The Happy Beast Heads West

Chica and Niña just took off, leaving ME here at work (those shrews). They're dancing off to upstate New York and Brattleboro, Vermont. They just BETTAH bring me back some treats or, I swear, I'll pout for days.

The Rare Two Headed Happy Beast

___________________________________________________

Morosely awaiting treats, Jen stands in the corner.

Hoosick Falls Bound

My amazing niece Helen is here for a long weekend and I am ninety kinds of psyched! Tomorrow we head up to Hoosick Falls, not to be confused with Frostbite Falls, in upstate New York to look over what will soon be HER new house. It's Mary Ann’s house, where she and my father grew up. Not only will Helen e la famiglia now be just a three and a half hour drive away (versus the three and a half hour flight to Texas), she’ll be living in the home of so many of my good memories!

After Hoosick (or, as The Amazing Bob terms it ‘Frostbite’) Falls, we’ll head over to Brattleb...

SKKKEEERAAATCH! 

Hey, Jen here! I’m hijackin’ this here blog while Donna’s away doin’ the vaca thing with Helen. Got it?! 

First order of biz, we’re gonna MAKE SOME NOISE!!!

Next -- cat pics! Yeah, this is the old broad, Thelma, giving the youngster, Skitter, a much need soccer lesson. It SO TOO happened! Would I lie to you?!

____________________________________________________________________

Jen, all aloof and hip, now that she’s driving the magic bus

Acrobats, Poetry and Metaphors

The Acrobats — Shel Silverstein

I'll swing

By my ankles,
She'll cling
To your knees
As you hang
By your nose
From a high-up
Trapeze.

go here for the fab rest of the poem!

Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15) — Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Constantly risking absurdity
                                             and death
            whenever he performs
                                        above the heads
                                                            of his audience
   the poet like an acrobat
                                 climbs on rime
                                          to a high wire of his own making

the rest here

Miles Goes To College

The Saturday Baseball Mutants: Dave, The Amazing Bob, The (future) Green Miles and Bro

These are some of The Amazing Bob's reminisces from when his fabulous son, The Green Miles, went off to college.

It was 1995 when my son Miles started at Syracuse University, a bit north and midway between Albany and Rochester, New York. He had graduated from Brookline High School that spring and was eager to begin his life with people unconnected to the past.

I do remember when we first talked about choosing a college, I suggested someplace local -- Emerson, for example. He explained to me that he had lots of relatives who had never lived anywhere but where they were born, and he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to go someplace out of state, California perhaps. I reminded him that visits would require round trip plane fair, which we couldn’t afford. We left it there.

On my way to the subway after work, since I had to pass by the Boston Public Library, I stopped by sometimes to get info on scholarships, grants, loans, student aid, whatever. Miles and me would go through the stuff and make decisions.

We would also talk about college life.  I stumbled through a a talk about STDs and unwanted pregnancies. We talked school cafeterias being good places for food and conversations. I reminded him that he comes from a long line of drunks. We talked about the differences between high school and college, like class size, personal academic responsibility and so on.

And then, on the planned day, he left.

In the days after Miles went to the very distant Syracuse, my apartment, the city and my life seemed larger and emptier, especially since I’d been a single Dad. The comfort of my daily routines were disrupted like in school, when a girl you have a crush on gets promoted and assigned to a different school Or your best friend gets transferred to a base in East Nowhere. I knew he hadn’t abandoned me and I hadn’t thrown him out but the uncertainty about my future and his was dense and intense.

I probably held my breath from the time he left until his first call a couple of days later, when he told me he was at the other end of that distance. He had a room and a roomie and was surrounded by people as temporarily dislocated as him.
He assured me he was eating and enjoying his first big immersion in independence. I was so relieved, I completely neglected to warn him, scold him or advise him about anything. But he was there and well.

As time went on I noticed it was a relief doing laundry half as much as before and buying half as much food. It was a physical relief, not a financial one, since I sent him mad money as often as I could.

Now that I was an Inter-state Single Dad, I had more time and energy to court the vivacious Donna, go shopping, eat out or catch a movie once in awhile, or play in bed until I was wheezing, sweating and grateful for the randomly bestowed blessings of an indifferent universe.
 ____________________________________________________________________

Bob Grant, love of my life and father to the equally amazing Miles

Ramble On

Seems to me, the last week or two of August is a big time vaca week for all. I get it -- kiddles aren’t quite back to school, the weather’s still grand and business is slow-ish since everyone else is off in far flung places -- having fun and being annoyed with famiglia too.

