To the naked eye, it was all going smoothly and I can tell you that all four of our eyes were starkers. Maryellen and I had driven The Beast to David to accomplish numerous tasks, the first and hardest of which was now behind us. The Beast had passed inspection. Well for sure we had to drop some names and pay for a wheel balancing, but the stamped and official document that would allow me to re-register the old Land Cruiser for another year was now in hand and we were off to chore number two. Under the hood of the now certified and approved for driving vehicle, trouble was either lurking or brewing, pick your own cliche.
We managed to get a few more errands run and chores accomplished before the first sign of any problem occurred. It was upon leaving a store named Guerra, which means war, but in this case had no particular significance that I can determine unless my car is a protester, that The Beast refused to start. "You drive, I'll push" was my Johnny Mechanic on the spot solution, "maybe we can jump start it." A couple of the war guys came out to help and by golly and by effort we got it going. ME made a u-turn at the corner and returned to pick me up. Lunch and contemplation of the day's remaining tasks seemed in order so we bee lined to the Italian joint affixed to the Grand National Hotel. Part two of our adventure would occur out of our sight and perhaps, in fact, unseen by anyone at all.
"Back into that space near the door" I said, " it's got a downhill slant that should give us enough roll to jump start again if we need to." "And, " I added, "race the engine hard before you turn the key off."
"I can't," she replied, " If I take my foot off the brake, the car will roll."
"Just put it in neutral and move your left foot off the clutch and onto the brake."
ME did as instructed and roooom rooomed the engine a couple of times before turning it off and hopping out for lunch.
Pause here to consider good pizza.
When we returned to the car I am happy to report it started right up. What I am less thrilled to tell you is that the car was across the parking lot some fifty or sixty feet from where we left it! That no other car had been parked in its path can be viewed as a mite lucky. If, however, you take into account that our very next stop was to renew the car's insurance which had expired, then you can say without argument that this view can now be cranked up to Good Goddammned Lucky! For our part, ME and I just looked at each other with matching expressions of Holy Shit.
To be continued.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
A Brillinat Mind
"Don't! Don't! she kept saying as I called the dog over to the edge of the patio from where I could see a chicken emerging from the coffee plants that border our yard.
"C'mon Babe," I replied, ignoring her protests, "chasing chickens is Gus' favorite thing in life."
I usually listen to my wife because she is wise in the ways of the world. Okay, wise in the ways of the Woowoo World anyway and that special planet includes among its virtues lots of weeeuuuu skills like, for instance, intuition. But here was Gus on the end of his tether, back turned away and oblivious to the encroaching fowl and I thought that he, as the self appointed home protector from the menace of stray cats, other dogs and small birds that linger too long on the bush should be made aware that a big fat enemy was advancing on his turf. Besides that, I was sure this was going to be a laugh riot.
"DOC DON'T!... DON'T! was coming at me in volume as Gus came to my side and I pointed at the fearsome fowl. Of course, pointing doesn't do much for dogs. They mostly just look at your hand and wonder what the hell you're trying to tell them. Gus though, is smarter than the average mutt and on about the third "Look there Gus, there" which I was saying in counterpoint to the rising "Don'ts" in the background, he got the message and saw the chicken.
Here I need to pause a moment, because we humans can do that, pause and reflect before taking action, while dogs when called to arms get right on the job...and tell you that the other end of Gus' tether was truly and stoutly affixed to a water spigot at the side of our house. Had I paused and reflected on that circumstance or had Gus not been the noble family defender that he is, or had either of us, man or dog heeded the pleas of "Don't! Don't" now being directed at us both, well, the outcome would surely have been different.
But then, who would have guessed that a 30 pound pooch could have the strength to actually rip an iron spigot from a concrete wall even if he was traveling at roughly the speed of light? Really, who?
Some of you might be inclined to remind me that there WAS a warning voice throughout the episode that I chose to ignore and that most of you, had you been there, would have advised caution as well. To you I say, oh come on! Have you ever seen a dog chase a chicken? It's hysterical. And besides, he's my dog, he's never actually caught a chicken and he wouldn't know what to do with it if he did. But most of all, let's not forget, the chicken WAS trespassing! It's all the chicken's fault! ... right?
The words I didn't choose to ignore were the "I told you's" that immediately followed. Truth was I couldn't hear them over the chicken screeching, the dog barking and the Niagara Falls that was gushing from the side of my house. My ha ha's turned into oh no's in a split second. In the other half of that second, the chicken disappeared into the coffee plants, the dog got hung up on a bush and it's likely that Woowoo Charly was calling me something I'm glad I couldn't hear. The best laid plans oft gang up on me.
Charly, the chicken and I were now officially distressed. Gus, on the other hand, was a happy fella. He had, after all, successfully done his job.
After that it was all denouement. For those of you who don't know, denouement is a French word that means find the shut off valve, call the plumber, do without water until he gets there the next day and pay attention to your wife when she says,"Don't!
Why is that last part is so hard to remember?
"C'mon Babe," I replied, ignoring her protests, "chasing chickens is Gus' favorite thing in life."
I usually listen to my wife because she is wise in the ways of the world. Okay, wise in the ways of the Woowoo World anyway and that special planet includes among its virtues lots of weeeuuuu skills like, for instance, intuition. But here was Gus on the end of his tether, back turned away and oblivious to the encroaching fowl and I thought that he, as the self appointed home protector from the menace of stray cats, other dogs and small birds that linger too long on the bush should be made aware that a big fat enemy was advancing on his turf. Besides that, I was sure this was going to be a laugh riot.
"DOC DON'T!... DON'T! was coming at me in volume as Gus came to my side and I pointed at the fearsome fowl. Of course, pointing doesn't do much for dogs. They mostly just look at your hand and wonder what the hell you're trying to tell them. Gus though, is smarter than the average mutt and on about the third "Look there Gus, there" which I was saying in counterpoint to the rising "Don'ts" in the background, he got the message and saw the chicken.
Here I need to pause a moment, because we humans can do that, pause and reflect before taking action, while dogs when called to arms get right on the job...and tell you that the other end of Gus' tether was truly and stoutly affixed to a water spigot at the side of our house. Had I paused and reflected on that circumstance or had Gus not been the noble family defender that he is, or had either of us, man or dog heeded the pleas of "Don't! Don't" now being directed at us both, well, the outcome would surely have been different.
But then, who would have guessed that a 30 pound pooch could have the strength to actually rip an iron spigot from a concrete wall even if he was traveling at roughly the speed of light? Really, who?
Some of you might be inclined to remind me that there WAS a warning voice throughout the episode that I chose to ignore and that most of you, had you been there, would have advised caution as well. To you I say, oh come on! Have you ever seen a dog chase a chicken? It's hysterical. And besides, he's my dog, he's never actually caught a chicken and he wouldn't know what to do with it if he did. But most of all, let's not forget, the chicken WAS trespassing! It's all the chicken's fault! ... right?
The words I didn't choose to ignore were the "I told you's" that immediately followed. Truth was I couldn't hear them over the chicken screeching, the dog barking and the Niagara Falls that was gushing from the side of my house. My ha ha's turned into oh no's in a split second. In the other half of that second, the chicken disappeared into the coffee plants, the dog got hung up on a bush and it's likely that Woowoo Charly was calling me something I'm glad I couldn't hear. The best laid plans oft gang up on me.
Charly, the chicken and I were now officially distressed. Gus, on the other hand, was a happy fella. He had, after all, successfully done his job.
After that it was all denouement. For those of you who don't know, denouement is a French word that means find the shut off valve, call the plumber, do without water until he gets there the next day and pay attention to your wife when she says,"Don't!
Why is that last part is so hard to remember?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Country Club Revisited
Boquete's intrepid trio of golfers, LJ, Woowoo and Yers Truly, set forth in wind and rain to once again brave the wilds of our country club whose name remains a mystery. (There is a sign that says something about a Club Atletico y Social, but we are not sure if that is a name or a description.) We had called ahead to check on the weather and were told it was "esta bien", so we remained undaunted as our windshield wipers tried valiantly to make the highway visible. About halfway to the course, about 45 minutes out, the rain gave way to sunshine and our spirits brightened so we took them out of the bottle and had a slug. Just kidding. We got to the Costa Rican border, made a hard left through the wild and woolly border town and cruised parallel to CR for another 30 minutes or so. We arrived at the club (ha! ha! ha!, I just love saying that... the club) at 3:30 sharp, okay rounded, and found our caddies waiting for us. Ten minutes later we were teeing off and using the horses in the center of the first fairway to give us a sight line to the green. You may find horses in the fairway a bit unusual, but then you probably use lawn mowers to keep your grass trimmed.
I won't, as usual, tell you about the round, because I know how boring it is to people who don't play golf. I won't even tell you about the great shots I hit on holes 2, 5, 7 and 9 which included an excellent chip-in, because you all know I mostly write fiction and wouldn't believe me anyway. I will tell you about the cart lady.
