Consequential Events

Today's blogging would be better defined as stalling. I have hard stuff to write and I'm procrastinating. (Is there amateurcrastinating?) (Have I asked that before?) I'll get to the hard stuff right after this, but let me stall a few minutes more.

There was wind last night and it has carried on to the morning. It is curiously rhythmic like the sound of waves on a beach. The banana tree with its broad leaves I see through the window to my left is whipping about in so many directions it looks as if it is being tickled. I can feel a thread of wind, gentled to breeze by our screen, coming through the six inches or so of the open window to my fore. It is riffling the pages of Macbeth that I have downloaded and now have at my side. Macbeth is one of my projects that you will hear more about later.

Many important and internationally significant things have happened in our lives. Yesterday, for instance, I switched the dog's food from puppy to adult. They like it much better and CNN has been alerted to the change. Additionally, Woowoo and I drove to lovely and talented Daveeed to bring back supplies. Among those of note were TP, paper towels and Special K snack bars that contain only 90 calories each. Kim Jong Il, we are told, was moved by the purchases. On Monday we played golf after having decided in advance that we wouldn't wait until Tuesday, our usual day, if it wasn't raining Monday. This way we reasoned, if it did rain Monday we could play Tuesday or Wednesday or even Thursday. Difficult intellectual decisions like this one are part of our everyday reality. Of course, had I known that the change in format was going to affect me and my golf game so drastically, I might have thought differently. My body, you see, was attuned to the rhythms of a Monday and not those of a Tuesday and the attendant imbalance of my equilibrium caused my game to be seriously impaired. That is my story and I am doggedly sticking to it even as the Fox reporters try to wear me down.

I'm sure these details of our complex and sophisticated existence have you and the world-at-large poised expectantly to hear about what comes next, so I won't tease you with delay. Our new fence has been installed, looks fine and holds back the garden while keeping the dogs in the yard. This latter prevents them from hunting the wily chicken but creates a situation wherein there is far more dog poop to be found in the enclosed area. A congressional committee has been called to study this local matter in hopes of preventing a worldwide outbreak, but so far no funds have been allocated. In the meantime, good and concerned citizen that I am, I have taken it upon myself to daily clean the mess and save the planet from this additional pollution. Don't thank me, it's my pleasure and I'm a better man for it.

NOW, I can go write something.

When Writer's Give up the Sauce and Get Crabby

Just wondering. Why is a crab cake a crab cake? Why isn't it a crab patty? They look more like a patty than a cake. Cakes are for dessert. Crabs ain't. This, of course, brings up the patty-cake, patty-cake baker's man thing, but I don't want to confuse you further. Had some very good crab shaped like a burger at B and L's last night. Also asparagus which is a funny name for a vegetable. Sounds more like a Roman name to me. You know, Constantine Asparagus, second century Roman Emperor decreed on his death bed that the stiff, long stemmed plant he was stabbed with, be boiled to mushiness and henceforth be called asparagus in his honor.

Regarding Special K's comment in the last blog referencing "When writer's quit drinking" I can only say I have no idea what that is all about. I'm not a quitter. I did like the list of why the literary heavies drink, like writing is lonely business and alcohol consoles, but I realized as I read the list that none of the points applied to me. It did become very clear that I do not drink nearly enough and if I want to be in the Hemingway, Fitzgerald, King class, I need to get with the program forthwith. But "seriously folks", as Bob Hope is probably still saying long after he not only quit drinking, but breathing as well, I have never found alcohol to give me more than a germ of an idea. I remember thinking a swell veldt was a funny phrase during an intoxicating moment, okay, whole night, but the story that followed bearing that title was written with a clear head. Truth is, I can't do it any other way. This may explain why I'm not in the Hemingway, Fitzgerald or even King class. In fact, their having alcohol and that other small thing, uh, what's it called, talent, pretty much sums up the difference. Though I lack booze in abundance and talent aplenty, I do have morning coffee and a monkymind. They, for the most part, suffice.

Unnotable News

"Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above, don't fence me in." Gene Autry, Raffy, Matty, Finny.

If all goes as expected - a thing that rarely occurs - our fence will be completed today. It is lacking only gates. Rumor has it that the gates, not standard here, have been all but constructed in B and L's garage (level surface, out of the rain) and will be installed later today. Chickens will again run fearlessly free. The fence will arrive not a moment too soon as Woowooo Charly has been making calls and scrolling through the phone book for someone to execute a hit on the two Cocker pups. Since being chained to prevent their marauding the neighborhood, they have displayed their displeasure by turning our house into their personal bathroom...again. And, with chickens no longer available, apparently any feathered creature within their range will suffice. To wit, yesterday, when left alone for a couple of hours, one of our new pillows was hunted, cornered, killed and eviscerated, the carnage spread about the bedroom like a CSI crime scene. All that was lacking was yellow tape.

Finnegan, however, remains a GOOD BOY.

In other not of note news, the Monkeymind made a comeback early this morning after a fitful, turbulent, turning and tossed like a salad night's sleep which is to say there wasn't much of it. Sleep, that is. Tylenol PMs were consumed like Tylenol M and M's to no avail. I found the sleeplessness curious in that by using my Buddhist and Enneagram training I was able to remove myself from my thoughts so that I could view them from afar to determine the problem and came up with a big fat nothing. There was no problem there, just a lot of brain cells wandering about saying "Yo Dude, can we get some sleep here?" Eventually, I suppose, I did drift off because I remember the fragments of a mundane dream or two - you'd think if you are going to dream it would at least be entertaining - before being nudged awake by Finnegan's cold nose. (He puts his forepaws on the bed, leans in and nuzzles when he thinks I should be up and at 'em.)
It was at that moment the Monkeymind sparked to life and came up with a resolution to a plot problem (I didn't have a plot was the problem) to a story I've been writing. I lay there a bit longer and worked it all out before getting up. Cool beans. Now, if the fence guys show up, the day will be a good one. With golf on the tube, droning in the background, I'm sure a nap can be had.

Been Sick Feeling Better

Alrighty then, Children of the Corny, we are gathered here this morning to dispel the rumor that Monkeymind has buried his head in the sand and asks not what he can do for his blog, but rather, what the blog can do for him. Tear down this wall Mr. J. Crew Chef and put up a fence so we can see what the hell's going on over there. Remember, this is a blog by the people, for the people, up with people and down by the old mill stream. Tip a canoe and your waiter too for has it not been said that he who laughs last is slow to get the joke? Remember the Maine because if you don't, who will. It is our right, it is our doodie to put forth the truth as we know it even if it's a downright falsehood instead of a realhood like Capone. Move with me into the future which is right now, no, wait, now, tough to get a handle on as I go where no man has gone before without knocking first to see if there are any women inside to verify the existence of all things known throughout the ages as unknowable. Follow me as I lead the way from the back of the pack to the top of the heap where through the fog you can see forever. Am I not right? Is it not so? Wherefore then I ask because wherefore is not only a word but a question in its own right that needs no answer. We know wherefore, don't we? It's onward and upward to a greater glory that awaits the new day over the hill and through the woods to grandmother's house of cards. So walk to the beat of your own drummer, don't shoot the piano player and do exactly as I tell you. Rise up I say, rise up and greet the new day as it unfolds with all its splendor and promise. Unless it's raining. In a case like that go back to bed.

Nothing But The News

I have a new addiction. It's the NFL Channel. Don't get me wrong, I don't plop down to watch old football games whose outcome I already know - unless, of course, it's the Broncos and they were winners - no, my jones is fed by feasting upon Top Ten Lists. This week I've seen the Top Ten Best Hands, the Top Ten Best Gunslingers and the Top Ten Best Coach's Meltdowns. (Even non fans must remember Jim Mora's "Play-affs? Play-affs?!) (Okay, maybe not.) The Number Ones in those categories were Chris Carter, Bret Favre and Mora. I don't know who does the judging, but it is fun to guess as the shows count down from 10 to 1.

Okay that's it for Sports. Now it's on to the Hard News.

Our lower level, which wasn't, now is. Guy in one of those machines with a plow on one end and a shovel on the other - you know what I'm talking about - came by and moved dirt around until the hillside was a playing field. Competitors from politics to business to tiddlywinks are always talking about wanting a level playing field and by George we have one. (It might be by Jorge or by Jose, but you get the point.)

Our next goal is a fence for the upper level, which, also, isn't quite, to keep the mutts from bringing home unwanted chicks. (I tried the same technique with my sons years ago, but they just climbed over.) Dogs have been on chains for awhile now and although they have adjusted, they don't look happy. Dogs gotta run.

I got interviewed by a North Carolina grad student about my health care experiences in Panama for a study about how ex-pats get along health-wise after leaving the U.S. For this I was payed forty bucks. I volunteered to be interviewed everyday, but apparently once is enough. Bummer. Anyway, the fast forty means there will be golf in the offing. Nice.

Today is Sunday and that means I'm cooking breakfast. Both Woowoo Charly and friend B "fix" breakfast, but I prefer to not break it in advance. I have to time the meal's arrival at the table to nine-thirty as Woowoo Chuck won't be moved from the couch until... I think it's "Meet the Press" is over. (I'm not sure because I'm busy cooking. I personally would prefer to be listening to the Top Ten Meals Consumed By Offensive Guards Before Super Bowls, but, you know, I've learned to share.

Brain Dead

Tom Robbins, the writer, says he finds sentences the most interesting thing in the world. My question is, when will Bush and Cheney get theirs and how long will they (the sentences) be?

RTGFKAR says that eating raw vegetables will give you cancer. He says "ask anyone who has cancer if they have eaten raw vegetables and they will tell you yes. So there you have it: raw vegetables = cancer."

With baseball season plodding along as it always does, and football season still a few weeks away, I have been contemplating starting a fantasy synchronized swimming league. I like those underwater shots of the legs pedaling away.

The creative part of my brain - admittedly a small part - is in a coma. My other brain parts, family and friends of the creative part, are standing by in silent vigil hoping for a revival. It doesn't look good though, the creative part just lies there staring at the ceiling, unmoving, no signs of life evident. Some of the other parts, tiring from the long wait, have gone out for a couple of beers, while others work on, keeping the body from going limp as well. The medulla oblong gotta do something but I'm not sure what. Frontal lobes dully. The matter that matters remains comatose, unable to crank out an original thought. Extreme measures may be called for. An intravenous scotch drip stands at the ready, but the decision making brain part says "not yet, not yet, there is still hope." Only time will tell.

