Ms. Moon

Today is the birthday of my friend and loyal commenter "Ms. Moon" a grown woman in some respects,  yet immortal in others.  I'll talk about the others.

You see that picture of the mermaid?  Well the mermaid is an immortal and it is no accident that it is also Ms Moon's Totem, Tiki, Trademark or Familiar.  Take your choice for they all work the same in the light of The Goddess who has decided to shine on M.M.  No, she did not choose, she was chosen and being chosen does not necessarily guarantee you an easy swim.  No it does not promise that at all. 

 I picture M.M. as her Mer Maid, larking about under the sea in weightless abandon; flicking here floating there just inspecting a universe of pretty this and lovely that. It is what she does.  She also makes golden sprays  and spirals with a twirl of her finger, or with a wave of her hand, a rainbow wake trails her path and it settles  so slowly that you can trace it far back in time.  Far a way as one would go.

 

 A fair sight, but a dream that must end because, on the surface of the world, where it is drier only by degrees of humid air, people are floundering.  You see, babies have lost their small oceans and need help navigating the sudden shallows. Young people are trying to gain on the knowledge that is always a step away while older ones need to stop running and learn from what they have.  Someone has to be there. Not only there but deeper. Down into the ditch that runs in parallel to the life road; a dark place where you can only sense the need and reach blindly in hope that something worth saving will take your helping hand, even if that something reflects as your own eyes. 

 Yes, someone must be there to see that those struggles pass and through great fortune someone always is.

Not much rest for the immortal mermaid is there?  Good reason to hate a day that just keeps coming back.  You can take a break, but sooner or later they'll be at it again and again...

  

Honored to know you Ms. Moon.

T

Animals on the job.

Howdy, T. Texino here with another episode of "Animals on The Job" the exciting series where we discuss the contributions to society made by your common place everyday animal on the street.  Today's subject?  The Sentinel Chicken!

Now a chicken ain't nothing but a bird and birds have been used for sentinel duty for many years.  You have sentinel canaries  in the deep coal mines, birds who would alert the miners to the presence of invisible and deadly levels of CO2 or other gasses by falling off of there perches.  I'm not totally sure these lovely songsters perished  or if they could be revived.  I do know, however, many human lives were spared and since canaries cant dig coal, the trade off was a plus for mankind and any other animals who had the benefit of a warm and bright place to weather the elements.  Then we have sentinel geese.  These boisterous flocks were turned out at night to alert the small hamlet or farm if a stranger might appear i.e. a chicken thief.  That gray honker, the barnyard goose, is perfect for the job while a duck would be too small and your Canadian Goose proper don't march around in flocks or have the reputation for meanness necessary for this gig.  I've heard that swans can be right nasty too, but I think a slick crook could tie the bunch up by the neck and effectively put them out of commission.  So the Sentinel Chicken?  Well her job is unique in that she just hangs about waiting for a skeeter to bite.  That's it and she doesn't have to kick up a ruckus about it either.  Nope, she just goes n about her business of scratching and pecking, laying and even brooding.  Then every so often a person will come along and take a blood sample and they check that out for signs of various insect born disease.  Like what? Well, West Nile Virus and St. Louis Encephalitis and Western Equine Encephalitis are three big time diseases that can lay humans down and if the chickens are bitten by mosquito carriers their blood will show anti bodies and that will cause the local health department to take action.  Such as?  OK, they might step up mosquito control and maybe get some airplane spraying going, that sort of thing.  And the chickens?  The sentinel chickens are an important part of disease prevention and control and as such are treated very well.  They are happy hens hardly ever harvested for the human hearth.  Sentinel chickens!  Animals on the job salutes you and hopes that you fare well.   

Texino

Reporter

Panama                                                                                                    

What the Hell is this? Porcupine attack?

Everything is gonzo! Porcupines are on the march!   I figure a porky and a beaver to be similar animals.  Look at the pictures please. So I have hired a platoon of the latter to make a stand.  Now why would I be concerned about some pesky rodents in the neighborhood when I have bears, Zombies, a boogeyman, a big foot and some failed Scottish cannibals in my corner?  Well, like many other countries, Panama goes on vacation around this time of year.  Infrastructure must be maintained, so they have a skeleton-crew on the canal and everyone else takes off for New Orleans.  Well I don't and it's a good thing too, because no sooner had the last bus left than I here the unmistakable scratching of hundreds maybe thousands of porky coming down the road and heading, as always, for the "colon free zone"!  Now I can't say much about the free zone except colon free does not mean no colons.  It's just a huge free port shopping area and right now when it's closed, like everything else is, it is flat irresistible to porcupine. Don't know what they want, don't want to find out!  So we got the beavers and the porky gang.  Well, as everyone knows even though science has denied it for ever, is this; a porcupine CAN and WILL shoot his quills.  It's the female or "Sissy" who cannot do this.  The male or "Bard" can.  It is the only way to tell them apart.  Why worry about this in battle? Couple of reasons.   A Sis can reload a Bard and when she does and is temporarily without quills, that is when they have sex.  So the old joke about porcupines having sex "very carefully" is just a joke.  What happens is this: A Bard is out of ammo so he finds a Sis with ripe quills (a sign of sexual maturity) He stands up on his hind legs and she stets her quills an angle.  When Sis is ready she makes a sound that goes "ah ah ah ah ah ah-toc toc  (and then a whistle)"  The Bard will then settle back on her quill rack and squirm around like a dog scratching its back in order to get a good set and compression for powerful shots.  Once he is satisfied with the set he will give a couple of sharp barks and the Sis will release her quills all at once.  Then they "do it" and the Sis goes on home, grows new quills and, in about eight weeks, has three babies.   Two females one male.  Porcupines are pretty hard to fight without the right personnel.  I'd say if you got a good seasoned platoon of skeletons backed up by about 100 solid beaver from up north, you are good to go.  Get your skellys out front and the Bards will start slinging quill.  Of course that won't bug a skeleton and if a Bard can't reload he'll go rolly polly and that's when you got him.  Your Skells just need to bowl the curled up Bards back toward their own lines and leave it to the beavers to send them flying with  good swat of the tail.  Beavers are also good at catching a load of quill with their tails and firing them right back.  If their timing is right they will catch a Bard and a Sis in a pre-coital reload and that really puts a monkey wrench to it.  Do that enough and the porkys will go home and stay for a good spell.  Damn good those Beavers.  Well I got the beaver and the skeleton crew from the canal, so I'm not worried.    This is not the first time I've saved this country and probably wont be the last.

Texino

Reporter

Panama                                    

Be Seeing you, maybe.