"She's no lady, she's a..." is the punch line to more than one joke. In this case I'm not kidding because the cart lady was a guy, on a bicycle, passing by. He took our money in a serious and forthright manner and set off for the clubhouse on his vintage fat wheeled, no gears bike, for our order of cokes and beers. The cokes were for Woowoo and the caddies. He was back before we had completed the hole, which, if you knew the truth, says more about our tee shots than the speed of the cyclist.
I'm not sure at what point I should mention the principal feature of the golf course, so I'll just do it now and get it out of the way. Golf course descriptions usually range from the lyrical " the flowers at Augusta National remind us all of poetry past and present yadida yadida yadida" to hyperbole that includes best, most, toughest, and meanest, but until now you haven't heard this phrase about your average, run-of-the-mill eighteen holer: The landing strip the runs through the center of the golf course can be used to good advantage. By landing your tee shot there, you can gain an additional fifty yards on the bounce. There is, of course, the danger of hitting the small planes that actually land there and as they all look like the planes used in drug runner movies, this may not be a fortunate circumstance. Pilots and passengers of these aircraft can seldom take a joke.
Apart from the soccer game skirting the eighth hole and the softball game in progress on the ninth fairway, there is not much more to tell. A quick post game Cerveza Panama was had by all, the caddies were paid and we were on our way.
The drive home lacked drama, which is how all drive homes should be unless, of course, like me, you make stuff up. ("Stuff up" is probaly not a great way to end a sentence unless you are cooking a turkey or giving an order, but I'm going with it anyway.)
Upon arriving at LJ's casa, we were greeted by his wife Bonnie who became in contention for wife-of-the -year, okay week, by presenting us with frozen margaritas and a pot of chili. Now, how good is that? I'll tell you how good as that. It almost made me forget my chip-in and the long putt I almost made on six.
Did I tell you about that putt? It was and uphill left to righter with a... Hey! come back here!
I won't, as usual, tell you about the round, because I know how boring it is to people who don't play golf. I won't even tell you about the great shots I hit on holes 2, 5, 7 and 9 which included an excellent chip-in, because you all know I mostly write fiction and wouldn't believe me anyway. I will tell you about the cart lady.
"She's no lady, she's a..." is the punch line to more than one joke. In this case I'm not kidding because the cart lady was a guy, on a bicycle, passing by. He took our money in a serious and forthright manner and set off for the clubhouse on his vintage fat wheeled, no gears bike, for our order of cokes and beers. The cokes were for Woowoo and the caddies. He was back before we had completed the hole, which, if you knew the truth, says more about our tee shots than the speed of the cyclist.
I'm not sure at what point I should mention the principal feature of the golf course, so I'll just do it now and get it out of the way. Golf course descriptions usually range from the lyrical " the flowers at Augusta National remind us all of poetry past and present yadida yadida yadida" to hyperbole that includes best, most, toughest, and meanest, but until now you haven't heard this phrase about your average, run-of-the-mill eighteen holer: The landing strip the runs through the center of the golf course can be used to good advantage. By landing your tee shot there, you can gain an additional fifty yards on the bounce. There is, of course, the danger of hitting the small planes that actually land there and as they all look like the planes used in drug runner movies, this may not be a fortunate circumstance. Pilots and passengers of these aircraft can seldom take a joke.
Apart from the soccer game skirting the eighth hole and the softball game in progress on the ninth fairway, there is not much more to tell. A quick post game Cerveza Panama was had by all, the caddies were paid and we were on our way.
The drive home lacked drama, which is how all drive homes should be unless, of course, like me, you make stuff up. ("Stuff up" is probaly not a great way to end a sentence unless you are cooking a turkey or giving an order, but I'm going with it anyway.)
Upon arriving at LJ's casa, we were greeted by his wife Bonnie who became in contention for wife-of-the -year, okay week, by presenting us with frozen margaritas and a pot of chili. Now, how good is that? I'll tell you how good as that. It almost made me forget my chip-in and the long putt I almost made on six.
Did I tell you about that putt? It was and uphill left to righter with a... Hey! come back here!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Questions From Proust Revisited
...LOWEST DEPTHS OF MISERY? Snowman on a par three. That's an eight for you poor, miserable people who have never learned to play golf and have, thus, never experienced real life and think being below par means not feeling well.
...YOU LIKE TO LIVE? A weekend at the Playboy Mansion would probably be enough.
...IDEA OF EARTHLY HAPPINESS? Being as one with the great WHATEVER.
...FAULTS MOST INDULGED? Faults? What faults? Oh sure, the San Andreas.
...FAVORITE HEROES OF FICTION. Nick and Nora Charles. They had great clothes and strong livers.
...FAVORITE CHARCTERS IN HISTORY? Lincoln, De Soto, Pontiac. If you were important AND a swell fella, you got your name on a car. That's why nobody drives a Hitler.
...FAVORITE HEROINES OF FICTION? Those are like girls, right? Hmmm. Xena, Warrior Princess, Barbarella and Brigit Bardot's Babette.
...FAVORITE PAINTER? Sherman Williams.
...FAVORITE MUSICIAN? How can you choose from among the greats...Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Elvis? Too hard to decide. Okay, Haile Berry. She plays, right?
...QUALITY ADMIRED IN A MAN? The ability to pick up a bar tab.
...QUALITY ADMIRED IN A WOMAN? For no discernable reason they seem to like men. That's a good quality. Also, they look great jumping up and down in slow motion.
...FAVORITE VIRTUE? Mine? Yours? Random? If you say the word virute fast and loud someone else will say guzhundeit. Not being judgmental. (In my case that's "having no judgment.")
...FAVORITE OCCUPATION ? Pimp? No, just kidding. Watching football while smoking a good cigar, having a drink and a tasty snack, reading a good book and getting a ... I am a seven, afterall.
...HAVE LIKED TO BE? For one day? A beautiful woman. For a lifetime? Taller.
...YOU LIKE TO LIVE? A weekend at the Playboy Mansion would probably be enough.
...IDEA OF EARTHLY HAPPINESS? Being as one with the great WHATEVER.
...FAULTS MOST INDULGED? Faults? What faults? Oh sure, the San Andreas.
...FAVORITE HEROES OF FICTION. Nick and Nora Charles. They had great clothes and strong livers.
...FAVORITE CHARCTERS IN HISTORY? Lincoln, De Soto, Pontiac. If you were important AND a swell fella, you got your name on a car. That's why nobody drives a Hitler.
...FAVORITE HEROINES OF FICTION? Those are like girls, right? Hmmm. Xena, Warrior Princess, Barbarella and Brigit Bardot's Babette.
...FAVORITE PAINTER? Sherman Williams.
...FAVORITE MUSICIAN? How can you choose from among the greats...Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Elvis? Too hard to decide. Okay, Haile Berry. She plays, right?
...QUALITY ADMIRED IN A MAN? The ability to pick up a bar tab.
...QUALITY ADMIRED IN A WOMAN? For no discernable reason they seem to like men. That's a good quality. Also, they look great jumping up and down in slow motion.
...FAVORITE VIRTUE? Mine? Yours? Random? If you say the word virute fast and loud someone else will say guzhundeit. Not being judgmental. (In my case that's "having no judgment.")
...FAVORITE OCCUPATION ? Pimp? No, just kidding. Watching football while smoking a good cigar, having a drink and a tasty snack, reading a good book and getting a ... I am a seven, afterall.
...HAVE LIKED TO BE? For one day? A beautiful woman. For a lifetime? Taller.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Questions from Proust
Special K sent me the following series of questions called The Proust Questionnaire. I thought I would answer them seriously the first time around and get back to them at a later date for a round of whimsy. I would also very much like to read the responses of all or any of you who choose to answer the queries.
WHAT DO YOU REGARD AS THE LOWEST DEPTH OF MISERY?
Being crippled by fear, guilt or doubt and, hence, unable to act.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
Right here in Boquete is the best place I've found so far although I suspect there are many others that would suit me. A desirable place to return to from traveling for golf and education is my best definition of a suitable place.
WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF EARTHLY HAPPINESS?
Being in good health, loved and loving, golfing, reading, writing and, of course, being present to appreciate all those things.
TO WHAT FAULTS DO YOU FEEL MOST INDULGENT?
If this means what faults do I most often indulge, then the answers are now, as they have seemingly always been, lack of ambition, going too often with the flow, allowing fear to dictate responses and I probably drink too much. All but the last have, however, served me well.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROES OF FICTION?
David Copperfield, Nick Charles, Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes and any of Dick Francis' protagonists.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTERS IN HISTORY?
FDR, Robin Hood, Ivanhoe and the knights of the Round table. Of course, Hood, Ivan and Arthur's boys were probably not real, but they should be.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROINES IN REAL LIFE?
