Therefore, if you will ask of me you shall receive; if you will knock it shall be opened unto you.
D&C 14:5
What courage does it take to knock/what wisdom to inquire?
The honest heart will do it now/The cunning will hang fire.
Wednesday, August 26, 2020
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
Crazy Henry Goes to Bollywood.
I never said Crazy Henry didn't have talent; it's just that he gets distracted so easily that he never sticks to anything long enough to make his mark.
Take Bollywood, for instance.
We were making snickerdoodle cookies at his place, to throw at the crows that infest his neighborhood. Crazy Henry's theory of animal control is that if you feed animals, including crows, stuff that is full of wheat bran, they will experience digestive distress. which, in turn, they will associate with the place where they ate the stuff that gave them a belly ache, and thus never come back to that place again. Crazy Henry calls it humane poisoning.
I call it a waste of good cookie dough.
Crazy Henry had just slid out the last dozen snickerdoodle cookies when his doorbell rang.
I answered it, to find a tall dark skinned gentleman in a crisp white turban smiling toothily at me.
"Is this the home of Mr. Henry van Jones?" he asked politely.
"Sure is" I replied. "C'mon in and I'll get him for you."
The man in the crisp white turban came in and sat on the sofa in the living room. He kept a smile fixed on his face like a Band Aid.
When Crazy Henry came in to shake his hand, the man in the crisp white turban began talking rapidly and enthusiastically. I didn't pay any attention to what he was saying, because just then the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen -- so I ran in there to find that Crazy Henry had not turned off the oven and had left one of his oven mitts inside of it. It was now beginning to roast. I got the mitt out, opened the kitchen window, and used a cookie sheet to fan the smoke out the window. Then I had to get on a chair and disconnect the battery from the smoke alarm because it wouldn't stop bleeping.
When I finally came back into the living room I found Crazy Henry signing a sheaf of onion skin papers.
"What's going on here?" I asked.
"I'm goin' to Bollywood!" replied Crazy Henry, obviously very pleased with himself.
"What the what?" I exclaimed. "What for?"
"To play the sitar in some movies."
"How is that possible?" I asked him in disbelief. "I never seen you play a sitar before."
"Oh, I studied it back in ninth grade."
"You did not!" I was indignant; Crazy Henry and I had gone all through grade school and high school together. He couldn't play a shoehorn, let alone a sitar.
"You were sent back a grade and had to repeat ninth grade twice" I reminded him.
"Yeah, but that second time I went to a sitar camp up in Toronto for most of the year -- bet ya didn't know that, didja?" he replied unctuously.
"But . . . but . . . but . . . " I spluttered, completely evicted from my comfort zone.
Crazy Henry -- maestro of the sitar? In a pig's eye!
"It's some kind of scam" I told him, scowling at the man in the crisp white turban. "I bet he wants money from you to cover the cost of your trip to India."
"Nope." Crazy Henry flashed a wad of greenbacks in my face like a fan dancer. "Fact is, Amahdi here just give me ten thousand dollars travel money to get to Mumbai by next month."
Amahdi silently bowed to me. I felt like sticking my tongue out at him, but for the sake of international relations kept my trap shut.
"Well" I said to Crazy Henry. "Good luck and don't forget your old friends back here around Minnehaha Falls."
"Never in a million years" he said, with tears in his eyes. We embraced.
Amahdi just kept on smiling. He offered me a wad of cash, too, just on general principles I guess -- but I waved them away. The whole thing was a fantasy, so why not add to the fantasy and spurn a small fortune in cash?
Crazy Henry sent me a few postcards from Mumbai, and called me once or twice to say that the place was lousy with turmeric and coriander. They even stuffed his mattress with it. When I asked him how the Bollywood movie business was he just said "Oh it's just like any other business, y'know -- I get up at seven to be at the studio by nine and then go home at six to eat dinner and play some curling with the local team. We make two movies every week -- I got a contract to make a hundred movies this year."
So he was a roaring success. By golly, I was glad for him. He always was a friendly and honest guy -- he deserved a big break like that.
Just before Thanksgiving he came back to his old apartment on Stintson Boulevard. But first he stopped by my place, cuz he didn't have a key anymore to his own apartment. I went over with him, burning to get all the latest Bollywood gossip.
