The Bobliotheque

Miss Me, Scooter ... Please!

2011-05-18T08:41:00.002-04:00

(Sung to the tune of "Eating Goober Peas.")

Possum by the roadside on a Summer's day.
Started to go walking, couldn't find his way.
A motor bike came rushing; there was no time to flee,
All he could do was close his eyes and raise his voice and plea:

Please, please, please, please
Miss me, scooter, please!
Don't be so capricious,
Miss me, scooter, please!

Little possums watching, just got out of school;
Saw the scooter rushing, knew it wasn't cool.
"Ma!" one of them shouted, what's next was all a blur ...
That's right -- that great big possum was not a him, but her.

Please, please, please, please
Miss them, scooter, please!
Spare my children precious,
Miss them, scooter, please!

The bike it swerved and sped on past, possum mopped her brow.
All were as safe and sound as the traffic would allow.
I know it just sounds awesome, you'd think it would appease.
But, still they all played possum -- that was their expertise.

Please, please, please, please
Miss us, scooter, please!
The rider was judicious
And missed them all with ease.

But for certain changes, this story's real enough.
I'd never stand before you and sing a line of guff.
But still there is one fact I suppose I should confide …
I didn't swerve in time, and Mrs. Possum died.

Please, please, please, please
Miss me, scooter, please!
But, possum is nutritious
She's still in my deep freeze.
Yes, possum is delicious …
she's still in my deep freeze!

Bob says: Get it while it's hot!

2010-12-01T18:34:00.004-05:00

make custom gifts at Zazzle

The Bear Truth

2010-11-18T19:16:00.003-05:00

I've never seen Gummi Bears in the wood,

But I like to eat them because they’re so good.

I like the reds and the orange, the greens and the yellows,

I love to chew on those sweet little fellows!

I like the way that they stick to your teeth,

The ones on the top and the ones down beneath.

You may think Gummi Bears without merit,

Not I, by gum ... I just grin and bare it.

Another Saturday Night

2010-09-25T18:19:00.001-04:00

Let’s do tonight’s Blow’em in Common Meter again. We had so much fun last time.

For example:

I can think of no way better

To waste a boring night

Than cast off the chains that fetter,

Unleash my brain and write.

I turn to you, my Facebook friends

To join me at my game.

Combined, our talent knows no end.

Sometimes that is a shame.

So tell me what you’ve done today.

With whom did you converse?

Tell what you did at work or play

Both pleasant and perverse.

***

Bob

I know I’m not the only one

Alone this rainy night.

It’s only Ten! We’ve just begun!

Won’t someone join this fight?

***

Linda

I had to work this Saturday
Yet it helped to pay the bills
I hauled and swept and scrubbed for pay
and had money left for swill

... I oft times get what I need these days
And I strive to gracious be ....
There are so many times and so many ways
To my own Self ... Be Free!

Stuff still goes wrong, I will admit
Perfection isn’t gained ....
Letting go of all the bull#%@&...
is all that true remains ...

I wish that this were funnier
I’m usually good for that
please make this stream more sunnier
no split, but much more splat …

***

Bob

I am so glad you did drop in.

I was feeling lonely.

I thought I’d have to race sloe gin

But now I pace you only.

Things go wrong? It must be so!

Your nerves, they must be frayed!

The owl’s hoot portends times of woe.

Mercury in retrograde.

***

Linda

April should get a nice gold star
for reading and at least trying
we all know she surpasses the bar
of her weariness, she ain’t lying …

***

Bob

I have known April a few years

She always gets a star.

Shame on me, I’m in arrears

I know she is bizarre.

***

George

My brain is dead, i must confess
for i can think of naught.
My rhymes are such a sorry mess
this one, on line, i bought.

***

Bob

The brain you bought will have to do

To keep your thoughts on track. …

... My brain, it wandered. Oooh!

I think I’m going to yak.

***

George

don’t worry if you go off track
or sticking to the thread.
But, i’m glad you didn’t yak
Your ’puter keys don’t need to be fed.

...(and, yeah, i know the rhythm’s off
just had to quickly say it.
and now i started this stupid throw off
and can’t finish it for ... )

***

Bob

blah blah blah blah
something about sheep
Blah blah blah blah
I’m a gonna sleep.

***

George

You must not quit now, Good Sir,
Since I’ve just joined the fray.
Alas, I fear he’s gone to sleep.
Shhhh, we’ll play another day.

***

Bob

Here we go, I’m awake again.
Let’s start where we left off.
We’ll give this thing another spin
And let the scoffers … scoff.

***

Keith

i guess i have arrived in time
to join this good pursuit.
i’m glad for that, i’m here to rhyme.
Too bad we won’t get loot.

***

George

You won’t get loot, i’m sad to say
but you get bragging rights
And if you have a horn to toot
That would be out-a-sight.

***

Keith

Of brass, no horn i have, i fear,
i never learned that skill.
But what have i for the world to hear?
On kazoo, i’m told i kill.

***

Bob

And kill you do, my little friend

No matter what you toot.

This stupid verse you do transcend

Your rhymes are quite astute.

Meter Made In Heaven

2010-07-12T14:59:00.003-04:00

Well, it’s time for another Blow’em*. Everybody is welcome to play. Everybody who does play has his or her name added to the official “List of People Who Have Participated in Blow’ems,” and will be tagged in all future Blow’ems.

Tonight’s Blow’em will be in Common Meter.

Common Meter consists of four lines which alternate between iambic tetrameter (four feet per line, with each foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable) and iambic trimeter (three feet per line, with each foot consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable), rhyming in the pattern a-b-a-b.

For example:

I’m bored right now, be sure of that,
It is my Sunday curse.
Let’s write some stuff, ennui combat
And waste some time with verse.

It’s not real great, but it is fun …
It beats a good swift kick.
Lay on, MacDuff, we’ve just begun
So, come on make it quick!

Still don’t get the hang of it? Sing it to the tune of “Amazing Grace” or “The Ballad of Gilligan’s Island.” You’ll catch on.

*Blow’em: (n.) A Blog Poem of collective authorship conceived in 2009.

______

Linda G.
General Malaise addressed the troops
for they were in a funk
At ease he said, for he was looped
Come on, let’s all get drunk!

Linda G.
Amazing Blow’em, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was bored but now have found
this meter sets me free!

Bob
And drunk the soldiers all became
And even drunker still.
On gin or rum ’twas all the same –
The gen’ral paid the bill.

It’s not true what they always say
Ah! It makes me shiver.
A stomach’s not the Army’s way,
It travels on its liver!

(I know! You’re right! This is some fun –
I feel like I have wings!
We’ve got the doldrums on the run
With cabbages and kings!)

George
i cannot fathom the point of it all,
this poetry galore
and i think you have some gall
to make our brains so sore.

But, somehow this game intrigues
my funked out head, indeed
though i confess to being fatigued
i’ll drink and take no heed.

For drinking is my bestest friend
my dear olde, bosom pal
My woes and strife he does attend
and ever more he shall.

The writing is going down
to that i must confess
so i’ll lay here upon the ground
in this (warm) pile of my own mess.

Linda G.
By George, I think we’ve got it now
and so we raise a toast
to having fun, for knowing how
what makes us laugh the most!

George
i’m glad you’re laughing, but i for one
am crying in my beer*
for laughter i shall surely shun
as i cower in my fear.

(*beer used solely as a rhyming substitute for gin/tonic/limeade concoction.)

Bob
What’s up with you? connect the dots –
Why do you cry and cower?
Just be like me and do more shots!
Booze is my super power.

Linda F.
a weirdness came upon them then
strange lights danced in the sky
insanity or alien
or too much whiskey rye?

Linda F.
some soldiers medals heavy hung
on well-worn old lapels
much battle seen, no longer young
wise stories there to tell.

Linda F.
so gather round and grab a glass
and throw your poison back
don’t sit and wait for days to pass
the world cannot you lack

Linda F.
not only do I turn a phrase
I twist and mangle too
a sad attempt the bar to raise
please someone save me! DO!

Linda G.
Linda, indeed you raise the bar
what need have you to fret?
You honor all that’s come before
So please do NOT regret!!!!

Bob
You’re doing great, so I declare,
I’m glad to have you play.
It’s early yet, so hear my prayer,
Please don’t you go away!

There’s lots more things for us to say
In verses that transfix.
I think you’ve made my night today,
Making words do tricks.

George
that’s what i like about this Facebook thing;
we sit alone and drink
yet alkies we’re not, for we do sing*
with our friends upon the brink

(* sing is a substitution for type. sue me.)”

Linda G.
To sue George is a waste of time
No money will ensue
We drink, we type, we sing sublime
What else have we to do?

Linda F.
before is still so much of now
like rope that spans a bridge
expanding light my truest vow
to leap from ridge to ridge!

George
wow, Linda, you make it sound
like poetry to my ears
i think i’ll need another round
to bring such beauty to my fears.

Bob
I think, for me, it’s poetry
But meant more for the eyes.
I think that we can both agree
It still makes her seem wise.

George
Wise indeed, and erudite
(i’ve used a great big word)
i’m merely doing poetry lite
not soaring like a bird.

Bob
I understand, that’s why we’re here
Just for a bit of fun.
We’re not writing any Shakespeare,
It’s Doggerel 101.

Linda F.
aww shucks, I don’t know what to say
I’m speechless I believe
it’s just this kind of formal phrase
that gets it out of me.

Kristen
A poem is a useful tool,
when you’re down and out and poor –
Flashbacks of a drunken fool
who cannot find the door.

Bob
I have been down, I have been out,
And God knows that I’m poor.
It’s that drunken part that I’m about,
Supine here on the floor.

Kristen
iambic meter on sticky nights
is fun, I do agree
but though I try with all my might
I forgot I have to pee.

Linda F.
perfiddely and doogle mush
per quantum magnum zore
on hasher dancer pixen kush
for vloddenambly lore.

Bob
“I can’t understand you, love,
Because your words sound queer.
But, still, you are a cut above,”
I said it with a Lear.

Linda F.
I’m listing fast i must admit
I’m calling it a day
I really hate to have to quit
but, thanks, ’twas fun to play! :)

Bob
Good night, sweet dreams, and fare thee well!
I think the cows came home.
I must, I think, relax a spell
But thanks for all the pomes.

Diana

“Drink this potion,” she said to he
And down his throat it went
And she was glad to find that he
Found out what “blow ’em” meant.

A Barnacle Bill-y Holiday

2010-06-22T22:49:00.005-04:00

Thread I: Main Theme

Bob
For 24 hours, everything I say online will be to the tune of “Barnacle Bill the Sailor.” Won’t you join me?

“Why would I do a thing like that?” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Why e-mail when you could chat?” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Why sing and rhyme and waste my time?
Why do you care it’s on my dime?
Now it’s your turn, so in you chime,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Linda G.
I ride the wave, I moan, I whine...
I contemplate, I take my time
So sue me for my rhymin’ crime said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Bob
“But I like the way you moan,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Your whining makes me feel at home,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Your sense of rhyme is quite astute
Despite your name and ill repute
And tongue of frog and eye of newt,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

George
i think you’re daft, i think you’re wack, i think you’re just the oddest quack.
i wonder why you have to try to put things in in this patter.
But if you want, i’ll play along, says Barnacle Bill in the white trash trailer.

April
“I’ve got poison ivy on my arms,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Tea Tree Oil has limited charms,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Lesson learned is to shake my head,
Not work outside with the man I wed.
Now a crossword puzzle then off to bed,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Bob
“I think April may have won,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“And we’d only just begun,” said Barnacle Bill the sailor.
“Boy, she nailed it out of the gate,
The kind of response I ’preciate
Time for bed? I can relate,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Linda G.
Agreed!
But tomorrow is another day ... said yada yada yada.

Bob
“I did this some years ago” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Really cheesed a girl I know,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But once I start, I cannot stop
I’ll go once more around the block
Even if it’s one o’clock,” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Mr. C.
“Now you’ve put me on the spot,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I cannot think when it’s so hot,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“You’ve challenged me to speak in verse,”
“The beers I’ve drunk just make it worse,”
“I only sought to slake my thirst”
“Why did you stick me with this curse?” asked Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Bob
“Welcome back, Mr. C,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Your words they mean so much to me,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I’m glad you had a lovely trip
It’s time you stopped and had a nip
Sit down to type and let ’er rip,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Who’s that mocking at your pour? Who’s that mocking at your pour?
Who’s that mocking at your pour? I don’t know because I’m fadin’.

“I guess it is beer you choose,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Me, I guess I’ll stick with booze,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“And though I might be up all night
I will write to my delight
Until I’ve quite fought the fight,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Jake
“What brought this on, i wonder?” asked Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Too much free time, lack of plunder?” asked Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But as a man of the sea
Time is never scarce to me
I’ll sing my rhymes, ’cuz i live free,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Bob
“What brought it on, indeed,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“A gallon of whiskey and too much weed,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But it really gets in your head,
It’s the strangest thread I’ve ever read,
Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Jake
“So much booze, not enough drugs,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Tap the barrel, and pass the mug,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Half a day until you land,
I’d gladly lend my helping hand,
Drink until you’re merry, man” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor

Bob
“I’ve drunk until my heart’s content,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“God bless my soul, I repent,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I swear off booze, I swear off beer,
It sounds severe, but I’m sincere,
But only ’til tonight, I fear,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Jake
“I wish you luck in that endeavor,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor
“But to lay off the juice altogether?” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor
“I’ve seen no bolder men,
For i doubt any’d begin
To try and stop sipping gin!” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor

Bob
“Lad, I think that you are right,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I don’t have a Mad Dog in this fight,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I know that I have drunken plenty,
God knows I’ve spent a pretty penny;
Why stop now? Hindsight’s 20/20,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Karla
Stop! Stop! I have work to do!!

Bob
“All good things must come to an end,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But not right now, so I contend,” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Each little verse, more time devours,
Each clever quip, my ego empowers,
Let’s give it just a few more hours,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread II: FNR E-Mails

George
Jan wants to come down and do an FNR this Friday. You up for dinner and a (few) drink (s) ?

Bob
“I can make it Friday night,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I’m sure your company will delight,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But maybe I should eat before
I go and show up at your door
I’m ’fraid that’s because I’m poor,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

George
i understand your trip said BB the S
i’m in the same ship said BB the S
But something must be worked out said BB the S
or talking all night will make me shout said BB the S

i’d like to think we can make it cheap said BB the S
we’ll count our coins to see what we reap said BB the S
so our blood we won’t have to sell said BB the S
we can just eat Taco Bell. said BB the S

Bob
“I can swing Taco Bell” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“If you won’t ask, I won’t tell,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I like their beans, I like their cheese
I like their birds, I like their bees,
Their burr-itos I like to squeeze,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

George
don’t know if Jan will dig the Bell said BB the S
but something similar would be swell said BB the S
we’ll eat something yummy good
something that’s in the ’hood
and dream expensive (as if we could) said BB the S

Bob
“Could be chicken’s just as good,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“And you’ve got some in the hood,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“We’ll find something, there’s no doubt
Because that’s what we’re all about
We’ll dine in or Carie out,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

(23 more hours of this? I think I can do it.)

George
Carie’s out, that’s for sure said BB the S
she’ll be gone and can’t be lured said BB the S
So, chicken, pig, or sacred cow
we’ll maybe eat Kung Pow said BB the S

Bob
“Did you ask her really nice?” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“A simple ‘please’ will not suffice,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“We’ll play the cards that we’ve been dealt,
I hope she wears her safety belt,
Her absinthe will be keenly felt,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread III: Billie Holiday

Video: “Strange Fruit”; Billie Holiday

Bob
“That’s the music that I like,” It’s Barnacle Billie Holiday.
“It was good back then, it’s good today,” It’s Barnacle Billie Holiday.
“As singers go, she stands alone
She’s got soul down to the bone
God bless the child that’s got her own,” It’s Barnacle Billie Holiday.

Jan
… Bob, please write me a Barnacle Bill poem

Bob
“I’ve only got twelve hours to go,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I hope that you’ve enjoyed the show,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“This is harder than I’d guessed
But hopefully, you are impressed
For I clearly am obsessed,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Jan
Barnacle Bob, you rock!

Bob
“I guess I just have too much time,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But I’m glad to have a partner in crime,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I’m having fun, I will admit
Though I submit it’s not legit,
As poems go, it’s not worth spit,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread IV: Feed a Child

Bob says, “Feed a child, starve a beaver. Or is it the other way around?”

Jan
Why don’t we cook the beaver and feed it to the child?

Bob
“You obviously haven’t tasted beaver,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Or you would be a firm believer,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“And you would do what I once did
For lack of meat, God Forbid,
I married the beaver and ate the kid,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread V: Dating Life

Bob says, “You think your dating life is rough? Stalk a while in *my* shoes!”

Linda G.
… said Barnacle Bill the Sailor?

Bob
“I wrote that before, so it don’t count,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“As time goes by, the tensions mount,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Even though I counted sheep
I was writing these in my sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread VI: Good Match

Bob said, “I had a date last night. She was hot … but she didn’t strike me as a good match.”

George
... said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Bob
“I said before that was pre-wrote,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Don’t think that you can get my goat,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I’ve already done so many of these
That I crank them out with ease
In twos and threes or by degrees,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

Linda F.
Perhaps you need lighter fare

Bob
“This lady is nothing I can’t handle,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“She’s the one that lights my candle,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I’ve laid it on both loud and thick,
I know what used to do the trick,
I need someone to moisten the wick,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread VII: Whiz Kid

Bob says, “When I was little, they called me a whiz kid. I used to pee a lot.”

Keith
You ladies seem to be handling this one.

Bob
“On that point we both agree,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“They hold their own and so do we,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But you know I’ve just begun
I'm not one to be outdone
When it comes to number one,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

______

Thread VIII: Main Theme Reprise

Bob
Thanks for knocking at my door! Thanks for knocking at my door!
Thanks for knocking at my door! And thank you all for playing!

“But that’s as much as I can stand,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“I think our supply exceeded demand,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“Your verses certainly did beguile,
Your doggerel has made me smile,
You can bet this goes in the file,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

“We took a premise and wrung it dry,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“But now it’s time we said goodbye,” said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“The idea itself was pretty tough,
And you really know your stuff,
But I, for one, have had enough” … said Abdul Abulbul Amir!

My Haiku

2010-06-10T21:15:00.005-04:00

A haiku is too hard to write
And really no fun to recite.
I should stick with this meter,
It’s charming and sweeter
For all that it’s hackneyed and trite.

Who even wants to read a haiku?
They’re boring and all alike, too.
I’ll take up my pen
And try it again,
But I’m afraid this will be my strike two.

I’ll give my haiku one final whirl,
As my poetical sails I unfurl.
But I tell you, my friend,
I’m tacking into the wind …
Still, maybe I’ll come up with a pearl:

Too few syllables …
It’s just not in my nature
Damn thing doesn’t rhyme.

And, here we go!

Linda
I can’t even write a haiku
Even one ending in Moo!
I’m doing my best here
To lend you some good cheer
But a limerick is all I can do....

Bob
That’s not a bad try
In the middle of the night.
It beats jerking off.

Sandy
I just can’t do it.
It just works in Japanese;
I’m Indonesian.

Bob
Your words speak to me
Of beaches in the moonlight.
Haikus are still lame.

Dan
I write them only
To wish others good birthdays
On their Facebook walls.

Bob
I’m afraid my friends
Face their birthdays without me.
’Cause I hate people.

Sandy
Spondee, trochee and
Iambic pentameter
Are superior.

Bob
Better than haiku
Unless you read Japanese.
I tell you I don’t.

Linda
I gave it my best
In an awkward sort of way
It didn’t say Moo!

Bob
Again with the cow!
Let’s put the past behind us
And eat more chikin.

Bob
A pair of haikus
Working together as one
Could be of some use
With the right rhyme scheme.
If it could only be done ...
Impossible dream.

Vagabond Haven Destroyed. 45 Drifters Killed

2010-06-05T20:48:00.013-04:00

EUGENE, Ore. (Reuters) – Long considered dormant, Big Rock Candy Mountain erupted unexpectedly Friday at 5:49 p.m. PDT causing the deaths of 45 migrant laborers. The eruption, which could be felt as far away as Portland, was the most destructive volcanic event in the contiguous 48 states since Mount St. Helens exploded on May 18, 1980.

A favorite destination for hoboes due to its unique ecosystem, Big Rock Candy Mountain was one of the few places in the U.S. where a bum could stay for many a day and not need any money. Those killed were part of a group of bindlestiffs who had been encamped -- or "jungling" -- near the mountain for several weeks.

The blast, which was some 1,600 times more powerful than the nuclear warhead dropped on Hiroshima, ejected enough confectioner’s sugar to cover the island of Manhattan to a depth of 18 feet and leveled cigarette trees up to 20 miles from the crater. The resulting plume reached a height of 15 miles.

The damage to the environment surrounding the mountain was extensive and the effects will be felt for decades. One lake of stew and one of whiskey, too, were completely destroyed. Experts predict it will take years for milk and honey to return to the area.

The last major eruption of a candy mountain was in 1849 in Hershey, Penn.

Twitter Change

2010-05-16T19:35:00.004-04:00

I’ve just changed my ID on Twitter
Because I’m that kind of critter.
My words may ring hollow,
But feel free to follow.
Just remember, I’m no heavy hitter.

...

I changed my Twitter again,
I needed a good nom de … pen.
I know it rings hollow
Since no one will follow,
But now I’m “BobSays.” Amen.

To Have. And to Hold.

2010-05-05T01:32:00.006-04:00

Oh, he liked his romances varied.
For years, a young woman he harried.
A rakish young fellow, made knees turn to Jell-O.
It’s too bad the guy was still married.

“You’re my only true love,” he once told her.
“The sight of you makes my heart smolder.
The thought of your kiss invokes transports of bliss!
From my wife, I get the cold shoulder.”

“Though my marriage is nothing but strife,
I’ll have one more go with my wife.
But if our future’s in doubt, I’ll come try you out.
And you know I commit for life.”

“It’s over — I am no longer wed.
And when everything’s all done and said,
There’s no need for remorse, it’s a happy divorce,
And I’d rather be with you instead.”

“I’m afraid that I’ve changed my mind.
How could I be so stupid and blind?
You were only a fad; my wife’s not that bad,
And our fates are surely entwined.”

“Oh! What a mistake I have made.
You are the one I’ve betrayed!
It’s over … it’s through, because next to you
My wife just can’t make the grade.”

“I don’t know! I just can’t decide.
My One True Love or my bride?
Oh, why can’t I roam — have a wife safe at home
And still keep you on the side?”

“No … it’s you that I want, I am sure,
So lovely and chaste and demure.
I’ll do whatever it takes — my heart, how it aches! —
I am certain our love can endure.”

“I’ll woo you with flowers and song.
You know I can do nothing wrong.
Here’s my plan of attack: you keep coming back,
And I’ll continue to string you along.”

Limerick Junction

2010-05-04T22:33:00.010-04:00

A limerick is a quaint little verse
Which requires one to keep one’s words terse.
It’s a poetic device
That keeps thoughts concise
With rhymes that are clearly perverse.

And away we go! ...

Joe
I thought I was the short poem master
But my hubris has been brought to disaster
For this delicious confection
Of ironic introspection
Shows me your poetic leetness is much vaster.

Bob
Of course I can’t be outdone,
But I welcome a partner in fun.
For it would be grand
Our scope to expand
And two heads are better than one.

Joe
I’d gladly submit a donation
Of my poems for your consideration
But a fear leaps to mind
Our talents combined
Might lead to poetic abomination.

Bob
The damage is already done
And gets worse with each single pun.
I bow to the master,
Your vocab is vaster.
Can you finish what we have begun?

Linda F.
So much for linguistic gymnastics
It would seem that the ultimate fact is
That I am the greatest
Albeit the latest
Let’s face it, my rhyme is fantastic.

Bob
Welcome to our little word game.
Come try to put our verses to shame.
We’ll give you a chance
To make your words dance
’Cause your rhymes aren’t bad for a dame.

Linda G.
There once was a dame from Nantucket
She wrote rhymes, played guitar, hell she plucked it.
Sometimes she did rob
Her dear friend we’ll call Bob
Who always just said ... “What the fuck it!”

Bob
It’s true! You always feel free
To take anything you might see.
When you’re in the groove
It just goes to prove
Neither a borrower nor Linda be.

Dan
What is this, the amateur hour?
Come, witness my lim’ricking pow’r!
I’ve learned from my wife
There’s no better po’try in life
Than a limerick, so y’all should go’n cower.

Bob
Our talent is just playing possum,
I’m sure one day it will blossom.
But, until then
We’d do well to ken
Our buddy Dan Shields is still awesome.

Keith
Two punsters named Bob and Joe
Wrote limericks highbrow and low.
They dueled with the word
Till nothing was heard
But laughter from people they know.

Bob
How we parry and how we riposte
To see who can lim’rick the most.
And on Joe’s behalf,
I say have a good laugh!
And, with my permission, re-post.

Keith
So I tried to take your suggestion
And repost this limerick confection
But software’s perverse
And the original verse
Is all that made the transition.

Bob
The writing we’ve done was so brisk
That I just couldn’t accept the risk
That Facebook would eat
Or somehow delete,
So I saved whole corpus to disk.

Christian
This is interesting, I’ll admit,
Though so difficult that I could spit.
So I’m glad I’m not in
Singapore. Then again,
I would likely be thrown in a pit.

Christian
Now I’m tired and going to bed
As this contest has messed with my head
There are images twirling
And I feel like hurling.
Then again, could be lies, what I’ve said.

Keith
Your foresight in saving this thread
Shows that you think ahead.
Now I can link
To this post, I think.
The fun will be simpler to spread.

Jan
I love this contest of Rhyming
I copied each verse
It was morosely perverse
But you need to practice the timing.

Bob
We established a poetic rapport
And created some verses hardcore.
Your response was dismaying,
And thank you for playing,
Your rhymes were really top drawer.

I Kid You Not (Revised Version)

2010-03-08T10:13:00.006-05:00

I’ve never had a wife or child
Though I’m over forty now.
I’d love to let my genes run wild
But, danged if I know how.

But, I saw a girl I used to know
Then I went and chased her.
“Don’t run away! I’m friend, not foe …
Come, use my turkey baster!”

“Come back to me, my One True … Like.
I only wish to procreate!
I need someone to bear my tyke …
Come back before you ovulate!”

“Oh, I sense some hesitation.
This has ever been my doom!
I didn’t make a reservation
And you have a private womb.”

So my seed remains unsown.
I guess I’ll never reproduce.
Parental joys remain unknown
And I’ll die an old recluse.

2010 Valentine's Day Card

2010-02-14T20:17:00.003-05:00

To Wit

2010-02-09T12:23:00.018-05:00

Whereby notwithstanding, against forthwith wherefores,
Thereby obstruct said herewith whys because of my therefores.
Howsoever they might albeit, withal I mayhap see,
Inasmuch as I’m foresworn, whatsoever, shall it be.

For therein lie my herebys which were heretofore my whereins,
And ever hence the words I speak shall be all full of swear ins.
But know all men by these presents — I promise and affirm —
The above shall be regarded null and void. Hereinafter.

To whom it may concern.

