Monthly Archives: November 2009

‘Let the Buyer Be!’-ware: Software Review.’MS-InAn ‘O’

     Ok, I’m not telling anyone what to be, or do, or fondle/ grab a-hold of in life. ‘Love is a many-splintered thing.’ Yet some products, in my engorged opinion, are over the line.
Like Micro-soft’s MS-In-an-O©,  for example. Bundled with some versions of Win-7, I guess it’s supposed to be a game… you know, like Solitaire. I played it. Big deal. Not like I never ‘saw a grown woman nekkid’, as they say. And yeah, in Real Life it often takes less than…um.. three hours-fourteen minutes(!)  (my ‘best time’ so far in this dumb game) to un-zip their logos.

Basically, the player ‘solves’ puzzles, presented at random, and the reward for correct answers is the disappearance, bit-by-goddamn bit, of the MS logo covering up the ‘object-of-desire’s mammary structures.
The game is marred by needing to use both the mouse, with one hand, and key-stroke entries with the other. Duh?
Anyway, the old joke about ‘Windows played backward loading satanic messages’ was never more relevant. Load this one backwards and you’ll see why I give it a two thumbs-down; the crass anything-for- a-buck/ objectification-of-the-female-body crowd reveals its true colours.
The girl is kinda cute, though. Another $9.95 and you get to see her face. She loves swimming, long walks on the beach.. oh and posing for schlock soft-porn soft-ware. There’s a cheat after the fourth question, but she told me not to talk about it on Xanga.


“The Answer, mon ami, is Blowing out the Window”

    “You write with your right hand?” She asked, just to bug me.
“Nope. Use a pen.” I managed to reply, then found my place in the final equation.
An hour earlier we’d been lying in bed. From three to four. ‘Our Hour’, we called it. Always the next-to-the-last Tango.
“I love you.” she lied. “So do I.” I me-too-ed.
Sharing a Bordeaux with Bridgette Bardot in her boudoir. And were we ever bored? Oh… no, never. The question is un-rhetorical.
“How’d I ever land Bridgette?” I asked myself. I don’t know; we just kinda ‘hit it off.’ Whatever that means. Who’s hitting whom? And off what? And where’s the relevance to Bismuth’s role in fixing the azimuth of the Isthmus of Thymus?
 I scratched out Line 72. Bridgette raised the blind, letting the sun shine into the room. A view of the fabled Rue du Lazzare below. A breeze caught my papers. Cross-ventilation.
“What is it?” Bridgette asked, just to bug me.
“Wind through the windows.”  I managed to wind up replying, then found my place in the final equation.
“No, what you’re writing?” she asked, just to…
“Theory of Everything. A ‘TOE'” I managed to…
“Well step on it.” She sounded impatient. Oof. As if we didn’t have all day…
A page blew off my desk. Our desk. Rows of calculations and perfume bottles. One of them spilled over onto the last page as I made a futile attempt to catch it in an error. The ink rohrshached into inconsistent hobgoblins. I felt sad. Missed my angel….Bridgette looked at it and laughed.
“It all in Aleutian, now, n’cest pas?”
“Not all. I still have my ‘Oy, How things work.’ charts.”
I managed to reply, through tears. “The Build-it-Yourself Mini-Van-Gogh-Bi-Hive” I said, just to bug her. She’d never accepted that for inclusion.
“What’s the Bering?” Straight to the point, my Bridgette. That’s why I landed her, and wound up wounded.
“I mean,” she continued,”… you take an old VB Bus, paint Sunflowers on it, fill the back with dinosaur eggs, saw off one of the rear-view mirrors, crack open the vent-window and put the bees in. Dumb.”
“You forgot the Queen.”
I defended my treatise. I’m not used to being called ‘dumb’. Not yet, at any rate. It even makes me stutter. Just noticed that. At Orly. I made a wrong turn I guess, and a security guard asked
me “Quelle est votre destination, dummy?”
I told him. ‘I’m su-supossed to be-be-headed there.” He just swiped his finger across his neck, flipped me the back of his hand and walked away in his stupid DeGaulle hat.
“Anyway, the Mongols headed east.” I told her. Right into Alaska. Some of ’em, anyway.”
“In VW vans?”
Bridgette wasn’t buying it. Not that that little techno-quibble blew my paper out of the water. Or into the Eau. Speaking of which:
“Wanna play ‘jump-on-the-bed ‘again?” she asked, closing the blind. “We still haven’t tried Everything, Theoretically speaking.”
“That’s why I love you, I guess, possibly.. perhaps.”
I put down my pen.”Fine. And you get to be ontopic this time.”

