Monthly Archives: June 2007

Fay’s Ray and Ray’s Fay

“All I’m sayin’ is, Ray’s the man to raise the manta-rays, Amanda Rae.”
“Oof, you just keep repeating yourself, y’know.. and it’s ‘Veranda’!”

“Yeah, I heard there was tribes who name the kid after, like, what crawled past the cave-entrance when she was born..”
I wanted her to know I was ‘studied‘, you know, like Margaret ‘n me’d been buddies, whatever got the job done..
“Anyway, Porchie, probably once or twice in his life, a guy gets to say something like that, and now you just blew it for me…”
   I was ‘manning’ the phone. Well, maybe Fay coulda picked a better man than me to do it, but I was free. Both ‘free’s. It’s a long story, but mostly short little words. I was in Monterey, my new home as of a week before, when I’d rented a little second-floor apartment above Fay’s place. Turns out she’d come out here almost the same week, back in 1970, from PA, and in a 122 Volvo to boot, just like me. But there the similarity ends; Hers was red, mine was grey, she stayed, I left.. oh and she’s a girl, and I’m not.
   And she’d just given up her year-long search for pocket change and mini-fame with her “Para-me-see-um Mu-se-um”, a storefront ‘hands-on’ attraction mostly for kids.
To see a world in a drop of water!” said the sign they were taking down. I loved that. So did she, but go figure. The place’d  been less ‘packed’ every day for months, and she’d decided to go for broke with a manta-ray.. A bigger tank, obviously.. the men were busy tearing out a wall when I’d carried my worldly possesions around them on the way up the stairs. At the top waited Ray. Fay’s Ray. Yeah, the guy who hangs out with Fay.. Ray’s Fay. To distinguish her from the girl they’d just hired just in case they’d need her, who was also, improbably, Fay.
“You’re hired. May we call you something else?” Fay looked up from her microscope.
“Well.. sure..I guess” The girl smiled obligingly. She needed a job.
Fey Fay” Ray was alway full of great ideas.. workable ‘solutions’, y’know. He held out his hand, to cement the deal.
“I’m Ray.. Fay’s Ray”, he announced, without a hint of the term’s ..oh…oddity. I gathered she’d already heard someone call him that. I was busy putting microscopes in boxes. Wouldn’t need ’em for the manta-ray, that’s for sure. Fay’d been in touch with a sorta secretive outfit in San Luis Obispo who’d agreed to supply a young one. They’d skirted the ban on import by declaring an independent nation, with all the trimmings, Fay explained. Only thing you had to do to get ‘citizenship‘ was to memorize and recite the National Anthem.. oh, and pay the ‘passport-fee’. Fay gave me the last five hundred bucks in her old account, and I spent maybe an hour getting two photos I could stand.. oh, and memorizing their wry little Hymn:
All Hail to Micro-nausea,
Where life’s a living hell
we vote in the ‘nighted nations
though we feel ‘a bit un-well’
Our melting pot gets stirred a lot,
Huddled masses turn to gel, but still
We welcome immigration..
To folks what knows to spell.
   Now the question was only who’d watch and feed the ‘baby’ as he (she?) quickly grew to exhibitable size. Fay was just high from the whole idea.. ‘Charles Manson can watch ’em, I care?’ was her attitude, but I kinda thought it’d be a perfect job for Ray, which was why I was glad when I was the one who got Amanda’s call from the supplier..

