RECIPE

Take one shiny apple,
Rub on trousers carefully.
Slice in half
Squeeze gently

Allow the nectar to run through your hands,
Eat with Gusto or some other friend.

MATURITY

Would a calf become a steer
If it was made clear
That this maturity
Would shorten it’s mortality?

HOG SENSE

Would a pig become a pig
And not care a fig
If it knew it would be taken
To make a slab of bacon

GRASS

You are honest and aboveboard
and caught with some grass
It is goodbye to freedom
The feds won't it let pass

The jet set can party, rape, booze and what not,
You just know damn well, they will not be caught.

If you are in chemicals, in steel, or in mines
Pollute all you a want, simply pay your fines.

The law doesn't bother the gov's corruption,
they do what they want without interruption.

Don't steal an apple or a pear,
you will be found guilty,
you better not dare.

Let us start talking about what is right or wrong.
Let us tell the world to not go along.

FOUR OF A KIND

How unglorious to simply be a mother
Not for M, she had made up her mind
To be four of a kind
A mentor, a tormentor, a resident,
A president

She found she could be
Not an I but a we
Both a father and a mother
The better her children to smother

Stubborn she was like a mule
Between Lent and Yule
Her mind was one of a kind
A selfless clarity, without parity
And it shone on me sans charity

She leaped to the defense of our children three
Especially it they had a bout with me
No amount of explaining could keep her from reigning.

It takes a man with a lot of loving, to carry on despite her shoving
Bye bye and ta ta, I’ve got a heavy date in bed
With my femme fatal, that’s all

FADDIST

I’ve always been a vegetarian
That’s why I’m an octogenarian
Soon I’ll be a centenarian

So why eat dead animals
You ill-advised cannibals

FAT BLUES

Fat man, FAT man

I’m just a tub of lard, couldn’t work too hard,
I’m like a discarded card
Got no girl to love me.

But I’m just plain human, although fatter than two men
And I haven’t a sou man
Got no girl to love me.

I got feelings, I got pride, but still no girl by my side
Do I gotta lay love aside
Cause no girl will love me?

I’m five feet tall, I look like a ball
It can’t be worse, I’ve got me a curse
No roly poly to love me

One day I went strollin, every pound a shakin and rollin
Then I saw her jiggling down the street
She was fat, she was round, but ever so neat
Our eyes met and stayed, deep messages relayed

Now I’ve got me a wife, my mistress and my life
All I needed was a roly poly fat girl to love me

CHURCHMEN

Amen, amen, they said in unison
The killer, the rapist, the warmonger,
The child beater, the pervert, the nazi lover,
On their faces, a look of peace and goodwill.

TALL TALK

If a giraffe cold talk
Don’t you think it would balk
To be put in a cage so people could gawk?

DON'T STING

Would a mosquito really sting
It it knew that would bring
It’s early demise?

AD VOICE

I through my voice out the window.
I got tired of listening to the noise.

LOW EBB

Everything is an effort.
What is happening to me?
I am tired when I go to sleep
I am tired when I get up
In between I am waiting for something to happen.

I AM BLUE,
SO WHAT’S NEW?

WHAT'S UP

The more you love
The less you hate
The more you have
The more you want
The less you have
The more you want
Is this what it’s all about?
More or less

PLUCKING

Just plucking away
At my old geetar
My fingers lookin for a melody
Gotta find me somethin cosy
Gotta find me somethin sweet
Gotta find me an ole time treat
Just a pluckin away at my old geetar
My mind a’sweet talkin the strings

PRAYER PRIORITIES

He prayed and prayed, oh how he prayed
As he looked at the parched earth.
Please god, he beseeched, let there be rain.
No rain came.

She prayed and prayed, oh how she prayed
As she looked at the drenched earth.
Please god, she beseeched, let there be sun.
No sun came.

The warmongers prayed and prayed, oh how they prayed.
As they looked at the peaceful earth,
Please god, they beseeched, let there be war.
The war came.

OF THINGS AND MEMORIES

After forty years of marriage, my wife and I are living in our ninth home and in our fourth city.

Our first dwellings were small but gradually grew along with a growing family and income. As children flew the coop in response to the call of the sixties, the size of our homes grew proportionally smaller. Today we are back to square one; a one-bedroom affair equal in size to our very first home.

Possessions grew as we climbed the housing ladder, and conversely decreased as we homed down. However, there are some things I won’t give up---things that might one day be of use again, things that evoke memories.

In the bottom drawer of my dresser, neatly tucked away, are a dozen undershirts ranging in sizes from 28 to 32. Today I manage to comfortably get into a size 46, particularly if I suck in my stomach and keep it in. Tomorrow, next week, or next month, I might very well start a slimming process that will allow my body to reclaim past glories and sizes. Those shorts are more than memories---they’re incentives.


One does not need an attic to inspire one to collect and store all sorts of things. In a real rummaging mood now, a sort of walk down memory lane, I unearthed three wristwatches that looked perfectly good. However no amount of prodding or winding would bring them back to life again. Atrophy had set in, the direct result of lack of exercise.

I looked longingly at some sharp wrinkle-free belts, curled up like hibernating snakes. All had eventually fallen short of their mark. I was the mark. My waist had spread like oleo. What a waste was my waist.

An old jewel case displayed 51 pairs of cufflinks. I had been a slave to fashion even though my wrists fought for air while torturously imprisoned in those barbaric vises.

Neglected ties hung disconsolately on an old tie rack. There were slim ties, and wide ties, and in-between ties. Silk ones touched shoulders with wool, cotton, and nylon varieties. Over the years I had religiously gone from wide to narrow, to medium, to wide and then back again. I go tieless now---haven’t worn the buggers for years. My open shirt loves me.

Another drawer exposed a half-dozen soft leather eyeglass cases encasing nothing but memories of glasses worn and discarded for one reason or another. The piece de resistance was two hard eyeglass cases. I pried them open and discovered wire framed ‘spectacles’ surrounding lenses just big enough to cover my eyes some forty years ago. Museum pieces I had actually worn unselfconsciously. The cases shut with a snapping sound, bidding goodbye to a less complicated drug-free era.

The facial tissue manufacturers did a good job of knocking the handkerchief industry out of contention. I could not bear to dispense with them. They were just too noseworthy. I keep them in a plastic bag to maintain their whiteness and freshness. I know it’s more hygienic to use a tissue but my nose longs for the soft, chemical-free feel of fresh cotton. Perhaps I’ll buck the trend and give my old nose a treat from time to time.

In the old days, not too long before my time, a woman dropped her handkerchief accidentally on purpose, just as an attractive suitor came into view. Romance would blossom and maybe bloom. Can you picture any modern man making a romantic issue over a tissue?

Lying quietly and unobtrusively in my ‘war memento’ drawer, untouched for forty one years, were my war ribbons, a black beret my wife had finally gotten me to stop wearing six months after I’d left the service, a heavy brass ashtray that looked as if it had been around for two or three centuries, and a German bayonet nesting comfortably in a long black scabbard.

