No Excuses

I have no excuse to offer.

I haven't been ill.
I haven't been too busy.
I haven't had my computer stolen.
I haven't been locked up in an insane asylum, although I probably shouldn't write that because
it'll just give The Man ideas.
I haven't been on a secret mission involving lots of international travel, late nights spent in
high-stakes casinos wearing slinky evening gowns dripping in my birthstone (that's diamonds
to you, buster), climbing snowy peaks, or para sailing into river gorges full of piranha and
leeches, detonating minor explosives, lots of gunfire at the most inopportune moments, all
this in order to save the planet - which, HAD I done, obviously would've been successful
because you're all still here and so am I...or whatever.

I just haven't written, that's all.

And, now I'm almost too depressed to write.

Look, I usually don't comment on political events. I try to avoid religion, too, but this
financial bailout is the straw that has broken this camel's back. It's extremely troublesome
and depressing and aggravating and depressing and hideous and worrisome and sad,
and did I mention depressing?

How do I opt out of this? You know, usually when there's some new government deal
like the Medical Prescription Program or when you pay your taxes they ask you if
you want to donate $1.00 to the Presidential Re-election Campaign Fund and you
get the chance to OPT OUT. Well, I want to OPT OUT of paying any part of the
$700 billion. How do I do that? Which box do I check?

What's that you say?
I don't get a choice in this?
That's so funny.
I thought we lived in a democratic society.

Silly (depressed) me.

Remember the song "The Battle of New Orleans?"

Well, in eighteen and fourteen we took a little trip
along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans,
And we caught the bloody British near the town of New Orleans.

We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin.
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to runnin'
down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.

My brother had that record when we were kids and we knew every word by heart.
I especially liked the BACON part. But the reason I'm bringing this up is because
I also liked Colonel Andrew Jackson, 7th President of the United States, and wasn't
Charleton Heston great when he played him in the movie "The Buccaneer."

Anyway, in 1832, President Jackson told a delegation of bankers the following:

“Gentlemen, I have had men watching you for a long time,
and I am convinced that you have used the funds of the bank
to speculate in the breadstuffs of the country. When you won,
you divided the profits amongst you, and when you lost, you
charged it to the bank. You tell me that if I take the deposits
from the bank and annul its charter, I shall ruin ten thousand
families. That may be true, gentlemen, but that is your sin!
Should I let you go on, you will ruin fifty thousand families,
and that would be my sin!

You are a den of vipers and thieves.
I intend to rout you out, and by the eternal God, I will rout you out.”

Now those are the words of someone I would vote for. We need men like "Old Hickory."
We need REAL MEN and not a bunch of mambie pambie, politically correct, wimpy,
unctuous, limp-hand-shaking, weak chinned, double dealing, crooks!

"By the eternal God, I will rout you out!" I mean that is so great!

I can't wait to use that line on The Man!

A Pond Without

He's out there.

He's out there right now.

Again.

He's looking for you-know-who (spelled f-r-o-g).
But, I told him that you-know-who is you-know-GONE.

He can't believe that Herb has crept away as silently as the "H" in his first name.
He can't accept the fact that his muse would leave without saying goodbye.
He can't imagine life without his little buddy.

Yeah, ol' Herby Boy hopped the froggy freight train outta here.
Herbalino rolled up his lily pad and checked out.
Herbidatious Maximus has other ponds to conquer.
Herbaby has other creeks to croak.

He'll probably come back next year,
but in the meantime...

What'll I do
when you
are far away
and I
am blue
what'll I do?

I know just how Irving Berlin felt when he wrote that.

Elegy to a Groundhog

I'm sorry to say we had to have our neighborhood groundhog "evicted" yesterday.

It was a "permanent" eviction, if you catch my meaning.

He won't be back...ever...anywhere.

We had hoped it wouldn't come to this.
We had hoped he'd take the hints and move on.
But, he did the opposite.
Built another den with four plunge holes going under our neighbors shed
and only accessible from our yard,
started tearing apart my flower beds,
was caught red-handed eating my parsley, tomatoes and carrots.

So, we called in a professional.
He was scientific about it,
gave a lot (I mean, A LOT) of explanation about the procedure,
told me I watched too many Walt Disney movies when I was a kid,
that it was just a destructive varmint
like a big rat
that needed to be destroyed.

He assured me it would be done humanely,
that the trap made it quick.
And I think it was.
No sign of any struggle.
I don't think he suffered.

Still I'm a little sad about it.
So, in honor of the Groundhog, I've written the following:

"Elegy To A Groundhog "

Up in Groundhog Heaven
there's empty fields all around
full of greens
and giant soybeans
you can eat 'em by the pound.

Up in Groundhog Heaven
no one gives a hoot
if you dig some holes
invite the moles!
and eat the carrot root.

