Lunch at the Provo Senior Citizen Center: Chicken Pot Pie

I am at that vulnerable and dangerous age where I immediately fall in love with any pretty girl who is nice to me, and doesn't call me "Mister" or "Sir." There aren't too many of them around.

This one runs the front desk at the Provo Senior Center. I don't even know her name, but she has been very good to me, and greets me with a smile every day when I come over to her to ask for my meal ticket for lunch. I'm thinking of getting married in Las Vegas, and then a honeymoon on Lake Powell with a rented houseboat.

But when she noticed I was clicking photos of her by the dozen she told me the new Rec Center policy is that no outside cameras can be brought into the building and Rec Center personnel were not allowed to be photographed without permission from the site manager. So I fiddled with some dials on my digital camera and told her there, I had erased them all. Which I didn't. So sue me -- I stand for Freedom of the Press! Or at least Freedom of the Blog.

The chicken pot pie is just a biscuit with cream of chicken soup poured over it. Not even any celery added. However, I must admit it tastes pretty good if you're hungry. They served a dinky green salad and canned mandarin oranges along with it. I got stuck at a table with six other guys who ate with their elbows spread out like wings -- I got jabbed in the ribs so many times I thought I was back in bed with my ex-wife.

Dandelion Crayon Gets an Early Retirement From Crayola

The axis of the world is bent; the fulcrum doesn’t hold;

Crayola has erased a hue that many thought was gold.

How can we think to conquer space or master DNA

When colors in a box of crayons just might go away?

There’s no use striving anymore for peace or good granola --

For Dandelion has been axed by treacherous Crayola!

from the NYTimes

Seeking the Light

“Seeking the light is in our spiritual DNA”

Mark A. Bragg

There’s no one that’s born in the dark.

There’s always some kind of a spark

From God up above

To show us His love,

To which we can constantly hark.

Thailand Memories: The Barbershop

Back in 2004 I thought my life was going somewhere because I lived in Bangkok, Thailand, and I was actively seeking work as an English teacher. My location and goals seemed racy and exotic at the time. From the perspective of 13 years later, I'm not very impressed with myself back then. Still, I did make some interesting journal entries about things like barbers, charlatans, and whales:

Went for another job interview yesterday. Over at Lad Phrao, Soi 2. The idiot cab driver dropped me off on the wrong side of the street, so I had to play dodge ball with the murderous traffic and then walk about a mile in the blazing sun to the FunSpeak school. I was early. The place was shut up tighter than a clam. It almost looked deserted. I was mucky with sweat and sun and diesel exhaust fumes; I would have sold my soul to the Democrats for a cold shower and even colder bottle of Fanta right then. An air-conditioned barbershop sits next to FunSpeak. So what the hay, I’ll get a trim. 

Things are different from my days as a missionary here. Back then the barbers were ugly old Chinese men who had big, glaberous hands that reeked of Tiger Balm. They not only cut your hair but liked to put wooden splinters in your ears to clean out the wax. Nowadays, though, the barber industry has been taken over by beautiful young Thai women, who sit languidly waiting for customers, showing a lot of leg, while reading the Thai version of Cosmopolitan. And the division of labor is quite to my liking. One gal does nothing but shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo and rinse my hair. She is wearing one of those very tight white student blouses that University students are sporting this season; one good lungful of air and those buttons would start popping like champagne corks. I’d gladly risk having an eye put out to see that happen. There is something unsettling about a woman running her long nails through your hair over and over again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tip her or ask her to marry me. In the end I do neither. I’m a shy cheapskate. 

My lady barber is dressed in black leather bib overalls; they squeak like Xena in full armor whenever she bends over me. Once I take my glasses off and gaze at my reflection in the mirror I seem to look pretty dang charming. I’m thinking, maybe this gal is bored with her life of snipping follicles, maybe I can brighten things up for her with some dinner and a movie, and then . . . who knows? I smile at her. She smiles at me. Was that a wink she just gave me? Wait, am I winking at her? No, just some hair in my eyes. She finishes with a hot blow dryer, running it around my head and then down the back of my neck; that’s gotta be a come on! Let me just put on my glasses and pay her, with a generous tip, and then ask her what she’s doing tonight, would she like to go see the new Charlie’s Angels movie? Glasses on. My world comes crashing around my ears. Who is that homely person staring back at me, and when did I get that gigantic bald spot on the back of my head? Must be the size of a flapjack. And those bags under my eyes . . . I look like I’ve just escaped from some Russian Gulag. I’m not going to ask this gal out, instead I’m going to ask her where the nearest plastic surgeon is. Ah well, at least I’ve cooled off abit. Now to stroll next door for that interview. 

