And women.
The Northeastern parts of the USA were coated by icy crystals before whom "who can stand." Philly had about 1/3 of an inch of ice that followed a wet snow. Outside the crackling of the ice on the trees would all too often be followed by the crack of limbs. Large piece of the Willow Tree that has longed to eat up my office came thudding down, shaking the office even though it hadn't hit it. A Black Cherry from next door came through the wooden fence, destroying Schreber Gate.
Ah, Schreber Gate. We got SchreberDog when he was a pup and he grew into sizable proportions and a chronic xenophobia that showed itself in antagonism to any previously-unmet visitors. We learned that a loaf of bread -- cheap bread was OK ... Schreber wasn't a fussy eater -- fed one slice at a time from whatever taxi delivered this stranger to the front door and Schreber would remember them, thereafter. Schreber came 37 years ago, not long before we moved into our home and my office.
This is all Old Man Talking and besides the point. SchreberDog loved to run ... err ... gallop. And the way our yard was set up, it was best to trellis part ... ah ... but that was part of Schreber's Circuit and would intrude on his free circuitry. Youngish Man to the rescue. A swinging trellace that was open on the bottom! "And everything was easy cause of youth." .... Well, not everything.
In any case, Schreber Gate is no more ... lying dead under the Cherry Tree just like tears ago the first pre-Geodesic swing set that I and the guys built for the younger sister was smooshed by a Norway Maple that went the way of all things.
Circuits and Cycles ... Health and Illness ... Life and Death.
The ice, I lie to myself, woulda been easier without the first arrhythmia in a year that has lasted more than 36 hours .... that easier without the "Feel like a watermelon about to be bashed by Gallagher" head-cold .... all easier if the Cherry Tree had held on just a little loner and if the Gas Company -- come supposedly to repair the leak at the 30' from the office gas meter -- hadn't checked the leak at the House Heater's Gas Valve down the basement.
Gas-man: Sir, I gotta shut'er down, unless'n you get a CONtractor in here before we leave.
My religion in large centers on the precepts of (1) not gratuitously causing another human Agata for doing their job and (2) giving others the presumption of good intentions in deciding where their footfalls land.
Dear God, described by David in Psalms (and Psalm 147, in particular, God!), I bow to you in thanks for not making mine one of the 600,000 households without heat or electricity in the days just past Penn's Sylvania. Curious, isn't it, that 600,000 or so was the number that purportedly broke their chains of servitude to Pharaoh in Egypt, took off for parts unknown, leaving a seaful of Pharaoh's armies drowning in the Sea of Reeds.
Wishin' Y'coulda saved Schreber Gate but understandin' that you must be pretty busy, these days, Yourself.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Old Men Joking
En garde! Right Guard! Someone has questioned my humor, besides, that is, some people who claim a kinship relationship with me.
With kids, my humor is performance (I hesitate to call it) art. I am Melmo ... or "I, Melmo" ... if one listens to Masterpiece Theater and all that highbrow stuff. Melmo is 5 going on 6 .... "when I'm gonna be big." Now that my grandchildren are older, they rarely make pilgrimages to the 7 foot totem carved in the back yard on the stump of a felled Black Cherry. Especially, the three of them who are 10. The older ones? the younger one? they're cool with making space for Melmo, as long as he doesn't come to their school or appear in a pizza shop. A 15 year old waxing writer wants Melmo sentenced to lethal injection for his half hour appearance while waiting for take-out at our local Palestinian Pizza Shoppe.
On line? It's been the kind of doggerel that I've let Clio's Psyche and Arnie Richards' International Website publish. Old guy .... ... trying to figure things out as he's looking retirement in the face. Tragico-Comedy? Maybe.
What to say? The spices I use in my cooking? some like ... some don't. I did have one visitor to my office, a Norwegian, who really didn't like my rare moments of humor. I referred her out to a guy named Sven, whose humor, as far as I knew, always involved drunk people. I figured if I didn't get it, the Norwegian might. Tell me a joke and I'll tell you whether I get it? whether it moves me? whether I can get in your laughing boat and row-chuckle with you?
There was a study done on parents and children that, in part, concluded that it was the synchrony of one person's needs and the other person's gifts that was most predictive of a healthful development. A low-energy child born to a high-energy Mom -- or vice versa -- leads to frustration and disappointment.
