The Story

A SWELL VELDT
By Doc Walton

The rain beat down heavily on the African veldt, a swell veldt if I ever saw one. Miles Everhard the noted pretty good white hunter stood outside the tent of Lady Cynthia Sackable and inquired in a voice loud enough to be heard above the din if Lady Sackable might not care for a spot of company. Shooing Noblong Ndive her personal porter and parasol bearer, who at that very moment had been applying insect repellent slowly and diligently to her backside – an area most vulnerable on the veldt or so he had said – out the rear tent flap, Cynthia hailed back at Miles to do come in as she was ever so lonely.
Abandoning his umbrella purchased through the mail order Snobs-Are-Us catalog Whitecrest, U.K. to the night, Miles slipped through the tent’s front flap and found Lady Sackable had arranged herself on her cot in a fashion that suggested she had, well, arranged herself on her cot. She was seated directly in its center, nightgown somewhat askew with bedding pulled to cover this and that but allowed a peek of the other thing. Her mosquito net lay tantalizingly open, but she had little fear of the nightly nippers and felt particularly safe on her backside where there were simply oodles of protection.
Positively ravishing thought Miles as he shook the moisture from his water repellant White Hunter Jungle Garb, the official off field garb of the Nairobi Nasties, the local futbol club, and the thought was so compelling that he took the next moment to just blurt out the words that had rushed to his suddenly fevered brow. “I say Lady Ess, beastly night this. Have you got anything for a fevered brow?” Being British, the concept of getting to the point without first mentioning the foul weather had been completely erased from his DNA.
“Would a spot of gin help? And do call me Cynthia” said Lady Sackable. “And while you’re at it, getting the gin and calling me Cynthia that is, be a dear boy and freshen this as well.” She handed Miles her own nearly full glass. “I’ve a bit of a fever myself.”
Miles strode to the dressing table and poured two healthy droughts from the Deep Rock Gin Dispenser and drank his off in long full swallows, because that’s how manly white hunters take their spirits. That, and of course, furtive swigs from their flasks when out in the bush and large things toothy are about. The gin had the immediate effect of stiffening Miles resolve and reducing the impact of his British reserve to the point where he was able to get beyond both the weather and his fevered brow.
“About tomorrow,” he said, handing over Cynthia’s tumbler of gin, “if this blasted rain” – apparently the weather thing was still with him – “lets off, I think we will be able to find you your rhino. I know how anxious you are to get the horn.”
“Oh just ever so eager Miles. I must get horned before Lord Sackable returns from the bush or I dare say I won’t get horned at all. You know how possessive he gets. He’ll be wanting all the horning for himself.”
Lady Sackable said this while leaning back on her pillows and placing a forearm across her brow in a manner that suggested just how distraught she was at the prospect of going much longer without a horn. “Do come sit by me Miles and tell me of your plan.” She added this last as an after thought, though it was not quite the thought she was after.
Miles for his part was approaching a state resembling all of a tither and couldn’t believe his good fortune. He did have a plan of course, well not really a plan, more of a vague hope and it had nothing to do with rhinos in the morning though he thought “rhinos in the morning” a catchy sort of a phrase. Miles knew that when a swarthy, hairy chested, white hunter enters a woman’s tent on a swell veldt he does not go there without conquest a forethought. Miles, lacking swarth and sporting but a small patch of chest hair was nevertheless hoping a light embrace might be possible. Something on the order of “buck up old girl, I’ll find a horn for yet” while perhaps placing a comforting arm ‘round her shoulders. If luck then held, violin music would swell mysteriously up and there would be locking eyes, trembling lips and passionate words not needing to be said.
Taking the proffered seat next to the object of his desires, Miles was about to employ his ploy when Cynthia quite suddenly took his hand in hers, put them on her thinly night-gowned lap and looking up at him earnestly said, “My word, your brow actually is quite fevered.”
“It’s nothing really” Miles shot back. “Touch of jungle fever, I suspect. Happens all the time.” And then something that sounded like har har, eh what and wouldn’t you know. Miles was growing a bit tense, if by tense one conjures the phrase stiff as a lamppost.
Lady Sackable, gazing at Miles meaningfully, shifted all four of their hands from her lap to his where she hoped to discover a local uprising and was not disappointed as she in turn said, “Yes, I quite understand.” And “I’ve heard it’s really quite common when two people are alone…all alone…in a tent on a swell veldt in the dark of the night…and there’s rain shushing all about them…and…the lanterns are glowing softly…and… gin is available in large quantities…to be suddenly stricken with all sorts of tropical fevers and…” she added, fearing her point was too subtle, “the only known cure as far as I can surmise… starts like this.” She moved their hands again, this time to her breasts which were not quite heaving yet as heaving is such a tough go when four hands are involved. She removed her own, the top ones, to achieve the proper quota and allow the heaving to commence in earnest. This abrupt departure of her knowing hands left Mile’s uncertain mitts plastered there alone to enjoy the aforementioned heaving which is as you know an up and down sort of thing. While he took this simple pleasure Lady Sackable searched his eyes for signs that he had caught her drift. She found them opened quite wide and unblinking no sign of life apparent, so she just let her gaze slip to his lap where the evidence of his comprehension was becoming clearer. Or as she was more likely to put it, ever so clear.
It was at this moment, this inevitable moment when hunter and prey come together in that age old joining that symbolizes man’s ultimate destiny, the fate of the world and heaps more poetic nonsense along those lines, that the lion who had been nipping about the camp in search of scraps, handouts or the hands themselves, decided to enter the tent.

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Lord Sackable, the Earl of Erstwhile, head of Sackable Safaris and chair of the Let Them Eat Scones Society was enjoying his own gin and gin after a long day of beating about the bush. His section of the swell veldt, some twenty miles away, was free of rain and after having cheerfully flogged a porter or two and cursed the rest he had retired to his tent to await his dinner and the arrival of a village virgin. He had become accustomed to having each of these on a regular basis as he was, after all, very rich.
“Bongo,” he bellowed at his headman, because that’s what he’d heard wealthy Earls do, bellow. “Isn’t that blasted dik-dik done yet?” Dik-dik was his favorite and he had been able to shoot one earlier in the day after his bearers had trapped it and tied it to a tree. He’s gotten a quite nice photo of himself afterwards, holding up the dik-dik’s head and posing triumphantly.
“No Sahib, a few minutes more are required” Bongo shouted back. He called the Earl Sahib because that was his name, Sahib Sackable, and the two were on a first name basis. He rolled the spit a quarter of a turn and added a blast of his own saliva to the dik-dik browning over a low fire. Bongo, having served a stint with an impoverished and consequently mannered Earl, had become accustomed to “I say, would you be so kind as” and hence did not approve of bellowing.
“Well hurry it up then” Sackable bellowed even louder. “I’m quite starving in here.”
Bongo glanced angrily over his shoulder at the Earl’s tent before unzipping his trousers to add a bit more to the dik-dik’s natural juices.

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The lion was as lions go not very big, which accounted in part for his traveling alone. Not being able to whip up, as it were, on his fellow pridecats he had been relegated to the kitty end of the dining table and the pickings there were usually quite slim, a bit of grizzle, the odd bone and such. He was forced, therefore, to seek out dietary supplements in the form of food he could steal from smaller animals and edibles he found just lying about. The latter, as one might suspect, was most in abundance when humans camped on the veldt. Leo we will call him, because it means lion in one of those everyday African dialects such as Swahili or Zodiaci, didn’t particularly like humans as they smelled ghastly and moved about on their hind legs like bizarre, featherless, flightless birds. A gray maned old timer had once told him that in a pinch men were edible, but not nearly as tasty as warthog. Leo had no desire to find out if this was true, but his growling gut compelled him to push his way through the tent flap and into this odd human cave.
“Shreeeeek” screamed Lady Sackable or rather something like it. The actual sound eludes transcription here as there were notes available only to dogs and banshees.
“Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell” was Mile’s contribution, one that was admittedly a bit of a broken record at that.
The most startled of the participants, however, was Leo as the teeming rain had eliminated any warning odors and he had burst into the tent unaware of its peopled condition. Before he had time to think, never his strong point anyway, a short series of loud frightened roars had forcefully escaped his throat. Animal translators would later determine these sounds to mean either “Oh My God” or in the case of MGM, “Relax and Enjoy the Movie.”
For a brief moment, three lives flashed before six eyes and then Miles, a man of action, acted. He leaped behind Lady Sackable, clutched her shoulders and pushed her forward as a human shield. Years later, remembering this day he would still feel no remorse for his actions, because, as he was quick to point out, “Come on! It was a lion!
Fortunately for Miles his less than heroic performance went unnoticed by our heroine as at the very moment of the deed, Lady Sackable fainted dead away. The consequence of her leaving the consciousness scene was that Miles was abruptly caught with a dead weight on his hands and in trying to adjust stumbled backwards and onto the bed, pulling Lady Ess atop him. They had just hit the mattress when Noblong entered the room.
Noblong having heard the shouts, the screams and the roars had grabbed his gun and come running apace. He was not a particularly valiant type, but if his meal ticket was becoming a meal he felt he should at the very least see if there was something he could do. He threw back the tent flap, stepped in and took immediate note of the riot on the bed-cot. He was about to contemplate the black mail possibilities of that situation when he took secondary note of the lion in the room. In fact, “Lion In The Room” was the exact phrase that lit up his thoughts in flashing neon. As fast as Noblong had entered the tent his departure was many times faster. The only action visible to the human eye between the coming and the going was when he threw his gun in the lion’s general direction; an action that diverted Leo’s attention from the dinner arranging itself on the bed-cot.
A fleeing thing is a frightened thing and hence to a lion’s way of thinking, prey. Instinct demanded chase, so Leo bounded out the door and after the running man. His chances of catching the fleet African, however, were approaching nil as Noblong was half Kenyan, half Ethiopian. Any track and field aficionado will tell you that these people weigh nothing at all and are as a result not slowed much by gravity. Miles, on the other hand, felt both gravity and Lady Sackable’s softly lumpy weight as he lay plastered to the bed-cot. Looking over her fair shoulder he had seen the lion bolt off in pursuit of Noblong and his fear factor had dropped from a high of “I’m going to die now” to its present “what if it comes back?” Even with the latter in mind, he took a deep breath and lay back to enjoy the feel of Lady Sackable’s contours against his own. What allowed him to do this was the realization that his shield was still in place.

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The next morning, a typical African morning out there on the swell veldt where the sun shines brightly, the birds sing gaily and there’s a lot of that sort of thing going about, Sahib Sackable reached for his bottle of eye-opener and found it gone.
“Blast” he bellowed to no one in particular, followed by “Bongo, where the devil are you?” which was more specific but an equal waste of time, because you see, at that very moment Bongo was miles away sampling Sackable’s gin with the rest of the Earl’s porters. After a series of further expletives, each one louder than the last, the Earl burst from his tent with both malice and mayhem a forethought only to find that there was nothing and no one upon which to deposit either. He was alone in the bush, adrift on the swell veldt.

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Back at the base camp Miles and Cynthia had somewhat recovered from the night’s ordeal and although feeling a trifle fatigued from lack of sleep they were both also feeling the glow of life that comes from having survived a near death sort of thing. When one has gone through that with another person there is an emotional bond that grows between the two. Sort of like soldiers in war, but in this case rather more physical. You could say there was love in the air, but with the rain departed the “blasted bugs,” the “bloody bugs” and the “buggered bugs” were all rising from the grass and love was struggling to find air space of its own.
When Cynthia had awakened from her swoon the night before the first thing she saw was Miles standing in the center of the tent holding Noblong’s gun at the ready. He looked so gallant she had nearly swooned again. Instead she crossed her arms on her formerly heaving bosom and gave forth with a heartfelt, “Oh Miles.”
Miles himself had noticed the gun while flipping Cynthia onto her backside – she had gotten quite heavy – and thought it might be even more useful than a human shield. He had just picked it up and was looking at the tent entrance when Lady Sackable came round and sighed “Oh Miles” in such a way that he knew she had not witnessed his less than leading man behavior. He sensed that they could not pick up where they had left off at the lion’s appearance, but felt he still might have a shot at a good clutch and a tight embrace. Though Cynthia was willing, this proved an awkward task as Miles would not put down the gun.
Now, over bowls of Congo Puffs, a rice based cereal with flakes shaped like tiny poachers, the almost love birds eyed each other furtively for fear a held glance might embark them on a path to things that shouldn’t be done while the sun was shining. It was at this nearly tender moment that the swift Noblong reappeared and announced that while tracking the lion, harrumph harrumph, he had picked up the spoor of a rhino.
“Let me see it at once” cried Miles.
“One doesn’t see a spoor sir, one follows it” you bumbling British nitwit, replied Noblong, with the unquoted part being unspoken but truly felt.
“I see, I see, yes of course” said Miles not having a clue and in fact, visualizing something along the lines of a bread crumb trail. “Well then my good man, do lead on.”
And off they happily traipsed, across the swell veldt.

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Well, thought Sahib Sackable while streaming last night’s used gin on a handy bush and taking stock of his desolate surroundings, I didn’t get to be an Earl for nothing. It required a lot of luck, money and being carefully born to just the right parents. I’ll have to use all those skills now to get me out of this fix.
“Bongo you bloody bumbler” he shouts aloud. “Bring me the cell phone.” But there is no Bongo and there is no phone and along with noticing that his shoes are getting wet comes the realization that he is doing two things into the wind. The second is shouting.