Catching Up

What's it been Dear Diary, a week or more since I've made a note of this and that? Something must have occurred that was markable; maybe even re-markable. Can't think what though. Let me scroll back a bit.

Friend L was attacked and mugged by his own liver. He's doing fine now, contemplating a return to the golf course. It's my experience that even the orneriest of livers will behave if you're carrying a three iron. (In lieu of a beer can.)

An Indian neighbor waved me to a stop as I drove by his house. He told me my perro negro had killed six of his chickens. I paid him for the chickens and chained up my dogs. We are getting an estimate today for constructing a fence.

Another neighbor has created a Neighborhood Watch which consists of a lot of signs saying, essentially, burglars beware. Our Palo Alto neighborhood has not had a single reported burglary, but better safe than, ah...safe I guess. Our share of the sign cost was twenty bucks.

Finnegan, our Golden Retriever, had his huevos removed last Friday. While Raffi and Matti were out killing chickens, Finnegan was trying to hump them. I can't say for certain if he was successful, but there are a couple of chicks down the road that, when you throw them kernels of corn, they pick them up carefully in their beaks and bring them back to you.

Played 36 holes of golf last Tuesday and found a golf swing. It isn't mine, but it's a pretty good swing, so if it's still in my bag this week, I'm keeping it.

Read a book by Elizabeth George and plan to read more. Am currently reading a book about the Beatles and their era that I finding surprisingly compelling. Surprising in that I was never a fan.

Haven't written much of late beyond the story in the blog that precedes this one. I plan to correct that this week.

I can now do twelve push-ups and feel applause is due.

It has rained some. Sunny today though.

Ketspaldigo

Inside Jack Boldin’s house, Jack sat quietly reading his account of what occurred on his ill fated venture into the Bolivian wilderness. The two investigators assigned to determine what had happened to Jack’s companions on that trip, listened attentively.

*

I stood waist deep in the Amazon muck wondering what the hell I was doing there. The part of me above water was no drier than that below, and the onslaught of insects to my upper half made total submersion seem almost a good idea. That’s a laugh, I thought. God only knows what horrors are under the surface. I looked ahead and saw my companions climbing out of the fetid slop onto marginally firmer ground, and I plodded and sloshed after them. We were all lost, had been for days, but figured a straight line following our compass would get us somewhere, to a village perhaps, or an actual river we could follow downstream, get us out of this shallow ooze we had been wading in and out of since leaving La Paz six weeks ago.

I was there in truth on a lark, a romp, a whim, and I had nobody to blame but myself. I had talked my way onto this expedition by footing the bill, or most of it anyway. An uncle of mine had died and left me a very nice chunk of change at roughly the same time my fiancé dumped me for another guy. I was seriously conflicted and, as they say, “At sea.” I needed to get away and do something, something different. A couple of friends of mine, Simon Elie and Robert Dana, had been talking about a certain adventure for years. When I offered to cough up the financing for the trip, we were packed and in flight to Bolivia before I could say…“We’re going WHERE?” Simon and Bob were veteran trekkers used to wilderness hardships. They had scaled mountains and mapped trails throughout most of the more rugged parts of North America. This, though, was their first foray into the jungle, and they didn’t seem to be faring any better than I was. Besides paying, I had also begged on board by promising to chronicle our adventure. Having been a journalist for a number of years, I had some writing skills. If I had known, however, in advance, even some of what I was to write – believe me – you would not be reading this now.

Progress in the jungle is a tedious and torturous thing. On dry ground, or should I say drier ground--nothing here is ever completely without moisture--you have to hack your way through dense foliage to create passage. When and where the water rises, the only choice available is to drag your soggy boots through the mud and slime and ignore the creepy feeling that the swamp is trying to pull you down. Boats, we learned quickly, are impossible. We had abandoned ours. They’re too heavy, too awkward. Too much time is spent untangling vines or dragging them off mud spars. Horses and mules don’t work either. They’re at the mercy of insects, poisonous plants, and packed they don’t do well in mud. And so we walked. On a good day we were able to cover as much as two kilometers give or take. Most days, though, far less. Like I said, it’s slow going in the jungle.

The plan was to follow the footsteps of a famous adventurer named P.H. Fawcett who had explored the Amazon on several occasions in search of an ancient civilization thought to be rolling in gold, a sort of El Dorado, if you will. Fawcett and his entire party, including his grown son, had disappeared on his last expedition and it was our hope to uncover what had happened to them. If we discovered a golden city along the way, hey that was all right too. Ours was not, however, a completely original plan. Other explorers had followed Fawcett’s route. Many of them--too many--had disappeared as well. What was unique about our plan--and don’t ask me why I agreed to this--was that we were taking only the same technology available to Fawcett when he entered the jungle during his several attempts to find the gold. No GPS for us. No fancy packs or dried foods. We were going to duplicate as closely as we could Fawcett’s last try, without, of course, the disappearing part.

It all went well for awhile. The initial route through the muck and mire was better now. Civilization had crept deeper into the jungle. Throughout the first week, we saw signs of farming, logging, and even a few gringo enterprises like hunting lodges. The natives we encountered were friendly, and many offered to join us as bearers. We declined their help, choosing to go it alone until we met an old man named Jango at a remote village on the cusp of the deep wood. He said he remembered Fawcett. He said he was a boy at the time, but remembered him clearly. He then gave us descriptions of Fawcett and his son that matched exactly those of photos we had discovered in our research. After asking the old man every question we could think of to verify his sincerity, we essentially deduced that he had seen the Fawcett party, but didn’t know much else. Until, that is, he told us he knew where Fawcett had gone and, for a price, was willing to show us. Now Jango was, as I’ve said, old; had to be ninety at least. His skin, lined and wrinkled from head to foot, covered little more than his bones. It appeared as though someone had wrapped his skeleton in the skin of a man twice his size. There were folds upon folds. He had hooded black eyes that were bright and alive, though, and as he spoke he surprised the three of us by jumping nimbly to his feet, waving his machete wildly in the air and trotting toward a path leading out of the village. “Come” he hollered, “I will show you.” We looked at each other and quickly agreed to meet his price. (It was trivial.) What the hell, was our consensus. We had a map, but a guide would surely be better.

And he was, for another two weeks. We were then a day or so beyond the place where the map of Fawcett’s last journey ended. Having by then consumed all our packed-in food, our diet now consisted of whatever we could pick or shoot along the way. We were each down about twenty pounds and looking almost as lean as Jango. We might have been thinner yet if he hadn’t taught us which plants were edible. The three of us were badly in need of a rest, and we told the tireless old man exactly that.

“One more day,” he said, walking ahead. “One more day.”

We reluctantly trudged after him.

Near the end of that “one more day” we stood looking across a field of tall jungle grass at what appeared to be a small, uninhabited village. To reach it we had to wade into the grass that was growing from a soft, sucking mud that clung to our boots and had to be scraped off every few steps. It was nearing dark when we at last dragged ourselves from the ooze and climbed onto the denser ground of the village. Too tired at that point to even put up our small tents, we pulled our insect repellant nets over our bodies and fell deeply asleep.

I awoke to the sound of Jango speaking a language that was something other than the Spanish he used with us. Pulling the net from me, I saw that we were surrounded by a dozen or so short, squat natives, wearing only unidentifiable animal skins that draped from their waists to about mid-thigh. Their bodies were covered in dried mud the color of weak chocolate milk and they held wooden spears taller than themselves at their sides. I poked my companions awake. Jango was talking and gesturing excitedly to the group at large, and several of them spoke back. The Mud People, as I’ve chosen to call them, did not appear threatening, but Simon, Rob and I clung tightly to the butts of our revolvers nevertheless.

When Jango finished what appeared to be a negotiation with the Mud People, they dispersed and he turned and explained the deal he had made. He would leave us now and return to his own village. A member of the Mud People would lead us on the next leg of our journey. We would have to think of something to give him in payment as they had no concept of money. Jango himself, however, would now take the money we had promised him. He further explained that the Mud People plugged their ears and noses and slept under a layer of mud. They breathed through hollow reeds like we’d use a snorkel. This way, Jango explained, they remained cool throughout the night and were not bothered by bugs. He also said that only a few times before had the Mud People heard of white men coming to their village. Their elders had rarely spoken of it, but when they did, they said the white men journeyed on to a place where they wouldn’t go. He called it “Ketspaldigo” or, as best as Jango could translate, The Hungry Forest. The elders also said not one of the white men had ever returned.

It’s not because we were arrogant or considered ourselves especially immune to danger that we decided to press on. There were two, we thought, good reasons to do so. The first was that we didn’t quite believe the spooky, superstitious prattle of the Mud People, and the second was simply that we had come too far to turn back. Our journey to this moment had been of interest but lacked conclusion. And so it was that the next day, rested and repacked with edible grains, shoots and dried fruits, we set off anew behind a Mud Man guide whose name we couldn’t pronounce. Didn’t matter, he wasn’t with us for long.

At the end of the day with the light fading rapidly and the night bugs closing in, our no name Mud Man stood pointing at the horizon where we could see tall trees clustered tightly together. Jungle, swamp, whatever you wanted to call the muck we were in, meet rainforest. We pitched our light tents and watched our guide slip off into the dark to find, we supposed, a puddle to sleep in. He seemed happy to be going.

That was the last we would see of him. In the morning we called out repeatedly and eventually fired a few rounds into the air to no particular avail. Our guide was gone. We were left with but one choice to make, forward or back. We packed our gear and set off to the forest. From where we stood it looked inviting, calm, serene. In the brightness of early day, it even looked dry.

Which brings me full circle to where I began, the being lost part. The part that even now, many months later, as I write it, rips me with a shudder of cold fear and disbelief. Yet I know it to be true.

The forest was there to our front. Right there. For three days we trudged relentlessly towards it, but got no closer. For three days we ignored the evidence of our own eyes, assuming there was some sort of optical trick, some play of light and shadow that deceived us and made us believe we were making no progress. We had to be getting closer, we reasoned. The landscape behind us changed with every step. We clearly were not locked in place. We must be moving forward.