Wu: Sometimes I wonder what it’s all about.
Me: Don’t we all!
Wu: Pink Background=Love, right?
Me: Um, yeah mebbe, theoretically speaking.
Wu: So that’s not what you’re driving at?
Me: Ich vays? I grab the steering wheel just to look
‘in-charge’. But there’s no longer any connection to the tie-rod arms.
Wu: Hmmm.. So I suspected. And this girl. You love her?
Me: *sighs* I’m not sure we understand each other
completely. We do see eye-to-eye at times, depending…
Wu: On the position?
Me: I didn’t say that.

Feather in the cap for the Zionist Entity

I feel a need to take time out from my silly fly-boy zoo-o-eroticism to smell the roses:
A deep-thinking Xangan and her well-above-average (to quote Garrison Keilor) husband treated me to a visit here yesterday. A productive conversation was had by all. I apologize only for my choice of restaurant: Only breakfast-fare had they, and alcohol needed to be purchased, horrors, warm beer, from the kiosk across the street. Never-the-less, I’m now 4 for four in the successful ‘Let’s meet’ dep’t. Not that any of my tactful friends here on Xanga would let it slip: ‘Um.. we expected the Wizard of Oz; who’re you? A little schmuck who pulls the levers two days a week?’ My guests’ proficiency with the byzantine Israeli Train schedules astounds me. I am also proud, on my own account, of having been at the station on time. Funny how one always exits a meet-up wishing he’d had at least a month during which to to enjoy the delightful meeting of minds. Oh well, they may soon be proud (tax-paying) citizens of my fine little democracy in the Middle East. That alone justifies lettuce-for-breakfast this morning, as opposed to my usual hops ‘n barley fare.
    Any Reader who ever fantacized about a quick jaunt to Israel is hereby heartily invited to check ticket prices. I’m here for you. And I’ll try to finesse the menu-items as per your desire./ Yonatan, yer troubled friend in the troubled middle east.

Pornithology: Sex with fowls and vowels

Ain’t you glad you ‘subbed’ to my site. Where else could you get the ‘birds-eye lowdown’ on this hot xanga issue, whatever that’s worth

An Ostrich is six feet tall and so am I. That doesn’t mean she’ll anatomically fall in love with me. They kick rear-ward. One poorly timed caress and you’re disemboweled. Pass on Ostrich. trust me on that. just sayin’...