"When do you go back?" I asked him.
"I guess I'm not going back" he replied nonchalantly. "Did you know there's no winter in Mumbai? I need snow in my life."
What was there for me to say? He was absolutely right -- life without snow and icicles is a wretched existence. Torture, really.
So I helped him unpack and told him the crows were all gone, for now.
But when they came back in April I promised to help him make more purgative snickerdoodles.
This Work
D&C 12:8
A man may think he's serving well/and so his self esteem will swell/But God keeps not a detailed chart/of anything but loving heart.
Monday, August 24, 2020
The modest live as well as kings
Better is little with the fear of the Lord than great treasure and trouble therewith.
Proverbs 15:16
The modest live as well as kings/when in the Lord their faith has wings/Great treasures lead to joy and ease/as often as chalk turns to cheese.
Meet Phred Dvorak.
Phred Dvorak. WSJ.
(One of a series of thumbnail biographies of prominent journalists)
Phred Dvorak wanders around Asia for the Wall Street Journal, looking for a decent glass of bubble tea. When she finally finds it, she will retire to her ant farm in the Berkshire-Hathaway Hills to continue her ongoing romance series for Harlequin Books -- featuring protagonist Clinty O'Bomba, impetuous Irish heiress who looks for love in all the wrong crevasses.
She graduated Carpe Vinum from UC Berkeley in Asian Stutters.
Stationed in Tokyo for many years, Ms Dvorak developed a taste for yakatori, miso, wai wai, ke-mo sa-bee, and gefilte fish. She likes to cook for guests in her well-equipped kitchen in her elegant condo on the shores of Lake Sacagawea in Singapore. She often seats a dozen people at her dining room table -- although she only ever manages to feed about four of 'em.
Her journalistic credentials include a stint as blurbist for Pottery Barn, and ten years with the Mumbo Sauce Review -- where she edited solecisms and swept out the break room each night.
Her most recent literary award is the 2019 Dickens & Fenster Trophy for Promising Young Funambulists.
In her spare time she likes to refurbish rotary phones and raise the Titanic.
Sunday, August 23, 2020
Sunday Email to my Kids. August 23, 2020.
Hello, my little chickadees!
I was so grateful to be able to spend some time with Virginia, Cici, and Addie, this past week when they came up from Texas. I can never get my fill of seeing any of you kids, or the grand kids. I wish I saw more of all of you . . .
Well, as I cast my feeble thought back over the past week I really don’t come up with much to write about. Adam has been very good in giving me rewrite assignments -- I’m still saving up to get a pair of new glasses!
Did I mention before that they now take attendance at the pool at Provo Rec Center? Only 19 people are allowed in the deep water pool at one time for our morning exercise class -- so you have to make a reservation (which I forgot to do for this coming week -- drat!) Sometimes the instructor actually asks people who are already in the pool to get out if they don’t have a reservation. I’m usually on the stand-by list, and usually get to go in. I sure love to go swimming == it’s usually the highlight of my day.
This morning I did a prose poem called “The Government School.” I emailed it out to about forty different reporters. Didn’t hear anything back from them -- except one, who apparently didn’t like it and tersely replied only “Pls remover from list.” That made me kind of peeved, so in revenge I made up a nonsense thumbnail biography of him and posted it on my largely inactive blog. I feel much better now.
Here’s the prose poem that reporter Gregory Zuckerman had such a problem with, and then a copy of his faux bio I posted on my blog:
We were working in the cook tent, my friend Maria and I,
when the bloody men appeared.
At first I took them to be
new roustabouts,
or maybe reporters from
the local rag.
I've noticed in the past few years
that journalists are getting more and more
frowzy and fly-blown.
Things, I guess, are tough all over.
Anyway.
They asked for beans and tortillas.
With scowls and threatening motions
with their forks and spoons.
Mental midgets,
I thought to myself as I served them.
'Bloody idiots' Maria whispered to me
as they took their tin plates to a picnic
table and silently wolfed down their food.
When they left I felt like a sentence of death
had been lifted from me.
I didn't like anything about them.