Where am I? Work. Fantasizing about far flung places.

I used to dream of taking the Trans-Siberian from Moscow all the way to Vladivostok  with a week long stop at Lake Baikal along the way. Maybe another stop in Ulan Bator in Mongolia.

Why haven’t I? Jesus that’s, at bare minimum, a month long trip and I’ve never gotten more than two weeks per year (tops) off from the day job -- ever. What’s that you say? Save the time off -- build it up until I’ve got a full month? Ah, if only life were so simple.

And I want to go to Turkey. Why? Minerets, the baths/hamman, megalithic ruins -- Apollonia, Alexandria Troas, Magnesia on the Maeander. The names alone send me off into imagination
orgasms.

It’s nirvana for ancient civilization geeks and, boy howdy, that’d be me. In another lifetime, I was a serious archeologist -- I just know it!

Another long held dream -- Macchu Picchu. I used to imagine hiking the Inca Trail from start to glorious finish. Sendero Luminoso must be credited for me not doing something so abjectly dimwitted. You see, I like the idea, the concept of big, week long hikes -- seems all kinda sweatily romantic. The actuality? Hell, 20 minutes into it and I'm full on despising the uphill trek. And camping? In a tent? Oh please. I imagine I’ve said this before -- my idea of camping is a B&B with the bathroom down the hall.
So yeah, the Macchu Picchu dream is gonna have to wait until I either find a way to afford to go without hiking and camping OR I become a different person who actually enjoys that shit.

One year Cindy and Giovanni, my buds in Sarteano (Southern Tuscany) had hoped to book a beach house in Sicily for the month of August. Their thought was that they’d get a big place -- friends and family could come and go. We could stay the full month or just a few days. A week of reading on a sunny foreign beach? Sipping chianti with chums, new and old? Taking long strolls down sandy stretches? This, THIS, seemed utterly fab and right up my alley.

And then the global economy hit an iceberg and went all Titanic thus ruling out Sicilian beach rentals.

I’ve got a week off coming to me at the beginning of October. At this point Jen and I are planning to meet our buddy Brenda, from Slane -- just north of Dublin, in Reykjavik. Why Iceland? We’ve never been (apart for a layover in the airport and that SO doesn’t count) and it’s a relatively short flight so we can go for a long weekend. Also, hello, Penis Museum! Besides that, why not?

Old Devil Time, I'm Gonna Fool You Now

Every time Donna’s Brain Pit Crew and Neurological Wizard Band give me a hall pass, whenever they say ‘You’re stable. Come back in 3, 4, 6, 12 months,’ I feel like I’ve gotten a reprieve. I’ve successfully bought time.

What if time could be purchased? You know, walk into the corner grocery and just pick a 6 off the shelf.

What sort off quantities would it be available in and how would it be packaged? In a bottle, I’ll bet. I’m thinking, when I step into my local market, Harvest,  I’ll find beautiful cobalt blue bottles.

Who would decide the increments?

Minutes, maybe even seconds will come in those wee half pint containers like juice or milk at the school cafeteria. Why buy time in such small amounts? It’s, of course, for when you need a few extra moments  to screw your courage up just a few more notches for:

* the big talk with boss. You know, the ‘I need a raise/more interesting tasks/time off’ chat that you’ve just been dreading and obsessing about for months.

* the semester end presentation which will count as 80% of your final grade.

* that big date with Prince Charming you finally scored. Hair, makeup and sartorial statement need a smidge more primping and, oh god, how do I go about NOT sounding like the self involved prima donna that I am!

OK, maybe the pint size would be better.

Quart sizes will contain days, 24 hour periods. Do ya wanna spend just one more day with the dearly departed (I’m thinking of my Aunt Mary Ann here!), one more sun up/sun down in Kripalu’s spiritual warm bath or maybe just another day on that magical Truro vaca? This is the size for you!

Maybe you need/want to buy months or even years. Ouch – that’s gonna run some major buckos.

