Blither and Blather

The sun has gone back to teasing us. Mornings are crystal, squinty eyed bright. Around midday the clouds creep in just above the tree line and the sun takes a powder. After that it's duck for cover or cover for ducks, here comes the rain.

RTGFKAR, friend Bonnie and I are off to Daveed this a.m. to take care of this and that. This is getting Ramon's visa extended, that is shopping for our houses. Bonnie needs weather stripping and we need electrical odds and ends.

I'm treading water once again. I've got 45 minutes to stay afloat and then we've got to leave. This then, is killing time. My uncle, Fred Hooey, who wasn't really my uncle, used to say, "if you have to kill time, work it to death." So that's what I'm doing, working the keyboard, working the monkeymind and working my coffee cup at least half to death.

Yesterday, while having lunch on the patio outside Amigos Restaurant, RTGFKAR and I couldn't - for the longest time - come up with a name. The name, which I eventually dug from lazy brain cells, was Raquel Welch. I find this disturbing. It's not disturbing that I couldn't remember over the course of the entire weekend the name of a wishbone quarterback from either Oklahoma or Nebraska who is now an elected politician, because, really, who cares. But Raquel? C'mon, she had memorable qualities.

RTGFKAR and I also decided, when not trying to withdraw names for our memory banks, that burgled is a funny word. Not its definition of course, just the word itself. Say burgled three times in succession and it will make you smile.

From these examples you can tell that we engage and deeply enjoy serious, intellectual conversations while dining al fresco here in Jubilado land.

A guy sitting at a table next to us made friends with Gus who was along for the ride and the table scraps. He told us his wife had just run away with another guy and she'd taken his dog. He was very upset. He really missed his dog.

Alrighty then. That's enough chit chat. Time for the serious stuff.

Whoops, there's the phone. Gotta go.

Distractions

I'm not going to blog today, but if I were, I'd blog about distractions.

A distraction is something that diverts your attention from the the activity you are SUPPOSED to be doing. I don't know about you, but I don't know for sure WHAT IT IS that I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. Never have. It's possible that everything I've ever done is a distraction. I read a book entitled "Ecotopia" years ago in which the author points out that all other mammals engage in play when they aren't eating or searching for food. Sounds good to me. That's why I'm fooling around today instead of blogging. I am, however, being distracted from my not blogging by a guy directly outside my nearest window who is building a wall to prevent the house from further flooding. He's very noisy. I wonder what he is really SUPPOSED to be doing today and why he wasn't SUPPOSED to be wall building at the beginning of the rainy season rather than at its end. I'm guessing he got distracted.

You also have to factor in the distraction that takes you from the current distraction and leads you to another. When I was a kid and thought I knew what I was SUPPOSED to do because my parents told me, I was frequently distracted by them and other adults asking me what I wanted to do when I grew up. Well damn, if THEY didn't know, how was I to know, and was it really a question of what I wanted to do or what I was SUPPOSED to do? Adults were very confusing then, which partly accounts for why I've never become one. Instead I just followed one distraction to the next until I find myself here in Panama not blogging.

John Lennon is attributed with having said "Life is what happens to you while you are making other plans." Clever. And probably true for a lot of people. Some of us though, never really had any plans. We just followed the path the distractions led us down, which is maybe not so bad by comparison. By that, I mean considering the disappointments inherent in Lennon's statement.

Woowoo Charly chimes in with "Things are as they are because that is how they are SUPPOSED to be. They can't be any other way and if they were SUPPOSED to be any other way, they would be." This from the Buddhists, the Iching and George Clooney I think. Of course we really can't trust them, because they have probably been distracted and aren't really doing what they're SUPPOSED to, so how can they know for sure?

It's all very puzzling and that's what I would blog about if I were blogging today. But not to worry, I'll get to it tomorrow. If I'm not distracted.

Further Affairs Remembered

I used to be skinny. Not thin, skinny. I had to grow into thin. There's a mindset that goes with skinny and yesterday I relapsed into that mindset. What happened is, I forgot to eat. Well not completely, somewhere about noon I had a small cup of yogurt and later some popcorn. This gluttony would have sustained me in my skinny days, but here in my look he's swallowed a volleyball days, I found myself hungry right at five o'clock. The feast I participated in the night before at precisely that hour might have been partly responsible for my sudden pang along with the absence of breakfast and lunch, but I had had those wholesome snacks to tide me over, so it caught my monkeymind quite by surprise when my volleyball rumbled and I became aware of the unlikely here in retirement where the fridge is but steps away, hunger.

Not to worry, you say, go get something to eat.

The problem was that five o,clock de la tarde ayer, I was sitting in a high school gym along with Woowoo Chuck, RTGFKAR, Larry, Bonnie and some hundred or so other folk watching assorted decorating committees hang balloons and paste cardboard horses on the walls. The announced starting time of the event, "Adventures In The Old West" was this very same five o,clock and not being daughter Kira whose timing would have been perfect, we had plopped onto our folding chairs at precisely five of. The show would begin a little over an hour later. Okay, a lot over. We did, however, get to see bored gringo women attempting line dances in the aisles to the country music being piped over the sound system and we were further amused by an hombre testing microphones. Uno dos. Uno dos. Chick chick chick.

The reason we were in attendance was not entertainment desperation but to give support to a young woman named Demorris who works for Larry and Bon and who in fact was a part of our after flood cleanup crew. Demorris was in the cast and a member of the Learn To Speak English group that was putting on the night's performance. She got to show her stuff in a dance number near the end and I'm told she was quite good, but I have to confess to not really noticing as the lead dancer was one of those women who have the ability to move their parts separately and in different directions. I find this, ahem...interesting.

Long before that welcomed distraction from the "mean green mutha from outer space" saying "feed me!" that now resided in my gut, several things had occurred. First off, we learned that an early escape would be impossible. Having arrived promptly for the five o,clock showtime and achieved a premium, up front parking space, we were now hemmed in by dozens of other cars. Rats! was the word Larry would have used in place of the one he actually did employ if he had thought of it. I can't use his actual word as this is a family blog, but I can tell you it was a synonym of fuck. The other important thing that occurred was the show itself.

The curtain opened to an ensemble dance number that was not too bad. Not exactly The Rockettes, but not bad. Of course they were dancing to John Denver's Take Me Home Country Road which is about West Virginia, a state not usually associated with our "Old West" but, c'mon, what do we know about Panama? Slack was cut. Following that the judges were introduced. You see there was a contest running throughout the show to determine the prince and princess. Of what was never clear but then just being elected was apparently enough and each contestant had their own rabidly cheering fan club seated in specially decorated sections throughout the gym. After the judges, all Gringos, had been introduced we were treated to sketch 1 called "Law and Disorder" which featured a dozen or so Panamanians in American western garb milling around the stage saying things to each other. What they were saying I have no idea, because "uno dos chick chick chick" man apparently didn't realize that a mike at the front of the stage picks up nothing further than a foot or so away. Ah well, the costumes were nice. After that we got sketch 2 "Wild Wild West" with a hand held mike being awkwardly passed from person to person and it was about Jim West and Artemus Gordon from the television show of the same name, but that's all I really understood as even though all the actors were displaying their best English, it was much like what Panamanians get when I display my best Spanish. We then got another group dance, performances by the princess and prince candidates, another sketch called "Silent Love" which featured a pregnant Indian, played, I think by a pregnant Indian, a fourth sketch entitled "The Lost Bullet" that took place in a saloon and featured the line "not all women who come in bars are prostitutes or pussycats" and then, and then, we bolted. Okay bolted may not be the right word. What happened was we returned to the parking lot and directed traffic for other bolters so that we could bolt behind them. Orderly bolting. Disorderly bolting. Chaotic bolting in slow motion. Whatever, we made our escape. Unfortunately we missed: 1. Questions to the competitors. 2. The Election of the King and Queen. (I thought they were going to be elected Prince and Princess but the show took so long I guess the old monarchs must have died.)3. Presentation of the Winners in the Contest. We will never know, but my vote went to the dancer with the, ah, good rhythm.

It was nine when we finally made it home. Four hours since I first detected that I was becoming a late night Ethiopian telethon plea for food. I rushed to the fridge in near panic mode and there it was, God's own purely finest food...left over pizza. I need say no more.

An Affair to Remember

Sam's a garrulous guy much traveled during his 76 years and Judy's his quieter, ten years younger and nonetheless interesting partner. We had dinner at their place last night.

They live down a long drive on a bumpy road (as doesn't everyone here?) that leads to their splendid house over looking as much of the world as anyone needs to see at one time. It's a top ten Boquete vista. Desafortunadamente, (my longest Spanish word) little of that view was available last night as rain clouds wrapped the house in a soft gray shroud. Not to worry, the antipasto (sp?) spread on the dining room table was such that once seen the eyes found no need to wander in search of further beauty. Sam, we were to learn, as a boy had once worked at an upscale restaurant where he had been taught the art of food presentation. These were lessons he had clearly not forgotten. The table was magnificent. For those of you who know me well and know that I mostly use my eyes to avoid bumping into things and finding the correct letters on my keyboard, let me add that both Woowoo Chuck and RTGFKAR second that appraisal. The moment the Chianti was opened and poured and the toasts completed, we dove into the spread with appetite aforethought. I am not, again as most of you know,a gourmet or even a gourmand, (RTGFKAR just explained the difference) what with buttered bread being my favorite food, but on this occasion I got an inkling of what the world of great eating was all about. As we gobbled, yup that's the right word, Sam gave us a rundown of each item slipping by our taste buds and landing happily in our estomagos, I can't list them all, but olives stuffed with almonds was a favorite of mine. Judy warned, perhaps because we were eating like machines, that there were more goodies to come. Next to good bread and butter in my top five foods ,right after chocolate chip cookies (yeah I know I've got the taste buds of a ten year old) lies spaghetti and because of same I was first in line to fill my pasta bowl with Sam's noodles, sauce and a big fat HOMEMADE Italian sausage. I've never had better. Even the legendary Mrs, De Franzo from my youth could not match Sam's sausage.

While we ate, the conversation ran the gamut of many things from the personal to the political to the philosophical and it was a further treat to share thoughts with people whose opinions were similar to ours but had been arrived at from very different paths. I find the history of other's thoughts, that is, the road to their opinions, a topic of much interest and our talk included lots of that.