A wiry little man with black curly hair pops up and pumps my hand. He’s Gustafo. I hand him my resume. He puts it underneath a pile of paper six inches thick. I never look at ‘em, he explains. He shows me a poster for FunSpeak; it shows Shakespeare down on one knee, emoting in Thai. Ah yes, explains Gustafo, we will be teaching English through the use of drama and theater techniques. How many students do you have right now, I ask. Right now, none. We haven’t started to advertise yet. But once we do we’re sure to get a bunch of students, maybe even more than we can handle. He shows me through the building; bare, stark rooms with no desks, no chairs, and unpleasant-smelling carpeting. He will be auditioning teachers in about two weeks. And the pay, I prompt. You can ask what you think you’re worth, he replies loftily. There are too many flies in the office where we talk, and the air conditioning isn’t working well; I can feel a fine, greasy sweat on my forehead. Suddenly I feel very tired and bored with Gustafo. When are you looking for teachers to start? Oh, perhaps by the end of August. Why am I not more enthusiastic about all this? I love theater and English, this could be a fun job. But the word “charlatan” seems written on the man’s forehead. Takes one to know one. My blood sugar must be low, all I had for lunch was a glass of Noni juice. Across the street I hear an odd rasping sound. I can’t wait to get out of there to go see what it is. I glance at my wrist, wishing I had a watch on. I need to get going I tell Gustafo. Of course, he says, and walks me to the door, where we both watch a group of men carrying huge bones into a courtyard. Must be a dinosaur I say. Whale says Gustafo.

Washington Post’s David Fahrenthold wins Pulitzer Prize for dogged reporting of Trump’s philanthropy

Pulitzer has prizes for reporters who have pluck,

Who don’t rely on stringers or with fake news push their luck.

So when a journo reaps this prize it shows integrity --

Although to bring down Trump it takes but little inquiry.

Diligence

“Faith is a practical principle that inspires diligence.”

Ulisses Soares

I guess I’m just not faithful, cuz I love my daily nap.

And when I’m done a-snoozing I eat chips upon my lap.

Alarm clocks don’t exist in my experience at all.

I’ve got a bunch of books to read – they reach from wall to wall.

On Netflix I spend so much time my eyeballs like marbles feel.

A can of soup and crackers I consider a big deal.

Diligence is overrated – give me quietude.

I’m old enough to ponder, not yet old enough to brood. 

Thank you, Delohn Wyatt!

What better way to start a Monday morning than to say “Salamat” to the many readers who liked my mini-memoir “Krinkles’ Clown Gag.”

Your support makes all the difference between monochrome and Technicolor!

Gabriel Romero Sr.; Henry Mower Rice; Lorna Hymer Spellman; Alexander Ramsey; Robert E. Handley; Cushman Davis; Mike Weakley; Moses E. Clapp; Jan Henriksen; Henrik Shipsted; Roy Dietrich; Eugene McCarthy; Ron Butler; Muriel Humphrey; Anna Lima; Rod Grams; Mary Pat Cooney; Amy Klobuchar; Rudy Boschwitz; Kenneth L Stallings; and the perspicacious Delohn Wyatt.

“The reason animals cannot write is because they have no axe to grind.”  Mark Twain.

I took a student loan out when I was a bright eyed lad

Based on a story from the New York Times

I took a student loan out when I was a bright eyed lad.

I thought I would repay it while I still had time to gad.

But then I got my Masters and discovered ruefully

I’d never hold a steady job without a Ph.D.

And thus I went so deep in debt that bankers got a thrill

When they saw the zeroes lined up on my int’rest bill.

Slaving night and day I fell behind -- oh what a shame!

I lost my house and savings and my credit score is lame.

The government took pity and did promise me relief

But after miles of red tape I have only got more grief.

Don’t hold your breath, ye debtors, and depend on Uncle Sam.

Whatever he may promise he just doesn’t give a damn.  

Memories of Thailand: Maid Service.

Zero Mostel sang it on Broadway: Oh, everybody ought to have a maid! 

I had a maid when I was growing up. We called her Mom. She quit one day when I was fifteen and asked her to bring me the ketchup from the fridge for my hotdog. 

