Hard Porn

Und zo vee begin again mein liebschkins.

I have no idea why I wrote that, but then, I have no idea why I write anything. (Some of you are probably thinking, "I have no idea" would have been 'nuff said.)

So anyway, I begin anew in a more understandable idiom, if by understandable I mean those with multiple degrees in abnormal psychology may have a clue, I was having the urge to type one word after the other and lacking the will power to resist, here I am doing that very thing. (Will Power, by the way, would be a good name for a super hero.)

The next paragraph only applies to people whose consciousness houses both pro football and famous works of Broadway theater.

This thought crossed my mind as I watched Tim Tebow being interviewed as the newest New York Jet: Tim is an incarnation of Elwood P. Dowd from the play, "Harvey." Elwood says something along these lines in the play: I learned early on that I was not very smart, so I decided the next best thing was to be really really nice. (Not a direct quote.) If reading football defenses is an indication of intelligence than Tim Tebow is really, really nice.

Okay, now I feel bad because how can I disparage someone who is really, really nice. I mean, I like Elwood P. Dowd. I like his pukka too. I wonder if Tebow has one of those. And truthfully, I myself can only read defenses when everybody in them stands perfectly still. Yeah, I know, I've got to start working at being really, really nice.

And in politics, that other American fascination that ranks a distant second to the Summer Olympics in events the dent the minds of U.S. citizens every four years, there is a presidential election looming a shade earlier than the end of the world Mayan style. To hear the Re Pub Lycans (Werewolves who didn't get enough to drink at their first pub visit) tell it, the end of the world, actually, will occur if Obama gets the "Four More Years, Four More Years" that is the political chant version of the "USA, USA" we will all be hearing from the London Olympics coming from a television set near you soon.

Really. Have we not heard this all before? Didn't dem O'crats predict the same dire demise before Reagan and Bush 2, the terrible sequel to Bush 1? Yup, they did and yet here we are. It could be worse.

And, finally, the title of this blog for those of you waiting to get to the good stuff, was just a ruse to get your attention. But... because I am a really, really nice guy who doesn't want to disappoint his readers I'll add one more paragraph.

As Timmie's hands slid in behind the warm, firm buttocks of of his teammate, awaiting the sudden jolt of excitement the follows this traditional foreplay, his mind held but one thought. Is that a Cover Two, Base Four or Man to Man. Jesus help me, I have no idea.

Yoga Man

As part of my New Year's To Be Abandoned At The Earliest Forgivable Moment Resolutions, I have added Yoga to my Almost Daily Stay Fit But Don't Hurt Your Back Workout. Yoga, as some of you may know, is a Hindii word meaning, "You want me to bend how? Are you freaking kidding?" practiced mostly in the Western Hemisphere by women who are naturally more limber than men as, unlike men, they didn't take the phrase "stiff upper lip" and apply it to their whole bodies. I was directed to this ancient practice, which by the way, is forbidden by the Geneva Convention to be used as a method of interrogation, by the Wii Fit program on my Nintendo device. The full name of the company manufacturing the device, also by the way, is Nintendo To Hurt You And Make Money While Doing It. They only use their name's first part for obvious reasons.

The initial technique I had to learn in order to yoga-ize my reluctant body was how to breathe. Foolish me thought the in and out with the air part was the whole trick. Well Wroongo Downward Dog Breath! I had to focus on this and relax that other thing and inhale through my nose and exhale out my a...other nose. I'm still working to get it right.

Next I was introduced to the Half Moon pose. They are called poses these Yoga positions because you have to stay frozen in place a long time for the "pose" to do you any good...or so I am told my my Nintendo virtual female instructor who is a Japanese program designer's idea of a Caucasian hottie. I was already aware of the Full Moon version having almost utilized it on an occasion when I was a teenager and was stopped only by the lack of the necessary quantity of alcohol needed to inspire the pose. I suspected a Half Moon pose would entail something along the lines of that displayed by the backside of hunched over repairmen. What it is in actuality is a reach for the sky and then turn yourself into a comma sideways kind of pose. After a month of practice I have achieved a slightly bent exclamation mark that looks sort of like when you tilt your head while you are thinking, "Huh?" My virtual instructor nevertheless says, "You have excellent flexibility." I wonder what she is really virtually thinking.

The next pose I, um, mastered was the Warrior Pose. The reason you don't hear about Yoga Martial Artists is because Yoga warriors stand in a manner guaranteed to get their asses kicked. They have their arms stretched taut horizontal to the ground, one forward, one back and their legs apart, also one forward, one back, aligned with their arms. The front leg is bent-kneed, the back leg straight. I did this pose on the lawn one day and a Panamanian woman hung her wet laundry on me to dry. I'm sure this pose does me some physical good, but if someday I am forced into combat, I am equally sure that I will fall back on my own tried and true martial arts technique that my personal Sensei taught me after seeing me fight. It's called "Run."

Two other poses I have, ahem, mastered are called Tree and Something To Do With Standing On One leg and Holding Your Other Knee. I quickly added these poses to my repertoire by using a cryptic and little known Yoga technique called "Cheating." What I do is I hold on to something to keep from falling.

Lastly, (So far. I plan to add more poses, because what could be more fun than increased physical pain?) I do a "Sun Salutation." Although, previously, I've always felt a "Hello Sun" was sufficient to greet the big yellow fellow, I now raise my hands over my head and bend back into a position the human body was not - obvious to me - meant to go. Following this exquisite displacia, I then exhale, bend forward and touch my toes. Yes I do, I touch my toes. You don't believe me, come on over and I'll show you as long as you promise not to freak out at my screams to call 911. While still toe touching, I then bend my knees, put my hands back above my head and return to the starting position. Just to be sure the Sun knows I'm saluting it, I do this three times in succession. Also, so far, the response from the big fiery orb has been the same as when i just said hello. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Why do I sense that when my chiropractor reads this he will be grinning from ear to ear?

Hole-In-One

There is no better feeling than the one that arises after scoring a hole-in-one. There are moments of exhilarating happiness that occur along life's path, but nothing to compare with scoring a hole-in-one. I have caught and intercepted passes for touchdowns. I have hit game winning jump shots and doubled in game winning runs. I have defeated bullies in combat and I have run the good race in all my athletic endeavors, but nothing compares with scoring a hole-in-one. Beyond the field of sports I have sky dived and parachuted from an airplane. I have driven motorcycles and cars at reckless speeds and I have hurdled fences on horseback. I have slept with both virgins and the wildly experienced and I have consumed mind altering drugs. I have known moments of sheer bodily boggling joy as when the woman I loved said yes to my proposal and when my children were born, but nothing, absolutely NOTHING, compares with the feeling you get when you score a hole-in-one. Or, at least, that's what I'm told. I can't say for certain, I've never actually had one.

It's all about me. WTF, it's MY blog.

Stream of Conscience-less would be a great title for several of this year's Republican presidential wannabe's autobiographies. Hey, just sayin'.

Stream of consciousness is what I would call what I am about to write if, in fact, it was delivered as a nice steady thought flow and I could, additionally, lay claim to full consciousness, two occurrences seriously unlikely to happen. I will persist and persevere, nevertheless, because following the completion of this blog, I have a rigorous physical workout planned and that needs to be delayed for as long as MY conscience will allow. That said, I now await the "stream" to begin.

I'm still waiting.

Here's my "Inconvenient Truth": My best ideas occur at inopportune moments. Moments when I am unable or unwilling to write them down. Allow me to explain. Unable means in the shower, driving, or restraining my dogs on a walk. Unwilling means I'm half asleep and prefer to chase the other half to becoming fully awake and having to start the fall asleep process anew. Well, either that or I am in coitus and the best idea there is to not stop to take notes. I am also plagued by occasionally having a complex idea that has to be followed to its conclusion. An interruption to that thought changes it or chases it away. The problem that then ensues is that when I try to recapture my idea in all its complexities later, it as, as they say, a no hope-er. This state of affairs I like to blame on age but, in truth, it has been ever thus.

All the above is an explanation for why you are not getting my best ideas, but merely my second and third best. The difference between my best and second best is the difference between Nobel Prizes and "We are unable to publish your manuscript at this time because, frankly Sir, it sucks." Or, at least, I like to think so. Self delusion is, after all, what gets me through the day. The shunned reality is, I am still aspiring to "it sucks."

Here is an idea that is just short of Nobel worthy if by "just short" I mean it has about the same chance as I have of snaring gold in this year's Olympic Decathalon. It's but a smidgeon out of reach. I've been thinking about reinventing the original me. Some of you reading this may remember that I was once a very social person; a little shy, but still...social. The move to rural Colorado some years ago began the transformation of my own self to a somewhat, but not entirely, quieter more withdrawn type. I wasn't "out there" much because there wasn't much "out there" to be had in that environment. When Woowoo Charly and I moved to Panama, the transformation was completed and I became fully reinvented as a stay at home, read, write and think (if you can call it that) person, a calmer inside, less manic variety. Enneagrammers would say I now inhabit my Five "higher mind" space. Lately, though, I have been feeling restless. Maybe because it is sort of Spring here in Panama and Spring is a time of renewal or maybe I just want to see if what I think is possible, IS possible. I have been obsessed, as my last two stories, Miss Polanski and the other one,(I've forgotten the title. Neither story was memorable) indicate, with the concept of opposites attracting. Certainly my introverted wife was drawn initially to my more extroverted self and vice versa. We were dependent upon each other for the longest time to supply qualities the other lacked. I provided energy, she stillness, and it's been a wonderful merger throughout the years. Lately though, as I've noted while the Nobel Committee anxiously awaits, I contemplate returning to some kind of older replica of my original self.

So far, though, in case you are wondering and why wouldn't you be at such a fascinating inner dialogue that ranks up there with whatever is going through The Thinker's mind while he sits and, you know, thinks, I have not gotten past the contemplation stage. Maybe, just maybe, I am simply entering one of those "Seasons of Life" one hears so often about. Or is it? I guess we shall see. Or I will anyway.

Author's note: I warned you in the title it was all about me!

2011 Book List

2011 BOOK LIST


1. Angel of Darkness Caleb Carr Terrific thriller set at the turn of the century. (19th to 20th) Cast of characters carried over from “The Alienist” meets evil villainess.

2. The Code of the Woosters P.G. Wodehouse. Good as it gets. Bertie, gets hopelessly entangled with lovers, silver cow creamers, cranky judges and more. Jeeves to the rescue.

