Chapter 2 - The Saga Thickens

Exactly one week later, the guy decided to continue typing. First, he had to look up his name again, so he scrolled to Chapter 1. There it is, thought Russell.

Russell also jogged his own memory about the naked lady with the shells. He had forgotten about her but was glad to be reminded. He ran the search and “voila.” What did we ever do before the internet? We had to rely on our friends for pornography for one thing.

What product should Russell manufacture in the Far East? Russell started thinking about the recent spike in automobile fuel prices. Surely there was some way to cash in on that hysteria. How much could it possibly cost to have an electric vehicle built in China. But, then again, Russell wouldn’t want to let the cat out of the bag in his novel, now would he?

So, Russell decided to solve a murder mystery. When he entered the room, there was a body lying dead on the floor with a large Bowie knife in his back. This looks like a murder mystery all right, thought Russell. I’d better solve it.

“What it is, Chief Detective Russell?,” asked the rookie policeman.” Russell wouldn’t dignify the greenhorn’s stupid question with a response. He looked around the room for clues.

There was an open book on the table. Russell’s examination of the page revealed an opinicus, part eagle, part lion and part camel standing in front of a cross and the star of Bethlehem. In one of its paws, it held a pole with a ribbon on which was written De Praescientia Dei.

This is probably not significant, thought Russell. He was correct.

Take Two Assburns and Call Me in the Moanin'

For the record, I've decided to document Dok Bok's long and continuing list of misdiagnoses relating to the health of your hero and mine, me.

• Fall, 1986 - OneEar breaks the middle joint on his thumb. Bok, practicing medicine without a license (or even a degree in biology or zoology or psychology or whatever he "studied") assures the young, naive OneEar that he can safely play volleyball in a cast.
• Spring, 1987. OneEar falls off of a mountain and is miraculously saved by a vine that catches him by the throat. Bok, again drunk and unlicensed, prescribes OneEar 750 mL bourbon, stat.
• Fall, 1990 - OneEar is forced to have knee surgery due to a rugby injury. Bok's physical therapy regiment consists of climbing the football stadium wall and then hobbling around without crutches.
• Fall, 1992 - OneEar begins suffering from a long and increasingly problematic series of digestive issues which Dok Bok believes to be "restless insides syndrome."
• Spring, 2006. OneEar's symptoms following an incident in which someone falls on his leg during a basketball game include extreme shooting, throbbing ankle pain, extreme swelling, and a "broken ankle-like appearance." Dok Bok diagnoses pancreatitis due to alcohol abuse.
• Spring, 2007. OneEar begins suffering with increasing frequency from what appear from the inside to be heart attacks. Although the incidents are later properly diagnosed by another doctor as atrial fibrillation, Dok Bok chalks it all up to "The Holidays."

CSI

Maybe this only happens on my TV, but whenever there is a murder reported on one news channel, the same murder gets reported numerous times on every other news channel. What are the odds? Thank you for asking.

If you do a little research, you will find that there are typically 16,000 or so murders per year in the US. That means there are 44 murders on the average day. The one murder that gets all of the news coverage usually dominates the media for about a week (unless the killer is a Heisman trophy winner). Meanwhile, 306 other non-newsworthy people will have been killed. That is weird.

What about the story about a little kid that got abducted? Thank you for asking.

Unbelievably, there are 800,000 child abductions in the US per year (2,200 per day). Most of those involve family members in custody battles. However, there are still 58,000 non-family abductions in the US per year. That is about 160 per day. And yet, my TV shows me the same abduction over and over again for a week.

That is curious.

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Cuatro)

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Colyp, Alceste and I were living the life of a smelly American, getting drunk, falling down, acting stupid in Espana, more specifically Madrid. I've recently run across a small note pad from 1990 (or was it 1991?) which contains my notes from the Christmas to New Years period of travels in and around Spain. The journey begins as we prepare to load a train from Madrid to Lisbon a few days before Christmas.











\Sat-Left at 11:00

-Drinking since party at Lingua maipc(??undecipherable, and I don't recall any party).