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Male lions are not particularly noted for their sense of scent, nor for their keen eyesight or fleetness of foot. If one thinks about it he will note that most of the film footage of the species has them lying about taking the sun and awaiting delivery of their dinner by their female counterparts. In this respect they are much like male humans. Why the females of either species puts up with this is cause for wonder, but it is just so, and a thought in passing like the one Leo was having as he prowled about the swell veldt trying to pick up the scent or sight of anything at all edible. Leo, as noted before, has neither mate nor pride and has to fall back on his own prowess as a hunter to survive. Were the lion documentarians to stumble on Leo as a subject, the footage of his prowess might well be titled, Blind Luck.
The bright African morning had found Leo equidistance between the trackers and the lost Earl. There was, in fact, a rhino with a bad temper – which is a bit like saying a leopard with spots – snuffling about and Leo wanted no part of that program. His choice was to move towards the trackers who had already made a mess of one night or toward the faint, odd scent arriving from upwind; a scent British pub goers would recognize as used Tanqueray, but to a lion a scent that meant man made. As there were no other potential food sources in evidence, Leo loped off to investigate the smell.

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Okay, the blasted sun rises where? asked Sahib Sackable to himself. As far as he could tell the only answer was…in the sky. He was looking up and to his chagrin the sun was looking down. Neither appeared to be moving. Sahib quit staring at the yellow ball and spun around a couple of times in a full circle. This action, combined with the bright little spots in front of his eyes acquired by the sun watching gave him a bit of the same buzz that was his familiar state when gin was available. “That way,” he said aloud, pointing confidently to his fore. “That way.” He then spun about anew, but missed a full 360 by degree or two, a thing which left him trotting off diagonally to “that way.” No matter. His current course had him intersecting with Leo in roughly four hours. They could both use the company.

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As the intrepid troop – one can’t say troop these days without first saying intrepid even if, as here, the word meaning bold or fearless misses the mark by a mile or so – trekked across the swell veldt in search of its destiny or at least a good camping spot and Sahib Sackable and Leo the lion closed the distance to their rendezvous with fate or a near miss, Sahib’s headman, Bongo, was having second thoughts. Sure the Earl was a first class English prig and sure he bellowed constantly and made outrageous demands, but you had to balance that against his other attributes, the good ones which were – here Bongo had cause to pause – which were, which were…paychecks! Sackable always paid at the end of his safaris amounts called variously “a pittance, a trifle, chump change or slave wages,” but he did always pay. Now with the Earl’s gin neatly polished off, Bongo’s anger had subsided and his head was clearing between throbs. He was beginning to feel pangs of something he couldn’t quite grasp, so he paused again for further introspection. He quickly tossed off guilt, remorse and regret because, after all, the gin had been good and the Earl was…well, we’ve been over that, and he skipped the entire my brother’s keeper thing along with the whole question of loyalty. What he settled on finally, and didn’t feel a bit bad about, was avarice, greed and complete self interest. It was the Earl himself who had schooled him in these traditional western values and he supposed there was a bit of a debt owing there. How many times had he heard old Sackable say, “money makes the veldt go round.” It was this thought that convinced him. Snatching up his rifle and gear and waving moompow to his companions Bongo set off to save the Earl and of course, more importantly, his paycheck.

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Rhinos are not a particularly social animal. Rarely will you catch them clustered around the water cooler discussing Desperate Mouse Lives with others of their kind before setting off about their daily routines. No, they prefer solitude to company which in the grand scheme of things is probably to the betterment of all as rhinos are quite cranky at the sight of the rising sun. Their attitude ascends from cranky steadily along to irritable during the day and I would be remiss if I failed to point out the completely appalling dispositions they achieve by nightfall. It was, therefore, as Miles Everhard squinted through his binoculars at the great black beast pawing clouds of dust around him that he was looking at an animal it would be fair to say who was not in a cheerful mood.
Miles made one of those slow dry swallows lacking a trace of liquid that end in an audible gulp and reached for his flask.
“What is it, Miles?” said Cynthia, intercepting the flask and taking a belt herself. Lady Sackable was a modern woman and thus believed that the fair sex was quite capable of doing whatever men were doing and especially if men were doing shots. “What do you see?”
“Oh nothing really Lady Ess, just the longest horn I’ve ever spied, quite intimidating actually, and the fellow sporting it looks somewhat menacing as well. Here then, take a look for yourself.”

Miles and Cynthia exchanged flask and binoculars with Miles getting several quick swigs in the process while Lady Ess adjusted focus on the distant rhino. When at last the image sharpened she jumped back at the seeming closeness of the great beast.
“Oh my word,” she exclaimed as she regained her composure and refitted the glass to her eyes. “He’s magnificent. I’ve never seen such a horn. Oh Miles I must get my hands on it.”
“And so you shall if I have anything to say about it and I do have something to say about it” Miles declared boldly.
What he said next though, was a shock to no one who knew him well. He called out in the best I’m in charge here tone he could muster, “Noblong Old Sock, come over here. I’ve got a job for you.”

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It was not going well for Lord Sahib Sackable who now thought of himself as Lord I Need A Drink as he stumbled across the vast veldt. Some of the spots he was seeing before his eyes took to landing on parts of his exposed skin and nipping him viciously while the others remained in place despite his efforts to wave them away. Bongo and his boys had slipped off with the Earl’s gin, but had left him otherwise well provisioned. Unfortunately, where the Earl was least equipped was between his ears, the place where good sense had been replaced with bad temper. Without Bongo to lead him about the bush, Sahib was hopelessly inept.
It would be difficult to say which of his many mistakes was his first, but among the early ones was the discharging of many rounds of ammo into the air. The Earl had done this not in hopes that someone might have heard and rushed to his rescue, but rather in an angry fit of pique that to him required noise above the decibel levels usually achieved by his bellowing. When his own ears had begun to ring from the sustained barrage he had put down the rifle, the only weapon left to him and taken note of the many shell casings fallen to the ground. I wonder if he thought, and then checking confirmed how many bullets were in fact left. They totaled three.
As the day wore on and warmed on as well, Sackable began to discard the few possessions he had brought along. Back pack and utility belt were abandoned first and then pieces of seemingly unnecessary clothing, jacket, scarf, pith helmet and whatnot were left strewn behind him. The lord was not accustomed to carrying much beyond himself and when fatigued not even that. They don’t call them bearers for nothing was his motto at such times. In a little less than two hours he had reduced his burden to rifle, canteen and a mounting surliness that rivaled the fabled rhinos. Beastly it was and beastly it would remain.

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When Bongo arrived at the Earl’s deserted campsite he feared at first that Sackable might have been carried off by one of the swell veldt’s various predators. A quick reading of the signs though, well not so much the signs, but rather the actual tracks, told him his employer was safe and had set off on a path to, he thought in error, no place in particular. A more thorough study of the tracks had indicated that the earl had done so in some haste, but not before spinning about and then performing what appeared to be dance steps. Bongo placed his own feet in Sackable’s footprints mimicking their movements and quickly realized he was performing the Watusi, a dance his own tribe had invented to amuse white people shooting movie footage. In private they waltzed.
Slinging his rifle onto his shoulder Bongo set out after the Earl. He could tell from the general direction his tracks pointed to that his former boss was headed for difficulties; perhaps even real trouble if that’s another way of saying a horrible, painful death. Ahead lay lion country, rhino country, leopard country, hyenas, wild dogs and a mean species of impatient buzzards. Ahead lay The Great Water Hole where all the veldt’s toughest creatures came to bathe, drink and annoy each other. The bumbling but still bellowing Earl was making a beeline, which if you’ve ever watched bees is not the straightest of lines, towards this the veldt’s most dangerous place. If he didn’t stop to take on pollen like the aforesaid bees, he’d be there in no time at all.

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Noblong would probably not have complied if not for the outside hope of one day returning to the pre Miles ritual of anointing Lady Ess’s backside with insect repellent. But here he was, nevertheless, crawling through the bush, getting ever closer to an always angry rhino with the vague intent of somehow frightening the beast towards Miles and Lady Sackable, a duo who were at that very moment risking their lives, more or less, some twenty feet up a very stout tree. “Don’t worry,” Miles had assured him, if anything goes wrong, we’ll do…something.”
The rhino, for his part, was trying very hard to focus on the brush some fifty yards to his front. His eye sight like that of all rhinos fell far short of twenty-twenty and though he regretted this lack he knew it would be light years before rhinos could qualify for the laser and he was too vain for glasses. Something was moving out there and he thought it best to trot over and get a closer look.
Noblong’s eyesight though not eagle-like was sufficient to tell him that when a rhino appears larger and larger it most likely means he’s drawing closer and closer. This bit of information was duly processed in Noblong’s frightened crania and followed by the necessary action, mindless flight. Noblong bolted from his hiding place and made haste for the hunter’s tree.
As noted earlier, when a thing flees lions read prey and give chase. Rhinos are not carnivorous and therefore the concept of prey quite eludes them. When a rhino espies a fleeing object he pursues purely for the hell of it. It’s something to do and breaks the monotony of, well, being a rhino. Shifting to its highest gear the great armored looking beast made for the fleeing blur with a chance for goring and stomping at the forefront of its mind. These activities, two of its favorites, were also useful in passing the time. Even with his aforementioned fleet feet, whether Noblong would make it to the safety of the tree was going to be a near thing.
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Miles and Cynthia, both propped comfortably on a fat limb in the shade of a broad leafed tree, finished off Mile’s flask and were embarking on their long postponed second embrace. Cynthia was thinking, at last at last my hero at last, while Miles wondered what he was going to do now that he’d taken his last swig of courage. They were completely oblivious to Noblong’s plight as they cooed and balanced precariously on their lofty perch. They might have even billed and cooed had they known what the former was, but in truth what with the balancing required they were busy enough. When Noblong’s shouts alerted them to the dilemma below, Miles retracted a hand from a soft spot on Lady Ess that might have been one of her good ones - difficult to tell through the thick foliage – and reached for his gun. Cynthia, similarly alerted by Noblong’s cries, made note of the hard charging rhino and stretched for her own flask carefully stashed in her boot for emergencies like wild animals charging or Mile’s flask coming up empty.

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Sahib Sackable was kneeling at waterside to fill his depleted canteen when the shot rang out from over the hill on the far side of the Great Watering Hole. The affect this sound had on the Lord was a rising of spirits, a renewal of hope and a predictable bellow of “it’s about bloody time. Putting down his canteen and picking up his rifle he quickly fired an answering shot into the air and began to ford the GWH which was really just a wide part of a small river that traversed its way on a winding course across the swell veldt. He had taken no more than ten or twelve steps from the bank when a second harsh sound reached his ears; a sound as frighteningly familiar as the gunshot. Though the water in which he stood was quite warm and reached to mid thigh he was suddenly chilled to the bone. With shoulders hunched and teeth tightly clenched, Sahib Sackable turned to confront his fear in the dramatically slow motion fashion common to bad actors in B movies. He had just achieved a full look back when the lion made its leap and the outsized crocodile slipped out of its guise as driftwood and under the water’s surface.

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Leo had been closing steadily on Sackable throughout the day and finding no other potential food on the trail he determined to appease his lion sized appetite with large chunks of Earl. He had crept within can’t miss striking distance at the very moment Sackable dipped to fill his canteen, but was brought up short by the blast of gunfire from over the hill. When the Earl answered with his own blast, Leo quite rightly decided to abandon the chase. He was not cowardly, just reluctant to approach noise makers louder than himself. When next, however, the bellowing Earl began to slosh out into the stream like dinner cleansing itself before being served, Leo changed his mind again, sprinted from his covering bush and throwing caution to the wind leapt to the attack.

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The croc, of course, had just been biding its time.

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Miles shouldered his rifle, aimed carefully, pulled the trigger and missed by a mile. The sharp clap of the rifle did cause the rhino to pause in its charge and that pause allowed Noblong to make it to the safety of the hunter’s tree, up which I might add, he scrambled in a manner to make even critical monkeys proud.
The rhino, though foiled in its pursuit by hesitation, returned quickly to its bad tempered gallop and swerved to miss the tree only because the sound of the second shot drew its interest to the far side of the hill. This interest coupled with the effort it takes to apply the brakes to a rhino at full tilt boogie, caused a denser cloud of anger to inhabit its brain and its charge went on unabated.

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Sahib Sackable got off one misaimed round before Leo’s leap knocked him onto the crocodile’s back and all three were submerged in the muddy waters of the GWH. What then commenced was an unpleasant thing to watch if one was nearby and a difficult thing to make out at all if one was watching from a distant hill as was the case with Sahib’s less than faithful headman, Bongo. Bongo had arrived there just in time to identify the figure being attacked as his soon to be former boss. Although not effectively out of range, Bongo feared hitting the Earl rather than the animals and eschewed popping off a shot of his own. He opted instead for a slow jog towards the combatants with the thought in mind that retrieval of any of Sackable’s body parts might be worth something to the Earl’s family. He was caught up short and more than surprised when Sackable somehow separated from the fray and although bleeding profusely from both here and there, made it to the far bank of the stream. He turned then to see if he was still being pursued and it was as he did so that Bongo saw the new danger and tried his best to shout a warning. The word that here suffices best is, alas…alas.

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“Oh Miles, don’t let him get away” said Cynthia to her hero who was staring fixedly at the flask in her hand. “I must get horned before the day is out.”
Miles sprung into action which is another way of saying he snatched the flask from Cynthia and drained what was left. Refortified, he then turned to Noblong and signaled let’s go, but the still frightened aspiring masseuse clung fiercely to his new best friend, a spot high in the tree he found too cozy to leave. Miles would have to go it alone, an option not high on his list of same, but a thing which after gazing again into Lady Sackable’s gin shiny but nevertheless adoring eyes, he did.