Zo, there's a 6 foot fence boundarying my office path from the back yard .... If my visitors peer through, they can make out two geodesic swing sets (a rarefied form of whimsy, I admit)... a children's slide that uses the 8 foot stump of a pear tree carved into the Great Australian Pig God, Baalum, and if they just look far enough ... Melmo is looking back at them. (A boy and his chain saws .... one never knows what grotesquerie he might carve on a rainy Sunday) ...
So anyone got something to say or a good joke? As my Mom heard me say to Margaret in the back yard more than 60 years ago: You show me yours, and I'll show you mine.
That having been said ... My mom left quite a while ago, Margaret and her drunken sailor father hasn't been my neighbor since 1954, and while my head-cold feels a good 25% better (I bow to you, Anima Mundi, Great Primal Mover of the Universe), it has been joined by one of my arrhythmias.
An the (erratic) beat goes on.
So, Ho-Ho-Ho and warm regard from icy Philadelphia and a one who is grateful that his office hasn't taken a major hit since 28 September 1993 at 305 PM.
(Wanna hear a joke that I didn't consider funny, my youngish physician visitor wanted to finish the the last 50 minutes of our meeting even though a 50' Beech Tree had planted itself through the roof vertically into the far corner of the office.)
I began calling him "Tornado Albert." .
With kids, my humor is performance (I hesitate to call it) art. I am Melmo ... or "I, Melmo" ... if one listens to Masterpiece Theater and all that highbrow stuff. Melmo is 5 going on 6 .... "when I'm gonna be big." Now that my grandchildren are older, they rarely make pilgrimages to the 7 foot totem carved in the back yard on the stump of a felled Black Cherry. Especially, the three of them who are 10. The older ones? the younger one? they're cool with making space for Melmo, as long as he doesn't come to their school or appear in a pizza shop. A 15 year old waxing writer wants Melmo sentenced to lethal injection for his half hour appearance while waiting for take-out at our local Palestinian Pizza Shoppe.
On line? It's been the kind of doggerel that I've let Clio's Psyche and Arnie Richards' International Website publish. Old guy .... ... trying to figure things out as he's looking retirement in the face. Tragico-Comedy? Maybe.
What to say? The spices I use in my cooking? some like ... some don't. I did have one visitor to my office, a Norwegian, who really didn't like my rare moments of humor. I referred her out to a guy named Sven, whose humor, as far as I knew, always involved drunk people. I figured if I didn't get it, the Norwegian might. Tell me a joke and I'll tell you whether I get it? whether it moves me? whether I can get in your laughing boat and row-chuckle with you?
There was a study done on parents and children that, in part, concluded that it was the synchrony of one person's needs and the other person's gifts that was most predictive of a healthful development. A low-energy child born to a high-energy Mom -- or vice versa -- leads to frustration and disappointment.
Zo, there's a 6 foot fence boundarying my office path from the back yard .... If my visitors peer through, they can make out two geodesic swing sets (a rarefied form of whimsy, I admit)... a children's slide that uses the 8 foot stump of a pear tree carved into the Great Australian Pig God, Baalum, and if they just look far enough ... Melmo is looking back at them. (A boy and his chain saws .... one never knows what grotesquerie he might carve on a rainy Sunday) ...
So anyone got something to say or a good joke? As my Mom heard me say to Margaret in the back yard more than 60 years ago: You show me yours, and I'll show you mine.
That having been said ... My mom left quite a while ago, Margaret and her drunken sailor father hasn't been my neighbor since 1954, and while my head-cold feels a good 25% better (I bow to you, Anima Mundi, Great Primal Mover of the Universe), it has been joined by one of my arrhythmias.
An the (erratic) beat goes on.
So, Ho-Ho-Ho and warm regard from icy Philadelphia and a one who is grateful that his office hasn't taken a major hit since 28 September 1993 at 305 PM.
(Wanna hear a joke that I didn't consider funny, my youngish physician visitor wanted to finish the the last 50 minutes of our meeting even though a 50' Beech Tree had planted itself through the roof vertically into the far corner of the office.)
I began calling him "Tornado Albert." .
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
"Life used to be so hard"
"Life used to be so hard" ... Crosby et Freres when they were in their twenties, I suppose. Maybe, it's more like "Life used to be so easy." I dunno. When I have a cold, I become even more of a skeptic than I typically am.
I have a head cold. My body above the neck has become a little mucous generator and pump .... and my head feels like a watermelon about to be smashed by that guy who smashes watermelons. I have no idea what his name is and am close to offering up a blessing for the capacity to recall my own. I got a couple of hours of sleep but it was too uncomfortable to be lying down.
