Macbeth

"What fools these mortals be" is a famous quote from either Shakespeare or Boris Karloff, I think, but if it's neither I'll take the credit for making it up. Anyway, the truth of the quote is born out by my having spent days writing the review that follows.

Macbeth, A Review
By Old Doc Whatsisname

I saw this play the other day written by some guy named William Shakespeare if you can believe a name like that. I’m told a lot of English names originated from the kind of work the person’s family did, so I’m guessing Willy’s bunch were some kind of soldiers. Who else shakes spears? Of course that whole concept gives me pause (to borrow a phrase from Willy himself) and makes me wonder what John Hancock’s clan did for a living, but, you know, that’s another story.

The first mistake Willy makes is setting his play, Macbeth, in Scotland. I mean who wants to see a bunch of guys running around in skirts? And it’s like medieval Scotland to boot. I say if you’re going to give us history as entertainment, give us history we care about. I for one would like to know more about that Mustang Ranch in Nevada. If Willy could write a play about that, he might have a hit on his hands.

Despite the setting, Macbeth gets off to a good start. There are three raggedy old witches on stage and everybody likes witches. This batch talks real funny, but I guess that’s okay, them being witches and all. Here’s a sample: “When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightening or rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won. That will be ere the set of sun.” See what I mean? Like when did witches become poets?

Oh well, that doesn’t matter much because the witches are only on stage for the blink of an eye before a whole mess of Scotsmen arrive and crowd up the place. These guys are Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and their assorted lackeys who don’t have much to do except stand about and look self conscious in their skirts. The four main guys crowd around a wounded sergeant who tells them all about how brave Macbeth and his buddy Banquo were in a battle against some Norwegian invaders. Norwegians were apparently pretty bad-assed in those days. The Wegian’s king is named Sweno, which is a cool name I think Shakespeare could have made more use of, but this is the last we hear of him. The Thane of Ross enters – Thane by the way is some kind of title – and tells Duncan that the Thane of Cawder was a traitor, but not to worry because Macbeth kicked his butt in battle. Duncan is Scotland’s own High Mucky Muck and he now decrees that Macbeth will become the new Thane of Cawder. After that, everybody leaves the stage and the witches come back.

Witches are usually up to no good and these three are no exceptions. One has been off killing swine and another has put a sailor into a storm just because his wife wouldn’t share her chestnuts. I don’t know if chestnuts is a euphemism for something else, but the fact it has chest in the word makes it seem likely. Before the third can brag about her dirty deeds done dirt cheap, a drum is heard and Macbeth makes an entrance with his buddy Banquo. They take a gander at the three hags and more or less say. “What in holy hell are you?” Of course Willy’s words were fancier than that, but you get the drift. The witches dance around as witches are prone to do and cry out stuff like hail Macbeth Thane of this and that, but they don’t really get his attention until they say he will be king hereafter. Macbeth is too stunned by this to say anything, but Banquo chimes in and asks in so many words – okay, too many words – what about me? The witches tell him he won’t be king, but he’ll have kids that will be. Then, because they are witches and they can, they disappear, leaving Mac and Banq to wonder if they were real or whether the two of them had been slipped some psychedelic shrooms or something that “takes the reason prisoner.” They want to believe though, because, what-the-hell, those were pretty nice predictions.

Ross and a guy named Angus, who, if I was writing the thing, I would have made black as a little joke, come on stage and tell Macbeth that he is the new Thane of Cawder because the old one was a traitor and is now locked up. Macbeth wanders over by the audience and says, “Glanis and Thane of Cawdor! The greatest is behind” which is a round about way of saying, “Alrighty then!” He turns to Banquo and all goofy like tells him his kids are going to be kings, because if one prophecy is true, they all must be true! Then he turns back to us in the audience and lays on a long rap about his head spinning and not knowing for sure what’s going on, but maybe it’s all good. Banquo seeing Mac talking to himself turns to the others and says, Dude’s gone round the bend. They all head off stage to find the king because Macbeth suggests it and what with him being the Thane of one thing and another, I suppose they gotta comply.

The curtain closes for a bit so I make it to the lobby and chug down a couple paper cups of wine. I figure I’ll need it because it’s going to be a long night. We’re only up to scene four and according to the program there is a lot more to come.

I get back to my seat, the curtain parts and we’re in a palace. Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and their hairy legged attendants are all hanging about. Duncan wants to know if the old Thane of Cawder has been executed yet and Malcolm tells him the deed is done and the guy confessed his crimes and then died well. I don’t know what dying well means, but I suppose it’s along the lines of “no fuss.” Duncan says - again more or less - too bad, he kind of liked the guy. Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Black Angus (forget that, I couldn’t help myself) enter stage right and Duncan starts praising Macbeth like all get out. Macbeth goes giddy humble-like and says, in my words not Willy’s, “Just doing my duty Your-High-Old-Big-Self.” Duncan throws Banquo a compliment or two as well and tops it of with a hug. He then names his own son, Malcolm, Prince of Cumberland, and the next in line for the throne. After that he decrees it’s off to Macbeth’s place in Inverness to party down! Mac begs a head start to warn his wife and make preparations and is given his leave.

Before he goes though, he turns again to the audience and gives us a little “Hehhehheh” kind of speech about his dark desires to be king and wanting to bypass this whole Prince of Cumberland bullpuckey. It’s right here, I think, that Willy wants us to know that Macbeth is going to be a heavy in this play, because he ends Mac’s monologue with “Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.” I mean, that can’t be good.

