Good Morning Glory Hallelujah

I have a whole trellis of these.

This one's name is Bluie.

Bluie will only last about half the day.

The sun gets high

he'll wilt and die.

Then, tomorrow morning,

right as rain,

there'll be more of 'em

out there again...




And, another thing. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL, people. Try to remember that.
I went swimming this morning and discovered I didn't have my goggles or cap.
I realized I must have left them in the shower after my last swim. So I go out
and talk to the man at the desk and he takes me back to the lost and found room
and we look through a box of old junk people have lost but my goggles and cap
AREN'T there, naturally, cause if they were I wouldn't be writing all this and
having such a fit about the fact that someone STOLE my goggles and cap
instead of simply turning them in to the guy at the desk and so what I want to
know is WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE! How could anyone be so low and
decrepit as to steal some old rotten goggles and some creepy latex swimming cap?
I mean, it's the act of an absolute cretin!

I know it's my fault for leaving my stuff and I definitely am worried about how
often this happens because it is probably the beginning of the end for me, you
know what I mean? Today my goggles, tomorrow my name!

I guess I'm going to have to get a t-shirt printed that says:

If I walk away and leave my stuff
for Godsakes tell me. Thanx.

or

If you found it
it's probably mine.

or maybe just:

I'M A LOSER!

Here's a happy thought, though. Maybe when you die and go to heaven and you
meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates and he tells you all about where you are and
what to expect inside and who really killed Jimmy Hoffa, then maybe he gives
you a box with your name inscribed on it and inside is all the stuff you've lost.
Wouldn't that be a treat? There's that favorite aggie marble; a pile of barbie
clothes; several cardigan sweaters; keys; glasses; that perfect arrowhead that
The Man found in the Piute Mountains and had made into a pendant for you
that you lost at some stupid Wendy's restaurant, which he was bemoaning the
loss of JUST THIS MORNING WHICH IS ABOUT 30 YEARS AFTER THE FACT
and which made you feel like a hopeless dimwit all over again; books and
phonograph records; receipts...lots of receipts, coins and (surprisingly) cash;
jewelry, especially earrings...

Just think about it.
All the things you've lost.
They're being kept in a box.
Waiting for you
to collect them again.

I have a feeling my box is gonna be a big one.

Serious Cereal

I had cereal this morning.

It was good.

There's something comforting about slurping sodden
flakes and bits of fruit into your mouth and crunching
away while dribbles of milk slide down your chin and
you just sit there oblivious like you did when you were
a kid in your jammies with your hair sticking out all over.

I mixed three different cereals together.
This took guts.
But years ago The Man told me it was okay.
No Cereal Swat Team was going to barge into the kitchen at 8:00 in the morning
and arrest me yelling "GET DOWN! GET DOWN! ON THE FLOOR LOSER!" for
mixing my Rice Krispies with my Cheerios.
But still, I feel like I'm breaking one of those "don't-remove-this-tag-from-this-mattress"
kind of laws. I feel this weight of guilt. I think it's because we were NOT ALLOWED
to mix our cereals when growing up. (Note to myself: ask Mom about this. I mean,
I realize that getting any toast crumbs in the butter dish was an act of insurrection,
but what was the problem with mixing cereals?!)

And, here's another thing regarding cereal. I can't find any evidence that Bob Mathias
was ever on the Wheaties box. People seem to think he was on the box...I did...but
according to Wheaties he wasn't and they should know because it's THEIR box.

I mean Bob Mathias! Look at this:

A track star in high school, his coach suggested that he try the decathlon at the
AAU meet in Los Angeles in 1948. He replied, “That’s great, Coach, it sounds
like fun. But just one question: What’s a decathlon?”

Mathias went to Los Angeles and won even though he had only three weeks to
prepare for the event and had never competed in the pole vault, long jump,
javelin or 1,500-meter run. At the start, he had difficulty clearing eight feet
in the pole vault. But with the help of a track manual, Mathias became competent
in the pole vault as well as the javelin. He won the national championship two
weeks later to qualify for the '48 Olympics.

At the Olympics, the unknown Mathias was in third place among the 39 athletes
from 20 countries after the first day. The second day's competition started at
10 a.m. on August 6 and didn't end until 12 hours later because of bad weather
and general confusion. When Mathias wasn't competing, he spent most of his
time huddling under a blanket as he sought to protect himself from the cold
and heavy rain.

The discus was Mathias' specialty, and he responded with the best throw of the
day at 144-4. It put him into first place. Before the javelin throw, the next-to-last
event, cars were driven into Wembley Stadium and their headlights were turned
on to illuminate the foul line because there were no infield lights.

The final event was the 1,500 meters, contested in the gloomy darkness over a
wet and clinging track. When a weary Mathias staggered across the finish line in
5:11, he was the Olympic champion. In just his third decathlon, the 17-year-old
had registered 7,139 points, the only competitor to surpass 7,000.

He shoulda been on that box. I mean it.

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.