No, your best bet is a Heron. A brave female of the species. A Heroine. If she’s hot for you, you won’t need  to bang a bag of Heroin to get into the mood:
“Can we just do this already?” She pleads. 
I do what the shrink said, try to be scrupulously honest:
“I don’t know, my little pigeon, something about ‘claoca’ reminds me of Alcoa Aluminum®..”
“Forget condensed-matter, boy. Pretend I’m an egret.
Just do it,’ nu. No regrets.”
I mention, hoping to be nay-said…
“No such word, you human satyr-god.” she clucks. “I need you inside me. What part of that don’t you..?”
I was almost out of excuses. Oh, wait: “Great Blue?” I was stalling for time. “I mean, it’s a nice hue and all.. but ‘great’?”
“So close your eyes, dummy-head. Think of the Motherland.”
That gave me another idea:
“Honey, I’m not sure I’m ready to sit on a dozen eggs out there in the marshland for a month and a half..”
“Who’s sayin’ I’ll get pregnant the first time?”
she says, dizily slurring her chirps.I tried to remember a bird I’d ‘known’ biblically who didn’t get pregnant the first time. Ok, it coulda been a result of any one of the four ‘first time’s that day but still; a risk to be factored against feathered connubial bliss…
“What if I just like, ‘sorta do it’ and you get to watch. That still counts, ‘Bluese-le’. You can tell all your GF’s in the flock that the earth moved.”
“Yo, you silly little Audubon, ever hear of the avian orgasm?”
I swallowed hard. She had a point. Here I was, thinking only about, like, what’s in it for me? I’d seen sparrows with their 10-second bang-bang-thank-you-ma’am ‘love-making’. Mebbe I’d jumped to an un-warranted conclusion. Damn, what’s next? Take her to a movie after. ‘The Birds’ came to mind. I tried to forget about it.
“Ok then, full penetration, ejaculation, mutual simultaneous orgasm, huh? You drive a hard bargain, girl.”
We found a quiet place under a low-hanging weeping willow. Away from the prying eyes of the Indiana Vice Squad. It was everything the two of us had ever dreamt. But I swear the eggs look a lot like me….

Science Fact: The Aqueous Humour is in the eye of the be-holder.

Before we get started, I think it behooves us to stop horsing around and learn how to behave in a beehive. You know, be sociable; learn that expressive little dance; the one which just oozes ‘purple asters: three miles due south, then right at the old oak tree.‘. And don’t forget R E S P E C T for the Queen-Bee of Soul, Urethra Frankly.////-end- Public-Cervix Portion-

Ok Where were we? Oh, yeah: Waiting, in Doctor Fleischer’s flourescent waiting room. The lovely Nurse Patella (ne: Kapp) ajars the door, looks at my chart and announces breathlessly:
“The Doctor can see you now.”
“Great!” I tell her. “Cataract surgery is a wonderful thing, don’t you agree?”
No reaction. Fine, then. I walk in the door (through the door-way, actually), get half-way to his desk and he’s like ‘Whoa. Go back and do that again!’
Well who am I to second-opinion the guy? Old? The fossil looks like Red Skeleton’s grandpa. Still the sign on the door reads ‘Practice limited to the upper limbic system.’ Probably a wise decision; maybe even his own.
So I ‘go around the landing pattern and come in for another approach’.
“No, arms akimbo!” He stage-directs me from his chair.
I wish I knew what that damn word meant. I give him a puzzled look.
“More like Carole Lumbar.”
“Carole Lombard?”
I ask. Hey, I’m not some spineless jelly-fish who’ll do anything some quack barks out.
“Yeah, I think I see your problem already.‘Duck’ Fleischer starts scribbling on my chart, not even noting my perfect Mae West re-entrance.
“A problem with the forearms.” He declares. “Not to worry, treatable.”
Behind him on the wall is one of those pink and orange Hindu Goddesses prints. None of them have fewer than four arms, so mebbe he knows what he’s talking about. I point at the picture:
“Kama Sutra”, he kinda whispers with a ‘you wouldn’t understand’ look. I let that go.
“Anyway, you have a humerus problem, Mr…um..Solberg.”, reading off my chart.
“That’s funny.” I said quizically. “I was just at the opthamologist, and he even laughed when I read the eye-chart.”
“No, bone-head. The bone! ‘Da one dat connected to da….ankle bone..
‘” He sang that part; maybe a crutch to remember his centuries-ago Anatomy 101.
“Sure you don’t mean the radius?” I asked, again quizically. I mean, this codger couldn’t pass a pop quiz if his dad was paying off the prof.
“Whatever. Your malady is called ..*clearing his throat* ‘ELBOW-WOBBLE.’
Hmm. I hadn’t heard of that one, even in the literature. Oh maybe one mention in ‘Arms and the Man’, but it was peripheral to the point of being vestigal. You know….like  Fleischer’s brain.
‘So, what’s the scoop, Doc?” I looked at my watch to send a small hint.
“Too much ‘B’. destroys the symmetry. You been taking vitamins, son?”
He gave himself a bit of over-credit with that ‘son’; more like ‘great-grand-son’, but I played along, hoping for an early dismissal.
“Yup. I’m participating in a double-blind test on the new Centrum Beer®, so I can’t be sure if it’s a placebo. Anyway, the can says ‘Vitamin B1, some big-number milligrams per..”
“Oy. There ya go. Quit right away, and you’ll be back to normal: ELBOW-WOBLE”.

