June is aging, taking on water, challenging record temperatures as Florida slides inevitably into The Torpid Season. The residents search for relief at beaches and lakes, in crowded plastic backyard pools and air-conditioned shuffleboard courts. The hills are no longer alive with the sounds of joggers. Ice cream stocks are up. The cute little coeds at UF are wearing even less clothing, God bless them. And as usual, Bill and Siobhan are preparing for their July vacation somewhere cooler.
In the meantime, inbetween time, The Flying Pie must attend to the daily mail. It would be difficult to describe to the average reader the variety of missives which descend on TFP offices after each column. We get praise, complaints, suggestive comments, odd questions and offers to hook up with “lovely Filipina women.” We also get, as do you all, mysterious notes, mostly on Messenger, from Chinese women we were never properly introduced to. Most of them start like this: “What are you doing?” No foreplay, no laying the predicate, no warmup pitches in the bullpen, just “What are you doing?” Good question. What the hell are we doing, anyway? It’s apparent this Chinese inquiry is meant to prod us into reassessing our agenda, reconsidering our approach, reevaluating our behavior. There is an obvious philosopher on the Eastern end of the conversation, perhaps someone we may learn great lessons from. Cautiously, we proceed.
Quo Vadis
My Significant Asian Other is Jho, who differs from most would-be Chinese correspondents in admitting to 37 years of age and sending a nice but not mindboggling photo of herself. The conversation so far:
Jho: Hello, Bill.
Bill: Hello, Jho. I have heard from some pessimistic friends that there are actually internet scoundrels who pretend to be attractive Chinese women to take advantage of silly American men. Say it isn’t so, Jho. (This is where typical trolls usually drop out. Not Jho, though.)
Jho: Yes, I know there are many hooligans on Facebook who steal other peoples’ Facebook. I don’t know if you’ve met it. I often receive harassing messages and pornographic pictures from strangers. But fortunately, I’m not often on Facebook.
Bill: Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out. So tell me—what are you up to these days?
Jho: I’m outside now. I’ve been busy with work recently. You can call me Linda. How are you recently? What are you busy with?
Bill: Well, first, I don’t feel right calling you Linda. The name brings up sad childhood memories. You will remain Jho, as God intended. I am busy with being a writer and a wiseguy. Maybe I will write about you. You are the only person I know from China. (Another opportunity to bail, but nope.)
Jho: Thank you. Before Covid broke out, I traveled between California and Hong Kong every year. I invested in restaurants in California. I guess you’ve heard of Panda Express. A few years ago I went to the Gulf of Mexico in Naples. The white beach is very beautiful and impressive.
Bill: Indeed it is. So tell me, Jho—what can I do for you today?
Jho: Why are you doing something for me? I don’t need you to do anything for me. We don’t know each other but you’re on a list of people I might know. So I sent you a friend application and a letter. If I disturb you, I’m really sorry.
Bill: You do not disturb me one bit. I’m sure you are a wonderful young lady of outstanding character and impeccable breeding. (Jho sends a photo, asks for one of me. I dispatch one taken in San Francisco’s Chinatown. So far, so good. In case you’re worried, please notice I have not offered any arcane information about my life and habits. To be continued.)
We’re Still Looking For Lois Lane
We here at The Flying Pie sincerely hope this thing with Jho works out. Every important internet publication needs a savvy correspondent in Hong Kong and so far she’s it. You, the simple reader, may not realize this but it takes a top-flight core of discriminating reporters to collect and glean the important news items we bring you each Thursday. For instance, Patricia McKennee covers the San Francisco Bay area with her own brand of alert sarcasm, Deb Peterson patrols the Oregon beaches, Marty Jourard keeps us up on Seattle and doubles as our expert on hotel carpeting news. Kathy Scanlon and Sheila York Segue around New England eating clams and reporting all the hockey scores.
Danny Levine of Savannah has a dual job as chief of the Art History and Motorcycles Division. If that seems incongruous, you don’t know Danny. When we want news of the Idaho and Montana militias, we turn to Johnny Bolton, who doubles as our expert on right wing Republican causes. Debra Adelman Wynn is our contact with God, who recently abandoned the Fox network and now speaks exclusively to her. In a pinch, Harolyn Scott can fill in.
We are amply supplied in the Music Department with funnyman Ron Thomas, budding cub reporter Mike Boulware and Paco Paco, whose real name is Clark Kent (shh, don’t tell anybody). Famous agrarian Chuck LeMasters can tell you more about weed than you really want to know. In a crisis, Gina Hawkins will promptly arrive with battery cables, a towbar and a club sandwich. She also keeps a headlamp in her car for after-dark emergencies.
That about covers it except for old-timer Irana Zisser, who has been with us since the Nixon administration. Irana is chief of the Body Parts Bureau, having had more of them than anyone since the Two-Headed Boy of Bengal (1783). Once is not enough for Ms. Zisser, who has doubled up on hips, knees and shoulders and is scheduled for ear replacement surgery this summer. She will promptly answer any questions readers may have, but only after kvetching about her deteriorating condition, great personal disappointments and life in The Villages. Irana, like many of us, takes a lot of editing.
You’re Pulling My Leg!
Long-time readers are aware that Bill avails himself on a regular basis of the therapeutic benefits of massage. We are talking serious business here, not wink-and-a-nod rubdowns at the Asian Palace of Sin. I have benefited over the past several years from the sophisticated stylings of Sheree, Melissa and Lily, who rub you the right way, eliminating the heartbreak of neuritis, neuralgia and old bones. Recently, however, I have discovered a new heroine, Desdemona, Ministress of Pain. You are not going to her place for tea and sympathy, to discuss astrological cusps or listen to whistling bowls, you are going to suffer and be saved. Don’t bother with the small talk and don’t even think about telling her what to do. You don’t take the mask off that old Lone Ranger and you don’t mess around with Dez.