3. Lord of Misrule Jaimy Gordon National Book Award Winner about the underbelly of horse racing. Spectacularly well written, fabulous characters.

4. Summer Lightning P.G. Wodehouse I want to live in P.G.’s imagination, a place of gentlemen and ladies where everything turns out well in the end.

5. Just Kids Patti Smith Beautifully written summation of the authors entwined life with the artist Robert Mapplethorpe.

6. The Turn of the Screw Henry James Well crafted, many layered ghost story. A little slow moving for my tastes.

7. Ring For Jeeves P.G. Wodehouse One of my favorite books. Also published as The Return of Jeeves. This was the third time I’ve read it.

8. The Confession John Grisham Anti capital punishment treatise rendered as a thriller. Well done.

9. Help the Poor Struggler Martha Grimes Fast paced mystery. Nothing special, but, nevertheless, entertaining.

10. Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter Seth Grahame-Smith Good idea. Strong start, excellent ending, tedious middle.

11. Sally Gives a Party P.G. Wodehouse An engaging heroine, a gentle love story. I liked it.

12. The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest Steig Larson Nice Wrap-up of the Lizbeth Salander trilogy. Sorry these books are over and sorry Steig is gone.

13. The Clicking of Cuthbert P.G. Wodhouse Ten great humorous golf stories. Several out loud laughs included.

14. The Coming of Bill P.G. Wodehouse Marriage goes awry over how to raise baby Bill and a sudden influx of riches. All’s well at the end.

15. The Power and the Glory Graham Greene Beautifully written, but otherwise not my cup of tea.

16. Sock Penn Gillette This is a find. A small treasure. Clever. Original. Imaginative. Penn is at least as fine a writer as he is a comedic magician. (Penn and Teller)

17. Hooking Up Tom Wolfe Essays mostly on the state of this and that in the year 2000. Some fascinating, some skimmed.

18. The Informationist Taylor Stevens Big disappointment. More talk than action is not the right formula for an as advertized “thriller.”

19. Damsel in Distress P.G. Wodehouse. Entertaining romp when theatrical music composer saves upper crust woman from a horrible fate…marrying the wrong man.

20. The Pump House Gang Tom Wolfe Interesting, but dated articles from Tom’s time as a magazine writer.

21. Bossy Pants Tina Fey Nothing to shout about. Funny here and there.

22. El Vencedor Esta solo Paulo Coelho (Read in Spanish) Murder and mayhem at the Cannes Film Festival. Does not end well for the good guys.

23. The Mating Season P.G. Wodehouse Bertie and Jeeves come to the rescue of several friends whose love lives have gone astray. Lots of funny stuff along the way.

24. The Help Kathryn Stockett Well done tale of early 1960s Mississippi, told through the eyes of two black maids and an aspiring writer, a young white woman.

25. The Glorious Cause Jeff Shaara Fabulous depiction of how the Revolutionary War was fought and won. Shaara brings all the players to life.

26. War of the Worldviews Deepak Chopra and Leonard Mlodinov Science vs. Spirituality. Seekers of wisdom and truth will find some of each within these pages.

27. Mister Slaughter Robert McCammon Detective series set in colonial times. Well written but didn’t grab me.

28. Let the Great World Spin Colum McCann A spectacular novel. Never a false note struck.

29. Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a world that can’t stop talking.) Susan Cain All about the “quiet” types and how they contribute. Turns out I’m one of them. Whodathunkit?

First Blog 2012

The first blog of a new year should be carefully considered, deeply contemplated and skillfully crafted. Lacking the were-with-all to do any of those things, I'll just call this the the second blog and do what I do best which is spit out whatever is on my - some call it a mind but they are not to be trusted - and declare it a blog. I will be blogging a bit more this year as I'm in the process of writing a novel and when I get bogged down in it, a thing that happens with uncommon regularity (uncommon regularity sounds like a phrase from a laxative ad)I find myself not writing at all and that scenario leaves me feeling that time is a wasting. If I'm going to waste time, I might as well choose how to do it and not have it thrust upon me like that. Today's waste of time is as follows.

Football announcers have been annoying me of late. When one comes up with a word or phrase to describe the action that is new, the others snatch it up and make it part of the lexicon as if it were there all along. For instance, when was the last time you heard an announcer say a team used a time out? Teams don't use time outs anymore, they "burn" them. And you might note that players no longer have skills, they have a "skill set." A team's secondary or defensive backfield has become the "back end" or the "back side." I don't know about you but back side conjures something different for me. Here's another that's getting worked to death: Running backs are no longer difficult to tackle, they are "hard to get to the ground." They also rarely turn the corner these days, they first have to make it to the "edge." "Edge being the new end. The one particular word that most drives me to distraction and a refill is the word used to describe a trick play or trickery. It is "trickeration." That's right, "trickeration." You know what, you mindless copycat announcers, I got your "trickeration right here!

Ask your doctor if...

There's a cure for almost everything to be found just by watching television. One that's missing,though,is a cure for bad poetry. Read this at your own risk.


ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF
By Doc Walton

I hunkered down in my armchair,
I wasn't going anywhere.
Turned on the tube to see what's there
and found too much to my despair.

I wasn't feeling out of sorts
or even off my feed,
when I sat down to watch TV,
I was not seeking words to heed.

But there they were repeatedly
amidst my favorite show,
if my desire was for good health,
the things I'd need to know.

Should I have COPD Sport,
and breathing is a trial,
then I'll dose myself with Symbicort,
and simply wait awhile.

I took a breath and wondered if
my lungs would find this fate.
and if it turned that was the case,
would I incline to sit and wait.

Not to worry if I need to hurry
my breath they can repair.
Just put to mouth to pull and puff,
inhalants from Advair.

Well sure I said, my hand to chest,
but what if I have asthma?
Should I be hooked to tubes and wires
and pump my veins with plasma?

I was glad to get the remedy
from folks who seemed to care a
bout what to do when breaths are few
just pop their pill Dulera"

My mind at rest, I settled back
to watch a bit more show,
but to my ultimate distress,
was more I'd need to know.

A cut away from slick gunplay
to inform me all about,
the deeply dreadful, awful plight,
of those who suffer painful gout.

"When your joints so acidy ache,
from urine not euphoric,
just toss aside your woes and take
our magic pill Uloric."

I put aside my thoughts of pee,
to learn how to survive a...
nother COPD fight
a matchup with Spiriva.

My chest still hurt, my heart I feared,
I'd have to get the facts a...
bout what to do and how to use
the product called Predaxa.

Now my skin's a mess, I'm breaking out
I truly look like hell,
but as luck would have, the answer's there
My TV says just take Embrel.

If my skin gets worse it also says,
don't self delude and lie of this,
Just dose myself with Stelara
and chase away psoriasis.

Levemir Flexpen's what I'll need
in case of diabetes,
from too much food and too much booze
and sugar on my Wheaties.

Humira me I ask you please
for damage from arthritis.
To make me whole, put mind at ease
with good health please unite us.

I hadn't noticed this before
a problem rarely spied or seen.
For dry mouth water's not the cure
I need to suck down Biotene.

For problems like wet underwear
Not to fret and get all hyper.
Just treat myself with Vesicare
and throw away my diaper.

About my pounds I'm less than keen
I wish that I could drop 'em
I'm off to buy some Lipozene
unwrap the drugs and pop 'em.

There's a small blue pill that restores one's will
by straightening out one's willy
"Seek Doctor's help... four hours or more"
Now there's some wood that's silly!

Lumestra will put me fast asleep
and keep me deep and dreaming.
I wonder in that darkened place
is help for my rhyme scheming.

Put down that butt, that coffin nail
and smoke inhaling antics
with their new aid, my quit won't fail
I'll put my faith in Chantix.

They say that I will think a hex
when there's ache deep in my bones
But I'll chase the spell with Celebrex
and skip arthritis' moans and groans.

I still could blink but couldn't wink
at parties and grand bashes.
no need to think or turn to drink
Latisse restores eye lashes.

When gastric distress gives unrest
no amateur could un-tumble
Align's the Pro biotic best
to quieten my rumble.

When it grows there on my lip
and I wish I could achieve a
cure for cold sores so unhip
blah-blah blah-blah Abreva.

My show's long gone but there still plays
advice for all my woes
Cymbalta for that deep down phase
and so and so, and so it goes.

Abilify will help me fly
away from my depression
but if these ads continue on
there's sure to be regression.

S.A.D.

S.A.D.
By Doc Walton

I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, sometimes called the Winter Blues. While in the States I was usually afflicted during the month of February and my affliction would last until the first warm days of March. Here in Boquete, Panama, SAD usually grabs me in October and steals my Joie de Vivre until sometime in November. The worst symptom during that period is that I don’t feel like doing the things I usually feel like doing. The sky and rain that darken the day also cloud my imagination. My motivation to do, well, nearly anything, becomes difficult to summon. This year, however, not all was lost. Although my possibly novel length, current endeavor, tentatively titled “Run Rufus Run” was locked on hold, I was not, apparently, without some creative thought, for I found this small essay scribbled on a yellow pad I keep about for just such muse induced moments:

The thing I like about our “Writer’s Group” is that we are supportive. Sure there is some criticism, but we are mostly here not to disparage but to encourage. We are here to validate that what we do is not nonsense, but rather, worthwhile. Writing is one of our passions, for some more than others, but for all something meaningful. We have a need to do it. It is our art and no art can be discounted because among life’s “realities” you will find that art is a life force, a reason and a way to be one apart on a planet of seven billion people. No one said we had to be separate, had to be different, and yet we are. Our art defines that difference in a way that clarifies, whether the art is deemed good, bad, or indifferent. We do what we do, write, paint, sculpt, or create business models not because some inner drive demands it, although that may be the case, but more likely, because I sit here pen and pad in hand, watching the rain… drunk as a skunk.

Erica

ERICA
By Doc Walton

No one ever called Erica Wiley a tomboy. No scabby knees and scuffed elbows for her. Unh unh. This was a woman/child who moved with grace, delicate and fluid as maple syrup. She was slow dance, gliding through life, twirling when the mood was right. There was no hip hop for this girl, unh unh, nothing about her to suggest the abrupt, the startled, or even the extemporaneous. It seemed, instead, as if her every move had been choreographed and rehearsed. She was never caught off-guard by word or deed and she always paused, thinking, before she spoke; a rare trait even among adults. Hers were measured words spoken in a voice soft as silk and deeper in tone than one would expect from a child; words leisurely paced and delicately inflected. She felt neither discomfort nor the need to hurry when faced with fidgeting that often occurred by those awaiting her replies. “Stay the moment,” she seemed to say, “and the time spent will be worth it.” This was truly a girl who would never climb a tree or catch a frog. But no matter. There were always boys, eager boys, to do those things for her.