I'd Like a Second Opinion

2010-01-30T01:30:00.004-05:00

I consulted Dr. Seuss on a matter of great importance.
He made a Hat-in-Cat Scan of my Whys and Whos and Hortons.

He said, “You have a cooter-pooter,” and he asked for my permission.
“You're going to feel a little prick, but you’ll be in remission.”

I should say I did not like it. I do not care how it appears!
It’s not covered by my insurance, and now I’m in arrears.

I'm Just Scratching the Surface (because that's where it itches)

2010-01-29T21:25:00.023-05:00

I am uniquely superficial in the way I act and speak,
And my emotions artificial for six days out of the week.
Oh, I say odd stuff and nonsense just to hear the way I sound,
Without affect or pretense, how the wisecracks they abound.
They flee my tongue like flocks of birds, all migrating south.
Meaningless, my witty words! I just cannot shut my mouth.
That “me” who felt, he up and died. I'm unmoved by grief or woe!
I’m laughing on the outside, and that’s as deep as I will go.
But please don’t think ill of me; I’ve got catharsis by the throat!
Every seventh day I set it free … I pull the shades, and I emote.

A Tail of Chew Kitties

2010-01-05T01:34:00.020-05:00

My little cat bit his tail
And then he kept on chewing.
He went at it tooth and nail.
He didn’t know what he was doing.

He chewed upon his tail all day,
Chewed well into the night.
I didn’t know just what to say.
I knew it wasn’t right.

He gnawed and gnawed,
Oh, how he bit and swallowed.
He was eating himself, by Gawd!
First tail, then hind legs followed.

He kept on eating without pause,
Past his shoulders, as I feared.
One last gulp – just because –
Then my cat, he disappeared!

I couldn’t believe my cat was gone –
I would miss the little dear.
He’d tangled with that tail – and won.
I’ll admit … I shed a tear.

So, imagine my surprise when,
Two days later, to the second,
I heard my cat meow again!
He’d digested himself, I reckon.

It’s true! The cat was back!
My ravenous little friend ...
He’d eaten himself for a snack,
Then come out his other end!

Now I buy no cat food,
My cat’s a meal that never ends.
Now when he’s in a peckish mood,
I butter up his tail and send him through again!

Christmas Card 2009

2009-12-25T22:35:00.000-05:00

Marginalia

2009-11-13T10:25:00.019-05:00

Going back over my notebooks, I find the oddest things scrawled in the margins. Relics of some passing fancy, quickly written and as quickly forgotten. Then, when I come across them sometimes years later, I often wonder, "What was I thinking?"

Here are a few things I have found in those notebooks.

______

William was a good boy, as good as he could be
And William had a little sheep, so fine and soft and wee.
But William was a big boy, bigger than Uncle Fred.
Yes, William was a big boy … and now that sheep is dead.

…

(Sung to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”)

Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles,
Goose step all o’er the pla-ace.
We can do whatever we want,
We are the Master Ra-ace.

Germans, Germans, ve are good,
Germans, ve are grea-eat.
Ve dominate the ones we love
And kill the ones we ha-ate!

...

Herpes burn day to you,
Herpes burn day to you.
Herpes burn day, herpes burn day,
Herpes burn day to you!

…

Aardvark, aardvark come out and play,
Suck up dem ants on a bright sunny day.
You’ve eaten dem ants ever since you was young.
Put yo face on de ground and dey stick on yo tongue.
Sho nuff.

…

Fire can heal, fire can burn us,
Fire will thrive on wood or coal.
Never reach inside a furnace,
Always poke it with a pole.

…

All around the carpenter’s bench
The Muslim chased the Jesus.
The Muslim thought ’twas all in fun,
Pop! Goes the Jesus …

…

Hunter’s arrow squarely sings
Toward the children on the swings.
Fred and Ethel are reviled
Lucy likes her cabbage biled.
Spicy jalapeño poppers,
Kmart saying “Hello shoppers,”
Perry Como, Dean and Bing,
This little song don’t mean a thing.

...

Long the shadows on Autumn’s eve
The sun sets … I rejoice.
“God,” I think, “I believe.”
I give the thought a voice.
Brown the leaves that tend to fall
Among the bowers bare,
As God above marks my call
And then ignores my prayer.

...

Lorem gypsum color cement, consecrate teeter adipose lint.
Damn no hominy, deuce ode temper, indecent labor, Dolores whimper.

...

England mourns her poet lost,
The late and good Lord Tennyson.
No finer dear has tempest tossed,
But that - my deer - is venison.

...

The rose is red, the violet is blue
I went to the dance and so did you.
At the wedding I tried to explain to your maw,
I don't really love you ... I drew the short straw.

...

Warm cat vomit
On a winter's night
Is cold come morning.

...

I've never seen a pig in a poke.
I never hope to see one.
At least I know, when times are tough,
I'd rather Weee! than be one.

...

I’ve never seen a sacred cow,

I never hope to see one.

But from what’s on the news right now,

I know that there must be one.

...

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I’ve never winced nor cursed my load.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

...

I went to Japan, I sat in a fancy tub.
You won’t believe-a what I saw-a!
I got a "thorough" body rub,
And I brought home an Ichikawa.

...

Violets are blue,
Roses are red.
I’m stalking you ...
I’m under your bed.

An O-Pun letter to an Old Girlfriend

2009-07-11T08:57:00.001-04:00

I just got an e-mail from an old girlfriend. She forwarded me an article from the New York Times about puns, the “lowest and most groveling kind of wit.”

It states in part:

“Puns are the feeblest species of humor because they are ephemeral: whatever comic force they possess never outlasts the split second it takes to resolve the semantic confusion. Most resemble mathematical formulas: clever, perhaps, but hardly occasion for knee-slapping. The worst smack of tawdriness, even indecency, which is why puns, like off-color jokes, are often followed by apologies. Odds are that a restaurant with a punning name — Snacks Fifth Avenue, General Custard’s Last Stand — hasn’t acquired its first Michelin star.”

I couldn’t resist framing a polite response, and the following exchange ensued.

******

That is so weird! I actually wrote in an e-mail just last night:

“The chick I was engaged to was from Upstate N.Y., and hated everything Southern. Our vegetables are too ‘squishy,’ everything is ‘too sweet.’ And, if she didn’t like it, she didn’t want me to have it, either. Same with wordplay. She doesn’t like it, so, by golly, she did her best to squash it out of me.”

Hee hee! I enjoy a good pun. I even got paid very well to come up with them. Sure, they’re not the crème de la crème of the literary world, but sometimes a Cool Quip will do just as well.

Perhaps their ephemeral nature is also part of their appeal. Let’s not make of them something they aren’t. They’re not meant to be cathedrals of great literature to be admired for their beauty through all the ages. They are sandcastles … a moment’s diversion for the tide to reclaim. They are not The Thinker, they are balloon animals. They’re not Karl Marx, but Groucho.

But, each to his own tastes, each according to his ability. God knows there are plenty of kinds of humor I don’t like. Maybe there is something else you can find to bring you as much delight.

“… my main problem with puns is … we know you are not really listening to us as friends or conversationalists, you are merely lying in wait for our words as fodder.”

I remember your saying once that certain word choices make you feel that we are not listening to you. I can appreciate that, but I disagree. In certain circumstances, it can even indicate that we are paying more attention to you. If a pun is in the right context, it can show that, not only am I listening to you, but to your words and their nuances. If I say something perfectly in context, it shouldn’t slow the conversation down at all.

Take your sentence, “... you are merely lying in wait for our words as fodder.”

Now, if I were simply to respond, “Fodder knows best,” I agree that could interrupt the flow of a conversation. But if I were to assure you that, “I certainly don’t regard everything you mutter as fodder,” I am clearly paying attention to what you said, its meaning and context. I am merely adding a subtext which you can acknowledge or dismiss as you see fit, and discourse continues uninterrupted.

How about if we remove the other person from the equation? Do you make a distinction between the spoken pun and the written? If there is no conversation to disturb, does it make a difference? If, for example, I write, “I’m eating a healthy diet of fresh fruit because I love pears in the Spring time,” or remark in April that I’m “deep in the heart of taxes,” I’m not lying in wait for your words at all.

And what of Gary Larson or Sherman and Peabody on “Rocky and Bullwinkle”? You used to like Gary Larson.

Aside from conversation or writing, many of us simply like to play. I think it is as valid a device as alliteration, rhyme or meter. Or assonance or consonance. It imposes a certain structure and shapes your choice of words accordingly.

But, I fully agree that there are times where such wordplay is inappropriate. God knows I am always biting my tongue at corporate functions. In my day, I have been both praised for my professionalism and recognized for my unorthodox facility with words.

Thanks for the dialog. This is fun! But, I wonder … is it just the pun, or is that just a catch-all? What is your stance on other types of wordplay?

******

And that was the last I heard from her on the subject. To think I almost married her!

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Five

2009-04-30T14:16:00.009-04:00

Chapter Five: The Tale Told by an Idiot

I don’t know how long we wandered through the trackless rainforest. It could have been a day … it could have been a week. I was lost in my own nightmarish monotony. Left-right-left-right. Swear. Left-right-left-right. Grumble. Left-right-left-right.

A grain of sand in my shoe was getting bigger with every excruciating mile. One morning it was as big as a grapefruit, and by mid-afternoon it was about the size of the Rockies. I wished it were in my other shoe. There was a hole in that one.

We had sung “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt” so many times that I had begun to think that his name really was my name, too. If we had been interrogated by some foreign or domestic agency right then, I would have willingly and eagerly admitted to being John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt without so much as the threat of waterboarding.

The Amazon had been, at first, a panoply of thrilling originality. Over time it had become a tiresome pageant of tedium. I chewed on my shirtsleeve for several hours. I wasn’t really hungry — I’d recently eaten my hat — but I thought it might help relieve the stupefying boredom of our slow march.

I was exhausted, I was bored, I had eaten nothing but insects and textiles for days, and I had not used the restroom since I had left the United States. But, I had saved a square foot of this hell-forest and I was damn well going to look at it! When it comes to real estate, the only thing that is really mine is my funeral plot and the square foot of rainforest I saved on Facebook with my (Lil) Green Patch. And this was the only one of the two I’d ever be able to appreciate.

My square foot was out there and, by God, I was going to see it.

***

Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right.

I was prepared for another Left when Pepe stopped suddenly, causing us all to plow into his back.

“Hey! … WTF … Ow! … You sorry son of a … Oink-a!”

“Don’t eenybody move. Don’t even make a sound. Dere ees a very beeg jaguar een front of us.” Pepe started to back up slowly.

“OH MY GOD!” somebody shouted, but I’m not going to tell you who it was. If the jaguar hadn’t seen us before, he certainly did now.

This wasn’t your typical Disney “Johnny the Jolly Jaguar.” We couldn’t just pull a porcupine quill out of its paw and have him lick our hands and lead us to a lost city of gold. No, this was 350 pounds of well-muscled malevolence, and it was mad. It let out a cry like a catamount. Which makes sense if you look on Wikipedia.

I slapped Christy Smith-Christie hard across the face. She hadn’t been the one to startle the animal, but it did relieve a little of my tension.

A leads to B leads to C. We were at C. “We going to die now,” Pepe explained to us.

I screamed like a girl.

“Throw it the pig!” I said. I hadn’t yet learned that not every problem can be solved by throwing a pig at it.

Our native guide, Pepe, did what any rational native guide would have done. He ran away.

“You can’t outrun that thing!” I called after him.

“I don’t haff to outrun eet, Meester Bob! I chust haff to outrun jew!” And he was gone.

I took stock of our situation. We were three starving Americans and a pig hopelessly lost somewhere in the Amazon Rainforest staring down the business end of a jaguar. No two ways about it … Pepe was right. We were about to die.

The jaguar growled. I stepped behind Timmy, but the Pole Cat gave me a stern look so I stepped behind him, instead.

I was more or less prepared to die. I had canceled my newspaper subscription and left a key with the neighbors. And I did have that funeral plot.

I closed my eyes. Then I opened them because I thought I should look death in the face. Then I closed them again because the jaguar was looking right at me. Then I tried opening just one. Then I put my fingers in my ears and blinked rapidly so it looked like a silent movie. Yep. That’s the way I wanted to go.

I didn’t hear the rustling in the leaves because I had my fingers in my ears, but suddenly a half dozen Waiayotta tribesmen appeared from the forest, each with an arrow tipped with a poison frog aimed right at the jaguar. They did know their frogs.

The jaguar scowled — if they can scowl — and disappeared into the forest. I put my fingers to my lips and whistled the way cool people do, and the cat came back.

“He went that way!” I said, pointing after Pepe.

The jaguar and I made eye contact, and, for a split second, we understood one another on a visceral level. Predator to predator. “Thanks for supper. I’ll show you a lost city of gold sometime,” he seemed to say. And he was gone.

Christy Smith-Christie slapped me hard across my face. O.K. … O.K. … Fair is fair. We were all relieved and made to thank the Waiayotta, our champions.

“Schlemiel! Schlimaazel!” one of the warriors said to us.

Of course, we had lost our interpreter when Pepe ran away so we had no idea what he was getting at. We tried speaking English loudly, since that always seems to work. We tried some universal hand signals, but it seems Little Bunny Foo Foo had never hopped through this forest. They looked at us as if we were some kind of brainless foreigners, not Americans.

Honk-a!

I’d heard that sound before.

The Waiayotta warriors stepped aside to reveal four of their kinsmen bearing a lavish palanquin bearing — who? — our erstwhile companion and sometime god of the Waiayotta, Geo the Clown!

Honk-a!

The clown was always smiling, but he seemed to smile extra scarily as he nodded to one of the tribesmen with the frog arrows.

“Inka dinka dinka dinka doo!” the Waiayotta said. A dozen more tribesmen came forth and made us ready for the next phase of our journey.

The Pole Cat, Smith-Christie, Timmy and I were each helped into our own individual sillas, which amounted to not much more than a waiting-room chair strapped to the back of one of the burlier natives. The pig was wrapped in a more traditional papoose and carried by a less imposing tribesman. He seemed quite comfortable and happy to travel in style. A few of the other natives took up our gear. We all fell in line behind Geo in his grand palanquin and, looking like something straight out of the Sherpa Image catalog, we resumed our journey.

***

I don’t know who arranged it, but each silla had its own selection of magazines. People … Newsweek … Southern Living … Highlights. I was halfway through a connect-the-dots when we finally came to a halt.

“What’s this?” asked the Pole Cat.

“Where are we?” asked Smith-Christie.

“Werv u brawt us?” That was Timmy.

The Waiayotta knelt and Geo the Clown stepped out of his sedan. He stood a little taller than I remembered. And he spoke. That was a first.

“Here is the rainforest you have saved,” he said. His voice was sort of a cross between Kelsey Grammer and Harpo Marx.

“Yippee!” was our first reaction, immediately followed by, “Where?”

Honk-a! spoke the horn. A Waiayotta stage hand came forward with a black bag, gave it to the clown and removed to a respectable distance.

“It is here.” The clown rummaged in the bag a moment and brought out a white hard-hat and gave it to the Pole Cat. “Behold!”

Nobody says “Behold.” That’s stupid. Nevertheless, the clown indicated a tree none of us had noticed before.

“It’s the tallest in the forest,” said Geo. “Climb it.”

The Pole Cat brought out the climbing gear he had carried all this way. Ropes and spikes and jangly metal things. He stood at the base of the tree and looked up.

“I’m scared!” he said.

“Put on the hat.”

The Pole Cat put on the hard-hat and began to climb. In minutes he was higher than he had ever been before. And he wasn’t afraid!

“I get it now! I understand! I don’t have to be a lineman. It’s wireless. It’s all wireless! Oh, why didn’t I see it before? Hey! How do I get down from here?”

Geo turned to Christy Smith-Christie, the Berkeley co-ed. He reached in his bag and he brought out a long, yellow ribbon which he gave to her. He revealed to us another tree. The widest in the forest.

“Behold!” Now I thought he was just showboating.

“Here is the tree you wanted to hug. Your parents are watching. They always have been. They know you love them and they always have. Now, click your heels three time and hug your tree. Tie this ribbon around it in their memory as you go.”

She hugged the tree, chalked off the first hug and the second. When she was on the far side of the tree, hugging and chalking, the clown focused his attention on Timmy.

“Timmy. U wnt d cof syrup trE.” He reached in his bag and produced an empty medicine cup and a formidable syringe. “Bhold! L%k der,” he made a grand gesture — grander than was warranted under the circumstances — “Yr trE awaits. Fil d cup N yr kin wil B :-$$$ 4ever.”

“Tnx, Mr. *:O)”

I regarded the clown with anger and suspicion. “I’ll bet you don’t have anything in that little black bag for me!” I said.

“But I do,” he said, reaching into his bag.

“Don’t say, ‘Behold,’” I said. I might have rolled my eyes.

“Be— Oh … O.K. Look over there.”

There it was. I’d spent hours on Facebook to make this moment a reality. And here it was. I was looking right at it. My own square foot of rainforest.

It was on a level piece of earth, exactly one foot by one foot, tastefully landscaped. It was enclosed by a short, white wooden fence with a gate which was open, inviting. On the square foot within the fence grew an apple tree laden with plump, juicy apples. Granny Smith … Red Delicious … I don’t know what kind they were. I didn’t really care. I was famished.

As I prepared to step inside the little white fence, I noticed that the rainforest had one more surprise for me. Entwined among the branches of the apple tree was what had to have been the biggest snake I had ever seen. I’m pretty sure it was an anaconda.

The allegory was not lost on me.

“Looks like you’ve got a choice to make,” said the clown.

Now, I know when I’m being set up for a Fall. Snake in the apple tree? That’s the oldest trick in the Book!

“Nothing doing!” I said.

I was pretty hungry, though. And the apples did look pretty good. What harm could just one bite do?

But I’m a thinker. I thought, I’m standing in one of the few places on earth untouched by the hand of man. A virtual paradise. Mankind was getting closer to my little square foot of rainforest every minute. It shouldn’t be like that. I guess that’s why I tried to save it in the first place.

I thought, I have faced all manner of inconvenience and discomfort to come here because this rainforest is something I believe in. And, once I’m here, I find a snake in a tree with several very tempting apples. The last time anyone was in a situation like this, man was cast out and paradise lost.

So. I made a decision. Paradise it was, and paradise it should remain. This time, Man would leave voluntarily and the forest would remain in all its magnificence, unseen and unmolested. I closed the gate on the little white fence and latched it behind me.

“I’m ready to go home now,” I said.

***

Now I’m back to the old routine. Doing what I can to save the world, one click at a time. Because I care just that much. I’m glad I saved the rainforest, but it’s good to be home.

And, yes, I did finally get something to eat. Before we left the rainforest, my companions and I enjoyed a nice roasted pig. Don’t ask me where the apple in its mouth came from.

Hey! A friend just sent me a drink on Facebook. I think I’ll go down to the bar and find it.

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Four

2009-04-26T19:38:00.007-04:00

Chapter Four: The Ten-Year-Old’s Tale

A cat looks down on man, a dog looks up to man, but a pig will look a man right in the eye and see his equal. Winston Churchill said that. If our new pig had looked us in the eye after we’d been stumbling through the rainforest for several days, the pig would have been right on the money. We were a sight! But I, for one, was glad to have him among us. Just looking at him brought a smile to my face.

That might have been due to my unrelenting hunger.

“Why don’t we eat him?” I asked.

Others agreed and we probably would have eaten our little friend, but we didn’t have so much as a knife or a fork or even a pointed stick among us.

“Maybe we could just chew on him a little …” I suggested hopefully.

In the end, we simply gave him a name and accepted him as a junior member of our band. Timmy, our ten-year-old from New Hampshire, christened him “Luau.” I thought that fitting, and vowed silently to make the ironic name come to pass at the earliest opportunity.

We all took our packs and strapped them to the pig’s back with some Bungee cords I had thought to bring. By the time we had our gear stacked high on the hog, he looked like a little pink dromedary all decked out for a long march across the land of the Pharaohs.

Oink-a! he said happily.

“l%k @ him!” Timmy laughed. “w@ a funE lukin :@) hes.”

“What?” asked the Pole Cat.

“I think he said ‘Oil can,’” I said.

“Look at him! What a funny looking pig he is.” Smith-Christie translated for me, sotto voce.

“You can’t talk in pictographs! How can — never mind.”

Kids today spend far too much time on social networking sites and texting each other. I doubt Timmy had had a face-to-face conversation with another person since he learned to type. Even when he spoke, his thumbs moved. Resistance is futile.

At any rate, we all — three Americans, our native guide, Pepe, and a loaded pig — resumed our journey to the heart of the Amazon where we had each saved a few square feet of rainforest with our own (Lil) Green Patches on Facebook. It was slow going at first, but the pig found three truffles before we had gone fifty feet. I would love to have eaten one myself, but I’m allergic to chocolate.

***

My stomach sounded like a garbage truck emptying a dumpster. Grrrr-rrrr-rrrr … wham-wham-wham … grrrr-rrrr-rrrr. It stopped just short of beeping when it was finished. I was so hungry, I could eat a … a … really, I couldn’t think of anything unpleasant I hadn’t already eaten since I got off the plane in Saint San-Don Pueblo in what seemed like another life.

“Dude! I’m a lil hngry 2,” Timmy said.

A few minutes later, Pepe signaled us to stop.

“Lunch!” he whispered, pointing up ahead.

About ten feet in front of us was an anteater, diligently engaged in evicting ants from their homes and relocating them into his greedy snout.

“We’re going to eat an anteater?” I was incredulous. Then my stomach made a noise like a jailbird rattling a tin cup up and down my rib cage. Anteater it is.

“No, Meester Bob. Not ahnt-eeter! Ahnt-eeter ees too streengy.” He rushed at the anteater and shooed it away with an abrupt shout. “Look! We eat dee ahnts.”

We fell upon the ants with a reckless abandon. If there had been a camera among us, there would have been a video montage of anteating.

We grabbed ants hand over fist, stuffing them in our mouths, then licking them off our fingers like cookie dough, laughing. We grabbed ants and threw them in the air, catching them on our tongues like snowflakes, laughing. We threw handfuls of ants at each other in mock snowball fights, laughing. Occasionally, the video would have cut to Pepe standing to the side of the fracas, laughing.

“Hu wd av thort ants wr so tasty?” Timmy looked right where the camera would have been in what would have been the money shot, laughing.

***

The thing about ants is that they are not very filling. By the time we were satisfied, it was too dark to continue.

“I can sing! To pass the time, I mean,” said Smith-Christie. “I know both kinds of songs — Woody and Arlo. Did anybody bring a guitar?” We all looked off in different directions silently shouting to one another, “Don’t encourage her!”

“Meester Teemy,” Pepe said to break the silence, “How deed jew come to be here?” He winked at us as we all sat back patting our ant-filled bellies contentedly.

“OK. IL tel yall bout me,” he began, “Uno my parNts wr poor. N deffo nt d sharpest knifs n d drwr.”

He went on in the same incomprehensible manner, but here I relate the story as interpreted by Christy Smith-Christie.

“My family has always been in syrup,” Timmy told us. “My great-grandpa was one of the wealthiest molasses moguls in Boston. His molasses was eaten by the well-to-do and common folk alike. His molasses was praised by President McKinley and the crowned heads of Europe. By the turn of the 20th century, there wasn’t a country biscuit or an upper crust that wasn’t dripping with my great-grandpa’s molasses.”

Wham! My stomach again.

“He was quite prosperous already, but during the War Against the Hun he began producing molasses for munitions. His profits rose ten-fold. After the Armistice was signed and with Prohibition looming on the horizon, he ramped up production again. He was on the verge of becoming the richest man in America. Richer than Carnegie, but not nearly so generous.”

“Then, one afternoon,” he continued, “his fortune was wrenched away in a heartbeat in the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. Twenty-one people were killed and hundreds more were injured as an industrial accident sent an eight-foot wave of molasses running through the streets of Boston in what must have been the slowest disaster in history. Public sentiment turned against molasses overnight. My great-grandpa was forced out of the business, but he still had to make good on the contracts he had with the bootleggers. He lost everything.”

The Pole Cat made a sympathetic tsk-tsk-tsk noise.

“He left Boston for New England where he eked out a living tapping trees for maple syrup, an occupation taken up by my grandfather and my parents in turn.”

He sighed mournfully.

“Unfortunately, neither of my parents had ever studied botany, so they were at a marked disadvantage when compared to their competition. They were as likely to tap a pine as a maple; they’d go after any old tree — without rhyme or resin. I was in second grade before I knew that none of the other kids ate turpentine on their waffles!”

My stomach made a sound like a lone wolf baying at a MoonPie.

“The business looked like it might actually turn a profit one year when some local artists learned that some of my family’s syrup made a pretty decent paint thinner. Then my mother heard someone say that ‘Fir Kills’ and they stopped making it.”

The pig went to Timmy and began to nuzzle him gently.

“I’m next in line. The business goes to me next. But you can’t make any money in maple syrup. Not anymore. Pharmaceuticals. That’s where the money is. And there are plenty of undiscovered trees in the Amazon with medicinal uses. So, I saved 100 square feet of rainforest …”

I knew the kid spent too much time on Facebook.

“… and I’ve come here to see just what kind of medicinal trees are growing there. If fate is kind, I’ll be able to tap a tree for cough syrup and reverse my family’s luck.”

“D Nd,” he finished.

It had been a hard day for all of us. We all turned in, lost in our own thoughts. I drifted off to sleep rubbing the pig briskly, hoping the friction would somehow conjure the smell of bacon.

Poor Timmy. I felt bad for the kid. I hoped everything would work out for him.

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Three

2009-04-15T22:14:00.013-04:00

Chapter Three: The Co-Ed’s Tale

If music be the food of love, then the bulb horn is, without doubt, the salty snack of malice.

We had awakened the next morning to a gentle, but persistent, rain, eaten a disappointing breakfast of tree bark and shoelaces, and resumed our hike to the bits of rainforest my companions and I had saved by virtue of our (Lil) Green Patches on Facebook.

Each step was a study in misery. It was made worse by the clown and his deplorable horn.

“Should we go left, or right?”

Honk-a!

“Do you want to stop a while and rest?”

Honk-a!

“Are you going to eat that shoelace?”

Honk-a!

The clown was genuinely beyond the pale. If I had had a weapon of any sort, I would have brought it to bear on our friend, Geo, swiftly and with a purpose. No regrets.

It was odd that, despite “rain” being right in the rainforest’s name, I was the only one who had thought to bring an umbrella. I had given this early in our march to Ms. Christy Smith-Christie, our co-ed from Berkeley, because the garland in her hair was beginning to droop.

Our native guide, Pepe, set the pace, leading us clumsily but steadily toward our own square footage of the Amazon. Smith-Christie and the boy, Timmy, followed close behind, she singing “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and he listening to his iPod. Roy “Pole Cat” Leary, our acrophobic lineman from Indiana, and I were next in formation, matching each other obscenity for obscenity in time to the throbbing of the blisters on our feet, I in four-four time and he in three-quarter. Occasionally, the Pole Cat would catch his toe on a rock or a tree root and shout a string of staccato invective in half-time until we were back in sync.

The clown brought up the rear. I hoped there were bears.