*to myself* “But I need the shit, Doc, so I can be civil to elderly witch-doctor imposters like you..” Then:
“Um.. but with all respect, Herr Doktor, I’ve heard that it’s good for the sinews.”
Fleischer pulled a book off the largely ornamental shelf behind his station. Probably hoping I wouldn’t see the title from across the room. “A Child’s first’ Golden Book of: The Body.” He paged through it while I practiced Marlene Dietrich stances, just in case he’d ask. Hours later he got to the end of the ‘Junior PDR’, gave up, closed the book and asked:
“SIN-EWES, huh? That’s Latin?”
“Yes of course.
” I admitted. “I like to use the high-falutin’ terms, just for the pzazz.”
“Ah so it is. Sheep-less-ness.”

He took out his Merck and a Smith-Kline-French® give-away pen.
“I’ll put you on 30 milligrams of ‘Little L-Bow Peep-amine.™’ see you in six months, ok?”
“We should both live that long.”
I smiled, shook his hand, and run-way-strutted out of the office. Arms a-kimbo. I think.

Wu: You got a problem, child
Me: Yeah. yeah.. everybody’s a doctor. What’s your specialty?
Wu: Um..Xangalogy
Me: Oh wow. That’s right up there with Urology and Proctology
Wu: Sure, if you stand on your head!
Me: So that’s what you’re suggesting?
Wu: Nope, I’m suggesting your leave a post up for like, at least 24-48 hours before writing a new one.
Me: But it’s not like they disappear. Plus, I even have a dear reader who must’ve read almost everything I’ve ever written here, just during the last couple weeks. Tickled my damn socks off to see. He/she gets a free 19-course dinner, fer starts.
Wu: Neat-o.So you’re sayin’ ‘Life goes on; post till ya drop.’?
Me: Yeah. Something like that, I guess. Anyway, this discussion is all meta-xanga finesse. Let’s go back up and re-read the Doctor’s Office story…get all the hidden jokes this time. that’s the main dish; all the rest is…
Wu: Um…proctology?
Me: Right on. I ever told you how much I love you?

Now whadda I do? Hitch-hike to A&A AARDVARCK SUPPLY?


NOTE: The following was intended as a public-service message. Subtle and obtuse, yet still serviceably public. Point being: Even when you decide to ‘do the right thing’, and cut ethanol out of your diet, don’t expect bad shit to magically quit happening. Instead, ask yourself, I don’t know, ‘how’d I get through childhood without a drink?
Nancy Reagen already tried the ‘Duh’ approach: ®, as if the problem is as simplistic as remembering the correct word in your native language to decline an offer of supposed instant euphoria.
My story has no hero. The main character can’t even dial a phone number successfully. I always write in the first person, but in fact, this happened to some guy named ‘Ed’. Takes longer to type than ‘I’. Sue me


    Ok, the book says: ‘when you start needing a couple beers at 6AM in order to face feeding your cats you may have a drinking problem.’
A drinking problem? Moi? ‘I drink, I get drunk, I fall down; No problem.’
Seriously though, last night (not for myself; for a friend) I checked on the net. Lists of questions you answer and then get the results. I rattled off the proper responses, hoping for a good score:
2) ‘Yer goddamn right!’
3) ‘Hell yeah!’
‘Does the bear shit in the woods?’ … .you know, demonstrating my confidence and self-knowledge. Um..till I got the results:
“Gevalt! Walk, don’t run to the nearest AA!” (Or mebbe it said ‘run, don’t walk’, whatever.)
Anyway, I grabbed another beer or two, to pep myself up for a ‘Let yer fingers do the running’ jog.