“They all said Fay’d fade away.. Now they’ll say Fay’ll fail with the ray-deal.. but Fay’s in phase two of the Greatest Success Story on Land or Sea!” Fay had allowed herself a bit of bravado as she left, left me in charge, and turned left on Cortez toward the Sea.
  So here I was trying to talk Miranda, whatever her name was, into not sending their dumb ‘expert‘ to grow up the ray. I went on a bit about how “Ray’s real good with fish..” Yeah, like I knew any more about what Ray knew about fish than he did, whatever that means. I had seen him order a McFish at the McDonalds down at the corner two nights ago. He’d said it tasted good. I tried to concentrate on that, as I summed up my presentation, and we’re back to the intro:
“Well s-o-r-r-y, Bud, I’m just thinking what’s best for the ray.”
I was with her there.. twice. (But how’d she know my name was ‘Bud?)
In the end she agreed to let ‘our people’ meet with ‘their people’ and then to deliver the goods.
“I did it!” I told Fay when she got back from the library. “It’s all set up.”
I knew Ray secretly did want continue in the ‘quarium bizness’, even though he was always going on, at least to me, about other ‘possibilities’. I decided to kinda let Fay tell me what she was hearing, without me asking, you know. I’m good at that, I’m told.
“Ray’ll rail on about cruel fate till you have to tell him to shut up, but I’m sure that, in a pinch Ray’d raid his Mom’s piggybank to stay right here” Fay shared.

“So let’s not forget Ray’s raise.” I smiled. Yeah, she’d forgotten that one.
“You know that Ray’s Mom’s ‘trivial‘?” I added, with an expectant glance.
“What does that mean?” Fay asked, all innocent.
“Oh, nothing special..  not all that important”, I bluffed, and then,
“If you want to read the little story I wrote about our first meeting, it’s right here.”
“That’s a link?” she said, like leaving our cozy home-page would be unsufferable.
“Yeah, but you can just click ‘back‘ when you’re done reading it, and I’ll still be here now“, I smiled, all reassuring.
“But you’ll be older, though” Fay actually looked saddened by the thought.
“Fay, we’re both in the primes of our lives, did I say that yet?”
Fay looked up at the ceiling, like she was looking for the script, or the teleprompter.
“No, don’t think so, but it’s true, I guess. Go up and get Ray, we’ll go to McDonalds again. I love fish, did I mention that?”

On the Waterfront:
     It was a cold rainy night the morning I spent the afternoon moving my wordly possesions into the place I’d just rented, a quaint apartment above a storefront on Cortez, off of Del Monte Ave. in Monterey, right near the Dock, the Wharf, and the Doc. Might need him after seven trips up and down the narrow stairs, each time holding the spring-loaded doors with whatever was left free, and all under the watchful eyes of my, I supposed, cross-the-hall UN Observer. I started to resent, or despise, or rue, his ‘neutrality’. I mean, it don’t take too much humanity to volunteer to help a guy hold a cussed door open. By the seventh trip, I was busy trying to remember how one ‘glowers‘. I thought that’d be an appropriate look. Would sound about right in a post I was gonna do about him, too, I was musing when I heard behind me:
“Call me Ray..Phase-Ray” He held out his hand. Seein as how I was all tied up, I just looked at the hand, glowered a look that I hoped screamed, “Yeah, it’s got five fingers, too bad you don’t know how to use it” and threw the last boxes on the floor just inside my door.
“Gonna write a story about you, Cosmic-Ray”, I said, as neutrally as I could manage.. I’d watch what he made of that..
“Yeah, it’s about homophones..” Good a time as any to see who I’m dealing with..
“Yer momma’s a homofoam!” Ray raised his head a little, but otherwise seemed oddly un-fazed.
“It’s ‘homophone’.. you know, like ‘phone home’?”

“..and I guess you could say.. um.. ‘my momma’s momma’s a homophone’.. but that’d be kinda trivial.
“Your momma’s
trivial !”
“Ooh, touche, Ray! There ya got me.. ya got me bad..”
“No, seriously, dude, who played that lack-luster gas-station attendant in the 1957 B-movie:
High School Hound Dog?”
I couldn’t tell yet who I was playing with, but a play it was, so hey, let’s see…
I thought for a moment, then I let it ‘hit me’!
“That was my Mom!” I said, like I was trying to squeeze every drop of small-town glory I could out of it.
“See, like I said, ‘trivia
“No, you said ‘trivial’. I wasn’t gonna pay for this bozo’s syntax.
“This whole thread’s trivial…” Ray’d decided to knock the chessboard off the table.
“You’re just saying that cause you’re a nazi..” I’d finally remembered how to glower, but by this time I saw Ray’s smile. He held out his hand in earnest, this time, and said:
“Hey, I’ll grab us a beer, then let’s go down and meet Fay


As time went by, without stopping..