The next scene - we’re up to five already - Old Mac’s wife, Lady Macbeth, is walking back and forth reading a letter from Mac himself. She reads it aloud and in it Mac tells her about the witches’ prophesies and everything that has happened. He says that he worries about her being up to the task of doing whatever is necessary to make him king what with her being noble and moral and stuff like that. He does remind her though, that if he’s king, she will get to wear a crown as well. Mac can talk high falutin’ like, but he ain’t subtle.

Just then a messenger appears telling Lady Mac the king is on his way there and that Mac will precede him by a bit.

The messenger leaves and Lady Macbeth talks to herself aloud so we can hear it. She tells us, essentially, that Mac has nothing to worry about. She is going to cast off her goodness and be as black hearted as necessary to see that Duncan gets what-for and Mac becomes king.

Mac shows up at that moment and tells her the king is coming for the night. Lady Mac outs with it and says Duncan will never see the morrow. She tells Mac to look like an innocent flower and to leave everything to her. Mac gives her one of those sounds good to me looks, nods, and exits stage right.

From stage left comes a whole slew of Scots including Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Ross, Angus, a new guy, Macduff and all those biggie’s plaid skirted attendants.

Duncan says something nice about the castle as he enters and Banquo agrees and fawns all over him. Banquo is an ass kisser.

Lady Macbeth shows up and Duncan thanks her for her troubles to which she says, hey no problem, mi casa es su casa and like that, after which Duncan asks her where Macbeth is. Lady Mac says he’s off making sure the servants have everything in order and Duncan says let’s go find him.

In scene seven, yeah that’s right, we’re up to seven and so far it’s been all talk no action, the curtain opens to a bunch of servants wandering around looking busy. Macbeth strides in talking to himself – there’s a lot of that happening in this play – and he’s having second thoughts about doing in Duncan. Old Dunk has been a darn good king for the most part. “He’s here in double trust” he says. “First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, strong both against the deed; then, as his host, who should against his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself.” You can see why I paraphrase most of this stuff. If I didn’t, we could be here all night. Really, this guy Willy does go on and on.

So Mac, having second thoughts, tells his wife that and she reads him the riot act. She tells him in so many words to grow a pair and be a man. She then tells him the plan. She’s going to get Duncan’s guards drunk with “wine and wassail” and then slip into the sleeping king’s room and do him in with the guard’s own blades. Macbeth likes it, so he says “I LIKE IT!” more or less in capital letters and then he says, “Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart does know.” Come on Willy, I say, lighten up Dude, and talk like a real person.

We all take another break here before Act Two and I have a couple more hits of wine. I figure if we don’t get some action here soon, I can at least take a nap.

Okay it’s late. Banquo and his son Fleance, who if were him would be royally (Royally Ha! That’s funny) pissed at getting the name Fleance, are wandering about with torches. Banquo is bemoaning a touch of insomnia. Macbeth shows up with one of his servants also carrying a torch. Mac and Banq have a chat. Banq says some nice things about the king - he’s still a fawning arse - and then mentions he dreamt of the three witches who had favored Mac with some truth. Mac lies and says he never gives the witches a second thought, but he’d like to talk about them some other time. Banq says right on man, whenever. Mac sends him and the servants off to bed. He instructs one of the servants to go tell Lady Macbeth to strike a bell when his bedtime cocktail is ready. I wonder what that is all about and if I could get a taste, but it gets cleared up in a hurry.

Mac strolls to center stage and drones on and on about this imaginary dagger he sees. “I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which I now draw.” He takes it as a sign he needs to get on with his dirty deed not yet done.

A bell rings and Mac knows that Lady M has done her part. The Lady herself is over on another part of the stage and both she and Mac hear noises. They run into each other. I’ve done it, Mac tells her and then, “Didst thou not hear a noise?” “An owl and some crickets” she says, “Why?” Mac’s all twisted up and out of sorts, because one of the guards had cried “Murder!” and another one had said “God bless us.” Mac was upset because he couldn’t say “Amen” to that. Lady Macbeth tells him to fahgeddabout it. “These deeds must not be thought” she says, “they’ll make you mad,” meaning, you know, nutso.

Macbeth though, rambles on. “Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep.” He goes on in that vein for awhile until Lady Macbeth says, “You do unbend your noble strength to think so brainsickly of things.” I kind of like that “brainsickly” part. That’s a cool word. Then Lady Mac seeing that Mac still has the bloody daggers in his hands, says that he has to go back and plant them on the sleeping guards. Mac says he won’t do it. He’s turned chickenshit, so Lady Macbeth does it herself.

They both run off then to get cleaned up so they can look all sleepy and innocent when the foul deed is discovered…which it is, in the very next scene.

So there they are lying around when there is much ado about the knocking at their door by a porter. Macduff and Lennox encounter the porter outside the Macbeth’s chambers and Macduff asks the porter why he is up so late. The porter, who is an honest sort, admits he was drinking and carousing and that drinking provokes three things. What are they Macduff wants to know, and so do I.

“…nose painting, sleep and urine” he says. Well, he’s definitely got those last two right and maybe even the first. I mean, what do I know about the Scots? Maybe they are all a bunch of nose painters waiting to happen. He then goes on to say that booze also provokes lechery and unprovokes lechery, meaning it stimulates desire, but takes away performance. Well here-here to that, but I recall that someone else said, “Alcohol dulls a man’s senses, which is true, if he’s a dull man,” but I won’t quibble, because right here Macbeth gets up and says what’s up?

Duffy, let’s just call him that so the two Macs won’t get confused, and Lennox want Macbeth to take them to the king, it being their job to wake him. Mac says no prob and leads them to Duncan’s room. Along the way Lennox gives a little speech about what a tough night he had had what with bad dreams and all, but also I think, because Willy Shakes had promised the actor a speaking part.