I'm much like the image portrayed on the cold remedy TV commercials. Indeed, can there be anyone who is so righteous as to have been granted immunity to these viruses? Maybe house-dogs who don't have playdates or business meetings with others in the world of doggery don't pass their viruses about to each other. There is something, isn't there, called Kennel Cough ... No wonder GuntherDog shivers and shakes when he goes on rare occasions to be boarded. He knows the truth -- distance thineself from others and sit alone in the back pew in church!
I took a shower ... supposed to help. A colleague suggested that I stick tissues up my nose and walk in circles in the living-room. It reminded me of a comment made when I called a colleague with a problem about 2AM sometime around Summer 1969. He and some others (Bill, Milton and Jean-Claude) came over and brought a friend, an Indian Chemist, Arvin, then living in South America. Arvin proceeded to get drunk and his friends decided for undisclosed reasons that Arvin should be left with M, I and our two older kids. It may be that they divined that he was about to get violently ill from the ingested poisons. M & I had little experience with vomiting Chemists and called Bill.
H: What do we do ... Arvin's sick? ...
B: Why you calling me? He's your houseguest.
H: I didn't know we were playing tag and I was elected "IT" ...
B: Hey. Phyllis is feeding Max. Whaddya want?
H: Some advice wouldn't hurt.
B: Fair enough. Take a navel orange. It's gotta be a navel orange.
H: OK
B: Inject it with 10,000 mg of Vitamin C.
H: OK ... OK ... But how do I get him to eat it?
B: Eat it? You take that fortified navel and cram it up his ass!
Click.
But back to the shower ...
Thought: Colds never really feel bad until you have one. In the shower, I thought of all the people I've heard talking about how "I hate this and I hate that" and the others that give it a 50-Cent name ... Upper Respiratory Infection ... URI, for those in the know ... or "I know it's the Swine Flu cause I feel like I got hit by a &^%$%^# truck" which is supposed to be diagnostic. I typically respond with (knowing that my little joke is getting old) ... "Hate? I only hate death and nuclear holocaust and I'm not absolutely certain about either of those."
Then, I remembered Jim Henson, the Muppet/Puppet Guy ... He thought it was ONLY a cold and dropped dead. Yesterday was M's Birthday and she got to eat dinner with Typhoid Howard from the Last Quarter Howards. Good thing she lives in the same Quarter, aye?
I have a head cold. My body above the neck has become a little mucous generator and pump .... and my head feels like a watermelon about to be smashed by that guy who smashes watermelons. I have no idea what his name is and am close to offering up a blessing for the capacity to recall my own. I got a couple of hours of sleep but it was too uncomfortable to be lying down.
I'm much like the image portrayed on the cold remedy TV commercials. Indeed, can there be anyone who is so righteous as to have been granted immunity to these viruses? Maybe house-dogs who don't have playdates or business meetings with others in the world of doggery don't pass their viruses about to each other. There is something, isn't there, called Kennel Cough ... No wonder GuntherDog shivers and shakes when he goes on rare occasions to be boarded. He knows the truth -- distance thineself from others and sit alone in the back pew in church!
I took a shower ... supposed to help. A colleague suggested that I stick tissues up my nose and walk in circles in the living-room. It reminded me of a comment made when I called a colleague with a problem about 2AM sometime around Summer 1969. He and some others (Bill, Milton and Jean-Claude) came over and brought a friend, an Indian Chemist, Arvin, then living in South America. Arvin proceeded to get drunk and his friends decided for undisclosed reasons that Arvin should be left with M, I and our two older kids. It may be that they divined that he was about to get violently ill from the ingested poisons. M & I had little experience with vomiting Chemists and called Bill.
H: What do we do ... Arvin's sick? ...
B: Why you calling me? He's your houseguest.
H: I didn't know we were playing tag and I was elected "IT" ...
B: Hey. Phyllis is feeding Max. Whaddya want?
H: Some advice wouldn't hurt.
B: Fair enough. Take a navel orange. It's gotta be a navel orange.
H: OK
B: Inject it with 10,000 mg of Vitamin C.
H: OK ... OK ... But how do I get him to eat it?
B: Eat it? You take that fortified navel and cram it up his ass!
Click.
But back to the shower ...
Thought: Colds never really feel bad until you have one. In the shower, I thought of all the people I've heard talking about how "I hate this and I hate that" and the others that give it a 50-Cent name ... Upper Respiratory Infection ... URI, for those in the know ... or "I know it's the Swine Flu cause I feel like I got hit by a &^%$%^# truck" which is supposed to be diagnostic. I typically respond with (knowing that my little joke is getting old) ... "Hate? I only hate death and nuclear holocaust and I'm not absolutely certain about either of those."