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When the rhino crested the hill and began its descent its speed increased immeasurably. There was no conceivable way it could stop before reaching level ground and the impact of its collision with Lord Sackable was, therefore, of such force that the Earl would have been air born for a record distance had he not been neatly impaled on the very horn so ardently coveted by Lady Sackable. The rhino’s momentum carried it and the Earl to the center of the stream where it joined the scrum being conducted by Leo and the croc. Mayhem, it must then be said, ensued.

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The sun was setting out of habit and the light was growing dim on the swell veldt when a tired but still jumpy Miles Everhard stumbled down the hill towards the GWH. There were night sounds springing up and Miles found their song less than comforting. At river’s edge he frightened buzzards from the bank and while examining their dinner discovered fragments of the day’s carnage; a bit of rhino, a bit of croc, a bit of lion, and an unfortunate trace of Earl. He wondered what had occurred.
A voice then rang out as voices are wont to do when darkness gathers on the veldt. “You there,” it said, “would you like to buy a rhino horn?” Bongo had been foiled in his search among the devastation for any recognizable and therefore salable chunk of his late employer. He had recovered the Earl’s rifle and in fact had used its last bullet to shoot the crock swimming off with a rhino horn locked securely in its jaws. Rhino horns he knew were valued in some quarters for their supposed aphrodisiac powers. When he had spotted Miles poking through the rubble that was once his boss he thought that here, perhaps, was one last chance to end the day with a profit and it was his voice that rang out with the offer of purchase. “It’s very big and I’ll sell it cheap” was his further come-on. Cheap being to him three or four times the horn’s actual worth. He was preparing his mind for the give and take of bargaining he thought about to commence when Miles shouted back a response that warmed his heart and gave truth to the phrase an ear to ear grin. What Miles said was, “Name your price.”
===============================+===============================

The rain had begun again when Miles Everhard was once more beckoned into the inviting confines of Cynthia Sackable’s tent. He caught a quick glimpse of Noblong scurrying out the back flap and knew that Lady Ess’s backside was safe again from the wily mosquito. “Beastly night” he began, because some habits are never fully overcome, “but I have brought you a rather nice surprise.” He than watched as Cynthia arranged herself in that skillful way she had and she in turn watched him with, shall we say, mounting expectations.
“Oh do tell Miles,” she said. “I could use a surprise and you’re the man I want to surprise me most.”
Miles didn’t quite get that, but reached behind his back and brought forth the horn. Lady Sackable was heard to shriek with joy as she ran to her hero for a passionate embrace. Horns got momentarily in the way, for now there was more than one, but places were quickly found for all and a short while later further shrieks pierced the night. Lady Ess made some more noises as well.

==============================+================================

Outside the tent the rain continued in force and a bedraggled and still hungry Leo paused to consider the new noises coming from within. Although they didn’t sound quite human and might in fact be something to eat, he felt it best to pass on by. He turned and ripped off one last growl of disappointment then disappeared into the night. Far in the distance a one horned rhino snorted in answer. In the quiet that followed there was a notable absence of bellows. All had returned to normal on what was now a really swell veldt.


Doc Walton January, 2008

Just Walking the Monkeymind About

A lot of things on my mind this morning. Give me a minute. Urrrgghhhh. Okay, got 'em off.

My car is sitting in the driveway with a dead battery. A BRAND NEW dead battery. Some evil agent has visited in the night and done it in. This is the second battery in two weeks. In between the two I've had a new alternator installed so it can't be that. Friend LJ say it's a sell a noid situation. If I knew what a noid was I would sell it, but I haven't got a clue. My plan for today was to jumper cable the car to life and then take it to The Car Guys, but it's raining like the dickens, to beat the band, hell and assorted other cliches meaning hard and I'm not going out there unless it eases up. Looks like a good day for the three R's, reading, wRiting and cRossword puzzles.

For those of you who have been with the blog long enough to remember "A Swell Veldt", you will be happy? excited? thrilled? completely unmoved? to know that I have finished the tale. For those of you who don't go back that far, be advised I will be posting the entire bit of whimsy in the next couple of days. It comes with an "R" rating, which means must be accompanied by an immature adult, and contains language and situations likely to tittilate if taken in the presence of alcohol. Driving while reading is recommended for the professionally unfit.

I have just been advised that we are off to Daveed in twenty minutes.

(Wish my spellcheck worked. Is recommended two c's or two m's? And what about tittilate? Am I even close?)

Meat, Monkeys and Other Stuff

RTGFKAR believes that people shouldn't eat meat... more than three times a day; breakfast,lunch and dinner.

I had a steak last night and meatballs (bolitos de carne)in my spaghetti the night before. Prior to these two carnivorous orgies I had gone six or seven weeks eschewing the chewing of calf, cow, piggie or porker. My reason for the flesh fast has nothing to do with any particular turn of philosophy - although in theory if not in fact I generally like to avoid those things that are reputed to be "bad for you" like cigarettes for instance, and seek out the hearty and the healthy like long walks and a good cigar - but is simply that since my gall bladder has left the building, digesting meat seems a harder thing to do. I don't know if I am more salubrious for having minimized my intake of mooing and oinking animals, I don't feel any difference, but I have noticed that my dreams now frequently involve footlong hotdogs smothered in mustard and relish floating airborn like a halo about my head. I'm not sure what this signifies, but I think it has something to do with baseball.

Other news on the homefront and the homeback as well, include Woowoo Charly and I taking our neighbor Dalys, pronounced Doll-ees, and her two youngest kids, Daisy and Roberto to Paradise Gardens to see their assortment of rescued animals. Our assigned tour guide was a young woman from Belgium who spoke English, Spanish and I assume French,(unless there is a language called Belgic or Belgish)whose linguistic skills came in handy as the two kids only speak Spanish and I only speak when spoken to. We all learned much about the rescue, care and feeding of kinkajous, margays (think small ocelot), three kinds of monkeys, parrots, mccaws, toucans, and the like including two "cute as they can be" boxer puppies which, we were told, would one day be the garden's guard dogs if they ever stopped wrestling with each other.

After the tour there was ice cream. I declined this treat as well, because they didn't have my favorite flavor. Roast Beef.

My Computer and Super Tuesday

I trust my computer about as far as I can throw it, which, considering its non aerodynamic shape is about 15 feet. Let me test that. Yup, 15 feet it is. (Hmmmm, I wonder...what's the record?) After its having eaten most of my life's work, admittedly a small sum but nevertheless of worth to me, I find myself nervous?apprehensive? worried?, okay, FREAKING when it performs uncalled for functions. Today, for instance, it refuses to allow me to comment on the comments. It offers me choices of things to do that it has never offered before and then, of course, won't accept my choices. A couple of blogs ago the spell check ceased to function. I've tried slapping it around, a technique that works for me when my pillow gets out of shape, but that doesn't seem to help. Curses and threats fall on deaf ears as well. People say machines are not sentient, but I don't believe them for a minute. Anybody who pays attention will tell you that a well kept, clean car, spoken kindly to runs far better than a neglected version. My computer thinks and that's for sure. Trouble is, I doubt it's of sound mind. It's either that or it just likes messing with me.

"Barack to the future" and "Barack to the drawing board" are gems Jr. Keep up the good work.

I watched a little of Super Tuesday last night but after realizing that what being said was mostly a redundency of the redundency, I went to bed. The commentators had a lot of air time to fill with little to fill it, so they said the same things over and over but(skillfully?)phrasing their thoughts differently each time. It's probably the ability to do so that gets them the job in the first place. My own political BS threshhold is low to begin with, so boredom set in muy rapido. I'd rather read Op Ed pieces for info than listen to talking heads babble.

I wonder - and here's a Monkeymind thought linking paragraphs first and last - do you suppose, could it be, is it possible, my computer's a Republican? Nah. It's cryptic, but it's honest.

On Any Given Monday

And now a word about the Super Bowl. Niiiiice. Do you belive that catch? Now when Denver goes 19 - 0 next year they won't have to share that greatest ever title with New England.

RTGFKAR is constructing a pathway made of pored concrete blocks that have chips of colored tile placed in them. Looks good. The pathway is going to wend its way down the path - which is why it is cleverly called a pathway - and into what is now a field of coffee trees. (Some people call the trees bushes, but I don't like to say bush without an expletive before the word.) Eventually, when we are old and gray...okay, when we are old and a yet to be determined color, we will have fruit trees and ah, other stuff down there. You'll have to ask RTGFKAR and Woowoo about those as they're not my department. For now I am relegated to removing coffee and getting out of the way.

Woowoo Chuck has not been feeling well of late and has taken to reading RTGFKAR's pile of Sci Fi books. I don't know if the two things are related - being sick and reading Sci Fi - but she's going through them like a kid through a bag of MnM's. She was cheered yesterday, as she is every Sunday, by a morning filled with political talk shows. While I was taking credit for coining Obama-ination and Obama's-nation she came up with the topper. "He's McCain but not able." Nice.

As for old "Doak", he's writing some fiction again so these carved in stone factual blogs will appear somewhat less frequent.(ly)

And now, while the sun is doing its "I'm a big yellow orb that you can't look directly at or you'll hurt your eyes" thing overhead, I think I'll go chop down some coffee goddamn bushes.

Ciao.

The Boquete Quadrangle

Boquetanos, in an effort to keep their flourishing economy in high gear have become increasingly more closed mouthed about a mystery that rivals those of Loch Ness, Bermuda and the Himalayan Yeti. Their silence about the subject is understandable when you consider the tremendous sums of money being generated by the town's rapid growth and its benefit to the population at large. Fear that word of their "problem" will spread to the outside world and slow the money stream has made an entire community mute. There are, however, a few of us who feel that it is time the truth were out and that serious investigatory agencies be advised and brought to the task of solving the riddle that is known here simply as...The Boquete Quadrangle. From you, the readers of our disclosure, we ask only that our names be kept the closest of secrets. Because, with so much money involved - and here I speak not only of development revenues but of the lost out-of-pocket dollars to those foolish enough to wander into the Quadrangle itself - our very lives could be in danger. It must never be known that we four are the whistle blowers.

There is an area hidden in a valley on the southwestern side of town that is roughly quadrangular in configuration. We, WWC, RTR, LJ and myself had wandered there on many an occassion as had a small coterie of other golfers after the course's opening some four and a bit years ago. At day's end we had occassionally mentioned that our supply of Titleists, Top Flites, Pinnacles and such had been somewhat diminished, but we thought little of it. We chalked up their disappearance to what we laughingly called "bad shots." Bad shots, as any golfer will tell you, are rarely remembered. Good shots, on the other hand, cling to the brain cells and are available to talk about ad neauseum post round. As the bad shots were forgotten, so too were the lost golf balls.

Until yesterday. Yesterday the mystery was unveiled and made crystal clear. For those of you who have never played the game let me point out that it is not uncommon for bad shots to penalize a golfer with an additional stroke on his scorecard. It is far less common for his ball to actually disappear as a result of the shot. Not so yesterday. As we four watched in amazement, ball after ball was drawn to the left or right by mysterious forces and dropped into lake, stream or jungle never to be seen again. LJ would tee up and find himself possessed of demons demanding duck hooks and RTR's topped shot would see his ball sink into quick-mud not fifteen feet from where he stood. WWC's wild John Daly back swing sent balls disappearing into pond and puddles placed like trolls to lure the dimpled innocents to their final rest. The worst though, may have been the swing this reporter took on the seventh hole that resulted in a ball flying so far into the jungle that trying to find it would, by comparison, make that needle in a haystack thing look like a piece of cake. Further, the evil force possessing us all, but which on that particular swing grabbed me alone like Megan in "The Exorcist" and had me swing so hard that I was left lying on the ground clutching a couple of balls that were not engraved with any company's logo. I don't have the medical term to pass along to you for clarification, but I suppose "groin pull" is descriptive enough.

Abnormal occurrences were clearly happening on the course. Golf balls were disappearing at a ridiculously unprecedented rate. I'll grant you that we hadn't played for some time, but we all swore we couldn't be THIS bad. Invisible and clearly evil forces were at work and they had become increasingly malevolent during the five months we had been absent from the course.

And so in summation I say, beware beware, you that venture there. The Boquete Quadrangle grows stronger each day and must be fed. For the brave and the undaunted I have but this small bit of advice: Bring forth your rangeballs, your cuts, your bruised and damaged. Bring forth your aged and your brand x. But never I say, never, open a sleeve of new. The Quadrangle likes them best.

Wine and the Woowoo Code

My head hurts. And I've lost my watch.

The first is from drinking too much wine during and after dinner last night. The second was the result of failing to follow The Woowoo Code.

The conversation was engaging and no one really wanted to leave the table after it was cleared. Bottles of wine kept magically appearing and when I wasn't filling someone else's glass they were filling mine. Alan was telling George Plimpton stories - they had shared a few jungle adventures together and Plimpton was a notorious prankster - and the wine flowed like water. Red water. Plimpton, for those of you to whom the name rings no bells, was the author of "Paper Lion" and many other books. His schtick was to pretend he was a professional at some chosen endeavor and then see what happens. In "Paper Lion" he shows up at the Detroit Lions training camp and poses as a rookie quarterback. Other adventures includ being knocked out by Archie Moore while posing as a boxer, playing a heavy in a John Wayne western, and giving the trapeze a go during a circus gig. Alan told the tale of a heavily disguised with make-up Plimpton pretending to be a cobra salesman to a group of tourists in India. Good stuff, do go on, more wine please.