As you might imagine, the doo doo definetly hits the fan when it is discovered that the king has been done in. People are running all over the place shouting stuff and keeping me awake. The king’s guards are found slain and Macbeth admits to bumping them off in a rage after finding the king dead. He says to explain his rage “Who can be wise, amazed, temperate, and furious, loyal and neutral in a moment?” and everybody goes oh yeah, sure, right and buys it, but I’m thinking forensics would have the time of death thing nailed down forthwith and Macbeth’s BS would sound a lot like that “Methinks he doth protest too much” phrase that I learned from somebody, but don’t remember who.

Malcolm and Donalbain are a little less gullible than the others and fearing for their own lives they do the right thing and book. , Malcolm to England and Donalbain to Ireland.

The curtain goes down and up again and we find a nameless old guy probably working for actor’s equity minimum and Ross talking about the weird stuff that’s been going down since the murders. Stuff like owls killing hawks and horses eating each other. I think maybe Willy was just trying to set a spooky mood here. Anyway Duffy walks in and he and Ross speculate as to who offed the king. They figure the guards really had no motive and even though Malcolm and Donalbain boogied right after the crime, they being the king’s sons and all, it would be seriously unnatural for them to have popped their old man. They point out though, that since the sons have fled, Macbeth, being the Thane of this and that, will now become the king.

Act 3 Scene 4, a couple more hits of vino and I’m getting a little curious how this play is going to…well, play out.

Everybody seems to have cut and run for one place or another except Banquo who is hanging around the stage wondering aloud if Macbeth’s having all his prophesies come true was done in an underhanded fashion by Mac himself. He sort of concludes that, what-the-hell, as long as the hag’s prophesy about him and his kids came true as well, why sweat it?

Macbeth enters and invites Banquo and everybody else hanging around the castle to a big feast planned for that night. He then asks Banquo if he is going riding that day and Banquo says you bet, he and Fleance will be galloping about. Mac says be sure to be back in time for din-din. Banquo leaves and Mac does one of his talk to the audience monologues. This time it’s pretty much about why he needs to take out his good bud Banquo. What’s the point of him being king if Banquo’s kids are going to be the heirs is the gist, but of course, Willy being Willy, he runs on about it at length.

Right after he’s done, one of his servants brings in a couple of hit men that Mac has apparently sent for. Their names are not Dom and Vinnie, but they could be if this was Italy or, you know, New Jersey. Tony Soprano would be proud of these guys. Mac in his long winded fashion – I’m thinking the actor is getting the big bucks just for memorizing all this stuff – convinces them to knock off Banquo and positively snuff Fleance as well.
Lady Macbeth reappears at this point and Mac goes into one of his woe is me speeches. Lady M tells him chin up, buck up, stiff upper lip and all that, because he needs to look chipper at that night’s party. Mac tells her about the hit on Banquo and asks her to back him up. Lady M gives him an Oy Vey what next, kind of look and the scene ends.

When the curtains open again, we get another nice action bit with hit men pouncing on Banquo. Fleance gets away though, so the hit dudes are partially foiled. There is no long winded speechifying here, so it’s a real short scene.

Curtain opens again and we are at the banquet. We have the usual ensemble gathered about, Mac and the Lady, Ross, Lennox, and a few other Lords, Ladies and attendants. Willy might have saved a few production bucks here with, like, cardboard cutouts for the non speakers. There is small talk going on when one of the hit men shows up at the dining hall door and Mac wanders over to talk to him. The button says, “My lord, his throat is cut, that I did for him” and Macbeth says – and for some reason I dug this line – Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats: yet he is good that did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil.” I think it was the “best o’ the cut-throats” part that got me. I could picture the hit man going back to his buddies and loudly shouting, “I’m number 1! I’m number 1!” I mean we all have our goals. His joy was short lived though. He had to fess up that Fleance escaped. Tony would not have been happy “wid dat!”

Mac sends the guy away and Lady M comes over and tells him to join the party, everybody is waiting for him to get started. Mac heads to his chair, but sees Banquo’s ghost sitting in it. That’s right, ghosts and witches in the same play. Willy’s clearly a risk taker. If I were him though, I’d get Spielberg to direct. He did great stuff with “Poltergeist.” Mac doesn’t realize he is the only one who can see the ghost, so he carries on a bit and freaks everybody out. Lady Macbeth covers for him by telling everyone to chill, Mac has these small fits every once in awhile but they pass quickly.

Banquo’s ghost blips out at this point and Mac and his Lady have a chat. Mac’s all upset about the dead supposed to be staying dead and not running around and sitting in people’s chairs. Lady M reminds him, Dude, we got a party going on here, and Mac gets with it and makes a toast to Banquo. I’m thinking he shouldn’t have done that because, you guessed it, the ghost shows up again. This time Macbeth talks right to it and his guests are freaked all over again. Lady Mac apologizes, but it doesn’t help much. Lennox and Ross leave saying take care of the old sock and the party ends. Lady M and Mac talk and he tells her he is going to go back and check with the witches tomorrow because he needs to know more.

The curtain opens on the next scene and we find a new witch named Hecate that if Willy had been a little more politically correct he might have named Personcate, chewing out the three other witches for messing around with Macbeth without letting her in on the deal. Now, she says, she has to pull off some big time magic so that Macbeth will “spurn fate, scorn death, and bear he hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace and fear.” This is good work if you ask me. She ends by saying, “And you all know, security is mortals’ chiefest enemy.” And ain’t that the truth!

Lennox and an unnamed Lord appear on the stage and Lennox prattles on about what a good guy Macbeth is and how he had done all the right things. He then inquires about the missing Macduff and the Lord tells him he’s off to England to rouse King Edward and warlike Siward to come back and unseat Macbeth. Lennox gets a little wishy-washy here as he thinks that might not be a bad idea.