But no, we weren’t. The forest remained there… in the distance.

On the fourth day we conferred. Something very odd was going on here. Perhaps, we thought, we had eaten something hallucinogenic. Maybe we were victims of a mass hypnosis or something not one of us could conceive. Whatever. We decided then and there to trust our compass and follow it AWAY from the mysterious, elusive forest. It was time to quit, we agreed, time to give up, to go home. We plotted a course and set out again. North I think it was, but that is of no matter. We weren’t going to find a village, a river, or a trail back to the Mud People. It was our destiny, as it had been for Fawcett and his party, to find the forest. Or, perhaps, more correctly, it was going to find us.

A reverse effect then occurred. As we retraced our steps away from the offending canopy, it appeared to come closer. When we looked back we could discern no movement, but each glance behind found the vine laden, towering arboles creeping nearer. Or so it seemed. We tried picking up our pace to distance us from its approach, but that served only to hasten the forest’s advance.

Finally, convinced we were mad, we turned and walked again towards the now looming tangle of tropic trees. This time it neither receded nor advanced. It was just a wood, quiet and still.

We entered through an archway of linked foliage high above us and felt immediately the cool of forest shade. We dropped our packs after hiking a short way in and fell back against the trunks of what were once ominous trees. Our sudden joy was palpable. We grinned at each other like happy children and then we laughed. Delirious laughs, belly laughs, laden with relief.

I realize now that it is almost funny how short lived such a feeling can be. As our laughter dwindled to chuckles and then stopped completely. We were unanimously aware of the sudden, omnipresent stillness. There were no bugs, no birds, no breeze to rustle leaves and fill the air with sounds of life. Our small human doings made the only noise at all. We gathered our packs and headed deeper into the forest, our follow-the-compass plan intact. As we walked, the vegetation around us grew surprisingly thick considering how little sunlight filtered through the forest canopy. We were no longer struggling to pull our boots from sucking mud, but rather yanking them free from small, clinging ground creepers. We walked in single file as that was all the room the forest permitted.

And now here is the part where you will think me mad as I often do myself, but it is the truth as I know it.

Simon, the last in line, seemed to be having the most difficulty. He was grunting with effort and, despite the cool of the canopy shade, he was perspiring profusely. Rob and I had grown used to his grousing and no longer turned to see what was wrong when Simon let loose with one of his frequent string of curses. We had gotten quite some distance ahead when we were suddenly startled by his terrified screams. We turned at once and saw him there a good stone’s throw behind. He appeared from that distance to be nearly enveloped in vines. We started towards him at a run, but achieved only about half the distance when the forest floor in front of us erupted with a huge fronds of wide leafed ferns. Our view was completely blocked, our path impeded. The last thing I saw before turning and fleeing after Rob--who had surely seen the same thing--was a small branch covered with leafy shoots cram itself into Simon’s mouth, silencing his cries. He was then pulled, or rather, abruptly flung backwards, into a great maw of densely leafed darkness.

We ran. We ran like never before. Adrenaline and its bitter taste of fear drove us forward and we fled through the forest, screaming like madmen. There were tentacles of something–we could feel them–grabbing for our backs, trying to find purchase, trying to slow us, to stop us. We ran, frantically, maniacally, flailing our arms at vine and branch, real and imagined that reached for us at every step. And then, quite suddenly, I realized I was alone.

Younger and faster of foot, I had gained substantially on my comrade. The forest was thinner here, the gaps between trees and plants wider. I slowed some and risked a look back. Rob was down. I stopped, fretful, my eyes wide, darting about, looking for the danger that was sure to find me. I was in an open area, several feet from the nearest shade of green. I could see Rob in a similar clearing. He was struggling to rise. My wits were shattered, but still I started towards him. I had to swallow my fear, I had to help him. A few tentative steps in Rob’s direction were all I needed to stop me dead, stop me cold. I was now near enough to see why Rob could not rise. The ground, the sediment, the debris that had fallen from the canopy above was coming to life. It had seized Rob at ankle and wrist and was pulling him down, back to the earth, to the soil where the young verdant shoots were growing rapidly to clutch and still his struggle. In less than a minute he was gone, consumed by a forest whose hunger was insatiable.

I turned and ran again. My heart pounded furiously in my chest, threatening to explode. I ran, I knew, for no purpose. There was no escape. The forest surrounded me, hovering, looming, waiting now, I imagined, for its final course. I was to be dessert. I laughed, I hooted, I hollered, but still I ran. I ran even knowing there was no hope.

And then, suddenly, there was. Ahead of me I could see an opening through the trees; a burst of sunlight that framed an arch to freedom. I was at the edge of the forest. If I could reach it, I would find the swamp; the wonderful, splendid swamp with its glorious mud and its biting bugs.

It was as if…no, it WAS… that the forest read my mind. Its efforts to catch me and hold me intensified. I was still running but the creepers at my ankles were growing stronger and it was harder and harder to break their grip. I was so near to the edge, so close to escape that I found a final expenditure of strength and tore across the living forest floor. I would make it, I would be free!

And then I was down. A step, no more than two from the swamp. I was going to dive, I was going to leap, I was going to hurl myself gleefully into the muck, but it was too late. I was down; too entangled to rise. I tried to crawl. I dug my fingers into the soil and levered myself forward, an inch, maybe two. It was no use, my hands were quickly encircled. I pushed with my knees, my elbows, the toes of my boots. Fear again giving me strength where I thought none existed. I gained not another inch. I knew then it was over. I was over. I lay there waiting to die. Waiting to be eaten by this monstrous, evil, sentient forest. Thin, reed-like creepers slid up my nose and found the orifices of my ears and throat. I choked and fought for air. Heavier, snake-like vines were climbing my legs and arms through my cuffs and sleeves. They were clinging tightly and they were sucking at my flesh. I cried out one last time and then my will to live trickled from body like blood from an open wound. My world went mercifully away.

*

What happened after that I only know from others. A daze, perhaps my mind’s attempt to save me from complete madness, clouded my mind, relieving me of memory until now, at the moment of this writing.

Jango had followed us to the forest. When I appeared at its edge, he had chopped me free with his machete and pulled me into the swamp. I had lain there for a day, he told me, before I was able to move. When I was conscious and ambulatory, he had led me back to the Mud People where I stayed for several weeks recovering from wounds I could not recall receiving. That the Mud People slept under water seemed a new revelation to me. I made my way, eventually, with Jango’s help, to his village, then La Paz, then home, where you find me now.

If this account sounds one of madness to you, in honesty, I can only further your assumption. For I must tell you, I sense the story is not at an end. There is unfinished business. I know it. I can feel it.

*


Outside Jack Boldin’s house, his lawn was growing curiously long, curiously fast.

A Night Out

In case you didn't know: The best way to tell who loves you more, your dog or your wife, is to lock them both in the trunk of your car for a couple of hours. Then when you let them out, you find out which one is happiest to see you.

We went to an "event" at the Oasis Restaurant last night as part of our Wedding Anniversary celebration. (The other parts, for me, were eating popcorn and watching the Ladies U.S. Open Golf Tournament on TV and, for Woowoo Charly, the same only with the addition of reading about Johnny Depp in Vanity Fair during the commercials. I mean, Come On! We know how to Get Down!) The event was a dinner that included an appetizer, a main course and a dessert for fifteen bucks a head. Friends of ours, Gordon and Richelle, would be playing and singing during the meal. Alrighty then. We were a party of seven booked at seven. We arrived a little after six and found the place packed and over-booked. A large tent had been erected and tables set up under it to handle the overflow. Did I mention it was raining? Hard. I don't know how many people were there, but there were at least double the restaurant's usual capacity. Because of the rain, Gordon and Richelle, who were originally set up to play under a smaller tent amidst the tables, were driven inside for fear of electrocution; microphones and electric guitar being the danger there. No one outside the bar could hear them. We were eventually seated at a round table for nine that had three people already seated, meal underway. We were one seat short so we all scooched in. Four of us, after quite a long wait, were served our main courses. There were two menu plans and those of us who had selected the pork croquettes got lucky. The salmon choosers had to wait. Although we had not received our appetizers and bread rolls, we were hungry and dove right in, appetizers to come later. One salmon plate did show up followed by the appetizers. The two remaining salmon plates were brought to the table at about the time the six of us who had eaten were getting anxious about dessert. The fact that we were seven with six place settings also was problematical, but we had all gone to kindergarten and knew how to share. Friend B, who sat to my right, was notable for the neat bob and weave she was able to perform around a drip from the leaky tent. Gordon and Richelle came out and played acoustically at each table under the tent. For we anniversarians they sang a bit of Sade that was quite good. The night was not really a disaster - the food and conversation were good - just somewhat comical. RTGFKAR, Woowoo Chuck, friend R and I returned to our place immediately following the festivities for wine, cigars, more talk and rain watching. It was a happy 33rd.

Alien Insight

A bright yellow, full moon assaulted my sleepy senses as I let the dogs out this morning. It was low in the sky, hovering just to the left of Volcan Baru. (I WOULD wax poetic if I COULD wax poetic, but we all know I CAN'T...wax poetic. This bit of universal knowledge, however, never gives me a moment's pause.)

And speaking of universal knowledge, we all know that full moons have an effect on tides, animals, policemen and their prey, my wife, poets, romantics and alien abductees. I think I might be one of the latter.

Every night, sometime after I have gone to bed and before I arise in the morning, there are blocks of time I can't account for. When I total up the time I spend going to sleep and add it to the time I spend dreaming, I frequently come up with hours that are completely missing. I mean they are gone! Totally! No recollection of them whatsoever! This and other clues say to me that aliens have drugged me or used mysterious hypnotic powers, taken me to their ship and conducted weird experiments upon my person. That, until now, I couldn't remember a thing about the abductions is clearly evidence that the aliens exist and are able to erase my memory. I say "until now" because lately I've become aware of clues that were right before me the whole time. Consider: For many years when I arose in the morning I would stretch and shake out a little, then drop down and do forty push-ups. I tried that yesterday and couldn't do five. Consider: For most of my entire adult life I weighed between 145 and 150 pounds. I woke up this morning and weighed 160. Consider: Every day my once brown hair grows increasingly grayer. Some parts are now actually white! Someone(something?) is messing with my internal dye. Consider: There are brown spots on my hands bigger than freckles. Where did they come from? Consider: I used to be five foot ten inches tall. Now I am five nine. Consider: My stomach has grown subtly and weirdly rounder! Has something been implanted? Consider: (and here is certain evidence)Sarah Palin.