As for the watch, well, yesterday I failed to apologise to the coffee trees before hacking, chopping and sawing them down. This is a clear violation of The Woowoo Code, Woowoo Charly tells me and it's little wonder that sometime during the deforestation, a limb reached out and snatched the watch from my wrist. I don't know what I will have to do to atone for my lapse, but I'm sure it will have something to do with crystals, shiny stones and talking to the universe. I'm going to ask Woowoo Charly right after I ask her the time.

Just Writing To Keep the Keyboard And My Brain From Cramping Up

"Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore always carry a small snake." W.C. Fields

I'm tempted to write about the weather this morning. Let me clarify. I don't mean this morning's weather, I mean writing about our weather in general...this morning. Fortunately, I am a man who is able to resist temptation, so you won't have to listen to me rant about the misnomer that is Bajareque, the "mountain mist." Or hear me say, "Mist my ass! It's sideways rain is what it is. And it's cold too." If you had had to listen to me say that, I would have pointed out that that was yesterday's weather while today the sun has made a successful comeback and is getting great reviews. (Note the clever use of "had had" and "that that." This clever phrasing is to literature what limburger is to cheese and Bush is to honesty.)(Stinks, stinks and stinks.)

The President of the U.S. was on the tube last night giving his annual lies about the State of the Union and what a swell job he's done. I heard not a word as I had first retired to our guest room with its back-up TV to watch the jungle parts of "King Kong" and then went off to bed to read until morpheus lowered my lids. What I did hear was Woowoo Charly talking back to the Prez and explaining to RTGFKAR what being said was BS and what was not. There was, apparently, very little of the latter. Great fun that. Much better than the post speech analyses by the designated hitters, I mean, pundits.

Apart from that slice of our life there was little else to make note of. I did interrupt our vigorous reading and laying about with an hour's worth of felling coffee trees. The aforementioned Bajareque discouraged further felling, so I returned to our cave to knock off a Times crossword puzzle. Well, almost anyway. The lack of knowledge re: foreign currencies tends to keep me at bay.

Today may prove more fruitful bloggingwise. There are workers and gardeners noise-ing about and we have a dinner party to attend at day's end. Catch me later.

A Quote By Any Other Name...

Spawn says I should start a blog with this quote: "Let not art such labor make that living beauty we forsake."

Okay, now I've done that.

It's a good quote as quotes go and a nice rhyme too. That "art such labor make" part is a little tricky, but I think I get the gist. If art's giving you trouble, dump it and find yourself a "living beauty." Living beauties, by the way, are always preferable to the other kind.

I like this quote from Benny Franklin: " In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom, in water there is bacteria." A friend wrote and followed this with a study that shows that if you drink a liter of water a day, by the end of a year you will have consumed a kilo of e coli from feces. In other words, you are drinking poop. "Better" she says, "to drink wine and be a little stupid, than to drink water and be full of shit." Now that's a good quote.

I used to have a Bartlett's, but I left it behind when we departed The States. Bartlett's are great for inspiration and finding out "who said that." If I had one now I'd look up the author of Spawn's quote. If I had to guess though, I'd say Shakespeare, because old Willy popped off on about every subject known to man. I'm sure he wouldn't leave art untouched. Too bad he's not around today. He'd be a great blogger to follow.

"RTGFKAR oh RTGFKAR, where forth goeth thou RTGFKAR? Doth not thy travels Daveed include? In search of yon Pricesmart for beverage and food? And doth it not follow as the night follows day, that fair Charly of Woo in the garden doth play? And what of old Doak who sits still and small write-eth, doth not the dawn of a new thought excite-eth? These are the queries that shalt not be forsaken, lest the faithful abandon my sweet blog and read Bacon's."

Yup, Willy would be fun. Wish I could write like that.

Is Golf in the Offing?

Immaculate blue sky this morning. Looks like it was painted up there. Mountains are in such sharp relief I'd swear someone moved them closer. There is a breeze though, shaking the banana trees and rippling through the coffee. Makes the day perfect, I suppose, if you like breezes. I'm a still air man myself. If I want to feel air I'll move through it at a faster clip.

Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR take their morning cuppa java out on the patio. They're out there now greeting the day. Hello day. Being the Last of the Great Indoorsmen and a Morning Person - a type universally avoided in the A.M. by those who are not - I'm compelled to get right to it. This morning's it is this blog.

Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the out-of-doors, golf, walking my dog and cocktailing with cigar in hand while saluting the setting sun from a comfortable chair at rest on lawn, patio or balcony comprise three of my favorite things to do, I just find dwelling in my cave with book, keyboard or remote in hand equally attractive endeavors which have the added advantage of being without weather. Ain't no breeze screwing with my golf ball in here.

Which brings me to today's topic. I can't see it from this, my office vista, but I know that over that rise obliquely to my left and then down the road a bit followed by a sharp right into a hidden valley is a golf course in a place called - wow what a coincidence - Hidden Valley. It's true, they use the Spanish Valle Escondido, but a hidden valley by any other name is still a hidden valley is what Shakespeare would have said if he hadn't stumbled on that rose thing. And it is there I long to go. There amidst the stately homes of the rich, the very rich and the heavily mortgaged lie nine beautifully appointed golf holes eager to accept my humble offerings of double bogies, bogies, a here and there par and an occasional birdie. There is a sound a golf ball makes as it rattles into the cup that I've nearly forgotten. It is a sound as pleasing as the last note of a grand symphony and one that is nowhere duplicated in nature. I must hear that sound anew anon or I fear it will be lost forever. In short I'm jonesing and I need a fix.

I'm busy today though. Maybe tomorrow.

Rambling

Alrighty then.

I have recently realized that no task great or small is beyond my capabilities despite my advancing age. That is, of course, if the task occurs above my knees. Anything below, forget it. Get some kid to do it.

In many Panamanian schools it is mandatory for children to learn two additional languages. The languages being? English and Mandarin. What do they know about the future that we don't?

Two members of our local policia motored up to our house yesterday on their Suzuki Trail Bikes. One of them was a woman. The other one - you might have guessed this -
was not. They were looking for a Juan Serracin. We told them there were Serracins all around us, arriba, abajo, a lado and that we knew Aurellio, two Albetos, a Margarita and a Daisy, a Roberto, a Dalys, a Jose a...at this point the policia began to laugh while we continued the list and ended with "but no Juan." No problema they said as they remounted and rode off, no problema. Got to wonder what Juan did.

While we were almorzando, lunching, at Amigos the other day we over heard this conversation: "Best thing to do when you meet new people is to get them drunk right away and figure them out." I think there may be some sense to this. Bad drunks, mean drunks, crazy drunks, stupid drunks and the like are all exhibiting parts of their personalities usually suppressed but nevertheless there. Might as well know about them right off the bat.

For me finishing a good book qualifies as "getting something done." "What did you do today?" I painted the garage, overhauled the car engine, plowed the back forty and prepared dinner for eight. You?" "I finished a good book."

My car battery died. Bought jumper cables and fired it up. Battery died again. Bought a new battery. Ran for a day. Died again. Car now parked at Car Guys. What do you think, alternator, voltage regulator, starter? All those things are spelled like this in both English and Spanish: $$$$$$$$$$$. I'm waiting for the call.

And that's all folks. Hasta Manana.

Morning Madness

...like a baby.
...like a log.
...like a hibernating bear.

And that being the case, I'm fresh as a daisy. Okay, I know what's implied by the baby/log/bear references, but what makes a daisy fresher than, say, a petunia? These are the questions that haunt the Monkeymind.

I started the morning with an hour or so of Yahoo news and sports. One headline intrigued me most and I hastened to pull it up. "UFO's sighted over Texas" with a subheading that read, "government says they were fighter jets." This was a video clip clearly begging to be viewed. I know what fighter jets look like after all, so I grocked that I could decide for myself what was tooling about in the skies over the Lone Star State. But nooooo, hold on there alien breath. My screen remained black until a message appeared saying, "this clip in currently unavailable." Why is that I wondered. Is the government trying to keep me from the truth again, "943 lies cited leading to Iraq war" was another featured headline, or was there merely some technical error keeping me from the video? This phenomena coupled with why daisies are fresh has my morning off to a puzzling start.

Arco Iris (who needs segues?) is the Spanish way of saying rainbow. Had one of those this morning too. Well, half anyway. It arched colorfully up from over there in the trees only to wink out abruptly in a suspicious looking cloud at about its highest point. I'm thinking the government had something to do with this mysterious disappearance as well. It's a little known and closely held secret that the U.S. has been conducting rainbow fire power tests with military applications for years. There will be no arco iris gaps in the U.S. arsenal if Bush can help it.

And what else? I've had an awful lot of coffee this morning which is better than a lot of awful coffee.

Yesterday we took a break from Home Improvement Do It Yourself 101 and motored over to Amigos Restaurant where we could sit Al Fresco and ourselves outside. We go there because Gus is welcome and they have excellent wings from both chicken and buffalo. Reeeeal small buffaloes. Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR like the honey garlic chicken version and I opt for the spicy hot buffalo death chunks. My choice being predicated on the old axiom that says, a day without heartburn is like a day without a good kick in the groin. I mention this yesterday tidbit because I was out of things to say about this morning.

Tomorrow if I have the same problem I'll just make stuff up. (Never end a sentence with a preposition.)...I'll just up stuff make.

Missing My ZZZZ's

There are external stimuli galore to blog about, I suppose, If I'd a mind to, the weather, the always present beauty, the guy on the ladder painting our house trim, but I woke up this morning still tired from a bad night's sleep caused by all the lingering problems of a misspent youth, my achy knee, my moaning back, my hurtful hip and a raging case of ziti inspired heart burn leaving me now more introspective than outer directed. Just give me a moment to snap out of it.

It is a clear, sunny, slightly windy day and Volcan Baru looks as gorgeous and majestic as usual there across the valley. The guy painting the trim and wrapping up other small details from our punch list is named Hugo, silent H, and he's accompanied by his girlfriend who sits and reads religious texts while he works. Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR are getting after some gardening projects and I've got some floor sanding to get to as soon as I finish this. In other words, a typical day is underway, albeit after a late start. (I didn't get up until nearly nine in an unsuccessful attempt to capture those hours lost in the middle of the night.)

I think I've mentioned before that I now find the quality of life is dependent on a good night's sleep. It wasn't always so. As a younger sot I could burn the candle at both ends and still have plenty of energy to dance in the middle of the day. Not so now, which is probably a good thing as - briefly noted above - I've already done enough damage to this old bod. It serves me well to get a solid eight.

But there I go back inside again. And it's not even funny. The Monkeymind is at a fatigue caused standstill.

Yesterday we learned from long overdue survey results, that most of our driveway is not actually on our property. No one seems to care at the moment as the property we are encroaching on is owned by a couple from India who live there and, we are told, do not plan to build here for years. Nevertheless, when news like this is in your head, ziti sauce is in your chest and your hip/back/knee announces its presence, Macbeth doth murder sleep.

A nap though, just might work.

Neat Freak

Okay, I admit it, I am a bit of a neat freak. I'm not into the everything must be spotlessly clean - I mean c'mon - the dog sleeps with us - but I do like a certain degree of order. I'm "a place for everything and everything in its place" kind of a guy. Part of this trait, I'm sure, was inherited - my mother being a neat as well as a clean freak - and part an acquired thing having to do first with attending military schools at a young age and later realizing that as a "7" if I don't put things where they belong, I won't be able to find them in the future, a circumstance which causes frustration to rear its ugly head and strike me in the wah. Wah, by the way, is a Japanese word meaning a place of peace and serenity. Its encroachment into English was first detected in the musical form called Doowah. If you sing DooWaaaahh, rising a bit on the second syllable and holding the note, you can feel the peacefulness inherent there. Disturbed wahs are not a good thing as you can also see in music. Dowahs sung too rapidly morph into doowops, an up tempo, less than serenity and more of a hurry up inducing form of music.

What I'm getting to, now that I've reached my BS goal for the day, is that yesterday we got our closet installed. It's large, you could hide in it, beautiful, it matches both our furniture and the dog, and it will hold piles of stuff. I say will hold, because I haven't got to actually filling it yet. I'm looking forward to that task as soon as I neatly wrap up this blog and put it away. My wah is downright giddy at the prospect. Let's see, jeans go over here, shirts over there, socks and shorts in this drawer and let's make sure all those jackets and other hanging stuff all face the same way. I'm thinking to the left.

Are you happy for me or do you just want to go mess something up?

Just thought I'd Mention It

We have a bird that lives off to our left in the tall trees that makes a noise eerily similar to the sound Hitchcock used in "Psycho" when stabbing his victims. Yeeeeeep yeeeeeep yeeeeeep yeeeeeep. Can you hear it?

I mention this because, well, I'm the kind of guy who mentions things and really, what would you know without guys like me? Would you know, for instance, that at this very moment I can see our dog Gus eating a fruit that is a cross between a banana and a plantain called, I think, a dominico? We set a bunch of these on a rock overlooking the coffee plants to our fore as bird enticers not dog food, but Gus who roams about untethered these days, likes to separate one from the bunch and carry it around awhile. This is, of course, normal dog behavior. Normal dog behavior being defined as anything that completely baffles moderately intelligent people. I for one, understand him completely.