Dessert, I can't forget dessert, was a Judy prepared I'm thinking pudding, but that word doesn't do nearly enough to describe the dish that tasted like a liquid cheese cake...sort of. It was, and here I cannot find an adjective to surpass the praise of a fourteen year old surfer, so I'll just go with that...Awesome Dude.

After the feast we all pitched in with the clean up and following that it was hugs and byes and headed home.

All in all and alrighty then, an affair to remember.

Hey! Remember that flick? Cary Grant,right?

After Enlightenment There's The Laundry

Sung to the tune of Dock of the Bay: Sittin' with my mornin' brew, must be somethin' I can say say-eh to you.

One consequence of the Great Flood Of 07 is that our six month old clothes washer no longer agitates or spins. I no longer agitate or spin either, at least not without the aid of substances fermented or distilled, but in the case of the washer this consequence can be construed as bad. (Construed is a good word. If you didn't know its meaning you'd have to make one up. "Although jack was a bachelor, he construed whenever he got the chance.") The reason the washer was deprived of its action verbs was its proximity to the flood itself. You see, our washer/dryer, a stacker, sits outside at the back of the house where the flood build up was deepest. "Qutside!" you're all saying incredulously, or perhaps outcredulously, "outside?" Well just slow down, hold your horses and I'll explain. (Hold your horses? Who says that anymore. Man I'm old. What do people say now, hold your hybrids?) It's not that uncommon here to find washer/dryers on patios where there is a roof overhead...like ours. It's an indoors space saver. Of course it's also not uncommon here to see women beating clothes on rocks in a stream, a post flood suggestion I made to Woowoo Charly that prompted a look that took me awhile to decipher, but eventually translated as "it's amazing you've lived THIS long." All this is a "not to worry" we hope as we do have a warranty.

And to pursue the repair the warranty provides, we traveled to the "Do It Right" center in Daveed to talk to our man Tino, the store's "facilitator". This is a title we believe because it is printed on his uniform badge and is a Spanish word the meaning of which we were somehow able to deduce. Tino says no problem, he'll get the repairman all set up and call to tell us when he will be arriving in Boquete. I mention this mundane detail only to give another insight into Panamanian culture that we, at that moment, totally forgot. Panamanians do not call back. Not lawyers, not contractors and especially not service people. You must call them. Don't know why, it just is. Ask anyone.

So, that's what I'll be doing today, calling Tino. And, oh yeah, going to the Lavamatico, the laundry. We're low on socks.

Treading Water

Another beautiful morning. They all are. This one's a bit soggy though. The rain sounds like mice tap dancing on the roof. The rainy season, we are told, ends in mid November. We will be moving into our new house, we are told, also in mid November. This sounds like a nice marriage of happy events, but I worry about the we are told part. I mean, you hear a lot of things. Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq comes to mind and Bush has live brain cells is another. On a more personal note, RTGFKAR was told by his shipping company that his stuff would arrive shortly. That was last May. And I've been eating my spinach since I was a little kid so I could grow up to be "big and strong." I'm still waiting for the growth spurt.

Optimism prevails despite all because I like saying optimism. Especially this way, OPTOE (pause) Mism. You don't get that? Ah well, the monkeymind is not always capturable. Our house IS nearing completion, albeit at a snail's pace and the rain has stopped in previous Novembers. RTGFKAR was informed that his stuff is on a boat headed this way and I haven't abandoned hopes of topping out at six three. To that end I bought more spinach yesterday. Bush and his Idiocy, I mean presidency, will eventually come to an end and all will be right with the world. Won't it? Well, my world anyway.

It must be clear to you by now that I have nothing to say today. When that happens I just monkeymind about and see what appears on the screen. I usually call that "treading water", but considering my last blog I want to be real careful with the phrase. It is as you know, still raining.

Or is it? The mice have quit dancing. Time for me to start.

Inundada

"It ain't funny Magee." That old chestnut from Fibber Magee and Molly springing to the forefront of my consciousness as a warning to my usual self to recite the facts and just the facts...Ma'am. Of course, my faithful readers being hundreds of years younger than I are no doubt wondering who are Fibber Magee and Molly and if there is a forefront is there also an aftfront? And further, they probably don't get the facts just the facts Dragnet reference. It must be hell to be young.

So, for them I will try to write this account of an "inundada" in an orderly and linear fashion, straightforward and without tongue planted firmly in cheek. I'll just paint the grim word picture and be done with it, so that everyone can understand exactly what occurred on the eve of Wednesday the 10th of October in the year 2007. Yup, that's what I'll do.

Well NO, of course I won't, because there is something inherently funny in standing ankle deep in a raging creek with a broom in hand trying to direct the water's flow. Especially if you are indoors at the time.

Here's how that began more or less. I say more or less because the only one present for the entire event was Gustavo the Wonder Dog. His dog's eye view may not be reliable, but it's the only one we have. He told me that it all went from bad to worse about three o,clock when the rain,intermittently heavy throughout the day, leaped into the torrential category. Gus paused here in his recitation to point out that this was probably my fault for leaving him home alone in the first place and I should never do that again. I didn't quite get the connection there, but I'm not that fluent in dog. He said that when the water first began oozing under the back door he barked his head off trying to frighten it back, but to no avail. As the water crept into the rest of the house, kitchen first, then dining room, living room, oficina and finally bedrooms and baths, it brought with it it's usual rainy season companion, mud. Gus said that at this point his only concern was that we'd blame it on him. He then pointed out that despite the floor's ugly mess, he never even once jumped onto the bed or the sofas. He said, "I was a good boy throughout, where's my bone?"

We, the humans, were at the time motoring back from an errand in Daveed and remarking on just how heavy the rain had become. Our wipers could barely handle the torrent. This again is more or less as I don't speak human fluently either. As I came up the drive and onto the carport, I looked through the car's tinted driver's side window and noticed what looked like oil flowing from under our front door. I said something like, what the? and rolled down the window. It was mud. The tint had made it appear black. I could also see Gus looking frantic behind one of the small windows that rise from the ground vertically on either side of our door. His expression said - and here I don't know how this is possible - exactly what I've used to start this piece, to wit, it ain't funny Magee.

I opened the door quickly and Gus came splashing out with his usual I'm sooo happy to see you and his unusual it's not my fault, it's not my fault. I yelled "down" and "off" a couple of times because I didn't want his wet paws to get my pants dirty. Oh my oh my and yeah right. A minute later I was soaked to the knees.

Those of you who have been to our rental house know that there is a back door off a hallway that leads to a front door. Should you not turn off and enter the house at large, it's a straight shot from one door to the other. The water streaming under the back door was headed to the front, but couldn't escape as that door was closed and sealed tight. You could not, however, fault the back door as it was doing its best to hold back Niagara like forces. It was, at least, until I opened it. First though, I opened the front. I then grabbed a broom from somewhere, I don't really remember, it just seemed to materialize in my hands, and began to sweep the water out the front door and onto the patio. It was still raining extremely hard and this action was not really getting the job done to my satisfaction as much of the water was still turning into the house and flooding the other rooms. I know, I said to myself, I'll open the back door and let the stored up water flow through faster. As I went to do so, Woowoo Charly, who had also materialized from nowhere said, and here I will directly quote, "Don't open the door Doc, don't do it, don't do it." These words struck some vague memory chords in what passes for my intellect, something having to do with a chicken and another blog, but were not strong enough to deter me from my, I was certain, noble, heroic and proper deed. How was I to know that not a backyard, but in fact a lake was lurking just beyond the door. As I swung it wide open and the lake rushed on, by and over me about roughly knee high, if by roughly knee high I mean mid thigh, Woowoo Charly was heard to emit other somewhat high pitched sounds, the like of which fail to be captured with mere words. At their end though, she did manage a decent suggestion and here I will return to directly quoting. She said, "close the damn door." Okay, that may not be exact, damn lacking the force of the word she actually used, but it is close enough to convey the strength of her conviction that this was the action most needed. Problem was, it's very hard to close a door against a lake wanting to be a river. Fortunately I am a man of great resources, if small mind and I used the latest of these, my penchant for pumping Irene, I mean iron,(another blog) to bear on the task at hand. Placing my shoulder against the door, I heaved and heaved, because heaving was clearly called for and at last returned the door to its closed position. Turning to Woowoo Charly to get my "well done, good show, you're my hero" I was presented with the broom instead. It and its close personal friend the mop, were not to leave my hands for the next four hours. As Woowoo Charly and I swept away, RTGFKAR, shovel in hand, rpaired the hole in the damaged dyke, returning the water's flow to its original course.

What had occurred before our arrival at the casa was an eventuality always possible, but never really prepared for. On the hillside behind and to the right of the house flows a lovely waterfall. If you examine the scene in a carefully critical rather than a purely beauty appreciative fashion, you will note that the waterfall is aimed at the back corner of the house. Its bank curves away at the last moment and sends its flow along the side of the house and away from it. On this dire day however, the fall of the water had been so strong that the protective bank had collapsed and the whole, mud carrying mess was redirected at our backyard where the only way it could continue its descent was through our back door. Well alrighty then.

The rain did subside eventually allowing Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR and I to get ahead of the flood plane with our cleaning. We swept water to various doors and drains and then mopped until our aching, aging backs said basta, enough. There was much still wet when we fell into our beds. I can't speak for the others, but my dreams included Moses, Noah and the Titanic. Even the young will understand those references.

It's Too Early

If we experience the reality of other planes of consciousness, it makes us a lot less anxious about our lives, because we have a context for them. Ram Dass

Alrighty then. I wonder if Ram was passing out the other planes of consciousness pills as he said that.

I'm barely conscious myself. Prince Bozo the wonder dog known as Gus sat beside my bed at pillow level and whined this morning until I got up and let him out. It was still dark. You'd think he'd at least go pee immediately, but no, his royalness had to sniff around for five minutes or so or, in fact, until both my eyes were open and my heart was thumping fast enough to permit movement towards the coffee pot. While I was shoveling the dark brown grains into the filter part of same, adding water and then impatiently waiting for the miracle liquid to appear, Gus was watching the dawn of the day happen. He finds both dawn and dusk to be wonders, but remains unimpressed when I turn lights on and off. How does he know the difference?