Her growth from child to adult was seamless. There was no clunky stage in between, unh unh. No acne, no awkward, or shy to mark the transition. She was at once full blown woman, and no one could quite mark when it had happened. She was just more of what she had always been, femininity itself, and the boys, now men, still found her fascinating. They were drawn to her as metal to magnet. In her presence even the most uncertain of men felt manly. They preened and posed as if seeking a blessing, or at the very least, her approval. Could one of them, they wondered, possibly become her choice?

Those of her own sex, on the other hand, were understandably less enamored. They appeared in large part to either resent or envy her, and even the few whose admiration she garnered often kept their distance when men were about for fear that comparisons would be drawn and they would be found lacking. Without exception they all sensed a vague, undefined threat from this myth of womanhood come to life in their midst. Could beauty such as hers be harmless in the subtle, societal world of female competition? Could she move among their carefully controlled lives of dinner parties, gallery showings, pampered children and trophy husbands and do no damage, create no havoc? It seemed unlikely. Here was a woman not yet thirty, unmarried, unattached. There would surely be trouble in their Milwood, New Hampshire paradise. But which one of their men would fall prey? Which woman would suffer the cruelty of unexpected loss? Which marriage was held by the weakest link? Each woman looked to her own.
*
Jennifer Dunwell, Jenny to her friends, a group that included nearly everyone she met, was blonde, vivacious, out-going, and the energy at the center of any gathering she attended. She was quick to smile, often provoked to laughter, and the first to shed tears of joy when a moment was moving. She was spontaneous and witty, a tireless volunteer for charitable causes and one of those women who seem to effortlessly juggle the complexities of family life and a full social schedule. With her hair down and a bit of time spent in front of her dressing room mirror, she could be quite the stunner. But she was more often seen with her locks pulled and pinned away from her face, sans make-up, and sporting the sheen of earned perspiration. She was a dedicated runner and a “worthy opponent” tennis player. As a child she had often been called a tomboy, and even now, as an adult, the description was not far off the mark. That she and Erica would become best friends seemed highly unlikely, but that is exactly what happened.
*
That opposites attract is not just an old saw describing an often true component of the boy/girl relationship. It can apply to friendships as well. Looking across a room crowded in busy clusters of well turned out friends and relations, Jennifer was caught by the still presence of a woman who appeared more interested in listening than talking and who seemed to have a perpetual circle of wide eyed men surrounding her. She is a stunner, Jennifer thought, but really…this is a sophisticated group…there must be more to her than that. The hostess at this week’s dinner party, Molly Campion, had introduced Erica to each of those who didn’t already know her, but the introduction had been cursory and Erica had been quickly whisked off to meet other people, an almost instantly forming gaggle of googly-eyed men trailing in her wake. Jennifer made a mental note to connect with this newest member of Molly’s circle before the night was out.

Erica, feigning attention to the animated young man before her while looking past him, was not oblivious to the pretty blonde woman who seemed to generate laughter and smiles from those who approached her. There was clearly gaiety and excitement to be had in her presence and Erica was not above wanting a piece of that. The problem was how to disengage from her current collection of admirers, all nice men, good looking men, funny even, but lacking any quality to separate one from the other. Erica charmed them all almost offhandedly, saying the right thing at the right time, laughing at their jokes and offering, now and again, clever bon mots of her own, even as she sought to escape. The dilemma was that as one suitor or another drifted off or was pulled away by wife or girlfriend offering an excuse that required immediate attention, another took his place. Even “nose powdering” breaks brought only a temporary respite as the moment she emerged from the small sanctuary of a guest room, there was always a cry of “Oh there you are!” from someone and her posse would again begin to form.

It was thrilling then, and blessed relief, when Jennifer approached, took her by the arm and led her off, saying to the surprised coterie, “Gentlemen, your time is up. We have urgent womanly stuff to discuss and I’m told the bar needs your attention.” And with that announcement, led Erica swiftly out a patio door and into a lush backyard garden.
“I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted” Jennifer started to say, but was interrupted by Erica’s “Thank God, I was about to suffocate!”

They both laughed.

“I kind of thought you needed a breather,” Jennifer said, “That pack around you looked downright rabid. I’m Jennifer, by the way, but everyone calls me Jenny.”
“Thanks for the rescue, Jenny. I’m Erica, and I’m more than glad to meet you. The guys can get a little smothering at times, but you seem to handle it well. I saw you fending them off inside, no problem. What’s your secret?”
“No secret: a husband. Whenever a guy who doesn’t know me - or even those who do but are feeling their oats or their booze - starts up with the heavy flirting, I just bring my husband into the conversation and off they go. It’s kinda like magic.”

Erica grins, says, “Good magic. Next time I’m cornered I’ll abracadabra your husband.”

They laugh again.

“Why haven’t I seen you before?” Jenny asks. “I thought I knew everyone in these here parts” she says in her best John Wayne, which she knows is none too good.
Erica smiles at that, answers, “I’m new, actually. I’ve only been here a couple of months. Transferred by Dell. We’re opening a regional office out at the Tech Center. Geeky stuff. Bore you to tears.”

“Really? Computers? I’m barely literate myself. I bet most people would guess you’re a model or a fashion consultant, or, I don’t know, something glamorous anyway. Not that you don’t look smart. I just think that’s not the first thing they’re going to notice.”
Erica understands the compliment, throws it right back.

“Well look at you, Jenny. I’ll bet people who don’t know you think the same thing. That you’re a model or maybe an actress instead of what you really are, which is?

“Housewife.” You know, minivan, would be soccer mom, queen of the domicile. If there’s glamour in there, it’s wearing a really good disguise.”

The two women continue to talk, filling in their backgrounds as people do when they first become acquainted and like each other enough to want to know more. Ten or twelve minutes pass, perhaps even a quarter of an hour without their notice when the patio door swings open. A smooth featured, athletically built man, blond and looking enough like Jennifer to be her brother, approaches. He’s carrying three flutes of champagne, two in one hand, one in the other. He hands each of the women one, and Jennifer says, “This is my husband…”

“Bond” says the man, talking over his wife’s “Jack” and offering his hand. “Jamesh Bond.”

Erica takes his hand. His grip is firm but not intrusive. No stupid display of strength. She looks at his eyes, which are dark, an interesting contrast to his light colored hair. They are smiling, waiting her response.

“And Jack, this is Eri…”

“Pussy. Pussy Galore,” Erica says, while realizing she has selected the most infamously memorable of all the Bond girls. She blushes lightly, surprised at her own response, but manages, “Nice to meet you...” then pauses a couple of beats before adding, “Sir.”

All three laugh and clink glasses.

In the weeks to follow, they become a nearly inseparable social threesome. When one is seen, one or both of the other two are usually close at hand. At first there are raised eyebrows and whispered suspicions when Jack and Erica are spotted having lunch alone or sharing an early evening cocktail, but they are so often joined by a tardy Jennifer that the supposed clandestine aspects of their get-togethers, initially assumed, fade and are discarded as useless gossip. After a time, even Jack and Erica’s presence without Jennifer became a common and accepted occurrence and one that inspires little comment.

But was the situation actually as it appeared, a close friendship between three people, two of them married to each other, the third just an attractive and stimulating addition to the wedded couple’s world? It is possible. Three is not always “a crowd.” But, truly, as life has so often demonstrated, it is not the norm.

Erica did date during this period, a series of earnest and, as other women would tell you, desirable men. None, however, seemed to interest her for long and the few who did make it to an introduction and “double date” with Jack and Jennifer were usually gone shortly thereafter. If Erica were to honestly examine what occurred during those double dates, she would realize that she had pitted her feelings for her date against those she had for Jack, and on each occasion her date had come up short. She was slowly, but inexorably falling in love with her best friend’s husband.
*

It has been noted that opposites often attract. It has also been noted that Jack and Jennifer shared both personality and physical attributes; the two were extroverted, blond and athletic. The dark, mysterious characteristics that had drawn Jennifer to Erica were the same that appealed to Jack. He, no different than all men it appeared, was not immune to her charms, but unlike the others, he was able to hold them in abeyance. Jack found Erica beautiful and deeply sexual, nearly irresistible in fact, but not quite so, because Jack was, it should be further noted, truly in love with his wife.

Jennifer, for her part, was thrilled to have a new “best girlfriend.” She had been lacking a “sister” since her marriage to Jack seven years ago. As so often happens to young newlyweds, old friends drift away pursuing careers or marrying and new friends in the form of other “couples” appear to take their place. A certain one on one, “tell me everything” intimacy is lost, as Jennifer discovered Her college roommate and former best friend, Betsy Florio, now lived on the west coast and their initial weekly phone calls trickled over the years to Happy Birthdays and Merry Christmases. Erica, still single in her late twenties, the only one of Jennifer’s acquaintances that was still without a partner, brought a more mature and somewhat cynical perspective to her status. She could expound wryly on the scene and, finding in Jenifer an avid listener, often did, to Jennifer’s delight. Erica was so unlike anyone she knew that Jennifer found her a positively compelling companion.

That Jennifer was never at a loss for things to do or places to go and happily dragged Erica along was for Erica the tonic she needed to keep from slipping into the ennui of mild depression to which she was too often prone. And, it seemed, when, Jenifer was unavailable, Jack was there; Jack with the smoky eyes, sexy laugh and the any-pal-of-Jenny’s-is-a-pal-of-mine attitude. They were a good threesome, these three, an interesting threesome, but that love thing was growing wildly in Erica and was threatening to be intrusive.
*

It has been established that opposites often attract, but it is commonality that more often binds. Long married couples speak of shared interests as the foundation of their relationship, the very cement that holds it together. Jennifer and Jack’s marriage was a good example of that. They ran together, played tennis as a team, and planned their future in tandem. When learning something of value or interest while apart, they eagerly shared it when reunited. You could picture them as older, even much older, leaning across a restaurant table discussing the latest happenings in politics or sports, their kids and grandkids, or the plot of a good book and doing so with the same enthusiasm they brought to the conversations of their youth. Though opposites often attract, they are just as often quick to separate. Unlike those who have much in common, opposites, not finding mutual lasting interest, generally just get on down the road. Generally, but not always. And not always without harm.
*
Erica sat on the side of the bed and looked at Jack. He had thrown his jacket over a chair back and was struggling with his tie knot. His movements were slow, not driven by passion; his expression indicating that he was struggling with something more than his tie. As she watched, Erica unbuttoned her blouse, one careful, deliberate button after another. She too, appeared in no hurry.