-Drank 1L. cheap wine - packed bags - Sang Ode to Judea & Bobby McGee - Forgot food for the 1st time - 2 liters wine for train ->flask=gin/vodka (One of us usually carried the flask to tide us over on long trips. It must have been filled with gin mixed with vodka on this occasion. That means we were running low on booze and had emptied two bottles).

-Got in wrong seats drunk skunks, then found our seats. Colyp told us of his misadventures, Alceste y yo yelled at him for the next hour - we were hated (I don't remember what Colyp told us that made us yell at him for an hour. The possibilities are virtually limitless).


-sang songs w/the Brazilian Sleeper, Julia, & The Friend *Rita Moreno (I don't recall whether we brought the guitar on this journey or whether we were singing Acapulco. I don't know who or what Julia was or what Rita Moreno was doing in our train car. I had forgotten about the Brazilian Sleeper until re-reading this. She was a young Brazilian lass who was quite lively when we first met but then proceeded to sleep for the entire voyage and eventually used each of us respectively as her pillow.)


-passed out (right on schedule).

-woke up wrapped up by the B.Sleeper - went out for Big Mace - Met the French Dude again - Drank Champagne - Asked Colyp for the XMas Present (I don't know to what the Big Mace refers, and I don't recall the French Dude. I had woken and left the others in the train car while I went exploring in the lounge car. I encountered some new friends and drank champagne with them. Previously, Colyp had let slip the information that, in order to make up for his past transgressions, he had purchased a Christmas present for Alceste and myself which was a bottle of decent liquor. I think it was scotch, but it may have been cognac. Anyway, Colyp had this with him in his baggage, and I wanted to break it out. Obviously, I was Number One while Alceste and Colyp were sleeping. Colyp wouldn't give it to me).

-resorted to sending in the women (So, I resorted to sending in some women to coax it away from him. This worked like a charm and Colyp joined me in the lounge car with our new champagne drinking friends and the bottle of something. Crack the bottle and the simple vessel transforms into a beautiful fountain showering bountiful memories lost forever).

-Alceste took over as pillow for the B.Sleeper.(I already went over this situation).

-Colyp missed score of food with Julia (No idea what this means).

-Got to Lisboa and met up w/Brigg & Switch. (Brigg, you'll recall, was the high-school friend of the RA from our freshman dorm hall who had let us sleep on his roof for some reason. Switch was the RA from our freshman hall. They both lived in Madrid, and we occasionally hung out together on our escapades. In fact, if memory serves me, and I don't see how it could, Brigg was the first to christen us with the name "The Clown Squad. We called them Brigg & Switch after the sales scam known as the "Bait & Switch" ("Baitar & Cambiar") because they were forever offering unfulfilled promises and less than satisfactory results. Some other time I'll tell you about the occasion when they ditched us cold and broke with no accomodations at the Las Rosas bull-fighting festival and we had to sleep in the bushes. Anyway, apparently we had arranged to meet them in Lisbon. I'm not sure who thought this would be a good idea).


-Went to hostel - got some sandwiches - went to castle = cool, overgrown, had reindeer - went to monastery = impressive but yet disappointing - went to dinner = baked trout - went to nap (I don't remember any of this, even the reindeer?!? A wikipedia search causes me to believe that this was the Castle of São Jorge and that the monastery was the Jerónimos Monastery)



-woke at 10pm ->Colyp, Alceste y yo went for beer -

-beers, sandwiches, bottle of port. Back to hostel to sleep.

Notables: 1)Port in castle; 2) Dinner; 3)Red light district where multi-lingual bouncers know profanity in 20 languages; 4)interesting proposition - met Sandra and Jani who made proposal: "We all go for drink, go to hotel, go to Crematu disco" We huddled up -concluded hookers -said "no." They bolted slightly offended. (I vaguely recall this interchange with this couple of young ladies, but I'm not sure what made it noteworthy. Perhaps it was the abrupt directness of their group sex proposition. This is one of many times when poverty allowed us to easily avoid the tough decision). 5) Hostel was cold, bed was hard.