My wife, looking over my shoulder, repeated a litany, oft-repeated: “ Other men in the service brought home diamonds, and assorted souvenirs worth thousands, and you brought home junk, junk.”

“I brought myself home in one piece. In me, my dear, you have a priceless diamond. Cut me the wrong way and I shatter.” I replied cleverly as I walked out of the bedroom and into our walk-in-closet.

Hanging ever so neatly in its plastic jacket was a formal suit I had made-to-measure years ago. I remember my 'one and only' saying, “Go get yourself a formal, it will save on suits and you’ll be able to wear it to all the formal affairs. It’s the practical thing to do.” My wife makes a profession out of being practical.

To complement the suit I purchased a formal shirt bristling with stiffness at the collar, a collar stud that increased the agony, a black velvet bowtie, a pair of braces to keep me up, and a shiny black patent leather pair of shoes.

I wore the suit once. It took me forty five minutes to get into the rig. I stood straight jacketed in front of the mirror, a robot, an armored knight of yore.

Off we went to a wedding, my wife, my formal suit and I. My collar stud was soon actively trying to drill a hole just below my adam’s apple. My collar, unrelentingly stiff, began sandpapering the rest of my neck, and the anti-perspirant so trustingly applied, became less anti and more pro as the evening wore on and I wore out. My black patent leather shoes, sans built-in support, offered no sanctuary for my fallen arches, fallen from grace years before.

Hanging ever so neatly in its plastic suit jacket, my formal suit, after only one sortie, slumbers on along with shoes, studs, and stiff collars.

During my hunt I came across a double-decker wood pencil box, one I had used way back in 1930 while in my second year of school. This sturdily built ‘antique’ had weathered 56 years of comings and goings and looked as new as the first time I saw it. Products were made to last in those days. Pride came first, profits were secondary. Still intact were three pencils, two crayons, an eraser, a pencil-sharpener and an undelivered letter to Sarah Rubenstein. It read, “Dear Sarah I love you do you love me I will let you have this pencil box if you say yes.” I was chicken back then but I sure knew how to spell.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

The Watergate condominium complex, housing some two thousand souls, boasted four outdoor swimming pools. The largest had been set aside for a July 4th celebrations.
Marcia and I discussed the pros and cons of attending. We began with the cons.

“It will be mobbed,” I started.
“And noisy,” Marcia added
“And BBQ smoky,” I emphasized
“And babies will be crying,” Marcia cried
“And the music will be awful,” I said with conviction
“And the activities childish,” Marcia pouted
“0kay that’s it. Can you speak for the pro side?”
“There’s no pro side,” Marcia said
“Right, let’s relax and have a nice, quiet, lazy day.”

We were busy relaxing and having a nice, quiet day when the door buzzer sounded.
“Who can that be,” our eyes said, as we reluctantly disengaged.
It turned out to be some very distant friends who were unfortunately not distant anymore. Distant friends should call from a distance before dropping by. We can then say, “Sorry, we were just going out.”

We quickly reversed our earlier decision. “We were thinking of attending the 4th of July celebrations at poolside, come join us, we added slyly.” We reasoned conversation would be impossible down at poolside, a tremendous plus when dealing with bores.
We could always try to deal them to others by some fast diplomatic shuffling. “We would like you to meet … “

Every sun deck chair was taken in the cemented area surrounding the el shaped pool. The sloped, grassed area circling the cemented portion was no less busy. Bodies lay stacked like so much cordwood.
We picked our way carefully through the human debris and were finally able to stake out twelve square inches of ‘Coney Island’ real estate.

We looked around and immediately began to feel our age. There were some fifteen hundred souls, ranging in age from the sublime to the ridiculous. There was a preponderance of the ‘sublimes’, those ranging in age from twenty to forty.

I tested the airwaves. “Makes me feel kind of old,” I shouted as loudly as I could. Success-- There was no reply. We could be spared further conversation. The modern band blasted away, combined with babies crying, people trying to make conversation and the exuberant shouts of the water volleyball participants, all music to my ears. I could retreat into my shell like a snail. Marcia was already in hers. From time to time we emerged, smiled socially and retreated, secure in the knowledge we could do no better hosting under the circumstances.

We silently watched a variety of water races.
Some were under water, some were over water. Others involved paddling madly while seated on a rubber tire. For additional variety they had the boys and gals encase the lower part of their bodies in plastic bags and swim like mermaids across the pool. Prizes were awarded for the best, for the worst and for the funniest divers. Oh, the boundless energy of youth.

There were hundreds of colorful balloons hanging from wires suspended on posts. More colorful were the skimpy G String bathing suits pasted on bodies that were anorexic for the most part. Other paraders had too much territory to cover but insisted on using the minimum to cover the maximum. Where were the happy mediums?

Some forty water-logged players were still swiping at a water-logged ball. Their awkward antics accompanied by squeals, whoops, and terrific applause when a point was scored.

Young people firmly believe they will live forever and a day, surgeon general be damned. The younger element were lighting up all around us, we mature citizens, aware of our mortality, stopped breathing. More smoke was coming from the BQ units furiously turning out dogs, burgers and chicken for the flesh eaters – there were very few vegetarians in the eighties. I must confess that we ate everything in sight when we were young, and smoked like chimneys as well. Now we can adopt a holier than thou attitude.

The band was still hep, hip, hopping and decibel taunting. The young folk, already half deaf from previous musical outpourings, did not seem to mind at all. They clapped, they hummed, and gyrated in time to the music. Oh, to be young again.

Hours passed. The sun continued to bear down relentlessly and the music continued to drive us up a wall. Every baby, and there were lots of them, continued to bawl, children yelled, the gamesters continued to cheer, smokers coughed, and our ‘distant’ friends seemed content to spend the entire day with us. I was desperate and out of this desperation, an idea was born. I leaned over, put my mouth against ----the male ear or our friends from another time another place and shouted, “Gotta go up and check for possible calls. Be right back.”
I came racing down “Daughter’s sick,” I said with all the emotion I could muster, “We’ll just have to call it a day.”

“Marcia,” I said as we lay recuperating in our king sized bed, one of our favorite hangouts, “I’m looking forward to the 5th of July.”
“Why darling,” she asked, stretching luxuriously.
“So I could put the 4th behind us forever and ever, “ I said, nibling her ear playfully.

YOSEMITE

At 5 a.m. I rose to meet the challenge of the day, an hour before I usually do. I woke Marcia my wife and visiting sister-in-law Florence, and precisely 6;20 a.m. we were off, picnic box loaded with sandwiches, fruits and vegetables. We would not go hungry on our trip to Yosemite, some 185 car miles southeast of us. We found the scenery and the road conditions as diverse as our finger prints.

The first section of road wound up, down, and around for some twenty miles, but did this ever so gently. Large bouquets of colorful flowers lined both sides of the road, a testimony to man’s artistic bent.