Their meeting had been happenstance, or, as Erica wanted to believe, fated. She had attended a late afternoon conference at the Tech Center conducted by management rather than with the talented techie staff Jennifer would have preferred. Following that mostly dull affair, she had dinner with a few of her colleagues at a nearby hotel restaurant. There was wine before and after the main course and a snifter of Gran Marnier following dessert. As her companions drifted off, she decided to stay for a further cup of coffee to help counter the drowsy feeling brought on by a full meal and more alcohol than she was accustomed to. Although she appeared to be perusing her notes as she sipped her inky black stimulant, her mind kept slipping away to thoughts of Jack. The woman, then, who was never taken by surprise was actually startled when the voice she was hearing in her head said from behind her, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Jack had been conducting a management seminar in another part of the Tech Center and had just finished. He had skipped lunch for an afternoon run and was now starving. After Erica regained her composure and the expected “what the heck are you doing here” conversation was over, Jack convinced Erica to have another Gran Marnier and keep him company while he ate…and drank. He began his dinner with two double scotches that he felt he had earned for the completion of a successful day. His run had been invigorating and his seminar had delivered kudos from his colleagues.

After dinner, the polite phrase would be, they retired to the bar for a nightcap, but in truth both Jack and Erica were feeling the warm glow that alcohol, atmosphere and good company can inspire. Neither wanted the moment to end. The nightcap became two, then three. A fourth was ordered, but the drinks remained on the bar untouched as the tone of their conversation became more intimate. Their voices were lowered then, and they leaned closer to each other, the better to hear the soft sweet, revelations of feelings previously suppressed and unspoken. Was it Jack or Erica who ultimately offered the comment that required a small kiss of agreement or confirmation? It matters not. The gentle buss that followed, light and but of a moment, seemed to linger on their lips and the separation after was equally brief before their eyes leaped to each other with a plea of “more” and their mouths obeyed, wetly and without restraint. This was a kiss that deepened with every second it lasted and its intensity brought Jack and Erica to their feet, barstools pushed aside so their bodies could press as tightly together as clothes would permit. There really wasn’t much thought going on during that embrace, much consciousness of what was happening to them or around them, but they were aware enough, barely, to register the sound of the bartender shouting, “Hey you two! Go get a room!”
And it seemed like a good idea at the time.
*
Passion can be hard to keep aflame when two people have to endure the rigmarole of checking in to a hotel. There is the form to fill out, fake names to be decided upon, excuses not asked for, but volunteered nervously, for the lack of luggage. There is the trek to the room following a bellhop and the fidgeting as he points out the room’s features, sets the thermostat, and gives the “If you need anything just”…well, you know how it goes.

By the time this was all said and done, Jack and Eric’s ardor had somewhat diminished. They tried another kiss and let their hands roam a bit to fan anew the flames, but now there was a third party in the room and that party was either Jack’s conscience or Jennifer, call it what you will. Erica could sense it in Jack’s sudden reticence and for the second time that night she was taken aback. Men did not cool in her presence. Although Jack had placed her gently on the bed, he had not started the “let’s tear off these clothes” routine that usually accompanies first time coupling. Instead he had risen to his feet and even as he undressed she could see that his eyes, though pointed at her, were looking inward; inward at new thoughts, thoughts not considered or perhaps just pushed aside earlier that night. She was not surprised then - there would be no third time for that - when Jack stopped his strip at his belt buckle and said, “Erica, I can’t do this. I just can’t do this to Jenny.”

“That’s alright Jack,” Erica said back in a voice that was steady and clearly consoling. “Thank you for stopping it.” To which she quickly added, “I can’t do it to her either” and found herself knowing it to be the truth.

They talked a little bit more then, even suggesting an actual nightcap, but neither one could face the bartender after their earlier actions. They parted in the parking lot with what appeared to be a friendly brother/sister kind of hug and promises to get together again soon, you know, like always. Both knew though, that things had changed and would never again be like “always”.

What needed to happen and did was that they would not meet, not soon nor ever. With a threat of “I quit if you don’t move me,” Erica requested and received a transfer to a distant city. She was gone from Milwood in little more than a week. She could not have stayed. She realized that she truly did love Jack, honestly and deeply and if that love was to go unrequited, it was better done in a faraway place. Let time and distance work their healing magic. To see Jack often, or even at all, would be more she could bear. She would lose Jenny as well, her first real best friend. There was sorrow enough in that. But how could she ever again look in that friend’s trusting blue eyes knowing she had nearly seduced her husband and, in truth, wanted to still. That too would not be possible for Erica to emotionally withstand. There was but one thing she could do, and that was to leave.
*
If a sigh of relief for the departure of a nagging but vague anxiety can be a collective thing, then the women of Milwood emitted that sigh.
*
It is said of tomboys that they are a hardier breed of girls, fearless and competitive. It is further suggested that they are tougher than their softer sisters, inside and out.

No one ever called Erica Wiley a tomboy.

Chapter Six

Been writing a communal novel with my Writer's Guild pals. Here's Chapter Six, my contribution so far. (This is first draft stuff, so don't be too critical.)

CHAPTER SIX
Doc Walton

The shuttle from Panama City to Bocas Del Toro touched down at 10:05 in the morning. Marty deplaned to a sticky hot day and walked leisurely along in a disorderly group of passengers to Bocas Town’s principal street; a long, straight, stretch of road, that parallels its western shoreline and is flanked on either side by hotels, restaurants, marinas, curio shops and all the small enterprises that tourism breathes to life.

Bocas Del Toro is an archipelago that clusters off the northern coast of Panama’s Caribbean side. The islands are home to somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and twenty five thousand people – so many transient that an accurate census is difficult - with the largest chunk of those residing on the main island, Isla Colon, where Marty now walked, oblivious to the town’s waking. He was using his eyes at that moment to avoid collisions, but his real sight, his focus, was directed inward where his thoughts scattered randomly, but returned with annoying frequency to: What an idiot I am! He was unaware of the tinkle and clatter of breakfast being served at street-side, open air restaurants, of vendors hawking fishing and boating tours, and of the crowd around him thinning as people streamed off to one hotel or another. He took scarce note of the Rastafarian, dreadlocked, young man who approached and offered the sweet dreams of his choice, brushing by him with a barely audible, but effective “No.” And, as if to confirm his most recurring contemplation, he also failed to notice the darkly glassed, baseball capped, parasol shaded woman who followed behind, tracing his every step. Had he been aware, awakened to his surroundings like the good detective he once was and wished to be again, he would have known she was there, and further, would have seen through her obvious disguise to the woman beyond. A woman he knew well. On this day though, Marty’s senses were locked on dull, his few intentions merely to retrieve his boat, get some down time and quiet his mind.

He dumped his carry on into a water taxi and climbed in behind it.

His boat, a sleek looking white Catamaran, was moored where he was told, on an island marina, a ten minute skip cross the water from Isla Colon. The marina was home to an eclectic mix of half a hundred boats, a decent restaurant of medium size, a small provisions store, and a watch keeper’s abode, the tallest building in sight. Marty found the Angela docked closest to landside of those on one of the marina’s four long piers. He stepped aboard, dropped his bag on the deck and retrieved the boat’s key ring from a hidden magnetic box under the captain’s chair. After opening the cabin door and hatches fore and aft to allow air into the stuffy interior, Marty took quick inventory of the boat’s food and drink supplies and determined that ice was the only prerequisite. Following a quick questioning of the Marina’s manager and learning only that the boat was checked in by an older man and younger woman, showing passports bearing the name Smith and fitting close enough a description of his father and Shelly, he scored two bags of cubes at the island store and returned to the boat.

Plopping his angular frame onto the soft cushions at the boat’s stern, Bloody Mary in hand – what the hell he had thought, it’s happy hour in Ireland – Marty mentally wrestled his thoughts into focus, his dad the first subject at hand. I’m thirty-six now, which puts Dad right at sixty. Not really old, but no spring chicken either. This thing with Shelly…just seems so…unlikely. She’s almost thirty years his junior… Frank’s most recent arm piece, and sure Dad shined to her looks…we all did, but he’s just not the type. Dad’s steadfast; as loyal to his friends as he is to his family. No way is he running off with his best buddy’s wife. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. If he and Shelly are together, there is some other reason.

Marty pauses a moment as a cloudy thought at the back of his mind tries to take shape. Why have I been so dimwitted? This isn’t like me. My skill is connecting the dots; even when they are as fucked up as this nothing-is-as-it-seems mess. He realizes at that moment that he is rubbing the crook of his left arm with his right hand. He brings the arm near to his eyes and finds a tiny wound, a puncture. His cloudy thought instantly clears. I HAVE been drugged, goddamn it, drugged! But when? He rolls back the tape in his mind through recent events, looking for an unguarded moment. There is only one, his first night in Panama, the night before Nina and Rodrigo and their gun and their bullshit story. My struggle was no dream. I was chloroformed and then I was shot up with something. Something that made me sloggy and slow witted. Well it’s worn off now. My head is clear…I think.

Marty tosses his half full Bloody Mary over the side, puts his glass on the nearest flat surface and drops to the deck. He pumps out forty fast push-ups, rises and monitors how quickly his heart rate returns to normal. It takes but a moment. Yes, he thinks, I am clear. He walks into the boat’s cabin, flicks on the AC and fires up the on board computer. It’s a cliché, he thinks, but it’s one that always works for me. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

He begins to type.

Frank Davidson. My father’s long time best friend and partner in an import/export business. A surprisingly successful business I’ve long suspected had government ties that Dad would never confirm. A business both he and Frank discouraged me from joining. Why? Frank. A man I called Uncle when I was a kid. Lies to me. Tells me his daughter Sarah has gone missing in Panama. Why the lie? Lies again. Says my Dad is being held hostage to force him, Frank, into doing something he doesn’t want to do. Won’t say what. More lies or the truth? Why is he now unavailable?