TO BE CONTINUED

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Tres)

So, to recap, Alceste and myself were living the life of a smelly American, getting drunk, falling down and acting stupid in Espana, more specifically Madrid.

Despite the fact that Alceste and I were now both gainfully employed, we had each blown through our respective savings in the first couple of months, and our spend-thrift habits in combination with the fact that we had to give our landlord a security deposit/donation had left us eating far more potatos than either of us preferred. Our usual routine was, after an early (for the Spanish) dinner of potato tortillas and red wine, we would head out bar-hopping for the afternoon-evening-night carrying only the amount of money we expected to blow in that given night, and we did. Every time.

One evening I recall we were drinking pitchers of Sangria at an outdoor streetside patio when we invited some passing American tourist girls to join us. Unfortunately, we were running a tab and we had no idea how expensive the sangria was. After 5 or 6 pitchers, we thought it best to find out how much we'd spent. Unbeknownst to us, 3 pitchers had completely exhausted our remaining funds for the night. We had no credit nor any backup plan other than to say, "Thanks girls." Since they each had a few drinks, it really was only fair that they paid for half the tab, though it was not exactly what they were expecting.

Fortunately for our nourishment, the Spanish have the wonderful custom of serving tapas with drinks. With each round, one receives, at no extra charge, a little sampler of one of the items on the menu. If you have enough rounds, you actually get quite a varied meal. Olives, fish, pork, vegetables. It is an ingenious custom which kept us fed during most of our stay.

Since we only got paid once a month, and since our budgeting skills were severely compromised, we were just about out of money (again) when we received word that Colpliscol would be joining us in Madrid. I don't recall exactly how we received this word. Our telephone could only receive and could not initiate calls. (This was a handy excuse for why we never called back the various Marias and Nurias). I suspect that Alceste may have written a letter or something, but, anyway, Colyp would be joining us shortly.

For the next couple of weeks, during one meal after another of potatos and wine, Alceste and I shared our dreams about what we would do when Colyp arrived with all of the money he was sure to bring. We would splurge on steaks, cognac, fresh vegetables, whisky, ice cream, port, and maybe even a trip to a laundromat (if we could ever find one). Now that we had laid the groundwork with accomodations and employment connections, Colyp's savings would go a long way toward getting us through until the next payday. The only flaw in this plan was that Colyp neglected to bring any money with him along on his intercontinental excursion. Any!?!

"What the fuck do you mean you didn't bring any goddamn money?" Alceste inquired.

"You said there were jobs," Colyp reminded him.

"How are you going to live until you get a job?" we both asked, though, of course, we knew the answer.

"I'll just hang out with you guys."

This was the first time I remember seeing the large vein in front of Alceste's temple begin to visibly tremor. A red hue overcame his face, and his head began to contort as though his brain was trying to purposely implode. He could barely refrain himself from spitting the froth that appeared to be brewing inside his mouth. Alceste said not another word but just stormed out of the apartment.

I, on the other hand, tried to develop a better understanding of the rationale of a person who would fly to Europe without a dime to his name. "You seriously didn't bring any money?" I asked incredulously. "We are broke," I advised him, "and now we've got your stupid ass to feed as well." "Even if we can get you a job immediately, you won't get paid for another month."

Colyp was unperturbed by this news. He smirked and then began unpacking his few belongings in Alceste's room (as the better paid of the two of us, Alceste had the larger room and therefore got stuck with Colyp). Colyp had brought his watch, some clothing, his classring, and that was about it.

With another mouth to feed, Alceste and I went from "mildly disatisfied with our cuisine options" to "hungry." Although we did manage to get Colyp a job at the gay Frenchman's academy in the Michael Jackson enthralled suburb, indeed he would not get paid for a month. Alceste and I thought it best to feed Colyp occasionally because it seemed slightly more expedient than explaining his death to his family and the American consulate.

After a month of teaching, he received his first paycheck. In order to believe what happened next, you would have to actually know Colyp. Otherwise, this story is just too unbelievable. Yet it is true.