* Know you’re gonna lose all your hearing and/or sight, you know...just for example, but don’t have a firm ex date on those suckers? You just know it’s a matter of, yep, time before they crap out?

The 2 liter size of Donna’s Delightful Era Expander is just the thing for you. Buy it by the case though.

Purchasable chronology, like wine, would vary wildly in quality. Of course. Though, JUST like vino, the Italians will always excel – even the cheap stuff, if Italian, will be happily existable.

What’s the tempus equivalent of plonk? Hospital waiting room stretches would be the Boone’s Farm of buyable span. It’s cheap and totally, full on, NOT worth the money. One more day with Mary Ann, unconscious yet still in pain, at Southwestern Vermont Medical Center. Ah...no. I wouldn’t wish that on either of us.

For that one more day with the longed for loved one, we’d need to invest in the primo stuff.

Time, even plonk time, won’t be inexpensive. That extra day at the beach? The day when you discovered you’d (OK, ‘I discovered I’d’) follow the future husband (The Amazing Bob™– duh) to the dark side of the moon and back, (without a sweater too!), just to be with him – that’s gonna run a month’s salary. At least. Extending that late October shopping day in Bennington, followed by lunch at Carmody’s, with Mary Ann? Probably a nother month worth of paychecks.

Some eager beaver type with a freshly minted MBA could make gobs, heaps and bags 'o' benjamins here. Where are they?!

Old Devil Time -- Pete Seeger

Cats, Moon Pies, Bast and Paradise Lost

She's got a whole Audrey Hepburn thing going on doncha think?

 Or maybe it's a Moon Pie look.

 Possibly though, she's aspiring to God-head.

She alluded to plans of this sort JUST last night, now that I think on it. Of course, she also put in a request for an in ground Stygian Pool out in the back yard. That shoulda been a dead giveaway.

Looks like she's on another Paradise Lost  bender. Again.

Literate cats be so damned exhausting. I gotta get her to start watching Buffy reruns with me.

Swear to Bast.

Time In A Bottle

That Tuesday post was from Hillel. I didn't credit him as I wasn't sure it'd be cool to have his son's name up in lights, so to speak. 

It is.

Aba Bromberg's still in Chicago, getting his eldest all situated (and probably making successful, Herculean efforts not to hover, smother and otherwise fuss) but we managed to connect via the wonders of text messaging. Or would that be txt msg?

18 years ago, Hillel would bring this tiny, soft wrapped bundle over to my apartment. We'd sit on my futon couch, watching the wee sprog do amazing infant tricks. You know, like opening his eyes, making a wee fist and then pooping!

 I swear that was just last year! Caleb is now a college freshman.

Time In A Bottle -- Jim Croce

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

video here!

The Results

Had a good and interesting (interesting in a seriously marvy kind of way) visit with Doctor Plotkin, my new-ish neurologist (who's LE gros fromage in all things Nf2 nowadays) yesterday. For starters, I’m stable -- YEA!!!! Some of the meningiomas on Donna’s Tumor Farm and Petting Zoo have grown but not enough to break out the scalpels. The acoustic neuromas are about the same size. The meningiomas (on the top of my head) are slightly larger and need to be watched but surgery isn’t in the pic yet.

Again with the YEA!!!

On top of this wondrous news, he really listened to my thoughts and concerns. The good Doc asked about my stress levels and spoke of how these inflated levels effect balance (I seem to be more tippy lately and was, naturally, concerned) and more. Calming my stratospheric stress levels would make a big difference in how I’m able to function/get by.

Toward that end, he began to suggest -- I could see it in his manner -- anti-depressants. I gave him the 411 on that. They just do NOT work for me -- I’ve tried. In fact, all breeds and brands cause me such utter fatigue that I inevitably become MORE stressed AND depressed.

What does work? Exercise, (and the good folk at the Mayo Clinic are with me on this too!). I get 30 minutes on the treadmill most days (5 out of 7) but it's not enough. This is about more than just mood maintenance. More manic movement time is fab but also imperative for clearing my sinuses as well that whole weight loss/management thing. I NEED more daily workout stint-age. The assignment -- get creative. How can I fit more aerobic action into each day?