It’s back to the three witches after that and they are having a grand old time throwing stuff in a large cauldron none of which are missionaries, but interesting stuff anyway. I’m talking hard stuff to find like fillet of fenny snake, newt’s eyes, Turk and Tartar lips and for a real gruesome effect, finger of birth-strangled babe. After that they all sing “Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble” which I think I saw on a Halloween card, so Shakes is not above a little plagiarism is he?

Hecate then shows up and she’s proud as a peacock about the three witch’s brew, so she lays a poem on us as well. I’m not going to quote it here, but I will give you the next rhyme by one of the other witches. It goes: “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks!”

And wouldn’t you know it, in pops Macbeth!

He’s clearly troubled and looking for answers but starts out with, “’S’up, how’s it going, comistah?” and like that.

The witches dance around, throw more weird shit in the cauldron and an apparition appears. This could be the ghost of Christmas Past for all I know, - I mean it’s nobody from this play – but before it sinks back into the pot, it tells Macbeth to beware of Macduff.

Macbeth says thanks for the info and then another apparition appears. This one tells Mac that “none of woman born shall harm him” and right away Mac figures he really has nothing to fear from Duffy. He decides to kill him anyway, just so he can sleep better.

Yet another apparition rises from the cauldron and this one is a child with a crown on its head. It tells Mac that he can’t be vanquished in battle “…until Great Birnam Woods to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him,” Mac’s thinking a forest trotting across the plain to get him seems highly unlikely so he’s sitting in high cotton or fat city or one of those. Before he can find out, though, whether the kid with the crown is his or Banquo’s, eight, get this, eight more apparitions pop up, all of them kings! They are followed by Banquo’s ghost who points at them to indicate they are all in his line. Willy is clearly a playwright big on special effects.

Mac is bummed and the witches try to cheer him up with a little music and dancing. It doesn’t help though, so they disappear again and the curtain falls.

It’s back to the concession stand for me. I could use a shot of something - witches, ghosts, apparitions, things like that can put you on edge - but I settle for more wine. The BCP, which sounds like a fuel additive but is really a bunch of people who do stuff, is putting on this show and although it’s clear they all drink heavily and avoid therapy, they’re not sharing the good stuff.

When the curtain rises again we are in Macduff’s castle, that’s right Duffy’s place, and Lady Duff and her son Little Duff are talking to Ross who is her cousin. Lady Duff is ticked that Big Duff has fled to England and left her and the kids in the lurch. Ross is pretty much doing a “there-there Cuz, hang in, things will get better, but Lady Duff is having none of it. Ross says some nice stuff and leaves. I’m thinking he’s happy to get out of there.

Little Duff asks his mom if his old man is a traitor and she says you betcha. Little Duff then asks what is a traitor and Lady Duff says, “Why, one that swears and lies.” Little Duff says, “And be all traitors that do so?” Lady Duff doesn’t correct by saying “who do so” but once again says you betcha and adds all traitors should be hanged, everyone. The kid asks who is going to do the hanging and his mom says, “Honest men.” The kid, who is kind of a whippersnapper, points out that there are so many swearers and liars they would probably end up hanging the few honest men!

This was all, I’m guessing, comic relief, but it doesn’t last long. A messenger comes in and suggests that harm is on the way and that Lady Duff and company should head for the hills. Lady Duff says she has done nothing wrong and has no reason to leave. Bad decision.

Macbeth’s hit men arrive asking the whereabouts of Macduff and calling him a traitor. Lady Duff gives them a smart-alec answer and Little Duff calls them a name. He gets stabbed and killed for his smart mouth and Lady Duff flees. So much for motherly protection instincts and so much for comic relief. Too bad. We all kinda liked the kid. Down comes the busiest curtain I’ve ever seen.

When next it pops up, we are across the water in jolly old England, wouldn’t you know. Macduff and Malcolm are hanging about chewing the fat. They’re grieving for their losses and Macduff is suggesting that Malcolm overthrow Macbeth. Malcolm, being a totally honest dude, does a perish the thought speech or two where he suggests he would be a worse king than Macbeth. He says that Macbeth is “bloody, luxurious, (I don’t get that one) false, deceitful, sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin that has a name” but that he would be worse, because he is such a horny dude you would have to lock up all the wives, daughters, matrons and maids. My kind of guy. Macduff, however, is not taken aback. Not to worry, he says, we can find enough willing dames to satisfy you.

Malcolm goes on though, and explains he’d want lands and jewels and pretty much whatever anyone had that he took a liking to and that he is really a bad guy underneath.

Macduff is still undaunted. Lots of kings have been like that he says. We can find you enough material stuff to keep you happy, because you have all the other graces necessary to wear a crown.

Like is this Macduff dude desperate or what?

Malcolm, still being honest – you gotta give him that – reels off a whole litany of graces he doesn’t have. “Justice, verity, temperance, stableness, bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, (huh?) devotion, patience, courage, fortitude.” He finishes by saying, “I have no relish of them, but abound in the division of each several crime, acting in many ways. Nay, had I power, I should pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, uproar the universal peace, confound all unity on earth.” I’m thinking okay Dude we get your point. You DON’T want to be king, so lighten up about it will ya… for crying-out-loud.

Macduff finally gets it too. Scotland is screwed. He’s completely bummed and Prozac is still in the testing stage. Woe is him and like that.