I could go on with this litany of freakish change and freaky people - eyesight, hearing impairment, Rush Limbaugh, etc. - but it should be clear to you now, as it is to me, that I and others like me are the victims of alien interference and something must be done about it. If you or someone near you is experiencing similar symptoms, write me care of this blog. We must unite and put a stop to this madness before it is too late and the aliens have infected us all!

Return to the Abominable Doctor......

When I walk into his office, the Abominable Doctor Panagas is juggling scalpels. "Alo Meester Dough-Nahld Wall-tone" he says while making a behind the back catch. "Go een-to my lair, I mean my ex-ham-ee-nah-shone rum and seat on dee tah-bull." I do as instructed. He is armed after all. "Ah, dees one has to go" he says while poking at a spot above my left eye. "Lye beck and get come-for-ah-tah-bull."

Getting comfortable on an examination table is not really within the range of human possibility; especially when an MD of the slice and dice variety is hovering above you with a maniacal gleam in his eye. That's right, eye. Just the one. The other is pondering something distant, calculating perhaps, the sum to be billed. Nevertheless, I give it my best shot.

I always hate the next part because the first thing Panagas does is to cover my eyes with some kind of cloth. This is, I think, his way of ruling out my jumping up and saying "No way Jack, we're not doing that!" He then pulls a bright lamp over and I can tell that, because the cloth lights up and I have to shut my eyes. Chuckling quietly to himself, he proceeds. First there is the needle. He jabs that in three or four places around the offending area ostensibly to kill future pain. Current pain, that is the pain caused BY the needle itself, seems to be irrelevant. Well, to him anyway. After that comes the slicing and scraping and stitching, some of which does hurt, but when I scrunch up and make a through the teeth hissing sound, the doctor only pauses long enough to say "Duele?" (pain?)and I idiotically man-up and respond "solo un poco" which I think means only a little, but I know gets interpreted as "carry on I can handle it."

Fifteen or twenty minutes later I get to sit up on the side of the examination table and feel a big fat bandage. Yup, there's something new under there, but I won't get to see it for a couple of days. El Doak-tore then writes a number on a sheet from a sticky pad, tells me to come back in a week and I say gracias and leave to pay his Waiting Room Secretary Girl. When I glance at her and her big smile, I feel better. When I glance at the number on the sticky pad sheet I feel worse. (There is no shot to relieve this pain.) As I pull the twenties one after the other from my clip, I have to wonder... Why am I the one saying thank-you?

Badminton Anyone?

Pronounced bat-mean-tone here in Paradise-with-rain, Badminton is a sport, recreation, exercise and darn good way to induce pain into assorted body parts if you are above the age of sixty and, let's face it, who isn't?

To play Badminton one must first prepare the court. In our case here at Casa Dragonview, this required a strenuous mowing of the grass/weeds we call our lower lawn with the mower blade set at its highest level. Following the Rigorous Wrestling this entails, the lawn then had to be... Rigorously Raked. Rigor, it seems, is an essential part of Badminton. It is here that the assorted Body Part Pain mentioned earlier first comes in to play. Post raking, a second mowing with the mower blade set at its lowest level was then Rigorously undertaken with the grass/weeds being decreased and the BPP (Body Part Pain) successfully achieving a substantial increase. Because our ha-ha lawn had been a field of coffee trees prior to its latest incarnation, there remained as a reminder of its former self many deep holes. These had been created by the Rigorous Removal of the coffee tree stumps sometime earlier. These holes had to be filled to prevent broken ankles during play (Ankle breakage being a hindrance that can cause the game of the injured player to be seriously impaired.) A new hole apart from the court had to be dug in order to obtain the dirt with which to fill the on court depressions. It is here that the BPP comes fully to the Ferocious Fore, but not to worry. Being the Backyard Class competitor that I am, I fought through the pain and filled the holes.

Now it was time to play. RTGFKAR, who had been Rigorously doing something else while all this was going on, took the court and glared across the net at me with his most intense game-face which looks something akin to Santa's after having squirmed down a tight chimney only to find no cookies awaiting. I glared back from my side of the court and served the shuttlecock. For those of you who are new to Badminton, I must point out that a shuttlecock is not a gigolo who works the flights between New York and D.C, but rather a small feathered object that serves as a sort of ball/bird to be struck with racquets. My service was netted and the, uh, cock, fell to the ground. The presence of our little blond cocker spaniel, Raffie, was then duly noted as he streaked in to snatch up the grounded shuttlecock. A comedic chase worthy of the Silents, then ensued with cries of "Bad dog, bad dog" hastening the mutts disappearance into the surrounding foliage, my own tragically slow self in hot, but futile pursuit. A new strategy of "Good dog, good dog, bring it to me" was then employed and was nearly successful. At the very moment that Raffie emerged from the jungle intent on returning the shuttlecock and receiving his due praise and treats, our second Cocker, Mattie, streaked from the bushes in a blur of black and snatched an exposed part of the psuedo-bird-ball; an action that instantly produced a, you guessed it...Rigorous, game of tug-o-war. Bye bye birdie.

A second shuttlecock was put into play after stern warnings to all canines near and far were advanced and its message made clear. Find your own damn birds. (A message, alas, that they may have taken to heart as both dogs have, in the last couple of days, presented us with the gifts of small dead chickens that we presume they have killed. This is very worrisome.) RTGFKAR and I played for a half hour to confirm that BPP can be greatly enhanced when stumbling, bumbling, lunging, lurching and whiffing repeatedly are the order of the day. Had critics been in attendance, the words "pitiful performance" would surely have been used.

A hard rain has since flattened our net and made the court unplayable. That, however, was yesterday. Today the sun is shining, ah, Rogorously, and my BPP is at a tolerable level. This leaves me with but one last thing to say. Let the games begin. Or is it gentlemen start your shuttlecocks?

Flea Bitten

I was inspired by circumstance yesterday to bathe our two Cockers. The circumstance that led to my inspiration was waking up with twenty some odd flea bites scattered at random about my bod. For those of you who have not experienced flea bites, allow me to cast a bit of light on the subject. They itch. They really itch. They itch like effing crazy! Why, with three dogs and a woman sharing the same room, the fleas would select me as dinner is a question begging an answer, well, by me anyway. Surely it is more than "I'm just a tasty fellow."

I should point out that all three mutts were treated with medication advertised to prevent fleas, ticks and extra-terrestrials from invading their bodies for a minimum of thirty days. The treatments were given three weeks ago... can I get my money back. Finnegan, the Golden, still appears flea bite-less, but the two Cockers and I, as I've noted, not so much.

I first stripped down to my bite spotted nakedness and then donned my swimsuit. I snagged the nearest mutt, Mattie, hauled her into the shower and placed her on the ledge we have installed there for sitting, but is most often used as a shelf. If you are wondering why the swimsuit, consider the relative height of the ledge and its proximity to my genital hang while standing, and you will surmise that I was wise to minimize the temptation for a slippery, wet, sudsed-up, wanting to escape, sharp toothed mutt to cast about for something to latch onto. We will perish that thought. While holding her collar by one hand, I diligently applied the flea and tick removal shampoo for ten minutes as per the instructions. Neither the dog nor I enjoyed the interval and I wondered why fleas take so long to die. After a good rinse, I loosed the grateful pup into the bathroom at large where I had covered the floor with old towels. These were, of course, completely ignored. Shaking was the drying technique of Mattie's choice even as I chased her around the room snatching at towels and trying to rub her down. It wasn't long before I arrived at a convenient "that's good enough" mind set and opened the bathroom door. I then watched as the still somewhat dripping mutt leaped onto the bed and began to further dry herself on the spread and pillows in the precise manner that I had visualized her using the towels for. No matter, I thought. Those babies were all headed for the washer/dryer soon as the dogs were done.

I then repeated this entire sloppy process with Raffi in exact, minute detail. Deja vu all over again as Yogi would say.

Following the fun and frolic of the dog's bath, I turned the game over to Charly who spent a large chunk of day washing everything cloth ever touched by dog or man. I am now happy to report that neither mutt shows signs of further itching. Wish I could say the same for my own-self. Fortunately, (if their is a fortunately, that is, a happy ending to this story) my itching is from old bites, not new ones, and I do have an answer for that.

Somebody hand me the Grubers.

Procrastination Meets The Deeps

I'm suffering from procrastination. Okay, it's not really suffering like being down with the flu or putting up with pain, it's more of an annoying mental nag that I can't make go away; sort of like an itch I can't reach to scratch. I try to put it out of my mind, but it keeps sneaking relentlessly back. What causes procrastination anyway? Fear and/or laziness come to mind, but I don't think either is the case this time. I think...I think...(and right there is the usual source of trouble) that it may be a mild depression or "the deeps" as I like to call the particular condition that causes life to feel flat and featureless. Son #2 has returned to Maryland after a great visit and whenever any of my kid units depart there is a void that loiters about the premises like a fog that I am unable to dissipate with just my usual routine. Hence, I suppose, my putting off the usual routine. I could definitely do with some pot, red licorice and blues music (always my formula for a cheer-up) but, red licorice is really hard to find here in Panama.

Not to worry though. I wear depression about as long as I'd wear plaid. NFL.

And speaking of the En-ef-eh-el-eh as it is pronounced here, and this time I mean the National Football League and not "Not For Long", is it football season yet? And if not, why not? It must be time. It seems like ages since my beloved Denver Broncos embarrassed themselves on worldwide television and it surely must be time for a repeat performance. The good old Blue and Orange rarely let me down in that regard and, at least, then and that way, I can be certain why I'm depressed. Go Broncos.