He told me about another patient who recently bought an adult, recumbent trike. What a tremendous idea! With shorter daylight hours imminent, I could only ride on the weekend but still, that'd be a cool addition to the treadmillizing. I asked Dr. P about regular bikes (figuring I could borrow Jen’s versus buying something new) -- he didn't think they'd be safe enough given my balance nerve free brain.

Actually, Jen told me this later, he was pretty emphatic on the NO. Interesting what I tune out -- generally it’s authority figures telling me what I can and can’t do -- what I may or may not be capable of. In this case, I think I may trust and not get all heavily rebellious.

We talked about painting and how I’d not been able to without music. He helped me to think about it in a different way and might be able to hook me up with another local Nf2 painter type. AWESOME!

This isn’t like when I use to sit with god talking about family, learning how to read and interpret my scans and then plotting out the next challenge (surgery versus radiation) but it is most def fascinating, helpful and productive.

YEA!

One amusing bit -- it gave me a sort of perverse brand of satisfaction when, while viewing the scans of my spine from pre back op (while discussing whether I REALLY need new spine MRIs soon or no), Plotkin's mouth kinda dropped when he witnessed the leviathan on screen and then pronounced 'wow, that's a monster.'

I don't feel so bad about waxing all purply hyperbole-ish about it anymore.

Next year there’ll be an MRI marathon -- one a week for 5 weeks. It’ll feel a bit like old times. I’ll get through it with my usual visualization schemes, breathing exercises, the enhanced emotional state from the biking and painting plus a little chianti and atavan.

You know, I’m make it with style -- con brio and shit. OK con a very calm, tranqed out bio.

Father to Son

On the eve of his eldest son's departure for freshman year college in a far flung mid western state.

Dear Caleb,

I’ve always thought better with a pen in my hand, so when I started to consider what I want to say to you at this moment, it seemed natural to put it into writing (or typing so you don’t have to put up with my scrawl). The truth is though, that I’m not sure I have anything profound to say. You could Google something like “advice to college-bound students” and get loads of pithy, funny, thoughtful articles. Better yet, you could look for good commencement speeches so you’d know what to keep in mind as you go through the next four years. All of these words are probably right at some level and you should pay attention to them, but they’re not personalized to the one and only Caleb B. So here are a few thoughts just from me to you.

Going to college is momentous as only a few other things in life are. It’s right up there with getting married, losing your virginity, and taking your first big solo trip. What all of these have in common is that you’re not the same person after as you were before. Your world opens up. It makes both more and less sense because the more you know, the more you realize that you don’t know. Embrace that ambiguity; it is your friend. On the edge of not-knowing is where you will learn and experience the most. You’ll stumble and fall there – at least I hope you’ll stumble and fall – and with new clarity, you’ll say, “Well huh, that didn’t work. Guess I better try something else.” That’s called learning and it’s what we’re in this life to do.

College is lots of things. It’s classes, bull sessions, hot dates, deadlines, papers. Most of all, it’s an adventure and I’m delighted that you’ve never shied away from that. I know that you’ll plunge into this one full force and I envy you this experience. That doesn’t mean you’ll enjoy every minute of it – there are parts that are a royal pain in the ass – but on balance, I expect you’ll revel in college more than anything else you’ve done so far.

So don’t rush through. Take your time, look around you, figure out for yourself what works and doesn’t work with professors, roommates, classes, and those hot dates. You’re a perceptive guy, Caleb, and I know you’ll pick up on the nuances, but I hope you’ll feel that you can call me if you’re confused (or elated or depressed or for any other reason). This moment is all yours. Go wallow around in it.

Really Caleb, there is only one thing I want you to do: zai a mensch. And you already are, so that’s more of a confirmation of how I see you than advice on how to behave. Be generous with your time and attention, be attentive to others’ needs, listen well and respond with compassion, use your innate good humor and comforting presence to make others feel relaxed. Just do all the things that come so naturally to you for no reason and no reward other than that that’s the right way to behave and the world spins more smoothly when you do.

You’ve always given me many reasons to like and admire you, Caleb. I’m incredibly proud of who you are. I can’t wait to see what this chapter will bring.

As you head out into the world, remember that we’ve got your back.

With much love and respect,

Aba

Manic Monday Rambling

Creature Doormat? Moi? Nein, non, no!