***

We stopped briefly sometime mid-afternoon to gather pebbles to suck on.

“Eet help jew from getting thirsty, Meester Bob,” Pepe explained.

Faced with such logic, we each put a few pebbles in our mouths. Smith-Christie cleaned hers first with a small bottle of Purell she had squirreled away in her macramé handbag. I accidentally swallowed one, and it was, incidentally, the best meal I’d had since we’d set out.

Shortly before what was likely dusk somewhere above our leafy ceiling, we were worn nearly to exhaustion. We all wanted to rest for the night, but the thought of sleeping on the sodden, wretched ground evoked such feelings of despair that we agreed to continue just a few minutes more.

It was at about that time that a group of native tribesmen, clad in the briefest of garments woven from local plants and festooned with sharp sticks and bones which had been forced, one way or another, through every protrusion on their faces, leapt from the foliage. They had us surrounded immediately. Each one stood no taller than my shoulder, but the spears they had leveled at us increased their personal space eightfold.

We stood toe-to-toe with their little band, no one exactly sure what to do next.

O.K. I’ll bite. … “What is the meaning of this?!” I shouted with all of the bluster of someone who has just been seized after his archenemy has commanded, “Seize them!”

The tribesmen lowered their weapons. They smiled and talked among themselves. “Walla walla walla walla …” was all I could catch. Finally, one of the gentlemen stepped forward and extended his hand in friendship.

“Ees freendly tribe, Meester Bob!” Pepe assured me.

He engaged the tribesman in an elaborate handshake — they were both Masons, as far as I know — and they spoke to each other in a sort of guttural, Creole pig-Latin/pidgin Portuguese patois. Occasionally laughing in French.

“Hounh hounh hounh HOUNH! We are so dee lucky ones!” said Pepe. “Dees meen are Waiayotta tribe. He say dey want us to veesit dare veellage. Dey eenvite us for supper.”

Now, I’ve seen enough cartoons to know that when a native person with sticks and bones in his face invites you back to his village for “supper,” there is no possible way it can end well. But, I thought, it beats sleeping in the rain digesting pebbles. I gave Pepe the “After You” gesture.

“Lay on, McBuff!” I said.

***

The Waiayotta village was not far.

It was a bustling community teeming with women and children and old people and warriors as happy as any tribe I’ve ever seen in National Geographic. A crowd of children — some with their first piercing of stick or bone — met us at the edge of the forest. They led us through a crowd of curious onlookers toward a fire pit in the center of a village of native huts.

“Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb …” the villagers chattered excitedly at each other. A little dog joined our procession, nipping at our heels and trying to hump my leg, just as any American dog would have done. It was somehow comforting to know that even here, so far from home, nature had decreed that Bob’s leg is a fine place for a dog to spill his seed.

We stopped before the fire pit and everyone became silent. From the largest hut came a wizened old man, bedecked in a headdress of ornate feathers in addition to the stick-bone combo which was so common hereabout. I was to learn later that this was Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk, the headman of the Waiayotta tribe.

“Yassin … sassin … snazzum frazzum!” intoned the headman, clapping sharply. Once. Twice.

Whatever he said, the result was that each of our party was shown to a hut to freshen up before being escorted back to the fire, now blazing magnificently.

***

We all sat around the fire, Indian style, as several bare-breasted maidens brought around covered baskets of what I hoped was edible, although I was not especially particular at that moment. I couldn’t see what was in them, but, as I had fully expected to be devoured myself, I wasn’t about to scorn a potluck.

I made eye contact with Smith-Christie and the Pole Cat. I think they were as eager as I to get at whatever was in those baskets. A brief word from the headman, and we would dig in.

“Rooby … rooby roo!” he chanted.

Oh, boy! Supper, come to poppa! I opened the basket.

Frogs. It was a basket of live frogs.

Eh! You gotta eat, I thought, and made to gnaw off a drumstick.

“Walla!” shouted the headman.

“No, Meester Bob! We not to eat dees frogs,” Pepe informed me.

“Wh— ?” I said.

“No … we leek dees frogs. We leek dee frogs and we tell stories.”

“Wh— ?” I said.

So, the tribesmen took it in turns to tell tales of rainforest derring-do of some sort or another. While we all licked frogs.

I’ll admit, they did know frogs and their psychotropic properties! Lick a green frog at the slow parts, lick a brown frog for the fight scenes. Lick a yellow frog for slow motion, and lick one of the little red frogs for rewind. It seems strange to me now, but I think they even have had a frog for subtitles, because those tribal tales were a hoot!

To tell the truth, I could have just sat there licking frogs all night, but before we knew it, the Waiayotta turned as one, their rheumy eyes beseeching us to tell them a story. My companions and I looked at each other helplessly. It was Christy Smith-Christie who rose to the occasion.

“I’ll tell you a story …” she began.

***

“I was born a small, rich child,” she said. “I wanted for nothing. My parents were the healthiest, wealthiest, most cordial parents any child could ask for. They even gave me their private number as a child so that when I was feeling especially frightened or vulnerable, I could call and leave them a complete and detailed message including my name, date and the exact nature of my fear.”

The Waiayotta must have all licked their subtitle frogs, because I could see they were getting into it.

“My parents had been hippies once. Flower Children. And they made their fortune feeding Flower People’s unsophisticated tastes. If you can strap a bag of oats to a horse’s face for a nickel, why not slap a psychedelic label on it and strap it to a hippie’s face for ten times that much? ’Tis a gift to be simple and ’tis a gift to be free, but to be seen paying top dollar for simple and free at the co-op is a really good ROI. By the time granola prices peaked when the Yuppies came around, my folks were pretty well-to-do. Hemp hemp hooray!”

“Watermelon cantaloupe watermelon cantaloupe watermelon cantaloupe,” the tribesmen murmured.

“And they taught me kindness. When I was a little girl, I collected Barbie clothes. Not the dolls … just the clothes. And every Christmas, my parents would pack them up and take them to Goodwill for the little girls with less fortunate dolls. How do you rebel against that as a child?” she asked. “Put bacon and mayonnaise on your Loveburger?”

My stomach leapt as if it were being assumed bodily into Heaven at the mention of bacon and mayonnaise, but I wanted to hear more.

“I’ll tell you how I rebelled. I started eating white bread and Miracle Whip.”

Again with the stomach.

“… I drank water from the tap and dressed in polyester blends. I ate Velveeta and gave the brie to the dog. I ate salads of Iceberg lettuce with French dressing and croutons of crumbled Saltines. … I wore fur and ate steak. Lots of steak. Rare.”

She droned on and on. I’ll confess, I sort of lost interest for a while.

“… and it was while I was in Mother Jones’s Rehab Facility, I finally realized my mistake. That’s not me! That’s not who I am! If only my parents had lived to see that day!”

“So I used every bit of power and influence I had and saved seven square feet of rainforest. Then I saved two more so the math would be easier. It is my most fervent wish that my nine square feet hold the widest tree in this forest so I can hug it. For my parents. To let them know … to let them know … that I love them. I even brought this piece of chalk in case I don’t make it all the way around on the first hug. See?”

The Pole Cat put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“Natter natter natter …” said the Waiayotta moving as one toward their spears. They were obviously still waiting to be entertained.

“Ohh! Meester Bob … we going to die now.”

I feared Pepe may be right.

But, suddenly, Geo jumped up and grabbed the tribe’s attention.

Honk-a!

Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk stayed the warriors with a wave of his hand. It seemed he wanted to see more of the clown.

Geo fished what seemed at first to be a tangle of worms out of his pocket. He put a yellow one to his lips and it grew into a stiff, yellow snake. He picked a blue one, and it grew as well. The same with a red one. Then he took the three snakes and twisted them ’round squeakily until they became — a dog!

“Ooooh!” said the Waiayotta women.

He took a red balloon, a green balloon and a yellow balloon and — squeak-a squeak-a squeak-a — made a hat which he gave ceremoniously to the headman.

“Aaaah!” said the Waiayotta warriors.

The headman then stood to his full height — about as high as my shoulder — and called earnestly, “Sassafrassarassum … rick rastardly!”

Several warriors stepped in and we were again held at spear point.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He theenk dee clown ees a god, Meester Bob. He want to keep dee clown. He say he geev you a peeg for dee clown.”

“Give him the clown,” I said.

“He say he want dee girl, too.”

“No deal!” the Pole Cat and I said, in unison, then eyed each other warily.

“He going to take deem!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” I said, “Run!”

I threw a basket of frogs on the fire, then we all ran, followed closely by the Waiayotta tribesmen who were all the more enraged because the blue balloon in their headman’s hat had already popped.

We reached a wide stream, swollen with the day’s rain. A straw bridge which the tribe had constructed had washed away without a trace. We ran further, the warriors quick at our heels. A sturdier bridge made of sticks had also washed away.

“Come on!” I said, “Next bridge!” and started to run.

Pepe grasped me firmly by the arm to arrest my flight.

“No, Meester Bob. Eet ees over. The Waiayotta never learn to beeld weeth breek.”

And then, as I live and breathe, Geo the Clown pulled a handkerchief out of his sleeve. Then another and another and another.

Honk-a!

He tossed one end of the handkerchief rope over a branch and made it fast. We all swung across the stream to safety just as the tribesmen caught up to us. The Pole Cat was the last one — other than the clown — to swing across.

“The pig! Don’t forget the pig!” I screamed.

The Pole Cat grabbed the pig and swung across the stream with it. I looked back at the far side and watched as Geo was overpowered by the natives who revered him as their god. The last I saw of him, the clown was borne away as if on some native mosh pit. I swear he winked at me. I couldn’t help the little lump I felt in my throat.

I looked at the pig we had gotten in exchange for Geo, our companion.

Oink-a! it said, and I had never hated the clown more.

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Two

2009-04-12T23:32:00.017-04:00

Chapter Two: The Lineman’s Tale

As it turns out, sleeping by the eaves of a rainforest is not nearly so restful as sleeping in the city.

In the city, I’ve always been comforted by the constant sounds of humanity. The growl of airplanes and buses carrying people about from here to yon; huge tractor trailers rumbling through the night delivering the goods that keep our nation thriving; the wail of sirens assuring me that, though someone may be in a tight spot, help is on the way. These and the numerous car alarms and the loud, drunk people across the street together lull me into a quiet, contented slumber.

This was certainly not the case in Saint San-Don Pueblo after dark. I huddled on Pepe’s miserable little cot, wrapped tightly in my shower curtain blanket and tried to sleep, despite the rainforest’s cacophony just beyond my window.

At first, there was a deafening silence. No automobiles, no sirens, no drunk people. Then, other sounds — scary sounds; the sounds of monsters — were borne to my ears on the hot breath of the forest.

I became aware of the awp-awp of what may have been some kind of frog and the eep-eep of some restless primate. There was the hoo-hoo cry of some bird which had spent all day trying to impress the female of the species with his plumage, and the disappointed why-why from the female who had just learned the crushing truth that even pretty birds are all the same in the dark.

I swear I heard the sound of distant drums deep in the forest. And I would have heard the crash of falling trees all around me too, no doubt, if anyone had been there to witness those events. Much closer to home, in the next cabin, the clown was snoring. Wheeeee-honk-a! I hated the clown.

I was finally able to drift off into a fitful sleep, knowing that somewhere out there among the sounds of the night was my square foot of rainforest and I would soon see it for myself.

***

I awoke to Pepe’s unrelenting clamor outside the cabin door.

“Meester Bob! Wake up, Meester Bob! The sun ees shining and de girl need choor blanket to take a shower! Rise and shining, please, Meester Bob!”

I grudgingly handed over my blanket and went to join my traveling companions as they scrambled to prepare a breakfast of powdered eggs and Bac-Os.

We made small talk as we ate.

“Quite a ruckus last night,” said Roy “Pole Cat” Leary, the telephone lineman.

Honk-a! agreed Geo, the clown.

“What you think, Meester Bob?” Pepe asked as he handed me a Dixie Cup of freeze-dried coffee and powdered milk.

“I could have done without the monkeys,” I said. “What kind of breakfast is this?” I asked as I regarded my powdered provender with thinly disguised loathing. “Do I eat it or snort it?”

The Pole Cat looked at me as he licked a mouthful of egg off his plate.

“It’s really not bad,” he said. “Really. Know what the worst part is?”

“Powder burns?” I asked.

Just then Timmy, the New Hampshire kid, pointed out a peculiar bird that had just emerged, scratching and pecking, from behind one of the cabins.

“WTF kind of bird is that, Mr. Pepe?” he asked our stalwart guide.

“Ah! Dat ees de macaw. Very nice bird. Very tame. He like you.”

“That’s not a macaw,” Pole Cat said. “That’s a chicken that somebody spray painted red!”

“Why don’t we eat it?” I asked.

“No, Meester Bob! Macaw is protected!”

“You can’t protect a chicken!” I said. “It’s the most common bird in the world!”

Before I could bolster my argument for eating the red chicken, Christy Smith-Christie, our co-ed companion, joined us after her shower. We quickly finished our breakfast, grabbed our gear and prepared to enter the forest to see the square feet we had each saved with our (Lil) Green Patches.

As we turned to leave the cabins, I trailed behind for a moment and scattered my uneaten breakfast to the wind, as I am sure would have been its final request.

***

We all — five people and a clown — clambered into a narrow canoe with a tiny outboard motor which hardly seemed up to the task of transporting us all upriver. With Pepe steering, we putt-putted our way into a minor tributary of the mighty Amazon beneath the rainforest’s ominous canopy just as the little bark boats from the “Tales of the Okefenokee” at Six Flags before did before Uncle Remus was deemed too un-PC and replaced by the “Haunted Mansion.”

We traveled upriver for about five hours, until our little motor sputtered to an unsurprising halt. As we began to drift back the way we had come, Pepe opened the housing to see what inside the little motor might be jiggled to coax it back to life.

“Ah! Ees chust a problem weeth thees gaskeet! I can feex! I can feex!” He pulled on the gasket for a minute or two until the motor reluctantly released its grip. “See? Ees easy! I can … ohhh! …”

That last was Pepe’s stunned reaction as the gasket somersaulted from the motor and into the river with barely a second’s layover in his hands.

“Ohhh ! …” he said again, in case we had missed it the first time or in case we had not fully comprehended the depth of his remorse. “We going to die now.”

To a man — or girl or clown — we all gave him the Stank Eye with as much conviction as possible as we drifted slowly downstream. This lasted a few awkward minutes until we heaved up on some object sticking out of the water.

“We’re saved!” shouted Smith-Christie.

“Yippee!” the boy exclaimed clapping his hands in delight.

Honk-a!

“Now, all we have to do is swim to shore and go the rest of the way on foot, right?” asked the Pole Cat.

“No, no! Look!” Pepe pointed at the water surrounding our little canoe. “Ees piranha. Dey eat jew qweek!”

“Throw ’em the clown,” I suggested.

I was really only half serious, but, surprisingly, the others agreed. It only took two of us to hoist Geo over the side, and, once the piranha were preoccupied, the rest of us grabbed what we could and high-tailed it to safety.

Now, I don’t want you to think I was thoughtless or unkind in suggesting we throw the clown overboard, because he was O.K. The piranha went straight for his oversized feet and nibbled them down to just regular feet size. He was only a few minutes behind us as we pulled ourselves ashore and began to take stock of our situation.

***

Wet and bedraggled, we sat in uncomfortable silence as, somewhere above the forest canopy, the sun set. Pepe provided a supper consisting of a bouillon cube apiece, and I chewed mine lost in solitary thought.

“I wish we had a fire,” said the Pole Cat.

“Oh … wood here too wet to burn, Meester Pole Cat,” said Pepe.

We were facing a grim, miserable night, when Christy Smith-Christie, our co-ed companion from Berkeley, really stepped up to the plate. “I’ve got something we can burn. It’s from Colombia."

I love coffee!

Hidden in her gear was a bale of ... something ... which we lit and huddled around for warmth and comfort just like our ancient ancestors must have done ages ago. As the fire guttered and sparked, the eyes of the forest watched from the darkness as we explored a newfound camaraderie.

It was Pepe who asked what we had all been thinking. “Why haff jew come here? Why did jew leef choor country to see our rainforeest, full of heedden dangers?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Roy “Pole Cat” Leary, and all eyes focused upon him.

Honk-a!

***

“My family was one of the pre-eminent families in the early days of telecommunications,” he began, wistfully. “My Great-great grandfather was Patrick O’Leary Leary, the inventor of the telegraph pole. He was in the final stages of development of a telegraph pole tall enough to stretch a cable from North America to Europe when the Transatlantic cable was laid.”

“I remember reading about that,” I said.

“His brother went insane designing a way to send Braille in Morse Code, but dammit, he did it. He did it!”

“I saw that on Discovery Channel,” said Smith-Christie.

“My great grandfather invented the Verbal Answering Automaton — the answering machine — ten years before Bell invented the telephone.”

“IDK WTF you’re talking about,” said the ten-year-old.

“My grandfather, Timothy Leary, was one of the original T’s of AT&T when it was still ATT&T.”

Honk-a!

“But I …” he turned away, his face half in shadow, “… I have let them all down. They blazed the trail. They set the standard. The best I could do is become a lineman. A common lineman.” He buried his face in his hands and began to weep softly. “A lineman. …”

“But that’s something, isn’t it?” I asked.

“I’m afraid of heights!” he said, and began to sob in earnest.

“Dat’s not so bad, Meester Pole Cat,” said Pepe. “I theenk.”

“So I used Facebook to send as many plants and anthropomorphized vegetable-children to all the friends I could, hoping that I could save just one square foot of rainforest. On that square foot, I hope, is the tallest tree in this forest. And I’m going to climb it and take this kerchief,” he showed us a kerchief, “this kerchief which was given to my great grandfather by Ma Bell herself — yeah, she was real … as real as Aunt Jemima ever was — and tie it to the topmost branch. Because I'm not afraid. Not afraid. And I’m worthy … worthy …” He really broke down then.

We all turned away and left him to his thoughts. Not because we cared, but because we were embarrassed. And the fire slowly went out. Because bales of coffee only burn for so long.

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter One

2009-04-09T17:09:00.026-04:00

Chapter One: The Eager Have Landed

Back in the ’70s when trash on our highways was making the Indians cry, I put litter in its place. I followed the words of Ranger Rick and Woodsy Owl as if they were Gospel. I gave a hoot and didn’t pollute. When aerosol hair sprays started poking a hole in the ozone, I laid off the Consort and went with the Dry Look.

In the ’80s, I just said, “No!” to drugs. When Bobby Sands went on his hunger strike, I skipped dessert for a week. I stood by the Polish people and their Solidarity movement despite how they spelled it. I said unkind things about Apartheid. When President Reagan invaded Grenada, I chained myself to a Hispanic person.

I bought a Guatemalan child for pennies a day in the ’90s. When Global Warming came around, I left the door open with the air conditioner on because, yes, maybe we can cool the whole outdoors. I think it’s up to every one of us at least to try!

And now, I’m on Facebook. In the past nine months, I have single-handedly saved — yes, SAVED! — a square foot of rainforest with my (Lil) Green Patch. I know one of my friends has said, “Pshaw! How can sending a cartoon plant to a friend on Facebook save the rainforests?” Well, Gloomy Gus, it just does, that’s all. We’re mean, we’re green, get used to it!

I was so proud of what I had done and that all my hard work had not been in vain that I decided to go have a look at my square foot of rainforest with my own eyes. I wanted to make sure that it was thriving and maybe make a few suggestions to whatever indigenous peoples live nearby as to how it might be tended in my absence.

So, after a quick trip to the Circle K for snacks and the Garden Center at Home Depot for supplies, I packed my G.I. Joe backpack and my My Little Pony lunchbox and set off for South America and my square foot of rainforest.

***

I arrived at Saint San-Don Pueblo, Brazil by seaplane, which was unfortunate because we landed at a crude, dirt airstrip about five miles inland. As my gear was being removed from the plane, Pepe, who was to be my guide out to my square foot of rainforest came and introduced himself.

Pepe was a sporting lad of no more than 19, with the haircut traditionally worn by the nearby tribes and Moe Howard. He was dressed in a well-made breechcloth and a KISS T-shirt, which he likely gained from outsiders in exchange for some tasteless native baubles or primitive cave painting. Like begets like. This jungle-boy get-up was set off by a hat which would not have looked out of place on Goober Pyle or Archie’s friend, Jughead, and a pair of Air Jordans.

“I yam so glad you could make eet, Meester Bob,” he said in an accent almost untypable. “I haff geeven jew a place een my own cah-been for tonight. I sleep outside on de dirt. Jew freshen a beet and come to de beeg cah-been for deener when de deener bell, jew hear it reeng, eh, Meester Bob?”

After Pepe left, I familiarized myself with his little cabin. There was a single cot of burlap stuffed with nettles on the uphill side of the uneven floor, complete with a blanket fashioned from an old shower curtain. There was a dressing table of sorts which housed a hand mirror with the dour warning that “objects are closer than they appear,” a rusty tin-can lid that I was evidently meant to use as a razor, and a Bible which was so old it only went through Genesis.

On the downhill side of the cabin was a bowl which was, unfortunately, meant to serve as both my washbasin and chamber pot. There was a single window with an ecru window treatment from Sears — the only touch of civilization I had seen since my arrival.

After I saw my things safely delivered to the cabin, I washed my face in muddy water, then lay on the cot to wait for the dinner bell.

I must have dozed off, because when I awoke, I was having a dream about “Mosquito Coast,” a movie I have never seen.

I realized with a start that it was no dream. A mosquito the size of a hummingbird was this close (indicating) to poking me right in the jugular with its angry proboscis and sucking the lifeblood from my veins, the malicious buzz of its horrid wings ringing in my ears. I quickly scrambled for the shotgun I now wished I had brought.

A shot rang out and the mosquito flew apart in an explosion of legs and wings. I turned to see Pepe in the doorway, a smoking .45 in his hand. “Is deener time, Meester Bob,” he said. Only then did I realize that the ringing in my ears was the dinner bell.

“Right-o!” I said, “Let’s eat!”

***

At dinner, I learned that I would not be alone in my journey into the interior of the rainforest. Others had saved portions of the rainforest through their own (Lil) Green Patches, as well, and each had a reason to visit his or her patch, just I had mine.

In addition to myself, to my right at the dinner table was Roy “Pole Cat” Leary, a telephone lineman from Indiana. He came from a long line of telephone and telegraph pioneers. His grandfather had been the 911 operator when Alexander Graham Bell spilled acid on himself. Bell had said, “Watson … come here … I need you!” It had been Leary’s grandfather who said, “Stay on the line, sir, help is on the way.” But I could tell the Pole Cat was hiding something. ...

To my left was Christy Smith-Christie, A Berkeley co-ed and heir to the Smith-Christie granola fortune. Her father had made his fortune as the discoverer of the secret formulas for the Raisin Arizona, Haight-Ashberry, and Willow-the-Crisp lines of trail mix. Secrets which ultimately died with him when he was mysteriously killed in an oat roller.

Next to Smith-Christie was Timmy, a ten-year-old boy from New Hampshire. His parents were itinerant tree-tappers, moving about New England from season to season tapping maple trees for their syrup. Unfortunately, they were not the swiftest people, in body or mind, and the best trees were usually gone before they could get all their sapping gear together. They often had to settle for oak or poplar trees, the sap of which made for pretty crappy syrup.

Then, at the far end of the table, was the clown. Bingo was his name, but we just called him clap-clap-clap-G-O, or Geo for short. I don’t know what his story was, because he communicated only through the use of a loathsome bulb horn. I hated the clown right from the start.

Dinner consisted of whatever Pepe had been able to “borrow” from our packs while we rested. I had two Slim Jims, a handful of granola with maple syrup and a drumstick from a rubber chicken.

Pepe leaned over to me, munching on a Rice Krispy Treat I had gotten at the Circle K back home. “Ees exciting, eh, Meester Bob? You geet much sleep tonight. Tomorrow we go see your rainforeest. I know you like!”

“I’m sure I will,” I thought as I swizzled my Slim Jim in the last of the maple syrup. “I’m sure I will.”

This, That, and the Mother Thing.

2009-03-26T11:33:00.003-04:00

Busy day here in the city on the … Peachtree.

It was rainy and miserable out, sure, but March 25th is my mother’s birthday. My mother is one of the first people I ever met. I’ve known her all my life. And if she has a birthday, by golly, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night shall stay me from meeting her for supper. The rush hour traffic on the Downtown Connector stayed me for a little while, but I made it up to Marietta with a song in my heart. Eventually.

We took the old girl to Red Lobster. For seafood, obviously.

I had crab legs and stuffed flounder. I’m not a big fish guy. Fishies kind of gross me out, but doesn’t “stuffed flounder” sound good?

Turns out, once I got it, and looked at its flat fishiness, all I could think of was how those flounders just sit there with both eyes on the same side of their ... heads? ... and how ugly they are. I don’t like to eat ugly. (Despite what you may have heard.)

And, then my mind wandered to the “stuffed” part. What do you stuff a flounder with? In my mind, I was eating a flat, ugly fish filled with flounder poop. It didn’t taste bad, but the very act of eating it conjured nightmarish visions of the undersea world and the terrifying creatures it spawns.

Loved those crab legs, though.

Sure, a crab is nothing more than a great big tick that lives in the water, but they sure are tasty. In fact, I look forward to my mother’s birthday all year. It’s the one day that I have crabs and really enjoy it.

And, Oh! the Calamari! Heaven! All the big, round chewy parts, not the stringy parts with the suckers. It used to bother me to eat cephalopods because they are so clever. That was before I realized how good they tasted. Now I can turn a blind eye.

Same with pigs. They are some dang smart animals. Unfortunately for them, they are smart on the outside, but flavorful on the inside. There probably isn’t a part of the pig that that doesn’t taste good to somebody.

Shakespeare said that! Or maybe it was Bacon.

Upon reflection, maybe we should just eat clowns. They’re about as smart as squids, but way scarier. And nobody would miss a clown if he were to … disappear. But, dammit, they taste funny.

I digress. We had a grand time with me Mudda on her sumthinty-sumthith birthday. I hope she enjoyed herself. I can hardly wait until next year.

Things You Never Cared to Know About Me (From Facebook)

2009-03-02T17:27:00.012-05:00

ABC’s About Me

A - AGE:
Twenty-one. Twice. Plus one.

B - BED SIZE:
It’s nine feet high and six feet wide and soft as a downy chick. Holds eight kids, four hound dogs and a piggy we stole from the shed.

C - CHORE YOU HATE?
Dinah. Never could stand her.

D - DOGS NAME?
Cat

E - ESSENTIAL DAILY ITEMS?
Corkscrew

F - FAVORITE COLOR?
Black. And Decker

G - GOLD OR SILVER?
Don’t really care. As I said back in ’49, “What’s the Rush?”

H - HEIGHT?
4’19”

I - INSTRUMENTS YOU PLAY?
Speculum

J - JOB TITLE?
Creative Practitioner

K - KIDS?
Not that I know of. But I haven’t followed up on every toilet seat and swimming pool in town.

L - LIVING ARRANGEMENTS?
I’ll keep doing what I’m doing until I die, then God gets me. Really only a verbal agreement.