'Who were those guys?'
I asked Trey when he came in for
an early lunch.
Since he owns and operates the show
he gets to eat whenever he wants.
"What guys?" he asked.
"Those rotten looking guys that just left"
said Maria. She is sweet on Trey,
and gives him extra gravy on his
mashed potatoes.
"They're from the government school down the road."
He took his tin tray back to his trailer.
I could tell Maria wanted to follow him back to
his trailer for some hanky panky,
but there were thirty-odd people expecting lunch
in an hour, so I couldn't let her go.
The entire student body from the government school
came to the matinee. Their clothes were shabby
and sullen.
They didn't applaud anything
except when the elephants defecated.
They didn't buy anything
except sour pickles on a stick.
Their eyes were angry blue marbles.
When they left, trooping out like a chain gang,
they left behind pamphlets about their school
under the bleachers.
I told the crew to throw them all away
with the rest of the trash.
But Maria kept one to read while
we got dinner ready before the
evening performance.
That's why she didn't get the potatoes
peeled in time.
"Hey" she said to me while we ladled out
the stew that evening,
"That place up the road is a government school
for journalists -- they're being trained to sit
quietly and take notes of what the President
and his Cabinet says all the time."
"Any money in it?" I grunted back, my back
beginning to ache.
"Sure. They make good money when they can
start a war or make minorities feel insecure. It's all
in the pamphlet." Just then Maria dropped
the ladle into the stew -- again.
"Oh, get out of here!" I yelled at her in
deep frustration.
She flounced out.
And left the show.
Didn't even say goodbye to Trey.
I didn't hear anything about her
for several years.
During that time I quit the show
and went back to school.
Now I'm a corporate lawyer in
New York.
That's when I met Maria again.
She enrolled in that government school
after she left the big top.
Got her own radio show and started making
powerful enemies.
She hired me to dig up the dirt on them;
which I did.
So they all became her friends.
She starts a new war about once a year;
usually in South America.
Then goes down to conduct peace negotiations
and give away powdered milk and blankets.
She tells me she misses doing the Spanish Web.
**************************************
A noted author, as well as a respected journalist for the Wall Street Journal, Mr. Zuckerman began life as a tree surgeon. It was only after he became infected with Dutch elm disease that he decided to find a safer career and became a reporter.
His first job was as a cub reporter with the Washoe County Impediment -- a weekly paper in Nevada that printed mostly lost animal announcements and ran large ads for the Aetherius Society.
After five years apprenticeship he found work as an obituary writer for the Dracula Fan Club newsletter.
Then he hit the big time with his first book: "Public Enema Number One: The Fallacy of Prune Juice." It topped the New York Times bestseller list for ten weeks in a row.
He began work at the Wall Street Journal, reporting on ticker tape parades, in 2008, and has gone from triumph to triumph ever since.
His honors include the Heim Potts Award for Best Punctuation; The Tilden Medallion for Most Consistent Parchesi in an Amateur; and the prestigious Miller-Cockleburr Citation for his work with displaced ground sloths.
His hobbies include growing club moss, cheating at crossword puzzles, and carving darning eggs out of soapstone.
It’s all basically nonsense, so I don’t understand why Zuckerman wanted no more contact from me. Guess you can’t please everyone. You may have noticed that the prose poem (which I entitled “The Government School) is kinda autobiographical. Although I doubt you can actually learn anything truthful or useful about me from reading it. I am growing quite fond of ambiguity in my work.
Other than that, my apple dumplings, there’s not much to report here at La Maison Tork. My older brother Billy is forwarding me tons of political nonsense by email, which I’m ignoring, and a Wall Street Journal reporter, Bob Davis, who really likes my work, sent me a complimentary copy of his new book, Superpower Showdown. It’s all about the trade war between Trump and China, which is not something I’m very interested in, so I find reading the book slow going -- I’m only on chapter three. Still, it was a nice thought.
Guess I’ll eat some beans and rice and then take a long Sunday afternoon nap. Then watch Netflix and/or TCM until it’s time to go to bed. What an exciting life I lead!
Love, dad.
Meet Gregory Zuckerman.
