Summer In The City
Hot town, summer in the city,
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty,
Been down, isn’t it a pity,
Doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.
All around, people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.
That’s about the size of it. Hot days, warm nights, and not just in the city. Everything gets done before noon and after five these days but it does get done. The farm in Fairfield is pretty much in readiness for The Event, upcoming a week from Saturday. Elf is back on the training track, eager to join her buddies, Wilson and Juno, in Miami. The latter two work at Calder Saturday morning, Wilson for the first time, as Juno moves within 30 days of her first race.
Norm, our nonagenarian friend, held a dinner party for 14 the other day, displaying energy and imagination beyond his years. Siobhan, Allen and I took in yet another revival of Anything Goes at the Gainesville Community Theater. The old Cole Porter play is 77 years old and still cooking, back on Broadway again this year.
We’ve even been watching soccer, of all things. The USA women, led by ex-Gator Abby Wambach, are within one game of hoisting the World Cup, the final to be played out Sunday. And everybody’s looking forward to the July 29 opening of Cowboys And Aliens at our friendly neighborhood movie theater. So, despite the heat, life does go on and we’re not complaining. Yet. Scary to report, however, it’s only 19 days til hurricane season. The real hurricane season, August-September. A good time to be in oh, say, Romania.
Don’t Cry For Me, Ro-ma-ni-a
One of the little quirks of bloggery is that people occasionally tune in from remote spots in the universe, who knows why? Our little Google Analytics service advises us of these curious knothole-peekers. We used to have a regular guy from Denmark and a bunch of them from China. One day we said Hey, China—whassup?—but nobody responded. Now it’s Romania. We don’t know a whole lot about Romania, except that they have a lot of spry little girls who regularly medal in Olympic Gymnastics. So, if anybody is really listening over there, how about sending a note? We’d like to hear from you. And, if you’re in a particularly giddy mood, how about sending along some of your fine lettuce.
Happy News Of The Week
Albertson’s grocery stores, after some reflection, has decided to do away with self-check-out counters. Who says there is no hope for humanity?
The Bachmann Watch
We feel a particular duty to keep an eye on Republican presidential candidate, Michele Bachmann, as she gravitates ever farther to the right in her attempt to claim Sarah Palin’s old mantle of “Wackiest Republican.” This week, Bachmann and her buddy-in-wackiness, Tim Pawlenty, both signed a contract swearing they will never, ever, so-help-me-God, accept any marriage except that between a man and a woman. Then Pawlenty went right to a microphone and told whoever was interested that Bachmann had not accomplished one whit of anything during her term in the House, certainly not surprising news to us. Then CNN produced some video featuring Michele’s husband’s “counseling service” advising potential homosexual “converts” that God instilled in all men the desire to lust after women’s various body parts. And, in our case, at least, we’re certainly glad that God made such a happy decision. It seems reasonable, however, that God being such a busy man, he might have inadvertently left out a few guys somewhere along the way. And that, if they didn’t happen to get God’s installation, they shouldn’t be browbeaten into lusting after women. Psychiatrists point out this could lead to “severe psychological damage.” And that would put them in the same boat with Michele Bachmann and Tim Pawlenty. A 2011 version of the Titanic.
What Would Sarah Think?
It’s hard to imagine all this right-wing skirmishing is going on with no input from our favorite loon, Sarah Palin. We’re actually beginning to miss Sarah, who, we have to admit, is much more fun than stodgy old Michele Bachmann. Sarah says she will make a decision about running for president “sometime in August or September,” but that seems a little late to us. What if all the birthers and gun nuts and right-to-lifers and bigots and militiamen and greedy corporate executives have been scooped up by then by Michele Bachmann? There won’t be anybody left for Sarah. This whole thing is beginning to look rosier and rosier for hypocrite moderate Mitt (and how do you get a name like “Mitt”?) Romney, who used to be for everything he is now against. The plot thickens….along with the Republican candidates.