This passing parade was followed by some industry, sparse enough to be rather apologetic. Grazing cows and horses seemed out of place in this setting but we didn’t seem to mind.

When nearing Livermore, home of one of America’s 193 nuclear power plants, we began to literally see thousands of what looked like scaled down windmills lining both sides of the road.

Not all of those futuristic looking devices were obedient to the will of the wind and remained stubbornly still. Cows grazed nearby, uncaring, unknowing -- a sharp rural contrast to man’s suicidal drive to extinction. The actual plants remained hidden from highway view. We soon left Livermore and thoughts of nuclear waste and destruction behind.

The fruit belt was upon us. Row after row of green grape vines stood at attention. I didn’t bother saluting. Thousands of peach trees had given birth to the ‘fruit of their labor’ and stood mutely waiting for their next cycle. Ears of corn stretched for miles and our mouths watered as we pictured them on a plate, buttered, golden, and delicious. Then it was walnut time. Walnut trees as far as the eyes could see, gave us the eye. Signs read, “Walnuts, 59 cents a lb. We were going to stop but the car kept going. We agreed that we would stop on our way back.

We had been busy breathing ohs and ahs as our eyes were pleasured again and again, but our ohs and ahs turned to oohs, and oh my gawds as we entered tree country.

Giant cedars clung tenaciously to the sides of mountains. Dogwood, oak and eucalyptus varieties vied for attention. They climbed up hills and roamed the valleys. They crowded and jostled one another rudely for space. All were magnificent, stately and their green color drew us in, and captured us.

The road began playing snakes and ladders – twisting, turning, dipping, rising and the oohs became louder, particularly when we drove into a mountain wonderland – hills massive, voluptuous, sensually rolling – mountains so obviously feminine in shape and design. Was nature playing favorites when it so carefully carved these masterpieces?

The hills eventually gave way to towering rock and granite formations lining north and south sections of the road. We drove entombed, speechless with wonder, our eyes and mouths agape as we again witnessed more of nature’s wizardry. There we were – smack in the middle of the stone age. A work of art that probably took millions of years to complete. Nature bides its time – it cannot be hurried. No seven day creation this.

We finally arrived atYosemite Park, paid our entry fee and were informed that we had some 25 additional miles to go before seeing our lodge. We were now eager beaver.

The road began to go a little crazy. It dipsied, it doodled, it dropped, it rose and fell, it curved, and it did it’s best to unnerve us but failed. Eager beavers do not become unnerved easily On we went, as our eyes opened even wider as nature’s offerings were served up to us on golden platters.

We passed trees that were parents and grandparents during Mexico’s reign in California -- Trees that were hosts to Indian tribes, ever careful to preserve nature. These huge plants did not subscribe to weight-watcher groups. Their girths displayed extraordinary proportions.

The piece de resistance was yet to come and when it did, we were simply not prepared for it. There they were -- an awe inspiring challenge to rock and mountain climbers the world around …. Granite mountains that rose to the skies – mountains that offered no sanctuary for climbers, no ledges, or hope of being really conquered. Here were creations immortalized by Ansel Adams, a famed photographer. The famous ‘El Capitan’ rose precipitiously some 2500 feet from the valley floor. Still other peaks claimed our attention. Waterfalls, some 7 in number, cascaded tons of angry, foaming water for distances ranging from 2000 to 2500 feet: All of it ending up in a swirling, headlong, rushing, furious whitewater stream.

Visitors from all over the world come to see nature’s gifts and were raring to go, to do, to experience nature.

Our two day stay was crammed with activity. We got to the base of Yosemite Falls and sat bug-eyed, our ears filled with the awesome roar, our bodies showered by America’s highest waterfall.

We climbed up ever ascending trails rimmed by thousands of stone boulders – some the size of buildings. Marcia and I walked ahead, our voices singing the praises of the miracles wrought by the massive movement of glaciers over millions, maybe billions of years. Florence took up the rear, her Cuban or low heeled shoes not adapting too well to the sandy surfaces of the winding trail. Not a bit deterred, she doggedly marched forward, lost in silent, reverential awe.

We took a scenic tour of the valley on an open, tram-like affair pulled by an ordinary truck cab. Our guide sat facing us on a raised chair and went into the history of the park, explaining how the Indians were eventually thrown off their land by the greedy gold miners, backed by the United State Militia. Acquisition took precedence over the indigenous people.

During this same tour we saw some four or five climbers half way on one of the sheer cliffs. They looked like so many little dots. One of the climbers was flashing a mirror, and our guide told us that this was probably a distress signal. She turned out to be right. Two of the climbers had fallen and a rescue team in a helicopter arrived in minutes. Unfortunately, one of the climbers never regained consciousness we later learned.

Exotic birds, tame as pets, were everywhere. The Stellar Jay, a blue beauty, predominated. We were told that bears, fox, and all manner of wild animals could be seen at any time on anyone of the many trails. We were cautioned against feeding them, and by no means were we to get in between cubs and mothers., but simply view them quietly and then go on our way. We saw no animals during our stay other than a few squirrels and a couple of deer quietly grazing some ten feet from where we were. “Oh deer.” We said.

The majesty of the mountains followed us everywhere we went in the park. Here we were, in a sort of hollow, a valley actually, and to be surrounded by the incredible granite mountains was an ever ending treat.

Thousands of vacationers took to the streams in boats and rafts. Others cycled, rode horses, mules or ponies. We abstained, the women were chicken. Back packers did their shtick over dozens of never ending trails. Souvenir hunters jammed the stores, restaurants were mobbed as appetites were heightened. Free shuttle busses were busy shuttling people back and forth. Tours of every description were offered and signed for. We found that we could move comfortably around despite the crowds of people. The park was big enough to swallow us all.

We remain branded with Yosemite and all of its glorious and natural delights. Try it, don’t buy it.

WEIGHT CONTROL SURVEY

Dr. l. Power writes a “Keeping Fit” column. In one of his recent
Columns, he says, “For every $1000. above the husband’s average income, the thinner is his wife,” How does one go about securing information of that sort? Surveys of course. America is the land of polls and surveys. When they are published, we all rush to conform to the norm.

In this instance, a survey of 5000 couples did the trick. Income was tabulated from employment records and fat was measured by skin fold thickness. For every $1000. above average the income, there was one millimeter less than average fat on the arms of the wife.

What is the national average fat on the married female arm? A prior survey determined that. Five thousand married female volunteers, from every state in the union, willingly lined up, arm sleeves rolled up, and waited patiently for their skin fold fat to be callipered.

Nobody wants to be out of step with a survey, especially a national one, right? Nevertheless, it can’t be easy for the ladies to
keep matching their fat content to the raises or decreases in their husband’s income. Let’s take some hypothetical cases: Mrs. A is hoping against hope that her husband’s average income rises $3000 above the national average. “I simply have to lose three millimeters of arm fat this year, “ she says, pouting into the mirror.