A noted author, as well as a respected journalist for the Wall Street Journal, Mr. Zuckerman began life as a tree surgeon. It was only after he became infected with Dutch elm disease that he decided to find a safer career and became a reporter.
His first job was as a cub reporter with the Washoe County Impediment -- a weekly paper in Nevada that printed mostly lost animal announcements and ran large ads for the Aetherius Society.
After five years apprenticeship he found work as an obituary writer for the Dracula Fan Club newsletter.
Then he hit the big time with his first book: "Public Enema Number One: The Fallacy of Prune Juice." It topped the New York Times bestseller list for ten weeks in a row.
He began work at the Wall Street Journal, reporting on ticker tape parades, in 2008, and has gone from triumph to triumph ever since.
His honors include the Heim Potts Award for Best Punctuation; The Tilden Medallion for Most Consistent Parchesi in an Amateur; and the prestigious Miller-Cockleburr Citation for his work with displaced ground sloths.
His hobbies include growing club moss, cheating at crossword puzzles, and carving darning eggs out of soapstone.
The Government School
Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men.
Psalm 59:2
We were working in the cook tent, my friend Maria and I,
when the bloody men appeared.
At first I took them to be
new roustabouts,
or maybe reporters from
the local rag.
I've noticed in the past few years
that journalists are getting more and more
frowzy and fly-blown.
Things, I guess, are tough all over.
Anyway.
They asked for beans and tortillas.
With scowls and threatening motions
with their forks and spoons.
Mental midgets,
I thought to myself as I served them.
'Bloody idiots' Maria whispered to me
as they took their tin plates to a picnic
table and silently wolfed down their food.
When they left I felt like a sentence of death
had been lifted from me.
I didn't like anything about them.
'Who were those guys?'
I asked Trey when he came in for
an early lunch.
Since he owns and operates the show
he gets to eat whenever he wants.
"What guys?" he asked.
"Those rotten looking guys that just left"
said Maria. She is sweet on Trey,
and gives him extra gravy on his
mashed potatoes.
"They're from the government school down the road."
He took his tin tray back to his trailer.
I could tell Maria wanted to follow him back to
his trailer for some hanky panky,
but there were thirty-odd people expecting lunch
in an hour, so I couldn't let her go.
The entire student body from the government school
came to the matinee. Their clothes were shabby
and sullen.
They didn't applaud anything
except when the elephants defecated.
They didn't buy anything
except sour pickles on a stick.
Their eyes were angry blue marbles.
When they left, trooping out like a chain gang,
they left behind pamphlets about their school
under the bleachers.
I told the crew to throw them all away
with the rest of the trash.
But Maria kept one to read while
we got dinner ready before the
evening performance.
That's why she didn't get the potatoes
peeled in time.
"Hey" she said to me while we ladled out
the stew that evening,
"That place up the road is a government school
for journalists -- they're being trained to sit
quietly and take notes of what the President
and his Cabinet says all the time."
"Any money in it?" I grunted back, my back
beginning to ache.
"Sure. They make good money when they can
start a war or make minorities feel insecure. It's all
in the pamphlet." Just then Maria dropped
the ladle into the stew -- again.
"Oh, get out of here!" I yelled at her in
deep frustration.
She flounced out.
And left the show.
Didn't even say goodbye to Trey.
I didn't hear anything about her
for several years.
During that time I quit the show
and went back to school.
Now I'm a corporate lawyer in
New York.
That's when I met Maria again.
She enrolled in that government school
after she left the big top.
Got her own radio show and started making
powerful enemies.
She hired me to dig up the dirt on them;
which I did.
So they all became her friends.
She starts a new war about once a year;
usually in South America.
Then goes down to conduct peace negotiations
and give away powdered milk and blankets.
She tells me she misses doing the Spanish Web.
Conqueror.
Pray always, that you may come off conqueror -
D&C 10:5
True champions the arm of flesh ne'er seek to endure trials;
but pray in constant humbleness while running weary miles.
Saturday, August 22, 2020
Quit you like men
Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong.
1 Corinthians 16:13
I know the Lord my strength prepares/when to him I give all my prayers.
I'll watch and wait as He unveils/how I'll be quit of my travails.
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