Being abruptly awakened from my alternate plane of consciousness, my deep dream state, does little for my disposition in this my light dream state. Ram and the other Buddha boys are always telling me I'm not completely awake, but then, how do they know? I'm present. I meditate. I think. I feel. I can take a joke. Nevertheless, I sense they are either on something or onto something, so I'll go along and call my waking reality a light dream state although it seems to me that I've got it backwards. When I'm asleep I can fly. When I'm awake I'm earthbound. Which seems the lighter experience to you? Of course, sometimes I can't tell the difference and this may be one of those times. I'm going back to bed for further examination of this conundrum.

Somebody watch the dog.

There's a Topic in Here Somewhere

"Government of the money, by the money, for the money." This from Kinky Friedman on Wolf Blitzer's show yesterday.

I know you shouldn't talk about religion or politics, but by God, politics suck.

Writer's block. The Broncos could learn from them.

I'm looking for something to write about. Anything. On the bottom of my screen it says something about Bold and Italic. My friend Ralph DeFranzo was a bold italic. I wonder where he is today.

It also says Publish, Save and Draft. I'm thinking that's not the proper order.

Books and movies, that's it. You can always talk about books and movies.

Let's see, I'm reading a Jim Harrison book called "Returning To Earth." A movie producer once told Harrison, according to Harrison himself in another book, that he hired Harrison not for his stories but because he created interesting characters. This book is like that; strong, original, believable characters set against a simple plot device, the death of the first character you meet. Lots of musing about the inevitability of death and the uniqueness of individual mourning. Hope and love do come into play through it all, but they seem somewhat underscored. "He said 'After all, the fact of death is the most brutal thing we humans are forced to accept', but then the sun came out again and I told him the day after the burial Herald had said, 'Mother, it can't be awful if it happens to every living thing.'" I will finish this book sometime today, I have perhaps twenty pages to read, and then I'll seek out the two old Wodehouse novels I picked up recently at our local libreria, the Bookmark. I feel the need to lighten up.

As for movies...I'm sure I've seen some.

Lost and Found

I like the way the English say frustration. FrusTRYshun. Either way works for describing my condition at the moment. Last night while sliding into slumber land I had what surely was a great idea for a blog, so I began to write it silently in my head. I should have perhaps written it noisily in my head as it is now completely lost in that cavernous space. I am going to pause a moment and send in a memory rescue team to try and locate the idea.

Lorraine Day and Leo Durocher. John Beresford Tipton. Tinkers to Evers to Chance. Virginia Mayo. Wolfbane and defiling the ancient tombs of Anankh. Cosmo Topper.

There's a lot of trivial junk in there. No wonder I can't find the idea.

Riverboat ring your bell, Maverick was a legend of the West. The Lawman rides with the sun. Rawhide rawhiiiide, CRACK! He makes the sign of the Zee. Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp brave courageous and bold. Have gun will travel reads the card of the man.

Hmmm, that was an interesting period.

Bob Waterfield and Jane Russell. I love Bosco. Maria Ouspenskia. Crazy Legs Hirsh. John Beresford Tipton. Whoops, I must have gone in a circle. Mary Martin is Peter Pan? The Inner Sanctum. There's a signpost up ahead. The Shadow knows. Hi Ho Silver awaaay. Hopalong Cassidy. Nabisco Shredded Wheat.

It's a friggin mess in there. It's a wonder I can find anything.

Danny and the Juniors. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. Red Ryder. Red Buttons. Little Lulu. The Katzenjammer Kids. Humphrey Bogart was the baby on the first Gerber jar. And awaaaay we go. Vivian Vance. Bazooka Bubble Gum. Vernon Presley.

This is hopeless, I give up.

Marjorie Maine. Marjorie Morningstar. Brenda Star and of course Bart. Cavalcade of Stars. Your Show of Shows. Reeeely big show tonight. Gold at Fort Knox, silver at West Point. Win one for the gipper George Gipp...

Help! I can't get out!

Food for Thought

The day feels festive already. It's a bright, clear A.M. and all the troops, Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR, Randy and Maryellen, save one, me the Lone Blogger, are on the patio woofing coffee. I can hear the high tinkly sounds of the women's laughter and the low bass counterpoint Ha Ha's of the men. I wonder what has struck them funny. Later today we will wander over to Bonnie and Larry's to eat mounds of shrimp cocktail - we bought ten pounds of fresh shrimp yesterday - large steaks cooked to perfection, which for me means beyond recognition of the animal it once was, and to imbibe assorted alcoholic beverages. Imbibing these beverages, I'm told, is less dangerous than actually drinking them. This good time awaiting all compliments of Woowoo Chuck and self described Old Redneck Larry who are celebrating birthdays here and now abouts. Their respective 39ths no doubt.

Alrighty then, let's carry on.

Do you like garlic? We, the Pnama pundits, have an ongoing conversation about garlic that goes something like this.

Everyone in the world: "Garlic tastes wonderful and is good for you. I can't have too much."

Me: "Nah".

(I'm sure there are some vampire strains in my DNA because lately, besides the garlic thing, I also try to avoid mirrors. If I start ducking crosses, feel free to stake me.)

I surmise, though, that it is not unusual to have eating quirks about foods generally considered by the populace at large and possibly at medium to be, ahem, "good for you." RTGFKAR, for instance, won't eat onions or uncooked vegetables. Woowoo Charly, an extreme example, doesn't eat at all but somehow makes food disappear from the table. She claims to be eating, but when forced to stand on a scale to prove it, the needle doesn't budge. In addition to garlic, I'm adverse to greasy finger foods and anything on my plate that moves by itself.

So all you all fess up ( the Old Redneck keeps rubbing off on me) and tell me your food quirks. While you're doing that I'll go party.

Dancing

Another fine morning. I can hear John Denver crooning "sunshine on my shoulders makes me... sweaty" in the background. Well not really, but I needed to get that old joke in.

So alrighty then. Last night we watched Dancing With Third Rate Stars, Has Beens, Never Were's and Who The Hell Are They Anyway, a show with enormous ratings and women with skimpy costumes which may, in part, account for the enormous ratings. For my own self, and I'm sure I'm not alone, I most enjoy the men "stars" being put through their paces as they are paired with beautiful women wearing daring costumes who actually know how to dance which is to say they are adept at moving all those parts that make them women in an alluring fashion. This may account for my being unable this morning to actually name the men "stars" who performed. Last night was Banish the Baddie Night which means one couple was to be eliminated, a thing that doesn't occur until the end of the show and is preceded by sophomoric and contrived drama and - and this is the part that will keep me from ever watching Banish Night again - 4750 commercials aired roughly ten at time and five minutes of show apart. If the math doesn't seem to work, eliminate more show because there were at least that many commercials. I stayed up and subjected myself to this onslaught only because I wanted to see Boston Legal, the series that follows Dancing. Along with Two and a Half Men, it is the only regular television I watch apart from movies, sports and the now, more than just occasional, news flash about some Republican politician peeing all over himself. I do enjoy these last and they're usually commercial free. Dancing With is apparently on two nights a week, one night to compete, one night to delete, and I am now looking forward to part one, in which the professional dancers vie to see which one can most keep you focused on them and off their mostly lame partners. Should, however, this show be as commercially riddled as last night's, I think I'll just soft shoe my way out to the patio and then two step 'till Legal comes on.

I'm Henerey the eighth I am, Henery the eighth....It's a curse I tell you. A curse.

Sorry - Sports

I'm Henery the Eighth I am. Henery the Eighth I am I am. I got married to the widow next door. She's been married seven times before, and....

Okay, now you're stuck with that song in your head.

Oh, no. Wait. I apologise. That's evil. No one should have to have that song jangling about their consciousness. Well, maybe OJ.

Which makes me think of sports. I try not to write about them too often as there are a plethora of bloggers already in that business, but even the word plethora conjures sports as it was Howard Cosell, a sports announcer, who brought the word into common usage. Sports are there and to ignore them completely is to block out an important part of American culture. I say important in the sense that anything that entertains is important. Not vital, important.

I'm a team guy myself. I grew up playing the big three, football, baseball, basketball and learning the values inherent in cooperating and working in harmony with others to achieve a satisfying end. I've played some individual sports, racket ball, tennis, boxing, track and field, but never found the individual accomplishment as rewarding as sharing a victory celebration with teammates. I exclude golf here as golf somehow transcends sports and takes on a more mystical meaning for me that is summed up in this quote from Arnold Palmer: Golf is the sport in which the walls between the the natural and the supernatural are rubbed the thinnest." Woowoogolf. And yet, even having subscribed to that, I find a greater delight in watching the joyful pile of players at the pitchers mound after a meaningful baseball victory than Tiger's fist pump following his latest triumph. Both are good though, and I'm happy I get to watch.

All of which brings me to the Colorado Rockies. I am not sure I have ever seen before a team flatly refusing to lose despite seemingly hopeless circumstances. I will give a nod to the 04 Red Sox who won four straight against the Yankees after being down by three in a seven game series, but that was pretty much a Goliath versus Goliath match up and lacked the underdog element. The Rockies, with one of the smallest payrolls in baseball, won 14 of their last 15 games over the three teams in front of them to qualify for post season play. The last game, a thirteen inning lose and your season is over affair, lasted four hours and forty minutes and saw the Rocks overcome a two run deficit in the last inning to get to their pitching mound pile up. Wonderful drama ran throughout the game and there were heroes aplenty for both teams. It was truly one of those contests where the viewer is sorry that either team had to lose.

I could go on, but I'll spare you further details and just wind this down with one small note, a plea really, a cry of hope for another seemingly hopeless bunch. You got it...

Go Broncos.

Blogging Religiously

Another day, another...blog.

Do you have to be ligious and lapse before you can be religious?

I just read an article that says the Religious Right may run their own candidate in 08. Is there a religious left? Or is it religious right and wrong? I looked up religion in my Funk and Wagnals and it said something like a belief in a supreme being who created the universe. Sounds like every kid's parents until he or she hits twelve or so and begins to believe the universe revolves around themselves. I'm not a believer my own self in the God is God and We are We and never the twain shall meet unless you tithe regularly and vote Republican. I'm more of a God is Us and All Things not wearing Yankee pin stripes kind of a guy. A God Force kind of a guy Woowoo Charly would call it. Not that it matters. Unless you are the kind of religious whack job who says my belief is the RIGHT belief and I will foster it upon you or kill your ass to prove it kind of a guy. There are far too many of those and about them, I worry. Which is why I bothered to read The Religious Right article in the first place. What if they run their own guy and win? I thought Bush was about as bad as it could get when it comes to being a "God tells me what to do" kind of a guy, but compared to the old non-reality based RR, his rhetoric is downright tame. I shudder to think, but then thinking makes me shudder anyway so it gets confusing. The Dali Lama or the Dolly Parton once said that "things are as they are because that's how they are supposed to be" and if he or she is right, things are supposed to be pretty screwed up. At least by my standards which include not dropping your dirty clothes on the floor, hanging up wet towels and cutting the other guy some slack. So, anyway, I urge you to vote in 08. Don't vote right though, vote wrong. It's the right thing to do.