Up in Groundhog Heaven
the days are long and warm
the only threat
is you might get wet
from a passing summer storm.

Up in Groundhog Heaven
your friends will all be there
to run and play
or roll in zee hay
without a worry or care.

Up in Groundhog Heaven
just past the Pearly Gate
there lies a glen
where you'll build a den
in which to hibernate.

Up in Groundhog Heaven
I'll see you there someday
I'll look high and low
just to say "hello"
then I'll be on my way.

My Senses Are Peaked

I think there is some kind of anomaly occuring in the warp and woof of time and space.

In other words, something weird is going on and I'm tuning into it.

Is it the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius or some mystical menopausal phase I'm going through?

I'm not sure and I find it fascinating.

During the past three or four days some "thing" will occur to me and I'll wonder about it. Then, within 48 hours, I'll receive a direct answer to my question. And, the answer is not allegorical at all, but absolutely clear.

For example, on Tuesday I noticed two vehicles on the road, both with "U.S. Government" license plates and I wondered, "How many vehicles does the government actually own? It must cost a fortune to insure and maintain them."

The NEXT DAY in the headlines I see:

U.S. government loves its cars: Vehicles cost taxpayers $3.4 billion

The government owns 642,233 vehicles.

Then, on Wednesday, The Man asked out loud, "I wonder how ol' Annette Funicello is doing?" It was a strange question, in that it had nothing to do with anything we were doing at the moment. But, I started thinking about her, too. I knew she had multiple sclerosis, but I hadn't read anything about her in years.

THE NEXT DAY I was dashing through the grocery store check out. I look up at the rack of tabloid newspapers and see a blazing yellow headline:

Annette Funicello on Life Support: Asks fans to "Pray for me!"

Oh, and another thing, people are accidentally wearing their shirts inside out. The Man has done it (he actually does it frequently, so maybe he doesn't count), but my friend down the street did it recently and it was very odd. Then, today, I found MYSELF wearing my shirt on inside out!! I haven't done that since I was about three years old.

I know it sounds like nothing, but "nothing" to you certainly feels like "something" to me.

I'll keep you posted on this.

Harley Magic

This one's for our friend TomC.

Today, The Man and I are driving around trying to get some things done.

We're on a four lane highway with a posted 40 mph speed limit.
In the slow lane there's a really slow moving vehicle going about 30 mph.
I move over into the passing lane and find myself behind not one, not two
but THREE Harley Davidson riders.

This is okay.
It's Saturday.
Cruisin' Day.
I understand.

BUT THESE GUYS ARE ALL GOING ABOUT 35 MPH...IN THE PASSING LANE!!!
AND THEY'RE JUST SITTING THERE...GOING NOWHERE...SLOWLY!!!
AND THE MAN AND I HAVE A DESTINATION IN MIND
AND WE'D LIKE TO GET THERE THIS CENTURY!!!

Now, I realize I'm kinda trapped.
There's no way around the...blockage.

But, I'm not pushing these guys.
No, I wouldn't do that.
I never tailgate, especially motorcyclists.
So, I'm really screwed.

The Man senses all this.
He tells me, "Don't be bitter."
This was an expression the janitor at Channel 4 used to say,
a nice old guy The Man used to know.

"Now, don't you be bitter."

And this reminded me of a Buddhist teaching I read one time.
I have it written down but all too frequently forget to remember it.

It goes like this:

"Imagine that every person in the world is enlightened but you.
They are all your teachers, each doing just the right things
to help you learn perfect patience, perfect wisdom, perfect compassion."

In other words, those Harley drivers were actually enlightened beings
who materialized just for my benefit. They came to give me much needed
lessons in being patient, paying attention, and taking my time.

The Man is one of 'em, too.
He's got the toughest "enlightened being" job there is.
He has to be with me 24/7.

Those Harley guys got off easy.

Baby Bird

My niece, Lane Michelle aka "Laney-Bird"
(or, as in my previous post, "L-Bird"),
gave birth to a 7.5 pound Baby Bird on July 23, 2008 at 4:45 a.m.

Mother, Father and Baby are all happy and fantastic!
Baby Bird was born on her mother's birthday.
Baby Bird's name is Lane Elizabeth and they'll call her "Elle."

This was hard for The Man to understand.
"Why'd they name her Lane if they're going to call her Elle?"
I explained, "Because her first name is Lane...starts with "L"...Elle...get it?"
He didn't get it. His faced was all scrunched up in the huh? position.
"And," I continued, "her middle name is Elizabeth..."E"..."L-E"...Ellie...get it?"
He didn't get that either and I think this is where he swallowed his tongue from
thinking so hard.
"So, you can call her Lane, Elle or Ellie, or how about Baby Ellie-Bird?"
But, I don't think he heard me, what with all the choking going on.

I received email photos of the baby this morning.

