Well look at that, would ya. It's been over a week since I last blogged. What in the world was I doing all that time if I wasn't tripping the light fantastic on my keyboard? Beats me. Something productive, I'm sure, like helping achieve world peace or curing cancer. Not ACTUALLY those things, but LIKE them. I manged to get out of the house to buy Woowoo Charly some birthday presents which is an activity whose outcome is VERY similar to scoring world peace. Okay, so it's only the peace in our house, but I'm thinking that's a step in the right direction. AND, I did Effudix some spots on my face which does IN FACT cure cancer. Some kinds, anyway.
(I LIKE putting words in caps. It gives them EMPHASIS.)
(Emphasis? Sounds like a disease. "Her emphasis was improving, but she was still quite SWOLLEN.")
(Swollen? that's a funny word too.)
Alrighty then, where was I? I know, recounting the busy-ness of a week that kept me from blogging. Well, okay, I will confess. I did write another blog. It was about ligion, which is what you have before you have religion. I didn't like it, though, so I deleted it. Not every word I write is precious. Only this one: precious.
Here's an oddity: (Colons are cool. Semi colons are semi cool.) There is a device attached to most blogs called "Followers" that enables readers who sign up for it to be alerted, I think by email, whenever the blogger has posted a new one. I clicked on my followers this morning and discovered that three, out of a whopping five, were people who fell into the "I have no freaking idea who they are" category. If you are one of the three, please comment and be a pal.
Another thing I've done in the past week is read two thirds of Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom", all of "Huck" a dog story that is too long, some of "Zen Golf" which might be helpful, and I've made headway (Headway? How much does a head weigh?) on Paulo Coelho's "El Vencedor Esta Solo", a book I'm reading in Spanish. Factor in football watching on the weekend - an activity coded into my DNA at birth - and you will note that I have not been without productivity despite not blogging.
Also, I've been writing other things.
Other things. There, I've done it again.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 04, 2010
Digging the Day
There is little in Boquete retirement to get your heart pounding, your pulse racing, and your undivided attention apart from the odd coral snake, baseball size tarantulas, scorpions, floods, earthquakes, strange noises in the night, (What-the-hell-was-that?) and the fear that Tea Party members might at this very moment be en-route to our happy home. It is little wonder then, that I find Football Season so much fun. Big Fun, in fact, which as you know is my highest rating.
My team, the Denver Broncos get short shrift from the national sports media so I...(Wait a minute. Short shrift? I don't think I've ever used that before. I better look it up. It means a quick confession to, and then absolution by, a priest. Who would a thunk it?) Anyway, the Broncos get a short one of those and I get little news of them during the week. Sundays, though, when they play, I am tuned in adrenaline at the ready, nerves all a-jitter, apprehension and excitement battling for space in my consciousness. I am, quite literally, a nervous wreck. And that, Sportfans, is what I call Big Fun! I mean, who wouldn't like that? Oh sure, there's always those people in their right minds, but be serious, nobody pays any attention to them. When the Broncos win, as they did yesterday - this winning thing an occurrence that for several years now only happens about half the time - I have noticed that the sun shines brighter, food and drink taste better, there are fewer alien abductions, and the face in my mirror looks goofily happy a degree more than is usual. The entire week following the game will be more pleasantly spent.
That said, I will now begin doing it, that pleasantly spending it part, because next week...well, it's not looking so good.
My team, the Denver Broncos get short shrift from the national sports media so I...(Wait a minute. Short shrift? I don't think I've ever used that before. I better look it up. It means a quick confession to, and then absolution by, a priest. Who would a thunk it?) Anyway, the Broncos get a short one of those and I get little news of them during the week. Sundays, though, when they play, I am tuned in adrenaline at the ready, nerves all a-jitter, apprehension and excitement battling for space in my consciousness. I am, quite literally, a nervous wreck. And that, Sportfans, is what I call Big Fun! I mean, who wouldn't like that? Oh sure, there's always those people in their right minds, but be serious, nobody pays any attention to them. When the Broncos win, as they did yesterday - this winning thing an occurrence that for several years now only happens about half the time - I have noticed that the sun shines brighter, food and drink taste better, there are fewer alien abductions, and the face in my mirror looks goofily happy a degree more than is usual. The entire week following the game will be more pleasantly spent.
That said, I will now begin doing it, that pleasantly spending it part, because next week...well, it's not looking so good.
Friday, October 01, 2010
A Wise Decision
The sky was blacker than a villain's soul as I sat on the patio to listen to the heartbeat of the night; insects mostly, and a light breeze brushing across the surface of broad leafed plants. The loudest sound, the one most urgent, was the big dog to my front panting an eager huh huh huh huh as he waited for me to throw the knotted bit of rope that is his favorite retrieval object. The two small dogs, curled on padded, wicker chairs beside me were soundless, content, happy to just be out at this later than usual hour.
I was content too; flipping the dog's toy out into the yard and then patting his head gently each time he returned it to my lap. There was a half full glass of wine on the table to my right and a half smoked, small cigar beside it in an ash tray. The sweet, fragrant aroma of Reina De La Noches captured my attention each time the wind shifted to push it in my direction. I took off my glasses and placed them on the table as well. I wanted to see the world I was accustomed to, rather than the newer, sharper focused place the recently purchased "lentes" provided.
And then, in the midst of this amiable reverie, this calm, almost meditative state, The Monkeymind chimed in with a thought: What's all this nonsense about Universal Themes writers are always going on about? We don't know a damn thing about themes on other planets, let alone what they might be on other galaxies. I mean the Universe is a damned big place. The Milky Way Galaxy may have some overriding unifying thread that we might one day capture, but what about The Snickers Galaxy and The Three Musketeers Galaxy? Yeah, I say, what about them?
And following that, because I was now onto clearly large, important issues worthy of scientific inquiry, I began to wonder why I was still controlled by, and concerned about, Time, while Woowoo Charly gave less than a hoot. She took off her watch the day we retired and has never put it back on. Big fat I, on the other hand, resent having to take off my keeping-track-of-time-piece to hop in the shower. Where does Time go when it is not on my wrist?
I contemplated that for awhile, along with themes on The Baby Ruth and Clark Bar Galaxies. As I did so, I realized I was alternately opening and closing my eyes to see which was darker, the night sky or the inside of my eyelids. The sky won hands down. As it turned out, this was the only puzzle posed by the Monkeymind last night that got a definite answer.
When the Monkeymind turned from all these questions of great import to whether Tim Tebow should be used by the Broncos in goal line situations, a wise decision was made. I decided I needed neither that last half glass of wine or the remaining unsmoked part of my cigar. I locked up, went to bed and took the dogs with me.
(The time was a little after nine. I just couldn't help checking.)
I was content too; flipping the dog's toy out into the yard and then patting his head gently each time he returned it to my lap. There was a half full glass of wine on the table to my right and a half smoked, small cigar beside it in an ash tray. The sweet, fragrant aroma of Reina De La Noches captured my attention each time the wind shifted to push it in my direction. I took off my glasses and placed them on the table as well. I wanted to see the world I was accustomed to, rather than the newer, sharper focused place the recently purchased "lentes" provided.
And then, in the midst of this amiable reverie, this calm, almost meditative state, The Monkeymind chimed in with a thought: What's all this nonsense about Universal Themes writers are always going on about? We don't know a damn thing about themes on other planets, let alone what they might be on other galaxies. I mean the Universe is a damned big place. The Milky Way Galaxy may have some overriding unifying thread that we might one day capture, but what about The Snickers Galaxy and The Three Musketeers Galaxy? Yeah, I say, what about them?
And following that, because I was now onto clearly large, important issues worthy of scientific inquiry, I began to wonder why I was still controlled by, and concerned about, Time, while Woowoo Charly gave less than a hoot. She took off her watch the day we retired and has never put it back on. Big fat I, on the other hand, resent having to take off my keeping-track-of-time-piece to hop in the shower. Where does Time go when it is not on my wrist?
I contemplated that for awhile, along with themes on The Baby Ruth and Clark Bar Galaxies. As I did so, I realized I was alternately opening and closing my eyes to see which was darker, the night sky or the inside of my eyelids. The sky won hands down. As it turned out, this was the only puzzle posed by the Monkeymind last night that got a definite answer.
When the Monkeymind turned from all these questions of great import to whether Tim Tebow should be used by the Broncos in goal line situations, a wise decision was made. I decided I needed neither that last half glass of wine or the remaining unsmoked part of my cigar. I locked up, went to bed and took the dogs with me.
(The time was a little after nine. I just couldn't help checking.)
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Girls never make passes at men who...
Read magazines and Non-fiction books for information and knowledge. Read novels for wisdom.
People who do the following make more money than people who do the opposite: Work indoors, play outdoors.
This wearing o' the glasses has not been the easiest adjustment I've ever had to make. (Hhmmm, let me see, the easiest would be... sliding into retirement. No work today? Oh darn, what will I do?) Woowoo Charly put on her new spectacles and to my knowledge has never taken them off. In fact, I'm sure I saw her coming out of the shower yesterday with her specs tucked neatly in place. I, on the other hand, have always been the kind of whack-job who would shun even the wearing o' shades (gafas oscuros in Spanish, a fun thing to say) unless old sol shot me in the eyes with annoyingly bright beams or I thought at some given moment, usually incorrectly, that they would make me look cool. Even then I would snatch them off if there was something I felt needed to be seen clearly. Now when I snatch off my glasses, I find myself puzzled that the image I was hoping to sharpen turns out to be even fuzzier. Weird, I tell ya, weird.
A Facebook friend wrote this comment that I immediately seconded: Right-wingers and Tea party people need to come up with their own slogans. "Worst president ever" and "Let's take back our country" have already been used.
A woman called me the other day from Mobile Net, our Internet provider and said that if I came in and signed a new contract, I would get four times faster Internet service for less money. Aware, of course, that if a thing sounds too good to be true, it probably is, I nevertheless signed up. We now await the installation of a new signal grabbing gizmo which should happen some time in the next two weeks. Wish us luck.
People who do the following make more money than people who do the opposite: Work indoors, play outdoors.
This wearing o' the glasses has not been the easiest adjustment I've ever had to make. (Hhmmm, let me see, the easiest would be... sliding into retirement. No work today? Oh darn, what will I do?) Woowoo Charly put on her new spectacles and to my knowledge has never taken them off. In fact, I'm sure I saw her coming out of the shower yesterday with her specs tucked neatly in place. I, on the other hand, have always been the kind of whack-job who would shun even the wearing o' shades (gafas oscuros in Spanish, a fun thing to say) unless old sol shot me in the eyes with annoyingly bright beams or I thought at some given moment, usually incorrectly, that they would make me look cool. Even then I would snatch them off if there was something I felt needed to be seen clearly. Now when I snatch off my glasses, I find myself puzzled that the image I was hoping to sharpen turns out to be even fuzzier. Weird, I tell ya, weird.
A Facebook friend wrote this comment that I immediately seconded: Right-wingers and Tea party people need to come up with their own slogans. "Worst president ever" and "Let's take back our country" have already been used.
A woman called me the other day from Mobile Net, our Internet provider and said that if I came in and signed a new contract, I would get four times faster Internet service for less money. Aware, of course, that if a thing sounds too good to be true, it probably is, I nevertheless signed up. We now await the installation of a new signal grabbing gizmo which should happen some time in the next two weeks. Wish us luck.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
On My Mind
"Time heals all wounds."... Anonymous. "Bullpuckey."... Zendoc
Here in Jubiladoland, retirement, I have little that causes me pain, physical or mental, and only small worries of my own choosing; mostly those concerning the health and welfare of family and friends. My life is simple, satisfying and in many ways ideal. Why then, I wonder, are there nights when sleep is elusive? Why do memories of misdeeds done long ago surface like unwanted short subjects to rob me, occasionally, of deep sleep and sweet dreams? Mind you, in my lifetime, I have committed no criminal offenses of note apart from a few years of illegal drug use and fairly typical adolescent misdemeanors. If you were to read my thoughts as I replay my transgressions from years past, you would likely laugh and suggest they were nothing to lose sleep about. But there they are, the unintended cross word that needlessly hurts another, the red faced moments of embarrassment, bouts of stupidity, missed opportunities, small failures, and the like. Emotional wounds so old that you would think they would be long healed or, at least, long forgotten. And so they are, except for that now and then when they rise from their graves like zombies that won't die to chase away the kinder and gentler thoughts that usually lead down the path to sleep. And YES, I have taken them out for examination, these small torments. I have viewed them from afar, dissected their parts rationally, scoffed at my own silliness and laid them forever to rest, never to return. But, of course, they still do, every now and again. I ask you then, Monkeymind readers, is it the same for you? Is this a universal concern or am I uniquely bonkers as I lay me down to sleep. Do tell.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Alrighty then! After you have confirmed my diagnosis and confined me to a rubber room, never to be loosed without adult supervision. I have another Monkeymind experiment I want you to try. It has occurred to me that since the left side of the brain is supposed to be rational and straight forward while the right side is designated the creative part, maybe we can address the two sides individually for a more successful functioning of both. So here's what I've been doing and I want you to try: (You should always listen to the desires of madmen, they may be onto something.) Whenever you are reading informational stuff, close or cover your right eye and read solely with your left. This way, I say, nothing logical gets clouded by intrusive creativity. Whenever you read poetry or really good prose, cover or close your left eye and read only with the right. This, of course will see to it that nothing artistic gets spoiled by needless logic. Give it a go and let me know if it works for you. After that, we'll apply for a grant.
Here in Jubiladoland, retirement, I have little that causes me pain, physical or mental, and only small worries of my own choosing; mostly those concerning the health and welfare of family and friends. My life is simple, satisfying and in many ways ideal. Why then, I wonder, are there nights when sleep is elusive? Why do memories of misdeeds done long ago surface like unwanted short subjects to rob me, occasionally, of deep sleep and sweet dreams? Mind you, in my lifetime, I have committed no criminal offenses of note apart from a few years of illegal drug use and fairly typical adolescent misdemeanors. If you were to read my thoughts as I replay my transgressions from years past, you would likely laugh and suggest they were nothing to lose sleep about. But there they are, the unintended cross word that needlessly hurts another, the red faced moments of embarrassment, bouts of stupidity, missed opportunities, small failures, and the like. Emotional wounds so old that you would think they would be long healed or, at least, long forgotten. And so they are, except for that now and then when they rise from their graves like zombies that won't die to chase away the kinder and gentler thoughts that usually lead down the path to sleep. And YES, I have taken them out for examination, these small torments. I have viewed them from afar, dissected their parts rationally, scoffed at my own silliness and laid them forever to rest, never to return. But, of course, they still do, every now and again. I ask you then, Monkeymind readers, is it the same for you? Is this a universal concern or am I uniquely bonkers as I lay me down to sleep. Do tell.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Alrighty then! After you have confirmed my diagnosis and confined me to a rubber room, never to be loosed without adult supervision. I have another Monkeymind experiment I want you to try. It has occurred to me that since the left side of the brain is supposed to be rational and straight forward while the right side is designated the creative part, maybe we can address the two sides individually for a more successful functioning of both. So here's what I've been doing and I want you to try: (You should always listen to the desires of madmen, they may be onto something.) Whenever you are reading informational stuff, close or cover your right eye and read solely with your left. This way, I say, nothing logical gets clouded by intrusive creativity. Whenever you read poetry or really good prose, cover or close your left eye and read only with the right. This, of course will see to it that nothing artistic gets spoiled by needless logic. Give it a go and let me know if it works for you. After that, we'll apply for a grant.
Girty Rutsaphrats Pegaloomer!
Here's my "What my Dad said" pithy saying of the day: I thought of a good one last night, but I forgot to write it down and now I can't remember what it was.
I say that a lot.
Here's another one I say at least once or twice a year: Mo#&*#*&#!hump*#*#@co(&^^&%^&*ing&%piece*o&^&^ sh(*&*%^&*&(*er!
I say that when, like today, I realize I have lost a page or two of writing I had squeezed out like blood from the turnip that is my head. Yesterday I managed to do the trick while transferring the work to my freakin' "save it here" device! Can you believe that? I tell ya, it's not easy being an idiot.
So that's why I am here today at Monkeymind instead of working on "The Book of Luke I am Your Father" from the New Testament. I need a couple of days to simmer down, because I am currently all simmered up and I can't write, or rather, rewrite in that condition.
I had a dream. True Dat. Last night. In the dream I was on a train somewhere in Italy traveling to somewhere else in Italy. A stranger shares a joint with me and I take two or three tokes. I realize this is really good stuff and I am very high, so I lie down to sleep it off. When I wake up, IN REAL LIFE, a short while later, I am still high! I stumble to the bathroom, splash water on my face and return to reality. Now what in the world was I thinking?! I am happily stoned traveling through Italy and from this I want to wake up? As I've noted above, it's not easy being an idiot.
I say that a lot.
Here's another one I say at least once or twice a year: Mo#&*#*&#!hump*#*#@co(&^^&%^&*ing&%piece*o&^&^ sh(*&*%^&*&(*er!
I say that when, like today, I realize I have lost a page or two of writing I had squeezed out like blood from the turnip that is my head. Yesterday I managed to do the trick while transferring the work to my freakin' "save it here" device! Can you believe that? I tell ya, it's not easy being an idiot.