Hi it's Texino and I am in possession of some news.  It you seem that through the same hereditary aspects which make me attractive to all the sexes as well as an artist nonpareil, I have contracted yet another bizarre disease which would sideline me, this time by robbing me of my sight.  Oddly, I had a vision of this many years ago, while riding a city bus.  I noticed a sign which showed a man in a burglar's outfit and read that the disease Glaucoma can steal your sight, like "a thief in the night"  For those who do not know, a burglar wears a horizontal striped jersey with long sleeves, corresponding black trousers, a workman's cap, crepe souled shoes and a little goggle-like mask around his eyes.  This may be why he moves about at night. At any rate, when I saw that advertisement, my mind said "That's for me."  Now, so many years later, it has come to pass.  Of course time has not stood still and clever science may have just the trick for this particular sort of Glaucoma.  Sadly, treatment is not free of charge, but it is one of those things where I might have insurance for fixing it.  We will see.  (suddenly, things which were not puns are puns; must be a word for that. Note to self: If  not, make one up) So the thing is, if I do happen to lose my vision, it's not like I have not spent time preparing for the possibility.  One good thing is this; quite a few blind people work as musicians and since I am still one of those albeit half-assed at the moment, I could probably get a gig singing the blues. (If you want to hear me do that then go here, www.myspace.com/hoodoodads and choose "red rooster" from the available titles) I even have an animal pal who can act as my guide and I have made up a funny joke about that to put my audience at ease with my handicap.  Here is how it goes.  I come on stage with my dog and introduce him and then make a comment about how the German Shepard is the greatest of guide dogs and so on.  Now what makes this funny is that my dog, Cosmo, is a great big yellow French Poodle.  So you see the audience would think that I think I have this big macho dog and I don't know that I have a giant poodle because I'm blind!  See, I like to think ahead, just incase.  Of course I am really  concerned about this issue, but it's better that I put on a brave face.  Being blind would be terrible if only because Icaa f foucj yod <––––– that's supposed to say "I can't touch type."  In fact, I have a hard time typing at all because I cannot always remember where the letters are, even though they are right in front of me.  It has something to do with another disease and is one of the reasons I am disabled.  I don't want people to feel too sorry for me though because #1 I feel sorry enough for myself and #2, I'm pretty certain I am getting what's coming to me because I have done some terrible things in my life.  Please note, however, that I said "too" sorry and that means it is OK with me if people want to hug me and tell me I'm getting a bad break.  It would be especially convenient if someone, perhaps a woman with her own money, would feel a duty to take me on as a project.  I mean you hear about this sort of thing all the time where somebody takes up with a convicted murderer over at the The Pen.  Texino is nothing like that!  Now, before you get all indignant and say "Hey what about Mrs. Texino?" I suggest you refer to item #2 above.  Well, that's my news.  Sometimes I forget that my blog is called damed lies, but that is supposed to represent the futile nature of the internet.

Ok, I have come up with a word to describe an etiological shift––like when words suddenly become puns.  The word is "Circumfraction "  Look it up in the dictionary.  You won't find it.

So, how do I get away with that?  Simple, I have a poetic license.

Comp -101 (as in negative)

 I  have to write and I tend to let an idea go where it leads me, rather than track its source and build a solid piece from there. (the proper method)   Chasing something that way can cause you to stumble into all sorts of ambuscade but, if you are able to write your way out of a trap at the same pace you wrote yourself in to it, therein lies a certain groove that feels good.   Basically I am saying modify your subject on the fly if you have to, but see if you can end up in tune with the idea that first got your attention. It is a risky but jazzy style of creative writing.  When it works it's cool and when it doesn't?  Well you lose the power and dimension of the whole thing and it will read like the over dub of a Godzilla film.  You may have noticed.

 

Lets all or at least two Dance

OK! What's going on here?  Looks like some Cats, Chicks, Guys, Dolls, Sweet Poppas and Big Mammas, Brown Sugar and White Bread action is sweeping the Blog like a mighty wind.  Well, will the wind be so mighty as to lay low my bad attitude dude? No, it will not be quite so mighty as all that. Still these pictures are begging for comment gent, so let's jam it Janet.


Now in the opinion of this Texino, which is what matters, couple number one is the big winner, although "Mr Twister" might get to be Mr. Lucky providing he don't get skewed by those "points" the lady in the red skirt aiming his way.  You know whenever I see a woman done up in the manner of that foxy brunette  I got to wonder, #1 what she looks like all wet and #2 if those two are going to make out, it must be one of those situations where the lady has to go "slip into something more comfortable" if they are going to get serious.  I mean take couple #1.  Hell those two people could  be having some kind of sex right there, while couple #2, well it almost looks as though that guy is using his partner as a weapon in some bizarre martial art.  I even have a name for it, but I can't use it on the air because it's dirty.  You might be saying "the hell you say Texino-you talk dirty all the time!"  Well, that is true.  Still, I might need help from some women one day and in a scientific poll done by the folks at El mas excelente de la farmacologia (desde 1903!) just about 99% or more women really hate this word and would never use it unless, well you know how sometimes people might say something in the heat of a moment and then at some other time tell you how much they hate that word? Well if you do, then you know it would be impolitic to remind the person that they sure didn't have any trouble with some word and hollering out a bunch of nutty instructions while, well in the heat of a moment.  OK? Fine.  Still it does look to me like that Jack snatched that Jill from some very large holster and is fending off a couple of G-men and doing a fine job keeping them at bey.  For all that, one of those Feds could pull a heater and sort of "cut in" if you follow me.  Why do I feel those two acrobats in #2 are not just cutting the latest rug?  Look at those shoes

"suspenders" is sporting.  Heck, he's got crook written all over him.  That pic was shot back in '46 and I'd say that sport probably spent the war on the Left Bank, the old Reve Gauche.  I mean where else but France could a guy learn how to handle a woman like that.  Spain perhaps, but I think they were in the war. And France?  Well France was a bit short on men seeing that just about all of them were killed in the first war. Still another reason for that Jasper to be hanging lose in Gay Paris.  So the trophy does indeed belong with couple #1.  They are obviously having fun and the guy doesn't seem to care in the least that his date's got a few hundred lb on him.  You can bet it's a Saturday night too because back in those days all Black people ( at the time I don't think they actually had a name for themselves other than People) anyway those folks what happened to be black all had to work on Saturday.  That means Saturday night was the time to let it go.  It's right there in a zillion tunes written by and about colored people.  Not only is the Saturday night issue addressed , but more than a few tunes  address a fondness for Big Fat Women.  Can you imagine some white person making a song about such a thing? I can't and I can imagine just about anything that goes on in the world and figure out the reason it does.  Having that sort of imagination is not very pleasant and may explain why  I am often walking around with tears near.  So there.  I can have my Blog and show pictures off of people having fun and people who might think they are and still more people doing who knows what.  I heard a man from Harvard's University on the radio today and he was saying that when you read something that affects you in one way or another, you need to take a quick look at who says so.  What he was getting at was, is the writer an expert or someone with an agenda he or she needs to get out.  Now since I don't have an agenda then I guess you know where to come if you want the lowdown, dirty or otherwise.  What a joke that must seem until you realize I mean it.   