Colyp and I were earning about $1000 a month. I think Alceste was getting $1300 or so. Colyp had been "borrowing" money from Alceste for his entire stay on top of eating our food and drinking our drink. So, what do you suppose Colyp did when he received his first $1000 cash payday? Perhaps he repaid his debt? No. Perhaps he bought a feast for the two friends who had been supporting him? No.

Colyp's first expenditure was to have his classring re-sized because it no longer fit due to the weight loss caused by starvation. He actually had his ring re-sized rather than buying food. This was the second time I remember seeing the large vein over Alceste's temple appear ready to burst through his face. When Colyp came strolling in, his hand waving like some kind of model on the home shopping network, he couldn't have been prouder of himself for getting such a nice fit to his ring. We next learned that his second purchase was a new watch because, as he explained, "the old one was only waterproof to 1 atmosphere." Recall that we were in Madrid and therefore nowhere near an ocean. I was too dumbfounded to think clearly enough to strangle him.

to be continued

Velma Loses Her Glasses (Dos)

So, to recap, Alceste and I were behaving like boorish, alcoholic American slobs living in a shit-hole in Madrid.

I had arrived in Madrid on a round-trip plane ticket which had a return date of anytime within 1 year. I had saved $1,000 and my plan was to stay in Spain until I ran out of money or got a job, whichever came first. As the budget for gluttony consumed my savings, my job search quickly became more urgent.

Eventually, I landed a teaching gig in some suburb which was a 30 minute busride outside of Madrid. Col can help me with the name of that crappy little town. I do remember that there were very few bars and the only disco was named "Thriller" or "Beat It" or something similar which was related to its Michael Jackson theme - red and black leather jackets, single white gloves, chimps, young boys, etc.

The academy at which I worked was owned by a homosexual Frenchman and was managed by his boy-toy. Over time, I learned that I was hired because the gay boss wanted to be gay with me, and this infuriated the management. Fortunately for the management, I had no interest in this primarily because I am not, and was not at the time, gay.

To the contrary, I had, rather by coincidence, stumbled upon a gimmick which was delivering muchas chicas directly to our doorstep. In order to improve my Spanish speaking skills, I had run a classified ad -"Americano, 22 anos, quiero intercambiar 1 hora Ingles por 1 hora Espanol." The crafty Spanish have developed their language in such a manner that one can determine the sex of a person by the adjectives used to describe him. From my ad, readers could glean that I was not only American but also male. Thus, all of the respondents were chicas anxious for a little intercambiar. We were virtually rolling in Nurias and Marias.

In the meanwhile, since I was now employed, Alceste and I could afford (barely) better accomodations. So, we moved into a different shit-hole, but with separate rooms and 2 beds! This was a third floor walk-up with 4 bedrooms and a shared bath and kitchen. Our 40 year old virgin landlord, Juan, lived on the second floor with his 400 year old mother, La Bruja. We shared our apartment with Gunther, a German who worked for one of Spain's national newspapers, and John, yet another gay English teacher. It just occurred to me this minute that I should have introduced John to my boss.

John was from New York, and he had come to Madrid for some sort of exotic foreign experience. He was about to get it when Alceste and I moved in, but I don't think that was the experience that John had in mind.

To be continued

Velma Loses Her Glasses

The following tale comes to you by special request, a long-distance dedication from LB in LA to AL in LA:

After Alceste and I convened in Madrid in the Fall of 1990 (or was it 1991?) 2000 (or was it 2001?), our accomodations for the first several days (or was it weeks) consisted of sleeping bags on the rooftop patio of Brigg. Brigg was a guy who neither of us knew but who had gone to high school with the RA from our freshman residence hall. I don't recall exactly how poor Brigg got stuck with us, and I doubt whether he even knew how he got stuck with us. I do recall that Brigg didn't know how to get rid of us.