She is in a dilemma because her husband manages to slide below the average income after a six-month period.
Should she gain the necessary weight needed to match the decline, or wait for year-end results? She opts for the latter and by dint of daily heckling, urging and threats, gets her husband to reverse the downward trend and reach the goal she has set for him. She embraces her husband and promptly sheds three millimeters of skin fold fat.

Her neighbor, Mrs. B. is not so fortunate. She is sitting with two millimeters of above average fat. Her husband had the temerity to slip from $4000. Above average to $2000 below, forcing her to deal with a six-millimeter turn around.. A dramatic change and one giving her sufficient grounds for divorce. “ Education seems to play a role in fat control as well, “Mr. Power goes on to say.

Let’s examine this scenario. Mrs. C. just manages to scrape through kindergarden and is now the ‘Fat Lady’ feature at the circus. The question I would like to ask is this – if she marries a very wealthy man, would her weight go down proportionately, despite her lack of education?

Dr. Powers is not through. “In men, the same studies reveal the opposite trend. The least educated males tended to be the leanest and the more educated, the heaviest. But there were more exceptions to this tendency among men than among women. Mr. X. was one of the exceptions. He was the least educated man in North America but conversely was fatter than a Sumai wrestler. However, when he became the head of a giant corporation, he became as thin as a weed. To confuse this issue still further, Powers has still more to say “The poor are getting fatter while the affluent are getting thinner.”

An earlier quote had the less educated thinner and the more educated, fatter. If we are to concede that advanced education has a direct bearing on earnings, we admit to being totally; confused – as confused as Dr. Powers seems to be.

The survey does not explain what happens to married women who earn more than their spouses, or more money than the national average, or more money collectively with their husbands, than the national average.

The survey does not take into account; Widows, single women, lesbians, homosexuals, or female aerobic instructors. Not accounted for, are athletes, the aged (are we to believe that education and income will determine our weight regardless of age?) Are all of these people to remain in limbo while waiting for another survey?

General conclusions? Do not be influenced by surveys or the ten dressed men and women list. Be abnormal like me.

OH THE COUNTRY

I am in the country, the real country, housing all manner of farm animals and every flying insect known to man.

In my mind’s eye I can see the grass growing, the breezes blowing, the trees stretching their limbs. I look up and see clouds spreading lazily among blue skies. I yawn contentedly. It is 6 a.m .

The birds have been singing for some time and the roosters have stopped crowing. I breathe deeply and stretch.

In a large evening enclosure, Satire and son Freedom have spotted me and their tales are moving fast enough to generate electricity. These giant canines of unknown origin, are now standing on their massive hind legs with forepaws resting impatiently against the upper portions of the wire fence. They are sending urgent messages that say, feed me, stroke me, walk and gallop with me.

Who can resist these gentle mammoths? I follow each command to the letter.

The air is fresh and redolent with mixtures of grass, trees, plants, sun, flowers and dog odors. I fill my lungs greedily.
And yes there is also a hint of manure and hay and a mixture of good old country smells. I savor all, saving it, treasuring it, my lay away plan.

It is time for a country road walk. I am joined by my friends, Satire and Freedom, both find various areas that need exploring. They ignore barking dogs, stop to gaze at sheep and roosters, while I concentrate on horses and cows. I know there are some porkers around but no oinking is heard. Too busy swilling and swallowing?

A stillness settles down, one can almost hear the quiet.
At this moment all is right with the world. It is time for breakfast.

WHAT'S IN A NAME ?

As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.

I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.

A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.

Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.

“Who did she play?” He was relentless.

“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.

Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.

“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”

My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”

He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.

SNAILS DON'T LIKE ESCARGOT

They’re back. The snails are back. I was taking my regular early morning walk on the boardwalk overlooking the S.F. bay, and there it was, a lowly member of the mollusk family gliding along at a snail’s pace, body contracting as it moved forward on a base of mucus, it’s two pair of antennae constantly alert and probing.
I had missed them. One day, some 5 or 6 months ago, they had just up and vanished. Where had they gone to? Hibernating under some rocks? Bedded down in some musty, dark cavern in a state of aestivation? Had they come out early because the sun had replaced the torrential rains? Here were questions that needed some answers. “Later”, I said, addressing the snail scout. “I imagine the rest of your crew will be out this afternoon or tomorrow morning” , I added, looking directly at the questioning antennae. There was no answer; Snails go into their shells to escape replying.

I’m a trivia freak. Here was a snail on a boardwalk six feet wide. How long I wondered, would it take the little bugger to cross it? I trembled with pioneering excitement as I gingerly picked it up, set my watch, and deposited the thing on the starting line and said “go”. The creature was off and running at a blistering pace, for snails. I kept straightening it out in that it had a tendency to wander off the beaten track. Some twelve minutes later the hard working snail crossed the finishing line. It had traveled at the rate of … at the rate of … you figure it out. There wasn’t a drop of perspiration on my lowly athelete.

Actually I could refer to “It” as “They”. That snail may have been an hemaphrodite bearing organs of both sexes. The perfect answer to marriage. Is that why snails have such a low divorce rate?

My trivia instincts were now fully aroused. Later that day I went down to the Berkeley library. There were over a dozen volumes on crustaceans. Big fat ones they were. Grown men and women had spent the better part of their lives, relentlessly, tirelessly studying every aspect of the lives and loves of this large phylum of animals, known as mollusks. I selected Grzimek’s “Mollusks and Echinoderms,” volume three. I sat down to have a good read.

I was happy to learn that the ancestor of the mollusk was probably a platyhelminthiclike creature. After pausing for breath, I looked up Webster and discovered the word meant: Much flattened worms, very much like planarians, flukes or tapeworms. Still want to dine on escargot? I read that the family is a rather large one and included seashells from ocean’s shores, snails from our gardens and local ponds, as well as clams, scallops, and squid (ugh) to name a few. Fascinating stuff, eh what? Now you can sleep.

Grzimek (You need not try to pronounce the name) explained that the family of mollusks could be found in the deepest part of the ocean under immense pressure, in all bodies of fresh water including artic pools, thermal springs, and from tropical swamps. Still others luxuriated as parasites on and within other invertebrate animals.

Know that land snails can survive years of desert heat in a state of torpor (My preferred state). Want more? Listen to this. Many solengasters, snails and adult clams, barely exceed a length of one or two mm. Were you aware that mollusks are greatly diverse in structure and are represented by many curious forms, from the highly active squids to the slow and sluggish snails, from the giant tridacna calms to the minute woodland snails living in the highest mountains? You don’t care? Shame on you.
There were lots more data on the creatures --- some 1500 pages worth, but not one item on the rate of speed of the lowly snail, or on where our local Bay area snails wander off to for a good part of the year.

The next morning I went down to the boardwalk bordering the Bay. I had a job to do. Overnight a small regiment of our local snails had come out to promenade, to luxuriate, to fraternize or
Simply to get a tan. All unaware of the imminent danger they were in. Joggers would soon be out and our lowly, slow moving friends would be pulverized in short order. With tender, loving care I picked them up, one at a time, an placed them out of harm’s way. Boy scouts could not have done a better job.