Familiar Phrases

"We're on our feet moving towards the door." Most of you know that this is the expression I use to motivate Woowoo Charly and any and all of my daughters to actually leave somewhere after we have stood to do so. For reasons I am not privy to, all of those guilty parties suddenly find more to say when standing to depart than in all the hours of visitation that preceded the now hoped for (by me) departure. How come is that?

Heeeere we goooooo, moving towards the door.

I am proud to say that despite it's high failure percentage - the women seldom take the hint - my pet phrase has now become part of the American lexicon. All of my sons and sons-in-law and many of my male friends now use this simple suggestion to, at best, subliminally encourage their mates or dates to get a move-on and, at worst, annoy them into action. One must be careful with the latter for fear the ride home will be fraught with consequences. Despite good intentions like not over staying our welcome and getting home at a decent hour or actually trying not to grow roots or freeze into a solid by the front door while watching clutches of women animatedly discuss some topic that only came to the fore at this very last minute, "moving towards the door" must be used tactfully and judiciously else the aforesaid consequences may come into play. Despite this potential downside, I still find the phrase worth the risk of use. Sometimes when you go for it on fourth down, the play (or ploy) just flat works.

Other expressions of mine that I've always liked are "another day, another doughnut" usually uttered at coffee break, a thing in retirement I don't miss not having. The break that is, not the doughnut. The doughnut is sorely missed. And, "I will do it (one thing or another)barring unforeseen circumcisions" is usually good for a laugh the first time I lay it on a new listener.

Of course Norman Mailer says "repetition is the death of creativity." Thing is, I've heard him say it three times.

That being said, what are "all you alls" favorite throw away lines? I'm on the need to know basis.

Return of the Blog

"Return of the Blog", "Revenge of the Blog", "The Blog Walks Among Us", Godzilla VS. the Blog", and Abbott and Costello Meet the Blog will all be showing at a theatre near you if you are not careful. "Be very wary of what you wish for" my grandmother said to me just after my grandfather choked on a chicken bone and she'd found out he'd left all his loot to the charity down the street. Charity White was her full name, but everybody just called her Jugs. Blog reading might have dire consequences as well. Who can really say? I'm just bringing it up because so many people have written requesting the return of Monkeymind, okay two, and for all I know they may already be infected or addicted or have fallen prey to the insidious persuasion that comes with good blogs and bad TV. Fair warning is offered here. You could be reading classic writers like Sabbatini, both Rory and Gabrielle, if only they hadn't played golf and tennis instead of taking pen in hand or even perusing the deeper works of the lesser minds of the greater metropolitan area. Yeah that. But Nooooo. You want to read blogs. Alrighty then. I will accommodate starting first thing Monday.

Of course here in Panama when someone says a thing will be done on Monday, it's good to remember they never actually say which Monday.

Have Tos

Gazing at the screen...blankly. I've been doing that for a few minutes. It's not exactly a meditative state nor a daydream for that matter. It's more like the definition of inertia, a body at rest tends to stay at rest, or even coma, my hair is so short it's hard to coma, no, wait, that's the third definition, the first says something about stupor and lethargy who, I believe are doing stand-up at the Apollo on Friday nights.

And that's all I got yesterday before being rudely interrupted by life. Even in retirement there are things you HAVE TO DO. Many of those are pointed out to me by Woowoo Charly who has a handle on the have-tos that completely eludes me. I'm lucky to have her else I'd miss a couple of those and then who knows what could happen? I might HAVE TO DO something even more dreadful than the original something and if I ducked that one too, well, chaos would surely reign. Yesterday I had to go to the new house site with RTGFKAR and Woowoo Chuck. We had a scheduled meeting with our builder, Lizbeth Mendez, who looks like a builder about as much as I look like an NFL linebacker. She's short and has a Buddha like bod and a Dali Lama smile. She's also far too young or, at least, it seems so to me, but then, from my sixty six year old perch, anyone not gray and wrinkled belongs in school. We also had to meet our ebanista, our door maker and cabinet installer. He too is a kid, but he had a tape measure and a pad and pencil, so I'm sure he's competent.

Lucky, I was there, though. While RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly went over construction details with the aforesaid duo, I got to stand around and chat with a couple of the laborers. From them I learned absolutely nothing and that always comes in handy and I got to use some new words I've learned in Spanish like bostezo (yawn)and colchon (mattress). These, of course, had nothing to do with our conversation which was mostly about what a nice view we have, but did stand to serve as a way to make latino's eyes glaze over. That can come in handy too.

After that we had to have lunch and then we had to entertain drop-in visitors and then we had to buy beer and watch the PGA golf tournament. So you can see why it took me until today to finish this blog. I wasn't worried though. I knew at some point I'd HAVE TO DO it.

Getting In Shape

I attribute my recent weight gain up to 156 pounds to muscle acquired from pumping iron and not to my massive consumption of RTGFKAR's home baked banana bread, challah, sour dough muffins, apple cinnamon and raison cake/bread and, don't let me forget, pretzels. I really like those big, crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside, salty pretzels. RTGFKAR told me he bakes all of these things without carbohydrates so it is okay to eat them. I believe him.

With football season rapidly approaching, I need to bulk up to withstand the natural weight loss that comes from the running, blocking, tackling and the general mayhem that occurs on my TV screen. There are hours and hours of this stuff every weekend and I need to be prepared. With practice I think I could eat those pretzels twice, maybe even three times, every day. I'm working on it. I'm motivated. I'm dedicated. One technique I've learned from veterans is to drink beer along with the pretzel eating. This creates a condition known by the pros as "the burp factor." Burping loud and deep removes excess air from the abdomen and allows more room for the pretzels. Another tip I got from the experts is to lie back in a reclined position so that your sightline to the TV is just over the rise of your belly. This relieves the pressure on the bladder that one gets from sitting straight up. The net result is fewer bathroom trips and fewer missed beer commercials.

Having said that, I must now go to my weight set and pump some iron. My bench and barbells are cleverly positioned just outside our kitchen door on the back patio. I say cleverly, because this way if there's anything cooling on the counter waiting to be sampled, It won't escape my notice. Training is training and I would be remiss to pass it by.

Sunday Hike

Hiked up the Pipe Line trail with RTGFKAR, friend M.E., and Gustavo The Wonder Dog yesterday morn. To get there you have to drive up a snaky mountain road requiring frequent gear changes and then traverse a short stretch of bumpy four-wheeling, rutted, lame excuse for a road that leads to a parking area at the base of the trail. No problem, really, for Nikita our sporty little KIA, but I do admit to a wince when we scraped bottom on a particularly rocky stretch of pseudo-road. (I also worry that KIA is usually thought to be an acronym for killed-in-action, but then, as I've noted before, I am a worrier. Not about inconsequential things, mind you, like world peace and all that, but rather the things of greater import like why did my wife look at me like that just now and can Brandon Stokley help the Broncos?

A two foot tall Indian boy asking for "plata", which literally means silver, but in this case refers to coins, appeared from the weeds as we parked. Gus took a run at him and the boy disappeared back into the bushes screaming like a banshee. Gus looked at me with either a "what's the matter with him, doesn't he want to play?" look or it might have been "alrighty, I ran that rascal off". It's hard to tell. He then shot up the trail with a look that I do know and it says "follow me."

After that there was a lot of oohing and ahing and discussions of this plant and that flower by M.E. and RTGFKAR as we walked slowly up the gradually ascending trail. We were in dense, green, mountain jungle, but the path was well worn and easy to follow. By we, I mean the people. Our canine trekker was in doggie heaven. He was in and out every trail side opening and splashing happily in every stream. When we would stop to admire a close up vermiliad or a distant vista, Gus would run back to us and impatiently display another of his recognizable looks, this one saying "come on come on come on, what's holding you up?" Something about making my dog happy makes me happy, so we were both feeling giddy and goofy enough to make the Dali Lama proud. RTGFKAR and M.E. seemed to be enjoying the hike as well, snapping photos of this and that and making plans to cut shoots from assorted plants on the return trip. Their agenda seemed to be something about taking in the wonders of close up nature while I was there for the exercise and just being fully present in the woods.
Nice.

One of the things that makes this trail a particularly pleasant place to walk is that it is mostly shrouded by tall trees that provide shade and thus cooler temps for hikers. Yesterday there was a gentle breeze as a cooling bonus and as they say in the beer commercials, it doesn't get any better than this. Of course in the beer commercials they have beer. We only had water.

So...we hiked up to an agreed turn around spot and then hiked back. It was all very beautiful and if you don't believe me insert here marvelous description from a really good writer. Poetry would be good too. For me the best visual was of my dog Gus who, at trails end, looked like he was covered in green moss. He had millions of tiny lime colored seedlike stickers dotting his own dogself like some kind of bizarre fungus. It was going to take me a long time to brush those out. Fortunately, he and I like that part too.

That Old Black Magic

I have to be very careful. If I type too hard this computer shuts off and does a restart, losing, of course, everything written. We got this one, the Serracin's Samsung, cured of its pink screen to replace our deeply dead Dell, but it has some sort of short that causes it to blip off if treated to anything other than the gentlest touch. (Must be female. That would explain the pink screen problem in the first place.)

There is a Haitian influence here in Panama, especially on the Caribbean side, and it is this influence that played a part in our decision to not allow the Dell to remain dead. Against the advice of our computer guy, we had a friend replace the hard drive of the old Inspiron and now it only works if you recite the proper voodoo incantations and even then you can't say it's really working. It just sort of mimics a computer. Kind of like watching a zombie run the 100 yard dash. Records won't be broken. We are not sure what to do now, leave it alone and let it wander the night or get some high priestess to remove the curse and send it to a proper rest. I think we'll go with the latter and while we're at it, see it we can't get the bone rattling, snake handling, rooster sacrificing mama to find the person who is sticking pins in the dolls of our computers. We'll be happy to pay her in toads of lizards, we've got a yard full, because these are, Ive read, frequent ingredients in many a voodoo potient.