My wife Woowoo Charly and the woman who went to jail rather than talk to Kenneth Starr.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROINES OF FICTION?
Wow, tough one. Ms Marple and jeez, I don't know, Batwoman, Catwoman, and any of the lusty ladies from the classics.
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE PAINTER?
Salvador Dali.
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE MUSICIAN?
My two sons and Carlos Santana.
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A MAN?
Honesty and the lack of ego.
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A WOMAN?
The same.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE VIRTUE?
If this means which of my own is my favorite, then I would have to say my tolerance.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION?
Sauna surfing with bikini models. Oops sorry, that's for the other blog. Hmmm, sex, golf, reading, writing, good conversation while smoking a cigar and having a cocktail...I'm an enneagram seven, there are so many things to choose from.
WHO WOULD YOU HAVE LIKED TO BE?
I honestly cannot imagine being anyone else.
WHAT DO YOU REGARD AS THE LOWEST DEPTH OF MISERY?
Being crippled by fear, guilt or doubt and, hence, unable to act.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
Right here in Boquete is the best place I've found so far although I suspect there are many others that would suit me. A desirable place to return to from traveling for golf and education is my best definition of a suitable place.
WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF EARTHLY HAPPINESS?
Being in good health, loved and loving, golfing, reading, writing and, of course, being present to appreciate all those things.
TO WHAT FAULTS DO YOU FEEL MOST INDULGENT?
If this means what faults do I most often indulge, then the answers are now, as they have seemingly always been, lack of ambition, going too often with the flow, allowing fear to dictate responses and I probably drink too much. All but the last have, however, served me well.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROES OF FICTION?
David Copperfield, Nick Charles, Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes and any of Dick Francis' protagonists.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTERS IN HISTORY?
FDR, Robin Hood, Ivanhoe and the knights of the Round table. Of course, Hood, Ivan and Arthur's boys were probably not real, but they should be.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROINES IN REAL LIFE?
My wife Woowoo Charly and the woman who went to jail rather than talk to Kenneth Starr.
WHO ARE YOUR FAVORITE HEROINES OF FICTION?
Wow, tough one. Ms Marple and jeez, I don't know, Batwoman, Catwoman, and any of the lusty ladies from the classics.
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE PAINTER?
Salvador Dali.
WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE MUSICIAN?
My two sons and Carlos Santana.
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A MAN?
Honesty and the lack of ego.
WHAT IS THE QUALITY YOU MOST ADMIRE IN A WOMAN?
The same.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE VIRTUE?
If this means which of my own is my favorite, then I would have to say my tolerance.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE OCCUPATION?
Sauna surfing with bikini models. Oops sorry, that's for the other blog. Hmmm, sex, golf, reading, writing, good conversation while smoking a cigar and having a cocktail...I'm an enneagram seven, there are so many things to choose from.
WHO WOULD YOU HAVE LIKED TO BE?
I honestly cannot imagine being anyone else.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
My English Side
As some of you know my heritage is half Irish, half English, a condition that causes me to continually rebel against myself. And - this line is from Rita Rudner - half of me is wild and carefree and the other half is appalled. Rita used the gag to describe her son who is half Brit, half American.
This morning I am fully in tune with my English side. I fell asleep last night reading P.D. James and awoke this morning needing a biscuit and tea. I'm sitting rather more erect as I type this and wondering where the Dickens, Jeeves is. Odd, really, that I am a bit of an anglophile in that the country has little that appeals to me apart from its pubs and golf courses. I would like to visit, for sure, but only on a warm summer day. That cold looking, drizzly rain that seems to be a regular feature of British Isle weather doesn't do a thing for me. "Bracing" they'd say, with stiff upper lips. "Bullshit" I'd say, heading to the pub, but then I do have that Irish side.
It's not the country, it's the people and their - as perceived by me - culture that fascinates me. Bobbies and double decked buses. Bowler hats squarely aligned and umbrellas tucked smartly under arms. Nifty names like Chelsea and Liverpool and The House of Lords. And you've got to love the accents, cockney and upper crust. One's so proudly aggressive, the other's deliciously a snoot. There's "guvnas" and "old socks" and "chums" aplenty. But best of all for me, is the overriding sense of civility. Do let's be polite. "I say Old Boy, sorry about the bullet but Daphne and I were engaged."
Of course I got it all from books and movies and TV, sketchy source materials at best, but I do have, don't you know, my image of the average Brit. He's an amalgam of James Bond, Bertie Wooster, David Niven and all the Monte Python characters. Today I am that guy. So to you I say, Ta Ta, Cheerio, chin up and I want it shaken, not stirred. Wait! That last part might be Irish!
This morning I am fully in tune with my English side. I fell asleep last night reading P.D. James and awoke this morning needing a biscuit and tea. I'm sitting rather more erect as I type this and wondering where the Dickens, Jeeves is. Odd, really, that I am a bit of an anglophile in that the country has little that appeals to me apart from its pubs and golf courses. I would like to visit, for sure, but only on a warm summer day. That cold looking, drizzly rain that seems to be a regular feature of British Isle weather doesn't do a thing for me. "Bracing" they'd say, with stiff upper lips. "Bullshit" I'd say, heading to the pub, but then I do have that Irish side.
It's not the country, it's the people and their - as perceived by me - culture that fascinates me. Bobbies and double decked buses. Bowler hats squarely aligned and umbrellas tucked smartly under arms. Nifty names like Chelsea and Liverpool and The House of Lords. And you've got to love the accents, cockney and upper crust. One's so proudly aggressive, the other's deliciously a snoot. There's "guvnas" and "old socks" and "chums" aplenty. But best of all for me, is the overriding sense of civility. Do let's be polite. "I say Old Boy, sorry about the bullet but Daphne and I were engaged."
Of course I got it all from books and movies and TV, sketchy source materials at best, but I do have, don't you know, my image of the average Brit. He's an amalgam of James Bond, Bertie Wooster, David Niven and all the Monte Python characters. Today I am that guy. So to you I say, Ta Ta, Cheerio, chin up and I want it shaken, not stirred. Wait! That last part might be Irish!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Literary Giants
Someone said something last night that I found really interesting and vitally important. I wonder what it was.
Today's Spanish class is going to be about literature. (Litter at cher...own risk) Our teacher, Blad, from Translaterania is a lit enthusiast and my fellow student, Alan, is both a writer and former lit teacher. I'm sure they will bring their literary favorites to the discussion and names like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cervantes, Shakespeare and Dickens will all be bandied about. Not wanting to be left out, I will contribute my early influences in the field of great writing, those being Claire Bee, E. Rice Burroughs and Bob Kane. For those of you unfamiliar with these literary giants, they were the writers of the Chip Hilton series (The Hardy Boys of sports), Tarzan and the Batman comic books respectively. You may scoff if you must, but cover your mouth when you do so because we don't want that to spread.
It was from Claire I learned all my ethics. Winners never cheat and cheaters never win, it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game and cover your mouth when you scoff being some of them.
From Burroughs, and this is E. Rice not William, I learned that a man could be raised by apes, kill lions and crocodiles with nothing but his bare hands and a big knife while living happily with a hot babe in a tree house that lacked even the barest of essentials like a satellite dish. I haven't had a chance to put all this to the test just yet, but I did once shoot a rabbit. Of course I felt bad later and I'm sure Tarzan would have too. (From Burroughs, William I learned some other things, but this is a family blog.)
Kane was the earliest of my influences besides the magazines I found at my Uncle Bill's house as I pretty much learned to read from him. I wanted to know what those little black marks he put in the bubbles above Batman and Robin's heads were trying to tell me. I was just no good at figuring out the pictures. In fact, even now I wish they'd go back to putting words on the road signs. A picture of a truck going downhill doesn't tell me a damn thing.
So there you have the intellectual discourse I will be taking to class. Luckily, I'll be speaking Spanish and no one will understand me anyway.
Today's Spanish class is going to be about literature. (Litter at cher...own risk) Our teacher, Blad, from Translaterania is a lit enthusiast and my fellow student, Alan, is both a writer and former lit teacher. I'm sure they will bring their literary favorites to the discussion and names like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cervantes, Shakespeare and Dickens will all be bandied about. Not wanting to be left out, I will contribute my early influences in the field of great writing, those being Claire Bee, E. Rice Burroughs and Bob Kane. For those of you unfamiliar with these literary giants, they were the writers of the Chip Hilton series (The Hardy Boys of sports), Tarzan and the Batman comic books respectively. You may scoff if you must, but cover your mouth when you do so because we don't want that to spread.
It was from Claire I learned all my ethics. Winners never cheat and cheaters never win, it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game and cover your mouth when you scoff being some of them.
From Burroughs, and this is E. Rice not William, I learned that a man could be raised by apes, kill lions and crocodiles with nothing but his bare hands and a big knife while living happily with a hot babe in a tree house that lacked even the barest of essentials like a satellite dish. I haven't had a chance to put all this to the test just yet, but I did once shoot a rabbit. Of course I felt bad later and I'm sure Tarzan would have too. (From Burroughs, William I learned some other things, but this is a family blog.)