   I‘m having trouble alphabetizing my tags: Does ‘pseudo-prose’ come before or after ‘pseudo-poetry’? Having sudafed you-all pseudo-food-for-pseudo-thought now for over a year, I can’t decide whether to call myself a ‘pseudo-pro-foundling’ or a ‘pro at the pseudo-profound’. I fear that any real pro, who, let’s say, profound me sitting here in my pseudo-clothes would recognize the Truth at once, and the Truth, as is its wont, would immediately ‘set him free’; free of wasting his professional time on me, a wastrel of the first order.
  To wit: my sad-sack re-do of ‘As Time Goes By’, from the classic movie “Casablanca” which I saw once, on my cheap loser’s TV, in black-and-white (ugh).. something about a guy named Rick, lives in a white house I guess, has this fear-of-flying, tells Erica Jong at the end to ‘get on that plane’… See, I’m a dilletante, like I said. Read the poem, and if you find a ‘deep meaning’, well, I’ll just create a new (unique) tag for it.

A ‘tear’ is just a ‘tear’,
it rhymes with ‘here’ and ‘there’
(but) on which, you never can rely..
a shame you only get one try
as time goes by..

When Black and Decker met
Tool-lovers went in debt
until Makita caught their eye
A fundament’ly better high
as time goes by

Free beer beside your bier
they wait and guess your weight
pall bearers barely bat an eye
profundity was worth a try
But time went by..

I could call this ‘the lament of the second-rate poet’, but I may find myself in a quarrel with wanna-be-bards vastly more second-rate than I, who will escort me unceremoniously to the ‘third-rate’ cheaper-seats area. Hey, it rhymed..I mean, damn..

Hey look what I found..

     While I work on a tour-de-horse of a post, (ok, you are of course entitled to call it a ‘pony express’) I would like to briefly but publicly annouce a recent ‘find’ here on Xanga. And by saying “Recent” I must unavoidably do a temporary injustice to solid, long-time “finds”, among them The Wheel, without which I’d be forced to walk to work, The Printing Press, important in its day, The Elgan; (anyone following my progress-as-a-xangan will note her yoeman’s contribution towards the type of inter-world I at least would agree to be a member of, (not to use a preposition to end a sentence with..) ok{)}, The Witty-handle, who’s informed wit should be a model to all, the Narrator, whose evocative prose and active on-line presence enriches everyone, and.. and here is the injustice part, and the countless (ok, I can’t count past twelve, sue me) beloved readers and commenters I’ve somehow irresponsibly failed to name specifically. To tell the truth, some of my most treasured correspondents here prefer a sort of limited annonymity, which I respect by not blabbing their names out in public.
   With that thought in mind, I want to say that this kid, if he can possibly be the age he claims, has given me permission to mention his site, which I found in one of my tedious random searches, and, as we say in Hebrew, “ate without salt” i.e. gobbled every word voraciously, wasting no precious time choosing condiments. There are short stories, characterizations, ‘what-is-it’s  there which are so totally ‘on’, so first-class, so chillingly wise and absurd together, that I turn to putty just reading them.
  I’m aware that lots of writers have been damned and damaged by glowing reviews. There is also the risk that someone who takes my advice and runs over there, someone who happens not to share my particular taste in writing, may be unimpressed, and even dock me a couple IQ points for his wasted time. Yes, this happens.. sometimes. But somehow I don’t think this is one of those times.
   And once again, every single sub you see in the list on the left went through a grueling process of proving him/her/?/self. That is to say that I could have written a “Find!” post on every one of them. I just didn’t, ya know why, ’cause I’m selfish, and mean, and I wanted them all to myself. So many of my subs who were once writing principally for themselves, have been grabbed into the fray. I wish I could pretend that this bothers me, for comic effect, but the truth is, I’m happy for them, and flattered to have my taste respected. Now go and read, but come back once in a while, ya’hear..

Did you mean to search for:{GOOLEG}?

