Thing is, Marty Jourard always wanted an orphanage of his own. While the other grade-schoolers were bandying about the relative merits of future careers in masonry or fire control or professional rugby, Marty never wavered in his own choice. When it came his turn to comment, Marty would invariably say, “I am going to have my own orphanage.” And since Marty was just a normal kid in all other respects, his friends would just roll their eyes, pat him on the back and tell him, “Marty, you’re crazy. But you’ll change your mind.” After all, how many people end up running an orphanage?
As the years passed, Marty remained resolute, even as he took note of a troubling occurrence: the number of orphanages extant continued to dwindle, eventually to a pitiful few. Marty was certain this could not be a factor of diminishing need. “Where will all the orphans go?” he often wondered. Indeed, it was a vexing conundrum.
Marty became fascinated with the world of music. He learned to play several instruments and joined a rock-n-roll band, the Motels, and travelled the land, entertaining millions, but thoughts of his eventual calling were never far away. One night, ensconced in the bosom of a chubby groupie, he seemed particularly down. The worried girl asked him, “Martin—you seem out of sorts. Is everything all right? Have I done something ungroupielike?”
“No, no, my little flower,” he answered. “I was just thinking of my orphans out there. They need me.”
Time passed, as time has been known to do, and Marty Jourard finally retired from the rock-n-roll business. He moved to the Seattle area and took up with a young mother of two, settling down in comfortable surroundings, writing books, teaching music, leading a fulfilling life. Except….
Then on one particularly fine day, a rare day for the state of Washington, a magnificent rainbow appeared over the horizon following a bracing sprinkle. Marty was riding his bicycle through the streets of Seattle’s suburbs and he slowed in awe as he considered this miraculous sight. He began hearing voices in his head and grew a little dizzy, quickly pulling his vehicle up at the side of the road. He looked to the heavens. The voices were clearer now: “Martin, my son—you will go forth and save the children!” And then they told him how he’d do it.
Marty created his own modern orphanage, a website called Gettin’ Down In Gatortown, which is devoted to the rock-n-roll roots of G’ville, circa 1962-1976. But it’s more than that. Centered around the music of the era and the people who made it—some very famous, some just plain folks—Marty’s website celebrates the lifestyle that surrounded and contributed to the music of the era. His orphanage walls are papered with album covers, posters, fliers and newspaper stories of the times and his bedrooms are filled with orphans from back in the day, who return daily or weekly or just every so often to reflect on those beloved times. They are scattered to the four winds, these orphans, some in enviable conditions, some in the belly of the whale and an unfortunate few in the End Days. Many of them would be sad and lonely, lacking nourishment, but they have been taken in and saved by Marty’s vision, they have a place to return to as often as they need, where they will be greeted by fellowship, enjoy wisdom, converse with brothers. The old Gainesville can never die as long as Marty Jourard’s orphanage remains.
It is no contest, therefore, than Marty Jourard wins the Golden Pastry Pin as this year’s Second Perhaps Annual Internet Man Of The Year. In addition to the enhanced status the Award immediately delivers, there is also the matter of the traditional gratis meal for two at the charming Lynn’s Bistro in Kirkland. They’ll be waiting for you, Marty, just give them a call. Suzie knows all. And for those of you who sometimes feel like a motherless child, help is on the way: In the form of https://www.facebook.com/groups/159046777481720/
Come on down!
Man Of The Year, Down On The Farm
The Year Of The Reefer
Our Chinese brethren have informed us that 2014 is The Year Of The Horse. We certainly hope it is the year of OUR horse. God knows we’ve been waiting long enough. For Coloradans, however, it is finally the year of the spliff, as marijuana comes to town in all its legal glory. We knew there was something we liked about Colorado. There is, of course, urban Colorado and….well….rural Colorado. The rural Coloradans aren’t so sure their urban neighbors haven’t let the smoke get in their eyes. They are adamantly opposed and are warning of impending doom. Therefore, it was good to see the first day of legal pot sales in the Centennial State pass without some lunatic, stoked on weed, purloining a school bus and absentmindedly driving it into the town reservoir. Or a chanting society of naked hippes circling the Boulder City Hall, singing “All We Are Saying Is Give Weed A Chance!” The whole thing went off without a hitch, although there is always tomorrow. The State of Washington is scheduled to follow suit in mid-March--before you know it Mississippi and Alabama will be the only holdouts, and who wants to live there, anyway? Dirt-poor West Virginia, by the way, is enviously eyeing the enormous tax potential of legalizing drugs. Not wanting to be accused of copy-cat tactics, however, state administrators (also known as Rufus and the boys) have decided to eschew marijuana and go straight to legalizing methamphetamine. The Hell’s Angels have advised the Wheeling Chamber of Commerce they will be moving in forthwith.
The Year That Was—Part II
In our annual recap last week, we got about halfway through 2013, almost to the part where we went to the OBS August yearling sale and bought a colt named Bull Ensign, who, thanks to the universal horse birthday of January 1, just became a two-year-old. We took him to Chucky Cheese to celebrate the occasion. They made us sit on the patio. Bull Ensign is galloping daily down the road at Barry Eisaman’s horse emporium, the better to be ready for a racing campaign starting this Spring. Cosmic Flash, now three, is almost ready for his first work and should return to Miami sometime in February.