Meanwhile, when not dealing with the mumbo jumbo of high tech, and in our case the tech is clearly high on something, life goes on and is filled with the excitement and wonder of nature, like for instance, it's not raining today, and also the Joy Of this and that, Cooking, Sex and Living are winners while The Joy Of Texas Hold-em Strip Poker is surely on the way to the best of Republican families and here in Panama we have The Joy Of A New Bed. I mention this because we have not been lucky with beds. They are usually too hard or too soft or too inclined to promote dreams of drowning or ships of state sinking, the water beds anyway and we approached this one with trepidation, slippers and pajamas. Not to worry it turns out as this brand name unknown semi orthopedic queen size of the night seems to be just what the doctor would order if doctor's ordered beds. We have had three good nights of solid zzzz's in a row and as soon as we get the rest of the alphabet we'll be all set. There is, though, of late, a mid-nightly sleep interruptus by Gus insanely barking and scratching at the door to get at the toads who torment him from our patio. But that's not the bed's fault. That's just the high priestess reminding us she needs a payment. RTGFKAR's computer may hang in the balance.

At Blog's End?

Our computer died suddenly, unexpectedly, mysteriously and without leaving a note. Foul play is suspected, but there is really no evidence to support that conclusion. Nevertheless, whether fair or foul, all is lost. Pretty much everything I have ever written, apart from these 200 some odd blogs, is now clutched in the rigor mortis grasp of a dead hard drive, unable to be set free. Five Hundred pages at a minimum I estimate, including short stories and tentative novel beginnings. Poems and prose, wit and wisdom, all lost, gone forever to the dark and cold of distant cyber cemeteries. Gone, I tell you, gone.

Well alrighty then! I better get started writing new stuff! I've read all that old junk plenty of times anyway. I know how all the stories come out and besides, somewhere there are paper copies of everything - you've probably got one or two - so if I need a copy for one reason or twelve, I'll call you. Meanwhile, I'll borrow RTGFKAR's Sony Vaio from time to time and start anew the process of dumping the contents of a monkeymind onto a literary format. Or aftmat. This will, however, necessitate more time at the fiction front and less in the blogosphere where every word is Gospel yuk yuk. Look for me, oh...about once a week.

Ciao for now.

Hot or Cold

RTGFKAR gets up in the morning, throws on some shorts and a tee shirt and then retires to the patio to sip his morning coffee and listen to the birds or the rain, whichever.

I get up in the morning and tug on sweat pants and woolen hoodie over my pj's. Mornings are cold, sixty something Fahrenheit, and I would turn blue, my teeth would chatter and I'd soon be a human Popsicle if I joined RTGFKAR in shorts and tee. Instead, I meander to the office, and, hood up, begin to delve into the deepest regions of my psyche and unravel the eternal mysteries of the human mind in order to pass my findings along to you, the faithful blog reader. Either that or I read sports. Okay, mostly I read sports. But THEN, after learning who won what, I crank up Monkeymind and put down the results of my priceless intellectual research whose origins are idle thoughts and careless observations like today's revelation that RTGFGAR digs it cool while I prefer warmer. I mean, that's deep.

Especially when you consider that we recently met a couple who have migrated here from Alaska. They also prefer cooler weather which begged the question that went unanswered, what the hello are you doing here? I suspect witness protection, but, you know, nobody owns up to that one. Still, Alaskan origins, loving the cold, makes sense. RTGFKAR and I, on the other hand, wandered here from the same mostly New Jersey-Colorado lives, proving, aha!, that it is not necessarily place of origin that determines temperature preferences. What then is it?

One theory advanced by scientists, anthropologists, model airplane makers and other unreliable sources is that it's all about body types. Well poppycock, balderdash, and poohpah I say. We've all known heavy people who like it warm and skinny people who like it cold and visa versa mastercard. It can't be body types. It can, however, be deeply embedded in our DNA (Dangerously Normal Attitudes.) I, though, for one, don't believe in that explanation either because I know, yes that's right, I know THE TRUTH.

AND THE TRUTH IS....

It's just RTGFKAR. He's really weird.

The Year of...

The year of growing older. Don't know what that means, but I woke up with the phrase hovering about my consciousness. Couldn't put it aside or leave it alone, so took a long walk with Gus to see if I couldn't devise a follow up thought or at least a run up to the phrase. Got nothing. I mean, all years are years of growing older, aren't they? Why should this one be singled out?

I blame Bush.

Or it could be the gallbladder. Gallbladders, prostates, colons, these are old people words. Ever hear a thirty something toss them about in conversation? Nah, to them the only body part that matters is the heart. Well, that and those persistent sexual parts, they get a lot of attention as well. So does this mean that now that I am thirty something twice over I have to be old? Because, I'm telling you right now, that's not going to happen. Sure my entire face from 1976 can now be located in the folds of my neck and when I talk about my 100 yard dash I'm talking about a really long puctuation mark, but that doesn't mean I'm getting old. Old is when you do old stuff like stoop and knit and have a nice cup of tea and talk about the weather and days gone by. Old is when you no longer care about next season's team. Old is...not for me.

Although I do like a good nap. And sometimes I wish I could hit the ball a little further and run a lap or two around the track, but not very often and not for very long. There are just too many other good things to do instead. So...

The year of growing older. I still don't know what it means.

Bound for Books

We all know that it's a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows and an iPod of whales, but is it a bunch of books or a batch of books? If I asked my friend L, he'd say it was a mess of or a slew of, but I'm going with boxes of, because that's how they arrived here, in boxes.

It wasn't easy though.

"Hey Charly," a friend shouted to Woowoo in the supermercado, "did you know there's a package for you at the post office?" We stared back blankly. Having no postal box there, the comment seemed unlikely. "It's true," the friend added, they have a sign up that says package for Charly Walton." While Woowoo Chuck and RTGFKAR continued shopping, I trotted over to the P.O. to check out what surely had to be a misunderstanding.

And wouldn't you know, there on the glass above the service counter was a note that said, you guessed it, package for Charly Walton. I took it down and approached the clerk at the window. "This," I said in my best Spanish which is now approaching second grade level,"is for me." The clerk eyed me dubiously or, as Frank Sinatra would say, doobie doobie do biously, but reached under the counter nevertheless and found a postal form for me to sign. Now what, I thought. I can't write Charly Walton on the line because the clerk is likely to ask me for I.D. If I write my own name, she will clearly see the difference. I opted for my own though, first middle and last, just like it shows on my residency card and hoped for the best. I thought maybe I could convince her that Charly was my nickname. Not to worry, the signature was not given a glance. The clerk handed me my copy of the form and just stood there smiling the smile of someone who has just received a "hip hip, good show, well done." I waited a minute, smiling back and then seeing that nothing was forthcoming, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "uh, the package?" That "uh" by the way, is pronounced the same in Spanish. There is no package I was told. It's in David. Alrighty then, I said more or less, when will it arrive here? It won't, said smiling Maria, also more or less, you have to go get it. Just take your form to the main post office and pick it up. Hmmmm, I thought. That must be this form in my hand; the one with the wrong signature.

A couple of days later Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR, friend B and I set forth in search of. I had a vague memory of where the P.O. was located having been there once before a couple of years ago. It was, I recalled, just a few blocks from the town's center. I couldn't have been more right. I drove straight to it. That is, if by straight to it I mean around several detours and into a massive traffic jam. Panama was protesting NAFTA, the U.S. free, ha ha, trade agreement and thousands of people had taken to the streets in a parade to display their latest displeasure with the good old USA. And not just any streets, mind you, but the specific streets I wanted to drive on. I remembered a scene from "Soylent Green" where a huge bucket loader drove through crowds scooping up people by the dozens. Where are those bucket loaders when you need them? We did finally make it to the post office though, but not before several games of chicken with Panama taxis left my passengers whimpering and checking the deductible on their insurance policies. The post office was closed. Or, rather, enclosed. It was undergoing renovation and was barricaded in by a tall temporary construction fence. Other than seeing no entrance and finding no parking there was...no problem. I drove around the block and found a space to pull over that was maybe or not, legal. I gave RTGFKAR the keys and instructions to move the car if a problema should arise. I then set off on foot to find our bunch, batch, box of books.

The first door I came to that was close to where the P.O.'s front door used to be was what I took to be an unemployment office. Something like that anyway. Lines of people at windows that could have been postal had there been any mail about. I was given directions by a sweet older woman whose Spanish was Greek to me but whose finger pointed further up the street. There, down a driveway hidden by illegally parked vehicles, I found the P.O.'s temporary entrance. I walked up to the clerk and said, "Doctor Livingston I presume" and handed him my form. He had a nice one word answer as a response. "Aduana." I like one word answers. You either know them or you don't and if you don't you can look them up. This one I knew. It means Customs. Visualizing an office miles away I fired back my own one word query, "donde?", where? The clerk smiled which is apparently post office policy in Panama and beats the heck out of "going postal" and pointed to an office just three doors away. I would have skipped merrily there, but I knew I would still have to deal with the bogus signature on my form.

The guy at Customs was very nice. Though not smiling he did put down his broom and attend to me right away. He looked at my form and gave me new ones to sign. There were two boxes waiting for Charly Walton and I signed for both with my actual signature which, no matter how much I scribbled, I couldn't make look like Charly Walton. But, again, no matter. And, again, no books. The guy explained to me that he was not the customs agent, he was just the guy, who, well, swept. The customs agent was in a meeting and would not be back until after one and could I wait. Well sure, I thought. What the heck, it's already ten thirty. I about faced and marched off.

Back at the car I found no one but some thing. That thing being a ticket on the windshield. I looked about and saw Charly down the street and gave her a holler. RTGFKAR and B showed up shortly after. It was too hot they all explained, to stay in the car. I mumbled something about the air conditioner that they couldn't hear and drove off in search of a parade to run over.