Kane was the earliest of my influences besides the magazines I found at my Uncle Bill's house as I pretty much learned to read from him. I wanted to know what those little black marks he put in the bubbles above Batman and Robin's heads were trying to tell me. I was just no good at figuring out the pictures. In fact, even now I wish they'd go back to putting words on the road signs. A picture of a truck going downhill doesn't tell me a damn thing.
So there you have the intellectual discourse I will be taking to class. Luckily, I'll be speaking Spanish and no one will understand me anyway.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Me and the Prince
My Spanish teacher is named Bladimir, Blad for short, pronounced Vlad, and the only other Vlad I know of is Vlad The Impaler, Prince Dracule, later known simply as Dracula. I think Bram Stoker called him a Count, but Bram didn't know him as well as I did. Back in the fourteenth century the prince and I were tight. We used to hang together and party on the weekends. We'd fly down the mountain from Drac's place and drop in on one pub or another for a brew and a game of darts. Everyone knows that Drac didn't drink wine in those days, but I'm here to tell you he could put away the suds. He was a pretty good hand with the darts too and was a fierce competitor. Beating him was not a good thing to do because Drac would get real surly after a loss and was easily provoked to violence. We'd end up throwing people around the room like ragdolls, which usually got us eighty- sixed and damn, we'd have to cross another good watering hole off our making the rounds list. I tried to point this out to the prince when we lost The Hungarian Rhapsody Bar and Barbecue, but sometimes there was just no talking to him. Around an hour or so before dawn, we'd both get real hungry and have to go in search of food. We were on the Transylvania Diet at the time, trying to stay fit and all that, and as you know that diet only allows for the blood of ripe young women. Try finding that an hour from dawn in the Carpathian Mountains! I tell you we went hungry many a night and our exploits were wildly exaggerated. We thought about moving to London where we were told the pickings were easier, but the prince was a homeboy and truly loved his castle. A few centuries later, he did make his way there when food was scarce locally, but I've heard it didn't go well for him. Anyway, when we did stumble on a fair damsel prowling the night, we'd play the paper, rock, scissors game to see who got to gulp the jugular. The loser had to make do with a wrist which was more suited for sipping and not very filling. If we'd gone several days without a thirst quencher, the prince would cheat and hypnotize some sweet thing early in the evening and then call her out later in the night. They'd waft right out of bed and zip right up to him like they were on a string. I was never able to do that. Of course I was a lot younger than the prince as he'd only made me a century before and I lacked both experience and a title. He promised to show me the trick one day, but he never did. After that we'd call it a night and head back to the old coffins to sleep through the day. It wasn't the greatest way to live, but, you know, it was fun and it worked for us. Even though he was a prince, old Vlad was a regular guy. I wonder if Bladimir is related. He seems like a regular guy too.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
At A Loss For Words
I've got three English/Spanish Dictionaries, including one heavy enough to do one arm curls with and a Webster's New World College - has anyone seen their Old World version? - and I find them no help at all when I'm at a loss for words. I just this minute opened up my dusty, trusty, old Webster's to a random page and locked my morning blurries on the word "ideology." It's defined as "the study of ideas, their nature and source." Well of course it is. The problem is you have to have an idea before you can study it and damn if I know the source from whence. I mean if it wasn't for Woowoo Charly, I wouldn't have any ideas at all. Hmmn, maybe I should wake her.
I'm supposed to be doing my Spanish homework, class is in two hours, but, you know, I'd rather shoot baskets or mess around with my friends. Maybe talk about sports or girls. If the conversation gets good, we can use our lunch money for cokes and Moon Pies down at the corner store and keep it going. Besides I've been studying way too hard lately. Four hours a week is no easy class load and I was telling my bud LJ only yesterday that our parents expect too darn much from us. Wish I had a car. I'd find that route 66 and drive it end to end and maybe even go to Panama. I've heard that's a really cool place.
Slap! Damn that smarts. Well I did make it to Panama after all. It just took longer than I thought. Now I have to do two things I should have done back then when my mind was nimble, but focused on all the wrong things. Learn Spanish and get a clue.
Whoops, just got interrupted and lost a half hour. Now I'm panicked. Gotta go.
I'm supposed to be doing my Spanish homework, class is in two hours, but, you know, I'd rather shoot baskets or mess around with my friends. Maybe talk about sports or girls. If the conversation gets good, we can use our lunch money for cokes and Moon Pies down at the corner store and keep it going. Besides I've been studying way too hard lately. Four hours a week is no easy class load and I was telling my bud LJ only yesterday that our parents expect too darn much from us. Wish I had a car. I'd find that route 66 and drive it end to end and maybe even go to Panama. I've heard that's a really cool place.
Slap! Damn that smarts. Well I did make it to Panama after all. It just took longer than I thought. Now I have to do two things I should have done back then when my mind was nimble, but focused on all the wrong things. Learn Spanish and get a clue.
Whoops, just got interrupted and lost a half hour. Now I'm panicked. Gotta go.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
A Nice Age To Be
I can't wait to get to the four or five books I might already have read if I hadn't been reading the thousand page middle book of a trilogy by George R.R. Martin. I finished "A Clash of Kings" last night about two minutes after I had finally sorted out all the central characters. The book's appendix lists all the players at the back of the book and takes over twenty pages to do so, so keeping track of all but the most important secondary characters was far beyond my abilities. I can't imagine how old George R.R. (Roy Rogers? Ronald Reagan? Robert Redford?) managed to do it himself. Must be nice to have talent. Now I have to avoid finding the last book of the three , so I can get some other reading done. I'm not one of those guys who can spend a lifetime reading Proust or Balzac or even Shakespeare to the exclusion of others. Variety is the spice of life as Willy Shakes (surely another seven) tells us, so bring on the P.D. James and Richard Russo. (George Richard Russo Martin?)
And speaking of lifetimes, today I am officially closer to age seventy than I am to sixty. Oddly, that doesn't bother me at all. I'm quite comfortable being a sixty something and seventy no longer sounds all that old. Turning forty was the last time I stressed over a birthday. I didn't like hitting that milestone one bit. The twenties and thirties were all nice ages to be. They were still young and full of hope and promise. Then forty came around and I morphed into Jack Benny for the next decade. "That's right, I'm 39." After fifty, age no longer mattered to me so I owned up proudly to my actual number. Somewhere in that decade, I realized the age of my "self", my "essence" (whatever it is) had become constant and didn't get any older with each passing birthday. I don't know exactly what that age is, it may in fact me timeless, but I can tell you one thing, it's not forty. I'll never be forty and you shouldn't either. It's depressing.
And speaking of lifetimes, today I am officially closer to age seventy than I am to sixty. Oddly, that doesn't bother me at all. I'm quite comfortable being a sixty something and seventy no longer sounds all that old. Turning forty was the last time I stressed over a birthday. I didn't like hitting that milestone one bit. The twenties and thirties were all nice ages to be. They were still young and full of hope and promise. Then forty came around and I morphed into Jack Benny for the next decade. "That's right, I'm 39." After fifty, age no longer mattered to me so I owned up proudly to my actual number. Somewhere in that decade, I realized the age of my "self", my "essence" (whatever it is) had become constant and didn't get any older with each passing birthday. I don't know exactly what that age is, it may in fact me timeless, but I can tell you one thing, it's not forty. I'll never be forty and you shouldn't either. It's depressing.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Fun in the Sun Continued
Sleep lay on me like a sack of something heavy when I forced myself to wakefulness este manana. Must have been the same for Gus as he did a lot of stretching before leaping to the floor and leading me to the door. He's usually off the bed like a cat the minute I swing my legs over the side, afraid, I surmise, that I might actually open the door and not let him out. I'm fully awake now though, having poured several cups of my caffeine delivery system into my welcoming maw. I am in fact lit up which is somewhat different than lit out. "So," I say to myself and hear Morey Amsterdam finish the question, "self, where was I when I left off ayer?"
Let's see, we had killed the camels and opened their bellies for the water stored there and then trekked to the sixth hole only to find the oasis dried up. The green, which is of course a laughable name for what our golf balls located after several wayward attempts, was surrounded on three sides by, what a surprise, sand. Sand that was in fact so sun burned, it had tanned up nicely. Brown sand. I looked about for Shaharazade, Cleopatra or Dorothy Lamour, but they were apparently off on Wednesdays. I asked my caddy, donde esta los cart ladies? and he, being a fast learner, came back with his latest new word, "huh?" so we moved along gamely. Or was it gamey. We were, after all, pretty sweaty.