The other morning, after bringing our feral porch visitor cats their breakfast of tuna and Fancy Feast, I stepped out to refill the water bowls (by the way, the cats leave crap tips, lemme just tell you -- I feel all unappreciated here and shit). It was 4 AM and I wasn’t fully awake yet -- that’s my excuse for not seeing Flower our skunk friend. He was trying to horn in on Rocco’s Frühstück. Rocco, for once, was having none of it. Normally he just steps aside -- generosity of manner being better than being all stinkified. Not this particular morning. I’m guessing (since obviously I didn’t hear it!) he hissed nastily at Flower who jumped up and back BUT DID NOT SPRAY! What a good skunk! Of course I had to reward him for that.

Yes, I went inside and made Flower his own special plate. I then watched from the front door while Rocco, Gaston and Flower peacefully all breakfasted. Jesus, it was balm to the spirit.
 ___________________________________________
OK, I’m double plus sure I’ve waxed rhapsodic about The Fat Cat (AKA The Obese Kitten) before but day-um, it deserves a shout out every single time I go there.

First, they’ve a barkeep who looks JUST like Daniel Craig. Mind you, prior to seeing the flick Cowboys and Aliens (oh yeah, I’ve got WAY deep artistic sensibilities -- oh mama yes!) I was all ‘Daniel Craig -- who? The hell? Dude’s just SO blond.’ Now? After watching him climb a rock in C&A?  Oh dear -- the boy is utterly, fully, totally fucking sponge worthy 

Next -- the barmaid who looks JUST like Cameron Diaz...only pretty. No lie, no hyperbole there -- for reals. The babe must think, on nights when she gets the bed all to her self ‘AWESOME, I got lucky tonight!’

You know what else, besides extreme exquisiteness, these two grand mas, stone beauties have in common? They’re both surprisingly, stunningly warm, open, genuine and mega competent at their gigs.

Yep, I go there for the Limoncello ‘Martinis’ and the drool factor.

OK, they also have a fabola publican who’s a dead ringer for Jack Black only ginger haired -- wonderful, funny guy
_________________________________________

While there we, Jen and I, caught some of the Little League World’s Series on the TV. ????? Isn’t 8 and 10 years of age a wee bit young to be carrying this much stress, such weight and performance pressure? I would’ve ensured that my wee bairn got music, dance, art lessons as well as classes in any other crapoly they were interested in, sure. I would have been wicked reluctant to have them involved in competitions more suited to the already stress filled world of adultishness. Aren't we all here too fast as it is?

What about just having some goddamned fun, huh? Isn’t that cool anymore?

Nope, no Tiger Mothers here.
_________________________

I believe ALL of August should be -- should always be -- official, nationally recognized, employer paid vaca month. Can’t we just shut down the damn country for a month and all hit the beach? You know, plan ahead -- stock up on groceries, harvest your garden, go fishing. Take a book or 50 out of the library, kick back, watch the sun glint on the water, check out the sound of the smallest wave lapping the shore. Go all Doc Edgerton with your Canon Sure Shot.

Chill, babies, chill.

The Bangles -- Manic Monday

Tuesday, Tuesday, TUESDAY

 I see my new neurologist, Dr. Scott Plotkin, this Tuesday. He replaces god, Dr. Robert Ojemann. You know, man, no pressure!

I’ll get the results of my latest MRI (brain) adventure and, most likely, get my next ones prescribed (two for my spine).

I’ve been all edgy for more than a few days -- struggling to stay buoyant, not collapse under a sea of fear and anxiety at the prospect of possible bad news. What does ‘bad news’ entail? Tumors (I've got that fun Neurofibromatosis Type 2) have grown and it’s time for more surgery with all the risks and gambles that involves.

Mind you, I’ve had three big ass brain surgeries and one astoundingly major back surgery. In that one, every major muscle in my back was severed and then reconnected after Barker (AKA son of god) debulked, the leviathan-esque, scum sucking, basthole meningioma that had wrapped around my spine (from the T1-T4). Recovery from that made other recoveries feel, in contrast, like relaxing spa holidays. No lie, that.

The point here is that I feel I ought to be used to all this by now. It should be no biggie, right?  Eh, sadly no.

Now that the majority of the tumors (schwannomas and meningiomas  alike) have been debulked (a word which just exudes such grace and charm, no?) my body is not AS MUCH of a ticking time bomb. So then, no worries, eh?