M - MOM'S NAME?
Mumford

N - NICKNAME?
The Keyster; The Weasel; Hey, Robe’t!

O - OVERNIGHT HOSPITAL STAY OTHER THAN BIRTH?
I’ve never given birth. But I have had overnight stays in the hospital as various body parts were removed, repaired or improved upon.

P - PET PEEVES?
No, cats. Geez!

Q - QUOTE FROM A MOVIE?
I’m partial to silent movies, so it’s difficult to say. I guess “Meanwhile …” is as good as any.

R - RIGHT OR LEFT HANDED?
Right, usually. Left if I’m in the mood for something a little more exotic.

S - SIBLINGS?
I’m the middle child of twins.

T - TIME YOU WAKE UP?
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow until the last syllable of recorded time.

U - UNDERWEAR?
We covered that in the last quiz.

V - VEGETABLE YOU DISLIKE?
Terri Schiavo. Too needy.

W - WAYS YOU RUN LATE?
I do not run at all. I’m liable to perspire.

X - X-Rays You've Had?
Everything from the tippy-top of my graying head to the bottom of my flat little feet.

Y - YUMMY FOOD YOU MAKE?
I pour a mean shot of Jager.

Z - ZOO FAVORITES?
San Francisco.

______

Finish the Sentence

1. I've come to realize that my last kiss … was probably just that.

2. I am listening to … to the voices in my head.

3. I talk … to the voices in my head.

4. I love … somebody special, but I don’t know if she’s real.

5. My first real kiss … see #1.

6. Love is … a monkey splattered thing.

7. Marriage is … like Mt. Everest. You want to climb it because it’s there, but lots of people die trying to reach the top.

8. Somewhere, someone is thinking … what does this switch do?

9. I'll always … say “never.” Well … sometimes I won’t.

10. The last time I really cried was because … I couldn’t reach my medication in time.

11. My cell phone … never rings.

12. When I wake up in the morning … I greet the day with the suspicion it deserves.

13. Before I go to bed … I drink a quart of gin from a cracked jelly jar to make my troubles seem far away.

14. Right now I am thinking about … how chilly it is despite the sunshine and wonder, if I go out, if it is right to bare arms.

15. I get on MySpace … less and less.

16. Today I … will eat and drink.

17. Tomorrow I will … be Mary.

18. I really want to be … in the driver’s seat of a 1976 Cordoba. Then nothing could harm me.

19. I am allergic to … the plants that make me sneeze and the antibiotics that will kill me.

20. I am annoyed by … stupid people and loud children in restaurants.

21. One food I refuse to eat is … I will not tell you my Kryptonite.

22. The most recent thing I've learned is … don’t wonder what this switch does.

23. The number one thing on my bucket list is … I don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet your bucket list pails in comparison.

24. Something I've always wanted to learn to do is … the Charleston.

25. I have a high tolerance for … rejection.

26. I have a low tolerance for … acceptance.

27. My wish … is to become a blonde or dye trying.

28. One person I would happily make a fool out of myself if I ever saw in person … is the Sham Wow guy. I don’t think it would matter a whit.

______

Bob Trivia

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Yes. Bob.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
1975. And 1989. O.K. … O.K. … and 1995.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
I used to. Should have digitized it when it was still good. (No worries! I left myself clear samples so I can reproduce my 1989 handwriting when I can afford Fontographer again.)

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Gravy

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No. But according to Wikipedia, I make about 20 million sperm per pop. So it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
It depends on which other person I was. Statistically, I’d say no. But I’m always glad to meet an outlier.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?
I talk a good game, but I rarely reach sarcasm.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
I hope not. If I do, that was a lot of pain for nothing. I do not vomit blood lightly.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Not anymore. Old people’s bones don’t heal well.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Flash Gordon.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Yes. If I don’t, the big Red Goose will peck my eyes out and Buster Brown will weep.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Vanilla. Chocolate if I am feeling especially adventurous.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Their speed and distance.

15. RED OR PINK?
Burgundy

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I don't know ... my indecicisiveness?

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Hard to say. I've got pretty good aim.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?
Everyone in the world? No. I’ll be pushing it to think of 25 people.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
N/A. Now ask me “Boxers or Briefs?”

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells. From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. When I’m through, I’m going to tinkle tinkle tinkle in the icy air of night.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
I had hoped that we'd moved beyond such superficial judgments. I'm just glad I can stay inside the lines.

23. FAVORITE SMELL?
It certainly isn’t!

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
A friend in need. Indeed.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Bass fishing. If you catch a viola, you have to throw it back.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Brown and white. Soon to be white and brown. Without the brown.

28. EYE COLOR?
Hazel. I've always had an affinity for Shirley Booth.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
No. Just verbal agreements.

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Grandma's.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Is there a difference?

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
“The Freshman” with Harold Lloyd

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
I am not wearing a shirt. As soon as I finish this, I will put on a gray polo shirt so’s I look good on camera.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
I do not wear makeup.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
It depends on a number of factors. If you really want to know, send me your e-mail address and I’ll send you the spreadsheet with my criteria. Beyond that, I'd have to say I take it on a case by case basis.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
I don’t even know who I’m going to tag.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
See #37

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Just finished a Chrichton book.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
I don’t use a mouse. Or pad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
Everything from channel 3 to channel 75 in 3-second intervals. Over and over.

42. FAVORITE SOUND(S):
I like white noise. Or that CD of sounds from the womb. “Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh …” That really takes me back.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
No.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Define “Home.”

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I have never tried to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue, but several people have said I probably could.

46 WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee. I can’t say I killed me a b’ar when I was only three. I was at least 12. And the bear was sick.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
I want to be surprised.

48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE/SIGNIFICANT OTHER?
My “others” are not significant. Not anymore. I’ve been down that road. Learned that lesson.

______

Twenty-Five Things About Me.

1. Tuna makes me vomit. The sight, the smell, the very thought of it.

2. I don’t have much feeling in the middle finger of my right hand because of the way the meat got crammed back in after I cut the crap out of it in the third grade. Carpal tunnel syndrome has largely made that irrelevant now that several other fingers on that hand are numb. No, wait, I’m having a stroke.

Nope. Not a stroke. Dang! Now I’ve got to think of 23 more.

3. An American bald eagle, the proud symbol of our great nation, once took a dump on my shoe.

4. I spent six months in the ‘80s looking like Ronald McDonald because I thought Sun In would bring out my “Natural Blond Highlights.”

5. It took me years to get over moving away from Tennessee at age 5. I don’t like living there as an adult, but it was a great place to grow up and spend my summers as a child.

6. My grandfather was larger than life to me, and I shadowed him like a little Mini-Me long before the term was even invented. I was in High School before I realized that he could be wrong sometimes.

7. I wanted to get a degree in Linguistics, but I couldn’t cut it. Same with Art School.

8. I almost died in 2008 after complications from an appendectomy. I was out of action for about four months, lost 40 pounds and was unable to walk at the end. After a week in the hospital and some physical therapy, I’m pretty much back to normal, but I haven’t tried running yet.

9. I began exploring some woods near my house, an oasis in the suburbs, with a friend when I was 12. We made elaborate maps, mythologies, languages and a detailed backstory for the little wood and continued to do so until we were at least 30. (After age 20 or so, we had moved away so we didn’t go there. It was pretty much all on paper by then.)

10. I went to High School with the mother from the AT&T Rollover Minutes commercials currently running and have wanted to marry her since I was 14. Probably not going to happen.

11. I spent three winters in Upstate New York, way north of Albany. I hope never to drive in snow again.

12. I planned to get married and have kids by 25, but it never really gelled. I was engaged twice. Once in kindergarten, once at 18, and would have married in my early 20s, but she didn’t want to get married. Until she ran off with a friend of mine. That took longer to get over than being uprooted from Tennessee, and I might never completely heal. Nevertheless, if I found somebody who made me laugh, I’d be smitten all over again.

13. As an editor in the early ’90s I once edited an entire week of television programming in Portugese, which I don’t speak. It was easier than you’d think.

14. I can make my mother pee just my saying something funny.

15. I wanted to be a stand-up comedian in the late ’80s, but I’m better at writing funny than talking funny.

16. Although I never had kids, my sister had six, and I did a lot of hands-on uncling when they were young. #3 took her first unaided step to ME. Kids like me.

17. I think I have compassion for those less fortunate than myself, but for people of equal fortune, I won’t spare the sarcasm if they deserve it.

18. I clean up nice, but I believe in comfortable footwear. I can throw on a tie and fit in comfortably with corporate types, but if I talk enough, they might realize I have an unorthodox world view.

19. I want to be a cartoon voice.

20. I like the popular culture of the 1910s & 1920s, although I require indoor plumbing, air conditioning and I wouldn’t fit in at all well during prohibition.

21. I am liked by animals, kids and old people. Parents like me and I could talk for hours with your grandparents.

22. When people misuse irregular verbs, I want to shoot them. “I’m going to lay down,” and “I should have went …” are particularly heinous.

23. I spoke with a Southern accent until I was a teen. Once I could drive and could leave the suburbs at will, I developed the Cosmopolitan patois you hear today. I can easily slip back into my native Appalachian dialect, and I still sound like a goober when I talk to my family.

24. I have probably thrown up more Jagermeister than most people consume in a lifetime.

O.K. Number 25. I’d better make this count.

25. I was once abducted by aliens in their desperate bid to repopulate their home planet. There is now a world somewhere in the Sagittarius Arm of our galaxy entirely populated by people with big noses, no chin and distinguished white streaks.

*WARNING: Some statements may be a fabrication.

______

50 More Factoids About Bob

1. WHAT TIME DID YOU GET UP THIS MORNING?
Wednesday.

2. HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR STEAK?
Medium where.

3. WHAT WAS THE LAST FILM YOU SAW AT THE CINEMA?
Birth of a Nation.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW?
ALF; TJ Hooker; The Monkees.

5. IF YOU COULD LIVE ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD WHERE WOULD IT BE?
In the middle.

6. WHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST?
Vodka. In a coffee mug.

7. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CUISINE?
Melissa.

8. WHAT FOODS DO YOU DISLIKE?
I will not tell you my Kryptonite.

9. FAVORITE PLACE TO EAT?
Milwaukee.

10. FAVORITE DRESSING?
A little gauze over a generous helping of Merthiolate.

11.WHAT KIND OF VEHICLE DO YOU DRIVE?
Model Tee-Tee.

12. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE CLOTHES?
Blue and gray. Leaning more toward the gray.

13. WHERE WOULD YOU VISIT IF YOU HAD THE CHANCE?
In the living room.

14. CUP 1/2 EMPTY OR 1/2 FULL?
Half empty. But I’ve refilled it twice already.

15. WHERE WOULD YOU WANT TO RETIRE?
At a safe distance from the highway.

16. FAVORITE TIME OF DAY?
4:56 p.m., September 25, 1977

17. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
In the hospital.

18. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH?
Cow tipping (always at least 20%)

19. WHO DO YOU THINK WILL NOT TAG YOU BACK?
Howard Cosell

20. PERSON YOU EXPECT TO TAG YOU BACK FIRST?
Chico. Maybe the Man.

21. WHO ARE YOU MOST CURIOUS ABOUT THEIR RESPONSES TO THIS?
The Lebanese.

22. BIRD WATCHER?
Only in traffic.

23. ARE YOU A MORNING PERSON OR A NIGHT PERSON?
I like 4:56 p.m., September 25, 1977

24. PETS?
Not on a first date.

25. ANY NEW AND EXCITING NEWS THAT YOU'D LIKE TO SHARE?
Dewey Wins!

26. WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU WERE LITTLE?
A bastard.

27. WHAT IS YOUR BEST CHILDHOOD MEMORY?
That time I had amnesia.

28. ARE YOU A CAT OR DOG PERSON?
No, just a regular person.

29. ARE YOU MARRIED?
To what?

30. ALWAYS WEAR YOUR SEAT BELT?
No. Not in the house.

31. BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT?
No, it’s always been on purpose.

32. ANY PET PEEVES?
No, cats. Geez!

33. FAVORITE PIZZA TOPPING?
Whipped cream. With a pepperoni on top. (Kool Whip and baloney will do in a pinch.)

34. FAVORITE FLOWER?
Forget-me ... something.

35. FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
White.

36. FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT?
7-11

37. HOW MANY TIMES DID YOU FAIL YOUR DRIVER'S TEST?
All of them.

38. WHO DID YOU TALK TO FIRST THIS MORNING?
The voices in my head.

39. WHICH STORE WOULD YOU CHOOSE TO MAX OUT YOUR CREDIT CARD?
Inserection. And I didn’t “choose.”

40. DO ANYTHING SPONTANEOUS LATELY?
No. But I plan to tomorrow.

41. LIKE YOUR JOB?
That’s not funny.

42. BROCCOLI?
Rutabaga?

43. WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE VACATION?
The middle one.

44. LAST PERSON YOU WENT OUT TO DINNER WITH?
The Sham Wow guy. I had to bite my tongue the whole night.

45. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The voices in my head.

46. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
I thought we’d moved beyond such petty distinctions.

47. HOW MANY TATTOOS DO YOU HAVE?
One. It’s a life-size picture of me, captured in exquisite detail.

48.HOW MANY ARE YOU TAGGING FOR THIS QUIZ?
About a million.

49. COFFEE DRINKER?
No, I snort Folgers with flavor crystals.

49. WHAT TIME DID YOU FINISH THIS QUIZ? 4:56 p.m., September 25, 1977

______

I’ve Come to Realize
1. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY CHEST ... has a rusty lock and there was never any “hope” in it to begin with.

2. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY JOB ... is manly, yes. But I like it, too.

3. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT WHEN I’M DRIVING ... I ain’t got that swing and it don’t mean a thing. And I can say “wood” and nobody snickers.

4. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT I NEED ... Ahhh! Nevermind. Just went.

5. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT I HAVE lost … And I wasn’t even playing.

6. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT I HATE IT when … I come to realize that I hate things.

7. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT IF I’M DRUNK … it’s either a weekend or a weak day.

8. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MONEY … all comes out in the wash.

9. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT CERTAIN PEOPLE … aren’t that certain someone. And neither is anybody else.

10. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT I’LL ALWAYS … have Paris. I try scrubbing …

11. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY SIBLING(s) … can have her rivalry all to herself.

12. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY MOM … And I’ve realized it over and over.

13. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY CELL PHONE … is set on vibrate. If I’d known that, I would have put it in a different pocket.

14. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT WHEN I WOKE UP THIS morning … I wasn’t in Kansas. Again. Maybe tomorrow.

15. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT LAST NIGHT BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP … sheep were counting me.

16. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT RIGHT NOW I AM THINKING … I’ve come to realize that right now I am thinking … I’ve come to realize that right now I am thinking …

17. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY DAD … is just breaking trail. I’ll look like that in 30 years, too.

18. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT WHEN I GET ON FACEBOOK … everyone on MySpace breathes a sigh of relief.

19. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT TODAY … I am a man. The final operation is next week.

20. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT TONIGHT … tonight is kind of special. (I’ve got no problem with low-brow humor.)

21. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT TOMORROW … and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

22. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT I REALLY WANT TO … nah! I did it once. Didn’t like it. Left a taste.

23. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT THE PERSON WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO REPOST THIS IS … not Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. I worked with Jack Kennedy. And it’s not Jack Kennedy.

24. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT life … is just a dole of queries.

25. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT THIS WEEKEND WILL … be two days out of my life that I’ll never remember. God willing.

26. I’VE REALIZED THE BEST MUSIC TO LISTEN TO WHEN I AM UPSET … is the beat of a different rum.

27. I’VE COME TO REALIZE THAT MY friends … are … hey, fellers! Where’d everybody go?

28. I’VE COME TO REALIZE NEVER PLAN TO RENEW YOUR VOWS WHEN YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED 20 YEARS ... because at that age, “I doo-doo” is far more important than “I do.”

______

It's Friday, I’m Bored.

1. WHAT’S THE LAST THING YOU PUT IN YOUR MOUTH?
Nuff’m. Ain’t nuff’m in my mouf. See?

2. HAVE YOU EVER KISSED ANYONE NAMED MATTHEW?
No. But I made out with Luke and John under the bleachers once.

3. WHERE WAS YOUR PROFILE PICTURE TAKEN?
In the police station. Prints are also available.

4. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU RODE IN A CAR WITH UNDER THE AGE OF 20?
How should I know? That was 23 years ago, for God’s sake.

5. CAN YOU PLAY GUITAR HERO?
Sure. If I see a guitar in distress. (Don’t fret! I’ll save you! Grab onto this chord!)

6. LAST TIME YOU WALKED FURTHER THAN A BLOCK?
4:56 p.m., September 25, 1977

7. NAME SOMEONE THAT MADE YOU LAUGH TODAY?
Dennis the Menace. That rascal!

8. HOW LATE DID YOU STAY UP LAST NIGHT AND WHY?
Until 36:00 Wednesday. Because I do a lot of Crack.

9. IF YOU COULD MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE, WOULD YOU?
I wouldn’t move somewhere else. I like somewhere else just where it is. I’d got there instead.

10. EVER BEEN KISSED UNDER FIREWORKS?
Fireworks, no. At gunpoint, yes.

11. DO YOU BELIEVE EXES CAN BE FRIENDS?
I don’t know. All my friends are Ohs.

12. DO YOU LIKE CALLING OR TEXTING BETTER?
Sure do! And when I can text better, I’ll let you know.

13. HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT DIET DR PEPPER?
That’s for people who drink Dr Pepper but aren’t necessarily proud.

14. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED REALLY HARD?
It’s always hard. Crying, I mean.

15. WHERE IS YOUR BIOLOGICAL FATHER RIGHT NOW?
I don’t know. We buried him. I guess he’s still digging.

16. WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT NOW?
I’m playing doubles tennis with Oprah Winfrey and the Smother’s Brothers. What the deuce? What kind of question is that?

17. WHAT BED DID YOU SLEEP IN LAST NIGHT?
Was it a water bed, or was that just me?

18. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING SOMEONE BOUGHT FOR YOU?
A Pony. Except it wasn’t a Pony, it was a Mule. With a kilo of heroin. In its Ass.

19. WHO TOOK YOUR PROFILE PICTURE?
Ansel Adams. Or Annie Leibovitz. I don’t remember. I’d been drinking.

20. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TOOK A PICTURE OF?
I don’t take pictures. I draw flies. Yuk yuk yuk yuk!

21. WAS YESTERDAY BETTER THAN TODAY?
Ask me tomorrow.

22. CAN YOU LIVE A DAY WITHOUT TV?
TV ruins your mind and makes ... what was the question?

23. ARE YOU A BAD INFLUENCE?
If I’ve ever influenced anyone in any way, I would be very surprised.

24. WHAT ITEMS COULD YOU NOT GO WITHOUT DURING THE DAY?
Red tipped cane. I use it so when I tap dance like Fred Astaire it doesn’t matter whether or not it makes any noise.

25. WOULD YOU SHARE A DRINK WITH A STRANGER?
Tricky question. I would not share a first drink. After the second drink, there are no strangers.

26. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU VISITED IN THE HOSPITAL?
Ted Kennedy. He asked about you.

27. WHAT DOES THE LAST TEXT MESSAGE IN YOUR INBOX SAY?
Go to #30 and you tell me!

28. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
Why does every survey want to know what I’m wearing? I’m no trendsetter.

29. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN PULLED OVER BY THE POLICE?
None. I eat Hershey’s Kisses in the car and when I pass a sign that says, “Speed Checked by Detection Services,” I throw the foil out the window to confuse the radar. But I almost got fined for littering once.

30. IF WE WERE TO LOOK IN YOUR INBOX, WHAT WOULD WE FIND?
See #27.

31. HAS ANYONE EVER CALLED YOU PERFECT BEFORE?
Mister Rogers says everybody’s fine. Hear that? I am *fine*!

32. WHAT SONG IS STUCK IN YOUR HEAD?
Deutschland Uber Alles

33. SOMEONE KNOCKS ON YOUR WINDOW AT 2 AM, WHO DO YOU WANT IT TO BE?
I love these! Little Old Lady. Little Old Lady Who? I didn’t know you could yodel! Yuk yuk yuk yuk!

34. WHO WAS YOUR LAST MISSED CALL ON YOUR PHONE?
My grandmother. I really miss her calls.

35. CAN YOU HANDLE THE TRUTH?
If I’m wearing protection.

36. WHAT WAS THE LAST BOOK YOU READ?
Roget’s Thesaurus. It was a wonderful, fantastic, magnificent, terrific read!

37. IS THERE SOMETHING YOU ALWAYS WEAR?
A knowing look and a rakish smile.

38. HAVE YOU EVER CRAWLED THROUGH A WINDOW?
Yep. Doors, too.

39. WHAT’S SOMETHING THAT CAN ALWAYS MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER?
Carter’s Little Liver Pills. And Tequila.

40. WHAT DO YOU WANT RIGHT NOW?
I want to wash that gray right out of my hair. With Tequila.

41. LOOK BEHIND YOU, WHAT DO YOU SEE?
Oh, no! I’m not falling for that one again.

42. HAVE YOU EVER WORKED IN A FOOD PLACE?
Yep. Most of the premier companies in the Southeast have had their best creative conceived in my bar.

43. COULD YOU ANSWER ALL OF THESE QUESTIONS HONESTLY?
Sure did! May God strike me ...

______

Y’all Know the Drill ...

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR ABOUT MAKING A TOTAL COMMITMENT?
Total reciprocation.

HOW WAS LAST NIGHT OVERALL?
The mercury was falling and the pressure was rising.

IS THERE ANYTHING YOU NEED TO SAY TO SOMEONE?
To the owner of the blue Crown Vic: You left your lights on.

IS THERE ONE PERSON YOU LOOK AT AND AUTOMATICALLY SMILE?
My parole officer.

HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT WHEN YOU'RE OLDER?
Too late.

WOULD YOU RATHER GO CAMPING OR TO A NICE HOTEL?
I’d like to pull the RV up to the Ritz and drop an extension cord. And slip somebody a sawbuck to put a chocolate on my pillow.

HAVE YOU EVER RECEIVED A MYSPACE MESSAGE THAT MADE YOU CRY?
Yes. Tom said he was deleting me because I was too needy.

DO YOU GIVE OUT SECOND CHANCES TOO EASILY?
No. And that’s the last time I’m going to tell you.

HAVE YOU EVER MET SOMEONE WHO TURNED OUT TO BE AMAZING?
That Octomom sure was an eye-opener.

YOU'RE LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH THE PERSON YOU LAST KISSED, PROBLEMS?
Yes. She died in 1986.

ARE YOUR NAILS PAINTED?
Nope. But my stigmata are.

ARE YOU OKAY WITH MAKING A TOTAL FOOL OF YOURSELF?
You’d think so, wouldn’t you?

WHERE IS THE PERSON YOU LAST KISSED AT THIS MOMENT?
Locked in that room ... remember?

IS THERE SOMEONE YOU WOULDN'T MIND KISSING RIGHT NOW?
Clara Bow. She’s got It. And I gave it to her.

YOUR LAST MISSED CALL, WOULD YOU KISS THEM?
No. But their call is important to me.

WHAT'S ON YOUR WRISTS RIGHT NOW?
Nothing really, so I’ll just say something off the cuff.

DO YOU THINK YOU'LL HAVE THE SAME BEST FRIEND A YEAR FROM NOW?
Yeah. Unless the judge signs that restraining order.

DO YOU LIKE TO TAKE WALKS?
No, but I like to drive on the sidewalk.

HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT GETTING YOUR TONGUE PIERCED?
If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.

ARE YOU CURRENTLY WANTING ANY PIERCINGS OR TATTOOS?
I want to have my bellybutton pierced. But not that sissy way. I want to do mine back to front.

DO YOU HAVE A BROTHER?
If I did, I’ll bet he wouldn’t be heavy.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU SPOKE TO ON THE PHONE?
Grover Cleveland. And the phone wasn’t even plugged in!

HAVE YOU EVER DRIVEN WITHOUT A LICENSE?
I drive with a medical license. I’ve never had a moving violation, but once I ran a red light and got sued for malpractice.

DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THE DATE OF YOUR DEATH?
Yeah. Shoot!

COULD YOU GO A WHOLE YEAR WITHOUT CURSING?
Damn straight!

ARE YOU HAPPY WITH THE WAY THINGS ARE GOING?
I wish it would come left 20 degrees.

HAS ANYONE EVER CALLED YOU PERFECT BEFORE?
No ... they made a few mistakes.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON TO TELL YOU THAT YOU WERE IMPORTANT?
Mr. Rogers.

DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE WHO YOU CAN BE YOUR COMPLETE SELF AROUND?
Sure do. If I didn’t come clean, he wouldn’t give me the crazy pills.

DOES IT MATTER TO YOU IF YOUR BOYFRIEND/GIRLFRIEND SMOKES?
I don’t care if she burns.

DO YOU THINK SOMEONE IS THINKING ABOUT YOU RIGHT NOW?
About a half dozen bill collectors.

WHEN YOU'RE BORED AT WORK, WHAT DO YOU USUALLY DO?
Sit back and wait to be “right sized.”

HOW WOULD YOUR PARENTS REACT IF YOU GOT A TATTOO?
They’re cool. If I got one, I’d get one of Herve Villechaize saying, “De plane! De plane!” That would be ironic, huh?

DO YOU GET ALONG BETTER WITH YOUR MOM OR YOUR DAD?
Tough call. My father gave me a credit card, but my mother breast fed me. Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free?

DO YOU CARRY A PURSE?
I do not. But I get weekly estrogen shots, so it’s only a matter of time.

WHO OR WHAT WAS THE LAST PERSON/THING YOU HUGGED?
Yep. Probably so.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD YOUR HEART BROKEN?
Oh, heart broken, spleen vented, kidney beaned, gall stoned, loins girded. I’ve had all that stuff.

HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT OF HAVING PLASTIC SURGERY?
I’m seriously considering paper surgery. Better on the environment.

ONCE A CHEATER, ALWAYS A CHEATER?
A leopard can’t change its spots. I reckon that goes for cheaters, too.

WHAT WOULD YOUR LAST NAME BE IF YOU MARRIED THE LAST PERSON YOU TEXTED?
Dot Com.

HOW OFTEN DO YOU STRAIGHTEN YOUR HAIR?
I just got it bent! Bent hair? Done that!

DO YOU LOOK DECENT WHEN YOU WAKE UP?
No, I look sharp.

DO YOU GET JEALOUS EASILY?
Only if I have a reason. And, brother, have I had reasons!

WHAT SHOULD YOU BE DOING?
I should be counting last night’s lottery winnings. But I ain’t!

DESCRIBE HOW YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW IN ONE WORD.
Sesquipedalian.

WERE YOU MAD WHEN YOU WOKE UP THIS MORNING?
As a hatter!

IS THERE ANYBODY YOU WISH YOU COULD BE SPENDING TIME WITH RIGHT NOW?
I wouldn’t mind seeing if Madge was still soaking in it.

HAS ANYONE WALKED OUT OF YOUR LIFE RECENTLY?
No, they all run. Funny about that.

______

WHAT WAS THE LAST BOOK YOU'VE READ?
“The Egyptian Book of the Dead” or maybe something by Martha Stewart.