Nina Aguilar and Rodrigo Guitierrez. Real names? Cock and bull story about an imprisoned Noriega wanting to move a large sum of money and directing his accomplices to do that, but somehow no one knows where the money is. Second part of the story is Dad and Frank’s business, Kaleidoscope, is to move the money…or something it has purchased…through the Canal and then to Malaysia. If that were true, it would have to be drugs or guns, the only two things Dad and Frank refuse to handle. To see that this gets done, Dad is taken hostage. Any truth at all to the story? Rodrigo says he was an associate of Dad and Franks. News to me. When I threaten to forget the whole thing and return to the States, they concoct another story. This time Dad is not a hostage but has run away with Shelly, Frank’s wife, and stolen 4 mil from the office safe to do so. Say that Frank has hired them to retrieve the money and they want me to find it. Say if they get to it first they will likely kill both Dad and Shelly. The only part I believe is that they will kill. These are cold people. Is there truth in any of this and… WHO THE FUCK ARE THESE PEOPLE?

Frank pauses at the keyboard. What if, he thinks, it’s all true? Or pieces of the truth, the whole yet to be revealed. Is there any way to take those pieces and make a coherent picture?

Marty spends the balance of the day tossing the boat’s interior for clues his father might have left; finds nothing. He has a solid meal at the island restaurant in the early eve and then returns to the boat where he pours himself three fingers of Abuelo Rum onto ice and settles in to watch the night drift over the marina. His mind continues to churn, inventing scenarios to match the facts… or the lies, whichever they might be. Nothing in the end makes a wit of sense, so he climbs into the bed located on the boat’s seaside pontoon and watches the stars through a large clear hatch located directly above him for exactly that reason, star gazing. The rum and the boat’s gentle rocking on the dissipating wakes of distant craft, puts him quickly to sleep.

A small sound as of something lightly bumping against the pontoon’s side awakens him several hours later. He lies in the dark, completely alert, senses heightened by adrenaline. Was it just the tap of driftwood or floating debris that woke him? Or was it something else? Something man made. His interior clock tells him it is deep night, perhaps as late as two or two thirty. He lays abed perfectly still, waiting for another sign and gets one. The dark above his hatch grows momentarily denser as a moon shadow drifts over it. Someone is on his boat!

Marty rolls quietly to his left and onto the floor. He reaches under his pillow and grips the revolver he had retrieved from its hiding place earlier in the day. Moving as soundless as possible so as not to alert whoever is above him, he makes his way aft to the cabin’s sole entrance. He sits in deep shadow facing that entrance, waiting for the intruder. He is calm now, his pulse slowed, his breathing normal. He is soldier again, and he’s ready.

A silhouette appears in the cloudy plastic of the cabin door. There is the rustle of a key chain, a moment of stillness and then the door swings quietly open. A figure steps through it.

“Hello Shelly” Marty says. “Long time no see.”
*
Unlike his tightly wired son, Craig Logan was an easy going sixty year old that looked ten years younger and acted fifteen. He was cheerful and optimistic to a flaw and as such was the out-front face of Kaleidoscope Imports. Were his friends to see him now pacing nervously back and forth, his brow etched in furrows, they would instantly know that something was seriously wrong. The porch of the rental house where Craig unconsciously marched to and fro like a trooper on guard duty over looked a rugged, seldom used stretch of beach on Bocas’ north shore far from the nightlife that brightened the sky and shattered the peace of downtown Bocas. During the day the odd surfer or two could be sighted braving the waves, but apart from that, this section of the island was generally occupied by those who preferred a calmer, less hectic atmosphere. Craig’s pacing was muffled almost to silence by the constant hum of insects, invisible in the dark of the surrounding jungle, insistent, but relegated by his unquiet mind and its stream of worries to little more than white noise.

I hope she’s all right. She has to warn him. I should have known he’d find his way here, he’s a detective for christssake. I wonder how much he knows. It’s just plain luck Shelly spotted him at the airport. It wasn’t him we were looking for. He has got to be warned. None of us can stay here much longer. It’s not safe. We can’t be caught. Frank you son-of-a-bitch, I told you this wouldn’t work. You couldn’t be satisfied with a thriving business and a six figure income. No, you’ve got to go for the big score. Fucking Noriega for godssake. The risks we take for our own government is one thing even if moving bribe money and what do they call it? Seeds of Democracy, isn’t strictly legal, at least we were doing it for the right reasons. Patriotic even. Besides, we wouldn’t have a business if it weren’t for the government contacts we made during the Cold War. But moving drugs out and money in, Frank we swore we’d never… How many times were we offered? Why now and why for these people? I told you not to do it, I told you to say no right at the start, but you had to entertain…GODDAMN IT, WHERE THE HELL IS SHE? SHE SHOULD BE BACK BY NOW!

Craig continues pacing. His thoughts in no coherent order, but his ears alert for any sound of Shelly’s return.

We have to get to Sarah before they do. With Shelly, Marty and I safe, Sarah would be their only source of leverage. We have to get her out of harm’s way. We have to ALL get out of harm’s way! Let the government clean up this mess. DAMN IT SHELL, WHERE ARE YOU?

A dark mass appears in the distant water. Craig snatches up his binoculars and adjusts the focus. It’s Shell and she’s got Marty with her in the dinghy. He jumps from the porch steps onto the sand and hurries to the beach.

“They’re close” Shelly hollers to Craig as she and Marty jump overboard in the shallows and pull the dinghy to shore. “I can feel them. We had to paddle through a couple of boats patrolling the marina. Couldn’t use the outboard ‘till we were far enough away. That’s what took us so long.”

Marty and Craig lock in a quick hard embrace and then all three jog to the rental. Inside, Craig pours Abuelo shooters He can see the stress and fatigue on Shelly and Marty’s faces. It’s been a long night and he knows that not much daylight can appear before they need to be gone.

“Okay” Marty says as the heat of the rum begins to spread from his throat to his extremities, “which of you is going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Back at the Marina, Shelly had convinced Marty that they had to leave in haste. She had then been unable to talk above a whisper as they floated out to sea for fear the sound would carry. Later, with the outboard on, it was just too noisy.

“I’ll explain everything…or at least what I know,” Craig answers, “but not right now. We have to get moving. As soon as it’s light, they will know you’re not on the boat and I figure it’s only a matter of time before they discover this rental.”

“Moving to where?” Marty asks. “This island is only so big.”

“I’ve got a Sea Piper tucked in a cove not far from here.”

“You’ve got a plane?” Marty asks incredulously. “Where the hell did you get a plane?”

Craig emits a chuckle. “It’s easy Kiddo” he says, “when you have four million bucks and friends in government. Now let’s get going!”

“As nutso as this may seem” Craig says while leveling the small plane at a cruising altitude, “from what Frank tells me, Noriega is dying and wants to convert all his assets into money. He has a cache of raw cocaine said to be worth half a billion dollars that he needs to move through the canal to a processing plant somewhere in the jungles of Malaysia. His outside contact is a smooth talking but bad-assed character named Rodrigo Gutierrez who works with a woman named Nina Aguilar.”

“Yeah, I know,” Marty says. “We’ve met.”

“Then you know they’re not to be fucked with. What Frank and I guess is that Noriega is trying to put together a bribe that is just too big to pass up. Give himself one last shot outside of stir to do whatever. Party down or maybe take some revenge. Who knows with a sick, crazy old man like that.

“What’s that got to do with us?” Marty asks?”

“We are the only ones who can get the coke through the canal.”

“Yeah, but you’d never do that… would you?”

“No, of course not, but Frank said yes before I had a say. You know Frank, he’s always looking for the big payday. He’s never really liked working all that much.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I wouldn’t go along. Pointed out to Frank what WAS wrong and the harm that would be done. Changed his mind. Trouble is, you can’t just say no to these people. Frank was given an ultimatum. Move the crap through the canal or everybody dies. Simple as that.”

Marty stares at his shoes for moment, putting his thoughts together. “So you and Shelly fled. But why together and why to Panama? And where is Frank now?”

“Frank’s idea. He’s here in Panama too. He’s acting as if he is going to go through with the whole thing. Wants to be sure we are all safe before he aborts the plan and we bring in the Feds.”

“Okay, I get that they wanted to use you and Shel and even Sarah as persuasion, but they, and Frank I might add, have been running me around in circles. What’s the deal with that?”

“I think that they may have seen you… with your skills…as a potential threat to blow up the whole thing and that by keeping you occupied until we were caught…well, you would be out of the way. Once we were caught, there would be nothing you could do without endangering our lives. Frank told me he wanted you in Panama, though, just in case we get to pull off our own plan.

Craig laughs then. “Really Marty, you’re about the only muscle we have.”

“So once we are all safe, we alert the Feds, is that the plan?”

Craig laughs again, “Nah Kiddo, there’s a lot more than that.”

Return of the Blog Blog

I'm in the mood to write simply because you're near me. The keyboard, that is. Wish this chair was more comfortable though. It's one of those wooden fold-outs circa whatever year fold-out chairs were invented. It came with the house and is the only thing that fits into the space allotted for our computer which is itself confined to the area by virtue - actually it is not a virtue - of the cable connector's location. I'm sitting on a pillow which helps some, but my back is pretty rigidly held upright and I can feel each of the two horizontal slats press against my spine if I lean back. Hey, life is tough and then you go on living. Now that you are all sympathetic to my plight,"Poor Zendoc" I hear you saying, I'll get on with the writing knowing you'll make allowances for my failure to be remotely good at it, should that be the case.

I do love to ramble.

Here's a line I have stolen from "The Big Bang Theory" which I tuned into thinking it was going to be about a potential orgy. Okay, that's a stretch, but you see Bang is a euphemism for...nevermind, here's the line: Women. Can't live with them, can't successfully refute their hypotheses.

That's funny.

And here's the first line of a poem I'm going to write if I ever think of a second line: Your body is the instrument I play, but it is not the song.

My thoughts on E Books: Love 'em. I don't mind that they will someday replace real books, but I will miss the old version in the same way I miss lying in the dark listening to old time radio dramas. It's more about nostalgia than reality. I mean, it's the writing, not the container that is important.

And speaking of writing, here's a thought I had on that subject. Pay attention now because I only have two thoughts a day and the first is usually along the lines of "you better get up now" so the second must be significant. Readers find that reading is easy so they think that for writers writing is easy. It's not.

The Witch's Cat

An old tale recently discovered that I wrote many years ago. I have revised it only slightly.

Last night, Kephart and I, four beers in and feeling conversational, began with the premise of Peter Straub’s book, “Ghost Story.” “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done” says one of the book’s protagonists. “I won’t tell you that” says another, “but I will tell you the worst thing that ever happened to me.” For those who have not read the book “the worst ever done” and “worst ever happened” are intrinsically linked.