Ahem, my psyche has not caught up to the new, lower, Yellow Alert Levels  plus, the fucksticks grow back. They were reduced in size not eliminated. The persistent poops have a nasty rep for blossoming again like Black Eyed Susans in spring.

Why debulk instead of total removal (resection)? Svelteifying  (now, isn't that a better sounding term? Of course it is) poses much less risk to all the other tightly packed nerves in my head. As for my spine, total removal wouldn’t have given me even Vegas odds of being able to walk again or have any feeling at all below tit level. I’m gambling on that residual demon spawn, ratfucking spinal tumor being a slow grower.

I’m not necessarily expecting the ultimate in nasty news on Tuesday but still, I won’t know until I sit down with Plotkin and maybe not until after the, probably inevitable, next MRI or two. Like every year, I become hyper aware of my balance issues, every little new ache and pain, vision problems and more. And the low grade worry creeps in.

Funnily (NOT), I went through this stress tango twice, thrice and sometimes four times, yearly for decades. And I stayed sane...sort of...relatively. It’s only since the extreme svelteifying of that last enormously fat brain bastard, six years ago, that the Alert Levels are lower.

So, I need to relax already. Breathe in, breathe out and stop anticipating trouble. It’ll get here in its own bad time.

They Say It's Your Birthday

You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time

Hey, it’s my birthday so I’m gonna spend the evening doing celebratory type stuff! Jen and Oni are grilling pizza, The Amazing Bob™is making me a carrot/spinach cake (because spinach makes everything just that much more yummy AND it makes me feel less guilty about indulging in Bob's astounding confection creations!) and I think there may be a specially crafted margarita or two.

I started the day at 5 AM with a rainy walk on Nantasket Beach at low tide.  Oh sure, it may look all moody grey with a side of bleak BUT a dawn boogie down a long, empty, (except for seagulls and the odd surfer or two), stretch of sandy shoreline is unbeatable. Even if the sun’s sleeping in.

The smells and color, the peacefulness, the feel of the surf on my ankles, that happy surprise when I find the absolute coolest Abalone shell --  AMAZING!

See y’all tomorrow when I’m officially older than dirt.

Birthday -- Beatles on Saville Road

Annoyed Cat Blogging

Coco being the annoyed one, that is. Not me. It was shortly after I got this shot that she melted off my lap (her being the absolute queen of passive resistance) and ran for our neighbor Andrea's yard.

She's been acting insecure (always needing to be held...when she's not making those daring and adventurous escape attempts, that is) and a bit neurotic (bathing near constantly) over the last week. I figure she, like me, has been a little freaked about Rocco's situation and health. Rocco, by the by, seems fine. He'll have serious scars but, you know, chicks dig scars. OK, THIS chick digs scars

It's funny -- seems unusual to me anyway -- she always knows when Rocco and Gaston are on the porch. She fetches me away from the computer or the newspaper reading chair with great urgency and herds me toward the front door.

Is she telling me that it's time to feed them or is she issuing an intruder alert?

That Old Beer Injury

...seems to be acting up again lately.

Beer Injury? Que?

I don’t remember what year it was -- possibly that beer thing is effecting my memory. Jen and I were in Edinburgh, Scotland. I had hearing then so it must have been 8 or so years ago. (there, I feel SO much better for having nailed the range down to a specific decade. More or less)

On an earlier solo excursion, I’d caught some killer bands and a wildly cool singer/songwriter night in the claustrophobia triggering, low ceilinged, sub-subbasement of a pub up near the University. Naturally, I had to drag Jen there.

Our first stop in town was The Tron of singer/songwriter/claustrophobia fame. I was horrified to find that it had, in the intervening years, become some sort of boring ass, nastified, vile sports bar. It was awful and a half times twelve. We ixnayed the joint after a single half pint.

We wandered a bit, ending up at The Malt Shovel on Cockburn for jazz. Neither of us are jazz heads but, after being exposed to it by the men folk (Oni and The Amazing Bob™ that is), we can now appreciate and even enjoy a band with chops, tasty improv and some hard bop. West Coast Cool was always my kick, my groove but, as it turns out, there’s more out there!

