Salma Hayek Endorses Bone Broth

“Good bone broth resurrects the dead.”

Salma Hayek

Have you heard the latest trend concerning warm bone broth?

It is so copacetic cuz they make it from whole cloth.

The butcher shop is out of knuckles, shanks, and chicken feet,

Since Salma Hayek, Kobe Bryant put the word out on the street.

A bowl of bone broth will replace a shot of Botox, or

Help the weakest player to produce the winning score.

So start your slurping early of this stock so rich and boney

(and never mind if doctors say it’s really just baloney!)

The New York Times

TRUTH.

It’s more important now than ever.

The new masthead of the New York Times

The New York Times has got the truth

And is prepared to share it --

But only if you like the sauce

in which they do prepare it.

They roll it in a flour of elitist jibber jabber,

Then let it sit with editors until it starts to clabber.

Reporters mix it up with shallots and a touch of whimsy --

And out it comes so very smooth (although a bit too flimsy.)

Pontius Pilate didn’t know what truth was, but the Times

Can guarantee the verity of all their paradigms.

So step right up and do your bit to keep truth flying high,

And purchase a subscription from this stuffy samurai!

Cats in the Outfield!

"Seldom does traditional baseball please a crowd the way a renegade feline scampering across the infield can. Few home runs are as gratifying as a groundskeeper futilely chasing a cat who is having absolutely no part of it."
from the NYTimes.

I think the Marlins need to yield

To cats upon the baseball field.

In fact, perhaps the MLB

Should give stray felines a latch key

To visit other venues so

They can proceed to stop the show.

The Seventh Inning Stretch can’t match

A tom who comes out just to scratch!

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.