The Yellow Pages. Bingo. 555-1212 or something like that there. They answered on the first ring


AA: Good morning sir, how can we help you? *I liked her voice. Supportive*
Me: ‘Um, I’m trying to stop, but I just can’t.’
: ‘Well, the first step is to want to, ha. Then call us. We’re your ’emergency brake’, if you want to put it like that. What’s your name, Sir?’
: ‘Yonatan, as in ‘Hi, I’m Yonatan and I’m an…’
: ‘Last name?’
Me: ‘I didn’t think you needed that.’
: ‘For the records, ok?’
‘Fine, ‘Solberg, S O B L E R G’.
AA: ‘You’re not drifting right now, are you?’
: *seeing only empties on the floor* ‘No, I’m stopped, temporarily.‘ *checking pockets for loose change*
AA: And you’re off the road right now. Yonatan?”
I loved how she’d started calling me by my name. Thought about asking her hers, but who knows; maybe the staffers aren’t ‘anonymous’?
Me: Yes, Ma’am. Off the road.. and ‘off the wagon’, ha. Fer now.’

She didn’t seem to find that especially comical. I continued rolling:
Me: ‘Life and Death, but not serious’, ain’t that what you people say?’
‘I hadn’t heard that. …Your address?
*scratching my head* ‘’s a..
‘That’s fine, we have it here in the computer.’
: ‘Whaa?’
: ‘Yes from a claim. A little accident a while ago..’
‘Wow. another detail I won’t have to confess to at the meetings.’
AA: ‘So, Yonatan, we’ll have somebody stop and help you in an hour or so.’
I couldn’t believe it. Damn AA. They’re   there when you need   their help. And I needed it. (Not for spelling though, dear reader, hope you noticed. And dead drunk at that.)

I said goodbye to my new angel, managed to find one last beer hiding in the fridge behind a long-empty milk carton, drained it into my tank, and laid down. On the floor, maybe. I don’t remember. Help was on its way. (No apostrophe.)   I do recall getting WASHINGTON to ‘spell backwards’: “NOT, ‘G’, N.I.H. SAW..” But when I came-to, my cats were yammering. Out the door with the food-bag I ran… and then OMG!. No car.! Just a hole where I thought I’d put it. Fuck! (French expletive). Somebody stole my wheels! And now no beer to soothe the pain.

Homer Simpson famously called beer “The cause and solution to all of life’s little problems.” But I had a big one.

A short, indeterminate time later:

‘Stupid Yellow Pages. Always upside down when you need ’em’. This time I put on my reading glasses. The ones with the ‘broken ‘wing’, whatever. Ten minutes of ‘quality-time’ plus a soup-bowl of coffee had filtered through my addled brain along with a working hypothesis which my dear readers may already have guessed. Um.. wrong number, duh!   Dammit, Counting ‘A’s is a job best left to the coherent. My phone conversation had been with AAA®, for Christ’s sake, not ‘AA‘. So…. all I needed to do was to call ’em back and locate my poor little Fiesta. I swung into action:

Me: ‘Hello. I’m Yonatan and I’m an alcoholic’. *old habits die hard*
AAA?: That’s a good start, Yonatan. I’m Cindy, sober for fifteen years and you can do it too. Let’s talk’.
: ‘Glad to hear it. Now where the Hell’s my car?’