So, for several days, (or was it weeks), we camped out on Brigg's roof drinking cheap Spanish wine and reminiscing. The wine came in liter boxes, and it was literally cheaper than milk. Also, it really wasn't that bad (relative to, say, MadDog or Boone's Farms). In fact, it was a lot like the boxed wine you can buy in the US now. The quality did fluctuate quite substantially, but after a few liters, it seemed to smooth right out.

During the daytime, we would "look" for jobs and/or apartments. For my part, "looking" involved wandering the city taking in the sights and bar-hopping until it was time for a siesta. I often chose one of Madrid's many parks for my siesta if I didn't feel like walking all of the way back to Brigg's roof.

Alceste was somewhat more diligent than myself, and he soon had a job. His job involved teaching English, which, as luck would have it, he spoke. This was perfect, I thought, now we had an income and we could continue our wine-drinking and bar-hopping ways. Alceste didn't see it quite this way. He preferred to enjoy the fruits of his own labor, or, as he put it, "get a fucking job, you asshole." I have a feeling he was referring to me.

Alceste then made the mistake of letting it slip to Brigg that he had a job. We were given an ultimatum of a certain number of days (or was it weeks) within which we had to stop sleeping on his roof. So, we found an apartment on the South side of the city.

This particular apartment was something of a shit-hole in a rather decent building. In fact, the building had an elevator, though it was designed to carry no more than 2 lilliputians, and a door-man. The doorman was an interesting fellow who clearly hated everyone and who openly longed for the return of the fascist dictator Franco (who is still dead).

Alceste and I, and a fluctuating number of foreigners from various locations shared this apartment with one bathroom and a kitchenette. There were usually 5 or 6 of us living there, but sometimes there seemed to be more like 8 or 10 of us in the fairly cramped quarters. Alceste and I shared one room, and we agreed that whoever passed out first each night was entitled to the bed. Thus began the long and storied tradition of "Number 1."

"Number 1" went something like this. When Alceste returned home from work, and I returned from "looking" for work, we would begin drinking the cheap Spanish wine. Since the pot of gold at the end of the drinking rainbow was a soft bed rather than a hard floor, drinking would quickly accelerate into something like a Nascar race, only with wine. (Of course, this would later develop into the card game "Up the Brandy, Down the Wine"). One of us would soon sense an advantage over the other in terms of proximity to unconsciousness which would cause a proclamation, "I'm Number One!" It was as if to say, enough with the warm up laps, let the race begin.

As you can imagine, this kind of challenge would precipitate a frenzied and furious escalation of the drinking activity by Number Two who might soon find himself in a position to shout, "I'm Number One." And so on. There were several endings to the game. Very rarely, Number One would leap to an insurmountable lead, never to be caught. More usually, there would be a back and forth, mano a mano, for several hours during which many bad things might happen until one or the other of us conceded, "Yes, you are Number One." And, occasionally, no victor would emerge until long into the morning when the whole point of sleeping had lost any meaning. Typically, those battles would be resumed after work (or "looking" for work).

Eventually, Number One began to carry with it additional privileges. Not only did you get to sleep in the bed, but also you got to use the fork to eat with. You also got to wear around your neck the compass on a string by which we navigated on our drunken escapades out into public. And, finally, as Number One matured into a fully developed sport, you got to pick the itinerary for oour drunken escapades out into public. And each of these privileges belonged to you, but only for as long as you remained - Number One.

To be continued........................

Post-graduate studies

So my college reminiscences are of little interest to anyone. How about stories from the year after graduation spent in Madrid "teaching" English? Bundeskraut?

I vaguely recall one night when 4 or 5 of us were out painting the town red. I don't recall why. I do recall that we all got paid once per month all around the same weekend so that we were always flush with cash for several days until we had blown most of our money and had to return to eating potatoes and drinking Spanish wine. This particular evening must have fallen shortly after a payday, because I was flushed.

So, there I stood, minding my own business, while the 3-4 others debated which nightspot we should next grace with our presence. Would it be the chess bar, a cozy club that received us warmly, where the regulars smoked hashish and played chess, and where we were often allowed to stay after closing and to make our own drinks? Would it be the cowboy bar where, for some reason, they drank Budweiser and acted like John Wayne if he were a foot shorter and Spanish? Would it be the (help me out here Coco, I've forgotten all of the choices).