WHAT WAS THE LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
“Village of the Damned” and “Lassie Come Home.” Double feature.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SANG JINGLE BELLS?
1969. That was the year I declared Jihad on all Christmas songs.

IF YOU GOT TO BE THE AGE YOU ARE IN ANY YEAR WHAT YEAR WOULD IT BE?
You means I got’s a choice?

WHAT’S YOUR NAME?
I’m Bob. It’s 2009. The president is Obama. Geez! I’ve been down this road before.

DO YOU LIKE MARSHMALLOWS?
You’d like me to say, “Yes, sir, and I’d like S’more.” But I don’t and I won’t.

WHAT’S SOMETHING THAT PISSES YOU OFF?
Bad punctuation. [It’s O.K. I fixed it.]

WHAT’S YOUR PET PEEVE ABOUT YOURSELF?
That I always answer surveys truthfully. No matter what. And that’s the God’s honest truth. Prolly.

HOW DO YOU SPELL DOUGHNUTS/DONUTS?
Sorry. Couldn’t quite make out the question. My eyes were glazed.

DO YOU HAVE A CAT?
Why? You want one?

HOW MANY MORE DAYS UNTIL SCHOOL STARTS?
It’s already started, darlin’. I got my schoolin’ on the streets. Where does that street go? I been here 50 years and I ain’t seen it go nowhere. Yuk yuk yuk!

WHERE ARE YOU?
I’m Bob. It’s 2009. The president is Obama. Geez! I’ve been down this road before. Don’t tell me this is Kansas!

DO YOU HAVE ANY CURRENT CUTS OR BRUISES?
I had a nasty hematoma yesterday, I have a few lacerations today, and tomorrow I expect to lose a digit.

WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU WENT TO THE BEACH?
Didn’t you see me in that Monet pic?

WHO'S THE LAST FRIEND YOU SAW?
I don’t know. I asked for volunteers ...

WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST FAVORITE BAND?
I don’t know. I went to Northern Europe last year. Maybe a Lapp Band?

ARE YOU CHEWING GUM RIGHT NOW?
No. But I think I brought up a cud. So I think I’ll spit.

NOW?
Swallow?

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NEXT?
Spit?

Bob Bob Bobbing Along

2009-02-15T14:34:00.014-05:00

Chapter I: Oh, I'm a riot!

There are two kinds of people in this world. Those I care about and those I don’t. O.K. … maybe three kinds. Those I have an emotional stake in – relatives, for example – those I care about and those I don’t. Maybe even four kinds. Those I have an emotional stake in, those I care about, those I don’t, and those I loathe or mildly dislike.

There are four kinds of people in this world. I don’t remember where I was going with that, but it’s true.

In my own circle of friends, some of whom I’ve known for 30 years, I’ve been “The Funny One.” I’m cynical, acerbic, yet passive-aggressive in my assessment of my peers. I’m the one who sits in the back with equally cynical friends and makes sarcastic comments about people I don’t care about. I’m the one they trot out at the parties to yuk it up. Like a monkey on a leash.

I remember one time I went down to Florida with a girlfriend to “meet the family.” And her friends. Oh! Her friends!

I guess the friends had already heard of me from somebody we knew in common. So, we’re chillin’ in their place and the lady says, “I hear you’re funny. Say something funny.”

Now, that will bring you up short right there. But the way she was sitting caused her hippie, New-Age caftan to ride up and I’m looking right at her cooter, pardon the expression. Sure, I could say something funny. But she wouldn’t like it.

In retrospect, I probably didn’t pass muster with the Florida friends.

Chapter II: I’m Cool

Oh, yes I am!

Thank God my family was tolerant! The grownups had no frame of reference for my peculiarities, but they jumped right in there and played along. Once he became a single parent, my father – the guy with the math degree – sewed the Star Trek emblems on my shirts, bless his heart. Try wearing a Star Trek outfit to school every day in the sixth grade and see how many people think you’re “cool.” It’s a number somewhere close to zero, I can tell you that.

He painted one of the walls in my room black so it would look like I had a window to space. It didn’t. It made the room look terribly dark and small. If I lived in it today, I’d have to up my medication. When I got old and moved out, it took four coats of paint to cover it up. He said he’d never do that again.

He didn’t say anything when I dressed in my Honor Band uniform and walked around the neighborhood with my baritone pretending I was musical and important. He never told me I didn’t look like John Phillip Sousa, but more like an organ grinder’s monkey. Which I did.

My mother – ever busy expanding her consciousness – encouraged my individuality. Never paid attention to it, but encouraged it, nonetheless. My father patiently endured my robust individuality.

We were a “differently functional” family.

By high school, my mother got me into a school where everyone was unique in their own special way. (You like that one?) For the first time, I wasn’t that one weird guy anymore. Even those who would be considered “jocks” were kind to me and demonstrated a solidarity with those of my ilk that you would never have seen in our public school system.

We didn’t have “Goths” back then, but we did have “Punks.” And “Geeks” and “Dweebs.” Some of them were the nicest people I’ve ever met. We all got along like the lion and the gazelle at the watering hole. Or snakes and mongooses … mongeeses … at the watering hole. Or cats and dogs, Abbott and Costello, salt and pepper or the chicken and the egg at the watering hole.

I miss that watering hole.

Oh! My music! It took me years before I “came out,” musically speaking. So, I’ll lay it on the line.

Yeah. I like Paul Whiteman’s orchestra. I like Billy Murray. I like music from the ’20s. I wish I could Charleston or Jitterbug. I’m not going to apologize for it anymore. No one could punish me more than I’ve punished myself.

Unlike my contemporaries, I didn’t like “Kiss.” The first time I saw the name “Led Zepplin,” carved into a desk at school, I thought, “That could never fly!” Ask me sometime about the day John Lennon died.

Once, in an effort to “fit in” I asked my sister what I should say when people asked me, “What’s your favorite band.” She told me to say, “Hall and Oates.” I still don’t know if she was having fun at my expense. She also liked that Cassidy kid from “Hardy Boys,” so maybe she was genuine.

Yep. I guess the bottom line is: I’m a real hep cat.

Chapter III: I’m Getting Old

When I was in my 20s, I was in shape. I had a six-pack. Or a four-pack, but you could see where the next two were going to go. Then, around age 28 or so, it looked like I was going to top 130 pounds. I didn’t step on a scale again for five years.

I put up a valiant fight between 30 and 35. Then I surrendered. And here’s what I found:

After 35 or so, your body works like an oil lamp. Like wicks, your legs draw all the fat up into your stomach. Where it stays. Your legs are now little sticks and your middle bulges here and there. And then here again. And then there again.

All the muscle from your arms is likewise depleted and, apparently, deposited, once again, in your stomach. Or that part of your stomach that breaks right and left, making and end run around your spine and meeting once again in the back.

Your weight increases by about 40 pounds. Since you have no muscle tone in your extremities, you resemble a sock puppet stuffed with a bowling ball.

Then you hit 40. And, you know what? You don’t care anymore.

Yeah, I went to a gym a couple of times. Back when I was a virile 22-year old. Except for the virile part.

I paid for a year’s membership, but the first time I went, my trainer, Staff (that’s what it said on the back of his shirt), installed me into one of those machines that wadded me up into a knot and then stretched me back out again. To me, that’s not exercise … that’s a taffy pull!

Then he spent the next 45 minutes looking at himself in the mirror while I strained for all I was worth.

Now, back in those days, I was about 120 pounds and had the figure of a rope. Staff, the jackass, had me in that machine making me do un-natural things and would look up every few minutes and say, “Oh ... let’s take some weight of.” Yeah. Let’s take some weight off. Jerk!

O.K., so my muscles are like steamed clams. Nothing I can do about that. And, to top it off, I probably had a mullet at the time, too. Doesn’t get more pathetic than that.

Does it?

Chapter IV: I Had my Dream Job

I am not now, nor have I ever been a stripper. In fact, I could probably make a living wage by have people pay me *not* to take my clothes off. Once I suit up in the morning, the meter is running.

But, all of my jobs have been dream jobs. I dream about them all of the time. I often wake up screaming. Why, in my dream just last night someone was quizzing me on how to typeset, use a stat camera (and what does PMT stand for?), do layout, paste-up, burn a plate and print whatever it was on an old AB Dick. 1980s technology. I always said I could do that job in my sleep, and I think last night I proved it.

But, after all my printing and engraving experience, I finally landed a job as an editor in my early 20s. Yessiree! I edited TV listings. Not the most glamorous job, I’ll admit. In fact, for the first few years, the most creative thing I got to write was something along the lines of, “Featured: Swimwear for the overweight.”

Then, in the third year, I got to participate in a gargantuan effort to rewrite the entire movie database – more than 30,000 movies – for our company. That was something like 10,000 movie descriptions just for me. Perhaps you’ve seen my work. Now, that was as close to Nirvana as I had ever come in the workplace up to that point in my life.

Quick break for Deathwatch ‘94 when I moved back to Tennessee to wait for my grandfather to die.

Then I came back and hit corporate Atlanta like a fragile swallow slamming full speed into a towering building of glass and steel. Except I made it through! Without bashing my brain and falling to the sidewalk and being swept up by the maintenance guy who walks around the building sweeping up dead birds so clients won’t see them and be put off – sorry … corporate … “off put” – by the disturbing symbolism. I’d never even done that well in “Red Rover.”

I’d made it! I was moving on up. I finally had a piece of the pie. “Weezy” was my watchword. I had the word “Creative” right in my title. The Company even spent 80 bucks to put it on my business cards. The Company charged clients 12 times as much for my time than I ever made typesetting, statting, layouting, paste-upping, burning or printing. There was no turning back now.

Brainstorming sessions … production meetings … meeting really important corporate client people … my own office … wearing a tie. Then they closed the Atlanta office and I finally fell like that sparrow to be swept up by that guy. Our “emerging market” never emerged.

Then freelancing.

Oy! I’m sure I could make more money on Peachtree dropping my drawers. (More like Cheshire Bridge, but more people have heard about Peachtree, so I’m sticking to it.)

I lived the American dream and then it kicked the crap out of me. But, I’m sure that on those sultry summer nights when I’m living under the bridge, I’ll raise my broken bottle of Mad Dog and toast the life that could have been. And then I’ll laugh and laugh. Not in a funny way, but in a way to get me medicine.

… I just noticed I screwed up my own metaphor. I said the bird was a swallow and later said the bird was a sparrow. At least you can see I never write anything on a lark.

Chapter V: I’m a Real Lady Killer (not in the literal sense)

Dating stories. Can’t be of much help there.

I can tell you what not to say.

On a first date, never explain how a woman has done you wrong but you really want kids, so, in an ideal world, you would get married, have a baby and the woman would die in childbirth. Chicks don’t think that’s funny. It’s more of a second-date line, maybe. (I hope no one is reading this. I’m such a jerk.)

When a chick says, “Do you still love me?” Never begin your response with, “I’m glad you asked me that …”

If, during an argument, your partner says, “Don’t patronize me,” don’t reply, “O-kaaay …”

If you’re trying to impress a girl, never say, “I’ve seen you walking in this neighborhood for a while. Seems like you’d be skinnier by now.”

“Does this make me look fat?” The no-win scenario. Even I have learned to keep my yapper shut on this one! But if I’m in a playful mood, I might say, “No … it brings out your eyes … like one of those stress heads you squeeze.” That’s just the way my Puckish sense of humor works.

I guess it’s playful comments like these that earn me such responses as, “I don’t want to know you. Not even as a friend,” and, “Good luck in the future.”

I’ve gotten back some of my own. I accompanied a girlfriend to the gynecologist once. I don’t know what she was doing back in that little room, but I was sitting in the waiting room about to wet my pants. I finally asked for the Men’s Room. Well, they didn’t have a “Men’s Room.” They showed me to a restroom and, in an act of manly defiance, I left the seat up when I was through. That’ll teach ’em.

Chapter VI: I See Old People

My Grandfather was hard to offend. I once made a trophy with a figure standing with his back in the front as if he were peeing and engraved a plate that read, “Emory Department of Urology: Best Specimen.” He took it to town, went through the courthouse, the county library and shops along Main Street showing people and saying, “LOOK WHAT THEY GIVE ME!”

On the other hand, he loved to try to embarrass me in public. For example, he took me to Andrew Jackson’s home, The Hermitage, when I was a kid. We took the tour with a bunch of other people and stopped outside Old Hickory’s bedroom, all peering in wonder across the velvet rope while the tour guide drew our attention to the ornate bed. Grandpa looked at me and said really loud because he couldn’t hear well, “HOW ‘BOUT THAT! HE’S GOT A CANOPY *OVER* HIS BED AND I’VE GOT A CAN O’ PEE *UNDER* MINE!”

Very embarrassing to a 10-year-old.

I stayed in Tennessee with Grandpa during the last year of his life after my grandmother died. My aunt was there during the day to see to his medicine and feed him, I was there to lift him and drive him. After supper, she left (“Did What’s-His-Name go home?”) and I stayed with him at night in case something happened (“Because someone has to tend to me all the time, sure enough!” and “Someone needs to be here in case I have a fit”).

This, I lovingly refer to as Deathwatch ’94.

Every time my butt hit the toilet seat that year, here he’d come. Rattle, rattle, rattle went the doorknob. And, every time, I’d hear him go to the kitchen and ask my aunt, “WHO’S IN THE BATH’OOM?” (He always talked loud because he couldn’t hear.)

Who’s in the bathroom? There are only three of us in the house and he’s talking to one of them!

Then, back he’d come. Rattle, rattle, rattle.

“YOU IN THERE?”

“Yes!”

“YOU ‘BOUT THOO?”

“Yes!”

“CAUSE I NEED IT!”

So, I’d cut my visit short and go to the kitchen and prance around with my knees together while my aunt laughed at me.

A few minutes later, he’d come out and say, “NO LUCK!” And my aunt would laugh even harder.

I swore he was doing it just to toy with me. Surely he couldn’t have to go for one of his unsuccessful bowel movements *every single time* I had to go in for one of my more successful ones.

Then, one day my father came to visit.

My father is in the bathroom with the door closed. I’m in a bedroom, my aunt is in the kitchen and my grandfather walks down the hall.

Rattle, rattle, rattle. “WHO’S IN THE BATH’OOM?”

My father comes out and my grandfather says, disappointedly, “OH. I THOUGHT IT WAS ROB-UT.”

I have never seen my aunt laugh so hard.

U.S. Peanut Butter Industry in a Jam

2009-02-02T19:31:00.012-05:00

ATLANTA, Ga. (AP) – Atlanta-based Centers for Disease Control and Prevention today outlined a strategy to address a recent salmonella outbreak affecting the U.S. The outbreak, traced to a Peanut Corporation of America processing plant in Blakely, Ga., has sickened over 500 people in 43 states and may have led to the deaths of seven people nationwide.

In a press conference held this afternoon, James “Skippy” Robertson, head of the CDC’s Department of Infectious Peas and Nuts, stated, “This is a very sticky situation. Salmonellosis, the infection caused by the salmonella bacterium is a very serious, very dangerous illness.”

“Now it has tainted our supply of peanut butter and peanut paste,” he continued, “prompting the recall of hundreds of products. A variety of products have been affected, from peanut butter crackers, to doggie snacks to Thai food which relies heavily on peanut paste. Unwitting restaurateurs continue to spread the bacteria like some modern-day Thai Food Mary. We must find a way to stop the spread of this disease or this crisis will certainly be jarring to the peanut butter industry as a whole."

He stopped short of suggesting that President Obama release some of the country’s peanut butter reserves as the demand for peanut products increases.

The plan released by the CDC to eradicate the peanut-borne menace is two-fold. The first tier of defense is one of education. The public must be made aware of the danger and adjust their lifestyles accordingly.

Dr. Simon Reese, Director of Goobers and Goobernatorial Studies at Emory University, said in a statement released by his office this afternoon, “If we all adhere to a few simple guidelines, the whole crisis will be over in a jif. When confronted by an unknown or unfamiliar peanut, one would do well to remember the cautionary tale, ‘Found a Peanut,’ written by Jack Schafer in 1958.”

Said Dr. Reese, “In Mr. Schafer’s musical allegory, arranged to the tune of ‘Darling Clementine’ and sung by schoolchildren across the U.S. for generations, the protagonist finds a peanut ‘just now.’ Upon cracking it open, he – or she, the text is unclear – finds that it is rotten, but eats it anyway. What follows is a fanciful tale wherein the protagonist dies and embarks on an archetypal journey to Heaven and hell, evocative of Dante’s ‘Inferno,’ before realizing that it was all a dream and is confronted once again by the choice of eating – or not eating – the peanut.”

“If you ‘find a peanut,’” he said, pensively, “don’t eat it.”

The Federal Drug Administration and the World Health Organization have joined with the CDC in implementing a second tier of defense against what some are already calling a Peter Pan-demic. With Federal funding, scientists at Johns Hopkins have identified a possible antidote capable of eradicating the scourge of salmonella in our lifetime.

The makers of both Smucker’s and Bama jams and jellies have pledged to incorporate the cure into their products and have committed to running their factories 24/7 for the duration of the crisis. As more and more Americans fall prey to this sickness, we might expect the call, “Would you please pass the jelly?” to become a rallying cry of the afflicted and a call for good health.

In the event that the CDC’s strategy does not work, Australia’s Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, pledged 40 million tons of Vegemite to help jump start America’s hard-hit sandwich spread industry. This represents one third of all Vegemite people in Australia won’t eat, either.

Facing possible Federal charges, Peanut Corporation of America has retained the law firm of Pennington, Bennington & Johnson to represent them in any lawsuits resulting from the poisonings. Lawyers at PB&J have released a statement, reading in part, “It wasn’t our fault.”

Former U.S. president and sometime peanut farmer, Jimmy Carter, could not be reached for comment before press time. A spokesman for the Carter Center in Atlanta was adamant that this outbreak would not affect the introduction of President Carter’s new “Nut & Yahoo” candy bar due out later this year. The spokesman reiterated Carter's position that he can take no immediate action, saying the threat, “Is real. But, due to a conflict of interest, our hands are part tied.”

My Funny Valentines

2009-01-23T12:43:00.012-05:00

Thanks, Jo, for your inspiration. I normally let Valentine's day pass unmarked. Unmarked like those police cars that you don't notice, but can pull you over and ruin your life, anyway.

So here are some Valentines that I would like to see. Are you listening, Hallmark? (I may add more later, I don’t know.)

Valentine 1

When Cupid takes me in his aim
To work his cursèd craft,
It seems I never get the point —
I always get the shaft.

So, if you’re like me, a pitied fool,
A lad without a lass,
I’m sure you’ll share this sentiment,
CUPID, KISS MY ASS!

Valentine 2
[Thanks, Jo!]

I’ve been dodging arrows left and right,
Thank you, Mister Cupid.
Eventually, you’ll strike your mark
’Cause, frankly, I am poopèd

Valentine 3: From a Terminal Patient

Won't you be my Valentine?
You know you hold my heart.
And, tho I now lay supine
I pray we never part.

If that day should ever come, my dear,
Please give me one last hug.
I'll shed a final, parting tear
And then you pull the plug.

Valentine 4
I give to you my heart, my love,
My spleen and liver, too.
I'll close my eyes, praise God above,
Then you can have those, too.

Goodbye! Take care, my sweets
Be good to your new owner.
Merry parts and merry meats,
From me, your organ donor.

Valentine 5

In the never-ending race for love
I don't know why I bust my ass.
Everyone knows, push comes to shove,
Nice guys *always* finish last!

Valentine 6

"It's ewe I love," the shepherd cried
As he gave a sheepish grin.
"I've loved before, God knows I tried,
You won't believe how long it's been!"

"Run away with me, my darling!
Let us flee this fulsome flock.
Enough, now. No more quarreling.
By hook or crook, I'll have you walk."

"People won't understand our love.
I know I shouldn't give a damn.
But it's not a thing I'm really proud of,"
And, so he took it on the lam.

Valentine 7: For An Australian

I’m A for T in love, you see,
I hope we two are never parted.
It’s plain to me, you’re dinki-di.
A bit more choke, you would have started!
***
RESPONSES

Gaya

Of Valentines I write tonight
I dread that fateful day!
For everyone whose partnered up
Gets candy, cards and lay(ed).

Wives, girlfriends get their roses
And their cards say “I love you”
They get taken out to dinner
And lots of chocolates too.

But those of us without a mate
stand out like a sore thumb.
We try to act like we don’t care
Our true feelings we keep mum.

I hate the day with all my Heart
It’s a Hallmark, schmaltzy ruse.
It makes us single, unmatched types
feel and look like fools.

Of Valentines I’m cynical
cause I’m single, through and through.
I may not get no roses
But to my own Heart I’ll be True!

Becca

On this day, I’ve called to ask
Your help with a minor task
This question may be a little bold
But I realize now, I’m getting old
I’ve searched the net far and wide
And can find no woman to be my bride
So I’d like for you to have my son
In your oven, I’ll put my bun
Your inconvenience will be minimal
I’ll cover every doctor bill
Well, that’s what I want, what’do you say?
Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day.

Bob

I saw a girl I used to know
Then I went and chased her.
“Don’t run away! I’m friend, not foe …
You can use my turkey baster!”

“Come back to me, my One True … Like.
I only want to procreate!
I need someone to bear the tyke …
Come back before you ovulate!”

“I sense some hesitation.
This has ever been my doom!
I didn’t make a reservation
And you have a private womb.”

Jo

Of Valentine’s Day, I’m cynical, too.
Mated or not, it belongs in the loo.
I want to yell, “There is no Cupid,
Accept it, all you Stupid!”

Roses and candy and dinner out
What the hell is that all about?
Most of us sit home and stew
While hubbies scratch their heads and haven’t a clue.

When I think of my mate
It is so easy to berate
When I dream of roses
All the while he dozes.

No, partnered is no guarantee
Of champagne and brie.
Nor even of getting laid tonight.
Single or married, we can all agree
Valentine’s Day is oh, so trite.

Sandy

Glad I am when Valentine’s Day passes,
A day fit for camels, and donkeys, and asses.
Roses shed petals, they droop and they slump,
Department store chocolates stay on the rump.
Candy hearts with rude sayings beneath
Are carcinogen-laden, and will break your teeth.
After some thought, I have now come to grips
That Cupid’s arrows have poison-dart brew on their tips.

My Ride of Passage

2009-01-08T23:36:00.004-05:00

I didn’t know she was a prostitute. I don’t to this day, to tell you the truth. All I knew was there was a lady in distress and, damn it, I’m a gentleman.

I was headed to my grandmother’s house to do my laundry. I was in my 20s, and a grandmother’s house is the best place to do your wash when you’re that age. If luck is on your side, a grandmother might provide wash-’n’-fold service while you are going through the fridge and watching her cable.

So I was garbed up in sweats and a tie dye because, deep down, I’m some sort of counter-cultural, hippy troublemaker out to stick it to the man. And, since I didn’t have any clean drawers (on my way to do laundry, remember?) I went commando. ’Cause that’s just the kind of rough-and-tumble maverick I am. Grrr!

Just at the entrance of my subdivision, right by the bus stop, an anxious young lady frantically flagged me down. I can never turn my back on a frantic young woman. It’s a character flaw.

“Oh … are you going up to Glenwood? Could you give me a ride up to the Mrs. Winners up on the corner of Austin and Glenwood?” Now you can get a Street View of my neighborhood from Googlemaps and you’ll know why she was so anxious.

The bus must be late, she was obviously in a hurry and I was going right by there on my way to the Interstate, anyway. What harm? What harm, indeed.

“Hop in!” I said.

She got in.

She was a skinny black chick, might have had orange hair. Heck, it’s my story ... she had orange hair. She had an unsavory – one might say “used” – body odor not quite masked by the cinnamon gum she rolled around her mouth like a particularly beloved cud. I don’t like cinnamon.

She was definitely not Penthouse material. Waffle House? Maybe. Whore house? Sure. Nut house? Without a doubt. But not Penthouse. She couldn't even have made the back page of Hustler if she stuffed her bra and won the lottery.

She did have a nice set of choppers, though. Must have just had her teeth floated. When she smiled, you could barely see the back where the bit goes.

“Oh … Thank you!” she said, “Oh … I was at that house on the corner and they wanted me to do things. Nasty things. Things with their dog. And I don’t do that stuff.”

I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I was thinking along the lines of, “Nice day, isn’t it? I like a day when it’s nice, don’t you? Nice days are good. It’s good to be nice.” But I recovered quickly. I’ve been around, after all. I’ve lived in New York. I’ve seen things.

“Not an animal lover, are you?” I asked. I’m smooth like that.

I stepped on the gas a little.

“Oh … thank you so much for stopping,” she said as suggestively as you could say such a thing. Then she reached over and touched my pee-pee. Right through my sweats where you could feel every contour. Real friendly girl. But I couldn’t have that. Not on laundry day. And we were driving by a church for God’s sake!

We made it to the Mrs. Winners in relative silence. I really didn’t know what to talk about after that. My thoughts were for the future. After all … she touched my pee-pee. I had to marry her now, didn’t I?

I stopped the car. This is where we part, mon cherie, I thought. Of all the cars in all of the world, you had to hop into mine. Farewell.

“Can you take me up to Columbia?” she asked, skankily.

Sigh. Only one major intersection over. In the opposite direction from the Interstate, but in the interest of goodwill, I thought it would do no harm. This was my first prostitute, after all, and I wanted to make a good impression.

So, now we’re at Glenwood and Columbia. Google it. It gets worse as you head toward town. Maybe you can see the Atlanta skyline from the Street View. Pretty, isn’t it?

Not from where I was sitting.

I looked for a nice, warm, whore-friendly place to pull over – a nice corner with lots of Southern exposure – when she asks to go to the *next* major intersection.

I’m so nice.

At Glenwood and Candler (Google *that* one!), she wants to go further. Wants me to take her “some place” to meet “somebody.”

Something in the back of my naïve little head said, “Danger. Drive no more.” So I pulled into the first driveway I found. She got out and ran without so much as a “By Your Leave” and didn’t look back.

She might have known the neighborhood better than I did. I didn’t know until later that I had pulled into a Police Station.

That was years ago. But sometimes, on cold winter nights, I wonder, where did she want me to go? Who did she want me to meet? And would she touch my pee-pee again?

__________

Thanks, Cog, for helping me work through my pain. That’s the most action that little Plymouth Duster ever saw. Next time ask me why I can’t eat tuna.

A Little Verse for Wear

2009-01-05T21:50:00.003-05:00

Despite being a crappy year overall, bringing in large part misery, destitution and hopelessness, we still managed to reach great heights of creativity, thanks to you, my e-friends. We even joined forces on several occasions to produce profound, poetic dialog expressing our suffering, our joy and our inebriation.

With the kind permission of the authors, I present them here in one convenient location. Come with me as we remember 2008 in verse.

