Starting your day with a laugh
is not what Trump does with his staff.
But at the U.N.
the ladies and men
did chuckle at his early gaffe.
(John Schwartz, a reporter at the NYT, responded to this poem thus: He often said that America has become a laughing stock, so there’s a promise kept. )
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At the ripe old age of 65 I have exactly $290.31 in my savings account at America First Credit Union, and exactly $664.51 in my checking account. I owe nothing on my one credit card (which has a $500.00 limit.) My monthly Social Security is $789.00. I own no assets, no property, vehicles, boats, stocks, bonds, antiques, no coins and no precious metals. My furnishings are all from Deseret Industries, as are most of my clothes -- except those items that some of my kids have thoughtfully bought for me. I have a $9 thousand life insurance/burial policy, with my daughter Madelaine named as beneficiary.
(Do I pay tithing on my Social Security? I do not. Some of the residents here at the Valley Villas do pay tithing on theirs, but I figure if it's not taxed it shouldn't be tithed.)
My mother left me forty thousand dollars in her will, but my sister Sue Ellen, as executor of her estate, got a court order to pay my inheritance directly to Amy for back child support instead. I never saw dime one of it.
And at long last I think I know what my mother meant when she said: "God throws money out the window." It means that not too much of it has ever drifted my way.
Taking stock of my financial situation this morning is a necessary prelude to my master matrimonial plan. I don't believe I am in a position yet to offer any woman a decent life with me. Unless, of course, I am canny enough to find a rich widow. One who has a tidy nest egg laid aside and is willing to support me in my literary efforts and moonbeam snatching. I guess it could happen; and so could bowling balls growing feathers.
(Apropos of nothing: The Provo City Housing Authority had the hallway carpets here steam cleaned yesterday. Now they smell like a pet store. I wanna buy a hamster.)
(Another bagatelle: Yesterday at the pool I asked Lorraine, our aquatic aerobics instructor, if I had ever told her how nice she is. She looked startled and said "No, you haven't."
"Don't worry" I replied, "I will someday." Then I hurried away, but I think I heard her laughing.)
But seriously, folks. How am I gonna make some steady extra income? Several years ago, right after I got fired from Nomen Global here in Provo for writing a blog about homophones, I set up a GoFundMe account. I wanted to raise nine thousand dollars so I could move back to Thailand and resume my career as an English teacher. The site raised a total of $345.00:
- $50.00 from Eric Budd, an old friend from Minneapolis
- $50.00 from an anonymous source
- $50.00 from Laurel Montgomery, a complete stranger
- $15.00 from Natalie Lennon, another complete stranger, who wrote: "From one teacher to another. They don't pay us enough to put up with administrative bullshit."
- $10.00 from a Peter Bunting. Don't know the guy.
- $25.00 from my daughter Madelaine Whitmore
- $10.00 from a Jennifer. No last name
- $20.00 from a Lorrie Nolasco, with the message: "This is for you so you can run away from this ridiculous 'homophonophobia.' It may become an epidemic!"
- and $5.00 from a Noel. No last name.
Obviously, I never made it back to Thailand. Now as I review this old account I'm wondering if I'm under any obligation to pay these people back. That thought makes me uncomfortable, so I'll just pretend I never asked myself about it at all. Which reminds me; I owe Dave Phelps fifteen hundred dollars from when he loaned me that amount for airfare back to the States from Thailand when my passport was revoked. I'd like to start paying him back ten dollars a month, but can't find any contact information about him. He's one of my old missionary companions, and I've asked around for contact information, but nobody seems to know how to reach him. Or am I just pretending I'm trying to reach him? By golly, I am much more self-deceiving than is good for me.
And then there's Bobby Hunt, an old friend from Disneyland. I remember borrowing three hundred dollars from him when Amy needed a D&C after a miscarriage. And I've pretty much paid him back, but now he insists that I owe him fifteen hundred, not three hundred. Is my memory deceiving me again? Be that as it may, I'm not paying him any more money.
Well, anywho, my thought here is to set up another crowdfunding account -- this time to help me get married. I'm thinking I'll pitch it something like this:
"To help ease international tensions I'd like to marry a 40 year old Asian woman. She couldn't possibly be happy on the small amount of Social Security I am currently getting, and in many Asian countries the family demands a bride price. So won't you help me build world peace?"