And other things you wouldn't know unless I mentioned it include our living here in the new as yet unnamed casa for ten or twelve days - who's counting - sans electricity. And right there, in one sentence, I threw in words from English, Spanish and French. Makes me glad I had to attend a class or two on my way to practice. We did have the use of a small generator that weighed more than an offensive lineman and made a sound louder than your grandpa snoring that we fired up sparingly. We found that candles and lanterns induced a more pleasant ambiance. Ambiance, by the way, is also a french word unless you pronounce it am-bee-ants, in which case, well, I'm so sorry. I could wax poetic about our adventures during the blackout if I knew what waxing poetic meant - I missed that class - but I will go on about friends and neighbors Lonnie and Barry, I mean Bonnie and Larry, who fed us frequently, listened to our gripeing and only used the cattle prod on me once to move me from the sofa in front of the football game. Thanks B and L and also muchas gracias, merci beaucoup and danka come back Shane.

Now that electricity has been granted us by the powers that be and Julio who throws the switches, we are all happy as clams which is a cliche - wow more French - that I choose to use because, c'mon, what's happier than a clam? Certainly not that damn Anthony Perkins bird. Yeeeeeep yeeeeeep yeeeeeep yeeeeeep.

I'm hoping it's migratory.

Back in the Saddle

Now I sit me down to blog, I pray my muse my brain unclog.
If I should lie it's no mistake, I pray my muse it funny make.


A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, "hey buddy, why the long face?" This is one of my favorite jokes which gives you an indication why some people suspect that behind my ancient exterior lies the mind of a ten year old. (They could be right.) Why this comes to that fourth grade mind is that a horse walked up our driveway - a rock and dirt swath cut through the jungle leading to our house - last night at roughly the middle of that night; middle of the night being defined as any time one is awakened unexpectedly in the dark. Gus, of course, barked. Here I have to mention that apart from the fridge periodically dropping newly minted cubes into a bin our new concrete and steel house makes no internal noises. It is a very quiet house. There are only the wind, distant dogs and roosters who don't understand the grand scheme of things to listen to in the night. When Gus began to bark into this sound vacuum it had about the same effect that a bowling ball striking the pins would have during a moment of silent prayer. It was loud, very loud. Even the horse thought it was loud. Following Gus'lead "I leaped from my bed to see what was the matter" and was rewarded with a glimpse of the steed retracing his steps down the drive. He was riderless, a thing I found somehow comforting. I mean I don't need mysterious horseman galloping about the premises while we are trying to catch our zzzzz's. After explaining to RTGFKAR, who had also been roused, that it was just a horse, "A horse?" I flicked off the lights and went back to bed to await the dawn, a part of the day which comes much too soon. Or at least it seems so today.

The blog barrier now officially fallen, the Monkeymind rests. Or wants to. Trouble is, there are these men outside, sawing, drilling, hammering and generally disturbing my wah as they finish off some external house trim projects. Ah well, tonight is another night. Maybe there will be no animal tales to relate. Did I tell you about the stray huskie the night before the horse? No? Okay, maybe tomorrow.

Incommunicado

Incommunicado. Shouldn't that be outofcommunicado? Whichandwhatever, that's soon to be us. No electricity, or, as RTGFKAR likes to say playing with the Spanish word electricidad, we'll have no stinking electricity Dad. No electricity means no Internet, means no e-mail, means no blog, means no et cetera which is the past tense of eat cetera. Until we get wired up, turned on and turned loose, the monkeymind will be stilled. Well, you know, almost. It may still run amok, just not on cyber paper.

So here is my last thought to you until next we meet: Merry Christmas.

Okay, it wasn't really my last thought, but it was in contention. I was also thinking about everything I have to do today and you know how I feel about THINGS I HAVE TO DO. There's just no reason. Still...there they are.

I have to eat, drink and be merry. I also have to pack things, pick up things, move things, put things down and unpack things. Where the hell did all these things come from in the first place? I have to make calls, go shopping, find Alan - his phone isn't working - deliver a couple of things and...what else? Oh yeah, something about the dog. First though, I've got to finish this and then shave, shower and dress. And you thought retirement was easy. You younguns got it made. All you've got to do is work.

I better get started or I'll miss the big fun. As Marvin Gaye would say, "Love and Happiness" and from me and the Terminator, "I'll be back."

Ready to Move

I think it's Thursday. Could be Wednesday or Friday, but I think it's Thursday. Hard to tell here in Jubilado Land. I mean it's not like back in the office when you knew it was Thursday because Sally was wearing the grey slacks and blue sweater ensemble that marked the day. Here there are no markers. I will know, however, when it's Saturday. Saturday we move.

Wish I could say I was looking forward to it, but without electricity and no set date to have it turned on, all I've got are apprehensions. I mean, what does one do in the dark for twelve hours of every twenty four? Especially knowing that behind that blank Sony screen there's probably a good football game being played and Alan Shore is winning another case for the good guys on Boston Legal. Sure when you were a kid it was fun to read comics under the covers with a flashlight, but I'm reading The Raj Quartet in paperbacks and these books have print so small I'd need a kleig under there. Okay, I'll give you ghost stories around the campfire, those are always fun, but you know, it's raining most nights here. I suppose we could sit around the stove, put some marshmallows on a stick and fake it, but really, does that sound like fun to you? And going to the new fridge for a snack? Hey, there's nothing like warm milk on your morning cereal and toast that isn't toasted smeared with runny butter. Worse still, no ice cubes for evening cocktails? Puleeeeze, perish the thought.

Okay, forget that. Truth is I'm only ranting for fun. Actually I'm getting anxious to go. Antsy even. The sooner we get there the sooner the moving part will be over. The moving part is the real pain. Yup, antsy, twitchy, nervous, impatient, that's me. I'm ready to be gone.

Trouble is, it's only Thursday...right?

Moving Towards The Door

We are on our feet and moving towards the door...of our new house. Is it ready, you might ask if that's the question that occurred to you. Hell no is the answer I might shoot back if you did. And then when you looked askance I'd elaborate, because an askanced look requires elaboration. We are moving in without electricity, I'd add or something of that sort. Union Fenosa our crack power company and a Spanish phrase that means, "we have no clue how to keep up with the rapid growth in Boquete, so we've developed a long list of excuses in lieu of doing anything, one of which is, 'that's not our department'" has told us we will have to wait fifteen days from some arbitrary date they set roughly a few days ago. We, the residents of the house where I am currently residing, and living too, as RTGFKAR would say, do not have fifteen days. We must make way for new residers who are moving in on Christmas Eve morning.

Well, alrighty then! "Let's get this show on the road" is the first cliche that comes to mind and along with "let's get packing" pretty much sums up our mindset and, of course, we like to set our minds using Black and Decker power tools. I set mine on finding coffee and after that it's open to tinkering. So, as soon as I finish this golden gem and a half dozen other bits of professionalcrastination, I'll grab a cardboard box and put something in it. This I'm told is a first step and even the longest of journeys begins with a cardboard box.

Luckily - and if you say luckily rapidly over and over chickens will gather 'round - RTGFKAR's daughter, LTGSKAL, Laura The Gringo Still Known As Laura, is here to help us with the packing and moving because she's on vacation and people on vacation love to help other people move. They also enjoy living in houses without electricity. And, luckily luckily luckily - here they come a-clucking, calm down Gus - our friend Alan has returned from his journey to that bizarre part of the world known as "The States" where uncalled for goings on occur daily and we have the use of both he and his truck. Alan is a little guy, but his truck is a goodly size.

So, ciao for now as we say here in Panama even if we don't know how to spell ciao and we're not Italian. We'll be seeing ya around the campus. The new campus that is.

Procrastination

I have become a procrastinator. I used to be an amateurcrastinator, but I've recently achieved pro status. This morning I scrambled out of bed at quarter past six and headed to the computer to write this with only that quick stop at the coffee pot to slow me. I thought I'd peek in first at the Denver Post where I read about Denver's impending snow storm and then I headed over to Yahoo news and finally landed on Internet sites Common Dreams, Too Much and Alternet. It's now eight o,clock.
I've learned a lot about Michael Vick - what an idiot - the woman who shot the kid who shot the kids in Colorado, why the rich are getting richer, the democratic presidential race, why J. R. Smith lost his jump shot and a dozen other consequential and inconsequential happenings about the world at large and small, but I've completely lost sight of what I was going to write. Does anybody know? No? Well, no matter I'll think of something. Or, if not, I'll write about nothing which, as you know, remains my favorite topic.

A couple days ago I wrote about a storm. I was premature. (Hmmm, and probably still am if pre-mature is what you are before you reach maturity. What is maturity anyway? Ripeness? I'm ripe, but I've already been picked. Maybe I'm just immature. Childlike not childish Woowoo Charly would say. Whatever, I'm off the track again and plowing through a field of dreams.)We had a storm the night following that storm that made the first one seem like a wuss. (Wuss is a real word. Slang, but a real word. I looked it up. It means wimp. I didn't look up wimp, but I probably should have being right there in the W's and all.) The rain came down so hard I was sure there would be no paint left on our cars in the morning. Luckily they're turtle waxed and those turtles did a damn fine job.

I drove my car, Nikita, with the busted spring on one side making it list to the right, an oil leak and a dead head lamp to The Car Guys, Marcos and Paulino the morning after the storm. They said they'd get right on it. I'm thinking, I'll get it back in time for Christmas. On the way there I had to drive under a telephone pole that was leaning over the road at a 45 degree angle and was threatening to complete its groundward journey at any moment. Several Union Fenosa - our crack power company - employees were leaning on their trucks some fifty yards away looking puzzled as to what to do. They solved the problem fairly quickly though, by blocking the road with yellow crime scene tape. RTGFKAR, who was coming to pick me up at The Car Guys, had to go around the long way. The telephone pole is made of concrete and I'm guessing the rain had so softened the ground that the pole's base had become unstable. Whatever. I'm sure Union Fenosa will get right on that as well. The road should be open again just about the time I get my car back.

And now I remember what I was going to write.

I'm not a complainer. Neither is Woowoo Charly or RTGFKAR. We are easy going, laid back, go with the flow people. This is not a good thing. We need a complainer. Because of our inability to voice our displeasure in any forceful manner, we have a hard time getting anything done correctly and on-time unless we do it ourselves; a thing not always possible. I have a new found appreciation for the "squeaky wheel getting oiled" theory and I'm vowing here and now to get on other people to get things done and no damn excuses. Problem is, I'll probably procrastinate.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

A storm raged noisily outside our windows last night.

(Hmmm. I'm a little concerned with the word raged in that sentence. Sure it's a fairly common adjective for storms and this one if it wasn't exactly raging was surely pissed at something, but I wonder if storms really can rage and if they're able to summon up that very human quality can they also conjure other traits and if so, how would we know? I mean, is there a difference between a happy storm and one with a rock in its shoe?)

A storm passed through Boquete last night, (that seems fairly safe) bringing with it lots of rain, high (and low) winds, lightning and thunder. (Okay, hold on, the storm didn't actually bring these things, the storm IS, in fact, these things. I'll have to try again.)

There was a storm last night in Boquete. Please use your acquired knowledge of what a storm is to fill in the details. Make it colorful and imaginative because I wouldn't want to bore you. Talk about the noise for sure, rain, wind, thunder and throw in something about frogs. Frogs are always good. You might even mention the spooky effect lightning has when it flickers by your windows and casts weird momentary shadows on your walls. You might, but you don't have to. You also, if, you're feeling creative, might talk about the dreams that late night storms inspire. Mine, of course, were all about the bridge being washed out, no place to turn around and there's a light in the window of that old castle there on the hill, but yours, well, they might be less predictable. You could also mention how when morning light makes its daily appearance and you can actually see the storm, it looks so much less threatening than you had imagined lying in the dark and listening to it. Oh, and forget snow. There's no snow in my storms. If you want snow, you'll have to have your own storms.

Alrighty then, you have the setting. Now for the story. In the middle of the night, when the thunder clapped loudest, (Clapped? Clapped? Does thunder have hands?) our dog Gus, a fearless defender of all things us, leaped from our bed and raced around the house barking his head off (not literally) in search of the intruder who was making such a loud noise. He does this whenever it thunders, a thing which during the day we find amusing, but is clearly a lot less so any time during the first six hours of the A.M. period. Finding all things ours secure, he circled back to the bed and with a fairly impressive leap of roughly three times his own height he returned to his accustomed place at its bottom, his head lying lightly across my ankles.

And that's it. As you can see this whole story is heavily dependent on your description of the storm so please...make it a good one.

Neglected Blog

Sorry Blog Old Sock, that I haven't been around much lately, but more pressing matters have come to the fore. I have dialed you up a few times this past week to stare and wonder, but before I could belt out a note of song, verse or version, something always came up to draft my attention.

"Doc there's someone at the door" was an oft heard phrase this week and is a suggestion to me that I go find out who it is. It appears I am the Chosen One when it comes to door opening around here because I'm Mister Spanish. I've been awarded that title by dint of my great command of that mellifluous language if, by great command I mean having the vocabulary of a retarded, five year old Panamanian with speech impediments. "Hola Senor, Que pasa?" or is it paso?

One guy wants money. His name is Roberto and he has been installing the security bars at the new casa. Another's a body shop guy who is repairing RTGFKAR's car. His name is William, pronounced Wee-yem and he's here to tell us he's finished. We've also had our Landlady, Edith, and her translating cousin, Jackie, neighbor Aurelio,
people who may rent the house after we move and several others who I can't remember because I met them only this week. Had I seen them in a movie in 1978, their names would come instantly to mind. All of the above seem to have arrived at precisely the moment when blog inspiration was circling the room.