Those two protagonists, along with three others, had in common “the worst thing they had ever done” and were thus able to fix on their now wakened nightmare. Kephart and I, though long friends, shared no dastardly deeds worth mentioning, so we started with another beer and the worst thing we had ever done individually. His went as follows and I have dubbed the tale...

THE WITCH'S CAT


When I was young, say ten or eleven, I lived in a rural town in southern Missouri. Like most unchanged for a hundred years town, ours had its share of local superstition. One of these concerned a woman who lived atop the highest hill in our community and was seldom seen by the townsfolk. Her house was not isolated or in any unnatural way particularly spooky. It was in fact flanked by other houses, but it was rundown and the vegetation in the yard had grown so high as to obscure even the traditional swing on the porch from the view of passersby. Among the town’s children and a goodly number of grown folks as well, Mrs…and here the name eludes me, but I remember it vaguely as something Balkan or, perhaps, Rumanian that sounded mysterious to my young ears…Drago or Dragovich, something like that…was generally considered to be a witch. Though she was seldom seen, her one cat of the large, black and tom variety, was much in evidence and was the scourge of the neighborhood. Its single and most terrible act was to father kittens by every available female and then to seek them out in the dead of night and kill them all, sometimes killing the mother as well. It was rumored the cat ate parts of its kills, though I doubt this to be true. I do know for certain that he had murdered a litter of my cat’s and now, some six months later, my cat had given birth to another batch and I was determined to keep them alive.

Talk, tears and tantrums persuaded my father to sit up the first night, Louisville Slugger in hand, to await what I now called The Witch’s Cat. Lest my dad should drift off, I bedded down on the living room sofa directly under the window that looked out onto the porch where my father presided over the kitten’s protection. I awoke shortly after midnight as people sometimes will when events are about to occur though no noise or change in the air alarms them. Through the window I watched as the Witch’s Cat pushed a tear in the porch screen aside and made its way soundlessly and menacingly toward my kittens. I tapped the glass to alert my dad, but he was already awake and one jump ahead of me. It took him but a few seconds to make a nasty mess of our formerly farm neat front porch. The lesson I learned that night was simple, but disappointing: a grown man armed with a baseball bat can wreck havoc with a porch swing, window, screen door and assorted fold out chairs, but he can’t hit a frightened cat!
Now you would assume the tale would end here. I was, after all, the next victim of my father’s ire, (“This is your fault Son, and you are going to clean up this mess!”) and The Witch’s Cat must certainly have learned a lesson as well. I was, however - not unexpectedly I suppose for a little kid being raised southern Baptist - even more aflame with what seemed a righteous calling. The Witch’s Cat was clearly sent from the Devil and I knew it was up to me to stop it. While peering bug-eyed through the window glass on that dreadful night, I know I had seen the cat’s eyes glow with the fires of hell as it made its escape through the torn screen. It seemed almost leisurely, in fact, in its departure; and the worst thing, the thing I remembered for years later, was that it looked straight at me and I mean straight at my eyes, and it felt as though it was trying to reach inside and tell me something awful.

For the next few nights we kept the kittens inside, but it was summer and often one window or another was kept open to catch the evening breeze. I did not sleep well during that period. During the day I spent hours trying to think of ways to rid the town of our feline menace and it was a chance conversation with a friend named Bobby that gave me the idea. Bobby pointed out that in the movies witches and the like were always burned. I determined then that fire was the answer and came up with what I thought to be the final solution. It was a simple plan and it had only two parts. Its simplicity, I thought, had to mean success.
Here I have to tell you that my house was a typical farm house with acres of flat land surrounding it. Once outdoors you could walk a hundred yards in any direction without reaching real cover. Now cats are fast, they can dart and turn quicker than a human being, but on the straight most boys can outrun them. It was my plan to load a bug sprayer – you know the kind, a long tube with a pump handle at the end and a little fuel tank hanging down near the front – and have Bobby close behind with a box of Diamond kitchen matches at the ready. Once soaked, a timely match would immolate our evil adversary to the tune of burn witch burn or some such ten year old’s chant. To a degree the plan was a good one. We actually caught the fiend out hunting on the very first night which was fortunate because Bobby couldn’t sneak out as easily as me and frankly wasn’t as hot about the whole thing as I was. He wasn’t prepared to deal with his parents anger should they find out. I had set the nozzle of the sprayer to give a wide shower and when I leapt into action I was able to get enough juice on the beast that it flattened its fur and made it look as if it had just come from a swim. The problem was that Bobby couldn’t get a lit match to hit it. A couple came close and a couple of just gone outs actually bounced off it, but none produced the result we wanted, namely one smoked cat. Once again I had been foiled from saving my kittens and, I was sure, the whole town from a witch. Weren’t cats, after all, the source of a witch’s power? Yet my determination grew accordingly. I would get that cat no matter what.

The following night, Bobby reluctantly in tow, we set out for the witch’s house. There was no moon as I remember, and the deep black of the darkness made me think this was the bravest and most noble thing I had ever done. I was filled with the righteousness of my Baptist upbringing and was certain that Galahad and Lancelot and all the knights had no greater quest. I only wish now that the end of my tale could match the heroics I felt then, but it was not to be.
As we approached the house from the sloping hillside of its backyard, we passed the stacked rock circle of a working well. It had a bucket, a pulley and a serviceable rope. I dropped a stone to check its depth and a couple of seconds elapsed before I heard a splash. The well was plenty deep. I decided then that this was going to be the final resting place of The Witch’s Cat.
An hour or so passed as we searched the grounds and Bobby was getting nervous about sneaking home undetected. I too, was nearing the end of my resolve, but there was one area left on the property we had not checked. Near a stairwell leading to the witch’s basement was a sort of tool shed or storage shack. It wasn’t very large and probably hadn’t been used for some time as its door lay askew hung by one remaining hinge. We crept quietly as we could to the entrance and peered in. Both of us had burlap sacks that we carried in front of us like bull fighter’s capes. Our hope was to throw them over The Witch’s Cat as fishermen cast their nets over fish. Crouching low, shoulder to shoulder, sacks also serving as shields, we entered the shed. Inside we stopped for a moment to allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness. As the room grew lighter we heard a small mewing sound and when we followed the noise to its origin we discovered four small kittens in a cardboard box. It was at that moment that my heart turned from righteous avenging angel to frustrated, black soul, little boy with the ethics of a lynch mob. I scooped the kittens up into my sack, proclaiming them devil cats to Bobby, and ran to the well. With not even a momentary pause of conscience, I upended my sack over the abyss and dumped the kittens into it. Far below I heard them splash and, grinning, I turned to Bobby who had just arrived at my side. When I saw the look of horror in his eyes, I instantly realized what I had done. My God, I thought, I have to save them! I turned quickly and began to lower the bucket into the well. I could hear the kittens mewing and screaming and I knew they could not last long. “Damn, damn, damn!” I said as I lowered the bucket as fast as possible. When it touched bottom, I bobbed it a few times hoping I could feel the weight change. There were no sounds at all now but the slight echo of the bucket tapping the surface of the water. Suddenly I realized the weight did feel heavier. “Bobby” I cried, “help me” and together we pulled the counter rope down as fast as we could, all the while staring into the well. When the bucket reached some five or six feet from the edge we could see its contents and we both stopped, frozen by what it held. There were the kittens of course, but looming over them was The Witch’s Cat, its eyes glowing menacingly and seemingly fixed on our own. Our hands went limp and the bucket crashed to the bottom of the well. The last thing I remember clearly was Bobby still standing there with his face twisted in fear. I suppose I ran then. I suppose I screamed, but I’m not really sure. My memory stops at the moment The Witch’s Cat fixed its evil gaze on my terrified eyes. What I am sure of is that it took until this day, this moment to finally tell the story. And, I am also sure, sure as the next beer, that sleep and the Witch’s Cat that haunts it, won’t find me tonight.

We drank that last beer quietly, then went our separate ways. I wasn’t about to try topping that story with tales of frog torture or any of the other small nasty things I had done as a boy. Not that night anyway. But as imagination is more frequently my companion than reality, I will await another day…because, of course, there is that bog behind my house. You can reach it by traveling what was once a well worn path. It was said that hundreds of years ago…