Anyway, I was minding my own business, waiting for the group consensus, when I oh so carefully leaned backwards against the wall behind me. Unfortunately for all of us, the wall was not a wall but rather was a wall-sized plate glass window. Also unfortunately for us, the Spanish apparently have not yet embraced tempered glass or lean-able windows.

And so I and thousands of shards of broken glass proceeded to fall into the fairly fashionable restaurant situated behind me. Fortunately, I landed delicately between two tables rather than on top of any diners, and I suffered only a minor gash on my ear to show for my journey. The patrons were understandably surprised to make my acquaintance, and while I attempted to properly introduce myself from my prone position, my friends immediately jumped into action to intervene in my defense.

First, they intercepted the horde of approaching staff to advise that 1) it was not my fault that I had crashed into their restaurant (not true) and 2) that I was bleeding from the head (true) and needed medical attention (not true). In the meanwhile, two of the others hoisted me to my feet and out the door while whoever was left offered sincere apologies to the diners before we all took off running down the street.

I felt as though I should make reparations when, a couple of weeks later, we passed the spot and saw the plywood boards where the window had been. Unfortunately, we were, by that time, down to the potato and Spanish wine diet without enough saved to make it to the next payday. I could only hope that the Spanish had invented insurance claims.

Silly the Clown

Silly the Clown"is accused of assaulting a woman after she passed out in his bed. Prosecutors say he also took nude pictures of her -- and physically abused her on another occasion by throwing her against a wall and jamming his fingers up her nostrils until her nose bled." Full news story

Now I'm not here to defend Silly. Obviously Clowns should not sexually assualt people who happen to pass out in the Clown's bed. Permanent markers should not be used either.

Silly seems to be a bad, bad clown. He was considered a suspect in the death of an infant, and he has an apparent history of violence. This kind of behavior is simply not tolerated by clowns.

However, what is striking about this particular story is that the victim and Silly had been together on another occasion during which Silly jammed his fingers up her nose until she bled. One might have expected a different response from her after that performance. Instead of retaliating, calling the clown police, or avoiding him, she elected to pass out drunk in Silly's bed. Who is the true clown here?

Blood In Your Stool? Join Us!

Perhaps, the problem is that we have been too broad in our outreach. In trying to appeal to everybody, we have appealed to no bodies. Perhaps we should tailor our message to a particular segment of the population. Let's start with those who have blood in their stool.

The campaign will go something like this. If you are talking to someone and the conversation turns toward who has blood in their stool, you could interject, "Blood in your stool? You should join the First Unichurck." Then, give him/her/transgender the pamphlet - Why The First Unichurck is the only religion that makes any sense for a person with blood in his/her/transgender's stool.

If you are speaking before a group, say at your local Lion's Club or Underminer's Society, all the better. You will have the opportunity to steer the conversation appropriately. "Let's see a show of hands for who has blood in their stool. Keep em up. Now, how many of you belong to a religion that addresses the blood in your stool? Right. Now, put your hands back up if you have blood in your stool. Some of you who raised your hands last time are not raising them this time. Come on now, put em up. Ok, all of you who are not raising your hands come up here and deposit some stool on this big sheet of plastic so that we can make sure that you are in the right group. " etc. You can see how this will work to our advantage.

Once we have captured the large and growing blood-in-the-stool crowd, we can move on to other groups such as blood-in-the-urine and halitosis. In other words, let's let the churck grow organically.

UPDATE! How about "cigars in his/her/transgender's stool?" Would that be better?

EVEN FARTHER UP DATE!! More great reasons to drink urine.

THAT'S AS FAR UP AS IT REACHES DATE!!! Now I know what has been missing from the Clown Squad sound - a 6 inch floral bouquet.