Now we remembe bigger deaths of larger people than you.

Hi, it is Texino.  I don't write on the Bluegrass List much these days, because my stuff tends to get outside the small world which, after all, is necessary to maintain the purity of the genre.  What I am writing here is a bit like something I posted over there in response to folks talking about the long ago deaths of some great players and speculating about how it seems many greats in the guitar music world have met with death early on and , therefore, may not have reached full potential.  That guy over there for instance.  His name is Clarence White and he was known as the preeminent acoustic flat picker of his time until his life was cut short when he was hit by a car while unloading equipment outside a club.  I was a fan of Clarence White and I remember that I was playing a club in Newport, R.I. when this happened.  As a point of interest, I had been a little cross because White had recently joined up with the Byrds or The Flying Burrito Brothers, one, and in doing that, not only had he taken up the Electric Guitar, but also made some changes to the instrument allowing it to pedal its strings like a steel guitar and do it by yanking on the strap.  In retrospect it seems the boy was getting about as far away from acoustic flat picking as a man could get, leaving one to wonder would he have been remembered for that particular talent at all, had he lived.  Well he died before most of the people outside that immediate circle realized what he was up to, so each year the list bemoans his loss.  Now as much as I would, and to some extent do, love to push the buttons to point out some kind of cosmic governing device may be keeping the talent pool level by whacking the random guitar genius just as he or she seems to be making the grade.  I really have to hold the hand of logic as I go, and this helps me to see how, in a lot of cases, lifestyle choices have led these folks into some reckless behavior, the sort of which kills lots of young people every year music prodigy or not.  Also, some people who seem amazingly adept at one thing may be slap dog crazy in all other aspects of life; those people just do not stay around too long at all.  Then and maybe most overlooked there is the fact that quite a few of these wondrous talents have survived and, reaching a level of un paralleled virtuosity, seem to grow introspective and then become able to teach or at least imply the fact that the bar has risen and then watch as a whole new crop comes up.  Farm that funky talent as it were.  Of course, and this is the fun part, logic does not always carry the whole day.  So in the twilight we can celebrate the lives of our beloved players; even watch them on Youtube and get as close to knowing them as you could have in their day, and while we will never cheat nor totally confound death, I think it's OK to  tweak his nose a bit, though for safety's sake an assumed name is advised.

Little Deaths

Yes, that's a Zombie.  His name is Andrew Wythe Obi and he lives in the Texino Compound in the Jungle portion of Panama.  Andrew was dead but he was reanimated by secret jungle Ju Ju and other stuff you wouldn't understand because, if you did, you would probably have  one or two Zombies of your own.

Anyway Andrew is just here to illustrate one aftermath of big death.  I want to talk about little deaths and how can sort of zombie your way around them.

OK.  Lets start with your head. (I bet you wish I'd get those eyes off the page)

Anyway your eyes are subject to small death and if you are over forty years of age, your eyes are probably dead enough that you have zombified them with some sort of seeing device.  I use eye glasses my self.  Your innate desire for drum music (we all have it) has more than likely been killing off your ears.  My advice  is do not succumb to the hearing aid device.  No, instead you may have to learn some hearing Ju Ju.  I say check with a harmless Yogi or one of those less is more doctors.  While most of what they say is BS, they may put you in enough of a Ju Ju state where you will keep your ears longer.  You may pray to the Saint Babalu Aye for help as well.  Just stay away from the hearing aid folks.  They are criminals with absolutely no Zombie points in their empty Karmic carpet bags.  Ok, now is your hair.  If it's color is becoming drab, you may paint it or, if you got a tad of Ju Ju in your bag just think it back to life.  That's what I do.  I may be white in my beard but that's a wisdom thing, my head hair is really still pretty dark and certainly baffles hair professionals who don't follow the Ju Ju way.  Skin death.  Boy that's hard to fight but if you have  decent hide, you should be able to keep it going, just lay off the soap unless you got some soap magic going.  Now many people are bothered by these small deaths of the mind.  All I can say there is that your brain is very big and certainly large enough for several full personalities to hold sway.  So if you start to loose a  bit of sense or talent you can try to borrow from one of your resting personalities.  These folks can be extremely nice and generous but getting their attention is difficult for most people who do not subscribe to heavy Voo doo and Sanataria.  All I can safely suggest is to try to dream yourself into a better state of mind and hope that your waking body can cop some lost talents from the alter personalities who people your dream scape.  It's possible to do this just don't expect too much at once and for God sake keep it to your self.  Speaking of God, I think it is best to think of that whole ideal as a kind of portal where you can get your mind in a state of readiness to hook up with this other stuff I'm on about.  I hope you get that, so you don't go wasting time doing the Jesus wave and all that Christian BS that's so big with the politicians right now.  You may notice that these fundamentalist are losing ground big time.  They are just a bunch of whacked out white people and should be deeply discounted at every opportunity.  Well there you have a start on Texino's dealings with the little deaths that can plague you into bigger trouble.  I'm not saying that this stuff will make you a success, but it may keep you vital longer and allow you to enjoy what you may be lucky enough to have going for you, like family, money, friends or a home. That stuff can be of true and lasting value to you and yours, and it is not some bogus code word like "Family Values" which translates to fat white people getting away with all manner of activity of no real value what so ever.  Me?  Well I just put the stuff out for your benefit.  I'll be lucky to end up like Andrew just sitting on a bench undead but not truly alive. Someone gives those Zombies simple work.  They do it and then go sit down.  Zombies will last a good long time if you maintain them.  Those ones you see depicted in films mostly work for Greek freight forwarders and those Greeks just don't keep their shit in order.  That's where you get your idea of Zombies in torn clothes and all stinking rotten.  It is just a matter of maintaining things like you would any sort of fleet.  My Z's hang out forever and aside from that thing with the eyes and a very limited vocal skills, they are no bother.  If you ever decide to do the Zombie thing, remember these people add a new meaning to the term dead or alive, so it's best you keep them from some place where they might run in to family or friends.  I mean, you want Zombies in Delaware, get them in Cape Verde or some place like that.  It's the way it's done and you don't mess with success.   OK? Fine.