“Whatsa matter, you gotta broken leg?” she snarled at me. Life was hell after that, what with taking my own laundry down to the basement, making my own peanut butter sandwiches and matching up my own socks like a common guttersnipe. Ah, but the good times returned when I came to Thailand on my LDS mission. For then, as Zero warbled, everybody did have a maid! A working girl who washed and cooked and swept. Life of Riley ain’t in it, as the Victorians would say. Of course the amenities were still rather rough and ready. No washing machines back then, so the maid took your shirts, pants and garments into the back and kneaded ‘em up good in a big red plastic pan full of soapy water, then slapped ‘em around on the side of the house. I happened to have some zippered garments and the rough house washing bent the zippers so I couldn’t zip ‘em up anymore. I had to make frequent stops while tracting to pull myself together, so to speak. 

Most of the maids were LDS, so we were supposed to treat them kindly and always provide a good example, which made it hard to complain about the lousy food or pick your nose. 

We had one loud-mouthed maid at Din Daeng. Church member, sure, but she squawked like Foghorn Leghorn and made nothing but boiled rice soup and runny scrambled eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Finally the District Leader fired her. She went to the nearest cop shop and brought back a brown-shirted bozo who looked thoroughly confused as she launched into a frenzied accusation against us – we kept girls hidden in our rooms; we drank ourselves into a stupor every night; we deliberately put stamps with the king’s picture on our letters home upsidedown. The cop scratched his head, smiled nervously and obviously wished he could join us for the first two activities. But the third accusation was serious, so he wrote something in his book, gave a carbon copy to the District Leader, and left with the maid still pealing by his side like a cracked gong. 

But that was a memorable exception. Most of the maids I recall were gentle souls, who tried to cook American dishes for us, with varying success. Our maid in Bankapi made outstanding spaghetti, although her tomato sauce was a mite heavy on the ketchup. She had seen an Italian movie once where the mama had thrown a strand of spaghetti against the wall to see if it was done, so she did the same thing. Our kitchen walls took on a fibered, ant-infested look. The maid up in Khon Kaen valiantly attempted a turkey one Thanksgiving. She got a church member to donate the gobbler, then plucked it like a chicken and stuck it in her biggest frying pan over the stove. The results were raw on one side, burnt on t’other; we nibbled somewhere between the two extremes. 

The maid in Chonburi was by far the best. She did white shirts that came out so fluffy you thought you were wearing milkweed fuzz. Her cooking was all Thai and would make the mouth water on a mummy, and therein lay the rub. This was towards the end of my run as a missionary, when an odd psychology kicks in. The trunky Elder yearns for the Wonder Bread of home, but a sneaking hunch that he has goofed off just a little too much begins to trouble his sleep and then his waking thoughts. Now, while his language ability is at the peak, now, while he’s become immune to the pretty girls; now, while he has full command of the Discussions and can recite them forwards and backwards; now, while he thinks he understands the Thai mindset; NOW is the time to work like a fiend for that miracle family, that mother and father and 2.3 children that are just what the Church needs! So I shot out the door first thing in the morning with my companion and we did not come back till long after dark, stifling our hunger along the way with a bowl of anemic gweytio noodles. We’d come home to the broken remains of a feast – plaa tuu that had once been succulent and hearty. Glass noodles with shrimp, with just a hint of lemon grass and galenga. Som tum that reeked of chiles and garlic, with a mountain of sticky rice on the side. Sliced mangos swimming in coconut milk surrounded by coy pearls of quivering tapioca. Oh, there was so much that was good and fine and wasted of her cooking. Those predatory Elders that shared our apartment never missed a meal, those swinish humbugs, and they always piously assured us they would leave us plenty of leftovers. Bah! Locusts would have been more considerate. So I starved my last few weeks in Thailand, while the Horn of Plenty was drained by those who should have been my bosom companions. 

Well, well, that was all long ago. I've been batching for myself for so long now that I doubt I'd recognize a maid if one came up and bit me. Or kissed me. One is just as likely as the other. 

My Hair

"Last year, human hair imports to the United States were valued at $685.3 million, according to the Census Bureau, up from $51.6 million back in 1992."
from the NYTimes

When I think of the hair I’ve grown and thrown away for naught

When selling it could make me rich -- my blood begins to clot.

Light brown and curly as pig’s tail, my locks upon the floor

Of barber shops were trampled on and then tossed out the door.

My tresses to my shoulder hung when hippies were the rage --

Today my hair is dull and gray and looks like prairie sage.

But if haute couture used dandruff for this season’s biggest splash,

I still could make a bundle and be rolling in green cash!