I've been further distracted by trips to Daveed, downtown Boquete, work at the new house and a weak mind. All have conspired to keep me blogless until now. I have not, however, been writingless. That is, if tidying up some old things and retyping them into my computer count. I think it does.

What has happened you see, is that several writers including Yers Truly have formed a group to share their work and I've been the most early and often contributor. It's been fun reading stuff from people whose faces are familiar and I've received some nice reviews along the way. I do have paper copies of some of my old stuff but I'm still missing scads. When I think about it, I realize I've been fairly prolific since that last year in Arboles. If any of you out there in Blogland have any bits of my madness lying about, please let me know. Meanwhile there are ten or twelve of my 260 blogs that are rewrite worthy as separate bits so I've got material to work with. After we move and get settled in, my muse has promised new stuff.

And as for you, Senor Blog, I'll keep in touch.

Weekend

The Weekend is over. I don't really remember it starting and now it's over. Gone. A flickering memory. Oh well, back to the grind.

I love the grind. There's all that lingering over the morning coffee, lingering over the news on-line, lingering in the hot shower, lingering with the next good book. Yup, there's a lot of lingering in my grind and I love that about it. Its opposite of course, unlingering, is a bad thing. You can tell by the way its sounds. "The scales of the Unlingering scraped menacingly as it slid from its hiding place under the rock." See what I mean? Lingering on the other hand, is a happy thing. "The children smiled contentedly as their mother ladled warm Lingering over their steamy bowls of rice." It's easy to see from these examples why I'm a fan of lingering.

I'm also fond of Lazingabout and accomplishing things when you get a Roundtuit. Lazingabout is useful for things like blogging - I mean, c'mon, I'm just sitting here - reading, sports viewing, listening to music and watching my dog scratch himself behind an ear. Lazingabout outside is nice too when the sun is shining like it is today. I'll have to schedule some for later. And roundtuits seem to show up just when you need them. Today, for instance, we have a toilet whose flushy part is broken and I'm betting a Roundtuit will appear in the nick of time so I can fix it. If it doesn't, well then, we'll just use the other bathroom and hope the Roundtuit turns up tomorrow.

Nevertheless, at the end of the week after five long, arduous days of Lingering, Lazingabout and getting Roundtuits, I must admit I do look forward to the Weekends when I get to do something else, something different. What exactly that is, I can't tell right now, because I can't remember, but I'm sure it's something good. Something like, oh I don't know, say Powernapping. Yeah that IS good. Say it again.

Logic

A crackly sunny morning with no rain is lighting up our windows. Woowoo Charly whispered to me that maybe, if we are real quiet, we won't wake up the wind. Makes sense to me.

I also saw the logic yesterday when she told me I had to polish her hiking boots. "Why" I asked, "do I have to polish YOUR boots?" "Because you were in the Army," she answered. Alrighty then, I'll get right on it.

RTGFKAR laid his bit of wisdom on me yesterday as well, while we were pumping iron. "You know" he said, "it's only the last two or three reps that do us any good, so why don't we skip the first seven or eight and just do the last ones?" Can't argue with that.

I should also point out that up at our nueva casa the back wall, the side walls and the roof of the construction shack have been removed. Only the frame, the front wall and the door remain. Luckily, the door is still chained and locked. Wouldn't want anyone to break in.

I understand this logic. What I don't understand is Eastern Standard Time. There's just no reason for it. There's no reason whatsoever for a football or basketball game to start at nine o,clock at night. Seven, like game time in the Rocky Mountains, makes complete sense and gets people to bed at a decent hour which then helps them be fresh and productive the next day. I therefore propose that we put the entire Western Hemisphere on Rocky Mountain Time. This will take a little adjusting to at first, but once the people get the hang of it, they'll all thank me. Are you with me? Do I have your vote? C'mon, it's a logical thing to do.

Waxing Philosophical

"At the moment when there's nothing more to lose, the Ego breaks open - and then we see who we are behind who we thought we were." Ram Dass

Alrighty then. So there's that.

Of course I'm not sure who I think I am. Maybe you know. Who do you think I think I am? Best I can come up with is Old Jock Who Now Blogs In Lieu Of Jump Shots. I mean if I had my druthers I'd probably still be hoisting them up from the top of the key, but then my priorities have always been a trifle skewed. Old Jock With Skewed Priorities might work. Skewed Trifles has also got a shot. According to Ram, though, the real me is hiding behind that guy, whoever he is, waiting for my Ego to bust open. I'm thinking that could take awhile. There's not much left there to break. Can't say I miss it either. Life's more peaceful without the parts of it I've sent packing. I would like to see the guy behind the guy though. He might be taller. Trouble I'm finding is "the moment when there's nothing more to lose." That's a bit worrisome. I've got lots to lose and I'm in no hurry to lose it. Apart from things like my debts and bad back that is. I guess what Ram means by "the moment" is the one when you are on the brink of the Big D and here we're not talking Dallas. We're talking Daisies, as in pushing them up. That's when I'll get cosmic consciousness, enlightenment and a peek at the guy behind the guy. I'm in no rush to go there either. I mean, what if it turns out I'm really Regis Philbin?

Perish the thought.

A Blogless Blog

I toasted up a couple of RTGFKAR's homemade muffins before sitting down to write this. What this means is that I now have a dog plunked down beside me staring at my food. I can understand the attraction. The dog is an English breed and these are English muffins. Suuuurre. Tomorrow I'll whip up some Latvian muffins and put that theory to the test.

The dog's sounding out little whiny noises and trying to get me to make eye contact. He knows if I do, I'm a gonner. Now he's placed his head on my knee. His eyes are all shiny and soft.

Here you go Buddy, have a bite.

Hey, what else could I do? He's got those eyes. If I had eyes like that I'd stand in front of bank tellers and make cooing sounds.

It's rainy and windy again this morning. What's the deal with that? A friend of ours told us last night that she had heard from a reliable Panamanian souse, I mean source, that this was the rainiest rainy season in eighteen years. Hope it's not a trend; part of global climate change and all that. I mean if it only happens every eighteen years, I can live with it. I'll be eighty-three when the next wet one comes around, if my math is right, and probably still bitchin about the lack of golf in my life. I mean some things never change.

Gus is now barking insanely at the front door. There's a woman and a little girl out there. Gus thinks kids are other dogs or toys or something to be played with. Kids think Gus is a tiger. Takes them awhile to get used to each other. The woman has been sent here by our landlady to clean the grout around our tiles. The grout is still gritty from the flood. School is out so the kid is tagging along with mom.

And now, having let them in and calmed the dog and put cartoons on the TV my train of thought has leaped from the track. No loss though. It was a Lionel narrow gauge anyway.

Sixteen Tons and Current Events

"...another day older and deeper in debt."

I'm trying to cross two lanes of traffic on the busiest road in Daveed. I look left and nothing's coming for a long ways so I pull out and block off that lane. I look to the right waiting for a break in traffic from that direction so I can make it across to the other side. Finally there's a gap and I bust my move. Trouble is, guy coming from the left decides to drive into the wrong lane and go around me just as I do so. Crunch. When all is said and done it leaves me as the hitter and not the hitee and no way to prove the other guy caused the accident. Nobody hurt, minimal vehicle damage. Minimal meaning I'm shelling out three hundred at the scene to make the other guy go away and five or six more to restore RTGFKAR's car to its former lovely and talented self. Luckily I'm one of those deep pocket guys. Of course there's nothing in those deep pockets apart from the odd ball of lint but still, hey, they're deep.

We were in Daveed - you all know I write Daveed because if I write David you'll read the pronunciation wrong - to renew RTGFKAR's visa. This has been a monthly ritual since Panama reduced their visa stays from ninety days to thirty. The good news is that RTGFKAR's residency has been approved and only awaits a signature from some nameless bureaucrat to become official. This should occur before the year is out unless Unnamed Official suffers from Writer's Cramp and takes the month off to heal. This, or something like it, has been known to happen, but we remain hopeful.

Further good news I wish to impart, but that sounds painful so Ill just tell you, is that RTGF's stuff has arrived. It only took seven months which leads us to believe it wasn't actually sent by ship but rather packed down by lazy mules with bad feet. Nevertheless, it is here and it is now stored in one of the new house's guest rooms awaiting the completion of the construction to be unpacked and put away in the places designated for, well, stuff. The fly in this ointment is that construction has slowed to a...I won't say standstill, because there is the occasional brush stroke of paint applied, so let's go with molasses creep, and a fair projection will put us in the house just before the world ends in 2012. One hopeful sign though is that a power line has been strung from the main road to the house and electricity may be in the offing. Or is that the on-ing? Whatever. RTGFKAR can now go up and put his arms around any of many cardboard boxes and say, "my stuff" while sighing contentedly.

And on the weather front, there is some. Mostly wind and sideways rain. Noisy too.

Someone from the bleachers yells, "Ya still love Panama?"

"You betcha, damn straight, are bears catholic and does the Pope pee in the woods?" I yell back.

Of course I love Panama. It's impossible not to.

Nothing...again

I have nothing to say today. I am mum, mute, closed mouthed and silent. There is not one single thing that needs to be said from my point of view. Not one. Not even Go Broncos or my foot's asleep, so I'll sit here and muse, ponder and meditate which are not as you might think three of Santa's reindeer, some of the seven little people or a California law firm. No, they are what I am doing. Right now. As I sit here.

Still nothing.

Alrighty then. I'm not a man who is afraid to ask for help in troublesome circumstances - although asking for directions when driving is still out of the question - so I'm inquiring, "what do you do when you've got nothing?" C'mon, help me out here, give me a hint will ya?

Okay, I understand. You don't want to give up your secrets. When you've got nothing you go to your bag of tricks - which is something right there - and you pick one to suit the circumstance. I don't have a bag of tricks. Wish I did. I can see how it would come in handy. What I've got is a big bag of nothing. You could root around in there for days and not find a thing. It's empty I'm telling you. A vacuum. A hole in space. An empty vessel waiting to be filled.

Still waiting. I've heard that stuff is drawn to a vacuum.

Still nothing.

I've watched five movies in the last two days. Do I want to comment? Nah. Nothing there. The weather's changing for the better, but do I want to write about the weather? Uh uh, don't think so. The guy across the street is said to have died last week. I saw him drive up and park his pickup yesterday. Can ghosts drive?

Okay, now there's a topic. Ghosts.

So you see, you just need to wait awhile. Patience is the best policy, someone said. Or was it me? I've got plenty of patience but of course now I'm out of time. Out of time? How can you be out of time the wise man asked, it's endless.

And there's another topic.

Food Freak

As you may have grocked from reading past blogs, I am interested in all things sent down from Foods R Us except cook books, but including diet books. Okay, that's not like I'm interested in literature, sports, movies, music, current events, spirituality, art, humor, super models and dancing with wolves or stars, but I do pay attention when the subject of food comes up and the subject of food comes up...daily. ("food comes up" may not be the right choice of words.)I mean somebody is always asking what's for lunch or what are we going to do about food, after which plans are made to eat some, so you see I am aware that this is a subject dear to the hearts and stomachs of most people and must be taken...with a grain of salt. So to speak.

Now here I need point out that I am a vegetarian and have been for quite some time. I'm thinking eight, maybe nine days. I'm pretty strict too. I've only had meat four times in that period. What brought me to this less than mainstream dietary regimen was The North Beach Diet. This is a diet in which one only eats carbohydrates. Lots of carbohydrates taken in as many diverse forms as possible is recommended by the author of the diet who shall remain anonymous as I don't like using my name in vain. Today, for instance, in honor of the Pilgrims whose own diet preferences and attitudes are revealed when you break down their group moniker into its component parts, ie: "pill" and "grim", I plan to start the day with cinnamon rolls and move onto pie. In between, who knows, but you can be sure I'll get my share of carbos and hydrates because I don't want to be decarboed or dehydrated.

Thanks Happygiving.

Teething

I'm always impressed by people with perfect teeth. Met a couple yesterday, she from Costa Rica, he from Panama who both had perfect teeth. Their kid, who is two, had imperfect teeth, but he was wearing braces. Braces at two? Aren't they just a first set of choppers destined to fall out? Oh well, what do I know?

I'll tell you what I know,(and that won't take long) they were a nice couple, they complimented my Spanish and, as you might guess, they smiled a lot. People with perfect teeth always do. They were at B and L's house visiting when we, RTGFKAR, Woowoo and I, dropped in, which is how I got to know about their excellent taste in Gringo Spanish speakers and their perfect teeth. The guy, whose name is, I'm thinking Nicholas or maybe Nicole, imperfect memories go along with imperfect teeth, told me about his travails trying to get residency in Costa Rica so that he and his family could live there part of the year and spend time with his wife's parents. Their son, John Paul, the two year old with braces, was born in Costa Rica which automatically grants him CR citizenship, but leaves him lacking legal status in Panama. Nick, let's call him that for short, said the whole thing is a living nightmare, but he smiled throughout the telling. Can't say I blame him for that. With teeth like his, I'd smile at a funeral.

John Paul, by the way, was named after the Pope of the same name. The wife whose moniker is Michelle or some Spanish version of that, wanted to dub the child Juan Pablo, but the husband didn't like the way that sounded so they opted for the English version. The wife explained to me that she talks to the Pope and he's a close personal friend who answers her in her heart. My Spanish isn't good enough to translate uuuuEEEEuuuu so I let it go. Besides she was smiling and it's hard to take issue with perfect teeth.

