Well, it’s winter so everybody in Florida can count on getting visitors. It’s 84 degrees here today and the sun is smiling, why wouldn’t people from Seattle and Olathe, Kansas want to come? On occasion, we also get near-visitors. Just so you don’t start scratching your brain too hard, a near visitor is one who is supposed to arrive but for some one of a myriad of reasons does not. We had one of those just the other day. His name is Mark Metrokotsas, a business associate of Siobhan’s from the Creationist State. Mark was supposed to meet us for dinner at the Ocala Hilton, where he was staying. We have met Mark on several previous occasions and he is generally very reliable so it seemed a bit strange when he didn’t show up on time at the Hilton. Bill, not the most patient blog writer on the block, soon became grumbly. Bill does not like it very much when his dinner is delayed. Once, in Nevada, we pulled into a restaurant with overturned tables, broken glass littering the floor and police personnel running hither and yon. Since there were no actual bodies lying around, Bill thought somebody should be cooking up the breakfasts.
“If they’re not serving breakfast, they should lock up the doors,” was the way Bill put it.
“But Bill,” Siobhan pointed out, “the door is hanging from one hinge.”
We waited fifteen minutes, a half-hour, still no Mark Metrokotsas.
“Okay,” said Bill, “I know there are all kinds of reasons people can be late. There aren’t many reasons a person can’t pick up a phone and call.”
Siobhan eventually went up to the Hilton check-in desk and asked them to send someone up to Mark’s room to make sure he hadn’t ODed on some mysterious Greek herb and was floating deliriously in the bathtub. No such luck. Eventually, we ate and went home. No messages from Mark there, either. A couple of hours passed and finally a message popped up on my email. It was Mark, apologizing seventeen times for missing our appointment and advising us that he had been in a horrible automobile accident on the Interstate and providing us with at least one good reason why late-arrivers sometimes don’t call.
“A guy smashed into the back of our car and crushed my phones and computers. Then, the cops showed up and acted like it was all our fault,” Mark complained. “They kept us there forever, asking questions and filling out paperwork, before they eventually took me back to the hotel.”
Gee. Made me feel bad for acting surly. I wrote a quick note to Mark advising him that it was not necessary to concoct such an obviously false flamboyant story as an excuse for not fulfilling his social obligations. “Don’t worry, though,” I told him. “We had dinner and charged the bill to your room.”
I wrote him a second note telling him that the worst possible fate had already befallen him and the rest of the year would be all downhill. I mean, how many things are worse than an automobile accident in which all your equipment gets destroyed? Well, one thing, maybe. Mark wrote back a couple of days later, advising that the very next day he had been attacked by kidney stones on his way south, ending up in a Tampa hospital where they had to laser the thing into submission. “Not only that,” said Mark, “but while they were looking, they found another one ready to come on stage.” So it’s not even all downhill from here.
You can imagine our relief then when Marty Jourard arrived safely from Kirkland, Washington last night, on time even. Before leaving Mildred’s, the Gainesville restaurant where we ate, we dispensed detailed instructions for avoiding heavy traffic areas and kidney stones. When Marty got back to the apartment where he was staying, he delivered a quick note assuring that all was well. That’s the good news. The bad news is he’s still got another five days left in the dreaded Ocala-Gainesville-Fairfield Triangle.
Puck’s Progress
Puck, also known as Cosmic Flash, had his first two-minute-lick this morning at Eisaman Equine, going the eighth in 13-and-three-fifths seconds, as desired. He was unphased, regarding the whole thing as a mere fast gallop, changing leads smoothly and running straight as an arrow. The effort gave us a better handle on his stride, which was long, and his mental disposition, which was calm, both good signs. If we’re lucky, Bill got a decent picture of the start and it will show up somewhere here.
Hannah is ten days to two weeks behind Puck in her training and is too embarrassed about her lack of an official name to work yet. We keep trying but the Jockey Club is a harsh taskmaster.
Hey, Hey, NRA—How Many Kids Have You Killed Today?