Trout fishing in Watermelon Sugar

It's possible that that man in the picture may have had something to do with why "Fly Fishing" is so damn popular.

Damn his eyes.  I hate fly fishing.  That man in the picture is Richard Brautigan. He became a popular writer and poet in the San Francisco bay area back in 1968 when it was much cooler to be a musician and  not a very good musician at that.

The Bay Area was full of awful music.  I know. I was there.  Conversely, it was full of good poets and writers, but that Brautigan guy was really more of the "Art Community" that held people like Grace Slick and Janis Joplin in high regard, while somehow guys like Ferlenghetti and Keroac were held at bey, so to speak.  I don't know why,  but it was so. At the time, Richard had two popular books with story lines and a popular book of poetry.

His books were called "In Watermelon Sugar" and "Trout Fishing in America."  The poetry book was called "The Pill vs. The Spring Hill Mining Disaster."  "Trout fishing in America"

was a pretty clever book, although it did borrow heavily n the work of Nelson Algren. The Watermelon book was silly hippy stuff, just like a lot of the music of the area and I don't think the poetry held up very well.  In fact the title poem of the work is just an observation about how when a particular woman takes here birth control pill it reminds Richard of a mining disaster because of the life lost.  Well I am not real sure that Richard had his anatomy and pharmacology straight because I just don't think birth control pills work like cave-ins or methane explosions.  A better analogy might be taking a pill would be more like one of those huge weddings put on my The Rev. Moon and having all the brides not show up, but hey I'm not the poet on trial here.  Anyway, Richard was also in the Rolling Stone back when it was a pretty local news print job and in his by-line photo he wore a worse looking hat than the one in the picture.  Let's talk about the picture, OK? Fine.  First, I think that is Columbus Circle in San Francisco.  People in that city take Columbus Day very seriously, which to me at least, is odd as the Admiral of the Ocean Sea never visited.  In fact he came ashore pretty close to where I write this blog and aside from archeologists and such digging here and there, you would not know much about it.  There are however, quite a number of Italians in the area and that must have something to do with it.  Another thing in that picture is the woman.  Now I always wondered if she was the "Pill girl" and back in the day it was harder to imagine because not being, at the time, the considerer of women that I have become, I found that girl to be rather homely.  Oh well, I was very young.

And now the fly fishing riff.  Brautigan knew far more on the subject of trout fishing than he did about most anything else he wrote and everyone knows you got to be an ace fly caster to catch trout. In fact fly casting has spread to all areas of fishing, even sailfish and that sort of thing.  Still fresh running water for trout and broad shallow saltwater flats for bone fish make for the pinnacle of the sport.  They do fly fish for giant Tarpon too.  When it all comes down to wanting a fish however, there are quick and dirty ways of getting any of those species.  I'm not going to tell you how.  I just want to point out for all his popularity; for a while he was better known than Keroac.  Richard seemed to loose his spin and after having a conversation on 9/14/84 he was found dead by a private eye about a month later.  He had shot himself in the head. Keroac, who died in 1969 had by that time become very popular.  Of Brautigan's work poet Ferlengthetti said he had been waiting for "Richard's writing to grow up"  You know this writing business can do a person in.  Sometimes I feel "in"  You?  Well, if you want to know about "in" write something serious or make up some music and let it out.  It's the only way.

A gift

Hi, it's the blog boy.   I don't think that people like me very much. 

I have felt that way for a very long time and even when people have seemed to think I was worth their time, I figured they would catch on to me soon enough.  How come I feel that way? I can't really tell you.  Well now someone, two, actually have done something so incredibly nice that I am at a loss.  See that wood over there?  It's my mandolin. It's not finished of course but it is more complete than it seems.  The top part, on the left, has been cut from a very nice piece of spruce.  It started out quite a bit thicker than it is right now, but in the process it has been carved with all manner of skill by just one man with a few sharp tools wielded with such incredible ability.  He could be called "Mr Chisel Hands" and here's why.  He is carving the top of the mandolin with such skill that it already has music in it.  Thats right, you can pick up that wood and strike it like a drum and a note will sound a woody baritone.  The top is done but it still has some ornamental scroll work to be finished and some holes will be cut to let the sound out of the mixing box.  Now that box is to be made, as is the neck from that striped maple you can see.  The sides and back are cut and the neck will be shaped from the hefty club in front.  OK.  The skill of the construction cannot be minimized. Mr. Chisel Hands cannot make a mistake and he just won't because he is an artist and he knows when the time is right to work.  Now I said two people the other person is Ms. Sharp eyes and she searches out the very best of the wood and then in consultation with the builder she gets it, and all the other parts which are needed to make the instrument go.  Now back to the mandolin.  There is absolutely not a better collection of tone woods available; there are precious few people in the world who are able to give "life" to such a combination of  dormant organics.  My builder is one.  

Now, why me? I was never a great player and I've lost nearly all my skills to illness.  The single builder shop of Williamson Mandolins could easily make my order out of some very fine tone woods and it would be a lively instrument indeed.  But no. Ms. sharp eyes of impeccable taste and Mr. Chisel hands of supernatural skill are pouring the true gold into this instrument because, well because they are my friends and they are not the kind who forget the bond that forges these feelings.  There are few people like that these days.  I am fortunately blessed, and for once in my life, I have no doubt that someone really does hold me in regard.  Years ago an actress was so overcome by an award that she said "You really like me!"  People made fun of her naiveté.  Not me; I know exactly how she felt. 

Upping the ante-bellum

Hi,  Texino here with a word on animal safety.  To help me illustrate some do's and don'ts, I have placed a picture up in the left hand corner and I want you to study it by closing your eyes and then opening them for a few seconds.  Now close them again quickly and think about what you saw.  I hope that you noticed that a bear has somehow insinuated itself into a group of guys who seem to be sharing a little quality time with a dog and a cat.  What's even more frightening is that the bruin is wearing a muzzle and the gent standing next to him is fixing to take it off.  What do you think might happen next?  Oh hell, I can't fool you. That's just some sort of allegory about former Negro Slaves testing their status as citizens of the United States of America.  That or else the guy in the foreground is fixing to get the nickname "Lefty."  Now now, I know that it's dangerous to talk about the group of people who are the descendants of those men in the picture.  Shouldn't be but it is, and that is leading us into a possible horrific situation come the next Presidential Election.  What I am about here is the fact that the Democratic Political Party is considering running a fellow for the office of President who although he seems to be eminently qualified and not the least bit of a criminal, or insane binge drinker is, and I'm not making this up, a "Nigger." Now Shut up!  I don't give a damn how terrible and hurtful that word may be.  It is how an "African American" is perceived by the men in power throughout a huge portion of the USA.  Now say; "Texino, you are a racist and full of shit." say "Those days are gone and blah blah"  Well, I'm terribly sorry but outside of maybe N. California, the country is run by an "Old Boy Network" who are steeped in the principal of keeping Black People down.  Why would they do that? It allows them to control the  ignorant white people, the salt of the earth who season them so they can remain palatable in the power structure.  Maybe you don't remember the real 60's.  There was very little love. (all that stuff came later in the 70s)  No the 60s were  time when the US Federal Government finally tried to free the slaves.  What did they get?  Well they broke down some  barriers but at a tremendous cost; A President, possibly The Next President and the greatest leader the Blacks had.  Do you think that those days are history?  They are not.