So that's why I am here today at Monkeymind instead of working on "The Book of Luke I am Your Father" from the New Testament. I need a couple of days to simmer down, because I am currently all simmered up and I can't write, or rather, rewrite in that condition.
I had a dream. True Dat. Last night. In the dream I was on a train somewhere in Italy traveling to somewhere else in Italy. A stranger shares a joint with me and I take two or three tokes. I realize this is really good stuff and I am very high, so I lie down to sleep it off. When I wake up, IN REAL LIFE, a short while later, I am still high! I stumble to the bathroom, splash water on my face and return to reality. Now what in the world was I thinking?! I am happily stoned traveling through Italy and from this I want to wake up? As I've noted above, it's not easy being an idiot.
Monday, September 20, 2010
There Goes Another Piece Of My Mind
I wonder how many writers arrive at their ideas without the aid of alcohol, drugs, coffee, oatmeal, or other mind altering substances? I'm betting not many. A couple of nights ago I sat out with scotch in hand to watch the rain and found my mind crammed ear to ear with things to write. I even managed to scribble a couple of the inspirations on a piece of paper for later use and one of them is, more or less, this paragraph. Okay, so it's not Shakespeare, but keep in mind I was drinking scotch not mead.
RTGFKAR says that Finnegan, our Golden, who is clearly obsessive about his retrieval business, needs to learn meditation. I've been working on him, but he only achieves stillness while waiting for me to throw something. His Om, I should mention, lacks length, but it will get your attention.
I called Sky TV last Monday to complain about not receiving the NFL Sunday Ticket package that I had sweat blood and paid for and was assured I would have no problems the following Sunday, yesterday. Well wrongo Football Fanatico! When the pregame shows did not appear at their designated time, I whipped out my trusty Motorola phone to give the bastards a piece of my mind, because, you know, I don't really need the whole thing. For my urgent efforts, I got to hang on "hold" for twenty minutes listening to Sky commercials in Spanish. Every once in awhile - between tape rewinds I suppose - a voice would say "gracias por esperar", (thanks for waiting) and it was then that I would let loose with the tirades from the part of my mind that I didn't need anyway. I eventually got through to a fellow who spoke marginal English and was told "No problema", Sky was merely clearing up some technical difficulties between the U.S. and Panama and that the football games would appear at twelve sharp you betcha. Well wrongo again, Football Freako! No games. Nothing, in fact, but a small on screen sign that read, "If you wish to purchase this program, call customer service." Now I don't have a lot of cool left. I used up most of it when I was younger with, thankfully, no harmful consequences, so not maintaining the little I do have bothered me not a wit. I lost it and snatched up my cell anew. I then angrily punched in Sky's phone number because I just couldn't wait to be put on "hold" to listen to their nifty "buy me" commercials. You betcha my...nevermind. Eventually I got through to another "English speaker" which is a correct description of the fellow only if you can call me a Spanish speaker, a thing you might do if you had never actually heard Spanish, well, spoken. This English speaker, though, was a man of immense talents and brilliant ideas, one of which he put to use right away. He clicked me through to Technical Support. There I got to talk to a man who led me through a series of "Read me the numbers on your box, read me the numbers on the card in your box and now turn to Channel 100 and wait" steps while I muttered stuff that sounded a lot like Finnegan's Om. But then, hurrah, to my great surprise and with an enormous lo and behold, and I'm not talking be hold on the phone but the actual "Holy shit look at that!" behold, a football game appeared on my screen. This event may be a small wonder to some, but it was a big wonder to me and verified what I have said over and over again, "Persistence is an eleven letter word."
The conclusion to this tale is simple: I am going to be credited with my lost football time, but Sky is keeping my cool and the piece of my mind I gave them for further use.
RTGFKAR says that Finnegan, our Golden, who is clearly obsessive about his retrieval business, needs to learn meditation. I've been working on him, but he only achieves stillness while waiting for me to throw something. His Om, I should mention, lacks length, but it will get your attention.
I called Sky TV last Monday to complain about not receiving the NFL Sunday Ticket package that I had sweat blood and paid for and was assured I would have no problems the following Sunday, yesterday. Well wrongo Football Fanatico! When the pregame shows did not appear at their designated time, I whipped out my trusty Motorola phone to give the bastards a piece of my mind, because, you know, I don't really need the whole thing. For my urgent efforts, I got to hang on "hold" for twenty minutes listening to Sky commercials in Spanish. Every once in awhile - between tape rewinds I suppose - a voice would say "gracias por esperar", (thanks for waiting) and it was then that I would let loose with the tirades from the part of my mind that I didn't need anyway. I eventually got through to a fellow who spoke marginal English and was told "No problema", Sky was merely clearing up some technical difficulties between the U.S. and Panama and that the football games would appear at twelve sharp you betcha. Well wrongo again, Football Freako! No games. Nothing, in fact, but a small on screen sign that read, "If you wish to purchase this program, call customer service." Now I don't have a lot of cool left. I used up most of it when I was younger with, thankfully, no harmful consequences, so not maintaining the little I do have bothered me not a wit. I lost it and snatched up my cell anew. I then angrily punched in Sky's phone number because I just couldn't wait to be put on "hold" to listen to their nifty "buy me" commercials. You betcha my...nevermind. Eventually I got through to another "English speaker" which is a correct description of the fellow only if you can call me a Spanish speaker, a thing you might do if you had never actually heard Spanish, well, spoken. This English speaker, though, was a man of immense talents and brilliant ideas, one of which he put to use right away. He clicked me through to Technical Support. There I got to talk to a man who led me through a series of "Read me the numbers on your box, read me the numbers on the card in your box and now turn to Channel 100 and wait" steps while I muttered stuff that sounded a lot like Finnegan's Om. But then, hurrah, to my great surprise and with an enormous lo and behold, and I'm not talking be hold on the phone but the actual "Holy shit look at that!" behold, a football game appeared on my screen. This event may be a small wonder to some, but it was a big wonder to me and verified what I have said over and over again, "Persistence is an eleven letter word."
The conclusion to this tale is simple: I am going to be credited with my lost football time, but Sky is keeping my cool and the piece of my mind I gave them for further use.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Classic Monkeymind
If you can't be on time, be early.
Let's see. People? Dogs? Current events? Those mines are all played out. I have nothing to write but (thankfully) fiction.
Where to start?
Call me Doak. Call him Ishmael. That's his real name. Mine is made up because my real name, Blovarten, sounds too much like an Ian Fleming villain. Anyway, we're both on a ship captained by a weird one legged old sea salt named Rehab and we're in search of Whitey Ford, an equally old, demon possessed, New York Yankee pitcher from the Fifties who had died and was now serving his penance as a reincarnated whale, albeit a pin striped version. Whitey was still wily in his new fishy bod and just as adept at getting out of
tricky jams as he was in his earlier life. We had cornered him and almost corralled him a couple of times but the truth is that corners and corrals in the ocean are hard to maintain. Whitey slipped off the hook, so to speak, each time. Keep in mind here that we weren't out to do him in. We just wanted to catch him and put him in the big aquarium in Boston where he would be on display with Mickey Mantlemouse and Derek Jitters the dancing half man, half penguin, both of whom were also curiously pin striped and trying to work off their demonic possession in new incarnations. The people of Boston paid big bucks for captured Yankees in any form and Whitey would be a huge score if we could bring him in.
Rehab signaled Ishmael and me along with Quickypeg, our net thrower to his cabin for a conference. "Mateys," he said to us, "you all need more incentive. From now on nobody gets evening rum until the fish is in the boat."
Ish, Quicky and I huddled together upon hearing this and quickly agreed on a course of action. We shot Rehab. It was a mutiny for the bounty.
Truth is we were sick of sailing anyway, so we set a course for Africa and the heart of darkness to ditch the boat and head inland to find the former Yogi Berra who had been reincarnated as a pitchman for feminine hygiene products. The Boston bounty on his head was among the highest, but the strongest motivation for the hunt came from a California Angel who told us that by capturing Yogi we might be able to escape our own future destiny as reincarnated Yankees; a fate so dreadful that it brought but one thought to mind. The horror! The horror!
To be continued.
Not really.
Let's see. People? Dogs? Current events? Those mines are all played out. I have nothing to write but (thankfully) fiction.
Where to start?
Call me Doak. Call him Ishmael. That's his real name. Mine is made up because my real name, Blovarten, sounds too much like an Ian Fleming villain. Anyway, we're both on a ship captained by a weird one legged old sea salt named Rehab and we're in search of Whitey Ford, an equally old, demon possessed, New York Yankee pitcher from the Fifties who had died and was now serving his penance as a reincarnated whale, albeit a pin striped version. Whitey was still wily in his new fishy bod and just as adept at getting out of
tricky jams as he was in his earlier life. We had cornered him and almost corralled him a couple of times but the truth is that corners and corrals in the ocean are hard to maintain. Whitey slipped off the hook, so to speak, each time. Keep in mind here that we weren't out to do him in. We just wanted to catch him and put him in the big aquarium in Boston where he would be on display with Mickey Mantlemouse and Derek Jitters the dancing half man, half penguin, both of whom were also curiously pin striped and trying to work off their demonic possession in new incarnations. The people of Boston paid big bucks for captured Yankees in any form and Whitey would be a huge score if we could bring him in.
Rehab signaled Ishmael and me along with Quickypeg, our net thrower to his cabin for a conference. "Mateys," he said to us, "you all need more incentive. From now on nobody gets evening rum until the fish is in the boat."
Ish, Quicky and I huddled together upon hearing this and quickly agreed on a course of action. We shot Rehab. It was a mutiny for the bounty.
Truth is we were sick of sailing anyway, so we set a course for Africa and the heart of darkness to ditch the boat and head inland to find the former Yogi Berra who had been reincarnated as a pitchman for feminine hygiene products. The Boston bounty on his head was among the highest, but the strongest motivation for the hunt came from a California Angel who told us that by capturing Yogi we might be able to escape our own future destiny as reincarnated Yankees; a fate so dreadful that it brought but one thought to mind. The horror! The horror!
To be continued.
Not really.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Glasses
Preparation is, as many people have said, the principal key to success. A good night's sleep, in my opinion, is second.
Woowoo Charly and I are now bespectacled people. Well sure, we've been donning the magnifiers for years to read, but the world out there beyond the book was clear enough for the most part. What changed my mind about the "clear enough" was the disappearance of my flying golf balls after about 150 yards. Like Droopy the Dog - remember him? - I was often heard to ask, "Where did they go, where did they go?" Of course some of that was not my eyes, but rather the weird flight direction of the little dimpled bastards, but you get my general drift. Couple that with sitting ever closer to the television screen and avoiding night time driving and you quickly find both Woowoo and I holding a hand over one eye and saying "That's an e, no wait, an f and the next one is an o or is it a c" to a kindly gray haired doctor with a penchant for shining a small bright light in our eyes. When he announced to me, "You need glasses," I refrained from saying "Duh."
I got to put my new enhanced vision to the test fifteen minutes after its acquisition Monday afternoon. We were driving to pick up RTGFKAR at the aeropuerto in David when a rain storm heavy enough to inspire the Noah in us all made headway a creep along carefully sort of thing. "Look," I said to Woowoo Charly who was muttering small ladylike incantations like, "This is fucking ridiculous" as I alternately raised my new glasses above my eyes and then put them back in place, "here's fuzzy gray rain and fog and now here's clear gray rain and fog. I can't see through either one of them."
We made it to David eventually despite stomach knots and shoulders scrunched from tension. We had allowed enough time before RTGFKAR's arrival for a PriceSmart run and while there I noted that not only was I able to read the smart prices, (I was hoping for prices so low they would be considered stupid) I could see all the way to the end of the aisles clearly...Nice.
So there you have that.
One final note, a first. RTGFKAR arrived an hour early! Have you ever heard of any plane touching down that early? What happened was that RTGFKAR was hangin' at the airport so they just put him on an earlier flight. Alrighty then, also...nice.
Should I mention that we have no water again this morning or is that getting redundant?
Woowoo Charly and I are now bespectacled people. Well sure, we've been donning the magnifiers for years to read, but the world out there beyond the book was clear enough for the most part. What changed my mind about the "clear enough" was the disappearance of my flying golf balls after about 150 yards. Like Droopy the Dog - remember him? - I was often heard to ask, "Where did they go, where did they go?" Of course some of that was not my eyes, but rather the weird flight direction of the little dimpled bastards, but you get my general drift. Couple that with sitting ever closer to the television screen and avoiding night time driving and you quickly find both Woowoo and I holding a hand over one eye and saying "That's an e, no wait, an f and the next one is an o or is it a c" to a kindly gray haired doctor with a penchant for shining a small bright light in our eyes. When he announced to me, "You need glasses," I refrained from saying "Duh."
I got to put my new enhanced vision to the test fifteen minutes after its acquisition Monday afternoon. We were driving to pick up RTGFKAR at the aeropuerto in David when a rain storm heavy enough to inspire the Noah in us all made headway a creep along carefully sort of thing. "Look," I said to Woowoo Charly who was muttering small ladylike incantations like, "This is fucking ridiculous" as I alternately raised my new glasses above my eyes and then put them back in place, "here's fuzzy gray rain and fog and now here's clear gray rain and fog. I can't see through either one of them."
We made it to David eventually despite stomach knots and shoulders scrunched from tension. We had allowed enough time before RTGFKAR's arrival for a PriceSmart run and while there I noted that not only was I able to read the smart prices, (I was hoping for prices so low they would be considered stupid) I could see all the way to the end of the aisles clearly...Nice.
So there you have that.
One final note, a first. RTGFKAR arrived an hour early! Have you ever heard of any plane touching down that early? What happened was that RTGFKAR was hangin' at the airport so they just put him on an earlier flight. Alrighty then, also...nice.
Should I mention that we have no water again this morning or is that getting redundant?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Special K's Quiz
Alrighty then Walton's At Large. Special K wants us all to do this questionnaire. Send yours to me and I will post them as Guest Blogs. Here's mine:
Q. What's your best secret skill?
A. When taking off my undershorts, I drop them onto one foot and use that foot to flip the shorts into the air. I then spin about and catch the shorts behind my back. I rarely miss.
Q. What was your favorite toy as a kid?
A. The girl nextdoor. No, seriously? A ball, any ball.
Q. What's the best gift you ever gave someone?
A. I can think of several. They were gifts given for no special occasion.
Q. What's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?
A. There were many. I used to embarrass easily. I remember once walking out of the locker room where our football coach had just cautioned us not to reveal our game plan to anyone. I was walking along telling the whole thing to my girlfriend when I realized the coach was walking right behind me. I like ta died, I tell ya, I like ta died!
Q. If your house were on fire, what's the first thing you would grab on your way out?
A. People and pets first. After that I'd snag my wallet and money clip and after that my computer memory storage thingamajig.
Q. What's the one place you've never been, but really want to go?
A. The place: St. Andrews Golf Course. The event: The Final Four.
Q. When you were young, what did you want to be when you grew up?
A. Taller. Seriously. I don't remember aspiring to anything beyond the fantasy of professional athletics.
Q. What's one of your all time favorite books?
A. There are so many. As a kid "The Jungle Book." Now, "To Kill a Mocking Bird."
Q. What's one of your all time favorite movies?
A. Dracula
Q. What's the worst job you ever had?
A. Infantryman in the Army.
Q. Have you ever played a funny practical joke on someone?
A. Yes. And mostly I'm sorry about that.
Q. What's the best advice anyone ever gave you?
A. Same advice I give: Hang in there.
Q. What's your favorite board game?
A. Scrabble. Hands down.
Q. If you could live outside the U.S. where would you live?
A. Here in Panama, the south of France, Belize, and no doubt lots of other places.
Q. What's the best birthday you ever had?
A. 50 was fun. Woowoo Charly and me and our two sons went sky diving.
Q. If you could have any animal in the world as a pet, what would it be?
A. Be serious. A dog, of course. My second choice would be super models.
Q. What was your best Halloween costume?
A. I never had one I was proud of.
Q. What's the bravest thing you've done?
A. Fought bullies, pulled a woman from a burning car that had crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me, run back opening game kick offs, married a woman with three kids.
Q. What's the most fun family vacation you've had?
A. Camp outs.
Q. What's the luckiest thing that's ever happened to you?
A. Surviving my twenties and early thirties with no long term damage.
Q. What's your best secret skill?
A. When taking off my undershorts, I drop them onto one foot and use that foot to flip the shorts into the air. I then spin about and catch the shorts behind my back. I rarely miss.
Q. What was your favorite toy as a kid?
A. The girl nextdoor. No, seriously? A ball, any ball.
Q. What's the best gift you ever gave someone?
A. I can think of several. They were gifts given for no special occasion.
Q. What's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?
A. There were many. I used to embarrass easily. I remember once walking out of the locker room where our football coach had just cautioned us not to reveal our game plan to anyone. I was walking along telling the whole thing to my girlfriend when I realized the coach was walking right behind me. I like ta died, I tell ya, I like ta died!
Q. If your house were on fire, what's the first thing you would grab on your way out?
A. People and pets first. After that I'd snag my wallet and money clip and after that my computer memory storage thingamajig.