Eventually we found the tee box for the ninth hole, a five mile, par 200, straight away to the clubhouse adventure that challenged both our reserve and our resolve. Nevertheless, intrepid troopers that we are, we finished strongly with triple or maybe quadruple or quintuple bogies, I mean who was counting at that point, and reunited with our pal LJ who had recouped. Beers were in order and our new best friend Roberto had the keys to the bar. Abierta la puerta Roberto! Panamas all around.
After that, well, there's not much to tell. We stopped at the nifty roadside restaurant we'd found last Mother's Day where the food is good and the service slow which is pretty much the description of every eatery in Panama. We all had, in one form or another, the corvina, a nice white fish and possibly the name of a car model. Now on showroom floors everywhere, the Chevy Corvina. It has a ring. Then it was on to Boquete to cool down and watch the latest episode of American Idol.
The guy singers on AI are totally mediocre and should be voted off forthwith. That though, is a blog for another day.
Let's see, we had killed the camels and opened their bellies for the water stored there and then trekked to the sixth hole only to find the oasis dried up. The green, which is of course a laughable name for what our golf balls located after several wayward attempts, was surrounded on three sides by, what a surprise, sand. Sand that was in fact so sun burned, it had tanned up nicely. Brown sand. I looked about for Shaharazade, Cleopatra or Dorothy Lamour, but they were apparently off on Wednesdays. I asked my caddy, donde esta los cart ladies? and he, being a fast learner, came back with his latest new word, "huh?" so we moved along gamely. Or was it gamey. We were, after all, pretty sweaty.
Eventually we found the tee box for the ninth hole, a five mile, par 200, straight away to the clubhouse adventure that challenged both our reserve and our resolve. Nevertheless, intrepid troopers that we are, we finished strongly with triple or maybe quadruple or quintuple bogies, I mean who was counting at that point, and reunited with our pal LJ who had recouped. Beers were in order and our new best friend Roberto had the keys to the bar. Abierta la puerta Roberto! Panamas all around.
After that, well, there's not much to tell. We stopped at the nifty roadside restaurant we'd found last Mother's Day where the food is good and the service slow which is pretty much the description of every eatery in Panama. We all had, in one form or another, the corvina, a nice white fish and possibly the name of a car model. Now on showroom floors everywhere, the Chevy Corvina. It has a ring. Then it was on to Boquete to cool down and watch the latest episode of American Idol.
The guy singers on AI are totally mediocre and should be voted off forthwith. That though, is a blog for another day.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
We lit out for Puerto Armuelles at eight in the morning. ("Lit out" is a gift to me from our amigo LJ to whom such expressions come naturally as he is, by his "own account" an old redneck. ) We arrived there some hour and a half later and made our way to the "Country Club" to play some golf. It was closed. We were just determining to play the course anyway when a truck pulled up and a young man hopped out to explain the course didn't officially open until four in the afternoon when people got off work and wandered there to get in nine before dark. We explained that we had driven all the way from Boquete to play so surely there must be some way to make that happen. The young fella, Miguel by name, pulled out his cell phone and fifteen minutes later three caddies appeared to lug our bags, or in Woowoo C and I my's case, pull our carts. We learned that to join the "Country Club" it would cost us an initial fee of thirty dollars and then ten dollars per month. These sums would entitle us to unlimited play on the golf course and use of the swimming pool, tennis courts and bar area. Woowoo C as my wife would be, and here comes one of my favorite Spanish words, gratis and yes you are correct, it does mean free. Alrighty then. Show me the dotted line.
It was in the neighborhood of ten thirty when L mailed a long drive down the left side of the first fairway and C and I hit fifty yard grounders up the middle. I use the word fairway here to indicate we were on an actual golf course despite its lack of even a single green blade of grass. The course appeared to have not seen rain since Noah played there shortly after The Flood. The entire layout was the color of straw with the exception of the palm and coconut trees that bordered the poorways (a more accurate description) and in some cases defined the parameters of the holes. It all looked and felt very very dry, like a tropical desert if such a thing can be imagined. The sun was pouring heat down upon us we ambled along and if you had no understanding of what we were doing I'm sure we would appear to be some sort of lost safari. Nevertheless, we were playing golf and C and I were digging it. L and his caddy were not so sure. The temperature had to be in the mid nineties range which is smoking hot for we who are used to the "eternal Spring" seventies of Boquete and L was suffering from it. His caddy, a stocky muscular guy named Marcos was also having a tough time as L's bag was no light lift. Both called it quits on the fifth hole, L from dizziness and Marcos from exhaustion. C and I plugged on with our caddies, Roberto and Abel. We were playing poorly but learning the course and tidbits about our companions. Abel, for instance, has a brother named Cain. I pointed out that this was not, historically, a good thing, but he didn't seem to mind. Roberto, impressed with my snappy Spanish, talked to me as if I were a native and was baffled my frequent use of the Spanish expression "huh?" I did glean that the course greens up nicely from May to November or thereabouts.
And now, speaking of Spanish, I must get ready for my class in same. I will pick up this narration later today or tomorrow.
It was in the neighborhood of ten thirty when L mailed a long drive down the left side of the first fairway and C and I hit fifty yard grounders up the middle. I use the word fairway here to indicate we were on an actual golf course despite its lack of even a single green blade of grass. The course appeared to have not seen rain since Noah played there shortly after The Flood. The entire layout was the color of straw with the exception of the palm and coconut trees that bordered the poorways (a more accurate description) and in some cases defined the parameters of the holes. It all looked and felt very very dry, like a tropical desert if such a thing can be imagined. The sun was pouring heat down upon us we ambled along and if you had no understanding of what we were doing I'm sure we would appear to be some sort of lost safari. Nevertheless, we were playing golf and C and I were digging it. L and his caddy were not so sure. The temperature had to be in the mid nineties range which is smoking hot for we who are used to the "eternal Spring" seventies of Boquete and L was suffering from it. His caddy, a stocky muscular guy named Marcos was also having a tough time as L's bag was no light lift. Both called it quits on the fifth hole, L from dizziness and Marcos from exhaustion. C and I plugged on with our caddies, Roberto and Abel. We were playing poorly but learning the course and tidbits about our companions. Abel, for instance, has a brother named Cain. I pointed out that this was not, historically, a good thing, but he didn't seem to mind. Roberto, impressed with my snappy Spanish, talked to me as if I were a native and was baffled my frequent use of the Spanish expression "huh?" I did glean that the course greens up nicely from May to November or thereabouts.
And now, speaking of Spanish, I must get ready for my class in same. I will pick up this narration later today or tomorrow.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Dramas and Dreams
I watched the movie "Resident Evil 2, The Apocalypse" last night thinking it was going to be about Bush's second term. Ba ding bong chiish! It wasn't, although the flick did have a lot of zombies, mindless monsters, robots and other Bush supporters in the plot. The good guys sort of prevail at the end, but the door is left open for "Resident Evil 3, Revenge of The Gingrich" which may or may not be playing in 2008. The heroine in the film is an ass kicking, DNA altered hot blonde. She is accompanied by an almost equally tough brunette and both are dressed in somewhat dominatrix style, ie: mini skirt, high boots, bare midriffs and halter tops. There are a couple of good guys in the movie as well, an heroic white guy who couldn't act and a comedic relief black guy who could, a little, but seriously, they mostly got in the way of my own, and apparently many other guys, personal fantasies. Sexy babes that can mop the floor with bad dudes being much in vogue of late.
I have to admit that I am not sure if Hollywood is missing the boat with their scare pics or if I am just too much a veteran viewer of the slash, mash and mangle genre to be frightened by them. It seems to me that the directors of today's fright films are caught up in what they can do with their special effects and forget that the object is not to amaze the viewer, but rather to scare the pants off him. To my way of thinking the audience needs to be squirming in their seats a bit more from fight or flight adrenaline and not from slimy, creepy things which have been way over done. (And here the Bush presidency comes back to mind.) Too much is too visible too soon. The nasties in the unknown are more frightening than the clearly animated or costumed baddie in the foreground. Which brings me to my pesadilla, my nightmare.
Last night I dreamed I had fallen asleep in my chair watching television. I awoke with a start feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Something was amiss. I turned off the TV which left me in complete darkness and I made my way slowly to the bedroom by groping along the walls. I didn't want to wake Woowoo Charly by turning on the lights. Just as I was about to climb in bed I heard a loud noise at the front door as if someone were trying to break in. I went to the bedroom window where I could see at an angle to that door and there was clearly someone or something there. Its shadowy outline was not especially human, but was especially thick and large. I hit every light switch I could as I rushed back to the living room and I was reaching for a three iron I keep in our umbrella stand when, with an ear splitting, wood ripping noise, the door exploded open and the thing came rushing in to get me.
I sat abruptly up in bed all sweaty and atremble. This had been too cool. Far better than the movie. Took me a good ten minutes to get back to sleep afterwards. I nodded off trying hard to promote part two, the ass kicking babe sandwich, but no such luck. Maybe tomorrow night. Still, I wonder... are your dreams as much fun as mine?