My Addiction Affliction

First I go to "Sign in", then I go to "New post" and then I go to "Coma" where I find myself in "the middle distance" engaging in "the thousand mile stare". What makes me think, I think, (when emerging from the coma) that I have anything to say when in fact I know I don't. This writing, bug? infection? addiction? would seem an easy thing (Jones?) to slough off, but I find that is not the case. Just the other day I called a member of my writeaholic support group and said:

"I'm feeling the urge to write."
"What about?" he asked.
"I have no idea" I answered.
"Then why do you want to write?" he countered.
"Because...because..." Well, I had no answer for that.
"I'll be right there" he said. "You're in big trouble."

By the time he got here it was too late. I had already started a blog and was outlining some new song lyrics. Because I had not gotten far with either project, he thought there might still be hope, so he shot me full of words-be-gone and, as the drug began to take effect, he eased me away from the keyboard. "There, there" he said, "look, here's a television! And books! And look over there. My goodness, there's other people!

It worked for awhile. I've gone as long as three days without reaching for a pen, pencil or pad. I'm not sure how long it would take for a complete recovery but I am sure I have never come close. I am clearly too much of a wimp to withstand the withdrawal. The brain spasms, the itchy fingertips, the longing for the feel of paper or the sound of a clicking keyboard are more than I can bear. Even being charged with word abuse and sentenced to oral-expressions-only didn't help. It just made me a scofflaw and a fugitive from blue pencil justice.

And so, having fallen off the wagon, here I am again, writing away with nothing to say; a hopeless purveyor of "shit-lit" looking for a kind word, a good word, the right word or, as is usually the case, any word.

Bollocks. That's a good word. Now where can I use that?

Country Club Golf

Here is my take on the golf course at Cielo Paraiso, a private country club, (Heavenly Paradise would be one translation) that we got to play a couple of times with the promise that I would write about it. If they use this for promotional purposes, - which is the plan - we hope to play there again. (If you are not a golfer this may put you to sleep.)


Cielo Paraiso
Beauty and Challenge Defined
By Doc Walton

There is a hint of something mystical about Cielo Paraiso’s golf course. Tucked in mountain and valley a short drive from downtown Boquete, it is as if the rolling fairways that meander from every tee to sculpted green were not carved from the landscape, but rather, had been there all along. Leprechauns and fairies, or Panama’s version of same, have surely been playing this wilderness track eons before mankind began recording his birdies and bogeys. Here there is a seamless flow to the course design that suggests nature should be awarded the same kudos as course architect J.Michael Poellot.

Walk with me now, golfers, and imagine playing this manicured nine.

We exit the clubhouse and wend pleasantly along a wide concrete drive enjoying the look of long vistas and elegant home sites until we arrive at the first set of tee boxes. There are four of these, ranging in length from 361 to 442 yards, allowing us to select a distance to match our skill level. Standing on the tee and looking around we can see for the first time why Cielo Paraiso’s developers, The Warner Group, are so proud of their creation. The course lies within the density of Panamanian flora and appears at once breathtaking and daunting. The “breathtaking” is the mountainous wonder of Chiriqui Province. The “daunting” is Hole Number 1. Here there is a fairway that wanders irregularly down from the tee and then rises gradually to the green. At roughly a well-hit-driver distance there grows, on the fairway, a tree to menace shots pulled left. Play too far right, though, and there are bunkers to gather your wayward ball. Should you avoid these calamities with a straight strike, a second shot to a large green will seem welcoming and do-able. Beware, additionally, of sand traps hard left and close right as well as pin placements that often require wide breaking putts.

From there we will take a short, woodsy trip to Hole Number 2. This Par 4 offers no let-up in beauty and no respite from challenge. The tees here range from 375 to 465 yards, and all are elevated. An accurate first shot to an undulating slice of green is demanded as the right side of the fairway falls steeply off, and there are bunkers lining the left to collect errant drives in that direction. Having hit down to the fairway from the elevated tee, golfers will now work their way gradually uphill to a green which is, of course, protected by sand traps and surrounded by nature. It is suggested that you avoid the first and take a moment to enjoy the second. Doing so will make the quick trip to the next hole a more pleasant experience.

When we leave the green at Number 2, our cart – did I mention we were riding an almost noiseless electric cart – will follow a winding path uphill a bit and then quite suddenly deliver the dramatic sight of Hole Number 3. What fun this is! There is a tee box here etched into the hillside overlooking a green far below. A Par 3, this hole plays from 152 to 179 yards, but it will seem longer as you watch your ball arc gracefully (we hope) down to the deceptively smooth looking green surface. There are woods beyond and to the left, sand traps both left and right, and nasty looking rough all about. Best to select the proper club for this shot, and by all or any means swing it well. Before you do, though, as you stand on the tee, look to your right. You can see forever.

It is a long drive to the tee at Number 4, which gives us time to savor our success at Number 3 or to rebound from our failure. Whatever the golfing case may be, this is the moment to push aside thoughts of pars and bogeys and concentrate fully on your surroundings. We are deep into the course now, away from human hubbub and distraction. There is the sound of a river running somewhere beyond the trees, and birds are chirping and chattering happily in abundance. There is natural beauty in every direction and a long blue sky above. Take a minute, take two or three in fact, to appreciate where you are. Then, if you are a serious golfer and aren’t we all, re-direct your focus, pull the head cover from your Big Dog, and stride to the tee. Hole Number 4 is a dogleg left that can play to 501 yards, and most of it is up there around the corner.
Making it to the dogleg with your drive is critical. Once there, the hole is a straightaway target, albeit a faraway straightaway target. There is tangled and difficult rough bordering the fairway edges. While leprechauns and fairies play here out of sight of man, gremlins await his arrival. How else to explain that terrible shot? The green, like all those here at Cielo Paraiso, is large and well tended. But don’t be fooled. There are subtle breaks lurking in the short grass. Read them carefully before rolling your ball to the hole. You may be surprised where it ends up.

Hole Number 5 is a Par 4 dogleg right spanning 413 yards from its furthest tee. There are mountains in the foreground as we stand on the tee box and an excellent view of Cielo Paraiso’s first homes rising from the hillside to our far left. The real wonder of this hole begins when we navigate the dogleg and the green comes into view. As you near, it will appear suspended and unending like an infinity pool. It floats there seemingly at the edge of the world. When at last you arrive at the green, the feeling changes little for you find yourself agape at mountainous horizons in all directions. Make your putts and spend a moment more on this fantasy green in the sky. You are in a truly unique place.

After Number 5, the sixth hole seems almost ordinary. Yet, if we take a moment to consider, there is a uniqueness to each hole at Cielo Paraiso that is seldom achieved on so many other courses, where you are likely to say, “Well now, doesn’t this look familiar?” The sixth hole here gives us another elevated tee (surely the most fun kind) from where you can see to the green some 310 to 435 yards distant, neatly nestled in front of a stand of tall trees. Beyond and above the trees, a direct view of Cielo Paraiso’s homes is afforded. A critical eye suggests their placement above the course is a natural occurrence. The incline from tee to fairway is gradual, and a wider landing area awaits a good drive. There is a sense of openness here, perhaps because of the broader fairway dimension, but do not be taken in and spray your shot left. A center or right-of-center shot will make the Sixth play easier as the fairway narrows to that side nearing the hole. The green is strategically guarded by bunkers, rough, and foliage. Whether gremlin, goblin, and ball thieving troll also reside there is a matter for conjecture, but I wouldn’t bet against it.

And then we are on to Number 7, the shortest hole on the course, a mere 150 yards from its furthest tee. You can see it there through the opening between those trees. It looks inviting if you ignore the many bunkers surrounding it, the tangled forest left and beyond, and you certainly don’t want to find yourself to the right where patches of gnarly rough could make a decent recovery shot unlikely. Just ignore what sounds like an avian chorus at the tee chirping “I dare you, I dare you” from the overhanging trees and hit your shot straight and true to the putting surface. Do that and I promise you will be lying no more than two more strokes from the hole. Whoops, didn’t read that break? Faster than you thought? Okay, make that promise three strokes.

When we stand on the tee at Number 8, I think you will agree that here is a hole that presents challenges to both the courageous and the cautious. There is a lake to the left where water witches surely dwell and thick woods close on the right. Shots sliced or hooked are more than strokes lost; they are balls lost as well. Not far to the fore there is a creek positioned by nature to drown topped shots, and there is a further rill intersecting the fairway at long drive distance. (Yardage to this creek would be useful here). The courageous may want to put his drive beyond the two hundred yard marker to shorten his next shot to this Par 4, 403 yard hole, but he best remember the fairway slopes to the water. Too far is “too bad.” The cautious will consider a safer lay-up, but that strategy entails its own risks. The shot must be positioned well left to bring the hole into view, and, of course, his next shot will be long and difficult. The sand traps short and left of
the green are easier targets to find from there than is the green itself. Long hitters of the golf ball may want to “tee it high and let it fly” in hopes of clearing all obstacles. For those bold lads I should mention that the fairway beyond the intersecting creek offers a much narrower landing area. If still they persist, I can only add, “Hit away Big Fella. This will be fun to watch!”

We turn now onto the tees at the Ninth hole, which loops back and puts the lake between the eighth and ninth fairways. This is a long Par 4, originally intended to be a 5 but shortened due to erosion problems at the hole’s termination. Either that or our mythical friends, fairies and gremlins and such, couldn’t reach the green in three, so they arranged to have the course altered to suit them. No matter. It plays from 357 yards at its shortest to 427 from the championship tee and you will find challenges aplenty from whichever of the four tees you choose. Be sure to take in the wide vistas available here as you work your way to the green, avoiding bunkers and rough. There is more than enough to tempt the eye and stir one’s imagination. When at last your approach shot lands softly on the green, card an automatic two putt and call it a round. The green here is the newest and is perhaps a season away from joining the others as pro play worthy.

If now, at the end of these spectacular and challenging nine holes, we are finished for the day, we will wend our way (regretfully) back to the clubhouse. If, however, another round is in the offing, I suggest a cold beverage, a short rest, and a bee-line back to the tee at Number 1. Bring on this course with its beauty and challenges both real and mystical. If you’re ready, I’m ready, and right now is not soon enough!