I'm thinking I'll ask for thirty thousand.
Of course, the real money maker at hand for me is my poetry book "A Clump of Trump." It's available on Amazon for $5.99. Readers, here is a chance for you to spread culture like confetti and good humor like whipped butter on toast. Remember, there are only 89 shopping days left until Christmas. So now's the time to order a baker's dozen copies for friends and family. Just think of the smiles you'll put on their careworn faces. The burbling chuckles that will issue from lips too long drooping with frowns. Research has shown that my book will cure anything that isn't serious, or real. Can you afford to ignore such a vademecum of literary lusciousness? Place a copy in your bathrooms; donate copies to your local library; send it to your Congress person and Representative and insist they read it immediately. Use it as a doorstop. And why stop there? Just think what could happen if you and everyone you know who has $5.99 laying around in loose change were to order my book and send it to the President himself. By the Great Horn Spoon, copies should go to ALL the world leaders! It would be a game changer. It would provoke a New World Order. There's no doubt, not a single quibble, in my mind that inundating the world with my book in such a manner would hasten the New Jerusalem. You owe it to your children to do this.
By so doing you will make me wealthy "beyond the dreams of avarice," as Dr. Johnson so elegantly put it. Then I might be able to marry two wives, instead of just one. Sequentially, of course.
Yessiree bob, I think my poetry book is the best bet for an income boost. Plus a bestselling author is much more attractive than an obscure scribbler. So be the first on your block to make me obscenely rich, won't you?
Or I could just look for a regular part-time job like an ordinary person would. Nah, that would take away too much time from my writing. The world needs my writing. They may not know it yet, but they will.
I want to return to the subject of epistles, or, since those don't exist anymore, emails. My mind is firm on the subject: if you send it to me it belongs to me and I can do whatever I want with it. So don't send me the pin number to your Bitcoin account. But obviously not everyone agrees with me. My Thai pen pal did not like the inclusion of her email in my last chapter. She wrote me this morning:
It was a big surprise to me Tim, to see that you posted my latest email in your blog on 26/9/2018. Parts of what I shared with you, I thought it would be between you and me. Because some of the messages are quite personal. By this time a lot of people that know you and a few good friemds that knew me probably have read it already. It is really embarrasing to me even though you did not post my name on it.
I am confuse. I do not know what to think? Just wondering about your intention towards me. Are we still good friends? And who were you referring to if you won a hugh Rottery Prize? And you will buy her a nice cottage so she will acts as your match maker. I wish to hear your explianation. Please help me to understand you okay Tim.
My initial urge was to email back "Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk's still good" -- a rude phrase from my childhood that meant 'You can like it or lump it.' But instead I sent this:
I am sorry you feel that way about being included in my new novel. Your words reveal a loving heart and tender spirit, which I believe should be shared with others to help brighten their lives. I wish you would write some more poetry, so I could include that as well.
Years ago I wrote a column for Circus Report, called Clown Notes. In one of my columns I quoted from a letter I got from my old clown sidekick Steve Smith. It was a harmless paragraph, as I recall; but when Smith read it in Circus Report he blew his top. Krakatoa was a fizzle compared to his pyrotechnics. But then, he always was a snippy little fellow. His feathers were always in a continual state of ruffle. I refused to answer any of his wickedly profane letters to me on the matter, and eventually he cooled off and we brushed the scoria off to continue our friendship.
I'm dropping the subject for now, since my feet ache after walking over to the Silver Dish for lunch and then to the Rec Center to swim and then taking the 850 bus down to DI and back again. Right now I'm soaking my barking dogs in lukewarm water with baking soda in it. That's a lot cheaper than using Epsom salts. (Gotta save those dollars for my future wedding.) And I am delighted, and thankful, that Adam has just sent me 8 more rewrites. At least now I can afford to keep going to the Silver Dish for lunch. The lady who brought me to my seat was obviously Thai, in her forties, with no wedding ring. She gave me a great big grin when I spoke Thai to her, but then disappeared into the kitchen and I didn't see her again. I had pad lad na with tofu. $10.50. I drank only water. See, that's another step I'm taking to control my weight; no more fountain drinks when I eat out. Plain old water will do the trick just fine. I'm going to insinuate myself into their hearts little by little, until I can find out more about that Thai woman. My first step will be tomorrow when I go get my bagel at Fresh Market I'm going to get some change in dollar bills, and then leave a big cash tip each time I eat at the Silver Dish. Sarah, who used to work as a waitress, told me that the wait staff loves getting cash tips cuz when it's put on a credit or debit card the restaurant owner gets the tip and usually keeps it. But if it's put on the table as cash the waiter or waitress keeps it.