A note to escargot eaters. If you omit the buttered garlic sauce accompanying this questionable delicacy, you are left with a tasteless relative of the worm family. BON APPETIT!

THE BOAT PEOPLE

Take the wheel, nothing to it, almost like driving a car.
That’s what the skipper of the 32-foot sailboat told me in the middle of the Bay harbor.
I took the wheel. It was not like driving a car. It was more like driving a bronco.
Water does not behave like paved cement, particularly in winds up to 20 miles per hour.

The wind conspired with the water to toss our craft this way and that way. No matter how the boat pitched, yawed and rolled. I was in command every moment. I was ten feet tall, the captain of the open sea.

I was enjoying my role, particularly since I had both the skip and Slim , his one-man crew, close at hand. Four extra eyes and years of experience at my side were most reassuring.
Their voices were calm, knowing, instructive: “A little to port – that’s right -- back to starboard – right, no sweat, just imagine you’re driving a car.”

The wheel continued to fight me, the winds tore at me, the spray sprayed me, but I plowed on serenely, fearlessly. That is, until the skip and Slim started for the bow, stopping only long enough to say, “Nothing to it, just hold ‘er steady, gotta attend to the sails, be back in a couple of shakes.”


I was alone. All alone with a bucking beast. No soft, instructive words to guide me. My bravado rapidly left me. It took all of a second before the naval hero, Captain of the seas, became a quivering mass of jelly.
Spray had clouded the windshield, making visibility almost non-existent. I also began to realize that I had not the foggiest notion of distances on water or who had the right of way on the ‘open’ sea.

My hands began to sweat, my throat constricted, and inside my body I could hear a sledgehammer pounding away. I heard a strange voice shouting hoarsely, “Hurry up, hurry up, can’t see a damn thing out there.” It was my voice. Their voices came back calmly, “You’re doing fine, just keep it up,” and with that said, they kept on fooling with jib and mainsail. These guys are trying to commit suicide and I’m the fall guy, I thought .

By sheer willpower I managed to control the boat and myself. I expertly missed one boat by inches and was preparing to explore the insides of another, when my “crew” came galloping back on the double. “Nothing to it,” I said happily through the wind as I gratefully gave up command of the ship.

We were on the water close to six hours. During most of those hours we were busy avoiding other boats and getting thoroughly soaked.
I learned a few things. I learned that a boat is definitely not a car. That surplus wind in the sails on a windy day was a no-no and that reefing is done to spill wind out of the sails. I further learned that there is no left, right, front or back the moment you step into a boat. I learned to replace these with, starboard – port – bow – and stern. Sailor types speak a strange language. I call it ‘sailese’. It is full of words like wind, tack, winch, rudder, tiller, jib, mainsail, and reefing, to mention just a few. Wind is a favorite word however. The wind is up, the wind is down, too much wind, the wind is coming in from the south, north, east or west, so on and on. Sailors instinctively know that we came out of the sea originally and they want to go back again and again and yet again. The deficit, war or peace, spouses and all manner of things, play second fiddle to the sea.

I staggered into my car and drove away. There was nothing to it. As a matter of fact, it was just like driving a car. Anchors away, I shouted as I sailed away through the wind like a breeze.

OH THE ENGLISH

Max was a mouse
Maxine was a mouse
They lived in a house
When together, we call them mice
Isn’t that nice?

Let us sum up for clarity.
One mouse and one mouse equal two mice.
One louse and one louse equal two lice.
One house and one house equals two hice.
Wrong? How come? What gives?
Is this not English hilarity?
Why in heaven this disparity?

If tongue is spelled right
Shouldn’t lung be spelled longue?
Tongue and lung are pronounced the same.
Which is right and which is wrong?

If wrong is spelled right
Can I write w-r-I-t-e and be right?
Or is it wrong to be right?
Come on, just get out of sight.

But we must go on.

One cow and one cow equal two cows
One sow and one sow equals two sows
One bull and one bull equal two bulls
So one sheep and one sheep equals two sheeps
Right? Wrong. Wrong?
No matter how many sheep you own, they remain stubbornly, sheep.

If one foot becomes two feet
One boot becomes two beet
No? No? How come?
Ain’t English dumb?

Did you know that knew and gnu is not really new or that pneumonia, gnaw, and gnome can forever roam without an ‘en’ in sight to make it right?

Can anybody, just anybody, volunteer why ‘Gh’ can both start a word and end a word. Isn’t that a little frisky? Samples?
Ghost and ghoul are there to haunt us and dough and laugh is there to daunt us.
I can see why so many cannot spell, oh what the hell!

Why does ‘g’ sound like ‘j’ sometimes and ‘j’ insists on being ‘j’ until junta pops up and sounds like ‘hunta’

Wrap your tongue around the following
and do some English swallowing.

Judge, jerk, jam and jet, followed by
Ginger, germ , and gypsy, got the picture?
Pay some heed, don’t be a fixture.
Now the letter gee, golly me, starts to sound more intimate, kind of more legitimate. The real gee like in gastronomic and garrison and garlic and gosh and ghost have come to the fore. Now maybe we can all go home. Wait, one or two more?

Why is jojoba pronounced, hoohoba?
Tsetse is a fly, a tsunami is a wave, but they won’t start off the same, that’s a shame.

Look, I didn’t invent the language that fill so many with anguish. Bye for now or is it buy for now?

MR.FIX-IT

Actually, I’m not Mr.Fix-It. I would like to be. The cruel reality is that I can fix practically nothing.

Oh, I can do a couple of things I suppose. I can splice wire. I carefully separate the strands. I really don’t know why I do this but I do it anyway. Why is it, after being so careful, the darn thing the wire is attached to, invariably blows when I plug it in?

I can do other things equally as well. I change light fixtures. I get up there and look closely at those fierce looking wires protruding from the ceiling. I just know they are not to be trifled with. One false move and who knows what could happen. I’m no dummy, I wear insulated gloves. I know it’s a little difficult working up there with padded fingers, but I still remember the socket episode.

It’s a little embarrassing. Some might even go so far as to call it dumb. I thought it a good idea to see if the light was really on. Can’t be too careful you know. I remember taking off my glove and putting my finger in the socket. It was on.

I did lay floor tile once. Yes, I laid tile in our basement laundry room.
Each tile was 12 square inches. The room was four feet wide by five feet long I think. I studied this situation for some time. It was exhausting work. I stopped for a beer while watching one of my favorite T.V. programs. I decided I’d call it a day and retired for the night. The next day I began to lay down tile one after another. This is real easy I said to myself and went on merrily, singing in my deep bass voice until I realized that the tiles moved on their own. This required more study. It finally dawned on me that floor tiles need anchoring, some kind of glue to keep them in place. I spent seven days on that job and ended with just a small area uncovered. No sweat, I filled the gaps with wood fill. My wife never even thanked me.