Doc Walton, Nineteen Eighty Something or Other

Marcell and Me

Marcel and Me: The Proust Questionnaire
By Doc Walton

One day near the end of the 19th Century, Marcel Proust, he of the prodigious literary output that everyone knows of, but only one odd duck living in a double wide outside of Dubuque has read in its entirety, answered a series of questions posed in a journal that was popular at the time. The questions, which have appeared here and there ever since, have become known as The Proust Questionnaire for uncertain reasons, but probably because of its namesake’s fame. James Lipton, the host of the Inside the Actor’s Studio television show, uses a few of the questions in his interviews and the last page of each Vanity Fair magazine contains a shortened version of the questionnaire answered by one current celebrity or another. Because I too am a writer with an enormous volume of work – if by enormous volume I mean notes on stick-em pads – I have decided, being at leisure with time to reflect, consider and examine one’s inner heretofore untapped deepest thoughts, honest emotions and other hokum along those lines, to enter the fray and answer the questions along with Marcel. So, here goes that.
What is your favorite virtue?
Marcel: The need to be loved; more precisely, the need to be caressed and spoiled much more than the need to be admired.
Me: Well alrighty then Marcel! If “the need to be loved, caressed and spoiled” can be considered a virtue by anyone apart from the family dog, then I suppose you’re welcome to have it as a favorite. I’ll give you mine in a minute, but first I have to ask a question, because I am curious and curiosity is a virtue high on my list, and the question is, why can’t these frontal lobe ticklers start with something a little lighter? You know, what’s your favorite color or ice cream for instance.? Why can’t we be given a question or two to warm up with, before we get slapped with Final Jeopardy? I mean, already I’ve got a conundrum and it you’ve ever had one of those, you know how hard they are to medicate. (An aside that cracked me up: Wanting to be precise like Marcel, that is, as opposed to my usual methodology which is to just make shit up, I went to the dictionary and looked up conundrum. Definition # 1 reads: A riddle whose answer contains a pun. It then gives an example: What is the difference between a jeweler and a jailer? The answer is: One sells watches and the other watches cells. Really! I’m not kidding! There are jokes in the dictionary! Definition #2, the one I would have guessed at if asked for, is: Any puzzling question or problem.) My conundrum, which both Advil and alcohol failed to relieve even in combination, was simply, what qualifies as a virtue? Back to the dictionary I was driven by my conscience carrying a big stick and making threatening gestures. Virtue is: General moral excellence, right action and thinking. Well damn. I was going to go with “Good posture.” Now I have to completely rethink the question. That is, if what passes through my head can actually be defined as thinking in the first place. “Moral excellence, right action and thinking.” Wow! Who gets to decide what that is? Okay for the sake of argument, let’s say I do. I am the one filling out the questionnaire after all. I say moral excellence, right action and thinking is what I do 74.3% of each day. I’d be closer to 100%, but that “right thinking” part throws me. Is it okay to think The New York Yankees are evil and that members of the Republican Party’s far right wing should have pictures of them prominently displayed on Post Office walls, bounties included? I’m going to say these are, of course, certainties, so my answer to what my favorite virtue is…still undecided. Am I being asked my favorite virtue about myself or my favorite virtue in general? I guess I’ll just have to respond to the question both ways. About myself: I tend to see the good and ignore the bad. That’s a virtue right? I mean most of the time anyway. I realize that sometimes while ignoring the bad it sneaks up and smacks me upside the head, but I can live with that. Advil and alcohol ARE useful in the treatment of those injuries. As far as virtue in general is concerned, I think kindness and good intentions are my answer. What, I can only have one? Okay, kindness.
What are your favorite qualities in a man?
Marcel: Feminine charms. (He said that, really. I’m not making this up.)
Me: Wait a minute. I need time to get over that feminine charms thing. Okay, I’m ready now. What man actually thinks about other men’s qualities? I mean, beyond his golf swing or strong throwing arm or maybe his ability to elude tacklers or smoothly turn the double play. I’m sure I don’t. I do notice, however, when some guy is tall, because I’ve always been envious of that. But are we looking for adopted qualities or the blind luck of genetics? I think the question probably wants an answer along the lines of, honest or steadfast, or loyal, don’t you? So with that in mind, my answer is…the willingness to buy a round from time to time. I’m serious. This quality demonstrates a spirit of camaraderie and friendship, the sharing of inebriation, raised glasses, song, dance and other good stuff along those lines. Come on, that answer beats the heck out of “feminine charms” if you ask me… and somebody should.
What are your favorite qualities in a woman?
Marcel: Manly virtues, and frankness in friendship.
Me: Well sure Marcel. I like my women to sport a good mustache and flex tattooed biceps too. If they go in for a bit of distance spitting or crotch clutching to demonstrate a point, that won’t hurt a thing either. I mean COME ON, BE SERIOUS MARCEL! Who are you trying to kid? Okay that part about frankness in friendship is good, but why single out women for that. Are they usually less inclined to be frank? Seems to me like maybe you’re the one not being frank. You’re the one, in fact, having us on as the British would say. But, since you’re not here to defend your responses, I’ll just say, “Sure. Whatever.” and get on with my own answer.
A woman’s ability to walk like she knows how to fuh…ah, dance, I find a very likable quality. Okay, it doesn’t rank up there with intelligence and sense of humor, but you know, it’s still a very likable quality. Truth is. I like all their feminine qualities. In fact I just flat like women. I like watching them and talking to them and seeing how they move, which they do in a much more interesting fashion than men - even the ones who don’t do the sexy walk thing – and they think differently than we men do. They have knowledge of entire subjects that never come to our masculine minds. Subjects like relationships and underarm hair removal. They use words like closure and intimacy and don’t feel silly when they describe something as lovely. Okay, I know, I’m supposed to narrow it down and come up with a single quality, so here it is: My favorite quality in women is that they like to have sex with men. Don’t laugh, I’m still being serious! I mean think about it guys. Think about having sex with a man. Disturbing, right? And yet women actually want to do it! I mean you can’t beat that quality with a stick.
What is your chief characteristic?
Marcel: (Marcel didn’t answer this.)
Me: Once, years ago, when I had just finished telling my soon to be wife all the wonderful things I loved about her, I finished my litany with “and why do you love me?” She paused for what seemed an awful long time, thinking, thinking, thinking. Finally, her face lit up with a surprised looking smile and she said, “Well, you’re friendly.” So there it is: I’m friendly.
What do you appreciate the most in your friends?
Marcel: To have tenderness for me, if their personage is exquisite enough to render quite high the price of their tenderness.
Me: Sure. What he said. No, I’m just kidding. I have no idea what he said. My answer, and this one is easy, is that my friends forgive me for my foibles. I have a tendency to break out in foibles on a regular basis and these can be bothersome to others. My friends shake them off though, which is a good thing because foibles can be catching, and then they continue right on befriending me. I love them for that.
What is your main fault?
Marcel: Not knowing. Not being able to want.
Me: I knew there would be a place where Marcel and I would come together. I mean we have so much in common. Both his first name and last name contain six letters and so do mine! It was only a matter of time before we would stumble upon the same answer. Well at least half of it anyway. I’m not sure about that not knowing part, which says, I suppose, that I am not knowing about not knowing, so that too makes us of a like mind. As far as not being able to want, I am right there with Marcel. And it is a fault. It’s a lack of ambition. I mean you gotta want something to go after it hard. You can’t just wander aimlessly along enjoying the moment like Marcel and I do. That’s downright un-American and probably un-French too. Still, that’s how we are; just a couple of slugs uninspired by commercials.
What is your favorite occupation?
Marcel: Loving.
Me: Can you get paid for that? Well, sure you can if you define loving loosely, but I don’t think Marcel goes in for that. And speaking of definitions, my mind apparently, and I say apparently because there is no real telling where a monkey mind will jump to next, went immediately to occupation as a way to earn a living and not just a way to spend time. If that was in fact what was being asked then I have no answer. I have never had an occupation that I would put in the favorite category. Picking one at random though, I would go with: Black Sheep Son Of A Billionaire Who Pissed Away The Family Fortune On Wine, Women, And Song. I’m sure, though, that the other thing, the way to kill time thing, is what is really being asked. My Uncle Fred used to say, “If you want to kill time, work it to death,” but I think, really, Marcel’s answer is the best. Problem is, to me, it’s kind of vague. I mean walking around loving is good, but you can do other things at the same time and I think it is those other things the question is seeking. Unless, of course, we are back to loving as meaning sex. My answer then, ignoring the sex interpretation, is being with friends. No wait! Golf. No, not golf. Reading. Not reading, writing! No, that’s not it either. Playing, smiling, laughing, oh, all right damn it, loving.
What is your idea of happiness?
Marcel: I am afraid it be not great enough, I dare not speak it. I am afraid of destroying it by speaking it.
Me: You gotta forgive Marcel, he’s a little superstitious. He’s afraid he’ll jinx his happiness by talking about it. Maybe it’s the seventh inning and he’s pitching a no-hitter. You don’t get that reference? You don’t know baseball? Well you see it is supposed to be bad luck if you talk about…nevermind, let’s get on with the question. My idea of happiness, eh? That’s a tricky one. After careful consideration, which is to say I’ve devoted a good fifteen or twenty seconds of heavy thought, a period of time that seriously pushes the envelope of my capability, I’d have to say I have no idea of my idea of happiness. I want to say it has something to do with being fully present in the moment, you know, “The Be Here Now” that Ram Dass suggests, but that doesn’t really cover it. I mean a bad tooth ache will get you “Here Now” in a heartbeat, but at that moment I, personally, would rather be somewhere else. Here’s a random thought and random thoughts quite often make me happy: Ram Dass, if pronounced like an American, that is, Ram like a male sheep and Dass as ass with a d in front of it, comes out rammed ass. I wonder if he was aware of that. Anyway, happiness, as I see it, is an internally generated state that I have had, fortunately, programmed into my DNA. I am as prone to it as others less fortunate are prone to sadness or depression. In general it takes very little to make me experience the feeling we define as being happy. Does that answer the question? No? Okay, happiness is a good cigar. No, wait! I’m not supposed to have that happiness anymore. How about, happiness is music. Yeah that’s it. Music.
What is your idea of misery?
Marcel: Not to have known my mother or grandmother.
Me: Now come on Marcel. That’s a hypothetical misery. I mean if you are going there, how about seeing your mother and grandmother cooked in a pot and served to cannibals? I mean we can all make stuff up, but we’re talking misery here. Just saying the word slowly and lowly should conjure something more painful than not having known your parent and her parent swell as they might have been. Take my idea of misery for instance. My idea of misery is standing in a long, slow moving line and not having a book with me. See what I’m saying Marcel. There’s got to be real pain not just the hypothetical kind. Let me give you another example. Misery is not being able to do what you want to do. I don’t mean not being able to play in a hot tub filled with warm tapioca pudding and naked supermodels, but things you could actually do if you were allowed to, but can’t because of circumstances like a broken leg or a debilitating illness. In fact, if I’ve got to narrow it down, and I’m sure that’s what I’m supposed to do, I’d say being sick pretty much defines misery for me.
If not yourself, who would you be?
Marcel: Myself, as the people I admire would like me to be.