The South may have some leaders who are black, but the majority are still poor and still intimidated and tossed off as "an undisciplined minority with an unrealistic sense of entitlement."  The leaders who were sacrificed for the cause?  JFK? revisionists have gutted him, RFK? same same. MLK? A man who should be respected on par with Ghandi.  Hell, they can't even honor him suitably.  I'll wager that nutty old Ronald Reagan is more respected than Dr. King.  Why?  Because this country stinks of a system that is rotten beyond the core and  its people must awake to the fact of the matter and rip out the corruption and rebuild the whole concept.  As it stands now, too few have too much, but an uncomfortably large amount of idiots have enough and that doesn't bode well for a revolution or a Black President.  Someone would kill the poor man on the mistaken premise that he would reinstitute "The Reconstruction."

You may think that this little bit has just been an excuse to use the naughty "N" Word.  Well you are wrong.  It makes me tearfully sad that Mr. Obama can't be our president.  I know that's not the best way to put it, but I've just used a really bad word and I am not happy about it.  I'm keeping it in here thought because it is truly the way Senator Obama will be discussed in some mighty high and terribly influential precincts where words like "Heritage" and "Glorious Cause" are  oaths as binding as anything sworn to in the (now) not so secret societies that exist in the power factories of The Ivy League.   Damn, wasn't all this stuff  supposed to be cleaned up by a "Hard Rain"   Are we rolling Bob?   Little help here...brother.

You're special. I'm different

Yes, that's right, I am different from you. I have been a cook, a car parker, a motorcycle gangster, soldier,mental patient, a widower, musician, fireman, coxswain, sea captain, fisherman, drug dealer, palm tree surgeon, poet, magazine columnist and ambulance driver. I have been bad, good, sick, well and I quit smoking.  You can read all about it, and more too.  That is, if I write  book.  I probably wont get around to it, so I may as well put up some parts of my story here.  Will they be damned lies?  Well yes and no.  (WTF you mean "yes and no" Texino?)  Well I mean my stories are true, but you can't know that   No, you'll just have to believe what I say or just read for the enjoyment of seeing someone admit to some major fuck ups.  OK? Fine, but first look at that chart.  It's a chart that shows how to play chords on the Hawaiian Ukulele.  You can put those shapes together in a cyclic progression and sing a well known song.  It seems the better known pieces use the fewest and more simplistic positions while a grand tune which may be familiar to you but not the sort of ditty you sing round the camp fire will necessitate the use of the more complex shapes and more of them played closer together.  That's an analogy I use for writing words for stories.  You got to keep it simple enough to be enjoyable but if you don't toss in a few complex thoughts, you will lose the readers you want.  Now that could be explained by using an analogy of fishing for the tastier types in the sea.  I guess everything is analogous.  It's like those chords. Each note relates to the other in some way some are pleasant and harmonious while others are complex and hard to take.  It's kind of like fish, some taste better than others and so on.  I'll be seeing you.

More crap from the land of plenty

Today I got one of those smug quasi patriotic totally Christian backed "don't dare break the prayer chain" emails FWD to me. Of course I broke the chain and I really wanted to lambast the person who sent it. Trouble is he is a very sweet man of nearly 90 years and he has only the best intentions. The intentions of the folk behind the note are something else. Since I am fairly certain you have seen this kind of bullshit your self, I'll just touch on a couple of things. First they tell us the average US soldier is a 19 year old tight muscled kid who has never been on unemployment. Sorry but the age is 26.6 years and the average age of the soldiers killed is 30. Unemployment? I'm thinking they mean "welfare" it's not the same thing at all. Actually, the 19 y/o tight body boy sounds like your average mail prostitute. The pictures included would have us infer that the troops are all white and the photos show the guys shooting their guns and wearing gas masks, while the final shot has two soldier girls napping in each other's arms. I'll post it. Then I will ask, WTF is with that? I'll tell you if they had soldier girls with guns and all when I was in the army, there would have been some serious boy on girl action going down. Stress related situations bring that stuff to a boil. A funeral wake is great place to hook up too. Well, I'm not here to share my texino pick-up secrets, it' the cavalier use of the young folk who are putting it all on the line for WHAT that has me racked. Here is the deal, you get slammed with this patriotic shit because well meaning old folks are passing on memories more than anything. They remember their wars. That's well and good gramps because you knew who to kill. Kids these days got to do lot of guess work; kind of like we did in Vietnam. Worse in a way since some portion of every faction wants you dead. I would say the only way to cut terrorism is to become more terrible. You know, screw this suicide bomb shit; just go downtown and randomly blast the crap out a market. Each time an IED goes off, kill a hundred civilians and so on. I saw the Koreans have big luck with this tactic in Vietnam. No secret. The ROK (Korean Army) would move in to a strategic position and let it be known that any interference would be dealt with no B.S. I'll admit to some extreme reactions, but they lost very few men in combat and that's the point. The US? Well, we're losing good boys and girls and also expanding the ranks of the disabled to new levels. USA! USA! USA? only echos in the mostly empty ball parks  God help us into oblivion, I doubt we can be saved.

A guy what thinks

Pretty hard to write this without a picture-they are worth many words, you know-but the pictulotar device is not working, so I will persevere. Popeye The Sailor. Now there was a man with a unique view of the world and a way of explaining his thoughts that was every bit as singular. In my time, I have only met one man who was able to speak in that rambling parenthetical manner one associates with the feisty blue jacket and he was crazy as in keep away crazy.