Chicago to Phoenix: Wookie Central

As I try and try to wash off the smell, and wait patiently for the river of mud a-la the Chocolate Thunder Review to stop flowing from my body, I keep remembering my flight away from Rusty 2006. The inflight movie was "King Kong", which I found to be not quite as bad as everyone had told me. The four-inch screen 16 feet in front of me may have buffered the experience. The perpetual shaking of alcohol withdrawal and my own smell made it difficult to sleep, so I chose to give "Kong" a try. How bad could it be?

Though you may be expecting a review of the movie, all I could think of as I watched was our own OneEar, crippled and gimpy this year, vomiting at the slightest provocation. As I watched Kong fight off three nippy T-Rexes, Rexi, Rexae?, I imagined our Wookie trying to give directions on his way to his car. When Kong was getting splashed with chloroform, I saw OneEar administering his own anesthetic and then, after only just a little bit, turning into a furry vomit fountain on a sidewalk in a bad neighborhood.

Kong's captivity on the stage on Broadway was an eerie parallel to this year's subdued Wookie, and his swatting at the planes on top of the Empire State Building really did remind me of the poor Wookie fending off continuously annoying questions from Clowns flying at him with

"How's your stomach, Wookie?"
"How's your back, Wookie?"
"Take some medicine, Wookie?"
"Why're you walking so funny, Wookie?"
"I wonder why you can't carry your own equipment this year, Wookie. UGH!! Ok, now I get it"
"Sure are barfing a lot, Wookie."

Poor Kong. Poor Wookie. Our hero is fallen; or at least temporarily damaged.

Go back to the doctor, OneEar. You're not better yet. No one will compare you to Ben Aflac running to the Emergency Room for a headache yesterday and then leaking the life-and-death drama to the media.

Rusty Set List Changes

I'm not going to have time to prepare Poetry Deleted or Cornered in the Kitchen or UFOs and Camel Toes. We'll have to work out the tune and arrangement on Friday.

Also, there are some chord changes to http://oneear.blogspot.com/2005/04/blow-ye-know-nothing.html which I will post on Tuesday.

Also, do any of you asholes know how to water ski? My back is still misaligned due to the late-night complimentary (and unsolicited) chiropractic adjustment I received, so I won't be able to do much other than sit and drink. But please advise whether any of you is interested in skiing.

Thank Rusty

Our good and gracious Rusty has done it again! I was pining away in my cubicle this afternoon, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a special delivery marked "Rush."

Wonderful, I thought, I love rush. Many of my favorite objects are rush! Upon closer examination, I learned that the box also was marked "Insulated" and "Perishable." Even better. Insulated perishable rush object(s)! What else could I learn from the packaging? "Up" with an arrow pointing, of all directions, upwards. Now we were getting somewhere. My imagination raced with all of the possibilities, and I could hardly restrain myself from tearing into the present.

But wait a minute. What if those crafty batterers had sent me a package bomb or some anthrax or a Kathy Lee Gifford album? Was I willing to take the risk? After much deliberation, I elected to open the box.

What to my wondering eyes should appear but an insulated box filled with smoked bratwurst from Wisconsin!?!?! The smoked meat was accompanied by the referenced invoice. If you look carefully, you will see that the order for the smoked meat was placed by none other than Rusty himself! I am going to cherish these bratwurst forever and forever.

Thank you Rusty for this food that I have received.

Well, wishers

Muggles

Funny thing happened last night. I awoke in the hospital. Granted, its not the first time, but I really am getting too old for this kind of shit.

Here are the facts: I awoke in the hospital. I guess I already went over that. I have a splitting headache and a large, baseball bat-sized welt on the side of my head. My lip is split to the tune of three or four stitches and I have abrasions, contusions, and other sions all over my face. My wallet and keys are missing as is my memory. Those of you who know me are probably saying, "yeah, so what's the funny part." That is why I refer to you as assholes.

I have cancelled my credit cards, and I don't really need a driver's license, but I lost my 10trip to the carwash with 8 trips remaining. I am thinking that I'll hang out at the car wash waiting for my victimizer, and when he is trapped in his soapy grave, I'll detonate an atomic bomb. Some would call this overkill, but I think it is appropriate given the level of my anger.