_____

October 4

In late September, I was stung by a hornet and posted an account of my experience – complete with video. My Australian friend, RinklyRimes, read it on The Bobliotheque, where I write as ReidAndwright. She responded with this verse:

Oh dear! Reid cannot play the cornet!
He’s been bitten by a hornet.
He was on his way to play
But at home he had to stay.
“Come at once!” The leader cried
“Without the cornet we’ve no pride!
Without the twiddly bits you play
We’ll be laughing-stock today.”
“I’ll send you a video of my arm!
That hornet did me lots of harm!”
“Wear a bandage and a sling!
We need you like anything!”
So brave Reid struggled and did his best
And the orchestra passed the test!
Which doesn’t make much sense I know!
But I just thought I would say ‘Hallo!’

I respond:Hornet, you don’t know with whom you’re dealing.
Bite me again! This time with feeling!
I don’t mind the pain, the swelling …
Go ahead, it’s your death bell knelling!
That sting will be your final gaffe;
This verse will be your epitaph.

Now old Reid can play his horn
And forget the sting that tragic morn.
And, though he died before his time,
The bug lives on in Rinkly’s rhyme.
Thanks for stopping to share your poem.
I squashed the bug. Now, that’ll show ’im.

October 22

Sandy posted the following on her blog and drew me into her fairy-tale world:

Frogs don’t become princes
the moment they’re kissed;
Prince Charming’s not real.
He doesn’t exist.
The mythical knight
Who sets bosoms aflutter
Just might not like you
As much as his mother,
If he holds you close
And begs you to stay,
He might be married,
He’s probably gay.
If he pledges his troth
And vows to be true
He’s likely to have other
Girlfriends than you.
Though you’d swear to the heavens
He’s a prince born and bred,
He’s not Prince Charming
But Charles instead.

Which prompted:

And what of the princess?
Pray tell me that.
She’s brassy and needy
And vulgar and fat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
Hey! Are you there?”
“Not tonight, Charming,
I’m doing my hair!”
And what of that beauty
Asleep, white as snow?
Kiss her awake?
“No” always means “No.”
And that peasant girl
With slippers of glass?
She came in a pumpkin …
She ain’t got no class.
Even that Mouse!
I don’t care who you are …
I’d still chat her up
At the ol’ Minnie bar.
O! Where is that girl?
I know what sells!
I can’t wait no more,
I’ve got Disney spells.
So I can’t get a date
With a girl on a whim.
There’s plenty of fish …
It’s not all that Grimm.
I thought your verse
Was a little bit slanted.
It’s not just the guys …
Girls, too, are enchanted.

November 6

Late one night – on the East Coast, anyway – Lucky posted a lovely blog in verse:

My Page was old
it had to go
I have some stories yet untold
Of Maternal woe
and Teenage foe
and Republicans who are so slow
I need to write
of all my plights
and be creative in the nights
And light and funny
I shall be
with all my typed verbosity
The pressure’s on
soon comes the dawn
I’ll dream of punchlines on the lawn
My hat is old
my teeth are gold
for now my story
is yet all told. ...
I’m pledging to write more blogs and soon. ...
It’s been awhile. …
Go look at the moon!

Exhausted, I posted what I thought would be the end of that night’s exchange and bring welcome sleep:

This one sits at a bar
This one has a little scar.
This one … I don’t know what you are.
Oh, what a lot of blogs there are.

I should try to get some sleep.
Maybe I should count some sheep.
Oh, why do I stay up so late?
One more blog ... it’s worth the wait!

It’s one a.m. and, what the deuce?
I’m sitting, writing like Dr. Seuss.
I hate to sit and waste a rhyme,
But, what the hell, it’s on your dime.

So, I’ll cruise along on this course,
Encourage dialogue and discourse.
If you don’t like what I have to say,
I’ll change my mind. What the hay?

But when SueFancypants – wide awake on the other side of the world – came back with this, I knew sleep would elude me:

There’s no moon out here
So while I wait
I shall have another beer
And I’ll sing an Aussie song
so my waiting won’t seem so bloody long...

Waltzing Matilda
Somebody killed her
Found her in the grass
with a stick up her arse

I couldn’t resist:

Poor Matilda and her arse.
That Jolly Swagman, what a farce!
He didn’t know what could go wrong
When he grabbed her by the billabong!

He got her jumbuck, then he toiled
In its fleece. His Billy boiled.
With a sneer and scornful frown
She didn’t half tie his kangaroo down.

Matilda, damn! She’s on the rag.
She grabbed him by the tucker bag.
You’ve got to give Matilda cred ...
His foreskin’s nailed upon the shed!

Swagman said, “Now, what the deuce?
“Won’t someone come and cut me loose?”
And his cry may be heard as sweet as angels’ choirs
“Won’t somebody please come and bring me some pliers?”

December 16

Just as we were all doing our last-minute Christmas shopping and baking, my friend Cog’s Nisant was having a bad day, so did what any true friend would do. I offered to recite Chaucer and cheer her up. Alas, she said hers was more of a Poe mood, so I did the next best thing:

I know you’re nodding, nearly napping
So I’ll tread gently, not too loud.
What is that? A gift you’re wrapping?
Not for me! I’m Poe, but I’m still proud.

Cog, always sharp as a tack, didn’t miss a beat:
There I sat all weak and weary,
Finishing the last cold beer-y,
Scanning channels through eyes tired and teary
When suddenly there came a rapping.
Violently knuckles tapping,
Pounding on my chamber door.
Tis some idiot and nothing more.
As I lectured on visiting hours,
He presented me with flowers,
Only daisies – what a bore!
He sat there begging for affection
Barely hiding his erection.
He was here with plans to score.
To our relationship he was no devotee,
And I demanded he leave me,
Else he be an amputee.
He wants a whore and nothing more.

Which, in turn, engendered:

Ah, the silken, sad uncertain rustling
Of each Christmas wrapper bustling
To – wait! – you strike me to the core!
I knew I should not be pushing daisies,
But I was tired and late and lazy!
I see you’ve been down this road before.
So I turned ’way, my flowers wilted.
Spurned and scorned, rejected, jilted.
And so I sought some seamy whore,
Swearing, sotto voce, “Nevermore.”
That’s the saddest thing you ever saw, sir.
I told you we should stick with Chaucer.
_____

These were the highlight of my year! Thanks y’all, I had fun and I look forward to more collaboration in 2009. Let's see if we can popularize a new kind of blog. The Blog Poem, or Blow ’em.

Christmas Card 2008

2008-12-25T08:47:00.000-05:00

No matter where you are,
No matter where you’re roving,
Find yourself a friendly bar
And share my Cheer and Loathing.

Join me in a Yuletide drink
As I raise my glass to you.
I’ll toss one back, give you a wink,
And then you hoist a few!

Have a Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Beer!

Ring in the New Year!

2008-12-20T21:14:00.004-05:00

I didn't tell my friend, N-, this story when she lost the stone from her wedding ring (at least I think I didn't because I'm sure she's sick of hearing about my grandparents), but here's a good story.

My grandparents got married in '32 when my grandmother was fresh out of nurses training. They were young, it was in the depression, and my grandmother's wedding ring was a narrow silver band ... probably cheap because of the times.

Of course, as she got older, her fingers got skinnier. And more claw-like, although that is not germane to the story. One day when she was in her 70s, her wedding ring came up missing!

She had been doing laundry, yet it was not among the towels in the linen closet, nor was it in the cellar by the washer and dryer.

I was heartbroken at the very thought, but Grandma, stoic that she was, didn't seem all that concerned. Grandpa, with a personality much like mine -- jackass on the outside, sentimental on the inside -- went and bought her a brand new GOLD ring, similar to the first, but a little smaller so it wouln't slip off.

And what did my stoic, pragmatic, non-sentimental, septuagenarian Grandma do? She got down on hand and arthritic knee and crawled the length of the clothesline searching through the grass until she found her original ring!

She wore them both for the rest of her life, but she wore the cheap, silver depression-era ring closest to her heart. So the new one would keep the old one from falling off.

Or so she said.

... O.K. I can tell I'm on the buildup to my "moment." I last saw her on or around Christmas after her stroke 15 years ago. And she died on New Year's day. Every year on New Year's, I have to lock the doors, pull the shades and have my "moment." It's not pretty.

I am glad to have the family who are still with me, and I miss terribly the ones who have gone on. What passes for my heart goes out to all those who lose a dear one over the holidays.

And that, Santa, is why I hate Christmas. That and your damned songs.

[See? Grandpa was such a character, you never hear about Grandma.]

I got rooked!

2008-11-29T16:32:00.008-05:00

Ms. Russell at AT&T apparently misspoke when she told me that I have unlimited Internet for $60/month with the Laptop Connect Card. It turns out there is a limit and they don’t even have an unlimited plan with that device.

I inadvertantly went over my limit -- stupid Internet porn! -- and AT&T has cut me off until the beginning of the next billing cycle, which is December 7. A date which will live in infamy. I’ll have to rely on the networks of friends and family and various Wi-Fi hotspots until I’m back in the game.

So I’ll stay here. Y’all go on without me.

“No, Al, I can’t. We won’t leave you behind,” said Lucas, my devoted companion. I’d only known him since just before leaving St. Louis with him and his son, but we had become quite close in that short time.

“You’ll be better off without me,” I said. “I’ll just slow you down.”

I settled in with my back against a cottonwood and my Colt in my hand. I wasn’t figuring on sitting there helpless as a kitten if any Comanche came prowling around. I’d finish it quick.

“I can’t do it, Al,” he said.

“... Don’t you worry about me! I’ll be fine.”

He removed his old bowler and gripped its brim tightly in his hands. The boy hung his head solemnly, seemingly inspecting his well-worn boots.

“I’ll come back for you, Al. I swear,” said Lucas.

The boy looked up, his eyes red.

“Just promise me this,” I implored. “When you finally get out West, you find you a nice, quiet place by a bend in a river and you name a town after me, you hear?”

The boy held my gaze and said earnestly, “We will, Mr. Buquerque.”

Sorry. I went a little off topic.

I am moved by the spirit of Thanksgiving.

2008-11-08T14:39:00.007-05:00

I just want to tell the Indians that we’re sorry. Sorry about that Trail of Tears thing. We were just kidding. Come on back home. And bring a covered dish. We can make this right.

PS: Woo-woo-woo-woo!

___

Yeah maybe they can bring some Succotash or corn fritters, what they call maize fritters And I believe the correct phrase for the North Eastern tribes is “How!”

Negative kudos for you buddy!

___

Yeah, but I’m not in the Northeast. I believe the proper greeting down here is “Why?”

Hee hee! Circle the wagons! Company’s coming.

Negative kudos? Can you even do that?

___

Up in the Dakotas I believe the traditional greeting is “Who.”

Hey Custer, I can see your last stand from here!”

I can give negative kudos in my mind, it is the first step towards wisdom. ...

___

In Jersey, I think it’s “Oy!” As in, “Oy! I can’t believe we sold New York for $24!”

Earlier in life, Custer had a lemonade stand, a fruit stand, hot dog stand and a newspaper stand. None of them were succesful, either.

It is a little known fact that Custer’s last words were, “I see them! One little ... two little ... three little ... uh-oh!”

It is also not generally known that Buffalo Bill’s big battle was not fought at Wounded Knee as we are taught to believe, but down the road at Barked Shin. They changed it in the 1920s because Wounded Knee was closer to the highway.

They don’t tell you this stuff on The History Channel.

___

You two are crazy nuts – and so very entertaining! I just hope no Native Americans are reading this. I sorta like my scalp.

___

She and I are both part Cherokee, so it’s O.K. We can pretty much say what we want about the Red Man.

It’s kind of like how Michael Richards can’t say the “N” word but Chris Rock can.

If they don’t like what I have to say, so what? Sioux me!

___

I’m laughing only because I just saw some Trail of Tears thing on the History Channel a couple days ago.

Haven’t we reparationed with casinos? you know, in the spirit of pot melting – I think all Americans should change their current tradition and spend thanksgiving playing blackjack.

___

“Trail of Tears.” What a bunch of whiners!

I guess the casinos were a good idea as a way to mend fences, but I still have some reservations. They are certainly a good way for the tribes of today to thumb their noses at William “Harrah’s” Harrison, Ol’ Tippecanoe himself.

___

I counted each groan as I made as I read these comments – I had to quit counting when I ran out of fingers.

___

Heh-heh! Sure, you can mock us ... just be glad you have this blog to moccasin!

___

I know, it’s enough to make you want to Wampum up side the head. ... ;)

___

If you think you can draw a bead on me!

Look for the Reunion Label

2008-10-27T19:35:00.065-04:00

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand? ...

“Patriotism”
Sir Walter Scott

Part I

I don’t get up to Tennessee much anymore. I love the land and I love the people, but ever since we shoveled six feet of our land over our people, there just hasn’t been much reason to visit. Sure, every Spring I get the uncontrollable urge to go back to Tennessee and spawn, but this year there was a family reunion. It was up in Red Boiling Springs.

Red Boiling Springs enjoyed immense popularity as a resort town in the early 20th century. People would come from far and wide to enjoy the healing powers of the mineral waters. It was *the* place to go back in the day. Want to cure dyspepsia *and* catch a minstrel show? Red Boiling Springs is the place! Mammy!

So, I grabbed my father and an unsuspecting niece and nephew, bundled them into a rented PT Cruiser and headed up to my own, my native land.

Oi! What a drive.

After six hours on the road, I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted a drink. And I had a few pictures on my Flash Drive to print out before the reunion so my cousins would praise me for my foresight and family spirit. Rah-rah-rah.

I guess I should have known that this place was a little out of sync with the rest of the world when we finally got to the town and couldn’t find Main Street. In fact, from all the evidence I could find, only three things had ever happened in Red Boiling Springs since it was founded in the late 1700s: There was a Confederate Hospital during the Civil War; Woodrow Wilson Slept there; and there was a big flood in 1969. “Water was shoulder high if it was a foot! And I don’t mean maybe!”

After taking two wrong roads in our search for Main Street, I asked directions at an antiques store. I don’t know if it was originally an antiques store or if they’ve just had a little trouble moving merchandise for the past hundred years or so, but either way, they gave me directions to the hotel. (Go to the caution light and turn left. Red Boiling Springs doesn’t have a real traffic light. Apparently a caution light is all that is really necessary to ease congestion on this major artery into town.)

My plan was this: to reach this “resort” – the Donoho Hotel – check in, hit the business office, print my stuff, ditch my traveling companions and hit the bar. Then I’d go to the room, kick off my shoes, watch something on cable and see if I couldn’t find a mini bar. That’s what I always do on business trips. It hasn’t failed me yet. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

The Donoho Hotel has been a fixture in Red Boiling Springs since 1914. And I hear it was even renovated once. Shoot, yeah, it’s been renovated! It’s been brought into the 20th century. Unfortunately, the rest of us have moved on to the 21st.

The brochure said it was like stepping back in time. And how! What that meant to me was: no business office … no television … no telephone … no cell phone … no Internet … no BAR! I felt just like my pioneer ancestors must have when they first came to Tennessee, chased away the Indians and then realized they had no cell service, either. Sure, I was a little disappointed, but what are you going to do? Just shoot a bear and move on!

So, I pulled the PT Cruiser up in front of the Donoho. I’d seen photos. I was expecting the Grand Hotel from “Somewhere In Time.” What I got was the Shady Rest from “Petticoat Junction.” Or possibly that hotel from “The Shining.”

I slowly walked across the lawn and up the steps onto the veranda, going back in time nearly a decade with every step. There on the veranda was a little woman in a rocking chair who resembled a pot-bellied pig . Or, from the way she was smoking, perhaps she more resembled a pot-bellied stove. Whatever. Just imagine, “There’s Uncle Joe, he’s a-movin’ kind of slow …” She was the desk clerk.

So we checked in.

“I’m going to give you 12 and 14” Pot-Bellied Betty said. Fine by me. Off to find the rooms!

The rooms fronted on the veranda, which must have been very high-class at one time. You could just open your door and spit your tobacco right off the porch. In fact, I saw one of the employees do just that.

“12 and 14. 12 and 14. Here’s 12.” I had reserved two rooms with two beds each. Number 12 had one double bed. “Uh-oh!” There were four of us and one was a 16-year-old girl. That just wouldn’t do. We’re Southern, but we are not barbarians! This is *not* Alabama.

There was one last hope. Let’s look at 14.

One bed in 14.

“Stay calm,” says I “I’ll go ask PBB if we can get at least one room with two beds.” Ah! But first wouldn’t it be a grand idea to make sure the key to 14 works?

So, key in hand, I pull the door to and try to lock it. No soap. Let’s pull up and twist. Nope. Let’s fiddle with the dead bolt, pushing pulling and twisting all at once. Nope. Let me pull *really* hard and see if I can't get it to catch. I couldn’t get the lock to catch, but the doorknob did come off in my hand.

O.K. I get it! I’ve driven all day and now I’m in “Green Acres.” Now that I know what I’m dealing with, I can work with it.

I walked around the veranda to find PBB having a smoke in her rocking chair. “’Jee have any trubble wi’ yer roooms?” She said. (I’m not being mean … that’s what they sound like up there. That’s what I sounded like, too, until I was in high school. I’m not judging, just adding a bit of verisimilitude.)

I handed her the doorknob.

Now you’ll have to follow closely. This is like the three card monty.

“I’ve got one with two beds. I don’t know if the lock works.” Forget the lock. A doorknob is a plus.

She walks me down to the other end of the veranda and shows me room 4. Two beds. Great. Let’s make this happen.

We go back to the lobby. She scrabbles through a desk drawer for a key …

(Maybe it’s just me, but aren’t they supposed to have a bunch of pigeon holes for keys and if someone wants, say … room 4 … the clerk grabs a key from the proper hole, rings a bell, says, “Front!” and a boy in an organ grinder monkey’s outfit appears to take you to your room? That’s what *I* thought stepping into the past would be.)

… “This is it. Wait right here, I’ll go check it out.”

Pot-Bellied Betty disappeared with the key leaving me alone in the lobby. Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm. I ring the bell, but I don’t yell, “Front!” It sounds like a cowbell. Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm.

She comes back. The key works! Hosannah!

I drag the niece and nephew down to the rooms. Room 4? Yep, it’s room 4. Why doesn’t the key work? I look at the key. A yellow Post-It Note is Scotch-taped to the key and it says 3. Ahh! … of course. She showed me 4, but she put me in 3. No problem.

Number 3 (all the rooms had their doors open to the veranda to begin with) only had one bed. And the key didn’t work. Back to Pot-Belly’s rocking chair.

“Oh! No! You’re in *this* room! Three is already taken.”

So she had shown me 4, given me a key marked 3, and the real room that the key unlocked? Wait for it ... Five! Who wouldn’t be tickled by such genuine, down-home, country ineptitude? But the kicker is, when we were making all our key exchanges, and told her we originally had 12 and 14, she says, “14?! Oh! I meant to give you 13!” And that’s the room my father got.

You know, most hotels don’t have a 13th room or a 13th floor. It’s unlucky, they say. From what I had seen of the ol’ Donoho so far , it didn’t make much difference.

Part II

We finally got the rooms straightened out and checked in just as the sun was setting.

“Dinner will be served promptly at six o’clock in the dining hall,” said Pot-Belly as our heads turned as one to the ancient grandfather clock in the lobby, watching its arthritic big hand slowly inch its way across the eight, patiently marking the twenty minutes until supper.

Well … It was actually more like, “Y’all come back at seex for supper, now. It’s in the dining room right back yonder.” But the old hotel took on a whole different mien after dark. Everything seemed just a little more … theatrical.

We went to our rooms to freshen up, then met back in the lobby to wait for supper.

The kids and I had a look around.

In the hall was a display of photos of the damage sustained by the town in the Flood of ’69. One photo depicted a lady pointing at the wall outside her business. “The water came up to here,” the poignant expression engraved on her cheerless face seemed to cry out. “The water came up to here,” the caption read.

There were a half-dozen other photos of people pointing at walls and wearing the same poignant expression on their own cheerless faces. It seems people in Red Boiling Springs had been poignant and cheerless ever since Woodrow Wilson left office.

Farther down the hall was was a display of ephemera from the Donoho’s long history. A straight razor, newspapers from the 1920s, cloche hats, fedoras and the like. I guess it was a display of ephemera. Maybe it was the counter you go to to buy your incidentals. I don’t know.

I looked closely at all the photos thinking that, after dinner, I might somehow go back in time like Christopher Reeve and meet a flapper who looked like Jane Seymore. Or that I might at least meet Pot-Bellied Betty before the flood (of ’69) and see if she put out. Yowza! Now, there’s a pig I want to slap some lipstick on!

There was an inviting parlor beckoning us to enjoy its warm, Victorian elegance. Shelves and shelves of ancient tomes lined the walls. Every great work of literature – prior to 1920 – smiled down at me as I sat contented in a cozy, overstuffed wing-back chair.

A piano stood against one wall of the parlor and a Victrola sat in the corner opposite, beseeching me to play music not heard by the ear of man for a hundred years or more. It was all I could do not to give it a crank and see what enchanting euphony from the past might embrace me.

I might have smoked a cigar.

My niece sat at the antiquated piano in the room, not unlike an exquisite porcelain doll sitting at the antiquated piano in the room, and began to play Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini”:

“DAH-dah-dah-dah-DAH … dah-dah-dah-DAH … DAH-dah-dah-dah-DAH(minor)-DAH-dah-dah-DAH …”

Ah! I reveled in it like Salieri reveled in Mozart before he slit his own throat!

My heart rose in my chest. As I brushed away an uninvited tear, I realized that this little girl – my sister’s child whom I had held and cherished as an infant, given succor as a toddler when she cried over every abrasion, and whose delicate hand I had held on numerous tender occasions – was playing “Heart and Soul” on an out-of-tune piano and the dust was about to make me sneeze.

So we went back to stand by the crackling fire in the lobby and wait for dinner.

One by one the other guests joined us at our vigil.

There were a few distant cousins just arrived from various exotic locales around the Southeast, and there were a few random guests who weren’t related to me at all. I hope.

There was an uneasy silence as we all stood waiting to be called to dinner. Some warmed their hands by the fire. Some relaxed on the divan. Some stood uncomfortably upright, hands clasped tightly behind their backs at the edge of the firelight avoiding eye contact with their companions, obviously hiding some dreadful secret.

The fire crackled and spit.

“Someone in this room is a murderer!” I said.

No I didn’t. But, there could have been. Stranger things have happened.

About that time, the dinner bell rang …

Dong-dong … dong-dong …

We all meandered to the dining room like cows to the slaughter.

Family style they call it. That’s where you sit at a big table with folks you don’t know, pretend you like them, and someone brings you Southern food from someone back in the kitchen you pretend is Grandma, but it’s not quite like the Southern food Grandma cooked.

So, out it comes! Fried poke chops … mashed taters … green beans … collards … mac and cheese (a favorite Southern vegetable) … curious pepper steaks … beeskits … dinner rolls ... sweet tea. Mmm-Mmm!

Loved those poke chops! But, they could have given us sharper knives. A whole table full of people trying to saw their way through the Other White Meat with butter knives … it looked like something out of a Japanese game show. And the pepper steak! Flat, tasteless, shingles of meat somewhere between meatloaf and whitleather. Remember those … they come back again in Part III.

We enjoyed our meal in the company of our brand new old cousins. Then we all repaired to our rooms to await the impending Family Reunion.

Redrum! Redrum!

If we had only known …

(Yeah, I thought I’d end with a cliffhanger.)

Part III

Sunday morning, the kids and I were up at cockcrow.

And, after our morning ablutions … morning ablutions … morning ablutions … “Did anybody bring shampoo?” … “I forgot!” … “Shaving cream! I forgot shaving cream!” … “I forgot my razor!” … “Does anybody have floss?” … “I forgot!”

A brief trip to the Chevron station back at the caution light “downtown” was in order. I put the kids in the PT Cruiser and off we went. We missed it, naturally, and had to turn around and come back. A police car followed us into the Chevron parking lot.

“Cheese it! The cops!” I cried.

“What, Unca Bobby?” asked the kids.

“Quit texting your friends and read a freaking book!” I said. “Haven't you ever seen the Bowery Boys? Watch a movie in black and white for a change!” Actually, they’re both avid readers and they’re good kids.

So, I went in the Food Mart at the Chevron and Barney Fife followed me in.

“Mornin’, Jim!” the cashier shouted, real friendly-like.

I looked around, bewildered, because I’m not Jim, I’m Bob. I’ve got a driver’s license to prove it.

Turns out, Jim was the local constabulary’s name and he had just stopped by to show off his accent and buy a couple of lottery tickets.

So, I purchased my toiletries and we headed back to the Donoho.

After our morning ablutions, we strolled back to the dining room for breakfast.

Scrambled eggs, a big ol’ platter of bacon, biscuits and red-eye gravy. And some curious little sausage patties. They were flat, tasteless, circles of meat somewhere between meatloaf and whitleather. I know there was someone in the kitchen with a cookie cutter and last night’s pepper steak making the sausages. One pepper steak, then *Wham! Wham! Wham!* You’ve got breakfast sausage *and* a new gasket for your tractor. These are a resourceful people.

We hurriedly poked our breakfast down our greedy gullets and washed it down with a gulp of hot coffee. Family members were due to begin arriving at any moment.

My great-grandmother squeezed out 13 children between 1889 and 1917. She was a regular Play-Doh Fun Factory! Of the thirteen, two died as children and a couple more died in the ’20s of tuberculosis.

The Great Grandparents and the siblings at the family reunion about 1938: First Row (l-r) - Sam, Reba, Tommy, Orion, Carmack (Grandpa); Second Row: Mary D.; Lucy; Thad; Fred Gordon; Mama Key; Daddy Key

Of the ones who lived to reproduce, there were: Sam (1889-1971); Thad (1893-1979); Sadie (1895-1922); Lucy, somehow Lucy’s clan was overlooked when the invitations went out (1897-1990); Carmack, my Grandpa, (1908-1995); Orion (1911-1997); Fred Gordon the only one of the 13 siblings still living, (b. 1915); Tommy (1917-2005).

Aunt Reba (1901-1987) deserves Honorable Mention. She didn’t have children of her own, but she raised three generations of the rest of us.

On with our story …

They came in ones and twos – maybe threes, I don’t know – from all of your more important Southern states and a few even drove in from Indiana.

From all around the Donoho property, I heard calls of, “Haay! How oar yeew?!” and the lilting response, “Fiiiine!” as families long separated bonded again like carbon and hydrogen to form methane. We are a gassy bunch.

Jean (Sam's clan) salutes me for my youthful enthusiasm and vigor.

I tried to brace the kids for what they were about to witness when someone appeared by my side out of nowhere and addressed me. “Haay! How oar yeew?!”

Trumpet in a herd of elephants; crow in the company of cocks; bleat in a flock of goats. “Fiiiine!” I said. This seemed to satisfy her and she continued her turn-greet-repeat arabesque with the newcomers.

I turned to explain to the kids who she was and that, it’s O.K., everybody talks that way up here, when I found myself face to face with Jerry (Sam’s clan).

I almost didn’t recognize him at first. I only see Jerry at funerals, and on those melancholy occasions, he always wears the same navy blue leisure suit. Every funeral I’ve attended since 1986, Jerry has been front and center in that navy blue leisure suit. I guess he dressed down for us this time, since he wore a work shirt and hat.