This post is really not about Popeye or sailing for that matter. It springs from a nearly forgotten Popeye-ism where the sailor is strolling about the poorer quarters of some port city talking to himself while committing random acts of kindness or punishment on a case by case basis. In other words, nothing worthy of spinach, Looking back, it is quite amazing how the sailor man puts things right; he might help a mama cat get her kittens safely across a busy street and then with the wisdom of Solomon and strength of Goliath divide half a ton of scrap mental over which two junkmen were going to war. All pretty common popeye fare, these mini advents would soon lead to some intolerable situation where after some posturing and pipe spinning he would announce he had all he could stand ("cause I can't stands no more") and out would come the outsize can of spinach and down would go the villain. All these Thimble Theatrics have put me in mind of a single moment where, on one of his walks, Popeye allows "Here comes a guy what thinks he's a fighter" and sure enough down the path comes a man wearing boxing trunks and boxing shoes plus, he is shadow boxing, snorting, bobbing and weaving and in short he looks like a fighter. Without any fuss at all, Popeye knocks the guy cold and goes on his way. Odd that may seem, yet I have since taken that bit of animated metaphor to mean we should not try to present ourselves in past light. For instance, were I to be seen at play through the telescope of a planet 30 light years distant that vision would show solid entertainment to anyone who cared for the style, yet were I to beat the clock of ages and step on that stage tomorrow well, I would might get some spinach and some rotten tomatoes as well. I still have something to give, but it is far removed from what went before.

A point? Oh I am just reading and thinking about popular musicians of my day. The ones who should be long settled into a life of good times and good works, but suddenly pop up with projects of dubious value in an attempt to hold to something that often, at best, was but a wrinkle in the popular fabric of the day. I guess it falls on the old spike, "it's the singer, not the song" for a person who is trained in music and fills a billet as a musician can go on to the end of his or her forever, while the one who "cut the grass" for a season or two wants a return to that memorable meadow. (note to self: write "If horses were salmon...") I fear we have allowed the labels musician and entertainer to merge and, if we have, it is a pity because they seem to be heading this way and Popeye has vanished.

Fog? Well, no. We don't use it.

Hi, it's Texino. My home is surrounded by water. Well, if you were to peer outside, you would not see it and, if you did see some, you would be in dire straits. Still, I do live on an island with the Atlantic Ocean right up the street and the Matanzas River slightly further down the road. To the left and right there are passes to and from the sea, so reaching the water is a small matter.
Now with all this water, one would expect the occasional fog bank to drift in and make things shipshape. Well that seldom happens and, what's more, it is much more usual to come upon foggy situations over on the mainland which are caused by quirks of climatology and have naught to do with the nautical. Why would anyone want fog? Sea fog is a pleasant envelope and going about in it can be most satisfying so long as you are not afloat and trying to make port. Now I have seen the fog here but I would expect a toothy bite from a clucking hen before it might come to pass once more. In fact during the 25 odd years I have spent on this barrier island I can only recall 2 times when a fog of note came along. I even gave name to one of the occasions; The Reefer Fog. While the "Reefer" fog might suggest some goofy pleasure, none was gained.
I had dropped by the beach front home of a man whom I did not know too well on a personal level, but he seemed sharp in his profession and had invited me to come by "any time." Looking back, it seems he may have been short on pals due to slightly erratic behavior when he took drink and I guess his drink taking was to the point where it was a problem. At any rate I was in the area one fine sunny day and seeing the man cleaning his Jeep, I stopped by to chat him up to speed. Well nothing would do other than taking a tour of his whole and lovely home with a nice cold beer in hand. Afterwards Joe had an idea. Why not go outside, sit and watch the surf and smoke a marijuana cigarette? Why not indeed? Cold beer, the sun glinting off the ocean swell and a slight buzz in the brain, life could be worse, si? Well not much as it turned out, for not only was the pot ultra strong it was of a type that made me jittery and just a bit paranoid. Pretty unusual state for Old Texino, but the state just the same. It certainly did not help to suddenly realize my host was really drunk and in that state did not want me to leave. "Oh come on another drink?" "You just got here" That kind of rap. Well, I thought a beer might cut the welling fear that the extremely potent pot was stoking in my brain. Just as my host, who was by now in love with everyone and every thing, returned with the brew, I happened to glance seaward. "What's that?" I said, my voice sounding odd and hollow as I pointed to what looked to be a small puff of smoke on the horizon. "What's what?" "What do you mean?" his reply seemed a touch brittle like that of a person on the edge of control. "That, er cloud thing." I countered, noting to my self that the puff had expanded. Joe just stared and so did I, because the object had now become a rapidly approaching wall. A dark wall too, and it seemed to be spreading in the manner of arms or jaws; not unlike say, the end of the world. Onward the wall, silent those held in its sway. Silent, but not thoughtless, for my brain was ticking off a tally of the worst; poison gas? A freak tornado? Or was it just the end of the world set to occur on the lawn of a lonesome alcoholic who wanting to attract friends had gone so far as to decorate the entertainment area of his home in the colors of both of the state's arch rivals in college football; their battle flags looming large and limp on their staffs as destiny came at us full bore. In an instant, we were folded in- a blanket of sea fog. A real pea soup as they say in the foggy parts of the planet. And that was that. It came in, and the land killed it as sure as it sobered me right to my toes. Sea fog is very rare in these waters.
Texino

Greetings Sucker

OK, it is Texino. I am a man living in the beginning days of the end of the USA. What! You heard me. When? Now. How come? Well I'll tell you about it. When I was a little boy in the first grade of school, on the first day actually, I had this weird experience. When it was time to go home, the teacher had us all stand in line at the class room door because that was where our moms or in my case my big sister would claim us. I was the first one in line and I wore a red shirt and blue pants. This important because I have always remembered seeing myself standing there. It was not like a true out of body experience in that it was as if I was looking in from some other dimension and others were around me and we were all looking into that school and the feeling was one of extreme peace and content. I remember that often, yet it happened well over 50 years ago. This is important only because I spent the next seven years in a day dream and when I matriculated to the upper grades, I did not know a thing. This caused me to fail quite badly and made me a prime target for the draft and the Vietnam war, which is where this post is going to end. It may surprise you that I was not an unwilling soldier. Why? Well like I said, I day dreamed my way through elementary school, getting by because I had the same teachers as my older sister had had and they couldn't seem to believe that I was not as artistic and quick my sums and every thing else that she had been. They must have thought I would catch up but aside from learning to read on a college level by 6th grade, I did not excel at all. Now what all my teachers and special teachers and IQ testers and touters never picked up on was that I was a super patriot. That's right folks me, Texino, was caught in the folds of the flag and I lay there like it was a mother's arms. It seemed that wherever I directed my gaze at Lee School there was Old Glory in the breeze. It was the old 48 state version and I could sit and stare at that flag for hours and my soul would swell with such pride, such true love and such a feeling of peace and good fortune that I had been born American, that little else mattered. Especially mathematics.