Copyright Doc Walton June 2009

I Never know Where The Blog Will Go

I feel like writing something lyrical and soaring. An up-lifting poem perhaps, or an inspirational song. At the very least a bit of prose uniquely crafted that is so spot on a reader will return to the page for a second perusing and even a third.

Wish I knew how to do that.

Actually that song writing thing may not exceed my grasp. I'm always coming up with new lyrics to old tunes. Okay, they are usually funny or failing that, obscene, but you could, if you were being generous, apply the word clever to them.(Fairy tales can come true, they can happen to you...if you're gay at heart!) So that's it then, I'll write a song.

What's that you say? Melody? Hmmm. Which comes first, words or melody? Probably melody I'm thinking, so go ahead and hum me something.

Got it. Now let's see.

I love you, I love you, I love you, Babeeee.

Yeah I know, been done to death. Let's try something else.

Dancing on the patio, the sky was bright with moon.
Music from the radio (hey, come on, some people pronounce it that way)) harmony by loon.
I smelled her hair and I was lost, we spun around and dipped.
I kissed her cheek a time or two, while words we carefully (sung "careflee") lipped.
We knew this song that wrapped us round and held us in its grip
She palmed my left but with my right her zipper I unzipped.

Chorus: Oh you sneaky guy, you sneaky guy, I should have known your plan. But I don't care, I'm nearly bare, you're gonna be my man.

I made a twist and then a move, my actions grew much bolder.
As I kissed her on the lips, her dress I slipped from shoulder.
I freed her then to back a bit and watch it fall to floor.
She didn't seem to mind at all, I knew this called for more.

Repeat chorus

I swooped back in and picked her up, our lips were back to locking.
I put her down upon the grass and wrestled with her stockings
The mood was right, we felt the urge, I fumbled with my pants.
Who would have thought, with all so right,
that we would find the ants.

Repeat chorus.

Hey don't blame me. It's your melody.

Gruber's Jungle Oil

Yesterday I purchased a bottle of Gruber's Jungle Oil, a jar of Gruber's Pomade and a jar of Gruber's Herbal Cream, all of which are "quite the rage" among gringos in our part of the world. The first is made from "Panama's finest medicinal plants and soybean oil. It rapidly neutralizes poisons and allergic reactions to sand flies, chiggers, mosquitoes, tics, wasps, bees, spiders and scorpions." I put these claims to the test last night by wrestling a mosquito to the ground and forcing it to sting me. I don't know what the definition of "rapidly" is in the phrase "rapidly neutralizes", but the itching caused by the sting did subside quicker than usual. The label on the bottle states that the ingredients also repel these creatures and I can verify that so far, apart from that odd mosquito - just by having the stuff in the house - none of the other little beasties have bothered me. Mr. Gruber, the label further says, is an FSU science graduate who once used the Jungle oil to heal a mole (the kind you get on your skin and not the kind from the book and movie "Wind in the Willows" who, we presume, are healthy and need no curatives.) Mr. Gruber's troublesome mole is described as having changed color and was bleeding before being eradicated by the oil. Alrighty then. Bloody moles, yuck. Additional uses for the Jungle Oil are "prevention and treatment of jungle rot, fungal and bacterial infections, acne, cuts, bruises and the cure of gangrenous skin ulcers."
It also can be used as "a massage oil to alleviate tense muscles, lupus and arthritis pain, varicose veins and inflammations." The Herbal Cream is used to "remove age spots, wrinkles, vanish acne and often heals some skin cancers." The Pomade is for athlete's feet and other problems like "Toenail Fungal Infections." The products were not sold from the back of a horse drawn wagon or even from the trunk of someone's car as you might suspect, but through a friend of mine who uses the profits to buy and make wheel chairs and crutches and such for the area's poor kids.

As you can see we are now prepared for all the tropics worst assortment of issues other than corrupt police, rapid Spanish speakers, slow restaurant service, rain and
frequent power outages.

I am not going to scoff and make fun of the aforesaid products that I was compelled to purchase by my wife and far be it from me to point out the the nature of the gringos in town has been changing since these products have been introduced to the area. I am not a conspiracy theorist and don't mean to suggest that the sudden rise in the incidents of gringos wandering unblinking and aimlessly about our fair town has anything to do with the use of these fine products. Drooling gringos muttering "Gruber Gruber" may have other causes for their zombie-like states. I merely mention this as one of the perplexing "coincidences" that have been occurring since words like pomade, herbal and oil began being used together.

I have to leave you fair readers now because even though I don't see any pesties around, I feel the need to put on some protection. I also, and this is oddly amusing, have the urge to chant. Exactly what I don' know, but for the moment, "Gruber Gruber" seems to work.

Free the Pukka

I'm writing like the Dickens, not Charles, Eddie Dickens down the block. He writes a lot. Charles writes like this: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Eddie and I write: "So, whads news wid youze." We like to call it sylin' but mostly we are just lame writers. Nevertheless, we do have fun at the old keyboard, especially Eddie who is either a pukka or a figment of my imagination. I'm going with pukka because it is more fun to say and because figment, which is usually pronounced fig mint, might be some kind of Arabian after dinner treat and a horrible one at that. I wonder though, how many imagination figments we have. I once counted up to nine, but then my pukka distracted me and we went off to romp in a meadow and I forgot the whole thing. By the way, romp is not only a fun word to say, romp romp romp, it is also a fun activity. I plan to romp at some point later this day and I hope you all do too.

Given the circumstances surrounding the arrest of Eddie Dickens, one would be remiss to accept the official version tendered by the authorities. There remain even unto this day so many unanswered questions that prosecution of the apprehended seems less than likely. There were no witnesses to verify the trumped up crime of Monkeymind abuse and the subsequent additional charge of resisting arrest and development of said Monkeymind has only now been brought to light and seems but a ploy the District Attorney is attempting to assure that something, anything, will bring a satisfactory conviction and conclusion to this case.

To all this I say, balderdash and poppycock, the latter of course being something achieved when smoking opium. Rise up in protest is my cry. The pukka must be saved else monkeyminds everywhere will be stilled and all that will remain for the common man and his close but not that close pal the uncommon man, are the carefully chosen and doled out by English teachers words of import like, you know, those of that other Dickens guy. Perish, I say, perish the thought. Or for that matter, any thought. Who needs thought? It's a hindrance I tell you. A hindrance. So rise up I say again and free the pukka! Free the pukka! Free the pukka!

Alrighty then. Now yer down wid it.

The Week in Review, Sort Of

How in the world, how the heck, how in the Dickens, how in the name of God, how for crying-out-loud, - there are so many ways to say something it is difficult to choose - did it get to be Saturday already. This week has sped by so fast it has to have been on steroids.

(A congressional committee has been formed to investigate charges that the week of May 10th through the 16th was injected with human growth hormones, DHEA, which I believe means "dramatically heroic energy additives" and whatever the stuff is that makes Jamaicans run so fast. Alex Rodriguez and Barry Bonds have agreed to testify that they saw the week popping pills on a daily basis in exchange for leniency in their own cases. Manny Ramirez, on the other hand, was overheard asking where he could get some.)

The week saw a trip to Lovely and Talented Daveed for medicinal porpoises, but none were available so I went to the doctor's instead, the arrival back in Boquete of friends from Colorado and Texas, a vet visit to get the Cocker's rabies inoculations, a Friday lunch at a place called The Big Food Grill that was okay although the food was regular size, two new writing assignments, and, you know, other stuff of incredible importance that I fail to recall at this moment and likely others as well. Zoom.

My favorite news item of the week was about scientists at the Univ. of Texas who were using a South American fly to turn fire ants into zombies. The flies drop eggs on the ant colonies that cause maggots to grow in the ant's brain. The maggots eat the brain and that causes the ants to wander zombie-like from their colonies until their heads fall off. Surely, I thought, a useful science like this one could be extrapolated to include neo-cons, annoying celebrities from the sport and entertainment worlds, Osama Bin Laden and other evil doers like whoever is running the Yankees these days. Of course some of these people are essentially brainless to begin with so they may be immune.

My second favorite was a Yahoo news bit listing the countries that have the happiest populaces. Most were Scandinavian although Canada also made the top ten. Oddly, they were also all amongst the most heavily taxed countries in the world. Go figure.

I have to go now, there is something buzzing overhead.

The "I've got to keep up the blog" blog

Alrighty then. A rainy Tuesday, wet dog scent permeates the air. One of my favorites. No golf in the offing or oning which, linked like that, sound more like sex than golf. What shall I write about today? (Do rhetorical questions require a question mark and why don't I know the answer? This is clearly a failure of our public school system that Obama needs to address. Or is it redress? You see, my lack of education knows no bounds and it is not my fault I tell ya. If I grew up in Sweden I would know this stuff and other stuff absent from my mental resume like why are there so many blonds there?)

There is always sports. (I won't linger long here, I promise.) "No NBA team up 3 games to none has ever lost a playoff series." That's what the announcers keep reminding me. Obviously a Denver team has never held a 3 to 0 lead before. Denver teams are famous for negative stats. Worst loss in a Superbowl, worse loss on Monday Night Football, never making it to an NBA final, losing four straight in their only World Series, all come to mind. The Nuggets 3 to 0 lead over the Dallas John McCains, I mean Mavericks, is clearly a set up so that Denver can hold the dubious record of being the first NBA team to blow a three game lead also. Remember, you heard it here first.

Does anyone know how to find the song from the movie "Tin Cup" called Double Bogie Blues?" (At least I think that's the title. It's the featured lyric.) I exhausted my search the net ability when Itunes couldn't find it and Google failed me. I don't know who sang the song and that makes it hard to find and also I'm not very bright and that makes it even harder. I would like to have it for my Ipod and also to learn to play the song on my guitar and sing the lyrics while traveling around the world giving free concerts to deserving nations like Somalia and Mozambique. You never hear about concerts getting played there.

Some of you have expressed concern over of our lack of a nearby outdoors due to the dogs having brought it all indoors. Well not to worry. The same dogs have brought distant outdoors onto our property in the form of discarded plastic bottles and containers, chunks of charcoal, blackened and rotted banana bunches, bits of paper and cloth, a jaw bone of an unknown animal and, of course, the usual pools of vomited up mice and insects. They present these things to us as gifts and enjoy chewing and slurping them directly under our feet as we sit on the patio admiring the far off view. Ah yes, our pups are definitely thoughtful and adorable.