August was also the month of our annual trip out west, this time to glistening Rocky Mountain National Park. Bill got to buy a cowboy suit just like he had when he was five years old. Well, except for the mask. It’s one thing to wear a mask when you’re a little kid, something else to try it when you’re codgerly. Invariably, the cops show up and try to return you to the…ahem, retirement home. No amount of explanation will suffice—grandpa has simply gone off the tracks again. Frankly, I have no idea how The Phantom gets away with it. I mean, he’s older than I am.
While in Colorado, Bill and Siobhan got to visit the tiny hamlet of Grand Lake, where Bill lost his wallet and had it hand-delivered back to him by the exemplary police personnel of the area. Earlier, with the aid of the mysterious Zyto Machine, Bill discovered part of his stomach issues derived from sugar intolerance, the prescription for which involved abstinence and ginger supplementation. Siobhan and Bill hiked many a trail and even met up with Larry, The Friendly Ghost. They travelled to tiny Nederland, future marijuana commercial center, and stomped around Denver, spending several days alone trying to figure out how to get off Colfax Street, a weighty puzzle created by Beelzebub, himself.
In the absence of its major domo, Siobhan’s business, Pathogenes, Inc., was presided over by her brother, Stuart, who managed to keep all the balls in the air. Pathogenes continues to grow, apparently requiring more and more furniture, since this little room is now devoid of it, everything having emigrated next door to the hungry colossus. I have inherited Siobhan’s old office, from which these weekly paeans are created, and I am giving due consideration to the appropriate changes, possibly including a massive hot tub-computer desk combo to keep me relaxed while I create. Who says there are no countries for old men?
2013 was the year that Zombies took over the world. Before that, it was Vampires. We’re avidly awaiting the return to popularity of Frankenstein and the Wolfman and eventually Abbott and Costello. When we were little kids, we went to what we called “horror movies” featuring all these sorts of characters. Our mothers used to scold us for “wasting your time on that nonsense.” Now, of course, if you are even a middle-income vampire or zombie, you’re probably rich. Mothers didn’t know everything. Remember how they hated those comic books and always threatened to (or actually did) throw them out? How much is that Volume 1, Number 1 issue of Superboy worth now, Ma? More than our whole house. And what about those baseball cards we “threw money away on”? Like to have one of those Honus Wagners in your back pocket these days? You could get a Lear Jet for one of those things.
In October, we got goats. And eventually, goats begetting goats. The Caprine population topped off at ten before Pete The Goat Man returned to round up all but two of the critters a couple months later. The idea was the goats were supposed to eat up all the vegetation on our new acre-and-a-half piece of property, saving us the time and expense of either importing labor or doing it ourselves. I guess you could call it a draw. The goats ingested maybe half of the offending plants but left the poison ivy, as both of my arms will attest. We’re clearing out the rest. Wearing long-sleeved shirts.
We also ended up with Bugs the Donkey. It’s always dangerous going on animal-buying trips with your friends because sometimes YOU wind up with an unexpected boarder. One of Siobhan’s employees, Lark Schweiss, thought she might like to purchase a mule. Lark recruited Siobhan to go along with her. They ended up at a donkey farm where Lark found a strapping prospect and Siobhan found a dying baby who hadn’t nursed in many a day. Lark bought the big guy and the donkey man threw in the doomed baby. When the Schweiss parents decided their property should be an onager-free zone, we ended up with the couple here. Siobhan has been caring for the baby since, first feeding him every two hours until he turned the corner, now four times a day. Bugs is astonishingly better. Matter of fact, he’s raising hell. Anybody out there looking for the Donkey of their Dreams? We’ve got a champion and the price is right.
Resolved:
In 2014, to strive for intellectual, spiritual and physical improvement in all areas. One of the problems with getting old is we feel we’re doing great if we just hold our ground, don’t cede any more territory to Father Time. The idea of forging ahead with significant improvements is a scoffable offense. Understandable, of course, but not necessarily correct. I firmly believe in the ancient advice to the mercantile trade—’'A business that is not growing is dying.” This does not mean I will be striving for the golden ring in any Iron Man Triathlon contests or running up Pike’s Peak in my bare feet. Just looking for a little incremental progress is all. If anyone else is so inclined, a good place to start is with Nine Ways To Make Yourself Smarter. Basic stuff which almost everybody knows but may need to be reminded of: articles.mercola.com/sites/articles…/good-brain-health-tips.aspx
Also, get out of the house now and then. There are things to do all around you that you wouldn’t imagine. Take a vacation. Think about taking a vacation. I was writing back and forth with Leslie Logan the other day and she mentioned Glacier National Park. I told her a train from Washington state (Leslie lives in Oregon) passed right through the place. After due consideration, she thought that might be perfect. When I last left Leslie, she was Googling Glacier National Park by train. A voyage of a thousand miles begins with but a single step.
Happy New Year! For all 52 weeks….