Your probably wondering why I choose to tell you about all this, but then, so am I. Especially when I could have just said, Go Broncos. Hey, that Bronco horse logo has got some mouthful of teeth doesn't it?!

Progress in Spanish

I finished reading "Harry Potter Y El Misterio del Principe" the sixth book of the series yesterday after months of pecking away at it. I'm getting a bit sick of the little twerp and may root for Voldemort when the seventh book gets translated into Spanish. I'm now on to Gabriel Garcia Marquez' "Ojos De Perro Azul", (Eyes of the Blue Dog) a book of short stories by the great man. Gabe's themes are more complex than the simple good versus evil you get in Potter and I'm looking forward to that. What I'm not looking forward to is the more complex Spanish. If you're wondering how I manage to read this second language with my wizened old brain, the answer is, of course, slowly. I look up lots of words; mostly nouns and verbs and the occasional adjective. There are too many adjectives and adverbs to learn and so many that I just will never use. For instance if the author writes, "Harry said wryly" (in Spanish I'm talking)I'm not going to look up wryly, because it is a word I'll probably never find a use for unless I decide to write in Spanish which seems unlikely in that I'm just now getting the hang of English... more or less. I realize I miss a certain subtlety the author is implying by not looking up wryly, but, c'mon, I'm old. I'm saving time for learning words I can use in actual conversation. Words like "chupar", to suck. That way I can say, Los Yankees se chupan when I talk to someone wearing an NY baseball cap. Someone small, frail and old that is. I've found that after I've looked up the same word about four times it sticks in my mind and I remember it the next time it appears in the text. Unfortunately, this doesn't mean that the word is now a part of my spoken vocabulary. For that I have to use the word aloud, in a sentence context, an additonal three or four times. Again, like chupar. I use that a lot. I would be further along conversationally if I weren't essentially shy. I'm not one to strike up a chat with a stranger, a thing useful for getting the hang of a new language, and even when I am forced to converse, I try to keep it short. A couple of cocktails will loosen my Spanish tongue, but I don't think that's an advisable training aid. Or is it? A little scotch in the morning coffee might be just the thing.

Nah, I think I'll just go read a book.

This and That Part 3 or Maybe 4

Yesterday's blog was entitled "Blogging Religiously." Have I used that before? The Monkeymind has a monkey memory. No matter. There's nearly 250 Monkeymind blogs floating around in cyberspace annoying cyberspacemen and I can't remember a four item grocery list without writing it down, so I won't stress over using a title twice.

The rainy season ended abruptly yesterday as I said it would. The day dawned sunny and warm and remained so throughout. It's gone today though. Short dry season.

I fell asleep writing a poem in my head last night. It had something to do with the beloved lump in the covers beside me. Wish I could remember it. Would make Woowoo Charly happy. 'Course she'd think I was talking about the dog. Later, I started another about my boys. Been missing them lately. Can't remember that one either. I like rhyming though. I'll have to write some verse for real. Soon as a topic comes to mind. Something about Barry Bonds maybe.

I took my Barry Bonds to the bank
and they weren't worth a dime.

Yaddidda yaddida homerun rank
the Cream, the Clear, the Crime.

Something like that. Or maybe not.

We got our washer/dryer fixed yesterday. Remember when we had the flood? It's been broken since then. Had to order a part from Panama City. Took three weeks to get here. I could walk from Panama City in three weeks. Not that I'm complaining. I got to learn more vocabulary talking to the women at the Lavamatico where our clothes were cleaned in the interim.

Interim is a good word. Is there an outerim?

The rain has stopped and the big yellow ball in the sky has reappeared. Wait a sec...
there it goes again. Gonna be one of those days.

Blogging Religiously

"The mind is a servant. Don't let it be the master." Osho and others.

Alrighty then. I'm keeping an eye on mine.

A busy week is drawing to a close is what my mind wanted to write, but then I pointed out that a week is just a measurement of time elapsed and as such it can't be busy and I'm certain it can't draw. One must be vigilant.

There are times, though, when it's best to let the mind loose for a stroll around the premises. Some call that exercise. I call it blogging.

And away we go.

Watched a movie this week entitled "The Man From Earth" in which one of the characters purports to be 14,000 years old. He starts life as a Cro Magnon, gets to be about 35 and remains perpetually there. As the movie begins, he is about to take leave for parts unknown and is explaining to a group of his colleagues, all PHD's in one field or another, that he must move on, because as they age and he doesn't, things will get too dicey and he doesn't want to end up being a guinea pig in a lab somewhere. The questions then begin and our hero highlights episodes of his life in answer to them. One of the most intriguing parts is when he reveals that he was Jesus. Yup, that Jesus. He explains that he had studied under the Buddha for awhile and then, believing in the big fella's tenets, he had wandered east and began teaching what he had learned. This drew to him a small following from among the people and big, bad trouble with the Romans. He was crucified by them - hung up by ropes not nails - but used his inner training to slow his vital signs and thus simulate death. After being encrypted, he brings himself back to normal and makes his escape. Unfortunately, his recovery and departure are witnessed by a few others and, Ta Daa, a religion is born.

My own take on the Jesus segment of the film is that it was delivered with enough plausibility to make one think it might just have happened that way. I, however, still subscribe to the Freke/Gandy theory described in their "Jesus Mysteries" trilogy, that Christianity was born from a compilation of earlier Pagan myths and came to fruition during the reign of Roman Emperor Constantine when the Literalists split from the Gnostics and Constantine sided with the Literalists, making their version the accepted religion of the Roman Empire.

The film throughout is fascinating and a "must see." It's a small, low budget offering and I suspect it will get limited play for this reason and also because I'm sure the fanatical Religious Right will want it banned and burned.

Having written the above, the monkeymind now ponders what's next? It makes a short leap to this thought, gleaned also, I think, from Osho: There are over 300 religions in the world, but only one science. Science does not require blind belief. It is an ongoing search for knowledge and truth. Those who "believe" quit searching and the truth will ever elude them.

Whoa, that's heavy.

And here comes another. Laughter is meditation. When you laugh heartily there is no thought. If you think, the laughter stops. When there are no thoughts, that IS meditation.

Okay mind... enough! Back in your box. I can take it from here.

Saturday Happenings

A walnut sized frog leaped from the dark of our bedroom into the light of our bathroom as I exited the latter last night a tick or two after four. The little guy just sat there looking at me as I scraped sleep from my consciousness and pondered what to do. I could catch the frog and walk the length of the building where I could unlock a door and effect his release or I could turn out the light, close the bathroom door and deal with the tiny croaker in the morning. I knew if I made the walk, I'd be up, awake and finished with sleep for the night, so I tossed that option aside and returned to bed and dreams of happy hoppers.

It's morning now and there is no frog.

Earlier last night we, RTGFKAR, Woowoo and I, had dinner with friends Lane and Rhode before motoring on to Snoopys to see Neil Simon's play "God's Favorite" performed by our local theatre group. I could review the play as a serious critic of serious art and pan the production, but that would be unfair to the people who worked so hard to put on the show. For what it was, an amatuer offering for live theatre lovers, it was just fine, although not quite dandy.

During intermission I talked with a guy named Mark who had his golden retriever Happy on a leash and was attracting a bit of attention. I mean, most dogs don't attend theatre unless one of their own is featured. Little Orphan Annie comes to mind, arf arf. Mark and I bragged awhile about the intelligence of our respective pets and I noted how Gus will dry himself after a bath if you give him a towel. Mark nodded, unimpressed and then said, "yeah but can he count?" "Huh" I shot back cleverly. Mark then asked Happy how many people were in the group to our left and the dog gave four short barks. Alrighty then. I was one upped and returned to the play.

The thing I have noted about amateur productions is that the actors deliver their lines too rapidly. It is as if they can't wait to get through them correctly and get out of the spotlight. Professionals on the other hand, savor their lines and deliver them with proper timing and careful word emphasis. They love when it is their turn to shine and they don't rush to leave the spotlight. Neil Simon delivers a punch line in almost every sentence of his scripts and last night's cast slid over quite a few of them. Nevertheless, all in all, remember the Alamo and win one for the Gipper, the show was more than worth the seven buck ticket.

Now about that frog. "Yo Gus. Come here. I want you to find something."

We'll show that Happy a thing or two.

The House

We are at the part of house construction here in Panama where many people lose their cool and their minds and can be found running naked through the streets yelling, "Hep me somebody, hep me Jesus." We are thiiissss close to moving in and lack only a few essentials like cabinets and closets and, oh yeah, electricity or we'd be happily ensconced already. (I like that word ensconced. "Jack was fully ensconced in the tapioca filled hot tub when the super model slid in.") The problem at this stage of construction, stage 955 of 1000, is that everything slows down. Woodworkers can't keep up with demand and bureaucracy makes obtaining electricity roughly the equivalent of getting your hands on the Holy Grail. Little wonder the lost cool, the lost minds and the naked street runners. (Never having had much cool and missing a mind for years, there is little danger that I personally or even I impersonally will suffer this fate. I do worry though about Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR, but they too are showing Zen like patience.)

In pursuit of an actual move-in date, RTGFKAR, Woowoo Chuck and I drove to Daveed this week to register our finca (the property) and our corporation (the owner of the property.) This is the first step in obtaining electricity. The last, I think, has something to do with polishing the Grail and sending it up with a kite and a key. Woowoo waited in the car while RTGF and I entered the municipal building like lambs going to the slaughter. Inside we were greeted by a scene that looked a lot like a U.S. Motor Vehicle Agency, counters and lines and people sitting about looking bored or bewildered. We were directed to a queue we hoped was the right one. When our turn came, I explained to the woman clerk in my very best Spanish exactly what we were there for and she, of course, said, "What?" Or in actuality "Como?" which can mean what. I tried again and she got the drift and began asking us a series of questions. The problem here was that even though I could understand much of her Spanish when I could hear it, I often couldn't hear it. It was very noisy in the building and I don't lip read Spanish very well at all. Eventually, after my countless pleas of "repetas por favor", the woman took matters in her own hands and checked off a number of things on several forms and showed me where to sign. RTGFKAR owns our corporation, but I'm the prez, so I do all the "firma y fecha", signing and dating. We were then directed to another line where RTGF whipped out his credit card and payed for whatever it was we had just accomplished. We were then sent back to line 1 where some stamping of this and that occurred and we were given receipts and told to return at five o,clock. We didn't want to hang around Daveed all day so we asked if we could return on another day and were told yes. We did that two days later and are now in possession of everything, we hope, to take to Union Fenosa (a fun thing to say) our local Power company and get, well, wired. That will be next week.

As for cabinets and closets we might be doing better if we could pronounce the maker's name. Miggily or Meggelleddy or mig something. Doesn't fit our English speaking tongues. Nice guy though. Does good work. "Mig old buddy, pronto por favor."

And that's all I have time for today. I've got to get undressed and go for a jog. It just seems like the right thing to do.

Baseball And The Enneagram

Here's a capsule summary and some nicknames for the nine types of the Enneagram to help those unfamiliar with the subject to follow along when I monkeymind over to the nine positions on a baseball team. These summations lack any sort of depth and are about the equivalent of me explaining baseball by saying here's a bat, a ball, a glove, a base etc. The Enneagram is an ancient, complex, deeply profound and spiritually interesting endeavor. In other words, just the kind of thing I like to screw with.

1. The Perfectionist. The Reformer. This type seeks perfection in all things and is, consequently, hard working and often driven to make things "right."

2. The Helper. The Caretaker. People who have a need to be needed. They are happiest when serving.

3. The Achiever. The Motivator. To be successful in everything they do is the bottom
line.

4. The Individualist. The Tragic Romantic. People striving to be different or special. They walk to the beat of a different drummer.

5. The Investigator. The Observer. Always in search of more information. They wish to be omniscient.

6. The Loyalist. The Stalwart. Safety and security are principal goals. They flourish in team situations.

7. The Generalist. The Enthusiast. Happiness is their primary goal. Often confuse fun with happiness.

8. The Boss. The Leader. Wants to be in control and the center of attention.

9. The Mediator. The Comforter. Sees all points of view but is in search of their own.

So there you have that and now you understand everything, right? Me neither.

Alrighty then. With no further ado or adon't, here's my Enneagram baseball team.

Playing catcher and batting in cleanup for the Enneagram Philosophers is Number 3, Joe Achiever. Catchers are the on field coaches. They call the pitches, they run the show. I want my 3 in a position to be successful.

Pitching and batting ninth or not at all, depending upon which league we are playing in, is Number 8, Joe Intimidator. I want my 8 in a position to impose his will. A thing he likes to do.

At first base and leading off is Number 1, Joe Perfect. I want my 1 at first where perfection is most needed. Everything thrown to him must be caught.

At second, and yes there is a symmetry here, I've got Number 2, Joe Helper and he bats second as well. I want a good double play combination and a guy who can help by sacrificing and using the hit and run.

Shortstop is the infield hub and I've got Number 7, Joe Energiser Bunny, my high energy guy holding down the position and batting fifth. He needs to be in on the most action so his mind doesn't wander.

Over at third I'm playing Number 4, Joe Artist our team's specialist, because third is like no other infield position and it takes an unusually gifted athlete to play there. I've got him batting sixth for no special reason.

Centerfield is manned (this is a guy's team) by Number 6, Joe Teammate. Joe will do what it takes to fit in and help the team win. He's batting third for that very same reason.

In Right I've got Number 5, Joe Thinker Not Dooer, because it's a position with usually less excitement, but when the action does come, Joe will make the right decisions. Number 5 bats seventh, because something about a five in the seventh position sounds right.