Somehow, we made eye contact and that was all it took for him to launch into a lengthy monologue of our family and its origins. Jerry might look and sound like Joe Everyfarmer, but he has an engineering degree from Tennessee Tech and a great memory. He knows his stuff. Unfortunately, he has absolutely no social skills and my “please, please, please get away from me” facial cues went unnoticed.

As he droned on and on about our forbears, I couldn’t help but notice that since the last time I saw him three years ago, he had apparently had some sort of surgical procedure, as a gusset had been cut out of the side of his face – taking part of an ear with it – and replaced with skin of a different hue. A graft from his leg? I wondered. If I had seen leg hair growing from his face, that would have been it for me.

[Note to self: I might have found a way to finally grow sideburns.]

I kept nodding as I half listened, my eyes straying from the half ear, down the new skin on his jaw and coming to rest on a sizable goiter. I’m sure by that time my facial cues were going like flashing lights at a railroad crossing, because my nephew Jake swooped in and rescued me. Jerry immediately attached himself to another cousin and picked up where he had left off.

Jerry

I tried to explain to Jake who he was. All that came out was, “Hamanahamanahamana …”

I shook it off and brought the kids around to introduce them to people:

Rutledge (Sadie’s clan). 92 years old and still getting around pretty well. Must have been that new hip he got in the ’70s. I shook Rutledge’s hand and exchanged pleasantries. This might have been the first time I’d ever spoken to him. Every time I’d seen Rutledge, I’d been with Grandpa. You didn’t get a chance to talk when you were with Grandpa.

Frances (Sam’s clan). Frances is 88. She had a baby when she was 16. That was in 1936, but there were still whispers. If you can’t get rid of the family skeleton, you might as well make it dance.

Elizabeth (Orion’s wife). 88 years old and, along with Fred Gordon, the only surviving member of that generation. She lives in my hometown, so I’ve known her since I was a kid. She used to work at the Carthage Chamber of Commerce, and, since I went where I wanted, when I wanted in Carthage, I remember stopping in the Chamber when I was a young fellow and having her give me cookies and lemonade.

Richard (Orion’s clan). Richard was there. On crutches, of course. When Richard was little, he ran out on Main Street in Carthage and was hit by a truck. His leg has never been right since. Let that be a warning to you young folks.

Mildred (Frances’s sister). Nice lady. 86 years old. She had a stroke last year and her speech just isn’t quite what it once was. But she was a trouper. Everyone knew what she was saying.

Larry (Tommy’s clan). Larry is a dentist in Lafayette. When my grandmother died, Larry and his family came to visit my grandfather after the funeral. Grandpa gave a synopsis of his life with names and dates. Larry’s wife said, “You remember the day you were born, you remember the day you were married, tell me this … do you remember the day you were saved?” I held my breath. Grandpa said, “FROM WHAT?”

Larry’s daughter, Michelle. She was born the same day I was, so when we were very small, they used to always trot us out together like some circus sideshow. When we were a little older, I remember running around Reba's farm with her trying to kill a chicken with a dime-store tomahawk.

And, of course, Fred Gordon. 93 years old and the only one of the 13 siblings still living. He may have been the hit of the whole party. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite so happy.

Fred Gordon; Frances; Mildred; Rutledge

And dozens of others. I’d name names, but they wouldn’t mean anything to you.

One of the kids sidled up to me and said, “Everybody’s talking about Reba. Reba’s house ... Reba’s food!” That’s because there were about a hundred people in one room who all missed their Aunt Reba.

We gathered in the Donoho’s free-standing auditorium-type building and enjoyed a catered meal. I sat by cousins I’d never met and shared a nice, anticlimactic afternoon.

Then everyone went their separate ways and I guess I’ll see them at the next funeral. Which, realistically, can’t be too far in the future.

Since that ending really isn’t exciting and there really isn’t any real payoff for my readers, I’ll add my own ending. This is the way it should have gone down:

As we were eating, Pot-Bellied Betty slipped in the back door. With a nod to her tobacco-chewing colleague, Chaw-Chaw Charlie, they chained the doors and dimmed the lights in violation of every fire code in the state.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Someone coughed. Jerry droned on in the background … something about our ancestors from France. I think a lady screamed.

A spotlight split the darkness and shone on the stage in the back of the room.

A slight little woman with a snow-white coiffure that looked as if it had just been styled by a woman on Jefferson Street in Carthage over the latest 1980s gossip stepped up to the outsized, vintage microphone.

Silence grabbed the room by the throat. Even Jerry was struck dumb.

What? I don’t … by Jingo … that’s Reba!

“Cough-cough!” somebody said. “Shut up!” I said, “That’s Reba!”

She began to sing:

“There’s a garden, what a garden
Only happy faces bloom there
And there’s never any room there
For a worry or a gloom there.”

… There was scattered applause. Reba began to strut like a Ziegfeld girl, but with more panache. …

“Oh there’s music, and there’s dancing,
And a lot of sweet romancing,
When they play the polka
They all get in the swing.”

… Reba was lifted on a pedestal which rose from the stage. The stage lights came up and the set grew to a size that would have done Busby Berkeley proud. From stage right of the Donoho’s meager theater, the rest of the thirteen siblings came out clad in white tuxedos and evening gowns, walked gracefully down a wide, stately, white staircase and raised their voice in song. …

“Every time they hear that oom-pah-pah
Everybody feels so tra-la-la
They want to throw their cares away
They all go lah-de-ah-de-ay.”

… There was Sam and Mary D. and Thad and Sadie and Lucy and Albertine and Cordell and Fannie and Carmack and Orion and Tommy. Fred rose out of his wheelchair, grabbed Aunt Elizabeth by the hand and they jumped onstage and joined the chorus line. …

“Then they hear a rumble on the floor
It’s the big surprise they’re waiting for
And all the couples form a ring
For miles around you hear them sing …”

… Then, their beloved spouses came down another staircase stage left, joining the siblings. They all lay on their backs on the floor in a big circle and we saw them as one would see the June Taylor dancers. They all picked up the chorus as they moved their ancient limbs in suggestive ways …

“Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel, we’ve got the blues on the run
Zing, boom, ta-rarrel, sing out a song of good cheer
Now’s the time to roll the barrel, for the gang’s all here!”

They all took a bow to thunderous applause and a dozen maidens, some who looked like Mary Pickford and some who looked like Clara Bow, threw forget-me-nots from dainty baskets.

Then Louise Brooks nudged me with her elbow, we took a to-go plate and drove off in the PT Cruiser to the envy of all. We drove to the ’20s and lived happily ever after, eating Southern food every night until the flood of ’69 ruined everything. (But, that's a whole different blog. )

And I called it “The Aristocrats.”

Go directly to gel ...

2008-10-23T20:10:00.004-04:00

I was at the Waffle House drinking my coffee and reading the paper the other day when a particular headline caught my eye:

“New Gel May Aid Sex Drive.”

Yep. There’s a new female testosterone gel for menopausal women who have lost interest in sex. About dang time! This opens whole new avenues of dating options for me, Bob.

Now that I’m in my 40s, I was kind of holding out for the girls in their 20s who were dating guys my age when I was their age. Alas, it looks like the pendulum has swung back in favor of the young guys. Turns out, once I get here, 40 is the new 40. And, Bob misses out … again.

But now comes LibiGel, geared toward the woman with a low libido. All she need do is slop a little gel on her upper arm once a day and ha-cha-cha! O.K., it’s not as “topical” an application as I would have imagined. But whatever works.

I’m delighted about this. An estimated 40 million women suffer from some sort of sexual disorder. I've dated about half of them. If LibiGel can fix the other half, I’m back in business. And to the more … mature … woman, I still have a little of my boyish charm. What … mature … woman wouldn’t be drawn to my rakish grin and gray streak that’s not quite as premature as it used to be?

I’m going to get some of this gel. And a little Viagra. Things are going to be better for me, Bob. This time I’m going for that four-hour erection they warn you about on the package. And I’m going to use all four hours. Not spend three hours and fifty-eight minutes watching the clock like last time. Shucks! I may even go into extra innings.

So, I’ll go find me a blue hair, slather some of that new gel on her, pop a Viagra and let ’er ride! And after that four hours, we’ll both slap on a nicotine patch and watch a little “Matlock” on the cable TV.

Yes, sir. Life has suddenly started to look a little better for me, Bob.

Outtakes: “… it’s not quite like popping a cherry, but, I like cherry cobbler, too.” A little too crass for the high standards of this blog.

Yeah, I'm a sicko ... but it is Halloween!

2008-10-20T17:57:00.008-04:00

I just got back from a lovely weekend jaunt to Tennessee. I had the opportunity to swing by the old hometown ... check out my old stomping grounds ... see some moo-cows.

I made it a point to go up to the cemetery and pay my respects to the grandparents. Well ... strictly speaking, the way I do it, it's not really "respect," but I did get a few good one-liners in. And I do miss them.

Eerily, I got to see where, sometime between now and 2056, I will be buried:

I even had a chance to try it out for comfort:

Turns out it's not like trying out a Posturpedic in the store. It was a little hard to get up and down. Fortunately, by the time I use it for real, "down" will be easy and "up" really won't be an issue. Long about that time, my Sleep Number will be infinity. Had really good back support, though ...

American Graffiti

2008-10-10T18:41:00.004-04:00

A Ram ... A Lamb ... A Ram ... A Llama ... Ding Dong.

To pee? Not to pee?

2008-10-08T11:58:00.003-04:00

My friend, Nessa, posted a hilarious blog about something that happened to her and invited her readers to share their own embarrassing moments.

Since I never know when to shut up, I rambled on for about a page.

Very few people have ever heard this story. It was not something I really cared to publicize, but now enough time has passed that it doesn't really matter anymore.

So, here you go:
___________

I’ll never forget a particular freelance job I did few years ago for a company out of New York. It was a product launch for Seasonale (Only FOUR Periods a Year! … may cause breakthrough bleeding and spotting).

A few days before the event, I had transitioned from one kind of crazy pill to another and I was still settling in with the new medication. I was a little spacey as my brain juice tried to figure out how to block the betas, soak up the seratonin or whatever it was doing inside my skull.

These meetings usually mean working 12-15 hours a day for four or five days. When we broke for lunch on the second or third day, I was already starting to show some wear. I was worn out. I ate the chow and then took a potty break.

The event was being held in a ballroom in one of the big downtown hotels. The boys’ room was out the ballroom, past the elevators and way across the lobby. I found a nice urinal, deployed, did my business, put everything back in place, washed my hands and headed back to the ballroom.

I looked so nice and so professional walking back through the lobby. All buttoned down and stylin’ with a silk tie – might even have been Italian – and nice, light khakis. I got back and sat down by the New York producer as she conferred with the Director of Production.

Then I looked down at my lap and my pants were soaked. Showed up really good on khaki.

Oh, my God!

What had the new medicine done to me? Did I black out? Did I lose all bladder control? Did I mistakenly zip and flush not realizing I was still mid-stream? Was I that crazy? What should I do?

I hid. I whipped out my cell phone and called a friend of mine.

“I’m on a job! I’ve got new crazy pills! I think I just wet my pants!” Laughter. It’s remarkable how little sympathy incontinence engenders.

Well, I called the producer and asked if she could spare me for 45 minutes and dashed home. I’d already bribed the parking-lot attendant so I could come and go without paying a full day’s rate every time I parked.

I rushed in the house and ripped the soiled pants off and hopped in the shower so I wouldn’t smell like an old man or a homeless person. I put on fresh pants and rushed back downtown to the hotel and apologized to the producer for my untimely absence.

Eventually, I had to make another trip to the accursed men’s room, and as I walked toward the urinal which had so betrayed me earlier, I noticed that the sink was leaking all over the countertop and dripping water down the front of the cabinet right where I had leaned when I washed my hands earlier.

Well, I was humiliated, but the show went on. And I’m sure I made an impression on the people from New York.

Hallows, I Must Be Going!

2008-10-07T14:27:00.003-04:00

God! It’s October again. That means Halloween is bearing down on me like freight train full of Candy Corn as I stand on the track like a dumbstruck deer awaiting the inevitable impact. Come October 31, it's going to be deer to eternity.

I’m not going to sit here and type another “The Meaning of Halloween,” because you’ve heard it a million times before. And because, frankly, I don’t care.

I’m just going to ask why, during this time of the year, do people lose all sense of style and class and fill their yards with the most tasteless objects they can buy? They get the 15-foot tall inflatable ghost, the scarecrow, the gigantic Jack-o-Lantern. Then they dust off the inflatable Santa Claus, reindeer, the angels or whatever, because these go up November first. Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Yeah. It’s October now. I get it. Why advertise? So you can read a calendar. So can I. I mean, I’ve got a blow-up doll, too, but I don’t put it out on my lawn!

(Actually, I can see the value of a well-lit, 20-foot long inflatable reindeer to draw fire in case Ms. Palin flies over on her way to another debate.)

And the round-headed ghosts made of bedsheets hanging from trees like some ectoplasmic lynching. What’s that all about? That’s some strange fruit, alright.

Holidays should be happy occasions shared with family. Inside the house. Not an excuse to put your vulgarity on public display. I guess some people feel they must participate in this unpleasant pageantry or they will bear the stigma of being without “holiday spirit.”

Definitely a Kitsch-22.

It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Sting

2008-09-25T11:53:00.012-04:00

Well ... I just got stung by a hornet.

This is arguably the most painful thing I have ever experienced from any object penetrating my body to a depth of less than half a centimeter.

I was walking into the powder room, intending no harm to any creature, great or small, when this malevolent insect makes a beeline for my arm and buries his pointy, poison bum right into the soft, white underside of my forearm. "Wha?" I say. "Ow," I say. "That bastard is still stinging me," I say. "Why won't the cursed thing let go of me?" I say. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Get it off me! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Get it off!" I say.

This was a real hornet. A hornet with malice in its heart. This was not some devil-may-care honey bee that could be easily intimidated and shooed back to its lair quaking in fear after nothing more than a stern rebuke. No, this thing went at me with a purpose. This was the Guy-Who-Stabbed-Monica-Seles of the insect world. I had to reach down and manhandle the thing just to get it off my arm.

Even then the blasted stinger stayed behind and kept on stinging me. What do you do in a situation like that? Is it like being impaled by a farm implement and you shouldn't pull it out otherwise it could jostle something vital inside and you could bleed to death? You see it all the time on TV. "Another inch and it would have hit an artery," and "He's lucky you didn't try to remove it. He would have bled to death in minutes."

Well, I've watched enough episodes of "Emergency!" on TVLand to know what to do. I pulled it out. It was a split-second decision. Could have meant the difference between life and death.

But, my ordeal had only just begun. What had started as just a nuisance soon blossomed into searing agony. I would rate this as a 3.0 on the Schmidt Sting Pain Index: "Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut." I'm going to have to write that Schmidt guy a letter. He nailed it.

You should see the thing now. There is Ground Zero, the actual point of penetration, which is an angry red eye surrounded by an areola of swelling, perhaps a centimeter in diameter. This lies in a scarlet circle about as big around as a 50 cent piece. Then there are tendrils of redness radiating from the center, the longest of which reaches a good inch-and-a-half, two inches from the sting as the poison spreads through my body in its relentless effort to cause me harm.

It's been over an hour now and I haven't gone into anaphylactic shock, but I'm not out of the woods yet. You see, the hornet is still alive. He's out there somewhere. Waiting. Waiting.

He'll be back. I know it. But this time I'll be ready.

See the video:

http://eyebob.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.html

Judas Priest!

2008-09-22T19:26:00.015-04:00

If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story
Of an ill-fated Catholic priest
Who refused to give in to a world full of sin
Or be pushed around by The Beast.
Father Bernardo was always a maverick,
A shepherd who strayed from his flock.
He’d always been waitin’ to sock it to Satan
But, sometimes he went off half-cocked.

O! The world was in a condition
Of moral decline and decay.
He would plead and cajole to save every lost soul
And try to keep evil at bay.
But, his righteous efforts were fruitless.
His supply couldn’t meet the demand.
There were always so many to preach to that when he
Was through, vice was still out of hand.

Then, one day he devised a solution;
A scheme he started to form.
The way to salvation for all God’s creation
Lay in one hell of a storm!
She blew in from off of the ocean.
In a chartered airplane he sought her.
He took to the air and blessed it with prayer,
And for eight days it rained Holy Water.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Life was just peachy at first.
But it got out of hand, the pope hit the fan
The priest’s pious plot was now cursed.
It dealt a death blow to the wicked.
Hit politicians especially hard.
And, not just the sinister, but clergy and minister
And rabbi were all caught off guard.

They all washed away in the deluge
Or melted like the Witch of the West.
As they drowned in the gutter, the evil would sputter
How sorry they were they'd transgressed!
Bernardo himself was a victim!
I suppose he wasn’t holy as thou.
He wasn’t immune to his righteous monsoon
Though he thought he would be until now.

Bernardo had sure learned his lesson.
Mere mortals can’t keep folks from Hades.
He lay down to die and with his last sigh,
Knew that was no way to speak to a laity.
He bowed before God for his judgment.
God said, “You didn’t think it all through.
I did it all for a reason, all things in their season.
Man bit the apple, now chew.”

And that is the end of my story
Of the priest who fell out of grace.
He tried to save souls from Hell’s fiery coals
But he ended up flat on his face.
For God made evil on purpose.
It’s part of His holy design.
It seems it is our doom, and to err is human,
And to forgive is surely divine.

Movers, Shakers and Do-ers

2008-09-20T23:13:00.001-04:00

I'll take the Dewars!

I'm Going to Burn for This One!

2008-09-07T16:10:00.009-04:00

Let's see ... who had the lamb? ... don't forget to add the tip...

... look at the price of this wine! ... I told you we should have gotten a pitcher ...

... let's just split it 12 ways ... no! You don't owe anything ... you're the Host!

No ... I think that one looks more like a bunny rabbit.

I've seen this one before. Let's see if we can get Seinfeld.

The Wages of Cinema

2008-08-22T13:46:00.027-04:00

My friend “Lucky” on MySpace recently posted a blog listing a number of movies she would like to see and challenging her readers to make a list of their own. Drawing on my long years of experience in the TV Listings industry, here are my selections:

Out on a Lamb Chop
(Children) A lovable sock puppet discovers she was a ventriloquist’s dummy in a previous life.

Clash of the Titanic
(Drama) Perseus sinks his fortune in the “unsinkable” Argo only to learn that he has been fleeced. [Yeah, I know … it’s “Jason and the Argonauts,” but it’s all Greek to me. Troy, Troy again, I guess.]

Brokeback to the Future
(Science Fiction) Marty and Doc explore their feelings for one another in the Hill Valley of 1955.

It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad Max
(Comedy) An all-star cast races to find a cache of gasoline buried somewhere in a post-holocaust Australian Outback in this comic tour de force.

Children of a Lesser Godfather
(Drama) Francis Ford Coppola directs this powerful drama that chronicles a family of deaf mobsters over a span of ten years.

Citizen Caine Mutiny
(Drama) A Machiavellian newspaperman weathers a typhoon in 1944 Manhattan.

Singin’ in the Rainman
(Musical) An autistic singer and dancer “definitely” makes the transition from silent films to talkies.

Wild, Wild West Side Story
(Western) Two gunslingers in the 1950s face a gang of murderous teens in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen.

Breakfast Club at Tiffany’s
(Drama) Five eccentric socialites are thrown together and discover that they are five eccentric socialites.

The Grapes of Wrath of Khan
(Science Fiction) A group of genetically enhanced supermen steal a starship in order to flee an ecologically ravaged planet in search of a better life in Oklahoma.

The Princess Bride of Frankenstein
(Comedy) A beautiful young re-animated woman keeps the audience in stitches as she searches for her one true love.

Fiddler on a Hot Tin Roof
(Musical) A Southern family in crisis struggles to hold on their way of life when a melodious eastern European Jewish family moves in next door.

My Fair Lady and the Tramp
(Musical-Animated) A Cocker Spaniel and a mongrel are passed off as royalty by their boorish trainer.

Pee-Wee’s Big Poseidon Adventure
(Comedy) A naïve onanist tries to regain his lost reputation after his career is capsized.

Village of the Damned Yankees
(Musical) A group of sinister British schoolchildren form a Little League baseball team to go head-to-head against the New York Yankees with the help of a crusty old coach.

Cheaper by the Dirty Dozen
(Drama) Personalities clash when a couple tries to raise twelve misfit soldiers in Montclair, New Jersey during World War II.

Flashdances With Wolves
(Drama) A young woman aspires to become accepted by a prestigious dance academy on the frontier during the Civil War.

The Magnificent Seventh Sign
(Thriller) A priest investigates seven mysterious gunmen whose appearance portends the return of Jesus Christ.

Little Orphan Annie Get Your Gun
(Musical) A sharp-shootin’ orphan and her dog thwart a pair of greedy low-brows in Depression-era New York City with the help of a wealthy capitalist.

The Heart is a Lonely Bounty Hunter
(Comedy) A rejected and forgotten deaf-mute pursues four zany misfits to a 1930s mill town in the deep South.

Hard Day’s Night of the Living Dead
(Horror) Four members of an English rock band are trapped by their own fame in an abandoned farmhouse surrounded by a horde of ghoulish fans.

Blackboard Jungle Book
(Musical-Animated) An infant abandoned in the jungles of India is raised by a group of inner-city hoodlums bent on mayhem.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind Hearts and Coronets
(Science Fiction) A group of eccentric aliens sets out to systematically murder a family of aristocrats in Edwardian England.

Soylent Green Berets
(Science Fiction) A newspaper reporter bites off more than he can chew when he investigates the suspicious disappearance of an elite military unit in 1968 Vietnam.

Sitting Bull Durham
(Romantic Comedy) A rookie Indian chief knocks one out of the park when his team goes head to head against General Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn.

The Man Who Knew Too Much Ado About Nothing
(Thriller) An American couple traveling in Morocco is caught up in an intricate web of intrigue and manage to stop a wedding that no one cares about.

Barefoot in Gorky Park
(Romantic Comedy) A free-spirited woman and her down-to-earth husband reaffirm their love in the wake of a series of gruesome murders.

Gilligan’s Island of Dr. Moreau

Seven stranded castaways perform a disastrous series of experiments on native wildlife.

Dirty Harry and the Hendersons

A veteran cop tracks a sadistic serial killer with the help of a cryptozoological rookie.

20/20 Thousand Dollar Pyramid

Contestants compete to guess relevant topics of the day.

Dances With Airwolves

A Civil War-era soldier uses a state-of the-art helicopter to aid a band of Sioux on the American frontier.

ALF-red Hitchcock Presents

A wisecracking puppet hosts an anthology of gripping mysteries.

Barney Miller and Friends

A level-headed police captain tries to maintain discipline among a dimwitted dinosaur, a gaggle of unruly children, and Abe Vigoda.

This Old House

A band of do-gooders restore a crotchety old doctor.

All My Children of the Corn

An errant couple meet their end in a cornfield at the hands of unruly children. And the whole town worries. Worries.

Moby Dick Van Dyke Show

A successful comedy writer bets his career on the Great White Joke. And it stinks.

145 pilgrims die in shrine stampede

2008-08-04T14:23:00.000-04:00

As I sat in the Waffle House this morning drinking my coffee and reading the newspaper, I happened to glance at an item released by the Associated Press informing me that:

“... Pilgrims stampeded at a mountaintop Hindu temple in northern India on Sunday, and at least 145 people were killed in a crush that sent worshippers plummeting to their deaths over a broken railing.”

It broke my heart. After all the centuries of collaboration, teamwork and sheer bonhomie between Pilgrims and Indians, that this should happen in our day and age is appalling and shameful.

Indians are cool. Ever since that first Indian stuffed old Tom Turkey and his squaw made the New World’s first Jell-O mold, no Indian has let a Pilgrim come to harm. And every American since has been thankful for that. That’s history. Look it up.

So, how could the Indians drop the ball so disastrously as to let over a hundred Pilgrims plunge to a ghastly death simply because no one saw fit to run to Home Depot and pick up a hammer and a couple of ten-penny nails? Not Do-It-Yourselfers, I guess.

When next Thanksgiving rolls around, things won’t be the same for me. The sweet potatoes just won’t taste so sweet and Macy’s balloons just won’t fly so high. I’m going to say an extra little prayer for those Pilgrims, and I think every Indian should ask himself, "Where did I go wrong?"

We’ve always been the best of friends, we and the Indians. But this time you let us down, Squanto. How can we ever trust you again?

"Lumberjack" Is "Nature" Spelled Backwards

2008-07-27T14:08:00.001-04:00

Below is an excerpt from a friend of mine’s blog and my reply. I like to yank her chain.

… When I was young, the first weird thing I did was to climb trees
and talk to them. By the time I was a teenager, once I discovered
camping and hiking in the woods, I knew that I had a deep
connection with Nature …

… Healing must take place, in perceptions, and in Reality …
The Earth must be treasured and treated with respect ...
We are all a member of the Earth Tribe ... We are in this together, us
Earthlings … We've got this planet to live on and we need to figure out
how to do it cooperatively ...

I hear what you’re saying. I’ve always been a little “outdoorsy,” myself.

Ah, how I pine for those summers I spent as a lumberjack! This was back in the days before diesel- or gasoline-powered equipment. The best we had was an axe and a cross-cut saw. But even those were in short supply, so more often than not, we’d have to make do with a butter knife and tweezers. And if those broke, sometimes we’d just harness up a beaver and set to. I cleared eight acres of hardwood one time with nothing but a beaver and a broken beer bottle.

We felled all kinds of trees. We didn’t care. The mighty oak, the slippery elm, the dumb ash. In the winter, we chopped down maple trees and shipped them to Vermont for the syrup trade. My favorite was the bonsai, because they came down real easy. Then we’d drag those old logs down the skid road and float ’em down the river to Chinatown to make chopsticks. You had to be mighty careful with bonsai, though, when you were hopping from log to log on the river. They’re quick to roll with you.

One year we cleared the better part of Nevada. That’s why there are no trees there now. We’d chop at those trees – sometimes it would take two or three good licks to bring one down – and we’d holler, “Timbre!” Or sometimes, “Adagio!” because we thought it was right funny and we used to tease this one whistle punk, anyway, because he’d studied at Julliard.

After a hard day lumberjacking, the boys would sit around the bunkhouse eating pancakes and singing tree shanties. And sometimes we’d drink to excess. We drank turpentine mostly, which we also used for bathing. After a couple of stacks of flapjacks and three or four stiff shots of turpentine, sometimes we’d play dress-up or put on shows. That Julliard kid was the best at it.

We didn’t have much trouble with Indians back then. Now and then we had to fight off a tribe of unruly Frenchmen, though. I don’t know what riled them up – they were crazy with Jacques itch, maybe – but they were stubborn rascals. Just couldn’t seem to get rid of them. Then we started baiting bear traps with brie. That brought them up short. I’ve got a rug in my game room to this day that I made out of one of those son-of-a-guns!

I remember one time we ran out of pancakes. Most men would have packed it in and moved on. But we wanted to stick it out until this particular stand of ficus was ready to come down. We stayed in that camp without food for fourteen months and finally had to eat the sled dogs, which was O.K. because there wasn’t any snow in New Mexico, anyway. By the time it was over, one boy had gnawed his own leg off from hunger, and we had to shoot another fellow so he’d have something to eat.

