Photo Essay: Postcards to my President. Volume 13.

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President.

Laurel and Hardy and Coronavirus . . .

"Stay calm and be proactive."

Tell that to Stan and Ollie, as they simultaneously build and destroy a house in "The Finishing Touch" or become roof-top acrobats in "Hog Wild." 
As the world shrinks into itself and 'social distancing' becomes a virtue instead of a vice, it wouldn't hurt to spend a few hours with these two fine and generous clowns on YouTube. Their films are posted free, for the most part.
Their films have been picked apart and analyzed, and celebrated, by finer minds and better writers than me. I can only try to convey my visceral enjoyment of them.
 In their best work Laurel and Hardy turn muddling through into an art form. As Ollie is constantly reminding Stan, the world is nothing but 'another nice mess.' 
This is as profound as they ever get. Thank goodness. They are the comfort food of comedy -- a grilled cheese sandwich, if you will, that asks nothing better than a moment of your time to do a deliriously silly dance in "Way Out West" or turn a sawmill into a glorious donnybrook in "Busy Bodies."  
 They succeed well in creating a simple world of their own, impervious to outside influences  -- existing outside of time itself. A slapstick elegy, where two men muddle on amidst crashing bric-a-brac, unsympathetic cops, and even an occasional tetchy gorilla. It is a reflection of our own world, but writ large and lunatic. 
So do yourself a favor -- give their special magic a view soon. You may laugh out loud, or you may just shake your head with a tolerant and amused smile -- but I promise you that you will find their work to be other-worldly and unforgettable. 
And then your own muddling through will not seem so tedious or irritating.
After all, as Stan says --"Anyone can build a nest, but it isn't everyone who can lay an egg!" 

Timericks

There was an old German named Ernst/who never learned how to take turnst/He butted in line/to fill his beer stein/until at the stake he was burnst.

When cruise ships are docking at port/the captain is hauled into court/and brought to his knees/for spreading disease/while passengers bring a large tort.


For candidate Sanders to win/'twould take a splendiferous din/of media hype/with lots of free tripe/and also a wish from a djinn.



The gym has got so many germs/I'd rather go out and eat worms/than sit on a dolly/where germs are quite jolly/while doing some bending and squirms.






If digital media sinks/who do we blame for the jinx?/Editors scamper/like some daytime camper/cuz nobody looks at their links . . . 

The Lord searcheth all hearts

. . . for the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts . . .
1 Chronicles 28:9

The Lord God searches ev'ry heart

and knows each beating yearning part.

He understandeth what we feel

and knows, to us, tis very real.

And understanding, he will give

to each of us the way to live

if we will but be like a child

and by his love become beguiled.

Imagine not the world is bleak --

if we but Jesus Christ do seek!

Timericks

A young boy whose first name was Cloud/did figure he should be allowed/to float on the breeze/so he climbed some trees/They buried him in a nice shroud.


A proper old Englishman, Niles/was stingy with handing out smiles/The uninformed mob/said "He's just a snob"/The truth is he suffered from piles.



A Swede who was always called 'Sven'/developed a terrible yen/for herring so ripe/it reeked of waste pipe/He choked on a wad of sen-sen.


There was an old woman named Fern/who while cooking dinner did burn/the roast and the spuds/So she dined on Milk Duds/while her husband drank all the sauterne. 

Photo Essay: Mountain Dawning

Resolved 

to be mountain steady --

then I get the runs.

Always the same

except when I

look away.

Clouds 

never move --

They just change.

There is no mirror

big enough

to hold a mountain.

Whatever was,

is gone.

Whatever is,

remains.

My meditation of him shall be sweet

My meditation of him shall be sweet: I will be glad in the Lord.
Psalm 104:34

Escape, my soul, the busy world,

and all of its distractions --

and treat upon the word of God,

with all its pure attractions!

So gladly will I lay aside,

if just for one brief hour,

the constant struggle to survive,

to contemplate God's power.

Leave mysteries to those who must

be prying and imposing;

I will meditate instead

on all his love disclosing.

The Continuing Chronicles of Marilyn

So I like to cook Midwestern-style meals for the old ladies in my building. The kind you find at basement suppers in the Lutheran church around Fargo North Dakota. Last Sunday I made a ham & sweet potato casserole, which I served with cornbread and instant chocolate pudding. Along with dill pickles and cottage cheese. It was a big hit with the denture set, and Marilyn came down from her penthouse to rub elbows with the hoi polloi and mooch some of the food. I put out a Donation jar when I do these big feasts, and Marilyn asked if she could take the money out to count it, “Just to see how much you’re making off of us” she said. She hadn’t put anything in.

“If you handle that money you’ve got to wash your hands again” I told her, and that discouraged her. She wears stark white four inch nails right now, and doesn’t like exposing them to water -- I guess they might melt or something.

I gave her a helping of the casserole and she sat down next to a busybody who I refer to, privately, as ‘Mush Mouth,’ since she doesn’t wear her dentures anymore. Mush Mouth eats most of the cottage cheese and then sucks on a piece of ham like it was a jawbreaker. 

“How are you today, honey?” Marilyn asks her.

“Mumphly yesterday but blath math pluw today.”

“That’s nice” says Marilyn absently. Then she decides to become more friendly and deceitful.

“My name’s Natalia, what’s yours?” she asks.

“Ruff.”

“Ruff?”

“No, Ruff!”