Q. What's the one place you've never been, but really want to go?
A. The place: St. Andrews Golf Course. The event: The Final Four.
Q. When you were young, what did you want to be when you grew up?
A. Taller. Seriously. I don't remember aspiring to anything beyond the fantasy of professional athletics.
Q. What's one of your all time favorite books?
A. There are so many. As a kid "The Jungle Book." Now, "To Kill a Mocking Bird."
Q. What's one of your all time favorite movies?
A. Dracula
Q. What's the worst job you ever had?
A. Infantryman in the Army.
Q. Have you ever played a funny practical joke on someone?
A. Yes. And mostly I'm sorry about that.
Q. What's the best advice anyone ever gave you?
A. Same advice I give: Hang in there.
Q. What's your favorite board game?
A. Scrabble. Hands down.
Q. If you could live outside the U.S. where would you live?
A. Here in Panama, the south of France, Belize, and no doubt lots of other places.
Q. What's the best birthday you ever had?
A. 50 was fun. Woowoo Charly and me and our two sons went sky diving.
Q. If you could have any animal in the world as a pet, what would it be?
A. Be serious. A dog, of course. My second choice would be super models.
Q. What was your best Halloween costume?
A. I never had one I was proud of.
Q. What's the bravest thing you've done?
A. Fought bullies, pulled a woman from a burning car that had crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me, run back opening game kick offs, married a woman with three kids.
Q. What's the most fun family vacation you've had?
A. Camp outs.
Q. What's the luckiest thing that's ever happened to you?
A. Surviving my twenties and early thirties with no long term damage.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Things I've Said
Since I am not going to last much longer, another 30 years tops, I thought I ought to leave a list for my children who are already old and forgetful themselves, of "things my father said" just in case they are asked. Of course, to this point I haven't really said much, so I've got to get busy saying things in a hurry or the list is going to be too short to bother with. That in mind, I will start some future blogs saying stuff that may have nothing to do with the blog itself. Just thought I'd warn you. Here are a few things I've said in the past and probably posted on a blog here and there:
Old men like old whiskey, old women like desserts.
The only discipline worth a damn is self discipline.
Life without an education is Burger King.
Blah blah blah is going to happen barring unforeseen circumcisions.
The best combination of flavors is red wine and dark chocolate.
Beer is made of three things, water, alcohol and beer flavoring. The problem with light beers is that they have too much of the first and not enough of the other two.
There are only three things you can do in any situation, change it, live with it or leave it.
If any thing I've said comes to your mind, I will be A. amazed and B. happy to post it.
Old men like old whiskey, old women like desserts.
The only discipline worth a damn is self discipline.
Life without an education is Burger King.
Blah blah blah is going to happen barring unforeseen circumcisions.
The best combination of flavors is red wine and dark chocolate.
Beer is made of three things, water, alcohol and beer flavoring. The problem with light beers is that they have too much of the first and not enough of the other two.
There are only three things you can do in any situation, change it, live with it or leave it.
If any thing I've said comes to your mind, I will be A. amazed and B. happy to post it.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Revised Dragon Tale
Sightings
By Doc Walton
In a southern part of the country with the dawn breaking softly, early rising flannel shirted men in boats watched both the skies and their bass-seeking, nylon lines. One of them, only the day before, had sworn to seeing a UFO. Catching a big bass would be nice, the others reasoned, but seeing a flying saucer would be even better.
Not far from them, where lake becomes swamp and swamp morphs into jungle, Livingston Laughsalot walked along a trail unconsciously whistling a happy tune not only because sad tunes are difficult to hike to, but because he was mostly an up-beat sort of fellow. If you asked him, though, Livingston would tell you that his name was a misnomer. He wasn't really a guy subject to bouts of strong laughter. He was a subtler sort, more of a chuckle and grin kind of guy or, at least, that's how he saw it. He had once considered changing his name to reflect his opinion, but Chucklesalot was a tad too circus clown and lacked the rolls-off-the-tongue alliteration provided by Livingston Laughsalot.
On this particular day, Livingston was tramping through the jungle in search of a dragon to mess with and thus spend the day in a pleasurable fashion. He was aware that dragon messing as a term didn't have quite the flair of dragon slaying, but the thought of trying to kill one of the elusive, great beasts gave him the Screaming Willies. And, if you've ever had the Screaming Willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth. Screaming Willies are what happens to you when your Heebie Jeebies get out of hand.
Livingston had learned that dragons were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-That who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with heat seeking missiles; this latter a thing in clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons a long time ago. Dragons would, in fact, play any game you could think of and especially those that involved hiding, hunting, flying and, in some cases, frying. What you needed to do, Livingston deduced on his first Encounter of the Third Kind when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was accidentally doing just then... stand your ground. If you did that and were weaponless, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy encouraging another to play. After that, it was just a short jump to teaching the big green, winged, lads and lassies how to perform small tricks like play-dead, barrel-rolls and light-my-cigar from a hundred yards away. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil. Of course, they could also scorch an entire building if they wanted to, but they seldom wanted to. They were in truth pacifists and only fought in self defense. One of the things they couldn't do was fly along while spitting fire, so put from your mind the pictures of them doing exactly that. They would have to fly into their own flames and that’s not likely to happen. You also will never see anyone riding a dragon, so perish that thought as well. Dragons would shake riders free as easy as you would flick a bug with your fingernail. Additionally, if you take a close look at the sharp ridges on a dragon’s back, you will see they are not constructed for passengers. Even if you could sit a dragon, the vacuum created by the down stroke of its wings would suck you off in a blink. And I mean your blink, not the slow, lazy blink of a dragon.
Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, the dragon he had dubbed Fearful because of her at-first shyness, swooped out of the grey and landed in a clearing before him. She then made an exaggerated stage bow which caused Laughsalot to grin and chuckle; a clear signal to her that the game was on. She scurried quickly then, well, as quickly as a dragon can, into the nearby jungle in search of a place to hide. Flying, it should be noted, is not allowed in Dragon Hide-and-Seek unless one is playing with other dragons.
Livingston counted off the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be an easy task, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of treading lightly using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora, becoming nearly invisible. To make the game fair and their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that bush and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day, though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into further giggles, another entity prowled the jungle greenery and this one was not in search of play.
*
Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. He also had a gun.
The path from the pub where Snarly had breakfasted to his abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with the Lord's inebriation was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all the world at that moment was to shoot something, anything really, so he could watch it suffer and die. This act he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the “I’m so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench” plateau which, truth be known, was as high as his spirits ever got. Weaving and stumbling through the bush, Snarly’s foot caught a jungle creeper that caused him to fall. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, he nevertheless realized a ray of hope as his red, pocked and swollen nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong and fresh. There was, surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
*
Livingston Laughsalot being, as we have said, a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off in search I go” a catchy ditty that a dwarf hiding behind an enormous mushroom had years ago put to memory and passed on to other dwarves who did the same with, of course, further elaborations. Eventually the song was co-opted and found its way to the sound track of a Disney film whose artists plagiarized from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry “Gotcha!” Gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world’s loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that eruption and didn’t mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern, charred at the edges, out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful’s leap at any moment. What he didn’t expect was the sudden clap of a gunshot. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
*
Snarly Flatulence was a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot - he being a member of royalty and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience - he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he on this occasion realized he had just put one over the head of Livingston, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Laughsalot were not the best of friends. Although they were the only two residents of the area aware of dragons, this mutual knowledge only served to divide them. Snarly hated the beasts, Livingston as we have seen, did not. Seeing the movement of the brush receding ahead of him, Snarly realized he had missed whatever was out there, so fueled by rage and further gulps of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being in his case, a loose description of staggering with intent.
*
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family of Texas, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occur below. It wasn’t until mankind took flight in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons understood there was about them now a power that could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to man taking to the air, there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans, but you wouldn’t know that to hear them tell it. Even before the moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and thus, so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth’s private places were you likely to encounter any of the beasts, or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one.
Fearful was not really so. Fearful was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaken her natural dragon reticence for timidity. Fearful’s actual name, that is, the one given her by her parents, was Klaxgrezeck which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Only the boldest dragons would approach a species as violent as humans had proved to be. Seeing Laughsalot rush towards her now – a testament to his own bravery – pushed her dragon adrenals to power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons, she snatched Livingston to her breast and held him squirming there. She was urging him to be calm, telling him she had everything under control, but to Laughsalot her pleas sounded more like a NASCAR pile up, close up, than reassurance. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away, but with this idea failing, he realized he had no Plan B. Oh well, he thought, noting he was unhurt and so, reluctantly relaxing, let’s just see what happens next.
*
Fearful had no back-up plan either, but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was more than sufficient. Using her laser accurate spit fire talent, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary. And there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle...if by fleeing, I mean falling, rising, stumbling, falling, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, being hard canvas affairs. were afire and Snarly was swatting at them as he fled, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail, though, as the heat reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly...and given his rank, royally, pissed.
*
The wide trail left by the fleeing Lord’s corpulent self snaked its way back through the jungle to a bar cleverly, perhaps, named the Trails End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Lord Snarly Flatulence, the customer was a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trail’s End figured he wasn’t drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn’t necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on while downing one drink after another, the bar’s other patrons, the bass fishermen in from their day on the lake, started to take more and more notice. They began to wonder if Snarly had actually seen something and wasn’t just a raving lunatic, although they were not ruling that possibility out either. “What did this, ah, dragon look like?” one of them asked, “And where did you see it?”
Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his natural state of being, puffed himself up and was about to elaborate when the entire roof of the single storied bar was suddenly peeled back and tossed aside, filling the air with wood and shingle debris. Most of the fishermen dove under tables or ran for the door, but a few, too frightened to move, caught a glimpse of Snarly rising through the dust and disappearing into a sky filled with...was that smoke? They would, later, be the ones to tell the tale.
*
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to The Trail’s End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees, unwilling to take flight and leave her pal on the ground. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions. What really needed to happen he assured her, for the good of all, was for the Lord to be relocated somewhere else; anywhere else distant would, in fact, do. It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself that Fearful flew off to parts unknown with Snarly held firmly in her grasp. She would be gone for a couple of days, leaving no trace of her journey unless you happened to notice that marching bands from here to there were curiously missing their largest brass instruments.
Back at the Trail’s End, investigators didn’t know what to think of the fish story they were being told,; a story about a hovering saucer, a green creature, red eyes and a beam of light that sucked old Snarly up and gone. Nobody, of course, not there when it happened, believed a word of it and the incident was officially reported as a random tornado.
Doc Walton September 10, 2010
By Doc Walton
In a southern part of the country with the dawn breaking softly, early rising flannel shirted men in boats watched both the skies and their bass-seeking, nylon lines. One of them, only the day before, had sworn to seeing a UFO. Catching a big bass would be nice, the others reasoned, but seeing a flying saucer would be even better.
Not far from them, where lake becomes swamp and swamp morphs into jungle, Livingston Laughsalot walked along a trail unconsciously whistling a happy tune not only because sad tunes are difficult to hike to, but because he was mostly an up-beat sort of fellow. If you asked him, though, Livingston would tell you that his name was a misnomer. He wasn't really a guy subject to bouts of strong laughter. He was a subtler sort, more of a chuckle and grin kind of guy or, at least, that's how he saw it. He had once considered changing his name to reflect his opinion, but Chucklesalot was a tad too circus clown and lacked the rolls-off-the-tongue alliteration provided by Livingston Laughsalot.
On this particular day, Livingston was tramping through the jungle in search of a dragon to mess with and thus spend the day in a pleasurable fashion. He was aware that dragon messing as a term didn't have quite the flair of dragon slaying, but the thought of trying to kill one of the elusive, great beasts gave him the Screaming Willies. And, if you've ever had the Screaming Willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth. Screaming Willies are what happens to you when your Heebie Jeebies get out of hand.
Livingston had learned that dragons were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-That who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with heat seeking missiles; this latter a thing in clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons a long time ago. Dragons would, in fact, play any game you could think of and especially those that involved hiding, hunting, flying and, in some cases, frying. What you needed to do, Livingston deduced on his first Encounter of the Third Kind when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was accidentally doing just then... stand your ground. If you did that and were weaponless, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy encouraging another to play. After that, it was just a short jump to teaching the big green, winged, lads and lassies how to perform small tricks like play-dead, barrel-rolls and light-my-cigar from a hundred yards away. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil. Of course, they could also scorch an entire building if they wanted to, but they seldom wanted to. They were in truth pacifists and only fought in self defense. One of the things they couldn't do was fly along while spitting fire, so put from your mind the pictures of them doing exactly that. They would have to fly into their own flames and that’s not likely to happen. You also will never see anyone riding a dragon, so perish that thought as well. Dragons would shake riders free as easy as you would flick a bug with your fingernail. Additionally, if you take a close look at the sharp ridges on a dragon’s back, you will see they are not constructed for passengers. Even if you could sit a dragon, the vacuum created by the down stroke of its wings would suck you off in a blink. And I mean your blink, not the slow, lazy blink of a dragon.
Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, the dragon he had dubbed Fearful because of her at-first shyness, swooped out of the grey and landed in a clearing before him. She then made an exaggerated stage bow which caused Laughsalot to grin and chuckle; a clear signal to her that the game was on. She scurried quickly then, well, as quickly as a dragon can, into the nearby jungle in search of a place to hide. Flying, it should be noted, is not allowed in Dragon Hide-and-Seek unless one is playing with other dragons.
Livingston counted off the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be an easy task, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of treading lightly using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora, becoming nearly invisible. To make the game fair and their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that bush and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day, though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into further giggles, another entity prowled the jungle greenery and this one was not in search of play.
*
Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. He also had a gun.
The path from the pub where Snarly had breakfasted to his abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with the Lord's inebriation was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all the world at that moment was to shoot something, anything really, so he could watch it suffer and die. This act he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the “I’m so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench” plateau which, truth be known, was as high as his spirits ever got. Weaving and stumbling through the bush, Snarly’s foot caught a jungle creeper that caused him to fall. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, he nevertheless realized a ray of hope as his red, pocked and swollen nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong and fresh. There was, surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.
*
Livingston Laughsalot being, as we have said, a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off in search I go” a catchy ditty that a dwarf hiding behind an enormous mushroom had years ago put to memory and passed on to other dwarves who did the same with, of course, further elaborations. Eventually the song was co-opted and found its way to the sound track of a Disney film whose artists plagiarized from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry “Gotcha!” Gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world’s loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that eruption and didn’t mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern, charred at the edges, out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful’s leap at any moment. What he didn’t expect was the sudden clap of a gunshot. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
*
Snarly Flatulence was a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot - he being a member of royalty and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience - he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he on this occasion realized he had just put one over the head of Livingston, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Laughsalot were not the best of friends. Although they were the only two residents of the area aware of dragons, this mutual knowledge only served to divide them. Snarly hated the beasts, Livingston as we have seen, did not. Seeing the movement of the brush receding ahead of him, Snarly realized he had missed whatever was out there, so fueled by rage and further gulps of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being in his case, a loose description of staggering with intent.
*
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family of Texas, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occur below. It wasn’t until mankind took flight in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons understood there was about them now a power that could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to man taking to the air, there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans, but you wouldn’t know that to hear them tell it. Even before the moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and thus, so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth’s private places were you likely to encounter any of the beasts, or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one.
Fearful was not really so. Fearful was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaken her natural dragon reticence for timidity. Fearful’s actual name, that is, the one given her by her parents, was Klaxgrezeck which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Only the boldest dragons would approach a species as violent as humans had proved to be. Seeing Laughsalot rush towards her now – a testament to his own bravery – pushed her dragon adrenals to power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons, she snatched Livingston to her breast and held him squirming there. She was urging him to be calm, telling him she had everything under control, but to Laughsalot her pleas sounded more like a NASCAR pile up, close up, than reassurance. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away, but with this idea failing, he realized he had no Plan B. Oh well, he thought, noting he was unhurt and so, reluctantly relaxing, let’s just see what happens next.
*
Fearful had no back-up plan either, but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was more than sufficient. Using her laser accurate spit fire talent, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary. And there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle...if by fleeing, I mean falling, rising, stumbling, falling, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, being hard canvas affairs. were afire and Snarly was swatting at them as he fled, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail, though, as the heat reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly...and given his rank, royally, pissed.
*
The wide trail left by the fleeing Lord’s corpulent self snaked its way back through the jungle to a bar cleverly, perhaps, named the Trails End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Lord Snarly Flatulence, the customer was a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trail’s End figured he wasn’t drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn’t necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on while downing one drink after another, the bar’s other patrons, the bass fishermen in from their day on the lake, started to take more and more notice. They began to wonder if Snarly had actually seen something and wasn’t just a raving lunatic, although they were not ruling that possibility out either. “What did this, ah, dragon look like?” one of them asked, “And where did you see it?”
Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his natural state of being, puffed himself up and was about to elaborate when the entire roof of the single storied bar was suddenly peeled back and tossed aside, filling the air with wood and shingle debris. Most of the fishermen dove under tables or ran for the door, but a few, too frightened to move, caught a glimpse of Snarly rising through the dust and disappearing into a sky filled with...was that smoke? They would, later, be the ones to tell the tale.