The National Rifle Association, an abomination on mankind, has reacted as expected to all attempts to inject reason into the national gun conversation, horrifying its membership with warnings of government storm troopers arriving in black helicopters to seize everyone’s precious artillery. It’s hilarious that so many dimwits perceive these guys as patriotic Americans, here to protect poor hunters and home guarders from the jaws of the Federales. Truth be known, the NRA cares not a whit for you little guys—it is preoccupied with keeping in business the arms manufacturers who prop it up to the tune of tens of millions a year. The forces arrayed against it this time are formidable but the gutlessness of Washington politicians is legend. It will be up to the individual states to take measures to protect their citizens. Led by New York, many of them are actually beginning to do so. Onward and upward!
The Case Of Manti Te’o And The Disappearing Girlfriend
Is this a wacky story or what? Last Fall, just before Notre Dame’s football team played Michigan State, word spread that Fighting Irish linebacker Manti Te’o had lost his grandmother and his girlfriend on the same day. No, he wasn’t just careless, they actually died. Well, one of them did, anyway. Turns out the girlfriend, one Lennay Kekua, apparently never existed. This is only the second day since the whole thing blew up so nobody is exactly sure just what happened. Was funny old Manti just pulling a little joke on all his compadres or what? Spokesmen from the Athletic Department at Notre Dame assure us that Manti is pure as the driven snow and the victim of a cruel hoax. But inquiring minds want to know how, in this age of constant communication which includes cameraphones and skyping, you might never SEE your girlfriend? To me, seeing girlfriends has always been a valuable asset in evaluating future plans. Now, I know what you girls out there are going to say—”oh, Bill, you sexist pig, placing physical beauty before all else!” Not so fast, my non-friends! I make it a point to consider the entire person before I enter into a relationship. I just prefer that the entire person doesn’t weigh upwards of three hundred pounds or have a face that would stop shit in mid-air, is all.
Now, in the OLD days, a situation like that of Manti Te’o was slightly more conceivable. In the old days, men wooed women with letters. I, myself, wrote my second wife, Harolyn, postcards from several places in New York City where I intended to take her in the future (and did). Of course, I knew what she looked like. But I once had a sort of relationship which went on for many months in which I never saw the woman. No kidding. It all started when my horse trainer, Dominic Imprescia, had a horse named Timely Writer, who was the favorite in the Kentucky Derby of 1982.
“So where are you going to stay for the Derby, Dominic?” I asked him.
“Probably somewhere in Indiana, like I did last time” he answered. “You can’t get a room in Louisville.”
“Dominic, you’ve got the goddam favorite in the Kentucky Derby. They’re going to have a room for you.”
“You think so? Okay, you take care of it”.
I did. I called Churchill Downs and reached a girl named Claudia Staar, who was the head of publicity. She said of course they had a bloc of rooms reserved for owners and trainers in the prestigious Galt House. Dominic was astounded at the good news. In the back-and-forth with Claudia, I came to appreciate her great wit and her competence at her job. One day, she remarked that when the crush of the Derby was over she would like to enplane for some R&R on a tropical island. I could come along, she said. From then on, we followed the tropical island theme, sending cards, island information and other tropical debris to one another in the mail. We would have met at the Derby, of course, but days before Timely Writer incurred a bad case of colic and was operated on in Lexington. He survived, but it was months before he returned to training. Dominic went to the race, anyway. When I asked Dominic about Claudia, he said she was extremely nice to him and great at her job. “And…” I went on. “Cute,” he said. “Very cute.” This was not a foolproof appraisal, unfortunately, since Dominic was known to be very forgiving in his assessment of women, every one of which he liked. Naturally, I preferred to believe him.
The correspondence went on for months, very comfortable, no pressure, no plans to meet. Then one day, I had to go to Lexington for a sale. I decided to fly in via Louisville. I did not tell Claudia I was coming. After considerable effort, I located her tiny house. She was not at home so I found a florist, bought a single rose and left it on a couch on her porch, no note, nothing else. Then I went on to Lexington. Turns out, Claudia was in Washington state at the time. By the time she returned several days later, I’m sure the rose had taken on the lovely color of….well, death. I did not hear from Claudia from several weeks and assumed I had probably scared her, showing up at her house and all, not to mention leaving a dead rose. Weeks later, I got a long letter which started out, You probably thought….” and launched into a bunch of things I probably thought when I hadn’t heard from her (many of them, I did). The letter further advised that she had been in a strange place and asked that I patiently wait for her return. As was earlier established, of course, I am not the most patient of men and by now, so to speak, the bloom was off the rose. We went our separate ways, never to communicate again. Claudia graduated to PR director for the Breeder’s Cup and eventually married a Lexington blueblood. I assume she lived happily ever after. I still kind of wonder what she looked like.