Back in the good old days I remember buying a cordless T.V. remote control converter. I couldn’t wait to get home. Here was something right up my alley. No wires to connect, I was home free, I thought. I would just press the off-on switch to ‘on’ and presto. Three hours later, awash with perspiration, I was still manfully struggling to follow instructions seemingly written in a foreign language masquerading as English. I finally called a T.V. repairman. He did the job in fifteen seconds and could have done it sooner had he not been laughing so hard.

Sewing machines scare me. I see that needle going up and down at a hundred miles a minute and picture my fingers being sewn together. Girls of eight have no difficulty operating these beasts. I read parts of the manual that came with the unit: “Detach the presser foot, slide out the slide plate screw out of the stitch plate, tilt the machine head backwards and proceed to clean the oscillating hook and dog assemblies ….” I was lost. Who were they kidding? Only women and mechanics understood that jargon.

I envy the people who know what they are looking at when they lift the hood of their cars. I don’t. Plumbers, electricians and mechanics can tell me anything they want and I’ll believe them. “Five hundred and fifty-two dollars you say, right I say.” I may go pale. My knees might buckle a little, but I don’t hesitate. I whip out my checkbook and pay up.

I’m just not good with things. Take my bookcase for example. I first saw it assembled in the furniture store, all sixty inches of it. “I’ll take it as is,” I told the clerk. “That’s not possible,” he said. “It’s a floor model,” he said by explanation. “I don’t care if it’s a floor model, “ I stated firmly. I was adamant. He was more adamant than I was. I brought it home in three, unassembled boxes tied to the roof of my car. I had those shelves up in three hours flat. I’m no male chauvinist. I let my wife believe she showed me how to assemble the darn thing.

Did you ever look at the controls of a modern washing machine? Personally I believe one needs an engineering degree to operate one. My wife is not an engineer or a mechanic. Despite these shortcomings, she has no trouble with it. How does she do it?

I bought a tricycle for my grandson the other day. It came in ninety-two pieces of course. I offered the salesclerk ten percent above the selling price if I could take the finished product right off the floor, but he would not budge.

I laid all the pieces on the floor and sat down to have a beer while contemplating how I was going to attack the problem. While thus occupied, my daughters arrived. Not one to stymie creative growth, I let them have their fun. “No sweat”, they said in unison as they miraculously put it together.

By the way, does anyone out there know how to operate a ‘State of the art’ electric typewriter that does everything but walk? I just happen to have the instructions here beside me.

ALL ABOUT WINE

People who profess to know wine, like to wax poetic when describing the beverage. They eulogize, they elevate, they simper in their attempts to turn the liquid of crushed grapes into holy water.

The wineries, through their paid and unpaid spokesmen, would have us believe that wine drinking is sacred and should partner a dinner without fail. We are told that wine is there to give solace or conversely to celebrate an event. These wine propagandists remind that wine has been predominant during holidays and rituals for thousands of years.

We have been ‘grape washed’ into believing that wine and romance go together, that wines are fun, are trendy, and can even be beneficial to our health. Drink wine when dining they preach.

Wine snobs and wine writers have developed a peculiar language, one designed to enhance the brew to life-like levels. Apparently wines have noses. These noses can be dull, lingering, delicate, rich, intense, lasting, fragment, and the adjectives go on, and on, and on.

Some Noteworthy quotes follow;
The nose is full and lingering with a rounded feeling. Now try this:
The wine has perfect balance going in, with an intense nose, plenty of flavor, and an excellent finish. Cyrano, where art thou?
We are led to believe that wines excite the palate, no less. The palate pushers assure us that wine is: Inviting, lively, sprightly, rounded, mouth filling and delicate on the palate. Show your palates, everyone.

Now listen to this gem: “The true wine purist does more than swallow wine. When they taste wine, the taste mounts up in a cloud of fumes, curls over the palate, past the uvula, up through the nose, and finally lodges in the brain, where it lives forever as a memory.”
(I’ll have one of those.) Shouldn’t we all pause now in reverential awe?

Our wine linguists advise us that wines have FINISHES, that wines are stylish, honest, brash, forward, generous, and mysterious. A would-be-expert rhapsodizes; “It’s an honest wine, the flavors holding well and yet are somehow mysterious. This wine has a praiseworthy finish.” Honest? Mysterious? Praiseworthy finish? Hallelujah!

Winos bring wine recognition down to earth. They contend that any wine in a brown paper bag will more than suffice.

The wine snob believes that wine is the nectar of the gods and believes he is the reigning god. Most of you have seen this worthy in action. He is deliberate, intimate, and knowing discussions with the wine steward follow. It is a ceremony, a religious rite. Our wine veteran goes into his act. A delicate sniff, a whirl of the glass, a minute quantity of wine allowed to linger knowingly on the palate, followed by an educated not of approval.

I personally order a carafe of the house wine. I smack my lips, I roll my eyes, and rapturously explain to nobody in particular, “I find this wine has a lingering full nose, a wine that is intense, yet perfectly balanced --- and the finish, oh how the finish sings, sings, sings!
CHEERS EVERYONE!!!!

JUST WORDS

“He’s got great buns,” modern women are wont to say. I say, if the gals want to describe our rear ends, let them be less euphemistic. They may just come out and say, “He’s got some ass.” Put the buns back where they belong ladies, in the bakery or the kitchen.

Another word that bothers me is,”Hunk” particularly when it is applied to some other male. Honk if you see a hunk?
“He is some hunk,” one girl will say to another as they watch a well built young man go parading down the street. There are dozens of adjectives that can be used to describeme or any other handsome man. We are not hunks of meat.

I don’t like women referred to as broads or dames. There were men who grew to adulthood before realizing that women are ‘Ladies’ and not a foreign word. These guys even double dip by saying, “That broad is some dame,” while foaming at the mouth.

There is a time and a place for certain words. The place is bed and the time is anytime you have your sweetie close to you. Feel free to come out with all the four letter words you want.

When I was in the army a century ago, the prime word was “fuck”.
It was almost like a contest, an ongoing one to see who could insert the word most often in a given sentence. I could never win against the shitfaces who used the word as a noun, an adjective, and an adverb.

“Fart,” I’ve said it and I am deeply ashamed. One simply does not fart, ever. One passes wind, one breaks wind and runs like the wind to avoid embarrassment. One can flatulate simultaneously with another consenting adult for competitive purposes or scientific research. Farting may lead to parting and even divorce. Be brave and repeat after me, “Beans, beans, are good for the heart, the more you eat the more you want to eat.” Got you, it is not necessary to end it with a you know what.

An absolute no-no is: He/she sucks. I can’t see the validity of this expression, made possible in the sixties. It’s empty, it’s vapid, and mindless. In other words, it sucks.