Then, I remembered Jim Henson, the Muppet/Puppet Guy ... He thought it was ONLY a cold and dropped dead. Yesterday was M's Birthday and she got to eat dinner with Typhoid Howard from the Last Quarter Howards. Good thing she lives in the same Quarter, aye?
Monday, February 3, 2014
#--Hashtag-Whatta?
Hey, Mom ... while I have your attention ... Do you possibly know what a "hashtag" is? I don't seem to get it. You'd be surprised ... but lots has changed since you went off to your new World!
Much love ...
Howard (and M -- M's Birthday is tomorrow ... she's c 50 years older than when you met her ... Geez!)
Much love ...
Howard (and M -- M's Birthday is tomorrow ... she's c 50 years older than when you met her ... Geez!)
Denver and Seattle in NJ
Associations in the mind .... that warm the eyes ....
In 1972, my parents who were still in their empty-nest 50's moved to within 10 miles of the stadium where the Superbowl teams crashed bodies and heads ,,, the venue in which the football-war broke out, last night. My Dad got a new job as a printer and they lived there for the last 30 or so years of their lives ... though my Mom needed to be in a Nursing Home when her ability to speak and understand melted into the Great Uncharted. They're buried up there (100 miles North of where M & I live) in a little town, Passaic, NJ. My Father chose a hillside grave plot within eye shot of the New York skyline. There they lie ... As far as I know, none of their children visit very often, myself included. President Obama made a joke about visiting parents to help them get on and negotiate the Obamacare-ACA website ... a light note during his State of the Union Address ... don't know that he had in mind graveside visits?
I could run up there and tell my Father about the game; I suppose I could.
Dad, Seattle cleaned up on Denver. Payton Manning never really got started out of the gate. Oh, and that really smart guy from Stanford, Sherman, who had a dissociated kind of rant againt that pretty newscaster ... he got hurt.
Howard, I told you when you were 5 why I never took you to Ebbetts Field to see those Bums, the Dodgers play ... that there were two things that should be thoroughly enjoyed but not observed by others and that one of them was professional athletics and that you'd learn about the other when you were older. Don't you remember. Hey, did you find out about the other Participant-non-Observer Sport?
Dad, I remember and I did. And, hey, I grew up liking sports and sex but without much of an interest in watching professional athletics or ogling other people having sex. .... Think I'll push over and talk to Mom for a bit. You hang in there!
Mom, M and I really miss you. Miss you, too, Dad. Saturday night, Mom, we visited your oldest Sister's son, David, and his wife. They were visiting one of their grown kids, one of the twins. He's doing a post-Doc in Applied Math and is married to a warm and very sweet pediatrician. Imagine! Your Sister Lily's grandson ... all grown up ... leading a very productive religious and academic life with his wife and their two year old. We walked into their place and the 2 year old immediately warmed up. He's one of those tall and beefy kids ... like I was .... but such a sweet kid. In moments, he was a very welcome visitor in M's lap. David's wife is doing a family bio on her ancestors. David and N have been married for 46 years ... just a few years shy of M and I. Geez. How the years have flown. We occasionally see you middle sister Helen's grandkids and great-grandkids, too. But what to say? We really miss those times sitting around your table and singing Psalms after dinners that you and Dad would prepare. When I was a kid, I'd see that your eyes would warm when we'd sing .... maybe it was that line from the beginning ... "Those who plant with tears, reap with joy." Much earlier I remember you and Grandma looking out the window as the sun was setting on the Sabbath singing melodically in your Germanic language: Gott fum Avrohom ... God of Abraham! I think my eyes would fill up listening to it. You might not know or want to know that most followers of the Abrahimic religions -- Christians, Jews, Moslems -- barely notice the Sabbath. But you and Grandma would sing to God, thank Him (Her?) for the gift of Sacred Sabbaths and hope for a week of goodness and health, of good fortune and a chance to make a living. Sabbath is for Shopping and Superbowls! Sad to think, isn't it, that the beautifully poetic notion of a sacred restfulness is lost on most people ... whether their day is Friday, Saturday or Sunday. A guy named Hirsch sometime in the late 19th C. said that it was a day that we accepted ourselves as equal creations with others and with our brother animals ... when we gave up pretending to be Creators, ourselves.
Mom, you must be crying by now. Made you cry. Sorry.
