss statements flew threw the air and attacked me! I was waving my arms about in a panic, frantically trying to ward them off. I was shouting "my books are balanced, my books are balanced" because they are neatly stacked and in no danger of falling over, but it was doing no good. A giant ledger appeared before me with its pages riffling menacingly red and just when it was about to mash me flat between its thick leather covers, I threw the hard right hook and.......that's probably how I really hurt my shoulder.

As for the weather, it rained most of yesterday. Sunny today though. Ciao

Skipping Away

I was going to skip today...but men look so silly when they skip.

I made another cake, chocolate on chocolate in chocolate about chocolate. It was A Work Of ART. Charly ate it. This is why I don't take her to museums.

It is Sunday here. I'm not sure what day it is in the rest of the world. I don't think Panama has much to do with the rest of the world. I'm thinking that's a good thing. I read where it is going to be 90 degrees in Denver this afternoon. Second or third day in a row. People there should come here to get away from the heat. Of course the heat's not so bad in Denver because it's not humid there. And even when it is, as my brother once said, "It's a dry humidity." He's a funny man. And a smart man. That's why he's moving to Panama.

Charly is on the balcony reading a book. Our kids send us lots of books. Charly feels it is her duty to read them all. Except the books that have anything to do with sports other than golf or any book that has a jacket blurb that says, "this book really sucks." We don't get many of those.
I read the books she says I just have to and also the ones she says YOU will probably like this. I don't know quite what she means by that, but I read them anyway. We're both reading Donna Leon murder mysteries at the moment. Murder mysteries are the only kind that get written these days. The Case of the Missing Supermarket Cart lacks an audience. Someone has to die.
There's a stack of books off to my left on this large, curved, built-in, work space we use for writing and, well, stacking books. Must be at least a hundred there. The title that jumps out at me is "Making a Good Brain Great." I don't think I'll read that one. If I read it they will have to change the name to "Making a Strained Brain a Headache." There's also a book called "Beauty Tips From Moosejaw." I can probably use those.

It's June here in Panama. That means it is the start of the Rainy Season as opposed to Panama's other season the Dry Season. There's no fooling around with the Seasons here. You know exactly what you are going to get. There's none of that hide them in meaningless names stuff. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall/Autumn. What do they mean? Okay Spring is a word I can understand, but what does it have to do with weather? C'mon, North America. Your Seasons are Cold, Windywet, Hot and Football. Get with the program, call 'em what they are.

One last thing. I wear a sort of sweat jacket with hood against the early morning chill as I sit here writing. Yeah, I know, it's 67 or 68 degrees and I'm chilly. What can I tell you. This morning what with my sweat jacket being in the hamper for today's laundry, I put on a longsleeve shirt and just draped a bandana over my head. I don't know how to tie one like those rapper guys so I just draped it there. A moment ago my neighbor Sonia walked by and I ran onto the balcony to tell her something. I had forgotten the bandana, it's bright red I might add, was still draped on my head. Sonia didn't mention it.

Alrighty then. I am going to go skip now. I can't look any sillier.

Doowop Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Do

So it's webblog is it. Hmmm. Is that web blog, webb log or was the term's creator a stutterer and it's we b blog? I need clarity here folks. (And now I've got Willie Nelson in my head singing "put another log on the fire, boil me up another pot of tea.") (And I guess that's appropriate as today's topic is music.

The subject came up yesterday on a couple of occassions. The first time was at a friend's house where we had gone for a late lunch/early supper which, I guess, if brunch is what it is, should be called lupper, conversation and a couple of really terrible Scrabble games. A terrible Scrabble game is defined as any game I don't win. The recently concluded American Idol show cropped up and that led to a short demonstration by me of Taylor Hick's really bad dancing which is a difficult thing for me to do because...well, I'm a really good dancer, ask anyone who's never seen me dance, followed by a spirited defense of Mr. Hicks, and I call him Mr. Hicks because he looks old enough to be a mister kind of person, by the ladies present, both of whom found him...and here I must point out that I understand women even less than I understand my dog...sexy. There's just no accounting. This was quickly followed by a what do you like and want to hear discussion that ended in agreement on Van Morrison, who I managed to not point out, is named after a kind of truck. Later, after luppering and while Scrabble-ing, we listened to Spanish classical guitar music. It was all very nice.

The Beast lugged us home in due time where we received an email from Charly's brother in which he mentions that he likes Doowop music. You all know what Doowop is don't you? It's four or five guys standing on a corner wearing chinos, white T-shirts with a pack of Luckies or Camels rolled onto one sleeve, penny loafers and maybe a Jimmy Dean jacket with the collar up if it's chilly. They're harmonizing to a current top forty cut. The guys can be black or white and can, actually, now that I think about it, be girls though not usually. One of them will be singing lead and the rest will be supplying a background sound of nonwords that were often doowop doowops or shalalala las. It is a musical form that was popular in the late Fifties and early Sixties. Titles you may remember are In the Still of the Night, Earth Angel and They Up And Call Me Speedo But My Real Name Is Mister Earl. Okay, that last one may not be an actual title. I have always held forth or maybe fifth, that the music you listen to in your hormonally driven teenage years is the music that will stay with you all your life. Tell me the icon you listened to as a teen and I'll tell you your age. Was it Presley, The Beatles, The Boss, Madonna? You name 'em and I got ya. Doowop and Presley were concurrent which will give you a hint as to Charly's brother's age. Charly herself is one year younger than her brother and also a Doowop afficianado. I am, of course, far younger than either of them. (Believe that and I'll blog you some lies that'll make Bush sound like an honest man.) Sooooo, anyway, all that talk of music put my girlfriend I and on the balcony where I gave her my class ring to wear on a chain around her neck and she promised to go steady with me. We danced to Doowop ballads, they are just the best for slow dancing, and polished off a bottle of wine, the expensive $4.50 kind. It was a damn fine day.