Cindy: ‘How often do you have ‘black-outs’ like this, Yoni?’
‘Sorry, Cindi-le. No time for chat. This ain’t no party. This ain’t no disco. No time for fooling around. I need my goddamned car back. Yesterday.’
‘We all have anger we need to deal with. And forgiveness. Don’t forget that’.
: ‘Ok, Shit, I forgive you already. Where’s my wheels?’
Cindy: ‘A Higher Power is always ready to assist you.’
: ‘Fuck. I can do 120 in the damn jalopy even with the 1100 stock engine. Just tell me where it is and I’ll be there with my credit card.’
‘What Step are you working on, presently, Yonatan?’
: ‘Listen, lady. I’m working on stepping out my door with my mother-fucking car-keys and driving to the beer distributor. Is make sense?’
‘I remember when I felt like that. You know you can always call me when you have that kind of turmoil.’.
: ‘You don’t get it, do you? This morning I was a drunk-on-wheels. Now I’m a freaking slush with his thumb out. Next step’s the gutter, comprehende? Now connect me with your dispatcher, kewl?’
‘We’re all volunteers here at AA. I’m the only one in at present’.
Me: AA?!  What happened to the third freaking ‘A’?
Cindy. ‘How often do you have episodes of ‘drunk-dialing, Yonatan?’
*light goes on* ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Cindy. My mistake. And I wish you only a lifetime of proud sobriety. See ya’ at a meeting sometime. I’ll be the guy looks like he walked the whole way there.’

The End, for now. ‘Cept that I’m still looking for my car. Bunch of low-lifes opened a pet-store out on the highway. Worth snooping around….

Wu: I’m not sure alcoholism is a fit subject for humour..

Me: It’s OK. I’m hiding behind Primo Levi and Mel Brooks

Wu: Keep your head down, just in case.

Me: ‘Hair of the dog.’

Posh Shopping Suggestions

Don’t buy::
Salvador’s “Save-a-Door door-salve. It drips all over everything and the door still squeaks. Pass.

The Dalai Lama’s “Llama-dolly”. God gave llamas legs for a reason. Let ’em walk. Plus the wheels squeak unless you grease ’em up good with door-salve.

Dolly Parton’s Patron-Saint Fridge-Organizer. I was initially RAPT by the idea of an installed TARP (included) which TRAPs un-recognized holy-men/women (file down-loadable for $9.99 + tax.). Still, that PART of the program doesn’t justify the hefty price-tag. Pass.
On the same subject, I’ll pass on tickets to Pratt and Whitney Houston’s Texas Bar-B-Q party. $150 includes one free beer. Not sufficient to get me airborne, despite my love for ‘I’m every Woman’ Chaka Khan steals the show, now that I think about it. 
Upton Sinclair Lewis Carrol Channing: what a guy! Google and Wiki have a lot to say about him, and I’ll shortly try to post the bio I did as the final project toward my master’s degree. Which by the way I now proudly hold in my hot little hands. Sent this txt to my Mom a few minutes ago:
Got my M.A. from Texas A&M this AM, MA.
Hope UR happy 4 me. I AM. Off 2 make a CD in DC. CYA/JS
Meanwhile Alice, who bless her heart only wanted to window-shop for a ‘CHRISTIAN DIOR DNA ANDROID’ found out the bitter truth on the far side of the looking-glass: ‘N/A, IT’S I-R HC. Yes, only a dream-goal of the currently un-funded Infra-Red Hadron Collider which, pending Congressional funding might be built somewhere below the Texas bedrock by 2012. She and I will have to settle for a Spam-Knock-off robotic ‘helper’.

Wu: Pigs will fly through the sky the day a post likes this gets ‘Featured’.
Me: Yes, Wu, I’m aware of that. Working on the FAA Radar-vector protocol up-date as we speak.


