Familiar Phrases

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

Heeeere we goooooo, moving towards the door.

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

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

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

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

Return of the Blog

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

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

Have Tos

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

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

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

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

Getting In Shape

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

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

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

Sunday Hike

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

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

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

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

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

That Old Black Magic

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

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

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

At Blog's End?

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

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

Ciao for now.

Hot or Cold

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

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

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

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

AND THE TRUTH IS....

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

The Year of...

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

I blame Bush.

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

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

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

Bound for Books

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

It wasn't easy though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one asked about the signatures.

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

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

On the other side of the parade.

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

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

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

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

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

Watching Television

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

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

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

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

Maybe I SHOULD watch the food channel.

Name That Tune

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

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

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

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

Thus Spake Zendoc.

Dallys

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

And anomalies. I like saying anomaly too.

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

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

Gallbladders Get No Respect

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

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

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

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

Parts Iz Parts

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

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

Pain?

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

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

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

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

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

The Magazine Rack Reveals...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream House

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

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

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

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

Dog Stuff

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

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

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

He's an easy dog to please.