    Well, a few nights ago, when Xanga crashed in the middle of a message I was sending, I realized that “..on the whole, I’d rather B in the C of A-zov”.
Remembering that “All rivers lead to the sea” (and in fact, they still do today in our present, tense world, especially with all the lead in the water, so I read, and even continue to read, at present.. sorry, english speakers), I started to plan my trip,by using my free time to Google “CRIMEA RIVER”.
Now of course, those playboys at Google can’t stand to see me knowing what I want when they don’t, so I got the (familiar by now):
“Did you mean {A CRIMEAN IDYLL}?
“Well hell yeah, now that you mention it, guys…sure, me and Sandra Bullock, three days and 7 nights, wet with desire and panting in unison by the Black Sea; yeah why not?”
I clicked on their ‘suggested-alternate’, but got, wouldn’t you just know:
“did you mean {AMERICAN IDOL}?”
Talk about the crib-death of a wet-dream! I quickly typed, “No, Dammit!” and hit *enter*. They were waiting there in Redwood:
“{NO} is a short and very common word, (‘I know that, shitheads, I hear it all the time!’) and was not included in your search. Did you mean to search for {DAM IT}?”
Well, at least now we’re back to rivers, but how can a dammed river flow toward the bloody sea? I mean, what-the-Hoover do these take me for.. a complete idiot? By now I’m {MAD}. Shit,I hit *enter* by mistake… I grab another beer and finish it in time to see:
Dam on the Mad River: 1973, film trivia.html
This, (like I love to say about un-employment) ‘isn’t working’. I’ll just start over. But first a quick check.. yup, Xanga’s still in 404 receivership, so I’m back to Google, but this time thinking globally.
Ok…{BLACK SEA}/ *enter*.
Oh no, here we go again: “Did you mean to search for {BLACK C}”?

Hmm.. how do you spell ‘maybe’? I hit *enter* and bingo,
Rachmaninoff: Prelude in C# Minor, Opus 3,No 2: download sheet music . Looks like now Google’s ‘transposing’ my search a half-step up, which is the direction in which I ‘give’, for now.
   I remember back to that first day I ever searched for anything on the net. I needed the op-codes for my 6502 microprocessor, a bunch of hex numbers for machine-language commands. I’d lost the book I got with the Commodore 64; (in those days you bought a computer to program, not to sit and watch). Anyway I spent about two days in Vain. Two days and seven nights there.. without Sandra, either. After deciding, (and indeed, loudly expressing) my feeling that “GOGLE SUCKS”, a friend of mine promptly spent, oh, 30 seconds and handed me a three-color chart printed out oh so nicely, right into my hot little hands.
“You gotta know what to search for.” she told me.
“I know what the hell I’m searching for, I been doing it for two days!” I reacted, maybe a byte un-tactfully.
“No, I mean, what to “search” for..” she explained, “ quotes.”

   Well ok. Nowadays I know what to “search” for, but Google has declared war, I suppose, and I’m typecast as a dimwit. I mean, I can enter, like {UNITED STATES} and I always get one-or-more, or usually all, in sequence, of the following:
“Did you mean {UNTIED ASSETS}?” 
“No, asshole, I’m broke.”
“Well then, how about {STATUS: UN-TIED}?”
“Nope, I’m happily in love, thanks..
“Then maybe:{‘TED’, IN  US  STATE}?”
“What is this, a freaking crossword puzzle? Hmm. That’d be M-A-S-S-and-chew-the-rest… um.. Ted.. Ted Chappaquidnick, something,”