Errands and lunch followed before returning to the Post Office. The customs agent was in and she, unsmiling, couldn't find our boxes of books. Eventually, I was enlisted to help look and it was my eagle eyes behind my 200 percent magnification eagle reading glasses that found the books amidst the piles of packages stacked about the room. I was then given a knife and told to open the boxes. Inside were, of course, brand new books sent by daughter K from Random House which to customs looked like they were for resale. In other words a dodge around paying import duties. No no no I protested, we just read a lot. I suppose because I have an honest face and because I was truly flustered and there really weren't all that many books, I was believed and allowed to go. But first, I had to pay the storage charge...back at the post office. It wasn't much, really, but there was a line... a long line. Twenty minutes later, receipt in hand I returned to the customs office and claimed my prize.

No one asked about the signatures.

Batches, bunches and boxes of books finally in tow, I pointed the car to the highway and started for home. Aren't you forgetting something Woowoo Charly inquired. What could that be, I responded sure that I had covered all bases. The ticket, she said, you have to pay the ticket.

Oh yeah, the ticket. Now where is that municipal building? I see it. It's right there.

On the other side of the parade.

The U.S. and, ha ha, Health Care

We watched "Sicko" last night, Michael Moore's documentary on the U.S.' corrupt and inadequate health care system. I feel very sorry for people watching this movie in the U.S because the film will make them sick (and disgusted)and drive them to the same health care system the movie is denigrating. There, if all goes as normal, those with insurance will be rejected and those without will either pay through the nose or be escorted from the premises as unwell as they arrived. The system is based on "less care means more profit." My feeling is that a country that doesn't look after the health of its own people is itself a sick country. Hmmmm, where I wonder, do you send a country to get treatment? The only place I can think of is the voting booth.

Fortunately for me I was in Panama when I was afflicted with my gallbladder's desire for an out of body experience. Although the six day hospital stay has left me in debt, I am not dead and I'm not bankrupt, one or the other of which I would have been in the States, because I was caught with no insurance. (Oddly, the U.S. will not pay Medicare for its citizens in Panama. I say oddly because people here go back to the U.S. for treatments that cost the Medicare system far more, many times more, than if it had paid for the same procedures here in Panama.)(The founding fathers were bright guys, but they didn't make logic a prerequisite of government.)

I must admit, while watching the movie, to feeling a little envious of the people in Canada, France and Great Britain who have paid zippo, nada, nothing for their health care throughout their lives. I would have had thousands more dollars to diddle with if that had been the case in the U.S. during my lifetime. Sure the people in those countries pay high taxes, but then... SO DO WE! For their tax dollars they get to live longer and healthier, but c'mon, we have better Hummers and Bradley Fighting Vehicles. And also our politicians are richer.

Nevertheless, as Americans, we must remain proud. Although, when it comes to health care we can't run through the crowd holding up a finger and shouting "We're number one, we're number one!", we can still puff out our chests and proclaim, "We're number 37, we're number 37. At least it's not last.

Watching Television

RTGFKAR watches the food and cooking channels. Last night we had chilidogs for dinner. I'm not sure those two things are related, but I have my suspicions. Personally, I don't understand why anyone would want to watch someone else prepare food. I don't go snooping around the back of restaurants to see what the chef is doing to my cordon bleu. It might be something better left unseen. Why would I, then, tune in to watch Katie the Cockeyed Cook doing something unsightly in a soup tureen? Doesn't make sense.

Ah well, to each his own. Some might ask why I'd spend four hours on a Saturday or Sunday watching Lorena Ochoa and 35 Korean woman hit a white ball around a green field in search of a small hole and to them I'd say, have you seen these women? They have really nice...swings. Besides, the action all takes place outdoors and there's nothing more fun than sitting in a comfortable chair and watching the great outdoors.

And last night, because we couldn't get the car wreck and bloody household accidents channel, we watched "When Animals Attack" and another show whose name I can't recall, but it was something like, "When Good Pets Go Bad" or "When Fido Ate Grandma." From these shows we learned to never have elephants, lions, bears or boas as household pets. RTGFKAR called our builder right after the show and cancelled our pachyderm enclosure. We also learned that some Rottweilers and Pit Bulls will bite, but, not to worry, that's only the ones who have teeth. A part of the show I found particularly interesting was the reenactments. Because few animal attacks are actually filmed, the show's producers hire people off the street to reenact the mauling, biting, mashing, spearing and occassional fine dining by vicious animals like sharks, elk and cocker spaniels on crack. I don't know what these people are paid, but I'm sure it's not enough. On the other hand, I'm not doing much lately and could use a few extra bucks. I wonder what they pay for real action videos. Hmmmm.

"Okay Gus, let's see what you got."

Maybe I SHOULD watch the food channel.

Name That Tune

It's the wee hours of the morning. I know because I've wee-d twice already. Thought I'd get up early and watch my computer screen emerge from the dark and play its little I'm awake jingle. I wonder if it could be programmed to play something else when it lights up. I'm kind of partial to, "Why don't we do it in the road" and Dave Barry's favorite, " There's not enough room in my Fruit Of the Looms to hold all my love for you."

We've all had the what song would you play if you only had one song to wake up to each morning conversation and although I've always stated my preference is Zippedy Doo Dah, I have recently - probably because of the great wisdom I've acquired with age...either that or something I learned from my mentor, Paris Hilton - been considering changing my selection to "And Thus Spake Zarathustra." That's the one from the movie "2001 A Space Odyssey." This tune would allow me to get up a little slower and besides that, Zarathustra is a really great name. In fact, if I had another kid I'd name him/her Zarathustra. Maybe my youngest daughter could accept a middle name of Thustra. That way she could be Dara Thustra, which is close. Other good reasons for selecting the song as a morning wake up call are the words "thus" and "spake". How often do you get to use those? I could initiate the what song conversation just to get them in. (I'm a little unsure of the conjugation though. Is it speak spoke spake?) (Conjugate is a good word too. Why don't we conjugate in the road?)

I don't think I've ever had the what song would you play when you go to bed conversation. ("Singing in the Rain" just popped into my head for showering...or maybe weeing.) Maybe I could play something backwards. "Zarathustra Spake Thus" makes sense to me. Of course if you are married you'd have to have harmonious and compatible tunes for no matter what you are doing. I can't imagine Little Richard screeching Good Golly Miss Molly" with John Lennon lamenting "Yesterday" as counterpoint. The marriage wouldn't last a week. The idea of background music for all our endeavors appeals to me, but then I pretty much have a tune going in my head at all times anyway. Right now "When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and grouty" is nibbling at the edge of my consciousness. That and "Buckle Down Winsockie, Buckle Down." Does anyone remember that old favorite?

I'm going to go eat breakfast now so I'm dialing up "a cuppa cup a cuppa cup of...coffee." Later I'm going to take a walk to "I love to go a wandering along a mountain trail, and as I go I love to sing, my knapsack on my back" which makes little sense but the valderee valderaaah part is quite inspiring. After that, who knows? I'll let the music decide.

Thus Spake Zendoc.

Dallys

What ever happened to Winnebagos? Are they still around? I've always liked saying Winnebago.

And anomalies. I like saying anomaly too.

Yesterday we had a visit from our neighbor Dallys, pronounced Dallas. She brought us tomatoes. Sometimes she brings coffee. We give her loaves of Ramon's homemade bread. Dallys speaks about as much English as I speak Spanish so we are able to carry on a conversation. She hangs out for the length of a glass of wine and little by little we are getting to know her and she us. We had learned from her oldest son, Aurelio, who is also a frequent visitor, that Dallys had come to see me when I was in the hospital, but I had been sleeping so she didn't wake me. That's very sweet. Dallys has six children all living at home although Aurelio is often away at school in David where he is a third year criminology student. The youngest of her clan is Daisy who, I'm guessing, is about three. Daisy likes to say, "how are you how are you how are you?", the extent of her English vocabulary. No point in answering her though, she will just ask you again. One of the things that happens when you are trying to sustain a cross cultural, mixed language conversation is that odd topics crop up as a result of trying to find common ground and the words to express an idea, any idea. Any thing you can say in the other person's language is something to talk about. Dallys, for instance, told us yesterday that she weighs 150 lbs. No one had asked her, she just volunteered the information because, I think, it was something she knew how to say in English. This led to a revelation of all our weights except mine because when it was my turn I changed the subject. I also weigh 150 and I didn't want to make her feel bad. I chimed in, instead, with cuantos anos tiene usted? how old are you, something I knew how to say in Spanish. Dallys is 46. Ramon is 39, he says, and Woowoo Charly and yo are sesenta y seis or thereabouts. Dallys said we all have young spirits which is true, but we all have old necks.

Blimp is a fun word to say and it's only one syllable.

Gallbladders Get No Respect

The most common major surgery among American adults is the reclinectomy which is the process of removing fused recliners from American asses. The incidences of reclinectomies rise sharply during football season. The second most common major (major being defined as surgery that is happening to you) surgery is gallbladder removal. Who woulda guessed it?

Not me. I for one, never gave my gall bladder thought one until it died its painful death, waving farewell to my pancreas and other nearby mushy belly parts as it departed. Sitting on the corner of my desk as a reminder to take them from time to time are a dozen bottles containing pills reputed to keep my internal organs and other musical instruments in tune - calcium for bones, saw palmetto for prostate, E for skin, etc. - and it occurs to me now that even though I live with a woowoo and have had frequent contact with healers along with the established medical community no one, nada, zippo has ever said to me, "Doc you should be taking these for your gallbladder." Why does the gallbladder get no respect?

Personally, I think it's the name. Heart, lungs, liver, duodenum and the like are inoffensive words to say. Duodenum is even kind of fun. Gallbladder, on the other hand, is not. I mean bladder alone inspires pissy thoughts and gall, well, when someone says "he's got a lot of gawwllll", they are not being complimentary. When, additionally, you consider that most people don't understand the gallbladder's function - it has something to do with the digestion of bacon, arsenic and Frito Lay products - you can see why this is an under appreciated part of human anatomy.

Therefore...in an effort to correct this appalling neglect of our semi-vital bile producing and storing mechanism, I hereby declare June 15th as National Gallbladder Awareness Day. Why that day, you say? Because on June 15th of this year, man was I ever aware of mine!