More Health Reversal Fun
You’re already familiar with our old friend Irana, a product of Subterranean Circus days (and if you’re not you can scroll back to those thrilling days of yesteryear and find her). Irana was married once before, wisely tying the knot with some bozo she met in rehab. Harolyn and I went on a weekend trip with them one time to Vermont and after a few hours she leaned over to me and said, in her usual charitable manner, “Bill, this guy is a meathead.” In this case, ‘brilliantly perceptive’ is the phrase for Harolyn. Anyway, after a short period of foolishness, Irana got rid of the bum and moved on, eventually marrying a big teddy-bear of a guy named Paul Zisser. We liked Paul, who had a great sense of humor (proved by marrying Irana) and was a rabid sports fan and manic gambler, in addition to many other good qualities. Our favorite memory of Paul, though, occurred as Irana, Paul, Harolyn and I were watching a movie in one of those 3000-seat Times Square theaters. Paul, a burly guy to begin with, was wearing a big coat and one of those flat hats indigenous to Irish horse trainers. He didn’t look like anybody you’d want to mess around with. Seated directly in front of Paul, snorting the hell out of a bag of cocaine was a brother of the African-American persuasion. It’s one thing to snort your cocaine in public, but another thing entirely to be extremely noisy about it. Paul was offended. In one fell swoop, he drew back his beefy leg and smashed it into the chairback of the offender, who almost fell to the floor in shock and awe, before scrambling up and, streaming apologies, fleeing from the theater.
Harolyn looked at me smiling, eyebrows raised. “Who WAS that masked man?” she wanted to know.
Unfortunately, even folk heroes have their problems. Last week, Irana called to inform that Paul had joined the Triple-A Club that nobody wants to belong to. The ones with Ascending Aortic Aneurisms. He’s being monitored by the Cleveland Clinic, however, and so far so good. Stuart Bentler taught us one thing. Pay attention.
The Event Nears
When Stuart Bentler called us many weeks ago and asked if his ashes could be spread in Siobhan’s garden, we said sure. We expected that some day Larry, the Fedex man, would putter down our driveway with a little urn-containing box and we would take it and dispense the contents to the four winds, perhaps with a John Prine song playing in the background. But we didn’t reckon with Stuart’s daughter, Katherine, who must have inherited Stuart’s bizarre sense of humor. Katherine has invited 30 people to The Event. She is dispersing Stuart’s hat collection. She is brewing up untold vats of Sangria and has hired Sonny’s Real Pit Bar-B-Q to cater the party. She is installing speakers for the music. All of this, of course, is perfectly normal. It’s just that the parade might be smidgen over the top.
The NW 112th Avenue Parade Schedule, July 23, 5 P.M.
1. Kazoo Band, Masonic Lodge 112, Omaha, Nebraska. Companion group; The Tricycle Tricksters.
2. 4F Goat-Roping Squad, Farmers’ University of Coffeyville, Kansas.
3. Marching Band, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.
4. Paraders: The Twirling Nymphets, Williston, Florida.
5. Float: The American Medical Association. Theme: Oops.
6. The Archbishop of Canterbury. In to say a few words.
The Remaining Schedule
6 p.m. Goodyear Blimp Arrives.
6:30 p.m. Ashes dispersed as Pomp & Circumstance is played in celebration of Stuart’s Final Graduation.
7:00 p.m. Dinner and memorial softball game.
Sunday, July 24, 10 a.m.
10:00: First Annual Memorial Breakfast (for overnighters).
Stuart would be the first to tell you: we did it his way.
Faux News
It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Funny old Rupert Murdoch, Grand Wizard of All Media, publisher of London’s insidious News Of The World and owner of the highly partisan but very profitable Fox Network, was blown to smithereens the other day when it was discovered that many of his NOTW employees had been hacking into the cell phones of, well, practically everybody, not excluding royals, high government officials and even dead people. Particularly onerous was a tale of Murdoch’s men deleting calls from the phone of a murdered young girl in order to make room for more in her voice mail, a fact the police found downright disconcerting.
In hopes of continuing his bid for control of British television behemoth BSkyB, Murdoch flushed News Of The World down the drain, eliminating overnight a sensational newspaper read by millions. Didn’t do him any good, however. The scandal grew to such large proportions that Murdoch was forced to withdraw his bid for BSkyB, fortunately for England.
We, however, continue to suffer the slings and arrows of the ultra-right-wing Faux News (thus named by one Alan McMichael in a letter to the Gainesville Sun, if not by someone before him). Fox News and its crew of actors/pseudojournalists have an unending record of news falsification and story creation. Faux news, says McMichael correctly, “panders to those who want their fears and prejudices reinforced by their television. If you want TV news, don’t watch Faux News.
Old College Humor Mag Joke (from 1961)
An Englishman was visiting America and got a kick out of some of our slang expressions. One that particularly delighted him was the phrase used when a fellow had a run of good luck: “You lucky dog, you!”
One night the Englishman was playing bridge when the lady to his right made a little slam. He sat up in great joy, gave her an enormous clap on the back and celebrated: “You made it, didn’t you, you lucky bitch!”
Remember….it was 1961.
That’s all, folks….