And then – oh man, this is too much - I guess because he sees Macduff so twisted up, Malcolm decides to takes it all back! Actually he admits, he’s never really done anything bad, he just thinks bad stuff. So – give me a break – he declares himself at Macduff’s disposal! Willy makes it all fairly believable though, so I suspend my disbelief and go with it. I mean, what else you gonna do?

A doctor strolls onto stage at this point and talks about England’s king being – is this off the wall or what – a laying on of hands healer. He’s also a prophet. Why this part of the play is there I don’t know yet.

The doc exits and Ross comes strolling in. This guy is everywhere. He tells Macduff that all is well back at his place, or at least it was when he left, but that Scotland was the pits and it was time to round up the troops and set things right. Malcolm is all for it, but Macduff is a trifle hesitant. Ross then fesses up that he has heard that Macbeth set upon Duffy’s castle and wiped out his whole family.

The Duff dude breaks down and gives a fancy grief speech. I don’t know where Willy gets all these words. Duff is now not only depressed he’s feeling guilty as well. I’m worried about the guy. Right about then, Malcolm and Ross tell Duff to get a grip and turn his grief to anger and revenge. Seems like a good idea. We all agree and Macduff does too.

Okay, it’s back to Dunsinane, Macbeth’s place, at the next curtain lift, where we find a doctor talking to a gentlewoman – I know she’s that because it says so in the program - who is telling him that Lady M is walking in her sleep every night. Just then, on cue (literally), Lady M comes walking in. Her eyes are open but, as the doctor says, “Ay, but their sense is shut.” In case you are not up to speed on Willyspeak, this means she is sleep-walking. Lady M then does a pantomime of washing her hands. She talks aloud and says, “Out, damned spot! Out I say,” at which point a Dalmatian that had been hanging around back stage makes a break for it. (Okay I made that up.) What really happens is that Lady M goes on scrubbing her hands to get off blood only she can see while she blabs all of her and Mac’s terrible deeds.

The doc and the gentlewoman hear all and are flabbergasted, which is the kind of word I’m thinking Willy might have invented and maybe he did. Anyway, after spilling all the beans, Lady M abruptly departs and goes back to bed. The doc tells the gentlewoman to keep an eye on her and splits for his own sack. He’s downright confused himself. “My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak” is how he puts it.

BANG, ZOOM, POW (where is Batman when we need him?) and like that the curtain falls and rises to a scene in the woods where new players Menteith and Caithness gather with Angus, Lennox and a troop of soldiers. These guys are here primarily to tell us that Malcolm, Macduff, Siward and a small army are closing on Birnam Wood and they are all pissed, but also, I think, Shakes is getting paid by the word. I mean, really, is this scene necessary? I could have stayed in the lobby and had another cup of that delicious Clos wine. These guys discuss what Macbeth is up to, fortifying his joint, - that’s my phrase not Willy’s and although it’s not one of my best it gives me a chuckle - and then they march off to join the good guys at Birnam Wood.

Back at the ranch, Dunsinane, Macbeth is holding court with the doc and several attendants and going on about having nothing to fear. Birnam Wood can’t move to Dunsinane and he can’t be killed by anyone born of woman, so take one of your own chill pills Doc and relax.

A servant enters and tells Mac that ten thousand soldiers are headed this way. Mac calls him a “whey-face” and tells him to leave. I make a note to remember that one, whey-face. Curds and whey face might be even better. Mac calls for his buddy Seyton and tells him to get his armor ready. Seyton says no need just yet. Mac then chews out the Doc for not being able to help Lady M with her diseased mind. He doesn’t say brainsickly this time but he should have. The doc says Lady M has to help herself, but Mac is not thrilled with that answer. He also asks the doc if there were a drug to “scour these English hence” but gets another negative. Truth is, we Doc’s can only do so much!

Mac says screw it, he’s not worried. “I will not be afraid of death and bane, ‘till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.” He does have that going for him and with it rhyming like that, it’s even cooler.

Unfortunately for him the next scene is of all the good guys, Malcolm, Siward, Young Siward (Where did he come from Willy?) Macduff, Mentieth, (which is pronounced men teeth. That’s a little weird), Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Roth and the whole damn army. This is a big production. The BCP went all out.

Siward asks, “What is the wood before us?” and is told Birnam. Malcolm orders every soldier to hack down a bough and disguise himself to “shadow the numbers of our host” and even though there is a mild protest from the tree huggers in the audience, the soldiers go off to get with the program.

It’s back to Dunsinane after that, where Mac is hanging out with Seyton and some soldiers. Mac is bragging about how his castle can hold off a siege no problem when he hears a woman’s scream. What the hell is that, he asks. Seyton says it is the cry of a woman and rushes off to help. When he comes back, he tells Mac the queen is dead.

Mac gives a nice speech then, maybe the best one Willy has put in his mouth. “She should have died hereafter, there would have been time for such a word. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” I really like that sound and fury part. I think I’ll steal it for a title if somebody else hasn’t done it already.

While I’m savoring that in my wine addled head, a messenger shows up on stage and tells Mac the woods are closing on the castle! Mac says he’ll hang the guy from the nearest tree if he’s lying, but of course he’s telling the truth. Mac says ring the alarm and get ready to fight. In my seat I’m saying bring it on, because, that’s like a quote too, right?

Next scene, which is out in front of the castle, Malcolm says, “Throw down your leafy screens” and then tells his uncle Siward and his kid to lead the charge. He himself and Macduff are going to hang back and see what else needs to be done.

ZAP, new scene. Macbeth is wandering around looking for someone to tangle with. He’s still not worried. He’s got that no born of woman thing working for him. Young Siward comes on the scene and they spend some time bad-mouthing each other before they fight. Siward gets run through and dies. Too bad you were born of woman Macbeth says. He doesn’t thumb his nose, but he could of.