Parts Iz Parts

"Rotted, fetid, necrotic, gangrenous, pustules of pus and other equally lovely words were the choices of my doctor to describe my post operative gall bladder. I wasn't awake at the time but I'm told it had to be shot with a silver bullet and a stake driven through its heart before it was safe to discard. Well no wonder I was able to spin my head around three sixty and toss up guacamole on command. Of course I wasn't exactly expecting a rosy description from the doc because gall does, after all, mean bile and bile doesn't conjure hearts and flowers to most people, but necrotic? Gangrenous? And this thing was inside of me? Now I know how Siguorney Weaver felt in Alien III. And, as if this weren't enough to give one pause, the doc adds that I had a "catastrophic infection." I don't know about you but that sounds bad to me.

But...not to worry. I'm better now. Well sure I can still set fire to things with my eyes and priests come by every day to throw holy water at me and mumble shit in Latin, but apart from that I'm fine. Who needs a gallbladder anyway and what other body parts can I get rid of before they go over to the dark side? The liver? Nooo, my liver is my friend and needed to share the glasses of red wine I am forced to drink for my health. Heart? I would miss all those warm and teary moments I have when the team I'm rooting for does something good. Oh yeah, and loving people too. Lungs? Breathing is good. I like breathing. What else is there? Intestines, upper and lower but apparently no middle. Too bad, I'd get rid of the middle for sure. And there is the brain, which I'm told we only use a small percentage of to begin with. I'd take that out in a second, but what do you fill the hole with? G.W. Bush might have the answer there, but with no brain at all he's only able to repeat rote memory phrases like "stay the course" and "I'm an excellent driver, an excellent driver" so he's unable to tell us. Oh well, I guess I'll just go with the parts I've got.

Pain?

In a book I read years ago, "Shibumi" by Trevanian, one of the central characters takes a fall from a cliff and is dying from the injuries. The book's hero rappels down to him, approaches and says, "pain?" The man responds, "no thanks, I have enough." Now THAT is a good line. I vowed to use it.

My first opportunity presented itself last week. I was adrift in a post surgical altered state wandering in and out of beautiful dreams when an efermera, a nurse, appeared at my bedside clad in what used to be traditional nurse apparel - and damn who let them get away from that? - to change out the sack that was dripping expensive and hopefully useful drugs into the back of my left hand. The last act in the process is to verify that the drip is functioning at maximum capacity, which is to say, just short of painful. This is done by going past the border and actually into painful and then backing off just a touch. Some of the nurses, or at least it seemed so to me, appeared to enjoy this part. "Take that you steenking rich gringo here to steal our country" was the barely visible message - I mean you had to look hard for it - hidden behind their otherwise soft and in most cases beautiful brown eyes. I was, of course, feverish. On this occasion, when my hand burst into flames and I was drawn back to real life by the pain and the sound of my own scratchy voiced - I had been intubated - stream of invective coalesced into the all encompassing word "yikes!", I was rewarded by my angel of mercy and sent from heaven straight man in the clever disguise of a nurse saying, "duele?"

Here was my chance. Thirty years I had waited. I would not blow it. I carefully summoned the Spanish words, sought meaningful eye contact and delivered the line that surely anyone, anywhere would find funny, "No gracias, tengo basta" I said. I knew it would take a second, there is a subtlety to the joke, and I relaxed, smiling inside, waiting for the laughter or at least the chuckle that would follow. I waited... and I waited.

She didn't get it. I mean, SHE DIDN'T GET IT! How could this be? I was momentarily nonplussed, which, for those of you unfamiliar with the word, means I was completely at a loss for plusses, but I recovered quickly. Hey, that's just the night shift,I thought. You know, the zombies that slip around in the hospital after dark with syringes and plastic shot glasses with one pill in them.(And isn't that disappointing?) They gotta be brain dead to do their job. I still have the pain, the joke and a whole new audience arriving in the morning. There's no way I won't get a laugh tomorrow.

I fell quickly back into Dreamland. Sunrise was only a few hours away.

The Magazine Rack Reveals...

If you've stood in a checkout line lately, you might have noticed these entries on the magazine rack.

Cosmopolitan: Ladies, has your guy got a lot of gall? New research out of Panama says he's a lighter, brighter guy without it.

The National Inquirer: Photos reveal J-Lo crushed by news of secret flame's gallbladder split. Marc says, "hey, he can have mine."

Weekly News and World Report: Alien life form disguised as gallbladder removed from man's stomach in small Latin American country. Doctors say it was necrotic but we at WNWR don't know what planet that is.

National Geographic: Tiny Bacterial tribesmen are shown here seeking refuge in a new zone as their traditional homeland on the Plains of Gallbladder falls victim to unknown causes. Global warming and the policies of George Bush are suspected in the death of the area. Additional research is being conducted by a team of scientists and a team of synchronized cheerleaders to determine the cause of the area's demise.

Good Housekeeping: Today's tip from Martha: Throw out that old gallbladder. You don't need it, it doesn't work all that well and it's just junking up your abdominal closet. Here's how....

Popular Mechanics: Both Black and Decker and Stanley have brought out new products aimed at helping the do-it-yourself gall bladder remover. Each of the odd looking devices can drill four abdominal holes simultaneously and both are fitted with the new Hoover turbo vacuum pack. Look for them soon on your hardware shelves.

Sports Illustrated: Boston's slick fielding, strong armed, slap hitter, Doke Waltone, was placed on the disabled list for the 47th consecutive year when an MRI revealed his gallbladder had gone yard. Sox field general Terry Franconahead was quoted as saying, "management felt it was the best thing to do, but personally I think he'd still hit better than Lugo even without his gb."

New York Times Book Review: THE STONES OF GALL BLADDER hit the shelves to moderate reviews last Friday, debuting at 19 on the Hardcovered Organ Best Seller list. Author Doughnald Whaltone hopes that this his latest contribution to literature and the trash bin outside the medical lab will enjoy the same success as his previous submission, the children's work, THE LUMPY THING ON THE NECK THAT WOULD NOT DIE SO WE KILLED IT.

Dream House

"Today we are going to Daveed to look at sinks and toilets and showers and stuff," said Woowoo Charly eyes all atwinkle. "Aren't you excited?"

Excited was not exactly the word that best described my feeling for the endeavor, but I did muster up and make the trip. We went to places named Elmec, ARC Mandarin, Cochez y CIA, (good to see the agency is going retail)and EM, Everything for the Home. We also had pizza at Tamburelli's, clearly the highlight of the day apart from finding that $4,899 shower stall unit that had everything from what looked like masturbatory devices to a small television, but alas, was $4,897 dollars more than we want to spend. How clean do we have to be anyway? Besides, we are not building our dream house here - those are for people with bottomless pockets - we are building a comfortable place to live with a nice view where either the buffalo or Gussers can roam and the skies are not cloudy all day.

In order to build a dream home, besides the money thing, I would actually have to have one, a dream that is. A dream about a perfect house. Readers of this blog know my night dreams run more to the surreal and my day dreams don't last long enough to get a handle on. There goes one now. Wait! Here's another and I've got it. My dream house would be a Fun House. It would have a half court basketball court, a movie theatre, a two lane bowling alley, an indoor putting and chipping green, an outdoor driving range, maybe even a couple of golf holes, an exercise room, a wet bar, a swimming pool with heated water, a steam room and ... okay, I'm still fifteen years old, so what? It would also have a nice library with a couple of dark oak desks and several comfortable leather arm chairs encircling a fireplace and nearby there would be scotch and cognac in crystal decanters available to drink from snifters while reading a book and puffing a good cigar whose smoke would rise into an overhead air purifier. I may be fifteen, but I'm a darn sophisticated fifteen. And there you have it. Add in anything I may have forgotten that's available in the Playboy Mansion, say, bedrooms, kitchen, underground grottoes, and toss in a few things from Disneyland like bumper cars and voila, my dream house complete.

We didn't find very many of these things in Daveed yesterday, but we did locate some darn nice bathroom faucets. I look at that as a good start.

Dog Stuff

Gustavo, Gus, Dog Breath, Boy-o, Poop a Loops, Mancers, Gussers, Loops, and Fur Face are all names Woowoo Charly and I call our dog. Cookie Dude, Walk Man, Key Master, Door Man, Bone Buyer, Washer Man and Play Station are all names he calls me. Charly is Soft Touch, Sweet Voice and Medicine Woman. At first RTGFKAR was simply New Guy In Pack, but now I think he's Additional Petting Person.

A good day for Gus is one in which he gets to join us when we go anywhere in the car. He places his back legs on the back seat and his front legs on the console between the front seats and in this way is able to see out the front windshield. We two legged pack members lower a back window about half way so Gus can snarl at passing dogs, a thing that makes him almost as happy as chasing chickens. If, on the same day, he gets a walk to our new house site, he displays evidence of what I suspect is dog bliss. There's a lot of wide eyed panting and nose to the ground running amok. He smells out so many spots to pee on that inside of five minutes he's air peeing which seems to be okay with him. Most of the time I can't even see him as he streaks through the underbrush so periodically I call him back to check in. That's when I call him Good Boy. It's the name that makes him happiest of all.

And that is all I have time for. Lizbeth, our builder, is coming over to discuss house stuff. Gus just can't wait. Jumping on guests is also one of his favorite things to do. Bad Dog is a name that also makes him happy.

He's an easy dog to please.

Zapadora

Okay, so yesterday's photo ended up where it was supposed to be. The result of hard work and insightful thought? Nah, blind luck. My favorite kind.

Today's photo, should it choose to appear, looks like a model of a house under construction. It's not. It's an actual house. The person in the foreground, however, is a model of RTGFKAR. We have stationed it there to keep the workers busy and also to keep crows off the property.

Yesterday, after touring the house site, we drove to Potrerillos, a neighboring wannabe town with pals L and B. There we found a warehouse in which we found, you guessed it, wares housed, under the business name of Zapadora. This, I thought,was a terrible thing to do to Dora and I wondered why they disliked her enough to suggest this to us. The wares there were furniture, lamps, doors, decorative bricabrac and, of course sundry because sundry is in great demand these days. Woowwoo Charly, RTGFKAR, and B wandered through the building oohing and ahing at this and that while L and Yers Truly feigned interest and wondered if we were missing any good sports on TV. In my own defense I would like to say that I'm sure everything there was very nice and possibly even buyable but how would I know for certain, I have no taste. Also, speaking for both L and I, we like sports. Another thing I learned was that all the items in Zapadora were from Egypt, India, some Middle Eastern countries and Mexico. Apparently the people there didn't want them.