I got to the point where I might actually graduate from High School but due to my careless attitude I got drafted instead. So I went into the army and I did so well on my tests that I got chosen for officer school. I did not go there though because I had not graduated from High School. Now the Army probably should have let me go home and finish school, but they did not. Once I got to Vietnam though, I was able to take some tests and get a G.E.D. I made really high marks too.

Lets talk about war now. OK? Fine. It did not take me very long to find out that this whole idea of going out and killing life in general was bad JU JU. What I mean was, we killed everything we could. Monkeys, dogs, cattle, Elephants, frogs and some people. Our people and the personnel of the enemy insurgent forces. Our people? Well yeah. You put some young men together and send them out posse style and then bring them back to a sort of base camp/wild west setting and you don't take their weapons. Well Jackson, it won't be long before someone gets shot over some bullshit that might not have rated a shove back in the world. Yeah, the world i.e. the Real World. The one with the nice flag.

Now during the Vietnam War, they ran GIs though on 12 or 13 month rotation. You could extend your tour another 6 months and get 30 days leave in the bargain. When you hear a Vet say he did two tours in "Nam" that's what he is talking about. Now I really do not know many guys who extended and were in the serious combat business. I mean anywhere you might be in Vietnam was at one time or another dangerous in that you would take some mortar and rocket fire. For the most part though it was not so bad. Some guys, now they had it a lot different and they did their tour in the mud and blood. One way or the other, those guys went home by year's end. Maybe you have the growing impression that not every soldier was "Combat Happy" like they might have been back in WW II. Well you are right. Lots of fellows just did the books or ran radio nets or fixed jeeps or did the hundreds of other jobs necessary to keep a war going. I won't say this is solid fact, but it does seem that the more combat a Vietnam Vet talks about openly, the less combat he actually saw. I'm sorry guys but tunnel rats and Long Range Re-con Patrols were very specialized jobs and they just did not employ the amount of men who would have you believe otherwise. So why in hell would some soldier want to make up war stories?

Maybe you have heard of this "Greatest Generation"? Well if you are anywhere around your middle age, you have certainly heard enough from them because they are your parents and most likely filled your head with talk about the depression and walking to school 10 miles in the snow. They may not have said too much about the WAR other than it was hard to get tires and butter at home. Well they did not have to make up war stories because the ones who went stayed until it was over plus they marched through captured territory and liberated camps and saw everything you have seen on TV about WW II first hand. They don't have much to say. Conversely, the Vietnam Vet felt the need to say something, anything because under the eyes of their folks they did not have much to hold up and compare. Guilt to some extent. What? Well during Vietnam and it was on for quite some time, the USA lost 58 thousand and some. Good boys and some girls too. If that seems a lot, go compare the totals of WW II and you will find 418 thousand US deaths over about 1/2 the time. Like any stat. it can and will be bent.

Now, lets talk about who won. In Vietnam, the war to unify the country had been going on since 1958. The country was unified by the communist north after a stalemate peace was signed and the US just went home. In WWII the Axis wanted a unified Europe. They were defeated, but the European Union exists as we speak. In the far east, the Japanese wanted to gain control of resources in order to become an economic competitor on a world wide basis. They have that position now.

We are talking about two wars that caused about 75 million deaths world wide. As you can see, I have no trouble doing my sums here. Now what was it all about? It was just the result of some opinions really and when the opinions clashed the people behind them wanted to prove a point so they had a fight. A real big fight because there was no shortage of flag loving little boys to show up for the contest. It's how nations prove their worth and their right to exist and when they run out of flag boys and sooner or later they all do, well then they retire. You don't think it can happen here, do you? Well maybe you have not been reading at college level as long as I have.

No Fear. No Sense. A bit of loathing in Alaska.

Did you see the film where the bear(s) ate the guy and his girlfriend? It was odd in that the guy who was eaten was actually making this movie about how these particular bears were like minded creatures and it was his mission to live among them in the summer time and then spend the rest of the year giving presentations to increase bear awareness.   All in all, this seemed like a harmless endeavor because these particular bears were living in a protected area of Alaska, a park really, and they just lived their lives as bears had lived for hundreds or thousands of years and, other than a few bear sighting trips given by local guides, licensed to do this by The Park Service, no one really got in the way. Well the film guy and his friend, they did.  

 It was not very hard to make a comparison between this bear lover and the late writer Hunter S Thompson who, at one time, got close to the Hells Angels Motor Cycle Club to the point that he felt a certain kinship with the bikers. Well, he got in the way too, and a group of the Hells Angels attacked.  They might have killed him too, but the mood passed and they quit. The bear man did not have the luxury of his assailants showing a bit of self restraint, once they determined to get him. I guess that some people become enamored with the lifestyles and general affairs of the tougher animals be they controlled either by society or the laws of nature.  After all,  Angel Boss Ralph "Sonny" Barger was once a babe in arms and bears start out as the cutest creatures. To some, this logic is enough to a body think he or she has a special skill or unique grasp of the situation, so its OK to just jump in the swim. Both Thompson and the bear guy had that certain conceit which made hanging your hat in a danger zone seem OK.   I will hazard a guess that neither HST nor the Grizzly Man had done much, if any, bad boy stuff as youngsters. In fact, it might have done both major good to have done time in the Juvenal Justice System (Reform School) where the thirst for dangerous living could have been tempered by the acquisition of some street smarts. In other words, it should have been painfully obvious (not the other way round) that there is no percentage gained by sticking your nose into a "closed shop" <–––trade union lingo.

What about women? They often can keep things in line, being the survivors and keepers of the societal flame.  I don't really know that much about girls, just the obvious stuff, and when some man says "Women like it when you..." I usually tune him out because I don't think one person can be all that certain in regard to what might move a whole gender.  Of course I am making the assumption that everyone has a basic understanding that people like it when you treat them in a courteous manner and refrain from exhibiting unexpected or uncommon behaviors. 

The grizzly man's sweetheart was an educated and ambitious person who liked adventure, however; seeing her posture around the bears, even the summer bears, one would feel that she was not in the least bit comfortable and it seems as though her plan was to get as far away from Alaska and Mr. Grizz as possible ASAP. She almost made it too and would have, had it not been for the bitchy demeanor of the GM whose tantrum, at an airline ticket counter, forced the couple to book a later flight and therefore return to the most hostile of all the bear hangouts. 

Thompson? He married more than once, had at least one son, but never seems to profile any women in his books.  It seemed to me that the writer, who was following the Sex, Drugs, Rock, Roll and political-science beat for Rolling Stone Magazine, must have been letting some good ink go dry in not talking about the female involvement in those topics, given that it was considerable in more ways than the sexual issue.  For a lot of men, I guess that is where it just stops, and that is too bad.  