Macduff shows up followed quickly by Siward and Malcolm. They bring news that the castle has been breeched. They head on in, Macduff especially, wanting to find Macbeth and, what-do-you-know, sure enough he does.

Mac says something like back off buddy I’ve got enough of your family blood on my hands already. Duffy says my sword is my voice and they begin to fight. These guys are no Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone as fencers or even Connery and Shaw in “Robin and Marion” but they get it on good enough to get me and the audience riled up. Macbeth is doing well, so he gives a shout out to Macduff and says, “I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, to one of woman born.” Macduff shouts back, too bad Bozo, because, “Macduff was from his mother’s womb untimely ripp’d.” Why he spoke of himself in the third person, I don’t know. He’s probably an ex NBA guy. Doesn’t matter here though, Duff’s caesarian born is Willy’s point, and thus not of woman born. I think that’s stretching it a little bit, what with me having a caesarian birth my own self, but I opt to buy it ‘cause this turkey has gone on long enough.

Macbeth is taken aback by this bad news but vows to fight on anyway. Like what else is he going to do? He growls, “Lay on Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’” and they fight their way off stage.

Malcolm, Siward, Ross and some other Thanes take the stage. Siward is told his son was killed and he takes it well all things considered. (All things considered? I’m thinking that would be a catchy name for a show too.) Macduff is missing and the guys are worried about him, but just then he shows up on stage carrying Macbeth’s head. A dead Macbeth means Malcolm is now king. They all hail the new King of Scotland and Malcolm gives a small speech about justice being served and all that kind of gobbledygook. The play ends. It’s a good ending I think, all things con…nevermind, but I do wonder if anyone else remembers the lock up your wives and daughters part if Malcolm takes the throne, but, well, that’s a play for me to write.

My hat is finally off to Willy Shakes for just seeing this thing through to the end. I’m not sure I could have made it myself without those frequent copas de vino tinto. While the cast was taking their bows and getting their flowers, I tried to start an “Author Author” chant, but nobody picked up my lead. In fact, a lot of people just stared at me. I don’t know what their problem was. Truth is I just wanted Willy to share in the kudos, but he never showed. Too bad. I mean it seems unlikely to me with this bomb out there that he’s ever going to get another chance. So in summation I say to him. Yo Dude, Willy my man. I respect you for giving this play writing thing a go, but really, Dude, listen to me. Don’t give up your day job.

The Wrath of God

Okay, so there I was belting out one song after another on my guitar when...There I was belting out two songs on my guitar, my entire repertoire, when...There I was struggling to play a clean note on my guitar when it was time to take Maria our cleaning lady to town. This being Friday, lunch at a restaurant was to follow. For reasons I can only attribute to a vengeful god, it began to rain so hard as we prepared to leave, I suspected that one of us had done something really bad and now we were truly in for it. I wasn't wrong. We opted to take the car furthest from our door and I led the way carrying a bag of trash that needed disposal. (We take our trash to assorted dumping places downtown.) Because I was wearing a rain jacket and hat and because I am a manly man who does manly man things, I strolled fearlessly through the downpour to unlock the car's doors so that all who followed could have easy access to the dry interior. All went well until I started fumbling with the keys, dropped the trash bag and my hat flew off, this last permitting cold rain to screech down the back of my neck. Inspired into rapid action by the chill, I recovered the trash, tracked down my hat and made it to the other side of the car, the driver's side. It was there on the floor of the back seat that I would put the trash so that I would have easy and quick access to it when I pulled alongside one of the several dumpsters we have no authorization to use. The trash, a tool in the hand of the vengeful god, took the moment in which I was placing it in the car to drop its contents out its bottom and onto the car's floor. Plastic bags, I am told, can take a million years to deteriorate. Ours had managed the trick in seconds. Clearly a powerful force was at work. Undaunted, well okay, a little daunted, I hollered to Maria, Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR who had all entered the car from the other side, not to worry I would go get another bag. I sloshed back through shoe top high puddles to the house, backed off the dogs who were thrilled to see me because I was gone SO LONG and snagged another trash bag. Upon returning to the car, Maria, who was closest, and I attempted to lift the old bag and place it into the new one. As we did so, a disgusting greenish brown pile of ooze that was part dog shit, part decaying food scraps and part fissionable material that Iran would like to get its hand on, slid from the first bag, avoided the second and made its way onto the car floor. Let me just say here so that all who are younger than I will understand, it was totally gross. Totally. Back out into the rain I ventured, now unmindful of all but the need to clean that mess up before like Alien blood it ate its way through the car to freedom. The dogs were once again thrilled to see me. "Down! Off! Down Down Off! and like that. I grabbed the roll of paper towels off the rack and returned to the car. The cleanup had me near to gagging but was ultimately successful. As most of it was done with my body outside the vehicle, I was now soaked, as they say, and I might add, quite accurately, to the bone. I climbed at long last behind the wheel, shut the car door and dried my hands on my pants. As I turned the key in the ignition the day became instantly brighter. The sun had chosen that instant to peer from the clouds and the rain stopped so abruptly it was as if someone had shut off a heavenly valve. I sat there a long moment and wondered. What in the world had I done?

Plants and Other Creepy Things

The office window to my right is now totally, (can you say totally without feeling like a teenager? I can't), let's make it... completely, obscured as is a bedroom window by a creeping, climbing, thick leafed, crawling, densely bunched vine and flower plant that rustles ominously when the wind blows. I wonder if it was subliminally responsible for "Ketspaldigo." From outside it appears to be eating our west wall. I've noticed that when people come to visit us now they shun that side of the house. Even our fearless dogs hunt less frequently for mice and bugs at the west wall's base where the creepers begin. One adventurous branch has made it through the edge of the window and through the screen's border and is now leafing and flowering inside the house! Woowoo Charly thinks this is cool, but then she doesn't read quite the same books as I do.