     Got a call from a buddy ‘in the know’. In Houston. We keep an eye on NASA. Yep we need water too.
Anyway he was short and to the point:
“You gotta get here, like now. You’re on Arkia FLT019 at 0230 this morning. Half-hour change in Atlanta, so run, don’t walk.”
I couldn’t ask him for any more on the unsecure twisted-pair, so I closed with “Got it.”, and yes, got it together like the star I am. once was.
We met behind a club in Austin.
“Somebody I want you to meet.” ‘Y’ whispered , motioning toward the back seat of the rented Volvo.
“OMG!” was all I could say. Then: “Who else knows you’re here?”
‘Y’ answered for me “You, me, Nat Hentoff; don’t know how…oh and some cub reporter from the ‘Statesman’ we don’t know much about. Working on that.”
Ok, I may as well reveal the mystery guest. Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, in the well-preserved flesh, looking a bit dazed but not un-easy as he reached out to shake my hand.
“Whaa?” I stammered, then realized I had more questions than words starting with ‘Wh-?'”
“All’s I know, I hit a bad Bb at the Village Gate and found myself in the goddamn Pleiades.” Parker started, his voice itself a bird of paradise after more than 50 years of mourning his absence.
“Parallel worlds”. ‘Y’ interupted, “Wheeler, Everett, deWitt, UT-Austin. The ‘Many Worlds’ solution to the observation/wave collapse quandry in quantum..”
“Yeah, I’m up on that.”
I told him, and quickly turned to my hero, who’d somehow managed to arrive with a trusty Conn 6M alto in hand.
“Mr Parker, you realize what you’ve done to the standard model of cosmology, not to mention ornithology?” I asked him.
“Don’t blame me, man. I’m here to blow. And what’s with the cords plugged in the wall for all the instruments?”
“What, you skuffled around for a gig already?”
I asked.
“Yeah, only one joint, for now. They said maybe Tuesday, on amateur night, hah. But there was this one kid, said: ‘Don’t I recognize you from somewhere..?”
‘Y‘, with his worried mother-hen look: “That boy’s our number one thorn-in-the-butt, Sol. Look here:”
I glanced at the paper he held out and there it was: “PARALLEL PARKER STUNS TEXAS”. A short and not too rigorous story beneath it, leaving most of the details open to doubt. He did quote a Houston second-tier physicist now working in PR for the Governor’s office as saying in reaction:
“Let’s hope that reverses the rumours for now, till we have a little chat.”
I said as I jumped in the Volvo and we sped away. “OMG, Byrd. It’s really you!”


-remainder of post truncated- can’t talk about it- um, this didn’t happen-

The Limits of perception…

..or  Intelligence in general… Ok, mine in specific.
Or maybe just my eyesight…
Thought I’d signed up for Brandeis School of Cosmology.
Got my sign-in name, password, and the no-refund Policy Statement this morning…
…for ‘Brenda’s School of Cosmetology’(!). They’re starting me out on Manicure 101, no idea why. Maybe the background check said I’m a sick man. (rim-shot)  I’m not, just blind. Like Stevie Wonder, only white. With the lights on. (“turn ’em off already!”)

 *sweating*   “I don’t know; this kinda shit’s been happening to me all the time lately”. (“When?”)  Like last week I stopped by Laniado, the local Hospital in nearby Netanya, to visit a sweet Russian client’s mom. Told the girl at the desk, she wasn’t particularly busy: “I’m here for Anastasia.”
“Sit over there.” she motioned. I sat over there. Kinda fell asleep waiting. Next thing I know two guys in white are holding a mask over my face. (“great idea!”) I figured it was for the swine flu. It wasn’t. When I woke up I had the feeling something was missing, besides five hours of my life. Checked the major organs (ha: quick guess?) and everybody’s accounted for. So why the big bandage on my head? And why’d the nice lady who somehow got into my house while I was gone not seem to recognize me? She did suggest I stay at the neighbor’s house. Nobody was home, my key fit the lock(!), and the refrigerator’s completely bare, just like mine. Feels like home. (“feels like your jokes”) 

Oops, gotta go do my nails. If I graduate they promised me’ a job in space’. But close to home, wherever that is. (“Go home!”)

‘Thank you all, you been a wonderful audience.’ 

(“Sit down to do your stand-up next time!”)