I have to admit that I am not sure if Hollywood is missing the boat with their scare pics or if I am just too much a veteran viewer of the slash, mash and mangle genre to be frightened by them. It seems to me that the directors of today's fright films are caught up in what they can do with their special effects and forget that the object is not to amaze the viewer, but rather to scare the pants off him. To my way of thinking the audience needs to be squirming in their seats a bit more from fight or flight adrenaline and not from slimy, creepy things which have been way over done. (And here the Bush presidency comes back to mind.) Too much is too visible too soon. The nasties in the unknown are more frightening than the clearly animated or costumed baddie in the foreground. Which brings me to my pesadilla, my nightmare.
Last night I dreamed I had fallen asleep in my chair watching television. I awoke with a start feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Something was amiss. I turned off the TV which left me in complete darkness and I made my way slowly to the bedroom by groping along the walls. I didn't want to wake Woowoo Charly by turning on the lights. Just as I was about to climb in bed I heard a loud noise at the front door as if someone were trying to break in. I went to the bedroom window where I could see at an angle to that door and there was clearly someone or something there. Its shadowy outline was not especially human, but was especially thick and large. I hit every light switch I could as I rushed back to the living room and I was reaching for a three iron I keep in our umbrella stand when, with an ear splitting, wood ripping noise, the door exploded open and the thing came rushing in to get me.
I sat abruptly up in bed all sweaty and atremble. This had been too cool. Far better than the movie. Took me a good ten minutes to get back to sleep afterwards. I nodded off trying hard to promote part two, the ass kicking babe sandwich, but no such luck. Maybe tomorrow night. Still, I wonder... are your dreams as much fun as mine?
Friday, March 09, 2007
A Good Night's Sleep
There is not much in this world better than a good night's sleep. When I've had my solid eight, I can deal with global warming, nuclear holocaust, alien invasions and even the more serious disasters like the Bush Administration and the reemergence of Newt Gingrich on the political scene. Being completely rested allows me to appreciate all the gifts that nature has to give with family, friends and dogs topping the list and cigars rounding out the top ten. When sleep eludes me, an untied shoelace can be a source of major aggravation. "What the hell, how did that happen? Now I have to bend over and redo the damn thing like I've got time for that with all the other crap happening right now." I mention this because I want my legions of readers, all four of you, to know that, yes, I am an addict and if anyone tries an intervention I will stay up all night and you will be very sorry in the morning.
Tylenol PM is my drug of choice. Colored light blue to match my eyes, these heavenly sleep inducers may not quite have been made by nature, but you know, as the Dali Lama once said about something or other, "who cares?" They sit atop a little glass shelf - I like to think of it as a shrine - next to our bathroom mirror and each night, when I am awakened by the howling of our
neighbor's, the Baskervilles, dog, I tip toe quietly to our smallest room and extract one of the magic pills from its container. I then break it in two and place the smaller half back on the shelf for later in the night when, if all goes as usual, I will be reawakened by the howling of my bladder. I wash the other half down my gullet with a swig of water as that's the only available liquid in our bathroom. Any kind of booze would be preferable, but Woowoo Charly says the bottles would be unsightly on the cabinet shelves and, besides that I like to drink a glass of water every day whether I need it or not; small sips being the best way to achieve that goal. I then scurry back to the bed and resume my reveries, the good night's sleep being the best of those.
After which there are the dreams. I won't wax on them at the moment, but I will say this: Bush and Newt play no part.
Good morning world! Bring on the day!
Tylenol PM is my drug of choice. Colored light blue to match my eyes, these heavenly sleep inducers may not quite have been made by nature, but you know, as the Dali Lama once said about something or other, "who cares?" They sit atop a little glass shelf - I like to think of it as a shrine - next to our bathroom mirror and each night, when I am awakened by the howling of our
neighbor's, the Baskervilles, dog, I tip toe quietly to our smallest room and extract one of the magic pills from its container. I then break it in two and place the smaller half back on the shelf for later in the night when, if all goes as usual, I will be reawakened by the howling of my bladder. I wash the other half down my gullet with a swig of water as that's the only available liquid in our bathroom. Any kind of booze would be preferable, but Woowoo Charly says the bottles would be unsightly on the cabinet shelves and, besides that I like to drink a glass of water every day whether I need it or not; small sips being the best way to achieve that goal. I then scurry back to the bed and resume my reveries, the good night's sleep being the best of those.
After which there are the dreams. I won't wax on them at the moment, but I will say this: Bush and Newt play no part.
Good morning world! Bring on the day!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Hi Ho Hi Ho
...it's off to school we go. No time for fun no time for play, hi ho hi ho.
Day 2 was better, harder. I'm still ahead of the curve, but I'm filling in some of the gaps in what I thought I had already learned. It's good to know I don't know it all, because if I did, I would have to become a 5. Omniscient and all that.
It is fun sitting in a classroom with a lecturer at the board scribbling out notes with his dry erase marker. What ever happened to chalk? I enjoy the banter and the back and forth questioning and I particularly enjoy the sense of "eureka, I did not know that!" Ya gotta love learning. It's right up there with super models in vats of tapioca for a good sensation. Yesterday, por ejemplo, I learned exactly when to use the words por and para which are commonly misused by gringos. Now if I could only remember where I left that tub of pudding...
After school, - what a strange phrase that is for someone my age to write - I did my homework, tarea in Spanish, took Gus for a hike, practised guitar, I can now find the B chord in less than an hour, watched Chelsea knock off FC Porto in the Uefa, it's back on, chatted with mi esposa over cocktails, had dinner and went to bed to read a book. Oh yeah, and somewhere in there I also did some chores and ate some peanuts. I'm only mentioning this in answer to the what do you do all day question that we jubilados get on a regular basis.
I think my mouse is dying. And that's another sentence you don't often see in print. It's a Genius and it has a little mouse head in profile stamped above the G in Genius which is itself stamped across the middle of the gismo. I'm bringing this up because I am out of things to say in the four minutes I have left to write before I get ready for school. So that's it for the day. Hi ho hi ho.
Day 2 was better, harder. I'm still ahead of the curve, but I'm filling in some of the gaps in what I thought I had already learned. It's good to know I don't know it all, because if I did, I would have to become a 5. Omniscient and all that.
It is fun sitting in a classroom with a lecturer at the board scribbling out notes with his dry erase marker. What ever happened to chalk? I enjoy the banter and the back and forth questioning and I particularly enjoy the sense of "eureka, I did not know that!" Ya gotta love learning. It's right up there with super models in vats of tapioca for a good sensation. Yesterday, por ejemplo, I learned exactly when to use the words por and para which are commonly misused by gringos. Now if I could only remember where I left that tub of pudding...
After school, - what a strange phrase that is for someone my age to write - I did my homework, tarea in Spanish, took Gus for a hike, practised guitar, I can now find the B chord in less than an hour, watched Chelsea knock off FC Porto in the Uefa, it's back on, chatted with mi esposa over cocktails, had dinner and went to bed to read a book. Oh yeah, and somewhere in there I also did some chores and ate some peanuts. I'm only mentioning this in answer to the what do you do all day question that we jubilados get on a regular basis.
I think my mouse is dying. And that's another sentence you don't often see in print. It's a Genius and it has a little mouse head in profile stamped above the G in Genius which is itself stamped across the middle of the gismo. I'm bringing this up because I am out of things to say in the four minutes I have left to write before I get ready for school. So that's it for the day. Hi ho hi ho.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Leccion de Espanol
El hecho mejor planes de ratones y hombres frecuentament va malo. Or something like that. That "oft gang agley" part is tough to translate.
There were only three of us at yesterday's class. Alan and I, of course, and a twenty something young woman who was nice, but not SI swimsuit material. El nombre de nuestro profesor is Bladimir, a name that doesn't exactly resound Latino. Upon arrival I was given an info packet that contained a nice map of Boquete and several pages of text about the course. One of the points made in the text was that fluency in conversation was the principal goal and that grammar was of far less importance. We then spent two hours mostly diddlying around with, I might have known... grammar. Two hours was also all the time allotted as the school has had a sudden influx of students and there aren't enough teachers and classrooms to handle a four hour block.
Still, my only real complaint is that so far the curriculum is too easy. I don't mind grammar. I like language rules and structure. La problema is that I am far ahead of what is being taught. I want (and need) more vocabulary and situational conversations. I want to be pushed and challenged in class. Otherwise I'll just get lazy, sit back and show off how smart I already am. Not a good thing to do at eight fifty an hour. So... we'll see how it goes today. (Vamos a ver hoy o este dia.)
Alrighty then! (Which has no translation that I know of. Hay caramba! may be close.)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Roy and Dale were beating the stuffing out of Trigger when...