Marilyn glances over at me, silently mouthing the phrase “What the F . . . ?” The full phrase, mind you.

“Her name is Ruth” I say loudly, over the chatter of several residents who have begun a wrangle about Ostomy bags. But Marilyn has suddenly lost interest in Ruff -- I mean Ruth -- and comes over to show me her latest bauble from the Skipper. It’s a platinum bracelet filigreed with white gold.

“Must be expensive,” I tell her.

“Naw, he got it at a pawn shop for less than a hundred” she replies.

“What happened to that guy from Venezuela you were hanging out with?” I ask her impishly.

“Oh, him” she waves her hand airily, as if dark and handsome caballeros are a dime a dozen. “He went back down south to visit his mother. She’s rich, you know. He may fly me down to Caracas for Carnival in a few weeks. We’ll see . . . Hey, gimme some more of those sweet potatoes . . . “

Most of the rest of the meal is spent in brooding silence by Marilyn. I notice her cheeks are sunken, making her look like Boris Karloff. She’s stopped streaking her hair with red, letting it turn full black again. She’s got on knee-length tan leather boots, which show off her legs to very good effect. When she turns towards the window the afternoon sun highlights her scrawny turkey neck and incipient wattles. Her balcony, though, is still amazing . . . 

“Hey, my face is up here” she suddenly says, giving me a roguish and alluring smile.

And suddenly I feel nineteen years old again, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with unmitigated longing. I toy with the idea of spending the afternoon with her -- the Skipper always visits with his wife and kids on Sundays. He never comes over. 

“Get a grip, you old fool!” I tell myself sternly, and decide to be as rude as possible to Natalia, or Marilyn, or whoever the hell she is. She really does irritate me. Worse than Mush Mouth or any of the other old biddies cluttering up the Community Room while wolfing down the carbs.

“Hey, when am I going to get my fan back?” I ask her suddenly, out of the blue. She had borrowed a small black fan from me last summer, and never returned it.

“Huh? What fan?”

“Oh c’mon -- you borrowed it last summer and I’d like to have it back now.”

The room has gone silent; the old ladies sense a storm brewing, and they don’t want to miss a single crackle of lightning or roll of thunder.

“I gave it back to you, twit. Last month. Are you losing your mind, old man?” she replies viciously. I knew I could get her dander up. Now she is no longer attractive, but just another old fish wife to be disdainfully tossed aside.

“Whatever . . . ” I shake my head at her. “Don’t forget to wash your dishes before you leave.” Marilyn never brings her own stuff to these dinners -- she rummages in the community kitchen and then leaves her dirty dishes in the sink for someone else to do. Usually me.

“I’m outta here!” she declares to no one in particular. She gets up, ignoring her dirty plate and utensils, and stalks out. 

And once again my real age happily starts creeping up on me --I want nothing more than a good burp and a long Sabbath afternoon nap before turning to Netflix for the evening. I feel akin to Neville Chamberlain, having achieved peace in my time . . .

Quarantine

Mount Foozle. Bindlestiff Range. Tepidstan.

And when the authorities do issue guidance or directives, they can seem contradictory or illogical.

“We’ve been told everything from it was OK to go out, to we had to sign a release that we’re housebound now,” said one of the women who received an isolation order and who spoke on the condition that her name not be published. “We’ve been told we don’t need to be tested, to we have to be tested. We’ve been told that someone’s coming to our house to test us, to ‘You’ve got to find someplace.’

NYT

So I'm at home, minding my own business,
when this jamoke bangs on my door
and slips a piece a paper under it.
"Sign this!" he shouts at me.
"What the hell is it?" I shout back at him, 
not bothering to open the door.
"Quarantine order. You gotta stay
isolated for the next six weeks.
Don't go anywhere.
Don't see anyone.
Wash your hands once an hour."
I sign and shove it back under the door.
I'm a good citizen and a decent guy.
Nobody's gonna get sick cuz of me.
"Thanks!" the guy shouts at me;
then I hear his footsteps running down 
the hallway.
He is in one hell of a hurry to get away.

My front door is crap,
so there was plenty of room
for the pizza guy to slide one
under the door without me having
to open it.
So I didn't starve.
I called my boss, told him the news;
he puts me on administrative leave,
with pay.
Netflix has a bunch of new shows.
So quarantined life is good.

Then, five days later, there's another loud knock.
"What?" I yell from the couch,
where  I'm watching a new zombie series
showing them as intelligent 
and caring decaying corpses
that want to end global warming.
"Quarantine's lifted!" said the voice
on the other side of the door.
"Go outside and get some fresh air!"
"Thanks!" I yelled back. "I will!"
I stayed inside for another six days --
I figured I needed the rest 
and my boss wouldn't miss me
that much.

When I finally stepped outside
the sun seemed way too bright
and the traffic noise was offensive.
A cop came up to me and asked
"Lemme see your papers."
"What papers?" I replied.
"Can't be on the street without 
a clean bill of health. Let's have it."
"I don't know what you're
talkin' about" I told him frankly.
"I been inside for the past two weeks."
"Oh" he said darkly, "one of THEM."
Then he clobbers me with his 
night stick and I run back inside.

I call the Department of Health,
tell them what happened;
they say it was all a mistake
and I should wait for my 
clean bill of health to come
in the mail.

That was three years ago.
I'm still inside.
Still having pizza delivered.
Still on paid leave.
My boss is an angel.