That’s all, folks….
“If they’re not serving breakfast, they should lock up the doors,” was the way Bill put it.
“But Bill,” Siobhan pointed out, “the door is hanging from one hinge.”
We waited fifteen minutes, a half-hour, still no Mark Metrokotsas.
“Okay,” said Bill, “I know there are all kinds of reasons people can be late. There aren’t many reasons a person can’t pick up a phone and call.”
Siobhan eventually went up to the Hilton check-in desk and asked them to send someone up to Mark’s room to make sure he hadn’t ODed on some mysterious Greek herb and was floating deliriously in the bathtub. No such luck. Eventually, we ate and went home. No messages from Mark there, either. A couple of hours passed and finally a message popped up on my email. It was Mark, apologizing seventeen times for missing our appointment and advising us that he had been in a horrible automobile accident on the Interstate and providing us with at least one good reason why late-arrivers sometimes don’t call.
“A guy smashed into the back of our car and crushed my phones and computers. Then, the cops showed up and acted like it was all our fault,” Mark complained. “They kept us there forever, asking questions and filling out paperwork, before they eventually took me back to the hotel.”
Gee. Made me feel bad for acting surly. I wrote a quick note to Mark advising him that it was not necessary to concoct such an obviously false flamboyant story as an excuse for not fulfilling his social obligations. “Don’t worry, though,” I told him. “We had dinner and charged the bill to your room.”
I wrote him a second note telling him that the worst possible fate had already befallen him and the rest of the year would be all downhill. I mean, how many things are worse than an automobile accident in which all your equipment gets destroyed? Well, one thing, maybe. Mark wrote back a couple of days later, advising that the very next day he had been attacked by kidney stones on his way south, ending up in a Tampa hospital where they had to laser the thing into submission. “Not only that,” said Mark, “but while they were looking, they found another one ready to come on stage.” So it’s not even all downhill from here.
You can imagine our relief then when Marty Jourard arrived safely from Kirkland, Washington last night, on time even. Before leaving Mildred’s, the Gainesville restaurant where we ate, we dispensed detailed instructions for avoiding heavy traffic areas and kidney stones. When Marty got back to the apartment where he was staying, he delivered a quick note assuring that all was well. That’s the good news. The bad news is he’s still got another five days left in the dreaded Ocala-Gainesville-Fairfield Triangle.
Puck’s Progress
Puck, also known as Cosmic Flash, had his first two-minute-lick this morning at Eisaman Equine, going the eighth in 13-and-three-fifths seconds, as desired. He was unphased, regarding the whole thing as a mere fast gallop, changing leads smoothly and running straight as an arrow. The effort gave us a better handle on his stride, which was long, and his mental disposition, which was calm, both good signs. If we’re lucky, Bill got a decent picture of the start and it will show up somewhere here.
Hannah is ten days to two weeks behind Puck in her training and is too embarrassed about her lack of an official name to work yet. We keep trying but the Jockey Club is a harsh taskmaster.
Hey, Hey, NRA—How Many Kids Have You Killed Today?
The National Rifle Association, an abomination on mankind, has reacted as expected to all attempts to inject reason into the national gun conversation, horrifying its membership with warnings of government storm troopers arriving in black helicopters to seize everyone’s precious artillery. It’s hilarious that so many dimwits perceive these guys as patriotic Americans, here to protect poor hunters and home guarders from the jaws of the Federales. Truth be known, the NRA cares not a whit for you little guys—it is preoccupied with keeping in business the arms manufacturers who prop it up to the tune of tens of millions a year. The forces arrayed against it this time are formidable but the gutlessness of Washington politicians is legend. It will be up to the individual states to take measures to protect their citizens. Led by New York, many of them are actually beginning to do so. Onward and upward!