On top of that, Angel Trumpets, or Queens of the Night as the flowers are known here, are draped over our new fence and hang limply down like strangulation victims. They couldn't look much deader. One, blossom, in fact, just fell to the ground as I watched. It's all kind of spooky if you ask me.

Can't imagine what I dreamed last night.

We are passing on our weekly public humiliation lesson at the golf course today in order to save the nearly one hundred bucks it costs so that we will have the funds available to buy a hot dog in NY. For a second dog and perhaps a root beer to go with it, we are planning to hoof around Manhattan until the Cash Cab picks us up and we can dazzle Ben Bailey to the tune of a couple grand or so. We figure we have all categories covered because if worse comes to worse we can phone Ramon for science questions and look to D and D for answers to queries like "what noted rapper sang, 'My hat's on crooked because my momma don't dress me.'" I already know who sang, "*(&*^^&%%#$&())(*&^#$&&&* the cops and your (&&%$%(^&^%$%$*&%^@%^^7 sister too. It was somebody named after an ice cream flavor.

Mattie just brought me a small dead snake, dropping it proudly at my feet. (Not kidding.) Instead of throwing it into the trash, I fed it to our window plant which scarfed it hungrily. (Okay, kidding.) (For now.)

One Armed Blog-ups

I may not be as physically fit as I once was but I can do 487 blog-ups, hours of jumping-blogs and run a blogathon without stopping to rest. Not bad for a semi-literate, aging poet wannabe.

Today though, I'm blogging to kill time. That's right, you remember yesterday when I was trying to slow time down? Well that didn't work, so today I'm beating it to death with a big...keyboard. Die you relentless "marching on" bastard, die!

Okay, just kidding. I'm really blogging to avoid doing other things. Things like resolving a plot hang-up on another piece of mind diarrhea that I'm currently dumping onto the paper like a good puppy, GOOD PUPPY! Sarah - what's her name? "Water For Elephants" - Gruen? says she likes to get her protagonists into the biggest messes she can think of and then try to figure out a way to get them out. Don't ever do this. Seemed like a good idea to me at first, but now my heroine is totally screwed and I can't seem to help her. She's doomed, I tell ya, doomed.

Stayed up to watch the first half of the Broncos game at Seattle last night. They looked pretty good. I mean those road uniforms are real stylish.

I spent most of yesterday in a chair trying to rehab my injured toe. I put it through a series of lower and elevate, dodge and duck, avoid the the dogs exercises to some avail. It was stomped on less frequently by mutt paws than on an average day.
My plan for today is more of the same. By Monday though, I have to come off the injured reserve list and get back in the game. The dogs need walking, the lawn needs mowing and my heroine needs saving.

As for that last...got any ideas?

"...fruit flies like a banana."

It was a relatively tame Friday until Raffi and Finni got into a serious fight and I tried to kick them apart. Didn't work. They "play" fight all the time and we know it's not serious because only Raffi, or, when she is involved, Matti, growls. Finni never makes a sound. Both dogs were snarling at full volume last night and fur was sticking up from their backs like grizzlies on the prowl. I got in two or three air kicks in the mutts' direction before landing a couple good ones, but the combatants were too busy flashing fangs at each other to notice. Realizing my effort was futile, I grabbed a walking stick from the urn we use for umbrellas and such and reentered the fray more heavily armed. A couple of well directed whacks to puppy rumps ended the battle. Damage done? To the pups none. To the peacemaker? One thoroughly blackened big toe sporting a yellowish and blue nail categorized by Las Vegas odds makers as "iffy." I'm thinking I must have kicked something other than dog - the fight was under and around the kitchen table - to have inflicted the damage. Either that or one of the dogs has a seriously hard hide.

In other news of note, the Denver Broncos did not play last night and neither did the Red Sox who lost to the Yankees 20 to 11.

So what is today, like August 4th or 5th? The 22nd! You gotta be kidding me. What have I been doing all month? Where did it go? This whole time goes by quicker when you are older thing has got to stop. I remember Woody Allen saying "time flies when you are having fun so quit having fun and you will feel like you live forever." Well, there is some truth to that. Last night as my big toe throbbed to one of Santana's faster rhythms, I thought the night would never end. It doesn't hurt so much now though, and I find it is ten after nine. I was up at six so three fast hours have elapsed while I was paying no attention. Excuse me while I go drop something on my foot. (Or as friend B and L are wont (their word) to suggest, go slam my dick in the door.) That'll slow things down.

Yesterday at lunch - La Casona for burritos, chimchangas, margaritas, - Ramon said that the oft heard declaration that we only use ten or twelve percent of our brains was a crock of doodoo. He said that scientific research has shown what each and every part of the brain does and there is no part left over and its function unaccounted for. Bummer. Thought maybe I could access the speeding up time part and slow things down.

Zooooom.

Dawdling

Gadzooks! (with the exclamation mark) would be a good substitute for the overly used "Oh My God!" Let's all spread the word by saying Gadzooks! at least once a day and rid the world forever of OMG.

To demonstrate how unfair life can be I offer this: Yesterday, Woowoo Charly got her new driver's license. The picture on that license depicts an attractive woman in, say, her late forties, early fifties. The picture on MY license is of a crazed serial killer who makes Charles Manson appear benign and studly. Ah well, whaddaya gunna do?