“Tits,” have been around a long time, too long I say, as a word replacing breasts. You cannot replace breasts, they have been around a very long time. Breasts are appropriate, so are mammaries, globes, teats and possibly udders. Now you tit men out there, be kind, be gentle, use your imagination as well as your hands.

I can’t stand the phrase, “He’s well hung,” Women and some men in certain instances, use this expression too frequently. We are not slabs of meat or ballet dancers wearing jock straps cunningly contrived to push every damn thing ever north. I say gentlemen, conceal your jewels until the very moment, then flash suddeny and listen to them say, “Gosh, are you ever well hung.” I have to close my ears before the fairer sex say what I know they are going to say next.

Can we forego “Go.” I go, she goes, they go. Can we more adequately day, “I said, she said, and they said, Please.

Let’s cut out ,”Fanny,” and stop making asses of ourselves.

Use our mother tongue reverently or for other more important tasks.

E.R.A. A NEW ERA

The other day I made the mistake of opening a store door for a young lady. “I am quite capable of opening my own door,” she said, giving me a withering look. I apologized, and slunk away, my tail between my legs.

Last week at a party, a woman challenged me to an arm wrestling match. Something told me to resist the temptation. I mean a woman does not challenge a guy with bulging biceps like mine unless she is into body building “I’ll pass,” I said with a nervous laugh.

“Chicken,” she said derisively.

“You’re on,” I said, rolling up my sleeve.

I was down in less than 10 seconds. What could I do? I congratulated her, a weak smile on my face. Was she originally a man --- a her who had been a he in this life or some other one?

The morning after my ignoble defeat, I was traveling down 80 west, singing in my bass baritone voice, while making sure I was not moving faster than sixty or sixty-five.
Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a train whistle, directly behind me. I almost hit the roof. A van trailer, a mile long, pulled abreast. Behind the wheel sat this teeny girl weighing maybe ninety pounds. She gave me the finger and was gone in a flash.

“My gawd! I said out loud, “they’re taking over.”
That very night I got into bed with a good book and my good wife. I was enjoying the book immensely, when I heard my wife say, “Put the book down.”

“In a moment,” I said, thinking she wanted to have me close the light.

“Put the book away,” she repeated softly. Her voice carried an unmistakable suggestion this time.

I am always open to suggestion. The thing is, the last time my wife indicated proceedings was just after the repeal of prohibition.

I put the book down. “My god,” I said, “It’s a revolution.”

At two a.m. the phone rang. I hopefully waited for my wife to answer. She did not budge. I crawled out of bed, my eyes still shut and groped for the phone.

“Hello,” I said crossly.

“Now, now, don’t be cross my great, big man,” the distinctly feminine voice crooned.

My mouth flew open. The voice continued to purr. “I would love to jump into your arms and caress you all over. And then I’d ……
I interrupted. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “Is nothing sacred?”

DOGGON IT

By the way, you may want to carefully want to observe dear ‘Fido’ during just one outing. Follow his nose; see it disappear again and again. The world is his bathroom and he rejoices in it.

Now bring him home. He is so friendly; he’ll lick everything in sight, including your baby, your teen-ager and the kitchen sink. It’s not healthy, honest. Ask your doctor. If you and your neighbor used simple hygiene the world would be a little bit cleaner and safer.

So, be a good citizen. Be a pet. Pick up where your dog leaves off.
If this does not grab you, the cops might. There are laws against poo-poo platters left around.

Let me preface this article by saying that I love all animals including dogs and human animals. Some of my best friends are really dogs.

I can no longer sit back and say nothing. I will not tolerate the ‘rank’ irresponsibility of dog owners who blithely walk away from deposits their pets leave on my lawn or on yours.

Lawns aren’t the only benefactors – public sidewalks roads and parks come in for their share of the loot. Taint fair. All this constitutes a pedestrian hazard, to say the least, and the bigger the dog, the bigger the hazard,

Let’s face it – lawns don’t like it, lawnmowers don’t like it, carpets don’t like it, and I don’t like it, particularly when my friends or relatives retreat as I draw near, after inadvertently ‘putting my foot in it’.

I’m not blaming our canine friends. They are without guilt for they do not know what they do. Instinct prevails and predominates. They are attracted to the odors and material other dogs leave behind. They sniff and nuzzle, tails wagging furiously at various spas throughout the course of their outing. At a precise spot, mysteriously chosen, they deign to do their thing. I believe the leg lifting or squatting program prior to the one spot holy enough to receive their ultimate gift, is simply and instinctive, territorial charting before the parting.

Unlike their masters, dogs at least try to cover up the scene of the crime. They work so hard at the task, hind legs going great guns some four feet away. It’s unfortunate that years of domestication have ruined their aim.

I owned a dog or two in my time. At every outing I would come prepared with part of yesterday’s newspaper. At the precise moment I was able to effectively save a lawn from insult by a simple deft movement. The lawn smiled up at me.

Those were the early days. Modern technology has made it easier to be a sanitary engineer. Simple picker upper devices exist to satisfy every need. There are short and there are long devices that simply pick up anything, including your pet’s leavings.

DICTIONARY FROLICS

In my younger days we would thumb through the dictionary with pudgy fingers, looking for naughty words to giggle over.

Words far more interesting and instructive were found at later dates in my development.

Modern dictionaries do more than give one the etymology, pronunciation, parts of speech and definition of words. They are busy doing a host of things related and unrelated to proper and common nouns and words.

The Explanatory chart will demonstrate minor and major stresses, sense dividers, sense numerals, sense letters, stylistic and subject labels, uppercase and lowercase, and continue to tear the words apart in torturous but meaningful ways. Ah me, all those stresses.

Synonyms and antonyms are thrown in from time to time, as an additional goodie when the lexicographers feel it may be of special interest.
Taxonomic entries of plants and animals are given . No, I am not going to define the word.

The English language and its history are found in the preface. Interesting things are said about the origin and world importance of the language. Aren’t you glad you learned the language?

A tabular history of the English language follows. Did you know there were extensive migrations of Indo-European speakers to India, Greece, and Western Europe in the year 3000 B.C. or so? You didn’t?
Go right out and get yourself a good dictionary.

Biographical names start at page 1407 of Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary and list 8 pages worth of towns, cities, states, countries, rivers and lakes. I discovered that (take a deep breath) Aquascalientes was a state in Central Mexico with an area covering 2499 square miles, an having a population of 334,936 souls, (since there are a lot of cold nights in that state) the population increased by 98,745 by the time January 2007 rolled around. I also discovered that San Francisco exists as well and is populated by 715, 674 souls of every description and stripe and visited by millions yearly to let their hair down. S.F. is a city and port in western California on San Francisco Bay and the good old Pacific.

Want more? Oh, you idiots. Zodiac names and signs are there for your astrological pleasure. If you look these up you can consider yourself to be double idiots. I lean towards astronomy. Chacun a son gout, (to each his own.)