In any case, pissed about The Tron’s devolution (It appears, from the website, to be back to its good old self now. Oh sure, now that I’m all deaf and shit -- bastids!), I came up with the brill scheme of catching the bus north to the Isle of Skye. So we did. We even managed to score a room at the wonderful little B&B on Bosville Terrace that I’d stayed in before.

We didn’t have real plans beyond hopefully catching a blistering trad session or two at The Isles Inn Pub. Beyond that, there’s really only so much to do in the island’s very small big town of Portree.

What to do, what to do? We found a car rental place with the idea of touring the island for a day. Now, y’all know that I despise driving with Force 12 strength. Here’s the thing though, Jen doesn’t know how to drive stick and I do (thanks to my carny years). You know, it seems far easier to drive while sitting on the right hand side of the car. I’m used to that spot so it’s comfy. Maybe that’s just me.

While driving down out of Quiraing we came upon a Holy Grail we didn’t even know we were missing. Yup, a brewery. It was the Isle of Skye Brewing Company and they had a shop AND it was open! Yea us!

We attempted to be smart and realistic and ONLY bought 6 bottles each. Into our rucksacks they went and off we drove.

That beer injury I spoke of? You try toting a six pack on your back for five days of traveling on foot, by bus, plane and train. Oh OK we also had a bottle of wine or two as well. Hey, we had to bring treats and souvenirs back to Boston!

A Paragon Park of the Mind

OR A Coney Island of the Mind if you’re Lawrence Ferlinghetti...which you may well be if you authored these poems.

4

In a surrealist year
                             of sandwichmen and sunbather
                             dead sunflowers and live telephones
         house-broken politicos with party whips
         performed as usual
         in the rings of their sawdust circuses
         where tumblers and human cannonballs
                                                filled the air like cries
                         when some cool clown
                                          pressed and incredible mushroom button
    and an inaudible Sunday bomb
                                                 fell down
catching the president at his Sunday prayers
                                                                       on the 19th green
      Or it was spring
                               of fur leaves and cobalt flowers
     when cadillacs fell thru the trees like rain
                    drowning the meadows with madness
while out of every imitation cloud
                                         dropped myriad wingless crowds
                                                          of nutless nagasaki survivors
           And lost teacups
           full of our ashes
           floated by

9

See 
     

     it was like this when 
                         

                              we waltz into this place 


a couple of Papish cats 
                         

                             is doing an Aztec two-step 


And I says 
              

                 Dad let’s cut 


but then this dame 
                    

                            comes up behind me see 
                                  

                                            and says 
                       

                                You and me could really exist 


Wow I says 
               

                  Only the next day 
                   

                   she has really bad teeth 
                           

                            and really hates  poetry

11

                The world is a beautiful place                    
                                                            to be born into
if you don’t mind happiness
                                          not always being
                                                        so very much fun
       if you don’t mind a touch of hell
                                                         now and then
              just when everything is fine
                                       because even in heaven
                                       they don’t sing
                                                           all the time
           The world is a beautiful place
                                                         to be born into
if you don’t mind people dying
                                                 all the time
             which isn’t half so bad
                                                 if it isn’t you
Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                   to be born into
            if you don’t mind
                                        a few dead minds
                 in the higher places

                                               or a bomb or two
                        now and then
                                            in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
                                           as our Name Brand society
                        is prey to
                                      with its men of distinction
       and its men of extinction
                                              and its priests
                    and other patrolmen
                                                   and its various segregations
           and congressional investigations
                                                               and other constipations
                             that our fool flesh
                                                           is heir to
         Yes the world is the best place of all
                                                          for a lot of such things as
                      making the fun scene
                                                          and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
                                      and singing low songs and having inspirations
          and walking around
                                          looking at everything
                                                                          and smelling the flowers
            and goosing statues
                                          and even thinking
                                                                      and kissing people and
                    making babies and wearing pants
                                                                      and waving hats and
                                                     dancing
                                                             and going swimming in rivers
                                                 on picnics
                                                          in the middle of summer
                    and just generally
                                                 ‘living it up’
Yes
    but then right in the middle of it
                                                   comes the smiling
                                        mortician

—Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Love In a Time of Emails

 The normal-ish text messaging in which Bob I wantonly engage has been interrupted by the very serious, terminal even, Crapped Out Phone’s Disease.