So do all these words come down to "Mind your own beeswax"?  Probably, but I am somewhat motivated by a certain penchant that we humans have for suddenly lashing out when an invisible barrier is stretched or pierced.  In that way we are, in my opinion, showing real kinship with the other beasts.  Have you ever been fooling with a dog or cat and have the animal suddenly snap at you? Or have you ever been on the edge of a conversation  between two people where you feel you are involved enough to make some harmless comment only to have one person jump you with the "You don't know me well enough!" thing?  If you have been unlucky enough for that to happen, then you know that you did not see it coming and had no Idea you were "out of line." While I really can't imagine being so rude and am extremely kind to animals ( excepting bears) these outbursts have occurred one or two times and left me physically or emotionally "clawed."  Some kind of defense?  Animal Magnetism at work?  Or maybe someone is just an asshole.  Thing is, snaps like that got the Grizzly Man and his sweetheart killed and almost cost us the pleasure of Dr. Thompson's better efforts and did cause the man's death when snapped himself or caught his limit, one.  This life we are in?  Well,  it's a caution to be sure.

Vexed or wretched or wretches

My Mother, the late Mrs Texino sr. wanted me to be a ball player. If you were alive around the middle of the last century, you would know that she meant baseball. I would be a pitcher beyond compare and she quoted headlines from future sports pages; "Texino marvelous in shut out" or "Texino's sore arm wretches him." I was taught to throw and catch at an early age.
I would sit in a chair opposite my grandmother who would toss me a ball of Red India Rubber. Once I learned to catch it, she moved the chair back a bit and another bit until I could snag the ball with ease, but with the wrong hand. I was left handed and that is good for a hurler. The problem was I caught the ball in my left hand which meant I was a right handed pitcher. Further study showed that I wrote with my left hand and passed a football lefty and threw left under hand batted left but my overhand toss was definitely right and not very strong. The doctors had told my mother I would grow to over 6' 3" and had this happened I might have made it as an odd baller. I could side arm a submarine pitch that looked really cool but tended to surface right into the hitter's zone and I could throw a change up. Actually, I threw three changes, my curve ball, my fast ball and the actual change. In other words I had no speed and since I stopped growing at 5' 9" I was not likely to get any by using my height for leverage. In later years, pitchers like the great Luis Tiante would fool the hyper hitter with a confusing delivery from the "Stretch" followed by a looping curve of such magnitude, that it seemed to take several seconds to reach the plate.
That a professional batter would fall for this seemed absurd, but El Tiante could come in and strike out the side. Not always, but enough for the Red Sox to keep the portly Cuban in the 'pen'. I should say that this whole baseball nonsense was predicated by Mama's dislike for the "Damn Yankees." I should say in defense of Mama that, to her thinking, "Damn" was not a curse word when "Yankees" was attached. There must have been something to this, but I never found out because by the time I was 10 Mama had scouted and dismissed me as a prospect. Too bad because I could catch anything that came my way and was also an excellent placement hitter who could go long too. Oh well, I have always thought that ball teams were managed all wrong, so I probably would wretched the Managers and vexed the owners to no good end.*


*note every writer in this hemisphere is required to do a baseball piece at this time of year.

Texino

Love my dog, love my dog

Here is a picture of my dog Cosmo. He is ill and it is going to cost quite a few dollars to make him well. I don't have the money, but I can make it. The situation is this; I know people who also need money and the amount that I am paying for the medicine Cosmo needs would be a big help to them as well. This is a problem of ethics. Does the life of a companion animal require anything besides giving it food, water and a warm place to sleep? This would not be an issue for most adults. If the animal was down with an expensive illness especially when he is > 10yrs of age, lots of people would, have him put down, shoot him or maybe just abandon he to the wilds or the pound. I can't do that. You can see that there are two of us in the picture and both could fit the definition the dog. We love each other, we are concerned when the other goes missing; if I were to start walking, Cosmo would follow and not turn back. I would do the same. Cosmo is not dull. He speaks his needs
If he is low on water, he has a sound for it; Hungry, he has another. He knows I like to walk in the night, so I am not seen, he waits till the dark before getting his lead, and so on. He is my companion and has been since I became disabled. I say that he will do these things because he does them every day; even when he is sick. Me, I try to get out of stuff when I feel bad. I do not know exactly when I came to feel compassion for all life. Maybe I caught it in Vietnam; lots of that sort of thing there among the Buddhist and Animist. Also, I have some experience in dealing with the bad and sad parts of life, and while there, I was not blind to the pleasure that a good dog can give. Cats too. Cosmo will live until he has to die. I'll see to it by making my own sacrifices and no other person will suffer. You may love whomever you wish too.

The House of Blue Lights-Not

It's Texino,

I was thinking that "damed lies" might not be the best of blog titles, especially if one wanted to be taken seriously. I want people to take me seriously, so with this in mind I went to blogspot's HQ to apply for a different name. The name I chose was "The House of Blue Lights" which as everyone should know is a line from a song by (Little) Richard Penneman of Macon, GA.
The "House..." is where one can find Miss Molly (who sure likes to ball) "from the early early morning to the early early night."
At any rate, it sounds like prime Texino habitat. Alas, it is not to be, for some other blogster has captured it. Now I could have some variation like Texino's House of Blue Lights, but I don't want to confuse things and since I lie constantly, I suppose "damned lies" will have to do. Who knows? Maybe the existing "House..." might belong to (little) Richard himself. I'm a big fan of his and since we are contemporaries, I hope that he will live for a good while. BTW, Richard is not especially small. They called him little Richard because he was young when he hit the charts.

So on with the "lies." Not much to report because one of the animals who lives here died this week. His name is Snook and he was a kitty cat. An old kitty, but I had not expected him to pass. I was told by a neighbor that he was lying a bit up the road and when I went to fetch him home he was pointed that way and looked like he just lay down and died. I was really broken up over it too. Old Snook had been with me through some times and I guess maybe I had some other things to let loose of, so I just cried until I felt better. I laid him a proper grave. Cosmo and Desmond came out in the back and acted an honor guard while I filled the hole and put a nice chunk of granite there to discourage any grave robbers. I have had some real good cats.

Last week, I got the notion I could read a book by just placing it on my chest. Turned out to be the result of fever. I have Malaria. Positive for TB too. I am pretty much confined to dating girls from the local tribes. They understand the JU JU of those diseases. Too bad because I have been told I am good looking. Oh well, it comes, it goes and sometimes it just vanish.