Howard, "Those who plant with tears, with joy they reap." That's what King David the Psalmist said.
Mom, Cousin David the Mystic said I should dance more!
Bye, for now.
In 1972, my parents who were still in their empty-nest 50's moved to within 10 miles of the stadium where the Superbowl teams crashed bodies and heads ,,, the venue in which the football-war broke out, last night. My Dad got a new job as a printer and they lived there for the last 30 or so years of their lives ... though my Mom needed to be in a Nursing Home when her ability to speak and understand melted into the Great Uncharted. They're buried up there (100 miles North of where M & I live) in a little town, Passaic, NJ. My Father chose a hillside grave plot within eye shot of the New York skyline. There they lie ... As far as I know, none of their children visit very often, myself included. President Obama made a joke about visiting parents to help them get on and negotiate the Obamacare-ACA website ... a light note during his State of the Union Address ... don't know that he had in mind graveside visits?
I could run up there and tell my Father about the game; I suppose I could.
Dad, Seattle cleaned up on Denver. Payton Manning never really got started out of the gate. Oh, and that really smart guy from Stanford, Sherman, who had a dissociated kind of rant againt that pretty newscaster ... he got hurt.
Howard, I told you when you were 5 why I never took you to Ebbetts Field to see those Bums, the Dodgers play ... that there were two things that should be thoroughly enjoyed but not observed by others and that one of them was professional athletics and that you'd learn about the other when you were older. Don't you remember. Hey, did you find out about the other Participant-non-Observer Sport?
Dad, I remember and I did. And, hey, I grew up liking sports and sex but without much of an interest in watching professional athletics or ogling other people having sex. .... Think I'll push over and talk to Mom for a bit. You hang in there!
Mom, M and I really miss you. Miss you, too, Dad. Saturday night, Mom, we visited your oldest Sister's son, David, and his wife. They were visiting one of their grown kids, one of the twins. He's doing a post-Doc in Applied Math and is married to a warm and very sweet pediatrician. Imagine! Your Sister Lily's grandson ... all grown up ... leading a very productive religious and academic life with his wife and their two year old. We walked into their place and the 2 year old immediately warmed up. He's one of those tall and beefy kids ... like I was .... but such a sweet kid. In moments, he was a very welcome visitor in M's lap. David's wife is doing a family bio on her ancestors. David and N have been married for 46 years ... just a few years shy of M and I. Geez. How the years have flown. We occasionally see you middle sister Helen's grandkids and great-grandkids, too. But what to say? We really miss those times sitting around your table and singing Psalms after dinners that you and Dad would prepare. When I was a kid, I'd see that your eyes would warm when we'd sing .... maybe it was that line from the beginning ... "Those who plant with tears, reap with joy." Much earlier I remember you and Grandma looking out the window as the sun was setting on the Sabbath singing melodically in your Germanic language: Gott fum Avrohom ... God of Abraham! I think my eyes would fill up listening to it. You might not know or want to know that most followers of the Abrahimic religions -- Christians, Jews, Moslems -- barely notice the Sabbath. But you and Grandma would sing to God, thank Him (Her?) for the gift of Sacred Sabbaths and hope for a week of goodness and health, of good fortune and a chance to make a living. Sabbath is for Shopping and Superbowls! Sad to think, isn't it, that the beautifully poetic notion of a sacred restfulness is lost on most people ... whether their day is Friday, Saturday or Sunday. A guy named Hirsch sometime in the late 19th C. said that it was a day that we accepted ourselves as equal creations with others and with our brother animals ... when we gave up pretending to be Creators, ourselves.
Mom, you must be crying by now. Made you cry. Sorry.
Howard, "Those who plant with tears, with joy they reap." That's what King David the Psalmist said.
Mom, Cousin David the Mystic said I should dance more!
Bye, for now.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Toilet-Bowl Sunday
I could get the chips and dips ready and clean my waiting room toilet, today, in honor of the annual NFL parade of Sexuality, Aggression and Ad Campaigns that support our (type of) Economy. As I've aged, I do tend to have certain idiosyncratic holy days ... days set aside for particular purposes. July 4th is my decision day. I sit as still as I can and make those decisions that are reasonably decidable/makeable. How many hours a week shall I work? What does the house need? The office? Is late term abortion REALLY too late when your kids are 38, 47 and 48! .... Ah! That was a little joke ... I'm gonna hanging out occasionally with spawn and grandspawn till I'm -- as they say -- called home.