On the way back we stopped at Art's Bambu where more furniture was on display. I actually liked some of the things there, but as I've noted, I have no taste so my opinion is uncalled for and should be left in the good hands of people who have pictures of stuff in glossy paged magazines. Either that or my wife, even though I find her opinion suspect since I've learned she thinks recliners are tacky.

Following that short stop - shortstop? okay,now we're talking - we drove home only to find there were no sports on the tube worth viewing unless you like mesomorphs throwing beer kegs and lifting cars. Ah well, maybe tomorrow...which is today.

I better go look.

Picture This

"A picture is worth a thousand words." Who said that? Bit of an exaggeration if you ask me. Forty or fifty words maybe, but a thousand? If you think a picture is that valuable ask a mute. See if he draws you a picture of his answer or just smacks you a good one upside the head.

The reason I bring this up is because I've added a picture to yesterday's blog. I wasn't trying to add a picture to yesterday's blog but there it is anyway. What I was trying to do was add a picture to this blog, but you know, gang agley strikes when you least expect it. Now I'm stuck with cranking out a thousand words. If the quote creator had said a reasonable "blah blah blah a hundred words", I'd be done by now. Oh well, might as well get to it.

One excellent afternoon this week was spent playing a game of Scrabble with RTGFKAR and Woowoo Charly while simultaneously watching the Red Sox and Rockies games. I won the Scrabble match with a clever usage of the word "spinets", the Sox got an almost no hitter from Curt Schilling and a 1 to 0 win over Oakland as the Rockies triumphed over Houston on a Tulowitzki walk off single in the bottom of the ninth. ("Bottom of the ninth" being a redundant phrase after saying "walk off", but a little redundancy is a good thing when you are in search of a thousand words.)

But enough about sports, let's talk politics. Who is Obama's team, why is he keeping it a secret, and can a true Liberal vote for Hilary knowing she's a Yankee fan? These are the questions that need to be answered so we can we go to the polls and cast an enlightened and educated vote. And while we are inquiring, wouldn't it be nice to know if soccer moms know anything about soccer and who are they aligned with politically, the polls fail us here, and what about deck shuffleboard moms and full contact karate moms. Don't they count? I remember when there used to be serious investigative reporting. Now it's all sound bites which leads me to ask the obvious, how, actually, does a sound bite?

I have an eyebrow hair growing near the right side of my right eye that must be close to two inches long. Is this normal? Should I cut it? Is there a category in Guiness for this? It's not really all that noticeable because it kind of curls up and is real light in color. I like to grab it though, and twirl it on my finger. I'm sure this is not normal, but I can't seem to stop doing it. Should I seek professional help or just ask a mute?

Alrighty then, there's an even thou. Tomorrow I'm going with the picture.

...maybe too quiet.

It is so quiet here this morning my thoughts seem loud. Hope they don't bother anyone. I can here the clock on the wall ticking off the seconds until the next hour and then the hour after that and so on for all eternity or until the battery dies, whichever comes first. You gotta watch out for a ticked off second, it might have a mean streak. (And now you know why I like to keep my thoughts quiet.)

I read a long interview this morning with Christopher Hitchens the author of "God Is Not Great" and wondered why it took a whole book to make his point which is, essentially, God is not...period. He could have just noted that if there was a God would we have AIDS, George W and the Yankees? I mean, c'mon Chris, cut to the chase.
Actually, I found the interview quite interesting and will surely one day read the book. The inherant trouble with a book like this though, much like a books on politics, is that no one reads them but the people who already agree with the author's position. A thing, in this case, which I do. (Religion bad, Reason good.) Few, if any, minds get changed by the publication. Ah well, I suppose if you feel strongly enough, you have to try to move the mountains.

When I feel strongly, I pump irony.

And, on a related topic, we played golf yesterday at the, ha ha, country club where we now have to pay a couple of extra bucks for a kid called a bandelero to run up to the ha ha, green and put a big stick in the hole to serve as a flag. If you are wondering how this is related, I should point out that we do this religiously. If, however, there had been a God present yesterday, I'm sure I would have been hell bound because my game was an abomination. (Now there's a word that some Republican pundit will surely turn into "Obamaination." Remember, you heard it here first.)

That's all I have for today because in trying to quiet my thoughts I've chased them away completely. And now there's that damn clock ticking again.

Monday A Fun Day

I feel an attack of serious writing coming on and that worries me. In order to write seriously one has to know serious things and truthfully I can't think of a one. Wait, I take that back. Humor is a serious thing. I take humor seriously. What, after all, has seen us through dire times more often than a good laugh. Well sure Johnny Walker comes to mind, but I'm talking besides that. And you don't even have to laugh aloud to get the full benefits of a humorous moment. As long as you are chuckling inside when G.W. Bush says anything at all, your day will have been better spent.

Yesterday was a funny day. It was a "Monday" which comes from the word "mundane" which I believe is the opposite of "greatdane" and the reason why people wishing a balance of the two are always insisting that we "have a nice dane." RTGFKAR and I ran errands about town while Woowwoo Charly read an entire publication about a Vanity Fair that should probably have been called Vanity Fare because vanity is expensive. One of our stops was at Global Bank which isn't really global, but the bank is expanding to a location across the street and although that isn't exactly like having a new branch in Hong Kong or Tokyo, they are moving up. Look out Wells Fargo. We were there to open a new account for RTGFKAR. In order to do this money is required, so RTGFKAR went over to the bank's ATM and took some out. He then gave the money back to the bank which, I suppose, puts it back in the ATM. It was then I realized what economists mean when they talk about money circulation. After that, or maybe before that, these busy days are so confusing, we went to Romero's Super Mercado to buy milk and wine, one of which is a renowned heath food so we got lots of it. After that we went home and played a game of Scrabble with Woowoo Charly who came up with lots of funny words like "unto" but ultimately lost to RTGFKAR because he takes Scrabble seriously. I know this because he doesn't read magazines and watch sports while he plays which, if you ask me, isn't fair. Later we watched the rain and drank a few glasses of health food.

All in all it was a pretty funny day.

You Are A Winner !

Congratulations you are the first reader of the 200th Monkeymind blog and winner of a brand new absolutely nothing! Which is a shame. Anyone who has read them all deserves something for their forbearance, tolerance , patience, and high pain threshold. Go ahead, give yourself a treat. Eat an ice cream cone or buy some snow tires. It's your choice and you have my blessing.

I've won a few things in my life. I've twice won turkeys. The first one was in a raffle and the second I won by bowling the highest score in a league during Thanksgiving week. I have won basketball tickets in a free throw shooting contest and a case of beer and a t-shirt in a closest to the pin hole in a golf tournament. I was also on a team that won a golf "Scramble" which is a type of tournament and we teammates each pocketed about fifty bucks for that achievement. The big luckies like cars and houses and Reader's Digest millions have thus far eluded me. Maybe next week.

I do believe in luck, joss, buena fortuna or whatever you choose to call unexpected happy happenings even if they are only the avoidance of downer deeds. Chance seems to play a part in our lives even if most of what occurs is a result of our own doings. The short list of my winnings noted in the previous paragraph shows all but one were actually earned awards. That one, though, the raffle turkey, was pure chance and maybe luck exists in roughly that ratio of earned to random good fortune. I also believe that some people are just, flat luckier than others. Multiple lottery winners come to mind and lone survivors of this disaster or that accident seem to bear me out on that point. Years ago I wrote a bit about a guy who had achieved everything in life, fame, wealth and happiness but as he walks up the aisle to accept his award as the Man of the Century he trips over a blind man's cane, tumbles into the orchestra pit and is impaled on a drumstick. The podium then topples onto him from the stage and the man ends his days in a rocker sucking his thumb and humming show tunes. I have no idea where that story is now, but it goes to show how lucky you are. If I could find it, you'd have to read it because I'd make it a blog.

And that, I suspect, would be pushing my luck.

Bugs Must Die

"Hit it right out of the air!" The big green fly with the Vincent Price head, I'm talking about. Damn thing's been bugging me, pun intended, for two days. It wouldn't land and give me a clean shot so I knew I'd have to get him in flight and I just did that. I'm not feeling an ounce of remorse either. Usually I say something like sorry old sock when I snuff out a bug, because I'm a big hearted "we are all one" kind of a Zenmeister dude, but not this time. This time I had the revenge factor working.

A short while after hosing down Nikita late Thursday afternoon, I shucked my wet blue jeans for a pair of dry old sweats. Unbeknownst to me these cotton comfys were temporary shelter for a bug of some sort. I'm guessing spider, but that's not beknownst to me either as it somehow made its escape without being detected. Before departing for, I'm guessing again, some other article of my clothing, said insecto took a nasty chunk from the back of my knee right atop one of the tendons that runs along back there. I did not sleep well Thursday night. There was a burning, itching it's got to be scratched sensation that conspired to keep me awake for much of my scheduled dream time that was to include slam dunks and a hole in one. Still, I got through Friday morning with nought but a sore leg and more of the annoyingly hard to ignore itching. It was late Friday afternoon when a pain moved up my thigh from the knee and a fever arrived. I mentioned this to Ramon and he told me he had watched a show about spiders on Animal Planet only the night before and, considering my symptoms, he gave me two hours. Luckily, England was playing a friendly with Brazil on the telly so I knew my last hours would be well spent. The two national teams tied and I survived all the way until the third inning of the Red Sox Yankee game before the fever and assorted other symptoms drove me from the couch to my bed where I thought to make progress in the book I was reading before my demise.

And that, of course, is when the fly made its first appearance. 'jever try to read with a fat noisy fly doing a passable impression of a Japanese Zero kamikazy-ing about your head? It requires more will than I had at the moment. Add in Gus snapping his jaws when the bug blew by and to my fevered brain I had already passed and was paying the price for all my sins. Okay, maybe just that one back in '67. I was finally forced to turn out the lights which calmed the fly and, blissfully, induced my own sleep. I awoke a few hours later in a puddle of persperation, fever gone. It was then I vowed revenge.

The fly is just the beginning, ha ha ha ha ha. Be warned you entomological pains in the asses, I am on the hunt. No more Mr. Nice guy, ha ha ha ha ha. I have my swatter, I have my Raid and I have thick soles. Bugs must die, ha ha ha ha! Bugs must die!

I may have a few lingering symptoms.