Okay, I have now written a blog where none existed before even though as I am wont to say, I got nothing. Why I am wont to say it remains a mystery.

Whole Lotta Shakin Goin On

Big fat earthquake a 3:30 A.M. Lasted, I dunno, five, six, seven seconds. Two out of three puppies bezerko. Nary a yip from Finnegan the Fearless though. 'Course he's only five months old. Probably thinks the floor is supposed to ripple. At first I thought it was Mattie, our black Cocker who's invisible in the dark, jumping on or off the bed that woke me, but as the tremor continued and the fog of sleep dissipated in a portion of a second too short to measure, I knew we were having a whoop-de-do of a shake-rattle-and-roll. I worried then that the ceiling would fall because when you are experiencing an earthquake it's pretty much kosher to worry about something. Even though I've seen those movies where the earth opens up and swallows dinosaurs, I figured I'd start with a small worry like getting a plaster shower. When it ended, the quake and the worrying, Woowoo Charly and I had our usual post temblor conversation. Goes something like this: "Alrighty then! That was a good one!" Either one or both of us would say either one or both of those things. After that, we calm the dogs and go back to sleep. I never thought I would see the day when I took an earthquake for granted but, you know, there you have it.

In other Boquete news, Mayo is mosca month. That's fly month for you English only speakers. You can stand in the average kitchen here and swat the pests all day. As you mash them other flies swoop in to feast on their fallen comrades. That's what I call a nasty cycle.

And I did, speaking of nasty cycles and for those of you wondering, return to the Abominable Doctor Panagas for my skin cancer surgical procedure which is the approved medical jargon for slice and dice. The evil Dr. P had me lay down on his examining table under a brighter than the sun close up lamp and then turn my head and cough. Just kidding there was no cough. He then put a towel over my head that had a hole in it just large enough to expose my ear. There were needles after that that didn't really hurt enough to matter, but still caused me to flinch a bit. After one flinch the doctor said to me, "duele?" which means pain and I missed my cue to say, "No gracias, tengo basta", (No thanks, I have enough). The auditioning for the lead role in a slasher flick doc then went to work. Took him forty minutes to do the job. He first cut away some of the hair above my ear. No charge, he told me later, for the styling. He then did whatever was necessary to remove the offending growth, none of which I can speak to apart from saying that I could hear and feel odd scrapings and clippings, the buzz of a weed whacker and the beep beep beep of a bucket loader as it backed up to its target. You can't really see your own ear without a mirror and the doc wasn't providing any of those for fear I would notice he wasn't in its reflections. I got to see the chunk of raisin sized tissue (the size of all unwanted growths must be compared to fruit; it's a law) that had been incised when all was said and done - mostly done as Dr. P is not real chatty - before it was sent to some other mad scientist's lab for further identification. It was...let me find the proper word here...icky. The Doctor then snapped his fingers and I came out of my trance but not before agreeing to return for a follow up treatment next week.

Earthquakes, flies and surgery. A bizarre trinity, eh what?

Another Rant

It Ain’t Fair, I tell Ya!


Everybody’s got one but me. A rant, I’m talkin’ about. Something to complain about in depth. Some thing that really bugs the crap outa ya. You know, bad weather, noisy neighbors, reptile dysfunction commercials, stuff like that. Well I’m telling ya right off, I ain’t got a one and that’s not fair. Oh sure I could bring up a couple of things like an achy back or a tricky knee, but c’mon! Everybody else has operations and attacks and psoriasis to write about. Lucky dogs. One guy I know says he has shingles. What the hell are shingles and how come I can’t get them? All I ever get is stuff Advil and Tylenol PM knock right out. Well of course I get like regular sick, but so does everybody else so you really can’t count that. And then there is husbands and wives. A lot of people have complaints there. You know, ugly, grouchy, farts in bed, dumb as a rock. I know one woman says her biggest complaint is her husband breathes in and out. She hates that! Me? I’m stuck with a beautiful wife who’s smart as they come and a good pal too. Cripes! What fun is that when you’re lookin’ for a rant? No fun at all I tell ya. I mean this just sucks. My car is running good, my dogs are semi-well behaved, my live in brother is a funny guy and to top it all off for crying-out-loud, I live in Boquete! Land of eternal Spring! (Okay it rains some but who can really complain about that? I mean we all like stuff green, don’t we?) So what am I left with to rant about? You tell me. The stock market? I don’t shop there. I get more value at Romeros. The government? I can’t really find one around here and I make that a good thing. War, hate, intolerance, bad attitudes and the rising cost of pretty much everything? Well sure, no doubt, you bet and like that, but truth is, I leave those to the smart people.

So there you have it, my fellow word workers, I’ve got nothing, not a damn thing, and I’m tellin’ ya right now…it just ain’t fair!

(Wait! Wait!... WAIT! There is one thing that really pisses me off, gets my goat, sticks in my craw! What’s the deal with all these people around here wearing New York Yankee caps? Don’t they know the Yankees are the team of the devil?)

Rant # 1

What follows is the first of a couple of rants I will write this month for our writer's group. Bob Applegate is the founder of the group and the guy who dreams up each month's assignment.


I Gotcher Rant Right Here Wise Guy
By Doc Whatsisname


What’s with this Appledude guy? Every month he picks a topic for we whacked out wordsmiths to write about and like lemmings we go right ahead and follow his lead. What are we thinking? I mean this guy couldn’t pick a topic if you gave him a How To book entitled How To Pick a Topic! Rants. You call rants a topic?! And last month, for crying out loud, we had to write something that started with “I live.” What kind of topic is that? Of course we live! If we didn’t we wouldn’t be writing anything at all would we? Clearly something has to be done. We have to stop this merry madman before he goes too far with his “experiment.” Next month he’s likely to have us writing SciFi or autobiographies, maybe even descriptions or dialogue. What’s that you say? He’s already done those? Well that just goes to show you what I’m talking about people. This guy is out of control. I can picture him right this minute sitting in his laboratory rubbing his evil hands together, saying heh, heh, heh, while pondering what insidious theme he will torment us with next month. I say to arms! To arms my fellow writing wretches! Let’s take this into our own hands. Let’s pick topics that suit us, for a change. We can do that, can’t we? Topics we’re certain we can write about… for sure… like…well…you know………….give me a minute.

Health and Stuff Like That

I don't follow health news on a regular basis, it's seldom uplifting. I have a theory that lacks empirical and even anecdotal evidence, but must be true because why else would I have it, that the more you read or hear about these horrible diseases the more likely you are to contract them. I mean the Common Cold isn't common for nothing. You hear about it all the time. On the other hand nobody ever catches the Uncommon Cold because it is rarely even mentioned. Dodging reports about Swine Flu though, is nearly impossible, it's everywhere. You might even say it's pandemic if you are the kind of person who likes to throw words like that about. So far my only thought about Swine Flu, apart from not wanting to contract it, is that if it is bad, then Swinehundt Flu is probably worse and Dirty Rotten Low Down Bug Eating Bottom Dweller Swine Flu is even worse than that. My second thought, which just came to me now, is Swine Flu over the cuckoo's nest, but I don't really know what that's all about. I'm taking every precaution though, and so should you. If there are precautions laying around, I say, take them. I'm also washing my hands, except for my left one where I have nice hard guitar callouses on my fingertips I don't want to soften, but that's okay I shake with my right, staying out of school, avoiding Mexican swine and also Mexican rat bastards because they are probably carrying something bad too, covering my sneezes and coughs with my recently washed right hand so that it requires another scrub, taking time off from work, enveloping myself in Saran Wrap, wearing a surgical mask, which, speaking of sneezes, can get really nasty inside, and never breathing air that comes form the north where the U.S. and Mexico, those hotbeds of viral voodoo, lie. I also take a lot of preventative medication in the form of holistic, natural chemicals in pill form that ward off ailments of all sorts including reality. At least I would if I could get some. So I figure I'm safe.

I'm not safe though, from The Abominable Doctor Panagas whose lair I visited only last week. Dressed all in white and wearing a mask of his own, the evil physician showered me in bright lights and probed about my skin with diabolical instruments once used, I'm certain, in the Spanish Inquisition. I was forced, coerced, literally needled into agreeing upon a further session in which, during the cycle of the full moon, Dr. Panagas will morph into Dr.Scalpelhands and carve away, that's right, carve, chunks of my facial skin - here's the satanically clever part - and replace them with skin from my chest. What he will then use to cover the now missing chest skin remains a mystery known only to he and members of his, I suspect, coven. To prepare for this less than sterling moment, I was sent to get a blood test, presumably to determine if my precious red bodily fluid coagulated at an acceptable speed, but, also I suspect, to find out what my blood type was so he could determine whether to serve it chilled or at room temperature. It turns out that I can coagulate with the best of them, so I will be scheduled soon for the surgery that will take place in Doctor Phibes, I mean Panagas, office where there are no witnesses. Stay tuned for further details.

Brain Cells Begone

Is there anything more mind numbing than NFL Draft Day? If ESPN really wants to turn this event into entertainment they need to include singing, dancing, scantily clad women and juggling bears....or maybe bare juggling. To make matters worse on an event less Saturday afternoon TV schedule, the PGA Golf Tournament featured a leaderboard that included players named Wi, Kelly, Moreno and Who The Hell Is That Guy. Not exactly a Tiger/Phil duel. The only thing that kept me from a deep coma was practicing "double stops" on my guitar while I viewed the "action" on the tube. (Can anyone actually reach from the seventh fret with their pointy finger down to the twelfth fret with their pinky?)(Anyone with normal size hands, that is.)

"The Denver Broncos, with the twelfth pick in this year's draft, select Knowshon Moreno from the University of Georgia."

Yeah, that's right, I'm thrilled. (He says sarcastically.) Knowshon. Well I guess that's better than Knowshow Cutler.

"If Kelly can make this three foot putt, he'll have a four stroke lead."

Oh. Darn. Missed. Has anybody got any drugs?

Today should be better though. I'm looking forward to the third and fourth rounds of the draft and the conclusion of the golf tournament.