Yes, sir, there’s no closer bond than the one shared by a band of lumberjacks in the great outdoors. We were just like brothers. Closer, in some cases. Until one day one of our high toppers went up north and brought himself back a lumberjill and set up house. Things just weren’t the same after that and we all drifted apart. One boy got a job with the highway department, another boy went into landscaping. I was a parking lot attendant in Las Vegas for a while until it got too commercial.

So, I know where you’re coming from. I was as close to nature as you can get without being a brutish animal. Those were the best days of my life and I shall always treasure them. I mean that from my heart. I only wish everyone could clear cut a hundred acres, then they’d know what we mean.

* * * * * *

I call "BULLSHIT" Bob!!! There is NO WAY you would have wasted brie on stinky Frenchmen!

Ah! You caught me in a fabrication. It wasn't really brie, it was cheddar. And they weren't really French. They were from Montreal.

Correspondence: April 27, 2008

2008-04-27T14:07:00.000-04:00

My mother is pretty gung-ho about her church stuff. But that’s not my cross to bear. I went with her to a Christian book store the other day. There was shelf after shelf of every kind of Bible you can think of and then a small section labeled “Non-Fiction.” I laughed!

Then the checkout lady was ringing up my mother’s purchase, she mentioned several kinds of Bibles and told us that a particular one was just for Jehovah’s Witnesses. And, when she said “Jehovah’s Witnesses,” she rolled her eyes. The very picture of tolerance. Then she said, “I guess they have to have a translation.” I thought, “What the hell do you think yours is, lady?”

I guess what made me think of that was that they don’t just carry Protestant stuff and I saw that you can buy communion wafers there by the box. So, you could take a box up to your niece and nephew and let them commune to their hearts’ content. Unless that’s not kosher.

… So, technically, since they’re unleavened, our Jewish friends could eat the Eucharist during Passover, couldn’t they? I’m going to have to get a box of those to see what they’re like. Would they be good with any kind of spread? They have priest shirts at that store, too. I may get one of those, too, since I can’t have a pope hat.

Conan O’Brien said this week, “It’s been reported that President Bush was so impressed with Pope Benedict’s recent visit, that after he leaves office Bush may convert to Catholicism. Bush said, ‘I’d convert right now, but Dick Cheney freaks out if you get near him with a cross.’”

Reach Out and Torch Someone

2008-04-12T14:06:00.000-04:00

I guess the torch for the 2008 Olympics was in the U.S. this week. I was eating garlic chicken and reading the paper at Fortune Cookie, a lovely Chinese restaurant on Briarcliff, when I remembered the torch relay was in San Francisco that very day. And there I was giving my tacit support to the oppressors in Beijing as I gorged myself on fried rice and slurped their egg-drop soup. What an unsympathetic, socially unconscious jerk! So, when it came time to pay, I wrote, “Free Tibet” on the top of my credit slip and ran out. Yep, I’m a revolutionary!

Speaking of Olympic torches, someone asked me today if I’d seen the movie “Sherman’s March.” I haven’t seen the movie, but I’ve heard of Sherman’s March. Who here hasn’t? That’s why I was so leery about the Olympics coming to Atlanta a few years ago. We all remember what happened the last time a foreigner came here with fire.

The Misadventure of Bob’s Appendix

2008-02-29T13:33:00.001-05:00

Part One: A Violation of My Innard Sanctum
November 13, 2007

Wow! What a week. I had a stomach ache on Thursday. On Friday, it finally got so bad that I had to call 911 and go to the hospital. I left the house by noon, and by 7:00, I was rolling into surgery to have my appendix taken out. I’m home now but I’m still on pain pills.

I know I have already spoken to some of you and related the news, but, due to the pain pills, I’m having trouble remembering who I spoke to. The pain medicine, Hydrocodone, is pretty cool, by the way. I’d recommend bringing it to any music concert or potluck.

I probably won’t be on the phone much because I sleep a lot and it hurts to get up and down, but I’ll try to check e-mail as often as possible. If you want to try to call, you can give it a shot after 9:00. No point in paying for a call I’m not going to remember, anyway.

* * * * * *

Do you miss your appendix yet?

Do I miss my appendix yet? It’s gone, but I’ll always have it with me in my heart. That sounds gross!

Hydrocodone is my FAVORITE! Enjoy, and if there are ANY leftovers,
please promise you’ll let me have them. …

I have the feeling that this is the kind of drug that isn’t going to have any leftovers. Sorry.

This is clearly a serious surgery that would knock over the best of us —
and you seem to be taking it in stride.

Yeah, I’m on the upswing. I’m feeling better every day. I’ve still got those pesky marks from the tape that held the IV in, but a little Bestine will take that off.

Ouch. Hope you feel better. That looks nasty.

I wanted to save the appendix and make a finger puppet out of it.

I hope you feel better soon. Everyone always does once they have their purple parts taken out.

I’m doing a fair bit of lying around. The animals still want to be all over me and lie on my stomach. I just can’t have that. There are about five really sensitive spots on my tummy. You would think they had little cat-sized Arthur Murray footprints on them, because the cats hit them every time, without fail.

The pain pills are a hoot! I took one the other day, then tried to read a book. I read it for a while, then it read me for a while. It went back and forth, then we hit an impasse and just started telling each other off-color jokes.

Back on the prayer list you go …

No need for the prayer list. The doctors already fixed it.

Is appendix-less life all it was cracked up to be??

I’m feeling O.K. now. But I don’t have the guts to do it again.

* * * * * *

November 17, 2007

It’s been over a week now that I’ve thought of nothing other than my abdomen. It all seems to be getting better. About the only pain left is just from being spindled and mutilated.

I always told my nieces that I was going to get my bellybutton pierced. Then I’d add, “... but not that sissy way. I’m going to have mine done the man’s way: back to front.”

Well, danged if I didn’t do it. With that laparoscopic procedure, they dragged the appendix out the bellybutton and then sewed it nearly shut. As soon as the stitches are gone, I’ll have to start poking my finger in my navel until it’s back to the proper shape. Like re-blocking a hat.

Part Two: Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
February 9, 2008

When telling the tale of my recent appendectomy, one obliging reader responded, “Back on the prayer list you go …” to which I replied, “No need for the prayer list. The doctors already fixed it.” Well, I was a little premature, and God must be laughing!

It seems a little infection was left behind after my whirlwind surgery. All was well for a while as my incisions healed, but this devious little infection was growing, growing inside me.

I was wholly unaware of this hidden danger. I went about my business as if nothing were amiss. Tra-la-la! All was well with the world.

Well, it turns out that when some crafty little infection is growing, growing inside you, it can result in excruciating back pain. And how! A little chiropractic action relieved the pain, but I was left with an absurd limp. This was soon accompanied by a shooting pain in my legs resulting in a peculiar shuffling gait. Oh, what a sight I must have been!

In due course, the pain in my back started to grow again and I took up residence on the living room couch which offered more back support than I had been getting. The back pain and mystifying pain in my legs grew little by little until, one morning, for the life of me, I couldn’t stand up. Walking was out of the question.

I waited for the condition to right itself, but I remained lame.

As I lay on the couch, a useless cripple, the sinister infection continued to grow. On my back and out of my sight, a bulge the size of one of your smaller melons appeared (see photo).

Ah! What exquisite pain! Time to see a doctor.

Wheelchair bound, my concern was with my legs and why they wouldn’t walk for me. The doctors were more captivated by the protuberance on my back. It turns out the two were interrelated. A CT scan revealed that the enormous bulge was an abscess pressing on something vital to walking and would I mind checking into the hospital to have it drained.

Off I went to have the abscess drained. I’m told that about a cup of pus came out of that thing on my back. Why the surgeon felt the need to express the volume of discharge in terms of dishware, I don’t know, but it was a little unsettling.

Well, they stuck me with three bags to catch the remaining goo that was still draining out of the site and admitted me to the hospital for a week of IVs, needles and hospital food.

Amazingly, once I was pumped out, I could walk again, after a fashion. I’m using a walker, though, until my legs resume their old familiar frailty.

Finally, after the nurses had inflicted all pain necessary and unnecessary, and punctured every vein in both of my arms, they sent me home with two drainage bags still sucking infection from me like a pair of unquenchable parasites.

I now await a doctor’s appointment during which these greedy little bags might at last be removed and this whole episode — which began some three months ago — might come to a long overdue conclusion.

NOTE: All procedures, real or imagined, mentioned above resulted in acute and absolute pain.

* * * * * *

All pain inflicted in the hospital is at once real and imaginary. Some
is actually being inflicted, but you imagine it must be worse than it is and
hurt accordingly.

No. No, this pain was real. And, true to form, as they were preparing to send me home, one of the nurses devised a devilish dénouement to my hospital stay: instead of gently sliding the IV out of my weary vein, she callously ripped off the tape — catheter and all! Oi! The IV came out sideways leaving a ribbon of torn flesh in its wake. Left a mark, that did.

Your tales are disturbingly entertaining ... and I can’t imagine how much
fear and anxiety you’re channeling through the humor …

I didn’t really have much anxiety in the hospital. More like a grim resolve. I knew that every time the door opened, something was else was going to hurt me. Que sera sera.

I still can’t wait till you graduate to a cane so you can be like House …

I’ve been walking with a cane for some time now. I’d make a very, very, very fine House. Or to put a Biblical spin on it, I’ve got a cane and now I’m able.

I hope you are on the road to recovery and that you regain normal frailty in your legs soon.

In the mornings I look like a foal rising feebly for the first time on its fragile little legs. I shamble to the restroom with unsure steps hoping in vain to regain my accustomed sure-footedness. That frail enough for you?

You’ll be tap dancing in no time!

I tried it once. Now I’m all tapped out. I’d be good at it, though. I already have the cane.

Prayers are in for a speedy recovery from the recovery.

You said you were going to pray for a speedy recovery nearly four months ago. Evidently it didn’t take.

* * * * * *

February 15, 2008

Since I wrote that e-mail, I discarded the walker and moved to a cane to help me walk. A few nights ago, I stopped using the cane and am walking on my own. I get some killer edema in my feet while I sleep, and in the morning I’m a little wobbly until everything sorts itself out.

They took one drain out before I left the hospital and sent me home with two still attached. I drain them nightly and chart the amount of discharge. Last Tuesday, the doctor removed one more of the bags. He will remove the last one when the amount of ooze gets down to 5 to 10 milliliters a day.

* * * * * *

February 21, 2008

I’ve been walking without aid for over a week. Went to the doctor today. Had the last drain removed. I have a slight bulge developing near my bellybutton. The doctor says it looks like a hernia from blowing a stitch after surgery. Says he’ll fix it if it bothers me. Sounds expensive. CT scan next week to make sure all the little pus guys are gone. I hope so. Don’t want to have to drain them again. No drain, no pain.

Speaking of expensive, the bills from this medical misadventure are still coming in. As it stands now, assuming my appendix was responsible for all my recent misfortune and assuming it was about three inches long, that little bugger cost about $14,000 an inch.

My appendix: An expensive cut of meat.

* * * * * *

February 24, 2008

Yep, seems like I’m getting a little better every day. And, after 22 days, I’ve exchanged that last drainage tube for a simple Band-Aid. I’m still a little sore in that spot, but I guess that’s to be expected.

Part Three: Suppuration Anxiety
February 29, 2008

(Reader Discretion is Advised)

It has been a month now since my magnum o’ pus was pumped out. I enjoyed what I hope will be my final CT scan this week and got the results back yesterday. According to the scan doctor, the mass of goo has diminished significantly, but “… continues to cause some mild displacement of the right kidney due to its retroperitoneal location. It involves the right paravertebral muscles, psoas, and oblique muscles in the flank and extends into the pararenal fat and fascia with extensive fat stranding and irregularity. …” and “… it does have a large component along the iliacus muscle centrally.” That’s an oblique way of saying, “His back still hurts.” I could have told her that for free.

She continues, “There is one single fairly well-defined pocket of fluid along the iliac crest posteriorly … measuring 2.7 x 1.2 cm.” Now, I don’t want to complain, but I could do without being tapped like a keg again to drain well-defined fluid or any other kind of putrescence. It’s painful and humiliating. And, no sir, I didn’t like it. So, let’s leave it be and maybe it will go away.

Incidentally, the scan also revealed that my prostate is not enlarged. Good to hear. I think it’s worth the time and expense to scan the ol’ prostate from the outside rather than having it checked the traditional way.

My CT scan before drainage and after. I’m no doctor, but I think
in cross section a person should at least be symmetrical.

Yep. You gotta love that CT scan. It is to dye for! You lie alone in a cold, unfeeling machine and it lays you bare before God and all. Fully clothed though you may be, the doctors have a ringside seat to inspect all your organs and viscera. Check your modesty at the door!

And, speaking of organs, on several of the CT scan images you’ll see the ghostly apparition of my pee-pee. It wasn’t really necessary to scan in my case — I think the technician just did it to satisfy his prurient curiosity. It is interesting to examine the whole series, though, as the pictures progress up my groinal area slice by revealing slice. Nothing … nothing … nothing … whoa! What’s that?! The unrelenting machine continues, the images of — you know — diminishing until it finally resembles nothing more than a little circumcised string. Then nothing … nothing … Turns out it’s pretty photogenic. It’s not strictly soft tissue. … It comes and goes.

Now, after emergency appendectomy and subsequent infection, mammoth bulge hanging off my back, a tangle of drainage tubes snaking their way into my insides and a brand new hernia to keep my bellybutton company, you’d think the worst would be over. But, now I notice my hair is falling out.

It was thick and luxuriant as ever last weekend. A day later I was running my fingers through it and scrutinizing my tresses in the mirror, and observed that it has definitely gotten thinner. To top it off, I think I have a genuine bald spot.

And, behold, my armpit hair has disappeared. This is all in the past four or five days! At this rate, I’ll soon be hairless as a Chihuahua. A wretched, trembling Chihuahua. I’m taking vitamins to encourage hair growth, but in my spare time I practice my comb-over and rail at God. Ah, well!

Naturally, now that my body has begun to betray me, dealing blow after agonizing blow, I have become particularly paranoid about my wellbeing. What else has my spiteful carcass got on the docket to sap my vigor and zest for life? What malady lies around the next bend? Ricketts? Ague? Feline leukemia? Bring it on! I’m waiting!

THE END

(Or is it?)

* * * * * *

There are worse things than permanently hairless armpits.

Yeah, there are worse things. But I bet I’ve got those, too.

… as a chick, a lack of underarm hair would be a blessing.

The armpit thing isn’t so bad. I can still go out with confidence ... la-la-la-la confidence. Even so, though the look is strong enough for a man, it was made for a woman.

I’m more concerned about the bald spot on my head. The hair grows around it in a silky swirl, and the little bare spot stands out like the angry eye of a category 5 hair-o-cane. I’m just afraid that someday soon it just might make landfall on my forehead.

Could you draw lines to the body parts? I don’t want to miss the “string.”

This ain’t no peep show! But, if you’re interested, I have 8 x 10’s and wallet size prints all available at a reasonable price. For you, I’ll even offer one I autographed with my own John Hancock. But you’d better hurry. I’m selling them hand over fist!

This may be the grossest e-mail in the ... history of e-mail!

Hey, you should hear the details I left out! For example, the dye they inject you with for the CT scan makes your insides feel unnaturally warm. There I was, lying in the machine, my mind a million miles away, when it began assaulting my bloodstream. I felt my entire body rapidly getting warmer and warmer. It even felt hot on my pooper. Ouch! Talk about your Ring of Fire!

Seriously ... you’re a mess.

It’s not as bad as I make it out to be. It’s not really even a real bald spot. With the white streak in front, the tiny bare patch looks more like a bellybutton on a badger.

Correspondence: November 19, 2007

2007-11-19T13:30:00.000-05:00

To a Friend in Australia:

Yeah, “Lucky” is my friend, but don’t hold that against me. I’d say we go back to the ’70s together, but that’s not strictly true. We met in the ’70s, then came forward to the 21st century together, instead. I guess Steven Hawking would say it’s the same thing. He’s good, but sometimes I can see his lips move.

You, know ... now that I think about it, in the 4th grade (sometime around 1975) I signed up for a Pen Pal program through school and was assigned a kid from Australia named “Geoff.” I never wrote to him. So, if you run into “Geoff,” tell him I’m sorry I never wrote, and I hope he’s doing well.

At any rate, I hope all is well and y’all have a good time this week doing whatever y’all do instead of Thanksgiving.

... I can’t believe it! You have the same T-giving tradition that I do! But mine involves Jagermeister. I don’t normally bring in the religious aspect until later in the evening when I hang my head over the toilet and say, “Oh, God!” a lot.

I was going to sign my last note, “Your Little Southern Friend, Bob” but then I realized you’re way farther south than I am and you might find that insulting. And since you haven’t been steeped in our culture (or lack of it), it wouldn’t make that much impression on you, anyway. So, instead, I’ll just slip in a “y’all” or “yessir” here and there, or maybe the occasional “hyuk, hyuk, hyuk!” for verisimilitude. I’ll shuck, but I won’t jive.

Correspondence: October 30, 2007

2007-10-30T13:29:00.000-04:00

… That reminds me of my summers in Tennessee in the ’70s. Old “Bear” Hackett lived about six miles outside of town and used to walk it. He wasn’t quite right in the head. He also rolled his own cigarettes. And I seem to recall that the year James Earl Ray escaped from prison, Bear Hackett was one of the folks sitting around an old country store who said that if Ray turned up on their doorstep, they’d take him in. That was less than a decade after MLK was killed, so maybe they’ve all seen the light by now. I know Bear Hackett has seen the light. He’s dead.

Correspondence: October 22, 2007

2007-10-22T13:28:00.000-04:00

… Have you been following the news about our water woes? The governor is trying to reduce the amount of water released from Lake Lanier, but the Corps of Engineers says it is mandated by the federal government to release water for the endangered mussels on the Florida coast. I suggest we keep the water, Tallahassee have a clam bake, and everybody wins. Screw the clams! I’m thirsty. ...

… The governor had a big prayer thing on the steps of the capitol the other day to pray for rain. First of all, don’t get me started. Second of all, I showed them! At the same time as their prayer thing, I was at home praying that God just “do what you think best.”

Correspondence: October 20, 2007

2007-10-20T13:26:00.000-04:00

Origami, is Japanese art of folding paper. Boulder is round rock.
Origami Boulder is wadded up paper! ... This site about origami
boulder very fine wadded paper artwork. I make artwork for you
and you buy it now. I am famous Internet artist. ...

To Origami Boulder Artist:

I am truly impressed by your work. I’ve dabbled in wadding paper, myself, but for me it is merely an avocation, not a true calling.

It is my intention to commission a custom origami boulder as soon as possible. I am currently remodeling my home, however, and I want to hold off until the work is finished in order to ensure that the artwork matches my new décor. Do you have a portfolio I could review in the meantime? I’m O.K. with PowerPoint if you just want to e-mail it to this address.

I am especially interested in having you produce for me a compelling holiday piece if you don’t consider that too base and commercial an undertaking. I’m considering a variation of your haiku origami boulder with a Thanksgiving theme. Something a little more traditional. Rather than a common boulder fashioned from wadded paper, I would like to see an origami replica of Plymouth Rock, and rather than a haiku on the inside, I would like to print my grandmother’s recipe for turkey and dressing.

I am considering a custom font for the recipe. Once I find a font designer and he has produced a font to my liking, I’ll e-mail it to you so we can get moving on this project. Do you require fonts for Mac or PC? Is TrueType O.K.?

There are other pieces I would like to see, but I just don’t have the space for them. A Zen rock garden consisting of several origami boulders set on a bed of confetti seems like it would be very relaxing to sit and contemplate. And, if you could somehow couple scissors or a scissor motif with an origami boulder, it would be a masterpiece. True genius! To combine the proverbial rock, paper and scissors in one piece would be a triumph. An electrifying example of your ineluctable talent.

I can, of course, tender payment through PayPal, but I am relieved to read that you accept alternate forms of remuneration. I can, in fact, pay you in postage stamps, as you indicate they are acceptable. I can also pay you in Chucky Cheese tokens if you deem them desirable. I have an abundance of them, but the kids are grown and I don’t see myself ever having the opportunity to use them myself.

Again, I adore your work and I look forward to doing business with you in the near future.

PS- I’m from Atlanta. Would you be able to make an origami representation of Stone Mountain — complete with carving — from a really big piece of paper? What would be the cost of such an endeavor?

Saffron Succotash!

2007-10-15T13:24:00.001-04:00

A moving tribute to the protesters in Myanmar:

He broke the rules …
The monk was brave …
He’s bought himself …
A Burma grave.

And if that doesn’t grab you, try this one:

This Buddhist’s made for walking,
That’s what he’s going to do.
He’ll take his protest to the streets
Til Burma’s dem-o-cratic, too.

Paideia’s Secret Plan

2007-09-24T13:23:00.001-04:00

Hey, my fellow alums. Have y’all been by Paideia lately? The campus has finally made it all the way to Oakdale. Beyond, if you include the 1341 Building (whatever that is). If Paideia’s Web site is to be believed, much spine-tingling progress has been made on the newly acquired property since the end of the academic year last June:

“The townhouses located at the corner of Oakdale and South Ponce de Leon were demolished to make way for the construction of our new junior high building, gym, black box theater and campus green.”

Yep. I told you that would happen. It was only a matter of time.

In the Spring of 1996, some 12 years after I graduated, the faculty adviser of The Forum contacted me and asked me to write an article for a special edition of the paper. I considered the events of that day and presented my predictions on the likely future of Paideia.

Here is that 1996 account of Paideia’s destiny. Looks like we’re moving in the right direction.
____________

Paideia’s Secret Plan

Paideia’s Campaign for the ’90s was recently declared a huge success after raising $5.8 million to buy the neighboring condominium property. This is proof positive that not only is Paideia the proud institution we have always known it to be, but also a successful corporate entity which is carving its niche in the marketplace. This is a grand achievement, and one Paideia folk — old or new — have a right to be proud of. But, what few know is that the Campaign was merely the first step in a far larger scheme dating back to the early ’70s.

I stumbled onto the plot in 1982 when, as a Forum editor, I went through Paul Bianchi’s desk looking for evidence in a Disciplinary Committee case in which I thought a fellow student had been wrongly accused. What I found was shocking and, in those days, scandalous. If the details of this scheme had been made public in the ’80s, it surely would have spelled the end of Bianchi’s regime. Paideia’s Board of Directors knew the plans had fallen to someone in my class and, in fact, the graduation of the class of 1984 was nothing less than an attempt to get rid of us lest word of the plan get out. Now that Phase One has been completed, however, the time is right to disclose the details of Paideia’s Secret Plan.

The Great Garage Sale and Paideia Place were early clandestine tests of Paideia’s fund raising power. These were followed closely by the purchase of the Mother Goose building and the SYDA Foundation property as a fledgling Paideia outflanked the condominiums and began its ten-year siege. This much you know. The rest may shock you.

Over the next ten years, Paideia will continue to accept contributions from parents, alums, foundation grants and major corporations. Paideia will also begin to explore new methods of gaining capital. According to the Plan, by 1999 Paideia will rent out the multi-purpose building for conventions, beginning with the Shriners. The school should pick up a few extra dollars by offering the services of Carol Cooper, the school crossing guard, to keep students from injury by the tiny clown cars. The school also intends to copyright all material taught by its faculty so that it might collect royalties any time an alum uses knowledge learned in any Paideia class.

By 2006, Paideia will incorporate under the new name “PaideiaCorp” and offer its wood-chip stock on the open market. Benefits to employees will increase, with faculty and staff being offered stock options and matching funds in the company’s 401(pre-K).

As time passes, age will take its toll even on the ageless Tom Pearce — still 39 and holding — and one by one the current Paideia employees will retire and, inevitably, die. As Paideia loses its faculty, the plan calls for them to be replaced by former students. All incoming students will be children or grandchildren of former students. Eventually, like some academic ouroboros, only Paideia graduates will teach Paideia students.

As PaideiaCorp’s coffers swell, it will begin to flex its monetary muscle and resume its westward march down Ponce de Leon, acquiring properties at the rate of one or two a year. Paideia should acquire the Krishna Temple on South Ponce by 2015. By 2031, Paideia will finally have a cafeteria after the purchase of the Majestic. By 2045, student housing will be located in what is now the Clermont Lodge.

The Steering Committee will have offices in City Hall East (the old Sears building). It will raise additional funds by selling textbooks at Krispy Kreme during break.

Phase II will end when the campus reaches Peachtree Street in 2071. At that time, Paul Bianchi will, along with Terrell Weitman, be preserved cryogenically and thawed only to make major decisions regarding the direction the Plan should take.

By the close of the next century, there will be tens of thousands of alums, parents, grandparents and the like all sending money to the school. This will mark the beginning of Phase III of the Plan when Paideia will make profit on donations alone and will no longer need to teach students. The students — still considered assets because of their paying grandparents — will be leased to Westminster.

By the school’s 200th anniversary, the Plan will be complete. PaideiaCorp will be a multi-million dollar corporation reaping the benefits of investments begun by us ... right now. The Plan conceived by Paul Bianchi in the early 1970s reaches far into the future. In a scant two centuries, Paideia will have grown from “The Little School That Could” to “The Great Big One That Could Whup Yo’ Ass” ... and we have seen only the beginning.

The Bobliotheque

Miss Me, Scooter ... Please!

Bob says: Get it while it's hot!

The Bear Truth

Another Saturday Night

Meter Made In Heaven

A Barnacle Bill-y Holiday

My Haiku

Vagabond Haven Destroyed. 45 Drifters Killed

Twitter Change

To Have. And to Hold.

Limerick Junction

I Kid You Not (Revised Version)

2010 Valentine's Day Card

To Wit

I'd Like a Second Opinion

I'm Just Scratching the Surface (because that's where it itches)

A Tail of Chew Kitties

Christmas Card 2009

Marginalia

An O-Pun letter to an Old Girlfriend

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Five

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Four

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Three

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter Two

Paradise Lust: An Eco-Friendly Journey Into the Heart of the Amazon - Chapter One

This, That, and the Mother Thing.

Things You Never Cared to Know About Me (From Facebook)

Bob Bob Bobbing Along

U.S. Peanut Butter Industry in a Jam

My Funny Valentines

My Ride of Passage

A Little Verse for Wear

Christmas Card 2008

Ring in the New Year!

I got rooked!

I am moved by the spirit of Thanksgiving.

Look for the Reunion Label

Go directly to gel ...

Yeah, I'm a sicko ... but it *is* Halloween!

American Graffiti

To pee? Not to pee?

Hallows, I Must Be Going!

It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Sting

Judas Priest!

Movers, Shakers and Do-ers

I'm Going to Burn for This One!

The Wages of Cinema

145 pilgrims die in shrine stampede

"Lumberjack" Is "Nature" Spelled Backwards

Correspondence: April 27, 2008

Reach Out and Torch Someone

The Misadventure of Bob’s Appendix

Correspondence: November 19, 2007

Correspondence: October 30, 2007

Correspondence: October 22, 2007

Correspondence: October 20, 2007

Saffron Succotash!

Paideia’s Secret Plan

Yeah, I'm a sicko ... but it is Halloween!