“I’ll ‘un-edit your estates!”. I give up, almost. Just enough time left to right-click on “GOOGLE.COM” on the address bar, scroll to “Send-to?:”, and type: {GOOLEG!}. There ya go, don’t forget to write, sucka!
Mr. Google gulps hard, thinks for 0.137 seconds, and comes back with:
“Did you really mean…um… {GULAG}?
“Finally! Great second-guess, brotha, you get hard-labor with that trip, too, ya know, you pansy-assed bourgoise pseudo-intellectual enemy of the PPL, running dog of the info-tech conspiracy!”
I click *enter* on that, and smile, remorselessly, for once.
But not for long…
I’m astounded… and flattered, backwards and forwards!
“Wow, you remembered!” I typed. This was starting to feel like a ‘chat’
“Yes, we ‘cache-ed’ it. (here) Very inventive, solberg, a hell of a pallindrome, we read the story to each other in the work-out room here in Readwood”
“You ‘read’ or you ‘read’?”
I ask, since we’re already ‘friends’.
“You want the free ‘text-to-speech’ toolbar?” Google asks.
“Sure”, I type, though I am kinda wondering how it’ll tell the difference between ‘read’ and ‘read’.
“You got it, guy!” This took 1.414 seconds. I’m about to type “cya *smiles*” when Google comes back with the last word:
“We’re just playin wid ur head, kid, ’cause we like you… remember; “You cain’t always get what you want.. but if you take our advice… you might find.. you get what ya need..oh yeah.. you get what ya need..” I waited till the ‘Roiling Senots’ faded out completely, and shut off the computer.

Tania returns: One hose plus two hoes equals what, daddy?

   No, I don’t write about family. None of them lack for publicity, and it’s not their fault they chose me; why should they suffer even more? Salinger never even publicly admitted that he existed, after all. I know what you’re thinking: “J.D was a friend of mine, and frankly, solberg, you’re no Salinger”. My face flushes a bit, but I react quickly, “Yes, precisely, and all the more reason not to spill details.”
  But I must tell you that Tania showed up again, a day or so ago. Just a little unexplained sneeze in the guest-room, in the middle of the night. I quietly peeked in the door and there she was, curled up in her little foot-pajamas on the bed. She shows up from time to time. Always the same age, six (“..and a half, daddy!”) and we have a few beautiful days together. She does the xxx-berg’s. Alban Berg, Heisenberg, Strindberg, you name it, she’s got tales to tell. here. So me and Aliza decided to take the day off to go to the Zoo, (among other scenic destinations, which needed to be voted on).
“Teach me more counting..” she said, in that voice which makes you melt inside.
“Well, ok, let’s count votes”, I offered, “Who wants to stop at the Garden Center on the way to the Zoo?”
I was ‘fer it’, but Aliza’d had some previous bad experience with me draining our meagre discretionary budget on similar missions.
“To the Zoo, do not pass go, do not spend $200!”, she said. At least she made it clever.
“I’m with Mommy”, Tania smiled, the little traitoress.
“Well, all we need is one hose… and two hoes” I tried persuasion, and at the same time remembered our ‘counting’ theme-for-the-day.
Tania looked confused.
“One hose plus two hoes equals three hosies, right?”
“Oof.. it’ll only take ten minutes”
I lied.
“I’m still agin-it”, Aliza smelled victory. I was out-voted.
“Ok, the bitter results:”, I announced, “Two no’s and one aye; I lose”
“Isn’t that,
‘two eyes and one nose?”
Tania was clearly progressing backwards here.
“No, sweetheart; then I would have won..”
“You had one, silly, one vote, that’s why you lost. Be a mensch, nu..” Tania savored her victory, and we turned left on Mulholland at the “To the Zoo” sign.
   Good thing it was Tuesday. Tuesday’s “See the deer” day. They give ’em Valium or something, anyway they’re all out there, right next to the fence, where you can actually watch ’em do their thing, which is mainly… um… sleep.
“We’re paying to watch doe doze”, I kvetched, but only as a little quip, really. The deer really were dear. They’d better be, considering the extra ticket you had to buy to get to that area.
“I’ll have three tickets to the deer.” I stated, through the plate-glass.
“That’s one buck for one doe… and..” This from an 19-year old zoology major putting her way through the local community college, I guessed.
“Or maybe two deer, if it’s not too dear?” I’d decided to splurge, having saved a wad on the hose and hoes.
Tania was right there, rapt attention on her little face;
“Two bucks a hit to watch two doe doze!” She almost shouted at the girl. “They’re extinct, anyway, what, they didn’t clue ya in on that in “Critters 101“?
The student played it by the book. “Calls may be monitored for quality assurance“, she thought as she calmly explained to Tania that “Dodos can be seen, stuffed, in the Hall-o-Destroyed-Species, for a small fee, a penny of which goes to support our web-site”, and that further, “the does don’t ‘stink’, their offall is removed daily to add to the compost pile in the rear of the facility, which can be seen for an additional fee, one penny of which…”
“We could split up,”
Tania whispered in my ear, which tickled me, “ goes to the does, and two go to the kakki-dump..” She laughed. It was obvious ‘whom was whom’ in her little ‘compromise’.
“Stick to counting, for now” I smiled, and gave her a kiss on the top of her cute little head. Two guys, obviously ‘very much in love’, were waiting impatiently behind us in line. They stared with a mixture of sympathy, empathy, antipathy, and probably a couple other ‘pathies’ I’ll never understand. Both of them had the exact same expression, which made me feel even more ‘left out’. But Tania, bless her precious little heart, took my hand, threw the girl a twenty and said in perfect vernacular, “Keep the change, chompsky” and whispered again in my ear, again the tickle I can’t seem to forget, “Two gays, one gaze, daddy!”
“We could do this all day, sweetheart..” I was close to tears.
“Let’s” she laughed.