*
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to The Trail’s End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees, unwilling to take flight and leave her pal on the ground. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions. What really needed to happen he assured her, for the good of all, was for the Lord to be relocated somewhere else; anywhere else distant would, in fact, do. It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself that Fearful flew off to parts unknown with Snarly held firmly in her grasp. She would be gone for a couple of days, leaving no trace of her journey unless you happened to notice that marching bands from here to there were curiously missing their largest brass instruments.
Back at the Trail’s End, investigators didn’t know what to think of the fish story they were being told,; a story about a hovering saucer, a green creature, red eyes and a beam of light that sucked old Snarly up and gone. Nobody, of course, not there when it happened, believed a word of it and the incident was officially reported as a random tornado.
Doc Walton September 10, 2010
Thursday, September 09, 2010
The Drinks Are On Me.
Okay, I'm taking all the advice and doing that healthy thing.
Everybody knows by now that we should all drink 8 glasses of water a day.
So I did that.
I have recently read that older people should drink three glasses of milk per day, preferably skim or one percent.
So I did that.
It has also been highly recommended that we all drink 2 or 3 cups of green tea per day for its ability to fend off free radicals. (As opposed to those in cages I suppose.)
So I did that.
Everyone knows that fruit juices are a daily must; a glass or two for vitamin C.
So I did that.
You may have read, as I did, that people who drink coffee sustain their sex lives longer than those who don't. Three cups in the morning sounds about right to me.
So I did that.
You may have also read, as I did, that people who consume 3 to 5 ounces of alcohol live longer than people who don't drink any alcohol at all.
So I did that. Twice to be safe.
Well sure I'm bloated, sleep deprived, and my kidneys ache, but damn, I'm healthy. Right?
Everybody knows by now that we should all drink 8 glasses of water a day.
So I did that.
I have recently read that older people should drink three glasses of milk per day, preferably skim or one percent.
So I did that.
It has also been highly recommended that we all drink 2 or 3 cups of green tea per day for its ability to fend off free radicals. (As opposed to those in cages I suppose.)
So I did that.
Everyone knows that fruit juices are a daily must; a glass or two for vitamin C.
So I did that.
You may have read, as I did, that people who drink coffee sustain their sex lives longer than those who don't. Three cups in the morning sounds about right to me.
So I did that.
You may have also read, as I did, that people who consume 3 to 5 ounces of alcohol live longer than people who don't drink any alcohol at all.
So I did that. Twice to be safe.
Well sure I'm bloated, sleep deprived, and my kidneys ache, but damn, I'm healthy. Right?
Friday, September 03, 2010
News of Import More Or Less. Okay, Just Less.
Water began trickling once again from the faucets at our casa late yesterday afternoon following another three day absence. To celebrate its appearance I washed all the piled up glasses, dishes and silverware in the sink, because I'm a guy who knows how to party down when the occasion calls for it.
HOLD ON THERE RUNNING MOUTH WITH YOUR RUNNING WATER BRAGGADOCIO!
Woowoo Charly has just informed me el agua is gone again. I should note also, so I will, that we have plenty of water OUTSIDE of the house. It rains every afternoon. I will say that again. It rains EVERY afternoon. And, sometimes long into the night. Lloyd Crikeydude, our local weather honcho tells us that August had 26 inches of rainfall greater than August of '09. More than double that of '09, actually, which is no surprise considering that May, June, and July and maybe even further back than then (I like that "than then") - I'm too lazy to check - also had double up increases. Climate change, climate schmange say the dubious doubters. I, on the other hand, say THEY are all wet. Well, they would be anyway, if they lived here. And, of course, it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. I blame Bush.
In other vital news of import comparable to the realization that mankind, that most favored of God's creations (I'm told) can in fact fuck things up royally, come these tidbits of infornacamation: Zendoc and Woowoo Charly bought new sneakers (That's tennis shoes for those of you who don"t come from the "sneakers" parts of the world) yesterday for absolutely no reason whatsoever other than their old sneakers being trashed beyond repair. To round out this afternoon of frivolous shopping, the now fashionable couple dined on Fried chicken from Nelvis' Fried Chicken and Other Stuff Eating Establishment. Yum. Tonight, in order to keep the eat, drink, be merry and wear new sneakers roll, rolling, the happy couple will be attending "The BCP Does Broadway", a "Musical Revue" at the BCP theater, formerly Snoopy's Restaurant. BCP, I'm pretty sure, stands for Born-again Christian Polygamists, but I probably need to verify that with someone more in the know. Football season did, in fact, begin last night although it was only the college version which is almost real football but not quite. The pros, those men playing in the NFL, which stands for Not Financially Lacking, begin next week. Here, because it is mandatory when writing about anything pro football related, I am obliged to mention Tim Tebow, so I will. If Tim Tebow were Tim Elbow, he would be a body part.
I will close now, because, clearly, I have gone too far.
HOLD ON THERE RUNNING MOUTH WITH YOUR RUNNING WATER BRAGGADOCIO!
Woowoo Charly has just informed me el agua is gone again. I should note also, so I will, that we have plenty of water OUTSIDE of the house. It rains every afternoon. I will say that again. It rains EVERY afternoon. And, sometimes long into the night. Lloyd Crikeydude, our local weather honcho tells us that August had 26 inches of rainfall greater than August of '09. More than double that of '09, actually, which is no surprise considering that May, June, and July and maybe even further back than then (I like that "than then") - I'm too lazy to check - also had double up increases. Climate change, climate schmange say the dubious doubters. I, on the other hand, say THEY are all wet. Well, they would be anyway, if they lived here. And, of course, it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. I blame Bush.
In other vital news of import comparable to the realization that mankind, that most favored of God's creations (I'm told) can in fact fuck things up royally, come these tidbits of infornacamation: Zendoc and Woowoo Charly bought new sneakers (That's tennis shoes for those of you who don"t come from the "sneakers" parts of the world) yesterday for absolutely no reason whatsoever other than their old sneakers being trashed beyond repair. To round out this afternoon of frivolous shopping, the now fashionable couple dined on Fried chicken from Nelvis' Fried Chicken and Other Stuff Eating Establishment. Yum. Tonight, in order to keep the eat, drink, be merry and wear new sneakers roll, rolling, the happy couple will be attending "The BCP Does Broadway", a "Musical Revue" at the BCP theater, formerly Snoopy's Restaurant. BCP, I'm pretty sure, stands for Born-again Christian Polygamists, but I probably need to verify that with someone more in the know. Football season did, in fact, begin last night although it was only the college version which is almost real football but not quite. The pros, those men playing in the NFL, which stands for Not Financially Lacking, begin next week. Here, because it is mandatory when writing about anything pro football related, I am obliged to mention Tim Tebow, so I will. If Tim Tebow were Tim Elbow, he would be a body part.
I will close now, because, clearly, I have gone too far.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
A Day Well Spent
I spent almost the entire day, yesterday, sitting on my butt. This is only partially unusual. That first part, the "almost the entire day," is the unusual part. Although I frequently spend mornings at the keyboard, most afternoons will find me more or less upright. The usual part is that "sitting on my butt" part. If you have ever tried sitting on a body part other than your butt, you know what I'm talking about. I could have, therefore, said I spent the entire day sitting, but then what would I have written? I mean one thing follows another as surely as the day follows the night...or is it the night follows the day. Seriously, which one came first?
And speaking of that, let's talk about werewolf movies. (If you are looking for the segue, you will have to read between the lines where I have imparted all the wisdom of the universe including the run-up to "Silver Bullet" the movie I am going to talk about.) Last night while sitting on my elbow, I watched the film "Silver Bullet" whose story was taken from a Stephen King novel of the same name. Although werewolves lack the sex and box office appeal of vampires, they do provide a greater fright factor per frame than the blood suckers. This is, perhaps, because most audience members would prefer to have their blood drained through small puncture wounds on their necks than to be torn to shreds by fang and claw. Anyway...well not maybe any way, but some way, I found this picture as entertaining a werewolf flick as I have seen to date, even as I note that the metamorphosis of the werewolf in "Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein" scared me more than anything, well, pretty much ever. Of course, I was only seven at the time. (Writer's note: I'm talking vicarious fears here. In real life I've had things like children, mortgages, and Republican presidents that would have most people screaming in panic.) I have noted somewhere, possibly only in the padded room that is my mind, that in order for a horror/terror movie to be successful, it must establish characters the audience really cares for and then, and only then, put them in peril. Monsters running about doing in great mobs of people early in the flick numb viewers rather than heighten their fear. A small, enclosed setting helps, which is to say that a monster loose in New York where random prey is available is not as terrifying as the one on a small island where only the people the audience cares about reside. (Think "Alien" on the space ship, Nostromo, vs. Godzilla stomping about Tokyo.) Music and sound effects are critical too. I will remember the soundtrack from "The Thing" (1951 version) and Carpenter's "Halloween" for the rest of my life and, who knows, maybe in the beyond where I will need their familiar strains to blot out that insipid harp noise. Gratuitous loud noises that startle the audience are another big no no. Cheezy flicks use them at the end of a scene when cutting to the next. This gets really annoying. If the music and noise level rise, something important better be happening on the screen. What I'm getting at... finally, you say, is that "Silver Bullet" met all of my criteria for a good fright flick and is worth the watch if you come across it. I give it five dismembered corpses out of five.
And speaking of that, let's talk about werewolf movies. (If you are looking for the segue, you will have to read between the lines where I have imparted all the wisdom of the universe including the run-up to "Silver Bullet" the movie I am going to talk about.) Last night while sitting on my elbow, I watched the film "Silver Bullet" whose story was taken from a Stephen King novel of the same name. Although werewolves lack the sex and box office appeal of vampires, they do provide a greater fright factor per frame than the blood suckers. This is, perhaps, because most audience members would prefer to have their blood drained through small puncture wounds on their necks than to be torn to shreds by fang and claw. Anyway...well not maybe any way, but some way, I found this picture as entertaining a werewolf flick as I have seen to date, even as I note that the metamorphosis of the werewolf in "Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein" scared me more than anything, well, pretty much ever. Of course, I was only seven at the time. (Writer's note: I'm talking vicarious fears here. In real life I've had things like children, mortgages, and Republican presidents that would have most people screaming in panic.) I have noted somewhere, possibly only in the padded room that is my mind, that in order for a horror/terror movie to be successful, it must establish characters the audience really cares for and then, and only then, put them in peril. Monsters running about doing in great mobs of people early in the flick numb viewers rather than heighten their fear. A small, enclosed setting helps, which is to say that a monster loose in New York where random prey is available is not as terrifying as the one on a small island where only the people the audience cares about reside. (Think "Alien" on the space ship, Nostromo, vs. Godzilla stomping about Tokyo.) Music and sound effects are critical too. I will remember the soundtrack from "The Thing" (1951 version) and Carpenter's "Halloween" for the rest of my life and, who knows, maybe in the beyond where I will need their familiar strains to blot out that insipid harp noise. Gratuitous loud noises that startle the audience are another big no no. Cheezy flicks use them at the end of a scene when cutting to the next. This gets really annoying. If the music and noise level rise, something important better be happening on the screen. What I'm getting at... finally, you say, is that "Silver Bullet" met all of my criteria for a good fright flick and is worth the watch if you come across it. I give it five dismembered corpses out of five.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Update
Ahhh! That shower felt gooood. Even if it was colder than a Neo-cons heart.
Water service was restored late Saturday afternoon. Our agua calentador (water heater), however, having vacationed from working for a week, now refuses to return to the job. I have a call in to our plumber, but alas, it is Sunday and I have only achieved a message left to his answering machine.
El Hombre Lobo, The WOLFMAN, Benecio del Torro starring as the beast, was everything you could want in a remake of a B Movie classic. A grizzled Anthony Hopkins co-stars and gives his usual most excellent performance portraying Benny's father and the villain of the pic. The film's photography is terrific and had me wondering if a Blue-ray gismo will be my next techno upgrade. Every scene was moody, atmospheric and almost three dimensional. There were no real scares, of course, for we veteran horror buffs, (one indication of a movie's ability to successfully frighten its general audience is that it will generate the sale of toys and games related to it. Remember all the sharks after Jaws and the alien...dolls(?) after Alien and its sequels?) but there were thrills and acting strong enough to have us invested in the characters and storyline. I gave it four Eviscerated Corpses out of a possible five.
Football season will begin in a week and the weird, other-world, but somehow still lifelike feeling that exists when it is not here will fade and be replaced by the knowledge that all is again right in the universe. I can hardly wait.
Water service was restored late Saturday afternoon. Our agua calentador (water heater), however, having vacationed from working for a week, now refuses to return to the job. I have a call in to our plumber, but alas, it is Sunday and I have only achieved a message left to his answering machine.
El Hombre Lobo, The WOLFMAN, Benecio del Torro starring as the beast, was everything you could want in a remake of a B Movie classic. A grizzled Anthony Hopkins co-stars and gives his usual most excellent performance portraying Benny's father and the villain of the pic. The film's photography is terrific and had me wondering if a Blue-ray gismo will be my next techno upgrade. Every scene was moody, atmospheric and almost three dimensional. There were no real scares, of course, for we veteran horror buffs, (one indication of a movie's ability to successfully frighten its general audience is that it will generate the sale of toys and games related to it. Remember all the sharks after Jaws and the alien...dolls(?) after Alien and its sequels?) but there were thrills and acting strong enough to have us invested in the characters and storyline. I gave it four Eviscerated Corpses out of a possible five.
Football season will begin in a week and the weird, other-world, but somehow still lifelike feeling that exists when it is not here will fade and be replaced by the knowledge that all is again right in the universe. I can hardly wait.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Water Water Everywhere...
And then, on the fourth day, the Lord said, "Let there be water." Unfortunately, Juan, working down at the aqueduct, said, "Not so fast there Big Fella!"
RTGFKAR became aware that our water had been turned on yesterday in the early eve. His awareness of this happy event was funneled through his socks which had suddenly become wet. Because he is, at the moment, okay all the time, hearing impaired, RTGFKAR was watching television with the volume setting used by SETI when trying to attract an alien response from outer space, consequently, leaving him unable to hear the water pouring from the nearby guest bathroom's spigot. That the spigot had been turned on and, further, that the faucet itself was turned sideways and thus was dumping its water flow onto the counter and then to the floor was a consequence of my having fallen from a roof and broken my back when I was nineteen years old. How so?, you might ask, and just because you might, I'm going to tell you. You see, now that I am older than the dust bunnies under Pyramid beds, I have what is technically known in medical circles as a Bad Back. Because of this bad back business, I list bending and lifting, either separately or together, as things to be avoided whenever possible. As you might or might not know but will for sure in a minute, we have had no water service to our house since Sunday. No tsk tsk so sads are necessary, we can handle it. RTGfKAR and I go down to our nearby quebrada and fill tubs with water for cleaning and toilet flushing. Potable water we get from neighbor and pal Dalys who has a well. It's that toilet flushing thing linked to my back that caused the problem. Being a be prepared former Boy Scout drop out, I had brought a bucket to the bathroom filled with water to use as a flushing aid. To those of you who don't know that a bucket of water dumped into your john will make it flush, I can only say, whoa Dude, sorry. Because a bucket of water is a heavy sort of thing, I decided to not put it on the floor where I would have to bend to pick it up. I decided, instead, to set it in the bathroom sink where I or others could grab it and use it without subsequent back strain. The sink's spigot, its griffo, I think the word is in Spanish, I turned sideways to allow room for the bucket. Unbeknownst (I like that word) to me, I also turned on the cold water faucet as I did so and, hence, enabled the mini water disaster that was to follow.
When RTGFKAR got up from his viewing during a commercial break to forage for a snack, he and his sandals and socks found the water streaming from under the bathroom door. As it was raining at the time he feared it might be water seeping through an exterior wall but was happy, more or less, to find it was only the sink and bucket problem I have herein described. He and I then set about cleaning up the mess, he with a water vac of some kind and me with a mop and pail. It took less than half an hour and it was a task we didn't really mind as it meant, Hooray, our water is back on!
It was shortly after that that Juan said to God not so fast and shut us off anew.
I would be remiss if I didn't also mention that Enrique down at the power plant - to demonstrate his power, I suppose - turned us off as well for the rest of the night. He, though, I also suppose, being a gentler, kinder sort of bloke, lit us back up first thing in the morning.
This saga will continue if it continues.