Having lived a life in seminaries from early on and in very religious environments, I didn't find out about this particular holy day till the late 1970's when a colleague and his wife, Bill and Joanne, invited us to something called a Superbowl Party. There was food and much good cheer. The first year, we brought a bottle of good scotch and -- out of my discomfort with this bit of secular Americana -- I drank a good deal of it. Another Bill in attendance, a Presby Minister, made the mistake of getting me started on talking about commentaries on the Scriptures. Poor Bill! I must've bored him to death and intruded on his passion for the game. Well, those of you who read my meanderings chances are know how ponderous I can be. There ARE some people who should never drink ... DWB ... Drinking While Biblicizing just ain't fair to others.
There were more such parties until my colleague, Bill, began losing some of his previously sharp grasp on things and, together with Joanne, moved to Texas. While I hear from them from time to time, Bill is apparently no longer able to speak on the phone. The Fourth Quarter has the most fortunate among us a bit addled ... and we are sad for those less fortunate. Minister Bill left, too -- maybe with one of his congregants -- and we've lost touch with the other Superbowl Party attendees.
Zo! M and I are not only orphaned of our parents, but Superbowl orphans, as well. We'll go to see a play at a local theater with Milt and Ruthie, but by the time we get out and eat dinner, it may well be bedtime. M and I will head home to watch parts of the game with GuntherDog, but neither Gunther nor I knows whose playing.
I do know Payton Manning is no longer where he was but is playing well on one of the championship teams .... and I do know that the Toiletbowl in the Waiting Room bathroom will be cleaned and ... I am confident that Chris Christie of New Jersey (and Federal) Heat fame will do his best to repeatedly sack David Wildstein, .... still, once more.
Oh! I, also, know that I'm supposed to (and chances are won't) make a hoagie or a submarine or a hero sandwich and to get pissed if my team loses. Hate to ruin the atmosphere, but what would the Prophet Malachi say about the Superbowl? Ah! He'd chances are bore the hell out of poor Minister Bill, just like I'd love to, again.
Happy Holy Day to all.
Having lived a life in seminaries from early on and in very religious environments, I didn't find out about this particular holy day till the late 1970's when a colleague and his wife, Bill and Joanne, invited us to something called a Superbowl Party. There was food and much good cheer. The first year, we brought a bottle of good scotch and -- out of my discomfort with this bit of secular Americana -- I drank a good deal of it. Another Bill in attendance, a Presby Minister, made the mistake of getting me started on talking about commentaries on the Scriptures. Poor Bill! I must've bored him to death and intruded on his passion for the game. Well, those of you who read my meanderings chances are know how ponderous I can be. There ARE some people who should never drink ... DWB ... Drinking While Biblicizing just ain't fair to others.
There were more such parties until my colleague, Bill, began losing some of his previously sharp grasp on things and, together with Joanne, moved to Texas. While I hear from them from time to time, Bill is apparently no longer able to speak on the phone. The Fourth Quarter has the most fortunate among us a bit addled ... and we are sad for those less fortunate. Minister Bill left, too -- maybe with one of his congregants -- and we've lost touch with the other Superbowl Party attendees.
Zo! M and I are not only orphaned of our parents, but Superbowl orphans, as well. We'll go to see a play at a local theater with Milt and Ruthie, but by the time we get out and eat dinner, it may well be bedtime. M and I will head home to watch parts of the game with GuntherDog, but neither Gunther nor I knows whose playing.
I do know Payton Manning is no longer where he was but is playing well on one of the championship teams .... and I do know that the Toiletbowl in the Waiting Room bathroom will be cleaned and ... I am confident that Chris Christie of New Jersey (and Federal) Heat fame will do his best to repeatedly sack David Wildstein, .... still, once more.
Oh! I, also, know that I'm supposed to (and chances are won't) make a hoagie or a submarine or a hero sandwich and to get pissed if my team loses. Hate to ruin the atmosphere, but what would the Prophet Malachi say about the Superbowl? Ah! He'd chances are bore the hell out of poor Minister Bill, just like I'd love to, again.
Happy Holy Day to all.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Need to Get Back in Saddle
Old Man days ... just leaving an 11 hour arrhythmia ... a little tired ... With any luck ... "I'll be back."
It's pretty clear why Fourth Quarter types shouldn't have children in their care and should pare back some of their obligations.
Tough in this state to get it going for AM talk about Sex and Aggression.
Bye
It's pretty clear why Fourth Quarter types shouldn't have children in their care and should pare back some of their obligations.
Tough in this state to get it going for AM talk about Sex and Aggression.
Bye
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