This is over my head

Yes, look up in the sky tonight, (unless you’re in Australia, in which case, look down). You’ll see what I did at GMT+2  10PM….this:

moon and friend

They’re really very ‘near’ each other tonight. Stunning, I’d say, and free, for a limited time.

Depending on your location, though, you might see this:

moon and close friend

That would be a sign from heaven… a sign you’re in a bad location!  Move immediately, and avoid eye-contact, even with your supposed ‘friends. They may no longer be who you think they are. Things like that happen; I’m just glad I could warn you.. in time.

Speaking of warnings.. oh wait, Walt’s gone already… Oh well, Disney can still sue Alfred E. Neuman, he’ll sue me, and then we’ll all just get Mad.



   N.B. (That’s Latin, of course; stands for ‘noteus briefus’, or maybe ‘Not Brutus!’)  At any rate, I’ve been getting the nicest comments lately. Just realized how lucky I am. Thoughtful responses, and in the ‘magic range’ between 1 and 20. More than that and nobody’s got time to pore through them, or worse, someone new might think I’d miss his comment in the crowd, (which I wouldn’t, however) and go away speechless. It’s dangerous to name names, but elgan’s careful thoughts on grammar and usage, swh’s tricky one-liners which usually have me rushing to google for clues, and the greatly-appreciated thoughts of at least a dozen no-less-beloved wits really make my day. I’ve developed a policy of responding here, rather than inserting a non-sequitor like “Ryc: Hahaha” below some xangan’s ‘Eulogy to my departed Mom’, for example, g-d forbid. Hope this is wise, even though it sometimes gives the impression that I got more comments than I deserve, haha. And as for “666 comments”, the thought leaves me cold. A 300 pound fly could in principle be built, but crawling across the ceiling would be a problem. So thank you all, and I do mean ‘you all’.

stepladder Just remember to put the ladder back, for the next reader to use, when you’re done with it. And be careful, of course… wouldn’t want to lose you.




   This ‘thingie’, as we in the trade call it, is either an attempt to discover the common thread to the ‘K-N’ sound in english, through use of a short narrative, or else just a pretense of doing so, in order to have fun and appear deep. Australians may view it as nothing more than evidence of a drinking problem, wrongly, in my case, but who am I to judge unfortunates who must deal daily with the practical problems of inverted life. Just kidding, I think

.    I usually turn the thing off before it finishes.. Wear and tear on the ‘on/off ‘ knob, I know, but it beats being driven insane in my own car by that inane radio spot: “If ya wanna keep yer kin-folk sane/ Buy Ken ‘n Barbie’s Sugar Cane.. now in the ten-pound can!”   Yup, they stole the tune from the old Pepso-dent “Wonder where the yellow went” jingle and sang it to the venal whining of accordians! I paid for Dolby-quality accordians?   