Before I get on with my new day, I'm going to quickly type in the lyrics from my favorite Doowop song in hopes that someone will remember it's artist and title which are lost to me. It goes:

I sit in my room
looking out at the rain.
My tears are like glass
they cover my window pane.
I'm thinking of my lost romance
and how it could have been.
Oh if we only could start over again.
I know you'll never forgive me dear
for running out on you.
I was wrong to take the chance dear
with somebody new.
Now I'm lonely and I'm blue and I'll try to get along
without you.

Teardrops Teardrops

Then there is a second chorus which I only remember snatches of.

Anybody?

And one other thing. Anybody know how to get the spellcheck to work on this blog?

Braving the Wild

BLOG. That is surely an acronym, but what does it stand for? Boring Longwinded Old Guy works for me, but how about those bloggers that are less than 105? Bright Lads On Gum or Bonnie Ladies Ovulating Gloriously? Someone must know.

Here in Panama the land down under the other land and above that big chunk, home to the murderous parrot, the terrible toucan and the killer coatamundi, it has gotten quite noisy. As I write I can hear the sound of some growling and beeping earth moving machine, distant hammering and the buzz of the world's largest insect the deadly weedwhacker. How will I hear the approach and prepare my defense against the packs of marauding parakeets? What sound will warn me that the ferocious yellow crowned euphonia is nearing my yard? And what to do if the Rufous Collared Sparrow should attack without warning? It's dangerous here in the jungle. One must keep his guard up and an eye out, even though that last seems quite painful.

Yes it takes brave men and women to be the vanguard to the army of immigrants about to invade this jungle wilderness of bright sunlight, deep green shadows and suspiciously clean air. Men and women unafraid of nature's wild creatures such as the Red Legged Honey Creeper that only this morning swooped down and eyed my peeled banana. I saved myself by breaking off a bit and tossing it to the winged menace because it's quick thinking actions that are needed to survive here in the primitive outback. Actually I was in the primitive outfront at the time, but you get my drift. Brave, bold actions such as the ones my wife and I displayed when twice this month we ventured into restaurants we'd never been to before. Restaurants where natives served us while smiling and saying incomprehensible things like "buen provecho." You can imagine the courage it was necessary to summon in the face of this dangerous politeness.

And yes I could go on detailing the threats from nature we face on a daily basis, the Buff Throated Salator comes to mind, but modesty compels me to down play our heroism and give more voice to the wonders we find around us as we scout the hinterlands looking for places to buffer ourselves from the invading northern hordes. And I would give voice to those wonders of nature such as cell phones and satellite television, but someone has added a ban saw to the human din outside and I can't hear myself think. So send us your best wishes to keep us safe from the fearful Flame Colored Tanager and I will soon send another chapter from the lives of people whose middle name is not danger, but something equally odd. Like Louis. Soon as it quiets down out there.

Life lessons

Sheesh! I've just finished reading the news. There is illegal domestic spying of unprecedented proportions, Iraq is still a mess, Iran wants the bomb not talks, the gap between the rich and the poor grows ever more obscene, global warming is the end of us all and the Yankees are tied for first place. Oh, and did I mention a giant corporation brought to life by exposure to radiation from nuclear testing has just surfaced from the bottom of the sea and is now stomping Tokyo flat? Not to worry though, Monkeymind is here to bring you the good news and the lighter side of life. So here forthwith is that: pause pause pause...think think think Did I mention that G.W Bush only has two and a half years left of his term in the White House? Or should I put that, G.W. Bush STILL has two and a half years left of his....? I suppose this is an example of the classic optomist/pessimist debate: is George Bush's brain half full or half empty?

I really should stay away from subjects like politics, religion, history...geometry and ah, well, you know, any of those things you learn in school, because I and my monkeymind were frequently either absent or visiting a parallel universe. In that universe, especially during high school, I found my learning center and point of greatest stimulation was not always above my neck but more often below my belt buckle. That is, though, a subject for another day. Today I am going to stick to the things I really know, the things I learned in those bastions of intellectual endeavor, the locker room and the ivy wallpapered walls of The Country Gentlemen Bar and Grill where few gentlemen were to be found. It was in those hallowed places that I learned the important lessons of life which are something about not dropping the soap in the shower, a snapped wet towel can really hurt and never order banana daquiris when the guys flanking you are drinking shots and beer. Oh, and you had to be really tough if your favorite drink was a Pink Lady. There on the bench and there on the stool, I learned from my peers everything I needed to know about life that apparently some other guy learned in kindergarten. Lessons like never let your gaze go lower than the eyes of the guy under the shower next to you, and, always buy your share of rounds if the other guys aren't drinking the good stuff. These are the kind of life sustaning axioms I carry with me to this day. Learned lessons that see me through the tough stuff I've mentioned above and lessons that leave me wondering...what the heck kind of kindergaten did that other guy go to anyway?