Me: That’s good Marcel, pretty tricky, but good. Nowadays we would say I want to be as good a man as my dog thinks I am. Thing is though, I think the question is looking for a name. That said, I’ll throw out a couple before I settle on one. Nick Charles. You know the Nick of Nick and Nora in the Thin Man series. Here’s a guy married to a beautiful and wealthy babe who spends his time between drinks solving mysteries and giving bad guys their comeuppance. That would be a good choice I think, but, alas, he’s not real. Nor are Tarzan, James Bond, Sherlock Holmes and a dozen other fictional characters I would seriously consider if they were real and I could actually be serious. Then of course, as the two bit word mechanic that I am, there are a whole slew of writers I think it would be fun to be. I’m thinking probably one of the modern guys because longhand writing seems a mite tedious to me and I would still want sports on television. It would probably be fun to be in P.G. Wodehouse’s head or maybe that of Tom Robbins or Dan Jenkins. They are a few of my favorites. Still, I’m thinking an historical figure is being asked for; someone I’ve admired. I think I’ll pick Bobby Jones the great amateur golfer. Either him or FDR. No, I’ll go ahead and make it Bobby. His swing was a thing of beauty and he was a true gentleman.
Where would you like to live?
Marcel: A country where certain things that I should like would come true as if by magic, and where tenderness would always be reciprocated.
Me: And where, pray tell, Marcel, would that be? For a guy who has a famous questionnaire named after him, you sure can be vague. Fortunately, I’m here to supply specifics so readers won’t have to scratch their heads and wonder what the hell does he mean by that? They can go to my answers and see that here’s a man with concrete responses to these difficult queries. For instance, my answer to where would I like to live? I have no idea. You see this is a really hard question for me. Okay, that’s not surprising when you consider that at any given moment a really hard question for me might be, what is your name? But even so, how could I know? There are so many places I haven’t been. In general – and now I see why Marcel shucks and jives, - I’d have to say a place warm and sunny. A place where birds sing me awake and the view from my every window is a landscape painting. A place filled with love and dogs. Or is that the same thing? A place with internet, cable, a good chair and a comfortable mattress. A place I can share with a special woman. However, if these aren’t readily available, just park me in the Playboy Mansion. See, I’m not all that fussy.
What is your favorite color and your favorite flower?
Marcel: The beauty is not in their color, but in their harmony.
Me: Just answer the questions Marcel. They didn’t ask you where the beauty could be found, they just want to know your favorites. Come on, is that so tough? Here, watch me. Green and Daisies. Sheesh!
Who are your favorite prose authors?
Marcel: Currently, Anatole France and Pierre Loti.
Me: Now you’ve caught the spirit. That’s a nice succinct answer. I like P.G. Wodehouse, Jim Harrison, Richard Russo, Tom Robbins and a dozen others. There are so many great writers around now, not to mention all those like P.G. from the past, to choose from, that my favorite is probably whichever one I read last. Yeah, I know, Marcel, now I’m the one getting wishy-washy.
Who are your favorite poets?
Marcel: Baudelaire and Alfred de Vigney.
Me: Ah you’re just showing off. I like Wordsworth and Robert Frost for the serious stuff, but give me Ogden Nash and Shel Silverstein to lighten and brighten my day.
Who is your favorite hero in fiction?
Marcel: Hamlet.
Me: Hamlet’s a hero? Since when? A protagonist yes, but a hero? I don’t think so. I mean I love David Copperfield but I’m not going to list him as a hero. Heroes are people who save the day, rescue the puppy from the maelstrom, free the maiden from the railroad tracks, and make the world a better place. Hamlet? I’m sorry, I just don’t see it. As a kid I would have said Tarzan. He came to the rescue several times a book and there were many books. He was also very frugal with his allowance. I mean his clothing budget was next to nothing. As a grown up serious student of literature, though, I think I will have to say Nick Charles. No! James Bond. Wait! How about Sidney Carton or Gunga Din? “Tis a far far better thing I do today...” “He was a better man than I, Gunga Din.” This is too tough, you decide. What’s that you say? I can have more than one? Alrighty then, all of the above.
Who are your favorite heroines in fiction?
Marcel: Berenice.
Me: Sorry Marcel. I don’t know her. What did she do? Lizbeth Salander pops into my mind because I’ve read of her exploits most recently. Let’s see, I like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and I like Catwoman from the comics. Jeez, who am I forgetting? I’ve read thousands of books, there must be women heroes in some of them. Alas, I am at a loss. And I’m embarrassed. Man, what a chauvinist I am! Whoa. Chauvinist? That’s from your day, eh Marcel?
Who are your favorite painters and composers?
Marcel: Da Vinci and Rembrandt. Beethoven, Wagner and Schuman.
Me: Okay, we are now getting some straightforward questions, so I’ll give some straightforward answers. I like Wagner too. And Tchaikovsky. I also like Carole King and Billy Joel and whoever writes Carlos Santana’s stuff. As for painters my tastes are very pedestrian. I like Boris Vallejo and that other guy, Frank Frazetta, who do fantasy covers. You know, Conan the Barbarian style. And to think, you thought I wasn’t sophisticated.
Who are your heroes in real life?
Marcell: Mr. Darlu, Mr. Boutroux.
Me: Great guys, no doubt. I’m going to refer to that quote about the unnamed, unknown, everyman who lives his life in quiet dignity and who performs small acts of kindness everyday with nary a thought of reward. There is a quote like that, right? I mean if there isn’t, feel free to use my words and claim them as your own. If you need a name, I’ll go with my Uncle Horace. He’s ninety two, still sharp, still active, married to the same woman for longer than I’ve been alive, and if that doesn’t mean much to you, consider that the Sphinx was constructed from a sketch I drew as a kid. I also, at the moment, like Barack Obama. I think he really wants to do the right thing.
Who are your favorite heroines in real life?
Marcel: (No answer.)
Me: Your silence speaks volumes Marcel. And you’re a guy who knows from volumes. The safe answer is, my mother or my wife, depending on whose wrath you fear the most or whose approval you most want, and I’m inclined to go with my wife for her sheer unlikely doggedness in hanging out with me for so many years despite countless reasons not to. Safe, though, is not always the best direction to follow unless you’re talking snake handlers, parachutists and the like, so I’ll take door number two, the one with the lady or the tiger choice and say my favorite real life heroine is…still my wife, but not for the reason given above. She’s my favorite heroine because all her children and friends love, admire and respect her and that’s saying something because in reality she’s clearly looney tunes. I mean there’s a combination you don’t find every day.
Who are your favorite heroines in World History?
Marcel: Cleopatra.
Me: Cleopatra eh? What exactly was her contribution to history? Eye shadow? I mean if we are going to go with hotties, how about Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships? I’ll take the low road and select Eleanor Roosevelt, the face that launched a thousand quips. Eleanor defined the role of First Lady and because of her we have had a succession of good deeds from subsequent White House women. What I’m saying is, aren’t we all glad that U.S. highways are free of ugly billboards and fat kids? Eleanor deserves some credit for that. If you don’t agree with me, just say no to drugs. You’re using way too many.
What characters in history do you most dislike?
Marcel: (No answer.)
Me: For crying-out-loud Marcel, if we are allowed to skip answers I might have bagged this whole questionnaire. Responding to these queries is your idea, not mine. All right, I’ll carry on for the both of us. Disregarding Hit, Stal, Musso, Tojo and the other obvious nere-do-wells from the Twentieth Century, history’s bloodiest, I’m going to say the guy who ordered the cover up at Roswell. I’m totally serious and I say totally with all the emphasis of a teenager in full conviction mode. TOTALLY! Think how interesting the world would be right now if we knew for a certainty that other planets had life capable of space travel. Would mankind still be mired in the conflicting superstitions of religion? Would it? Nevermind, of course it would. Mankind in general is dumber than a box of retarded, I mean learning challenged, rocks, if that’s not too insulting to the rocks. With that in mind, change my answer to Hitler. In addition to his heinous crimes against humanity, he looks like he smelled bad.
What are your favorite names?
Marcel: I only have one at a time.
Me: And it is? Come on Marcel wake up. Nevermind, his eyes are glazed over. You’d think a guy who wrote dozens of books could answer a simple question. Yo Marcel, watch me. Jennifer and Josh. See how easy that is? I like Jennifer because it sounds pretty and I like Josh because it means to kid around, a thing I’m inclined to do now and again. I also like my own name, Donald Lancelot/Willingham Walton the Third. Okay that’s not my real name but it will be as soon as soon as my yacht is delivered. So come on Marcel, give it a try. What’s your favorite name? Still at a loss? Sorry, we’ve got to move along.
What do you hate the most?
Marcel: What is bad about me.
Me: I’m beginning to hate that too. Let me see, what’s to choose from? Ignorance, intolerance, bigotry, war, cattle mutilations, cruelty, long par fours and the New York Yankees. I could do dissertations on all of these and more. I am, apparently, just full of hate, a walking pile of hate. I never woulda thunk it. Well…but… anyway, if I’ve got to pick just one, I’m going to ignore all these petty hates and go with the big one. I hate not getting a good night’s sleep. Waking up tired depresses me and I hate being depressed. Depression takes the joy out of life and I hate being without joy. No joy means no fun and I hate not having fun. When I’m not having fun I don’t really appreciate anything which means everything. So there you have it. I hate everything and now I am going to go eat some worms.
What is the military event you admire the most.
Marcel: My own service!
Me: I want to say none because none should be necessary. Problem is, that’s not the case. The Allied victory in WW 2 was the culmination of a cause that seems just, so I’ll say that is it. I also like earth’s victory over the aliens on Independence Day and Star Trek’s Next Generation’s defeat of the Borg, but those are in the future, so they’ll just have to wait. Are we through yet? No, there’s more?
What is the natural talent you’d like to be gifted with?
Marcel: Will power and seductiveness.
Me: Now there’s an answer Marcel. I’m proud of you. That seductiveness thing definitely needs to be considered and who would have known that about you, you horny old dog? Okay, throw that in at the end of my answer too. Right after, let me see, musical talent. No, I don’t want to be a rock star, that’s way too public for me, but I would like to play something well enough to while away an hour or two here and there. I mean wouldn’t you Marcel, or would you be too busy seducing your neighbor? So there you have it, piano, guitar, violin; anything but wind instruments. With those you can’t sing along, which, in my case is probably a good thing, but I’m going to do it anyway.
How would you like to die?
Marcel: Improved…and loved.
Me: Those are good Marcel, but I want to add old, fit and healthy. I want absolutely nothing wrong with me. I want experts to say, we have no idea why he died. He just died. No heart attacks, stroke, lingering illness or any such nonsense along those unpleasant lines for me. Just here today, gone tomorrow is what suits me to a T. And speaking of tees, following a good round of golf would be an excellent time to check out. Are you listening Death? Don’t screw with me Death. If you want me, those are my conditions.
What is your present state of mind?
Marcel: Boredom for having thought about myself to answer all these questions.
Me: Is happy a state of mind or a state of being? I don’t mean to get all heavy or complicated here, Marcel, but I can be bored, apprehensive, nervous, or run a considerable gauntlet of other mental and emotional states and still be happy. That surface thing that plays about the mind is always so transient that… what? You mean right this minute? Like now? Alrighty then, my state of mind is… engaged and… amused. It has to be or I couldn’t, make that wouldn’t, answer these all too many questions. I mean really, favorite names? Flowers, painters, composers? Favorite military event? Are these necessary Marcel?
What is your favorite motto?
Marcel: I should be too afraid that it bring me misfortune.
Me: Marcel you’ve got to man up and get over your superstitions. Me, I’m going to throw a little salt over my shoulder, cross my fingers, rub my rabbit’s foot and say, hang in there. That’s all, just hang in there.