Playing left is Number 9, Mr. Amenable, because that's where we all agreed he should play and he said it's okay with him. He'll also be the team captain and will bat eighth.

Designated Hitter is Joe Anynumber, but usually a 3. They just like winning so damn much. He'll bat third or fourth and push everyone else down a spot in the batting order.

My manager will also be a 9 because I want everyone in the locker room to get along and 9's are best suited to make that happen.

I could also make a case, and this is a little more woowoo, for starting at first base and calling it position 1, then go around the infield as positions 2, 3 and 4 and with the outfield as 5,6 and 7. All with their Enneagram number corresponding to their baseball number. The pitcher and catcher would be 8 and 9 respectively. Hmmm, I like that a lot. Oh well, too late to change my mind, it's on to football.

My football team will be composed of all 8's except at quarterback where the 3 lives. The 7's will be over with the cheerleaders.

A Small Ordeal

A foul sort of day, rainy, blustery and of course for me, cold. Sixty something degrees.

It's a smidgen short of eleven in the morning and we've already had a small adventure.

RTGFKAR got the call at 7:30. The driver of the ARC Mandarin truck said they had arrived in Boquete and needed us to direct them further. We hopped in RTGFKAR's car and headed to the park to meet them. Loaded on the truck were our shower stalls and a couple of bathroom mirrors. We had arranged this delivery yesterday in David and although we were prepared for the early morning call, we really didn't expect the truck to be on time. They seldom are.

We made the connection and led the way to our house. The road there as some of you know is, ah, dreadful. Especially when it is raining and it was. Doing that. Hard. We crawled along over the rocks and through the mud and got the clunky looking, box truck to the site. Our goods were unloaded, checked, signed for and all seemed well. Well, that is, until the delivery truck bogged down in the mud at the turnaround spot. Alrighty then. Not to worry. Mighty Mitsu to the rescue.

RTGFKAR's car is a Mitsubishi Nativa. A four wheel drive SUV. These kind of cars are technically classified as trucks, but if you ask me - and somebody should - they are really just glorified station wagons. I wasn't sure we could help, but of course we had to try. I got the car turned around up by our house so that I could pull down the drive and park in front of the the truck. No one had a chain but the truck guys came up with a rope and we hooked on. I dropped the gears into four wheel low, eased forward and, eureka, pulled them right out! We weren't done though. The truck still had to turn around in the turnaround and when it was finally pointed in the right direction it was, ta daa, stuck again. Still not to worry, we hooked up and yanked them out anew.

The surprising thing to me apart from the car actually pulling this large truck from the mud, was the attitude of the truck's occupants, a driver and a helper. They remained cheerful and seemingly undisturbed throughout. I thought back to how I would have acted at a similar age, twenty something, and the picture I conjured of my truck stuck in the mud on a rainy day, deliveries backing up, was not that of the proverbial happy camper. I would have been, okay what's the word I need, angry. Very angry. Extremely angry. The kind of angry I never actually get at other people. It's a kind of mad anger reserved exclusively for things that don't do what they are supposed to. It's a real mad, a murderous mad. Afortunadamente,I'm better now. Age has tempered the temper. I realize that those inanimate objects that so pissed me off in the past meant well all along. They were just doing their thing, being things. So I was impressed by the truck driver and his helper's steady calmness throughout our small ordeal. Their Wah, their Zen, their evolution was far ahead of mine at a similiar age. (But then, who's isn't? Wasn't?)

None of this is what I intended to write about this morning. It's just another distraction. What I intended to write about you'll get tomorrow.

If I'm not distracted.

El Dia De Independencia

It's Independence Day II, the sequel, here in Panama. We are celebrating Panama's separation from Columbia with parades and whatnot. The whatnot, I think, is mostly drums. Later this month we will celebrate Independence Day, The Original, which is a fiesta commemorating Panama's liberation from Spain. That too will include parades and drums. Lots 'o drums. It is 8:20 in the A.M. as I write this and I can hear a steady rhythm in the background. Dumdiddy dum dum. Dump dump. Sounds like Bo Diddly on steroids.

The sun is out though. Which is to say it's here. I don't know where it goes when it's in. It's bombing us with beams as if it really intends to stay around awhile. I know better. Some time after noon Old Sol will duck for cover and a large lake in the guise of a cloud will hover above us like the alien space craft in Independence Day, The Movie. On someone or something's command, Sunny's beam bombs will be replaced by the bottom falling out of the lake; the noise of which, I might add and will, can actually drown - yup, that's the word, drown - the drumming. Too bad. After months of rain, I'll take the drumming.

I suppose I should, and you know I always do as I should, interject right here a short history of Panama's liberation from Colombia. I'm not real clear on the details, but the overall story goes something like this. Old King Jorge the Third of Colombia decided he wasn't getting enough revenue from his Panamanian Colony so he raised the taxes on coffee. This was the last straw for the Panamanios so they dumped the coffee into the Caribbean and formed a militia group called the Minuto Hombres. When Colombia sent a bunch of soldiers dressed in red coats and heavily armed with the latest in modern machete technology, the Minuto Hombres took to the mountains and hid out until Teddy Roosevelt came down from the USA and scared the redcoats away. After that there was a declaration sent to Colombia stating that Panama was an independent country and all the Minuto Hombres who were now famous founding fathers signed it. Juan Manocock signed with real large letters.

The history of Panama's separation from Spain is an equally interesting story, but a lot more complicated. Don't worry though, I'll do my usual intensive research and then get back to you with all the details. I'm pretty sure it started with bull fight protests.

Not Much Today

I'm reading a book by Osho called "Autobiography of a Spiritually Incorrect Mystic", an Elmore Leonard novel and the Sixth in the Harry Potter Series. This last in Spanish. I read Osho while we are playing Scrabble, Leonard before bed and Harry here and there. I'll finish Leonard first then move Osho into that prime reading spot as it's a borrowed book. I'll then move a new book into the Scrabble slot because Potter in Spanish requires too much concentration to play the game well. I'm thinking another P.G. Wodehouse lark. I picked one up at The Bookmark recently and I don't let P.G. lie around unread for very long. He's too funny. Why do I mention all this you say? That's easy. See the picture on the right hand side of the page? That's me and my stuff. Turns out I'm lacking the mind's proper glue and my stuff keeps falling out. No matter. Just makes room for more.

And here's another bit dribbling onto the page. I bought bags of M&M's for the Trick or Treaters last night. The kids don't actually do that trick or treat thing here in Boquete and you'd think I'd know that by now wouldn't you? Well listen up then if that's what you think. Of course I know that. What, I'm an idiot? Come on! How else am I going to justify those little bags of crunchy delight at my fingertips during Halloween Six The Revenge Of Michael Myers? I mean, you can't let them go to waste, can you?

So there you have that.

Halloween

Alas, there will be no dancercise blog. I pulled into the parking lot of Snoopy's where the class was going to be held about ten minutes early. There was one other car there, its occupant also waiting, and friendly guy that I am I knocked on the car's darkly tinted window hoping to inquire a bit about the class. A woman - I could tell by the voice - rolled the window down about an inch and said, "yes?" I asked if I was in the right place for the dance class and she told me I was but that the class was for women only. "Really?" I replied or something else clever like that,
"It didn't say that on the Internet." She said it wasn't mentioned on the change of location email but was on the original posting. I asked if it mattered that I was in touch with my feminine side and she rolled up her window. So...no blog there.

Today is Halloween, my favorite Holiday and my plan was to watch horror movies all day on the off chance I haven't previously seen one of them. It's hard to remember when you are on the seventh or eighth sequel. It's always fun, well for me anyway, to see how the teens do in Michael, Jason and Freddy, after of course, M,J and F have weeded out a sizable number of the hormonally driven lot themselves, and to look for future stars in the casts. Johnny Depp was in a "Nightmare On.." episode. The first one I think. My plan, though, was interrupted by things that need doing. If you're thinking, like I was initially, what can be more important than watching B, C and D horror flicks, then let me point out that one of the things I need to do is go pay the cable bill. I got a call saying it was going to be turned off today if I didn't. It would be nice if the cable company would actually send or deliver a bill to me so I'd know, but at least they called. After that, well there's other stuff I'll do as long as I'm out.

Damn, "Dracula 2000" is on and I'm going to miss it. Ah well, maybe next year.

The Monkeymind and Other Stuff

Here's how the monkeymind works. I was going to return to drinking black coffee this morning to spare myself the calories from milk and sugar. When I looked, however, at my first cup, there I was stirring in the evil dairy and the suicide sweet. I don't recall which parallel universe I was visiting when those substances were added. Call that the down side of the monkeymind. My first thought upon arriving back on this plane was, I'm a creature of habit. My next thought was, no you're not, a nun is a creature of habit. I call that the upside of the monkeymind, because a chuckle is worth a thousand calories.

Sybil Danning. (Just seeing if my boys are paying attention.)

RTGFKAR and I are still pumping Irene. (That's iron for anyone new to the blog.)We have been at it semi-seriously since May. (I've been at life semi-seriously since 1941.) For the doubters and the scoffers who are at this moment going doubt doubt scoff scoff, I want to point out that we are buff old dudes. Okay it is hard to tell because our massive buffness is hidden under our massive consumption of RTGFKAR's homemade carbohydrates, but we have increased our bench press weight by almost 40 pounds and our curls by ten or twelve. How our increased strength relates to our actual lives is hard to gauge, but I am looking forward to 300 yard drives when the rain stops and we return to the links. That would be the golf links and not the hot links from which we have never departed.

In a further effort to return to those thrilling days of fitter years and the never ending search for blog material, I am today joining a class called "Dancercise." Feeling that my long walks at a leisurely pace while my leash arm is stretched to a freakish length by Gus fulfilling his own exercise needs is not meeting my aerobic, heart pumping, lung bursting, body sweating requirements as designed by a reliable source I once heard about through a friend, I figure I'll dance my way to fame and fitness. Stay tuned and we'll see how that goes.

For now though, it's off to Daveed to buy toilets because, you know, we need those too.

Playing the Game

I awoke at 4:45 this morning. It wasn't that I couldn't sleep, it was that I had slept enough. I lay abed testing this had enough theory for about fifteen minutes and then, realizing that sleep had truly departed, I stumbled about in the dark trying not to arouse Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR from their slumbers. Gus, of course, was off the bed with me in a sleepy bound saying this is cool, maybe we're going to do something interesting. Sorry Gus.

It's three hours later and I've answered mail, read on-line news - Sox are up big in the Series, Bush is down big in the polls - and mainlined half a pot of Cafe Ruiz finest blend. I'm ready to blog. Or at least I would be if I had a topic handy.

I left a note next to our computer last night that says, "it's the playing not the winning." I had in mind writing a blog on that theme, but I've been given pause by my knowledge of The Enneagram. "Of course it's the playing" Enneagramers will say, "you are a seven." What they mean by that is that my enneagram personality type, the seven, in search of happiness, is frequently a connoisseur of fun. "If you were a three," the Enneagramers might add, "you'd be all about the winning." I think though, there's more to it than that, so I'll go ahead and blog about playing versus winning because, A. it gives me a topic and B. if I'm wrong and it's not philosophy but merely inherent personality, then no matter, it's what I think regardless of why I think it.

And here's what it is:

The thing about playing the game is this. While you are so engaged you are SO ENGAGED! That is, present in the moment. There is no world, there is no time, there is only the activity at hand. This presumes, of course, that you have chosen to participate in this activity because you enjoy it. What better feeling than being fully present for something you enjoy? The outcome of the activity, a win or a loss, pales then, because to achieve either one means the fun is over! I side with Ernie Banks who used to say, "It's a beautiful day, let's play two." This philosophy is not limited to sports and games. Any activity in life that captures your complete attention is justified by its doing rather than any outcome it may generate. And that's why I play and that's how I live. Hoisting the trophy is nice, but it's not as much fun as the getting there.

Hmmm. I really am a seven aren't I?

Addicted

The challenge of the blank blog. It's an interesting hobby. I have decided that that is what this is, a hobby. (I like those double "thats".) It all started back in Arboles when Charly's woowoo mentor Sharmin consulted her woowoo charms, amulets, stones, vibes, and intuition about the subject of Doc's ennui. (I threw in the word ennui so #2 Son would have something to work with in the comment section.) She decided that what I needed was to be doing something creative. From this suggestion came Woowoo Charly giving me morning time to write and I've been hard at it ever since. I had, of course, dabbled in the old putting pen to paper over the years and always found it a wonderful place for the monkeymind to roam, but never on any sort of a regular (I was going to say disciplined, but that's contrary to the spirit of the monkeymind) basis. Now, after several years of scribbling, I find a morning without the blank blog challenge lacking the fulfilled feeling and the high, yes that's the word, high, needed to make my day. It is true then, I am an addict. Some would say a write-aholic, but then, some are really stupid.

I post this admission not only to clear the air and my conscience, but also to help you, the enablers. You need intervention and I hope to see you at al-anon soon. Remember, the first step is the one I've taken here which is to get the truth out and let it fly free. If it returns to you, then lock it up and keep it close to your heart or other favorite body parts.

This is not a trivial subject. This is something important and must be dealt with according to Hoyle. A trivial subject would be Brittany Spears or George Bush. I urge you therefore to take action immediately. STOP READING NOW! Okay, not quite now, but soon. I promise. I'm almost finished.

I'm just kidding. You know that, right? I mean I really want you to keep on reading.
You have to keep on reading. You must keep on reading! All the way to the end!

(Man we addicts are needy.)