Not that, the other ranch blogger breath...I was happy to learn that the Sonaffa Beach Diet continues to be successful as I have lost another pound. The weight is just flying off me in fractions of ounces! At the rate I am going I should achieve my target weight by my mid March birthday... in the year 2012. If the Mayans are correct, I'll be looking good going out. And I am unhappy to learn that Venezuela, from whence our television programming originates has determined that Spanish League and UEFA soccer are now pay-per view events. Yeah yeah, I know, who cares? Well, I do and four other gringos as well. It's important to remember, well, okay, not really important, but maybe worth noting, okay it's not that either, BUT, I've learned half my second language from Spanish speaking sports announcers. "Se va, se va, se va, se fue! Digolete no no, no no, no no! Cuadrangular. It's going, going, going, gone! Let me tell you, no no, no no, no no! Homerun! Now that's useful stuff.
There were only three of us at yesterday's class. Alan and I, of course, and a twenty something young woman who was nice, but not SI swimsuit material. El nombre de nuestro profesor is Bladimir, a name that doesn't exactly resound Latino. Upon arrival I was given an info packet that contained a nice map of Boquete and several pages of text about the course. One of the points made in the text was that fluency in conversation was the principal goal and that grammar was of far less importance. We then spent two hours mostly diddlying around with, I might have known... grammar. Two hours was also all the time allotted as the school has had a sudden influx of students and there aren't enough teachers and classrooms to handle a four hour block.
Still, my only real complaint is that so far the curriculum is too easy. I don't mind grammar. I like language rules and structure. La problema is that I am far ahead of what is being taught. I want (and need) more vocabulary and situational conversations. I want to be pushed and challenged in class. Otherwise I'll just get lazy, sit back and show off how smart I already am. Not a good thing to do at eight fifty an hour. So... we'll see how it goes today. (Vamos a ver hoy o este dia.)
Alrighty then! (Which has no translation that I know of. Hay caramba! may be close.)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Roy and Dale were beating the stuffing out of Trigger when...
Not that, the other ranch blogger breath...I was happy to learn that the Sonaffa Beach Diet continues to be successful as I have lost another pound. The weight is just flying off me in fractions of ounces! At the rate I am going I should achieve my target weight by my mid March birthday... in the year 2012. If the Mayans are correct, I'll be looking good going out. And I am unhappy to learn that Venezuela, from whence our television programming originates has determined that Spanish League and UEFA soccer are now pay-per view events. Yeah yeah, I know, who cares? Well, I do and four other gringos as well. It's important to remember, well, okay, not really important, but maybe worth noting, okay it's not that either, BUT, I've learned half my second language from Spanish speaking sports announcers. "Se va, se va, se va, se fue! Digolete no no, no no, no no! Cuadrangular. It's going, going, going, gone! Let me tell you, no no, no no, no no! Homerun! Now that's useful stuff.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Blog on the Run
At 10:30 this morning I begin a week of intensive Spanish classes. I will be in class four hours each day and have homework to boot. (Drop kicking homework into a corner was one of my specialties back in the day.) The course is being given here by a language center called Habla Ya. (Speak Now) I've been wanting to improve my Spanish at a faster rate for sometime, so I wandered into Habla Ya one day and took their placement test. I'm an intermediate. I think that means I'm over five foot five but less than tall. Habla Ya then rounded up three other intermediates to fill up the class; four people to a teacher being their maximum. One of the other students will be our friend Alan who became an inter by having taken classes in the past. I think he's a bit more fluent than I am but, hey, I'm taller. I don't know yet who our other classmates will be, but I'm hoping for SI swimsuit models in need of lessons. It's always good to have hope. At the end of the week I will cut back classes to two hours a day two times a week for the rest of the month. After that I will go on the Spanish Lecture circuit dazzling the masses with my fluency on a wide variety of subjects dear to the Latino heart like, Salsa. Is it music or something to put on food? Woowoo Charly will then begin her classes at Habla Ya or maybe Spanish By The River, she likes the sound of that one, and the two of us will no longer be intimidated by smart alecky six year olds speaking better English than our Spanish.
Wish us luck.
Wish us luck.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Out of Sorts
I've been out of luck, out of time and out of money, but the worst is being out of sorts. I mean when you don't have any sorts you're in real trouble and that has been exactly my condition for the past several days. The thing that caused my sorts to run and hide was not having the morning time to write a blog. I have, as you may have noticed, been blogless for several days. Bloglessness leads to sortlessness which in turn leads to disgruntledness and grousing. Fortunately, as you can see, I have found my sorts and fended off the personality change my daughters claim is to curmudgeonness.
And speaking of personality changes, one occurred to me while watching last night's lunar eclipse. As interesting as it was from our human point of view, I had to wonder how it affected the poor werewolf. "What the hell? Am I changing? Changing back No, wait, I'm half changed, I'm... somebody's screwing with me." Must have been very traumatic.
With help from our friend Randy, we got our new washer/dryer on line yesterday and also managed to change a few light bulbs. What, you think changing light bulbs is easy? These babies were inside a fixture that wouldn't give them up. It took a man with years of experience to figure out how to free them and, you guessed right, that guy wasn't me. We replaced the bulbs with those new energy saving, "last forever" types and then put the fixture back together. I suspect that last forever might be a slight exaggeration for the bulbs, but if they hang in there until after we move again, it will be close enough to forever to suit me.
The washer/dryer part didn't go as smoothly. The first obstacle occurred the day before when we brought it back from Daveed (specialK says I have to pronounce David that way or it sounds weird) in Alan's truck and unloaded it in front of our house. It was at that point that Alan and I realized the large cardboard box that had been loaded into his truck bed weighed approximately, oh, I don't know, say a thousand pounds. More than we could lift anyway. I called another friend, Larry to come and help. And did he ever. After pushing and pulling on the box for a bit, he said, "I know exactly what to do." Then he left. Which, of course is what I wanted to do, but damn, it was my washer/dryer. Larry returned though, in a matter of minutes and brought with him four Panamanian construction workers built like NFL linebackers. They picked up the appliance and carried it to the back of the house where it will now live until we move again. Nice. And my back doesn't hurt a bit. The next day, Randy and I hooked up the w/d. Okay, Randy did, but I helped.
So there you have it. I get by with a little help from my friends. Thank you, Alan, Larry and Randy for returning my sorts. I was lost without them.
And speaking of personality changes, one occurred to me while watching last night's lunar eclipse. As interesting as it was from our human point of view, I had to wonder how it affected the poor werewolf. "What the hell? Am I changing? Changing back No, wait, I'm half changed, I'm... somebody's screwing with me." Must have been very traumatic.
With help from our friend Randy, we got our new washer/dryer on line yesterday and also managed to change a few light bulbs. What, you think changing light bulbs is easy? These babies were inside a fixture that wouldn't give them up. It took a man with years of experience to figure out how to free them and, you guessed right, that guy wasn't me. We replaced the bulbs with those new energy saving, "last forever" types and then put the fixture back together. I suspect that last forever might be a slight exaggeration for the bulbs, but if they hang in there until after we move again, it will be close enough to forever to suit me.
The washer/dryer part didn't go as smoothly. The first obstacle occurred the day before when we brought it back from Daveed (specialK says I have to pronounce David that way or it sounds weird) in Alan's truck and unloaded it in front of our house. It was at that point that Alan and I realized the large cardboard box that had been loaded into his truck bed weighed approximately, oh, I don't know, say a thousand pounds. More than we could lift anyway. I called another friend, Larry to come and help. And did he ever. After pushing and pulling on the box for a bit, he said, "I know exactly what to do." Then he left. Which, of course is what I wanted to do, but damn, it was my washer/dryer. Larry returned though, in a matter of minutes and brought with him four Panamanian construction workers built like NFL linebackers. They picked up the appliance and carried it to the back of the house where it will now live until we move again. Nice. And my back doesn't hurt a bit. The next day, Randy and I hooked up the w/d. Okay, Randy did, but I helped.
So there you have it. I get by with a little help from my friends. Thank you, Alan, Larry and Randy for returning my sorts. I was lost without them.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
David Excursion
We rode to David in our friend Alan's new pick up truck, Alan driving. Alan likes to talk and emphasize the points he is making by gesturing with his hands. A thing that takes his hands from the steering wheel in what would generally be considered an alarming number of times. I say would be, because the disturbance factor is lessened by the speed at which Alan drives. I won't say he's slow, but a comparison to my grandmother on downers would be in order. (Alan if you are reading this, just kidding buddy. I felt safe the whole time except for that moment when you were comparing David to Tanzania or Kenya or some other African place and we damn near collided with those giraffes disguised as taxis.)
Our purpose in going to David was to buy a washer/dryer, stacker style. We found one sporting a decent price at the Do It Center, but they wouldn't let us have it. Our new pal, Tino, wearing a badge that said "facilitator" explained to us that the dryer part was set up for American gas, that is, natural gas, and it would have to be converted to use propane. The guy who does the converting wasn't available until later in the day. In my best Ahnold voice, I said, "we'll be bahk."