Foreign words and phrases is a section devoid of one English word but you might find a few thrown in for good luck. Repeat after me --- Au pays des aveugles les borgnes sont Roi, (Get your collective tongues back in position.) Translation? In the country of the blind, the one-eyed men are kings. Clever, eh what?

Name, population, and location and founding date list colleges and universities in Canada and the United States. If you managed to get out of high school with a passing mark of sorts, you might just look into it.

Want to have your hand pinpointed as in Palmistry?
Want to know the parts of a horse? Webster reveals all for the curious.

Ready for metric? It’s there under weights and measures. Conversions galore. Can you imagine what this could do to the song industry? Try this. I’ll walk 1.609 kilometers for one of your smiles.
Most of the world has gone metric. It is the way to go but the good old US of A is content to stay put.

Want to know what a Paramecium looked like? You didn’t? Nevertheless, Webster thought it important to let you see it.

Have a hard time with plurals? No more. It’s all there. Want to fool your friends? Win a bet? Just drop the word ‘phenomenon’ and let it lay around a bit. Challenge them to give you the plural of the word and sit back and wait as they stumble and fumble with the answer. Then collect your bet and show them your smarts by spelling the plural by heart – ‘phenomena’. This might be the only plural with fewer letters than the singular version.

Want to bone up on punctuation, capitalization, forms of address and styles in business correspondence? All these and more await you and can be found in any half decent dictionary.

Proofread? Your dictionary will show you the marks proofreaders use to tear your literary masterpieces to shreds.

There is adventure therein. Seek and you shall find words like, ladida and octogenarian – Your humble author of this important work remains humble.

CONSTRUCTION BLUES

Did you ever live near or next to a high-rise construction site? If you did and were able to withstand the almost constant noise pollution without becoming deaf, or having a nervous breakdown, my hat is off to you. At this point my hat is on a hat rack, not on my head. My head, or what is left of it, is long gone. It was last seen floating in space, high above the clouds.

My apartment overlooks a brand new construction site. My spies tell me that it is going to be a high-rise parking emporium. Whoopee!
Beside the parking place to be, I overlook the iron girder skeleton stage of an office building to be. Up to three levels at this point.

What’s better than one construction site, why two construction sites sitting cozily side by side and vying with other for the decibel prize.
I’m writing this under battle conditions …. Right up in the front lines.
There is an awesome looking weapon that looks very much like a giant crane with prehistoric ancestry. The thing is doing its best to pile drive a long, reinforced, rectangular pillar some fifty to sixty feet into the ground, but who is counting.

Ordinary words like, horrendous, shattering, deafening, annoying, can be used to describe the noise this monster evokes. I am barely constrained from using words more satisfying. This battering ram makes contact with the poor, defenseless pillar some fifty times per minute. I counted. This goes on for ten minutes or five hundred poundings, whichever is first. A four-minute break follows.

This short break is not a silent one. Huge shovels are picking up earth, stones and assorted debris. Drills, large enough to have been used on dinosaurs, are happily drilling away. Jackhammers are tattooing their way into my head somewhere in space. Truck and tractor engines are revving it up. Anvils are anvilling, saws are sawing away, hammers are hammering, and my fist is pounding a hole in the desk. Is that what is meant by Dante’s Inferno?

Stopping my ears with cotton batting and earflaps, do not help. The combined noises come ripping through, laughing all the way. It’s a living presence out to get me. Unlike some ‘sidewalk superintendents’, I cannot just stop, look, and listen and then walk away. My home is more than my castle; it’s also my office. I am stuck – a prisoner.

I’ve been able to adjust my watch, very much like a railway buff does with train schedules. I know it is exactly eight A.M. when I hear the battering ram bellowing hello. I know when it’s noon. The blessed lunch hour has arrived and all is quiet on the western front. And I know when four P.M. rolls around because I can again hear my b rains thinking. The workday is over and I can start mine.

I should tape a thirty-minute segment of the racket. I could play it to guests who overstay their visits.

IT’S HIGH TIME

Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.

No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.

The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.

You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.

And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blonde gal that leaned over far enough to unable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.

Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be sumai wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straightjacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.

I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I manoeuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.

Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.

There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The sumai wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.

Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?

I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?

We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)

The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.

I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.

I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.

I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.

I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.

ALL ABOUT WAITING

It starts before you are born. You marinate nine months waiting to make your debut. A long succession of ‘waits’ follow.
You wait to begin crawling. When that is accomplished, you can’t wait to walk in order to stop doing a snake act on your belly.
You wait to begin talking. All this time you are saying words that nobody seems to understand. It’s very frustrating. You wait to grow teeth so you can get away from a restrictive liquid and pablum diet.

You wait for your first day in school. You hope it’s your last as mommy dries your tears. You wait for your first pair of long pants and presto – it finally comes and somehow arrives two inches too long. You’ve never been closer to heaven even though you trip over your long pants and have to wear a cast for six weeks. It’s a small price to pay for a brand new macho image.

You wait for your first date at five years old. She does not show up on account of German measles. You wait for her to get better.
You wait for your first drive out to the country. You know you are there because you see your first cow. It rains, you can’t wait to go home.

You wait to pass each class grade and manage it only by holding your breath long enough while looking at your classmate’s paper.
You wait for your teacher’s blouse to drop just a wee bit lower. It never does. You wait to grow up so you can ask her to marry you. She does not wait. You wait for your first meaningful affair. On consideration, you don’t care it is meaningful.


You can’t wait to shave. When the great day arrives, you get busy covering your face with every band-aid in the house.
You can’t wait to leave home and hearth and join the ranks of the free, only to discover that the price of freedom comes high. You can’t wait to move back home.

You can’t wait to join the army and soon become acquainted with the word queue. You form lines for chow, dress parades, route marches, quartermaster handouts, and the wet canteen. You can’t wait to wet your palate. You can’t wait to get into action. When the shells start poring in, you can’t wait to get out into civvy street.

You can’t wait to open up a bank account. You then wait to draw some money out so you can take your girl out to a fine restaurant. You wait thirty minutes before you are noticed and then wait 60 minutes to be served. You can’t wait to get home when you discover your bill to be heavier than your pocket book.

You wait for a job. You wait for advancement. You find that your junior has become your senior by simply marrying the president’s daughter. You can’t wait to tell the boss off. He can’t wait to fire you.

You can’t wait to marry, You wonder if you will ever work up enough nerve to pop that all-important question. Just before finally popping, your throat constricts and she poses the question instead. You nod your head. You wait to have children. You then try to out-wait your wife at three in the morning as lusty wails are heard.

You wait at red lights, at store checkouts, for busses, and you wait at gas pumps. You can’t wait to trade in your eight-year-old car.
You wait in movie, theatre and concert lines. You wait in bakery shops, hardware shops, and at prescription counters and in front of the only bathroom in your apartment.

You can’t wait for your children to grow up and marry. You’re tired of waiting in front of that one damn bathroom.

You finally mature. You stop waiting. You decide to take each day one at a time and treasure it.

So what are you waiting for? This article or what ever else you want to call it is finished.