Walking to the Silver Dish I go by the big outdoor display of pumpkins in the Fresh Market parking lot. Pumpkins are a zen thing with me; they evoke feelings of peace and still depths in me that I should access more often:
withered pumpkin stems
twisted and grey like goat horns
mounted on fire
The trees are not really showing bright colors here in Provo this year; perhaps it's because of the extended heat and drought. Not like the colors that caressed me as a child in Minneapolis:
the dim leaves are still,
draining in the butter sun,
losing their resolve
Riding the bus up to DI this afternoon I noticed that most of the passengers looked like they were going to an execution -- their own. The driver was glummer than all the rest. I always wear sunglasses when riding the bus, to avoid interaction with the overly whimsical. Sunglasses on the bus are a universal language that clearly says: "I am invisible and you can't see me." It usually works.
I just took a moment to go into the bathroom to smile into the mirror. It's getting harder to do. My face in repose resembles a basset hound's, down to the cold nose. I need to make more of an effort to smile and look pleasant. But maybe not on the bus; that will just attract the brainless bees who want to buzz around and around without ever landing on a topic. When I lived at my daughter's house in Virginia I took the bus every day, and noticed everyday a man who wore no shoes but plastic bags over his feet. Otherwise he wasn't dressed oddly at all.
They've already started to put out the Halloween stuff at DI. There was a large green Robin Hood cap, with a peacock feather in it, that I should have bought for a dollar, but didn't. When I go shopping, I do it by subtraction. I'll stroll up and down the aisles like a normal person, picking out an item here and there and putting it my cart. Then, just before I go to the cashier I start taking things out, saying to no one in particular: "Do I really need that?" "Can't I get this cheaper online?" and other such twaddle. By the time I'm done I only have one or at the most two items to buy. I feel really good about all the things I don't buy. Like I'm getting away with something -- sticking it to the concept of Conspicuous Consumption. Joom would literally grind her molars in a rage when I shopped like this with her in Thailand.
"Khon baa!" she'd yell at me. "You're a crazy person!"
So today I only brought home two items from DI. I went there looking for a winter coat. The one I have now, which Madelaine sent to me four winters ago, has a huge tear in the front, which I have sealed up with duct tape -- but it puts the mark of the eccentric on me; I might as well start wearing plastic bags on my feet.
I didn't find a coat my size (Hippo Plus) but picked up a paperback of The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, with some other short stories, for seventy five cents. And a large bag of sea shells for a dollar. I put back a large gray sweatshirt, two neckties, a Teflon griddle for making pancakes, a battery powered pepper mill, a large plastic pitcher with a lid, and the Complete Poems of Robert Frost, which cost 3 dollars.
The shells are going into my patio koi pond. When I lived with Joom in Thailand we were less than a mile from the Gulf of Thailand. Each day I'd spend hours, after work, rambling up and down the beach putting shells in a yellow net bag. At home I soaked them in bleach water for an hour, then put them on the stained concrete fence that ran around the property. When the fence could hold no more I put them on the front porch railing, and then scattered them across the driveway to discourage snakes from slithering into the yard. This didn't go over well with Joom, who liked to strut about the property in her bare feet, watering the orchids she bought for ten baht apiece and put in the mango tree branches, and weeding her Thai basil and eggplant plot. The sharp edges of the shells gave her paper cuts. So I had to sweep up all the sea shells from the driveway and put them in a pile next to the abandoned squatter in the back of the house. Everyone collected sea shells in that neck of the woods, turning them into jewelry. I could buy a long necklace of wentletraps for a quarter.
The question I'm asking myself as this day comes to a close is inspired by the only advertisement I ever see at the bus stops here in Provo, for Gun Shows:
Why aren't there ever any mass shootings at Gun Shows?
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