Desdemona, you see, is a practitioner of Thai (translation: it hurts) massage. She uses hands, feet, elbows, knees, thumbscrews, cattle prods and whatever else she has handy to restore your body to its original starting place. This involves intense pressure, taffy-machine stretching and worrisome noises. Thai work is done on a large mattress on the floor. Above the mattress, there is a harness which lets the therapist attack you from above without falling on top of you (most of the time). The books will tell you that Thai massage is a traditional therapy combining acupressure, Indian Ayurvedic principles and assisted yoga postures. Don’t believe them—it’s war, all-out war. And you, my friend, are the foolish volunteer.
It’s best the massagee be a masochist or at least a glutton for punishment. A little experience with a dominatrix will help. Don’t bother bringing candy or offering a big tip, neither rain nor snow nor bribes nor dark of night will stay these therapists from the not-so-swift completion of their appointed rounds. Desdemona wants you for 90 minutes, no sissy-stuff one-hour sessions allowed. No pause that refreshes, bathroom breaks or stoppage for calls to the police. You try to remember the ancient lyrics to It Only Hurts For A Little While but crash on rough seas. Time marches on. You think about buying Donald Trump a gift coupon. You ruminate back to the gentle days of high-school football. You try to edge slowly away from the Mitts of Death, but it’s hopeless. As with all adventures, however, eventually the party is over. You gather up your things, get dressed, pay the smiling harpy and stumble out to the parking lot, hoping to make it to the car.
Then, suddenly, the rain stops, the sun rises in the East and a chorus of angels appears, floating above the parking lot singing The Hallelujah Chorus. Incredibly, the pain is gone, the problem you began your day with is rectified and you feel capable of rassling alligators. There’s a spring in your step as you bound through your day.…as if gravity has suddenly been rendered moot. We insiders call it the Ah, I can breathe again! moment.
As The Bard once said, you pays your money and you takes your chances. Now and then you pick the long straw. Filled with hutzpah, confidence and your free bottle of Zephyrhills, you smile happily and recall the wise words of the old sage, “Some days are diamonds, some days are stones.”
Some days are both.
Political Ramblings
“War has rules. Mud wrestling has rules. Politics has no rules---Ross Perot
“Vote for me or I’ll kill you.”---Lieuen Adkins
As a mere lad of 17, I was wandering the Oklahoma State University campus in search of amusement and came upon a lighted hall with all manner and make of activity attendant. I went inside and discovered the candidates for president of the freshman class would soon be on stage presenting their credentials. Two jolly young men were doling out coffee and pastries so I partook and sat down.to see what I could see.
The first kid, a rumpled goober from Anadarko, mumbled and stumbled his sad offering. The second, a fratrat from Sigma Phi Epsilon, beamed at the crowd, waved and acted like he’d been doing this sort thing all his life. His name was Randy McDandy or something close. He delivered his speech with sugary aplomb, waved some more and left the stage to great applause. Basically, he said nothing.
I looked around, waiting for the next candidate but that was it. Are you kidding, I wondered, I’m not even finished my donuts. And then I did what I have an odd habit of doing, sticking my nose in other people’s business. I walked up to the stage and became the third candidate for freshman class president. Not for long, though.
The crowd stirred, uneasily, most of them shills for the SAE. Who is this guy? What is he doing? We had this election all sewed up. Grumble grumble. As with many schools, the Interfraternity Council gets together, selects a Greek candidate and walks off with the election. Independent students, for the most part, don’t give a whit. The poor fools thought I might be raining on their parade. Fortunately, noone was selling fresh fruit outside and I made it through my talk unscathed. Randy McDandy came up to me afterward, smiled, shook my hand and said, “I hope we can work together for the betterment of the freshman class.” It was hilarious. That was the extent of my campaign. The fratrat won by a million votes and went on to govern forgettably. The goober became one of my best friends and got me a date with the prettiest Indian girl on campus. All in all, not a bad start for a political rookie. Nonetheless, it was almost a decade before I returned to the political wars.
In the mid-sixties, my Gainesville friend Michael O’Hara Garcia and his faithful Indian companion Ernie Litz were boosting a guy named Charlie Shepherd for UF Student Body President. Garcia, realizing my deep experience in creating a DUMP DEAN HALE! poster to advocate ousting a particularly odorous Dean of Students, placed me in charge of creating a compelling poster which the dorm kids could stick in their windows, to be seen from below. I knew the poster needed to be two things: simple and visible. I did my job, Charlie Shepherd roared from behind and won and I got good football tickets for a year. After that, I retired permanently from politics, though I must admit to sending a few bucks his way every time my old pal Harvey Budd ran for one office or another. When you’re not paying any attention to politics, however, your town gets run over by morons and profiteers and you find yourself looking up at twelve-story buildings where there used to be trees.
Aesthetically, Gainesville, Florida is on the ropes. Moreover, the buildings get bigger and uglier, the opportunities for small local entrepreneurs shrivel up and funkiness becomes a lost art. We need a hero. “He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon and he’s gotta be larger than life.” Two out of three’s not bad so we choose Gary Gordon, last seen imitating The Mad Hatter at The Last Tango. Gary is intelligent, politically astute and carries a spiffy moral compass. If you want to keep Our Town from slip-sliding away, get on the bus, Gus. Jump on the train, Wayne. Relief is just an election away. Besides, if you err or abstain, Lieuen Adkins will kill you.
That’s all, folks….