RTGFKAR became aware that our water had been turned on yesterday in the early eve. His awareness of this happy event was funneled through his socks which had suddenly become wet. Because he is, at the moment, okay all the time, hearing impaired, RTGFKAR was watching television with the volume setting used by SETI when trying to attract an alien response from outer space, consequently, leaving him unable to hear the water pouring from the nearby guest bathroom's spigot. That the spigot had been turned on and, further, that the faucet itself was turned sideways and thus was dumping its water flow onto the counter and then to the floor was a consequence of my having fallen from a roof and broken my back when I was nineteen years old. How so?, you might ask, and just because you might, I'm going to tell you. You see, now that I am older than the dust bunnies under Pyramid beds, I have what is technically known in medical circles as a Bad Back. Because of this bad back business, I list bending and lifting, either separately or together, as things to be avoided whenever possible. As you might or might not know but will for sure in a minute, we have had no water service to our house since Sunday. No tsk tsk so sads are necessary, we can handle it. RTGfKAR and I go down to our nearby quebrada and fill tubs with water for cleaning and toilet flushing. Potable water we get from neighbor and pal Dalys who has a well. It's that toilet flushing thing linked to my back that caused the problem. Being a be prepared former Boy Scout drop out, I had brought a bucket to the bathroom filled with water to use as a flushing aid. To those of you who don't know that a bucket of water dumped into your john will make it flush, I can only say, whoa Dude, sorry. Because a bucket of water is a heavy sort of thing, I decided to not put it on the floor where I would have to bend to pick it up. I decided, instead, to set it in the bathroom sink where I or others could grab it and use it without subsequent back strain. The sink's spigot, its griffo, I think the word is in Spanish, I turned sideways to allow room for the bucket. Unbeknownst (I like that word) to me, I also turned on the cold water faucet as I did so and, hence, enabled the mini water disaster that was to follow.
When RTGFKAR got up from his viewing during a commercial break to forage for a snack, he and his sandals and socks found the water streaming from under the bathroom door. As it was raining at the time he feared it might be water seeping through an exterior wall but was happy, more or less, to find it was only the sink and bucket problem I have herein described. He and I then set about cleaning up the mess, he with a water vac of some kind and me with a mop and pail. It took less than half an hour and it was a task we didn't really mind as it meant, Hooray, our water is back on!
It was shortly after that that Juan said to God not so fast and shut us off anew.
I would be remiss if I didn't also mention that Enrique down at the power plant - to demonstrate his power, I suppose - turned us off as well for the rest of the night. He, though, I also suppose, being a gentler, kinder sort of bloke, lit us back up first thing in the morning.
This saga will continue if it continues.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
RTGFKAR's Tale
Here is a guest shot by RTGFKAR.
The saga of Hospital Chiriquà (OSS-PEE-TAL CHEEROKEE)
About four weeks into my ear problems; let’s borrow the understated term from our friends across the pond and refer to them “the troubles”; a resurgence of those old demons, “Wha?”, Huh?” and “Say again?”, I mean much more so than the expected aural infirmities of old age would allow for, told me that the treatment was not working.
Allow me to recap, or rather, having not broached the subject before, cap.
Having survived a childhood peppered with occasional bouts of earaches so severe I remember crying myself to sleep at night , and made it to adulthood, those memories faded, only occasionally surfacing when the inevitable cold or flu bug visited, their choice of guest quarters for the duration being my ears.
The cases were infrequent enough and those bad memories might have vanished into complete disremembrance, but for the next otic happening four decades into my mortal coildom.
Waking up one morning, I found I had lost the hearing in one ear. The upshot, to skip all the concern and conjecture you can imagine, was a flushing of excess earwax into a kidney-shaped pan held not-quite-tightly enough against my neck to prevent some of said agua-cum-cerumen mixture from dribbling down my neck, my shirt and my pants. A small price to pay to regain one’s hearing. Although there was also the matter of a stiff co-pay to our less-than-stellar insurance company, but that’s a rant of another choler.
When a similar situation arose a year later, experience led me to expect another flushing , preferably holding the kidney pan much tighter! Instead of the pan, though, I got a scan (cat, that is) and that feline prying into my cranium uncovered a cholesteanoma in my inner ear. Not a small hairless domesticated mammal cultivating potatoes in my ear canal, but “a growth”, the doctor said.
I wonder why doctors seem to have no idea where such a phrase leads your thoughts when they casually toss it out? But no, it was not a big Cee-little a-n-c-e-r growth or a tumor growth, I eventually discovered , but a growth of skin. My facial skin apparently forgot that it was supposed to stop growing when it reached my eardrum and so continued merrily on into my inner ear, where it proceeded to start dissolving part of that trinity of bones, the stirrup, the hammer and the sickle, that convey sound to your (or in this case, don’t convey sound to MY) hearing thingamabob.
OK, I know it’s not the hammer and sickle, I was just testing if you were paying attention.
Timpanomastoidectomy (Lets see Doc translate that into Spanish!), which sounds like the percussion section in the Johns Hopkin College marching band, or the final round question in the Lake Havasu Middle School spelling bee, was the procedure I needed to undergo.
Simply drill a hole in my head behind my ear, go in and snip-snip away the nasty growth and, oh yeah, salvage what you can of the remains of those anvil, iliad and oddessy bones with a little superglue, close up and WALLA!, good as new! (I eschew the French spelling of voila because I mean, really, how can you get ‘walla’ out of v-o-I-l-a?).
Quicker than Captain Kirk could say “Make it so!”, it was so. (I know, I know, testing again) What, however was supposed to be a short out-patient procedure (in at seven, out by three) turned into an overnighter when the anesthetic disagreed with me, leaving me groggy and nauseated beyond belief, I thought it went rather well.
Friends who came to give me a ride home said my dazed visage, unshaven and bandage-swathed head made me look like a Hell’s Angel after Altamont.
A couple of weeks of vertigo, lightheadedness and light-wallettedness (don’t get me started on that co-pay business again, this one was largantic!) and I was good as new! Well, OK, 70% good as new hearing in my left ear, but then, what’s a few more “Wha?s” among friends
Good otic hygiene and the use of Debrox for earwax removal and hydrogen peroxide for much cheaper ditto got me through the next two decades and into the third.
Now we’re getting to the more recent part of the cap. A couple of months ago that ole debil “Wha?” rose his ugly head again and drove me to a local ear, nose and throat guy who nodded in Spanish, gazed into my ears , flushed out more wax with a high-pressure fire hose and prescribed antibiotics and eardrops.
My eeriness diminished but did not go entirely away and subsequent visits resulted in more flushings, more antibiotic pills and butt shots. After another week with little improvement and an up-scaling of pain, the next visit to my OT-YGN (otolaryngolgist; Hey, women have OB-GYNs right?) brought the decision that the intra-muscular shots were not strong enough and that I had to go over to Hospital Chiriquà (HC) to get a couple of intravenous shots.
That about does it for the capping (and carping) and brings us up to the present day. Since we had missed lunch, we corrected that omission before heading over to HC where I went in with bro Doc for moral and linguistic support. When we were directed to the admissions office rather than the shots-are-us department, and the woman there began pulling out forms, I suspected there was more than a shot afoot.
Turns out the ‘couple of shots’ was a regimen of drips, drops, drugs and drafts: an intravenous drip, lots of eardrops, pills and shots of drugs and , of course, drafts, courtesy of the backless hospital gown.
Not having expected an overnight visit to beautiful and lovely David (Daveed) and, having none of the necessary accouterments for an ensconsement in HC, I opted to go home, pack some stuff and return. The admission lady said she would be there until five, so I had plenty of time. I left Boquete about 2:30.. Since there is only one route from Boquete to David and since time was important, you can guess that all did not go smoothly.
Just past Dolega, traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a stop, to only intermittently moving in fits and starts. After about 50 minutes of creepy-crawling we reached the hill where the Atlas cervaseria (brewery) was. There were cars sprawled along the verge and a beer truck being towed away. Happy hour had apparently gotten out of hand.
The majority of Panamanians seem to work from 7:00 to 4:00, so the full press of Davidians trying to get home and the mass of suburbanites trying to get out of the city were being alternately routed along the one remaining lane where they had to drive as slowly as possible to rubberneck , or perhaps they were looking for some errant beer bottles.
I did make it to HC before 5:00, and, assured that some actual medications would be administered this day and I would not merely be checked in and put to bed, I checked in. No roach motel jokes, please.
Despite the fact that I had HC health coverage (note: $500 a year as opposed to the $650 a MONTH I was paying Kaiser Permanante in the US!) I had to pay a deposit. I guess to cover damage from the wild parties in the room. One’s reputation precedes one.
My coverage entitled me to a semi-private room, which was private for two days of my stay, since I had no cell-mate, er, room-mate.
Things proceeded quickly and efficiently. After I checked in to the room I was disrobed, begowned, heighted, weighted, blood pressured, deblooded and had a IV connection inserted into my hand and drugs injected, but no IV stuff.
I got ear drops, water and dinner; not bad,: ground beef, carrots, potatoes, yucca soup and pineapple yogurt, but still no IV juice. About 8:00 a nurse came in and unhooked the line I had been hooked up to. “Ahorra?” I asked, “Manana?” She replied, “Mas tarde.” Later.
This place is as quiet as a hospital. The halls are deserted and with my hearing loss there is an eerie silence over everything. Maybe the Earth has traveled through a deadly glowing comet tail and radiation has killed everyone and I am the last person alive on the planet!
Nah! The nurse just came in to hook up my IV and it’s dripping away. “Aunty Bee Ottico”, the nurse said. I wonder if I get Andy and Opie Bee Otticos, too? 9:00 PM it is.
The typical television cop/medical show IV setup looks like a big soft rubber bag with a long tube that goes into the patient’s arm. Mine had that, but between the bag and my arm was a clear plastic cylinder. The nurse would lower the cylinder below the bag, fill it, using about a quarter of the bag’s contents, inject a shot or two into a Y connection in the cylinder ( or the one in my hand) and let it drip merrily away.
Position and height was apparently important, for there was much adjusting of both and at one point the nurse asked me to lie down for the process and lowered the bed. Unlike the movies, where the patient is provided with a wheeled stand to hold the IV, that you can pull and roam around the room and halls, I couldn’t, because it was affixed to the bed frame (although the bed WAS on wheels, maybe I could… no, I’d never get it through the doorway!)
I noticed that lack of mobility one time when I neglected to pee before being hooked up and realized I was hostage to the six foot length of the IV tube. I evaluated my options:
1 remove the IV and go pee.
2 lift the whole apparatus, carry it to the John and go pee
3 Use my water cup and go pee
4 just go pee (Hey, it ain’t my bed!)
5 call the nurse
6 tough it out
I’ll let you decide which option I chose.
Under ‘thinking outside the box” I guess you could include the Catch 22 option too.
“Forty five minutes”, the nurse said it would take. It was more like an hour, given all the adjustments. Subsequent IVs did go faster after I learned to position my hand (and how to control the little plastic valve doohickey) I got a second at midnight and then 6:30AM.
I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, which might have fit nicely with the schedule here if only the sleepy-bye times and the wakey times coincided with the hospital schedule
About five different nurses visited me overnight , sticking thermometers in my ears, clamping my finger in a small device and clamping my biceps with a hydraulic strap and then listening to them scream with a stethoscope.
Breakfast. Served at 8:00; I would have expected earlier. A cup of warm milk with a tablespoon of what I took to be oatmeal floating on the bottom. I guess oatmeal is really expensive here. Fruit cup, juice (pear) two slices of lunch meat wrapped around a cheese filling and a wedge of eggy/potatoey omelet. And a cuppa, this IS Panama you know.
More clampings squeezings and stickings, I await more dripping. Oh, if you decide to have a stay here, bring shampoo. All they give you is a teeny bar of soap. There is a soap dispenser above the sink, but it hurts when you bang your head on the wall tile!
I wandered about while awaiting my meds. The drugas cart was a few doors down so I anticipated a short wait. My room was number six on the corridor from the nurses’ station with the room beyond mine the last one occupied. The hall extended down to room twelve and than a suite. Another corridor of rooms branched off near the end, which led down to another nurses’ station and more rooms. All were vacant. Doctors in Chirique must be doing a damn good job to be keeping the hospital so empty!
12:15 brought lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Chicken, rice and veggies, a piece of fried chicken, and tomatoes. Also a soup of chunks of potato, yucca and something similar to both. They all tasted the same. Oh, and a couple pieces of chicken in the soup. Pollo day at HC
After lunch another IV drip. My left hand gave out and the drip reduced to a dribble, so they had to open a new pipeline in my right. Inconvenient. I can’t write while being intravenoused, and I keep reaching for things, forgetting about the line.
My main concern now is whether I getta go home or will have to stay over another night. No one seems to know, only the scarce Dr Pazmino. I will have to buttonhole an English-speaking nurse and try to find out. Hmm, let’s see, how do you translate ‘buttonhole’?
Alrighty then. The elusive Dr Pazmino (Paz-mean-yo) ‘he no come to de osspital today”. I did, however, get a commitment from the nurses to call him. Obviously I hope not to have to stay over another night and definitely not a third, since I only brought two pair of clean underwear. What would happen if I had to drive home in dirty underwear and had an accident and had to go to the hospital? Every mother’s worst nightmare. She would turn over in her grave (an interesting concept, since she was cremated).
Alnotrighty then! Dr P showed up, examined my canalii and exclaimed “Mucho mayor!”, either “much better!” , or “I want your vote for mayor!” Even though it meant the former, he explained that the infection was so bad, that to stop the IVs too soon would result in my eventual return to HC. So I need to stay over not only this night, but the next as well! I guess I have to put my faith in modern medical science. Did I mention that I hate hospitals?
The rest of my vacation went about the same; lots of drips and drops. More chicken-heavy repasts and lots of wandering around the hospital for exercise and relief from boredom. Doc and Charly had come and recharged my underwear supply and coins for the coffee machine.
I had expanded my micro-fiefdom to include my roomie’s recliner for TV viewing (mine was a storage rack), his roll-about table for my beverage cart and in general usurping all I surveyed. I returned from a walkabout in the afternoon to find that my room had reverted to, well, a hospital room, my square footage severely restricted.
As I surmised, that afternoon brought another patient to the Ramon Arms wing of the HC resort. He was immobile and asleep the majority of he time, but had seven or eight generations of relatives attending him at all hours and his wife stayed all night, sleeping in my TV chair!
I was surprised to see the good doctor early Thursday morning; he examined me and said I could check out (easier said than done). No more medication, just go home. Were it only so easy!
I started asking nurses how to check out, the equivalent of banging my tin cup on the bars for the jailer to release me. The procedure was to start the ball rolling in the admissions office (shouldn’t there be a demissions office?), who would alert the accounting office, who would check with the nursing staff and consult various oracles. Basically, “We’ll get back to you.”
When I got back to my hood, a nurse informed me that I should go to my room where my meds were waiting. one last IV and eardrops . Apparently Dr P had meant to say no more medication not already scheduled. Well, it gave me something to do while the bureaucratic wheels ground.
When the IV finished, I asked the nurse if she would remove the IV from my arm (the third location, the second having dried up as well), but she would not. First I had to get a note from my mother and then a note from admissions which I couldn’t get until I paid up at the cashier., all of which awaited the proper portents and signs. Apparently they thought I wouldn’t be able to leave without paying if I had the IV needle still stuck in me; diabolical!
By eleven or so all the stars had aligned and I was able to bid adieu to the Chirique Resort and Spa. I still felt like I had balls of cotton stuffed in my head, and puncture scars and several prescriptions, but I had tasted my last of the chicken and yucca soup.
The overall experience wasn’t bad; the nursing care was very good, the rooms clean and modern, the food OK., not that I’d care to repeat it anytime soon. My 30% of the tab was under $500 for the three day stay;. Beats the alternative.
The saga of Hospital Chiriquà (OSS-PEE-TAL CHEEROKEE)
About four weeks into my ear problems; let’s borrow the understated term from our friends across the pond and refer to them “the troubles”; a resurgence of those old demons, “Wha?”, Huh?” and “Say again?”, I mean much more so than the expected aural infirmities of old age would allow for, told me that the treatment was not working.
Allow me to recap, or rather, having not broached the subject before, cap.
Having survived a childhood peppered with occasional bouts of earaches so severe I remember crying myself to sleep at night , and made it to adulthood, those memories faded, only occasionally surfacing when the inevitable cold or flu bug visited, their choice of guest quarters for the duration being my ears.
The cases were infrequent enough and those bad memories might have vanished into complete disremembrance, but for the next otic happening four decades into my mortal coildom.
Waking up one morning, I found I had lost the hearing in one ear. The upshot, to skip all the concern and conjecture you can imagine, was a flushing of excess earwax into a kidney-shaped pan held not-quite-tightly enough against my neck to prevent some of said agua-cum-cerumen mixture from dribbling down my neck, my shirt and my pants. A small price to pay to regain one’s hearing. Although there was also the matter of a stiff co-pay to our less-than-stellar insurance company, but that’s a rant of another choler.
When a similar situation arose a year later, experience led me to expect another flushing , preferably holding the kidney pan much tighter! Instead of the pan, though, I got a scan (cat, that is) and that feline prying into my cranium uncovered a cholesteanoma in my inner ear. Not a small hairless domesticated mammal cultivating potatoes in my ear canal, but “a growth”, the doctor said.
I wonder why doctors seem to have no idea where such a phrase leads your thoughts when they casually toss it out? But no, it was not a big Cee-little a-n-c-e-r growth or a tumor growth, I eventually discovered , but a growth of skin. My facial skin apparently forgot that it was supposed to stop growing when it reached my eardrum and so continued merrily on into my inner ear, where it proceeded to start dissolving part of that trinity of bones, the stirrup, the hammer and the sickle, that convey sound to your (or in this case, don’t convey sound to MY) hearing thingamabob.
OK, I know it’s not the hammer and sickle, I was just testing if you were paying attention.