Reminds me of the old joke, two guys are captured by a gang of hostile natives. Given the choice of “Death, or Accordians” the first guy, wisely (so he thinks) goes with ‘Accordians‘. The second guy, on seeing his friend suffer listening to the ‘music’ till blood gushes from his ears and death by his own hand becomes his last release, decides, grimly, to embrace his fate by speedier means: “I chose Death!”, he announces, whereupon the leader of the natives commends him: “A wise choice.. ‘Death’ then… but first, a little Accordian…”
   Even racoons hate the cursed thing. A ‘coon, (who, with his keen sense of hearing, once yelled at me, from way down in the meadow, “Tighten that power-steering belt! I can hear it from here.”) proved his auditory acuity a few years ago when he stopped by one morning with a suprise request.  Hell, I didn’t even know there was a coin-operated koan-generator over at the 7/11 on Limekiln Road till he mentioned he was sueing them in court. He didn’t like listening to the Speak’n’Spell ‘readings’ (yes, with accordians!) that play when you get your printout. Plus he said the whole thing was a con-job anyway.. “..They take random clips outta Carolyn Keene’s “Nancy Drew” books, brute-force ‘cohenize’ ’em, and spit out the result.. for a quarter and two dimes!” That used to be real money.. you could get an ice-cream cone for a nickel back then. I was tempted to… when the coon gave me the 45 cents to get my koan.. the one he’d use as evidence in the class-action proceedings. But I relented, and stuck the coins in the machine. This came out, to the sound of… ‘one accordian flapping’..
Nancy drew a blank/
the ‘blank’ had Buddha nature/
We checked it at the bank/
Whodunit? Nomenclature. Wu!

    Somewittyhandle said some nice things about my site. (I just happened to be the first in line; one of, I hope, a long and varied line-up of short descriptions of xangans and their unique attributes.). A premium idea for an entry, a little tense maybe, like looking in the mirror, at my age, but at least we’re listening to a well-built mirror.
    The issue of “he’s over my head” did come up, and I wanted to go on record, forcefully, here, with my frantic plea: “It ain’t, and if it is, I didn’t put it there, not on purpose anyway..” I may adopt a “stars” system, (or maybe I’ll use little step-ladder icons) to indicate posts which are:
1) straightforward as all get-out, intended for Three’s Company TV fans,  or
2) Medium overheadedness, no math, no lit-puns, no foreign tongues, or, gourd-forbid: 
3) ‘Extension-ladder posts’, which, through no fault of my own, I’ll probably die not knowing exactly what the point was. (See, we’re all in the same boat, haha). So come back, one and all, even Greenray. His Bertrand Russell tromps my caterpillar-pix any day, for depth. In fact, I’m tromped by most of the sites I read, except maybe in the ‘quirky’ category. Enough. 
   Now to a few quick brief transitory ephemeral thoughts: (and yeah, I don’t know what ‘ephemeral’ means.. I just liked the way it sounds. Oops, my secret’s out)
1) Decided to bypass “Truthiness” and also my fave, “Insightiness” in favor of “All-truistic ©”. It’s already got audience-acceptance; all we gotta do is start using it in its new meaning, say, once a day and Bingo!, I’m in Webster’s ©, (the thick one with the “first-use” citations.) Of course I don’t mind if someone else gets the credit.. whatever’s in the common best interest, I say. Reactionary me.
2) I missed Sir Rebrum Smyth’s wedding. He married Sarah Bellem in a gala ‘meeting of minds’. Heard the whole ganglia was there, but the invitation I got was like, “over my head” and I never figured out what they were talking about till a week after the event. Damn.
3) And here’s a little remedial English lesson. It’s aimed at kids of all ages, and rated “Duh?”
  Positively indefinite article.
   There’s a big difference between “a mouse” and “the mouse“. “A mouse” could be just about anyone.. with a tail and cute ears. But “the mouse“, well, we know him.. he’s been mentioned, talked about, maybe introduced. Definitely. He could be “over here“. in which case he’s “this mouse“, or alternatively, “over there“, which makes him “that mouse“. QOD. But in either case, we may still have a problem.