The Case Of Manti Te’o And The Disappearing Girlfriend
Is this a wacky story or what? Last Fall, just before Notre Dame’s football team played Michigan State, word spread that Fighting Irish linebacker Manti Te’o had lost his grandmother and his girlfriend on the same day. No, he wasn’t just careless, they actually died. Well, one of them did, anyway. Turns out the girlfriend, one Lennay Kekua, apparently never existed. This is only the second day since the whole thing blew up so nobody is exactly sure just what happened. Was funny old Manti just pulling a little joke on all his compadres or what? Spokesmen from the Athletic Department at Notre Dame assure us that Manti is pure as the driven snow and the victim of a cruel hoax. But inquiring minds want to know how, in this age of constant communication which includes cameraphones and skyping, you might never SEE your girlfriend? To me, seeing girlfriends has always been a valuable asset in evaluating future plans. Now, I know what you girls out there are going to say—”oh, Bill, you sexist pig, placing physical beauty before all else!” Not so fast, my non-friends! I make it a point to consider the entire person before I enter into a relationship. I just prefer that the entire person doesn’t weigh upwards of three hundred pounds or have a face that would stop shit in mid-air, is all.
Now, in the OLD days, a situation like that of Manti Te’o was slightly more conceivable. In the old days, men wooed women with letters. I, myself, wrote my second wife, Harolyn, postcards from several places in New York City where I intended to take her in the future (and did). Of course, I knew what she looked like. But I once had a sort of relationship which went on for many months in which I never saw the woman. No kidding. It all started when my horse trainer, Dominic Imprescia, had a horse named Timely Writer, who was the favorite in the Kentucky Derby of 1982.
“So where are you going to stay for the Derby, Dominic?” I asked him.
“Probably somewhere in Indiana, like I did last time” he answered. “You can’t get a room in Louisville.”
“Dominic, you’ve got the goddam favorite in the Kentucky Derby. They’re going to have a room for you.”
“You think so? Okay, you take care of it”.
I did. I called Churchill Downs and reached a girl named Claudia Staar, who was the head of publicity. She said of course they had a bloc of rooms reserved for owners and trainers in the prestigious Galt House. Dominic was astounded at the good news. In the back-and-forth with Claudia, I came to appreciate her great wit and her competence at her job. One day, she remarked that when the crush of the Derby was over she would like to enplane for some R&R on a tropical island. I could come along, she said. From then on, we followed the tropical island theme, sending cards, island information and other tropical debris to one another in the mail. We would have met at the Derby, of course, but days before Timely Writer incurred a bad case of colic and was operated on in Lexington. He survived, but it was months before he returned to training. Dominic went to the race, anyway. When I asked Dominic about Claudia, he said she was extremely nice to him and great at her job. “And…” I went on. “Cute,” he said. “Very cute.” This was not a foolproof appraisal, unfortunately, since Dominic was known to be very forgiving in his assessment of women, every one of which he liked. Naturally, I preferred to believe him.
The correspondence went on for months, very comfortable, no pressure, no plans to meet. Then one day, I had to go to Lexington for a sale. I decided to fly in via Louisville. I did not tell Claudia I was coming. After considerable effort, I located her tiny house. She was not at home so I found a florist, bought a single rose and left it on a couch on her porch, no note, nothing else. Then I went on to Lexington. Turns out, Claudia was in Washington state at the time. By the time she returned several days later, I’m sure the rose had taken on the lovely color of….well, death. I did not hear from Claudia from several weeks and assumed I had probably scared her, showing up at her house and all, not to mention leaving a dead rose. Weeks later, I got a long letter which started out, You probably thought….” and launched into a bunch of things I probably thought when I hadn’t heard from her (many of them, I did). The letter further advised that she had been in a strange place and asked that I patiently wait for her return. As was earlier established, of course, I am not the most patient of men and by now, so to speak, the bloom was off the rose. We went our separate ways, never to communicate again. Claudia graduated to PR director for the Breeder’s Cup and eventually married a Lexington blueblood. I assume she lived happily ever after. I still kind of wonder what she looked like.
That’s all, folks….