Friend R recently had a doctor's examination that determined he has some liver problems and has been advised to join friend L on the no drinking wagon. After careful consideration of this, I have come to the strong conclusion that in order to protect my own liver, I will keep it far away from doctors.

Does owning an iPod make you a Pod Person?

Chipping the ball into the hole from off the green is something I manage to do about once a year. Friend S, a beginner who had never done it before, did it twice while playing with us Tuesday.

Why won't Bret Favre go away?

Russel Baker said this: "I gave up on new poetry thirty years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world."
I say "Here here!" to that, but of course there is a lot of it I like.

I've just spent the last five minutes staring at the screen wondering what I am going to write next which is odd because last night I had ideas for at least three separate blogs. Did I write them down, you say?... Be serious.

I have purchased the NFL Package from Sky TV which will give me my choice from ten games every Sunday. Considering how bad the Broncos are predicted to be, this could be a painful expenditure.

Okay I have dawdled long enough. It's time to move along folks, the show is over.

Here's To You Friday!

Sunlight bouncing off the tile roof of the bird feeder puts the structure in sharp relief against the tall trees beyond. There are vines growing up the pole that holds it, Morning Glories I think, and their fat leaves are holding fast in some kind of plant embrace. Looks like a choke hold to me.

Alrighty then.

In case you let it slide by without giving it due reverence, let me point out that last night was FRIDAY NIGHT. Lest this most auspicious and heralded marker of week's end slip into "a day like all days" category, an eventuality that threatens to take place all to easily in one's retirement, I put forth on a regular basis an effort to forestall that happening. My method is a carefully planned and rigidly followed series of events designed to pay homage - use the French pronunciation here, oh-mahge - to the occasion. All of what follows occurs on our patio. I clip and ready two cigars. As I now only smoke on Friday nights, this alone is tribute. I then set my i-pod player to "Old Favorites" which, when I am properly moved, will inspire dancing. I then prepare myself and any others who care to partake in the festivities, a cocktail. The cocktail may be any one of a number of drinks at my disposal ranging from frozen Margaritas to cold beer and fall into the "what do I feel like tonight?" category. Last night it was simply a weak whiskey and water. As I also only drink on Friday nights apart from wine at dinner, this too is tribute to this most sacred of evenings. With drink, smoke and music at hand, I settle comfortably into my chair, watch my dogs at play and note the sky dimming from gray to darkness. About midway through my second cocktail, I detect a sharpening of my aural sense that triggers a greater appreciation of the music that surrounds me. I move away from my mind's preoccupation with thoughts idle, (reminiscences) or specific (writing one thing or another) and listen more intently. After awhile of doing this, I generally, as was the case last night, find myself dancing. Listening to music and dancing are both activities - if I may be so bold as to wax poetic - that massage my soul. Celebrating Friday nights, a deeply ingrained custom that my workingman's heart prolongs, can and has run long but I find more usually these days, that a few hours will suffice. So here's to you Friday. May we all see many more.

Still Stalling

Yesterday's stall tactic worked so well - I wrote for four hours - I think it best to give-it-a-go again today.

Stall, stall, stall, sip some coffee, stall some more. I am trying to finish a story I am co-writing with B.R. tentatively titled "Fraudulent" before leaving for NY. We are twenty pages in and I found myself struggling to move the plot along even though I have a direction in mind. It occurred to me that our narrative voice was too stiff and formal for my style, so yesterday I rewrote about half using a voice that has a personality and I hope to finish the rest today; the rest of the rewrite, that is. Adding more will begin Friday.

After that Macbeth.

What I'm trying to do is clear the decks so that I can start on a book called Letters From The Laundry. This will be a book about life in a minimum security prison. The co-author is a friend who has had the experience and made copious notes. Could be fun to write, could be a chore. Who knows? We will see how it goes.

Now that that is all cleared up for the curious, both of you, I'll get on with the blog stall.

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A Few Things I've learned about being old that I didn't steal from Dan Jenkins or Dave Barry:

Approach any activity that occurs below mid-calf with great trepidation and extreme slowness. These include picking up anything you have dropped, petting small dogs, tying shoes, lifting babies and the five second dropped food rule.(Just leave it there.) The recommended procedure when doing any of these is to fall to one knee. Never bend unless you feel foolhardy which is a fun word to say, but not to be.

If food tastes good, don't eat it. It will make you fat, clog your arteries and kill you, all three immediately. Well, at least that's what it sounds like when you read the studies. On the other hand, if your food tastes like and has the consistency of a doormat, make it a large part of your diet.

If you have to drive in traffic, especially at night...don't. Move far away from where that happens.

Be clean, neat, well groomed. This way fewer people will suspect you still have the dirty mind of a nineteen year old.

Don't drink, smoke or swear by themselves. It's best to do all three at once when the occasion calls for it. A round of golf is a good example of an occasion.

Know everything there is to know about the opposite sex. Okay, know something about the opposite sex. Okay, try to get along with the opposite sex even though you know nothing about them and they act really weird.

Dance whenever you get the urge even by yourself if necessary. If you never get the urge, get therapy.

Never join anything that has rules.

When you run out of ideas say "to be continued."

To Be Continued.

Consequential Events

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

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

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

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

NOW, I can go write something.

When Writer's Give up the Sauce and Get Crabby

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

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

Unnotable News

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

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

Finnegan, however, remains a GOOD BOY.

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

Been Sick Feeling Better

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

Nothing But The News

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brain Dead

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

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

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

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

Catching Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has rained some. Sunny today though.

Ketspaldigo

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We reluctantly trudged after him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

*


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

A Night Out

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

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

Alien Insight

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

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

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

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

Return to the Abominable Doctor......

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

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

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

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

Badminton Anyone?

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

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

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

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

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