Timpanomastoidectomy (Lets see Doc translate that into Spanish!), which sounds like the percussion section in the Johns Hopkin College marching band, or the final round question in the Lake Havasu Middle School spelling bee, was the procedure I needed to undergo.
Simply drill a hole in my head behind my ear, go in and snip-snip away the nasty growth and, oh yeah, salvage what you can of the remains of those anvil, iliad and oddessy bones with a little superglue, close up and WALLA!, good as new! (I eschew the French spelling of voila because I mean, really, how can you get ‘walla’ out of v-o-I-l-a?).
Quicker than Captain Kirk could say “Make it so!”, it was so. (I know, I know, testing again) What, however was supposed to be a short out-patient procedure (in at seven, out by three) turned into an overnighter when the anesthetic disagreed with me, leaving me groggy and nauseated beyond belief, I thought it went rather well.
Friends who came to give me a ride home said my dazed visage, unshaven and bandage-swathed head made me look like a Hell’s Angel after Altamont.
A couple of weeks of vertigo, lightheadedness and light-wallettedness (don’t get me started on that co-pay business again, this one was largantic!) and I was good as new! Well, OK, 70% good as new hearing in my left ear, but then, what’s a few more “Wha?s” among friends
Good otic hygiene and the use of Debrox for earwax removal and hydrogen peroxide for much cheaper ditto got me through the next two decades and into the third.
Now we’re getting to the more recent part of the cap. A couple of months ago that ole debil “Wha?” rose his ugly head again and drove me to a local ear, nose and throat guy who nodded in Spanish, gazed into my ears , flushed out more wax with a high-pressure fire hose and prescribed antibiotics and eardrops.
My eeriness diminished but did not go entirely away and subsequent visits resulted in more flushings, more antibiotic pills and butt shots. After another week with little improvement and an up-scaling of pain, the next visit to my OT-YGN (otolaryngolgist; Hey, women have OB-GYNs right?) brought the decision that the intra-muscular shots were not strong enough and that I had to go over to Hospital Chiriquà (HC) to get a couple of intravenous shots.
That about does it for the capping (and carping) and brings us up to the present day. Since we had missed lunch, we corrected that omission before heading over to HC where I went in with bro Doc for moral and linguistic support. When we were directed to the admissions office rather than the shots-are-us department, and the woman there began pulling out forms, I suspected there was more than a shot afoot.
Turns out the ‘couple of shots’ was a regimen of drips, drops, drugs and drafts: an intravenous drip, lots of eardrops, pills and shots of drugs and , of course, drafts, courtesy of the backless hospital gown.
Not having expected an overnight visit to beautiful and lovely David (Daveed) and, having none of the necessary accouterments for an ensconsement in HC, I opted to go home, pack some stuff and return. The admission lady said she would be there until five, so I had plenty of time. I left Boquete about 2:30.. Since there is only one route from Boquete to David and since time was important, you can guess that all did not go smoothly.
Just past Dolega, traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a stop, to only intermittently moving in fits and starts. After about 50 minutes of creepy-crawling we reached the hill where the Atlas cervaseria (brewery) was. There were cars sprawled along the verge and a beer truck being towed away. Happy hour had apparently gotten out of hand.
The majority of Panamanians seem to work from 7:00 to 4:00, so the full press of Davidians trying to get home and the mass of suburbanites trying to get out of the city were being alternately routed along the one remaining lane where they had to drive as slowly as possible to rubberneck , or perhaps they were looking for some errant beer bottles.
I did make it to HC before 5:00, and, assured that some actual medications would be administered this day and I would not merely be checked in and put to bed, I checked in. No roach motel jokes, please.
Despite the fact that I had HC health coverage (note: $500 a year as opposed to the $650 a MONTH I was paying Kaiser Permanante in the US!) I had to pay a deposit. I guess to cover damage from the wild parties in the room. One’s reputation precedes one.
My coverage entitled me to a semi-private room, which was private for two days of my stay, since I had no cell-mate, er, room-mate.
Things proceeded quickly and efficiently. After I checked in to the room I was disrobed, begowned, heighted, weighted, blood pressured, deblooded and had a IV connection inserted into my hand and drugs injected, but no IV stuff.
I got ear drops, water and dinner; not bad,: ground beef, carrots, potatoes, yucca soup and pineapple yogurt, but still no IV juice. About 8:00 a nurse came in and unhooked the line I had been hooked up to. “Ahorra?” I asked, “Manana?” She replied, “Mas tarde.” Later.
This place is as quiet as a hospital. The halls are deserted and with my hearing loss there is an eerie silence over everything. Maybe the Earth has traveled through a deadly glowing comet tail and radiation has killed everyone and I am the last person alive on the planet!
Nah! The nurse just came in to hook up my IV and it’s dripping away. “Aunty Bee Ottico”, the nurse said. I wonder if I get Andy and Opie Bee Otticos, too? 9:00 PM it is.
The typical television cop/medical show IV setup looks like a big soft rubber bag with a long tube that goes into the patient’s arm. Mine had that, but between the bag and my arm was a clear plastic cylinder. The nurse would lower the cylinder below the bag, fill it, using about a quarter of the bag’s contents, inject a shot or two into a Y connection in the cylinder ( or the one in my hand) and let it drip merrily away.
Position and height was apparently important, for there was much adjusting of both and at one point the nurse asked me to lie down for the process and lowered the bed. Unlike the movies, where the patient is provided with a wheeled stand to hold the IV, that you can pull and roam around the room and halls, I couldn’t, because it was affixed to the bed frame (although the bed WAS on wheels, maybe I could… no, I’d never get it through the doorway!)
I noticed that lack of mobility one time when I neglected to pee before being hooked up and realized I was hostage to the six foot length of the IV tube. I evaluated my options:
1 remove the IV and go pee.
2 lift the whole apparatus, carry it to the John and go pee
3 Use my water cup and go pee
4 just go pee (Hey, it ain’t my bed!)
5 call the nurse
6 tough it out
I’ll let you decide which option I chose.
Under ‘thinking outside the box” I guess you could include the Catch 22 option too.
“Forty five minutes”, the nurse said it would take. It was more like an hour, given all the adjustments. Subsequent IVs did go faster after I learned to position my hand (and how to control the little plastic valve doohickey) I got a second at midnight and then 6:30AM.
I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, which might have fit nicely with the schedule here if only the sleepy-bye times and the wakey times coincided with the hospital schedule
About five different nurses visited me overnight , sticking thermometers in my ears, clamping my finger in a small device and clamping my biceps with a hydraulic strap and then listening to them scream with a stethoscope.
Breakfast. Served at 8:00; I would have expected earlier. A cup of warm milk with a tablespoon of what I took to be oatmeal floating on the bottom. I guess oatmeal is really expensive here. Fruit cup, juice (pear) two slices of lunch meat wrapped around a cheese filling and a wedge of eggy/potatoey omelet. And a cuppa, this IS Panama you know.
More clampings squeezings and stickings, I await more dripping. Oh, if you decide to have a stay here, bring shampoo. All they give you is a teeny bar of soap. There is a soap dispenser above the sink, but it hurts when you bang your head on the wall tile!
I wandered about while awaiting my meds. The drugas cart was a few doors down so I anticipated a short wait. My room was number six on the corridor from the nurses’ station with the room beyond mine the last one occupied. The hall extended down to room twelve and than a suite. Another corridor of rooms branched off near the end, which led down to another nurses’ station and more rooms. All were vacant. Doctors in Chirique must be doing a damn good job to be keeping the hospital so empty!
12:15 brought lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Chicken, rice and veggies, a piece of fried chicken, and tomatoes. Also a soup of chunks of potato, yucca and something similar to both. They all tasted the same. Oh, and a couple pieces of chicken in the soup. Pollo day at HC
After lunch another IV drip. My left hand gave out and the drip reduced to a dribble, so they had to open a new pipeline in my right. Inconvenient. I can’t write while being intravenoused, and I keep reaching for things, forgetting about the line.
My main concern now is whether I getta go home or will have to stay over another night. No one seems to know, only the scarce Dr Pazmino. I will have to buttonhole an English-speaking nurse and try to find out. Hmm, let’s see, how do you translate ‘buttonhole’?
Alrighty then. The elusive Dr Pazmino (Paz-mean-yo) ‘he no come to de osspital today”. I did, however, get a commitment from the nurses to call him. Obviously I hope not to have to stay over another night and definitely not a third, since I only brought two pair of clean underwear. What would happen if I had to drive home in dirty underwear and had an accident and had to go to the hospital? Every mother’s worst nightmare. She would turn over in her grave (an interesting concept, since she was cremated).
Alnotrighty then! Dr P showed up, examined my canalii and exclaimed “Mucho mayor!”, either “much better!” , or “I want your vote for mayor!” Even though it meant the former, he explained that the infection was so bad, that to stop the IVs too soon would result in my eventual return to HC. So I need to stay over not only this night, but the next as well! I guess I have to put my faith in modern medical science. Did I mention that I hate hospitals?
The rest of my vacation went about the same; lots of drips and drops. More chicken-heavy repasts and lots of wandering around the hospital for exercise and relief from boredom. Doc and Charly had come and recharged my underwear supply and coins for the coffee machine.
I had expanded my micro-fiefdom to include my roomie’s recliner for TV viewing (mine was a storage rack), his roll-about table for my beverage cart and in general usurping all I surveyed. I returned from a walkabout in the afternoon to find that my room had reverted to, well, a hospital room, my square footage severely restricted.
As I surmised, that afternoon brought another patient to the Ramon Arms wing of the HC resort. He was immobile and asleep the majority of he time, but had seven or eight generations of relatives attending him at all hours and his wife stayed all night, sleeping in my TV chair!
I was surprised to see the good doctor early Thursday morning; he examined me and said I could check out (easier said than done). No more medication, just go home. Were it only so easy!
I started asking nurses how to check out, the equivalent of banging my tin cup on the bars for the jailer to release me. The procedure was to start the ball rolling in the admissions office (shouldn’t there be a demissions office?), who would alert the accounting office, who would check with the nursing staff and consult various oracles. Basically, “We’ll get back to you.”
When I got back to my hood, a nurse informed me that I should go to my room where my meds were waiting. one last IV and eardrops . Apparently Dr P had meant to say no more medication not already scheduled. Well, it gave me something to do while the bureaucratic wheels ground.
When the IV finished, I asked the nurse if she would remove the IV from my arm (the third location, the second having dried up as well), but she would not. First I had to get a note from my mother and then a note from admissions which I couldn’t get until I paid up at the cashier., all of which awaited the proper portents and signs. Apparently they thought I wouldn’t be able to leave without paying if I had the IV needle still stuck in me; diabolical!
By eleven or so all the stars had aligned and I was able to bid adieu to the Chirique Resort and Spa. I still felt like I had balls of cotton stuffed in my head, and puncture scars and several prescriptions, but I had tasted my last of the chicken and yucca soup.
The overall experience wasn’t bad; the nursing care was very good, the rooms clean and modern, the food OK., not that I’d care to repeat it anytime soon. My 30% of the tab was under $500 for the three day stay;. Beats the alternative.
Monday, August 23, 2010
In a World of Wet
I wasn't going to blog today. I was going to, instead, write a critically acclaimed, best seller. Two circumstances of note, however, diverted me from my good intention.
The first was Old Girl. Some of you know about this neighborhood wandering ancient dog who had made a spot near our front door her resting place when she is not...somewhere else. We feed her, of course, - she is always dreadfully skinny - and we had placed an unused by our dogs doggie-bed in her favorite corner for her napping comfort. A couple of days ago, because that doggie-bed had become tattered and filthy, I bought her a new one. To the left you can see a picture of Old Girl and her new bed on their first day together. Apparently she prefers the bed's stuffing to be outside the bed. Oh man. Dog stuff. Who can figure.
The second event distracting me from making the classics mere comic books beside my opus was rain, yesterday's rain. It fell somewhere in excess of abundance. It fell in such a fearsome torrent that I was compelled to pour a bit of scotch over some ice and retire to the patio to watch the storm. Woowoo Charly joined me after a bit and we both noted, beyond the close up sound of the rainfall, a sort of undercurrent of roar. This we deduced correctly was the Caldera River screaming through the valley far below us. It sounded like an endless convoy of semis or tanks passing by. This morning we are told of bridges out and damage done. Nothing like the flood of a few years ago, but still a mess. an undoubtedly expensive mess. I plan on surveying the damage myself a bit later in the day if, of course, it doesn't rain again before I have a chance. The sky at the moment has on its best poker face. It's unreadable, sort of hazy blue, gray around the edges. Could go either way.
(Up close and personal we are without running water and are told that it may be a few days before service is restored.)
Alrighty then. Now I can get on to writing the book. I've forgotten my original plot, but I'm thinking of an old dog's voyage on a boat full of animals sailing about waiting for the rain to stop. Benji meets Noah in Waterworld. I think it is an idea that will float...so to speak.
The first was Old Girl. Some of you know about this neighborhood wandering ancient dog who had made a spot near our front door her resting place when she is not...somewhere else. We feed her, of course, - she is always dreadfully skinny - and we had placed an unused by our dogs doggie-bed in her favorite corner for her napping comfort. A couple of days ago, because that doggie-bed had become tattered and filthy, I bought her a new one. To the left you can see a picture of Old Girl and her new bed on their first day together. Apparently she prefers the bed's stuffing to be outside the bed. Oh man. Dog stuff. Who can figure.
The second event distracting me from making the classics mere comic books beside my opus was rain, yesterday's rain. It fell somewhere in excess of abundance. It fell in such a fearsome torrent that I was compelled to pour a bit of scotch over some ice and retire to the patio to watch the storm. Woowoo Charly joined me after a bit and we both noted, beyond the close up sound of the rainfall, a sort of undercurrent of roar. This we deduced correctly was the Caldera River screaming through the valley far below us. It sounded like an endless convoy of semis or tanks passing by. This morning we are told of bridges out and damage done. Nothing like the flood of a few years ago, but still a mess. an undoubtedly expensive mess. I plan on surveying the damage myself a bit later in the day if, of course, it doesn't rain again before I have a chance. The sky at the moment has on its best poker face. It's unreadable, sort of hazy blue, gray around the edges. Could go either way.
(Up close and personal we are without running water and are told that it may be a few days before service is restored.)
Alrighty then. Now I can get on to writing the book. I've forgotten my original plot, but I'm thinking of an old dog's voyage on a boat full of animals sailing about waiting for the rain to stop. Benji meets Noah in Waterworld. I think it is an idea that will float...so to speak.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Money and Movies
Alrighty then. I'm curious to see how this plays out: I went to an ATM machine last week and tried to extract some dinero, three hundred balboas (dollars) to be exact. The machine smiled warmly and said in its most consoling voice, "Sorry, I don't have enough on me at the moment to meet your request." I tried another machine further down the street and it too declined my withdrawal. Okay, I figured, the guy who fills these things each day must have gotten tied up in traffic. Not to worry, not to worry.
Well hell yes to worry! A few days later I pulled up my bank statement on the Internet and Lo and Be Freaking Hold, the money had been deducted from my account! Only one thing to do I reasoned reasonably, go to the bank heavily armed and get my money back. I took both the attached to my shoulders arms, neither of which are particularly heavy, but they're the only ones I have, to the bank whose ATM was running the scam and explained my dilemma to the manager, a woman, who appeared to be in her late teens. I had printed out a copy of my bank statement to show the bogus withdrawal and after the far too young manager-ette finished smirking at my overall balance, she did note the withdrawal was from her bank's machine. No big deal she said more or less. We just send this on to Panama City for verification and in a few days your account will be credited with the missing amount. Well, I've heard that song sung before. Panama City is where all things are sent if not to die, at least to linger long. I'll give it until this time next week and then I'll charge back there and threaten to tell the manager's parents the whole thing. Maybe she'll be grounded.
We watched Luna Nuevo (New Moon)the second movie in the Crepusculo (Twilight) series and it was...better than the first, but only because of a scene near the end that takes place somewhere in Italy and introduces some really interesting vampires: old, powerful vampires. Other than that, it was more of the same mooning, angst ridden, jealous, emotionally charged, teenagers wrapped in vampire and were wolves bodies. As a movie I give it two Stars. As a horror movie it gets minus one Bloody Chain Saw.
We also watched Un Sueno Possible, the feel good movie in which Sandra Bullock walks around in tight fitting clothes - my favorite part - and takes in a large homeless black kid as part of her family. Sandra won an Academy Award for her role, a thing I think overly generous as the part didn't require much beyond adapting a slight southern accent, but then, hey, who am I to say even if I am a lot more discerning than those Academy members who vote and she did, in addition to wearing those excellent outfits, have nice hair throughout. I'm sure the Academy voters took this into consideration. I gave the movie three Stars out of a possible five. It failed though as a sports movie so no Bloody Footballs were awarded.
At the video store I was told that Benicio Del Torro's Hombre Lobo (Wolfman) was finally in, but had been rented out that day. This information was immediately awarded three Alrighty Thens as something to look forward to. Tune in next week for the review.