There's just something about the face
of a newborn that takes your breath away.
It grabs you and pulls you into a stream of
consciousness and contemplation beyond words,
to a place of awe and mystery,
a place of astonishment.
of wonder,
of purity.

I just love miracles.

And, baby miracles are the best ones!

Talking To The Walls

I made a startling realization this morning.

I asked The Man to go and make us an espresso.
He goes in the kitchen and then it starts:
"Don't we have any coffee?"
"Where's the coffee?"
"Where's the coffee maker?"
"I can't get the lid off this thing!"
"What? There's no milk!"

Now, in the past, upon hearing this litany of questions and exclamations,
I would stomp in there, tell him "Geesh! You can't even make a coffee!"
I'd grab everything and do it myself, saying "If I suddenly died you'd stand
in here like a cow in a box canyon and helplessly starve to death."

Then I'd hand him his coffee and walk out in a big huff.

HOWEVER, this morning, I figured it out!

I have been so wrong!

All these years I've been assuming that The Man was talking to ME when he
went into the kitchen to do something.

WRONG!

He was talking to the CUPBOARDS!

And, he frequently talks to the refrigerator, as in "I thought we had
peanut butter in here!"

He talks to the cupboards the way I talk to my plants!
It makes perfect sense, when you think about it.

So, I owe The Man a big apology.
My perceptions have been all topsy-turvy.
I am sooooo sorry.

However, I think my "box canyon" theory is correct.

Sixty-Five Years Ago

July 20, 1943
Lomita, California

Sixty-five years ago today.

Middle of the war.
Her twenty-first birthday.
He's shipping out with wings.

Brave young faces
willing to face the unknown
in an uncertain world.

Just like today.
Still facing the future together.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad.

Happy Anniversary and Happy Birthday.

The Bacon Tree

The Man and I are vegetarians.

Until we see a plate of bacon go by.

After swimming in the morning we usually head over to
The Star Diner, our favorite place to have breakfast.

It's the kinda place that hardly exists anymore.
Funky charm, noisy locals, fried food that is so bad for you,
but tastes so good.

There's only about eight tables,
or you can sit on a stool at the formica counter.

We enter thinking we're going to order oatmeal.

Ha!

I even bring a little vial of my special soymilk.

Double Ha!!

As we get comfortable in our seats we look
around at what the other diners are eating.

Eggs with chicken fried steak, omelettes with an
orange or white cheese-like substance melted on top,
trash potatoes covered with sausage gravy,
pancakes with blueberry sauce and fake maple syrup,
and BACON!

Honestly, I usually order the oatmeal.
But, when I succumb to my desires and have bacon
I convince myself that it's not animal.
"They pick this off the bacon tree," I tell myself.

In fact, the next time I'm at our local greenhouse
I'm going to inquire about a Bacon Tree.
I'm sure they'll have one.
They have everything.

Go green!

One Good Thought

Inside my head there are all these depressing thoughts.
Big ones, small ones, fat ones, skinny ones.
They're all kind of scruffy, like they need a shave.
Their t-shirts have holes in them and their shoes are untied.
There's a bunch of them, I swear.

They all get together and hang out, sitting around on naugahyde
recliners, sipping Wild Turkey, in the dark basement of my mind,
reminding me of all the things that are wrong with the world
and my life.

I have one good thought, though.
But it's a loner and has a hard time expressing itself.
In fact, this one good thought is the only thing that
gets the bad thoughts riled up.
All that good thought has to do is stick it's head in the
door and all the bad thoughts start yelling and having a fit.

It's like that old carnival game "Whac-A-Mole."
Good Thought pops up it's head
and Bad Thoughts hit it with a mallet.
Whack! Whack! Whack!

Bad Thoughts are very strong and persistent.
But, once in a blue moon I actually step in.
I take Good Thought outside in the sunshine
and I say, "Okay, you've got ten seconds.
You better make it good, Good.
Can I call you 'Good'?"

Meanwhile, Bad Thoughts are boiling mad.
They're stomping up and down.
They're banging on the door telling me to get back in there.
I glance back and I see smoke and a red glow coming through
the crack in the door.

Good Thought looks up at me and blinks it's eyes slowly,
like a mourning dove.
It says, very simply,
"Rejoice! You are one of the luckiest people alive on the planet."

Then I cry.
I cry because it's true.

Later, after a lot of self-recrimination,
Good Thought and I are out in the garden
pulling weeds and whistling along with the birds in the trees
and feeling the sunshine on our backs.
We're rejoicing.

We rejoice when I pull out a dandelion and get all the root.
We rejoice when we find a Coral Bells seedling.
We rejoice when the the big "night crawler" worm goes in the other direction.
We rejoice when the breeze blows the scent of the Star Gazer lily our way.

Every once in a while Good Thought pats me on the back and kindly says,
"It's okay, Stupid. You'll get it one day. Just keep trying."
"Okay," I say.