Our next stop was to the town's Nissan dealer where Alan had to sign his name...again. He had been trying to get his car registration for weeks but was unable to do so because he wasn't able to duplicate the signature on his ten year old passport. Alan has a slight tremor in his right hand and his signature varies a touch each time he signs it. Couple that with the normal change in handwriting over a ten year period and he just could not get a close enough match to satisfy the local officials. It's kind of funny to watch a guy sign his name and have someone else tell him, "nope, that's not you." Not funny for Alan though. His truck is now illegal and when he explained that to the official all he got in return was a "lo siento," sorry. The problem is still unresolved, but the dealer is going to get Alan's truck papers changed from Panama City where he had made the purchase to the dealership in David where, the dealer says, they are not as particular about signatures. We'll see how that goes.
After a nice lunch at the "Seafood Steak House" which features neither of those things, but rather, Chinese food, we returned to the Do It Center where they hadn't done it. Seems the conversion guy was in Boquete, wouldn't you know, and was not returning until later that day. We made arrangements to pick up the appliance Friday or Monday. Tino gave us his number, should we encounter any problems. I don't anticipate any of those, but I am a little concerned about the washer/dryer's brand name. It's Fridgidaire, the same as our kitchen stove. Our refrigerator? you might ask if I wasn't already telling you. Why that's a Maytag. And I'm not kidding.
Our purpose in going to David was to buy a washer/dryer, stacker style. We found one sporting a decent price at the Do It Center, but they wouldn't let us have it. Our new pal, Tino, wearing a badge that said "facilitator" explained to us that the dryer part was set up for American gas, that is, natural gas, and it would have to be converted to use propane. The guy who does the converting wasn't available until later in the day. In my best Ahnold voice, I said, "we'll be bahk."
Our next stop was to the town's Nissan dealer where Alan had to sign his name...again. He had been trying to get his car registration for weeks but was unable to do so because he wasn't able to duplicate the signature on his ten year old passport. Alan has a slight tremor in his right hand and his signature varies a touch each time he signs it. Couple that with the normal change in handwriting over a ten year period and he just could not get a close enough match to satisfy the local officials. It's kind of funny to watch a guy sign his name and have someone else tell him, "nope, that's not you." Not funny for Alan though. His truck is now illegal and when he explained that to the official all he got in return was a "lo siento," sorry. The problem is still unresolved, but the dealer is going to get Alan's truck papers changed from Panama City where he had made the purchase to the dealership in David where, the dealer says, they are not as particular about signatures. We'll see how that goes.
After a nice lunch at the "Seafood Steak House" which features neither of those things, but rather, Chinese food, we returned to the Do It Center where they hadn't done it. Seems the conversion guy was in Boquete, wouldn't you know, and was not returning until later that day. We made arrangements to pick up the appliance Friday or Monday. Tino gave us his number, should we encounter any problems. I don't anticipate any of those, but I am a little concerned about the washer/dryer's brand name. It's Fridgidaire, the same as our kitchen stove. Our refrigerator? you might ask if I wasn't already telling you. Why that's a Maytag. And I'm not kidding.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Oscar For Best Blog Goes To...
This is my 164th blog. Who knew I could be so talkative. (Yeah, I know, you're still waiting for me to say something.)
I have a temperature gauge (thermometer?) hanging on the wall next to where I write. It's 71 degrees Fahrenheit, 21 or 22 degrees Celsius. I'm going with the Fahrenheit because it is obviously a lot warmer. A couple of days ago it was 56 in here when I sat down to scribble. Damn near froze my patooty off, which I'm told, can be a painful thing to do. I wear a zip up heavy sweatshirt with a hood on it to keep me cozy on those cold early morns. It has a pale orange number 2 sewn on the front. "I'm number two!" is not a chant you hear very often.
Volcan Baru is not visible from my new blog launching pad. In fact, when I lift my head from the screen, all that greets me is a lavender wall. Less distracting, I suppose, but not exactly inspiring either. There is a window to my right, but the glass is the clouded type you can't see through.
I'm seated at a small computer table with a monitor on top and one of those pull out drawers for the keyboard. The word for drawers in Spanish is cajones, pronounced ka-hone-ace. We used to say "kicked in the cajones" as a euphemism for that place that makes you double over and want to puke, because it sounded like cajones should mean exactly that place. Now that I actually know a little Spanish, six words to be precise, I can see that "kicked in the cajones" makes no sense. Next thing you know they'll be telling me a burrito is not a little donkey.
To my left there is a desk and a doorway and behind me there's a bookcase. On the floor in front of the bookcase is a dog bed in which Gus is now snorfling.
On the walls there hang a clock, a calendar and a carved piece of wooden art that has Honduras etched on the bottom. Other than that, nothing but lavender. Or maybe it's mauve. The color changes with the light. What is mauve anyway?
So there you have it. The scene is set. We're ready for the action.
I almost watched The Oscars last night. Mostly what I saw was the pregame show. The actual Oscar show didn't come on until nearly nine. I can't tell you how much I miss my beloved Rocky Mountain Time Zone. Eastern Standard Time bites rocks. Prime time for RMT is seven to ten. For EST it's eight to eleven. There is no need for EST in Panama where the two largest population groups are North Americans with an average age of roughly 84 and Latinos under 10. Both those groups should be going to bed early and not staying up to the wee hours to watch someone they never heard of receive an award for Sound Mixing.
A friend of ours came over with his Panamanian girl friend (novia) to watch the show. He is a friend of Forest Whitaker and wanted to see if Forest copped the big acting prize. A thing, the copping, I learned this morning that he did. The girlfriend left early as she had a muy temprano morning wake up to deal with and I took that cue to go to bed. Woowoo Charly and our friend stayed the course though, and saw the whole show. They deserve some kind of award themselves, especially considering that the show was being instantly dubbed into Spanish, including the songs if you can believe that, and all traces of humor and juicy insider Hollywood stuff were mostly incomprehensible.
So there you have it, blog 164 is in the can. It's not likely to make my "best of" list, but it's better than being kicked in the cajones, whatever they are.
I have a temperature gauge (thermometer?) hanging on the wall next to where I write. It's 71 degrees Fahrenheit, 21 or 22 degrees Celsius. I'm going with the Fahrenheit because it is obviously a lot warmer. A couple of days ago it was 56 in here when I sat down to scribble. Damn near froze my patooty off, which I'm told, can be a painful thing to do. I wear a zip up heavy sweatshirt with a hood on it to keep me cozy on those cold early morns. It has a pale orange number 2 sewn on the front. "I'm number two!" is not a chant you hear very often.
Volcan Baru is not visible from my new blog launching pad. In fact, when I lift my head from the screen, all that greets me is a lavender wall. Less distracting, I suppose, but not exactly inspiring either. There is a window to my right, but the glass is the clouded type you can't see through.
I'm seated at a small computer table with a monitor on top and one of those pull out drawers for the keyboard. The word for drawers in Spanish is cajones, pronounced ka-hone-ace. We used to say "kicked in the cajones" as a euphemism for that place that makes you double over and want to puke, because it sounded like cajones should mean exactly that place. Now that I actually know a little Spanish, six words to be precise, I can see that "kicked in the cajones" makes no sense. Next thing you know they'll be telling me a burrito is not a little donkey.
To my left there is a desk and a doorway and behind me there's a bookcase. On the floor in front of the bookcase is a dog bed in which Gus is now snorfling.
On the walls there hang a clock, a calendar and a carved piece of wooden art that has Honduras etched on the bottom. Other than that, nothing but lavender. Or maybe it's mauve. The color changes with the light. What is mauve anyway?
So there you have it. The scene is set. We're ready for the action.
I almost watched The Oscars last night. Mostly what I saw was the pregame show. The actual Oscar show didn't come on until nearly nine. I can't tell you how much I miss my beloved Rocky Mountain Time Zone. Eastern Standard Time bites rocks. Prime time for RMT is seven to ten. For EST it's eight to eleven. There is no need for EST in Panama where the two largest population groups are North Americans with an average age of roughly 84 and Latinos under 10. Both those groups should be going to bed early and not staying up to the wee hours to watch someone they never heard of receive an award for Sound Mixing.
A friend of ours came over with his Panamanian girl friend (novia) to watch the show. He is a friend of Forest Whitaker and wanted to see if Forest copped the big acting prize. A thing, the copping, I learned this morning that he did. The girlfriend left early as she had a muy temprano morning wake up to deal with and I took that cue to go to bed. Woowoo Charly and our friend stayed the course though, and saw the whole show. They deserve some kind of award themselves, especially considering that the show was being instantly dubbed into Spanish, including the songs if you can believe that, and all traces of humor and juicy insider Hollywood stuff were mostly incomprehensible.
So there you have it, blog 164 is in the can. It's not likely to make my "best of" list, but it's better than being kicked in the cajones, whatever they are.
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