(“Yeah, we can’t see the wall-paper”)

Thanks again and Shabbat Shalom. (exits)

Seriously folks, here are the veiled characters in yesterday’s story, in order of appearance:

Anthony Burgess/ Stanley Kubrick
Nikita Khruschev
Leonid Brezhnev
Ella Fitzgerald/ Julie London
Wm. shakespeare
Wm. B. Yeats
Mikhail Gorbachev: wife (used w/o permission)
Catcher for the philadelphia Phillies #1 4-evah!
Claude Debussey, Fr. impressionist composer
René  Magritte, Belgian surrealist painter

Collect ’em all/  I highlighted their non-speaking parts/ JS


Getting the BEST of ‘Vesti’

Yes, that’s the name of the Russian Daily I try to read here once a week or so, if only to keep track of what my droogies currently consider a ‘катастрофа’. Plenty of ’em this week, but oddly, today’s paper mainly inspired me to show the damn Ruskies what we English-speakers can do with ‘B’,’S’, and ‘T’. I still haven’t forgiven those shoe-banging uni-brows for wasting my second-grade quality learning time by making us to practice hiding under our little wood desks against them pesky a-bombs.
Speaking of ‘catastrophes’, (mentioned above);  of course, I have one handy; namely, my Dacha on the Crimea River, which after the recent torrential rain seems inclined to tumble down the bank and into the drink, as it were. To ‘B’ (or not) in the ‘C‘ of ‘A‘-zov. Or some down-river hamlet.
Yes, the outer foundation beams have become un-mitred, the center will not hold, and the entire rough BEAST seems commited to slouching toward the water to be re-born. As driftwood?
All I can do meanwhile is to roll my fridge back into the rear sun-room, as a stop-gap counterweight. This half-measure seems not to be adequate, and so Raisa and I invited a few dozen intimates, nomen-klatura, to dinner this evening. Back there in the sunroom. Heavyweight guests.
Consequentially, we find ourselves busily trying to BASTE the BEST prime cuts of faux-mammoth to be found in my old  Sikorsky refrigerator. A model XJ-101, available here only to party members who party a lot. Like me. Not to BOAST or anything, but having risen within the ranks since long before perestroika struck anyone as a great idea, I haven’t been BOSSED around by anyone lately whom I couldn’t eliminate with predjudice for a couple thousand rubles. As to my dinner guests, simply rating a spot on my ‘A’ list nets each a BOOST in his GPA.  Oy, Raisa’s trying to singlehandedly slide that BUST of Lenin, now worth its weight in melt-down bronze, but discretely draped, back into the extreme left-wing corner of the vaulted sun-room. I rush to help her, and notice a figure in the bushes:
 Dimitri, arriving early as usual turns out to have been peering in the rear window for…oh.. the last paragraph or so. KGB. They do that. Even among friends. His English is impeccable, as is his encyclopediac knowledge of World Series champions 1867-to-present. Never know when your cover story will depend on Clay Dalrymple.
“A man’s home is his castle, as they say in the ‘BOISTEROUS‘ West.” is his opening word-salad salvo.
“Yes, I was just getting to that one.” I lie. “And my fortress against the running dogs of reactionary abandon is in danger, as you no doubt noted, of being engulfed, as they say in France.”
“I believe Debussey called it a cathedral? Dimitri is such a details prick-nik.
“This is not a cathedral…nor even a picture of one.” I saw Dimi react, but quickly return to his mental listing of vowels, searching for points to score. I got there first:
NO, IT’S A BASTION“. I smiled. “Read her both ways and weep, comrade!”
Dimitri held out both hands: one for a rather non-Slavic high-five, the other for a drink.
Up there” I told him, pointing to the table perched against the rear wall. The bastion shuddered a bit as the three of us walked up the planks to review the offerings.

Wu: No more bed-time Cyrillic for you, Traumski!
Me: Hey, Я только правду. Другие люди называют это ‘Hell’!
: True, man. So Trumanesque. First time I ever really understood it.