One final note: RTGFKAR returned from Hospital Chiriqui yesterday where he had brought his ears to be treated intra-venously with antibiotics for an infection that had taken hold within them. Being emotionally and physically attached to his ears, RTGFKAR stayed with them for the entire three days of the treatment. This, I think is commendable behavior and as such is in the running for the Academy of Waxy Buildups highest award, The Simonize.
Well hell yes to worry! A few days later I pulled up my bank statement on the Internet and Lo and Be Freaking Hold, the money had been deducted from my account! Only one thing to do I reasoned reasonably, go to the bank heavily armed and get my money back. I took both the attached to my shoulders arms, neither of which are particularly heavy, but they're the only ones I have, to the bank whose ATM was running the scam and explained my dilemma to the manager, a woman, who appeared to be in her late teens. I had printed out a copy of my bank statement to show the bogus withdrawal and after the far too young manager-ette finished smirking at my overall balance, she did note the withdrawal was from her bank's machine. No big deal she said more or less. We just send this on to Panama City for verification and in a few days your account will be credited with the missing amount. Well, I've heard that song sung before. Panama City is where all things are sent if not to die, at least to linger long. I'll give it until this time next week and then I'll charge back there and threaten to tell the manager's parents the whole thing. Maybe she'll be grounded.
We watched Luna Nuevo (New Moon)the second movie in the Crepusculo (Twilight) series and it was...better than the first, but only because of a scene near the end that takes place somewhere in Italy and introduces some really interesting vampires: old, powerful vampires. Other than that, it was more of the same mooning, angst ridden, jealous, emotionally charged, teenagers wrapped in vampire and were wolves bodies. As a movie I give it two Stars. As a horror movie it gets minus one Bloody Chain Saw.
We also watched Un Sueno Possible, the feel good movie in which Sandra Bullock walks around in tight fitting clothes - my favorite part - and takes in a large homeless black kid as part of her family. Sandra won an Academy Award for her role, a thing I think overly generous as the part didn't require much beyond adapting a slight southern accent, but then, hey, who am I to say even if I am a lot more discerning than those Academy members who vote and she did, in addition to wearing those excellent outfits, have nice hair throughout. I'm sure the Academy voters took this into consideration. I gave the movie three Stars out of a possible five. It failed though as a sports movie so no Bloody Footballs were awarded.
At the video store I was told that Benicio Del Torro's Hombre Lobo (Wolfman) was finally in, but had been rented out that day. This information was immediately awarded three Alrighty Thens as something to look forward to. Tune in next week for the review.
One final note: RTGFKAR returned from Hospital Chiriqui yesterday where he had brought his ears to be treated intra-venously with antibiotics for an infection that had taken hold within them. Being emotionally and physically attached to his ears, RTGFKAR stayed with them for the entire three days of the treatment. This, I think is commendable behavior and as such is in the running for the Academy of Waxy Buildups highest award, The Simonize.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday Blithering
My take on a too often aired commercial.
Are you?
Yes I am in about fifteen years. I'm here to tell you that you need to have plan to see that your financial future will be safe and secure.
Alrighty then, Old Self. Here's my plan: You tell me who wins the Kentucky Derby, the World Series, The Super Bowl and, oh, I don't know, say, the Indianapolis 500, in each of the next fifteen years and I guarantee my financial future will be a dandy! Of course it wouldn't hurt to know which stocks to invest in as well, so go ahead and throw those in for good measure.
I hate commercials; all but the funny ones, that is. And even those, I only like once. (I'm not a violent person so someone else please shoot that woman from Progressive who says, "Happens to me all the time.")
The Denver Broncos didn't look too bad last night if you forget those parts of the game that include blocking, tackling, running, throwing, kicking and catching. I fear it's going to be a long year for we Denver fans, all six of us.
That's it. I have nothing else to say except don't ground your club in a sand bunker.
Hasta.
Are you?
Yes I am in about fifteen years. I'm here to tell you that you need to have plan to see that your financial future will be safe and secure.
Alrighty then, Old Self. Here's my plan: You tell me who wins the Kentucky Derby, the World Series, The Super Bowl and, oh, I don't know, say, the Indianapolis 500, in each of the next fifteen years and I guarantee my financial future will be a dandy! Of course it wouldn't hurt to know which stocks to invest in as well, so go ahead and throw those in for good measure.
I hate commercials; all but the funny ones, that is. And even those, I only like once. (I'm not a violent person so someone else please shoot that woman from Progressive who says, "Happens to me all the time.")
The Denver Broncos didn't look too bad last night if you forget those parts of the game that include blocking, tackling, running, throwing, kicking and catching. I fear it's going to be a long year for we Denver fans, all six of us.
That's it. I have nothing else to say except don't ground your club in a sand bunker.
Hasta.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Good Old Days Football
I woke up with this thought: Monsoon. Soon Hell! It's here already!
I watched a little preseason football last night and my mind drifted back to my own gridiron days. The top team in the league back then was the Nutley Neanderthals, nicknamed The Low Brows, and going into our game with them, we, the Livingston Pithecanthropus Erectus Dysfunction were hampered in our preparations by tropical storms that forced us to practice indoors where darkness and low cave ceilings prevented us from using the forward pass. Our Hairyback, Grorg, had developed a strong right arm by dragging his strapping girlfriend about and he could throw the old pigskin a mile. Of course, the pig was still in its skin in those days but they didn't squeal much. It was better, after all, then being dinner. I was Grorg's favorite receiver that year as I had developed exceptional speed running away whenever trouble appeared. I was also blessed with good hands as our head cheerleader, Rump, could attest to. I could catch anything thrown my way and together with Grorg we formed a formidable duo. Not being able to practice, though, was really cramping our style and our chances of upsetting the Neanderthals seemed less and less likely with every bolt of lightning and clap of thunder. Their hunched over bodies gave them great leverage against the running game while our ability to stand upright and see over them was perfectly suited for the passing game. We had to be able to throw the pig successfully or we had no chance.
Do I really want to go on with this?
Nah.
Today is Viernes El Trece here in Panama which is very similar to Friday the Thirteenth wherever you may be reading this. On Woowoo Charly's home planet it is Blingatho Florgan, but it means the same thing. Even there, the date is rumored to be unlucky but Charly says that's a lot of borgelblatz. To be safe though, I recommend carrying lucky things with you throughout the day; things like horseshoes and Irishmen. These have been known to be useful against luck gone bad but not against chicken gone bad. Stay away from the chicken.
I have to go now. I've been shot with a tranquilizer dart and I'm feeling very sleeeeeee.
I watched a little preseason football last night and my mind drifted back to my own gridiron days. The top team in the league back then was the Nutley Neanderthals, nicknamed The Low Brows, and going into our game with them, we, the Livingston Pithecanthropus Erectus Dysfunction were hampered in our preparations by tropical storms that forced us to practice indoors where darkness and low cave ceilings prevented us from using the forward pass. Our Hairyback, Grorg, had developed a strong right arm by dragging his strapping girlfriend about and he could throw the old pigskin a mile. Of course, the pig was still in its skin in those days but they didn't squeal much. It was better, after all, then being dinner. I was Grorg's favorite receiver that year as I had developed exceptional speed running away whenever trouble appeared. I was also blessed with good hands as our head cheerleader, Rump, could attest to. I could catch anything thrown my way and together with Grorg we formed a formidable duo. Not being able to practice, though, was really cramping our style and our chances of upsetting the Neanderthals seemed less and less likely with every bolt of lightning and clap of thunder. Their hunched over bodies gave them great leverage against the running game while our ability to stand upright and see over them was perfectly suited for the passing game. We had to be able to throw the pig successfully or we had no chance.
Do I really want to go on with this?
Nah.
Today is Viernes El Trece here in Panama which is very similar to Friday the Thirteenth wherever you may be reading this. On Woowoo Charly's home planet it is Blingatho Florgan, but it means the same thing. Even there, the date is rumored to be unlucky but Charly says that's a lot of borgelblatz. To be safe though, I recommend carrying lucky things with you throughout the day; things like horseshoes and Irishmen. These have been known to be useful against luck gone bad but not against chicken gone bad. Stay away from the chicken.
I have to go now. I've been shot with a tranquilizer dart and I'm feeling very sleeeeeee.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
New and Movies
I often arrive here at the keyboard with my Monkeymind numbed by news. It is my morning habit to wake up and warm up by perusing Yahoo and other Internet info sources before moving on to write. This morning I learned that police in Buffalo, NY, during a routine traffic stop, arrested a man for having a live cat in the trunk of his car marinating in oil and peppers. How horrible can it get? I mean everyone knows that cat is best served with dill. On the brighter side, I also learned that Ramadan began yesterday and the Red Sox have a player named Saltalamacchia. Ramadan and Saltalamacchia are fun names to say aloud. Sal-tah-la-mock-ee-ah! Sounds like the answer to the question, what do you do to improve the taste of Mockia?
Alrighty then, off and running. Okay, inching along one word at a time.
We rented and watched two movies yesterday. Now as everyone knows except Shirley in Bayonne who writes in to say, "Tell me something I don't know" I've never met a movie I didn't like. These two, however, were close to qualifying. Woowoo Charly begs to differ regarding the first, but I don't allow differing here on the blog, so I just told her to quit begging. The movie was ostensibly about the Army's experiments with "remote viewing" and mentally messing with goats. It was played half seriously, half comically and neither half really worked in this reviewer's humble opinion. No wait! Make that exalted opinion! It's my blog; I can make my opinions exalted if I want to. The second movie had Denzell Washington trekking across a post apocalypse landscape to deliver a mysterious book to a mysterious place. The book turned out to be The Bible as memorized by Denzell and the place was Alcatraz. There were some decent special effects driven, unbelievable fight scenes - I can't remember the last believable fight I saw in a movie - but the flick was mostly predictable. The message at movie's end, and this was indeed a message movie, was that Christianity was now saved and would flourish again. Both Woowoo and I wondered what part religion played in the apocalypse to begin with and was it now starting all over again, but hey, that's just us whackos noting that "my God is better than your God" thinking hasn't worked out well for mankind so far.
Last night we watched "Star Trek" the movie that was a prequel to the television series. We had first seen this flick on a plane a year ago. It was a treat to now view it on a larger screen. On my rating scale of No Fun, Some Fun, Fun, and Big Fun, this one got the Big designation.
Alrighty then, off and running. Okay, inching along one word at a time.
We rented and watched two movies yesterday. Now as everyone knows except Shirley in Bayonne who writes in to say, "Tell me something I don't know" I've never met a movie I didn't like. These two, however, were close to qualifying. Woowoo Charly begs to differ regarding the first, but I don't allow differing here on the blog, so I just told her to quit begging. The movie was ostensibly about the Army's experiments with "remote viewing" and mentally messing with goats. It was played half seriously, half comically and neither half really worked in this reviewer's humble opinion. No wait! Make that exalted opinion! It's my blog; I can make my opinions exalted if I want to. The second movie had Denzell Washington trekking across a post apocalypse landscape to deliver a mysterious book to a mysterious place. The book turned out to be The Bible as memorized by Denzell and the place was Alcatraz. There were some decent special effects driven, unbelievable fight scenes - I can't remember the last believable fight I saw in a movie - but the flick was mostly predictable. The message at movie's end, and this was indeed a message movie, was that Christianity was now saved and would flourish again. Both Woowoo and I wondered what part religion played in the apocalypse to begin with and was it now starting all over again, but hey, that's just us whackos noting that "my God is better than your God" thinking hasn't worked out well for mankind so far.
Last night we watched "Star Trek" the movie that was a prequel to the television series. We had first seen this flick on a plane a year ago. It was a treat to now view it on a larger screen. On my rating scale of No Fun, Some Fun, Fun, and Big Fun, this one got the Big designation.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Blase Blogging
Alrighty then, there's a story - the dragon whimsy that precedes this blog - that could use a rewrite or two...okay, twelve, that I'll get to going forward (Bam!) in a bit and post the revised version when it is uh, like, uh, you know, revised.
There was an NFL football game of sorts last night and that's a good thing. (All football games of the preseason variety should have the disclaimer "of sorts" attached to them.) I didn't get to see it as it wasn't aired by my satellite provider, Sky TV, whose home office is hidden somewhere in a remote village deep in the heart of Venezuela and whose enormous staff of one, a guy named Fred, doesn't really like football. Well, not American football anyway. No matter, it's preseason and who really cares.
I did call Fred's cousin in Panama City and schedule the "NFL Package" so that I will get all the Denver Bronco games I care to see. I added that "I care to see" part because the team is plagued with injuries to key players and their season may already be in the, Press 1 for toilet. Press 2. for dumper, Press 3 for tank. Fred's cousin was a pleasant woman whom I finally reached after going through several of those press this for that choices all given in Spanish spoken so rapidly I had to call three or four times and listen intently to determine what the hell I was getting to choose. I finally got a Press 2 for English that got me to Fred's cousin, Maria, who spoke flawless American. At the end of our conversation I complimented her on her language skills while wishing my Spanish was better and asked if she was American or Panamanian. She replied, "Neither, I'm from Mexico." So, there you have that.
Why am I telling you this, you ask? Beats me. I don't have anything clever to write about this morning so I'm just covering the mundane. (The MUNDANE should be a section in every newspaper for people tired of bad news.) Here's some more: The sun is making what I hope is more than a cameo appearance this morning after last night's seventy five feet of new rainfall. Okay, I'm exaggerating, it was only seventy four. What's curious is that we woke up to no water from our taps. I'm sure both this plethora of and lack of water is the result of global climate change caused by evil global climate changers like the New York Yankees and others whose bodies are possessed by demons. Usually, when we lose our water supply, it is fixed in an hour or two so I'm keeping my fingers crossed because crossed fingers are really useful in restoring public services.
In other morning news of no note, we had two humming birds flying around our great room this morning causing our Cockers to plead loudly for the birds to come down to floor level so they, the dogs, can dine on them. We have large glass doors that open on to this high ceiling room and birds like to fly in and check us out from time to time. Birds have short memories though, and it often takes them awhile to find their way back out. In the interim we have to lock the dogs in our bedroom else the noise achieves decibel levels rivaling head-banger rock concerts. At least I think so. I've never actually been to a head-banger rock concert, but I've heard that Streisand can get really loud.
Woowoo Charly just announced that the water is back on.
Life is good.
There was an NFL football game of sorts last night and that's a good thing. (All football games of the preseason variety should have the disclaimer "of sorts" attached to them.) I didn't get to see it as it wasn't aired by my satellite provider, Sky TV, whose home office is hidden somewhere in a remote village deep in the heart of Venezuela and whose enormous staff of one, a guy named Fred, doesn't really like football. Well, not American football anyway. No matter, it's preseason and who really cares.
I did call Fred's cousin in Panama City and schedule the "NFL Package" so that I will get all the Denver Bronco games I care to see. I added that "I care to see" part because the team is plagued with injuries to key players and their season may already be in the, Press 1 for toilet. Press 2. for dumper, Press 3 for tank. Fred's cousin was a pleasant woman whom I finally reached after going through several of those press this for that choices all given in Spanish spoken so rapidly I had to call three or four times and listen intently to determine what the hell I was getting to choose. I finally got a Press 2 for English that got me to Fred's cousin, Maria, who spoke flawless American. At the end of our conversation I complimented her on her language skills while wishing my Spanish was better and asked if she was American or Panamanian. She replied, "Neither, I'm from Mexico." So, there you have that.
Why am I telling you this, you ask? Beats me. I don't have anything clever to write about this morning so I'm just covering the mundane. (The MUNDANE should be a section in every newspaper for people tired of bad news.) Here's some more: The sun is making what I hope is more than a cameo appearance this morning after last night's seventy five feet of new rainfall. Okay, I'm exaggerating, it was only seventy four. What's curious is that we woke up to no water from our taps. I'm sure both this plethora of and lack of water is the result of global climate change caused by evil global climate changers like the New York Yankees and others whose bodies are possessed by demons. Usually, when we lose our water supply, it is fixed in an hour or two so I'm keeping my fingers crossed because crossed fingers are really useful in restoring public services.
In other morning news of no note, we had two humming birds flying around our great room this morning causing our Cockers to plead loudly for the birds to come down to floor level so they, the dogs, can dine on them. We have large glass doors that open on to this high ceiling room and birds like to fly in and check us out from time to time. Birds have short memories though, and it often takes them awhile to find their way back out. In the interim we have to lock the dogs in our bedroom else the noise achieves decibel levels rivaling head-banger rock concerts. At least I think so. I've never actually been to a head-banger rock concert, but I've heard that Streisand can get really loud.
Woowoo Charly just announced that the water is back on.
Life is good.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Dragon Tale Concluded
Unlike mathematics or science where all you have to be is smart and study a lot to get the correct result, creative writing requires a dip into the spookier, less accessed parts of the subconscious where stories and such lie hidden. I mean anyone can find out the square root of 24,612 right? Or explain how software works and why wainscoting is a funny word, but uncovering a decent ending for an indecent plot, for instance, can require hours of internal exploration, dream interpretation and being abducted by aliens to be successful. The square root of any number will always be the same, but a story's end must be unique. That said, all I'm lacking now to finish my uncalled for dragon story - I didn't ask for it, did you? - is that alien abduction part. I've done the internal research and dreamed my head off for a couple of days without a fruitful result. I'm left with nothing left to do but sit here, write this, and watch the skies. Where are those UFOs when you need them?