We do tend to run on when free of that nasty-ass, microscopic telefonino keyboard. Unhobbled, and unconstrained, we’re free, baby, free-ish.

An excerpt from today’s very serious conversation.

Bob:
You got a computervoicecall from Blue Cross saying that you'll get a letter within 5 days and that it's important to update their info on you.

What have you been up to these days, eh?

Donna:
Blue Cross should probably know that I died last year. Oh wait, that was someone else.

Ready for her close up as usual

How's our baby Coco doing this morning?

Bob:
I think Coco's in the cellar mixin’ up the medicine.

Still waiting for a call-back from Schopenhauer's office (the conversational derailment deepens here. Doctor Schoenbaum is my primary care doc) to reschedule your appointment.     

 Greta came by to eat.

Donna:
'Arthur Schopenhauer (22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860) was an atheistic German philosopher known for his pessimism and philosophical clarity'

Not sure this is the sort of medic best suited to my current persona. He might do well with my next incarnation or maybe that last one. I forget now.

Greta was by yesterday too. She still runs when I step out to fill her food bowl but not quite as far. PROGRESS!

A friend, who also feed strays, feels we should give Rocco some of our left over anti-biotics . We should put them in his tuna each day so he doesn't get infected (MORE infected than I imagine he already is).

What do you think Hunny and do we have any left over pills? Can you call the vet, 'splain the situation and see what she has to say?

Bob:
How do we know what's in whatever pills you have? Or what might or might not be a fatal dose for a skinny cat?

Still no call back from Schönberg.

Donna:
Honey Pie, I think I’ve got more wrong with me than can be fixed by a libidinous little 12 tone row. I could be wrong  of course.

Bob:
Just heard a meow.  Rocco was coming into the yard.  So I got some food for him and now, no sign of Rocco.

Looks like Greta napping under Jen's van.   Also noticed a lot of flies in the house lately.  When
I was looking out for Rocco I noticed this screen window (by the computer) is laying in the yard behind us.  I'll go around the block and get it tomorrow.  Too hot today.

Donna: That's our Coco’s doing -- she leans hard against the screen when napping there. She's inside right? She didn’t get out?

Good that Rocco's out during the day again. He was getting a bit too pale and vampire-y there.

Bob:
Guess what -- that wasn't Rocco, that was Coco and she's the one asleep under the van.  She doesn't want to come out either, the little cretin.  She must've pushed the screen out and then followed it.  I’ll go out and sit for a while where she can see me, then come in for a while to cool off and chase flies. 

What a fucking day.
____________________________________________________________________________
Eventually Bob managed to coax our little Houdini out from under the van with her fav treat -- Whisker Lickin’s Crunchy Tuna treats.


Cats -- they'll be the death of us, I swear!

DreamTime

In a recent dream of Jen’s, I owned a Piper Cub but had to park it in outer space due to zoning restrictions in our neighborhood. She came into the kitchen while Oni and I were deep in conversation about which planets might have the best monthly rates (Mars), which nebulae had the best views (Crab) and who had the best safety record (Orion).

Sadly, she woke before Oni and I could sort this out so now we’re stuck with a plane in our dream driveway, collecting exorbitant fines from the city of Quincy, MA.
__________________________________

This past week I had the most wondrous dream. I was Sherman Alexie, the fab-ola Spokane/ Coeur d'Alene poet, writer, filmmaker, and occasional comedian with the Russian last name.

I’m seated at a glossy black, baby grand piano, playing the shit out of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.  I was doing up some serious theatrical flourishes too. I was Cziffra, Horowitz and Ashkenazy combined.

I finished, leapt up and away from the piano, as though it had possessed me, to a raucous, foot stamping standing O. I looked down at my hands, stunned at what they just accomplished, and thought, 'wow, ain't that something -- I can play piano.'
___________________________________

Another Jen dream -- she and Oni were down in Truro swimming when giant monster waves came up. SURF’S UP! Jen ran to get, not her surfboard but, her ’59 Cherry Red Eldorado. She’s groovin’ along, looks around and sees ten other car surfers. They’re riding ’58 burnt orange De Sotos, ’57 baby blue Lincolns, marigold yellow ’59 Buicks and more.

More Dreamtime now, please.

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2