"With the three hundred and fifty seventh pick in this years' draft, the Denver Broncos select Knownothing Leadfoot, a wide receiver from Valdosta State A and M Penitentiary."

"They got a real steal there Bob. Kansas City was predicted to pick Knownothing with the three hundred fifty sixth pick but let him slide to get that 160 pound linebacker from Patterson State Teachers College. I don't know what they were thinking. Leadfoot's a project but with training could end up a starter in this league or maybe a parallel universe."

Did I say I was thrilled?

"If Kelly can sink this three foot putt, we will have a four way tie and be headed for a playoff. Don't worry folks. We will stay on the air until the conclusion of the tournament."

Just shoot me now. Please.

I Don't Make Excuses

I don't want to make excuses for how I played golf yesterday but I do have a hangnail on my thumb. It didn't stop me from birdieing the par three 197 yard second hole (The Nightmare On Elm Street) that has a fairway about as wide as one lane bowling alley and features water all down the right side and a steeply rising hill to the left. No, it didn't bother me there. I merely placed my drive four feet from the flag and canned the putt. It did, however, come into play on most of the other holes as hangnails, ask anyone, are really annoying. Sure Tiger can get up and down at the U.S. Open with a blown knee, but how, I ask, does a a gimpy knee affect your grip? It's a hangnail that can truly hamper one's golf game and it takes a real man to play through that kind of excruciating pain. And I should mention the wind was blowing throughout the day. Everyone knows I don't have good wind karma. The other players, RTGFKAR, Woowwo Charly and I'm Never Using This Putter Again Johnson are not beset by wind demons and thus were allowed to play mostly without weather incident. I, on the other hand, had to deal with gale forces nearly every time I took the tee or lined up a putt. And there is the bad back thing, but I won't get into that since, as I've said, I don't like to make excuses. I probably should point out though, that many of the golf balls I brought along to lose were in less than perfect condition and I'm sure they were partly to blame for the erratic way they flew. My clubs too, are from a manufacturer, Head, noted for ski equipment and not fine golfing gear. On top of that, my breakfast, cereal with bananas, was clearly not the proper fuel for a golf outing. If I was into making excuses for my poor play, I would point out that the cart I was driving lurched repeatedly and a thing like that is very bad for the composure a golfer needs to be at his best. Worst of all were my playing partners who insisted on saying things to me like, "Whoa, that baby's deep into the woods" and things to each other like, "Nice putt, good shot" and "that's a par for me." Very disturbing that, but still, I'll tell you sincerely, I'm not going to use it as an excuse for this simple reason: I don't make excuses.

Another Blog for No Reason

There is no longer an outdoors outdoors. Ever since the pups have been here they have made it a habit to bring a little bit of the outdoors indoors each day. As a good pup parent I would then sweep up the bit of outdoors that had found its way indoors and put it in a trash bag that gets taken to a downtown drop spot on a regular basis. Since there is only a finite amount of outdoors outdoors it was inevitable that one day it would be all gone. Today is that day. I swept up the last of it first thing in the morning and then took my coffee out to the patio to wonder where the rest of it is now.

My thoughts on health care. (Okay, my thought. I rarely have more than one.) There are people like me who don't want their lives to be about money. They want it, instead, to be about art or literature or teaching or study or countless other occupations. They don't really care about the pursuit of money and DON'T WANT TO CARE ABOUT IT. With the exception of those whose desired endeavors accidentally make money - a small percentage - the single thing that most often stops people from getting off the money trail and on to that of their dreams is the cost of health insurance or the cost of paying for health care if you don't have insurance. Most Americans (I'm talking about Americans) can find a way working at what they want to cover the food, clothing, shelter imperatives, but the cost of health drives them to other professions and the reaching, grasping, clutching money grab that consumes so many. It is dehumanizing to work solely for money - if you don't want to. So let's put a stop to all that and vote for Obama and Universal Health Care.

What's that you say? We already did? Alrighty then. That's a start.

(In future blogs I will cover other issues of the day, like, for instance, uh...war.
I'm against it.)

News of Late

I wasn't at my best for the visit by JBW. My stomach was housing some kind of internal amusement park where all the rides were tilt-a-whirls. Nausea was a frequent companion. Nevertheless a good time was had by all and my gorge - and here I mean the gorge of definition number three in my Webster's New World College Dictionary which I've used this time in lieu of my usual Old World Third Grade Dictionary With Pictures, that is to wit: the maw of a ferocious being or animal (actually the stuff swallowed by the maw) - stayed miraculously down. There were road trips and hikes, dinners in and out - the best of which was at friends B and L's house on Easter Sunday or, as it is called hereabouts...okay just by me, Zombie Day - golf, cocktails on the patio and elsewhere, jokes, conversations and dogs. There are always the dogs for amusement. There will be photos to follow, Woowoo Charly took ten or twelve, JB took eight or nine...hundred!, so the experience was duly chronicled in picture form.

Other happy notes to we here in the great Panama Outback are these: son Todd is pondering a visit in June or July and daughter Dara and mate are pondering a house purchase. Woowoo Charly is pondering a weight gain of several ounces and I'm pondering lunch. The first two of those have us goofily excited, which is the best kind.

Finally, I find myself compelled to note for reasons even I can't comprehend, that I have writing projects enough before me to fill my days and nights for weeks on end. With that in mind, I will now move to the TV room to catch the Manchester United vs. Porto FC soccer match in the quarterfinals of the UEFA tournament. Should be a good one.

Poetry Begone

I'm writing this blog so that any one new who stumbles upon Monkeymind won't be greeted by my terrible poem. Regulars will forgive me as they've read my rhyming before and know that the poetry muse seldom lingers long in my neighborhood.

I don't really have much to say. I just read a fredoneverything.net column that depressed me -it was about urban blacks - and my usual cheery morning mood has se fue (gone). Of course I have noticed while rereading my first paragraph that the words lingers long are fun to say together and that helps a bit. I also have Sportscenter to look forward to. It's a place I go to to contemplate whether the names Hannah Storm and Sage Steele are real or adopted. Both ladies are in the "fox" category - at least I think so - and could probably get by with monikers like Madeline Melwinski or Clara Shultz but Storm and Steele are nice icing on the cake. For those unfamiliar with the Sportscenter, these ladies are very competent sports announcers.

Later today Woowoo Charly and I will be taking the three puppyteers to the vet for more inoculations to prevent distemper, parvo, rabies, acne, flat feet and other conditions dogs are heir to. Finnegan, the Golden, I need add for those of you who know of the pup, is growing at a rate that, should it continue, will have us building an airport hangar to house him in a few more months. We will soon have kibble delivered by semis.

Friend "Joe Bob" will be arriving tomorrow for a short visit. Other than that I have nothing else to report but a sudden urgency to vacate my keyboard. There is a rhyme upon me with which I have a date. There is no help for me, you see, it's near, it's here.

Too late.

I Live Dreaming

This month's writer's group assignment was to write something that started with "I live.." I didn't feel like grinding out a story that began that way so I opted for my feeble brand of poetry. To wit"

I Live Dreaming
By Doc Walton


I live in a Dream and fear not the waking

Reality’s a place that’s just more of my making.



In Dream there’s a life filled up of my choosing,

Tranquility reigns midst the hours of musing.

My reality differs so little from snoozing

I frequently wonder which state I am using.


You see I’m a man that is usually pleased

And the joy of the natural I’m most quick to seize.

I’m not of the type that are too often teased

The ones who would purchase their comfort and ease.


I like sunsets and puppies and writing a bit.

I like cheering my teams and using my wit.

I like loving and laughter they’re such a good fit.

To the above and much more I am quick to submit.



Should you see me about all shiny and beaming

Just buy me a drink … so I’ll know I’m not dreaming.



Hah!

Fear and Loathing in Valle Escondido

I'm a golf ball. I've got more dimples than a Hollywood starlet, but that's another story. I'm here today as a designated spokesball for all our kind, be they Titleist, Top Flite, Srixon, Pinnacle or any other brand and for balls of all colors and conditions, white, pink, yellow, orange, pristine, cut, dented, new or old, to talk about the abuse we have recently been subjected to at the Valle Escondido Golf Course.

As you all know, we golf balls have been carefully designed to withstand and actually enjoy being struck solidly by metal objects and hurtled into the air to fly gracefully and majestically onto fairways and greens. There we can land softly and patiently await the feel of the next good whack. Of late though, this has not been occurring. I don't want to name names for fear I might be exposed and put into play by these next, but four players in particular have given rise to acts of golf abomination so dastardly that - if I may borrow a phrase from Hunter Thompson - I am choosing to call "Fear and Loathing in Valle Escondido." These...these...people - I'm having trouble calling them players - continually refuse to strike us properly and firmly on our centers so that we can reward them with sounds like thock and whoosh which indicate they have done well. Instead they thrash away like primitives new to club wielding and punish us with a series of blows that they refer to as "thin, fat, sliced, hooked, chunked, topped and damned near whiffed" but to us are simply pain. We are not meant to spin sideways as we fly through the air. We are not meant to go bouncing from the tee. We are not meant to roll far beyond the holes we seek. No, we are meant, instead, to be guided methodically towards our goal with no more than four thumpings along the way; an occassional five tolerated. These play...no - wait, I'm going to use the correct if somewhat profane term on condition that you do not tell the orb youngsters and frighten them in their sleeves - these DUFFERS have of late been carding sixes and sevens on a regular basis. Little wonder that we flee into the jungle and dive into lakes and streams. Hiding is our only recourse. By doing so we spread the suffering over several of our kind and no one ball has to bear the abuse for more than two or three holes.

I offer this as a warning to all the balls in Boquete including Noodles, Nikes, Range and Brand X. If you find yourself in a bag owned by any of a foursome with these nicknames: D.B (double bogey) Johnson, Woowoo Where-did-it-go Charly, RTGFKAR (routinely topping golfballs from kinetic action reactions) and Doc What-the hell-was-that, run I tell you, run for your life! Fall out of the bag in the parking lot and roll under the car. Don't come out of the ball washer. Seek the nearest pond or puddle. Leap quietly from the cart. In short, get lost, get lost, get lost. It's your only hope.