Dragons can match angels for majesty when they soar through the air. On the ground though, not so much. They have a lot of weight forward and aft to balance and sticking their wings out like a wire walker's pole requires an airport runway's unobstructed width to do successfully. Flying was not an option either as the jungle's canopy was too dense to see through. Nope, if Fearful and Laughsalot wanted to pursue Lord Snarly Flatulence, they'd have to do it on foot.
Laughsalot was not in favor of that. He felt the outcome of catching an armed Flatulence would not be one that left them laughing, but rather, one that left them in stitches...real stitches. His pleas to just forget the whole thing fell on deaf ears; enormous, sticky-up, pointy, but, none-the-less, deaf ears.
Fearful, however, was adamant. Flatulence had taken a pot shot at her pal Livingston and needed to be taught a lesson. She wasn't sure what she had in mind on that score - something along the lines of a second degree scorching that would leave him peeling for weeks seemed about right - but she knew that once she had him in her clutches squirming and pleading for mercy, she'd probably let him off with just singed hair and missing eye brows. Fearful was a softy at heart.
The trail left by Snarly Flatulence snaked its way through the jungle back to a bar cleverly named, Trail's End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He had arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Flatulence, the customer is a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trails's End figured he wasn't drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn't necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on and downed one drink after another, the bar's patrons, mostly bass fishermen in from a day on the lake, began to take more and more notice. These were men looking for excitement and a tale to tell. Playing a bit with a whacko quite suited their mood. "What did this dragon look like," one of them asked, and "where did you see it?" Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his favorite state of being, was about to elaborate when the roof of the single storied building that housed the bar was suddenly lifted and the Lord was snatched from his stool, hoisted into the sky and flown out of sight.
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to the Trail's End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions; the kind that most likely meant more men with guns. What really needed to happen, he reasoned, for the good of all, was for the Lord to just disappear to somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually, would do.
It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself, that a short while later Laughsalot's chuckles amped up into actual belly laughs as Fearful flew away with old Snarly in her talons. He knew he would never see the likes of the Lord again because Fearful could cover great distances in a very short time. And he was right. Although Fearful returned from her journey in a couple of days, Lord Snarly Flatulence was never seen again in Livingston Laughsalot's part of the world.
Back at the Trail's End, the bass fisherman all told the same story, something about saucers, green men, red eyes and a beam that sucked up old Snarly. Nobody, of course, believed a word of it.
So...if you have ever wondered how those UFO sightings come to be...now you know.
The End.
Dragons can match angels for majesty when they soar through the air. On the ground though, not so much. They have a lot of weight forward and aft to balance and sticking their wings out like a wire walker's pole requires an airport runway's unobstructed width to do successfully. Flying was not an option either as the jungle's canopy was too dense to see through. Nope, if Fearful and Laughsalot wanted to pursue Lord Snarly Flatulence, they'd have to do it on foot.
Laughsalot was not in favor of that. He felt the outcome of catching an armed Flatulence would not be one that left them laughing, but rather, one that left them in stitches...real stitches. His pleas to just forget the whole thing fell on deaf ears; enormous, sticky-up, pointy, but, none-the-less, deaf ears.
Fearful, however, was adamant. Flatulence had taken a pot shot at her pal Livingston and needed to be taught a lesson. She wasn't sure what she had in mind on that score - something along the lines of a second degree scorching that would leave him peeling for weeks seemed about right - but she knew that once she had him in her clutches squirming and pleading for mercy, she'd probably let him off with just singed hair and missing eye brows. Fearful was a softy at heart.
The trail left by Snarly Flatulence snaked its way through the jungle back to a bar cleverly named, Trail's End, from whence Snarly had begun his fateful day. He had arrived there safely ahead of his pursuers and was now loudly decrying the fact that dragons were allowed to roam about bothering innocent citizens. On most occasions and in most bars, when a patron is bitching about dragons or other fanciful creatures, the bartender will immediately cut him off and show him the door. Especially, if like Flatulence, the customer is a lousy tipper. The Lord, however, had been frightened sober and the bartender at the Trails's End figured he wasn't drunk but merely crazy, a condition that didn't necessarily warrant being Eighty Sixed.
As Snarly babbled on and downed one drink after another, the bar's patrons, mostly bass fishermen in from a day on the lake, began to take more and more notice. These were men looking for excitement and a tale to tell. Playing a bit with a whacko quite suited their mood. "What did this dragon look like," one of them asked, and "where did you see it?" Snarly, now approaching inebriation anew, his favorite state of being, was about to elaborate when the roof of the single storied building that housed the bar was suddenly lifted and the Lord was snatched from his stool, hoisted into the sky and flown out of sight.
It had taken some time for Fearful and Laughsalot to make their way to the Trail's End, what with Fearful lumbering along, wedging herself through the trees. This bit of time had given Fearful an opportunity to calm herself and Laughsalot a chance to convince her that hurting Flatulence would only bring unpleasant repercussions; the kind that most likely meant more men with guns. What really needed to happen, he reasoned, for the good of all, was for the Lord to just disappear to somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually, would do.
It was not surprising then, to anyone apart from Flatulence himself, that a short while later Laughsalot's chuckles amped up into actual belly laughs as Fearful flew away with old Snarly in her talons. He knew he would never see the likes of the Lord again because Fearful could cover great distances in a very short time. And he was right. Although Fearful returned from her journey in a couple of days, Lord Snarly Flatulence was never seen again in Livingston Laughsalot's part of the world.
Back at the Trail's End, the bass fisherman all told the same story, something about saucers, green men, red eyes and a beam that sucked up old Snarly. Nobody, of course, believed a word of it.
So...if you have ever wondered how those UFO sightings come to be...now you know.
The End.
Friday, August 06, 2010
This, That and the Other Thing
Sleep was stuck on me so tightly this morning I couldn't wipe it off with WD-40. It has taken the careful consumption of caffeine in just the right dosage to scare off the drowse and leave me able to function; that is, if plowing through emails, Facebook, (There it is Bonnie, the Oxfordian comma) and assorted Yahoo news before confronting the blank page in front of me, can be defined as functioning.
A quick rant: There was a small company back in the Sixties (note I didn't say back in the day) that made a small fortune, very small, manufacturing Nerf bricks to throw at television screens on Monday night when Howard Cosell was saying something asinine. If I hear one more talking head of the news and sports variety say "going forward" I may have to re-implement the concept using real bricks.
Another random thought: (Of course maybe all thoughts are random. I mean we don't preselect them from a list of thoughts, they just pop up one at a time.) I noticed yesterday that I am almost seventy but still talk baby talk to my dogs. "My boys and girls are sleepy-deepy, time for beddy bye." Please just shoot me now and save me further embarrassment.
I found a couple of old friends, a man and wife, on Facebook yesterday which is the sort of thing that falls into my "Big Fun" category. They, like anyone who knew me in those long ago days, are surprised, I'm sure, to know that A. I'm still alive, B. I'm not incarcerated in either a hoosegow or a funny farm, C. that I've managed to make my way through life in an orderly fashion after a rough start and D. What is D anyway? Let me think. Okay, I have all my hair and I'm only eight to ten pounds heavier than I was then. (Okay that "orderly fashion" thing might be a bit of an exaggeration and to be honest about the weight I have to mention that I just recently lost twenty pounds and, of course my hair is somewhat thinner and...
Rant Number two: Let's talk about that weight thing for a minute. Here's what pisses me off. ("Pisses me off" is a tried and true phrase of long duration I find acceptable to use unlike "moving forward" which, I hope, lacks staying power.) Sure I put on twenty pounds while lying about eating
whatever came within arm's reach during my rehab from pneumonia, but when the time came, that is, after full recovery, I set about dilligentamente (that's diligently for you non Spanish speakers to whom (or is it to who, Bonnie?) I should mention that I only use because it is the longest Spanish word I know) to rid myself of the unsightly pounds. A diet change for both food and drink plus exercise, just as so often advertised, did the trick...until now. I have been at the same weight for roughly a month and I don't understand what has gone wrong. I mean, if you live on a diet in which you burn off more calories than you consume shouldn't you continue to lose weight until you don't have anymore and you just slide into the cosmos all whisper and spirit? Why should a diet thing work for months and then suddenly stop? It's not fair I tell ya, It's not fair at all.
I blame Bush.
(Going forward, I will conclude my dragon story on the morrow.)
BAM!
Son of bitch! Those bricks really hurt!
A quick rant: There was a small company back in the Sixties (note I didn't say back in the day) that made a small fortune, very small, manufacturing Nerf bricks to throw at television screens on Monday night when Howard Cosell was saying something asinine. If I hear one more talking head of the news and sports variety say "going forward" I may have to re-implement the concept using real bricks.
Another random thought: (Of course maybe all thoughts are random. I mean we don't preselect them from a list of thoughts, they just pop up one at a time.) I noticed yesterday that I am almost seventy but still talk baby talk to my dogs. "My boys and girls are sleepy-deepy, time for beddy bye." Please just shoot me now and save me further embarrassment.
I found a couple of old friends, a man and wife, on Facebook yesterday which is the sort of thing that falls into my "Big Fun" category. They, like anyone who knew me in those long ago days, are surprised, I'm sure, to know that A. I'm still alive, B. I'm not incarcerated in either a hoosegow or a funny farm, C. that I've managed to make my way through life in an orderly fashion after a rough start and D. What is D anyway? Let me think. Okay, I have all my hair and I'm only eight to ten pounds heavier than I was then. (Okay that "orderly fashion" thing might be a bit of an exaggeration and to be honest about the weight I have to mention that I just recently lost twenty pounds and, of course my hair is somewhat thinner and...
Rant Number two: Let's talk about that weight thing for a minute. Here's what pisses me off. ("Pisses me off" is a tried and true phrase of long duration I find acceptable to use unlike "moving forward" which, I hope, lacks staying power.) Sure I put on twenty pounds while lying about eating
whatever came within arm's reach during my rehab from pneumonia, but when the time came, that is, after full recovery, I set about dilligentamente (that's diligently for you non Spanish speakers to whom (or is it to who, Bonnie?) I should mention that I only use because it is the longest Spanish word I know) to rid myself of the unsightly pounds. A diet change for both food and drink plus exercise, just as so often advertised, did the trick...until now. I have been at the same weight for roughly a month and I don't understand what has gone wrong. I mean, if you live on a diet in which you burn off more calories than you consume shouldn't you continue to lose weight until you don't have anymore and you just slide into the cosmos all whisper and spirit? Why should a diet thing work for months and then suddenly stop? It's not fair I tell ya, It's not fair at all.
I blame Bush.
(Going forward, I will conclude my dragon story on the morrow.)
BAM!
Son of bitch! Those bricks really hurt!
Thursday, August 05, 2010
I'm trying to end this, but It's taking more time than I thought
"Old men like old whiskey, old women like desserts." I said that. Yesterday. You can quote me.
(If you just got here, go back to the post entitled Just Passing Time to find the story's start.)
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family from Texas, of course, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occurred below. It wasn't until mankind took flight themselves in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons realized there was about them now a creature who could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to mankind's airborne prowess there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans but you wouldn't know that to hear them tell it. Even before the dreadful moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth's private places were you likely to encounter any of these great beasts or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one. Facebook searches for dragons always proved futile.
Fearful was not really so. That was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaking her natural dragon reticence for shyness. Fearful's actual name, that is, the one given by her parents, was Klaxglygen which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker seeming so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Seeing him rush towards her now - a testament to his own bravery - had her dragon adrenals on power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons she snatched Laughsalot to her breast and held him struggling there. She was trying to tell him to be calm, be cool, and chill out, she had everything under control, but to old Laughsalot it all just sounded like a NASCAR pile up close up. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away and he had no plan B. Alrighty then, he thought realizing he was unhurt and finally relaxing, let's just see what happens next.
Fearful had no Plan B either but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was good enough. Using her laser accurate spit fire technique, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary and there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle. That is, if by fleeing I mean falling, rising, falling, rising, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, a sort of hard canvas affair, were afire and the Lord was swatting at them as he ran, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail though, as the heat, reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly and, given his rank, royally, pissed.
(If you just got here, go back to the post entitled Just Passing Time to find the story's start.)
Everyone who pays attention to such things knows that dragons are the most sensitive and least aggressive creatures of all the cold blooded species; the Bush family from Texas, of course, being lodged solidly at the other end of that reptile scale. Having somehow taken only half the evolutionary journey from dinosaur to bird, dragons have spent the countless eons and ages until this one soaring through the skies and peering from high places at the small wonders that occurred below. It wasn't until mankind took flight themselves in their marvelous, but deadly creations that dragons realized there was about them now a creature who could conceivably threaten their very existence. Prior to mankind's airborne prowess there had been little conflict between the two species apart from the occasional scrap with foolhardy, iron clad, sword wielding idiots. These never went well for the humans but you wouldn't know that to hear them tell it. Even before the dreadful moment when the first dragon was shot from the air, the gentle creatures had become more reclusive and nocturnal and so limiting their presence to human eyes that they had become mostly the stuff of legend. Only in the densest rural and uninhabited of earth's private places were you likely to encounter any of these great beasts or, as in the case of Laughsalot, actually befriend one. Facebook searches for dragons always proved futile.
Fearful was not really so. That was merely the name Laughsalot had given her, having mistaking her natural dragon reticence for shyness. Fearful's actual name, that is, the one given by her parents, was Klaxglygen which, roughly translated to English would be Eats Tubas, a moniker seeming so unlikely to be correct that we will just ignore it and go with Fearful. Fearful was, in fact, very brave, her friendship with Laughsalot the proof. Seeing him rush towards her now - a testament to his own bravery - had her dragon adrenals on power load and she was ready for a fight. Using her long curved talons she snatched Laughsalot to her breast and held him struggling there. She was trying to tell him to be calm, be cool, and chill out, she had everything under control, but to old Laughsalot it all just sounded like a NASCAR pile up close up. His intent had been to shoo Fearful away and he had no plan B. Alrighty then, he thought realizing he was unhurt and finally relaxing, let's just see what happens next.
Fearful had no Plan B either but that was of little matter. Her A Plan was good enough. Using her laser accurate spit fire technique, she scorched an area of about fifty yards all around to better see her adversary and there he was, just beyond the burn area, fleeing into the jungle. That is, if by fleeing I mean falling, rising, falling, rising, cursing and like that. His cider flasks, a sort of hard canvas affair, were afire and the Lord was swatting at them as he ran, trying to douse the flames and, well, to him, save the day. His efforts were to no avail though, as the heat, reaching the volatile liquid sent it exploding into a burst of white fire and Flatulence was forced to abandon them. It goes without saying at this point that he was truly and, given his rank, royally, pissed.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Dragon Tale Continued Pt. 3
I am truly a sight sitting at the computer these days. My butt is precariously perched on a large blue exercise ball and I'm wearing some sort of harness that keeps my shoulders pulled back. I'm also sporting, in true fashionista style, a whiplash collar wrapped snugly about my neck. All this is an effort to minimize the upper back pain that sitting seems to cause or, at least, aggravate. Ah well, I'm sure there are other wordsmiths who do their thing standing up.
Now, where was I? Fearful the dragon hiding in the bush, a drunken Snarly taking up the hunt, Laughsalot following the hide-and-seek clues. Okay, that's where I was, but what the hell was I thinking?
Livingston Laughsalot, being a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off in search I go," a catchy diddy that a dwarf hidden behind a mushroom of enormous proportions would put to memory and pass on to the next dwarf generation where it would be enhanced and elaborated upon and passed further along the generational trail until one day it found its way to the sound track of an animated Disney film whose artists co-opted from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce when he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry "Gotcha!" Of course gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world's loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that and didn't mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern charred at the edges out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful's leap at any moment. What he didn't expect was the clap of a gunshot nearby. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
Lord Snarly Flatulence, was, quite thankfully, a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot, he being a lord and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience, he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he, on this occasion, realized he had just put one over the head of Laughsalot, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Livingston were not the best of friends. Seeing the movement of the brush, he realized he had missed whatever was out there and, fueled by rage and additional hits of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being, in his case, a synonym for staggering with intent.
Now, where was I? Fearful the dragon hiding in the bush, a drunken Snarly taking up the hunt, Laughsalot following the hide-and-seek clues. Okay, that's where I was, but what the hell was I thinking?
Livingston Laughsalot, being a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off in search I go," a catchy diddy that a dwarf hidden behind a mushroom of enormous proportions would put to memory and pass on to the next dwarf generation where it would be enhanced and elaborated upon and passed further along the generational trail until one day it found its way to the sound track of an animated Disney film whose artists co-opted from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce when he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry "Gotcha!" Of course gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world's loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that and didn't mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern charred at the edges out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful's leap at any moment. What he didn't expect was the clap of a gunshot nearby. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.
Lord Snarly Flatulence, was, quite thankfully, a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot, he being a lord and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience, he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he, on this occasion, realized he had just put one over the head of Laughsalot, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Livingston were not the best of friends. Seeing the movement of the brush, he realized he had missed whatever was out there and, fueled by rage and additional hits of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being, in his case, a synonym for staggering with intent.
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