    He may be using, by fiat and whim, a rare connotation, in which “The Mouse” has him standing in for the whole furtive species: “What does House Bill R-211 mean for “the mouse?“. Will they benefit, or lose status/cheese/voting-rights/etc?. Now an unknown cat could be brought in to ‘solve‘ the problem, speaking euphemistically. We’d have A cat and the mouse”. Or of course we could use a ‘familiar feline’, (one who’d been previously ‘mentioned’ {see above}, on orders to just randomly lash out at the first unknown mouse it sees. This would be, gramatically speaking, The cat and a mouse”.
Barring that, we could of course deal verbally with the problem… Curse him: “Damn, that mouse!”, or praise him: “What a mouse!” or even damn him with faint praise: “Not a bad mouse, I suppose, considering..”
    “Considering what!”
    “Hey, he speaks!”
    “Excuse me, it’s ‘she‘ speaks!”
    “Oops, sorry, I just assumed, you know, since you’re the leader of a world-power..
    “We will bury you!”
    “Hmm.. didn’t work the last time, but this time you got four shoes..”
    “Yes Capezios ™, in ‘power-pink’.. not a bad accessory-choice, considering.. my humble upbringing..”
And on that confront-tutu-torial note we must up-bring this lesson down for its 10K service. (The rest of the dialogue was over both of our heads, trust me). Just remember, “the” mouse by any other name is just “a” mouse. Pop-quiz on Tuesday.

New!- the improved “Easy-Lay” egg

   Don’t like to use coarse language, but I’m only quoting a chicken here, and she insisted on “verbatim, or no deal!” The subject is a speculation about who decided that apartment walls with an evil ‘texture’ which makes 20 grit sandpaper feel ‘smooth‘ are an acceptable finish in a residence intended for humans.
   I suppose there are a lot of things I don’t understand about the Middle-East yet. Another sixty years and I may even find out why turn-signals never caught on in our little self-inflicted Driving-Hell-on Earth. I watched from the third-floor window in Jaffa all day as driver after driver decided to blithely park his motorized-door-stop in the middle of a busy one-lane, one-way street below. Guess ’cause he really wanted to sit for a while in that little coffee-shop, and by just abandoning his car (and leaving the door hanging open, for enhanced ‘stopping-power) he could save himself a couple tired steps getting there. “Himself” is the operative word here. Only after a line of at least six infuriated horn-blowers ensues do these creature waddle out, to… to argue with their fellow-man about “What’s the problem, ya hatikhat hara?” A total abyssmal incapacity to conceive of anyone else’s needs perpetuates this farce of an existence.

   I‘m sorely tempted to declare them a new species.. like ‘homo solo-mio’, something like that. {Generally, the discover is allowed to choose the name, even to immortalize his own name, or his mom’s in the new Linneaus-ism . My mom already said ‘No thanks’. That makes two of us.}
   But back to the rough surfaces. I spent the day skim-coating every square centimeter (one cm.=approx thirteen yards, nine feet, seven and fifteen-sixteenth inches, two quid and about half a guinea, for the metrically stunted) with joint compound… and felt like I was finally inventing the new “Easy-Lay”™ egg. If these goons who did the walls would have been responsible for egg-design, there’d be no surviving members of that species to pet, to see to their dental needs, and finally, to make into tasty schnitzel in pita with humous and t’hina. As the first (and last) Hen who was asked to lay an egg designed by these “Old-world tradesmen” recalled to this reporter, her reaction was, in two words, (which echoed my sentiments while dealing with their walls): “F#ck this…!”

“I still say it moves..”

…Galileo, under his breath, after his 1633 ‘witch-trial’ where he ‘decided‘ to abandon certain planetary-motion theories.

    Animations aren’t easy to do on a static HTML page. The trick is to get all the wheels turning without causing a ‘general system error’. But hard work pays off. In all fairness, I may owe some of the credit to a certain Gil’ad Zuckerman.. but then he didn’t tell me to whom he owed credit. When printed on plain paper, it mysteriously stops turning… probably it’s powered by the monitor’s power-supply…